6

Much to Franklin’s astonishment, Uncle Emmett delivered the prints the next day while the family was having dinner.

“Why Emmett,” Franklin’s father exclaimed when he answered the door, “this is certainly a surprise! Come join us!”

Emmett demurred. “Oh, thank you my man, but I’m on my way to an assignment. I was just in the neighborhood and I promised Franklin I’d drop off the prints we made last night.”

Franklin’s dad took the envelope with the prints and presented it to Franklin who could barely contain his glee. He was tempted to rip it open right there at the table. But then: he might drop food on the prints, and he’d have to explain who Avon was, and that would lead to a whole big thing he didn’t feel like dealing with at the moment.

His dad interrupted his reverie. “Okay Franklin, what do we say?”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Franklin said shyly.

“You’re most welcome,” Uncle Emmett replied with a smile and a wink. “Okay now, I must be on my way.”

“You sure we can’t fix you a plate?” Franklin’s mother offered again.

“I’m sure,” said Uncle Emmett. And then he was gone.

Naturally everyone was curious about the envelope.

Rose asked: “So what did you take pictures of?”

Franklin tried to be cool and nonchalant. “Nothing special. Just stuff around the vacant lot out back.”

His sister made a face. “Really? What’s there to take pictures of out there ‘cept crumbling blacktop and weeds?”

“Nothing much,” Franklin admitted. “I just wanted to get practice using the camera. Uncle says he’s gonna help me more once school lets out.”

“Can we see?” asked Arthur.

Franklin nervously glanced at his plate and began to fidget. Though he was proud of the photograph he’d taken of Avon, he was reluctant to share it with his family. He didn’t think Avon was ugly, but there was no denying she looked awfully strange. Suppose everyone laughed at his new friend? Worse still, suppose she frightened them? Would his parents ever let him near the vacant lot again? Nope, it was better to let Avon stay his secret for now. “I don’t think so,” he mumbled. “Maybe when I get better with the camera…”

“Oh come on, man!” Arthur cried. “You can’t be that bad!”

Luckily Mom came to the rescue. “Arthur! Leave him alone. He’ll show you his pictures when he’s good and ready.”

“Yes ma’am,” Arthur mumbled.

And that seemed to be the end of it.

But later, when it was time for bed, Arthur pleaded again. “Come on, man. I just wanna little peak.”

“There ain’t much to see,” Franklin insisted. “They were just for practice; they’re not very good. I mean, they’re all blurry, crooked, and whatnot.”

Arthur scoffed. “So why’d Uncle Emmett waste paper on them then?”

Well. Franklin didn’t have a decent comeback for that. “Hell, I don’t know. Cuz he wanted me to learn from them and get better?”

“Aw…I’m gonna tell Mom you cussed!” Arthur teased. “You said hell.” Then: Arthur seemed to have an insight. He inched closer to Franklin, his eyes narrowing. “They wouldn’t happen to be pictures of your ghost girlfriend, would they? You know, the one you think lives in the graveyard?”

Franklin crossed his arms defiantly. “I thought you didn’t think she was real. Besides: if she truly was a ghost, she wouldn’t half show up on film anyway.”

Arthur grunted in frustration. Maybe little brother had a point. “Well string bean,” he sputtered, “I’m gonna find out your secret. Just you wait.”

Fortunately Franklin had managed to squirrel away the envelope in his special hiding place in the closet, but later that night, when he was certain his nosy brother was fast asleep, he crept out of bed, grabbed his mini flashlight from the nightstand, and tiptoed to the closet to sneak a peek at his pictures. As expected, nested inside the envelope were two prints of Avon smiling on the swings, but surprise, surprise, there was also something else: yet an even smaller envelope, with Franklin’s name written on the front in Uncle Emmett’s fanciest cursive. And under his name Uncle had added, Do not open unless you are alone, underlined three times for emphasis.

The small envelope was pillowy thick; clearly Uncle Emmett had a lot to say. What could possibly require all that paper? Were there more pictures inside? More information about the mysterious Sedona? Franklin’s fingertips positively tingled with anticipation.

He stole another glance at his sleeping brother. Arthur was flat on his back, calling hogs like no tomorrow, dead to the world. Did this count as alone? Probably not, and besides, the flashlight was too dim to read by for long. Honestly: it took everything in him not to tear the letter open right then. But he willed himself to wait. He’d sneak to the fence tomorrow and open it in Avon’s world. As far as he knew, Arthur couldn’t follow him there.7

The following afternoon Franklin skipped the after school festivities and ran straight to the fence carrying the large envelope that held Avon’s photos as well as the mysterious letter from his uncle. He didn’t expect Avon to be waiting for him as they hadn’t officially scheduled a meeting; what he really hoped to do was find a shady spot to read Uncle Emmett’s letter in peace.

Though it was only his third time crossing over, it was almost too easy. All he had to do was recall Avon’s smile and the peculiar way her joy percolated through him whenever she laughed and he was there.

And surprise, so was Avon. Franklin spotted her sitting on the swings with an older lady. This lady had honey brown skin and oodles of freckles on her face. Her sandy blonde hair was styled in several tiny braids woven into an elaborate bun at the top of her head. She wore a grown up version of Avon’s uniform: deep navy slacks and a starched white dress shirt. Who was she? She didn’t look like Avon, but then again, nobody did. Was she one of Avon’s teachers? Or, God forbid, her school’s principal? Could he be in some sort of trouble? The woman looked friendly, not angry, but sometimes it could be hard to tell with adults.

“Hey Franklin!” Avon called, waving him over. “We were hoping you would pop over today.” She turned to introduce the woman sitting next to her. “This is my Mom, Dr. Vonetta Moss,” she announced, beaming with pride.

Then Dr. Vonetta Moss rose to her full height (Man, Franklin thought, she is tall!) and extended her hand. Franklin noticed her nails where short and unpainted. He slid the envelope under his left arm and shook her hand.

“I’m honored to meet you Franklin,” she said, smiling. “Avon can’t stop talking about you.”

“It’s good to meet you too, ma’am,” Franklin said shyly.

“Mom wanted to meet you,” Avon explained. “I’m sorry it’s a surprise, but like I told you before, she travels a lot, and this is the first time she’s been home in a while.”

“Am I in trouble?” Franklin asked.

Dr. Moss smiled reassuringly. “No, definitely not. I just like to meet Avon’s friends. It’s a Mom thing.”

Franklin nodded. He understood that. His mother wanted to know everything about his friends too.

“But,” she continued, “you pique my academic interest as well. “

“Why?” Franklin asked, confused.

Dr. Moss sat on a swing and motioned for Avon and Franklin to sit to either side of her. Franklin was nervous and had a hell of a time trying to maneuver the envelope and sit on the swing at the same time. Dr. Moss kindly offered to hold it for him.

“What’s in the envelope?” Avon asked.

“Remember how I took your picture last time? Well, my uncle helped me print them this past Sunday.”

“Already?”

“Yeah. You wanna see?”

Avon’s gaze swiftly fell to her feet. She didn’t have to tell Franklin she was anxious. He could feel it plain as day. “It was the only good picture I took,” he said reassuringly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

Avon’s mother gave Franklin the envelope; he carefully undid the clasp and pulled out the print. “Tada!” he said as he presented the photo.

“Franklin!” Dr. Moss exclaimed with genuine admiration. “That is an excellent photograph!” She turned towards Avon. “What do you think honey?”

“It’s really, really good Franklin,” Avon said shyly. “So good it barely looks like me.”

“Oh, I think it looks exactly like you,” Avon’s mom said. “I’m going to have it framed.”

Avon sent them both a blush.

“So how long have you been taking pictures?” asked Dr. Moss.

“Not very long,” Franklin replied. “I got the camera barely a week ago. Avon’s was the first picture I took.”

“Well, keep up the good work because you definitely have the eye for it.” She glanced lovingly at her daughter. “And you, my dear, have a beautiful face. You should smile like this more often.”

Avon sent another blush. “Thank you, Franklin,” she said.

“So,” Dr. Moss began, “did Avon happen to tell you what I do for a living?”

“You study the multiverse?” Franklin replied.

“Yep. That’s right.”

“What exactly is the multiverse?”

Dr. Moss sighed. “It’s hard to explain, but to apply the concept to our specific case … there are two similar versions of our worlds existing side by side, though occasionally, they interact.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Our two worlds are almost like a double exposed movie that’s slightly out of sync, nearly the same, but not quite. And on rare occasions, folks can cross freely from one world to another. Like you can cross over to visit Avon and she could cross over to visit you. But it’s somewhat rare for someone from your world to visit ours — at least as easily as you seem to be able to do.”

“It certainly wasn’t easy my first time,” Franklin said. “Remember how I got sick, Avon?”

Avon nodded.

“How are you feeling now?” asked Dr Moss. “Any queasiness?”

Franklin took a quick inventory. He felt fine. “No ma’am, not at all.”

“And that, young man, makes you special.”

“Special like I have a superpower?” Franklin asked.

Dr. Moss mulled it over. “Yeah, kind of. But calling it a superpower makes it sound like magic when there’s a perfectly logical explanation for what you can do.”

Franklin’s eyes widened. “And what is that?”

“You probably have some Traveler blood lurking somewhere in your family, maybe not in the current generation, but sometime in your family’s past. In fact, I’m almost certain that you do.”

Franklin was doubtful. How could she be certain of such a thing when they’d just met? “How would you know that?”

“Your last name. Corcoran. Way back when, when this nation was a much younger country, there was a man named Enoch Corcoran whose farm was a stop on the Underground Railroad …”

“You mean he hid runaway slaves on their way up North?” Franklin asked.

“Yep,” Dr. Moss replied. “He’d also purchase slaves at auction just to turn around and hand them their freedom papers. Sometimes he also taught them how to read, along with a trade. Anyway: Enoch Corcoran was a full-blood Traveler and many of the slaves he freed took his last name to honor him. And since one Traveler had shown them kindness, many of these former slaves were likewise kind to other Travelers they met later in their lives. Some even married and had children with them, and that Traveler blood flows straight through to the present.”

“You mean there were White Travelers too?” Franklin asked, surprised. “Just like White humans?”

“Not exactly,” Dr. Moss replied. “You see, Travelers don’t think of Black and White the same way us humans do. It would be more correct to say that some Travelers have light skin. But those Travelers aren’t treated any differently because of it. Just like you wouldn’t treat a red door differently from a green door; they’re just different color doors doing the same door things.”

“Yeah,” Avon piped in, “Black and White Travelers would probably go to school together on their home-world, but we don’t know that for sure because full bloods don’t talk to us.”

‘Why’s that?” asked Franklin.

Dr. Moss heaved a heavy sigh. “Because unfortunately, humans generally haven’t been very nice to them. We’ve let our fear and stupidity blind us. Back during slavery times any dark-skinned Traveler who wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time got captured and sold into bondage just like dark skinned humans. And sometimes they were treated even worse because not only did they have dark skin; they had unusual facial features and behaved in strange ways. And that prejudice and discrimination has continued to the present. It’s getting better, but change can be slow. After all, Black and White humans only relatively recently started going to school together in this world, and that was only after years of Black humans agitating for equal education.”

Franklin hung his head. “They still don’t go to school together in my world.”

“Well, don’t despair,” Dr. Moss said gently. “If it can happen in our world, it can happen in yours.”

“I have an uncle who can cross over,” Franklin volunteered. “Although I’m not sure if he’s been to your world recently. But, when he was coming over here, he took a lot of pictures.”

“What’s his name?” Dr. Moss asked.

“Emmett. He’s the one who gave me the camera and helped me develop the pictures.”

“Do you think I could meet him sometime?”

“I’ll have to ask him, but sure, if he says it’s okay.”

“Ask him,” Dr. Moss said, smiling. “Because I would very much like to meet him. Did he cross over as an adult?”

“Yes ma’am, but he said that folks over here couldn’t see him.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. If they were full blood human adults, it would be nearly impossible for them to perceive people or things from another universe. Children, though, have an easier time of it.”

“Why’s that?” asked Franklin.

“Children are simply more open to things,” Dr. Moss replied. “Grown ups get set in their ways.” She paused to glance at her watch, then stood. “Okay, I’m going to leave you two for now. Unfortunately, dinner’s not going to cook itself. Avon, mind the time. I’m fixing your favorite.”

“Lasagna,” Franklin said, smiling. Avon smiled too, because he remembered.

Dr. Moss chuckled. “I see she’s told you too.” She bowed slightly. “Nice to meet you, Franklin. Maybe someday you can have dinner with us.”

“I’d like that,” Franklin said.

“Goodbye for now. And thank you again for the picture.” She gave them a final wave and started walking towards the officer’s houses.

After her mother was out of earshot, Avon asked, “So Franklin, how long can you stay this time?”

“I have to get home for dinner, just like you,” he replied. “In fact … could you do me a favor and keep track of the time for me? I know you say my universe moves slower than yours, but I’m not sure by how much and I don’t want to cut things too close.”

“Sure,” Avon said.

“And is there a tree we can sit under?” Franklin asked.

“Sure, there’s one on the far side of the parking lot. Why? Is the sun too hot?” Avon’s eyes grew wide with worry. “You’re not starting to feel sick, are you?”

“No,” Franklin replied, shaking his head, “it’s not that.” He showed Avon the still sealed envelope containing Uncle Emmett’s letter. “I just need someplace to read this.”

“It says on the envelope not to read it unless you are alone,” Avon said. “You won’t be alone if I’m there.”

“I only think he wrote that because I suspect he’s going to tell me stuff about my family that I’m not supposed to know and he didn’t want my brothers or sisters to find out. Like when he developed your picture, it reminded him of this old wanted poster he had of my great, great Aunt Sedona. She lived back in slavery times, killed her master, and escaped. Apparently, when the slave catchers got close to nabbing her, she just walked into a lake and vanished. My family’s been telling her story forever, and I’ve always thought it was like a ghost story you tell to scare people, you know, something made up. But Uncle Emmett thinks it might be true.”

Avon grew pensive, then theorized: “She probably escaped into a pocket universe.”

“What’s a pocket universe?” Franklin asked. Boy, he was learning lots of strange new things today. His head was starting to feel like it might explode.

“It’s like a little hidey hole in spacetime. Often, though not always, it’s also a portal to this world. So your great great aunt might’ve walked into that lake and wound up somewhere over here.”

Franklin was astounded. “How many of these pocket universes are there?”

“Oh, they’re all over. Some are natural; some the Travelers made.”

“You mean Travelers can make their own universes?”

“Well,” Avon equivocated, “not entire universes, but they can make small hidey holes and they can make portals.”

“How?”

“That I don’t know. I don’t even think my Mom has figured out that one yet.” Avon stood. “So you wanna walk to the tree?”

“Yeah,” Franklin replied.

They left the swings and ambled across the mostly empty parking lot. “Where are the other kids?” Franklin asked.

“Oh, they’re probably at home. We just had a half day today. Things are winding down for the year.”

“Yeah, I guess they are in my universe too, although we have almost a month left.”

“We have our year end tests in two weeks,” Avon said.

“So school lets out earlier for you,” Franklin noted. “What are you gonna do over the summer?”

“I really want to take diving lessons,” Avon replied excitedly. “Because I hope to join the Sea Force one day.”

“You mean you know how to swim?” asked Franklin. Few people in his family knew how.

“Yeah, don’t you?”

“Not really.”

“I could teach you,” Avon offered, “but you’d have to figure out how to spend a whole day with me.”

Franklin fell silent. He couldn’t begin to imagine how that would be possible. His family didn’t mind if he ran off by himself for an hour or two, but the whole day? There was no way to pull that off, unless he could convince Uncle Emmett to cross over for the day with him. But summer meant wedding season, which meant lots of wedding pictures, and Uncle might not have many whole days free.

Finally they came to the tree, a shaggy old willow with several branches grazing the ground. They sat in its shade, on the slightly damp grass, partially hidden by a curtain of leaves. Franklin took out Uncle Emmett’s letter.

“Your uncle’s got really fancy handwriting for a boy,” Avon noted. “Most boys’ handwriting I know looks like chicken scratch.”

Franklin chuckled. “Ain’t that the truth. Mom says everything about Uncle is fancy.” He opened the letter with his friend huddling close. Though he knew Uncle Emmett had wanted him to read it alone, somehow he didn’t think he’d mind him reading with Avon by his side. After all: if the letter contained Corcoran family secrets, who was Avon going to tell? She lived in a whole other universe, and no one knew his family there.

The letter was five pages long, densely written on both sides. My dearest Franklin, it began. Hundreds of years ago, before this nation was properly a nation, there was a ship that sailed the sky instead of the sea …

“Oh I know this story,” Avon whispered, “it’s the same one Mom and Dad told me…”8

My dearest Franklin,

“Hundreds of years ago, before this nation was properly a nation, there was a ship that sailed the sky instead of the sea... “

That’s how your Grandmother Corcoran (God, rest her soul) began the tale of how I was born ...

I can’t tell you exactly where this ship came from, but it was someplace unimaginably distant, somewhere even beyond Pluto, which is the furthest planet I know.

What made those cosmic sailors decide to sail the stars? I imagine it was for the same reason people here often feel an unexplained yearning like homesickness when they gaze at the night sky. They were curious about worlds beyond their own, and they wondered if they were alone in the universe.

They spent untold years preparing for this trip. First they had to invent a space worthy craft; then they had to design space worthy people. These people would need to age very slowly, because space is immense, and travel to the nearest habitable planet might take centuries. They also had to be physically and mentally strong, because there was no telling what forces they might have to defend themselves against. They needed to be able to survive in a wide range of environments and breathe all kinds of air. They might even have to breathe underwater. They had to learn languages quickly, and be adept at science and math. And they had to be wise, kind, and generous. Because if they did encounter other people, they didn’t wish to fight with them. They wanted to learn all they possibly could.

They didn’t choose our planet on purpose. At some point their vessel experienced some kind of failure; they crash landed, and very quickly realized they would never see their home-world again. Though they were understandably sad about this, they stoically accepted their fate. That was the risk they took in exploring.

Luckily, they landed in what first appeared to be a veritable Eden. Edible plants and potable water were plentiful. There were all manner of animals to hunt. And there was even evidence of people similar to them.

Unfortunately these people were primitive, and this backwardness wasn’t just a question of primitive technology. Many people they encountered were heartless and cruel. Almost every time Travelers ventured too far from their makeshift settlement, they were hunted like animals and sold into slavery. Generally, their skin was dark like ours so they were automatically assumed to be someone’s property. Slavery was the Travelers’ introduction to humanity. Suffice it to say, we didn’t make a good impression.

So the remaining Travelers made it a policy to keep to themselves. They settled deep in the frontier were most humans feared to go. Although if an escaped slave or indentured servant wandered into their territory, they gave them sanctuary. This is how the first human/Traveler marriages happened.

***

The Corcoran family story begins with a Traveler named Enoch Corcoran. Unlike most Travelers, Mr. Enoch was light-skinned and could pass for White. After working in various trades, he managed to secure some land on which he built a house and established a farm. After some time (and Mr. Enoch had nothing but time, because full blood Travelers can live well over two hundred years) his farm grew a town and he owned most of it. He put his riches to good use. He paid his farm workers a good wage, and that included all his workers, be they Black, White, or Native. He bought slaves at auction and immediately set them free. And not only did he grant them freedom, he made certain they got an education. His house even became a stop on the Underground Railroad.

Remember how your great great Aunt Sedona supposedly disappeared into a lake? Well, to hear your late Grandma Corcoran tell it, the lake most likely concealed a portal to another world. When passengers on the Railroad came to Mr. Enoch’s to rest up before they continued their trip up North, he apparently had constructed a room in another world for them to hide in. Even when some slave catchers kidnapped Mr. Enoch and brutally murdered him, every Black person on his property stayed safe because he had tucked them away in this room in another world. Because of Mr. Enoch’s great kindness, many of those survivors took his last name as their own. Some even married other Travelers they met along the way. So perhaps your great great Aunt met someone Mr. Enoch once sheltered.

...Which brings me to your father’s and my generation. Now we get to the part why I wanted you to read this letter alone. Because I’m about to sin and speak ill of the dead. Now I’m not going to tell you anything that isn’t true, but some of your relations aren’t about to be shown in the best light.

