Alysse Aallyn

Tag: #Poetry

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 13 – Why Women Want to Escape Lord Verne

    I know I did. Did this mean that I

    Could finally consider myself

    Grown up? Wouldn’t my teachers 

    Be surprised. Verne inveighed against Kruptupian

    The whole way back

    And I didn’t stop him.

    I imagined myself floating above him

    And looking down on him

    Pityingly. Wondered if Mirabel

    Ever had done that.

    At the Fifth Avenue apartments

    Someone claiming to be Derek Lowther

    Was pacing back and forth,

    Eyed by the suspicious doorman.

    He was over six feet tall, very skinny with

    Explosively curly brown hair, 

    Big soulful green eyes and perfect skin.

    I almost threw myself into this strange man’s arms

    And kissed him.

    “You’re not Derek,” I announced, exiting the car,

    .“Derek Lowther is a ratty, pimply little brat 

    Who spits when he talks.”

    “And you were a squirt with braces

    And a squint,” he sassed back,

    All I needed to hear for confirmation.

    Nobody knows about the squint.

    “It’s called amblyopia 

    And I’m all cured now,” I told him

    As  we race-scrolled through family pics –

    Growing up for each other’s eyes

    Across eight years of ski slopes

    School parties, beaches and

    Christmas.  “Verne, this is Derek Lowther.”

    Verne barely deigned to register

     The presence of another human being.

    “Step into the café,” he ordered.

    Perhaps if you’re six feet tall 

    And possibly still growing

    Things are different but hadn’t we

    Just breakfasted?  No one cared.

    Derek:  2 Breakfast burritos and a café Americano,

    Verne: espresso and blueberry blintzes,

    Richenda: Milky coffee, everything bagel.

    Only ordered where I can

    Shed bagel dust at will.

    As he and Verne gazed at each other

    I thought Derek required a call-back.

    “Remember Mirabel?”

     “I remember the Mirabel Legend,”

    Derek offered.  Honest guy.

    “Kids absorb gossip.”

    “What kind of gossip?”

    Verne was too sharp, I thought, snapping

    At a guest like that.

    Soon Derek too would want escape –

    Playing into my hands exactly.

    I smiled to myself, steepling my fingers

    Like a movie mad scientist.

    “Text and sub text,” Derek offered.

    “Text” was parents explaining Mirabel had run away,

    “Sub-text” came through eavesdropping about

    Mirabel living wild and free to public acclaim.”

    I could work with this guy, I thought,

    Satisfied.  At least

    We spoke the same language –

    Very unlike me & Verne.

    “We were going to get married,” huffed Verne.

    “She gave up her job with her boss –“

    “Her nasty boss –“ I added. Helping.

    “She called Richenda to help with planning.”

    See? THAT wasn’t true.

    Since I didn’t challenge Verne went on more

    Confidently, “Ghosted us at dinner.  

    Didn’t come home at all last night.”

    Derek looked at me with an

    Expression seeming to communicate

    “Tell me the REAL story later.”

    I liked him more and more.

    “Wow,” Derek commented evenly. 

    “Rough.” Turned to me. “You saw her?”

     “I did,” I offered, not willing to say

    In front of Verne what exactly I had seen.

    “She’s a redhead now.”

    Verne was impressed enough

    To plunge into a long recital 

    Of our late night Kruptupian call,

    Then insisting Ravi posed as

    Mirabel’s groom. I could tell

    My silence was registering with Derek.

    Since he seemed to know I saw it

    Differently, he must know I wanted

    Getting out of there.

    “Runaway Bride,” said Derek,

     “I get that you can’t involve the media.”

     “Any ideas?” asked Verne.

    “I’ll study traffic cams for Mirabel locations,”

    Derek offered, “See where she went.

    And with who.”

    Verne’s eyes jumped with excitement.

    “You can do that?”

    “Traffic cameras are easy, private cams

    Are more complex.”

    “I’ve got the exact times she was in 

    Brooklyn and at the spa,” I offered. 

    “I just need my laptop,” said Derek,

    Hastily said,

    “I need the ladies’ room”

    But secretly went upstairs

    To get my bag and leave it

    In the hall.

    Verne did not alert, unaware

    Of my escape. Like Mirabel

     I was getting the hell out.

