I See You As The Yellow

I see you as the yellow

The slow honey 

Dripping from the comb

Which lingers over the summer breeze.

I see you as

The chrysanthemum,

Yellow in the autumn,

Or the setting Sun,

Before a new day comes, steadily

Over the horizon:

The line where blue meets grey

And the ocean mist sprays

–blurry– 

against your face

My hand rests.

Against your face,

My fingers brush away the ocean salt.

I hear you.

You are the sound of the tall grass,

Moving in the springtime wind,

Yellow brush which sprouts

Memories 

–people feel no passage of time.

Smiles 

–blush–

frozen in photographs,

Sepia-tone yellow

Lines of a staff of sheet music which rustles

In the open window.

There is a glancing, yellow sunlight off the sprouting leaves.

It dapples the grassy ground,

Moving with a mellow grace

Each passing face

Turns to that comfort space

That place where the light hits the tree

Ils se déplacent au ralenti.

Or do I?

Do you?

I wonder now,

When you laugh

In the car 

with the Sun glancing off the

Far-away sign,

Do you feel time

Move slowly–

Like there’s a memory

That is forming

Like the hand which presses softly

Into the clay?

Like the child

–who prays–

Who leaves their print

When they survived the harsh–

Winters 

were kinder, then

Penned down the moments

–like these–

Etched into the paper,

Ink blotting at the edge

Il y en a trop, 

alors on dort et on attend

… Wait for the tender-hearted

Melodies which weave 

through dashed yellows, passing signs

Laughing in the car,

While we sing out “One More Time”

There was a yellow in your glance!

There was a kindness 

in your welcome stance.

Your eyes flickered–

A fire that said,

“So, what’s next?”

You looked at me

–smiled–

And a lightness filled my chest.

When we were new

Nous commencions tout juste,

à la fin de l'été

I remembered the trees

–swaying–

I remember the yellow hue

Lingering over the water,

And the leaves which 

Afforded us the shade

–Bade the yellow Sun

To stop–for where it was to stay–

“Give us more time,

We have so much more to say!”

But the light would not linger,

The Sun would no longer 

singe

The flower 

I put behind my ear,

Or our skin,

As we turn our faces to the sky.

So I’ll turn to you, then,

–My eyes are callow–

Face your kindly light,

Because I adore–

I know your color of yellow.

There Is A Phantom

There is a phantom in my head.

It’s been there for as long as I can remember. Buried within latent joys and sorrows--things hidden under the careful wraps that make up the scattered folds in my mind. We all have folds--the creases and wrinkles, and the places where shadows linger and foment, and where light thrives so long as we nourish it with the proper intention.

My phantom is unlike yours.

Yours may be a secret--a special knowledge spoken only under the dimmest of candles, or between parallel hands against one’s ready ear; but my phantom is different. Though it is no secret, it can only be understood within the context of another who shares this phantom, and even then, the understanding between us two will likely be middling.

Do you know your phantom, Reader?

I address you plainly, now. You must have one--we all do. Do you know the folds of your mind which conceal venom transgressions, and do you know also, the edges of the folds which catch the light? Your phantom may migrate from fold to crease, from cavern to hilltop, but it is important you know it, and why it is there. Do you know your phantom?

Some have given their phantom a name. Some call it Jealousy, and they hide it behind the folds of a forced smile or well-chosen string of words. Some have christened it Anger. It’s only a secret so long as it is kept so; but in so doing, it festers--it twists in upon itself and only ever comes into the light of one’s mind when it is no longer concealed.

My phantom is not like these.

I did not choose the name of my phantom. Instead, it was bestowed by another--one who I had barely known. It was given to me in a dark place--a place full of rooms lined one after another, people moving in and out through the lingering smell of chemicals which were used to clean the traces of the phantoms of others who frequented this place. He walked into the room I sat in next to my mother, with a face not as solemn as it should have been. He carried with him a stack of papers upon a board, and after a careful scan of the papers, and a few well-placed questions to determine how ready I was to receive a name for the phantom, he spoke the name.

For the first time it was a declaration and not a speculation. It came suddenly and without attachment--he had known no such phantom like my own--but he spoke it nonetheless. Within a few heartbeat moments, my phantom had a name. It had a name, a record, and a plan going forward: “How were we to take care of this phantom? How were we to deal with its existence, so that you--the one who carries it, may have an existence, also?”

There is a phantom in my head. 

