This story won’t start with a haunted house or a thunderstorm; it won’t start off with a graveyard or an owl’s shrill cry.
No.
My story is different.
It all started 3 days ago in a building, on a Monday. It started with my boss, Cheiron, and the photograph in his hands.
It started, quite simply with 5 words:
“You’ve got to see this.”
They’re banging on the door again. In the cell next to me a woman is screaming in time with the knock of a fist. It pounds deep blue bruises and splintered bone into the bodies of all who are kept here. They are laughing in harmony; high-pitched and hysterical. It rings out, and we flinch. Sympathy is lost – we are all too busy being grateful it is not us this time, or in my case – wondering what they’re waiting for.
The boy is back. I guess he wants another story; he nods and requests: “a chase”. I tell him of my life before I got here, the events leading up to my capture. It’s the only thing I can do now to spend the time, other than wait.
My boss and I sprinted down the secluded alleyway. We were gaining on the black garbed figure in front. He stopped. My boss swore. I stared; he was floating! Upwards into the fog that curled like fingers to grasp him. The thunder rolled while the lightning struck and he laughed, like a hyena. That incessant laughter, ringing over the world, histrionic, would echo in my nightmares forever.
I pause, and glance over to the boy, unsure if I should continue my tale or not. Searching his face I find no signs of boredom, instead his eyes are shining in anticipation and his hands are clasped together under his pointed jaw. All attention is directed towards me and, realizing this, I continue my story…
The man grinned manically, looking down upon us. My coat and hair flapped quickly about in the winds. My boss however did not seem affected, his face bore no expression of fear – he merely stared upwards, continually meeting the eye of the other. He smiled softly and seemed about to say something, but then was interrupted as a peal of inflected shrieks burst out from those bloody lips:
“Meaghran isth khedniere! Meaghran oyr wasmyque lund aelk detricip! Meaghran pretrulant!”
I didn’t understand what he was saying, the words meant nothing to me back then – they were just ineligible phrases. Cheiron understood though, his face paling dramatically with every passing seconds and fear flashing manifestly in his normally affirmatory blue eyes.
“Meaghran thsytme Cheiron. Dare you challenge me?”
The world paused; stopped sudden. Silence echoed across the street. Tears slipped down his face. Veins bulged like swollen ropes twining around his arms. His tongue curved around syllables that I didn’t understand. His head bowed finally in defeat.
And suddenly lightning was spitting again.
The boy smiles: that is his favourite part of my story. He remarks that he likes the questions that arise; I reply with a wish that I didn’t know the disturbing answers. He asks if I am still haunted by them. I answer: “forever”. His eyes meet mine and I meet the overwhelming assurance within them; I am not alone in my knowledge anymore.
********
I wake the next morning to a dull fist thumping on my door. My hands shake in time with the rattling of the hinges. Then they enter. Manic grins, grey-toned skin and pointed noses long. No sense of right or wrong, the perfect weapon. A fist smashes into my face. My nose bleeds. They ask. I do not answer. I am glad that the boy is not here to witness. Another fist and then another. My cheek colours purple. They ask. I do not answer. More fists, a kick and I am thrown into the wall. The perse stones are cold and hard. The abusive cycle repeats. Over and over again, they ask and I do not answer. They rip holes in my clothes and my skin and my confidence. And then, they leave as abruptly as a lightning flash.
The lightning bolts were ruby trails across the expansive sky. I ran over to Cheiron and tried desperately to gain his attention. He needed to get us out of there, this was going too far.
“Cheiron! Cheiron! Let’s go!” He raised his head slowly. I gasped. I will never forget that sight. His cheeks were hollowed, giving a lifeless look to his face. Pulling him to his feet, I looked frantically around, questions running rampant through my mind. What had happened to the levitating man?
As if he had read my mind Cheiron wearily lifted his arm and pointed upwards. Our enemy smirked and raised his hands. Electrical currents strung between strangely elegant fingers. I gripped Cheiron’s hand. This did not look good, not good at all. He gripped back.
“Crostrod.” I screamed as the electric purls shot down and sparked at our feet. Cheiron tugged at my hand and pulled me into a run. Hand-in-hand we sprinted down the dark alleyway, dodging bullets of lightning as they cascaded down behind us.
We rounded the corner and threw ourselves into our black SUV. Cheiron twisted the key and the engine roared to life. As we sped down the roads I pelted questions at my boss.
“Why was the lightning red? What language was that man speaking in? How did he rise into the air like that? When had you met him before?! Cheiron! What does this all mean!?” My voice, which had been rising steadily, peaked at a piercing soprano. He flinched but remained silent. I cursed in my inquietude and turned my attention out the window. The rain was pounding the earth, and the lightning caused shadows to traverse rapidly across mourning trees. The wind was leading the clouds in a march across the sky; the whole world seemed to weep.
