I am so excited to announce that I have published my second collection of poetry and short stories. Soon We’re All Gone to Seed is a compilation of scary, strange, and dark visions.
I meant to release this book last October, but you know, time just goes by. After releasing Reaching Marrakesh two years ago, I guess this collection needed more time to marinate, and I needed to write more stories.
If you like magical realism, ghost stories, twisted dreams, and a little bit of hope, this book is for you.
In case you were wondering, I self-published this collection. It is not easy to format books for print or e-readers.
It’s available on Amazon in book and Kindle formats. Enjoy!
Thank you for reading. Samantha Lazar is a writer, poet, and teacher living in North Carolina with the loves of her life. Her first narrative poetry collection, Reaching Marrakesh, is available here. Stay inspired!
Welcome to my new newsletter, which I will send out bi-weekly. My letter will inform you of my writing projects, stories, blog posts, and poetry. You may even find something that inspires you.
Thank you so much for reading!
Science Fiction Magic?
A few years ago, my cousin and I were waiting for the subway and riffing off each other’s ideas for Black Mirror episodes. I just love the brilliance of that show, and I wondered if I could write science fiction that reads like magical realism. So I re-published a short story (or first chapter, potentially) titled “One Percent.”
One reader commented: “This reminded me of a Black Mirror episode, but with a supernatural spec––the telepathy. I also enjoyed the atmosphere. The concept is really cool! I wanted to read more!”
Maybe you’ll enjoy it too and convince me to continue writing it.
Here’s an excerpt:
“Everyone meets online these days,” Melanie said. “I know, but this seems way more complicated than using Match or OK Cupid.” Lauren sipped her coffee and laughed at Melanie. She was always trying to set her up! “Just try it- I know it seems a little scary, but it really isn’t. Actually, I have found my real matches here. I mean, you do not want to meet up with just anyone, do you?” Nodding, Lauren avoided eye contact with Melanie. “Besides, Melanie said, “You can just delete it if you don’t pass the Portent. But I know you, and I know you will get in. You are one of us.”
Exactly a year ago, I released my first poetry collection, Reaching Marrakesh. My goal is to bring my second book of poems Sky Collection to life by the end of the year. Thank you so much for your support!
Two other books are brewing:
One is a collection of dark and chilling short stories and poetry, currently untitled. The other is a chapbook of prose-poetry entitled, Don’t Tell Grandma.
Did you know you can read endless stories by myself and many other inspiring writers on Medium? Consider upgrading to a monthly subscription here.
Follow along on my writing journey and be in touch here.
That’s all for now. Thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing work. If you enjoy it, please consider sharing it with a friend or your sister.
You go to the kitchen anxious. This is no way to greet your husband and the coffee he just made. But there it is. It’s almost sunrise. You cannot place your worry, and so it lingers in a physical need. You wrap your arms around his body sideways. He turns to you and wraps you into his chest. Fridge door light on you both, his hand releases the half and half.
He knows you. He knows your answer will be that you don’t know what’s wrong. Nothing is wrong. Everything is wrong. He’s on to you. He knows that you have been awake for a while. He knows that unconsciously you made a decision you might regret. Or not. It doesn’t need to be decided now. He isn’t psychic. You have patterns. He caught you still dreaming.
You both do the counting on your fingers and the deep breath you exhale. This exercise comes from the book you brought home to read with your son. You are worried that your son worries too much so this is a book about kids with anxiety. You know you brought this book home for yourself, too. You try the gratitude.
I’m grateful for you and for peanut butter and jelly.
He was in the middle of packing your child’s lunchbox. You sound silly to yourself, always the harshest judge. So you add intellectual silliness.
It’s just an amazing combination of flavors.
Your worries were there a minute ago. What was wrong? Hadn’t you been spinning since 4:30 or so? Is that the time the SSRI begins waning? Maybe you should up the meds. Maybe you should blame Mars for being so intense in your chart. Maybe blame the constant government chatter, the nothing that is being done, the injustice, your social media show and tell, is it enough? is it too much? The bills to pay late.
Yes, your gun tucked into your back waist band is hot, and I do not mean stolen — but you know what I mean. I see your ring, but you could be a model for J. Crew when I was into those catalogs. Your November outfit takes me camping, holds me with your eyes that have seen what I saw today. You live here right? The place where air is stale and the ceilings, although high, are uncomfortably low. Oppressing even a short girl like me.
