Silent Night: Sleep in Heavenly Peace

Brass knuckle keys clutched in her trembling hand
thin stilettos clicking quick down the street.
The cocktail no longer tasting so sweet
vision going black, getting hard to stand.
Bartender's face, smiling, was taunt and tanned
she didn't see it, when blushing at her feet
thighs weaker when standing up from her seat
cursing herself, learning that it was planned--
thick fingers planted on the car door.
Her jaw slackens, knees collapse, passing out
he grips her wrinkled blouse to hold her up,
drunk whisper: "You wanted this, you whore."
In the hospital, her friend had some doubt
"Are you sure that it wasn't just a hookup?"

Passerine

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

-Emily Dickinson

In the darkness of mid-winter

when shadows mar the ground

the tree that homes the sparrow

shivers snow from its arms.

The spruce protects the innocent

shrouds the one it fathers

needles prick away at prey,

blankets those that matter.

Together they will last the weathers.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -

Small enough to brave the branches

quiet enough to sit,

overlooked until it's needed,

calmer than the ebbing tide.

Sleeping in the frozen winters,

patient to fulfil its role,

it feeds on love and cherished hugs

starving day by day.

Peckish thing, not quite whole,

That perches in the soul -

It wakes in fleeting moments,

one eye open to the chaos,

weaker than the sickest dog

while stronger than all hate.

Friends flock to form a force

courage shepherds all its herds

the strong, powerful, and kind.

In the solstice of the winter,

the sparrow leads the birds

And sings the tune without the words -

Sweat and tears melt the snow

sunshine parts the clouds

seen at last, beneath the cloak

of pine and thorns and chill.

Fingers brushing plumage,

antiphon to despair's call,

a song stored within our heart,

the chorus soft, but ringing.

The melody is bright in squall

And never stops - at all -

My Love,

Your eyes are like the stars:
big burning balls of gas that vanquish
any nearby life--
(with their beauty, of course).
Your voice is like honey
dripping in my ears.
Your skin is wondrous to touch, like...
like that material George Costanza
always wanted to drape himself in.

Your hair is like corn silk:
yellow, with the occasional white streak.
Your body is like an hourglass--
your weight trickles to the bottom.
Your lips taste like green apples
(before they rot, darling).
And you smell like the bouquet of roses
I found in the dumpster behind
our favourite restaurant.

The Mustard Family -- Postcard Stories

Image source: http://www.chilture.com/oil-painting-chinese-children-p-256.html

"Eat your food, dì di, otherwise you'll go hungry tonight. I do not need another evening listening to you lamenting about your unfilled stomach."

"I don't like liángpí, jiě."

"Would you prefer to peck at the straw like the chicks? Do not be foolish."

"You are not my grandmother! Save your wisdom for prayer. Are you going to help mā in the field tomorrow? Surely you want to escape the regime of thankless labour." Renshu peered at his sister through short eyelashes, analyzing her expression.

"You misuse the word 'regime', dì di. Our parents request our help in order to supply us with rations. Without them, we wouldn't survive."

"I must demand atonement—my hands are not dexterous enough to put on my own clothing in the morning, let alone sign forms of consent to form a worker's union. You constantly adhere to the practices of mā and bà, but never use your own skills to demand equitable dividends. You are nothing more than the straw hat affixed to their head if you do not give value to your work."

Shuang laughed, catching a chick and cupping it close to her chest. "Perhaps you should reassess your situation, Renshu. I care enough about my hands to not wish the switch upon them."

"If I must fight for freedom through pain, jiě, I shall. When we age, you shall realize that the greatest pleasures in life came from liberty, not obedience."

"When I am older and carrying a child on each hip, mā and bà shall praise me and provide care and shelter for my children and I. No good comes from cynicism, dì di."

"Let us make a bet, jiě. Should you regret the chains of the back-aching agricultural lifestyle, you will aid me in my quest to overthrow this autocratic dominion."

