Within These Misty Hills

A virgin explorer in a virgin wood, I walk strange paths that coil through the emerald, jade, and peridot sprouts of new forest rising from the wildfire’s weary ashes. They’re coated with the mist that descends in a chilled cloud, draped across the ancient summits of stone like a blanket draped on an old man who died in his favorite chair.

Tender tendrils of cloud and mist meet and kiss, and stroll across the lush new ground, using patches of fog like the kerchief dancers who undulate in sinuous, sensuous, serpentine motion before their night fires. They send coded promises of delight to their betrothed in the circle of elders, who smile as they remember their own wedding fires.

Then fire and blood, steel and rage, swept across the land in a raging conflagration, and everyone lost. It’s heat and savage purging holds no sway here, now.

These misty hills gave silent witness to the uproar, and biding their time, shielded a new offering of seed and soil to give the sun as the hills waited to receive me, and the mist surrounds me like curious children.

     Recognition of an ally? Wariness of an enemy?   

Seeing I mean no harm, the mist bids me welcome with a chaste damp kiss, and I feel the magic shift within me, my body suffused with pleasant heat against the chilly morning, and I don’t know whether to laugh or weep at my fanciful imagination.

I expect that in these misty hills, it doesn’t really matter.

The mist will do it with me.

 

Wish I Could Go Back Knowing What I Know Now

   Deep in the abandoned culvert, the portal appeared.

   Walking along the waterfront, I thought I heard kids playing inside the drain pipe.

   Stupid kids. Wish I could go back sometimes, knowing what I know now.

   I huffed my way down to  get them out of harm’s way.

   There was light where there shouldn’t have been.

    At the other end, I saw myself.

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

   Kid -me surrounded by friends, looking every bit the kid that got bullied. Skinny and awkward the way child nerds are,nowhere close to any slang that would describe him as cool. But he and his friends were happy. 

    About to make a wish, he saw me, and shook his head. 

   I wasn’t invited.

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

 Teenage-me walking down Broadway with my poet friend, the city streets energized in the warm evening, full of bright colors, short skirts, and festive noises, and a busking sax player trying to tear a hole in the sky. 

  We were on our way to my first poetry reading at the cafe.  I was nervous but excited.

  Teenage-me stopped talking to his friend when he saw me, and shook his head.

   I wasn’t welcome.

 

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

    A quiet Sunday afternoon in the hospital, grad-me stood beside the bed where his wife trembled from the c-section shots. The doctor handed the bundle to him.

   His newborn daughter looked at him, as quiet as the day, and melted his heart.

   ‘She’s beautiful.’ he told his wife, and let her see.

   Then grad-me saw me,standing at the end of the portal, and shook his head. 

   I wasn’t part of the family.

                                               

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

 

   The light faded, leaving me in darkness. 

    I walked back and started home, wiping tears.

    They weren’t invited, allowed to fall, or part of the family anymore.

    I never made that wish again.

    

