Death of the Storybook

I recently submitted a story to an agent for a critique.  She said that my writing was good.  Her only concern was that she didn't feel my work would be mainstream.  At 996 words it was considered too long to be a picture book and that there was no longer a market for storybooks.
No more storybooks?
I was told that parents want to read short books to their children at bedtime, 300 - 500 words ideally.  It saddened me to think that at the end of the day, when work is over and lessons are complete and the kitchen is cleaned and you finally get to see your child, all you can offer them is 300 words.
That's not to say that there aren't many wonderful books written to that length. But that comment did seem to speak to our hurried and harried way of life.
My first thought to the agent's advice was, 'Okay, I can do that.  Shorter?  No problem.'  And I could, if I wanted to.  The thing is, I like writing storybooks.  I like stories that are lyrical, that are just as much for the parents as the children.  Stories that are, dare I say it, sweet.
If I have a message in my work it is for parents and it is this.  Pay Attention.  Childhood is over in the blink of an eye and trust me, it's not the children who grow up and remember those bedtime stories.  It's the parents who pick up a long forgotten book and remember how it felt to be snuggled up against their little one lost in the midst of a story.  A fairy tale perhaps.
How long are we allowed into the world of our own children?  Not long.  The real world with all of its demands asserts itself far too soon.  And we are left with the task of saying everything we have to say in 300 words.
So I will continue to write my storybooks.  Perhaps I will read them to a grandchild one day, all 1,000 words of them.

The Flight of Sebastian Bean

Chapter 1

Stories like this one always begin in misery.

There was a time when Sebastian Bean had two parents, a beautiful mother and a handsome father.  They all lived together in a tall narrow house on a lovely tree lined street in a fashionable area of a quaint and historic city.  Sebastian had a bedroom of his own and in it he had a wall filled with bookshelves and on the shelves hundreds of books, so many that his fathered attached a ladder that slid on a rail so that he could reach the books at the top.    From the long window above his desk he could see all the way to the square in the centre of town where a marble fountain burbled and people fed the pigeons.  And very often in the evenings he would walk with his parents down to the ice cream shop where he ordered a chocolate peppermint cone that he ate with great enjoyment.  At night his mother would come in and kiss him goodnight and before he fell asleep he would say, ‘I am very lucky’.  And he was.  He was a very, very lucky boy and then all at once he wasn’t.

One Sunday morning Sebastian woke to the sun streaming through his window and the birds singing in the trees.  There was no reason for him to think that it wouldn’t be another lucky day in his very lucky life.  But when he sat up in bed and listened to the house he was filled with a feeling that he was not used to.   Something wasn’t right.  He got out of his bed and opened his door and peered into the hall.  What he saw was his father was talking to Doctor  Little.  The doctor shook his head and put his hand on Arthur Bean’s  shoulder and patted it twice.  Sebastian stepped farther out into the hall.  ‘Father?’ he called and in the single word were a million questions.  “Go back to your room Sebastian,” said his father.  “I will be in shortly”. 

Sebastian went back to his room and sat on his bed and the feeling that something was very wrong grew and grew until his father came in with the news that his mother had contracted a terrible influenza and that he must pack a bag at once and go and stay with his grandmother so that he didn’t get infected as well.  Had Sebastian known how important what he put into his suitcase was going to be he would have packed more carefully.  But he was so worried about his mother he couldn’t think.  His father made him wear a mask across his nose so that he didn’t breathe in any of the germs that had made his mother sick and as he passed the door to their bedroom Sebastian called ‘Goodbye mumma.’  He didn’t know if she heard him and sadly he would never know for his mother died the next morning. 

Over the next while Sebastian was sadder than I have words to describe.  He missed his mother terribly and to make matters worse it seemed that his father had forgotten him.  Sebastian remained with his grandmother and only saw his father from time to time and each time his father seemed more of a stranger to Sebastian.  He spoke quietly and he never remembered to hug Sebastian and always left without taking him back home. His grandmother told him that his father was sad too and that he would come around and that time was a great healer. 

