It was morning, but outstretched the black hole arms of the gargoyle cast midnight over the plaza. Bricks, nestled in their herringbones and staggered patterns worn and cracked beneath centuries, squeezed sprouts of drab green through their seams. The dark angel had stood in the square since before time had turned to a new millennia. She was weathered, but her arms and broad wings were unwavering and her downward stare only dull to her sharp vampiric teeth. Legend had it that she was once fair and the ill gaze and the bladed mouth had evolved with dark days. She once was proud white stone, but had turned black and covered with lichens and mould. At her feet, a small pool of water collected in a depression of the plinth. At the edge of the rippling mirror a toad sat, grey and bumpy, forlorn and silent. The entire square was grey and lifeless; all joy spirited away, sapped and swallowed, murdered by the black monolith and her menacing boughs.
A ball then came bouncing in from a narrow passage, behind which a small light glowed, like moonlight sifting through the billowing silken curtains of a bedroom window. It tap, tap tapped punctuating the dismal common with an innocent percussion. The ball playfully dashed, randomly rolling around the irregular paving of the open square, almost with a will of its own. Finally, it came to rest at the base of the statue, the ground being pitched towards the center of the square and a central drain at the fell guardian’s feet. The ball, striped in all the colors of the rainbow, sent a smeared palette of the spectrum drifting across the silver pool to the toad. A little girl then skipped into view from the faint light of the alley. The vibrancy of the ball, once a bit diminished in the lee of the frozen gaze of the dark angel, regained its luster as the girl approached. Her red hair bounced much as the ball had when it entered the square, playful and without direction, almost a separate entity from herself. She knelt down to pluck the ball from the shadow, but paused as she noticed the toad. He returned a look and his throat ballooned as he breathed. She giggled and sat down with the ball under her feet as a wobbly ottoman. Her green dress was adorned with beige ribbons, and her hair with similar ribbons, though it was visibly complaining and rebelling under the unfair restraint. One lock of ruby hair played on her forehead, sticking to her dewy skin. In front of each ear were delicate curls; wispy and light like that on the head of a baby. She draped a hand into the pool and poured a few sprinkles of water over the toad, which seemed unperturbed. Light seemed to be growing in the square as the sun rose, but the sun never penetrated the square for the buildings, nor its sullen occupant. But today, warmth returned. The toad began to feel it. His blood pulsed, and his energy grew. He hopped toward her. She giggled. A sponge of moss emerged from under his feet, padding the cold bricks with green living carpet. Tiny plants, previously struggling between cobbles, suddenly burst into bloom. No longer were they in shade, cold and weak as the sun peered over the rooftops. The girl still sat, thoughtfully looking into the light as it greeted her countenance as a loving mother would an only daughter. An understanding took place, not unnoticed by the toad, but not understood, only witnessed. One of her feet fell off the ball; she paid it no mind and remained, beaming from ear to ear in the sweet sunshine. The sunlight had with it a sort of music, like trumpets laced with strings; very mute, subtle, but there without doubt. Her hair became jeweled with silver and she became older before his eyes. The plaza became warmer still until sparrows darted across the space above drawing his gaze upward; he could see flowers blooming in balcony planter boxes, and lushness spread throughout life within the walls of the square. One lone chickadee flitted to the statue from an overlooking rooftop and found perch upon one of the massive stone wings. The black shell cracked and fell away beneath the grasp of the frail claws to reveal pearlescent white. The toad for once felt hopeful. Life had returned to the cold earth. Winter was over. The last of the icy showers of spring were done. Warmth, life, the goodness and plenty of the square had returned, but she was gone, vanished while he watched the reemergence. Soon, people were walking about. Café’s opened shutters, vendors pushed carts about. Nobody spoke, accept for the polite, quiet greeting or the clearing of throats could be heard. The ball left behind by the girl, moved. No one had touched it, nor breeze molested it. It moved again, rocking begrudgingly to the side, then back to its resting place. Then again, this time, however, it found rest in a neighboring crack and did not return to its original spot. Behind it, now revealed, was another toad. It was a silver toad, with hints of red down its back and perhaps a little green. It hopped over to the side of the pool and the two toads gazed at one another. A small chirp emerged from the new little toad. The grey toad didn’t respond; he looked on curiously. The little toad chirped again and hopped closer still. Nothing. The little toad sat patiently, its eyes hopeful, urging. The sun reached the highest spire of the church on the square, shining with all its might heavenly golden beams onto the dewy promenade. Raining ribbons of summer onto the grey toad, the arc-light revealed him not to be grey at all, but with multicolored spots and stripes. Then suddenly, the grey toad responded a resounding chorus. Surprising, since before he’d never made a sound.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Friday, January 09, 2009
bones of our progeny
The dewy predawn limbs rattled and complained, scratching at the cheerless sky
Anxious were the titles they made under orange glow of eminent sunrise
Nervously scribbled on the backs of children, carved with crude knives
Ownership laid claim over the living property in the hardening morning light, the branding
Lips would crack, and skin would wither in shadows of wings circling overhead
Ripe apprehensions driven mad with calculating fingers; send them out
The smallest relinquished at last to the damned and thrust out into the desert
The young ones, urged with half-truths, went willingly like kittens to milk
Afeared of light, the protectorate ebbed into dim deeps, awaiting result of the fell experiment
Given over to fate and element the little ones huddled in groups or scattered alone
No guidance and shouldering foreign burdens they wept and cowered, begging
Yet, they were left to drown in the dust of evermore, bait for the proverbial, the literal
No word, dark came, nothing could be seen or heard from barometer of children
Years on, bones pricked up through broken beds in grossly increasing number
No memory, nothing bettered, nothing new, the protectors, the leaders, the all knowing
Replacements were birthed into boxes, raised like lambs until the day of their use
No one spoke to the young, and they never spoke, they simply ate, slept, shit and cried
They yearned for attention, prying at the bars of their cages, bleeding with the effort
Then, one by one they were harvested from their kennels and delivered onto the anvil
The protectors awaited change, but nothing changed; what changes without doing?
