My mind and my face are two separate things
Do not mistake one
For the other.
He tapped her with his foot.
A quiet shove in the side. The sneaky grin of a fatehr gone rogue. And the slipping of fingers beneath her ribs, tickling to kingdom come.
The blankets couldn’t conceal her squeal. “Is it time?” she nearly shouted. The bed bounded with her bouncing. “Is it Daddy is it?”
"Shh!" Kirk wrapped around his daughter tightly, squishing the noise. Their door creaked open and a yawn cascaded its way down the hall. "The great Mombeast approaches. Stand on your guard, little one." She held her tiny phaser, a single finger, at the ready, standing behind her Papa.
He motioned with his neck, the blankets leaking off his pajama panted leg. The floors creaked outside the door. With the flick of his finger, the light shut off.
He bent down, a single knee, a proposal of sorts. “Here she comes. As we practiced, okay, Georgia? Remember the plan, okay?” She nodded an affirmed little head, blue eyes sparkling like the early light of Christmas.
He flattened against the wall. Little One took shelter under a willowing book case. Mom Carol pushed open the door slightly, forcing against the stacks and piles of books and small furniture.
"What in the name of - Jim! - "
"Freeze!" Kirk reeled behind the corner, phaser locked and face intense. He jutted a second thumb, "Go, go, go! All phasers set to - "
Out popped Little One, smiling wide, making the quiet pheww noise and running into her Mommy’s arms, holding a small heart-shaped box.
"Give em up, punk," she threatened, her voice increasingly small. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and yawned, poking her pointer-phaser against Carol’s temple.
Then she smiled.
"Hey Mommy," she breathed, pressing her lips into her cheek. Leaning her entire weight on her shoulder, sighing yet again. Carol laughed, taking the items from her willing hands, returning the kiss and then some. Kirk appeared beside her, grinning.
"What’s all this for?"
"Don’t you know?" Kirk feigned ignorance, surprise. "Georgia, Mommy doesn’t know!"
"Dudn’t know? Mommy." Her exasperated sigh lied far beyond her years. “It’s Valwentines Day!”
Carol gasped. “No way. THE Valentine’s Day?”
A sassy nod from the smallest and a snarky stare from the eldest.
"Is it all for me, George?"
"Well for e’ry one, duh, Mommy. It’s Uncle Spock n Aunt Nyowa’s n Chek’vees n Suluuuus n Scottty’s…” Little One began thumbing off each owner of the holiday as Kirk snaked his arm around her waist, leaning a chin on her shoulder.
"Read the cards?" he suggested, almost forcing.
She smirked, draining against the sound of her child’s voice, a miracle to say the least. Her head found its way against his, Georgia’s against her own. The two rocked. “What if I don’t want to?”
"Don’t make me do Puppy Bones."
"Don’t do the Puppy Bones."
Jim’s face contorted, longing and gaining new found wrinkles, a soft growling relinquishing control, eyes widened and a loud, “Ya darn tootin right I’m ticked off, you green blooded hobgoblin. First Valentine’s day in space and you’d think I’d get to spend it in peace, but noooooooooooo. Now I’m single and stuck with a heartless shrew such as yourself.”
"Doctor, considering how a holiday celebrating love is entirely illogical," Carol’s British accent completely threw her Spock-like edge. Still, he found a peace to it. The mixture of his two favorite things. "I do believe you will come out as healthy as ever."
"Healthy my - "
She eyed him.
“Butt,” he stuck out an aging tongue, then shuffled against her arm, pushing the cards further in her one free hand, “Please, fo’ w’ittle ole me?”
"Okay," she cocked an eyebrow, "but just ‘cuz you’ve got the most convincing Scarlet O’Hara voice this side of the galaxy," and Kirk chuckled, an abnormally cute Spockish gesture, this eyebrow raising.
First glance, and she remained speechless.
Second, and her face scrunched up tight, and Jim thought this is it. This is the day she finally kicks me in the nuts.