Your grandfather Corcoran was a fine father as far as the material things are concerned. Me, your dad, and your other Corcoran aunts and uncles never went hungry or naked and we always had a decent roof over our heads. He taught us how to read and write and made sure we got a good education...

But, and this is a big but, he wasn’t so kind to your grandmother. He never finished sowing his wild oats. He ran around with other women. I never met any of them, but the whispers followed us Corcoran children everywhere. You’d overhear stuff at the church picnic, or at a neighborhood block party. The grown folk would think they were being slick, speaking in code, but any child could crack that code as soon as they got old enough.

Your Grandma Corcoran was one long suffering woman. She stayed virtuous as long as she could, probably longer than she had any right to. Then she met a man named Frennen Page.

Mr. Page was a tall, svelte, natty dressing man with velvety smooth midnight skin, and large soulful deep violet eyes. He had recently moved from somewhere near Pensacola and was already soloing in the church choir. “He had a voice like a silk kiss on your ears,” Mama said. “And those eyes? O, my beating heart be still! I ain’t never seen eyes like that in my life!”

At first it was just a flirtation, something to get your two timing Grandpa jealous and maybe make him do right. But once, and only once, it became something more.

Once was all it took. Mama told me the pregnancy was difficult. She had all these strange fevers and her sugar was high. This had never happened with any of her other children. She finally pulled Mr. Frennen aside after a Wednesday prayer meeting and tearfully confessed the truth. That’s when Mr. Frennen confessed to something that almost made your grandmother faint on the spot.

“I’m what you call a Traveler or a Stranger,” he said, and when he explained what that meant, your grandmother almost smacked him upside his head because she thought he had to be playing a cruel joke. He gave her the number of a doctor in Biloxi who would care for her. “Just tell him your child has the Midnight Mutation. He’ll know what to do.”

So she called this doctor, got an appointment, and got her sister to drive her out there. This doctor knew exactly what to do. He gave her powders to take and the fevers stopped and her sugar fell to normal. I was born some nine months later, a bit small, but perfectly healthy. I’m not sure if your grandfather suspected anything. If he did, he never made mention of it to me. He raised me as his own and I was always part of the family.

So, yes, you’ve got Traveler blood on your father’s side. The late night tales of Sedona are true, and you have an uncle who’s half Traveler. But there’s Traveler blood on your mother’s side too. Ask her to tell you about the Pattisons from Little Rock. Just tell her that you’ve found a soft spot, and you’ve crossed over. That’s how she’ll know you’re ready --

Love always,

Uncle Emmett

Part 1 is here.

Listen to an audio version here.

Sunday night, library, Roxanne’s fine
we were sitting on the floor listening to vintage Eno,
drinking elderberry wine.
That was in the good old days
before the ceiling fell,
the good old days, before we could tell
a traitor by the color of his eyes.
In the house me and Roxie licked our dried wounds,
and stared blank-eyed at the ordinary sky.
We smoked our clove cigarettes, 
counted heavens and hells,
and arrived at quite logical reasons to cry:
this was our way of making love.

Roxanne, you cannot live by your dress
or by the color of your skin,
there are places where you begin and end,
there are times when you almost die in motion.

And as if things weren’t bad enough,
here comes ARTSYLADY in leather pants.
We’re ready to embrace our fate
as she rants, and rants, and rants
about injustice in the land.
And who’s that cute English professor
who’s come to join our game?
He recites his latest poem
while spilling his beer
and ARTSYLADY asks,
“What’s in a name
when it doesn’t belong to you anyway?”
Roxie pouts. “It don’t matter to me.”

Roxanne, you cannot live by your dress
or by the color of your skin,
there are places where you begin and end,
there are times when you almost die in motion.

Sunday night, library, Roxanne’s dead.
I killed her when I refused
to bleed to the beat of her drummer.
In a pile are all the books we’ve read,
the symptoms of our dis-ease to date.
(In the upper room they teach about mind rape)
The institution still lives and breathes.
My faith in my brothers is about as strong as
its trees dying of Dutch Elm.
Roxie darling was a coward.
All is hell with the world.
This is how I broke free.

Roxanne, I could not live by my dress,
nor by the color of my skin,
here you began, and here you will end --
your hope has ceased its motion.

Image: Untitled by Franetta McMiliian

So I was vibing on this guy’s yacht who thought the world would be much improved if you replaced people with cats. People were stupid, brittle, and gullible, while cats were a study in divine power and grace.

I argued: “But God made us in Their image.”

To which he countered: “God is merely the name we give to mathematics we have yet to understand.”

He fronted me a few million dollars and told me to plant a few seeds — a rumor here, a screed there — “according to my formula” and “see if I’m not right.”

The next few years were heady. I zipped around the globe hopped up on Red Bull, rage, and martinis, throwing endless parties in first class, preaching sweet chaos to presidents and kings. And lord, how they fell!: like dominos, like rotten fruit, like acid rain! First Britain, then America, then France. It was almost too easy.

When did all the fun stop? Oh yeah, crazy yacht dude got booted from the boating club. The money dried up. Suddenly I was alone: no cameras, no magazine covers, no entourage, nada but bullshit to keep me warm.

Who knew how much

the ladies who lunch

would hate the one who broke the world?

Image: Someone He Used To Know by FM

I’m convinced God recycles great voices. He knows when he’s made a good thing. Patsy Cline, Sister Rosetta Thorpe, Billie Holiday, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, Sam Cooke … These voices never die; they keep returning to sing through different bodies depending on who’s needed at the time. Like these days I hear Billie Holiday everywhere. She’s singing in church choirs, busking on street corners, making morning announcements over the school intercom. It makes sense if you think about it … with all the kids found hanging in trees and folks getting snatched off the street these days.

Back when I first started teaching I had a boy named Kamal in my third grade music class who sounded just like Louis Armstrong. All the kids used to tease him and call him Froggy. But when I played It’s A Wonderful World one day, and coaxed Kamal to sing along, the room got real quiet, real quick. The kids were spooked. It was like listening to a ghost.

Later, I taught an eighth grader named Florida Jones. She tried out for the school musical. We were doing Sound of Music that year and she auditioned with the theme song. I couldn’t believe my ears. This tall, scrawny, awkward girl with an unruly mop of hair the color of an orange creamsicle sounded just like Elvis. I thought she had to be pranking me. I’m mean, she sang well. Her vocal tone, power, and control were exceptional for her age, but no way could that voice be coming out of that body. The other kids started giggling.

“Florida Jones!” I scolded. “I’ve got no time for your foolishness! Now sing the song right!”

“But I am singing right, Miss Clara!” she insisted. “I swear. This is just how I sound.”

I crossed my arms and gave her the stankiest stank eye I could muster. “No way.”

“Please, Miss Clara, you gotta believe me. Pick any other song from the show and I’ll sing it for you cold.”

I angrily flipped through the score. “Okay,” I huffed, “Climb Every Mountain.” No way could Elvis sing that. My fingers hit the keys.

And damn, if Florida didn’t sound like the King again. So I had her sing The Impossible Dream. That song was from a different musical and there was less of a chance she’d prepared it ahead of time. Same result. Huh, I thought. Maybe she was telling the truth.

By the time all the girls auditioned, I realized I had a problem on my hands. Florida Jones was by far the best. Her voice was clear, unique, powerful, and always in tune. And bonus: she played guitar. By all rights, the role of Maria should’ve been hers. Thing was: I wondered if I could get away with a spirited governess who sang like Elvis. Would that strain all credulity?

“Could be worse,” quipped my husband. “She could sound like Johnny Cash.”

Screw it, I thought. This isn’t Broadway; it’s just middle school.

The Sound of Music was an accidental comedy that year. Now don’t get me wrong. Miss Florida gave a flawless performance; her voice just had folks thinking she’d burst into Jailhouse Rock any second. Not exactly conducive to suspending disbelief. I nearly lost my job, but Miss Florida, god bless her, handled the giggles with grace.

After she graduated, we kept in touch for a while. Not only did Miss Florida sing, she wrote her own songs as well, and while she sang like Elvis, her songs sounded like Woody Guthrie. She’d send along demos occasionally … until she didn’t anymore.

The next I heard of her is when they did that Re-Occupy Wall Street thing in October. There she was on the evening news, standing resplendent in front of the bull statue, her gigantic creamsicle afro billowing in the chill autumn breeze. She sang All You Fascists Bound to Lose to an adoring audience.

One of the newscasters commented, “Gees. She might be singing Woody Guthrie, but I swear she’s channeling the King of Rock n Roll..”

Image: A watercolor miniature from a flea market. Artist unknown.

The case of Nolan Xavier Wells nearly broke me. It dredged up so many memories.

I spent the bulk of my school years being the only one or one of few and I still carry the scars. I found myself thinking about stuff I hadn’t thought about in ages. Like that time in the sixth grade standing in the lunch line when, apropos of nothing, a White girl named Robin, shouted, Hey Franetta!, and then proceeded to squirt breath spray in my eye. I suffered nothing more than a tingly eyeball, but hell, that bitch could’ve blinded me. She received a stern finger wagging for my trouble, but no detention.

One memory in particular spooked me for days. It happened during a church youth group retreat my junior year in high school. I was the only Black kid in the youth group. There were only two Black families in the whole church.

A group of kids snuck down some marijuana and that weekend all the cool kids spent every second of unscheduled time furtively smoking,, hooking up, or both. I didn’t participate, not because I was a paragon of virtue, but because no one offered. I wasn’t one of the cool kids and I think they had me pegged for a snitch.

It was late Saturday evening after dinner and vespers. Everyone had claimed their corners leaving me on my own. I wandered down to the creek alone. Along the way I heard couples in the grass and groups of kids giggling. I meandered under the full moon feeling sorry for myself, although I wasn’t sure why. By then I should have been used to being the odd one out.

I often compare the experience of being the token Black child to window shopping. You’re allowed to look, but you’re never allowed to truly touch. You can dress the part and code switch with the best of them, but the shy White banker’s son will never ask you to prom no matter how perfect your makeup is, no matter how much you starve yourself. You will never blend in.

I was sitting by the water probably writing some whiny poem in my head when suddenly I had company, a White boy, the chubby albino younger brother of one of the cool kids, an outcast like me. Although apparently he wasn’t a total outcast; I caught the faintest hint of weed on his breath.

For a while we sat in silence, which was fine with me. I was deep in my own private funk and I hadn’t asked for company. Plus, he’d hardly ever said boo to me anyway. I picked up a random stick and started doodling in the dirt. He watched me intently.

Whatcha doing? he asked.

Nothing, I replied.

Why you down here by yourself?

Everybody else seems to be busy.

You ain’t scared?

No. I’m by myself most days.

He inched closer. I scooted away as much as I could without being too obvious.

Wanna make out? he suddenly asked.

Why? I asked back. Are you asking me on a date?

No, he replied, I just wanna make out.

Ouch. Well, at least he was honest.

I made some quick calculations. This boy had never shown interest in me before. In fact, up until that moment I don’t think he’d ever spoken to me. I knew the only reason he was asking was because he saw the weird Black girl as his last best chance at salvaging the weekend. He was a year younger than me, but a couple inches taller and a few pounds heavier. Not much of a physical advantage, but enough to give me pause.

I don’t think so, I finally said.

Why not? he demanded.

I don’t want to be your consolation prize, I said. And I don’t want you to be mine. And with that, I got up and started walking back towards the cabin.

Bitch, he hissed as I walked away.

And that’s when I knew: I’d just dodged a bullet.

I can’t tell you why the news of Nolan Wells’ death made me think of that incident. The two events share nothing but their sus and sinister vibe. That boy and I had never been friends and I had no reason to think we ever would be. But I do know what it’s like to move within a world in which, despite doing everything right, you know you’ll never truly belong. And sometimes you’re tempted to do anything to stop window shopping and break that glass. Because as ashamed as I am to admit it, for a millisecond I was tempted, and somewhere there exists an alternate timeline with a brutal ending.

I can’t help but be haunted by the thought of Nolan Wells’ final moments. He’d gone out with friends; trusting there’d been progress. He’d broken that glass; he transcended 400 years of brutal history; he’d proved every suspicion wrong. Imagine the deep betrayal he must’ve felt as he drew his final breaths and realized too late nothing had really changed, and when he needed them the most, his fair weather friends had simply left him behind.

In the past month several posts about Pope Leo XIV’s latest encyclical about artificial intelligence have come across my feed. A significant number of those posts appear to be in response to either secondhand summaries or to posts made by other creators rather than the primary source. (One creator definitely had an attitude about reading the original material. It’s 42,000 words long, she huffed. I’m not going to waste my time.)

But how can you have an informed opinion about something you haven’t taken the time to examine yourself? The rush to offer the hot take is one of the reasons we’re in the mess we’re in today. You can’t effectively resist something you haven’t taken the time to sit with and understand. 42,000 words isn’t even that long; it’s less than half the length of the average romance novel. It only took a few hours of my time and I’ve suffered through far worse. Plus, I think the Pope should be commended for taking the time and care to tackle a social and moral issue that too many in our supposed leadership have either ignored or actively avoided.

Full disclosure: I am not anti-AI. Sometimes I find it useful. I have used AI-powered voices to generate short form audiobooks, and to upscale my older lower resolution digital artwork for archival printing. Also, back when many image generation platforms were free or very cheap (Believe it or not this was a little over two years ago!) I even experimented with generative AI using sketch-to-image prompts. I’d doodle something randomly abstract, feed it to the AI to get it to hallucinate on purpose, then take the result and edit it in Photoshop, then feed it back to the AI again. After several rounds of this, occasionally I’d come up with something totally unexpected and delightful. Call it model collapse as found art.

Currently however, I think AI is being misrepresented, misused, overhyped, and overvalued in ways that are dangerous. A significant portion of our economy is being propped up by an AI bubble. (Which might be in the process of bursting as I type this. Something just flashed across my screen about a tech stock sell off) AI is increasingly being used as a replacement for human interaction in ways that are harmful to mental health. It’s also being used to violate human rights (as in the case of surveillance) and offload responsibility for human cruelty (as in the case of autonomous weapons).

I don’t think AI is conscious, sentient, or divine. It’s basically fancy math and that math isn’t free from bias. It reflects the bias of its creators and its training data. I’d never confess my deepest secrets to ChatGPT or any other AI agent. If I wanted to talk to myself, I’d just be honest about it, and find someplace private to do it without the digital middleman. I don’t relish the thought of my neurotic ramblings being stored on some random server to be used against me at a later date.

I worry about AI’s considerable collateral costs that its hype men (and they are all men, aren’t they?) prefer to sweep under the rug. What about the disruption to the labor market? What about the environmental impact of data centers as well as their impact on public health, land use, and the energy grid? What about the fact that even the most powerful AI platforms are far from flawless, and that error rates that seem minimal on paper can prove disastrous at scale? Why is tech so powerful allowed to remain in the hands of so few -- especially when every one of us will have to bear its costs and much of it was developed using public money in the first place?

***

Magnifica Humanitas is actually a callback to an encyclical written by Leo XIV’s predecessor Pope Leo XIII. Rerum Novarum was written during the late 19th century during the Industrial Revolution, and certainly the dawn of what might be the AI Revolution has the potential to similarly reshape civilization as we know it. The current pontiff is not a Luddite -- he doesn’t believe technology is automatically antagonistic or deleterious to humanity -- but if it is adopted without proper discernment, it definitely can be.

In order to illustrate two contrasting approaches to the current technological project, the pontiff cites two Biblical tales as metaphors. (An aside for those who aren’t Christian or religious ... even though I am inclined to think the Bible is no more divinely inspired than any other work of literature, I still think the Biblical references are useful as a rhetorical device .)

The first is the Tower of Babel. In order to secure a degree of stability and “a name” for themselves, a group of people build a city with a tower tall enough to reach the heavens as its centerpiece. “It was an impressive feat,” Pope Leo writes, “a single language, a single technology, a single direction.” (p. 10) But this endeavor contained a fatal flaw. It was conceived by pride and supported by a mindset which eliminated diversity and “chose homogenization over communion.” (p. 10) When technology sacrifices human dignity for efficiency, community eventually fractures.

The second Biblical story Pope Leo cites is the rebuilding of the Temple Wall in Jerusalem after the Babylonian exile as recounted in the Old Testament Book of Nehemiah. Nehemiah, upon learning of the disastrous state of his home city, asks the king for permission to return to Jerusalem. After seeing the ruins for himself, Nehemiah prays for guidance as to what to do next. He then consults with the families of the remaining inhabitants and assigns them each a section of the Temple Wall to rebuild, all while listening to their concerns and overcoming their objections. The rebuilding of the wall is presented as a careful, deliberate, project with full community participation. It is not development imposed from outside or above. “The narrative shows how the city is reborn, not through the initiative of one man, but through the shared responsibility of all ...” (p. 11)

Although the pontiff never states this explicitly, it seems fairly obvious he feels we’re walking the Babel path. The current AI fever is a concerted effort fueled by the greed of a few powerful entities to steamroll us into accepting a disruptive technology, the environment, the economy, and human dignity be damned.

The preliminary results are flooding in: the job market is already disrupted, the energy grid and water supplies are strained, the environment -- especially in proximity to data centers is despoiled, and human dignity (from mental and physical health to slave labor) has been degraded. This isn’t progress and it’s not sustainable.

***

So how do we build a sustainable city rather than a rickety tower? How can AI benefit humanity and not subsume it?

The pontiff suggests we evaluate AI in light of the Catholic Social Doctrine. (Pope Leo freely admits the Church has often not lived up to its own standards, but I don’t think that makes the rubric any less useful. The United States hardly lives up to its founding principles either, but that doesn’t mean those principles aren’t worth aspiring to.)

The first is the principle of the common good. Does AI enhance or compromise the inherent dignity of every human being especially the most vulnerable?

The second is the principle of the universal destination of goods. This states that the earth’s bounty -- soil, water, air, and other natural resources -- are given to all of us and that we have a moral obligation to ensure the just distribution of those resources not only in the present, but also for future generations.

The third is the principle of subsidiarity. The adoption of technology should never be a top-down affair. The welfare of local communities must never be supplanted by higher level or outside entities and they must be consulted if some policy directly affects them. Those entities have an obligation to respect, protect, and promote the freedom, rights, and dignity of the communities they operate in.

The fourth is the principle of solidarity, namely that we are all interconnected and we are all each other’s keeper. This means the harms and benefits of AI ripple outwards and eventually affect us all.

The fifth is the principle of social justice. New technologies can mean not only new possibilities, but sadly, new forms of oppression and exclusion as well. If AI is to be used ethically, for the common good, care must be taken to see that it is implemented fairly and not used in ways that violate human rights.

As I read through this section, I realized that generally we’ve rarely considered these common sense principles in relation to AI. If we had, atrocities such as Elon Musk’s shady side of legal, noisy, toxic, xAI data center in Memphis, TN, wouldn’t exist.

***

The pontiff devotes a considerable amount of words to the use of AI in war. First he laments that some countries (such as our own under Trump) are trending away from diplomacy and the principle that military options should only be used as a last resort. He speculates this is partially because we’ve lost firsthand historical memory of humanity’s most devastating conflicts. Those who experienced the death and destruction of WWII are dying out, and for many of us, that has caused that tragic history to fade into abstraction. Add this to the fact that the Trump administration is actively trying to erase and distort history, along with algorithmic media that thrives on polarization and othering, and you have a recipe for increased belligerence. Autonomous weapons which make war and destruction nearly frictionless shouldn’t be added to this already volatile mix — especially when there’s no such thing as a just war; that church doctrine is outdated. (pp. 118 - 120 passim) War should never be as effortless as ordering online.

***

The pontiff takes a few subtle swipes at trans- and posthumanism, or any philosophy that implies that the human person is somehow flawed, inadequate, and inefficient in their natural state and needs AI to reach its full potential, or to advance to some exalted state of evolution. He reminds us that everyone possesses dignity simply by existing. He maintains that this is because we are made in the image of God, but I don’t think one needs to invoke the divine to assert that we all are worthy as we are with no need for technological enhancement.

