Dec14

Each Moment

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Each Moment

Kaleidoscope,

Rushing, falling into the unknown.

It starts slow,

Remains slow

Moves through slow

The minutes are hours

The hours, days

The days, eternity

Ending in a blaze

Of interpretation.

Each moment, to analyze

Subjective to one

Dismissed by another

Unknowingly Embedded

Fractural by Frame

To frame

To image

To beyond

What of life

What of survival

What of destiny,

Fate,

Free Will?

What of need

What of want

What is done to save,

What is done to dismantle?

Kaleidoscope,

Surrendering to the alone

Surrounded by white

By black

By time

By space

Of all that is infinite

Of all that is finite.

Hope

A beginning

Hope

An ending

Hope

An unknown

Hope

An understanding

Hope

Hope

Hope

An end

A beginning.

Kaleidoscope,

Rushing, falling into the unknown.

It starts slow,

Remains slow

Moves through,

slow

The minutes are hours

The hours, days

The days, eternity

Eternity, a blip

Nothing assured

The loss

The gain

I am breathless.

It ends in a blaze

It begins the same.

Sep21

Psycho Scissor

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Henri placed his Half-Scissor on its hook by the kitchen door. He had cleaned the blade with the hydrogen peroxide solution he favored—five minutes—no more, no less—and then a thorough wipe-down with a microfiber cloth. He rinsed the blade, wiped it down again, and then allowed it to finish air drying on the hook.

          He would check on the Half-Scissor one more time. Henri needed to placate himself that he had cleansed its razor-honed edge to the point where nothing but steel shined.

The rust had long been polished away, and the pivot point was removed, oiled, and rejoined weekly. Then, always to the hook, the Half-Scissor’s home, placed to the right of the door frame, a distressed whitewashed door that opened inwards.

Henri busied himself making his Turkish coffee. The cold water, sugar, and finely ground Arabica beans had boiled away in his copper cezve. Thick and aromatic, Henri sat down to take in the warmth of the mug in his hands, the smell ingested. His battered kitchen table had one leg that needed a wedge to keep the top level.

Henri could not rouse himself to fix it. His elbow on the tabletop was enough to keep the table from tilting.

As he sat, Henri stared at his now-silent Half-Scissor, hanging. A sip, too hot at first that it scalded his lips and tongue, but he barely registered the sensation. Once he sat, his eyes did not stray from his Half-Scissor, from its resting place, as sip after sip he drained the mug of his selected brew.

If, by the time he finished, and the Half-Scissor remained sullen and silent, Henri would rise, rinse out the mug, and leave to go to bed.

Tonight, though, he heard.

Placing the mug on the table, only a few sips in, he stood, a gentle push-up that sent some coffee onto the tabletop. Henri did not pay any attention.

“So soon, mon ami?” He smiled as he walked to the door. “Bon.”

Henri placed his left hand on the door’s knob as his right hand took his Half-Scissor.

Stepping through the doorway, Henri shut the door behind him. He looked up to the cloudless night sky. The next phase of the Harvest Moon lit up the black. He held up his Half-Scissor in benediction to the sky, so clean it refracted the moon’s rays.

Henri smiled, walked across his backyard, and made his way into the woods.

Aug31

Muse

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Nothing.

Nothing came out right for months. The molten glass drooped instead of holding form, cracking easily when it cooled. The colors infused in the process did not take, forming lakes of muddied hues. Ali’s friends had been encouraging at first, urging her one, but as the weeks passed, they suffered her rants and the depression that set in until, one by one, they drifted away in their own glass bubbles.

Ali allowed her kiln go cold. She had moved her materials into the storage closet, locking the door on the tools of her life. The tweezers, the reamer, the metal blowpipe, and all her protective gear, were tossed inside indiscriminately in a fit of pique. The last piece, her wooden paddle, stayed in her hands as she looked at the jangles inside the closet.

With an ache, she lifted the paddle above her head and swung it down against the stainless steel marver she had inherited from her father. The shaft cracked the third time. Ali threw the pieces into the craft tomb she had created, slammed the door shut, and went into her house for her bourbon stash. Five bottles, gifts from family and friends.

