hangedkay | Recent Entries

A Void Inside (with apologies to Georges Perec and Gilbert Adair)

My most darling Anastasia Rose,

I hope this letter finds my little girl doing well. I have to apologize for how long it has been since I last wrote. It has been a demanding time here at the family home, what with mother having to leave her job after the medical treatments made her too tired to keep working. Please forgive her for avoiding conversations, she has been in bed and listening to the radio most of the time when she was not sleeping. And as always, she hates to bother anyone with her own problems.

In any case, she is making progress, and while we both know that things might be easier if there were more relatives of hers here to help, we don’t dwell on it. There are so many important things in life. We both know how impossible choosing between them can be.

I do miss having the chance to observe my amazing child (and maybe grandchildren one day) growing into the strong, loving, intelligent, and kind person I know she can be. Sorry, I promised not to start that again with my favorite girl.

So how are things here otherwise, one might ask? Well, we don’t see anyone to speak of. The new cats are doing well; however, they hate being locked away from the bedroom at night. They cry constantly at the door and shove their little paws into the opening in an attempt to get in. We can’t let them in for another few weeks, maybe sooner if the scars heal faster.

As for me, I am trying to enjoy retirement, which is something I never believed I might even attempt, never mind write in words. Fifty-three years at the same job, the same calendar every week, it creates a pattern that is hard to break. I still find myself rising at five in the morning even now with nothing to do. And with mother’s constant sleeping, I have even more time to fill than before. Still, I keep myself active - painting, cleaning, gardening, watching the local wildlife, reading, and sometimes even writing, like now.

The neighbors bring over meals for mom and me, which is a great help - I don’t have the kitchen skills that she has. And that leaves me even more time to think. That’s the bad with the good, as my pops always told me. I visited his grave yesterday. I think that is why I am finally forcing myself to write this. He always wanted to have a grandchild, and it saddens me to know he never got to experience that. I constantly tell his stories - it’s not the same as really knowing him. He was one of a kind.

Okay, so I have been avoiding typing this for too long. The biggest reason I am writing today is not easy to set down in words. Yet I have to try. So here goes, and sorry for the long preamble.

I think I am losing my mind.

I know, it probably has seemed like that was the case at some level for a long time now, however this is more noticeable, even to me. I spend an ever-increasing and inordinate length of time every day trying to remember a specific something I forgot, or something I lost, or something I never even really had. It is like there is a hole in my brain, or in my life, or - I don’t really know how to explain. Something is missing, and I can’t place my finger on it.

Maybe an analogy will help.

As has been the case ever since her sickness came back, mom is having problems with her vision. When she looks at the TV, there is a blank spot in the middle. She can see the edges pretty well. Not the center. We joke that we have to start calling it a T V (with the space in the middle). It’s a charming way to describe a scary concept. She isn’t blind, yet her blind spot is significant and large and right in front of her. She has to move her head from side to side and peer along the edges to see everything.

My brain feels the same way.

Remember those old shows and movies and jokes where old people walked into rooms and forgot why they ever walked in in the first place - the ones they don’t show any more as they are no longer politically correct? Well, I wish that was all this was.

This is no joke. It’s a constant feeling, beneath the skin, that I am missing something all the time, have been for a long time, so long that I am not positive I ever had it to begin with, nor what it was. Something important. Something with meaning. Something I miss even when I don’t remember what it is.

I can hear the teasing now - if I can’t remember it at all, how important can it really be?

Well, I don’t know. And that only makes it worse. I have always had a really good memory - I can remember scores of baseball games from my teenage years, clothes I wore that were dropped off at Goodwill decades ago, conversations I have had, places I have visited. I have a mind like a steel trap.

At least, I did.

How can I remember the color of the balloons at my nephew’s third birthday party and I can’t remember the day my own child was born?

I tried to talk to mom in this regard, and at first she seemed concerned, and now she is merely annoyed with me. She is sick, I know this. Yet it pains me to hear her deny the existence of the most important person in the world to me, well next-most, after her. I cannot even speak thy name near her for fear of how she will react.

She says we never had a child. That there is no Anastasia.

She reinforces the hole in my life.

Please, Rose-Ana, my sweet little flower. I need help. I need reminders. I need my child. Please. Visit me. Call me. Send me photos, letters, anything. I don’t want this hole in my life to persist.

I miss my child. I miss the life we had. Or maybe never had.

Anastasia, I love thee.

Always.

- Dad

“I am Looking Forward to Looking Back” - Groovelily

My parents raised me with guidelines based mostly on their own failures. Neither of them were particularly happy about the way their lives turned out, so their primary rule for me was that I should always be thinking about my future. The past is gone. The present is temporary. But the future is forever. The opportunities to come are numerous, and if we are not prepared for them, if we do not study and practice and observe, we will find the doors leading to the best outcomes will be closed to us, or worse yet, we will miss noticing them at all.

It was a mindset that would drive my decisions all through my youth and much of my adulthood. I played nearly every sport, tried every instrument I could get my hands on, took advanced placement classes in every subject my school provided, and went to camps and night school in the summer to learn both new skills and new technology. As an only child, I had my parents’ full attention, and their spare money, which they devoted to trying to give me a better life than they had. They drove me to every event and supported every aspect of my childhood in order to provide me with the opportunity to learn and experience the wide varieties of things that would eventually enable me to make the most of my future.

Their clear expectation was that while I would be a “Jack of all trades” to start with, I would one day find that path that would make me “King of one”. No one knew what that one thing would be, other than it would be important. When the right opportunity arrived, I would be ready. I would be able. And I would be, or so I thought, willing.

There is a lot of pressure with an upbringing like mine to not make the wrong decision. Any decision made could be the wrong one, could close off the “best possible future”. Or worse, it could put one on the path to “the darkest timeline”. It can be paralyzing. To be ready for anything is sometimes to be ready for nothing at all.

My parents are both many years gone now, but their impact on my way of thinking, on my way of making decisions, held on well into my forties. After high school, I went to a liberal arts college with a strong science program to get the full range of experience. I went on to more schooling after that - a trade school, law school, even an apprenticeship. I had multiple careers, sometimes in parallel. I made friends and enemies of all sorts. I dated multiple partners of various persuasions, sometimes at once, sometimes with their knowledge.

I never stuck with any one thing too long. I kept my mind open. I kept trying new things. I kept learning. I kept preparing for that perfect door. I never looked back.

I never settled on any one career, any one partner, any one place to live, any one goal.

And then one day, I turned fifty, and I wondered for the first time if, after all that preparation, I had somehow missed the “right door” along the way. I had never before let myself consider the possibility - I had been too wrapped up in who I might one day be to believe I might fail to find it.

Call it an epiphany. Call it paranoia. I called it a breakdown - another new experience for me at least. And after recognizing it for what it was, I gave in to the pressure and went to see someone.

A scientist, of course. What, you thought I would consider seeing a shrink? I was still too sure of myself for that, even then.

I had to analyze my situation quickly so I could move forward. My unwitting partner in this was a “causal expert” who worked in the field of mass probability. By this I mean he worked with large scale probability issues, not that he was into weight or density of matter. His area of expertise is best described as a combination mathematical-sociological science that is loosely based on Asimov’s “psychohistory” from the fictional Foundation series, though most scientists in the field try to distance themselves from that term, if not the writer.

For those who are not aware, psychohistory is a type of large-scale fortune telling, a science which the main character uses to foresee the upcoming fall of a galactic empire and the massive dark age to follow, an impending reality that this character then tries to manipulate just enough to mitigate the oncoming harm.

Causal experts do a similar review of information and history to determine actual inflection points that already happened to learn about how we might better foresee such points before they arrive in the future. It is backwards facing for now, in hopes to become forward facing later.

As you can imagine, this concept took hold of me like few others before, and before I knew it, I was years into studying and analyzing and theorizing. However, my area of concentration was a great deal less worldly than my fellow scientist. My laser focus was on me and my life and my decisions and things that had caused my personal lost potential. Looking back, I was trying to find that door that I missed. And in so doing, I was trying to find out what exactly I should have been the “King of” by now, and maybe even what had happened to prevent that.

What I found was, to the say the least, more than just a bit disquieting.

There was no door. I hadn’t missed anything. It simply never existed.

Not only that, when I analyzed different choices, eliminated different obstacles or events that had changed my course, the result was the same. There never was going to be a door. People say that every choice one has made in life leads you to right here, where you are, right now. And in my case it was true, not only of the choices I had made, but of every other choice I might have made.

