After the Eclipse – Part 1

Happy Halloween! This started out as a Coursera assignment, but I’ve joined NaNoWriMo to finish it. Here’s the beginning:


After the Eclipse – Part 1

Victoria West peered over the edge of the boat into the inky water below. The muddy smell of lake and gasoline filled her nose as she beamed the flashlight in a slow arc. Nothing unusual broke the surface or disturbed the ripples from their wake. The underwater cameras only showed waving pondweed.

William Green appeared at her side. “I wish I knew what to look for.”

“You and me both.” Victoria sighed and reviewed the facts up until that night:

The half-devoured swan that had washed up on Mr. Jones’s property on Big Barbee Lake, prompting him to call Green. The sudden drop in the fish population of the intricate chain of glacier lakes surrounding Big Barbee. A fisherman was reported missing by his elderly mother after his boat had been found the day before – with gashes in it that looked as if they’d been made by long, sharp teeth. And, just because the situation – and this town – wasn’t weird enough already, a peculiar-looking man had been hanging around. Mr. Jones’s neighbor had observed him walking straight into the lake until the water closed over his head.

Hearing a splash, Victoria looked up and lifted her flashlight. A small ripple; must have been a fish jumping. Sweat trickled down her back. Even this late at night, the air was sticky. An otherworldly buzzing indicated a nearby group of frogs vocalizing in unison.

As the hardest-working research biologist in the Indianapolis DNR, she was called in after the fishing boat had washed up. Green and the other conservation officers were stumped. The giant tooth marks in the swan carcass and the boat did not match up with any of the local predators – none of them were that big, for one thing, and there wasn’t anything larger than pike or snapping turtles in the lake itself. But there had also been traces of venom. Victoria was hoping to see something, anything, on the lake that would give her a clue as to what had attacked the boat and consumed the swan, and done – what? – to the missing fisherman.

“Maybe it’s Al Capone.”

Victoria turned to face Jeff, who was driving the boat. He leered at her, cigarette dangling from his lips. He raised his eyebrows and the light reflected off his blond beard stubble. She was used to men noticing her ass long before her brain, but they were usually less obvious about it.


“The strange guy that’s been hanging around. You do know that Al Capone haunts the Barbee Hotel, right? He sits at the bar, and people also see cigar smoke coming from the room he used to stay in.”

Green whirled around. “Oh please, Jeff. I don’t give a flock about some idiot wandering into the lake. I just want to know what ate the swan and the fish, and it wasn’t Al Capone or any other of your ghosts.”

“Well, Green, you can just –”

A jolt knocked Victoria and Green off their feet, and made Jeff drop his cigarette into his lap and howl.

“What the hell was that?” Green shot up and looked over the edge. A mass of shiny blue scales was disappearing beneath the surface. Victoria stared at the underwater camera. Undulating gracefully away from them was a snakelike figure, at least 15 feet long and as wide as a refrigerator. Pointed scutes adorned its midnight blue back, and delicate fins fanned out from its lighter underside. Its tail waved left and right as its silhouette dwindled.

“No, no, no. That can’t be real.”

“No,” Victoria agreed with a shiver. “Someone must’ve made it. And very well. But…the bites?”

Green’s phone was ringing, but he stood, transfixed.

“You might want to answer that.”

He flinched. “Jeff, it’s moving towards Little Barbee. Follow it! Hello? Y-yes? We’ll be right there.”

Green’s form was rigid against the dark sky. “Victoria. They found Bob.”


Green opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head.


* Image courtesy of:

The Eternal Problem of Colors

This was written from the POV of Vincent Van Gogh, with the help of his letters to get an idea of how he spoke (at least in translation). The title comes directly from one of his letters and the last line was his last words.


The Eternal Problem of Colors

En plein air
Let’s plant our easels
Together against the wind!
Migrated to the south to find
My Japanese dream in Provence
Raving mad oleanders shadowed by
A funereal cypress under a yellow sky
We mad wretches delight in our eyesight
Play Wagner in Louis XV green and malachite
Wheat fields, golden to red and smelling of thyme
Olive trees shift from silver-grey to blue, now black.
The power to create is greater than my life,
To make my jealous pictures speak!
The night you left is a blank in my mind
All painters are mad but the doctor
Is more ill than the artist.
The sadness will last forever.

