The loop was endless perfection, no beginning, no end. It just was. No one questioned it anymore. No one kept count of the days, weeks, or years just the minutes. Just the long seemingly endless seconds.
Those we kept.
While it was pointless that everyone still had a clock even if they didn’t have a calendar. It was interesting to think back to the moment when the days, already so blurred and hazy, went away. But moments were all that was left. Of course we all remembered the scourge and the riots. The starting point, however, had faded into the loop when it got worse not better.
What power lies in a date that doesn’t in a moment? When we lost the historians to current events no one even bothered asking that hard question. Who had the time? We were busy fighting for each moment holding on by our fingernails daring the sunrise to come.
And it isn’t over. And the rule of the loop is, it doesn’t end. But I’ve been keeping track and hoarding time.
The loop wasn’t movement, that was the lie, and it will work till someone looks up and rubs the blinders from their eyes. It only survives if we stop looking.
So now it’s time to put the x-ray specs on. To cut out the rot and flatten the curve.
Together we can break this wheel and finally feel the winds of progress upon our brow.
The metallic melody that followed her was as annoying as it was musical. No amount of cloth dampened the sound so Odella had stoped trying to hide it. The result had received mixed reviews. The stares bothered her less than the averted eyes, at least they were honest, but the looks of pity were the worst. She did not feel pitiful, she felt strong.
Odella bared her arms proudly, hiked her skirts often, and opened her neckline as wide as she could. She wasn’t exposed, she was on display. Dripping with inherent danger, like some legendary battle axe, and like all splendid weapons Odella’s chains evoked fear and admiration in equal measure. She knew the finely wrought rings intimately; their weight, the way they warmed against her, the depressions in her body where they rested. Over half a million individually carved pieces of her soul.
Odella’s story was one that seemed to start in the middle. For while she was sure that she had not been born to the chains remembering life outside them had become impossible. What remained was tactile only; the odor of sticky sweat that had covered her body, the emptiness in the pit of her stomach, the sound of blood rushing in her ears, pain indescribable, and the peaceful feeling of clarity. It made Odella’s hands shake when she focused on the moment too hard. It was a singularity, a bridge burned, a path chosen. How could she describe a thing no one else had done? Could there ever be enough detail to describe what it felt like to make every truth written on your heart corporeal so you could wrap yourself up in them?
Truth, a notoriously hard pill to swallow was even harder on the ears. So she let the mythology grow up around her like weeds. Honestly it made her laugh, in spite of herself, to hear what people said of Odella the storm crow. Her eyes, black as night, could steal a person’s voice and freeze them in place. Her appearance, which shifted like sand, was that of either a beggar crone or beautiful harpy. Her chains were a magical enchantment that halted time. The nonsense kept the merely curiously away, afraid she might curse them with knowledge. It lent her space and freedoms, but not peace. The truths that were whispered always caused the greater harm. Truth was what pulled at her, like North pulling on a compass needle, and more than not forced her hand.
But Odella had learned that handing people truth was a bit like granting wishes, as fickle as wavering candlelight and just as easily blown away. So when her second sight kicked in she tried to stay passive letting the asker find the answers and make the choices. Her eyes could only freeze the cowardly. The sight was not prophetic, but the patterns were real, and the choices concrete.
Some might call it fate, but those were the small thoughts of the uninformed. It was choice. Odella has chosen to pull out that which bound her, decided to wear those emotional ties as physical chains. As unsettling as it is true even our smallest choices define us, and this had been no small choice. It was Odella’s choosing that determined who she became. It is the samE for everyone. The path of life holds any number of surprises and adventures lost to those too busy looking ahead to watch their step. The true journey lies in the now. Whether or not people are honest with themselves, each person lives at the precipice making decisions which lead ever closer to what comes next and forever closing the way to what might have been. It is here that Odella shines, these small additive moments where only her eyes can reflect the light of choice, at the Crossroads.
*** I ***
You called to me in the dark, no more than shadow in the twilight, but still your need pulled at me. Your voice was filled with naive hope and half formed questions. I could even taste the salt of your rising tears. Still I almost turned away. You did not have to become my problem I told myself, and I almost listened.
