Sunday Snippet – Superhero, Mark and Abby II

The story of Mark and Abby is probably one I will tell someday, and probably because of this scene. In my head, I can see Michael Vartan and Trini Alvarado all dolled up for this exchange. (Yeah, I know–a pipe dream for sure!) I think Mark Perry might make an appearance in Midnight Moon; I haven’t decided yet. But this scene chokes me up a little, knowing what is going to happen, with “Everytime” playing in the background.


Notice me
Take my hand
Why are we strangers when
Our love is strong?
Why carry on without me?

in the dark of night

The light of the world was dim that night. The aforementioned world around was drenched in the wet darkness, and while the streetlights lighted their way as they returned home in stony silence, the blackness prevailed on the edges where the shadows lurked.

The sound of the engine working was the only sound between them. The volume on the radio was turned down to an indecipherable jumble; the silence that filled the car was the outcome of many nights of neglect, miscommunication, and senseless shouting. He could sense her frustration radiating from her like body heat, mingling with the bittersweet scent of her perfume. Memories clouded his head like a shroud; he wanted nothing more than to be back in the past where acrimony was a dim, fuzzy iceberg in the far, far away future that could not hurt them.

She on the other hand felt the pressing weight of responsibility on her shoulders. She was more practical about some things than her overwrought and slightly romantic husband. She had felt the end of things coming on for so long but for different reasons. As she stared at the road passing beneath them, she only felt sorrow she could not pinpoint the cause of. The frustration he’d felt coming off of her had faded away.

With a flustered sigh, he spoke first. Even though he had a reputation for waiting out even the most stubborn criminals, he could not do the same with his wife.

“I’m sorry for being late, Abby,” he said in a voice that belied his statement slightly. “The interrogation ran late and–”

In an even tone that hinted at years of upper-class training, Abby merely said, “You don’t have to apologize. After all, it is your job, right? And lord forbid I resent you for doing your job, Mark.”

Mark sighed and resisted the urge to rip the steering wheel from the console. All of their conversations on the subject of Mark’s demanding workload started off this way, with him apologizing (but not really) and her telling him not to apologize (but again not really). And it was even worse on nights like this when Mark unwittingly embarrassed his wife with his tardiness, where duty for occupation or spouse fought for precedence inside of him.

“Every time,” Mark found himself saying. “Every time I apologize you talk to me in that tone–”

“What tone, Mark?” Abby demanded. “I’m sorry that my frustration over the fact that it is apparent that care about serving justice more than you care about me bleeds through whenever you offer up some half-assed apology. I really am.”

“That was not a half-assed apology.” Soft fabric rustled as Abby shifted under the seatbelt right next to him. She didn’t seem convinced. Mark exhaled and forced the anger that was threatening to take him over to a safe distance. As the light over them turned red, Mark tapped the brakes. He placed a hand on his wife’s, and their eyes locked involuntarily.

“Abigail,” Mark began, as his anger had dispersed and affection surfaced. Abby’s green eyes softened and her hand shifted to be palm to palm with his.

Her mouth parted, but he would never know what she intended to say. Right at the moment, the light turned green–and the car behind them, overzealous, smashed into their rear bumper. The force propelled them forward into the intersection. Inside the car, Mark cursed inwardly but turned to his wife.

“Are you okay?” Mark inquired. Abby dazedly blinked at him. “It’s going to be–”

Headlights from Abby’s side flashed toward them. Her panicked scream would torment him for the rest of his days.

Poetry Corner – “Heart”


Oh, Heart–why is it that you can never lie still
When he lifts his eyes to mine and flashes a smile?
Intellect ardently yells its disapproval from above
And warns you smartly of a painful demise.
But you tremble on, relishing the warmth and light
That chases the chill and gloom inside you away.

Oh, Heart–why is it that you can never resist that tug of gravity
When he opens his arms and wraps them around me?
Sense fervently tells you not to fall for the pretense
That traps unsuspecting young women against temptation.
Yet you tumble down, loving the sensation of
Being Heart to his Heart.

Oh, Heart–why is it that you can never let me sleep peacefully
While of plaguing me with thoughts I cannot cease?
I am too old for romantic daydreams and flights of fancy
But the girl in me surfaces in the twilight and wishes
That once, just this once, his Heart felt the same as you.

