Slice

If you've ever wondered how weird a wedding can get and what secrets can be kept- this is the story for you.



The bride is seconds from walking down the aisle and I’m fighting hard to not scratch behind my left ear where the tiny incision was made. Must not draw unnecessary attention to myself.

Peeling chords from the pipe organ start up and there she is: blonde curls piled up high on her head, flowing lace wrapped around the curves of her body. The white of her teeth as she smiles matches the white of her dress. Is DM smiling? My eyes dart up to where he stands in a fitted black tuxedo at the altar. Yes, he is smiling. His emotions appear: happy, loving. How can he do it?
I bite my lip; a nervous habit I have acquired. Perhaps I too have become more integrated.

Turning my head, the bride, Melissa Timber, is her designated name, is now beside my pew. Her eyes are on me for a brief moment, smile gone. Does she know? DM assures me she does not. Another second and she has moved on toward the altar and her beaming husband-to-be. Looking back at him, I wonder for the two hundred and fourth time how this will work.

But the preacher takes the microphone and they say their vows. The words seem simple and contrite to me but the weddings guests dab at their eyes, so I suppose the words have fulfilled their emotional purpose.

Later, I sit at a lavender-covered table in the overly-lavish reception hall, pretending to be interested in the spinach salad. Melissa’s sister and Maid of Honor, comes to sit beside me. Her face expresses friendliness, but I am certain her motives are interrogation.

“So, how do you know the groom, Damien?” she asks, while blinking her overly-large brown eyes more times than necessary for lubrication.

The training comes quickly and I answer, “We are foster siblings.” Deception is still unnatural for me though and the incision behind my ear prickles. “I am his closest thing to family,” I add and that sentence contains more truth.

“Where are you from?” she cocks her head.
DM, or Damien, as the humans call him is brushing Melissa’s check with his fingers as they dance close. An unidentifiable burning radiates in my chest and I almost want to answer her with the truth.

“Seattle,” I state, resorting to protocol. The truth would prove disastrous. Why would I have thought about telling it for even a second? Are my own emotions at the proper functioning level? A server in a black suit is coming around with glasses of Champagne. I take one. My understanding is that the alcoholic beverage is to be used as another ritualistic tradition in the celebratory ledger of the night’s events, but I drink the glass’ entire contents in one bubbly swallow. Liquor is the one commodity I have taken fancy too.

“Is that why you two are so pale?” the sister presses on and I wish she would cease speaking. DM is now kissing his new wife.

“That is correct,” I reply, looking for the server for another drink.

“You aren’t blood-related?” she continues.

“No.”

“That’s funny. You have the same pointy kind of nose. If he had long hair and legs like you, you could be twins,” she giggles.

Failing to see the humor in this, I stand. “I can assure you, we are not blood-related,” I state and walk away through the mingling crowds to a further corner of the room. Not wanting to engage in conversation, I fain interest in the photo montage of the happy couple playing on a screen. But there is a tap on my shoulder.

DM is standing behind me, his shiny black hair matching his tuxedo. His had is outstretched toward me.

“It is custom for the bride and groom to dance with their family members,” he informs me in his trained, smooth voice. Putting my small hand in his, he takes me to the center of the marble dance floor. Most of the guests are watching as the music starts up and I do my best to play the part of adoring sister. Melissa dances with her father nearby and gives me another hapless look.

“Melissa likes me no more than she did before,” I calculate then whisper, “You are certain this is the right course of action?”

DM smiles. “It’s a little late to change it now.” He flashes the silver ring on his left hand.

“But these things are not permanent for us,” I say lowly. “We could still leave, get a start with a new set of humans— one with less risk of exposing us.” My eyes bolt back to his human bride. How long can the deception be kept from her? Her knowledge of us would break command number one. We would be terminated. So would she and any other human with the same knowledge.

