Willow

The ice on the willows fell over you

and I felt snow falling all around.

You reached out in silence and brushed my hands

but I could not walk with you beyond the storm.

The frozen forest held mysteries

that have long lain undiscovered.

I know not what you saw or what you were thinking,

but it's clear that it all disappeared.

Oh, no, a crying shadow,

teardrops and snowflakes stream gently down;

I found you under the icy willow

that night when the forest was your grave.

The sleet and the snowflakes fell under you

and at home, I watched the sun go down.

You marched out in wonder at a beautiful hour

while moonlight was shining from over the hills.

The earthy meadow held beautiful skies

and nightly it blessed us with sparkling stars.

I saw your footsteps fade away from the village

when you dashed out to comfort the moon.

Leave me, I'll watch the horizon

until you return from your journey.

But I found you under the icy willow

that night when the forest was your grave.

The lamp in the window watched over you

and I watched the light flicker all around.

I reached out in silence and touched your hand

to awaken you into a glorious morn.

Our sleepy village knew age and youth,

and mothers, sisters, and brothers.

But you had a wild taste for adventure

and a heart that knew no earthly fear.

Go, go, I can see you grow restless

while the red glow of daybreak fades into blue.

Then I found you under the icy willow

that night when the forest was your grave.

The ice on the willows fell over you

and I felt snow falling all around.

You reached out in silence and brushed my hands

but I could not walk with you beyond the storm.

The frozen forest held mysteries

that have long lain undiscovered.

I know not what you saw or what you were thinking,

but it's clear that it all disappeared.

Oh, no, a crying shadow,

teardrops and snowflakes stream gently down;

I found you under the icy willow

that night when the forest was your grave.

White Ink

The storm began gently,

cooing like some young animal.

Snowflakes silently laid themselves on the ground;

not in protest, but in peace and restfulness

well-deserved after such a long journey.

I too have traveled a while,

making my mark and melting away at dawn,

to leave an empty bed or the ashes

of a campfire behind.

The snowdrifts and ice floes, along

their respective roads and rivers,

tell stories of the storm and how

it came to be.

But what began as flurries soon erupted

into a blizzard. An icy blur smeared

white ink everywhere–

frozen lakes became frozen meadows,

valleys became glaciers, and sight became blindness.

Behind me, my footprints returned to an untouched

slate. My hair changed from black to white,

and my fingers and toes from white to black.

And the stories of the snowdrifts and ice floes

become unwritten again.

They plead to be remembered.

The lacy white calligraphy that sprinkled

and detailed the landscape grew into a flood,

a massive spill of wordless, blank ink that

obscured what surely was a grand and

compelling narrative.

I too have felt the icy chill wash over me

and erase me, and while I was purified by clean

crystals of water, I was purged.

The white ink still coated my sight when I awoke,

but I found that it was not snow. No,

it was the walls of a place where the fallen cannot stand,

the standing may not wander, and where the stories

may not escape.

Islands

I've spent another day asleep.

Numb to the world, to the cold.

The sirens and alarms drifted by as I slept,

never fully waking me. It's as if I'm on

a floating island, drifting aimlessly across the ocean.

Ships pass close, islands, continents too. Lately,

some of the islands seem impossibly far away.

I reach out with my arms and eyes, waving

and looking for someone to wave back.

But when we pass close together, when our islands meet,

a harbor is closed. A boat is leaking. The tide is low.

Something stands obstinately in the way. A stone sentinel,

reaching his hands into the ocean, declares that this too

shall not pass. That now is neither the time nor the place.

Then I must choose to fight the sentinel and lose,

or return to a solemn slumber and never win.

I must choose to rebel or to hope; to fight and die trying,

or to remain and gaze longingly at the horizon,

waiting for that island to come back into view.

So I slept, and each day when I wake,

I wave to my neighbor in the ocean beyond.

My neighbor waves back, and for a moment, we feel energy.

We feel a connection, a bond, even across the ocean's breadth.

But then the moment passes when the sentinel's hand once again

brings down a fog thick enough to sink a ship.

It conjures waves that could drown a continent, only to divide

two lonely islands.

And only to send them back to sleep for another fruitless dawn to come.

A Philosophy of Fear

      Fear compels us and attacks us; constructs us and damages us. We run from our fears to shield our minds and bodies from trauma. In our attempts to retreat from the darkest corners of the world, we build walls and towers. We devise great drawbridges for our castles and fortresses to seal ourselves inside. And yet once the grand fortress is constructed and sprinkled with torches and weapons and secret rooms to hide in, the obstinate force of fear still batters the walls. Its dark and fluid limbs linger and wait beyond the asylum of a castle or fortress.

      And we watch from our highest tower in horror as our family and peers shuffle through the dark fog; we wonder how they manage themselves. But their fears are different and cover other lands with fog and secrecy. Their vision pierces fear where ours cannot, as our vision does where theirs cannot, and because of this, we might ask them for help. We can ask our loved ones to guide us through the unfamiliar and the unsafe, and in turn guide them when the crippling shroud of fear covers their world.

Icy Hands

      These late autumn mornings leap out with their black cloaks and chilly hands and leave frost on our skin. We are naked, vulnerable animals. We clothe ourselves – we wrap ourselves in stolen hides, gathered fibers, and synthetic threads. They don't warm us, though – no, they only capture the warmth we still have, and ward off the icy hands that come to steal it. Other mammals seek warmth – sunlight or others of their species. But we lie stubbornly in the cold, too convinced that our coats will keep us warm or that our pockets will thaw our hands.

      I wonder if we are afraid to reach out and warm each other, or if we are perhaps not insistent enough in sharing that warmth. I wonder if we are afraid that our friends and compatriots will reject the gesture. Perhaps we are selfish or greedy, basking in the sun during the summer months, but turning inward and holding in heat for ourselves when a chilly breeze blows our way. Other species stay warm when the world turns cold – why not us?

The Wheelbarrow

      An old wheelbarrow lay overturned beside a dilapidated shed. It was rusted; the tire was flat; the handles had been broken into splinters. Imagine everything it had experienced, and imagine what it could tell you if it remembered.

      Its early life began in the fiery womb of a foundry, where its steel body took shape. Soon, it was assembled, given arms and legs and a wheel, its namesake mechanism. Afterward, it was shipped to a store, where it waited amongst the lawn mowers and shovels, the leaf blowers and the weed-whackers. Eventually, though, came the wheelbarrow's day to take its leave of the store.

