but you let the grass slice your tongue

to make me smile. you have no claim to rationality,

only a better speaking style.

I kissed roses and ignored your letters,

I was a bastard, I wanted to dwell in the blank

half-page after the end of a chapter. the creamy reflections.

you sent the queen of hearts in the mail

which, i placed in my wallet instead of a picture

because your face never secured a place in my dreams.

you tugged at my navel, i wanted the small of your back

forever. the texts never penetrated my narration.

too literary to live. i never wrote you a poem.

on purpose, because my ache was always intellectual.

no translation necessary. we needed to fight

but instead I was vitamin numb and water cold

my guilty paper cuts until finally, finally

I could hate you, just a little bit.

you drew charts and wrote lists

to file us away as a learning experience

you have a talent for losing your way

i have a talent for avoiding intuition

i hope you tracked every lost mile,

because i could trace the contours of your breast

but not remember any moment that you treasured

before the open kitchen, with its soap and hysteria.

Beasts: birds can never smell the fresh earth
as close as us.
Never to feel the rushing water tickles the feet,
because birds will be swept away.
Never to have the fun of climbing trees.
What do we need of sky?
Birds reply: And what do we need of earth?

Birds and beasts argue, which turn into a fight.
Birds attack the beasts,
and fly away.
Beasts shook the trees
and the eggs of the birds
fall down and break.
The war last a century.
Until one day…

…the humans came.
They dominate over the earth,
cutting trees, damming
rivers.
They master the sky,
flying in their airplanes
and gliders.
Birds are forced into cages,
beasts hunted and collared.
Both parties dream
of the day that humans can be overthrown.
Alas, they had yet to overcome their
differences, to work
together.
Therefore, they remained chained,
only able to dream of the past
and the future.

spamboozled!

scamboozled!

damnboozled!

i have my eye on this.

there is a war against everything.

there is a war against bamboozled.

it’s different this time.

the comedian. the comediatrice.

roses wrapped around my finger.

Warpaint against my groin–

Lord! Why do you let me be!

He struck me down

lia

lyinca

lycanthropophagy

in silence

This pornographic war is over.

They fought a fight

in grim silence

with red flags bounting over the paramounts

and my love for a young man

whose name cannot be pronounced.

I should be a chef except…

I don’t know how to cook.

a look into my life

a book, a distant book

brown paper puppet in a brown paper sock

rest on the hand of god

in a nurseryrhyme

the table cloth comes clean

and the wine becomes obscene

and we sit

gables

in silence

they are attacking bamboozled!

sickle-claws, rhino-forced

young brave men in green

women and children

and out the window they throw copies of

Shakespeare’s Troilus & Cressida

and Caesar

out the window they throw copies of

Salinger and Flaubert and Nabokov

and books on the Pax Romana

We rose from the ashes of a library.

We had been shielding ourselves with copies of Birds of America

and toilet paper.

The armies of censorship beetlelike bear

down on us in flames

and one man smiles in sation

and says “WE CAN DO THIS!”

he takes the forces

back to station number nine

where he lights them on fire with a stainless steel blowtorch.

The subways were safe.

Near Mission Creek

there was a man who took in survivors.

His books had been burned, too.

His parents feared books

and had taken his copy of Watchmen.

They had taken his free speech

And free speech had taken his parents.

He made his survivors tea mixed with vitamins

and got them back on his feet again

But even he was raising an army of soldiers.

He had millions.

The seahorse went flying

Into the Los Angeles sky.

The hipsters went flying

Into the Los Angeles sky.

The coffee-shops were bombed.

Telegraph Hill went down in a haze of gray smoke.

Shells bounced down Hippie Hill.

Jacob and Jesse were there.

And in the spirit of community

they kissed and were blew away by a bomb

and in the spirit of

“nothing left”

there was a brief moment of utopia before the apocalypse

Sons kissed their mothers

And fathers hugged their daughters

and I returned the bicycle

to Michael

who I had stolen it from many years ago

like in anime we live our lives like we are all best friends

under the halo of an armageddon sunset

and debris falls but never hits us

as in hats we burn and burn but feel no pain

and our tears vaporize

as the swim like free catfish through the embers

the others survive in unison

working together to raise pillars

and pinnacles

monuments to the fallen children of America

the Bamboozled

who had survived under a rock they had held up on stilts.

what mothers will be left to look out in the distance

what mothers will be left to look on Aswan

and say “what happened here?”

