Conquer or concur

Roar on or gently purr

Embrace or deter

The choices that were

Flight or fight

In the day before the night

The dark will blur my sight

The light will slight the fright

I stand at both alone

With warmed heart or chilly bones

Whether still lost or tucked at home

The event devolves in foam

Run or stay

Live—or not—another day

There's never time to pray

For the quintessential way

“You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.” ― William Faulkner

The tension mounts in escalating moments

Of friction and unease.

My heartbeat and breathing, in unison,

Resound in a tempo rubato.

I’m terrified, unsure of my step

As I venture toward the unknown.

Will the road drag me to hell

Or lift me toward heaven?

Methinks my end will likely be hell

For my body rebels,

Wreaking torrential sweat and dripping profusely

To the rhythmic thunder of my heartbeat;

Like white noise, it reverberates,

Drowning all else,

Precluding the possibility of sanity.

An ocean, encompassing a multitude of sorrows,

Threatens to flood, overwhelming

As it rises in intensity and strength.

All that’s safe and warm succumbs to the sea

While I remain sinking on shore as the tide

Weaves in and out in repeated synchrony.

Darkness, looming in the fading distance,

Threatens the shell of my existence.

My mouth opens, harboring a howl,

But no sound escapes save the emptiness

Of a lone, residual breath.

Stumbling, teetering on the edge of an abyss,

Tears fall unabashedly.

I am Tantalus, incognito,

Banished to hell, forbidden water or nourishment,

With no relief in sight as a hell of my own making

Replenishes itself like a reoccurring nightmare.

A breeze lingers amidst the encroaching darkness.

In the dimness, I stretch out my hand,

Longing to capture its essence,

Starkly resisting capitulation to enemy forces.

The breeze is soft, barely discernable, but there nonetheless.

Hope rebounds, surging inside my breast,

Flooding the scourge of despair and futility.

In the span of a breath and heartbeat,

I am reminded I am loved and I am worthy.

With this enlightenment, a strength surfaces,

A gift freely given, able to conquer a mountain

Of fear and insecurity.

The gift is embellished with wonder and recognition.

I pull my feet from depths of sand and foaming water,

Shaking them free of all entanglement and doubt.

Turning my back on the obtrusive darkness,

I begin the long trek to lights lining faraway lands.

My breath grows steady and my heartbeat evens

Into a rhapsody of refined, renewable energy,

Encapsulated by life’s promises and possibilities.

I have won the battle…..

An ongoing, incessant war of which

I must always be aware and strive to conquer.

Yes, I have won the battle…..yet again…..

Cynthia Calder, 03.13.25

Fear isn't the enemy of respect.

It's got an uncanniness to it, but it's place where old and young have met.

Where a child might touch a stove,

Hot to fingers and palms, but a venture that might prove bold.

Ignorance is the enemy,

The enemy of life.

It is the thoughtless action which breeds uncentered takes,

Where a youth might be careless,

Might- pick up a gun.

To rob someone for what isn't theirs.

What never should.

And should they find out, what those actions might do,

a gun in the hand might come to undo.

Fear isn't the enemy,

but rather the company of respect.

It's the thing that makes playing with knives,

a dangerous game of suspect.

Suspicion of what could be,

would be or never should be known to be seen.

It's a place where there's no takebacks, no matter what you might mean.

Because what fear brings, is a consciousness of limits.

Without fear to faithfully guide, respect of life might not be in mind.

When i look fear in the eyes,does the transparent pain let in the darkness?Or do I lift the blinds to let in the light?

They say the eyes are the

windows to the soul!

When you catch your reflection in a window,are your eyes glaring back at you?Are you the mannequin in the window dressed to kill?

Still,still,still,plastic grin.

Like a cracked smile on a porcelain dolls lip.

Run,run,run,mascara red as bloody sin.

Fear on display in the monsters closet,behind the wardrobe of crafted masks of obscurity.

A room of mirrors cracking, a sinister echo cutting as sharded glass.

As i stare beyond the kaleidoscope of

splintered madness.

A summer night begins to muscle its way into the neighborhood.

This is usually the time for people to party or just visit. Anything to prolong the day. But this dusk accompanies fear that is already well-entrenched here, courtesy of a recent rash of break-ins and robberies. And everyone on the Elm Place cul-de-sac disappears into their homes.

Everyone except Joe.

He stands like a defiant sentinel in front of his open gas grill on the driveway.

Bratwursts sizzle. Joe turns the three links over with a tong. He unfolds a lawn chair—and stops.

Joe feels someone is watching him, but he is afraid to look up. Or move. He feels goosebumps and tingling on the back of his neck. His heart races. A foul odor finds his nostrils, overcoming the meaty smell from the grill. One thought seizes his brain: I should have gone inside.

“Please, mister.”

The shaky voice from the sidewalk reaches Joe’s ears, but he still cannot move.

“Please,” the voice comes again. “Can I have just a half of one of your hot dogs?”

Joe squeezes his eyes shut and opens them. He slowly turns to the sidewalk.

An unkempt man with straggly hair and a shopping cart is looking at Joe. His faded shirt and jeans are dirty and ripped.

Joe straightens up and takes a deep breath. He unfolds another lawn chair and places it next to his own. Somehow, he summons the words, “Won’t you join me?”

The man from the sidewalk smiles. And sits on the chair.