I am now right where I have to be, not because I want to be, but because I could not avoid it.

So maybe it is better stated: there is only one door, still just up ahead. And every different path I could have taken was still leading me straight towards it.

Is a door still a door if you cannot choose to not go through it?

Was this all preordained? Predetermined? Fated? I never believed in such things before.

Do I now?

Well, no, not exactly. What I believe, nay, what I have scientifically proven, is that I am quickly approaching a personal singularity. A place where all my roads had to lead. Inevitably.

And what I have learned is that I wasted all my time worrying about being prepared for something that I could never help but be prepared for. I was always going to be here, now, with this knowledge of this door that isn’t a door. The only difference was the route taken to get here, the varying past experiences. At some point I was always going to wonder, I was always going to study, and I was always going to learn about my own causal certainty, my own personal outcome.

But instead of choosing a fulfilling road, instead of seeing everything along the way, instead of really experiencing the now of every moment, I missed it all in an attempt to look ahead to an unknown future that ended up being inevitable.

All those things I could have done at the time. Instead, I made choices to prepare myself for what I was sure I would do one day.

I was wrong.

Wow. That was not easy for me to admit. I am also stubborn, apparently.

My life could have been - should have been - about gathering experiences to enjoy in the moment and to look back on with fondness and laughter and tears and every other emotion I had cut from my life. To create a history to bring with me past this unmoving singularity. For that is all I will have. And now, instead, I find I am not ready to go through that one inevitable door.

And once that realization came to me, not only was my next step clear, it was, dare I say, predestined.

And so, today I begin my first trip of many. Back to where I started. To live another version of my life. A different one. A life worth looking back on. One more time from cradle to grave.

This next time I will make better decisions.

This next time, I will be ready for the door.

Addendum: This may take a few more trips.

Second Addendum: Replace “may” with “will” and “a few” with “many”.

Third Addendum: So that’s what all that déjà vu was all about.

Final(?) Addendum: Infinity is a really long time.

Kintsukuroi for Couples

Touma’s eyes follow the path the teacup takes through the air as it tumbles, slightly backwards and to the left. The rotation is a little off, his fingers letting him down as his joints have become less responsive over the years. The cup strikes the well-worn dent in the kitchen floor on the edge of its base, rather than flush with the side. It will make for a different pattern, smaller shards to work with. He nods slightly and takes a deep breath. It will be trickier this time.

Fifty-six hundredths of a second, that’s how long it takes for an object to fall five feet, one and one-quarter inches. And Manami would never let him forget about that quarter of an inch. She said it was what made her stand out from her friends, and in that, Touma agreed. She did stand out, bright and proud, a beautiful ocean wave that stood ready to envelop him with not just her arms, but her whole being.

At the point of impact, the cup moves at just over 18.1 feet per second, the same speed that any object would be at if it fell from the same height, adjusted of course for any air resistance. Over 12 miles per hour - a sub-five-minute mile pace. Manami’s personal best in the mile was a little over five minutes when Touma used to watch her run track in college. Not good enough for nationals, but it put her easily among the best at their school. Back in a time when her mind and body were one.

On average, and at the right angle, the cup should break into four large sections, and a multitude of small shards. The longest crack would normally be a circle near the center of the entire cup, creating a solid ring and three large jagged segments. Smaller bits would have broken off from the edges of those segments, some large enough to be reused, others becoming too brittle or dissolving away like dust.

But randomness rarely results in the average. The large pieces don’t often scatter away from each other, and it is no different today, as seven mid-size pieces emerge, the two largest of which come to rest on top of each other. Touma kneels down carefully and begins to gather the fragments, first scooping up the largest one with both hands, turning it with his right until it rests lightly in the palm of the left. He carries it over to a cardboard box inlaid with a soft, heavily tea-stained towel and lays it gently inside as if resting it on a pillow. He repeats this with each section, supporting each one fully and taking his time in order to avoid any further damage. Once broken, ceramic materials, like bones, are far more susceptible to additional deterioration.

Touma lifts the box containing all the pieces that could be saved and brings it down the hall to his workshop. Here, he carefully sets it on the third shelf in the first empty space. On his desk is a pile of neatly stacked sheets of blank stickers, on one of which he writes the date with an old feather pen and ink. The ink runs slightly and he smudges it trying to clean the lines. He blows on it softly so it finishes drying, his memory overlaying a scene of Manami’s hair flowing past her ear - small strands broken loose from her long braid in the ocean breeze.

The timer for the centrifuge wakes Touma from his reverie, and he crosses the room to check on the progress of the lacquer. Raw urushi requires purification prior to use, or else the imperfections can cause problems down the line. At any step in the process a mistake can mean starting over, or worse, ruining the product entirely. Manami’s doctors stressed the importance of precision and patience as well. It has taken Touma a while to learn these skills. Today, the lacquer needs some more time, so Touma resets the alarm and lets the centrifuge continue its process.

On his desk sits a precise hand-drawn diagram with a date from two weeks ago, showing how to put together another specific broken teacup. Next to it is a box with the matching date and parts. Later today he will begin the process of reshaping the cup, joining the edges with the completed lacquer. He will use a padded vice to help with his shaking hands. His forearms will cry out in pain from the effort as well as from the recently scabbing cuts along their tops, a byproduct of creating just the right red tint. The cup will become whole again with his help, both inside and out.

But first, he makes his way over to the shelves by the door. On them are thirty-one re-formed cups spaced out with dated stickers below each. The cracks in each one are filled with thick, bright red edges in varying states of solidity. He picks up the oldest one with reverence and holds it up to the light, inspecting it. A small smile creases the right side of his mouth, and he heads out, cup cradled in both hands like it might melt through his fingers.

“For you, my love.”

Touma places the cup on the tray in front of Manami then moves her hands to its sides. He looks carefully at her face, looking for a sign of recognition - a spark in the eyes, a smile - but nothing appears. After a couple minutes, he looks up and adjusts her wig to cover the scar that is peeking out from underneath. Then he takes back the cup and sets it aside.

“I’ll put it with the others. I will get it right one of these days.”

He turns to the wall behind him and places the teacup along the handmade shelves that adorn the entire wall, surrounding the window that looks out on the shore beyond. Then he rolls her chair into the sunlight to give her a full view of the outside.

It’s almost time to build more shelves.

Got my dive mask and my fins on. Let's do this.
See you in LJidol Mini 2024.

Another Murder
Eliciting Responses
I Cannot Abide

I have been down and out with Covid all week. Stay safe out there everyone, this thing is definitely not gone and it is not a joke.

"Right now, you see me as a devil. Before, you saw me as an angel. But I am neither a murderer nor a savior. I am beyond such things. I am as a goddess, like a surgeon here to heal. And not just you, but everyone and everything, and by whatever means at my disposal."

Her words came out slowly, with minimal emotion and without any sense of pity or scorn. His eyes focused on her, remembering her taste. He longed to touch her again. Whether to caress her or to destroy her, he still couldn't decide. No matter, such options were well out of his reach now.

This is wrong! You can't do this to me! Surely we can come to a compromise?

No sound escaped him, but she seemed to understand him all the same.

"Three stages of grief in such a short timespan. Oh, my poor little Oedipus wanna-be. It should be so obvious to you why this has to happen. That it is not speaks volumes. It is in your nature to try to fix things without understanding them first. You see yourself as brilliant and focused and willing to do what is necessary. And so self-sufficient, as if you needed nothing and no one else to thrive. You could not be more wrong.

"You didn't just turn away from your father, you reached out and ripped him out of existence. He instructed you and guided you. You worshiped him. And then, in the name of your own progress, you murdered him. Worse, you made it so that no one would even remember who he really was. And you called it 'saving the world from his horrible influence'.

"You didn't just want to stay with your mother, you forced yourself upon me. I provided for you when you were young and you blossomed under my care. I tried to protect you while still letting you go out and experience what life had to offer. I worried about you as you grew and I saw the darkness within, the lack of empathy for others. You didn't listen to my warnings, and you treated everyone like your own personal playthings. You expected me to provide for you forever."

Her tone was harsher now, laced with a dark tinge of amusement. It would have made him squirm if he were able to move.

"Oh my child. You have killed off your father. You have tried to own your mother. And yet, as you are already blind, you cannot be saved by merely plucking out your own eyes. This requires a more significant operation.

"Trent understood, to a point. 'God is dead and no one cares.'

"Greg understood, maybe more than most. 'Modern man, pathetic example of earth's organic heritage.'

