“Still awake, I presume?”

            A quiet rustle of the bed sheets brought the cold statue to life. Solomon slowly turned his body to face his weary wife.

            “Sleep just hasn’t been a reliable acquaintance these past few days.”

            “I am sure that everything will fix itself if you give it time. But you should rest. Making choices of great importance on little sleep is not very professional.” A light sigh escaped from Elsbeth as she wrapped her left arm around her husband’s torso. A feeling of detachment washed over her as Solomon made no notion to acknowledge her.

            “Have we received any word from you brother?” She asked as an attempt to burry the feeling deep in her subconscious.

            “Draven is…” Solomon paused. “Let’s not talk about him.”

            Elsbeth inched closer, hoping she would receive some sort of feeling.

            A soft knock on the door distracted the couple, followed by a slow turn of the silver doorknob. Entered an older man carrying a tray of tea and freshly picked fruit.      

            “Good morning Sir.” The man bowed as he gently rested the morning meal on a small table not three steps from the doorway.

            “Madame,” Another bow followed.

            “Good morning, Senis. Have you been informed of my schedule?” Solomon asked as he scanned the tray for something to eat.

            “The counsels of Citadel and Terces would like to have a word with you sometime before high noon. I presume they would like to speak about the recent…events… that have taken place in Latromm,” Senis turned to Elsbeth. “And how are you this morning? Feeling sick?”

            “I’ll be just fine, Senis. Sometimes I think that you are more worried about this pregnancy than I am.”

            Elsbeth let go of her husband and proceeded to sit back down on the bed. “Solomon, wear your white button-down shirt and black trousers. This meeting will not take long so there is no point in getting all dressed up.”

            Solomon did as he was told and motioned for Senis to leave.

            “Shall I let the council know you will be attending?”  he asked.

            “Please. Tell them to start without me if I am not there in fifteen minutes.”

            Senis bowed to the King and Queen of Latromm before exiting the chamber.

                                                            *   *   *   *

            Solomon sat down at the head of the table.

            “I know that this issue is the least popular to discuss but we cannot dismiss it.”

            “Solomon, what do you plan on doing? He is your twin.”

            “It also means that he is family so this is just as hard for me as it is for you.”

            Everyone important had attended this meeting even though the problem hadn’t leaked into the other worlds. Normally, having all the worlds gather like this rarely happened, but when Earth attempted to destroy the two other worlds, security measures had to be raised.

            “We all know what he wants.” Emperor of Citadel piped up.

            “We also know what he isn’t going to get.” Solomon sternly said.

            “I always get what I want.” Draven sneered. 

            A new presence stood in the entranceway, startling those who were in conversation. Everybody started whispering and worrying when Draven slowly walked to his twin brother.

            “May I have a word with you alone?” Draven smoothly said.

            “I am sure that whatever you have to say can be said right in this room, Draven.” Solomon’s voice hardened as he motioned towards an empty seat.

            “Brother,” Draven grinned. “I would like to speak with you. Alone.” The harshness in his voice made each ruler quiver with disgust and it was evil enough to convince the King of Latromm to excuse himself from the meeting.

            Closing the doors behind him, Solomon eyed his brother. The two weren’t very good twins. Growing up, they had never gotten along and even their appearance was so drastically different that Solomon was sure that nobody would have known if it weren’t for the fact that they were born into royalty.

            Draven stood beside Solomon and started walking down the marble-floored hallway.

            “What is this about Draven?” Solomon asked.

            “A brother cannot come visit his family without question anymore?”

            “A brother has every right to visit family, but not a stranger who waltzes around destroying my kingdom.”

            Draven stopped and turned towards his brother. His cold eyes traced Solomon’s body.

            “I don’t know how we managed to be brothers, Solomon,” he said. “You seemed to have let yourself go.”

            Solomon knew this was a distraction. But he couldn’t help but think that he was right. While Draven possessed the looks in the family, Solomon was glad that he received the features that did not make him look like a serial killer. He didn’t have the dark eyes or the sharp cheekbones like Draven. His face was much more round and even his hair was a completely different color. A honey blonde to Draven’s raven black.

            They continued down the hallway until they came to the two enormous doors that guarded the main ballroom. Draven grabbed a hold of the large iron ring and pulled. The door revealed a white and black-checkered floor and numerous pillars that held up the balcony that wrapped around the entire room. Two thrones sat at the far wall, raised by a small set of stairs. Each was the color of gold and towered over anyone who stood beside them.

            Draven marched forward and threw himself on the throne so his legs dangled off of the throne’s arm. “I want the throne.” Draven’s bluntness came as a surprise to the King.

            “We can all have our dreams, Draven,” Solomon chuckled. “But you are never going to get the throne.”

            “Oh, I know I would have to fight for it,” Draven said. “Oh, Shadow! Would you be so kind as to come out and show our beloved king what you possess?”

