Alysse Aallyn

Category: #Artist

  • Haiku; Pupa Pluperfect by Alysse Aallyn

    #Haiku: Pupa Pluperfect

    Somnolescent

    Caterpillars

    Dream deep – the

    Language of Butterflies

  • The Emotional Archive – a haiku by Alysse Aallyn

    #Haiku: The Emotional Archive

    Sun withdraws;

    Cry. Heat swells –

    Sing. Intent

    Blooms. Journaling honors

    Life pulse.

  • Haiku: Overthinking

    by Alysse Aallyn

    #Haiku: Overthinking

    Brain heats up

    Smoke blurs eyes

    Complications threaten –

    Solutions

    Vanish

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 20 – The End

    We flew to a hotel at LaGuardia,

    Called Derek, whose father suggested

    Vince Tromwell.  He got 

    Mirabel immunity as long as she told

    “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth”

    and after they tested the shirt and the knife

    Verne even confessed –

    If you call taking an Alford plea –

    (Which legally means “You got me”) –

    Confession. Verne got forty years

    On each count with deportation

    Instead of parole. 

    Mom and Dad didn’t mind

    Having a yoga teacher in the family –

    They both started yoga –

    I admit I did too –

    That’s what big sisters are for;

    They go through everything first

    So you don’t have to.

    We get to be writers, we

    The little sisters

    Poets and thinkers of all the peaceful

    Afternoons; assessing, not

    Regressing, savoring even

    The upside down moments

    Right side up and 

    Passing them to history.

    It worked on everyone but Mr.

    Mowgley, English teacher,

    Who said;

    “Shouldn’t you write this

    In the third person voice

    To gain some distance?”

    I said, “Never.

    I’m Richenda Marshott, only me and

    I’ll never pretend to be

    Anyone else.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

     “Mirabel, you must let me 

    Tell Mom and Dad. They don’t

    Deserve this silence.”

    She turned mulish. Resistant.

    More stubborn than I’d ever be.

    “Mirabel is dead. It’s better for everyone.”

    “Mom & Dad won’t miss me. I was

    Nothing but trouble.”

    I spoke truth when I said;

    “I guarantee you that’s not true.

    They will never get over you.

    And in the meantime, Lord Verne gets away

    With murder. He’ll just kill

    Someone else, Mirabel;

    Don’t you get it? Violence is

    His foolproof way

    To get what he wants.”

    Mirabel moved her shoulders restlessly.

    She’d almost escaped that life and saw me

    Pulling her back.

    “I can’t go to jail. I’d rather die.”

    “People who make immunity

    Deals don’t go to jail. Derek’s family

    Must know a lawyer who’d negotiate

    For you. You stay anonymous

    Because deals never go to court.”

    She eyed me suspiciously.

    “What do YOU know about 

    Bargaining with prosecutors?”

    “I have a Netflix subscription!

    I watch the ID channel! If you tell them

    What you know it might be enough

    To convict him.

    Get him out of all our lives

    Forever.” Fingers crossed.

    She struggled to believe me.

    She had so little trust.

    Yet I was the one

    She’d invited inside.

    “I have the murder weapon,” she admitted.

    “I told him I got rid of it. And

    The shirt he wore – it’s bloody.

    In a safety deposit box.”

    A thrill ran through me.

    I hadn’t expected

    Such cagey planning, but

    I should have; from

    The Girl Who Got Away.

    “That’s probably enough,” I promised.

    But still my sister hesitated,

    Torn between embracing her 

    Imaginary life with its

    Brand new identity and

    Facing her destroyer.

    I played my final card.

     “You owe me,” I whispered.

    “You owe the dead girls.

    And so Mirabel – not Franny but

    The grown up girl who’d always been

    My sister; made up her mind.

    She accepted herself; the way

    I had always accepted her.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    I had to ask

    The ultimate question.

    “Did he kill the real Franny?”

    Were we a survivor chain of

    The lot, the disconnected, the

    Threatened?

    Her eyes slid back and forth

    As she repeated her question;

    “Did anyone follow you?”