      Its wheel turned and squeaked delightedly out into the sunlight, which reflected off its brilliant metallic surface. A pair of hands pushed it towards a vehicle with four wheels. (Four! How could it be possible?) In a brief moment of confusion, the wheelbarrow floated on two pairs of hands, suspended above the ground. It quickly, but gently, came to rest in the belly of the four-wheeled machine, which clicked and thudded and shrieked into a roar that mellowed into a steady purr.

      And for a short while, the wheelbarrow waited again.

      It hit the driveway with a wince-inducing clang. The humble, one-wheeled cart landed upside-down in its new owner's careless attempt to extract it from his truck with only one hand. The edge of the wheelbarrow's metal basin gained a scratch – it's first sign of use. A pair of hands awkwardly righted the gardening instrument and pushed it back to a shed where it waited a few days more.

      Rain came and rain went, and the soil was left soft and damp. Squishy footsteps approached and gave way to a new set of hands that firmly took hold of the wheelbarrow's handles. The hands guided it to a small mulchy patch of earth. A few ceramic pots thudded gently into the wheelbarrow's stiff and open embrace while the plants that they contained stirred restlessly in the breeze.

      A great weight bore down on the wheel and support rods, but the single-wheeled cart held together sturdily. With a grunt, the hands returned to the handles and guided the cart off through mud, grass, and shallow puddles to another nondescript patch of ground. The pots went as quickly as they came, but the wet grass and soil clung stubbornly to the wheelbarrow's singular rubber tire.

      A sigh was heard, and footsteps carried the hands off, leaving the wheelbarrow alone by a newly-planted flowerbed.

      Days and nights passed, filled with either thankless work or excruciating boredom from having nothing to do. The wheelbarrow was shuttled about as a ferry for flowerpots or a barge for birdseed bags. Some days it rested in the shed, others in whatever corner of the yard it had been left in.

      But a new day came. A small pair of feet came plodding into the yard, followed by a figure of much greater stature. “Can I ride in it?” chirped a voice. No voice replied, but a weight and a warmth suddenly came to rest in the wheelbarrow. A shriek of delight echoed.

      Then the cart's wheel began to turn. At first it groaned, but soon seemed to squeak with delight. The child and her chariot raced around the yard, dodging stumps and flattening weeds. Though the chariot's wheel began to slow, and reluctantly halted when its legs were lowered to the soil again.

      The hands that pushed the wheelbarrow had grown tired. The little charioteer, although disappointed, waved a warm goodbye to her shining, one-wheeled chariot.

      This is perhaps one of the many things that the wheelbarrow would tell you, if it could remember.

Blind

Rainy streets–

footfalls reflect off of wet concrete.

All I knew was I could not run;

I could not hide.

The storm–

It thunders majestically,

and I could see and feel the fear

that shook the sky... and tore apart the town.

Are you alive?

I've searched for you endlessly.

I have run all through the snow,

and through the fog.

Your trail

has led me to its end.

You have left me far behind,

and in the dust... I discovered I was blind.

Due for an Appointment

Temporal Signature: 8,120AAAA
Dear Diary,
      Humans are so egotistical. They think that some great creator laid out a vast and beautiful universe just for them to live in and admire. Actually, the huge size just prevents them from waging intergalactic warfare and spreading violence and destruction too far from their own environment. Same goes for all of the other species, like Shkalicks and Lormens. Really, they're all the same species, but they live in different parts of the universe. I've named them to keep them organized. Other things I'm a bit careless with - I kinda dropped most planets and stars onto space-time and let them float around until they met up, kinda like sliding a bunch of magnets at each other on the floor.

     Anyway, about humans. They're obnoxiously needy too. They keep sending me these weird "prayer" things about wanting to win their little talent shows or passing their school exams. Honestly, I'm not gonna help them - if they can't help themselves, then they don't deserve my assistance. The Shkalicks and Lormens have never asked me for help; they just keep working. They also have a lot fewer wars because they're not constantly bickering about whose "God" is better, nor are they declaring war in my or my son's name. I mean, c'mon, Jesus is just my hippie son. He's a peace-loving guy. He doesn't even like arm wrestling, much less nuclear warfare.

     Oh well. I'll solve the problem soon enough. A while back, I sat down and had a chat with the Mayans. Good people. They gave me lots of gifts, although virgins and animals are rather strange presents (a basket of flowers would be just fine). I told them I'd come down again, and we scheduled a specific time. Since then, the Mayans' civilization has gone, but humans are still in need of a check-up. My calendar has the date marked 8,120AAAB - a time that the humans have taken to calling "the end of the world" or "2012."

     Eh. This oughta be good.

     Signed,
God a.k.a. Allah a.k.a. Yahweh a.k.a. Brahman a.k.a. The Flying Spaghetti Monster, and the rest.

     P.S.: I hope I can find my Cthulu suit. THAT would be cool.

Mists and Flames

Along waves of slumber, your dreams gently sail over the sea.
And under the moonlight, your breaths rise and fall with a peaceful sigh.
The mists make me wonder why I wanted to follow you home,
but when I lay down beside you, I remember the reasons I'm here.

You awaken at my side in the dead of the night and we whisper.
Our words are mere nonsense and our eyes drift lazily across the sky.
Soon the night turns red with flames and explosions of war,
and the lights of the city slowly fade in the haze.

The bombs begin falling and the forests are set ablaze, but I have no fear.
An autumn breeze blows and carries away the ashes from afar.
The mists make me wonder how I'm going to carry you home.
But when I lay down beside you, I can see that there's nowhere to go.

(And we'd best not try to walk home from here...)

Red

A shining orange sunset sinks down the sky.

I'm left without a name and without a care.

But if tomorrow's sun should rise and fall without a single word,

then the days thereforth shall forever be your own.

But why should I have in mind to speak to someone I don't know?

Fewer and fewer grow my hours in this place.

I don't have much to say but I think I've said it all

and nothing remains but a farewell song.

A broken morning's sky is filled with clouds.

I have thoughts that I'm afraid to say out loud.

I'm still playing with notes but I have no words to speak:

these days shall forever be your own.

Shadows

Wandering for days, but you're lost in your thoughts;

there's no map to guide you home.

The shouting that surrounds you

will erode as you fall asleep.

And no-one there

will see you because

you're running away.

And no-one there

will hear you because

you've nothing to say.

