Spoon, Squirrel, Satellite

An exercise in interdependent yet completely unrelated things. Again, not very uplifting. I've promised a story of puppies and rainbows. We'll see...

- Spoon -
The spoon dipped into the colonel’s cereal. He was a Lucky Charms kind of man, had been ever since he was little when such things are still being set in that stone they call a brain. The spoon’s chemical makeup was much simpler than that of man, but it had evolved nicely. Functional and effective, simple and refined, the spoon could not make a mistake. Unless it broke. But then there were always more to replace it. The daily newspaper was spread before the colonel, flipped to the weather, but he wasn’t having any of it. The spoon reflected silently on all the day’s headlines as they were glossed over, forgotten. The reflection was a little cloudy, with all that milk and sugar obscuring the surface.
Over mouthfuls of sugary marshmallows the ego of a man complained to his assistant, asking him meaninglessly rhetorical questions like Can you believe this? What’s this world coming to? The assistant nodded and dipped a spoon of his own. It would be nearly half a day before he was able to eat again. The war was time-consuming. Nothing would come of it and staring at the colonel’s spoon he wondered how many people and their spoons were twisted and deformed as a result. Of course he could look up the statistics – probably even find a section on spoons – but knew the facts were meaningless.
The assistant threw a carefully printed request for a tactical strike before the colonel, imploring him to sign it with haste. Ahhh, another one, he said then fished a pen from his breast pocket with his free hand and signed the form. He was a righty and he’d signed with his left. The right hand was occupied, obviously. The spoon, if it could have, would have cried.

- Squirrel -
While the squirrel searched for his buried treasure, there was a whistling in the air. He paid no attention to the sound, but a nagging in the back of his tiny brain screamed for him to do otherwise. Why worry about sounds like that when a) they probably had nothing to do with him and b) he has better things to worry about, like where he hid his last stash of nuts. Not words. The squirrel had no need for words. Or missiles. Like the kind that was heading for his home. Well, that’s a bit of a melodramatic overstatement. The missile wasn’t headed for his home exactly, just the hundred-mile killzone surrounding it.
Of course he was incapble of realizing any of this himself, at least, that’s what they would like to believe. Squirrels would get there too, all it took was a little time. With expert skill he excavated another antiquity of the edible kind, peeling its crust away slowly to taste and relish every morsel of the sweetness inside. In terms of squirrels and what their apparently limited capacity for thought or higher-level thought processes, this was his heaven. Soon he’d be introduced to the truth. That the nuts and the seasons and the slumber in between were all there was.

- Satellite -
The satellite was cold, lonely. It was years since he had had any contact with his makers. He’d devoured fuel to get to where he was now, but felt as if there was nothing left to enjoy. Content for a time, he began to grow restless, staring vacantly at the void. The satellite knew they thought it stared back at you. The satellite knew better. It just went on forever and ever, affecting the illusion that some sacred meaning was locked in all those millions of light years. There was no question of visibility, or days or weather patterns. Things moved the way they had for decades, centuries, millennia.
In this particular moment, however, the satellite was summoned. Awoken from his empty dreams he found renewed purpose. He would get to exercise the near infinite knowledge and specialty he had been created for. The solar panels attached to his sides spread like wings and he righted himself with the overstocked energy he had. There was no time for error or complaint. The satellite had a job to do and he was beckoned to perform flawlessly. The makers would be pleased, the satellite knew. For once he was good for more than just soaking up the sun’s rays, storing them for a day the satellite believed would never come, yet hoped with all his being would give him opportunity to be free of it all. The satellite wondered silently what it would be like if the earth governing its gravitational patterns were to simply cease to exist.

A Careless Chortle

That's right, I said "chortle." This is one of the crazy ass pieces I had to write for my fiction workshop this semester. It's probably one of my best in that it gets straight to the point. There's still a lot I'd like to develop in it and it's by no means the final version. I know, it seems like none of these are actually the final version... but someday! In any case, I hope whoever is reading this (if ANYBODY is reading this) enjoys it. It's about... the state of today's world, I guess. And how the most random and insignificant person can get sucked into tragic and terribly overwhelming events without a why or a how. WOO! Real pick-me-upper! Later.

