Story, Part 1

Prologue

Warsaw, Poland. Evening. September 24^th, 1939. Royal Palace Wilanow

     The evening's crowd was the largest seen in years. Not even the German threat had kept hundreds of attendees from gathering to listen to the their city's beloved pianist. He was the best in the world, many said, and possibly the greatest ever. Tonight he played for his homeland, entertaining the mass of people with revamped versions of his greatest songs, and his playing did not disappoint anyone. He'd kept to himself that tonight, in the Royal Palace, he would debut his greatest masterpiece yet.

     The man, remarkably young for his talent, sat at the black, polished grand piano. His face and upper torso reflected on the lib on the piano as his hands effortlessly danced over the keys, ebbing and flowing like the tide. A small bead of sweat gathered at his brow as he furrowed in concentration. As always, there was no music in front of him, just some loose sheets scattered on the side for looks.

     Although seemingly lost in his music, Jedrzej Mikolajski was, in fact, thinking of his life, family, friends. As he started the fifth movement, his mind wandered to the future, his future. He had often heard that a good ship's captain would prevent his ship from ever sinking, but that a great captain, after all could be done, would go down with his ship. Jedrzej wondered if he really was the greatest pianist of his time.

     Far away, through hilled plains, Jedrzej imagined that he could hear the thrum and whirs of the approaching planes. He knew, without a doubt, that tonight they would come; his dreams had told him as much, he had known for quite some time that tonight his childhood home would be ripped from the face of the earth.

     But he said nothing, did nothing. Tonight was for his people.

     He kept playing.

     Quickly, he realized, the bomber engines he heard came not from his head; rather, from the city down below the palace. Thudding and cracking echoed up to the concert hall as the full force of the German air-force few over Warsaw.

     Those in the hall looked around themselves in panic as, one by one, they realized what was happening. Some began running, pushing others out of the way to reach the nearest exits. Women screamed as planes swooped over the Palace. The sound of shattering stone and twisting metal distorted the terror in the hall as the explosions thundered closer and closer. Parents grabbed their children, clutching them close to their chests as they scrambled over one another.

     Jedrzej, as if dear to the screams around him, seemed not to notice; he simply kept playing, nearing the head of his masterpiece.

     Engines began roaring overhead. Soon, he knew, it would all be over.

     Above him, Jedrzej pictured the bomb bay doors opening, dropping their warheads directily over the Palace. Over where he was seated. Slowly Jedrzej let out a sigh and closed his eyes.

     The ceiling burst into pieces as the bombs from a Junker88 overhead made contact. Large sections of the ancient stone ceiling fell directly over the piano and its master, threatening to crush both. Time seemed to slow. Had anyone been able to pay attention, they would have seen a most remarkable thing: the piano, bench and loose sheet music flew outward from where Jedrzej, their loved piano prodigy, had been sitting, propelled outwards and away not by the large hunk of ceiling that smashed into the floor, but by the mysterious disappearance of the man.

     No, he thought, his image vanishing from sight, I'm not a great pianist. He felt his body disappear, stretch, tighten, reform.

     He looked up at the night sky as he say upon the rubble of his favorite concert hall, staring at the dawning sky.

     ….Not yet, anyways.

Chapter 1

     The sun set silently on the endless horizon of hay and wheat as it always had; tonight was no different. Slowly it sunk, descending lower and lower, turning knots on the old oak tree into haunting faces. It sent the shadow of the swing into the far recesses of the hedges that surrounded the house, and began casting an eerie blackness across the yard.

     As the shadow of the tree swing reached the burning-bush hedges, a pair of mourning doves landed noiselessly onto the branch that held the swing. They cooed, a heartbreaking song, and enveloped the dimming scene. Mosquitoes, almost as if in a trance by the doves' song, flocked from their resting places into the evening air. Overhead, the slight whir of black bats could be heard as they rushed by, snatching their breakfast in tiny, toothy mouths. The flutter of the bats wings, the cooing of the mated doves, and the silent hum of the mosquitoes soon was joined by the intermittent chirping chorus of a few lone grasshoppers.

     The symphony of the rising night was beautiful in its simplicity, eerie in its sadness.

     In the darkening horizon, long blades of browning grass and wheat bent gently as a smooth, gentle wind pushed them to the ground. The mosquitoes hum ceased for the breeze as they rested their wings, floating along with it.

