Break On Through to the Other Side

“You know the day destroys the night

Night divides the day

Try to run

Try to hide

Break on through to the other side.”

With a voice as savage and untamed as his vision Jim Morrison calls us to action in “Break on Through.” But this is no gentle supplication. Using raw energy palpable in every syllable he summons that hidden part of us to emerge from light and find shadow, entreating us to throw off our ideas of what is proper and moral while crashing through glass to another place.

The Doors Break On Through

I have heard this song my entire life, but it wasn’t another hollow-eyed night that I tried to find some meaning in their words. During the sleepless hours I tossed and turned, clutching at lonely sheets wondering how to break through in a relationship pierced with gashes weeping the piquant odor of wounds.

In my personal life I am fearless. I have no problem traveling the world and leaping into the abyss of new experience. I’ve scuba dove through coral caves and kelp forests, hiked over lava flows with steam rising all around, backpacked over unmarked mountains, and flown over remote glaciers where bear roamed below.

My interpersonal life has been more cautious. Ever since the discovery of my ex-husband’s multi-year affair and subsequent divorce, I have lived in fear. So afraid of the hurt I might incur or the inevitable lies all relationships seem to have that I could not break through.

I want that to change.

So I listen to Jim.

Laurie Woodward is the author of The Pharaoh’s Cry, Kidnapped Smile, and Dragon Sky from the fantasy series The Artania Chronicles, as well as the middle-grade Forest Secrets. She co-wrote Dean and JoJo: The Dolphin Legacy and was a collaborator on the popular anti-bullying DVD Resolutions. Bullied as a child, Laurie is now an award-winning peace consultant, poet, and blogger who helps teach children how to avoid arguments, stop bullying, and maintain healthy friendships. She writes on the Central Coast of California. More about her work can be found at artania.net

Mirror Mask: A Poem

In the mirror

Rubber wounds

Of torn flesh

And distorted features

Form a mask

I don.

Its warped reflection

Trapping me

Inside the hot

Fetid

Breath

Of suffocating plastic.

(photo by David Stroup)

Turquoise Lungs: A Poem

Susurration of waves

Lapping against shore

Turquoise lungs

Breathing

While a reverent hush

Blows in.

(Photo by David Stroup)

Empty Room: A Poem

Shadows darken the

Empty room

Where

Echoing memories

Of quickening hearts

And breath

Stab at my ears.

Etched Seconds: A Poem

111 days

2,664 hours

159,840 minutes

9,590,400 seconds

Ticking a journey of love-lust.

Shy hello.

Turning quickly into comfort.

Drunk on animal magnetism.

Reveling in skin.

Sharing ideas

In a river of philosophy.

Explore sea

And sand

And sound.

Be at peace.

Backpedal, apologize, reach out.

Until comforting arms

Enclose and envelop.

Or release.

Tic tock lie

Pretend to be someone else.

Don her mask

To smooth the sheets

And keep them cool.

Knowing that each moment lacking truth

Wears at the turning gears.

Until they stop

Leaving only the memory

Of a beautiful face

And 9,590,400 seconds

Etched in the glass.

A Beginning: Portal Rift (Chapter 1 of Artania IV)

Bartholomew Borax III staggered back, bouncing off something hard. He thrust out his hands, but still tumbled over, landing on all fours. Gasping for breath, he dug his fingers into the ground and clung to the grassy soil.

Please stay this time, he prayed.

Arching his back, he gulped in a lungful of fresh air, choking on the ash in his throat. His body spasmed and he sputtered, coughing up dark phlegm. He spat twice.

Dew soaked through his silk pajamas to his knees. The boy leaned back on his haunches and tried to calm his breathing. He closed his eyes and began a silent count. One… Ten…Thirty-one…Thirty-three. Once he could take a breath without spluttering, he opened them.

The shining moon broke through the clouds illuminating the Spanish style building beyond. The school was still standing?

But he had just watched it melt away.

A breeze blew back his blonde hair. He stood, bare feet slipping on the wet grass.

Bartholomew leaned against the flagpole and brushed his cheek against metal. Cool as the dark sky above. No hint of that fiery furnace now.

That he was back in the real world.

The fourteen-year-old had traveled into the mystical Artania three times before, and while each journey was unique, he’d never experienced anything quite like this. Every other crossing had been with Alex by his side knowing full well that something magical was about to happen; he was about to breach an enchanted doorway.

Not this time.

This time he’d plodded into Mother’s office to dutifully say goodnight and submit to inspection. After taking his third bath and patting his head to tame the cowlick that refused to stay down, Bartholomew had applied hand sanitizer, deodorant, and cologne. Since Hygenette Borax’s sense of smell was stronger than a Mudlark elephant, he doubled each application before descending the winding staircase to make his way down the long hall toward her office.

As his footsteps echoed down the lonely hallway, he considered asking to return to school. Maybe the months of being extra clean were enough for her to say yes. It had been almost two years since the incident. When he saw her from the doorway, he knew it wouldn’t do any good.

The monitor light shone on her pale skin as she mumbled something about cleansers. As she stared at her laptop on the Plexiglas desk, he felt a pang of pity. Those diamond blue eyes used to cut him to the core, but not anymore. Now, Bartholomew understood her cool glances were simply a mask protecting her from the world. A world where a husband can drown in inches of water and leave you to raise a child on your own.

“I’m ready to rest Mother,” the fourteen-year-old said.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the computer screen. Mother must have been preoccupied because, for once, she didn’t beckon him closer to look for dirt under his nails or specks of dust on his monogrammed robe.

He stepped up behind her. “Mother?”

“What?” she demanded, closing the laptop. She set a hand over it protectively.

That was strange. She usually reveled in sharing articles about how germs live everywhere or a new cleanser. What was she looking at?

“I-I uhh have bathed.”

“Hmm,” she sniffed raising her nose in the air. “Hand sanitizer?”

He held up his hands for inspection.

“Fine. Good night.” She waved him away with a flick of her wrist but waited until he was back at the doorway before returning to whatever was on the computer screen.

Back inside his room, Bartholomew pondered her strange behavior. Hygenette Borax was many things; controlling, fearful, and of course, obsessed with cleanliness. One thing she had never been though, was secretive. All his life Bartholomew had heard her tell stories of the horrors that waited just outside. How if he weren’t careful, he could end up just like his father, drowning in mud.

For many years he’d believed her, but over time came to realize that it was all lies. Lies she told herself to explain Father’s death.

He shook his head and had just hung up his robe when the humming began. Then there was a flash.

And that crazy night began.