A Careless Chortle

He held his face to the dingy fluorescent tubes above and tried desperately to keep his nose from bleeding. The bulbous headphones wrapped around his head were still blasting a jazzy groove of distortion and feedback and I wonder something about the tensile strength of an eardrum.
I didn’t know this man at the time and doubted very much that I ever would, but that didn’t keep me from wanting to. I wish we weren’t strangers. But that’s not the point. Failure to introduce one’s self is a matter of politeness and nothing more. I wish it still meant something. Like when one man would shake another’s right hand to demonstrate he wasn’t drawing a sword.
I didn’t think he’d care, with that frown etched starkly into his face, I guess I’ll introduce myself to you. My name is Gene. I am 24 years old. I live in Nebraska. I work in this oversized corporate building in the center of an industrial park and I escape extremely boring meetings from time to time in this extremely boring bathroom. I’m nobody. But you already knew that, didn’t you? The corporation is everything, though I’m not sure it means anything. One too many advertising campaigns get you believing the shit yourself.
I had emerged from the only stall in the room, buckling my belt, buttoning my coat, and wondering “Just what the hell is that noise he’s listening to?” Considering the man’s plight the thought was insensitive, I know, but it was damn loud. My tastes ran more towards the classics. Hendrix is still a god, even in 2006. Zeppelin, too. And yes, I’ve forgotten what it means to be “young.”
“What’s that you’re listening to?”
He seemed confused for a moment, then took a step back, turned and looked at me with a kind of disapproval. His sneakers squeaked as he did it and I couldn’t help but chortle at the pink drops of blood splattered on his white non-descript high-tops. I guess he had better things to do than stand there and chat with me. Why shoot the shit when you could bleed out your nose like a stuck pig? I’m unbelievable.
I looked self conscious and asked “Um, yeah, sorry. Do you need any help?”
Awkwardly (which in itself is an awkward word), I moved toward the paper towel dispenser on the wall and before I even washed my hands, started tearing pieces out of it. He already had a fine collection of reddened rags piled on the sink counter in front of him. Again, his eyes lanced me with disdain. This time it was mixed with amusement.
He said, “You didn’t even wash your hands.”
I glanced down at what I thought were mostly clean towels and thought better of my efforts. No, I wouldn’t want someone like me handing out “clean” paper towels either. He moved aside for a moment so I could wash my hands. After throwing the “clean” towels out I moved beside him and gave my hands a once or twice over. When I was done drying the pink crevices between my fingers, I turned to him once again. He was chuckling mildly to himself, and looking yet again at me. I realized then how much older than me he was. We looked in opposite directions, letting the strangeness of the situation hang in the air.
I let out a nervous laugh and asked him, “How’s that?”
“Heh, yeah, much better. Don’t worry about it, I get these all the time. Yeah, I could use some help. Could you do me a huge favor?” He was blonde. He had blue eyes. He was at least six inches taller than me and in all honesty I discovered I was attracted. Strange.
I nodded and turned toward the dispenser again, apparently determined on some unconsciously idiotic level to act the savior no matter what considering my bumbling attempt beforehand. Lot of good that did. I wondered why I was feeling the way I was. Am I really that bored? I kept asking myself. I know I can’t get any play from the girls, but I mean… come on, Gene.
“No, sorry, I don’t need any more towels. But listen buddy, what I do need, is someone to run this pizza upstairs real quick.” He bent his knees slowly so as not to tilt his sieve of a nose and reached below him to grab a delivery bag I hadn’t noticed before now. Ah, pizza delivery. I hadn’t even noticed the helmet in the corner of the counter. Illusions of grandeur and heroics, you know how it goes, overlooking all kinds of important details. I wondered how and why an older, charming man like this would be reduced to such a lowly position in the world.
I checked my watch, almost noon. If I hurried I could be a hero, win some good karma, AND make it back in time for the meeting. Did I mention I’m a Hindu? Not Indian, no, full-on middle-America but without the taste for Christ and all that. As far as I was concerned the road to salvation was lined with towering crosses, all waiting to fall upon the next misbegotten traveler.
For a moment I see out the corner of my eye a sneer on his face and I wondered just what the hell that’s about. When he notices I noticed it quickly changes to a crooked smile. I kept the question to myself. I looked at the pizza box he was holding out in his free hand. Five floors above and the elevator’s out. I figure what the hell?
The rest seems ridiculous. I would even call it ludicrous. I smiled at him, asked his name. He said it was Luke and I knew he was lying, but the pizza was already in my hands. It didn’t feel very warm, he must have been very late. I left the bathroom, hoping he would be there when I got back so I could finally act the savior and win some well-deserved praise. Though I suppose it wasn’t in the best interests of karma to crave such a thing. So I’m superficial. I think we’ve already made that quite apparent, as by this point I’d probably do anything for that man. I still don’t understand why. He had a confident magnetism about him.
The stairs were trying. I hadn’t thought about exercise in months and actually done any in longer. By the time I got to the top I wondered seriously about eating the pizza myself and being on my way, never even returning to the bathroom. The secretary at the desk was cute but a little too chipper. Bubbly and high pitched, I thought she could use a cigarette or a beer. She told me to leave the box on the table in the lobby, though she wasn’t sure who had ordered a pizza. Maybe one of the big shots, always doing things behind people’s backs. I obliged.
I turned from the tabletop and began walking back down the stairs. When the bomb in the pizza box (they can make them to just about any size nowadays, can’t they?) exploded first shattering the glass, I went deaf and I sobbed. I threw myself to the ground and I screamed for help. When I saw no one was coming, I wished I was back there, in the fire and the rubble. The girl and her ridiculously unnecessary happiness were gone. She definitely hadn’t needed shrapnel. Or a piece of her lying next to me on the floor. What happened hit me like the concussion of energy not moments ago. I realized I had been played and I found myself wishing I was dead.
They sat me down in one of many interrogation rooms. I don’t know what to do besides fidget like a moron. A seemingly mild-mannered man enters the automatic-locking door behind me. He carries a semi-automatic weapon on his hip and a condescending smirk on his face. I think I plead for my life. It sounds more like gibberish. He grunts as he squeezes in behind the desk. The room is very small and he is rather large. No formalities, no introduction. He demands my story then. He says my life depends on it. I tell him my story.
When I’m finished he nods, gathers up the file folder he’d carried in with him. He hasn’t said a word the whole time and closes the door gently behind him.
My cell is very ugly, very safe, and very small.