     As the breeze passed, it seemed as though the house released a deep and mournful sigh. An old wicker rocker, sitting on the green-and-black molding deck, creaked as it moved back and forth. Its blotched reed seat, cracked and broke more. The swing moved slightly as well, joining in unison with the old rocker, pieces of crusted mold and grime flaking off the thick, yellowing rope.

     Inside the house, a black widow in the nook of the kitchen corner swayed with her web. The wind mixed with the stale air of the house as it entered through a hole in the window above the sink. The smell, the taste of iron lifted and trailed with the wind. Flies, disturbed from their mating and eating, buzzed in annoyance at the breeze. As if in response, the air settled, and the usual murmur of the evening filled the area once again.

Outside, gravel flung into the air as wheels screeched to a halt. Pieces hit the side of the peeling white house, making staccato 'tik tik' sounds as they collided with the metal siding. The red and blue rotating lights broke the last moments of the setting sun, preventing it from seeing a last look at the house. Both of the car's doors opened, and the crunching of red granite gravel sounded underneath the heavy leather boots of the squad car's two occupants.

     They entered the house, covering their noses as the smell of decayed iron and rot hit them in the face. They didn't need to look long before they found the kitchen; the distinct aroma led them directly to it. One man, the large and taller of the duo, slowly shook is head and looked to his partner, Alexi Dukov, his grey eyes full of pity, sadness and depression.

     Dean _____ turned around and headed back to the squad car, motioning his partner to follow. He reached the car a few paces ahead of his partner. Alexi climbed in first, then, noticing Dean had not followed, looked at his partner, and found him staring up at the old, forlorn house. Before he could say anything, Dean keeled over and threw up.

     Standing upright, Dean wiped the remains on his blue cuffed sleeve, reached over to the dash in the car, and called for a coroner as he sat down on the faded brown leather seat of the aging police car. He looked at Alexi, a longing look in his steely eyes, saying, without words, that tonight was going to be a long and arduous one.

     As they waited for the CSIs and the coroner to arrive, the detective futzed around the interior of the vehicle. Out of an instinct bred from being a cop for what seemed his whole life, he shifted his gaze to the rear-view mirror and quickly turned his head around, startling Alexi.

     Too late, however, the figure that he'd seen was gone.

* * * * * * * * *

     Silently, a young man rose from his resting place behind the old tree, nearly unseen. Taller than most men, his tall, lanky body stood rigid, joining ad blending with the shadow of the tree. The tips of his sandy blonde hair still held the remnants of the red he used the last time he'd dyed his hair; it gave his head the appearance of being slightly dipped in blood. 

i bought a candle
made of wax
said i'd burn it
only when i missed you
the first was gone
within an hour
the second
as well
but the hundreth one never burned
for i realized
although we aren't together
you're always with me
kept inside my heart

rewrote "You did not go", i think it sounds better now

Quarrel

My face is blurred
by the mirror
fogged by the steam of my too hot shower
I rub at it with my palm
but it does not clear
I grab the towel from my waist
and run it across the smooth surface
Still, it does not clear
I blow on it
my breath cool and minty fresh as the company guarantees
The condensation vanishes for a second
I see my face, wet
It fogs up again
as the steam condenses, engulfing the mirror once again
images
two droplets come together
a duo surrounded by a ring
of drops of varying sizes
they run down the glass
disappearing images
I rub the glass once again
and see myself
smeared slightly by the lines of water

You Did Not Go

for Michael Egerton

Kicking screaming
crying bleating
you did not go

Complaining, bitching
swearing offending
you did not go

Showing your misery
your failure your strife
you did not go

Stronger smarter
quicker better
you did not show

You did not show
your pain or anger
your sadness and hurt
but I saw and did not feel

I saw, and did not know

For you did not go
loudly or recklessly
messily or forcefully

You walked away
closed the door
and left this world

Unknowing and misunderstanding
wondering waiting wanting worrying
woefully yearning

You went
Forgotten

You went

alone.