Don't let the voices of your past

convince you to return.

Seek shelter and asylum

in the shadows that blind us all.

Your memories won't

leave you no matter

how far you run.

But if nothing else

stops you, I'll go

with you on your way.

Freedom (Song)

The music for this song.

Riverside Young Writers: A Month of Poetry

Ash
Freedom
Taint
Gravel
Chill
Slumber
Burden

I wrote these for Poetry Month, and I think they turned out well.

Derne Manor IV

      We returned upstairs. “The bed's yours,” I said, shutting the door behind me.

      “It's... mine?”

      “All yours. Sleep well.”

      Saoirse slid into the bed and sighed. She struggled with the blanket for a moment before curling into a ball and falling asleep. I drew the curtains closed and sat against the side of my bed. My eyes closed.

–

      “Anthony!” whispered a voice.

      I mumbled unintelligibly and looked around in a daze. My room was dark, except for a dim red light on my nightstand: my alarm clock. It read 10:43.

      “Anthony!” I heard again. I craned my neck around to see Saoirse, wide-eyed and pale in the red glow of the clock.

      “What's wrong?”

      “I heard a sound.”

     I cupped an ear and heard footsteps. They grew louder, but were still fairly quiet. Light seeped under the door with the click! of a switch. The light went out again after a short while. “It's just my mother.” Saoirse let out a sigh of relief and laid back on the bed.

      “We have a long night to go,” I said. There was no response. I twisted around again and saw that, like the light outside my room, she had returned to her rest in short order. I nearly reached over to wake her, until I saw a light smile on her face. She was more peaceful than silence itself – I couldn't bring myself to disturb that.

      Instead, I recruited a deck of cards and a flashlight to wait out the night with me.

–

      After several games of solitaire, houses of cards, and what could only have been a miracle, the clock turned to 8:00. I heard the door open and shut as my mother left for work. The car started and faded off into the distance. Saoirse was still sleeping soundly, but I figured I would wake her.

      I knelt at the side of the bed and whispered her name. She stirred a bit, but didn't open her eyes. I reached a hand onto her shoulder. “Saoirse, wake up.”

      Her eyes opened now. “Oh, it was adream.” She sounded disappointed.

      “What happened in your dream?”

     “I saw my parents. I was little again. We were in our old home.”
 

     “Why don't you live with them?”

     With a regretful expression, Saoirse prepared to answer.

Sunset (Demo)

A recording of my original instrumental "Sunset" on a twelve-string guitar.

Soldiers' Lament

 “I used to believe in my freedom,

and I used to believe in the war.

But I fell, with my allies, into prison,

where we screamed, through the torture, 'no more!'”

“I used to believe in my freedom,

and I came here to settle a score.

But I've cried every night for my children

hoping they'd miss me no more.”

“I used to believe in my freedom

when I heard the battlefield's roar.

But I could not muster the courage

to raise my rifle anymore.”

The whispers of soldiers carried

through hallways of steel and stone.

Their memories wasted with their bodies

from blood to broken bones.

Trials by fire and landmines

left scars on both flesh and land.

Allies left dying in the forests

resided in better hands.

“I used to believe in my country

when I left her glorious shores,

but now my belief is dying;

I have faith in my country no more.”

“I used to believe in my country –

in the glorified tales of war.

But the stories I heard were dishonest

and I believe in them no more.”

“I used to believe in my country

until I came through that door.

I'm shackled and locked in this cell,

and help will be coming no more.”

One by one they faded

as they reached the end of their tour.

They died in a foreign nation

and chanted their lament no more.

Then the guards gathered 'round them in a chorus,

and they summoned their voices in song.

They chanted a wicked, sneering verse

and bade their prisoners so long:

“You used to believe in your freedom,

and you thought you could take on a war!

But you sobbed to your hands like cowards:

'I believe in my country no more.'”

Chapter III (Derne Manor)

      Saoirse looked down for a moment before looking me in the eye again. “Could you tell me your name?”

     I stumbled with my thoughts. A few hours with this girl and I hadn’t even thought to give my name. “Anthony,” I replied.

      “Thank you, Anthony,” she said, bowing her head.

      “You're welcome.” The room fell silent. I looked around for a moment, and avoided her eyes. The weight of our situation finally hit me.

      “Wh-what's wrong?” she asked. I let my worry show.

      “Nothing, nothing at all,” I lied. My eyes came back to her. For the first time, I noticed her clothing – gray, nondescript. The edges and seams were frayed; collars and sleeves, torn. Her pants were worn at the knees and ripped near the top – the pockets had been torn off. “ We ought to find you some actual clothes.”

      I led Saoirse upstairs. She still clung to my shoulder like she had in the manor. While we ascended, I considered taking some clothes from my mother's wardrobe, but she might've suspected something if her clothes went missing. Instead, I searched my own dresser, and dredged up some older clothes from the bottom: an old T-shirt a few sizes too small for me, and a pair of cotton shorts with strings.

      “I'd provide something a bit more... uh, feminine, but this is all I can do.” I unfolded the clothes and laid them out on my bed, and paused awkwardly for a moment. “I'll just... leave you to it.” As Saoirse examined the outfit I'd given her, I left the room and shut the door behind me.

      Tick, tick whispered the clock on the wall. The hands read four o'clock. Considering the fact my mother would be working late, I didn't know how long she'd be gone. Perhaps until nine or ten. I thought it would be best if Saoirse slept some. I couldn't risk her waking up in a nightmare while my mother was home.

      I heard the doorknob click behind me; the hinges squeaked with the sound of a door being opened cautiously. I turned to find that even my ill-fitting clothing hung over Saoirse's neglected frame with room to spare. Shorts that would normally just barely reached my kneecaps reached about halfway between her kneecaps and ankles. The strings were tied in a large double knot at the front to keep the shorts on her hips. The shirt suited her a bit better, but still extended a noticeable length down her thighs. I smiled a bit. “It'll have to do for now.” Saoirse smiled slightly in return.

      We avoided each other's eyes for a moment, until Saoirse spoke up: “Could I have a glass of water?”

      “Of course,” I replied. We returned to the kitchen. She sipped gratefully from the glass like she had from the bowl of soup. I took her silence as an opportunity to say what was on my mind.

      “I think we need to go to sleep soon.”

      “Why?” Saoirse asked with wary curiosity.

