I wish it were her

Dozing by the campfire
I could almost see her in the flames
A white knife, swallowed
And I wish it were her
Cutting me up from the inside

Someone passes me a beer
Someone tells a dirty joke
She's out of town for the week
And I wish it were her
Laughing next to me

A marshmallow falls in
And blackens on the embers
It smells like caramel
As it bubbles into ash
And so help me god
I wish it were her
Burning

Liar's Lament

she's angry at herself
for reasons I'll never be
able to properly appreciate
she's cute, but somewhere by her neck
I can smell the crazy
she's glancing and squinting
rooting out nefarious conspiracies
but when she's talking to me
the broken things line up
in neat little rows
like I'm validating something
like I'm a ticket to something
brighter
like I've got a direct line
to the fires that shape the universe

and she's cute and crazy
and laughs like I can help
so is that fair?
am I taking advantage?
I got plenty of snake oil

so why won't I tell her the truth?

Crawling All Over, Part One

Whenever I close my eyes, I can feel spiders crawling around. When I open them back up, there's nothing. I know it sounds crazy, but they feel like they're really there. I haven't actually seen them, because my eyes are always closed. There's no way they could just vanish or jump away. That kind of thing can't be real. I know it has to be crazy. I wouldn't even talk about it if it didn't bother me so much.

I went to a doctor and told him everything. He had this bullshit, patronizing look on his face. Like I was some fucking kid or something. Like I don't know I'm crazy. He gave me the business card of a shrink. I was hoping he'd just have some kind of pill right there. I went and picked up some eyedrops. It's so bad I don't even want to blink. My eyes are all red and scratchy.

I don't really know how it started, or when. I think it's been going on for awhile, maybe years. It used to not be so bad, just like an itch or a tickle. I'd have a tough time falling asleep, tossing and turning, but I'd go down eventually.

Maybe a week ago it got real bad. It was all of a sudden. I woke up from a dream, jumping off the bed trying to slap them off my arm. I remember thinking, 'Whoa, that dream felt so real,' but then I was in the shower, rinsing the shampoo, and nearly fell fucking over. Since then I can only fall asleep watching late night TV and getting really drunk. I've been calling in sick to work. I have to solve this thing soon or they'll fire me.

I just looked in the mirror. I'm supposed to see my kids this weekend, but I can't do it. I look like a junkie or a... maybe a murderer or whatever. I look like shit.

I gotta make some excuse. I'll feel like a complete prick and my ex-wife is just going to get smug over it. She'll be on the phone, smiling into the receiver, filling up my ear with all her self-righteous 'Your kids expect more from you even though I know better' routine. Whatever, I gotta do it. It's not like I could be honest with her. She'd jump right on the phone to her lawyer. She's always looking for any excuse to stop the visitations.

I root through my DVDs. Maybe there's a movie I haven't seen in awhile. I could try to watch that, maybe it'll help me forget. No, nothing. It's all shit. All bullshit.

I shout and knock some shit over. My place is already a mess. A bowl slides off the table. It didn't break, so I stomp on it. Crunchy chunks of white shit under my foot. I don't feel any better.

Maybe I do need some help. I dig that card out of my pocket. I read it over a few times. It's not for a shrink, it's for a priest.

Servant of the Flame, Part Two

We pull into the compound after the usual security check bullshit. Those boys at the gate are such a pain in the ass, but they do a good job. Tight security means you hire assholes and train them to be thorough. They have bomb sniffing dogs, and mirrors to check the wheel wells, and even a set of sensors that supposed to be able to see people hiding in your trunk. They always make us get out and dance around while they wave those goddamn sticks all over us. They check the prisoner too, though he's too fucked up to stand. They just drag him out into the dirt and pat him down. I warned that prick not to try anything, but guys like him never learn.

So now we're pulling into the motor pool. Some tech weenies swoop in to tune up the car. Some security goons swoop in to pick up the prisoner. My partner and I have a few minutes before the drop, so we go hit the cafeteria.

