agony

i delve into

this undefined

emotion

left

in absence

of where

here you

once were

its suffocation

this ache

undescribable

this pain

its prison

consuming

of me

in whole

and without

sweet relief

agony

i delve into

this undefined

emotion

left

in absence

of where

here you

once were

its suffocation

this ache

undescribable

this pain

its prison

consuming

of me

in whole

and without

sweet relief

where we lay

in pieces

scattered

within the narrow

in this space

amongst

the wilted

and the grey

under these leaves

which hang from

this tree

sifting through

this gentle humidity

this is where we lay

surrounded by the calm

this vacancy is filled

with controlled temptation

and withheld emotion

only here we allow this

this that which

we choose to deny

this of which

remains unspoken

where all lies

are lost

by where it is

most comfortable

most wanted

where the truth is stripped

laid out before us

this design

these pieces

a most unique

of self

found within self

of the other

un

i am unfounded

i sift

this unexplainable

searching

any solution

but most assuredly

the unattainable

this clarity

a truth i deny

and in its refusal

i missed

this most unexpected

to which has become

constant

for here and now

has revealed itself

long before

either knew

unaware

that self could exist

in a truth

without question

an unpredictable

equation

i cannot admit

that even I could

ever understand

in the unfolding

events

i processed

that which we allowed

to dissolve

into the nothingness

from the dilapidation

of mine own

untrusting self

within this ever-changing

wind of morrow

and i lift upon this

a slow and narrow climb

I go unannounced

in that

i have arrived

this rhythm

dare i say
move
to the flow
of that
which
surrounds me
ask it all
to play
some beat
drumming
in my mind
a constant
push
the drama
its power
overwhelming
all forms
of life
which changes
to the rhythm
of a most
extreme
self
dare i question
or make
assumption
forget where
i stand
amongst it all
for below
the lines written
between
the words said
lost within
the silence
of an unspoken
dialogue
i dare
thy self
the impossible
to make
the strings
of this unlikely
chorus
an imperfection
of faults
and arrogance
find solace
in the spectrum
that is
which
what we chose
to not recognize
a purpose
concluding
in a separation
of thought
miles from
truth
dare i allow
you inside
so i sift
the boundaries
we have set
get the logic
and know
we are
the reverberation
that keeps us
coming back for more

let it be mine

within this disease
of attacking thoughts
through my crowded mind
amoungst the voices
rambling out of turn
i hear you clearly
without speaking
you see inside me
though you cannot
comprehend
or even begin to unravel
the paths i designed
to escape the roads
i could not stay
its in this muddled energy
you feel truth
and now know
how i stripped of myself
and became no longer whole
all of me is written
printed and posted
all of me i kept hidden
the cure
this mental maddness
to expunge the emotion
deny the feeling
resist the punch
for my mind to let go of you
often i drift
to hold
this pain and anger
sealed in memory
i am not lost
nor misdirected
but steady and sure
i have gone the way
i know the idea
it is always been
and i am
so let it go
let it be mine
and don't judge me
that way

unto death

i know
and that makes it better
partly
i still am
and that makes it harder
whole-y
i have lived
days longer
than possible
i have seen
all that i have
come to know
most of which
i tried to understand
i have felt pain
both pleasurable
and unnerving
and have faced
a web of complexities
whose entanglement
has lasted my lifetime
alone
i have no recollection
events that have seen me by
or people that have passed
the threshold of goodbye
just this
a giant pause
which fills the space
consumes my thoughts
eating my time
for waste
an illusion
and sleep
the mind’s decay
this room
my tomb
littered with reminders
sits vacant
i met my match
and wisely chose
i deciphered codes
to lead me here
destroyed mine enemies
and challenged beyond
there is no history
none to conserve
what is to be remembered
will fade
with each passing mind
and the wrinkled pages
of the journey lost
recycled to a future
i can never
comprehend
for the pieces
this puzzle
i have fit so nicely into
have scattered now
each one
tiny energy
moving in random thought
exploding its life
upon those who will never know
for the ripple is constant
its motion the true
creator of life
for the cycle
the crossing of two
inanimate objects
its effect of me
on me
is me
and I, too
accept
and cease to be

Nemesis

there is a story
of which
could not be false
for proof I hold
within my own hands
from tongue to paper
i penned each chapter
peeling the raw layers
of experience
and bullshit
i purge my own found knowledge
to answer the questions
with another
here in the deep and narrow
where i trudge my character
and forget self
in epilogue it begins
at the end
where all things
come round
where thy nemesis
can be found
for it is he who sifted
amongst my written pages
until he happened upon
a lonely road
beyond the edge
before the fall
in the paused moments
of chaos
beaten and bound
from a logic
romanticized
a manifestation
of all things lost
he would come to know
his equivalent
his other
and soon after
would come to have his way
beat by beat he bled
and took down with him
all that he did not understand
nor believe in
nor love
and before him
on his knees
I lay in the wake of it all
He had no explanation
nor remorse
nor admission of guilt
and in the slippery scope
of things
he nodded toward my space
acknowledged my existence
for he now knew his place
as he was not the hero
but the chains to which
he would bind
antagonize
and challenge
this nemesis knew
he nodded and smiled
this was not where things come to end
but begin
with eyes upon each other
clearly, this was just
for as we turned our backs
we would face again
in prologue perhaps
in some distant future
when the time presents itself
where the dust settles
on the winds of yesteryear
this man, my nem
will gladly place before me
myself in mirrored image
and i will overcome
only to find
typed into form
self’s final words
and we shall shake on it
his hand in mine own
eye to eye, we see truth
where trust does not exist
for it is a shadowy path
this fiction
and we are the great divide

"Sara" - Fleetwood Mac

Wait a minute baby. . .
Stay with me awhile
Said you'd give me light
But you never told me about the fire


Drowning in the sea of love
Where everyone would love to drown
And now it's gone
It doesn't matter anymore
When you build your house
Call me home


And he was just like a great dark wing
Within the wings of a storm
I think I had met my match--he was singing
And undoing the laces
Undoing the laces


Drowning in the sea of love
Where everyone would love to drown
And now it's gone
It doesn't matter anymore
When you build your house
Call me home


Hold on
The night is coming and the starling
flew for days
I'd stay home at night all the time
I'd go anywhere, anywhere
Ask me and I'm there because I care


Sara, you're the poet in my heart
Never change, never stop
And now it's gone
It doesn't matter what for
When you build your house
I'll come by


Drowning in the sea of love
Where everyone would love to drown
And now it's gone
It doesn't matter anymore
When you build your house
Call me home


All I ever wanted
Was to know that you were dreaming
(There's a heartbeat
And it never really died)

twas

it came upon
that it twas
it twas
upon a lonely road
beyond the edge
before the fall
where just before
the eye of the storm
in the paused moments of chaos
they exist there
beaten and bound
to a logic
romanticized
for it twas
it twas
that in this space
where no one else
could crowd
that they did find
in the pause of
the world round
themselves
stricken naked
from emotion
and ego
and free of
authoritative thought
did birth a conciseness
of their own
and with determined
admiration
it twas, it twas
that they allowed
and into the bluffs
they gave
their last breath
for just this moment
of undefinable truth
and raw passion
as the sky's mouth opened
and it's screams raged
it twas
oh, how it twas
they discovered love

on my knees

here
i adjust
i find the moment
grasping for anything
i refuse to open my eyes
i feel the fear inside
it is
suffocating
leaving me numb
in the grey
before me
i see the person
i have become
i acknowledge
the road travelled
and those i stumbled across
those that hurt
pushed me low
those who questioned
and where i could no longer go on
those that stood beside me
to keep me safe
from myself
from the games i played
the players i let go
in my most desperate hours
on my knees and broken
it was me that stayed the course
followed through
and accepted fate
for the hole i dug myself into
i built my own way out
blindly facing
head on
with compassion
and reverence
with gathered courage
and the ability to recognize
the person i was
drowning
into the abyss
of a disillusioned reality
for now i say with confidence
and incomparable truth
i am who i am
and present myself
dignity intact

on my knees

here
i adjust
i find the moment
grasping for anything
i refuse to open my eyes
i feel the fear inside
it is
suffocating
leaving me numb
in the grey
before me
i see the person
i have become
i acknowledge
the road travelled
and those i stumbled across
those that hurt
pushed me low
those who questioned
and where i could no longer go on
those that stood beside me
to keep me safe
from myself
from the games i played
the players i let go
in my most desperate hours
on my knees and broken
it was me that stayed the course
followed through
and accepted fate
for the hole i dug myself into
i built my own way out
blindly facing
head on
with compassion
and reverence
with gathered courage
and the ability to recognize
the person i was
drowning
into the abyss
of a disillusioned reality
for now i say with confidence
and incomparable truth
i am who i am
and present myself
dignity intact

on my knees

here
i adjust
i find the moment
grasping for anything
i refuse to open my eyes
i feel the fear inside
it is
suffocating
leaving me numb
in the grey
before me
i see the person
i have become
i acknowledge
the road travelled
and those i stumbled across
those that hurt
pushed me low
those who questioned
and where i could no longer go on
those that stood beside me
to keep me safe
from myself
from the games i played
the players i let go
in my most desperate hours
on my knees and broken
it was me that stayed the course
followed through
and accepted fate
for the hole i dug myself into
i built my own way out
blindly facing
head on
with compassion
and reverence
with gathered courage
and the ability to recognize
the person i was
drowning
into the abyss
of a disillusioned reality
for now i say with confidence
and incomparable truth
i am who i am
and present myself
dignity intact

on my knees

here
i adjust
i find the moment
grasping for anything
i refuse to open my eyes
i feel the fear inside
it is
suffocating
leaving me numb
in the grey
before me
i see the person
i have become
i acknowledge
the road travelled
and those i stumbled across
those that hurt
pushed me low
those who questioned
and where i could no longer go on
those that stood beside me
to keep me safe
from myself
from the games i played
the players i let go
in my most desperate hours
on my knees and broken
it was me that stayed the course
followed through
and accepted fate
for the hole i dug myself into
i built my own way out
blindly facing
head on
with compassion
and reverence
with gathered courage
and the ability to recognize
the person i was
drowning
into the abyss
of a disillusioned reality
for now i say with confidence
and incomparable truth
i am who i am
and present myself
dignity intact

