The Little Devil

It was much too quiet. The green light on the monitor was steady, but I had just laid the baby to sleep so I wasn't expecting to hear him crying. It was the two year old. She never napped, and she usually announced her arrival by clumsy steps which would stamp rather than walk. When she did walk she muttered nonsense to herself, but when she ran with a quick thud-thud-thud of size 2 shoes, she always shouted. Her laces are always untied of course. It's a miracle she's never in the hospital with some sort of mild concussion, but just as I was thinking that, the house became uncomfortably silent. I feared she had fallen somewhere and I didn't know where she was. I felt my suspicions rise, followed by worry and panic. I yelled for her. No answer. I looked behind doors and under beds. No child. I yelled once more and was answered by the baby's cry over the monitor, but the two year old was my priority. As often happens when one is apprehensive, I began to think the worst. She had fallen down stairs, or she had discovered how to open the front door, or was the door to the pool locked? I looked everywhere and no two year old. Then, stopping me abruptly in my tracks, was the little girl's full-on stare. 

What Little Remains

Eerie is the absence of people in the presence of dead houses. Mournfully dead houses that once were alive and had once sheltered a handful of families now lie wasting and overgrown with tall grass in the deserted village. Large, crumbling stones attempt to maintain a shelter-like formation but yield unwillingly to the unjust cycles of time. These stones have been heaved from the bowls of the native soil for the purpose of human survival, but now they resemble jagged, shattered teeth protruding from the ground. Long blades of grass sprout out from within the bedroom, kitchen, and fireplace. Sheep wonder aimlessly in and out of the village, weaving through the hills speckled with ruined homes. Famine had chased out the men, women, and children from the quaint village, consuming any lingering life source that may have prevailed, then spitefully regurgitating the damaged debris onto the green of Achill Island. The warmth of numbers in families has been replaced by the drafty winds that blow through the cracks in the mortar of which sturdy stones have been plucked. Windows where neighbors once leaned into to shout a morning greeting have dissolved into massive gaps in the wall. There are no thatched roofs to withstand the rain. Such meager frame work hardly passes as a soup bowl for muddy puddles. But despite the ghost of abandonment, and despite the haunting allurement of tragedy, there is something most bizarre about the nostalgic feeling experienced by the people of today who have never known the comfort of the detached stones. Here, in the deserted village, a touch of human existence has come and gone, leaving behind pieces of their humble abodes to be gawked at by their successors. Though primitive, a connection between our world-- their past world, can be made through the useless stones scattered upon the ragged grass. The stones that were, at some time, carried, placed, and admired by the past generations are now only touched by ours, but through the stone, an ancient hand touches one of our own. A trace of life still swarms around the village, deserted as it is, even after its submission to the inclement weather. Nevertheless, man has passed through the village, and man has passed out, but the remains of the human touch will be forever lodged within the stones of the dead homes on Achill Island. 


© Mikal Minarich

Virgie: A Woman and Her Pride

Of course, I am no fool. There was a certain thrill and mystery to the whole situation that tickled me pink, but in all honesty, it was Mick's handsome smile that did all the convincing. Something about that smug smirk of his always got under my skin, but it was too playful to hold against him. It was all for a bit of fun. It always was. I remember in the lingering light of dusk, Mick came up to me with shovel over shoulder, his overalls covered with fresh Oklahoma soil, and dirt smudges plastered on his face with sweat. He was quite an admirable man and an even more loving brother. But perhaps the trick he pulled on me may lead you to believe otherwise. That smug grin was working overtime the day he had been concocting a plan to scare the living daylights out me. Roy wasn't too far behind him in distance or mischief. I remember Mick's voice clearer than day as it issued forth from his silhouetted body swaggering off the fields, his back to the falling sun.

What's in a Name?

Swelling in my belly is a brand new child

Unplanned, with two hands, ten tiny toes,

A little button nose, and cheeks of blooming rose

But the eyes, we'll keep them closed.

I don't want to see me reflected with uncertainty

Scratched into my face disguised by disgrace

Masquerading as a happy smile. The wile

within me sickens my heart, quickens my heart,

until I want to tear myself apart. But instead it's

my baby who's to blame, with no name, and no hope.

It will have to cope with my mistakes and

heartaches that lead me to this clinic.

The cold metal of tools doesn't fool a fooler.

There will be pain, and from it I will gain

My dream of a future. I alone can suture my dream

With reality. But in actuality, I am scared.

There is something deep, less like a cry

And more like a weep shaking me inside.

I've been hit by a tide of guilt. Of steel I was not built,

But of flesh and bone, semi-cloned by my parents.

I was so lucky to have been loved, only to be shoved

Into making this decision alone. I hear the crack of a bone

The disgusting groan of a speechless child. Have I gone wild?

No, it is my child. My only child. And I am the mother

Of a beautiful boy whom I want to destroy.

Not want, but need to bleed to live my glittering life.

Under the knife, I hold my son until the names start to run

Through my head. David. That's his name, and he is alive.

A tiny person trying to survive within me. Before the knife cuts

The door behind me shuts. David is his name who has spoken

His claim of my heart's love. And when his eyes open

wide and alive, let the guilt subside and the joy betide me.

I am a mother born anew with my son, David,

Blessed with two beautiful eyes of blue. Who knew?


© Mikal Minarich

The Unburdening

There was no mistaking his suicidal intentions as he stood on the bridge at a quarter to midnight, leaning over the railing in terrifying silence. Thankfully he had no idea that I was intruding during his last contemplations from a good three yards away. The bridge was built on a rather steep slope that swooped down to where our family trailer had been placed some years before I was born. It was only when I realized that the bug light had been left on that I stepped outside the door and thrust myself into this man's final moment, although he wasn't aware of it. The screen door was still ajar as I stood in shock, watching the man's every move with intense stillness. Despite the severity of the whole situation, I found myself caught up in the overwhelming romanticism of the tragic man, staring down into the black sheet of glass that reflected the myriad of stars. The backdrop of diamonds embedded in the night sky put the man's danger in a new perspective. 

Ch. 11

“Purah!”

I don't know what brought me to burst forth with the confounded monster's word, but I yelled it out above the two arguing men. My mind had been rewinding at an exceptional speed, and when I came across the moment the creature had shouted that, it was like the monster had used my throat to proclaim the word to the village men. The result was utter silence. All eyes were on me again, but not one of them were intimidating. They were all horrified, with some covering their mouths and others with lower jaws unhinged. I had no idea what I had just said, but apparently the men did. Even Mr. Garris had closed his eyes and tilted his head back. I instantly regretted my outburst. The thought of burning at the stake overtook my memory of the morning.