One thing they know how to do here is coffee. Because of all the circuitous logistics required to keep this place off the grid, we sometimes get our supplies from strange places. Last month they ran out of desserts and all they had were boxes of these weird mexican candies that tasted like salty hot sauce. But the coffee is amazing. One of the supply guys has a special hookup in Venezuela. We get this shit right off the mountains. It's the sort of thing God would drink if he ever came down to Earth. Or at least, if he ever found out about this place.

My partner picks up a whole tray of shit. He says he's starving, and I don't say anything. He brings his food back to the table and I just sip my coffee whole he tries to eat some stroganoff or whatever. He looks hungry, but all he can do is poke at that food. He stirs up the green beans. He prods the barley mash. It smells tasty but I know he won't be able to eat anything.

It's that noise. It's here now too. You hate it when you hear it, but when you leave the compound, you start to miss it. There's something comforting about getting your head rattled, like you don't have to think too hard. The noise keeps you up at night, and it often steals your appetite. A lot of people get really skinny here. They could turn this place into a fat camp, sell tickets, make a fortune. Not like they need money. Not like they don't own half the goddamn country already.

So my partner's pretending like he can still eat while I'm fully enjoying my coffee. I've never had a problem finishing a cup of this stuff. You could burning off my dick with a hot poker and I'd still be smiling and sipping this coffee. Our phones go off at the same time. Everything's ready upstairs. We leave our shit on the table and head up.

Our grim, tatooed buddy is wide awake now and screaming. The goons put him in a cage in the center of the big ritual room. They could just hit the button and make this happen, but the boys upstairs like all the pomp and circumstance of tradition. They've been killing people in here for around fifty years. You can't just throw that kind of history out the window.

There's a guy in a robe reading some grim sounding shit in Latin. I always find that funny. He's not even a priest or anything. Who's idea was it to recite shit in Latin? This whole company's probably sixty years old at the most. It's all a farce.

So there's the robe guy, two of those secuirty goons with long, cattle-prod things, a dude behind a console, the director, and me and my partner. We're all standing around in this big ass room with a reinforced cage bolted to the floor in the center where this piece of shit murderer is screaming his head off, making all kinds of threats. No one's worried about any of that shit. Once he sees the blue fire, it'll all be over.

The robe guy finishes and closes his book. The director nods to the console guy. The prisoner shuts up for a second to piss his pants. The console guy flips a switch and the bottom of the cage slides open.

The ritual room is situated directly over the engine. The cage shaft used to be part of a chimney the built originally. When they discovered that the blue fire didn't make any smoke, they bricked it up. When they discovered that they needed a way to drop bodies into the engine, they unbricked it and built this cage.

Now the trap door doesn't move all that quick, so the prisoner is now holding on to the bars of the cage like a monkey. He seems like a pretty strong guy, so he can probably hang there awhile. That's why those goons have the prods, in case the sacrifice just hangs in there like that fucking cat in the poster.

The murderer takes one look down, they always do, and it's over. The goons won't need the prods. There's a look that comes over the prisoner's face. It's tough to describe, but it's like a baby. Like suddenly this evil fucking fuck is suddenly turned into a happy, curious baby. He lets go of the bars and drops into the heart of the blue flame. The fire does something to a person's brain if he looks right into it. I don't know what it is and I don't want to know. I have to hear the noise it makes all day and night, and that's enough for me.

So the prisoner is gone and the console guy hits another switch. As the trap door closes, that rumbling sound is muted again and I realize I've been grinding my teeth. The director is already out the door. The goons are right behind him. My partner is heading to the bar to get fucked up. He invites me along but I decline. I can't stand to look at him right now. I can't stand fucking anything.

I go back to my goddamn bunk and push my pillow up against my ears so hard. I curl up in the corner and try not to think about that peaceful baby face and how much I'd like to be able to make it.

Chump

We lay on the bed that night
With all our clothes
And all our thoughts
in between us.
I turn away to face the wall
You mumble to me
You want something
But I know
It won't be enough
I want to go home
But I can't leave the room
I can't leave the bed
It took me years to think of the words
I wanted to say then,
"You make me feel like a chump,"

An Open Letter to a Girl at Panera

I feel a bit silly handing you this note, as if it were something passed to you during 7th grade Social Studies.