Quiet

A pin drops
on cotton white
shattering the silence
the pristine silence
that her gaze creates
Eyes flutter
cheeks blush
she opens her mouth
and never shuts up

so yeah, i wrote another poem-like thing, and if you want to read it, you'll have to e-mail me because, well, i don't feel like posting the actual thing on here

Evening Symphony

The crickets chirp
And the black bats fly
The owls hoot
And the frogs croak
The night-time symphony
Beautiful in simplicity
Eerie in tone
Comes and goes
Loud and soft
Like the ebb and flow of the sea
The moonlight shies
Sparkling on the surface
Beneath the still waters
A hand floats
Suspended halfway between the darkness and the light
Pale, blue-white skin absorbing and reflecting the light
The symphony continues

Survival

For as long as she could remember, the tree had always been there. It had withstood the fiercest of winters, horrifying thunderstorms, and several tornados. The great willow had stood the test of time as all around it other trees had surrendered to nature. In the end, the willow had stood all alone; it had been that way since she had taken over the family farm. Through everything the tree had been able to survive, but it had finally fallen by nothing more than a rusted piece of metal and mans own hand.
This winter had been the hardest on her family. Half of the cattle had frozen to death, while the other half had succumbed to disease and died. Wolves had taken nearly all of her hens; leaving the rooster to walk aimlessly around the coup. She couldn’t blame the wolves though; they were just trying to survive, after all.
Survival: that’s why she’d had to chop her tree down. They’d run out of wood the night before and, in desperation, she felled the tree. Killing the tree might mean life for the rest of her family. Well, what was left of her family, anyway.
They had lost Clementine to the cold and disease, and her husband Michael had not returned from his desperate attempt to ride to the nearest town for food and medicine. She figured he had frozen to death, like the cattle had, weeks ago. It was so cold and bitter out, that they had not even been able to bury Clementine, her body sat out under a pile of snow in the barn. Now, all who were left were she and her two twin children: Sarah and Nathaniel. They were too young to understand what was going on around them, too young to understand death.
Everyday they would ask her where Clementine was, or when Papa would be coming home. Yet, as hard as it was, she could only lie to them and say, “soon”. That’s when, when they would ask her about the ones she’d already lost, that’s when she would go to her small window and gaze out at her willow tree. Her strong, resilient friend. She would stare out at her and remember all the warm summers she had sat under her branches and dream about her life to come.
Reality was not that kind. Reality was not what she had dreamt. Not this one anyways. Food was becoming dangerously low, and this willow tree was going to be the last of the wood. She had thought they could survive any winter.
She had thought wrong.
Nearly all the cattle meat was diseased or rotten; she had no chickens left to give her eggs or food. All that was left was the rooster, a bit of flour, and a couple of roots in the clear. Unless a miracle happened upon their door, they would be dead within a couple weeks.
The previous week, she had had to kill their dog. Faithful and loving as he had been, he ate too much food and didn’t do anything else. Her children had been starving and she couldn’t find the rooster.
She told them that she had found some good meat left on the body of a cow. She had resisted the urge to throw up as she watched the children eat their lifelong pet. When she hadn’t been able to hold it in any longer, she ran out to her tree and dry heaved; nothing came up because she had not eaten in days.
She sighed.
That had been last week. She now knew where the rooster had been. She knew why she hadn’t been able to find him the week before. The bastard had decided to fly up, freeze, and die on the top of her willow tree. She’d never really liked him. Come to think of it, she really didn’t like any of his ancestors either. It angered her to remember that she had felt a pang of sorrow for him when all the hens had been killed. That damn chicken had probably been hiding in her tree the whole time.
When she finally retrieved the rooster from under the mess and tangle of branches, she saw his last ‘fuck-you’ to her: he had barely any meat on his body. He’d pulled out or had lost most of his feathers to show her that he had nothing to give her for all her hard work.
Bastard.
She threw his stiff body on the ground and smashed his head with the flat end of her ax. Tiny chunks of frozen chicken head flew up in the air, sprinkling the ground like the toppings of a cake.
Standing up in the open field, she realized just how cold she actually was, and how late it had become. A cold breeze flew by and ran up her coat. A shiver ran down her spine as she grabbed the broken body of the bird, a few logs that she had cut, and headed back to the house, her heavy boots crushing and sinking deep in the crusty snow.
Near the door, her foot caught a heavy piece of ice and crusted snow and she tumbled over. She dropped her load as she went sprawling across the ground.
She let out a gasp as she hit the hard ground under the snow. She swore under her breath as pain rang throughout her body. She lay there for a minute, letting the cold wind whip her body and slash at her with hard snow drift. Taking a heavy breath, she pushed herself up to her knees. She took in her surrounding: the logs were strewn all over and the rooster’s ass was sticking up in the snow a food in front of her, mocking her. She let out a long, desperate sigh, pushed her hair out of her face and up behind her ear and tried to stand.
But she couldn’t.
She looked to her legs, they weren’t broken. Why couldn’t she move?
It was then that she saw a slight steam rising out of the ground from beneath her. Slowly she turned her gaze down.
There, buried deep in her stomach was the ax. Her blood slowly ran down the handle and onto the ground. The entire bottom of her jacket was saturated with blood.
Feeling woozy, she turned and fell back on the ground. Her breathing became labored as she blinked blackness from her vision.
Hearing a soft crunch ahead of her, she turned her eyes to the top of her head to see in front of her as far as she could. But all she could see was the splintered trunk of her willow tree, silhouetted by the setting sun, sticking out in the barren field. A low growl sounded from her left. She heard more snow crunching around her as her fate surrounded her. She closed her eyes, and let the teeth begin to rip at her body.