The spring went by and turned to summer and then to autumn and finally to winter and spring again.  And then one day when Sebastian and his grandmother were working in her flower beds turning over the black dirt and getting them ready for planting a long black car snaked its way up the drive and parked in front of the house.  Sebastian stood and dusted his hands off on the back of his pants.  The door of the car opened and his father climbed out.  “Hello Sebastian!” he boomed in the voice he used to use.  “I’ve come to take you home!”  Sebastian was so surprised that he could not seem to move.  He wanted to run into his father’s arms with relief , but he couldn’t seem to do anything but stand in one spot with his mouth hanging open in surprise.  His grandmother stepped forward and placed her hand on Sebastian’s back.  “Well,” she said, “isn’t this wonderful.”  But her voice didn’t sound excited, it sounded very much like Sebastian was feeling.  She was saying happy words but they sounded anything but.  Sebastian’s father stood there grinning and Sebastian stood in the same place and his grandmother stood behind him.  They may have stood this way for a good long time had the other door on the car not opened with a creak capturing their attention. 

“Arthur,” said a dark velvet voice.  “Will you help me out?”  Sebastian’s father hurried to the other side of the car and extended his hand.  A gloved hand appeared and wrapped itself around his own.  As Mr. Bean raised his hand a long thin woman was revealed.  She wore a tight fitting skirt and had an ostrich plume in her hat.  She had a long thin nose to match the rest of her and a wide red mouth.  “Sebastian,” said his father, “there is someone I’d like you to meet.  This is, well it’s, your, I should say.. my wife.  Your stepmother.”  Suddenly the air in Nanny’s yard became very still.  Even the birds were shocked into silence.  “Hello Sebastian,” purred the thin woman.  “It is such a pleasure to meet you at last.  Arthur has told me so many things about you I feel as if I know you already.”  Her voice dripped all over Sebastian and she smiled.  He still had not moved a muscle although his mind had begun to race inside of him.  This person, this stepmother person was going to live with them.  Sleep in their house, in his mother’s bed, use her things, sit in her chair.  No it couldn’t be.  But as he watched his father’s face and saw him smiling at the thin woman he realized it was real.  Horribly, awfully real.  She smiled at Sebastian revealing a row of well manicured teeth and he was somewhat relieved to see that they weren’t pointed.  “I’m afraid it’s come as a shock to you,” the thin woman went on, “Arthur, shame on you.  I told you he should have been warned. You may call me Sinthia my dear.”  At last Sebastian found his voice.  “It’s nice to meet you,” he managed.  Mr. Bean stepped closer to Sebastian and ruffled his hair.  “He’s alright aren’t you son?”  Sebastian was so surprised at being ruffled by his father that he, for a moment, forgot to be shocked at the situation that was presenting itself in Nanny’s garden.  It had been so long since Arthur Bean had shown his son any affection at all that Sebastian didn’t quite know how to respond.  Little boys aren’t so different than puppies really.  Even if you haven’t paid much attention to it a puppy will always forgive his owner at the first sign of kindness and that is exactly what Sebastian did.  In that split second he looked at his father and smiled and thought ‘maybe it will be alright’.  Poor Sebastian, he was so happy for a little affection he didn’t even hear the other car door open until a very fat and freckly kind of a voice said, “If I don’t get something to eat in the next 5 minutes my blood sugar will plummet.”

reaper

the end that we fear
is coming
on cold breath and silent feet
don't listen
the whisper of foretelling
cannot be heard
no ear attuned
to the sound of finality exists
don't look
for it is invisible
just somewhere
everywhere
at once
don't touch it
it can't be felt
but inside
where the knowing grows
an uneasy peculiarity
is hiding in the shadows
waiting for the moment
we forget

What Kind of Writer Are You?

I have asked myself this question many times, taken online quizzes and submitted samples for analysis and at the end of it all I’ve determined that I don’t one hundred percent know what kind of writer I am.  I should know.  Shouldn’t I?   I know what I like to write.  I like to write poetry when I’m particularly stressed or emotional.  I write quickly without any rules and let the words arrive of their own volition.  There was a time when I wrote a poem every night before bed.  I wrote them all at once, without stopping to edit or revise or allow myself time to think about it much.  And I found this kind of writing gave me a tremendous sense of release.  Other times I write in vignettes painting a picture with broad gestures and very little shading. These stories usually arrive as a whole at inopportune moments and I find myself scrambling for some paper and a pencil and write until the story is done or my brain kicks in and puts an end to it.  Sometimes I write historical fiction.  I like the narrative, the flowery prose, the use of language.  And I like to write for children.  

