D4D 2015 calendar

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Under the Silver Moonlight

The summer I turned thirteen, a lot of things changed. What gifts I had became that much more pronounced in more ways than one.  Since childhood, I knew more about the world around me than most will ever know. I took the simple things for granted. Except for one terrorizing year, my existence with the things beyond had been mildly annoying at worst, amusing at best. In my innocence, I had been lucky. But the gifts that coursed through my life were potent, and soon I started thinking of them more of a curse than blessings.

My elder sister suffered from night terrors. She would toss and turn in her sleep, cry out for help and when it was really bad, woke up gasping for air or screaming for help.  I always was ready to jump out of my bed to console her; to hold her against my bosom and soothe her back to sleep. I couldn’t begin to imagine the things she suffered in dreamland and all I wanted to do was protect her.

I remember it was a hot, muggy night, rather odd for Southern California. I thought it odd that my sister made sure the door was locked tight that night and I was beyond mortified when she slipped out of her nightgown, then stood there, nude as the day she came into this earth. I stared at her, eyes wide. She seemed to glow slightly under the moonlight and not only did I find her stripping naked to go to bed shocking, to see her grooming habits flustered me.  She looked down at herself and laughed. “What?”

“You…shave, why?!”

She paused for a moment and shrugged. “Its cleaner,” she climbed into bed and stretched. “The sex is amazing and well, it has been too fucking hot to have a bush anyway. I mean seriously, don’t you feel hot and sweaty going full fuzz?”

My sister was eight years older than me and spoke with a sage wisdom I was yet to know.  I could only nod slightly.

“But that’s okay; you’re still a kid anyway.”

Again I nodded, making sure to stare at the fast spinning blades of our ceiling fan.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop being a prude. It’s just hair!” She laughed and threw a pillow at me. “Besides, it’s too fucking hot to sleep with clothes on anyway. “Try it! The door’s locked and dad won’t be able to walk in on us.”

I shook my head.

“What, cat got your tongue? Try it! It’s nothing dirty and totally natural.”

With a sigh I climbed out of bed, tossed off my shirt, stepped out of my pajamas and hopped back into bed.

“You seriously sleep with a bra on? Take it off, that’s got to be damn uncomfortable!”

I stared at her in disbelief, got back out of bed, stripped naked and jumped back into bed. I covered myself to my neck and she simply laughed.

“Trust me, sis… you’ll never sleep with clothes, ever, ever again. It is so liberating.” She stretched out again, rolled onto her stomach and wrapped the sheet around herself as if it were a half-discarded toga.

I laid there, uncomfortably for what felt like an eternity. I found myself staring out at the moon and quickly lost myself in my thoughts. I’d always been nocturnal by nature and being forced to stick to a diurnal schedule often screwed with me, making me an insomniac. I simply couldn’t sleep at night time unless I was exhausted.

It wasn’t long before I could hear my sister’s moaning. I tried to tune it out as lately she’d cry out in her sleep and quiet down. Sure enough, it got quiet but she started tossing and turning. I focused my attentions on her, wishing, hoping, that my desire to soothe her would somehow be felt and she’d calm down. Perhaps it was coincidence but it wasn’t too much longer after my silly ‘jedi trick’ and she stopped. I could see her shoulders relax, her breathing become more languid.

Again, I looked up at the moon. And as usual, when it came between God and me, I started to talk. I was raised Catholic but I hated going to church. I hated the concept that prayer was the only way to communicate with Him and it bothered me even more so that God, had to be a man.  I often found myself talking to Him as if he were a She and a long, lost friend. Out of guilt I’d tell myself I was simply speaking to the Virgin Mary.  I could feel the fringes of exhaustion tugging at me (I had been up for almost three days) as I whispered my nightly conversation to the moon.

“If only I could see what bothered her, then maybe I could help her, don’t you think, Mother?” I yawned and nestled against my pillow. “I can only imagine the horror… its not fair, my Lady, that she suffers so much when one should be the most protected and comfortable….I want to help… I just don’t know how.”

The moon shone bright above me and the damp heat of the air was making me sweat.  I could feel rivulets of dampness forming in my armpits and a pool beginning to grow under my breasts and against my lower back.  Heat grew between my thighs with each step from where the skin brushed against skin as I walked. Somewhere in the back of my head I could remember my sister’s excuse for shaving and I laughed. I may have to try that someday if I ever found the courage.  My lungs ached when I stopped to take in a deep breath as the hot air did nothing to help my lack of breath. The only comfort I felt was that of mud between my toes.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, peeling the white nightgown off my hot skin.