The Quarantine Trial of the Imposter

I was furloughed from work, and quarantined because of the plague. I vowed to work on my writing, but I didn’t, and my characters were done being patient.
I sat before the Council of WIP, sweating a bit at the sight of the five judges who would decide my fate: Lorcan, Warr, Dina, Trace, and Rani.
The other members included Haskell, Markis, Sora, Reiko, Jorie, and Xantara.
The gavel came down, and Warr leaned forward in his chair, arms on the desk, gazing down at me with a patient but surly glare.
“Alfred Warren Smith, you are accused of imposter syndrome. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
Dina laughed openly, the rest smiled, as if I’d just offered myself as a sacrifice for their blood ritual.
“Rani’s story is the only one here you’ve completed, and though you’ve just gotten an editor for it, you’ve been home since March of this year under the lockdown, and have completed nothing else but a couple of short stories, and maybe a poem.
“How does that not speak to being an impostor?”
“Because I intend to finish you all.”
“When?” Lorcan said. “As you walk the road to hell and pave it with those intentions?”
Laughter again. I was starting to sweat, and I was getting a little hungry. Ungrateful, wretched creatures!
“It’s a matter of atmosphere, and things being just so, and trying to maintain my friendships on the Internet. Then there’s the playlists, and the candles…”
“While our stories languish, and slink off into the Forest of Forgetfulness to die of old age and starvation?” Dina asked.
“Well, no. I just…”
Trace spoke up. “My story is probably the oldest, even more than Rani’s, and you’ve done nothing with it since you stopped at the most dramatic moment possible for me.             “Nothing.”
“I…Trace, I’m…”
“You’re what?”
I sighed, defeated. “Undisciplined.”
“What else?” Lorcan asked.
“Unfocused.”
Nods of agreement.
Jorie spoke from the side table. “I have a few opening paragraphs. When did you start me?”
I cleared my throat, took a sip of water, and stayed silent.
“Answer the question,” Rani said. “Our stories were pretty close together.”
I stayed silent.
Warr sighed. “Dina?”
Light appeared at her fingertips, and a cyclone of demons began a slow eddy around her. “Answer the question.”
“20….2015.” I said, barely whispering, but the microphone picked it up.
“Care to change your plea?” Warr asked.
“No.”
“NO?” Markis stood up, but Warr gave him a look, and he calmed back down. Markis was the most volatile among them, but he’d been through a lot, and I never resolved it.
Sora spoke from the side table. “You have research to do on my story as well as Reiko’s, because you’re outside of your own culture.”
“I did. But I’m sort of making it up as I go.”
“When was the last time you ‘did’?” Reiko asked, making air quotes for emphasis.
I took another sip of water; it didn’t matter what I said at this point. They had me; I was an imposter whether I admitted it or not.
“I’ve heard enough.” Warr said. “How many aren’t even here that you’ve left in one predicament of another? Valentine, Zola, Safyra, Hasina, Dawn, Sylva, and Kahi. All unfinished.”
“You seem to like writing women and leaving their stories unfinished.” Xantara said,     “so what is it you’re really trying to say, Imposter?”
I tried to fight the smirk, but I lost and said, “A woman needs a man to complete her.”
**************
I’m chained to a chair now, my meals slipped under the door, cold and stale. The toilet is within reach of my chains, and after turning sixty, for that I’m truly grateful.
Sleep is permissible, but no more than five hours a night or the collar shocks get increasingly painful.
My phone has been taken, and the wi-fi cut off. I’m not allowed to transcribe onto a laptop anymore, and have to write the remainder of my tales in pencil, in a legible hand, or I don’t get my ice cream.
“It’s not so wretched as all that,” I tell myself over and over again, the only break in the silence between the scratching of the pencil, and the scraping of the manual sharpener.
They keep me in candles, pencils, and blankets without bugs (most of the time).
I suppose one day I’ll finish. Maybe even before the quarantine is finally lifted, or before George R.R. Martin.
Whichever comes first.

A Place for Peace

The bright red of the painted bench seemed an act of rebellion in and of itself.
Since his discharge from the army, the prospects for his postwar success dried up like raisins in a drought. The rooms for rent grew cheaper and seedier, but never free, and a man can only descend so far.
He was down to just carrying his duffel bag, the last of his money, and the end of his rope. Swallowing the bitter pills of the last of his pride, he left the hot, dirty building for the hot, dirty streets.
Didn’t think I’d be sleeping under the stars again so soon.
*************
The city’s citizenry were increasingly uneasy with the rising homeless population.             They were less helpful, more hostile, and there were bullies and worse who thought nothing of preying on them.
Fighting over there had prepared him. Still, he was aware of every nervous tic and twitch that made him look like a shell shocked, restless bum. All too aware of every movement, and every sound.
He saw the bright red bench gleaming like a rising red sun on a green sea; there was no one around, and he decided to take a rest on it. Perhaps even a nap.
I hope the cops don’t roust me; that could end badly.