Image is Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh, found at:

Cut and Dried

Spring in Sarajevo 021

Cut and Dried

I opened my body to the sun one morning. Warm, emerald life pulsed through me and the morning dew dried on my skin. In our birthplace, we are cared for every day. Humans in hats make sure we have enough water, and that there are no green insects devouring our flesh. My only worry is that I often hear sharp cries as our comrades down the line are severed and taken. This cold, silver “snip” invades my dreams at night, shivering me until the sun caresses me awake.

I am told that we’re often portrayed as the paramours of nightingales, but I have never seen one. The only birds that come here are pigeons and they, no devotees of beauty, ignore us. The bee is a much more likely candidate, although he doesn’t sing well. Bees are pleasant company, and gentle as they take what they need, but afterward they just take off, tipsy, buzzing their goodbyes as they return to their queen.

One day, they come for me. It isn’t like my dreams – the silver blades are not cold, but burning hot. I cry out as my flesh is savaged. I writhe in my executioner’s hand until the wound is soothed by fresh water. Drop by drop, the shock and panic leave me, so that I become interested in my fate.

My journey is quick: a bumpy ride in a truck, a few hours in a shop, and I am again plucked with my brothers and sisters, wrapped, and taken by car to a pretty café with romantic music. I am jammed into a vase of water and placed on a table.

A woman unlocks the door and people flow in. Throughout the afternoon, humans sit in front of me eating, reading, and talking. They don’t look at me, but rather at their food, their phones, or their friends. Until late evening, when a man and a woman sit on opposite sides of me, and I feel myself pulsing on waves of electricity. A candle burns below me and its heat is making me uncomfortable. She moves the candle a few inches away and I open myself further in gratitude. She smiles and runs her thumb over a petal, lightly touching the tip of a thorn. A connoisseur – or perhaps, judging from her picked cuticles, she needed a way to occupy her fingers.

Her hands and lips tremble as she sips her coffee and sets the cup down, rattling the teaspoon on the saucer. When her companion turns away for a moment, she applies a scarlet layer of synthetic confidence to her lips, and then leans forward, resting her chin on her hand.

His pupils dilate as he leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. He smooths a dark curl back from his forehead and smiles, gripping his own cup.

Their conversation is not noteworthy, but I mark glances through lowered eyelashes, a nibbled sandwich, lipstick on a coffee cup, fingers skimming over sleeves and brushing away nonexistent dust specks.

As they stand to leave, she casts a glance over her shoulder, grabs me from the table, and tucks me into her purse. I fear she may have received a cut for her haste. I am forgotten in her purse until morning, when she gasps and sticks me in a vase before hurrying to work, leaving me to survey my surroundings.

I begin to fade and droop. A petal falls as she smooths a dark curl back from his forehead and smiles.

Perceiving my mortality, she hangs me upside down in the hallway until I am rigid in my brittleness. I am enthroned on the mantle. There, I chronicle their lives.

I am there when she announces her promotion at work. I see their children arrive and grow up – all but one. I never felt my lack of water as I did in those days, when I had none to shed in sympathy with them.

Years pass, and deliver another generation to run and frolic below me. Then Chronos takes the man, when his curls are no longer dark – I endure.

Until one day when my lady fails to wake up. I am taken up for the last time by her adult daughter and placed in her hands as she sleeps in her final bed. The sound of tools, not sharp but blunt this time, signals the end.

We are left in darkness and fall apart together.

