Singing Songs Through Smoke

Inspired by William Carlos Williams' The Red Wheelbarrow

So much depends

upon

Branches burnt black

beneath

Skies coloured like 

fire

Sending signals rather

sung.

The Poisonwood Bible

Inspired by William Carlos Williams' The Red Wheelbarrow and written in reference to Barbara Kingsolver's book "The Poisonwood Bible"

So much depends

upon

Faith in their

God

Who's love is

infinite

Yet cannot be

found.

That Night

       The first time they ever met was on the coldest day of the year. It was also the only time Elle forgot to check the weather report and left her house wearing a light jacket and running shoes, caught unprepared for the coming blizzard like a dove surprised by hurricane winds. Within five minutes of their meeting, Grace gave her the thick winter coat she was wearing, telling Elle her shivers were from nerves. “My body is pretty much a furnace,” she said, “I’d let you borrow its warmth, but this is only our first date.” The coat was the next best thing. As she wore it, she noticed it smelled like strawberries and felt like Apollo's embrace. Elle wore it home that night after dropping Grace off at her apartment; she blushed deep enough to match the scent that had then seeped into her pores when their lips first touched. She called as soon as she got home and opened up to her like front doors welcoming extended families home for the holidays.

       That night she fell asleep at one in the morning.

       That night she dreamed of strawberries.

       On their second date, instead of kissing Elle goodnight, Grace invited her in. The two women left a trail of semi-casual date-night garments leading from the front door to Grace’s bedroom. As Elle fumbled Grace’s blouse half-on-half-off her body, Grace asked, “Do you think we’re moving too fast?” She just replied with a bite on grace’s lip and a smack on her rear before she pushed her through the bedroom door.

       After, they lay panting, tangled in sheets and limbs as Grace told Elle the story of how she came out to her parents on Christmas morning. “My mother nearly dropped a handmade vase from my grandma, and my grandma nearly needed to go to the emergency room!” They laughed and held each other but Grace’s face fell. “That was the last Christmas I ever spent with my family,” she said with tears running down her face. They weren’t really tears of sadness - she had long since moved on - but they were tears of pure truth. “That was the year I turned fourteen.” Elle leaned in closer and kissed her tears away like a baptism left salty on her lips.

       In the morning, Grace made a pot of coffee and began steeping some tea for Elle that she found pushed to the back of the cabinet. She also made eggs and toast and brought it in on a small tray which she set down on the nightstand to lean in and wake Elle with a passionate kiss. Shortly, the two were sitting cross-legged on Grace’s bed eating.

       “So, you never told me your story,” said Grace, “When did you come out to your folks?” Elle stopped chewing for a split-second to pull up the bedsheets further up, completely covering her thighs.

       “I never really did,” she set her toast back onto the tray and brushed off her hands, “I guess its just something we always knew.”

       “So they were fine with it?”

       “No… my parents were extremely religious,” Elle pulled the sheets further up her body, displaying only her head and neck, like a father who let his kids bury him in the sand, “They sent me to a Christian summer camp for ‘troubled children.’ Actually, it was a really rough time for me." Grace leaned in to brush away her tears and kiss her on the nose.

       “Lovely…” Grace gripped the sheets, “Let me see them.” Reluctantly, Elle allowed her to pull the sheets back to display the scars stacked onto one another like a pile of disheveled therapist’s notes. “Oh, Elle… baby…” Grace didn’t need to run her finger along the scars to feel the texture, but she did anyway. The scars ran from knees to hips, varying in depth and density. Grace touched her lips to the valleys on either knee, moving up until she had kissed each scar like every one was a star the children would wish on someday.

       Elle took Grace’s face in her hands and pulled her into her arms. “Lover, I know, it gets hard sometimes, but you have to always know that everything gets better.”

