It Rhymes
I find myself here
In nowhere
Nowhen
The entire world splintered
And so it begins
The sky is all littered
And glittered with stars
Flesh marks our wisdom
By tattoos and scars
I wonder aloud:
Where do our dreams live?
The whole price of blood,
The love that we give?
Tucked away in dark places
Where fantasies dwell
In liminal spaces
Between heaven
And hell
I hazard my time
In Dantean Rings
I give little thought
To the sorrow it brings
Still
Demons persist
Relapses insist
And I get the gist
For
The game that we play,
We’ve played it before
Through infinite timelines
Most of which I’ve abhorred
Now
Perched top the roof
I gaze through my lens
Telescopic in lust
And so it begins
Time is a houseplant
We could start at the beginning
Of me
Not time
There is no time
Time is a construct
Let’s imagine
That I am the last witch
In a matriarchal lineage of witches
The sole heir
Of generations of witchery
and fuckery
To be fair
Many of us
You’d loathe to meet
In alleyways
Or gangways
And as you ponder
At the difference
Between gang and alley
You might also ponder
At the difference
Between dreams and reality
The things is:
If there were more space
between molecules
We’d not have
This wondrous sensation
Of touch
And while I might be
As they once said
Slightly touched
About being touched
I have both reveled in
And been repulsed with
All the things
I’ve been touched
By
The way
To my point
Through circuitous route
It might serve to mention
That not all need mention
For those you love
Who help you transition
From phase to phase
From cocoon
To crest
You are
Never
Fully formed
And should you lose sleep
Wondering
If your thoughts are real
Even though
You know they are
If only because
You thought to think them
Nevertheless
If I were more
Eloquent
I’d tell you the horrific story
Of my life
Causing you to weep
But I’ve grown rather fond of you
As one does a houseplant
It’s a complement
Still
I’m not competent
To care for myself
Like any decent person should
I scoff at
The indecency
Of my ineptitude
I’ve been working on it for years
Despite my fears
That the only thing it will bring me
Is back to here
I’d rather be nowhere
Or everywhere
At once
But I am here now
Wondering
If I should buy a houseplant
The Dragonfly Arrow
The dragonflies circling her head formed a halo. Chayil imagined herself as a painting from one of the religious books in her father’s attic. Chayil couldn’t recall walking to the pond, removing their clothing, rubbing mud over their entire body, or falling asleep on their back under a fig tree. But then, things did oftentimes occur in the most curious ways. Being accustomed to curious things, when the dragonflies flew off and coalesced into the shape of an arrow in the distance, Chayil remained unimpressed.
Nevertheless, once she stood and began making her way toward the dragonfly arrow, a sense of urgency overcame her; Chayil’s heart began to race. For reasons they didn’t understand, they knew it was imperative that they make it to the arrow as quickly as possible.
Chayil felt like she was walking without moving. “Going nowhere fast,” she said to no one in particular. The dragonfly arrow appeared as distant as ever, pointing upward. It loomed before her like a mirage, shimmering with promise. They released their breath, inhaled deeply, recentered, exhaled, and began again. The ground appeared to be moving underfoot. It reminded Chayil of an interactive art exhibit they’d seen once, somewhere. Somewhen. Stepping on the floor of the exhibit caused different colors of light to ripple across it, much like a stone thrown into a placid pond. Where when that occurred, they couldn’t say: There was only here now and the dragonfly arrow.
After much travail, Chayil reached the arrow. As they stepped underneath it, Chayil was rendered immediately unconscious.
Sometime before or after, Chayil awoke on a train. It took them a minute to process their surroundings; the swaying motion was ambiguous, but the sound of the rails was hauntingly familiar. It was a sound deeply rooted within Chayil, almost as if it were encoded in their DNA. They remembered the dragonfly arrow vividly, although the where and when of it was blurry. Chayil recalled the pond and was filled with yearning. She longed to return. There had been an up arrow, so certainly there would be a down. That stood to reason. She surveyed her surroundings.
Chayil could see a mountain range speeding past the train to their left. To their right, they saw a wide rapid river. On the horizon, Chayil could see where the two merged, forming a sharp point. She turned and could see that the mountains and river came to a nearly identical point at roughly the same distance in the opposite direction. Chayil turned around once more, then back again. They couldn’t discern in which direction the train was moving. They turned several times in both yet, with each turn, the train appeared to be moving in whichever direction they were facing. Still, one of these train cars must contain a downward arrow, she concluded. Perhaps it wasn’t the direction of the train’s movement that mattered, but the direction she chose to move within it.
Quite unexpectedly, a dragonfly zoomed past her face. It flew in the direction previously known as forward. Chayil knew neither here nor there in the some where or when, but she did know that one ought to always follow dragonflies. She trailed it to the car door, where it hovered mockingly. Chayil recalled a door such as this from some where when, so knew to press the lever while pulling. It was an inexplicable muscle memory more than anything. They might be sleepwalking, Chayil considered. Perhaps they’d been sleepwalking for some time.
Was she dreaming? She wondered. The detailed textiles, their tactile quality, the richness of the fabrics, the sounds, the vibrations, even the odors were rather convincing. She opened the first car door and could smell the river. All their senses in overload, Chayil stepped through the second door, allowing it to crash shut behind her. An oppressive feeling of disorientation washed over her: she was now entirely uncertain where or when she’d begun. Was the pond her destination? Or were they trying to get the train home from the pond? What or where was home? In some unknown where when, were people expecting her?
From the darkness of the second car a voice bellowed, “And what anchors have you thrown down then? Expecting you can dock any where when?”
Then, Chayil saw a figure in the center of the car, indistinct yet vaguely menacing.
“That’s on target with you jumpers: entitlement!”
Chayil shook her head and held out her hands in a gesture of peace, “That’s not me. I’m not. I’m not - a jumper. Honestly, I’m not even sure what that is. I’m just. Looking for something.”
The figure appeared to be amassing into something person-esque.
Chayil continued, “I’m looking for a dragonfly arrow. To get back to the pond. I’m half certain that’s where I ought to be.”
“I suppose half certain is better than uncertain. And if you said you were completely certain, I’d know you were lying. I will help you. Let’s go, back the way you came.”
“Back?” Chayil questioned, “Are you positive? I’m not sure that’s correct. I saw a dragonfly head this way.”
The figure had now materialized into a child-sized man in a tweed suit, blackened from soot; coal rouged his cheeks. “But only the head of it?” They gasped. “How dreadful!”
Ignoring the figure’s nonsense, Chayil snapped, “If the dragonfly went this way, so should we all!”
The manchild complied begrudgingly and, just as the pair neared the car door, they heard as much as felt a deep tremor. This was more than the train skipping the tracks, friction, or poor conducting. This was a mighty wave from the center of the earth; an attempt to shake them off its back like a dog shaking off water. They were trespassers, Chayil and the manchild both. She could see it rather clearly: The train was a coconspirator abetting her escape. To where or when Chayil could only guess.
There came another rumbling, and the train lurched for or backward as if pushing them in the direction of the dragonfly, despite the manschild’s insistence they proceed in the opposite. What did he know anyway? Chayil wondered. After all, he seemed to be stuck here in less than corporeal form. The train lurched a third time, and Chayil knew it was time to move. She pushed down the lever of the door while pulling it open. It was like pulling a cork from a bottle; a valve released in a previously unrecognized vacuum, sucking the air from their lungs.
Chayil had to exert a tremendous amount of force to step into the third car. They leaned into it with their head down, like a mime walking against the wind. Once inside, she looked back to see how the manchild was getting on, but he remained in the second car, far more cowardly in deed than word. Predictable. Chayil winced at the cowardice of men. It made no difference to her whether he come or stay. He watched her through the door window as she started down the aisle. Chayil knew they had to move quickly while remaining astute. There would be smaller signs leading to bigger revelations.
The dragonfly whizzed past their face again, then hovered near the middle of the car before disappearing. Chayil became increasingly mindful of signs. Signs are commonly right in the middle of things, she knew. That’s why destination-oriented people often missed them.
Chayil heard a sound that was something between a groan and suppressed laughter. They called out, “Hello? Is someone there?”
“Some one is presumptuous, wouldn’t you agree, dear?”
“Dear is presumptuous, wouldn’t you agree?”
A chuckle, then, “Touché. It’s all relative, I suppose. But then, isn’t that the problem precisely?”
Impatiently, Chayil replied, “Perhaps. At any rate, I’m looking for a dragonfly arrow. Will you help me or not?”
“Demands, demands, straightaway, I see! You assume that I can? That interests me.”
“I do. You must know the place where you are.”
“I see. Do you know the place where you are?”
“I don’t. Because this isn’t my place.”
“Presumptuous to presume that it’s mine.”
“I suppose so. Still, I believe you can help me. So, will you?”
“To the point, I have never seen this dragonfly arrow. There has been talk, as of late, of a dragonfly head. Only the head - fancy that! Might they be related?”
“In an abstract way, I suppose. But not in a way that is particularly useful.”
“Isn’t it? Queer, that! Could be you’re headed the wrong way. Is your head on the right way?”
Chayil considered this and answered, “It’s on the normal way I suppose. The dragonfly and train are both compelling me in this direction. So, you see, I must carry on this way, and bid you good day!”
“I do see. One must always pay strict attention to dragonflies. Especially their heads! Even at the peril of missing signs.”
“The dragonfly itself is a sign.”
“As you see it.”
“As I see it, indeed. Now I bid you adieu.”
“Fare thee well, sign seeker. I pray you find your place.”
With that, Chayil proceeded. They should continue to the fourth car. Shouldn’t they? Chayil stood for a moment, lost in thought. So far, a manchild and a disembodied voice had encouraged her to head in the opposite direction. And where was the dragonfly? It wasn’t hovering near the door like before. Dragonflies had led them here, so it followed a certain kind of logic that dragonflies would lead them back. Back to the pond in the where when? Chayil was turned around, lost in her head. Only the head! Where when had the voice heard that?
The fact that it didn’t make sense made a terrible kind of sense. Chayil attempted to piece together what they’d learned thus far: They were on a directionless train that didn’t appear to be stopping. They were looking for a downward dragonfly arrow, which they hoped would transport them back to a pond in the vast unknown of where whens. Yep, that checked out. Still, the absence of the dragonfly unsettled her. Smaller signs would lead to bigger revelations, Chayil said aloud.
Chayil turned back to see the manchild still watching raptly through the door window. As they made eye contact with him, he slowly shook his head no, but Chayil ignored him and continued toward the fourth car. About halfway down the corridor, she noticed what appeared to be a small blueish light on the floor; a luminescent pool. Quite without thinking, she approached it. Chayil gazed down into the pool of light, half expecting to see her own reflection. She saw, instead:
A bucolic landscape punctuated by dreams. They could see the dreams half formed in twilight hues, ascending toward the heavens. Incandescent globes wavering briefly overhead before wafting off into the ethers, like plumes of smoke from a hookah. Slowly exhaled.
Softly, a disembodied voice cooed:
One of these dreams belongs to you. Do you recognize it here now? In the before after of where when? Moments either become lost, or they become memories; it’s up to you. It’s time for you to choose: Will you take the dream?
The father watched his daughter playing near the pond, the banks of which were thick, muddy tar pits, the dinosaur killing variety; the quicksand terror of youth never encountered in adulthood. The child sat near the edge of the embankment, on a narrow patch of damp grass, oblivious to the dreams they released; the entrapments of adulthood yet unknown, lost in the imperviousness of youth. Dreams emanated from the child in rapid succession. Four incandescent orbs hovered above her head, forming a halo. As the father watched from a distance, they were struck by the religious iconography. For all the world, he might have been viewing a renaissance painting: The vestal virgin. The eternal flame.
Life happens slowly at first. There are more hours to replace self-doubt with self-discovery than one supposes. Endless hours waiting for life to begin, not realizing it has long since begun. Funny how the countless hours between one thing and the next rushed together in the end, so that the here now was indistinguishable from the there then. And, quite secretly, life happened during the in betweens, exactly when you weren’t paying attention, the father contemplated.
He’d constructed a small platform for the trainset outside the cabin so he could watch Chayil while conducting. At his house, they had an entire room dedicated to the town of Trainsville. A woefully banal name that he’d developed an affinity for over the years as it had been Chayil’s choosing. The citizens of Trainsville had proper names, families, businesses, lovers. Lives. Over the weekend, he and Chayil lost themselves; hours crashed upon hours, consumed by the construction and maintenance of their beloved town. The train would run nonstop, even whilst they slept. Trainsville clipped at a breakneck pace. They could scarcely keep up.
Dusk settled in like it longed to retreat, yet it gave up the ghost all the same. The father admired the sandcastle they’d constructed earlier. Even the sandcastle had a backstory rooted in Trainsville. He realized that Trainsville was quite literally the life he’d built with his daughter; it was theirs alone. He only got to spend time with Chayil on the weekends, a bitter point of contention between he and his ex-partner. No matter that he was the biological parent, Thomas had a bigger house and was ‘gainfully employed’, as the courts put it. Apparently, steady incomes won the race. The father could make hundreds of thousands of dollars from a single train installation, but Thomas was able to set his bills to autopay: the modern-day marker of success. The father wondered how the world had gotten here.
All Chayil’s dreams were buoyant, they floated upward with mirth; free of doubt, free of judgment. The father’s dreams bobbed with the weight of knowing. He’d always believed that knowledge was power, that knowing, no matter the cost, was preferable to not. Watching Chayil’s dreams ascend, he wondered if this were so. His child’s dreams continued to dance as they soared upward, untethered. It was as enviable as he was pitiable. Creating Chayil was the finest thing he’d ever accomplished. Not because he could see himself in Chayil. But because he could see in Chayil all that he’d never be. That was the beauty of love, he supposed.
Without warning, a mighty bolt of lightning ripped the sky in half, the subsequent crash of thunder fast behind it. The day had moments ago been idyllic; fashioned from one of Chayil’s dreams. The rapidity with which the sky darkened was in stark juxtaposition. The clouds overtook the sky with an ominous grace, the waning sunlight relinquished as if awed by their heroism. There was no combating the overtake of clouds. The father began dismantling Trainsville with far less grace than usual. Chayil looked up from her daisy chain at the sky, then at her father. There was something unfamiliar in her eyes.
Chayil was afraid.
Taking their cue from the look in their child’s eyes, the father quickened their pace. There would be no ice cream on the ride back to Thomas’ today. It was now a race between them and the indomitable storm. Except, this was more than an atmospheric anomaly; this was a cosmic disturbance of legendary proportion. Birds flew, screaming into the abyss. Ground creatures scurried, water creatures – did whatever water creatures did in a hurry. There was no time.
There was no time, the father said aloud. Chayil knew that the careless dismantling of the train set meant serious business. Everything that followed, did so in slow motion. At least, that’s how both father and child would describe it if given the chance. Strange, how quickly things can change. In the blink of an eye, one can find themselves completely at odds with all they’ve ever thought they’ve known.
Chayil’s memories were fragmented with the passing of time, regardless of the direction in which it passed. They heard their father calling out to them urgently. She ran over to help him pack up Trainsville, beginning with the landscape pieces, trees and mountains, then moving on to the buildings. Just as father taught her. She watched her father fumble with the controls of the train.
Chayil watched the train race around the track faster and faster as father smashed the power button repeatedly with his palm. When it was apparent the control was jammed, he ran inside to cut the power at the source. Chayil was nearly amused by the train’s reckless course. Nearly, except for the inexplicable feeling of rising dread. It began in the pit of her stomach and raced up her spine, causing the base of her skull to tingle. The hypnotic motion of the toy train transfixed Chayil. They couldn’t look away, even when they heard the scream from inside the cabin.
Traumatic memories are oftentimes anachronistically recalled, they’d been reassured some where when. Still, Chayil couldn’t shake the feeling that their father’s scream had nothing whatsoever to do with the lightning bolt that struck the cabin. Something altogether more sinister transpired, of that she was certain. Even so, the thing that Chayil recalled most vividly was the sound of the train as it zipped around frantically, occasionally skipping off the tracks.
Chayil came to: The train was rushing for or backwards perilously, occasionally skipping off the tracks. The strange pool of light that had previously beckoned was now gone. Chayil was met with a depth of darkness that defied them.
“Hello, who is there now?”
She wasn’t quite certain why she thought someone was there since she was able to hear about as much as she was able to see. The absence of sensation was profoundly disturbing.
“Hello! Answer me!”
There was no response for some moments, then another ostensibly disembodied voice called out, “Well, then. You again? No, you’re not a jumper at all. Hmmpf! Such entitlement!”
The manchild! So, he had made it to the third car after all. What had prompted this? Chayil had to know, “So, you worked up the nerve to leave your train car, finally?”
The manchild laughed, “Oh you are turned around, aren’t ya? Don’t even know where when you’re docked. A proper mess, you are!”
“I’ll beg your pardon! Who are you to call me a mess, you coward!”
“Coward, eh? I’m not the one who’s running away from myself in the wrong direction!”
“Explain yourself or leave me be!”
