Saturday, December 31, 2016
Square Ice, Round Glass: Why I Write 'Tales From The Barstool'
The wealthy sit on their thrones and think they'll be there long
after they're dead. Their olive crowns will be talked about for
generations. Meanwhile the poor show their glamour in their second-hand
clothes and smoking habits. This city has a great divide, to be sure.
Whether you walk through the doors having partied in your penthouse off
Broadway or looking for a partner to spend a short night before your
third shift, we all walk in with bloodshot eyes. We all seek the same
drug. The flavor is what sets us different. The poor man sighs heavy
and shouts an order over the second track. He drinks a third and sits
back. He listens. Same as you, same as me. The rich man takes the
high seat and follows suit. You won't always know how they start
talking but someone will. And all of a sudden the barriers break. No
one talks wealth, just the absence of enough. They speak the same point
of views. Everyone becomes level. One word and one drink turn to
several each. The divide lives on in the streets but it's hard to stay
above when everyone is seated on the same barstools.
Friday, December 30, 2016
Yeller'
PANEL:
The portrait of a COWBOY. His hair has grown long from the uncare of the world, his chin has grown scruff from much of the same. He has small scratches on his face that signify a scuffle at some point in his life. Maybe it was meaningful, maybe it was simply a fall. His hat isn't cocked, he still has pride in himself, after all. He looks at the reader straight-on, with a look to tell them why they've wronged him.
PANEL:
He hangs his head a little, breaking eye contact. Less from shame and more from truth.
PANEL:
THE COWBOY picks his head back up, chin to the crowd, looking at the reader once more, looking at them over his nose.
PANEL:
A hand comes from off-frame, the wrist cuffed from a pinstripe suit. THE COWBOY never breaks eye-contact with reader. He rears his head down, as if telling a child a cautionary tale.
PANEL:
THE COWBOY looks a bit angrier, coming to terms with his situation, as the suited hand plucks the hat from his head. THE COWBOY leans his head away from the hand, filthy as he is, to not be dirtied by any man. He continues looking at the reader.
PANEL:
He centers his head again, continuing to speak to his audience, as another pair of suited hands move into frame from the side to lower a noose, obstructing his face.
PANEL:
The noose is placed around THE COWBOY's neck, still loose. He doesn't bother to fight it.
PANEL:
The suited hands grab the rope tightly and snug the knot to the back of THE COWBOY's neck. He still speaks to us as if nothing's changed.
PANEL:
THE COWBOY tilts his head up and looks down over his nose at the crowd once more, this time, he shows off the rope cutting into his neck and he smiles with furrowed brows.
PANEL:
The last panel is wide, and showcases the edge of a desolate town. The crowd of people THE COWBOY speaks to all look to him upon his stage. The rope hangs to his lower back, strung to the rafter on the stage. He's somewhat far away from us, as if we're just another piece of the audience. In the background is nothing but desert and mountains. THE EXECUTIONER in the pinstriped suit stands by THE COWBOY to be his reaper.
The portrait of a COWBOY. His hair has grown long from the uncare of the world, his chin has grown scruff from much of the same. He has small scratches on his face that signify a scuffle at some point in his life. Maybe it was meaningful, maybe it was simply a fall. His hat isn't cocked, he still has pride in himself, after all. He looks at the reader straight-on, with a look to tell them why they've wronged him.
COWBOY
You've all called me a forebearer of crime and deceit. I say I'm the harbinger of my own will.
PANEL:
He hangs his head a little, breaking eye contact. Less from shame and more from truth.
COWBOY
I don't expect my words to be written down. I know the things I say will be lost to history.
PANEL:
THE COWBOY picks his head back up, chin to the crowd, looking at the reader once more, looking at them over his nose.
COWBOY
But take heed to what you hear--
PANEL:
A hand comes from off-frame, the wrist cuffed from a pinstripe suit. THE COWBOY never breaks eye-contact with reader. He rears his head down, as if telling a child a cautionary tale.
COWBOY
Six of us came into town and killed a man and I killed the judge that said I done him wrong, this is true.
PANEL:
THE COWBOY looks a bit angrier, coming to terms with his situation, as the suited hand plucks the hat from his head. THE COWBOY leans his head away from the hand, filthy as he is, to not be dirtied by any man. He continues looking at the reader.
COWBOY
No, I won't be remembered in the eyes of history. My life is too unimportant to it but your lives depend on mine.
PANEL:
He centers his head again, continuing to speak to his audience, as another pair of suited hands move into frame from the side to lower a noose, obstructing his face.
THE COWBOY
The law says my life is forfeit by what they define as "justice". I say justice is defined by your actions.
PANEL:
The noose is placed around THE COWBOY's neck, still loose. He doesn't bother to fight it.
THE COWBOY
If that's the truth, then I say I had no fair trial.
PANEL:
The suited hands grab the rope tightly and snug the knot to the back of THE COWBOY's neck. He still speaks to us as if nothing's changed.
THE COWBOY
They say six of us rode in and five rode off. Well that ain't true. My friends never left town.
PANEL:
THE COWBOY tilts his head up and looks down over his nose at the crowd once more, this time, he shows off the rope cutting into his neck and he smiles with furrowed brows.
THE COWBOY
I guess what I'm saying is, if I die... Well...
PANEL:
The last panel is wide, and showcases the edge of a desolate town. The crowd of people THE COWBOY speaks to all look to him upon his stage. The rope hangs to his lower back, strung to the rafter on the stage. He's somewhat far away from us, as if we're just another piece of the audience. In the background is nothing but desert and mountains. THE EXECUTIONER in the pinstriped suit stands by THE COWBOY to be his reaper.
THE COWBOY
...How well do you know your neighbors?
THE END
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Plagued: A Wyrm In A World Of Dirt
The fog drifts as I wake from the mire. The sludge from the shallow ponds will have to be my linens now. There is no servant to wake me. Just the calls from the bullfrog and the pains from my sores. I can feel my flesh stick to the broken branches and leaves as I rise. I must have been bleeding since the night.
It doesn't take a long walk before I reach the edge of the wood. I hoped to reach a town. A brook. Perhaps another kingdom. But angels no longer line my path and guide me. All I see within my reach is fog upon a dead land. I don't know what lies beyond, if anything at all. I'm weak, can barely stumble, but I let spite carry me. I haven't kept food in days. The sickness has spread to my spirit, rotted my mind, bled my body. All I needed was care and rest. What I got was an uprising. I plan revenge I know I'll never act on. Childish things. Creep over the mortar walls while the people rest. Cut holes in their barrels of wine so they're forced to drink from the well. Then, before the people wake, finish my bath in their water, scrub my spots and scabs clean, and walk out the front gates. I know it's nothing but fantasy, but it's the thoughts of malice that keep my heart beating fast and my head heated in this cold. I know I won't act. Even before the sickness I didn't have much fight in me. I've put steel to flesh in my past. God knows how I've warred. But it's been a long while since I last donned my helm. Domains have risen and fallen since then. I wear the thoughts of hate as the fog carries snow to the border of the fields. A town breaches my vision as I strain to look for shelter.