Barbed wire and bulletholes everywhere

Yet once was found

a serene shelf of water

near San Andreas

a clamshell in the midst of the desert

and where they believed at Area 51

were aliens

there was actually a spring of water

a melody of melancholy,

of truths and lies.

Rain is falling, and our Earth hears,

but can do nothing more,

though how much she yearns.

Rain is falling, bitter weeping,

as Earth looks on,

and weeps her own tears.

Rain is falling, so hauntingly,

a song of revenge,

but so wearily, so forlornly, so mournfully….

Thank you for teaching me, for putting up with me, encouraging me, and, most importantly, inspiring me. It’s honestly because of all you that I am the person I am today.
So really, this isn’t a goodbye.
It’s a very overdue proper thank you
and a little bit of a hello.

she had not meant to have them all

they made a mess of her body and her house- she resented them, sometimes-

stretch marks, silver webs on her belly and heavy thighs breasts

that weren’t as full as they had been, the grey that came early to her

hair and clung.

She had many children

beautiful children

children that clutched to her leg and were fed by silver aeroplane spoons

grew up wearing each other’s clothes soft worn dress and shoes a little too big

children that grew up and cried

because they were not beautiful enough.

She would not smoke with a child in her belly but when they were born she would slip outside and inhale into the evening, staring at the sky, growing tired.

She had many children and they were beautiful, they had no father, not a one;

and often she felt that she was not enough that she could not save them from themselves.

She did not know if it was her fault

that the men who held her- even until her belly swelled warm-

would leave- finding her inevitably unlovable.

Certainly her children would resent her, these sons without fathers.

Mothers they hate their children-

for taking so much without asking and she was no different even as she loved them and loved them.

There was a woman and she had many beautiful children

sons and daughters that clung to her thick unloved legs and cried as she slept and slept as she cried

children that she fed and washed in the kitchen sink with water heated on the stove because the bills were too much to pay as she grew older and her children multiplied.

There was a woman and she had many children,

they broke her, as she pushed them from her body,

drenched in fluids.

she loved them as she cut the cord from her womb.

There was a woman and she had so many children.

on a quiet street,

six orbs of light appear,

floating towards me.

Closer and closer they came,

closer and closer still,

until I see , it’s not a chain of light,

but three cars driving aligned.

One foggy morning,

on the side of street,

right in front of me appeared

six glowing eyes.

Closer and closer I walk,

drawn by what I see,

Closer and closer, until I realize,

It’s three tigers staring at me.

Early foggy morning,

On the street I’m lost.

mist everywhere,

as far as eyes can see.

Grey, blurry roads,

streched out in front of me.

One promise security,

steady rewards and earnings.

A bed to sleep in,

regular meals,

a strong roof over one’s head.

The other offers adventures,

surprises at every corner.

Experiences wild as the wild,

tales that became legends.

As I stood there, wondering,

which path I should  take,

when the sun came up,

the fog dissipated,

showing both paths clearly.

Then I smile,

for now I know,

which path I am to take.

Shouldering my burdens,

put on my cap,

readily I set out—-

—-for the third path.

Cursed  long ago, I roam the earth, listening to the woeful cries of ghosts that had been done wrong in their lifetime, and avenge them. I collect the victims’ souls in a large jar, and until the jar fill, I am bound to this earth, as the victims’ souls are bound to me.

I am”aequitas” , Hard Justice.

And my biggest enemy?

God.

“Daddy! Daddy!” A little girl in white dress and white bonnet came flying down the path, holding something in her hands. “Daddy, look what I found!”

A man, sitting on the bench of a exquisite garden in front of a manor reading newspaper, looked up as his daughter ran to his side. “Daddy, look!” She exclaimed, as she held out her cupped hands to reveal an injured bird, fluttering softly and cooing.

“Why, it’s a rock dove!” The man said, examing the bird. ” And one of its wings is broken.”

“Can we fix it, daddy?” The little girl ask,eyes wide with concern for the bird.