See Ya Space Cowboy...

A stupid quiz I took today. I was happy with the result.

You scored as Bebop (Cowboy Bebop). Hope you don't mind being anime. Your style just fits perfect with the crew of the Bebop. Life is tough and your crew knows it, but you will find a way to survive. You always do. Now if only Faye would quit gambling all your money away. Bebop (Cowboy Bebop) 100% Serenity (Firefly) 94% Deep Space Nine (Star Trek) 81% Galactica (Battlestar: Galactica) 81% Millennium Falcon (Star Wars) 69% SG-1 (Stargate) 63% Babylon 5 (Babylon 5) 63% Andromeda Ascendant (Andromeda) 50% Nebuchadnezzar (The Matrix) 50% Moya (Farscape) 50% FBI's X-Files Division (The X-Files) 44% Enterprise D (Star Trek) 25% Your Ultimate Sci-Fi Profile II: which sci-fi crew would you best fit in? (pics) created with QuizFarm.com

Once This Room Held Warmth

A piece I wrote for my current Fiction Workshop. It's inspired by the play between a poem I wrote, the murder one... and one of my friends. I decided to twist up the whole thing in order to make it a little crazy. It has some elements from some old stuff, but it's mostly all new. Enjoy.

“When you stare off to one side like that it’s frustrating. Help me. I don’t understand,” I grab a tiny wooden toothpick from the pile to my left and snap it between my thumb and middle finger, using the pointer as a guillotine. Its remains are deposited to my right, with the rest of its fallen comrades. She watches the ceremony from across the table with a faint grin of what could be amusement.
“You won’t. Not for a while. The holes devour. They congeal. Transform.” Snap. Another toothpick loses its purpose.
“What are you talking about? What holes? Reality isn’t worn like a pair of shoes and there are no windows in your mind. Here I am, right in front of you. What is it you think you’re missing? I don’t understand.”
“You will. The holes become doors, swinging open. Swinging closed. You’ll see.” The ritual’s put on pause as I ponder this prophecy.
“I thought I... Never mind. Stop it. Tell me about your dream. Please. I need something.”
“There is no more.” Snap.
She scratches the table for a moment with her fingernails; the black paint is thin and peeling at the edges. Feet shift and scrape from underneath as she rises and looks me in the eye. Her hand, ethereal like a strong breeze, brushes across the table spilling the piles of broken and unbroken toothpicks, mashing them together. Purpose and purposelessness collide. The waitress is nowhere to be seen. She seems to have forgotten her post as guardian of our safe haven. Time is almost up and I can tell by the vacant expression reflected in the window that she has already decided to abandon me.
A fingertip or two lift and graze my shoulder as she walks past me toward the glass door and the lightening sky beyond it. I don’t look after her but I hear it when she bumps into a stool in front of the counter and the diner’s chimes jingle as she lets the door say goodbye. I say nothing. A moment later she is visible on the other side of my window, walking into the highway away from me, away from safety.
I remember how we met. The scrawny girl with her hair dyed blue and red, split down the middle, walked through my dorm’s open door like she belonged there, campaigning for first year government treasurer. I didn’t know why she would bother with such a lowly, insignificant sort of position, but hey, everyone’s entitled to do whatever the fuck they please. Get in at the bottom and it will open doors and all that crap. Regardless, I’m not the type to give my name without any real reason so I make her earn it.
“Are you a democrat or republican?”
“I consider myself socially liberal but politically conservative.”
“All right...that’s bullshit. Let’s try again... Do you like Bush?”
“Yeah, I have to - I met them once at this No doubt concert -“
“No. Not the Gavin Rossdale Bush. The President?!”
“Oh, yeah...I like him too!”
“Right...well...give me the fucking petition.” I signed my name, Duncan, and knew I was jealous of her motivation. I pass the clipboard, now a little heavier with the weight of my dumb name, she offered her hand in exchange and a name of her own. That was back when names actually meant something and I smile at the thought.
“My name’s Emma. What are you doing later?” It was a trap.
She reached the limit of the diner’s protective circle of light, where she cast no more shadow into the blackness beyond. Where she was headed no light would follow, the eminent guide abandoning the vagrant soul for the comfortable warmth of safety. The eighteen-wheeler collided with her frail human form and while she flies, she disappears. No body to account for, the driver emerges and drops from his cab, baffled. All that remains are tiny embers cascading around the truck’s mass, each piece flickering and sparkling in the intense headlights. I think for a moment they look like burning butterflies.
Always the same, always leaving me to fend for myself. Again.
The waitress surfaces, unconsciously summoned from the unknown depths of the back rooms with a look of dreadful understanding, almost as if she is thinking “Not me. Oh God, not me...” Then a man with a black cloak, the hood down, walked into the diner as the bells tinkled behind him. This time I turn around in the booth. He walks toward the counter and wraps his arm around the waitress’ shoulder, quietly whispering into her ear like they’ve conspired against me for centuries. The reaction is minimal: a vacant stare and her swift return to the bowels of the rundown diner. I look away, through my reflection, and into the night. Then back at the cloaked figure. There is a mildly skewed familiarity to the whole situation. The stale mug of coffee, liquid now plastered to its sides, tells me that I’ve been here for longer than I would like to admit.
I gather my jacket and her purse, leaving money enough to pay for the coffee and nothing more. I survey the mess of toothpick remains littering the floor. The jacket wraps around me as the man steps in my direction. Darkness emanates from the air around him, altering the fabric of what I thought was a static reality. She was right after all, and of course it’s already too late. It always is. I know what it would look like from the highway: A man, me, standing alone, wide-eyed but calm. But that’s not how it’s happening. I’m not alone. And I’m certainly not calm. All at once I vanish in the darkness and feel as though I’ve stepped into air.

