Trained Fleas

Resolved to take fate by the throat and shake a living out of her.
-Louisa May Alcott-

Sometimes to follow our dreams we must first wake up. For, the obstacles that bind us in poverty are effective, and sometimes calculated. Like trained fleas, many that live in this culture have learned false boundaries and have since ceased to dream beyond them. Discrimination once served as a stained glass ceiling around our communities. Evil it was; as a boogeyman that comes out in the day; and the residences learned well, where not to tread. Today, after the removal of legal restrictions, though glass ceiling are no longer stained, mental chains remain; sometimes through generations, for some trained fleas teach their young. We must resist and fight back, for the spirit of our lives is at stake.

Sanctuary

In my time, I have found sanctuary in prayer, dreams, and in fantasies. Somewhere between the aisles of my imagination; beyond the sands of distant shores, where there my soul caresses, sinking softly from warm to moist, and slanted sunrays across my chest; amid these shimmering sky-born lights, reflections old and new; amid these lonely days and nights, my fondest thoughts of you. Then, gently receives my gentle touch, my legs, my thighs commit; I softly breathe in heavens mist, and more I long of it. Full lungs of care, the sweetest air, submerge these ancient depths; where warmth shall fade as levels sink, and all our dreams are met. There lies the entrance to hidden caverns, to distant under shores, and sanctuary in ye whom I adore.

Pros of Fear

Clichés such as “The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree,” concerned me greatly as a young boy. Especially that the closer I observed my father as Mr. Hyde, the more convinced I became, that I did not want to follow in his footsteps. I worried that some genetic flaw, out of my control, would one day bring me to crave his addictions, and that I would lose myself forever. In response, I prejudiced myself against the things I feared; vowing never to use nicotine, illicit drugs, or liquor. I believed that each of these things hold the potential to destroy a life. Therefore, that which cannot be repaired should be avoided. Over the years, peer pressure would take many of my friends down a dark path; some never to return. For me however, peer pressure was no match for the fear I had of (1) becoming my father, (2) losing myself, (3) failing in life, or (4) letting myself, and the people that count on me, down. While the apple may not fall far from the tree, it has infinite potential to roll.

From Where Does it Come?

Whether it is of failure, loneliness, ridicule, harm, disappointment, or the unknown; rare is the soul that has not been touched by fear -of some sort- at some point in its life. Some people are able to rise above it much easier than others. Fear seems to wash over them and simply pass away; while in others, it is absorbed into the very marrow of their bones, where it then drives them to defeat. From where does this fear come? In 2 Timothy 1:7, it was Paul that wrote, “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” Therefore, fear must be an adversary of God’s will.

Breakfast is Served

In this dream, I am holding a rifle and sitting in a tall tree. I am inside a hunting reserve of extinct animals, and looking out at a dinosaur. The dinosaur looks vulnerable, so I choose it as my prey.

Using my rump muscles, I scoot along the branch and then leap out from the tree. Airborne, I began to fly and approach the creature from behind. It does not see me; but it quickens its pace, traveling to the far side of the lake. I want to put it down with one shot, so I hover above its head. I then fire a single round into its brain and watch as it crashes to the ground like an elephant on an old National Geographic show.

I then fly to the other side of the lake and watch until I think it was safe. Minutes pass, and I fly back over to the creature and land on a limb that hangs above its head. Its eyes are open; but lifeless; and its body periodically twitches.

Suddenly its nostrils flare. It sniffs the air and life reenters its eyes. In one swift motion, the creature springs to its feet and glares up at me. It has the look of a hungry man looking at a menu. Then, with pure aggression, it leaps at me, thrusting its mouth and bladed teeth through snapping braches. I scoot backwards along the limb; so panic stricken, that I forget that I am able to fly.

I fight vines as the creature violently bits the air, leaves, and branches around me. The sound of its sharp teeth coming together is dizzying, and I try shooting it once more. This time my bullets only bounce off its hard head, infuriating it even more.

Just as I run out of limb, I look across the lake and see the entrance of the reserve. The gate is tall and heavy, standing over thirty feet high. I jump from the limb and begin to fly towards the gate. The dinosaur chases wildly after me, knocking down small tress along the way.

By the time I reach the gate, the dinosaur is only a short leap and a bite behind me. I tug against the locked gate twice before running out of time. I fly higher and land on a rusted knob that is protruding from the gate, only slightly above the creature’s head-level; so I am sure it can reach me.

The creature then moved underneath me, looking up and sniffing the air as it speaks, “Umm, chocolate coco puffs!” and I am jutted awake.

Muzzle Flash

Courtesy of the thin walls, my siblings and I usually knew what was going on between my parents – and this night was no different. While we children watched TV in the front room, my parent’s raised voices fought in the background from their bedroom. The fight had something to do with daddy coming home drunk – and he was in his Mr. Hyde form.