      “You're nightmare. I can't reveal you to my mother right now. If you and I sleep earlier, then we'll be able to stay up through the night while my mother's home. If you have another nightmare, then you'll be less likely to wake her with your screaming.”

      Tears welled up in her eyes; her head bowed. “Screaming isn't allowed in the manor. I'm sorry...”

      “N-no! No. That's not what I meant!” It was too late, though. She turned away and hid her face with her hands.

      “I'm sorry,” she whimpered. “I'm not allowed to scream.”

      I took a step closer to her. “Saoirse, it's okay.” Again, she turned away. More sounds of crying.

      “No, it's not. It's not okay to scream in the manor.”

      “You're not in the manor anymore.” She didn't listen, it seemed; she just kept weeping. Her voice murmured more words from the manor with a timid, fearful tone.

“Saoirse,” I said as I rested my hand on her shoulder. She jumped with a yelp. I turned her around, and lifted her face toward mine. My hands cupped her cheeks, and my thumbs rested on her cheekbones.

      “I'm sor–” she began.

      “No. I'm sorry.” My hands fell from her face and wrapped around her back. She rested her head on my chest. I slowly ran a hand up and down her back.

      “It's not your fault.”

--

Updated 4/21

Breaking the Dam (Derne Manor)

     The girl began screaming in her sleep. I jolted out of my patient reverie and hurried across the room to her side. She thrashed around – a few pillows fell to the floor, and a nearby lamp rocked precariously before settling back into place. I caught her arms and whispered, “You're safe, shh.”

     Her flailing slowed back into relaxation, but her eyes and mouth were wide open, begging for relief and for air. I held her hand and stroked her knuckles with my thumb.

      Tears welled up in her eyes and trickled across her face. I brushed loose hairs from her brow, and swept a tear off her cheek with my free hand. She fought the tears back to choke out a few words, “I- I'm sorry.”

      Her words puzzled me. “Did she just apologize for having a nightmare?” I thought. Her head turned away in shame. “No, don't apologize. Talk to me, what's wrong?”

      She drew a deep, shaky breath. With her face obscured by a cushion, she spoke her fears in a panicked voice: “I dreamed I was still at the manor. The screaming... screaming isn't allowed at the manor.” She suppressed a few sobs, and tried to wipe her tears away, but to no avail: they only kept flowing, like fresh blood from an open wound.

      I noticed again her scars and wounds, and I saw her tears cutting lines into her face. It felt like watching someone die, like watching an already cracked and broken stone crumble into dust. “It's okay,” I whispered as I tilted her chin back toward me, and our eyes met. “You're safe.”

      “No, I'm not. I'm not safe,” she sobbed. “They'll find me, a-and then they'll –”

      I hushed her with a finger over her lips. “Shh. Don't cry; don't worry.” I slipped an arm behind her back and propped her up to a sitting position. She buried her face in her hands and locked her elbows to her knees. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and did my best to ease her doubts.

      Eventually she ran dry, and just sat silently, shivering a bit. I pulled the couch blanket around her, and inquired, “feeling any better?” With her head still in her hands, she shook her head.

      What should I do next? My eyes wandered around the room, and into the next: the kitchen. I glanced to my side and saw the girl's pale skin, and the bones that seemed like they wanted to break through her skin. “Wait here a moment,” I told her as I walked toward the kitchen.

      I searched the kitchen for some suitable food, and I found a note stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet:

I'll be home late tonight. There's some leftover stew in the fridge if you're hungry.

-Mom

I poured a bowl of the stew and microwaved it. I looked back into the living room while it was cooking. The girl had perked up; she'd pulled her face out of her hands and was watching me. The microwave beeped, and I set the bowl out on the kitchen counter with a spoon.

      The girl looked at me hesitantly. I nodded and beckoned to her with a short “come here.” She shed the blanked and ambled unsteadily into the kitchen. Gingerly, she climbed onto the bar stool at the counter. I watched her sit perfectly, perhaps even painfully, straight. Her head bowed as she sipped spoonfuls of broth. I could see a dull fear in her eyes through her appetite. She ate each spoonful with care, and closed her eyes in what must have been ecstasy. Whatever she'd been fed at the manor was either inadequate, or too unpleasant to eat.

      A silence fell over us and lasted a while. The only audible sounds were the mechanical hum of the air conditioning, and the light clink! of a metal spoon when it touched the sides of the bowl. Eventually, I thought it might be a good opportunity to coax a few answers out of her. I asked, “How did you escape?” She swallowed and placed the spoon on the counter, and took on an expression of contemplation.

      “I... I don't know. Someone forgot to lock my door. I snuck out of my room and looked for an escape. I wandered around for a while before I realized I was lost. Then I heard someone coming, and I hid in a closet. I saw someone different, you, through a crack in the door and...” she trailed off, and her eyes lifted. “...and I felt I could trust you.”

      I nodded, and absorbed her words for a moment. I tried another question, “Why were you there?” Her face tightened bitterly, as if her skin were trying to hold back a flood of tears.

      “My family was poor. My mother was sick; my father lost his job. The Dernes... they took me in. My parents had to let me go, but I- I just didn't want to leave. We tried sending letters, but they stopped coming...” The tightened dam in her skin seemed to form cracks; she hopelessly swept the tears away, only to have them return in greater volume. I hurried around the counter to the stool adjacent to hers.

      She wept. Through her gasps for air and tear-strangled voice, her words were a distorted wail. I couldn't tell what she was saying; I couldn't tell her anything. I let the flood run its course. With some hesitation, I rested a hand on her back. I wanted so much to tell her that she's safe, that she'd be all right, but I didn't. I didn't want to give her superficial, overused words. I just stayed by her side, and let my palm rub circles around her back.

      The sobs eventually slowed. The water behind the dam had drained for now. I spoke first into the returning silence: “Tell me your name.”

      She lifted her head and looked to me. An odd glimmer of hopefulness shined in her tear-swollen eyes. “Saoirse,” she said.

      I repeated the name in my mind, then aloud. “Saoirse,” I said, “I'll help you. We'll take it slowly. Just tell me anything you need to say; I'll help you.”

      Solemn and silent, Saoirse wiped her eyes and nodded.

---

*Note: "Saoirse" is pronounced "Seer-sha."

Derne Manor

      The old Derne Manor always seemed like it could suck you in. Each room, shrouded by sheer curtains, gave off a warm, yellow light. The groundskeeper neatly mowed the grass and trimmed the hedges, despite the fact the owners had died years ago. A driveway extended from the garage to the street, and a short sidewalk connected the driveway to the front door.

