Ode to Sleep

It is seven o’clock in the morning,
My alarm clock
Squawking for me to rise.
I hate that stupid thing
That rouses me from sleep.

Sleep,
That glorious sensation
Of feeling the warmth of my bed,
Of seeing nothing but darkness,
Of hearing naught but my heart and breath.

They say sleep is necessary
To organize your thoughts
And rest your body.
If it is so critical,
WHY did someone invent the alarm?

Sleep is that place where anything happens.
Dragons burn down villages,
You suddenly become a black belt
In tae-kwon-do.
Save the villagers! Beat the dragon!

And now you’re in love
Kissing the boy of your dreams
Underwater
With a psychedelic dance party around you.
Strange things happen in dreams.

But the best part of sleep
Is when you finally have enough.
When you wake up
Without the alarm’s screeches
The refreshment of being well rested.

Ah, the perfect, daily unconsciousness
That is sleep!

Sometimes Mom and I sit and gossip about the relatives. Christopher's a druggie and John is bi. We talk about how good it is to know that I’m not like that. The Farris kids are the good ones of the family.

Other times I realize that this isn’t entirely true.

You see, I’m a washout.

I successfully completed two semesters of University. I’m still on scholarship and I have a job. Pretty successful, right? Except that I had to withdraw halfway through last semester. And I’m ready to discontinue my schooling completely.

Mom and Dad always tell me how smart I am, how gifted. “You can do anything you want!” they tell me. I’m on my third major, and with every one, they tell me I could be the best in my field, given I apply myself. I suppose they have to say those things. I am their youngest daughter after all.

According to placement and proficiency test; they’re not even far off. I was in the top 5% of my high school graduating class, scholarships pay for 100% of my tuition, and my IQ is 120, so intelligence isn’t the problem.

The problem is that I’m a lazy braniac.

That’s it. That’s my problem. I’m washing out of college because I simply don’t care about whether or not I get an A in class, or even a diploma.

We always hear about how women in Pakistan or Nepal aren’t allowed an education. They tell us horror stories of secret classes held under a broken down bridge to force us to be grateful for our schools. “You have to go to school because Laila and Sabeen can’t.” The thing that people forget is the beauty of the choice that American girls have. To be forced into school is just as bad as being forced away.

I hesitate to wash out of school because of this stigma. To forego school in suburban America is every bit the social crime that Fatima commits under that old bridge. My parents say I could do anything. In their mind, I’ll become an astronaut or nuclear physicist. If my ambitions amount to making sandwiches at Subway while writing a bad blog on the side however, they would be disappointed.

I can’t do anything; I can only do the glorious.

So what if John is bi or Christopher's a druggie? I’m a washout, and that’s the real crime.

A creative description of fear

Fear. Fear is cold. It starts out small; like an inner, almost undetectable itch. At first, it’s so tiny that you can almost brush it away and ignore it. Almost. You aren’t quite sure at first what is unsettling you, but you are confident that something isn’t quite right.

Then, slowly, the unsettling feeling grows. It grows from an itch to an ache. From an ache to a stinging pain. To a nervous twitch. To a panicked breathlessness. To a crazed fleeing. Finally, to a resigned calmness.

That is the most frightening, the calmness. No attempts to escape. No further madness. Almost as if you are walking straight toward the terror with open arms.

Fear. Fear is cold. It starts out small; like an inner, almost undetectable itch. But it grows. It grows into an insatiable, overwhelming madness that invades every particle of your being.

I'm also thinking about doing a Steampunk novel.

“Oi! Bathilda! We’ve got a thrill seeker ‘ere!” The old shopkeeper ran his slimy tongue through the squishy gaps in his teeth and peered at his customer through a pair of eyes heavy with cataracts. Behind him, his wife shuffled out of the back room, a flaky cardboard box clutched in her ancient claw-like hands.

“’Ere ya go ‘Enry. The cream o’ the crop right ‘ere it is!” She reached up to pick at a hairy mole on her chin and sucked on her lips, creating a strange slurping sound. Pointing a long, crooked finger at the customer, she accused “you don’t look like one o’ them adrenaline junkies! What d’ya want our Patches for, eh?” Henry slapped at her hand and squawked at her.

