What makes the water holy is that it's the closet thing to rain.

Nun - 30 Words.
Aaron Dethrage

The weak were brought into the chapel, but their chapped, bloody lips and frail, crying voices were nothing new to her. “Suffering,” she said, “is fast familiar to the saved.”

Song to come: Wings - Josh Ritter

Half - 141 Words
Aaron Dethrage

I see a girl–her nose buried in a book–sitting near the ornate fountain outside the library where I work. I am looking at her intently, but she never breaks her gaze, never glances my way. Her feet are submerged up to the ankles in the pool that the fountain forms; her faded jeans grip loosely to her knees, rolled up with a haphazard care. She is swirling the water in small, opposing circles that form magnifying ripples, filling the pool like a majestic song, and I am gazing still. I wonder what it is she’s reading and how I might compete, what words I might speak to spread a smile across her freckled checks. I decided not to try, to abandon my efforts and continue walking home, and with a half-convinced heart I fell it better to roam.

Song to Come: I am Certain I am a Train - Levi Weaver

Mama won't give me matches, 'cause she says they can't burn the memories.

Lens - 104 Words
Aaron Dethrage.

I have heard throughout my entire life that hindsight is always 20/20, but as I grow older, I am realizing that this is hardly true. I look back at us and clearly see the wreckage that remains, yet still I perceive you as perfect, my ideal companion. You weren’t. You aren’t. You never could be. However, through the foggy, shattered lens of the past, I gaze. I sleeplessly toss, consumed by thoughts of what could have been. I want to burn these wretched memories like I burned your letters, but my mind is not nearly as kind as my matches proved to be.

Song to Come: Motion Picture Soundtrack - Radiohead

The title was a line that my good friend, Sarah Musgrave, wrote in a lyrics, and I became quite fond of it. Kudos to her for the simple yet brilliant imagery that I stole to make this short piece worth reading.

The Runaways

Secure - 222 Words
Aaron Dethrage.

They hadn’t even made it half of a mile from the neighborhood when the bottom fell out of the ominous clouds above, sending the rain cascading down onto thirteen-year-old Jillian Bloom and her twelve-year-old sidekick in mischievousness, Warren Taylor. The lightning lit the entire bay area with tremendous streaks of daylight that were instantly followed by infinite night and the piercing crack of Mother Nature’s hand.

Warren already wanted to turn back, fearful of the certain and severe punishment that awaited him for sneaking out and, admittedly, rather afraid of the wolf-like howling in the gusting gales that swirled around them. Just then, Jillian let out a laugh, an explosive and maddening roar that unnerved Warren more than the storm’s fury ever could.

“Don’t you see,” she screamed, “we are free, Warren! No parents, no rules, This is what real freedom tastes like. Goddamn ₁, I just want to hold on to this, keep it forever, know it as mine.”

However, Warren didn’t share Jillian’s passion for this new world. In fact, all that was on his mind were dry cloths, a warm bed, and his mother’s shimmering goodnight smile.

₁ Jillian had recently discovered the taboo world of profanity and still paused before each utterance, like a child looking left-and-right before crossing the street.

Song to Come: Fake Empires - The National

Slow Motion Riders Fly the Colors of the Day.

Mud - 362 Words
Aaron Dethrage.

Trickling trails of crimson and rose streamed down her chin on a cool, summer afternoon in the park. In vain, she tried to puddle them in the palm of her hand amidst uncontainable laughter, carefully holding the remaining half of a strawberry with her hooked ring finger clamping it against her thumb. Her cheeks flushed pink out of embarrassment as she tried to slurp the stray juices with some semblance of elegance, and I laughed at her, my eyes speaking words of endearment and acceptance as I drew her into an embrace.

It was the fourth of July, and Katherine and I had decided to actually attend the city’s fireworks show this year. The hassle and crowds typically persuaded us to ignore the festivities, but something felt different this year. We felt more proud of this place we were living in, more grateful and involved.

We arrived at the park around two o’clock and stretched our blanket out against the soft, green park grass like an ornamental rug against a hardwood floor, front row seats for the evening’s performance and a quiet escape from work for the day. She wore a brightly-spotted sundress that showed off her awkward and bony tomboy knees, but thanks to some strange, surge of confidence, she didn’t seem to mind them for the day.

We were in love, and I felt more content that day than I had ever known before. As Katherine rested her soft, brown hair on my lap, I twirled my fingers through its natural curls. My eyes scanned the bright blue, cloudless sky, and I let out a sigh, overwhelmed by the bliss of the day.

Half-asleep, she looked up at me and asked, “John, do you wish that we could see the future, know where we will end up before we’ve even left?”