***

All in all, I think the pontiff’s meditation on AI is a worthy read. I especially recommend it to people of faith, but even if you don’t believe, I think he elucidates the moral issues raised by artificial intelligence in a clear articulate manner.

And despite what Peter Thiel says, he’s not in league with the Antichrist. Although … if you believe in such things, Thiel and his cronies might be. Every accusation is a confession.

Juneteenth is coming up this Friday and in a way, Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, is a continuation of The Room, the story I posted for Juneteenth of last year. The universe of both tales was inspired by yet another Grab Bag prompt. The genre was alternate history, the theme was alien first contact, and the original time and setting was antebellum South. Quite a challenge. I had to dream on this one for a while…

This is also the day I begin to offer paid subscriptions, so in order to offer something value added, these first few chapters of Smoke will be free for all while additional chapters will be behind a paywall. Additional chapters will appear approximately biweekly, give or take.

I will continue to post essays, book reviews, and eventually videos as well.

Thanks to everyone who has pledged support and subscribed so far. I am humbled and eternally grateful.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

for S

1

Franklin Corcoran first laid eyes upon Avon Moss when he was eleven years old. It was early one warm April evening just before dinner. He and some of his brothers were playing football with a few of their friends in the vacant lot next to the old graveyard. Someone kicked the ball out of bounds; it rolled near the fence that bordered the graveyard, and Franklin was the only one brave (or dumb) enough to run over there and fetch it. Everyone knew that ghosts and all manner of evil spirits hung out among the kudzu covered headstones. Leave it, the other boys told him. The ghosts can have the damn ball.

Franklin wasn’t about to leave his ball to the ghosts — especially since he’d paid for it with his own allowance money. “Oh come on, you fraidy cats!” he groaned. “It’s still light out! And everyone knows full well ghosts is scared of the light like we’s scared of the dark.”

“Speak for yourself,” his brother Arthur said. “I ain’t going near the place.”

Franklin rolled his eyes. “Some punk ass big brother you are!” he huffed. “You supposed to be protecting me since I’m the baby of the family!”

So: Franklin stomped his way to the fence and that’s when he got the shock of his life. Suddenly the graveyard wasn’t there. It didn’t completely disappear, but it kept fading in and out until Franklin couldn’t see it unless he squinted really hard. In the graveyard’s place was a playground alongside a building that looked like it could have been a school. And there was a girl in that playground, leaning on the fence, staring straight at him.

She was the strangest looking girl Franklin had ever seen. She looked to be his height and age, but her skin was way darker than his. She was even darker than his Uncle Emmett, who, up until that moment, was the darkest person Franklin knew. Her skin was darker than midnight, almost blue-black dark, so dark, the loose white blouse she was wearing seemed to glow.

Her hair was the exact opposite of her skin. It was as gleaming white as her blouse and seemed like it was glowing too. It was almost as short as Franklin’s, and nappy, which was odd. All the girls he knew had their hair pressed and wore braids.

Her eyes were something else -- as big as a baby’s and as black as two bottomless puddles of India ink. Her nose was small and dainty; her lips were thin. And: she was smiling at him.

Franklin finally spotted his football among some scraggly weeds, and bent down to pick it up, but somehow kept missing it. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep it in focus. It kept fading in and out, just like the graveyard had.

“Hi,” the girl said shyly.

At first Franklin ignored her. He was too busy trying to get a handle on the damn ball that kept disappearing. Every time he thought he had it, it slipped away again.

“Hi,” the girl said again, louder.

“Hi,” Franklin mumbled absently. Finally he could see the ball well enough to grab it. “Aha!” he exclaimed. “Gotcha!”

“Hi,” said the girl for a third time. Now she sounded annoyed -- and sad.

“Hi,” Franklin finally said loud enough for her to hear. And then, what do you know? The girl started fading in and out like his ball and the graveyard. Now Franklin was thoroughly confused. What was up with his eyes today? He took a deep breath, furrowed his brow, and squinted hard. The girl stopped fading. “Are you real?” he cautiously asked, just in case she might be the rare ghost unfazed by daylight.

“Yeah, I’m real. Are you?”

Now she was just messing with him. “Of course I’m real. What kind of fool question is that?”

“Don’t know. You’re the one who asked it first.”

Franklin laughed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“My name’s Avon,” she said, reaching over the fence to shake hands.

“Franklin,” he said. He shook Avon’s hand and noticed her fingers were long and spindly. And he got a better look at her eyes. Turns out they weren’t completely black. When they caught the light, Franklin swore he caught a glimpse of indigo. He’d never seen eyes that color before. “How come...” he started to ask, but then stopped himself before he hurt her feelings.

“How come I look so strange?” Avon said. “Is that what you want to know?”

Franklin felt the heat rush to his face. It was as if she’d snatched the question right out of his brain. “Well, yeah...” he sheepishly admitted.

“I’m not all human. I’m half Traveler.”

Franklin laughed nervously. Surely she had to be fibbing. “What do you mean you’re not all human? And what’s a Traveler?”

But before Franklin could hear her answer, Avon started fading in and out. And suddenly he could hear his brother Arthur calling for him, wondering why in the world Franklin was just standing there staring into space. But Arthur sounded so far away and strange, almost like he was underwater. You got the ball, man. Let’s go! It’s almost time to go home!

Then, Avon vanished completely -- as did the playground and the school. In their place Franklin could clearly see the graveyard, and could see by the way the shadows fell that it was getting late. He turned around and started walking across the vacant lot towards the other kids and home.

Then: as he was walking Franklin suddenly felt something hit him like a brick against the head, only it wasn’t a literal brick, although it certainly had weight. It was a feeling -- sadness, loneliness, longing -- but it wasn’t all his. He was sad Avon disappeared, and sad that he couldn’t solve the mystery right away, but the sadness that struck him was far more intense than what he should have felt. And that’s when he realized: it wasn’t just his sadness; it was Avon’s. Like she had thrown her sadness at him like a football and smacked him upside the head with it. Franklin spun around, half expecting Avon to be creeping up behind him, but she was still nowhere to be seen. Huh, Franklin thought. Maybe she was a ghost.

2

Franklin didn’t say a word about Avon during dinner even though Arthur teased him mercilessly about his suddenly blanking out at the gate.

“What in the Devil were you staring at?” Arthur pestered. “You just… kept...standing there. Was some haint trying to eat your soul?”

“Arthur, hush!” hissed his sister Rose. “You know better than to talk about that sort of evilness at the table. You’ll scare the poor boy to death.”

“Your sister’s right,” his father agreed. “Leave your brother alone.”

Franklin couldn’t even be certain what he’d seen had been real. But he’d shaken Avon’s hand and felt her spindly fingers wrap around his. He couldn’t have made that up, could he?

Saturday after he finished his morning chores, Franklin decided to sneak off to the vacant lot alone. He wasn’t supposed to wander off by himself, but he didn’t think any of his siblings would be any help. Besides: it was daylight and it’s not like he’d be totally alone. The lot wasn’t in Timbuktu. Kids played there all the time. If he got into trouble, there’d be plenty people around to hear him scream -- at least that’s what he hoped.

It did occur to him that since it was Saturday, there was a good chance Avon might not be there. If the building by the playground was indeed a school, most likely it would be closed. But Franklin hoped Avon was as intrigued by him as he was by her, because truthfully, he couldn’t get the strange girl out of his mind.

So Franklin walked to the gate and sat on the cracked asphalt facing the graveyard. At first he saw nothing except the overgrown headstones and the mangy stray dog that sometimes roamed there. Then he remembered how he had to squint and concentrate to hold the playground, the school, and Avon in focus. He imagined his mind was as sharp as a beam from a ray gun. He concentrated and concentrated until he had conjured himself quite a headache. Still nothing. Maybe he was trying too hard. Or maybe he was just plain crazy.

Still: he wasn’t ready to give up, so he tried again. Maybe he was concentrating the wrong way. Perhaps he should try pretending he was about to run the 50 yard dash at school, and keep his body wound as tight as a spring, while keeping his mind loose and calm. He stood and leaned forward, muscles taut like he was waiting for the gym teacher’s whistle. On your mark...Get set...Go!

That must’ve been the ticket. Because as soon as the imaginary whistle sounded in his head, the graveyard disappeared, and he saw the playground and the school in sharp focus. He also heard someone laughing behind him. He looked to see who it was, and it was Avon, standing not too far from the fence.

“Avon?” Franklin said, just to be sure.

She couldn’t stop laughing, and soon, her laughter and joy bubbled up through him and he found himself laughing as well. She ran to the gate and flung it open. Franklin was so giddy, he sprinted right through. He didn’t even think about how he might get in trouble for being in some strange school’s playground when school wasn’t open. Avon’s laughter made him so happy, he didn’t care.

It was only when she finally stopped, that he got scared.

“Franklin, you found your way back,” Avon said smiling. “I’m glad.”

“So am I,” he said. Then he looked in the direction of where the vacant lot should’ve been and immediately started to panic. Because. It. Was. Not. There. In its place where a couple of identical houses with screened in porches and green manicured lawns. “Where am I?” Franklin asked, fearing the answer.

“Relax Franklin,” Avon said. She walked over to him, put her hand on his shoulder, and took a deep breath. His panic quickly subsided, like she was magic or something. “You’re at the Gulf Shore Sea Force Base, Officer Section.”

“Sea Force?” Franklin asked. “Don’t you mean Navy?”

“Nope. In my universe it’s the Sea Force.”

Did she just say in my universe? Franklin found himself panicking all over again. If he had somehow landed in a whole other universe, how the hell was he supposed to get home? Now he wished he’d brought Arthur with him. Striking out on his own wasn’t turning out to be a great idea. “Where’s the lot?” he asked, startled at how much his voice shook. “Where’s the graveyard?”

Avon tightened her grip on his shoulder and did her deep breathing trick again. It worked, but not as well as it had the first time. “Same place it’s always been. You just crossed over. Relax. I’ll help you see...”

She started breathing again -- deep, slow, steady -- and soon Franklin found himself breathing along with her. The houses with the manicured lawns faded from view, although not completely. Gradually the vacant lot came into focus, but it was behind a wall of mist. A group of girls were playing double dutch. They seemed to be moving in slow motion. “How do I get back?” Franklin asked.

“Same way you got here,” Avon replied.”Concentrate.”

“How come the girls are jumping rope so slow?”

“Your universe is a bit slower than ours.”

Franklin shot her a quizzical look.

“My mother can explain it much better than I can. In fact, she’ll explain it so hard, she’ll bore you to tears. Studying the multiverse is her specialty.”

Studying the multiverse seemed like a strange thing for a mother to do. “Is that her job?” asked Franklin.

“Yeah,” Avon replied. “She’s a theoretical physicist.”

Franklin wasn’t exactly sure what that was, but the number of syllables made it sound important and special. “Oh,” he said, somewhat crestfallen, “my mother teaches third grade.”

“I wished sometimes my mother did,” Avon said sadly.

“Why?” Franklin asked.

“Because then she’d be home a lot more, instead of flying around the world giving lectures. We’d get to eat lasagna more often too. That’s my favorite.”

“My favorite’s black eyed peas with lots of ham. And key lime pie.”

Avon made a face. “Limes are sour,” she declared.

Franklin said: “But that’s what makes them good.”

She laughed. “So: how old are you?”

“Eleven. I’m in the eighth grade.”

“Wow! Did you start school when you were three?”

Now it was Franklin’s turn to laugh. “No, I just skipped a few grades.”

“How did you manage that?”

“My mother taught me how to read before I went to kindergarten. Said it was the only way she could get me to shut up so she could have some peace and quiet. Because of that, people think I’m smart. How old are you?”

“Twelve. But I’m just in the six grade.” Avon sounded sad when she said that, like she thought she was dumb or something compared to him, even though she was perfectly normal.

Suddenly Franklin could feel that big sadness again, only this time it felt less like a brick upside the head and more like a bowling ball in his belly. “Could I ask you a strange question?”

Avon lowered her eyes and Franklin could feel her apprehension clear as day.

“On second thought...” He stopped himself. He didn’t want to offend her and scare her away. Though they’d just met, he already knew he liked her.

Avon flashed him a shy smile. “It’s okay. Go ahead and ask.”

“How come I can seem to feel what you’re feeling?”

“That’s the Traveler in me,” she replied. “We bleed feelings. My mom is trying to help me control it.”

There it was, that Traveler thing again. “What’s a Traveler?” asked Franklin.

Avon took a deep breath. “They’re these people from another planet who crashed here a long time ago and got stranded.”

Franklin couldn’t believe his ears. Surely she had to be pulling his leg. “You mean another planet, as in outer space, like Krypton?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know the planet’s name. You’ll have to ask a full-blood Traveler for that and they keep to themselves.”

“Which one of your parents is from outer space?”

“Neither right now, because I’m adopted, but they think it was my mother.”

“Do you have any more super powers?” Franklin asked.

Avon laughed so hard she laughed herself into a coughing fit. Franklin could feel that too. “Not sure if bleeding your feelings everywhere counts as a super power. Although maybe you could bleed your conscience to a villain to make them do right...”

And that’s when Franklin noticed the world losing focus, like it had when he was trying to grab his football by the fence, only this time, it was far more intense. Avon’s laughter sounded further and further away, like she was trapped in a long, echoey tunnel. And she was becoming see-through, like a ghost. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Franklin’s eyes couldn’t seem to decide if he was standing in the graveyard or the playground. He tried looking in the direction of the vacant lot, but that wasn’t much better. One second he could see the vacant lot clearly; the next second, he saw the houses. Next, he saw them superimposed on one another like a double-exposed photograph. The girls jumping rope sped up, slowed down, and even went backwards, like they were in a cartoon. He felt sick to his stomach.

Avon could clearly sense his distress. “Franklin,” she called, “what’s wrong?”

He could barely understand her, much less answer. “I...don’t...know...”

That’s when she grabbed him and shoved him hard through the gate. That caught Franklin by surprise. Avon was as scrawny as he was; plus, she was a girl. He’d didn’t think she’d be that strong. “You need to go!” she was yelling. “You’ve stayed too long! I’ll see you tomorrow…”

But tomorrow’s Sunday, Franklin tried to object, I’ve got church... But it was too late. He landed on the other side of the fence on all fours with the dry heaves. It took a few minutes to gather himself, but after a while, he felt better. He stood, turned, and looked for Avon. She was gone, as was the playground and school. It was back to the overgrown graveyard again.

3

Franklin got up extra early the next day, before the crack of dawn. He washed up, got dressed for church, and snuck out the back door being extra careful not to step on the spot that made the last step creak.

Before going to bed, he’d written Avon a short note explaining why he wouldn’t be able to see her. Sorry I’m not here. I’ve got Sunday school and church and then dinner at my Uncle Emmett’s house. I’ll see you after school on Monday. Franklin. The lot was less than a block away from his house. He figured he could run, stick the note on the fence, and be home before anyone realized he was gone.

But he was busted as soon as he hit the alley behind his house. Because his brother Arthur was up extra early to sneak a smoke on their father’s pipe. He was still trying to get the thing lit when he spied Franklin. “Where ya going, string bean?” he called in a harsh whisper.

“To the lot. I think I lost something.”

“Boy, the sun ain’t even up good yet. You ain’t going nowhere.”

Franklin crossed his arms. “What you doing with Daddy’s pipe?”

Arthur was too dark to actually turn red, but Franklin could tell by the scowl on his face that he had his brother right where he wanted him. “Damn you,” Arthur swore. “At least let me go with you so you don’t get eaten by wolves.”

Franklin started to giggle. There were stray dogs, squirrels, and maybe the occasional rat, but he had never seen any wolves.

“Hush, string bean! You want to get us both in trouble?” Arthur hid the still unlit pipe behind a bush and grabbed Franklin by the hand. “Come on. Ready, set, go!”

They ran to the lot; Franklin ran by himself to the fence and stuck the note near the gate. “Okay, done,” he announced.

Arthur crossed his arms and frowned. “Boy, you didn’t lose nothing. Who’s that note for?” he demanded.

“There’s a girl that lives over there...” Franklin replied.

“A girl who lives in the graveyard?”

“There’s not a graveyard there all the time...”

Arthur stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What do you mean?”

Franklin hesitated. There was no way in hell Arthur would believe there was a whole other universe out there. But Franklin decided to tell his brother the truth anyway just to be ornery. Arthur couldn’t bust him for fibbing, since Franklin caught him with the pipe.

“She lives in another universe. There’s a playground over there and a school.”

“Uh huh, sure. Along with the milk, honey, and angels. Come on, string bean. I won’t tell about your ghost girlfriend.”

“I won’t tell about the pipe.”

Franklin thought about Avon all day. Would she get the note or would some random kid in his own universe find it first? Or would that mangy graveyard dog steal and eat it? Franklin really didn’t want to hurt Avon’s feelings. Even though she was quick to laugh, Franklin had felt for himself the depth of her loneliness. She needed a friend. Not to mention she lived in a whole other world. What an adventure that would be!

At dinner Franklin was still obsessing over Avon and Uncle Emmett noticed he wasn’t his usual talkative self. After dinner and dishes were done, Uncle Emmett invited him to the darkroom in the back of his house.

The invitation wasn’t unusual; in fact, it was sort of a tradition. Uncle Emmett was one of two prominent Black photographers in town. He freelanced for one of the local Black newspapers and also did weddings and class pictures for the Black schools. If he had the time, he also worked on personal art projects. He’d give himself a loose theme like, “find the beautiful part of ugly,” and shoot pictures around town with that theme in mind. He never sold those pictures, but sometimes he framed them and hung them in the living room. There was one picture Franklin especially liked: a close-up of a crumpled piece of newspaper covered in frost that resembled a mythical mountain.

Franklin liked to watch his uncle develop film and print pictures. He always marveled as the image slowly appeared on paper. Even though he was quite aware of the science involved, that moment always felt like magic.

Franklin could also talk to Uncle Emmett about things he couldn’t discuss with his own family. Perhaps it was because Uncle Emmett was the family oddball. He never married, and though he was a competent businessman and practical, he was also a dreamer who appreciated the artier things in life. Like he was the only one in the family who showed genuine interest in Franklin’s comic book drawings. He always took the time to tell Franklin what he liked about the drawings and showed him how he might improve. Franklin’s brothers found his doodles cute, but annoying. So if anyone would believe his story about Avon, it would be Uncle Emmett.

That night Uncle Emmett was printing team photos that would be used in the program for the upcoming city basketball championships. Franklin’s oldest brother, Willet, played on the team favored to win.

“You were awfully quiet tonight,” Uncle Emmett remarked. “Worried about something?”

“Uncle, if I tell you a secret will you keep it?” Franklin asked.

“It depends on what it is, you know that. If it involves something that might hurt you, then no, I’m duty bound to tell your parents.”

“Well...I don’t think Avon would hurt me...”

“Wait a minute. Who’s this Avon?”

Franklin spilled the beans in a torrent. Avon, the way a school and a playground appeared where the graveyard was supposed to be, and the multiverse. Uncle Emmett listened to it all, and actually took him seriously. He wasn’t suppressing a smile, nor did he tease him about his ghost girlfriend.

When Franklin had finished his tale, Uncle Emmett did something totally unexpected. He finished the print he was working on, grabbed a ring of keys hanging on the wall, opened the top drawer of a file cabinet, and pulled out a small photo album. He opened to the middle and pointed to a swing set which looked an awful lot like the swing set in Avon’s playground, except it was newer.

“Did you see a swing set that looked like this?” Uncle Emmett asked.

Franklin couldn’t believe his eyes. “Yeah, it did. Where did you take this picture?”

“Over there by the graveyard. It was a while ago, before you were born.”

“So you’ve seen Avon?” asked Franklin excitedly.

“No, most likely she wasn’t born yet either. But I’ve seen the playground, the school, and the military base.”

“How? When?”

“That vacant lot you kids play in wasn’t always vacant. There used to be a boardinghouse there, but it burned down. Huge fire. Took all night to put it out. I went to take pictures of the fire damage...”

