It's early morning, the time of day where dew still cleans to the grass, barely visible in the pale sunlight. My shoes squeak as I walk quietly through the graveyard, trying not to disturb the utter silence that envelopes me. The earth is still sleepy and moon has not yet relinquished its place in the sky, but the grave markers are clearly visible. They solid rock and stone shines with a light all its own, strong and timeless.

I come here to look at the names. I let my hands brush ever so slightly on the tops of the headstones as I walk past them, one by one. They are old, so very old, yet untainted by the ravages of time. Sure they're a little worn down by ages of rain and endless winds, but nothing could damper their splendor. They serve as reminders of what was, what is and what will yet become.

Some are big, carved into intricate shapes. On them are names written in bold script, sunken deep into the stone. Names of people I never knew. Dates that are vivid to someone, somewhere, but that mean little to me.

I am just an observer.

I like to imagine the people whose names I read. I imagine what they would have looked like, what kind of life they might have lived. The Martha's and Arleen's live quiet lives in my mind, peaceful. The James' and Violets live grand lives as secret kings and lost adventures. They have people who love them, they have families. Other times they are solitary. Each name brings about a new scenario to mind.

One name inspires a tragic tale of love. I can picture the grieving woman leaning her hands against the cold, wet stone in front of me. Tears fall from her face, and fresh flowers hang limply in her hand. She falls to her knees, and gently places the flowers at the base of the rounded marker. She brushes her fingers against the name, the date, the one line of explanation. She stands, and looks behind at me, then vanishes. Sometimes I wonder if what I'm seeing is entirely fictional.

Some graves have flowers, or flags. Others are covered with moss and look as though they have not been touched in far too long. Forgotten, perhaps like the decaying bodies they house. Time carries on, claiming one life after another, filling its soil with their spent shells.

But even as decades come and go, cemeteries endure. People constantly feel the need to mark the losses of each other. A reminder left for anyone, really. One page, cement diaries. Sure family and friend visit, but the headstones seem to me like a testament to lives when those who remember them are gone. They stand, crooked and immovable, telling whoever wanders in here that this name is worth something, it's worth remembering.

It makes me wonder why people come to these places. A poem springs to mind; "Do not stand at my grave and weep/I am not there/I do not sleep". There is nothing here of the person known in life, yet we come here and talk to them, cry to them.

There is nothing here but bones and bits of flesh in decorated boxes covered by the dirt.

Yet here I stand. Alone in a cemetery, imagining the lives of those who live no more. Perhaps that's what cemeteries are for. To allow you to live on the minds of the fanciful wandering. Maybe their a chance to escape the bonds of monotony that enslaved you in life.

Tessa.

Her name is Tessa. She comes every Tuesday morning, I am told, at precisly five past eight. Armed with a roll of trash bags and a can of red bull she begins her routine. She was sick last week, and since I hadn't started work until last week, I am meeting her for the first time.

Her enthusiasm arrives before she does in the form of a off-key version of "Love Song". A bright, yet aged, face bursts through the door in a current of energy. She's dressed in stained khaki shorts and too short tan shirt. Compared to my own black pants and button down shirt, she doesn't look very proffessional, but there is something about her that speaks of authority.

"Good morning ladies. Oh!" She paused, focusing her eyes in on me. They softened instantly.

"You must be the new one. Well aren't you just adorable. Look at your hair- I love it! Good God honey, you look bored. It's this place, it will bore you to tears. Sometimes I think I might just drop dead from it all. But that's why I don't work at a desk, no way. Can't focus on nothing for that long. Got to keep moving. You're working in a good place though, better than the others. These ladies here are fabulous." She paused only to throw a smile towards my two coworkers.

"I tell you what, this place is filthy. You'd think the college could spring the few bucks to have me come in here more than once a week. Ain't you ladies' fault of course. You don't say much, do you?" She paused again, grinning down at me where I sat in my chair. She smelled of menthol cough drops and cheap perfume.

To be honest, I wasn't sure how to respond. I wasn't uncomfortable, if it was even possible to be around her; she way she spoke made me feel like we'd been friends for years. I smiled up at her, the only reaction I could muster at the moment. She beamed in response, her face crinkling around her ancient, knowing eyes.

As she set to work emptying the various trash cans located around the small room, she chatted with the other two. They talked of children and grandchildren, and of husbands, but I noticed that Tessa mentioned none of her own. They exchanged bits of gossip about other employees on the campus, and traded comments on the condition of the world in general. I caught Tessa's mention of rising healthcare costs, followed by the subtle admittence that her sickness last week was due to the end of her remission from cancer.