    I wasn’t aware of anyone

    But in our day and age

    Of advanced surveillance

    Was it possible to reassure?

    “No. No hiding stalkers

    On your tiny island.”

    It worked.

    For the first time she relaxed

    And smiled. But still she

    Whispered as if we could be

    Overheard.

    “I’m sorry for putting you 

    In that position but I knew

    You wouldn’t let him hurt you.

    You were always different

    Born yourself –

    I’m not myself yet but

    I’m trying to be.”

    She began to swing us

    Her thin legs in white gauze reached out

    Pumping us higher.

    “You didn’t answer my question”

    I insisted, “The real Franny

    Is dead. Who killed her?”

     “Verne killed them,” she confided.

    As our swing vaulted heavenwards.

    “My friends were

    “Hiding me from Verne but

    “I still had to work. He stalked me – he

    Broke in – stabbed Franny and Jane.”

    “But missed you?” I prompted. ”Because

    You were in the broom closet?”

    “No,” she said, “He found me

    Covered me with their blood – said

    I was the cause of

    Everything, I was the one who

     Made  it happen.

    He threatened to kill me too

    But slowly. I knew he planned

    To torture me to death.

     I could never get away.”

    “Why not tell the police?”

    Her eyes were so big, pale blue shading

    Into gray – same color as the ocean.

    “They’d lock me up –

    He knows too much about me.

    I tried everything I could think

    To get away but nothing worked

    Till this.” She held my hand

    Me – feeling like the 

    Older sister.

    “Remember the fable I used to

    Read to you – the dog that dropped the bone

    Because he saw a second one?

    That’s my gambit –

    I felt sure that you would recognize.”

    She held my wrists enlaced in

     Skinny fingers.

    “Verne was always telling me

    I was ruined, that I’d spoiled myself

    And destroyed our future.

      I convinced him you were me

    Unscarred – the way I was

    Before he met me –

    Better than I ever was – me without

    The things he hated.”

     I recoiled, disgusted, trying not

    To show it. That bastard! Hating

    Her feeble resistance.

    She smiled the old one-sided smile.

    “I was right too. You were too smart

    To fall for him. 

    “You were born so confident! 

    So good in school! Your brain

    Seemed always working right –

    Reading my schoolbooks

    Helping ME to do my homework!”

    It was funny, listening

    To this different recollection

    Of our years together, so distinct

    From my modest memories. 

    At the very moment I was

    Iconizing her, she was

    Idealizing me.

    The swing slowed. My sister

    Looked away – that far off glance

    That was the skill she’d mastered –

    Disassociation –

    Floating above the rest of us –

    In her inner world of safety.

    I heard my voice –

    “But I’m so plain.”

    “You’re wrong about that, –

    More beautiful than I ever was –

    I think I’ve learned what real beauty is –

    It’s wildness – untamed – and

    Those who want to capture it

    Are killing their desire.”

    My sister, the guru 

    Clutched at me again – fearful

    She could lose me as I’d lost

    Her. She knew the world

    Was full of melting women

    Simulacra who seem

    To be but aren’t –

    Shadow people enlisted

    Replacing those who

    Never came to be.

    I recoiled in horror at 

    The degradation

    So closely missed.

    “And then you found me,”

    She breathed, scaring me

    With confidence in my miracles. 

    “This island’s pictures

    Were the only ones I ever sent 

    To you; I thought 

    That you’d remember.”

    “I almost didn’t! 

    Answer one for me. Did you steal

    Diamonds from Kruptupian?”

    “His broker was cheating him.

    When I gave him the evidence, 

    He sold my ring

    Giving me the cash to get away

    Without informing.

    I’ve been taking yoga teacher training.

    I’m going to give Franny Vallea the 

    Flourishing life she

    Din’t have, without

     Family, without chances.

    All she ever wanted was enough money

    To be safe, to have peace, quiet

    And a lock on the door.”

     “Mirabel, you must let me 

    Tell Mom and Dad. They don’t

    Deserve this silence.”

    She turned mulish. Resistant.

    More stubborn than I’d ever be.

