The Value of Things

Indrissa hated the market, until he made her see it through new eyes.

Indrissa hated everything about the market: the noise, the smell of animals, the smell of people, the squalling of reckless running children that always resulted in something breaking, fighting off the feral animals that roamed and the endless vermin that stayed, the constant haggling, the heat of the sun, and the leering of men.

Resigned, she lamented her lot, until the day he came.

He bought a small, cheap necklace from her with a fake green gem and asked her to try it on so he could see how it looked. “I’m buying it for a special lady.”

Humoring him as well as herself, she put it on. “I’m sure she’ll be happy with it,” she fastened the clasp and looked up at him with a fake smile, “and pleased with you.”

He smiled back. “And are you?”

She tilted her head and looked at him, questioning his meaning. “What?”

“Are you happy with it, and pleased with me?”

She began to unfasten it and hand it back to him. “I don’t understand…”

He held up his hand to stop her. “I bought it for you, Indrissa.”

“Sir, I don’t think—“

“I’ve watched you for a long time. You always look distant and unhappy; you don’t like the market, do you?”

She felt her face heat, realized her hands were still poised to take the necklace off, but she didn’t.

“No, I don’t. I inherited this business from my parents so I wouldn’t fall prey to the scavengers here.”

Not far away was a stage with half naked men and women, and the grim, silent men below them who’d as soon cut a throat as shake a hand. Gold and silver coins flashed through fingers faster than the eye could follow, and the stage began to gradually empty.

He nodded. “I’ve watched them, too.”

She assessed him, trying to place him, but couldn’t; he said he’d been watching her.

Either it had been in plain sight, or he was stalking her.

Still, he’d bought her a gift, albeit from her own stall, and made himself known; if he’d wanted her dead, or harmed, he had more than his share of opportunities.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked, surprised to find herself a bit shy, “Take me away from all this?”

He shuffled a bit, now nervous himself. “Not right away. I could make coming here better for you, though.”

“And how’s that?”

“It’s what you’re selling. No one wants that. It’s for children…”

He stayed at the booth, talking business in between flirting.
He bought lunch for two, and sat beside her as they ate.

She could see some of the other merchants begin to cast furtive glances in their direction.

If he noticed, he didn’t seem to care; he was all business, offering to increase the value of her wares, and if she wanted, she could take him on as a partner. They’d do well together, and ….

The hours went quickly, and he helped her pack and walked her to the gate.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked.

He smiled. “Would you like to?”

She actually giggled, and nodded. “Yes, I would.”

“Then I will be here.” He stuck out his hand for her to shake, and she did.

At home that night, bathed and pleasantly exhausted, she had a sip of something strong, and stared out the window at the rising moon.

She thought of him, and her hand went to her throat. With a small smile, she felt the gem and chain beneath her fingertips.

She’d forgotten to take it off, and now she didn’t want to.

Let These Words be True

So when all is said and done,

and I’ve seen my final sun,

and the final tale is spun,

who will say what I have won?

 

Have I touched a human life?

Relieved someone else’s strife?

Offered comfort, peace, and love

to someone I’d rather shove?

 

Have I made a small child smile?

Did I walk the extra mile?

Did I listen for awhile?

Aided someone through a trial?

 

Did my giving of a gift

give a trodden spirit lift?

Did my words that gave approval

lead to heavy load’s removal?

 

Did the music that I play

brighten someone else’s day?

Did the lessons that I taught

make the out-of-reach get caught?

 

Perhaps I will never know,

for I do it as I go.

From the surgeon to the skater,

plant a seed that may grow later.

 

May these words I write be true.

May they be true of you, too.

A Page a Day

A page a day,

the sages say,

is healthy for to write.

A poem, a story, ditty,

typed by day or

penned by night.

But sages are not writers

so no matter what they say,

when Muses seize you

by the throat,

you find you will obey.

So write whene’er you want to friends,

and write whene’er you can.

And listen to your Muses,

for a sage is just a man.

 

(*art by Sam Kennedy)

 

 

Of Blood and Stone

In time

the blood and stones

write history.

The comfort of

stone’s cold embrace

allows life’s elixir

to leave its

indelible mark

forever.

Dry now,

with all emotions of the moment

contained within it,

the sanguine secrets

of the day

are imparted, recorded,

remembered, and held

like a pressed flower

between pages.

Dead to history,

vibrant with a story of the past.

Unsearchable.

Unknowable

by any and all,

by all and sundry,

except the stone.