Chapter for you, brodie.

"I finally see it in the day light." Helga pulled her pink sweatshirt over her head and looked around the room. "Your little bachelor pad."

"How can you wear that? It's like a hundred degrees."

"It's cute. I don't care about the weather."

"Alright, alright." Arnold got a pencil from a cup on his desk. "What are we doing again?"

"You know what we're doing. You wanted to read my poems so I said yes but under one condition; for every poem I share, you have to write one yourself."

"What a deal."

"It requires flexing that creative muscle called your brain, mopboy."

"Now that's a name that will not stand."

"Prove it then."

"Give it a minute."

Helga took a blank notebook from her back pack. She put it on Arnold's bed. Arnold sat down and opened it. "You share your poem first then I write."

"Ya know normally I wouldn't agree to such conditions, but today... I'm feeling generous." She took out another notebook this one had a red cover with POEMS VOL 10 written in black ink on the front. She flipped to somewhere in the middle of the book. She sighed and then read.

There are miles

Miles I would go

Swim, run, crawl, climb too

To find you

But when I lived with a fire in my head

I spoke brimstone, I started fires and let 'em spread

And eventually you left me on my own

I became a shell, almost entirely alone

My fire died with time but I was still alone

I walked for miles not really searching

I could hear every kind word you gave me

All the things you said I could be

All the things you said softly

Then you found me

You had return with an honest fee

No more marks on my body

So there are miles

Miles I would go

Swim, run, crawl, climb too

To find you

She swallowed. "Not really my best but it means something to me."

"I liked it. It was about Phoebe wasn't it?"

"Yeah. Now it's your turn."

"Alright." Arnold put pencil to page. Helga watched as he wrote. She looked at his eyes. They were frighteningly green. She had never seen eyes that color. She looked at his hair. It was golden of course. They had similar hues to each other. He still had that football head though but she liked it. It was fodder for much of her early works. He was wearing a red and black flannel and jeans. He had no hat today but he still wore that blue thing sometimes. If she had to change one thing about him it would be his love for that blue hat. It was just a terribly tiny thing. Though she loved it when she was younger that changed. It looked weird on him now. He dropped the pencil. "I'm done."

"Read it." He began.

I can't think

I'm pedaling

It's either now or never

I'm coming or going

I can't believe how cold I am

I remember the warmth of our bodies

I remember breathing your air

I remember your hand behind my head

I remember your lips

I see the face of my parents

They don't deserve this

But you do

And I realize I won't be there

In your perfect home

The second story one with plants in the window

That you water like clock work

I think that's where you'll be

You didn't second guess your goals

And I did

He stopped. He felt sad. "Good, Arnold." She snapped a few times. "That's the real stuff."

"This is taking a lot out of me."

"How about... two more poems and then we're done?"

"I can do that I guess." He turned over the page. "Your turn."

Helga flipped through to the next poem she picked. She started.

The moon rises over the lake

Scarlet lake

It doesn't look red at all in the moon light

I'm here

Looking at the water meet the lakeside

And I can't get you out of my head

It's not the first night like this

And it won't be last

So what? You're gone and I'm alone

It could be worse

I could bury myself in forms, in beepers or cellphones

I could be passed out on the living room couch

But I'm reminded I'm me

And who is that? A hormonal teen with a mouth like a machine gun

A little girl crying for somebody

Because I'm not happy to sit alone on a beautiful night

With these thoughts of you

She stopped. There were a few lines she skipped at the end but he wouldn't know. He looked at her. "Who is that about?"

"An ex."

"What's his name?"

"Darryl."

"Darryl who?"

"Jeez, Football head why are you so curious?"

"I just thought I might know him."

"Darryl Williams."

"Nah, I don't know anybody with that name."

"Yeah, he goes to a different school, so uh... doi."

"You still say that?"

"Sometimes." She looked serious. "Get writing."

"Okay." He put his head down and started.

She looked around his room. He had a few books on a shelf built into the wall. She looked through the names. Dune, Othello, It, Louis Armstrong: An Extravagant Life, Capone: The Man and the Era, Mr. Capone. "You're really into Al Capone."

"Yeah, I mean it's interesting to read about the era and his life."

