Alysse Aallyn

Category: #Mysteries

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

     Derek speaking.

    “Sounds just like Mirabel to me.  Wasn’t

    Disappointing everyone her stock in trade?”

    Impossible to argue with.

    But I put in the effort.

     “Maybe something’s REALLY happened to her this time.

    She seems to have been juggling two men

    She hated; stealing diamonds and God knows what.”

    Should I explain her attempted

    Brain hijacking?

    Maybe I shouldn’t tell him anything.

    Why couldn’t I stop myself? Because

    Derek is my age and will have

    Predictable response? It felt like,

    AT LAST a human being 

    To speak to in this world of artificial masks.

    “God. I’m sorry.” His voice really did

    Sound sorry. “Do you want to come here?

    Should I go there?”

    It was fresh and novel to be offered

    The Choice. Sounded like he really

    Wanted to help. 

     “What could you do?”

    My own voice sounded like a five year old

    Quivering on the edge of tears.

    “Help you look? I’d do anything I can.”

    I gave Derek the bridegroom’s address.

    Speaking of the bridegroom, he burst through 

    The doors, arms full of literature and bottled water.

    “Hotel coupons, flight discounts –

    These could suggest where Mirabel might go.

     Or where Ravi might stash her.

    What a liar! That bastard!”

    He DEFINITELY wanted to be the one

    Whose mood Mirabel controlled.

    I felt I had to interject some authenticity.

    “She probably wanted to keep Ravi

    From chasing her. Or suing her. 

    For, you know, the diamonds.”

    Verne paused to drink from his

    Chilled bottle, flicking

    Droplets on his collar.

    “She shouldn’t turn to him.”

    So we were back to Bad Mirabel,

    Conniving Mirabel, with motives

    Always suspect.

    Not so different – as Derek pointed out –

    From the way she’d always been.

    We climbed dispiritedly back into the car.

    I needed Derek. Just to speak to

    Someone sane.

     “Have you announced your engagement

    Formally?”

    “No. We just thought of it. No details yet.”

    This opened an unpleasant picture.

    Why was I the first

    Wedding task?

    It couldn’t be that Mirabel needed

    Someone sane to speak to –

    I must be a distraction

    From what I could see was Verne’s

    Slow boil.

    At that very moment

     he eyed my phone suspiciously.

    “So, who was that?”

    I saw him itching to 

    Commandeer my phone.

    Who WOULD I be talking to? The press?

    Poor Mirabel! Her trap was sounding

    Worse than ever.

    I engineered my way out.

    “My parents’ friends.

     Their son could help –

    He’s hacker smart.” 

    Should I mention my upcoming move?

    Best not; a storm settled between 

    Verne’s eyes. He thirsted to be

    My focus of attention with

    No competitor to mute his power.

    “He’s meeting us at the apartment.”

    Verne didn’t like that one bit.

    I realized, even if I have to sacrifice my clothes

    I must escape.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter Ten – Is Lord Verne In the Epstein Files? 

    Cycling through museums of dream –

    Christine, threatened forever by

    Her hideous Phantom, Daphne

    Sprouting as a laurel tree;

    Philomela without her tongue.

    Was that what Verne meant by

    Classics? In the night’s dark heart 

    I woke and thought I saw him standing there or

    Was it Mirabel – reaching out through a gold-framed

    Mirror to beckon me closer

    Or warn me away?

    Somehow I became convinced

    Mirabel was dead – murdered by

    Lord Verne – he must have done it because

    I was his perfect alibi, covering up

    His appearance in the Epstein files

    Of life, where old roués

    Tarnish up the young.

    If I stayed here

    I’d be Mirabel forever – so I

    Fled through shattered French windows where

    Sheer white curtains blew across my face

    Impeding me; supplicating

    Me to dance, daring my embrace.

    Where was I? Was this the ruined castle

    Where the wraiths were tourists

    Gazing at destruction paid for

    With the lifeblood of the country?

    The stone terrace beneath my feet

    Was littered with the broken glass

    Of Piper Heidseck bottles – picked my way

    Between the broken statues – horny Pan 

    Whose face had split, cupids gaping with

    Their fractured mouths, Vulcan lobbing

    Stone pineapples down the mossy garden steps.

    Pursued by something

    Too disgusting to confront

    I saw his shadow –

    A leering man with antlers.

    At least the distant view

    Was comforting – pond encircling island

    Ornamented by gazebo – forests crowned 

    By snowy mountains. 

    Surely he could not pursue me there.

    Something amiss about this lighting –

    Bleached too white – bad weather or

    Apocalypse; eclipse of the sun or

    The end of the world?  I revert to

    The “helpless bystander” dilemma of childhood –

    This was too horrible: I forced myself awake. 

    Dreams multiplied enigmas –

    I could not abandon Mirabel

    Prance on home

    And declare she’d

    “Done it yet again.”

    Either she was in danger or

    I was. And all my life

    I’d been preparing for this moment.

    In the mirror I saw

    Richenda Marshott complete with morning mouth –

    Sunlight exacerbating a hangover

    Not from overdrinking but

    From over-dreaming.

    Verne’s door was closed –

    It would be awkward if I’d killed him

    But I refused to check. Men

    Should not be so dangerous.

