“We all have our secrets… secrets we tell no one—not even ourselves.”

Elias Thorne had lived on the corner lot longer than most people could remember. A quiet man with snow-white hair and a spine still straight despite his age, he was best known for two things: his silence and his garden.

The front yard was ordinary enough—rosebushes pruned just so, neat rows of daffodils in spring, tulips in April. But it was the backyard that stirred curiosity. No one had ever really seen it. Tall hedges shielded it completely, and even from the second-story windows of neighboring homes, the view was obstructed by ancient oak trees and dense ivy.

He gardened mostly at night.

Clara, who had recently moved into the blue house next door, was the first to notice. Late in the evening, just as the moon began to rise, she’d catch glimpses of him—lantern in hand, moving among the shadows like a figure from another time. She wasn’t frightened exactly, but she was intrigued.

It was only natural that the neighborhood whispers drifted her way. “He never buys seeds,” someone told her.

“His dahlias change colors depending on who’s looking at them.” Another neighbor swore she’d once smelled lilacs in the middle of January. Clara, a practical woman with a soft spot for folklore, dismissed most of it as nonsense—but she couldn’t deny the strange pull she felt toward that hidden garden.

One humid July night, curiosity got the better of her.

She waited until the lights in Elias’s house went out. Slipping through the hedge with a flashlight, she found an opening she hadn’t seen before. On the other side, a narrow path wound through tall grasses and moonflowers that seemed to glow faintly in the dark. Fireflies blinked in lazy spirals, and the air held the scent of something sweet and unfamiliar.

She followed the path to a small, weathered glasshouse tucked in the far corner of the yard. The door wasn’t locked. It creaked as she stepped inside.

At first, she thought it was empty—but then she saw it.

In the center of the room stood a large wooden table, and upon it sat a simple clay pot filled with rich, dark soil. Growing from the soil was a single bloom—not quite a rose, not quite a lily, and unlike anything she’d ever seen. Its petals shimmered like morning dew, shifting hue from deep violet to silver-blue as she moved.

It seemed… alive. Not in a plant-like way, but in a memory-like way. Familiar. Tender.

She leaned closer.

“Careful with that,” a voice said behind her. Clara startled, turning to find Elias standing just inside the door, lantern held low.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” he said gently, stepping closer. “You’re not the first who’s come looking.”

She blinked. “I’m not?”

Elias smiled, not unkindly. “Grief makes gardeners of us all. Some sow silence. Others plant memories.”

He moved to the table, fingers brushing the edge of the clay pot. “This flower—this one right here—doesn’t come from seed. It only grows when someone remembers love so deeply it starts to bloom again.”

Clara looked at the flower with new eyes. “Is that… her?”

He nodded. “In a way. She was a botanist. Said every flower had a song, a story. I suppose I’m still listening for hers.”

Clara stood in the warm hush of the greenhouse, no longer afraid.

“I thought…” she paused, smiling at her own foolishness. “Well, I thought it was something terrible. The glowing. The secrecy.”

Elias chuckled. “Magic always seems sinister when we don’t understand it.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Then Elias turned and reached into a small drawer beneath the table. He pulled out a paper envelope, worn and hand-labeled in delicate script.

“Here,” he said, handing it to her. “A few seeds. They won’t grow unless you’re ready. But when they do, they’ll surprise you.”

Clara looked down at the envelope, then up at him.

“Thank you,” she said.

And from that night on, whenever Elias worked under moonlight, he had a companion. Two lanterns glowing in the dark. Two quiet gardeners tending to the mysteries only the heart can grow.

Epilogue

The following spring, Clara’s garden bloomed in ways she couldn’t explain.

Where once there was only soil and shade, now grew blossoms she hadn’t planted—soft, luminous things that glowed faintly in the moonlight and shifted colors depending on her mood. Neighbors began to pause at her gate, puzzled but smiling, the air around her home somehow gentler, more alive.

Elias still worked by lantern-light, though his steps were slower, and more often than not, two lanterns could be seen now—sometimes three. Clara had taken to sharing seeds, just as he had once done with her, always with the same quiet instruction:

“They won’t grow unless you’re ready. But when they do, they’ll surprise you.”
​
And when asked about the strange beauty of her garden, she would simply smile and say, “Every flower is a memory. I’m just helping them bloom.”

~Wylddane

"The Blooming Hour"

They called them whisperblossoms. No one knew where they first came from, but the meadow at the edge of the village had always been full of them—yellow flowers that shimmered like candlelight and swayed to music no ear could hear.

Locals said the flowers bloomed only at midnight and vanished by dawn. Children dared each other to watch for them, but no one stayed long. Something about the field unsettled the bones. Too quiet. Too alive.

Julian was different.

An insomniac naturalist with a quiet soul and a mind full of questions, Julian didn’t scare easily. He believed the world still held secrets, if one only listened close enough. So on the night of the summer solstice, he stepped into the meadow with a sketchpad, a flask of coffee, and a need—deep and unexplainable—to understand.

The whisperblossoms bloomed slowly, golden heads unfolding like dreams stirred awake. One by one, they turned—not toward the moon or the breeze, but toward him.

He stood still.

“I see you,” Julian said, hardly above a breath.

And somehow, impossibly, they responded.

The blossoms began to hum—not in sound, but in vibration. Julian felt it in his chest, like memory knocking from within. Then a voice echoed, not from the air, but from inside his mind.

“You have remembered,” it said. “And so the pact is honored.”

“What pact?” Julian asked aloud, though the meadow was still.

The flowers swayed, as if smiling.

“Long ago, you walked among us. You promised to return when the world had forgotten its harmony.”
Sudden images flashed—ancient woods, a circle of light, his own hand reaching toward stars.

“I was… one of you?”

The blossoms shimmered in answer.

He reached out with hesitant fingers and touched one. The petal curled around him like a soft ribbon. A surge of energy burst through his fingertips—old magic, long dormant, blooming anew.

Then came a whisper, not quite a sound. A name.

“Julian.”

He opened his eyes.

The meadow was gone.

