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.

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.”

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.