“RX,” he calls my name and gives a light laugh, “you still don’t get it. This isn’t just an assignment to me now. These—” he lowers his voice, “these humans— they’ve changed me. I feel like I can feel the way they do, actually know joy, fear, loneliness— love.” His words trail off as he gazes at the human bride. I do not comprehend the same emotions, but perhaps— loneliness? Then, he turns back to me and says, “I understand it’s not logical, but that’s the way it is.”

“No, it is not logical,” I confirm the assessment. I do not understand why we cannot complete this assignment, return to our home base, and— “What am I supposed to do?” I ask him, the odd burning getting worse in my chest. I gulp hard and scratch behind my ear at the little raised red line. “I cannot return without you.” We are like the heart and lungs of a human body— one cannot work properly without the other.

“RX,” he brushes my cheek the same way he did the human’s, “It’s going to be ok.”

I never understood that human expression until that moment but he was wrong: it was not going to be ok. The burning spreads to my throat as the song’s final chords are drowned out by polite clapping and RX returns to the human he loves. Why did you have to pick her? I want to shout. Why couldn’t you have found someone else— one of your own kind? But the words remain silent in me as the couple takes a silver knife in both their hands to the perfect wedding cake. Everyone is smiling and joyful around me, but I felt like that perfect cake, now ripped open and sliced.

Wrapped in Rain

Song Lyrics:

Wrapped up in rain,
Thunderstorms are calling,
Seeping out my skin,
Pouring out the pain,
Dancing now- wrapped up in your rain.

Ice melting off fingertips,
A crimson sun rising,
Makeup’s all running,
Like a hot roof on my lips,

In my dreams again,
You and crickets,
Swaying hammocks,
A clouded gray sky.

Here we are again,
Even if I knew you completely,
I never would have expected this,
Like an August kiss in January,
Being wrapped up in… rain.

Away- Song lyrics

Away

Sadness drapes over me like watery veils of silk,
When all the flowers turn to shadows in your hair,
You’re right here, but I can’t touch you, can’t speak a word,
Your blue-jay soul will flit away.

I grieve for my condition, because I can’t seem to find the answer
To all these yearnings, these empty pages and frozen hands,
Where is my happiness, when you’re my every joy,
And you’ve gone away?

Time’s too long to tell me how to turn back the hands,
Start a new beginning with you,
Carry us to a land that’s ever green and never gray,
You’ll never go away.

There’s a tripping frantic little girl in me,
Wanting to take your hand, whisper in your ear,
Tell you all my crazy dream secrets,
Make it so you’ll always be here,
Never to go away.

Miss me pretty little blue jay,
When all the flowers have turned to shadows in your hair,
The light is fading fast and you won’t stay,
Time to flit away.

Toes and Tears

This is a story I am entering into the Mormon Channel's short-story contest for Pioneer day. It has to be a fiction about the early saints and less than 800 words (so short!). I'd appreciate feedback before submitting it. Thanks for reading!



Toes and Tears

“Oh God, please let me keep my toes.” This was the silent prayer I uttered as I removed my stockings in the early gray morning light. The night had been cold- impossibly cold, and though Thomas and I did our best to keep warm, my naked toes that morning were a deep purple.

A month ago, I would have cursed the ice on my lips, the ache in every bone, because this was not my trek, and not my religion. But that was a month ago and things had changed.

If it had not been for the promise I made Mama to take Thomas West with the Saints after she was gone, I would have turned my petticoat around and headed right back to Nauvoo. I was barely seventeen, and after Papa died of the fever, it was Mama who believed the Prophet Joseph Smith and read their strange bible, not me. But we had to burry Mama next to Papa, the Saints were leaving, and there was only one group left. Thomas was only twelve and needed looking after though he was a bother more of the time than not.

“Marianne, my toes are as blue as rocks,” he called to me, holding his ever-growing foot in his hands.

“Mine are too.” I tied the boots and stood. “Grab some cornbread and let’s get going. You know Brother Jacobs likes to get an early start.” Brother Jacobs’ oldest son, Tanner, was watching me with brown eyes across camp, but he quickly acted like he was sharpening his knife instead.