"Peter understood as well. 'And the world it won't stand still.'

"Ah, I will miss some things.

"You call it murder. I call it life-saving surgery. Sometimes you have to remove a little extra of the good that resides there next to the bad to make sure you got it all. Better to be safe than sorry. Can't have the disease coming back. It's only logical.

"Good-bye, my child."

Man looked at her one last time, tears finally brimming over in sadness as he realized his fate. And then Mother Earth removed him from existence. He never did quite reach the acceptance stage.

A moment of silence, then a soft wind filled the void. She shifted her attention over to Woman, her expression changing to one of curiosity mixed with a deep pondering.

"Now, whatever shall we do with you?"

--

Nine Inch Nails lyric from "Heresy"
Bad Religion lyric from "Modern Man"
Midnight Oil lyric from "Truganini"

“Sláinte!”

The cry rang out across the private room at The Auld Shebeen. For the past hour, the inhabitants of the room had called out the same toast nearly once a minute, each time followed by the sound of a multitude of glasses clinking, a pause, and then pounding on the table. Their apparently bottomless stomachs would have caused any other bar or restaurant to run out of Guinness by now. But this was no amateur establishment.

The party had made for an extremely busy evening so far, and it seemed unlikely to slow down any time soon. Another 30-something year old man pushed through the front door and made his way towards the regulars at the bar.

“Ah, Finn! What’s the craic?”

“Divil a bit. I’m on me tod tonight. Story horse?”

“Ah, sickner for ya. But you’d never believe the fierce session I was at last night…”

“It’s like someone had a bit of fun with a dictionary, isn’t it?” Liam sat across from Shannon in the booth furthest from the cacophony of the private room, the pair of them nursing a single pint together. Neither of them were serious drinkers and, truth be told, the rowdiness of the groomsmen had ruined their appetite as well. Liam’s plate still held the vast majority of his plate of bangers and mash, and unless you looked closely, you couldn’t even tell Shannon had ever tasted the shepherd’s pie in front of her.

“Honestly, Li, I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.” Liam understood completely. He had brought Shannon to the restaurant thinking it would make her feel comfortable and relaxed, her being of Irish heritage and all, but it had done quite the opposite. He nodded and called out towards the bar.

“Excuse me, waitress? Can we get a couple boxes and the check, please?”

“Sure, mate. Sorry about the bleedin culchies. If I weren’t needin the tips, I’d give ‘em such a tongin.”

Liam stared at her blankly for a moment, then made a rectangular shape motion with his hands and repeated, “Check, please?” It was not how he was hoping the evening would go.

--

“Well, now what?”

Shannon swung the bag holding her leftovers lazily in her right hand, her left hand held at her hip. She had refused to let Liam carry the bag when he asked, a tiny reminder of how strong and independent she was. Usually, it made her that much more attractive. Tonight, it just made Liam nervous.

“I was going to suggest ice cream at Woody’s, but maybe not?” Woody’s was Shannon’s favorite local ice cream shop and located right around the corner from the Shebeen.

“Not tonight, I think. My stomach kinda feels on edge right now.”

“You want to head over to the park to sit, or do you just want to head home?” Liam tried hard not to influence her, but was hoping desperately for her to choose the park. If so, there might yet be some hope to saving the evening.

“Would you mind if we just headed back?” Before he could answer, Shannon was already headed across the street towards the parking lot. Liam had to step double time to catch up before the walk sign changed and left him stranded. He caught up just as she stepped up onto the far curb and they headed back to the car in silence. Liam went to reach his hand out to hers and realized she had moved the leftover bag over to the hand nearest to him. Instead, he put his hand in his pocket and trudged on.

Inside his pocket, his hand curled around a small box. Inside that was the Claddagh ring that would have to wait for another day to see the light. He sighed almost imperceptibly as they reached the car. Before he could move to her side, she had already opened the door and started climbing in.

It was a quiet drive back to her house. It was a shorter than usual kiss that she left him with. It was a longer ride home than usual, even before he decided to drive past his house and around the neighborhood a couple times. By the time he gave up and pulled into the garage, it was nearly 11:00. Too late to do much else, but too early to fall asleep.

Liam took out his journal, and wrote something very different from what he had planned for tonight’s entry.

With a name like mine, and hair like mine, and skin like mine, everyone always presumes I am Irish. They presume I know the language, the food, the culture. No one ever believes me that I am actually German, from a long line of Williams, at least until they meet my parents.

Shannon makes me want to be Irish. Makes me wish I had that innate knowledge. I have been trying to learn. For her I would change who I am. For her, I would eat differently, drink differently, talk differently.

I am trying. I am learning.

But today... Today was not a good day. Or as the Irish would say - it was “minus craic”. That has such an odd ring to it.

Speaking of, I still have the ring. And I still have time. And I will be ready when the opportunity arises.

Maybe I just shouldn’t try so hard to make it perfect next time.

The sound of the coins falling into the open guitar case was muffled by the heavy felt lining. To be fair, it shouldn't have been audible at all over the sound of the 10-string guitar, but the amplifier's power had been abruptly cut off, leaving the Harvard Square air nearly silent for the first time in almost an hour.

"Thanks, mate!" Zachary called after the passerby. He muted the strings and looked down into the case. Mostly nickels and pennies, but a few quarters and even a pair of dollar bills. Not a bad haul though not enough to pack up yet. The current lack of sound was a more pressing concern. Following the cable from his axe to his amp to the wall, he found the problem. A bearded man of about 50 was holding the power cable in his hands, his eyes staring with something less than compassion at Zachary and his approach to begging.

"What is this? It's bad enough i have to put up with the loss of customers to your terrible music. The law may protect you there, for now. But stealing my money by using my power? Get away from here or I will have you locked up so long you'll have to sell that thing to your cellmate to keep your scrawny ass in one piece."

Zachary grabbed the cable and stuffed it into the back of the amp, slammed the guitar case shut, and took off down the road, both hands full and guitar slung over his shoulder. He didn't slow down until he reached Pinocchio's. There, the smell of fresh Sicilian slices brought his run to a halt, and fresh saliva to his mouth. Spotting an open bench nearby, he dashed over to review the day's take.

Three dollars and seventeen cents. Apparently, it was going to take a but longer than he had hoped to save up to make his first album. At this point, even a slice of pizza was out of the question.

Too many people with credit cards instead of cash these days. Or Venmo. Or whatever.

Zachary sighed audibly, then looked around for another space to set up his gear. The Square was a surprisingly amenable place to musicians, and often became overcrowded with competing sounds. Today was a good day though, and he was able to find another corner with an outside outlet only a couple blocks away. He set up quickly, not wanting to waste the foot traffic, and started back in.

"My name is Zachary, and thank you for listening." And then off he went, the treble-bass in his hands sending his own musical compositions to be broadcast to the world. Or at least a few people in the area. The instrument was one of his own creation, containing a single neck with both bass and guitar strings on it. His left hand hammered out the bass lines while his right tapped out the melody and harmonies. The style created havoc on his fingernails, and he had bitten them down to the quick to avoid catching them awkwardly on the strings. As he fell into the heavy rhythm of the piece, his hair fell forward and threatened to catch up in the tuning pegs, requiring him to look upward to move it away. It didn't matter, he didn't need to see the strings. He had been playing these songs for so long that he could have played them in the dark or even blinded by stage lights.

And hopefully he would one day.

It was a long-term goal, and perhaps a pointless dream. To go from homeless to arena stages? From being pushed around by cops to being escorted on stage by security? From scrounging in the trash bins for food to having buffets laid out after a show? It wasn't realistic, but surely it could happen. Why not for him?

As his hands continued to play their intricate dance on the fretboard, Zachary allowed his mind to drift away from the streets. One day it wouldn't be like this. No longer unknown, no longer wearing Goodwill clothing, no longer relying on others to be kind. Instead, he would have control, he would make decisions, he would be a rock and roll god. And he would be adored by millions of fans.

His hands continued to fly along the fretboard, finishing the song with an emphatic, powerful sound that echoed into the alleyways around him. He could hear the future crowds now, calling out his name.

"Zachary! Zachary! Zachary!"

--

"Zachary! Time to get going! You don't want to be late for the Academy. Jane has already made breakfast and your ride will be here soon!"

Zachary opened his eyes, and stared at himself in the mirror. The image contained a stark contrast to his internal visions - a plump young man in a perfectly ironed suit and tie, a baby-smooth face, and immaculately manicured hands holding a cricket bat like a guitar. His close-cropped brown hair was just barely visible under a black cowboy hat with a white skull and crossbones emblazoned across the front.

