The day is sweltering, and a burning crucible of sand stretches beneath her. Lost in this desert, the sands crushing against her, she attempts to call out in desperation. The blistering wind tosses sand against her tongue, and all that is heard from her mouth is the sizzle of her voice and the hot sand melting into a painful lava. Still, she staggers forward, her hair whipping against her fevered cheeks. She cries out once more, in futility, to the knight she once believed in, with no response. She poises her feet, step by step, into the deep dunes, and clarity begins to come to her. That hero on horse will never come, but she can make her way across this forsaken place, even if she must crawl. She will save herself. The sand filters the sun out to a place where it cannot help her, and she knows she must trust her own sense of how a simple line runs to make it out. For even though the desert may envelope her entirely before she sees the land beyond this veil, she has faith that she can push herself in a true enough line. And push she does, and before long she realizes she has wobbled her line, and must straighten. Again the line veers though, and she cries out in frustrated anguish, hoping beyond any sense that the hero will still come. The third time it veers, she makes the pretense of calling for him, though she knows that in her deepest heart that he is not there. And with acceptance, a stillness comes over the desert. Heat still sears her scarred palms as she crawls along but now she is numb to this pain. With this realization, she brings herself upright, the sand swirling around her now, not into her, and as she does, the coldness strikes.
It is not a snowy coldness, not a wet, seeping chill, but rather a brittle, snapping freeze, that petrifies around her soft features, shaping them into a steely mask of utter absence, a body of protection from the sun's fury. And with this comes a renewed strength to cross this terrible desert. Her path will not be straighter or shorter, but now she is armored against the wind and heat, numb inside her suit of steel. She will complete her journey, and arrive beyond the tumultuous sands. The only question now lies as a dull pounding in her far too-calm heart:
When she has liberated herself from the desert, will she find her way out of the numbness that has encircled her? Or will the chill become a new dangerous habitat?
A cursory glance at the clock’s glowing numbers told me I’d been laying in bed for four hours now. The tossing and turning wasn’t going to improve. I marched into my closet and pulled out my sneakers and some comfortable running clothes. My rubber soles beat a rhythmic pattern as I set off down the sidewalks toward the main streets. The unnatural glow of the streetlamps cast an orange haze on the compulsively manicured lawns and flowerbeds. Turning towards the freeway bridge, I cut across a dirt field, praying I wouldn’t get fine dirt in my socks. The freeway bridge loomed ahead, a dirty metal deathtrap dangling over the four-lane highway. I chided myself in my head for being so risky. Anything could happen to me running alone at night, exhausted and vulnerable; I’d be such an easy target. I squinted at the cars on the road, whizzing under the bridge. Taking a deep breath, I readied to ascend the stairs two at a time–and promptly swung my hand forcefully into the stair rail. Hissing in breath, I looked down where a long gash had formed just above my wrist.
“Clumsy!” I muttered.
A nearby crunch of gravel commanded my attention. I looked up from the crimson glaze now seeping across my hand and immediately stiffened in defense. A haggard man stood before me, seemingly appearing from within the thin night air itself. He smiled gently, before speaking strongly to me.
“Do not fear, young one. I have sought you for many years now to give you your message. It is my birthright to deliver it, as it is yours to hear it.”
Arching my brow, I responded with a skeptical “Oh?”
“Indeed”, he replied, bending to one knee, his long hair sliding down his face in a silvery salute. “For years you have felt you were unique and special. Though the world has convinced you otherwise, deep down you cannot deny the truth. You hold incredible powers, by virtue of your bloodline”.
“And what bloodline is that?” I inquired.
“You are the true born moon heiress, milady”, he declared.
I then did what any sensible person would do.
I laughed until tears came.
The first day I met Her I had been sentenced to washing dishes. She stepped out from behind an imposing shady tree, and offered me a powdered sugar smile through the hazy window. She and I were of the same age, height and proportions, and though we had duplicitous coloring and features, the resemblance ended there. As she stepped through our arcadia door, I stood in a stupor while she approached me.
Her footsteps were ever-so dainty, her feet in shoes looked like little tea cakes painted in pretty pastel icings. Her skin was a pale creamy hue, but shone with the luster of a pearl having just been gingerly extracted from its lush oyster bed. Her dress was simple – a plain green linen sheath – yet somehow its modesty seemed to illuminate her features more, as if she was meant to be planted in a flowerbed and the dress was simply her stem. Her hair seemed a sandy brown at first, but it had incandescence about it that only after studying her closely, could I tell was actually sparkles of red.
She took my place at the sink, her petite form seeming dramatic beside the large tall basin. Her fingers were not long, but they were well-shaped, with a shapely burst of fingernail at the tips. She scrubbed the pans with amazing efficiency, moving the dirty pile to the clean towels in a matter of minutes, speaking warmly to me as she worked. Her voice was grace personified – a lilting soprano tone with a peaceful quietness to it. When she spoke, the words scaled naturally, like the rhythm of the waves on the seashore, weaving back and forth, lulling me along. She laughed butterscotch, thick and sweet, with eyes scintillating, tossing her shiny mane.
She was exotic in no way, yet everything about her was purely exquisite. Her nose followed a precisely turned slope, her cheeks flushed in lovely humility at any sign of praise. She smelled like orange blossoms on a dewy morning, and stood with the thoughtlessly proud posture of a bride walking into her wedding chapel. Her face was not so remarkable in any one feature, as much as the culmination of all the features working together seemed to produce a masterfully crafted fabric with a dazzling sheen. Her smile was crooked, as though the angels that created her had stuck it on last minute as an afterthought.
