Mikal O'Boyle's Blog

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Tom was a ginger cat with a badly damaged earWho roamed the towns of Mayo, Claremorris being near On a cold and wet autumn day when the rain was pelting downTom ran through a garden wide, hoping to be found.
Out came a tiny human, jumping in the puddlesHe spotted poor ol’ freezing Tom, and gave him tons of cuddles.Tom was not used to love, he was an awfully lonely catBut this human boy, so full of joy, plucked him from where he sat.
The boy was very warm and gentle, careful not to squeezeShaking Tom, who was dripping wet, curled upon his knees.“Pretty cat,” said the boy, smiling with perfect glee“I’ll keep you dry, so don’t you cry!” he said after a sneeze.
Wrapping Tom up in a jumper, the boy watched him sleepWith purring sounds and fluffed up fur as soft as the wool of sheep.He ran inside to tell his Mom who didn’t mind at allIf Tom stayed in the yard during the wet and chilly fall.

Tom was a ginger cat with a badly damaged earWho roamed the towns of Mayo, Claremorris being near On a cold and wet autumn day when the rain was pelting downTom ran through a garden wide, hoping to be found.
Out came a tiny human, jumping in the puddlesHe spotted poor ol’ freezing Tom, and gave him tons of cuddles.Tom was not used to love, he was an awfully lonely catBut this human boy, so full of joy, plucked him from where he sat.
The boy was very warm and gentle, careful not to squeezeShaking Tom, who was dripping wet, curled upon his knees.“Pretty cat,” said the boy, smiling with perfect glee“I’ll keep you dry, so don’t you cry!” he said after a sneeze.
Wrapping Tom up in a jumper, the boy watched him sleepWith purring sounds and fluffed up fur as soft as the wool of sheep.He ran inside to tell his Mom who didn’t mind at allIf Tom stayed in the yard during the wet and chilly fall.

Lorcán was the child’s name who saved the ginger kittyA boy of two, a twin through and through, who loved to sing a ditty.Eóin was his brother clone who was as serious as a judgeHe was fond of cats, tight knitted caps, and ooey-gooey fudge.
Eóin had been taking a nap when Lorcán shook him awakeTo tell him of poor ol’ Tom, the cat he saved from a snake!“A snake?” Eóin asked rather scared, as he had never seen one before“It had rolling eyes and was eight foot long and roared a terrible roar!”
Lorcán’s hands spread out wide to show the length of the beastBut Eóin wasn’t impressed at all. He was frightened to say the least.“I snatched Tom up just in time, but the snake got his ear,Well not all of it. Just a bit. He made the smallest tear.”

“Is it gone? This eight foot snake? Did you chase it out of Claremorris?”“Of course I did. There is no more beast. I defeated the Snakasuarus!”Eóin started to feel much better after Lorcán told his taleThen he thought of poor ol’ Tom, and his face went rather pale.
“I’ll go to Tom and bring him food. He must be starved to death.”So Eóin grabbed a plate of fish, making sure to hold his breath.For Eóin hated the smell of fish, there’s simply no denyingBut with gravy poured all over it, it’s a dinner fit for a lion.
The sleeping cat shot straight up when he spotted the lovely dishBecause everyone knows that cats love the taste of a smelly fish.He gobbled it up in quite a hurry as he hadn’t eaten all dayAnd all that was left were scales and bones of that delicious fish fillet.
Licking both lips with a smack, Tom was finally contentHe rubbed his head against the boy from whom the fish was sent.But poor ol’ Tom didn’t know that Eóin was a twin.Poor ol’ Tom simply thought that Eóin was Lorcán.
Now poor ol’ Tom was just a cat, how was he to knowThat kids can sometimes look the same the more they grow and grow?So he carried on, being fed, without having a clueThat his master dear wasn’t one, but rather made of two.
Back and forth went the twins, born of the very same ilk.Sometimes bringing Tom his fish, and sometimes bringing milk.In turns they came to play with him or tease him with a stringBut he liked it best when Eóin baked or when Lorcán wanted to sing.
Either way he was happy cat, fat with love and foodHe even let alone the birds that in the morning cooed.But poor ol’ Tom got so fat he could hardly move his pawsHe was so fat, that poor ol’ cat, couldn’t move his claws!
Eóin tried to lift him up, but the cat was just too fatLorcán tried to lift him, too, but he shouted out “Well, drat!”They feared for Tom, the poor ol’ cat, who couldn’t run aroundWhile Tom began to mew a lot and make an awful sound.
There was just one thing the twins could do for poor, fat, ol’ TomThey went into the flower garden, begging their dear sweet MomTo let them use a blanket old, with blue and yellow stripesThen they went into the big garage and found two rusty pipes.
They stretched the blanket between the pipes and tied it very tightSo that the blanket looked something like Eóin’s favorite kite. Both of them grabbed two ends of the pipes so very longAnd carried it all the way to the poor, fat, mewing Tom.
Next to him they laid the pipes, and rolled him in the middleWhere poor ol’ Tom could do nothing else but with his whiskers twiddle.But when the twins rolled him in, they did it rather fastSo that poor ol’ Tom’s dizzy spell seemed to last and last.
 As the twins ran with Tom, he swore he saw two boysAnd heard not one, but rather two, voices making noise.He rubbed his eyes with his paws to try to see more clearBut no matter how hard the poor cat rubbed, there was a boy in front and rear.
So the only thing Tom could do was tightly close his eyes Feeling the blanket, as the boys ran, quickly fall and riseFinally the blanket stopped, and Tom was lifted highBy two hands he didn’t know, and a face of a friendly guy.
He turned Tom round again and again then stretched his ginger tail,None of this did poor Tom like, so he gave out a pathetic wail. A metal thing that was very cold was put up to his chestBut this metal thing wasn’t the worst. It was better than the rest.
By the time the man was done, Tom was very vexedHe lied back in the blanket old, and fell asleep perplexed.When he woke the boys were gone, and everything did seemTo be nothing but a silly joke, or maybe even a dream. 
Until he saw the two twin boys, coming towards his bedHe rubbed his eyes, once then twice, and shook his ginger head.“Oh well,” thought Tom, the poor ol’ cat who is still really lazy.
“I’m seeing double, that’s for sure! Poor ol’ Tom, you’re crazy!”