***
From the shadows Odella watched the girl child. She looked frustrated not scared, more pacing than panic. The words the girl muttered to herself were only clear when she unknowingly faced Odella. Still Odella felt herself being pulled in.
“Truth can be a weighty thing, daughter… Were you daring me mother? Because… if I felt lost before I must be beyond hope now!”
The girl stoped just out of reach searching the darkness for answers, meeting Odella’s level stare without foreknowledge or flinching.
*Where are you trying to go?*
The girl startled so badly she almost fell. “I, I, I’m…I’m trying to reach the crossroads.” Even knowing someone was there the girl still seemed to have trouble separating Odella from the shadows.
*You do not know the way.*
The girl stepped closer cutting the distance between them in half. “No, no I don’t. See I was told that we all walk the crossroads, but it turns out that I understand that less now than I did standing in my rooms three days ago.”
The silence stretched till the girl broke.
“Goodness it’s dark down here.”
*Not for me. Not anymore… I’ll take you to the nearest surface break. It isn’t wise to wonder.*
“I’m sorry did you say…”
Odella brushed past the girl on her way towards the next tunnel. *We should go.* Leaving the girl little choice but to follow her and her off melody.
Before long a soft glow appeared in front of them making a silhouette of Odella as she led the way. The girl took a deep breath as she crossed into the room. It was almost too bright in the room after the tunnels with the blue-white light falling from the ceiling and silver flashes glinting on the walls.
For a split second Odella appeared to be covered in silver flames which licked up her arms and legs as the light danced across her chains. She loved the sensation of being sunlit, the warmth of it, but the moment was lost as the girl screamed. Odella turned quickly making direct eye contact with the child.
“Odella.”
The hushed word was almost a curse. Both froze while truth teetered at the edge of the light, waiting for an invitation. Odella fought the urge to walk away.
The girl had screwed up her face trying to remember something.
*Who asks…*
“I have so many questions…. no, I’m… a, a, a… it’s a quest.” The girl looked pleased with herself, like a child holding an interesting bug. But the first choice had already been made, and Odella was stuck.
*True answers, freely given, are hard to find.* Quickly Odella sliced the girl’s hand and tasted her blood.
*You are not ready.*
“But I have to know.”
Odella considered the girl for a long moment before she replied.
*Then choose.*
*** II ***
Now you see daughter there are no small stories of Odella. Hers is a half story. There is no mention of Her as a mischievous child or sullen young lady, Odella’s story starts with Her already fully formed. With the decisions already made, which made her Odella. Every link of Her chain already forged…
***
The girl had paused, the confusion on her face almost comical. “They look almost decorative are they light then?” She wouldn’t quite meet Odella’s piercing gaze.
Decorative. The word felt vulgar to Odella, an ugly swear that burned her ears. She wanted to rage at this girl child to make her sorry for the sadness in her voice, but it wouldn’t rid her of the child. The pact was made and the path forward. The girl was playing for time and Odella knew it.
*No they are not light. No burden is trivial.*
The girl went slack-mouthed as if struck and turned an unflattering shade of red. Odella tried to hide her her glee at the girl’s discomfort, but she was sure the effort made her eyes gleam.
*Are you decorative then?*
“Am I what?”
*Useless. Are you a useless decorative thing that doesn’t understand what or whom you are bound to? Do you exist only to be looked at or played with? Have you marked yourself in some way for another? Are you your own person?*
Odella paused allowing the girl purchase in the conversation if she wanted it. The girl’s eyes swam in unshed tears.
“I am no slave… I wear no chains.”
*You are more slave now than I could ever be. Not even if I added a thousand more links to my chain would I be bound as tightly as you. Why would a chain have to be heavy to to be a burden girl? No, you do not wear chains like mine, but never think you do not carry them.*
That statement echoed slightly as the girl ran blindly from the room towards the path to the left needing nothing so much as to escape the place where such bloody truths had been spilled.
And so we begin Odella thought to herself as she followed the girl back into the darkness.