we bike LA

when i leave here
to venture roads not yet ridden
the space I happen upon
is void
an unnatural silence which fills the air
for it is the energy of the ridaz
their presence greatly lacking
and it’s then that i realize
these roads are not meant for this rida
for i am just a visitor
cycling through borrowed land
upon my return
to this giant cement park
of twisted roadways
lined with cracks and holes
and bumper to bumper traffic
i breathe the exhaust fumes
and smile
cause there’s a ride
happening somewhere
with ridaz sifting
amongst marked territory
to reclaim it as their own
though this city is rough
i know the ridaz are rougher
for we play on the edge
of this chaotic spectrum
we accept the challenge
life or death
we take our two wheels
to the streets
like the badasses we are
for we bike LA
and proudly call her our home

he, conquest

it came to be
alas, i am tired
i brush you off
with wicked indifference
to exist in
hold onto
subtle satisfaction
i swallow my pride
in search for
understanding
clinging to my dignity
amongst the rubble
of defeat
in the wake of your shadow
and with the strength of anew
i learn to accept
and allow myself
the pleasure to walk away
for the toll i knew
to be heavy
for it twas
a route never taken
many bruises were to be had
but not one scar
i kept me safely
tucked
inside myself
surrounded by walls
layered with
an antagonistic reality
of who I pretended to be
i laugh at the plausible
the possible
the moments
we did have
our words
the tension created
exhausted our reasons
for the adventure
in whole
our individual challenge
to which gave worth
to every passing day
the competition
our need for power
the inevitable conquest
an achievement
lost within the confusion
of many tiny moments
are all bundled here
for this is where they shall stay
on some shelf
tossed into yesterday

the unmasked Sri

the single
“and I am”
most insignificant
“and I have always been”
One
“here”
lay stricken
“and I have seen in passing”
it’s wings wilted
“through ages of change”
icicles
“the cycles of life”
Forgotten
“your world is dying”
whose eyes
“you know this”
frozen wide
“and you will soon see”
the struggle alone
“for I know you”
is her story
“and will forever”
and if one could
“after you have come and gone”
One would feel her tremble
“the dilapidation of its beauty”
to understand
“its creatures whom roam”
to bleed
“slowly falling away”
to be in its presence
“my lot is this”
for if one listened
“with no change”
carefully
“there is none that I can do”
to whispers
“and this I beg of you”
traveling
“don’t let it slip”
one might hear
“look up”
upon a bow
“hold on”
above
“for if my survival is so impertinent”
high in some tree
“then yours is even greater”
the sifting grass
“I am here”
of cold iced snow
“nature’s birthed right”
slipping
“hold my hand”
sliding
“walk with me”
her lips thin
“let me introduce you here”
her body recedes
“then pass it along”
warmth she urns for
“for she is saved”
home she is waiting
“Nanya will come”
her being shutters
“mark my words”
though solid
“she will come”
she is aware

Dr. Grandpop Salvatore Cucinotta, M.D.

This past week I have been reflecting on my life as a whole and have found myself going back to one man that had opened my eyes and mind to the world around me. Something I had been sheltered to, but where no one is at fault, just that this was the one person in my life, at that very time, who I was to meet, who would open those doors and introduce me.

In the years 2001 and 2002, I spent every Wednesday night with Grandpop C. He taught me how to cook, got me out of my vegetarianism, gave me a historical point of view I could never imagine, gave me advice on love and many, many more amazing stories and anecdotes that I will begin to share with you.

Seeing as my mother's mom died when she was 18 and her father died when I was 12.. my father's parents disowned him for reasons that his immediate family loves and respects him for, I had no idea what it was to have grandparents. And then Grandpop C, my best friend's (since we were five) grandfather became the closest, but even more-so, my friend.

I am going to introduce you to Grandpop C so you have the best understanding of this man that i respect and love in hopes that even if you never had the opportunity to cross his path through life, i may be able to pass along a few pieces of his whole and I promise you, it will feel like the two of you once enjoyed an amazing fliet minion with an excellent glass of wine handpicked by Dr. C himself and finished off the meal with vinella ice cream over a mango and a drizzle of ameretteo.

Walk with me, let me take you back.. on the first Wednesday night that we sat toegther, he taught me to always have wine with dinner. Make sure you sip between meals, as it cleans the pallet - yes, when I left Grandpop C's, I was always a bit tipsy.

He also gave me an old piece of paper with many, many, many quotes and told me to keep it, read it and mull over them. As I look back over the structure of our relationship, this would be the first insight into his world that I received and he was preparing me for it. And I, like a good little pupil, did so. Most of the following you may have heard, most will be new, what's more, I have stories that reflect each one of them. (I just got chills as I briefly remembered a few) Over the course of our dinners together and between the political debates (what a time it was, September 11th, the War in Afghanistan, the war in Iraq, President Bush, my brother enlisting in the army) and historical avenues of decades of memory that he trudged me through, there were the most beautiful and life changing stories that would leave me in utter awe.

To begin.. below is the paper he gave me to take home and ponder.. until next week.

...

Grandpop always said that when you are in a fight with someone you love. Even if they are in the wrong, forgive them.

"Experience is knowledge. Knowledge is experience." S. Cucinotta, M.D.

"EVALUATE THESE APHORISMS, AND ASSESS THEM IN ACCORDANCE TO THE TONE OF YOUR THOUGHTS." S. Cucinotta, M.D.

1. The only person to admit guilt to, is God.

2. Make people feel good about themselves.

3. Self confidence augments persuasion.

4. If a man points a finger at someone else, he should remember three of his fingers are pointing at himself.

5. No order is going to let the lion be by a lamb unless the lamb is inside the lion.

6. To be mad at a person you love is madness in the brain.

7. When a mouse laughs at a cat, there is a hole nearby.

8. Merchants (corporations) have no country, their attachment is where they get their grains.

9. Many chaste women are those who haven't been asked.

10. A critic is a person who knows the way but he cannot drive a car.

11. The last garment is made without pockets.

12. Words pay no debts.

14. There is in all men a demand for the superlative, so much so, that the poor devil who has no other way of reaching it, attains it by getting drunk.

15. He who limps is still walking.

16. He who has no silver in his pockets should have silver in his tongue.

17. We are adhering to life with the last muscle - the heart.

18. There is no failure except in longer trying.

19. A celebrity is a person who works hard to be known, then wears dark glasses to avoid being recognized.

20. It is better to die on your feet than live on your knees.

21. Lawyers and painters can change white to black.

22. It is not the years in your life but the life in your years that count.

23. Dare not call it love unless it is forever.

24. Man is an ingenious machine that can turn the best wine into urine.

25. A women's guess (intuition) is more accurate then a man's certainty.

26. Ten persons who speak make more noise than ten thousand that are silent.

27. An old man loved is winter with flowers.

28. If a donkey bray on you, don't bray at him.

29. He that pays beforehand shall have his not well done.

30. A tear dries quickly especially when it is shed for other people's trouble.

31. Politicians are the same all over. They promise to build a bridge even when there is no river.

32. If you ever inject truth into politics you have no politics.

33. When a man is praying he is telling himself keep calm, everything is alright, it's alright.

34. A neurotic is a person who builds castles in the air. A psychotic is a person who lives in it, and a psychiatrist is the one who collects the rent.

35. Sickness comes on horseback and departs on foot.

36. There are three kinds of lies, lies, demand lies and statistics.

37. My thoughts are my company, I can bring them together, select them, detain them and dismiss them.

38. The believing we do something when we do nothing is the first illusion of tobacco.

39. Give man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.

40. In the space age, man will be able to go around the world in two hours, one hour for flying and the other to get to the airport.

41. Nothing dries sooner than a tear.

42. To weep is to make less the depth of grief.

43. Zeal will do more than knowledge.

44. A blend of work, rest and play will give a happy life.

45. The word defeat is not in your vocabulary.

46. Good living is equality in work, rest and play. Work too much is no good. Play too much is no good. Rest too much is no good. Blend the three for happiness.

thesarabond's TV-Life Recap

It’s been a while since I have scooped up and thrown down thoughts about the goings on in my world, of course not counting the word spitting of poetry that I have recently purged from some sick inner lining of emotion I thought had passed when I went through puberty.

Alas, I find myself surrounded by muses, contemplating memory, quitting nasty habits, taking on a new habit, hobby, reviewing the structure of my “television show” as this season comes to a close, engrossing myself in the world of this children’s novel I just can’t shake and building unbelievable muscle in my legs, especially my thighs. None-the-less, I am still alive, which every now and then I have to sit back and really take that in.

First, let me start off saying, I do not believe in writer’s block, it is just an excuse for laziness. Pull your pants up, turn off the TV, put your fricken cell phone on silent and just allow yourself to disappear from this realm and awake in another. If all else fails, Urth coffee. No lie, this has become my new habit. Over the past few weeks as I push myself to get through the dullness of my everyday job (which consists of numbers and answering phones, pretty mindless) I find myself sitting in front of the computer and writing. And must put blame where blame is due. I stumbled upon the cocaine of all coffees and recommend it’s intensity to all of you who need an extra kick in the ass.

I have quit smoking cigarettes, cable television and negative people, not particularly in that order though. Cable television was an interesting cancellation. And I can really only explain it as once I stopped living vicariously through characters lives on television, I started living my own life.

Cigarettes, this is just something that should have been done a long time ago, I just never wanted to and blame my OFD (Oral Fixation Disorder) seeing as I have an OFA (Oral Fixation Addiction). I did it cold turkey and I didn’t do it for anyone else but myself. And the determining factor came on Sunday night when I was riding my bike back from downtown with four of my guy friends. They were all on road bikes, one fixie (fixed gear bike, one gear, highest, you stop pedaling, the back wheel stops rotating), three of which had already done Wolfpack (it’s not a race, it’s a 40 mile hustle through LA in less than 2 hours) and three are also on a team for the Wolfpack: All City Race.

I, however, am riding a heavy mountain bike that I transformed into a road bike. And about two months ago stopped complaining about how hard it was to ride and how much I really wanted a road bike and decided to make this bike work for me. And so it goes that I hustled it with the boys that night, drafted Brett and Ryan and stayed with the group. As we got back to our starting point I knew what I wanted more and smoking cigarettes was not the champion of this ride. What’s more, without them I have taken an extra step of control over my life, it’s another freedom notch to add to the belt, one more strength and an ounce of respect I gain for myself.

