I awoke early this Saturday morning to what sounds like the soundtrack for The Omen. Why are dreadful, frightening opera/chorus pieces being blasted through someone’s stereo at this time of day? I look to the light clinging to the walls around my curtain to guesstimate what time it is. The sunlight seems far after dawn, its hands creeping through the window, waiting to gain purchase and pull itself inside. It seems grey today, flat, without warmth.
That is where bitter lies. Between the sheets and blankets, sweating on itself into the morning hours. Turning over for a fresh spot without calm, always in motion, even in dreams. It is exhausting, causing strange headaches and pressure in the sinuses from the altitude. Too dry up there. Should have hydrated better before we died for the night. Instead, like the Grey House, I wait in mummy form. I don’t mind, until it chases away those who are watching and waiting. Oh, don’t test me. I will outlast them all, lying here. There are many things that we have learned to allow around us instead of interacting and attempting to affect everything. Too much to stick a finger in, so I let it flex inward instead. As the tissues dry, each finger curls in invitation to lie down and be calm, patient. Ten soldiers at rest, pointing at me.
Between the headaches and waves of nausea, two eyes peer steadfast out of the other hole in the blankets. The swinging of the fan blades creates wind tsunamis with its movement back and forth. I see two white dots in a field of black, the reflections appearing there, moving in tandem to follow any new focus. The slight air current makes them blink out of existence for a millisecond, making me wonder if I am seeing them floating there at all.
Emergence from blankets reveals a face around those eyes with their specks of reflections. The tiny worlds in her hair get blown about in annoyance by the air, so she ties it back, even though it’s short. Now, if she moves her head in an abrupt way, the tiny ponytail wiggles like raw chicken pulled apart and hanging by a tendon–like the articulations in a leg or a wing with the quivering fat and skin following in the breeze behind the mass.
Or, was it a him? They are all the same. All in one, those that hide. Either way, don’t press on its belly or else it will spew back up the snot it’s swallowed all this time. It is rather unfortunate to taste it once, let alone twice. Let it pass past the sphincters and let it be done.
Lana thinks the frantic shuffling of footsteps around her is part of a bad dream. She was curled by the dwindling predawn fire this morning when she fell asleep, listening to the sniffles and restless whispers of her companions huddled on the forest floor around her. She pushed up from the ground to look around, head still foggy and bits of soil and pine needles clinging to her hair and face. Her eyes widen, alertness striking like lightning. Her people run scattered, arms scooping up children or few belongings. She leaps to action, herding the small crowd downhill to charge away from the oncoming shuffle in the distance.
Looking uphill, their watchman is slumped against a tree as the horizon darkens with the enemy. Lana squints to see if he is dead or asleep. The crimson puddle around him answers as she turns to run. But, her people are not soldiers and the adversary is trained to seek and kill. She hears thuds and grunts as people fall beside her, mixed with the desperate sounds of suctioning air back into collapsed lungs. She feels a splash of warmth fling across her right side as a man arcs to the ground in a twitching heap in her peripheral vision with his leg muscles contracting with continued attempts to run to spite death. She doesn’t care that her lungs burn as she breaks away from the pack. Panic kicks her into a survival mode and she forgets the people she pledged to protect that fall around her. The only thought was escape now. When she only hears her footsteps, she sees a ridge off the road. She dives into a hollow created by tree roots, pressing herself flat against the earth between its tendrils.
Lana hunches in the hollow listening for any movements. She tries to slow her breathing, now ragged with sobs. She clasps her hand over her mouth to try to stifle the noise. All of them are dead. I am alone. She couldn’t stop the waves of shame over running away from them all. She knew they had taken a chance by stopping where there was little brush to disguise their group, but it was necessary. She saw that the toughest of them tripping over his own feet with fatigue, his eyes sagging with the bags underneath. Days of running and fitful nights siphoned any energy left from breaking free in the first place. But that doesn’t matter anymore. At least they won’t need to run anymore. But she does.
Best wishes for a productive year and running toward new adventures.
Hey All! Just wanted to make an update that there are some new pics in the Apophenia Corner and a new poem on the Story Time! page. Check it out! Have a wonderful Sat-turd-day. M’kay, back to work…
It is an inevitable part of healthcare that one will hear very sad or terrible stories. Human life is both a wonder and a blunder of creation. Moments that make you cry with hope or shake with anger are sometimes walking with their arms linked. Thank the Powers That Be that I am not in charge of any of it.
Today, a man came in with a supposed change in mental status. The neighbors had not seen this man or his wife for some time when they noted a foul smell emanating from their apartment. The police were called, fearing the worst. When they opened the door, they were met with the man snuggled with his decomposing wife on the floor. The man was covered in sweat, excrement and had pressure sores on his body at each point that met the hardwoods. The medics were called and pried the two apart, bringing the man–delirious and screaming–to the hospital.
I realize that we are all met with ethical dilemmas. Most people need to choose between whether it is ok to butt in line, or whether or not you tell your spouse that you switched buying the brand name for something cheaper, or such trivial things. When you have no family–and I use that word loosely–and have clearly no will to live on after everything you have lived for is gone, what is our responsibility to another human? In lieu of sounding Kevorkian, I would hope that, when an age is reached that I am ready to give in and let go, that those fuckers would just let me be. Contemplating things like these could definitely take you far down into the wormholes of thought.
So, it was that I thought of the actual horrors of this grisly picture that the medics must have come upon while I walk back home to my New York apartment in the middle of the night after my shift. That, and thinking about American Horror Story: Cult, which I am watching. Clowns and needless terrorisms abound. I am amused that I allow myself to be slightly freaked out with the small shifts in the shadows all around me on this Fall day. Nevermind that kid on the bike zooming by who is rapping about murder at the top of his lungs. I step into the streetlights of a small thoroughfare that is on my way home, settling into my pace as the lights wax and wane in their line of linked illumination above me. There is rarely a person on the streets anywhere near this abandoned store where I tread.
