Paved Bumps on the Holy Roads (Preview)

"Barriers of construction beyond sight

Have kept galaxies at peace.

Stars, such as Halley, pass through blissfully

Yet with no contact from stranger clusters.

One star was dim and deflated of faith.

She had Columbus's desire

Of rummaging the unfamiliar.

So, she dove to the Earth

And cloaked her true nature

To blend in like a spider.

She took the railway advice of Journey at midnight.

A stranger settles next to her seat.

Sentence from him metamorphoses

Into combined paragraphs from both.

She feels she is understood

And acknowledges a charm of him

That none at her home has showed her.

They move from the caravan

And reach a desolate area

To exchange trust and passion.

As her faint light shines hours later

And he knows of her home cluster,

She's shot by brightness of a similar light

Revealing him to be a red giant.

Compassion remains, but distance is coerced.

A burning Luma of white and red is born,

But is rolled from Exo to Tropo.

Luma's light and Kent-isolation

Turns friendship hopes

Into stormy seas.

Shoots to skies and sees parents

During prayer and slumber.

Luma realizes one label isn't enough

And more names are welcome.

Sister Say-So claims

That I am a blackhole-to-be

And hopes verbal whips drain my 'motives.'

The doors to freedom open

After childhood packs its bags.

Luma accepts multiple labels.

Home clusters of both my parents see me

And avoid canes that would drag them on my stage.

As long as I'm the beyond-star,

There's no cave I can't brighten."

That has always been my signature poem and a favorite of mine. Not only has it helped get things off of my chest, but, since it is up for interpretation, no one can suspect what the real story behind the poem is. Anyway, before I get ahead of myself, my name is Bronwen Eld, a name I gave myself to remind myself of my freedom. I'm in a poetry group in my town. The Mauveyonder Metrists. I know, original, right? Well, to be fair, Mauveyonder has always been said to be the best place to see the sky's change of color and the sunset that is attached to it. Since it's a moderately sized town, there is a good mix between visitors and people who know each other. The Mauveyonder Metrists performed at this small cafe monthly and, since most of cafe was filled with locals and a good amount of them are open-minded, pieces of my poem were understood without a lot of questions or insults. There was an occasional person in the audience that gave a glance of hatred, but I did my best to hide that it struck like a demon's pitchfork. Nonetheless, plenty of the locals, including the poetry group, were well aware that I grew up in the local religious orphanage, possibly due to the religion of the previous generation of my family, that the owner of the orphanage, Sister Abigail, had always been bias in multiple ways; hate toward LGBT+ advocates (she always tried to justify it by claiming it was her duty in the name of the Lord), that I decide whether or not I feel like a certain gender, and that, allegedly, all I knew of my parents is that no one really approved on them being together.

Since I was the last one in the group to perform my piece, everyone at their tables was clapping and each of us poets gave each other a pat on the back and a high five before departing the cafe, which sometimes included me looking back smiling with the reminder that heaven awaits the group. I walked back to my house without much of a need to rush since the nighttime didn't feel too crowded and I was able to defend myself in case someone was clueless enough to attempt to attack me. Since it was a September night, I thought it would be a good idea to look around, place my hands in my jacket pockets and, without the knowledge of anyone else, coat my hands with gloves of oxidation, something that would normally burn a person to bone. I glanced up at the stars and gave a bit of a sad smile as I remembered most of the angels probably still had their backs toward me.

Aren't I glad people haven't guessed my real story yet? Here's the thing: about half of the stars that can be seen from the Earth are actually angels that look down upon us. One of said angels just so happened to be my mother, a curious and isolated soul among the other angels. One of the things the angels could do was blend in with humanity whenever they go to Earth to either help people in their time of need or bring them to Heaven once their time on Earth is over and they're meant to go to heaven. By that logic, demons are able to do the same thing, but to either bring karma to wrongdoers or drag them to Hell if that's what they're meant to go.

Disguised angels and demons they have helped each other, but it wasn't allowed for them to actually interact, which was the issue for when my parents interacted. As for my father being a red giant, the label and the temperature of a red giant actually fit with who he really is: Lucifer, the name my mom prefers to call him as a reminder that he's not as bad as everyone claims he is. They, apparently, both knew what it's like to have people expect the worst from them, yet really have good intentions if they were allowed to reveal them. The poem gives a clear idea of the basis of what happened: my mom was pregnant with me, my parents were not allowed to see each other anymore, and I was raised on Earth due to the uncertainty of my fate and my parents being required to experience the hardships on Earth vicariously through me. I was called Rafael by Sister Abigail and, I'm guessing, that's her favorite name for when she wants to feel like she was in control, because she constantly says it aggressively whenever I tried to socialize with the other kids, when my hands burn at times I can't control it, or on days when I don't feel like a boy. The prayers and dreams are when I visit Heaven or Hell to see either my mom or my dad for brief moments, which is how I know of my situation.