       “I know,” Elle did not speak the words, only whispered them softly to keep from crying harder, “I spent four months out of every year getting taught that my love was a lie; that God hated me for falling for the prettiest girl on the playground during sixth grade recess.” Grace held her as she opened up once again, rocking her gently to the rhythm of her tears. “There was this one girl at the camp, she was a counselor, only a few years older than me, she told me she was there to really help the kids, not brainwash them like the others. She caught me in the girls showers trying to bleed the unholy from my veins.” Elle used her right index finger to trace the only closed scar on her legs. 

       “She didn’t tell anyone but the nurse, and she didn’t even tell her that I was gay. That night we stayed up in the nurse’s office braiding my hair as she told me about her two moms. They were devout Catholics and had been together for two years before their church’s pastor agreed to unofficially marry them, despite their faith. She said ‘Ellie, every time you think you’re alone in this world, you call me, day or night. I’ll tell you how you can never truly be alone; how there are always so many more that feel the same pain as you.’” Grace and Elle both wiped tears from their eyes as Elle continued, “She saved my life that night. I planned on cutting my wrists free of the world and the pain without so much as a ‘thanks for nothing’ note to my parents.”

       “Lover, so long as you live, you will never be alone.” Grace pulled up her shirt and turned to Elle, showing her rows of scars carved into her skin like a Mayan catalogue of events carved into stone.

Elle bent in and kissed them into stars left for their love to fathom into constellations.

Fears

People say they are scared of love.
They're not.
Love is what overcomes fear.
Overcomes sadness.
Anger.
Grief.
People do not fear love,
Their minds too often make false connections
Between the uplifting beauty of love,
And the gut-wrenching,
Peace-killing, nerve-wrecking
Explosion the heart withstands
Once silence falls.
People do not fear love,
They fear love's company.
They fear the uncertainty of love's return.
They fear they fall too hard,
Too fast,
Without being followed.

Love is a driving force,
A motive to become more,
To become better.
Life is the force that silences love,
That hinders it, but also gives it room
To grow.
Life is love's brother, twin, and friend.
The two are ever present and
Never alone.
it is because of life, its experience,
That we fear love.
it's all about that lovely girl,
That girl we would pray about.
if we had the power, we'd
Give her the sun,
The moon, and the stars.
if we never had that lovely girl,
if we never stayed up 'til midnight
Just to study the contours and curves
Of her body, and the beautiful imperfections
Of her skin, none of us would fear love.
When our world shone bright at the sight of her,
When our dull day went from black and white
To mind blowing technicolor, that day,
She gave us a gift.
Wrapped neat in brown paper bags,
And a tight black ribbon with a rotton,
Disheveled bow,
The gift was our experience.
Our gift was fear.

Like having the fear of death, having the fear of love
Makes not a difference in the world.
We live our lives afraid of our exit,
Afraid of our journey to the afterlife.
We live our lives being told what to think,
What to fear.
"Death," they say, "is the ultimate terror.
stay healthy, be good,
and postpone your finale as much as possible."
We live our lives repeating the mantra:
"i don't want to die,
i don't want to die,
i don't want to die,
i don't want..."
And we live our lives, but we die,
inevitably and absolutely.
Just like how we love what we can and
We helplessly hope our love stays true.
But it doesn't,
And we come to know that
Gut-wrenching, peace-killing
Explosion of sorrow and tears,
Of loneliness and fears.
The explosion sends shudders through our gears,
Leaving us screaming past the piers,
Praying to God that she hears,
But the terror manifests through the years,
Leaving us petrified of love.

For what seems like lifetimes,
We shy away from that blessed
Want. That sacred peace.
But, like the inevitability of death,
We fall again, still too hard,
Too fast.
We continue the process,
Through love and through fear,
'Til one day...

it stays.