She read the next book spine. Player's Handbook. She stopped at that. No way. She pulled out the black book. Arnold glanced up and saw what she was holding. She looked at the cover. Player's Handbook. Advanced Dungeons & Dragons. In the black was art of what looked like a barbarian flexing through a grand wooden door. He was raising both his arms, hefting a giant axe in one hand and raising the other. There were two people behind him. One looked like a mage of some sort, and the other was wielding a bow. She smiled. "Oh my god, you're a nerd."

"Jeez." He put his hand over his face. "I should have hid it."

"No, no it's cute. I just never expected it from you. Well, actually. It's either cute or you're some sort of satan worshiper who uses this game to channel dark energy."

"Ha ha." She gave him the book and he looked at the cover. "It's a fun game. I used to play it every weekend with Eugene and a few of his friends. You have seen Eugene's rolls. I knew he was a jinx but Christ. Maybe we should play it."

"Yeah, I don't know Arnold. I don't think I'd be good at playing a character. I'm not much of an actor."

"Let me write my poem."

"Got it, got it." She went quiet. He put the book up on the shelf. And he returned to the page. She looked at him again. She thought he was cute when she was a kid but now he was handsome even with the football shaped head. She waited.

"Alright. I'm done."

"Read it, Arnoldo."

He cleared his throat and began.

Dark spots on red

I see them

It's growing sickly

The thing gets picked up and put on the cart

Numbers and lines

They make up the dates

I'm attentive

Careful

I see a deviation

I pick up the product and put it in the cart

She does the same

I take our cart

I wheel it through the aisles towards the back

We collect the things we need and bring them to replace what is lost

Though those things are forever lost

Either too sick to live or simply past due

They are replaced

And the work is done

"A produce poem. Very cold. Almost clinical in its description. I liked the first one better but it works."

"Now you. Hit me with one of those elemental poems you were talking up."

"I got you." She searched through the notebook. She found one.

In the rock is the story of earth

You can read it if you pay attention

The story is millions of years in the making

I hear the earth

The squish of the mud

It speaks

It says strange things to me

I scold it for being so strange

So elusive that it takes my feet from under me

The one who speaks most loud

Is fire

Fire knows no history

It erases

It destroys swaths of existence

With raging voice

Fire is not a good listener

Water washes ashore, and whispers

Whispers to me

Water washes me clean and mud becomes so thin as to not exist

The salt cleans my wounds

All these things know me and I know them

We never really leave each other no matter how far I am from them

We know we have a place in each other

A spot that can't be given away

I long for water, earth, and fire

And they long for me

"Well that certainly was elemental. I liked the part about water."

"Thanks. Now it's time. Your last poem."

"Jeez, what do I even write?"

"You'll think of something."

Arnold flipped a page and started to write. Helga picked up the Player's Handbook and flipped to a random page. She read for a while. Eventually Arnold put down his pencil. He looked at her she returned his look. He began without any prompt.

The swordsman lies

In a field of poppies

He lifts a flower to his eyes to see it

The brilliant red

He's seen a similar hue leave men

And flow onto grass

He's seen body's face down in the mud

Union with earth

He's buried children who held weapons

He's buried friends

He's buried things he couldn't keep with him any more

He's buried himself

Now he's looking over the grave they made him

In a field of poppies

"He was dead the whole time, huh. It works in a poem."

"You liked it?"

"Yeah it's alright. You got into it. You wouldn't believe though the poems that Phoebe wrote when I did this with her."

"You've done this before?"

"I didn't let her read my poems so I made the same deal we're doing now."

"Interesting. What were her poems about?"

"Well, one was about Gerald of course, one was about me, and one was about her parents. I'll admit they weren't very good but she tried and that's all that matters. You did better."

"Thanks."

"Alright, any idea what we can do now?"

"We could go to Slausen's."

"Man, I'm sick of the ice cream there. Though I have something I really want right now."

"What's that?"

"Pizza."

"Oh shit that sounds good."

"I know, huh?"

"Then let's pick up a pie. I know a place nearby. It's in walking distance."

"Alright." Helga put away her notebook. Arnold closed his. And they left.