#shell smile and sing in the company of all my old friends and ill be home alone thinking about my mom who doesnt even know my name

[caffeinatedopossum]

It's wishing I had a family hours again

[wrathandgreed]

Hi! Hope you're having a good day.

For your ask game may I ask 🎨& ⚡?

Okay, so Tumblr ate my first response when I was alt-tabbing between this and Docs. Thanks, Tumblr! But thank you for the prompt, @evierena !

🎨 - Show us a WIP

From “Horn Maintenance” (short fic, fluff, Asmo x reader)

“Hey!” You boop him on the nose with the flat end of the file. “Let me work here.”

A great sigh. “But darling, you’re right here in front of me, and you’re cute enough to nibble on!”

You almost give in. But you want to see if you can bring Other Asmo back. So you settle yourself down in his lap and give him a kiss - not one of passion, but one of gentleness. Then you kiss the tip of his nose and smile right into his eyes. “Azzy, just let me just be affectionate for awhile. Let me take care of you a little.”

“Affec -“ For the briefest of moments, Asmo looks confused and it makes you really sad. You wonder if anyone’s ever asked to ‘take care of him’ without it being a sexual reference. You give him another kiss simply because you can’t stand seeing that look on his face. And then, without looking at him again, you turn back to his horn splinter and get to work.

From “The Seven Brothers Detective Agency” ( I did some googling into the “hard boiled detective” genre, and it’s fascinating. Apparently, in the early 1900s, it’s not that there was a lot of police corruption, it’s that the basic job of the police was enforcing things FOR the mob and/or politicians (basically the same thing back then). In the 1920’s, thanks to Prohibition, the mob began having so much money and power on their own that they didn’t need the cops anymore, and the alliance began to fracture. Enter, now, stories about this schism - people wanted justice, and they wanted stories about people to defend them from organized crime - AND from the cops (again, basically the same thing). So we wind up with the noir detective, usually a cop who disagreed with corruption, and is now jaded and cynical about their fall from the organization. Usually also dealing with shell-shock from WWI. )

(These are currently more like notes than full-on HCs)

Lucifer (The Boss)

Son of Old Money

Served in the Great War, very much against his father’s wishes. Men of their status do not sit in trenches and eat canned muck and get shot by German snipers.

Almost died more than once, saw some Major Shit.

Had a lot of trouble adjusting when he came home. Beds were too soft, everything glittered and sparkled and was too wide-open.

Also too boring. He spent two years facing life and death, and sitting back at his father’s desk with a cigar felt too simple.

So he decided to become a policeman. One of the **good** ones. He truly wanted to make a difference.

The day he enrolled, his father disowned him. Lucifer still had money left to him by his mother, but everything from his old man, including controlling interest in the company, was given to….someone else.

And for the first time, Lucifer felt free.

Rose in the ranks, thanks to charisma and intelligence.

Knew about the corruption, refused to participate, but felt he was too junior still to do anything about it.

By the time he was a senior detective, he’d gotten used to it. He wasn’t tempted by bribes himself, since he had more money than he would ever need. 

If he was actually going to help people, he needed to stay on the force. To stay on the force, he had to turn a blind eye.

At least until the murder.

A young Black singer, the daughter of one of his father’s servants. 

He’d grown up with her, their servant’s kids were as much his siblings as his actual sister. 

This girl was younger than him by a few years, but her voice had been heavenly. 

She sang in speakeasies, throaty voice singing the blues.

And now she was dead - brutalized and strangled for telling a rich white kid “no”.

The bastard was caught with blood quite literally on his hands. He fucking confessed.

But the boy’s father was a major contributor of the Chief’s - so her death was ruled an unsolved homicide.

Enraged, Lucifer did what he swore he would never do - he fought the system.

And lost.

And those who supported him - whatever their reasons - were kicked out of the force right alongside him.

So, with too much money on his hands, too much grief in his heart, and too many junior officers looking to him for leadership, Lucifer starts the Seven Brothers Detective Agency.

He saw his juniors - his friends, his **brothers** - and realized that, for most of them, they hadn’t just lost a job, they’d lost a reason to get up in the morning. So he gave them one.

He’ll never admit that he needed a reason to get up even more than they did.

At this point, he’s low key a functioning alcoholic.

He uses big-money cases in order to fund helping the disenfranchised.

Will always help people in real trouble, even if they can’t pay at all.

He spends most of his time on paperwork in the office, and occasionally bailing his juniors out of jail. 

Or paying off their mob debts.

Kind of the same thing, anyway.

When he does go out into the field, though, he’s formidable. 

He seems to have this otherworldly charm, and people find themselves talking to him, telling him things they maybe shouldn’t.

He’s an expert at questioning someone around in circles until they don’t even know what they’re saying.

He’s also an expert at asking such direct questions that people become uncomfortable. You can learn a lot from someone’s discomfort.

⚡️ - Biggest fear

What really scares me is uncertainty and insecurity. I grew up pretty poor. Not like super poverty, but the type of poor where you start working off the books at 11 and you eat dinner at your grandparents house for a few weeks because your own parents can’t afford groceries because something happened that sucked up available funds. Also, my mom was sick most of my childhood, so I wound up being her caretaker and between that and the whole getting-a-job-at-11 thing, I didn’t really have a childhood or teenage-hood. I’m a lot older now, and I’m in a pretty secure financial place, but I’m still desperately afraid of that one accident or emergency that will send me back into eating at other people’s houses or having to borrow money from my parents to afford to fix my car.

I’ve also got some of my mom’s conditions - plus a few mental illnesses - so part of my fear of uncertainty is what’s going to happen to me in the future. By the time she was my age, my mom was going blind and suffering mini-strokes. I’ve managed to avoid all of that, but for how long? We survive on my salary, so if I become unable to work, we’re screwed. Not to mention I can only be as healthy as I am because my job provides top-tier health insurance. What happens if I lose it? I’m not having children, so how will I be looked after if I actually live to be old?

So, short answer, I guess, is just “the future” - I’m always afraid of things taking a sharp downturn, because my childhood was nothing BUT thinking things were fine and then everything exploding in your face.

[widonotts]

Thanks For Ten ❤️

Starkid has been such a constant fixture in my life that it’s strange to think it’s only been around for ten years. At the same time, I remember the first time I watched A Very Potter Musical, a couple months after it went viral. I was in third grade and had read about it on some Harry Potter fansite, so I pulled up Act 1, Part 1. But I was an eight-year-old nerd who hadn’t yet realized I could be both the Smart Kid and the Theatre Kid—I didn’t see High School Musical until I was in high school myself and thus never learned from Gabriella’s arc—so I was actively suppressing my love for musicals. There’s also the fact I didn’t understand some of the jokes, which I’ll attribute to my youth and purity and also my lack of High School Musical knowledge. I decided the show wasn’t for me and promptly forgot about it.