“Nothing to explain. Now that you’ve found your way back here, you’re gonna have to make another decision. Keep trying to find yourself in the wrong direction or go back the way you came.”
The realization ran through Chayil’s veins like ice water: the manchild hadn’t moved in the direction previously known as 'forward'. Rather, Chayil had moved in the direction previously known as 'backward'. And where were the dragonflies? Slowly, the train car became illuminated enough for her to make out the manchild’s silhouette. He was closer than they’d imagined. Chayil took a step away from him, uncertain how to name their conflicting emotions. Mostly, they were incredulous. They also felt something like fear, which could certainly mount to terror if left unchecked.
But the base emotion was rage. How dare he?
“Listen you, manchild. I’m sick of your mind games and double speak. You said you would help me, yet you’ve done nothing but talk in riddles and twist everything around. I don’t appreciate you trying to lead me astray. I’m growing rather impatient with you and have half a mind to swat you down like the annoying gnat you are!”
The manchild laughed heartily. It wasn’t a sarcastic laugh, rather one born of genuine amusement. Naturally, this enraged Chayil further.
She was about to push past him when he stopped laughing and said, “A gnat? Oh, that’s rich. Take your shots at me if you will. I am laughing because, quite honestly, you are a stray.”
Perplexed and increasingly irritated, Chayil insisted they were no such thing.
The manchild chortled and replied, “Ah, I see the problem. A stray can’t see when they’re astray. It’s like you said before, friend: this is not your place. Believe me or not, it’s your choice. I am telling you for the last time that you want to go that way,” he nodded and gestured in the direction previously known as backward. “That is, if you want to get back to the place you believe is yours.”
“Friend, indeed!” Chayil snapped. But then, she considered her tendency to ignore signs. Some where when in the before after, Chayil had struggled with this lesson. Signs would lead to bigger revelations. Where had they heard that? Had they been following the dragonflies with such singlemindedness that they’d missed other signs? Maybe even signs that were here now berating them? Or was the manchild merely another obstacle to hurdle past?
What was in her heart?
Astonishingly, the train began to slow, albeit only slightly. Something in the direction previously known as backward caught their eye. Chayil turned, and thought they saw a small greenish light flit across the car. No sooner had she spotted it than did it disappear. Shrugging her shoulders, she decided to go in the direction the manchild suggested, even if only to spite him. She would prove how woefully wrong he was. She took a few tentative steps and could feel a shift in the atmosphere; the temperature dipped in places, spiked in others.
The air surrounding the row of seats closest to the car door was icy. Chayil extended their arm and felt the air immediately surrounding the door; it was humid and sticky, more of a liquid than a gas. It was thoroughly unpleasant. What possible reason could one have for entering this primordial ooze? Then, Chayil reflected: primordial ooze? If she went back the way she came, as the manchild phrased it, how far back, exactly, would she go?
Chayil loathed the idea of stepping into the muggy airsoup. Still, they had to try. The other direction had yielded nothing, and they could always double back if it was either too risky or fruitless. Couldn’t they? Chayil supposed there was no certitude to anything anymore.
Chayil stepped into the airsoup and instantaneously felt faint and nauseated. The airsoup punched her in the gut, assaulting her viciously. It was all she could do to not immediately abort her mission. They’d almost rather be reprimand by the manchild. Whether due to pride or stubbornness, Chayil doubled down on her decision and pulled open the car door, only to be blasted with scorching air. Chayil again considered retreat but was arrested by a wall of sound.
She could hear the sound of the train screeching along the tracks, a metal-on-metal grinding that could likely be heard from some distance. She could hear the sounds of the wind howling and the train cars rattling as they swayed to and fro. But there was another sound that dominated; ear piercing, visceral. It was eerily familiar. Chayil stood at the portal between cars, struggling to identify the sound. The train lurched unexpectedly, throwing them off balance. They knew they had to keep moving.
Chayil moved without incident through one car to the next. Miraculously, this trend continued for some time. Throughout the next several cars, she met neither menchildren nor disembodied voices, neither flittering green lights, nor luminescent pools of blueish light. On and on they traveled until they nearly lost count. Chayil stopped, her hand upon the door, and re-counted: 32. They were about to enter the 33rd car. There was another shift in the atmosphere. Something felt. Odd. The air wasn’t as muggy or syrupy.
She realized she hadn’t seen a dragonfly in this direction. Not even one. Chayil steadied herself and pulled open the door. They were met with the same sounds: the metal-on-metal grinding, the rattling of the cars, the wind. She also heard the same unidentifiable yet familiar sound. She lingered. Chayil was on the precipice of something: a greater revelation.
Finally, it occurred to Chayil what the other sound was: it was the comingling of lighting striking the wood cabin and her father’s scream.
Chayil stood, straddling the gap between cars, watching the graveled ground pass sluggishly beneath the train. The train was moving at a seemingly glacial pace. At least, that’s how she would describe it if anyone asked. Chayil recalled hearing that the train was an ally, a coconspirator abetting their escape. To where when they could only speculate. Then, Chayil understood what they needed to do. Still straddling the gap, they inched their way to the train's edge, one hand upon each car. Chayil counted to three, yelled, “I regret nothing!", closed her eyes.
And leapt.
She hit the ground harder than she would’ve imagined, striking it first with her right shoulder. Despite having done her best to tuck and roll, she could feel the blade of her shoulder dislocate upon impact. Chayil made four full barrel rolls across the dusty terrain before a large boulder broke their motion. The boulder struck them in the back of the head, causing them to lose consciousness.
Everything went black.
Chayil awoke on the banks of a pond. They couldn’t recall walking to the pond, removing their clothing, rubbing mud over their entire body, or falling asleep on their back under a fig tree. But then, things did oftentimes occur in the most curious ways. Being accustomed to curious things, when the dragonflies flew off and coalesced into the shape of an arrow in the distance, Chayil remained unimpressed.
Nevertheless, once she stood and began making her way toward the dragonfly arrow, a sense of urgency overcame her; Chayil’s heart began to race. For reasons they didn’t understand, they knew it was imperative that they make it to the arrow as quickly as possible.
Alice in Neonland
There was little way to tell whether the young woman was actually listening to the customer, or simply placating her with smiles and nods. The retail shop was full of gaudy neon trinkets, picture frames, junk jewelry, oversized T’s with vaguely sexualy innuendos, cheap plastic sunglasses. It was an aggressive explosion of color; an assault on good taste. The young woman pointed the customer to the back of the store with a frustratingly vague gesture and resumed staring vacantly at her phone. She stood in stark contrast to her surroundings, clad in dark, muted tones. She didn’t look like the type of person who’d set foot into a shop like this willingly.
Tracy bounced in, full of energy and charisma, looking to buy erotic straws for her bestie’s bachlorette party. They were going to Get. So. Wasted. Going to a drag show was such a clever idea, Tracy congratulated herself. So edgy, so risque! She took a lap around the shop, but didn’t see what she was looking for immediately, so approached the shop girl.
“Hiii, there!” Tracy began, pushing her neon pink sunglasses on top of her head. She flashed her award winning smile and tucked an errant highlighted blonde lock behind her ear. The shop girl nodded her head almost imperceptibly without raising her eyes from her phone.
Tracy was annoyed, but she wasn’t going to allow this surly shop girl to dampen her spirits. She had a bachelorette party to plan.
“Um, yeah. Hiii! I was looking for some…novelty straws…?”
The shop girl finally looked up from her phone. She had a strong jawline and an angular nose. Her hair was brown, but Tracy could tell that it was thick and wavy. If she let it down and blew it out, she could rock a super cute beachy moment, Tracy thought. Her eyes were small, but a splash of color on her lids could really make them pop. A little gloss on her lips, maybe a stronger brow to counterbalance the jawline, a little contouring on the nose - ”
“Lemme guess. Bachelorette party?” She asked, shocking Tracy out of her makeover reverie.
“Yeah! OMG how did you know?
“Wild guess,” She rolled her eyes.
The shop girl met her gaze so unironically and without malice that Tracy concluded she must be joking. Deciding she wanted to be in on the joke rather than the brunt of it, Tracy started laughing robustly, slapping the shop girl on the shoulder while quipping,
“Oh aren’t you funny! I love the cynical, droll vibe you’ve got going on.”
The shop girl looked at her arm where she’d been slapped, then up at Tracy. For a split second, Tracy was sure the girl was going to end her. Unexpectedly, she put down her phone, stood from her stool, and walked from behind the counter.
“Go on,” She put a hand on the small of Tracy’s back, pushing her forward, “The crap you’re looking for is back there,” she finished, pointing to the back corner of the shop.
She proceeded to walk behind Tracy, touching the small of her back occasionally. The act struck Tracy as familiar, intimate; like they’d been girlfriends for years. Or maybe she was going to end her after all. Tracy nervously stopped mid-gait and turned, causing the shop girl to bump into her. Instead of taking a step back, she merely stood there, looking down at Tracy. Tracy noticed then how tall and svelte she was. Honestly, she had great bones. With some fashion and makeup help, she could be a real knockout.
“Back there,” the shop girl pointed, “In the corner. Behind that red curtain.”
“You’re uh, not going to murder me and harvest my organs, are you?” Tracy ventured, not entirely sure if she was joking.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, putting her hands on Tracy’s waist and spinning her toward the curtain. She gave her another little push,
“I need to know your blood type first,” she couldn’t help smiling as she replied.
Tracy stepped through the red curtain and held it for the girl, who followed her in, pulling the curtain shut behind them.
“Ha.Ha. You’re a laugh riot. You know - ” Tracy stopped short as she looked around. She was surrounded by a sundry of items: lingerie, movies, blow up dolls, fur lined handcuffs, plastic toys, vibrating toys. Against the back wall there was a row of leather straps and devices, the purposes of which she couldn’t engender in her wildest fantasies. Her gaze inadvertently lingered there as the shop girl moved in closely behind her. She was so close that Tracy could feel her breath, warm on the back of her neck.
“Ah, so you’re interested in the bondage gear. Innnnteresting, indeed.”
Tracy spun around, “What? No! I don’t even know what that stuff is!”
The girl smiled blithely, “Anyway, If you have questions, feel free to ask.”
With that, she turned and left Tracy alone in the sex room behind the curtain. Tracy grabbed a handful of erotic straws and exited quickly. She made her way back to the counter, but the girl was with another customer. Tracy waited at a respectful distance while she rang the woman up. The woman was doing her best to make small talk while the shop girl smiled and nodded in her inoffensively disinterested manner.
Once the woman was gone, Tracy approached the counter and handed her the straws without making eye contact. She could feel her checks growing red, and she wasn’t sure exactly what was causing her to blush.
“So, that gonna do it for ya?”
Tracy nodded, pretending to be interested in the stack of books behind the counter.
The girl pressed her, “You’re sure you don’t have. Any questions? Nothing else I can. Help you with?”
Tracy’s breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t gay. Sure, she didn’t have a boyfriend. Hadn’t had a boyfriend. In a while. She was busy with grad school and work and. She didn’t have to explain herself to anyone, she asserted. Was the shop girl hitting on her? No. That couldn’t be. She was messing with her. Tracy shook her head and averted her gaze, laughing nervously. Man, was she a dummy! Of course the unassuming shop girl who could secretly be a runway model was fucking with her. Tracy couldn’t make eye contact with her now. She felt hopelessly silly.
She continued to gaze at the pile of books behind the counter while fumbling for her wallet. Unexpectedly, her attention was arrested by what appeared to be a rather rare, hardbound edition of one of her favorite books,
“Holly crap! What kind of edition of Alice in Wonderland is that? Is that yours?”
She smirked and half turned, “Yeah, that’s mine. She reached over and picked it up. I don’t know if it’s worth anything, but it’s the only one like it I have ever seen. Check this out!”
She held it so Tracy could admire the cover, “Alice in Wonderland. Right?” She then thumbed through the pages, to about the halfway point of the book, and opened it to a red velour page. Midway on the page in calligraphy was written, “The End.” Tracy was perplexed. There was still half a book’s worth of pages remaining. On the following page, also red velour, something was written in the same fancy script, but Tracy couldn’t make it out.
“Watch this,” she said as she flipped the book upside down. As she did, Tracy could see that calligraphy on the second page, now right side up, also read, “The End.” Tracy gasped, to which the girl replied, “I know. Right?”
She flipped from the red velour page back to the first, then shut the book so that Tracy could admire the cover,
“Through the Looking Glass!” Tracy exclaimed. “Wow. That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen! Where did you find it?”
She smiled and winked, “If I told ya, I’d have to kill ya.”
“Oh, so that’s how the organ harvesting comes into play!” Tracy quipped, and they both laughed.
“But, seriously, you’re into this kinda thing?” she raised an eyebrow, “I’m legit surprised.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s a literary classic. It’s like. It’s like Dracula.” Tracy ventured.
Intrigued, the girl encouraged, “Is that right? Explain.”
“Well, it’s like a story that has been retold and remade so many times in film and theater that everyone’s familiar with the tropes. So, if you ask someone if they’ve read Alice in Wonderland, they’ll say no, but I’ve seen this or that version of it. And then, if you ask them whether they know the story, they’re like, ‘ya, ya, the Caterpillar, the Mad Hatter, the Cheshire Cat’, but that’s all they really know. The literary genius of it is completely lost on them. Same thing, only maybe worse, happens with Dracula. If you ask people if they’ve read it, they'll start rattling off tropes: wooden crosses, can’t go outside in daylight, garlic, they’re glittery.” She stopped to punctuate her point with an eye roll before continuing, “Very few people have actually read Dracula though. And, wow. It’s a shame because Brahm Stoker was a massively gifted writer. His descriptive passages, the narrative. Just, so genius.”
Tracy snapped out of it to find the girl gazing at her with an amused smile.
“Well, alright then. I’m impressed. It’s nice to meet you. Marianne,” she said while extending her hand.
Tracy smiled and welcomed the handshake, “It’s nice to meet you too, Marianne. Tracy.”
The two young women stood there awkwardly holding hands, when suddenly the door opened. A tall, athletic woman with a commanding presence entered the room. She was swarthy and had a hip snappy walk. She sauntered over to Marianne and threw her arms around her neck, embracing her warmly before kissing her on the mouth. She glanced over at Tracy. Tracy panicked and started to walk off without the straws.
Much to her surprise, rather than mock or ignore her, Marianne smiled and introduced her, “Katherine, this is my new friend, Tracy. Tracy, Katherine.”
Tracy mumbled a greeting and attempted to make her departure as quick and painless as possible. She felt like an idiot. She wasn’t even sure why. She was just so. Uncomfortable.
Marianne nodded and said, “Right, well, like I said, the new shipment arrives later this afternoon. So, you could come back later today. Or tomorrow.”
Tracy felt her cheeks redden as she mumbled something about how that would be fine before turning and all but running from the shop.
Clearly perplexed, Katherine turned to Marianne and asked, “Ok, What. Was. That? Are you into basic blonde neon beaches now?” She poked Marianne in the stomach, causing her to giggle. “Huh? Should I be worried?” To which Marianne laughed and told her she was cray. Katherine persisted, “What did she want anyway? Oh wait - let me guess! She was shopping for a bachelorette party! Did she want straws shaped like male genitalia?” She made a grossed out face.
“Yuck. Right? You know I hate selling those. So dumb!” Marianne laughed.
The door opened and a family with a kid who wanted beach toys entered. Marianne sighed, rolled her eyes, donned her best customer service smile and escorted them to the family section.
Katherine winked and said, “I’ll be in the back. You know, getting inspiration.”
Marianne spent the rest of the day secretly hoping Tracy would return. She’d never met anyone as interested in classic literature as she was. Sure, Tracy was yet another neon wearing bleach blonde, but. Somehow, different; compelling.
The day dragged on without Tracy’s return. Mairianne sighed heavily and began closing up: she hated to admit that she was more than a little disappointed. As she was turning off the lights, she heard a tentative knock at the door.
She peaked through the door blinds and saw Tracy standing there, holding a stack of books. Marianne smiled and opened the door.
Milk and Honey
Slipshod crunch - there goes another. From the back, take that one or it’ll rot. Ya can’t make the older ones comply and there’s too much blood in the honey. And they’ll tell you it’s nonsense, that it doesn’t fit convention. But why would you want it to? Accordingly, those were only some of the lessons I learned from Delvina before she decided to turn in her mortal coil and hit the heavenly highway. There hadn’t been much talk about it prior, and we all know the ranch will be fine without her, but the garden and the apiary might fall to ruin. That will screw us all.
What then, when too many of the bees die? To me, that seems like a less immediate issue than the bulls we need to stud. Hell, I’m just a hired hand, what do I know, right? Except when things talk, I listen and, 'round matters of insanity anyway, I’m as open-minded as I am well-versed. Things tend to take circuitous paths, and I often find myself in the thick of the mix. Like with that damned blood in the honey incident I’ll never live down.
But to be honest, I can’t say I care much. Losing a finger isn’t as bad as losing faith in someone because they’ve gone and done their job half-assedly again. If ya can’t figure out how to use your full ass, don’t bother me later when it all falls to shit. If it were up to me, we’d outsource the apiary and focus on the ranch. Too many bulls to stud and do ya think anyone enjoys doing that?