In its place stretched a great hall of dark stone and golden light. Blossoms bloomed from the walls, illuminating twelve thrones shaped of living vine and stardust. Figures robed in silver and moss regarded him with knowing eyes.

“You have returned,” one spoke. “The Circle is whole again.”

“What is this place?” Julian asked, awe seeping into his voice.

“Home,” another replied. “You have lived many lives to find your way back. The world needs what you once were.”

He looked down. His hands were glowing.

He smiled—not because he understood, but because something deep inside him did.

* * * * * * *
​
Back in the meadow, his sketchpad lay open to a page labeled Whisperblossoms: Notes & Theories. A passing hiker found it tucked beneath a single flower—blooming brightly in the full light of day, defying its legend.

Julian was never seen again.
​
But some say that if you visit the meadow at midnight, and the air is still, you might glimpse a figure walking among the blossoms. Not a man, exactly. But something radiant, something remembered.

“The Return to the Blooming Hall”

Julian’s boots echoed on the stone floor as he stepped deeper into the glowing hall. The golden blossoms pulsing from the walls bent slightly as he passed, as if bowing in greeting. Their light shimmered not just on the surfaces but within the very air—a golden breath that seemed to swirl with memory.

The twelve figures who sat upon thrones of starlit vine did not speak at first. They studied him with eyes as old as frost and wind, yet somehow familiar. Julian felt as though he stood at the center of a memory—his own, and not his own.

Finally, the one seated in the tallest chair stood. Her robe flowed like the Milky Way come alive, stitched with constellations.

“You are the last,” she said.

Julian didn’t speak. His hand still tingled from where he’d touched the whisperblossom in the meadow.

“You gave your gifts to the world, piece by piece,” the woman continued. “To trees, to music, to those who walk with kindness. And when your light had scattered far enough, you were reborn as a seeker. It was the only way to remember.”

Julian swallowed. “I still don’t understand what I am.”

The figure stepped down from her throne and approached him.

“You are a Keeper,” she said. “One who remembers what the world forgets. One who guards the bloom of truth, even when it fades from every eye but yours.”

Behind her, the other Councilors stood as one. Their thrones melted into gold and green, reforming into a circle around Julian.

The air pulsed with power.

Julian felt the meadow within him, growing. He felt roots weaving through his soul, not imprisoning him—but anchoring him.

And then the Circle began to chant—not in words, but in vibration. The same hum he’d heard in the meadow now rose into a song that bent light, bent time, bent him. He closed his eyes--

—And when he opened them again, he stood in a garden that had not bloomed in ten thousand years.

But now, it bloomed.

Not just flowers, but time itself.

The forgotten things remembered.

* * * * * * * *

Somewhere, in a quiet nursing home on the edge of the village, an old man named Julian sat motionless in a chair beside a window. He hadn’t spoken in months. The nurses said his mind had wandered too far to come back.

But that night, when the wind blew warm and strange, the night nurse swore she saw yellow light curling around his fingers.

Outside the window, the first whisperblossom bloomed beneath a streetlamp.
​
It hadn’t been there the day before.

“The Keeper’s Gift”
(Final Chapter of “The Blooming Hour”)

Julian knelt in the garden that bloomed with memory. The blossoms glowed brighter than fireflies, their golden light swirling like breath drawn from forgotten dreams. Around him, the air shimmered with something more than warmth--presence. Time had bent, bloomed, and opened like a flower around him.

Each step he took was a restoration.

Each breath, a returning.

He wandered the garden for what felt like a lifetime and a moment, touching petals that whispered to him in voices of old friends, mentors, even children not yet born. He was not lost. He was found.

And then, the garden stilled.

From its center rose a pool of silver light, and in its reflection Julian saw not just himself, but every life he had ever lived. Warrior. Healer. Hermit. Lover. Child. Keeper.

“You are the bloom and the root,” said a voice behind him. It was the star-cloaked figure from the hall, though she stood alone now, her robe trailing galaxies across the grass.

Julian turned. “What now?”

She smiled softly. “The world is ready to remember.”

She extended a hand. In it lay a single whisperblossom, more golden than any he had seen.

“With this,” she said, “you return to them—not to disappear, but to awaken.”

Julian took the flower. It pulsed once in his palm. Then the garden faded.

* * * * * * * *

The next morning, a boy on a bicycle skidded to a stop outside the old nursing home. Something had bloomed in the sidewalk garden—a flower unlike any he'd seen.

Yellow. Glowing. Alive.

Inside, Julian opened his eyes.

His nurse dropped her clipboard with a gasp.

“Mr. Gray?” she whispered.

He blinked, smiled, and said, “It’s time to plant a few things.”

Epilogue:

Years later, the old village would be known for its fields of golden flowers. People came not just to admire their beauty, but because when they stood among them, they remembered. Not memories from childhood or school or old heartbreaks, but something deeper:

The warmth of the Earth. The kindness in strangers. The sense that everything was connected and meaningful.

And every so often, someone swore they saw a man walking among the blossoms, glowing softly as he passed.
​
They say if he touches your hand, you’ll dream of golden halls, star-robed guardians, and a garden where all things forgotten bloom again.

~Wylddane

They say the old dock is ordinary—just weathered planks over a quiet pond in the northwoods. But every so often, if the light is right and your heart is quiet, something appears between the boards and shadows: a single water lily, white as morning mist, with a golden center like the first spark of sunrise.

No one knows exactly when it will appear. Some say it only shows itself to those who have known heartbreak and have learned to let go. Others whisper that it’s summoned by dreams unspoken, or by the silence that comes after a deep sigh when the world is finally still. Children claim it’s the flower of a forgotten forest spirit who once wept into the pond, and her tears bloomed into lilies—but only one holds her memory, glowing gold at the center.

Old Mr. Harper, who lives in the cabin across the way, insists the lily is a test. “It doesn’t show itself to be admired,” he once said, “but to be understood. You mustn’t pluck it. You mustn’t reach for it. You simply look.

And if you look deeply enough, it looks back.”

