Great Writers -- CH

Charles Etheridge writes poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction. He has been widely published. 

 

The Retriever and The Cook

Prologue: The Retriever

 

The large, black retriever bounded through the streets of Old Town, its nose raised. It stopped behind the baker's shop and sniffed.

The baker, a jolly man of about thirty-five, stepped into the back alley. He was fanning himself comically, as if he wanted the world to know how really hot he was. He leaned against the cool stone of the building behind him and breathed deeply. 

He noticed the dog.

"You're back again?" He pointed, scolding, "Don't be coming here every night, expecting something."

The dog set, wagging its tail, staring longingly up at the baker.

"Who are you talking to?" called a female voice. A black-haired woman of about 30 stepped into the alley, wiping flour food in hands on her apron. "Oh, it's you Lucky!" She smiled at the dog. "Let me get you something."

"If you feed him, he'll keep coming back," the baker called as his wife went inside. He looked balefully at the retriever, “Don't you get used to this."

The dog continued wagging his tail.

"Well, all right, then," said the baker, letting out a sigh of exasperation that didn't sound all that sincere. "Come here then." The dog his wife called Lucky came over and let the baker scratch him behind the ears. Lucky closed eyes and whimpered blissfully. The baker kept this up until his wife returned.

"This is all we've got," she said. "I'm afraid they're a little bit burned, which is why they're left. We usually run out of meat pies. Today is your lucky day." She laughed. "That's funny. Lucky is lucky!" She held out a slightly blackened meat pie.

"It's not like he can understand you, Beth."

The dog gently took the meat pie from the woman's hand, and then bolted it down. Satisfied, he nuzzled the woman's side, and trotted off down the alley.

"Damn that dog" growled the baker, affectionately.

Two children, a boy and a girl about three and four, were playing in the market one lane over. They trailed behind their harried mother, who'd brought them along while she tried to buy vegetables for that night's meal. The children had brought a ball along and were tossing it back and forth.

"Look how far I can throw it!" called the tow-headed boy, and threw the ball over his sister's head and into the street.

"I get it," squealed the little girl excitedly, running after it.

A carriage, driven by a coachman who'd just been chewed out by his employer, came around the corner a little too quickly. The horrified driver just had time to see a red-headed little girl dart out into the street after a ball right in front of his horses. He pulled back on his reins, desperately. He knew he could never stop in time.

A large black dog came out of nowhere, placing his side on the little girl and herding her back out of the way and clear of the horse. The carriage came to a stop a few yards past. The driver turned around to see what happened to the little girl, just in time to see the dog carrying the ball between its teeth and dropping it at her the feet.

She picked it up, and then look at her hands. "Sticky!" she complained, then ran back to her brother. The dog trotted off.

The coachman said a silent prayer thanks.

Later, a heavily built man wearing the apron of a hod carrier stumbled out of an inn. He staggered around, peering myopically. He didn't know where to go. He looked around insensible.

A large black dog came up to him and gently grabbed is apron, tugging on it.

"What?" grumbled the man. He aimed a kick at the dog, who easily avoided it.

The man barely caught himself before falling. The dog stayed out of reach.

The hod carrier stared at the dog for perhaps a minute, and then said, “I know you. I see you around our house. Are you trying to tell me how to get home?"

A bark. 

"Of course you can't answer," He stood there, swaying, then turned toward the dog and said, "Don't tell my wife, but I don't remember the way home."

Cautiously, the dog came forward, and gave the apron another careful tug. This time the man murmured, "All right, all right, I'm coming."

The dog led the man home.

Toward midnight, when the streets of Old Town were mostly clear, the dog trotted up to the fence of a monastery. He located a hole, scrambled underneath, and ran through the yard, sniffing to make sure things were in good order. He went to the corner of the building, raised his right rear leg, and urinated. He surveyed the yard one more time, then trotted over to a barrel that was set under a window. He scrambled up on the barrel, nudged a shutter open, and leapt into the room.

Inside it was dim, but he could see clearly by the moonlight streaming in through the window.

A robe lay on the floor, and he nuzzled into the bottom opening of it. Once he crawled inside, he took a deep breath and began to change. After a few minutes, a tall, muscular, dark-haired man clad in a priest's robes stood where the dog had been.

A knock came at the door.

"I'll be there in a moment," said the tall man grabbing an unlit candle, stepping to the door, and opening it.

"So you're back, Brother Phyllyp," said an older priest, thin, wispy hair, pale skin, and ready smile visible from the light of the taper he was holding.

Phyllyp took a moment to touch the candle he was holding against flame on the father's taper, lighting it. "Right on time, Father Hubert."

Phyllyp waved the older man to the simple wooden chair, and sat on the bed himself. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a small chest where Phyllyp kept his robes and the very few personal items he owned. A book lay on the chest.

Hubert looked at the bare walls. The only decoration was an icon of the Saint Cuthbert, their Order's founder, who is always depicted ministering to the poor. 

"Are you sure you don't want more on here," asked Hubert. "Even the novice's cells have a little more-- personality. Don't you want a plant, or something?"

Phyllyp shook his head. "No thank you." It was a discussion they had had many times before, Hubert's way of making small talk before they got down to business. Before he'd joined the order, Phyllyp once had a great many things, and learning to do without them had been a barrier to his spiritual progress. He didn't want to start accumulating objects again.

"Anything unusual among the flock tonight?" asked Father Hubert, the head of the order of Saint Cuthbert, and the person in charge of the monastery where they both lived.

"Not much. Arnold and Beth Baker are still both generous to a fault, Nelly Larson needs to keep a better eye on her children. Sam Waterston is in his cups again."

"Poor man. He hasn't been the same since his daughter drowned."

"I know," said Phyllyp. "Perhaps you could find an excuse to call on him and talk a bit."

"I will." Hubert waited a bit longer. When Phyllyp didn't add any more, the old man said, "Well, it's late. These old bones best be going to bed."

He stood slowy, with a grunt,.

Phyllyp rose with him.

"Does this ever bother you?" asked Hubert.

"What?"

"This-- I don't want to call it spying. This... Checking up on the flock in, another form."

"No," said Phyllyp. I didn't ask to be born a Warg, Many wouldn't welcome a shapeshifter, particularly in some orders of the church. But you know who I am, and you taught me being able to change forms is just the way God made me. You know I'm not evil, and you helped me to see that it's a gift. It's a gift I choose to put into the service of the church." Phyllyp shrugged, a bit uncomfortable at talking so personally. He always found doing better than talking, and the hard, physical but meaningful work at the monastery suited him well.