    “Mirabel is dead. It’s better for everyone.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Quite a trudge – hundreds of steps –

    And I was alone. Maybe these

    Holiday-makers were all just too old.

    But with every step

    I felt increasing peace –

    Then came a sign:

    “SSSSHHH! MEDITATION IN SESSION!”

    Tamed my labored breathing –

    Climbed the last few steps

    Silently. One teacher – a very old man –

    In perfect lotus position –

    Eyes closed –

    Orchestrated six students – 

    Their backs to me –

    All wearing white.

    Like a cult?

    I studied them thoughtfully.

    No hair like Mirabel’s –

    A couple of blondes and one boy  –

    Very close-cropped, maybe chemo?

    My gaze increasingly

    Fixed on him;  felt

    I must be hallucinating.

    Weren’t those Mirabel’s ears?

    The hair just coming in

    Was silvery – the tiny ear studs –

    Silver, not diamonds.

    I inched my way around – one student

    Opened her eyes – gave me

    The harsh look my inquisitiveness

    Warranted. But I persisted – the skinny

    Silent student lost in meditation

    Was my sister!  No other jewelry, no makeup, 

    Just cheap gauze clothing, dirty bony bare feet

    And that scarred lip.

    Looks like the joke was on Mirabel –

    Bald, at her thinnest – that

    Magnified her true self so

    Hugely no one –

    No one who loved her –

    Could ever mistake her.

    Tears sprang to my eyes. I closed them and

    Backed against the stone white-washed wall

    Trying to mentally connect with her.

    What was she thinking

    Right at this minute?

    Maybe nothing.

    I’d meditated – a couple of times and

    Found it annoying. I like my own brain

    And don’t want to escape it.

    I launched an experiment – she forced me

    To come all this way to find her –

    Now I will make her

    Feel my presence. That project quenched 

    My tears as anger always does;

    Focused everything I had

     On her. She was strong;

    I’ll say that for her

    It took a long time to reach her:

    Deep in her dream place –

    Mouth slightly open – 

    One tiny tear sliding down from her eye.

    That’s when I touched her!  I could feel it. 

    She stirred.

    Eyes opened. My sister Mirabel took a

    Long, long look into me.

    Chapter 19 – Killer Signature

    “Mirabel?”

    I mouthed her name. She ducked her head,

    Bowed deeply forward, then rose

    To her feet. A ripple ran through

    The group and the leader opened one eye

    In displeasure.

    My sister grabbed my arm

    And began dragging me downstairs.

    “My name here is Franny.” 

    She whispered.

    Franny? That name set up echoes.

    Had she stolen a murder victim’s

    Identity?

    I refused to unleash her;

    Knew she was meditating for a

    Superpower of

    Invisibility;

    Miraging at will.

    At the base of the lighthouse steps 

    We burst out; 

    Into the strong sunlight.

     “I thought you were dead,”

    I gasped. “You left me with HIM!”

    She pulled me into a swing

    Beneath a shady awning

    Two sisters swinging

    Side by side –

    Both of them crying.

     “I’m so glad you found me,”

    She said, “Did they follow you?”

     “How could you leave me

    With HIM,” I raged at her.

     “I knew you could handle him,”

    She insisted with equal ferocity,

    “You’d never fall

    For any of his tricks.

    And wasn’t I right?

    Look, here you are.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 18 – Dream Island

    Isla Ensueno is a resort –

    Luckily Derek’s air miles included the

    Pink stucco hotel.

    “No one by that name,” the desk clerk told me so 

    Patiently. What kind of avatar name would 

    Mirabel choose?  He wouldn’t stand for

    Guessing so I tried describing her –

    But the clerk shook his head.

    Well, I couldn’t leave until tomorrow

    Might as well check in and prowl.

    It’s a very small island.

    My thoughts were uncomfortable –

    That oh-so familiar feeling –

    Dinned into me by every adult I’ve ever met

    That I’m probably doing

     Everything wrong.

    My “great idea” seemed feeble now

    Typical teen impulsiveness.

    This wasn’t far enough away – Florida!

    How could Mirabel feel safe here?