She drank until every last drop was swilled. Ali hibernated in her funk, rising from her chair, couch, bed, or floor only to relieve herself. She sometimes remembered to eat. DoorDash, Uber Eats, and Grubhub charged their fees as Ali ordered away.

There was always an order of booze with each food delivery.

Her money reserves dwindled as no pieces of her art came forward. Ali avoided the mail, the emails, the phone calls. She would enter her studio daily, looked at the ice-cold furnace, trudge over to the closet, open it, stare, then slam the door shut, when she had the strength.

Five weeks had passed, five weeks of despair, five weeks of wishing. On the fifth night of this, a fifth of bourbon in hand, a fifth full, Ali passed out while she sat on the floor, her back atilt against the mausoleum door of her once work.

She missed the appearance of the Goddess Melpomene, who glanced around at the built-up dust and grime and the snoring figure on the floor. She looked at the marver and saw the past in it—the many glass pieces that had lain on it and been shaped up into it, but were now covered in dust and wooden splinters.

Melpomene flicked her finger. The marver was clean, as new as it was before it first saw its first molten glass piece. Melpomene sat, tilted her head, and the kiln fired up. Tilting her chin up, the door opened, sending Ali off, sliding prone to the floor. The bourbon bottle slipped out of her hand, fell, and cracked open, the liquor pooling around Ali’s head.

All of the workman’s tools appeared in their rightful places.

“Wake up,” Melpomene said aloud, the kiln’s flame crackling loudly behind her. “Wake up, Alison. Wake up!”

Ali woke, no longer drunk, the pool of liquor sucked away with the high heat in the studio. Shaking her head, Ali looked at the aliveness of her work. As she stood, she took in the Goddess.

“Shush. You have work to do,” Melpomene purred. “Work, Alison. Your tools scream for you.”

Ali shrugged, walked over to the kiln, the marver, all the glass rods placed in a row, and donned her protective gear. She picked up her glassblower, tweezers grasping on the rod, and began to work.

The pieces flowed out perfectly but with an element Ali had never experienced before. She intended to shape, color, and fuse, in her old ways, the work that brought her acclaim. Yet, each new piece’s quality took on a new emotion she had never attempted before.

Ali muttered: “These are magical.”

Melpomene, who had risen from the marver when Ail had approached, stood behind her, a half-smile in her eyes.

“Of course,” she said. Then, Melpomene was gone.

Ali worked until all the glass was transformed, having days pass with little rest, forgetting to eat most of the time. The day the last rod disappeared into the blazing fire, the day the last masterpiece was blown, shaped, and sparkled in its clearness, Ali went to bed, satisfied.

She had forgotten to bank the fires in the kiln.

Aug25

I’ll Never Know

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You’re my reason why

Although you tossed me aside

I can’t forget that time

The smile was just for me

Simply not enough to hold

Things I still don’t get

It’s been far too long

Yet, I still hold on

I wish I could forget,

What I had but never will

You could barely hold my hands

That was the moment when I knew

But holding on to memories

Keeps me stuck and I’ll never know

Why what we had had to go

No matter what you wrote to me

I don’t think I’ll really know

Dec16

For The Approaching Storm

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For the approaching storm was already fierce,

Billowing clouds raced over the ruins of the east tower;

Raindrops thudding against the shuttered windows,

Chilling the room, warmth and lighting only given by

The flickering of burning logs in the bedroom fireplace.

There was a howl when the wind tore through the hallways,

Screaming along the empty house passages,

Reminding Danielle she was alone,

Alone with only a wisp of memory of family,

Of loved ones,

Of love.

She coughed deeply, rough with raw throat, into her hand.

The illumination was poor, but feeling viscous in her palm,

Danielle Knew there were flecks of red spattered among the sickness.

She knocked on the wood mantle of the fireplace three times,

Moving her limp, long brown hair out of her face,

After adding one of the remaining logs to the dying fire,

Three times,

As she knelt closer to the flames,

Closing her limpid brown eyes,

Opening up her pale pink lips,

Tasting in the hot air of ash,

Recoiling only when a spark struck her cheek.