Hubert nodded. "I'm glad, but I did want to ask." He hesitated again, started to ask something, then stopped.

"What is it, Father?"

"I have always wanted to ask, you something, but I figured it was none of my business."

"I don't have any secrets from you, Father Hubert. Ask what you will."

"Is that why you came here? Did your family not want you? Because of your... Talent.""

"No, my parents were actually quite understanding." He chuckled. "I think my father was actually pleased that my animal form was a hunting dog." He smiled at the memory, then turned his attention back to Hubert. "No, I didn't come to the church to hide what I was, or because I was kicked out of somewhere else. I'm lucky that way." He gestured to the chair, and Hubert sat back down. 

"My family was typical, at least typical of our class. Two older brothers--the oldest is going to inherit everything, and the second is being trained to be ready in case something happened to the oldest. No place for me there. Here, I'm me. I have a place. There, I'm not even the spare. Oldest brother is there, number two is the spare, and there, I'm the spare to the spare to the heir. I wanted to do something useful with my life." Phyllyp shrugged. 

Hubert chuckled again, rising with another grunt. "The spare to the spare to the heir! I like that." He smiled up at younger man, patted his shoulder, and said, "Rest well, my son."

Phyllyp closed the door quietly behind the old man, gazing fondly after him. He blew out the candle and lay down. He debated whether or not to get up and get a blanket, and decided against it. He loved the cool early fall. Within a minute, he was fast asleep.

 

The Cook

 

This new novice will be trouble,Phyllyp thought at breakfast.

“Make way for your betters,” said a lanky young man shouldering his way through the line of brothers waiting for Phyllyp to serve bowls of boiled grains. Some of the brothers looked irritated. Most didn’t respond or stepped aside.

The novice got to the front of the line, grabbed a bowl, and thrust it out.

Phyllyp ignored it and reached for the bowl held by the next man in line. “And how are you this morning, Brother Ewan?”

“Still on top of the grass, not below it,” Ewan said. He was an older brother; what hair he had left was white and whispy. 

Phyllyp spooned a generous serving into Ewan's bowl, then turned to the next man. “Brother Willem, what’s on your mind today?”

Willem held out his bowl and groused, “I’m thinking you’re too blessed cheerful in the morning!”

Phyllyp chuckled.

The novice slapped the bowl out of Willem’s hand. It fell to the floor, oats splashing on the hem of the young man’s own robe. He glanced at the stain, looking angrier still.

Several of the brothers turned toward Phyllip. One or two looked eager, expecting some reaction.

“You will serve me,” the novice demanded, shaking his bowl.

Phyllyp studied the bowl, took a deep breath, then looked up. “I feed people in the order they arrive. You’ll get fed when everyone else here has been served. If there’s enough, because you just wasted Willem’s portion.”

Rage filled the novice’s face. “Do you know who I am?” 

“The newest trainee,” said Pyllyp. He was tempted to say something more, but thought better of it.

“I am Lord Ferren, youngest son of the Duke of Brownlee, and a noble of your kingdom of Karys. If you don’t serve me . . .”

“None of that means anything in here, Lad,” said Brother Dyrk as Phyllyp filled his bowl. “You put all that aside to enter these walls.”

Ferren looked around with a sneer—he wasn’t impressed by "these walls," which were made from ancient, homemade straw bricks. “I’m still of higher birth than any of you,” he said. “I didn’t ask to be here.”

“No one is keeping you,” said Brother Willem. 

Ferren’s sneer remained as he muttered, “I have to stay here.”

“Give him my portion,” said a large, booming voice. Father Hubert, the Leader of the Order, stepped to the front. “You’ll be cleaning that up,” he said in a stern voice, “but if you’re so hungry you have to act like a child to get food, we won’t make you wait any longer.” 

Hubert handed his bowl to Phyllyp, who spooned a smallish portion of boiled grain into it and handed it to Ferren. The young lordling looked unsure what to do, then shuffled to sit at the head of one of the tables. 

Phyllyp served the others quickly. He noticed htat one sat at the table with Ferren. After everyone was served, he spooned himself the last of the oats—a nearly full portion, and sat with his brothers. Ewan passed him a mug of cider with a wink.

Conversation was lively—the Order of Cuthbert wasn’t one of the Silent Brotherhoods—and morning meals were usually full of the good natured banter that happened when a group of men share a roof. Talk about the day’s work ahead, ribbing, and the occasional mildly ribald remark that Father Huber very made a point of not hearing.

Phyllyp looked over at Ferren, who was picking at his food morosely. He looked lonely.

“What’s the news from the outside,” Phyllyp called to the newcomer.

“What?” Ferren snapped.

Try to be patient, Phyllyp thought. “The news from the outside,” he repeated. “What’s going on in the world? We don’t always hear much in here.”

Ferren scowled as if he was going to say something insulting, but seemed to think better of it. “The war’s not going well,” he finally said. 

That stopped conversation. A chorus of mutters came from the assembled brothers.

“What?” 

“No!” 

“Have the enemy crossed the border?” 

“I don’t know everything,” Ferren went on, his face relaxing, pleased to be the center of attention. “I know that the Mazar and Kozak have signed an alliance, and . . .”

“No!” 

“They’ll invade, sure!” 

“Will anyone be safe?” 

Mazar was to the east of Karys; Kozak to the north. Karys wasn’t on friendly terms with either, but had survived by pitting one another. An alliance between the two meant trouble.

“The Kozak invaded. King Athelwulf, Prince Egbert, and Prince Athelbert rode out to meet them, and . . . “

“And what, lad?” Willem demanded.

Ferren looked suddenly embarrassed. “And that’s all I know. When the King sent out the call for men, my father gathered up my older brothers, rounded up about thirty horsemen and about seventy foot soldiers and went to Northern Province. He . . .” The young man looked down into his barely eaten food. “He left me behind. Made me stay here. Said I’d be safe.”

“Duke Brownlee is a wise man,” said Willem. “He’s doing his duty to the king, but he sent you here to protect his line. One of his sons needs to stay safe in case. . . “ He trailed off, seeming to realize he’d been tactless.

“You can say it,” said Ferren. “In case he gets killed.” He looked around, defiant. “I wanted to fight!” he said, a bit too loudly.

