Insanity
I'm all alone....
drip... drop... plink... drip.... plunk... drop... drip....
The walls are closing in...
drop... drip... plunk... plink... drop... drip... plink...
The worms are eating away at my eyes...
plink... plunk... drip... drip... drop... plunk... plink...
Why is it staring at me?!??!?
plunk... drop... drip... plink... plunk... drip... drop...
The floor is melting....
pink... drop.... drip.... plunk.... drip... drop... drip...
It is getting closer!!!!
plunk... plink... drop... drip... drip... plink... plunk...
My skin is growing mold...
drip... drop... plunk... drip... plunk... drop... plink...
So many ants!
drop... plink... plunk... drip... drop... drip... plink...
There are tiny eyes on my toes :D
pink... drop.... drip.... plunk.... drip... drop... drip...
My fingers are purple!
plunk... plink... drop... drip... drip... plink... plunk...
I am going to die here.
Without a trace
Freshau people were getting ready for freedom day.
A mist came and slowly moved across the town.
There was a loud scream for HELP.
Once where there was a happy, loving town with good people....now it all vanished....
Without a trace.
_____________________________
It was a perfect day. The birds were chirping and the wonderful people of Freshau were all getting ready for the freedom day festive celebration.
The town had never looked so beautiful. There were green ribbons tied across the many door frames in the town, to represent nature. A red balloon was tied to all the top of the town lights that glowed magenta, whenever the sun set and the blanket of brief night darkness approached.
Even the people were in spectacular dress. The children wore gold outfits to represent their love for the day light. Then the adults wore grey, to remind others that there was still evil lurking about even when all seemed calm & quiet.
As these preparations were taking place....a young dark leader was making other plans for his unsuspecting folk.
He was once their very own being who they looked up to. But after finding out that they took him in from his true calling: Total death and annihilation, he couldn't stand to see their happy faces anymore. Or see them full of joy and life.
The Freshau people had taken really good care of Maethj. They tried their best to teach him how to be good. They even tried controlling his evil powers.
All their efforts were in vain. For Maethj's mind could not be changed. And he vowed later on that as long as he was around, there would always be deaths and chaos.
There was a secret council, that was in charge of keeping on high alert-to make sure that evil would not win. As long as Maethj was free and loose, then not even any magic spells or tricks could be used against him. Unless, he felt satisfied and somewhat happy....only then could he be stopped.
The council, from the moment he left Freshau, kept a close eye on the level of chaos in all worlds. There was no way they were going to let him win this fight.
If only they knew that Maethj had been training with his dark family after he left Freshau. They all had a psychic link that made it possible for them to talk wherever they were. Even if they were trillions, zillions of miles apart.
His family were from the underworld. They were magical beings that survived the depths of hell itself. Too powerful to be roaming any parts of the universe/galaxy.
These dark lords wanted their family to be set free-from their eternal fire punishment. They made sure that their youngest little one would be able to walk freely without any difficulties.
They hatched a plan to send him to a place where they knew....no one would suspect him of being a dark lord. He was only a sweet little child that didn't know right from wrong.
Maethj was given a small medallion that gave him the power to go to any place his dark heart desired. That's how he ended up being with the Freshau folk, who all welcomed him with loving arms.
His dark family members informed him of just how strong he was. They also told him that he could use his mind for so much evil and terror. To bring all forms of life across the galaxy.
The young dark lord wondered what he could do to bring misery to all the people of Freshau. Then he had a brilliant idea. He could use their own minds and fears to destroy them. But how?
Maethj mediated before heading to Freshau. He contacted his family and told them that he was on his way.
He left at full flight light speed towards Freshau. They wouldn't suspect anyone to try and ruin their grand celebration.
The special council detected a strange dark power heading for Freshau. All seven leaders looked at each other. They didn't want to believe it. But their senses were right. Maethj was on his way to Freshau. They were all scared for their lives and the lives of the good people.
The dark lord carefully passed by the main security task force surrounding Freshau. He phased right through the walls, buildings and flew right to the center civil area of Freshau.
Maethj: People of Freshau do not be afraid. I have come to rid this place of all that's good.
The special council ran towards Maethj. Their effort to try and save their people failed. They were frozen in their tracks with a freeze spell cast by the Dark Lord, and he only used his mind to do that.
Suddenly, Maethj summoned a force so malevolent and frightful. The ground shook and there was a gigantic explosion.
Before any other person tried to seize him, a mist slowly approached all across the land. Inside buildings, homes and towering Freshau towers.
An old woman shouted for HELP. But it was too late. A large, volcanic creature had whisked her into the underworld. The sky darkened and Maethj's eyes glowed a deep, scarlet as he said the enchantment to continue moving the mist across Freshau.