Which leads me to negative people (laughing to self). I am done with the complaining and the anger and the constant nagging of what bad things have happened or of what people don’t have, can’t find, figure out, deal with, lack of, too much too fast or even just nothing at all. I’d like to say that before you allow words to fall out of your mouth and have the dirty job of sweeping them back up, think. And this comes from my father. He never yelled at me growing up he would just look at me with a very disappointing eye piercing stare and ask, in his South Philadelphia Italian accent, “Did you think, Sar? Did you stop and think? Next time you need to think before you do.” And his favorite, “You’re lucky you get a next time. Think, Sar!”

That being said, eight months ago I decided to laugh all the time and every time a negative thing happened to me and/or around me, I would do my very best (like the “Little Engine That Could”) and find the positive. It is a difficult feat, but it can be accomplished. In fact, I have. I don’t allow anyone in my life with negative outlook to stay for very long, in fact, once detected; I do one of a few things. One, I stand and listen, really listen, not just pretend. And then every time they say something negative I hit them with a positive. A few pointers I have taken with me thus far and used a great deal of are as follows:

1. When someone is angry with you. I suggest stepping out of the situation and wonder what about themselves they are most angry with. Most of the time, it is not always about you – good thing to remember, not everything is about you. Once you figure that into play, forgive them. If they cannot see past the end of their own nose, have pity and move on. There is nothing you can change here; you can only set by example.

2. When someone is so low they just nag and complain and everything that comes out of their mouth is sadness. I only stay awhile; I listen and do my best to turn the few things that they are harping on into some positive outlook. Usually, they have mulled over their insecurities of the present situations so much so and dug themselves into a hole so deep that they are the only ones that can make their own ladder and climb out. When that has been assessed, I exit the situation immediately. As there is no point in taking on that bad energy seeing as how I could possibly inflict it upon some harmless positive soul and not even realize it. Suggestion: cut and run.

3. When you are faced with a situation where the whole is negative and there doesn’t seem to be any way out. I remind myself that there is always a way out. And I close my eyes and take a deep breath. And then blindly, one step in front of the other, I attack the situation with both hands free and, most importantly, a positive mind. For there is nothing worse than a freaking out, closed minded individual. Just don’t forget to breathe, oxygen is your friend.

Lately, I have found myself pondering “memory.” To think that without it how would we react - Emotional, apathetic or just detached? As individuals, the events that I remember, replay and digest are most certainly not the same as others, hence point of view. I take everything in and I mean that in the most sincere way, from a writer’s point of view. I love to be the fly on the wall when I don’t have the need to entertain. I love to sit back and watch the people around me and the actions that roll from one to the other and snowball into an adventurous muse I later jot down for use in some latter part of my writings through life.

Just recently, I found myself deep within the trenches of the Los Angeles Bike Scene, Midnight Ridazz. And it is anything but dull. The people are fantastic. There is not one individual I have met that has turned me off or away from the nightly, and daily, rides that really pull the community together in such a family-type atmosphere. And I mean all over Los Angeles, from the beach to the valley to downtown. It’s a growing culture of cyclists that just want to ride. How about that, no cars, just bike riding.

I have also taken up photography – a hobby, I guess you could say. My friend Tim has this awesome camera and would bring it out on rides with us. At times he would hand it over to me to take a few shots before putting away. And then, something brilliant happened, I started framing stories in still pictures and fell in love with photography. I think I blame the lack of being on a production set, but either or, I am fascinated and entertained. I have been guided to shoot “raw” with the camera and have taken up Photoshop’s Lightroom, which I taught myself how to do over the course of one evening. I have to say that each time I shoot (depending on how inebriated I was) each session has come out better and better. I highly suggest you teach yourself something that you have always wanted to do but just never got around to do it. Now is your chance, do it!

Okay, so from here on down, I’ll be brief! I am deep into this children’s novel I have been writing – it’s the most exciting piece of work I have done in a long time. I have also taken to a new short, a bicycle film – which was inspired by the latest Batman movie, and yes, I structured and character developed the whole thing before the night was over. Progress is to do a little every day, feels great when you end up doing a whole lot more because of accidental creativity.

And yet, here I stand as August comes to a close, so does this season of my imaginary “TV Show” (hehehe.. yea.. I know). But this last month has been an interesting one, interesting in the way of how season finales usually go. And all who have been a part of these action sequences, character development humps, tragic accidents and large juts of trouble waiting around the next midpoint have also been there for the triumphant “My 8=, your ” moments and large portions of “Brett’s Mom” ordering – you know who you are and most assuredly, have been laughing right along with me. Anyone can structure their lives in some way that best fits that added flair for the dramatic, if not, I’ll help – it’s fun!

So, I shake my head and smile, as I am more in anticipation of what will happen next season! This past year has been a rainbow of characters, most that won’t be returning, a few the audience still enjoys, however, they only pop up every now and then. And now there are a few new characters, some really interesting never-before-seen on this show characters, with flavor that adds chaos and even some comedy to lighten up the very serious world that Sara Bond rotates in.

And now that this masturbation has climaxed, I leave you with a preview for the upcoming season:

eh.. here's a little something: the show won't take place entirely in LA this coming season, some travel is in the works, look forward to some major film production action on sets (yaye!), maybe a little political rising, it is possible for love, some major goals that have been set will be made, maybe just maybe some supporting characters will move on, there could be a loss, and, well, SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT! the beginning of this season could be the setup to take the last half of next season in an entirely altered direction, one the audience won't be expecting but knew was coming all along!

she is

in the end

when all is said

everything is done

she is why

you are still here

when the night grows too long

she is what you are waiting for

in the length of the day

when your mind wonders

she is who catches it

steadies you

rests there

she is the light

that ignites within

a fire that burns

the hunger

she is the challenge

the one up

the hand down

she'll put you in your place

remind you where you stand

she is the dark horse

roaming in your lonely land

she'll hold you

pull you near

she'll boost your ego

she is your opposite

your devils advocate

and your single breath

she is the one

she'll tell it to your face

no matter the truth

she'll make it known

no matter the lie

she'll dig you the ditch

and bury you alive

she is the strength

you find in yourself

she is the smile

that warms you

the laughter

that consoles you

she is all

and then some

and you know it

cause you feel it

and somewhere

between

she said she'd wait forever

without you knowing

she gave you herself

she opened her world

you had no idea

she liked it better that way

she hid her intellect

crushed her opponents

she faked her tears

won the day

she knows her worth

she will always stand in front

though patience she lacks

she makes up for in design

she is the charm

that brings you back

she is the friend

that listens

she is the girl

who haunts dreams

she is the lady

who promises the dance

she is the woman

surrounded by boys

but she is the one who chooses

she knows what she wants

she gets the game

she is the only one that matters

she was until she met you

for she is whom

without

you would never understand

love

she is

let that be

enough

Figment

You teeter on the edge with death
To close your eyes from the noise of life
For you have already emerged from your fears
And await benediction with out spread arms

Fallen, from some unholy grace
You’re an empty carcass with no name
Sifted through a veil with a thousand arms
To earth, a child, caught in sin’s downpour

Your troubled eyes calculate the day
However, concealed behind the shadow
As they endure the traffic of time
And melt from the imperfection

Rarely do you hide in a crowd and watch your puppets play
For the world is but entertainment and you exist on its stage
Though you laugh with the living, you cry not for those who will die
But for those who have never lived

Could you be a figment in your own eyes
Unsure of the reflection seen, always a memory to be told
For you fade out with sun only to run wild in the night
Sometimes, not even you believe.

No heaven could change you, the world tried to exchange you
There is no belong, you’re omniscient wherever you go
Though the question still lingers, even I never fully understand
Were you a figment of my imagination or just another broken man?

stay awhile

left a piece
that makes you whole
i stole it
hid it
buried inside
so sit here
for just awhile
close your eyes
let the silent screams wash
listen to the constant breathing
taste the flavor of chaos
where time exists
there is none to spare
for death
life's answer
reveals itself
watch with me
as all that is natural
divides
for into the dark
the world fades with the sun
collecting the lost
engulfing the damned
where all the simple things
come to mean something
and leave us in the rain
for here is where
we define life
we create ourselves
to accomplish this
we let go of all we know
and become lost

stay awhile

left a piece
that makes you whole
i stole it
hid it
buried inside
so sit here
for just awhile
close your eyes
let the silent screams wash
listen to the constant breathing
taste the flavor of chaos
where time exists
there is none to spare
for death
life's answer
reveals itself
watch with me
as all that is natural
divides
for into the dark
the world fades with the sun
collecting the lost
engulfing the damned
where all the simple things
come to mean something
and leave us in the rain
for here is where
we define life
we create ourselves
to accomplish this
we let go of all we know
and become lost

Acceptance

she walks along the dock
arms crossed
eyes fixed upon the vast
black waves of the ocean
slapping the midnight sky
barefeet slowly moving
dress clinging - humid
she approaches the end
where dreams are found
in castles deep in the ocean
and mermaids play in the
maze of the underground

beauty found in the depths
far beyond the speaking world
she leaps into nothing and
everything all at once
the salty sea consumes her
she sinks, she is calm
Her eyes stare wide
and lungs fill
she opens her arms

the rush

i stand on my side
you, your own
our stubbornness
in its wit
and whimsical way
pierces this room
the words
they pound
a cluster of angst
conflicted with emotion
an echo of voices
swallowing and feeding
the rip and the tear
the back and the forth
sucking the breath
clear from me
the space between us weakens
as we reach the narrow
straight and head on
no one to catch
nor hold us back
its inevitability
keeps me here
you with whom
i am most afraid
you who can never know
who i hide in my mind
who i want to write off
but can't shake
you who haunts me
who consumes me
and slowly removes me

You This Is

There this is
The fork
I never thought
Lays before us
I can follow the pattern
Map out the events
Somewhere between
Here and there
We had our laugh
And toasted the night
This web we spun
Of manipulation
We designed the structure
Down to every scene
We lined up the characters
And pulled the trigger
We knew the risk
But never the outcome
And, so
Here this is
Where we part
From this grand venture
You this is
All of it
For without you
There was never I
And
I am no good at any of this
Let’s close the board
And put away the chips
Take the stock off the table
Can’t we erase
Undo what’s been done
Add a new chapter
This time will be different
Better than before
I can rearrange the setting
You the characters
We can laugh once more
And play with one eye open
We know the rules
Get the strategies
Let’s throw in the anti
And take the road together
I just can’t imagine
Walking it alone
Without you, my friend
I won’t go it
Even if all it ever was
All it will ever be
Is just this
I’m sorry

Randy Pausch, R.I.P.