“Of course, my dear, anything you want.” The man got up. “I will go to the shed for some tools and supplies. Elexa, why don’t you get some food for the bird? Ask your mother what to get, all right?”

The little girl name Elexa nodded solomnly and ran inside. The man headed off to the shed on the lawn where he got some bandages, glue, and sticks for a splint. Carefully lifting the dove, he peered at the thin bird cooing softly in his hand. The right wing was apparently broken, but the bird also seems to loose a lot of it’s feathers. “I wonder what happened to you.” He mutter, half to himself. He put the bird on the the table and got to work, constructing the splint carefully around it’s wing. The bird laid quietly and still, as if it knew that someone was helping it.

Then from inside the house, came a scream.

His daughter’s.

I have roamed the earth for nearly a hundred years now. The jar is almost full, though I’m not sure. The souls inside- dark, flimsy things,  flew around and bump into each other, and against the jar, trying to free themselves. The older ones settle down at the bottom, as if they knew that it’s impossible to get out, to be free.

To be free.

And what do I know about being free? Trapped in a state between living and dead, the whole world is my jar. To the living, I am shadow, a chill they felt when I brush past them, or the prosecutor, if they are my victims. To those who have not passed on, who became a ghost because of the wrong that had been done to them, I am their hope. Their hope of passing on, and revenge on those that did them wrong.

Yet nobody can help me pass on.

For I am cursed.

 On the day of the funeral, the sky was gloomy and grey, threatening to rain. It was a simple ceremony, without much fuss. Ladies in their black mourning dresses held black umbrella and cried into their handkerchief, and men in their formal suits murmured their sympathy.

He stood in front, his daughter clinging to him. The dove perched on her shoulder, it’s wing still in splint. The figure of the priest facing them was almost obscured by the thick mist.

Elexa was sobbing quietly and crying for mama. Her father, in contrast, was standing so still that one might mistake him for a rock in the mist. His face was a mask of no emotions.

The ceremony ended just as large drops of rain began to descend from the gloomy sky. Guests where ushered in by the loyal housekeeper, who had served the Hollands family since she was sixteen. She tried to guide Mr. Hollands in too, but he refused, standing stock still in front of the grave. The housekeeper can do nothing but leave him in the rain with his thoughts.

On that heart -breaking day, he had found Elexa sitting on the ground crying besides her mother, who was lying on the ground in their bedroom. Dead.  Her face was ghostly white and her expression suggested something horrible…terrifying. Her blood was spilled everywhere: on the bed, on the ground, and on the door of the cabinet against the wall. Later he learned that she was stabbed in the heart with a knife. The room was a mess. Paper had flown around on the account of the open window which was not open previously. Clothes were strewn everywhere, cabinets and drawers were open which someone in their haste had forgotten to close. The police took one look at this and announced it an attempt thievery, during which the thief, interrupted by his wife, was forced to silence her.

But nothing had been stolen.

Mr.Hollands now had almost every distinguish private detectives in England working to find the murderer. Most of the police force, too. He was a man with enough wealth and influence to do this. He  wanted the murderer brought to justice via excution. No, that’s too easy on him. He want the murderer tortured. To be stab in the unfatal places,to watch him bleeds to death. To make him drink the most hurtful poison and watched as he wriths on the floor crying in pain…

His vehemence startled himself. Dropping to the ground on his knees he finally broke. “Damn you!” He screamed at the sky, at God for taking away his wife and the murderer for being His tool. He sobbed and kneeled over in the mud, water dripping down his hair and his clothes. This is what the house keeper witnessed as she came out to give Mr. Hollands a coat.

“Sir?” She said tentatively, lightly touching him on the shoulder.

He got up, muddy and wet. Ignoring the housekeeper, he strode into the house. Everyone fell silent as he came in.

“Out.” He said. And everyone left without a comment.

Grief, it seems,  gives you excuse for being rude.

I am back in England again, more than a hundred years later.

London was so different now. Streets were altered or rebuilt, their names changed. New houses and parks were built, the old ones tored down, or simply was used for a  different function. Cars created the traffic rather than horses or carriages. The only thing that did not change was the weather.

I almost could not find my house. Yet it was there, miraculously. Old and dirty, yet there nonetheless. It was a museum now, for the history of London, and of course, a bit about me.