It's little less than a hovel. The mud has frozen in shape to the footfalls and wagon wheels. My feet cut into the frost as I ricochet between huts, hoping to find a well. It must be mid-morning, yet no one is working. Not even in the larger structures can I hear iron work or kindling. In all my efforts, I find a trough, the water frozen at the top. I break the water free with my knuckles and begin my drink. I won't fabricate against my worry. This was a ghost town, for sure, and the silence frightened me. Was everyone dead? Like me?
"Are you a leper?" I was called from the threshold of the stable-- no livestock.
"Who-- No, I'm not."
"What about those spots on you? Were you beaten?"
"No, I am ill, this is true. Though I am no leper."
"I think it best you leave. We don't need your pollution here."
"Looks to me like there's no one to pollute."
"He's a scout. A vagrant they forced to wander in promise of food." Another voice sounds from the shadows of the stable.
The two men step forth into the light snow. They size me up as I do for them. They're underfed, though one is quite large. The big one wears a cap to tame his thick, black hair. He holds an iron poker close to his thigh. The one I spoke to before was smaller in stature. His red hair grown enough in length to cover his freckled neck. To judge from their dresswear, they're farmers. To judge from mine, the big one isn't too far off in his assumptions of me being a vagrant. My hair has grown to my shoulder blades. The barber, like most, refused my presence for some time. My hair has grown white and my beard isn't far behind. I walk without tunic or shoes, only a pair of pants to keep me decent. My eyes have sunk into the abyss from which I slowly slip.
The big one mumbles: "We should kill him."
And the small: "Then they'll know we're here."
And I: "You clearly don't know me."
"We know that, you old fool," says the large. "The question is what to do with you. Wouldn't be the first time we've buried the bones of the elderly in these hills. Don't think we'd grace you with a stone marker, however."
"Can't. Ground's too frozen. We'll have to settle for the hogs," suggests the ginger.
I can't buy into their act. A charade to scare away wandering thieves and lowlifes, but I have the feeling from the look on their scared faces that they could hardly harm pigs in slaughter. "Act your make, farmer. You may be stupid, but you're no murderer. You clench your fists to hide your shaken hands. And you, if you were serious on your threat you'd look to your lands. The rocks are too close to the ground. It's why you grow wheat instead of anything useful. You've buried nothing here."
The little one, his hair moves like his scalp aflame, pulls a knife from his waist and sheaths it into mine. It feels like a punch that cracks into my insides. I drop to my knees and cut them on the frozen ground.
"We don't bury them here. We cart them further from the coast. Don't think we'll need the courtesy for you."
I was wrong on both accounts it would seem. I've been too proud in always being right, regardless of whether or not I was wrong. The big one steps heavily forward, his feet sounding off like the clatter of horses.
"If you see the devil in your wake--"
Here we are--
"--you tell him to save a seat for the Son of Lilith."
--the last words I'll ever hear. The big one winds up his fist, poker stretched, and as he clicks my head with iron, I notice my heartbeat turn to the footfalls of horses. The world becomes night. In death there are no stars.
* * *
Against my will, I wake again. It's strange, but when it snows, I can hear the silence itself. I judge from the snow around me, I haven't been unconscious long, though the wound in my side leaves me cold. My first thought is to leave before I allow them to kill me, and my second thought is why wouldn't I?
The blood had pooled and begun to freeze beneath me. In the numbness of the snowfall I've yet to feel more than a splinter in my waist. My head, however, feels a weight stronger than my shoulders. I rise, against my own wishes, and lean my body forward enough to stumble. My attackers are nowhere I can see, though I don't know why I'd seek them. Perhaps I want to make them good on their word. Put this spoiled dog out of his misery.
Further into the thicket of huts I hear yelps and cries echo the roads. My hand falls from the wound in my side out of forgetfulness. My body is numb to every illness and ailment. It's my eyes that hurt to turn. The white fog of the snowdrift turns grey the closer I get to the smell. It's a sense I haven't experienced in a long time. It's a sweeter sense than most would guess, the smell of flesh. The crackle is a sound unlike anything else as well. Less the crack of branches in the fire and closer to that of the popping of cooked mud.
A building burns. A church or a whorehouse all the same. The hidden people evacuate but they seem more content with the flame. They're pulled from the heavy wooden doors like sought-after prizes. The women's fingers are pried from the corners of their hiding places while the men have their heads pried from their shoulders. My hand is warmed by the blood pooling from my side. It's the only small comfort I have. The one who rendered me unconcious, he lies back to the wall next to me. His eyes half-open, he seems tired of the situation. He wears a scarf of blood around his neck that spills over his tunic and into the mud. He still brandishes the iron at his side. The little one, he's limp, held by his leg and laying on the ground from the back of a horse in front of the burning building. The rider holds him like a child brings his blanket. The man who holds him wears a shell of steel, ill-fitted and probably wrenched from the chest of a drunk and unprepared lieutenant. The horsemen around him don't laugh or grin like the villains from stories. No, they seem quite interested in these affairs. The men that yank the helpless from the cinder, I notice, are varied in age. The old are dead in the streets, but the generations after them work together to pull the remaining villagers into the open. The men on horseback, they're having the villagers do their work. The old and feeble-minded were taken care of immediately it would seem. The others must've been promised life to harvest the women's lives. Even with the blood slipping between my fingers, my body shivers and my head gets heavy. I bend down for the iron poker and lose my balance against the wall. I use the poker as a cane and walk away from the spectacle. I watch my feet take smaller and smaller steps as I walk the length of a house. My feet match against hooves in front of me. Hot, relaxing breath warms my head as I come face-to-face with the creature.
"Hey, this one's trying to get out of his work!"
I don't know how I find the strength, but I mimic the call of St. Sebastian and plunge my spear into the heart of the beast. It rears in madness, and doesn't touch me, but I fall in fright. I'm on the ground again, a familiar bed. I hear the thud of the horse and the cries of a man, the foreground noise to the wails behind me. I'm lifted before I even see them. Angels with scarred faces and broken teeth.
They say to see or hear God would be too much for any man to bare. The songs of angels will pierce your ears. For this reason they mask their voices behind the choirs of believers, God hides behind the faces of men. I'm not treated with the same kindness. I hear the angels bark insults and wishes to torture and kill. The angels stomp their feet and raise me to a God hidden in the face of some hybrid. This thing in stolen steel gleans a jaw of jagged teeth and stares with blackened eyes. His head is void of hair so his enemies cannot pull him in battle. But I look at his armor, his sword, even the breed of his horse. Nothing matches. He doesn't win battles, he wins ambushes against drunks and sleeping families. Steals their belongings to build himself into a man.