Lucky boy Levi clumsily tripped upon starFallen from the twilight sky up so very far. He pulled it from the glittering snow in which it was stuckThinking that this splendid star might just bring him luck.
In his pocket he dropped the star that shone out so brightThat Levi's shadow was hidden by the glowing halo light.Frozen by the winter cold, he hurried to get back homeHopping in the perfect snow that reminded him of foam.
Very slowly and very quietly, Levi opened the doorAnd slid through the little crack lit across the floor.Sneaking on tipy-toe, he avoided the creaking planksMaking sure to make no noise lest his mother wakes.
He nearly reached his bedroom door that was so very closeBut half way past the sitting room, Levi suddenly froze!Cozily by the cracking fire his father sat aloneSure to see the blazing light that from Levi's pocket shone.
Closing both his fearful eyes, Levi waited to hearHis father's voice, so angry and course, ringing in his ear.Three long seconds had finally gone without a single soundOther than his father's snore mixed with his heartbeat's pound.
Levi sighed with great relief and scurried to his bedJumping in without delay and laying down his head.But before he closed his sleepy eyes, the star he did withdrawAnd wished a wish for a little sis from Mr. Santa Claus. .Then under his pillow he hid the star so no one would ever knowBut shortly after he fell asleep, the star lost its glow.Morning came with the rising sun, but Levi didn't wakeUntil his mom kissed his head and gave him a little shake.
“Levi Dear, my lucky boy, there is something I have to tell.Our family is going to grow by one. My belly is going to swell.”Levi jumped up from his bed, excitement showing in his eyesNever in his short three years had he received such a surprise.
“Is a girl? Is it a girl?” Levi eagerly asked.“It is, my dear, a little girl. You're a big brother at last.”Bouncing upon his comfy bed, Levi shouted with delightWhile his mother watched lovingly her son take to flight.
His mother left her joyful son who laughed for quite some timeUntil he realized that just last night he made a wish in rhyme.“Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight.I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”
Remembering at last the shining star, he pushed his pillow asideRevealing nothing but shimmering dust where the star once lied.Smiling a smile rather large, Levi said goodbyeBut not before thanking the star for his sister Morgan Skye.  

Chesnie was a little girl just about your ageSnatched up by a Goomba Lurp and locked up in a cage!A very pretty girl she was with manners kind and sweet.The perfect kind of little girl that Goomba's love to eat.Walking through the flower garden, Chesnie had no clueThat waiting quietly in the pond was a Goomba colored blue.All the frogs croaked out load to scare Chesnie awayBut the little girl giggled instead thinking they wished to play.She bent down close and turned her head to listen all the moreTo the frogs who croaked so much that their throats were very sore.The Goomba Lurp spread his toes with webs between each oneThen he drove right in without a noise-of splashes there were none.He swam and slithered like a snake with horns all down his tailBaring teeth of an awful green and as sharp as a wire nail.Two bulging eyes glared at the girl, who pulled back her hairTo keep her locks from getting wet, she took extra care.The Goomba Lurp saw his chance and grabbed the little girlBut just before he dragged her down, she was spotted by a squirrel.Flicking his tail in wild fear, the squirrel ran up the treeChirping to friends, to birds and deer, and even to the bees.While the animals scampered above, Chesnie was pulled belowHeld on tight by the Goobma Lurp who's hunger started to grow.Into the cage he threw the girl, then locked it with a keyGiven to him as a birthday gift from the Loch Ness of the sea.It was fire-proof and unbreakable, impossible to undoSwallowed by the Goomba Lurp and he didn't even chew.An evil laugh escaped his gut and shook poor Chesnie's cageSo she shrilly shrieked in his ear, causing a red hot rage.“Quiet you! I'll eat you up! Just you wait and see,”“I'll have you with some filleted fish, or maybe even brie!”Another laugh burst out loud as he cackled at his joke.He laughed so hard, he couldn't breath and began to choke.Chesnie looked away from him, unable to hide her woeBut not far off in the pond, were fifty fish in a row!