New quarry for old failure, yearlings innocent of the crimes of their forebears
Perpetuated on the crust of the dead, their kin, their siblings, their sisters and brothers
Lessons never passed on, nothing learned yet from the grand hypothesis
Thrust out are the babes empty eyed; there is no hope for the progeny of best intentions
Anxious were the titles they made under orange glow of eminent sunrise
Nervously scribbled on the backs of children, carved with crude knives
Ownership laid claim over the living property in the hardening morning light, the branding
Lips would crack, and skin would wither in shadows of wings circling overhead
Ripe apprehensions driven mad with calculating fingers; send them out
The smallest relinquished at last to the damned and thrust out into the desert
The young ones, urged with half-truths, went willingly like kittens to milk
Afeared of light, the protectorate ebbed into dim deeps, awaiting result of the fell experiment
Given over to fate and element the little ones huddled in groups or scattered alone
No guidance and shouldering foreign burdens they wept and cowered, begging
Yet, they were left to drown in the dust of evermore, bait for the proverbial, the literal
No word, dark came, nothing could be seen or heard from barometer of children
Years on, bones pricked up through broken beds in grossly increasing number
No memory, nothing bettered, nothing new, the protectors, the leaders, the all knowing
Replacements were birthed into boxes, raised like lambs until the day of their use
No one spoke to the young, and they never spoke, they simply ate, slept, shit and cried
They yearned for attention, prying at the bars of their cages, bleeding with the effort
Then, one by one they were harvested from their kennels and delivered onto the anvil
The protectors awaited change, but nothing changed; what changes without doing?
New quarry for old failure, yearlings innocent of the crimes of their forebears
Perpetuated on the crust of the dead, their kin, their siblings, their sisters and brothers
Lessons never passed on, nothing learned yet from the grand hypothesis
Thrust out are the babes empty eyed; there is no hope for the progeny of best intentions
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
water balloons
“Water is a-flowin!” shouts a man hanging from a rope to the pilot above. The wind rushes through his beard splitting it in two, like devilish horns curving defiantly away from one another as he races through the sky. “Water is a-flowin!” he rounds again nearly laughing this time whilst dashing his hand across a large sheet of saturated fabric, swollen with water, as he swings down a short length of it; splashing in jubilant celebration. His shirt billows as he sings among the enrapturing clouds. He anchors himself firmly with time earned skill; one hand grips like iron on the rope and one foot pushes hard in a stirrup beneath him while the other two free limbs flourish with the merriment of his song. The sharp wind digs tears from his eyes and dries them on his face as he swings, suspended in the lee of the large sheet. It is called a water net, and it is porous like cheesecloth and stretches over a mile and a half in length and more than 800 feet high. He is one of many suspended on ropes monitoring the water net along its length. Dangling by the hundreds, staggered like the keys of a piano, large blue glass bottles, the smallest of which is as tall as a horse and nearly as big around as an oak tree trunk, line the bottom of the sheet tied to the end of long tassels. As the dew gets trapped on the fabric, it collects and runs down the tassels and finally into the delicate fluted spouts of the bottles as a water harvest. High above and spread along the length of the water net, a fleet of a hundred enormous balloons like leviathans plough their way through an ocean of blue kept aloft by nervous helmsman. The balloons, made up of a patchwork of dull fabrics, stitched together in aged multicolor, tug the sheet along as a fishnet through the sea, laboring with roaring puffs of their torches. They’ll float the clouds early morning until midday dragging the sky for water. Day after day, while the season lasts, the tradesmen of the water harvest will revel in their work.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
chapters of isolation
Chapter 1
Shaun clenched and unclenched his jaws with a force that after much repetition in his agitation cracked a tooth. The chip was sent tumbling in the desert of his mouth. He then pushed it forward with his arid tongue, caught it in a quick nip of his front teeth, formed his lips into a barrel, and shot it with an airy spit across the room. It bounced in a distant corner with a dull tap and ting as it ricocheted off the floor and hit the washbasin in the dark. Carmine looked up from his whittling and acknowledged the noise over his shoulder then turned a blank stare toward his companion, then back to the knife in hand.
“Funny thing…” began Shaun, Carmine didn’t look up from his work. “Us being trapped here like this, by nothing at all really. I mean really, you look out there and you see what? Clouds, nothing but clouds, and trees...” Shaun drifted into a waking sleep as he peered out the window, “…and a wall of trees fortressing us in.” He turned abruptly back to Carmine, his impatience boiling over, “What are we doing here, I say. Why can’t we just walk off this mountain? I ask you.”