His grin barely moves as God speaks: "You haven't set yourself up for an easy death, curr." They raise my arms high to hold me and stretch the hole in my side. I don't look but I feel my feet get warmer from the falling blood. I can feel everything again, and it feels like Hell. "You look at me you pile of stink. You crawl from the dead and we'll put you right back. Did you think you'd hobble from the corpses and thank God for a second chance?" He'll never know how wrong he is. I've already had my third and fourth chances and I'm looking to run out.
He gives me a closer look at his thief's sword and rests the point under my eye. "Stop looking to the Heavens. If you were meant for second chances God would've let you get away. You're in my domain now. Look to the Son of Lilith." I lower my head and meet his charred eyes. The fire from the building dances far behind me, and has risen too high to control. The flame flickers in the eyes of the Son of Lilith. It's something in his eyes that give me a change of heart, in fact. I was a good king. I wasn't always fair, but that didn't always matter. I deserve something better. Not to rot at the feet of this illness, but not at the foot of a man little better than a spoilt dog, either. Take me to the gates of the nearest castle and try me for the lives I took. Give me lashes for every swordstroke I made in war. Let me climb the steps in the center of the square and let the people trumpet my sins. 'Child-killer! Rapist! Thief!' Let the axe fall and the people cheer and though the people judge me as a man let God judge me for my worth. Not this worthless farmer.
"You are no son of anything," I say. "You were abandoned by God. There's nothing left for you but to wander in Hell." His sword drops to his horse's side and he taps her on her ribs. I expect him to laugh or jest at a delusioned old man but he does not. He stares. "Call yourself the Son of Lilith if you'd like. Call yourself the Son of the Serpent if it fits. It doesn't matter. God has taken those that will join the ranks of angels and left the rest of us behind. He cares not your name. He's already forgotten you."
"Spout religion and redemption all you'd like. You won't have a choice where you end up. Put him in the flames!"
I'm drug backward but the hold goes limp when I speak. A few even let go. "Redemption? Revelations! You think the fire chains me? Look to the wound in my side. Your men killed me. You threw me to the corpses and yet I walk and speak again. Is it no wonder I bare the wound of Christ?"
"His head bleeds! Look!" A man drops my arm and the rest fall away and group again in the sanctity of their thieving savior. A wound I never noticed. Made from the iron poker and mimicking yet another stigma. Perhaps God mocks in my favor.
I speak with even more fervor. "The people die, Serpent. Those that have taken God's graces are lifted--"
"What are you?"
"--and the damned fall away to the shadows of the land of weeping and gnashing teeth."
"Don't come forward!"
"The damned have been marked like me--"
"Back to the fires, you corpse!" The sword raises and points again.
"Strike at me, I beg you! Every lash you'll be repaid!" One points to my bare back as I lift my arms to the fires behind me. The villagers that aren't dead have long fled.
"His skin! He's marked!"
I turn to look at them again, moving the palms of my hands over my face, spreading the blood over me like a veil. "Yes, my demon skin reveals me. I've been plagued with the sickness that will bring us to end times! The first seal is broken and the first trumpet sounded. Those who have touched the skin of Legion will hear it, too." I stretch my arms to them and flaunt my palms dripping red. A few look at their hands and a few look to their savior to absolve them. They don't want to earn their redemption, they want it given like all else they have. Though now it may be too late. The coughing will start tomorrow.
The Son of Lilith drops his sword. "Don't touch it," he says to them.
I raise my arms and try not to be bothered by the stretched wound in my side. If I wince I give it away. "You've already opened the Gates of Hell. Look closely, and watch my brothers parade their ranks." One or two point behind me, letting my lies blind them. A large section of the roof falls away just in time.
The Serpent slithers his horse back a few steps and begins to turn. "Follow," he says to his followers. "But not close. Let them flee. We need shelter." I don't close my eyes but the world turns dark as they gallop away. I've lost too much blood. The snow falls thicker and turns to rain. I look to a street that seeps with the refugees of the raid.
"You don't live here. Who are you? Why did you help us?" queried an older man.
"I didn't have the strength to fight, so I outwitted them instead. The poor are superstitious to the things they can't understand. Sorry."
He smiles. That much I see before my knees grow soft and fall to the illness. And for a little while at least, I can rest without pain.
It doesn't take a long walk before I reach the edge of the wood. I hoped to reach a town. A brook. Perhaps another kingdom. But angels no longer line my path and guide me. All I see within my reach is fog upon a dead land. I don't know what lies beyond, if anything at all. I'm weak, can barely stumble, but I let spite carry me. I haven't kept food in days. The sickness has spread to my spirit, rotted my mind, bled my body. All I needed was care and rest. What I got was an uprising. I plan revenge I know I'll never act on. Childish things. Creep over the mortar walls while the people rest. Cut holes in their barrels of wine so they're forced to drink from the well. Then, before the people wake, finish my bath in their water, scrub my spots and scabs clean, and walk out the front gates. I know it's nothing but fantasy, but it's the thoughts of malice that keep my heart beating fast and my head heated in this cold. I know I won't act. Even before the sickness I didn't have much fight in me. I've put steel to flesh in my past. God knows how I've warred. But it's been a long while since I last donned my helm. Domains have risen and fallen since then. I wear the thoughts of hate as the fog carries snow to the border of the fields. A town breaches my vision as I strain to look for shelter.
It's little less than a hovel. The mud has frozen in shape to the footfalls and wagon wheels. My feet cut into the frost as I ricochet between huts, hoping to find a well. It must be mid-morning, yet no one is working. Not even in the larger structures can I hear iron work or kindling. In all my efforts, I find a trough, the water frozen at the top. I break the water free with my knuckles and begin my drink. I won't fabricate against my worry. This was a ghost town, for sure, and the silence frightened me. Was everyone dead? Like me?
"Are you a leper?" I was called from the threshold of the stable-- no livestock.
"Who-- No, I'm not."
"What about those spots on you? Were you beaten?"
"No, I am ill, this is true. Though I am no leper."
"I think it best you leave. We don't need your pollution here."
"Looks to me like there's no one to pollute."
"He's a scout. A vagrant they forced to wander in promise of food." Another voice sounds from the shadows of the stable.
The two men step forth into the light snow. They size me up as I do for them. They're underfed, though one is quite large. The big one wears a cap to tame his thick, black hair. He holds an iron poker close to his thigh. The one I spoke to before was smaller in stature. His red hair grown enough in length to cover his freckled neck. To judge from their dresswear, they're farmers. To judge from mine, the big one isn't too far off in his assumptions of me being a vagrant. My hair has grown to my shoulder blades. The barber, like most, refused my presence for some time. My hair has grown white and my beard isn't far behind. I walk without tunic or shoes, only a pair of pants to keep me decent. My eyes have sunk into the abyss from which I slowly slip.