Phyllyp nodded. “It’s hard, being left behind, when everyone else goes off. But you’re doing your part, too.”

“What would you know about it?” snapped Ferren.

Several of the brothers looked at Phyllyp, expectantly. 

But his mind wasn’t on Ferren. “That’s probably why the shipments of oats haven’t been coming in regularly,” he said. “Most of the country’s grain is grown in the Northern Province.”

Father Hubert nodded, saying “And Northern Province borders Kozak.” He paused, then spoke to the whole group. “Looks like we better be careful with our stores, lads.”

Ewan stood and proclaimed, “Looks like we’d better do double work in the garden. It may be all that’s feeding us soon.”

Nods and grumbles about “damned turnips” greeted Ewan’s declaration, but no one disagreed. The brothers rose and left, wiping bowls and stacking cups on a table near the door as they left.

Ferren stayed at the table.

“Best finish your breakfast and clean that mess up,” Phyllyp said, picking up the pot he’d cooked the oats in. 

“You can’t make me,” said Ferren.

“I’m not going to try,” said Phyllyp, scraping with a wooden spook at the browned oats stuck to the side of the pot..

“I didn’t think so.” Ferren’s sneer was back.

Phyllyp stopped, set the bowl down, and turned back.

His voice was still mild, but forceful. “I’m only going to say this once. Everyone in this world has a duty. I’m a cook. It’s my duty to keep the brothers fed. It’s Father Hubert’s duty to keep the Order of Saint Cuthbert running. It’s Brother Ewan’s duty to make sure we grow enough food to feed ourselves and, if we can, some of the poor who come to us.”

“Menial stuff. Servant stuff,” Ferren said. “That’s not my duty.”

“Your duty—to your family and to your King—is to make sure the Brownlee line survives. Why did you say your father put you in here?”

Ferren looked confused. “To keep me safe,” he repeated.

“Right. In case you haven’t figured it out, the Order of St. Cuthbert is the only sect in Karys that’s is also recognized by the Kozak.” He paused, hoping the younger man would make the connection himself.

“So?” Clearly, Ferren still didn’t see.

“So if the Kozak army gets this far, they’ll enter the monastery—they might even take things from us—but they wont’ hurt anyone they think is a priest or a brother. So you have to become a brother, at least for a while. You have to talk like one, dress like one, and act like one. If you keep acting like a spoiled nobleman and the Kozak come . . .”

“They’ll know I’m a man of rank, and they’ll . . . “

“Capture you. Kill you. Ransom you. Torture you. I don’t know what, but you won’t like it.”

“So it’s my duty do become a brother? To labor? To keep myself safe?” Ferren seemed to nearly understand.

“Yes. It’s clearly why your father sent you here. It’s your duty to survive. If your father and brothers are killed and then you die here, your whole line dies out. Who will oversee your lands? Your people?”

Ferren sat, stunned, clearly taking in what Phyllyp was saying. “Myduty,” he finally muttered. Slowly, he rose, looking at the mess on the floor. “I better clean up this mess, then.”

“You’d best,” Phyllyp said, turning to leave again.

“Wait a minute, Brother,” said Phyllyp.

“What? I have work to do.”

“I don’t know what to do. I’ve never cleaned up anything in my life . . .”

Phyllyp was dozing comfortably in his room, having nodded off in his chair 

A knock came on the door of the cell.

Phyllyp started awake. “What is it?” 

“It’s Father Hubert.”

That didn’t answer my question, thought Phyllyp, a bit grumpily. But when the Head of the Order visited your room . . . . “Come in.”

Phyllyp rose, offered the chair to his visitor, and sat on his cot.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” began Hubert, gazing at the single dim candle.

“No matter. I know you wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important.”

Hubert nodded. “What do you think of our new initiate?”

“Ferren?”

“Do we have any other new initiates?” 

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Father. You are the Head of the Order. Wise, calm, holy…”

“You’re pretty sarcastic yourself, seems to me,” groused Hubert.

“I’m a cook. It’s part of my charm.”

“You’re avoiding the question, too.”

Phyllyp nodded. “Yes.” He studied his cuticles as thought for a second, then began, “I was going to say ‘I don’t think much of him,’ but I don’t want to be unfair. He just got here, and his whole world has been turned upside down. He’s never had to work with his hands in his life.” Phyllyp shrugged.

“But knocking Willem’s food out of his hands? Being disrespectful to . . . to pretty much everyone.” Father Hubert's expression was exasperated.

“He made quite a scene,” Phyllyp said. “But he did listen about duty, and he did finally clean up his mess.”

“And this evening, he tried to get one of the other novices to make up his bed for him. He’s treating all of the younger ones like servants.”

“Did they do what he said?”

“Of course not,” Hubert said with a chuckle. “He’s in his cell, sulking.”

Phyllyp looked at the lone candle in the room, staring at it for a while. “I bet the lads are pretty sick of him.”

“Three of them, including Ewan, have come to me and said he ought to be turned out.”
“Maybe he should be." He sat for a moment, considering, then continued, "But it’s his first day. At least he should be given a chance to mend his ways.”

“Do you think the other brothers will put up for him that long?”

Phyllyp scratched his nose, thinking. “They will if you let them know he’s been given a trial time. That’s he’s gone if he doesn’t shape up.”

“That’s what I thought.” Father Hubert grunted and got to his feet. “M’bones are getting old.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Give him a week,” Hubert said.

Phyllyp rose and walked the older man to the door. “If that’s what you were planning already, why did you come by and talk to me about it?”

“You’re the cook,” he said. “Men talk in front of you all the time. Figures you’d have some idea how they think.”
As Phyllyp closed the door, he wondered whether Father Hubert had meant his statement as a compliment or not.

Brother Ewan was red-faced with irritation. “You’re supposed ta dig a little hole, put two seeds in in, fill the hole up, and then plant the next seed a hand’s width away from the first hole,” he scolded. He turned, rather dramatically, in Phyllyp’s opinion, looked up at the heavens, and said “St. Cuthbert save me!” and stalked off.

Ferren’s face darkened, and he looked after Ewan angrily. Noticing Phyllyp nearby, he seethed, “He said ‘Plant these seeds a hand width apart.’ So I did. He said, ‘Plant two at a time.’ That’s exactly what I did.” He waved his seed bag in the direction Ewan had gone. Now he tells me I should dig a hole.  After I’m finished.”