And Heart–I honestly cannot blame you for sighing
When his lips touch mine in goodbye.
Sense even understands the affection in the gesture.
But Heart, you take it upon yourself to intensify its meaning
Until he and I are almost betrothed, offering up I-love-yous
Over matching his and hers bath towels.
Seriously? Not a chance, Heart.

Yes, I know Sense and Intellect are aligned with Pessimism and Doubt
And you’d rather not heed their constant warnings
Coupled with their good intentions. You’d rather ignore
Their reasoning and barrel on blindly, believing that
Perhaps things are better your way. The possible truth is
Too hard to reconcile, to hard to accept.

I have grown up in a world where Sense and Intellect
Are supposed to better dictate my actions (for the most part, anyway)
And there has not been much room for you, Heart.
But you are too stubborn to be ignored, too insistent to be
Concealed, and before I know it, I am floored
By the tenderness in his embrace–dammit, I feel you–and I sigh. Well.

I think you’ve gotten me in trouble.
Because I have with the slightest fear
That despite all of my Sense and Intellect and Pessimism and Doubt
I have much, much more Heart than I need.


¡En Español! – “Santa Daniella” Act One, Scene Two

Santa Daniella
La Historia de Danie Thomas (Tomas)

El personaje principal, Daniella
Sus hermanasJessicaClaudiaMoira, y Gretchen
Las amigas de Gretchen, MegamiMelanie, y Cristiane (Christine)
Sus padres quienes son divorciados, Irene y Roberto (Robert)
Sus tías, Elisa (Elizabeth) y Rebeca (Rebecca)
Sus primas, Casandra (Cassandra), Samantha, y Jennifer
El fotógrafo de LibreAidan Bloom

La editora de LibreMelissa Buckley
Su hermanoEric
Su mejor amigaCharlene
La amiga nueva, Miranda
La esposa nueva de Roberto, Maria (Mary)
Las hijas de Daniella quienes son gemelas, Shannon y Abigail
Los padres nuevos de las gemelas, Victoria y Harlan Taylor


(En la cocina, Irene, la madre de Danie, está hablando con sus hermanas. El pastel de cumpleaños está encima de la mesa. Dice, “¡Feliz cumpleaños a Claudia, Moira, Danie, y Gretchen!”)

Rebeca: Este pastel me parece muy bien, Irene. Las chicas van a enamorarlo.

Irene: Eso fue mi intención. (Suspirando) Mis hijas necesitan un buen cumpleaños. Espero que este pastel nos ayude.

Elisa: Estoy de acuerdo, hermanita. Honestamente, Irene, yo creo que debiste abandonar ese…ese hombre hace mucho tiempo.

Irene: Yo sé eso, hermana. ¿Pensaste que nunca lo pensé? Yo espero que no. Soy una mamá más mejor que eso.

Elisa: Hermanita, no pienso que tú eres una mamá mala. Nunca pensé que tú eras una mamá mala. Tus hijas te quieren por siempre. Lo sé.

(Irene la da una sonrisa pequeña y empieza a preparar el desayuno.)

Elisa: Por supuesto, el hecho que Jessica te había defendido es prueba que tus hijas caminarían encima del océano para tú.

Rebeca: O darían su padre un puñetazo a la nariz…

(Irene se ríe.)

Irene: ¿Qué hora será?

Elisa: Serán siete y media, yo supongo.

Irene: Ay, tengo que despertarse a mis hijas—

(Un grito viene de arriba. Las risas tontas vienen después. Irene deja caer su cuchillo.)

Rebeca: ¿Qué fue eso?

Irene: No sé, pero—

(Danie anda en la cocina con una cara roja. Está muy enojada.)

Irene: ¿Daniella, qué pasó?

Danie: ¡Esas mocosas destruyeron mi dormida! ¡Pu…pu…pusieron una serpiente de un jardín en mi cama!

(Unos momentos luego, tres chicas andan en la cocina. Dos de las chicas tienen pelo negro y la otra tiene pelo castaño rojizo. La chica con el pelo castaño rojizo la mira con ira a Danie.)

Moira: ¿Qué está pasando aquí?

Claudia: Oímos algo que nos despertamos. ¿Todas están bien?

Irene: Pues…tu hermana… Tu hermana está teniendo dificultades con las amigas de tu hermanita.

Danie: (Más enojada) ¡Esas mocosas!