However, due to the specific circumstances under which we keep meeting, this seems the most effective and discrete method of communication. I hope you'll indulge me your patience as I try to explain myself:

A - I like going to that particular Panera. It is close to my apartment and provides a pleasant, daily escape from my work

B - I like you. You seem interesting and cute. I'd like to sit and chat to get to know you better, but...

C - The register line is a wholly inadequate place to do this. With hungry people waiting behind me and you coworkers listening on, I can't help but feel anxious when we talk.

So this is what I propose:

1 - I will give you my cell # (XXX) XXX-XXXX
2 - Use it or discard it at your discretion.
3 - Regardless of any meeting we do or do not have, I will greet you at work only with a kind of distracted, professional courtesy.

I really don't want to make Panera uncomfortable for either of us. Thank you for your understanding in this matter.

-Justin

Servant of the Flame, Part One

At the heart of the compound, the engine burns with blue fire. The whirring, grinding noises rattle the minds of the men in their quarters, trying to sleep. Many of them try earplugs or headphones. Nothing stops the noise of the engine. At night, they say, you can hear it in your bones.

It's been burning for decades. We don't know how to stop it, but we can slow it down and contain it. In the fortress, we caged the fire and learned to yoke it.

Our car pulls up and stops along a nondescript stretch of road. Too far from civilization for anything to be too well maintained. There's a patch of dirt where we always make the tranfer. Brown, scratchy weeds poke through the cracked asphalt, only to wither under the dry, Arizona heat. Seems like a waste trying to grow roots out in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

The bus is already waiting for us when we pull off the road. These things go like clockwork. The guards climb down out of the bus. I've seen them all before, though I don't know their names. It's a courtesy, really. They know enough about what's going on to know it's bad. And since we're always collecting, they must assume we're bad people. You don't want to get too friendly with bad people.

The guards lead the prisoner off the bus. We climb out of the car. One guard has a clipboard that he shows me. I flip through it. It lists the prisoner's information, criminal records, aliases, accomplices, family. He wants me to sign off on something, but I never sign anything. He puts away the clipboard and nods. All part of the routine. Clockwork.

The prisoner is a skinny looking thing, like cold gristle. He's got tattoos creeping down his arms and up his neck under the orange jumpsuit. The clipboard said he was a killer, but I could've guessed without looking. I spend enough time with killers.

This guy was all calm and careful till he got off the bus. He started sizing us up, likely imagining how he'd most like to kill each of us had he the chance. He didn't seem worried till he noticed the guards' faces.

The guards are fucking terrified of us. I love this part. They've all got pistols, and mace, and batons. One of them always has a shotgun, and yet they're scared of us, two guys in dark suits driving a company car. They're scared because they have no idea who we are or why they regularly hand over prisoners to us out in the middle of nowhere.

So now this animal is jerking his arms around and shouting. Even with the hand-and-ankle cuffs, he's still dangerous. The guards are shouting and struggling to hold him. They shove him up against the bus, but this guy won't quit. We just wait by the car for all the drama to die down.

The guy with the shotgun gives me a nervous glance. I nod. He walks over and smashes the butt of the weapon against the prisoner's face. I can hear that nose crack all the way over by the car. Blood is pouring like a garden hose from the murderer's face. That guard hit him really fucking hard. Fear can do crazy things to people.

After that it was easy enough to get him to cooperate. I brought some tranquilizers with me just in case, but we normally don't like to use them. It sometimes messes up the process.

We load the creep into the back of the car. He's getting blood all over the place, but that's okay too. The lab guys put some kind of special coat on the upholstery. You wouldn't believe the shit we have to clean out of there and it all just comes right off.

We fix his chains to a couple of special hooks at the bottom of his seat. He just sits there, playing hurt, but I can see those little eyes of his flicking around. The hooks look really fragile and he probably thinks he can just rip them right out and kill us. The real hard asses always try some shit like that. He's in for a motherfucking surprise when he does it.

The guards are already back on the bus. I can see the driver sweating behind the wheel. They can't wait for us to leave. Three guards, one driver, and a big-ass bus. They could have hauled forty prisoners out here, but they just took one. Whenever the order comes down, they only take one prisoner. And when things go like clockwork, they get big fat paychecks.