“What does it matter why ‘e wants ‘em, as long as ‘ does? Get outta here Bathilda you old bat!” Grumbling and still sucking on her lips, the crotchety woman hobbled out of sight. Henry turned back to the customer and threaded his tongue between his teeth once more, possibly fishing for an old bit of spinach that may be wedged there for a snack. “Apologies for me wife, good sir.” He dipped his head in a sort of half bow. “She’s a bit off the ol’ rocker these days.” He began rifling through the crumbling box, causing little colorful squares of film to fly everywhere. “Now, what was it you wanted to buy?”

The man at the desk wore a long black coat, emerald gloves, a matching bowler hat, and carried a cane. Looking down his long nose at the withered and filthy shopkeeper, he responded in a deep yet dainty voice, “I require a thrill; the strongest you’ve got.”

Henry looked up at the man towering over him and sniffed loudly. “The strongest I’ve got, eh? That’ll cost a pretty penny, it will.” His mostly blind gaze slipped down the well-dressed man and rested on the residence of the pocketbook. “’Ow much are you willing to pay laddie?”

Reaching into his coat, the customer drew out two fat silver coins and slapped them onto the counter. “Will this be enough?”

Henry’s eyes gleamed and his fingers fidgeted, eager to snatch such a large sum. He plunged his hand back into the box, scattering yet more pieces of fil, and extracted a large orange square. “This is a one of a kind Experience, it is! Comes with a guarantee of satisfaction! I’d advise you to sit down comfortably before you use it however. The potency may surprise you.”

“Do not fret old man, I am prepared. Now give me the Patch.” He held out a slender gloved hand for the orange bit of film. When the shopkeeper surrendered it, the hand instantly snapped shut around it. The man slid the silver toward Henry, turned on a booted heel, and stalked out of the little shop.

“Thank ye kindly sir! Thank ye!” Grasping the two coins in his wrinkled old hands, he whistled sharply through his teeth, and jammed his moist tongue between them once again.

I'm thinking about trying to write an epic fantasy.

Sirin Keel peered out from under his hood cautiously. The tavern was filled with a warm golden glow and the pleasant buzz of evening chatter. A roaring fire blazed in the center of the room and threw playfully skipping shadows high onto the old walls.

The Blind Swan, that’s what this place was called, was particularly crowded tonight. Sirin hated crowds. The stench of dozens of sopping drunk bodies, the uproarious noise of irreverent laughter, the moist pressure of men and women who hadn’t bathed for weeks. He usually preferred the quieter hours just before closing, when the loudest patrons had long since staggered home to slump into an ale bidden slumber, and those who remained only sang mournful tunes of happier days.

But this night, the discomfort could not be helped.

Sitting in a secluded corner of the room, Sirin took a long pull at his tankard and tugged his dusky grey cloak tighter about him. Although he was a welcome customer here, he did not wish to be recognized just now.

A pretty, buxom barmaid with bouncy blonde curls and rosy cheeks approached his lonely table with a mischievous glint in her eye. “G’day kind sir! There anythin’ I can get for ya, or” she perched on the edge of the worn wooden table “give to ya?” Her accent was thick with the dialect of this small wooded town of Peredyn, and she stank of pipe smoke and alcohol. Sirin gently pushed her off of the table.

“I’m afraid that I’m not the one you’re looking for.” He spoke quietly, but his deep voice had a certain commanding tone.

Undaunted by this rejection, the girl leaned heavily on the table toward him, licking her full lips and batting her long eyelashes, her breast heaving with drunken emotion. Her eyes were of a warm chocolate brown, but bloodshot from too much drink.

She really was quite pretty.

Irritated at this distraction, Sirin shoved that thought away. “I’m really not interested. In fact, I’d quite like to be alone, so if you don’t mind-“ He gestured for her to leave. Affronted, the wench stood and stalked off, her gait unsteady and winding slightly. Before long, she had relocated herself to some other more willing fellow’s table. It was a pity he could not be that fellow.

Quite suddenly, all distraction was completely wiped from his mind. That which he had been waiting for had just stepped into the Blind Swan. For a moment, she just gazed around the crowded room, seemingly taking everything in, then she strode, toward the hearth.

Her form fitting bronze bodice and black leggings revealed a lean, muscular physique, toned from a lifetime of practice with the broadsword that hung loosely at her hip. Sirin was frankly surprised that she could wield such a formidable weapon. Bright white scars crisscrossed her face and the any dark skin that showed through her clothing. The light furs that fringed her armour and tall boots, the bare arms, and the shimmering metallic beads plaited into her long auburn hair all marked her as a member of the Mycenalt clan.