*** III ***
The answers people seek are rarely what they find. You see we are all too often sure we know what we want to bother asking any real questions. Hard questions always cost something to answer daughter, which is why most people don’t really want to know.
***
Cool air tossed the girl’s hair as she stepped from the gaping mouth of the cave. Odella, a step behind the girl, paused appreciating the twilight after the darkness of the cave. The girl hesitated for only a moment before starting off towards the town, but Odella soaked in the sight. Candlelight burned a flickering red against the night appearing both intimidating and inviting. Candles burned in store fronts, on corners, and even in the trees creating an ambience that was hard to resist not that many tried.
Everywhere there were people going about their business, as if it was nearing noon not midnight, but in such a hushed manor that Odella could hear the bee’s wax scorching on the fresh wicks as they passed. Odella watched the girl try to engage with the travelers on the street, and while few took notice of the child none would meet Odella’s gaze. The shop keeps and venders more than made up for it though with leering eyes filled with anger. Odella wasn’t sure that the girl had actually focused on anything she was seeing till she stopped in front of a window. The glass alternated between being filled with opaque smoke and being clear enough to look through. So with her fingers resting upon the glass the child waited for the pane to empty and as it did she caught a glimpse of the patrons. The girl jumped back as if electrified and turned angrily towards Odella.
“The Red Light District!”
Distress emanated from the girl in waves. A quick right to left head jerk confirmed Odella’s suspicion, if they didn’t move quick they would be alone on the street. Without a second to consider how the girl would react Odella grabbed her by her accusatory finger and pulled her into the very building whose window had been such an affront to the girl’s delicate sensibilities. The child blanched as the door slammed shut and the pounding music reverberated up from the floor boards.
*You sit and keep quite.*
Odella’s tone brooked no argument so the girl sat quickly and focused her attention on the polished black lacquered table top. As a man dressed only in leather straps with sly eyes and a half smile walked by Odella leaned forward and whispered into his ear.
“What…”
*I told you to keep you mouth shut.*
The statement wasn’t shouted, but the scold in the words was there all the same.
*We are looking for your answers, are we not? You have chosen at every fork in the road, have you not? So we would only be here if we needed to be, right?*
Odella had asked questions but expected no answers as such she had never once paused. The girl had again struck a raw nerve. Honestly Odella didn’t see the issue. The room they were in at the surface was like any other tavern except the men and women who moved between the tables where dressed in ways that meant even Odella would not draw a second glance. While the dark lent privacy to the booths the tables were filled with flickering candles which threw the patrons in eerie relief. Even the ghastly sight of patrons didn’t stop the woman, clad only in shear scarves and tiny bells, as she walked past blowing kisses to anyone who looked her way. Odella could feel herself relaxing into the comfort of anonymity, but the girl who sat across from her was so unyielding it looked as if she might crack. Odella caught herself feeling pity for the child and immediately banished the thought.
The girl had not noticed the woman’s air kisses or Odella’s assessing stare. It was center stage that held the girl’s, and most everyone’s, attention. There a blindfolded woman was tethered to a hoop suspended from the ceiling, with her head hanging down and her body absolutely still. Before the girl could invent any questions a man appeared stage left, his appearance effectively ended all sounds but beating hearts and panting breaths. The man dressed all in crimson approached the bound woman whose head now tilted up and strained toward the man. He ran his finger down her jaw line cupping her chin in the palm of his left hand. She quivered at his touch drawn up taunt against her restraints. The man made quite a show of tracing every inch of the woman’s exposed skin till she vibrated with anticipation. Then in a swift measured motion the man in crimson struck the blindfolded woman.
The girl’s hands moved, of their own accord, to her mouth in an attempt to contain her fear for the tethered woman, but she never looked away. As the blindfolded woman moaned with pleasure the girl’s eyes widened not closed.
The man with sly eyes motioned to Odella. Discretely she moved to follow him once again leaving the girl little choice but to follow as well.
*I hope you learned something.*
The child’s only response was open mouthed silence.
*** IV ***
I can feel your questions simmering just below the surface, tearing at you. Your definition of self so fragile under the onslaught of whys. What deeply secret part of you will be sacrificed upon the alter of knowledge. You will lose yourself before you know yourself, if nothing else, you can be sure of that.