Shuang set the chick down on her brother, where it proceeded to defecate its fear on his lap.

"Accepted. If not, you are to share the income of the farm when you inherit it, wherein my family and I will be provided for. I expect thirty percent for ownership, twenty percent for manual labour, and will charge interest on late dues. This is, by the way, legally binding."

"And if I do not inherit the farm?"

"You're my slave for a week—no, a month. That includes cleaning my room."

Image source: http://www.chilture.com/child-dog-by-the-river-chinese-oil-painting-p-255.html

Shuang stumbled as she walked, the basket of rapeseed bouncing in her arms. Regaining her posture, she sat next to the dog, searching the distance for whatever was capturing the animal's attention. "What might you be looking at, my friend?"

The dog's ear twitched, but his focus remained on the water.

"Sir, might I request a moment of your time? It is rather rude to ignore someone when they are speaking to you."

The dog sighed and rolled his eyes. "Children. They think everyone in the world owes them something."

Shuang's cheeks flushed red in indignation. "You dare patronize me? I must say, your fluffy coat demonstrates a suckling who is newly parted from its mother!"

The dog growled, "You must be unfamiliar with the aging of dogs. In your human years, I am double your own age."

"Have you been on your own so long that you have forgotten the way of the world? Your deplorable mortality does not change the orbit of the sun, nor the turning of the planet. And," Shuang added, a smug smile lurking at the edge of her lips, "the fish in the water that has so transfixed you is the tetraodontidae, known to you commoners as a pufferfish. You may devour it if you wish to die slowly."

The dog grunted with chagrin, placing one stone-slimed paw into Shuang's hand. "You are cleverer than I had initially thought. You may call me Shenshi."

"Shenshi? A peculiar name, considering you are no gentleman. But, as a lady, I shall forgive your discourtesies. I am Shuang. Would you like a sprig of mustard flowers?"

Hiding the drool gushing from his jaws the best he could, Shenshi flicked his tail dispassionately. "If you desired to rid yourself of a surplus, I would be magnanimous enough to accede."

"Save your gilded words for another time. My father expects me home with the harvest, and I would best not tarry. Unless you wish to accompany me?"

Shenshi's eyes reflected her sequestered elation. He stretched, sharpening his ragged toenails on the rock. "Very well, but simply because I cannot stand another minute near these cold-blooded philistines."

"Excellent. The chickens will make exemplary sleeping companions for you. Perhaps they could even provide an example. After all, they only consume their own ordure five times a day."

The dog barked in distaste. "Ironically, that is an improvement from my former associates—a pair of libertarians."

"The horror! You can join me in abhorring the capitalistic beliefs of my brother, then."

Image source: http://artodyssey1.blogspot.com/2011/01/li-zijian-b.html

"Perhaps your brother is right, Shuang. Your hands bleed on the dry rapeseed stems and your feet erode into stumps on the walk home. With freedom, we would make our own hours."

Shuang pressed her chapped lips together, wincing as she yanked a thorn from her foot. "You have spent but a year with us, and Renshu has already coerced you with his lackadaisical dreams and apocryphal beliefs of organization. If we all lived like Renshu wishes, people would starve from their laziness and humanity would collapse. Jobs must be assigned in order to maintain stability, like an ant colony."

Shenshi licked her foot in an uncharacteristic display of affection, wiping the dirt and blood from her calloused skin. "In the grand scheme of things, I agree that our current governmental system has its benefits. However, Shuang, there is no harm in thinking selfishly. You are not an ant to be quashed under the foot of aristocrats born into a higher status. Your work ethic is commendable and it seems more appropriate for the estate to pass on to you rather than Renshu."