    Smart money said she’d flee

    Ocean-wards – the Maldives or Malta or 

    Some such place – with a whole new

    Passport and some new man in tow

    Whose identity she could hide behind.

    That’s if she wanted to create

    A new persona. But what if –

    This is what I gambled on –

    She wanted instead to uncover 

    The old persona – the person

    Who had always been there?

    It was the only explanation

    For involving me –

    Other than simply feeding me

    To her monster.

    I had one single chance –

    And possibly I’d blown it.

    Dream Island was authentically gorgeous –

     Mirabel hadn’t lied 

     But in the eight years since

    Her photo shoot hadn’t its splendor 

    Diminished, wasn’t it becoming

    Just the tiniest bit shabby? 

    Some people – myself for example

    Like things whose edge has been

    Taken off.  As I circumnavigated 

    The island’s walking trail 

    A certain peace overtook me

    That could have been

    Maturity.

    Was this what it felt like

    Having nothing left to prove?

    If you can enjoy the moment –

    Filling yourself with it and

    It with yourself –

    Then you’ve arrived.

    Questions bubbled. 

    What do you do

    When your game has gone horribly wrong?

    You start over.

    Even if my guess was off

    There was still that intriguing 

    Probability: what if Mirabel evolved

    Until her only desire was having a self

    Worthy of presentation to the magnificent

    Universe this island represented?

    Even at fourteen I understood nostalgia –

    Viewing the confident know-it-all 

    My eleven-year-old incarnation 

    With the purest envy.

    What if Mirabel re-set the game – 

    Made different choices

    Stopped pleasing others by

    Contorting her body into

    Simulacra and challenged the world

    To accept her real being?

    The younger self I knew – hopeful – 

    Gorgeous – naïve, impatient –

    Wasn’t in the Maldives!

    As I walked I systematically

    Searched every nook;

    Old trees shading the privacy of

    Lovers: I broke into – peering under

    Awnings, stared right through

    Sunglasses: but Mirabel 

    Wasn’t there.

    The trail wound around a sand beach cove 

    And right up to the lighthouse; 

    I was unprepared; requiring

     Binoculars, sunscreen and a

    Really big hat;

    Sea breezes made me shiver

    In just cami and jeans – 

    Something put me 

    In the mood to climb the lighthouse.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    We examined the boxes content.

     “Let’s separate in two piles,” Derek proposed;

    “Hopeless and intriguing.”

    But which was which?

    Everything seemed hopeless: ridiculous clothes,

    Shoes with broken heels, endless piles of

    old magazines.  Souvenir of

    Great Britain? – a Union Jack sleepshirt.

    Cosmetics and grubby makeup kits,

    Hairbrushes, scrunchies,

    An ancient red plastic boombox,

    Terrible Advice Books 

    (“The Power of You”)

    costume jewelry of improbable value –

    Even her jewelry box I recalled

    From childhood days.

    All just junk Dominica could

    Have thrown away!

    Why wasn’t Mirabel more literate?

    Dyslexia?  Hadn’t that word

    Been bruited undefined 

    To the insatiable ears of

    An eight-year-old –

    I heard parents always looking for

    Excuses. I thought about what I would 

    Have left – same thing Derek might –

    Notebooks of scribblings

    Journals and diaries –

    “Notes to self” – cherished cards

    Day planners and calendars?

    The only exciting thing: a professional portfolio

    Stamped MONFORT COLLEGE OF MODELING.

    I opened the portfolio, scared and thrilled

    Here’s the Mirabel I would recognize.

    But all the photos seemed outdated –

    Shlocky, overly made-up and

    Inhumanly posed.

    This girl should demand

    Her money back.

    But maybe there was no “money” –

    Goblin gold melts away when you reach for it.

    What is a “model” after all but 

    A blank screen embracing

     Frenzied searchers for the 

    “Other.” Well, she’d been

    “Othered” here –

    One particularly traumatic

    Mirabel in whiteface

    With the cruel thorn-like silver

    Piercings through her lip – 

    Rendered speechless –

    Her life a cage around her

    Nude starved body. 

    Derek saw my reaction and put his arms

    Around me.

