Malaise
Sometimes the world
Gets a bit heavy to be
Carrying it on my shoulders,
Certainly this should not be
My problem,
But I made it mine
Long ago,
On a whim,
And now I can't seem to
Drop
the
damned
thing.
Let it be Brief
A silent prayer, repeated over and over again as he waited for today to fall into tomorrow, fretting because just maybe he was wasting time but he could not think about today right now. There was only tomorrow, and at the moment it was not tomorrow yet. So he had to wait, hoping that it wouldn't be that bad.
Tomorrow was a thing that he dreaded, at least this time it was. Today merely stood as the final buffer between him and tomorrow, and while part of him was grateful for the interference, the vast majority of him wanted it to be over—to be over now, so that he could pass through the fire and focus on recovering rather than on wondering how he would survive. There was nothing to be done; he'd gone through all the possible scenarios and not found one which had him emerging unscathed. There was only strapping himself in and surviving tomorrow, which he didn't want to do but then again there wasn't any real choice in the matter, now was there?
Instead he sat, awake an miserable, as the hours slowly ticked by. It was now tomorrow, but not yet the part of tomorrow that would necessitate his trying to survive. He tried (for what felt like the fortieth time) to figure out what he'd say—what could he say? What could he do? Was there a way for him to escape the situation entirely?
Would he manage to survive at all? He had to confront that very ugly possibility that tomorrow would be it; he'd be ruined. Everything that was now his own would no longer be his own, and he'd wind up desolate, or dead, depending on his ability to deal with it.
Time marched on. The hour approached.
He got ready in a mechanical manner, stepped into the shower for what might have been the last time, combed his hair, and spent some time staring at his face in the mirror. His reflection looked back at him with sunken eyes and hair that (despite the combing) remained a mess. He ran a hand over his chin, newly shaved, and stared back into his own eyes.
It was a shock to see a spark there, burning angrily behind those eyes. Despite the hopelessness of it all, despite the fact that he couldn't possibly escape unscathed (not this time), despite everything, something in his eyes still burned.
“Let it come,” he thought. “Let it come, let it be the worst thing to ever happen to me, let it tear me apart if it can. I will carry on in spite of it—to spite it. I will not merely survive, I will fight back, and when it is over, I will know that I did not meekly submit.” His hands formed into fists, and all of a sudden he wanted the hour to arrive, arrive now, he'd rip it apart with his bare hands and move on. Maybe he could escape unscathed. Maybe everything would be all right.
The hour came. He took a deep breath and walked out of the house, a little taller, a little more confident (though still haggard from lack of sleep). It was not brief, but it no longer mattered.
Precipices and Such
The hard part is realizing where I am, perched upon the corner of something that I can't actually define yet want to define anyway, all I know is that if I'm going to go any further this would be the time to do so. Feel it, that's the sort of thing that you do in this situation, there's a tingling that starts at the base of the spine and works its way upwards, ending in my brain and exploding into a thousand different possibilities. Is it good to do this? Should I do this?
What was it my dad had said again? I wish I could remember, because it would probably prove useful in this situation; something to do with listening for a response that won't be spoken with words. What did that even mean? I should have asked at the time but now it's a bit late for that, here I am and here I'll stay unless I do something soon. Remember to breathe, slow and deep breaths that fill the lungs and clear the head. Neurons are firing, I can feel them firing now, I'm aware of the sparks jumping from one cell to the next, faster and faster and hangontightbecausethisisgoingtobethebigonealmost there.
False alarm, sigh and try to start again weigh the pros and the not so pros (there was a better way to say that) and think think think think—wait if this isn't done soon I'll miss the chance how long do I have again?
Frightening, that's the word I'd use to describe this situation, the whole future is before me and if I do something wrong now, I won't get to see it. What's the right decision here?
Why does this have to happen now when things were going so well before? Whence came the dissatisfaction that inevitably lends itself to this kind of a decision? I could try to run it down or up or whatever you do with that stuff—fuck it; no use worrying about how I got here there's just here and what I'm going to do about being here.