            A tall woman entered the room. Her hair had been tied into a tight bun, revealing the pointed tips of her ears. Hung around her waist were several hunting knives, each carefully tucked inside of its carrying case. Brown, baggy pants accessorized with numerous pockets hung loosely on her tiny frame while a backless black shirt allowed her black wings to move freely.

            “Solomon, this is my new friend from Tearsee. Her name is Shadow and she will not hesitate to perform extreme measures to gain power over Latromm. This is your last chance. Give me the throne or pay the consequences.” Draven lost all sense of sarcasm in his voice.

            “I will never let you have the throne,” Solomon said coldly. “Now get out.”

            Just as Solomon opened his mouth to call for his guards, Shadow raised her hand toward the open door and closed her fingers one by one. The gigantic doors slammed shut with such a force, any man would cower.

            Solomon grabbed the handles and pulled, only to realize that they would not budge.

            “My dear brother, we can do this one of two ways. Either you give up the throne so nobody will be injured or — ,” Draven paused and grinned. “We’ll look at that second option if the situation needs to come to that.”

            “I will not throw this world into the pits of despair.” Solomon stood firm.

            “Very well then.”

            The air stood still. The world around the two brothers seemed to stop in all of its place. Within seconds, the doors swung back open and Elsbeth stumbled through, her face tinted crimson red.

            Panic jolted Solomon out of his solid state and he ran over to his wife.

            “The baby,” Elsbeth moaned. She raised her hand to touch her husbands face one last time. Solomon noticed that the roundness of her belly was gone and her clothes were drenched with blood. Anger boiled in his throat and his face turned bright red.

            “What did you do with my child?” 

            “What child? She was like this when I found her.” Draven appeared to be as confused as his brother.

            Solomon looked at his wife. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was unsteady. He knew she didn’t have long.

            “Elsbeth. Where is the child?” The tone of desperation in his voice caused Elsbeth to open her eyes. She looked at him for a moment and began to speak.

            “Sea Reese,” She gasped for air.

            “Elsbeth. Hold on, darling,” Solomon started sobbing.

            “Senis!” She whispered, this time, clearly. Her head fell back and her breathing stopped. Solomon knew she was gone.
            Hatred clouded his mind. Solomon’s breathing deepened as he rose. Without any words said, he charged at his brother, hoping to bring him down.

            Shadow stepped in Solomon’s path and drove one of her hunting knives into his stomach. Solomon fell back and took his last breath.

            Draven let out a laugh and stood up from the throne.

            “I told you I would get the throne.”

            Draven stepped over the body and walked out the door, leaving the old King and Queen of Latromm lifeless on the cold, hard floor.

            At this point in time, I am still walking and talking like I am twenty years of age. Well, maybe at a little slower pace. My daughter often comes and visits, and stays with me for long periods of time.  And during winter months, I stay with her back in Western Massachusetts. Our thing is to sit on the porch and watch the lightning storms. There were two roads in the cove that shaped in V. One side of houses bordered the ocean while the other row was against the beach and marsh.  It was amazing that we were only a thirty-second walk to the beach.

            As October approached, we usually started the process of boarding up the house and preparing the move back to western Mass. The pipes get emptied and the windows all get locked and boarded up, the whole nine yards. My daughter Dona had been working a good job at the time and decided to wait till the first snow fell until we actually made the move. We did leave the house for the most part winter-ready, except the water was still running. I didn’t argue to leave, because I would stay year around if I could manage alone. But what the hell. Who says you can’t be at the cape when it isn’t summer anyways? I happen to think it looks marvelous under some snow.

            I was never big on television, and raised my children to survive without. So naturally, this place did not have normal channels. There were maybe four or five that never really caught my interest. There was a weather channel, but I thought I could make more accurate forecast then those idiots. “Tomorrow, you can expect light, followed by dark! And for the next day, you can expect the same!” My forecast was always correct. I have learned in all my days that if I watched the weather channel every day for the forecast, they were actually right about once of the week. Maybe two times if on top of their game. So if I did hear the weather, it was in one ear and out the next. The tropical storm advisory was the same way. It caught my eye that something like this would arise now at the end of October though.

            To my surprise, I heard it was heading our way. I have seen many thunder storms, but very few hurricanes or tropical storms have actually made it to land, or even as far as the New England coast. So I wasn’t worried the least. I kept doing my morning three mile walk. I got to keep these old bones in shape somehow.

            One chilly late October night, we all watched the updates on this storm. I don’t know much about all those technical weather people’s storm terms, but I did understand the meaning of fifteen-foot swells. This was reported on the 27^th. I have never seen swells that big with my own eyes, but assumed that was average for a storm out at sea. I didn’t want to hear more about some stupid scare so I didn’t turn on the TV for a few days.

            Let me just say, for the first time in my life, I had regretted not turning on the television for a few days. What I saw made me a bit nervous. This tropical storm has grown quite a bit, and they made it sound like it was coming right at our part of New England. There was no name designated for a hurricane so I did not think it could be too bad. But, I clearly was wrong. I stood at the top of the beach one afternoon, and did see swells that must have been over fifteen feet. There is a giant rock, probably ten feet or more above the water where the kids jump off at high tide. Waves were splashing over it very easily today. I was nervous as to what this may lead to.