      I stopped as I walked past. Every facet and notch in the glass door glistened in the sunlight. The grass seemed especially green today, as if someone painstakingly painted each individual blade. I wondered what lay inside the house, having only seen its exterior. The past owners were a private couple, and rarely invited anyone inside. The maids and chefs of the manor, though, could still be seen coming and going from the house as if the owners had never passed away.

      A breeze blew by, and the glass door creaked open. Nobody walked out; nobody passed through the foyer. An old curiosity bubbled up inside my mind, and I began fantasizing about the inside of the Old Manor. My head churned and spun with questions.

      Soon, I realized I'd walked across the lawn: I was standing on the doorstep of Derne Manor.

      I stepped inside and looked around. Light shone in through a window and struck a chandelier hanging in the foyer – little rainbows spotted the walls. The room was circular, and had a wide spiral staircase that led up to the next floor. Outward from the center were three hallways: one straight across from the door, one to the left, and one to the right. I pondered for a moment as to where I should go, but I halted my pondering and bolted down the right passage when I saw a shadow coming into the middle hall. As I hid behind a large house plant, I watched a pair of maids turn down the passage that was on my left. One of them mentioned a lock and a cell. The other one replied with something about a key.

      I shrugged and continued down the hall after I was sure they wouldn't suspect me. As I wandered along the plush-carpet hallways, I spied many paintings and house plants – some exotic, some domestic – and all manner of interesting statues. Some were human, some were simply abstract sculptures. Along the undecorated parts of the walls were doors and light fixtures at regular intervals. I didn't dare open any doors, though, for fear that someone might be waiting inside.

      I turned a few corners and climbed an odd staircase. It felt claustrophobic, as if it led to the attic. The floor it led to appeared to have narrower and emptier hallways. The carpet looked faded. The lights had a sickly yellow color to them, rather than the bright, pure white that lit the ground floor. All the hallways seemed the same, and they branched out continuously like a maze, a trap.

      Footsteps shuffled somewhere behind me. I turned to see them and saw a shadow looming around a corner. As quickly and quietly as possible, I ran to hide at the next junction in the hall. Something caught me while I hurried down the passage, though, and I fell into a dark room. The door closed, and a hand fell over my mouth.

      “Please don't scream,” pleaded a voice. It sounded female, near my age. I heard something weak and unsteady in her voice. She flicked on a flashlight and propped it up against a shoe. I could see that we were in a closet. Her face was thin; her cheekbones protruded. I saw her hands shaking from weakness and apparent malnutrition. But as much as she trembled, her eyes stood still. Fear and pain poured out of her eyes like blood from an open wound; badly-healed wounds covered her body. Her wrists bore abrasions from rope. Her emaciated voice begged again, “help me escape. Help me.” I could feel the desperation radiate off her face like the heat from the flashlight in the corner. Something inside me came to life, as if I'd long forgotten a lust for vengeance or vendetta. It scared me, but what scared me more was the thought that if I left this disheveled and lonely girl behind, something worse would happen to her. Gently, I peeled her fingers off my lips and whispered, “I'll try.”

      I had no idea who she was. But despite that, I cracked the door and peered out into the hall. Behind me, the girl switched off the light. Devoid of life and footsteps, the hallway was clear. I tapped her lightly on the wrist and pointed out into the hall. We crept toward a nearby stairwell. The girl kept her bony hand on my shoulder the whole time. I clasped my hand over hers to reassure her as we descended the stairs. I checked around the corners at the bottom. Empty halls, save for a few house plants and sculptures. Bright white lights lit the hallway.

     It wasn't the hallway I walked through earlier, though. It had windows instead of doors, meaning I probably had a good long sneaking ahead of me to reach the door. “We'll be out soon,” I lied. Weakly, the girl smiled. I wished I could have been right about leaving soon, but I smiled reassuringly and led the two of us to the right. Between checking for hiding spots and watching for signs of housekeepers, I looked out the windows. It didn't look like the front lawn – in fact, it didn't look like any part of the property I'd seen. The view was full of trees and had a cobblestone pathway leading deep into the woods. I concluded we were on the backside of the house.

     I pressed us onward, though I could tell by her panting that my companion was tired. In her condition, she had every right to be, but I had to encourage her to keep going. I wished as much as she did that we could just rest, but wishing would only land her back in whatever nightmare she crawled out of. I held her hand with my arm awkwardly twisted behind me. When I glanced over my shoulder, I could see a light smile of relief. I nodded.

     We reached a corner, and I peeked around it. A well-placed houseplant provided adequate cover, though it wasn't needed: the passage was clear, and had the familiar pattern of door-light-door along its wall. The statues and paintings seemed more dense. I squeezed the girl's hand, and whispered, “nearly there.” She squeezed back tighter; I felt fear and hope in her grip.

     Before I could hear her whisper back, though, I heard a far more terrifying sound: the clunk! of a door as it shut. I whirled around to see a maid standing, staring back at us. I felt my companion freeze up – her hand seemed to turn to stone in mine.

     “An escape!” shouted the maid. It shook the house. A painting looked as if it nearly jumped off the wall. I pulled at the girl's arm, but she stood still. I quickly hoisted her onto my shoulder and steadied her with my free hand on her back. The cleaning lady swiftly gave chase.

     I felt the girl fall limp in my arms, but I could still feel her breathing. I clutched her closer and pushed myself onward, as I could still hear the shouting of the maid, and a dozen other pairs of feet stomping and scrambling above me. But around another turn in the hall, I could see a glorious sight: the foyer. Still, the little rainbow spots dotted the walls, and the afternoon sun shone in through the door. I dashed toward it. People began to pour down the wide spiral staircase.

     But through a door blown open by a summer breeze, I managed to escape, girl in arms. Angry voices spread across the lawn behind me, but I didn't turn back to look. I didn't stop to think, to rest. I only ran. Past the hedges along the edge of the lawn. Past every mailbox and driveway. The branches of willow trees seemed to reach out to me as I sprinted, but I didn't accept their invitations: I only ran. Footstep after footstep, heartbeat after heartbeat. I embraced the girl tightly to me as I carried her.