* * *

A man lays on the ground, with his back to the wall, his chin on his chest. Slumped over but restless, obviously alive, his legs spread before him in the kind of crooked position reserved for dead people who have been thrown from cars or fallen from buildings. Light glares through glass like the unhappy glance of God but only for a second, passing over the empty space and quickly forgetting it. Shadows grip his face and the contours of his body, letting the artificial light do its deceptive work, only to depart into darkness again.
He opens his eyes.
Did you do this? The words are scrawled on the wall in what could be red paint. It is still wet and drips down the wall, pooling and congealing where the ragged wallpaper meets the worn carpet floor. Every surface is a bruise, gray, black and blue, like an inmate in his final hours tried desperately to punch his way through reality.
Did you do this?
Below the words a photograph is taped unevenly to the wall and in the anti-light of the room he can faintly make out figures. Red fingerprints surround the edges of the photo and a full handprint is clearly visible on the wall to the right of it. When his eyes finally focus and the light makes another pass at the room, he registers its contents. There’s blood on his hands, maybe his face. He doesn’t know for sure.
When his eyes unwillingly return to the photograph he sees what the image holds. It’s sloppy, unfocused, but clearly depicting on the left a pale-skinned woman with exposed breasts and what could be her excessively exposed blood. On the right, occupying the foreground, a figure stands with its back to the photographer, the glint of metal in its left hand. The sliver looks long and slender like a knife but it is unclear; there is too much movement. The figure is nothing more than a silhouette, a shadow, backlit and unspecific. On the floor beside the woman’s feet is a brightly shining silver chain, the clasp broken, with a clearly defined cross pendant attached.
“Are you ok, babe? Your face… you’re sweating.” She reached over and brushed his hair gently from his forehead. He turned from his back to his side, facing away from her and pulled his pillow closer.
“What? Oh. Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. What are you doing up?”
“I’m sorry.” She cast her gaze aside then looked past him at the half-drunk glass of water on his nightstand, a bottle and its contents tipped on the side. The pills reminded her of tiny deceptive beetles, so small in stature but filled with such poison.
“Stop it. There’s nothing more to it. You have to go to sleep.”
“Duncan…”
She didn’t believe him so she mouthed the words again: “I’m sorry, Duncan.” There was much more to it that would never be resolved. She knew his heart and it was broken. Covers twisted and her own pillow was rearranged, but there was no comfort waiting her when she slept. Only hate.
That night she dreamed of her transgression: a barely lit bedroom with a man who wasn’t Duncan. Twenty-three and clearly drunk, she took his shirt and dropped it to the floor. As the couple slithered among the sheets, snakes poured from his eyes and she screamed.
Light shining through the window to the right of the shadow-clad figure lights up the lower half of the woman’s body but still illuminating her other features. Her head seemed at first to be cut off by the frame, but the excess of blood around her neck and a glimpse of exposed flesh tells differently. He stares at the photo in disbelief and questions slide through his head as if over a floor of ice, each freezing him as they shatter his consciousness, one right after the other.
What is going on? How did this happen? Where am I? Who are those people? And then, after a moment, Who am I...?
He blinks for a long time, holding his eyes shut for a few seconds. When they open again something has changed about the photo. The woman’s body has shifted, there is less of her torso contained within the simple edges and her arms and legs are now in different positions. As he focuses on her he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. Then... His heart. Her heart? Beating? No, her feet against the ground, kicking.
She crawls slowly out of the frame, head missing in action, away from the figure with the knife and out of the photograph all-together. She has disappeared from the photo as if a world were contained within the flattened, captured reality of the image. He stares at the place on the ground where she had been, the necklace and smeared blood the only remaining evidence she had ever been there. The necklace begins to disappear, dissolving into the carpet. The blood on the ground moves slowly toward the necklace, then even more quickly.
As the silver cross is consumed in the black of blood, the lonely man gasps out in terror and a horrible sense of forgotten understanding. The light returns, hits his face, and wrongfully blesses him with the overcast, darkened features of death. He tries to push himself away from the photo but is pinned by the wall. He blinks again and the words above the photo are gone, leaving only the photo on the wall. He blinks a third time and the photo is gone, replaced with the same bloody question Did you do this? This time below it, where the photo had been, is written I did.
Chills ravage his body. A fourth blink and the wall is blank, the words gone but in his hand is a trinket, like a demented souvenir, a silver chain wrapped around a tarnished cross. Alone in the darkness of what seems to pass for a hotel room, the light ignores his plight and the shadows huddle around him in a worthless and jaded attempt at warmth. Questions of accusation twist from within and up through his throat, cutting him apart with violent intensity. He throws the cross against the wall where the photo had been, letting it clatter to the ground in a muffled protest, left to sit in silence.
What the hell was that? He asked himself again and again but answers would not come. Did I do that? How? He wasn’t sure. When he finally stood he propped himself against the walls, pushing hard on crumbling wallpaper. Dry and cool, the wall feels reassuring against his sweaty palms. He nervously peers through the window on the right hand wall to find himself looking out over a bay from the third or fourth floor of the building.
The sky, a heavy silver gray, is cloudless but seems foreboding; as if clouds and rain were on there way, perhaps already there, waiting to spring themselves on the unsuspecting. A dim light shines in the distance. Its beam illuminates the room for yet another second, at the exact moment his eyes have finally gotten used to the dark. Pupils dilate and he feels his teeth chatter. A short lighthouse stands on a long stone jetty, perhaps a mile or two down the shore and a few hundred meters into the turbulent water. Fog makes the coast beyond the lighthouse impossible to see.
“Oh my gosh, it’s beautiful.” She looks up at him but his gaze is transfixed on the tiny cross pendant encased within its black plush box. He seems startled as if from a dream and looks at her momentarily, smiling faintly. His hands are tense but eased as they glide along her shoulders, carefully adorned in a splendid silk blouse for the occasion: Their three-year anniversary as a couple.
“Of course it is. I’m not as horrible a boyfriend as you think. I’m glad you like it. Let me put it on you.” They stand at the end of the pier, looking out towards the lighthouse. “It’s beautiful.” The clasp snaps shut around her neck.
“I know, thank you.” She hasn’t realized he isn’t talking about the necklace. A looming fog was coming in, the pressure in the air transforming the bay into an invisible cauldron of metrological turbulence. The lighthouse continues to turn, casting its warning beacon for boats and ships no longer in danger of running ashore. He thinks it is left there to heighten the mood of the place. He turns and looks back at the building. The bed and breakfast are well kept but loom monstrously. It speaks to him from inside his dreams and he wonders if taking his Emma to this place was as good an idea as he had hoped. He decides at that moment that he must kill her. It was inevitable, of course.
Below the window in which he’s framed, there is an unkempt courtyard. A moldy fountain occupies a small piece of garden among the overgrown grass and forgotten paths. Abandoned flowerbeds spawn rotting weeds and vines. Hedges stand like sentinels on either end of the yard, flanking what had once been the central walk to the front entrance of the hotel. At the end of the path a rusted wrought iron gate eleven feet tall keeps watch over the entire property. A small boat, beached on the shore, is partially hidden behind a burial mound of sand and dust kicked up by the wind.
He gazes out the window a moment longer before pulling himself away from the hollow visage staring through the reflection. Who am I? Why can’t I remember anything?
Muddy images and meaningless memories blur and then a sideways glance from an old man and a quiet exchange of words below the white noise of a half empty late night diner counter.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing, as far as I can tell. Not you. Maybe myself. I don’t know.”
“Take your fucking smiles somewhere else. They’re not helping anyone; especially not me!”
No response to this outcry. The man’s silence leaves him with even more questions: Who was the man I was talking to? He tested his own voice to see if he could recall, glancing nervously from one corner of the room to another and then uttering as casually as he could,
“Hello. Is this a dream?”
Seconds pass, and he listens for an echo, satisfied with the initial lack of feedback. He is not expecting a response, but the room gives one as what sounds like a taunt.
“HELLO! WAKE UP!”
His own voice, distorted and amplified, screams through his ears and fills his mind. Tainted with what sounded like maniacal intent, the cacophony of discord was enough to rattle the teeth in his jaw and take a firm cold grip on the base of his spine. It seemed as though the wallpaper of the room was tearing itself from the wall in order to escape the wrath of the violently mutated echo. Slowly, holes in what had once been shadows were rendered as the force of the scream pervaded the room. His mouth slammed shut and his eyes slammed open, he tried to slow his breathing, hoping to bring some tranquility to what was already an increasingly disturbing situation. The familiar diner surrounds him once again, the pile of toothpicks still arranged in discord not two feet from where he stands.