She had a smattering of moles along her collarbone, which in a tiny streak of hopeful vanity, she fancied as the mark of noble blood. She danced like a kite in gentle breeze, and sung in her clear, strong voice the most poignant, melodic songs, when it was only her and I. Her foreign accents were mistakable as native, and she naturally wove the expressions into her conversations with me. She was innocent to the point of near naivety, but persistently inquisitive in an attempt to make herself as well-rounded as possible.
She had suffered much in her then-short life, and had a great empathy for others. When she was sad, her eyes turned into the icy blue of the arctic, and tiny tears would drip from the peaks of her cheeks soundlessly. She took the injuries that life placed on her and blew them off to the winds with gentle kisses, bidding them to send word to her soul mate that she sought him. She knew with unwavering certainty that her goodness, dedicated work, and patience would be rewarded in time, and her life would be improved somehow.
I wish I could tell you that she met that noble mate and that somehow, all of the injustices life had placed on her were remedied at last, but I cannot. She was not meant for the world we lived in, her delicate purity and effervescent grace being much too fragile. I catch a glimpse of her now and then, in a glossy car window as I walk my children into the grocery store, or laughing with my companions at a restaurant. And every now and then she sends me an acrylic painting, or writes me a poem, to let me know she still lives, still laughs, still dreams, and still sends her troubles off on the wings of butterflies.
Her voice carried out over the cool night air like incense, filmy and sweet. The court was feasting on roasted mutton, rabbits, and one particularly large goose, alongside the traditional sweetened potato bread and sugared almond milk, the staples of the kingdom here in Araniza. There were fresh summer berries, swollen with their inherent juices, and tiny savory onions, brown and pungent. Tirayn’s nose itched with the mingling scents, and only her extensive training as the court nightingale kept her mouth from watering along with it.
The song she sung was dreadfully vapid, but the First Heir liked it best. He of course, was similarly vapid, in her opinion, though she would never dare to voice such thoughts. She was meant as an audible art piece, and not even her value there would keep her from execution if she spoke against the King-to-be or any member of the royal court.
She turned her attention off the food, toward the court children. These young ears were Tirayn’s greatest joy. They would sit as close as was permissible, and stare at her while she sung, adoration on their faces. They were still too young to have been bred in the snobbery of the royal court, and with her high crystal voice and her pale butter skin offset by chocolate hair; she was an image of serenity to them.
The corners of her mouth snuck upwards into a smirk between songs, at a little cinnamon-haired boy with big coal eyes. His hair fell across his face in a mischievous way, and he watched her with one hand idly pawing the unruly strands out of his eyes. As she resumed her singing, his mouth hung slightly open, a mask of concentration on her next song, which told of a menagerie of rare speaking animals coming to pay respect to the great kings of every land. Aranzia was of course, included in this list, but she was certain that it had been modified for this purpose, as Aranzia was far from a great land, and the pompous royal bloodline that ruled it certainly inspired no lyrics to any sane person. The children giggled in delight as she sung about the huge ash-colored beasts with leather for skin and a tail for a nose, who bowed to the divine wisdom of the kings of the northern world, their tusks sparkling. The children’s eyes were wide and twinkling, and she imagined them running back to their nursemaids excitedly, bubbling with questions about the strange animal they had never seen.
Tirayn felt a bittersweet joy in singing these children. She would pretend for just a moment that they were her children, that when she was done singing, she could sweep them into her arms and giggle with them about the silly animals, distant dreamy places, and daring knightly feats. But she would never have her own children; in fact, this was as close to children she was even allowed to be. She had not so much as touched a child since she was sold to the palace at eight years of age, when her voice promised sheer beauty and her features promised even more. Extensive training and coaching from the then-declining court nightingale, Fayette, had kept her shrouded from all other contact until she was fourteen, when Fayette’s voice was no longer suitable for court appearances, and Tirayn took her place. She did not blame her mother, after all, most peasant children starved to death before becoming true contributions to their family, and by selling her, Tirayn was ensured a life well cared for. Her family in turn, had a touch of prosperity on them, and so everyone ended up for the better. That is, in theory at least.
Sister, why hold me in this cage?
I wither and I wilt
Your bitter heart has smothered me
Do you feel no guilt?
My Twin, you do not understand
The perils that you'd face
The otherworlds are fearsome
You're safer in this place
But Sister, in this casket
I cannot breathe or see
Without soon my freedom
Little will be left of me
Dear Twin, it is my love
That has hidden you away
On this side your sweetness
Cannot be made to stay
Sister you must free me
Else I will disappear
You cannot hold me prisoner
Because of your own fear
Twin, you do not understand
You can never be paroled
The remains of my riven heart
Are all left in your fragile hold
"What the fuck is your problem, lady?" the Santa shouted at me. My breath came in ragged rushes as the policeman pinned me to the floor. I must've been a sight for the festive crowds to see as they pushed by, a mess of shiny gold curls, my sapphire eyeliner smeared, my shimmery blouse covered in dust as the policeman pressed me into the filthy linoleum. I wasn't the least bit concerned to think of what my skirt wasn't covering anymore, and one of my sparkling heels had managed to get knocked across to the other end of the aisle. Instead; I was thinking about just how much I hated Christmas.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I suppose I'd have been scared
If I had known where I stood
Instead I plowed on boldly
Like any dreamer would
The path, it seems to shake
My imagination, I suppose
You call to me, "Onward!"
My anticipation grows...
I never really had a chance
The reporters will decree
No hope to catch a fading dream
For a blind girl, like me.