Georgia had begun her final run as Carol’s eyes finished the note a third time, looking from the card to him to the box of assorted yucky, ugly chocolates that would get laughed at and possibly eaten, to Georgia and back to him.
Her grin betrayed her feelings. “Yes,” she said, jumping into him. Georgia drawled, shaking her head.
"Ya could be a lil easier, Mommy."
Carol kissed her tightly. Kissed her husband. Kissed her child again. The card floated to the floor and the three pajama clad members bounded for the kitchen, and some of Daddy’s Valwentine’s Day cupcakes and pancakes.
The exiting light shone round the card.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
Let’s have another.
A picture of a snorting little girl with wild dirty blonde hair and a bright eyed smile lied under it.
Y’know. If you want.
to the hurting heart I say,
it’s not over.
to the one trying to move on,
to the one who thinks they’re not enough,
to the one who is struggling,
I believe in you.
to the one who feels they are a failure,
you are not.
to the one who needs God’s love the most,
He is there.
to the one who think they are a disappointment to the Lord,
silly child, you could never be.
to the one who is lonely
and just needs a simple friend
to the one who is trying
but can’t see the end
to the heart that is crying
and the mind that is dying
and the strength that is fighting
i have but one thought
one simple thing to say
I am here for you
"No further," said the head.
Come closer, whispered the heart.
"I said, no further," said the head. It spread its arms out wide.
Built a tiny barricade.
"Do not touch," it said.
"It is mine."
Come closer, murmured the heart,
and it scowled upon its prisoners -
"Come…" staggered the heart.
"Build higher, no further," said the head.
Yet its speed had
And the heart banged against the walls.
"Build higher," breathed the head.
"Come…come…" the only word it could say.
The heart hit against the wall,
"Come…close - "
"Shut the gates!" croaked the head,
very tired and
severely hungry and
so very weak from all its travels.
The voice of the heart pounding in against it.
"No," spoke the heart.
and the walls began to shake.
"No," said the heart,
and the walls began to move.
"No," said the heart, and the gate began to crack.
"Open," said the heart.
The head lay on its stomach and
it could barely breathe.
And the voice of the heart thudded loudly
and louder and louder until
it heard the sound
of the gates.
"Open," said the heart.
"Flee from me!" said the heart.
"Go away!" said the heart.
"Come closer," said the heart.
The head crumbled,
weary and done.
Scratched its way to the heading of the
gates which had started to fall.
"Please," it groaned.
"Please," it murmured.
"Please," it whispered.
Protect you. It’s all I wanted.
The walls shook and
the walls fell.
The guards ran for cover and
threw down their helmets.
The heart breathed in a dawn just beginning,
and smiled to the lonely visitors outside the gates.
No further, whispered the head.
"You are mine," said the heart.
All my life, I was told my daddy was a fisher on the moon. He’d hang over the Atlantic, casting his reel..
Mom gripped my arms. Looked me dead in the eye.
"Your father is a good man," she told me, and I almost peed my pants at the serious, ferocious look in her eyes, the look that read I’ll kill anyone who says otherwise. "Don/t you eva say nothin’ different, ya hear?”
I told her okay. Wiggled away, all I was good for. Stood outside and watched the moon reel in the shining stars, watched as a sea of shimmering blue emerged a pool of pitch black ink.
I reached u[p. If but to touch the hem of his garment, feel his line cast across the sky.
I did that for eighteen years.
Eighteen short, solemn years. Eighteen years of bitterness , of regret, of the puny boy shoved in the trash can and swirled in the toilet, the boy taunted with words that sounded like “bass mustard” and “fatherless wonder.” One boy, a particular nasty bread, informed me my mother was “a rotten whore.”
I didn’t know what it meant. Only it built a cauldron, a fire, and before I knew it blood was on my knuckles and a paddle like on my back.
