Of Faith and Fate

I gaze over terra, beyond the boundaries

Of the swaying tree lines and washing winds,

that divide fantasy from reality,

and vigorously choke wicked courage from my lips.

I stand steady on the spilling cliff

of sweltering memories,

screaming death and defiance,

stealing faith with condemning fate,

drifting off the path of elegance and empathy.

I regain footing in free fall,

and gawk at the orange warning and smoke

exploding on the canvas beyond Hemlock and Hickory,

a reminiscence of Renaissance, Raphael, and Athens.

In this deep reminder of responsibility,

I drift on impaired air currents,

reluctantly cradling me above the forest barricades,

and into the portrait of beauty and truth.

I stand steady on the spilling cliff,

and stare sarcastically at destiny and divinity:

Accolade to fear and misfortune.

Exigency of Faith and Fate.

I stand steady, dreaming of intangible portraits

In the blockades of endless space before me.

The Shrine

Based on

Fumée d'Ambre Gris

By

John Singer Sargent

A shrine is a holy place. It is a place that is highly revered by a culture. It is a person of historical significance. It is a library that holds all the knowledge of the world. In this case, it is a relic designed to challenge.

History holds many secrets of its culture. Buried in tradition, one can forget the true meaning of life. Sometimes it takes an important journey to discover the true meaning.

In an age of prosperity and marvelous landscapes, the temple stood as a monument to its people. This shrine was inside the most sacred temple of their land. When the tribal men and women of their city turned sixteen, they were required to enter the tall marble halls for the first time in their life. Under the temple’s golden dome, the young men and women traversed a long and seemingly empty hall. A carpet with vibrant red and white circle patterns guided the young seekers. Their eyes beheld a diminutive object, steeped in simplicity. Once they cast gaze on the shrine in the center of the temple, they were required to uncover its mysteries, the test of true adulthood.

On this day, Nasreen was hesitant to take the ultimate test. It was her fourteenth birthday, the proper test age. She stood in front of the temple that she had been solicitous of since she was little. When she was six, she even tried to sneak across the golden entrance but was caught and severely punished for her crime. Ever since, fear grew stronger within her. A decade, to Nasreen was a long time to consider what was sacred about the shrine. Was it worth her punishment? Curiosity colored her agitation. She was reluctant to cross the threshold of the portal leading into the alabaster sanctuary.

Centuries ago, a group of nomads discovered fertile hills hidden deep within the vast arid desert. Mysterious waterways ran underneath the hills, providing the proper nutrients for the soil. The nomads knew that this land would be perfect for growing food for their people.  As they travelled deeper into the hills, they discovered a rich oasis with beautifully clear water. It was perfect for drinking. They did not make this discovery without a little help. They called it the “gift of the gods”: swift-flying red birds, the guardians of the fertile land. 

The nomads saw the birds as the messenger of the gods, welcoming them to a new land. They saw it as an opportunity to settle. They began to build a thriving society by the fertile ground. With the new abundance, they began raising families without the worry of the harsh desert and limited resources. They were grateful for the opportunity to grow and prosper. The nomads could finally get the most out of their fragile lives.

Soon after, the temple was built as a dedication to their new-found bounty. They didn’t want their descendants to forget the message from the gods, bestowing such blessings. The temple was later used to teach the young about the importance of the land. Generations passed. The message was passed down.

The day had finally arrived for Nasreen. She was the first of her generation to learn what it means to take responsibility as an adult. Though fear stricken to enter sacred ground, there was talk that Nasreen would lead a new generation. Nasreen was always driven to stand at the front lines. Her peers looked up to her. It was finally time to prove that she was a leader among the youth.

Dressed in a weighty, white robe, Nasreen stepped into the marble halls. The sunlight reflecting off of the golden silk sleeves and silver neck-piece instantly disappeared as she stepped inside. The sacred presence of the temple overwhelmed her. She kept her face covered with the heavy white material and her eyes to the ground. The vivid circular and diamond designs of the carpet pattern entranced her. It guided her to her destination.