Surprised by the question but always quick on my toes, I replied, “I’d only want to know it if it was filled with the girl that I am looking at right now.”

It wouldn’t be.

But as she nuzzled her head into my lap for a refreshing, sunbathed, summertime nap, I knew that I’d surely meant it.


Song to come: Saturday in the Park - Chicago

Like a Crack in the Wall, Starting Small and Growing in Time

Fossil - 396 Words

Aaron Dethrage

This attic is the result of decades of neglect. The dust evenly cakes everything from head to toe, as if someone has meticulously spread its feathery matter over the boxes and bags with the utmost precision and care, but no, we’re just unbelievably lazy.

The kids are far from thrilled, but together we stand (the kids, their mother, and I), clad in our finest paint and/or bleach stained clothing, ready to take on the task before us.

Already, I feel terrible for how the day is bound to progress. What hypocrites we are, their mother and I. Years of, “if you had just kept your room even remotely maintainable, it wouldn’t take a whole goddamn two hours clean it” and “do you even know what color your carpet is?”

We were angrier back then, still fighting the world, still certain that we could win. Docility comes with age, I suppose.

“Pre-lit Christmas Tree. Dad, what the hell is this?” The aggravation of her required attendance and a sense of injustice bite and crescendo through every word.

Sarah, our baby–eighteen now–remembers a lifetime of annually going out into the blistering cold to watch me mutilate the base of a cypress tree–two weeks later than we had originally planned, all of the good trees missing, and with barely enough time for it to mean anything–because that’s what Christmas was "supposed” to be like.

We never told her that it was a tradition we had started for her first Christmas–Jack still too young to remember anything differently–just so they’d have some sort of tradition to believe in. In reality, we dreaded the damn day in the snow just as much as they did. Maybe more.

I’m trying desperately to come up with anything that can justify the yelling and the cursing of eighteen pre-Christmas harvests, and then, it happens. My shoes, waxed by the dust that lines the floor, tangle into a knot under me and I plummet to the ground, a plume of smoke rising as my proxy.

It is there, on the floor, I realize that we're all just fossils, digging through the dirt of our past. The mother and I, fossils of parenthood, tyrannical and cruel. Jack and Sarah, fossils of youth, defensive and numb.

Dust settles into my hacking lungs, but none more than was there before.

Older Chests - Damien Rice

The Songs of our Fathers

Waltz - 186 Words

Aaron Dethrage

An old, silver music box sits lopsidedly next to the dusty snow globes and spare pocket change atop little Julia’s nightstand. Every night she winds its fragile key and sways to the waltzed lullaby that is produced. It was a gift from her father, and she cherishes it more than any toy or gem she has ever owned, though its value is miniscule at best.

With each listen, she wonders if the box maker also had a daughter whom he loved very much and for whom he had written this magical tune, but never does she envy this fantasy daughter for her father or the gifts his hands could create. For her, the cracking hands and crackling voice of her loving dad are all she ever could have asked for.

With time, the melody that the relic box produced became less and less recognizable-- its tiny, tuned teeth suffering from the wear and forgetfulness of age that we all shall know. However, Julia never forgot its precious tune and sings her daughter to sleep every night with the same simple song.

La, di-da, di-da.

Waltz for Dewayne Pomeroy - Chris Thile

Sing Summer Bird, With Songs Uncontested.

Wash - 70 Words.
Aaron Dethrage

Darkness washed over the sky like soapy water over a grimy car, soaking and pure. It was appropriately hot–June in the South–and I speculated that maybe it was mandated so by some godforsaken decree. And as the old summer trees wrapped their arms full of leaves ‘round the birds then sleeping inside, I held her and promised tomorrows paved with promise that we both were certain were lies.


Kathleen - Josh Ritter

We're at our worst when it's from our lips.

Science - 327 Words.

by: Aaron Dethrage

I’m sure there’s some kind of science to it all, mixing actions with words and impeccable reactions to curveball questions into some kind of perfect performance. These carefully executed scenes then forming some kind of alliance that can sway the stray thoughts of the women that would just otherwise pass me by.

It’s a lot like chemistry, I’m sure, delicately adding false glimpses of foreign traits that she desires, as if dripping vibrantly-hued drops from a pipette into some wildly unstable compound that seethes anxiously in a heated glass beaker. Every drop hanging maddeningly on the end of the tube. Will this work... or is the whole damned thing going to explode? The suspense! The suspense!

(Boom.)

* * * * * * * * * *

A second glass of Merlot is artfully entangled in my fingers, making too many words feel far too loose on my slowly numbing lips, however, she is laughing, so the alarms remain silent and the sipping-babbling-laughing cycle continues undisturbed.