A Carnegie Mellon Professor, Randy Pausch is best known for giving the traditional “Last Lecture”. Around September of 2007, he had been diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer and told that he had only 6 months to live. Instead of crawling into a hole and dying quietly, he emerged and taught the world to live, actually live each day and enjoy life. And as his lecture came to a close, Randy would say that we, the audience, may take what we want from it, but it’s really for his children. I remember first hearing about Randy and watching him on YouTube. I can’t explain and I won’t even try, I just offer to you what someone else once offered to me and hope you find the tiny pleasures in the lessons he speaks about.

A few of my favorite examples he uses in his lecture are as follows:

“When he first saw his wife and fell in love with her. That it took him a long while before she noticed him and reciprocated – the two falling madly in love with each other.” He never gave up.

“When his niece and nephew visited they were told by their parents to be extra careful around Uncle Randy’s new car - To not get it dirty! When they arrived, Randy took them out to look at the car and held up a can of soda. He then began pouring the can of soda in the backseat of his brand new car.” Possessions are things, easily replaced and cleaned. People are human and make mistakes, forgive them and move on.

“Write on your walls.” In my childhood bedroom (which my father has now rearranged into his office) the walls are covered in my poetry. The walls of my apartment in Venice, hehehe.. Are covered in 3”x5” index cards for the three writing projects I am currently working on.

“When there’s an elephant in the room, introduce it.” Randy Pausch

This is the one sound bite of Randy’s I have yet to learn and execute and wonder if this “elephant” will be my life’s lesson. And as I sit here typing, I smile, cause I know I will face it. The fear has passed and the butterflies are all a flurry, but I welcome it. Randy is a reminder, my reminder to live and enjoy life.

Thank you, Randy.

Side Story:
This past Tuesday evening as I was riding Ballona Creek with the Taco Tuesday Posse, Caesar rode up beside me, his music blaring from off the back of his bike. We smiled at each other and then he said, “We only have one life. One life.” I nodded and together we pedaled on a bit faster, the wind in our faces, and for a moment, became invincible.

Chilled Embers

In some distant place
I am the opposite of today
In the ever shifting
Plates of the underbelly
My presence is still
As the tiers tumble
Below my grasp
Without steadfast control
I am left on my knees
Fires ignite within
Strangling
Altering
All of it
Grand confusion
And I love it
I accept it
It is me
In the eye of the storm
A calm presents itself
Its chill
Wrapping
Round and round
The burning embers
There without explanation
He floods this place
A balance I cannot overlook
Or understate
Just allow
For the waves
Collect me
Hold me
And like that
My fire is out

Be Fri & Est Ends.. For Jill

In a small, small town, on a small, small street, in a small, small house, set behind two very large trees, lived a small, but tall, blonde girl, who, eventually, one day, traveled down a small, small road, over a small, small hill where she came to a halt in front of a small, small house with a very large back yard where there lived a small and short, brunette girl.

The two small, small girls, one blonde, one brunette, came to find they were very much unalike, but as serious as the small and short brunette found life to be, the small, but tall blonde would find the funny. And shortly, soon after, in this small, small town, the small, but tall blonde girl and the small and short brunette girl, two peas in a pod, became “Be Fri” and “Est Ends”.

Inseparable they were, however they differed, as the small and short brunette was cautious and careful, the small, but tall blonde was confident and carefree, her thick skinned bravery revealed a glimmer of curiosity which sparkled in her bright, blue eyes, and in that small, small town she opened the doors to adventure after adventure after adventure.

They would gush over boys, gossip about friends, however, the small and short brunette was very, very over dramatic in her way, which came to annoy the small, but tall blonde, only to soon realize the imagination of the small and short brunette unraveled stories of what could be, the possibility, the plausible, the very, very dreams of tomorrow and they would soon come to find the anecdotes in that small, small town, of the campy, the comical, the real, in the everyday small, small people.

Two peas in a pod, “Be Fri” and “Est Ends”, singing loudly, protesting angrily, laughing completely, judging never, cleverly devising, engaging ideas, captivating the world, their very, very, small, small world until one very blue and humid day, under a cloudy, gray sky, the small and short brunette girl went up and over the small, small hill and down the small, small street to find the small, small house set behind the two very large trees vacant, abandoned, deserted, unoccupied, uninhabited by the small, but tall blonde girl.

Sadly, the small and short brunette girl sat between the two very large trees in front of the small, small house – she had no friend to talk to, no friend to share this dreadful news with, no friend to tell her a joke, there was no small, but tall blonde girl to comfort her on this very, very blue and humid day, under a cloudy, gray sky.

So, alone and on her own, the small and short brunette went back down the small, small street and over the small, small hill where she came to a halt in back of her small, small house in her very large backyard to see the small, but tall blonde girl waiting patiently for the small and short brunette’s return.

The small, but tall blonde girl explained everything sad and unhappy about her family’s move far, far away, that even though they would have to experience their adventures separately, alone and very much on their own, they would write each other about the journey as they would always stay friends, two peas in a pod, “Be Fri” and “Est Ends”.

The small, but tall blonde pulled from her pocket a gold necklace, dangling, a heart shaped charm to which she broke into two handing the “Be, Fri” half to the small and short brunette as it was here, on that very blue and humid day, under a cloudy, gray sky, that although the small and short brunette knew she could no longer walk up and over the small, small hill and down the small, small street, that although the small, small house behind the two very large trees would not be occupied by the small, but tall blonde, that here on that day in back of her small, small house in her very large backyard, the two peas in a pod promised to stay “Be Fri” and “Est Ends” forever.

under my skin

as the dust settles
in some estranged
corner of my mind
you sit still
don't dare move
detached
we fill the space
you with truth
and i
untouched fiction
resonant laughter
an unhinged creature
reverberates the walls
round us
the line we once drew
blurred with tension
the moral question
lies at the tip of the tongue
the knots, alone
i cannot untangle
the questions
you leave unanswered
nevertheless, we find
in this small crevasse
deep
within the mental cavity
of unwritten words
all that could ever be said
the wash overcomes
cloaked in black
leaving me numb
in my mind's pocket
i keep you here
as i know
you search the depths
when i am missing
with a need
truth through reason
i know i cannot
explain.. express
or even
break the structure
we've built between us
so i add layers
thick and raw
just to escape you
to not face you
face myself

Out of Niphuria

She, frail and tiny. One would say she mirrors an insect with oversized wings. Each webbed in elaborate pastel design. Though her eyes are weary, they dart, alert and sound. She pears into the moonless sky, looking beyond, searching for her way. In the distance she hears the call.. and waits. The time is come. She knows her duty well as she is the messenger. Arisen from Niphuria, out of depths of the Helix and through the Gates of Zephyr. And in agony, she whispers back to the call, "I have stood on the edge of existence and I have seen all there is. I have mocked those that try but never gave enough - knowing they shall perish in all they do. I have laughed at those who laugh back and smirked when I do not breathe in their favor. I have cried for those who cannot see and hear, however talkative and promising they are as a listener. I have walked the paths of the demons and groveled at the feet of the unworthy. I do not fear those I have not met, just those I did and never took the time to understand. I do not hate those that do not see the world as I do, because it would only be reciprocated. I do sigh, however, at those that move too fast and do not wish to play awhile. For I have stood and stayed, I have lived many lives and breathed in even more days. And I must keep going and I must keep surviving because that is what is expected of me." -- The Unmasked Sri

Script from ANAORIN

EXT. FOREST, SKY -- NIGHT

Stars twinkle as they fill the blackened sky.

There are three moons of an orange glow, arranged offset in an angle, the lowest slowly dilapidating.

ORLAND (V.O.)
In the century of the Three Moons, in the third
generation of the Loughlyn Dynasty, under the
house of Del, it came to be that King DeMoore,
son of King DelMar and Queen DelWyn, would
take the fair maiden, Blanchet, as his bride.


EXT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE -- CONTINUOUS

Camera angles from the sky to ancient, robust castle. We sweep over the castle and enter the grand doors into:


INT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE -- CONTINUOUS

Down the corridor and into the main dining hall. The hall is filled with people laughing and eating and drinking in merry.

King DeMoore sits next to his wife Queen DelWyn and they smile as their son, King DelMar and his new bride, Blanchet, take to the dance floor.

King DelMar and Blanchet looking lovingly into each other’s eyes and dance throughout the room as if no one in the room existed but themselves.


INT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE, MASTER BEDROOM -- NIGHT

Camera swiftly moves through the open doors of the bedroom following Queen Blanchet’s CRIES and SCREAMS in pain. We float over the bed to see Queen

Blanchet deliver twins. Two baby girls.

ORLAND (V.O.)
Queen Blanchet would bare him two daughters
of the highest bloodline. Princess Iliza and
Princess Idair.


EXT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE -- DAY

The green grounds of the flowing hills reveal the two daughters upon horses, age eight.
ORLAND (V.O.)
While growing up under their father’s rule, his
daughters were educated on the world they
would one day inherit through birthright.


INT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE, LIBRARY --

The daughters, twelve, are tutored by a teacher. Idair studies endlessly surrounded by books. Iliza stares off into space, wrinkling the page in front of her and twirling her long blonde locks with her finger.

CUT TO:


EXT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE GROUNDS, MARKET PLACE -- DAY

The marketplace is lined with carts and street merchants. People mingle and barter wrapped in linens and drapery. There are dwarfs and midgets and Rydars and Sris as well as many different animals from dogs to sheep.

Idair, sixteen, reveals herself walking through the marketplace. Her long gown dances in the wind, she is beauty. She carries with her a basket filled with fruit and is followed by children that laugh and tease with her.

ORLAND (V.O.)
Idair, intelligent, a quick learner with her beauty
and grace, stepped forward into the countryside
to meet the many people of her father’s kingdom.
There she met, under the house of Adonis, their
eldest, Christoph.

The crowd parts and a young, robust CHRISTOPH appears. He is dressed in royal colors and holds his head high with his shining, steel sword by his side.

Christoph and Idair lock eyes and smile -- immediately falling in love.


EXT. FOREST -- DAY

Idair and Christoph climb trees and eat fruit and play with the sris that taunt them.

ORLAND (V.O.)
Many believe that her witch-like abilities, which
Idair found she possessed later, called Christoph
to her, thus bewitching him to fall in love with her.