It is kept within folds, beneath the lighted creases of my mind, and only shows itself from time to time. My phantom is always there, make no mistake. It burrows and hides under covers; so though it remains hidden, I may know myself well enough to know it is still there.

And then, once in a while, it makes itself known–it crawls out from the covers: the folds of my mind and reminds me, very keenly: “You are not alone here, in this light.” It speaks to me in muttered tones. It had stepped out from the folds where it was suppressed by the “plan going forward,” and dragged itself forward into the light where I walked. It is not welcome in this place.

There is a phantom in my head.

My Color Is The Green

My color is the green

That grows upon the side of some forgotten tree

Depths of a wood

Not trodden since

A time lost (to all of us?)

Not as such. I remember

That hollow I stumbled into

I remember that green

I remember thread-like light

Peaking

through dew drop leaves

And scenes passing by

Cars pass by

But I don’t hear them

I see the stems

My face against the soil

My eyelashes blinking out the

turmoil?

Toil?

Let gossamer sunlight dapple my face,

and send me drifting. Reckless: when I let time slip by.

I found a solace, then, in that color green.

The one that embraced me when I was keenly seeing—

Seen?

Tie together the branches,

Thread the flowers into a bracelet (Not a crown)

And make me a king!

Of this cradle canopy I will return, (But for the grace of Nature, go I)

As a servant of those relic sights

Mellow times were harsh against the eyes

And the grass sharp against my bare feet…

So wrap me in swaddles of the forest brush,

so I might rest in that color of green.

My scent is the petrichor

The fresh dew upon the forest floor

The sun that lifts the wisps from the wakening moor

The core of the fallen tree which grows new life,

Into life

Into life.

My sound is the careful breeze

The kindly roar which teems

With the words that came before

I was here.

Or not here?

Merely ghosts upon the wind which spur

no fear

Goad

no tear

from a tempered cheek.

Blessed are the meek?

I will seek

The green I have already found in that

Missing dream

It’s been misplaced!

Like the memory

That I wish I could see

Once more

Played against my eyes Like a movie against

The method actor’s screen.

Yet I will find solace, now,

In my own memory

The knowledge

The knowing

Of that green that molded me.

Short Story

Looking out the window is a curious sort of hobby to take up, you think. It’s like conversations! There is a plain barrier between you and what’s on the other side, yet every once in awhile,you catch a glimpse of your own reflection against the frosty pane.

There is a common geniality shared amongst all windows, in a very odd sense (being that they are indeed, inanimate) because they are—for all intents and purposes, made to be ignored, yet they do not complain; they do not wail on about how they are forgotten and only ever seen past and not directly, and they do not—you think—repeat secrets.

They see so much! How much have the windows in your room seen? Those passive blockades, keeping out the unwanted cold and the brazen, nighttime intruder—they see so much… if you let them. Because, indeed, they will occasionally not be made privy to the happenings of the inside of a home—they will instead be covered by the tattered, stained drapes that laid across the lilting rods, hung with little care as to the balance of it, and then you are alone.

This was the way you liked it. You preferred being alone, and you preferred the drapes closed. Those windows had seen far too much already. They had seen the things you weren’t proud of, the things you would rather have closed up and shoved far down beneath the frigid, earthen soil, and the things that you would rather forget ever occurred within the confines of that room.

It had been awhile since you had left that room, though, hadn’t it? Living off the water from the faucet in the back of the home, the food that was brought to your doorstep from what friends you had left, and the books saying things like, “Once more unto the breach”, reminding you that you had to face the things you’d rather turn away from… “Summon up the blood…”

At first, it was only days that had passed. You were able to say, “I’m taking my time.” But then weeks passed, and “taking time” became the sort of obsessive excuse one makes when in the mire-filled pit they’ve given up trying to crawl out of; and after the first month, the friends that had stuck around to observe your guilt-ridden reclusive-self, gave up also.

But on the 9th day of the second month, the sun shone through the clouds in the early morning; and as the dew was lifted from the grass and branches as ghostly wisps, so too were your spirits. You flung off the wool blanket that covered your ready body, shoved on your pair of winter boots and threw the door open, letting in the cold, January air. Then, glancing to the drapes that held in the pain, you rushed over to your windows and tore the drapes down—curtain rod and all. You needn’t ever hide, again. You are made new. You are loved.

Untitled

a poem.