“How’s that?” Carmine said finally, the noise of Shaun not registering as speech until now.
“I said, how come you and I have to just sit here, starving like this? What’s stopping us from getting out of this god-forsaken little shack?” Not waiting for a reply he adds anxiously, “huh?”
“You know the answer to that,” Carmine replied.
“I suppose I do,” there was a long pause as Shaun leaned back on his chair from the table where the two men sat, looked again out the window and folded his arms to an imagined chill, “but what if I don’t care anyway?”
“It’ll make you care. Get real personal in a way neither of us would like.” Carmine, head still bent towards his hands covered in little wood shavings, cut Shaun in two as he stared through the brow of his own skull for the severity of the angle at which he held himself. He looked angry, not angry per se, but serious beyond a joke. - the seriousness and finality for which someone might chance to lose his or her own life defending a decision.
Shaun was no longer defiantly leaning in his chair, batting around admittedly, even to himself revealed in his defeated expression and obedience to Carmine, stupid ideas. He was instead sitting like a school child, erect and attentive in his chair, the sick jaundiced flicker of the candle flame between them did nothing to mask his sheepishness. Shaun’s chair sounded like an atom bomb returning to the floor; the quiet of the room was vacuous by the thrust of Carmine’s voice. Shaun was no irrational youth having just turned thirty, nor a foolish adventurer, but Carmine was still the older and more experienced of the two, easily twenty years his senior. So he yielded judgment to Carmine and remained indoors.
Thirteen days had passed since they first found shelter having been caught in a rather abrupt coastal range storm. Shaun had been hiking alone for a weekend away to recharge as many outdoor enthusiasts do. Carmine’s purpose wasn’t known, but Shaun surmised it to be much the same as his own, even though he seemed stern and joyless at the time of their meeting and still. Shaun and Carmine had met up both searching for some place to make camp or shelter from the storm. Drenched, hungry and getting dark this little wooden cabin had seemed providence, instead of the prison they now regarded it as.
They are no longer penned indoors by weather, the sky not having dropped a drip in weeks, rather they are quite free to wander the grounds around the cabin, which is no more than a clearing on a wooded hill top, with tufts of thick grass, bracken, a bramble of blackberry full of desiccated fruit and thorns, and rocks. They are however, not free to wander further. The Woods it seems is the boundary. Why or what they don’t know, but they can see it and are aware of it, this unexplained arbitrary boundary of forest. The woods are just visible beyond the ever-present fog that surrounds their solitary mound. Huge Firs stand as ghostly sentries in a sea of Alders barely visible beyond the white shroud. And that is their limit. They have tested it again and again. Most of the time without hardship, merely returning confused, tired, another day wasted, lost and found again at the cabin. Both men have, one time or another, been at last brought to tears when the futility was realized; all work and strain reaped nothing toward their goal of redemption. Food is all but gone. Shaun, usually one to pack heavy on the calories when marching into the backcountry, had enough to stretch a week. Carmine, seemingly of similar mind, also had rations to spare…and continues to. Shaun has become suspicious of his companions ready food. Shaun has investigated Carmine’s backpack to no avail when he leaves it unattended for a suitable amount of time for such things. Yet, whenever their need seems dire and thoughts turn toward their growling stomachs, Carmine seems to reappear with something, however little. Still, Shaun refuses to get too worked up about it, because he fears his own sanity and questioning the food of the one who provides sounds like lunacy.
Shaun that night tossed and turned on his sleeping bag, too hot to zip inside, too cold to stay completely uncovered he wrestles. It was still early spring in Oregon, so temps were cool, yet he was sweating. His situation was uneasy at best, so fertile is the breeding ground for anxiety. Flashes of lightening dashed through the window, illuminating the slumbering back of his cabin-mate against the wall. Similarly a flash of admiration for how easy sleep and calm comes to Carmine, then contempt and suspicion. Shaun rolls and feels the warm sweat on his back turn icy that sends a shiver through his body. Calmed a bit now, one eye buried in the pillow the other staring wide eyed awake out the window. The white, the fog, the cloud, their prison rolled back a moment and revealed a star. Shaun blinked, and when he re-opened his eye the hole in the sky had closed once again. He disregarded it as hallucination, the stars he sees in the back of the eye-lid buried in his pillow are no more real. He heard no thunder accompanying the lightening, but faintly he thought he heard its resound, albeit quite late. But this thunder was odd, it didn’t rise and fall, flash and fade, heave like the breath of slumbering giants as typical thunder might. This was a steady roll, like that of a drum. Varying its pitch only a little in its slow cadence. Wind maybe? No. Then it grew and became familiar, not thunder at all. How strange after all this time that it should be there. Never far from the coast was he on his hike before becoming lost, but in all his time here he never heard the tussle or break of water, nor a single gull. Yet now, growing louder in the middle of the night unbeknownst to his companion, clear as day it was there. Nearly drowning out all else, becoming the light, the room, encompassing and dissolving all, maddeningly, the ocean. Shaun gripped his pillow, sacred, in disbelief. He then cautiously as though afraid of being seen, rose from his bed and crept to the window and peered out.