Misophonia – in five voices

This is a ghostwriting exercise in which I attempted to write an article using the voices of five famous people or characters – one for each paragraph. The voices are those of Christiane Amanpour, Whoopi Goldberg, Stephen Colbert, Alex Jones (yes, I went there), and Bernard Black. Can you match the voices with their paragraphs?

pjimage (1)

Let’s talk about misophonia. No, it doesn’t mean eating miso soup while talking on the telephone – but that would really annoy someone with misophonia. The word misophonia comes from Greek and means “hatred of sound.” It’s also called “sound-rage,” which coincidentally was the name of my metal band in college. A person with misophonia has intense emotional and physical reactions when they hear certain trigger sounds. Doctors aren’t sure what causes it, and it’s difficult to diagnose because it’s a mental problem and not a hearing problem – a person with misophonia has normal hearing, but sounds affect their brain or nervous system differently. It was officially recognized in 2001 – before that, it was just called being a social curmudgeon.

People suffering from misophonia are triggered by many different noises. Roughly 80% of triggers are mouth noises, such as gum chewing, slurping, crunching, talking with one’s mouth full, sucking and loud breathing. Repetition is also a factor, and people with misophonia often develop visual triggers as well – merely seeing someone pacing, chewing silently, fidgeting or bouncing their legs may trigger a reaction. Reactions are both emotional and physical, and can include intense rage, anxiety or panic, a desire to cause physical harm, disgust or hatred, leaving the room or dinner table and even suicidal thoughts.

If someone you love has misophonia, know that they really do mean it when they say a noise bothers them. Their emotions are valid, and their needs are valid. If they ask to eat in another room, be sympathetic. It’s not that they don’t love you; it’s just that the trigger noises are too much for them and they might be afraid of acting on the emotions that come up and going crazy in front of you. Don’t take it personal – they don’t see it that way. Remember they will have to deal with thoughtless people every day who won’t take them seriously, so make sure you’re not one of them. Even though more people are becoming aware of this disorder, lots of people still respond like this:

“We live in a world of trigger warnings. They’ve got these millennials all coddled with their safe spaces, and microaggressions, and PC jargon. That’s the old news. The new news is that just eating your dinner could be a trigger for some people. Misophonia, they say. What is misophonia? It’s an excuse for so-called sufferers to whine about everyone else. What’s next, a war on chewing gum like Singapore? This laundry list of phony disorders is just the beginning. Next we’ll have people claiming disability just because they can’t cope with real life. Total bull! The doctors who diagnose all this crap are puppets of the government, and what they want is a dumbed-down population that can be easily controlled.”

Ignore rubbish like this. You need a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and a place where people will leave you alone. There is no cure for misophonia, but you can live a perfectly normal life if you stay away from filthy monsters who eat crisps in your space. Some clinics have developed programs like counseling, sound therapy and exposure therapy. Join social media support groups so you can complain about your triggers without actually having to go out among people. If you need any medication, just ask your therapist – or the local pub.

The Adventures of Lofa


The Adventures of Lofa

Wishes are dangerous things. To long for something that wasn’t destined for you can be a powerful push to do something daring, creative, or even heroic. It can also consume and destroy you. What, then, can a wish do that has built up over 623 years?

One day, over 700 years ago in a land that we now call Tonga, a young artist and shaman named Papahie felt bored. She took her tools and a large stone and headed for the beach. There, she began carving a chimera – a hybrid of her favorite local animals. A few weeks later, this creature emerged from the dark stone with the body and long, forked tail of a tropicbird, the wings of a fruit bat, the long, scaly neck of a gecko, and a humanoid face like a tiki. On impulse, Papahie gave her creation the eyes of her favorite warrior and whispered his name, Lofa, which means “storm bird.” Being of a mischievous nature, Papahie cast a spell: after a period roughly corresponding to 623 years by our calendar, the one-foot-tall chimera would come to life. Then, she hid him in a niche in the cave now known as ‘Ana Hulu, or “Hulu Cave.”