A couple years later, though, I was raving about Harry Potter to a Girl Scout camp counselor who asked if I’d seen AVPM, and when I told her no, she acknowledged I was probably too young for it. I didn’t take it as a challenge immediately, but that conversation sat in the back of my mind for a while before I revisited it. The second time I watched it, I fell in love, and I fell hard.

So many of my memories of early adolescence involve Starkid, and I look back on those memories with so much fondness. I remember my friend and I unabashedly singing “Granger Danger” during science class; I remember another eleven-year-old friend approaching me at the lunch table, shell-shocked, and when I asked what was wrong, he told me he’d tried to watch Me and My Dick. I remember when the 2014 Summer Season was announced, and somehow (that is, through nonstop chores and yard work), I got to go. I went on GIMP and made my very own T-shirt design by dragging the Brush tool to spell out “Meet me at my place, the Fortress of Friendship!” in block letters inside a crude Superman logo, printing it out on that iron-on transfer paper and carefully applying it to a craft store white t-shirt. I wore it to Ani, where I asked Brian Holden to sign it, and it became my pride and joy.

Everything about the Summer Season was, for lack of a better word, totally awesome. Waiting in line for Ani, a group of older girls were kind enough to talk to me and my mom. She acknowledged that she’d worked in theatre herself, and therefore had seen a lot of risqué performances, and asked them “if there would be anything she’d blush at”; for some reason, those girls and I insisted there would be nothing of the sort. I can’t believe she didn’t drag me out at the first mention of Death Star boobs. But I loved the show, and I adored Trail to Oregon the next day. The Dikrats may have their official canonized names now, but to me, that family will always be Bitch Tits, Little Shit, Rico, Genghis Khan, and Jeff Blim Bacon.

Meeting the Starkids after the shows, though, was by far the best part of the experience, and I don’t know if I really have all the words to describe it. It was beyond inspiring. They all treated me with such humility and kindness; it still stirs me every time I think of it. A couple of them even seemed surprised that I asked for a picture. To know that each person in this group I adored so dearly was so grounded and kind… It was amazing, and looking back on those photos makes me smile despite myself; I was an awkward, gangly, anxious, overeager kid, but in every photo, my eyes are shining with happiness and my lopsided grin is wider than ever.

After a while, I fell out of complete hyperfixation, but Starkid’s shows stayed present with me. I sang the songs, referenced the jokes, dreamed of playing the characters, and watched AVPM every year on July 31st, but it wasn’t the degree of obsession I had in my early teens. I watched Firebringer the moment it was released, and I raved many times about how incredible it would be if they released the rights—and here we are!

Even though a couple years went by without hyperfixating on Starkid, my love for it stuck with me through years of difficulty with mental illness, and that means everything to me. I remember a very hard day when I didn’t know what to do or how to go on. I listened to “Not Alone,” and I cried, and even though I felt isolated and small, I felt at the same time that I was loved and that there was hope for my life and my future. That one moment has stuck with me, but it is not the only time Starkid truly helped me save my life.

Even with all the impact it had on me, it wasn’t until I watched The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals that my hyperfixation returned in full force. I had been anticipating its release for a while; when it was announced, I was about to leave my home city to go to college in Chicago, and I was so pumped to see that I would finally be living in good old Chi-Town when a Starkid show was released… only to learn that it would be playing in Los Angeles. But I guess I forgive them for not catering to me specifically, because seeing TGWDLM for the first time (and the ten times since) was extraordinary, and I was immediately in deep.

I’m The Starkid Girl again, and this time, I’m not self-conscious about it. When I was younger, I usually hid my passions, fearful of judgement, and my love for Starkid was no exception (except, of course, for that wonderful impromptu “Granger Danger” karaoke session in the middle of science class). I was a nerd; I knew what it was like to have people make fun of me for the things I found awe-inspiring, so I kept myself hidden, singing “The Coolest Girl” day and night but never quite having the courage to put myself out there in real life. Now, though, I’m going back to Starkid, and I’m not afraid to show it.

It’s wild to be in Chicago now, to live in the same city where so much of Starkid’s work was created. The first time I went to a counselor whom I now visit weekly, I took the L, got off at Belmont, and was amazed to see that my new counselor’s office was one single block away from Stage 773, where I had been so struck with awe at Trail to Oregon and Ani five years before. Every week, I walk past the giant “773” with reverence, and before I get back on the L to go home, I walk past the station to get a coffee at the Starbucks right past the Annoyance, where so many Starkids have performed. Typing it out, it seems silly, but it truly instills me with so much joy and inspiration to know I live in the same world as these people who have done such amazing things, people for whom I hold so much respect and admiration.

Because I myself am now a year into college, I’m even more struck at the ingenuity, dedication, and talent of the college kids who produced a hilarious Harry Potter musical ten years ago, and even more grateful that they took that success and continued to create and perform and inspire people with their productions. Whether it’s with Starkid, associated companies like the Tin Can Bros, or unrelated groups, the work all of these people has done never ceases to embolden me not only as an aspiring actress and creator of art, but also, most importantly, as a person. Starkid is a group of wonderful people who have done wonderful things, inspiring so many people along the way, and I cannot thank them enough for it. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

This has been far too long a note, so I guess I’ll wrap it up before it gets too late. I just have one more episode left in my rewatch of Choose Our Destiny.

— Lelah

[wizardsnwookies]

POTA 081518 - Hearth and Fire

“Welcome back.” Drenaris fluttered her eyes, it was dark, almost as dark as the unconsciousness she just awoke from but there was just enough light from a flickering fire to see the outline Aviate’s face staring down at her.

“Tell me they’re dead.”

“Most of them, we find ourselves in the company of the remainders.” Aviate eased her up into a sitting position, casting a glance over his shoulder to the raging funeral pyre consuming the dead.

“They mean to takes us back to their stronghold for initiation. Poh is of the mind to dispose of them before that happens.”

“Of course he is. For once, I’m in total agreement with him.” Drenaris scanned the scene, six figures stood as shadows against the flame, staring into it with a kind of reverent awe. Their horse and wagon had been drawn up to the camp where tents and bedrolls had already been laid out for the evening. Twilight had already settled in, and the stars glittering like diamonds above their heads.

“Where is the little fiend anyways?”