I am almost amused.

Yet I have not the time to be sightseeing or to be amuse. Immediately after I arrive, I could sense the ghosts trailing behind me, waiting for me to start my work. At least they are respectful. In some places, ghosts crowded around me as soon as I arrive, moaning and wailing for their turns.

I drift up to the roof of my house. The ghosts followed. Settling myself down on the edge of the chimney, I beckon them with a quick jerk of my finger.

A bad mistake. They take this as a signal to suffocate me. There are enough of them to do it—at least seventy or eighty. “In line!” I  mange to get out.

They hesitate for a moment, then arrange themselves in line. The line goes around and around itself, to allow more ghosts to stand on the roof.

The first in line was an old woman. Sixty or so, she wore a tattered shirt and pant. Her sunken eyes shows her sadness as she adress me.

“It’s my son.” She said in a wobbly voice.

I raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to go on.

She did. “My name is Anne Budley Montgomery. and I am very rich during my lifetime. My husband died and left me a grand fortune. He also left me alone with my five years old son.” She explains. “It’s hard to raise a child by myself. I tried to do the best I can, but as it turn out, I did not do very well. He became very greedy and sly. A few days ago when I wrote my will, I decided to give my remaining money to charity, but my son bribe the lawyer and found out. He was very angry and together with the lawyer, form a new will and force me into signing. Then they kill me by pushing me down the stairs and pretending I fell down accidently.”

She finish with a sigh, and dabbed at her eyes. I nodded and record her name in my memory. I always do my work at night.

“What are you going to do to him?” She ask, hesitantly.

“Take his soul.” I answer, simply. At that moment, I can see doubt chasing across her feature. I understands. No matter what happen, he is still her son after all.

Regardless, justice is needed. “Next,” I said, and she move out of line to be replaced by another ghost.

This goes on until night came. It was a moonless night, and the ghosts were almost completely obscure by the darkness. Finally I rose from my perch, and the remaining ghosts flew away. They knew that I was done listening for today.

Except one. She sat on the edge of the roof with her legs dangling and back to me. Yet she looks so familiar I almost fell over.

Elexa?!

During the next few weeks, steady streams of friends and relatives came to pay their respect and to comfort the grieving Mr. Hollands. Yet none could.

He sat in his study all day long, gazing into space. People came near trying to engage him in conversation, but he seems to hear and see nothing. ‘Poor Mr. Hollands!’ People whisper to each other. ‘Consumed by grief!’ they say. The only other thing he does is eating and sleeping, at his desk, and he does it mechanically, as if unaware of what he is doing. Some who knew him very well thought he was only doing these things to save his strength for something, but nobody knew what.

Once Elexa came in the study. She stood in front of her father’s desk, staring at his haggard appearance. Since the death of his wife, Mr. Hollands had been neglecting Elexa, and she only got by because the Housekeeper was looking after her. She stood there, looking at her father silently, then ran to his lap and clambered on. He was motionless at first, then he turned his head slightly to look at her. That was the first and last reaction he had shown since.

Then one day, the Housekeeper came in.

“Sir, someone is here to see you.” She said curtly. She disapproved of her master’s “moping”, as she calls it.

That “someone” was a tall and thin man in a brown trench coat who came in after the housekeeper and none too politely pushed the Housekeeper out of the door. Then he leisurely stroll to a chair and sat down before Mr. Hollands without being invited. He raises his hat in greeting.

“Mr. Hollands,” he drawled. “I believe I have some  news for you. About the murderer of your wife.”

Mr. Hollands looked up sharply.

The man seemed amused. “Seems like I’m the one who can wake you up, huh?” he lean forward. “Would you like to hear more?”

Mr. Hollands nodded, and tried to speak. But his voice had been unused for a time. He clears his throat and tries again.

“Yes.” He said hoarsely. “Pray, continue.”

She looks so much like Elexa from the back.

But she isn’t.

She sat there, dangling her legs, and when I call out she turns.

“Sir, I’m not Elexa. My name is Camille.” She said, then look at me curiously. “Who’s Elexa?”

She seems a bit nervous, a bit disturbed.

