Unicorn Blood and Groceries

 “Ah, Cooper? Why is unicorn blood on our shopping list?”

“Because,” he replies, absorbed by the Lego castle he’s constructing.

What am I going to do with this kid? Since we’ve been sequestered at home 24/7, he’s actually become less communicative. I would’ve thought that with all the time we spend together, just the two of us, we’d be practically telepathic by now.

“Cooper. Would you please look at me?”

I watch him struggle to divert his attention from his elaborate creation and turn his gaze in my direction.

“I need you to help me understand why exactly we need unicorn blood. Can you do that?”

He sighs and rubs his hand across his temple, an elderly man in a nine-year-old child’s body. I am obviously trying his patience.

“So, you remember reading the Harry Potter books when I was little?”

“I do remember that,” I respond.

Cooper and I had spent weekends and evenings in the early pandemic, a full year ago now, plowing through Rowling’s hefty tomes. The neat resolution at the end of each book gave us a sense of control that we didn’t have in the real world what with my company shutting down, schools going virtual and my mom succumbing to COVID-19. We found the suspense and magical twists in the Harry Potter series preferable to the reality of the death and economic devastation in our everyday reality.

“Cooper, what does Harry Potter have to do with our grocery list?”

“Well,” he rubs his chin where whiskers are likely to sprout in six to seven years. “I just thought it would be good to have some unicorn blood on hand, just in case.”

I walk over and sit next to him on the rug.

“Just in case what, Buddy?” I gently rest my hand on his back.

Cooper looks down, fiddling with the draw bridge at the front of his Lego castle. He picks up the tiny Lego queen and the tiny Lego prince, moves them into the center of the castle, and abruptly slams the draw bridge shut.

“Well, if you remember,” he says, “unicorn blood can bring you back to life even if you’re an inch from death. And I thought we should keep some on hand just in case COVID finds us.”

He looks up at me, hope and fear mingled in his beautiful eyes.

“Oh, that’s right,” I respond, squeezing his shoulder. “Good thinking.”

He favors me with a tremulous smile. I stand, reach out for his hand, and help him to his feet.

“C’mon. Let’s see if Costco can add it to our grocery order this week.”

the worms contemplate

day dawned dour

patter of rain splatters on

my window woke me

long before the alarm

the harm to my psyche severe

my mood muddled

in puddles left in landscape dips

 

worms wriggle across my drive

congregating to contemplate this spate

of soaking weather

and whether to return to grass or

sacrifice their lives on

treacherous asphalt beneath

beneath a lumbering car

Bubble Moon

 

The bubble moon rose

and froze

white on the indigo sky.

 

No male visage

smiled out,

but feminine arcs,

concentric

crests and caves

graced her surface.

 

She glanced off ponds

amid flowered fields

and glassy windows

set in sleeping houses

bringing sweet dreams

to all below.

Memory

 She traced by her past. A straight line here. An arc there. A hint of something forgotten. A subtle bite at the edge of memory.

Something flitted past the edge of her vision, but in the instant it took her to turn her head, whatever it was disappeared.

Kara recalled her mother stating that, “Growing old wasn’t for sissies.” Although the comment was usually accompanied by a wry smile, the reality was incontrovertible. Mother had fought age with each strand of her dyed black hair and a determination worthy of an Olympic athlete. When she died last year, at the age of 65, it was with a roar. But mother had always lived life to the hilt. Maybe that’s why Kara had done the same.

Kara turned five the year Mother turned 30. They celebrated with a single candle perched atop a cupcake. Mother’s friends were all there, filling ashtrays with soot, glasses with gin and the air with laughter and expletives. It was a helluva celebration. The next morning, Kara had her own private celebration. The fresh five-year-old was up at 8:00 and while her mother slept, Kara collected the cups, guzzling any remains before stacking them by the sink. She was woozy by 8:30 and looking for more by 10:00. Mother slept until noon.

From there, life rolled on. By eight she was filching cigarettes from ash trays and warm beer from the ever-present case on the porch. At 11 she smoked her first joint, shared with her by her mother’s boyfriend of the moment. By 13 she was popping uppers. From there it was a short trip to harder and harder drugs until she woke up at 24, a worn-out bag of bones, selling what flesh she had left to finance her next high. And pregnant. This time, too far along for an abortion. She gave the baby to social services and walked away. But she couldn’t forget.