Then I heard, so softly I could hardly make out the words:
“He was my best friend a long, long time ago. But now…”
And while the moon sings softly an illuminating lullaby to the hopeless darkness their savage, heartless laughter reverberates in the vaults of my being.
********
The next morning, the red-hooded lady arrives.
You remind me of August .The golden-brown of your hair; the deep red scars on your hands that mark you as an equal. The way that, for all the heat and all the fights you are still always here all in smiles and sun; breaking a wave through our souls like the boats of summer break the water. Peaceful and calm, yet domineering our movements. You marked everything we worked towards achieving; the end of the season – we wished only to make you proud. You remind me of August in the way that you marked both the end and the beginning but gave only the air of constant continuance.
Cascading down into our hearts.
You remind me of the river upon we spent so many hours together, alone. The river, your home and mine; reflected always perfectly in your eyes – the perfect shade of green, blue and grey. You were as tremulous as the water once the wind was blown across, shaking in laughter and joy, shaking in sadness and cold. You were with us until the end; always the river. Our lighthouse leading us along the path to somewhere we could never imagine. You remind me of the river where I released all of my soul to something that was bigger than just me, to you.
Dreaming of something more.
You remind me of the stars that hang above us; tantalizing us with hopes and dreams and goals. Glistening on the water, you were reflected in everything we did and said. You were our inspiration, our motivation. What we did we did for you. Your teeth sparkled when you laughed, mirrored against the dark of the night; they gleamed in harmony with the lights of the city. The boat that careered alongside us, always just racing, reflected those lights, and they were cited in our eyes as we turned away, not from you but the radiated glow. You were what I wished to be, what I wished to become: Shining so brightly; glowing so strong.
Laughter the echoed across the water.
You remind me of home. Of hope. Of harmony. Of love. Of laughter. Of life. You remind me of everything I could not recall before. You remind me that it is worth living it out, waiting for it, training. You remind me that August is always coming, will always keep coming, around and around. You represent all that I gained; all that I have now. You are in my dreams, in my thoughts and in my heart. You are the stars that shine, the river that flows, the home I have, the hope you instilled, the harmony and sync, the love I have, the laughter we emitted, the life we gained. You are all of this: you are August.
You are August.
You came home late, again. There was nothing unusual about that – you were up until morning breaking sunrise a lot, partying, drinking and you often smelt of all those people at the afters you had met hours before. All-nighters became a nervous habit, and early afternoon vampirism was a side-effect. Nothing stopped you anymore, and all we could do was stand on the safe side keeping you out of trouble. Taxi chauffeurs. Bathroom hair holders. Fully body weight support systems. We all did our fair share for you, but none as much as me. I was awake almost as much as you; waiting for a pathetic pick-up phone call plea or for you to stumble in as a masterpiece of post-climatic high and depression. It was tears crying tonight, you fell in the door drunkenly awaking me from my dozing dreams. As I stood up to greet you back into my arms you started to leak tears and emotions, seemed to literally crumble to pieces in my encircling warmth. It was times like these when I sometimes had to punish myself for maybe thinking you knew just how wrong this was and even how much this repeated stab to broken heart hurt. But then I found myself in a guilty heaven of your vodka-soaked lips. I always pushed you away, every night, every week all these years. I did tonight also, and you moaned your disappointment, traditionally. Simple to control, as always in the aftermath of rock star stupidity, you didn’t refuse my actions as I placed duvets over you and a pillow under your head. I gave up on washing you lifetimes ago – it was never worth it; you always ended up confessing sins in the form of vomit or smashing mirrors anyway. You were asleep in seconds. My poor baby, you should’ve told us before it got this bad. But your destructive pride ruled your head and now we could only call you “troubled soul”. You never used to be so self-hating, so self-destroying, hell-bent on ruining every good thing that had happened to you. Trophy girls you collected in your mind, darkened room flings you recalled with hoisted grins and your eyes turned glassy.
Night after night it ended up as this, me falling asleep to your gentle snores and cold wind from the still-open door. I dreamt of crashing cars and suicide buildings with flashing lights advertising cheap downfalls of pure genius. That was – of course – until I jerked awake as a resounding smash and splintering whimpers echoed in my ears. He came running and yelling out, worried sick his eyes, my eyes, all our eyes were grey and dead. Saw you on the floor, head bleeding, table top stains went ignored. Called an ambulance and got dressed, we shuttled off. Another day, another disaster and another impounding medical bill. Only one thought went carousel spinning through our heads: “this has got to stop”. You were killing yourself, this way attention seeking. We were letting you die. The fans, think of the fans we used to cajole you. You just shrugged like you didn’t need them anymore. My poor baby, you only needed the drugs that tango danced down your bloodstream. You needed us too, but you never thought that.