Three times she knocked on the flooring before she rose,

Three more times on the wooden bedposts,

Three last times on the wooden headboard,

As she climbed onto the bed,

Tucked herself firm under her mother’s quilt,

Clutching the edge,

Bringing it up to her chin, and then,

Turning on her left, her heart side,

Danielle drew the cover over her head

To disappear among the noise of the storm that finally arrived.

Walking

Danielle was walking amongst the garden that was

She lifted her hand to touch a vine that grew over a broken brick wall

Yet she could not see her fingers.

There was no feeling, but she grasped the vine,

As it pulled her through the wall of stone.

Danielle fought to yell, but even then, a cough bloomed,

Running down the front of her best-tattered gown,

Dripping red against the jagged rocks.

Face down

She found herself face down in dirt

Her mouth was full of loam soil,

Remembering the taste of it as a child

Helping to plant her mother’s garden.

She was chastised again for lying on the ground,

Squirming through the dirt

“Like a worm?”

“Are you a worm?”

A resounding boom drew Danielle awake.

She was sopping, night sweats, and threw the quilt off.

Her nightclothes were drenched,

And Danielle shivered, uncontrollably,

For the fire was now only glowing ashes.

She took the remaining three logs,

Placed them as her father had once shown her,

Steepled and conjoined,

Adding kindling to the remaining burn,

And blew

And blew

And the kindling caught

And she blew once again,

This time ending in a racking cough.

As the fire caught,

Danielle removed her nightclothes,

Placed it over the back of a wingback chair to dry,

Returned to the fireplace,

Naked, pale and thin-framed,

Sunken chested,

Danielle crouched down to grasp the warmth that grew

And knocked on the wooden floor three times

As coughing consumed her.

Nov5

Coconut Music: 12 Years On

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Coconut Music
May1

Reflections: Vincent’s Descent

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Reflections: Vincent’s Descent

Vincent’s Descent is a 26 part story (16,022 words total) that began on April 1st, 2023. If you are interested in reading it, after slogging through the below reflection, I suggest you start HERE. Comments are always read and welcome.

Vincent’s Descent began as a writing prompt.

It was generated during A Prompting of Writers, a group I created and moderate that meets on Saturday mornings (10 am EST/EDT: contact me if you are interested). The prompt I gave the writers was to use any creative figure that they truly loved and knew. Flash Fiction, just under an hour of writing, and then we share with some feedback. The idea stemmed from The Pale Blue Eye show on Netflix (Edgar Allan Poe as the MC) and a few other uses of literary figures as characters.

Vincent Van Gogh was my choice for the piece. I enjoyed what I wrote, and when I decided (extremely last minute) to join this year’s AtoZ, that story was what I used as my jumping-off point.

Van Gogh remained the base foundation for Vincent’s Descent: his color palette, how he applied his paints, the swirls, the golden fields, the starry nights, and his madness. It all influenced many aspects of what I wrote over this challenge.

Almost every title of my AtoZ was based on Art terminology, primarily fine arts but also architecture. I plumbed the online FreeArtDictionary for title ideas when nothing immediately came to mind. Some of the posts (Yosti in particular, but others as well) gave me the clues I needed to complete that day’s posting.

The whole thing with the birds came about with the letter B, and The Beatles song Blackbird got stuck in my head. “Take these broken wings and learn to fly” led me to Vincent breaking one of his attackers wings. With his teeth? Well, horror/brutal, y’know.

Also, I’m not a huge fan of birds.

People have asked me about how I name my characters/places. Usually the name must have a meaning that fits the story. Vincent seems obvious, but beyond that it means “Prevailing.” Humi, Vincent’s late addition father, means “Twilight.” “Oralee,” Vincent’s mom, means “My Light.” I chose Maria as that was the name of the daughter of Sien Hoornik, the only woman Vincent is known to have lived with. As to Ms. Faye Smythe (the only character with a surname): Faye was a play on the Fae (elves) and Smythe came about from looking at my bookshelf, seeing my copy of Lore Olympus by Rachel Smythe, and boom! Faye Smythe.

As to anything disjointed or lost over the month, my apologies. If you’ve followed my writing at any time, you know I am a Pantser. I write daily (well, um, yeah, a few days I couldn’t write; I don’t pre-write, seeing that takes the challenge out of this being a challenge.) without an organized schematic, no notes, no plans. The characters/story take me on a daily journey, and then by the end of the month I’m trying to pull it all together and plug up all the holes, big and small. Sometimes it works out.