“Never mind.” I said, half disappointed. But I don’t want to see Elexa as a ghost, do I? I rather that she had pass on, even if it means I might never see her agian.

She hopped down from her seat, and skipped over to me. I caught my breath. Up close, I can see that she actually looks alot like Elexa in the front, too, with her blond curls and that dainty nose and mouth. The only difference is her eyes, which is green unlike Elexa’s blue, and the shape of her face, which is more elfish then Elexa’s. Is she by any chance related to me? I have  no idea.

She smile at me. “Mr. Avenger, I am so glad to see you!” She said brightly. “I had been a ghost for a long time and I don’t really mind, but some of these ghosts are  very sad that they die in grief. I am glad you came to avenge them!”

“Camille,” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity. “What about you?”

“Me? I don’t really need avenging. But I’m glad to see you anyway.”

That’s unexpected. “Why?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I forgot my pains, I suppose.”

She forgot? That’s unlikely. Why is she still a ghost otherwise?

“Anyway, Mr. Avenger, I thought you are done listening for today.” She said. Her words reminded me. I still have work to do.

“Where are you going?” I ask Camille, before I go.

“Oh, you know. Here and there. Since I had been a ghost for a long time, I had plenty of time to explore exciting places. I sometimes think that I will probaly miss being a ghost if I pass on. Do you suppose I will pass on, Mr. Avenger?” She asks, tilting her head toward me.

Before I can answer her, she smile crookedly and shake her head at herself. “Oh what am I thinking asking you these questions? Sorry sir, I know I’m keeping you away from your work. Bye for now!” She wave and before I can tell her that I don’t mind, she took off.

I stare at the direction she had gone, even though I can’t see anything more than a shadow against the city lights in this black darkness of sky.

Elexa…

Since the murderer of Ms. Hollands had been found and brought to prison, Mr. Hollands had seem like himself again.

Of course, he had paid dearly, a little too dearly, some people thought, to the detective that brought the criminal to justice. But he didn’t mind, even if he had to dismiss most of his servants. He only had a cook, a carriage driver, and of course, the housekeeper now.

These days, he was busy preparing for the trial to come. He and his lawyer list the evidences, made up arguments, and also thought up answers to some of the possible rebut or questions. Mr. Hollands is determined the murderer be executed. And many thought that the criminal would be…

…so it came as a surprise to everyone when the prosecuter condemned him instead to prison for his remaining lifetime.

Mr. Hollands received the news one day after the trial. He thought he had done well, so he had not even considered the option that the murderer might not be executed. His lawyer was the unfortunate man who had to tell him the news.

He call upon Mr. Hollands one day after the trial, and Mr. Hollands had received him warmly, thinking that he must have brought the news he was waiting to hear. Instead, the lawyer stood nervously besides the chair he had just declined to sit and twisted his hat nervously in his hands.

“Well sir,” He cleared his throat nervously when Mr. Hollands asked him about the trial. “About that…”

“Out with it, man.” Mr. Hollands was beginning to feel a sense of foreboding. “What is it?”

“Ah yes, the trial.” The lawyer cleared his throat again, and finally decided to just blurt it out. “The prosecuter condemned him to life in prison.”

Mr. Hollands falls back, stunned.

” Sir, I know you want him dead, but prison for life is a harsh punishments too.” The lawyer himself doesn’t know whether he is trying to comfort Mr. Hollands, or assuage his known temper.

Mr. Hollands pointed at the door, and the lawyer escape, relieved. And none too soon, for on the stairs, the lawyer heard sounds that sound suspisiously like things being thrown, coming from Mr. hollands’s study.

And of course the curses that follows.

“Fools,” Mr. Hollands whispered to himself at last, as he slide onto the floor. “Cursed fools!” He yell again, bumping his head against the wall.

Then he suddenly sat upright. A smile, not a pleasant one, appears on his face.

If they won’t kill the cursed murderer, then…..why, he could.

Troubled, I shook my head and glide off the roof. There is work to do.

A sudden wind blows up, moving the clouds in the sky. The moon was revealed in a moment of pearly whiteness. It shone down on the earth, though it was lost in the city lights. I missed the days when the moonlight guides my path; so serene and calm. But now it’s all artificial light. Fake and ugly.