It was the shrine. It was forged with the richest of polished silver. The base consisted of as simplistic design that almost resembled that of a vase. The shrine increased in width as it increased in height. Near the top of the shrine, the silver began to weave together in a spiraling pattern. The spirals merged together to create the crown. A round hood protected the top of the crown. The hood’s tip was molded into a circular handle.

Nasreen was cautious. She studied the design for several minutes. Nasreen was surprised at the small size of it. Her heart began to beat faster as she thought to touch it. She never expected something so significant to be so small.

She wondered what contents laid under the hood. Her hands began to shake as a new fear rushed through her body. How could an extraordinary revelation be made with such a tiny object? She wondered why it only sat on the floor. 

Why wasn’t an alter built for it? Maybe it’s not necessary, she thought. Its reputation was great enough. The temple was constantly discussed in Nasreen’s city and needed no introduction. However, the contents of the temple were shrouded in mystery. The elders did not talk about them out of respect and the children feared the possibilities. Nasreen was the only child ever brave enough to attempt entry when she was young. Now that she understood the temple’s significance, was she prepared to face the challenge?

Nasreen pushed all the doubts aside as she gently reached for the handle with her right hand. She gently clutched the lid with her index finger and thumb. Slowly she lifted it off of the tray. Her eyes widened at the sight.

It was the remains of a small bird. Nasreen was very familiar with its species. It had been a symbol of her people for many generations. It was the messenger of the gods. Flying over the city, the people were entranced by the bird’s majesty. They were always high above the fertile lands, a beacon of their home. Why were the bones of this specific bird placed in the shrine?

Nasreen thought of death. Is this a lesson about life and death? She wondered. Nasreen gently stroked the smooth skeletal remains of the delicate creature. Through touch, she began to feel a connection with this gentle race. She remembered her childhood. Her parents once kept a majestic young bird at her home after it had been injured. It sat in a cage and sang beautiful songs to Nasreen. As time passed, the bird’s wounds healed and its songs became more joyful. However, the bird soon became restless and the songs became sadder. 

Nasreen understood that the bird wished to be free. It wanted to spend its life with salvation and prosperity. Nasreen was instilling hopelessness in a bird that was supposed to be the city’s symbol of hope. A messenger must perform its task. One day, she snuck the cage outside and released the bird. Immediately, it whistled joyful tunes as it joined other birds that were passing by. The birds soared high above the city.

 The pieces began to fall into place. She understood the meaning of the shrine. Nasreen placed the lid back on the shrine and began to slowly walk back down the pathway. Those poor, fragile creatures, she thought. It’s amazing to think that an animal so frail...so susceptible to pain, death, injury...could be the symbol of prosperity and a servant of the gods. As she exited the temple, she thought back to the beautiful caged bird. Its beautiful song could still be heard from outside the temple. It was a careless creature, fulfilling its short life. It was as if it knew...nobody is immortal.

Inventory of Our Words

They crack the safes

hidden in our portrait of communication.

an  intercourse of social science,

flooding the streets of civilized city structures,

isolating outstretched pastures beyond urban diction.

We paint the portraits

of expressive thinking.

They map the blueprints

for oratorical robbery.

The rural fires of our desires are diminished.

The ashes scraped into our

six foot deep imagination asylums.

They stock coffins of our ideas

and do inventory on our intentions.

The sky box is shrinking slowly.

A blanket is draped over in refusal.

We stand inside

Eyes up

Heads cocked

In awe.

The sun sinks behind the dirt piles

crafted by spade shovels

that tear away at the grey soil,

like the escape artists

that tear away at our grey matter.

Anchoring our escapes,

we stand in the burial grounds of our words.

Night's Turbines

Awake in the presence of Night,

he claims the dreams from me,

and leads me onto my feet.

Noxious whispers clutch my lungs,

and drill madness into my bones.

The mocking shadows hide behind

night’s body, stretching to the yellow walls.

I shoot my arms through Night’s body

and grip the switch of illuminating armor.

The flaring explosion reveals illusions

on walls, portraits of shadows.

Night slithers into the floorboards,

and grinds the turbines of the basement.