A slight elevation of his head turned Drenaris attention to the back of the wagon where the hunched figure of Poh sat in intense examination of one of the serrated blades carried by the water people. Piled around him were several bits and pieces of armor collected from both sides. Netting and crustacean shell from the water folk, burnished brass on the other. Sitting up, Drenaris reached a hand out towards the hilt of a rather simple looking longsword among the littler.

“This from the flame cult?”

Poh turned his head, seemingly unaware that his companion had once again regained consciousness. He offered a nod, showing no reaction or concern for her state of being, before turning his attention back to what Drenaris could now see was a sword lined on either side with rows of shark teeth. She carefully drew the longsword from the wagon, the cold steel singing as it dragged against the old wood.

She tested it in her hands, the weight, the balance, the construction. She didn’t know much about a lot of things, but she knew weaponry, you needed to if you wanted to survive the pits. In every sense, it was unimpressive. The balance was passable, a bit to heavy to wield with any significant speed, and the blue folded steel had been smithed with reasonable competence. Still, she knew there was a secret to be unlocked here, magical or otherwise. She had see the flame cult wield these with a ripples of flame climbing up its length. The question was, how was this triggered?

“Stow it, they’re coming back.” The pirate stood, collecting the sword from her hands before helping Poh surreptitiously hide the ill gotten goods under a length of tent fabric. Backlit by the raging bonfire, the woman Aviate had come to know as Rebecca approached flanked by two of her subordinates, a slight man with raven hair, and another female with eyes the color of emeralds.

“You’re awake. So tell me, have your friends shown you the light?” There was no alternative offered, instead, she drew the longsword at her hip and let it fall to her side ominously.

“No.” Drenaris stood on shaky legs, chin held high, eyes burning. Aviate felt his muscles tense. He hadn’t yet gotten the opportunity to tell her they were feigning allegiance, this could end very badly.

“The glory of the eternal flame doesn’t need others to attest to it’s power.”

“Well said.” Not quite smiling, Rebecca sheathed her sword, her stance relaxing some. “I am Rebecca Thorne of the Eternal Flame. This is Arman Sial,” she motioned to the slight man to her right, “and  Barabal Bhodhsa.” The woman to her left seemed of a much warmer temperment than her colleges, her smile wide, eyes shining.

“Welcome to dae fold. Rebecca seems like a tite arse but donna worry none, she grows on yae.” Drenaris had to strain to hear past Barabal’s thick accent, but her voice was friendly and lighthearted. It was almost a shame that they would have to kill her.

“Come, bask in the power of the fire and we shall begin your education.”

---

Hearth and Fire be ours tonight And all the dark outside, Fair the night, and kind on your Wherever you abide

And I’ll be the glow upon your head The warmth upon your face My life upon the path you tread And upon your name I swear

Wine and song be ours tonight And the fire in our heart; Power and warmth be yours tonight Wherever you abide

Hearth and Fire be outs tonight And the embers upon the wind Oh that the fire we stoke tonight Would find you warm and fair

It was a crowd-pleaser. Sure, he may have weaved a little charm spell into the music, and yes he may have altered the lyrics to suit his needs, but Aviate liked to think that regardless these zealots would have been enthralled by him even if he had not been quite so manipulative. When Drenaris used a simple Thulmaturgy spell to make the flames dance, he had to stow his annoyance and check his ego. This wasn’t a simple plying of his trade, he had to remember, this was about setting the stage for slaughter.

“I feel that song only appropriate for the evening.” He took a strong bow as applause and cheers rang out from the half dozen cultists. Even Rebecca had seemed to lighten up some. “It brings up the only thing missing. Wine!”

“We do not drink.” In an instant, the cold frown returned on the captain’s face. This was a tough one, Aviate thought. “The fire of the eternal flame is already within our bellies.”

“Is that how you ignite your swords?”

“Nah, with our faith.” Barabal stood proudly, thrusting her blade into the air in salute. In an instant, sparks of flame began to dance on the cold blue steel it’s orange glow slithering across her face.

“Your faith, huh?” Drenaris stood, offering her hand, palm up. “Mind if I give it a try?”

Six voices broke out in laughter around the fire, each one of the acolytes slapping their knees and clutching their aching sides. Barabal was more restrained, seemingly not willing to mock her new comrade. Instead she doused the flame and flipped the sword in the air, catching it by the blade and thrusting the hilt towards Drenaris.

“Don’t mean nae offense, but I cannae think a newcomer-” Barabal jumped back with a start, the instant the leather grip touched Drenaris fingers a rush of flame shot upwards towards her hand. Aviate hid a smile from the crowd, smoke and mirrors magic, nothing that would fool anyone with half a brain. However, against those already charmed to take a liking to the group...

“It seems I have misjudged you.” Rebecca stood with a smile of reverence upon her face. Her eyes watched the dancing flame upon the blade as if it were god itself. “The glory of the Eternal Flame burns strong with you. Elazar will be eager to meet with you.”

“Elazar?” Dousing the flames, Drenaris tossed the sword back to an awestruck Barabal. Perhaps it would be wise to hold off on slaying these folk until after they learned a little something about all this. Could be useful if these little encounters were to be a recurring nuisance upon their journey.

“The Leader of the Hall of the Scarlet Moon. He will be the one to initiate you into the fellowship of the flame. He will be first to call you Sister.” A proud hand fell upon Drenaris shoulder. Rebecca had now fully cooled, Aviate’s spell fully taking hold.

“I eagerly await that honor. How much further a journey to we have?”

“Not long, one day’s journey back from whence you had arrived into our fold.”

“Really? We passed no hall on our way here.”

Rebecca smiled before turning back to stoke the bonfire to even greater heights. “These lands once held great kingdoms, of which all that are left are song and ruins. Though not the grand hall the eternal flame deserves, they serve our purposes well enough.”

“Interesting.” Drenaris mask faltered slightly. Casting her eyes over Rebecca’s shoulder she could see the dark silhouette of Poh, skulking behind the turned backs of the five sitting around the fire. He was getting impatient, and if his past actions were any indication, he was not one to wait for the order. He would strike when he was ready, or rather, when he was tired of waiting.

“It will be interesting to see how we all fit inside with the great gathering. The number of those eager to bask in the flame’s glory swells, and things are already becoming cramped in such a space.”

Almost imperceptibly, Drenaris chanced the slightest shaking of her head. Hoping beyond hope that the bird will actually listen this time. “What great gathering?”