If you asked me what kind of a book I would most like to publish, the genre I would most like to be known for, I would have to say that I would like to be known as a children’s author.  I’d be over the moon to be able to tell a story like Kate DiCamillo does or Roald Dahl or Brian Selznick or J.K. Rowling or Neil Gaiman.  I love the imagination behind children’s fiction.   I love the idea that parents are flawed, that animals talk and that little boys can live in clock towers or become wizards or be raised in graveyards.  It is a magical genre and I want to be a magician.  

Writing for children satisfies the part of me that is unwilling to grow up.  Or is it unable?  When I sit down to work on a children’s story I feel a certain sense of melancholy.  It’s painful.  I think it’s fear.  I’m afraid that I want it so badly that I’ll never get it.  I feel like I’m 12 years old with my eye on a new bike and only 3 dollars in my piggy bank.  I want the bike, I’m working for the bike, but there’s no guarantee that I’ll ever get the bike.  The thing is that if I don’t do the work I remove the possibility.

Possibilities are what children’s books are all about. 

Today I watched Neil Gaiman’s 2012 commencement speech ‘Make Good Art’.  He talked about worry and how it kept him from enjoying the journey some of the time.  It’s keeping me from enjoying the journey as well.  Not that I’m in the same stratosphere as Mr. Gaiman as a writer but he is also a human who worries sometimes.

I’ve decided that I am a multi-faceted writer just as I am a multi-faceted person.  I don’t have to pick one.  I just have to make good art. 

Seed

a single bloom
red upon stone
afraid to pluck it
in case there are no more
it withers where it grows
instead of spreading seeds
just a momentary thrill
amidst the cracks
out of place
and ill suited
dried up and then forgotten

Abyss

Unable to bridge the gap
between longing and outcome
I lie transfixed
by the ceiling and the way the gray light
leaves smudges in the corners.
Wanting isn't enough
to pull the curtains
let the light in
face the day.
It's not enough
to get out of my own way.
And so the wanting sits
like a parasite to my host
feeding from within
and laying waste to desire
leaving only the burning.

A new take on Maudlin Manor

Once upon a time ago

There lived a pair of twins

 Rotten little apples

Stuck their dolls with pins

They looked like little angels

Wrapped in silk and pearls

But they were rotten little devils

Masquerading as little girls

They lived in the house called Maudlin

A family name I suppose

But suited to the children

So very lachrymose

They have a nasty habit

Of staring straight ahead

They may have been alive once

But now they’re very dead

They haunt the Maudlin Manor

Walk the creaky floors

Open up the windows

Slam the wooden doors

Take things that they shouldn’t

And hide them where they can

Walk from room to room

Always holding hands

The Story of Maudlin Manor Pt. 1 - 3

Once on a night of cold regret

As I walked a country road

I met a man who offered a ride

Said that it was warmer inside

Said to get in out of the wet

He’d take me as far as I wanted to go

I looked at the man and took his measure

And he seemed a decent chap

The rain beat down in quick succession

Led me to take his proffered suggestion

I shook his hand and called it a pleasure

And then removed my cap

We drove for a bit in the downpour

And the wipers went to and fro

The night grew deeper around us

The forest began to surround us

I said that I’d been there once before

And I knew where I wanted to go

The Peculiar Playground

a poem in the style of Edward Gorey's Gashlycrumb Tinies

A is for Alice who wanted to play

B is for Bonnie who sent her away

C is for Cathy who tried to fit in

D is for Doris unspeakably thin

E is for Eli who breaks out in zits

F is for Francis falling in fits

G is for Gary horribly fat

H is for Helen attracted to that

I is for Ina talks through her nose

J is for Jimmy with terrible toes

K is for Kristin caught in the act

L is for Larry who helped her with that

M is for Mary nose in a book

N is for Neville most likely a crook

O is for Owen whose hair is all wrong

P is for Polly whose arms are too long

Q is for Quentin thinks he’s a looker

R is for Ruthie a cult finally took her

S is for Susan too full of her self

T is for Thomas who thinks he’s an elf

U is for Uri constantly stutters

V is for Victor mind in the gutter

W is for Wendy who’s absent alot

X is for Xander who’s here when he’s not

Y is for Ying of foreign exchange

Z is for Zoe just slightly deranged

Excerpt from The Flight of Sebastian Bean

The Flight of Sebastian Bean

by

A.D. McDowell

Stories like this one always begin in misery.

