#HAIKU: If
Emptiness
Transfigures
Hunger;
Repletion no subject
For haiku.
Category: #Gender
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Haiku by Alysse Aallyn
#Haiku: Crow & Peacock
Crow envies
Peacock’s beauty;
Peacock desires
Crow’s freedom:
You choose:
Which?
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Haiku by Alysse Aallyn
#Haiku: Mouth to Mouth
Close-ups blind us;
Resuscitation is no kiss;
Kidnappers can’t
Dance
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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
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.
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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 Aallyn
Chapter 16 – The Escort Murders
“I remember those murders now” says Derek
As the taxi struggled against downtown traffic.
“The Escort Murders! It was talk of the news for months
Year before last. “
I’d never heard of it.
Escorts! Was Mirabel an “escort” or
Only a “friend?” “Escort” did have a
“Porn scout” feel. Did I really want to know
About Mirabel’s life if
This is what I found?
Disquiet shading to
Repugnance. “I remember
Nothing about any survivor,”
Derek went on, completely
Oblivious to my mood.
He wasn’t perfect. Or maybe he was –
Too “perfect” ever to worry about
Mirabel selling herself. I pushed:
“”But they arrested someone?
Someone confessed?”
“Yes. Some sixteen year old kid
From that same building
Said he crawled in the window like
Spiderman. They gave him a plea deal and
They never went to trial because
Experts say that it’s impossible. He must
Be bragging.”
“Who’d confess to a crime
They didn’t commit?” I asked
But hollowly, because I already knew
The answer. Haven’t you ever
Heard word come out of your mouth
That amaze you – words
You deliberately feed the thirsty person
Standing at your side?
We toted the boxes
Up to his chicly forlorn eyrie,
But he couldn’t let it go.
On his laptop he summoned
Sheaves of bloody newsprint.
I reeled – nonconversant, I admit, with
CAPITALIZED TABLOID MURDER.
I avoid true crime, finding that
Getting through high school is grisly enough.
“Crime’s an acquired taste,” admitted Derek.
“I advise you not to acquire it.
You can’t unsee some things.”
Truly helpful and caring or
Stuffy and condescending?
I regarded him with freshened
Disapproval.
“Didn’t I invite you on this case?” I chastised.
“This is my sister’s case.”
He was suitably repentant.
“Mysteries without murder are a parlor game,”
He defended, “But when they bring out the knives
Everyone’s at risk.”
Too true. I shivered. Couldn’t feel safe
Until both me and the boxes
Were quadruple-locked behind Derek’s guarded,
Security-cammed, barricaded front door.
I made him show me that the only other entry
Into the apartment (in the kitchen) was
Barred & sealed.
I studied the news reports. They didn’t mention
Mirabel or her broom closet.
Could it be an urban myth?
“Do you think Mirabel was really there?”
I whispered as if we weren’t
Alone. “But what could she hear
Locked in the broom closet?”
“Screams?” suggested Derek.
“Maybe a name? If they
Knew who attacked them?”
I posed the ultimate puzzle.
“But why take a year and a half to run away?”
“If the killer didn’t know she knew –“
That sent a stab right through me.
I didn’t want to play this game
It struck too close to home. It was
The first good reason I’d heard since my arrival
For Mirabel dropping out without a word.
“The alternative theory –“
Then he stopped. Too late.
From his expression
I knew what he was thinking.
“They got her,” I said as cold as
I could muster. “Ugh. I hope not.”
“So now we have another mystery to solve,”
Said Derek. “This one
With knives. Find the killer – and maybe
Find Mirabel. Or give her reason
To come home.”
Both of us turned to stare
At the dusty boxes just brought in.
I tried not to elevate my hopes.
Derek was thinking the same thought.
“What can be valuable if she abandoned them?”
But I had the answer.
“She couldn’t return – if
The place was crawling with police.”
Derek was comfortable
Playing devil’s advocate.
“What if the real Mirabel WAS killed that night?
And the person you met was an impostor?”
“Verne would have to be in on it,” I spoke
Before I thought;
Antithesis was obvious.
“He could have done it. That gives him motive
For proving Mirabel’s alive.”
We both needed cups and cups
Of good hot sugared tea –
Orange, cardamom
And cinnamon.
“If we’re listing suspects,” Derek braved.
“Maybe we need a murder board.”
A murder board?
Didn’t he move too fast for me?
I struggled with my memory of Mirabel’s eyes –
Pleading underneath her teasing.
“I think that was really Mirabel.”
“Oh well, there’s always confirmation bias.”
Derek sipped. “People hating to admit they’re wrong.”
Obnoxious know-it-all!
I felt the pressure to one-up him.
“We’re forgetting something,” I suggested.
“Mirabel could have done the murders herself.”
I’d shocked him. I was appalled
By my hypothesis but proud of its result.
He was silenced.
“Still, kill her own roommates?” I queried.
“What could be her motive?”
“These are roommates we’re talking about!”
Derek knew about roommates; he’d been
To boarding school.
“They made her stay in the broom closet!
Who needs a reason?”
Derek plays to win.
“They were helping her by hiding her, so
Occam’s razor says
Whatever she was hiding from
Came and got her.”
I tried envisioning Kruptupian and
His minions. Derek sighed.
“What if it was your sister,” I started
To demand, then recalled how
Annoying Sierra could be.
He followed my thought and burst out laughing.