Time passed over Lofa as a medley of people passed through ‘Ana Hulu. Well-hidden behind a cluster of stalactites, Lofa saw all: secret meetings related to love, trade, or local politics, British adventurers, children swimming, students reading literature together (which Lofa loved), birds and bats flying through and exchanging news, and occasionally, honeymooners whispering endearments, unconscious of the immobile listener above them. Lofa saw and heard, Lofa learned, and above all, Lofa wished. Listening to the explorers and tourists, Lofa longed to see the sun and explore the island that everyone described as so beautiful. Listening to the lovers, Lofa wished to love and be loved. Listening to the schemers, Lofa desired to meet the king – and maybe a beautiful princess too. But Lofa’s greatest wish came from listening to the farmers: Periodically, a tropical cyclone, Afa, destroyed homes and crops and caused water to rush into places it shouldn’t go. The farmers were powerless against Afa because he came from far across the sea, from the sky. “The farmers can’t fight Afa because they are tied to the ground,” thought Lofa. “I will be able to fly, and I have the face of a god and the eyes of a warrior. When I finally come to life, I will fight and kill Afa. Just think how the king will reward me!”

At long last, the day came. As the first rays of the sun entered the cave and reflected off the still, blue water below, Lofa felt warmth creeping through his stone body. His lips tingled as he tentatively moved them for the first time. He felt his tail grow pliant and his wings thaw. He stretched his wings to their full extent, feeling the heat surge through the awakened muscles. Lofa’s stomach became soft and, looking down, he saw that it was covered in fine white feathers. He blinked his warrior eyes and filled his lungs with the humid air.

Eager, he threw himself from the ledge. Lofa’s heart skipped a beat as the water rushed up to meet him, but he saved himself just in time with a powerful flap of his bat wings. Intoxicated by the circulation of his own blood, Lofa soared through the mouth of the cave and into the full sunlight. Lofa blinked hard and crashed into a palm tree, surprising a banded iguana that skittered down the trunk. Lofa managed to fasten himself to the tree with the claws at the top of his wings and hung there, heart racing. He opened his eyes slowly and looked around. To one side, Lofa saw blue sky and blue sea stretched to infinity. Below him was a sandy beach, caressed by the waves. Further on were trees in so many dazzling shades of green – palm trees like the one he still clung to, as well as shorter shrubs and fruit trees. Lofa forgot his newfound breath as he took it all in.

An unfamiliar sensation in his stomach compelled him to seek out another palm tree, one with large green ovals hanging from it. Instinctively, Lofa knocked down one of the orbs, which broke open as it hit a rock, exposing white fruit inside and splashing out water. Lofa flew down to investigate. He shivered with delight as the warm, sweet water hit his tongue and flowed down his throat. He used his claws to tear off pieces of the white meat and ate. He sat on the beach next to the broken fruit and felt the warm sea breeze ruffle his silky feathers. The rhythmic sound of the waves would have sent Lofa to sleep, but he was too excited to sleep. The sound of footsteps startled him, and he flew up into a tree.

“So, when do they expect us at the palace?”

“In three days, so we should probably leave soon. Are you ready?”

Lofa’s ears had pricked up at the word “palace,” and he silently followed the travelers. For two days they walked through tropical forest and farmland, Lofa tailing them from above and sampling new fruits along the way. Once, when the two travelers stopped to rest, Lofa saw a flock of birds with feathers and forked tails like his sitting in a banana tree. He rushed to go introduce himself. Upon hearing Lofa’s strange voice and the flap of his bat wings, however, the group started up at once in fright, flapping and squawking in a shower of white feathers in their hurry to get away. As the cacophony died away, Lofa shook off the flurry of feathers that weren’t his. “Am I really so scary?” he thought. Seeing a pool of water in the middle of the path, he alighted and looked at his reflection. “I look different from them, but my wings are stronger and more versatile, my neck is more flexible, and my mouth is more useful than their beaks. I do wish I had some friends, though.” He then flew to catch up with the travelers, who had continued with their journey.

When the large, white building came into view on the third day, the two travelers stopped to refresh themselves while Lofa flew on into the royal gardens and settled himself into a dense tree and waited to see the king – for any kind of action, really, to help him visualize all he’d heard about the royal family and life at court. It all turned out to be surprisingly mundane for Lofa, aside from the lush fruit trees and the princesses, who spent their mornings and evenings in the garden, walking, reading, and talking. “If I could marry a princess, I would make life at court much more interesting. And maybe the king would give me an army to fight Afa,” Lofa mused. Lofa watched the princesses over several days and set his eye on the one who seemed to be the sweetest and most thoughtful – a plump young woman with dimples in her golden cheeks and hibiscus flowers in her shiny hair.