Close eyes, visualize the two paths and see which one seems best. Cutting across my consciousness, a slender thread telling me which is the right one but where the hell did it come from? My brain, an outside source, what? I know it'll be the right decision, because grabbing the thread brings back that tingling at the base of the spine, and the more I think about it the more it seems right, right for me right for you right for the whole goddamned world out there waiting to see what I'll do next (if they are waiting to see what I'll do next, am I that interesting is this important what will this do to the people around me?).
The world around me slows down, weighty with the portent of my choice. It's made, the very fabric of what my life was until this point has been irrevocably altered, until I make another choice and alter it again. The world goes back to normal, but I know it won't be the same anymore. There are things that cannot be undone, and I have just done one of those things.
Would I do the same thing again, given the chance?
Probably. Bacon on my cheeseburger is the sort of thing I could get used to.
On Doorsteps
There was once a house, in which lived a man of little consequence. The house was not really a house, per se, it was (to be accurate) a town house, in a row of other town houses, which the man rented from some faceless corporation several states away. The man's very appearance was unremarkable, and his town house's appearance was equally unremarkable, looking precisely the same as all the other town houses nearby. It certainly was not the sort of house that would have a door which suddenly opened to a completely different vista than the man was accustomed to; which oddly enough was precisely what happened one morning.
The landscape was decidedly alien. Where a parking lot should have been a wide grassy plain instead made itself known. The sky itself seemed to be different; a sky which instead of being the normal gray and cloudy which so defined the area was nowhere to be seen. Instead the sky was stunningly blue and clear—so clear, in fact, that after staring for a few moments in shock the man fancied he could see some of the stars despite the brightness of the sun's rays. The fact that there were in fact bright rays of the sun to have any sort of effect upon what could and could not be seen was also a new one for the man, but he was more concerned with the grassy plain leading to a rather impressive looking forest that he only faintly registered this development.
The trees of the forest were towering things; the man suspected he was several hundred yards from them, yet they seemed massive even from that distance. He was not sure what sort of tree had a trunk so massive, or leaves so green, but he felt himself called toward them—so much so that he very nearly stepped outside his door without thinking. He managed to catch himself at the last second, and fell backwards with a rather violent start. As he landed upon the cheap-yet-stylish throw rug that he'd bought in a fit of depression one day (he'd come back from a long day at work to find that the previous night he'd tracked mud all over the hallway) he reflected that there are things which one is simply not prepared for—strange landscapes appearing in front of one's door is simply one of those things.
“It will have to go.” he thought to himself, and was just about to close to door when something deep inside stopped him. Suddenly, he knew with an awful certainty that if he closed the door, he'd never see the landscape again. This was his one chance (though for what, he'd no idea at all). Despite his supposed distaste for the new surroundings, he couldn't yet bring himself to leave them behind.
In desperate need for advice, he picked up the telephone and called his mother, who answered cheerily. This was a comfort to him; at the least he knew that his phone still worked. “Why I haven't heard from you in ages! What's the occasion?”
“Well mom, it's rather difficult to explain. I opened my door and it's not my parking lot. It's a plain and lots of trees and stuff instead.”
His mother's first reaction was to ask about drugs, which of course he hadn't been doing (he took a special pride in having never tried any narcotics (unless, of course, alcohol counted as a narcotic)). After his reassurance that he was, in fact, awake and sober, she came to the obvious conclusion (well, obvious to her, anyway. His mother had always had a fascination with fantasy that irked him to no small degree, though he'd always enjoyed having her read him bedtime stories as a child). “Son, I think you should walk through that door. It's a doorway to adventure, at any rate.”
“Yes, but I'm not sure that adventure is really the sort of thing I should be doing, is it? I've got bills to pay, and I was hoping to get a new car this year...”