Could be that crazy uncle Larry enjoys it, but he wasn’t quite right to begin with. 17 dozen mule kicks to the head later and he’s wearing a tinfoil helmet to keep the microwaves out. Because, you see, that’s how they read your mind. Paranoia 101; there is truly no rest for the wicked. He routinely stays awake until his body systematically shuts down. I’ve seen him slump over on more than one occasion, mid-sentence, while catching tadpoles for breakfast. Who eats stuff like that? Would he do that kinda shit even if he was right in the head? I always wonder.
What doesn’t break us makes us they say in NA. Or maybe that’s church. Or that one car commercial with that one dude who had a talk show in the 90’s. Someone, somewhere once said something, and I’ll be damned if I know it now, but the gist of it is what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.
And that’s what I’d thought, at first. Living lonely off the land for too long maybe I get to thinking about things that don’t much interest other folks. Butterflies and dragonflies swarm about my head, sets me to thinking of how the rainfall doesn’t wash away the bad things, just changes their scent a little to throw the animals off. Point is, the things that don’t break us don’t necessarily make us stronger. Sometimes they make us stronger, but sometimes they just make us…well, different than we were before. And I suppose that’s alright too. Necessary even.
So, I’m just wandering around with nine fingers and head full of uncomfortable ideas about the lives of things, about how animals don’t fuss as much as humans, even the ones born to slaughter. Don’t think they don’t know better. It is genetically programmed, the knowledge they are bred to kill. Don’t ask me how I know that. Other than, like I said, when things talk, I listen.
Too many fruitcakes, fruit flies swarming over them as the fruit jelly oozes from within. Fetid flies and fetid lies. Because we all know there was bad blood in the family and how deep that can run. Wounds heal slowly when they aren’t tended to. Blood oranges and blood baths, hollow tears and hollow laughs. And me? Hell, I just walk away slowly. Getting in my thinking spell about how all funerals and wakes are pretty much the same. Delvina would reject all this pomp outright. Gimme my corncob pipe, she’d holler. And the shadows would grow long as the day considered yielding to dusk. All those things happening in consequence of one another, as if they had some kind of choice in the matter. They never did, and it hurt to pretend.
Didn’t use to hurt, but then I didn’t use to have to pretend as much. There is something in the middle of this particular uncomfortable thought that tells me the cost of living is sometimes too high. It would be different if we had more purpose. Like the animals on the ranch, for example. Bulls stud, that’s what they do. It is their only purpose. Sure, we eat them in the end, use their hide and every part we can, all resourceful like, but without the ability to stud, they are useless. If I had one clear purpose like that, well, then I’d have ten fingers, wouldn’t I? It’s an inexorable certainty that haunts me.
But life isn’t about would-bes, so I walk down to the gully and try to imagine Delvina in a different time. Somewhere warm and soft where her body is fuller of life than it had been toward the end. Then, I realize this is only another daydream of would-bes and I think it’s funny how hypocritical I’ve become. Hell, we all have. Because Delvina was sick as hell, there was no denying that. But none of us believe that she died of natural causes. Not that anyone is talking about it.
Brambling salmon berries overripened with regret as much as anything. Somehow more putrid because of it and the sun-filled sky too wide with possibilities to contemplate. Pink and blue, the dense lush green, full of unknown dangers and pleasures in alternate hues. Too much time wasted while the bulls are in rut and something just east of catastrophic looms on the horizon of that too-wide sky. I feel it in my bones. Nonetheless, the bulls will be culled right back into the herd, bastard things they are, denied their purpose, an affront to God, really. Nothing I can do about it though. Nothing anyone can do right now. Not with poor Delvina barely cold in the ground.
It was her property, so she found a loophole in the law that allowed her to be buried there, straight into the ground, no embalming fluid or coffin. Good old fashioned worm food, that’s what I oughtta be, she’d cackle. I knew she wasn’t joking because I listen, but it’s a fight with the mortician all the same. Big coffin trying to make a buck, I reckon. The business of dying and all.
It’s as normal as it is disgusting, profiting from someone’s grief like that. Or maybe disgusting that it’s normal. But again, what do I know? I only think about how different things would be if it weren’t for the temperament of bulls. Bull-headed was an expression for a reason. Hell, maybe that’s why Delvina thought to raise them to begin with. The inherent obstinacy of things always did challenge rather than deter her. Damned admirable trait, if anyone bothers to notice. Mostly they don’t, people walking around shrouded in self-importance as they typically are. If it weren’t for my daydreams, I don’t suspect I’d like anyone much. In my fancies, people are always nicer, more genuine. If daydreaming is an artform, then I am mastering it.
The roar of bombers in the static night. Ripping the sky open like a vein under scalpel. Apiaries are deafening in a way most can’t imagine; the buzz creates a roar creates a vibration creates a sensation that you feel as much as hear. It pulsates through your nervous system. Deep, longing pulsations that get some people aroused. Not me, but some. It tickles me to imagine Delvina in there, getting aroused and not knowing what to do with that sensation on account of her being what they call asexual. Course, I never exactly understood what she meant by that. Strange to think that someone in the business of breeding had no interest whatsoever in sex.
But who knows? Maybe that’s why she was into it. Could be that was the only sex she ever had, pollinating and inseminating. I suppose it makes a strange kinda sense. At least, as much as anything else. As I sit and contemplate, it occurs to me as rather beautiful, poetic even. Something about the way she could create life without ever compromising herself. Hell, for all I know she had a messiah complex and a bunch of strange kinks. But it made the milk and honey. And that was her gift.
Anyway, I’m not here to judge. I’m just the hired help, walking around with nine fingers, a few jars of bloodied honey, and a bunch of uncomfortable ideas about the lives of things.
Unamerican
Alex squinted up at the clock in the hallway outside their room. Dinner would arrive in 15 minutes. Alex stood, stretching. They’d slept nearly all day again; it made them nauseous. They didn’t even have much of an appetite, but knew they should force down what they could and save the rest. They’d missed breakfast and knew there might not be one tomorrow. Breakfasts depended on who was working. The workers weren’t obligated to bring anything. Most brought something simple, bread or oatmeal. A few brought nothing and made no apologies. One particularly odious individual never brought food for them, but made a show of eating their lavish meals in the hallway where everyone could see and smell the food. It was a creatively sadistic form of torture.
There was only one person who brought breakfast every time. Real, nourishing meals, with fresh fruits and vegetables. Alex considered they must either pay for such items out of pocket, which would be extraordinarily expensive, or they had connections. A third possibility remained: They had an illegal garden. It was the most plausible explanation, but for some reason, Alex couldn’t imagine Blake gardening. It seemed absolutely incongruous with everything that Alex knew about them, which admittedly wasn’t much. Still, Alex had an impossible time imagining Blake’s 6’5’’, muscular frame knelt over a bed of tomatoes, delicately pruning them.
Whenever Alex thought of Blake, and they did think of Blake more often than was wise to admit, they thought of Blake pumping iron to Metallica, or some relic of a metal band. Maybe drinking scotch, all fancy, in a proper glass while watching westerns and smoking cigars. Or maybe drinking beer while watching wrestling. Definitely something more butch than watering turnips. But Alex supposed one never really knew. Take them, for example.
Alex had long, often complimented hair and was slight of frame with a narrow waist and broad shoulders. Alex had never had much muscle tone. Being naturally thin, they’d never seen the point in working out. Of course, Alex tried working out sometimes now to help pass the indeterminable hours of mind-numbing boredom, but was too calorically challenged to do much. They simply didn’t have enough energy, hence all the sleeping.
At any rate, despite being so slight of frame and possessing what one would consider traditionally feminine features, apart from occasionally wearing black eyeliner, Alex was not the slightest bit interested in appearing femmine. They wondered if Blake was misleading that way too. Maybe their well-muscled physique and surly demeanor were decoys sheltering a sensitive soul. They must be compassionate. Or, at the very least, have compassion for the people that were housed there. Otherwise why bother with the healthy meals?
The only days that Alex looked forward to were the days that Blake worked.
The problem was, if Blake had a fixed schedule, Alex hadn’t been able to decipher it. Due to the lack of calendars, newspapers, or any other such paraphernalia that would indicate the date, it was nearly impossible to mark the passing of time. Alex had done an esteemable job for the first few months, but life in near solitary confinement messes with a person’s sense of time. As far as Alex could tell, they’d been there for at least a year. At this point, it was fair to assume that The Divided States of America had lost the war. And no one was coming to save them.
Suddenly, there was someone at their door. Alex looked up, and was rather shocked to see Blake standing there brandishing a veritable bounty.
“What’s up, friend?” Blake asked playfully.
“I don’t understand! It’s not morning yet. Is it?” Alex stammered.
Blake laughed, “No, no, friend. It is evening. See,” pointing to the window across the hall, “it’s already dark out.”
Alex heaved a sigh of relief, “I thought it looked dark out. I just wasn’t sure if -”
Blake cut them off, “If one of those other jerks who works here was playing a trick on you again? Covering the window so that you lose track of time even more? Not me. I told them I think you should have windows in your rooms. I even argued that you should be let into the yard more often to get some fresh air, some vitamin D. Nothing grows big and strong without sunlight.”
Alex was struck by two things: The reference to sunlight and growing seemed to underpin their idea that Blake did in fact have an illegal garden. Alex found that encouraging. That could indicate that Blake didn’t play by the rules. The second thing was disconcerting: Who wanted to keep them in darkness? It was Alex’s impression that they were doing the bare minimum to keep them alive, and they could stop doing so any time they chose. Yet here was Blake, ostensibly one of them, bringing them a feast and pleading their case for more sunlight. Alex wondered what was really happening.
Blake’s manner was unchanged, however. They smiled easily and made small talk eagerly while laying out the food, describing what everything was and how it was prepared.
Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right and asked, “I shouldn’t be concerned or anything, should I? You’re never here at night. I mean, if this were my - my last meal, or something, you’d let me know. Right?”
Blake laughed before realizing that Alex was serious, “Friend, nothing like that is happening,” they raised their hand, “on my honor.”
“But - would you?” Alex ventured, “If something like that were happening, would you tell me?”
“It's nothing like that,” Blake’s expression was gentle, but sobering. Blake then added, “But, yes. If it was your last meal, I would tell you. Ok?”
Alex nodded, and Blake said, “Now, eat and grow strong! I’ll be back in a couple of hours, maybe less. Please, Alex, enjoy your food,” and with that, Blake turned and left.
That was another thing! Alex thought. Blake rarely ever called Alex by name. It was always friend, my friend, or sometimes partner or pal, causing Alex to wonder if Blake had learned most of their English from late night television. Or maybe they did watch westerns. Who said partner in a non-romantic sense?
The food was delicious, and Alex finished eating quickly. They sat in the armchair to read until Blake returned. Sometimes after eating, they’d just go back to bed. When Blake was around, Alex was always hopeful that they’d have a few hours of conversation. Blake was the only one who talked to Alex conversationally. A few of the others were polite, but terse. Others barely managed forced civility. But Blake seemed to genuinely enjoy Alex’s company. Alex wondered if they'd be friends under different circumstances, but decided they likely would not.
It occurred to Alex then that they did consider Blake a friend. They hadn’t at first, but the word was in such heavy rotation in Blake’s vernacular, it eventually began to feel authentic. Odd, really, how using a word empowered it; manifested it.
Alex had stopped wondering about the outside world much, since even Blake wouldn’t - or couldn’t - reveal anything about what was transpiring beyond Alex’s room. Alex could only surmise that the world had fallen apart, and that if they weren’t released soon, they never would never be.
The original story was that former Americans from both parties had been rounded up and put in these safehouses for their own protection. Seemed silly now that they’d believed that. To be fair, much like Alex, most of the former Americans rounded up were diplomats, embassy workers, politicians, doctors, and the like. In short, people that had been considered ‘valuable’ to society. When Alex had moved to Oustlandia five years prior, there had been a peace treaty between Oustlandia and the Divided States of America. Moreover, Oustlandia had been fierce allies of the DSA and offered them asylum when the Sovereign States of America inevitably launched the next civil war.
With time, Alex caught wind of the fact that only a few of the safehouse residents were from the DSA; the majority were from the SSA. This necessarily led Alex to wonder with whom exactly Oustlandia was in alliance. While it might have been a ‘gather them all and let the Ambassador sort it out later’ situation, Alex discovered that most members of the SSA had already been released within the first few months. This led Alex to contemplate the grim possibility that they were not being protected, but imprisoned.
Alex was fully immersed in one of their all time favorite books, The Dumbhouse, by John Burnside, when Blake returned. Rather than entering the room, Blake stood at the doorway and whispered, “Partner, come with me!”
Alex rose, tentatively, “Come with you? What do you mean?”
“What do you think? You wanna go outside or what? I have something for you. But you must come now!”
Alex sprang from the armchair and followed Blake down the hall toward the yard door. As they walked past each room, Alex tried to look inside, but most of the doors were shut. Alex was wondering where the other workers and residents were and why everything was so quiet, when Blake whispered that everyone was in the common room for movie night. Alex couldn’t remember the last time they’d been allowed a movie night. Blake unlocked theyard door and gave Alex a firm push outside. Alex froze, certain that they were being set up: Blake had tricked them! Blake was going to flip on the yard lights and Alex would find themself in front of a firing squad.
Instead, Blake stepped out behind Alex and shut the door behind them. Blake pointed at 2 lawn chairs at the edge of the yard, “There, pal. Take a seat. I have many surprises.”
Alex sat in one of the chairs and Blake plopped into the one next to them, “No, my friend, like this,” Blake said, reclining their chair.
Alex followed suit and immediately understood why Blake had suggested it: The stars were innumerable, the sky yawned on forever, the stars covering every inch of the vast canvas. The sky-canvas was hued in depths of blackness, the stars brilliantly interspersing it; giving it purpose, hope. It was one of the most spectacular things Alex had ever witnessed. Blake pulled a flask from their inside pocket, smiling and nodding, encouraging Alex to take a swig.
“Whiskey, my friend. Drink with me and share this beauty,” Blake said, equally mesmerized by the sky.
As Blake handed the flask to Alex, their fingers touched briefly. Alex considered how comfortable they were with Blake’s touch. There was nothing withheld; no artifice, no need for it. Alex took a swig and marveled at the sky, the grandeur of it bringing a tear to their eye. Alex looked over and saw Blake staring up at the sky, weeping without shame.
“It all comes to an end tonight, my dear friend,” Blake began. Noticing Alex’s anxious expression, Blake reached over and took their hand, “You leave here. Tonight.”
Alex was dumbfounded, “You mean - I’m going home?” Alex made no effort to remove their hand from Blake’s.
Blake gave a short laugh, “You have no home, partner. The DSA and SSA are both gone. Oustlandia wants to terminate all surviving former Americans, from both sides. Never again, they say.” Blake looked at Alex, “Can’t say I blame them.”
Alex wondered, “Where will I go, then?”
Blake shrugged, “Away from here. Doesn’t matter. You will be free.”
The two sat together in silence, appreciating the night sky until a truck arrived. The pair stood, still holding hands.
“They will have clothes, a passport, and money for you.”
“You. You planned this? For me? But. Why?”
Blake shook their head before pulling Alex in for a warm embrace, “Because from all of this, some good must remain. Grow big and strong in the sun, Alex. Now, you must go! Goodbye, my true friend.” Blake pushed Alex toward the gate. The person with the truck opened it from the outside, and gestured for Alex to get in the back. Alex turned and looked once more at Blake, heartbroken that they would never again see their friend.
Blake waved and wiped their eyes. Alex held a hand to their heart, then climbed into the bed of the truck. As the canopy of stars sped across the endless night sky, ushering freedom for the Last American, Alex wept.
Never Stranger Than I
I wonder what would come out of me; if I sliced myself
right now
I giggle mischievously
As I drag the dull blade along my arm
Would it be blood?
A nebulous tide?
Butterflies?
Many humans wonder
As humans often do
What actually is me
And what actually
Is you
I am sitting on a makeshift sofa, writing my next great novel
A philosophy teacher I had a massive intellectual crush on
Once confided in me,
Over a pack of cigarettes and bottle of bourbon,
That I could be the next great American novelist
If I weren’t a hopeless alcoholic
Can you even imagine? I hope that you can't
For if you can
We
The collective We
Have failed you
Gravely
There is no apology to offer
What can I say?
It's your problem, not mine.
I walk to the kitchen and heat the kettle
I pour myself a cuppa that good ole lesbian tea
May as well jump on me ole Harley
And head to the teahouse
For another slam-poetry competition
I grab my neckerchief
And briefly contemplate tucking it into my back pocket
Just for the queer sport of it
I can’t decide whether to smash the beer bottle
Into his temple
Or into his eye
He deserves both
If I have anything to say in the matter
I always have something to say in the matter
The poor ole fucker was an idiot
And arguably deserves to be blinded
He doesn’t deserve to see another woman
Ever again
But if I blind him
He’ll never learn
Alas!