Chapter 2
Black. Black is all that he saw. No further help from those rare flashes of lightening from before. Whatever storm there was in the distance somewhere was now gone. The ocean was still there. Not nearly as loud, instead believable, a volume that seemed in keeping from days, now weeks before he’d ended up here. He quickly and quietly stepped from the window and out the door; perhaps outside he’d be able to surmise its direction. Maybe this would be a way out. On the porch of the cabin it seemed all around him, defeating him every second he remained outside. He moved cautiously into the yard and began searching about and peering with his ears. Focusing his ears each way he turned he hoped for some source of the sound. Excited and nervous his heart pounded and lungs bellowed; he had to concentrate on controlling his breathing so he could hear over it. At times he simply held his breath to listen, feeling and hearing his heart in his ears. Suddenly he felt for sure he noticed it was a bit louder there, just beyond a blackberry bramble at the boundary of the wood in front of the cabin and began in that direction. All this time trapped, everything seemed an arbitrary attempted to make sense of their situation and hope at random they might stumble on a way out. Now, no matter how small, Shaun truly felt there was a chance here. He began to feel empowered by his decision and the certainty of that sound calling him on. No sooner had he been striding across the spongy glade, he was in the fog and out of sight. The ocean was calling him deeper and he felt assured this was it and no fear possessed him, but then it grew quiet and the sound began to fade. He began to walk faster in a vain attempt to catch it, but Shaun’s confident stridulations slowed to a clumsy saunter as fear and uncertainty closed back in to reclaim him. Then he stopped completely as the last of the ocean left him. It was black and he was firmly in the woods.
He spun around and immediately marched back the way he came. His once confident steps falling on solid ground were now met with marsh, tufts of fern, trees, logs and decaying detritus. The fog began to relent and he thought he could see the outline of the cabin beyond, but then something grabbed him. Cold and hard by the neck it pinched, and as he struggled to free himself his feet alighted from the ground and the only record of the disturbance was one broken chanterelle.
Chapter 3
A woman sloped into the room. Languidly, her gown draped around he body, falling open off of one of her breasts, intentionally, inviting. Shaun fell back a bit; he’s a taken man, but still a man he watched as she walked toward him. Suddenly, behind her, the walls of the room burst into pieces and following close behind, a wrecking ball. As if pulled by a thousand rearing horses tied to a rope around his waste he is pulled from the scene through an open window behind him revealing the exterior of the house. It is his father’s house. The further he gets, the more the house disappears, crumbling on its foundations and becoming a pile of rubble. No more than100 feet away he finds himself no longer being dragged away, he claws his way back to the house. As he gets closer the house begins to reappear unharmed by the wrecking ball. Shaun looks in through a window to see the inside is destroyed; the house was but an empty shell now.
A cold wet tickling awoke Shaun. He opened his eyes to the dull soft light of the sky flooding through the fingers of a fern, and a blade of grass at his nose. A singular drip disturbed when he stirred, landed directly on his lens causing him to quickly close his eye and clasp his palm over his socket. Confusion set in a moment later when the cold sting of the droplet faded and recollection of what had happened began to form. He looked around and found he was in the middle of the clearing in front of the cabin and standing over him was Carmine.
“It was you!”
“What?” Carmine screwed his face.
“That grabbed me.”
“I haven’t touched you.’
“Last night, in the dark. You grabbed me from the fog.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I awoke just now to find you laying in the middle of the shrub here.”
“Uh, then…” Shaun trailed off as he looked narrowly into the wall of fog that seemed thicker today.
“What are these marks on your neck?”
Shaun, for a moment had thought it a dream and perhaps he sleep walked out into the yard in his stressed state, having been surviving short of sleep and food. Then he felt at the back of his neck and what he hadn’t felt until then appeared as dull pain and deep gouges, three of them, running vertically up his nape, only slightly crosswise. When he bent his neck and looked around then, they stung him severely, odd that a moment ago he had felt nothing. “I don’t know. Last night I thought I heard the ocean. I thought I could find it and maybe find my way off this hill. I felt for sure… I can’t be sure now if it was a dream or not…I don’t know. Then the noise faded, I came to sort of, and found myself in the woods.”
“You idiot” Carmine scoffed disapprovingly.
“I know…but it seemed so plausible. I saw the cabin and was making my way back here, when I felt something grab my neck. Then…I don’t know,” he finished rubbing his neck carefully.
“You’re bats…or it was a dream and I’m hoping for your sake it was. I can’t take it being stuck here with someone verging on insanity.”
“I’m not insane…I can’t explain it…” Just then Shaun trailed off noticing the drag marks. “Here what’s this?” He stood up, groaning with stiffness and the pain of his neck and pointed to the marks.
“Odd, they seem to start just over there,” Carmine noticed. “If I hadn’t been witness to strange things already I’d probably tie you up until we get out of here, just to prevent me from being dragged down by your stupidity.” Carmine turned back for the cabin and Shaun watched him go, feeling like a child.