            I was up all night watching off my porch. I had my full yellow old fashion rain suit on. The house spot lights were on and I was on the lookout. The basement was flooded to the point where you could swim in the bedroom. The marsh had overflowed the whole street. Dona was sound asleep, and I don’t know how. Then again thunder storms never bothered her.  

            Since our house was heavily guarded by other residents’ homes, I could not fully understand this event: I was standing on the upper deck, and loud sounds of water moving approached my ears. I didn’t think twice about a title wave, even though there were 65 knot winds on sea. Just not as strong in my yard because of surrounding houses. But, this storm surge, or wave, whatever you want to call it came out of nowhere. It hit the side of my house, and I thought we were done for. The house was in no shape after all these years for something like this. I held on to the railing for dear life, returning to the house the second I thought I could make it in.

            Morning came, and everything was calm. Not sunny, but light and cloudy. We went out to look at the damage. To our surprise, there was none. There was a hole 8-10 feet deep, and wide as a car. Somehow the water did not wreck the house, only the back yard which is a sand bar anyways. I took my canoe out and paddled down the roads. The damage to all the houses was mind blowing. Houses were fully on their sides, or had thousand pound boulders smashed right through them. There is an old WWI watch tower, which is five stories tall. The top of it was filled with ocean water. Waves were breaking over the top of this tower, which rests at sea side. This storm had come so fast, it was not even labeled. So I named it The No Name Hurricane of 1991.

            Dona and I created a photo album of this. Pictures of waves splashing and wrecked houses filled this. Even a picture of me sitting in my canoe on the front lawn. This storm was a hell of a sight. Like I said before… every other old person will tell you they have seen some crazy things in their life time. I can safely say I have. I witnessed a wave that should have destroyed our house. Luckily, the house survived. I told you the weather people have no idea what is going on. If they did, this hurricane might have properly been predicted and named. The photo album still remains at the house, for all to see and to remember The No Named Hurricane.

            I can’t recall which year it was, but I suppose it was my eighth, and for my birthday, I wanted nothing except a pet bird, one that I’d seen at the local Woolworth’s near my grandparents’ house.  I was sure to get what I wanted, since I’d been so good in school and church and the bird and it’s cage couldn’t cost more than about thirty dollars.  I knew my parent’s sometimes didn’t have money for all we wanted, but my siblings and I could always trust they’d do what they were able.  That morning, my hopes were elevated as I ate my favorite breakfast cereal, Lucky Charms, bought especially by mom the night before (she’d usually not let us eat such expensive, sugary cereals) and after school I expected the usual dinner at my grandparents’ house with cake and ice cream. 

            That evening, I was the first to run through the heavy double-doors of my grandparents’ entryway, scrambling in front of my older brothers, Mike and Jay, and my little sister Sammi while my parents gathered important birthday things from the mini-van.  I was crazed, and just spat a hello to my grandpa reading Popular Mechanics or Retired General in his throne of soft, nineteen seventies brown leather, which we weren’t allowed to “horse-around” on.  He replied with a hearty, “Hey, happy birthday, Joelie!” as I continued down the hall, past the reproductions of famous Mormon paintings and into the kitchen where I could smell and hear my grandma’s cooking.

            “Well, I thought I heard a birthday boy crashing down the hall; Happy birthday, my love”, she said with a hug, thoughtfully not messing my birthday outfit with her kitchen’d hands, “You should go see what’s in the bathtub up stairs”.

             I dropped whatever I was told to help bring in the house on the country-colored woven carpet of the kitchen and spun around to run, passing my parents just entering the hallway and closing the front door, “Slow down on the stairs”, my mother warned with a smile, knowing what I was to find upstairs (she was too smart to store any really exciting gifts at home, since I was a snoop).  After swiftly climbing the stairs and leaping up to the landing, I rounded to corner to the hall, turned again into the guest-bathroom and reached over to turn the light’s timer dial, to find the doors of the tub slid closed and myself reflected in the mirrored one of the two.  I didn’t understand.  How could a bird be in the bathtub, and if one was there, how could it be so calm and quiet after I turned on the lights?  I was already disappointed.  What was it they got me instead? 

I had to look.  I stepped and gripped the chrome handle of the mirrored door, my now frightened face confirming my disappointment as I slid the door slowly, its old, rusty wheels whining lightly as it rolled, and I hear, “Grock!, ting!”  and a bell’s tiny rings:  the sounds of a frightened bird.  All that followed were crazed wing flapping and a metal cage’s rattle.  I needed to move to the other door since the cage was at the other end of the tub.  So I heave the door back, leap to the right and thrust the other door open to a slam!  Now the bird was absolutely terrified, and I was too, but also curious. 

