"Cabins in the Fog"
Here, the shadows, restless dwelling Thatched roofs are crumbling inward Approach where logs and planks collapse, The doorway, but a feeble serf Darker, thicker now, the evening Darkened azure, bloodied sapphire! Madness lingers in the framing. men whose deeper natures, lacking The cabin's walls now groan aloud, with tremors that no sense abates Now, the shadows, ceaseless growing, Still, not all are here devoured. Though this blued and gloomy structure Lo, what foolish geists assemble, To you, I say, my merry friend, All structures insalubrious defiant of the wills who call -=-
"The Death of Elise"
Rain.
There was shelter under the slanted roof of a small transit
construct. Here, poking around in pockets, cigarette package
elusive, Ike waited. Can't do much else when the bus isn't around.
Fumbles inside his shirt pocket. A-ha.
Crumpled globs of the day’s news, massive balls of industrial
mucous, cluttered around the pillars and glass. There was a smell
of old rain on the concrete, a dishonest smell at odds with the
violent torrent streaming before him. Less a patter, more a
crackle. Infinite blades of thunder; gleaming, street-lit bolts.
"Could you do me a favour?" a woman's voice inquired, "can you
pass me a cigarette?" She sat featureless on a bench darkened with
sourceless moisture. After-effects of rain. A heavy coat, to the
knees and black, and heavy, shining ebony hair made erratic by the
downpour.
Ike took a stride to her and held out the pack, an american style
10x2 case. The woman drew the cigarette that was protruding, and
Ike closed the case.
"Y'know this stuff'll kill ya" His flame breathed oxygen and
kissed the cigarette with luminous combustion. He leaned against
the glass, his coat tied around his waist by the sleeves.
"Funny thing to say" she remarked, simulating her acquaintance's
method. Ike shrugged.
A genuine flash of natural light, their contours mimicked by
jaunty, demonic shadows. He, with the curving, angelic ringlets of
hair, dark as bear's fur. An unholy counterpart jeered at him from
the shadow and certain cold eyes not unlike his own pried through
abysmal caverns of bone and flesh. A gaze of brooding, half-mad
calm. And then, only the impression, carved out with the flash and
eroded. Sad attempts at recreation by the street lights.
Water bubbled from the drains, inner city rapids swelling up,
lacking an allure of danger and excitement in its putrid, murky
foam. When the rain cleared the streets would reek of human
excrement for days.
The smoke from their cigarettes mingled under the safety of the
shelter. Clung to their damp garments.
"When's it gonna get here?" the woman inquired impatiently, mostly
to herself. Possibly attempting conversation to bide time.
Ike checked his watch. The silver band clattered as it rotated a
small degree around his bare and slim wrist. "A few minutes still.
These things are precise. Also - " index finger aimed at the stop
sign across the street. Signs bleached in sunlight marked the
epitaphs of many businesses that had once possessed the now
derelict building "it'll stop there. Not beside us."
She didn't answer but for a small unwilled vibration of her vocal
chords, as though she was trying to control very light breaths.
She bit her lip, shifted. Her arms crossed, she leaned against the
glass, hair falling back from her face.
"Not from here, are you?" Ike looked at his butt, which was
running close to the filter. Orange tobacco embers peeked through
clinging bits of ash. He took another drag. Dimples beamed, she chuckled softly. The small triangular
shadow-to-light gradient of genuine amused tremors in vicious
darkness. She averted her eyes. The air was static warmth, the
wind passive and mild. The rain blazed before the eyes like signal
static on a distant screen. Furious. Hissing calumniously against
paved and raised sidewalk - like boiling, like steam, like
sizzling meat - the rain was accompanied by a dull throb, now
louder, nasal.
Ike dropped his cigarette - it rolled to the bevel of the sidewalk
where it sizzled, a juvenile mimicry of the enormous storm - Eyes
ahead. Pallas stood and brushed off the back of her coat.
The darkness swelled, ether pregnant with motorized light. The
rain was shards of crystal and diamond. A drenched figure exploded
in light, a dove fluttering from a deep abyss of suffering. The
bus screamed and squealed, chimerical bat-snake of weaving and
hellish sonar. Ike left the shelter, stepping cautiously to the
front of the bus. The driver wore a large, thick coat, blackened
by the evening rain. He stood over a disfigured woman, her blood
washing away in congealing tendrils, spraying up in the ripples of
the rain like tiny fountains. Her arm was mangled, her thin
clothing soaked through. The driver looked up at Ike. "Didn't see
a damn thing. She was just there."
Pallas stood a few steps from Ike. "Is she alive?"
Ike knelt down and moved the matted strands of the woman's hair.
"Well, not for much longer."
"Should we help her? I'm calling an ambulance."
Ike shook his head vigorously, the rain spattering from his hair,
"Elise was suicidal. Don't worry, driver. This wasn't your fault.
She wanted to die, and now she's almost there."
Pallas maintained her poise as she instructed an operator on the
receiving end of a silver cellular. She pressed a button and
pocketed her phone. "How can you say something like that? She's
dying!" Ike stood and shook his head again. "No, she's not."
His neck was arched and the rain battered his spine.
And it fell, and fell.
"People ask me 'who are you?' and I tell em 'I'm Mr. Nobody! I'm
everybody!' Haha, I'm not quite God yet. Eh? I'm not quite God
yet." Ike raised his eyebrow and returned his gaze to the sky. An
airplane loomed silently, jets a murmur against the clogged
arteries of the city. He finished his cigarette on the concrete
steps of the cafe and entered silently. The old man yelled and
charged a flock of pigeons in his smoke-scented armor, the worn
coat of pathetic homelessness. The idiot birds scattered and
descended lazily on the sidewalks of neighboring stores. Their
feet pattered against the drying pavement.
The cafe's inner walls were solid panels of wood with simple
lathe-work and a dark stain and varnish, so that even the nicks
and scratches glimmered after being buffed effortlessly with a
damp cloth. Ike saw Nolan at a booth and sat across from him.
"Gee Nolan, you look like shit. Ever hear of sleep?"