EXT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE -- NIGHT

Christoph climbs the wall of the castle as Idair watches excitedly from her window.


INT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE -- NIGHT

Christoph climbs through the window into Idair’s bedroom and the two kiss and
make love on her giant queen-sized bed.

CUT TO:


INT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE, DUNGEON -- NIGHT

Idair, surrounded by nurses sits, legs spread bleeding on the cold, wet stone ground. Her father, King DeMoore stands in the corner hidden in the shadows.

ORLAND (V.O.)
The two then brought forth a child, a boy, who
would remain a secret.


EXT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE -- CONTINUOUS

The large wooden and steel doors opens and a rydar reveals himself. He swiftly rides the child, disappearing into the forest.

ORLAND (V.O.)
King DeMoore had the child taken from his
mother’s arms and by Rydar, given to father
Monstat.


EXT. SEMINARY - CONTINUOUS

A door opens, candlelight fills the small walkway. The Rydar is lit holding the child as Father Monstat stands in the doorway to receive the child.

The Door is shut and the Rydar, alone, disappears into the night.

ORLAND (V.O.)
Father Monstat was told to never speak of
the child’s parentage. The boy, named Aebi,
was to be raised an orphan like the bastard
child he was.


INT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE, MAIN ROOM -- DAY

King DeMoore stands behind Christoph and Iliza and nods as the priest who stands in front of them reads them their vows into matrimony.

ORLAND (V.O.)
The King then took it upon himself to punish
the young lovers by giving his eldest daughter,
Iliza, Christoph’s hand in marriage and the
next in line for the throne.


EXT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE, TOWER -- NIGHT

Establishing shot. Camera climbs the side of the tower to show it’s height and sheer splendor as it towers over the castle and the countryside.


INT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE, TOWER -- NIGHT

A small cramped room, inelegant. Draped in books and jars and interesting bugs and birds.

Idair, draped across her bed, cries out in despair.

ORLAND (V.O.)
King DeMoore banished Idair to the tower
where she would exist, alone.

Through the window, like a ghost, a swift wind entered the tower hushing Idair’s cries. Idair sits up in bed and watches around her the ghost like whispers as they consume her thoughts.

ORLAND (V.O.) (cont’d)
Thus, the Witch-Queen whisper came unto the house of
Del and spoke to the young Idair to teach her of her now
known strength and powers for a new way of life.


INT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE, MAIN ROOM -- DAY

Iliza sits in her throne, Christoph at her side as they hold hands and smile.

ORLAND
In the years of the three moons, in the fourth
generation of the Loughlyn Dynasty under the
house of Del, it was Iliza that took the throne
with Christoph at her side as King.

People dance and eat and enjoy the party before them.

ORLAND (cont’d)
Months later, the first heir to the throne was
born a girl who was named Payton. For the
namesake’s meaning of “warrior princess”,
though not known at the time, would bring the
first Great War unto the Loughlyn Dynasty and
ultimately her won death.

A young girl, all of eight, with dark curls runs out from behind her mother’s throne and joins the dancing crowd with laughter.


INT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE, TOWER -- NIGHT

Idair, angered paces back and forth holding an old dilapidated book as she flips through the pages.

ORLAND
Spurned and angered by her father’s doings,
Idair grew all knowing of the Witch-Queen Craft
and forged under the great book of Icelidora,
out of revenge for her sister’s taking of her one love,
Christoph, a curse on their young daughter Payton.

Idair snaps the book closed and looks out her vast window into the starry, chilled night air.

IDAIR
(in the Witch-Queen Whisper)
Any male Payton, heiress to the Loughlyn throne,
doth love shall see them buried by her own hand.

The whisper murmurs through nature.


INT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE, TOWER STAIRWELL -- NIGHT

Aebi, rushes up the steps. Quickly, one after the other, his hand holding his silver, steel sword at his side.


INT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE, TOWER -- NIGHT

Aebi forces himself through the doors into Idair’s chambers. His eyes searching the room frantically for her.

Idair appears in the doorway behind him. She is older, wiser, her features now dark. Her long black hair covers her large smoky eyes.

IDAIR
My Aebi, of great peril bring you unto my
house. Have I taught you nothing, but to
bury your feelings from yourself and your
opponents?

Aebi bows before her and leans down on one knee.

IDAIR (cont’d)
(commanding)
RISE.

Aebi stand before her. They lock eyes.
IDAIR (cont’d)
You are trembling. Is it fear?
(pauses)
No.
(pauses)
Death?
(pauses)
No.
(pauses)
Is it love that I see in your eyes? Are you finally
ready to admit that this beauty you found is the one?
(smiles)
Bring her to me and I shall make the final decision
of her worthiness for my own son.

Aebi, frustrated, throws down his sword and faces his mother intently.

AEBI
(barely in tears)
You do not listen, Mother! How could this be
that this beauty I love is my sister?

Idair steps backward away from her son and clutches the dagger she keeps close to her heart.

IDAIR
I feel I have pierced my heart, though I have no
blood to show for it. Aebi -- NO!

She breaks her stare from Aebi and looks away catching her breath and controlling her emotions.

IDAIR (cont’d)
Do not define love through her womanly wiles.
She is using you to make her self-conscious
conditioning her mother instilled in her to go away.
(pauses)
You must understand, my son, you prior to the
knowledge of her being your kin, wanted only to
abuse her feminine body.

AEBI
(in anger)
She LOVES me, Mother!

IDAIR
Have her lips spoken those words to you?

AEBI
Yes.

IDAIR
And you believe them? These words?

AEBI
As much as I love her.

Idair takes Aebi’s face into her hands holding it angelically.

IDAIR
(in the Witch-Queen whisper)
It cannot be.

Angle all around the room as the voice echoes throughout the room.

Angle on the walls as they vibrate.


EXT. FOREST -- CONTINUOUS

A heavy wind flows through the trees as the voice echoes throughout the forest.


INT. LOUGHLYN CASTLE, TOWER -- CONTINUOUS

Aebi bows his head in shame.

AEBI
I have penetrated her womb. She carries my son.

Idair throws herself away from him, ashamed and angered.

IDAIR
No, my Aebi. Not you.

Aebi steps forward, arms out as if to console his mother. She moves his arms away from her with force pushing him backward.

AEBI
Why do you say such things with a sound of
sadness? You should be angry at your own
bloodline. Your father for separating us. You
should be angry with Father Monstat for not
telling me sooner who I am. Why? Why such
sadness? This too shall be overcome like all
things in this life, Mother.

Idair faces Aebi.

IDAIR
(sternly)
My son, your death will be imminent and swift.
Pray your child is female. For if it be a male,
her love shall kill its very essence and your child
will share your grave. This I know.

Idair, tired, consumed with grief, sits in her chair.

IDAIR (cont’d)
This I have seen as told to me by the witch-queen
whispers by my own hand. My careless motives
for revenge unto my Iliza from her allegiance in
marriage to my one love, your father, Christoph.
The whisper says that any male Payton loves shall
soon be stricken with death. I am sorry, my son.
For if I had known, I would have --.

AEBI
Mother! But I am still alive. I am breathing here in
front of you. Alive and well.

IDAIR
Your time is short. You will not know. It will come swift.
(composing herself)
I blame her, and she shall be punished a murderer.
For I shall wipe my conscious clean. I will make
myself forget.

AEBI
Me? Forget me? Why not protect me, Mother?
(begging)
Protect me from your spell. Cast another!

IDAIR
No, Aebi. Payton was made of no love and for
that my sister’s child will suffer.

AEBI
Is her fault that there is no love? For I was
conceived out of wedlock and many find
wrong in this.

IDAIR
Aebi, my Aebi, pure as the Witch-Queen loves
Anaorin and breathes it life with love, so were
you brought into this world.

AEBI
So, shall I leave then? Will go to die in her arms,
my beloved Payton?

Idair walked away from her son and over to her vast windows that looked down upon her father’s, now her sister’s castle. Her eyes thinned to slits and a smile formed across her face.

IDAIR
Ahhh... Yes. Let her lie next to your lifeless body
and feel love’s death as I have before her.

Angry, Aebi picks up his sword and unsheaths it holding it tight by his side.

AEBI
You wait, Mother! You wait! My child will be so great!
He will out do your treachery and send you and your
Witch-Queens back to the pits of Niphuria!
(his voice steady and calm)
That I know. That I believe.

IDAIR
Say none such things to your mother! The
prophecy you naught believe, therefore you shall
not voice those words that you cannot foresee. My
love for you, my child cannot save you. Not for all
the love in Anaorin.

Aebi paces the room. Idair’s eyes follow him. Intense quiet fills the room.

AEBI
Then if you will not save me, let Payton suffer my
loss and save my son.

IDAIR
A son you believe to have?

AEBI
I know it.

Beat.
IDAIR
Because my whisper will take your life,
your loving wish is granted.

Idair reveals the Witch-Blade Sword of Life which was hidden in her cloak by her heart. It’s steel shimmers in the moonlight and a blue light presents itself around the blade as she holds it.

IDAIR (cont’d)
Your breath will last till your son’s first night in Anaorin.
Strike him down with the Witch-Blade Sword of Life
and let him drink from it his own blood. With his own
blood he will be nurtured to everlasting life.
(pauses)
When you have completed this, strike yourself down,
the Witch-Blade Sword of Life will then pass unto him,
thus making you his first slay. By proving yourself to
the Gods with this act you shall be set free with your
own death and bypass Niphuria.

Aebi nods in understanding.
IDAIR (cont’d)
Immortality. You are but flesh and bone, mortal,
but your son will live for all time. And you shall
name him Daramittri.

Aebi bowed before his Mother and leaned down on one knee.

IDAIR (cont’d)
RISE.

Aebi stands before his Mother.

Idair stares deep into his eyes and holds the Witch-Blade Sword of Life out for Aebi to take.

Aebi accepts the sword, his hand trembling from the power it wields.
IDAIR (cont’d)
My dear son, Aebi. I love.

Aebi turns away from her and exits her chambers.

Idair crumbles to the floor where Aebi once stood and embraces the nothingness he left behind.