Locals have named it The Hidden Water Lily, for it slips away if you try to tell someone about it or bring them to see. It disappears like breath on a mirror.

Some believe the flower grants something, though no one agrees on what. Peace, maybe. Forgiveness. Or perhaps just the memory of something beautiful you’d forgotten you ever knew. What’s clear is this: those who’ve seen it are never quite the same.

And it’s always the golden center that captures them. Some say if you gaze at it long enough, the light inside starts to pulse softly, like a heartbeat. Like the echo of something ancient. One girl claimed she saw her future reflected in its center—a moment of joy so quiet and complete that she wept. A widower once whispered he heard his late wife call his name from within the golden swirl.

Yesterday, just before dusk, I sat alone on that old dock. The pond was still as breath, dragonflies hovering like thoughts just out of reach. Then, between the boards, I saw it.

The lily.

It was more than beautiful. It felt... deliberate.

I bent close, heart pounding, and let my eyes rest on its golden heart. And just for a moment, the world shimmered.

In the reflection, I did not see myself.

I saw someone else.

A child I once knew. A boy with bright eyes and a wild laugh. Me, but not as I am now—me as I had forgotten I ever was.

Then he smiled, and was gone.

And so was the lily.

I looked around. The dock was silent. A breeze stirred the cattails. Had I imagined it? Or had the flower revealed a truth not about the world, but about myself?

They say the Hidden Water Lily cannot be summoned, only received. But I wonder now: maybe it doesn't appear to you at all. Maybe it appears from you—when something inside is finally ready to bloom.

~Wylddane

Chapter One: Tanqueray, Twirls, and the Tumbling Cage

As I swerved, startled by Raoul's sudden warning, I hit Juan with my 1984 Ford Tempo. His body hurtled into the air like a rag doll and bounced off the hood with all the elegance of a disgraced Cirque du Soleil understudy. The rest, as they say in third-rate memoirs and rehab testimonials, is history.

But before we talk about Juan, let’s rewind to 1972, a time when polyester was a legitimate lifestyle and Minneapolis–St. Paul—collectively called the Twin Cities—was where my young, undecided self roamed with ambition, indecision, and a remarkably limited wardrobe.

I'd just graduated college with a degree in something so unmarketable that even I’ve blocked it out. The world lay before me like an all-you-can-eat buffet with no sneeze guards—and I had no idea where to start. My first real job? Exotic dancer at Charlie’s Turf Club on University Avenue in St. Paul. Yes, exotic dancer.

Yes, me.

Charlie’s wasn’t exactly Studio 54. It was more like if a bowling alley and a speakeasy had a child and left it to be raised by a biker gang. But it had lights, music, and a stage. And on Tuesday nights—dance night—I became a minor god.

My act was more than just bump and grind. I considered myself a performance artist. I wore fire-red leotards with a sequined cape the color of mood swings: black, gray, and green. My signature number was a Dervish-inspired spin-fest that left the audience breathless and me mildly concussed.

The backstage room was small and vaguely smelled of Aqua Net, desperation, and Tanqueray. Management, always thoughtful, left me a chilled bottle of my favorite gin, along with my crystal old-fashioned glass—a thrift store treasure I claimed after a particularly blurry Christmas Eve.

I remember that Tuesday vividly. The skies had turned greenish-black, and local meteorologists were in a state of apocalyptic ecstasy. The radio buzzed warnings about tornadoes, flooding, and angry Midwestern gods. But I had a show to do. I climbed the rope ladder into the suspended cage above the dance floor and prepared to dervish like it was my last spin.

And in a way—it was.

Somewhere between Thelma Houston’s first belt of "Don't Leave Me This Way" and my fourth turn, the cage gave a groan like an arthritic ghost and snapped free from the ceiling.

I remember screaming, but it might’ve been the audience. We crashed to the floor with the kind of dramatic flair that wins both applause and litigation. The cage burst open. I staggered out, knees wobbling, vision starry...and landed directly in Raoul’s arms.

Raoul. Let’s just say if James Bond and Ricardo Montalbán had a love child with a fondness for tropical shirts and criminally good taste in gin—it would be Raoul.

Chapter Two: Enter Raoul

It was a Tuesday. Life-altering Tuesdays should be outlawed, or at least made to carry warning labels.

The sun had gone full wrath-of-God by noon, and Charlie’s Turf Club—our beloved, battered little gay bar on University Avenue—was sweating through its foundation. The air conditioning had died again (I suspected sabotage), and the scent of the place had turned from musky flirtation to a downright hostile blend of spilled gin, sweat, Halston, and late-70s regret.

I was halfway through applying my glitter eyeliner—shade: Disco Absolution—when Lenny the bouncer knocked.

“You got a visitor,” he grunted, cracking the door with his meaty fist. “Guy says he’s your cousin. Name’s Raoul.”

Lenny smirked when he said it. He knew damn well I didn’t have a cousin named Raoul.

I stepped into the hazy corridor and froze. There he was.

Leaning against the wall like it had personally offended him, stood a man with sun-browned skin, shaggy dark hair, and a jawline sharp enough to slice citrus. He was wearing an unbuttoned linen shirt, weathered jeans, and scuffed boots that made no sense in July but looked criminally good on him.

His eyes met mine—steady, unreadable, amused. I felt...seen. In a way that was both thrilling and mildly alarming.

“You’re late,” I said, because panic made me bitchy.

“I’m early,” he replied, voice low and lightly accented. “You just didn’t know I was expecting you.”

Chapter Three: Juan and the Trouble with Tempos

Let’s be honest: Juan never liked me.

It wasn’t personal—not at first. Juan didn’t like anyone who dared to share a spotlight he believed had been reserved for him alone since birth. He was the bartender at Charlie’s Turf Club—but not just any bartender.

He was the bartender. The dealer of side-eyes. The diva of drink specials.  His signature move was pouring cocktails with one hand while flipping his hair with the other, all to the beat of whatever disco track was owning the room.

And in his defense, he had a hell of a presence: silver-blond hair bleached nearly white, cheekbones like switchblades, and a body sculpted by what I assumed were equal parts good genes, vodka tonics, and passive-aggressive Pilates.