First victim: John Montgomery. I found him driving in one of those newly invented automobiles, on highway. That’s an easy one– I could easily arranged an accident so his injuries wouldn’t look strange. You see, when I take someone’s soul, I don’t kill them; I turn them into a kind of what mortals called paraplegic. When they die, their body turns to dust, but their souls don’t go to heaven or hell: they go to my jar. So it is with John. An exploding tire and his driving speed of seventy or more miles per hour did the trick.

As I pull his soul out, he struggled–but it was inevitable. No soul, once I focus my sight on, can escape me, unless by my will. He went in the jar. So did sixty or so souls afterwards. Some die already, and I have to go into the realms of the dead to get them. 

Anyway, by the time I’m done, it was two o’clock in the morning. It was still dark, and I settled down on a roof that looks the least dirty. Two o’clock, I learn, was the time human sleeps the deepest. At this time the ghosts who I avenged will escape this world and became a speck in the never-ending universe. To be free, though they can’t get into either heaven or hell, as a punishment, I suppose, for not forgiving.

Sure enough, it’s starting. Transparent globes with rainbow colors shimmering around them rise from everywhere, and like bubbles, began to drift upward. No matter how many times I watch this, I never get tire of this view. The fragile beauty of it made me awe and melancholy at the same time–awe because it’s stunningly beautiful and melancholy because they escape; and I did not.

I continued to lie there, even though all the globes had drifted higher and higher, until they are only a twinkle in the night sky. I lie there and watch as the sky began to lighten. I lie there and heard the city began to wake, alarm clocks ringing and people’s voices, saying good morning. I sigh.

A start of a new day.

He could bribe a few guards, he suppose, to get into prison. He had saw where the prisonor was kept, and the tiny cell’s window look out to the courtyard. Could he just get into the courtyard and shot a pistol from the window?

No, no pistol. That will attract guards for sure. If they found the prisonor dead, they wouldn’t accuse him even if they thought he did it; he got sufficient enough money and power to make sure of that. However, if they saw him killing the prisonor, that’s a different matter. If they witness it they will  have no choice but to arrest him.

Could he lure the prisonor to the window and stab him with a knife?  But how?

He paced back and forth in his study, trying to come up with a plan to kill the murderer. What a paradox! Killing one who kills. Not really though, if you thought about it. You execute a murderer, and that’s like killing. He shook his head. His brain had gotton off topic.

Still thinking, he collapsed on to his chair. Hmmm. Hmmm.

“Daddy!” Elexa came in and flew to her father’s lap. She was still wearing her mourning clothes: black dress, black stockings, black shoes,  completed with a black clip in her blond hair.

“Hmmm?” Her father said absently.

“Daddy, can I go out tomorrow for my birthday? The housekeeper said I shouldn’t go out because of the mourning, but it’s dreadfully boring inside, and it’s my birthday. Can I?”

Mr. Hollands woke up at the word birthday. He had forgotten all about Elexa’s birthday. Immediatly, he felt guilty. “Of course, my dear. What else do you want? It’s not everyday that a little girl turn seven after all.”

Elexa thought for a momment. “For you to be happy, daddy.”

Mr. Hollands was silent for a long time. ” I will,darling. I will.” After I avenge your mother, he thought to himself.

I start work at seven today. There are considerbly less ghosts than yesterday, yet they still fill the roof. I noticed Camille sitting on the edge of the roof again. And not in line.

I hesitate for a moment, than walk over to her. The souls parted to let me pass, some complaining but did so anyway. She noticed me and smile, waving. “Good morning sir!” She said cheerfully. I nodded and sit down beside her.

“I’m going to do you first today.” I told her.

She looks startled, and did I imagine it—a little alarmed? But she quickly recover her charming smile. “Oh no, Mr. Avenger. I would prefer it if you took care of others first.”

“Why?” I’m feeling persistent today.

“I want to stay on this earth a little longer.”

I raise my eyebrow. Hardly a reason.

She sigh and finally drop her smiling mask. “Mr. Avenger, please. I will explain someday. I promise.”  She looks tired suddenly, not physically but mentally. I’ve seen that look before. On the people of the past.

Remorseful now, I replied,”Ah. I see”

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Avenger.” She look up and smiled. “I think you should go back to the others now, though.”