Mom wasn’t angry. She looked sad, if anything, and she took me once again by my arms under the porch light, surrounded by the stars.
"I love you, Father’s boy," she told me. Kissed my cheek. Filled my ears with a million words of hope and love.
I was ten when I got sick. A pain welled in my chest and I hacked the weeks away. Doctors had no clue what I contracted, and soon gave up the search. Mother would hold me as I cried. remind me I was Father’s boy and Mother’s son. Kiss me. Tell me a secret story. A lullaby.
And one day, fifteen and ill, alone and frail, I crawled my way to the porch, a snail with no shell, afraid of the open and what it contained. i wouldn’t be going back to school.
"Forever?" I said, hope fading and understanding dawning. What a terribly beautiful waste, tossing innocence to thew wind.
"Forever, my sweet."
Held my cheek in the palm of her hand; my only world full of me and Father, Mother the center.
"I want to see him, Mom." I held a hand outward to the sky, a mere finger swipe away. "Is he still a sailor in the sky?"
"Still fishin’ on the moon, every night." She grinned slowly. A mischievous idea. "Why don’t you stay out here?"
I groaned, “Mother - “
"For old time’s sake," she placed my parka on my shoulders. I saunter-stumbled down the stairs, pausing to release a painfully weak cough. The grass stood bristly under my arms. A welcome mat of ages long gone, when I’d first learned that there are no real fishermen in the sky, only boys with dreams that never passed.
Weeks passed, just as the boy with dreams. Then months followed, a man with understanding. And finally years, youth lost and complacence gained. It became habit to spend my nights lying on the rich green grass, always warm, even in winter, whispering to him, trying to recapture the brilliance of youngness, the fragility of the unknowing, to catch him at a moment of completely dissolute, trying to capture the fisher at work.
The wind blew trough that night, harder than ever before. Chills raced in circles across my spine. I was afraid. So very, very afraid, and I began to call out to Mother to help me in, to save me, like she always had, to make it all better, kiss the pain away as it grew to a heavy rock that forbade breathing in my chest, as my limbs started sprawling, leaving me, fleeing from the mess I had made, when all movement ceased. And the prick of my neck stood in its place.
I reached behind me. Felt the nap of my neck, a hook where my fingers lay, right where scalp meets back, and with silent curiosity watched as the sleeping boy on the ground stayed far behind and I drifted up, up, up, farther than I’d ever imagined. Up, a word that I use lightly, because up always means one will fall back down.
Something told me I’d never be back.
On the moon, where I landed, there sat a man wrapped in a golden skin. A straw of hay jutted from two bottom teeth, two of the few he later possessed. A straw hat lined his bulging forehead,creases of frowns and worries and anxieties mimicked by that of his beer-gut and dirty white shirt, overalls that were long overdue for a good sewing.
I realized only then I looked just like the man. Younger, leaner, yet we wore the same. We were the same. He laughed at the sight of me - a boy appeared barely grown, almost nineteen. My amusement never shown, and in retrospect he stood, taking my shoulder in a strong, calloused hand that wrapped me in a clock of warm feelings, almost like Mother’s hugs.
"You have me proud, my boy," he spoke, his voice dark and rich and smooth and deep, a chocolaty masterpiece. My ears tickled at the sound. "The Fisherman’s Son."
He hugged me. A sob welled deep inside and grew outward as I, too, took him in an embrace, held him close, breathed into his neck.
Then he was gone. My skin color drained, replaced with startling silver, sand in the place of the golden man beat nothing but his ghost along my torso, a fishing pole, and the grand golden, pulsating moon, dipping its foot into silver from top to bottom, slowly shifting itself to form around me, something that had never been done. No one had ever loved me enough to change for me. To adapt and be there with me through my worst and best. I had no one. Only my dreams of the moon.
The pole hung heavy at first, weighing in my hand, until it, too, grew aware of its new owner’s presence, strengthening where needed and weakening where it hurt the most, stretching, yawning to the length I required. Became a solid fragment in my hand, of my hand, the pole melding, becoming me.