“We gather our numbers for preparations of the great ritual.” Rebecca offered a wicked smile, turning back to the fire and tugging up her trousers before sitting upon a small stone. “You are lucky to have joined us when you did. A great cleansing is upon us. All who are unworthy will be wiped clean of this earth, leaving behind only those loyal to the eternal flame.”

This was far more than just a philosophical dispute between factions. This was something bigger, something insane, and now she had found herself somehow caught in the middle of it. All she wanted was to repay a debt owed to a cheating half-ork. How strangely the fates spin their webs.

“It’s about time if you ask me.” Aviate punctuated his exclamation with a pull of his wine skin, wiping his lips clean and nodding towards the group. “As much as I hate to break up the celebration, the night grows dark and it would be prudent to start a watch should any more of those waterlogged fools decide to seek revenge.”

“Mmm, Arman you take first watch.” There was no argument from the slight man when his captain spoke. He stood tall, grabbing his sword belt and buckled it around his waist with the speed and precision of a well trained soldier. These were not mere cultists, Aviate pondered, these were dedicated men and women of skill and discipline.

“Allow us to share the burden. Poh is quite gifted with the shadows, he will stand watch with his new brother.”

“Very well.” Arman stood patiently at the edge of the surrounding brush and tree cover. The way his eyes followed the bobbing motion of the Kenku’s gate betrayed the unease he felt for the creature. Wise man, Aviate thought to himself. Though no words had passed between them, he knew as well as Poh that though two of them disappeared into the darkness of the night, only one of them would emerge alive.

Buy Me a Coffee

[rixxy8173571m3w1p3]

The Conservatory

I wrote this while I was was supposed to be working on other fics and projects, but I couldn’t resist. Concerning what kind of plants he’d probably have was a combined effort. @another-sanchez-slut and others for letting me ask random plant questions.

A Doofus Rick x Reader fic.

In this fic the reader spends a day in Zeta-7s conservatory.

________________

Hopefully you hadn’t worked yourself into writer’s block again.

You had a deadline to make, and you didn’t have time to procrastinate. You needed to finish writing the last couple of chapters before sending it to your editor. Still, you couldn’t focus. There was something about the quiet in the house, it was distracting. You glanced at your phone, and thought about calling him.

Perhaps you should call, you knew he wouldn’t mind, and he might be home. Then again, he might be busy, and if you called, you’d interrupt any project he might have been working on. You were looking for a reason, trying hard to think of a friend that you could count on, but there was no one else, no one reliable enough. Time was getting shorter and there was much for you to do, but as the quietness of the room threatened to suffocate, you dialed his number, and waited for him to answer. His cheerful voice made you feel slightly better, and you told him the reason for calling.

You just needed to hear someone’s voice, anyone’s voice. In your line of work, you tended to isolate yourself, and while you enjoyed your own company, on certain days you felt so very alone you’d thought the silence would eat you alive. It turns out he wasn’t at home, but at work on some distant planet you weren’t allowed to know the name of. Still, he was happy to hear your voice as well, and shyly told you how much he missed you. Perhaps, he needed to hear someone’s voice as well, one that was not his own.

With all the negativity he dealt with in relation to his job with the council, sometimes he’d portal straight to your place, and hold you in a soul crushing embrace before returning to the hell hole he had just come from. This wasn’t one of those times, but you heard it in his exaggerated cheerfulness, as he tried to be strong for your sake. To think, you had called to receive when it was you who should have given.

Your loving friend, your beloved boyfriend, you needed to color his world. You congratulated him for having the honor to be on such a mission, whatever it was, and couldn’t wait to have that promised dinner.

When he dropped the facade, you could hear the exhaustion, and frustration he had tried to hide. Since he was on break, he had time to talk to you about other unrelated matters, and you listened. It was night time where he was, and it made him sleepy and eager for a cup of tea and a good book. Being the cheeky creature you were, you comforted him with gentle words, with a brief description of your mismatched pajamas. And when he chuckled, you felt your heart swell.

There it was, the Rick you knew. It didn’t take you long for you to have him laughing, nor did it take long for his personable nature to unravel you, and make you vulnerable in the way only Zeta-7 knew how to do. Lost in the moment, you began to flirt, and he chuckled nervously, and in all his nervousness to move away from listening ears, he dropped his phone. It was cute how nervous he still got, but you stopped when you heard the Ricks in the background.

You didn’t want to give those mean Rick’s another reason to bully him. Nonetheless, you were disappointed that he wasn’t home, and you were going to hang up, and return back to work, but he offered to allow you to sit in the conservatory. You admitted that you were afraid you’d hurt one of his plants, but he chuckled, and said that you’d never do such a thing on purpose. So, you accepted.

___________

You used the spare key to get in.

Something about Zeta-7s house always made you feel calm, almost in the same way your medication did. The sunflower rug you stood on was as brilliant as ever, the living room, and the house itself seemed to invite you. Near the window stood his easel where an unfinished piece was covered. On the couch, sat an array of plushies, a colorful pillow, and a quilt. Every square of the quilt was a scene, telling a story, but the last one blank. Perhaps it was unfinished.

Everywhere you looked, you saw color, it fed your eyes, enriched your soul, and it struck you with that nostalgic, heart heavy feeling; it felt like home. This feeling which visited from time to time, most particularly when you felt lonely, other times when you felt lost. There was something grounded, almost planted, and somewhere your were infected by its spores. This illness of feeling, of the ever wicked anxious mind, it made you feel too much.

Still, you could move, and you did.

In the kitchen, the turmeric powder was still open, and you figured he must have left right away, for the breakfast dishes sat in the sink, and next to it a empty container of tofu. Hmm, seems like he tried that recipe you had recommended. You set down your laptop, and began to clean up the kitchen for him. If he were at your home, you knew he’d do the same. When you finished cleaning, you headed toward that sacred place, more sacred than his underground lab.

The place he visited almost religiously, which you’d like to think of as his secret garden, a place of secrets, with messages among the thorns, and love painted among their leaves. Emerson knew best when he said ‘The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood.’ Upon entering, the differences in scents and temperature were obvious. The air was thick, and heavy with moisture, laden with nature’s earthy perfume. You closed the door behind you, and with caution walked around.

This was Ricks sanctuary, his breathing space. Like his home, great thought and planning had gone into its design. Within those glass walls, freedom, sincerity, long suffering, and love, existed in their stems and branches. Angels trumpet hung high and proud, Bougainvillea had claimed the wall of the furthermost corner, a Tropical beauty sat below the banana plant. Various palm-trees, as well as orchids, birds of paradise, fiddle leaf, elephant ears, sat in painted pots.