Jessica: (La chica con el pelo castaño rojizo) Hermanita, ¡¿está loca?! Son las siete en la mañana. ¡Tú puedes despertarse los muertos!

Danie: (Mirando con ira a Jessica) ¡Tu hermana menor y sus amigas pusieron una serpiente de un jardín en mi cama!

Jessica: (Suspirando) Daniella. Tranquilízate. O te estrangularé.

Danie: (Gritando) Tú no me estrangularías. (A Irene) Mamá, ¡haz algo!

Jessica: ¿Qué yo dije? Mira, hermanita, tú necesitas tranquilizar.

Irene: ¡Gretchen! ¡Ven aquí ahora!

(Silencio. Gretchen viene en la cocina con Megami, Melanie, y Cristiane.)

Irene: Chicas, ¿pusieron una serpiente en la cama de Danie?

(Más silencio.)

Irene: (Severamente) Gretchen—

Gretchen: (Tranquilamente) Si, Mama. Pusimos una serpiente en la cama de Danie.

Danie: Yo voy a morirte—

Jessica: Daniella Elizabeth—

Danie: ¡No me digas lo que hacer!

Jessica: ¡Yo puedo decirte lo que hacer si yo quiera!

Claudia: ¡SILENCIO!

(Todas no hablan.)

Claudia: Gretchen, pide perdón a Danie. Danie, acepta su disculpa. Y Jessica, no la digas lo que debe hacer por una vez en tu vida. Para el amor del Dios, ¿podemos tener un cumpleaños decente?

Moira: Claudia tiene un punto.


Gretchen: Lo siento, Danie.

Danie: Acepto.

Irene: Bueno. (Pone su brazo en torno a los hombros de Danie y Gretchen.) Yo espero que podamos divertirnos.

Jessica: Ellas habrán divertirse.

Claudia: Jessica…

Poetry Corner – “Little Woman”

“Little Woman”

Little woman, never on the mend.
Little woman, always pretend.
Little woman, heart of stone.
Little woman driving in the cones.

Little woman, instant rebel.
Little woman, crafty devil.
Little woman, sweet enamoress.
Little woman with the wounds you wouldn’t guess.

Little woman, crying inside.
Little woman, living and having died.
Little woman, begging truth.
Little woman, wanting to be with you.

¡En Español! – “Santa Daniella” Act One, Scene One

Kids, stay in school. There. My public service announcement for the day.

It vexes me to say this, but here it goes: while in college, I attempted to get a minor in Spanish (I believe everyone should be bilingual or multilingual, you know?) but I punked out my last semester and ended up short two classes. So I carry the shame of taking the time to take upper level Spanish courses and yielding nothing. Well, except this.

I started this during that mind-fermenting time period and I hope to finish it someday. (Find it funny this is about Danie.)

So put this in your Google Translate and smoke it! Ha. Jesting.


Santa Daniella
La Historia de Danie Thomas (Tomas)

El personaje principal, Daniella
Sus hermanas, Jessica, Claudia, Moira, y Gretchen
Las amigas de Gretchen, Megami, Melanie, y Cristiane (Christine)
Sus padres quienes son divorciados, Irene y Roberto (Robert)
Sus tías, Elisa (Elizabeth) y Rebeca (Rebecca)
Sus primas, Casandra (Cassandra), Samantha, y Jennifer
El fotógrafo de Libre, Aidan Bloom

La editora de Libre, Melissa Buckley
Su hermano, Eric
Su mejor amiga, Charlene
La amiga nueva, Miranda
La esposa nueva de Roberto, Maria (Mary)
Las hijas de Daniella quienes son gemelas, Shannon y Abigail
Los padres nuevos de las gemelas, Victoria y Harlan Taylor

1. El nombre de Megami significa “diosa” en japonés.


(Nuestra historia empieza en una casa tranquila. Son las siete en la mañana. Las cinco hermanas de la familia Tomás están durmiendo…pues, nosotros pensamos que ellas están durmiendo, pero la más pequeña de las hermanas ha ido a hurtadillas en el cuarto de su hermana con sus mejores amigas, Cristiane, Megami, y Melanie. Daniella está durmiendo en su cama. El cuarto de Daniella es oscuro. Gretchen pone un dedo a los labios y camina a la cama.)

Melanie: (En un susurro) ¿Es ella dormida?

