ashley noel hennefer [words & thoughts]

A short blurb I wrote in Paris:

He sat on the mountain top, legs crossed around a bottle of wine. His chest was bare under his woven vest, purple silk tied around his head. His dark skin shone in the moonlight. He looked me straight in the eye.
Tell me what you seek, he said. It was not a question.My mouth opened before I could halt it.
Knowledge, I replied. And inspiration.
He tipped the bottle into his palm. Wine spilled out like blood – over his fingertips, his wrists. He cupped the wine and held it to my mouth, poured it in, and it slithered down my throat like a desert cobra.
He stood up, held out his hand to me, pulled me to my feet. The mountain air drafted through my legs – my dress rippled behind me, a flag, an ocean. Without speaking he lifted my hand – a stark, pale contrast to his ebony shoulders – and my moonlight arm pointed to a path in front of me.
You must run, he said. Run fast, but do not forget where you are running. Only then will you find what you seek.
My feet lift me off the ground and I am off, the wine pooled in my stomach. I run along the path of the mountain, tiny pebbles and spiked plants stabbing my feet. They bleed but I do not stop to mourn the reddened path.
I reach a hill and my legs tremble. I collapse, lungs gasping for air, limbs tingling and shaking. I lay on my back and open my eyes.
Above me the stars shine, the brightest I have ever seen. Brighter, kinder and more beautiful than the desert sun. Closing my eyes I hear the rushing of the river in the valley far below. Tree leaves rustle above me, some falling slowly and casually on my limbs.
Somewhere around me rests what I seek. It lingers in the air, an intangible force that my life thrives upon.
The stars know the secrets of my heart. Trees cradle me as I sleep. And the river’s current carries me swiftly.

What the Thunder Said

This is a story I wrote a while ago for my short story anthology, Thieves.

an excerpt from my upcoming zine “girl in a cage.”

I am listening to Allen Ginsberg recite his Sunflower Sutra and he is talking about locomotives and men but I am thinking about flowers and women. And how I love both and how I am really sad that the sunflowers you gave me last week have already died. And they don’t smell like much. Only dead roses seem to keep their scent.

And I am also wondering where the women beats are. I know they are out there. Perhaps I am one of them but that seems too pretentious to claim although I know somehow that my mind and heart are lost somewhere on the road with Kerouac… and I am angry that him and all of the other Beats are gay. And I am wondering why and how men with such insight could so painfully misunderstand and completely disregard women.

Do we women not howl? Do we not cry when we come, scream when we feel pain, claw at our hair and faces, ache at your touch (or lack thereof)? Do our muscles not shake and tighten when we climb our daily mountains? Do our bones not shriek and our skin not tingle after lovemaking? Do our brains not poundpoundpound with the pressures of our peers and our surroundings and the thick masculine words in which you are trying to drown us?

Our hearts are secret places. Precious places and places impossibly difficult to infiltrate. And this is our biggest secret, our most prized gift – our ability to both cry out our passion and keep it locked inside of our [rib]cages.

But now is not the time to buy a padlock. Open your mind like a door.

[Open your mouth and let it all out]

April is National Poetry Month sponsored by the American Library Association!

I.

love is
aaaaathe tide
aaaaathat pushes ships
aaaaainto rocky coves and
aaaaaits song lingers over the
aaaaabloated hands of sailors
aaaaa- that sweet intangible voice -
a siren.

An excerpt from Thieves… this is a story called “Armed.”

~ ~ ~

I walk quickly, but I do not run. I do not run because it will provoke unnecessary attention and that is the last thing I want.

I am thankful it is cold out because it has given me a chance to wear my large black winter jacket, and with this large jacket comes many pockets. The pockets are full and my hands are shoved deep inside them to keep the contents from clattering at each step.

The snow has since stopped but I pray that it will begin again – mostly because it would give my quick walking a purpose and a motive. There is a surprising amount of people in the streets tonight. People are getting restless in their houses. They are huddled together in clumps with no plans, simply enjoying the brisk air. It will not be long before a police car drives down the block and sends everyone trudging back home. I often wonder what will happen when everyone retreats to the streets but I guess we are not quite there yet.

I pass a restaurant with the door boarded shut. Someone has scratched out CLOSED into the wood and it is a sad reminder of the warmth and soft glow that used to radiate from its windows. I can remember the hot soup and bread and coffee I used to buy there and the memory makes my stomach clench in pain. I bite down on my tongue until the blood rises and trickles down my throat, and the hunger pangs pass. I walk on.

The city used to be beautiful. Everywhere lights and posters and billboards and models posing in the streets and musicians creating symphonies in front of the bus stops. It was a haven of creativity, a large urban mural open for all to contribute.