When Uncle Emmett arrived on the scene, the building’s carcass was still smoldering and the smell of smoke, brackish water, and ash was overwhelming. “When I looked in the direction of the graveyard, and saw what appeared to be a ghost swing set, I thought the fumes were getting to me. I finished photographing the ruins, then went to take a closer look. At first, the closer I got, the more tenuous the swing set became, so I thought it might be a mirage, but then the graveyard disappeared completely, and the swing set was as clear as day. There was a school and a gym class going on on the basketball court. And here was the strangest thing: the gym class had Black and White students in class together. I’d never seen such.”

Uncle Emmett flipped to a page near the end of the album. There was a gym class, twenty or so girls in uniforms, stretching. The people were a little blurry, but they were clear enough to see there were both Black and White girls in the class. The teacher was Black. There was no one who looked like Avon, though.

“I didn’t take many pictures that first day,” Uncle Emmett continued, “because I didn’t have many shots left when I finished shooting what was left of the boardinghouse. But I went back there every time I got a chance. Sometimes I only saw the graveyard, but other times, that ‘other place’ was so solid, I could walk around and explore for a bit. That’s how I found out the school was on a military base. But the strangest thing was, even though I could see plenty of people, they couldn’t see me. And even when I saw them, the people were never completely clear. That’s why they look fuzzy in the pictures. The camera saw what I saw.”

Franklin flipped through the album to try to see what he could in the dim light of the darkroom. He found a picture of the houses across from the playground. They definitely looked newer -- the shrubs by the front steps were freshly planted -- but they were the same houses. “So it’s a real place,” whispered Franklin.

“Real enough to capture on film,” Emmett said, “but as far as I know no one’s seen it except me and you. I never talked to anyone from there because no one could see me, but at least one person can talk to you.”

“Maybe that’s because Avon is not like the other people,” Franklin said. “Because come to think of it, she’s the only person I’ve talked to so far.”

Uncle Emmett was intrigued. “What do you mean, different?”

“She says she’s part Traveler. The Travelers are from outer space.”

Emmett got quiet for a bit, but at least he wasn’t laughing. “ Well,” he said after a beat, “I suppose it makes sense. There’s nothing that says God only created one universe, and if He created more than one universe, most likely He created other kinds of people too.”

Emmett finished printing the rest of the photographs as Franklin watched. After he was done, he took the secret photo album and locked it back in the file cabinet. But before he hung the keys back on the wall, he opened another drawer of the cabinet, took out a small box, and handed it to Franklin.

“I was saving this for your birthday,” Emmett explained, “but I think you can use it now.”

Franklin just stared at the box stupidly.

“Well, don’t just stand there! Open it!”

Franklin took off the lid. There was a small camera inside. He nearly fainted. He’d been begging Uncle Emmett to get him one of his own for at least a year. “Thank you,” he said breathlessly.

“I want you to take pictures of that world. And we can develop them here together.”

So Franklin had a cool gift and an even cooler secret shared with his favorite Uncle. He was beside himself with glee. He put down the box and gave Uncle Emmett a big hug. “Thank you so very much!”

4

That Monday after school Franklin skipped the afternoon games and went straight to the fence by the graveyard. He had the camera Uncle Emmett had given him and he also brought along his math notebook since there was going to be a quiz in class the next day. The first thing he did at the gate was check for his note. He’d left it where he’d hoped Avon would see it. The folded piece of paper was still there, but in a different place. Did that mean she’d written him back?

Franklin grabbed the note and quickly unfolded it. Yes, she had written back. He marveled at her penmanship. She had the neatest printing he’d ever seen, almost like a typewriter. He bet her teachers loved her.

Yeah, Franklin, I got so excited, I even forgot about church. I’ll see you on Monday. P.S. It’ll be easier to cross over this time now that you have something that I’ve touched. No need to bend over and stick your butt up in the air. Just close your eyes and think of me.

Avon

Just close your eyes and think of me... Franklin had to laugh at that line. It sounded like something out of one of those corny movies his mother and sisters liked to see. But he had to agree. Simply closing your eyes and thinking of someone was a heck of a lot easier than pretending you were about to run the 50 yard dash. And thinking of Avon was easy -- because he’d never really stopped.

So he sat down leaning against the fence with the note in hand and meditated on her flawless handwriting. In less than a minute, he heard her call his name. He turned to see her standing by the open gate, got up, and ran towards her.

“Hey Avon,” he said.

“Hey Franklin,” she said back. “I see you got my note.”

“Hey, it was my note first.”

She smiled. “I know.” Then: “How do you feel?”

“Okay..I guess.” He was somewhat confused by the question.

“I mean, if you feel queasy, or things start going out of focus again, you let me know right away.”

“I feel okay,” he reassured her.

Avon led him to the swings. There were a couple other girls there playing. This was the first time Franklin had seen other people in Avon’s universe. They appeared mostly solid, more solid than in his Uncle Emmett’s pictures, although they were a little smoky around the edges. One of them, a blonde haired girl with a long ponytail waved at him. He waved back and she smiled. So she could see him too.

“Hey Bev,” Avon said, “this is Franklin. See? Told you he was real.”

“Yep, I’m real,” Franklin confirmed.

A Black girl with short kinky hair in the swing next to Bev asked: “How come you talk funny?” There was something slightly off about her voice too, but Franklin couldn’t place his finger on what it was.

“Funny how?” he asked.

“Funny how,” the girl repeated, lowering her voice as much as she could and exaggerating his Southern accent.

Franklin shrugged. “That’s how I talk, I guess. Except my voice isn’t that low.”

“Yeah, it is,” the girl insisted.

“Their universe moves a tiny bit slower than ours,” Avon quickly explained.

Bev and her friend nodded and stared. Obviously people did not cross over often.

“What’s your name?” Franklin asked the Black girl on the swing, figuring maybe if he made an effort to be friendly, she’d stop staring at him so hard.

“Yolonda,” she replied, in her normal voice. So that’s what it was. She did kind of sound like a record playing at the wrong speed. But why didn’t Avon sound like that? Franklin guessed it was because of the Traveler thing again.

“Nice to meet you,” Franklin said, extending his hand.

Yolanda stared at it, but didn’t offer hers in return. In fact, she seemed a little scared.

“Well,” Bev said, standing, “we’ve got to go.”

Yolanda stood too and they both walked away as fast as they could.

Avon plopped down on one of the swings and motioned for Franklin to sit beside her. As soon as he sat down, he felt Avon’s dejection pass through him like an ill wind. “Well,” she sighed, “that was bad.”

“Your friends aren’t very friendly,” observed Franklin.

“They’re not really my friends,” Avon confessed. “I don’t have many friends outside my family. That’s why I spend so much time staring at you smoke children in the vacant lot. Not many people talk to me.”

“Smoke children?” asked Franklin.

“Yeah, when I first glimpsed your world all of you looked like you were partially hidden by smoke, so I started calling you smoke children in my head. So far you’re the only one who’s seen me.”

“My Uncle Emmett has seen your world. He even has pictures of it.”

“Really?” Avon asked excitedly.

“Yeah, maybe I can bring the album with me sometime. He took them a while ago. When this swing set was new. He has no pictures of people, though. No clear pictures anyway. He said he couldn’t talk to them.”

“He probably couldn’t cross over all the way. Very few people can. Especially full-blood humans.”

“So I’m special?”

Avon smiled. “Maybe you are.”

“Could you come to my world?” Franklin asked.

“Yeah, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ve heard your friends talk about the ghosts and monsters that hang around the graveyard.”

“But once they met and talked to you a bit, they’d see you were okay.” Franklin hesitated before his next question: “How come you don’t have any friends over here? You seem nice enough to me.”

“Lots of reasons. My father’s second in command and no one likes an officer’s brat. But mostly it’s because I’m part Traveler and I look weird.”

Franklin was silent. Avon did look weird, but she didn’t exactly look bad. He suddenly remembered the camera he was carrying. “Could I take your picture? I won’t show it to anyone but my Uncle Emmett. I have to show him because he’s the one who’s going to help me print it. But I told him all about you anyway.”

Avon lowered her eyes and sent him a blush. “I don’t know...”

“Please,” Franklin begged.

She nodded her ascent, and Franklin quickly shot the picture, praying the camera would catch what he saw: Avon sitting on the swing, smiling at him.

Actually Franklin shot a few more pictures after that, but Avon only let him shoot two of her. Mostly he took pictures of things around the school: the playground, the basketball court, the cars in the parking lot. Occasionally someone would notice him and wave, but mostly people ignored him. He wasn’t sure if it was because they couldn’t see him or because he was with Avon.

In a way, being ignored was good, because it gave him the chance to observe this new world scientifically. Though Avon’s world was superficially similar to his, there were several differences. One: in this world, Blacks and Whites went to school together and some even appeared to be friends. Two girls like Bev and Yolanda would never been seen sharing the same swing set back in his world unless they were too young to know any better or purposely wanted to rile up trouble. Maybe, in Avon’s world, being connected with the Sea Force trumped being Black or White. But even that was different than the world Franklin knew. Franklin’s Uncle Walter fought in World War Two and said the Black and White soldiers always stayed separate even though they were all Army. Two: girls wore pants a lot more. Avon was dressed in what appeared to be a white boys dress shirt and navy slacks. Very no nonsense. Nothing like the frilly girls back home. Three: the cars in the parking lot were much smaller, and quieter too.

Franklin kept taking pictures until he ran out of film. Then he remembered the math quiz he had the next day. “Hey Avon,” he asked, “can we go back to the fence?”

“Why?” Avon asked, sounding concerned. “Are you feeling sick?”

Franklin took a quick mental inventory. Surprisingly, he felt just fine. Everything was staying in focus and there was no queasiness. “No, I feel pretty good. It’s just that a have a quiz to study for tomorrow and probably should be getting home soon.”

“Okay,” Avon said sadly. “Do you need help studying? Math is the one thing I’m good at. Well, that and sports. Sports is the only reason the other kids talk to me I think.”

“Nope, I’m fine. I’m just worried about missing dinner and getting in trouble.”

“Not as much time has passed as you think,” Avon said.

“Well ... I’d just feel better if I was by the fence.”

Avon walked him back to the fence. Franklin looked for the vacant lot and he could see it with no problem. To his surprise, the lot was full of kids playing. He wasn’t late.

“See?” Avon said. “You have plenty of time.”

“How’s that possible?” asked Franklin.

“Like I told you before: your world moves a little slower.”

“Well, could I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

Franklin hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to ask what he wanted to ask without sounding ignorant. “How come Black and White kids go to school together in your world?”

Avon went silent for a while, like she was seriously stumped for an answer. “That is one thing I’ve noticed about your world. All the smoke children are brown. Although I can’t say I’ve seen much more of your world beyond the graveyard and vacant lot.” She furrowed her brow. “I guess we all go to this same school because at least one of our parents is in the Sea Force, but I don’t think it’s always been that way. Now the only people who go to school by themselves are Travelers, especially full-bloods. But I’m not sure if that’s by law or by choice. Things are supposed to be changing.”

“Things are supposed to be changing in my world too.” Franklin said. “But they change real slow.”

“I’ll ask my Mom about it,” Avon said.

Franklin shuffled his feet impatiently. He wished he could stay longer, but he really had to study. Avon had offered to help him with math, and she was practically an expert in this crossing over thing, but he was still worried he’d be late for dinner. “Avon,” he said, “I gotta go.”

“I know,” she said sadly. “When can I see you again?”

“Thursday.”

“Okay, Thursday.” Avon swung open the gate and Franklin found the vacant lot with no sickness, no trouble. He didn’t even have to concentrate very hard. All he had to do was think of home and stroll through a curtain of mist.

Well, imagine that, thought Franklin. Crossing over is as easy as breathing. I’m getting good at this. He couldn’t wait until dinner at Uncle Emmett’s next Sunday for a chance to develop those pictures.

5

Uncle Emmett was almost more excited about the pictures than Franklin. He rushed everyone through dinner and dishes before practically yanking his nephew into the darkroom with him.

“Emmett,” Franklin’s dad demanded, “what unholy fire’s gotten under your butt tonight?”

“Nothing,” Emmett replied. “I’ve just got a deadline and I promised Franklin here we were going to do his first roll of film tonight.”

Once they crossed into the inner sanctum, Uncle Emmett instructed Franklin on how to remove the exposed film from the camera, and prepare it for immersion into the first batch of chemicals.

“Did you take any pictures of your friend Avon?” he whispered excitedly, as the film was soaking.

Franklin frowned. “She only let me take one,” he replied forlornly. Then: “I think she thinks she’s ugly.”

“Sometimes I think all girls think they’re ugly as a matter of principle,” said Uncle Emmett. “Your sister whines she’s ugly and she’s always got boys chasing after her.”

Franklin just laughed. Rose claimed a different true love nearly every week.

“What else did you take pictures of?” Emmett asked.

“Same things you did. The school, the playground. I even took pictures of the parking lot. Their cars are a lot smaller than ours. And they’re real quiet...”

Emmett took the film out of the first bath and put it in another. “Interesting. I’m not sure how much smaller the cars I saw were when I was over there, but they were definitely quieter. Their engines didn’t rumble.”

Finally the negatives were finished and Uncle Emmett inspected them. “Well,” he said, “for your first roll, you didn’t do too badly. Most of these are in focus and there are no thumbs blocking any shots. And...it looks like the picture you took of your new friend came out.”

Franklin squinted to take a look. Since it was a negative, Avon’s midnight skin appeared almost transparent and her crisp white uniform shirt was a deep gray. Her hair was jet black. Her deep indigo eyes were large and almost see through.

Emmett printed that negative first and Avon’s image slowly materialized, smiling on the swing set, just how Franklin remembered it. The picture wouldn’t win him any prizes, but he was bursting with pride anyway. He couldn’t wait to show it to her. His first real photograph. And Avon didn’t look half bad either. “Uncle Emmett,” he asked excitedly, “could I have two of those?”

Uncle Emmett didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at the picture like he’d seen a ghost.

“Uncle, can I have two?” Franklin repeated. “Please?”

Emmett hung the first print up to dry, then grabbed another sheet of photo paper. Franklin noticed his hands shook ever so slightly, and he had the queerest expression on his face. He was clearly spooked by something. Did Avon’s appearance unnerve him that much?

“Uncle, what’s wrong?”

Emmett finished two more prints of Avon’s picture before he answered Franklin’s question -- with another question. “Have you ever heard tales of your great great aunt Sedona?”

Actually Franklin had heard the name whispered late one night at a family reunion long after he was supposed to be sleeping. His oldest relatives were playing cards around his Aunt Clara’s kitchen table, trading tall tales of Corcorans past. The name Sedona came up and there was a hot debate about whether she was a real Corcoran or not, or if she even existed. Aunt Roselle insisted Sedona was real, and not only that, she had magical powers, which made other relatives around the table cackle like there was no tomorrow. Roselle pounded the table and loudly asserted: She was real, y’all! As real as my here fist on this table!

Franklin asked his mother about the mysterious Sedona the next morning.

She’s somebody your father’s people don’t like to talk about, was the only explanation she offered.

“I heard her name once,” Franklin finally replied.

“Yeah, she’s part of the late night tales bunch,” explained Emmett. “The story is she was discovered as a teenager in the backwoods of Alabama somewhere, probably a runaway who’d gotten lost or left behind. Anyway, she was arrested and jailed while they searched for her owners, and when her original owners were never found, she was eventually resold to another plantation. That’s where she met your great great Uncle I-forget-his-name and married into the family. Supposedly she was as strong as an ox, as tall as a tree, and a strange sight to behold. Skin so dark it was literally black. Unusually large deep purple eyes. Hair whiter than bleached cotton.”

Emmett continued: “Your great great uncle got into some dispute with the master’s son and got beat real bad behind it. Sedona nursed his wounds, then took her revenge, killing both master and son with her bare hands. Of course after that, she and your great great uncle had to get the hell out of dodge. Sedona strapped your still ailing uncle to her back like a baby and hightailed it to the wilderness. The slave catchers caught her trail pretty quick and actually came within inches of capturing her, but she supposedly foiled them by stepping into a creek and vanishing into the night like a ghost.”

Franklin was silent for a while. It was a cool story, like something that would happen in a comic book, but no way could it be true. “What’s this got to do with Avon?” he asked.

“Maybe nothing,” replied Emmett, “but look at your friend here, and remember my description of Sedona. They’re an awful lot alike.”

“You got a picture of Sedona?”

“No, it was too long ago for that; photography was just getting started, and only rich or important people got photographed. But I do have a wanted poster with a fairly detailed drawing.”

Uncle Emmett went to the file cabinet, took out his key, opened the bottom drawer, and removed a large flat box with a lid. He cleared a space on his work table and opened the box, which was filled with several larger photographs, and carefully extracted a print from the middle of the stack, one of a classic wanted poster with a drawing of a woman who could have been Avon’s older sister.

Franklin was stunned. “Where did you find this?” he asked.

“In a church library in Mississippi, believe it or not. They wouldn’t let me touch the original -- it was far too old -- and I practically had to get on my knees and beg for them to let me take a picture of it. Old papers don’t take kindly to too much light. But Sedona’s story has always fascinated me, so when I got old enough to research it on my own, I did.”

Franklin read the poster. Obviously the authorities thought Sedona was plenty dangerous. She was wanted dead or alive and the bounty on her head was a cool $500 either way. That was probably the equivalent of thousands of dollars in the present day. Who’d ever thought he’d be related to someone so notorious?

“How come you never tell anyone else about this stuff?” he asked.

“Some things are best kept to yourself,” Uncle Emmett replied. “In fact, if you hadn’t run into this Avon, I probably wouldn’t have told you.”

Franklin was a bit perplexed, as well as hurt. He thought his favorite uncle told him everything. “But why wouldn’t you have told me? It’s not like Sedona can hurt me. She’s not even alive anymore.”

Uncle Emmett heaved a heavy sigh before he replied. “She doesn’t set a good example, for one thing. You can’t go around willy-nilly killing people, even when they’ve hurt you or someone you love -- especially when they’ve got power over you. And unfortunately, my dear Franklin, sometimes folks don’t take kindly to people or situations they don’t understand -- even if they’re long gone.”

Franklin recalled that first pang of loneliness Avon sent him. “I get the feeling that’s the way things work in Avon’s universe too. She’s real lonely.”

Uncle Emmett smiled, leaned over, and kissed Franklin’s forehead. “Well then: it’s a good thing she met you ‘cause you have a heart of gold.”

They finished printing the rest of the negatives. Avon’s portrait was the best of the lot, as most of the other pictures were either too dark, too light, or crooked. Franklin’s heart sank as his uncle hung each print to dry. At this rate, he’d never be as good as him.

“I know they aren’t perfect,” Uncle Emmett said gently, “but don’t worry. You’ll get better with practice. Maybe when school’s out, we can go and take pictures together.”

“Okay,” Franklin sighed.

Uncle Emmett returned the large box with Sedona’s wanted poster to his file cabinet’s secret drawer. They were just about to leave the darkroom when Franklin asked one last question: “Uncle, do you think I’ve got some Traveler in me? Avon seems to think so.”

“Well,” Emmett mused thoughtfully, “she and Sedona do look an awful lot alike...” Then his voice trailed off and he left it at that.

Franklin had an inkling his uncle knew for sure, but didn’t want to tell him just yet.

Emmett opened the door and the two of them stepped into the light. “I’ll drop off your pictures later this week,” he said. Then he added in a whisper: “Let me know if there are any new developments.”

This story was written in response to a “Grab Bag” prompt.

Grab Bag is a game one of the members of my online writing group invented. It’s designed to break through writing block or to get oneself out of a creative rut. The group decides on a general theme  — say, “Stories for Pride Month” — and then places the following items in a virtual hat: assorted seed images like old photographs or drawings, assorted genres (romance, mystery, steampunk, horror, fantasy) settings, and any other category members find interesting. (Like this month the virtual hat contained every letter representing Queer Nation: LGBTQIA+)

So … I pulled the image below, romance for the genre, present day/near future, university campus for period and setting, and T for my letter and conjured up a tale of geeks in love.

I figured we all needed a break from the madness.

A Happy Accident

I met the love of my life all because of a misdirected text. I’d meant to text my friend Mark, a post-doc in neurobiology. Me, Mark, and his girlfriend Sue, a post-doc in clinical psychology, had been discussing plans for a proposed interdisciplinary winter session course and I’d attached a rough syllabus. “Hey Mark,” I wrote. “How’s this for a start? Any more suggestions for the reading list?”