The rooms, after an upgrade, a decision — they have stopped suicide attempts: less perforated surfaces in which to weave a thread through, less bars to noose sheets. The success rate of suicide since this detainment center’s grand opening (It is for detainment), is eight. Completion of suicide is considered a success. That is a low number, but I saw that thick file. I know an ex-boyfriend’s brother used a door knob. Sat down on his knees and leaned way into the choke. That is a whole other story. Still ghosts — when confronted with reality.
I looked back at the man in his cell. Catching his eye and looking away. He was grinding his body up against the BOLTED AND HEAVY door, while I watch the commercial on the TVs, he also sees. A preview for the final episode of American Horror Story. Don’t miss it. Or watch it later. Look away.
An inspection. The pain. The complete delusion. A mother’s son. I saw the library. The GED program. This was not me. This won’t be you.
But it could be. Flip the page. Like when I sat in my piano teacher’s waiting area. Waiting for this kid, who actually practiced, to be done. He got extra time. I was FASCINATED by the book she had on the coffee table. The kind with pictures, optical illusions of faces. Turn it one way, it is an old lady smiling in a feathered hat. Flip the page, it’s a pirate scowling, the feather turned beard and foul teeth.
In that way, I am looking out of my cell. It’s sticky and they will move me soon. I took the class on empathy and how to tell what anger feels like in my body. I connected with the characters in a book I found in the library, but can a girl get some romance reading in here? A microcosm. Dental. Vision. Pharmacy. I got what I need.
What Ellen remembered most about Hill was his voice. He was always singing. And when he talked to her, he was completely there, listening to everything she said. He spoke like he was a 50 year old 16 year old, and Ellen was enraptured by that voice. He didn’t treat her like a little sister. He didn’t care that she was 12. Ellen was nobody’s sister. She also loved that he played the guitar.
When she saw him in Kevin’s garage, and Lori was there too, rolling back and forth on a skateboard covered in stickers, Ellen wanted to understand their language — how they spoke to each other after school. Knowing someone else’s problems and pains was like being in a secret club. She knew there were things that happened at their school that she could not imagine. But riding her bike by day after day, she saw them and waved.
Hill was the only one who really spoke to her. He even had a song she imagined was for her: “The Neighbor Girl.” She loved him.
Ellen didn’t know where Hill lived. His name was not really Hill — that was his middle name, a family name or something. When she asked him his name, he teased her; “It’s Frankenstein,” he said in that voice that filled her mind. Thick and full of laughter. She would marry him.
Hill often came over to her next door neighbor’s house. Kevin’s mother didn’t care that they smoked. She wondered if Brooke knew that Lori smoked. Ellen knew secret things about Brooke’s older sister.
Brooke was supposed to be Ellen’s best friend, and they would play “Time Machine” in Brooke’s backyard. Ellen wasn’t as skilled as Brooke at staying in character, but that was the main rule of the game. Brooke would spin Ellen on the tire swing: spin spin spin until it stopped and Ellen was dizzy — a delicious feeling. What world would Ellen wake up in when the swing came to a stop? She loved that Brooke ran away to set up while Ellen twirled. Then, when she got off, she would be in another land in another time. And the game went that they could not act as though they were in a game. They had to stay in character. Brooke would then act as a man at times, leading Ellen through riddles to find her way back to the portal. There was nothing that could interrupt this game. It had to stay this way.
Some times, Brooke let Ellen spin her and lead. But Ellen always loved it more when the magic was created for her. She was not as good at coming up with new characters and places.
Once in a while, Ellen would get off the swing, and she would be in some kind of time warp, where Brooke pretended to be a farmer or some other character who would act very suspicious. In a time warp, Brooke would not talk to Ellen. She would stay completely in character and speak to herself or other imaginary characters, but never to Ellen. Her immunities would not work in this situation, and she would have to figure out how to get back in the time machine without Brooke’s help. She could not get back on the tire swing and spin herself, because this was against the rules of a time warp and of the game in general. The other person had to spin you. So Ellen would be stuck in the time warp, and she had to figure out the right language or code word to make Brooke give her some clue to lead her back to reality.