And it was for the honeysuckle moments that we endured the

sour ones?

Yes, the sour ones. You know, the moments where upset faces

our faces were downcast

Stages in our lives that we wish would pass

More quickly

swiftly?

Yes.

The moments were tricky, full of doubt in ourselves, wondering if the time spent now was all for naught

not so?

No.

Then why need it be so hard?

Start to wonder if the path we’re on is

marred by the people who

Failed?

yes.

don’t you know? It’s strange to walk along a road when

the road is littered with the corpse memories of those who

Failed?

of course it’s scary—it’s almost…dreary, you know…

To walk a path when all you see is those leering at you from the places they huddled in because they

Failed.

too harsh. They weren’t us.

They weren’t us.

I’m beginning to wonder what would happen if

We joined them?

sat along the road and leered at those who walked after us…

That’s a road.

yes.

Guess what I am to say next?

I know you. You will say the road is ours to walk.

Yes.

And we choose which paths we take and those we do not

Sought

out the roads that were less travelled

Pummeled by the rain instead of the doubting ones who said, “All for naught!”

Not so?

No.

So what if we fail?

Will we?

I don’t know what I would do…

Neither do I, you know—to think of a world where I’m not

… something I’m envisioning

It’s a reckoning

with whom?

Ourselves? Maybe? A time when we have to decide, in the pace

Space of a few heartbeat moments… are we willing to do what needs to be done?

It’s not about A-Z, but the journey, trajectory from A to B, that’s what we focus on

That’s what we’re missing…

Make a noise loud enough and they’ll have to listen

Move myself so emotively that their attention will be

Captured!

and their minds moved to a place that they knew not of—a place where they can rest for a moment

be challenged for an hour and then

Then?

Think.

About what?

What if we succeeded?

Together?

Yes.

What if we became everything we ever wanted to be?

We found each other…

I didn’t expect to find you…

you did.

Yes.

Things happen for a reason sometimes, you said.

I said something like that.

Led

me to a place

Stayed awhile and then faced the rest of the day

And this is pain!

The path is difficult.

Resulting in what?

No action is so permanent that it cannot be undone, unstitched

Erased or unhitched from our backs—the weight we sometimes carry is only because we choose to carry it

True,

and you see me see you

What do you see?

An artist!

Yes, I see the same

It’s pain

Yes, that’s only the arts’ blame

Or is it the things we make?

We make the wrong things, put out the wrong voice

Never showing enough of ourselves so that we make the choice

to hide! Or miss the count of 5678—tendu, dégagé, tendu, dégagé

Counting in time to the rhythm that I missed the entry of

and what if we’re in the wrong place?

Doing the wrong thing?

What if we’re just us?

Doomed to rust

along the road that the

leering faces must settle on?

Just! That word has stifled, muffled and quenched the genius out of far too many.

I’m not a genius, I’m just me.

Just! You said it again.

It’s true.

Is it rude?

To yourself?

Cheapening your voice and your choice you have in this matter?

“Just!”

We are artists! We do what we must!

Just…

Do you not know?

Did you not sew

your shoes one morning when

I watched from your bed,

Your fingers moving so effortlessly—they knew they way

You didn’t want to, but you did it anyway

Because I had to…

Because you had to. Exactly. It’s what you know, yes?

Guess how many people who came before had not half of your brilliance and vision

Half your doubt. You seem to doubt because you care—it means so much, because

it’s everything!

I know.

And you know how to press meaning into the movements you make so instinctively.

I see that.

And do you not see how you move people with your sound?

Your mind clouds

your hasty judgement when you doubt who..you..are,

and it’s like you said: make a noise

loud

enough and they’ll have to listen—but you know that’s not the point

Point me in the right direction?

You already know.

Yes.

You do also. Fearing the worst, when look at where you are! Look at what you’ve done.

I see you, I love you,

I see the sun

and think it does not shine half as bright as you when you run

through your movements—thinking to yourself

Shaking your head: how do you best say what needs to be said?

You saw that?

Even high I cannot take my eyes off of you.

True, I see you, too.

Our art is not defined by what we end up making

But that we started in the first place?

The rest comes—wrong or right…

Thinking that it’s so black and white—

right and wrong—

fail or success

When really it’s just a mess of a road that leads in a hundred different paths—none of them right, none of them wrong.

We’ve started, and…

Yes?

I can’t wait to see what comes next…

Coffee Shop Musings

I am one sitting at a table.

