The Fortunate End of Jonas Black

'Moss' by Sandra Lara (http://www.flickr.com/people/cambiodefractal/)

There are dozens of other stories born of each tale we tell. There are stories which travel in different directions than their parents. Like embers from a fire, these asides are often overlooked, but hold within themselves the potential for a beautiful dance of flames, or a horrible conflagration.

When Hook ordered his crew to bombard black tooth cove and take the fight directly to Peter and the lost boys, they also managed to add another enemy to their already long list of enemies: the mermaids who made their home there. A mermaid's wrath is a slow, painful thing. Perhaps, that has something to do with the nature of the creature.

The juvenile mermaid is hardly a threat to anyone. Her teeth and claws are dull and her powers of allure are like those of young virgins: unrealized at their worst, and undirected at their very best. Her breasts are small and her hair too wild and too short to distract from her grotesque shell shaped ears. They linger along the shore mostly, as all young sea dwellers know that shore is the best place to practice hunting.

The adult mermaid is quite better off. Her breasts are full and her hair luxurious, and in the water her speed and strength are unmatched.

The elder Sea Hag, on the other hand, looks precisely as frightening as on would imagine, though not because she is ugly. After about a century or so the sea turns her hair a pale green and she carries her breasts lower than in her youth. Though in certain cases; when she is gliding through the water, or when seen from a distance, or after months at sea surrounded by irritable, swarthy men, this is hardly a deterrent. After all, she still has dark, round nipples which certain men find alluring the way a wet tongue exploring bright red lips can distract the mind from the absence of certain teeth. Or the way the smell of cheap perfume on a lady of the night can cause lust and curiosity to override fear or self-righteousness. No, the Sea Hag is terrifying because, for as much as she is obviously inhuman, to a man longing for the comfort of solid land beneath his feet, she is irresistibly beautiful.

The Hag also has a voice, one which defies simple description. Simply put, it is the kind of voice that can cause as much as five fine, regular men to cast off the thrill of battle and clamor quickly and stupidly into the sea.

"MAN OVERBOARD!" The call raced along the starboard side, from bow to stern. By the time the crew had assembled for a rescue three of the men were already eaten. A fourth man, the salty brigand known as Jonas Black, was seen in the water laughing and weeping simultaneously. The mermaids had surrounded him. Four of them swam with him at the surface of the water. Their hands caressed his sun-beaten skin. Their teeth sank deep into the flesh of his chest, his belly, and his legs. A single hand grasped passionately at his matted hair. Later, at his wake, the men would remember that the only time Jonas had responded to something with anything more than a miserable grunt was that day.

"Don't save me, gents" he'd manage to say just as he kicked away the buoy and rope meant to save his life, or at least give him hope. "Oh god. Oh heaven. Oh hell what awaits me! If ye could feel what I'm feeling ye'd beg for the same. Don't ye dare save me!"

At that moment the sky, the sea, and everything around him had grown exceptionally bright in Jonas’ eyes. Several points of light danced before his eyes. The sensation of the mermaids' hands carried his mind to a time long ago, a time long before the salt water casually filled his mouth and attempted to ease its way down his throat. He'd had too much to drink in some port town or the other, they all had. The entire crew, with the exception of the Captain, had filled themselves up to the gills with grog and native honey-wine. But the bar wench, who some said had taken a shine to Jonas, allowed him to sleep it off by burying his beard in her mountainous bosoms. It was the only act of affection he'd ever been shown, and in his secret mind Jonas called it love.

The feel of the mouths on his flesh now was something immensely better than this…love. The saltwater had been burning his eyes for so long now. The pressure at that depth hurt his ears, and each breath of brine was like fire in his lungs. It was all so exquisite, even as the dancing points of light faded into the stark white glow of death.

I Could Call you Brother

(Also got an 'Aww' or two at Literary Night.)

Oh, what brown a face!
What a wide, well shaped nose.
You, my friend, were made a thing of beauty!
But you smell, quite strongly, of sweat and fatigue.
Is that what you were doing, perhaps, when I first saw you?
Lost in a field of high grass
Casting angry looks at the fruit cart.
And then you came charging along the path,
excitement in your eyes as if
you knew you'd done something wrong.
You blazed by me.
I could run with you
in the heat of mid day sun
and call you brother.
But only if I threw my human life away.