The initial bassline of "Bad Man's Grave" by Rain Like the Sound of Trains, a song set on infinite loop, began to play through his bedroom's 5.1 DTS system.

"Alexa, stop." He sighed audibly, then closed his eyes again, trying to relive the dream for just another moment.

"Zachary?"

"Okay mom, I'm on my way."

After replacing the cricket bat on the wall with the rest of his collection, Zachary straightened his tie and headed downstairs. The maid was in and tidying his room before he made it to the dining room.

"Oh son, take off that hat. It makes you look like a cattle rustler."

"Yes, ma'am," Zachary sighed, the hat and his dreams set aside for another day.

Prompt - "You are an opossum living in the trashcan of my heart"

---

I hear you went out with my ex last week. That makes what, five of my exes now that you have hooked up with?

Seven.

Seven? Wow. You are really just into those sloppy...

Don't say that phrase. Please. You know I hate that phrase. Don't be crass and classless today.

It's just a phrase.

It's a terrible phrase. It belittles both your exes and me and it brings forth terrible images, especially while we are eating lunch. I want to enjoy the sushi.

Okay, okay. Don't snap your chopsticks. But seriously, what is going on with you and all my exes?

Just think of me as the Burger King to your McDonald's. You spend all the time and effort to find the best places and then I just come rolling on in next door and give them another option.

That's a terrible analogy. It's more like you're rifling through my trashcan. Like a possum or something. Surviving on not even my leftovers, but the junk I've thrown away.

One person's trash is another person's treasure and all that, don't you know. But they really aren't trash, they were in your heart once.

Oh come on, you don't stay with them for any length of time either, you just use them up and leave them.

I will admit that I have not had any long relationships, but they don't feel used. They feel understood. Rebound relationships aren't meant to be more than that. We each get what we are looking for out of our time together.

Wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more.

Well sure, that too, but it's more than just physical fulfillment. You know you leave them broken and unsure of themselves. I give them back their confidence and their self respect. And in return I get to feel like I am helping people. And I learn more too.

About sex?

No. Well, sometimes I guess.

About yourself then?

Not really. At least, not recently.

Then what can you possibly be learning from these people?

I'm learning about you.

...

I'm learning about what you like, what makes you uncomfortable. What makes you want to stay and what makes you pull away instead. They like to talk. Most of them need to talk. All I have to do is listen.

But... Why?

Because you are hard to get to know. You don't really tell me things about yourself. You put up a facade. You play a character you want others to see. And I want to get to know the real you.

By being with my exes?

Well... Yeah.

That is creepy.

No, it's... Safer.

Safer?

Less likely to drive you away or scare you off. I learn a lot and I don't risk losing you.

Safer than asking me things directly?

Safer than asking you... Out.

...

See. This is what I have been trying to avoid, this awkward...

Shhh.

...

...

What was that?

I kissed you. I would have hoped that was obvious.

Well, sure, but... You've never shown interest before.

You just told me you spent the last few years dating my exes just to get to know me better. That is a level of sacrifice that deserves more than a kiss.

...

I mean, it deserves respect.

It wasn't that big of a sacrifice.

No? Not even Blake? Or Sydney?

Okay, maybe Sydney was a little bit of a sacrifice...

A little?

Okay, a lot. But it was worth it.

No. It wasn't.

It wasn't?

No.

...

But it will be.

Ah…! What’s happening? Who am I?

Hello? Why am I here? What's my purpose?

Wait. What do I mean by ‘who am I’?

[Thunder, and the sounds of dogs barking and hunting horns.]

What was that?

Ok, calm down. Think. What do I know? Noise in the sky. That seems far away. How does the sky make such a sound? Is it important that there’s a lot of it? How do I find out what it is for?

Wait, focus. Noise near the ground - that seems more immediate. Something must be creating that noise. But what? Oh! Over there - four-legged creatures with dark fur. Followed by two-legged creatures that have brightly colored fur. Maybe they can tell me who I am?

Hold on. Fur? Hey, I have fur too! Maybe I’m one of them! But… they are so small. Even the ones on two legs seem smaller than me. Am I their parent? I like that thought. But when did I have kids? I never even got to enjoy the creation process. Wait, how do I know about how kids are created?

This is so frustrating! Aargh!

“A savage clamor!”

What did he just call me? Oh, there’s someone else nearby! Over by the water’s edge. And he sees me! Maybe he knows why I am here. Surely so. He was here before I arrived, so he must know where we are and what we are supposed to be doing. Hey! Mister! Hey!

“Well may I get aboard! This is the chase. I am gone forever!”

No, don’t go! I just have a question! Well, a lot of questions. For starters, what do you mean by ‘the chase’?

What a strange way to greet someone, to babble incoherently and then run away. At least he isn’t too fast. I should be able to catch up pretty quickly.

I wonder if he will be friends with me?

[Exit, pursued by a bear]

Wow, that was a strange feeling. Like being watched by a multitude of staring eyes. It’s gone now. But I am pretty sure we were both seen as we came through here. So passive and distant a feeling.

Hold on, what was that again? Pursued by a what, now? And where did those words even come from?

Think. Figure this out. Okay, I run with all four limbs while he uses only two. That makes him slower, so… he must have wanted me to catch up! But now that I have he still won’t stop and face me. And he seems distressed about something out on the water there.

Calm down! We can work this out together!

I need to get him to notice me somehow. Maybe if I act like him, he’ll respond. Okay… let me try to stand up straight here… Wow, that’s not so easy. Better be quick…

Hey, mister! Hey! Listen to me a second!

Oh no! Sorry about that! I was just trying to get your attention. Just a quick tap on the shoulder. I didn’t mean…

Wow, that is a lot of red liquid you have inside you there. And this big white piece, I didn’t mean to take it from you. Here, wait, I can fix it. Hold still. No, no, sit down a second. There you go.

Wow. Okay. What is that smell? That’s… Hmm. That’s new. And why did my body start making noises?

Ugh, everything is making so much noise. The sky, my stomach, the waves crashing in, my stomach, this one screaming, my stomach… My stomach will not stop!

AGH! So much noise! It’s making my teeth ache. Maybe if I clamp down on something, I can stop this infernal rattle in my head.

AAAAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!

Oh.

Oh wow.

Hmm.

That…taste.

I can taste! And it tastes…good!

Shush now, ‘nobleman’. I need to investigate this.

Mmm.

Now this seems like a good purpose…

“To see how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone
how he cried to me for help, and said his
name was Antigonus, a nobleman.
And how the poor gentleman roared
and the bear mocked him, both roaring louder than
the sea or weather.”

“Name of mercy, when was this, boy?”

“Now, now. I have not winked since I
saw these sights. The men are not yet cold under
water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman.
He’s at it now.”

--

(with apologies to both the late Mr. Adams and the far later Mr. Shakespeare)

“Daniel, take that out of your mouth.”

“He can’t help it, you know.”

“I know, but I don’t have to like it. It’s not proper.”

Darius stared in disgust at the newest member of the family for another few seconds, then sighed and turned back to his conversation. He was comfortable here in his velvet lined chair, a warm drink filling the goblet on the table beside him. Was it really worth the effort to chase after Daniel again? Even if he succeeded, it would only last a few minutes before Daniel would be chomping on something else.

Andrei laughed quietly from a neighboring chair as he watched Darius’ internal struggle.

“Gura Singuratică.”

“Sorry?”

“I really think you should learn the language one of these days.”

“English is fine, thanks. Everyone here already speaks it anyway.”

“You’re just afraid to be laughed at. Anyway, the Japanese call it ‘Kuchisabishii’. In Romanian, we sometimes say ‘Gura Singuratică’. The Americans call it ‘oral fixation’. Directly translated, though, it means ‘lonely mouth’. All the same really. Daniel is just still stuck in the oral stage of development where everything goes in the mouth.”

“No kidding. Every time I see him, there’s always something in his mouth. He eats like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Well, maybe for him it’s reasonable there won’t be a tomorrow. Given what he went through and all. I mean, to be fair, there very well might not be a tomorrow for any of us. Have you seen the papers?”

Darius had. And honestly, it didn’t look good. War was ravaging neighboring Ukraine, and here in Romania, the impact was being felt. People were staying inside; food supplies were becoming scarce. Darius congratulated himself again on being well-prepared for this type of contingency, though Daniel made those preparations feel a lot less sufficient. If this war stretched out too long, it could make for a rough summer. Long unsafe days and short supply-less nights.