I found myself walking along an embankment of a river I had seen many times before, though from where, I couldn’t fathom.  My steps were brisk, but without true path. Over the last few years my dreams often started like this; I found myself somewhere and strange, fantastical things happened. Sometimes I could fly, at others I could manipulate my surroundings…sometimes I was an active participant and at others, a mere observer. Always, though, everything felt real. I could touch things. Smell things. Taste things, even. It was so real, that I had to develop tricks to know when I was awake and when I was asleep.

As I pondered these things, I was filled with a sense of urgency that took my breath away. I let out a small cry as I tripped over the material of my gown as I broke into a run. I stumbled on my feet as I gathered the material in my hands.  Hurry.
“I’m trying!” I yelled, answering a voice that only I heard. I noticed that the earth was still. There was no sound. No animal anywhere, not even a breeze. This frightened me and I continued on my path as fast as I could. The lack of pain from my bouncing breasts told me this was another dream, but my mind, no, my very soul, told me this was real. Very, very real.
At a distance I could see the white of another nightgown running toward the riverbank. I couldn’t see discerning features despite the bright moonlight. Behind her, there were people, men, chasing the young woman. They had something in their hands. Clubs, maybe, a shotgun, perhaps—I couldn’t tell. I could, however, feel the terror and tension in the air.
I redoubled my efforts.
I could now hear the wind in my ears.  As I neared the cluster of people I saw one of the men stop, lift the tubular thing in hand up to his shoulder. I could feel my heart at my throat and I opened my mouth to yell but no sound came. In the movies there is always a flash, a puff of smoke and a deafening blast. Here, I saw the muzzle move, the man move back a little from the shock and the white figure pitch forward onto her knees, then the floor face first.
I stood there, horrified.

I could see her claw herself toward the embankment lift herself to one knee and then fall over.  

The men stood there for a moment, and then the tallest quickened his pace to where she fell.  My trance was broken and I began to move quickly, but quietly. Instead of moving toward them, I headed toward the river. I could feel the thick mud envelope my foot as I began my descent. The other slipped. I landed on my knee and broke my fall with a hand. I had to get over there…and do what exactly?

This was a dream. I could control my dream. I tried to envision myself turn into a man or a monster, stop this massacre. I couldn’t.  It seems like I was a passive participant on a film directed by someone else.

I fought against the mud that slowed me down. This, perhaps, saved my dream self as I rounded the bend as the man with indiscernible features shoved the injured woman into the river. I heard him mumble something about not wasting more shells on the filthy whore and that the water would take care of her.  I held my breath as I watched him leave.

The river rapids pulled and tugged at the woman. Her long, dark hair wrapped about her face as she was sucked further into the watery embrace.  She was pulled under once, and then she came back up. Her hair had been washed off and I could see the terror in her face.  The water around her had a slight pink tinge and again she was pulled under.

“My goodness, Mary, she’s alive!” I gasped and began to fight against the mud. I crawled, pushed and pulled toward her.

I stood at the shore for what felt like an eternity, trying to see where she would bob up. Drowning, like gunshots, it seemed, was drastically less flashy than what Hollywood tried to tell me.  “Mother, help me! Lady, guide me!”  I prayed as I waded into the water.

“It is not her time yet.”

My head snapped toward the voice. On the opposite embankment was a child, perhaps no more than seven, clad in a white to her shins.

“It is not her time yet,” she repeated, one arm pointing to where the woman washed up against a rock. She clung to it but quickly slipped under. “You know what to do.”

I nodded and quickly – as safely as I could, climbed onto a rock then jumped onto another. I found myself on the rock she had slipped under. My heart skipped a beat as looked into the dark waters hoping to see anything at all. At first, I could see nothing but then I saw it; a flash of white. I got to my knees and dove for it. I clutched at it and pulled. I pulled her forearm above the water and I could feel myself slipping. The icy waters were numbing my hands but I would not, could not, let go. I pulled again, bracing myself with my knees. I kicked and pushed, slicing my foot against another rock. That’s fine… that’s fine, just let me get her head out of the water. Virgin mother, give me strength!

I gave one final push and pulled her above the water. Her head bobbed back, her blue lips hung open.  Her eyes rolled at the back of her head.

“Wake up!” I slapped her, hard. I could hear her groaning. “Come on, fight for me. Wake up!” I could hear her whimper, moan.