Before Raoul entered the picture, Juan and I had a kind of frosty detente. He’d call me “darling” with just enough venom to ruin the compliment, and I’d tip in loose change and glitter. We understood each other. Sort of.

But then... Raoul.

Raoul, with his brooding eyes and jungle cat charisma. Raoul, who suddenly started showing up at Charlie’s on the regular, sitting always at Juan’s end of the bar—until, one night, he wasn’t. He was at my table. At my side. In my bed.

Juan noticed.

The accident—the so-called “Tempo Tragedy”—happened months later. I was driving my silver-blue 1984 Ford Tempo through the West Side. Raoul was riding shotgun, windows down, gin fizz in a travel mug.

As we rounded a corner near Wabasha Street, Raoul shouted, “Look out!”

Too late.

Juan had stepped off the curb in platform boots and a sheer mesh tank top that read “BITTER, PARTY OF ONE.” His arms were waving—possibly to flag a cab, possibly to flip us off. The next moment he was airborne.

He somersaulted once, then crashed dramatically onto a patch of hostas in front of a Methodist church.

Raoul whispered, “Is it bad that I think he faked the landing?”

Juan survived, of course. He didn’t press charges. But he did show up to Charlie’s three nights later in a wheelchair he absolutely didn’t need, sipping a gimlet and milking the sympathy of the entire dance floor.I brought him a bouquet of silk carnations and a handwritten card that said, “Sorry I launched you. Sincerely, Your Favorite Dancer.”

He stared at it for a long time before saying, “I preferred you before you got soft.”

That was Juan. No sentiment without a slap. No moment without a monologue.  The term I frequently applied to Juan rhymed with witch.

But here’s the truth: part of me missed him. Not romantically. Not even platonically. But as an adversary. As a mirror.

Raoul didn’t miss him. And the tension between them only got thicker from there. I never found out the whole story—whether they were once lovers, rivals, or something far more complicated. Raoul never said. Juan never shut up.

And me? I just kept dancing.
​

Chapter Four: Island Life and Other Bad Decisions

When we left Minneapolis, we didn’t so much relocate as flee.

The night after the Tempo incident, I stood in my kitchen staring at Juan’s silk carnations wilting in a glass.

Raoul stood behind me, shirtless, barefoot, holding two crystal old-fashioned glasses, each with a generous dollop of Tanqueray and a single, slow-melting cube.

“Let’s disappear,” he said.

I turned to face him. “Disappear where?”

He sipped. “Somewhere the humidity is a lifestyle. Somewhere your name doesn’t come with an asterisk.”

I paused. “Florida?”

He winced. “God, no. The Caribbean.”

We opened an atlas. Chose a name we liked. Pointe-à-Pierre, on the island of Guadeloupe. A crescent-shaped bay, an abandoned quay, and—if the real estate listing was to be believed—a “fixer-upper bar/restaurant with significant nautical charm.”

We wired our savings, packed two suitcases, and boarded a plane with nothing but hope, hangovers, and one poorly translated tourist guide.

We called it Hanna Mae’s, after a Midwestern friend who once told me: “You need three things in life, sugar: decent gin, someone who touches you like you’re music, and a porch with a view.”  He died two years later, chain-smoking on his porch during a thunderstorm.  A legend.

The place sat at the far edge of a forgotten quay, surrounded by coconut palms, bougainvillea, and hibiscus plants so aggressive they looked like they were auditioning for a musical. You could hear the sea before you saw it—crashing, sighing, whispering secrets you weren’t sure you wanted to know.
Inside, we found:

• Three broken ceiling fans
• A rusted jukebox loaded entirely with Grace Jones and Donna Summer
• One unopened case of Tanqueray gin (a sign)
• And a single note scrawled on the mirror behind the bar:
  “She left at dawn. Don’t follow her. Also: rats.”
• 
  

We cleaned. We painted. We danced barefoot to “Pull Up to the Bumper” while patching the roof with tin and hope.

And somehow—despite ourselves—it worked.

We served rum punch to tourists and gin fizzes to expats. There was Lucille, the Canadian scuba instructor. Big Al, the drag queen turned beekeeper. And us—Raoul and me. Behind the bar. On the beach. In the hammock. In bed.Some days we barely spoke. Some days we laughed until the sun gave up and slid into the sea. We developed a rhythm, not unlike a slow cha-cha—equal parts anticipation and retreat.

It wasn’t paradise. But it was ours.

And Tanqueray?

We ordered so much, the distributor gave us the first volume discount in Lesser Antilles history. We got a plaque. It hangs in the bathroom, slightly tilted, next to a framed photo of Raoul dancing shirtless in the rain with a pelican.

But time is a slippery thing on an island. Days blur. Seasons change subtly. You forget to check the calendar until one day a stranger arrives with news, or a letter, or a storm.
In our case, it was September 1989.

Hurricane season.

And fate, like an old queen with nothing left to lose, was about to blow the roof right off our little slice of heaven.



Chapter Five: September 1989

The wind began with a whisper. It curled around the palm trees like a rumor.

By nightfall, Gabrielle had arrived. She wasn’t a storm. She was a reckoning.

The roof peeled back at 2 a.m. Rain came in sideways. The bar exploded. Gin mixed with seawater.

We huddled in the storeroom behind liquor crates. I pressed my face into Raoul’s chest and whispered, “Remember when Juan faked paralysis for two full weeks?”

Raoul laughed. “He got free drinks and a dance tribute.”

By morning, Hanna Mae’s was a ruin. But the mirror behind the bar still stood. Raoul reached for my hand. I didn’t let go.

Chapter Six: The Flashback and the Reinvention

On the third day after the storm, Raoul found the Polaroid album. One shot stopped me—me laughing, Raoul watching, unsmiling. A memory surfaced.

St. Paul, 1977.

We were outside Charlie’s after a quiet set. “Why do you watch me like that when I dance?” I asked.
Raoul replied, “Because you look like you’re trying to remember something you never got to do.”