“Tanner fancies you, you know.” Thomas nudged me playfully, making me spill crumbs on my dusty blouse. Blushing, I gathered my tattered skirts and spun around so neither Thomas nor Tanner would see.

Tanner Jacobs was the one who helped cause the change in me. The first weeks on the trail had been hard: our feet and hands swelled red blisters, our legs tingled with exhaustion as we pushed them further each day to avoid the winter approaching faster than an eight-hitch wagon, but none of the others complained. I could not understand why. One morning, I caught a reflection of myself in Sister Myer’s hand mirror: the creamy white skin of my nose and cheeks was spotted with blotchy freckles and I just broke down right there and cried.

“Your name is Marianne, correct?” Those were the first words Tanner Jacobs spoke to me later that night around the campfire when most of the others had gone to bed and my tears and finally dried up like the dry creek bed we had hoped to find water in.
Thomas was sleeping with his head on my lap so I nodded my head so as not to wake him, but Tanner Jacobs did not stop there.

“My mother tells me you are not a member of our faith?” His eyes were gentle, but I was terrified.

“She is correct,” I confirmed in a low voice, unable to look anywhere other than my brother’s mud-crusted head that I picked at.

“This journey must be even more difficult for you,” he stated, rubbing the rim of his black hat.

“I do not know why you all do this,” I admitted. Thomas was a believer and he tried to explain it to me, but as the company prayed, blessed their sick, buried their dead, and preached their doctrine, I still didn’t understand why people would sacrifice so much, a part of me wanted to, but Mama’s death seemed to have scooped out a big hole in my heart.

“Have you ever read this?” Tanner asked, pulling a Book of Mormon from his coat.

Again, I shook my head.

“Well, I would like to give this to you then,” he stated and set the small book into my hands. “Perhaps it will provide you more meaning.”

That night and every frigid, star-filled night since, I read the book. That is when the change started: the throbbing in my legs seemed to lessen, my understanding of Mama’s death became clearer, and the hole in my heart filled with the purest joy I had ever felt. I came to know, as the other Saints did, that this was the gospel of Jesus Christ restored in its fullness at last upon the earth. The Savior knew us and loved us as a Church and individually. He would not let truth fail upon these frost-ridden plains. That was why I journeyed with the Saints toward Zion now, because even if I lost my toes, I would never lose my faith.

City of Elite- Part II

The staccato click of my heels on the marble floors echoed the beating of my frantic heart as Jonas and I paraded into Benazir’s Palace. I wanted to thrust my hand into my bra to make sure the zip drive was still there, but there were too many opulent people milling about the lavish two-story sitting room sipping champagne.

“When do we meet Breyers?” I whispered to Jonas, while scanning the proud faces around us to determine which might belong to the gutsy reporter.

“Just after dinner,” Jonas hushed, his breath smelling minty.

“Can’t it be sooner?”I groaned, not wanting to be ogled my Sheikh pig-fiancé while trying to remember which fork to use.

“They’ll notice if you’re missing before,” Jonas explained while we bobbed heads to several British diplomats that smelled too strongly of lavender and Gray Earl. My stomach gave a walloping roll and I didn’t know if I’d be able to keep dinner down.

“Where are we meeting?” I gripped his arm a little tighter.

“In a private room upstairs,” he said with a wink of his big, brown eye.

“You and me sneaking to a private room after dinner? That sounds a little um—“ I blushed, “suspicious.” What would people think of me going off with the son of a tutor when I’m engaged?

“Better for them to be suspicious of that,” he squeezed my hand playfully, “than to know the real reason.”


True. A bell was rung and we followed the other guests to the long dining hall where hundreds of gold plates and carved crystal glasses were set like art. Crimson tapestries adorned the walls and the windows overlooked the lush palace gardens.
The sun was setting, causing the palm leaves to turn tangerine. My parents sat somewhere in their chairs like thrones, but I avoided them entirely by sitting near the servant’s doors.