* * *

The waitress, crusty with age and grease, peers around the open doorway leading to the kitchen. Telephone in hand, she screams at me to stay where I am. She’s already on the phone with the police and I hear one word clearly: “Murder.” Emma was right, of course. Again. But thinking on the word and all that has happened, I still think I am right, somehow justified. For that I was going to Hell. I smile and know I deserve it.
I was slightly pleased to find the dark-cloaked man still standing at the counter, a few feet before me. Underneath his hood I knew his age was indeterminate, looking like an old man but only because he wanted to. He cackles, a pronouncement of victory in my torture. Oh yes, his victory is indeed profound.
To the waitress and casual observers passing on the highway, it seems as though I walk alone. But I know better. His arm bends languidly and the hand, skin stretched tight over frail bone beneath, beckons me forward. I glance once again at the pile of toothpicks, still so many left to break, and walk two or three paces behind him. The chimes say goodbye and the waitress screams again, something unintelligible this time.
He waits by the roadside with me for thirty seconds before I realize I now walk the path Emma had taken what seemed just moments earlier. I turn south, the direction I had come from to get to the diner. Twenty-seven miles down the road, smoke billows into the air. The hotel, arid and lifeless burned easily enough. Orange lights the sky as the sun rises in front of me. I scan the asphalt for any remnants of the Emma I once loved, the Emma who had seemed so real but was in on the elaborate scheme; a shoe, her ring, one of those quirky bracelets she always wore. Then I knew she wanted me to suffer.
Anyone could have seen the eighteen-wheeler coming from over three miles away; the road was straight and narrow, its travelers impossible to miss. This fact doesn’t stop me from stepping in front of it. No time to stop, the silver grille collides with my face, my chest, and breaks my knees beneath its mass. Its headlights are still on, blinding me momentarily and as I fly backward, the behemoth’s brakes squealing, I utter a knife-edged scream. I do not have the privilege of bursting into beautiful burning butterflies, so I lay on the pavement bloody and broken. I am sorry, Emma.

Judgement Day Came and Went (v.2)

The second, hopefully better, version of my story from a little while back. Enjoy.