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

He  searched his duffel bag, rooting around: with his fingers he shoved the medals aside and peered into it. He still had two camouflage jackets, two journals bound with black leather covers, and a knife with a large, wicked looking blade.
He repacked the medals and threw the knife in the manmade lake.  Curious, he opened one of the journals, but it was too dark to read it clearly now.
The park was emptying as people went home to their lights, warmth, and loved ones, but he had nowhere to go.
He went back in the duffel and took out one of the jackets, placed the duffel under his head, and stretched out to sleep. Where his previous training would have had him on edge listening for sounds that meant he was a target of someone hiding in the trees, he felt no sense of danger and vulnerability now.
Sleep took him under its wing.
Through the night, the dreams and nightmares played tag.
He relived it all.

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

         The long, hot nights with working girls that gave an artful illusion of love for a few hours in smoky, perfumed places.

        Running across the killing fields, legs pumping on adrenaline as bullets tugged at the extra cloth on his uniform as he fled, the splattering of broken, busted flesh with bones poking through skin at odd angles as the man running next to him was suddenly no longer there, and he couldn’t hear his own screams or his heart hammering in fear.
     The slap and flutter of well worn cards played by small fires, and eating silently in the dark on stormy, starless nights.
     Sleep was as rare as finding an uncut diamond in plain sight, and far more precious.
     Taking stock when the skirmishes were over: the dead, the soon-to-be dead, friends, and some precious few he’d named as brothers.
     The scent of blood, the cacophonous clusters of crows, flies, and vultures.

***************
Something hit his head, jolting him; he’d fallen asleep, slipping off the bench, bumping his head.
He felt light and unburdened somehow.
He knew the dreams had been dark, but couldn’t remember them at all. Everything he recalled seemed innocent, even innocuous.
All the memories of war’s ravages were gone.
How did I get here? What am I doing here?

************
In the morning a jogger found him and called the police.
The EMT’s zipped the body bag closed as the birds began to sing and a rind of orange sun turned the night clouds shades of pink and blue.
The cops went through the duffel, saw the medals.
“All that combat,” one said, “and he gets to go out peacefully in the most quiet place in the park.”
The ME took a look at the bright red bench with an expression that got the cop’s attention, so he looked at the bench too.
“Something wrong, doc?”
“Nothing. Just, it’s not the first time it’s happened at this spot, and a lot of old veterans seem to find their way over here.”
“No kidding. Why do you think that is?”
The M.E. came out of his reverie, looked at the cop and shrugged.
“I don’t know. Guess it’s what you said yourself: it’s the quietest place in the park.”
“Makes it easier to slip away?”
The M.E. looked at the bench again, the red gathering some vibrancy in the growing, paling light, then at the midnight black body bag loaded in the back of the ambulance as the doors closed.
“To be finally at peace? Yeah, that ends all kinds of wars.”

A Kiss Within the Cup

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
and I will pledge with mine.
Leave but a kiss within the cup
and I’ll not ask for wine.