Proved his devotion to the game. “It’s hard
Physical labor knifing someone.”
“TWO PEOPLE,” I corrected.
Perhaps that meant two killers.
We spread the boxes out on newspaper.
My hopes WERE high.
Whoever it was I’d seen last Friday
Already a life-time ago – now
The real Mirabel was ready to
Jump out at me.
-
The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn
I would have yelled at Derek
For manhandling me if I hadn’t needed it
So much. Was this the way
Mirabel had felt, impressed by Verne?
Climbing into crowded trains was a skill
I didn’t have. We could sit
This time. “I wonder if that guy’s
An Epstein flier,” Derek mused aloud.
“I wondered the same thing!
But I don’t know if he
Could get along with ANYBODY
Long enough. The way he clutched at
Mirabel; do those guys care
About anything that much?”
Derek seriously considered
This ill-expressed idea.
“It’s a club like any club,” he said.
“They’re posing for each other.”
Hard to argue with.
Hadn’t Verne and Mirabel
Been posing for ME?
“I had the most awful dream,”
I tentatively began.
“You believe in dreams?” I almost hit him.
Our first quarrel!
“People know things subconsciously before
They know them consciously.” I was
Quoting my drama prof, but
It sounds legit.
He was amenable. “So explicate
This dream.” I expanded.
“A ruined house – Downtown Abbey on the skids.
Shattered.
Sad and… threatening with a lot of
Broken stuff.” I found I couldn’t
Express the horned man.
Derek tried to locate the dream’s
Progenitor.
“Was it something he said?”
“He said Mirabel tried to live there and
Didn’t like it.”
“Intriguing,” murmured Derek. “Let’s research
this guy when we get home.”
Chapter 14 – A Ruined Manor
Derek’s family place was a
Penthouse atop the
Museum Mesko. Mostly glass.
In the “reserved” elevator
Derek grilled me:
“What do YOU think happened? You
Think she ran away
And left you holding – HIM?”
Unsure of speech when hurtling so fast
I breathed relief when the door bonged.
“I haven’t told you the worst part.”
“What’s that?”
“Our dresses for the wedding
Are the same. It’s
THE SAME DRESS.”
He didn’t get it.
“That’s worse than having
Fourteen year olds?”
“Yes, because SHE DID IT.”
Should I tell him Mirabel was some kind of
Flesh scout? He would never understand
Why I still sought her.
“You were her replacement.
Good that you got out of there.”
Through his folks’ dark foyer,
With the Tiffany lamps and stacks of mail
He led me to a long living room
With at least six sofas and the most
Fabulous view. Enough modern art to
Give anybody nightmares.
But the city laid out
Beneath the clouds was
“Ravishing.”
“Want something to eat?”
Why was I always hungry?
Was it hunger really or
Existential despair?
Existential despair can make a person
Fat. The microwave pinged.
“I can’t believe you didn’t Google this guy.”
I can’t believe I didn’t either.
Why didn’t I? Derek was good
At pointing out the logic of
The illogical world I’d just escaped.
Was this decompression something I shared
With Mirabel?
He levered out a plate of nachos,
Adding sour cream and guacamole.
I WAS hungry!
“I think I need a bib.”
He added piles of napkins.
I dumped nachos into my despair.
“Coffee? Tea? The wine’s
Locked up.”
“Coffee’s fine.”
On their home computer
I googled while he buttled.
The news was bad.
“His house looks like my dream!”
Valerian Hall, Verne’s “ancestral home.”
“There’s even a lake with folly.”
“Swear you didn’t look before?”
Derek was persnickety.
“Don’t you think sometimes
You absorb things from the air?
By osmosis?”
He politely considered the question,
Working his logic
Around this idea. “Remote viewing?”
“Peer Loses Bid to Break Entail.”
Screamed headlines as I scrolled.
Down, down, down.
“Looks like he couldn’t pry more money out.”
Derek typed – my research not
Enough for him.
“Says here he can’t go back because
There’s a warrant out for his arrest,”
“Look at the site!” I argued. “How could Royal Gossip
Know anything of value?”
“I admit you can’t trust exclamation points,”
Derek concurred.
“But it is a reason to avoid police.
Whatever it is,
“Can’t be enough to extradite.”
“I need a bathroom.”
To throw up?
I rose abruptly, headed down the hall.
“There’s a close one off the kitchen.”
Around the corner from the wall of refrigerators.
I checked myself in a tiny bathroom mirror.
Hollow-eyed, a girl who sorely needs a tan.
Completely different from my
Made-up, Russian hooker, Mirabel self.
“I found what he’s in trouble for,” said Derek
When I got returned. GBH.”
“Party drug?”
“Grievous bodily harm. He attacked someone.”
“A woman?”
“No. Some man in a pub.”
I couldn’t picture it.
Verne seemed more irritable than physical.
But then I recalled how he was about Ravi.
“So Verne’s on the run it sounds like.”
“It’s a new idea,” I agreed.
Derek moved effortlessly from coffee to seltzer.
The boy was a sponge.
“This is more fun than a video game.
Maybe I’ll transition to “criminal justice”.”
“What are your parents pushing?”
“Wealth Management. Fundraising.”
He made a disgusted face. “Tax Avoidance.
Dull, dull, dull. Studying rule breakers, though
You don’t find that interesting?”
Did I?
Alysse Aallyn 