            The lights above the mirror and sink on the opposite side of the room emboldened the brassy luster of the cage’s canopy and the clean, glossy brown newness of the cage guard at its base.  Awesome.  The bird calmed and I was able to see it: a gray and black little Parakeet with a blue flank and puffy white “cheeks” around its beak.  I kneeled down to lift the cage by the hook at its crown, to get a closer look at my bird, but this totally freaked it out. Maniacally, it flitted and fluttered about, knocking its water, seed, and its own feathers around and out of the cage.  Momentarily, it quieted and just stared at me, then it stepped to the side of its perch to sharpen its beak, apparently to frighten me, which it did, so I turned around, one knee on the fluffy bat mat and set the cage on the toilet.  I wasn’t going to bother with him until later.  After dinner and its birthday ending with a box cake from mix frosted in the same 9″ x 14″ pan it was baked in, candled and sung around in our traditional American fashion and followed by my favorite ice cream and other presents, none of which I can otherwise recall. 

            Later that Fall, my grandparents moved to the MTC, or Mission Training Center, to prepare for a later-life mission many able Mormon elders volunteer for or accept when called by the church to do so (they were on their way to South Africa) and asked my mom and Ron if they wanted to move us into their house for two years whilst they were gone, since they were in the neighborhood and only renting our then house.  We did.  My brothers and I were happy not to switch schools again and finally have a house with at least five bedrooms, so we and our sister could each have our own rooms, this meant I could have my bird in my own room, without the brother I  was then sharing a room with complain.  The bird was noisy.

            It was very bizarre to have a room in my grandparents’ home, especially the one which used to be my Aunt Ginger’s with its mirrored closet doors which held, loosely, her old, outlandish, sequined 80’s fashions still laced through plastic hangers, covered in dry-clean plastics or piled in plastic bags on the closet’s floor.  But after we cleared those room’s other items, I was able to move my bird upstairs with me.  Actually, I was doubly excited because left in the room was a round table about three feet tall with a decorative iron base and stem, perfect to accommodate the cage and cardboard box of seed-mix. 

            The white cold Sacramento Winter set in and we realized that my room, with its mauve metal Venetian blinds over a single-paned window, wouldn’t keep my bird warm enough. I felt I needed to do something, so I covered his cage (I dubbed it a male) at night with an old pillowcase and would let him out to fly about my room whenever I had time.  This was pretty funny.  As he would fly around the room and up the white walls, he’d routinely be drawn to the curious dimension of the mirrored closet doors and fly swiftly as spatially possible toward them and ram beak-first into the glass with all the ticks and clacks of nails, beak and body and crash from there and fall softly onto the thick, brown shag carpet.  “That stupid bird” , I’d think to myself, especially after watching that the bird would do this anytime I let him out of his cage.  I thought he’d learn, so I let him out to perch on my finger or try playing on my desktop while I drew or did my homework, but he’d always fly over to the closet and most often hurt himself (or so it seemed at the time).  He couldn’t have been too badly off for he’d usually return to his loud, needy self in a day or two and the cycle would begin again.

            Weeks and months passed, my pet’s limited entertainments became evident, and my want to visit or play with him waned.  The weekly cage cleanings became just another chore and spending my allowance on birdseed and cage liners siphoned my Ninja Turtle funds.  I found myself focusing on my acquiring those, instead of playing with the live animal caged in my bedroom.  I was conflicted and out of patience for this loud, filthy animal.  I began to wish it would die.  Somehow it must’ve sensed that, for a few weeks after acquiring this new resolve, it did.  My mother had stronger feelings about it’s passing than I, but I was really excited to bury it in the yard.  I was a young child very fond of formality plus I’d seen Pet Cemetery by then, so it was great to do something so cinematic and closing as burying my little blue bird behind the cover of the great ivy which cascaded from the second story to the ground in the front yard.

When I wake, I wonder where he went. I feel no fear of him today. He will be sorry for doing this to me. He will never say the words, but I will know he is sorry. He loves me. He does not ever mean to hurt me. I pull myself up this time. The pain makes me nauseous and I vomit in the sink. It burns. I turn on the bathroom light, but I can barely see. My eyes have swollen shut. The little bit of my reflection I can see makes a scream well up in my throat. I vomit again. The room spins. My knees go weak and I stumble back to the floor in the corner. I pull down a towel from the rack and wrap it around me. I am so cold. I do not know what to do. How will I hide this? There is nothing I can say. I can tell no lie that can cover this up. Everyone will know he did this to me. I lie on the floor, mangled and bloody, wrapped in a fluffy peach bath towel. I close my eyes and fade back into the blackness.

Now I wake up in our bed. I hope that it has been a dream. I hope that I have had a nightmare, but the pain in my body tells me that I have not. I am here alone. I do not know what day it is. Have I missed work? Where has he gone? He must have carried me to our bed because I do not remember walking. I do not think I could have made it up here.