One day when the princess was alone in the garden, Lofa summoned up all his courage and, in his strongest voice, repeated a line he’d heard from the lips of a lover in the cave: “Life is the flower for which love is the honey!”

The princess started and looked around. “Who’s there?”

Lofa glided down to a ledge right in front of her and bowed. “My princess, I am Lofa, the storm bird.”

The princess stared at him, wide-eyed, for a few seconds, then let out a piercing scream that brought several men running from the palace. Seeing Lofa and his unusual shape, they let out a shout and came at Lofa with their clubs and spears – and a net. The princess, meanwhile, had recovered her composure. “Don’t hurt him! He’s not dangerous; he didn’t mean any harm!” The men ignored her and continued to chase Lofa around the garden until Lofa flew through a break in their ranks and up, over the stone wall. Lofa flew until he was out of sight of the palace, along the beach.

“Birds are afraid of me. Humans are afraid of me. Where can I find someone to talk to?” Lofa nestled himself into a tree while he caught his breath, his heart throbbing from both the exertion and the rejection. He looked absently out to sea. “When I kill Afa, all people and animals will respect me. But I have to wait for him to show himself.” Lofa settled into a troubled sleep.

Lofa was awakened by a commotion in the next tree. He opened his eyes and observed a group of flying fox bats feasting on ripe bananas. “I am part bat,” said Lofa to himself, extending one wing and admiring it; “Maybe my home is with the bats. But I should take care not to frighten them.” Lofa glided to a spot on the trunk below the bats and waited for them to notice him.

“What are you waiting for?” called the bat closest to him. “Come up and eat with us!” Lofa clambered up the tree and took a piece of banana. The other bats peered at him over their lunch.

“Why is your face so different from ours,” asked one bat. “And how is it that you have wings like us but feathers instead of fur?”

“My shaman made me that way. She combined all her favorite animals in me.”

The bats appeared satisfied by this answer and went back to eating their bananas. “You can’t open thick-skinned fruits with those flat teeth of yours,” said the first bat. “Do you want me to open a breadfruit for you?”

For the first time in his life, Lofa was touched. “That’s very kind of you, but I like the bananas better.”

For several weeks, Lofa flew with the bats, eating fruit with them and sleeping upside down, sharpening his senses, and learning to follow his intuition. The bats were a close-knit community that took care of everyone and accepted Lofa with open wings. Each day upon waking, the bats hung in a circle and those that had dreamed shared what they had seen. Lofa was astonished to find that a number of the bats’ dreams came true. “It’s our gift,” one bat explained. “We’ve always had it. That’s why shamans sometimes kept us near them, and it’s probably why your shaman made you part bat. It’s too bad there are no shamans left on the island.”

But Lofa could not be completely easy despite his idyllic surroundings and good company. Didn’t he have a mission to fulfill? Lofa decided to broach the subject with Peka, the unofficial leader of the bat community. Lofa unburdened himself to Peka, laying out his wishes and intentions, and proposed that the bats join him in fighting Afa. Peka listened attentively without interrupting, but then sighed and shook his furry head. “We bats are dreamers, not fighters. If it’s for anyone to fight Afa – which I doubt – it’s not for us. Stay here with us. Don’t concern yourself with Afa. When he comes we store food and take shelter in the caves.”

Lofa’s wish was too strong to abandon, so he said a sad goodbye to the bats, promising to return to them after he had killed Afa. Despite his love for his bat brothers and sisters, however, Lofa felt a twinge of contempt for their cowardice.

Lofa looked out over the sea, wondering when Afa would come and who would help him fight such a powerful adversary. He flew out over the water and settled on a coral reef. He nodded to a couple of turtles who swam past. Lofa had tried to strike up a friendship with the turtles before, but their reptile brains worked slowly and he had quickly become exasperated with them.