He kissed me then. Certain. Like he always meant to.

Back in Pointe-à-Pierre.

“I want something new,” I said.

“Then let’s build it,” he said.
​
We painted the first wall of the new Hanna Mae’s a shade of green I’d once worn on stage. It shimmered in the light. Like memory. Like forgiveness. Like the start of something else.

Epilogue: Tanqueray Dreams

Suddenly, I woke with a start.

Raoul lay sleeping next to me, on his stomach, one arm draped over the pillow, a soft snore in his throat.
​
Did all of this happen? Was it real? Was it a Tanqueray-induced dream?

In the background, I heard the ocean. The call of night jungle birds. I curled up beside him, touched the warmth of his back.

Whatever it was—dream, memory, miracle—I was here.

And I went back to sleep.



~Wylddane

The Empire Theatre stood like a red-bricked sentry on the corner of Main Street, its marquee glowing in the summer sun, its velvet seats promising mystery, wonder, and stories far larger than the small town of Hudson, Wisconsin could contain. On this particular afternoon in 1958, it was showing A Night to Remember.

Doug and I—Dane—were nine years old that summer. We lived across the street from each other in a quiet neighborhood where bicycles lined driveways and sprinkler arcs danced over trimmed lawns. From the outside, we were like any other pair of boys—tangled hair, scraped knees, and secret handshakes. But inside, we were already explorers, dreamers, historians.

And we were obsessed with ships.

Not just any ships—ocean liners. Majestic ones. The RMS Mauretania, the Normandie, the Queen Mary, the Olympic. But none held our imaginations like the Titanic.

It began with a book—a Brown & Bigelow edition of transatlantic liners. It was beautifully bound, heavy in the hands, the kind of book that felt like a treasure chest when opened. Doug’s older cousin had left it behind one summer, and from that day on, it became ours. We would sit cross-legged on the cool floor of Doug’s front porch, flipping through its glossy pages, our fingers trailing over black-and-white images of steel giants.

The Titanic, with her sleek profile and towering funnels, looked more like a floating palace than a ship. To our nine-year-old eyes, she seemed invincible.

But it was the photos of the disaster that arrested us—lifeboats adrift in an endless sea, the headlines screaming loss, the grainy portraits of passengers who had stepped aboard never to return. And then we found Walter Lord’s A Night to Remember. The words were dense and grown-up, but we understood the shape of the story. The hubris. The heroism. The heartbreak. We read it together, aloud sometimes, decoding the unfamiliar language with the unspoken loyalty of two boys bound by curiosity.

And then, one day, the movie came to town.

We’d seen the posters first—tall and dramatic in the glass case outside the Hudson Theatre. A Night to Remember, it read, in bold white letters over the image of a ship sailing into fate. We stared at it with the reverence usually reserved for sacred things.

It took two weeks to save up our allowances. Two weeks of raking lawns, running errands, and skipping bubble gum and comic books. And when we finally had enough, we clutched our coins like sacred offerings and walked together to the Empire.

I remember the theater was cool inside, dark and cavernous, and smelled of popcorn and dusty velvet. We found seats in the center row and settled in, just as the lights dimmed and the projector hummed to life.

There we sat—two boys, knees just barely clearing the seats in front of us—as the screen flickered to life.

And then it began.

The ship. The music. The elegance. The iceberg. The silence.

We didn’t talk during the movie, not once. Our eyes stayed fixed on the screen, our small hands gripping the armrests. When the ship began to tilt, I felt my stomach lurch with it. When the lights flickered out on the Titanic, the entire theater seemed to hold its breath.

By the time the credits rolled, we were changed.

We walked home in silence, the sunlight too bright, the world too ordinary. I remember looking up at the clouds and thinking of lifeboats adrift, of stars over a frozen ocean. We didn’t know then that the Titanic marked the end of something—the end of the Gilded Age, they say now. The end of blind belief in technology and power. We didn’t know that, but maybe… we felt it.

What we did know was this: we had shared something important. Not just a movie. Not just a story. But a moment that would anchor itself deep in memory.

Now, so many years later, that afternoon still lives in me. The darkened theater. The hush before the iceberg.

Doug’s shoulder just barely brushing mine. We were two boys—full of wonder, full of questions, beginning to understand that the world was vast, fragile, and never quite what it seemed.

I think of who we were, and who we became. And I am grateful for that day. For the ship that would not fade. For the friendship that still sails through the ocean of memory.
​
~Wylddane

San Francisco, June 28

The fog had lifted by late morning, revealing the sun-drenched, rainbow-draped streets of the Castro. Pride flags fluttered from every window, crosswalks blazed with color, and the neighborhood pulsed with music, laughter, and the unmistakable scent of freedom.

Jake, Sam, Billy, Dominic, Hal, and Mike tumbled out of their B&B on 17th Street—an old Victorian with creaky floors, floral wallpaper, and a kindly lesbian couple named Linda and Sharon who ran it with military precision and bottomless mimosas.

“We’ve only been in San Francisco twelve hours,” Billy said, adjusting his sunglasses, “and I’ve already cried twice, flirted with a drag queen named Drought-Tolerant Dahlia, and been offered glitter in a tube.”

Sam grinned. “Welcome to Pride.”

They started their crawl at The Lookout, perched above Market Street with its breezy balcony and panoramic people-watching. They sipped pineapple jalapeño margaritas while cheering on dancers in harnesses and body glitter below.

“This place is like a caffeinated gay bird sanctuary,” Hal observed, watching as a man in a Speedo and angel wings flitted past.

Next up: Beaux, where the music was louder, the lights more strobe-heavy, and the go-go boys defied gravity and basic physics. Mike, normally reserved, found himself pulled into a dance circle by a man in thigh-high boots and a mesh shirt.

“Oh god,” Mike laughed breathlessly, “I’ve peaked. This is it. Everything after this is downhill.”

Jake leaned in toward Sam. “Not downhill. Just... down Castro Street.”