The song was one of the smaller, basic, note learning lessons as she began her piano lessons long ago, before the real beginning of her career taking root when the concert halls grew larger, and the itineraries more exotic.
But it was the words, not the music, that stuck with her.
Between concerts she’d find herself humming the melody, and at home, in her loneliness, she sang the words.
*************
Resigning herself to maiden solitude, she was surprised when love kicked in the door and a man who surrounded her with a whirlwind of love and solace entered into her life. She gladly, gratefully, let him sweep her off her feet until she found herself at the altar in a flowing white gown.
She couldn’t see the well-wishers, the priest, or even the veil for all the tears she couldn’t stop crying.
Her groom only smiled, lifted the veil, wiped them away, and sealed his vows to her lips with his own.
*************
As the day-to-day of marriage glazed over the passion of the wedding, she was sipping her tea one day when he said to her, “You always leave lipstick on the rim of your cups.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. You don’t need the lipstick, you know.”
“I suppose. I guess I’m just used to wearing it for the shows.”
“You’ve always done it, though. Champagne glasses, water bottles, everything bears the imprint of your lips.”
“Does it bother you that much?”
“It doesn’t bother me at all.”
“Then why bring it up?”
“I just find it odd, but endearing.”
She twirled the cup slowly with her fingers. “I suppose it goes back to my childhood.    There was a song I used to play when I was just learning…”
She told him the lyrics.
“A kiss within the cup?” he said, teasing.
She smiled and blushed.
He took the cup from her hand and took her in his arms.
“Make me your cup tonight,” he said.
*******************
As the concert halls got smaller, so did the money, and so did his ability to supplement them.
“No one needs me,” he said.
“I do.”
He shook his head, and she kissed him and held him as the weight of the world began its inexorable press.
************
In the polar opposite of his courting, his fading away was slow and torturous. As she cared for him she fought through her own pains as the phone stopped ringing, and time exacted its large toll in small change.
************
There were cracks in the walls that let the drafts in now.
The view of the wooded fields was dimmed by the clouds in the sky, and the cataracts in her eyes.
She heard, more than saw, the rain as it hit and streaked the filmy windows. Aware of the warm water on her own cheeks, rolling over the flaked red lipstick she’d applied to dry lips, she took a sip of her tepid tea and pressed them to the rim to leave the common mark he found so oddly endearing.
Turning her back on the dismal day to spend it with bright memories at the piano, now in dire need of tuning that would never be, she left the cup on the windowsill for him to see, pulled her robe tighter, and shuffled on slippered feet back to her loneliness.        The atonal pitches of her quavering voice filled the silence.
“….Leave but a kiss within the cup,
and I’ll not ask for wine.

The Day I was Handy

My relationship with tools can best be described as ambivalent.

I wasn’t afraid of them, but whenever they had to be used, they produced in me a sense of dread because it meant that something had to be repaired or assembled, and there was always the lingering question: Will I have parts left out when I’m done? Because that meant an improper assembly or repair, and I’d have to do it all over again.

My father was handy, and could pretty much fix anything; he handled tools with a craftsman’s concentration and confidence. He didn’t live with us, but when my mother wanted something done to our apartment and he could do it, he would.

I watched him painstakingly match wallpaper and tile so the patterns weren’t broken.

I watched him glue, wire, carve wood, spackle, grout, paint, and garden (at his place) with alacrity. I had no such confidence in my own skills to even remotely approach the quality of his work.

And then I became a Dad, and then we rented a house with a sizable yard that I was now responsible for as a man whose idea of nature was visiting Central Park and the Bronx Zoo.

Cribs, bikes, dollhouses, power outages, plumbing and car problems when there was no money to pay the tradesmen took care of those things all combined to come at me in a variety of configurations.

And so began the accumulation of hardware, of knowledge that demanded dexterity (if not speed), caution, and in time, more confidence than not. (No pieces left over! Yes!)

Those days are past me now, and the presence of my father is no longer on the earth, but the dust, dirt, and rust on my own toolbox has been hard won.

My ambivalence remains because, as I said before, it means something has gone wrong ( Aw man, a problem…)  and needs immediate attention, but I think of what my father would do, and how his legacy of excellence guides my hands. (Problem solved!)

The Four Daughters

(1)
In the high places of the heavens was a treasure house, and stored within it were dark orbs filled with vapors that formed multicolored streaks inside of them, flaring and flickering like small bolts of lightning wrapped in silvery mist.

The orbs were sacred to the gods ruling the Higher Worlds, and their children were admonished never to go inside the treasure house.

One day a lesser god, newly made and barely beyond mortal, was sent to fetch an orb for the Higher Worlds. He found it, but grew distracted by its beauty and didn’t fully shut the door as he left.

The children, whenever they played near the treasure house, always had a lookout for just such an opportunity. They would, they told themselves, only go inside to look around and not touch anything lest they get in trouble and stir their fathers to wrath.

