“Helping Hand”
Little microscopic pieces of
A virus that eats us alive
From the inside
We can do nothing but
Succumb to the sickness
The foundation is crumbling
Coming completely down
Is there a cure for it?
Here I come with a benediction
To help with our affliction
But we’re too far gone
I just helped the end along
There’s no way I could have a helping hand
“All Yours”
Oh yes, there’s the buzz
The looks from the hopeful
The whispers from the jealous ones
When he walks in the room
In his slick urban costume
Everyone acts like they’ve been blessed
He’s Hell’s gift to womankind
The mistake you never wanna claim
He’s the kinda fella that makes you
Hate everyone with his name
But if you want him, you’ve got him
He’s all yours
Oh yes, that’s what I said
He’s all yours
Back in the day, I started this story called The Gifted. It had begun as a Fearless fan fiction story (and by the way, I wouldn’t be able to imagine Blake Lively as Gaia Moore, just sayin), but then my interest waned. Once I formed an interest in the show Alias, I had reimagined the story including characters from that series. I wrote a few chapters before I realized that I wanted to make this into a novel with my original characters.
This scene is interesting because it introduces Irina Derevko as being alive–and with a connection to Kane, no doubt.
___________________
She found him sitting on a rock and facing the setting sun as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world—or a train wreck he couldn’t tear his eyes from. His black hair was unbound this time, giving him a slight vulnerability amid his inherent strength and power. The long silken strands fluttered in the light breeze, and even as some hair got into his face, he didn’t move, didn’t blink. As Sydney inched closer to him, she wondered if perhaps he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. She had seen it happen before when Carmen forced her, Francie, and Will to watch Major Payne one night.
She was so startled when he spoke and she nearly lost control of her bladder.
When Kane, without moving, flicked dark eyes in her direction, she swallowed a gasp. He hadn’t been unusually cruel to her and her fellow Gifted Nine mates so far—Felice, Aurora, Angelia, and Bennett hadn’t been either, thankfully—but he didn’t look like he would take too kindly to her showing weakness either. Steeling her courage, she spoke.
“Kane-sensei,” she began, “I am sorry to bother you but I…I would like to know what really happened to my mother.”
A humming moment passed, and Sydney was sure that he was eyes-open unconscious when he pursed his lips.
“Sit down, Sydney,” he said softly.
Quietly Sydney went to sit beside him on another rock.
“I can only tell you so much,” Kane explained. “There are many things that I do not know about your mother.” He paused for a moment then and turned his head as if he were going to look at her sidelong but didn’t completely finish the movement and ended up looking in her general direction. “And there are things that I know…but cannot tell you.”
She was so close. She could sense it, like it were a building on the distant, hazy horizon. And Kane’s last statement only served to intensify the fury that she had kept buried inside of her for years, the grief that had made her feel awkward in the face of others who had a full parental unit. It was if he had something to do with her mother’s death, like he had delivered the killing blow.
She almost jumped to her feet quickly…but he placed a hand on her thigh, restraining her. It was then that he looked into her eyes. He was not shocked by the emotions swirling in her brown eyes, only resigned by them.
“I’ll say it again. Sit down, Sydney.” His voice was even with an edge sharper than Celie’s razor.
Swallowing her fury, Sydney slowly lowered herself beside him. Her fists were clenched at her side as she waited for him to speak again. She braced herself for some earth-shattering revelation.
“I met your mother over a decade ago,” Kane started.
Hold me close
You whisper longing
I have no words
Feels like a bombing
Where everything’s bare
The onslaught has made me impaired
Touch me lightly
You promise care
I want to fight
You’ll never be there
When loneliness gnaws
Me down, making me want to crawl
Put away your hindsight
Cover your eyesight
Then you will see me clear
I wrote this one back during my freshman year of college when I was dating Mr. Shameless and before I conceived Midnight Moon in this overactive brain of mine. I haven’t decided to Moira-Selene’s love interest is going to be quite yet. The best part about this, for me as I read it, is how the characters interact with one another.