There was a time when Sebastian Bean had two parents, a beautiful mother and a handsome father.  They all lived together in a tall narrow house on a lovely tree lined street in a fashionable area of a quaint and historic city.  Sebastian had a bedroom of his own and in it he had a wall filled with bookshelves and on the shelves hundreds of books, so many that his father attached a ladder that slid on a rail so that Sebastian could reach the books at the top.    From the long window above his desk he could see all the way to the square in the centre of town where a marble fountain burbled and people fed the pigeons.  And very often in the evenings he would walk with his parents down to the ice cream shop where he ordered a chocolate peppermint cone that he ate with great enjoyment.  At night his mother would come in and kiss him goodnight and before he fell asleep Sebastian would say, ‘I am very lucky’.  And he was.  He was a very, very lucky boy and then all at once he wasn’t.

One Sunday morning Sebastian woke to the sun streaming through his window and the birds singing in the trees.  There was no reason for him to think that it wouldn’t be another lucky day in his very lucky life.  But when he sat up in bed and listened to the house he was filled with a feeling that he was not used to.   Something wasn’t right.  He got out of his bed and opened his door and peered into the hall.  What he saw was his father talking to Doctor  Little.  The doctor shook his head and put his hand on the other man's shoulder and patted it twice.  Sebastian stepped farther out into the hall.  ‘Father?’ he called and in the single word were a million questions.  “Go back to your room Sebastian,” said his father.  “I will be in shortly”.  Sebastian went back to his room and sat on his bed and the feeling that something was very wrong grew and grew until his father came in with the news that Sebastian's mother had contracted a terrible influenza and that he must pack a bag at once and go and stay with his grandmother, Nanny, so that he didn’t get infected as well.  Had Sebastian known how important what he put into his suitcase was going to be he would have packed more carefully.  But he was so worried about his mother he couldn’t think.  His father made him wear a mask across his nose so that he didn’t breathe in any of the germs that had made his mother sick and as he passed the door to their bedroom Sebastian called ‘Goodbye mumma.’  He didn’t know if she heard him and sadly he would never know for his mother died the next morning. 

Over the next while Sebastian was sadder than I have words to describe.  He missed his mother terribly and to make matters worse it seemed that his father had forgotten him.  Sebastian remained with his grandmother and only saw his father from time to time and each time his father seemed more of a stranger to Sebastian.  He spoke quietly and he never remembered to hug Sebastian and always left without taking him back home. His grandmother told him that his father was sad too and that he would come around and that time was a great healer.  The spring went by and turned to summer and then to autumn and finally to winter and spring again.  And then one day when Sebastian and his grandmother were working in her flower beds turning over the black dirt and getting them ready for planting a long black car snaked its way up the drive and parked in front of the house.  Sebastian stood and dusted his hands off on the back of his pants.  The door of the car opened and his father climbed from the car.  “Hello Sebastian!” he boomed in the voice he used to use.  “I’ve come to take you home!”  Sebastian was so surprised that he could not seem to move.  He wanted to run into his father’s arms with relief, but he couldn’t seem to do anything but stand in one spot with his mouth hanging open in surprise.  Nanny stepped forward and placed her hand on Sebastian’s back.  “Well,” she said, “isn’t this wonderful.”  But her voice didn’t sound excited, it sounded very much like Sebastian was feeling.  She was saying the words but still none of them moved.  Sebastian’s father stood there grinning and Sebastian stood in the same place and his grandmother stood behind him.  They may have stood this way for a good long time had the other door on the car not opened with a creak capturing their attention. 