(Danie bufa en su dormida.)

Gretchen: Sí. Ella está durmiendo como una piedra. (A Megami) ¿Lo tienes?

Megami: (Con una sonrisa) ¡Claro que si! Nunca olvido redención.

Cristiane: Este es una idea muy mala.

Gretchen: (Dando una palmada a Cristiane en su espalda) ¡Baka! ¿Vas a ayudarnos a hacerlo o no? ¡Si no, sal ahora!

Cristiane: (Enojada) Tú no eres una buena amiga.

Melanie: ¡Cierra la boca! ¡Ella puede despertarse!


Gretchen: (A todas) ¿Están listos?

(Melanie y Megami contestan “sí.”)

Gretchen: Bueno. Házlo, Megami-chan.

(Megami saca una serpiente del jardín de Irene. Melanie alza la manta de Danie y lo pone al lado de la pierna de Danie. Melanie, Megami, y Gretchen se ríen y salen del cuarto con Cristiane. Fuera de la puerta, Gretchen habla.)

Gretchen: Bueno. Es terminado. Debemos ir atrás a cama antes Danie se levante.

Cristiane: Creo que este es una cosa mala que hicimos a Danie.

(Las otras chicas la empujan al cuarto de Gretchen para tener una discusión.)

Melanie: Mira, Cristiane, tu sabes que a Danie no la gustamos. Yo digo que ella lo merece.

Cristiane: No estoy de acuerdo. No creo que Danie merezca eso. ¿Por que no lo olvidan y la perdonan?

Melanie: Es obvio, Cristiane.

Megami: ¡Si! Danie es cruel a nosotros. Necesita aprender una lección, en mi opinión. Danie piensa que es tan importante porque tiene un contrato con eso agencia de los modelos. (En una voz aguda) “Mi nombre es Daniella Tomas y no desayuno esta mañana. ¿Qué es tu nombre? Quizás tú puedes ser mi novio si no desayunes también.”

(Gretchen y Melanie se ríen. Cristiane la mira con ira a Megami.)

Cristiane: Todavía creo que se llevamos bien con Danie. Ella habla sobre nosotros malamente porque tiene esa amiga cruel.

Megami: ¿Ay, Charlene, ne?

Cristiane: Exactamente. Esta chica…es muy mala. A Charlene no le gustamos y no permite que Danie piense diferentemente.

Megami: Charlene es como un gato con un actitud malo.

Melanie: Un perro macho es lo que ella es como, tú quieres decir.

Gretchen: Chicas, no debemos continuar a decir sobre esto. ¡Es mi cumpleaños! Honestamente, yo espero que hablemos sobre otras cosas.

Melanie: Buena idea.

Megami: Yo creo que debemos decir sobre muchachos.

Otras: ¡¿Muchachos?!

Poetry Corner – “If”


Possibility crooks its manicured finger
To lure in the bereft and unsuspecting;
The grass on the other side beckons–
“Could be” trails the air like languid smoke
As it moves toward a future we yet know nothing of.

What to do when I am ensnared?
Beguiling are the daydreams of another life
That haunt me when I am completely alone.
There are many different paths to travel
Each with their own gilded allure.

Possibility is a magnificent hostess
Throwing out a bejeweled arm to the dazzling array.
Which one to choose? Like a child among treats
My imagination samples them all before deciding
Which one’s payment would not be hard to bear.

There are paths where I could lose my soul—
Yes, that expense would be far too dear;
But even worse is the route I could take
Where I stood idly by and did nothing at all.
Catastrophic that could be for you and me.

You wonder the reason behind my claim
Backed by that succulent two-lettered word.
Honestly, by now, I have reason to believe
That my future might not be the same
Without you.

Poetry Corner – “Secret”

The idea for this website, as I have expressed before, came from urging from my ex–Mr. Nameless if you will. (If you couldn’t tell I have based a couple of characters off of him.)Earlier this year, I was trying to come up with content and this was one of the things I sent him. In hindsight, this one makes me a little ill–it seems so saccharine. No wonder he didn’t say anything; I guess he didn’t want to hurt my feelings… 😉



I hold you in my palm, fingers closed over—
When everyone is gone I hazard a quick peek.
In corners I delight in the memory of you,
Holding it close when I cannot sleep at night.

