It had been almost thirty years since he had seen the sprites around the gnarled old tree filled with glass bottles seized by strings—the tree that his father had made into a spider’s web of color and twine; the tree that when the sun was just low enough in the sky, would dye the world rainbow; the tree that would be in every crayon drawing on the fridge, every dream that was concocted, and every bedtime story.

                It had been almost thirty years since his father had taken him out to the tree, hidden behind the old barn that full mooned summer evening. He was led to the giant and then was alone. Snickers and giggles were heard and the boy turned around to come face to face with a pixie, dusted with what looked like tiny stars, her nose so slight and smile petite that they were almost lost in her rosy cheeks.

                Each star in the sky seemed to lend itself to the bottles, lighting the whole field. Fairies and pixies, brownies and gnomes were all present when the wind blew its song over the bottles, the scores of feet began to skip, their hands grasped and released throughout the summer dance.

                So when this little boy grew up into a man, got married to a beautiful woman and raised a little girl, he slowly adorned the gnarled tree with bottles of different sizes and shapes, each held up by a length of twine. Each one accompanied by dozens of others on the great twisted body which held inside the magic of the world. And one summer night, when the moon was full and the breeze was steady, he took his daughter to the old twisted tree, hidden behind the old barn. He led her to his old friend and then vanished, hidden from view.

                He slunk past rusted forks and shovels, bales of hay and buckets with holes; he got to the knot in one of the boards in the barn and pressed his whole body against old frame that had been there for generations. His heart leapt as he saw her dancing the summer dance and singing the summer song with the fey around her.

                He watched, despite the cramps in his legs, the ache in his back, and the tears streaming down his face. And when she fell asleep among the twisted roots, he lifted her up and tucked her into bed. He gently brushed off the dusting of tiny stars that found its way onto her small button nose. All that remained was the smattering of freckles that were passed down through his father’s family as long as anyone could remember—just as long as the gnarled tree hidden behind the old barn had been filled with color and magic.

The life I live is inorganic

I throw my pop cans

in the trash,

along with those crumpled up letters and notes.

I don’t carpool with my coworker down the block,

though I should.

The food I buy isn’t from Whole Foods

nor have I stepped in a farmer’s market

but from Publix or Kroger.

It’s never “chemical free” but

“chemical less”

and those stickers on the fruit?

They always end up on the sidewalk

waiting for someone for someone to step on them.

And sometimes without thinking

I leave the bathroom light on,

even when I took a shower long ago.

A shower, I might add, that lasted

much too long.

And it’s not out of spite that I do it,

I like the Earth.

Sometimes I just forget.

Not surprising.

But when I’m in my car and that hybrid goes by,

it’s just like a big ol’ “Fuck you.”

Then I watch it speed through a yellow light

even though it was already red,

and as I slow to a stop, I’m like

“Yeah, fuck me.” 

What is life? I do not know,

But scientists do say

That there are things that let me thrive

And live another day.

These things are so much smaller

Than any man can see.

These things that all compose us,

And that set us all free.

A balance in our body,

A harmonic binding force,

That keeps us all together

As we run our course.

People call it one thing,

Whether “fate” or that alike

But scientists have another name

And “homeostasis” sounds alright.

Our lives are defined further

By the arrangement of our cells.

And each chromosome within them

Have their stories they must tell.

And speaking of stories, heredity

Is occasionally brought up,

With the wonders you can find

From your urine in a cup.

And energy, that mighty force,

That courses through the earth,

Our metabolism dictates

Our liveliness and girth.

And then there is the detail

That tends to come around;

Our offspring and the need of ours

To keep them safe and sound.

The reproduction of our kind

Is a joining of two souls.

That binds together lovers

Until the bell tolls.

Until the day that their time comes

And they leave this mortal plane

Their child is left with nothing

But a sharp and bitter pain.

But this is life! This is it!

This love and pain as one

This sense of care and sorrow

Seen clearly as the sun.

So what is life, I ask again

Hoping that someone will know.

But no scientist can tell me

Where it is my conscience goes.

Every day the sun does rise

To its zenith in the sky,

And when it sets the moon comes out

As a beacon for dreams to fly.

But on this night, on a corner street

In an apartment up above,

An old bakery in the slums of town

That was stripped of thoughts and love.

The rats and spiders roam about,

This apartment old and worn,

Through cracks and holes in the wooden floor

And past the curtains, tattered and town;

Only startled by a dusty man

Whose skin is cracked as if

The salt from the see had dried him up

And would split with every shift.

