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 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.

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.

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.

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He talks to me through his dance, but I understand very little. From what I gather he is coming to my grassy island. I write to you to share what this land has told me.

During star storms and lava songs I hear a voice. I used to call the voice “God” but I’ve abandoned such  a title.

I have been led to caves in mazes of trees and I’ve visited these places. Here are the sins of man, and their champions.

I have seen chambers of pain, made of rock and the remains of trees. Skeletons litter the boards and sadness is stuck on their skulls. The smell of bodily waste covered me, and blood climbed on my skin.

I wagered the possibility of survivors and retreated.

During the sixteenth moon explosion I had a dream. This island told me of a place underground and above the sky. A statue of a woman stared into me and I cried.

Seven weeks passed and a trail of fire led me to the statue. A praying woman pointed at the bridge in the sky and a year later I climbed.

I saw Gods and kings and men weeping. My heart skipped and a glorious golden flash beckoned me onward. I deemed this place Hell and have not returned.

My name is Timothy Simon. I arrived here on the backs of a dragon. The clouds fell and the ocean spoke. I have been here for six star storms, two moon explosions, and four thousand gray phoenix births.

The monster on the island is going to kill me. He is a beautiful collection of reckless souls and forgotten hatred.

If you find my island, if you find my note, watch the monsters dance. You will be new, the golden city in the sky will take you and you will be a victim of fate, not forgotten.

Frequent when weather permits, slow to die.

Smiles and laughs over meaningless and repeated decorations.

Parade, parade. A constant storm.

Joy slows when the parade dies.

For and for, folded over by sirens and eagerness.

-

Quaking arms and nervous fingers shook in a predators stance. The people in the street stood in exact shock, wordless and shaken. The fires were small and lingering, burning up remnants of the celebration. Debris covered laughter, cold smoke hugged every single one. Her skin steamed a cold sweat as she looks over the remnants of all these things.

Autumn parade was never before met with any such type of disdain. ‘There.’ a silent thought eerily whispered. ‘That is all. The parade is over.’

“And it was like I was arguing with myself.” She had been reported to say. “I’m just watching a parade, and all of the sudden it’s ruined.. like some sort of wicked tornado came speeding through. It ripped and it tore, and I found myself in the heart of it. I remember everyone staring at me.. but they weren’t mad. No one was angry. They were surprised, and soon thoughtless about it. Like the parade never happened.”

-

Blankly it shook, over this autumn day. Scared miracles lingered outside, hesitating at the blind. Wishes in interlaced fingers, like a prayer to the stars. An incredibly descriptive anxiety.

-

Weeks passed and the townspeople stopped recalling memories of the autumn parade as the holiday parades approached. A tornado through every one, and the girl eventually stopped going. Townspeople turned into shadows, and houses melted. Bird chirps and rustled leaves turned into a solid, meaningless noise – like a repeating low hum after a fresh cry.

And so it came to pass parades were forever jotted down as an active tornado, the wind of which causing hallucinations through chemicals from a nearby prison of gossip and slow songs about a girl who knew a girl who knew a girl. Obnoxious fumes, terrible dandelions, and a white backdrop. And, damn if we didn’t find out until the end it was heaven. And, if I can share something before our story closes? None of us cared for it. Heaven was poor, and life was too.

And I’m holding your hand. And you’re pushing away. I swing left, you swing right. I dance, you put your weight on your heels and scream.

And I’m holding your hand. I talk, you yell. I yell, you scream. I give up. These aren’t the words that I said, but it’s the words they hear.

I’ve practically had my fingers intertwined to yours, stitched together and nothing. I pull apart, and my hand bleeds, and you restitch in my sleep.

Restitch, place, swallow.

We’ve danced in churches, we’ve cried in white houses, we’ve lost it all in too many places to count.

You, this, me, us.. it’s not so scary. It’s not as scary as when I wonder where, where does all of this rebuilding come from? The storm comes, it blows, it sends away everything till there is nothing. I rebuild my home with what materials? This mystery item is running scarce, I won’t always be able to build.

The steel walls were cold and dark, and you didn’t even have to be here to know. The dark sand at her feet was somewhere between bone dry and soaking, but in no way a pleasant feeling on our skin. It was more like being consumed, than covered. The window that led outside was old, dirty and apparently where insects went to die. We were in such a crude place. It felt like someone designed this building as a sick joke. One last “fuck you” to all who chased her voice. 

Her. How broad.. how reaching. ‘Her’. ‘Her who?’, right? Right. No, it wasn’t like that. At least not to me. I didn’t love her, I wasn’t interested. Honestly, the singing could of continued and I could of had just.. just moved on with my life, you know? My own little theme to follow me through the day. But all this talk of sirens and such, what’s not to like? I guess mystery is most tempting when you don’t want to solve it, but you want to add more confusion.

I blame the overall dullness of my life. If I were to plant one more flower, I’d hang myself.

But no, you’re choking! Of course you are. Anytime I have a semi-relevant inner monologue someone starts choking.

The force of the boot to the shins, the following howl of pain met by coughing, echoed through the steel corridor. “You’re not choking.” He growled.

On the floor, tears falling, he looked up at his friend. Their eyes met.

“You can hear her still? Still singing? It’s so constant.” His soft words mixed with the desperate gasp for air. “And now I’ve got to watch you die.”

There was a silence. From the desperation, the sadness, the slow downward tugging of the lips, the uncertainty.. it was clear the blood that flowed through this mans vains was nowhere near as cold as the walls.

“I say, my friend, I think we’ve been driven mad.” Would be the last words he’d of heard. The singing would of stopped, and the idea would of taken over. The room would of shattered and the illusion would turn into nothing more than a haunting memory. The scream that turned blood to the exact consistency of old milk would be the consequence. The shockwaves would give you life long enough to feel your bones melt and run out through your fingernail and eyes. You would get to feel your heart come up your throat until you choked on it.

It would of been. So close. This man, our speaker, he’d of driven the Siren mad. But that’s not this story. That’s not the Sirens story. It’s not how she told it.

The small black monsters hang above with uncertainty. Am I protecting this domain? The sad fruit of another mans constant labor?  Oh this man. I miss his sighs, the way he’d straighten my shirt, the sweat reflecting off of his dark skin. It’s been so long, and your ground is rebelling to your treatments.

The black monsters still linger. There must be something lingering in this land, some reward for their constant planning. If there is, I can not smell nor see it. Those senses have been gone for so long. What I’d give, though, to break my vow of silence and speak again. Cry out that someone save me from this rejected land. Honestly, here, it’s like Earth forgot. I can hear her voice in the air, in the soil. Why can’t the sun of forgotten too? The rain has, now let us freeze.

Perhaps tomorrow this will all end.