V

Above overhead, birds flew in a V formation. The scent of Sakura filled the newly christened land as the first rain of spring came to a halt.

The ocean sparkled in the distance— the young man standing on a balcony held a cup of coffee that had gone cold as the passage of ships drew him in.

“Is it now?” He asked the wind. No reply. Nature proved adept at providing answers without supplying words. The webbing between thumb and pointer finger still throbbed from an erratic catch in a game of dodgeball. A two month wheeze crawled from his lungs back into the world.

And Upon that Bright Star Cries Change

The seas are calm today. I’m sitting from a white bench at the park up the hill from my apartment. Dusk is approaching and my feet have padded over spongy grass to get here. It rained this afternoon, but I sat inside and regarded it as rumor.

There’s something about the passage into spring that awakens my mind to wild & wending dreams. I seem to be diving through alternate lives and far flung worlds as my nights resemble an odyssey rather than rest.

My ears have been stuffed this past week— lending a dazed feeling to my days as I struggle to hear the world around me. Distorted reality. Coupled with the dreams it leads to a pervasive sense of being untethered. I’m at the mercy of passing winds.

Story ideas have pulled back as my creative instincts are dulled under the heavy hand of prescriptive medicine. I’m keen to return to a non-snuffly existence. One that isn’t accompanied by hacking coughs or a lingering wheeze.

But as the incandescent lights pop up on the horizon from the fishing boats— I’m reminded that it’s all in due time. We don’t know the bounty we’ll catch if we leave our nets in the water.

I wonder upon return to full health and a clear mind what I’ll make of the collected dream accounts of lives I’ve never lived. Of worlds I’ll never see— and the faces that reside within them. Those that pull phantom threads from both mind & heart as memory dulls the edges between strong imagination and weak recollection.

Debutant

“You’ve got one of those ‘I told you’ faces. Not sure I like that,” The man growled the words more than spoke.

“I don’t,” an imitation cowgirl said. “And if you really don’t like it you can leave. I don’t know why you were hired for this job anyway.”

A debonair man strolled into the warehouse. “Because he’s the only one that can fly a plane,” He gave a firm shake to the man and kissed the petulant girl before kneeling before the old woman in the corner. “Have they been treating you well, Marie?” The old woman didn’t stir in her chair.

The bearish man grunted and nodded towards a richly supplied corner of food and medicine. There was an unused hospital gurney stowed on the side. The sheets were neat and tidy. The well kept man ran a finger over the sheets. “We’ve moved onto the next stage. Vincent, do you have everything ready for transport?” The big man grunted a yes. “Good. We’ll get you on the next plane to Zurich.” The girl’s eyes could have burned cement as she followed the conversation.

“You’re not going to leave me here again, are you? Lucien, I’m not going to sit on the sidelines for this.”

“Fine, fine. Just don’t get in the way,” Lucien said with a twist of his hand.

The following afternoon saw the motley trio shielding their eyes from a harsh Swiss sun as it scowled above the mountains. Lucien slipped a pair of sunglasses on and placed a call while Vincent and Annie shifted awkwardly on the tarmac. A car appeared within five minutes. They stepped into the back and found themselves standing in front of a bank thirty minutes later.

“Right. This is where the real work begins,” Lucien said starting towards the steps. Annie traded a confused look with Vincent, who shrugged and followed after Lucien.

“Fucking hate that smug shit.” She followed after, narrowly dodging a harried secretary carrying coffees.

Silence in Sheboygan

Three years ago they found a dead body at the edge of Plano Drive. The body was a nondescript middle aged Caucasian man. He looked like he could have been named “Dan” or “Jon” but there wasn’t anything on his body to identify him. There wasn’t anything at all. Except for the claw marks. There were three savage rents down his right side— a blacked entry into his entrails. The blood had stained the snow around him. His skin the color of the cloudy sky above.

Three years and all Micah had pieces together pointed to it “might” being an escaped animal. Private stock, most likely. You’d hear about the zoo losing something. No leads, thinning hair, and a sour gut, Micah paced across the worn patch of linoleum between his desk and Glen’s. His partner hadn’t made it in yet— no surprise there. Yesterday had been the bookmaker conference in Kenosha. Lords only knows why he went— Glen was more of a boilmaker man than a bookmaker. But every detective has their Vice— Micah was glad it wasn’t strippers or codeine like the rest of their ragged department.

The clack of short heels pulled Micah out of his head. They approached him from behind and he kept his head forward— knowing what came next.

“Why are you wearing a hole in my floor, detective Summers? Aren’t you supposed to be out in Colbath with the rest of the unit?” His captain, Gwendolyn Spears took a step towards his desk and tssked. “I told you to keep this in the cold cases.”

“I’ll go return it right away,” Micah said without any conviction. He wouldn’t and they both knew it.

“I don’t need you chasing after moonlight when I’ve got real cases open. Finish your fantasy some other time.” She walked away, leaving Micah to his weathered linoleum and dark thoughts.

Dog Moon

Grandma called it a “Dog Moon” cause ‘it shined like the bottom of a mutt’s bowl and turned everyone into a sonnavbitch.’

That’s what hung over the sky today. A real solemn bastard, I reckoned. Dog Moon blues is what I had— and the only way out was through.

I stood in front of the entrance to the Red Hill salt mine and prayed to each star on Orion’s Belt that I’d see that wretched moon again.

I didn’t have to go in. Hell, the mine itself had been shuttered for fifty years.

Rotten slats covered the entrance— otherwise I’d be staring at a gaping mouth. I didn’t want to go in.

But my grandfather left his soul at the bottom of the mine— along with the rest of our family fortune.

Thought I was genius for going in. A hero ready to save the family name. Not the kid responsible for waking the Horrors.