You realized that every bit of space was used to its fullest potential, with just enough to walk around, snug, but comfortable. How many happy hours had he spent with these friends? How many hours did he tend to his plant children? How many tears had they seen? Did they know the whispers of his heart?

If only they could say.

Up above, were the air plants in glass globes. They varied in size and in them they held mosses, to flowers, to things you’d never seen. Terrariums held what appeared to be small ecosystems of their own, where micro creatures ran about, grazed, and slept. A few of them experienced their own seasons, others were empty. Shelves were dedicated to house the succulents, their containers ranged from cookie jars, old boots, cracked teapots, and wonderfully glazed bowls.

In an old birdcage was a lone rose bush, whose buds were lapis blue. For a while you admired the depth of its color, and felt your cheeks grow warm from the thought of Zeta-7 presenting one them in bloom. A perfectly blue rose, you once read is elusive like the perfectly black rose. They cannot be achieved naturally so they represent the unattainable or the mysterious, and therefore embody the desire for the unattainable.

Among the plants, you swore one of them were singing. A singing plant? With Rick, was there such thing as impossible? No, it was not.

Somewhere, there was a musical flute-like sound, and you continued forward, until you stopped before a plant with paper-thin rigid leaves which vibrated. You blew on it, and it produced new musical notes. Beside it was a miniature dancing tree, near its a base a type of iridescent fungus. You swore, there were hidden worlds among the vines and bushes which you could not see.

A ladder held pots of bonsai, from a desert rose to cherry blossoms, and other small fruiting plants. The philodendron cascaded along the sides, shading them on its skirt of vines. My, Zeta-7 certainly had a poetic quality, which he expressed in his works. What you did not know was he was such a phytophilous being. How did one fit so much fondness in the confines of human flesh?

In their respective corner were the carnivorous plants. Venus flytraps, and a few other wicked looking flowers you avoided, but you stopped before a tray of mushrooms. You weren’t sure if they were the kind you could eat, but your dad used to tell you that it was usually the most colorful that were poisonous. In another tray were ghost like plants, with small flecks of color. Eery things really, like echoes, parasitic perhaps, and another thing you weren’t going to touch.

In the center of the conservatory was a type of fountain. In floating baskets were flora and fauna you could only imagine came from alien planets. There were various sizes of water lilies as well as submerged plants, with goldfish and small turtles swimming around their roots. During your tour, you had forgotten the purpose or reason you had visited this place. Perhaps it didn’t matter anymore as to why.

As could be expected from Zeta-7, everything was well pruned, the floor was clean, and his work table, and all his tools orderly. On the counter were bowls full of polished stones, various gravels, sea-shells, gemstones, and rocks. Above it were cabinets, where you found other odd bits and ends, as well as jars of seeds, and powders. You didn’t dare open any, but you couldn’t help but smile when you noticed the glowing pot of herbs. Not too long ago he had told you of his idea to make a bioluminescent plant so he could read in the dark.

You closed the cabinet, and pressed a hand to your chest. In this place, you had developed a new fondness. Warm-hearted, you felt a burst of joy, and renewed appreciation for him. In his house, especially in this room, you could feel him, and his nurturing care. Here, his invisible qualities were prominent, and you saw the fruitage of his work.

Away from the fast paced life you had known, here, you were disconnected, reborn in natural beauty. You felt his comforting presence, and almost heard his sing song voice call for you to be near him. Slowly, you were learning his secrets, and this was one of his better ones. It didn’t matter what you had come here to do, but you were relaxed, and on the couch nearest to the herbs, you laid down, and fell asleep. In your dreams, you stood amongst your perfect home, and it was very much like Ricks, and slightly a bit like yours.

Hours later, you were woken by the softness of a warm kiss upon your forehead. You were met by his winning smile, and towering figure. You sat up, and asked how long you had been asleep. Shaded by the color and sounds of evening, he pressed a code onto his phone and fairy lights lit up the corner where you two were. You had been there asleep all day, and hadn’t gotten any work done.

Oh well, that meant you had the rest of the night to figure it out. You patted the space beside you, and invited him to sit. Rick chuckled, and told you how he had come home to find you asleep, much to your embarrassment. He dared not to disturb you until he had showered, dressed, and cooked enough for two. Today he wasn’t wearing the usual blue sweater, and lab coat, but a blue dress shirt with a few of the buttons undone, and a pair of blue jeans.

Damn, when you gazed into his electric, forget-me-not blues, your breath caught in your throat. There was something different about him. Nothing so readily obvious, but nothing so insignificant. His penetrating stare searched you, curious in what it was you weren’t saying. You poked his cheek to ease the tension that had built up in your chest.

You did this a few times, and good-naturedly, he chuckled, and asked if you were having fun. Damn, it wasn’t helping, he was still handsome. Lips bitten, he studied you. What are you thinking, you asked.

With a blush, he leaned forward, until your foreheads touched. Sometimes, he didn’t have the words to say what he meant, but that was okay, you didn’t need them. With his face hidden in your hair, you giggled with he brushed that ticklish spot behind your ear. You pulled him close, until neither of you knew where you started or ended. Unlike other times, he did not try to pull away.

You bathed in his warmth, and sighed happily as he rubbed your back in soothing circles. He smelled like fresh laundry and cooking, his chin soft from a fresh shave. You blinked and all at once, you lost contact with the world around you, and he was all you, and you were all him. His fingers were in your hair, and you pressed kisses on the fresh cut on his left cheek. And when he captured your mouth in a firm, but gentle kiss, you felt him shaking.

There were days when he was so eager, that it scared him, and he didn’t know what to do with himself. Due to his lack of experience, as well as self confidence issues, he’d hold back from showing the full extent of his affection. Oh, the things he could do if he were more confident. Nice and slow you whispered, and in time he calmed a little, until you had a slow, and sweet rhythm of lingering kisses. When he broke this rhythm by apologizing for his inadequacy, you held him to your heart, and told him you weren’t going anywhere.

You loved this man more dearly than you had ever loved anything. He blushed like mad, too embarrassed to get an intelligible word out, but you thought nothing of it. Behind his ear, you found a bruise about the size of your thumb, and you realized you had probably held on too hard while you two were kissing. Now that you thought of it, you would have to be more careful next time. There were days when you forgot how old he was.

You knew that there would be struggles with dating someone like Zeta-7, someone so much older than yourself, someone who had been scorned and lonely, and how it was going to bring its fair share of trials and tribulations, but to you didn’t matter, because he was home.Surrounded by his plants, in this environment, in this sanctuary, you were home.