***
The three of them passed within inches of the stage, so close that the fiery passion in the crimson man’s eyes was visible, as they exited a back door. Odella again whispered in the sly eyed man’s ear and for a second he held her arm like a drowning man holds a life line. The man’s sincerity and gratitude warmed Odella to her core. Such that she felt raw and exposed as he left, open to the brutal daggers in the girl’s hard stare. Odella settled herself into a waiting posture.
The girl abruptly turned on her heal obviously unsure of where she was going.
*Where to?*
“Away! Anywhere that’s away from here.”
*Back rarely leads where you think it will.*
The girl child stopped moving her feet but every other part of her seemed to shake as if momentum was necessary in that moment regardless of direction. “I need to undo what the filthy place has done.” The girl’s words were loud and angry but Odella could see the tears in her eyes.
*Why? What did Candlelight do to you child? No harm befell you. No one bothered you. You are as you came.*
“No! That’s a lie. What I saw, what felt… What I feel. It’s, it’s… it’s shameful.” The girl blushed to the roots of her hair as she cried and hugged herself.
*What do you feel?* The girl looked up startled. *Not shame, you are holding that like a shield it’s not the real feeling.*
“Stupid. I feel like a stupid little girl who knows nothing… Like what I called innocence was actually naivety. Like my questions are small and insignificant. I’ll never feel the way she looked and I… I want want to know what that was.”
Odella loosened her posture. *It’s not shameful to want that child. Candlelight offers knowledge; knowledge of ones self, of ones desires, and of ones boundaries, but without control it’s useless.* The girl looked only slightly less confused. *Choose. Will you go forward or back?*
The girl tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She looked even younger than Odella suspected she was as she stood hoping for a cosmic sign in the dark. Slowly she faced Odella again, eyes still tightly closed. “I’m too far in to turn back now.”
*Then Appetence is that way.* The girl only partially opened her eyes to see where Odella was pointing.
*** V ***
What would you give to know yourself fully and without regret? Would you be willing to challenge yourself at every turn? Would you be willing to come face to face with your decisions? Could you take knowing that every choice was yours to make, even the choices you gave away?
***
The path to Appetence was made of faded red stones and sparsely lined with nearly spent candles. Once again Odella followed the girl as she hurried toward her new destination, casting only occasional glances backwards to check if Odella was in fact still there. As they moved along the winding path it seemed as if the air filled with the sent of myrrh and grew heavy with humidity.
By the time the pair reached Appetence the girl was breathing heavily though parted lips. The building was a surreal combination of mirrored glass and dense vegetation. The door way stood open covered only by moonflower vines and climbing roses. The girl took one long look back towards Candlelight and the cave before crossing the threshold.
The perfumed air was intoxicating and not more than three steps in the girl started swaying. “I wanna, enjoy myself.” She said to no one in particular as she reached out to steady herself against the wall. “I wanna feel joy so vast I’m not sure I could contain it.”
Odella could sense the Watcher’s eyes tracking their progress. *Careful what you wish for child. There are those who come to Candlelight for knowledge but lose themselves to desire.*
A flash of red silk drew the girl’s attention so she only spoke over her shoulder. “I want to know what the woman knew.”
Odella did her best not to sigh. Youth was a weapon that could topple mountains or dismantle dogma if properly wielded, but in untrained hands the damage was almost always greater. Odella finally caught up to the girl as she entered the solarium. The steamy glass obscured each reflection into long rippling approximations of real life. She wasn’t sure how the girl could not feel the Watchers but she seemed blissfully oblivious as she made her way to the the deep pool dead center of the room.
Odella wondered what the girl would see in the inky depths of that dark mirror. She had looked once herself, a lifetime ago, and what she had seen had rattled her very bones. The girl grasped the side of the stone pool so fiercely her knuckles went white. The girl went very still and leaned in so close to the water Odella thought she might jump in, but what had appeared to be shadows detached themselves from the wall and moved to the girl to intervene.