To tell the world—the ease is elementary!
But this thrill has too much allure,
And not everyone is worthy to partake
In the knowledge of something so rare.

What induces that smile? The gleam that hints
At a hidden treasure buried in the depths.
“She looks as if she’s gotten lucky,” they say,
And if they knew, they’d know—I have.

Sunday Snippet – Superhero (Mark and Abby)

Four years ago, around the time Alias entered my life (bringing Michael Vartan and Jennifer Garner in as well :D), I started making plans to write this story called Superhero. The tale centered around Mark Perry, a detective who loses his wife at the beginning to a tragic car accident, and Zora, the little girl he meets while in the hospital. At the end of his stay, he decides to take Zora in until her parents are found or someone adopts her. He eventually adopts her himself. Several years after Abby dies, Mark takes on an investigation that leads back to his and Zora’s pasts.

Maybe someday I will pick it back up–or integrate it into my other works.

Michael Vartan for Mark Perry! Tee hee.


He knew that he loved her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

He had been in uniform then, fresh out of the academy, working his way up through the ranks. This stint in the throes of the Traffic division was temporary and thankfully so; he was bored stiff with the prospect of signing speeding tickets for the rest of his life. He knew, much like most of his fellow graduates from the academy, that Homicide or  Vice were more coveted than Traffic. He planned to make his reputation in Homicide, and usually what Mark Jameson Perry set out to do, he accomplished.

But that day, he was thankful that he had the chance to cross her path.

It was a hazy, hot day, the sort of day that bred madness and mischief. Already he had stopped several reckless joyriders who thought that the weather was ample reason to speed through posted speed limits, and most of them were barely legal.

It was around two p.m. when a red Porsche Boxster came breezing past him going ninety in a seventy-mile-an-hour zone. He rolled his eyes, trying to squash his exasperation. After glancing behind him to make sure that no one was on the road behind him, he zoomed back out onto the highway with his lights flashing and his siren blasting.

Other drivers obediently moved out of his way as the Boxster wove itself through the light traffic so it wasn’t long before he’d caught up with the bullet on wheels. From his vantage point, he could ascertain that the driver was male, and he was accompanied by a dark-haired female. A dark-haired female it seemed, from here, who was quite exasperated with his love for speed. She glanced behind them and saw Mark following. She shoved him and made him swerve. Luckily there was no one around them except for the police cruiser so it caused no damage.

When the Boxster was safely on the side of the road, Mark pulled up a couple of yards behind it and cut his own engine. He got out of the car with his ticket-writing pad securely in his pocket.

The driver of the cherry-red Porsche was a young man who didn’t look any older than seventeen. His long hair was a dark blond, and his jeans were designer. There was a bit of an insolent twinkle in his blue eyes that put Mark’s hackles up.

He opened his mouth to speak, but then his eyes shifted upward. And found her.

She had curly dark-brown hair pulled back from her pale, heart-shaped face. Her full mouth was painted a rosy shade of crimson underneath an aristocratic, up-turned nose. Her slate-green eyes were apologetic as she stared at him anxiously. Unlike her male counterpart, which seemed to be a close relative after a further look, she was contrite and afraid of his presence.

“Is there a problem, Officer?”

The disrespectful voice broke through his reverie. His eyes drifted back to the pair of blue eyes staring impertinently at him. “Yes, there is a problem. Can I see your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance, please?”

Saying nothing, the guy leaned over and opened the glove compartment. He pulled out the required documents as the woman grabbed his wallet and pulled out his driver’s license. He rolled his eyes and took it and then handed it to Mark. The name on the ID was Eric William Rowan. The address that was listed indicated that he was of the platinum card set, and Mark’s estimation of him was right: he was sixteen years old. The Eric in the photograph was smirking just like the live one was now. It seemed that insolence was a chronic character trait.

“Eric Rowan?” Mark inquired.

“The one and only,” Eric quipped. “I think you can tell from that picture that it’s me.”

The woman sighed heavily in exasperation. “Eric…”

“Relax, Abby,” the guy named Eric said in a low, conspiratorial tone. “I’ve got this.” He turned to Mark with an arrogant sort of contrition. “Listen, uh…”—he paused to make a big show of reading Mark’s name tag—“Officer Perry. I’m real sorry about all this. It’s all a misunderstanding, I’m sure. I hope we can clear this up quickly.”