    I took control of the empty kitchen.

    Some bad person – probably me –

    Left out the cake – stiff and

    Ruined now – only cardboard sugar

    Which I guess it’s always been.

     Tossed it,

    Put the last espresso in the

    Microwave and

    Opened cabinets sadly.

    Here’s finally a place where guests could

    Unpack their clothes –

    Empty, empty, empty.

    The front door unclicked –

    I jumped so hard

    I banged my head.

    “Ow!”

    And Verne cried

    “Breakfast!”

    I hadn’t killed him after all. Seems 

    I’m the one who overslept.

    “I haven’t slept so well in ages. What was

    That stuff?” he 

    Eyed my mug with disapproval.

    “You can’t drink yesterday’s.”

    I’ve heard it said their lordships

    Can’t comprehend the hoi polloi.

    “I brought everything.” He went on,

    Impossibly cheerful

    Considering yesterday.

    Waffles, eggs, fruit.

    Coffee. No milk?

    “It’s OK,” I said to his 

    Self-recriminating face

    “I noticed you have ice cream.”

    Vanilla works as well or

    Even better.

    “Mirabel never drank milk,” said Verne.

    “She says it makes cowbones

    And soy makes man-boobs.”

    She would say that.

    Charming Mirabel.

    I could one-up and list the

    Plant-based milks I willingly absorb but –

     “Ice cream is better.”

    Hard to one-up when one is

    Drooling. Visibly. 

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 9 – Shock the Virgin

    He opened the door on baited

    Breath as if Mirabel waited but

    Of course she did not.

    Did he long for her or

    Fear her? I could not figure them out.

    In their world, the blow is

    Desired; not in mine. I am determined 

    Not just to resist

    But to understand.

    The rooms embraced us into its

     Darkness, blandness.  Silence. I should be

    Exhausted, yet I new

    If I closed my eyes she would appear

    No stranger but 

    A part of me, both future

    Avatar and past life

    Alter. Her perfume

    Teased us with its sexy cloud

    As if from somewhere she was

    Watching. Teasing. Listening. Laughing.

    “I’m terminal,” yawned Verne.

    Now there’s an odd expression.

    “I could sleep.” I scanned the two

    Bedrooms, yoked by unlockable

    Double doors. 

    At least my bathroom

    Had a lock.

    Was it rude to remind him

    He was supposed to have rented

    A hotel room?

    But if I sought politeness

    He did not.

     “Sorry there’s no telly,”

    He casually insulted me.

    Ignoring the fact I have a phone.

    He lifted a hand – where would

    It drop? I watched with

    Frozen fascination as he dumped it heavily

    On my shoulder.

    Stumbled words – 

    “This has been a horrid homecoming

    Holiday for you.”

    Homecoming? No more a

    Homecoming than a holiday.

    Luckily, I’d never considered this mission 

    A vacation. “No worries,”

    I tossed off lightly,

    “I’ve got plenty for my end-of break-essay.”

    His hand tightened painfully.

    I tried to shake him off but he clenched harder.

    “You can’t write this!”

    I am NEVER ready for this reaction

    Though God knows I should be –

    Parents and school seem equally aghast

    By my take on things

    Refusing to grant me 

    The power to call them out –

    That I was born with. It’s my

    Superpower – NEVER

    Reject a superpower.

    Took both hands to de-clench

    His grip. This would

    Leave a mark.

    I’d no wish to rile him but

    How could he silence me?

    “It’s all grist,” I quoted, lightly,

    “You know, sweet mystery of life.”

    Literally he spat with rage. 

     “That’s so American!”

    (His deadliest insult.)

    “Maundering on about all the details

    Of your tiny lives, as if

    Gossip is the better part of

    Being!” 

    I backed away, trying to control my face.

    They hate it if they think you’re laughing.

    “It’s a mystery to be solved,”

    I reassured, “Use all

    The tools we’ve got:

    Hypothesis, antithesis and

    Synthesis. Occam’s 

    Razor. Refine

    Possibility into

    Probability.”

    He snorted. “This is what comes

    “Of not teaching Classics!

    Confession substitutes for mastery!”

    In my short experience

    Those who try to “master” Truth

    Will never understand it;

    Won’t get that ultimate reward –

    Uncovering the deepest questions –

    Invisible to us now.

    Playing politician by

    Managing me, or

    Controlling truth won’t locate Mirabel.

    I threw him a bone. It worked –

    It usually had before.

    “Poetry’s my specialty,”

    I taxed him.

    People back away.

    He seemed relieved.

    “You mean like – metaphors?

    An allegory?”

    This man wouldn’t know a poem

    If it gobsmacked him.

    Poor Mirabel!

    Of course she had to leave!

    He cleared it up in

    Just that second; guaranteeing me

    Needed rest.

    “Good night,” He told me as he closed the door.

    Manners abound with

    Strange expressions: this night

    Was anything but good.

    I chewed my lip.

    It’s a bad habit of mine. Let’s hope

    He doesn’t sleepwalk.

    Mother wants me to unpack first –

    No hope of that – these

    Drawers and closets were jammed

    With gaudy accoutrement

    Complete with price tags.