When they entered, they tried to keep their promise, but children and orbs are meant to play; the girls took them and threw them to one another; the boys threw them at one another, and for a time, they laughed and played, but one of them missed his target.

The orb rolled outside the open door.

The children, forgetting they weren’t supposed to be there, took some of the other orbs outside to play with as well, but the orbs didn’t fall to the ground.

Delighted to see the orbs float, the children flung them up into the sky, and the orbs gained speed and whipped out of sight.
The lightning mixture within the orbs began to change: some burned with hot light, others with cool.

Some formed rings around the sphere and turned bright colors that pleased the children and made them point and ‘ohh’ and ‘ahh.’
Some of the dark orbs clustered and collected some of the bright ones, turning them as dark as they were, absorbing all their light.
Others grew pockmarked, and some let foul smelling vapors escape. Some shattered, but all of the pieces went into space, or just vanished.

Some caught fire, and some did not.

    The gods were dismayed to learn what happened, and cast spells so the far-flung jewels would stop moving. Then they casst spells that formed pinwheels from the jewels so that the winds of space could spin them, keeping them contained until the High World gods could gather them once more.

************
(2)
The four daughters of the King of gods were in the treasure house when the accident occurred. As the orbs fell and tumbled, there was one that especially stood out to them, one of a blue-green color that pleased the eye.

     The four of them, desiring it, placed their hands on it. Having held other orbs and discarded them for this one, the residue of the others were still on their hands and transferred to the blue-green sphere.

      The first one to touch saw the season of winter manifest as caps of ice and snow, formed on the top, then broke in half as one piece slid to the bottom, and the flakes of snow began to fall from her fingertips for a time, for the orb she had taken before was cold.

     The second daughter, who’d taken a hot orb she could not hold, the cool blueness became dry and brittle, and the blueness sank as grains of yellow, white, pink, and black fell from her fingers and shifted under the restless wind. The larger clusters were dark and hard, and she named them stones, and the blueness grew hot beneath her hands.

    The third had touched a warm orb, so when she placed her hands on the blue one, the green strands rapidly expanded, forming wide expanses of trees and grass, with patches of colors that grew at the end of something stouter than grass, but not as firm as trees. She named these flowers.

     Liquid had filled the fourth daughter’s first orb, so when she touched the blue one, the blue places began to move and shimmer, turning into a liquid that was clear, clean, and cool to the touch, but reflected the white, blue and green strands that had morphed into something else.
Its power moved the sand and ice, and filled the other places the sand and stones had not, and covered some of the grass, ice, and snow.

     As they strove for sole possession of the blue orb, it shook with the force of its first storms, raging across its surface.
Their father summoned them.

    The oldest daughter, taking one last look at its beauty, quickly placed the blue orb back into the spinning clusters.

*************
(3)
The following day, they went to their father and asked of him if they might make more things for the orb, and as he delighted in them, he gave them permission.
Each daughter made something for the area she had touched, but they knew they would not be allowed to pluck the orb from its place anymore.
They would have to create their items at home and take them there, so they began to work.
The fourth daughter crafted small dolls of fabric and carefully colored their faces and bodies, and so they too could play.
Her sisters laughed and applauded her cleverness, and contributed her work.

The first gave them speech.
The second gave them thoughts.
The third gave the fabric colors. “That way we can tell them apart.”
The task now completed, each one put the new figures in baskets and took their father with them to decorate the blue orb.

Placing each figure carefully in a region of their creation, the king blew on the orb, and the figures sprang to life and walked about on it. The daughters smiled and laughed to see their antics.

“Come, my daughters. You may visit the orb whenever you wish, but don’t ever move it. Only the gods must retrieve them and put them away.”

“When will that be, father?” asked the first daughter.

“I cannot say, for the orbs were many, and scattered so far; I don’t know they’ll ever bother to gather them, but as long as this stays here, you may add to it, or take from it whatever you wish.”

“What shall we name it, and the figures on it?”