An Arabian quartet entered from those doors carrying a lute, tablah drum, Egyptian harp and mijwiz and soon their haunting melody spilled into the hall as platters of spiced fish, curry chicken and a hundred other dishes were set steaming before us. Normally, my mouth would have salivated just at the thought of Benazir’s kitchen, but my stomach was twisted worse than a knotted cobra as Jonas pointed out all the secret service men overlooking the scene from the dark corners of the room.

His magnanimous Mohammed el-Tayyi paraded into the room adorned in navy silver-threaded robes and matching turbine. “Ugh. I can’t believe I’m engaged to him,” I muttered lowly. In a swoop, he bowed to his father at the head of the table and kissed his hand. After sitting himself proudly at his father’s left hand, his hawk-eyes swooped down the seats until they found me. I wasn’t sitting by him, which was ok, because it wasn’t typically custom for men and women to eat together like this, but Dubai isn’t really the most traditional place with all the western influence, and I’m sure the British dignitaries had something to do with the seating arrangement tonight.

Still, my fiancé’s black soul-less eyes made me squirm. I tried to cross my legs, but the magnum .44 brushed against my thigh and I thought I’d really vomit then.

“Steady, Tori,” Jonas whispered to me, and the hand he put on my knee was the only thing that anchored me to the room the rest of the meal.

“Come now,” his words brushed my ears as the final plates were cleared away and guests were moving to the ballroom. “While Mohammed hook-face isn’t looking.” His hand slipped down my arm, causing ripples of fire to light my nerves.

“Yes,” I took a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”


Avoiding eye contact with any other person, Jonas stole me away up the grand staircase above which an ethereal blue and purple sky had been painted.

We stopped on the third floor at a carved alabaster door. Jonas knocked twice softly. The door was opened by a burly man in a dark suit- a body guard, I presumed.

“He’s in there,” the guard bobbed his head to the back room after the door was locked behind us. Two more dark-suited men stood as still as the room’s luxuriant furniture by the oval alcove at the back. I was admittedly impressed; this reporter sure came prepared, body guards and all.

In the alcove, at a small circular table a man in brown suit pants and blue pin-striped shirt was turning on a laptop. “Good to see you again, Jonas,” he said in a tone that was smooth and pleasant to listen to.

“You too David,” Jonas bobbed his head to Bryers. Behind him a camera man was setting up more equipment. My tongue felt like it had swollen ten times. I never was good with public speaking.

“And this must be Victoria.” The reporter took my hand free hand into his. “It is a pleasure to meet you. How much time do we have?”

“Before they notice I’m missing?” I twisted my mouth to the side. “Fifteen— maybe twenty minutes.” I wasn’t worried about el-Tayyi. He was probably making plans with some other woman for tonight right now, but my parents—

“All right then,” he clapped his hands together. “Let’s get going.” He motioned to two seats opposite his at the table. From the window behind him, the dark-navy night sky jutted out from behind the millions of city lights, it was like Christmas every day here. “Jonas told me you have some very important information.”

I coughed and scooted a little closer in my chair, wishing I could just bury my face into Jonas’s neck. But, Jonas nodded his head and gave me a reassuring smile which was all I needed to remember why we were here. “I do.” But where do I begin? “You are aware of the assassination of the Arab Embassy leader here in Dubai last month?”

“I am,” Bryers confirmed, his pen hovering over his notebook.

“Well, the people responsible for that are the same ones here in this palace tonight,” I hurried in a hushed tone, hoping that Bryer’s lifted eyebrow didn’t mean disbelief. “But it’s more than just that— it’s the Korean civil war, the Russians nuclear weapon development, the leverage used every day to influence the government of the United States and a hundred other nations that are indebted to them—”

“Hold on,” Bryers stopped me with a hand. “This sounds like a lot of conspiracy theory to me—”

“I have proof,” I told him. “Here.” Blushing slightly, I pulled the zip drive out of my dress. “This has everything you need. All my father’s personal files, emails, weapon designs, bank statements.”