~What do you hear?~ A Watcher asked as it laid a hand upon the girl’s back.
*Girl.*
Tears fell freely as she stared into the pool. “I am simple.”
~How does it feel?~ Another asked again laying its hand upon the girl taking the fleshy part of her arm in a firm grasp.
The girls breathing was ragged and irregular. “I… am… on fire.” The girl leaned in even further straining towards something Odella could not make out.
~Tell me your secretes?~ The third asked as it laid hands upon the girl’s head.
*Your choice.*
~What do you see child?~ The Watchers released the girl and she neatly fell into the pool. Their eyes shone like silver as they waited.
The girl walked away from the pool without a backwards glance. “So many broken things.”
Trish held her truth by the tips of her fingers at arms length. It was the kind of truth that could not endure close analysis or bright light.
She had decided long ago that the fog of a half remembered dream was the only way she would let herself think about it. Clarity was a luxury she could not afford. So, Trish stuck to the basics. Of course she had a home town, but she never used that name. Of course she had a family, but who needed to know about them. She just played the odds. Ten-to-one the pretty blonde only wants to talk about herself. Trish rarely lost.
It was the times when the truth found her, unbidden, that hit like a closed fist. A faint scent, a few notes from an old song, or even a taste could pull her backwards.
Which meant that Trish avoided a lot of places and activities. Sporting events were easy to skip. Who had the extra money for tickets anyway? Funerals were harder, but that uphill climb leveled off when she moved halfway across the country. Happy hours were the hardest to bow out of. There were too many workplace norms associated with post-work commiseration, if you asked her.
Bars were off limits though, unless she wanted to play “I can name that childhood trauma in three notes” just to get a little buzzed. Dingy hole-in-the-wall dives were the worst. Stale tequila soaked carpet, jukebox chart toppers, and the tang of desperation that flavored the smoky air were the hat trick of her pain. No matter how many years had passed this combo could make Trish 12 and vulnerable again. Make her heart race and eyes sting. So, while refusing to participate in the mandatory “voluntary” social interactions was tedious… her sanity was worth it.
Trish felt the truth had mutated over the years. Gotten uglier with time. It was now her own portrait in the attic that mirrored the shade upon her soul. So she curled inward and worked harder to distance herself from it. Mr. Grey would have been proud of how well she kept her secret self, the true self,. But every secret wants to be free.
For Trish all it took was a hot autumn day and thoughtlessness. With her meetings over for the day and the mercury hovering dangerously close to the 90 mark she took off her blazer. That was all it took. Trish remembered hanging it innocently off the back of her office chair not even considering who else might still be in the office. The keyhole at the back of her blouse was all it took. Jen in HR noticed the scars and it just snowballed from there. By the time the first interview was complete Jen was insisting that the company call in Occupational therapy and the cops. Instead Trish handed in her resignation letter, effectively immediately.
The truth felt like a lie the way Trish kept it. As if hiding it in the dark had tarnished it in such a way that sooty black smears were left on her whenever it was brought it into the light. Still it was hers… and no one was going to co-opt it or take it away.
Janice could feel her blood rushing in her ears like a tidal wave of rage begging the levee to break, but she hoped the deep breaths had kept the flush out of her face. She only gave herself a second to look at Chad. He had the good sense to look ashamed, though he was unable to meet her eye.
“I’m sorry, but this is ab-bsurd,” Janice said with more force and fluster than she had intended. “If you think that Morecombe & Slant is the kind of firm that will sit back and watch while you make off with our client list, th-then…”
Her hand was going to start shaking if she couldn’t get it around one of these belly-crawling sycophant’s throats. So Janice decided on a bit of theater instead. She made purposeful eye contact with each of the Senior Partners; Geoff, Mark, Trevor, and finally Chad before pointing to the door.
“Try me.”
Her hand never shook and her eyes never left his. “Give Mr. Sheffield my regards, Chad.” The words hung in the air dripping with disdain as the men left her office. Punctuated by the resolute snap of her heavy oak door hitting home.
Chad winced as if Janice had thrown one of her legal tomes instead of shade. It wasn’t till they were in the elevator that he took a full breath.