That's how things like this work. A little bit of money and a whole lot of fear. No one asks questions, everyone goes home happy.

Drinkey O' Drinkey

Lazy blonde curls, she's drawing loops around a currency of time hunched over the bar. She's a bolt from the blue with a tiny tattoo I can't quite make out on her arm. The men brush past and she snickers at their jokes, but cringes when our elbows accidently touch.

Like I'm supposed to apologize.

She looks like a lesbian, but she's not. That's supposed to be a compliment, but I know she won't take it that way so I shut my mouth. She dresses like she doesn't care. Not it'd matter what I think. It never matters what I think.

She says she believes in love and I can't say that I believe in anything.

You ever believe in anything? Looking back, can you honestly recommend it?

There's a little laugh and I see someone's propped their baby up on the bar. They tickle and giggle with it in between sips. I can't fucking take it anymore. I have to get up and run out of there. I have to go anywhere else.

But then, I'm thirsty. There's no beer outside, or back at my apartment, but there's beer here. So I stay and drink. And I order another. And another.

I don't know if I have enough money to cover the tab. I'm hurting so much I can't count.

For a Moment...

I held her all night, it was easy
The ground fell away as we slept
And I had no way of knowing
About the morning
And all the secrets she's kept

Old Romantic

In summertime, in sunny weather
On a remote, golden beach
My sins did gather together
To invite me to a feast

Pickled limes, fried legumes
With buttered pineal gland
No table, no plate, no spoon
The food thrown down in the sand

My hate picked up a fiddle
Hypocrisy began to clap
The rest danced and sang a little
Even though he played like crap

The main course was my lovely wife
They cut and pissed upon her
They offered me the biggest slice
For I was the guest of honor

With the dinner done, they'd had their fun
And almost nothing left of me
They left the food to rot in the sun
And laughing, led me to the sea

All the Sticky Bits

I've almost finished pulling all my pieces together
One was under the sink
One rolled behind the sofa
One was tucked into an old shoe
in a box in the attic
of the house that burned down
when I was just a boy
One was in my cereal
One was in my fist
One was stuck in my lover's eye
and blinking...blinking
blinked it free
One's still stuck on the ceiling
One can't move on with his life
no matter what he tells you
One still pretends to be happy
so you'll fucking hang up
I've almost got all of them rounded up
in a big pile on my bed
Now all I gotta do is stick them back together
All these broken bits

Oh, You're Good

How careful you move
Your pieces across the board
And around the room

Such a masterful mind
If you'd ever apply it
Beyond your private castles

Heavy Heart

He threw down his stone-tipped spear
And cried out to the noon-sun
"I shall hurt no creature"
And he threw away his carving knife
of chipped obsidian
"I shall live clean, beholden to no suffering
No cow shall lose milk
Nor bee lose a drop of honey
I will no longer break my hunger
Across the backs of innocent beasts!
Though my children wither and starve
I sleep with a happy heart!"

Where the Heart is

The police march in
And lift me from the floor
"You are drunk, sir,"

"Perhaps," I laugh

"Go home, sir,"

Again I laugh
"Where and where, sir?"

They frown and throw me
Face first into the street
and repeat
"Go home, sir,"

"The earth, it sings,"
I explain
"And the the drink holds me close
So where can home be?"

But they do not listen
And have moved along to the next bar
And all their people on the floor.

Bride of the Sky, Part Three

And so the Spirit that is the sky walked in flesh through the gates of his palace and into his great hall. All his wives stood in a gracious line to receive him with fond blessings. He looked upon their lumpy bodies and greasy hair. He saw them dribble and drool. Each wife smelled of dung.

"Ugh," said the great spirit.

Further down the line one of the wives had blown her nose so that the mucus now hung from her nose and stuck to her lips.

"Oh, gross," said the great spirit.

Finally, he walked to the last of the line and set his eyes upon Mela. He spied her ratty wig and her sack-cloth dress. He sighed, shook his head, and walked past.