I woke up with a start, the sheets clinging to me like a second skin. I looked around disoriented, the haunting sounds of a drowning woman still thundering in my ears.  My heart skipped a beat as my eyes fell on the mirror that hung on our closet door. There stood the girl from my dream, her arm pointing to something at a distance. I could see the words forming on her lips it’s not her time yet.

My eyes followed the direction in which she was pointing. Immediately I tore the sheet off me and jumped out of bed. I fell on my knee, hard and slammed my face against the opposing bed.  I pulled myself onto the mattress and reached toward my sister. She was moaning in her sleep again, but unlike before the sound was a deep, ragged groan. She couldn’t breathe.

“Wake up, damn it.” I pulled her toward me; her head fell back onto my shoulder. Tears stung in my eyes as I couldn’t help but think back on that horrid dream I had. My sister’s mouth hung open, her lips started to tinge blue.  I shook her, but she wouldn’t respond. “Wake up, wake up!”

I slapped her.

I could see the shock and the recognition seep into her face as she gasped for breath. Seconds later she burst into tears. We held onto each other as we sobbed our tears and sweat mingling.

“I was drowning,” she said at long last. “I was drowning and couldn’t breathe.”

A Christmas Miracle

In the spirit of Halloween, I decided to write a short little horror story for your entertainment. I had an idea inspired by the previous discussion on body-modification and plastic surgery on our boards but when I started writing, an old memory was dredged up. Instead, I will be sharing the following. Enjoy. 

-Carol 

-----------------------------

I had always been an imaginative child, precocious in nature and with a strong intuition. I remember pitching the biggest fit I could one Christmas Even when I was about five or six demanding that my sister, her boyfriend and my mother not go out for a drive that night. They were just going to the store; they said, out to get more drinks for the party. It will only be a few minutes and they’d make sure to bring me some candy. I was hysterical. I could not be dissuaded that they not go and my behavior was so off putting that for the first and ONLY time in my life, Father laid a hand on me. He spanked me twice and told me to go to my room and not leave until I was done throwing a tantrum.

“But I don’t want Sis and Mommy to die!” I yelled between sobs. The adults just stared at themselves in shock before my outburst was just chalked up to my imagination. After all, what other toddler stood up past midnight watching horror flicks like I did?  Mom told me I wasn’t being cute, shoved me in my bedroom, closed the door and with a sigh of resignation stated she wasn’t going to get me candy.

I hollered that I didn’t care.

Minutes turned to hours. A few folk thought that maybe my family had chosen to buy more than drinks, perhaps took a detour or simply had a flat. This was the early nineties, cell phones were not a quite a thing yet.  Guests left, others passed out and my father was not exactly sober enough to go looking for anybody anyway. I, on the other hand, didn’t sleep. I simply couldn’t.

Therefore, I was the only one awake at three am when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“This is so-and-so with St Mary’s Conception Hospital, is there any adult I can speak to sweetheart?”

I looked around at the passed out people. I shook my head.

“Honey, are you there?”

“Yah. “ I traced a finger on the wood stains of the little telephone bench my mom had polished meticulously hours earlier.

“Can I speak to someone, an adult perhaps?”

Again, I looked around, my large eyes flicking from one dark shadow to the other, to the pile of unopened gifts, to the sleeping dog and eventually to the flickering Christmas lights on our tree. “Mommy’s busy. Call back later.”  I couldn’t help but regurgitate the well-rehearsed line mom had me say whenever she didn’t want to speak to the Avon lady. I bit my lip and began to hang up the phone.

“Don’t hang up, sweetie. Listen to me—“

Click.

I slid down from the little bench and ran back to my room to cling to my favorite stuffed toy when the phone rang again. I stared at her, a white and black beagle dressed in a red dress and matching bow. If Daddy got woke up, he’d get mad. I didn’t want him getting mad again. I didn’t want to get spanked. I covered my ears and fought back the urge to cry. I had this horrible pain in my tummy that I couldn’t quite describe. My heart was racing and it was hard to breathe.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

I rolled over in my bed and clung to my silent friend.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

I felt a tap at my shoulder and the soft hushed tones against my ear: answer it, it’s important. You won’t get in trouble, ok?

I didn’t dare look over my shoulder but I knew better than to ignore the words.  Slowly, I climbed out of the bed and held onto my toy for dear life. I made my way down the corridor, past my sister’s bedroom and stopped in front of my parent’s bedroom door. Behind me was the bathroom door, just a few more feet away and the hallway ended into the living room and to the ringing phone. It wasn’t ringing anymore and I could hear the shower running. I frowned. How long had the water been running? I turned to knock on the door when I dropped Snoopy (I knew Snoopy was a boy but this beagle had a dress and she looked like Snoopy so that was her name).  I looked down to pick her up, but she wasn’t there. I looked around and I could see the hem of her dress and one of her legs peeking from around the corner of the hallway.

