While We Wait

I wanted to say, “hello my friend,” but I realized that most people who say “my friend” don’t really mean it like that. I don’t want to seem insincere, so when I say friend, please believe me when I mean that I’d like to share a beer with you. Or whatever. Ha ha.

I kid.

But there you are and I’m so eager to have this little conversation with you that maybe I crack a nervous joke now and then. I’m very excited to be working with you, even if only for a little while. I’ve seen your work and it’s pretty impressive stuff. That thing you did on the Hill? With all those kids? I mean, I don’t even know how you did that!

Look at that. It’s already time. How quickly the minutes tick by. Let me put on my mask real quick. That’s better. No hard feelings? You might feel a slight sting, followed by a sharp pain, followed by nothing ever again.

Womb of Concrete

Technology and architecture are the bulwarks mankind has thrown up against the terrifying mysteries of the elder night. Tall stone and steel limit and box in men’s thoughts while the electric hum of artificial light helps us forget the black abyss that is only barely marred by the cold, distant stars. The concrete womb humans have wrapped themselves in, however, is protection only in ignorance, though protection it remains. Fear, psychosis, and violence pave the ill-trod path of knowledge and the great, seething mass of willful sanity is preserved only by unquestioning eyes and dulled minds.

Do not mistake protection for immunity, my friend. That which is unseen is rarely unfelt forever, and things besides men look in on society with envious eyes and unfed mouths.

Random dialog

“It’s not fair? What kind of excuse is that? When did ‘fairness’ become an inalienable human right?”

“That’s enough.”

“No, I want to know what gave you this unreasonable sense of entitlement that’s driven you to fever-addled delusions like a cosmic justice in the world. Goodness, I just hope it’s not contagious!”

“Please. Stop.”

“If you need someone to blame, try yourself. If that’s too hard, how about God? Big ole punching-bag in the sky.”

“I just want-”

“Everyone WANTS. Try doing something about it. Come back to talk with me then.”

Tranquil

A delicate rain played off the crystalline leaves of the white plants around him. The soft caress of the drops washed over him like a wave of relief. It would all be over. There would be no more pain, no more suffering. Finally, he had reached peace.

Gently shaking the glimmering droplets from his hair, he moved toward the stone-crafted bowl, shaped almost like a giant clamshell. The bowl held tranquil water, the surface strangely unbroken by the summer shower that delicately drizzled over the whole forest. In the distance, birds chirped blissfully, untroubled by hunter or famine. The gentle sway of leaves rippled through the clearing as a breeze laughed through the trees. Shimmering light- tinted green by the cover overhead- sparkled and shifted over the clearing, giving it a soothing shade. No crass voice broke the sweet perfect silence of the grove.

The man dipped his hands into the bowl- again, without upsetting the surface of the water- and cupped his hands. He drew out the cool liquid and let it drip down his face. He felt the stress and aches of years melting away as he became one with this divine peace. The commotion of his mind and the pains of his conscience grew quieter and quieter until he felt the tranquility take him, body and soul. He was ready.

Lightly stepping from moss-covered stone to spongy, dewy grass he felt the delicious chill of the early morning earth under his feet. He savored the feel of the grass between his toes and the give of the rich soil as he moved gracefully between the arching branches. The murmuring of his silken robe made a gentle whisper that meshed with the slight pattering of the rain. The long, ivory-colored garment barely brushed the top of the grass, and seemed to make the man float as he left the clearing and headed down a path made entire from nature’s passing.

The breeze grew slightly and the rain became a tad less lazy as the man ascended the base of the great hill. The tree line followed him to all but the very peak of the hill and he moved with quiet dignity and humble purpose. His head slowly swung back and forth, taking in the peace of the forest, the rhythm of the rain dropping, the noises of the animals, and the rustling symphony of the blowing leaves. All was as it should be.

The crest of the hill came in sight, a verdant green dome just outside of the border of the trees. The sky was mildly gray from the shower, but spaces of brilliant blue peered out and the glorious sun smiled through with warming rays of hope and life. The man paused just at the forest’s end to bask for a moment in the sun’s divine essence. He thrilled at the warmth that suffused him and the calm pitter-patter of the gentle rain. Then, he stopped beyond the forest’s edge.

Around the white robed man, there was destruction. Violence reigned. Corpses lay, strewn haphazardly and without respect to the former owners. Chunks of earth exploded upward as vast shocks rocked the land. In the distance, he could see the armies of Man marching against one another. The battles were confused and almost random. People killed one another indiscriminately. The howling wind and the screams and moans of the dying filled the smoke-choked air.