Brooke was Ellen’s most exciting and stubborn friend. They could never break character. It was this illusion of reality that was different from playing “house” or “Let’s pretend” because in those games you could say, “let’s pretend that you have a baby, and now we are going to the store.” The rules of Time Machine were that no one was allowed to change the course of action without directly acting. One could not say, “Let’s just say you recognize me from another life time and it all feels familiar and we know we are soul mates and we fall in love.” It did not work that way. You could not verbally try to change the course of action. No one was in control, except Brooke, who loved to see Ellen frustrated.
On this particular day, Ellen was not much into the game, but she played it anyway, being Brooke’s idea. She was thinking of Hill and how she had seen Lori yesterday over at Kevin’s. She was standing in the field, and the wind was blowing quite fiercely. She was dizzy from the tire swing, a particularly rough swing; Brooke had grabbed the rope and pushed her into the tree. She hit her knee briefly before flying into the wind. Blood was seeping into her sock now, but she barely noticed. Ellen watched Brooke across the field, over where her dad mowed the lawn by the garden. It was late summer. The sunflowers were bent over and drying.
Clouds were gathering bulky above her. An August storm was tucked under those clouds.
Brooke’s back was to Ellen, and she was not speaking to her. A time warp. Ellen was annoyed. She wanted to talk to Brooke about Hill. She wanted to ask her about Lori hanging out with him. But Brooke would not speak to her. She doubted if Brooke even knew she was off the tire swing and coming over for the first clues to get her out of here. “Brooke,” Ellen called to her.
Brooke said nothing.
The only thing that could break the game was if their parents came to get them, and even then they continued and worked it into the story some how.
Ellen wanted to leave and go home. She suddenly felt furious. She sat down on a tree stump and cried.
That is when Brooke’s older sister, Lori and some of Lori’s other friends pulled into the gravel driveway in Kevin’s blue Isuzu Trooper. Lori and Angie were 15 and in 9th grade. But a couple of guys they hung out with were older and drove. One of them was Ellen’s neighbor, Kevin. His arm hung out the passenger sidewindow, a lit cigarette between his thumb and pointer finger. Another guy drove Kevin’s car. Lori was in the back seat with Angie. Ellen looked at them, her eyes swollen with tears. Brooke ignored them.
Ellen was embarrassed and frightened because they were playing this game, and they were in a time warp and how would they in that big car understand that? And she knew Brooke would not break character for anything. What would Lori say when she got out of the car? But that did not happen. They just seemed to be sitting in the car in the driveway. No one was talking. They were listening to a loud song. Kevin bobbed his head. The driver’s eyes were closed, his head against the back of the seat.
Angie, bored, looked out the window at Brooke who seemed to be talking to fairies in the tomato plants. Ellen wanted so badly to just figure out this code. To work her way back to the reality of this situation. Maybe she could just go up to Kevin’s side of the car. Work them into the story some how. But she knew Brooke would not play along.
Ellen stared at Angie. She was not particularly a fan of Angie and Lori. They were the girls who barely spoke to her in the presence of their boyfriends.
Four years earlier, Lori and Angie had set up a haunted house for Brooke and her in their basement. Ellen had been so excited about the attention and the creative way they were playing with them. Upstairs, they kept knocking on the basement door from the kitchen, impatient and bored.
Finally, the door opened with a creak. “OK. Come down girls, we are ready for you!”
They felt their way down the pine stairs in the dark until a small red light guided them through white sheets hung on clotheslines. A fan created wind. The bulges in the sheets made Ellen sweat in anticipation of a werewolf popping out to eat her alive. The bulges were an old lawn mower. A stepstool, a coat rack. She could hear a dripping and pipes churning from a flushed toilet upstairs. She heard Brooke’s breath and her own and the slickness of her sweaty hand holding hers.
There were no signs of Lori and Angie, but they knew they were somewhere down there waiting until the perfect second to get them to scream. The basement was enormous. Underneath their tiptoeing feet, it seemed every step was an eternity as if they were walking under water or being pushed back, warned against the evil that awaited them.
There was the dripping and the drone of the fans and the dim red light that lit up the whiteness of the sheets and a chalk drawing on the floor an outline of a body — was that blood or paint on the floor? Ellen’s eight-year-old heart was beating out of her chest. Brooke acted unafraid, although Ellen felt her wet hand.
Ellen felt herself begin to cry, and she wanted to say, “Let’s pretend the lights are on! Let’s say this is over! Let’s say your sister is not a demon and this haunted house is over!” But of course she didn’t break character. They could not because they were really scared. They could really feel claws upon their throats, tearing into their young bodies and dragging them off to a smoky boyfriend’s garage where they stared droopy-eyed all day, waiting for something to happen.