Then a metallic baying rose from the fog. Carmine froze and Shaun saw the muscles in his back tense, as if he could feel the hard hot breath of hungry jaws upon him, and his head slowly perked up and swivelled over his shoulder. He first regarded Shaun on the ground looking sheepishly towards him and then to the white wall of fog. Shaun followed his gaze. Again, a low, hardly discernable sound, but they both recognized it as the same. They’d heard it before on their first night in the cabin, but both at the time refused to give it credence. Then it came again from the undergrowth beyond the glade, like the iron chest of a barge laid open on the rocks, bellowing deep hollow tones as it strums against the stone. This time it came thundering home, and planted firmly in forefront of their minds without apology. This unseen thing, became the headpiece of their fear. Whatever will was beyond the fog, keeping them there, this voice growling death became its mouthpiece at that moment. This time it commanded the full spectrum of their sympathetic nervous systems: their ears perked, hair stood on end, blood ran hot and goose bumps surfaced – all symptoms of flight response, yet they could not. They couldn’t feel more helpless. They both slowly crept backwards, fighting their paralysis, feeling their way with infant footsteps to the cabin and through the door, shutting it silently and latching it. What use was the latch? They hadn’t a clue; it was a minor action that made them feel only remotely more safe. But how do you keep yourself safe from the unseen, from the supernatural, if that is what it was, with a door latch? The rain then re-began.
Shaun clenched and unclenched his jaws with a force that after much repetition in his agitation cracked a tooth. The chip was sent tumbling in the desert of his mouth. He then pushed it forward with his arid tongue, caught it in a quick nip of his front teeth, formed his lips into a barrel, and shot it with an airy spit across the room. It bounced in a distant corner with a dull tap and ting as it ricocheted off the floor and hit the washbasin in the dark. Carmine looked up from his whittling and acknowledged the noise over his shoulder then turned a blank stare toward his companion, then back to the knife in hand.
“Funny thing…” began Shaun, Carmine didn’t look up from his work. “Us being trapped here like this, by nothing at all really. I mean really, you look out there and you see what? Clouds, nothing but clouds, and trees...” Shaun drifted into a waking sleep as he peered out the window, “…and a wall of trees fortressing us in.” He turned abruptly back to Carmine, his impatience boiling over, “What are we doing here, I say. Why can’t we just walk off this mountain? I ask you.”
“How’s that?” Carmine said finally, the noise of Shaun not registering as speech until now.
“I said, how come you and I have to just sit here, starving like this? What’s stopping us from getting out of this god-forsaken little shack?” Not waiting for a reply he adds anxiously, “huh?”
“You know the answer to that,” Carmine replied.
“I suppose I do,” there was a long pause as Shaun leaned back on his chair from the table where the two men sat, looked again out the window and folded his arms to an imagined chill, “but what if I don’t care anyway?”
“It’ll make you care. Get real personal in a way neither of us would like.” Carmine, head still bent towards his hands covered in little wood shavings, cut Shaun in two as he stared through the brow of his own skull for the severity of the angle at which he held himself. He looked angry, not angry per se, but serious beyond a joke. - the seriousness and finality for which someone might chance to lose his or her own life defending a decision.
Shaun was no longer defiantly leaning in his chair, batting around admittedly, even to himself revealed in his defeated expression and obedience to Carmine, stupid ideas. He was instead sitting like a school child, erect and attentive in his chair, the sick jaundiced flicker of the candle flame between them did nothing to mask his sheepishness. Shaun’s chair sounded like an atom bomb returning to the floor; the quiet of the room was vacuous by the thrust of Carmine’s voice. Shaun was no irrational youth having just turned thirty, nor a foolish adventurer, but Carmine was still the older and more experienced of the two, easily twenty years his senior. So he yielded judgment to Carmine and remained indoors.
Thirteen days had passed since they first found shelter having been caught in a rather abrupt coastal range storm. Shaun had been hiking alone for a weekend away to recharge as many outdoor enthusiasts do. Carmine’s purpose wasn’t known, but Shaun surmised it to be much the same as his own, even though he seemed stern and joyless at the time of their meeting and still. Shaun and Carmine had met up both searching for some place to make camp or shelter from the storm. Drenched, hungry and getting dark this little wooden cabin had seemed providence, instead of the prison they now regarded it as.
They are no longer penned indoors by weather, the sky not having dropped a drip in weeks, rather they are quite free to wander the grounds around the cabin, which is no more than a clearing on a wooded hill top, with tufts of thick grass, bracken, a bramble of blackberry full of desiccated fruit and thorns, and rocks. They are however, not free to wander further. The Woods it seems is the boundary. Why or what they don’t know, but they can see it and are aware of it, this unexplained arbitrary boundary of forest. The woods are just visible beyond the ever-present fog that surrounds their solitary mound. Huge Firs stand as ghostly sentries in a sea of Alders barely visible beyond the white shroud. And that is their limit. They have tested it again and again. Most of the time without hardship, merely returning confused, tired, another day wasted, lost and found again at the cabin. Both men have, one time or another, been at last brought to tears when the futility was realized; all work and strain reaped nothing toward their goal of redemption. Food is all but gone. Shaun, usually one to pack heavy on the calories when marching into the backcountry, had enough to stretch a week. Carmine, seemingly of similar mind, also had rations to spare…and continues to. Shaun has become suspicious of his companions ready food. Shaun has investigated Carmine’s backpack to no avail when he leaves it unattended for a suitable amount of time for such things. Yet, whenever their need seems dire and thoughts turn toward their growling stomachs, Carmine seems to reappear with something, however little. Still, Shaun refuses to get too worked up about it, because he fears his own sanity and questioning the food of the one who provides sounds like lunacy.