Phyllyp looked at Ferren’s handiwork.

He’d dug two crooked but serviceable furrows for planting and made smooth, rounded barrows. Each was about twenty feet long. Every four inches or so, two white seeds rested on top of the ground. It was all Phyllyp could do not to laugh.

“Let me show you a simple trick,” Phyllyp said. He knelt down at the end of one row, touched his index finger to the seeds, poked them down into the ground, and then covered the hole he’d poked’. 

“I can do that,” Ferren said, and then set himself to poking seeds into the soil.

Phyllyp headed to the well, where he’d been headed in the first place before Ferrren’s antics ha distracted him. He chuckled to himself, quietly, so the young man wouldn’t hear. At least he’s trying, he thought. And he didn’t snap back at Ewan, even though he wanted to. 

Ferren had proven incompetent at every task he’d been set. When he mopped floors, they wound up more dirty than when he’d begun. When he’d been sent to help Phyllyp in the kitchen, the whole Brotherhood had gone en masse to Brother Hubert’s office to complain. 

The boy wasn’t even fit to shovel manure. Whe he’d go to the barn or the stables, he’d get kicked by one of the milk cows or by Sharon, the useless old nag they kept around because none of the brothers had the heart to kill her.

Phyllyp drew his water and headed back toward the kitchen. On the way, he glanced back at Ferren, still carefully poking holes in the ground, clearly concentrating.

Maybe he’ll work out after all,he thought.

“There’s so many of them,” Ferren muttered, sweat running down his brow as he carried in a basket of gourds from “his” garden. He looked worried. 

A little boy, wearing clothing little better than rags, followed him in. He was carrying one gourd in both hands, staggering. 

“Here,” the little boy said brightly, trying to lift the gourd.

“Let me help you with that,” said Ferren, grabbing the vegetable from the boy and putting it in his own basket.

“I carried it from the garden all by myself.” The little boy beamed, proudly.

“That you did, little man,” said Ferren. Then, he ruffled the boy’s filthy hair and said, “Why don’t you go back to the garden? Can you make me a big pile of dirt? Put it by the fence at the end of the row of gourds?”

The boy looked suspiciously at Ferren. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

Raising one hand, Ferren said, “No, no. I’m going to plant some melons, and you have to plant melon seeds in a mound of soil.”

The boy beamed. “I’ll make you the biggest pile of dirt you’ve ever seen. I’ll make you a mountain!”

Ferren looked fondly after the boy, then saw Phyllyp looking at him. He suddenly looked defensive. “What?”

“You said ‘There’s so many of them.’ I thought you were talking about gourds,” said Phyllyp, looking at the basket.

“I’m not talking about gourds,” Ferren said. “Farmers. Villagers. Coming in from the North.” He paused, looking in the direction the boy had gone. "Children without mothers.”

“Oh,” said Phyllyp, nodding understanding. “How many came in today?”

“Only five, today. A family from near Huntsmark. Or what was left of them,” said Ferren, as he began lifting gourds out of the basket and carefully setting them down on Phyllyp’s work table. “But we’ve already taken in . . . how many? Twenty-five?”

“More like thirty-five,” Phyllyp nodded, putting down the knife he’d been using to chop greens with and looking over vegetables, grain, and the pitiful bit of meat he had cut up for tonight’s soup. “I guess we’ll have enough, but I’m going to have to add a wee bit more water.”

Phyllyp was secretly pleased with how careful the younger man was being with the produce he’d grown. The first time he’d made a delivery from the garden to the kitchen, he’d just dumped its contents, bruising half of the gourds so badly parts weren’t edible. But from the moment the first seed Ferren had planted began to sprout, he’d taken an almost parental interest in everything he’d grown. He hadn’t developed a sunny disposition, but he’d won the grudging respect of the curmudgeonly Ewan, who’d said “A green thumb. The one has a real green thumb!” High praise in Ewan’s world.

This kindness toward the boy was something new. 

“What will they do?” asked Ferren. He’d stopped unloading the basket and was eyeing one of the gourds, carefully.

“We’ll find a way to feed them,” Phyllyp said, going back to chopping carrots. “We always do.” 

He tried to put conviction behind the words, trying to ignore the fact that he’d opened the last sack of grain that morning.

“I’m not worried about feeding them. But they lost their lands. Their animals. Everyone I talked to lost someone—a father, a mother, a brother, a child. I know we’ll keep them alive—it’s what the Order of St. Cuthbert does. But what will they do?”

“War’s a terrible thing, lad,” said Phyllyp. “The kings start them, but it’s usually the soldiers farmers and the villagers who suffer the most.”

Ferren lowered the basket to the floor and sat in a nearby chair, looking at something only he could see. “Before I came here, I never thought about where a gourd or the lamb I ate came from.”

“You were young,” said Phyllyp. In the town, he thought wrly to himself, it’s the bartender everyone tells their troubles to. In the monastery, it’s the cook.

“Yes, I was. But I was selfish. My father made sure my older brothers went out to the farms—they were always talking about crops and cows and how much there would be for the winter. I never paid any attention.”

Phyllyp decided he might as well work while Ferren talked, so he sat down nearby and started slicing gourds in half.

“What about that boy?” Phyllyp asked, scooping the meat out of the skin and putting it in a bowl.

“Name’s Ian. Came in from Northern province last week. Couldn’t find his parents. An old woman who used to live near him brought him with her.”

“Poor lad,” said Phyllyp. “Parents are probably dead.” He reached for another gourd.

“Be sure to save the seeds,” Ferren said, then caught himself. “Sorry. You know your job better than I do.”

“No—it’s good. I’ve never met a good gardener who didn’t chase seeds.”

Ferren smiled briefly at the implied compliment. Then, he turned serious. “Ian was fithy. Dirty. Wearing nothing but rags. But he wanted to help, and he’s curious about everything, and he smiles, and plays . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Children are remarkable,” Phyllyp said. “If he lives, that boy will be fine.”

“If he lives?” Ferren looked stunned.

“War is coming. Children get hurt in wars. Or he might get sick. He might starve.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Ferren said firmly. “I’ll . . . protect him. He’s under my protection.” His face was determined.

“Good and admirable. I believe you’ll do your best.”

“Do you doubt me?” Ferren looked mildly offended.