Fortunately, some of my hellish abilities weren't all my capabilities consisted of. There was a time where I was sent to my room on a day I didn't feel like a boy and cried into my pillow until I felt my face buried in a flower bed. It took me a while to realize that the tears dripped from my eyes directly to a surface caused flowers to grow on the surface they fell on. Since the flowers didn't have the lifespan of regular flowers, I thought it would be a good idea to make a flower crown and hide it from the other orphans and Abigail. Eventually, I decided to sing to feel better so no one would find out about the flower growth. The first time I did was some time after I was whipped by a scarf for trying to tell her that God is okay with me feeling like a girl on some days and that "lying with another man" isn't sinful if it's out of love. I didn't think a scarf would leave a bruise, but it left one on my forearm since she was really strong. I decided to sing to calm myself and once I did, I turned to my forearm to see that the bruise was gone.

Eventually, I became 18, which meant I became free to find opportunities to control my abilities and to express myself, starting with the aforementioned name change. Now, don't get me wrong, my family tree doesn't mean I dismiss sciences. In fact, since I was no longer cemented within Abigail's holy hypocrisy, I took matters into my own hands when it came to learning more about the world that I hadn't been taught beforehand. The beauty of the world and beyond, such as multiple communities, forms of art and innovation, and everything beyond the stars humans and angels could see, fascinated me while anyone and anything that tried to taint or silence all the potential sent a chill down my spine. With all of that in mind, no matter how "too holy" the demons might think I am and how "unholy" the angels might believe me to be, I have this desire to do good and defend the beauty the world has to hold. Heck, there have been times where I come across a criminal that rushes past me, stop them in their tracks, rough them up with some non-fatal blows, and run off to let the approaching cops do the rest which, by my guess, might have included them believing their sinful ways manifested themselves into a hallucination of capture telling them to repent.

I ended up figuring out at some early point in my adulthood that anger could cause my hands to burn up without my intentions. With that, I turned to poetry, music, and working out to calm me down and, eventually, I have done them more for pleasure. Since my backyard was close to a forest, I've gotten into the habit of using it as my own gym. At points in the day where I didn't have to worry about too many eyes on me, I've done my share of jogging (which sometimes led to me levitating to the point where anyone watching thought I was running really fast), tree climbing accompanied by occasional trapeze moves from branch to branch (along with singing to a tree if I felt I did a little too much damage), and lifting boulders like they're dumbbells.

Now, I might seem like I'm going through everything full of smiles and hope, but it's not like I don't have a reason for accidentally burning a doorknob in my house a time or two or accidentally sprouting a tulip or lily from the arm of my couch. As open-minded as my community is, there was still the annoyance that came from the knowledge of people confused as they stare at me, clearly wanting to experience the sin of lust without knowing what I identified as. There have even been points when that deadly sin has deafened people so that they wouldn't acknowledge if I mention something about my hopes for the world getting better. Not only that, there was still the feeling that the angels that didn't have their backs toward me are nailing icy gazes into me just waiting to see when I'm going to do something wrong. If I wanted to do nothing but sin and attach religious beliefs to my actions in the hopes of justification, I would've changed my name to "Claude Frollo" like the Disney villain that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Anyway, once I made it home that night, like on other nights I happen to be out and about, I opened my door to be reintroduced to a small living room with a TV and beige couch on my left, the kitchen and back door straight ahead, and bookshelf to my right that I pass to go upstairs to the second floor. I placed my jacket on the coat hanger next to the door, approached the stairs, and slowly ascended. When I made it to the third step, I grabbed a book that I pulled out of the shelf so often that I didn't need to look at it to confirm it: The Fault In Our Stars, by John Green. After the fourteenth step, I went to my right to go past the guest bedroom and make it to my own room. As I did so, I set the book on my bed, and make my way back down the hall to the bathroom. Once the rest of my routine is situated, which includes changing into an over-sized orange night shirt, I make silent conversation with the curious soul staring back at me from the mirror. Even with my bathroom lights at the brightest of bright, half of the face looking at me gazes at me from darkness. Though the blue eyes that I knew existed side by side regardless of visibility hadn't a glimmer of amoral desires or hatred as hot as the red of my hair that mostly covered my face, that didn't mean the fear of me living up to the sinister expectations of the angels that have shunned me was fictional. Even as I tell myself that there's nothing to worry about, the constant questions of "what if?" stone me in all directions and leave behind bruises that no singing could heal.

I eventually rush back to my bedroom and get under the blanket with the book in my hands and some reassuring music in my ears. Those are the times that mostly consist of me wanting to cry and attempt to convince myself that my nature isn't the main reason for tears raining down. The wish that it was easy to see that I wish to do no harm to the world according to those around me who know fully of my nature has been a companion to me that has been harmful to make contact with and yet feels all too familiar. Thoughts similar to that have resulted in me doing less reading/focusing on the music I would more likely fall asleep to and doing more staring into oblivion lost in my own worries. There has even been an occasional time where my last thought before I drift off into a subconscious visit to Heaven or Hell is wondering if God had any prior knowledge to me having a heart or questioning myself at all.