    “Well, that settles it,” I said,

    “That was really Mirabel. I saw that lip.”

    To suggest anything else –

    That there could be 

    Cadres of desperate girls

    Scarred and marked and rendered mute

    Thrown away into the dumpster? 

    No wonder

    Mirabel declared the fashion world 

    “Shit!” One precious picture 

    Evoked the “Murble” I remembered –

    Filled my eyes with tears –

    There she was

    Pony-tailed Mirabel in Daisy Dukes,

    Washing the side of a fake car.

    Youthful, hopeful, tender, memories came surging up –

    Mirabel filling the kiddie pool so I could play,

    Decorating my pancakes with Picasso faces,

    Gelling my hair into crazy shapes.

    If you ran these pictures backwards

    They recorded tragedy:  the slow dawn

    Of knowledge as she realized she was in

    Bad hands; turns out beauty 

    Isn’t enough. Answering the question;

    It had been my real sister who

    Threw me at Lord Verne so that she could 

    Get away. Derek dropped the fake nipple 

    He’d been studying. 

    “I’m sorry. I didn’t know 

    She was that kind of model.” 

    I blazed at him: “Everyone’s that kind!

    It’s a job!” Derek spluttered.

    “The human body’s beautiful.”

    I cornered him:

     “Will you get naked so I can inspect you?”

    His face reddened.  Suddenly he

    Was fifteen years old. “Not unless you do too.”

    “I won’t. You’d have to be the only

    Nude person in the room.”

    He huffed, and puffed, “Point taken.”

    And to his everlasting credit

    Hugged me again, but tenderly.

    No further explanations required.

     “Sorry,” I mumbled.

    “Don’t apologize,” he said.

    “It’s all horrible.”

    Bad moment over.

    “Hey, look at this.”

    He’d clicked open the boombox.

    “There’s a home-made cassette.”

    It was an answering machine cassette.

    I recognized it – Dad still used that kind.

    It explained the ancient boombox.

    “Let’s press play.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aalyn

    I closed the door for

    Privacy but Dad only wanted 

    To speak to Verne. He was

    WAY more interested in talking to a man 

    He’d never met than listening to

    His own kid! Go ahead. IGNORE the Virgin.

    The virgin is used to it!

    At least I was allowed

    To listen in.

    Verne said Mirabel had just pulled a “Mirabel.”

    “Wedding’s off, I take it?” asked my Dad.

    He sounded relieved!

    “Not because of anything I’ve done or said,”

    Verne assured. “She just can’t seem to cope.”

    Handed back the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

    “Take the first train home,”

    My Dad directed.

    “Dad, it’s only Saturday!”

    “You can’t stay alone

    In some young man’s apartment.

    Doesn’t look good.”

    “Who’s looking?” I demanded. “Besides, he’s staying

    at The Stanhope,” I winked at Verne.

    “I’m sorry, no! Must I put your mother on? 

    You know she’ll back me up.”

    “At least let me call the Lowthers.  

    Maybe they’re in town.”

    Longtime family friends. He subsided.

    Muttering.

    “Parents are so awful,” I proclaimed out loud once

    Severing connections.

    “They think I’m a baby.”

    “They want you to never age”

    And Verne smiled wickedly at his private

    Epsteinian joke.

    I found the Lowthers’ number and got only voicemail –

    Should have figured that would happen!

    They were at the Cold Spring country house of course!

    I enunciated clearly, “This is Richenda Marshott

    with an emergency question. Please call me back as soon 

    As you get this at 715-527-1313.”

    This granted me another day at least

    I thought till

    Someone might check in.

    If I spoke to any member of the family –

    even barf-inducing Sierra – I could fend off Dad

    For the entire weekend.

    Verne looked hungrily at my phone.

    “What question will you ask?”

    “Why, if they’ve heard from Mirabel of course.”

    Dropped it in my pocket. High-waist jeans

    Have deep, deep pockets.

    “I’m going to the Day-Spa,”

    I said, allowing him to bail. 

    But of course he said,

    “I’m coming too.”

    Chapter 12 – Derek

    Bioceutically Renewed was so far east

    It was almost in the water.  At the door, a

    Sweet-faced Asian lady

    Expressed almost comic dismay.