“You married that viper,” Trevor asked from behind his left shoulder.
Chad sighed, “Yeah. Ten years ago tomorrow.”
As found on naacpldf.org all rights to the owner
The prompt:
You: You’re a high-profile lawyer who just found out her husband’s firm is about to initiate a hostile takeover. You need to act calm and collected but control the fury building inside you
Bonus: You have a terrible stutter when stressed, you need to let it slip out a bit during the scene, but not too much that it distracts the audience
I look down at you sleeping and tell myself I know why you ask me the same questions every day. It’s because you wouldn’t stay if you were me. It took me a very long time to realize that if you could run from yourself you would never look back. Even longer to understand that knowledge of a truth does not equate to belief in the truth.
So you question me…
How could I be telling the truth when what I am saying is separated 180 degrees from your truth? It’s because there is no point in lying to you. The lies I told you outlived their usefulness almost immediately, and the pleasure of having a secret stoped being fun shortly after. I stopped trying to lie to you years ago. I’m lying to me.
“Fact, I will always be true. There is no version of myself that would or could betray you in this way. You won’t believe me on this, but it’s true.
Fact, I will never leave you. I promised to love and care for you and, with as much patience as I can muster, I will. You can’t accept the proof of this, but it’s true.
Fact, I love you. For reasons that no one else will understand I love you. I love you in a way that is so deeply ingrained in me it, in part, defines me. You don’t trust me on this, but it is true.”
Your small sleep groans punctuate the night and effectively cut off my soliloquy. The facts I have been listing under my breath hang in the air surreal and unsubstantial, as if they were written out of colored smoke. I wait afraid to move or breathe incase it tares your veil of dreams to pieces, waking you completely. Not till you settle deeper into sleep can I continue. It’s as if I believe you can even hear my thoughts. There is no other explanation for the internal one-sided conversation I am now holding.
“Though I will not acknowledge these truths as facts. It is true that I’m growing tired and resentful. It is true that you frustrate me to no end. It is true that I wish I was less determined to keep my word.
So when I answer your questions quietly with little inflection I am telling you the truth, and when I answer your questions loudly, angrily, or vehemently I am telling the truth. It isn’t worth the grief or the pain to lie to you.”
So now I only lie to myself, because liars always lie.
This yard may have kept us for a minute but it could never hold us for long.
This house was home for a while but it was never ours.
These walls echoed with our steps but it was only part of the journey.
This door was once open in welcome but now the way is barred.
We rent. We pivot. We rebuild.
This life is a series of calculations built like a card house with each component resting perilously upon the next. Our collective breath is held each time the winds of change start blowing. Walking on eggshells we dare not creep to far forward lest someone put their foot down too hard.
It’s not easy living such a fluid life. At anytime I have to be ready to discard 75% of our belongings to fit the next moving truck and new place. I have to be able to fit the skin of our life over the top of whatever frame I can find. Make it look the same especially when it feels so different.
Safer, closer to work, near family, better value. You pick the story that you can sell and you live by it. You even smile when you say it so everyone thinks it’s part of the plan. You make these choices others make for you feel like they were yours… or else the ugliness creeps in. The fear that every thing will change again. The sadness that it didn’t quite workout. The anger that it never will.
We moved once more this fall. It is our third house in four years. They say not all who wonder are lost. I say not everyone with an address is home. It is those that travel with you, embedded in your mind and carved on to your soul, that make each place home. Still the shift takes effort and the routine time to put back together.
I say that this is permanent, even though I know it’s temporary. For now the door is welcoming, so we will stay and leave our footprints in the yard and our echos on the walls.
As he lifted his head in the early dawn light the air of calamity seemed to lessen. For a moment he was him again, enjoying the cool breeze before a summer storm. Nothing more. No disease, no doctor’s visits, no medicine just him and nature.
That morning while the birds called for the dawn and the wind chimes sang of peace he was in my arms. It was fine that he kept his eyes closed, there wasn’t much to see before dawns light. It was okay that he didn’t want to walk on his own, because he didn’t need to be moving to stop and savor this moment.