Vapors

With an orange sheen— the moon sweat thin vapors onto the night’s lavender canvas.

No distant boats lay idle on the horizon.

I took a slow walk through town— the low tide lapped against the canal as errant splashes saw fish rise into the night for a breath.

I had sat with a doctor at dinner— discussing stories and the theme of promises.

He asked what I wanted for my future.

I didn’t know what that meant anymore— it felt like trying to grasp a stream with my hands.

A gentle unmaking of the soul— the unfolding of a flower

in sight of a new sun.

Nowhere in No Time

I’ll level with you— I’ve been listening to a lot of western music recently. Frankly, you could say that I’ve been digging into country tunes. But those would be your words, not mine.

This particular title comes from Eileen Jewel— a singer I discovered while listening to a Dwight Yoakim inspired radio station.

Now, I know this doesn’t seem like earth shattering news to break to you, dear reader, but I am sitting on a rural Japanese island and country music is my auditory apple pie right now. I’m not going to suddenly drop into the depths of honky tonk, but hearing melodic baritones croon about hollers and trucks has a distinct measure of reassurance.

Another side of this has been my developing appreciation for the storytelling that’s within the genre of western music. I love the ballads and wry turns of phrase. If nothing else, I love a good surprise whistle or harmonica.

Imagine me in one of my classrooms— a Studio Ghibli score playing as school children go about preparing for lunch in their color coordinated lunch work attire. I sit at a wooden desk that’s often two sizes too small for me— and I have a jaunty tune about a half-broken horse wandering the desert. Or how troubles of the crossing the Rio Grande. All while I watch a coordinated effort deliver bowls of egg soup, rice, and assorted pickled vegetables to the other desks.

Those are the moments that I try to take in everything around me. I try to lower the volume of the song in my head at look at the students. Listen to the song playing over the intercom. Appreciate the views of the rain- misted moments in the distance. The windows are cracked open because of lingering fears over the pandemic. There’s a bite to the stubborn winter air— but it’s easing as Spring begins to break through its frozen grasp.

I sit there and appreciate the food— the difference of the scene as classes only eat with their own grade— and in my school— each class is small enough that they all stay in their own room. At their own desks. I sit there with them— in a free desk. And I take in their daily accepted ceremony— something they’ve done since kindergarten and will do until the end of high school. I sit there with them in that wide expanse of time as a drop of dew. My time here is not forever— some of them won’t even have me during the entirety of their Junior High career. I will roll off the leaf and find new soil to seize.

And so I chuckle— as I walk through town at a slow pace. A gentle meandering born out of the luxury of free time. I’m back to western ballads in those moments— at odds with the bevy of minor shrines and historic samurai houses situated in the middle of a tight neighborhood.

I laugh because this memory will play out like a distant dream in time. And so Eileen Jewel comes back to the forefront— as her voice reminds me I’ll be “Nowhere in No Time.”

Curated Nights

Certain days the flow of creativity resembles the snow-melt from the mountains. There’s a cold, deep, purity to the ideas that spring underfoo. Some days there’s little to be found. A return to drought-stricken summer and all you can think of is your swollen tongue and sandpaper throat.

I keep having dreams that make me re-imagine the scope of what we can know in this lifetime. Brief, brilliant ignitions of phosphorus in a cocoon of darkened silk. I’ve spoken to gods in my dreams— or rather— I’ve stood and listened. All four entities of vast, cosmic power— all warped and twisted in their own way. All a reflection.

There are dreams that don’t have the feel of altered reality. They have the feel of lives led. Of Deep Meaning that stands defiant in the face of what we view reason and reality.

The dreams never provide answers. Instead I’m continually fed curious questions.

This has been a time of growth. The subtle, deep workings of roots inching forward— breaking through thick, knotted soil. I’m not the same as I was before arriving. None of us ever are. You look at old photos or movies— you see a character being played before you. A similar face or body— and yet not the same as what you have now. Not the same that will be in the future. There’s a tenuous line held by trusted memories through the expanse of time. A shimmer that blurs the edges and focuses your attention inward.

I sit in the middle of my room on a Sunday afternoon writing this in a pleasant silence. I’m learning the way solitude can build you. Or how loneliness can strip you. I’ve alternated between both states during my time here. I’m much calmer nearing my thirties than I was a decade ago. That’s to be expected. Or hoped for. But I always had this sneaking suspicion that I wouldn’t feel complete until I had flung myself across the globe. If only to understand what it was that I left behind. Or the realization of all that we carry within us— and the reassurance or burden it can be.

It’s the chromatic colors filtered through the sheen of a soap bubble bobbing upward. The distorted brilliance of altered reality. It is the echoes of consequence and the wealth of the world pressed into a single bead of light.

Whistle

I heard a whistle in the background of one of my favorite songs while I was driving. I’ve never heard it before, so I wondered, if finally feeling better after a two week battle with bronchitis led to some new insights.

But the whistle it sounded like it was in the car. It sounded like it was in the backseat behind me. But that couldn’t be right. Because no one was in the car with me. Not only do I never drive with other people, but after taking a sick day, I hadn’t seen another person in 24 hours.

It wasn’t until weeks later that the whistle returned. This time without music to accompany it.

The whistle would only be in my car. Only ever coming from the backseat— from the position in the middle— where the smallest kid has to sit during packed rides. The seat that’s most visible in a mirror. Nothing to see. Only a jaunty tune and then silence. Only questions that followed.

It would come on quick, but with an adjusted volume so you wouldn’t notice it wasn’t your own whistle until halfway through. Wonder if that was to keep me from driving off the road.

There’s a magic to that sort of natural appearance— one that frightened me more than the disappearance.