“Not at all,” Phyllyp said. “You’re doing what a good nobleman should. Protecting people their people, trying to make sure they have what they need.”

Ferren relaxed slightly, then said, “But?”

“But no man controls fate. Not even a king. You can’t halt the Kozak army with a wish, and you can’t banish disease, and you can’t prevent famine. Both you and little Ian could die tomorrow. You’d do everything you could to save him—I believe that—but …”

“That’s true,” said Ferren, looking melancholy. 

“That’s trouble for another day,” said Phyllyp. “You’ll do your best. If all goes well, that boy will grow up, and you’ll grow old.” He stopped. “And the Brothers will have my head if their dinner isn’t ready.”

Ferren rose to go. “Thank you.” He let the basket dangle from his hand.

“What for?”
“Nothing.” He turned to go.

Phyllyp called after him. “You’re welcome.

That evening at dinner, they heard distant booms.

“Is that thunder?” asked one of the mothers, who kept a gentling hand on her startled young daughter. 

The dining hall had grown crowded with all the people the monastery had taken in. Most were sleeping in the stable, and Father Hubert had arranged for as many as could fit to sleep in the chapel after evening services were done. 

“Naw,” said one of the old men. “I've heard the Kozak have some sort of powder that explodes."

"It's thunder," said another of the mothers.

“They must be close,” said Father Hubert quietly, so only the brothers sitting nearby could hear. “We need to think about moving these people somewhere where it’s safer.”

“Where’s ‘safe?’ asked Willem.

“I don’t know, Brother.”

Young Albrich, who was on door guard, came into the dining hall, looked around, and walked over to Father Hubert. All eyes were on him. “The Army’s here.”

“Whose army?” whispered Hubert.

“Our army.”

“I was afraid it was the Kozak,” said the old man, looking relieved.

“They want the cook,” said Albrich.

“What?” Ferren said wildly.

Dread filled Phyllyp—dread that a day he’d prayed would never come was here.

Father Hubert looked over to Phyllyp. “I’m sorry, son. Truly, I’m sorry.”

Phyllyp nodded, set down the serving bowl he was heading, and started to leave. Then, he stopped himself and said, “Brothers. I don’t know what to say. May your lives be richly blessed. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”

“Make sure you learn to cook before you come back,” said Willem. 

That got a few chuckles.

Ferren looked frantic. “Where are you going? Why does the army want you? What’s happening?”

Father Hubert put a hand on the young man’s arm. “Remember, we each have our duty.”
“We shouldn’t hand him over,” said Ferren. “We should hide him. Protect him.”

The refugees looked scared, not knowing what was going on. Most of the brothers looked sympathetic, regretful.

Phyllyp spoke. “I can’t hide from this, I’m afraid.” He shook his head.

A middle aged man, wearing half armor with a bear blazoned on the front, strode in. “Which of you is Phyllyp.”

“I am.”

The armored man dropped to his knee and said, “Your majesty, I . . .”
Bedlam broke out. The brothers all started speaking suddenly. Cries of dismay came from the refugees. Father Hubert raised his arm, trying to calm everyone.

“Rise,” said Phyllyp, in a voice they’d never heard before. The crowd quieted.

The messenger stood. “I am Sir Dalton. I was with your father when he . . .”

“Details later. My father has died. My brothers? “

Dalton lowered his head. “Both of them perished as well.”

Phyllyp felt stunned, like he'd been punched. First, he felt grief at his father’s death, and his brothers’. He’d been known they would be in danger—Athelwulf wasn’t the kind to stay in safe behind the lines and send men to their deaths, and his older brothers had taken after their father. He’d tried to prepare himself, but, he realized, he hadn’t. He felt the beginnings of tears he knew he couldn’t shed yet.

“Your majesty?” sputtered Ferren. “You’re the cook!” 

“Let’s hope he makes a better king than he does a cook,” snapped Williem. Then, the man realized what he’d just said, and started, “ Uh, beg pardon, Phyllyp, um . . sir . . . um. . . your.”

Phyllyp cut him off. “Peace, Brother Williem. You seem to eat a lot of my terrible cooking, though.” He stopped. His mind was racing. As a third son, he’d never even thought about becoming king, hadn’t planned for it, hadn’t hoped for it, hadn’t wanted it. All he’d ever wanted was to live a quiet life away from the court, away from intrigue, away from Armies. Where he could do something useful, and not be given things because of his family's rank. His warrior father balked had respected his youngest son's desire to find his own place. It helped that he’d had enough sons that his succession seemed assured, and he’d been willing to let Phyllyp retire to the monastery.

What am I going to do? 

He found his answer in what he’d told Ferren more than once--all of us have a duty.

“Then we’d best begin,” Phyllyp said. 

​

​

Purple Clouds, Poe, and My Pop

​

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. I drew my curtains closed, unable to enjoy the pretty clouds. I lay back down.

I had come to dread them. 

Purple clouds have become a harbinger of doom, a sign that trouble was on the way. 

They meant my father was coming.

Every single night. Purple clouds. Blushing sky. My father’s visits. Every friggin’ night.

Perhaps I should explain. My father is dead—he died about a year ago. At first, everything was, well, not fine—you don’t feel “fine” because your father died—but things were normal, in the sense that my family and I were grieving—tears, fond memories, missing him. You know—the way normal people feel when someone they love dies.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!—there came a knocking on my bedroom door. Then, a voice said, “Mark me!”

“Pop,” I hissed.  “Be quiet. I’m coming.” I felt silly—Diana, my wife, can’t hear my father. Apparently, I’m the only one who can. But he bangs on our bedroom door every night, and every night, I’m afraid he’s gonna wake her up. 

I got out of bed and shuffled quickly to the door. 

“Pop,” I started to say, but then I tripped and fell into the laundry basket.

“YELP!” Daisy the beagle, who’d been peacefully sleeping between the bed and the doorway, didn’t seem to be hurt, but I’d scared the hell out of her.

“My hour is almost come…” Pop continued, trying unsuccessfully to speak in a creepy voice.

I left the room, closed the door, and confronted him in the dining room. “Pop, I know. ‘Sulfrous and tormenting flames,’ blah, blah, blah.”

“You don’t like Hamlet?” he asked. 

“Not when you quote it every single night,” I said. “At midnight.” I walked right through him (on purpose, because he hates that), went into the living room, and sat down in a chair.

