poetry: Nonus- "I used to be a bad man"

I used to be a bad man
Until they took my mind away
And now I am not accountable
This is what the doctors say.
One marvel they held from me
In my own time
Was that the heart may still beat
Without the mind.
And mine is surely lost
While the heart is on display
My chest gaping open,
All the rest in decay
Except for this evil thing,
destroying all in its way.

I have never been my master
I have never known liberty
From the chains of this monster
Inside of me
I have never opened my heart
To good and fruitful results
Only to blood
Pure as fetid mud.
And the irony, it is
I never knew of this
I never knew I had heart
Until I lost my mind....

And as it turns out
You can kill the mind quick,
And leave the heart beating.
Who would have guessed this?
And it becomes my fate
To wonder beneath
The dark waters I drowned
In the limbo where I bleed.
Every face laughs
There is the man with no mind.
I used to be a bad man
When I had the choice to find
The pathway between the two
And choose where good lies
But now I am a fool
Choice-less and blind.

I have never been my master
I have never known liberty
From the chains of this monster
Inside of me
I have never opened my heart
To good and fruitful results
Only to blood
Pure as black mud.
And the irony, it is
I never knew of this
I never knew I had heart
Until I lost my mind....

(c) 2012 Luz Briar.

poem: Empty

Find another drunken fly

Leave me be

Store new lies

Out of pity

You are no friend of mine.

Throw your web, wrap them tight, bite them hard, drain them dry.

I am empty.

poem: Yet I Wake

My heart often breaks in so many places

I wonder how large and soft it must be to have so many fractures

Yet at times I cannot feel it in my chest
like my hands, quick and creative

Slow to strike a living thing

Yet I wake with dirt and blood beneath my nails

Wishing some devil had driven me but recalling all the details

Made of glass

And the wind whistles through the cracks

Until it all crumbles…

Everything…

Heart, head, limbs, blood, bile

Yet I find I am mistaken when another break

Marches from the center of my heart

To its eastward corner

To beat in my bosom another day.

poem: I Am a Coward

I am a coward

I am a coward

I do not love myself enough to love another

My blood is bled only fr dramatic purposes

All my defenses only exist to win

at petty games that I play because I like pain.

My company is by law

and never by the choice that cannot live in a void.

I am a coward.

I am a coward.

The kind of coward that disturbs a peaceful night's flow

by crying through the muzzle only there for his own good.

You know I am no person.

A person would be grateful for the leash 

that keeps him sheltered and positioned

before his creator

where his little plays, plots and ways

can be monitored.

I am a coward.

I am no person

so beware and keep and eye on me in water.

I may begin to fight and gasp for air

and betray you

instead of sinking as I'm meant to do.

Derelict that I am,

I may act as if I don't owe you life itself sometimes

and I may even forget that I'm a ragdoll

for I am a coward.

Derelict, coward, ungrateful, traitor.

I am no person, no.

But if I were I would fall down on both knees

to beg your pardon for

everything ever and plead

yet since I am not thus armed with the power of love

my moral compass is void

and I push when I'm shoved.

If I were a person then I would take the brunt

sadly I am too weak.

I'm a sniveling cunt.

My name is Coward.

I am a coward. Oh

If I were brave 

I wouldn't know any discomfort

If I were loving I would eat your bullshit, pinky-up!

I'm sorry I'm not strong enough. 

I've no choice.

If I were human I would know the way to rescue.

But being cold and so unreachable

why should I be dependable?

I would never tell you

"Just pull the trigger."

I am, I am...yes

I am quite 

the little

confused

coward.

(Emphasis on little.)

(c) Luz Briar 2010-2011.

poem: Strike Me (Fair-Weather)

Strike Me (Fair-Weather)

Strike me

I know it is your way to wound

In fair-weather

To hide your quiver

And in the downpour

To produce it and aim.

You beat your prey down to a pulp you can digest

Then spit it out…

Then wave the white flag…

Strike me

Fair-weather guardian

Tug the chain

To return me to your range.

But when the links break

And you lose your target, cry.

“Abandonment” in all its synonyms

You spit me out

You wave your flag

Strike me

How dare I escape the pain

I am a Coward!

How dare I hide from you

Or dare to seek shelter

From the maelstrom (Hell’s Wrath)

My soul is so colored from your attacks

It aches and trembles to touch.

You’ll spit out nothing now

And I will ignore your flag.

(c) 2011 Luz Briar.

short story- (1/2) Hallow's Eve

“Yeah, well, if you get any wild ideas in your head, you better not go running off like an idiot to solve things all alone,” Derrick had commanded, slurring loudly even over Amelia’s vegetating body. “You call the cops, pronto!”

“Derrick, keep your voice down!” Sarah had commanded him.

“She can’t hear us!” Derrick had nearly laughed, but not quite.

The half-laugh lingered in Sarah’s ears, along with the image of Amelia’s shattered face, propped uselessly with breathing devices and equipment. Those labored, rattling breaths stayed with her as well.

At nightfall, the two-story residence in the woods surprised her. She wasn’t normally skittish, but in this view, where branches opened sublimely for her to see Willy’s house, Sarah shuttered. Toilet paper littered the roof, swaying in the autumn breeze like ghost decorations. It was only timing, Sarah reminded herself. American culture had made October 31 the token “scary” night. There was nothing to fear but fear itself. And being discovered.

Sarah took in the setting, stifling the natural urges that compelled her to leave this place. Amelia’s little skull-and-cross bone diary was in there. Tonight was the safest time to permeate Willy’s “club” without detection.

She parked her aunt’s ancient beetle car on the outskirts of the forest, near a pick-up truck and a ratty smaller vehicle. When her cell phone vibrated against her thigh, she shuddered, “Shit! Derrick!”

Sure enough, her older brother’s name read across the brightening screen. In the lack of urban lights, the cell phone’s glow suddenly irked her. But she answered, her own tiny voice doing nothing to calm her. “What?”

“You better be at your little boyfriend’s house and not playing Nancy Drew or some shit!”

