• Essays
  • Photos
  • Stories

Spring

I’ve lived in Atascadero for seventeen years and towards the end of every winter I become a fretful Demeter waiting for Persephone: unconvinced that this time the decimated, disconsolate yard will emerge from Hades.

Not Going Gentle

For the past few months I’ve thought about little else, and I think about it gingerly: Dylan Thomas meant something more noble than this.

My eighty-three-year-old father is doing plenty of raging. My mother calls five, six, seven times a day. He won’t feed me. He won’t help me cut our pills. He says he’s going to leave and never come back. He’s outside walking, he says he’s going to walk himself to death. He doesn’t want to unlock the door for the caregiver in the morning. You have to do something. I can’t live like this.

State of Grace

When we pull up in front of my parents’ house I notice the trees first. The almond whose slender shimmering leaves splashed my bedroom walls with pale green light as I studied Eliot, then Heidegger, then Knuth. The ornamental plums that stood at sober attention in a row along the side of the house, cracking their burgundy study only for a brief riot of pink in the spring. All cut down to stumps now. The fig and trumpet vines obscuring the chain link fence have been uprooted. The lawn has gone to crabgrass and the beds once full of impatiens and azaleas lie forlorn and empty.

Spring

I’ve lived in Atascadero for seventeen years and towards the end of every winter I become a fretful Demeter waiting for Persephone: unconvinced that this time the decimated, disconsolate yard will emerge from Hades.

Faces of Monterey

Always a little less pristine than I’m expecting.

Lessons Learned at the Aquarium

If you don’t want to cry a lot, just take a point and shoot.

Azar at the Fair

Azar set Kleitos Leonidas’ water – with its precise double helix of lemon and orange peel twined around four cubes of ice – on the small table between their two chaises. “I gotta say, boss, this is a great place.” He clambered into his own chair with an umbrella-topped Mai Tai. “I thought we were going to blow this Popsicle stand as soon as you nabbed me back from Moru, and good riddance. But,” he ratcheted the chaise back a notch and spread stick-like arms to soak up the August heat, “a body could get used to this. I almost feel dried out again.”

Zosima Panopolis

Jordan was drawn to Zosima Panopolis from her first Mountain Pose. Who knew just standing could look so good? The flared black yoga pants and black tank top, the glossy raven hair cropped short except for a single scarlet micro-braid tossed over her left shoulder, the heavy black eye liner and burgundy shadow should have been hopelessly goth. But somehow she carried it as if she were heading off to her next ninja assassination contract as soon as class was over.

He was glad he’d let Ashley browbeat him into coming to yoga. “So I got a little back twinge helping you move. It was just dumb luck.”

“You’re the classic ‘weekend warrior.’” She stuffed her laptop into her bag. “You sit in front of a keyboard ten hours a day, go home and play video games, and then come Saturday you expect your body to behave as if you’ve been training for a marathon the rest of the week. You’re getting too old for it.”

Woods Woman, Part II

“Snow White.” The syllables spun forth from the king’s lips and onto her shoulders like an unwanted mantle as he stepped from his sleigh. Well, she wouldn’t have to wear it long. Regicide was a capital crime in the realm; if she were taken she could expect little more of her brief free life than a few weeks in chains and the executioner’s axe. “So this is how it ends.”

  • Alchemical Pursuits
  • Snow White
  • Wild Hunt

Azar at the Fair

Azar set Kleitos Leonidas’ water – with its precise double helix of lemon and orange peel twined around four cubes of ice – on the small table between their two chaises. “I gotta say, boss, this is a great place.” He clambered into his own chair with an umbrella-topped Mai Tai. “I thought we were going to blow this Popsicle stand as soon as you nabbed me back from Moru, and good riddance. But,” he ratcheted the chaise back a notch and spread stick-like arms to soak up the August heat, “a body could get used to this. I almost feel dried out again.”

Zosima Panopolis

Jordan was drawn to Zosima Panopolis from her first Mountain Pose. Who knew just standing could look so good? The flared black yoga pants and black tank top, the glossy raven hair cropped short except for a single scarlet micro-braid tossed over her left shoulder, the heavy black eye liner and burgundy shadow should have been hopelessly goth. But somehow she carried it as if she were heading off to her next ninja assassination contract as soon as class was over.

He was glad he’d let Ashley browbeat him into coming to yoga. “So I got a little back twinge helping you move. It was just dumb luck.”