Beautiful Things When Nature Sings

       Nature is nurture, the future boils down to something larger, like a departure. iT's the seasons that provide this reason, and while we are wheezing (that is, not quite breathing) and not quite seeing this relieving teasing and weaving that these seasons are pleasing, time is freezing, and love is leasing. Springtime is like sunshine written in common time, and sunshine is fine, but the warm shade under the trees and the smell of rain on the breeze, oh, this is beautiful and oh so colorful. iN summer, the sun may come on strong, but its song never steers you wrong as it sings all day long. iT's worry free and it's stressless, like finally cleaning up this nest's mess, or fitting in that red dress. Yes, summer can be so stressless, but this isn't the best yet. Now, in the eyes of some, autumn is the time of death, when the leaves and trees and stars and seas seem to lose their breath. But autumn has such depth and such breadth that this death, oh, it catches our breath, as if those rows of orange flow close to our souls. And our cheeks and nose, colored with a deep rose, seem to reflect those red leaves, those rows of rose. Gradually these trees undress their leaves, as if each tree knows (those rows of rose) of the snow's posed blanket of white, so they undress to sleep their night away, their winter's wondrous might. Winter's white might is powerful, quite right to say, and though some's sight shows it as a plight, show it with fright, the winter's white is truly beautiful. Winter's white's wonder is plentiful, and its love bountiful. Then, after this beautiful wonder (or wonderful beauty), this peaceful and playful cold opens the door to sunshine. Like going from a waltz's time to our fine springtime and sunshine written in common time, and sunshine is fine, but...

How to Find Love

Begin in teenage years.

Date a girl for several days. 

Break up. This was not love. Search

Without looking. That is to say, do not 

Search with your open eyes, but with your

Open heart. Open your heart wide, wide enough

For people to get in, for people to stay in. 

Get hurt. Love does not come cheap.

Continue through high school. Find a girl 

And date her for two of your four years. Date her,

On a whim, and fall for her. In fits of passion and lust,

Make love to her clumsily, it being both of your firsts.

When you lie in bed, skin on skin, whisper to her. Tell her

You love her. Tell her how you found her, how you

Opened your heart and she flew right in, like a

Dove. A dove with talons. Later, give her terrible words, 

Something akin to “we need to talk.” Break

Her heart. Feel sorry for hurting her, but regret

Nothing. Or don’t. Receive terrible words,

Something akin to “it’s not you, it’s me.” Have her

Break your heart, knowing they are just words, 

And it was you all along.

This was not love.

In your escapades following your separation,

Find amazing friends, friends that help you 

Open your heart once again. Friends that climb in 

And make your heart their home. Fall for one of them.

She is beautiful in every way, you tell her. Love her 

Through everything and anything. Have her

For a short time. You fell for her more

Than anyone in the past. More than that girl

Who was your first.

Lose her. It will tear you apart, this girl that

Fit. This girl that may well have been yours 

Forever. Lose her. Now you know love.

It hurts.

How to Fear Mannequins

Begin in a horror movie.

The villain? That perfect Aryan GAP 

Family of plastic. With their polo shirts, 

And 10 dollar sweaters.

Hey! Khaki shorts, buy one get one half off!

Run. They’ve come alive.

They feel naked, those cocoons of fake human,

They feel naked in their discounted red,

White and blue.

They feel naked, and you have the fleshy

Jumper they desire.

They feel naked, but in your skin, they’ll be at 

Peace.

Run more, don’t try to hide, they hear

Your heart beating, their jealousy

Of functioning organs leading their every action.

There’s no escaping their wrath, their 

Envy, their greed.

Run faster, run longer.

There’s no escape, they are

Everywhere.

Fight back, shatter them into the hundreds 

Of individual pieces they truly are. Hit them square

In the chest, blast their arms off. And watch

As they slowly return to their composed forms,

Your hatred and temper swaying them

Not in the least. Watch as your hope fades 

With every joint that clicks into place.

Cry into your hopelessness, scream at your

Attacker.

There is no hope for you, friend. This fear

That has been instated and installed 

In your soul… It consumes, corrodes, corrupts.

It condemns you, ‘till you give in to your fear

And find yourself huddled in a small dark room

Because your ever present severe claustrophobia

Is kinder, and gentler, than the Aryan demons

In GAP clothing and permanent unconvincing

Fake smiles.