The crowd slowly grew smaller as bodies were being sent into the depths of Hell.
Soon there wasn't a soul left in the town. Then Maethj did even something much worse. He cast a no trace spell and with a loud POOF, the whole area and space where Freshau stood was gone.
This Is Where We Are
It is 6am in northeast Portland and my father is complaining about old people.
At eighty-one, my father complains about everything.
Tattoos, strangers, yogurt. Life annoys him.
The rest of the family has given up, preferring to stay out of his cross hairs.
This requires effort since he takes aim at everyone.
For decades, I stayed away, worn down from being insulted in the driveway.
Now I visit five or six times a year. Never for more than a day or two.
We know our limits.
I am an only child. He is alone. This is where we are.
“The way they drive,” he says as I make coffee. “They go too slow.”
My father drives ten miles an hour in a 1987 Ford pick-up truck. It has dual tanks and a gun rack. The rack is empty now but could easily be filled with a threat. To get in the vehicle, I have to hoist myself in and up, grunting like I am birthing a hernia.
My father slides into the driver’s seat without a struggle.
The steering wheel is molded out of oil and anger. The interior is flattened plaid, black bleeding into blue like a manufactured bruise. The dashboard is smooth. The cab is clean. My father puts on ski gloves because “the controls can get sticky."
Underneath the passenger’s seat is a sawed-off axe handle.
My father says it’s for people who ask too many questions.
When my father creeps through the street, drivers honk and swerve.
Strangers give him the finger. My father ignores the gesture.
When I tell him he should go faster—there is a minimum speed limit after all—he guns the truck through the intersection before pumping the brakes to slow back down to his preferred speed.
“Paid cash for this,” he says to anyone who compliments his property.
The truck is in pristine shape, not a dent, not a scratch. He cleans it from bumper to bumper every Wednesday. He washes the truck more than himself.
If I cut him—which I have thought about more often than not—he would bleed Turtle Wax and Armor-All. But when I remind him he should bathe more often, he snorts and says, "Why? My time on the stage is over."
This is a dig at me. I was the one on the stage, acting in New York.
My father thinks this was a failed effort. He does not like the arts, equating anything creative to “crap.” He says I was smart when I went to college then I got “tangled up in that art mess.”
Now I write. Luckily, my father does not read unless it is a mechanics manual.
He does not ask what I do or how I do it.
"You drive slow, too,” I say to him as I scoop the grounds.
He grunts, eyeing me like I took a shit in the seat.
As my father takes his insulin, I stare at the coffee maker. It is from the 80s and sounds like backed-up plumbing when it percolates.
Folgers shoots through the spout into a carafe that is only available on eBay.
Despite my offers to buy a new coffee maker or better coffee, my father refuses anything current. He is suspicious of anything new, including clothes.
“This outfit is better than when I bought it,” he says.
He is wearing his United Airlines mechanics jacket. He retired twenty-two years ago. The outerwear is in museum shape, spitefully preserved despite decades of daily use. The thermal shirt, however, should have been washed last week. The sweatpants would be refused by the homeless. His tennis shoes are a pity gift from a cousin who works at a sportswear giant near our house. I try not to think about the state of his boxers or his socks or the ski cap on his head that sits like someone threw it there by mistake.
It says “Yahoo” across the front.
Under the hat, there is no hair. My father has been bald since before I was born. This style started in the army when he shaved his head on the draft line before anyone official could retrieve the razor. They gave him kitchen duty but the action did not kill the attitude.
Shortly after boot camp, my father was promoted to drill sergeant, rewarded for his bark, barely punished for his bite. He then volunteered for military patrol where he served his country by hunting the haunted. Then he got bored with the battle.
He returned home angry, smooth head intact.
His eyebrows are the only things that give away his age. White and wiry, they are trying to break free from his black face.
“Where’s the coffee?” he barks.
I point at the pot.
From the kitchen window, I can see the garage. It is bigger than the house.
The tractor, the ’51 Buick, the go-cart and the truck fit comfortably inside.
On several floor-to-ceiling shelves, the oil and other lubricants face the same direction, in alphabetical order. My father has a system.
No dust, no dirt.
Here, everything has its place and nothing is broken.
The garden tools hang in designated spots, next to several Hazmat suits and three Kevlar vests. The welding tanks are bookended by industrial toolboxes.
My father could build an army here and hang his squad from the reinforced cathedral ceiling like a mobile of menace. The entire system is locked and coded as if a stranger could make it past the six-foot steel perimeter without being destroyed in the driveway.
This is where we are.