Oh, what brown a face.
What a wide, well shaped nose.
Don't you know you were made a thing of beauty?
But you shine, not brightly, sweat and frustration on your brow.
Is that how you were feeling, perhaps, when I first saw you?
Lost in a sea of bodies
until strong fingers snatched free a thin gold lace.
And then you came charging through the street,
hunger in your eyes although
you knew you'd done something wrong.
And you blazed by me.
I've seen your kind of hunger,
Brother.
I could run with you.
But only if I threw my life away.

Dreaming of Flying

(Edited, slightly re-tooled.  Recieved 'Aww's at Literary Night, April 24, 2010)

Thelma had a dream. In her dream the sky was the purest of blues. The only clouds were the ones that were scattered by her outstretched arms as the wind folded obediently under them. Below her the sea flew by. Below her the land grew out of the water. Below her the island circled, and the village on the island craned its head, and the many hands reached up. Their finger tips wanted so badly to touch her perfect skin. But if wanting could make it so, we would never feel that earthly heaviness that comes with waking from such dreams.

***

"You have such perfect skin" he whispered. Thelma could see why he would think that. His skin was rough, like his hands, but not like his voice. His voice told her sweet things, and did so smoothly. His hands were made pretty by the glinting metal that choked his swollen fingers. His skin might have been nice if she ever saw him in any kind of light aside from the street lamp or the club lights that danced while they did...something else. It was something to slow to be called dancing, and a little part of her was jealous of the other girls her age, with boyfriends their age. She wanted to dance like them, with abandon. Dance with her entire body. Dance until she was dripping with sweat. But years from now, those girls would still be here. They would still be dancing to the same songs while Thelma was in Paris or Japan or New York. All she had to do was move slow and sexy. It wasn’t really dancing. The many orange hairs on his arms and chest might look handsome in the sunlight on a beach somewhere. He could look like—Like who? Like Brad Pitt. Yes. He could be her Brad Pitt, only with rougher hands. And a smoother talk, if not a gentler voice.

***

He has such a gentle voice. Thelma usually heard baby's crying and crying and they sound like they could shatter glass. The ones she babysat for would bawl for no reason, just to drive her crazy. Not this one. This wasn’t what she thought it would be like. He has the gentlest voice a baby ever had. He was so quiet for a baby. Too quiet, in fact. She’d thought none of it had worked but what if it had? The bitters, the bad medicine, what if she’d tied her belly too tight in the final months? What if she’d tried so hard to make it go away, to keep it all a secret that now that he was out he was continuing the lie.

She could hide him when anyone came around. If they didn’t know, they didn’t have to find out. He was quiet. So quiet for a baby. The gentlest voice a baby ever had.

***

Come baby. Walk fu mommy. Ih nuh far. Come, you could walk. You’re a big boy now. A big boy. Come, come. No, mommy can't back yuh. Mommy too tired. And you too heavy, baby. You a big boy now. No man…Shhh...nuh cry. Nuh cry, we soon reach. Just wa lee bit further. But you have to walk. Mommy can't back you, baby.

Okay man…Ay, mi back. Ay, mi legs. Mommy can't carry you, baby. Nuh fi too long. You too, too, heavy. This baby just too heavy.

***

”Nuh too long now. Good thing we reach here early though. Ay, yuh see how much the baby like the plane? Now, when you reach you know how fi get weh paat yuh gwein? Personally? I nuh see how a man can send for you but not have the decency to pick you up from the airport. Thelma, he nuh own wa car? Well ih cyant at least pay for a taxi? I know, I know. You da your own woman now. Woman by law and nature. That nuh mean your aunty cyant worry. Now when you reach yuh muss call and mek we know you alright. And you have fi mek the baby hear yuh voice so he nuh miss yuh too much. You di listen? First chance you get you start saving up, hear? Don't depend on no white man for too long, you hear? Take it from me! Maybe in about six months you can send for the baby? A year? A child needs his mother. And you must call regular so he know your voice. You hearing me, Thelma? Well answer me then! I swear, you acting like you already miles away.