_______
“Men Are from Mars, and Women Want to Kick Their Asses”
PART I
Moira-Selene would never understand men, no matter how long she lived.
Sure she was the smartest girl in the Thomas family (aside from Jessica, of course), but she could never figure the puzzling mind of a man. No book or magazine could relax the permanent crease she had in her forehead because of her new boyfriend. She realized this, and quite dejectedly so, as she sat in the living room of the apartment she shared with her sister Danie and her cousin Jennifer. The clock blazed the numbers of eight, four, and nine, and Moira realized that her Saturday night was shot.
“I’d stop waiting by the phone if I were you,” Danie muttered from behind Cosmopolitan magazine with her raven hair in a deep conditioning. “He’s not going to call.”
“Whoever said I was waiting on him to call?” Moira-Selene inquired defensively.
Danie lowered the magazine, its cover proclaiming one hundred and one sex positions, and raised one perfectly arched eyebrow as if she were Dwayne Johnson’s long-lost younger sister. “Hello?!” she trilled. “Look at the eager, I’m-gonna-win-the-Publisher’s-Clearing-House-Sweepstakes look on your face! I know that look.” She paused with a reflective expression. “Sometime ago, I had that look on my face, too.”
Moira-Selene rolled her eyes. “Danie,” she began patiently, “if I may recall, I think a certain roommate of mine was shooing everyone away from the phone last night to make sure she got a call from a certain, oh, what’s his name again?”
If Danie’s hair hadn’t been wrapped up in the towel, she would have tossed it nonchalantly over her shoulder, but she lifted the magazine back to eye level instead. “We’re not talking about me, here. We’re talking about you.” Danie threw the pillow at her. “Now get away from the damn phone. Make some cookies or something. I’m hungry.”
Gee, what a loving sister she was.
But Moira-Selene heaved herself from the couch and walked into the kitchenette, hearing Jennifer’s giddy voice drift in. Even though Danie could be a bit brash, she had a good idea. Making cookies would take her mind off Duo, and then she could think clearly. With resolve, she turned to the pantry to take out the ingredients. That was when the phone rang. Her heart galloped, and she stalked out of the kitchenette to answer it.
“I’ll get it!” Danie sang out, diving for the phone as if it were a life preserver. Moira-Selene watched with hopeful, wide eyes. “Hello?” The longest pause in the world. Then Danie grinned. “Oh hi Danny! I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.” She gave Moira a look that said, Go away, the phone is mine.
Aw, damn. Toll House, here Mo comes.
Moira-Selene drifted back into the kitchen. She retrieved a huge bowl and a wooden spoon. After throwing together the ingredients, she whipped them into a frenzy until her arm screamed at her. When she stopped, she found herself crying softly into the cookie batter.
Moira dropped the bowl onto the counter despondently. What the hell had made her like this?
Oh. Yeah. Right. Gotta go back and explain…
* * *
Ten months ago, Moira-Selene Eleanor Thomas had been a single woman. If anyone had brought it to her attention, she’d badger them with a long, verbose explanation about how she and members of the opposite gender were not compatible, and the ones with fully functioning brain cells opted to go for the silly, blond-haired type.
Then Jennifer would get all pissy like someone gave her Suave shampoo instead of Pantene, and she’d have to amend her statement: they went for the dumb girls—no matter what hair color they had. And then they understood.
“But Mo,” Gretchen said on one occasion as they were at Belvidere’s, “not all guys are hormonal football game-watching, beer-guzzling, Playboy-perusing freaks.”
“But a lot of them are,” Samantha broke in, sipping water.
“Some of them are sweet,” Gretchen insisted.
“Do you include your last five boyfriends in that category—the ones that cheated on you, if I may recall?”
After Samantha said that, Gretchen sighed and returned to her own water. Moira-Selene knew that Gretchen’s love life wasn’t exactly the best in the world, but she did have a point. There were exceptions to every rule.
“You just gotta show those guys who’s boss,” Danie declared. “Be confident. Don’t them step all over you.”
“Yeah, but no one likes to be bossed around,” Gretchen pointed out.