The big one mumbles: "We should kill him."
And the small: "Then they'll know we're here."
And I: "You clearly don't know me."
"We know that, you old fool," says the large. "The question is what to do with you. Wouldn't be the first time we've buried the bones of the elderly in these hills. Don't think we'd grace you with a stone marker, however."
"Can't. Ground's too frozen. We'll have to settle for the hogs," suggests the ginger.
I can't buy into their act. A charade to scare away wandering thieves and lowlifes, but I have the feeling from the look on their scared faces that they could hardly harm pigs in slaughter. "Act your make, farmer. You may be stupid, but you're no murderer. You clench your fists to hide your shaken hands. And you, if you were serious on your threat you'd look to your lands. The rocks are too close to the ground. It's why you grow wheat instead of anything useful. You've buried nothing here."
The little one, his hair moves like his scalp aflame, pulls a knife from his waist and sheaths it into mine. It feels like a punch that cracks into my insides. I drop to my knees and cut them on the frozen ground.
"We don't bury them here. We cart them further from the coast. Don't think we'll need the courtesy for you."
I was wrong on both accounts it would seem. I've been too proud in always being right, regardless of whether or not I was wrong. The big one steps heavily forward, his feet sounding off like the clatter of horses.
"If you see the devil in your wake--"
Here we are--
"--you tell him to save a seat for the Son of Lilith."
--the last words I'll ever hear. The big one winds up his fist, poker stretched, and as he clicks my head with iron, I notice my heartbeat turn to the footfalls of horses. The world becomes night. In death there are no stars.
* * *
Against my will, I wake again. It's strange, but when it snows, I can hear the silence itself. I judge from the snow around me, I haven't been unconscious long, though the wound in my side leaves me cold. My first thought is to leave before I allow them to kill me, and my second thought is why wouldn't I?
The blood had pooled and begun to freeze beneath me. In the numbness of the snowfall I've yet to feel more than a splinter in my waist. My head, however, feels a weight stronger than my shoulders. I rise, against my own wishes, and lean my body forward enough to stumble. My attackers are nowhere I can see, though I don't know why I'd seek them. Perhaps I want to make them good on their word. Put this spoiled dog out of his misery.
Further into the thicket of huts I hear yelps and cries echo the roads. My hand falls from the wound in my side out of forgetfulness. My body is numb to every illness and ailment. It's my eyes that hurt to turn. The white fog of the snowdrift turns grey the closer I get to the smell. It's a sense I haven't experienced in a long time. It's a sweeter sense than most would guess, the smell of flesh. The crackle is a sound unlike anything else as well. Less the crack of branches in the fire and closer to that of the popping of cooked mud.
A building burns. A church or a whorehouse all the same. The hidden people evacuate but they seem more content with the flame. They're pulled from the heavy wooden doors like sought-after prizes. The women's fingers are pried from the corners of their hiding places while the men have their heads pried from their shoulders. My hand is warmed by the blood pooling from my side. It's the only small comfort I have. The one who rendered me unconcious, he lies back to the wall next to me. His eyes half-open, he seems tired of the situation. He wears a scarf of blood around his neck that spills over his tunic and into the mud. He still brandishes the iron at his side. The little one, he's limp, held by his leg and laying on the ground from the back of a horse in front of the burning building. The rider holds him like a child brings his blanket. The man who holds him wears a shell of steel, ill-fitted and probably wrenched from the chest of a drunk and unprepared lieutenant. The horsemen around him don't laugh or grin like the villains from stories. No, they seem quite interested in these affairs. The men that yank the helpless from the cinder, I notice, are varied in age. The old are dead in the streets, but the generations after them work together to pull the remaining villagers into the open. The men on horseback, they're having the villagers do their work. The old and feeble-minded were taken care of immediately it would seem. The others must've been promised life to harvest the women's lives. Even with the blood slipping between my fingers, my body shivers and my head gets heavy. I bend down for the iron poker and lose my balance against the wall. I use the poker as a cane and walk away from the spectacle. I watch my feet take smaller and smaller steps as I walk the length of a house. My feet match against hooves in front of me. Hot, relaxing breath warms my head as I come face-to-face with the creature.
"Hey, this one's trying to get out of his work!"
I don't know how I find the strength, but I mimic the call of St. Sebastian and plunge my spear into the heart of the beast. It rears in madness, and doesn't touch me, but I fall in fright. I'm on the ground again, a familiar bed. I hear the thud of the horse and the cries of a man, the foreground noise to the wails behind me. I'm lifted before I even see them. Angels with scarred faces and broken teeth.
They say to see or hear God would be too much for any man to bare. The songs of angels will pierce your ears. For this reason they mask their voices behind the choirs of believers, God hides behind the faces of men. I'm not treated with the same kindness. I hear the angels bark insults and wishes to torture and kill. The angels stomp their feet and raise me to a God hidden in the face of some hybrid. This thing in stolen steel gleans a jaw of jagged teeth and stares with blackened eyes. His head is void of hair so his enemies cannot pull him in battle. But I look at his armor, his sword, even the breed of his horse. Nothing matches. He doesn't win battles, he wins ambushes against drunks and sleeping families. Steals their belongings to build himself into a man.
His grin barely moves as God speaks: "You haven't set yourself up for an easy death, curr." They raise my arms high to hold me and stretch the hole in my side. I don't look but I feel my feet get warmer from the falling blood. I can feel everything again, and it feels like Hell. "You look at me you pile of stink. You crawl from the dead and we'll put you right back. Did you think you'd hobble from the corpses and thank God for a second chance?" He'll never know how wrong he is. I've already had my third and fourth chances and I'm looking to run out.
He gives me a closer look at his thief's sword and rests the point under my eye. "Stop looking to the Heavens. If you were meant for second chances God would've let you get away. You're in my domain now. Look to the Son of Lilith." I lower my head and meet his charred eyes. The fire from the building dances far behind me, and has risen too high to control. The flame flickers in the eyes of the Son of Lilith. It's something in his eyes that give me a change of heart, in fact. I was a good king. I wasn't always fair, but that didn't always matter. I deserve something better. Not to rot at the feet of this illness, but not at the foot of a man little better than a spoilt dog, either. Take me to the gates of the nearest castle and try me for the lives I took. Give me lashes for every swordstroke I made in war. Let me climb the steps in the center of the square and let the people trumpet my sins. 'Child-killer! Rapist! Thief!' Let the axe fall and the people cheer and though the people judge me as a man let God judge me for my worth. Not this worthless farmer.
"You are no son of anything," I say. "You were abandoned by God. There's nothing left for you but to wander in Hell." His sword drops to his horse's side and he taps her on her ribs. I expect him to laugh or jest at a delusioned old man but he does not. He stares. "Call yourself the Son of Lilith if you'd like. Call yourself the Son of the Serpent if it fits. It doesn't matter. God has taken those that will join the ranks of angels and left the rest of us behind. He cares not your name. He's already forgotten you."