Then the censorship laws passed. Immediately color was stripped, music silenced, models and dancers turned to stone. Expression was not allowed in public, and even private homes were being searched and destroyed for possessing art supplies, cameras, sketchbooks. Many escaped and fled to the desert, but the authorities followed them there, torching the desert so barren and dry that even the most passionate of artists no longer retreated.

I thought briefly about escaping but I would rather fight than flee and I am armed with a weapon that can never be stolen.

~ ~ ~

Anger and determination bubbles up in my chest as I pass a legislative sign – NO PUBLIC DISPLAYS OF EXPRESSION ALLOWED. PROTECT THE MORALITY OF OUR CHILDREN. Beneath the bold, passionless font rests the government symbol: two circles linked by a common chain, representing the link and equality between government and people. To me it looks like a pair of handcuffs.

I am almost there – I can see the blank metal walls leading up to its entrance. These walls were once covered with photographs of fashion models and posters about upcoming underground rock concerts, but everything has been scraped away and all that remains are the jagged scratches embedded in the metal.

The whoosh of the train sends a gust of wind through the entrance and I run down the slick stairs into the subway station. The last train has just pulled away. Good timing. There is no crowd, just a few stragglers trying to make it home, and I am nowhere in their thoughts.

Ice cold snow water drips through the cracks of the ceilings; the pipes creak and moan, a mournful gutter song. The startling bleakness of the station no longer fazes me, because I have found a new purpose for it – my empty canvas.

A woman sits bundled in a torn coat, cradling her baby girl. Both mother and child have dark curly hair that spiral into ringlets around their ears. At the end of the little girl’s curls are colorful beads that click against each other when she moves. The bright colors glow like Christmas lights under the flickering fluorescent lights. I have not seen anything so vibrant in months. Her mother is spooning hot chocolate – most likely no longer hot but mildly lukewarm – into her mouth. They both look tired and weak, succumbing to exhaustion. I will give them my jacket when I leave but I have a mission to accomplish first.

I hurry into the woman’s bathroom and into the first faded pink stall. The stench is thick, heavy and suffocating and I pull my scarf around my nose and mouth, smelling instead the aromas of Ocean Rain shampoo, cherry chapstick and sweat. It is an aroma entirely my own and I savor it for one sweet second before continuing my mission. My head is clear and I am focused.

I lay several layers of toilet paper upon the lid and sit down, still wrapped in my coat. It will be hard to move but the air is below freezing and I can’t bear to sacrifice the warmth just yet.

Listening intently for any footsteps or turning of the door handle, I pull my hand slowly out of my pocket, my fingers wrapped tightly around several permanent markers. I balance the markers on the now empty toilet paper roll and pull my out my other hand, clutched around a paintbrush. I set the paintbrush on my lap and reach into the inner coat pocket for the tiny tubes of paint. Careful to not move and drop the supplies, I unscrew the lid of the black marker and lift my hand to the door. I press the tip of the pen to the shiny metal and a satisfyingly full drop of ink leaves its mark.

I begin to sketch the outline of a tree, with long, twisted branches reaching to all corners of the door and hold the marker in between my teeth when I finish. I squeeze a dollop of green paint onto the paintbrush and begin to draw leaves onto the barren branches.

I am hasty with my work but I do not have time to pour myself into my craft. It is less about beauty and more about expressing the raw, angry, passionate thoughts in my head. I finish adorning the tree and make a move to dip the paintbrush into the blue paint but I realize that I need to wash off the color from my brush.

It is too risky to leave the supplies in the stall and rinse the brush off in the sink. I weigh my options. Toilet water. I sigh heavily and drop my head into my hands.

The floor is damp. Remnants of melted snow from the bottom of boots. Tiny rivers run between tiles and into the drain.

I crouch, keeping my feet visible beneath the door to not arouse suspicion. I press the tip of the paintbrush into the puddle of water. The is color is pulled out of the brush and trickles slowly down the drain.

I shake off the brush. I need to move fast. The night guards will be checking the restrooms soon and I cannot be caught.

I shove the tip of the paintbrush into both the blue and the red paint and move the brush in circles around the tree. Clouds of purple streaked with magenta, dark red, deep blue. The vibrancy is nearly overwhelming. I have been so starved for colors.

The door handle of the bathroom rattles. I nearly fall over and adrenaline flows through my veins. Every nerve is standing on end.

I wait with bated breath for several minutes. No one walks in. I need to finish.

I add a couple swirls of color here and there and don’t bother rinsing the brush. I tuck the markers into the pocket of my jeans and shove the paintbrushes into the front pocket of my shirt. Sacrificing my coat will mean I will have to run home with my arms wrapped around my torso for warmth. The tubes of paint I shove into my socks.

Close my eyes. Take a deep breath. I take off my jacket and sling it over my arm. I open my eyes and admire my spontaneous creation quickly before exiting the stall and leaving the bathroom.

The air in the station is stale and cold and I know that by the time I get to my apartment I will be freezing. But I do not think twice as I lay my coat over the now sleeping forms of the mother and child.