The spirit walked to the last room at the end of the hall, the forbidden room, and shut himself inside. As the door closed, the wives cheered and hugged each other, cackling in triumph. Still clad in hideous disguises, they shuffled back to their various tasks around the palace.

Distraught, Mela hurried to one wife and asked, "Why do we paint such foulness on our bodies?"

"Hush girl," the woman looked angry, "to do otherwise is to invite death,"

Mela gasped. Her hands hid her face in fear.

"Our great husband would take the fairest of us for slaughter," the woman's words twisted with a sneer, "Such is his bountiful love that he would burn us in a horrible way if we appealed to him with beauty,"

"I had no idea,"

"You have only been here a short while. We all have a good life here. In the fullness of time, you will come to see our wisdom. Hide your beauty and stay away from that forbidden room. You will live happy," the wife nodded and returned to her fond diversions.

Yet Mela was troubled indeed. Her thoughts fell on the look of her husband as he paced the hall. His sky blue skin and his cloud white eyes. What strange wants could muddle his mind that he would burn the beauty from women?

And so Mela approached the forbidden door. The latch lifted easily and swung open. The inside was dark, save for a yellow glow that cast strange shadows on the ceiling. The room was completely bare save for a large, magical table in the center of the room, the source of the light. The Spirit that is the sky laid in the corner, curled up, shielding his eyes from the shadows on the ceiling.

Mela approached the table and gasped, the whole of the world laid out before her. Mountains and rivers and forests all spinning by, reflected in true detail by the magic of the glowing table. Mela stayed awhile in that quiet room, watching the world underneath. In every strange country, every foreign land or exotic kingdom, in every field or meadow, she saw the suffering. The world grew dry and hungry. Sickness and weakness reigned over the peoples of the world. They rent their garments in hopeless despair and feared the coming winter. Mela felt their terror and fled the forbidden room.

She ran out among the wives, who all clucked and tutted at Mela's fear.

"You were told to stay away and you did not listen," they said to her.

"Does that table tell the truth, do the peoples of the world suffer so?"

"What does it matter? People suffer and die everyday. Even with a full belly, they'd find something to fight over. Suffering is their business,"

Mela was shocked to hear such callous words, "We can do nothing to help them?"

"The Spirit could help them if he wanted to; he is very powerful. He does nothing but sit and mope. If he will not help, what can we do?"

"We could go and beg him to bring rain to the people," Mela implored, wringing her hands.

"Beg him? All he wants to do is kill us. And what do we care for those people below? The moment they start to worry about anything, they pick a woman and sacrifice her. They don't care if we live or die, they only think of themselves. You were sent away too, were you not?"

Mela nodded.

"And so you should join us happily. As your unforgiving family has graciously removed you from their bosom, so now you can forget all their troubles and enjoy yourself this wonderous, new life,"

Pleased with their words, the wives all returned to their songs, and foods, and exotic delights. Mela, though, still felt a great trouble in her mind. The faces of her tribe, the worry of her family, the wilting crops.

Mela walked to a great, splashing fountain and with its waters, washed the mud from her face. The wives gasped and rushed to her, begging her not to continue. Mela pulled the wig from her head and the sack-cloth from her body. With scented oils, she annointed her skin. She combed the tangles from her hair and tied red blossoms to her braids. She found bright, rich silks to wrap her body. She ignored the frantic pleading of the women and walked to the last door in the hall.

She knocked and called out, "My husband, come and look upon your wife,"

The spirit opened the door and beheld her fairness with joy. His hands touched her face. He delighted in her fair scent and the color of her clothes. His white eyes shone with a bright light and all the other wives fled and crouched in fear.

"You are filled with joy and love," his words rumbled like thunder, "and it pleases me to see your fine smile. I wish to grant you a gift, that you have brought me such pleasure,"

"My lord and love, the people of the world suffer greatly. I would see them well again,"

He simply smiled and drew her closer. His lips touched hers and he breathed light into her body that she felt a warmth growing within. He held her close in an embrace as the heat grew to a terrible fire. She could feel it burning away like a bright sun inside her belly. She knew fear for a moment, but he held her and looked into her eyes and was a great comfort. She could feel the fire consuming her, though she did not blacken or melt. This fire consumed her and she became the fire itself. It was not a burning of flesh, but of the soul. And soon her body could not contain it.