Against The Light - Part 3

There was light.  There was light all around him and Carl's eyes, wide as serving platters, took it all in at once, too quick for his brain to make any sense of it.  It was a bright, flickering yellow, spiced with reds and whites.  It was huge and filled his poor vision, this light.  And below it, as if frolicking, were the constant shifting blurs of blacks, grays, and browns.  People, like him, enjoying the light.  This must be what it looks like outside the gates of heaven, Carl thought to himself.  It was a lot like a day at the beach.  Except it was night.  And they were in the middle of the city.  And it was cold. 

So wonderfully cold.

“That sure is something, aint it?” Carl called out above the din of the crowd and traffic.  Marie was silent.  She pulled her arms closer to herself.  Wrapped the scarf tighter around her neck.  Lowered her head and braced against the wind.  Silently, she cursed her own vanity at not wearing the dull black knitted cap Ruth had offered her.  She was too cold to be amazed.  Too cold to look up in such a tall city.  She'd be looking up forever if Carl had his way.  He hadn't asked her to describe any of it, but she knew he wanted her to anyway.  He must have.  She didn't know the words for the architecture.  She only new the shapes.  “This one's got these little protruding squares on the corner, where the bricks overlap.”  She said as they passed yet another building in little Russia.  “They're faces.”  She whispered, as he stared at the the exterior details St. John's Cathedral. 

In their own separate ways they'd practically become 'New Yorkers' during their three days of being there.  Carl was a busy-body.  He struck up conversations with complete strangers, people they sat next to on the bus or couples they met in the park.  Marie still had horrible flashbacks of the man Carl sat next to on the bus.  Marie had only stepped in, seen people sitting and and hanging on to straps, chatting casually but gravitating toward the rear of the bus.  And yet there was a bench right at the front, empty except for one man.  Marie took one look at his pale face.  His dry lips.  One look at his thin, bony fingers holding his jacket closed where the zipper had failed to do the job, and she knew.  He had it. 

Carl, of course, sat right down next to him.  He patted the seat beside him, staring up at Marie's shirt.  “Its not that long a trip, Carl.” She said, forcing herself to look at everything else in the bus except the man.  “I'll stand.”

“Suit yourself.  Just tryin' to be gentlemanly, is all.”  Carl replied.  Marie's heart skipped a beat when he leaned over to the warm, breast-less shape next to him and jokingly muttered. “Women.  Am I right?”   Somehow, the young man; looked just as shocked as she did. 

Carl had an opinion about everything and never hesitated to share it.  He spoke about municipal matters as if it affected him directly, as if his vote mattered here. 

“Such a shame” he'd commented after they'd passed what was once a community garden, only someone had planted a single stalk of marijuana which grew tall and proud, as any other plant does.  Not realizing that it should be discreet about itself.   And by the time the children started asling about the plant with the purplish-reddish things on top, there were chains on the gates and the garden was left to be overgrown.

“They shouldn't be able to just do that”, he'd griped to no one, because by that time Marie had stopped listening.  He'd never even seen the garden, she'd thought.  Not really.  Just the black of the gate and the thick green of the overgrown weeds beyond.  And maybe, at some point in passing to or from the Twins', he'd caught a glint of red from a rotten tomato or something.  Normal people wouldn't be concerned about this in the least.  But not her husband.  Oh no.  Not Carl. 

“There's probably rats living in there anyway.”  She said the last time they'd passed and his feet slowed by the garden.  “Now would you come on, we're going to be late.”

Marie was thankful that her husband couldn't see the bland shape of her face.  As Carl stopped in the middle of the subway platform to rifle through his pockets for money to drop into the open guitar case of some mediocre musician with no teeth, she got the feeling that she'd gotten her fill of this crummy city.  When the coins fell from his hand and missed the guitar case completely, scattering all about the subway platform; and when not a single soul stepped forward to help pick them up, her feeling was confirmed. 