    Because what’s the good of

    Acquisition sans

    Provenance? 

    My clothes would have to stay

    Jumbled together in their

    Carpetbag.

    I should really film all this –

    Make a video –

    But where to share it?

    And that’s the trouble with

    My school – they’re never interested in

    What excites me. And what

    Excites me? Just the things

    I cannot know. I’ll always be

    In the process of

    Finding out.

    Behind the locked bathroom door

    I soaked myself in

    Dead sea salt. Washed

    My hair in watermelon mint &

    Rubbed myself with Mirabel’s

    Mango chutney cream – never approximating 

    Her clingy floral scent.

    Pulling on my jammies I

    Welcomed this new self of mine –

    Solving grownup disasters by

     Avoiding the reasoning

    That caused them in the first place.

    There was a knock at my bedroom door –

    I said nothing but it opened slightly

    Verne’s face poked in.

    “Ok if I sleep in here?  I just

    Can’t be alone tonight.”

    “No,” I told him firmly. “I wouldn’t sleep 

    A wink.” The nerve of him!

    “Afraid of rape? You wouldn’t be

    The first fourteen year old I’ve had.”

    I concealed my shock.

    “You’re not having this one. Leave.”

    “You’re ignorant of sex. It’s

    Life’s mightiest comfort.”

    “No thanks. Are you leaving or am I?”

    “Oh, all right.”

    He sighed.

    “Can I leave this door open?

    Just until I fall asleep?”

    Was he a rapist or a baby?

    Why did I feel this was some 

    Miserable recap of his many nights

    With Mirabel?

    “I have some pills to knock you out.” I

    Double-dosed him with Benedryl.

    Closed the door and

    Disappointed myself by falling 

    Asleep before I could sort my

    Jumbled thoughts.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 6 –

     Alt-Mirabel

    To be around Verne

    Was to feel

    Too many emotions at once –

    I almost don’t want to remember them.

    Depression, disgust, anger,

    Amazement.

    Safe to say

    I’m not “alt-Mirabel”

    And never will be.

    When my journey began it’s true

    I vaguely envied Mirabel 

    Enjoyed imagining

    The Perfect Life –

    How delicious doing only

    What you want!

    Some relief to feel above it all! 

    But now I saw her slavery.

    Still conundrums proliferate.

    How and where had Mirabel

     Learned to pretend so effectively?

    Had she studied foxing Mom and Dad and

    Turned it into outwitting this

    Aristocratic partial-wit?

    He who declared that;

    Thesis, antithesis

    Synthesis – so, if I’m not Mirabel

    I must be her opposite.

    His definition for rivalry.

    Girlfight!

    Naturally that explains

     Why he tried to kiss me.

    What can The Real Richenda say to

    A man so uninterested in her existence?

    “I’m changing,” I said abruptly.

    “Getting out of this idiotic dress.”

     “The car’s downstairs,” said Verne. 

    “You don’t have time.

    He’ll take us where she went.”

    “Go without me,”

    I said. “I’m changing.”

    A clash of wills;

    How did I know he wouldn’t?

    I joined them downstairs

    Wearing my oldest jeans and my Three Mad Cats

    T-shirt -turned out Mirabel had gone to

    Brooklyn, apparently – it seemed a long, long way.

    The driver was unhelpful – Mirabel’d said nothing and

    He was a glum fellow taken for

    Himself. We halted in the warehouse district. 

    Verne coaxed him to wait while we stepped out of the car.

    Pessimism was back.

    “Nothing here. I hoped she’d get sloppy.”

    I had my own ideas.

    Looking for the “other man”

    Verne forgot the critical

    Importance of staging areas; or perhaps

    He never knew – maybe he’s

    The kind of guy who thinks

    Women awake made up for him

    .

    Behind one of these doors could there be a place

    Where she changed from one facade to the next –

    But they were all unlabeled –

    No numbers, no doorbells,

    Broken-looking speaker units.

    Impossible to tell.

    But the psychic bond persisted.

    I was beginning to get a sense of her –

    Inhaled like faint perfume –

    My confidence conferred a heady power.

    I wasn’t alt-Mirabel

    But I did feel I knew her

    Better than he did;

    I’d seen her just beginning

    Before she polished up her act

    And took it on the road.

    The question was never –

    When did Mirabel get so wily? I felt

    She’d always been this way – but

    Now I wondered;

    Had her plans EVER

    Included us?

     “Maybe she met another car,”

    Verne offered, 

    “Parked somewhere out of sight.”

    That nemesis of his again – he preferred 

    A universe of dastard rivals. 

    We savored the possibility.

    The night was silent.

    “Well, who?” I asked.

    Verne sighed.

    “One chance left,” he said. “Humiliation, but 

    What have I got to lose?”

    I think he had already lost it

    But said nothing.

    Looking him up and down

    I wondered idly how many on this planet –

    Four fifths? Two thirds?

    Would trade places with this guy.

    My mother’s drill-sergeant voice snapped

    Inside my head, demanding he “buck up.”

    He gave the driver an address on the Upper East Side 

    And we settled in for another 

    Lengthy ride.

    “So…where are we going?”