    “Customers privacy sacrosanct!  You understand.

    Sacrosanct.” But

    Just when I would have recommended

     Verne get more friendly

    He went haughty.

    “We’re talking about a missing person!”

    He barked. “This is a police case!”

    She was not to be caught.

    “Are you police?”

    “He’s the fiancé.” Reaching out to touch her arm was

    Too naïve! She shrank away.

    Verne swelled, his importance

    Throbbing. “I’d like to see

    The manager!”

    We filled the tiny waiting room.

    The employee backed away, alarmed,

    Scurrying, hastily diminishing

    In size. I imagined that was their secret to dispense –

    Clients requesting “to be smaller”

    Turned into mice. I hissed at Verne.

    “What if she calls the police on US?”

    He waved this away, airily.

     “Flunkies never do.  A British title paves the path

    To everything.” How I wished

    This wasn’t true. The frosty-eyed manager 

    Was neither young  nor Asian, 

    But when I introduced, “This is Lord Verne, 

    Mirabel’s fiancé and I’m her sister” 

    Her expression changed most notably.

    How in our democracy could Verne be right?

    “Have you told the police?”

    “They’ll get involved after the waiting period,” Verne said

     Smoothly. Far too smoothly. How many

    Wives had disappeared on him before?

    “We think she’s under duress. We’re trying 

    To act fast.” I begged;

     “We just want to find her! She carries

    Valuables. She could be in danger.”

    Verne’s eyes raked me over,

    While he fluttered his lips

    Disgustedly, as if to say –

    “And she left me with this THING!”

    Instead of instant ejection

    We made it to the inner sanctum, an

    Unromantic room where filing cabinets loomed 

    Over wooden chairs. Ms. “Operations Manager”

    Consulted her computer.

    “She signed up for our Wedding Package

    But only made the first appointment. That was

    Days ago. I understood – er – her fiancé

    Was…someone different altogether.”

    Verne paled and lost his breath.

    Fell into a punitively twisted chair.

    It was up to me to ask the questions.

    “Short, fat, bald?”

    “That’s the one.” The woman panicked

    At her own audacity.

    “Tells us what we need to know.”

    Verne was gasping like a fish

    And he was not a good color.

    I thought he might stroke out.

    “Contact numbers?”

    “Contrary to policy. I’m sorry.

    Her voice was cold, but her eyes were warm.

    “May I get you a water?”

    “Please,” said Verne. “Bottled, if possible.”

    The moment she was out the door I raced

    To the computer. “Last appointment was three days ago!”

    I took a screenshot with my phone.

    Ms. Harvey returned with a bottle of chilled water

    which Verne accepted. I was rescued

    By the ringing of my phone.

    “I’ve got to take this.”

    Stepping into the hall.

    I heard a deep masculine voice. 

    “Hi. This is Derek Lowther. Is that 

    Richenda?” Derek Lowther? Last time I saw him he was a

    Particularly nightmarish twelve year old jerk.

    (I was a cool eleven year old sophisticate.)

    This was NOT the person I’d hoped to speak to. I

    Pushed out through the anteroom and into

    The pale winter sunshine, playing

    For time. “Yes,”

    I told Derek unwillingly, “it’s me.”

    “So what’s the emergency question?”

    “Have you heard from Mirabel?”

    He was genuinely astonished.

    “Has ANBODY heard from Mirabel?

    I certainly haven’t. I’m at the apartment.

    Do you mean, did she call here?”

    “Maybe you could find out 

    If your parents have heard anything?”

    “They’re on retreat in Sri Lanka.  You can assume 

    The answer’s No. What’s the hurry?”

    “Mirabel is missing.”

    A beat of silence. I could hear his struggle to be polite.

    “Wasn’t Mirabel ALWAYS missing?”

    “This time’s exceptional. She came back. 

    She was getting married.  

    Then she disappeared. Again.”

    I have to admit it did not sound like an emergency.

    Impossible to explain anything to this guy!

    Hadn’t seen him in 3 years and already 

    I was angry at him.