“John, listen to me.” She very rarely called him by his name, even as a child. She always explained to him that names had power, and using them too much would cheapen them. It was for this reason that John had often given a nickname to teachers rather than having his real name used. His co-workers teased him about it, but nobody called him John at work either. “Everyone, and I do mean everyone, has an adventure or two in them. Your adventure was merely kind enough to show up at your front door for you. It would be rude to deny it. Get out there, run wild on the plains, and see what's in that forest!”
“But what if I get hurt? I don't know if they have hospitals out there!” He'd grown up a pragmatist, under his father's watchful eye. His father, it should be noted, had lived the traditional American Dream of working hard in a job he disliked before retiring and living fairly comfortably for ten years or so before dying of heart disease. In the years following his retirement, his father had started to embark on a series of increasingly bizarre trips that had culminated in an attempt to walk cross-country. The heart attack had followed soon after, though on his death bed his father had admitted that his only regret was not doing it all sooner. Despite this change of heart, the man had always clung to the earlier teachings.
“If you get hurt, then fix it yourself. You know first aid, don't you?” This was true—he'd been in the Boy Scouts as a child all the way up through Eagle scout (though at the time he'd insisted he was doing it for the scholarship money that would invariably result from having Eagle Scout on his applications. Despite this, he'd most often been found wandering in the woods during camp-outs). “Besides,” his mother continued, “getting hurt is part of the adventure. Get going, John! Just remember not to give out your true name lightly, do you hear? You can tell me how it went when you get back.”
“I haven't even decided to go yet!” His voice went up several octaves. “There's too many risks involved!”
His mother sighed in that special way that only mothers can manage. “Well, it's your decision in the end, dear. But let me tell you something: a new car isn't going to keep the regret away. You've got a sense of adventure, just like everyone else. Give it a chance to grow. Now, I'll talk to you later. I'm on my way out to see Phyllis—you remember Phyllis—we're going to explore some ancient burial mounds to see if we can't commune with the spirits. Bye for now!” With a click, she hung up.
The man sighed and wished that his father were around to tell him to go to work. He paced for a while, deep in thought, then walked back to the front door and looked outside again. The scene filled his vision, and now exerted an even stronger pull on him. It filled his mind, and suddenly he felt the wild desire to rush out—now, unprepared, dressed for work, with nothing but a breakfast bar in his pocket for sustenance, a set of keys with a tiny pocket knife key-chain, a pen, and a pocket notebook. The whole world held its breath. He wavered in indecision, looked left, looked right, leaned forward, leaned back, ran up the stairs, ran back down the stairs, always coming close to leaving the house but never leaving.
A sudden gust of wind blew through the house, and the front door began to swing shut. Panicked, he threw himself bodily through the doorway, shortly before realizing that his keys were not in his pockets after all and, more to the point, he'd forgotten shoes. He stood on the field, feeling the grass through his socks.
He took off his socks. He wiggled his toes, and took a deep breath. The scent of grass and the faint hint of trees caused his blood to stir in a way it had not stirred in a long, long time. He laughed. He started walking.
Apartment Time
There is a street that nobody talks about much, mostly because many miss its presence. Indeed, it is little more than an alleyway; cobblestones adorn its surface years after all other streets had been paved over. If you were to walk down this street you would discover that there are few doors upon it, and those doors that are upon it are mostly steel affairs, bolts secured with padlocks deny entry to those lacking keys.
There is one door, however, which is not steel. It is a small wooden door, cracked and forgotten. What was once a robin's egg blue finish is now cracked and faded, the dirt from years of neglect changing the color to more of a dull battleship gray. Several bare spots where the paint has flaked off completely (or been collected as souvenirs by visitors to the street) show that the door is in fact made of solid oak, worn nearly smooth now with age. The doorknob itself seems out of place, as it is highly polished despite the dilapidated door upon which it rests.