Shaun that night tossed and turned on his sleeping bag, too hot to zip inside, too cold to stay completely uncovered he wrestles. It was still early spring in Oregon, so temps were cool, yet he was sweating. His situation was uneasy at best, so fertile is the breeding ground for anxiety. Flashes of lightening dashed through the window, illuminating the slumbering back of his cabin-mate against the wall. Similarly a flash of admiration for how easy sleep and calm comes to Carmine, then contempt and suspicion. Shaun rolls and feels the warm sweat on his back turn icy that sends a shiver through his body. Calmed a bit now, one eye buried in the pillow the other staring wide eyed awake out the window. The white, the fog, the cloud, their prison rolled back a moment and revealed a star. Shaun blinked, and when he re-opened his eye the hole in the sky had closed once again. He disregarded it as hallucination, the stars he sees in the back of the eye-lid buried in his pillow are no more real. He heard no thunder accompanying the lightening, but faintly he thought he heard its resound, albeit quite late. But this thunder was odd, it didn’t rise and fall, flash and fade, heave like the breath of slumbering giants as typical thunder might. This was a steady roll, like that of a drum. Varying its pitch only a little in its slow cadence. Wind maybe? No. Then it grew and became familiar, not thunder at all. How strange after all this time that it should be there. Never far from the coast was he on his hike before becoming lost, but in all his time here he never heard the tussle or break of water, nor a single gull. Yet now, growing louder in the middle of the night unbeknownst to his companion, clear as day it was there. Nearly drowning out all else, becoming the light, the room, encompassing and dissolving all, maddeningly, the ocean. Shaun gripped his pillow, sacred, in disbelief. He then cautiously as though afraid of being seen, rose from his bed and crept to the window and peered out.
Chapter 2
Black. Black is all that he saw. No further help from those rare flashes of lightening from before. Whatever storm there was in the distance somewhere was now gone. The ocean was still there. Not nearly as loud, instead believable, a volume that seemed in keeping from days, now weeks before he’d ended up here. He quickly and quietly stepped from the window and out the door; perhaps outside he’d be able to surmise its direction. Maybe this would be a way out. On the porch of the cabin it seemed all around him, defeating him every second he remained outside. He moved cautiously into the yard and began searching about and peering with his ears. Focusing his ears each way he turned he hoped for some source of the sound. Excited and nervous his heart pounded and lungs bellowed; he had to concentrate on controlling his breathing so he could hear over it. At times he simply held his breath to listen, feeling and hearing his heart in his ears. Suddenly he felt for sure he noticed it was a bit louder there, just beyond a blackberry bramble at the boundary of the wood in front of the cabin and began in that direction. All this time trapped, everything seemed an arbitrary attempted to make sense of their situation and hope at random they might stumble on a way out. Now, no matter how small, Shaun truly felt there was a chance here. He began to feel empowered by his decision and the certainty of that sound calling him on. No sooner had he been striding across the spongy glade, he was in the fog and out of sight. The ocean was calling him deeper and he felt assured this was it and no fear possessed him, but then it grew quiet and the sound began to fade. He began to walk faster in a vain attempt to catch it, but Shaun’s confident stridulations slowed to a clumsy saunter as fear and uncertainty closed back in to reclaim him. Then he stopped completely as the last of the ocean left him. It was black and he was firmly in the woods.
He spun around and immediately marched back the way he came. His once confident steps falling on solid ground were now met with marsh, tufts of fern, trees, logs and decaying detritus. The fog began to relent and he thought he could see the outline of the cabin beyond, but then something grabbed him. Cold and hard by the neck it pinched, and as he struggled to free himself his feet alighted from the ground and the only record of the disturbance was one broken chanterelle.
Chapter 3
A woman sloped into the room. Languidly, her gown draped around he body, falling open off of one of her breasts, intentionally, inviting. Shaun fell back a bit; he’s a taken man, but still a man he watched as she walked toward him. Suddenly, behind her, the walls of the room burst into pieces and following close behind, a wrecking ball. As if pulled by a thousand rearing horses tied to a rope around his waste he is pulled from the scene through an open window behind him revealing the exterior of the house. It is his father’s house. The further he gets, the more the house disappears, crumbling on its foundations and becoming a pile of rubble. No more than100 feet away he finds himself no longer being dragged away, he claws his way back to the house. As he gets closer the house begins to reappear unharmed by the wrecking ball. Shaun looks in through a window to see the inside is destroyed; the house was but an empty shell now.
A cold wet tickling awoke Shaun. He opened his eyes to the dull soft light of the sky flooding through the fingers of a fern, and a blade of grass at his nose. A singular drip disturbed when he stirred, landed directly on his lens causing him to quickly close his eye and clasp his palm over his socket. Confusion set in a moment later when the cold sting of the droplet faded and recollection of what had happened began to form. He looked around and found he was in the middle of the clearing in front of the cabin and standing over him was Carmine.
“It was you!”
“What?” Carmine screwed his face.
“That grabbed me.”
“I haven’t touched you.’
“Last night, in the dark. You grabbed me from the fog.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I awoke just now to find you laying in the middle of the shrub here.”
“Uh, then…” Shaun trailed off as he looked narrowly into the wall of fog that seemed thicker today.