Lofa was yanked out of his reverie by a splash of water against his stomach. He glanced down to see a silver tail disappear beneath the waves, to be replaced in a moment by a laughing silver face. “You looked so sad; I had to snap you out of it!”

Lofa couldn’t help smiling back. “Is that how you normally make friends?”

“Well, I don’t have any friends who are… what are you exactly?”

“I don’t know. I guess I can be called a chimera. My name is Lofa.”

“I’m Makelesi.” She raised her pectoral fin and Lofa touched it with the tip of his wing. “So, why are you so sad?”

Makelesi looked at him with such frank sincerity that Lofa poured his heart out to her. Being a fish, she of course couldn’t give him advice on fighting Afa, but she was sympathetic and told him she hoped he would find his army. They talked for the whole afternoon and Lofa promised to visit her again the next day. The days followed each other punctuated by his afternoon chats with Makelesi and, after a few weeks, Lofa found himself madly in love.

This was a precarious situation. Lofa wasn’t afraid of fighting Afa, but he was terrified of telling Makelesi that he loved her. Lofa kept his secret for several days as he pondered what he should do. Carve their names into a coconut? Bring her a necklace of frangipani? Recite some poetry by moonlight? In the end, Lofa’s impulsive nature upset all his romantic and increasingly complex plans. One beautiful day, Lofa was sunning himself on the coral reef as Makelesi swam around him. He was, naturally, thinking of his predicament and when Makelesi asked him a question about dinner he blurted out, “How do I love thee!”

Makelesi looked at him in surprise and Lofa wished he could turn himself back into a statue. After an eternity, Makelesi replied, “I love you too,” and, jumping halfway out of the water, managed to kiss Lofa’s lips.

Lofa couldn’t suppress a laugh of relief. “I was sure you’d be angry with me. I though you would slap me with your tail!”

“Why would I be angry?”

Lofa touched her cheek with his wing, then paused. “But… what are we going to do now?”

“About what?”

“Well, can you live outside water?”

“I’ve never tried it.” Makelesi jumped out and landed on the coral next to Lofa. A second later she gasped for breath and started flopping around frantically until Lofa pushed her back into the water.

“No, that’s not going to work,” he said as she caught her breath. “Let’s try it the other way.” He plunged into the sea and came up a few seconds later, spluttering and choking, and paddling with his wings. He scrambled to get back onto the reef, with a strong nudge from Makelesi’s nose.

“Oh, why didn’t my shaman give me gills?” Lofa lamented, sprawling on the reef. “She gave me something from every other animal! Now how are we going to live together?”

Tears ran down Makelesi’s face and mingled with the salty sea. “It’s hopeless,” she sobbed. “We can never be together!” And she disappeared into the waves.

“Makelesi, wait!” But she didn’t come back.

She wasn’t there the next afternoon either. On top of that, he had overheard a farmer that morning saying that Afa was sure to come soon, and Lofa still had no idea how to fight him. He wished he had Makelesi’s sympathetic ear. “After I kill Afa, maybe I can find a shaman who can help us be together,” he thought. Lofa flew up, higher and higher, trying to clear his head and come up with a plan. Faintly in the distance, he spotted a small island.

“Well, it can’t hurt to investigate,” he thought. “Maybe there is someone or something there that can help me.” However, the distance was greater than he had anticipated, and Lofa barely made it before dropping to the beach in exhaustion.

Lofa awoke to find a young woman sitting beside him. To his surprise, he looked up into eyes that were exactly like his own. The woman smiled. “You were made by a shaman. We shamans are not welcome on the big island, so we live here. My name is Papahie.” She was, in fact, a descendant of the shaman Papahie who had made him.

“Shamans!” exclaimed Lofa. “I need your help. Afa is coming and I don’t know how to kill him, and I’m in love with Makelesi but I can’t breathe underwater and she can’t live out of it!”

Papahie laughed, placing her hand on Lofa’s back. “One thing at a time! Yes, Afa is coming soon, but you can’t kill him. Afa is wind, rain, and lightning. He comes from nature; he can’t die.”