The army of fish were aimed at her, swimming rather fastBefore she knew it, the fifty fish were becoming rather vast.One hundred fish swam her way: pike, carp, and troutAll the different kinds of fish seemed to be about.Shooting out from the lines was a minnow barely seenRight before Chesnie's eyes he shone with a rainbow sheen.“Do not worry, Chesnie dear, we are here to rescue you,From a squirrel the tale was told, about this Goomba blue.”Chesnie smiled in relief, thankful for the brave finned fishThat would save her from the horrible threat of becoming the Goomba's dish.Straight for the cage they all swam, fish, frogs, and snakesShouting out to their Chesnie dear to hold on for goodness sake!BANG! BAM! went the cage as it swung here and thereBut it didn't open, that rotten thing, the Goomba's vile snare!The Goomba chortled with a nasty smile to ridicule the pondAnd all its little creatures within and those far beyond.“Try to break my magic cage. See how far you get!The sooner you realize it won't break, the sooner you will quit!Better yet, here's an idea, you'll taste nice as a sideFresh and cooked, broiled and chopped, or maybe even fried.”He licked his lips and rubbed his hands ready to attackBut a brave catfish swam around and rammed into his back.Out came the key that he had tried to hide in his growling gutIt landed on the sandy ground perfect in it's shapely cut.One of the frogs shot out his tongue, sticking it to the keyFlinging it over to a water snake who set poor Chesnie free.The angry blue Goobma Lurp swiped out at a carpCatching him in his hands and opened his teeth so sharp.“Make him laugh!” Yelled the girl dizzy from the her terrorBut a nearby trout heard her words and made sure not to err.Swimming below the Goomba Lurp, the trout breathed out small bubblesThat floated up the Goobma's sides and caused him many troubles.He wiggled and shook and tried his best to keep his laugh insideBut he couldn't resist the urge to laugh no matter how hard he tried.Out it came in a roar, echoing throughout the waterHis hand released the little carp who happily escaped the slaughter.Right on cue the frogs released their tongues so sticky and longAttaching them to the Goomba Lurp who had done Chesnie wrong.Into the cage they dragged the brute, thrashing his arms and feet,Until the door was locked for good, the Goomba was finally beat.Chesnie swam back to the land, happy to see the garden.She thanked the animals, all of them, then begged them for their pardon.She was very tired and completely spent, and having been a mealFor a Goomba Lurp so utterly mean is quite a big ordeal.  

Priest was his name as inappropriate as that was since it couldn't possibly be his profession keeping in mind that he was, in fact, a cat, but his mannerisms were in accord with the black suit and white collar that he had donned every day since his coming into the world. His sleek black coat didn't have a single flaw; nor did his love for his master excepting one minor glitch. He was a cat, and in so being, his life span was regrettably short while his master endured a miserably long existence. At the cursed age of thirteen, Troy came across a kitten in a most peculiar way although for some bizarre reason, it didn't seem all that odd to Troy to see a small kitten, as black as turf bar the white splotch on its throat, curled under the warm insulation of its adopted mother hen. He found it somewhat admirable that a young cat should surrender its bestial instincts to the coziness of a hen's maternal protection. When the hen moved, so too did the kitten, and hence it was apparent to Troy that the kitten had developed a loving attachment to something as unattractive as a hen. It was a hard won battle to steal Priest away from the hen, but once the kitten felt the enveloping warmth of Troy's jacket, he was pleased enough with having a master. It was from that moment that the friendship was established, and happily so, as Troy was haunted by a perpetual demon that seemed to tortuously mutilate anything that he felt love for.
His parents were the only exception to the string of deaths since they abandoned Troy after dropping him at an orphanage. He had resided with multiple foster families, but each and every one of the houses had crumbled under some kind of misfortune that forced them to return Troy to the orphanage. The carers at the institute initially made a malicious joke out of Troy's seemingly inevitable solidarity, but the joke lost it's flavor after the boy's appearance took a disturbing turn for the worse. Eating had come to a halt, refusal to exercise melted his muscles down to skin and bone, and the absence of sleep had darkened and deepened his eyes. His hair was forever disheveled as were his shrunken clothes, and his skin was so extremely pallid that the color had absolutely drained from every inch of his body. This grotesque look startled and even frightened the workers and other children, and as there is always one child who takes it upon themselves to make matters worse, a rumor started that he was a living, walking corpse. As time went on, Troy limited himself to his chamber, and when new children came in waves to the orphanage, the rumor lingered and seeped into their ears, their chambers, and even their dreams. Poor Troy became a kind of a ghost, wandering around the the orphanage that had, through an extended rumor, transmogrified into his purgatory after he had committed suicide some years ago, and if one should wait up past three in the morning, they might just see the form of a weeping boy in the corner of the sitting room. There was no saving him. He was a lost soul.