"Spout religion and redemption all you'd like. You won't have a choice where you end up. Put him in the flames!"
I'm drug backward but the hold goes limp when I speak. A few even let go. "Redemption? Revelations! You think the fire chains me? Look to the wound in my side. Your men killed me. You threw me to the corpses and yet I walk and speak again. Is it no wonder I bare the wound of Christ?"
"His head bleeds! Look!" A man drops my arm and the rest fall away and group again in the sanctity of their thieving savior. A wound I never noticed. Made from the iron poker and mimicking yet another stigma. Perhaps God mocks in my favor.
I speak with even more fervor. "The people die, Serpent. Those that have taken God's graces are lifted--"
"What are you?"
"--and the damned fall away to the shadows of the land of weeping and gnashing teeth."
"Don't come forward!"
"The damned have been marked like me--"
"Back to the fires, you corpse!" The sword raises and points again.
"Strike at me, I beg you! Every lash you'll be repaid!" One points to my bare back as I lift my arms to the fires behind me. The villagers that aren't dead have long fled.
"His skin! He's marked!"
I turn to look at them again, moving the palms of my hands over my face, spreading the blood over me like a veil. "Yes, my demon skin reveals me. I've been plagued with the sickness that will bring us to end times! The first seal is broken and the first trumpet sounded. Those who have touched the skin of Legion will hear it, too." I stretch my arms to them and flaunt my palms dripping red. A few look at their hands and a few look to their savior to absolve them. They don't want to earn their redemption, they want it given like all else they have. Though now it may be too late. The coughing will start tomorrow.
The Son of Lilith drops his sword. "Don't touch it," he says to them.
I raise my arms and try not to be bothered by the stretched wound in my side. If I wince I give it away. "You've already opened the Gates of Hell. Look closely, and watch my brothers parade their ranks." One or two point behind me, letting my lies blind them. A large section of the roof falls away just in time.
The Serpent slithers his horse back a few steps and begins to turn. "Follow," he says to his followers. "But not close. Let them flee. We need shelter." I don't close my eyes but the world turns dark as they gallop away. I've lost too much blood. The snow falls thicker and turns to rain. I look to a street that seeps with the refugees of the raid.
"You don't live here. Who are you? Why did you help us?" queried an older man.
"I didn't have the strength to fight, so I outwitted them instead. The poor are superstitious to the things they can't understand. Sorry."
He smiles. That much I see before my knees grow soft and fall to the illness. And for a little while at least, I can rest without pain.
Tuesday, December 6, 2016
Team Luck
"Is the name supposed to be ironic? Do you have any 4's?"
"No, the name is serious. There's a reason the Kondor's men don't fear death. It's because they've seen it once before. In the face of Jack Avery."
"Do you have any 4's, though?"
"Um, no, I don't."
"So we just sit at the table and play games until he shows up? Doesn't that seem counter-productive to you?"
"Well, most of the entrances are sure death-traps, that's the thing. He has to go after the West, South-West, or North-East entrance to have a chance."
"Yeah, no, but that's what I mean. Most of the ways in are heavily-guarded. But why not have them all heavily-guarded?"
"Look, the Kondor can have this place on lock down if he wanted, but like, what would the challenge be?"
"The challenge?"
"Yeah, like, it challenges Avery to find the right entrance--"
"There're three of them--"
"--and it challenges us by trying to catch him off guard."
"How are we catching him off guard if we're playing fucking Go Fish?"
"Maybe he'll think we're civilians at first glance."
"We're civilians in uniform playing cards in a military facility? We literally have Kondor emblems on our caps."
"I mean, not everyone is playing cards, you know. Chuck is reading in the monitor office--"
"WHY?!"
"--and a few other guys are playing poker in the North-East quadrant--"
"WHY IS CHUCK NOT WATCHING THE MONITORS?!"
"Because it's boring! But that's what I'm talking about, see?! We act like there's nothing big going on here, Avery steps into the hallway like, 'Hey, you guys seen anything suspicious around here?' And BAM! We shoot him with a tranq!"
"Okay, see, there's my other problem. Why would we shoot him with tranquilizers when he's using an actual gun?"
"He doesn't belong to us. He's the Kondor's to kill."
"So he just runs around shooting up the faculty while we try to get him to take a nap?"
"He won't always shoot to kill. Sometimes he like, knocks you out or just caps you in the leg or something."
"...Do they call us Team Luck because we're lucky to be alive?"
"It's because we're lucky to have the opportunity to--"
"Oh fuck it. Never mind. It's your turn."
"Do you have any Kings--?"
"It just pisses me off that the guys in North-East are playing poker while I'm stuck with an ignorant bastard that never learned!"
"My parents were never around. Shit, man, that's kind of why I'm here."
ALERT! AVERY HAS BROKEN THROUGH! HE'S IN THE NORTH-EAST QUADRANT! ALL STAFF ON THE 10 O'CLOCK SHIFT ARE TO RESPOND IMMEDIATELY! ALL THOSE WHOSE SHIFTS END AT 9:50 ARE APPROVED FOR OVERTIME! PLEASE SEND ALL REQUESTS TO STAFFING!
"Jesus, he's actually here."
"Well, time for the chase."
"Just happy he didn't try coming in through our access tunnel."
"Yeah well hey, makes you feel pretty lucky, doesn't it?"
"No, the name is serious. There's a reason the Kondor's men don't fear death. It's because they've seen it once before. In the face of Jack Avery."
"Do you have any 4's, though?"
"Um, no, I don't."
"So we just sit at the table and play games until he shows up? Doesn't that seem counter-productive to you?"
"Well, most of the entrances are sure death-traps, that's the thing. He has to go after the West, South-West, or North-East entrance to have a chance."
"Yeah, no, but that's what I mean. Most of the ways in are heavily-guarded. But why not have them all heavily-guarded?"
"Look, the Kondor can have this place on lock down if he wanted, but like, what would the challenge be?"
"The challenge?"
"Yeah, like, it challenges Avery to find the right entrance--"
"There're three of them--"
"--and it challenges us by trying to catch him off guard."
"How are we catching him off guard if we're playing fucking Go Fish?"
"Maybe he'll think we're civilians at first glance."
"We're civilians in uniform playing cards in a military facility? We literally have Kondor emblems on our caps."
"I mean, not everyone is playing cards, you know. Chuck is reading in the monitor office--"
"WHY?!"
"--and a few other guys are playing poker in the North-East quadrant--"
"WHY IS CHUCK NOT WATCHING THE MONITORS?!"
"Because it's boring! But that's what I'm talking about, see?! We act like there's nothing big going on here, Avery steps into the hallway like, 'Hey, you guys seen anything suspicious around here?' And BAM! We shoot him with a tranq!"