‘Grab the lamp and hurry.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Behind you. Hurry! There’s no time.’
‘They’re here already? Impossible. Are the rest awake?’
‘Shut your mouth and get outside.’
She drew a sharp breath inward as she uttered a choked up, mumbled retort about his severity and realized it was worthless. Not without a momentary attempt to console, they gripped each other’s shoulder in tightly wrenched fists as hurried kisses were exchanged between lovers and then exchanged again. The lamp was not yet lit, but a sliver of the rising sun seeped through the tent’s zippered entrance, illuminating the indomitable terror lurking behind their eyes. In the dim light she urgently scrambled to fish a calendar and pen from beneath a knapsack, crossing off the last day in March.
March, she thought, where did you go? Maybe if we can last the year... Can we last?
She slowly flipped the page back to April, casting her gaze aside as tears rushed forth. He wrapped his arms around her, sure to avoid the torn, burned area just below the shoulder blade.
The pair heaped insulated jackets, pants, and boots onto their trembling forms, as they emerged to stand among the others, all little more than wavering silhouettes. Wind whipped snow, grit, and a scent of decomposed flesh that caught their scarves and tore at their faith. Numbers had dwindled over the last three months. The dreaded yellow harbinger of day crept slowly from behind the horizon as those remaining regrouped and waited. Having withstood three months of horror, there was nothing to do but prepare; eat, fasten boots, reload weapons, and pray, all in the deceptively beautiful morning light. They called these ‘the magic hours’; the little time they had left reduced all facets of life to a question of whether or not courage would be summoned to face the war that day. Sunrises became a thing of beauty, appreciated with a sense of danger. Like a beautiful woman, blonde locks and pristine eyes holding a knife or gun between her sculpted fingers. Sometimes the anxiety was too much and this was the time most chose to escape, the cliff’s edges providing a convenient means of suicide. But still they fought, again and again.
God is taking back what’s His. The Jews had it right after all. Our God is a vengeful one, full of wrath and anger. Now we know His will. And His will is for us to die, she shuddered and sipped her coffee. The calm that surrounded the encampment of some three thousand people became eerie in the still dark morning. Their side of the mountain would not behold the full breadth of the day until noontime and then it would be over but already many were roused from sleep to take part in the preparation ceremony. Some read the newspapers that chronicled the first weeks of the onslaught before printers and reporters were too terrified to man their information-laundering stations. In a way it was like gauging the opponent, studying video tape of the opposing team before the all-out championship game battle. Others found them to be a kind of gospel, written proof that judgement had been passed. Many among them considered the war a final act of redemption. Though they were taking many of My soldiers, humankind defied the divine will with the knowledge they would lose.
The inescapable blood-soaked routine dominated. It snowed white every few days but the red would not be easily forgotten. From the beginning, moralizing was pointless but hope was not. Regardless of the reasons, everyone desperately clung to that which they thought mattered most. There were no more children left to brighten the faces of parents, or time to replace them with babies. Dogs replaced the need for family. Photos, journals, books, anything that documented what seemed significant was carried, as meaningful as dragging the innumerable corpses of fallen comrades like proof they had at one time really existed.
Corpses were good for cover and good for staying hidden. A well-built pile of dead friends meant the difference between lasting the day and lasting a minute. Stack them high and thick enough and they could provide protection to mount a counterattack, reload a weapon, or a moment to meditate on death. Such moments were precious. Insanity claws at the edge of each psyche but still hope withstands the tumult. Hope for survival. Hope for redemption. Stories were told and memories made as glances between the lightening sky and the repellant ground became racked with panic.
We don’t belong here anymore. It’s not ours. It’s not ours. It never was. Even still...
They standd together now, on the mountainside, the last remnants of humanity. No more children or time to make them, they had all been lost or abandoned to death. No one could blame them since everyone was guilty. So few, these were survivors. Some were unwilling to accept the finality of it all and seemed to search frantically to define themselves with feats of bravery and honor.
Some acquainted for decades, others for days. In their final days and hours they bonded. No more boundaries between them, no more disputes. Inequity was an illusion of the past, now defunct and broken by the grand scale of the attempt to salvage humanity in the midst of catastrophe. They fought in vain, grabbing at what was most likely the last moments of what were to the universe infinitesimally insignificant lives. But not to Me. It had become routine. No longer for any purpose or design, instinct mixed with hope dominated will. In these last moments they became what they were meant to be. High-minded ideals were replaced by survival instinct. Hopeful creatures until the end, there was nothing to withstand beyond the simple setting of the sun. Each day to live was another for which they were thankful.
Hope, one of those things we always took for granted. Why hope now? I don’t know why, but I do. It’s all we have. Today will be the day we protect this delicate, fragile thing. And then tomorrow will be another. I hope I am there to see it.