Also
It would be really bloody
Stabbing someone in the eye seems
Extraneous
Even to me
I laugh as l leave
Despite my best effort
Now, they will begin to take me seriously
I think
As I shut the door behind myself
I walk to the bus stop
Everyone rides the bus to nowhere
I think as I board
I sit next to a guy
He smells
Like he’s been awake for a few too many years
That he’s lived to regret
Not caring what the guy has been through
I decide to take take my supplements
I take three yellow pills
That seems appropriate
Now If I can just make it through
One more day
That seems an impossible feat
I look at my feet
I notice a few specks of blood
I wonder if anyone else will notice
I cast a quick glance around
And realize people are only as aware of me
As I am of them:
Tangentially
We’re all sleepwalking here
This is all so base
This all so divine
I decided to leave him blind
In the end
It wasn’t nearly as gory as I’d imagined
Things are rarely as bad as you imagine
I am holy
Impervious
But subject to man’s laws nonetheless
I get off at whatever stop this is
It’s good enough
And fun that I don’t know where I am
I never know where I am
But I do need to wipe the blood from my shoe
Just settle down
Get married
Have children
Buy a house
Do all the things they say
But they say so many things
And I have not so many years left
Everyone thinks there will be something more
Than this
I use my neckerchief to wipe away the blood
I’ll have to part with it
I sigh
Another one bites the dust
Not the man
The neckerchief
It’s the third I’ve parted with
In as many weeks
Why am I so weak?
When it comes to women, anyway
I am fearless
Reckless
Ambivalent
And hopeless
When in love
But I’m never really in love
Am I?
It’s always unrequited
Life is a lonely game
But it’s time to play
So I walk into the nearest building
It’s a hotel with an all-night bar
What luck
I don’t believe in luck
Any more than I believe in fate
But these dreams keep following me
So I’ll go inside and have a drink
Talk with a stranger
No stranger than I
The barkeep smiles inoffensively
As I enter and sit at the bar
This indicates I’m open for conversation
It’s a rule as tacit
As it is ubiquitous
And, as it turns out,
Tonight
I want to talk
I want to tell my story
I give people so many chances to understand
My story
Too many
To no avail
People are the worst
And best thing
About living here
Within 10 minutes a man sits next to me
He pretends that he wants to know my story
In hopes of fucking me
Debasing me
We both know I won’t put out
But his ego won’t allow him to stop
And my boredom is fathomless
So we continue
What brings you here?
He asks with no real interest
Nothing
I reply
It’s the most honest thing I’ve said
In years
It’s easier with strangers
Because they’re never stranger
Than I
It’s shift change and the next barkeep
Coming on
Is coming on to me
I think little of it
At first
Although I do enjoy flirting
And she’s pretty enough
In an inoffensive way
After a few more back and forths
And a few more whiskeys
I decide she’s attractive
Maybe she really wants to know my story
I think
As I knock back another shot
In that way that makes women hot
I don’t understand why
I only know that it’s affective
She asks where I was born
Says her name is Tamara
I can call her Tammy
I won’t
I hate that name
So I call her Love
Because what’s in a name
After all?
Love, I’d rather hear about you
I say
Disarming her
Like I do
The best way through me
Is through you
I never thought I’d find myself here
But that doesn't matter
I understand enough to know
I’ll never understand myself
But still
I give this Love a chance
To know my dreams
My secrets
Me
Even knowing it will never be
Who knows
I think
Again
As I drink her in
Now drinking Gin
Anything is possible
She winks at me in way
I’d once disdained
I want to see through her
But I can’t
Or won’t
Either way
I don’t
These things are as trivial
As the kisses we steal
Between patrons
Gin
And lies
The game is afoot
And I always win
But I rarely drink gin
When she asks me to stay
I know that I will
I wait in her hotel room
A perk of her job
I shower before I nap
Which is good
There is more blood than I thought
There always is
I dream of angels
I don’t believe in angels
If angels were real
They’d lead me to my soulmate
Rather than this befouled room
Where am I?
I awake to her touch
More tender than I’d imagined
But then
I hadn’t imagined much
Time to fuck
I take my time with her
Am tender in return
I’m not sure why
There is no why
I enjoy being with her
In ways that defy logic
There is no logic
For a few hours
I don’t want to
Gouge anyone’s eyes out
No matter how deserving they are
Slit anyone’s throat
No matter how lovely it is
For a few hours
I don’t want to die
All of life comes rushing back to me
In a torrent
I realize
I’ve never understood anything
Because I understood too much
Too soon
People don’t normally people
This way
And that’s the problem
About caring too much
About not caring enough
When all the world is quiet
When it all
Fucks off
Just a little
When I am left alone
With myself
I realize
Every fucking day
I am more
And less
Of myself
Than I was before
While fucking Love
I can’t remain disembodied
For the first time
And I hate it
So I fuck Love harder
Instead of retreating
Love pulls me closer
I whisper
More to myself
I can’t
You can
I don’t want to
But you will
You don’t know me
No one does
You don’t want me
I do
This is the most Love
Has ever spoken to me
Or ever will
Because I will kill Love
I always do
Alexander and the Folding Screen
Alexander quickly flipped through the leather-bound anthology of Persian poetry searching for his favorite. Although committed to memory, the page was dog-eared, well worn with affection, and stained with the plum color of his modestly priced wine. Of course, his taste had once been more discerning but he currently lacked the financing to support expensive habits. In the end, Alexander reasoned, wine was wine, in which one might become lost, if only for a few fleeting moments. Cheap or not, if consumed in massive quantities, wine provided the same hollow refuge he’d once retrieved from sleep. Of course, it had been ages since he’d slept to dream, he reminded himself as he exhaled, inadvertently extinguishing the candle upon his desk. Alexander cursed himself for his drunkenness as he searched his desk drawers for matches.
Suddenly, his attention rested upon an elongated, white figure across the parlour, luminescent and silken. It seemed to possess a voice, whispering in his ear like a lover entreating nostalgia. His head swam with visions, half memories, half inventions, carried by the current of wine. A solitary thought beached itself upon the remnants of his mind and lay there, bloated, until he was forced to venture forth and prod it with a skeletal finger. The elongated figure obliged and revealed itself as a possession. How mundane. The seemingly ethereal turned out to be the obvious once again, and I am but a fool, Alexander thought as he smiled attempting to embody cynicism.
A folding screen he’d purchased some seven years before, while in Mexico City with Lauren. Had it been seven years? Alex leaned back in his chair and began to calculate. He sighed, ran his fingers through his unkempt hair and fumbled for a Gauloises in his breast pocket. He found the cigarette, but then remembered that he still had no matches. He spied the dying embers in the fireplace and briefly contemplated how desperately he yearned to feel nicotine rush through his bloodstream. Badly enough to make the sojourn? He cautiously rose, stumbling towards the fireplace with ponderous steps. He knelt before the fireplace and realized that his gaze had once again returned to the folding screen. The waning firelight cast sullen shadows upon it, which danced as fire-cast shadows often do. Nothing spectacular or abnormal per se, yet the emotion was undeniably present: sorrow.
Ironic, Alex mused as he pulled the Gauloises from his lip and held it towards the ember. His gaze shifted from the cigarette to the folding screen and back. If only Lauren could see him at this moment, completely enthralled with that damned folding screen! On how many occasions had a discussion pertaining to the origin of that screen become an argument? He wished either that she had not been so cruel whilst making her point, or that enough time would allow him to forget. Of course, the bitterness was fleeting. Her love of both history and being correct endeared her memory to him.
“Lauren,” he whispered, “I am still a stranger to myself. I lost myself in you and never found the desire or will to recreate myself once you left. Now, I am growing old alone, just as you often predicted I would.”
Alex held the charred wood from the fireplace to his cigarette and inhaled. He was lost in memory. That folding screen had usually acted as a prelude to fantastic sexual encounters with Lauren. Oftentimes, she would enter the parlour while Alex sat at his desk chronicling thousands of orchid hybrids for his book. She would saunter in, humming or singing softly; she’d been graced with the most seductively raspy voice. Lauren had known this and used it to her advantage. She’d claimed that with her voice alone, she could bewitch anyone or thing. She could beguile any creature to do her bidding, even if her intentions were murderous. Alex had never once thought to question those claims. He had, instead, clandestinely considered himself fortunate to be a victim to her cham.
On the night he was recalling, however, they hadn’t ended up passionately ravaging one another, as was their custom. The night had taken a turn for the disastrous instead. WIth the cigarette still dangling from his lower lip, he stood and rubbed his temples with both hands as he walked to the bay window and opened the shash. It was raining, which was typical for this time of year in London.
He leaned his entire torso from the window, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, extended his arms in a dramatic gesture and yelled into the wet, desolate night, “Oi, London! Are you sick of me yet?!”
A small, round man huddled under a shrub eating what must have been yesterday’s chips stuck his head out and shouted back, “You finally gonna jump or what?”
“No, of course not,” Alexander responded.
“Well piss off then. If I wanted to hear mad ranting, I’d stay home with the missus!”
Alex stepped away from the window, scratching his head. Unbelievable, he mused. Even that toad of a man had a missus. Someone loved and tolerated even him? Was the missus waiting for him at home, keeping his side of the bed warm?
Alex realized, as he tried to engender the toad man’s missus, that he was standing in front of the screen, absentmindedly caressing the fine, dark wood. He'd always wondered what type of wood it was, but had never found the courage to ask Lauren because she knew everything, so she would have gloated; made him feel inferior. Alexander understood why Lauren was that way: it stemmed from her insecurity about her illiteracy. All right, Alex admitted, she could read, but she wasted her time on Science Fiction. It was the most saccharine form of escapism; a byproduct of America’s Great Depression. Alexander detested the rubbish and thought he’d rather she be truly illiterate than to waste her mind on such drivel.
Lauren’s mother was Hungarian and her father Czechoslovakian. Lauren had been conversant in both languages. She’d also been fluent in Russian and Polish and was truly brilliant in most arenas: history, cultural studies, math and science. Yet, she had been entirely unfamiliar with classic literary works. She’d read neither Byron nor Shelley, Widle nor Poe. Although she’d possessed an aptitude for philosophical thought, Lauren would not consent to reading Satre or Nietzche, and this had been a constant source of frustration for Alex.
“Mark my words, dear, your A. E. van Vogt or John W. Campbell Jr. will one day, in the not too distant future, become leaders of bizarre religious cults wherein, for the right price, one can travel to distant planets to pay homage to their alien overlords,” he’d once chided.
Still, the screen itself was truly a work of art. The painting had all but vanished over the years, and the paper had two small tears in it. One was the result of careless movers who hadn’t heeded his admonitions regarding the screen when he’d been forced to take smaller quarters. The second was a result of the night in question, the night that had begun, like so many others, with promises of sexual escapades, yet had resulted in furious quarreling. Alex took a final lung-crushing pull from his cigarette and walked back over to the window to, he pretended, send the cigarette butt hurtling through the night like a shooting star. No: he secretly wanted to hit the toad man with the missus, and he was rewarded with a startled, “Bloody Hell!” as he shut the window.
“Good shot, old chap!” Alex praised himself as he turned on one heel. Petty vengeance was sometimes sweet; the joy obtained from it, alas, ephemeral.
Alexander found himself, again, at the folding screen wondering, of all memories, why this one? Why now? He sat down in front of the screen, legs crossed and surrendered to it.
“Fine,” he said to the screen, “Let’s remember that night, then.”
It had been a typical rainy autumn night spent in his study, working on his book, when Lauren had entered, singing softly in Hungarian. Alex had found, much to his dismay, that he couldn't always distinguish between Hungarian and Czech, or Polish and Russian. He’d never really had an aptitude or desire for learning languages. By his reasoning, English was the master language, which anyone worth speaking to would choose to learn. Foreign languages generally eluded, thus annoyed him. Lauren was a polyglot, and rather arrogant about it. Alex humored her because she was the love of his life and, sometimes more importantly, the sexiest creature he’d ever had the privilege of knowing intimately. Not to mention, hearing Lauren beg for more was intoxicating in any language.
On this night, Alex had noticed her silhouette from the corner of his eye as she undressed behind the folding screen. Alex, however, had been trying to locate the name of a particular orchid for nearly forty minutes, to no avail. He’d found himself growing agitated despite Lauren’s attempted seduction.
It occurred to him that she might know, so called, “You don’t remember the name of the orchid that takes on the appearance and odor of rotting flesh to lure the carrion fly do you?”
Her singing had halted abruptly, “Are you rather serious?
Alex had looked up at her face, the inquisitive raise of her brow and immediately recognized his folly. He’d reprimanded himself and quickly determined his next course of action. He’d apologized and excused his rudeness by summing up his predicament, which had softened Lauren slightly. Alex had known then that she would forgive him; he could repave the road. She had, after all, come to play the seductress; perhaps this would heighten the anticipation. With that mere autosuggestion, Alex had become fiercely aroused.
Lauren had emerged from behind the screen, clothes in a manner meant to perpetuate the facade of hastiness: buttons crooked, the top two undone altogether, skirt seams askew, and garters unfasted. Alex had known that it was contrived, yet couldn’t help likening her cunning to an orchid’s. Lauren too could assume an appearance irresistible to her prey. He had asked her what the song was about, after first complimenting her on her sultry voice.
“Why? Do you like it?”
“It’s breathtaking, really. You know I love it when you sing.”
She’d paused for dramatic effect, as was her tendency, then spoke, “It is a song about a Hungarian woman who, much to the dismay of her family, falls in love with a poor Englishman.”
Alex pondered this and decided to say nothing. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing him rattled.
She’d smiled and leaned forward, her eyes glinting with a trace of satisfaction. She fed on his discomfort. She’d wanted to continue the ruse, “Can I have a cigarette?” She’d asked in a voice that made a person contemplate the wondrous things of which her mouth might be capable.
“Of course, darling, anything,” Alex had lit two cigarettes and passed one to Lauren, wondering why she was determined to start an argument.
Alex was suffering from an internal conflict, as the subject of his social standing had always always proven a source of agitation. He’d become irritated: What exactly was her problem? He provided financial security. He provided Lauren with everything she required, as well as a plethora of entirely frivolous things she simply fancied. The folding screen being an excellent example. Alex had paid 80 pounds for that, on a whim, simply because Lauren had adored it. The point had been, from her parent’s perspective, not so much that Alex wasn’t exceedingly wealthy, but that he was not of noble or courtly descent as was Lauren. As if there was anything he could do about his genealogy. Moreover, he’d wondered when Lauren’s parents had managed to taint her view of him? This had been her first mention of financial discontent.
Still, he hadn't wanted to argue and had tried to monitor his tone when he’d asked, “Does it bother you, then, that I’m not wealthier ?”
Lauren hadn't responded to his question. Instead, she’d taken a long drag from her cigarette, tilted her back and exhaled through her nostrils with a look of sheer ecstasy upon her face.
“Lauren, I’m asking you a serious question, “ Alex had said with escalating impatience.
“Hmm? What’s that?”
Alex dismissed her feigned ignorance and continued, “Lauren, I am a good person. I seldom raise my voice at you or lose my temper. Are there things you want for which I haven’t provided? Please, tell me.”
“Material possessions? No. I require very little. I am curious though, on what you base your concept of good? You’re not a man of faith. So, how does a man who rejects religion delineate good?”
Alex had known this was merely a pretense as they’d engaged in similar conversations under amicable terms in the past. Although Lauren’s upbringing had been Jewish, her family had always been tolerant of other people’s religious beliefs, or lack thereof.
“My concept of good is derived from common sense,” Alex began by rote.
Lauren retorted, “Common sense is a meaningless phrase.”
Well, Aelx thought, I did try. “Fine. My concept of good is not contingent upon, or even remotely correlated to, a fable penned by a scoundrel’s disciples, nor is it borne of an innate fear of Hell. A person’s concept of good shouldn’t be predicated on a punishment and reward system. People shouldn't have to be manipulated into doing what common sense dictates as decent.”
Lauren had descended on him, “You’re so bloody ignorant that you don’t even know the difference between a Jew and a Jesuit - do you?”
“I’m not attacking Judaism or even Christianity - specifically. In the interest of equal opportunity, permit me to say that I find the concept of reaching a state of enlightenment through fasting and meditating equally ludicrous - fear of Hell isn’t much different than fear of being reincarnated as a slug,” he concluded haughtily.
Lauren had glared at him, sucked her lower lip and spat, “Really? Was it common bloody sense that allowed you to squander the savings you did have gambling?
“Now that’s uncalled for. That was long before I met you, and I told you that in confidence. Incidentally, because I trusted you not to have thrown it in my face. I will not be made to feel guilty about my past - especially by the likes of you!”
“The likes of me? Ha!” Then, she genuinely laughed, “You should consider yourself incredibly fortunate that I ever gave you the honor. And you will never,” she paused to make sure he was paying attention, “Ever,” she punctuated coldly, “Entertain the pleasure again. I can promise you that.”