Danie held her hand out, bent at the wrist as if she were expecting some rich businessman to kiss it, and prepared the table for another Daniella Thomas enlightenment. “I didn’t say ‘boss him around,’” Danie said. “There are many ways to get a man to do what you want him to do.”
Samantha rolled her eyes. “Danie, holding out on sex only works sometimes. Sometimes that backfires, and he goes looking for other bestial opportunities—if you know what I mean.”
Danie laughed like a Southern debutante with magnolias up her butt and a huge rock on her finger. “Samantha, Samantha. You don’t hold out on him forever! There’s this thing called teasing. And then you…”
Moira-Selene shook her head wordlessly and tuned Danie’s Dear Abby moment out. She felt slightly disillusioned and even more confused. Ever since she had left home when she was sixteen she wondered if there would be anyone for her. And even more, how would she go about finding him?
Zeus was about to answer her, loud and clear.
* * *
When Moira-Selene and her missing amour had met, Moira-Selene had been shopping with Gretchen and her friends Christine and Megami. Gretchen had tricked her into going shopping for a new bathing suit since the California weather warranted one.
“Do not try on a one-piece!” ordered Gretchen as Moira came out of the dressing room. “If you get that, I will get Jennifer to make it a bikini.”
“Teeny weeny itty bitty yellow polka-dot bikini!” exclaimed Christine and Megami at the same time. They fell into laughter and Moira shook her head.
Gretchen tossed a sky blue number at her that would have had Justin Timberlake in cardiac arrest. “Try this one on. I wanna see it on you.”
Moira peered at the two pieces of scant fabric in her fingers. “I don’t think Barbie could wear this, Gretch.”
“Well, not with that so-called ‘anatomically correct’ body.” Gretchen pushed her into the dressing room. “Now put it on! No one’s around but us. I promise.”
Moira disappeared into the fitting room, half-wondering what the hell had gotten into her. She was the demure one, the one who opted for class instead of flash. And now Gretchen had pressured her into squeezing into something that she could have cleaned the bathtub with. What was the world coming to?
Moira nearly fainted when she saw her reflection.
Is that me? Is that woman me?
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Moira panicked. She could see the drool pooling at men’s feet already. She couldn’t go out there in that bathing suit. There was no way. Over her dead body!
“MOIRA-SELENE ELEANOR THOMAS…”
Gretchen was going to make a scene if she didn’t get out there, so Moira stepped out of the fitting room. Gretchen fell into silence. Megami looked stunned.
“Nice pecs, mate,”Christine retorted.
Before Moira could say anything, a loud voice broke the silence.
“Damn! Look at that hottie!”
Moira was suddenly glad that she hadn’t eaten or drank anything yet.
Frozen in disbelief, Moira stared at the young, long-haired man with her mouth open wide. Gretchen leaped up and ushered Moira back into her fitting room, jerking the curtain shut. Gretchen turned her older sister around and helped her with the strings. Quickly, they got Moira back into her regular clothes. After sharing a knowing look, they paused to listen to the conversation outside, peeking out from behind the curtain.
“Hey, where did that girl go?” the guy asked. Apparently he hadn’t left.
“Um, she’s gone, mate,” Christine lied, talking loud enough so Moira and Gretchen could hear. “You just missed her.”
“Yeah,” added Megami.
“You know her?”
“No!” Megami and Christine said in unison.
Meanwhile, Gretchen sighed and shook her head. “This little shopping trip was a disaster,” she whispered.
“You had good intentions, Gretch,” Moira whispered. “I know you didn’t intend on a warm-blooded American male happening by just as I was in that bathing suit.” She gathered all the bathing suits up. “But I’ve got to take care of this. If I don’t, he’ll never go away.”
Gretchen could only watch, flabbergasted, as Moira opened the curtain and stepped out casually into store. Megami and Christine halted in their Three Stooges-caliber lying. The guy grinned impishly at Moira.
“Well, I must say, the bathing suit looks better on you,Ehe commented flirtatiously.
Moira tilted her head and gave him an expression Jessica would have been proud of. “Oh? Like a muzzle would look better on you?”