I brace myself for the biting winds at the exit of the station. I am awake and alert and my heart is still pounding from my private excursion. My hands already feel like ice sculptures and I bring them to my mouth, blowing warm air into balled fists.

My hands. Small, capable, nimble. My secret weapon. I hold them in front of me. Two fists, fingers rolled into my sleeves. I unravel my hands and turn them over. My life line cuts through the center of each like a scar. A battle wound.

There is a drop of paint on my hand, in the center of my palm, but I do not wipe it away. I close my fingers around it and walk, with my head held high, into the storm.

She is running fast toward the lighthouse, her bare feet leaving footprints in the sand. The white cotton dress is gathered between her legs and she is tired of the hindrance between her thighs.

If she could she would run naked, free. She doesn’t know why she does not do this now. Only the ocean and God will see her and these are the powers that created her… she rose out of the sea in God’s palm, shimmering and perfect.

Of course, she does not see herself as shimmering and perfect, a vision of a mermaid, an angel clad in white. Her light hair falls like a river down her neck and back, blonde tinted with blues and greens in the dusk sunlight.

Far away there is a boy with a telescope looking for stars.

The shadow of the lighthouse falls over her and she clambers up the spiral staircase to the top. She is running out of breath and out of time.

The sun is setting and the air is cold but she ignores the goosebumps that arise on her thin, pale arms. She is on a mission and would choose not to breathe if she thought it would push the current.

She pulls the door open, the metal hinges screeching in protest. The wood beneath her feet is full of splinters but she ignores the pain. She pulls the matchbook out of her bodice and strikes a match. The lamp begins to burn and the flames emerge in front of her eyes. Her sore feet carry her slowly to the glass. Surrounded by a dimming evening sky. The pressure of possibility and opportunity engulfing the moment.

The girl encompassed in glass finally takes a breath.

Not so far away there is a boy who lowers his telescope and though he is still out to sea, he can feel the warmth of fire on his fingertips.

She is the siren, the goddess, the nymph, the muse. She is the fire that protects him and the stars that guide him. She is the sky and the wind and the waves that carried him home.

In your cell
I am locked
shadowed by filtered grey light

The sad song of surrender is mourned
from down the hall
The low murmurs of unexpected lovers
Push -
Hush!

Hands cuffed above my head
Cold metal on flesh
Warm lips on skin

The sweet shivers from an unwanted caress -
This dark grotesque love that we possess

How do you know when you love someone? Not infatuated, not intrigued, not in love.

Just love. The kind of love where you don’t expect anything in return. The comfortable feeling that bubbles over in your chest, that sighs within you at a mere thought of that person. The passion that floods your mind in the early hours of the morning when the sun rises.The thought of your hair falling over your collar, your hands emerging from your sleeves. The thought of being alone in the desert while it rains. Suffocating at the thought of your heart ceasing to beat.

If I wake up to find the world crumbling around me, and you are the only one I want to save, that is when I will know that I love you.

And I know this because I know that a vision of me will appear before you when the sky falls and I will be the only one you want to feel in your arms. And you will run through the piles of garbage and bodies and clamber over collapsed on-ramps and hike up to the cliffs and look out over the sea to find me. And I will be there on a raft waiting to take you away.

And I won’t settle for anything less.

“Hi,” you say.

I nod, lowering the cup of coffee onto the table. The ceramic cup is hot beneath my fingertips.

You sit down across from me. “I saw you at the free market. I took one of your books.”

I nod again. I am speechless. What am I supposed to say? That I have been dreaming about you for a week now? And suddenly you have appeared before me like an apparition, a vision, a ghost, clad in a blue thermal shirt.

“The Waste Land,” you continue. “Why did you get rid of it?”

“I’ve already memorized it,” I say. My first words to you spoken aloud. Fitting, I guess, since you have already been memorized in my mind, your face imprinted into my memory.

“I haven’t read it in years. I forgot how beautiful it was.”

I smile and hope it is not a sad smile. The same overwhelming feeling begins – short of breath, stomach clenched, fingers that tremble.

“I hope this isn’t strange, but I’ve been looking for you.” You look unsure as you say this, hesitant of my reaction, fearful that you’ve frightened me.

I shake my head slowly. You avoid my gaze. I think of the things I should say to you.

I have been looking for you too. You have consumed my mind. I slept in a neighbor’s car last night and awoke with a vision of making love with you in a field. The city lights by the river fill me with loneliness. I already know what your lips will feel like pressed against mine.

Finally your eyes come back to meet my gaze. I hardly realized I was staring. Your face relaxes. Have I just said all of this aloud?

I feel brave. “I have nothing to give, nothing offer you but words.” A profound silence follows as we sit trying to figure each other out. There is a resolution written on your face.

You break the silence first. “What’s your name?”

I take a deep breath. “Blue.”