She thought often of the girl she’d sweated to birth. Tiny and wrinkled and carted away as she squalled, too soon to see her eyes. It was for the best. She knew it, but she wondered if that tiny girl grew into a good life. A healthy person. She hoped so.

Kara took a last drag on her cigarette. The tidy breeze snagged the smoke and dispersed it in the atmosphere. Rehab hadn’t been easy, but she was determined to make it this time, or die trying, roaring and kicking and spitting.

She stood and walked into the building, followed by the shadow of who she’d been, her soul pricked by the memory.

 

City on the Shore

City on the shore above ground and below water. Which is real and which is vision-magicked? Both shimmer in summer sun and slight city smog. Both see life dart and dive in, out and about without seam. A dream of harmony. Elements ignited and united in muted mirror images.

Adrien and Aoife part 2

 

Aoife and Adrien part 2

The cart bumped across the rutted road and the gully left by a stream long dead. As she walked, Aoife noted the small clumps of dried dirt sent flying by the turning wheels. No one rode in the cart. It was used to haul their precious wares from town to town.

Aoife was sure she’d already walked from one end of the earth to the other, and halfway back. She was tired. And hungry. Yet the caravan would continue moving until dusk which meant at least two more hours of walking.

She heard the dogs who always ran at the front of the group bark and yip. Had they sighted a rabbit, or maybe a deer? She hoped so. It would be good to have meat tonight.

The snake of carts and wagons moved around some obstacle ahead. As she neared, she saw it was a child with snarled dark hair. A boy who seemed to be about her age though he was taller. He stood at the edge of a crossroad watching the passing people, animals and carts. He was very thin and his clothes were little more than rags, yet he stood with an easy confidence that captivated her. As she neared him, she pulled an apple from her pocket and rubbed it against her sleeve. He watched her hands through lowered lashes, hunger painted on his face.

When she reached him, Aoife stopped, the waning sun in her eyes. Their shadows stretched long across the dirt. She held the apple out to him. Their fingers touched as he accepted it, and a thrill of recognition ran through her. She knew he was special. Aoife held his gaze and just as she was about to speak to him, a gruff shout broke their reverie.

“Aoife,” her uncle bellowed from the cart he drove at the back of the caravan. “We’ll not wait for you. Leave that scruff of a boy and get moving. There’s wild and hungry beasts along this trail and you’ll not wish to meet them once the sun goes down.”

The boy bowed briefly to Aoife before turning and running into the forest, apple still in hand. He didn’t notice that he left without his shadow. It stayed joined with Aoife’s, held by her foot. She bent down, carefully gathered the boy-shaped umbra and gently, ever so gently, tucked it in the large

locket she wore around her neck.

She looked toward the trees one last time before running to catch up with her people.

Aoife and Adrien (part 1)

Adrien tried not to look at Aoife, but his gaze was drawn to her like sparkle to a star. He lowered his eyes as though he was reading his book and hoped she wouldn’t notice him watching her through the shadow of his long, black lashes.

He drank in the line of her jaw. His lips ached to kiss the point where it met the curve of her neck. The simple gold chain she wore glinted in the afternoon light, beckoning. Her crystal pendant hung just above the cleft of her breasts, barely visible beneath her modest blouse.

Aoife raised her slender hand to push a lock of hair from that had fallen on her cheek and he was undone, again, by that graceful neck, no longer shrouded by her tresses. Truly, he was stung by love, and a pleasant sting it was.

Adrien felt the color rise to his cheeks as he thought of what it would be like to hold her and murmur into that darling, delicate ear. Would she welcome his secrets, his confessions?

Resolved, he closed his book, stood, and walked to her.

*****

Aoife looked up as Adrien approached. Had he seen her watching him? Did he know that she longed to rest her cheek against his shoulder? That she yearned to feel the whisper of those long, black lashes as he kissed the tender place where jaw met neck?

Her whole village knew of him, but only she understood him. Of this she was certain, and she was unafraid.

She knew he was beautiful to behold. She knew that he was strong and faster than thought. She knew he would be gentle. And she was not surprised that he arrived without a sound. She was also not surprised that he arrived without a shadow. After all, it was she who had stolen it when they were small children, their families passing on a rutted road. This was what bound them together. Did he remember?