    “Mirabel had a job – personal assistant to…

    This man and they

    Were friends. Too close for me.

    He might know something.”

    “Was he invited to the wedding?”

    Inquire I.  Ingenuously.

    “No. His wife thought they

    Were too close too. Let’s say I thought

    He dismissed her with

    An overly generous gift.”

    Aha. Torn between rich men,

    And only one of them

    Unmarried.

    Picture becoming clearer. 

    Verne drummed his fingers,

    Grim but seeming cheered.

    “She might be there. If we take him by surprise.”

    His eyes raked me over.

    “You were smart to change.

    Sorry for rushing you.

    Button up your coat. I want to

    Push you front and center.”

    I understood he

    Prepared to use the

    Adolescence; familial relationship 

    So recently forgotten –

    He had the nerve to congratulate me

    For dressing down to

    Young and vulnerable.

    Really they deserved each other.

    “He won’t care

    About me – I’m just the jilted bridegroom – 

    I’m sure she complained about me to him

    Just as she complained to me about him – but

    He’ll be interested in you.”

    Hmm. Yes. Abandoned sister. 

    The suburbs were dull but the city’s

    Charm now seemed theatrical; everyone required

    To play roles.

    Hilariously, both these men

    Would look to me for clues to who

    Mirabel had been.

    At another golden barracks

    The doorman demanded the

    Purpose of our visit. 

    Verne said, “Emergency.” 

    He flashed a picture 

    From his phone. “Seen this girl tonight?”

    The man shook his head, consulting his service phone.

    “Penthouse Suite. Mr. Kruptupian will see you now.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    “Where would she go?

    You must have some

    Guy in mind?”

    Verne looked so childish, shoulders collapsed,  

    Unresponsive iPhone fallen to the floor.

    I was not going to mother him.

    I felt sorry for him but I also

    Fel everything was his own damn fault

    How could such a lucky man

    Wealthy and free

    So mismanage his own life?

    Suddenly my dream was

    Magically achieved; I felt

    Old; sophisticated;

    Like HE was fourteen and

    I was thirty-seven.

    I pushed coffee.

    It’s always been my 

    Panacea.

    He sipped in new docility.

    “Black. The way I like it.”

    I corrected brusquely,

    “There is no cream or sugar.”

    “It’s mean strong. I need it

    To fight back.”

    I wish he’d stop raising these

    Disturbing concepts –

    Was that what he liked about me?

    How was that possible when

    He hated it about Mirabel?

    Maybe he was trying to apologize. 

    I muted.

    He studied me ironically.

    “Will you tell The Folks?”

    Mirabel’s word for them.

    Felt a chill. 

    How explain this to the world?

    Did I finally have

    Something to write about for my break essay –

    I could rush home

    To my life as a

     Powerless teenage nobody. 

    “We don’t know what

    Happened.” At the very least we should

    Figure out what the hell

    Was going on.  It’s true that Verne

    Seemed a loose cannon now but

    I could always lock my door.

    Grab that bull by his

    You Know Where.

    “No more kissing. OK?”

    He flushed a dirty red.

    “No. Hell no.

    I’m sorry.”

    “Maybe she’s in trouble.” 

    He shrugged this off.

    “Impossible. She’s just a tease.”

    This did not feel right.

    If she could get out of her depth with Verne she could

    Certainly do it with other men.

    Plenty going on am

    I am curious.

    I was slowly realizing that

    Because Verne was Verne he MIGHT

    Always be the last to know.

    “You really think she’s left you?”

    He writhed. “We played the hurt game

    To the top of our bent This could

    Be her winning shot.”

    What was the score?

    Why inject me?

    Did she owe me or –

    Did I owe her? I said,

    “If she left you

    She left me, too.”

    Why couldn’t I believe

    That Mirabel would ghost me?

    Wasn’t that what she’d always done?

    But it was different now –

    We’d been “sisters” together –

    For one split second.

    Fresh chills fevered me – 

    Was she handing off her bridegroom? 

    The matching dresses were just too weird.

    On the other hand, fashion is transgressive;

    Always trying to break the rules.

    No. no. Can’t go there.

    “Until Mirabel calls it off

    It’s on. This could be nothing. 

    She might come back.

    She’ll call.  Sleep on it. Have some 

    Lemon cake.” He shuddered. Grumpy.

    “I asked for Hazelnut.” 

    I easily imagined a Mirabel

    Blocking his desires.

    He settled for coconut

    Companionably we ate together.

    He’d fed me, now I fed him.

    That’s called a relationship.

    Then he fixed me with

    A gnarly eye.

    “Did she warn you?

    What did she tell you?

    Did she say anything

    About HIM?”

    I always hated third degree.

    I blush as if I’m guilty.

    “She told me nothing,”

    I said coldly. “I

    “Was invited to a wedding.”

    “She’ll never call,” he moaned.

    “She’ll keep the tension up

    Until the victim dies. That’s her way.”

    “Then you should call it off.”

    I scraped the rest of my cake

    Into the trash – I only

    Like the frosting – and

    Hardened myself against their

    Nuptial craziness.

    Verne rose so decisively

    His plate fell to the rug.

    “I’m going to find her,”

     “Game on. She chose me. She doesn’t get 

    Another choice.”