“Call it Earth, and the figures, people.”

They giggled at the word ‘people,’ and another suggested, ‘human,’ which also made them giggle.

“Enough, now,” Father said. “We must return. Say farewell to Earth and its human people.”

The girls sobered, and sadly bid farewell.

But the gods have not yet come, and the Four Daughters have not visited for some time; being the daughters of a king, perhaps they’ve taken on other duties and have no more time for play.

We will have to carry on without them.

Every Star a Story

From the first people who ever sat around the first bonfire, safe in their rocky shelters, after eating and drinking, they told of their adventures of the day, and the heavens heard, taking the words, setting them alight, and flinging them far into the night sky.

Seeing that man gathered in this was a nightly ritual, the heavens came back every night to gather the words and sayings of the people, and made more light, carefully placing all they spoke into the stars, arranging them in pinwheel clusters and spinning them slowly with ponderous cosmic winds.

The stars spun and spun, getting warmer, shining brighter, and drawing closer together against the freezing clime of the infinite sky.

The heat they shared among themselves increased, and they began to hiss and spark as the speed increased, turning slowly into fire, looking for more stories to consume.

Now they light the night sky, and in so doing have stoked the fires of humanity’s imagination: How did they get up there? Why do they shine so bright?

And they made deities of the clusters, used them to mark the day and seasons, and when they set out to sea, used them again to get their boats and ships safely home, and told their children to wish on them when the lights could no longer stay in the sky, and their wishes would be granted.

As we continue to tell our stories, the stars blaze and fade until the tales consume them, and they fall.

But every story told lights another one anew.

The Writer and The Page

“Good morning, Page,” the Writer greeted the blank field of whiteness awaiting him.

“Ah, good morning, Writer. Come to challenge me again?”

The Writer smiled. “Not challenge, conquer.”

The Page returned the smile, though the Writer couldn’t see it. “A worthy, lofty goal.”

“It’s what writers do.”

“Oh? Tell me, Writer, is it worth the isolation, the distant look in the eyes of the person you’re talking to about what you’re writing, the alienation of family and friends, for the sake of justifying the most mundane of arts?”

“You think writing is mundane?”

“You don’t?”

“If I thought that, why would I do it?”

The Page smirked. “Because writers love to moan about their suffering. Dancers and painters alleviate their pain, or live with it, toting their equipment hither and yon. They don’t go on and on about it. They accept the pain as part of the price, but writers somehow always seem amazed by the cost of their craft.
“But the great ones, those artists who don’t write, embrace it. They are the ones who get remembered, the ones who last through the ages.
“Even musicians struggle with their demons, exorcising themselves through their instruments, but they’re on another level of suffering.”

The Writer found himself intrigued. “How so?”

The Page chuckled like a parent at a silly question from their child.

“When dancers have shows, they rehearse. When painters or sculptors have exhibits, they set about creating work that fill the spaces.
“Musicians? They daily spew their demons out into space, and those who hear and understand their gibbering respond to it. They’re taken along down whatever road  the music leads them, whether to perdition or redemption.

“Musicians are the eternal Pied Pipers of the times, destined to be followed even when they’d rather be alone.
“Only writers get to bemoan how real life plunders their ability to create. They say, ‘Oh well, no writing today then. I shall double my output tomorrow.’ And of course, they don’t.
“Every day they whine about their lives: children, spouses, and other family members who just don’t ‘get it.’ And my personal favorite: the pet who demands time and attention, or the kittens asleep on the keyboard.
“They act as if moving the animal is against the law! They let their creatures have their way over practicing their craft. It’s laughable.”
The Page laughed, and said when it was over, “My point is this: these are days writers don’t get back, but act as if somehow they will.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Abandon this art, take up a trade and make yourself useful. Leave the writing to those already published. You are too undisciplined, lazy, and unfocused to make this work.”

“But my English teachers all said–”

“They were wrong. They deceived you.”

