There is something that frightens me and I know not what it is.

The closest I have come to meeting this fear was once in a dream. In a typical childhood fear-dream, I was laying in bed in my room at the top of the stairs and someone, some dark form, was coming, sneaking, up the stairs toward me. Paralyzed with fear I could do nothing but wait as this unknown form slowly came closer, closer... up the stairs it came. All I knew was that something with bad intent had me as it's goal. (continued)

A cool breeze
A rain shower
A snow fall
You remind me

A bird song
A rose flower
A sunset
You remind me

I remember you,
your auburn hair that
caught the wind and
carried me along
as we danced in
the woods, singing
hand in hand in
celebration of
all we see and
hear and feel
among the stirring
trees with
their falling
leaves and their
wonderous scent
and their golden
boughs and you'd
smile at me and
sometimes you'd wink
at me.

"Do you ever see,"
you said to me
before you went away,
"the little speck of light
spiraling down the
corner of your eye?

"That is me saying,
Hello, goodbye."

I don't know if
you can change
my world.

But you can
help me through
a difficult day.

I've lost it, he said with such a sadness.
What, I asked.
A thought. Not just any thought, oh no.
A thought of such beauty and contentedness
That it needs to have been written down.
I'm not sure what is was now,
But it was there.

You hear about it
off handedly,
oh by the way,
in the briefest of mentions;
the funeral of a cleric,
a family shot in a car,
a six year old boy run over by a tank;
all matter of factly,
as an aside,
an oblique reference,
so someone in the back of their mind can say,
"See, we did report it.
"It was mentioned."
And the guilt builds and some day,
someone will have to pay for it.

Harold didn't see the ground coming up toward him, he felt it. Only after the second of disorientation and the reminder of gravity and pain did he realize that he was face first in the dirt, the feet of the cause of his predicament walking away. He tried hard to prevent his tears. He was unsuccessful.

Harold got up slowly, wanting to wait until the crowd dispersed. Luckily then, the bell rang to start the rest of the kids off to class. (continued)

There came a knock at the door,
    "Who is it?"

There came a cry from the dark,
    "The Constitution!"

There came a knock at the door,
    "What is it?"

There came a cry from the dark,
    "They are coming!"

There came a knock at the door,
    "Who is it?"

There came a cry from the dark,
    "The Bill of Rights!"

There came a knock at the door,
    "What can I do?"

There came a cry from the dark,
    "They are here!"

There came a knock at the door.

After a long drag on his cigarette Chase stared at its large glowing head and blew his breath over it, exciting its redness with an array of spark and ash, then flicked it up at the underside of the overpass above him, causing a burst of hot red rain to shower down on him and his crew. The others jumped or rolled aside, batting their heads and cursing.

"What the fuck, Chase!" Rat said wiping his mohawk. He called himself The Rat but everyone else just Rat.

"Let's blow this taco stand, Cruds," Chase said. Computer Redundant Usurping Dudes. Radix, that freaking computer addict came up with that idiotic name, even wears a goddamned computer, knows his shit though.

"Yeah! Let's go do crimes," Scarface said. Scarface. Scarhead, Scar, Scarry, Scarman. Cut open his own face with a razor, into bodyart, body hacking is more like it. Has more cuts, burns and marks on him than a Middle-East torture victim. But being fucking crazy has its usefulness. Point man.

Chase slid down the graffiti covered concrete ramp, past the graffiti covered concrete pillars and stepped over the glass and can infested graffiti covered concrete curb and onto the road, his crew following. (continued)

July 20

It has been a long six months since last I was able to write. I am weary. We are all weary. We have a new home and Basram is staying with us. His parents are dead as far as we know.

He is holding up well, considering what we have been through. I mean what he has been through, especially. He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't talk much anymore, actually. He reads his books, few that we managed to keep, over and over. That's almost all he does, except to go out at night to look for more books. He does not want me to go with him. We are not supposed to be out after dark. I am afraid for him, but he seems okay mostly. Poor Basram. (continued)

A path is inviting, I do not follow,
    And I die a little inside.

An injustice occurs, I do not speak,
    And I die a little inside.

A child is in pain, I do not comfort,
    And I die a little inside.

A person is in trouble, I do not help,
    And I die a little inside.

They stood at the ticket counter, the father arguing with the woman behind the computer terminal, the mother sighing, constantly rolling her eyes, ticking her tongue and looking at her watch.