    What was the matter with this man?

    Physically attractive – 

    Wealthy – powerful –

    So insecure?

    The only game with players is REFUSE TO PLAY.

    Mirabel had always coveted those

    She could manipulate. But

    Did I know that of my own

    Knowledge – how could I – or

    Did my parents prompt me?

    That’s the thing about growing up –

     It slowly dawns on you that

    All you’re told is nonsense.

    A dose of sense is

    Obviously required.

    “I think you’re looking at this wrong,

     Mirabel’s frightened

    Of our dad. He’s the “other man.”

    Verne gaped at me,

    His focus readjusting as if

    He saw me for the first time.

    “Explain.”

    “Don’t you know the story?

    She pretended to go to college but really cashed all

    Daddy’s checks and lived the high life.

    She got in trouble with the student loan people,

    Forging documents.  We haven’t heard from her for

    Six years. Dad’s still angry.

    I thought something was up when 

    She wanted to come home.”

    “I didn’t know.  Quite little scamp.”

    He seemed cheered.

    “Think we should wed in church?

    I don’t know one marriage that’s survived ten years.”

    This man could certainly surprise me.

    “Mom and Dad have been married FOREVER,”

    Worse than that –

    Unimaginable without each other;

    A true team – like Laurel & Hardy or

    Abbott & Costello.

    I could imagine no other human

    Puting up with either of them.

    How to convey this?

    “Maybe you shouldn’t get married

    When you are so uncertain,” I suggested.

    Would I get kissed or

    Slapped for interfering?

    Adults don’t like to second-guess but

    Mirabel forced my hand.

    “All our bridges burned,”

    He sighed.

    “The only way is forward.”

    Depressing thought.

    Keeping up this guy’s mood is work.

    “Let’s figure out where she

    Could have possibly gone. Like,

    How would she travel?”

    Verne sat straight up.

    “Car service,” he announced.

    “I pay the bills. We can track her.”

    He worked his phone.

    “I’m so glad 

    “You’re staying. I need you.

    You’re Alt-Mirabel.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Mirabel’s been hard to pin down lately. 

    Then suddenly she changed. This marriage idea.”

    Did he blush or blanch?  I couldn’t

    See clearly in the darkening light but

    His throat trembled raw

    With pent emotion.

    My face must have betrayed 

    My distaste

    Because he hurried to explain.

    “She’s been trying to

    Talk me into seeing her family. 

    A wedding to erase her

    Great Silence. I thought we were 

    Two avatars alone. I imagined 

    A woman to stand with me against the world.”

    How rich, I thought, literally, 

    For a man with a title based on family 

    To disown that very concept.

    But to quarrel seemed

    Perfidious, and once again,

    The youngest person in the room

    I was silenced and shamed.

    He leaned back in his chair

    As beef wellington arrived.

    “I’m amazed you existed, frankly.

    I thought the little sister

    Was another of her stories.

    Kudos to your parents.”

    I stared nauseated

    At beef wellington –

    Perhaps I’m vegan after all.

    This party made me gag.

    “I’m so glad you’re you,

     Just like her but so

    Unspoiled.”

    Never had a compliment

    Felt more like an insult.

    What kind of talk was this from

    A prospective groom?

    And any idea that my parents “made” me

    Is creepy and revolting.

    “Mirabel and I are opposites,” I stressed

    Too angrily before I considered.

    “How can THAT be?”

    He was smug. Superior.

    I schooled him.

    “She cares what others think and

    I just don’t.”

    That should have stopped him but –

    It didn’t. He smiled

    Indulgently.

    “Sisterhood is powerful.

    I see she’s got “the drop”

    On me,” he emphasized the slang

    Like any English lord raised on 

    American movies.

    Unable to be me;

    Unable to read him,

    Know him, change him.

    Is this the dawning of

    Despair? It makes me hate

    The grown-up world. 

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    We were silent in the elevator.

    Feeling naked

    I clutched the fur I’d borrowed 

    Summoning up the nerve for

    Questions but

    Mirabel’s mood seemed depressed.

    Encumbered, perhaps?

    With me? With Verne?

    With family – obligation –

    Tradition – without her help

    I couldn’t map it out.

     “When did he propose?”

    My query’s girlish gaucheness echoed

    Off the shiny doors

    That bent our reflected beauty so

    Unflatteringly we seemed 

    Haunted.

    “It’s not when he proposed,” she said

    “It’s when I accepted. He

    Proposed the first night I met him –

    Five years ago.

    Said he’d marry me

    If I’d change from blonde to red.’”

    Wow. I didn’t know what to say

    To that except

    Why was he never in her pictures?

    What shame could there be? 

    “Was it a secret?”

    “He hates the press – it

    Treats him so unfairly in his own country –

    And he wants me to himself. I was so unready – 

    Seeing other people,

    Savoring my options.”

    We nodded at the doorman

    And the driver of 

    The waiting limo –

    “He slowly won me over.

    He was so suave, so

    International. Adoring.”

    She let me climb in first,

    Then backed away as if she’d seen a ghost.

    “I forgot something. Tell Verne I’ll be along.”