“You’re the classic ‘weekend warrior.’” She stuffed her laptop into her bag. “You sit in front of a keyboard ten hours a day, go home and play video games, and then come Saturday you expect your body to behave as if you’ve been training for a marathon the rest of the week. You’re getting too old for it.”

Reflections, Part III

The morning after his courting of Sylvie, Kleitos Leonidas rose before dawn began to pink the eastern sky, turned off the lights she habitually left blazing all night to annoy her neighbors and threaded his way through the oaks to the lake’s edge. The moon had gone down some hours before and had anyone been up to observe they might have wondered how he managed to move so easily by only the weak illumination of the stars.

He tamped tobacco into his pipe, lit it, and stood gazing into the water for some minutes. During the night frost had crept from the shore to the lake shallows, and the same observer might wonder how Kleitos could stand unmoving, barefoot and bare-chested, apparently unperturbed by the chill morning air. Because of course in this world of science and reason, there are no such things as magicians or merfolk. Or other older, darker beings.

Woods Woman, Part II

“Snow White.” The syllables spun forth from the king’s lips and onto her shoulders like an unwanted mantle as he stepped from his sleigh. Well, she wouldn’t have to wear it long. Regicide was a capital crime in the realm; if she were taken she could expect little more of her brief free life than a few weeks in chains and the executioner’s axe. “So this is how it ends.”

Woods Woman, Part I

The woods woman hated winter. Game was scarce and shy. Chill winds skittered beneath the door and seeped between the windowpanes. And though she cherished her solitude, weeks cooped up in a tiny cottage as blizzard after blizzard howled outside could drive anyone a little around the bend.

There was another reason she despised the season, buried so deep in her psyche she scarcely thought about it anymore. Three drops of blood fallen in the snow and a mother’s heartfelt wish. Would that my little daughter may be as white as that snow, as red as the blood, and as black as the ebony window-frame!

Wild Hunt, Part III

The brindle had been living alone with the Adam-children for six months when the fox hunters came. The Odin-daughter had passed on five seasons before and the Odin-son, lasting far longer than Cu Fail prophesied, three full seasons after that. He had warned the brindle of the Wild Hunt’s coming, but she had seen no sign of a dog matching the Odin-son’s description of Cu Fail nor a change in the Adam-children’s fortunes. Being a dog who prided herself on living in the present, she went about her daily routine of snoozing and eating, taking nice walks and chasing small animals, and thought no more about the Hunt.

That changed the day the Adam-daughter found the fox hunters outside the door. Though the brindle was more proficient at the various communication media of the Adam children, her command of sign was passable enough that she recognized the newcomers desired to speak with her urgently. So after the Adam-son – whom she often thought of as the Headmaster – finished tying them to the hot tub lid’s lift bar she barked until he let her outside.

Alert! they cried aloud as she jumped down the steps. Danger! Warning! Alert!

Wild Hunt, Part II

Although she could no longer hear the Adam-daughter’s movements, the old black dog knew by instinct and subtle vibrations that she had risen in the early morning light. The Adam-daughter looked puzzled and tilted her head in the manner humans adopted for their ineffectual ears as she walked down the hallway toward the living room muttering something about the weather.

The old dog lay gathering her strength for a moment before standing, a matter complicated by the unexpected presence of Odin-son in her bed. The beginnings of a growl had rumbled in her throat and then subsided as he left his nest of towels and climbed in beside her in the waning hours of the night. The illness that chewed at his brain ravaged his fur as well, exposing patches of pink, fragile skin; the stove fire had died hours before and the house was cold. It would require effort to evict him and in truth he brought some small warmth of his own, so she let him remain.

Wild Hunt, Part I

The old black dog examined the newcomers with caution. The one her own size, young and beautiful and stupid with ostentatious flecks of gold woven throughout her fur and the white socks that turned humans into mewling puppies, smelled her sickness and barked a challenge. The old black dog was infirm but not stupid, and as the young one lunged she backed against a pillar, set her front paws and snarled. Her haunches were atrophied but her teeth were strong and white in her grizzled muzzle, and her forepaws did not fail her. She permitted herself a small, relieved exhale when the young dog threw herself on the ground. The house still belonged to her.

The other one was a puzzle. Small but deliberate of motion, long-bodied with the bark of a hunter, he did not contend for a place but climbed – with some difficulty, for his haunches also served him badly – onto a sheepskin pad the Adam-daughter set down for him. Rather than rest upon the wine-red towel the Adam-son unfolded he threw it across his body, peering out from its dark recesses like a hooded monk. So much so that a suspicion grew in her mind and, the young interloper cowed for now, she drew near to him.