The truth was, even had someone stepped forward, she still would have led Carl by the arm away from that place.  She was suspicious of everyone; and a great many things, at varying times.  Secretly she was glad at least that her suspicions transcended race.  She didn't trust young white boys in baggy clothes as she imagined that, in their twisted minds, they might perceive violent, thuggish behaviour to be another aspect of the 'coolness' they were trying so hard to attain.  She didn't have a problem with young black men in baggy clothes, so long as they didn't seem to notice her (And if they did notice, she would notice, because she watched them nearly constantly from the corners of her eyes).  The well dressed black men on the other hand...

“Well what if he does try something?” she thought to herself while eyeing a well groomed black man who was sitting directly across from her in the crowded train car.  He was wearing a long wool coat, polished leather shoes and pinstripe slacks.  “He could grab my purse at the next stop and dash out before anyone even knows what to do.  What if he does?  Would the police even believe my description?  Who does he think he's fooling anyway?  What's he doing on a train at this hour of the night looking like that?”

It was like that.  A certain hyper-awareness that she was careful not to display as fear.  Young white men.  Young black men.  Women speaking rapidly and animatedly in languages she couldn't understand.  Anyone Carl struck up a conversation with.  Anyone who struck up conversations with him.  Anyone with a beard. 

The only ones she hadn't found suspicious, the ones she hadn't really encountered were the Asians.  This wasn't a surprise to her when she thought about it in the grand scheme of things.  She saw them once or twice in business shirts flitting about, or in the occasional store or restaurant.  “They are a very industrious people, the Asians.” she'd said to herself when she realized it one day.  But that was before they came to New York, and long before Carl had gotten it into his head to visit Time Square in the middle of what had to be the coldest night of the year. 

They'd climbed the subway stairs, exiting onto the street along with the the surge of bodies that seemed to have been squeezed out of the subway car with them.  It was as if they were caught in a rushing channel of people.  Like fish swimming toward the spawning grounds.  And no matter which way Marie tugged at her husband they still found themselves caught in the same rushing crowd.  Not even the terrain could slow them, as they dipped the step at each curb to rush across the intersection, dodging cars, one with the entire mad city.

And just as she was about to haul Carl aside to get her wits about her, the crowd seemed to spread cross a wide intersection, a congregation in the middle of the street.  There were lights, and noise and the postcard image she'd seen many a time in many a movie.  But famous Time Square had something else that Marie had never accounted for.  While Carl gawked upward at the gaudy advertisements and mute television programs displayed pointlessly for all to ignore, Marie was marveling at all the Asians.

Asians by the handful.  Young Asians, some wearing baggy clothes with metal in their faces.  Others in tight denim with their hair dyed and twisted into spikes or thorns.    Asian women who spoke rapidly in languages she couldn't dream of understanding, then covered their faces or mouths and giggled.  They didn't have beards, but they had little soul patches, tufts of hair between their bottom lips and chin.  And more than once someone had come up to her at random and asked her something in broken English.  Marie mostly just shook her had no, but she could see them now, rounding up with another as if searching within one another's vocabulary for enough decent English words to make a decent english sentence.  Soon she'd find herself in a conversation with a couple dozen Asians  and she'd--

“That sure is something, aint it?” Carl called out above the din of the crowd and traffic.  Marie was silent.  She pulled her arms closer to herself.  Wrapped the scarf tighter around her neck.  Lowered her head and braced against the wind.  She should have taken that ugly hat.

Summoning Charm

Your particular brand of bad habit.
The light that you left behind.
The breath that made the voice you loved
only, in reverse.
And butter for the skin
spiced with hazel and amber

And lo, I've summoned the smell of you.
In my alembic, I've made the taste of you.
Under moonlight, I've called forth a ghost
to sit at my mind's rear door.
Just sitting. Still smoking. Already thinking
of things you'll never tell me.

Perhaps you were thinking then
of how best to leave me now?
Perhaps you've decided its best
just to fade away?
Like smoke in the air.
Like tastes left exposed.
Like ghosts.
Like...you.