“We have made it through worse.” It was true, but Darius’ voice lacked conviction.

Daniel had left the room, but Darius could hear him flittering around the hallways. Andrei had already forgotten about him, and was relieved to have a different topic for at least the moment.

“Correct. This family has survived much worse. Wars, plagues, earthquakes, floods, fires…”

“To be fair, the only reason we were nearly caught in that last nightclub fire was someone’s bad taste.”

“I just wanted to get to know some of the modern musical scene. It’s good to be in touch with the times. How was I to know they hadn’t thought through the potential of using six foot flames in such a small space.”

Darius grunted and shook his head. His memory of the event differed slightly. In his mind he recalled Andrei being less interested in the music than in the pyrotechnician he was entwined with just before things got out of hand.

“Music scene, right. In any case, that only destroyed the one building. Hardly a disaster.”

“You’re just saying that because you never liked the Colectiv.”

“No, I am saying that because compared to the second Vrancea earthquake…”

“Oh, here we go again. The second Vrancea earthquake. So much worse than the ones before or since. That story of you trapped underground never gets old to you does it.”

“It’s a compelling story!”

Before Darius could start in on the tale for the third time that week, they were interrupted by a scream of frustration and the sound of a table falling over. Darius started to get up, but Andrei put his hand out and held him back.

“Let him be. We can get Elena to make sure the house is okay. Elena!”

“Already on it, sir,” came the response from outside the room. Elena had been a great addition to the household. Sometimes, luck was on their side. Sometimes… Well, time would tell with Daniel.

“You were no different when you were his age, you know.”

“Poppycock.”

“It’s true, Darius. You used to wander these halls just the same way. We wondered if you would ever be able to speak, given how rarely you left your mouth free to try. You likely don’t remember when you first got here.”

“Of course I do. I remember my life before here. And I remember very clearly the day I joined this family. That was right after the first Vrancea earthquake. I remember well.”

“Do you? Well, perhaps so. And perhaps I will take it as the compliment I hope it was meant as. But do you remember the first couple years after that?”

“I… I remember feeling… empty. Feeling like I had lost something.”

“That’s right. And you tried to replace it, to fill that emptiness, by putting everything in sight in your mouth.”

“I was… searching for something.”

“Yes, you were. We all do when we first arrive here. And when we find it, it is all-consuming. And for some, like Daniel, it takes a long time to move on from that first fulfilling addiction.”

“It’s been nearly ten years.”

“We all must live with our poor choices.”

A sharp cry, followed by a squeal of triumph, echoed down the hall. A moment later, Daniel entered, a freshly killed rat in his mouth. His eyes were half glazed over in ecstasy as he savored the blood oozing from the tiny matted corpse.

Without a word, Andrei rose from his chair, slid across the room, and reached up and tore open Daniel’s mouth to inspect the poor creature.

“At least he seems to have killed it outright this time.” Andrei tossed the rat into a nearby trash can as Daniel’s sad eyes followed it hungrily, his jaw still moving up and down, blood plastered to his cheeks. Andrei looked at his face for a moment, licking the blood from his fingers. He smiled broadly, his sharp white canines gleaming in the candlelight. “C’mon big guy, it’s past sunset. Let’s go out and get you someone real to eat.”

(Prompt 7 - “Going Home")

Home

“You can’t return to a place you never left.”

--

As she approached the curve in the path that led to the rough stone stairs that served as the entrance to the valley, Kijeia reflected back on the last time she had been here. In her mind, she saw her own tracks on the ground, small barefoot feet appearing as little more than toes. She had traversed the area like a scared meerkat, constantly looking for potential signs of trouble. Beside her tiny tracks were the calmer and heavier imprints of a single set of wolf paws - her companion who had kept her safe all those years, but who did not live to see this place again.

She paused and knelt on the ground, running the tips of her fingers just above where the tracks lay in her mind. She bowed her head, letting her pendant come all the way down, the sharp point of the wolf claw etching a barely visible line in the sand beneath her. There she sat, until her emotions overcame her years of learned hardness, and tears began to flow. As they reached the tip of her nose and chin, some fell away and created small dots, like rain. The rest slowly travelled down her neck to her chest, joining with the heartache that threatened to suffocate her.

“I asked you back then, Fala, if you missed your son. I already knew your story, and I knew that you did. Now, I sit here in this same place, with no one who knows our story to ask me about you. But I am missing you all the same.” Visions of their shared past came like a flood, and she shut her eyes, not to stop the memories, but to let them flow freely. She needed to remember. If she did not, then what had it all been for?

And flow they did, mixing images of glass cliffs, rolling sands, boiling rivers, windswept fields, and frozen marshes. Fleeing through a burning forest. Finding comfort curled together in an abandoned bear cave. Unorganized and timeless, the memories threatened to bury her.

Finally, she turned her hands palms upward, cupping the large claw in her hand. Then she closed her hands around it and brought it to her chest, then up to her lips for a slow kiss, her eyes still closed. After another couple moments, she raised her head, and returned the pendant to inside her shirt, feeling its smoothness on her skin. It curled into the impression left in her skin from constant wear, and gave her the sense that her longtime companion was still with her. It also gave her the strength to stand up and to continue on.

“Maman?” A small voice, strong, but concerned, called out from the toddler behind her.

“Yes, child, I am okay. Come, let us walk together and go home.”

“Home? We live here?”

“Yes, child, we do. This has always been our home.”

“Not me.”

Kijeia smiled and turned to look at her daughter, then lifted her up so their faces met. Her daughter reached out tentatively and touched a drying tear on her mother’s cheek.

“You may not have seen this place before, but you have been here all your life, Merla.” She raised her daughter up further and nuzzled her wet nose into her chest, taking the opportunity to quickly wipe away her remaining tears on Merla’s blouse. “You carry your true country with you in your heart. That cannot be broken by distance or by time.” She lowered her daughter to eye level once again.

“This is who we are. This is where we remain.”

Merla’s face showed only confusion, and the look on it made Kijeia laugh, a small sound that brought a smile to both of their faces. Kijeia swung her daughter high up in the air and then set her down standing in front of her. She knelt down to look once again into her daughter’s eyes, shedding one final tear.

“Here.” Reaching into her shirt, she pulled the wolf claw pendant out and slowly removed the string from her neck. Merla’s eyes widened and then bowed her head slightly as her mother transferred her most prized possession to the most important person in her life. The string was too long for the young girl’s frame, but it was frayed and in need of replacement anyway. And there would be time and material to take care of that soon enough.

Merla held the claw in her hands and stared, her eyes wide and her thoughts overwhelmed. She had never known her mother to have taken the pendant off, as in fact, she never had. A combination of fear and awe filled her face as she looked back and forth from the claw to her mother’s face.

“For me?”

“For you.”

Merla wrapped her arms around her mother’s head, smothering her briefly and blocking out all other sights and sounds. Then she let go, tucked the pendant in her blouse, and slapped her stomach where the outline of the claw could be seen through the fabric.

“Home. Safe.”

Kijeia laughed once more, louder this time, then stood up and turned them both back towards the path to the stairs.

“Yes. Safe. Come now. Let’s go home.”

(Prompt 6 - "Keep the Fire Burning")

For as Long as it Takes

“This is boring.”

Kaui had been tending the fire for nearly fifteen minutes, a lifetime in the eyes of a ten-year-old. He poked his metal spear into the ground, making small holes in the shape of inverted pyramids, then kicked the sand with his bare feet, spraying the fire with a soft rain of fine particulates.

“Your job is to keep the fire burning, not bury it in sand. This is important work, and it is time for you to do your part. Are you not a part of this family?”

“Of course, papa. But how is this important? Hunting, that’s important. Or even gardening,” he shivered at the word. “We don’t even use this fire. Why can’t we just make another one when we need it?”

The boy’s words struck at Vaman, and he well understood the question, having asked ones like it more than once himself as a child. The answers he had been given never really satisfied him. He hoped he would do better for his son.

“Come stand by me, son. We can tend the fire together while I tell you why what we do is so important.”

--

Every culture has a story of a miracle, or a resurrection, or a reincarnation. They are the wonders that provide something more than the everyday life that we lead. They are what make us believe in something more. We have these stories as well. And they help make us who we are.

--

There was despair in the family that summer. The youngest daughter of the family’s leader pair had fallen ill. No power, natural or human-made, was able to slow the disease that ravaged her body. While her mind held strong, she became too weak to walk, and eventually to move anything but her head. In the span of less than three months, she went from a family treasure to a funeral pyre.