    The car swept away, leaving Mirabel 

    Huddled alone, by the curb in her mink coat.

    Chapter 4 – Cocktailing

    Had I been played?

    It’s what you do to children.

    I couldn’t shuck the memory of

    My own mother through the years –

    Lofty & deceitful –

    Briskly turning “road trip” turned into

    “Summer camp” and “one night” 

    Into seven. 

    I hated being “managed”, but really

    Who could blame Mirabel?

    Quoting Mom: “Guests must

    Be adaptable, obliging – a guest has

    No one to blame but herself

    For her bad treatment.”

    Was it something I’d said? Or

    Something I’d done?

    Or simply one more humiliation as

    Baby sister. Why did she keep throwing me

    Alone together with this man?

    Did I want to get to know him?

    I wanted to get to know HER.

    The driver helped me out of the car

    And I saw his frank expression.

    Another stunner. It was

    Admiration. I looked too good. I

    Was too tall.  Had I insulted the bride

    By overreaching?

    I blame the heels – when

    I towered over her –

    She must have hated it.

    She’d gone back to reposition – 

    To pivot, as they say,

    While Verne sat in comfort at the bar.

    He rose at the sight of me and once again

    I saw that face. Tribute

    To my manufactured beauty and yet

    I saw the calculation – was he 

    Managing me too?

    Naturally, he’d have to be –

    They had a goal of some kind

    Inviting me here –

    Weaseling their way back into the

    Famiglia, the family that gave up on them

    For whatever purpose.

    He seemed satisfied that

    I was alone –

    The arm that contained me 

    Was decidedly un-brotherly:

    Squiring me away from his 

    Desultory conversation –

    He didn’t bother to introduce me. 

    He enjoyed them seeing he was meeting

    Some strange woman.

    “Let’s get you dinner.”

    Anything better than a bar

    That looked me over as if 

    I was some Russian call girl.

    As we turned I was confronted

    By the mirrors: I looked like

    Some Russian call girl.

    Can I blame champagne, allowing

    Mirabel to paint me up?

    Or the society that wants –

    Expects me to look this way.

    None of this is my fault.

    I said in my best-guest manner,

    “Should we wait for Mirabel?”

    He demurred.

    “Waiting for Mirabel’s never a good idea.

    Putting yourself out only encourages her.”

    He snuck an angry glance at his phone

    As the headwaiter flashing menus

    Manhandled us

     Towards a darkened booth.

    Perhaps this engagement was far too long –

    Were they tired of each other already?

    “Turtle soup’s very good here,”

    Said Verne: I longed to claim

    To be a vegan but also yearned

    To sample everything.

    Sucked my water greedily

    As a martini-bearing waiter 

    Assessed me so attentively. 

    “A Virgin Mary?”

    Verne seemed startled but

    The more knowledgeable waiter sped away.

    “Without the vodka.”

    He seemed relieved.

    “Something Mirabel said let me

     Feared you were religious.”

    It was too complex to enlighten him.

    Famiglia’s religious but

    I’m free choice. I’ve yet

    To make up my mind about

    A lot of things. Switched it up.

    “What kind of ceremony will you have?”

    He seemed stunned as if I’d proposed

    Barbarian rites, then vague.

    “Some judge. A ballroom.”

    Shrugged his shoulders.

    “Mirabel says you proposed

    First night you met.”

    He laughed sharply.

    “I was young and stupid.”

    Well THAT was tough to follow up.

    Could both be afflicted with

    Cold feet? But Verne could

    Switch it up as well.

     “I recognize the signs,” he said.

    “What signs are those?”

    Struggling to regain my footing.

    “Mirabel can be very shattering, can’t she?”

    I shrugged, dismissed 

    Disloyalty, opting for

    Vagueness.  As he did.

    “Life comes at us so fast.”

    “I tried to free her from the life,” said Verne.

    “I don’t believe she’ll really let me.”

    Which life was that?

    This was depressing – my parents hoping

    For good news, find a bride and groom stuck

    In mutual complaining.

     “Mirabel proposed to me.”

    He said coldly. “It’s the title.

    They all do that. 

    She was no virgin when I met her.”

    I was stung on her behalf – who wants his

    Moth-eaten old royalty?

    And what cretin expects 

    Virgins among New York models?

    “She said she accepted

    The proposal you’d made long ago.

    And you said yes!”

    My Virgin Mary was 

    Too spicy to be truly virginal.  I

    Almost choked.

    Sipping slowly to wonder

    If I liked it.  Doesn’t hot sauce 

    Wreck your palate?

    As the waiter manifested a fresh martini, 

    I assessed Verne’s subtle desire

    To put me in the “wrong”.

    Lack of breeding?

    Was my hair not red enough?

    Too bad for him –

    I am well used to disapproval.

     “Mirabel said you like red hair,”

    I teased him.

    “I wanted her natural color –

    Yours, I assume?”

    Who could say?

    My memory was of long ago.

    “I think people should make themselves,”

    I defended, arguing

    Too fiercely.

    Soup arrived, bread slathered with 

    Mozzarella, pesto & tomato. Mini-pizzas!

    I sighed ecstatically and felt from him 

    An answering thaw.