"Ever hear of consoling grieving relatives? Thought not, you damn
loner. Matt's freaking, probably slashing his wrists or something.
I tried calming him on the phone but his tone was pretty dead. I
wouldn't be surprised if he was dead. I'm not too keen on dropping
by his flat. 'Lise's parents aren't doing so hot either." He
recited a lengthy phone ordeal, like a great tragedy, like the
suffering of grand heroes. Only the first few acts were missing
from his account. Hands streamed through hair like ocean liners in
calm seas, spilling and contaminating. A strand of oily, pubically
thick hair fell into his coffee mug. "Ah, shit."
Elise's parents yelled at Nolan for a solid hour, using two phones
in two different rooms. Occasionally they would yell at each
other, and then one voice, and then the packing of flesh. Like
baseball bats hitting mud. Crying. Nolan hangs up and has a shot
of whiskey. Enough consolation for that night. "I know you can barely afford to eat. Fuckin’ freelance journalism
worked well for you, eh. I'm not asking for money." the waitress
refilled their cups. Tan rings stared up at her, like demanding
eyes of a past, how do you say, aggressive lover? (Poor turn of
phrase...) "I'll be able to cover it, I think. 'Lise's parents
don't seem like they're gonna do a thing, and for all I know
Matt's ODed or something. Anyway I'm just looking to make sure
things go smooth. You remember what it was like when Heidi died,
and the Colonel." The cup of coffee was like a black, hypnotizing mirror. Many torments
of many lost spirits scried in the reflection - laughing
disfigurations of death and anguish.
Thoughts played in Ike’s head like short experimental film. Montages
of death and loss, bitter memories blending together in superimposed
frames. Sneering face of death in Heidi’s pallor.
"Iké?"
Faint ripples in the mug, a dark sort of silhouette, too dark for
mirrordom. Patrons chattered idly, the vapors of conversation
rising and falling, condensing into empty matter. Wallowing geists
of self-importance-deceit. Conversation amidst prying ears should
refrain from intellectual aspirations. Discuss family gossip,
shallow successes to justify destructive habits, sports. They rise
like soap bubbles in the summer sky, cleaning no conscious of its
accumulating filth. The reality of the being is displaced by
ground coffee beans filtered into a rejuvenating nectar.
Female fingertips, unpainted nails, spread themselves on the
table. A figure leaned over the table's width and shattered Ike's
void mind. "Oh my, Iké? Remember me? From last night?"
"Pallas" he smiled to himself "your hair is in my coffee."
Pallas blinked and shifted her eyes. "Ew! Geeze...I'm so sorry.
Gross..."
Ike handed her a napkin, "sit down. This'll do for now. I'll get
the waitress to get you a hot towel" Ike glanced at her, clearer now in the radiant haze of the filthy
windows. The sun illuminated her splendor and her flaws. Her
freckles rose from her cheeks like staring down at multitudes from
an airplane, or a bombarded surface of a distant, lonely planet;
small nose, inconsistently colored eyes, different shades of the
oceans and freshwater lakes. Traces of pale, swollen pimples
lingered on her forehead; tiny blackheads fortified her nose.
"Did you...know that woman?"
Ike nodded.
"Was she a...were you two together?"
"Nope. Mostly an acquaintance - too hard to get too close to.
Never tried."
Pallas shivered, a tingling ripple shot through her body. Blood
and water streamed together - and coffee. Thick oil coats an
unreceptive throat. It attempts to shut, but is willed open
through to the stomach via a scalded esophagus. Pallas sputters
helplessly. Looks around, embarrassed. "I, have never seen
anything like that before. A...well, a woman dying. Someone hit by
a bus like that..." Card out of field of view, he saw Pallas walking in the opposite
direction, her long coat buoyant and gay.
"What's the difference..." he muttered. He probably dwarfed her by
almost a decade.
On his way home he disposed of the little card in a recycling bin
on one of the street corners.
"Hi. You've reached Ike's answering machine. You know the trick.
Beeep." Ike rubbed his eyes and stared at the swelling foam of his sink.
Nolan was stretched out on a discount couch from a recycle shop,
the only light in his apartment a dim halogen lamp against walls a
yellow of domestic beer and lemon. Grating buzzing of lights like
immortal trans-flies. Androsophela. They burned as they swarm the
bulb, silhouettes collecting against the glowing white-stained
glass.
"She's gonna have a small funeral..." Nolan stretched the muscles
and tendons of his ankle in different directions. "I dunno..."
Ike bounced up to his counter and sat there, taking a swig of cold
beer, the condensation chilling his hands tremendously. He held it
balanced on his knee.
"You still have a suit."
Ike examined the label "Yeah, probably the same threads
from...Heidi's funeral." Warm ichor poured from her gaping wounds
but she was oh so cold, like death, who already stole her, her
breathes consumed by the ether. Stale air filled her lungs and Ike
wallowed in her, in her essence, in confusion and loss. In
radiant, glistening ichor.
"Alright. Funeral's in two days. See if you can contact any of
'Lise's old friends. I'll see you at the cafe in the morning."
Ike recalled Pallas. "Yeah, see ya"
Quiet dirges and silent lamentation. A house to a Christian lord,
but none complained, that cavern of soul stretching wide and tall.
Byzanto-Gothic modern hybrid with electric heating grills. Light
pouring in colours dead against the plaster floor. Everything
silence, a preacher with his arms raised to the air. His useless
supplication and plea interrupts their thought.
"You must be brothers" a regular parishioner informs them. "It's
so sad..."
Ike flinches. "Brothers? We aren't uh..." In perceiving Nolan's
grim silence, he falters, "well, something like that, yeah."
The mass started eventless. Elise's mother and father were nowhere
in sight, and Nolan and Ike had to force Matthew into detox the
night before, flailing and screaming, biting punching drunk,
cursing his mother, himself, his god. Life, the world. Everything
damned and wrong.
A chorus resonated. Ike barely heard the back door creak open.
Pallas had attended. She caught his glance and walked to the front
slowly. "Can...may I sit here?"
"Yeah...if you don't mind carrying the casket."