By the time they made it to Badlands, things had gotten delightfully fuzzy. Billy and Dominic were deep in an earnest debate over whether Cher or Madonna had contributed more to queer culture. Someone handed them matching rainbow fans. Hal disappeared briefly and returned with a temporary tattoo that read “Yas Queen” across his forearm.

As the sun began to slip toward the horizon, they wandered down to The Mix on 18th Street—a low-key, unpretentious neighborhood bar nestled between a taqueria and a vintage bookstore.

Inside, it was dark and cozy, the kind of place where the jukebox still mattered and nobody judged your drink order. The boys grabbed beers and took turns playing pool while Stevie Nicks crooned through the speakers. Out back, the patio was strung with fairy lights and the smell of grilled burgers wafted through the warm evening air.

Jake nursed a beer while leaning against Sam, their knees touching under the picnic table. “Tomorrow’s the big day,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Sam said, eyes soft. “But this—today—this is kind of perfect.”

Nearby, Billy was trying to explain Wisconsin-style Old Fashioneds to a bartender who clearly did not believe in muddled fruit. Hal had befriended a pug named Harvey Milkshake. Mike and Dominic were laughing over photos from the day, all arms-around-shoulders and flushed with joy.

A cheer rose from inside as someone sank the eight ball. Music throbbed faintly beneath the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses.

Jake looked around the table at his friends—his chosen family. They were sweaty and slightly sunburned, a little buzzed, and totally alive.

“We should do this every year,” Dominic said, to no one in particular.

“We will,” Jake replied. “Even if we’re old and grumpy and wearing orthopedic rainbow sandals.”

Sam laughed. “Speak for yourself. I’m going to age like RuPaul.”

Another round arrived. Someone made a toast—nonsensical and heartfelt. They clinked glasses again, the way they had in Milwaukee just weeks before.

But this night was different. This was Pride in its wildest, freest, most joyful form.

Tomorrow they would march in the parade. They would wave flags and shout until their voices cracked. They would remember the history, honor the fight, and celebrate the beauty of love in all its forms.

But tonight?

Tonight they were simply together.
​
And that was everything.

~Wylddane

It was the kind of morning that didn’t ask for anything. No demands, no expectations—just stillness. The fog clung to the windowpanes like breath held too long, softening the shape of trees beyond the glass. The world had hushed itself, as if waiting for something unnamed to unfold.

Nathan sat at the table by the window, the weight of the mug warm in his palms. The scent of the coffee curled upward with the steam—familiar, grounding. Across from him sat the small framed photograph. It had been there for years, maybe since the move. The bench in the photo had always felt like a pause in time. It was just a bench, weathered and empty, resting beneath bare branches in a park no one talked about. But to Nathan, it was more than that. It was where something had begun. Or perhaps where something had ended.

He hadn’t thought of Carlo in a long while. Not deliberately. Some memories lie quiet until something small—fog on a window, the hollow ache of an early morning—calls them back. And once they arrive, they do not knock. They simply settle in, uninvited but not unwelcome.

The quiet between them that day had been filled with meaning. Carlo had always spoken best in silences.

They’d sat side by side on that bench, their shoulders nearly touching, breath misting the cold air. There were no confessions, no promises. Just the shared understanding that they had found something, if only for a moment. The kind of moment that becomes a touchstone in the years to come, one you return to again and again when you need to remember who you were when you still believed in things like serendipity.

Nathan set down his coffee. Something in his chest ached—not with sadness exactly, but with the gentle weight of what was left unsaid. He opened the drawer and pulled out a single sheet of thick paper. The pen, an old one Carlo had once admired, fit easily in his hand.

He began to write—not to change the past, not to reclaim it, but to honor it. To let the words exist, even if only here, folded between the quiet and the light.

Dear Carlo,

I almost never write words I don’t send… but this morning, with the hush of the world outside and the warmth of the mug in my hands, it felt like you were near again.

It’s the photo that started it. The bench. The fog. I don’t even remember who took it, or when, but when I look at it I see us—silent, close, real.

What should have passed like any other evening stayed inside me like a held breath. We didn’t say much. But I remember the warmth of your hand in mine. I remember the way your silence felt like understanding.

And maybe that was enough.

Some moments are too quiet to survive in memory. But that one stayed. You stayed. And though time moved on, and life moved forward, some mornings—like this one—I pause, and I remember.

I don’t need to know where you are now, or what your life has become. I only need to thank you for that day, for your stillness beside me, and for the way you made the world stop just long enough for me to believe in it again.

And maybe… maybe I love you. Or always did. In that soft, unspoken way that doesn’t change even when everything else does.

—Nathan

He set the pen down gently, as though any sudden motion might break the fragile stillness around him. The words sat on the page like a breath finally released. He read them once, then again, not to revise or correct, but simply to feel them settle. Then, with slow care, he folded the letter in thirds—just as he used to with letters he did send—and slipped it into a plain envelope. No name, no address. Just the hush of intention.

For a long moment, he held it there in his hands, fingertips resting on the crease, eyes closed. A single tear slid down his cheek—unbidden, unashamed. He placed the envelope into the drawer beside the photograph and closed it with quiet reverence.

Some things aren’t meant to be sent.
​
Some are meant to be kept.

“Some letters are written to be read only by the soul.”  ~Unknown

~Wylddane

Nathan never meant to find the park. It revealed itself one night when the noise of the city had become too much—the honks, the sirens, the drunken laughter trailing from rooftop bars. He’d turned down an unfamiliar street and there it was: a wrought-iron gate cracked open just enough, as if waiting for him. A sliver of green amid the steel and concrete.

He stepped inside.

It wasn’t the kind of park anyone talked about. There were no signs, no playgrounds, no joggers with earbuds. The lamps glowed with a golden softness, casting halos that didn’t reach the ground. Vines crawled along old stone walls. The air smelled of lilacs, even though it was November.

He found a bench—a fifth one, counting from the gate—and sat. A flicker of something stirred in his chest, though he couldn’t name it.

He didn’t go home right away.