“Arthur,” said a dark velvet voice.  “Will you help me out?”  Sebastian’s father hurried to the other side of the car and extended his hand.  A gloved hand appeared and wrapped itself around his father’s.  As Mr. Bean raised his hand a long thin woman was revealed.  She wore a tight fitting skirt and had an ostrich plume in her hat.  She had a long thin nose to match the rest of her and a wide red mouth.  “Sebastian,” said his father, “there is someone I’d like you to meet.  This is, well it’s your, I should say... my... wife...your stepmother.”  Suddenly the air in Nanny’s yard became very still.  Even the birds were shocked into silence.  “Hello Sebastian,” purred the thin woman.  “It is such a pleasure to meet you at last.  Arthur has told me so many things about you I feel as if I know you already.”  Her voice dripped all over Sebastian and she smiled.  He still had not moved a muscle although his mind had begun to race inside of him.  This person, this stepmother person was going to live with them.  Sleep in their house, in his mother’s bed, use her things, sit in her chair.  No it couldn’t be.  But as he watched his father’s face and saw him smiling at the thin woman he realized it was real.  Horribly, awfully real.  She smiled at Sebastian revealing a row of well manicured teeth and he was somewhat relieved to see that they weren’t pointed.  “I’m afraid it’s come as a shock to you,” the thin woman went on, “Arthur, shame on you.  I told you he should have been warned.”  At last Sebastian found his voice.  “It’s nice to meet you,” he managed.  Mr. Bean stepped closer to Sebastian and ruffled his hair.  “He’s alright aren’t you son?”  Sebastian was so surprised at being ruffled by his father that he, for a moment, forgot to be shocked at the situation that was presenting itself in Nanny’s garden.  It had been so long since Arthur Bean had shown his son any affection at all that Sebastian didn’t quite know how to respond.  Little boys aren’t so different than puppies really.  Even if you haven’t paid much attention to it a puppy will always forgive his owner at the first sign of kindness and that is exactly what Sebastian did.  In that split second he looked at his father and smiled and thought ‘maybe it will be alright’.  Poor Sebastian, he was so happy for a little affection he didn’t even hear the other car door open until a very fat and freckly kind of a voice said, “When is lunch, I’m hungry.”

Beginnings and Excerpts

Dear reader, won’t you dwell with me within these lines upon the page.  Follow me down cobbled lanes and up the street where fevers rage.  Tiny thieves with clever hands play their games of chance and tricks.  Eyes made shrewd beyond their years, little liars, candlewicks.  Join their ranks or risk the outcome. Learn their ways or spill the blood.  There is no way to leave this burrough.  Unless the bleeders give you up.  Hasty choices led you to it.  Live this life of fine regret.  The die is cast the fate has twisted. Paid in full this pauper’s debt.

Beginnings

....and as I got closer the landscape began dying, trees lost their leaves and the air was frigid.  Suddenly the carriage drew to a halt. It heaved and tilted as the driver climbed down then pulled my bag from its strapping.  “This is as far as I go miss,” he said.  “Stay on the road straight through, it’s not much farther.”  I stepped out of the carriage and into the gathering fog. “Can you not take me the rest of the way?” I asked.  “You’ll not catch me in there,” he said climbing back up into his seat.  He looked down at me and a shadow crossed his features.  Then in a more kindly way he added, “It’s not too late to change your mind miss.  Climb back in.  I won’t charge you for the return.”  I paused without meaning to and then drew myself up and replied.  “You are very kind sir, but I’m sure I shall be fine.  Thank you very much.”  I stepped back from the lane and he tipped his hat and turned the horses.  As they left me I felt the overwhelming urge to run after them.

The branches overhead moved to a breeze that didn’t reach the ground.   It seemed they whispered to me as I began to walk towards what was to be my new home. 

Best Day Ever

I wish I was the kind of diarist who could draw clever cartoons or renderings of beautiful houses or hilarious sayings in the margins of my journals but I’m not.  I just write.  Sometimes I glue things in first and then write over top of that but mostly I just write.  It is the best way I know to get rid of the junk in my head.  I journal because I get to say anything I want.  Say it badly if I want.  Write the word FUCK in big fat letters or scribble all over the page or complain about friends or whine about myself and my moods and be melancholy as I want to be but lately it seems that I’ve gotten into the habit of being in the melancholy state a little too often.  I don’t do it on purpose.  I’ve just always been that way.  Being happy is one of the saddest things that can happen to a person.  Life is so good it’s goddamn scary.  I am one of those lucky people who has it pretty damn great.  I love my husband for starters.  I think he is gorgeous and kind and smart.  He is a good man.  He is a gentle man.  And those characteristics are getting harder and harder to come by.  My kids are amazing.  They’re all wonderful people.  They’re respectful and careful with people’s feelings.  We laugh together and genuinely like each other.  Not to say we haven’t had our moments we wouldn’t be normal if we hadn’t but by and large everything is A. O. K. So.  Why am I sad? 