The memories come rushing to me. They slap me hard. I was asleep in our bed, this bed. I heard him come in downstairs. He was yelling. I do not know at who, but I know, for the first time, that I have done nothing wrong. I did not go with him. I could not have made him angry this time. I heard him stomp up the stairs. I knew he stood at the bottom of the bed. I felt the covers being ripped off the bed and his hands grab me tightly around my ankles. His hands felt cold. He pulled me down the length of the bed and my tailbone hit hard on the frame of the bed. I screamed, but no sound came out. I don’t think it would have mattered anyway. I did not understand what was happening. He yelled incoherently. I could smell the sickening, sweet scent of black licorice. He had been drinking Sambucca. I pulled away from him and scrambled for the stairs. I made it down the stairs and he came after me. He staggered badly, but still managed to keep up with me. I ran into the bathroom and tried to shut the door, but he pushed it open. He threw me across the bathroom and into the wall. I hit my head hard. He punched me in the face and I heard the bones in my nose break. I fell down into the corner and I tried to cover my head with my hands. He continued yelling loudly, but not making any sense. He kicked me hard. He wore boots. Again and again his boot came down on my head and face. I pleaded for him to stop, but he wouldn’t stop. I lost consciousness.

I get out of bed and go downstairs to the livingroom. My movements are slow and painful. I feel like a truck has run over me. I turn on the television. I need to know what day it is. The pictures on every channel are the same. Our country is at war. Desert Storm receives news coverage all day and all night. I guess I should care about what is going on over there, but I don’t. I finally hear a newscaster say that it is Saturday. I have been out for three days. I have missed work and I no longer have a job. My company has given me enough chances. I should have been fired long ago. I have had too many absences, too many days of showing up late or being tired or upset from a long night of fighting with him. Many days I could not cover up my black eyes and bruises enough to face my co-workers and clients.

I have no one to call. My family no longer cares. I have no friends. They all gave up on me long ago. I feel like my world has finally spun, not just out of control, but off it’s pedestal completely. My life has been pulled out from under me. I do not know what to do next. Why did I have to wake up at all? I wish he had killed me. It would be so much easier. I just want to die. I go to the bathroom medicine cabinet. I open it careful to avoid seeing my reflection. Nothing in there can help me. We have no razor blades, no sleeping pills.

I turn on the shower and let it run warm. I step into the spray or water. It hits my face and I scream out in pain. Chunks of brown blood fall at my feet. I shampoo my hair and my scalp burns. The soap, on what is left of my face, stings. White hot searing pain in each movement of my body.

I go back upstairs and climb into our bed. I lay in bed and cry. I cannot cover for him this time. I cannot protect him. I never once think about who will protect me.

I am not feeling Japanese, even with the green tea stinging my mouth and Yo-Yo Ma tickling my ears. Even with the full tray of sushi before me I am not feeling Japanese. I heap the wasabi hoping to burn my way to the land of the rising sun. Even as my sinuses scream I am not feeling Japanese. Though I find the pickled ginger delightful I am still hopelessly American.

Perhaps a cup of sake, warm and sweet, would bring me to the west pacific. After the eighth cup I jump into my Toyota on a kamikaze mission to Wal-Mart.

He’s drunk but I am cold, tired and not about to argue with myself. I get in, fasten my seatbelt, and pray to a god I’ve never seen. Fear makes me pious. I try to ignore his erratic driving focusing instead on the snow blowing against the headlights. I am grateful to be in this car, bourbon smell and all. I trance into the hyperspace dreamscape offered by the tunnels of illuminated snow. My eyelids relax, and I am dancing through visions. I am lying beneath six-foot ferns, birds filling my ears with symphony. I am deciphering the ancient language of flora from their subtle movements against my skin. I am swinging through the trees with my prehensile tail vaguely adhering to gravity. I can feel the jungle growing in my body. I breathe in the damp air and feel the life around me becoming me. I am awake.

Twenty years of New England winters couldn’t prepare me for waking in a snow- bank five hours after we crashed into it. He is gone and I could be anywhere from Minnesota to Wyoming. The wind outside is deafening. I want to get out but I can’t move my legs. I assume they are asleep but soon realize that they are frozen. Moving my arm seems possible yet it is stone or steel. I try to push the door but can only lean heavy against it. The dense snow turns my cries for help to whimpers.

The battery refuses to start the car. I slowly pull the lighter from my pocket and attempt to ignite some of the fast food bags and newspaper on the floor. I cannot will my thumb to work even such a simple tool. Tears freeze against my face.

My eyes relax, and I am dancing through visions. I am lying beneath six hemlocks, dogs barking conversations in the distance. I understand their sounds and ride them in the wind through the branches. Melodies calling me to follow and I do.

The birds were beginning to return and the air was bursting with the promise of spring. You could hear the slosh of your footsteps and the drip of melting snow, yet nature was far from rushing out of winter.

We turned from the path to a huge maple hundreds of years old. It had many tap scars from the years past, when my grandfather’s grandfather had lived. Finding the perfect spot, on the south side with the most branching and the biggest roots, I placed the drill bit against the soft living bark.