Shuang reached behind her, unwinding a rapeseed flower from the bunch and giving it to Shenshi. "It is not the country's laws that prevent this from occurring, Shenshi, but the infernal patriarchy and traditional expectations. I've matured into a young woman of five and mā and bà have conversed about possible matches in order to pass me off to another family. A shame that after thousands of years of evolution, over half of our species is treated inferiorly. In the Western countries, they claim to have rights for women, due to more equitable wages and fewer gender criteria. However, Westerners are simply experts at hiding the voices of women who feel unsafe walking the streets alone, the overbearing sexualisation and preposterously specific expectations. Mā's generation may have bound their feet in cloth, but today's women do the same in stiletto high heels. They claim we are the weaker sex, and yet it is I who comes home each day with an aching body and basket full of produce, not my brother."

"I cannot explain the asinine nature of humans, my dear Shuang. Perhaps I speak out of place, but my hypersensitive eardrums detect a child coveting the urban life. I would not mind departing for the city—a particularly pungent marmot told me that they have dog cafés there!"

Shuang adjusted the straps of her basket before standing, a grim expression on her face. "They are not the sort of cafés that serve rawhide bones, my friend. You are far safer in the country, boring as it might be."

Image source: http://artodyssey1.blogspot.com/2011/01/li-zijian-b.html

"An entire day wasted," Shenshi grumbled, feet skidding on the river's surface. "Your new brother is a poor work substitute for Renshu—at least that one can last an hour without soiling his underwear. He produces the foulest odours, wails without cause, and thinks my tail is a toy to be played with. Worst of all, he is unable to communicate in any way. Why would your parents produce a non-sentient nitwit if he can't even contribute to the household?"

"He managed to pick some berries," Shuang offered, dubious. "I must concur, I was dismayed when mā and bà announced the conception to Renshu and me. Of course, now I understand that my arms alone cannot take care of the farm when they expire. The advantages are that he is a boy who can inherit the farm. His physical strength will be an asset as well."

"I shall not let you forget the multifarious disadvantages, my dear. He is a boy, true, and able to inherit the farm—your rightful farm, might I add. But he is still a pup, and will be useless until at least two years of age. The first has already been a headache. He ought to have been in your mother's care rather than yours. This arrangement of yours makes me somewhat cantankerous, I confess. In times like these, I converse with Renshu."

"Rue the day Shenshi allows himself to be seen to speaking with the common rabble!" Shuang laughed, legs shaking as she attempted to steady herself on the rocks.

"You jest, indubitably. If the hare living beneath the hay caught glimpse of me expending my time on a democrat, the calumny would be irrepressible!" Shenshi peered at the baby from the corner of his eye. "We shall raise him communist, I expect? Unless you prefer to have someone to share repartees."

The baby grabbed a fistful of Shuang's hair, tugging the pigtails as though they were reins on a horse. Shuang gently unwound his fingers and pulled him around to her hip, bouncing him with the last strength her arms could offer. "This one might grow into a simpleton, but it is up to the loyal simpletons to bring power to the astute. Now, let us journey forth before I wither where I stand."

Image source: http://artodyssey1.blogspot.com/2011/01/li-zijian-b.html

"I am pleased that you finally understand the value of hard work, dì di. What is your motivation—the clarity of communism or the impending threat of our brother?"

Renshu rested his head on his sister's leg, tired from a rare day of work. "Neither. Mā and bà have promised the land to our brother. He is three years old, unfamiliar with our sociopolitical situation and can't string together a complete sentence. Of course our parents would choose the family dimwit. Even Shenshi would be better suited to run an estate."

"A pity, true, because I have fufilled my end of our bet."

"Might you refresh my memory of this supposed deal, jiě?"

"When we were three, you claimed that I would become fed up with our governmental system and rebel against our parents. To this day, I can attest to my devotion to the farm."

"Yes, I recall that now. It's unfortunate that I cannot fufill my end of our arrangement. In order to satisfy the requirement, I propose that, in two years time, we overthrow the bureaucracy of our parents and claim the farm for our own. You can manage the finances and labour, I will communicate with the supply companies, Shenshi can help with planning the harvest and our brother can use his friendly demeanour to attract potential clients. What say you, jiě?"