Joe puts two paper plates on a grill extension. He places one brat on one plate, another on the other plate, and cuts the last sausage link in two and distributes the halves to both plates.

Joe no longer feels the goosebumps. His heartbeat is back to normal.

And the foul odor, meaty aroma, and pungent scent of fear are overcome by the sweet smell of empathy.

Feelings come and go in waves, but sometimes I catch a feeling that feels like it belongs to someone else. Strange and consuming. Alarming and looming. It creeps in like sepia in a frame and I become an audience of reality. I am removed and paralyzed. Like a dream clasped in demons claws, the world becomes overwhelming in waking stillness. There is no true threat, only a pulling at the back of my mind. An intuition of what's to come. Or what has been. If only I could remember to breathe. I sit with my hands in my lap and watch as it passes me by. I have survived a moment of all consuming doom. A treachery of the consciousness that passes as quickly as it comes on. Not a soul reacts to my own personality earthquake and I am left shaken. All I can do is stand and move forward. Stay resilient until the memory is triggered by a sister event, much easier to conquer. The only real way out is through.

Looking back, I understand my childhood fear regarding something lurking beneath my bed was unfounded, born of a hyperactive thought process fueled by watching old Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney movies. I now know there was never any inherent danger. My bedroom was a safe sanctuary, not a horror hostel. At the time though, I was certain these fears were grounded in reality compounded by bad luck.

Why did I had the misfortune of a monster seeking shelter under my bed? Did it come with the home? If so, was that highlighted in the disclosure documents available from the listing agent? And wouldn’t this qualify as a deal-breaker for my parents when they heard about it while attending the open house?

Or is this punishment for some transgression I may allegedly have had? Thousands of kids in the world misbehaved more than I ever did, four of which were close acquaintances, yet I’m the one who has to fend off being mauled on a regular basis by a demon bidding its time among the accumulating dust bunnies? My displeasure with Brussel sprouts was well documented. But just because I got caught wrapping them in my napkin to covertly toss them in the trash so as not to have to eat them for dinner last year doesn’t mean I deserve being thrown to the proverbial werewolves now.

Granted, my folks comply with every bedtime plea to check below my boxspring, ensuring it is vacant. But the standard parental response of “There’s nothing there. It’s only your imagination running wild,” is not factual reassurance. I wouldn’t ask you to look if I hadn’t heard something nefarious giggling from beneath where I slumber. At best their findings were on par with “Because I said so” as a way to end a discussion without presenting any irrefutable evidence; a dismissive response with no logical foundation just to get me to go to sleep. At worst it was because my mother and father wanted me dead.

Because duh, of course you can’t see a monster once it deploys and subsequently hides behind a cloak of invisibility. I mean, come on people, that’s basic Monster Defense Strategies 101. If they took my concerns seriously, either parent would’ve grabbed the Mossberg and started spraying double-aught buckshot underneath my Serta so I could get a perfect sleep. But who am I to question those in charge. I’m only six. I’ll go it on my own and make do with the tools at my disposal.

In hindsight, the lack of rational thinking at that age reveals my immature naivete. How did I believe that remaining motionless while wrapped in my 250-thread count, Rocky and Bullwinkle sheet was the key to survival? How did I think a bed sheet pulled over my head was adequate camouflage for postponing a creature’s ambush? Such a futile tactic. If my opponent was shrewd enough to avoid detection from adult prying eyes, upon emerging it knows the first place to inspect would be that trembling mass on the bed. With one swipe, my defenses would have been breached.

And then there’s the closet creatures, who were on standby for when the bed monsters went on holiday. Being denizens of the darkness, through evolution they would have understood the fundamentals of turning off an overhead light. A pull chain has one movement with an immediate result when yanked. Even with razor-sharp claws, the CCs had the fine motor skills to turn off the illuminating ceiling light my dad left on for me moments prior so they could carry out their attack concealed by the shadows.

In the end, my parents were correct. There was nothing under my bed. Or in my closet. Or outside my window. Or in the attic, basement and garage. They humored my over-stimulated imagination concocting overblown anxiety. They let this be part of the learning process involving critical thinking and problem solving.

The mind never stops being a persuasive influence. It creates dire situations and then later reminds you, “There was never anything there. It was only me running wild.” No matter what stage of life you’re in, your brain can convince you to believe or not to believe. To conquer or concur. To live and learn.

Still, I can’t help but wonder though, will what I’m afraid of today seem baseless tomorrow? I’ll have to ask the thing that goes bump in the night. It knows all the answers.

I didn't truly know what alone felt like

Until I had no one to come home to

Her collar hung on my wall planner,

taunting me with the lack of a body attached to it.

The "I love you" as I walk out the door

escaping my lips to an empty room.

The smell of her dissipating day by day

as air fresheners slowly overwhelm the apartment.

An empty room.

Empty room.

Empty.

You always know this day will come,

but never expect it to arrive so soon.

The tears don't stop,

they run

on and on and on and on.

The empty bed

The empty couch

the empty kennel

the empty collar.

You're never ready,

but the day does come.

She does leave.

Now, whether we face the day or lay in bed forever,

that's determined day by day.

There's no one to turn to,

no one to sleep with

no fur to cry into after a bad day.

And eventually this may pass,

or the pain will get smaller

as the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, decades go on

but that doesn't change the hesitation I have

anytime I open my apartment door.