The table he sits at is wooden and sturdy

Looking straight across at you,

through the wisps of steam from the neglected coffee

I am you, you are me, I am we, we are one, true... 

but you don't see me, see you

Though the wisps of steam from the neglected coffee

You only look blankly, a dull sort of bemused look across our face.

I am another one, I hunker, a loner in the corner not far from the sturdy, wooden table

Wondering why,

Why do they stare into a mirror like that?

Worth It

A poem.

I am the wind. I rustle

aimlessly through the windows which the boy left open

In his sleep

he's murmuring, like me

He's covered in blankets, not unlike the snow that fell

The night before

He had stayed awake, a flashlight under the blankets that covered him

when a knock came at his folding doors

Which opened to reveal 

The mother

Earth is so big, bright and beautiful

I am the wind.

I am the lamp.

I sit on the stand by the bed that cradles the boy covered in blankets, not unlike

The snow that my light illuminates 

That fell the night before 

I did

when I was knocked over when the boy

Dreamt he was falling

Towards an empty corner, you'll see me,

I am the lamp.

I am the cello.

I sing with the bow he so frequently picks up,

the rosin siphoned off in the light of the lamp, not unlike the frozen dust which now lays

on the ground, from the night before

he screamed in pain from the voices in his tormented 

Head to the light of the lamp, where he'll be safe

I'll stay here, next to the bow he so frequently picked up.

I am the cello.

I am the tears.

I wander down the face of the boy covered in blankets, not unlike 

the snow that fell the night before

He stared into the moon which fell so gently on his 

Face the fears he wanted so keenly to pretend were

Not there, when I, the tears were a welcome release

The pain... the Anger...The Hate! And

I was there, when he had not a soul, or an audience to cheer on his light.

I am the tears.

I am the boy. I'm curled in my bed, covered in blankets, not unlike 

The snow that fell the night before.

I'm falling, now, but if only I'd knew, that things would get better

Than this

is pain!

But it will get better...

I am the boy who told himself, it was all for naught,

But if only I had known, just how good

How winsome, how beautiful

The pain I'm privileged to feel,

Some people can't feel.

Feelings--What are these

Singing sirens my cello creates? I'm not creating,

I'm revealing, the drawing to my friend in the light of 

The lamp which stands on the table in front of that window

The wind aimlessly wanders through.

I am the boy who thought life was pain,

I was right

I am the boy who couldn't see the beauty all around me, and didn't know, all that pain--?

Was worth it

Listen

Listen.

Hush—listen

“Listen! I know the way!”

“But I have something to say…”

Listen

Hush again, listen.

Always listening.

Till when?

When do they get to speak,

Yell,

Scream

Out the things

they know and believe?

Hush!

Listen!

"Yes, ma, yes, da

I’ll listen.”

Good, you can listen.

Then think of the things

You believe.

Question.

Everything.

Go where the evidence leads.

But don’t listen to me.

Listen?

They just hear.

Listening is for children to keep

Them near

as they cross the street.

“Listen to me—I know what’s best.”

Likely.

“Listen! This is what is safe.”

Likely.

What will our wee’uns think when the world tell’s them

“Listen!”

Without ever giving them an ear for their own reasoning?

Poetry like this is for children

Not to read or enjoy

It’s for the grown-ups who are too busy sharing

Their story.

Listen!!

Tell them, teach them the way—show them the way, but

Listen.

Wait. Your story?

Who among us thought that our adult stories

Are worth more than,

Smarter than,

Better than

What the youngest have to share?

Listen!

Do you know more?

Likely.

Do you know more?

More than the child with a head filled with dreams of

Wicked witches and poppy fields?

Do you know more?

More than the child who’s spent their entire life

Listening?

to you?

Hanging on every word—learning to speak, eat and—

No, you listen.

What you say, what you do—they do also

Hush, listen…

“To whom?”

Hush, listen.

“To Sammy? He was born yesterday!”

Yet he listens more than you.

Listen? I know what’s best!

Yet they listen more than you…

Careful, if you spend your life speaking you’ll only stop to hear

The things you must settle down and listen to

Hush! Listen! They’ll listen, but you only hear.

In one ear and out the other end!

Listening to those who only stop to speak will teach them

Hush! Listen!

Teach them, but give them space

To let their minds create the things

They know.

And listen.

“What wisdom or any sort of sense can come from—”

Stop. Listen.