The door is never locked, though oddly enough it has never been robbed. If you were to place your hand upon the knob, you may notice the warmth radiating from it. Not hot, but hardly as cold as you would expect to find a brass doorknob down a disused street. It feels as if it has been used recently, indeed as if someone has just walked through the door. The knob turns smoothly, without making a sound, and the door swings open easily enough on hinges that are far less rusty than they've a right to be.
Upon stepping through the door you'd find yourself in a narrow hallway. Intricate Art Deco molding runs on the baseboard, though it (like the door) is cracked and the paint upon it is faded. Dust floats in the air, catching the light from naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Once, this was one of the most respected buildings in the city (or so they say), now, it is forgotten; a place of ruined grandeur. The hallway is, of course, lined with doors, all of them equally shabby, all of them painted a uniform black. The doorknobs on these doors, unlike that of the front door, are all tarnished. Save one.
You would have to walk an awfully long way down the hallway before you found it, but on the right hand side, there is a doorknob that is polished rather than tarnished. It is easy to spot, a naked bulb does not hang above the door. Instead a small light fixture in the shape of a lantern hangs from the ceiling, almost always swinging gently from some breeze that you can never feel. The swinging motion causes the light to wash over the polished knob, which in turn glints quite perceptibly.
If you were to place a hand on this polished knob, you would immediately notice that (like the front door) it was unlocked, also that it had been oiled recently. As the door swung open, you may expect to find the apartment within inhabited; but it has not been so for many, many years. The apartment is done in the same Art Deco style as the hallway, and like the hallway the moldings have all fallen into disrepair. A scent pervades the apartment, the smell of dust and grime, added to the smell of still air and old age. The apartment is surprisingly air-tight, and the opening of the door causes the fresher air of the hallway to rush in, stirring dust back into the air.
This apartment was once the home of one of the greatest minds in the world, a man by the name of Edward Tolley. Edward specialized in space/time theory and (though it was never publicized) worked closely with Einstein on the implications of his theory of Relativity. Tolley was absolutely fascinated by the idea of time being something that was relative, and so began seeking desperately a way around seconds and minutes.
Tolley was, in fact, the first to posit the idea of the fifth dimension (though again, his involvement has been covered up). It seemed to him that the matter of time travel was a simple enough one—one needed merely to step out of the fourth dimension into the fifth, and pick the point on the fourth dimension to return to. This was met with derision from most in the community, as was his insistence that it could be done—that we could pass out of the fourth dimension into the fifth despite our being only fourth dimensional beings to begin with. What's more, Tolley claimed that one could do it with existing technology.
The government caught wind of this claim and, of course, demanded Tolley's research. Tolley refused, and quickly found himself called before Congress on trumped up charges (easy to obtain in those days of paranoia) of treason. It shocked the world (or it would have, had the cover-up operation not been so thorough) when Tolley, defiant to the end, suddenly vanished from his seat at the hearings. A search was made of his residence, but all of his research was missing. What's worse, those who entered the apartment reported both auditory and visual hallucinations, ranging from seeing the walls of the apartment decay to glimpses of shadowy figures passing through the hallways.
Darker reports came back from the apartment too, of men entering the apartment and vanishing for days, reappearing later with graying hair and hollow looks in their eyes. There has been at least one fatality reported in the past twenty years; the victim was found in the shower, having somehow appeared in the middle of the wall. Even more disturbing, the aforementioned wall returned to an unmarked state shortly after the body was removed.
Over the years, the apartment has attracted several visitors from time to time, but only those who have learned the apartment's tale—and those are few and far between. The street itself has been stricken from the records; the city as well. It is only known that the city is somewhere on the east coast. Those who manage to find the apartment are seldom seen, and tend to take all of their research with them. For those who seek the apartment are those hoping to learn the secrets of time travel from the old genius himself; it is said that he still lives in his apartment despite its being so clearly abandoned.
The apartment itself is said to exist in multiple forms, in multiple dimensions. The proper actions once you have walked through the door will presumably determine whether or not you are successful; odds are, of course, if you found the apartment you know what to do.