She held her head erect as she snaked through the boisterous people. Her lithe form seemed almost liquid as she stepped through the narrow spaces. When she finally reached the fireside, rather than pulling up a chair, she sat cross legged on the floor in the style of her people and lay her blade naked across her knees. At this, those nearest her pressed farther into their other neighbors, eager to give her plenty of space.

Sirin leaned back in his chair for a moment, contemplating the situation. He watched as she summoned a barmaid and placed her order. He could not hear what it was from here. She stared around haughtily at the other tavern goers, somehow making it seem as though she were looking down on them even though she was on the floor. A few moments later, the barmaid returned, and Sirin couldn’t help but smile; she had brought a large tankard of ale and a nearly raw goose leg. The Mycenalt people were notorious for being uncivilized and barbarous.

After watching her for a few moments more as she drank deeply and tore into her meat with nothing but her teeth, he stood, tossed a few Derrits onto the table to pay for his drink, and strode out into the dark. 

A Pure White Scarf

            Someone once told me that, someday, I’d learn what it is to love.

            I think I know now…

            He and I were walking along the street together, just laughing and smiling. Talking. I slipped my hand into his, and he left it there. He wanted it there. I don’t know how long we walked, and I don’t need to. It was bliss.

            After a while, we slowed and stopped. There was a light rain in the darkness, and it glittered in the soft glow of the lone street lamp we stood under.

            I turned and looked at him. Into his perfect, crystal blue eyes. He was beautiful. He said something, it doesn’t matter what, and I smiled.

            That night was perfect.

            A sudden breeze picked up and tugged my scarf away. I tried to catch it, but it blew into the street. He laughed and chased after it for me. He caught up with it in the center of the road, turned, and started to walk back.

            That’s when it hit…

            A dark blue Durango sped down the road. He had no warning. Neither of us did. The driver tried to stop, but the road was too slippery from the rain, and he didn’t have time.

            I screamed, but no sound came out. I was shocked. He had been thrown so far…

            My scarf fluttered across his broken body, stark white against the growing pool of scarlet…

            After a few moments of stunned silence, I ran into the street after him. His once perfect face was now marred with cuts and scrapes; his soft golden curls now matted with his own blood. He looked so helpless…

            I was dimly aware that the driver had gotten out of the car and called the ambulance. Someone was gently pulling on my arm, guiding me away. Telling me that everything would be alright. The world was filled with flashing light reflecting off the all but forgotten rain.

            The EMT’s were rushing around, helping him. Soon, the Life Flight arrived. They put a blanket across my shaking shoulders, loaded him into the helicopter, and were gone.

            The night was quiet again, the street only lit by the lone lamp. The sky still quietly cried and blood floated on the puddles like crimson flowers, the stained white scarf their only silent company. While I stood there, in my shattered world of sorrow.

            Yes, I know what it feels like, to love. It feels like a warm night, alone in bliss with the one person you don’t  want to leave behind ever, the wishing, no, yearning, that something could be done to save him. That somehow you could have been the one lying broken on the pavement.

            Love, is being the one left behind to cry over the grave with a vase of red flowers wrapped with a shining white scarf…

To Light Her Lamps

           The streets of the London slums were never clean. Leastways, not in this slum. Not in Autumn. Odius moss and lichen reached through cracks in the road and eagerly swallowed the cobbles. Rain fell from the ever leaking sky, more grit and dirt than actual water, and flooded the narrower alleyways with its filth. Debris littered the streets, and the stench of sweat and rot permeated the air. The sounds of the homeless coughing and begging for bread bounced off of the buildings and filled the evening with a grotesque portrait of life on the streets.

In this shabby corner of England, one could only tell that night had fallen because the monochrome grey sky turned slowly to black, and Liza Carlisle went around to light the gas street lamps. The rain still fell, the poor still starved, the streets still stank.

Liza Carlisle was all of fifteen years old, four foot eleven, and eighty pounds. Certainly small for her age, not much larger than the little wicks that she lit night after night. Her thin rags, trying desperately hard to stand in for clothes, hung limply on her tiny frame. Each week of lamp lighting gained her £2 to take home to her parents. Her father worked as a servant in a rich man’s household, and her mother was too sick to work. There were nine children to feed in the family, and a servant’s wage wouldn’t buy enough food. So Liza worked.

