Once,,, by Mara Cregan

ONCE… Laura Condon

“Books are a uniquely portable magic.” -‐ Stephen King “I lived in books more than I lived anywhere else.” -‐ Neil Gaiman “A book always keeps something of its owner between its pages.” -‐ Cornelia Funke

ONCE… Quest .............................................................................................................................................................................. 4 My Dear Frobisher ................................................................................................................................................... 6 This Day in Hogwarts: A History ......................................................................................................................... 8 The Glasses Speak ................................................................................................................................................. 10 Phineas in Exaltation ............................................................................................................................................ 11 Ineffable: The Bentley Speaks .......................................................................................................................... 12 The Tale of Resus Negative ............................................................................................................................... 13 Elemental .................................................................................................................................................................. 14 Grim ............................................................................................................................................................................. 15 Impasse ...................................................................................................................................................................... 16 The Drift ..................................................................................................................................................................... 18 Magic Mirrors’ Prophecy .................................................................................................................................... 19 Paradise Lost ........................................................................................................................................................... 20 Saint Ursula Didn’t Die for This ....................................................................................................................... 21 I’d Like to Thank the Academy ........................................................................................................................ 23

Quest After Neil Gaiman, Instructions

When you find yourself standing on the threshold of reality take the step. At the curb beyond Home, the bus is waiting. Board it, tell the driver where you’d like to go. Outside the window, the world whizzing by, look out for the castle. Its towers flush with torchlight. Young voices ringing from its corridors sing you a siren song. Do not succumb to them. There is much yet to see. Disembark the bus at the seashore. Beyond the dunes, children carry gleaming weapons. They will help you, but their haunted eyes belie their unease. Generations of scars criss-‐cross their backs. Millennia have endowed them with reflexes faster than their Father’s blazing bolts. Do not overstay your welcome. Rise with the sun. Ride its chariot to your next destination. In the forest, find the man fluent in flame. He’ll teach you to steal honey that burns your tongue, but makes it spark against your teeth. Do not endear yourself to him. It will be your doom. Venture further into the woods. Find a town much like any other. If you stay long enough, you’ll notice the magic in its veins, the familiarity of its people. 4

You’ve always known their stories: The ones of poisoned apples and spindles, of true love’s kiss. Take a boat down the river. Emerging into endless canals, lose yourself in the labyrinth. At the center lies the Star Palace: majesty embroidered in gold, with a foundation of red velvet. It is ruled by a benevolent king. Let him take you in, enjoy what little comfort he has to offer. When the war comes for him, move on. He doesn’t know how to win. There’s nothing you can do. Leave the waterways in your wake. Trust that the city streets will guide you, and find yourself before a storefront. It looks like it’s closed. It isn’t. Not to you. Go in. Behind the desk, the storekeeper sits, cherubic face masked with pleasantries. His lilting greeting reveals nothing. The dusty shelves hold countless worlds. Brush their edges with your fingertips. Take a peek. Choose one. He’ll take you there.

My Dear Frobisher “A half-‐read book is a half-‐finished love affair.” -‐ David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas, 2004

Heartstrings can be turned and torn in the same manner as pages of a book. This much I know to be true of myself. Pages are pasted or sewn to the spine with delicate thread that snaps so simply. Papers are wrenched free with a flick of one’s wrist. That’s all that’s required to produce an unexpected end. Sheets ripped asunder are a plague on the mind for days, weeks, until memories fade along with cares. They distract and disturb until a time comes when the disappointment dims. Heartstrings are hidden within muscle and gore, physically shielded from indelicate prodding. Still, careless confessions, deep buried distress, or the coming of an unexpected end will shred them as ruthlessly as any beast. Mangled hearts last a lifetime. Replacements are not found 6

on dust covered shelves, being sold or loaned to those in need. Heartstrings are torn in a more monstrous manner than pages of a book ever will be. This much I know to be true of us all.