You asked what he had made for dinner, and his laughing eyes, nervous lip bite, and flushed face almost made you forget what you had just asked. You were good, and listened, even if all you wanted to do was steal his breath away. In this world, his world, Ricks behavior caught you off guard at times, but by allowing you into his world, you saw its values, and it’s truths. This sweet creature wanted you,

You traced his smile lines, committing them to memory.

He leaned into your touch, and damn he hummed. Please stay for dinner, he whispered. With you, you asked. As though he were peering into your soul, and reading your thoughts, he leaned forward, lips parted, his breath feathering your face. Just before your lips touched, he poked your cheek.

You pouted, which made him laugh, a full on belly laugh. This happy noise filled up the room, and you swore you heard something singing, perhaps it was a tree. The little tease, perhaps the Rick in him couldn’t resist. Oh well, there would be many other opportunities for you to return the favor, for now you’d accepted his outstretched hand. Blissful, he raised it to his mouth and kissed it.

Perhaps, he was becoming a little more confident, but all you knew was that it suited him. If nurtured, and cared for, with the right amount of love, in the right environment, what could Zeta-7 not do?

[a-writer-and-musician-words]

11/30/18, 2:41 PM

THE HEAVY-HANDED CLINICIAN BY TIMOTHY JOSEPH GEISINGER

In a place far beyond the outer reaches of my memories, I grasped no uncertain realities: the thin-bearded, heavy-handed clinician, over the innumerable years, had done his best to kill me. In the year 1968 when the Vietnam conflict as it was dubbed burned grooves of pain and loss into my synapses. The synapses fired less often during that tragic year. Many young, heroic men sacrificed their lives for a cause that the common army soldier failed to comprehend. The D.C. Hawks composed top secret documents and used a variety of colored chalk lines on forest green chalkboards one after the other to strategize, to deploy troops and to hopefully win an unbeatable guerilla warfare far from the states, far from home. Young wives expected their newlywed husband and often newly minted father to return soon enough, after having given everything for the US patriotic cause; to rush laughingly with a great sense of relief into their waiting arms and to scoop up off the stony earth their never forgotten son, or daughter, their young family practically swooning over their homemade hero back from the overseas war. It didn’t work that way though, not exactly. The twenty somethings who were often the grunts, the privates, the guys who were assigned KP, peeling bag after bag of Idaho russet potatoes while cursing the upper echelon that brought him to a degraded part of a foreign land muttering that “This damn place is the worst, so f-In unfair.

Unjust.” Maybe the young husband and dad to Hillary and Frank, maybe he wasn’t far off. It was an unjust war, wasn’t it? The D.C. Hawks, they held all the cards and close to their vest at that! They were the old, entrenched men who sacrificed little, standing pointing and drawing on blackboards, deploying troops here and there, to take a bloody hill, or else maybe to charge a hidden enemy encampment, or else to retreat, hopefully to safety. Not always.

What was safe about being shot at by sniper fire from Chinese exported AK47s with seemingly endless ammunition control and a little boy or girl who sobbing walks easily into the midst of the longing men, who are safely behind their own lines; yet the little foreign kid has a live grenade tucked neatly in the elastic band of their cotton underwear? Seemed like an innocent kid, just needed some help. Maybe I should have been more loving. Maybe we shouldn’t trust any of the Viet Cong people. After all, we’re the invaders. This is their homeland. What right do we have to be here? Miranda, my wife, older by five years, and a baby on the way, me longing for hearth and home, barely out of Basic. I need her. And I love her. The really important thing, though, is that I know she loves me and we love baby on the way. I wanted to name her Zoe; that is if she’s a girl and Zak if he’s a boy. She wants to name her Molly, kind of because her name also begins with the letter M. But also because of our shared child’s song, a made famous Irish melody: “Cockles and Mussels” (Molly Malone). Both of us, though we didn’t meet until being in the same English essays class at the local community college, loved that song. Yet, we loved the song in a unique way; almost as unique as if we are snowflakes, not accumulated snowfalls. Miranda told me, actually, she sung Molly Malone to me, sonorous alto vocal but upbeat, in my elder parents’ living room in Kent, Washington; though we had moved there only for a short while when I was two because my dad was offered a position as an apprentice mechanical drafter for a start-up called THE LAY-OUT. Miranda has the kind of singing voice that even thousands of miles of separation I can hear as if we again are in my parents’ living room on that fated afternoon.

“Miranda, play the song again. I want to sing it with you,” I said. “You knew the song?” She looked wistfully at my clear blue eyes.

“Yeah. I’m surprised you never knew that. I can’t play guitar like you, but I can keep a melody.” I almost nudged her free shoulder in ply.

“I don’t doubt that. Okay.” Then she strummed the first guitar chord and we sang. Miranda and I and now the baby inside her womb. We are singing a song, a duet. We are singing of our shared love, about being newlyweds, about being the lovebirds others have rightfully called us, of our future together, of the eventual birth of Zoe, Zak or Molly or Mark John, or whomever he would be. We were hopefully going to know…together, hand clasped in hand, lips locked mouth to mouth. Resuscitated. Life gifted to dry dead bones. But, now. Damn.

Miranda I cried. I miss you. I am kissing your waiting mouth, pouty pink, swollen lips. I am tightly holding onto your hand because…I think I may never get back, back to you, back to our unborn child, back to the United States of America, back to the life we are destined to share together. As it is written in the legal marriage decree: “Till death do we part. Never leave nor forsake you. I promise Miranda to love and to hold you…” Oh God, why? I know it was me, maybe it was all me. I was the one who wanted to fight for the safety of the Chinese threat upon These Our United States of America. What if, just as in December 1941, the Japanese kamikaze pilots bombed the unsuspecting aircraft carriers and the defenseless Honolulu medical facilities because they could – sent by the Japanese Emperor Hiro, himself, as a formidable military invasion the likes that no one has experience so horrifically since? That was my overwhelming concern; for the lives of my wife and our unborn child, but also for the security of our vulnerable nation. Really, I don’t like that I am an idealist. I want to be practically minded like a business executive bent on amassing wealth and securities for the company he works for yet secretly desires to one day overtake the whole operation, become the new CEO, own more than fifty percent of the company’s shareholdings and expand, expand far into his stocks-controlled company, newly renamed to fit his agenda, and to make room for his ascendancy. Just like a monarch ruling in the 13th century, replete with a court jester (who could have been me) and nobles, feudal lords, thin, beautiful maidens, plenty of cows, several Bantam roosters, and more animals than even he wanted to number. Horses to ride as freely as he saw fit across the wide expanse which was from the royal stables to the outer lands, all under his watchful eye; the nearby smaller, conquered kingdoms making tribute. I digress.