     A friendly sight came into view, eventually. The sidewalks of the two sides of the street looped around and merged into one, encompassing a circle of black asphalt. Beyond that cul-de-sac lie my house. My hand left the girl's back and fumbled with the doorknob at the front door. I didn't hear any angry voices, but all I could hear was the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

      I entered and shut the door. Breathing heavily, I lumbered over to the couch. The stranger I carried in my arms spread out peacefully on its cushions. I slumped down into the chair across the room and panted. Her breathing was steady, slow. She seemed peaceful, almost happy.

     And I wondered how I would explain trespassing in Derne Manor and bringing home a complete stranger. I wondered how she'd feel upon awakening. I wondered what they did to her.

      And I wondered what her name was.

(Edit: Second Revision - 4/6/11)

Sea of Desolation

      Water. Floating in water. A pair of eyes blink open; a consciousness springs to life. At first, the thoughts are blurred. The urges, primal. Hunger, drowsiness, thirst. But then, a new emotion emerges: loneliness. The only other breath is the gentle sea breeze; the only other pulse is the tender rocking of waves. As far as the eye can see is nothing but water and sky. The dim light of early morning tints the sky. The sun makes no effort to rise above the horizon. Time stands still.

      The consciousness begins to shift away from its instinctive processes to coherent thought. Panicked, but coherent. It thinks, “Where am I? How am I floating? What's happening?” The eyes of the consciousness drift around. They find its body attached beneath the head, as would be natural. The figure is female. The young woman reaches to her face and rubs her eyes – they're hers. All of the body she sees is hers. All of her is there, floating in the middle of an endless ocean.

      The pangs of loneliness continue. Wind blows across her face, softly teasing her hair. Sunlight still refuses to lift itself above the horizon. Frozen in time, the young woman still floats in her sea of desolation. Naked, anxious, alone.

      Then she hears a sound. The sloshing of a rowboat through salt water sends ripples to her through the air and the water. A group of men murmur as they paddle their way through the water. The young woman in the water cries for help; the men give no reply. She tries to swim toward them, but they only drift farther and farther away. Eventually, they disappear into the haze of the dark horizon.

      Panicking, the girl swims after them hoping she might reach shore. She soon discovers that her efforts are fruitless. Waves push her back whenever she swims too far. The sounds of other watercraft torture her as they pass on the very edge of sight. After the craft all fade into the distance, a new sound roars in her ears: Thunder. Clouds appear in what seems like mere seconds. The waves turn from hills and gullies to mountains and valleys. Wave after wave crashes on the young woman's head. She thrashes about to stay afloat, and screams for help. Only the thunder replies. Her final call attacks a nearby flash of lightning.

      She awakens, screaming loudly enough to shatter glass in the heavens. The girl feels a dip in her bed, and an arm around her shoulder. A voice whispers in her ear, only to be lost in her own cries. Finally, a hand comes over her mouth.

      “Shh... it's just a nightmare, Maria,” croons the voice. Maria exhales the air for a scream in a sigh, and pants to catch her breath.

      Maria falls back into the arm around her shoulder, and looks up to where the voice was. She sees her sister, Althea, whose eyes glowed peacefully in the moonlight. The hand lifts off her mouth. She attempts to speak, but can only exhale. Inhale, exhale.

      Althea strokes her younger sister's hair with her free hand as she glances out the window. The waves on the ocean crest with a moonlit foam. She returns her gaze to her sister's terrified eyes. “Do you want to tell me?” Maria nods and draws a deep breath.

      She chokes out the details. Awakening, floating, despairing, drowning. She rubs her eyes to drive the tears away. Althea lifts her sister's chin and turns it to the window. “You see that?” she whispers. “You'll never be on that ocean alone. Don't worry.”

      Maria nods, and wraps her arm around her sister's abdomen. She wipes her eyes with her free hand and sniffs. Her sister squeezes her shoulder with a one-armed hug and says, “dream sweetly, Maria.”

      Maria watches her sister step lightly across the room, and settles down into bed herself before giving one last look out the window.

      “I hope you're right. I don't want to be alone.”

Stay Close

Float lighter;

Feel better?

You slept for a long time.

Hear whispers;

breathe ether;

you dreamed for a long time.

Worry, oh the sorrow you gave us

when we saw you bathed in blood.

Mournful, all the mournful voices

when you teased and played with death.

Talk sofly;

Walk bravely;

We've missed you a long time.

Stand closer;

Stand taller;

I've missed you a long time.

Wounded, oh the scars you'll never lose;

wear them with your pride.

Hanging, watching gently over you.

Stay close.

The Shell of a Man

Sleep haunts like a ghost under nighttime's eye;

Each dream has returned to remind me

of the wars that I've fought and the souls that I've killed

without thought or remorse for their ends.

And here you see the shell of a man

who ended the lives of hundreds;

I'm no hero of war nor savior of faith

and I'm damned by revenge of the fates.

But I'll guide lost hands and not sulk in my hate;

there's still good left to do in the world.

For the mother and father whose sons I have killed,

I'll right the wrong deeds I have done.

The cries of young children still ring in my ears

like the wail of a ghostly banshee.

Fear strikes in my heart and I shut my eyes

to stay afloat in the orphans' tears.

No god could absolve me of my crimes against life

and no distance or shadows could hide me.

I will face my end as my soul is seized

like the cities of the lands I destroyed.

Can I die a past killer but a newly-forged man?

Or shall I always have blood on my hands?

I'll let fate decide and keep in my mind

the hearts and the deeds of the pure.

Lullaby

She lives in a nightmare of a world

and her eyes bleed oceans of teardrops.

Her home is a death trap nestled in wastes,

and her guiding light now fades.

But I don't want her to drown in her sorrows,

and I want her to breathe and to sing.

She can't flee the nightmares by her lonesome self,

and I could never leave her behind.

She cries with the voice of an angel in pain

as her heart slowly shrivels and dies.

I want to bring rest to a sleepless young mind.

I'll sing her a lullaby.

Her youthful face reminds me

of a life that I've already lived.

I'll protect her from hands that could carry her away;

To lose her is a fate worse than death.

Exhaustion takes hold of her arms,

and she wilts like a weeping willow.

But her mind still runs without stopping

as the warmth in her heart runs cold.

Sleep, child, sleep; you'll grow lighter.

Let go of the hatred in your eyes.

Tonight you'll rest in a soundless void

where lies your peace of mind.

No End is Dead

I've walked through miles of hallways. The empty clip-clop of my shoes beats the air, and I wonder as I wander through a restless ether. I recall the things I've forgotten. Dreams, both of sleep and aspiration bubble slowly to the surface of my mind.