That first night began a quiet ritual. Each evening, sometime after dinner but before the hour turned strange, he’d walk there. The city blurred behind him the moment he crossed the threshold. On the fifth bench, he’d sit, breathe, and listen to the world soften.

It was on the seventh visit that the man appeared.

He wasn’t there… and then he was. No sound of footsteps. No rustle of leaves. Just presence. A man, perhaps in his forties, though ageless in that way certain people are. He wore a long charcoal coat and held a ceramic mug in his gloved hands. Steam curled upward like a whispered secret.

“Cold night,” the man said.

Nathan nodded.

They didn’t speak again that evening. But the silence wasn’t awkward. It was companionable, somehow, like listening to a song you’ve never heard but already know by heart.

He was there again the next night.

And the one after.

They began to talk. Not about the usual things. Not jobs or politics or weather. But about dreams, and rivers, and how the city sometimes feels like it’s breathing around you. The man’s name, he said, was Carlo. He never offered a last name. Nathan never asked.

“You seem familiar,” Nathan said once, surprising even himself.

Carlo smiled, something wistful in the corners of his mouth. “I’ve been told that.”

On the fifteenth night, Carlo brought a second mug. Chamomile. Light honey. Nathan sipped, grateful for the warmth—and something more.

It was subtle, whatever passed between them. Not flirtation, exactly. But tenderness. The kind that needs no performance. That simply is.

Then one evening, Carlo didn’t appear.

Nathan waited.

The wind rattled the bare branches above. The bench felt colder than usual. He stayed past midnight, until the golden lamps blinked out one by one and he was left in silence.

The next night, he returned.

Still no Carlo.

And then, as he stood to leave, he heard it—his name. Spoken gently, almost like a breath. Nathan.

He turned.

No one.

Only a ripple in the air, like a memory moving through water.

He sat again. Closed his eyes. Tried to still his thoughts.

A vision surfaced—soft and sudden. A summer decades ago. Two young men in the sun, barefoot on warm grass. Laughter. A kiss shared beneath a rustling canopy of leaves. A fall. A hospital. A call unanswered. A name: Carlo.

How had he forgotten?

No. Not forgotten. Buried.

When he opened his eyes, the world shimmered.

And Carlo was there.

Not across the bench. But beside him. Close.

Real?

Nathan didn’t speak. He was afraid to.

Carlo reached out. His hand touched Nathan’s—warm, solid.

“You remembered,” Carlo said. “That’s all I needed.”

The city hummed beyond the park, unaware. Traffic lights blinked. Elevators climbed and fell. Somewhere, a dog barked at nothing.

But on the fifth bench in a forgotten park, two men sat beneath bare branches. Together, once more.
​
And the moment held.

~Wylddane

Albert had always worn his years well. His gait was slower now, his hair a silvery wave, but there was still a light in his eyes—an ember of curiosity, of wonder. Yet today, he felt tired. Bone-deep tired. He couldn’t remember when he had started walking, only that he had been walking for a very long time. The path beneath his feet was dappled with light and shadow, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. There was a dreamlike haze in the air, like sunlight seen through water, and he couldn’t quite tell if he was dreaming—or if he had crossed into something else entirely.

At last, he reached a gentle knoll. A bench sat beneath the welcoming arms of a mighty oak tree, its branches whispering secrets to the breeze. With a sigh of relief and quiet pleasure, Albert sat. The bench was weathered but solid. The shade cooled his skin, and the air smelled of warm earth and distant summer rain. Birds sang in a layered symphony, each note a thread in the afternoon’s soft tapestry.

Then he saw him.

A figure, approaching from a different path—one Albert hadn’t taken. As the young man drew nearer, Albert could see he was perhaps in his twenties. Casual clothes, sturdy walking boots, wavy dark brown hair that curled slightly at the temples. His eyes were bright, inquisitive. His posture spoke of strength, steadiness. A soldier, perhaps.

“Mind if I sit?” the young man asked.

Albert shifted, making room. “Not at all.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the kind that needs no words. Then came introductions.

“I’m Matt,” the young man said, extending his hand.

“Albert,” he replied, shaking it. Their hands lingered just a moment longer than expected. It felt like meeting someone he already knew.

They spoke of small things at first—birdsong, the way the light moved through the trees, the scent of honeysuckle nearby. Then of childhood memories, of favorite books and quiet mornings. When the sun began to lower itself behind the distant ridge, they parted with a smile, as though they would see each other again.

And they did.

Each new day, Albert found himself back on the path, climbing that gentle hill, returning to the bench beneath the oak. And each day, Matt would arrive. They would talk—sometimes about the past, sometimes about nothing at all. They laughed together. Confided in each other. Time stretched and folded in ways Albert had stopped trying to measure.

One day, Matt reached into his pocket and handed Albert a small object. A gold star, its center a single ruby.

“It’s a gift,” Matt said simply. “For your friendship.”

Albert took it reverently. The weight of it in his palm felt real. Solid. True.

Then came the jolt. The wrench.

Albert opened his eyes to blinding light and antiseptic air. Beeping machines. The scent of alcohol. A hospital room. Disoriented, he tried to sit up, his heart pounding in confusion and grief.

A nurse entered, followed by a doctor. Their expressions were kind. Concerned.

“You were in an accident,” the doctor explained. “A bad one. You’ve been in a coma for several days. But you’re awake now. You’re going to be okay.”

Albert listened, only half-hearing. He glanced at his hands—and there it was.

The gold star with the ruby center.

Days passed. He healed. He returned home—to his dog, his cat, to the life he had left suspended.

Everything felt both blessed and strange. But one thought stayed with him, as steady as a heartbeat: Matt.

The memory of his voice, his laughter, the calm wisdom in his gaze. It couldn’t have been real…could it?

And yet…

Albert began to search. For the knoll. For the tree. For the bench. Parks, trails, forests—he wandered for weeks. Nothing.

Until one day, while walking through a nearby park he rarely visited, a fork in the path caught his eye.

Something about it stirred recognition in his bones. He followed it. Up a slow hill, past wildflowers and sumac.

And there it was.

The bench. The oak tree. The hush of wind in the leaves. The feeling of home.