The man in white looked at all of this for many long hours. He softly sighed as if in resignation, sat down on the sun-baked and blood-watered ground, placed his head against a broken, irregular stone, and died.

Waking Up

Johnny blinked away the moisture, his breathing shallow and irregular as if he had to keep reminding himself to swallow the stifling air. The world around him floated, subdued and suppressed, sound and light trickling down to him, filtering through some vast gulf he couldn’t process. He drew a hand across his face and his fingertips came back red. He just stared at the crimson, mind not registering its meaning.

“That’s weird,” he mumbled, feeling the fresh blood between his fingers and thumb. “It’s cold.”

With unsteady steps, Johnny walked to the door, navigating the darkened room by the insistent, flickering neon of a digital clock, its shrill alarm slowly jack hammering through Johnny’s dizzying disconnect with his surroundings.

“How long has that been going off?” he wondered, his lips tightening into a grimace as the pressure of noise swelled without indication of stopping.

His body seemed to know where it was going because when a curtain of black exhaustion wiped sight from his eyes, he awoke to the open sky and buzzing street lights of an empty night. A thought burned through his neurons and Johnny touched his face again. The blood was like ice in the chill air.

“This is my blood,” he started, trailing off as horror dawned gradually through his dead body.

The Wolf’s Cage

Once upon a time, there lived a young girl who was very ill all the time. It was nearly impossible for her to leave her room, even though she very much wished to. Her parents brought her many toys for, while they were not rich, the sad state of their daughter was heart-breaking to them and they wanted her to be happy. But, the toys were not enough to replace the sun on her face or the grass between her toes, and so she remained very sad.

One night, she could not stand her room’s imprisonment a second longer, and she decided to sneak out. “It will only be for a night,” she said, “I can take that much, at least.”

And so, she crawled out from her window and down the chimney until she was, at last, free from the house. How sweet the air smelt and how cool the night’s breeze across her goose bumped skin! Fetching a short, thick stick, she leaned upon it like she had seen her grandfather do, and took short, careful steps. It was not long at all before she felt stronger and more vigorous, and she set out into the woods for a walk as she had seen many others do, from her window.

Little did the girl know that the humans were permitted in the woods only during the daytime. When the moon rose, the wolves jealously guarded the forest with long fangs and sharp claws. And so, without caution, the girl entered that dark, dark place, singing softly to herself.

The wolves spotted her quickly, but were unsure what to do. Humans so rarely broke the arrangement, and those who did never sang or walked with a third, wooden leg! “Bring me to the intruder,” the King of the wolves said, his eyes glowing like old fires. “I will deal with and dispose of her.”

So it was that, just about to turn around and head home, the sick little girl came face to face with the King of the wolves. She had never seen a wolf before, so his tremendous size did not startle or frighten her. After all, when you are little, every thing is larger than you.

“Hello sir,” she said, leaning on her crutch, for her trip had exhausted her more than she had realized. “How does this night find you?”

The King of the wolves looked at her with big, round eyes and smelled her with his big, long snout and he smiled, showing all his big, white teeth. “It finds me well, little girl. It was courteous of you to ask. May I ask why you are in my forest so late?”

The girl blushed, for she knew she was not supposed to leave her room. “Forgive me,” she said with a little curtsey. “I could not survive another night in my cage,” she said, referring to her room, for so it had begun to seem to her. The King of the wolves, however, thought of a different sort of cage. He was very familiar with the cages humans keep beasts in, for he had suffered such a cage when he was younger.

“You were locked up?” the King of the wolves asked, confused. The girl smelled human, but surely humans do not cage other humans, he thought. And besides, she did walk upon three legs.

“I was,” she replied, smiling now that it seemed she would not be punished for her action. “But I escaped to walk your beautiful woods.”

“You have my respect, then,” the King of the wolves said, laying his head on the ground, by the girl. “I was once also captive, when I was weak and small. But I escaped and grew large and strong, as you see me now.”

The little girl stared wide-eyed at the King of the wolves. “I have formed a favorable opinion of you, sir. How did you get stronger?”

The King of the wolves rolled his ears back, remembering when he was smaller even than the girl in front of him. “I will not tell you,” he said.

“But why? The girl pleaded. Yet, nothing she said would make the King of the wolves share his secret.

The little girl was not discouraged. She returned home and, a month later, she snuck out again and asked the King of the wolves how he had grown stronger. He still would not answer her, but she kept visiting him, monthly at first, then weekly.

Eventually, she no longer had to sneak out of her room, yet everyone cautioned her to stay out of the woods and away from the wolves that lived within them. The girl paid no mind to these warnings and eventually she asked her question every day.