End in a horror movie.

The villain? Your mind. Your twisted,

Plagued brain, demanding fear in

Inanimate objects. Find yourself

In groups of people, telling them

About this plague your brain created,

Hearing them call you crazy.

“We’ve been underestimating their

Power for too long now,” you 

Say. “Its only a matter of time,” you 

Say. 

How to Love Lips

Begin forming words.

Move with beauty and grace.

Dance to the message your body forms. After, 

You will embrace her, mixing in a new dance.

You make truth, this is your business. But also,

You make lies, this is your sin. Don’t listen

To the problems of others, this is not for you,

But when they need you, tell them the way to fix these problems

Dance once again and remove their sorrow

Out of their mind.

Go to new places, dance with others,

But save your waltz for her

For when you return home. This dance you share, 

This wondrous lust, this thing

Is precious, and therefore, delicate.

In your life, you will have many people to share this waltz,

Many people to share this 

Sacred lust. That doesn’t

Make it any less precious.

When you dance with her, remember

Those steps well, those moments.

Share this dance with only her, until

She finds another with swifter feet, and better

Shoes, better moves. Now it is your turn

To find another, better dancer.

Dancing cannot be the only thing

You ever do. Sometimes you are more 

Lovable when you sit quietly,

And watch. Watch someone else’s 

Dance. By simply being there,

You instill confidence, proclaim

The truth that is your business.

This is no place for your sin.

Just sit and watch, see

How gracefully the muscle moves the bone,

Watch as practiced limbs create beauty

Before your eyes. See the way they speak

With you. See how these movements create 

Love, not romantic, but fanatic,

In your odd little heart.

This journey, that is falling in love

With something, will have a 

Side effect. You may start to

Notice more beauty in everything,

In people, in things, in the world,

In life, in death,

And in everything in between.

This is not really 

“How to Love Lips”

This is “How to Love.”

What is Peace?

Last night I found myself wondering

What peace really is. 

I found myself pondering 

If it is some permanent state of being 

We as humans search for our entire lives.

Is it something that once found

Will cause happiness 

Worldwide?

Does peace just sit there

Like a fed up parent 

Waiting for her chaotic,

Mislead

Toddler to tire himself out

Before she can pick up the pieces 

Left by his destructive ways?

Lost in these dizzying daydreams

I came across a revelation.

This revelation made clear that

The relationship between peace and war 

Is not that of a fed up parent and her reckless toddler,

But it is that of two lovers, 

He, who dances dangerously dealing death

To all. 

But also her, who, while dancing with her lover, 

Lands love luxuriously upon the lives of onlookers. 

There is no death to be dealt without the luxury and love

Of peace.

Along side this revelation came a thought so profound,

"Peace is beautiful, but fragile, like butterfly wings.

Touch them once and the may just crumble away

Into the dust."

Peace comes and goes, 

Showing her skill on the dance floor for only a minute

Before her lover's turn comes around

And shatters our serenity she selflessly gave us.

Finally, 

I realized what peace is. 

Peace is more 

Than something our governments strive for, 

More

Than a cause our soldiers die for. 

Peace is more

Than some end to justify these means, 

More 

Than our filthy American dreams. 

Peace is maturity, 

On a level entirely new to us.

There's a Lesson in This

Clay never loved his brother. He always had to share everything with him: a birthday, a name, a mother. Clay never wanted a twin, never thought that his life needed to be split in two, and never thought his mother loved them the same. She had always favored Robert, who had always favored himself, Clay wasn’t anywhere in this equation. When Clay heard the news that Robert had been killed in battle, his exact words were: “Shit… Bastard should have kept his head down.” No tears were shed, no funerals were attended, and no remorse was felt. Would he have been the same as Robert, if he were loved, or would he have done it differently? He liked to think he would have welcomed the unloved Robert with open arms and they could have a wonderful life together, but Clay knew otherwise. It wasn’t just that he was loved more, it was this sense that Robert was his better half and Clay couldn’t stand it.