Where there was once choice they saw only desperation. The sun continued to track its carefully plotted course across the sky and finally reached its peak. The angels were coming and not without evoking banshee wails and fervent curses from those gathered on the mountain. Once honored guardians were now a scourge that fought in the high noon sun and only then, as it was unacceptable to do God’s work in the pitch of night like bandits. Oh yes, they were high and they were mighty indeed. For millennia they watched, indulged, waited, and protected.
The caretakers of humanity, the angels truly cared for them little if it was so willed by their Creator. Now they were called on for a dreadfully changed purpose. It had taken them three months for near-total annihilation. In their corporeal forms would not afford them the luxuries ethereal bodies would bestow and therefore the angels could be killed. But still they are too many for humanity in their mortality to repel. Sheer numbers were overwhelming. The angels, once symbols of hope for those humans became couriers, delivering a message of betrayal in the form of plague and disaster. Silhouettes again emerged to greet the day, but this time descending from the bleak white brightness above.
At once a trumpet sounds on each side of the conflict and the mass gathered on the mountain throw their near-delirious eyes upward. It is time to survive. To scream and fight and will another day to be marked on the calendar. The eyes on both sides were cold and wretched while bodies wreathed in flame dove toward the ground, prepared to wreak unholy havoc upon the humans waiting below. Enormous wings, glimmering armor and medieval weaponry adorned their tall, perfect forms. Forms that belied a horrible power, created for efficience and precision. Their beauty is undeniable. In fact the most disturbing thing of all was how such attractive creatures could be capable of such horrors. Much like the woman with the weapon.
Bullets ripped the clouds into willowy wisps, dispersing as angels flew or fell through them. Grenades, rockets, whatever firepower could be mustered were launched into the air to attack their assailants. Missiles ricocheted and whined as they were deflected by the armor of the winged assailants. Cries for forgiveness and the mercy of God saturate the air. No quarter is given. Bodies are quickly piled on top of one another like barricades as swords and shrapnel rain on the battlefield like acid, eroding the earth and the will of the survivors. The angels continue to descend from the sun seemingly without end and eclipse it with their own brilliance.
They were right to flee to the mountains. With no choice left but to run and fight with their backs against the wall, it was perhaps best to fight the formidable guardians of my will on as close to equal a playing field they could manage. I did not create imbecile creatures. The battlefield was lit with an aura of holy purpose as blood sprayed and splattered. Bodies, now deformed from damage or a frenzied hatred, littered the mountainside. A light snow began to fall and again the beauty of such a horrific event was undeniable.
I can’t believe this is happening. Haven’t we proven ourselves? God damn it!
She again exchanged an intensely terrified stare with her man and an understanding seemed to pass between them they would die together that day.
We won’t last the year. The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long. What? It doesn’t matter now. Like Adam and Eve we’ll all be banished without sympathy.
Then, with a tone of defeated hatred and finality: I hate You.
It was inevitable, of course. I watched as a sword was let to fly and hit its mark between her breasts. Extinguished, her death bore deep into the heart of the matter: their indomitable will to survive. This will was a gift and now it was a curse. They fought valiantly against impossibility despite the overwhelming force opposing them. This had been my hope. This was how it all started. A man and woman. Now they were not only banished but dead, by my hand.
Her lover, shocked, scrambled to her side.
‘I love you.’
I agonize with him as another sword finds his back just below the heart and an angel falls bloody and broken beside them. The horror was inevitable. Inevitable. They are wrong. Though I am vengeful I am not without my sympathy. I know they tried. It just... was not enough. They had their chance. I wanted to give them another but the balance of things could tolerate them no longer. I wished it was all just a dream, or one of their silly cliched films. But then I remembered that all wishes and dreams come back to me one way or another. There was no way to change their fate. This thing I set in motion, so many years ago, ages even for me, was doomed from the start and I knew it. Despite this knowledge I gave them hope and will. I gave myself a kind of hope, only to have it abandoned and destroyed. From a more objective standpoint, it is surprising how important the death thralls, hate, and screams of mere dust specks can reverberate and haunt for ages.
Still a part of Me lingered on their plight and wanted to save them that day. It was beautiful, their last stand. I loved her. I loved them all but none survived that day. Across my world, they fought and gave themselves up to something beyond themselves. Beyond the petty conflict that faced them. I wondered for a moment whether it was out of brotherhood or survival that they fought the inevitable. I want to believe it was the former. This was the end and they were finally one. They blazed in their intended glory. An apocalypse provoked them to understanding and unity. Is that all it took?
It saddens me now, to think on them. It snowed that night and every day until April. A terribly ferocious storm, one that enveloped the battleground and covered the dead remnants of a palpable hope remained scarred in the earth beneath their corpses no matter how deep the snow fell.

