The Dress

You see her, and you think,"What in the world is she wearing?" She's a grown woman, in her thirties, wearing a poofy periwinkle princess dress, complete with all the ribbons and ruffles. And this is not Disney World. This is Ohio, a Sunday morning concert in a small town. So you look at her some more and try to figure her out. She is sitting in her seat, at the end of the front row in the choir, sticking out like a lighthouse in a storm, because everyone around her is wearing black and white. She looks uncomfortable in her own skin, like she's restless. She seems to know that everyone's eyes are on her, which they are, not just because of the dress but because she is the soloist. She has a tiny nervous smile on her face; but then the music starts.
She stands. She walks to the front of the stage. She takes her stance three feet away from the microphone. She sings.
Suddenly, you forget the dress. You notice her eyes, her mouth, her long flowing hair that comes down to her waist, and more than everything else, her voice, a powerful, gutsy, strong, eccentric, lovely voice that comes out of her like an air raid siren or a whisper. She has perfect control, and all the nervous energy she displayed before is gone. The dress seems to mold itself around her.
She is the dress. She wears it because it is her.
You wonder how she can display herself so unabashedly, for all the world to see. She bares her being in the form of a ridiculous ball gown.

Never play chess with a melodramatic octopus.

Another Halloween. Costume party. Right. Another lame costume party, where nobody dresses up as anything interesting. All the women are variations of cat woman (with as much spandex and fishnets as possible), and all the men are either Dracula or Frankenstein. Real costumes aren't appreciated. So I don my tight black pants and find a pair of cat ears like all the other women, and go.
The door opens in a haze of cigarette smoke and fake fog, and I'm greeted by a chorus of hellos. I wade my way through the crowd to find a nice sofa to sit on, one that's not covered in alcohol or fake cobwebs. I finally find a nice corner and sit down, when i'm interrupted by an octopus. His eight badly stuffed orange and purple arms are awkwardly jumping around, hitting his neighbors, and yet he has no reservations. He plops down beside me, crowding me with his tentacles, and asks, "Fancy a game of chess?" in a ridiculous British accent.
"Chess?" I repeat.
" Yes, love, chess." he replies.
Next thing I know, we're sitting on a patio outside the house setting up all the little pieces. He moves first and we chitchat throughout the game. He is weird, but, but honestly, it's the most interesting time I've ever had at a Halloween party.
But then I win the game. He goes crazy. he flips the table over and starts yelling, his 10 arms(that's eight fake and two real) arms are flailing around and keep hitting him in the face. Finally, I can't stop myself and I fall on the ground laughing. he punches me in the face. I wake up in the hospital with three stitches and a broken nose.

*see title for moral of the story.
Moral written by Haley, followed by the story by Dorothy

The Monastery at Glendalough

Danny Boy Meets Tchaikovsky

There is hairy moss overtaking
the trees in the forest behind

that graveyard. As soon as the sun
sinks below the furthest hill, three

fairies and four leprechauns wearing
yellow shoes with brass buttons leap

from the twisted roots. They hide when
it’s light because they hate humans

who make fun of their tiny faces and tilted
ears, so they squat in the peat during the day.

Consequently, when they emerge from daybeds
damp as mushrooms, their hair is soily and smells

like musty cabbages. Can you see them spinning?
They don’t dance wildly; instead, they waltz,

a solemn homage to ancestors that gave
them life. Then they carve symbolically silly

messages—Gadzooks, umber cameleopard!—in the mortar
between the stones of the crumbling Glendalough.