And then, it did happen. Ellen felt hands across her stomach, grabbing her, and Brooke screamed or laughed. She could not tell because they were shoved into a crawl space that had a door that locked. It was a storage room maybe; it smelled like mice, old and damp and infected with worms and spiders and mothballs. And the door clicked and they were completely locked in and alone.
“Don’t worry,” Brooke said.
Ellen pulled her knees to her chin. They heard two sets of feet above them stomping up the stairs, the door slamming shut, and laughter. And then, the feet walking around upstairs in the safe un-haunted, brightly lit kitchen above them. It would do no good to scream or kick at the door. For they would not let them out even if they broke character and said they gave up. It was all just pretend. Ellen would not believe it. Even in her fear in the dark.
The back door creaked as Angie reached over to open it from the inside. Wafts of smoke shot her in the face. Ellen stood on her toes, hanging on the roof and the window frame, not getting in. Lori got out and ran inside. The engine was still running; a hard guitar song was reaching its end. Kevin ashed his cigarette out his own window, got out of the car to switch places with the other boy, and slumped over in the driver’s seat. He leant his head on the steering wheel. This normally talkative bunch was silent.
“Are you getting in?” The other boy said from the front seat.
This was not someone from Ellen’s neighborhood. She had not seen him in Kevin’s yard. His hair was red, long and straggly. He spoke through the back of his teeth. His eyes were large and squinted. He looked like he had been crying.
“Kevin, please take me home.”
“It will cost you,” he mumbled.
“Aren’t you playing with Brooke? Where is Brooke?” Angie said.
Ellen turned back towards the field where it looked like Brooke was watching, but she was trying to act like she wasn’t. She was squinting in her glasses and hiding behind a butterfly bush in her mom’s garden. Ellen knew she wouldn’t leave her character though. She would not leave the game, even if Ellen did get in the car.
Lori came running back out of the house. She had a backpack and she had put her long hair up in a ponytail. “What do you want, Ellen?” She pushed past her leaning on the open door and got in.
“Scoot over, Lori,” Kevin said.
“We are taking Ellen home.”
“What? We can’t,” she said, pushing herself over on the backseat and pulling the heavy backpack between her legs.
“Please Kevin, I need to go home.”
“Isn’t your mom coming to get you today?” Lori said.
“No, I was going to spend the night, but I don’t want to anymore.”
She grabbed her own pack from the stoop on the front house and got in the car. Trying to not choke on the cigarette smoke.
Kevin put the car in reverse and started down the road. “We just have to make a stop first, Ellen.” He said.
“Where are we going?”
“We have to go find Hill.”
Ellen’s heart filled with longing. She wanted to be with these kids now, but she was afraid.
The country pattern of this side of town was rolling. Everyone had large tame yards and fields of dried sweet corn spread out on the right. To the left was a church, a feed store, some yellow barns, a yard of cows. Ellen had ridden out this way once before; when she and Brooke went with their dad to pick up something from a man who lived in Cross Plains. He had made them stay in the car. Three barefoot boys came out to see who was there. Brooke half-waved. She acted as though she didn’t know these kids, but Ellen saw her face redden, ashamed of being friends with them.
The bus didn’t go this way for Ellen. She rode through town to get to school.
“Where are we going?” She leaned forward from the back. Kevin’s eyes darted at her in the mirror.
“Not really sure yet, but I think he is out here. Where else could he have gone?” Kevin turned up the stereo. Ellen didn’t know who it was. Some louder guitar and drums.
“He said to bring you,” Kevin eyed her in the rearview mirror.
The boy sitting next to him turned around and grinned. He had braces with blue rubber bands.
This was the most he had ever revealed to her. Kevin was usually aloof.
Ellen sat back in the seat and closed her eyes. She heard his voice again. “He said to bring you.” And then, the memory of Hill that day. He had kissed her behind her house. Mom had been at work. The low hiss of cicadas in the trees grew louder as she stood leaning on his chest. He turned her around. What did he say? She loved to pretend she could not remember. To hold herself back from the whole memory. And think about seventh grade. Think about shoelaces and algebra. Think about her mom being at work at her desk all day with important people, important papers that kept her late. Feed yourself tonight, Ellie. I am working late. Latish. The cicadas and his baseball cap. The smell of his sweat. The mystery of Hill. Knowing less before he leaned over to her. Kept it secret, even from herself. So she could shine in that moment, before it happened. Over and over. She was in love. She knew Hill would not ever really leave her. Not really. She imagined them old, rocking chairs on their island patio. They barely spoke because they knew each other so well.