“Will you get off my ass! I’m just trick or treating.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Okay, I’m smoking pot!” She offered a more realistic, 15-year-old lie. “You happy?”

“I don’t care if you’re snorting crack off a dead bum’s ass, but you better not visit Amelia’s friends. They’re a bunch of stoners. And that Will guy is”

“I don’t even know where they are,” she lied, Amelia’s stolen phonebook on the passenger seat. “Besides, you don’t care if I’m doing lines of coke but you do care if I’m hanging out with coke heads?”

“Don’t be a stupid bitch, Sarah. Look what it did to Amelia.”

“Fuck yourself, Derrick!” she fought her urge to throw the phone and simply hung up.

She was refueled to disobey him. By the car’s dim light, she found her robe and Star Wars Yoda mask. She pulled out of her schoolbag one pair of iron knuckles. “Stupid,” she mumbled to herself. Equipped with a flashlight and guised in her costume, she cautiously took to the forest.

The night noises again warned that Sarah turn around, pick up her cell phone, and voice her suspicions to the police. But what would the authorities do? Rattle Willy and his cronies up enough to make them realize every possession Amelia had left in the camp house needed to be disposed of. No, only two days later they wouldn’t have realized this yet. Now was the best time.

Though reaching the house in the itchy, hot costume was taking longer than Sarah had expected. Following the sound of stereo music on high aided her through the white noise to the source of human-made harmony.

A couple now lay on the porch swing. Two teenagers around Amelia’s age, separated only by their clothing. To Sarah’s relief, she saw that the boy was in a poor guise of some Star Trek character. Star Wars and Star Trek, they were all the same to Sarah.

“Is that Gaven!” the girl declared, her glassy eyes suddenly on Sarah. “Hey, Gaven!”

“Yoda’s so overdone!” the trekkie rolled his eyes.

Sarah kept her silence, but even through the mask caught the scent of smoke. Both pot and tobacco, salting the air. Last year, it had been an open-house party, but what if things had changed?

On the doorbell, a smashed mosquito had spilled its juices across the yellow neon light. It was then, as Sarah pushed the button, that she realized she may have overcompensated for the holiday. She had cut her nails for the occasion, but the house was free of any Halloween decorations, saved for the toilet paper that ran from the roof.

The girl who answered Sarah’s ring peered down at her from eyes as green as her own, or as Derrick’s, or even as Amelia’s. For a moment, Sarah felt a surreal relief, which sank all too quickly. This girl could be Amelia’s twin.

“Yoda, huh?” the raven-haired beauty gave a wide, white smile. “Come on in.”

This must be the Lili of Amelia’s stories. The girl with the nose rings and the unbecoming dark style, but the face of a porcelain doll.

“Hey, everyone! Yoda’s here!” Lili exclaimed, and Sarah’s heart sank.

She began immediately to count the reasons why Derrick’s advise had been wise.

But eyes did not scrutinize her. On the contrary, most eyes in the room were busily rolled back into the heads of their owners. If there had been pot on the premises, or even cocaine, Sarah could see no more of it. The party guests, mostly female, were caught in the sway of each other, and every now and then of the things they placed on one another’s tongues.

Sarah crossed the room nearly on tiptoe. Her attention was drawn to the chaos on the nearby coach. A man, fully dressed save for the necessary area, was atop a woman, fully nude where she lay, nonchalant as he noted Sarah’s presence. Willy did not cease thrusting even as he nodded to acknowledge the new guest, and Sarah was startled by the energy of his vacant eyes.

Sarah gasped for breath, immerging from the mask safely behind the bathroom’s locked door. She quietly rummaged through the medicine cabinet. It wouldn’t be the type of place for Amelia to hide a diary. But the two lived-in bedrooms of the first floor had turned up no diary. Granted, the search was a sticky, migraine-inducing task behind the Yoda mask. The speed of Sarah’s heartbeat was not helping either. The sound of rampant footfalls outside the bathroom door signaled a drunken chase, high giggles and noise included. The toilet had rings within it.

My god. It’s not just a party house anymore, Sarah realized, noting a grungy hairbrush by the sink. I think these kids live here.

She sat on the toilet lid for a moment, mentally tracing her next steps through the house.

She was leaving, and that was for sure. This had been a suicidal idea, snooping into the lair of a group she had always known would plummet into madness. She at last checked the blank screen of her cell phone. She pressed down on the power button until the screen relit. The phone had hardly any battery power left, so she pressed down again on the power button. Better to save the last of the energy for later.

Willy’s eyes had replaced the image of Amelia’s ravaged face in Sarah’s memory. His mud brown eyes, she recalled were in more than one of her memories. As she examined her own watering green eyes in the mirror, she recalled this day a year ago, when she had in fact met Willy in this house. She had stood alongside her sister Amelia at a costume party, before Amelia had begun to disappear sporadically for months. Willy had towered guru-like over Amelia, just as he did with the others tonight. Only then, the living room had looked hotel-worthy, and this bathroom like one in a styled brochure. Even then, the energy in his eyes had been too much for Sarah to accept as pure. Something else charged it, just as something vacant charged the energy of this sloppy party. Outside the yellowing bathroom, the living room had taken on the appearance of a classic frat house. And Willy’s eyes had been all the more charged.

Leaving the smarmy heat of the bathroom, whose vent was left running for no apparent reason, Sarah met again with the ventilated air of the hallway. Only then, as the hallway stretched out before her, did she fathom how long a drive it was back to the city. Only as one of the many high girls ran past her giggling did she begin to recollect how she had seen only two other cars on the outskirts of the forest.

Slash his tires, she thought to herself. If push comes to shove…

Willy was standing in the doorway, dominating the space like an actor on stage. The girls around him were attentive, wide-eyed, some still swaying. He was conversing, with grand sweeping gestures, to the only other male in sight. Bidding him farewell, casually.

Sarah turned, her narrowed vision running up the white walls and down to the red, stained carpet. A glimpse of ugly, kitchen-looking tile appeared at the other end of the hall. Sarah gambled to find the back door.