    “When you inherit an ancient world,”

    He pontificated, “you learn to value the past.”

    “So you have a castle?”

    I asked through my full mouth.

    Turtle soup OK. Too much sherry for my taste

    Or was that stuff curry?

    Are turtles seafood?  Just like my sister

    I got a bored “I do.”

    He checked his phone.

    “It’s a bit of a ruin with tourists crawling

    Everywhere. Mirabel doesn’t care for it.”

    Phone again. Was Mirabel texting?

    I studied mine to be

    Companionable. My folks again.

    Always, with the questions.

    “She’s not answering,” he sighed.

    We’re not as attractive as

    Her double life.”

    This gave me a jolt.

    “She has a double life?”

    “Probably triplicate by now.”

    He snorted.

    I tried my father’s ploy.

    Get ‘em talking.

    “Why don’t you just tell me about it?”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    He reached for my bag

    Kissed the top of my forehead –

    Doubtless drinking in

    Sweat, hairspray, foundation;

     “Richenda?”

    Pronouncing it “Richendor”-

    English accents are so cool.

    “Recognized you immediately. You’re

    Just like Mirabel. Maybe it’s 

    The dark glasses – always dodging

    Paparazzi.”

    I felt helpless rapture as if

    He flattered me when all it meant

    Was that Mirabel wanted to hide and yet

    Remain superior in just the way I’d

    Fantasized. I did some obscure

    Need to argue –

    I’m an arguer –

    But taking “compliments”

    Is the better part I know.  

    But usually people said how unalike we were

    Snow White and Rose Red.

    “Er, thanks,” sounds so ungracious and

     “What happened to Mirabel?”

    Downright rude.

    I said it anyway.

    He batted at it briskly.

    “Unavoidably detained.”

    Swept me and bag away from the escalator

    Clogged with ordinaries –

    Down the platform

    “We’ll take the elevator to the car service.”

    Actually, it was a limo.

    The driver rushed to fondle my

    Pathetic flowered bag. Couldn’t parse whether he

    And this mystery man

    Knew each other – casual hire? or

    Permanent position?  Hard to know.

    “You’re the fiancé?” I stuttered out. 

    Worse and worse! Country cousin

    Morphing into bumpkin sister.

    He seemed surprised.

    “So sorry,” he bundled me into the limo,

    “My excuse is wedding nerves. 

    Meet the family!

    Philip Valerian. Everyone calls me 

    Verne.” Now I was 

    Laughing and I couldn’t stop.

    “Mom thought your name was Rupert Golden!”

    Verne didn’t see the amusement. 

    “Must be some other swain,” he huffed.

    Was I

    Getting Mirabel in trouble? 

    Would she thank me?

    What kind of fiancé

    Hates to hear his glamor girl

    Has been around?

    “I guess we all have wedding nerves.”

    He was jumpy,

    Fingers drumming on one knee.

    What a relief to turn away

    Make what brain-meat I could of the street outside.

    Writing my own story

    In which he was smoother, easier,

    Less knotty and complex.

    New York City! Kubla Khan!

    But everything was dark and dingy

    Until Fifth Avenue; there a

    Nonstop parade of glittery storefronts 

    And entitled shoppers

    Promised trousseaux and makeovers and

     Glamorous fun!

    The limo stopped at the dress designer

    Questrina,

    And the driver stepped out of the car.

    A woman rushed through the double doors offering

    two glossy green dress bags in outstretched hands-

    Driver swept them into the trunk and we were off again.

    “Your dresses,” explained Verne.

    My excitement dulled to confusion &

    Disappointment –

    Bait and switch:

    I should have known.

     “I thought Mirabel and I

    Would choose our dresses -“

    “Oh, there’ll be lots for you to do.”

    I’m surprised he didn’t offer a

    Lolly to distract me.

    “Here we are,” said the would-be groom.

    “At my place.”

    A skyscraper on Fifth Avenue? 

    Shiny red doorman

    Rushed the curb. “Your lordship.”

    I thought my ears were ringing.

    Was I hearing right?

    Should have watched that damn Downtown Abbey 

    Or whatever it was called –

    My oldsters begged me to 

    Watch with them

    Instead of proudly sequestering my anime anger.

    Could he really have a title?

    Do they still give those out?

    We were alone for a looooong 43 floor ride.

    Under sallow yellow

    Lighting he seemed

    Depressed – was it me or

    Or approaching Mirabel?

    If only I could read minds!  Then

    Gold enameled door opened and 

    There stood my sister.

  • Purrsiflage – Daily Cat Zen with Alysse Aallyn

    Feb 26

    The Multiverse is Blossoming – You are awakened to the magical possibilities that surround you. Can you dream of eternal bliss? Are you floating in connectedness? In Love the boundaries of the other disappear; all is forgiveness. Merge fearlessly, knowing you will be able to get yourself back any time, soothed, improved, and healed.

    We Are Purrsons for Love – Love is the spirit that animates the empty spaces between creatures.  Once charged, these spaces become a powerful force for growth and change –  uncharged they are so much dead air. This is the space that Purrsons protect. Love is the longing to be truly alive and to share life with the Blissed, Blessed Others.