My heart picked up speed. Breathing, though easier, grew a a torture once again. my vision spotted and I wondered how on earth I was here, what it all meant, why the moon seemed solid, not made of cheese like I’d imagined as a child, doodling the long nights and dreary mornings away.
It caught me when it twinkled, a letter made of golden dust. Fragments of stars, I smiled, whispering the letter, attempting to draw it close, finding that star dust will not recount where you demand it, but simply lies to its own. the string swung wildly, and being the clever boy I am, I took it between two fingers, where my smoke would have laid.
Welcome, Fisherboy. I’ll tell your mom hello from the great Beyond.
I gasped a breath, Dropped the pole, backed against the crescent moon. No, no, no, it couldn’t be true.
And yet here I was. The Fisherman’s boy at last reunited where he’d always dreamed of going.
Mom will be okay, a voice told me. I told myself. Tried to convince of myself. Took a bit of convincing on that one. And Molly, my mate. Our cat, you should say.
The air drifted from nose to lungs. The pole took to my fingers happily, dancing in palms, ready for another adventure. A tool box with lines and hooks sat open, ready for me to explore. I looked into the sky. My heart soared with the rage of a thousand flying stars.
They winked at me. Those brilliant stars. A reminder of all the good still left in the galaxy, the universe.
I nodded then. Understood my place. Took my perch on the moon and glanced upward, stealing straw from my hat and placing it between my teeth, later removing it for a better feeling of the night wind in my rusty hair.
It whispered to me, and I knew.
I am the Fisherboy.
loosely based on the story of the boy fishing on the moon from Dreamworks’ theme. thought it needed a story, no?
I met a stranger on a long dark road
with leaves blowing and
and I couldn’t see too far past my feet.
And this stranger she told me a story
of a girl not too much different from me
a story full of heartache
with struggles all too real
And I felt myself tearing
so I sat on the curb
and buried my face in my hands
and I cried and I said
Why do these things happen?
And why to anyone but me?
And she laughed
took my face in her hands
tilted my chin so my eyes met hers
And in that moment she told me
of a Being far beyond
Whose arms healed the broken
and could even put humpty dumpty back together
And she lifted me up
hooked our elbows in a loving embrace
pat my hands.
We walked for what felt like forever
the eternity that equaled only a year
and at the end of this dark road, I began to see
"It’s the light,"
she told me
and I nodded
and I trusted
"A little bit longer?" I asked
my voice almost a whimper.
"Only a little bit longer."
So the light got closer
and the dark road farther behind
and the wind died down and the leaves changed color
and trees weren’t bare
And I wasn’t so sad anymore
The light shone bright when we got there;
the brightest light I’d ever seen
and that I always wanted to see.
the wind tore at my back,
and I considered turning back
until she gripped me.
Shook her head no.
He’s right here.
There’s nothing back there.”
I closed my eyes as my
fingers started to tingle
and the sky grew around me
and brought me to a place full of blue
and clouds puffy and white
and loving and caring
and everything I’d never had
And she was there beside me
and I realized
it is not the moments that make us
but the stories behind
I met a friend on a long dark road
and she took me to the light.
She looked to me, her expression gaunt, holding my hands, tracing their scars.
"We all have reason why we do not let our lilies grow; why our mountains never sing." She drew a breath. I held mine.
"But sometimes, we just have to trust. Trust that God has our garden in His hands. And when we do that," she drew an invisible picture in the air, mimicking growing with her hands, "then, then they can grow. They will grow slow at first, as all plants do. They’ll need weeding and caring, and sometimes we will forget to nourish them. But God is there. He is the water when we cannot, He is the feeder when we are out of ideas. He’s the Author and the Finisher, my dear. He has got you.”
And she kissed my knuckles.
Squeezed my palms.