Pallas sat. That made what, three? The preacher prostrated himself
on the altar when the choir ceased. He handed wafers to the clergy
and attending parishioners. Ike, Nolan and Pallas sat. There were
prayers, libations, cross gestures. The three stared at the
casket. Nolan shuffled and started coughing violently.
Massive cathedral doors roared and screeched, submitting to a
chaotic will. Elise's father stood in the entrance, his shadow
long and ominous down the row to the altar. Drunk in a blue dress
shirt and gray dress pants with hands stained dark red. He
stumbled and crashed into a pew, realigned himself and continued
down the aisle. The priest was silent, mid-gesture. He merely
stared, his disbelief mounting. Elise's father walked between two
pews and tripped over a missal. His face awash in colored light
of a crucifixion scene, he vomited on the floor.
"I had to punch-fuck that stupid bitch!" he yelled, "She wouldn't
stop BITCHING about a GODDAMN funeral so I shut her up and now I'm
here. Now what?" he stood and looked about.
"Call the police..." Nolan muttered. Pallas was already dialing.
Ike approached Elise's disoriented father. "Let's go get some
fresh air, sir." and the man swung at him. Ike narrowly evaded the
strike. He stumbled and then stabbed at Ike, cut through the black
jacket and exposed Ike's radiant ichor. Ike saw no recourse but to
knock him out with a clean punch to the face and then to drag him
outside while contracting the reek of vomit and sweat. His right
arm ached with strain and blood loss. Thick clouds shielded the
sky.
The father was taken by the police uneventfully, and Ike made it
inside in time to help carry Elise's casket to the hearse. The
choir leader, seeing the limited number of pallbearers, gathered
two small, grim altar servers. They offered their assistance.
Elise was buried amidst prayers and rain. Her carriers were
silent, watching as the box with her remains was lowered into the
earth forever.
There was dirt the height of a man, now, that separated Elise from
the surface. She was buried and she would decay.
"I'm going to wash up...and get really drunk..." Ike stated,
making for his car, "I'll give you a call, Nolan." he stopped
moving and stared at the sky, thick clouds spewing rain. He let
the droplets cover his face and descend in all directions like
rising veins that wanted to burst gore all over him, like
everything inside just wanted out.
"I want to join you." Pallas interjected "You owed her nothing," Ike unlocked the door to his car and
opened it, creaking in protest with rust and age and general ruin.
The car was old and brown and looked like decay. He stared inside
his car, his arm throbbed. Tore off the sleeve of his undershirt
and bandaged it. He would have to get the coat repaired at a
tailor's, if the damage wasn't too extensive. It was inside the
car, the tear rippling with fresh wind. "You mean can't handle us. Yeah... ...yeah sure. You can join us
tonight." Ike snaked into his car and stared ahead. The ignition
battled with him, and he defeated it with sheer persistence. He
shifted the thick soaked locks from his eyes as he drove out.
Pan-fried eggs. Bacon.
Ike rose. His head throbbed. Body quivered. He promptly descended,
pillow gracelessly admitting him. Am I burning something...what
did I he willed himself up and grabbed the nearest pair of pants.
They didn't smell like vomit so that was good - he discovered that
all in all, his room smelled pretty clean. Good. He swaggered into
his living room and the smell grew stronger. His footfalls were
heavy.
"Uh... ...hello?"
Pallas peered out from the kitchen (shit) and smiled wanly.
"...this isn't happening." he said slack jawed and spiritless. He
fell into his couch and Pallas's eyes wandered. She returned to
the stove, where eggs sizzled and bubbled, and bacon hissed, the
fog of grease rising into the sunlight. Pallas turned off the
elements and entered the living room where she drew a tall set of
curtains to a balcony window. The sun was a sword, and it stabbed
Ike's pupils with an infinite blade. He cried out and turned his
face in, lying on his stomach, his feet dangling over the arm
rest.
"I guess you still...haven't recovered." "Yes. You probably don't remember, but Nolan dropped by. He was a
bit hung over. He brought food. And then I made you supper...that
didn't go over well. Um...breakfast is almost ready."
Ike sat at his table, in the dark corner of the living room. He
removed the various obstacles covering it - laptop, disks,
newspapers, forms. Pallas and Ike ate wordlessly. Ike stared at
his plate, his body vibrating, warbling. The sun oozed warmth
through the curtains.
"I'm going to sleep, if you don't mind...and when I'm awake, you'd
better not be here."
Pallas looked at him, saying nothing. She scooped the mouthful of
scrambled egg that was in her raised fork, placing it on the plate
as she did so. "Okay, did y-" "Don't come back."
Pallas rose and gathered her purse and coat from the coffee table
in front of his couch. The television stared at them, omnipotent
watcher in the dark. Pallas stood in the room and looked at Ike
for a few minutes. "Nolan left a message on your answering
machine. I didn't listen to the whole thing." Her voice was
choked. She then departed, lips quivering, heart palpitating.
Minutes passed, and Ike trudged to his room, where he slept for
many hours. He expected that he would never see Pallas again. The
sun rose and the sky was a shimmering baby blue, a godlike azure
that none could touch; and Ike's dreams were pleasant.
When he was confident of his recovery, he walked to his kitchen
and listened to the message. The digits 01 flashed bright digital
red.
"Hey! Hey Ike, it's me! Hahahah! We're drunk right now! You and me
and uh... ...Pallas! Yeah we're at...I don't know what bar we're
at, but we always said we'd do this to each other so here goes!
You're puking right now I think, so I'm gonna leave this message
okay buddy! Hahahahaha, stop that! I gotta think of something.
Okay, okay. Now...I know things are heavy. Elise died and
all...but just remember buddy, we're in hell now! We're in hell,
but soon we'll be outta here, you know it! Soon we're gonna be
done! And hey, we're immortal! Always remember that when you wake
up feeling dead! We're immortal, we're the gods! Nothin can stop
us, no sun no moon, no rain no hail! Nothing! Take care my
brother, take-" There was a long beep as the message cut off. A
computerized voice announced an incorrect time and date. - Risc
-=-
"Play of Winds"
The storm that gathered, You might be wanting But did the darkened clouds How surely you play -=-
"Love Story"
Dave Schuyler loved the way Mary's eyes would flicker whenever he
softly stroked her inner thigh, with the first three fingers of his
hand. They had not yet slept together-that would wait, of course,
until marriage-but they often lay together, naked, kissing each other
for hours. Or at least, what would seem like hours; time means very
little. They had known each other throughout childhood, as Fairview
was a rather small community in western North Carolina, but they had
only recently become enamored with each other's existence during a
youth night dance hosted by the New Hope Protestant Reformed Church.