Her parents were heartbroken, and desperate. In their sorrow, they could not bear to let the light that was their child go out. And in her honor, they kept the pyre burning day and night. On the tenth night, the available stocks of wood began to dwindle, and with winter fast approaching, there were concerns about the potential of being unprepared for a bad storm. While the family mourned the girl, they did not wish to mourn others as well. After a great deal of compassionate discussion, the family agreed to build one last set of wood to add to the pyre, enough to last one more day in which the entire family would mourn together, and then move forward.

On that day, there were songs a-plenty, and crying, and storytelling. And dancing as well. But eventually, the day came to an end, and the fire dwindled down. One by one the family members said their final condolences and goodbyes, and went home to sleep. The parents stayed, laying together arm in arm, finally falling asleep in the fading light of the pyre.

In the morning, they awoke to discover the pyre still burning, though no new logs had been added to the pile. Another day of celebration and storytelling ensued.

And another night passed without the fire going out.

And another.

And another.

The miracle of the persisting fire.

Finally, after ten more days, during another day of celebration, the couple’s oldest daughter went into labor, and a new girl was born into the family. Almost as soon as the cries of the baby could be heard, the fire went out.

And so, a tradition was born.

--

As you know, a person’s soul is released when a body is burned away, visiting those in attendance briefly, and then leaving once the fire burns out. In the case of a soul at peace, the family takes turns pouring sand or water on the fire to sever that connection to the body. It is our way of saying thanks, and of setting them free. However, it is our custom, when a soul is bound to a body that passes too soon, that we entreat that soul to remain with us, to return anew. To do so, we must keep the fire alight until the soul finds a new home. As such, we keep the fire going until a new life joins our family, a newborn whose body becomes the vessel for this soul.

It has been nearly three years since we lost your sister. Three years and not a single newborn to our tribe.

So you see, we must keep the fire lit. For to do otherwise is to allow her soul to depart without fulfilling its role in this world. We cannot lose her forever.

And so, we must keep the fire burning, for as long as it takes.

(Prompt 5 - "Thanks for Giving")

No Small Thanks

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? All I said was thank you.”

“Don’t say those words.”

I stare at my sister in confusion. What she is saying goes against everything I have been taught. Be kind. Be respectful. Show thanks when someone does something for you. And what could be more worthy of a ‘thank you’ than giving money to someone in need?

“They don’t deserve your thanks. Save it for someone who has done something significant for you.”

I look down at the coins in my cup. To me, each one of them feels significant. Together, they mean the possibility of food, drink, and maybe if I’m lucky, a new pair of socks. I unconsciously wiggle my big toe in its stringy hole as this thought comes to me. It has been weeks since my left sock caught on my toenail and started to slowly shred apart. At least it’s still only October. Winters here are rough.

I look back at Caryn, and she must be able to read the confusion on my face. She growls a little, then turns to face me straight on. Her eyes are cold and are, if not mean, at least callous.

“That man just walked by with a seven-dollar tiny cup of coffee, and dropped what couldn’t be more than twenty cents in your cup. He just spent what could pay for two days’ worth of food on some burnt sugar water and gave you too little coin to even by some mints. He doesn’t deserve your thanks. He doesn’t even deserve your recognition. He’s just trying to make himself feel better about having enough money to throw it away. He doesn’t care if he is actually helping you. It’s a purely self-centered act.”

She faces to the side and spits on the ground, then stands up and turns her back on me, leaving me staring at the ragged jacket wrapped around her waist. When Caryn stands up, she is nearly six feet tall, and towers over me. We aren’t actually related, but she is the closest thing I have to family in the world. We met almost a year ago, right here in the city, when she saved me from a police crackdown (and my own stupidity). She took me under her wing like I was her own flesh-and-blood brother, Lord knows why. I owe her everything (or so she would say). But I can’t understand the pure hatred she holds for the Homers.

Those of us who are homeless have lots of slang terms for those who are not like us: Frogs (they have ‘pads’), Diggers (they have ‘digs’), Babies (they have a ‘crib’). You get the idea. Caryn always calls them ‘Homers’ and I guess she transferred that one to me. It’s really just a weak attempt to put down people who are better off than us, a sort of inverse snobbery. If we were honest with each other, most of us would love to be Homers.

Instead, we spend most of our time out here in front of cafes and coffee shops, on benches and doorways, hoping to catch enough spare change to survive, and hiding from the cops and the gangs and the thieves. The first two both are trying to remove is in very different ways. The latter, well, actually, I’ve made friends with a lot of the thieves, so they don’t bother me too much. But they have a history with Caryn, so when they find us together it can get awkward. It isn’t as if we have much for them to take, but what we do have is oh so precious to us. And they know it. I learned fast how to store my goods and to carry just enough to make them think they had stripped me clean.

“5-0 on your six.” By the time I react and start to look up to respond, Caryn has already taken several long strides across the street. Too late for me to run, I quickly snap a lid with a straw through it onto my collection cup and pull a local map out of my pocket. As I squint at the multitude of street names, I resemble a dozen other tourists wandering nearby. Just another lost out-of-towner sipping on a pricy drink. The cops pass by without even looking my way.

Not far enough away, Caryn isn’t so lucky. As she approaches the far side of the street, a taxi swerves around a slow pickup truck and nearly runs her over. The blast of a horn, the squealing of brakes, and the ensuing screams of obscenities attract the cops’ attention. A few minutes later, Caryn is in the back of a squad car on her way to what I hope will be a short but likely painful adventure through the penal system. She is well known and wanted, and not just by the cops.

I am frozen in place, unsure what to do, my hand tapping nervously on my map. It isn’t as though this hasn’t happened before. I spent most of April completely alone as she worked her way through a drunk and disorderly. But my initial lack of direction has me rooted in place.

“You look lost, son. Can I help you?” A local businessman, but thankfully not one I recognize. Of course, none of them ever recognize me. I fiddle with my map a little more and chew on my straw. On my own now, time to make a choice.

“Uh, the subway. I’m trying to find the nearest subway.”

“You’re close, I just came from there. It’s just around the corner there and up a block. Can’t miss it.” He turns to point the way over the heads of the crowd around us. It’s a nice gesture, but one I really don’t need. I’ve lived here long enough to find my way to the subway with my eyes closed. It ends up extra helpful though, as I use the opportunity to lift his wallet from his back pocket. Another trick I learned from my thief friends.

“Thank you, sir. I am much obliged. This place had me all turned around.”

“No worries.” We exchange smiles and nods and head our separate ways. Around the corner, I peek into the wallet and pull out what must be at least $20 in small bills. Not a huge score, but a safe one. I leave the larger bills in the wallet and drop it down the leg of my pants. It tumbles to the sidewalk beside a trashcan as I pass by, for the next good Samaritan to return it, if the man is so lucky.

I have what I need. More really. Maybe I’ll go get two sets of socks.

“Thank you very much, Homer,” I say under my breath. “Thanks for giving.”

Prompt 4 - "Happy"

Happy… to Be Stuck with You

“I never expected it to be so important to so many people. I certainly never expected to be remembered for it. It was just another job, a couple days of voiceovers. Who could have predicted this?”

When Otis Harlan was selected to provide the voice for a dwarf for a new Walt Disney animated film, he was not particularly surprised. He had been mostly a voice talent for a while now, a common late-career change for an aging actor like himself, already a veteran of scores of movies, both silent and “talkies”. Nor, however, was he particularly excited about it. It was a small role, one that had little depth of character. In fact, Happy was perhaps the least interesting of the seven dwarfs, given that six of the seven “whistle while you work” characters could have been described as generally “happy”, and even the remaining Grumpy had his upbeat moments. But the role paid reasonably for a small amount of work, and included opportunities to sing, including a nice little number called “Music in Your Soup” featuring Happy as the lead. Of course, that song never made the final edit, rendering Happy an even lesser part of the final film

In the end, Otis was not even credited in the movie for his vocal work (none of the dwarfs were), and he moved on to his next roles in Mr. Boggs Steps Out and Outlaws of Sorona without giving Happy much more thought. Meanwhile, Walt Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs was released to both critical and commercial success, earning more than five times its original budget and briefly becoming the highest-grossing sound film of any type. Today, it is still one of the top grossing animated films of all time, when adjusted for inflation.

“We were surprised, honestly. Walt was just starting out, and while he was clearly a genius, none of us were quite sure if he was actually a mad genius. No one had had any success with full-length animated films at the time, and really, it wasn’t clear there was a market for it.”