“Leave me alone!” he yelled, not wanting to answer my mother’s query as to where he had been.

A scuffle broke out - and through the thin walls, I could hear furniture being knocked around. My brother and sisters could also hear it; each of us silent, wide-eyed, and hanging on to each sound. None of us were watching TV anymore.

My parent’s bodies slammed against their bed. The sound of the bed’s heavy feet dragging across the wooden floor was unmistakable – and then it’s metal frame slamming against the wall. It didn’t matter that the door was closed. I could see everything in my mind.

Suddenly, my mother broke away from him, and he knew that she was headed for the closet. That’s where he kept his loaded pistol. Daddy tried desperately to catch her, but he was too drunk and she was too determined. When he finally caught up to her, she spun around pointing the heavy pistol center mass on his chest. Her finger had already begun to squeeze the trigger. Shockwaves fired through daddy’s body as he leaped away from her. His bloodshot eyes were wide open and focused on the gun. It was almost sobering.

BANG!

Everyone in the house jumped. Especially daddy, as every hair on the back of his neck stood up. The bullet had barely missed him and gone through the window, out across the street, across the field to rest in high grass. Mama was already taking aim for a second shot, as daddy darted from the room. The door flung open as daddy's stumbling body slammed against it. He ran past me and out the front door, reeking of alcohol, with mama running screaming after him, pointing the pistol at his back. The dark revolver looked large in her light brown hands, as she and daddy vanished into the night. We kids could still hear everything.

BANG!

Another loud blast seemed to shake the house. It was the first time I had heard real gunfire, not counting what I had seen on TV. The tension in the air could have been cut with a knife. Something compelled my brother Richard and I to tiptoe outside in our bare feet, peering into the darkness with our unfocused eyes.

BANG!

Another shot fired… this time from the side of the house. It seemed to draw Richard and I like moths to a flame. In fact, I was sure that I saw a flash coming from the gun’s muzzle. Mama was holding the pistol with both hands, pointing it toward the dark alley behind our house. She had a hard time steadying it as she jerked off another round at daddy’s fleeing shadow. He was a fast runner, even in Mr. Hyde form.

Echoes of the blast bounced off nearby houses and faded as neighboring dogs barked. Mama then lowered the pistol, still staring towards the alley and breathing heavy. She then turned towards Richard and me.

“Get in the house!” she yelled.

We quietly and quickly ducked back inside, listening and wondering if the last shot had found its mark. It was silent. Even the crickets were quiet, as we had turned down the TV’s volume. Mama soon reentered the house, holding the pistol at her side. She took it into their bedroom and closed the door behind her. Perhaps she didn’t want us to know that she was hiding it back inside their closet, inside the old shoebox on the lower right-hand corner. Their closet was "off-limits" to us kids.

She poked her head out moments later and told us to go to bed. Considering her tone and expression, no one dared ask any questions. Daddy returned the following day, as if nothing had happened.

Beyond the Fog

Talking to someone who does not reply is like playing tennis in the dark with fog. You volley another ball into the scattering fog and wait for its return, hearing only nightsounds and echoes of the ball you have sent. You then reach for another ball; not considering that more than a court may lie beyond the fog, and that you may not be properly equip to receive a return. Check your self.

Eternity in Thee

Rockerbye in peace we slumber; thy silky wings caress. A moments clear then fleeing haste; in thee I am my best. Then wits they slip with courage fall, thy heart of love with none at all. We reach; we wait; we want – once more a soft lullaby.

Longing still these reaching thoughts and waters flow, we long to know not letting go. Thy tender calm embracing winds, a love of old begins again. We touch; we fall; we love – clarity and eternity in thee.

In earnest she whispers, “Self-preservation is indeed a master distracter; the root of cowardness and anchor from dreams. Only in its release may ye move forward and truly know what ye seek.” Her voice then softens; angel arms outreached, “Take my hand.”

The Dark Figure: Searching

Nearly a year had passed since my encounter with the dark figure in the alley. I was visiting with my friend Tong from Taiwan and had all but tucked the memory away somewhere between the Stinking Gum (a menacing creature from childhood stories my grandmother had told me) and Bloody Mary; somewhere between fact and fiction. I wasn’t quite sure how I should categorize it; but it was about to become clearer.

Tong had spent his early childhood in Taiwan, before his mother met and married an American Airman. They then came to settle in Texas.

During my visit with Tong, something prompted him to share a childhood memory. He described his school in Taiwan; how it sat in a forest surrounded by trees, and the winding dirt road that led up to it. The school was of simple structure, little more than four walls and a leaky ceiling, with a small wooden outhouse out back. It was from that outhouse that Tong witnessed something he’d never forget.