A withered breath of long stale air

Sends the rats away quite fast,

The old man baker comes to life again

While thinking about the past.

The bright colored shop he used to own,

The beautiful wife beside,

His once cheery face and hearty laugh

All vanished when she died.

Soon bread would burn and people’d complain

And soon he’d be alone.

He’d lash out at any man or child

And a smile was never shown.

Forever stuck in perpetual hate,

The baker was closed away.

His door was locked and curtains drawn

Never to see the day.

Thirty years have come and past

Since the baker lost his wife.

Thirty years since he closed the shop

And stopped his lonely life

Decades since the accident

And since her dying breath,

The old man was never quite the same

Since her early death.

No family for him to go to.

No shoulder to soak his tears.

No person to hear his story

And to quell his growing fears.

The old man stood from his old armchair,

The floorboards creaking loud;

He tore down his curtains and wrapped around,

Worn as a burial shroud.

He turned the knob on a rotten door

The hinges rusted shut,

He pushed his weight upon the frame

Past it, who knows what.

The door flew open to utter black.

His sunken eyes were blind.

A cloud a dust filled the air

And his courage he must find.

He called out to the darkened room,

“Take me if you will!”

He threw his arms wide open

Only to hear a piercing shrill.

He flinched at the sound that he heard,

The flapping wings of death.

Til a bat flew out through the door

He could not catch his breath.

His heart still raced as if it were

A drummer boy’s drum a-beating,

His feet grew chilled and his mind went blank

His courage now was fleeting.

He backed up from the entryway,

The rotten door still open,

The devil laughed from beyond his sight

And a soft prayer was spoken.

The door creaked shut, and the lock clicked,

The old man removed his shawl.

His fragmented heart with thoughts of life

These thoughts that always haunted.

His lover’s voice still echoed through

His ravaged, war-torn mind

As he opens that door every few years

Hoping she is what he’ll find.

But every time he stares into

The darkest black he’s seen,

All he hears is the devil’s voice

That asks him how he’s been.

And every time he slams the door

In the devil’s grinning face,

Before the flaming tongues of hell

Can even get a taste.

So now the baker sits again

In his old armchair,

Waiting for another year

His eyes an empty stare.

Along the path of glittering lights

That lead up to our dream

There are a few strange sights we see

That come up through the seems.

Our Hopes and Fears combine inside

The head we call our own;

The Stress and Tension from our days

That make up feel alone.

The Good and Bad can never mix

It’s like a gasoline rainbow

It looks so pretty from afar

But a spark will make it go.

But nightly we walk this foreign road,

Our lives on either side,

We end up in our tempest dreams

Where the Good and Bad collide.

     “I have a bleak life. My work is tedious and I have to work nights and weekends. I have been working this same job for as long as anyone can remember, and I’ll continue indefinitely.

     “I, Charles Plovnick, am the sandman: the sultan of sleep, the duke of dozing, the king of catnaps.  My name was known to few in centuries past, but my fame proliferated in the recent years. A genial author wrote a story about me and this sparked new life into my career, though more so for the public than for myself.

     “It was my unique job that kept the world harmonious. Without me, the world would never sleep and would slowly crumble. So I do my job, and I do it well, though I’m not the most chipper employee.

     “I often find myself having the most trouble with children. They are zealous and loud; enemies of sleep and warriors fighting to stay in the waking world. But the thing that I hate the most about them is that they can see me.

     “I cannot be seen by teenagers, adults, elders, simply because they don’t believe in fairies, pixies, or sprites. If someone doesn’t believe in me or my kin, I am invisible to them. But kids do believe in my magic and my abilities, which can prove quiet difficult when I am trying to do my job.

     “I can tell how easy or difficult a job will be with children by the look in their eyes: tremulous means easy, but I have to get it finished before they scream, vivacious means it will be a pain and I have to get it finished before they scream more. I am eternally grateful that children are especially susceptible to sleeping sand. No child has ever shown me largess when it comes to my routine duties.

     “But the more I think about wanting a normal life, the more I feel lucky. I let people get their forty winks, and then they have to go and deal with the stress of their lives. They could get fired, they could get killed, they could lose someone they love, et cetera. They are constantly in fear, even if they don’t realize it. But my life is constant. I have a job that will last me as long and humanity is around, I don’t have any money, but that just causes problems, and I get to travel the world every day.