"Okay, see, there's my other problem. Why would we shoot him with tranquilizers when he's using an actual gun?"
"He doesn't belong to us. He's the Kondor's to kill."
"So he just runs around shooting up the faculty while we try to get him to take a nap?"
"He won't always shoot to kill. Sometimes he like, knocks you out or just caps you in the leg or something."
"...Do they call us Team Luck because we're lucky to be alive?"
"It's because we're lucky to have the opportunity to--"
"Oh fuck it. Never mind. It's your turn."
"Do you have any Kings--?"
"It just pisses me off that the guys in North-East are playing poker while I'm stuck with an ignorant bastard that never learned!"
"My parents were never around. Shit, man, that's kind of why I'm here."
ALERT! AVERY HAS BROKEN THROUGH! HE'S IN THE NORTH-EAST QUADRANT! ALL STAFF ON THE 10 O'CLOCK SHIFT ARE TO RESPOND IMMEDIATELY! ALL THOSE WHOSE SHIFTS END AT 9:50 ARE APPROVED FOR OVERTIME! PLEASE SEND ALL REQUESTS TO STAFFING!
"Jesus, he's actually here."
"Well, time for the chase."
"Just happy he didn't try coming in through our access tunnel."
"Yeah well hey, makes you feel pretty lucky, doesn't it?"
Monday, December 5, 2016
The Glowing
"No, but just listen, will ya'? We don't know what's over that hill. Not you, not me. No one but the people that've already made that journey, ya' see? There's a fog past that hill. Not smoke, just a fog, you understand. And the wind. God damn it, the wind ain't blowin' that fog no deeper than where it is. And the glow. You seen that glow? It's yellow. Sickly, almost. That ain't no sunshine I've ever seen. Nothin' like any fog lights I've seen neither. Nothin' like it... And the people! You see how many have turned up? You saw those first reports, I know you did, we all did. We didn't know why we were seein' footage of this hill. With the light, the fog... but we went along with it, didn't we? We watched those news choppers fly right into the damn thick of it and disappear. Okay, sure, we don't know they disappeared. If that's your point. We don't know what happened to them. But no one heard a crash did they? And ya' know what? We haven't heard no screams neither. The choppers disa-- well, the choppers were gone, and the police vans were gone, and the people gathered at the foot of this hill-- same as you, same as me-- and people have been gatherin' their courage to walk on over that hill and we ain't heard no screams neither, now have we? Look around ya'. Look at all these pilgrims. They've all come and they've all waited. And the worthy, they've stepped over that hill in strides. If you weren't never gonna be ready to take that trek, friend, then why did ya' ever come here? Me? I'm ready. And you? You'll be ready someday, too. People can wait here all they want. They know why they've come. To make that journey same as the rest of us. Look! See? That family over there. They're ready. People can wait here all they want, I say. Wait and build houses and start families and wait some more but I tell ya'... they're all gonna walk over that hill sometime. Abandon their cubs and make the trek alone for all I care. If that's what makes you stronger. Let the young pilgrims sweep the floors and clean up after us. They'll make the journey, too. And they won't cry and shout neither, I'm sure. Poison gas? Friend, this ain't no attack of nations or ideologies, this is a welcome! And I intend to find out what kind. But before I go, let me ask you, what kind of attack stops the sun? Thing hasn't risen for two days now. Me? I intend to find out what does something so extraordinary. Don't you?"
Sunday, December 4, 2016
Plagued
I'll leave 'em all with nothing if that's all I've got left to give. Let 'em squabble for the last remnants of dust. I'll rise from my brazen throne and remain the last true man they'll ever witness. They deliver news like a sentence. Think they can lay unwashed hands upon me and throw me to the cold. They want me to fight it. Years, decades of decadence I've peddled to them, but they still bare teeth at me like I'm some fatted calf.
They used to need a blessing to walk on the throne's landing, now they dare to face me on my higher ground. The ones who step to me, their smiles are hid behind the cloth they tied to their faces. The crowd jeers and shines their teeth. They like to imagine my captors will do the same. Truth is, I see the fear. They've tread on scripture and stepped to God and if they won't answer for it in life they'll answer in death. The crowd shouts to take hold but I'll not leave without pride. My captors dare not stand beside me but let me take lead through the crowd. I walk through the Grand Hall without looking back. A god looks nowhere but ahead. After all, it's only a chair. They leer, they jeer. I've seen it many times, never from this perspective, but the one thing I notice is they do not throw or spit lest I spit back.
Laughter echos around the stone like a rogue wind until the gates open and let it fly out like a breeze. They laugh from a safe distance, thinking I'll trek the world of mud in pelts and chain. A dead man crossing into the fields where no one has title, ownership, or worth. But I stand still on a muddy landing and unbuckle the chains. As the furs fall away so does their laughter. I stand with back to the iron and stone, speckled in black and bleeding spots. My feet dig deeper within the mire with every step, but I levy my actions on the stones beneath. I hear the gates close before I make it to the wood.
By the time I mount the far hills, ther're nothing but stars in my path above me, but the blades of grass below flicker with an orange light from behind. The grass sprawls in the wind and mimics the fire. Whether they celebrate a short-lived freedom or the town burns I care not to know.
They used to need a blessing to walk on the throne's landing, now they dare to face me on my higher ground. The ones who step to me, their smiles are hid behind the cloth they tied to their faces. The crowd jeers and shines their teeth. They like to imagine my captors will do the same. Truth is, I see the fear. They've tread on scripture and stepped to God and if they won't answer for it in life they'll answer in death. The crowd shouts to take hold but I'll not leave without pride. My captors dare not stand beside me but let me take lead through the crowd. I walk through the Grand Hall without looking back. A god looks nowhere but ahead. After all, it's only a chair. They leer, they jeer. I've seen it many times, never from this perspective, but the one thing I notice is they do not throw or spit lest I spit back.
Laughter echos around the stone like a rogue wind until the gates open and let it fly out like a breeze. They laugh from a safe distance, thinking I'll trek the world of mud in pelts and chain. A dead man crossing into the fields where no one has title, ownership, or worth. But I stand still on a muddy landing and unbuckle the chains. As the furs fall away so does their laughter. I stand with back to the iron and stone, speckled in black and bleeding spots. My feet dig deeper within the mire with every step, but I levy my actions on the stones beneath. I hear the gates close before I make it to the wood.
By the time I mount the far hills, ther're nothing but stars in my path above me, but the blades of grass below flicker with an orange light from behind. The grass sprawls in the wind and mimics the fire. Whether they celebrate a short-lived freedom or the town burns I care not to know.
Crossroads
Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
There's a woman who lives further down the path, where the dirt widens into crossroads. La Llorona they call her-- the woman who weeps. She'll let you pass, for a fee. I try to sell her my soul. She says my currency's no good here. She's got eleven in kind, worthless to every foot of ground they occupy and she doesn't want the dozen. I have nothing for her. I can only offer a wager. Her sobs turn into quick huffs of laughter and I find myself pulled to the other side of the road. I guess she liked her odds.