A word of caution: Tolley is a brilliant mind, but he can be cranky—especially now. Tread lightly.
Bus Seating
You sit over here,
I sit over here,
And if we're very lucky,
Nobody will sit in between us.
Perhaps I will put my bag down,
Just to make sure that we remain
Comfortably separated.
I'd hate to have to
Make conversation, after all.
Crowded Sidewalk
If you could watch him walk,
Just
him
mind
you,
He'd look like a dancer,
Ducking and w
e
a
v
i
n
g,
Now Here
Now There
Hopp-
Now -ing over to get
dog crap
Here.
Bus Lines
“That seat looks more comfortable.” They are both pinched by their current quarters, “on the seam,” as he calls it; so when the opportunity comes they strike quickly, seizing a recently vacated seat in a more comfortable area.
“You forgot your Pepsi,” she chides, and he reverses directions in mid-lunge to grab his bottle, returning to the new seat with a rueful grin on his face. They talk of nothing of consequence, satisfied with one another's company.
Another
He chooses to stand, feeling the rhythm of the bus's movements; standing with a bold grin at the rear door. A gatekeeper of sorts, though not intentionally, the poles on either side of the short staircase leading down to the street make it easy to keep balance while the bus strains to climb yet another hill. Seats empty but he remains standing (he gets enough of sitting at work, stuck in a warehouse near the center of the city, taking shoes out of one box and putting them in another, tedious work but no dress code and the pay's enough to live on) until he dismounts the ride and heads home.
Another
He hides near the back, his hood drawn over his face, concealing him for fear someone will try to start a conversation, a real face-to-face one, and he cannot speak while looking into the eyes, he gets nervous being that intimate. He holds a phone to his ear, speaking to someone who understands his problem and will never ask to meet him face to face; family can be understanding sometimes.
A lurch as the bus nearly misses a stop
Father and son sit side by side, saying nothing. The father has never been good at conversation, least of all with his son whom he fears will feel neglected and this will cause him to fail at fatherhood. He wishes his son did not have to ride a bus, and dreams of a future where he can watch with pride as his son graduates from college with honors, buys a car, a nice house in the suburbs. His son wonders what's on television tonight and dreams of being a basketball star.
A phone rings
“Girl, you know me! I'm nearly there!” Anxiety tinges her voice, there's so much between them now, old exes and her own awkward feelings of wanting something stronger than friendship (hopefully this her friend does not realize). “Don't you go drinking it all, I'm almost there!”
She's lost her job but tonight it doesn't matter, she's not going to think of it; alcohol will provide one more “fuck you” to responsibility because sometimes life kicks your ass and its all you can do to keep going, so smile and laugh and maybe tonight things will be different and she'll be honest about how she feels, even if it takes alcohol for her to feel brave enough this time.
A pothole shakes the bus
He's been through hell today, nearly killed by a falling piece of scaffolding, constantly sore, a headache that won't go away, the early mornings alone grinding him down. But when he left the job site today, staggering in his weariness, she was there to greet him, smilingly giving him a hug and a peck on the cheek that said so much more than a peck on the cheek and he felt ten feet tall. On the bus sleep overcomes him and she wraps him in a loose embrace, gives him a place to rest, lets him know she'll never leave him (though he already knows that, but the reminder is nice) and when their stop nears she gently wakes him and they head home to make dinner together.
Long Winded Rides
The motion of the bus is somewhat less than relaxing, a jerky series of starts and stops that nearly sends him toppling over sideways with a muttered swear; he manages to stay upright and mentally thanks whatever divine power happens to be listening at the moment that the seat next to him is unoccupied and likely to remain that way. He wonders again just why the hell he thought the middle seat of the bus was a good idea, the sideways seating directly atop the joint of the double-length bus gets all the bounces and bumps, and feels rather like a roller coaster at times. Normally this would not be that distressing, but the narrowness of the seat and the width of his own legs have him crushed against a metal pole where the bus's steady rise and fall (he briefly fancies that the bus is a living, breathing thing and then stops. Personifying the thing would only make it worse) compresses and releases his own legs, which take umbrage at the constant assault on their persons.