But the couple from outside had relocated, directly in Sarah’s path to that door. She could not bring herself to step over the naked teenagers, because she could not stand to get close to the noisy act. The boy’s rhythmic breaths troubled her. For the first time that night, the stairway appealed to her, with its peeling, stained red carpet.

She took her ascent patiently; step-by-step as though the modern stairs would creak beneath her tiny weight. When a form’s warm mass pushed against her from behind, her shriek was so high that it was inaudible. Long, feminine nails ran down her robbed frame and cupped her buttocks.

“You’re not Gaven,” Lili whispered, winking. “You’re a girl.”

The maddeningly bright smile and crinkled nose left Sarah speechless. She collected the trailing part of Yoda’s robe and hurried upstairs. Lili did not follow, at least not immediately. Sarah darted into a darkened bedroom and eased the door shut. After locking it, she switched on the lights.

This time her gasp was quite audible.

A girl lay in the king-sized bed, her straight black hair fanning out across white sheets. She opened her dark, disoriented eyes and smiled, giggling. The young girl sat up straight, “Where’s Willy, Yoda?”

“Downstairs,” Sarah heard herself answer.

She would be caught. There was no doubt in her mind. The question now was how would she fight.

This disoriented teen sat straight up in her long white t-shirt. Perhaps she was the girl Willy was with earlier. She seemed highly sexed, the nipples beneath her t-shirt jutting out.

“Can you tell him to come up here, girl?” the stranger stretched out, her large breasts nearly tumbling from the shirt. When she stood, Sarah saw that this girl was fully naked save for the t-shirt.

“I think he’s busy,” Sarah deepened her voice as best she could. It probably sounded closer to Yoda than a person.

“I guess I’ll go get him. You wanna come, Amelia?”

Sarah surprised herself when she did not faint at the sound of the name. “No thanks.”

With that the stranger fluttered from the room, leaving Sarah to its security alone. She locked the door, and choked back deep sobs. What had she been expecting to retrieve here tonight? Amelia’s life force? If Willy had raped and beaten her into a coma, what difference would it make who caught him for it?

She dragged herself to the sweat-stained bed where she reached her wit’s end. Her weeping made the bed creak, a sound that triggered more than memories of this dizzy night. Among the strangest memory was hearing Derrick’s voice chide Amelia in a yell, “Geez! Will you keep it down with that in there! The rest of us like to sleep sometimes!”

“Oh, shut up!” Amelia had yelled back, making Sarah smile where she lay in her own room. She knew that Amelia was only moving her mattress to retrieve her hidden diary beneath it.

Before Sarah could collect her thoughts, her own hands were fishing beneath the heavy king-sized mattress of this bed. When her fingers scanted the binding of a cheap notebook, with skull-and-cross bone cover, her heart skipped several beats again.

©2009-2011 Luz Briar. Stealing is morally repugnant.

poem: Bury the Chains(1)- my bones

1. My bones and my parts

these chains are clanging between my ears

they always have. Call them unreal.

The sound follows me into the night

I wake in coils at the dawn’s light.

 

(Chains! Undo them! Or bury me instead!)

 

These chains clink against my ear drums

But they weigh down my whole form

Phantom irons with mortal posts

“They buried me,” will sing my ghost.

 

Chains! Where are they? Find and bury them in my head.

 

Call them fiction while they weigh down my bones and my parts.

Call them fiction as you watch them sink my heart.

 

I am a Prison!

©2011 Luz Briar.

Draining the Humor- artwork & link

(click to enlarge. Nothing stupendous. I’ve done better, this is just a doodle. I love how their facial expressions came out though. In order from left to right; Charles, Orion, with Mini Muffin and Bri.)

If you have yet to read the story, click HERE to see it from the start.

There is another story following this one. But I’m not releasing any details yet as it isn’t even written. Check back for more if you like Orion and Bri.

(More Starving Artists coming soon.)

© 2011 Luz Briar.

Draining the Humor (7)-a day at the races

7-a day at the races

As Bri had always noticed, a spat between two men quickly subsided.

Soon she and her husband were at the town racetrack, alongside the Arteberrys. Once again, their family friend Amadeus lingered with them. Charles, Orion and Amadeus were discussing which horse to place a bet on. But Bri leaned against Lucy, feeling overly hot and a little woozy. Lucy had an arm about her waist, and the affection of another, more radiant woman was refreshing. She was keeping the discomfort to herself for now, hoping it would pass.

As the horses kicked up a cloud of dust in their race, Bri continued to lean on Lucy where they sat in the stands. The taller woman stroked her hair.

“Gentlemen, I believe Lady Hookwell needs some water.”

Amadeus stood. When Bri shut her eyes in the heat, she could hear he and Orion discussing things in hushed tones. When she opened her eyes she watched Amadeus leave and followed her husband’s eyes as he watched him. He was the one to return with refreshments, his arms big enough to carry five of them. Lucy put a glass to Bri’s mouth and she sipped. She felt her husband’s hand on her back, but his tone was low as he spoke to Amadeus.

She thought she recognized the tone. It was innocent but teasing, almost suggestive. Bri squinted in the sunlight and saw Amadeus hand the drink to Orion. They exchanged smiles.

Bri winced against her nausea. She was grateful Charles sat on the far end, away from her and she was in between Lucy and her husband.

She was beyond gratitude when the winning horse was announced. She got to her feet and asked for Lucy’s aid, “I need to find a chamber pot… or a privy…I…”

“Yes, dear,” Lucy aided her to her feet and the women left in search of privacy and an orifice for Bri to empty the contents of her stomachs.

Lucy did not need to tell Bri what her illness might mean. Both women knew, but neither spoke of it. When they left the outhouse, the crowd was dispersing, still angered.

“How could a horse named Giggles win! What a travesty!” someone was exclaiming.

