Cairns

The scattered mess of painted stones on the table spoke of impending defeat.

Rurik wouldn’t allow the gods another victory. He couldn’t.

But fates spelled out his ruin— the capitulation of his massed forces to an unstoppable foe.

Rurik sipped on bitter ale and thought deeply on this.

He noticed the bouncing charm on the ankle of a nearby dancer. The perfumed smoke and silk outfits filled the hall. Presents from distant rulers seeking to keep their relationships unmet acquaintances.

Rurik held no desire to visit the eastern lands. Though he made sure he never spoke of it. No need to dissuade the gift giving.

The Göjllbern hall saw many warriors pledge their blades to Rurik’s fortunes. The battle master stood alone atop the mountain of success. No other northern raider had attained his host of victories or plunder.

Still, he felt it wasn’t enough. Not to appease those waiting in the shadows. Snakes and small men, dangerous in their use of venom.

Small Travels

Upside of taking the bus from the top of the island— peeking out of the window without worrying I’ll crash my car.

Downside— drinking too much tea and squirming like a five year old who’s sat on an ant pile.

Birds flocking to the pavement like there’s sugar on the asphalt.

A marten lopes across farmland like a furry slinky. The sunset brought a cornucopia of reds, oranges, and yellows amidst a darkening blue backdrop.

The heat of the bus cabin lulled me to sleep for twenty minutes that felt like an hour as I heard the robotic announcement of all the little towns we passed.

Johnny St. Django

He jogged down the stairs, stopping to swing a shoe at a green pearled spider, smashed it and continued on. The sky opened like a symphony as the wind blew faces into the clouds.

The man stared at the salt marks on his shirt and wiped them off. He couldn’t figure whether he hated the sea or not. He gave small thanks he wasn’t headed for open water and headed off towards town.

There’s a vast array of fuckery out today— and the Orange Fist of Tiralta felt ready to meet it.

People are suspicious of the handsome— especially ones with names like “Johnny St. Django.” Not that Johnny minded. He was a swashbuckler through and through. A gnash of shiny teeth and silver flowing locks, his visage inspired confidence, but his record of evading angry husbands did not. Still, the crew that followed Johnny from the Kirani isles knew their captain put gold above pleasure— and they had found both in Tiralta. No longer considered pirates (and it’s hard to shed that label) the transitioned mercenaries found themselves acting as the esteemed guard to a dubious Viscount set on controlling the Tiralta trading port.

Viscount Ghatani proved an unctuous, if reliable employer. His own vices stayed far away from the discerning eyes of St. Django’s men, aptly named, the “Salt-licks.” Ghatani didn’t trust the Salt-licks, but his faith in St. Django proved essential to his rise in power amongst the council. St. Django cleared the council of Ghatani’s more fervent opponents and left the field aware of his openness to continue.

Beltway

There’s a line that’s been floating around in my mind the past few days—- “We don’t have a lot of time.” It’s run on repeat. Over and over and over again.

And as I fell asleep these words came to me in such force I had to scrabble out of warm blankets to write them down in the late hours of the night.

“If time is space, then I’m going to need entire states to explain my love for you.”

Arkes

Rotgut whiskey to ease the mind. A calluses hand hid a slight tremble as it lifted the clay cup. No one dared to say anything. The Red Pony Inn saw hundreds of travelers between Malton Keep and the capital. Now, the road brought few travelers and fewer stories.

The scribe had lost track of Arkes the past week. He hoped he'd find him if he followed the usual path of destruction, but no luck. It seemed that Arkes slipped into the wind.

The scribe couldn’t let that happen. Not with the story unfinished. The people had to know the tale of Arkes Bloodthane. As for the scribe himself, he had changed too much to return to the monastery. His own hands were bloodied and callused as he followed the path of Arkes and his blade. He doubted he’d ever be considered a man of the cloth again.

The dark road from the inn rustled as the scribe tended to his horse. He’d picked up the stubborn mare with Arkes after trekking through the Tenari plains. His mount’s roan coat shone under the lantern. The scribe had to ask himself if he’d find a better treasure than this majestic animal. He doubted it, but as with all his doubts these days, he stuffed them between the loose threads that made up his life and knapsack. Under the watchful eye of a worm moon, the onetime priest rode into the Malton forest.