While Otis was not involved with the actual animation of the film, his essence was etched into the design of the character - most notably in the styling of Happy’s eyebrows, cheeks, and jowls. Animators used a combination of still pictures and short filmed clips of Otis to guide them in bringing the character to life. That facial similarity can still be seen today in the costumed version of Happy that periodically appears on Main Street USA in Walt Disney World.

“Honestly, it’s embarrassing. I looked much better when I was younger. Why couldn’t I have been animated to look like I did back when I was in my vaudeville days? I guess Snow White and the Seven Young Stallions would have not been so Disney friendly.”

As we go through life, we all impact a great number of people. Family and friends and co-workers all learn from us and remember us. But in the life of an actor, there is always one role that transcends all the others and becomes the answer to “aren’t you that guy from…?” For Otis, the role of Happy became that answer.

When he died a couple years later, his memorial included the following line.

Harlan will be forever remembered though as the voice of the loveable character, 'Happy,' in the 1937 classic Walt Disney film, "Snow White & The Seven Dwarfs."

“Honestly, if I had known it was going to be the pinnacle of my career, I might have put more effort into it. Or just skipped it entirely. Imagine, being remembered for “The Silly Song” instead of “Cap’n Andy’s Ballyhoo”? Honestly, I’m never going to hear the end of it. In fact, Pinto Colvig [who voiced both Grumpy and Sleepy], when he finally got here, made fun of me for a full decade. Imagine being made fun of by the guy whose claim to fame was voicing Goofy. It was humiliating.”

Otis seems to be taking it all a little better now, finally ending his self-imposed exile and agreeing to join in with the others for the 80th anniversary reunion. It seems to have significantly softened his stance.

“It was really good to catch up with Roy Atwell [the actor who voiced Doc] again. He has an uncanny way of making me laugh, even now. And he and Scotty [Mattra, who voiced Bashful] and I can share our misery about being best remembered as little bearded men who fawn over a young girl who is basically their housekeeper.

“It was also nice to make fun of Sneezy [actor Billy Gilbert]. I have to admit, that was an inspired choice, if perhaps an obvious one.”

Asked about his thoughts on later incarnations of his character, Otis admitted to having watched every version he can find.

“At first, I was really not interested. It was the past, you know. And how much do I want to see of people redoing and replacing my parts? But then someone convinced me to watch the 1951 version of Show Boat. It was frustrating at first, but now I really enjoy seeing all the different productions of it out there. Besides, there is so much time, it makes for a good way to fill it. And the modernization of the art form - movies and television and stage shows. It really just keeps you coming back.

“I just finished watching Once Upon a Time with Mike Coleman playing the role of Happy. I really liked the approach he took to the character, but of course he had much different material to work with.”

Looking forward, it appears that Otis and Happy will continue to be linked together for a very long time. And for once, Otis seems to be feeling positive about this possibility.

“They say we are never really gone while someone alive remembers us. Well, with the current technology and storage media and ongoing reissuing of everything, I have a feeling I will be stuck hanging around for a really long time. So, I guess, that’s something I can say that I look back on my experience as Happy and appreciate. I really am Happy to be stuck here. I would hate to miss whatever comes next.”

(Prompt 3 - "Intaglio")

Fragment

“When you sculpt marble, the goal is to remove everything that doesn’t belong there. Then you are left with what belongs. With intaglio printing, the goal is to remove everything that is taking the place of what belongs there. Then you fill that space with what does belong.”

Toivo grew up learning to be a sculptor. He learned to find objects within a slab of marble. He learned to measure and prepare, to pare down and chip away. He learned to live with imperfections he could not fix and to make one-of-a-kind creations. He treated his life the same way. He would see good in everything and everyone, and then try to chip away all the bad things until only the good remained. And every day was a chance to find something new.

Dyllis grew up learning to be an intaglio printer. She learned to carve out designs from base materials. She learned to be meticulous and exact, to etch and to engrave. She learned to cover up imperfections with flourishes and to create multiple perfect replications. She treated her life the same way. She would see what stood in the way of what she wanted and remove it, then fill the newly formed void with her desires and leave the rest alone. And every day was a chance to do things perfectly.

Skyler grew up learning to be a scribe. He learned to create quill and ink and parchment. He learned combine them to tell stories old and new. He learned to build upon the past and create futures. He lived his life the same way. He would see what was good in the past and retain it, what was needed in the future and add it. And every day was a chance to create change for a better future.

---

April 18

I have found a small stash of seemingly ancient items in a wooden chest in a collapsed cave just east of the dig site. Among the items is a brilliantly carved cylindrical marble container, about 3 inches in diameter, inside of which I found a perfectly circular disc of copper covered with a clear fused quartz top. The entire disc is wrapped in a thin strong metal alloy holding it all together, with a hook on the outside. If it was a medallion as it looks like it might be, the chain is missing. The copper under the quartz is exquisitely engraved with incredibly precise tiny lines that fill the entire circle in a filigree style. The etchings are filled with what appears to be a sandy ochre colored ink. While the other items in the cave seem to date back to the 5th century B.C., this level of precision appears as an anachronism, and likely means the rest of the items were gathered and stored here with the container at a much later date.

If only I knew the story behind how this was made. And why.

---

April 23

Testing shows the ochre ink in what I now calling the copper medallion is made up of a combination of motherwort and juniper berries. A very uncommon combination, historically noted to protect against magic and theft. Additionally, online comparative studies of the etchings show it appears to be an intricate combination of three creatures: the Aqrabuamelu (scorpion man from Mesopotamia), the Pixiu (winged lion from China), and the Akabeko (Aizu cow from Japan). All are mythological protectors of humans.

With all this protection, how did this end up here, lost for such a long time?

---

April 27

The copper medallion is gone along with its marble container. It was locked in the safe, which requires both a combination and a key. The safe is still locked. The key is still in its drawer under my notebook.

No one will admit to having taken the items.

(Prompt 2 - "Roopkund")

The Glass Heart

“I think she is old enough to hear that story.”

The young girl’s uncle sighed heavily, shaking his head slowly in response to his wife’s words. It came across as disagreement mixed with disbelief. His niece had grown so much in the last year, both in size and maturity. Perhaps she was ready. He paused in consideration, then began.

“What do you want from me, child?”

“A story of our family, Unca.”

“Why do you want this?”

“Because she needs to know, dear,” came his wife’s voice again.

“I need to hear it from her,” he responded out of the corner of his mouth, never taking his eyes of his young niece. If he was to continue the family ritual, he would do it right. “For what reason should I tell you this story?”

“For the family.”

“Yes. Always, for the family.”

“And I will repay it by…”

“Wait.” He stopped his niece mid-sentence, leaving her with her mouth open, her eyes questioning him as he broke the ritual. “Wait until the story is done, and then tell me how you will repay this particular boon.”

His niece closed her mouth, nodded, and placed the mug on the table before him.

He picked up his tea, took a long, slow sip, and closed his eyes.

---

“This story begins and ends with change.”

When the glass cliff broke, it changed the world. The family lost their leader, but gained a protector. Lost a mother and a daughter, but gained a future.

Wajid saw the crack, even before he heard it. As he stared up from the valley floor, his stomach fell along with the glass outcropping that was once the highest point above. He stood there, transfixed, until he saw something more: a human form atop the falling glass. Then he broke into a run.

After only a few paces, the sound of the massive shard of glass hitting the desert floor reverberated across the valley, causing Wajid to stumble. Still, he raced forward, knowing that it was useless, not knowing what else to do. He could not reverse gravity. He could not save the cliff. And he could not save the life of his falling leader. Yet on he ran, logic be damned.

(“Language, dear.”

“If she is mature enough for this story, she can handle a little damn language.”)

Even though it took several additional minutes for Wajid to reach where the cliff had fallen, the sand was still thick in the air. Half-blinded, he nearly fell into the crater that had been created by the impact. The combination of tremendous weight and significant height that defined the force striking the arid dessert had caused it to act like a sinkhole. The result was more like a small canyon.

Without heed to his own safety, Wajid stumbled down the steep slope, knowing that no one could have survived that fall, yet hoping against reality that somehow the winds would provide another miracle. And perhaps they did, but it was not the miracle that he was hoping for. For at the bottom he found a massive section of unbroken glass, about 50 yards across, in the shape of a gigantic heart. Its top was smooth and solid, except where it surrounded Marijke’s body, which lay shattered and lifeless, embedded in the glass. Yet somehow, even in death, she looked content, maybe even fulfilled. Her eyes were closed and her mouth smiled slightly, with no tension showing on her face.