I stop at a corner and gaze out a window. The sun lightly teases the horizon as the watch on my wrist slowly ticks into the evening. Sunbeams paint the floor with a lost opportunity.

But I still walk in stride, and my feet push me to the exit. I've kept my dignity, though perhaps only to destroy it another day.

My feet push me faster; I quickly gain speed. I'm running at the speed of my mind. My footsteps seem to fall with every passing thought that enters my head. An assortment of anxiety assaults my conscience:

I didn't say a word. I didn't even stay. Did I blow it? Will it happen again? Will I return?

Thought after thought fires, as if my mind is a battlefield, as if I'm racing through no-man's land.

I missed my opportunity. I hit a dead end. I forgot to make the turn.

No battle can last forever, not even the ones in my head. I can still turn around at a dead end.

I just have to catch up.

Hurricane's Eye

I smell the sweet scent of a time going by

while bitterness rises from air to my tongue.

I've burned down old bridges and broken down walls

but still an old air fills my lungs.

I've devalued fortunes and dug into holes

where steel shells land with their brimstone and doom,

and I've seen the heartbreak of a fatherless home

when a widow mourns softly in gloom.

Kiss the wind and spread your wings wide

and stare down a storm cloud in a hurricane's eye.

Not demons nor angels can break your free will;

we've got more left to do than to die.

The ice of no glacier can cool our blood's heat

and our freedom reigns on the plains of dry air.

No valley of sorrow nor sea of regret

will convince me that we're wrong to dare.

Oliver

      I watch the children play on a sunlit afternoon. Willow trees slowly sway in the breeze without care. Water bubbles up from a nearby spring and trickles down into a small pool. The scents of earth float on the breeze.

      Hours drift by, and soon the sun begins to set. The weeping willows reach down to touch me lightly on the head. I gently shake their hands as I pass by. Birds whistle and tell stories as the rustling of branches hisses a soft song.

      And soon, I return to an empty house where I can still here the lonesome howling of an old hound. I hear the faint laugh of a jolly old man inside my head, and I smile.

      The memories may be old, but they'll never be forgotten.

To Go Home

Soldiers in darkness walk high on the hills,

hundreds of iron boots falling

and the lights of the stars whisper sleepless nightmares

that live in a bedroom of death.

The ravaged roads cry of battle and war

while the moon crosses darkness so slowly,

and the feet of the angels have long left this place

only to leave barren land.

Not a single lost soul can find light in this place,

there's no map or compass to guide them.

Only the voices of pain can be heard

and the strength of warriors runs dry.

No river could quench a king's thirst for blood;

No bread can fulfill his hunger.

Only death in a war fought for glory and pride

under skies of a dead foreign land.

And the soldiers, they walk to the place of a war

where pawns and knights are the pieces

in a game where life is a coin in the purse;

the pawns can only hope to go home.

In Nightmares of Old

Black washes the walls where I stood once before:
I cannot leave light in my wake.
Each little spark starts a flame of regret
and smoke seen from miles away.

I hold close to my heart the old days long ago
when I once had a mother and love.
But nothing remains from those forsaken years
save for children with motherless homes.

If I could fall to my knees without dropping the weights,
the hard burden I've been forced to bear,
I would harbor the child, cold and lost, in my arms
to ease the pain of an ill, mourning world.

In the light of a cloudy and dim rising sun,
I can feel my blood run cold.
I weep tears for the loved ones I've lost in this age
and slumber in the nightmares of old.

Deafened Again

     By candlelight, I write this. A strange dream overcame me in the midst of the night, before a rude interruption from the roar of a thunderstorm. Slowly, the dream fades from my mind, and I remember fewer and fewer details. That, however, is unimportant. A realization came to me upon my awakening to a silent blackness: a realization in the language of silence.

     No words rang in my ears; no mechanical hum filled the atmosphere; not even the rhythmic tick, tick of my clock whispered from the corner of my room. Instead, I heard the chirping of insects; I heard the croaking of amphibians. The gentle rustling of leaves came to me even through a closed window. The rain's soothing drone flooded my ears and carried away all other sounds in its torrent.

     It is as if I finally hear after a lifetime of deafness. Finally walking outside after living life indoors. I have discovered that listening is not finding the sounds you want to hear, but hearing the sounds that wish to be heard.

     For minutes, or perhaps hours does the tongue of night speak. The lips of silence voice their thoughts. Soon, though, power returns. My clock is revived. A mechanical hum overtakes the air again. My fan shudders to life, and extinguishes my candle. No longer can my ears detect nature's words. Deafened again.

     (So I sleep for another day, hoping that these moments will not fade like the dream I experienced so shortly ago.)

Wanderer

Moonlight,

an island of brightness

standing in an ocean of tar.

Lonely,

the sunrise is high now,

but last night's shadows remain.

Echoes fall to pieces

and the silence falls still.

The wanderer won't rest

though the warrior will.

No end to the travels

begun long ago,

and the wind whispers footsteps of pain.

Wander

and venture to shadows

holding the secrets of sunlight

And dabble

in the teachings of journeys

traveled across foreign lands.

One heart to another

like the sky to the plain.

Dawn breaks the darkness,

sends fear down the drain.

A thousand lost souls

find comfort in life,

and the sunrise lights fire in the sky.

And now new horizons

may shine through the rain.

New life may prosper

in darkness and day.

Whispers of the past

still rest in the shade,

but the sunlight will keep the old memories away

and sunbeams shall rain on us all.

When the Sun Shines

     I awaken hazily in our safe house. A candle gently illuminates the room. Soft snores from my allies sigh a lament of a long journey. Even after a full night's sleep, my muscles still ache. I stifle the voices of pain that seek freedom from my lungs as I approach the exit door. I push aside the door and step outside.

     The soft hiss of rain sprays the ground and taps the overhang. Water droplets trickle down the brick wall surrounding our secluded haven. Overcast skies whispered impending hardship upon us all.

     I return inside to see sleeping comrades once again. Pillows, blankets, and bodies lie haphazardly about the room. An array of weaponry sits along the wall. The leather is worn, the iron, rusted. Moss has grown in through the cracks in the walls. The air is damp and musty, as if we've been sleeping in our own graves. I hear the soft yawn of a child squeak at my feet.

     My eyes fell to meet the figure of my younger sister, Isabel. "Anne?" she whispered. "When are we leaving?"