“I failed raising you,” he said, sinking dejectedly into the chair next to mine. “No appreciation of culture. I bet you haven’t even noticed the purple clouds are a reference to ‘The Raven.’”

“Nope,” I said, reaching down into the cabinet between our chairs and pulling out a bottle of Scotch and two shot glasses.

“See, in ‘The Raven,’ the narrator’s bedchamber had curtains made of purple silk,” Pop continued.

“I don’t care.” I poured myself a shot of Scotch.

“So I made the clouds purple because….”

“If you keep talking, I’m not going to pour you any of this,” I said, gesturing with the bottle. Of course, he can’t drink, being a spirit and all, but he says he can still smell. He appreciates it when I pour a shot for him.

“You are a horrible, undutiful son,” he sniffed. But he stopped trying to talk about Poe and the Raven. “Is that Highland Park?” he asked, looing suddenly cheerful.

“Yes,” I said. “Diana got it for me special, for my birthday.” I picked up my glass, taking a small sip, letting the rich flavor roll around my tongue.

“When’s your birthday?”

“Today,” I said, giving him a baleful look. He’d never remembered even when he’d been alive.

“Hey,” he said defensively. “Time functions differently in the spiritual realm.”

“Shenanigans. I call shenanigans. I don’t believe you.”

He bent over, took a long sniff of Scotch vaper, pointedly not responding. I let it go.

Finally, he said, “So, how’s Diana? The boys?”

“The same as they were last night, Pop.”

“Oh,” he said. “I guess so. Then he was silent.

I just waited. Pop came for the same reason every night. And it’s not to check on his daughter-in-law and his grandkids, whom, to be fair, he doted on when he was alive. And it sure wasn’t to check on the wellbeing of his only son. Me.

That’s not how haunting works. No, ghosts haunt people because they have unfinished business with the living. That’s me. Pop haunts me because he extracted a solemn promise from me on his deathbed, and, as far as he’s concerned, I haven’t delivered on the promise.

“Have you heard anything?” he finally asked. 

“I’m surprised it took you this long to ask.”

He looked offended. “That’s not the only reason I come,” he said. “I care about my grandsons. I love my daughter-in-law. And you did promise….”

It was a promise I had regretted making every single night.

“The Promise” isn’t want you think. It’s not about vengeance, or telling somebody he loved them, or a secret treasure to make sure my three boys had money for college. Nope, it’s about a book manuscript.

Yep, the deathbed promise he extracted from me was to get his book manuscript published. It had been his life’s work, his dream. 

“Pop,” I said, compassion cutting through my irritation. “Yes, there’s news.”

He sat upright in his chair. In case you’re wondering what ghosts look like, he looks pretty much the same as he did when he was alive. At least that’s the case for “manifestations,” the technical term for a personal haunting—when someone from your past keeps appearing to you.

Yes, I looked it up on Wikipedia.

“There is? When are they going to publish?”

He looked so eager, so hopeful…as sleep-deprived and irritated as I was, I felt bad.

“It’s not good news.”

My father’s manuscript wasn’t some literary tome—a genius novel or a collection of poems. After he’d died, he’d told me he’d met both John Kennedy Toole and Emily Dickinson, and that they were both very positive about how well received their posthumous works had been. Nor was his book on a nonfiction topic that might gather interest—not a book on birds or woodworking or winemaking.

No, the title of my father’s magnum opus was The Hitherto Unnoticed Influence of Aramaic Linguistic Structure on the Development of Early Christianity in Syriac Cultures. Try finding a publisher who’d even lookat a manuscript with that title.

“What did they say? Did they want a rewrite?” 

“They’re not going to request rewrites from a dead author, Pop.”

“That’s true. But you could say you understand the project and tell them you’d be willing to do any necessary revision.”

“They have to want to publish the book in the first place.”

Pop sagged. “They didn’t care at all?”

“They said ‘While the scholarship is insightful, the small market for a specialized work such as this isn’t large enough to justify the expense of publication.”

He was silent for a while—something he never was when he was alive. Then he looked at me, a pained expression in his blue eyes—eyes the same color of gunmetal blue that mine are. “So I guess that’s it.”

As gently as I could, I said, “That was the last press that publishes books on Early Christianity.”

“I don’t understand. My students always said the subject was fascinating. Said ‘it sounds boring at first, but when you get into it, it’s interesting.’”

I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.” It sounded lame even as I said it.

“I guess my ideas won’t live on. They’ll be forgotten,” he said. 

“Pop, we remember you. We love you. As long as any of us draws breath, you won’t be forgotten. Diana puts your picture up on the family ofrenda. She even leaves whiskey and pan dulce out for you.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

Now I felt hurt. Not remembering my birthday was one thing. Not caring that I loved him and remembered him was ….

“I don’t mean it like that. You, your family, your mother….they mean the world to me. But I’m talking about my professional life, my work, the things I spent hours working on during the workday.” He looked at me, making eye contact. “You want to think the work you did matters.”

“That makes sense,” I said.

“Well,” he went on. “I can’t fault you. You got off to a slow start, but I have to admit that you’ve done everything you can to get my book published.”

I tried to ignore the crack about the “slow start.” Apparently, he’d expected me to start sending out manuscripts the afternoon I got home from his funeral. I was still pretty deep in grief when he’d started haunting me, three months to the day after his death. “I really did try, Pop.”

He stood up, crossed to me, and put a hand on my shoulder. Of course I couldn’t feel anything, but I appreciated the gesture. “Thank you, son. Thank you for trying.”

He turned and started walking to the door.

“Pop, they did say ‘the scholarship is insightful.’”

He turned back, a sad smile on his face. “That’s editor-speak for ‘I’m not interested but I’m trying to be kind about it.’” Then, he said, “Good bye, son.”

“Bye, Pop.” 

I watched him go. He never opens the door and leaves; he toddles over to the front door and just…dissipates.

He was starting to dissolve into mist when I said “WAIT!”

Resolving into a more solid form, he turned back and said, “Yes?”

“The whole time you’ve been haunting me...nearly a year…you’ve never once said ‘good bye.’ You’ve said, ‘Keep trying’ or ‘Don’t be lazy’ or you’ve tried to dictate snarky replies to editors who rejected your book. But not once, have you ever said ‘Good bye.”

He shrugged. “I have to let go.” Then, more gently, he said “I probably shouldn’t have made you promise in the first place. If I had pushed myself a little harder, been a little more focused, I would have sent the book out myself. Maybe if I’d been alive, it would have been harder to reject it.”