He's tired (having come from his job), and everyone else on the bus seems to share his problem—it's quiet, and nobody seems to be particularly inclined to do much of anything beyond staring morosely out of the window at the streets going by. He would do the same, but he's so tired that he decides to give napping on the bus a try. He'll wake up before his stop, and if he doesn't, well, the end of the line is pretty close to his apartment anyway. An extra two or three minutes of walking won't kill him.
It has always been a concern of his that his expression is too easily readable, though every time he's chanced to look in the mirror whilst smiling he hasn't been able to tell much beyond the slightest upturn at the corners of his mouth (he wonders if he's just so afraid of showing emotion that he subconsciously suppresses it, even when he's trying hard not to care about how silly he might look). This has very little to do with his own inability to ever really relax into a nap in public (though he's started to relax more and more, possibly because of a concerted effort to grab sleep where and when he can get it these days, as he's never sure when he'll actually fall asleep at night), though there is probably a connection between the two.
Either way, this time he manages to close his eyes, swaying gently with the motions of the bus, focusing on the drone of the engine noise to get his mind to wander. He dreams.
In his dream, there's a woman (there's always a woman, it seems) in some sort of danger; a collapsing...something or other. He, of course, must be in the hero's role (if he were not in the hero's role in his own dreams, it would probably mean something terrible), and rushes in to save the day. Only he lacks some of the unique hero-qualities—most notably the ability to not only save the day, but escape unharmed. His dream goes from rescuing the woman to being crushed under a pile of bricks, to being dragged to a hospital to spend some quality time there. The rescued woman is nowhere to be seen, which, he figures, is typical of this sort of situation.
He jerks awake, courtesy of a particularly short stop by the bus driver (he hates taking the later bus, the drivers are terrible) and grumpily considers the implications of having a brick wall fall on the bus driver. On the bright side, he notices a far more comfortable seat is now open, and relocates quickly before someone else notices the same thing. This seat is wider, and to celebrate he places his bag next to him to discourage any new passengers from sitting down next to him.
It's not that he doesn't like talking to new people—well, it is that he doesn't like talking to new people; there's a lot of putting up various defenses to keep from revealing too much in too short a time, there's the question of not coming off as a madman (which he does, from time to time, revel in for the hell of it), and there's trying not to unwittingly offend the other person (another thing he's incredibly paranoid about, and with no good reason. He's always been rather good with people, but it never ceases to worry him)—but buses are hardly places for conversation (though he did meet a fascinating man by the name of James one day, and if he were to encounter him on a future ride he'd gladly speak with him again. Something about a genial old man with a brown suit and matching fedora taking slugs out of a bottle of some rot-gut gin and reminiscing about his girlfriend's Southern cooking was incredibly compelling).
Whilst on the bus he sometimes goes around from person to person, piecing together life stories based on one-sided conversations held with telephones (vile things, he feels that the world would have far less yelling if they weren't around) and trying to write Humanity in his head. Many of the stories he comes up with are depressing things, stories of people trying to make ends meet in a country that doesn't want them, has never wanted them (despite its protestations to the contrary). Sometimes he sees too much of himself in the people on the bus and recoils, wishing that he owned a car so that he could avoid this entire mess.
He doesn't have a car, of course—and from the looks of his own situation, he's not likely to own a car for a long time yet—so he's stuck with the bus, which galls him, or a taxi (which would bankrupt him). No, he must resign himself to the bus. The bus, which (he suspects) is nothing more than a machine for people who have nowhere to be, because it sure as hell doesn't have the ability to get anywhere within a reasonable amount of time.
He tries to sleep again, but now the bus is stuck in traffic, and the constant starting and stopping makes it nigh on impossible, so he gives up and stares out the window, trying to reassure himself that he'll be home soon.