There’s a band in the back corner, a jazz trio. Under the soft stage lighting sits a pianist at a spotless, black baby grand, his fingers sliding effortlessly across the perfect ivory keys. He is filling the restaurant with a variety of sultry chords that require numbers on numbers to notate for replication. There’s also an older gentleman at a drum kit. He is brushing across the top of his snare drum, eyes closed, head turning in time. He taps a foundational beat on the kick drum, using the kind of footsteps that children use as they sneak to and fro in hardwood houses. The head of the band is a trumpeter whose cup mute has transformed old Real Book melodies into poetic and persuading phrases. Everyone loves him, knows him, is transfixed by him.

There’s not really much difference between them and me, our improvised acts, attempts at swaying whatever ears are listening. However, it is growing harder to sway hers when they undisputedly have mine.

From the Hips - Cursive

A Concerned German Mother

Leather - 117 Words
Aaron Dethrage

I've yet to understand why you judge us so,
your wrinkle-scarred brow and your tight-clinched toes,
as if we are, ourselves, to blame.

If time is the teacher of how to heal,
and those years've all vanished with the haze of your fears,
why then, do the days of your hate stay near?

It is my father's father that even recalls the march,
the stiff leather jackets and war-emblemed arms,
their guns like graph lines straight and stark.

Now I have a daughter, eyes blue, coat fair.
I hold her at night, and I twirl her curled hair.
I dream up a world without troubles or care,
but still lingers the judgment in her classmates' cold stares.

Apres Moi - Regina Spektor

Space Suits Don't Come With Ties.

Rocket - 80 Words
Aaron Dethrage

(10.)
When we are young, we exist formlessly, told to become
(9.)
anything we desire, encouraged even to become astronauts--bleached
(8.)
pockets of air stark against a starry, midnight
(7.)
sky. However, the world slowly intervenes, gnawing
(6.)
away our ambitions and childhood fantasizing,
(5.)
grounding us to one place,
(4.)
one job, one desk.
(3.)
Our feet--like
(2.)
roots--holding
(1.)
us
(liftoff.)
down.

We are reckless and wonderful creatures, something we must try never to forget.


Six Days At the Bottom of the Ocean - Explosions in the Sky

Train-Tracked Lives.

Destiny - 23 Words

by: Aaron Dethrage

Old childhood joys–tenebrous train toys and towering marble mazes–all mirror our destinies. With increasing speed and terror-filled eyes, we fly.

Afraid of Everyone - The National

Bingeing and Purring (The One Who Starts The Fire)

Stride - 360 Words

Aaron Dethrage.

"Of all God's creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the lash.

That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve

the man, but it would deteriorate the cat." - Mark Twain

A grey cat strode confidently across the sun-warmed, hardwood floors that lie in front of the big bay window in my den. Her head was cocked ever-so-slightly upward–as cats often do when they realize that the world they live in is theirs to control. Her white, mittened paws noiselessly joined and detached from the floor with each perfect pace. It was as if roots–ancient and sturdy–were jetting into the ground to insure her balance and grace, and then were effortlessly removed, leaving no trace of their assistance behind. A droplet of milk hung firmly to her longest right-side whisker, remnants of her previous indulgences, undoubtedly being preserved for later enjoyment with unquestionable intentionality.

However, the intentionality of my state or that of the house were much more debatable topics. There were ashes in the fireplace that had been there for weeks, scarring the granite stone chamber, which mirrored the stray hairs that spread like plague across my face and down my neck. Papers are strewn about the room and my desk like the toys of a toddler–important, loved, discarded, forgotten. One scrap lay crumpled and haphazardly isolated from the majority of the mess, so I sat my empty wine glass on the table and retrieved it, pressing out the creases with my hand. I fumbled my pockets for my glasses to help return my focus.

Bingeing and Purring

Walter J. Sawyer

November 12, 2009

We drink alone, the cat queen and I.

Her saucers of milk, my glasses of wine

That sing songs of crystal

As they poison my mind.

It matters not that the sun hangs high,

Lighting the lands that beneath her gaze lie.

Now that you're gone, your scent, your bones,

We answer to no one, the cat queen and I.

I poured my third or fourth drink of the day. There would be another fire that night.

The Best Defense (Is To Be Offensive) (Jules Remix) - Levi Weaver

Fuel for the Fire

President - 373 Words
by: Aaron Dethrage

Growing up, my father always dreamed of being the President of the United States.