FADE TO:

EPILOGUE

long ago
in some city
on some whim
from some grand scheme
when we lived out
all we could
you left me
without knowing

a part of me
you touched
i close my eyes
i remember every beat
in the darkness
you were my light
in desperate hours
you were my second hand
in my happiest moments
you were my smile
which made it all
very clear

frozen in morality
of what is proper
right and wrong
i lied, told stories
pretended
the illusion of anybody else
but you
the little girl i left behind
to hold those moments
she rushes back
holding them, handing them
to me, of you

it's been years
decades even
you've crossed oceans in your lifetime
and i in mine
yet here i am
where you once left me
to when we were
or actually not at all
i have rewritten the pages
i erased the plausible
of what i had dreamed
could be
and have colored the existence
a rainbow of thought
which has forgotten you
until now

oh, my friend
where do you dance tonight
are you sitting round
with friends at your side
do you love her
whomever she is
are your children the energy
you've exhausted yourself with
are you finally content
more-so, does time quickly go
are you ever alone
do you ever rewrite the pages
if you could
what would you say
would you do it all over again
would you love me still

it's cold here in my shadowed house
the wax from the candles
drips low
years have aged my weathered soul
as she lays slipping with time
i must admit
in the dramatized story of my life
your chapters
are my last grand novel
as i write them now
seeing as how i never regret
i do, however, you
i have dotted every i
crossed every t
maybe, just maybe
you will remember
find you
where you left me

and in some great movie moment
where the score elevates
and the production design weeps
of old fashioned romance
in the void of dialogue
we will walk there
and i and you
will be

ALEVEN OF THE NINE: Chapter Three

HANLEY

TWO WEEKS. ONE DAY PRIOR. He watched as she slipped the evening gown off. She slid the straps over her shoulders and moved slightly toward the bed. It slinked down her slender body to the floor. She was his prize and he allowed himself to feel the want. His heart rate gained speed and his hands ached to feel her soft skin.She moved closer to where he sat waiting on the bed. Her hands caressing her body, they stretched out to him. He lunged for her, taking her in his arms and their lips met. Hungry. He flipped her over to the bed and pulled away for air. She was beautiful. Long blonde hair, deep blue eyes. She laughed and tried to pull him near. He was satisfied.

His hands were fast. Her neck snapped like a twig. She lay in his arms, the warmth draining from her. He tiled his head, mesmerized. Gently he set her back on the bed. his eyes traced her body as it wriggled, the last remnants of air leaving. She had been beautiful. Maybe as a child. Careless. Carefree. His hand pulled the sheets over her and he stood.

The room was much bigger now then he had remembered. He found her purse and went through it. Nothing. Moved to her dress. His fingers groping the silky fabric. Nothing. Then he went back to her. Removed the sheets and ripped the oval charmed necklace from her neck. He flipped a button. Flash. Damn. She's intelligent.

He stood and slipped the the gadget into his pocket. Quick, he exited the hotel room.

The hallway led him in a maze. He pulled a phone from his pocket. Dialed numbers. Send. His eyes smiled as he paused at the janitorial elevators. As he waited for its arrival the phone stopped ringing and he put it to his ear.

He listened.

"She was intelligent."

He listened.

He threw the phone down and crushed it with the heel of his boot. His fingers sifted through the debris and he pocketed the sim card. The elevators opened. He nodded to a cleaning lady. Flashed a boyish smile to which she blushed. He turned for the door that read "stairwell". Seventy-two floors. Typical.
____________________

The aged man sat in his parked car. His hands sore with arthritis. he felt his body deteriorating with each call. Someone was playing a game. Someone. The "who" were a couple of choices. Few he couldn't bring himself to think about. His phone vibrated in the palm of his right hand.

"Yes."

He listened.

"Your export is damaged."

He hung up and crushed the phone against the dashboard with one fatal blow.

ALEVEN OF THE NINE: Chapter Two

ISIS SULT

TWO WEEKS, FOUR DAYS PRIOR. Thirty-six minutes. The room was grey. Dark. It was cold. The heat had been off for a while. Her left wrist burned from the wear and tear of the handcuff. Her skin red, raw. The steel table her handcuff connected to sat in the center of the eight by ten foot space. Two chairs. One across from hers. And of course, the illusive two-way mirror. Her eyes did not fall against her reflection - vain was a not a sin she lavished in. Ever. There was one door. Approximately six feet to her right. Diagonally. They were waiting. She was waiting. Thirty-seven. She focused her eyes on the center of the table and concentrated on her slowed breathing.

His legs strained. He towered the other two men in the room. They sat in front of him mesmerized by the prize on the other side of the mirror. They hadn't stopped murmuring to each other. Their incessant muffled voices echoed throughout the room. It reached annoying. He shuffled his stance. His eyes focused on her. Curious. He knew the game. He knew she knew the game. Didn't they? Damn knuckle-heads. The bald one to his right stood. Leaned against the wall. His face pressed to the mirror. Eyes steady on her. The young one to his left uncrossed his legs. Murmured something and they both chuckled. The room felt crowded. Three's a crowd. He favored two. It was time.

The door opened. She did not move. Her eyes rested on the center of the table. Her breathing consistent. The man took the seat in front of her. It was always a man. They connected. Eye to eye. Five foot nine. Brown hair, blue eyes. A bit wrinkled. Thirty-five-ish. His suit was worn. His tie stretched. He was not as exhausted as he had made himself appear to be. There was no ring. No visible piercings and thought she'd be surprised if there were any tattoos. He was clean shaven. This was his tell. He kept her in the room under surveillance. It had been forty minutes. Shortest time. This was a record. She noted this. The man across the table lacked patience. Or he'd done his homework. It wouldn't be long now.

He swallowed hard. She had dark eyes. Intense. Her brown hair was askew. She was buried in the shadow of the room. And he felt nervous. He shook the feeling and settled back in the chilled metal chair. His hands rested calmly on his lap. He nodded, "Piper Elgen. Eileen Basille. Nikki Roberts. Rochelle Burke. Myra Halaas. Catin Beals."

She smiled in her thoughts. Even thought she heard a laugh. He had done his homework. He was at least educated. She needed to know if he was intelligent. And if so, to what degree.

"I'll go first. I'm Agent Yurie. My job for the past three weeks and all the way up until I walked into this room has been you. Everything and anything. You."

Three weeks? Probably more like one and half. Males always double everything.

"And," he continued, enjoying the moment, "I am the only one who knows what I know. So if you take me out now. It would not only be for your benefit, but most certainly for my own. Too many bad thoughts I've taken to bed with me."

Her lips formed a smile. She allowed it, "Tempting. Agent Yurie, You must know the dance we are about to begin is null and void. You know this. The most you have are names. Names that even you, yourself, still haven't put together. In fact, you probably only see subtle similarities."

"They're all deceased. And, may I add, that's precisely the same amount of times you have died."

Bingo. Intelligent. It's time to go.

He crossed his legs and began, "Piper was shot in the head at an ice hockey game halfway through the third quarter while enjoying cosmos with the late Charlie Epstein."

She was impressed. True.

"Eileen died in the arms of her lover after their car was sideswiped and rolled over a cliff. She had internal bleeding. The lover, Colt McFarland, was the son of the Ambassador to Germany. He lived only three hours longer. To which neither the authorities nor his family could understand him in his anguish as his vocal cords had been ripped from their body cavity."

He knew details, details that had been left out of official reports. True.

He licked his lips, "My personal favorite, a one Ms. Roberts. Nikki Roberts was found in bed with Sandy Choo. Both were drinking from the same wine glass. Both had the same organ failure. But not before bodily fluids were exchanged."

Typical heterosexual male reaction, but true, all very true. She sat up, her eyes never wavering. Intrigued, "Go on."

He smiled he was thinking of how long he had. How much more he could say before this tango was over. And then, he felt sad for a moment. Not for her, for himself. The last week and a half she had given his life meaning. He hoped she would reveal a little more. More for his own deep undefined pleasure. He was no longer nervous. Intrigued. "Rochelle Burke. Blonde. Died in the explosion of a yacht off the coast of Milan in the Mediterranean Sea. Married. Six weeks. They could only identify her with dental records. Her husband, the Defense Secretary for the former administration, Marcus Burke, was found as seared fish bait some weeks later by a couple on their honeymoon."

True.

"Myra Halaas. Waitress in a small town outside Tulsa. It seems someone didn't agree with her thinking. Instead of telling her face to face they knifed her in the back while she was sexually engaged with Roger Thomas in a sleazy motel off route 128. He was then tied to the back of a pickup truck and dragged for thirty-two and some change miles. You do know who he was, right?"

Roger Thomas. That was a sad and sorry way to go.

He knew she knew. He felt a tiny bit aroused. He thought about one day trying her on. But that seemed to be a deadly mistake. He shook his head in disbelief. "He was the son of the Democratic Senator from New York. I haven't wrapped my head around this next one. This one, I just... Well, you already know, don't you?"

"Catin. Catin Beals. Valedictorian. Doctorate. Physicist. Daughter of one of the wealthiest and oldest banking families in the world. She and her father were simultaneously killed while hunting on Thanksgiving. They turned their guns on each other."

She moved her eyes to the floor, yes, she remembered that very well.

He felt exhilaration wake his tiring thoughts. Is she playing him? Why would she look away? A woman like this could not feel remorse. Could she? Don't be a knuckle-head!

She allowed her eyes to wander about the room. Something was wrong. Export did not take this long. The agent was smart, but he was losing ground. His wealth of knowledge was decreasing. Her mind was exhausted and sleep was such a nice thought. She knew her eye movements were throwing him off track. Ha! Good. Keep him on his toes. If he only knew that this was just another day at the office. The clock was just ticking down until she could go home. How does one explain that? And with such little time.

He sat up. He felt beads of sweat run from his forehead. The eyes. This was her tell. And he had one final name. The name was his ace of spades. His last hand. Final draw. He'll throw down. All in. "Which leads me to Isis Sult. I have determined that this is not your real name. I want to know if she exists at all. If in a few days or even a week she'll end up on our radar. If I let you go, will we meet again?

A smile fell across her face. She allowed it. Her cheeks burned warm. She felt it. "Agent Yurie, what is my name?"

He felt embarrassment. I don't know. Are you an agent? A foreign agent with a fake American English accent? His palms were moist. "I believe that one of your many aliases is Isis Sult."

"You are mistaken." She felt the pain. The dislocation of her pinky finger and thumb were quick. Her hand slid through the handcuff. Free.