A violent chattering of his teeth awoke him. He swept his hand across a hardened brow and brushed off bits of icy drops bejeweling his fur-edged hood. This rude awakening was followed by an irritated carping from his father who's voice was as rough as his wind-burned skin. The nagging continued until he sat up half way despite the strong gravitational pull of every fiber in his body to the soft, warm comfort of his sleeping bag. He had felt so wonderfully cocooned in his insulated bag that he had momentarily enjoyed a very deep slumber, unconscious of the horrible reality that his shelter was constructed of a mere teepee shaped hut and the ground below him was nothing but stiff ice that was unsettled only a few yards away from him. It was shifting as the spring equinox tide shrank slowly back into the sea, leaving caves and crevices in the abandoned ice. Within those caves was a treasure worth more than his own life. It was more valuable and desired in the Inuit community of Kangiqsujuaqthan gold or rubies, and all he had to do in order to gather this treasure was crawl through the crevices, drop down into the tunnels of the caves, and snatch it up from the ground. Mustering as much optimism as he could, he dared not think in too much depth of the reality of the task, or more mind-consuming, the ultimate consequence that was simply impossible to push aside. Although he closed his eyes and focused on the brighter side of a successful day of mussel hunting, there was just no ignoring the intimidating thought of what could happen, and in fact, has happened to past harvesters. Nevertheless, the treasure, the multitude of glimmering mussels with their rich source of food and life preserving powers, was worth more than his one extra mouth to feed in the community. Should he steal a decent amount of mussels from within the ice caves before the tide returned thirty minutes later, he would feel a wholesome satisfaction of having supplied not just for his blood family, but for his communal family as well. There was great honor in returning with mounds of mussels, but there was also a throbbing internal relief in simply returning. The latter feeling, he always thought, should be kept within but secretly shared with all. 
Two tight pulls of his boot laces, a snug fitting of his hat over his ears, and a wiggling of his fingers into his very thick gloves was the commencement preparations for the father and son who were embarking on their very critical mission.The time, as his father urgently warned him, was now, and both of them scrambled for all the tools needed for the job. The old man, though silent with worry, was less concerned with himself and more desperately overwrought about his son's welfare. While his dry, unyielding expression of solemnity was frozen on his face, the turmoil inside him was unrelenting. The rising knot crept up from his gut and ballooned in his throat, but he swallowed hard and flushed it back down. This happened four or five more times before he was confident enough that he could speak to his son without being betrayed by the emotional menace now weighing heavy in his stomach. He shot out short sentences to the young man bending over his bag of supplies. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, the son turned to look at his father and nod in understanding of the commands, but his father recognized in his son's eyes a deeper comprehension of the major risk at hand.Despite the blatant threat of an impending danger, and despite the fact the father's commands were completely void of affection, the young man still followed the old man out into arctic surroundings of the tent; and though no word was spoken, there was within that short moment of mutual understanding a vital connection that was more powerful than a long embrace. In that short hesitation pride was exposed and acknowledged.
The older man, stuffed inside numerous layers of insulating clothing, walked forward with his back to his son. His strides were even and confident. He was a veteran returning to the call of duty, but this time he was jeopardizing something very precious to him to teach a lesson in self-sufficiency and manhood. Through the soft wool interior of his hat, he listened for his son's footsteps. They were quicker than his own but just as unfaltering. Something like a smile cracked his crusty lips into a slight curve for but a moment, revealing a few dark yellow teeth. The smile retracted back into a thin line as he reached a spot that experience would recognize as a good point to start breaking a hole into. The snow appeared to be a bit unsettled and recently shifted. Without turning around, he motioned to his son to hand him the pick that he would employ for creating a fissure to climb into. Wanting to assist his father with utmost competence, the son untied the pick from his bag and placed it in his father's outstretched hand that was reaching blindly towards him. Immediately his father started hammering into the snow sending chips of the chiseled ice in all directions. Despite his aged appearance, the old man was very capable of the physical exertion that such a job demanded. The son watched in admiration as his father chopped persistently into the thick layer of ice for a good length of time without requiring a moment's rest. The power exhibited in each strike was staggering as he arched his back, raised the pick high, then slammed the point into the ground, inching his way down into the caves of the ice. Eventually the final layer of ice broke away, and a hole big enough for them to fit through was established. He then hammered a stake into the ground a few feet away from the hole and tied a rope around it. Standing up straight and turning to face his son, he nodded as a signal that the time had finally come.
The mussel harvesting was ready to begin and the time was ripe for the younger man to put his hand to the test. Without a second's consideration, the father held on to the rope and plunged down into the depths of the ice, landing solidly on his feet. The son, a little less confidently, grabbed the same rope and leaped in after his father, stumbling a little bit on the landing but still remaining on his feet. The old man steadied his son by grabbing a hold of his shoulder, then he switched on the lantern that was attached to the belt around his hip, and pointed down at the shiny black shells that lined the seabed. For the first time in his life, the young man witnessed the natural beauty that stimulated both his appreciation of these small, unrefined shells that provided a life source, and his fascination of the rude, uncultivated, mysterious world harboring these untouched organisms that are derived from an organic, primitive, and biological existence. A long span of black shells were waiting patiently to be plucked and carried off into the community to serve the people in a very important necessity of life. One by one the father and son harvested them silently, focusing on their task while remaining aware of the ebbing time which evoked a sense of urgency in both of them. They decided to divide and cover more ground individually, but as soon as fifteen minutes were up, they would meet at the hole again. It was approximately thirty minutes until the tide came back to repossess the caves of its kingdom that have been plundered for years by generations of the Kangiqsujuaq community.A sense of belonging and gratification burned within the son who had walked so far down into a tunnel that he was about forty feet beneath the surface. Finally he had lent a hand in feeding his people like his father has done for years. He mused on this great new feeling rising inside him despite the groaning and slow shifting of the unstable ice no longer upheld by the sea.
About fifteen minutes had passed and the duo had collected an abundance of mussels. The sound of a low whistle reached the young man's ears, and he knew it was time to return to the opening that they had started at. His father had informed him of the practicality of the whistle technique as yelling could cause snow to fall. Upon his walk back, the young man marveled at the glimmering ice, the strong scent of salt and seaweed, the mechanic-like movements of crabs, and the sea-shaped arches, dips, and curves of the caves. He imagined the sea to be a god-like man, delicately sculpting the walls with a hand twice the size of himself. Waterfalls of glitter were sprinkled from the creator's fingers, shimmering on the floor, walls, and ceiling of the tunnels. Here and there shells were embedded with gentle pressure into the ice and crabs shuffled out of the creator's palm onto the floor. Nature had never unveiled anything as magnificent as these unblemished caves, and the son was taken aback with each step he took. He was so enamored by the secret, startling beauty unseen by most, that he arrived at the beginning hole without having noticed. Latching his bag of mussels onto the back of his belt, he clutched the rope, and with one foot after the other, he climbed out of the hole and back on top of the surface. Carefully he set the bag down, tightened the knot around the puckered opening, then returned to the fissure. He waited a few minutes for his father who didn't appear.