He had gone there during recess while his classmates played at the front of the schoolhouses. He could faintly hear their laughter in the distance, while he searched for a clean spot on the filthy stool.

The walls of the outhouse were weathered and full of knotholes, a small distraction from the stool’s moistness and smothering scent. He peered out through a perfectly round knothole that set directly in front of him; out into the thick forest that set behind the school.

Something suddenly moved at the edge of the forest, gliding unnaturally, a dark figure that appeared to be looking for something.

“I could hear it thinking inside my head,” Tong’s voice cracked, and my stomach sank. Memories of my encounter in the alley came rushing back… and Tong now had my undivided attention. He used his right hand to demonstrate in the air how the creature glided around the trees, fast and then slow. “It was blacker than anything I had ever seen,” he said, and my eyes began to well.

“Is this really happening?” I thought, not saying a word, “Is he describing the same creature?”

Perhaps the creature has a special interest in children; that with its ability to read minds and project its thoughts, it is also capable of entering dreams and planting thoughts – so that it may observe how the subject acts upon them.

Tong continued... describing how the creature searched. “I don’t know what it was looking for,” he said.

The creature then moved out from the trees… and suddenly halted. Tong could hear the laughter of his classmates moving closer. The creature had also heard it. Tong adjusted his forehead against the weathered wall and refocused his right eye through the knothole. Still in disbelief, he watched as the creature glided back into the forest.

Surging Spirits Restrained

This heat is suffocating; how it wells up from within my soul, silently… and longingly spilling out emotions that cannot be acted upon, quelled nor captured nay by my tongue nor will, only their salty wet footprints that soon evaporate from all but memory. My attempts to decipher them are pointless, for they are primitive and I am compelled by logic. In this crowded room of strangers and artificial surging winds, my passion burns lonely, while logic hushes in all sincerity I long.

The Dark Figure

Perhaps it was some sort of stalker with special abilities; capable of reading minds, moving at the speed of thought, and disappearing in the blink of an eye. With its ability to read minds, it could follow closely behind its subject, and then vanish at the instant the subject thinks of turning around. I however had a quirky way of suddenly turning without reason or thought.

Our encounter occurred one summer afternoon while I was walking in the alley behind our house. Impulsively, I suddenly spun around, and there it was standing before me. It apparently had been observing me from behind. And because my turning was not premeditated, my thoughts had not pre-warned it to vanish. I had caught it completely off guard.

It resembled a man, but it was clearly something else. It stood approximately seven feet tall, had broad shoulders, and was darker than any color I had ever seen. It felt as though I was looking into another dimension; that if I had stepped through it, I would have been in another place. I could not see its expression, for it had no facial features, eyes, nose, nor mouth. But it was clearly alarmed. I know this because I could somehow hear its thoughts.

“I should not be seen!” its thoughts cried out.

The creature then trembled before me; not because it was afraid of me, but because it had broken an important rule. It was suppose to stealthily observe and never be seen, and now it had to answer to something I could not see. It had a superior.

In disbelief, I stared at the dark figure - and oddly, I did not feel threatened by it. Through its loud thoughts, I knew that it meant me know harm.

“What are you?” I thought, knowing that it could hear.

It did not answer.

Instead, it tremble faster, vibrating from left to right. It was trying to decide which directoin to flee; and it appeared to be unaccustomed to making sudden decisions on its own.

It then began communicating with what I could not see - and I realized that it and I were not alone.

“What shall I do!” its thoughts cried, not directed at me.

I sensed that it somehow had the ability to erase what had happened, but it was not authorized to do so. It was still caught up in its dilemma, whether to go left or right. It did not consider simply vanishing.

The entire encounter lasted approximately eight seconds before the creature decided to flee to its left, into a green shed that stood to my right. It didn’t run like a man. Instead it glided through the wall as though it was cutting through dimensions. I ran after it, to the far side of the shed to see if it would come out the other side. But it did not. I then looked back at the spot where I had first seen the dark figure, and wondered if it had been my imagination.

Nearly a year later, another event would remove all my doubts.

Bitter Fruit

How many times will history repeat itself? How they maneuver; convinced that they are what they describe themselves to be, righteous because they smile, not due to their deeds. My wounds still ache from their last assault, and yet they return bearing sweet words and bitter fruit. Their eyes speak another tongue, almost disarming, that I might doubt myself. “They want that thy gates shall fall,” the angel whispers. They have never failed to strike my lowered guard; yet, I wonder if perhaps this time they truly want peace. But how can I trust them? “Seek ye not peace in soft words,” she says, “Nor in warm eyes… for they believe themselves righteous, while their deeds seek thy destruction. Look only to their deeds.”