In the stands, Charles, Orion and Amadeus were waiting. Only Orion sat, as his two companions seemed to be discussing something of great interest. As Bri and Lucy returned, Bri tried to ignore the horrid aftertaste in her mouth and smile at Orion. When he saw her, he scooted over for her and held her when she sat. He kissed her forehead. “My love, are you ill?”

She shook her head, but before she could answer, Charles’ sharp voice interjected.

“By the way, Orion, have you seen Lawrence about town with the rent boy?”

Bri could feel Orion’s discomfort. “No. I don’t care to know.”

“Apparently he’s taken to a particular rent boy and treating him like a love. Those of us at the docks find it hilarious, we’ve seen the boy before.”

“I am glad to hear Lawrence is getting along well.”

“You’re not, Orion,” Charles responded.

Bri grimaced. What was Arteberry attempting! To hurt Orion because of the recent rejection?

Bri’s face snapped up. She detected some sincerity in Charles’ face this time. The words were harsh, but the tone was not lacking meaning.

“You’ve heard of it. Does it disgust you?” Charles spoke with his usual confidence. “If it does you ought to say something instead of letting it fester.”

“I think nothing of it.”

“You do, Orion.”

“And now I shall be told what I think?”

“Oh, bloody hell, Orion! This again?”

“We are in the presence of others, Charles…” Orion answered, a rasp forming in his deep voice. Bri felt his grasp on her loosen as he withdrew into himself. “What I think about Lawrence and his rent boy is none of your concern.”

“Then why isn’t it yours?”

Orion shut his eyes in clear exasperation. Bri did not like the tension in the air. It was not wise to corner Orion in this manner, but it seemed to be Charles’ goal. They were outside, in the stands at a race track and though they were alone, it did not seem the best place for an intervention.

“Charles! Can you please—“ Bri jumped in, only to have Orion squeeze her hand softly for silence.

“Ah, perhaps it is the novelty.” Charles shrugged, looking at Amadeus.

Amadeus did not look humored. He was glaring daggers in Charles’ direction.

“The novelty of what?” Bri demanded.

“Meeting a man who was not so in denial of himself. Even if he is a rent boy, at least he will not run away…”

The group fell quiet and Bri shook her head. Orion closed his eyes and put his face in his hand, “Charles, there are things you do not understand.”

“Orion, there is more to the world than what those men did to you.”

Orion raised his eyes to Charles for the first time. His glare was piercing, and his words came out like venom, “Is there, Charles? Thank you so much for telling me? Now kindly teach me how to erase the trauma and I will. Kindly teach me the way to be a stronger person so that I will add up to your level of fortitude.”

Orion stood and he met Charles face-to-face. Bri anticipated a punch to Charles’ face. Alas, it never came.

“There is so much more to the world, Charles. And it is all like you. It assumes everything and asks no questions. The less it learns, the more it thinks it knows. And then…it Preaches! Denial! Denial! DENIAL? You think that is what this is about!”

Orion was raising his voice, something Bri had never heard before.

“Denial! Yes, this is about the petty ‘I am this’ or ‘I am that!’ That is all it is about, isn’t it! Words! Bloody fucking words! And what those men did to me? You do not even know! Do you know what leeching is, Charles? What about cupping! Bleeding, hm? How about starving and cold water treatment? What about being left for dead? Yes, Charles! O, yes! There is more to the world! There is much more! I wonder if you even know what it is, Hypocrit!” he was so angry he was spitting and yelling, and now he stormed off.

In his path a stray dog stopped and whimpered at the sight of him.

Bri found she was backed up into Lucy, her head practically in the woman’s bosom. She wanted to turn and hide her face in them.

All eyes fell on Charles and he sighed, “Brigid, I think he will talk now…”

© 2011 Luz Briar. All Rights Reserved.