He had it all mapped out. He would excel in school, rising to the top of his class. He would go to prestigious institution to obtain a law degree, exemplifying his diligence and aptitude. He would spend a decade becoming a revered and powerful attorney, building his reputation as a persuasive and intelligent speaker. Then, finally, he would begin his slow but progressive political climb–first as mayor, then governor, then congressman, then Chief.

A solid plan, noble and filled with good intentions and an idealized future for his children and theirs to flourish in.

However, this plan, like most plans–like all plans–dissolved into a distorted fairy-tale-of-a-life that could have been. An excellent scholastic record was replaced by wild friends, fast cars, and debauchery they create. His desire for a law degree was blurred by the seductions of wanderlust and the call of adventure. The decade of diligent progress towards his goal was a decade spent losing himself, finding himself, and losing himself again.

I’m not sure that even he is fully aware of why he ended up living in Anniston, working in real estate and buried in debt, but rather than a big, white house on Pennsylvania Avenue, he currently resides in a humble, beige one on Timuquana Lane.

Now, by all accounts he should be considered a failure. His political career culminated into nothing more than a single term as mayor in a city afraid of change. However, might it be possible that a man’s true accomplishments aren’t measured by how successful his plan was but rather by what he did with his failures?

Amidst the chaos that was his life–that is found in all of our lives–my father married and had three children, all smart, healthy and ambitious. To call such fortune “failure” seems ridiculous to me.

So here I sit, full of my own dreams and plans to achieve them, buried under the pressure of how I might do so. Still, I find peace in the realization that I am a child of failure and that I too will do great things, my failures fueling my success.


No Surprises (Radiohead Cover) - Marrisa Nadler (feat. Black Hole Infinity)

Meeting on Monday (Because of The Things You Told Me, I Felt Free)

Trap - 83 Words
Aaron Dethrage

From: Mr. Donald Hays, Regional Manager <Donald.Hayes@mail.grm.com>
To: Mr. Jackson Gardner <Jackson.Gardner@mail.grm.com>
Date: Mon, Apr 26, 2010 at 12:45 AM
Subject: Meeting on Monday

Jack,

Sometime around 8:45 tomorrow morning you’ll be told that your boss wants to see you. When you walk in, myself and a bunch of other men with expensive suits and polished smiles will all be waiting to greet you and tell you about your wonderful, new promotion. Now, you know we are friends, so I need you to believe what I’m about to say. Run. Don’t waste your life here like I have. There is no joy to be found.

Don.

I Felt Free - Circa Survive

Letters. (Keep Your Eyes Ahead)

Propel - 359 Words
by Aaron Dethrage

“At times, our strengths propel us so far forward,
that we can no longer endure our weaknesses
and perish from them.”

Friedrich Nietzsche

****************

April 18, 2010

Dear Mom,

My doctor has recommended that I start writing you letters daily. He says it’s therapeutic and is certain that it will help me come to grips with reality, with the fact that you’re gone. But since you won’t receive them and he doesn’t even want to read them, this just seems like psycho-babble bullshit to me.

I mean, I am perfectly aware that you are dead. I sustained the weight of your coffin atop my right shoulder on the long walk from the front of the church to the idling, black hearse in the parking lot and then again from the car to the grave. My shoulder was sore for the next two days, but I refused to take any pain relievers because those tense muscles were all that I had left of you.

Why am I telling you this...

Your Son.

****************

April 26, 2010

Dear Mom,

The shrink interpreted my writing assignment negligence this past week as further proof that this is what I need to be doing.

I just don’t get it. Everyone seems to think that this is affecting me so much more than I believe it to be. It has already been a few months, and I’ve had constant, strict deadlines with my publishers. The world doesn’t stop for grieving, and you wouldn’t have wanted me to allow that anyway. “Keep your eyes ahead,” you always said.

I trust that you’re fine and that you’d want my life to keep propelling forward. These thoughts give me strength.

Your Son.

****************

May 26, 2010

Dear Mom,

I’m sorry if you’ve missed these. After two uncooperative weeks, my doctor just dropped the idea. I stopped going shortly after I last wrote to you. This week has been... hard, but I just keep repeating, “keep your eyes ahead,” and believe that everything will eventually sort out...

I love you.

Your Son.

****************

June 29, 2010

Mom,

I’m coming.

Please leave a light on; I’ve imagined the journey to be dark.

Aaron.

****************

Keep Your Eyes Ahead - The Helio Sequence

No Surprise

Wig - 144 Words
Aaron Dethrage

My grandmother wears a wig to hide her age from the world, and she is incredibly successful in her efforts. In fact, I can hardly remember noticing any significant shifts in her appearance throughout my entire twenty-one years of life. She may have sprouted a new wrinkle or two, and her voice may not sing quite as well as it once did; but every time I see her, there are never any real surprises. I like to pretend that her house is a safe haven from the otherwise inescapable wiles of Change. I’ve seen my sister become a woman, and I’ve seen good friends destroy their lives. I’ve seen old lovers go find husbands, and I’ve seen the cracks that span my mind. But joyous and radiant, adorned with her tightly-woven wig, my grandmother waits in that house–eternal, unchanging and wise.