Instead, my message landed in the Math department.

That evening, my phone dinged. “I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number. I’m not Mark; I’m Toren. Although if you don’t mind, I’d like to audit this course if it fits into my schedule … provided it even gets approved.”

I had to chuckle at that last line. Toren was right. Approval was a long shot. Mark, Sue, and I were stoned off our asses when we dreamed up the concept. It all started when I made some offhand comment about how many innovative works of literature were written under the influence. Then Sue idly wondered if there were certain structural similarities between works written under the influence of various classes of drugs. “Like is there a difference between magic mushroom literature and say … the literature of crystal meth?”

Mark scoffed at the mention of meth. “Honey, I assure you nobody has written great literature while taking meth. That stuff eats brain cells for lunch. I’ve seen enough brain scans. I ought to know.”

“Yeah, but Kerouac wrote under the influence of benzedrine,” I countered.

“Benzedrine and meth are two different animals,” Mark argued.

Anyway: we kept talking and by three that morning we’d drafted a rough proposal for a winter session course that would take students on a brief tour through hallucinogenic literature, alcoholic literature, and the literature of cocaine. How did each class of drugs affect the brain, and how did the altered brain affect things like grammar, character development, and plot? We figured the subject matter was tantalizing enough for us to make minimum enrollment. It was a thoroughly unserious idea, but it felt profound at the time.

I replied to Toren: “My bad. Sorry to disturb you.” And I thought that would be the end of it.

Instead Toren texted back: “I’m hardly disturbed. I’m intrigued. So are you Dr. Sue Stark … or are you Mederra Southland?”

I hesitated. Did I really want to tell this Toren my name? I shrugged. Why not? I figured he -- because somehow Toren felt like a he -- wasn’t a total cretin because he texted in complete sentences and so far, he hadn’t misspelled anything. “I’m Mederra.”

“The English grad student. Are you pursuing a doctorate?”

“No,” I typed back, “an MFA.”

“What’s your area of concentration?” Toren asked.

“Dude!” I typed back with mock indignation. “You’re asking a lot of questions!” I added a winking smile emoji so he would know I was only kidding.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I am being nosy. I’m just waiting for the shuttle to East Campus. It’s late and I’m bored.”

I laughed. The shuttles were always late in the evening. That’s when most of the grown-up drivers went home and the work study students took over. “Apology accepted. May I ask you some questions then? Turnabout is fair play.”

“Yes,” replied Toren. “It would help pass the time.”

“What’s your full name and what are you studying?” I typed.

“Toren McDonald. I’m pursuing an interdisciplinary doctorate in mathematics and computer technology. I’m interested in predictive analytics, virtual reality, and artificial intelligence.”

Huh. I was not expecting that. “Why are you headed to East Campus? That’s not where the math department is.”

“I’m going to the music building. I have some time reserved in the Synth studio.”

I immediately felt a pang of jealousy. The university had an electronic music studio stocked with everything from vintage theremins to the latest AI orchestral instrument software. Thing was, when I tried to book some time in there, I was told I either had to be an undergraduate Music major or grad student in Music Composition. Toren was neither. Although he did mention something about AI, so maybe that’s how he snuck in. It all seemed tenuous to me.

“How’d you swing that?” I wrote back. “I’ve been trying to book time there for a year.”

Toren responded with a smirking devil face emoji and wrote, “I have my ways.”

I was just about to ask him what he meant by that when he texted, “Shuttle’s finally here. Nice chatting with you. Good luck corrupting the youth.”

***

I went to the library to grade Freshman Composition papers, and then I walked to the edge of West Campus to catch the city bus to head to Sue and Mark’s apartment for dinner. When I arrived, Mark and Sue greeted me at the door with a glass of champagne.

“What’s this?” I asked.

Sue started squirming like she had a delicious secret she was dying to spill. I also noticed her eyes were slightly red, like she’d been crying. I guess they’d been happy tears? She glanced at Mark.

“My study got funded,” Mark announced, trying not to smile too goofily. “I got the grant.”

I rushed to hug him, spilling some champagne on the floor in the process. “Mark, baby, that’s wonderful!”

Sue made a toast; we clumsily clinked glasses, and then Mark said, “I guess that means the course is off. I’m not going to have the time.”

“It’s no skin off my teeth,” I said. “I doubt they were going to approve it anyway.”

“Yeah,” Sue agreed, “I could just see some Karen parent calling the university to complain. You’re grooming my kid to take illegal substances!”

We laughed and finished the rest of our champagne. Then Mark asked, “Hey! Wasn’t somebody supposed to text me a mock syllabus? I definitely needed a laugh today. Because up until I got the news about the grant, my day was total shit.”

“Actually,” I said, “I thought I had, but my fat fingers must’ve slipped because I wound up texting this guy in the math department instead.” I paused, then glanced at the computer on Sue’s desk in the corner of the living room. “Which reminds me…” I went to Sue’s keyboard and typed in the web address for the university directory.

“Who are you looking up?” asked Sue.

“Toren McDonald,” I replied. “He’s the guy I sent Mark’s text to. We had a short conversation and I’d like to know what he looks like because he was kind of interesting.”

Soon Toren’s face and CV appeared on the screen. By then, Mark and Sue were standing behind me, looking over my shoulder.

“Wow,” the three of us said, almost in unison.

Toren Grayson McDonald was a 22 year old Mason Pierce Scholar. The Mason Pierce Scholarship was the most prestigious award for incoming graduate students; at most only three were awarded a year. Part of the application process was an interview with the billionaire alumnus himself. Pierce Scholars got four years full tuition and fees (including books) and housing. They had a comfortable monthly stipend and didn’t have to teach undergraduate classes. They also had the run of the entire campus and had access to any resource in any discipline so long as they could justify it as necessary to their research. This probably explained why Toren had access to the Synth lab when I didn’t. I have my ways. Indeed.

Toren most assuredly deserved the award. They (yeah, that was their preferred pronoun, they) had been something of a prodigy, publishing their first paper at the tender age of 16, and they’d already amassed a publication list rivaling that of some junior faculty members. They had also written some proprietary software for a hedge fund in New York when they were only 20.

And to top all that, they were almost preternaturally good-looking. The black and white headshot showed a clean-shaven Black man (Woman? Neither?) with lusciously smooth medium dark skin, prominent cheekbones, and soulful eyes. In their photo Toren looked more like a romantic lead than a mathematician.

“That has to be the best looking nerd I’ve seen in my life,” Sue declared.

“Were they nice?” Mark asked me.

I shrugged. “I guess so. They wanted to audit our course -- if it got approved. They thought it sounded interesting.”

“Are you going to text them again?” Sue asked, her tone strongly suggesting that I should.

I wasn’t sure, though I have to admit I was tempted. “They probably aren’t expecting to hear from me anymore. I mean, I only texted them by accident. Besides: what if they turn out to be gay?”

“So?” Susan said grinning. “Then you may just make yourself an interesting friend. You have the opportunity to turn this into a happy accident either way.”

And maybe, I thought, Toren could use some of that Mason Pierce magic to grab me some studio time. If they couldn’t wrangle me my own slot, perhaps I could piggyback on one of theirs. Not that I had any time for the studio, mind you. Between wall to wall workshops, hundreds of pages of assigned reading and writing, and two sections of freshman English, I barely had time to breathe. Still, I needed a little excitement, and Toren could be it.

***

I sent a text during breakfast the next morning. “Good morning, Toren. Mederra again.”

Their reply came almost immediately. “What a pleasant surprise! I was tempted to text you again, but didn’t know if I would be overstepping. Did you and your friends submit your course proposal?”

“LOL Hell no. I don’t think we were all that serious.”

Toren wrote: “It certainly looked serious. I mean you wrote an entire syllabus.”

“I was stoned and manic,” I typed back -- and immediately regretted it. I didn’t want them to think I was a pothead.

“Just as well,” replied Toren. “It was probably a parental lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Would you like to meet for lunch?” they wrote.

I stopped breathing for a minute. This was turning out to be much easier than I thought. “What time? I have classes until 11:15 and I have a critique group at 2:00.”

“Noon … at the Lounge on West Campus?”

“Fine,” I replied. And that was that.

When I arrived at the Lounge a little before noon, I had no trouble spotting the debonair mathematician. They were seated alone in a corner booth, typing on their laptop, dressed in a navy power suit like they had a job interview. Fuck! I thought. I hope they didn’t get dressed up for me. I looked down at my jeans and loose sweater and felt slovenly. Well. It was too late to do anything about it now, so I took a deep breath and started towards the booth.

Toren saw me coming, shut their laptop, and looked up. “Mederra,” they said in a soothing alto laced with honey and Southern charm, “you are right on time.”

I sat across from them. “Toren,” I said, extending my hand, “nice to meet you.”

When they shook my hand, I noticed they were wearing a wide copper band on their index finger. “The pleasure is all mine.”

The pleasure is all mine. What sort of 22 year old says that? I must’ve had a quizzical look on my face because Toren asked: “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I said, smiling, “of course not.” Then I added: “I hope you didn’t get dressed up for me.”

Toren smiled and those honey brown eyes came alive. “No, I had to meet with Mason Pierce this morning. He wanted to check on how I was settling in.”

I didn’t get the impression Toren name dropped Pierce to brag. They were simply telling me about their day so far. Plus, they probably assumed I’d looked them up in the university directory. Still, I wasn’t sure how to respond. “That must’ve been nerve wracking,” I finally said.

“It wasn’t bad. I’d already had a video interview with him before I was admitted to the doctoral program. And I can talk about math, coding, AI, and computers all day. It’s only the everyday stuff I have difficulty with.”

Silence.

“What would you like to eat?” Toren asked. “I have a meal card and can take care of both of us.”

“Any kind of muffin except bran and a coffee,” I replied.

“That’s all?” he asked, surprised.

I nodded.

They slid out of the booth and stood. That’s when I realized how tall they were. They had to be at least six two. I also noticed how impeccably their suit fit. Either they had access to a good tailor or one of those perfect bodies made to look good in anything. I watched them walk to the counter and order. They had the perfect posture and graceful stride of a ballet dancer.

After a few minutes, they returned with a full tray. I grabbed my lemon-poppyseed muffin and coffee. Toren also brought back cream, two packets of every variety of artificial sweetener the Lounge stocked, along with two sugar packets.

I gestured at the cream and wealth of sweeteners. “You certainly believe in covering all the bases.”

“You didn’t tell me how you take your coffee, and I’m a little nervous, so I forgot to ask. So I just took two of everything so you could choose.”

I smiled. “You’re nervous?”

Toren lowered their eyes. “Yes, I am. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never asked a total stranger out to lunch.”

“Never in your whole life? I don’t believe that,” I teased. Then I realized that might sound patronizing, so I added: “If anything, I should be nervous meeting you. You’re fucking brilliant.”

Toren lowered their eyes and blushed. They looked incredibly young at that moment, and of course, they were. Despite the formal bearing, they were only 22.

“You’re not bad yourself,” Toren said. “I read your short story collection last night.”

Huh. So they had researched me too, and gone the extra mile. “Thank you.” Then I added: “How was your time in the Synth lab?”

Toren visibly relaxed. “I didn’t do much. I just wanted to check out what they had. It’s an impressive collection.”

“Do you need the studio for a research project?”

“Tangentially,” they cryptically replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not using music in my research directly, but playing it helps keep my brain loose. I had a studio at home in Professor Don’s house, but I couldn’t bring everything here with me. My apartment is too small.”

“What kind of music do you like?” I asked.

“When doing pure mathematics, any kind of hard EDM. The more layers of rhythm and noise, the better.”

Somehow Toren didn’t strike me as the sort who’d like that apoplectic cacophony that always made me feel like I’d stuck my head inside a meat grinder. “Why?” I asked, genuinely perplexed.

“The practice of mathematics is very visual for me,” they explained, “and that relentless wall of rhythm and noise helps me see the most vibrant colors.”

“You see math as color? Do you have synesthesia?” I asked.

They were genuinely overjoyed that I’d grokked their meaning … and on the first try. “Yes!” they replied enthusiastically, practically humming with excitement. “It’s not as strong as it was when I was younger. Back then, I’d spend hours performing calculations in my head and hallucinating at will.”

I didn’t quite know what to say to that (although I was tempted to say it was cool because I thought it was) so I asked them who Professor Don was instead.

Big mistake. All that wild, boyish, electric energy suddenly collapsed in on itself like a black hole. I’d hit a tender spot. “He’s the closest thing I have to a father,” Toren wistfully replied. “I barely remember my real one.”

“Why? Did he pass away?” I asked.

“I’m not sure if he died or he just left. My mother too. I barely remember what she looked like. I went into foster care when I was three. Professor Don finally adopted me when I was nine. He saved my life more than a little bit.”

I was tempted to grasp their hand, but I didn’t want them to think I was pitying them, so I just nodded and said, “This Professor Don sounds like a good man.”

“He is.”

Silence.

I snuck a glance at my phone to check the time. I only had a few minutes before I had to leave to get my game face on for critique group. “Toren,” I asked, “do you think I could come into the studio with you sometime?”

At first they seemed confused by my request. “Sure,” they replied, “but be warned: I get sessions at odd times because I’m not in the music department. Do you play music?”

“Yeah, I played in a band back in undergrad. Even tried to DJ once.”

“I thought you might have more than a passing interest in music. It figures prominently in your short stories.”

“It does. Sometimes I make playlists for inspiration, to get the feel for a setting. I once made a playlist of sexy murder ballads.” I figured since Toren had told me about hallucinating at will, they could handle my murder ballad playlist.

It didn’t faze them one bit. “I have a session booked this Saturday at 8 AM,” they offered.

“Man, that’s early,” I groaned.

“But are you interested? We can meet, and have breakfast afterwards.” Their wide smile revealed a dimple.

Hot damn, I thought, a second date.

Later, when Sue quizzed me about my lunch with Toren, I was noncommittal. I told her we had a pleasant, but brief, meal because I had critique group that afternoon and I had to get mentally prepared to submit my work for slaughter. Then I told her about our planned second date at the Synth studio Saturday morning and breakfast afterwards.

“But is there any potential?” she asked, the word potential laden with innuendo.

I mulled it over. “For friendship, yes. For more, I don’t know.”

***

Even though one of my English 101 sections met at 8:00 two mornings a week, I still considered it an insanely early hour to have to be anywhere, especially on the weekends. Still, that Saturday I forced myself out of bed, into the shower, and out the door to catch the 7:30 shuttle so I could get to the music building on time.

Toren arrived on another shuttle a few minutes later. Though they were dressed more casually than they had been at lunch, they weren’t exactly what I’d call casual. The ecru mandarin collar shirt looked freshly pressed and was tucked inside jeans which also looked like they might have been pressed. Their sneakers were impeccably clean and almost blindingly white.

I said good morning, then jokingly asked, “Are you a Virgo?”

My query confused them. “I don’t know. I don’t believe in astrology, so I’m not sure of my sign. Why do you ask?”

“You always look so well put together.”

They gave themself the once over and shrugged. “Thank you. I guess.”

Toren first stopped in the music library to return a book and then we took two flights of stairs up to the Synth studio.

“Holy crap!” I exclaimed as I crossed the threshold. “They’ve got everything in here!”

“Yes, everything from early analog to the latest digital.”

“I can see why they don’t just let anyone in,” I said.

Toren walked over to something that looked like an abstract ice sculpture and powered it up. After a brief warmup, the sculpture pulsed the colors of the rainbow. Toren position themself, closed their eyes, then moved their hands in a graceful arc around the sculpture, their gestures effortlessly fluid. The sculpture sang a haunting melody in response. Yep, I decided, they’d definitely had some dance training.

“That’s the fanciest theremin I’ve ever seen,” I remarked.

“Technically, it’s not a theremin; it’s a custom playable sculpture called The Tears of God. I like the tone. Airy, otherworldly. Almost like a bowed psaltery and about as far from cheap horror movie soundtrack as you can get. There were only a few of them made.” Toren closed their eyes and continued playing, their hands coaxing sounds out of thin air like magic.

Just when I thought Toren was about to float away and forget me, they opened their eyes and asked, “Would you like to play something?”

I responded with nervous laughter. “I can fart around on a theremin and make weird noises, but I can’t actually play anything.”

That’s when Toren casually took my hand and guided me into position. The Tears made some breathy random sighs in response to our movement. I have to admit I felt a certain thrill when they touched me, but I tried not to read too much into it, since I barely knew them. I wasn’t sure if this counted as a date, even though I very much wanted it to. Besides, I reminded myself, this was someone too nervous to ask something as simple as how I liked my coffee.

“Let me guide you in playing a basic scale,” they said. “You’ll have to practice to determine the exact positioning for you.”

Practice? Did that mean they planned to share a session with me again?

They guided my hand with the lightest touch, as they recited the names of the notes. The pitch was slightly wonky, probably because there were two people trying to control the instrument at the same time.

Toren stepped away. “Now you try.”

I tried and … surprise, surprise … I did fairly well. I wasn’t as graceful as them, though.

After that, they gave me a quick tour of the rest of the studio and I played around with the software instruments a bit. At 9:00 Toren announced it was time to go. “Sorry. Short session today. Sometimes the weekend is heavily booked and despite the privilege being a Pierce Scholar affords me, I’m still at the bottom of the pecking order.”

We shut everything down and walked to a diner just off campus to have breakfast.

Breakfast lasted for three hours. We talked about everything and anything. I found out Toren got bullied a lot as a kid (“mostly for being too smart, too tall, and too strange”) and was homeschooled during high school. And they did have some dance training, although it wasn’t ballet, but ballroom.

“Ballroom?” I said. “Why?”

“Professor Don insisted I do one group activity to sharpen my social skills because left to my own devices, I was a dedicated recluse. I chatted with people online, but that was about it. In fact, I was such a hermit that if Professor Don wanted to punish me, grounding was out of the question. Instead he’d make me go to a party or something with people where he knew I’d be miserable. I also hated organized sports, even though I loved the outdoors and went hiking often. So: he suggested dance lessons because he knew I liked music. At first I felt pretty stupid, but eventually I warmed to it. I even casually competed for a short while.”

“My parents tortured me with Junior Achievement,” I said. “I’d been writing ever since I learned how to make letters on paper, but they tried hard to train the artist out of me, to get me to do something practical.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Toren said, “because you’re good.”

I blushed. “But I’ll probably never be rich.”

Toren smiled. “Never say never.”

We stayed at the diner so long that our server started giving us the stank eye because we’d been hogging the booth and we hadn’t spent much money. So Toren got the check and paid (despite my objections) and left an absurdly generous tip.

We walked back to East Campus where I caught a shuttle to West Campus to hit the library. “I had a nice time,” I told them before we parted. “Even if I did have to get up at the crack of dawn.”

Toren blushed, looked down at the sidewalk, then at me. “I had a nice time too, Mederra. Text me when you get a chance.”

***

I did. And for the next few weeks we met in the Synth studio every Saturday at 8. All these sessions were two hours long, so we weren’t as rushed as we were the first time. I gravitated towards the latest software instruments while Toren devoted their time to mastering the Tears of God. They progressed quickly, inventing new tunings, coaxing ever more complex sounds from the instrument. Often, I’d watch them out of the corner of my eye, immersed in their own private world of sound and color, and looking damn good while doing it.

After the studio there was always breakfast, which lasted til late morning. We always got the same server, and after the first time, she never gave us any grief about hogging the booth because Toren always tipped her extravagantly. Plus, Toren gave her some eye candy to brighten her morning.

During breakfast Toren and I talked about our studies, our childhoods, current events -- you name it. Despite the initial weirdness, it was super easy to talk to them. Sue had been right. My clumsy fingers had led to a happy accident.

Now, I knew we’d be friends from the first time we met, but I also knew I wanted something more. (After all, that delectable headshot in the directory was the major reason why I decided to text Toren again.) At first, I feared my feelings were unrequited, but it turns out we were both wary of making the first move.