Somewhat worried, the son knelt down by the hole and issued a low whistle. After receiving no response, he jumped back into the hole and whistled again, but the result was the same. His hearing was encumbered by the loud moaning of the ominous ice and the scratching of the crabs legs, both of which were intensified by the heightened sensitivity of his ears. As the level of his disquietude became higher, his hearing enhanced all the more. Time was of the essence as he began to move in the direction his father had gone when they decided to cover different areas of the caves. He stumbled as he tried to remain calm. The melancholy moaning of the ice suddenly sounded infuriated, like teeth grinding down furiously. Both his hands reached out against the walls to assist his unsteady legs.As he hurried through the small tunnel, his feet trampled on and crushed a handful of open shells that were left shattered in the ice. Unable to control his fear, the son stopped abruptly, and for a couple of seconds he was overcome by insanity. The pressure of the ticking time and the concern for his father rattled him severely. The sound of his heart beat deafened him completely so that he couldn't hear anything other than its frantic pounding. Panicked, the young man scratched at his ears until they bled. Minutes were flying by so quickly that only five of them remained, and he had no clue as to where his father was. He dropped helplessly to his knees and pushed his palms against his bloody ears. It was a moment of utter despair, of loss and hopelessness.
Eventually the spell faded away, and his his body released itself from the tight contraction that had seized it. As he dropped his hands from his ears, he looked upon the red pools of blood in his palms. He was mute. The caves were mute. The sea was mute. Everything was silent except for a low, barely recognizable sound that echoed off the walls of his father's cave. A whistle. Another whistle. His father was trying to communicate to him. The broken durations and frequency of the whistles implied something dreadful as the old man was not inclined to becoming unnerved. Inflamed by the love for his father, the son raced in the direction of the whistles. Every now and again, he would be tricked by the echoes that bounced off the walls, leading him down the wrong path, but he wasted no time in discovering the mistake. Two more minutes had passed, leaving three to return to the hole and lift themselves out of the caves before the sea returned. The whistles were getting louder and louder and finally, with a surgeof both relief and devastation, the son found his father laying prostate with his leg pinned under a large block of ice. His leg was badly damaged as was made obvious by his face which was twisted into a grotesque expression of pain. Then he spotted it. The hard, white, definition of a bone was protruding from the old man's knee which was angled upwards by a rock partially submerged in the seabed. The ice had fallen on the point of his leg just below the knee so that as it pushed excessive pressure down, his knee remained in its compromising position on the rock. At first it frightened the young man, but as his eyes took in the whole of the scene with his injured father, the bare alabaster bone, the scattered mussels lying in front of an untied bag, and that horrible look on his father's face, the son felt something harden within him. It was deep down in the core of his body. It tightened and solidified, like concrete. A strange sort of compulsion moved his feet and arms towards the block of ice crushing his father's leg. As he lifted the cumbersome mass, his father crawled out from under the threat of the ice and immediately covered his face with his hands. The son dropped the ice block with a large exhalation and for the first time, he looked upon his father with pity.
With a small window of two minutes left to manage an escape, the son quickly grabbed his father by the shoulders, and with great effort, he heaved him up from the ground. His assistance was clumsy, however, and having grabbed his father's shirt instead of his arm, his father slipped down a little. This caused his father to instinctively step his foot down to balance himself, but he stepped with the foot that dangled beneath the fractured knee which elicited a guttural roar that vibrated the weakening ice. Almost simultaneous with his shout was a loud cracking noise that sounded like it just above the two men. They stood in silent terror, hoping that at any moment the cracking noise would cease, but it continued all the more audibly. The father's arm was swung around his son's neck for support, but as the cracking grew louder, the weight of the father's arm became more oppressive. And then, it began. The cracking noise emerged from the ice as an actual, palpable crack directly above the two men. It was inevitable that death should take one of the two men as the ice was impatient to crush its victim. Such a death would only be eluded once. Both men knew that it would be a matter of seconds before the crack widened, split apart from its support, and fell with fatal tonnage. It was also a matter of physical ability and sacrificing love that the son shoved his father from him and from the collapsing ice. His father didn't see the catastrophe that blanched his face and quenched the spark of life within him. He dare not look back to where his son has saved him and died doing so. All for a bag of mussels.
Another minute had passed, and the ice was beginning to cry out more morosely than before. To the father it sounded like a kind of a lament, and as he dragged himself back to the hole which was deceitfully close to where he had been, he joined in the dirge with a pitiful exchange of moaning and sobbing. The sound of water began to echo throughout the caves just as the man arrived at the rope. He looked at it imploringly. The dangling of the rope provoked awful images in his mind. Images that cruelly choked him to tears and terrorized him. The tight weave of the braid, the coarseness of its texture, even the feeble motion of it's swing brought about horrid thoughts for the childless father. He debated whether he should save himself, or surrender to the incoming tide. Should he share his son's coffin? Should he entomb himself in the ice caves and make this God forbidden place his sepulcher? Should he make his son's efforts futile? No. He should rise out of the hellhole that has destroyed him not because he was scared of death, but because he should honor his son's sacrifice. He would live in an anguishing torment for the rest of his days, but he would endure it and fulfill his son's wish. The old man, tears streaming from his burning eyes, tied the rope around his waist, and hoisted himself up with much difficulty. His arms were strong enough to pull his weight, and his good leg maintained a weak balance while he moved up and out of the cave. His bad leg banged against the ice occasionally, causing a searing pain to shoot up his thigh and down to his ankle, but he inhaled any attempt of outcry that challenged his steely composure. If only he had be strong enough for his son.
In time his head emerged from the hole, then his broad muscular back, and finally, most painstakingly, his legs. He looked at his bad legs as he dragged it far from the fissure he had made. It's broken appearance was similar to an old toy or a kind of rag doll. It just laid rigid and motionless, useless to him and his survival. The old man let his body fall back into the cushioning of the snow and stared with empty eyes into the sky. It was covered completely by clouds like a sea of white. Everywhere he looked, it was white. The sky, the snow, the ice, his bone- all of it was white. He teeth were chattering even though he didn't feel very cold. His vision was beginning to fail him as a dizziness blurred anything he laid his eyes on. It was comparable to opening his eyes underwater. Blood was pumping out of his knee and strangely he was comforted by the sight of something red for a short moment. It was so stark and surreal like a lucid water painting, but something was too obvious about it. The vibrancy of the hue was such a contrast to the whiteness of the snow that it suddenly scared him somewhat. The red was beginning to spread uncontrollably with waves being pushed out by each pulse that pumped through his body. It drained out of his body and formed a sea of red around him. The tide of red was reaching his face slowly, but he was completely paralyzed so that all he could do was watch it inch closer to his face as time permitted. The smell of the blood and salt was overwhelming. The cracking of the ice crashed in his ear as the caves filled with seawater. The ground was moving beneath him. Black blotches were appearing in front of his face. He felt his eyesight failing and giving into the black infinity of blindness. An endless sea of white, red, and black. That's all he could see. White, red, and black. And the tide rushed in.

