robinmarlowe

[robinmarlowe]

[robinmarlowe]

Geology 1000

By Reagan Stanton

my bones are tectonic plates,

and as you run along

my peaks and valleys

i let you

mark my surface

as your own.

but you feel nothing

as my structure shifts

and scrapes along my insides.

i

split in two,

a continental shift,

and you slip

into the chasm

that i become.

my lungs are filled

with magma and your

mouth on mine steals

the putrid air

on which you choke.

Is this

an act of god,

that desecrates you

from the inside out?

That burns away

your strength

until you fall,

like pretty Samson,

prostrate in the dirt

as the temple crumbles?

Why did i

lure you here

with verdant hills

and fertile soil?

with ripe fruits

and mellow shade?

Do I prove

Medusa’s wickedness

when I turn you to stone?

When you’ve

eroded into the soil

and I claim you again?

You thought me steady,

but I change what I touch.

Water boils into hissing steam;

smoke thickens the air;

the floating embers

are my patient, Vulcan rage,

igniting and consuming

where they land.

the lava

dripping

down my sides

is not your punishment;

it is my release.

When the smoke clears,

you’ll be faced with something new.

And it’s true;

I did not ask permission

to destroy what you built.

But it is also true

that I never asked

to be your

rock.

[robinmarlowe]

In my dark days I am slower every hour

Coffee brings some short relief

(though the aftertaste is sour).

My battery is in the red

low-power mode inside my head

the energy I’ve saved from sunny days

the working days devour.

Then your “hello” is like the dawn,

spark plug touch, the shadows gone

(into the corners where they cower).

My nervous system lights up

into a great blue summer sky.

I vibrate, I’m a hummingbird

on a nectar high.

You’re here and I’m on full-screen brightness, baby,

I’m a blooming flower.

Please stay with me a while, my dear,

your smile is solar power.

[robinmarlowe]

The Manor

Chapter 1 — Arrival

When the carriage pulled up to the estate, the wind was whipping around us in a fury. It smelled salty, from the sea, and sweet with the beginning of autumn's rot. Dry leaves scraped across the cobblestone in swirling dervishes. It was the sort of weather that reminded you how nature could disregard the very existence of humanity. The wide and open fields of the estate gave the wind free reign to roll and build and push the world about.

I liked this sort of weather. It seemed consequential. I lived in a dull world that was carefully built up and maintained, held together by manners and tradition and devoted to comfort and boredom. Weather like this pulled trees out by the roots and reminded each and every person that their life is fragile, and their society even more so.

My father once called me a destructive little brat, and so maybe my affinity for the wind has to do with our shared ability to destroy and annoy.

My aunt, Edith, was chattering along next to me, the wind whipping away every other word as if hoping to spare me somewhat from the cruelty of idle gossip, but now she looked as if she was expecting responses. I leaned forward to listen.

"You know your father is the only one who ever met her mother. An actress from the americas. He told me once that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen -- though I was sworn to secrecy because he was courting your mother at the time. She left two months after poor Elizabeth was born. Absolutely devastating. Jack told Elizabeth that her mother died in childbirth. He thought it would spare her from more complicated emotions. I think it did no such thing. It kept her from the real world. Why, if her mother had been around, I am certain Elizabeth would have married. It's such a tragedy."

"Tragedy seems to be an exaggeration," I said, leaning back into my seat. "She doesn't need to marry. She has money."

"And I would wager that she is unequipped to handle it," Edith said. "I suppose you will be learning that this winter."

The carriage turned down the winding road and the manor rose from the ground and into view.

It was grey, threaded together with brilliant green as vines crept up the walls, their sturdy brick holding even as roots pressed into them. We slowed as the road ended, stopping in front of the large entrance way.

I stepped out of the carriage, thanking the driver, my legs stiff from the journey and pleased to be put back to work. I hadn't seen the manor in years. When we were young my sisters were convinced it was haunted. We would run through the halls, hiding in closets and under couches, and I would search every nook and cranny for the hint of a ghost with whom I could become acquainted.

