I’ll Have The Sandwich, Please.

My eyes fix on him as the cigarette dances around his fingers and stops on his lips. While I am aware I’ve let time become wasted, I contemplate the common ground of incredibly warm weather and cigarettes as a reason to approach him.

His name escapes me, but I know his smile. I know the ghosts that follow him, and the graves he dig.

From my park bench to his, to walk across the grass and sit down, or stand. I might be able to pry into the mind of this man. His brown eyes are frozen, refusing to look away from his current interest forty degrees to his right. Never at me. His brown hair blows with the hot wind, wildly and incredibly. I know other people see him, but they just must not know. They must not know this man.

I find myself grinding my fingernails together, chipping at the design I painted. I clench my fists to put an end to this, and am suddenly aware of my sweating palms. While I run my hands over my dress, staring at the man with the cigarette, I realize exactly how I must appear. Clothing for much cooler weather, nails painted, and hair tucked behind my ear to show off these earrings. Vanity at the sake of a statement.

Drowning in the thought of my unfamiliarity with myself, I completely disregard my personal desire and mission to appear normal. I rise and shuffle over. I find that the grass is comforting against my toes, and the sun really does feel better away from the shade. I eventually come close enough for his eyes to break their concentration, to finally turn to me.

Three weeks, once a day, at this same park. I watch him eat the same meal, smoke the same cigarette, and stand up at the same time. I envy his normality, his schedule, his dedication to comfort.

A nervous gulp and intense feelings of stress later, I stand in front of him. He sort of smiles when he looks at me, and I cannot help myself. I return the smile.

“It’s a good afternoon, isn’t it?” He starts.

I force myself to choke out a vague reply. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Could do with a little rain, myself, you know?” Is the last thing he ever says. His voice falls silent as the knife in my hand becomes familiar with him. I drive it further into his chest as an act of liberation, and allow seconds to pass. Just blissful moments peeling away.

I expect a bird to sing, or thunder on this cloudless day, or people to scream. Instead I hear the sounds of traffic, and kids playing in the distance. My eyes meet his, and I wonder if thoughts still form in his head.

“Hello.” Is all I can say. What do you say to the man you’ve killed? I withdraw the knife, and I inhale the calm around me.

But I’ve Never Been to Maine

The floor boards whimpered with every step and cold wind pierced past every hole in the wall. Somewhere between tan and brown was the common theme in the room. Hardwood floors and walls, creating a kind of dizzy effect in the way it all seemed to come together, or, would have come together were it not for the wreckage.

 

Broken simple chairs and mahogany tables created paths in the floors. Shelves, billiard balls, and broken beer bottles had been tossed in no specific direction. The only noise, besides the wind, was a comically southern accent coming from the electronic dartboard. I avoided the shards as I continued to walk in the half-darkness. Each forward step felt like one backwards in the way that it seemed as though my journey would never end. Perhaps I was hesitating and walking slowly, or truly, there was something in the back room.

 

My shaking hands cling to the edge of the bar in front of me as I lose my balance. Shards of glass slowly open up the rough skin of my hands, and I grip tighter so not to fall, facial twitches and slight whimpering being drowned out by the increasingly loud stomping I’ve begun to hear. As I wipe my bloody hands on my jeans, I reach into my pocket and say a hopeful prayer that my flashlight will turn on.

 

-click-

…

-click-

 

“Damn.” I sigh.

 

-click-

 

My dead expression brightens at the sight of a dim, dusty light from this very kind electric device. I waste no time and shine this miracle at the door behind the bar. I tilt my head to read the offset “Employees Only” sign. I fearfully move the light down. Dark green paint reads “Monster Only”. Down, to the bottom of the door, I see the source of the smell that’s been trying to stop me. I turn off my flashlight and trade it for a box of matches in my pocket.

 

I step carefully, anxiously, to behind the bar. Match in hand, I look at the alcohol in front of me. Stomping louder, louder, louder. A low growls vibrations becoming more intense. In an instant I decide to not burn the entire bar down as my red hands grab an unconfident grip on the door.

 

The handle turns, the door clicks, the stomping ceases. Every bit of life and history stops for me, allowing me listen to the heartbeat I’ve taken for granted for so long. I picture countless possibilities in what must of been half of a second, but I know the one of me running never passes. Bravery, mixed with a fair deal of foolishness and intellectual curiosity, leads me to operate five trembling fingers to reach into my shirt pocket, and the other five swing the door wide open.

I’ll Have One Firework, Please.

The fragility of the mind, exposed. Chaos descends as curtain behind the stage, the man in the mask, is revealed.