The faces of the other passengers all seem slack and lifeless, save for a small girl who appears genuinely excited to be on the bus. For a moment, he smiles and feels like perhaps the bus isn't that bad after all; he used to envy the kids who rode the bus to school when he was younger (of course, that could have been because he had to walk to school), one more in a series of things that other kids were able to do that he never got the chance to try out until much later. Reflecting upon this, he wryly thinks that this is one experience he could have done without.
The bus finally approaches his stop, and he gratefully hops off, feeling like he's somehow escaped in one piece and that alone is an accomplishment of sorts. He's got some new ideas, perhaps, from some of his fellow passengers, and certainly he'll have to try napping again to see if he can't avoid the hospital in his dreams this time. The bus lumbers off, trailing smoke behind it like some fat, lazy dragon that spends its time eating TV dinners while its mother inquires why it hasn't been out to eat some nice young maidens.
He laughs at the thought, a loud laugh that would echo if not for all the traffic noise. Several passers-by stare at him curiously, and this time, he merely shrugs and heads down the street leading to his apartment, whistling.
A Moment
It's only going to be in the briefest of flashes, and when it happens you'll have precious little time to take it all in. You're not going to know who's involved. You're not going to know much in the way of why things are happening. You're just going to have the moment, and if you can get as much as you can out of the moment, then you'll be just fine.
If you get nothing out of the moment, then it's probably on the fault of the author, who should really be able to describe his moments a little better. But that is not important now, what's important is this rapidly approaching moment. Pay close attention! Drink in every word!
Begin with smell. The scent of earth, first and foremost. It's a scent of potential, of living, of growth and beginnings and endings all wrapped into one. Speaking of endings, there's another scent in the air: blood. A coppery scent (or is it iron and you just think it's copper); itself speaking of life but in this quantity it's sickening. Sweat, that salty scent, almost like the sea; that's in the air too. Foliage, the smell of wood and leaf, in the background but dominated by the blood and sweat and earth, rounds out smell.
Now turn to sounds. First, the sound of breathing. It's ragged, labored, inhaling lightly, exhaling noisily. Focus on the breathing and you can hear other things, like the sound of something dripping (saliva? Blood? There's no way of telling), or the sound of teeth grinding together, a grating sound that's instantly recognizable. The sound of metal on metal, a crashing sound, the sound of feet shuffling in the undergrowth, and now a new sound, a cracking sound—the splintering of wood. A thunderous thud.
It's sight's turn now; two men, both wounded, fight. One wears no armor save a leather jerkin, the other is armored in plate and chainmail. The lightly armored one has just lost his shield, it sits on the forest floor, forgotten. The heavily armored one wields a longsword, and he uses it skillfully to hack away at the lightly armored man's defenses. The lightly armored one only has a short sword, and with no shield, he's at a disadvantage. He's using his mobility to keep alive, but it's clear that his luck will not hold out for much longer.
Take note of the way the morning light streams through the trees overhead, illuminating the two combatants as they struggle with one another, giving the scene an ethereal feeling. Watch the dust fly into the air, kicked up by their feet. Pay special attention to the falling leaves, the way they dance on the wind caused by the passage of a sword stroke. Notice how the sweat runs down the brow of the lightly armored man, dripping off of the end of his nose, causing his long hair to stick to the side of his face. Sweat mixes with the blood running from a cut over his right eye, causing him to blink and shake his head slightly; this nearly gets him killed by a quick stroke from his opponent. His opponent does not appear to be as tired, despite his heavier kit. If he's sweating, it does not show. He bleeds from a lucky strike to his shoulder, where two plates come together. It has affected his ability to hold his shield, but he refuses to relinquish it.
With a final cry, the lightly armored man rushes at his foe, hoping to pierce the breastplate by sheer effort. His eyes are wide, his mouth is open, and his hands both grip his sword's hilt. The foliage is churned up in a trail behind him, marking his passage. There is a final crash, but you are no longer there to see it.