Shuang sighed, twiddling the rapeseed in her hands. "I can only blame myself for your fanciful ideas, dì di. After all, what sister would allow her brother to propose a plan without details? There are labourers on the farm, legal loopholes, and conformists to deal with."

"No need to worry. You may have observed Shenshi and I conversing in increasing frequency over the years. We have been concocting a foolproof scheme, agonising over each if and but until we've ironed the plan to perfection. Shuang, we have been connected from our conception in utero to this moment, eight years later. You must trust me. The plan will suceed, but not without your help. I will ask you once more, jiě jie—will you help Shenshi and I in our coup d'état?"

Shuang took a steadying breath, tearing soft rapeseed petals away from their stem. A moment passed and perspiration dotted Renshu's caramel skin. Shuang dropped the rapeseed into the stream, watching her hard work float away. "Very well. But only on the condition that you identify as socialist and not liberal, or—curse my lips for even uttering it—conservative. Regarding my managemental position, I'd prefer to have more power. I'll relocate into the city, start our own business and make more profit by selling our supplies directly—are you listening?"

Renshu was standing, apparent giddiness plastered across his face. He gave her an awkward, unreturned hug. "You want all that power? And you call yourself a communist."

Mina's Boy -- Monologue

Today's mom's birthday, so I need to ask strangers for money to buy a gift. People are so nice, dropping coins and fluttering coupons down on me. I smile at 'em and always say thank you. Sometimes they look real surprised, or embarrassed, but most of the time they don't hear and just walk on off. A lot of people don't look at me, even though I look at them. Every day I look at people. I look and look and look. I sit outside Rory's shop, out on the corner scrunched up small with my sweater sticking to the brick wall so people don't trip on me when they walk. I used to sit outside Mrs. Josephine's Dance Studio, watching the pretty ballerinas twirl and wishing I could move like them angels. Wishing my stomach didn't jiggle like raspberry jello, wishing that when I was little, I could've fit in the wooden crib that my parents built for my younger sister, when we thought she was going to be born. But a man told me I had to leave, told me to go to a shelter, told me I couldn't sit outside watching them girls dance. I smiled and pointed, telling the man that I lived in a house just past the park, but he was already gone. Rory's ground is wet but he comes out of his shop each day and gives me a sandwich. He sells videos and says his name isn't Rory. He reminds me every night that I got to go, got to go buy food. He helps me count my money, tells me how much people gave me, tells me to buy something nice. Tells me which coupons are for what, tells me what I should be eating. "Get cold vegetables, eat them all day long and never get hungry. Stick of celery," he'll say, "You warm enough? House clean?" He's awful nice. I love Rory.

There's a little store that Yuki owns. I didn't know her name for the longest time, she was scared of me, always placing my change on the table instead of my big, pawlike hands. Now though I'm real happy 'cause Yuki always got something picked out for me, a little something nice. She smiles, lots of gum, little lined eyes—a tiny person. Yuki smells like wood varnish, like someone stuffed all the nice things they could think of together and called it a flower. She hands me a little blue swan today and a dog treat for my pup. I always get one. "How much money today?" she says, "How much you have?" I tell her five, I've got five dollars, but I need extra for a birthday present. She smiles extra big. "Is it your birthday?" No, I say. It's for mom. "Then you can have this, too," she says, and hands me a little box, "Open when you go to sleep." 