    When I got back they were discussing

    Hiring a P.I., Derek’s dad

    Had an art theft guy.

    “We think she ditched her phone. “

     “But her online account,

    See who she called –

    It’s golden. Maybe just a password hack,” 

    Said Derek. “Depends how well you know 

    The person.” “I can help with that,” I said,

    Possibly unwisely – Verne’s face

    Froze in jealous competition.

    Apparently I belonged to him

    Already.

    Verne paid the bill,

    Discomfited by precipitous

    Abandonment.

    “I have some friends to call,” he sniffed.

    Threat or promise – we encouraged him.

    “I’m going to see Derek’s folks” I lied so

    Smoothly Derek kept his calm.

    “They’ll have all kinds of suggestions.”

    Verne was stymied

    By our determination.

    “I’ll call,” I promised pathetically.

    Verne made a note of Derek’s number.

    I marched after Derek

    Who was walking decisively.

    “So where are we going?” I hissed

    Conspiratorially.

    “Subway. No car service on my allowance.”

    Down the steps into the hot and stinky 

    Underworld. “Fine with me,” I offered.

    “I want to be anonymous.”

    “I know the feeling,” said Derek.

    “What’s with that guy?

    You’re escaping a police state.”

    We clutched straps and leaned together

    Studiously ignoring people who

    Were studiously ignoring us.

    “So, what’s the deal?”

    Hissed Derek.  “Do you think he murdered her?”

    “Not sure,” I said, “When he wanted me

    To comfort him he said

    I wasn’t the first fourteen-year old he’d had.”

     “Oh, my God,” said Derek. “Disgusting guy.

    His world is him and whoever he’s picked

    To be his mirror.”

    A startling, grisly, accurate thought.

    “He left with me,” I mused,

    “I’m his alibi but he could always hire someone.” 

    “But you don’t think she’s dead.”

    “I hope she’s not. But if I find her now

    I feel sure she’ll finally tell the truth.”

    That idea sounded stupid to my ears.

    Wouldn’t Mirabel do what she’d

    Always done and feed me any story

    I wanted to believe?

    “I think I can tell the truth from lies,”

    I offered, I’d like to

    Test it.” To Derek’s credit

    He didn’t argue. “My only question is;

    What if he killed her, and then

    Hired a girl to impersonate Mirabel?”

    I had to admit I’d thought of this.

    “It doesn’t sound so hard to me,” said Derek.

    “After all you haven’t seen her for – what –

    Six years?” I shook my head.

    “I think it was really her and everything

    She said and did was signaling. 

    I longed to learn her language.

    “I think –“ could I confess this deepest secret

    To this stranger –

    “She’s longing to be found.”

    A moment’s silence but Derek didn’t

    Counter. “We’ll check her friends,” he said, 

    “When we open her account.”

    Did Mirabel have friends?

    Would Verne allow it?

    I must have looked like a stopped clock

    Because he propelled me out the double doors.

    “Is this our stop?” “Change trains.”

    Back to waiting on a dangerous platform 

    In the dark, hovering over an electrified hell.

    Had I always been this scared

    Of  everything?

  • 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 8 – The Psychic Link

    Power is some heady thing.

    Maybe it meant I could get some

    Questions answered.

    “You really think she stole his jewels?”

    He pulled away.

    “Loose diamonds were his wedding gift.”

    Well, THAT seemed weird. 

    I envisaged the rock weighing down

    Mirabel’s finger. 

    Had it come from Ravi?

    If he threatened prosecution

    Would that be enough

    To make her disappear?

     “At least he gave us one name.” I offered. 

    “Jacobson’s.” Verne’s face set 

    Mulishly. 

    “A toady!”

    Seemed to me Verne enjoys me pushing 

    As much as he treasures

    His resistance. So I pressed on.

    No more of this false modesty. 

    “How long’d she work for him?”

    Sore subject! He thrashed in his seat

    Like a captured cat.

    “Years. I took her to England

    To make her break things off

    Only to discover

    He was still hounding her with

    Requests.” Requests?

    “What requests?”

    Fingers drummed. “Scouting.”

    “Scouting for what?”

    “Well, he’s a porn producer.”