He sat, overwhelmed by a rush of joy and longing. He half expected Matt to appear. He did not.

Albert turned his gaze toward the direction Matt had always come from. A narrow trail led away through the trees. Compelled by something he could not explain, Albert stood and followed it. Down a slope, over a trickling stream, through a small thicket. Eventually, the path opened.

To a cemetery.

His breath caught. He hesitated. But something within him urged him on. Past aged stones and quiet names, until he reached one that stilled his soul.

Matthew James Rourke
Beloved Son, Friend, and Dreamer
Born: 1948 – Died: 1973

Twenty-five. Gone fifty years.

Albert sank to his knees before the stone. He did not cry. He simply sat in stillness, a quiet knowing wrapping around him like a shawl. The wind stirred the leaves above, and he felt, not sorrow, but peace.

Welcome back, old friend, the wind seemed to say.

The next day, Albert returned, white lilies in hand. He placed them gently at the base of the headstone, then stood for a long while, holding the little gold star tightly in his palm.

Matt had been real.

Real in the way the soul remembers. Real in the ways that matter most.

Albert never stopped visiting the knoll. The bench became his sanctuary. Sometimes, he would bring a book and read aloud. Sometimes, he would sit in silence, smiling at memories that danced like sunbeams through oak leaves.

And sometimes, just sometimes, when the breeze blew just right and the shadows played across the ground, he could swear he heard laughter—low and warm—and felt the presence of a friend beside him.
​
Not gone. Just ahead.

~Wylddane

Every one of us carries a mosaic of memories stitched together by the hands of our mothers. These are the stories we return to—the ones told around kitchen tables, in quiet moments of remembering, or through laughter that surprises us when we least expect it. Our mothers were gardeners of both soil and soul, bakers of bread and joy, keepers of tradition, and often the unexpected source of humor that caught us off guard and made life sparkle.

In honor of Mother’s Day, we (family and friends) have gathered together these short reflections to share—simple remembrances, rich with warmth, whimsy, and grace. In each one lives a different mother, yet somehow, in reading them, we recognize our own. This is a celebration of their spirit—how they lived, how they loved, and how, through our memories, they continue to guide and nourish us still.


1. A Christmas That Began in Her Heart
Christmastime belonged to Mom—it lived in her spirit, her voice, her sparkle. The moment Thanksgiving dishes were cleared, the carols began, echoing through the house as she transformed each room into a sanctuary of light and faith. She believed Christmas was sacred, and each twinkling ornament, every batch of cookies, was part of a larger celebration of love and devotion. "Xmas" was not welcome—how could anyone leave Christ out of His own day? To her, it wasn’t just a holiday—it was holy, and she made sure we all felt it.  ~Kitty

2. Garden Hat and Suppertime Greens
There she was—apron on, old gardening hat perched just so, walking the well-worn path to the garden. That hat was a permanent fixture, never replaced, its brim softened by years of sunlight and soil. She’d return with beans, radishes, and lettuce in her arms, gathered with quiet joy. Dinner tasted of earth and effort, always seasoned with a kind of humble pride. We remember her most clearly in that hat—alive in the ritual of growing and giving.  ~Peggy

3. Bread, Donuts, and Hay Bales
There wasn’t a single idle hour in her day. From garden rows to canning jars, from barn chores to tractor rides during hay baling, Mom was a whirlwind of capable, loving motion. Saturdays were sacred in their own right: the yeasty aroma of fresh bread filled the house, followed by the sweet, golden scent of donuts frying. She fed the family, the soul, and the land with equal passion—and she made it all seem like just another part of love.  ~Mary Ann

4. Thrashing Day Feasts and Family Glue
Mom’s cooking was the heartbeat of the home. Whether it was a pie cooling on the windowsill or a roast sizzling in the oven, her meals fed more than bellies—they anchored our lives. During thrashing season, she cooked for crowds with grace, turning homegrown meats and pantry staples into feasts of fellowship. Those days were full, and somehow simpler, rich with laughter and gratitude. Women like her—and our grandmothers—were the threads that wove families together.  ~Betty

5. Falling Rock and Roadtrip Legends
Every road sign became part of her traveling tale. “Falling Rock Ahead” wasn’t a warning—it was the name of a brave young warrior in her unfolding roadside epic. She stitched stories out of asphalt and syllables, and we rode along wide-eyed and giggling. She had the gift of weaving magic from the mundane—and yes, she was a master bullshitter, but in the most loving, hilarious way.  ~Rick

6. The Pool, Tonga, and a Moment of Joy
It was an ordinary summer day at the Mountain House home—until it wasn’t. Without a word, Mom left the kitchen table mid-lunch and moments later we heard the unmistakable splash of a body meeting water. She had cannonballed into the saltwater pool, hair still pinned, in her swimming suit, laughter in her wake. That pool, with its gentle waterfall, transported her to memories of Tonga, and in one spontaneous leap, she brought joy alive for all of us.  ~Dave

7. Augusta, the Wind, and Laughter
Mom didn’t like her middle name—Augusta—and we’d tease her with it just to hear her playful groan and see her roll her eyes. It always ended in laughter. But nothing compares to the wind story. On a stormy evening, as the family sat watching TV, she stepped outside mid-dishes and let nature—and herself—rip. When she came back in, she announced matter-of-factly, “The wind seems to be picking up.” Her timing, her dry wit, and our shocked silence turned to explosive laughter. It’s a moment seared in memory, hilarious, human, and so beautifully her.  ~Wylddane


And so, with these stories woven together like a well-loved quilt, we honor the mothers who shaped our lives—not only with their hands, but with their hearts. They taught us how to laugh, how to care, how to carry on, and how to cherish the smallest things—a warm loaf of bread, a garden hat, a spontaneous splash in the pool, a well-timed joke on a windy night.

To all the mothers—whether with us in presence or in memory—this is for you.

You are remembered. You are celebrated. You are loved.
​
Dedicated with gratitude to all mothers—ours, yours, and the great tapestry of women whose love endures across generations.

~Wylddane



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