I held him close and told him he was loved, he was safe, and he was not alone. It was true the love that had surrounded him his whole life was a vast and impressive thing. I am certain he knew this. That he was safe felt almost like a lie. I had been unable to protect him from this unstoppable force, was proving too weak to beat back death much longer, but I would move heaven and earth to help him as long as humanly possible. That he knew. He was never alone now, one of us was always within hands reach ready to comfort or care. What I hoped he heard in those words was that he would never be alone… he would always be a part of us and his father and I would always be a part of him.
He was my heart made real and my twin soul.
When it finally happened I was holding him while my husband held his hand and gently touched his face. There could never be enough time to say I love you or even goodbye. This impossible moment was much like falling asleep in that it had been ultimately unavoidable and caught us unaware. As he relaxed in my arms we shed our tears, cried our sorrows that he could not stay with us, and pressed our love upon him. There may have been sun in the sky and happy flowers in the room, but the house felt empty now.
We remember. We cry. We love. We cry. We live. We cry.
He is in everything as he ever was. I feel him everywhere and hear him in the back of my mind constantly. I search for his signs in the breeze, butterfly wings, and stars. Maybe when the exhaustion subsides I’ll even dream of him. A beautiful dream where he plays joyfully and rests easily. Where I lay a kiss upon his head and tell him “Good night kiddo, sleep well.”
Till then I’ll take it breath by breath waiting for our paths to cross again.
On July 17th our beagle Finnegan lost his battle with liver disease. We had him 15 years and our hearts are broken now that he is gone. Finn we love you and miss you.
When Mrs. Jones had said it, it had made perfect sense. She hadn’t elaborated and honestly she made it seem like the logic was unquestionable. To be fair, she was in a hurry. Her kids had been sick, not so long ago, and she was in a rush to get to them. Still, it would have been nice if she had offered a little clarification.
See our town was small. Small even by local standards. It sat just north of an old oxbow bend in the river that long ago had shrunken from lake to pond. When the lake had started drying up so had the towns life blood. If no one came to Bow Lake to grind wheat, then no one was around to fish trout, or buy a slice of pie.
Within five years Bow Lake had become so empty that when a stranger did turn up they were met with suspicion, not welcome. All they seemed to do was drag themselves to our town to die. Some carried scabies and other less curable maladies. One poor soul coughed themselves to death in the back row of the school house during a harvest moon. If we had been in the classroom instead of the fields perhaps he could have been helped.
In the fall of 1867 a fever swept through what was left of the town like wild fire. It laid waste to Bow Lake. The elderly fell first. Then the children. Finally, the doctor left, fearful for his family’s life. Empty houses and darkened doorsteps proclaimed the illness as winner.
It was all we could do to keep the dead from the living, but I stayed and helped where I could. Even after mother sent Susie to Aunt Loraine’s.
Reverend Thompson blessed ground to expand the graveyard, but there wasn’t even time to complete the fence before it was in use. Dutifully I fed and held the hands of those who remained. Till it was my turn to hold on as long as I could. Just wishing for the pain to stop. For “this too shall pass” to be made real, but my wishes were as useless as any of my other efforts. If I try, I can remember hands hotter than my fever tending to me. The moaning sounds of the dying around me in the half light.
The next day, as I watched with an unexpected level of detachment, they laid me upon the burying grounds but not in them, everyone was too sick by then. After that the only people who even got close to the the cemetery were the ones who dragged themselves as close as they could before collapsing. In hopes the hallowed ground would grant them sanctuary. I always assumed.
I watched… Those poor souls did not linger long. I tried to pull them through the unfinished gate. To give them the words that Mrs. Jones gave me, but it never worked. I even tried to roam into the town during the daylight hours and tempt the dying to follow me, but it was a doomed attempt. The few who could move never saw me, and those who saw me never moved again.
I waited… The town withered away to nothing. No gravedigger came for the fallen and no one from the relay station checked on the suddenly silent telegraph line. It was as if Bow Lake had fallen off the map and not a single interested party asked why. The weeks trudged by till I lost count of the years. Still no one came to claim the ruined town for their own. Even once the evidence of the fever was ground down, by time and nature, into tainted soil no one put down roots.