    Verne touched my knee to

    See into my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

    Was this the secret Mirabel

    Did not want me to know?

    Was this why she disappeared?

     “Was there…anything between them?”

    “Definitely at first. I wooed her away.”

    He considered. “He disappointed her somehow.” 

    Not hard for married men to do!

    Verne looked at his hands.

    “In Europe

    He asked her to launder money

    Buying diamonds. I think it was a trap.”

    I caught on quick. 

    “He set up the theft?”

    In Ravi’s mind was he the only

    Rightful owner and

    Everyone else a thief?

    Verne explained:

    “He wanted people around him

    Who couldn’t get away.”

    Why did that sound like such

    A perfect description of Verne?

    Here’s Mirabel surrounded by

    Men wanting to shackle her;

    Possess her utterly. It’s a

    Horror tale. I shuddered.

    It made ME long to disappear.

    But; it also made it a lot less likely 

    She escaped to be with him.

    “Where’s Mrs. Ravi?”

     “He SAYS his wife lives in Paris. But

    No one’s ever seen her.”

    Could we have two, not just one

    Missing brides? Was marriage itself

    A disappearance?

    As we conversed

    Another limo pulled up, a

    Beaver-coated man rushed from

    The building – Ravi! And off they went.

    I made my decision.

    “Follow that car!”

    Back to Brooklyn.

    Obviously that address meant something

    After all. “Stop here,” I ordered

    At the final turn.  Now that we knew

    His destination why risk

    Confrontation?

    “But he lied to us!” Swore Verne.

    “Just watch,” I argued,

    “He’s one step behind.”  

    Ravi vaulted from the car

    Phone clutched to ear and paced,

    Shaking his fist at the darkened sky.

    “Look. He’s blowing up her phone.

    And see? She’s not answering,”

    I pointed out. “She’s long gone. Maybe

    She kept a vehicle here.”

    “She didn’t have a license,” quibbled

    Verne. But he seemed oddly cheered.

    Slowly, I was becoming his 

    Authority. Already I felt I knew Mirabel

    Better than he ever could.

    So, I didn’t bother telling him

    How easily fake licenses are to get –

    Girls must keep some secrets.

    Verne’s new role was

    To unplug his thoughts 

    And wave them about

    Like a series of semaphores.

    “Maybe it was my mistake to insist

    We be married in New York. But

    I wanted to meet her family.”

    I could HEAR this tale

    Evolving. Hadn’t he said that was 

    Mirabel’s idea? Were the two of them 

    Ever separate in his mind? 

    I flirted with the notion of men as

    Paramecia, seeking islands

    To engulf & absorb.

      “Let’s sleep on it,”

    I suggested. “Give her a chance

    To contact us.” It would take 2 Benedryl 

    To sleep with all this buzz. I wished

    He’d take his hand off my knee

    But I recognized this as a

    Compromise, when I could tell

    By his eyes that what he really wanted

    Was to launch himself into my lap.

    But why say that

    Just when we were getting along

    So splendidly?

    She wasn’t “home” at the unhomeless

    Home. She’d get as far as possible

    From any address associated

    With these two men.

    But what was MY future?

    That was the deepest mystery here.

    Now Verne was trying to hold

    My hand, laying his head

    Awkwardly along my shoulder.

     “You’re such a comfort. 

    Did you share sister secrets?”

    I could feel his inner engine

    Throbbing, luring

    Me to be fake with him.

    I know my parents do it – beg that

    Opiate of reassurance.

    I can’t do it with them

    And I couldn’t with him.

    “Buck up –“

    I braced him, “We’ll

    Find out more tomorrow.”

    He unloosed my hand and

    Glared at me distastefully.

    “I blame this androgyny,”

    He grumbled. “Girls have lost the art

    Of coquetry.”

    Good riddance, I thought.

  • 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

    “I’m a vegetarian,” I said.

    And pushed my plate away.

    “A vegetarian who eats turtles?”

    He challenged me.

     “I was trying to be polite.”

    And now I’d stopped. 

    Saw no reason to continue the game.

    “Americans think food fuss

    Makes them interesting,”

    He snarled. But it turned out

    His disgust was not for me.

    “Oh, imagine that,”

    snorted his Lordship scornfully, 

    Talking to his phone.