It didn't look any less haunted now, and Ms. Lancaster must not be particularly worried about the impression that it might be. The lawn was overgrown with yellow-green weeds that blew in the wind, and vines creeped up the stone walls.

Edith tutted her disapproval. "See? She doesn't even have the means to clean up her yard. Her father would be ashamed."

I had always loved the manor. I used to think it was a castle, with its round tower and high ceilings, pinnacles stretching into the sky. It was old, but felt even older than it was. It was large, but the more time you spent in it, the more it grew. Its floorboards creaked and shifted with the weather, bones elderly but far from brittle.

It felt abandoned, even as we inhabited it. It felt as if it was waiting for a long lost lord to return. It felt as if maybe the lord had returned, and the house had entombed him there, in its walls.

Now I know that this is part of the appeal. When Jack Lancaster purchased this estate fifty years ago, he must have felt such satisfaction -- this castle, this palace, was finally his. He no longer had to exist as a common man. He was like a king, even if he never had the power that a king wields.

I could imagine how intoxicating that would feel.

The driver carried my luggage towards the entrance. I hurried after him. I had meant to do it myself. We were no longer in civilized society. I was allowed to be seen lifting something heavier than a tea cup.

I burst through the doors and into the hallway.

The furniture and decor was contemporary. The bench in the foyer was a deep turquoise, and the rug Persian, with elaborate designs woven in jewel tones.

The house smelled like leaves and flowers. It wasn't musty, exactly. Instead, it smelled as if it had just been cleared of must a few minutes ago, but, like a child who has just bathed, was itching to undo the cleanliness.

Everything about the manor reached upwards, the ceilings, the double staircase, the white marble statues that adorned the hall.

"Emma! I'm delighted to see you!"

Ms. Elizabeth Lancaster descended the staircase, looking less delighted than anyone I had ever seen.

"And Edith, of course," Elizabeth said. "You look younger than the last time I saw you. Is that possible?"

Edit, in spite of herself, smiled at the compliment.

I gathered my skirts in my hands and curtsied.

"Ms. Lancaster. Thank you for your hospitality."

"No need for formalities. We're to be friends this winter, are we not?"

I looked up at her.

She was a woman who held her own beauty at arms length, the way one would hold a particularly aggressive animal. She was just north of fashionable. Her black dress didn't quite match her deep brown, wide-rimmed hat. Her spectacles had brilliant gold frames, but were smudged with fingerprints. Each of her hairs seemed to be striving for independence.

She had high cheekbones and brown eyes so dark it looked almost as if she had no irises at all. She looked older than she was, crows feet gracing the creases of her eyes, but the age didn't diminish her. Instead, it gave her the option of severity. Should she choose to give you a withering look, you may indeed wither.

Now, though, she was friendly, if apprehensive.

"We are to be friends... Beth..."

"Oh!" Elizabeth said, delighted. "I haven't been called Beth since I was a child."

"Apologies--"

"No!" Elizabeth said. "I said we are to be friends, and you confirmed it. Beth will be fine."

I disliked her analytical gaze. She dissected me, piece by piece, in a way I recognized. So many people in my life seemed certain they could perform a kind of psychic surgery on me. If they could just take me apart, then they could put me back together, new and improved.

Elizabeth wouldn't be any more successful than her predecessors, no matter what my parents might have thought. They sent me here to force me to confront the realities of my life without a husband. They refuse to understand that anything short of hell would be preferable.

"Shall I give you a tour?" Elizabeth asked.

"That would be lovely," Edith said, no doubt eager to search for more gossip in the nooks and crannies of this house.

"Let me see -- JOSEPH!"

Her yell made Edith and I both jump. An older man of about sixty walked calmly and swiftly down the stairs.

"Would you mind grabbing their coats?" Elizabeth asked.