Dearest Mae,
How long is it since I've been deprived of your existence in my life? How bizarre is it that despite our one and only meeting that proved to be as brief and precious as the life of a mayfly, my thoughts are always with you? For all I know, you are a very prosperous woman, gallivanting the world and building life where it was once abandoned. I hope you don't think me too whimsical in imaging you as a fierce, yet incredibly real heroine who bides her time by rescuing all the ailing children in the streets and improving their conditions so drastically that they are forever in your debt. Perhaps the last bit of your illustration is not too humbling, so I will alter it by saying that these children, now successful adults, will forever hold you in their hearts as a mother, a very dear friend, or even a saint. Yes, that seems to brighten the shining glow surrounding your grotto within my mind. It may be too much to hope, but whenever you come frolicking into my mind, I cross my fingers and entertain the thought that you are thinking of me as well. You know they tell me that we are identical. Imagine that! Well, for once, I can't imagine it; which is ironic enough because if I ever wanted to see you, I should be satisfied by my own reflection, but the woman who smiles back is always me, and never you. It simply isn't the same. Therefore I had a team of researchers tracing you. Honestly, that last phrase makes you sound like a hardened criminal, but you've escaped me for so long that I should think you a thief. You are my sister, so your heart is bound to mine, and if that be true, then you have run off with a good portion of myself, and I would be much obliged should you return to me.
I fancy your name to be symbolic of your own nature. May is the month of our Lady, and so you must pardon me for believing that you are as near to immaculate as any human being could possibly become. Well now you must pardon me for begging your pardon for believing something so gracious about you. It seems that I am going in circles with my letter, although the hunt for your location is a vicious cycle as well. Regrettably I must confess that I remember naught about you except that you loved to practice your braids on my hair. To this day, I have never worn a braid. It may seem foolish of me, but braids remind me of my lost twin sister. It is a shame that there is no evidence or practice of telekinesis within my mind. Evidently identical twins are said to have such powers, but I must be void of any such spiritualistic talents. Truth be told, the idea of telekinesis between twins seems like a bit of romanticism to me, but my desperation to discover you is so acute, that I childishly play into the fantasies because that is, at the moment, all you are. A mere fantasy. I have never felt your presence nor experienced anything you may be thinking or feeling. When I was younger I use to shut my eyes tightly and wish with all my heart that I would sense anything related to you, but I always had to yield my mind power to the common ability of imagining. I'll share with you one image where Mother sits near a fire with her beautiful Cherokee dress, and her perfect raven black braids resting on her shoulders, and her brown skin warming both of us as we sat near her on either side of her knees. She could always speak proper English in my dreams. You, of course, look exactly like me, but you always mimic my movements, which really irritates me. I suppose your behavior in my dreams is based off the only thing I know about you, which is that you are identical to me.
I confess, with some level of humility, that I write these letters as a form of therapy for myself. It may seem absurd for a woman who is now advanced in her age to be pining over a relation of whom she not only met briefly, but at such a young and vague age. I don't possess a single memory to invoke or even a picture to pacify this puzzling yet insatiable desire to stand before you as a sister who has recovered a lost treasure. There is some depth of emptiness within me that I cannot account for as I hardly know you. In fact, I don't know you all. I only know of you. However, there is a definite sense of claim that I have on you as family. That connection, though it be the bare minimum of a trace, is so compelling that it is like a tyrant reigning over me. The reality of my solitude has dealt a hand in this, reminding me always of your absence. I have no husband, no children, and no family with whom to share my company. All I am permitted is a hospital bed, a paper to fill in, and this busy pen which is capable of transforming these words into empty sentences. They are only empty in that I am the sole proprietor of their value. Unfortunately there is no known address of your current accommodation, but should we ever meet, I will have a novel of letters to present to you. Indeed there is an urgency about me to find you, one of rapturous and agonizing yearning. I am torn between reasons of sororal affinity and insatiability, the latter of which has a firm hold upon my will and ruminates upon fettering you once and for all in my world, fore I am of strong conviction that if I did miraculously capture you, the sinful temptation of coveting you would impel me to alter most unbecomingly into your oppressor. Of course such a transformation would be unintentional and provoked by my consuming fervor to have you near me. I am very passionate on the matter, as you may have gathered by now, but there is a more earnest explanation for that. Mae, my mystical sister, you have only existed in my dreams and yet I would be inclined to escape there with you as my reality is laced with a cancerous affliction that permeates throughout the whole of my body. I ache physically with a pain unimaginable to those lucky enough to have never encountered it, and yet, Mae, because of you, I can weave the tangible pain with that of your absence, and in this manner, I merge the two injuries, that of the body with that of the heart, into one. Only then can I believe that my suffering is as simple as missing you. I am told that my time in this world is limited which only inflames my need to see you all the more. It is imperative that you know, if you receive these letters too late should you ever receive them, that my intentions are not to make you feel guilty, regretful, or mournful. Please understand, Mae, that I have ardently loved you, missed you incessantly, and will with pure sincerity remain your twin sister wherever I end up. If permitted by the divine, I will remain your guardian angel with an utmost vigilance regarding your safety and happiness. And I, though having exited your world that we once shared, will have the satisfaction of beholding you once again.
Yours Always,Madelyn