Untitled

As she lay beneath and stared up at the silvery white leaves of the majestic maple tree, she occasionally caught glimpses of the puffy cotton-white clouds that slowly drifted across the afternoon sky. And as she lay there, her thoughts wandered to the clouds.

“What a life,” she thought, “to just silently and endlessly drift over the land. Everything a cloud sees in its lifetime,” she lamented. “How pitiful that a human will never be as content as a cloud must be. Never do you see a cloud fog its emotions. It rains when its sad, and is playful when its happy. It sees the all of the world that it wants and not once does it complain when it has to end its journey early.” She sat a moment and considered things. “Us humans,” she continued, “what would make us as content as a cloud?”

“Dear child,” a soft, light voice came, “how is it that you think of clouds as content? Do they not ravage the earth when they’re mad? Do they not parch and starve the ground when they are angry or greedy? Are they not always changing shape to hide their true selves, their own fears?”

The woman thought on this for a moment. The wind gently caressed the skin on her cheeks, causing them to flush and become rosy. “Yes…yes. I guess you are right in that. Clouds are like man, then. Never content with the way things are, always trying to hide their feelings and fears.”

And the tree stood content. It had made it’s point.

“I wonder what a cloud really looks like,” she remarked, breaking the silence.

“Why? Why do you want to know?” the tree asked, it’s bark sending fresh, woody smells to the woman, holding her attention.

“I don’t know,” she pondered. She smiled, “Because I am curious, I want to know. Don’t you?”

“Ahhhh,” the tree sighed. “And there is the difference between men and clouds: Men search out answers; they ask questions, they are curious. Clouds, however, never question themselves, or anything. They never want to know more.”

The woman stood up from her spot beneath the tree. “Maybe the clouds are just misunderstood. Maybe they hide themselves so they can learn more, like a spy or something,” she let out a brief sigh, turned to the tree, smiled and said, “Still…it’d be nice to see what a cloud really looks like.” And with that, the woman turned, and walked away into the field of browning wheat.

The tree stood silent for a minute. Unexpectedly, a wind came and ruffled the leaves on it’s branches. Silently, the silver-white leaves dropped from the weathered branches and lifted up with the wind. One by one the shining leaves rose and turned into wisps of puffy white. As they drifted higher and higher into the sky, they whispered soft thanks to the woman.

“We are always changing,” they said to themselves, “because we are curious too. To see the world from simply one perspective is not for us.”

As the last leaf disappeared into the sky, the dead and bare tree looked mournfully to the sky. Slowly it started to cry, sending drops of water dripping, cascading down to the ground. Soon, what was once the tree was naught but a puddle of wet on the mounded earth.

“You are not content with yourselves because you are like humans or are you truly…like me?” The puddle mourned. “You are like that because of me,” the water decided, “Water is always moving, always changing. It is my fault you are like this.”

The clouds looked down at the small wetness on the earth and took pity on their mother, their sister. Always confined to see the earth from one perspective, they thought, has made her feel guilty. How innocent, how naive has she become? What is wrong with change, with wanting to know more?

So they parted, and let the sun shine down on her. The woman returned, less solid than before, and helped the water rise to her offspring, her sisters, herself. And as she rose, she smiled a great smile, and whispered in awe, “Life is beautiful.”