"They tell me I need to see the doctor three times a week, as if I have time for that. Hell, as if I have money for that. I've had to take up a second job just to feed my energy drink habit, which they want me to kick by the way. I'm not about to do that," she chuckled. "You I got hooked because of those coupons. I told you about that didn't I?" She didn't wait for a response. "I sent in a cartoon to Reader's Digest, a picture of a little guy drinking the stuff. You know, I'm an artist, when I get the free time. Course, I couldn't go to college for it or nothin', life's funny that way. But anyway, I won the contest, and they send me a thousand dollars in free coupons. I got hooked on the damn stuff, excuse my language, and now here I am, drinking it even though I've used up the coupons!" The ladies laughed along with her, though Christine made a subtle comment about engergy drinks not being healthy. If Tessa heard her she chose not to respond.

Before long she had finished the trash cans, and was now starting on the vaccuming. The vaccum tank was strapped to her back, with the wand and cord wrapping around her. She looked odd, standing there in her shorts and ill-fitting beige shirt. Her black headband gave her a youthful appearence, espcially paired with her tennis shoes. She looked almost like child pretending to be a super hero.

She hummed as she worked, sometimes full out singing. Her songs had no particular order, and covered everything from folk songs to current pop music. I enjoyed listening to her.

"Excuse me dear," she said, swiping the vaccum under my desk and feet. I scooted out of her way, feeling oddly useless.

Sooner than I would have thought, Tessa was finished with vaccuming. The clock above my head read 8:25.

"Well lovelies, I have to get moving. Got another doctor's appointment today. They want to poke some more needles in me or something. God only knows what. I have to be there at 8:45. What time is it now?" She looked over at Christine for an answer.

"8:26. Is it here in town?" Christine asked in response.

Tessa laughed.

"God no. Wouldn't that be nice if it was. It's in the city. I have to meet a friend of mine, she's giving me a ride. Aint't that far from here though, is it? I still have another room to do. Time off doesn't come easily around here." Tessa wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something bad. Branshing her energy drink and monster of a vaccum she headed for the door.

"You all have a nice day, don't work too hard. Especially you Honey," she said looking at me. "I'm off to grand adventures. See you all next week!" She called behind her cheerfully.

Christine turned to Rebecca, the other of the three employees including myself. "My, she is strange as ever. Nice enough though." Rebecca nodded in solid agreement, then turned to me.

"Now, don't you get me wrong, because she's a hard worker and all, but we've got to watch her. She's real nice, but she's one of the cleaning crew, you get what I mean? She's a sweet lady, but you know. I just don't want you getting the wrong idea."

I just looked at her, my eyes giving away nothing.

"No. I don't know what you mean." I said.

She ruffled her shirt a bit before answering.

"Well nevermind, I was just saying is all. Nevermind. It's not important."

(unfinished)

Lining the Wire

Five...eight...eleven. I count the number of birds in my head. They line the thin wire above me, perched in perfect stillness. Do they talk to each other while they're up there? I wonder. Perhaps they hold secret meetings, conducted high above the listening ears of others. I doubt it. They don't seem to be paying too much attention to each other.

I study their tiny frames. So light they must be, to keep their balance up there. Do they ever fall? I suppose when you have wings to catch you it doesn't matter.

They look so somber, with their beaks pointed straight ahead, claws tightly clutched. Perhaps these wires are a common resting point. These feathered friends could have come from anywhere, yet they all come here to give their small lungs a break. It's like an airport for birds, I think.

Looking at them up there, all in a line, a thought strikes me. Where do they go from here? When they finally take the tiny leap from the wire where do they go? Do they stay in town or do they head for another town, another state? The potential they have. No baggage claim to slow them down or ticket prices to delay their trip. They come and they go. Any time of day, any day of the week.

To be a bird.

But would I embrace that freedom if it were suddenly granted to me? Or would I hesitate forever on the wire, stuck tight with the overwhelming possibility? Would I stay forever at the mid point, listening to the stories of others, never making my own? These birds, they must be terribly brave. With a life so short they don't linger long. A few minutes and they take off once more, in a direction all their own. They waste no time seeking out their journey.

Oh, to be as a bird.

Dance of the Damned

It's a dance and we both know the steps by heart. Forward and back. Back then forward.
Repeat.

You grab my cold, dead hands and pull me to my feet. In your eyes I see that familar flickering light, and I wrench my hands from yours and use them to push you out onto the dance floor. You plead and beg, hand outstrech. You know the dance, but can't manage it on your own. Find another partner, I say. But even as I look around the room I see that there are none.

Better judgement ignored I take my place in your hands. You're grip is tight, almost too tight. I ignore the fleeting pain as the music begins. It's slow at first, almost happy. It sounds of reunion, of forgivness.

It doesn't last.

Before I can pull away again, the music has us both captive with it's forceful rythm. Our feet move togather in the only way they know how. It's no longer happy, but a sad mournful tune. You knew it was coming, but you panic anyway. I can feel your heartbeat quicken through my own skin. You try to slip from the embrace, but I sink my fingers into your shoulder and clasp them around your own fingers.

You're not going anywhere. The dance must be finished and it demands nothing less than blood.

My face is rigid and your eyes are tightly shut. I think you might sink into my embrace at long last, but instead you step on my feet and cause me to lose my balence. But the same arms that shove me away are there to pull me back up again. A deal is a deal.