© Mikal Minarich

Hidden, like the washed out stars in the lunar light, she wept. Bitterly. No one knew but me. No one cared as much as me. Behind the cracking white paint of her attic door, she stifled her sobs and choked on her melancholy. But like those forgotten stars, she still shined with a blazing light. I can even recall,though I doubt my memory at times, a carpet of light stretching out from under the thick oak door. Whether it was the setting sun or the glow of her  suffusing halo, the point of the matter is that the light was a ruddy red that imbrued the weathered planks of the floor, and it warmed them so much so that the planks eased into submission. As strange as that sounds, I swear to this day that the wood beneath my bare feet softened from its hard protest against my bodily weight. Although the warmth was inviting, I could never muster up the courage to enter her sanctuary. The closest I ever got to condoling her was flattening the palm of my hand upon the chipping paint and crying silently with her. At that time, I was ten years old and the word abortion was foreign to me. It was an insignificant word that tumbled out from my grandmother's mouth, but whatever it was, it brought about an agonizing, unforgiving, and relentless path for my mother to stumble and collapse onto. She had always been a beam of light in my short four years of life, but after her traumatic experience, which I had known nothing about at the time, the only light I ever enjoyed was that soft radiance creeping out from under the attic door. As little children do, I made up stories in my mind about the light. I invented millions of them to satisfy my hungry need to know why she hid herself from me, but my favorite idea was that her love and beauty was so powerful that she had to barricade herself behind the attic door in order to keep her bursting beams of light from harming me in some overwhelming way.
 I began to believe that her beauty grew out of her sorrow due to her regular visits to the attic. Despite her wet, smeared face, she was by far the most stunning when she was flushed and full of an enlivened passion for my lost sister. Bizarrely enough, she would open the door after a good hour or two in the room and stand towering over me in a romantic way that resembled a battle-worn heroine in a black and white movie. I had remembered watching Gone with the Wind with grandmother once, and Scarlet O'Hara's concluding scene of determination wafted into my mind, but my mom's relapses were frequent and eventually they wore her beauty and love down to a ghost of a woman who spoke only when it was necessary. In other words, she only answered questions or grunted out short demands, but her hands spoke endlessly to me. A pat on the shoulder, the brushing of my hair from my eyes, or a twirl of my pony tail in her fingers all indicated that my mother was trapped in the her gnarled body. Every touch was tender and caressing. I coveted them so much that I nearly welled up with tears whenever such attention was granted to me. Unfortunately this bliss, though greatly limited, only lasted as long as my innocence, and soon enough I discovered the meaning of this haunting word abortion.

It's difficult to explain what I felt when I found out the depth of the word and how much it effected me. First, I felt the complete and irrevocable loss of a sister. Second, I felt a nauseating confusion as to why my mom had done such a wretched thing. Third, my stomach lurched with the thought that it could have been me that she had aborted. And finally, with much regret, I was consumed by a terrible and violent fury that thrust me into the thinnest, basest form of relationship possible for a mother and daughter. The day she had figured out I had made the discovery is the day my mother's spirit broke. I couldn't invent any excuses for her crime, but what seemed more disturbing to me was how she couldn't handle the toll it had taken on her. Why would she plunge herself into her own hell and take me part of the way with her? I only had half a mother while the other half was a tortured soul that was far from comprehendible.