 

I’ve been misplaced into a reality where all things are temporal, but the ending has turned its cloak to me. Where in this settlement of matter I handle stars like puzzle pieces. Where every new day threatens to reintroduce me to this sinister ghost that is a calm. Quiet and awkward, rage that boils the blood and melts the skin, one stirs. Slow paces, fire, and a loud and consistent beat. He shifts and thrives, screams and cries, in a long winded rampage.

 

Suffering of not knowing, perpetuated by the force of hope.

 

Bones quake, senses amplify, muscles twitch. Anxiety on high. The blurred investigation, and the cigarette ashes of those researchers.

 

Living a life backwards. In a linear fashion, you live today, and wait for it tomorrow. Disorganized visual distractions, but one obvious path. To stop would  mean to be pushed backwards. No trees, no man, can catch you.

I’m Mortimer

Built around fire and famine, a castle barely stood. This divided land clashed in the middle of a battle for political conquest. Where one side screamed retreat, and one side screamed persevere, you looked into the heart of conflict . You breathed, you brightened, and you sank. You poured into the wave of spirits and ideas.

I was told forty years, but your struggle looks to be four hundred. You’re an explainable asset, but a complex ally. I heard you helped lead in a new kind of war. Your followers asking for your order, your foes reaching through the dust at your walls. The world was a weight, on one shoulder dependence, the other worry.

You’re one of a few. The world is independent, at least your local one is.

Suicides in Sarien County – Praying Mantis In Love (Aftermath)

Interview 7

Interviewer: Reenes, Jack

Interviewee: Malcolm, Anthony.

Transcribed by: French, Amelia

Conducted on 12-12-2015

Revised 22-03-2043. Burns, Carol.

 

The staff at James and Faith thank the expedition group who recovered this document. 

 

 

 

AM: Now, I didn’t know this guy, okay?

JR: We understand, Anthony.

AM: So, what? I mean, what do you want?

JR: Just tell us the story again.

AM: For the eighth time? Listen man, I got kids at home. You know? I’ve got shit to do.”

Doctor Reenes raised his pencil from his paper about a foot high, making a single circular counter clockwise motion, with a direct gaze to Mr. K, the guard.

The patient becomes agitated.

JR: Very well, mister Malcolm. If you do not wish to partake in this interview, we will direct you to another room. Mister K?

See interview 23, notes a-c.

 

 

——-

 

 

“You know how – how like – how clouds, you know? How they’re – they’re there? In the sky? Man – I mean, man. It’s crazy. It’s just the sky. I looked – you know? Up. Well, down. A nexus between here and there, wherever there is. It opened, unlike a portal. It was difference. Like watching a storm, and a man just.. appear. Like he vanished, though. Like he had always been there, but then left, and came back.”

 

I ran a hand down my face, and to my throat. My cold left a mean weight in there, like some kind of parasite was dying to rip through and gnash at this anxious drunk. The smell of city smoke, booze and an unwelcome mystery stench was beginning to best me. Knee deep in he saids and “what’s it worth to you’s” were getting tiresome. But this is the only vague story I’d been getting, which is how I remember it. Vague.

 

 

 

 

Words that Start with ‘B’

“Art isn’t always the easiest thing.” I blurted out, my unblinking eyes never cutting off the trance of the soul in the flames.

 

It had been a long day. Well, to be accurate, it had been a long month. August was the hottest it had ever been here. Which is really useless information, as that’s not how the fire started.

 

The plastic from his bottle of water formed with noise as he separated it from his lips. He grunted, or coughed, with an odd inflection that I took to mean he wished for me to be less vague.

 

“Well”, I started, “It’s kind of funny in a strange way. I mean to say, that it’s easier to create something when you’re in pain, you know? When you’re on the negative tip of the scale.”

 

I was sure he didn’t care, and I’m not certain I cared either. The fire was getting hotter, and the screaming was starting to fade.

 

“You think..” He muttered from behind his sleeve. His words broke my gaze, and I paid my overdue attention to him. “That we’ll make it out of here?”

 

I pondered. There was a lull in the conversation. Without a word, we decided moved to another part of the building. As we carried on, we saw a door with stairs leading downward. “Do you want to die?” I asked.

 

“Tell me more about art.”

 

I obliged. “I wish I could make things that I could be proud of when in a positive state of mind. It’d be great to take some writing in the form of happiness. Do you think it would be terrible?”

 

“Eh.” Was his reply. I found this appropriate.

 

“Perhaps it’s an illusion of happiness? Or some kind of sub-feeling? An in-between? Satisfaction?” Was my followup.

 

“Yeah.” Was his last word for the remainder of our conversation.

 

“Yeah. I guess.” I added, attempting to avoid a silence. “Maybe it’s just a lack of intense hurting.”

 

We walked down the stairs, fortunate that fire did not follow. The sounds of sirens were close, I felt as if the flames were being doused. This caused me sadness.