Stood and vanished in a field of light.
And a lily, small and simple, laid in my hands, as tall and beautiful as it could be.
The distance of a cavern sat between them.
Sitting on the benches, the wind chilly, John considered speaking to him. Releasing every bitter thought he held crammed in his chest. And yet each time he opened his mouth, nothing but air responded.
He clamped his lips, feeling his tongue against his teeth.
He glanced down, wondering as to why Sherlock was not closer, only then noticing the small break, two bars that fitfully kept the two apart.
Any converstaion will be meaningless, Sherlock thought, sighing inwardly. He’d never imagined coming home would be harder than leaving.
And yet, it was.
So they sat in the silence, the birds singing their love, the wind wisking Sherlock’s hair to the side, those long matted curls the things of John’s dreams.
I missed you.
The words clogged in his throat, and he cursed at his small grin. I missed you so, so much, you bloody git.
A firm grip. The parting of the lips. John’s eyes flying to his hand and Sherlock’s looking into his.
"I am so sorry."
John cleared his throat. Did his causal military readjusting.
"I have hurt you."
He chuckled. “You don’t say?”
"I am sorry for that. That I have caused all of this pain. It seems to be my calling, hmm? Causing destruction wherever I go."
His tone dropped to a whisper.
"Please forgive me."
Sherlock wished he would turn to him. Give a John like smile, call him brilliant. But instead his neck remained straight, eyes locked on the tree in front of them.
Sherlock understood. Drew his hand away. Stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. “We should get going.”
Sherlock didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late.
He didn’t feel John’s arms until they were pressed tight around him.
Didn’t realize John was crying until the tears leaked through his jacket where his face laid pressed.
"I missed you."
And on that small street park, Sherlock Holmes, ever emotionless, smiled.
And took John’s embrace and returned it.
Just this once, he wagered on the inside.
And John cried. He cried until his cheeks tore with red and his nose dripped and his eyes ached with those tears that released it all, gave it all, replenished his soul back with Sherlock’s.
"Thank you," he sobbed. "Thank you, for - for not being dead."
And he winked.
"I am good at that, too. Cheating death."
John almost smiled. Shoved him in the arm. “You’re full of poppy, that’s for sure.”
He sure had missed his blogger.
And the other had missed his friend.
He was far too light weight.
In the spance between the bridge and his battle with Khan, he insisted on taking him. One final walk. One final brushing of the skin. One last moment alone with his captain, his captain, his Jim. His thy’la.
Uhura watched him, falling in step behind him, Scotty next to her, having a hard time controlling the tears that steadily flowed.
He sniffled and wiped them away.
Each footstep echoed, a soft chorus of words left unsaid. Of regrets untold.
And of thanks not given.
Spock’s chest ached, tightening with each breath, each one slower and more shallow than the last. He squeezed his eyes shut, once, twice, three times. His face grew pink and green all at once, and his stomach toiled inside, and barring his teeth he glanced down to his captain, eyes still open, hanging lopsidedly in Spock’s arms.
If anger is a wound, then Spock’s tore to his bone.
His nose gripped. His arms tensed. And as he laid Kirk on the table, watched as shaking hands closed the Captain’s eyes one final time, Spock made a silent promise. The promise to destroy any and all that touched him again; to kill every person that touched something he loved.
Two fingers pressed against Kirk’s. A passing goodbye.
A swivel of the heels. “My phaser.” he demanded.
Uhura handed it to him, stood on her tiptoes, pressed her lips to his. “Go get ‘em.”
He’d never ran so fast.
bitter hearts make bitter thoughts
and bitter thoughts make angry scars
and angry scars remind the mind
of all the bad past things that have caused
bitter hearts that make bitter thoughts
but bitter hearts can be healed
and angry scars can fade away
and the mind can learn how not to hurt
and forgiveness can be found
in bitter hearts
that kill bitter thoughts
that kill angry scars
and remind the mind
to feel again