This Day in Hogwarts: A History November 1, 1981 In the balmy air of the Caribbean Antigua and Barbuda celebrate their first day of independence. Hours earlier, in England, before they’ve lost a jewel in their crown, Albus Dumbledore leaves a child on the doorstep of Number 4 Privet Drive. A country gains its freedom, and a young boy loses his. July 28, 1991 Far from home, Spaniard Miguel Indurain pedals to victory in France. In his prison of ten years, victory in parchment form is snatched from Harry’s longing fingers. The telltale seal melts in the fireplace. June 6, 1994 Fifty years ago, hope was given back to the world, delivered on the beaches of Normandy. In memory-‐scarred rooms that ring with James’ absence, the remaining Marauders give Harry hope he’s never had. Twelve loveless years wasted, but happy ones are on the horizon. June 24, 1995 Voldemort rises. Harry’s cries for belief go unheard beneath the thunder of his crumbling life. The world sings in chorus: “This is how we do it.” It was, after all, #2 in the U.S. November 15, 1996 8

Sirius is gone. Voldemort is back. Dumbledore has vanished. Harry flounders for guidance. It’s time to slam. Or perhaps that’s the echoing call of Space Jam, box office hit. December 25, 1997 Potters and Peverells. Hallows and Horcruxes. It all comes full circle in the graves of Godric’s Hollow. Hermione’s hand in his, Harry mourns amidst dancing snow. The rest of Great Britain cowers under 100 mile per hour winds. May 2, 1998 Europe unites under one common currency. No money could bring back what was lost to win in the ruins of Harry’s home. Life is fleeting. Ask Fred. September 15, 2015 The world reads of a wild-‐child prince’s thirty-‐first birthday. As one Harry celebrates in public spectacle another sits alone, teary-‐eyed with pride, reading a letter from his son. I learned to fly today.

The Glasses Speak I lie on the floor, unbroken, though she hopes to find me cracked and shattered as her grudging fingers retrieve me. Morning minutes tick by as she stalls the moment when at last she must put me on. Stories slip from her lips, whispered to herself – about herself – with none but me to hear them. Fabled sword in fabled hand, fabled head bears fabled crown, fabled girl on fabled quest. Fabled me nowhere to be found. Her storybook heroes adventure unencumbered by nuisances like me. The warrior; The heroine; The woman she fancies herself in private moments does not display weakness so clearly as she does by wearing me. She needs me, for words and letters form her haven, her kingdom of delusions. I build it around her, else her perfect sculpted world is nothing but a blur. In her moments of beauty and power I am her only diadem. Squeezing tight, I tell her: Heroes don’t have burdens like me. Sidekicks. Secondary characters. Unimpressive. Powerless. She retreats to her paper fortresses, setting me down on her dresser as she falls deeper into daydreams.

Phineas in Exaltation -‐ a found poem from John Knowles, A Separate Peace, 1959

I never backed away from anything in my life. It was hypnotism – dark and silent – definitely pleased. With the sensation that I was throwing my life away – Finny was a part of it. – I jumped. For no reason at all, I felt magnificent. I should have told him then. You’re too conventional. Finny trapped me again, his strongest trap. I wonder what would happen. Enough broken rules were enough that night. Forbidden, completely out of bounds. Except for him. It was a night made for hard thoughts. That level of feeling, deeper than thought, stumble through the confusions. I was thinking about you – I lost all hope of controlling myself. – and about the accident – For Finny. – because I caused it. Phineas fell. If you broke the rules, then they broke you. I’m his roommate, I’m his – Your friend is dead. I never should have left you alone. He was still talking when I fell asleep.

Ineffable: The Bentley Speaks “Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the LORD God had made.” -‐ Genesis 3:1

Bound to be Hell’s messenger, I’m willingly enfiled to the Serpent. For my friend, I serve as fane of poorly kept secrets. Through silence I enable my companion to remain on Earth. My life he prolongs in return. Together we flee time and punishment for there have never been two beings more meddlesome. We wear a lei of sins committed in temptation’s name, of lies told for the same. On Earth’s – on our – final day, as Above and Below aline I burn for him, and hope that he’ll be fine.