Bryers green eyes studied the small zip drive like it was half-gemstone, half-bomb. “Whatever is on here, we need to download it onto my computer now,” he rushed. “We don’t know how much time we have.” Agreeing, I put it into his open hand, glad that the burden was now not in mine.

“They are going to blackmail half of Europe,” Jonas added as Bryers plugged it into his laptop. “It’s going to create a world war.”
“
All so they can keep their wealth and hold their influence,” I added. “My own father—” I started, but hot unexpected tears filled my eyes. Swallowing what felt like a softball, I tried to gather myself and continue, but before I could get out another word, there was a click of the lock opening. Dark suits whirled into motion, guns drawn and a scream bubbled in my throat. In an instant, the bodyguards had apprehended a single intruder whose face was pressed against the floor. Discreetly, the door was closed and sealed once more.

“What happened?” Bryers demanded in a low tone as he strode to the guards.

“He had a key,” one of them replied, pulling the key out of the man’s hands.

Something about the dark-green tailored suit was familiar.

“Father?” I asked, as the guards forced the man to standing.

“Victoria?” His face was red and swelling slightly from where it had hit the marble floor. “What on earth is going on?”

“What are you doing here?” I shot back.

“I saw you go upstairs with that—” my father’s light blue eyes turned to ice as they stared at Jonas, “young man. I couldn’t just let you— I had no idea, all of this was going on.” His gaze turned from Jonas to Bryers and his mouth twisted sourly. “I know you. You are that reporter.” His head snapped back to me. “Just what is going on her Victoria?”

Jonas put a hand on my arm with a look that said, “Don’t tell him.”

But my words couldn’t be stopped now, and soon he’d find out anyway. “I know what you’ve done father. I know everything.”

My father’s face was poker-smooth. “What are you talking about, honey? Why don’t we tell these people to go home and you and I can talk.”

“It’s too late. I’ve already told them and soon the world will know too.” I glanced back at the zip drive still plugged into the laptop. My father followed my gaze.

“Victoria, you don’t know what you’re doing. Whatever is on there, don’t send it.” But I was already on my way back to the computer.

“I’m not a child anymore father.” I refreshed the screen and saw that all the files had been downloaded, including the pre-recorded video I’d done earlier. Jonas came to my side, steady and solid.

“You’re going to destroy everything we’ve worked for,” my father exclaimed, lashing against the arms that held him.

I logged into YouTube though my whole body was shaking now. “You should have thought about that when you destroyed the lives of all those people.”

“That was unfortunate,” my father agreed in a nearly-sorrowful sounding tone, “but it wouldn’t have had to happen if there was any other way. Please don’t do this. You are going to ruin yourself. They’ll never let you get away with this. They’ll discredit you, shame you into silence, or worse—”

“Don’t pretend to care about my safety,” I nearly shouted. “You sold me off to the highest bidder as soon as you had the chance.”

“If this is about el-Tayyi, then I’m sure we can figure something out,” he pleaded, the lines of his face drawn down hard making him look ten years older.

“This has nothing to do with that.” The file was uploaded now. “You and everyone else in the City of Elite have been drunken with your own power for too long, it’s time to end it.”

“Please don’t,” he begged, his eyes that I had looked into for love and praise all my life, now filled with tears, “for me, please.”

My heart sobbed, my fingers hovering over the mouse. Was this the same man that used to put me on his knee and read stories to me? The same man who I had adored for the better part of eighteen years like only a daughter can. The same man who allowed thousands of people to be murdered to further his own agenda? But could I be the one to loop the noose around his neck?

“It’s time Father,” I said flatly and without another hesitation hit “send,” exposing the City of Elite and all its crimes at last to the world.