This isn’t about

What may or may not be learned

It’s about listening!

Knowing what it’s like to be heard.

So, hush, listen—you may actually learn something

If nothing else, how to

Listen!!

We used to listen, now we just hear

We’ve forgotten how clear

It is

When we just

“Listen! I’m old enough now, I can do this. Listen!”

“You’re my child, I know best, but—”

“Listen! It’s only 5 miles away and my license is here!”

So strange to be the one who listens after being heard for 14, 15, 16

Years!

They’ve learned so much—they should, they’ve

Listened.

We only hear.

Give them the lessons, the teachings but then

Listen.

They have a callow wisdom, and then they can

Listen.

An Essay About Failure and Lessons… Kinda

Close-Calls and Candy

_____________________________

The Duo of True Stories That

Helped Me Level-Up

(Brought To You In The Voice of Cleo Mosley:

Expert Thief and Agent of Absurdity and Chaos)

Author’s Note

___________________

This essay was written in a distinct voice as a sort of creative challenge.

No, this is not how I actually speak, and no, this is not how I actually think.

I once wrote a novel, and the main character spoke in this same voice. I challenged myself to write in her voice for this essay (at much risk to myself, because she is a distinctly unlikeable character {in the beginning}, but cometh the hour; cometh the man) to try to spice this particular project up with her annoying narrative and biting sense of humor.

While I am acting the part for this essay, and the voice and narrative should be taken as farce, the details, stories and lesson are very much true.

This essay starts off in a very pretentious, haughty sort of voice, and then quickly starts to waltz down the spiraling staircase of madness—most likely while the building the staircase belongs to, is on fire.

Apologies in advance.

PART ONE

___________________

Introducing: Me

For now, and only now, you may operate under the misguided assumption that—because I can write adequately and express my ideas in a way in which they are well received—that I am an effective learner when it comes to, what I like to call: Side Quests (I’ll explain this later, though for more immediate comprehension I will let you in on a little secret and tell you, that by this, I mean to say “Life Lessons”). More skepticism and less assumptions—please and thank you.

In fact, I shouldn’t be too hard on you and the likelihood of your hasty assumption. I am not a poor writer, and I use words like “skepticism,” “comprehension,” and (because I can’t find any other $5 words in this essay, yet, but need a third one to round out the list) “secret,” that may lead anyone who is unfamiliar with my obstinance and “thick-skull” to believe that—because of my learned vocabulary—I must also learn other things well—perhaps Side Quests. If this is the sort of expectation you find yourself walking into this essay with, I am sorry to tell you that you will arrive at the end, a very sorely disappointed reader. I do not easily complete Side Quests, and when I happen upon one, it may take me a disgusting amount of time to figure out the move-set, patterns and hit-boxes; in fact, at this point, my failure to complete Side Quests is prodigious—infamous even, within the inner-circle of innocent familial-bystanders who must watch from the lobby as I make the same mistakes over and over, again.

At this time, I must put this essay on pause—as I am realizing that—though there are likely a few among you that understand my gamer-lingo, there might be the uninitiated who are unfamiliar with terms such as “hit-box” or “move-set,” and while I will not explain what these mean—as they are not important for the purpose of this essay, I will explain one:

Side Quest: "A side quest is a player objective that is separate from the main plot-line of the game. Side quests are implemented to help connect the player to the world, introduce them to characters, and help them discover locations.” (Wright, Will)

Did I just copy and paste that from a random webpage? Yes, yes I did. Do I consider that plagiarism? No, no I do not. It’s in quotations (and cited at the bottom)—leave me alone.

*he says with a smirk*

Why do I call life-lessons, “Side Quests”? Glad you asked. I figure that most life lessons are really just little tid-bits (this might be the only essay in which a singular parlance allows for words like “parlance”, and “tid-bits” within the same assignment. I call that “cultured”) that we pick up along the way that allow us to level up to a certain point that will at least give us a chance against the final boss. Very rarely, have life lessons been part of the main plot-line for me.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking: “Oh, Rue! Can’t we just get on with the essay? Let’s get over this intro!”

To this, I say, “I hear you, I hear you. So, let’s jump right into the good stuff.

PART TWO

_________________

I Get Fired

It was a soggy April day, and there I was, sweating bullets through my unnecessarily warm, polyester suit, before I almost accidentally kill someone and get myself fired.