    “We’re on our own,

    Mirabel can’t make it.

    And now her phone is locked!

    We’ll see about that! 

    I’m ordering the car. Time to find out just what

    This bride is playing at.”

    Chapter 5 – Unavoidably Detained

    She must have known he’d come

    After her – the apartment was empty.

    Of course she wasn’t there.

    Furniture gazed at me

    Forlornly as I wandered through

    Expensive accommodations crying out

    For individuality and life. 

    The closets were still packed but

    Some of her clothes and luggage

    Could have been gone

    How would I know?

    The bathrooms were still littered with cosmetics –

    Everything replaceable.

    In the long, bare white kitchen I 

    Started a pot of coffee.

    The refrigerator was particularly sad: champagne, 

    A month’s supply of celery juice. 

    And three kinds of wedding cake in origami boxes.

    Mirabel must have returned – however briefly –

    Because someone drank the last of my wine.

    Her dress lay discarded on the floor

    One flounce torn 

    And stepped on,

    Ground beneath a fleeing heel.

    When the coffee was ready

    I sampled the cake –

    I pick lemon though

    Everyone likes coconut and

    Some people are partial to 

    Chocolate raspberry.

    Found Verne collapsed in the bedroom,

    Clutching Mirabel’s dress.

    “I didn’t believe she’d really do it,”

    He said. “I suppose the wedding’s off.” 

    “Maybe she had an errand,”

    I proposed stupidly. 

    “She’ll be back.”

    I bundled the fantasy garment

    Back into its slick bag; a glittering

    Promise too fragile to stand up to actual wear.

    “Don’t you see what’s happened?”

    demanded Verne,

    Trying to recruit me on his case

    “She doesn’t want to marry me. She

    Probably she never did. All along

    There’s been this game. Some another man;

    I know it. Using me as leverage.”

    Was this the double life he’d mentioned?

    Crazy stuff. No way could he get me to sorrow

    Over postponed parties; 

    I saw plenty of reasons not to marry Lord Verne

    And in case I was likely to forget, he demonstrated more.

    He sat on the bed and

    Reached out his arms, clearly thinking 

    I would pet his shoulders

    Or at the very least, kiss his hair

    But chose not to comfort him.

    I preferred to get some facts.

    “Who?” I demanded. Sadly,

    Both of them were bad at facts.

    He held his head.

    “There were so many.”

    I came up with my most 

    Comforting message;

    “Of course she’ll return.

    “Or why on earth invite me here?”

    But a terrible possibility began to niggle in my brain.

    He certainly was suspicious of her

    So probably watched her

    Like a hawk. What if the whole wedding – 

    And my presence – was only to allow escape?

    It was so thoughtless and cruel I knew nobody I dared

    Explain it to; but it also sounded just like her;

    The Mirabel who pretended to go to college, 

    To have diseases,

    To be in jail; All to wrest

    Advantage from the poor old folks. 

    What would she care about me?

    Verne turned to me a tear-stained face –

    I was amazed – and just

    As I was thinking he couldn’t be a rapist –

    Grabbed my shoulders and

    Sucked me into a kiss.

    The real “adult” kiss I’d pined for

    Fantasized about and mimed

    On all those lonely nights

    After Ricky Stoekels ghosted me

    Couldn’t be THIS one –

    A full body penetration –

    A probing grasping invasion

    Shutting off my air.

    I jerked away with so much force

    I landed on the floor.

    Verne threw himself 

    On the bed, face down

    Wracked with sobs

    While I wiped my face

    Stunned.

    “Love the one you’re with”

    Isn’t that what Ricky Stoekels says?

    “She cheats, you cheat?”

    I hope all men aren’t

    All bastards.

    “Forgive me,” shuddered Verne,

    “I’m out of my mind.

    I don’t know what I’m doing.”

    Maybe. I recognize excuses.

    I’ve used them.

    “Don’t do it again,” I said. 

    He said, “You’re so like her”

    Which was an insult at this point.

    I could stomp away, go home –

    Explain to a mother trying desperately

    To make it all my fault

    Or I could find out about my sister’s life.

    “Where would she go?

    You must have some

    Guy in mind?”

  • 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

    Chapter 2 –  @Valerian

    Once Mom had exited

    I fell contentedly into

    Wondering:

    Who would Mirabel be now?