Unsure how to respond, Alexander retorted, “You’re mad. You need real help. Do you know that?”
For a moment, her countenance had been clouded by something sinister. In another fragment of the fractured multiverse, Lauren ended Alex then and there without compulsion. She went for tea at the women’s brothel after bludgeoning him, then worked up an appetite with a gorgeous, young Colombian.
In this fragment, she stood, incredulously silent, mouth agape. He wasn’t worth it. She turned and left without glancing back.
This pushed Alex over the edge as he loathed being ignored even more than he loathed being mocked. Ill fatedly, he followed her. He caught up to her in the foyer and grabbed her by the elbow, spinning her around angrily.
“That’s right - leave. I have real work to do. I can’t be bothered with the care of a mad woman. I should check you into a madhouse. You’re a menace to society.”
She laughed lustily at this as she pulled away from him, “Oh how very like a man to presume he knows what is in a woman’s best interest! My god, Alex, you’re not even original in your boorishness.”
She was breathing heavily, her chest heaving with disgust. God help him, but she was lovely when livid. The color rushed to her checks and decolletage and her eyes danced vibrantly, flecked with hues of gold and stardust. She was mesmerizingly gorgeous. God help him! He fought the reckless urge to kiss her, despite the circumstances.
At length, she broke the silence by stating flatly, “You are an impossible, insufferable, small, petty, man.” Emphasis on the last word. She held his gaze intently a moment longer, then turned her head quickly, ensuring that her hair would hit his face. She crossed the room with long, purposeful strides, skirts swishing with each deliberate step to expose her shapely legs. He did his best to remain steadfast. He wanted to capture and conquer her. He was half certain she wanted the same, whether or not she realized it out loud.
He forced himself to turn away, yelling over his shoulder, “Well, that’s it, then! This goes straight into my manifesto! Impossible and - what? Sorry. Love, wouldn’t want to misquote you. Impossible, insufferable, and… what else?”
Alex heard her stop in her tracks, halting at the door. Hesitating before she left.
Did she want him to stop her? He thought so. She looked at him with smoldering eyes. Then, her eyes softened ever so slightly. She parted her full red lips and inhaled as if she were going to say something poignant, softly, forcing him to lean in to hear. Instead, she simply shut her mouth, shook her head slightly, as if acknowledging the futility of it, and left, slamming the door soundly behind her.
Alexander managed to maintain his cool demeanor in her absence for a few minutes. He fumbled through his breast pocket for a cigarette and lit it, saying aloud, “Witch. Even a couple of decades ago you would’ve been burned at the stake.”
He opened one of the books on his desk and thumbed through the pages, “Very well, we shall sit here and enjoy this fine wine and a good book. Let’s see, where were we? Zi Dingir Anna Kanpa! Zi Dingir Kia Kanpa!” He paused, slammed his fist onto the desk, cursing Lauren for her adeptness at seducing him, and himself for his inability to resist her. Alex threw the book in hand, not truly intending to hit the screen, but apparently fate had other intentions.
~~~
Inside every man are varying levels of despair; vast and desolate, anchored and undulating. Indelible, intangible, omnipotent and compartmentalized. Alex assessed the situation and, at a rather young age, concluded the following: Know thyself. Being a man of passion is almost as debilitating as being human. The male species, by Alex’s reasoning, has a particularly rough time of it, not because they are necessarily intellectually superior, but because men are required to deal with all the inconveniences derived from the human affliction. War or peace, feast or famine, men have to battle their wits against the elements and each other in hopes that they are able to keep their women in the manner in which, due to man’s ingenuity, they've grown accustomed. Is it any wonder that men develop bitterness towards their female counterparts?
Through introspection, however, man could come to terms with the manifestation of this bitterness and thus avert the possibility of outward self-betrayal. Misogyny? Not if one were aware of one’s actions. Yet in order for one to be fully aware of one's actions, one must first be aware of one’s thoughts. Know thyself. And to thine own self be true.
Accordingly, Alex made a pretense of appearing, under most circumstances, as unmanly as possible. When Lauren had suggested, for example, that they take on supplemental lovers, Alex hadn’t hesitated to comply. Besides, what man would turn down the opportunity to pleasure two women at once? Or so he’d wondered. During the first handful of encounters, Lauren had incorporated his overtures or, at the very least, his anatomy. Yet, as time passed, so did Lauren’s need for either. Alex had attempted to find gratification in merely watching. He’d tried not to voice his dismay at his first covert, then blatant exclusion. He’d done a fine job of it until that fateful night, when he’d inadvertently ripped that damned folding screen.
Alex threw the book in his hand, inadvertently striking the screen, and the lept from his chair, running towards it gasping, “OhnoohnoOHNO!” whilst leaping from foot to foot in a comical dance. He was done for, he thought. Irreparably screwed. He began desperately scrambling about, attempting to somehow conceal the screen until, with a measure of luck, he might fetch someone to repair the treasure. But who had such expertise? Nevermind! Conceal now, reason later! Alexander dashed across the room, retrieved an enormous potted plant of Lauren’s that must have weighed 60 kg and lugged it towards the screen.
Just as he positioned it in front of the damaged portion of the screen Lauren had entered, “What are you doing here, Alex?”
The tone of her voice indicated that she was wise to him. “Well, I was moving this plant. Obviously,” he replied while consciously fashinong his face into an expression that was both indignant and haughty. Lauren simply eyed him in silence, waiting for him to betray himself by the slightest gesture: perhaps he would blink in rapid succession or fidget with his pocket watch.
He reminded rock solid, yet to no avail. Lauren knew that something was amiss,“Why did you find it necessary to move my plant, then? You know it was placed by the window with good reason; it requires southern light.”
Alex was quick, “Right, well , it's only temporary of course. It’s just that I must return to work, you realize. I have a deadline and I didn’t think that I’d be able to concentrate after our quarrel. I thought, perhaps, that looking at a plant might serve to inspire or…soothe me in some manner.” He inwardly cursed himself for that transgression. Soothe me? Well, there you go, dear, pounce away, he thought. Alex never would have spoken of a plant as soothing. What a ridiculous oversight!
To his surprise, Lauren didn’t react in the manner that he’d expected. Instead of pouncing to belittle him, with but the slightest hint of a smile upon her lips, she instead inquired, “So, Alexander, am I to believe that you might have finally become enlightened?” She seemed to be awaiting a response.
Alex wasn’t able to fathom what that response might possibly be, he realized only that he did not trust her. He managed, in his most innocuous voice, “Pardon?”
With the demeanor typically saved for an ill-bred child, she replied, “Dearest, you might have finally turned a corner is all I’m proposing. Possibly you have moved beyond your sullied view of both women and flowers. Alex, not everything is veiled in a prefabricated guise designed to hide its true cunning nature. Some things just are.”
Momentarily thwarted by her mercurial nature, Alex decided to buy himself thinking time by agreeing, “Well, had you abandoned all hope at my ability to change?”
Lauren smiled condescendingly and said,” Not your ability, Alex, your desire.”
Touche! Alex thought. This was mental jousting and Lauren was an expert. Alex found himself at a loss for words and, in his discontentment, he unwittingly cast a quick, sidelong glance at the folding screen. Lauren, of course, noticed.
“Alex,” she began, “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
“Hmmm? Oh, I was thinking about…right. Why pretend? You’ve found me out already anyway. I'm dreadfully sorry, Lauren,” he said as he moved towards the potted plant. He pushed it to one side and stood with his eyes shut awaiting her furious assault. What transpired next was not an argument, although in retrospect, it was infinitely worse.
Lauren approached the screen slowly, eyed the incision, running her long, elegant fingers across it with a tenderness that made Alex yearn for her caress. She stood contemplating the damage done for at least three minutes in utter silence while Alex stood watching her profile, the rise and fall of her chest, the curve of her jaw-line. While waiting, scarcely breathing, he found a new appreciation for the screen. Although not his preferred style of art, it was truly a thing of splendor.
It was technically a collage by virtue of the gilded leaves that firmament the perimeter of the painting, which depicted mountains ascending heavenward in the background, finite only because they were held captive within the frame rather than being cropped to give the impression of endlessness. Alex believed these characteristics to delineate the style as monumental, although Lauren argued that it was, in actuality, narrative due to the fact that the foreground conveyed a story or, specifically, a historical event.
They’d engaged in a discussion upon the screen’s purchase, at which point Alex had remarked, “I am not certain that the Sapinards en route on the Silk Road constitutes a historical event”
Lauren had laughed and replied, “They are Portuguese, not Spaniards - Why don’t you look closely and tell me what you see?”
Alex had sighed heavily but feigned a closer inspection and said,’ A rather large vessel with approximately 50 visible passengers who are all engaged in various activities as the boat pulls ashore, Another 10 or 15 on land, approaching the boat by foot, 5 men following on horseback, all of whom are posed in, what I perceive to be a welcoming gesture.”
Lauren had looked at him, shaking her head and commented, “Intriguing. You’ve missed the most significant detail. Well, the subtleties of Japanese art elude most…”
“Japanese? Are you mad? There is no way a Japanese artist painted this,” Alex had ranted.
Lauren had simply looked amused as she asked, “Really, tell me then, of what ethnicity do you propose the artist was?”
Alex had paused, then replied, “Well, I would have guessed Spanish, but I am willing to concede Portuguese - for the sake of argument. Regardless, since the folding screen is of Japanese invention, this one in particular is clearly a mimic, a borrowed style crafted by a non-Japanese artist. It’s obvious, really, the physical features and attire of the people alone is evidence enough. Look, the men are even wearing those baggy pants - bonbachas I think they were called. And should one, for some reason, require further proof, they need only to look at the ship itself. It has a double mast and pointed helm - it’s clearly of European craft. But even with those observations aside, the most obvious substantiation is the landscape. While outside of the realm of my expertise, I have seen enough Japanese art to ascertain that this painting completely defies the style of traditional Japanese landscape. Not only does it lack the fluid, spontaneous style intrinsic to Japanese landscapes, but it’s generic, nondescript. It’s absent of peach blossoms, cherry blossoms, bamboo, or those trees that look like overgrown bonsai - any and everything that would identify the vicinity as Japan.”
Lauren had looked exhausted, yet sympathetic as she spoke,”Oh, dear, Alex. You know only a fraction of the story, yet you prattle on with the conviction of a far more educated man. Let me see if I can accurately recall your mistakes in order. Hmmm…first of all, the painting doesn’t depict the Portugese en route on the Silk Road, rather, the invasion of Japan by Portuguese missionaries in the mid-1500s. They attempted to convert the Japanese Buddhist and Shinto population to Chirstinatnity and were moderately successful. Needless to say, it influenced not only Japanese culture, but also their art. In fact, a whole style of Christianized art developed during this period that the Japanese termed ‘namban’, which means ‘solid barbarians’. Christian crosses began emerging everywhere, even upon the earthenware used in tea ceremonies. Accordingly, what had once been a meditative convergence with the divine became a socio-political opportunity for a native to show their devotion to the emerging Christian faith. Secondly, the folding screen is not of Japanese origin, but was presented as a gift to Japan by the Koreans when Korea was under China’s reign. The Japanese adopted the folding screen from China, just as they appropriated their alphabet, landscaping techniques, fashion and religious practices - although Buddhism did originate in India, to be fair.”
And in this fashion the conversation had transpired. Then, Alex had said,”That’s all very well and good but we bought this screen in Mexico City. How do you suppose it got from Japan to Mexico City?” Alex’s tone had been sarcastic, but he’d truly wanted to know.
Lauren had been able to perceive this change in Alex, however subtle, and had softened her tones as she continued, “Well, I don’t know the entire history, but when the Portuguese arrived in Japan, the Shogun at that time, I think his name was Nobungaga, didn’t have a problem with them. It wasn’t until the next Shogun, Hideyoshi, that the Portuguese became an issue - he even had some of the missionaries crucified. Poetic justice, I suppose. By the time the following Shogun came into power, his name was Togukawa, the Japanese had pretty much had it with the Portuguese. In the early 1600s, Japan sent a diplomatic mission to the Vatican to consult with the Pope. That mission traveled through Mexico.”
Alex had only been able to wonder how on earth Lauren knew so much about Japanese art and history.
“Alex?” Lauren asked after her silent assessment of the damage. Alex was unsure how to reply, so remained silent, knowing that she’d continue, like it or not.
“Come, look at this. I must admit that the placement of this laceration is uncanny.”
Alex was perplexed,”How so?”
“Look,” she pointed to the far-left side of the screen.
Alex didn’t know what to expect, so bent over to take a closer inspection. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but there, in the corner, was a detail that he’d never before observed: A solitary figure knelt holding something in his hands. It was a bald man clad in the distinct orange robes of a Buddhist monk holding what appeared to be a dead parakeet in his hands. The look on his face was enigmatic; he appeared at the threshold between sorrow and joy, precariously balanced between the two emotions. The man was distinctly Japanese, and the incision ran lengthwise, severing him in half.
“UNbelievable,” Alex heard himself saying aloud. A Portuguese artist never would have included such an image. The folding screen was Japanese, Alex conceded. Lauren had, once again, been correct all along.
“Yes. What’s truly unbelievable is that you never noticed that figure until now; not until after the damage done by your own hand. How very man-like of you, Alex” Lauren castigated. Alex was unable to speak, unable to breathe. Lauren had been right about the screen’s origin, but even more unsettling was her comment about his failure to notice the most significant detail of the painting until it was possibly beyond repair.
“You know,” she startled him, “There was a time when this character reminded me of you, Alex.”
Alex was unable to respond as he was in a state of shock, spiraling into panic, into madness. He had remained silent, struggling to breathe.
“Mono no aware,” Laruen said softly.
“Mono what?”
“”Mono no aware, the path of suffering or grief. It’s a Japanese concept somewhat difficult for a non-native speaker to apprehend for the essence is lost in translation. At least, that’s how it was explained to me. My understanding comes more from experience than book knowledge. More of an abstraction than anything. It’s an awareness of, well, the impermanence of things. But not just that - it’s the ability to see the beauty within suffering; the beauty of suffering. With the passing of time, each living thing changes form and suffers as it does so because it is conscious of doing so. From the human perspective, change equates to loss, equates to grief and sorrow. If an individual, for example, can set aside their own grief and sorrow long enough to be in awe of another’s grief and sorrow, that is mono no aware.”
Alex stood there, looking at the painting, looking at the Japanese man’s face and, for an instant, he truly understood. The parakeet was dead, had changed form, and the man was filled with sorrow because he had known the parakeet’s suffering, yet the man was filled with joy because he had known the parakeet’s freedom from this suffering. Then, Alex let himself go further than he thought himself capable. Not consciously, yet it happened. Alex saw the Portuguese invasion through the Japanese man’s eyes: Alex became the man. Alex thought, “Let them come, try to alter our way of life, our religion, attempt to control us, destroy us. They cannot taint the heart of this land or its people. Beauty shall emerge from the suffering, from the chaos.”
“Alex,” Lauren’s voice pulled him from his reverie. Alex fought to articulate his experience, but the man’s thoughts had not been expressed in actual words. There had been no language as he knew it. Then, he understood that, because language is of human invention, it is lacking, it explains merely a fraction of the essence: words fail to circumscribe the divine. The man’s thoughts had been conveyed through something beyond man. It had been a feeling, an innate understanding of a feeling.
Alex tried to let go of the words, tried to focus on the feeling, absorb it, assimilate it, but the feeling evaded him. How quickly it dissipated, Alex thought. Lauren put her hands upon his chest and leaned in closely, moving her mouth towards his face. He looked down at her and noticed how completely ethereal she was, and how base and vulgar he was. He was so human. Her dark eyes were welling with tears, her full lips slightly parted as she kissed Alex’s face; first one cheek, then the other.
She pulled away, slowly, looked at jm in the eyes and whispered, “I am sorry, Alex.”
Alex didn’t really understand what she meant, but she turned and walked away before he could ask.
He stood there alone, eyes fixed upon the image of the man, the incision that severed him, and wondered whether this was some type of message or omen. He was not able to shake the feeling that it was somehow…prophetic. He subconsciously fumbled in his breast pocket for a Gauloises and, as he lifted the cigarette to his lips, he became aware of a peculiarity. He raised his hand to his face, gently laying his fingertips upon his cheek. There was moisture there. He pulled his hand away from his face and looked at his fingertips. Tears. Alex realized he had been weeping. He realized then that he both loved and hated Lauren more than he had ever loved or hated anyone or thing. He drew his hand back, steadied himself and, with every ounce of his strength, slapped himself across the face.
Alex had been sitting in front of the folding screen with his legs crossed at the ankles for so long that they were losing circulation. He got up to stretch, with some effort, and walked towards the fireplace. The fire had long since died out and the room was cold and dismal. He remembered that he’d left a book of matches in the pocket of his overcoat. He made his way to the closet, got halfway there, and realized that there was no way he’d had the presence of mind to put his overcoat away. It was far more likely he’d left it in the vicinity of the coat rack by the door. As he turned abruptly, he struck his knee on the corner of the liquor cabinet, knocking over a decanter of whiskey.