Draining the Humor (5)- a night at the opera

5-a night at the opera

The Arteberrys and the Hookwells set up a date for an outing.
Lucy had a supporting role in an upcoming London opera, and the couples decided the event would be a good occasion to socialize afterwards.
Orion arranged to get them a booth, but stepping up the stairs, a foot shot out of one of the private booths and Orion nearly tripped.
The curtains were drawn aside and Charles revealed himself. He smirked at the couple and Bri’s laugh erupted. Half the opera house turned to stare and hiss for silence. Bri hid her face in Orion’s shirt as he shrugged and stepped forward.
Bri took in Charles’ appearance. As always, he was appealing, though today he had dressed rather nicely for his wife’s show. Not like a sailor at all. He even had his longish hair pulled back, giving him an almost feminine look.
But there was someone there Bri recognized but could not name.
The muscular blonde man she had seen at Lucy’s piano a few weeks ago.
“Charles, we were heading to our booth,” Orion announced.
“Nonsense. You’re sitting with Amadeus and I. He is a bore in conversation. A good chap, but a bloody bore.”
Amadeus shrugged, apparently used to Charles’ bluntness.
“Have we met?” Bri interrupted, nodding to Amadeus.
Already, Charles was eyeing Orion. The earl looked away shyly and Bri squeezed his hand.
Amadeus answered gruffly, his voice thick with a German accent, “Ch’ay. Not formally. Amadeus Frunberg, my lady.”
“Brigid Hookwell,” she gave a small bow. “And this is my husband Lord Hookwell.”
Amadeus nodded in acknowledgement, apparently a man of few words.
Charles easily compensated for Amadeus’ silence.
“Lucy sings a love song and then exits. I’m considering doing the same, except I’d be beaten if I left early. Perhaps you two can bloody well entertain me during this thing.”
“You don’t like opera, Mr. Arteberry?” Bri asked.
“Charles does not like most things,” Orion spoke as he allowed his wife to sit first. “He can be quite harsh.”
“But that is what you like about me, isn’t it, my lord?”
Orion merely changed the topic. “What is the role your wife shall play?”
“A Queen reminiscing a young romance. Her lover died as a result of their copulating and because he was a commoner had his head whacked off. It’s tearful and lovely and all that mess. Brigid,” Charles snapped them out of their comfort zone by calling her by her first name. “I know my brother Stephen must have taken you to operas before. Did you ever fall asleep during one?”
“I think they sing too loud for me to go to sleep, Charles,” she returned the casual address. “Have you?”
“No, but I have had my cock sucked in one of these private booths. During a very long solo from a diva. I find people suck better when they are bored.”
Amadeus rolled his eyes and Bri took Orion’s hand.
Charles was as aggressive as she recalled. Orion’s emotions were not yet legible. He was staring ahead at the stage as the overture came swelling to its grand middle. His green eyes cleared a bit and he turned to look at Charles.
It was then Bri wondered how two creatures, so contrast in their ways, could have united even for one night of passion.
“Charles, will you behave for your wife’s sake?” Orion asked.
“I wonder if I ever have,” Charles challenged the earl.
Bri would be more comfortable talking to Charles and Orion about their ulterior motifs if Amadeus was not present. She looked the man over. He was rather strapping, but did not seem the type Charles would befriend. Charles’ brown eyes narrowed when he saw Bri surveying Amadeus. He quipped, “I see you like Germans, Brigid.”
Bri laughed. “As pleasant as you are, Charles. I believe my husband and I will go to our own booth now. He did pay good money for it, after all.”
She squeezed Orion’s hand and he stood, apparently agreeing. If he had not, he would contradict her. Sometimes he did, as he was not one to follow blindly, something Bri admired in him. But he was also submissive when he agreed with a thing. And right now their private booth sounded good. They would reunite with their friends later.
Charles watched with an annoyed expression as they left. Bri sensed he would follow and leave Amadeus alone. Perhaps then, the three of them could discuss things. But the overture was coming to an end and Bri doubted there would be time to discuss anything at all.
Orion gestured again, allowing Bri to sit first. She stared up at him when she was seated and tugged his hand affectionately. He sat beside her and they shared a quick kiss.
“No snogging during the overture,” came Charles’ snide voice.
They met with his mocking gaze as he seated himself to Orion’s left. Bri rolled her eyes at the sailor. At least he was not unappealing like Lawrence. He was more the type Orion should be with, physically. There was always something delicate about Charles’ face, as though he were sad beneath the difficult mask he wore. Bri knew that about two years prior, Charles and Lucy’s daughter Adelaide had gone missing. She guessed the missing child would have something to do with Charles’ melancholy.
Now he was smiling at Orion, genuinely it seemed. “I apologize for Amadeus. He is a family friend and we try to include him in our outings. He enjoys solitude at times. It shows in his response when I speak to him.”
“Perhaps your conversation does not stimulate him,” Orion’s deep voice contrasted Charles’ both in softness and depth.
Charles crooned, “Is someone critical of my conversational skills?”
“Not at all, Arteberry. I find you very engaging, when you choose to be.”
The two men exchanged mocking looks as the music stopped and all went silent. Bri wrapped her arm around her husband’s arm and rested her head on his shoulder.
As the opera opened and the singers demanded attention, all was peaceful. However, Bri was quickly lost to the plotline.
“Muffin,” she whispered. “Did you grab a program?”
“No, love. I’m sorry.”
Charles rolled his eyes, “Orion, your wife’s whisper is louder than her speaking voice!”
“I’m right here, Mr. Arteberry! If you have a complaint, you can direct it toward me.”
“Ah, but you are sitting way over there.”
“Children,” Orion spoke up softly, “Let’s be polite…”
With that Bri and Charles simmered down. However, Bri dwelt on Charles’ little insult. He had always been such a heel, but why could he not be upfront about it with her as he was with everyone else? Why could he not be a heel to her face? It had always been so, even when Bri was Stephen’s wife.
Stephen, your wife laughs like a man.
Bri was fuming when she heard Charles mumble something about a solo a little soprano had did. Something about it being “subtle.” Of course, he was being sarcastic. Bri rolled her eyes and whispered loudly “Orion, you’re right. Your lover doesn’t care for most things!”
“Orion, your wife is ‘whispering’ again,” Charles shot back.
“If you have complaints, I’m right here!” Bri exclaimed.
“She sounds quite angry, my lord! Did you bring her medicine?”
“Medicine! I don’t have medicine, you twat!”
“Brigid!” Orion looked at her.
By now, their voices were raised and someone pulled their curtain aside and thrust their head in. “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
The three of them shut their mouths. Orion looked at his shoes, Bri folded her arms to pout and Charles grinned at both of them triumphantly.
Bri seethed as she stared at him, wanting to smack the smirk off his face. The thought that he had ever touched her innocent Orion made her stomach turn.
“You are a mite,” she hissed in a whisper. “A nasty, snarky little blood-sucking mite!”
Charles snorted and said nothing. He seemed quite proud to be insulted.
“Brigid, love, please…” Orion begged her for silence.
Surely someone would complain to them again if they kept arguing. But now Bri could not focus on the opera. She lifted her opera-glasses to view the performers better, but her mind was still elsewhere.
When she heard Charles mumble one more thing, she lost her temper.
“You be quiet, you! And don’t touch my husband!”
With that, Orion stood, threw back the side curtain and stepped out. Bri and Charles watched him before Bri felt her heart sink. She dropped the opera glasses and hurried after him down the stairs.
“Muffin!” she yelled. “Muffin! I’m sorry!”
He was not turning back around. He was returning to the booth with Amadeus, escaping Bri and Charles.
When she caught up with him, he was about to duck into the booth. All eyes in the audience were following them as the opera players continued valiantly on with their performance.
“I’m sorry, Rion! Come back.”
“Do not follow me, Brigid.”
“But—“
“You embarrass me. Argue with him but do it without me,” he spoke to her with a sideways glance, cold.
Then he disappeared into the booth with Amadeus. Bri hung her head and progressed back up the steps in shame. Eyes were still on her. When she returned to the booth with Charles, he was no longer grinning. Like her, he seemed shaken by Orion’s departure.
By the time Lucy appeared on the stage to sing her sad song, Bri and Charles had whispered their apologies. At the short intermission, she asked, “How long do you think he will be angry at me?”
“Hell hath no wrath like an insecure earl, my dear. But you know the bugger better than I…though if I remember correctly, he has a big heart.”
Bri had detected a hint of real sadness in Charles when Lucy was singing. Perhaps he was not completely without sentiment.
“I am going to run to the booth and apologize to him…”
“You had better run fast, my lady.”
“How long do I have?”
“Not long. The intermission is as long as your patience.”
She took the jibe in stride and then stood, ready to scurry to Orion to apologize.
© 2011 Luz Briar.