Grandchildren - Mia Riddle

Despite Our Hazardous Floors and These Late-Night Chores, My Love Always Remains

Cranky - 300 Words
Aaron Dethrage

It was 3:00 AM when she awoke, and while I don’t really feel like “cranky” or “testy” fully summarize the complexity of her emotions, they are the best that I’ve got. I guess I can understand why; at her age, most people have generally figured out–unalterably, mind you–what they do or don’t like.

For instance, she and I have two numbers in mind for our nighttime temperature preference, and they typically vary by ten or fifteen digits. So, while the house incubated at an unbearable 76 degrees on this pre-dawn, Alabama-in-July morning, I’m certain she was still chilly.

I stirred in my bed, pretending that I could ignore her and just return to my precious and fleeting sleep, but eventually I just conceded and arose–bleary-eyed and humorously off balance–preparing for the dangerous, late-night trek to the chamber of her incessant calling.

You see–even though she’d been living here for over a year now–her stuff was still far from settled, and in the dark of the night, our carpeted hallway became a minefield for potential stubbed-toes and rolled ankles.

I reached her door miraculously safe and let myself in unannounced, but she knew I would come if she kept at it, so I doubt she was alarmed. My exceedingly cautious journey had re-instilled some vitality into my murky mind, so I greeted her with a playful, “Cranky old gal, aren’t you?”

There, looking back at me with big, wonder-filled eyes that mirrored my own, was a beautiful, eighteen-month-old Chloe. Smiling, I shook my head and sighed as a victorious grin crept across her perfect, chubby cheeks. Side-by-side, we slept with perfectly-synced heartbeats and dreamed ambitious dreams, composing our ideal future together.


Father and Daughter - Paul Simon


***To ease the mind of my mother, I'll go ahead and publicly state that this is definitely fiction, haha. I have had the pleasure of seeing snapshots of a friend's life as she raised her daughter, Chloe, and I thought I'd write a piece of prose from my observations of the joy I see constantly in their relationship.***

Wherever will we go, the day we realize that we too can fly?

Tragic - 285 Words
Aaron Dethrage

The real tragedy is not that Romeo and Juliet die. It’s not that Ophelia never learns to swim, nor the sizable funeral necessary for the Lear family, nor the slow dissolve of manipulated Macbeth. The real tragedy is the way the world looks after one of these masterfully constructed endings slips from our trembling fingers to the unforgiving table beneath it. In an instant, our entire existence becomes as hard as the creaky, varnished wood that serves as the floor beneath our feet.

Tragedy, real tragedy, reveals to us a part of ourselves that we want to strangle, bag, and bury with the roses behind our house; but we can’t–despite any degree of effort–forget these things we learned.

Tragedy serves to teach us that all of our fantasizing as children–the perfect worlds we imagine, the happy endings we expect, the beautiful family, the perfection of love, every little thing that drove our existence–was a lie. People are conniving and cruel. Things don’t work out. Misunderstands, more often than not, culminate into disaster and bitterness. We all die, alone and defeated. The entire weight of the terrifying reality of the human condition is placed in our infant hands.

I once heard of a place free from this knowledge–though, I must confess, every bleeding body and crying child on channel-after-channel of television causes me to question the possibility of such a different and beautiful escape. Regardless, the proclamation the rumor makes is that the people don’t dream, because dreaming implies a potential for failure. Instead, with closed eyes and smiles that could blind the sun, they spread their boney arms to the wind and they fly–fearlessly, majestically, and eternally.

Sunday Bloody Sunday (U2 Cover) - Lisa Bresna

Do you wonder if time will find us?

Lake - 132 Words
Aaron Dethrage.

The lake–while far from clear–is tranquil, and she is telling me all her secrets. Here, amidst a towering cityscape of trees and a soft breeze that’s lacing my fingers like an awed lover, I float on my back and stir gently with the current, listening to the words of the water. Her inflection rises and falls with each ripple and wave. She is telling me of her crystalline shine in the thick-iced winter and the tapestry she becomes with every spring sunrise. She is enticing me to stay, to abandon my life in the city for the peace I find with her. It’s easier than I expected; I raise my hands above my gradually submerging head and slowly sink away from the world–embracing the only love I’ve known.

Loxtep - Annuals