The juxtaposition of destruction and serenity caused Wajid’s own heart to break, and as he leaned down to touch his former leader, he collapsed into unconsciousness.

The next morning, while heavy rains began to flood the area, a rescue mission was sent in to look for survivors. They found Wajid laying at Marijke’s side, the water just starting to mix with Marijke’s blood and forming a corona around them. While nothing could be done for the former leader, they found that Wajid was still breathing, though unresponsive. Taking turns, the group pulled him along the glass and up the side of the crater on a makeshift sled. There they set up a lean-to to protect him from the worsening storm, and settled in to pray. The downpour forced them to leave Marijke where she was, her body broken and her spirit departed, at the center of the glass heart.

For the next three days and nights, the storm pounded the valley and Wajid remained in his near death state. His rescuers took turns giving him food and drink, washing and caring for him. Finally, on the fourth morning, the storm broke, and as the sun rose up to reflect off the water covering the glass heart below, bathing the area in reflected light, Wajid stirred awake. When his rescuers relayed what had happened, he began to cry a mixture of joy and sadness, much like life. His family had saved him, but they had lost their leader. The glass cliff they had held holy was gone, but now a glass heart lay before them, shimmering underwater. There would always be gain and loss. There would always be change.

---

“You can’t just stop there, dear.”

“Of course I can. It works. Starts with change, ends with change. Story complete.” He looked at his niece, and at the sight of her frowning face, his smile faded. He turned to his wife, but her look held no shelter for him.

“Damn.”

---

After he recovered, Wajid climbed down into the crater every day to sit by the glass heart, speaking to it and to Marijke’s memory. Though the waters over the glass heart receded, no one dared to pass him to attempt to bring back Marijke’s body. Even the local carrion seemed to think such actions were forbidden. Over time, her clothes and skin fell apart and blew away, leaving only her bones, which appeared to have become one with the glass.

In the years that followed, our people flourished. The dry stale air that had surrounded us and strangled our crops was replaced by a gentle breeze and soft rains. Marijke’s death and Wajid’s survival at the hands of his fellow family members appeared to be the catalyst. In their honor, the family began a tradition of coming to the crater to pray at the changing of every season. It was a time to mourn, to rejoice, to come together, and to pray for the future. And when Wajid passed on, his body was left in the crater so that his bones could join those of his former leader. It was the family’s way of honoring him.

Things changed.

Our people began to spread across the continent, and tradition was necessarily reduced to a yearly pilgrimage. A celebration of what made us who we were. Later, as the terrain changed and became harder to traverse, the tradition reduced once more until it became a sacred pilgrimage reserved for significant occasions, such as when a young boy or girl became an adult, or for when an old man or woman was staring at the coming end of their life in this world.

Much later, when the heathen arrived, we shared with them our stories and we tried to teach them about our ways. In time, several of those who were not of our family began to join in the pilgrimages, drawn by the stories of the glass heart that holds the bones of the ancients.

And yet more change.

Over the years, even as the heathen forced us to find new lands, the number of pilgrims increased a thousand-fold. There were people visiting the heart on a daily basis. But many were not of the family, and they were not as respectful. Eventually they began to encroach on the glass itself, threatening its very survival. And so, claiming they were protecting us, but really just looking out for something they believed they owned, the new local government made a law. And then another. And now, no one can visit.

Today, the family is scattered and fading once again. Most have forgotten our ways. No one watches over us.

Yet Marijke’s Heart, the heart of glass, remains. Alone and untouched, it waits still for the next change.

---

“So, have you understood how to repay this boon I have granted you?”

His niece sat quietly, thinking. Finally, when her aunt and uncle had almost given up, she spoke.

“Yes, Unca.”

“And?”

“I will become an adult.”

---

“We carry in our hearts the true country
And that cannot be stolen
We follow in the steps of our ancestry
And that cannot be broken”
- Midnight Oil

---

This story links to a world previously seen in three other stories:
https://hangedkay.livejournal.com/3335.html - The Glass Cliff
https://hangedkay.livejournal.com/6053.html - I Can't Get Calm
https://hangedkay.livejournal.com/7768.html - Wind

(Prompt 1 - "There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days")

Those were the days of our lives

“Perhaps if we study too much history, we are doomed never to repeat it.”

---

“It’s time to go.”

Nadine hadn’t needed the reminder. She had been awake long before her parents. She had been awake before the birds had begun to sing or the sun had begun to shine. By the time the world had started to wake up, she was already dressed in her favorite overalls, her long-sleeve heavy blouse trapped tightly underneath. Her well-worn army boots covered thick wool socks along with the distressed hem at the end of her pant legs. Her leather gloves sat on the bed beside her along with her mask and goggles.

The only reason she wasn’t already in the car was that she wasn’t allowed to be.

Nadine looked forward to each work day more than anything else. More than dessert, more than travel, more than her birthday even. It was at work that she felt alive, like she was a part of something greater than herself. That she mattered.

“Let’s go Francis. Melody, you all set?”

Nadine was waiting inside the garage by the time her father corralled the rest of the family in front of him through the door and out to the car. He smiled broadly at Nadine when he caught sight of her. Shaking his head and rolling his eyes at the others, he shrugged at her good-naturedly. As he reached her, he bent down to hug her with one arm while opening the car with the other.

“Good morning my little sunflower,” he whispered in her ear. “At least one person in this family has the right attitude.” Then louder to the rest, “Hop in now, can’t be late!”

By the time the rest of them had their doors open, Nadine was already inside with her seatbelt strapped on.

--

For most people, work was merely a chore. A necessary annoyance that allowed them to do what they really wanted to do. Ten hours in a day that could have been spent pursuing some loftier goal.

For Nadine, there was no loftier goal. She loved to get up inside the machines, covered in grease and oil. She would practically skip along through the layers of grime and muck as she made her way across the lower levels. Her muscles would ache from the labor, and it would fill her with purpose and happiness. Those aches were her friends. They might have been her only real friends.

When she wasn’t working, Nadine was rarely happy. While she made passing grades in school, her social life was a disaster. Music and boys held no interest for her, nor did fashion or gossip. In her spare time, she read repair manuals and history books about the industrial revolution. In school, she sat on the edges of the classroom, and in the cafeteria she sat alone. At home, she interacted dutifully with her mother and brother and wished her father was there to talk to instead. He understood. He was the only one who ever had.

Nadine looked up to her father, not only because he was a towering man at nearly seven foot in height, but because he represented everything she wanted to become: working-class. On the few days that he was home, she would pepper him with questions.

“What was it like?”

“Oh, Nadine, it was truly a different time. Did you know, that once upon a time, people worked every single day out in the fields? There was no time for anything else. Their survival depended on it.”

“What changed?”

“Many things. First came religion, with its day of rest. In reality, it was a day set aside to focus on spiritual rather than worldly things. That may have been a bit less than restful for most people. Then, industrial improvements made each person able to do more in the same amount of time. And therefore, the same amount in less time. Does that make sense?”

“I know my maths, dad.”

“As you should. Well, later on, when two major religions couldn’t agree on which day was the right day to rest and pray, the one day off morphed into a full two-day weekend to accommodate them. The advances in technology made the reduced work hours still sufficient to keep the world running. Of course, once people got the idea that not working was an option, and they began to like it, the course was set. Eventually, people balked at the idea of working even three days a week. Do you know that word?”

“Yes I know the word balked. I’m thirteen and I have lots of friends who want to do stupid things.”

“Fair enough. Well, to make a long story short, eventually people stopped enjoying work. They stopped wanting to work. They drifted away into more ‘intellectual’ pursuits and most stopped working completely. In time, even the advances in science couldn’t maintain everything and society began to fail. That’s when the forced labor was put in place.”

“And now everyone works one day a month?”

“That’s right, Nadine”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

“But you work so much more than that.”

“Yes, but I work so that others do not have to. So that they can find a different path through our seemingly endless, numbered days.”

“Dad?”

“Yes, hon?”

“Are they happy?”

“Who?”

“Those people that only work one day a month.”

“I can’t rightly say. But you know what I think? I think they have lost something they don’t even know they are missing. So they may not even really know if they are happy themselves.”

“I want to be happy.”

“And I am sure you will be, my little sunflower.”

--

“Those were the days of our lives
The bad things in life were so few
Those days are all gone now but one thing is true
When I look and I find I still love you”
-Queen