I will stop there as far as my contempt goes. Yes, my mother did something that was absolutely unacceptable in my eyes, but even so, it was not unforgivable. Looking back on the majority of my life post-revelation, I was a poor excuse for a daughter. I held a gun to my mom's head every day after I had learned the meaning of abortion,  and I gutted her with my emotional absence. What she needed most was her only child whom she loved far more than that ten year old could ever have imagined. Even my over-imaginative mind couldn't think up such a reasonable possibility that my mother had no choice in the matter. Then again, I was so angry that a psycho analysis of my mom was the last thing I wanted to do. But now, as a mother, I can meet my mom half way with the inconsolable loss of a child, not to mention one that you had a hand in. I also came to understand that my mother did it against her own wishes. I won't go into detail about it as it is her private issue, and if she wasn't willing to share it with her only child, then I will not disrespect her privacy. My grandmother deemed me old enough to grasp the feelings my mother felt when I had my first child, and she was right. When I found out the truth, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried for hours. How could I have been so horrible for so many years without having knowing her situation? Whether she had wanted to have an abortion or not, she was still suffering desperately. I was selfish beyond belief. I kicked her when she was down, and I put my own feelings above hers. I accused her and condemned her wrongly, and now I couldn't go back in time to change it.

Guilt can be an awful cancer. I felt sick for a number of days and didn't know how to confront her about it. I spent so many days in the bathroom, crying for my poor mom, until the day I opened the door and my son was staring up at me imploringly. Tears were in his eyes. It's incredible how  astute children can be. I embraced him and told him everything was okay, and it was. I knew what to do. I took my son over to my mom's house with a bouquet of flowers and knocked on the door that had a rusty 116 on it. My mom opened it slowly with a shaking hand, took one look at my son, then a shocked expression met my joyous one. "I would like to introduce you to your grandson Broderick." My son stretched out the bouquet to my mom, and blurted out that he was five years old. He pulled a few strips of  paint off her door while my mom and I exchanged looks. "I'm sorry." I mouthed to her. She shook her head silently, and hugged me to her with Brodrick squashed between us. The warmth of her arms was as overwhelming as I had imagined as a child. It delivered a solace that permeated every bone in my body. Somehow, my mother conveyed a desire for my forgiveness in the same moment she had given me hers. I just smiled and shook my head. I watched as Brodrick took her by the hand and lead her in the house. Her face was beaming with pure joy and love. I glanced at the white paint curling away from her front door, and as I walked past it, I knew the barricade between my mother an me was finally gone. 
© Mikal Minarich

Love letters have a way of greatly effecting the heart, for better or worse. And because of this, mine has been wrenched from my chest and thrust into the blistering embers of a dying fire. Firstly, to have received a letter written by her own hand, so delicately looped with the soft lines of her penmanship, raised my hope to the highest it could possibly expect to ascend. My name had been thought up in her mind before being formed by her hand, looked adoringly upon by her eyes, and spoken aloud by her mouth. Flutters of excitement burst within me before I had even unfolded the precise flaps of her disappointingly short letter. I was expecting the lines of the paper to be filled with loving words purging from a shamed heart after having hidden such feelings from me for so long. Alas, my eyes devoured the words on the page, and sooner would I have endeavored to forget the skill of reading than to have read her letter. Although it was a monumental encouragement for my own heart to speak out, it nevertheless revealed itself as a unforgivable folly soon enough. For only two days had passed after having received the letter before I discovered that my beloved Leona had hastened to resigned herself to the silence of death. My darling, beautiful, cherub confessed her love for me and stamped its stifling passion with her own blood as evidence of its domination over her. What she hadn't considered, to my eternal despair, is that I, too, had withheld my true feelings for her, and having done so, I have murdered, most mercilessly, my dear Leona. Her letter read as thus:
To what purpose is a mouth if it refuses to speakWhen passion is knocking at the door of my lips?Chambers so loyally guarded by silenceWill never see the evacuation of its coveted passions.A surging rush of love, hate, or, perhaps most dominating, sorrowShall never breach the citadels of those chambersOr clutch the lapels of a gentleman's thick, black coatTo shake his bones with a poignant confession.Imagination must then satisfy the unknown;It must fabricate such desired momentsAnd exhaust its most intricate inner workingsTo shape that gentleman's unexpected countenanceInto those dramatic expressions of the above three:A face stretched by a blissful smile of loveA face compressed into a scowl of irremittable hate,Or a face drooping with the heaviness of an anchoring sorrow.All unto which the confessor, the dreamer, the illusionistIs the sole and direct receiver of such attentions.Attentions that can all be classified as passionate.For some, the reality of parting those lipsAnd letting slip those hesitant, soul preserving passions,Is far too, excuse the redundancy, real.The imagination is a brighter, more pleasant picture.It permits the unlikely a chance at being not only probableBut vibrantly, unmistakably clear in one's mind.Why, then, would someone as dismally alone as myselfWelcome the unrelenting abuse of that realityWhen the beauty of .my imagination is a world unto myself,Controlled by myself, and ultimately relished by myself. Happiness, by individual standards, can only be reachedBy the imagination of that individual upholding said standards,And thus, by that fact, supreme happiness can only result from The unfortunate reality that fuels the passions of my imagination.