Battle Against God...

A work in progress. Inspired by the book I'm reading right now called The World that Jones Made by Philip K. Dick. Awesome writer. Anyway, one of the main characters (who also happens to be able to see into the future) is talking about how pathetic it is that the human race does nothing but try to rebuild and rebuild its civilizations after catastrophes despite the vast opportunities awaiting them in space and on other planets. A little trippy, yeah, but it got me thinking about all of the terrible natural disasters and how despite these warning signs that our planet or God or whatever doesn't appreciate our civilization too much (seeing as how it's being destroyed, little by little) we try to rebuild again and again. Now if you're into nihilism then I guess you don't really think it matters much but this line of thought lead me to an image of mankind's final stand against God's reclaimation of the paradise he lost in anger to the creatures he'd created. The following poem ensued, documenting those final moments and our failed attempt to inherit the right to call this planet our own. An image of humanity's final act - the only we've ever engaged in together without division or discrimination or conflict - staring upward at the sky, waiting for our judgement. It just now occurs to me that the poem's about the end of the world.

Battle Against God to Keep Our World

The snow and dust blew around our ankles
Etching our shadows into the
Slowly disintegrating cliff face
Like a memorial to millenia squandered.

All willing to fight had gathered now,
Thousands on that cloud-piercing mountain
Glaring upward, eyes squinting
Against the high noon sun.

A million winged silhouettes descended upon us
Swords drawn with murderous intent
Dropping from the sky like bombs
Seconds away from exacting righteous revenge.

Armed with little more than faith
In what we hoped was God’s good grace
The impossible war seemed laughably comical
Though terror willed us to fight in vain.

Not a single man, woman, or child was spared.

Savor the Horror

I wrote this while listening to M83's "Car Chase Terror." Conjuring thoughts of horror and violence, I then decided to write what I would probably consider my most horrid poem. I bet creative writing workshop would have a field day with this one. Damn, why couldn't I have submitted it for critique? Anyway, I love it. I spent a long time on it, but it's one of the few I've written in a single sitting and been happy enough with to post immediately. In case you don't get it (because apparently my poems are hard to grasp conceptually) this poem is about the murder of someone and the beauty of the present and what might have been. Hope it makes you feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. ENJOY!

A Murder

A wretched twist of the spoon, a sprinkle of sugar
Conspire to hide a bright reflection for a quick forgotten moment.
A flick of the wrist and a fire erupts tamed and innocent and warm
Extinguished after its destructive purpose is served.
A thrust of rage through a spiteful form bleeds black from both involved
Amputating a chance at redemption and leaving all to rot.

A smoking cup of accusatory coffee
With a charred cigarette butt hanging over its edge.
A lighter polished to a cloudy mirror’s surface
With distortion transforms a grimace to a grin.
A shining knife in tense and brutal hands
With droplets splashing red and ringing tired feet.

A blonde hidden beneath a countenance the color of ash
Chokes out the sound of a chuckle at the finality of the horror.
A life slowly oozing onto a polished dining room floor,
Leaves a muddied figure no chalk line could possibly define.
A disgusting, banal ticking of the grandfather clock
Tells of time yet to soak in the beauty of what might have been.