Her flesh rent apart and scattered across the hall. The wives shrieked and wailed in fear. The Spirit returned to his forbidden room.

But the fire of Mela swelled and spread out. The world fell before her like she saw on the glowing table. With new eyes, she could see each child in every field, each mother caring for their family, each father toiling for love. She saw the suffering of the whole of the world and also their joy. The sight of it drove her to such fits of emotion that she cried great tears. The world was filled with her love and the rain fell.

The world grew green again.

Bride of the Sky, Part Two

Mela slept for a long time, and in the sleeping she dreamed of wild things and leaping creatures. She dreamed of a dancing flame who taunted and circled her. The dream seemed as real as waking life. When the flame landed again before her, she asked, "Are you my husband?"

The flame laughed and she awoke.

She lifted her head from her arms and found that she was laying on the floor before a majestic palace. Great golden doors open before a grand walkway lined with columns. Opulence and richness were in abundance. Mela stood and walked inside.

Women played and sang where ever she walked. Some were painting in a garden. Some tended a nursery full of playful, winged kittens. One sat by the fountain, knitting jets of colored water into a magical gown. The women saw Mela and welcomed her. They offered exotic foods and clothes. They promised to teach any of their mysterious crafts and the ways of their magic. They showed her to an elegant and comfortable bedroom.

"Welcome my girl, as you are now our sister, a bride to the Spirit of the Sky like all of us," they said.

"You are all wedded to the Spirit as well?" Mela asked.

"Indeed, he is loving and generous,"

"And what is expected of me? What are my duties?"

At this the other women looked uneasy and wrung their hands against their dresses.

Mela grew concerned and asked again, "With all these wonderous gifts, what does the Spirit ask in return?"

"In time, you will see. Just listen and do as we do and no harm will befall you,"

Mela felt a shiver of fear, "Harm? What cause of harm is here?"

They only smiled and returned to their fond diversions. The day passed pleasantly. Mela wandered from room to room in the palace, meeting all of the other women in turn and delighting in their work. She sampled fruits grown around the world and delicacies from ancient and mysterious kingdoms. By the end of the day she had been to every room save for one.

A pair of double doors stood closed at the end of the main hall. They were small and rather plain in design. Compared to the decorations of the rest of the palace, the doors were very easy to walk right by. Mela explored very carefully and herself amost missed them. She touched the handle and moved to open, but one of the wives struck her hand against the door, pressing it closed.

"We do not disturb this room, dear," she explained.

"Oh, am I not allowed?" Mela asked.

"This room is not for us. We leave this room alone," the wife explained carefully.

Mela sighed and turned away, returning again to play with the kittens. The other women doted and fussed upon her. They exhausted the afternoon in such a manner, with idle play and fanciful chatter. Night settled quickly on the palace. The wives gave light to lanterns of colored glass along the hall. They prepared the evening feast and laughed along to silly poetry. They enjoyed roast duck and vegetables seasoned with a strange, fiery pepper.

One wife, standing by the window cried out, "Sisters, he comes!"

Up from the table leapt the women, scattering the food and plates in their hurry. Mela sat alone, watching in confusion as the other wives ran about. They smeared lumps of wax to their face with clots of makeup. They pushed pillows under their skirts to form unflattering bulges. They hunched and drooled and spat upon themselves. Soon, the whole lot of beautiful wives had transformed themselves into awkward, ugly hags.

"Oh, I almost forgot about you!" one woman said as she grabbed Mela by the wrist.

"I dont understand, what's going on?"

"Just be silent and wear this," The wife tucked Mela into a huge cloak of sack-cloth. With a wig and a bit of mud on her face, she was just as ugly as the others. They all lined up by the grand entrance as the wind blew the mighty doors open. An unearthly light from the sky signaled a bolt of lightning that struck the flagstones of the front walk. A tall and majestic figure of a man strode from the scorch of sky-fire. He wore elegant, red-runed robes and had skin like the sky on a clear blue day, his eyes white as clouds. He smiled and strode into his palace.