    Our Yearning Defines and Connects Us – As children we thought we knew about miracles but it seems we have forgotten. As Purrsons we fight for our ancestral memories of trust and closeness. How we long to be reminded of the ecstasy of selflessness, to re-experience the borderlessness between creatures that makes a dead multiverse come alive.

    Love Is Our Being – Life is a spiral, our labyrinth, remember? We can’t go back, we can only go forward. We practice techniques and invent others as we design and redesign purposeful maps in a threatening and uncertain world. We have the collective confidence of all the brilliance of the Purrsons who came before us. Someone loved us once, eternalizing the golden moment, now we can re-create and perpetuate that magic by creating our own miracles.

    Purrson Danger – Danger lies in narrowing, exclusionary definitions of what ‘can’t” happen, what “won’t” work. Purrsons explode restrictions all the time. Love must ever open outwards. As soon as we turn Love into a zero-sum game with a shut-off valve focused on our own narrow gratification, Love dies.

    Purrson Opportunity – Love Is always a Miracle – It can restore the dead to life.  It can open minds, it can awaken hearts. The possibilities of a Purrson are endless because we have chosen, with our flexibility and our sympathetic understanding, to be all-encompassing. Close your eyes and assume yoga’s starfish pose. We are open to what the multiverse longs to teach and once we commit to pass it on, we form an unbreakable chain, free at last from the bonds and the limits of selfishness. Clasp the hand (or paw) that generously, trustingly takes hold of yours. Let’s venture forth together.

    Models & Mentors – ‘to love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides”

    – David Viscott

    “Miracles don’t happen to you, they happen through you.” – Mary Davis

    “Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get, only what you are expecting to give, which is everything” – Katherine Hepburn

    “Love gives you a piece of your soul you never knew was missing” – Torquato Tasso

    “You’ve got to see the miracle to be the miracle.” – Jandy Nelson

    “Love is the gift of oneself” – Jean Anouilh

    “I love you for who I am when I’m with you”

    – Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  • Purrsiflage – Welcome to Your Daily Cat Zen with Alysse Aallyn

    Feb 21

    When You Wake Up This Morning – You realize, the future weighs on you. Will you be found wanting? 

    This is a Message from the Multiverse – these oppressive anxieties match with universal preoccupations. The planets slow when we don’t acknowledge their power. Let’s make friends with our anxieties. Uncertainly beleaguers us. Is there a way to divine the future? 

    Consult Your Dreams. The Number One question people have about dreams is, Are they prophetic? And the answer is of course YES. We KNOW the “truth’. We fear the truth.  We don’t want to face the truth. We tremble at the continuing “losses” of age because the accretions are so hard to see. But our dreams – and the collective unconscious – KNOW what is going on. We are weaving straw into gold on a daily basis, transmuting the physical into the spiritual. 

    Dreams are also Art, and art – especially good art – is as forcefully mysterious, meaningful and evocative as any living thing. It changes as you change.  It changes depending on how you look at it. 

    If Purrsons Need Truth. Purrsons Must Accept Revelation – Dreams tell us when to be afraid. Dreams warn when something is missing. Dreams uncover all the secrets you have been keeping from yourself.  

    The First Obligation : Purrsons Accept is that the truth will set you free.  The second, is that although it can be terrifying, the truth is necessary. Purrsons spurn the hiding, lying, misrepresentation, that substitutes for truth. 

    Purrsons Can Handle the Truth – We are human, we are imperfect, and we need each other. Humans need governance and law to regulate our natural blindness and selfishness (which some would call original sin) into peaceful accord. The truth also is also that humans who lust only for power will eternally angle to get themselves into positions of control, exclusion and punishment. These impulses must be identified and weeded out and it is courageous, difficult, and really unwelcome work, because we Purrsons, we loving, generous Purrsons also have our own lives to live. 

    Purrson Danger – Our dreams notify us when one of these lethal persons is in our midst. Our maps & models offer a variety of plans for confrontation and escape, and a recipe for courage. At the present time, the Lethal Persons are banding together and hoarding weapons to give themselves even more guarantees for power and opportunities to welcome our despair. 

    Purrson Promise – Jesus said evil will not win. The challenge is to explore what ELSE he said, indeed, what is the message of all the great teachers? People who tell you to hate one another and go to war with one another are agents of evil. The first challenge is to create peace in our own hearts, peace in our own lives, peace in our own homes, and then start developing compassion for those who are not so lucky. 

    When Brutal Tactics and Empty Promises are Exposed as family destroyers, peace destroyers and community destroyers, we see clearly that efforts to spread and share despair come from an innate desire to surmount despair, but also that this has never worked and is not working.  It allows the torturer (and the tortured) only the briefest respites. Only when the goal of increasing world suffering is finally given up can we welcome penitents back into the communion of equality. 

    Models & Mentors – “We write the future moment to moment” – Pema Chodron 

    “The best prophets lead you up to the curtain and leave you to peer through for yourself” – Frank Herbert 

    “The greatest thing a human soul can accomplish in this world is to see that poetry, prophecy & religion all are one”– John Ruskin 

    “The best way to predict the future is to create it”– Abraham Lincoln 

    “Yesterday has gone, tomorrow has not come, let us begin” – Mother Teresa