“So that’s it?”

“Yes,” he said, coming back over to me. He cupped my cheek in his ghostly hand. I wanted to believe I felt his caress, but I didn’t. “You really have been a good son.”

“No,” I said. I couldn’t believe it. Sure, I was irritated that he woke me every night. I’d come to hate the color purple, especially in clouds, even though it had been my favorite color my whole life. I’d bitched about the time and energy it took to format his manuscript so it looked like a book, to find potential publishers, to send out queries and sample book chapters. I’d hated telling him when I got bad news.

But I also got to spend a part of every night with my father, a man I loved even if he drove me crazy half the time. In the midst of my grief, I’d gotten my father back.

And now, he was leaving, this time for good.

“No, what, son?”

“We haven’t tried foreign publishers,” I blurted out. “What about some in the Middle East? Where they still speak Aramaic?” 

He shook his head sadly. “I think you’ve tried hard enough, son. Time to let go. Time for you to get a good night’s sleep.”

“But Pop,” I said, trying to clutch his arm so he wouldn’t go. Of course I went right through him when I tried to grab him.

“Please stop doing that,” he said, “It tickles.”

“German!” I blurted out.

That stopped him. “What?”

“German. A lot of the scholarship on your subject is in German. Maybe we could get your book translated into German.”

He threw his hands up, his ‘surprised’ look when he was still alive. “German? I was at a conference once and met a man named Kirchdorrfer. Said he was interested in my ideas. Maybe he’s still alive.”

“I can find out,” I said. “I’ll find him on the internet. And I’ll look for a translator, too.”

He looked at me for a long time, an odd smile on his face. “Thank you, son.”

I wanted to be casual but was choking back tears when I said, “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

He nodded. “Tomorrow, then.” He took a step, and said, “And one more thing. Tell Diana I appreciate the empanadashe puts on the ofrenda for me. But tell her I really don’t like pineapple. Tell her I prefer pumpkin.” 

Then he slowly dissipated into a purple mist and was gone. I went over and peeked out the window, looking up at the purple clouds and the blushing sky.

I’ll see you tomorrow, Pop, I thought, went back into our room, and slipped into bed beside my still-sleeping wife.

​

THE USS NORTON SOUND

​

Thirty-three thousand tons of steel,

She slogged through the gray seas,

Like an arthritic aunt,

Determined to cross the street without help, 

Graceless but reliable.

When Uncle Sam invited her to the dance,

The dance called World War II,

She was not his favorite niece,

He told her to dress,

So she could take care of sea planes.

​

She stumped gracelessly across the Pacific,

To Japan,

Where out-of-ammo pilots aimed planes 

At her thick hull.

 

She wasn’t pretty, 

But she was tough,

Shrugging off attacks,

Giving better than she took.

​

She sank sixteen enemy ships,

Put thirty more out of action, 

Shooting enemy aircraft out of the sky

While performing more than 400 rescue missions.

​

Like sailors, Ships get medals—

She was awarded two, 

And the admiral made her 

His flagship.

All she wanted to do

Was make her Uncle Sam proud. 

But was obsolete before she got home from the dance.

​

But her Uncle Sam was a thrifty fellow,

Figured she’d gotten all gussied up

Why not invite her to a different ball?

“It’s an honor,”

He whispered in her ear, 

“You’ll be a test platform. 

We’ll put new weapons systems on you,

To see if they work.

You’ll be the first to try everything.”

​

She didn’t quite trust,

The lascivious, tempting sound

Of Uncle’s voice, 

Gamely, though, she agreed.

​

Her sailors kneeled worshipfully on her decks, 

Holystoning each teak plank, 

Polishing her brass,

Painting her deck, 

And she hoped that, 

Just once, she would be 

The belle of the ball,

​

When they ripped wood off her fantail she cried,

Blushing when they bared her bare steel bottom

For all the world to see.

​

She howled when they cut a huge hole

On her fantail

Plunging a missile magazine into her depths,

Leaving a launcher sticking up out of her bottom. 

It was embarrassing. 

None of her ship friends even knew what it was.

The first missile

Made her decks burn like no ships’ decks

Had been burned before.

She hadn’t been built to take this kind of abuse,

But the same hull and decks

That shrugged off Japanese zeros

Took it,

Because she wanted to make her Uncle Sam proud.

​

But, quietly,

She cried at the burns,

On her beautiful teak decks.

​

Her Uncle had other concerns, though,

The Soviets were putting things up in the sky,

Out in space,

And the Navy had to track them,

​

So he added three more decks

To her already top heavy frame,

Looking like a short, heavy woman

Forced to teeter about on six inch heels.

Decades came and went,

But she was always game,

They cut out launchers, 

Added others launchers,

More radar.

One day, 

Uncle Sam called her up,

She could hear tears of joy 

In his voice.

“The Cold War is won!”

He breathed excitedly,

“We command the seas.”

​

Then, an embarrassed cough,

“Um, and we don’t need you anymore.”

She wanted to plead,

Promise to be useful,

But he had already hung up.

​

She was the oldest line ship in commission,

For more than forty years, 

She’d taken everything they’d thrown at her,

Dive bombers, enemy ships,

Missile platforms, radar—

And now they were done.

All that is left of her now,

Is a plaque and a ship’s bell. 

​

The steel melted down now for other things—

Maybe a girder on an overpass,

The steel in a building,

Maybe a playground Jungle Jim,

Or maybe the razor blade you shaved with yesterday.

Her eternal reward 

For forty-five years

Of faithful service

To her Uncle Sam. 

​

​

My Choice of Hells

 

The Gods of the North warn

Hell is a hot place.

Do bad, and you will burn, 

Smelling brimstone in a fiery pit

Forever.

South Texas sun blazes like an angry god, 

Sweat runs rivers down my back,

My pale skin burns, red, so I must hide from the Sun, 

Shield myself from the wrath of Thor

With sun hats, and sunblock,

While he burns my plants,

Evaporates lakes and rivers, 

And slays even the toad 

Crossing the parking lot,

Who dies, then swells up,

A grotesque balloon blistering on asphalt

This is summer.

Gods of the South snicker at the North,

Bask in the heat of Thor’s wrath, 

And warn,

Do bad and you will freeze,

In a dark cold place,

Forgotten.