Flashback

When I was sixteen years old, I got my first pro-musician job as a regular musician at the Bridgewater Bistro, playing for the dining service twice a week. First night? Success. Second night? I’m rakin’ in the money. Third night? I’m thinking, “I got this, man—I got this!”

I didn’t have it.

There’s something you should know about childhood Rue, and that is that he was a remarkably unobservant youth. I didn’t have a very good sense of self-preservation, and when it came to noticing my surroundings—I—uh, didn’t. In fact, I spent most of my time day-dreaming about what it would be like if I were in one of Tolkien’s books, or every now and then I’d think, “I could be best friends with Harry Potter… I could replace Weasley, for sure.”

Usually this tendency to daydream didn’t get me into much trouble; that is, until the fourth night on my second week performing at the Bridgwater Bistro in my polyester suit.

Let’s break it down.

There I am, sitting on the bench at the piano, having just finished playing a Jelly-Roll Morton song called, “Big Foot Ham”, and I’m not doing so well—physically, that is—not musically. Musically, I was doing just fine, but for some reason that night, the restaurant was unusually warm and humid, and after two hours of playing, I’m beat and ready to go home. So, I stand up, take the $360 out of the vaguely hour-glass shaped glass jar that sat on the piano (not bad for two hours, eh?), moved the jar off the piano, and then moved the piano back against the wall where it belonged.

Mistake number one.

Then, without paying too much attention to my surroundings (because I was sixteen-freaking-years-old and was walking out of that restaurant with $360 in my suit pocket—I was elated, and probably thinking that I’d be the richer version of Ron Weasley if I went to Hogwarts, and was best friends with Harry Potter), I put the hood of the piano down against the top of the instrument.

Yeah, this one was the kicker. This one right-freaking-here was the one that got the ball rolling—metaphorically, of course; literally, I knocked a few thousand dollars worth of precious art off the walls.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Oh, Rue! Art isn’t that big—how bad can this be? So, some paintings fell off the walls. Big deal!”

Okay. Allow me to take the glove off my hand, shake it around a bit for showmanship, and then slap you around with it until there’s a glove shaped red mark on that cheeky cheek. Learn from my mistakes, you silly person, you—this was a big deal!

Flashback

The walls of the Bridgwater Bistro are very high—probably around 40-50 feet, and these weren’t just small, Mona Lisa-sized paintings (that painting is actually pretty small. Weird, right?)—they’re massive-freaking paintings—behemoths, actually.

So, what I failed to notice when putting the lid of the piano down, was the fact that between the trajectory from point A: Upright position, and point B: Closed position—there was a painting. This painting knocked another painting down, which hit another painting, which hit the painting above that one, which hit the one above that one; and 50-freaking-feet in the air, this massive, beautiful, solid-oak-framed work of art comes tumbling down and the corner narrowly misses the head of a human child.

Yeah, I got fired.

PART THREE

_____________________

Poker? I Barely Know Her!!

Let’s take a brief 5-second pause from this essay, and by show of hands, how many of you suspect I learned the lesson from the piano-failure well enough to be more observant?

Great. Those of you who raised your hand, lower it and slap yourself. I’ve already told you I don’t learn lessons well, and there’s literally four more pages to read, so this shit ain’t over, yet.

Ya-huh, even after nearly accidentally putting an eight year-old in the emergency room, I had still not learned to be more perceptive and to stop daydreaming so much. So, when one day I was playing cards with my brother, we decided it would be a great idea to “spice things up”, a little. Not with money, of course—we didn’t have much of that. No, I’m talkin’ Turkish Delight.

Allow me to set the scene.

Christmas, 2016. Christmas tree lit, presents opened, stockings infiltrated, and wrapping paper everywhere. Christmas dinner had just been eaten, and we were all full and happy with the way the day had gone; that is, until I lost all of my Turkish Delight to my brother while gambling the sweets in a game of Five Card Draw.

This might not seem like such a big deal to you—if it seems to you like I’m overreacting here, slap yourself again. Turkish Delight is the most delicious, delectable confection that has come out of Eurasia—I will forever be grateful for the gum that those trees produced that led to those beautiful, genius people creating the world’s best snack, for me to enjoy, two-thousand years later. In fact? Hold on. Let’s set the record straight…

An Ode To Turkish Delight

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When she brought me my first bag of the sweet confection,

I was unaware of what I had been missing

The candy was wonderful and the weather was drizzling!