Three years later, Clay received a draft notice. He didn’t want to follow in Robert’s footsteps. Not the dying; Clay wasn’t scared of death, but the façade of a hero fighting a hopeless cause. Robert celebrated when he was scheduled to ship out. Robert volunteered, and Clay hated him for that too. Eventually Clay got tired of running and joined the forces in Vietnam. Clay remembers liking helicopter rides. Clay remembers loving the feeling of brothers in the field. Clay remembers loving the excitement everyone felt when the mail came, though he never got anything himself. Clay remembers his first Christmas in Vietnam and the letter he received. Clay’s happiness was tangible, until he saw it was not from his mommy dearest. The return address was labeled: “Saint Peter’s Mortuary of Passing.” Clay remembers the dropping sensation he felt all the way from his throat past and piercing his heart and sinking in his stomach. The words ricocheted in his mind: “Self-inflicted gunshot wound, Left temple.” There was no more mommy dearest, no more family, no more people to come home to. Just Clay. Just Clay and his brothers in the field.

He finished his first tour, receiving medals for valor, honor, and more unimportant things. He completed his second tour, Like the blink of an eye, Clay thought. Clay was about to finish his third tour, five months in to a six month ride. There was no more excitement for mail, no more laughing in helicopters, no more love between Clay and his brothers in the field. It was just him. Just Clay and his mind. And although Clay hated tattoos, all that was left of mommy dearest was inked on Clay’s left bicep that consisted of a heart and a banner that read:

“Mom

1924 to 1967”

“This is idiocy!” Clay had yelled at his platoon, all lounging in their foxholes smoking their cigarettes and their dope, “You are all worthless! Sam, you are supposed to be on guard, and I prefer you sober when you are guarding us. Men, There’s a lesson in this, just as there is in everything. Today’s lesson: don’t be a damn dumbass and you won’t die!”

“Sir, what if its not your fault when you get shot?”

Clay was already walking away, head up high in the middle of an uneventful scouting party. “It’s alway your fault soldier, and soon you will realize that.” Silently, Clay sat in his foxhole and touched his left arm, as though it brought him closer to his mother, and he thought, still silently even in his own mind, of how he hated that he would never see his mother again. Not in heaven and not in hell, That religious bullshit is just meant to keep the masses calm, Clay thought, his mind feeling empty and hollow, Keeps the streets clean it does, clean as dirt. With that, Clay drifted into a dreamless sleep.

“Sir we believe we have spotted a Charlie village up north a few klicks, should we leave now or gather more information?” 

With a start, Clay came to his senses, stood, and began shouting orders, yet still quite enough to keep to themselves. Clay firmly believed that the skill was gained through his many tours in Vietnam. The others thought it was just Clay.

“I’ll take the flank and Sam, you lead us there, you’re the one that spotted it after all!”

“Yes, sir!” the platoon chorused.

After rapidly gathering their things, the group set out, a few were smoking cigarettes, but all of them were alert and focused. “Sir,” Sam yelled back, a couple minutes in, “looks like they have a bit of fortifications! Do we still want to-” a shot rang out in the field and Sam went down hard, a bullet right into his chest, shredding whatever gear was in the way.

“Sniper!” one of the men yelled. The platoon dropped, hiding in the grass and whatever else they could find, but Clay kept his eyes on Sam, crawling closer to the boy. He was like a brother to Clay, not the brother in arms, but a brother as if Clay had actually loved Robert.

“Sam…”

“S-Sir,” Sam was pale, spitting blood in every shallow breath, “Cl-Clay…” he fumbled a small, folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket, “Please t-t-take this t-to my girl i-i-in New Y-Y-York, sh-she’s h-havin’ my d-daughter...” Sam went limp in Clay’s arms.