"Of course, ma'am," Joseph said, giving her a shallow bow.

He was handsome for his age.He had a strong jawline and thick black hair. He was nearly as short as I was, and I was not tall.

He took the thick wool coat from my shoulders, and then assisted my aunt with hers.

Houses, I had noticed, are engineered not only as shelter but as a respite from the very concept of the natural world. The more removed from the mud and dirt of nature, the more successful the house.While the natural world has its dangers, I find that as humans we have veered away from logic in our understanding of it. Hygienic has become a moral concept instead of a medical one. Hogs, for instance, use mud to clean themselves, and we are as prone to disease, passing sickness back and forth with farm animals as if we are no more civilized than they.

The manor was,technically, a wonderful example of human achievement. The gothic nature of the architecture suggested that not only have men distinguished themselves from other animals, but that they did this with the understanding that it was,ultimately, futile. The towers reached into the heavens, knowing they would never get there, a tower of Babel that God felt no need to topple.

I don't know why I felt at home here. I always had.

"I don't keep a large staff, since it is only me," Elizabeth said as they walked past the entryway into the hall. "Just Joseph, my cook, Elena, and two maids. If there is reason for me to host anyone, I call in hands from the local tavern."

"Surely there are better servants to be had," Edith said

Elizabeth continued as if she heard nothing. "I hope that will be acceptable for you, Emma."

She said my name with caution, as if forcing herself into familiarity.

"It will be fine, thank you, Ms. Lancaster."

At home we had one servant, Dana, who was underpaid and overworked. The women of our family took turns cooking, and though it was not a task I enjoyed, I was capable enough. I had never had a lady in waiting, and I can't imagine why I'd want one.

We entered the parlor room, and I let out an involuntary gasp.

The room itself was beautiful. Emerald green furniture was placed around a coffee table with gilded edges. The bookshelves that lined the walls strained upwards towards the high ceilings.Spines of deep reds and navy blues advertised the books' contents in gold and silver print. A ladder was required to reach the highest books, and even that was carved out of a red cedar.

However, what drew my attention was the painting over the fireplace.

It must have been ten feet tall, at minimum. It portrayed a woman in velvet clothing, towering over a small village. Her facial expression was obscured by the clouds. The villagers at her feet looked up at her, some with awe, and others with anger.

"What an... interesting piece of art," Edith said.

I could feel Elizabeth's eyes on me as I examined the painting. The woman's posture was over-corrected, her shoulders back and her chin high. But there was something about her that seemed delicate, as if she was holding herself together through will alone.

One of the men was running back to his hut. Another had already retrieved a pitchfork.

Elizabeth once again ignored Edith. "Do you like it?" She asked me.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't know that "like" was the correct word to use. My response to it was visceral. I felt uncomfortably drawn to it. But it was as close as language would allow.

"Yes," I said, breathless.

"Hmmmm."

Elizabeth turned to Edith.

"If you'd like, I could get Joseph to make some tea. The journey was long, and I'm sure you'd like to rest. I can show Miss Cooper around."

"Oh, yes, that would be lovely," Edith said. "I didn't want to complain but it is a large house and I really don't think I need a tour at the moment."

"JOSEPH!"

The yell was no less surprising than before. Joseph appeared in the room suddenly, as if an apparition.

"Do you mind making the lady some tea?" Elizabeth asked.

"Of course not. Follow me, madam," Joseph said.

And then I was alone with Elizabeth.

"It's funny," I said, "When I was a child we explored every inch of this lace. We were looking for ghosts."

Elizabeth looked at me, her expression unreadable. Her gaze, like the painting, was unsettling.

"Did you ever find any?" Elizabeth asked.

"Of course not," I replied.

Elizabeth nodded, her expression serious. "I would suggest refraining from any such adventure in the future. Shall we see your room?"

And then she was sweeping out of the room.

I hurried after her, curiosity sufficiently piqued.