Oh, for this I must be sitting!

I tried my first one, an orange with dusted-sugar

Then my second—a pineapple cube, with nuts all inside

I tried another and then another again, but soon I would find

The bag was emptied! I ate them all

And sighed.

The moreish feast was something I relished,

but then it was all gone

I loved it so much—for it I longed

So, now I am now writing this song!

Oh, Turkish Delight, I love you, your sweet and gentle flavor,

You are my favorite candy, which I have now learned to savor

More slowly, for when I get a box, a bag or a jar of you

It’s you, I’ll have for dinner.

Okay, back to the story.

I had lost all of my Turkish Delight in a battle of wits. Had I been smarter I would have spent the last ten years building up an immunity to my brother’s bluffing—but… okay, there is no “but”. I was actually really good at reading my brother, and I just wanted to follow the “battle of wits” remark up with a Princess Bride joke. But this is the point I’m trying to make—I knew how to read my brother; so well, in fact, that I knew exactly whenever he was bluffing in a game of poker. I got so good, actually, that I once knew the cards he had—or close enough to the mark, that is.

But you see, this was the year I discovered the BBC show, Merlin (for those of you unaware of the show and it’s plot line, it’s a show about Merlin; Merlin has magic; magic is banned; he hides his magic; let comedy and adventure ensue), and I was mostly paying attention to the show and—I remember this vividly—laughing at Merlin spitting pea soup all over his uncle’s face (on accident—he’s not a jerk). That laugh very quickly turned into grimace when I looked down and saw my brother had placed down his full house: three aces and two eights. He held out his hand for the sweets.

Okay, some of you have probably never been an older sibling, but there is this something that older siblings do, when they know their younger sibling has a one-up on them, and that is to try to talk them out of it—usually with bribery—but I’m too classy to immediately stoop as low as buying off my brother, so naturally I opted for the significantly more nuanced approach:

Tactic #1: Begging

“Bro, I just got this candy! Come on, it’s just a game… I mean, you don’t even like it as much as I do! Come on, we weren’t serious about the gambling, anyway!”

Mission unsuccessful. Initiate Phase 2.

Tactic #2: Threats (I escalate quickly when it comes to chewy Turkish snacks)

“I’ll do something! I dunno what, yet—but I’ll do it! Ever hear of tar and feathering?? No? Okay, well look it up. That’s what’s going to happen! I think the law would be on my side!”

Nothing says “Christmas” like good ol’ torture in the streets, huh? Just adds that much extra holiday-cheer. Though, my brother was like a hound on the scent of a very pungent fowl; a dog on a bone; he had a one track mind…

He said no.

Tactic #3: Bribery

“You can have my desserts for one—no, TWO weeks! No? Okay, uh, five bucks? Ice cream? Drive you to school? No… okay… back scratches?”

Getting this kid to relinquish his claim upon my delicious Turkish Delight that Christmas was like… something that’s also really difficult—but the point here is that none of my devilishly-clever tactics worked, and I instead spent the rest of the evening glaring at him across the living room, hoping he could feel the injustice across the sibling-bandwidth that is extended when one sibling is trying to make the other sibling’s head explode with his mind-powers.

PART FOUR

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It’s Like That Montage Scene In A Movie When

A Character Sees Development…

Usually With An AC/DC Song Pumping Everyone Up

So That When The Character Faces Off The Bad Guy, We’re All Like,

“Oh, yeah! They’ve Got This!”

I’m not necessarily sure it’s a good thing that almost accidentally killing someone in a restaurant after they just finished off their Kids-Menu chicken strips and apple slices, didn’t teach me the lesson to pay attention to what I am doing in the moment, but losing an $8 bag of Turkish Delight to my brother in a game of poker convinced me to change my boyish-ways quite effectively. Do with this information what you will… I was sixteen, alright?! Get off my back.

This all being said, I got there in the end. I completed the Side Quest, I’ve leveled up, and have become all the better for it. I am now much more attentive, and I dedicate the moment’s needed time on the task at hand.

Unless there’s Turkish Delight. If so, I’ll be ignoring you, you, you, you, and you until I’ve had my fill, and then I’ll be ordering more off Amazon after realizing my addiction had been reignited.

Works Cited:

Wright, Will. “How To Write Side Quests For Video Games.” Masterclass.Com, 7 June 2021, www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-side-quests-for-video-games.