His eyes could not believe what he just saw. What? He lost breath and immediately felt weightless as his body was pulled from the chair and thrown into the wall. A sharp pain shuddered through his shoulder. A warm and fuzzy sensation tingled on the back side of his head. The room felt detached. His eyes drifted down with his body to the floor. Popping sounds went off in the distance. Muffled. From the floor he saw the door open and two pairs of boots enter. A wave of relief. He found his breath again.

There she was. Her beautiful face inches from his. Her eyes, though, had becomes vacant. Please, just leave me alone. Leave me here. Go. Leave alone, please. He felt the cold of metal pierce his right temple. Fear rushed through his body. Was no one to save him?

"I'm not the only one who knows about Isis Sult."

And the sound rang. She tilted her head and watched as life exited the body on the floor. She stood. The two men, one in the lead, the other in the rear exported her safely from the chilled, grey room.

Sirens could be heard. The three stepped out onto the roof where the rain fell in sheets from the black sky. She could smell the larger of the two in front, down wind. She raised her left hand to her nose, brushed the wet. Her right with the gun shot point blank into his left temple. Before the man behind her could react, the side of her left hand slammed into his juggler - paralyzing him long enough for her right hand to whip the gun into his face. The bullet entered through his cheekbone.

She flipped the safety, tucked the gun in the back of her jeans and looked up into the black sky. There through the falling rain, a beacon of light grew larger as it swiftly fell down toward her. A rope, heaved from the helicopter, landed feet in front of her. She looped her foot and climbed as the helicopter moved away from the building. Sleep. Sleep is only a little while more away.

She climbed through the sliding door of the helicopter. A man pushed her into a seat and buckled her in. "Isis Sult?"

"Bonne nuit."

He pulled a syringe and injected her arm with an oily yellow substance. It felt warm as it rushed inside of her. Then, with a pop - the helicopter caught a wind and the needle broke inside her arm. It was a pinch. Her fingers quickly pried the needle from under her skin. She slammed her fist across the man's face.

His nose bleeding, "Accident!"

"We make no accidents." She felt it. Like an ocean wave over her body. She closed her eyes and slept.

_________________________

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"Who was that man?" She was warmer now. Sweat pants and a sweat shirt. The hot shower was a good end to a long day. She rested against the desk in her apartment. Tied her sneakers. The ear piece in her ear blinked as she continued the conversation. "He knew me. Of me. Identities."

She listened.

"He was intelligent."

She listened.

"There were markings on the inside of his right wrist. I know he wasn't LAPD. I want to know who and why."

She listened.

"My export was late."

She listened.

"I realize, Sir."

She clicked off the ear piece and got on the treadmill. As she ran her gaze looked out onto the ocean. The black sky in conversion with the sea at their horizontal meeting point. The man across the table was a sign. A conversion of two. Difficult to make out the players. He hadn't asked her what she did. Or where she came from. Originally picked up for false tags. False tags. Tags on a car she just happened to jump into when a chase went wrong. A chase that ended in the reception area at LA's downtown Police Precinct. Where not only did they run her fingerprints for the identity that she wore. The man in custody, the man from the chase outed her. And after forty minutes sitting in that cold room, she meets Agent Yurie. Who never specifically identified himself as to what authority he was under. Yet, he knew more about her alias then anyone had ever known about her. Her export was late. No police officers were in the vicinity of the room once they excited and went for the roof.

She turned off the machine. Walked over to bathroom. Closed herself inside. She turned the hot water on at the sink and the shower. Undressed herself naked and sat in the center of the room on the floor. Indian style. In her meditative position, she closed her eyes. Her thoughts silenced.

_________________________

He hugged the phone to his ear. "You at least succeeded."

He listened.

"That does not concern you."

He listened.

"Of you? Probably LAPD on a power trip. Shall I list the counts they had on you? The snitch should have been taken care of. We make no mistakes."

He listened.

"And as far as I am concerned, and I make myself clear. This man that knows of you should be of no more thought."

He listened.

"Why were you late to your rendezvous? Your statement suggested that this man was working with someone else."

He listened.

"Treason has been committed here against you, and me for that matter. Ms. Sult, it is time to go."

He closed the cell phone. In two blows, it hit the floor and was terminated by the heel of his boot. His face was aged beyond his years. His eyes tired as they solemnly stared out at the rain tapping on the windows.

A door opened behind him. A man entered. He stood in the black of the room, "Sir?"

"I will be out of town for a few weeks. I'd like you to call my daughter and read the message I wrote for her. I left it on my desk in an envelope."

"Daughter? Sir?"

"On the desk. In the envelope."

"Yes, Sir." He came into the desk light and retrieved the envelope. He was a young assistant. Eager.

"Oh, and Colin..."

"Yes, Sir?"

"This would be a good two weeks to take that vacation you have been planning."

"Sir?"

"That will be all."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

ALEVEN OF THE NINE: Chapter One

K

PRESENT. It was a humid evening, A small, two story house. And a man pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth on the porch.

A woman, shoulder length brown hair and deep brown eyes, wore jeans and shirt with comfortable sneakers. She walked up the sidewalk to the house. Made her way up the stairs and met the man face to face. She stood feet from him and paused.

"Can I help you?"

"My name is Pierre. I - I wanted to ex - express my -."

"Did you know my father?"

The man fumbled with the briefcase he cradled in his arms. He straightened his already straight glasses, "I did, well, sort of. Good man."

"Then I do not believe you knew him well."

She moved toward the door in hopes that he would allow her access. He did not budge. His thin body stood square in front of the door. His hands gripping the briefcase. They stared at each other for a moment. He let go of the briefcase and put his hand out towards hers. "Was wondering if I could have a word with you? An interview possibly?"

"Ah ha! A reporter! I knew it. And how did you know I would be here? This is not my home.”

"I know. I have been waiting -."

"Waiting?" Her arms crossed on her chest.

"Yes since Friday evening. Since.. The news broke."

Disgusted, she looked away from the puny man standing half a foot lower then her in a brown trench coat and wire rimmed glasses. His brown hair a flutter.

"Please leave."

He put his other hand out, a bit more desperate and waved it about in the air. She might have not seen it hanging there, this would just be a reminder. "Just a word with you, please. I believe I may have some infor -."

"You have nothing I could want or need. Leave my father's home. NOW!"

He moved away from the door and slowly down the steps.

The woman withdrew a set of keys from her pocket and fumbled with them. She approached the door.

The man paused on the last step. "I will be right out here when you change your mind."

She said nothing. Tried a different key as the first key was unsuccessful.

"It's all a shame, really. I am sorry for your loss."

Finally, the correct key unlocked the door and the bolt unhinged loudly. "I am not sorry. It is not my loss. I don't believe it is a shame."

And he retorted. Now his eyes locked with hers. "It is, however, um, interesting to see as how you, um, resemble your mother so unmistakably."

She stared as his tiny eyes grew bigger behind his glasses. The silence filled the space between the two. They stood engulfed in the humidity of the evening. Pierre broke his concentration, turned and walked to his car which was parked across the street from the house.

The woman opened the door. Slammed it shut behind her. entered the dark house and slammed it shut behind her. She made her way through the darkness slowly, one foot in front of the other. Her hand guided by memory moved to the right and she groped the air. It had been years since she had set her eyes on this house let alone walked through its door. Her right hand hit something in the dark. Quickly, her other hand reacted and steadied the object, felt it and flicked the switch, lighting the table lamp.

A dim orange glow gave the room a sick feeling as it illuminated the once quaint, family style living room that now looked as if a hurricane had moved in for a while and abruptly left without cleaning after its stay. The woman breathed heavily and her eyes darted about the room. Instinctively she backed up to the front door.

The couch cushions had been pulled apart, knifed. Magazines, pictures, china had been scattered, broken all over the carpeted floor. Patches of the carpet unearthed and wooden floor panels had been pulled up and strewn about the room. The light grew dimmer the further back and her eyes strained to see. The hurricane of whoever did not stop at the living room.

She found the door handle and in one quick motion she was out on the porch once again shutting the door behind her. She controlled her breathing and calmed as her eyes rested on the navy blue Honda parked across the street with the man, Pierre, she remembered that he had told her his name, sitting in the front seat unaware of her appearance on the porch. Moments later she found herself standing at the driver's side door. She rapped a knuckle against the window.

Pierre started the car and the window electronically went down as he looked up at her, "Changed your mind?"

"Off the record?"

"What?"

"I want this exchange here," indicating with her hands as she pointed from him to her and back to him again, "I want it off the record."

"Yeah, um, okay."

"What's your full name?"

"Pierre Madison," he said still sitting inside the car. He sat so low and it seemed he was a prisoner being interrogated.

"And what paper are you with?"

"The Washington Post," he said proudly.

"Uh, huh. And how is it that you know my father?"

"Under the circumstances, I'd say I am not the only person interested in your -."

She smirked, "you are the only one interested right here, right now. As I do not see anyone else parked out here. And you seem to know information that, even with little research, no one could possibly know.

They both stared at each other. The woman's eyes became slits as she held her stance, "You did not answer my question, Pierre Madison. How did you come to know my father?"

"He was my ..." Pierre nodded his head as if to imply what he did not want to say out loud.

Her voice lowered, "spy, informant, 'deep throat'" her voice sarcastic with the last remark. None-the-less she jumped to the next question and left this one open-ended and the abrupt manner of doing so she was sure Pierre understood as well. "You have been here for the past two days and two nights?"

"This makes the third night, yes," Pierre agreed.

"Anyone come in and out of that house?" She pointed at her Father’s house.

He paused, looked over at the house and then went on, "Yes. The first night. About an hour after it happened they came -."

"Okay!" She waved her hand to silence him and motioned for him to follow her back towards the house. Pierre rolled the window up, turned off the car and with briefcase in hand, quickly followed behind her.

As the Woman reached the front door she paused and Pierre’s hand tapped her shoulder. She turned to see him hugging his briefcase with one arm and readjusting his wire rimmed glasses with another. She laughed as he leaned in for a whisper, “What shall I call you?”

The Woman leaned back and asked, “What did you call my Father?”

“M,” Pierre whispered back.

The Woman smiled and nodded as she understood something Pierre could not. She leaned back by his ear and whispered, “K.” She took a deep breath, her eyes scanned the area behind him and she carried on, “Anything said between you and I from this moment on – ANYTHING! – is off the record. Is that clear?”

Pierre nodded, “You could not make that any more clearer.”

K’s hand touched the door knob, turned it over and they both entered the house and halted as the door as it shut behind them. K locked the door and turned as Pierre gasped.