The Writer sat back, catching his breath, staring at the Page, who stared back, serene, but not smug, at least not outwardly so. The Writer honestly couldn’t figure out if it really believed what it said, or was just baiting him.

He suspected the latter, but he couldn’t let it go yet. “All of them?”

The Page stayed silent, content to let the seed of doubt sink in and hit home.

The Writer poured a shot of whiskey and took it with him, getting up to look out the window.

There were lives out there. Every one unique, going to destinations and fates unknown.
His book would be a droplet in the sea, in a world where there were better disciplined, laser focused, faster writers than himself.

Maybe his teachers were wrong. Had they smiled at him and lied? ‘That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain?’
His girlfriend said she always thought he should write, but did nothing to encourage it or support him. She read the occasional snippet, and praised it, but nothing more.

The whiskey burned his throat, and his flesh heated as the alcohol suffused into his bloodstream.

He held up the glass. How many of his kind had succumbed to this weakness. Or was it a weakness? Maybe not.Did the page back then, like this one, drive the writer to defeat as they drowned themselves and their talent, shot by shot?

He went to sit back down, staring again at the white silence before him, a white silence awaiting his words, subject to his imagination, unwilling to do his ready will.

The Page’s laughter was low, deep, reverberating as if they were together in a cave, and the Writer couldn’t see it standing in the shadows, drawing its knife.

Leave me, writer. I grow weary of your presence.

The Writer drained the glass, and put it back in his desk drawer.

Don’t you want another…?
The Writer didn’t answer, flexed his wrists and fingers over the keyboard.

You have nothing. You’re fooling yourself. It’s undignified, and beneath you. Stop it, ‘writer.’ Stop it, now.

The Writer sighed, and began to type: I am a Writer, and Page is my servant. A defiant, exasperating fool of a servant, but mine nonetheless…

Liberty’s Roommate

His hospital room had a view of the Statue of Liberty.

It seemed like a twisted sort of joke, since he was bound and wired to gadgets that kept track of his vital signs, and the symbol of freedom stood there in the harbor, a deaf and blind sentinel with a false promise in her mute mouth, holding a long extinguished torch.

His nurse, Jeanette, was pretty, though, so that was something. Young, efficient, professional, eyes bright with hope.

He hoped once. Hell, he even saw the Bright Path to Promise back then, but somehow took a detour and ended up on the Dirt Road of Busted Dreams, telling himself that it wasn’t his fault, the lie dying like a gunshot victim before he spoke it.
It didn’t matter now, did it?

He was still where he was, and had to start over again, again.

It was getting to him, all this starting over.

As much as he still thought of himself as young, his eyes, knees, and nether region told him he was way beyond that now. He was slowly accepting it, but felt no obligation to do it gracefully.

People called him ‘sir’ and ‘mister’ now when he was perfectly fine being called by his name, and gave him senior discounts he didn’t ask for.

He took another look out the window to see the sun going down.
Ha! In more ways than one.
“Don’t be maudlin…” he muttered.
“Did you say something, Mister Locke?” Jeanette had come in, and he never heard her open the door.
“No. No, Jeanette, I didn’t.”
She puttered around and checked his vitals. “You okay?”
“I’m in a hospital. Does that make me okay?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean–”
He waved her off. “That’s fine. I know, I’m sorry. I’m just tired…”
“I understand.”
No, my young bright, sweet, hopeful girl,  you don’t. You can’t. Not really, and not for a long time. Hopefully, if you play your cards right, you never will.

She finished, flashed him a bright smile. “See ya later.”

“All right.”

The light from the setting sun caught the metalwork of Liberty’s torch flame, reflecting flares that looked like pennants, as if to let him know her presence in the harbor was no joke, and not to be taken lightly.

He shrugged, turned away from the window, and shuffled back to the bed, clicking the remote for the tv, a hollow laugh track filling the silence, chasing the dark thoughts with empty ones.

Freedom, huh?  

He’d enjoy it, he guessed, however limited, in the time that remained.
For now.