The Tale of Resus Negative In the great game of genetic lots Resus Negative’s chances were tops: from a long line of vamps there should have been no chance, but still somehow our boy Resus lost. While his parents stay out of the sun and eat steaks that are not at all done, Resus might choose to go out, but instead mopes about ‘cause he’s not truly his mother’s son. He’d drink blood if he could keep it down. Since he can’t – wears a permanent frown. So instead he pretends, even with his best friends, and still hides when the time comes for dawn.

Elemental The man who trained fire to flit from his lips fell in love with the woman who sang with water’s voice. Songs flowed up her throat, washing across the air between them to slip through his ribs as if they were stones in a brook. She tried to quench the fire that burned in his lungs, but only succeeded in setting herself to boil. She pooled in a cottage she found for them and begged him to build his hearth there. For her, for love, he endeavored to do it, but stillness smoldered in the soles of his feet. He set out without a word, charring the miles black behind him. He left her steaming, but her anger hardened to ice in his absence. She watched over him through news of the havoc he wrought like wildfire, leaving third-‐degree scars in every life his blazing hands touched and legends wherever her wandered. Upon his return her attempted to thaw her with searing kisses and warm words. She tried to freeze him out, encase her heart, but even the largest glacier joins the sea eventually. The melted drops of her found their way to his brilliant flame and turned down the burn until they simmered together.

Grim “There’s no such thing as too old for fairytales,” she whispers at night to erase her mother’s words of warning. She believes in her heart that it’s true. At night she whispers the Disney-‐fied stories she’s learned. Her heart believes they haven’t lied about true love’s kiss and its power. She learns that the Disney-‐fied stories are not the full stories at all, that true love’s kiss has no power to stop her Prince Charming from leaving. The full stories are all as pain filled as her own, she finds. To stop Prince Charming from leaving she tries everything she can think of. She finds her own, pain filled, story to be never ending. It’s impossible to give everything you can think of and have enough life left to live. It’s impossible to be never ending. There is such a thing as too old for fairytales. When there’s not enough life left to live she has only her mother’s words of warning.

Impasse “He watched Nico with satisfaction, as if he’d identified the exact spot for his next arrow to make a clean kill.” -‐ Rick Riordan, House of Hades, 2013

Dear Mr. Riordan, As son of Hades, I take my gruesome dinners with the god of death. Yet you, I am sure, quench your thirst with the blood of those I have loved most. Years have I spent with your whispers tingling down my spine until it bends to you willingly. Dear Mr. Riordan, will you ever find satisfaction in my anguish? I have been through Hell and back because you said it should be so. I have lied and fought and starved and lost, because you hold them as you hold me. Dear Mr. Riordan, Apollo’s fingers play me at your command, plucking and pinching until I sing to your tune. Every love I’ve had, has been stolen by you, replaced with one who will never – can never – love me in return. You, in your Athenian wisdom, know that this is this best way to control me. Dear Mr. Riordan, I am your plot device, your token character, your underdog, and nothing more. 16

Without you, I wouldn’t exist. Without me, you wouldn’t have a touching subplot. It seems, Mr. Riordan, that we’ve reached an impasse.