Mad Earl poem: Doctor’s Help

 

(A break from fiction. Here’s a poem.)

Doctor’s Help

You only meant to help

You extend your hand

My advise; withdraw it, my friend

Some have lost fingers this way.

You only meant to preach.

 

You tonic is

A weak arsenic

You hand it to your friends

To keep them your subjects…

 

You only meant to treat

Doctor, as you are

Your advise; stay ill, in need

Of your cabinet—

Yes, you only meant to bleed.

 

Your treatment is

Breakage of limbs

Severed feet and leeching

Patients, for your keeping.

 

Tell me your intentions are good;

I would rather rot than commend myself to you.

 

Your aid is pain

Spewed diagnosis based

On your ignorance

And your empty well-meaning head.

(A/N: the fifth poem in the Mad Earl poetry collection. )

© 2011 Luz Briar. All Rights Reserved.

story-Earl Swan (3)

(click response/comment if you read please! it encourages me to share!)
part 3 of 6
-3-
Bri woke with her arms around someone’s waist.
She peeled her face from a pillow and found herself in Orion’s arms. They were completely nude. She gaped as the night came back to her clearly, all the kissing and the passion.
She had done illicit things with the earl and they had retired to his private bedroom. All the while, Desdemona was probably upstairs pretending to be a musical genius.
Orion looked peaceful asleep and Bri blushed as she recalled their love-making.
She felt the sudden urge to run from the mansion and hide. She had doomed them both now. When Desdemona found out…no, Des would never find out!
“Orion…” she whispered, sweeping hair from his forehead.
His eyes fluttered open and he yawned. He seemed to be in a daze and then he frowned, “Oh no…we probably should not have done that, love.”
“She never needs to know!” Bri collected his face in her hands. “Never! Now you know what you need to know to be a dutiful husband and…” she hopped out of the bed. “my work here is done.”
She saw him look away bashfully from her naked frame and she crawled back into bed, all of her boldness evaporated. Then they were embracing again, clinging to one another. They kissed once, but Bri pulled away, realizing she would want more than a kiss if she kept going.
“We must tell her,” Orion sighed.
“What! Why? She’ll kill us! She already thinks she’s a witch!”
Bri eyed him, watching him collect his thoughts. He seemed more sad than frightened.
She demanded, “What are you thinking? Tell me! What are you thinking?”
The knock on the bedroom door made them both jump. A man’s voice called through, thick with an Indian accent, “Mistress wishes to see you, Lord Hookwell.”
Orion cast Bri an apologetic look, and he looked so miserable she wanted to hold him again. But he inched out of bed.
Bri covered herself with the blanket as the earl dressed himself. She was hoping to stay there and disappear, but the covers were thrown off as she met Orion’s eyes.
He touched her shoulder softly, “Please do not flee, Bri. I want to speak with you after I speak to her…”
“One of her lackeys heard us…” she mumbled, her voice sounding raw. “I know it. One of her henchmen heard us in the study…”
“It does not matter.”
“Yes, it does! I will lose my job and she will throw you in a cauldron and make a fake witch’s brew. Or sacrifice you to Pan. Or whatever the bloody hell she thinks she can do.”
He cupped her face, soothing her, “Please remain calm. She has been sleeping with every man above the equator. She cannot tell me anything about one transgression. And I will have all the blame on me.”
Before she could protest, he threw the blanket back over her and she heard the door open and close. She waited a moment before poking her head out from under the covers.
The poor man. I have doomed him…
Though she knew it was expected of her to remain downstairs, Bri groomed herself for the day. Before the large, elaborate mirror she straightened her dress. She examined herself, still in awe at what happened. It was dawning on her how unlikely a match Orion was for her, even in an affair. True, she had a lovely shape and a few charms. But she also had an overbite and was small in stature, nothing to compare to Desdemona or any real seductress.
Content with her appearance, she patted her bun into place and headed upstairs. She checked the corners and shadows for any of Des’ henchmen. She had an array of them, most of them from India, men who had ended up in England without jobs. They were loyal to their mistress and Bri often heard them talking lewdly about the “busty rat librarian.” They did not realize she knew many languages and she understood their tongue. But she was not about to tell them that.
Bri knew that her mistress’ favorite room overlooked the fields of her vast country estate, and as she approached she heard the faint rumble of arguing.
Desdemona’s hissing whisper fighting with Orion’s soft baritone. Bri was glad that neither was screaming. Desdemona was not a fighter, so it would be highly irregular for her to scream even when enraged. As for Orion, Bri had never known him to be very militant either.
“What I am telling you, is that the fault is mine, not hers…” Orion’s voice carried through the oak door. “I exploited my position of power and made her fall.”
Bri set her ear to it, listening. She could hardly decipher Des’ words, but Orion’s lie ignited indignation. Why should he take the blame? And furthermore, why should Bri play a victim?
Bri’s cauldron of emotions pushed her forward and she pulled the latch on the door. Of course, it was locked. She knocked then, still bold.
It was Orion who opened the door, with a frown.
“…oh no. Why, Bri? Why didn’t you stay downstairs?”
“My lady,” she called out to the heiress. “It was I! I seduced your husband and not the other way around! He is too much a gentlemen to have forced himself on anyone and you know that.”
She was not thinking of her employment. She was thinking instead of how Orion cried to her when he told her the truth, how he had trusted her. How he had let her teach him…
Des was sulking by the bookcase, and her eyebrow rose as she scanned Bri. In moments like this, Des seemed like a cracked actress, who had forgotten her lines, so she focused instead on her body language.
Des’ unfeeling gaze weakened Bri then, and she withdrew into herself. Her mouth dried as did her words. She hung her head.
“Des, perhaps you should not look at this as a bad thing…”
Des neck cracked as she shot Orion a glare. “What? Not a bad thing? You diddled my assistant, my closest friend.”
“And you buggered every man in the area! HaHa!” Bri exclaimed, followed by her usual laugh.
Des bit her thumb at Bri and snarled as if to say “shut-up!”
She was feeling whorish, admittingly. But it had been passion, after all. Not dirty, meaningless buggery.
“You choose my ugly librarian over me,” Des narrowed her eyes. “Very well…Unlock the door.”
Des snapped her fingers at Bri, the usual gesture she did for compliance. Bri defied it. Orion spoke up in her defense, “Des, I did not choose anything. Now we, the two people closest to you, made a mistake. If we ask for your forgiveness, is it really so much to ask? You have insulted me weekly with your escapades. And furthermore, you will not call Ms. Salud ugly!”
Des rushed over to the door herself and flung it open. She then conversed with a manservant quickly and in a tone too low for Bri to decipher. When Des returned, she wore a sly smile. “Why don’t you both have a seat?”
She gestured to the sofa in an exaggerated manner.
“I am willing to discuss this.”
Her eyebrows were low, her smile contrived and controlled. Bri felt a violent urge to slap the woman until she stopped acting.
The lovers glanced at one another and made their way toward the sofa. Orion looked agitated, and had his face in his hands.
“Really, Desdemona. Let’s not make a big show of this. What are you planning?”
“That all depends…” Des sauntered over to the window and peered out. “I want to hear your explanation.”
“Bloody hell…” Bri grumbled.
Orion had to explain his one mistake, but Des was free from scrutiny. Bri was fuming with indignation.
The bodyguard reappeared at the door with a tray, bearing two goblets. It was set before Orion and Bri on the coffee table.
In her fury, Bri went to grab a cup and Orion’s hand seized her wrist. He shook his head at her as if in warning.