The path into the Malton forest had fallen into disrepair. The scribe had heard Malton Keep possessed a steady ruler and full treasury, but these roads and lack of guards said differently. The rustle that plagued the road outside the Red Pony kept pace with the scribe and his mount. The mare snorted every couple minutes as it pulled at the bit to look towards the brush by the side of the road. The scribe kept a tight hand on the reins and began silent prayers to Urthad and his vicious hands. The scribe couldn’t think of another god to ask for protection after riding under the shadow of Arkes.

First Cold Morning

This great education in solitude—

The island instructor. The island itself.

The pillbox apartment. The thin bedding and thinner walls. The growl of the electric kettle in the morning and automated seven am alarm through the town speakers.

Standing on cold hardwood as winter enters with the wind through these non-insulated walls.

The countless articles and songs— the gentle sway as I peruse the words available to describe a time only my eyes will see.

I’m reminded of my family cabin— with the brisk air and shivered mornings.

The bitter scent of black coffee and soft rustle of turned pages.

I’m sure I repeat stories or thoughts as I write or talk on the phone.

The apartment can be an echo chamber— thoughts cast off come crashing back.

Like a Bowerbird, I’m searching for the right kind of blue.

On this island— surrounded by the ocean— there’s a bounty of blues and greens. A multitude of hues that stick on the edge of one another. Linked in a slow ripple— like a lazy toss over a thawing pond.

And Time

It feels weird to think that I’ll have lived in Japan for two years by the time July rolls around.

I was asked earlier today what I thought I’d miss once I left the island and returned to the States.

That’s a hard question to answer.

I think about the last couple of weeks and how I’ve felt like I’ve finally settled into life over here. But I know that the peace I feel comes from acknowledging that I’ll be leaving. There isn’t that pregnant pause of “what will I do next?” attached to the decision, even though there’s certainly that aspect waiting for me once I return to the States.

I’ll miss the nature. The bounty of hawks that swoop and soar— chasing crows and hunting insects as they dive bomb from the thermals overhead. I’ll miss the days with fun lessons and kids popping up to shout my name whenever I pass by a classroom. I’ll miss the cozy, orange-lit dimmer bulb that lights my nights as I lay on my too-thin futon and read fantasy books on my Kindle. I’ll miss the howl of the ocean winds as they wind up over the harbor forest and rattle the small sliding glass on my balcony door.

I’ll miss all these things— but not in the way I’ve missed others.

I came over here to learn more about myself. To spend time alone. I’ve excelled at that— certainly more than I thought I would. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say most of my time outside of school has been spent in my own company. I think that’s been important to the growth that’s come— and to what’s come after leaving here.

I’ve been able to recall things in a way that’s difficult to explain. The memories of the past don’t arrive through visual recollection. Instead, I’ve been visited by ghost fumes. The scents of things not here— from a friend's perfume, cold mountain air, spiced cider, and other things. It creeps up unbidden— like a dog waiting for an ear scratch. Doleful eyes looking at me— begging me to notice it. I can smell the brown-scented smelly marker that smelled like cinnamon. I can smell the first oils of the coffee beans from the silver bags holding pounds of Pike Place or Java Roast. I can smell the citrus Trader Joe’s body wash. Everything catapults a thousand memories into my mind as I see brief snippets of my life play out before me.

Some of being here has been remembering core parts of myself that I’d lost touch with. I think a large amount of that hid beneath a mountain of grief I had to sort through. Other parts have been learning what my core values are.

I didn’t realize I’d be such a hometown hero. More in that, I had thought I’d be able to disappear from Portland when I was younger, and it wouldn’t matter. That I’d start over across the world, and I wouldn’t ever want to come back. That hasn’t been the case.

But in this all, the noise of the emotions has been dimmed.

I still have my zero to a thousand energy moments. But the previous feelings of misunderstanding or immensity? Those don't hang around.

I don’t feel misunderstood— not when I’ve put effort into intentionally making myself understood to the loved ones in my life. And I’m certainly a stubborn fuck when it comes to that. I’ve heard so many horror stories of people lying on their deathbeds and issuing regrets of unspoken admiration and love— no, thank you. I try to make my appreciation known. Still, I’m human— so I know I don’t cover everything a hundred percent, but if being over here with all this time has taught me anything, it’s been to recognize the moments when you need to say the things that matter.