I am an idealist, but I’m not hopeful. My nearest and dearest friend, the one who helped me through the obstacles course, I couldn’t have even graduated without his constant help and his care toward what then was only another soldier in Basic training, at dusk last night was shot clean through his Adam’s apple. Ironic. I don’t say curse words, not usually, but Shit! Alvin Yeltser is worm food. I know I’m being a bit graphic, but so is war. All wars are graphic in nature, not for little eyes and ears...that is, unless the little eyes and ears are attached to the kids who uncontrollably sob, finding an easy way into the base camp, where we all are relaxed, some of us smoking a Marlboro straight, some of us shooting the shit. And then, before anyone is able to prevent the tragic thing you can hear in the silent overly humidity in view of a green grove of bushes and trees overgrown and waiting like an African tiger to pounce on an unsuspecting weary, old, gray elephant getting a drink of water at the local watering hole. You can hear a pin drop! BAM.

The surviving company, a hodge-podge of army green canvas shirts and pants, that’s all any of us are over here, a bunch of selected numbers – by the D.C. Hawks, we, me included are on pickup duty. It was worse, way worse than scrubbing dirty potatoes and slicing them by hand using our army knife. Way more disgusting! Who in their right mind would volunteer for this kind of essential duty? I have never fully been in my right mind. I used to see a thin- bearded male, the one who I call the heavy-handed clinician. It was he who suggested I complete the many self-assessments, various personality and IQ tests, a whole battery of them. Yet it was also he that strongly suggested I am slightly off my rocker. He threw the clinical psychiatric diagnosis straight in my face. The three connecting words which would define most of the following years to today felt like shell shock. “I believe you have what we in the field call Schizo-affective disorder.” I wondered, what the hell is that? Dr. Cavanaugh went on to explain as if he heard my thoughts. “You have some separation from reality, perhaps because of the effects of trauma or perhaps from your parents’ genes, perhaps a combination of both.” I interrupted his next words. “If that’s the schizo- part, than what does ‘affective��� mean?” He smiled weak and wan and said, “I was getting to that. Affective for you means that you have Bipolar I as opposed-” I was growing uneasy. “As opposed to what, Dr. Cavanaugh?”

“As opposed to Bipolar II,” he finished the sentence. Then he stared at my face searching for a connection with my downcast eyes. The tan rug seemed to swallow me up in my fear.

“Reggie. I will help you overcome this illness if I am able. I will at the very least help you to manage its symptoms.”

“So what are the symptoms?”

“Like I began to say, the schizoid tendencies you seem to have lead you to believe what is false is real and perhaps what is real is false. Your grip on reality is not tight and mostly unshakeable like most people. This may have been caused by the extensive physical, sexual, verbal and other emotional abuse you received as a young child, you told me about, that originated with your family, mostly at the hand of your parents. The Bipolar I also known as manic-depressive illness “mixed states” is a tough one. Sometimes your illness will appear very much like Attention Deficit Disorder or ADHD and sometimes you feel as though you are on the Top of The World – you’ll start many exciting, evocative creative projects but you will get distracted and hardly ever be able to finish anything you have begun; whether a short poem, a story or the lyrics of a love song that Miranda would desperately like to hear, the Siren Song will almost always capture you and unfortunately, destroy the very essence of you; that is, unless you take the prescription for medicine I am writing down for you. Here. Any comments, questions or concerns, Reggie?”

“I don’t know anything about Lithium, or this other one, Navane – what are they exactly?”

“The Lithium is meant to be taken to control your rollercoaster-like mood swings. The Navane will help you to focus on the important things in life; not to be distracted by every enticing offer; to help you have a symptom management tool. Really, that’s all Lithium and Navane the neuroleptic are.”

That was the first time I had heard the word ‘neuroleptic.’ Instead of asking Dr. Cavanaugh its meaning I engendered an educated guess. I thought the “neuro” is defined as the brain like in neurology, the study of the brain. I guessed that –leptic like the word epileptic meant seizure, but I was puzzled as to how a “brain seizure” was going to help me manage or overcome my schizo-affective disorder symptoms.

I was to hear the fateful word Schizoaffective; not only that poisoned idolatrous, highly misunderstood and over used word, but Paranoid Schizophrenic, Narcissicism, BiPolar Classic 1 with psychotic features? Really, what? How can a mental illness, disorder, malady, dysfunction, set of character defects, have to do anything with a good thing like “features?” Who is the crazy one then. Maybe the psychiatric-medicine-prescribing CNP or psychiatrist? Maybe they are the ones who’s has a head that needs to be examined.

No doctor even seemed to pick up on the obvious: I am a survivor of guerilla warfare! I am one paranoid son of a “B”. I crouch at the sudden noises all around me. I hit the spring grown grass lawn or the stony ground so D’m’ed easily I am used to lying down on the job; so used to seeing life from a lower point of view as if I might be a dog. Oh, I am. A war dog, hence the dog tags hanging around my neck. The last ID in the theater, to be picked off so easily just like my war buddy recently killed, stricken to death by a clean shot driven through his young man’s Adam’s apple. !968. A sucky year. The year of my eventual demise. the lost year as I would come to know it as.

1968. The Lost Year in a Lifetime of Years.

My wife thinks I may be crazy, more crazy than the effects of PTSD from motherly neglect and fatherly hitting and punching. Why do you think I went into the army in the first place; it wasn't for my better health. I joined the army to get away from my parents. The only thing is I went deep into a worser situation. I can barely make sense of the war. Why am I here fighting a people I don't understand, who peek in and out of the bushes with a sniper rifle butt. And continually use little girls and boys to blow my buddies to kingdom come. I'm having a hard time acclimating to civililian life. I can't understand beyond the war. So many good guys have died. The whole thing troubles me.The Congs some not so nice guys call em gooks - they're not to blame. We were the invaders, attempting to overtake them in their home territory. They weren't kind. But war is hell: flame throwers, sniper shots to the head, grenade pins dropped unaware. There weren't jet strafing except by the US; but their was warfare on the ground that was nearly matchless. The pain inflicted on the US ground forces was not to be overestimated. The misery of head wounds and exploded limbs unparalleled.