Despite his drunkenness, he managed a quick recovery, “Never waste a drop of precious elixir! There is no greater crime than wasting whiskey - that’s alcohol abuse! And, since I’ve found my way here, I may as well drink to that!” Alex fumbled around for a glass and, not able to locate one, he settled for taking a shot straight from the bottle, “Ahhh, yes. That was long overdue!”
He then proceeded to make his way towards the door, found the coat rack, and began to feel for his overcoat. None of the coasts on the rack felt like cashmere. He squinted into the darkness at the region to the left of the coat rack and saw a black crumpled mass, which he retrieved at once. He fumbled through the pockets until he found the book of matches, “Eureka!” He exclaimed as he lit his cigarette. He then made his way back to the fireplace, wondering how long he had been sitting in front of that damnable screen.
He lit the fire and, satisfied with the fact that it would not extinguish itself in the near future, walked over to the window and looked out into the night. It was still raining; the round toad of a man was gone. Had he returned to the missus? Had they reconciled? Gone to bed, bodies pressed against one another? Were they happy, content, secure? Did their concepts of these things differ from his own? Did anyone in the entire world, save the toad man and his landlord, understand that Alex persisted to exist? Did he exist? Was this even a valid question? He walked back to the desk and lit his candelabra. These questions had no real answers as far as he could discern, it all amounted to exactly nothing. He sat down at this desk with the intention of writing in his journal. However, Alex could not suppress the memories; they came without his consent.
Smacking his own face had not sufficed; he still felt reality shifting. There was little he could do to alter this: he understood that it was beyond his control. Lauren had been correct. Alex decided not to think about that. He resigned himself, instead, to cataloging his orchid hybrids. He had a deadline, after all. He retired to his desk and made an attempt at continuing his work. Instead, he fell to wondering how Lauren had ever mistaken his bleak, misanthropy as this mono no aware nonsense. Was it nonsense, he wondered? Then, the sounds began. They were muted at first, but rapidly grew louder, more frenzied. Alex thought it impossible, yet after a few moments it was painfully obvious: Lauren was with another lover in the adjoining room.
Alex got up and pressed his ear to the wall, both enraged and envious at the sounds of Lauren love-making with someone else. He remembered his touch once evoking similar sounds and became livid. He marched to the neighboring room, threw open the door and began shouting, “What in the bloody hell is going on here?”
There, on the floor, Lauren was passionately entangled with another woman. Petticoats and garters littered the floor and, although the other woman was still clad in her silk bra and matching panties, Lauren was entirely nude. The other woman looked up at Alex from between Lauren’s legs, pushed back her disheveled blonde hair with her free hand and smirked as he said, “I’m givin’ it to your wife, then, wot’s it look like? Now, why don’tcha kindly piss off?!”
With that, Alex became so enraged that he blacked out. When he came to, he was holding the girl by the throat against the wall. Lauren was yelling and slapping the back of his head and face repeatedly as he regained his senses. The girl’s eyes looked as if they were about to burst from their sockets; her face was turning blue. Alex looked down and noticed the girl’s feet weren’t touching the ground. He released her. The girl fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes and Lauren immediately knelt beside her and tended to her with a responsiveness and tenderness that made Alex wish that he hadn’t quit strangling her.
“Jesus, Alex, you might have killed her,” Lauren scolded.
“So what of it? She’s a whore anyway - who would even care?” Alexander spoke without thinking, but he’d said what he felt. The girl was gasping, still clutching her throat as Alex thought, “I nearly did kill her, indeed. It would have been so easy…”
Lauren merely looked at him in disbelief, stunned. She appeared repulsed and afraid of him.
She was wondering precisely what Alex was capable of as she spoke, “I don’t even know who you are. Get out.”
Alex stood there, dumbly.
“GET OUT, NOW!”
Alex turned and left, primarily because he didn’t know what else to do. He’d crossed the line. He could only think, “Who would shed a tear over a dead whore?”
It was that night that his dreams began.
The light was grey; there was no sound. Lauren was on top of him, her body moving back and forth in slow motion as if she were underwater. Her full, red lips parted as if a moan wished to escape; yet Alex felt nothing. Slowly, Lauren’s features were becoming less distinct, were mutating. Her eyelids began turning red, then purple; her skin and lips began turning blue. The absence of both sound and feeling persisted as the color drained from her raven hair and eyes, leaving them a nondescript colour. The distinct lack of colour was unsettling, yet he felt nothing. Her motion ceased and her body convulsed, began to slump forward, then brutally bolted upright. Everything was dark. A white light that sounded like crashing thunder broke the darkness: a ray of white light shone down upon Lauren, who was no longer Lauren, but the prostitute, and Alex was a daemon. He thrust himself forward, black veins bulging under taut leathery, red skin and speared the prostitute with his horns. She slumped instantaneously and transmogrified back into Lauren. The light was grey, there was no sound, and Alex felt nothing.
The dreams from that point were always similar: the subject matter was invariably the Lauren/prostitute figure dying by his hand. Initially, Alex had been portrayed as a creature that was partly himself, partly demonic. Later, the daemon disappeared and there was only Alex. In other aspects, the dream remained unchanged, until the sensation of feeling introduced itself. The feeling was terror. Next, sound had materialized: blood curdling screams, the screams of flesh and soul torn asunder. Alex began drinking with the hopes of halting the dreams or, at least, stifling the screams. This technique proved moderately successful until the dreams began transpiring during waking hours. Alex made rapid progression in his career as an alcoholic, while his job at the publishing company became seriously jeopardized.
It was embarrassing. Although Alex was able to control the lack of coordination and slurred speech well enough on a daily basis, he wasn't giving proper attention to his physical appearance. And there was the odor. Alex was immune to it, of course, yet his boss pulled him aside one afternoon and had politely suggested that he go home to shower. Alex was ashamed because his boss, Mr. Lehrman, was his mentor, his idol, and Alex furtively sought his approval. It didn’t matter to Alex how the others gawked when he and Mr. Lehrman emerged from their “private” conference. Still, Alex wanted to pull it together, not for the sake of his job, which Lehrman had subtly implied was at risk if he could not improve on his “professionalism”, but for the opportunity to salvage any respect for him that Lehrman might retain.
That night, Alex washed, shaved, laid out clean clothing and, remarkably, remained sober. He battled with insomnia, caught a few hours of fitful sleep, and woke early to assure he would arrive in a prompt fashion. Yet, as he began to dress he became aware of an excruciating pain behind his eyes, which were swollen and red-rimmed. He was sweaty, shaky, and nauseated. He staved off the urge to have a nip in order to steady his nerves, telling himself that it was simply an instance of mind over matter. However, by the time he arrived at work, he was unable to see or think clearly, and the nausea became his primary focus. He thought that, perhaps, if he could remain self-contained for a couple of hours he could overcome the worst of it, but when Mr. Lehrman came into Alex’s office to tell him how proud of him he was, Alex vomited on his desk.
When Mr. Lehrman told Aelx that he was truly sorry that he had to dismiss him, Alex knew that it was sincere and heartfelt. The last words from his mentor were something to the effect of how Alex was so gifted, had so much to offer, before adding,, “Please, get better and I might be able to facilitate your readmission.”
Unfortunately, this mattered very little to Alex who, after seeing the disappointment in Lehrman’s eyes, resigned himself to a life of alcoholism and seclusion. Alex left the office, went directly to the liquor store, spent a small fortune on wine, whiskey and brandy, locked himself inside of his apartment and subsequently, inside of himself for an indeterminate period of time. And then, the dreams changed.
Alex was in a forest, searching for Lauren. He wasn't exactly lost: he knew where she was, he needed only to listen to the voices in order to determine her whereabouts. If he could just retreat into the realm of silence, if he could just quiet the screaming, he could figure it out. There was no escaping the sound; it was tumultuous and deafening. Alex pressed his hands to his ears and began to run, weaving back and forth through the tall trees, dodging skeletal branches which became outstretched limbs; fingers with ragged nails mutilated his flesh. His head swam with disorientation; he fell to the ground with his hands still over his ears, his head upon his lap and his eyes pressed into his knees. Then, all at once, a silence like ice water filled his soul. He removed his hands from his ears and heard nothing but the sound of himself panting. He slowly raised his head, opened his eyes, and looked at the ground. There, jutting from the soil was something red. He reached forth with trembling fingertips to touch it and awoke, screaming.
So, the dreams continued: Alex lost all concept of linear time. He sold most of his possessions, took smaller quarters, and gave himself over entirely to liquor and insanity. He awoke one morning and realized that he was not living in the same apartment. Another morning the revelation was that he was no longer employed, another morning aroused him with the suspicion that Luaren was gone and had been for some time. Thus, the revelations continued, although Alex had no way of discerning in which order the events transpired, let alone why or how. He knew only that they were fact. These were the grim details that constructed his life, for lack of a better term.
They were fact, were they not? Alex remained unconvinced. He sat in front of the folding screen, stroking the dark wood of mysterious origin wondering if he had actually tapped out a meager existence, for a brief period of time, as a freelance writer, or if that was just a thought he’d once entertained? When was the last time he had written? Eaten? How long had he lived in this apartment? He felt sure that daylight was soon approaching and that he hadn’t actually slept. Had he?
He rose and walked to the window, threw open the sash and called out into the wet, desolate morning, “Hello, London! Are you sick of me yet?”
A round man huddled beneath a small tree, eating what must have been yesterday’s fish poked his head out and yelled back, “I’m bloody well sick of you!”
Alex was struck by the man’s comment. Were they familiar with one another?
“Oi, you - toadman!”
“What did you just call me?”
Alex didn’t know, “Isn’t that what I call you?”
The man looked angry, “Not to me face, ‘ya bloody well don’t. I ’ave a good mind to - “
“No, please! Listen, stay there…I’ve got a proposition for you,” Alex shouted down to the man.
He opened the door and began to race down the hallway, got halfway to the exit, and realized he wasn’t wearing shoes. Alex turned around, went back into his apartment, put on his boots and overcoat and, as an afterthought, went to the closet to retrieve his last 200 pounds from his money box and his revolver from the top shelf. Perhaps he didn’t trust toad man. Alex raced downstairs, half expecting the man’s absence, but Alex found him in precisely the same spot.
Once face to face with the man, Alex felt certain that they were not acquainted and he was unsure how to begin, “My name is Alex, how do you do?” he ventured.
“What do you want, then?” the man eyed him suspiciously.
“Well, first I should like to apologize for the indiscretion of referring to you as…” Alex coughed, unable to utter the words,”Ehhmm, toad man. I am entirely uncertain as to why I did so - “
“Likely because you’re a frickin loon, I’d say,” The man retorted.
“Right. Well, I can’t very well argue that now can I? Listen, as I mentioned I have a proposition…” Alex started.
“Yeah, what would that be, then?”
“I just want to ask you a few questions, is all. I am more than willing to pay you for your time, of course,” Alex continued,
“Wot kinda questions? An how much?”
“Questions about our relationship, and I’ll give you twenty pounds,” Alex responded.
The round man smiled and nodded, “Alright, then - but gimme the money first”
Alex fished around in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty-pound note, handed it to the man, and asked, “ Now, from where do I know you?”
The man smiled and said, “You don’t know me, we’ve never met, bloke. G’day!”
The man began to walk off and Alex panicked, “Wait!, Please! I really need to know why you look so familiar.”
The man continued to walk away. Alex cried, “I’ll give you another twenty pounds to tell me where I’ve seen you before. Please.”
The man paused, turned around, looked Alex in the eye and nodded. He allowed Alex to approach him, thinking that he’d take the twenty quid, give him another simple answer, and be on his way. However, when the man looked into Alex’s eyes, he could sense his desperation and felt guilty. “You really don’t have a clue, do ya? Ya poor bastard. Do ya got amnesia or somethin?”
The man held out his hand while he spoke and Alex obliged him with another twenty note. The man pocketed the money without taking his eyes off Alex, who shook his head in response to the amnesia question.
The man continued, “It’s like this, then. I come here, to this park, sometimes - to get a break from the missus, you see? I usually take my supper here, have some quiet time alone, ‘ya know? And you, well, you're always up there,” with this, he pointed at Alex’s window, “Doing whatever it is you do, right? Then, you’ll lean out the window some nights and yell your bloody nonsense about, “Hallo London,’ and I’ll yell somethin’ back. And that’s it.”
Alex nodded, then asked, “And this is the first time we’ve had a real conversation?”
“Yeah, in fact, I’ve never seen ya outside that window. By the smell of it, I’m guessing ’ya drink like a fish - and piss yourself too, right?” With that, he scrunched up his nose and turned again to leave.
Alex called after him, “Wait, please - just one more question.”
The man hesitated, thought about walking away, yet couldn’t bring himself to do so. It was ludicrous, really, but he took pity on the poor bastard. He turned and spoke, “Alright, one more question.”
Alex heaved a sigh and asked, “How long has this been going on, this interaction between us?
The man furrowed his brow in apparent concentration and said, “Well, let’s see… it's been before Wally was born, and he just turned one last month, so a little over a year, then.”
Alex was dumbfounded, his head was swimming, his heart racing. A year. Good God - he had been having such a strange exchange with this man for a year? It wasn’t possible.
The man put his hand on Alex's shoulder and said, “Mate, ya ok? Listen, how about I take ya back up to your place so ya can sleep it off? No extra charge,” surprised at his own generosity.
Alex shook his head, fumbled through his pockets and retrieved the remainder of his money. He held it out before the man and said, “There is one hundred and sixty pounds here - it’s all the money I have left in the world, and it’s yours for twenty minutes of your time. I need you to come with me. Oh god, please, I must know. This must end! I need you to come with me - here,” Alex pushed half of the money into the man’s hand and continued, “”Here. Take half right now, and I’ll give you the rest when we’re finished - on my honour. The money is as good as yours. Twenty minutes of your time, please. I must know. If someone isn’t with me, I'll never believe it.”
They walked east, towards Aelx’s old apartment, the apartment where he’d lived with Lauren. It was winter, and the air was getting icy.
They walked for nearly five blocks in complete silence before the man asked, “How much farther we going, anyway?”
Alex looked down the street on which they were standing, but nothing looked familiar. “We are headed due east, aren’t we?”
“For Christsakes, man, don’t you even know where you’re taking us? We’ere headed northeast. Do you mind telling me exactly where we’re going anyways?”
Alex wasn’t sure; he had to concentrate in order to remember. “ There were these woods, just behind my old apartment…”
“The only woods within kilometers are southeast of here, by Gratin’s levy”
“Yes - there! That’s where we must go,” Alex yelled in surprise.
“Well, best let me lead the way, then” said toadman.
The light was pale grey and it was beginning to snow. The trees were barren, skeletal, shadows of themselves. Alex was disoriented and confused, he was beginning to forget what he had hoped to find. He turned and a branch with thorns scraped his left check. Alex touched his face and looked at his fingertips. Blood. He held his hand out, fingertips down. A single drop of blood fell to the ground, landing in a patch of new fallen snow. Within seconds, more snow fell on top of the blood; enveloping it and covering its trace. Strange, Alexander thought, it was as if the snow was digesting the blood.
Alexander’s thoughts were interrupted by the man, “Listen, mate, I wanted to help ya out, ya know? But I feel I’ve more than earned my money. It’s bloody cold out here - it’s snowing for Christsake. I dunno what you’re trying to find, but I don’t think you’re gonna find it now, not with all this snow. Listen, keep the other eighty pounds. If it is the last of your money, you’ll need it more than I do. I’m goin back home to the missus.”
Alex couldn’t couldn’t respond to the man, whoever he was, as he was on the precipice of revelation. The round man waited for a moment to see whether the urine and booze reeking man would reply, then decided he’d done enough. Leave the lunatic to himself, thought the man. The worst-case scenario was that he'd stay out all night and freeze to death. WIth the condition the poor bastard was in, a painless death might be his best bet. The man turned and walked away without looking back.
Alex was on his knees in the snow, unsure how long he’d been that way when the screaming began. It was blood curdling. Alex attempted to stand too quickly and started to blackout. He stood still for the count of twenty and then began to run through the forest. Despite the fact that frozen twigs were snapping underfoot, the ground felt soft. In fact, even the branches, which tore at his flesh as he raced past, felt velvety. The screaming itself was like tiny icicle daggers, yet the current of air that carried the icicle daggers towards Alex was malleable. He raced on without direction until he finally collapsed from fatigue and began to weep. Why? What was he doing here? Why wouldn’t the screaming desist? Where was it coming from? Was it leading him? Chasing him?
Then, Alex realized that the screaming wasn’t leading him or chasing him: It was inside of him. He pressed the palms of his hands to his ears, pressed his eyes into his knees and opened his mouth, but there was no sound. He raised his head and looked up at the sky, beseeching whatever powers that be - God, even - to release him. Alex opened his mouth wider and a scream that sounded like purple light crashed out of him, rendering him immobile. His screams filled the forest, filled the sky, filled his consciousness: all that he’d ever known was lost within this moment. The great cathartic purging, the blissful emptiness that followed was all that he amounted to: all of this and nothing. All of this was nothing.