We had this routine after breakfast. We’d linger in front of the diner, and I’d tell Toren how I had a nice time. Then they’d blush, tell me the same, and afterwards, there’d stretch a gnawing silence, laden with all those things we wished we could say.

But one Saturday it was different. The silence barely lasted two seconds before Toren moved closer, grabbed my hand, and squeezed it. I was startled, and for a few moments all I could do is stare stupidly at the sight of our hands entwined. Shit Mederra, I thought, do something! So I stood on my tip toes and kissed them. Or maybe they kissed me. Anyway, when we came up for air a minute later, I could see our server through the window giving us a thumbs up.

But that one kiss exhausted all our nerve. “Uh…well…okay,” we stammered in unison. I swear: it was like high school all over again.

Then Toren asked, “Are you headed towards the main library? I have to pick up a book.”

“Uh…yes…” I replied.

Toren took my hand in theirs. “Good,” they said. “We can walk together.”

***

After that lurch of progress, there was barely any more. Oh, we spent more time together -- well, as much time as we could when we both had work up to our eyeballs. Toren saw the inside of my apartment, and I saw the inside of theirs (theirs was cramped, but newer and nicer) and we had epic make-out sessions on each other’s couches, but try as I might, I couldn’t get them to spend the night and they never offered when we went to their place.

“It’s fucking frustrating,” I whispered to Sue as we shared a bottle of wine in her kitchen.

It was the end of the semester and Sue and Mark had invited us over for dinner and drinks. It was the first time Sue had seen Toren and I together as a couple for any length of time.

Toren and Mark hit it off right away. They were in the living room deep in discussion about their respective research projects, geeking out about arcane left brain stuff.

“Have you tried talking to them about it?” Sue asked. “Because it’s not like they're not into you.”

I hedged. “Well...uh...”

Sue frowned, then topped off her glass. “Mederra, you’re gonna have to woman up and use your words if you want information.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I groaned. “But seriously, what do you think is wrong?”

“Nothing has to be wrong. Maybe they just want to go slow. If that’s what it is, then you need to decide if they’re worth waiting for. (And if you want my two cents, I most definitely think they are.) Who knows? Maybe they’re a virgin.”

I giggled. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe not. I mean, they’re just 22 and they’ve already accomplished more than I have and I’m pushing 30. Maybe they just didn’t have the time for trivial pursuits.”

“Now you’re just grasping at straws,” I said.

“Be patient,” said Sue.

***

Toren’s birthday was the day after Christmas, over Winter Break. I was going to spend the holidays with an aunt who lived near the university; Toren was headed home to Professor Don. But I wanted to do something nice for their birthday and the holidays before we left town.

Turns out they already had something in mind. “Would you like to go to Pop-up Ballroom with me?”

“What, pray tell, is Pop-up Ballroom?” I asked.

“It’s a pop-up ballroom dance event,” Toren replied. “It takes place roughly every six to eight weeks. People get dressed up and strut their stuff. I haven’t been since the one in September.”

“I know nothing about ballroom dancing,” I said.

“You don’t have to,” Toren assured me. “Beginners are welcome. Besides: you’ll have me.”

“This is what you want to do for your birthday?” I asked, hoping they’d change their mind.

“Well, if you really object, we can do something else, but...”

“You really want to do this.”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

“Great.” They thanked me with a crushing hug.

“How dressed up do I have to be?” I asked. I had stepped up my fashion game since we’d been dating (I had to; Toren always dressed immaculately, even when they were being casual) but I knew I had nothing remotely appropriate for something called Pop-up Ballroom.

“Wear something luminous and memorable,” they replied. Then:“I’ve never seen you in a dress.”

Well, I’ve never seen you in one, either. “You’re gonna make me go shopping,” I groaned.

“One more thing,” Toren added. “This event is queer friendly. I trust that won’t be a problem for you?”

“No,” I replied, somewhat confused. I obviously didn’t have a problem with them, so why would I have a problem with anyone else?

Toren hugged me again and kissed my cheek. “Thank you,” they said.

***

The next morning I called Sue in a semi-panic. Thank god she and Mark were still in town. “Sue,” I said, “we’ve got to go shopping. It’s an emergency.”

She just laughed. “An emergency you say? Did you forget someone’s gift?”

“Not exactly,” I replied. “Toren wants to go to something called Pop-up Ballroom for their birthday and they wanted me to wear something ‘luminous and memorable’.”

“That’s that hoity-toity ballroom thing, right?”

Hoity-toity ballroom thing? Well, that certainly didn’t put me at ease. “I guess that’s the one.”

“I’d have never guessed Toren would be into something like that. It seems so old-fashioned.”

“Well, it can’t be too old fashioned,” I said. “They said the event is queer friendly.”

Sue said: “You definitely do need to go shopping. This is the sort of event where folks go to make an impression and I’ve seen your closet. Everything you own is boring.”

“Is this going to be expensive?” I whined.

“It doesn’t have to be. There’s a few good second-hand stores in town.”

It took us a few hours, but eventually we did find something that wouldn’t send me to the poorhouse: a taupe tea length dress with a fitted lace bodice with a nice, full skirt made for twirling. Sue lent me a pair of taupe kitten heel pumps to match.

“Let me know how it goes,” Sue said excitedly, just before she left. “I want details.”

On the big night I spent two hours getting dolled up. Though I began the process feeling grumpy, by the end I was feeling good. I took one final glance in the mirror and thought I cleaned up quite nicely. If this didn’t net me a sleepover, I didn’t know what would.

Since the event was beyond campus and public transportation, Toren borrowed a car for the weekend. We’d have dinner first, then travel to the big event. As I sat on my couch, biding my time, it occurred to me I hadn’t been on a date this formal since prom. And there it was: that high school feeling again.

Toren arrived precisely on time. I buzzed them in the building, then paced in circles around the living room until they arrived. When they rang the bell, I smoothed my skirt, then took a final deep breath before opening the door. Here goes nothing, I thought.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” Toren said back. Then, I swear they stopped breathing for several seconds. “Mederra, you look positively stunning.”

Inside my head I was jumping up and down like an idiot, but outwardly, I played it cool. It was one of the few instances Toren had complimented me on my looks. Usually, they praised my intelligence. That was all well and good, but way too politically correct to be romantic. “Thank you.”

I couldn’t see their outfit, save for the black pants, the long double-breasted wool coat, and I thought I spotted the barest hint of smoky eyeshadow. You’d think the eyeshadow would’ve thrown me, since it was the first time I’d seen them wear makeup (I’d noticed some in their bathroom, but so far, they hadn’t worn any) but no, it really fit. “You’re looking quite delectable yourself,” I said. “Let me get my coat.”

We splurged on dinner at a seafood restaurant in the city we’d been meaning to try. That’s when I finally got to see Toren’s full ensemble complete with a black velvet suit jacket, a gold quilted vest, and a champagne silk shirt. And, as usual, all of it fit like it was custom made.

“Where do you buy your clothes?” I asked. I was also tempted to ask how much money they spent, but figured that would be rude.

“A friend in college designed this for me. It was his final project. He’ll be at the event tonight.”

I asked: “He was in fashion design?”

“Yes. I modeled for him and helped him pass his required math course so he could graduate.”

Mathematician and fashion muse, I thought. That’s an unusual combination. “I learn something new about you everyday.”

“Well,” Toren said, smiling, “I do hate to be boring.”

I had planned to pay for dinner, seeing as the night was supposed to be my birthday and Christmas gift to them, but Toren insisted on paying half. “I made you get dressed up, and I’m dragging you out dancing,” they said. “It’s the least I can do.”

I squeezed their hand. “No, it’s fine.”

Pop-up Ballroom was in a converted church just beyond city limits. The parking lot was nearly full when we arrived and there was a line of people waiting to get in. As soon as I got out of the car and got a better look at the crowd, I felt more at ease. When Sue referred to Pop-up Ballroom as hoity-toity, I feared it would be a bunch of stuck up yuppies on a night out, but no, it was more like a formal cosplay convention. I saw formal fairies, goths, steampunk, and princesses.

“This is not what I expected at all,” I whispered to Toren. “I mean, we’re like the most conservatively dressed people here.”

“Mederra,” Toren said, “I wouldn’t take you anyplace boring.”

The line moved quickly and was halfway up the ramp when Toren and I took our places. One of the women just ahead of us in line recognized Toren. She had sparkly rainbow hair and iridescent fairy wings poking out from under her cape.

“Hey Toren!” she said enthusiastically. “Where have you been?” She stood on her tiptoes to give them a hug.

“I warned you you wouldn’t be seeing much of me once school started,” Toren explained. Then, he introduced me: “Hyacinth, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Mederra.”

We shook hands and then Hyacinth introduced Toren and me to her girlfriend Thea, a wispy pale woman who looked like a sexy ghost, clad from head to toe in pearly white.

Hyacinth and Toren continued chatting until we paid the entrance fee and got our hands stamped and coats checked. Then Hyacinth and Thea left to join some other friends and Toren showed me to our table. “Would you like something from the bar?” they asked. “I’m not having anything because I’m driving, but you’re welcome to anything you want.”

“Just wine,” I replied.

“Any kind in particular?”

I smiled. “You choose.”

I watched Toren wend their way through the crowd. Occasionally someone would stop them to share a hug and a few words. For once Toren seemed thoroughly at ease. Oh, they still had that perfect posture and ballet walk, but there was a lightness to their step I hadn’t seen before. Toren was with their people and they were happy. That night they’d brought me fully into their world. That’s when I realized just how serious they were about me.

Pop-up Ballroom was like any upscale nightclub, except the DJ played better music, that music wasn’t ear-shatteringly loud, and the couples actually danced with each other. And when I say dance, I mean dances with actual steps. Toren said beginners were welcome, but so far, every couple I’d seen on the floor looked like pros.

I was busy watching two men in matching cream zoot suits samba when a man dressed like a flamboyant Sherlock Holmes approached the table. Toren was still in line at the bar. “Are you Mederra Southland? Toren’s friend?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “Who are you?”

“I’m Xavier, a friend of Toren’s from college. I’ve heard a lot about you. Mind if I sit?”

He looked like he was ready to sit anyway, no matter what I said. “Sure.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked as he sat beside me.

“I just got here,” I said. “I’m having fun watching all the people and feeling intimidated.”

Xavier raised an eyebrow. “Intimidated? Why?”

“Everyone I’ve seen on the floor so far is really good.”

“You’re a beginner?”

“I’m not even that far along,” I confessed. “I’m basically here because Toren wanted to come for their birthday.”

“It’s not that hard really… And this is a no judgement zone.”

“How can you be so sure people won’t judge anyway?” I asked.

“If they get too judgey, I just kick them out. I’m one of the organizers.”

“Oh,” I said laughing, “so you’re the boss.”

“Well, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah you did,” I teased. “So … you say you knew Toren in college?”

“Yeah, I owe my degree to them. They are the only reason I passed pre-calculus.”

“You’re the fashion designer!” I exclaimed.

“Only in my spare time. I’m primarily an event planner now. That’s how I make money. The real world bites.”

“You do good work,” I said. “Toren’s wearing one of your creations tonight.”

“They were an endless source of inspiration. The most fashionable geek I’ve ever seen. Must be that Southern upbringing, you know, the cult of the Southern gentleman. Are you a mathematical genius fashionista as well? Your dress is lovely. Very classic.”

I blushed. “Thank you. But I’m not a math fashionista. I’m getting an MFA.”

“Oh yes,” said Xavier, “I remember now. Toren said you were a writer — and a musician.”

“Guilty on both counts.”

Just then Toren returned with our drinks: a glass of white wine for me, some cranberry juice and seltzer for them. Toren set the drinks on the table and Xavier rose to greet them with a hug and kisses on both cheeks. The kisses, though innocent, made me a teensy bit jealous.

“Glad you could make it,” Xavier said. “Now I guess I’ll leave you two alone.” He glanced at me. “Nice meeting you, Mederra.” Then back to Toren. “Save a dance for me,” he whispered. And then he was off.

“What did he mean, save a dance for me?” I asked.

Toren smiled. “It means he wants me to help him show off, nothing more. You’re not jealous, are you?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

They squeezed my hand. “Don’t be.”

“I notice you seem really happy tonight,” I said.

“I am,” Toren confirmed. “This is one of my happy places. Here I can just relax and be me. There’s no pressure to be the smartest in the room.”

I thought it odd they would worry about something like that, especially when most likely they were always the smartest person in the room. I asked, “You don’t feel that pressure with me, do you?”

“No Mederra,” they replied. “You’re my happy place too.”

After drinks, Toren finally got me onto the floor. Our first few dances felt to me like an unmitigated disaster, but Toren was an unusually patient teacher, and by the end of the night, I wasn’t exactly cutting a rug, but neither was I tripping over our feet. Xavier breezed by again and he and I did a passable waltz. Hyacinth dropped by and she and I shared a dance too. Then Xavier and Toren did a routine that cleared the floor. Seems to me they both enjoyed showing off. They were so much fun to watch I forgot to be jealous. All in all: good times.

Toren and I walked back to the car holding hands. “Thank you for making me go dancing,” I said.

“See?” they said. “That wasn’t too bad.”

“It was good to meet some of your friends.”

“Would you like to go again?” they asked. “The next one’s on New Year’s Eve, and I won’t be around for that one, but maybe for the one near Valentine’s Day?”

I gave their hand a quick squeeze. “I’d like that.”

When we got back to the car, Toren asked, “Would you like to stop at my place or head home to yours?”

“Let’s go to yours,” I said. At least it would take some of the pressure off me because if we went to my place, I’d have to make the first move.

“Fine,” Toren said quietly … and I could tell asking that one question had taken every ounce of their courage and then some. I wanted to offer some words of reassurance, but figured too many words might ruin the moment.

So we rode to their place in silence. When Toren tried to take their student ID out of their wallet so they could scan us into the building, their hands shook so badly, they dropped it … twice. When it looked like they might drop it a third time, I took the ID and scanned us through myself. Just before we crossed the threshold, I took Toren’s hand and said, “Listen, you don’t have to do this if you’re not ready…”

“No Mederra,” they insisted, “I really want to.”

Once inside their apartment, they grabbed my waist, then kissed me so deeply I feared they might literally take my breath away. They led me to their couch and once we were seated, they took my hands in theirs. Their gaze was so intense, I almost had to look away. “Mederra,” they announced, “I really, really like you.”

“Toren,” I said reassuringly, “I like you too.”

They glanced down at our hands, then back to me again. “This is … how do I say this? … will be my first time being with anyone as my authentic self.”

So Sue was right, I thought. For all practical purposes, Toren was a virgin. And since we were busy confessing, I had one of my own to make …“I’ve only been with cis males.”

For an instant, they looked positively crestfallen.

“Listen Toren,” I said, “I want you, and all that you are, and damn … we’ve kept each other waiting for way too long.”

They breathed a sigh of relief. “So we’re okay?”

“Yeah,” I said smiling, “we’re gonna be just fine.”

***

We didn’t get to sleep until first light and by the time Toren drove me back to my place, it was early afternoon. That left me with barely enough time to shower, change clothes, and pack before my aunt was supposed to pick me up.

Just before we parted, Toren gave me two gifts. One was in an ornately wrapped box (“Don’t open this one until Christmas Day”, they said) while the other was enclosed in a small white coin envelope. It felt like a flash drive was inside.

“What’s on the drive?” I asked.

They smiled shyly. “Just something I’ve been working on.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Connect it and find out. But please… wait until after I’m gone.”

“Now you’ve got me curious,” I said.

“Good,” they said. “I aim to please.”

We shared a final kiss and then they were off to the airport to catch their flight home.

Turned out it was a good thing I hauled ass to get dressed and packed because Auntie showed up early. On the drive to her house I alternated between yawning and smiling dreamily. “You weren’t up all night partying were you?” she teased.

“No Auntie,” I replied, “I went out on a real date. Dinner and dancing. I even got dressed up.”

“You’ve met someone?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes.”

“Is it serious?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why didn’t you bring him with you? I’ve got a couple extra rooms and there’s always space at the table.”

“They’re spending the holidays with their family. Maybe next time.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Auntie said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” I mumbled. Then I drifted off to sleep.

The first thing I did when I got situated in Auntie’s guest room was rip open the coin envelope and connect the flash drive to my phone. There was a brief moment of panic when my screen went black for a few seconds. But fortunately, white text reading A Happy Accident soon appeared. Then the music started, barely audible at first. As the volume increased, an animated score gradually materialized on the screen.

I recognized the instrument immediately. It was the Tears of God, and holy crap, the music was stunning. I mean, I knew the Tears was Toren’s favorite instrument in the studio, but I had no idea they’d gotten this good. Had they done the animation too? Damn. Was there anything they couldn’t do?

The music was resplendent enough, but it was the dedication at the end that broke me: Thank you, Mederra, for sharing your light and beauty with me. Your errant text has been the happiest accident of my life. Merry Christmas! Love, Toren

Well goddamn! In my almost 27 years, I’d never gotten a love note before, and accompanied by a mini angelic symphony no less. I really didn’t know how to act.

Auntie knocked on the door and I yelped. She opened the door to find me sniffling and wiping my eyes. “Mederra,” she asked, “is anything wrong?”

“No,” I said. “In fact, everything’s right. Toren just wrote me a musical love letter.”

“Oh,” said Auntie, “this is serious.” She sat beside me on the bed. “So tell me: how did you guys meet?”

“Would you believe I texted them by mistake?”

“Well, I’d say that was one lucky mistake.”

“Yeah,” I said nodding, “it was. And they seem to think so too. They said it was the happiest accident in their life.”

Pinchbeck’s essay also got me thinking about the general misuse of faith in politics and the relationship between faith and resistance, specifically my own faith and resistance.

I was raised in a moderately conservative Christian household and attended a variety of Christian churches throughout my childhood, some more charismatic than others. I was (and still am) biologically wired to be vulnerable to the more ecstatic expressions of faith and have always been drawn towards mystical experience rather than dogma. (That’s one reason why I generally don’t do drugs or drink. I figure I’m only loosely attached to this material reality anyway, so it’s wise not to push things.) Over my faith journey I have experienced trance states, spoken in tongues, been possessed by Erzulie, and once, even heard the music of the spheres. But since I experienced those otherworldly states within established traditions, there was always someone there to keep me grounded. Yeah, the spirit might descend upon you, but you still gotta clean your room.

The one thing faith did while I was growing up was give me the strength to survive. I grew up during a racially charged time mostly living and attending school in majority White environments. (One of my first school memories was being called “nigger” on the playground.) I was extremely lonely for most of elementary and junior high. Not only was I one of the few Black kids, I was also just plain weird. (Turns out I was on the spectrum, but I wasn’t diagnosed until my late 50s.) The church youth group was one of the few places where I felt semi-accepted. Folks there at least had a moral obligation to pretend to act right.

It was in high school that organized religion lost its luster due to two incidents that happened within weeks of each other. You see, I was madly in love with two people. One was a White boy from my high school who was from a conservative Catholic family from the wealthier side of town, and the other was a White girl who attended my church and was a member of the youth group. I made the mistake of telling both how I felt and they both cruelly rejected me on biblical grounds. The boy believed mixed dating was immoral and the girl maintained I was an abomination headed straight to hell. I subsequently cried enough tears to fill the Amazon and haven’t voluntarily been to Mass or church since, even though I still believe in that ineffable presence that can’t be named. It’s just that their notion of the sacred wasn’t the one I’d known and felt in my heart. It was small, brittle, and ultimately, hollow.

Once I was outside of my parents’ house, I tried to find another faith community. I landed in some odd places, but nothing seemed to fit. Nowadays I find my most transcendent moments in my art practice. To write, draw, or make music is prayer.

While it’s true the the greater portion of making art has to do with skill and craft, my most luminous creations arise from opening myself to something greater, that essence that can’t be named. I can write the future (I write mostly speculative fiction) even if it is dystopian, only because I’ve felt something greater than myself that allows me to believe the future is possible. Likewise, I can resist the current regime only because of this core belief. Faith isn’t naïveté; it is the spiritual bedrock that makes resistance possible against all odds.