The Drift T

S I S T H E E N D end and beginning are sort of the same, you know knowing that it’s coming doesn’t make it easier easier is what we all want, but we can’t can’t it just be like it was when he was young, when we we can’t stop the destruction destruction by our own hands was better than letting the universe do it it hurts to burn, but heat makes diamonds diamonds from the days before, from lost marriage marriage of man and monster monsters that can’t WILL be stopped stopped his childhood before my boy could grow grow a new world from the ashes and raise it to be better better men might have had different ideas but we were the best the world offered offered our lives and were welcomed by death death took my boy and left me to rebuild rebuild it as the fallen would have have nothing left but the stars stars sent glorious Hell unto Earth Earth is stronger than she lets us believe B E L I E V E T H A T W E ‘ L L G O D O W N F I G H T I N G

Magic Mirrors’ Prophecy “‘Mirrors, mirrors, our future is cursed. Tell me how to defeat the First.” -‐ Michael Buckley, The Council of Mirrors, 2012

Twenty-‐five mirrors on a wall There was one more but he did fall The First lost grace, betrayed his kind And now it’s him you wish to find The worst of legend, myth, and lore He’ll loose upon the world once more The sisters are the only chance Two girls – too young – must take a stance A coven must the youngest build Crone, temptress, and innocent filled The non-‐believer leads the charge And must our Brother’s soul discharge Unless the First they can defeat Their fam’ly dies beneath his feet

Paradise Lost “The world is quiet here.” -‐ Lemony Snicket

Paradise is a kingdom of billowing willows, sunlight spires, cardboard carpets lining hay-‐bale halls. The king and queen sit in padded thrones, crowns slipping from their bowed heads and mussing downy hair. Even in Paradise, it rains, a tattoo against closed windows. The world narrows around us, muted by the downpour. Paper rustling against the queen’s tissue thin fingertips, the sandpaper sound of the king licking his thumb to turn a page, are background noise as my mind slips away. The king’s voice waltzes through Paradise, does a boxstep through my sternum as the queen follows in soft laughter from the other room. He speaks for the people of Paradise, relating the stories, and when he can’t tell them to me himself, he presses scribed versions of the tales of triumph and woe into my innocent hands. Silence falls over Paradise after Grammy has gone, taking the waltzes with her and leaving the willows to whither. Poppa mail stories across miles, yet when at last we sit together, the tomes lay unopened in our laps. We are stricken with the same silence that plagues his kingdom. We hold our breath. Paradise weeps instead. 20

Saint Ursula Didn’t Die for This The Catholic School Girl of years past haunts me, hisses, I am the LORD your God… you shall have no other gods before me, and I tell her that I know, I don’t, I swear, even as the thunder wars outside my window and I wonder: is it Zeus or Thor who’s brought it to me? You’ll burn for this. My sun-‐scorched skin asks: Who tortures me today? Have Apollo’s blazing steeds stopped for a noon break, or has Ra paused in his journey to survey this particular patch of Earth? Blasphemer. My cat snoozes, fat with fifteen years of inactivity, and I question if the raw, lithe power of Bast and Sekhmet perhaps curls somewhere inside her. Hell awaits you. But why Helheim and not Vahalla, not Fólkvangr? Why the Fields of Punishment, and not Elysium for me, not even Asphodel? Is Lucifer’s Hell overrun with Vikings who believed themselves bound for Odin’s halls? Do Sisyphus and Tantalus burn at the Devil’s feet? Mortal sins. And still I know, 21

that the sun does not rise but come into view. That thunder is simply our world putting itself back together. After death – well… I pray for something.

I’d Like to Thank the Academy But more importantly, I’d like to thank the people who took my grasping hands and led me to be here. Thank you to the people who whispered in my ears through night and day. To dear Jo, whose pen carved into my hippocampus that I must not tell lies. Cerebral scar tissue burns as my own words scrawl behind my eyes. To Jacob and Wilhelm, who wove magic and words into a tapestry that persevered through centuries for me to gaze upon it. And to Michael, who brought the tapestry to me again, after I had long forgotten, who pointed to the fibrous fae and asked me, Don’t you remember? To Uncle Rick, who I love still, though he’s wandered down roads that the others hold me back from, but who set me on the path of the gods before we lost him. To Cornelia, who taught me that no one is without imperfection, that you can do better than your first love. Last, but not at all least, to Jez, 23

who showed me that though you may be stuck in a deep, sucking muck, there is always a way to claw yourself out.