That was eight months ago, in early September. The winter had passed
quickly, and spring was beginning to exert its influence, as the balmy
weather from the Deep South slowly crept into the county, which lay in
the shade of the Blue Mountains. Dave knew he was in love with Mary…he
had told her this many times before, but unbeknownst to her, he had
been saving his earnings for an engagement ring while working at Tom's
Hardware Store. His parents weren't aware of his plans either, as far
as they knew his $6.50 an hour would be going towards paying for
community college next year. This was their final year of high school,
and Mary would be attending Davidson College, which was a hundred
miles away, but Dave had a gut feeling that they could make things
work, even with the distance. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder,"
they say, and Dave believed this with all his heart. He loved Mary,
and everyone seemed to be rooting for the two. They were perfect
together.
Mary sat fidgeting with the eraser end of a pencil, looking out the
window of her second-story bedroom. Dave would be arriving soon with
his old '84 Chevy pickup, and memories of their trials and
tribulations, the whole of their experiences and adventures,
overwhelmed her at once. Memories had never been so vivid, not before
she and Dave became an item. She knew that he was 'the one'. She loved
him, even if she knew that she would not be able to explain why or
how, or what love even is…"but if not this, then what?" she thought.
Mary was an exceptionally bright girl, and quite active within the
community, and what Dave lacked in academic integrity he more than
made up for with his diligence and charisma. Both were beaming
personalities, and to everyone, including themselves, they were the
face of eternal youth and vigor. Here in Fairview, there was no way to
fully comprehend any larger world than the one they perceived, and
what use for it to begin with? Life was a slice of heaven, especially
for these two.
Still, in accompaniment with the pleasant memories and projections of
the future's serenity, Mary felt the anxiety of having to part with
Dave come the end of summer. Granted, that time was what would once
have seemed like an eternity away, but the past eight months with Dave
rushed by without regard for her wishes and pleas. A moment could last
forever, as when they were engaged in the most sincere of kisses, but
somehow time managed to compensate for this courteous pause by sifting
away as if with a predetermined cause or destination. And time was
late for wherever it had to be…
No sooner had this little aphorism crossed Mary's mind, Dave's
familiar old wagon, which served as a sort of extension of his own
adventurous and bright-eyed personality, had rolled into the short
gravel drive with a joyful raucousness, bouncing along the way,
conforming to every depression and peak the treads encountered, never
straying from its path. Mary's eyes lit up, and she picked up her worn
navy duffel bag and made her way out of her room, bounding down the
stairs and out the door. She leaned heavily into the passenger's side
window and pressed her lips into Dave's, lightly made her way into the
seat. The door had to be slammed, however, as it had a tendency to
stick, but the stereo system, which was playing a Crosby, Stills, Nash
& Young tune, faithfully followed its own way, weaving a simple story
the two could easily relate to. Things continued on without skipping a
beat; in the midst of these two, loud sounds did not serve as brash
interruptions to a quiet life, but instead seemed to bubble up every
so often to announce the very real energy that enveloped them.
"Honestly Dave, I don't understand why you wanted to drive me out to
Davidson when I could just as easily have taken the bus or train-it's
not like I would have been there for long, it's just a weekend visit
after all!"
This is what she said, but deep down inside, Mary was glad,
overflowing really, to be able to spend an hour or two driving along
the roads with Dave to her future alma mater. Whether in silence or in
conversation, Dave's thoughtful eyes and quick-draw smile served as an
ultimate source of comfort for her, lying against him in embrace, she
felt unconquerable yet protected. She felt as if she was in the
presence of some inextinguishable, unwavering essence, and whether or
not Dave felt this way about himself she was uncertain-but this only
added to his appeal to her. After a while, Dave nudged the silence in order to make way for words
that had been carefully placed side by side within the confines of his
mind: Mary smiled with a sincerity that only fresh love could afford, a
smile that radiated from the core of her being. And all of a sudden it
dawned on her. This is what she said:
"Love is being able to feel what you feel, whether good or bad, and
whether or not I like it. It's a constant ball of nervous energy in
the pit of my belly, it aches when things are going rough or when
we're not together, and it elevates me when we are. It is seeing far
into the future and having the comfort of knowing you'll be there."
Dave liked this. He would meet her monologue with his own:
"To me," he said, "love is the strongest form of faith and hope I can
image. I'm sure you've heard the saying, 'hate destroys, but love
creates.' What greater truth is there, really? And what greater power
than being able to create…to create new worlds, a world of our own; as
well as to create new life, should we choose to do so? You know, these
next four years will be the most trying for us-whether or not you
would like to admit it-so I'm going to tell you something that I want
you to remember always, because it is important; Mary, I've never seen
two souls such as ourselves long for each other as deeply as the two
of us, and when we are apart you may feel the physical distance
bearing down on you. But to me, true love is a substance that carries
us from one meeting to the next. Do you understand that?"
The two looked into each others eyes as deeply and for as long as it
is safe while one of the involved is driving on a road. Dave was
strong, but he knew he would have shed tears if Mary didn't maintain
her own composure. But apparently his words struck a chord within her,
and this resonated between them; it was a song fitting for the
season-light and soft, its beauty lingering as unimposing as dew
resting on the budding branches of saplings. If ever humankind and
nature reflected their purest essences in utmost synchrony and
concert, surely this must have been such an instance! The Greeks have
shown Eros to be an archer, but perhaps he should be depicted as a
weaver instead. What fine threads! And what beguiling tales he spins!