Back and forth we go. Two steps here, and one there. Around the room we circle, and unending. We twirl faster and faster till the world outside the windows is nothing but a blur. Your hair falls into your eyes and you don't even notice. The floor beneath my my bare feet feels like ice. Cold, inforgiving, dangerous. We might fall.

But we've had too much pratice to fall, and so we continue on without flaw.

For days we continue, weak and tired the both of us. At long last song begins to draw to a close, the cycle begins to break. You stand in place, gasping for breath. I walk backward, slowly, on unsteady legs. I take one last look, then turn to leave. I swear that I am done. My feet are raw and bleeding, my back aches from holding you up. You don't look at me.

As I reach the door, I hear you let out a sob. I turn back.

There you lay on the floor, having collapsed under the weight of your own heart. The floor beneath you is smeared in blood, and I can't tell who's it is.

Help me, you whisper.

My blisters and bruises cry out as I begin to walk back toward you. A faint music plays softly in the background. I feel my own hot tears start to prick at the corner of my eyes. I blink them away.

You're a mess, I whisper, extending my shaking hand. You reach for it, but fall short. I want to tell you to stay there, to look at at my own scars, my own wounds. But I won't. I won't leave you there. I will not leave you like you would leave me.

I lower myself to the ground next you. I take your face in my hands and wipe away the tears. With all my strength I pull you to your feet. Your weight sags against me and my knees almost buckle, but I refuse to heed them.

The music has begun again, calling us both to our places.

We lost our simplicity. We lost it somewhere on the beach, in the parking lot, on the grass, in the cracks of the sidewalk, or in one of the sticky booths at the pizza place. We spent so much time making plans to do something great- something memorable. We failed to see then that those would become the strongest memories. Just the times we spent planning the rest of our lives.

It was simple then, because all the worries and fears were things to be dealt with in the future. We didn't have to worry about life in those moments, we just lived it. And we didn’t even notice. We look back now and that is what we remember. We remember laughter, smiles, jokes, tears, and secrets… all the things that brought us together for those seconds and minutes and years.

How many times did the sun go down on us before we realized that each time it did so it got closer to being the last time?

After School

The dream's gone out, like the lights in the wake of the janitor. The doors that once seemed so big now shrink before my frame. Mere weeds have now become trees, a canopy above me, blocking out the sky. Chains on the swings now squeak not with use, but with rust. The sun sinks behind me, it's glare spreading to the windows. Behind the streaked glass sit dusty books and paper houses, yellowed by the unending flow of days.

There is no rest for this place, it endures tirelessly, unwillingly. Cigarettes and condom wrappers litter the ground where once before there were juice boxes and failed tests. Shards of glass sprout up from the ground in places where violets and dandelions once grew. Laughter echoes in the approaching dusk, harsh and bitter. Before there were giggles that bounced between the wooden rungs of the monkey bars.

The air still holds the lingering smell of rubber and asphalt. The cement still shows the fading lines of four square and hopscotch. A thousand sneakers have flattened these paths, but I remember only my own. Shoelaces untied, hair twisted by the breeze. Strong winds blow now, as night quiets the secrets housed beneath the rocks and sticks. All that has come and gone, and has yet to be seems to take flight in the stubborn wind.

There is nothing here for me. Distant memories, ideas torn and shredded by reason. The future is no longer a grand adventure, but a haunting shadow ever upon my heels. My hands are stained with blood instead of paint, my face marred with ash instead of fresh dirt. I am no longer a creator, but a destroyer. My footprints are too big, my voice too loud in the quiet of this place. My mind is sealed shut against its lingering wisdom, my heart hardened against its last whispers. This is a sacred place, a hallowed place. I dirty it with my presence. I stain it with my lofty thoughts. I desecrate it with my account of it.

The dream is dead.

We Write.

We write on napkins. We write on the backs of receipts. We write on scraps of cardboard. We write on street signs and in the stalls of public bathrooms. We write in the dirt, in the dust and in the ashes.

We write when we're happy. We write when we're sad. We write when we're angry and we write when we're excited. We write through tears. We write when we feel like it. And sometimes when we don't. We write in the midst of fond memories. We write to ourselves. We write to lovers. We write to enemies.

We write letters. We write notes. We write memoirs. We write obituaries. We write articles. We write stories. We write poems and we write threats. We write cries for help. We write the truth. We write lies.

We write our thoughts. Our emotions. Our fears. Our hopes. Our dreams. Our secrets. Our desires. Our sins. Our joys. Our tragedies. Our confessions.

We write because we can't imagine what would happen if we don't. We can't bear to think about what would become of us if we weren't allowed to scribble our feeble thoughts down in messy marker, blotchy pens and dull pencils.

We are poets. We are authors. We are children. We are men. We are women. We are young. We are old. We are wise. We are foolish. We are students. We are teachers.

We live. We die.

We write.

We are.