Alex began to convulse and lurched forward, hitting the ground face first. The tremors ceased and he began clawing at the ground like a feral animal. Alex scooped away handful after handful of snow, then dirt and rocks. Suddenly, his attention was arrested by something red. He thought, at first, that he’d been digging so viciously that he'd cut his finger upon a rock and was bleeding. He bent down closer and looked at the red object carefully. Fabric. The fabric of a petticoat, to be precise.
“No! No! I loved you. I LOVED you…” Alex stopped. He was beyond despair; he was empty. He calmly removed the revolver from his overcoat pocket, placed the barrel in his mouth, bit down on the cold metal and smiled. Alexander pulled the trigger and slumped down into the soft, new fallen snow, which offered itself as a blank canvas for the story of his life and death. Yet, even before his veins were emptied, new snow began to fall. A story so trivial, so meaningless, that the universe sought to eradicate it before it was even complete. Alex thought as his life slipped away. The light was pale grey, there was no sound, and Alex felt nothing.
The Joan of Arc Fountain
Thadeus walked past the bank for the fourth time in two days. It was slightly out of the way, but he enjoyed walking through the park with water features on his way home. It helped him unwind after his night shift at the factory. He slowed his pace as he walked past, hoping to see Sundara. He knew she was there, she always worked on Wednesdays. The bank hadn’t yet opened, the tellers were still counting their tills. Sundara was a manager, so would be in the back offices. He stopped, pretending to look at his phone. She’d be out soon to do the last official walk around before she unlocked and opened the door.
All that money. Thad thought about how different his life would be if he had money. He could take Sundara to expensive restaurants, buy her fine silk dresses in olive or emerald green colors that would beautifully compliment her skin tone. He could buy a house, one they could make into a home. Maybe they’d even have kids, get a pet, build a treehouse in the backyard. Stupid stuff that he’d never even though about. Until he saw Sundara. The first time Thad locked eyes with her, something inside him shifted, the universe seemed to take on new meaning. For the first time, Thadeus thought maybe, just maybe, there was a purpose to life.
He looked up from his phone just as Sundara was walking toward the door. She saw Thad and smiled warmly. She was radiant. Genuine. Thad felt his heart skip a beat as he smiled back. She unlocked the door and greeted him enthusiastically,
“Thadeus, hey! Just getting off work at the factory?”
“Yeah, another day, another dollar - and not much more than that, sadly,” he laughed awkwardly, then added, “Not true for you though, huh? Too many dollars in there to count!”
“Well, actually, it’s my job to know exactly how many dollars there are,” She tapped her manager’s tag, “But it’s not nearly as exciting as people think. Frustrating, really! Considering how little of it I get to take home.”
Thadeus had thought of it before, but had always considered it gauche to ask. Since she brought it up, why not? “Right? I’m sure people ask all the time, but -”
Sundara laughed and it sounded like music, “Am I ever tempted? Yes, people do ask all the time. And I usually laugh it off. But,” she glanced around to see if anyone was in ear shot, “between you and me, yes. How could I not?” She suddenly appeared nervous, as if she’d said too much. She smiled again, “You headed home?”
“Yeah, slowly. I like to meander through the park, maybe stop by Llyod’s and grab an egg and cheese on the way.”
“Ah, I love a good egg and cheese from Llyod’s! So you walk through Malcom X park? Sometimes I sit near the big fountain and read at lunch.”
“The Joan of Arc fountain? That’s my favorite place to sit and eat before I head home. Helps clear my head.”
“Oh, I’ll bet it’s lovely this early in the morning. Fewer people.” She rolled her eyes and made a face.
So she was also a misanthrope, Thad thought. That’s why he preferred the night shift, fewer people to deal with. He’d always suspected that Sundara was one of his kind. He smiled, a bit tongue tied.
“Anyway,” Sundara began, “speaking of which, I suppose I should get inside so I can manage mine. People, that is. Such a joy! I try to hide in my office until lunch.”
“Wise woman! Well, I’ll see you around. Have a great day, despite people,” Thad smiled.
“You bet. Hey, and who knows, maybe I’ll see you at the park sometime.”
“I’d really like that. See you around,” Thad turned and walked away awkwardly. He was beside himself. With this interaction, a thought was implanted in Thadues’ head; a thought that Thadeus would become beset by: accidentally on purpose meeting Sundara at the Joan of Arc fountain during her lunch break.
It wouldn’t be an easy task. She knew he went pretty much straight home to bed after his shift at the factory. He was usually dead asleep by 9am. Occasionally, he’d suffer from insomnia and stay up late watching old Hepburn films and drinking beer. Even then, he’d typically be passed out in his recliner well before Sundara went to lunch at what? 12? 1? Furthermore, he couldn’t orchestrate the encounter too soon; it’d look suspicious. He’d have to wait a few weeks. That was ok, he thought. That would give him time to formulate a plan and work up his courage.
The week following his conversation with Sundara, Thad did his best not to walk by the bank on his way home. On the third day he broke down, but kept it quick. He saw her in her office on her computer, her phone tucked between her left shoulder and ear. She was engrossed in multitasking, so Thadeus stood and watched her for a minute longer than he’d intended. On the fifth day, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to walk by again. After all, he did customarily walk by the bank several times a week. Not walking by would be as conspicuous as walking by too often. He needed to play it cool.
As he passed by, Sundara spotted Thad and waved while smiling warmly. He smiled and waved back. Much to his shock, she took a tentative step or two toward the door. His heart froze. Was she coming to talk to him? No! It was too soon, it didn’t align with his plan. Quick on his feet, Thad made a big yawning motion, smiled again and folded his hands next to his head in the universal sign of sleep. Sundara laughed and nodded in sympathy. Thad nearly floated into Llyod’s to grab his egg and cheese. It was a gorgeous morning, so he thought about sitting in the park by their fountain to eat, but decided against it on the off chance Sundara walked by.
The following week, he allowed himself to walk by on the second day. He decided to leave it to the Fates. If she saw him and wanted to talk, he’d take that as a sign that it was time to move to phase two. But the Fates didn’t will it that day. He arrived just in time to see her walk into her office and shut the door behind her. On the fourth day, Thadeus decided to give the Fates another chance. He made a point to get there a few minutes earlier, in hopes of catching her opening the bank again. This time, the Fates were on his side.
Thad saw her before she saw him so called out, “Howdy stranger.”
She laughed and without missing a beat shot back, “Well, how’s it going, partner?”
Thad tried not to smile too hard while replying, “Oh, you know, different day, same ole mess,” he paused to yawn and stretch dramatically, then continued, “Sorry, my apologies.”
“What’s up, they got you working extra shifts?”
So she seemed interested. That was a good sign. “No, not this week, but I picked up a couple extra shifts last week, so now my sleep schedule is all messed up.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that!”
Her concern seemed genuine. That pleased Thad. “Meh, that’s ok. It’ll even out eventually. On the bright side, it’s given me more time to sit and read in the park.”
“Lovely! I just took my lunch there yesterday. I was thinking about going again today. What are you reading?”
Crap. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He scrambled. “Well, I’ve been working my way through the classics. Re-reading stuff they made us read in high school.” He panicked. Quick! What was a book he was forced to read in high school? “I just finished Little Women.” Crap, crap, crap! Why didn’t he choose one he’d actually read? He chastised himself.
“How funny! I started reading that for the first time a few months ago,” Sundara covered her hands with her face, “I’m ashamed to admit I never finished. I was having a hard time getting into it. Should I pick it back up, is it worth it?”
Thad shrugged and said the first thing that came to mind, “Maybe it’s an acquired taste. I like it more now than I did in high school, if that makes a difference.”
Just then, there was a clamor inside the bank. Apparently, one of the tellers had dropped a bag of quarters, which had spilled wildly over the floor.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sundara said quietly to Thad, rolling her eyes, “You had one job to do, Kate.” Sundara seemed relieved to see that he was laughing. “Hey, sorry to ask, but I can’t legally shut the door now that we’ve officially opened. Do you mind standing here for a minute while I help her? If anyone tries to come in, can you just ask them politely to wait a few minutes? Tell them we’re mopping up a spill or something?”
“No problem,” Thad saluted, “I’m on it”
Fortunately, no one tried to enter while he was on guard. Sundara returned, smiling, “Wow, thanks so much. I owe you one!”
“Aw, it was nothing.”
“Well, I hope you can get some sleep, but if you can’t, maybe I’ll see you at the park today? Hell, maybe you can help me get into Little Women,” she laughed nervously.
“It would be my distinct pleasure,” he said with a bow.
Thadeus booked it home and turned on his television. He only had a couple hours to watch Little Women and read as many reviews as he could.
Thadeus was rather proud of himself: He had a date!
All things considered, he did a fair job of talking about the book; he sounded knowledgeable without being pedantic. They ended up spending her entire lunch break together, talking and laughing. Thad was beside himself. When he got home, he was so full of energy that he genuinely couldn’t sleep. That was ok, he consoled himself, Sundara was worth losing sleep over. However, he knew he couldn’t continue this charade. He couldn’t claim insomnia forever. As desperately as he wanted to see her the very next day, he knew that he had to lay low for a few. Slow and steady won the race.
He spent the remainder of the week and weekend strategizing. How could he meet Sundara in the park more frequently without losing too much sleep or his job? He’d thought about it before, for different reasons, but wondered again if he could switch to swing shift. It would be a difficult transition initially, and the pay would be slightly less. Still, he was overdue for a raise and promotion that he hadn’t yet made a play for. His attendance was immaculate and he was in good standing with the boss, Jack. A few of the new employees wanted the night shift for the sign on bonus pay, so he might not have difficulty negotiating. It was worth a try.
The following week, he decided to start the conversation with his supervisor. It took most of the week, but they approved his move to swing. After advocating for his retroactive cost of living raise and cashing in his unused year to date sick and vacation time, he was able to negotiate a commensurate salary. At least, for the next two fiscal years. That was enough. He and Sundara would be ready to embark on their new life together by then. She’d be pregnant with his child, and he would be the most amazing stay at home dad a woman could ever want. He’d still contribute to the household, of course. He’d publish his novels, maybe pick up a few freelance writing jobs; stuff that would generate an income without preventing him from winning father of the year award.
Thadeus could see his plan unfolding.
When he finally told Sundara that he was moving to the swing shift, 2-11pm, she was genuinely pleased. “Oh that’s amazing news, Thad - I’m so happy for you! Working the night shift wasn’t helping your insomnia. Plus it must’ve gotten lonely at times,” She trailed off, uncertain whether she’d said too much.
Thad laughed so she’d know it was ok to venture such guesses, “Yeah, people get pretty lost in their heads working the night shift too long. I needed to get out before I became completely socially inept.” He laughed.
“Nah, you’re super easy to talk to. Hey! Does this mean you’ll have free time for an egg and cheese before work once in a while?” She seemed uncharacteristically shy.
Thad found her shyness endlessly endearing. “You know, I’d really like that. You can help resocialize me.”
Over the next few weeks, Thad and Sundara developed a tacit standing date at the Joan of Arc statue on Mondays and Fridays. At first, one or the other of them would show up with bagels or sandwiches from Lloyd’s. After about a month, Sundara started bringing home cooked meals for them. Thadeus couldn’t articulate why, but the gesture of her making food specifically for them and their conversations touched him deeply. That’s when Thad knew Sundara was falling for him.
A week or two into the second month, he finally got up the nerve to ask her out on a proper date.
“I thought you’d never ask,” She smiled. When they parted ways, she threw her arms around him, hugging him affectionately and kissing him on the check. Thadeus had never felt such unbridled joy. This was everything he ever wanted.
Over the next couple of months, their relationship progressed. The first time she stayed the night at his house, he knew that he was hopelessly in love. Thad hadn’t been with many women, and most of those experiences had been in high school and junior college. He’d started working at the factory at 19 to help pay his mother’s medical bills. He’d started on the night shift, so between that and caring for his ailing mother, he never had a chance to socialize or date much. Now 25, Sundara was his first official girlfriend. He was so anxious about pleasing her sexually that he’d visited the local brothel several times in anticipation.
He knew that the sex workers were paid to act like they enjoyed him, but the loud moans and scratches one of the women left on his back led him to believe that he wasn’t altogether bad at sex. She’d even called out his name, several times, during. Also, Thad was a very quick study. Practice makes perfect, and Thadeus was eager to practice.
As they entered their third month together, Thad had gotten so good at sex with the women at the brothel that he was particulary keen to show Sundara his newly acquired skills. She wanted to take it slow, and he wanted to respect that, but the more over the pants under the shirt making out they did, the harder it became. Pun intended. One night, after being rebuffed when he’d tried to slide his hand too far up her skirt, it randomly occured to Thad that he’d never been to her place. He’d walked her to the door, but he’d never even been inside her building. Was that odd? He wondered. He’d been so consumed with pleasing Sundara and basking in her presence that he hadn’t given it much thought.
When he asked, she replied that her place was no good because she had a roommate and wanted to be alone with him. This was the first he’d heard of a roommate; it seemed odd that it hadn’t come up. Even before they’d started dating, she’d mentioned her apartment to him during their fountain talks. He tried to ask follow up questions, but she silenced him with kisses. Still, once he’d thought of it, he couldn’t let it go. Who was this roommate? The thought burrowed into his head, an insidious worm.
He tried bringing it up casually a few days later when they were sitting at the fountain. Instead of answering him, Sundara covered his lap with her book and unzipped his trousers. It was the first time she’d touched him that way, and he lost control almost immediately. He was ashamed. He’d gotten good at delaying his release with the sex workers, but Sundara’s touch put him over the edge. Despite his shame and disappointment, she was kind. She told him it was totally normal as she walked him to the bank’s restroom to clean up before his shift at the factory.
Still, Thadeus couldn't let the roommate thing go. A few days later, he brought it up again, insisting that she divulge at least a few minor details. He got very little information out of her, but knew better than to press further. He’d have to take the matter into his own hands. He knew that Wednesday she was going out with one of her girlfriends after closing the bank. So, Thad decided to do something he’d rarely done: call in sick. Sundara had talked about this girlfriend before, her name was July. She was an old school friend or something. He’d learned that the roommate’s name was Becky, that she was allegedly a bit of a mess, and that she and Sundara were often at odds. Apparently, Sundara went out with July a few times a week to blow off steam and trash talk Becky. Thad argued that she could vent to him, but she replied that she didn’t want to waste their time together talking about annoying things.
Sundara’s explanation for not talking about Becky was reasonable, Thad supposed. Still, something about it was gnawing at him. He knew then that he had to follow her. Not in a creepy or distrustful way, just out of curiosity. After all, he hadn’t met any of her friends. Not that she’d met any of his. Of course, the sad truth was that he didn’t really have any. He had acquaintances and work friends, but rarely hung out with any of them. At any rate, it was normal for him to be curious about her life. They were in love. Being curious about your partner’s life wasn’t creepy. Not any more creepy than orchestrating chance encounters at the park by faking insomnia. Sometimes you had to nudge the Fates a little. If they were going to spend the rest of their lives together, he was going to have to meet the other people in hers eventually. Nothing wrong with expediting the process.
Having summarily rationalized stalking her, breaking and entering was a short leap. He had a rather clever plan: He’d wait outside Sundara’s building until he saw her leave. Once she was gone, he’d ring up her apartment from the front door. If Becky answered, he’d say he had an urgent message or letter for Sundara and ask if he could leave it with her. She’d let him in, and he’d use the opportunity to charm his way into the apartment and snoop around. He’d compliment her, make her feel comfortable, get her to open up, confide in him. Of course, it was a risk. He could make up a name and wear glasses, maybe even a false mustache. It would be enough to fool Becky, but Sundara wasn’t a fool; she’d figure it out the second Becky told her some guy came by.
He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. He wasn’t overly concerned. If Becky didn’t answer, he’d ring someone else to get into the building. $20 said Sundara had a key under her mat. If not, he’d figure it out. The details didn’t concern him much. He'd meet her for lunch near the fountain, walk her to work, then double back to his place so that he could call in sick and prepare for Operation Break-in. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.
~~~~
Sundara was feeling especially annoyed with Thad that Wednesday. She was irritated by him most days, but on the days she got to meet July, she found his company particularly tedious. She passed the day in a foul mood, counting the hours until she could close. She raced home after work to shower and change. She felt like she hadn’t seen July in months, although it had scarcely been days. When July arrived, Sundara buzzed her up excitedly, waiting at the door for her to climb the 2 flights. The instant Sundara saw July, she knew it was all worth it. She grabbed her and kissed her passionately.
“Baby, I’ve been aching for you,” Sundara breathed as July pushed open her robe and grabbed her.
“I know, lover, I can tell,” July grinned as she pushed Sandara back inside, kicking the door shut behind them.