I’ve mentioned this here and there: I look at the AtoZ as my First Draft Plus. Previous years have had wider followings, and I’ve been asked to take the work, add to it to novelize it. The Abysmal Dollhouse series is one I continue to work on. It keeps alluding me.

I want to thank everyone who did follow along and left commentary and likes. This was my least visited year with AtoZ, but the point is that I so truly appreciate those of you who did follow along. The comments were extremely helpful. Some made me laugh, others had me twiddling my fingers and doing my best villains laugh. Chilling.

Taa Daa! We can now tie a bow around the 2023 AtoZ Blog Challenge.

What did you think about Vincent’s Descent? This Reflection? Tacos?

Apr30

Ziggurat Englobed: Vincent’s Descent – atoz blog challenge

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Ziggurat Englobed: Vincent’s Descent – atoz blog challenge

**Author’s Note: Vincent’s Descent is a continuous story that began on April 1st, 2023, as part of the AtoZ Blog Challenge. Most chapters are not designed as stand-alone. I’ve done my best to keep each chapter a touch over 500 words each so they are not too dense to follow along, IMO. For the entire story, please start HERE. Comments are always welcome.

Vincent’s Descent

Chapter 26: Ziggurat Englobed

            Faye shook her head.

            “But, the bodies. All that blood. Vincent,” she was off the couch, “the bodies!”

            “The Condor tore into her. Right out,” he paused, “right out of me. There was nothing I could do. It drove its beak into her midsection, clawed her.” Tears streamed. “Then it morphed into that old bastard, laughing at me, goading me.”

            “Why did he-it-do that?” Maria gripped her arms.

            “His father,” Faye offered, and Vincent nodded. He looked away from them to look out the living room window.

“Mom got me to focus on the ‘I wish’; it was a mantra to protect, bring changes, and do things. She’d sing that Disney song to me: “When you wish upon a Star,” but it was the snow globes for us. Maria, I was able to extend that wish to you, for a short while, in the heat of it all. I knew I would not have the opportunity. I have always trusted you.”

“Oh.” He nodded.

“My father hated that I had a way to safety, hated her for protecting me. Hated her enough so….”

We ran, and it found us.”

            “I erupted that night. The feathers broke through my skin; my face lustered, and my mouth became a sharp beak. Full Grackle Prince.” He turned back, only to look away again. “Then I did what wasn’t expected. I dove at the human shell. I thought it was more. I am guilty of wanting it dead, Faye, but it only left a shell in this world. Real or not, Cat-grandpa was only a shell.

No matter. I fully transformed. That’s what it wanted. What the three of them wanted.”

            “Three?”

            “The Condor, my father, and Her Grace.” He stood, walking to the windows. “The birds had always harassed me when I ported, some more aggressive than others. I didn’t understand why, did not know how to protect myself. My mother did.”

            Vincent shuddered.

            “In the psych ward, it happened to the guard. The Condor reached through me, half in this realm sticking out of me. The guard was dead in an instant. I couldn’t take it. I tried to go elsewhere, but too many hands were on me. Too many.”

            Faye put her drink down. She moved closer to him but refrained from touching him.

            “It’s ok, Faye. You don’t have to be afraid of me, well, yeah, but…”

            She reached around, hugging him.

            “No more bird fucking, ok?” She whispered in his ear. He nodded.

            “Thank you,” he said.

            Maria joined them at the window.

            “What now?” Maria asked, looking at the window reflection of the three of them. Faye lightly shook her head.

            Vincent, though, had a serious dead face. She gasped, not being able to see his eyes in the reflection. Turning, she saw they were twilight black.

            “I have to go.” He turned to Faye, then Maria. “For now.”

            Vincent went.

            The world swirled as Vincent ported. Vincent grasped colors, rearranging them, mashing them together, piling one thick, the other etched thin, as he painted across the city. Which became a field of flowers. A range of hills, mounds of earth piled high, plateaus filled with lushness. The sky was white, grey, and streaked with maroon, all moving to shine light from above until everything burst into a multitude of blues and golden hues.