     I froze, and thought for a moment. Living like we do, I fear we may never truly leave. I started to speak, but I choked on my words. Wearily, I replied, "We'll leave when the sun shines again."

     I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth.

Lost in Her Eyes.

      I awaken to discover a gritty, salty sensation in my mouth. My entire body aches. The irksome sounds of seagulls ring in my ears. I roll over; every muscle in my body groans like rusted, aged gears grinding in an ancient, neglected machine. I spit sand from my mouth and let the cold light of dawn - or dusk, I am unsure - penetrate my weak and unprepared eyes. Salt air fills my lungs; salt water splashes my feet. Brr.

     I stagger to my feet and my eyes meet the horizon, set ablaze by the sun. Wooden wreckage litters the beach. My head hurts. I can't remember anything if there's even anything to remember.

     I turn around to find a heavily-forested island. Palm trees line the shore. A coconut falls and cracks itself open on a rock. What luck. I hurry over and sip the sweet nectar. The salty taste of sand dissolves in the juice.

     But as I revitalize my taste buds, I hear a soft moan, like the coo of a dove. To my surprise, I see a young woman - about my age - turning over in the sand about a hundred feet away. An instinct, a reflex fires in my head. I clutch the coconut to my chest and sprint as quickly as my aching muscles will allow.

     She coughs a few times as she sits up. I kneel at her side and offer her the coconut husk. Carefully, she grasps it and downs the remaining coconut water. "Th-thank you," she stutters. "Wh-who are you?"

    I stammer a moment, and finally say, "William." She gives her name as "Mia." Her name's beauty rings out, and casts silence upon the seagulls, and the bitter, salty sea.

    I am lost on an island, lost in the eyes of a beautiful woman. Lost.

Willow

Nighttime swallows me as the rhythmic chirping of insects lulls me to sleep. The moon bathes me in its light, guarding me from harm, from the deepest darkness of the night. I rest under a willow tree; we both weep tonight.

The tree's bark is riddled with holes and stripped of bark, leaving naked, vulnerable patches of the tree's flesh. Many of its branches hang unliving and brown. In somber moonlight, I look upon my own flesh. Scars and bruises splotchily cover my body like a suit of armor forged from alcoholism and neglect. My eyes meet a tear in my blouse. A scar across my chest is revealed.

Tears well up in my eyes; I remember the searing pains once again - the fine slice of a blade through flesh, the lash of a whip along my spine - it all rushes back. I shut my eyes and contort a scream into an agonized moan. Vivid memories flood my mind like a sanguine river. I cannot bear it; my limbs buckle. I collapse and desperately gasp for breath as two streams of tears run from my eyes to the ground.

Seconds, or perhaps hours later, the emotions subside. The flashbacks ebb. My chest rises and falls like the tide of a peaceful ocean. I remember my mother, father, and family. I remembered more scars, more pain. Then, I remembered today.

Today, I escaped. Today, I finally broke free of my prison. I broke free of entrapment. I fled the losing battle that I've fought my whole life. But I still bear the cuffs and chains of imprisonment; I still wear the scars of war like medals of shame, of misfortune, of injustice.

Wounded, weeping, and weary, but alive: just like this willow.

Silent Song

Drought has ravaged the plains of this country. The earth cracks and crumbles under the feet of the souls brave enough to walk these barren fields. The lonesome riverbed ran dry months ago; the flow of mud has become a wind of dust. Dead grasses layer the prairie with a dusty mulch.

The sun begins to set. The glow casts an orange fire of desperation, but no flames ignite. Nothing stands taller than a blade of wilted grass. The plains are a land without shadows, without life. Soon, though, the greatest umbra of all descends upon these fields: night. The stars shine down, twinkling silently, as if playing a song without instruments. The toneless melody haunts the listeners like a long-dry riverbed. The moon casts a gloomy light onto the plains, the river: another inaudible tone, another voiceless melody.

Suddenly, the moon begins to flicker. A new tune begins to clash with the old melody. The moon becomes obscured - an instrument disappears from the symphony of silence. More clouds ominously slide across the sky and quell the music of the stars. With a blinding flash, a true song reverberates from a new band of thunderclouds and raindrops.

Invisible Band

Night falls on a diner at the edge of a small town. The tables rest empty - the few customers present opt to sit at the bar. The kitchen falls silent without orders to fill. Aged fluorescent lights flicker.

Suddenly, though, the lights cut out. The hum of the air conditioning quickly fades. Patrons and employees alike look around, bewildered and startled. An eerie silence envelopes the diner.

But then, a sound slowly began to pierce the darkened silence. A drum beats life into the still setting. The occupants of the diner run outside to locate the source. When the door shuts behind them, a chiming guitar begins to cry away with a haunting melody. Vocals, though not words, ripple through the atmosphere. The voice evokes fear and awe, like the wailing of a ghostly choir.

Neither the customers nor the employees of the diner can find the source. A violin joins in harmony with the guitar, and the invisible band echoes their song around the moonlit town. People begin to leave their houses and apartments, mesmerized and awestruck. The song changes through keys and scales until the moon reaches its highest point in the sky, when the music suddenly stops.

The lights in the diner flicker back to life. The mystified population returns to its homes. The people of the diner return to their now-cold meals.

Atop the diner, the drummer whispers to his band mates, "They never look up."

Hospital Haze

The young man opens his eyes, only to have a bright light blind him. He groaned, and squinted in an attempt to look around. In a daze, he rolled his head to the right and saw the edge of a pillow. A few neurons fired in the haze of his mind. This wasn't where he fell asleep; he didn't even remember falling asleep.

With a bit of effort, the bewildered youth turned his head and gaze to the left. The glint of a polished metal pole caught his eye. He followed the glint to its apex, where he saw a plastic bag filled with liquid. More neurons fired. He blinked; his mind processed the situation.

 Hospital. He must have been in a hospital. He tried to sit up, but his arms wouldn't lift him. His eyes wandered between his arms. Casts encased both limbs.

The youth heard the sound of a door opening, and a few sets of feet entering. A woman, a man, and a young girl appeared. The child chirped with joy and ran over to the bed. She buried her face in the youth's chest and cried tears of joy. She clung to him as if she would otherwise fall off the face of the planet. It was his sister.

The man smiled weakly; tears welled up in his eyes. "Son... don't ever scare us like that again."

The woman, immaculate in her white garb, said, "Welcome back, Jonathan. How are you feeling?"