There’s a rhythm to the drilling, and then the sap starts flowing, sweet and steady. A spigot’s hammered in, a bucket’s hung, and a cover’s attached. Then, the sound, you can hear that beautiful sound, one of the best sounds in the world: “plink, plink, plink.” One down, ninety-nine to go. In less than five minutes, we’ve begun the long road to the finished product.

When the buckets are all hung, we wait for them to fill. Then we empty them into 5-gallon buckets and carry them, one in each hand, a third of a mile. Up and down, slipping and sliding through the snow, we return to the sugarhouse, often with less than we started with.

There we pour the sap into trash barrels (clean ones!) to be transferred into the evaporator. The evaporator is relatively small, just four feet by two. It does just what it sounds like; it unhurriedly evaporates the water from the sugar in the sap. This part of the process takes the longest because about 40 gallons of sap make one gallon of syrup. This is the part where we all catch up. In the small, steam-filled room we watch the sap rolling and bubbling.

The fire must be stoked with wood continuously to keep the sap boiling and sap must be added to the pans all the time so the pans don’t burn. In time, we close off the front pans and, with patience, the sap begins to turn. The bubbles change so subtly from large and white to fine and golden.

Now is the time when the entire sugarhouse is focused on one hand as it reaches for the scooper. With an ease that comes with time my grandfather places the scooper into the pan and watches the golden liquid run off it. He lifts the scooper above the pans and waits for the sign. The steady stream slows to a drip. The only sound is the crackle and roar of the fire surging up the smokestack. And as you watch you can see the liquid chasing itself to the edge. If you’re not ready you will miss it: the liquid, so set on catching itself, has, and it falls off in a sheet. The syrup has flaked and is ready to be taken off.

As the commotion and anticipation build, there’s the slightest hint of a sigh. The end is in sight; we are almost finished. The tiny bubbles steadily climb the insides of the pans and someone shouts, “open the doors!”. The bubbles begin to recede as the fire calms. Many are involved in this part: one of us fills the back pans with sap, while another opens the syruping-off valve. As the steaming syrup cascades into the old stainless steel milk can, someone else watches and waits to let the sap from the back pans in to push the rest of the syrup out. You can see the trail it leaves as it races to the valve, destroying the golden bubbles in its path. And the valve is closed.

This is sugaring the old-fashioned way: nothing automatic, nothing to rush the experience. Sometimes we work late into the night to syrup off those last few quarts, because we realize that we are all involved in a process bigger than any single person

We’ve been doing this for as long as we can remember; all the grandchildren watch and learn from the first winter they can walk. We don’t just sugar for the syrup, we sugar for the experience.

Without this job he would be no better than those people he walked by on the way here, the same people he used to go to school with. He remembered those years, he and his friends talking about their future exploits and lives. None of them had made it to their dreams, or anywhere else they had wanted to be. Not even him, stuck in a job he didn’t even like.

“Morson you’re late!” That phrase, he knew, would be his only welcome today, said by his less-than-liked overseer, Jim. He and Jim had never gotten along. Even on his first day Jim had made it clear that he was not his friend and would never be so, unless he somehow surpassed Jim on the corporate ladder. Looking at his current situation it didn’t look like that would ever happen. Not unless Jim was knocked back down a couple of rungs to coffee boy. Even that was barely below him. He was expendable and he knew it; he also knew that Jim wouldn’t hesitate to put this mark against him on the list of judgements till laid off. God knows, McDonalds would be his next job if he lost this one. He couldn’t even remember which job this was now, six, eight, ten; though it didn’t matter now, he was here now, here to do a job.

He sat down at his cubicle, small as it was. Did a quick check through the papers on his desk. They told him it was going to be a long day. He leaned back as he pushed the button to boot up his computer, and let his mind drift again. How long had he been working here? Six? No seven months, not a one which had passed without his wishing he was somewhere else. Even that job at the bank had been nicer than this. He took a lot more complaints there, but it was from customers not coworkers. And for God’s sake it was his job to take complaints here.

A cheery chime brought him out of his contemplations and back to the real world. His computer, probably his best friend, had finished loading and now awaited his command. He logged onto the network and checked up on his email, finding the usual advertisements and nothing else. The top of his screen announced his job in bold letters, “Technical Support.” The sight of it brought a surge of hate to him. “Some friend you are,” he grumbled to his computer. A list then appeared, scrolling down names, IDs and computer types. He left his computer to get started on some of the paper work. He grabbed a pencil from the Star Trek coffee mug and had just brought it to the paper when a voice rang out

“Morson.” He quickly identified the voice as his boss. “I’d like to see you in my office for a minute.”