“What happened? What did they do?” He asked.

K gently slapped his shoulder and put a finger up to her mouth indicating for him to stay quiet. She moved to the side of the room, watching where her feet stepped as she made her way to the CD player and turned it on. She moved over to the speakers and turned them and then hit play and The Beatles filled the house as it came through speakers scattered throughout the house. K heightened the volume and motioned with her hand for Pierre to follow her.

Pierre bounced his head to the beat of “I Want To Hold Your Hand” and smiled approvingly at K. She gave no such return. It was her father who enjoyed the earlier as K the latter of The Beatles’ albums.

K slowly led Pierre through the living room, his eyes panned every inch of surface they could drink.

“I saw them come. There were two cars, four men. They had keys -.”

“They had keys?”

“Yes,” Pierre continued, “They stayed no more then a half hour before leaving with boxes.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?” K stopped, turned and looked at him.

Pierre shrugged and said honestly, “They were the police. They left with about six boxes filled to the brim.”

“Do you know what kind of police?” K did quotation marks with her fingers in the air for “police”.

“I can take an educated guess.”

“So can I. I thought, however -.”

“No,” Pierre said firmly, almost ashamed, “I do not know who they are.”

K continued walking forward, “Could you ID them in a lineup?”

Pierre gave a nervous snort, “Without a doubt. But I don’t believe these men will be that easy to track down.”

K ignored him as she kicked things out of the way. A fallen picture frame that cracked as it slammed into the fireplace.

Pierre cleared his throat and caught up to K, “K, I know you haven’t talked to your father in a long time.”

“Estranged. We were estranged,” Her eyes roaming quickly all over the room.

“Yes, yes.”

Pierre followed her into the kitchen and sat down at a bar stool and set is bag down on the counter in front of him as he pushed aside broken glass and more photos.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be cleaning this tonight?” Pierre snorted to himself, as he was the only one in the room that found what he said funny.

“It’s not mine. I don’t care.”

“Then may I ask why you are here. And for that matter, why did you bring me in here?”

K opened the fridge and found two bottles of beer in the vegetable drawer. She pulled them out and popped the tops. She handed one to Pierre who nodded and accepted. K took a swig and leaned back against the far counter, roughly ten feet from Pierre.

K closed her right eye and looked at Pierre with her left. Then she closed the left eye and looked at him with her right. Then went back and forth, back and forth, left eye, right eye, left eye, right eye.

Finally she stopped and said, “I am here for information as I can assume that is why you are here.”

“Yes. But why am I here?” Pierre motioned his eyes around the room which indicated to K, inside the house with her at that very moment.

“I thought you might find it less crampy than that horrid machine you were stuffed in.”

Pierre raised and tipped his beer in thanks, “I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Good,” K stared at him intently as his thin rimmed glasses added a bit of character to sunken face and dark, beaded eyes. His furrowed brow gave him a sense of unnatural curiosity that seemed to leap from his face as soon as he smiled which revealed his perfectly white teeth and full lips.

Pierre laughed, interrupting her thought, “You’re staring. That’s not why I am here now is it?”
His tone reached sarcasm which repulsed K.

She brushed it off her shoulders, shrugged and said, “I know what my father saw in you.”

Surprised, Pierre’s eyes grew wide and his smile gave K the answer that he wanted to know what it was, that he needed to know.

“It’s why you have been sitting outside my father’s house since…” Her voice trailed.

Pierre relaxed and his wide smile faded. He gestured a reassuring nod.

“It’s the reason you said what you said about my mother. He knew, my father.”

Confused now, Pierre squinted at her.

“He knew I would take, as he did, to your kind eyes. Was probably a bit irritated by your snorting and constant twitching, though, but he asked you to park out in front of his house, didn’t he? Asked you to sit there and wait. If something were to happen. Something horrible and unexpected to – to him that your instructions were to sit out in front of his house and wait. Day into nights. He said for you to do so until…” K looked firmly into his eyes.

“Until you finally arrived,” Pierre finished her sentence and then pounded back a few gulps of beer. “How did you figure though, K?”

“The beer in the fridge.”

Pierre gave a snort and recoiled in embarrassment.

“My father is an alcoholic. He was anyway. Was sober for forty odd years.”

Pierre looked at the bottle of beer in his hand. He raised his bottle and said, “To your father for giving us something to quench our thirst.”

K took a few sips, she did not toast nor say a word. Her eyes trailed across the kitchen and took in the room that had not changed in the years she had been gone. The music filled the house at an even hum as the two drank in silence and watched the humidity move about the house enclosing itself around the broken fragments strewn across the floor and table tops. Crickets began their summer call and K finally broke the silence, “What other instructions did he give you?”

“I – he – um…”

“What? What else did he say other then sit in front of my house and wait for my daughter?”

Pierre shrugged his shoulders and began pealing the beer bottle’s label – he ripped and tore, ripped and tore. K waited. Pierre looked up from the bottle, like a child scolded by his mother, his eyes hid behind the bottle’s neck. Pierre’s thin expression was not one of curiosity or of knowledge that he wanted. It was, as K best interpreted, knowledge he did not want to let go of. Still K said nothing but stared and waited. Ripped and tore, ripped and tore.

Pierre finally sat up and adjusted his glasses yet again, “As you had inferred before, K, your father was my, for lack of a better word, informant. He offered me insight to many things. After a while it became apparent that the information had become a necessity to leak. It was now information they wanted out there for the public to read. Well, those of the public who still read. I figured this much when your father began finding our meetings more of a chore. But I never confronted him. I just left our meetings alone and reported on what I was told. I am not proud of this and I know you father felt the same way, though he said nothing of it ever to me.”

K laughed to herself. She felt pity for the poor scrawny man sitting in front of her. A bond he thought he shared with her father. What a rouse! The acting her father had perfected over the years had become believable. K quieted her mind.

Pierre finished his beer and continued, “The last time I saw your father was a little more then a week ago.”

“When I received a phone call from him,” K interrupted oddly perturbed by the coincidence.

Pierre looked at her surprised by her sudden out burst and waited for to elaborate. When she stayed silent, Pierre picked up where he left off, “I returned home from the paper at an awfully late hour and parked my car in my garage. As I made my way to the door that leads into my house, he sprang from behind some boxes where I guess he had been waiting for my arrival. Scared me to death and I almost had a heart attack. He cornered me.”

K finished her beer and set her empty bottle on the counter, her eyes not moving from his.

“He had not showered and looked as though he had been wearing the same clothes for the past week. He seemed desperate which caught my attention. He apologized for scaring me and motioned for me to follow him back over to my car. He took my keys, started my engine and turned on the radio just as you did here tonight.”

Pierre made a gesture with his eyes to show he was impressed. K felt her cheeks warm a little but stayed firm in her glare.

"He was worried and talked fast. Though he was not meeting me to give me information as I thought he might be,” Pierre’s eyes squinted through his lenses, tense. “He was there because he was worried for your safety. And only you, you alone.”

“Me?”

“He told me he was going on a trip and he believed it to be dangerous, the kind you aren’t sure you are coming back from, even hinted at it. I, of course, pleaded with him not to go, but he paid no mind to my rant. He went on with why he was no sitting in my car withy me, radio blaring. I knew something was up because this was not where we usually met. I never brought,” he paused, “informants home with me. He then gave me explicit instructions, made it very clear, his voice unwavering.”

K, on the verge of suspense, blurted, “Which was?”

“He would be out of town for a few days. If something were to go wrong, if he were to you know, I was to park myself in front of his house and wait, wait for you. He gave me an envelope which had a piece of paper with his address and a picture of a woman. He told me the woman was your mother and that you would resemble her. He told me to make a comment about that to you when I finally met you as I did earlier this evening out on the porch. And, if you don’t mind me interjecting, how remarkable and I will say that again because the two of you could be twins. I was astonished when I saw that you really did resemble your mother.” Pierre stared at K but got no reaction and returned to end his story, “After that he said nothing but nodded, patted my shoulder and hit the garage door opener from inside my car, then disappeared out into the night.” Pierre finished his beer and let out a long, drawn out sigh. He removed his glasses and wiped off the lenses carefully with his Polo shirt.

K pulled two more beers from the fridge vegetable drawer, removed the tops and handed one to Pierre. He thanked her and chugged nearly half before coming up for air. K felt somehow, though she could not understand exactly how, that he was leaving much out. She was curious about his prior meetings with her father. What previous information he had leaked and then what information was being deliberately leaked. And she wanted to read his articles, tear into them, one by one, searching for the answers she no longer believed he would be revealing to her on this night.

“And now,” Pierre interrupted her thoughts, “It’s my turn. Off the record, of course.” He smiled, his teeth gleaming in the faint light and his eyes opened wide with tempting curiosity behind his wire rimmed glasses.

K felt anger boil inside her. So angry that she did not want to speak. Did not since the day she got the phone call from her father. For little more then a week she had stayed silent.

“What did your father say on the phone when he called you a little over a week ago? As I am as certain as if my life depended on it, it was very unlike him to call you at all. It must have been, what?” He stared at her with excitement and affirmation in her information.

“Ten years,” and K gave it to him.

Pierre held back. His breath heavier as he heard himself breathe.

“So, yes, very unlike him.”

There was silence between them as The Beatles; “Help!” rang through the house and bounced against the kitchen walls like a beach ball.

K smiled, for the first time, “That conversation will have to wait.”

Pierre looked shocked as this is not how he had imagined the conversation going moments earlier. His face contorted to his emotion and he let out a disappointed sigh, “Understandably, I expected nothing more,” He lied through his pristine, white teeth.

And in the strange silence that fell over the room as the song died out and the crickets numbed the humidity, a key slid into the front door of the house and the bolt unhinged loudly. K and Pierre’s heads turned in the direction of the front of the house as if they had x-ray vision and could see who entered.

K turned, unshaken, and motioned her hand from Pierre to the back door and whispered so he could hear, “Time to go.”

Pierre quietly got to his feet, hugging his briefcase to his body and slowly followed K to the back door. They could hear more then one set of footprints enter the living room. The back door shut behind them without noise as the faint sound of The Beatles, “Yesterday” began before it was rudely stopped by the intruders. K and Pierre disappeared over the fence into the neighbor’s yard as the night, dark and murkier now, engulfed their shadows. There was no breeze as the humidity hung in air like drying laundry, stagnant in the moonless summer night.