A random pile of trash is piled under one of the lights. It is as if someone gutted a large trash bag and left the varied innards in a thick-lined pile at the base of the light. As I approach, I note that the pile of spilled trash resembles the length and width of a shallow grave and takes the shape as if someone is lying there. But, they would be totally covered in trash. What person would do that–especially at this time of night? Not even a bum or weirdos with their pop-up art projects. No way. Not in this neighborhood. I keep my eyes steady on the pile as I try to keep my pace and pretend that I am not seeing that shape. It is just a trick of my eyes and I am just stressed after work. Nonetheless, I think about–if something moves–what can I use to smash it in the head that is near me? Maybe I can be quick and choke them with the straps of my work backpack if someone comes at me? Who am I kidding? James Bond, I am not. The wind picks up and shifts the lighter junk on top of the trash pile just as the train goes above me in a clatter. It blows the horn with a resonant MEEEEEP! that seems to go right through me. My focus snaps up to the train when the noise makes me jump. Apparently, I am expecting the train to attack me from above. Thank you, PTSD.
Then, I remember the humanoid trash pile coming up in front of me and jolt my vision back down with a slamming heartbeat. The pile is now standing upright, and is, indeed, in the shape of a large man. It is slightly hunched with both arms held a bit away from it’s body at its sides, and I see what appears to be the rise and fall of shoulders with each breath like when you leave a video game character standing still. I blink at it as a brick of fear hits my stomach, but I am still walking towards it. My eyes widen to see if this is real, still unbelieving of what is in front of me. I now cannot deny that it is moving toward me. Clumsy from fear, my stride is shortened and confused.
I turn to start running the other way, but am met with another trash monster with a Chinese food box as a mouth, which opens in a fold-back manner as it sucks in air, then roars in my face with the flaps of the box narrowing their aperture to direct its path toward my mouth, which was agape with horror. Flecks of leftover noodles project into my hair as my face is covered in cold droplets of brown sauce with the immense force of its breath. After it seems to exhaust itself with the roaring, the monster stands still except for its respirations, drooling rotted brown sauce down to the ground with each exhalation, slightly hunched in a defensive bracing position. Its shoulders are rising and falling from its heavy respirations like the other one was. The noise is like a plastic bag caught on the front of a car. The savory-sweet, mossy smell of old food covers me in its musk. I stand perfectly still with splatters of rotten-brown-sauce monster drool on my face just gawking at the thing, waiting for its next move, locked in the weirdest standoff of my life. I recall thinking that this smell will take awhile to leave after I wash this shit off my face. I just want to get home because I have to work again tomorrow. Let’s get this over with, Trash Monster.
They know what to do to speed up the reaction. Neon pulsations to speed satisfaction. Close your eyes. Meet the new girl as she looks upon the other in its taut social bondage, suspended with head curled backward toward toes and unworthy of pronouns. Chests expand and contract in autopilot, apart and hungry for a sliver of sensation while they stand in a ragged circle six feet away, watching. Is it conscious? Does that matter for their purposes? Biting the foil wrapped ‘round tingles more than iron flowing in skins. Hot and synthetic, creation of tremors ‘til the prophet rises to impart some moral. It is missed upon me as I startle when they turn their backs in unison. Twelve eyes, two more covered, and mine on coals now, waiting in the dark, frozen in the sight, shining and concerned that they see their reflection. She realizes that she is outside this circle and I see her expression change as one more viewer becomes a participant. One more step forward and it becomes consent. The fascination is too much to protest.
How are you sure of what is real on this stage? How sure are you that this is not the stage? Immersive experiences are trending. Investment in manipulation of (many) others’ uncertainty shall always pay off in the end for those that understand how to capture attention.
Stare Dragon. From back in High School on the back of a Health Class “Ditto” when I should have probably been paying attention. The score said “8/8” so maybe it didn’t really matter…
I started this to get my writing “out there,” unsure where this thing is taking me.
Why do this?
Because I have crap-tons (yes, that’s a measure) of material from years of writing, drawing, making music, general life musings, etc. that is apparently at the point in which I need to advertise myself.
Because I am not very good at pimping myself out for art or public entertainment.
The hope of this project is to make money in a way different from my current pastime of practicing medicine as a Nurse Practitioner. I know, slumming it all these years, right? I needed a creative outlet due to reality being a bummer at times.
I am literally writing over the templated WordPress stuff until I figure out what this thingee webpage designing is all about. I am a lowly servant of the people and computers will most likely be running the world soon, anyhow. Here are the facts:
I love writing and want to do it fer reals. However, I am realistic in that I am not J.K. Rowling. The wild dream of superstardom shall continue to elude me until it doesn’t. Therefore, “Don’t quit your day job,” as they say.
I have over 30 stories that I am compiling into an anthology, History of Ruth (or, the H.o.R., as it has become) that I hope to get published. They are eclectic horror fantasy and usually weird.
If Google Docs didn’t exist, those stories would most likely be organized into a Trapper-Keeper-type situation, as I am a child of the 80’s.
Success comes in many forms and is best when felt all around.
Ok, that last point was more of a fortune cookie statement, but these place markers serve their purpose in order to jump start my website.
I have always had my hands in art of some sort since I was a kid. As I grew up and began adulthood, I struggled with the grind vs. creativity. Then, becoming a soulless work puppet, I was deeply into professional life and became–shocker!–unhappy with that lifestyle. I sought ways to evolve into something that would not make me want to jump off a cliff upon awakening in the morning.
I found that mindfulness based meditation and writing has helped me to reduce the sense that Da Man is holding me down.
World According to K.J. 