“No… no!” Clay screamed at the sky, on the off chance he would be heard. “He had so much to go back to!” Clay watched as his platoon was torn to pieces, wasted away in foreign turf.

With a start, Clay came to his senses, looking around at his men.

“Sir? Do we have marching orders?”

Clay looked around. Clay looked at Sam, standing tall and proud, not a scrape on him. On the inside Clay smiled and thanked God. A miracle, this, He thought, “Yes, Sam, you take the flank, I’ll lead us in.”

Lost in Your Hands

i'M lost in mind,
i Just can't
Feel you this time...


iF i Said
You had my mind,
And said
You change it all the time,
Would you believe
My insignificant words?
Would you still leave
And make this all worse?
Or could you stay here
With me?
Or would you leave here
Without me?
i'M just so lost this time,
Just can't return from it.
All this aching in my mind,
And still i Can't leave this shit.


Packing my bags,
Thinking of that serenade,
That hand-me-down hag
That neither of us made.
iF i Said

You had my mind,

And said

You change it all the time,

Would you believe

My fighting words?

Would you please leave 

And stop making this worse?

i Can't see anymore!

Not through all your tears.

i Can't breathe anymore!

Not after all these years.

Darling, you are making me grieve,

You are making me hurt.

Would you please leave,

And stop making this worse.

Another Untitled

Oh, this binding chain,

This nutritious cage.

We see every day our 

Ponderous restrictions

Refuse to fade.

Vanish,

Disappear before our 

Eyes.

From time to time 

We find ourselves in a place,

A place that simply conducts

Happiness.

This is the only place

Where we can close our

Eyes.

Free of any worry.

However these binding chains, 

This nutritious cage,

They don’t want us here.

They want to see our blue

Eyes.

The color of these glass orbs,

The only thing given to us,

Reflects this life through 

Blue lenses.

Not enough in these pockets

For the rose colored glasses.

So This iS Madness

Confusion sets in, madness it is called.

But how our mind starts to act on its own,

Something like a drum sounding in the cold.

We wait for something just to us be shown.

The downfall of our life cannot be now.

We might try to say that we are to young,

‘Cause of our experience is not how.

iF gone, our life by a thread would be hung.

Responsibilities of ours are great.

All too great in fact to leave such a place

We cannot leave a place without this hate

Our exit must be later and with grace.

We have not been given une chance comme ca.

Mais nous pouvons voir que nous aurons la. 

The Story Beneath Cinderella Speaks

       She said she was leaving here, going away and leaving me wanting more. I’ve never truly been the best, or been the one to answer life’s questions correctly, but I never thought that was reason for her to leave. She said maybe, maybe one day she will return, find me and complete me once more. She just needed time away from me to think of what I'd done.

When we met, nearly a year ago, I believed I was blessed, having someone so good in my life that always seemed so wrong. Madly in love, we were married in a month, despite her father’s persistent word of warning. It was mid-July and pleasantly warm, even though it was pouring rain outside the church. Every time we kissed that night, it felt as though time had slowed, and sometimes stopped altogether. I told her I needed her, for I loved her so much. I was so happy, yet so scared. What would happen, if she were to leave? What would that mean for me?

January.

“What does your father mean?” I begged her for an answer after a long and uncomfortable dinner with her rich father. Her father and I had never gotten along, as was expected between a wealthy man and a working man. “Why would you need a new start, aren’t you happy here?”

“Sweetheart, look at me,” I didn’t, I couldn't bear the thought of her father ripping the two of us apart. “Darling, please,” I looked, “Please calm down,” she tried to settle my reeling mind with small words and pleas. When that didn’t work, she said, “Darling I’m not going.” That got me to settle down, at least most of the way.

“But your father. Won’t he be mad?” I asked her, not needing the answer. “He is quite convinced you are joining him.”