A couple of hours later, the two women were on the couch, in varying states of disarray and undress. July pulled on her slip as she walked to the phone, “I’m starving. Thai or Vietnamese?’ Sundara told July to surprise her, then poured them both more wine. July hung up the phone, resumed her place on the sofa, took the glass, filled her mouth with wine, and kissed it into Sundara’s mouth. A single scarlet droplet spilled from Sundara’s mouth and ran down her chin. July grabbed her by the throat, pushed her head back, and licked the drop back up to Sundara's lips. She climbed on top of Sundara, kissing her passionately, ready to begin round two when the phone rang, startling them both.
Annoyed, July leaped up and grabbed the phone, “Yeah, who’s this?”
The person on the other end inhaled sharply before hanging up.
“Ok, whatever,” July said as she walked back to the sofa. “Just as well that we were interrupted, I suppose. I know it’s unpleasant business, but we gotta talk about the proverbial elephant in the room. How much longer before we’re done with Thadeus?”
Sundara sighed, already weary of the topic, “Lover, please. You know I need at least another month before we have all the offshore accounts settled. You know that I’m as eager for it to be over with as you are. The man’s a dreadful bore, but you know how much he’s worth! This is a big one for us. This one gets us out of here - for good. In another couple of months you’re going to have me on my knees all over Paris. In the finest lingerie, in the fanciest restaurants and hotels,” she moved her hand slowly and deliberately up July’s thigh as she spoke.
“I know, love, I know. I just really hate sharing you with him. Promise me again he’s never been here!”
“Of course not! Don’t be absurd, July. I’d never!” Sundara grabbed July’s chin, forcing her to make eye contact, “Tell me you believe me.” July didn’t reply, so Sundara playful bit her lip while pulling her hair.
“Fine. I believe you. Look, I know I told you it was ok to let him go down on you and do whatever clumsy hand stuff he can manage but, honestly, I’m more bothered by the thought of him kissing you.”
“I get it. I hate the thought of anyone else kissing you. That mouth is mine.”
“It is yours. And you are mine. All of you.”
“Yes, love. All of me.”
The two women were so engaged that they were oblivious to the knocking at the door. The person outside began knocking with more enthusiasm, finally catching their attention.
“Go. Away.” Sundara shouted.
“Excuse me ma’am, but I have your food delivery?”
“Oh yeah, crap. Sorry, be right there.” Sundara turned to July, laughing about how they’d completely forgotten ordering food.
After they’d eaten a bit, July asked, “So, you’re positive when I get Jack to drop the insider tip, Thad will take it?”
“He will when I tell him to. He’ll come to me when he hears it. He’s been asking me for financial advice since before we started “dating”. I have him wrapped around my finger. He trusts me. There’s zero doubt he’ll include me in his decision.”
“Gross. Do you have to say dating? Anyway, you sound pretty confident.”
“Why shouldn’t I? The guy’s hopeless. He’ll know it’s wrong, he’s not a total idiot. He might not know the term insider trading, but I’m sure he’s aware that taking tips from your boss is frowned upon.”
“He’s really never played the market? Never sold or even traded any of his stock? He’s just sat on it for his entire life? It’s pretty unbelievable.”
“Not really. I mean, the guy’s dying mother, who he nursed at home, willed them to him. She had no idea they’d ever be of value, but she had nothing else to bequeath him. The bank had already foreclosed on the house. You wanna hear the really funny part? The only reason she still had stock in the fabric factory was because it was in her husband’s name, in an account the IRS overlooked. She had to forge her dead husband’s signature to transfer them to Thad. If anyone had bothered to do even the simplest bit of research she would’ve been charged with fraud. Ha! Imagine.”
“Instead, it’s been sitting in his account, steadily accumulating interest. And with this trade tip that stock will be worth - what are we at now? 5 million?”
“July, it’s so much better than that. I found out last week that Thadeus has enough stock in the factory to be a major shareholder. And he has absolutely no idea! Lover, if we play this right, we’re looking at over 50 million.” Sundara held up her wine glass.
“Hell yeah!” July cracked open another bottle.
“Cheers, darling!”
“Although,” July began, then stopped herself.
“Oh no. Ok, let’s hear it. Although what?”
“Well, I mean. Don’t you think that part of the reason he’s never sold the stock is because it was the only thing his mother left him?”
“Maybe. Who knows, who cares? What’s your point? You don’t think he’ll part with Mommy’s stock for this?” Sundara slid her robe open. “You don’t think he’ll sign it over to me?” Sundara ran her hand slowly up her thigh toward her breasts.
“He’d be insane not to,” moaned July, moving in for the kill.
Sundara stopped her, “Wait. Turnabout is fair play. Are you positive you can get Jack to drop him the tip? After all, your approach is far less…hands on than mine.”
“Again, gross. And that’s where you gotta trust me, babe. I’ve got Jack by the balls in other ways entirely. That bastard knows that the garment district is about to blow up due to the impending embargo lift with China. But he also knows exactly how short lived that economic growth will be. When the subsequent fabric shortage is created, whose chubby lil finger do you think will be on the trigger? He’ll have just enough time to blow the whistle on Thad and trade his own stock before the next recession. And then, the pièce de résistance! Once his Chinese liaison double crosses him, we get a double payout, and Jack gets a pair of cement shoes.”
“And we’re absolutely certain that the Chinese liaison won’t turn on us?”
“Not a chance. Once Jack trades his fabric stock for a piece of big pharma and transfers the funds to the shell company I’ve created, they’ll gladly pay our asking price for laundering services. The millions they’ll pay us will be peanuts considering they’ll be the new majority shareholders of the factory. They’ll dominate the entire textile industry within a year. We’re talking about a multi-trillion dollar operation. And that’s a whole lotta money to wash. We walk away millionaires - maybe even billionaires - and they’ll continue to profit from dominating market places and creating recessions.”
“All things considered, we’re hardly the villains in this story,” Sundara mused. “I mean, we’re only robbing one man. Technically.”
“And letting him take the fall for a crime he didn’t commit, and laundering money after abetting insider trading. But potato, potato.”
“So Thad spends 25 years in a white collar minimum security prison. Who knows, maybe he’ll finally make friends,” Sundara laughed.
July turned away with an inscrutable expression.
“What? Why does your face look like that?”
“Well, love. You must realize they won’t let him live …” July could tell that Sundara hadn’t thought that far ahead, so proceeded gently, “Babe, listen, I know we agreed that no one would get hurt. But. I mean, you realized they’d kill Jack…”
“Well, that’s a bit different isn’t it? That’s between Jack and his Chinese liaison. That’s on Jack.”
July shifted, trying to ease herself into this new round of mental gymnastics, “Yeah, no. I get what you mean. Thad is a dutiful worker bee without a clue. But we needed a fall guy. You knew that, lover.”
“Yeah, I guess I thought that meant sending him to a cell. Not a grave. But I suppose that’s out of our hands too. He’d be a potentially hazardous loose end. I suppose they can’t take that chance.”
“Casualties of war, Sundara. Call it friendly fire. Not to be crass, but what else would the guy do with his life anyway?”
Sundara sighed. Not out of affection for Thad, she merely disliked having blood on her hands. “I suppose you’re right. Potato, potato.”
“There’s my woman,” July crawled on top of Sundara again, “Now. Kiss me like you love me.”
~~~~~
Thadeus was annoyed that Sundara and July hadn’t left the apartment. He’d been outside for hours. He saw the delivery guy, so knew they were dining in, but figured they might still head out for a drink after. They probably just lost track of time, chatting. He saw the lights go off and glanced at his watch. No wonder! It was after 1am. Becky must be ok with July crashing on the couch.
Thadeus figured he’d better go get some shut eye himself. After all, tomorrow was going to be a big day. He was proposing to Sundara that weekend, and there was still much to do in preparation. He’d watched Sundara admire this gorgeous opal ring in the window at Barney’s for months. It was outrageously expensive, but with the money he was about to make selling his stock in the factory, he’d be able to afford the ring; maybe even a downpayment on a modest brownstone. Sundara was going to love him forever. Thadeus smiled and whistled on his way home. Yes, indeed. Life was good.
The Seventh Veil: Salome’s Release
Act 1
It all began in the 2020 pandemic. Salome was born into isolation; an underweight, premature, screaming ball of flesh left in an incubator, bereft of human contact for the first 90 days of her miserable little life. She wouldn’t have known who her mother was or that she even had one except, at insufferably long intervals, a disembodied voice announced that mommy was there to see her. She didn’t understand the concept of mother. She understood only the existential suffering of isolation.
Naturally, her mother wasn’t allowed to visit often due to the soaring death rate. The hospital overflow unit they’d housed her in was at a distance from the main Covid ward, but visitors were still considered too risky. Nurses came in, on occasion, looking exhausted and defeated behind their masks. At least, Salome assumed they were nurses. Impossible to tell what was really behind the double masks, face shields, goggles, hair nets, layered gowns, and gloves. Salome’s first impression of humans was that they were 90% plastic.
She wasn’t entirely wrong.
She spent the first year and a half of her life with minimal to no contact. She and her mother were sequestered in a small, one room flat in the heart of the District. People all around them were dying. A father type person brought food to the window several times a day. Onlookers, perhaps family members, came to the window masked like bandits, longing to touch her tiny toes with their gloved hands.
Act 2
Salome pushed an errant clump of once curly, now matted hair from her eyes. She squinted hard at the horizon like she wanted to murder it. In truth, she did. Salome moved the toe of her boot against the carcass of a dead snake; a long black slithering daemon. It seemed like a bad omen. The red clay terrain yawned out before her; long veiny cracks and deep jagged crags punctuated a landscape of misery. Dark red, brown-red, black land juxtaposed with azure skies; cyan, turquoise. If she followed the deeper crag that was once a river, she would most likely happen upon a shanty village in the ruins of the former nation’s capital. She walked deliberately through the red clay; heel, toe, heel, toe.
She seemed to be having difficulty breathing. The air was thick. She swallowed in dust, exhaled fumes. She was running on fumes. She desperately needed water. Brutal beams of sunlight beat down upon her. She was quite certain the sun wanted to kill her. The sun was a relentless, vicious thing intent on making a human sacrifice of her, but she wouldn’t let it. Not yet.
Salome pressed the heart shaped locket against her thigh, into the heart shaped bruise it had formed there. Small reminder, small mercy. The ache of it reminded her that she had once felt something other than pain. She had once felt human feelings. She remembered, she thought.
As she struggled to differentiate the smaller cracks from the deeper crags in the swathe of red clay, she wondered how long it had been since she’d seen another human. Months, maybe? She needed to focus. Her depth perception was distorted from the severe dehydration and general fatigue. The river hadn’t flowed in years. Who knew how many. Bones decorated the riverbed, scattered about like runes. She knew all too well the grim fortune they foretold.
She sighed heavily. She thought about her lost lover, Krayia, and it made her chest ache so deeply that she nearly doubled over. The ache was profound and infinite. Thinking about Krayia punched the breath out of her, immobilizing her; a literal heartache that dropped her to her knees. She wasn’t even being hyperbolic, she insisted. It made her wonder: How had she loved another person so deeply? So selflessly? And how could it be that her love for Krayia had sustained her, had been everything to her, yet had amounted to exactly nothing in the end?
But Krayia had stopped existing the way other humans existed, sometime ago now.
Other humans existed.
Didn’t they?
Act 3
Salome figured that she’d walked about 7 miles so far that morning. Gauging by the sun, it was nearly noon, so there was still a chance she could make it to a shanty village and trade the heart shaped locket for water before nightfall. There was an equally likely chance that she would die before she got there. Or be killed for food when she arrived.
She’d lost count of how many days she’d gone without water. She’d eaten a few grubs yesterday. Yesterday? No, that couldn’t be correct. Could it? The truth was, Salome was dying. Any amount of water would only prolong the inevitable as her conclusion was foregone.
The absurdity of reality struck her then. She kicked small rocks - dashing them recklessly across the uneven terrain. The red clay land stretched out before her like an impossible dare. Red clay, over brown, overthrown, overbaked, deep crevices and crags, once rivers, now bled dry. A monotonous litany of hopelessness.
Salome heard its scream before she saw the vulture. Scavengers were the only living animals she’d seen in years. There must be something freshly dead nearby. Or was it her they were after? Was she that close to death? Were they circling overhead, forebodingly, just waiting for her to die?
She blinked up at the wide open cerulean sky where the beasts swirled in a cyclonic brown haze. She looked around to see if there were any other things, living or dying, attracting the vultures. Then, quite unexpectedly, she saw a figure in the distance. Or thought she did. It couldn’t be, but it seemed to be. Across the arid land was a figure. Go figure!
Shook, Salome smacked herself across the face. Her entire body felt numb. She laughed, a little unhinged. A beam of sunlight blasted down, razor blading its way through the dense atmosphere. How dare it? Why was it leading the scavengers directly to her? She had to keep moving.
Thirsty ground, arid, abysmal land. Clay cracked underfoot. Heel, toe. Inhale, dust in. Exhale, fumes out. Breathing was a negotiation. The figure might have water. Salome put her hand in her pocket and closed a fist around the heart shaped locket. It was her only bargaining tool. She loathed to part with it, but it might come down to that or a fight to her death.
Salome thought: If I die, who will remember Krayia? And her heart broke again, for the millionth time. That’s what life does, she thought: It takes away everyone you love and forces you to endure without them.
Her body moved mechanically forward, over the red clay, under the expansive sky, throughout the expanse of time. The relentless insistence of nature, she supposed. The red clay cracked. Heel, toe. The silhouette of the approaching figure waned, then abruptly folded in on itself. It didn't make sense! Reality was a slippery bitch. The vultures seemed too near. Time didn’t seem to be moving the way it ought to be. Things were altogether confusing.
Salome had to stay focused. She squeezed her fist around the heart shaped locket until it hurt. There! There was the pain, her old companion; it was part of her, it kept her anchored. What would happen if she released her pain? She wondered. Would she cease to exist? She couldn't contemplate it. She had to keep moving forward. So, Salome marched on as the world kept spinning in rapid circles around a sun that was trying to kill her. Step, crunch, heel, toe
She threw back her head and attempted to laugh again, but her body was too weak. She collapsed, crumbling in on herself. The figure was there, upon her, like the red clay, upon her. Everything blurred. Salome couldn’t see anything farther than her foot. All of existence amounted to the red clay on her boot. Everything else slid out of focus; became distant, soft, softer. In the distance, vultures screamed.
Her mind drifted to Krayia. Krayia, like Aristotle, had been an unapologetic actualist. The only time they’d ever argued, it had been about Aristotle’s chicken or egg query.
And why do you think actuality trumps potentiality?
Because it already is.
But ‘already is’ is boring. It leads to complacency. And what then? Potentiality is everything. Rather, it’s anything. Aristotle’s egg - what’s inside? His argument is predicated on it being a chicken, but that’s absurd. - It could be anything. Any. Fucking. Thing.
Salome blinked. She forgot what she was thinking about.
The figure knelt down next to her. Salome saw that the figure was a woman with long, fiery red hair and a crooked grin. She had lost the capacity for speech, so simply held up the locket to the women as an offering. There were no words anyway.
The woman understood that Salome needed water. Of all absurdities, rather than giving her water or even inspecting the locket, the woman leaned in and kissed Salome on the mouth.
The woman pulled back and offered a hand. Salome shook her head. The woman indicated that the village wasn’t far, but Salome held her ground. She looked the woman squarely in the eyes: they were captivating emerald explosions, fires barely contained. Salome averted her gaze. The eye contact was too much. She resented anyone being able to see her.
The woman gestured again, this time more insistently. Red clay, blue skies. Swirling, crashing, bold colors, cyclonic vultures filling the sky in alternate hues and pulsations. Time moved strangely. They existed outside of time. Time didn’t exist!
Salome pushed the locket into the woman’s hands. She took it and held it up to inspect it. At length, she pried it open and a bit of powdery white dust fell to the ground. Morosely, the woman turned her eyes toward Salome’s. She felt cheated. There was supposed to have been a secret there. An answer. Or, if not an answer, at least a clue. Something that would suggest, at the very least, a vague sense of purpose.
Instead there was nothing, the woman noted.
“No,” Salome said in the most even voice she could manage with her dying breath, “It’s the exact opposite of nothing. It is everything. Or - it has the potential to be.”
It’s the egg. The egg is what matters.
“Screw Aristotle!” Salome spat.
Salome stared up into the cloudless sky and contemplated the circling vultures awaiting their meal. She hoped the woman would take her share first. Although ostensibly disappointed that the locket was empty, the woman looked down at Salome affectionately, with something like love.
It pleased Salome to feel something, anything, as she shut her eyes to relinquish hold. As she exhaled her last earthly breath, she saw the woman backlit by the punishing sun. It looked like she was wearing a halo. Salome didn’t believe in angels, but the woman must have been one. It was the only explanation. The woman leaned over and kissed Salome on the forehead, tenderly, then moved in closer and whispered in her ear,
“Hope springs eternal.”
It was a bit trite, but Salome was dying, so she'd take it.
Then, the woman grinned conspiratorially and said,
“By the way, I get it. Aristotle was a moron. Screw him.”
Salome smiled; she was finally able to release her pain. So this is what happens, she thought as she shut her eyes and ceased to exist.