Slowly, Liza made her way through the poor streets and came to the wealthy areas around the manors of lords and ladies. These buildings were magnificent! As she drew closer to the first of the great houses, she could hear lively music, smell the succulent roast goose that was cooking in the kitchen, see so many dazzling colors of ladies’ dresses. A ball was in full swing. Carriages lumbered up the drive to expel their cargo of chattering girls with long tresses and austere men with too straight backs to the festivities. The glorious sight of such grandeur always gave Liza a thrill. This was her favorite part of town.

Even the lamps here were more beautiful. In the poor places, the lights resided in plain boxes atop large, threatening iron poles. The glass of the boxes was always grimy and covered in as much sweat as the people down below. But here, here in the glow of parties and courts and glittering faces, here the lamps were beautiful. Some of the lights rose like massive rosebuds from the pavement, twisting to unknowable heights, to be reached only by her long lighting pole, and ending in petals of gold as they were illuminated by the flame that Liza brought. Others didn’t rise from the ground at all, but instead clung to the sides of the beautiful homes. Interlacing vines of iron wove outward through each other to end in a luminous bowl, flames cupped as though by the hands of an infant. On all of these elegant lamps, the iron was clean, and the glass was crystal clear.

When Liza came to these houses and these breathtaking lamps, sometimes she just stood and stared. She couldn’t help herself; the beauty was too exquisite to pass by. Sometimes, she would pause to listen to what the people were speaking about. She walked by a pair of grooms standing next to a particularly sumptuous carriage.

-Did ya ‘ear what the missus said? Cuttin’ our wages she said! ‘Ow can she do that? It’s in’uman, it is!

Liza smiled inadvertently to herself. Their “missus” had probably come upon hard times. Last month, she may not have been able to afford the exotic jewelry with which she wanted to impress the young man from the neighboring estate. It was likely due to her husband’s awful drinking and gambling habits. She had never liked her husband anyway; she’d only married him for his ten-thousand pounds a year. And where had that gotten her? To a hard life of fewer jewels, that’s where! If only that young man would notice her advances…

Shaking herself back to reality, Liza continued on. She often found herself daydreaming, fantasizing about a life that wasn’t her own. In her heart of hearts, she’d always secretly wanted to be a writer. Someone like the Bronte sisters or others she had heard of. Her father thought it was important for her to know how to read; after all, one day she might get a prestigious position as a lady in waiting. When she had spoken to her mother about it though, the sick woman had shed a tear, expressing how disappointed she was that one of her children could have turned out so empty headed and full of silly ideas that would only get her starved sooner. So, Liza kept lighting her lamps.

She passed a young couple that had snuck out of the ball for some time alone. The man produced a flower from somewhere in his suit and tucked it behind his lady’s ear. The girl giggled and spoke to him.

-You flatter me Mr. Heavensbee! You should really stop all of your naughty advances on me! You are engaged to another!

-Miss Mary Fawcett, my fiancée does not interest me longer. She is a silly girl of no consequence. And you are more beautiful than she! Who would not change a raven for a dove?

The reference to Shakespeare seemed to catch her once more in his gaze. The engaged man probably came to read his sonnets at her window, wooing her all the more with every verse. He would bring her flowers each time he visited her too. She probably had a whole collection of them at home, standing in dozens of water filled vases. He was to marry another woman, but neither party would allow such a petty thing to get in the way of their love…

Liza shook herself out of her trance once more. It was a waste of time to dream up such fantasies. She had lamps to light, and if she was too late, she would lose her week’s wages. She refused to be responsible for the excessive hunger of her eight little siblings.

She continued to traipse through the streets, listening in on tiny snippets of conversations, noticing how the richly decorated lamps of the wealthy streets turned to the rigid and economical lamps of the industrious town. Here, factories belched out smoke and oozed grease. The cobblestones were slippery from whatever poison of chemicals leaked out of the workshops. Liza coughed and wheezed as the air became thick with the powdery, black gasses that poured from the smokestacks. The walls of the buildings were so blackened by this smoke that even the persistent drizzle of rain couldn’t clear away the mire. There were slaughterhouses here where great sheets of meat hung in rows and blood seeped through the crack under the door. There were fabric mills where children worked by day and immense machines stood sentinel by night. The streets here were deserted. Those who worked in this part of town lived back in the slums. No one wanted to be here much longer than they had to. Everything here was toxic; the rain stung as it fell into Liza’s eyes, she could taste the metallic tang of the bloody meat, she slipped in pools of slime where grease and blood floated atop the water and gently swirled in sickening circles, the streets grew rank as the sewers overflowed and pungent waste floated down tiny rivers of filth, the empty windows and locked doors faded in and out of the smoke and sight as ghostly testaments to how terrible it was to work and exist here. Only the poorest of the poor, the bottom of the dung heap came here after work hours, trying to forage through the dust to find something that might be worthy of human ingestion.