Dog treat's for my dog. My dog always says hello and I say hello and he eats a treat. Yuki says I should name my dog, but I don't want to pick a name. What if he didn't like it? I'd probably pick something stupid, anyway. Stupid like how I forgot to feed my dog and he vomited on our house's carpeting. "Mina's son. Clean it," Grandfather says, says been smelling it all day. I nod, put my blue swan in my drawer, my own little drawer in my own little room, take out my little box and lay it out on my table so I won't forget. I put food in my dog's bowl and open the cupboard right up, grab two boxes of cereal. I give one to Grandfather and he hands me a fifty dollar bill. I put the money in my drawer and crawl into bed, shaking the cereal into my mouth. I hold Yuki's present real close, real tight, and close my eyes. Just when I feel real sleepy, I take off the lid and look inside. I pick up a little glass ballerina between my thumb and my finger (the one with the broken nail) and hold her to my lamp. The light fills up inside of her and my mouth falls open at her tiny little feet, at her little nose. I run my hand over the figurine, then wipe off my finger smudges with my blue bedspread. 

I tuck the ballerina in my drawer, next to a gold belt buckle my father used to wear before he left and the ballet ribbon, the white ribbon I pulled from Mrs. Josephine's ballet slipper, the one I found in the dumpster behind the studio, the one that wrapped around her ankles as if it kept them from breaking. It lies next to my only picture of my mom. She would have been fifty-six today. I fall asleep with my hand in the drawer, touching the only things I have left.

Midnight Swim -- Cento

Behind the sky there’s a storm

of one snow fleck

and plunged into distant regions,

hands, woven of water and logic

spilled gradually, flooding

a typewriter on fire, like a hundred

birches dance, and they 

taste the air, the morning and the evening,

the new blue light of moon and ice

the dormant field, the snow

shiny as the coal under the railroad bridge

or a shell beneath the moving water.

The chrome surface of the dream’s lake

within a stone’s throw,

coarse salt and silver-wire hair

cut through thickening dusk

while hound dogs bark underneath

being serenaded by crickets singing the blues 

(Plenty, Offerings, Death of a Young Son, These Poems She Said, Hanlan's Point,
Sweet Like a Crow, 400: Coming Homes, Fear of Snakes, April Iceberg of Bragg's
Island, They Are Hostile Nations, Mount Vesuvius with Lips, I Have Not Lingered Long,
Dear Updike, Fire Watch, Burnt Pot Riverbank Indifferent Sky, The Suburbs,
Not the Heaven of Raccoons, the knowing.)

How to Get Away with Murder (Not to be Confused with the Television Show)

2015 Satire Media Assignment, text below.

    Studying the murder mystery genre has taught me a lot about the careful planning that must accompany murder. Too many pathetic attempts have caused me to shake my head at the murderers’ folly. Thus, I have created scrupulous solutions to the common problems murderers face.

     Before I continue, I must warn that this guide is not for the weak minded. It is written so that a person of any position, no matter their gender, age, race, etcetera, can carry out such a wearisome task, but I cannot guarantee that my plans are foolproof. Nay, I am not so bolstered by my ideas to claim that a feeble-brained individual might have the creative sense and quick-mindedness that is mandatory to the careful crafting of a murder. Murder is not merely a skill that can be perfected, but an art, a talent! Some are born with the ability to kill, however, most are not. Luckily for you, my fiendish followers, I was born with a silver dagger in my chubby infant hand, prepped from my early days of proximity to the mafia to kill without leaving a trace.

     First off, no gore. Bloody deaths are too complicated—the weapon, the evidence, the mess, but most importantly, it is entirely unsophisticated. Only temperamental brutes resort to such last minute ploys. What are the alternatives? Let us explore the options. Poisons are a popular choice. Drugs also work, and if the victim already takes medicine, faking a suicide is relatively easy. However, don’t depend on that to save your skin—the victims’ friends might claim that this situation is unlikely, if not impossible. You may be able to collect sufficient information on them to be certain that suicide is believable (see my article “How to Stalk Someone without Being Noticed”), but when in doubt, revert to the following methods.

     Arson seems like an easy option—just light a match and all your evidence is destroyed, right? Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. Witnesses abound—a rebellious teenage couple in the bushes, a dog walker contemplating whether they should clean up the poop, or even a drunk guest taking a wee out back. Escaping from fires is also relatively easy, unless you were to douse the entire house in gasoline before lighting the match (and I won’t even get into the logistics of hiding that evidence).