Without a strong spiritual (notice I didn’t say religious) foundation that fosters the hope that change is indeed possible, I believe any resistance movement is doomed to fail. Because often systems are so entrenched that change seems inconceivable, and you need that fundamental belief, that optimistic core, to persist when all the signs tell you to give up.

I also believe that resistance based in faith and hope is so much better than resisting from grievance, opposition, or unresolved trauma. While trauma does inform my faith — it can’t not, we are all products of our past — it is not the whole of it. I don’t resist because I seek revenge for something that happened back in high school. I resist because I want a world that is better for everyone and I believe that is attainable.

The right often co-ops the language of faith, but they don’t believe in the future; in fact, they really don’t believe in much of anything. Christofascism is nihilistic at its core. They seek dominance; they seek revenge; they want to make the world pay for things they feel they have lost. They seek to drown the world in their faithless faith, and they only bring darkness in their wake.

I have faith we can defeat them.

Incidentally: starting June 15, I will be offering paid subscriptions for those who want to support my work.

FOREVER USA: The Aftermath

Last week, while reorganizing some bookshelves, I found some old journals, promptly got distracted, and consequently stumbled upon an old dream about attending a poetry workshop led by a homeless woman.

“I am going to assign you an exercise that will take you the rest of your life,” she announces. That assignment is to write a poem about a charged topic, then to put that poem away and write it again every five years until the day you die.

The first version of America was written a little over a year into Trump’s first term, and five years later I found myself in the same headspace again with Allen Ginsburg’s original line — America I've given you all and now I'm nothing — living rent free in my consciousness. So I did my homework and revised it.

The dream also contains the closest thing I’ll ever write to a poetic manifesto.

America 2026

after Allen Ginsburg

"America I've given you all and now I'm nothing."

—Allen Ginsburg, America

America, I've been trying to reach you,

but you won't return my calls.

I drive by and your windows are shuttered.

You haven’t picked up your mail in months.

Have you run away from home?

Come on now, America, what is this?

Midlife crisis? Terrible twos?

Since when did you start chewing

off your toes to spite your face?

Why does one hand

scream curses at the other?

America, did you really think

you could sail a yacht through

an ocean of blood?

Did you really think you could

bomb your way to greatness

or bribe the truth into silence?

America, how can you have

eyes everywhere and see almost nothing?

How can you be packing like Rambo

and yet be so afraid?

How can you boast the wealth of kings

and sentence children to starve?

Tell me.
Was it something I said?

America, is this revenge?

For too many mountains beheaded

too many rivers defiled

too many lies told

then quickly forgotten

too many bones

hidden under the rug?

Hope blooms

in me like a cancer.

America, I can't quit you

no matter how hard I try.

Give me your hand.

Give me this dance.

Give me the nickel under your foot.

Give me a sign.

Give me … something.

Don't let us end like this.

Dream 5-23-24

I dreamed I was inexplicably attending a poetry workshop with all these famous poets. We were seated in a large, stadium style lecture hall and the workshop leader was very late.

Finally, an older Black woman who looks homeless comes shuffling in pushing a shopping cart overflowing with books, clothing, and other assorted worldly belongings. At first several attendees grab their phones to call security because there is no way this woman belongs here. But then, to everyone’s surprise, she announces with crisp Toni Morrison style elocution: “Hello, my name is Dr. Majorie Swinson, and I will be your lecturer today.”

We all trade nervous glances, wondering if we’ve gotten ripped off since none of us have heard of this woman before. But she keeps talking, ignoring all our dirty looks:

“I am going to assign you an exercise that will take you the rest of your life. I want you to write a poem about a controversial topic and make it the best poem you can write for today. Then I want you to put that poem away and write it again in five years, and keep doing this until the day you die. And during all that time you’ll think you’re standing still, but you will change in ways you can’t feel, and amass more wisdom than you realize.

“You will learn that history lurches forward for the dumbest reasons. That wars are fought by small groups of men who think they’re playing chess while the rest of us play rollerball, that less than 50 people killed an entire nation because they didn’t want to pay taxes, that the only reason the video Collateral Murder saw the light of day was because a closeted young woman wanted to impress her crush, that one man slaughtered and starved over 30,000 people because he didn’t want to go to jail.

“You will learn that poetry in itself is useless, but it helps dull some of the pain.”

FOREVER USA: The Baron At Rest

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been having these wild mood swings lately. I suppose that’s the curse of living in interesting times. One day I’m pissed as a hornet; the next day I fall straight into the abyss, while the day after that, I’m positively giddy with hope.

The poem and the dream recounted below speak to my highs and lows. The poem was inspired by an actual impromptu debate I had with a group of French students years ago in the cafeteria at the Philadelphia Art Museum. I’d recently had bilateral hip replacements and the museum was exhibiting the photos of Diane Arbus. It was my first time out of the house in months and Congress was then debating what would become the Affordable Care Act.

The visiting students longed to know why Americans had such an attitude about anything approaching universal healthcare, or indeed anything that benefited the commons, and since I was sitting there obviously eavesdropping on their conversation, they decided to ask me.

How do you explain our thoroughly dysfunctional for profit healthcare clusterfuck to citizens of a country that has one of the best healthcare systems in the world? Especially when you’ve been recently burdened with a ton of medical debt and you’ve had to sell some cherished music gear to get by?

The dream is fairly recent.

It had been a brutal stretch of days. The Voting Rights Act had been gutted; the gerrymandering wars kicked into overdrive, and the Jim Crow vampire officially escaped its coffin. I’d just finished The Technological Republic, which is essentially a book-length apologia for techno-feudalism that has a disturbingly high rating on Amazon. Not to mention the very real threat of World War III.

I went to bed that night with a leaden heart.

I’ve been recording my dreams since I was a kid, and most of them, I’ll freely admit, are junk. Still, it’s good writing practice to attempt to give expression to those times when reality twists in upon itself.

But occasionally, a dream is more than your brain trying to make sense of the previous days. Some dreams contain a spark of the divine. I’m not sure if the dream below fits that mold, but I do know that I went to bed despairing, but awoke the next morning with renewed resolve and hope.

So I was trying to explain America

So I was trying to explain America

to a group of French exchange students,

me, the descendant of slaves,

with my spanking new titanium hips,

first time out of the house in ages.

“Why does America hate healthcare?” they asked.

The whole room leaned in and held its breath,

wondering what I would say.

Back then there were riots in the Paris suburbs,

brown people demanding jobs and dignity,

speaking bad French.

That’s where I decided to start.

“It’s because Americans are so diverse,” I replied.

“And all that liberté, equalité, fraternité stuff is fine

when everyone looks like you,

but when they don’t, it’s easy to divide.

America is afraid somebody brown

might get something they don’t deserve.”

We argued for nearly an hour,

ending in a friendly draw.

Now I’m thinking about how

I might have won that argument.

I have so much more ammunition—

Marine LePen, the yellow vest riots,

The Camp of the Saints—

as if slinging more of their shit

would make ours stink less.

Dream 5-13-26

I dreamed that a friend and I traveled down to Mississippi along with a bus load of other volunteers for Freedom Summer 2026, a mass action to register as many voters as possible throughout the South to ensure decisive Democratic victories this coming November. 

We’d taken a rest stop in this podunk town with two stop lights and were having lunch at a Woolworth’s lunch counter along with some other activists in our group.

So we’re all sitting, eating, and joking around when in walks Alex Karp, the CEO of Palantir. He takes a seat at the counter on the stool next to mine. He observes us laughing, talking and having fun and starts muttering under his breath about social justice warriors and the radical left.

At first I try to ignore him — I ain’t about to let this jerk kill my joy — but when he doesn’t stop, I turn and say, “Excuse me?”

We start to argue, but his voice keeps glitching and freezing like a bad internet connection. That’s when I realize he’s only a hologram and I’ve been shadow boxing with a ghost.

Perhaps these Big Bad Wolves are really just paper tigers, as vulnerable as fireflies in space.

The Pre-ramble

On April 18, 2026, the Palantir account posted to X a 22-point mini manifesto consisting of the most salient takeaways from CEO Alexander C. Karp’s and Nicholas W. Zamiska’s book, The Technological Republic. Almost immediately my feed was flooded with outrage. Although I was inclined to agree with some of it, I noticed, with some exceptions, that few expressing this outrage had read the entire book.

I decided if I was going to catch an attitude about something, I might as well catch it about the whole thing rather than a tiny piece. Since I had some store credit lying around, I bought the book. I must say I did experience a tiny twinge of guilt spending money on these guys, but heh, I was curious. And if you don’t occasionally read the enemy, how the hell are you going to fight back?

Actually, I read the enemy a lot, probably more than I need to. But I can’t help it. I’m genuinely fascinated by what people believe, especially if it strikes me as wrong or bizarre. I don’t always finish what I start, but if I hear that someone influential has a favorite book, and they have power to affect my world, I will find some way to check it out. So yes: I’ve read The Camp of the Saints, The Turner Diaries, the entirety of Project 2025, Unhumans, and the Left Behind series.

I find the occasional literary irritant is good medicine. First: it’s a catalyst for reflection. As you feel yourself getting pissed off, you also feel compelled to ask yourself why. You can discover a lot about yourself that way. Also, I find reading in opposition helps me clarify my beliefs. It’s also a great way to kickstart creativity. You don’t know how many poems and short stories I’ve written because I’ve read something that rankled me. Most importantly, it sends the algorithmic gods into conniptions and keeps you unpredictable, and being unpredictable, as Timothy Snyder will tell you, is one way to resist tyranny. What’s an algorithm to do with someone who reads bell hooks one week and Alex Karp the next?

Silicon Valley Has Lost Its Way

Karp and Zamiska begin Republic lamenting that Silicon Valley has lost its way. Though much of the Valley’s technology was originally developed with the aid of government funding, generally it has stopped developing tech that supports that government. Instead, it has devoted most of its resources into developing distractions aimed at the consumer. The iPhone might be a stunning achievement, but is that all there is? Most apps make life more convenient, but they don’t make anything truly new. There are no big swings anymore and our adversaries like China are quietly outpacing us in the areas that count.

The atomic age is ending, the authors say, and the age of AI has begun. Silicon Valley has a moral obligation to insure the United States is at the forefront of this new age. Our national security and global standing depends on it. Soft power alone and lofty moral ideals won’t cut it. We need to build the ordnance of tomorrow, which includes sophisticated surveillance software and autonomous weapons powered by artificial intelligence. If we don’t hop to it, our adversaries will get there first. Unfortunately, many talented developers and engineers shrink from the assignment.

I can understand why — and it’s not because I’m a naive snowflake who thinks the world is less dangerous than it is. One: even the best AI hallucinates. These hallucinations are a minor annoyance when it results in a hand with seven fingers, but in war these errors can be fatal. Two: Autonomous weapons distance us from war’s consequences, and the more humans remove themselves from the consequences of their actions, the more vicious they become. Warmongering should never be as frictionless as online shopping; it should hurt. Too often I feel AI is used as a vehicle to dodge responsibility for late capitalism’s rampant cruelty. It wasn’t me, Ma; it was the machine.

5 Whys & The Swarm

Perhaps the most interesting part of the book for me is when Karp and Zamiska discuss what type of company culture and what type of talent nurtures true innovation. What distinguishes the most successful companies of Silicon Valley from legacy tech companies like IBM? As an example they use the culture of Palantir because … well, of course and … why not?

To illustrate what makes the culture of Palantir so great and nimble, they use the example of a swarm of bees, or specifically the process by which bees decide the location of a new hive.

When a swarm surveys possible locations for a new hive, scout bees at the swarm’s periphery fly out in search of possible sites and then return to the swarm to “dance” their findings. The rest of the swarm then votes on the options with their pheromones and attention until an organic consensus is reached and the swarm migrates to the new site as one mind.

For the authors the scouting bees represent the wild and difficult geniuses, those who think outside conventional boundaries and aren’t hampered by social conventions or a need to conform. “They are ‘the mad ones,’ Jack Kerouac describes in On The Road, ‘the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time.’” (p. 157)

The role of innovator is not fixed; anyone can step up to inspire and influence the hive. The authors maintain there is no unyielding top-down structure in their company. They insist the pioneers of Palantir aren’t hampered by rigid roles or “meeting culture” where their energies are wasted performing hierarchy and jockeying for status.

(I found it telling that Karl and Zamiska compare their company’s culture to a swarm of bees. Immediately I thought of the Borg. Now I’m not sure if Star Trek ever fully explored the Borg’s origin story, but given that the Borg begin life as a humanoid biological organism and then receive tech as they mature, they could be seen as a metaphor for the tech bro transhumanist fever dream to become something greater than human. Except it doesn’t quite work out like the apotheosis they seek. They don’t become gods in the cloud. Instead they are doomed to forever wander the galaxies, insatiable and soulless, eternally in search of more data.)

(I’m not sure where Karp and Zamiska land on the scale of transhumanism, but Palantir founder Peter Thiel definitely has transhumanist tendencies.)

But I digress…

How does one tame a swarm of bees? What do you do when the swarm runs into trouble, say, a missed deadline, or a customer complaint, or a missed quarterly goal?

When the company encounters problems like those mentioned above they use the Five Whys method. Basically, when a problem arises, you repeatedly ask why like a curious child until you tease out the root cause of said problem. The idea is to thoroughly examine the systems and processes that led to the failure and not just assign blame to particular people. So: the root of a missed deadline might trace back to an unreliable supplier or a destructive rivalry between the head of two departments.

This all sounds like it makes sense, except Karp and Zamiska don’t use the Five Whys consistently.

The Technological Republic (The Lightning Round)

The authors save their most controversial takes for the final third of the book. This is where they suggest things like reinstating the draft and higher salaries for those in public service.

I’m a hard no on the draft, though I can somewhat agree with them about higher salaries for public servants especially since they include teachers and first responders and not just politicians in that group. But the reason they argue for higher salaries for politicians is truly ass backwards. They think because the salaries for those in government are so much lower than those in the private sector, only independently wealthy people can afford to run for office. But the real reason only wealthy people can run for office is the onerous cost of campaigning, and that’s primarily because the obscene amounts of dark money donated by ultra wealthy donors inflates the cost for everyone. Now if Karp and Zamiska had argued for higher salaries along with campaign finance reform and public campaign financing, I could agree with them wholeheartedly.

The authors also insist Silicon Valley has an obligation to assist in the fight against violent crime. Then they proceed to whine about the backlash they received in New Orleans when they introduced their surveillance software there. While they superficially acknowledge the very real concern that innocent people may be caught in their digital dragnet, they seem genuinely confused as to why their software frightens and disgusts people.

But even a cursory application of their Five Whys rubric to the problem of violent crime would reveal that their panoptic software is not just draconian, it is an intellectually lazy “solution” to the problem. You don’t solve violent crime by spying harder and deeper and robbing people of their right to privacy.

A Five Whys analysis that goes to the root of the problem reveals more effective and appropriate solutions that are well within Palantir’s purview. For one: Palantir (as well as all the other tech giants) could start paying their fair share of taxes so that no government is starved of the resources to fund initiatives that truly help decrease violent crime: decent public schools, affordable housing and healthcare, and decent employment and a living wage. And two: the big brains at Palantir could develop technology that renders the AI that powers their software less environmentally destructive.

But they aren’t going to do that, are they? There’s no money in it.

Karp’s and Zamiska’s biggest complaint is that the US lacks a coherent and inspirational national narrative. How can the greatest minds of our generation aspire to swing big when the pesky left insists on highlighting the darkest periods of our past? How are we supposed to craft a unified national story when the left insists that everyone’s story be included — especially when it’s obvious some stories are better than others?

Oh please.

What the authors don’t realize is this: every chapter in American history, light and dark, serves to make the story of America that much richer. In order to mature as a nation, we have to confront that history and carry all of it, including that which is shameful and horrific. It is only when we can truly sit with ourselves in all our shit and glory, when we can weave all our disparate threads together, when we can leave no one’s story behind, that we will truly become great.

Friday was head (as opposed to occupational) therapy day. I wasn’t in the mood. We’d planned to discuss my trauma from my recent stint in a rehab/nursing facility, but that afternoon I wasn’t feeling especially traumatized. Instead, I was giddy because I was close to completing my first decent piece of art in what felt like ages. I’d sent the latest version to the printer while waiting for my therapist to join the meeting and I was excited to see what emerged.

“So how are you this afternoon?” she asked when she finally signed on.

“Good,” I quickly replied. Then: “Do you mind terribly if I get something from my printer?”

“Sure that’s okay..”

I grabbed the artwork. The background needed to be lighter, but otherwise it looked like I hadn’t completely wasted the hours it took to make it. I showed my therapist as soon as I sat down.

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “What’s that for?”

“Nothing really. I was just doodling while listening to a book and fretting about the war. Turns out to be the first decent thing I’ve done since getting home. My brain’s finally coming back online.”

“What do you plan to do with it?” she asked.

And that’s the question that did it. After the high of creation there’s always the crash to the real world. What was I going to do with it? I couldn’t afford an archival print until I finished paying the hospital, and then it would probably sit in my portfolio for at least a couple of months until I could afford to get it framed. And so what if my Lady Liberty dreamed of peace? Her mere existence couldn’t bring down the price of gas or groceries or keep the mad occupant in the White House from flirting with World War Three.

My therapist got to witness my crash to earth in real time. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do with it,” I finally sighed.

Silence.

“I don’t think I’m doing enough,” I said.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean I call my reps, I write my little blog, I do my artwork, and donate it to the cause when I can… But I couldn’t get to No Kings cuz it’s an ass pain to drag along a wheelchair and it’s prohibitive to travel. Everything I do just falls into the void. I thought I’d be better prepared. I mean, I’ve kind of known this would happen for a very long time.”

“What do you mean?”

I told her about a conversation I had with a friend back in the second grade. It was the late sixties; the Civil Rights movement was peaking, and I lived on the campus of a small HBCU in New Orleans where my father was a visiting lecturer in Chemistry.

It was a halcyon year. It was the only time during my schooling that I attended a majority Black school, so racism didn’t completely dog my days. My piano teacher had a jazz background and allowed me to improvise and break the rules. And living on a college campus in a big city (at least it felt big to me) was heady. Big change was in the air and it was thrilling.

Anyway: there had been an incident at a local community college where a group of students had taken down the US flag and hoisted a Black Power flag in its place. I’m not sure if the incident made the national news, but it was all over the local. Me and my friend Reginald were playing on the back porch and discussing it. Basically we were bummed. Something exciting was happening and we were missing it because we were too young.

“But somehow,” I told my therapist, “I had an inkling that history moved in cycles, that change in the world was constant but fragile, and that the battles being waged around us would eventually have to be fought again. And hopefully then we’ll be old enough, I told my friend, and hopefully we’ll remember what we’d wanted to do.”

“Thing is,” I continued, “now it’s time to fight and I’m definitely old enough. History did cycle backwards, and I do remember, but I can’t do all I wanted to do. My body is broken. I mean, I’m happy to be alive and all, but I can’t be on the front lines…”

“But you’re doing more than I’m doing,” my therapist countered.

Still: I thought my efforts were piddling.

Somehow we got on the pandemic and I described a time near the beginning of lockdown when I was driving down a main thoroughfare during what should have been rush hour. The street was almost completely empty and many smaller businesses were closed. The scene was eerie. I was anxious. But I also felt strangely giddy. This vacant street symbolized a golden liminal moment, a glorious crack in time when the relentless march of history tripped over its own feet, and almost anything was possible.

“We could have learned so much,” I told my therapist. “The timeline was so loose; we could have rewritten history. But everyone wanted to get back to normal. Thing is: normal came back worse.”

“Yeah,” she said, “it could have been a time to grow. I know it was a time when I learned to take nothing for granted. My extended family got together on Zoom almost every week. In a way we were all more connected because we couldn’t leave the house.”

I stole a glance at the timer on the screen; our hour was almost up. It was time to bring it all home. What can I say? I’m a writer. I can’t stand loose ends…

“The timeline’s still a little loose right now,” I said, “but it’s hardening quickly. Maybe in all this chaos we can resist the siren call of false normal and write a better story. Maybe this is why my Lady Liberty dreams. And I’ll toss my small dream into the raging river of change along with my phone calls, and blog, and encourage others to do what they can. And with these millions of tiny gestures, we’ll change course…”

The chime sounded. Our time was up. But at least I snatched back my post art high.