“But I must kill him! Afa destroys the bats’ fruit trees, and the farmers’ fields, and the houses, and he dumps water in places where it shouldn’t be!”

“He destroys our trees, crops, and homes too. But I don’t think we can stop him. I’ll tell you what: I’ll call a meeting of the shamans tonight. You can come too, and if there’s a way to fight Afa, we will come up with a plan.”

At the meeting, Lofa was introduced to the other shamans, and he told them his greatest wish. The shamans listened to Lofa, then exchanged ideas in low voices. At the end, Hyvah, the eldest shaman, addressed Lofa: “Papahie is right. Afa cannot be killed. But if we all work together, we may be able to protect our islands. When Afa comes, we will change our shapes and go meet him. If we can, we will push him back to where he came from.”

The shamans spent the next few days preparing for battle. On the last day, when the inky clouds made the sky look like night at midday, Papahie bathed Lofa in vaiola to protect him, and then the other shamans sprinkled it over themselves. Hyvah intoned some words and slowly began to transform until she had the body of a great dragon, bat wings like Lofa’s, but bigger and stronger, and long claws at the ends of her arms. Her face remained her own. Hyvah inhaled and then blew out a tremendous column of air that bent the trunks of the palm trees. The other shamans followed Hyvah’s lead until they were all dragons.

“We will fly to meet Afa,” said Hyvah, “and we will all blow at the same time. If we blow our hardest, it might just be enough to make Afa change direction and miss these islands.” And they all ascended.

Lofa and the shamans flew for nearly an hour, Lofa resting periodically on Papahie’s back, before Afa came into view. At that point the wind from Afa was so strong that it was hard for the shamans to keep on course. “Just a bit further,” called Hyvah. A few minutes later she called for the others to line up on either side of her. “Ready…now!”

The shamans exhaled with so much force that Afa stopped moving forward. The shamans advanced, pushing Afa back. It was working! But one by one, the shamans weakened and ran out of breath. As they paused to inhale, Afa attacked with such force that he scattered the dragons. With a great effort, they regrouped and exhaled again. However, their energy was half-spent and they were unable to push with the same power as before.

Lofa had been clinging to Papahie to avoid being separated from the group, but now he saw his chance to attack. He let go of Papahie and flapped his wings as strongly as he could to advance.

“For king and country!” He cried and, extending his claws, charged at Afa.

Lofa had no time to realize his mistake before Afa snatched him from the air, twisted him in a fierce spiral, and hurled his broken body down to the crashing waves below. The moment Lofa’s battered head slipped beneath the surface, Lofa turned back into stone and sank instantly, all the way to the ocean floor.

The next day, when Afa had gone and the ocean had become tranquil again, a silver tail pushed Lofa’s body upright onto its stone feet against a wall of coral. Tearful eyes gazed into his unblinking ones and a silver fin caressed his face.

Dear Brain

This is from Day 16 of NaPoWriMo, which was supposed to be based on a letter or correspondence.


Dear Brain

Dear Brain: I’m in such bitter pain
That I don’t know how to go on
Life is no longer worth the strife.
I’ve never seen you in despair, my friend
What is your secret, do share!
With love, Heart

Dear Heart: I don’t want to offend,
But your drama has no end!
Little things push you up and down
As waves manipulate a ship.
No one controls me; I am my own master!
You must be more logical, cool
And you will see it all as trivial.
Come for tea and I will explain.
Regards, Brain

But Brain, what can I do with this agony?
There are so many knives twisted in me
I’ve tried logic; I understand its meaning,
But it doesn’t stop the bleeding.

Heart, don’t you know the knives aren’t real,
Nor the blood? If logic doesn’t work for you,
It means you haven’t understood.

Brain, the knife is a metaphor
But the pain is not; it won’t be ignored
It’s as real as the blood flowing through me
It bites me and then embraces;
My lover and my assassin

See, you’re being dramatic again!
If you’d just stop and think…

But all I’ve done is think!
Do you think I take pleasure in…

Well, maybe you do…

But that’s crazy. And insulting, too!