After many years of asking, one day, the King of the wolves fell silent to the girl’s question. He looked at her for a long time before speaking. When he opened his mouth, this is what he said:

“You have come to me many times to ask how I became strong. You are no longer sick. You are no longer a little girl. You have become strong in the same way I did—you did not allow others to command and control you. You have followed your own path and your cage no longer holds any power over you.”

Unbearable

Some times I pretend that she's actually the insect that's been buzzing around me so urgently. She's trying to get my attention. To tell me something's wrong.

"Hey! Don't you recognize me? You used to love me," she's saying.

But I can't hear her because she is too small and I am too big. For a change.

And the body that's still walking around, with her face and her voice and everything else that I used to obsess over, well that's a replacement. Maybe someone's taken her appearance, or maybe her whole body. Like a bad science fiction movie.

And I hate myself.

For not noticing the change.

And swatting the insect away is almost unbearable.

So I kill it instead.

I'm sorry.

I really did love you.

But you turned out to be kind of a bitch.

Lucid Systematic Dreaming

I can hold sleep at bay for only so long before it seduces me again and I find myself falling, awaking to a new dictate- some cryptic mantra that governs the impossible physics of the place- and unfamiliar, frightening locations. The sky is monochromatic, though its singular hue seems to change when I do not notice it- often blue, sometimes green, occasionally black, though never red before. The sky is red. This is new.

The river asserts itself next, drawing the eye even from the banks that hold it. It reflects the scarlet sky, but currents run through it, deepening the playful innocence to a velvety crimson, rich and dark and overflowing with the promise of secrets untold and pleasures unguessed.

The onslaught of color recedes and allows me a blissful moment to orient myself, though only just a moment. The land is vast, trackless, and unblemished. It is so verdant that it is barren and so endless that it is confining. I find it difficult to breath and have to drop to my knees as a shock of vertigo overtakes me. It feels as though the sky opens up and the ground falls away and I will surely plummet into the gaping maw of the red, red void.

The feeling passes. So too, do my surroundings.

The open field has given way to the neon graffiti of some toy-maker’s demented fantasy. Blocks, dolls, and geometric shapes prowl around me like carnivores. I keep my gaze cast downward to avoid staring at the blinding light of the moon and its twisted, cavernous abyss of a grin.

The magnitude of my shift does not disturb me quite so much as the change of scale. I don’t remember a “drink me” bottle, but the toys tower over me, their frozen, plastic smiles full of large, white teeth. Why do toys need teeth, I wonder morbidly, ever present of the looming, growing shapes that array themselves around me so helpfully, so lovingly, so viciously. The music begins and its disjointed melody recalls childhood fears and prayers in equal turn. Bestial circus shows crowd my mind as ice cream trucks slowly putter down unseen streets and just-too-distant avenues.

When, at last, I return from far away, I notice that the music- that chimerical amalgam of rattling bells and wheezing organs- has already passed, though I cannot say for how long. The darkness hurts my eyes as much as the sensory overload and I stumble to a light post to align myself in the frightening stillness that penetrates my mind. The streets and alleys of my youth lie splayed out before me, though the palpable night makes them strange, untried, and overawing. Faceless shadows wander this urban wasteland; some bare stone walls, some the flickering stained yellow light that baits mindless moths, and yet others wear the trappings of men. Clothed and fitted to precision and yet their discomfort is plain. The suits of human creatures- skin and bone and all- are nearly flawless, lacking only eyes to give identity to the soul trapped within. They have mouths, however, and I can see their large, white teeth before any opens their mouth.

I move away from them, but a sound draws my steps short. It is a disturbing wetness, impossible to describe except through metaphor or onomatopoeia. It is as if someone below me was pacing through a sewer, the moist twump of their footfalls matching my arrested pace. I begin again and it is louder and closer. It is so horrible that my mind lingers on thoughts of fish- vast, open, lipless mouths gaping and sucking at me with ravenous, unending thirst. I run. The sound grows.

When I halt again, the footfalls fail to follow suit. They persist and are getting nearer. Nothing behind me. Both sides are clear. A movement up ahead. A person? I turn and another- no, the same- person is at my back. Have I found an antagonist in all this? No, that would be too simple and, indeed, he is already gone, his hat and coat stealing away his identity from me. The sound is upon me and I cannot bear to turn around a third time. I will not give it form and, from there, function.

I jerk myself from the encounter and my body feels like its fallen from a great distance. My heart will not stop its damnably arrhythmic pounding and I silently scream for the sixth night in a row.