I want Miranda but she is slipping from my grasp. She told me she doesn’t want to deal with my head wounds anymore. I tell her I was never shot in the head. She says, “That’s not what I mean. You are so broken. You can’t even forgive your Mom and Dad. Reggie, they did the best they could. I know you’ve heard that so many times but it’s true. I never meant to cause you harm. They didn’t either. You need to forgive them their inadequacies, for every mistake they ever made raising you, or, I won’t be with you. Your unforgiving attitude of them is a poison I won’t put up with.” I cried, “Miranda, hon’ I will get over the pain. Some day. The war killed me. It killed us.” Miranda faced me then as fully as she could, with enough tears in her eyes, to start a small river. “The war killed us.” The recognition of the fact made my head swim. Tears flowed and I looked over at Zoe who was shaking a plastic rattle while she stood braced up against the side of the foldable crib. “Zoe,” I murmured. I knew Miranda was going to leave me and that she would gain full custody of Zoe was likely too. After all I was a mess. Miranda was the sane one. She had the full time job. She owned the condominium. She paid for our only vehicle, a Ford Aerostar. That she worked as an elementary education instructor meant a lot to me. I earned government disability. It’s true I should be working and taking care of Miranda and Zoe. It is no excuse, well it probably isn’t an excuse, that the Viet Nam War inflicted more than just physical wounds and there were some of those. The psychological wounds were like deafening sounds of machine gun fire.

You aren’t telling me what to think. I have to break out of the bonds I was put in. Maybe I put myself in some of my bonds too. I do feel. Like I blame myself for some of who I am today. I want to lay down and curl myself into a tight ball. I want to sleep throughout the night and into the next day and throughout the night again. I could make a sport of it.

Laughter follows the pain which melts the brain.

Inconsequential doings

Closeted fears as bullets whirr

Don’t touch me there,

It’s my private parts -

Mommy said never let a stranger near.

I don’t know why I am writing this book. I have not published anything of significance yet. This book is mostly nonfiction - memories get garbled, facts get skewed. I cannot start with the beginning though I am tempted to do so. The beginning, my beginning, was so depressing, so oppressive. How can that be? Are not the moments in the womb warm and fuzzy, loving and relaxing? Well, no, not really. My mom and dad were at odds with one another. My mom’s ‘happily ever after’ dream had been smashed by her supposed white knight in shining armor. But that’s the beginning. I want to begin the story somewhere in the middle. The days of personal anguish when a biochemical brain disease was issued forth from the cosmos or God, pulsating throughout an unsuspecting body, with a name, schizoaffective disorder. Ugh.

Climbing stealthily into the gnarled oak tree, branches splayed in several directions I felt like kid superman. My Lois Lane at my side. I may have been six but I knew then that I would love her, the girl next door, for the rest of my life. I wasn’t crazy like Anthony Padua the boy who must have thought he could fly like Superman and jumped from his Dad’s third floor tenement house, a rental he had in South Chicago.

There was almost always something nuts going on in Chicago, even then. The Valentine’s Day Massacre occurred in Chicago. Gangsters littered the streets. A big fire practically burned the whole town down. But Chicago only got worse. The big town became a place I wanted to visit but never live there. Now Shy Town is a place I wouldn’t even want to visit: gunshot soaring through the air, night and day. Kids getting knifed. Bomb threats made good in elementary schools. Just like Gotham City, The Windy City needed a superhero. I am glad that I never moved to Chicago. My parents were as afraid of the big town on the Michigan River just as much as me. Maybe they were afraid for me.

Who will be Chicago’s savior? I decided to start a superhero gym of sorts. I live in Minneapolis, a Minnesotan mid sized town hundreds of miles north of Chicago. I knew Chicago needed superheroes to save its neck or Chicago would be underwater; not only would the city get a bad reputation that it couldn’t live down, no one would want to visit it, its tall skyscrapers, its stock and exchange building, its cool Lake Michigan waters.

“Lois?”

“Clark.”

I reached across a thick branch and touched her arm. “Its about time time to come down, don’t you think?”

“Yeah I suppose.” She smiled toward me and carefully embraced the trunk, sliding part ways down.

The years have gone strongly by. The autumnal leaves dropped from upward tree branches. Icy winters after their own fashion. Springy springs with the first Robin and its delicate light blue eggshell. Summer with the whirring of gluey green grasshoppers and garden toads, green frogs and painted turtles by the reeds and the slimy rocks.

There was the usual. Barbells. Chest strengthener. Chin up stations., even a swimming pool, albeit 10 by 20.

“Miranda, where are you, my love?” “Have I been bad because I lost my temper with you and Zak.”

“Reggie, I don’t know if I can ever forgive you. I love you but from very far away. Don’t follow me. You wouldn’t know where to look anyway. Give up on an Idyllic married life. I can’t let you see the kids. You scare them. You may not mean to but all the same. We’ll love you from a distance. Again don’t chase us down. You won’t easily find us. Good-bye.”

Those are the last words I heard in Miranda’s voice coming from somewhere inside of me; yet, I know those words to be true. I need to get to the gym and workout. I think I hate myself - for what I did to the two kids more than anything else, but also for destroying my already fragile marriage. Vietnam did me no favors.

Even so, Miranda was never to be blamed, not for separating from me after I returned from Vietnam, nor feeling burned out. Mental illness will do that to you.

The devil is Faust’s unwanted friend, drilling holes into his weakening soul.

And Faust lately has been ironically on Miranda’s mind, caught up in the grey edges of her ever titular mind. Maybe because her soon to be ex-husband was lost in the etchings of the Vietnam conflict, that which almost singlehandedly destroyed him. She didn’t know that he is a super hero. He barely knew it himself.

Chicago is not easy for him or for Miranda. His psychiatrist was not easy with Zak either, but that was okay. It had to be okay. Memories of Miranda and more importantly his faith in Christ had to sustain him, empower him to save others. He couldn’t be a super hero not without his faith.

Yet thank God that Miranda left him when she did and left him - left me, where she did. Saint Paul, Minneapolis. The frigid air surrounding me in the late Fall early winter. Before the wintry bitterness sets in for those creatures who desire a longer Fall, less ice and even, less snowfall. To some Minnesota Winters could be equated with the process of dying. I am not extraordinary or am I; yet I long to help, to guide, perhaps even to push people - God’s creatures - into safety, into health.

Miranda left me! Not for another man, but for what she deemed was her sanity. The divorce was messy like a typical divorce, but only because she wanted everything, including sole possession of our kids. I won visitation rights primarily because I had a long history of PTSD coupled with schizoaffective disorder. She plain just did not trust me with our kids, to have close, unsupervised visits. What made me mad was although I wanted to be involved with Daddy daughter events and father son events the court’s decisions fell in her favour.

I wish I could be a great thinker but my brain is mush. Thank God that He still accepts me the way I am, otherwise I don’t know what I would do.