“Of course.” I went back to my old place.

That night, he have a dream.

Mist filled the dream. Mist so cool and clear and comfortable that it makes you feel like you can lie there and fall asleep, with no mundane, troubled thoughts in your mind.

Then the dream becomes a nightmare, for there is a redundant voice, saying over and over again,”Do not kill him, do not kill Cain, do not kill the one who bears the mark…”

When he wake up, he poured himself glass after glass of wine, until the sweet introxiating liquor soothed him back to sleep.

Memories are there in your mind, even if they are in the darkest corners you can push them to. Today, the memories rebelled, and come out from the prison I’ve put them into.

Of Elexa.

Of her soft, blond hair, and her innocent blue eyes.

Where is she now? I wonder. In heaven, or roaming the earth as a ghost? Or…

No. She must be in heaven. She must be.

My mind turns to another memory, and my mood darken. How long was it since I found out the truth? About God. About Mimosa. About that man. That man from long ago who has ruined his whole life.

And his whole life isn’t over yet.  

Sweat dripped onto his face. His hands are trembling, and he is sure that any minute, the knife will slip from his fingers.

All is ready. The guards had been diverted, due to a large sum of money to those who run the prison. He is ready to kill the murderer.

And in the back of his mind, the memory of the dream is compressed to a shadow.

He stand  in front of the prison looking at the bedraggled  figure in the corner, barely able to make him out. Just the sight of it make him gripped the knife tighter.

“You!” The snarled come out involuntarily.

The figure looked up, and his eyes met Mr. Hollands. it seem to glint with an unnatural light, a shining fog of madness. He half crawled, half dragged himself to the bars of the cage, and closed up, one can see a slight mark on his forehead, a wave-shaped teal mark that stands out from his dirt-stained face.

As Mr. Hollands stands before him, a slight uncertainty rise in him. Something about the mark made him flinch, make him freeze. The dream threatened to spill out from its container.

“So you finally come,” the man said. His voice is like quicksand. On the surface it seemed calm, but as soon as you step in it, it threatened to pull you under.

“Why did you killed my wife?” asks Mr. Hollands.

“God will not let me go.” The light in his eyes shine even brighter. “God said she is the key to my freedom….Abel’s descendent….but God still will not let me go….Why?”

It was then that a deep wave of rage swept over Mr.Hollands, and before he knew it, the knife is in the man’s body, and blood is running down through his fingers, even as his mind struggled to piece together what the man has said.

He stared down, horrified at what he has done. Then the two men looked at each other,and he can see the fog had cleared away in the man’s eyes, replaced by a pure joy.

“Thank you.”

Even an unnatural being like me must rest. On my old house’s roof, I closed my eyes, promising myself a little rest, but instead sleeping through the day.

I do not need to eat, but sleep, however rare, is a necessity. A pity; I’ll rather prefer eating to sleeping.

Rather amused by myself, I stand up and stretched. As I stooped to pick up my jar of souls, I felt a sense of unease.

What is missing?

I shake my head clean of such superstitious notions. It’s probaly nothing.

And then I realized what is what is wrong. My jar, which had been full of fluttering souls the night before, is empty!

The jar slipped through my hands, crashing to the floor. And yet it would not break. Of course not, I thought bitterly, beneath the confused haze which covered my thoughts. Of course.

I am so shocked that for what seems like an eternity, I stood there, looking at the jar rolling back and forth before my feet.

I crashed beside the jar, sending several shingles sliding down the roof and to the ground below. Oh God! is this some kind of cruel joke? Is this a part of my punishment?

Suddenly, I felt a light hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Avenger?”

It is Camille. Her deep green eyes is full of  regrets…and guilt.

“I have to let those souls out, Mr. Avenger. Otherwise they’ll have no chance of being free.”

Mr.Hollands stared at the scene before him, almost like a dream. What is it that the man had said, about Abel’s descendent?

Abel…like any man who reads the Bible,  he knows who Abel is. He is the brother of Cain.

Cain? That name from his dream! Could it be that that name is the same as the name in the Bible? Mr.Hollands sttruggled to remember the passages about Cain in the Bible. Hadn’t Cain killed his brother Abel because God like Abel’s offering better? And God cursed him to wander the earth forever. But God also said that whoever harms Cain, revenge will be taken sevenfold.