I couldn’t breathe.

The hallway seemed miles long and the sound of the water a rush against my ears.  Somewhere in the distance, the phone was ringing. Behind the closed door of the bathroom I could hear my father cursing.

You must answer the phone.

 I jumped at the voice again.

This time I ran down the hallway and almost tripped on my feet as I stumbled a few steps around the corner. Quickly I picked up Snoopy with a death grip before snatching the phone off its cradle.

“Hello.”

“Sweetheart, don’t hang up. It’s very important that you don’t. Is there someone else I can talk to? A friend, auntie, your daddy perhaps?” The voice at the other end of the line sounded desperate. It made my hands sweat.

“yes.”

“Can you get them for me?”

“Daddy’s in the shower.”

“Tell him it’s VERY, very important, okay honey? He needs to get on the phone.  Tell him so-and-so is calling from St. Mary’s.”

“Ok,” I said, staring at the dark hallway. I didn’t want to go back there.  If Daddy didn’t yell at me… I shook my head, holding on to Snoopy even tighter.

Hurry, hurry! Call your Daddy! Get his attention or I will!

I did not need any more incentive. I dropped the phone with a clang on the telephone bench and ran to the bathroom door. I pounded with everything I had until I heard the shower stop.

“Daddy! There’s a lady from St. Mary’s that wants to talk to you!” I could hear grumbling and cursing; something about being too old for a hangover and kids being too loud for them.  “What’s a hang over?”  I looked down at my friend’s unblinking gaze.

That’s not important, damn it, GET HIM TO ANSWER THE PHONE!!!

Again I pounded on the door. “Daddy, Please! She says it’s important! You must answer the phone.”

At long last the door to the bathroom burst open and I was greeted by the towering form of my father, soaking wet and holding a towel around his waist. Steam curled around his figure and toward the ceiling. He looked angrier than the night before. “Tell your mother to answer the phone, can’t you see I’m busy here?!”

The world began to blur as hot tears burned my eyes. I glanced down at my feet as I pulled Snoopy tighter under my chin. “But, Daddy, Mommy hasn’t come home yet.”

He stared at me silence and I could only cower. “What did you say?”

“There’s a lady from St. Mary’s on the phone.”

“No, what did you just say?” He loomed over me, his face red, a vein popping on his forehead.

I took a step back and stopped short as I felt a chill run down my spine. “Mommy’s not home.”

Tell him!

“And phone. There’s a lady on the phone from St. Mary’s.”

His face contorted in rage, agony and despair all at once. The color vanished from his face as he quickly turned to his right and hurried toward the living room. He slipped and slid a few feet and I could hear him crash onto the wooden telephone bench.

It wasn’t long before the neighbor came over to keep me company as my father sped off in the lemon-yellow pickup up truck to St. Mary’s.  There had been an accident. My sister’s boyfriend had been drunker than anybody had realized and t-boned his car onto a cement pole around the corner from the store they had gone to.

“Is mommy and them going to be okay?” I asked, my gaze staring at Snoopy’s unwavering black eyes as coolness enveloped my hand.  I looked up and out the window and bit my lip.

I did all I could.

“Sweetheart, let us pray for a Christmas Miracle.” I heard Mrs. Wong, the next door neighbor say as she walked through the door and locked it behind her.  She walked to where Baby Jesus lay in his manger by the Christmas tree.

I stepped away from the window and finally looked at her in the eyes: a young girl similar to me in appearance and perhaps a year older dressed in a white nightgown.  I whispered a word of thanks to my ghostly frenemy before running to where Mrs. Wong was kneeling.

 My mother had been sitting in the middle rear seat so she could talk to both my sister and her boyfriend during the ride. Seconds before the car spun out of control, my mother had looked down and noticed one of my McDonald’s happy meal toys on the rear passenger floor. Confused to see it there, she bent down to pick it up, an action that had saved her life. She had wound up with a broken elbow, a sprained knee and had to get a few stitches on her head.  My sister’s boyfriend had survived with a dislocated shoulder and my sister had to be pried out from underneath the dashboard from where she had slipped into during the collision. She had suffered the greatest injuries and was in a coma for over 13 hours. 

Yesterday came suddenly.