Alarmed, I turn

to the looking glass.

Telling tales through my wild eyes.

My scorned memories swimming

in blind sight.

The Lens of Truth tells of Day,

the Achilles legend,

to dispel the Trojan Night,

and calm the Turbines.

And, once again,

Sleep unwinds,

kisses me,

kneeling me before Day.

The Death of a Crane

She laid down the pen. Gently, she closed the diary as she placed it on the table. Leona finally decided to step through the door. She saw the light in the distance as Death took her hand and guided her towards the soft glow.

She was gone. Her family stood around her bed, stricken by grief, yet a small number of them were relieved that her suffering was finally over. On the table beside her bed sat the diary that she held only a moment ago. The simple leather-bound book was worn from constant usage. The passages hidden inside would soon reveal to others her final days.

Diary of Leona Reece, February 15, 2012

Today was a good day. I’ve been wrapping up one of my last paintings to showcase in Pittsburgh in a few weeks. I’m excited because it brings back spectacular memories of my days as a dancer. I wish I could relive those days, but I’ve already sworn to live without regrets. She would be very upset if she knew I still had those wishes.

After gaining some inspiration, I decided to go back to my apartment and work on my painting some more. It didn’t last long; I started to feel the effects of my illness creeping back into my body. Leukemia is like having another shadow, always following me. It mimics my every move. It knows when exactly I’m ready to let my guard down. It strikes. For the time being, I’m going to rest. Tomorrow will be better.

February 21, 2012

My second shadow isn’t as forgiving as I want it to be. However, I’m always thinking back to what she said to me. It helps to give me strength, especially on a day like today.

As I continued my painting, I was reminded of Sage again. Sage Fallon always knew how to give good advice. She was not only my guide in dancing, but also, for two years, a guide in my life. I owe so much to her. If only I knew where she was today. Last I heard, she was following her dream as an archaeologist in the Middle East. She lives life by her own advice.

I knew how to live by her advice as well. Even after permanently injuring myself in the Jazz Dance Championship when I was young, I found other channels of free expression. She told me to live with passion. I lived enough for the both of us.

February 27, 2012

Sometimes mental persistence just isn’t enough. My body doesn’t seem to want to agree with me today. It wouldn’t be the first time. It probably wouldn’t be the last time.

It made me think back to when I first joined the Graceful Cranes Dance Ensemble. I was only 12. It’s hard to believe that it has been almost 19 years!

I’ve been dancing since I was 5, but nobody wanted to believe that I had so much experience at such a young age. My peers were harsh critics. Sage helped me ignore them. She taught me to be a strong and independent woman. After I turned 14, she left the dance ensemble and went off to college. Even after all that time, her teachings stuck with me.

March 3, 2012

It seems to be getting worse. I’m not sure how much more time I have, so I’ve been working harder on my final painting. It depicts our Dance Ensemble during the championship. Instead of a stage, we are dancing in a field of flowers. A flock of cranes circle in the background. They are judging us as we try hard to represent their grace by dancing with fire and passion.

It reminded me of the championship. I was 17 at the time. I tore my calf muscle during the solo, and I was surprised to find Sage rushing down from the audience. She came! I was so happy to see her that I barely noticed the pain. After all those years, she was still watching from the distance.

March 7, 2012, Final Entry

Everyone is here. My entire family came to be with me.  I was slightly saddened that Sage is not here, but news of my condition has probably not reached her. Maybe she will read this someday. I am dedicating my final painting to Sage. I’m calling it “The Birth of a Crane”.

This is my final adventure, Sage. Make sure this painting makes it to the exhibition. Drive my passion and perseverance one last time.

Sage closed the diary and set it back on the table. Tears streamed down her face as an overwhelming mix of emotions shocked her body. She stood up and wiped her face with her dirt stained sleeve. Slowly, she picked up the gentle work of art that sat by Leona’s empty bed.  She felt Leona’s presence in the apartment. After one last glance at the diary, Sage finally decided to walk through the door.

I’ll live enough for the both of us, she thought.

