Dear Girl with the quill pen,

I hope you don’t think this too absurd but I find your choice of medium mesmerizing. I’ll take a bound of faith and mark myself as a writer, as I’m more than certain you are as well. I’ve used key boards and type writers but have never ventured anywhere close to the lands of calligraphy with such archaic tools. A modern day pen is the closest I could boast and I fear that holds little comparison.

From here I can’t see what you are writing, but I’m sure it matters little. With such eloquent pen strokes whatever ink finds itself onto that paper surely must be hinted with magic. To read the text is to watch lines and curves dance across the page, it is a literary ballet of sorts. Oh how lucky the recipient of that parchment – that is parchment you are writing on. Oh what a mystery you are that I have not seen or at least heard of you before. How could someone with such divine skills gone without my notice? But am I brave enough to close the distance between and ask a simple question such as what your name might be? I fear breaking the spell, or worse, creating a curse.

What if it is nothing but scribbles and tempted lines running across the page? I do not think I could bear with such a heart ache as that – a dream crushed in an instant, a fantasy doomed to nightmare. No, I think I shall stay put and leave you simply as the girl with the quill pen. Perhaps one day I will meet you in passing, or if Fate would have it better so, while you write some more. Then I will know. Until then write on dear angel of scripture. Set the dancers into motion, let the story unfold.

Sincerely,
The Vagabond Poet

Bandit’s first trip to the vet was quite the event. We all went with but only Mother and Father went into the doctor’s room. Father left soon after saying that Mother was asking question after question and it was going to be a while. We took turns introducing ourselves to the doctor and then Mother went right back to questioning. An appointment was made for Bandit to be fixed and we left. Father and I joked about Bandit losing his balls, he didn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t pay attention to much when he is in the car, just the squirrels.

I don’t call Mother much now, we’ve gone our separate ways for the most part. I talk to Father more often, but even that is infrequent. When we do talk Mother doesn’t come up when going over how everyone is doing. Sister is mentioned vaguely, Father tells about his happenings, but when it comes to Mother, her well being is discussed through the dog. If he says the dog is doing well Mother is as well. It’s part of the symbiosis, they’ve grow closely into one.

Father is the one who walks Bandit. I used to until I went to school. Mother walked him once, it didn’t go very well. She fell and Bandit kept pulling. Despite his calm attitude he is strong, it scares us sometimes just how strong he is, but he rarely uses that physical strength. Even in play he doesn’t leave teeth marks, he used to, but not anymore.

Mother did feed him though, she had to feed him. He wouldn’t eat if any of us fed him. When Mother went to visit an aunt he went three days without eating, he was sick, but he didn’t care. That kind of attachment can’t be that of a pet, not on his part. He was slowly becoming one of us, a member of the family and nothing less.

Since we didn’t know when he was born Mother decided that his birthday would be the first of January. Normally we would all stay at home and watch movies until midnight hit, that was our tradition, but that changed, now there were presents. The first thing Bandit received was a bone. Mother went to the full lengths of wrapping it and everything. The lack of thumbs gave Bandit no trouble as he ripped open the wrappings to expose a giant bone. It took him two days and an hour to devour the bone into oblivion. He was sick for the rest of the week and so we made another trip to the vet. This is when mother discovered Bandit’s intestinal problems. The vet said that it was most likely do to the things Bandit had been exposed to while with his previous owners. They had kept him locked in a garage the whole time and punished him for defecating inside. Father had to relay this to the vet, not Mother, as she was unaware of Bandit’s previous living conditions. Her care for him increased while her mood decreased. The force of the news brought on such troubles and pains that one would be easily convinced that it was her that had been locked in the garage for the first year of her life. 

I got a call from my mother today informing me that our garage had been broken into and we had been robbed. It isn’t the first time this has happened so I didn’t think anything too much of it. Then she started to go into detail. The last time they took a few tools and then my dad came running out of the house. This time no one was home. They took everything. My dad was in the process of moving out so a lot of his stuff was stored in the garage. When I’m not living at home all of my stuff is stored in the garage. They took it all. I’m really upset about this and there is absolutely nothing I can do. I know it is all material stuff that can be replaced, but it took me years to afford most of it, especially all of my motorcycle equipment. I won’t be able to ride until I get full gear again and chances are that won’t happen for a while. It’s saddening and I’m sad and I’m angry as well and I don’t know what to do. 

Being next to others is claustrophobic. My chest constricts and my breaths become labored. It’s a side effect of my introversion. A simple touch - brushing arms, passing finger tips - sends electric chills down my spine, paralyzing my body and sending fear in the place of blood. Over the years I’ve learned to avoid situations that might encourage such contact. Always three feat away, avoid elevators, and if all else fails, look angry. People avoid you if they think you are ready to tear the world in two. 

There was this girl, I don’t remember her name anymore, it was so long ago, she knew me. She knew that I couldn’t handle physical contact, but we grew close anyways.