Soon than they would have wished for, the two arrived at the gates of
Davidson. Its campus was pristine and its environment receptive of
these two young lovers: quiet and introspective, graceful and
unassuming. It was late in the afternoon, around four o'clock. They
found the girl who would be hosting Mary for the night, dropped off
what few belongings she had brought with her, and took a private tour
of the campus until dusk had settled. There was no need to rush, but
as the young are both impatient and insecure, Dave decided that he
ought no longer to keep Mary from establishing her presence and more
intimately acquainting herself with her future home for the next few
years. He bid farewell, an affair which took upwards of a half hour,
and implored her to enjoy herself and remember their conversation. A
well-versed rehearsal for the end of the summer, he had thought, but a
night is no comparison to the months which lie ahead. The promise of a
lifetime would have to suffice for these two, carrying them moment by
moment if need be.
After dinner, Mary and her young hostess lazily reclined about her
room discussion everything and nothing in particular, all at once. As
it is the organic nature of conversation, their attention made its
orbit around the present, although here and there their thoughts would
collect and pool in the remote areas of the past. And, of course, when
the present fails to pull one strongly enough to its unassuming
existence, the future steers both undisciplined and adventurous minds
in its direction. In Mary's case, all of this was arbitrary, and
despite her pretending to be interested in this girl's spectacular
chattering, Dave's immanence in her thoughts consumed her being. That
is until the conversation turned a different shade, beckoning Mary's
participation in present affairs:
"Oh, um, okay." There was a split-second of the most awkward silence.
This girl seemed as if she had been personally attacked, and she
avoided making eye contact thenceforth. "Well, you've gotta understand
that this is college, and these are the only years in your life where
you can forget about being responsible and just let go…you're going to
have unwind sooner or later, you know! Well, whatever. I'm going to
get ready-if you change your mind then I'll be at the Gamma house-it's
the building with the upside-down 'L" above the door, just a ways
down." She flashed a quick smile, as if she'd forgiven Mary and
forgotten what had passed between the two of them.
"Okay, thanks." She did not plan on taking up her offer, but instead
hoped that their differences would be forgotten, and that they could
continue the weekend on good terms come next morning.
So the night wore on, and Mary sat at her hostess' desk reading young
Emily Brönte's Wuthering Heights and taking notes in her journal. Such
a strange love, she thought. She could not relate to the violent
passion between Heathcliff and Catherine, but it appealed to her as it
was a story of love. She could not discriminate from its many forms,
to her its essence was pure and everlasting. She looked out of the
window, and decided that a good walk would aid her in digesting both
her less-than palatable college fare, but more importantly to
excitedly recount her many overwhelming thoughts and to herself. She
grabbed a light jacket-it had cooled significantly since the sun had
set-and headed downstairs and out the door into the commons. She
looked west and saw the line of frat houses with glaring lights and
blaring music, and decided to head in the opposite direction, towards
the playfully rolling hills that bordered the southern end of the
campus.
Asher Philips was sitting in the bushes of a recess in the
architectural form of the residence building but a hundred yards down
the path Mary was headed. He had spent many weekend nights during his
three years at Davidson just sitting there, watching people stagger
drunkenly from parties back to their dorms. It started as a personal
project in studying group behavior-he was a sociology major, after
all-but he soon found that he enjoyed sitting in the shadows,
invisible to passersby. From his many nights as sentinel he was
surprised at the frequency of drunken girls treading on their
lonesome, making the stalwart solitary journey in the twilight hours,
the world as merry-go-round with each step deceitfully promising solid
ground. As the nights wore on, Asher found himself intrigued by the
strange beauty of these drunken young goddesses, their shirts soaked
with sweat and beer, their skin shining in the moonlight. Especially
their breasts. At first, he started off simply by masturbating to
those images that lingered long enough in his mind, his eyes set on
exploring the curves of these imperfect bodies which were still supple
and filled with youthful vigor. Sometimes a girl would lean forward to
retch, and her ass, stuffed into tight-fitting pants, would be in
clear view. Stretching the imagination was unnecessary. And when they
wretched, he would see their shoulders and ribs heaving helplessly, as
they dispelled their demons from the previous hours. Once, he decided
to approach a girl who was looking especially unwell, and when it
became apparent that she was still willing to engage in deviant
behavior, as he was not an unhandsome fellow, he took her to the
bushes, ripped her jeans and panties to her knees and her shirt up
past her breasts, and molested her violently. She did not seem to
mind, he thought, since she did not make any sounds. She was too
sedated to comprehend the absurdity of the circumstances, and he did
not imagine he was doing any wrong. The next day, however, the girl
reported that she had been sexually harassed, showing bite marks on
her belly and hips. He encountered such situations twelve times in the
past three years, although most often he would settle for masturbating
into his hand. The incidents were considered unrelated, and there was
no reinforcement of security, so he continued his weekend night
ritual.
This night would be entirely different. As Mary approached, Asher
knew from the absence of a stagger that she was perfectly sober. He
became nervous and feared that he would be seen. He spotted a large
rock just a few feet from where he sat, and picked it up. He took in
the sight of Mary and was immediately taken by how beautiful she was,
and how gracefully she carried herself. A strange feeling flooded his
brain: he would have her. Not simply molest her. He had to fuck her.
He began to tremble as she walked by, and, catching the scent of her,
he was overcome with voraciousness and leapt from the bushes, quickly
striking Mary in the back of the head just as she was about to turn to
meet her attacker. He did not dare look her in the eyes.
She fell, and although she was not unconscious, she incurred enough
trauma to incite a headache and leave her in complete disorientation.
Still, she would remain conscious.
Asher stood over her, just for a moment, taking in her essence. She
was positively glowing. He quickly took her and dragged her to his
bush. He ripped her pants in half and similarly did away with her
underwear, and he violently removed her garments from the upper-half
of her body. He even removed her shoes. He was, in the complete sense
of the term, hungry, starving. For a moment he had forgotten what he
had intended to do, hovering over her pale form. He looked at her
face, and saw just how truly beautiful she was. So he turned her away
from him, placed her on her knees leaning forward, and began to anally
rape her. Her face was digging into the ground, and she tasted dirt.