Could it be that…no. Surely that is impossible?

For a moment I struggled, there on the roof, with what she is saying. Then white blinding rage swept through me,  as it had so long ago, and I strike her. She fall to the roof, and started crying.

I stand there, and stared at her. My rage had been dulled, and I feel dead. Inside.

Ghosts are starting to gather around us. They watched, as the sun rises, and the souls of the jar are finally free. Shimmering, transparent globes rise to the air, forming a myriad of colors in the sky.

“It’s beautiful.” The ghosts around me spoke, almost in unison, at this spellbinding scene.

Something had changed amonged them. Gradually, I felt it, and looked up, startled, at them.

What is the thing that now lies in their midst?  Something so pristine and innocent…that it seems to tore them open in happiness.

It is forgiveness.

And , with Camille at my side, that day, we watched the whole procession of ghosts,  flowing upward, to make their last journey. Will they go to heaven? Or become part of the universe, as those who did not forgive?

It does not matter. They are free.

At that, a sense of bitterness rose in me, but I pushed it away. It’s too beautiful a site to be stained with any corruptness.

As the last trace of the ghost disappeared, I looked down at Camille. Her eyes are still staring at the sky dreamily. I tried to hang on to my last scraps of anger, but failed.

At last she looked at me. When she spoke, it is in a tinny voice that comes from a child knowing what she did wrong and expecting punishment.

I’m not angry any more. But I’m done with pretending.

“Tell me who you are.” I said.

“I’m Abel’s descendant. Your granddaughter.

I gaped at her, surprised beyond speaking.

“They turned me away from Heaven’s gate, because you killed Cain. They said I can help you. I’m not sure I want to at first, because you get mother and I locked out of Heaven. But I guess I kind of understand now…about why you killed Cain.”

“Where is Elexa?” I managed to say.

“I don’t know.” Camille shrugged. “I’m looking for her too.”

I struggled with the emotions rising up within me. Surprise. Excitement. And most of all, hope.

I look at Camille. My granddaughter. My beautiful new treasure.

Perhaps God does forgive, after all.

And perhaps I can forgive God.

Epilogue: Cain’s story

He can still remember the day he has been cursed by God to roam the earth forever, until someone revenged the death of Abel. What a fool he has been, killing his brother like that!

Now, as her peered through the shrubbery in front of the house, he felt his need for freedom increased, little by little, so that the dam that has hold back centuries of longing finally broke.

In that grand house is the key to his freedom: one of Abel’s descendant, whose husband have the ability and probability to revenge her death. And thus freeing him.

Finally.

The End

Acknowledgement: My sister started this story then give up on it. I liked the story so much that I decided to take it on. About half of this story is written by  her.

today i will teach you sobstories

of the ancient legends.

we go down 23 levels

kott-doddel-tundstone!

an empty spiral

which was known in the old days at an aottotoodumlampf

a rearing porkbeast with needle hairs

stone cgi rendering 31 hours a day

and the 27

jokers laugh in his bottle of soup.

the watercomb of watercascading water

the chinese tuna calendar

and celebrities!

ewanmcgregorleeyaps!

pepsi is in talks with the president

of the incoming apocalypse

that the 3 horseboys have pepsi banners

on their asses.

anyway, it’s any-minute-peorns!

brandorf-cheucral, giants-sport-peeorns!

eiigalanancy

eiiiygglestalatsky

i am bar-onix steeigglestalatsky!

my archives are here

the number 49

elemental fudd ruckers

hella good time

It’s as if we’re standing at the bottom of a mountain and we’re looking up at the top with wide eyes and open mouths. You’re holding my hand, and I can’t help but look down at our fingers intertwined, mine tan and yours a shade or two paler, but still perfect because your fingers are so strong I’m sure they’d keep me dangling from the crescent of the peak without the need for me to fear that I might fall.

Your thumb rubs against my hand, I feel that familiar tingle run from my toes, through my legs and up my spine, and suddenly I get all clammy and slippery like a fish, so here I am, fearing the height and doubting the grip you have on me, and the grip I have on reality.