Christine snickered loudly. She turned sharply and dragged a red-faced Megami away as the guy’s smile faded. Gretchen was still slightly openmouthed.
“Oh, so you’re one of those types,” the guy said.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” Moira said, standing straight. “But I do know this: I do not associate with guys who find interest in me solely based upon my physical appearance.” Then she added, “And I know you’re of that type. So if you will, please get out of my way.”
But the guy was persistent. He remained firmly in front of Moira with his arms crossed. Even though his expression was slightly serious, there was a twinkle in his eyes.
“Not until you tell me your name,” he persisted.
Knowing that she was two steps away from punching him, Moira mustered up her patience. “The only thing I am going to tell you is that it would be wise to get out of my way.”
Was he laughing? Was the guy actually laughing at her?
Something inside her snapped. She thrust the bathing suits on a nearby rack and crossed her own arms.
“Are you getting out of my way or what?” Moira demanded.
“Not until I get what I want,” the guy told her, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.
He was never going to move. She stepped to the right. So did he. She stepped to the far left. So did he. She snorted with anger and grabbed his arm. He began to grin, only to realize that he was sailing over her shoulder in air. When he fell to the ground with a big whoosh, Gretchen, Christine, and Megami all went slackjawed. Moira did a Danie-like hair toss and stalked off past a startled sales associate.
“Ay, mate! She bloody near broke that bloke in half!” marveled Christine.
Gretchen sighed once again as Megami led the two of them away from the recovering guy. “Why do I have a feeling this is far from over?”
To Be Continued…
Ah, my friends–gather ’round. It is time for the tale of a tragic queen.
The first mention of the second wife of the infamous King Henry VIII came from the movie Steel Magnolias when I was a child; Olympia Dukakis and Shirley MacLaine were talking about this person named Anne Boleyn–with six fingers on one hand! What? Bemusement reigned. But the image of deformity persisted.
I took a colloquium on Queen Elizabeth I (if you really wanna get me going on the subject, ask me if I think she died a virgin or not) during my senior year of college; The Tudors began its run on Showtime, and we perused it (privately, as it was extremely provocative–but hey, I discovered Henry Cavill) as part of our study. And thus Anne Boleyn surfaced again. As I learned more of her history, another image began to emerge–one of a woman who wanted the best for herself and would not sacrifice her dignity for nothing less. She resisted Henry VIII at the beginning; she did not want to be any man’s mistress, even a king’s. And no matter how she handled herself in the beginning, she still lost her life–for whatever reason you choose, whether you believe Henry VIII simply wanted to get rid of her, or if she really was unfaithful–that tragic day in May 1536.
So, to me, the story of Queen Anne is a cautionary tale. One that might not have such visceral consequences in this day and age but can still be relatable on some simple terms.
_____________
“Anne Boleyn”
Every girl has a charm
That she holds dear
She believes there’s no harm
Letting someone near
But to be close enough to touch
Takes a man of certain mettle
Can’t let just anyone
Give her the urge to settle
To them, virtue is a tease
Coveted like the rarest jewel
And when they get what they please
Their gentle caress turns cruel
You think it’s safe to let go
While someone’s plotting your overthrow
The stage is set, whispers are coarse
Loyalties are divided down the line
She screams till she’s hoarse
They’ve condemned for the wrong crime
She lost her head in the mix
Despite her good intentions
She lost everything in the end
Sort of like Anne Boleyn
“Abandon”
Bottom out
Quiet now
Can’t see
I breathe
Cold air
You swear
From above
No worry
Help me
Crawl up
You leave
No warning
Lower me
With spite
“Tableau”
She stands, trembling
Goosebump-laden
When is it coming?