“Actually,” Des spoke, turning back to them mechanically, “I’d like to speak to Ms. Salud alone. Orion, would you let Puli escort you out? He could show you the new sword collection we have downstairs.”
“I would rather stay, thank you.” Orion spoke.
Bri sensed protectiveness in his voice.
“Don’t be afraid of Puli,” Des offered. “He is very friendly.”
“He seems very nice for a henchme—I mean—a bodyguard,” Orion casts the bald Indian a glance. “But I prefer to stay.”
The manservant had a bulbous head, a dark mustache and terrifyingly large eyes. He did not have an appearance that leant itself of gentility.
Des then made a big show of thinking. She sauntered out of the room without so much as telling them farewell. Bri looked over to Orion.
“I’m glad she left. I was about to smack her with the first heavy volume I could find…”
“We must not act foolishly now, Bri. We must handle this better than we handled our urges.”
Bri met his eyes then. “I am sorry, Orion…”
For a minute he lingered, as though he would kiss her forehead. He stood and offered her his hand. “Stay near me today. Until we know her decision. I am beginning to see what you meant about the delusions…”
Throughout that day the librarian and the earl stayed in one another’s company. Sure enough, the vast mansion seemed to be crawling with Desdemona’s servants, all waiting for a chance to pick off one of the lovers while they were alone.
In tense moments, Bri and Orion fought, arguing over what the next course of action would be. But always Bri would say something tactless and Orion would laugh, ending the fight.
The heiress herself could not be found. She avoided her fiancé and assistant throughout the day, and what she was planning they could not learn. Though, sometime during sundown, Bri overheard two of her Indian servants discussing a pond. But she could not make sense of the rest, for they were whispering in their native tongue.
It came to be dark and both of them were weary, so Orion escorted Bri to her room.
“I must confess, I am afraid to sleep under this roof tonight…” she told him.
“Desdemona is delusional, Bri. But she is bark and no bite,” Orion promised.
“I would not be so sure, Muffin.”
“Then sleep with me,” he offered.
“That is what got us into this mess…” Bri reminded him. “If we share a bed…surely it will happen again.”
Orion hung his head and nodded, “I suppose you are right. But if anything should happen, come to me. Do not hesitate to scream.”
“I will scream for you, my lord. Only promise to do the same for me.”
He smiled, “I will scream most vigorously.”
They leaned in, almost kissing, but instead he kissed her forehead. They stood in this position for a time and Bri could hear his breath catch in his throat. He wanted to kiss her, she knew. But he was controlling himself. Instead his hand found her left ear and massaged it, making her laugh.
“Goodnight, Bri. Lock your doors.”
“You do the same, Muffin.”
In her private bedchamber, Bri not only locked her doors but pushed what she could in front of it. She knew the heiress had skeleton keys and she did not want any visitors in the night. With a clothing chest, a chair and a small cabinet in front of the door, Bri felt secure for herself. But she feared for the earl. He did not seem to share her opinion that Desdemona was both delusional and dangerous.
As she dozed off that night, his voice stayed with her and she tried not to dwell on it. If something should happen to him, she would never forgive herself.
Come morning, the earl was nowhere to be found.
Bri searched all of his usual haunts; the library, the study, his bedchamber. Her panic did not set in until she was on her knees in his room, desperately looking beneath the bed.
In the hallway, rushing along with her skirts up, she ran into one of the servants. The man glared at her, took in the sight of her cleavage and then asked, “Why do you run?”
“I cannot find the earl! Have you seen him?”
“The mistress wants to speak to you.”
“Answer my question!”
The man seized her wrist and she squeaked, kneeing him in the groin.
“How dare you!” she hissed. “You cannot touch me!”
“Brigid,” came a soft female voice.
She turned and met with Desdemona’s sneer.
“Why must you attack everything that is mine?”
“My lady, where is the earl? Did he leave?”
“I don’t know,” Des answered, pouting. “And I don’t care. I would like to speak to you.”
“Did you order your servant to manhandle me?”
“No, he took that liberty on his own. Perhaps he thought you would like it,” she mocked.
“Don’t toy with me, Lady Parade.”
“Come upstairs, will you? I am not angry.”
After Bri gave the servant an angry nod and turned around, she followed the heiress upstairs but watched her back. She looked in every corner for lurking servants. In India, as a teenager with no home, Bri became accustomed to defending herself against lurking human predators. Still frazzled from being grabbed without warning, she was back to her more feral fight-mode. Though little, Bri could be fierce.
In Desdemona’s favored room, overlooking the fields, the mistress and servant situated themselves. Bri could not bring herself to sit. She stood and folded her arms, waiting for the heiress to speak.
“You’ve helped me to make a decision, Brigid,” Des told her, sitting by the window. “I have been considering it for a long time. But now I know what I must do.”
“And what’s that, my lady?” Bri could not even pretend to care.
“I do not love Lord Hookwell. I love another man, and that is the man I should marry. You have helped me to see that Hookwell will not be a good husband.”
“Humbug!”
“I beg your pardon?” Des stood, indignant at Bri’s insubordination. Her servant had never cursed at her before. “I am being very generous by not firing you and having you arrested.”
“Yes, you are a river unto your people, Lady Parade. Your husband was afraid he would not satisfy you in bed!” Bri confessed at last. “I seduced him. It was all me.”
“I know,” Des spun back around and returned to the window. “That is why he and I will never work. I need a real man.”
Bri grinded her teeth as Des kept going. “He may come out of hiding whenever he chooses and when he does I will tell him I love someone else.”
“I refuse to believe he is hiding. Tell me where he is.”
Des looked at Bri in disgust and then, as she handled all problems, Des simply walked out of the room. “He is at the pond.”
Bri loathed humoring Desdemona. But she went to the pond regardless. She could not take the chance that Orion was waiting for her there and she did not show.
But when she reached the pond outside, all she could see were the gardens and then the lily weeds. Ducks and swans recognized Bri instantly and began to float over to her. She often fed them stale bread and they thought she had a bag with her.
The earl was nowhere to be seen. She watched a train of baby ducks following their mother and she sat in the grass and covered her face.
She felt a bite to her ear and she squeaked. “Ow!”
A swan had bitten her, though it was only looking for bread, so she did not shoo it away. It was a big swan, probably male, and very brave to be so close. Bri reached out and pet it carefully before she got up and dusted herself off.
Inside she sought out her mistress and found her in the music room. All she had to do was follow the sound of an abused violin to find her.
“My lady, he is not at the pond…I would appreciate it if you were honest with me. I must have a word with him.”
“He is at the pond,” Des answered, her back to Bri.
“No, he is not. Do stop lying.”
Des let the bow off of the instrument and turned to Bri. “The pond is his new home.”
Bri raised an eyebrow and laughed. “Of course it is. Enough games.”
“There are no games. You should feed him some stale bread from the pantry.”
The heiress went back to her instrument and Bri took in her words. When their meaning settled in, she was enraged.
She was supposed to believe that this woman was a witch? This woman, who could hardly play an instrument or maintain an adult relationship was supposed to be an enchantress? And she would not even look at Bri.
Bri stormed over to Des and ripped the bow out of her hands. She threw it across the room and yelled at the woman “Where is he!”
“I already told you!” Des hissed. “Leave my presence!”
Bri backed up slowly, bristling. She rushed out of the room to avoid her temper flaring worse.
© 2010-2011 Luz Briar.