This is something that has been running through my mind the last few weeks. I've been having one of my more quiet episodes, where I just want to stay hidden in a dark room, away from people. My body is fighting me; if it my hands yelling at me from over use; my head pounding from whatever stress is eating at me; my ankles throbbing from movement; my knees aching just for the fuck of it, or my uterus because it hasn't bothered me in a year or two.... something, its always something.

My heart has also been aching, and NOT because I have a heart condition. Between you, my readers, and me, it wouldn't surprise me one bit if it, too, has decided to be an asshole. -- Wait, no, that's just my hair. He's an asshole.

But I digress, I'm not here to bitch and whine about the infinite little things that have been keeping me down lately. I am here to share another lesson I'm coping with.

Life is short. Superbly, miserably short.

When I was younger and floundering about my faith, I stumbled upon a book about palm reading. In it, obviously, it went into a lot of detail as to what individual lines in our hands meant. We are born with some lines, very important ones, on our less dominant hand and it is believed that these are remnants of our past life. These are physical representations of our karmic baggage-- people and lessons we need to cope with in this life time.

This theory got me thinking at a young age. It opened up my eyes to the simple intricacies of life and their meaning. I'm not talking about those mile stones of life where one meets the love of their lives, gets the job of their dreams, has a child, blah blah blah. I'm talking about the more mundane things, those little things that nobody ever thinks about or realize how they shape our lives. Yeah.. Those. Just how we take indoor plumbing for granted, we take people for granted. We don't realize what they mean to us until it is too late.

See, people come into our lives for a reason. It is up to us to be open to the lessons we're supposed to learn. Some of them are painful (Yes, yes, I am talking about you, Friend, who took my heart and shattered it. Don't worry, I am not bitter anymore. I learned a lot from that and now I just miss the friendship we once had.), some are bitter sweet like the memories of Michelle -- a young girl with Downs who was constantly bullied in elementary school and became my first American friend. We couldn't really talk, but she'd hold my hand. She'd hug me when I cried and often stood up for me when I got bullied. Just like she came into my life, she was gone, having moved away without a goodbye. She's my Strength, that little voice in the back of my head that helps me to stand up for what I believe in.

Lately, though, I have been smacked upside the head with this reminder not once, but twice.

I have a friend in hospice care. I can't visit and our chats on facebook are random and rare. Any time I see his name on chat box my heart skips a beat. Is today the day that I get notification that he's gone? I hate this feeling, this anxiety that eats away at me.  For a while, I was angry, upset, frustrated that I *was told*... and that there was nothing I could do but start saying my goodbyes early.


With my body falling apart, and my heart saddened by losing a friend whose infectious laughter and saucy commentary made work bearable, I was content hiding. I tried to numb myself to the prospect of losing him. I was happy going about my routine when I wasn't trying sleep away whatever was bothering me that given day.

Then the other shoe dropped. My heart skipped. I have been staring at my messenger for a few hours, reading the conversation over and over again. Its so... surreal. Why the hell do people tell me these things?! WHY?

Because they care about me. Because I mean something to them. I am as special to them as they are to me. Because, in the past, I've taken people for granted.

I am now sitting here, trying really hard not to cry while I relive the last hour or so. Again, I've been smacked by Life and her lessons. "People come and go," she says "some go on with their lives and others don't. Cherish them while they're still here."

Okay. Fine. I'll stop ignoring it. I'll stop fighting what I can't fight. I'll just accept it. I'll just let it be.

I'm still trying to figure out if knowing that its coming and finally saying goodbye was/is better than being told later that the fight is over. I feel guilty for mourning and not even knowing... I'm dreading the words and all I can do right now is cry in anticipation. I think I'm going to go cuddle up to Manthing. I need life around me. -Carol 'Ilayra' Ellars.

So, Carol of Yesterday, I have found the answer: It is better to know ahead of time. This way, you can make the choices necessary to avoid the regret of missing out on all the things that will eventually eat at you. If you thought sticking your head in the sand was the way to go, you'll be more sorry the moment you can't ignore it anymore.

Carol of Tomorrow, take a note from your favorite band, The Beatles, and take this sad song. Make it better.

To my dearest friend, regardless of what tomorrow brings and what will or will not be concluded next year, we will sing. We will dance. We will see everything that we can and we will document *everything*.  Because life is too damned short.

To the rest of my friends, you know, the ones I have not culled out of my life, I promise to reach out to you more often. I will make the effort to talk to you, see you, spend time with you. I will double my efforts to not hide in my pain anymore. I will do what I can to be open and not build walls around me again because... I don't want to find myself alone again, having spent the best years of my life in solitude because I was too afraid to get hurt.

Yours,

Carol of Today.