Crap, the first thought that crossed his mind, but then his thought turned to family and a four-room apartment with overdue rent. Both of which belonged to him. He slowly stood up and pushed his chair back. All eyes were on him. They all thought what he thought, and they didn’t care, damn them, none of them would do a thing about it, none of them would even ask him what happened when he walked back out, they just stared. He turned then, taking a slow deliberate walk across the room over to the office. His boss waiting patiently at his desk. He entered the office and closed the door behind him taking a last look through the glass and backwards letters at his peers and his desk. His eyes then focused on one last thing before turning back to his boss, a single picture barely visible on the wall of his cubicle, a picture of his son and daughter, arms over one another’s shoulders as they stood below a willow tree, smiling. A single tear fell from his eye then. A tear for all those years wasted, a tear for the time he could have spent at home with his wife and kids. He turned then.

As he left the office returning to his desk, he saw that he had been right and that no one did care for him here and it was just as well. He returned to his desk only to hit a button on his computer and pull three pins to let three pictures fall. He bent over to pick them up and then walked out the door. He carried a new respect of his boss now. The boss who had sent him home.

Having been awkwardly endowed during my pre-teen years with the chest of a full-grown woman, I quickly learned the difference between envy and ridicule, and how the two when blended precisely together could form the most crippling insult. I, in a state of misguided bliss, had not realized that big breasts despite otherwise average proportions meant that one was, in fact, morbidly obese. Thankfully several helpful, flat-chested classmates had repeatedly pointed this fact out to me on the playground so that I could immediately assume my lower position in the schoolyard hierarchy. They were even nice enough to set the exact degree of my zaftig form to a lovely singsong rhyme so I would not forget.

Another very important fact of which I was made aware was that my large chest was indisputably indicative of promiscuity. I had had no idea there was a direct correlation between my breast size and the number of boys with whom I was having sex. They translated that bit of scientific evidence into a song for me also; those children were really quite thoughtful. Although slightly off the mark to the vulgar end, they just may have touched upon some level of truth. Of all the things I was unaware of regarding my breasts, I did happen to notice that while all the girls were cutting me down, there were a proportionate number of boys chatting me up, and that had its advantages.

I suddenly realized that for every nickname those cumbersome protrusions inspired they had an equally persuasive function. Sharpening my own pencil became a thing of the past. I always had a good seat in the cafeteria, and thunderous applause resonated throughout the gymnasium during physical education class – especially when hurdles and trampolines were involved. I was actually starting to enjoy having giant breasts. Then without warning my C-cup was pulled right out from under me. I had had a growth spurt. I had shot up like a weed in mere months. My breasts, however, wanted no part of any such thing. Acting not unlike the humps on a wandering desert camel sustaining the unfortunate beast of burden with their vital fluids, my breasts shrank with each inch of height I gained. Strangely enough, just as my chest was shriveling into oblivion, what had been little more than delicate buds on the bodies of my less-ample, and musically inclined peers began to blossom into a veritable springtime of feminine curves. Nature, it would seem, was not without a sense of irony.

For the next several years to follow, I paid little mind to my newly mediocre breasts regarding them as little more than the occasional recreational devices that required costly, special equipment – with under-wire. In the dawn of my twenties, those relatively neglected, and markedly less firm, temples of womanhood moved once more into the foreground. I discovered I was pregnant with my first child. Over the course of the next nine months I watched in helpless amazement as they grew out of control, much like the supernatural expansion I had observed as a young girl. But just as I was certain my breasts were bent on world domination a new axis of power was created: lactation and the newborn. One minute I would be lugging around painful, purple bowling balls no bra could contain. Only moments later I would be neatly folding little, deflated balloons back into their packages.

Inspired by this daily ebb and flow, I came to realize my breasts were like a pair of magnates. An unseen and immeasurably powerful energy exists between the two poles of engorged and emptied breast. In that field resides the nurturing of a child. Born of that epiphany was a whole new love for my breasts. I came to appreciate them, standing in awe of their importance. Through them poured the vital nectar that nourished and grew my beautiful little boy. Without them my son would either starve or be subjected to a sub par milkshake of manufactured nutrients and cow discharge. So with that sentiment, coupled with the daily elation I experienced while nursing my baby, I endured the continuous expand/contract phenomenon for twelve solid months during which time I had also had the opportunity to acquaint myself with a whole new article of special (and quite expensive) equipment that my increasingly needy breasts required – the breast pump.

Motherhood had not only transformed my breasts from fun to functional but it had expanded my list of accessories necessary to perform all of my daily womanly duties. I had gone from a top drawer brimming with the frilly, scallop-edged, under-wire secrets of a very wealthy English woman to a kitchen counter overtaken by medical grade polyurethane tubes and breast-shaped funnels. With the hope that as soon as I no longer needed the latter I would be able to utilize the prior, I managed to keep my chin up despite the fact that my breasts were sagging further down. But soon enough my eager fingers had reason to sift through that top drawer of dainties and my breasts had once again resumed their place in the deep recesses of my mind, save the very rare occasion when my son would sleep long enough to allow for some grown-up time.