poem: the Meat Grinder

I met my love at 7 years old

By the age of 12, it had me to hold

I’ve thus devoted

My everything

To this hungry creature,

My Love, a machine.

 

The factory whistle pierces

Our smoggy night

While in march the products

Of its other grooms and brides;

The paltry they farmed just

For this purpose

But I send in another limb

(of my own)

 

It favors the formulas

And ripened styles.

Be they brilliant produce

Or be they trite.

It’s more fixated

With the price tags

Than with the blood-drops

That I have wept.

 

The factory whistle laughing

Throughout sardonic dusk

While others’ cattles

March in, I send my bust.

At least it tastes me

And chews me well

Before it shrugs me off

(and spits out my shell)

 

“I respect your spirit”

It chortles at me

“You don’t compromise

For anything.

And if I don’t see you

Or congratulate you

I will always swallow

What you produce.”

Hardy-har! I put my heart down

On the conveyer belt

I strung out my veins

And gave them as well.

Slice by slice

I’ll be hacked away

And just to be forgotten,

Not a part of the menu’s dine

I should have learned to farm

And now I’m only a spine.

 

“What kind of farmer

Harvests themselves?

Learn the formula

And it won’t be such hell.

Every time you’re grinded

You foolish artist

you tried to make art

instead of market.

But as long as you send me

Your meat, I will eat

I won’t discriminate

But do not expect me

To stop the factory’s whistle

On your account!”

 

I understand, Meat Grinder

I know you have no heart

You’re here to consume

You’re not here for art.

But I’m only a spine now

Your warning comes to late.

I am already processed.

Bon appetite.

©2011 Luz Briar.

(A/N: Please click a response if you’ve read. I like to know if people are reading or not. Even comment if you want…The subject matter of this poem should let you know how tired I am of selective readers…)

This is my Refrain

This is my refrain
Punctures your eardrums
You shall hear it again
Even If I have to strum  it
On your twisted bones
After I push you
Into the briars--my home--
The deception you grew.
This is my refrain.
This is my refrain.
This is my refrain.

This is my refrain
And you shall hear it through
You think me delicate, friend
Then touch me, I dare you.
You think me a flower
Test me for the truth
I can smell a coward
And I will digest you.
This is my refrain.
This is my refrain.
This is my refrain.

And the depth
Which you assert I lack
Shall be your death
You will drown and choke on black
Thoughts. And beg
After I swallow you up
And you shall rue
The day you tried to pluck
Me…like some rose.

This is my refrain.