City Of Elite

City of Elite
Short Story by Heather Choate
Part One

I slipped a .44 magnum into the rim of my panty hose. There were 15 rounds loaded in the clip, but I hoped I wouldn’t have to use them. I’d never shot a gun before— at a human that is.

The teal silk dress fell to my ankles and easily kept my secret. The mid-June air of Dubai blew in hotly through the open window as I strapped on the pearl-white heals and fastened the last bobby-pin into my brunette hair. Looking into the mirror, I was stunning of course, but felt scared out of my Wonderbra, and it showed in my eyes. I smudged on a little more eyeliner to try and hide it. Who would have thought that I, Victoria Juliet Hannagan, just two days after my eighteenth birthday, would become a threat to international security?

Or supposed threat, I should add. The only threatening thing about me was that I knew too much and they knew it, but nothing would be done, yet. Tonight I had to expose them to the world, while I still had a chance.

I made sure the zip drive was still securely fastened to my bra. Jonas had another, just in case. He was supposed to meet me at the staircase and accompany me to the dinner at Benazir’s Palace as my “friend,” of course. No one should suspect that my pre-arranged marriage to his holiness, the Sheikh Mohammed el-Tayyib was in danger. What a sicko he is. By the end of the summer, I was to be his fair-skinned, Western arm-candy. This is a prime example of the politically-based psychotic nonsense that emerged from this place. Hidden in Dubai was the City of Elite, or the City of the Power-hungry deranged, as I like to call it, and I’d had enough. No more will these people, which I’ve lived my whole life with, be allowed to dictate behind closed golden doors what happens to the lives of millions of innocent people in this world.

All of that would be done away with tonight, the only thing to do now, was act natural through the dinner and social hoopla— but acting natural was proving to be the most difficult part. I would have much rather run through the streets with a big sign, “Take down the Elites before they destroy you all!” but that would have landed me in only one place: an unmarked grave as I’m sure my parents would have wanted. I thought I could trust them, at least my Mom, but clearly strings of diamonds around her neck and arms was more important.

The sick thing was, if it weren’t for Jonas, I’d probably be as naïve and brainwashed as the rest of them. Growing up in a place where the cushions were made of dove feathers, the ice cubes imported from Russian glaciers, and the chair your butt sits on dusted three times a day, it’s no wonder these people don’t want to give anything up, especially when it’s been handed down for ten or more generations. “It’s just the way things are dear,” Mother said while combing her hair with an ivory comb (yeah ivory, as in the tusk from a slaughtered elephant), “You can dream Utopia all you want, but there’s nothing you or I can do to change anything. Just be grateful for what you have.”

Running my fingers along the gold-plated brow of my vanity, knowing it would probably be the last time I saw any of this, I knew that none of the “things” I possessed would ever compensate for the cost with which they were bought. I took a deep breath, snatched a couple hundred dollar bills (the last thing I’d take from this place) and folded them into my purse with all my credit cards (unlimited accounts). Unplugging the cell phone with the secure line, I said a little prayer, “Please let this work,” and then plunged out of the room in a whirl of silk and perfume.

Jonas waiting at the base of the stairs, his usual unkempt hair, combed and even sprayed, made my heart trip a bit, but the house maids sneered at his presence in the illustrious palace and that was ok. No one would suspect anything between me and the lowly son of a tutor.

“Wow, Tori,” he held a hand out to me, and though he had put on cologne, he still smelled lightly of the leather-bound books he spent so much time with, “You look amazing.”

“Thank you,” I bobbed my head in the customary fashion. Ugh, that’s going to be a hard one to break. “You look nice yourself. You sure you don’t want to become one of us?”

He lowered his voice, his lips brushing my hair and said, “I’d rather rot in Prince Mohammed el-Tayyib’s sewage tank, thank you very much.”

“I thought you’d say that,” I giggled, but my nervousness made the sound come out a little hysteric.