It was the only sense she had at the moment. As he came, he thought
for some strange reason that she would be a virgin, and became excited
about this notion, so turning her onto her back he let her legs dangle
awkwardly and penetrated her from the front. Mary felt shame-no
thoughts of David would comfort her. She became an individual, and she
could only consider that she was being violated in the most vulgar
sense of the term. As this nameless figure penetrated deeply into her,
she could think of nothing else but to resist-resist what? She felt a
tingling rising from the base of her spine, from the base of her neck.
Her eyes began to flicker and she began to tremble; she was beginning
to orgasm. She felt sick of herself, and suddenly she was flooded with
the realization that she was helpless in betraying her love, her Dave.
Still, she as unable to resist, and unwillingly, she climaxed while
the rapist continued his animalistic plundering of this serene figure,
this innocent dreamer. As he reached his own orgasm, which had been
delayed from his previous exploitation, he quickly withdrew and
ejaculated into his hand. He would not leave evidence here. There was
blood on his member; so she was a virgin after all. Upon concluding,
he became furious with himself and with her, and picked up handfuls of
dirt and rubbed them over her body, shoving them into her intimate
orifice. His act was completed, and he left her there; not quite
satisfied with himself, but by no means guilty. He would never been
found out.
Only after this ordeal had Mary lost consciousness completely-biology
seldom acts in accord with individual desire, and her case was no
exception. She woke up early in the morning, and, in her weakness,
crawled back to her hostess' room. She wanted to take a shower more
than anything, and a good many hours later the girl would find her
passed out in the shower, with cold water raining down on her pale,
naked graceful body. Her faced looked quietly pained, and the water
which streamed down her face made it seem as if she was silently
shedding tears. The girl was still hung over, so she could not surmise
anything particularly odd about the scene. She simply turned off the
water and went back to sleep.
It was early afternoon by the time Mary's condition was assessed to be
critical, and so she was immediately sent to Lake Norman Medical
Center a few miles from campus. Her parents arrived as quickly as they
could-truth be told her father was pulled over, which is quite a rare
occurrence in these parts, but was quickly exonerated and sent on his
way once he related the circumstances to the well-wishing officer.
When they arrived late in the afternoon, they entered the barren,
unlit room as if it was a sacrosanct shine, or a Romanesque church.
The intensity was borne from the utter simplicity of the scene: A
child whose dreams of innocence and purity had been dashed from her
careful hands, parents who had invested such love into creating the
world which nurtured her for so long; a room which would not absorb
the pain of any of these three, with any excess of upholstery or
furniture that so commonly fills a human void. Mary lay there, as
beautiful as ever, but she was no longer radiant. She had faded. Nor
did she speak, and she would not speak for three days. When she
gathered the will, she made a simple request from her parents: to
summon Dave to their home.
Dave had found out about Mary on Sunday evening. What withered words
would be able to describe the heavy, swirling agony that clawed,
crawling from the depths of his being? In such instances words would
not suffice. All he could do is expel the contents of his stomach, and
even after exhausting himself completely, he retched furiously for
nearly half an hour. Then, he held vigil in his room for three days,
his suffering aligned with that of his love, barely eating, seldom
sleeping, and never speaking. When we are forced to remain still and
silent-or if one should choose to do it out of one's own volition-we
find that we are filled with thoughts. As we remain in such a state,
and as thoughts continue flowing and overwhelming our mind, we are
forced to do something with them. They may be externalized, or, as is
more characteristic of most men, we gingerly handle these bits like
broken glass, from which we emerge with one of two outcomes: either a
bleeding mind with thoughts still sharp and untamed, or a calloused
mind with smooth, well-worn objects of inquiry. Dave made a mess. Fine
gossamer formed and encapsulated his being; it was a dark scarlet and
pungent, if not completely putrescent. He would not have been able to
see it, nor would anyone else he'd encounter-for these were his
thoughts. If one was to tell this young man that the web we weave, the
silk we spin, are our own, and that we are very much the masters of
our circumstances, he would not understand, and in doing so he would
only be able to laugh. And indeed, during this period it was not on
rare occasion that Dave found himself chuckling silently to himself,
wringing each hand within itself on his lap or at his temples. Who
could truly say what this boy was thinking with such an absence of
words? He bore whatever he was feeling within himself; here there
would be no psychoanalysis on the part of this author-that much could
be said, and judged truthful in its sincerity. Only one thing was
certain: Dave was mourning.
Could the reader excuse one last analogy? It is human nature to
foreswear phenomenal experience for abstraction or illusion, the
justifications for which are many and seldom adequate. In this
instance, it merely wishes to compensate for intuitive misgiving into
altogether unfamiliar circumstances:
A fisherman casts his line and waits. Just as sudden as the waiting
had been long, and how long it has been he knows not-the line becomes
taut. And, just as sudden as he had no consideration in particular for
what the future would hold, he now became entangled in the tension of
this moment. As the fish draws the line further and deeper into the
ocean, the fisherman can do nothing other than hold tighter; it is as
if in their opposition they do not become two entities struggling in
opposition, their individual existence foregone for the facilitation
of this one phenomenon, the tension itself. And it is through this
tension that the being on either end of the line fulfills its duty for
the moment. For the fisherman, it is this reality which validates the
fact that this fish is there, and likewise it is the case for this
fish.
And just as sudden as the moment came, the line is torn. Bereaved of
this fleeting purpose, the fisherman is left to wonder: had this all
been real? He does not dare to draw in the line to observe the frayed
tip of the end, which would only serve to amplify a growing emptiness
and confusion within. This was Dave.
The fish had returned to the line and pulled with a greater force and
velocity than he could comprehend, and so Dave found himself standing
at the door of Mary's house that Wednesday night, then beckon inside
by her parents, and finally he stood outside her bedroom. Emotion
flooded his lungs as he knocked on her door.