As she splashed through a puddle of who knows what, Liza heard a small cough and a whine. She slowed and stopped to listen. The cough came again, followed by the sounds of sobbing. Gripping her lighting pole tightly, she crept toward the sound. It was so timid and tragic.

There, curled up against a building, so stained with grunge that he was almost indistinguishable from the wall behind him, was a boy. No more than eight or nine years old, he shouldn’t have been alone in the dark this late at night. She herself would have avoided it, and she was much older than this little thing. It could only mean one thing; there was nobody in his life to care for him. He was an orphan. An urchin of the streets, living off scraps.

As Liza inched closer, the boy turned to look up at her. His glassy eyes were bloodshot, red rimmed, and swollen. Tears had carved troughs through the dirt on his face, and a spot of blood adorned the corner of his mouth. His whole body shook as he pulled his torn scraps of clothing tighter. The poor wretch was shivering to the ends of the straw colored hair that lay plastered to his sweaty forehead. He coughed again, falling forward to his hands and knees and convulsing with the force of his hacking. When he had finished, he collapsed to the ground, eyes closed and little body shaking even harder than before. More blood spattered the pavement next to him.

Liza gasped and took a few steps back. The boy was afflicted with consumption.

She wanted to go away, to run back home and leave this horribly wretched creature behind. She was frightened of catching his disease; it killed almost every one of its victims. In all of her walks through London, she had heard whispers and terrifying stories of the slow and inexorable slide into the waiting arms of death. Consumption was almost a sort of demon that stalked the poor and the filthy, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. And this poor lad had felt its icy fingers around his little life. She shook her head sadly and turned to go.

-Miss…

Liza stopped short. The single word plea was barely a whisper, just loud enough to carry across the short space between her and the body lying on the street, and just piteous enough to touch her soul. She turned back toward the boy and met his glassy gaze. Tears welled in his eyes, nearly pouring down his cheeks again. He was so forlorn.

Slowly, painfully, the child tottered to his feet and stumbled toward her. She couldn’t bring herself to pull away from him. He clutched at her hands, leaning heavily on her for strength and peered back up at her. His brow was furrowed in agony, and his little hands were hanging on to her so tightly.

-Please Miss, a penny for a poor boy?

His voice was so small and rough. It was like listening to sandpaper on a pitted board to hear him speak. She couldn’t just ignore him and leave him to die alone.

He collapsed to cough some more, spraying the street with red flecks. When the fit passed, he lifted a shaky hand and wiped his mouth, tears leaking once more down his face, and curled up where he lay. The pitiable thing was not long for this world. He was in the final throes of that terrible consumption.

Liza stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. She was poor herself, and was responsible for feeding all of her siblings. At least she had siblings, and parents, and a job. She felt not so bad off once she saw his awful state. The poor boy must be so afraid. What would it be like to have not yet reached your teenage years, and yet to be staring down that terrible figure of death, knowing that in a matter of hours he would take your soul from this world? She gazed at the boy, feeling sick. He was trying once more to lift himself off the cobbles, to stand next to her. It was too much to bear.

In a moment, she took her thin shawl from her own shoulders and wrapped the child in it. It was amazing how much colder it was without that little rag. She set her lighting pole down and picked up the boy. He was like fire, shivering and crying in her arms. He didn’t even protest her ministrations, but buried his face into Liza’s bosom. After a moment’s struggle, she managed to pick up her pole once more, and then started up the street.

A while later, after a short walk back toward the wealthy area of town, she came up to a bakery. It was still open, despite the late hour. Warm light spilled through the windows and illuminated the street around them. The smell of freshly baked bread poured from the little building, and aroused the boy from where he had been dozing. Liza gently lay him down on step into the bakery and dug in her pocket. She pulled out a full pound and flicked it toward him.

-Eat well little one.

Slowly, he smiled, grasped the coin, and crawled into the warm, inviting room to buy some bread. To buy his last meal.

Liza Carlisle, lamp lighter, fifteen year old girl of the streets, turned her back on the boy. She had a job to do. Dusk had nearly descended into total blackness and she hadn’t much time left.

The lamps of London must be lit.