One night we were in her car, just talking. It was late so I reclined my chair and closed my eyes. My guard was down. As if a great conqueror she straddled herself on my lap, my arms went up to resist but then fell still, emotion began to conflict with instinct. She hugged me, and I hugged her in return. She kissed my neck and I did nothing. She had conquered me truly now. I was hers. She kissed me, I kissed her back. The emotions left, the instinct left, I left. 

The horror of an outer body experience was upon me as I watched myself travel to the back of her car, her close behind. My shirt came off. We kissed. My pants were pulled down, but they did not come off entirely. She slipped her underwear off but kept her dress on. She had protection, she’d had a plan. She put the condom on and inserted my penis into her as she mounted me again. Her control was never alleviated. The motions were so fluid  so naturally paced that I noticed none of this, only the steady roll of her hips upon my thighs. I held on to her, her hands wandered.

A part of me came back, I stopped her. A victory short lived, the moans of success came again, the lasted not as long. She retreated, there were words traded, but I don’t remember them. I came to after I was home. The emotions. The instinct. The tears. I lay in my bed, mind racing, body still. What had I done?

Legally, not rape. I never said no, I asked for it. Mentally, emotionally, I’d been cut open and set ablaze with guilt, doubt, self hate. 

Virginity? No, that is abstract, mine to give at my choosing. Not her, not this. Another body would not be touched in such a way. Not for some time. The wounds are still raw. The pain is still fresh. On day. No day. I don’t know, I’m too frightened to discover. 

Six feet away, fire exits stairs, and most importantly stay angry, look mad, no one will bother me. I’ll be safe.

That is the burden of writers. One can not hold so much power and expect not to pay a price. We are creators with limitless capabilities; when we design we do so with scrutiny. Characters are not perfect in essence, they are perfect for their role. That is why it is foolish to design a character for yourself. To give life to a significant figure is to doom one’s self. 
She started out vague, just a mist in the land of dreams. As my experience grew I began to take bits and pieces from others. Soon she had a form, a figure, even a voice. When she had a scent I know I had damned myself; scent, the most potent creator of memories. She was real now, existing on the plains of a world I could not touch. I began to transcend, recreating myself in this distant world. All this and it was just the beginning  She, the Red Wolf older in life than I, yet I, ever changing Black, White Grey aged only in mind. We were wolf together  but all else a journey yet taken. A journey priced with leaving a life behind. 

It’s a horrible feeling stemming from a multitude of others. The roots take hold in the soil, tendrils in form of fear, failure, and sorrow. They bury themselves deep until they are sure that they will not be easily turned over and then begin to sprout forth with combined effort. First it is small and thin, a swift stroke could easily cut in half, but it is not enough to cause alarm. Soon it grows larger, sprouting out into smaller branches, anger, frustration, helplessness - the points become finer until they give life of their own. Now it is too late, energy is sapped from the roots planted long ago, feeding into the base and further to branches and leaves. It begins to overshadow all other growths in the garden of the self until light can not penetrate through. Starved of warm comfort all begins to  die. First the plants, then the creatures, the passive destructive force washes over the land like a motionless wave; one moment at its peak and the next laying flat in the water. The land grows barren and all seems lost, but still it grows, consuming what little life may come through. 

Do not go gentle into that good night 
sweet lulled dreams absent of fright 
but rage, rage against the dying of the light
fiery sun burn, magnificence ever so bright

and if sleep must be, no longer walking dreams 
then let reality not sew upon its final seams, 
keep with, as slumber takes hold, those visions 
coming with Emotion’s touch. Oh decisions, 

when baring chest open for mid night swarm
engulfing in mysticism and lacking form,
how now, the temptation holds, to be in dreams
where truth has no solid means. 

Forever lost in the lies of joy 
Night’s intricate plan of ploy. 
No, do not go gentle in such arms, 
rage against, they would do you harm. 

Stay now, but a bit longer still 
perched head watching sun on window sill 
praying to dying light as it gleams 
burning horizon as last seen.  

light a fire 
under neath
and call it love

Come, come weary travelers
I have known your pains 
those trials long endured 
now passed only to bring another. 

I have seen the sorrow, the agony
of doing what is right, in holding
dear what is to others, bring 
them the glorious light. 

Just as you, I, myself 
grew tired and frail -
so fatigued the thought came,
“What of me”?

So with aching bones 
muscles that would soon collapse 
these four walls rose, trees 
sprouting where a roof aught be. 

That was all, 
all that was left in me
so I made no door 
inviting those that ventured near. 

Come, come I say to them 
stay but a while and rest 
for I know the troubles 
of a heroic soul. 

While you stay, if you care 
to pass the time away 
make what you will 
of this home that is mine. 

So grew the windows, the art, 
the rugs and the books, all gifts
from those that have come and gone
resting in my home. 

Come then, traveler, stay 
if only for a while, and if you wish
make what is yours to make 
add to this haven, this home that is ours.