"Hello." His own voice sounded muffled and distant, as if he was
observing the world through plastic wrap. There was silence for
many moments. If Dave had looked up, he would have found Mary's
eyes filling slowly with tears, and her soft jawline tensing under
the weight of words she bore within her mind. He would have seen
the knuckles of her small hands growing white as they nervously
played with the edge of her blanket. And if he was of a
particularly observant disposition, he would have noticed that her
breathing was favoring inhalation, whilst her breath barely
escaped her. But he did not. There can be no assignment of blame,
a story tells itself through the actions of those involved, and
not the other way around. An invisible thread draws each of us
toward a destination which, while unknown to any man, cunningly
satisfies the story's desire to hear itself told. Here is no
exception (my hands are now tied). "No, you don't understand! I told this to a counselor woman and she
told me that I was the only person betrayed. She said I only have to
worry about this for my own sake, and that support is the most
important thing for me to get through this. But if she would only
understand that up until that very point I had been thinking about
you…how could I…?" She trailed off, but the absence of words went
unnoticed. Dave was overcome by this display of emotion, and his own eyes became
blurred with tears. He could not return the warmth her hands provided;
his body became cold and rigid. This was not a time for a loss of
words, and so Dave mustered what he could from the sea of emotions
that had tossed his mind for so long. He lifted his eyes to meet
Mary's, and with a burdened, shaking voice this is what he said:
"I do not take leftovers." - Faustian Dreams
exponentiation ezine: issue [6.0:literature]
are besotting and compelling.
Darker dangers? Nothing compares
to these cabins of our nightmares.
where those shadow figures lingered -
still they linger! in decaying
wood - a grim scene so dismaying!
where glassy eyes are, by mishaps
destroyed and look as jagged tears:
recalling sharpened woes and fears.
invites us from the dampened earth
and foggy air of dusk and death -
a sky as bleak as dying breath.
fog descends, betraying meanings
that this rotten, dreary dwelling
shall unveil in whispered tellings.
Pall'rous glow of wintry maidens
are the hues, the evening's fire
here imbued and burdened, laden.
Wand'ring through the halls one harkens
evil whispers thrilled in naming
everything that blights and darkens
fortitude to see, unclouded
simple truths. One's mind is racking,
damned, muddied, and self-shrouded.
they bend and warp - oh! sight and sound!
are tortured here as fog rolls thick
so flesh is whitened to the quick
until the body, all its hates,
revolts against the crippled host:
the body rots, the soul a ghost.
serve the cabins, ever-knowing
all the lower souls they shall consume
that fail to wrench their wrists from gloom.
You and I? we've overpowered
obstinately, that which towered
o'er the weak who trembled, cowered.
threatened to collapse and rupture
screaming doom, pronouncing terror,
screaming evil, sin and error.
how they failed to make us tremble!
'til our forms were nothing more
than putty ripe to drink and pour.
come with me from door to door.
These carcass homes will never rend
our essence. Through this fog: explore!
shall want in nightmares and their skill,
shall never quash the light from us
who stand apart from good and ill,
toward the sigil or the star.
Cabins in fog, they all shall fall
in these adventures broad and far. - Risc
"No...I haven't been here long. The school year's just started..."
"Ah, yeah. High school?"
"No, university." she faced him, but Ike continued to stare off.
"I'...I'm Pallas."
"Ever hunt?"
Pallas shook her head, her hair rustling and drifting. She looked
at him with cautious interest. Her arms remained folded. The rain
became thicker, and distant thunder rumbled the streets. Tiny
vibrations make your hair stand on end. It's enough to ruin an
otherwise normal (which may just as well mean, all jokes aside,
boring and pointless and uneventful) day.
"I'm Iké."
"Iké?"
"It's a foreign word. Means 'pond'." He paused. A smirk drew from
his lips and he glanced at Pallas, "I guess our parents were
idiots, huh."
"Huh, oh, yeah."
The old man obstructed the glass paneled door to the coffee shop.
Ike looked at the sky, bright blue, with soft loose clouds like
torn balls of cotton wisping east. Impatient, Ike lit a
cigarette.
"Spare a smoke?"
"Will you get out of the way?"
The old man bared his teeth in a yellow grin of poorly emulated
childishness. The fangs of senility cut through his brain as he
scrambled for the thrown cigarette - a perfect toss. "How
precarious."
"I always knew that family was a little touched." Ike muttered.
The windows were fogged in streaks of salty and dirty water. He
examined a deep ridge in their table, spinning his coffee cup by
its cracking handle.
"Hhf. I hate sharing even some of their genes. I'll probably be
senile by forty."
"Not much longer to go..." Ike grinned. His coffee was pleasantly
bitter.
"Either way this is a mess..."
"Need any help?"
"Maybe planning the funeral."
Ike shrugged.
"Some soldier's funeral." Ike warmed his numb fingers against the
freshened cup, his thumbs like flags of surrender. He stared into
Nolan's eyes, averting the distraction of bloated sleeping bags.
"Sure, I'll help out. Anything else?"
"Feeling weird at all?"
"Nah. I've seen worse." Ike shrugged.
"Right. Well, I'll talk to you tonight at Sam's."
"He didn't get shut down?" Blinding someone with moonshine is bad
for business. Ethyl alcohol is for cuts.
"Oh yeah shit. Whatever I'll call your pad tonight. Later." And
Nolan was an apparition in a seat.
"You don't - "
"I know the people here." " - have to - " "It's no issue."
The waitress brought Pallas a coffee and Ike made his request. She
walked away, acceding.
"But I didn't o-" "It's on" "-rder an-" "the house," Pallas was
blank. Ike glanced out the window, "If you're a friend of mine, or
my friend Nolan - he just left - almost anything you want to drink
is on the house. We know the owners well."
Customers chatter, the door opens and closes. A mother and her
child leave the lavatory, bundle up, exit. Pallas plays with her
mug percussively, eyes wandering, fixated on objects of little
interest; drifting, feline caution.
"Iké."
"Just Ike. I hate how exotic Iké sounds...so Spanish, and it's not
even Spanish."
"Oh..."
"Oh."
"I don't really know anybody here...I don't really have anyone to
talk to. It was so intense. I mean, I've had relatives die, but
I've never...seen death."
"It's nothing special." Ike rose. "And I have no interest in being
your counselor. Enjoy your coffee." the doors swung.