“My father needs to accept you,” She pulled me close, so close that I could feel her warm, sweet breath on my cheek, bringing back memories of our beautiful night following our wedding ceremony. I could feel her almond eyes on mine, peering into my soul and capturing my mind. I could feel her breathing, her bosom rising and falling to the rhythm of her breath. Her beauty mesmerized me, baffled me. “I am yours, forever, and I don’t care whether or not my father has a problem with that.” Do you mean that, I meant to ask her - but then I thought, Of course she means it, she loves me.

“Thank you,” I smiled at her, completely relaxed.

April.

My splendid marriage began to go south in my lovely little home in Southampton the day I heard a knock on my door, and my mistake was answering it. As I got up off of my wooden chair, the knock came again, rapping violently on the front of the house. Persistent bastard, I thought, as the knock came again. It happened twice more in my walk from the dining room to the front door two rooms away, making me think this man must be a deliverer of bad news, had she been in an accident? I ran to the door, fearing this man and what he came for more than I feared death. 

As I grabbed the doorknob, the ball of metal seemed to drop temperature to that of ice in my palm, a bad omen. I pulled the door quickly open to reveal this deliverer. “Hello son,” Her wealthy, hating, spiteful father said, shooting more ice than the metal in my palm, “May I come in, or have I lost that privilege to you as well as my daughter?”

“She’s not here,” I spat in return, avoiding his question on purpose, “But I would be ... happy ... to let her know that you stopped by, completely unannounced, may I add.”

“Yes, you may add that,” said he as he walked in my door, as though he took my lack of an answer as a conformation, “And as wonderful as that would be, I came here to speak with you, not your lovely wife.” A smile started to spread across his face, not a happy expression, or even neutral; the man was taunting me with his smug smile on his rich face. I had to put my hands in my pockets to keep from smacking that grin right off of him.

“Whatever you have to say,” I said, repaying him with a grueling sneer, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Ah yes, I expected that.” I wanted to bury him. He hadn’t done anything overly offensive since he’d gotten here, but his mere presence made me foaming mad. “However, for this I believe you will make an exception. What I came to tell you is very important.”

“What is it then? Really, what is so important you had to come here unannounced?”

“She is coming with me and you cannot stop her.”

“No, she told me she is staying with me here,” he’s lying, I told myself, he has to be. “I’m sorry you came all the way down here to be so disappointed.”

“I am afraid you are mistaken. I am her father, and my word is law,” He grinned again, but this time showing perfectly white teeth.

“Well I am her husband and she doesn’t lie to me!” I screamed, spitting on his blazer.

“But doesn’t she? I’m terribly sorry to tell you this but your marriage was a sham.” The words came out like he was saying the sky was blue, as-a-matter-of-fact. “She never loved you.”

I heard a crack and saw him fall, spitting blood. I saw hands grab him by the lapels and heard three more consecutive cracks. I felt a pain rise in my knuckles and a scream rise in my ears. Was it mine? Was it his? No, it was hers. I looked up and saw her staring, screaming and sobbing. “No!” She cried, “Please stop!”

I realized the hands on his lapels were mine, and the blood on my hands and on the floor was his. I dropped him. He just fell. I heard one last, deafening sound. It was his head hitting the wood floor. 

She said she was leaving here, going away and leaving me wanting more. I’ve never truly been the best, or been the one to answer life’s questions correctly, but I never thought that was reason for her to leave. I walked her to her ship, a giant boat, and looked into her eyes. She said maybe, maybe one day she will return, find me and complete me once more. I said no, she won’t return. I could feel it, sense it in my heart. I kissed her and held her tight. I felt as though days passed, years maybe. "Don't go," said I, "I can't do this on my own."
     "I'm sorry," she replied, "I feel like if we try to get closer we will only lose touch." She left me with those words ringing in my ears. I wanted to scream out to her, to yell that I love her, but I just watched her walk away, boarding with her bandaged father. Maybe someday, even if she doesn’t return, she could come to terms with my actions. I noted the date and time, I didn't know why I did it, it just seemed right.

I wrote down: ‘April 10th, 1912. Noon.’ I then watched as the Titanic drifted away.