"Is that..." the question hung on Mela's lips.

"Yes, dear, that's our husband,"

Bride of the Sky, Part One

The season had been very dry; the crops grew wilted and weary under the relentless heat. All the peoples of the tribe clung to each other, worrying over the coming winter and the hunger that was sure to follow. They gathered their strongest and wisest men to seek out the great shaman of the mountains and bring him gifts of wealth and treasure.

After many days of searching, the men found the great shaman as he smoked the meat of a turtle from the river. The men fell to their knees, offering all the tribe's riches, and begged for help against the drought. The shaman waved away their gifts, instead carving the meat of the turtle and sharing some with each man. He sat and thought and watched the sky. The men began to speak again, but the shaman waved them silent. As night fell upon them, in the dark, the shaman told this tale:

There is a spirit that roams the sky. So breathes the dawn, so drinks the night. The spirit seeks a bride. His is the time as winter passes and green swells the land. As such, his bride must be young and beautiful. With his bride, he will bless the land and all things will bloom.

And the men asked how to present this bride to the spirit. The shaman replied:

Cover her eyes in the whitest cloth, so that she may not be blinded by the spirit's light. Bind her hands in the lightest, softest thread, so that the slightest effort might tear them apart, so the spirit knows his bride is willing. Lead her to the top of the holy mountain and leave her before the dawn, so that her beauty is the first thing on the eyes of the new sun.

And the men gave thanks and stood to leave, but the shaman rose in a fright and shouted:

Be you mindful, the bride must be brave. Above all else, her soul must have steel, for the spirit is easy to trick and fool.

The men nodded and gave assurance to the old shaman. Again they turned to leave and climb down the mountain toward the village. Behind them, the great shaman clapped his hands and shook his rattles. The stones of the mountain heard his call and began to sing along, happily. All the stones sang under the feet of the men as they climbed through the darkness. They did not trip or stumble.

Back in the village, the men consulted with the chief over the shaman's commands. They argued over which of their girls should become the bride of the spirit. One man argued for Elsi, a girl in the flower of her beauty, with a brightness of spirit and innocence that brought joy to all who knew her. Another man argued for Nolsamma, a girl of such inviting curves and friendly warmth that all men find so welcoming. A third man argued for Kora, a girl of such fair feature and noble bearing, she looked like she might've stepped out of a great painting.

The chief hushed all the men and thought for a great while on the words of his men and the commands of the shaman of the mountains. He rose and stepped out of his tent and called for all the people of the tribe. As they all gathered around, he told of the journey of the men, and the shaman sharing turtle meat, and the story of the spirit in the sky. The women of the tribe clutched their daughters close in fear as the chief announced his decision for a bride to the sky.

His finger passed over the tribe and settled on one girl. He called out her name, Mela. The tribe fell silent. Mela was pretty, but not very. She was young as well, but not very. She had lived near twenty winters without a husband, and unless a sickness took some of the more beautiful women away, she would likely see another twenty before she found one. The peoples of the tribe grew nervous as they thought the spirit might be displeased with such an unlovely bride. However, no one spoke up or objected to the chief about this decision, as they feared he might choose their daughters instead.

And so that night, Mela was bound by soft thread and blindfolded with white cloth and carried to the top of the holy mountain that leaned over the edge of the world, the first thing on the eyes of the rising sun. She went without fuss or complaint, happy to serve the needs of the tribe. The men loved her dearly, kissing her on the face and head as she waited. As the sky grew bright, they fled the sun's rays and hid in the darkness behind some rocks below.

As the sun rose and painted the world with its color, the men had to look way from the great, stinging light. As their eyes grew accustomed, they turned back to the mountain, but Mela was gone.

Inadequate Account

"I have loved in my time,"
I tell St. Peter
He wears white robes
With golden wings
He holds a quill over a blank book

"I'm sorry," he says
"Come again?"

"I have known love, sir,"
My only answer

He frowns and shakes his head
"That just won't do,"
His hand hesitates

"I have loved, sir, and failed,"
My only claim

He throws the pen down
"So what am I to write?"

"That I have loved, sir,"

He only scowls at me.