      “Even though my job sucks and my life seems bleak, I rather enjoy it in a strange way.  Y’know what I mean? Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t. It’s alright though; this’ll just be a dream to you anyways. Who would believe that the Sandman vented to you? Now good night, Clare, it’s late,” Charles said while sprinkling a fine powder on her eyes. He opened her bedroom door and walked out of her apartment, down the twenty-three flights of stairs, out the lobby door and he looked up at the night sky.

     He saw the moon, a beautiful crescent and said, “Good night stars, Good night air, Good night noises everywhere,” and with a wink he vanished and the world slept quietly. But it will soon wake and act out until Charles can come back and quell the chaos back into peace. 

     I was happy. I was on top of the world! Everything in life was playing in my favor. I had a job that I loved, I was by no means poor, but not rich either, and I had her.
     Well… I didn’t have her, but she said it would end up well between us. She just needed some time to herself to recover from a relationship that ended a few months back. Needed to mend her broken heart. I supported her as much as I could and she said that it would be fine. That we would be happy.
     I’m still waiting for that day.
     She was the only reason I had a home, food, a job. She was my inspiration. She was the one that fueled my paintings. Everything I did had her in mind. Each canvas was filled with how I felt. The hues of the paint weren’t vibrant enough or soft enough to express how I really felt, but people loved it. My art sold like hot cakes.
     But I could care less about how much money I got from my paintings. Each of them is a testament to her. Every time my brush leaves its mark against the emptiness it is waiting for me to tell the story of her. And best of all, they made her smile. Her beautiful smile that brightened the room whenever it was shown.
     She kept one of them, the paintings. One of my truest ones. It showed how I felt more than words could describe. It showed my passion for her. My feelings. My love. And she kept it about her bed. She looked at it every night until she fell asleep.
     But one day it was gone. A blank spot on the wall. I was going to show her a new painting of mine. On it showed us holding each other, our hearts intertwining together. When I entered her apartment, she was in the shower and I put the roll of canvas on her bed.
     I looked up at where it used to be. And poof! It was gone. No trace of it left. Not even the nails that held it up there. She came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around her and when she saw me the smile fell off of her face.
     She started to tell me about some guy she met. How great he was. How he made her feel so happy. How he was going to be the one that would help her bring her heart to a whole.

     And I stood there and listened.
     And I smiled the most fake smile of my life.
     And I told her I was so happy for her.
     And then I left.

     I bought new paint. Lots of paint. Dark blues, deep blacks, blood reds. Paintings flew from my soul onto every surface I could get a hold of. Canvas, the walls, the floor, even my own body, it was all there to convey my pain. To bring the world to seeing my torment.
     There was no light in the paintings. There was only sadness. There was only pain. 
     What did I do with the painting I was going to show her?
     I watched it burn. It was engulfed in flames, just like my dreams.

     It’s been raining for days now. I’ve been sitting on this curb, my life around me in garbage bags. The paintings never sold. Rent was due, and I didn’t have any so I was evicted. They got pissed about the paint all over the apartment, but I didn’t care.
      The rain has washed some of the paint off of me, but it is still there in my mind. All of the marks, all of the truths on my flesh, all of the lies. It is still before my eyes. It is still lingering on my skin. It still lingers in the ruins of my heart. In the remainder of my soul.
      The sky is abysmal.
      Just like my life.
      Just like my heart.

Once along a marshy road,

A young boy met an aged toad

Who spoke of a land with weather fair

With blooming flowers and delicious air.

The boy’s face glowed bright at these words,

So he sang aloud, out to the birds.

Then the toad continued his wondrous tale.

He spoke of a storm that carried hail,

Which bombarded this pastoral earth

And destroyed the light along with the mirth.

The toad then spoke of a terrible flood,

That filled that land with viscous mud.

The boy then knew this road he was on

Was once that pasture, now dead and gone.

So he tried to leave the warty frog.

He tried to escape this horrid bog.

But every time he turned around,

That same toad was all he found,

With its webbed toes gripped on a rotten log

And it’s huge eyes that pierced the fog.

His words invaded the young boy’s head

And every word made him wish it dead,

So the boy raised a rock above his brow

And brought it down, the frog croaked “Ow.”

And with that, it fell over and it died

And so the boy ran, nay, he flied,

Out of that swamp never to return

To the place that made his heart churn.