“What are these marks on your neck?”
Shaun, for a moment had thought it a dream and perhaps he sleep walked out into the yard in his stressed state, having been surviving short of sleep and food. Then he felt at the back of his neck and what he hadn’t felt until then appeared as dull pain and deep gouges, three of them, running vertically up his nape, only slightly crosswise. When he bent his neck and looked around then, they stung him severely, odd that a moment ago he had felt nothing. “I don’t know. Last night I thought I heard the ocean. I thought I could find it and maybe find my way off this hill. I felt for sure… I can’t be sure now if it was a dream or not…I don’t know. Then the noise faded, I came to sort of, and found myself in the woods.”
“You idiot” Carmine scoffed disapprovingly.
“I know…but it seemed so plausible. I saw the cabin and was making my way back here, when I felt something grab my neck. Then…I don’t know,” he finished rubbing his neck carefully.
“You’re bats…or it was a dream and I’m hoping for your sake it was. I can’t take it being stuck here with someone verging on insanity.”
“I’m not insane…I can’t explain it…” Just then Shaun trailed off noticing the drag marks. “Here what’s this?” He stood up, groaning with stiffness and the pain of his neck and pointed to the marks.
“Odd, they seem to start just over there,” Carmine noticed. “If I hadn’t been witness to strange things already I’d probably tie you up until we get out of here, just to prevent me from being dragged down by your stupidity.” Carmine turned back for the cabin and Shaun watched him go, feeling like a child.
Then a metallic baying rose from the fog. Carmine froze and Shaun saw the muscles in his back tense, as if he could feel the hard hot breath of hungry jaws upon him, and his head slowly perked up and swivelled over his shoulder. He first regarded Shaun on the ground looking sheepishly towards him and then to the white wall of fog. Shaun followed his gaze. Again, a low, hardly discernable sound, but they both recognized it as the same. They’d heard it before on their first night in the cabin, but both at the time refused to give it credence. Then it came again from the undergrowth beyond the glade, like the iron chest of a barge laid open on the rocks, bellowing deep hollow tones as it strums against the stone. This time it came thundering home, and planted firmly in forefront of their minds without apology. This unseen thing, became the headpiece of their fear. Whatever will was beyond the fog, keeping them there, this voice growling death became its mouthpiece at that moment. This time it commanded the full spectrum of their sympathetic nervous systems: their ears perked, hair stood on end, blood ran hot and goose bumps surfaced – all symptoms of flight response, yet they could not. They couldn’t feel more helpless. They both slowly crept backwards, fighting their paralysis, feeling their way with infant footsteps to the cabin and through the door, shutting it silently and latching it. What use was the latch? They hadn’t a clue; it was a minor action that made them feel only remotely more safe. But how do you keep yourself safe from the unseen, from the supernatural, if that is what it was, with a door latch? The rain then re-began.
Monday, October 06, 2008
the candy bar
something I wrote a while back when I couldn't sleep
What mess is this? Some irresponsible government’s mistake? An unaccountable big business beyond the moral guides of the single man like myself? Everything left to its own devices to sort it all out………
What mess is this? Some irresponsible government’s mistake? An unaccountable big business beyond the moral guides of the single man like myself? Everything left to its own devices to sort it all out………
******
………Unfortunate souls, those mice; I notice them as I press on uneasy steps among the discarded rubbish. They look famished despite the bountiful amount of crumbs that cover the floor. They seem strangely proportioned, odd colored, scabby and some are missing hair or even whole parts; “It must be radioactive”, I thought. Crumpled up bits of foil wrapping, "space age plastics" and other nondescript materials give my proceedings an irregular crunch. I hope they don’t hear me; I know how they detest curious parties. A shadow moves in front of the half open door -Jesus! I didn’t expect that- a little figure muting the fluorescent glow from the room beyond for an instant. I froze, but a drip of sweat fell and rang irritatingly noisy as it hit the floor, I fear drawing attention to me. A head reappeared at the door, featureless, but peering.
Two eyes beyond the silhouette glowing red in a form I cannot see, washed out in the contrast of the bright room, my pupils dilated as they are in the dark. There must be hundreds of them in there. The figure turned, paused and moved away from the door as if called. I feel assured now that it hadn’t seen me and whatever population is beyond the door is unaware of the approaching me; their attention is focused no longer on some random noise from the hall outside. I move closer and can now witness clearly the events behind the curious light that has drawn me near through the wire reinforced narrow window in the metal door. I could see creatures surrounding a stainless steel operating table and looking upon a small form. It appeared to be a human fetus with some strange metal contraption with large tendrils holding the abdomen of the little body open and its insides were laid out at its feet. Or it could be a Thanksgiving turkey for all I know, my famine having blurred my vision and confused my mind, making me a bit delusional. Still, I can’t help being distracted by the dark chocolate bar under the table, which I know now is what drew me near. My fear outweighed by my hunger; I wonder if they’ll notice me creep in and pluck it from the floor?