The wind hit him like a vengeful foe. He heard the door squeal.
"Hey!" Pallas sprang at him and tugged his shoulder; he spun and
stared down at her with thinned eyes. "If you don't want to be my
'counselor,' then could you at least by my friend?" she gave him a
small card. He examined it: a small typeface:
Pallas
902-941-9991
"It's Nolan. Pick up, man."
Ike dropped the pot he was scrubbing into the frothing sink
"Hellooo? Iiiike."
and dried his hands. The phone was screwed to the wall. He picked
up the receiver. "Bad timing. I was doing dishes."
"Is she hot?"
Ike scoffed. "I see you're in a better mood."
"My day was easier than I thought. Uh, anyway I've taken care of
most the arrangements. She's being embalmed, prettied up, and
placed into a decent casket...the funeral home offered to be
pretty lax on the payment. I have no idea who's gonna be her
pallbearers, or what cemetery to put her in...before this, I
didn't think I'd ever have to plan the...transportation or burial
of a dead body."
"I suppose you and I can carry her out of the church..."
"But who else?"
"You're a lightweight."
"I could drink you under the table." she retorted "look I was
about to do the same thing, there's no sense doing it alone."
"You didn't even know her, Pallas...why are you here." Ike
continued walking through the expansive cemetery "Because I'm
alone! Because I don't know anyone and because I wanted to pay
this woman her dues..."
"May as well let her come, Ike...she'll see that she can't handle
it."
"Unh..."
"You've been like this since yesterday."
Ike turned his head and squinted only slightly to observe the
speaker. "Two days...?" he was still in pain, still trembling. His
neck blazed and his eyes refused to open further to admit light.
"Yeah" Pallas darkened the room again, the curtain swaying like a
summer dress "...at first we didn't know whether or not to send
you to the hospital but you finally started throwing up, and it
wasn't red, so ...we decided to take you home. Nolan went home and
I...just stayed to make sure you were okay."
Ike coughed and sputtered. "Uh-huh, is that all."
"Don't worry, you were a perfect gentleman."
Ike sat up and looked around, slightly dizzied, "and I was
responsive yesterday?"
reaching far and wide,
catching your form
this woeful night,
a hammers' final blow:
had it not been waiting,
preying like a thief
who wishes to feast,
to sate his hunger
with his poor fellows'
ill fortune?
to dismiss life, perilous
as merely a fool's game,
trickery in chess,
you as a simple pawn
"Woe to the victim
of a dismal chance,
driftwood far away
from the shore!"
not stare at you?
Was it an illusion,
that sight beyond your vision?
Doomed to struggle
since the beginning,
the first breath of life
Winds pushing clouds,
dragging long shadows
over the silent skies
your evening role;
how strong, steadfast
you keep your course
on these fierce waves,
fateful hours:
certainly your flesh
isn't just a few,
plain dice humbly thrown
Ready to submit
to some idle numbers! - Frostwood
"Could you have seen things being any other way?"
"No" she grinned. It was as if he had read her mind, she thought.
"Well then, I guess that settles that matter, doesn't it?"
Dave
flashed a smile that lingered in his eyes and the corners of his
mouth as he returned his attention to the road ahead. They sat in
silence for some time, and a few love songs drifted by, their
message only retained long enough to make way for the following
song. The lyrics didn't matter; the music mattered even less,
perhaps. These songs were about these two, even if only each
individual understood this on a personal level. That went unsaid.
"Mary, how would you define love?" This was a question that
confounded even Plato and his contemporaries, a question that
remained the focus of Shakespeare's plays either at the forefront
or the periphery. Mary had been contemplating this question
herself, as lovers do, should the need to defend such a fragile,
sacred little thing from a cynical, scoffing world arise. This was
Dave, her partner in crime, and as is characteristic of a loving
relationship, her heart spoke in her stead with the confidence of
an auspicious young philosopher-queen:
"I have been thinking about that a lot. Falling asleep I think of
you, you know…I almost think myself in circles, really. But
somehow, it never gets old. The memories we've made together are
more vivid than any I can recall, from the long weekends to the
short moments, they all weigh equally within me...It's strange how
we've known each other for so long, but somehow something changed
between us all of a sudden, and now here we are."
She wasn't yet finished with her thought, but Dave quickly
interjected:
"Well, to tell you the truth, I've had my eye on you for quite some
time. That's why I hadn't had a girlfriend for the past few years;
eventually everyone thought I was already taken…
"I did."
"But it was because I was getting ready, waiting for the right moment
to tell you how I felt. And what a feeling it was! Like having to
carry a bag of stones to which a new one was added each day-and then
all of a sudden being told that you wouldn't have to carry them any
longer. And that it was springtime, to boot!"
"Say, you want to check out a party with me tonight?"
"Hm-excuse me?" Mary lifted her gaze, which she had allowed to become
unfocused.
"A party. Wanna come?"
"I'm not sure, what for exactly?" This was spoken with equal parts
innocence and avoidance.
"Well, it's Saturday night, silly! We can get drunk together, it'll be
fun! Have you ever been drunk?"
"Erm, no…"
"Well then, now's as good an opportunity as any for it to be your
first time…"
"No, you don't understand-I don't want to do it. I'm sorry, I don't
mean to be firm, but it's just that my parents seldom drink, and I
just don't find anything appealing about it. Not to mention that I'm
worried about the possibility of someone taking advantage of me in
such circumstances. I have a wonderful boyfriend, you know. I wouldn't
want to make a stupid mistake that I would regret forever."
"Come in." Her voice was meek.
As he entered her room, he kept his focus on the foot of her bed in
which she lay. He would not make eye contact during this conversation.
"This wasn't how things were supposed to turn out."
"I know…"
"I feel like I've betrayed you Dave…"
"No, Mary, that's not…"
"Mary it's not your fault. Please…"
"It doesn't change what happened, not at all, not in the slightest.
David, I want to make this right. I want you to undo what bad things
that boy did to me, to reclaim what he took away from me, from us."
Mary had sat up and moved to the edge of her bed now. In her eyes
there was such desperation, such imploring. She reached out and held
Dave's hands in her own.