Mark merely blinked at the young man with flat green eyes for a moment before finishing the ticket. “You were going ninety miles an hour in a seventy-mile-an-hour zone. I hardly see how this could be misconstrued. You have eyes. You have perfect reasoning, though you act like you don’t because you’re too young to think about your mortality. The signs are posted for your security and others.” He tore some sheets from the pad, gave one to Eric along with his driver’s license and proof of insurance on the Porsche. “Have a nice day, Mr. Rowan.” He flicked a glance at Abby, hoping that he would look at her for as long as courtesy would allow before walking away. But his eyes would not move from hers for what seemed like the longest instant…

“Thank you, Officer Perry,” Abby said in a gentle tone, breaking the hold that she had on him.

He gave a slight nod as Eric rolled his eyes. “Good day, Miss. Rowan.” He turned and walked away, having no clue what had just happened and how it would change the rest of his life.

* * *

They met again three years later, but this time, it was in a more formal setting. He had learned a great deal about Abigail Rowan since that first meeting, and every morsel of information was as succulent as a finely cooked meal. His job gave him access to databases of information, but he mostly relied on information he got from articles written about Abigail and her family.

Abigail was the oldest child in her family. She had two fraternal twin brothers, Eric and Ethan, who were as different as black and white; Ethan was the intense, serious one whom everyone assumed would follow in Father Rowan’s footsteps, and Eric, even though he was the older of the pair, was the reckless one, always disappointing his father and causing trouble. Their parents, Robert and Katharine, had been married for nearly a quarter of a century; while her husband conquered in the political arena, Katharine Rowan spearheaded various campaigns for the rights and welfare of women and children, shown pictured on stone steps looking rather radical for a woman of her stature. It was rumored in gossip columns that Robert disapproved of his wife’s work, deeming it extremist and unnecessary. But Katharine, who had grown up on the opposite end of the spectrum from where she now resided, figured it was her right as a human being to help those less fortunate—those words exactly became a sound byte within mere minutes speaking them.

It was a cold night in February when they crossed paths once again. He’d donned a tuxedo for a charity event he was sent to provide security for as a favor for a good friend. Aside from working in the bullpen at work and going out with drinks with the guys after work every now and again, Mark’s life was filled with a jumble of time-passing activities. He was complacent, but not completely happy. There was a big difference. He could feel it every time he found himself on a date with another stand-in for the woman he felt was his soul mate. Still he went on and put it aside to act out his life, which was not all that bad.

Mark stood at the door, watching the guests as they walked in. Oscar Willis, one of Mark’s good friends and a fellow cop, occupied his post beside him, appraising the banquet’s guests with a bit of speculation in his dark brown eyes.

“Quite the party, isn’t it man?” Oscar asked in a conversational tone. “I heard they had Martha Stewart cater.”

“I remember you,” Abigail remarked, tilting her head a fraction. “You gave my brother a ticket three years ago.” Her chin lifted and a strange light came into her hazel-green eyes. “So have you sought me out to give me one?”

Mark looked startled. “Of course not, Miss Rowan! I…”

It was then that Abigail began laughing, the glorious sound flowing over him like sweet music. He realized that she had been merely joking and that she really didn’t think he’d come there to give her a speeding ticket. Feeling sheepish, Mark chuckled nervously along with her.

“I was merely jesting, Officer Perry,” Abigail assured him. “I’m sure you have your reasons for being here, just as everyone else does.”

Noticing something in her tone, Mark countered, “Do you have a reason to be here?”

It was Abigail’s turn to be startled, which intrigued Mark but she recovered quickly. “Whatever do you mean, Officer Perry? I have plenty of reason to be here. I am a part of the Rowan family and I must be here to back my father. We are a unit and it is important that we appear as such.”

The way she said it, the very deliberateness of it, was practiced. She had prepared the statement in front of a mirror, with her father’s approval. She was Daddy’s Little Girl, outfitted with expensive threads and clever phrases. The articles and the papers never hinted at this, never gave a clue that Abigail was the kind of woman that Robert Rowan wanted to be by his side—slightly different than the woman he’d married. Or perhaps her had been so smitten that he’d overlooked it. But now that he knew, it gave the glided image of the woman with whom he was secretly in love a bit of dullness. It was a scratch, an imperfection.

“That’s justified,” Mark commented, “and very admirable of you all, but what if you didn’t want to be here?”