Two eyes beyond the silhouette glowing red in a form I cannot see, washed out in the contrast of the bright room, my pupils dilated as they are in the dark. There must be hundreds of them in there. The figure turned, paused and moved away from the door as if called. I feel assured now that it hadn’t seen me and whatever population is beyond the door is unaware of the approaching me; their attention is focused no longer on some random noise from the hall outside. I move closer and can now witness clearly the events behind the curious light that has drawn me near through the wire reinforced narrow window in the metal door. I could see creatures surrounding a stainless steel operating table and looking upon a small form. It appeared to be a human fetus with some strange metal contraption with large tendrils holding the abdomen of the little body open and its insides were laid out at its feet. Or it could be a Thanksgiving turkey for all I know, my famine having blurred my vision and confused my mind, making me a bit delusional. Still, I can’t help being distracted by the dark chocolate bar under the table, which I know now is what drew me near. My fear outweighed by my hunger; I wonder if they’ll notice me creep in and pluck it from the floor?
******
Hanging loose from my legs, my thin pants are heavy with blood and showing the gaunt outline of my bones. I feel weak and begin to lose control; warm piss pools in the rear of my trousers. I can hear it start to spatter hollow on the drain below as it weeps through the fabric. My sight is diminished in my waking and the only things I can see through the darkness of death are the hooks through my knees and armpits suspending me above the tiled shower room floor. I feel lightheaded and drunk. My head rolls onto my back and I feel choked as I notice the dark red mixed with my urine on the floor beneath me. Surfacing from unconsciousness strangely allowed sober assessment, but then despair and confusion set in. Weakness allows me to do nothing. All sensations turn briefly into a searing pain and then dull below the neck. I can barely remember how I got here. Curiosity, I believe. Damn how stupid could I have been poking my head around like that? They had nothing to fear in me, but then how could they be sure. Still, I don’t blame them for my carelessness. I’ve felt like this before; I once inadvertently inhaled the propellant of a whipped-cream can as a child in my thirst for the sugary contents and I only assume that the similarities in sensation are due to the loss of oxygen to my brain. I look up and notice a moldy textured white plastic ceiling with interspersed light-boxes -I always hated fluorescent lighting; it makes me feel dirty and institutional and justified in every way to indulge in severe homicidal activity.
violets
on the way home from work one night
Out of my peripheral the evening star pulls my eye and punctuates my vision. I turn westward toward the soft glow of the sunset past as I walk. Curiosity makes a scouring full circle of the dome overhead an absolute necessity, and I do so in step with the noises of giggling girls coming from behind. My head moves instinctively towards their location, pivoting unnaturally over my shoulder to survey, as young men do, the origin of a woman's voice. As I come back around to that original distraction, a pine cone obscures my view and draws my attention downward to the mirror beneath my feet. A field to squirrels and a forest to ants; a patch of tiny violets growing on a bed of brown needles seemingly forever endeavored to put the sky underfoot. During the day I’ve seen them popping in glorious blue and dancing in shimmering light filtering through the wispy branches above, but now they’ve fortuitously duplicated the muted dusk. And then...
Roar after roar, the passing cars throttle to edge out one another for the great race of masculine superiority dulls my senses…for someplace remote.
Roar after roar, the passing cars throttle to edge out one another for the great race of masculine superiority dulls my senses…for someplace remote.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
the green perch
words is art too...nothing relating to anything particular dressed my mind for this written exultation, only the predilection for whimsy, fantasy and some renewed form of child-like wonder in this world that was so long ago stamped out for more practical ideas
Resting on a tuft of green grass surrounded by a sea of shifting emerald blades and dancing blossoms was I; buttressed by cool fingers, while warm scents danced around. Thirsting, I supped them all up, rolling them around my palate like wine. When breath was full and used and the fill of which I could no longer stand, I exhaled. Lips pursed as to kiss my breath, out flew thousands of shimmering gossamer waves of lacewings. My eyes grew wide and I felt no lessening in the tide of exiting pterygota. Mixed with the fluttering green kites were now fireflies in similar volume, then butterflies of surprising variety. Soon the entire milieu about my little throne was aflutter with millions of little wings. Never at any moment did it seem crowded or confused, only all too orderly and brilliant. Now fully deflated, I lent back on an elbow and surveyed the scene and the sweet music therein. It seemed that rather than the ubiquitous sounds of maddening insect wings there was in its place a symphony of crystalline tones and woodwinds as a silent zephyr moved through the ballet and the ceiling of sheltering treetops.
The afternoon sun settled its gaze enough to allow a coolness to pour through the bowl. The music continued well into the night with the evenness of a plumb line, though never was the melody tiring. It seemed ever changing and the volume was almost subliminal, allowing easy and complete thought, never interrupting. The moon rose high in place of the slumbering sun; the transition unnoticed, seamless as the light never fully faded. Truly the planetary rotation had little to do with it; the millions of warm shuddering bodies still busy about the space above my head had a glow of their own. A luminescent haze of shimmering music lit the glade and the wide branches of the tree above my perch.
The afternoon sun settled its gaze enough to allow a coolness to pour through the bowl. The music continued well into the night with the evenness of a plumb line, though never was the melody tiring. It seemed ever changing and the volume was almost subliminal, allowing easy and complete thought, never interrupting. The moon rose high in place of the slumbering sun; the transition unnoticed, seamless as the light never fully faded. Truly the planetary rotation had little to do with it; the millions of warm shuddering bodies still busy about the space above my head had a glow of their own. A luminescent haze of shimmering music lit the glade and the wide branches of the tree above my perch.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
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