The fields stretch until your vision is strained, as if everything is seen in your peripheral vision. When the world comes back into focus, I notice the driftwood at my feet. It doesn't drift in water, it litters the mud. The Styx River wasn't always a channel of dirt. There used to be a current here, y'know? From what I'm told, it was littered in Summer swimmers. Now even the ferryman is out of a job.
Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
You'll get to the coastline on the other side. They always do. The Garden used to be what they called "lush". It had all them pretty words to chaperone it. The only thing that grows here nowadays are the clouds getting darker. Rocks and dirt occupy the hills. It's still a magnificent view, but you can see it's a shell of the good days. There's a tree on a distant hill, you squint and you can see the bold trunk carrying the twigs upon its head like a crown of triumph. You get close enough and you can see the last of its harvest dropped and rotting at its roots, back when this place had seasons. You can see it for youself. I have, we all have. It's easy to lose yourself here, easy to stay and forget why you came. The longer you wander, the quicker he comes. He's old now, withered in his age, though he still looks good in his bowler hat, suit, and tie. He'll invite you to dinner, and everyone knows to decline. Unfortunate for me, I act the role of Tourist to pay La Llorona what she's owed.
He lives nearby it turns out, just down the crags of what was once a waterfall. He's fashioned shapes from the rocks that look like weathered steps. I follow behind him slowly as he groans at every step. He tries to hide his discomfort but I know he's gotten old. Everyone knows. He doesn't want to be feared, he just doesn't want your pity.
Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
It's hard not to let your mind wander too much here. No, it's important you not let your mind wander too much here. There's a fog in your mind, turns your thinking to mush, makes you stay, complacent. Happens to the Tourists all the time. Me, I just let him think I'm part of the crowd. The cave he leads me to is well decorated, for a Soviet flat in the 1960's. To each their own. The wallpaper is red, of course. Why wouldn't it be?
I let my mind wander a bit too much for my liking. The fogging feels good, like a kind of high. Makes you forget to wake sometimes. When I snap myself from the daze I'm sitting at a small plastic table. Me on one side, him on the other, and the hinges to fold everything up inbetween us. It makes me sad to think he once feasted at grand oaken slabs with a hundred guests. Then as the years went by, the tables got smaller. Then I look down at the bowl of flies he's arranged for me and I lose my appetite.
He doesn't say much, he just likes to keep company. I stay focused on one thing so I don't lose myself to the haze. I switch my focus to something else so I don't lose myself to the same. At some point I snap into focus and notice the little well-dressed man isn't there anymore. I must've lost myself at one point or another, we all have, it happens. I don't know where he's gotten to but I can hear him mutter to himself in low groans and tongues only feral dogs can understand. He's walked down the hallway, perhaps in need of the bathroom, perhaps calling it a night. I sweep into the living room and notice the smell of rot. Not of flesh as much as it is the plants he refused to care for. Too lazy to throw out the dead leaves, he's made a room of accidental potpourri. I sift through the artifacts he's so proud of on the shelf. His greed for attention allows them to be presented unguarded, but unfortunately for him, unnoticed by anyone.
The bag of silver weighs heavy in my palm. With this, La Llorona can get rid of all those surplus souls that occupy her yard. A hundred souls could coast over the river for a single piece of silver better than any copper coin. She'll stay in business a while. As long as there's someone to die, there'll be a woman to weep over them. With the declining death counts, though, she'll be lucky to stay her ground before the thirtieth coin is spent. All of a sudden I feel a chill in the stagnant air and wind sweeps my hair. I pull my focus away from the coin pressed between my fingers and look around. I'm back in The Garden, the bag in my coat pocket. I've lost myself to the world again. Lost my focus.
Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
The ground sweeps under me. It's like I lift my feet and the land moves itself for me. The daze is getting stronger, I'm losing track of what I was doing a lot quicker. I must be getting closer. There were once the bones of leviathans buried deep into these fields, creating hills for all the souls to picnic on. But the wind, it's gotten warmer and sharper. It's cut away at all the stone and grass and now the bare bones of the countryside are beginning to show again. On one of these hills I look to the pyramids that've shrunk in size, still a monument to the ego as much as they ever were.
My steps take me to the edge of the tallest one. But it's no monolith by any means. Not anymore. Not these days. Even the stones are decomposing. There's no one to worship these old tales anymore. The gods still live, but they've stepped out from the shadows now that they know there's not an audience to be had. That's what makes it so easy to gain the attendance of the old sun himself.
He still looks like a bird, but his feathers are in patches due to lice or fleas or whatever ails the gods nowadays. I tell him why I'm here. I've come for the sun. He says nothing but I know the proud bastard wouldn't dare speak in words, only actions. He'll either let me turn my back on him and walk down his chalky bricks, or destroy my body and let my ashes get swept into the gray.
I tell him the people don't believe in anything anymore. They come here and still believe it's a fantasy of their own making. If I had the sun, the people would worship again. They could rejoice in something that hasn't been seen in generations. I focus on my speech and the haze comes back into my mind. All of a sudden, I see the old bird walk away. I don't know how much into my speech I got before he decided to stop listening, or if he ever listened at all. But his answer is clear. I don't know why he let me live, maybe he pitied me. The last believer. I stand upon the peak of his monument and let the fog into my mind. I've given up. I let the body wander. The world shifts through my peripherals and I feel the mud stick beneath my boots.
But La Llorona weeps and smiles. She got what she wanted, but we all can't, can we? I stand at crossroads to decide another path. La Llorona smiles between sobs and decides her next fee. These gods used to be a reflection of the people that worshipped them. And I suppose they still do. They're just as weak and tired and ready to die like the rest of humanity. Like the last of them. But I suppose they keep to their jobs to occupy the final chapters of this world. Gotta stay relevant. Gotta keep your head above water. But when the River Styx itself has sank below the mire, what's the point of drowning your anger and regrets in your last few moments?
Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
There's a woman who lives further down the path, where the dirt widens into crossroads. La Llorona they call her-- the woman who weeps. She'll let you pass, for a fee. I try to sell her my soul. She says my currency's no good here. She's got eleven in kind, worthless to every foot of ground they occupy and she doesn't want the dozen. I have nothing for her. I can only offer a wager. Her sobs turn into quick huffs of laughter and I find myself pulled to the other side of the road. I guess she liked her odds.
The fields stretch until your vision is strained, as if everything is seen in your peripheral vision. When the world comes back into focus, I notice the driftwood at my feet. It doesn't drift in water, it litters the mud. The Styx River wasn't always a channel of dirt. There used to be a current here, y'know? From what I'm told, it was littered in Summer swimmers. Now even the ferryman is out of a job.
Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
You'll get to the coastline on the other side. They always do. The Garden used to be what they called "lush". It had all them pretty words to chaperone it. The only thing that grows here nowadays are the clouds getting darker. Rocks and dirt occupy the hills. It's still a magnificent view, but you can see it's a shell of the good days. There's a tree on a distant hill, you squint and you can see the bold trunk carrying the twigs upon its head like a crown of triumph. You get close enough and you can see the last of its harvest dropped and rotting at its roots, back when this place had seasons. You can see it for youself. I have, we all have. It's easy to lose yourself here, easy to stay and forget why you came. The longer you wander, the quicker he comes. He's old now, withered in his age, though he still looks good in his bowler hat, suit, and tie. He'll invite you to dinner, and everyone knows to decline. Unfortunate for me, I act the role of Tourist to pay La Llorona what she's owed.
He lives nearby it turns out, just down the crags of what was once a waterfall. He's fashioned shapes from the rocks that look like weathered steps. I follow behind him slowly as he groans at every step. He tries to hide his discomfort but I know he's gotten old. Everyone knows. He doesn't want to be feared, he just doesn't want your pity.
Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
It's hard not to let your mind wander too much here. No, it's important you not let your mind wander too much here. There's a fog in your mind, turns your thinking to mush, makes you stay, complacent. Happens to the Tourists all the time. Me, I just let him think I'm part of the crowd. The cave he leads me to is well decorated, for a Soviet flat in the 1960's. To each their own. The wallpaper is red, of course. Why wouldn't it be?
I let my mind wander a bit too much for my liking. The fogging feels good, like a kind of high. Makes you forget to wake sometimes. When I snap myself from the daze I'm sitting at a small plastic table. Me on one side, him on the other, and the hinges to fold everything up inbetween us. It makes me sad to think he once feasted at grand oaken slabs with a hundred guests. Then as the years went by, the tables got smaller. Then I look down at the bowl of flies he's arranged for me and I lose my appetite.
He doesn't say much, he just likes to keep company. I stay focused on one thing so I don't lose myself to the haze. I switch my focus to something else so I don't lose myself to the same. At some point I snap into focus and notice the little well-dressed man isn't there anymore. I must've lost myself at one point or another, we all have, it happens. I don't know where he's gotten to but I can hear him mutter to himself in low groans and tongues only feral dogs can understand. He's walked down the hallway, perhaps in need of the bathroom, perhaps calling it a night. I sweep into the living room and notice the smell of rot. Not of flesh as much as it is the plants he refused to care for. Too lazy to throw out the dead leaves, he's made a room of accidental potpourri. I sift through the artifacts he's so proud of on the shelf. His greed for attention allows them to be presented unguarded, but unfortunately for him, unnoticed by anyone.
The bag of silver weighs heavy in my palm. With this, La Llorona can get rid of all those surplus souls that occupy her yard. A hundred souls could coast over the river for a single piece of silver better than any copper coin. She'll stay in business a while. As long as there's someone to die, there'll be a woman to weep over them. With the declining death counts, though, she'll be lucky to stay her ground before the thirtieth coin is spent. All of a sudden I feel a chill in the stagnant air and wind sweeps my hair. I pull my focus away from the coin pressed between my fingers and look around. I'm back in The Garden, the bag in my coat pocket. I've lost myself to the world again. Lost my focus.
Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
The ground sweeps under me. It's like I lift my feet and the land moves itself for me. The daze is getting stronger, I'm losing track of what I was doing a lot quicker. I must be getting closer. There were once the bones of leviathans buried deep into these fields, creating hills for all the souls to picnic on. But the wind, it's gotten warmer and sharper. It's cut away at all the stone and grass and now the bare bones of the countryside are beginning to show again. On one of these hills I look to the pyramids that've shrunk in size, still a monument to the ego as much as they ever were.
My steps take me to the edge of the tallest one. But it's no monolith by any means. Not anymore. Not these days. Even the stones are decomposing. There's no one to worship these old tales anymore. The gods still live, but they've stepped out from the shadows now that they know there's not an audience to be had. That's what makes it so easy to gain the attendance of the old sun himself.
He still looks like a bird, but his feathers are in patches due to lice or fleas or whatever ails the gods nowadays. I tell him why I'm here. I've come for the sun. He says nothing but I know the proud bastard wouldn't dare speak in words, only actions. He'll either let me turn my back on him and walk down his chalky bricks, or destroy my body and let my ashes get swept into the gray.
I tell him the people don't believe in anything anymore. They come here and still believe it's a fantasy of their own making. If I had the sun, the people would worship again. They could rejoice in something that hasn't been seen in generations. I focus on my speech and the haze comes back into my mind. All of a sudden, I see the old bird walk away. I don't know how much into my speech I got before he decided to stop listening, or if he ever listened at all. But his answer is clear. I don't know why he let me live, maybe he pitied me. The last believer. I stand upon the peak of his monument and let the fog into my mind. I've given up. I let the body wander. The world shifts through my peripherals and I feel the mud stick beneath my boots.
But La Llorona weeps and smiles. She got what she wanted, but we all can't, can we? I stand at crossroads to decide another path. La Llorona smiles between sobs and decides her next fee. These gods used to be a reflection of the people that worshipped them. And I suppose they still do. They're just as weak and tired and ready to die like the rest of humanity. Like the last of them. But I suppose they keep to their jobs to occupy the final chapters of this world. Gotta stay relevant. Gotta keep your head above water. But when the River Styx itself has sank below the mire, what's the point of drowning your anger and regrets in your last few moments?
Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?
Tide In, Tide Out
Things move quick when you're under water. The speed of things slow down, like you've jumped to a heavier world, but holding your breath, you can only stay so long. So time speeds up. You dunk your head, your transported for 30 seconds before you gasp back into reality. You give it another try. 20 seconds... 10 seconds... Your lungs ache and your arms and legs are tired of kicking around in the molasses. But when your tired, you can always float on your back. Boys and girls, what an eventful six months this has been. New job, new injuries, new place, and same old drinking habits. As these things came about, I got little writing done. What I did do, however, was build a little world for myself. "Crossroads" is a bit of a story meant for John Constantine, to be honest. This is less a story of a person, and more of a place. The world is in its last throes. The population is dwindling, and with it comes fewer deaths, and fewer people to believe in the gods. And so the gods and their home get a little sicker every day. "Crossroads" is about a man who can traverse this plain of existence as a "Tourist". He can come, he can leave. And he can take at will.
Anyway I believe whole-heartedly that more stories will be told now. I've been swimming with my head under water for months, and I'm finally able to take a breath and perhaps, maybe, I can learn to float on my back. Tide in, tide out.
Anyway I believe whole-heartedly that more stories will be told now. I've been swimming with my head under water for months, and I'm finally able to take a breath and perhaps, maybe, I can learn to float on my back. Tide in, tide out.
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