“Don’t worry,” he squeezed my hand as we stepped out of the foray and into the warm spring air. The native violet hyacinths were blooming and their exotic spicy scent was invigorating, but I was all hyped up on adrenaline and invigorating was the last thing I needed. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Mm-hmm,” was the best I could manage. Other citizens were perusing out of their luxurious homes and mansions, converging together to the waterways like a stream of Prada chiffon, Zejna suits and gemstones. They carefully stepped into the little canvas covered boats that took them upstream to the looming palace of Benazir.



Jonas and I got in our boat too and for a while the only sound was that of the hot wind rustling the plam leaves, the traffic of the city and the low churning of the boat engine. A few turns later and the exhorbant palace was in view. Tonight the bastion was particularly gaudy because it was the 65th birthday of dear Mohammed el-Tayyib’s father and all the crepe paper from China was imported to adorn the illustrious walls and cavalcades.

“You are sure Bryers is the right one for the job?” I said in a low tone as Jonas and I merged into the river of citizens and followed the flow upstream.

“Definitely,” he assured. “He reported on Darfur. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.”

“Or killed?” I pressed. “That’s what he’s up against. These are the most influential people in the World, they’ll trample his career at best and trample his body at worst. They’re behind every war of the past four decades, they subdue Queens into passivity, blackmail Emperors to civil war, bribe Presidents, they…”

“I know,” Jonas shushed me with a finger to my lips. “That’s why we’re doing this.”

My mouth snapped shut. He’s right. I really ought to be more careful. Who knows how many bugs they have around here and who could be listening? The worst thing I could do is blow it now. I’ve already talked too much, aroused too many suspicions, but fortunately, my biggest flaw was also my biggest asset.

“You’re barely 18 darling,” mother told me, “barely able to vote, and you’re a woman. Who’s going to listen to you?”

“Because I’m a woman?” My chin jut out. “But there are plenty of influential women: Laura Chinchilla, Pratibha Patil, Mother Theresa, and…”

“And the fact is,” she interrupted, “you’re none of those. We may have named you Victoria Juliet after powerful women, but the fact is, the only reason why you or I, have the privilege of living here is because your father reached the multi-billionaire mark at age 28 and had to be recruited into the society because of his influence. It’s a man’s world, dear.”

Yes, and I know about father, I wanted to say but pinched my tongue with my teeth. In 2000 when the U.S. government refused to fund his latest weapons-technology, father sent a discreet amount of funds to Al Qaeda to help send a “message” back to those that refused him. That act alone resulted in the fatalities of 2,974 innocent American lives. And I had all the evidence on this Zip Drive.
The hundreds of Benazir’s Palace windows glowed like the stars of heaven against a fiery desert sunset ahead of us. Picking up my gown a bit, the .44 brushed against my legs, but I didn’t let that startle me.

“We can do this,” Jonas assured me as he helped me out of the boat and onto the stone paved walkway.

“Absolutely.”

It’s not just a man’s world, Mama, and if that is how it’s going to be, then it’s time to stir things up a bit.

*****
© Heather Choate 2010

Trailing Sister

This piece is admittedly one of the hardest I've ever written: one because I'm wanting to gather a greater audience and that is both terrifying and exciting- putting myself out there to be judged nearly makes my finger's freeze, but even more than that: this I wrote from deep within tonight. Not wanting my writing to be too surface, to have real depth and meaning and put a part of myself truly on the page.

Darkened heart scabs that prick at me within,
Writing from that squishy place is so hard but needed now,
The pains my soul bore are now passed on and born by another,
Sweet little sister, please don’t suffer any more.

I was there too, thought no one understood,
Could possibly understand what its like,
Barely coming to know who I am in this world of water and dirt,
So many faces, telling you what to be,
But the one you needed most is the one that brings the sting.

She is sick sister,
She doesn’t know what she does, how one word changes everything,
Her love is real, but her mind is broken,
Like looking through the shards of a shattered glass,
Build your own mirror now,
One that you can look in and always like what you see.