I like to look at the lines that compose people— seeing the symmetry and song that flows through someone. We’re each a symphony that static photos cannot catch. Words don’t do justice. Neither do poems, essays, videos, or anything beyond being present in person.

This, above all, is what I’ve learned as I’ve lived on this island— and as I have time yet to live. Nothing can capture the kinetic energy— because then it is made static— which is not what we are.

Pour Vous

At half-past three in the morning on Jacobs street in the sleepy hamlet of Tilden, a young girl read a worn chapter book under her covers. She kept a headlamp next to her bed for her late night escapades into worlds far beyond the daily malaise of eastern Massachusetts.

The secret to getting enough rest while reading deep into the night centered around a firm belief that if you told yourself you slept well in the morning, you’d feel energetic. It didn’t often work, but on those days Jannie would eat some hot peppers her dad dried in their cupboard.

Jannie heard a creak in the old Victorian house her parents bought a couple years earlier. It had a different weight from the other creaks and groans of the settling wood. Jannie had categorized all the different noises of the night to avoid being caught staying up late by her parents. She clicked her headlamp off. Another creak sounded, this time it came closer.

Jannie pulled back the bedsheet and waited with semi-closed eyes to feign sleep. Her dad might have gotten up for a snack. He liked to sneak bites of the cheddar cheese block he stored at the back of the fridge. As if Jannie and her mom couldn’t see the steadily decreasing amount.

The door to her room slowly opened and Jannie waited for her dad or mom to say something. The ruse was up— she’d been busted reading again.

But no words came. Jannie opened her eyes a little wider to see no one standing in the moonlit patch by the door.

Another creak. A flicker of movement in the hall.

A dark shadow filled the doorway. Jannie clutched her blanket and stared at the patch of darkness. “Dad?” she whispered as she shrunk into her covers. She knew that wasn’t the right question.

“Je suis pas ici pour vous,” a deep voice said. The little girl shook like a dormouse in a rainstorm. The shadow moved away.

***

A scrawny, curly headed girl sat at a library table with three other skate kids. Various beanies and textbooks filled the table as they checked their phones and leaned back in their chairs.

“Do you think death is one thing? Or do you think there are different reapers?” The group stopped staring at their rooms to gawk at the girl for a second.

“J, that’s a weird question coming from a person pretending to study math,” Nolan said as he flicked through a battered health textbook. He wasn’t doing any better studying, but he liked to keep Jannie on her toes.

“Just curious,” Jannie mumbled. She kept half-heartedly sketching the edges of graphs on her grid paper as Nolan looked at her arms. A couple new scratches were there.

Taxi Ride

Wide turns, stomping on the brake like a cellar rat, thickly heated air soaked with cigarette smoke. All part of the experience of a taxi ride on the island.

I can hear various ailing parts of the forty plus year old Toyota sedan grumble as the turns push the aged suspension against blocky wheel wells.

The cars run on propane— that’s a surprise. There isn’t much else about them that could surprise me in a positive way.

Custom seat covers lay on the rear bench seat. Mine today is a untethered grey and white rug-like cover that says “Kona Coffee.”

Most of the taxi drivers on the island are approaching their seventh decade or are well within it.

It’s not a young man’s game on this island.

The Fall

Nobody had wanted to sit next to Florence in the cafeteria. You couldn’t blame the kids. She ate her orange peels as she stared into the middle distance. Teachers had learned to let the small, dread inducing child flow through their lessons. Easier than getting caught into her mind games and deceptive words.

Florence Valentino came from the Valentino family. They’d been a pillar of the community for over eighty years in the small town of Cranston, Colorado. Some of the students had once heard Florence tell a teacher her family descended from the conquistadors that took Tenochtitlan with Cortes. Others heard her talk about coming from a vaquero line. The smart, cautious ones banked on both accounts being true.

Rarer still, were the students who heard Florence talk about the curse laid on her family. She’d mentioned to a brave kid that sat at her table in the cafeteria that an Aztec priest had cursed her ancestor as he fought alongside Hernan Cortes. The kid failed to ask what the curse was and Florence didn’t offer. Still, it made the other students wary when she’d slowly pull a smile across her face as she slipped into the middle distance.