MYSTERIOSO.

We used to hold a storytelling party every year in autumn. Each guest was required to bring three things; a bottle of red wine, a candle, and a story. Zoe and I provided the food, usually a large pot of something warm, filling, and comforting – we lit the candles and opened the wine, and began telling the stories, which could be about anything, as long as they were true.They didn’t have to actually happen, mind you, they just had to, in the space of the event, be told in such a fashion that the story was about the person telling it. We had a wonderful mix of tales from around the world, from explanations of true-life experiences to a very special person exploring a loophole in the proceedings and dressing as Dr. Suess’s Lorax.We did this for about 13 years, on and off, each time with different people and in different places (and parts of the country). Each event was at least five hours long, and it took us about three years to realize that if everyone brought a bottle of wine and there was no wine left at the end then each of us had drunk about an entire bottle of wine. Ah, but we were young and the wine was well intentioned but clearly in the realm of “getting what we paid for” (which was very little)…it was a grand party, even when there were only three or four of us. At one point I think we had seventeen.In any case, I had to tell a story every year. The poem below was my favorite - I composed an orchestral score and recorded it a few years ago. Our event was never exclusively Halloween based, although the candles did influence an all around cozy mood… I think this is a cozy piece, a memory I thought would be nice to have, of events imagined but emotions real.If you’ve known me for a while you may have heard it before (one of you read it aloud at one of my shows!). In the best of all worlds we would all be together and at the end of the page it would be Your Turn. Alas, time and space: please settle in, adjust your lights and enjoy a glass of something. every star that ever was was in the sky that night and the river was a ribbon glowing blue and brightand somewhere between here and now lay tiny Harrison Bayset half between roads that have been and newly planned highwayevery headlight was a diamond every car a starpeople didn’t mind the traffic; they weren’t driving farthe time had come for the yearly fair; the men had brought the ridesbut all my little town cared only for one barker’s cry:“Step right up, folks, see for yourself a man who has no fear!”Mr. Mysterioso had come back again this year to entertain the old and young with bravery to spareit was the only reason most of us went to the fair.each year brought greater danger in the challenges he madewe wondered how and why he did it, how much he got paidwe never quite believedthe feats of derring do we’d seen(excitedly we’d speak of it, sometimes ‘til Halloween.)he chewed on glass when I was nine he swallowed fire at teneleven he ate razor blades, surrounded by four menwhen I was twelve, he cut a gal in half while we all gapedbut on this year I was thirteen. the year that he escaped.Mr. Mysterioso got inside a wooden box blindfolded,gagged,and bound in chains with heavy metal locks.the box was nailed shut from all sides, but to add to his plightaround the base were several sticks of top grade dynamite.I won’t aim to create suspense, (I’m not so good at that)this isn’t Edgar Allen Poe or “Casey at the Bat” the box blew up.to smithereens and back, orange as the dawn. and when the smoke drifts cleared,box, chains, and man were simply gone.we clapped and yelled hurrayuntil our hands and throats were sorewe stomped and whooped and whistled loud. we couldn’t ask for more.but when the barker came out frowning, looking left and rightour noises stopped quite suddenly, as glee transformed to fright.it seemed that the entire town went searching for a clue.they looked inside the wreckage for a grisly residue.when nothing of the man was there, the fair just kind of stopped.we’d seen a man blow up himself, that wasn’t easily topped.i walked home with my sister cause we didn’t live that farand dad and mom were taking other folks back in the carit was as if our lives had changed somehow, there wasn’t much to sayand past the crickets we could hear the night train on it’s way“so what’d ya think?”i asked her as we crossed the Prichart’s field “heck, I don’t know…that was a little strange. he disappeared! I mean –he should come back and bow to show that he’s alright.”then something passed in front of us, fast, out across the night.so instantly we chased it by the moonlight’s chalk white glow filled with a lack of common fear that children only knowthe moon revealed a jet black cape that seemed to limp in painon a course to intersect that of the coming train.and when train and stranger met, there was no hesitationcape, limp and all jumped right aboard as if by levitation.then he was on the freight car roof, moon shining through his hair. looked right at us.gave a bowand yelled out “Y’all take care!”we clapped and waved until we barely heard the whistle call.we danced the entire way back home, and barely slept at all.the next year when the fair returned to town it was bizarreto see the rides and games and such, but not our favorite starthe rumor was he ditched the show to marry a brunette (who wasn’t too spectacular, but good as he could get)they moved to Coney Island and set up a little life.he blew himself to kingdom come to get himself a wife.and though, my dear, this tale i tellis absolutely true, you may well wonder why it is i’m telling it to you.love is a strange and silent thing, a soft and heavy load.sometimes it makes us run away. sometimes we can explode.but every moonlit night’s a paradise when love’s in bloomand every night is moonlit when you walk into the room.my only memory deareris when I first held you tightfor every star that ever was was in the sky that night.Harrison Bay - Jd Michaels - 2001https://litraedio.com/000-2/ Get full access to :lowerblackpain at lowerblackpain.substack.com/subscribe