Frostbite Lobotomy

Doctor Moreau retracts his claws, says,

“You are running out of time,” says,

“Your eyes are falling out,” says,

“Your spirits are escaping your sockets.”

“Don’t let us go,” my eyes screech.

“You have no say,” the doctor responds,

“Your ears have developed cochmognitis.”

I don’t understand.

I ask. He responds.

“Your ears wake no frozen rivers.” says,

“No tinny frequencies

can unfasten the waters.”

Make sense, please.

I ask.

His napalm laugh echoes

the genocide pheromones.

It rattles my icy tunnels.

“The ones arched over your rivers.”

He saw my thoughts. Damn it.

They project in my frigid caverns,

like the Iceland mines.

I reach up, daintily caress

the icicles, for fear of shattering,

exploding ideas, like nuclear apples,

tempting no one, with dry, burnt

taste.

He says,

“I will preserve your mind

in the cryostasis masquerade.”

Perjury.

The good doctor’s eyes heighten,

“Your burdens are erased,” says,

as he extends his fangs

for the feast.

Tossing Stones

Draft 3


Bodi opened his eyes. After a bright flash of light, objects came into focus. He saw the stone beneath him. He could feel the cool, wet touch, parts riddled with dampened moss. Further out, he made out the mouth of the cave, water pouring down the entrance from the darkness above. He began to make out shapes in front of him. A tall, dark figure stood at the mouth, tossing stones over the edge. Bodi remembered why he was here.

“You’ll never get me to tell you where they are.” Bodi growled as he wriggled around in the ropes that bound him. The old, moist, rotting chair that he was tied to had since collapsed from Bodi’s weight. He rolled around on the floor. Dampened splinters shattered off and lodged into his skin. The piercing of the wood was miniscule in the moment of urgency.

Bodi had exerted all of his energy. He paused lying his face against the cool, stone surface. The figure of a man approached Bodi. The sound of water rushing in the background drowned out his voice, though Bodi could still hear a low, muffled range of vocals escaping his mouth.

The tall man’s tattered, brown clothes hung off his body, various tears revealing his bony body underneath. Excess skin hung from his arms and ribs. The cloth swayed around as he leaned in closer to speak. Bodi still couldn’t make out the words.

The Tattered Man grabbed a fistful of Bodi’s long, muddy hair and lifted his head from the mossy, stone floor. “Are you hearing me, boy?” Bodi’s eyes connected with the Tattered Man.

“Let me soften you up a bit.” The Tattered Man threw Bodi’s head against the ground. Bodi’s vision blurred as a sharp pain shot down his spine.

Bodi squirmed as he tried to regain his senses. The Tattered Man knelt down further and grabbed a handful of rope binding Bodi. The Tattered Man drug Bodi to the edge, overlooking a one hundred foot drop-off, concealed by the waterfall.

“Are you ready to go for a ride?” The Tattered Man said, grinning.

“It’s...bluff…” Bodi muttered, still dazed.

“We’ll see about that.” The Tattered Man took both hands and grasped firmly to the rope tied around Bodi. With ease, he lifted Bodi two feet off the ground and began to swing Bodi back and forth. Bodi’s head entered and exited the falls.

Face-down, Bodi could see that he was being teased over the edge of the cliff. He won’t do it, Bodi thought, he needs those jewels. The Tattered Man stopped swinging Bodi and dropped him on the ledge without warning. Bodi knew he wouldn’t throw him without getting the needed information.

The Tattered Man rolled Bodi on his back. He smiled down at Bodi. “I don’t need the rocks, you mutt. They only want you to disappear.” The Tattered Man, Bodi realized, was not tossing stones. They were the gems, now lost in the abyss below. Bodi slowly decoded the Tattered Man’s muffled words from before. Bodi was of more value dead than the gems altogether.

The Tattered Man lifted Bodi back up and launched Bodi over the edge. Bodi’s sense came back to him and he realized what The Tattered Man meant. The prize was his.

Falling, water rushing around him. His depth of field began to narrow. Weightless he fell, water drowning out vision and sound. His vision was replaced with swirling light among the blur. The took the form of gems, and then complete darkness.