I’m not sad all the time, but probably about half.  Like the song says I was born this way.  I don’t court melancholia.  I count my blessings.  I am grateful.  But I am keenly aware of the eventuality of it all and it’s a terrible habit.  It’s like being at the greatest party you’ve ever been to.   The music is pumping, the mood is jubilant.  People are dancing and laughing and no one is overly drunk or annoying.  You’re having so much fun you don’t want the night to end.  But you don’t stand in the corner thinking how sad it is that such a great party will be over soon.  You dance.  You laugh.  Maybe you sing some karaoke.  And you go home saying to one another “God that was great!!! We should do it more often!”  If life is a party maybe I shouldn’t be watching the clock.  Living in the moment is hard.  Why is it that it’s so much easier to look backwards or forwards instead of just enjoying the party?  Two words.  Catastrophic thought. 

Having happiness is the strange bedfellow of catastrophic thinking.  I always use the butterfly analogy.  When I talk about love to my kids I always tell them that love is like holding a butterfly.  If you hold it gently it will flutter and tickle your palms.  But if you hold it too tightly you’ll kill it.  The same is true of life in general.  Hold on too tight and you kill the joy.  I’m just holding too tight.  I don’t want it to end.  I don’t want to lose my husband or god forbid a child.  I want to live a long life with Ken.  I want our kids to live long, healthy, happy lives as well and I want them to find someone who loves them like we love each other.  I just don’t want the party to be over. 

My husband has taken up Kiteboarding.  The guys he rides with have a saying ‘best day ever’.  It doesn’t really matter if the conditions were ideal they always end the day the same way.  ‘Best day ever.’  I love that.  It’s a shift in consciousness.  And it applies to everything.  Best job ever.  Best sandwich ever.  Best nap ever.  Mind you it’s easy to say that now knowing that I’m heading to the lake tonight and that I’ll be sitting on my patio with my husband celebrating 28 years of best days ever.  It will be alot harder when I’m at work next week and people need things from me yesterday and the dog has peed on the floor.  But for right this minute, when everyone I love is safe it’s the best day ever. 

On an Otherwise Ordinary Day

The End of the Beginning

A Ghost Story

Somewhere in this house a child is laughing.  Footsteps run down the hall above me then stop.  Then start again followed by the laughter.  I don’t know who she is, only that she will not leave.  I have asked her to go many times.  I’ve tried to be reasonable.  I’ve asked her what she wants but it’s as if she doesn’t hear me at all.  She only stops and looks, then smiles and runs away and up the stairs to resume her game.  I don’t know what to do.   I’m afraid that she will never leave.  This used to be a peaceful house.  She doesn’t care about that.  She wants only to play and to laugh and to torment me.  There are times when I wish that I wasn’t quite so dead. 

In Dreams

Pt. 1

I walked through a forest

of naked trees

shorn of their needles

skeleton keys

left to unlock

the salted ground

with snowflakes

The House on Dorsey Street

There is a house on Dorsey Street

I’ve passed it many times

And each time I find it weeping

Raining rivers from windows

Unused to the sun

What sadness resides

Within those walls

That it leaks so uncontrollably

I’ve heard the stories

Whispered from one ear to another

And seen the way passersby speed their steps

Looking over tweed clad shoulders and upturned collars

Lest they be recognized by what lies within

 It is after all only a house, although

Sometimes I wonder

My footsteps slow as I near the facade

And now and then I stop and grasp the iron gate

 We gaze at one another forlornly the house and I

As if we were lovers kept apart

By unrelenting parents who misunderstand our kinship

And think it something dirty and ill intended

Something frightening perhaps

 It wants me back that much is true

To walk the floors and hide behind curtains

Or in closets, safer there we thought

The house and I

And so we pine for one another

And what might have been

And what happened there once

I know that she tried to protect me

I always thought so

Offering up her secrets

And now that she is empty she cries because she couldn’t

In Lieu of Flowers

I am sorry for your loss she said

And I was unsure of my response

And so nodded as though inconsolable

Lest she see the mirth behind

The watery eyes

And she must have been convinced

Because she touched my arm and left

The casket lid was propped for viewing

A ritual insane in its design

A corpse in maquillage

Lay still while mourners and other guests

Watch for signs of decay

And comment on how good she looks

To hide their embarrassment

And still I want to laugh

I press a hankie to my face

To stem the flow

Hysteria they think

Sympathetic glances cover me in

Hives and I shake my head and sniff

Someone is singing now

Something about redemption

Atonement and that sort of thing

And suddenly I want to scream

Do you really think it matters now?

Withheld

I am watching

the way the ink bleeds. 

Dripped from a pen

poised

in hesitation.

Held by a shaking hand. 

 The grip is weak,

the words unspoken, 

 held fast in thirsty parchment.