 

My friend and I found ourselves at the main lobby. I suppose we were both surprised that the fire did not reach the bottom story. This is why we stopped. This is why we took our seats at the front door.

 

A question slyly intruded into polite conversation from the confines of my curious mind. “Have you ever sat on these chairs before? I mean, really took the time, you know? The time to sit on them? I haven’t. I don’t suppose there’s a reason to.”

I’ll Share You.

A smokey blue flowed across the distant blank sky while I swam in silence, removed of all humanity and embracing a total selfishness. My arms followed gentle waves for what I believed were months, but the way the sea life took to sanctuary, and the quiet moon, cautioned my cold and tight bones that danger comes.

 

I felt my heart race like a shooting star, as it declined miles down from my chest. My lungs lost their air through the act of my stillness, wide eyes beginning to start a mind with a million shy thoughts. I suppose easier people would call it a wave, but I will never take back the breath that said “The ocean opens its mouth wide to devour me.”

 

I fell victim to the high water. It tossed me and broke me. Chewing and spitting, stomping and curling, it threw me. I found myself in waters not like the ones I knew. I no longer gently waded in memories and the thoughts of cherished people. Would I conquer these waters, make them my own? I let my arms drop, and for the first time, I relaxed. I sank like the ships, falling down into this. My lungs and body were filled. I savored the moment until the last moment, and if I could have, I would have smiled.

Fairy-Tale

Some kind of anxious. An irresponsible apathetic one man task force. I’ve been torn from my limbs and starved to this exorbitant collection of memories, see an aimless walking situation. My pale, kerosene soaked skin ignites, perpetuating a reflection on each and every, one, series.

 

I am a chess piece, a king. I am fascinating and adored, but I am only as good as the moves I can exhaust. A deceiver, a joker in a handful of aces and fours, a sulking gray mess or mass.

 

I’ve devoured five kingdoms, and marked each one. I have climbed the smallest mountains, the ones you know, the forgotten ones. Make no mistake, I’ve sang not one song. No. No, forget me, Siren. Beckon me not, straying my ink to my parchment during my final note. Stop this charge of release, for it is reconstructing.

 

Gradually.

Slowly.

 

As an anonymous gambler, I’ve wagered my last life in a sea of bets, playing the odds because he said that she said it was heard that “the cards align with the moon this night”. The keeper lost his ring, and the countess her crown. One more kingdom consumed.

 

I try the stars like they’re ready to be heard. I speak to the ocean as if it were consumed in something except madness.

 

These common themes spell no things except for the way the witch sings. She makes my hands shake, and my eyes ache. It’s a prolonged longing since the fourth hour of every day. You know, the morning.

 

They say that today lava will fall from the sky, and the ocean will turn into gold at the same moment that the north side of this world is consumed by a giant whale. I’m not one for fairy tales, or fairy tails!

I jest. I will bring an umbrella.

Volumes of Green (Revised)

Nights that I could spend cursing to the dark clouds last forever only linger until traces and remnants of the things they once were pass and sink into my chest like fallen stars.

I cry for a distraction and an escape from this normality. I sing as loud as I can in hopes the words of my fear and trials will fall upon waiting ears, who will take my unbalanced yet rhthymic hymns to mind while they allow them to fall on themselves like blankets, warmth from the cold sun I feel today.

May I, must I, spend a thousand years aching for inspiration? Why? Swinging rabid things in one hand, my other grip a cool breeze. Won’t you forgive me for this ironically specific sequence of colors?

My skin cracks and my bones rattle from the cold stones thrown at me. My teeth hurt and my jaw stings when all I do is bite and chew. My palms sweat as my eyes stare at all of these bittersweet blessings, crumbling into a salty mist.

Fight my Lord, fight him with me. Overthrow his rule and we may watch the sea intertwine with our terrible spirits.

http://www.chambersharrap.co.uk/chambers/features/chref/chref.py/main?lookitup&title=21st&query=swearing&css=body%7Bbackground-image:none;margin:5px%7Ddiv.hr%7Bdisplay:none%7D&crop=%3Cdiv%20class=%22hr%22%3E%7C%3Cdiv%20class=%22hr%22%3E

” /]

Crying White Fluff

His coat, long and smokey, dusts his imprint on the dirty orange ground. His old hat shadows his gray eyes, one never know glancing or leering. His mouth is a smirk or sad and little hairs keep his rugged chin warm. We’ve all taken to call him “Captain Aroknil”, though some have gone so far as ‘Snowman’, ‘Flare’, or ‘Afterbomb’. You see, the Captain title comes from the patch on his shoulder, the same design as the flag hanging off of that old dying ship in the water where dead fish can never rise. Aroknil, that’s a whole other story.

” /]