            Vincent walked through it all, over and around bodies of water, through the clouds, until he walked through a window of a cobweb of his making.

            In his father’s twilight office, Vincent became.

            Tucking his wings tight against his body, The Grackle Lord stood before the snow globes. All the dots of fake snow were dancing. Each orb alit, changing shades, soft to dark, mixtures that changed the meanings of colors, yet there was harmony in the movement.

            Except for the one to the far right. It was black, swirled black, minutely changing to every essence of black, and it was a frenzy in comparison.

            Vincent-Inside reached out a claw and grabbed the blackness. He was ready to hurl it through the window when a claw shot out from the darkness, stopping him.

Jerked back, losing a few feathers, The Grackle Lord’s eyes widened, the black pupils deepening. It cawed in defiance, talons extending.

            “Filius,” The Black Vulture croaked as it wormed into the room, blocking the snow globe. “Filius, avis nigra dominus,” it uttered. The misshapen head, long neck, ebon feathers, were less than The Grackle Lord. It knew it. The neck bowed an iota.

It began to change.

“Son.”

            A knock at Faye’s door brought her running. Without looking, she flung the door open and dragged Vincent inside, slamming it shut. Faye grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him.

            Maria, who had remained by the window, smiled. She went over once the kiss broke and circled her arms around them. It was tender, a much-needed calm, and each ached in their private ways.

            Vincent led them back to the living room. He lowered the lighting before sitting on the floor on one side of the sofa table. Faye joined him while Maria took to the couch.

            Vincent took the empty bottle of whiskey off the tabletop. After briefly looking at Faye, she picked up her tumbler, looked inside, and set it on the floor under the table. Then Vincent opened his wings.

            Neither had seen the change to his arms. It was a momentary lapse of awareness but soon replaced by wide-eyed wonder.

            Snow globes glittering the landscapes of Vincent’s worlds, ten sat on the table.

            “Vincent,” Maria smiled.

            “Yes,” he told them of his confrontation with his father, a standoff for The Grackle Lord held power. He said of the formed pact so that he could retrieve his & his mother’s snow globes. There were the worlds that he traveled, had traveled, would travel.

            “Except for the black. That is for Her Lavender Grace and her Black Vulture.”

            He looked at the two women in his life.

            “Would you travel with me? I am a portal in want.”

            They both nodded.

            “I wish,” Vincent said.

            They went to golden lands together.

The End

**********************************************************************************************************

So, here we are. April 2023 AtoZ Blog Challenge has come to an end. 

I hope that you enjoyed “Vincent’s Descent” and are satisfied with this ending. Tomorrow you’ll find the Reflections on Vincent’s Descent post. It should answer some, if not all, of your questions.

If you want more, or you feel I left gaping holes, or whatever, Comments Are Always Welcome.

Thanks for coming along for the ride.

Apr29

Yasti Pinnacles: Vincent’s Descent -atoz blog challenge

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Yasti Pinnacles: Vincent’s Descent -atoz blog challenge

**Author’s Note: Vincent’s Descent is a continuous story that began on April 1st, 2023, as part of the AtoZ Blog Challenge. Most chapters are not designed as stand-alone. I’ve done my best to keep each chapter a touch over 500 words each so they are not too dense to follow along, IMO. For the entire story, please start HERE. Comments are always welcome.

Vincent’s Descent

Chapter 25: Yasti Pinnacles

            “I’m tired, Maria. Faye.”

            “I know, Vincent.” Maria nodded, staying on the couch but leaning in toward him.

            Impatient, Faye left the living room, returning with a fresh bottle of whiskey. She placed it next to her empty tumbler, keeping her back to him while she opened the top.

            “Enough with the ‘I’m tired’ BS, Vincent.” She turned, having refilled her glass. One hand rested under her elbow while she raised her wrist, taking a long sip. “You didn’t kill your mother, and you didn’t kill the guard.”

            He shook his head.

            “So? Explain.”

            Vincent looked to Maria, pleading.

            “No. You tell her.” She looked at Faye. “She knows enough, now.”