“I don’t know why he has to play such a game,” Angie said, “we all know he is bluffing. He won’t actually go through with it.”
“Shut up, Angie,” Lori pinched her arm. They began a pinching match in the car, squealing and rolling over on top of Ellen. She tried to move over into the door to get some room. The window screeched as she tugged at the opener.
Ellen realized she had no idea what was happening. Or where they were going. They crossed into the next county; farms rolled out in front of them. The braces boy passed a small metal pipe into the back with a closed fist. Then a lighter followed. Angie pulled a large cloud into her mouth and tried to cover her mouth as she spit out coughs.
Lori gave Ellen a hard stare, “Don’t you mention any of this to Brooke. We should have taken you home.”
The wrapper, melted onto the candy, made more noise than Alex could take. She had finally found a place to be alone, buckled into the back seat of the Toyota Starlet, directly behind her mom. She held the candy in her lap, and desperately scraped her nails against the slick plastic.
“How was Grandma’s?” her mom caught her eyes in the rearview mirror at a stop sign.
“Fine,” Alex said, “but practice was hard today.”
“You are getting so strong! Did you have to do underwater drills today?”
“Mmmhmm,” Alex looked out the window. Tiny beadlets of rain drifted down the window. Alex played a game she often did with raindrops. Each drop was a traveler, and she had only a moment to name them and give them a story before they traveled to the end of the window. There is Sally, on her way to New Zealand. She will meet a sheep herder and have a baby…
After a minute, her fingers felt the edges of the wrapper, and Alex was as determined as she had been to get to the end of the pool without coming up for air, mind over matter…mind over matter, her lungs burning, but her want to win burned more. “Nope, start over! “Her coach called out at the edge of the pool when Alex’s head gasped above water only five meters left.
Now the candy was finally free from its sleeve and without looking for her mom’s eyes in the rearview mirror, she popped it into her mouth.
Strawberry fireworks and dreamy sugar- it was so worth it, she thought.
“What’s in your mouth?” It was her mom.
“Candy,” Alex drooled a little bit when she said it.
“Where did you get it?” The car drifted over the line; her mom turned around in her seat to look directly at Alex.
The tears just flew out. She couldn’t stop. She did not understand why she took it. She just could have asked her grandma for the candy. But the Pick-a-Mix station was too inviting. It was just too tempting, and she wanted it. She didn’t want to ask for three cents. She told herself they were free samples. Everyone could just have one, right? Ten minutes later, she paid the grocery store manager for the candy and apologized through tears for stealing.
It was Saturday again. Alex spun around in her bathing suit. The thick soft carpet of her grandparents’ living room hugged her toes. Her long brown hair was still wet from swim team practice, and she danced pretending she was the prima ballerina. She could smell the barley soup cooking on the stove, and she could not wait to eat. Her grandma hummed something that sounded like “You are my Sunshine” in the kitchen.
As she spun and leaped on her tippy toes in her imagined ballet slippers, she smiled at the familiar painting above the couch, a boy and girl walking in the woods. Then there was the other stuff she had always known: the bird house clock tick tick tick tick, the bronze chicken statue, the collection of eggs on shelves, blue marble, and blown glass, ceramic and plastic- gifts from over the years from clients of the Egg Company, her grandparents’ business. Around she spun: boy and girl in the woods, tick tick tick tick, chicken and eggs, kids in the woods, tick tick tick tick, chicken and eggs. She felt quite dizzy when she stopped in front of the egg collection. Applause and roses rained down on her from all corners of her mind, and she stood transfixed.
At eye level, there was a miniature basket of eggs. Alex giggled. It was the cutest little basket. It had woven fibers and the littlest blue eggs. Alex imagined it sitting on the littlest kitchen table in her doll house. Tiny and secret and easily hid. And the next moment, the basket of eggs was in her palm and then in her swim bag that hung on the pegs.
The front door startled Alex, and it was her grandpa, grinning slyly at her. His grey hair was slicked over to the side, a golf bag slid off his shoulder.