Old Sol, the Sun, has grown weak

Forgetting Chicago in January.

I must work outside, 

Stand in waist high snow, 

Try to use a metal wrench

When it’s twenty below zero.

The wind shoots down from the North,

Knifing my heart through the long underwear,

And heavy jacket. My hands, numb, can’t work 

With gloves on, 

But can’t work when they are frozen.

This is winter, 

Quetzalcoatl’s anger is everywhere, 

Inescapable.

My southern bones fear Aztecs 

More than Vikings,

Can always take clothes off,

But can’t put on enough to keep warm.

If I have to choose hell, I’d rather be Aztec than Viking,

Would rather burn than freeze.

 

Copyright Charles Etheridge

​

Corpus Christi Bay at Sunset

​

Pink granite swells billow

From the barge dock to the distant island

Crimson sun slowly melts on the horizon

Perfect stillness on the water

​

Socially distanced fishermen

Sit on the barge dock

Still, but charged

Ready to pounce

​

If a fish bites

Mosquitos are biting

Fish are not

A perfect, still tableau

The only motion

A dark haired girl

Maybe four

Twirling happily by herself

​

Singing sweetly in Spanish

Her small sweet song providing 

Just the right compliment

To the stillness

​

Peace is punctured

By a red Chevy Avalanche

Barreling down the barge dock

Poorly muffled engine

Drowning out all other sound

A whoop from the driver’s window

Truck cuts its wheels

Tires spin on the concrete

​

Testosterone machine

Cuts circles, marring the dock

Spinning, smoking tires

Blackening the air

​

Replacing the salt-scented air

With eau de burning rubber

PIeasant smells, pleasant sounds

Gone

​

Driver loses control for a second

Truck lurches straight at the little girl

Her song stopped

Wheels catch at the last second

​

Barely missing the songstress

By a yard

Driver never sees her

Just keeps spinning his tires and whooping

Angry the father of the girl yells

He and another man 

Stride angrily toward the truck

Driver notices, and leaves

After a minute or two

The sound is gone

But the smoke remains

The moment is broken

​

The sea is still pink granite

The sun a dissolving crimson disk

Fishermen still fish

But the tiny songstress sings no more

​

The Sacred Spices

 

Comino, Chili, Salt, Pepper, Garlic Powder
The Five Pillars of Wisdom
The Pentateuch,
The Torah of South Texas Cuisine.

​

Comino, rich, dark brown,
Called “cumin” by some,
Brings the heat,
Opens the airways.

​

Chili, the deep warm red,
Adds spice,
Which is not the same
As heat.

​

Salt, the Biblical spice,
The covenant of friendship,
Helps the tongue tell
One flavor from another.

Pepper, glorious in blackness,
Adds depth,
Makes flavors sharper--
Use it sparingly.

​

Garlic, faintly yellow granules,
Opens flavors up,
Spreads more evenly through food
Than its fresh cousin.

​

This sacred five,
This holy quinity,
The five-fold ministry,
The building blocks of life.

Together they manifest
Tantalizing tacos,
Fabulous fideo,
Pleasing picadillo,

​

Glorious guisada,
The list goes on,
Arroz, elote,
Carne al pastor…

The only debate,
How much of each to use,
Family secrets,
Or hand-written recipes

​

Abuela’s cookbook
A sacred trust.
My theory:
You can’t use too much comino.

​

My oldest son says
“You add comino until
Your ancestors rise from the grave and say,
‘Ja, mijo.  Basta,

‘That’s enough son.’”
And then you add
A couple of shakes
More.

If your wife enters the house,
And can’t smell comino
When the door opens,
You didn’t use enough.

Our faith
Welcomes impure thought;
Divergence from the path of righteousness,
Yields delicious deviations.

​

Want to entertain heresy?
Remove the comino,
Add onion powder
And you have brisket rub.

​

Want to stay sacred
But veer away from doctrine,
Creating an apocrypha,
Still holy, but not quite pure?

​

Remove the chili
Add tempting turmeric
And a bit of oregano,
And you have sazon.

​

I share the Gospel with you
In all its glory,
Go forth,
Spread the Good News:

​

Chili, Salt, Pepper, Garlic Powder,
And comino,
Blessed be
Comino’s holy name.

​

​

Porch Prom

​

I call her up.

“Put on your dress and shoes.”

“I can’t,” she says. “Prom is cancelled.” 

“I know. We’re going to have to Social Distance.”

“But I worked extra hours to buy a tux

And you and your Mom spent weeks finding that dress

And it’s prom night. We’re going to dress up

Even if it’s cancelled.”

“Let me ask my mom.”

The next voice is not friendly.

“Dylan,” her mom says, “I thought you had more sense.

I thought I could trust you.”

​

“You can, Mrs. Wilson.

We’ll dress up

Stay six feet apart

Stay on the front porch.”

Ominous silence on the other end

“Okay,” her mom says 

But I’m going to keep my eye on you.”

As if she wouldn’t have even anyway.

I need Dad’s help putting on a tux

There’s this weird elastic thing

Called a “cummerbund” 

And he has to tie my tie.

I use a red bandana

As a facemask,

Looking like a bandido 

Taking health precautions.

Mom cries,

Takes a lot of pictures,

Says, “You look so handsome.”

I shrug, embarrassed

On impulse, I go into Mom’s cabinet,

Grab a Mason jar,

Fill it half full with water,

Fill the other half with wildflowers from the garden

And drive to her house.

She is standing on the porch,

My heart stops

She is more beautiful than I could have imagined

Standing in a dress of some blue-green color

Short in the front, but not too short,

Touching the ground in the back,

Shoulders bare

​

She looks like a princess 

In those Disney movies she loves

Only she’s real,

And only six feet away

​

Somehow, she’s found a face mask

That matches her dress

And strappy heels,

Her green eyes twinkle

​

I ache to close the distance

But I can’t

So I set the Mason jar full of flowers

On the porch

​

Her mother, plastic gloved,

Gives the jar the once over

With Clorox wipes

And brushes away a tear

​

I step to one side of the porch,

Take out on my phone

Turn on Spotify

“May I have this dance?”

​

Cheeks raised behind the mask, 

She says, “Yes”

Going to the other side of the porch

And we dance

And we twirl

And we laugh

And I don’t care

That prom was cancelled.

​

In my mind

We dance arm in arm

All night

Without masks.​

​​

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