"Here you are, Sir," said the woman behind the counter, passing him a ticket booklet. "You have to call the number on the back of the ticket to file a formal complaint--"

"Don't you think I won't," the father said. He was in a slightly disheveled light brown suit. He hastily bent and picked up his bag and turned away, peering down each end of the long hall before picking his direction. "Come on, Alice. Let's get going."

"Come along, Becky," the mother said. She had a tube shaped pocketbook with a long strap on her shoulder, a wide, flat brimmed hat, eyes that were hidden behind large brown sunglasses, and a face hidden behind makeup. She turned and followed her husband.

"Come along, Peaches," their daughter, wearing a light blue dress with white shoes and tall white socks, said to her doll. (continued)

With trembling hands he picked up the small faux brass figurine and brought it to the smiling face of the woman behind the table at the flea market. With the two dollars given the slightly stooped, slightly balding man held the figurine with both hands.

In his car he placed the figurine--a small child sitting with hands on knees, with a face bright and up raised, with small wings attached to her shoulders--carefully on the seat next to him. When he arrived home, up the wide steps of the brownstone building, down the creaking, musty hallway and into his apartment he immediately made room for the new arrival among the other figurines and statuettes throughout the room. Among the porcelain and brass and glass and crystal and clay figures, among the little angels and cherubs and fairies, sitting and dancing and standing vigil, he made room for one more--always room for one more.

After dusting and adjusting and gazing, he paused and stood before his collections. Always room for one more.

And after making tea he sat in his favorite chair, near the window, facing inside the room, beside the small picture--a child, sitting with hands on knees, smiling, always smiling, with the faded inscription, Pixie, 1957-1967.

January 15

They are actually a kind of beautiful site those huge rounds ships floating in the sky above. Not that I'd ever say that out loud, not even to Basram. But to you my imaginary reader, I will admit that they have a mystique that intrigues me. (continued)

January 9

Everything is still different today except for one thing. Most of the adults treat us as if we can't be trusted. As if we wouldn't be able to understand. I don't know. (I say that a lot I guess, and it's true. But it's just that I can't find the right words to write down how I really feel about something. Basram says that it is not necessarily a lack of intelligence but a lack of knowledge. He said he'd get me a few good books. One on history and another on philosophy. I always thought that I'd be better off without school. Boy was I wrong. I really miss school now.) (continued)

January 8

The bombing of Buchanan's shop has really stirred things up. We have been a peaceful community despite our hardships; or perhaps because of our hardships Basram said. He said that people who are poor and destitute are generally more tolerant of their neighbors (except for the few who would resort to stealing--but when everyone is poor what is there to steal?). I don't know. He may be right though for we have been getting along with our neighbors for all these past years. In the beginning there was some fighting, but mostly over property and food. After everyone realized that each family was as bad off as the others we all got along. There is an underlying tension between some of those who go to church and those who don't but we've all been fine. Until yesterday. (Which is why I didn't write anything.) (continued)

January 6

I can't believe what happened today. I am still shaking.

Basram and I spent the afternoon in town. We aren't usually allowed, but since the electricity has been back everybody seemed more relaxed or something, some even happy. I guess we just thought we could take advantage of that. We should have known and we almost got in trouble. Some are afraid of reprisals. Or that the electricity will be turned off again. Or that maybe we are being manipulated, or tested. Sometimes I feel like we are rats in maze. (continued)

January 5

Where to begin? So much has happened!

First, obviously, we have electricity! My God you wouldn't know how much it was missed until you get it back--then it sinks in. It's like being cold all day and then suddenly you are standing in front of a warm fire! (continued)

"There's something on the window."

"Huh?"

"On the window. There."

"What?"

"There's something..."

"Oh."

"...on the window."
 (continued)

September, 1863, hot and dry. Jacob had worked hard all that year. He made sure that the stocks were all full up for the winter, that there was enough feed for the pigs and chickens, and enough wood chopped. He was giving the barn one last going over, all the while telling his younger brother, just going on thirteen to his sixteen, what to do while he was away, stressing how he was to take care of Ma, to make sure that Uncle Clem does not stray from his help, and that if they be needing anything to fetch old preacher McCain.

"I'll be off right soon, Willy. Before Ma comes back. You know how she'll fret, not wanting me to go and all. You know your chores right well I reckon."
 (continued)