Frozen is this moment
Heavy with Longing
The silk weighs
On her svelte frame
Candles hold their breath
Don’t even dare to flicker
The walls hush to watch
And the wind even hovers to wait
Motion ceases
Until he breathes life into the frame
Danger you are
But I walk on the wire
“Be good, girl” but I don’t heed
The warning to preserve me
Elusive as smoke
I scent you in the air
I follow the trail
Again we resume
Dare me to come, I will
Dare me to fall, I’ll spill
The contents of me at your feet
Like I’m made of water
Take care, my heart is gone
You’ll find I’m made of stone
I can’t battle you fair
If I’m mush in my underwear
She’ll touch and leave
Marks scrubbed with soap
Underneath you’ll find scars
The only thing I call mine
Dare me to run, I’ll fly
Dare me to tell, I’ll lie
Until inside you’ve been satisfied
Like I’m made of water
When Mark awoke again, the room was dim.
The drapes on the window were drawn, so it could have been night or day. He could not be sure. Time had slipped by him, slipped by them, without notice and now they could not get it back. How ironic that it had been happening for a long time, and it took a tragedy for him to notice.
Reality seeped into his thoughts. He felt the pain of his broken body as he remembered flashes of the events that led up to that moment, and all of a sudden, he wished he could forget it all. If he couldn’t go back, he opted to just forget it all. It seemed a small mercy for having to deal with the remainder of his life without the woman he loved.
“Abby,” he whispered, awash with sorrow. The trembling began then, and the tears clouded his already blurry vision.
A soft sniffle startled him out of his moment of melancholy.
Her brown eyes shining like orbs watched him closely, as if he were a fascinating display of a form of human life she had never seen before. They peered at him from over her knees that were covered in soft gray fleece pajama pants, and he could not see the bottom half of her face. But it slowly came back to him as she gazed at him unwaveringly, along with the memory of her cries…
She watched as he tried to shift himself into a better position and winced. He griited his teeth together as he bore the pain. Moisture swam in his eyes, and then…
There was a light touch on his trembling leg, not enough pressure to harm but enough to notice. Through the thin blanket he could feel the warmth. Blinking rapidly and trying to control his short breaths, he wondered what touched his leg.
It was the little girl’s hand.
“Don’t cry,” she whispered. “It’ll all be alright.”
He blinked hard, once, then stared at her incredulously. The nurse who was there when he had awoken for the first time since the accident had told him that the little girl had not spoken to anyone, and here she was (having snuck into his hosptial room no less) reassuring him as if he had woken from a nightmare.
In a way, he had– a living nightmare that could not be changed with all the wishing in the world. And that made him want to burst into tears all over again.
He swallowed the lump he had in his throat and focused on the little girl. He forced his mind to operate on more practical terms for the situation at hand. After all, didn’t she have parents? A brother? A sister? Someone who worried about her while she sat here with her knees to her chest looking curious and scared all at the same time?
“I was scared,” she went on, simply, answering his unspoken question.
Mark’s lips twitched in a movement that could have been taken as a smile or a grimace. The fact that she had no one to comfort her at this time of upheaval in her fragile existence grieved him greatly. However, he could not help be warmed slightly that she felt his presence would chase away apprehension. She barely knew him and here she was…
“So you thought that I could keep you company,” Mark commented, voice strained.
She merely blinked at him, saying nothing. He supposed that was a yes.
He chucked sardonically, an effort that made his chest hurt. “I’m not sure I can help you with that, kid. I’ve got enough shadows of my own.”
Her eyebrows came together in a frown. “Is that why you were crying?”
He had the overwhelming urge to take up a shield, as if he were more vulnerable than he wanted to be. “That is none of your business.”
The way her face shifted implied that she was pouting. “You can’t send me back. I won’t go.”
“Wait.” Mark leaned over, ignoring the pain, and grabbed the little girl’s arm lightly. “I’m sorry. I…” They locked eyes, one watery gaze to another. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I…”
“Somebody died and you didn’t want them to,” she said in such a way that made his blood freeze. “That’s what the nurse lady said.”
“Tell me your name,” Mark murmured. “They never told me your name.”
“My mama named me Zora,” she told him. “What did your mama name you?”
“My mother named me Mark after her own father.” He placed his bigger, lighter hand on hers, taking note of the flicker in her eyes when he did it. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Zora.”
In a movement that shocked him a little, she placed her free hand on his.
“Likewise.”
He was to learn soon that being shocked by Zora was to be a mundane, habitual event.
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