Something in her eyes flickered as it had before, but she was one for a quick recovery. “It is not a question of desire, Officer Perry.” Her tone was slightly imperious now. “Giving in to desires is reckless. I have an obligation to my father to be here, and I am fulfilling it. It doesn’t matter what it is that I want otherwise.”

“So there isn’t something you’d rather be doing tonight? Hanging out with friends? Curling up on the couch with a book?”

“Those things, while nice, are a waste of time for me,” Abigail insisted. “I have no time to spend doing idle things. Every action I take has to take be a step forward. I am grieved to understand that you do not feel the same, Officer Perry.”

Mark, ignoring the scene around them and the implications, stepped closer to her. She drew up as if to make herself seem taller, and it didn’t serve to intimidate him. It, however, made them diametrically opposed.

“What has that man done to you?” Mark demanded in a low tone, watching her cheeks flame. “Have you no mind of your own?”

“I do have a mind of my own, Mister Perry!” Abigail cried angrily, her Mister as acrid as sulfur. “I choose to support my father in what he does, and I’m sorry if you think that is wrong.”

“It’s not wrong. That’s not what I’m saying. Giving support to a family member is not wrong by any means. But your heart has to be in it. You have to want to do it as much as you want to do something you like, not treat it as if it were a dental exam.”

“How dare you assume…? My heart is in it!”

Mark appraised her with the tough, observant eyes of a cop for a long-enough moment to make her fidget. She had looked more alive in the last few moments than she had all night long, her pale cheeks tinged with rosiness and her green eyes filled with fire, and she had the nerve to lie and say that her heart was in this façade?

“I don’t think so, Miss Rowan,” Mark disagreed, sidestepping her and walking away. With her lips pursed, she just glared at him and said nothing, but it seemed that her glare was tinged with a bit of humiliation. “Good night,” he added, as an afterthought over his shoulder.

* * *

Dear Mark,

I have given what you and I discussed the other evening a lot of thought. It is not every day that I cross someone that makes me question what I am and with what I have surrounded myself, and I have to admit that my anger came from my misapprehension. If there is one thing that I hate, it is to be told I’m wrong about something. I get that from my mother, I suppose. Anyhow, I offer you an apology because I feel that you have no cause to be ridiculed for your knack for questioning (something I think will serve you well in your occupation) and my anger was misdirected. You just happened to be there when it erupted, an unwitting trigger, perhaps, which was rather unfortunate.

I hope I have not alienated you and lost your companionship. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?

Abigail J. Rowan

Mark looked at the note in wonder as the others looked at him with interest. The last line echoed in his head, sounding more sassy and shrewd than it had come off at first glance. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?

Had he been that transparent? Oh he could just kick himself.

Poetry Corner – “Midnight Moon”

“Midnight Moon”

To the eldest, the middle, and the youngest,
The hothead and the blockhead battling incessantly;
To the dancer, the dreamer, and Mr. Urbane,
The Chameleon, the dove, and the hummingbird;
To the one we lost too soon at unknown hands,
The Mama, the Aunt, and the Predecessor;
And to even you lingering in the shadows like Yoda to fix the end–

Welcome back.

Poetry Corner – “Unrest”

Sometimes I shock myself how cynical I can be.

It’s October 17, 2011. My brother’s birthday is the following day, my little sister’s the day after that. My memory is fuzzy on this one, but my guess is that something had happened between myself and Mr. Nameless. (To clarify, so far there has been Mr. Shameless and Mr. Nameless. More to come when I get enough sleep to think of monikers. Tee hee.) I  tend to overthink things (of course) and I felt compelled to versalize (I know that’s not a word, but hey) my uneasiness for whatever reason. And then it flourished into something deeper, it seems. I am not sure.

I may extend this, so perhaps it’s more like a snippet right now?



It’s the rumble in the jungle
It’s the plague in the lake
It’s the shock that makes your heart quake
It’s the lead on the evening news
That makes Mama head for the booze
Tear the mattress, dig up the jar
Chill hits no matter who you are

Here comes the unrest

Extra, extra—here’s the headline
While we’re gaping we’re losing time
The hole’s spreading before we prepare
The wrong man’s in the electric chair
And you’re worried about weave in your hair
At the barest sign of any ill
You’re calling the doctor for a refill

Here comes the unrest