However, their furlough from the business of lactation ended twelve months later with the birth of my second child, a gorgeous baby girl. The following six months of breastfeeding felt like old hat until what had been a drooling mouth full of bumpy gums had, overnight it seemed, become a voracious cavity of knobby little puppy teeth eager to gnaw on anything unfortunate enough to pass within striking distance. My nipples had become hapless prey – at least five times a day, and my breasts had gained yet another function … chew toy. And though much wincing did ensue and I had gone through several tubes of lanolin nipple ointment, my daughter I made it through that crucial year of nurturing and bonding. Our breastfeeding journey together concluded when that lovely cherub, while at the breast, looked up at me adoringly with those big, blue eyes, clamped her vice-like teeth onto my unsuspecting nipple, flashed a pearly white smile obscured only by a mouthful of my flesh, giggled, released, then rolled off of my lap onto the floor and crawled nonchalantly away to the toy box. She never asked to nurse again.

Knowing that my second child, my daughter, would indeed be my last, there was a time of mourning for my breasts and I. It felt as if they would never again nurture or nourish. All signs of functionality had been replaced by silver hued stretch marks and slightly elongated nipples which always pointed due south, like confused compasses. No more would they expand and contract with regularity. I no longer needed to select my underwear in accordance with my child’s appetite. There remained no traces of feminine nobility, only a raisin like texture and a new daily routine of extra push-up padding and Shea butter creams. The perfectly pert and fluffy throw-pillows of my youth had been replaced with the floppy old goose down kind you tuck under the quilt of a neatly made bed, the kind of pillow just worn and soft enough for a child to hide beneath during a midnight thunderstorm…

So many things have my breasts been in my short life thus far. They’ve been a childhood call to taunt, a manipulative tool, a display case for lovely underwear, and the soup kitchen of a future generation. But today, rather than a thing, they have become a place: a soothing haven for the teary-eyed faces of children with scraped knees and hurt feelings, and a quiet cradle for the weary head of a friend in need. My heart no longer weeps for the toll time has taken on my body, but instead it cries with every soul I comfort against my breasts.

All work in Lacuna

“Thank you.” Two simple words, yet when told together, in that order, they mean so much. Just those words, said to someone, makes them feel good, it makes them feel as though they did something right, and it makes them feel appreciated. So you would see my surprise when a trashcan thanked me for dumping my garbage into it. You could say I was overcome with joy and a feeling that by dumping my trash into this simple device I was helping the world to reach a greater good.

THE FUTURE IS NOW

It all started out as a normal day, hot, boring, but as I pulled into the K.F.C./Pizza Hut/Taco Bell I got a warm feeling inside me. A feeling that this day of my life would stand out from all the other days of my life. I entered the refreshingly cool-air-conditioned restaurant, a wonderful change from the massive heat of the outside world, and headed to the counter. I decided on getting the K.F.C. Honey Barbecue Chicken Sandwich Combo (my favorite sandwich from K.F.C. since the chicken littles). I sat down at a round table and started to consume the honey barbecuey chickeness of the combo. It was delicious, so good my taste buds screamed for another bite, I obeyed the screams and chomped down upon the sandwich. Then I started in on the potato wedges, and let me tell you that K.F.C. has damn, damn fine potato wedges. I ate my meal and washed it down with the doctory peppery goodness of doctor pepper. I leaned back, stretched my arms, looked around a little, and then stood up and headed to the trash disposal unit. When I arrived at this contraption, it seemed a little odd to me, but I ignored the shadiness of it and pushed my tray against the opening. Then something strange and unusual happened, the front panel lifted itself open. And then, without any warning it happened, the trash can, this lifeless object said to me, me Brian Buccaroni, “Thank you.” Yes you heard me right, “Thank you.” I jumped back and took a look around; maybe someone was playing a joke on me. But as my eyes scanned the area for any sign of life, I realized, this was no joke. I took a step towards the trashcan. I stood there in front of the peculiar thing, staring at it, tilting my head slightly to one side, pondering the ability of a trashcan to thank someone. It made me think, do trashcans have feelings, do they get happy, sad, or even angry. If so what would this mean for the future of mankind. Would we someday have to battle these practically invincible objects to gain control of our planet, our homes, and our Razor scooters? I walked closer to the trash and pushed on the panel, once again it opened and thanked me. I laughed in spite of myself, and realized that this simple object meant no harm to me or my family, but only was appreciative of my efforts to keep this world, my world, its world, clean for our future generations, plus it didn’t have any arms or legs so it really couldn’t attack anyone, so we’re good there.

That day I found out that trashcans can be great friends, always there for you, comforting you in your worst times, celebrating with you during your best. And as long as mankind doesn’t give them arms, legs, and opposable thumbs, trashcans would be horrible enemies. Also that day, besides learning so much about talking trashcans, I learned something about myself, and possibly all humans. We need others, to share happy times, sad times, and hard times. We need others to hate, to love, and to beat the ever living crap out of, cause let’s face it, those things just aren’t the same when done with a talking trashcan, I mean you punch it and it doesn’t even get made, it just sits there saying “Thank you.” So in closing sporks are actually called runsible spoons. Thank you, your fellow human, Brian.