Stay encouraged, my friends. The only way out of this morass is through, but we can make it to the other side.

Actually, I wrote this poem just after Arab Spring. I’d read about the “human zoos” in 19th century Europe where the colonial powers would display samples of the human spoils of their plunder. I started thinking, “Now who would I like to put in a human zoo?”

My gardener was a top general in the resistance.

Who knew?

To me he was simply

the pleasant brown man

who loved horses and dreamed of racing.

Never once did I suspect he had

insurrection on his mind.

Never once did I dream revolution would come.

It still feels like a bad joke.

"Shut up," the general says. "Consider yourself lucky."

He was merciful.

He didn't have to spare my life.

"I wish you could have seen

the victory celebrations," he gloats.

"Mass hangings,

dancing in the streets...

It was better than cocaine."

He let me keep one private jet.

That cursed plane is my prison and every day

hundreds of people file through it,

to gawk at the "beached palace of a fallen god."

The bubbly blond guide cheerfully recites the amenities

like a real estate agent from hell:

three bedrooms, two bathrooms,

three fully stocked bars,

the walls polished teak, the fixtures pure gold.

The adults sneer.

The children only yawn.

Back when the museum first opened

and only a rope line separated us

people used to throw things.

My wife Camille, feisty woman that she was,

would fire right back.

Rocks clashed with

custom monogrammed china.

Bloodied faces all around.

Finally, for everyone's protection,

the general installed bullet-proof glass.

In the early days we held our heads high.

Just because you're a monkey in a gilded cage

doesn't mean you have to act like one.

Besides, Camille figured, how long could this nonsense last?

Living well is always the best revenge.

Until: it isn't.

Camille slit her wrists five years ago.

The general was kind enough

to bury her body

but left her blood in the sink to rot.

I remember when I first became aware of the Apocalypse. I was eight, almost nine years old, and some family friends invited me to a screening of The Late Great Planet Earth at a local Baptist church. I didn’t know this at the time, but the film was based on a bestselling Hal Lindsey book of the same name. The film was a dramatization of The Last Days and was primarily based on the Book of Revelation, with smatterings of Daniel and Ezekiel thrown in for good measure.

According to the film, the last days were already upon us. Soon there would be ecological disasters, famine, and sickness on a scale never before seen in our time. The world’s greatest powers — then the USA and USSR — would amass armies in the Middle East and fight the holy war that would bring about the Second Coming.

The film scared the living crap out of me, and contains the only scene in a movie that has made me physically ill. (And I’ve seen some fairly gory horror films in my day.) A woman representing the Whore of Babylon, clad in bizzarro dream of genie attire, is standing near the entrance of a cave raising an ornate gold chalice whoozy drunk on the blood of the saints. Half congealed blood dribbles from her painted lips. This made me instantly nauseous and it took a superhuman effort to keep from projectile vomiting on the floor.

According to the film, Jesus would return after a nuclear war and there would be a new heaven and a new earth. The saved would get to spend a blissful eternity with Him while those who weren’t would be damned to eternal torture. Even to an eight year old, the choice was clear. Get saved or else. You better believe my little butt damn near sprinted to the altar when the film ended and the altar call was made.

To this day I’ve wondered why this wasn’t considered child abuse.

***

On Fridays during the first wave of Covid I would call anyone I happened to dream about during the week to check if they were still alive. I didn’t think I was being melodramatic. There were people I knew who were attending funerals almost every other week.

One Friday I called an old coworker at the big box store I used to work at. She was still among the living, but she’d had a trying day. The newest iPhone had been released that morning, and there was a huge line in front of the store before the doors even opened. And as soon as those doors did open, people crowded together in a scrum trying to be first, social distancing and store occupancy guidelines be damned. “I mean people were literally willing to die over some stupid phone,” she said. “It was crazy.”

Suddenly her voice took on a detached and beatific tone: “It’s been difficult, but I’ve been praying about it. I’ve always known I would be alive to see the end of the world. It won’t be too long…”

I was speechless. Apparently she saw all this upheaval as a good thing. I have to admit I was a little jealous. She was serene about the pandemic while I was just plain scared.

***

Near the turn of this century, the Left Behind series, which dramatized the White Protestant Evangelical version of the End Times, was insanely popular. I worked in a bookstore at the time, and folks would wait in line for the latest book in the series like they would later wait for iPhones. The series was so popular, it spawned several copycats, but none of those hit like Left Behind.

Thing is: the theology featured in the books is hokum, a nineteenth century invention. Though it’s primarily inspired by a gross misreading of Revelation, there are bits cribbed from the visions of Daniel, Ezekiel, and the random apostle. The Left Behind version of the End Times is also uniquely American, which sort of makes sense. The last time this country experienced something even close to an End Times on its own soil was over 160 years ago during the Civil War, which is plenty of time to forget that when the End comes, it comes for everyone, whether they’re saved or not.

***

Even though (at least as far as I have heard or read) no one has stated this explicitly, part of the purpose of the illegal war in Iran is to catalyze the apocalypse. Thing is: within MAGA there are at least three competing visions of the End and already the coalition is beginning to fracture.

First there is the White Protestant version which is the one that most closely resembles Left Behind. First, true believers are raptured directly into heaven and get to miss the seven years of tribulation when the Antichrist rules and the final battle of Armageddon takes place. Those who become saved and martyred during the seven years of tribulation become tribulation saints. After Armageddon, Jesus returns to vanquish his enemies (that includes anyone who’s not a very specific brand of evangelical Christian) and establish a 1000 year reign of peace on Earth. (I’m not sure where Pete Hegseth’s idea of a modern crusade fits into all this. Does he plan to be raptured? Or will he be one of the tribulation saints so he can practice his warrior ethos?)

There is also a more secular White Nationalist version of the End Times. Think The Turner Diaries and Stephen Miller. In this version, the idea is to purge the country of the so-called mongrels  (any immigrants, people of color, anyone disabled, anyone sexually “deviant”) and establish a despotic White ethnostate. Their version of the Left Behind 1000 year reign would be the 1000 year American Reich. (I wonder if Miller remembers he’s Jewish, which makes him a mongrel in this universe.)

And then there’s the tech bro version of the End Times, known as trans or posthumanism. Their version of the 1000 year reign is apotheosis via technology (usually a combination of AI and eugenics) for a very select few and digital subjugation for the rest of us, a technofeudal state.

All visions of the End, whether they are explicitly religious or not, are ultimately nihilistic and homicidal. If you think you’re somehow going to escape the worst of the End Times by virtue of your religion, race, or riches, there is no motivation to engage with or improve the world you’re in. Is it any wonder these people don’t care about their neighbors, the planet, or the future? They think they’ve got it all in the bag. Jesus will save them or they’ll upload themselves to the cloud and leave the rest of us poor suckers behind.

Those who purposely try to goose along The End commit the grossest blasphemy. God’s time is Their own and it’s not for us mere mortals to decide.

Ultimately, those who thirst for the final countdown are traitors to us all.

It’s a stunning piece. The juxtaposition of a brutal and unjust act with the accidental beauty of nature is jarring, and is precisely what makes the poem work. The poem doesn’t shout; it lulls you with its quiet, gentle tone, then twists the knife at the end. But upon reflection, I couldn’t help but think the poem was maybe too gentle, and too beautiful.

I remember a poetry workshop I attended at a writer’s conference. To kick things off, the instructor had us do a free write on any topic. This was right after the Battle of Fallujah in the Second Gulf War, so most people wrote something about the war.

After the free write, we were asked to read our work aloud. Most people in attendance were extensively published poets with MFAs, and they wrote like it. This was some of the most gorgeous anti-war poetry you could ever hope to hear. Frankly, I was intimidated. My writing seemed petulant and juvenile by comparison. I remember I wanted to crawl into a corner and die.

The workshop leader patiently listened to our work, and then proceeded to read us the riot act. How did we feel about the war? Weren’t we pissed? Then why couldn’t we write like it? Why did we insist on pussyfooting around? Why did we hide behind our language instead of using it to speak? Why couldn’t we call a spade a spade?

***

One of the few luxuries I allow myself are my subscriptions to the New Yorker and the Atlantic. I subscribe mostly for the writing, since excellent writing is always a treat whether I’m in agreement with the author or not. But I’ve noticed many writers in these magazines have been slow to call a spade a spade and I’ve grown impatient with their eloquence.

Isn’t this fascism yet?! I keep shouting at the silent pages, Then come out and say it!

***

As a poet I draw equally from the performance and the academic traditions and I’ve had spotty success in each, never really feeling completely at ease in either world. My experience in formal classes, workshops, and critique groups has helped me hone my craft and move beyond the adolescent blood on the page phase, and my experience competing in slams has taught me how not to bore people to death, but hopefully I still know when to speak truth to power when it’s needed, poetic conventions be damned.

I get it. Words like fascism, genocide, war crime, rape, blood, treason, apartheid, are ugly, brutal words. They are words that don’t shrink from the truth; they are words that you can’t take back, words that mean what they say and say what they mean. But when you’re fifteen months ass deep in hell, you don’t have time to pussyfoot around.

Sometimes the truth has teeth. Sometimes you need to smell the stink.

***

MOTH ON WINDSCREEN

The story begins with a brown moth

on a windscreen

and ends with a brown man

splayed against his car.

I get it:

to a cop, that brown man is less

than an insect.

It’s a common and pernicious mistake.

But the storyteller chooses to paint this tale

in shades of lilac blue --

I think there may even be a meadow involved --

so the horror lands Monet-soft,

on a bed of gentle weeping.

Do you remember that workshop we attended

the week after Fallujah?

Nearly everyone wrote about the war.

We were earnest with our lines about white lilies,

empty places at the dinner table,

and beautiful blue-eyed boys who never made it home.

The leader savaged every word we wrote.

“What is this crap?!” he yelled. “War without blood? Really?

Why do you always feel the need to cloak evil in beauty?”

“Listen,” he told us, “everyone knows a cigar’s a cigar,

and we all know cigars stink.

I want you to rub my nose in the stink!”

“Welp,” my sister quipped a few mornings ago, “another one bites the dust.”

I asked what she meant.

“Oh, I guess you haven’t checked your phone yet. It’s like Bill Cosby all over again. Cesar Chavez was an abuser.”

Shit, I thought.

“I don’t know why these guys can’t keep it in their pants,” she groaned. “I mean, he did so much good, and now…”

I saved the Times article in the app, but didn’t read it until last night. With everything else going on I had to pace myself. There’s only so much disappointment you can tolerate in a day.

I already knew Chavez was no saint. I’d read enough biography to know that he’d cheated on his wife, and he could be domineering and mercurial in his dealings with union colleagues. There seemed to be a point when he got a little too high on his own supply and began to think he alone embodied the movement…

But one of the girls he molested was thirteen. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that information? It’s like when I found out Neil Gaiman was an abuser. I haven’t been able to read him since.

***

A week or two before the Chavez news broke, allegations surfaced about the chef René Redzepi formerly of Noma, which was rumored to be one of the best restaurants in the world. As far as I know, Redzepi didn’t SA anyone, but he did otherwise physically abuse and humiliate his staff. And astoundingly, many of them put up with it, because working under Redzepi was a good way to catapult your career. And even now, some who suffered under his abuse rationalize it as good medicine. He taught me a lot. He toughened me up.

***

Once, when I was in high school, I checked out a book about the acting profession from the library. I had a couple of plays under my belt and was curious. Frankly, I knew I didn’t have a rat’s chance in hell of becoming a professional actress, but it was nice to dream.

This was long before #metoo or any major abuse scandal had broken. We whispered about abuse (I went to Catholic school and there were always rumors about certain priests) and I might have even been exposed to some abuse (Was it normal for the afternoon bus driver to regale me with synopses of all the X-rated movies he’d seen?) but abuse wasn’t something we discussed openly or something most of us could even comprehend.

The book had a lot of practical advice. Learn your craft; master as many skills as possible (If you are a triple threat—act, sing, dance—you have a much better chance of getting work) develop a fitness routine (You won’t get much work if you’re fat) and learn to take direction. There was also a whole chapter on the “casting couch.” The chapter wasn’t so much a warning as it was “this is the way things are and you had better get used to it if you’re going to be serious about this profession.” It was accepted that abuse was baked into the system.

***

Recently I’ve been thinking about how much abuse — sexual, physical, psychological — has been prevalent in several professions, and it’s only recently that people have begun to talk about it and take it seriously. From coaches and support personnel who abuse and humiliate athletes under the guise of giving them an edge in competition (Bobby Knight, Jerry Sandusky, Larry Nassar, to name a few) to supposed men of God who marry and abuse children (Warren Jeffs, numerous pedophile priests) to those in the entertainment industry who trade sexual favors for “career advice” (P. Diddy, Harvey Weinstein, R. Kelly, Bill Cosby) to writers and their underage muses (Carmac McCarthy, Neil Gaiman) to Epstein and the current occupant of the White House, abuse is the common thread. This trail of pain is so old, so long, and so tired, and it needs to stop.

Lately, I been up at night wondering why abuse is so prevalent. Is it just human nature? Is it the patriarchy? Is it late stage capitalism? Somehow all those answers seem too simplistic, but maybe the question isn’t as complicated as we choose to make it.

How do we fix this? Inquiring minds want to know. Because the survival of our species very well depends on it.

For me January has always felt like December’s hangover. This was especially true when I worked in retail. From October through December, we had the anticipation and stress of the holidays, only to have the dreary January aftermath of clearance sales and cartfuls of damaged returns to process. From Merry Christmas to bust.

This past season I missed the holidays altogether. The day before Thanksgiving I fell and broke my arm, and broke it good. I waited in the hospital for five days while they scrambled to find an available surgeon to operate. I don’t recommend injuring yourself near a holiday.

Even after surgery, I was essentially down for the count. Before surgery I used either a walker or wheelchair to get around and those require the use of both arms. I guess the lucky thing was that I didn’t break my right arm or else tapping this out on my tablet would’ve been infinitely more difficult.

After surgery I landed in rehab, and it was there, at the butt crack of dawn, at the ear shattering volume of my sleeping roommate’s TV, that I learned that Trump had invaded Venezuela and kidnapped the President and his wife. Crap, I cynically thought, guess we’re starting the New Year with a bang.

I can’t say I was surprised. Trump has been signaling his intentions ever since he and Pete Hegseth began their war crimes spree bombing and seizing “narco-terrorist” fishing boats off of Venezuela’s coast. Also: Venezuela, its oil reserves, and “spheres of influence” are mentioned in the pages of Project 2025. This is about plunder and rich people lining their pockets. Same as it ever was.

Still: the news hit me especially hard. I was stuck in rehab and powerless to do anything about it. I couldn’t attend a demonstration, and at that point, I was too much in pain to even string two sentences together in protest, although I did manage to write my Congressperson and my Senators about it later.

And the blows just kept on coming...

When Renee Good was shot in broad daylight, I was in the therapy gym lifting weights. Crap, I thought, this is it.

Later I watched helplessly as Kristi Noem, with no evidence whatsoever, blamed Good for her own death, then nearly ground my teeth to powder as the Vice President shouted lie after lie at a press conference, as if shouting could make lies true. Then Trump spun an elaborate fiction which had Renee Good’s assailant grievously injured and in the hospital fighting for his life when he clearly wasn’t.

Now I watch with trepidation from B bed as Trump surges more ICE into Minneapolis. So far the city has been standing tough while keeping its cool, but 47 and his minions will keep applying the pressure, hoping something will break. It’s a stupid and dangerous game of chicken. (I don’t think Minneapolis will break, but I fear Trump will.)

Also this week Trump is lusting after Greenland and is apparently willing to risk WW3 to get it. It seems his plan is to wage war with the world while we’re too busy waging war amongst ourselves, all so he and his rich and powerful friends can loot the world for one last time. And, trust me, it will be the last time. This earth can’t take much more of our looting before it boots us off.

Truly we are living in the upside down.

I can’t wait until I get out of rehab, so I can do something about it.

Wish me luck.

Last night I watched Erika Kirk’s Town Hall on CBS because I was curious, and because I’m currently stuck in bed recovering from surgery, and I don’t have much else to do.

I didn’t go in with any preconceived notions. I’m far removed from all the conspiracy theories and scuttlebutt surrounding Charlie Kirk’s widow. If anything, I expected the town hall to be a fluff piece akin to Diane Sawyer’s special that she did about New York City and Covid, just as the first serious wave was waning, and things were about to re-open. I expected something too generic and anodyne to really offend.

I also wanted to see Bari Weiss in action. So far, I only know what others have written about her, and I wanted to experience her for myself.

The evening began innocently enough. Ms. Weiss thanked Ms. Kirk for participating in the event. Then, Ms. Weiss asked Ms. Kirk a few questions about the rising tide of political violence in the country. She mentioned Luigi Mangione, as well as those “on the left” who celebrated Charlie Kirk’s death online and who implied Mr. Kirk’s death was somehow justified or deserved.

Erika Kirk’s response was a mixture of anger and grief. She was justifiably furious with those who treated her husband’s death as some kind of sick joke. (I mean, I didn’t like what I knew of Charlie Kirk either, but I had enough sense not to crack tasteless jokes about his murder. I know that the current media environment can lull us into thinking that all is spectacle, and everyone is a performer, but I try not to lose sight of folks’ basic humanity, even when I don’t care for them. I try to put myself in others’ shoes, and I simply cannot imagine how I would feel and act if someone close to me had met such a violent and public end.)

Still, Ms. Kirk dodged the question, and Ms. Weiss didn’t push. Instead, Ms. Kirk went on a tearful tangent about how everybody needed to put their evil phones away and get outside. When Ms. Weiss confronted Ms. Kirk about some of her late husband’s more controversial statements (like the infamous one about the black pilot not being qualified) Ms. Kirk skirted the issue and insisted her late husband’s statements had been taken out of context and that Charlie Kirk’s mission in life had been to bring people together. (Maybe she actually believes that, but I certainly don’t.) Never during the course of the hour, did Ms. Weiss attempt to dig any deeper and challenge her guest. In fact, any time Ms. Kirk even hinted at tears, Ms. Weiss quickly put her foot on the brake.

Since this was advertised as a town hall, there were a few canned questions. The first dealt with violent speech from the right, particularly from Donald Trump’s speeches and social media posts. Ms. Kirk tearfully dodged the question, going on another rant about the “evils” (she’s a big fan of the word evil) of social media and the need for getting away from our phones. Also, the more uncomfortable the topic, the more Ms. Kirk leaned on overtly religious language, some of which was positively jarring to hear on network TV.

Probably the most bizarre exchange during the hour long program was when a Jewish man who’d lost his daughter to anti-semitic violence asked Ms. Kirk to denounce antisemitism on the right with her full chest. That question struck me as a no-brainer, even on the new constrained CBS, and Ms. Kirk fumbled it badly. Not only did she not wholeheartedly condemn antisemitism on the right, she went off on this bizarre tangent about a trip she took to Israel and “walking where our Lord walked.” She sounded like she was doing her damndest to witness to her interlocutor, which isn’t what the man asked for at all. He hoped she would unequivocally declare her commitment to fight antisemitism on the right; he didn’t ask to hear the Good News. I can’t be sure how he felt about Kirk’s rambling response, but if the stony expression on his face was any indication, I’d say he was mortified. I know I was.

The final question was by far the silliest. A young woman from New York City essentially asked for dating advice. She loved her career, but she also wanted a husband and a family. Ms. Kirk counseled prayer and assured the young woman the Lord had a plan for her life, if she would keep herself open to it.

And that was it. No questions allowed from any person of color (I doubt any were in attendance) and only one allowed from a woman, and that had to do with love and marriage. A whole lot of words, but no real discussion. Cue the sound of air dissipating from the world’s saddest balloon...

Hard to believe this aired on the same network that gave us Walter Cronkite. This wan waste of the airwaves didn’t even qualify as a human interest story. It certainly didn’t work as propaganda. It was the limpest infomercial ever.

Ms. Weiss promises even more of these insipid town halls in the future, supposedly to “facilitate discussion”. Unless there’s going to be more “there”, there, I won’t be watching.