Come on, Heart! Haven’t you read
Biographies of poets and artists?
Chasing pain to feed the pen
Always looking for trouble, imagine!

But Brain, did they really run after it?
I think sorrow came uninvited
And art was their survival, their Zen!

Well, there you go then.
If logic fails, try art!
(They brought it on themselves
Anyhow, at least in part.)

Brain, I’ll tell you once again
I’m glad to have you as a friend
I will try your advice; let’s see!
(About the artists, we will agree to disagree)

Your Melancholy Masterpiece

This piece was inspired by Picasso’s painting “The Weeping Woman” (shown below), and his relationship with its model, Dora Maar, who was a painter, activist, poet, and amazing surrealist photographer. This is an inner monologue from the perspective of any woman (or maybe some men too) who have ever been told they were too sensitive, and/or who have been in an emotionally abusive relationship.

Weeping Woman 1937 by Pablo Picasso 1881-1973

Your Melancholy Masterpiece

You called me the Weeping Woman. An irrational, overemotional basket case. You love it because it makes me weak; you hate it because it makes me dangerous. You took the liberty of giving me a name. What about the name I gave myself?

An inferior specimen of an inferior sex. You would cherish me if I were only a better person, more in control of my emotions and more dutiful. If I would give up those foolish and improper pastimes. If I were someone else. Docile, impeccable, and pliant as a doll.

You call me a crazy bitch after pushing all my buttons in quick succession, lighting a fire and spewing gasoline. Then you stand back and wait for the opportunity to say, “You’re too defensive. Why are you crying? Oh right, mental illness runs in your family. No wonder you flew off the handle at me!”

I wasn’t always this way:

There were sunny days
I sprouted, I blossomed, I reigned
Reveling in my power
Dappled with paint and accolades
I could do anything
I could be anything
You plucked and fixed me on your wall
Where you could examine me
Your flawed private muse
Take me down when you wanted me
You never saw me as I am
You don’t love me as I am

I wanted to die in that closet. I locked myself in the bedroom while you pummeled the door. My head was pounding until I thought it would burst. We had fought again, and I died a little inside. You will never feel it. You always laugh when I insist I hate crowds because everyone else’s energy flows into me. Discord makes me physically ill. Are you blind that you don’t see you’re poisoning me?

You say my family is low and my friends are low. My tastes are low, and I am low. “I’m only trying to help you. Don’t you know what you could be if you did your proper duty, if you spent time with the right people?” Am I really such a villain in your mind? I know I’m no prize angel, and that’s why I need to change. I’ve already given up so much of myself for you and it’s never enough. You tear off pieces of me with your teeth until there’s nothing left, and ask me again why I’m crying.

You scorn my intensity and dark moods. They’re disturbing. A woman shouldn’t be crying about the genocide in a distant country. “What can you do about it anyways? Are you going to fly over there and help them? Where’s my shirt? Where is my lunch?” I know it makes you angry when I don’t cut the onions small enough and when there’s a crease in your collar. Fighting fascism means neglecting your needs.

You wanted me to do something with my appearance so I’d be fit for decent society but when I did, you asked me who I was trying to impress. I don’t fit in with your social circle. “Say something. Why do you sit in the corner like that?” But when the little woman shows her claws and expresses an opinion, it’s “Why did you say that? Don’t you know that what you say reflects on me?” They’re all waiting for me to break. I really did fall down the stairs, I swear.

Llorona, you’re barred from grace
Your past will haunt you always
I will press it against your throat
No one wants you lurking near
With your silence and somber face
Your wailing sets my hair on end.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you taken care of? You have no grounds to be offended.” You tell me no one else can ever love me, and you’re right. No one would want me, pitiful, used, and broken as I am. I’d be cast out with the trash, forgotten, relegated to a houseful of cats.

I know that I’m only valuable because I’m yours. What would I do without you? How would I survive out there? You’ve stripped me and clipped my wings, and I’ve forgotten how to hunt. Is it too late? Can I soar free again?