            Vincent hung his head, chin digging into his chest. He sucked in a deep breath, letting the air seep through tight lips. He startled both women with the abruptness of his getting to his feet. Feathers began to poke out of his forearms. Vincent looked down at his plumage, willing it to recede.

            Three remained on each arm.

Faye’s drink sloshed over her thumb. She licked it, moving a step back. Maria reached over and gently pulled her back onto the couch to sit beside her. She placed her hand on top of Faye’s knee.

“You see?” Vincent looked at both of them.

“When I first portalled, I had so little control. That old bastard,” Vincent left out naming his faux-grandfather by designated name,” was brutal. He left inner scars and kept pushing, pushing. He…it…never explained the why of it all. It just drove me, the first guide, the first to punish in both worlds, the blackbirds and this one.

My father pushed me to be with it. Said it was his father, and I should follow its lead. I did as he said. I was afraid of the two of them, Humi and Cat-Grandpa.

I thought I was doing well, but I would get lost and need to be retrieved. The verbal, emotional, and physical beatings grew worse with each ‘mistake’ I made. I always retreated from the blackbirds’ world when I was young, searching for safety.

It was my mother who made the difference.”

“Oralee,” Faye blurted into her glass. She turned to Maria, who nodded back, shushing her.

Vincent nodded.

“She gave me my first snow globe as a child. I loved it for all its simplicity. A house in a field, a grove of trees, and when you shook it: winter in my hand. We kept it by my bed. Nighttime was nightmare time, so with a nightlight ready, I could reach over, shake the globe, and the nightmares dissipated.

Until they didn’t, that was when the birds appeared in my room, at home, or its cabin. My mother would ‘know’; she knew they were in this world. She’d rush in and place herself in front of me, encircling me.  

That was after I had first traveled, maybe the third time? I’m not sure now.

Mom was having a hard time of it. The birds were pecking at the two of us. She was batting them out of the air, speaking in what I now know as their language, but they kept coming. One scratched her deeply, and another dove into her chest, pushing her back. She dropped beside me on the bed.

I had been frozen during all that, but she jostled me. I reached over, grabbed the snow globe to throw at one of them, the bigger of the three, and

It began to glow yellow.

Then it deepened into a warm gold.

My mother placed her hands over mine, put her forehead on my forehead, and the golden light spread over us. She shone like the sun.

The light was warmth and safety. As it reached what I learned later was its pinnacle, it dimmed, and the swirling material in the snow globe settled. The birds were gone, it was just us, and we went to the kitchen for food. We were both ravenous.

And she explained what she knew, that we could affect the axis of realities, the universe. Different planes of existence that living portals can easily travel. The portal stories I’d read were hidden messages disguised as fiction. She taught me how to safely travel, where the Condor was vicious in its agenda.

“Which was, what? Mating with that thing?” Faye again.

Vincent shrugged, nodding.

“Not my idea, Faye.” He made eye contact. “Her Lavender Grace was not my idea. Or my want.”

Faye blushed.

She shook herself.

“Ok. So, you did not kill your mother. Can we get back to that?”

He sighed.

“My skills were limited at first. My mom thought the snow globe was a great focus tool. I still loved them, so they were added to the collection when we found ones that had a specific resonance.

I was able to port easier. She traveled with me when she could, a better guide. We explored, crafted, and we changed the world around us.

My father interfered. He pushed the Condor on me, and I found out later that the Condor sent the murders after me. And my mother.

The night she died – twilight always seemed to be the worst, that death of day to the rising of darkness – was the first time the feathers burst. The pain,” Vincent was panting hard.

“Vincent,” Maria said softly. He focused on her as she modeled a slower breathing pattern, following along.

He gulped, closing his eyes.

“That was the night my mother had had enough, found the strength to leave my father. We were in a hotel, hours from our house, and I had only taken the first snow globe with me.

Then the change, and I screamed, and with my arms turning into wings, my mother held me tight, and I felt something calling through my chest, my face ached, and my body convulsed, and I yelled and yelled and screeched and cawed….

And the Condor emerged through me and tore her apart.

Then I tore it apart.”