How does the story end? Can you choose one side over the other? Was a woman involved? Who was the good man, who the evil one? You cannot tell. You have only the moment. Make of it what you will.
Morning Would
Roll over, hit the
Alarm, grab new
Clothes, take a
Shower, brush your
Teeth, and confront
The day without
Deciding to call it a
Wash and go back to bed.
The last part always was
Tricky.
It's a Gas
There's no secret to snatching
Success these days,
One need only attain
Precisely what every one else is trying
To attain--
But more of it than them
Because more of it
Makes you better,
Blesses you with
Freedom, friends, fantastical
Fucking phenomenal
Opportunity.
Go live the dream!
Do what you need to do
Because there's no other way
To get what you want
If you want to be comfortable
That is.
Do what you want
Once you've done
Your time in the mines,
Chase your dream once
You don't have to worry about
Where your next meal's coming from
Or how to impress the girls
Or where to live
Or how to pay your taxes.
Don't get me wrong
I think it's very important
That we all keep working
And nobody does what they
Really want to do,
What would that do, after all?
It simply can't work,
Won't work, you
Have to take
Responsibility
Do your
Part to forge your own
Chains. Otherwise
You'll just
Die like all the
Others, hungry
But
Free.
Is that worth it? The
Cost of living
Is your dreams,
Is that a fair
Price?
The cost of your dreams
Might be your death
But I hear that's not
Worth much these days,
So really it's quite a
Bargain.
Fine
Are you happy now?
Look at this! I think it's
Terrible, don't you? This is
Not a story at all;
It's something sinister,
Manufactured poetry--
Should I mention my mother?
Maybe some painful
Allusions, bring home the
Drama.
It's your fault, you know. I was
Happy telling stories, but
That wasn't good enough for you, was it?
Hydras! There, a mythological allusion,
To show I'm classy
Well read.
Keep the punctuation sparse,
Use it sparingly, space it out
Over several lines so that people don't
Know how to read it.
There I'm a poet now
Does that make me
An artist?
I've got stories to tell, tales of
The good old days and the
Not so good days and
Boring days but
This will be published
Probably taken seriously
Because you can analyze it
Easily.
Lazy bastards.
Criseyde
Troy burns and she stands on the shore,
Hears the dying,
Watches the smoke claw upward,
Souls on their way to Hades
Or somewhere else.
The ship carries her off
While her lover paces the deck
Impatient to be home
To see where he used to live.
He carries on with the crew,
Knows them all,
And so does she
(Perhaps in more ways
Than one).
She knew it would happen
She is forgotten,
Another trophy
From a war over trophies.
Greece is strange to her
The language is not her own
And the food's not her own
And her home is not her own
But his,
Even though he doesn't go there
Anymore.
She smiles in crowds,
She walks through parties
Wearing her mask,
The face she shows the world.
And when the parties are over
She goes home (but home was
Destroyed a long time ago)
And she sits regretting
In the dark
With shades
For company.
Criseyde
You've seen her in class,
Proud at her desk,
Back straight, eyes forward,
Viewing the world
With detached air.
She doesn't say much, nor does she
Seem to be paying attention;
Paying attention is for the
Smart or the stupid
(Depending on who you ask).
In the diners she is
Surrounded by people, always
Smiling, comfortable, collected.
The others walk by
And she smirks
Or says nothing
Or says something
But it's clear they are not the
Same as she.
She's better,
Or worse,
Even though she tries to be
The same.
And when she goes home
(Wherever home is (whatever
Home is)) she goes to
Her room and she
Tries to remember who
She really is
Before the loneliness hits
And she's got to
Ride it out
Like a wave
Or an earthquake
Or a strong wind,
A sinking,
Dipping dance that
Leaves her
Spinning around
Inside her own head
Behind the masks
She can't take off anymore,
Not even when she's alone,
In the dark
With shades for company.