“Hello, my beautiful!” He picked Alex up and spun her around, “What’s cooking?”
“Soup is ready!” her grandma called them in for lunch.
When I was little, I was a flying champion swinger. I could swing for hours and hours, a little aspiring trapeze artist, although we only had about 13 minutes of recess. And that was only if we weren’t made to stand silent on the painted footprints on the black- top, our backs turned toward the screaming delight of our classmates. Standing silent on the those footprints meant we had gotten our names on the board with a check, and possibly two checks if we had been especially naughty. Our music teacher, Mrs. Gish, was constantly putting our names on the board. It was just that she was a source of ridicule. She had been seen, at some legendary date, putting what we thought was lipstick, on the tip of her nose, where a small wart lived. She was seen, probably by a sixth grader, the source of all things known and unknown in the school, applying some cosmetic while hiding behind a cubby in the band room. From then on, we third graders had a really hard time singing for her, playing our recorders for her without short bursts of contagious laughter behind her back. She could only guess who had started it. And so it went that the last child left smiling when she looked up from the piano, was sent to stand on the footprints at recess.
When I was not in trouble, I would often participate in the flying contest. It was not so much about the swinging, as it was about the leaping off from your swing and landing on your feet, no matter how badly the stab to the heel and then up to the knees. To win you had to land on your feet and from a great height, furiously pumped. There was the one, two, three, and all would leap that forbidden arc. One day, when I was involved in this contest, feeling quite confident in my abilities, I found myself flat on my back and unable to move.
When I was a little kid, I saw visions often. My brain would tell my eyes to see things, and there they would be. It was often when I was trying to fall asleep. I would see little things floating in front of my eyes as if they were on a carousel. Sometimes it would be items that made sense together- like toys- a rocking horse, a jack in the box, some marbles, a doll- floating in a rainbow arc and around in a circle. Notice me, they would say. They would be there with my eyes open to the twilight coming in the window. They would be there when I shut my eyes- blue black with flashing yellow. They were real to me. Sometimes, the visions would be unpleasant- like ants in a pile or a wasps’ nest. I knew they were not real, but I thought I could still play with them- no matter how much I wanted them to go away. I would squeeze my eyes tighter- shutting out any possible thing from attacking me through the slits of my eye lids, and there the floating visions would be. Once I saw people, strange small monsters walking towards me. They kept coming and would never reach me, but they kept coming, There they were in three dimension- I may have been able to shake their hands- find out what they were really about, but they never quite reached me. They would just back up and then come towards me again. I always wondered where these visions came from.
I sometimes would try to play games with my own mind. Sometimes during library time, I would try to feel dead. Just blank unknowing. Nothing. I found it quite impossible though. I would think about these things as 7 year old. Use my imagination to manifest a feeling. I was quite good at it. I could alter dreams- have control over the outcomes. I could will myself into a flying dream- or into something I wanted to actually feel scared of. I thought I had control over what happened. If I wished hard enough, something would happen. If I willed it, a bunch of wrapped presents would appear under my bed. Or my dad would come home and play with me. Of course I did not have control over these things, but it did not stop the little me from trying and continuing to wish.
Off the rocking chair- I am calling to my dog, who has not come home for over an hour- but it is a warm strange February night- and I attribute it to the volcano erupting on the horizon west of here. Not directly in front of me, but its rich colors seem to be adding depth to the pink sunset rolling over this valley. I am not as worried about the lava hitting me, evacuating- but in noticing that it is there, I am worried all the same. This all has been brewing for quite some time. Low rumblings that I have tried to ignore- but sometimes quietly asking another person if they sensed it too- but then- there it is- flowing out.
An opportunity to look out- as you can do from porches- of life going by. Beyond the tree line there is someone waving to me. It is then I squint, even though I have my contacts in and it does not make it any clearer, this habit of mine. But there is this person waving to me- are they beckoning to me? It is hard to tell the direction of their hand from this distance. I am called to walk over and talk, but for now, I want to look out and see the expanse of possibilities from the porch.
The front of my house: This is the place where I can go to rest but be seen and see what is before me. I decide take my tea to the back porch- sipping as I walk. Here it is. A bucket of red paint, a half spiraled canvas red and golden still open and waiting for me. There is some uncut grass- grasping for light seeking water, unkempt, growing in all directions. And there- unbothered by the sight of the destruction, or the people calling to me, I feel at home.