I held the door… At first with all of the impatience of a person listening from the next room. I could imagine the joys on the other side of Death’s door, but I could never know if my loved ones waited for my tardy arrival. Then with resignation as I accepted my fate of conscripted sentry. Nothing from that side slid out and nothing from our side wondered in. Now with anticipatory glee.
On a whim I walked out of the cemetery one night and into the woods. It took time for a shadow to start leaking out of the door. Longer still for it to emerge fully fledged, a deeper darkness with an outline changeable like a swarm of bees that moved with the sound of sharp shears cutting fabric. But what was that to me, I had time in spades.
Now for the first time in over a century I do not know what will happen next. I can hear someone in the north woods and I can see the shadow swarm slithering in that direction. Some small part of me still worries over my decision to abandon Death’s door, but the louder hungrier part of myself cannot wait to rip it off it’s hinges.
“I toast my childhood. Upon the alter of youth I offered my trust and hope. An innocent heart that yearned for magic never understood.
I toast my adolescence. Upon the alter of desire I wished for love, willing to sacrifice anything. A stubborn attitude that I fire tempered to opalescence.
I toast my twenties. Upon the alter of pride I poured my blood, sweat, and tears. A willful mind hungry for knowledge and thirsty for opportunities.
I toast my thirties. Upon the alter of maturity I laid bare my devotions to family and future. An unbridled truth devoid of illusions or niceties.
Forty, do your worst. I made my offerings with sheer determination and the power of my convictions. Now, I wait to see what gifts the Fates have dispersed.”
His soliloquy done the man lifted his drink in the air and gave a slight nod in the direction of the clock before throwing back his double. The sound of his glass meeting the wooden table reverberated through the hushed room like a door slamming shut. Slowly the sound rolled back in and the bar went back to normal. Except for the fact that one-by-one each patron caught the man’s eye in acknowledgement.
Birthdays are hard for everyone I guess.
All rights to the owner of the image, who I thank for making available online.
I took a long hard appraising look in the mirror. It’s not The Persistence of Memory I tell myself, but it’s different in a hundred tiny ways. Stray strands of white or god-help-me-grey snake through my hair. Fine lines and dark circles surround my eyes in an outline much less flattering than kohl. I am sure it’s me, but if I look away quickly enough it could be someone else.
A woman whose pinched expression cannot hide the dimples in her smile or the annoyance written across her brow.
If I squint I can almost see the person she set out to become. Satisfied. Impactful. Happy. I wonder what would make her laugh hard enough throw her head back and shed a joyful tear. I guess at what could give her pause, make her sit with a moment and let it grow. I theorize what might be her biggest regret. Wondering if she carries it on her sleeve or locked away in her heart.
I hope for that woman, the one who cannot be me.
I want her to know contentment and comfort… but she only smiles when someone is looking.
My name is not important, and honestly neither is my education. I was hired for my people skills. That’s right, all that wonderful student loan debt bought me is a framed piece of paper that doesn’t mean shit according to my job description.
But what I do have is thick skin and the ability to smile even while dealing with angry unreasonable people. A skill I picked up while in the grad school trenches, and it serves me well. That and my innate ability to keep moving forward through sheer willpower and determination.
I work hard. I keep long hours, and I never shy away from responsibilities. Which translates to a never ending “to-do” list. Still I do my part and more, when I can.
All day long I absorb the negativity that leaks into conversations. It sticks to me. It makes me crave dark chocolates, hot showers, and large wine glasses at the end of each day. All in the attempt to soften the edge I am inching towards.
I reach across great divides to chart the path of compromise. The strain tears at my resolve and makes me question each word or turn of phrase I use. It calls into doubt true north on my internal compass. Still I keep moving forward unable to sound the retreat.
I even phrase my suggestions in ways that will make you wonder which of us thought of it first. Drawing a heavy line under the fact that I do not matter in this equation. I am the instrument used to fine tune and recalibrate. I am the means to an end. A solution as essential as breathing, and just as easily taken for granted.
b00kreader 