We were outside hospital rooms now, numbers and white paint all blurring into nothing and everything. Needed to get rid of this fear you couldn’t die. Doctors came out, had two heads – mouths said that you would be fine. Over-dosage was pumped out of your needy brain and some pointless statistic in there somewhere. Doctor’s eyes, were shining a different light: something about how this was all my fault – I had let him fall asleep, should’ve paid more attention. They remind of all those promises the four of us made together when we were young, full of hope and the kids everyone knew. Guilt attack epiphany, break down now my tears were falling like last night’s thunderstorm on my chest, present from you to me. They both look worried and he puts his hand on mine. Simple action of comfort makes me feel more alone, to walk into the room or not, can’t quote Hamlet; no-one knows how many times I’ve prayed that one and you wouldn’t end up as Romeo and Juliette. Still praying now, just have Macbeth in mind now. I never passed year 11 English; I was too busy sneaking out to dirty garage CD players with you.
Your face is so serene as you lay not moving, infused with pipes and tubes. I’d venture into that assumptions area that you were sleeping, if this was 5 years ago when you still actually slept instead of fitful movement and eyes closed nightmares stalls. But we’re not then, we’re now and you’ve just overdosed leaving one neurotic lover, one friend since the beginning of time and one confident who slipped in and hugged us all without ever coming near. Dramatica, you could be a sunken ship – you always did look pretty sinking, make-up messed up and hair not quite perfect.
In three days you’d wake up to see me and a cascade of empty paper cups, surrounded by the stench of coffee, cafiene and anything else to keep me awake lest you awaken and no-one is conscious to smile at you with anxious eyes. You choked on a laugh at my reaction and my heart surges with hope o f what you are about to promise. But my heart was never meant to be whole after meeting you, the angel of music. Asked if I had any crack on me, I died once more again. Let a tear slip down my seemingly permanent red cheek. Your eyes flashed shame flashed disappointment flashed “I’m sorry”. Flashing lights that made me miss home, I’m getting nostalgic for naivety.
My poor baby, you feel asleep and the next six months was a under-towing obvious current dragging me and you into fight after argument. Slamming doors became fashionable again and he became sidekick conversation carrier again. He didn’t enjoy his role, I didn’t enjoy mine as “know best martyr”. Got you clean, we did. Got you sorted, you never thanked us with words that would heal and repair. I’m blaming it once again on your hold head high pride. I was left with crowing thoughts and transvestite emotions. They left us a tornado prone zone with good luck messages and weekly smiley faces. Never marry, we didn’t leave our hormonal ex-communication bubble for anything, anyone. Jungles tangled vines, I worked through you all. You were wide-eyed lack of determination and I was here to see it through.
Been 5 more years now and your late night escapades don’t include people, just an abandoned swing set, a moon and notebook collection pens. I still love you, still talk to others, keeping yourself messed up in the head for the sake of no-one’s sake. “Troubled soul” you’ve got no-one in bed the next morning to curl up to, but there’s always me 2 feet away. You think I don’t see it but I recognize the gratitude and inarticulate early morning stares that always start you with a smile on your face. You’ve slowly become my angel once again and, although I won’t be able to erase all the traces of your last lifetime self-destruction I’ve tried my best.
We’re just four boys so very different, stuck in different worlds, still worried about the rule of daytime plans also known as you. Can’t you see, can’t you try, “out the book down” and “look at me”. You always were fond of never obeying vows, commandments and “set in stone” rules. This time you give in for once and I catch myself reflecting in your eyes, a picture perfect promise of new life and sacrifice. Almost wanted to tell you that I’d die for you and all the other traditional phrases that accompany the biggest out-coming in history of humankind, both genders. The “I love you” catches in my mouth and the only thing I can trust it to is “You’re beautiful”, because I’m just a boy and boys die without the love of their life because we don’t share and offload. But the way you smile and the way you enunciate “thank you” like it’s the most inconvenient phrase in the English language makes me think that we’ll all four be okay, and that you and me might begin to start dreaming of a new future together as reformed hope-filled dreamers everyone knows.
Can’t believe it’s true but a lifetime of sugar-coated love painfully obvious has erupted and now it’s all correct in you and more, together forever. But the silence will take you soon, left out damage the cause, and I’ll accompany you for love and old times’ sake.
by the ocean there are black boys
who lay on the sand and wait.
maybe the sun will bleach their faces
maybe the sun will blind their eyes
maybe the raw salt will rub the blackness
out of the surface of their limbs.
maybe it will eat away their flesh
like dead rotting seagulls.
why hurry, they have
all time on the earth.
young kids pick olives from trees
and bring them, laughing, in baskets
black boys chew ripe greasy fruits
until their bodies decease.
sometimes a storm comes and the ocean
is angry, compelling in darkness.
the rain is sugar to their lips
clouds bleeding like ripe figs.
between the lightning and thunders
the sky is deathly tired and still,
the boys are deathly tired and still.
by the ocean there are black boys
who lay on the sand and wait.
the sand of the beach is singing
like an ancient hourglass.