    When I turned ten

    I followed her face &

    Body through

    Inter-space but in

    Three long years  

    But there’s been nothing to see.

    I fully comprehend

    That shiny airbrushed people

    Don’t resemble that really. But

    Mirabel was always gorgeous;

    Swimming through some

    Different air; her

    Huge eyes and Roman nose teased & promising

    Cavernous depths of soul.

    We all want to believe that beautiful people

    Get everything they want out of life;

    Otherwise what’s the point –

    Yet the Mirabel I’d known

    Deliberately evaded us;

    Abjuring the fold

    Unless needing something.

    At eight years old I had learned

    She was a mysterious gift-giver

    Like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy

    In whom it would be unwise to

    Believe.

    So, as my train slid into the darkness

     Of Grand Central tunnel I texted the number 

    They gave me with “Train on time” &

    Happiness emoji. 

    Of course I wanted to delete it

    Immediately;

    But as the sole bridesmaid –

    Wasn’t I 

    The real Maid of Honor?

    Obligated to planning

    If not excitement but

    No response from Mirabel.

    Someone called 

    “@Valerian” tweeted: “I’m meeting you. 

    M. otherwise occupied as usual.

    Look for red hunting coat.”

    Who was Valerian?  Where was Mirabel?

    Did fiancé have charge of her phone?

    Possibly he cloned it;

    My friend Derek does that.

    Forced fresh perspective:

    If parents had known

    There wasn’t a Mirabel

    Would they let me come?

    That was the emotion Mirabel engendered

    I well remembered –

    She was a genius at 

    Preparing the faithful –

    “Softening us up”

    For future hard times. 

    This means never forthrightly

    Telling those Inconvenient truths.

    As the train lurched to stop I vaulted upwards 

    Greeting myself in the

    Mirroring windows. The girl 

    “Valerian” would see

    Passable in gray skirt, shiny thigh high 

    Pink leather boots, subtly highlighted 

    Nut brown hair. Nothing to compete

    With Mirabel’s blond goddess-hood.

    Free from Mom’s diminishing thumb

    I could exaggerate my eyes – 

    Outline my cheekbones

    Use lips to suggest

    Goddess potential all my own.

    The sight of my made-up face 

    Makes me feel hopeful.

    I didn’t answer that text:

    Stranger-Danger ever-present;

    If I didn’t like the look of him

    I could Uber myself – 

    Once I knew where I was going.

    I  bet on my chances;

    There were other girls on this train –

    I had a hat and sunglasses

    I’ve been melting into crowds

    Once I learned how to walk.

    Problem; my idiot mother

    Sent pictures

    Proud as she was –

    Cross-eyed in her fearfulness –

    If he was the one trying to

    Friend me –

    He’d already seen me grow up.

    Ugh!

    How the past follows us!

    Tortures us; cramping our style!

    How I long to be known 

    Yet forever undiscovered

    Wild virginal territory

    The better to project myself 

    Into the brains of others –

    Ultimate Observer.

    I’m aware

    It makes no damn sense

    To wish for admiration and 

    A the same time 

    Disappear – could it be

    We’re all the stalkers of our dreams?

    Threw diary, book, magazine

    Into my capacious carpet-bag –

    Diaries take one

    Only so far –

    Scribble scribble

    Ratcheting up while 

    Tamping down

    All the sharp points of life. 

    Fell rather than walked

    Down ungainly steps and My God

    There he was-

    Guarding the escalators, in his famous

    Red coat.

    Mirabel would NEVER come 

    Way down here 

    “To the tracks” –

    Hoi polloi, déclassé –

    But this sharp face looked eager

    Gladdening to see me.

    Was he

    A sight for eyes too young to be sore?

    Tall physique; you’d say

    “Distinguished,” but 

    Foreign looking, really,  in spite of 

    American jeans and that red down parka.

    The closer I got the more

    Startlingly handsome appeared

    That knife-planed face –

    Curly undisciplined black hair –

    Couldn’t stare long because

    He grinned at the sight of me. 

    No possibility of escape –

    Nor desire really 

    Wasn’t this more fun 

    Than forging some raw

    Uncomfortable relation with

    The long-lost sister?