A Dozen Wilted Roses: The Flashlight Theory

She gazed out confidently towards the horizon, that glittering lake she could almost see, and I could almost see it with her. Her violet eyes were calm, back a confident arrow. The men followed grudgingly, jealous that a young girl could know more than them all. Once the night fell, all hell broke loose. And I left her there to fend for herself amidst the chaos of the night, with one smitten, loyal watchman and buckets of confusion being poured futilely on the fire.
I shut my mind's eye to her world and found myself between so many concrete walls and lines of binder paper. This is where I should be, I told myself.

A Dozen Wilted Roses: Modern Beauty

Maybe it looks differently in low light,
hooka smoke swirling lazily:
cover-up and dark eye-shadow
her hair a weekly canvas
and it's worth it to "make pretty colors."

In the morning
pockmarked face
crocheted beanie hiding brittle, fried hair

"Once the damage is done,
there's not much we can do.
The marks will remain
...unless we scrape back to the dermis."

If we erase
how many years of scars
who will she be??

A Dozen Wilted Roses: I. Scientifically Proven

A pile of unfamiliar bound text sits unexplained on the table as I saunter into the kitchen, stretching off a good night's sleep. Skimming the spines, I find extensive studies of the properties of TiSO4 and other ceramics. Bubbie's singsong voice, from behind, clarifies: "These were Papa's dissertations." An image of the man materializes before me: thick glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose, oxygen tube strapped to his face, reading the newspaper in this chair, the one nearest the cereal cabinet. "Hey, sidekick!" he calls from the office, in a clear voice. My childish footsteps patter down the hall, and I hear the jingling of quarters that I am allowed to sort. Glancing up on the wall, I notice a family portrait, back when Papa's glasses have black frames and his tawny hair covers his head. I glance and wonder what it is like to grow old, collecting coins and crosswords.

Memory Palace

I walk down a hallway that curves slightly, each door identical. I know this place--I visit all the time, alone. I open each door and visit its inhabitants. Today I pause beside each frame and press my ear to the wall...screams, weeping, cackling. And that one, the one that rumbles... I slip quickly past onto the fire escape--the only escape into the real world from this dungeon. All the bustling people everywhere, swarming below like ants. None notice my frail figure--or none care. Whenever I come here, I end up tearing onto the fire escape, overwhelmed, and jumping. I somehow wind up walking among the crowd, which is as unperturbed as the sea when my pebble meets the waves.
I hear a nagging voice in the back of my head--you can't keep those doors closed forever. It is my internal Natasha Bedingfield: Release your inhibitions, she whispers. Let your barriers down... I know she wants me to open the doors, but can I? Without them it's a drowning deluge and with them it's a desert tomb.
The knobs rattle restlessly...

Inspired by Pendergast

For Joanne

The girl in the white dress found the old rickety wooden shack without recognizing it. The sun had bleached the bare planks, and the roof had half-fallen in. The door creaked and stuck, so she braced her shoulder against it, leaning with all she could muster, and fell through the crumbling wood panel onto the cool concrete floor. Her first view was rays of sunlight streaming through the ceiling like bits of revelation on a sunrisen mountain peak. Collecting herself, she stood, first noticing the barren, cracked concrete floor. Then she saw it: upon a simple three-legged stool, encased in a dusty glass sheath. Her almond eyes widened, and her fingers quivered as she lifted the cage and removed the scarlet rose. She knelt, eyes averted, remembering hesitant words painted on that shadowy hotel room ceiling in Germany. She gasped and ran her fingers over the cracks in the floor as if realizing them for the first time. She stood suddenly, spinning about, and noticed that there was one more thing in the room: a postcard, still glossy under all the dust, languishing in the far corner. She stooped to whisper away the film of neglect, and saw through the years a curtain of jade ivy. On the back, a note:

Inextinguishable, like the sea.

V.

All-Consuming

Kerosene to the family photos. A match. The father, mother, woken by the son, link hands and crawl through the flames, towards the door, son and father--mother stopping short--choking lack of air reaching reaching the doorknob it's locked deadbolt oh the deadbolt why is it so high turning choking falling so close the doorknob. Mother surges forward the doorknob out to fresh air turning the knob nothing happens nothing can't get out only hope suffocation the heat. Help she yells feebly, knocks on the door no one will come no air sliding down to her final resting place so close

But no, stomping boots and an oxygen tank a fireman come to save them thank God her eyes whisper the door just turn the knob the door but why are you standing there I know you why are you here just open the door our only hope no no no 

Clomping boots, away through the flames to the back door, leaving the woman with her eyes following his figure desperately, motionless next to her husband for the last time.

~~~in the style of William Faulkner~~~

I've Been Working on the Railroad

If you knew me, you could imagine me, swinging my lunch bucket and trudging steadily along the downwards-sloping gravel trail near daybreak. You could wave from the doorway of our imagined house until I was almost out of sight. Teetering on the brink of unreality, I would stop, turn, and blow you a kiss. You might close your eyes momentarily...but by the time you look again I would be gone--my nailed boots would clop on the trail, faster now, 'cause down the decline waited my dream. One of these days the steam engine will come, and I can finally witness the shining future in flesh before me. Maybe today will be the day--Boss keeps saying so.
I stumbled into a somersault--my laces betrayed me--and tumbled, rolled, until I finally planted both feet on the substantial path again. I was right around the bend...in a flash I spotted the wooden picket, number seventy-five. That was me. I stooped and gripped my hammer and a gold, shiny nail. They say it ain't gold except to fools, but it was gold to me.
Anyone would've noticed how carefully I handled the spikes, how unrelenting I drove them home: after all, we were paving the way to tomorrow. You could observe me, done with lunch, inspecting the ties, realizing that the last tie was hit here and it was time to move on. I would hesitate, and stretching across the newly completed project; eyes would drift shut. The others would, after a minute or two of quiet, hop up all at once, startled jackrabbits, and bound away. My eyes would flutter open, then squint shut as I cocked my ear down...a smile would crawl across my face, certainty dawning. I would stand slowly, misted eyes turned to face the east. I would glance up the hillock, as if our imaginary house were just visible, and salute once. Then I would turn expectantly to meet it. The hunk of metal would appear, glinting brilliantly so that all who saw winced. You might shout at me--RUN if you know what's good for you--but I certainly would not hear you. The train, unmovable in its relentless loping, devouring the past and present. You would gape as my body flew onward and promptly disappeared under gleaming iron wheels.
If you knew me you would not agree to this being a suicide...If you really knew me you would hop on the next train west and search for me somewhere in the Rockies. But if you knew me better than I did, you would quit your searching and tell your children that all dreams are nightmares in the end.