Apr28

Xanthic Fields: Vincent’s Descent – atoz blog challenge

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Xanthic Fields: Vincent’s Descent – atoz blog challenge

**Author’s Note: Vincent’s Descent is a continuous story that began on April 1st, 2023, as part of the AtoZ Blog Challenge. Most chapters are not designed as stand-alone. I’ve done my best to keep each chapter a touch over 500 words each so they are not too dense to follow along, IMO. For the entire story, please start HERE. Comments are always welcome.

Vincent’s Descent

Chapter 23: Xanthic Fields

“I did not kill my mother.”

Faye had been one sheet to the wind when her doorbell rang.

“What the?” she grumbled, putting her whiskey down as she got up from the couch. No one in the building ever came to her door, and she did not buzz anyone in. She stood pissed, gritting her teeth, ready to tell whoever was there to fuck off.

The bell rang again, and then the sound of a fist pounding.

“Faye. Open up. It’s Maria.”

She ran to the door, shooting the deadbolts open, but only a fraction opened the door.

“Maria. Holy shit. You’re,” she said, opening the door fully. And then stopped.

“Hi, Faye,” Vincent said from behind, and to the side, of Maria.  

            Maria caught the door as Faye began to slam it.

            “No, Faye. Stop. Let us in.” She pushed past, grabbing her wrist and pulling her away from the door. Vincent had taken a step closer but stopped in the doorway. Maria turned to him, elbowing Faye in the process. Faye frowned the distance between her eyes closing.

            “Vincent,” they said in unison, but the meanings could not have differed. A pleading from one, a reproach from the other. He nodded, entering the condo and closing the door behind him.

            “Lock it,” Faye shouted over her shoulder as she made her way to her drink. She folded herself in the far corner of her couch, tucking her legs under her. Holding the glass out, Maria tried to take it from her.

            “Nope. Bottle. Bring the bottle,” Faye nodded to the Jamesons atop the sofa table.

            Maria retrieved the bottle, getting a glass for herself. She topped off Faye’s and gave herself warmth, sitting at the other end of the couch. Vincent didn’t drink. He stood awkwardly, looking lost as he did in this world.  

            Maria was about to pat the mid-section of the couch for him to sit when she caught the wide-eye warning from Faye, the slight shaking of her head. “No!”

            “Vincent, pull the chair over and sit, please,” she told him. He nodded, scraping it across the kitchen tile and through the living room carpeting. Maria noticed the rut he made in the material. She shivered, thinking of the river of blood among the tree trunks.

            Faye spit out a stream of obscenities. Vincent lightly blushed, looked at Maria, and shrugged. Maria told Faye everything from her point of view, with Vincent adding in very little about the battle and nothing about the rutting. He mentioned his “I wish” to bring Maria and him somewhere safe.

            “That’s why we were standing outside your door.”

            Faye shot him a look.

            “The look on your face when you opened the door. I can’t imagine what you would have done if we had appeared inside this room.” He smiled, thought better of it, and placed his hands on his knees.

            Silence.

            Faye had her head in her hands, the thrice-filled now empty glass perched on the sofa armrest. When she mentioned icicle missiles, Maria had pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees. She was exhausted in the telling.

            Faye licked the rim of her glass. Looking into it, she told of her meeting with Vincent’s father, of all their exchanges, of the accusations his father laid at Vincent’s feet.

            Vincent coughed. The women looked at him.

            Maria saw the struggle he was having.

            “What is it, Vincent?”

            “I…”

            Faye exploded.

            “Damnit, Vincent. What is it? You put us both,” gesturing to include Maria, “through that fucking hell. Hey!”

Faye vaulted off the couch and stood over Vincent.

“You don’t get to silent treatment me. I’ve been there; I’ve seen you in that psycho world of yours,” Maria winced, “and the violence you are capable of. Then what Maria just said, the death, the killings, and,” Faye was seething, “and we fucked, and it was magical, and then you went and fucked a bird??”

Maria had to bite her cheeks. She still made a short snort.

“Damn straight, don’t laugh.”

             Faye wanted to lay her hands on him but feared being taken elsewhere.

            “So, fucking Grackle King….”

            “Lord.”

            “Shut the fuck up!” She sighed. “So, what? What were you going to say?

            Vincent looked at Maria, then back to Faye.

            “I did not kill my mother.”