     Now, now, I’m not a Negative Nelly. I do have solutions to every problem that arises! Police officers must think like a criminal in order to catch a criminal. Reversely, we must think like policemen in order to escape them. What are your motives for the crime? Examine them. Dismiss ideas of revenge prematurely—it may taste sweet when it has been achieved, but such a taste will turn bitter in jail. Let us use money as a motive—it is common, understandable. Murdering someone unrelated to you is a relatively simple process, but the real challenge is killing a family member—and that is where we begin our work.

     Gaining information is the key to performing a clean murder. Pretend that the police have every intention of proving your guilt. What is the key to proving innocence? An alibi. “Oh, but my wise and all knowing murderess,” you may be thinking, “how can I be in two places at once?” Unless you have an identical twin, doppelganger, a clone, or a hologram, you cannot. Assuming that you haven’t any friends that would risk lying for you, the next best solution is to create a daily routine that you do not stray from. If you were, to say, live-stream yourself baking for a few months, then on the day of the murder, upload a video under the pretence of live-streaming, it could create a brief alibi. Eyewitnesses have excellent testimonies, however, and the police will doubt the stability of your alibi. In that case, remember the mantra, “Innocent until proven guilty!”

     This brings me to my final and crucial point. Hiding, destroying, or simply not having evidence in the first place. Where are you going to get your weapon of choice, my dear friend? Let us return to poison—nowadays, you can’t just pop over to the local drugstore, buy a vial of cyanide and be on your way. Back in my grandmother’s days, the simple excuse of needing rat poison was enough to land a dosage large enough to off a full grown man. Assuming that you’re no chemist, the best solution is to buy a bottle of Tylenol—extra strength if possible. To avoid being tracked on video footage, drive far out of town, park your car at least ten minutes away and walk to the local store. Wear a hoodie, sunglasses, and makeup. It doesn’t matter if you’re male or female—in fact, if you’re male, stuff a bra and raise the pitch of your voice (there are plenty of tutorials online).

     Use cash, throw out the receipt inside the store, and make your way back home with your untraceable bottle of painkillers (don’t worry, it’ll kill more than a migraine in the right amount). Take the capsules and empty all the powder into a bowl or bag. Helpful tip: Pretend you’re doing arts and crafts! The time will simply fly by.

     Now comes the difficult part. Remember what I told you about being a creative person? What’s the plan now? Put it in a bottle of wine, reseal it and deliver it as a present? In that case, you’ll have to buy more Tylenol due to dilution. Or would you prefer to deliver it in food? Tylenol affects the liver, so my personal recommendation is in the form of liquor. But watch out! The victim may vomit, thus reducing the effect of the medicine. Hopefully, your prey will wish to nurse their hangover with some Advil the next day. A funky liver and thin blood? Sounds like a winning combination.

     “But my heavenly goddess, how can I give them the wine? What if they get cured in the ER?” Whoa there, cowboy! Do I really have to hold your hand in terms of killing someone? Haven’t you matured enough to think of your own ideas? Oh, don’t make that face, I’m only joking. Sort of. If the victim does not live alone, find a way to get the family to leave, or to draw the victim out. Do they enjoy partying? What if they don’t drink alcohol? I’ve taken you far enough on this journey so that you can take some pride in planning your own sensational murder, personalized to suit your victim. I know, it’s scary. But you must trust what you’ve learnt. We’ve gone through this journey together and I’ll miss you. When I pick up my newspaper in the morning, a fresh cup of hot cocoa pressed to my lips, I’ll smile and think of you when the headline tells me that someone was murdered, with no suspects.

     If you enjoyed my article, share it with your friends and family on social media. If you found it useful, give it a like. If you used any of the techniques in my article, please drop me an email at catchmeifyoucan@excop.org. Keep an eye out for my next article, “Body Disposal and other Gardening Tips.”