You broke up my heart with a pair of flaming scissors, you woke up the city with my frightened scream and I just want to escape from the ice-cold fire that burns up your senses and mirrors in your eyes. You destroyed my entire life with just three words that hold as much meaning to you as three leaves that blow on the wind, but to me they are as important as the sun and the water that give birth to all life. I thought that we’d stay the same forever but you changed, you transformed right before my disbelieving eyes. You became the monster you’d always promised me that you’d never would be, you became the creation I had nightmares about, the character I read about in books and cringed at the name of. And amazingly, as you began your spiraling descent into hell you reached out and took my hands in a show of fake gentleness and you won me over once more, with the sole idea of dragging me down with you. And you did. Now I’m just a little bit older, but I’m eons wiser. I’ll never trust anyone again. You broke up my heart with a pair of flaming scissors, and I’ll never let anyone else close enough to wake up the city with my frightened scream. The ice-cold fire that once burnt up your senses has gone just as you left me, but it mirrors in my own eyes now. The one step you took down the ladder has resulted in my own slide into the flames that engulf the dungeon underneath God’s table.
Hey, guys.
I honestly don’t know if any of you are going to read this, but I’ve had the writer’s block of a century for months which has rendered me virtually unable to write anything of value.
However, I’ve collected some bits and pieces of things I’ve had in my drafts for months, even years now, and I’ve added them all to my queue.
I hope you’ll forgive me for my prolonged absence!
Hugs,
Aase Maren.
ativan dreams
of a white-knuckled ride in a too-fast car
i’m a kid playing dress up
and she’s too sharp around the edges for you to hold onto
preach back to the hypocritical priest
find the document known as “cut pages in diary”
only to change it to “all the things you do wrong”
will you still be angry when i wake up?
wallflower with a smile so bright it makes me wonder why anyone else bothers to smile at all.
I have the collected poems of Jack Spicer open and I am thinking about one of my dear professors, the one who gave me 100% on every single paper I ever wrote for his class. It infuriated and confused me and I lashed out at him for it—it was the first time in college anyone ever showed me respect as an artist and knew that I would continue challenging myself even after given a “perfect” score that should signal no room for improvement.
He was a big guy. I picture him in a black coat, round belly, perhaps too much drinking. He has a faded blue backpack and stands in the atrium smoking cigarettes with students; he sits on the desk with one foot stretched out onto the chair in front of him.
The class was at five. The afternoons left me pale and I often slept, not having the energy to do anything with a day already wasted. Once I dreamt of Sylvia Plath—a world she might have created: one of beautiful girls, a house that replenishes itself with occupants, and depression as common as full, belted skirts. The windows were all open, curtains billowing, house as empty as the space surrounding a silent pendulum in a grandfather clock. At the forest’s edge, you could hear the body pendulums swinging and swinging, and a sense of regret washed over my dream self, my real self, that I was the stillness and not the sound.
To apologize for missing this particular class, I wrote him about my dream. The novels are affecting me in ways they aren’t the other students, I seemed to be saying. Please forgive my untraditional approach to understanding American literature, as I think I know Esther and I are at similar crossroads in our lives.
What I needed was a therapist not a university lit professor; oh, but how the two are the same! But my university lit professor suffered the same illness as I: disillusion, anger, frustration, and like myself, eventually escaped the grip of the town.
I am thinking of him now and how he remembered me years later, remembered a poem I wrote that I never showed him, my ideas, the quiet, giggly girl I befriended in his class who sat behind me. Rose. (Is a Rose is a Rose is forever the same Rose; such a comforting thought.)
With a Ph. D in hand and a wife who is on the track to becoming a child therapist, I think of the child in him who needs healed, how he nearly cried over Holden’s baseball glove, how the smell of flowers and the unfrost of spring burst forth in him like the very hands of hell.
I think of the child once-in her who is now almost a month old, born in the winter but perhaps on a warmer-than-usual day, and I see her tiny hand embrace his finger and his finger(s) embracing the blankness and a poem starts to form:
Her powdery hand tightens round your finger;
somewhere a bird is calling—does it not know
that spring is miles and forests away?
A child born on the cusp of winter
forever sings out for warmth.
You grip and crumble white sheet after sheet;
somewhere
It is like a snowglobe in my head, all these tiny pieces of insignificant material colliding and meshing to form and reform words, meanings, clouds. I struggle to find a cohesive thread beyond the deafening calling of my own spring, somewhere inside the frozen globe.
