Category: Short Fiction

Categories
Dreams Short Fiction

One Breath Left

Friction, they had said.

Edward replayed the scene in his mind as he walked furiously homeward. He turned down a main road, conscious he was leaning forward in his gait, rushing, almost talking to himself. He straightened his posture and slowed his pace forcing his mouth to remain still as his thoughts rushed. The steady stream of cars would hardly notice him, but if they did, he did not need crazy added as another imputation against his name.

They had said he had been creating friction in an otherwise frictionless workplace.

He knew that was a lie, a cause cited for a causeless effect. He had never been suspended before. Anger welled inside him, turning his stomach. He’d never had an appetite for anger. Yet, here it was, rising suddenly within him, like a boiling tidal wave with nothing to break its path. He wanted to vomit it out like a poison, but it remained within, steaming.

Eddie, they want you in the office. It’s about your breaks. Johnny, his inferior, had run up to him, just before the day was over. They were work friends, but Edward placed little value upon their relationship and, in fact, resented the casual nickname given him.

What now, Edward wondered. His work history had not been consistent, not linear, nor did it demonstrate his loyalty. He was not a traitor by nature, but Edward refused to go down with a sinking ship – he had never been its captain. So, many ships were abandoned, even as they did not sink. He was not usually viewed a helpful crewmate though he believed himself to never hold an unjust opinion. Frustration surged within him.

He passed a Starbucks as he walked, quickening his pace again, leading with his temple. As he rushed, he had to dodge the cars blocking the sidewalk as the drive-thru lineup tapered onto the road. It was almost five o’clock, and homeward bound fanatics had stopped to collect their caffeinated milkshakes, diabetes disguised by a green-lit siren. The cars were filled with mostly women of all colours and sizes. Some had kids. Some had their learner’s permit. Some had just reloaded their Starbucks account with borrowed dollars. Some were paying off student loans… three years, five, ten, twenty years old. Edward felt a fresh bolt of anger although he did not stop to acknowledge why.

Ed, it’s like this. He knew his boss was going to say something idiotic before the man’s mouth twitched open. Edward spontaneously moved to interrupt, but he quickly caught himself and refrained. He couldn’t possibly know in advance how to argue with unpronounced stupidity. He let the fool’s words fall like ice rain on naked skin.

His boss was a reddish lump of a man, balding, with a gaping fish-mouth partially hidden under a bushy brown mustache which refused to yield to grey. It was surprisingly free of crumbs considering there was always some sort of half-finished donut, Danish, or stuffed croissant on his otherwise tidy desk. He pounded his fist on the old wood for dramatic emphasis as he spoke Edward’s halved name, causing the pastry to lift slightly and land incrementally closer to Edward’s person.  A seeming threat. Friction, Edward could not help but think.

You can’t just do what you want anymore, Ed! You have to have some goddamn respect for authority. My authority! The company! Do you understand?

Edward did not understand. This man had done nothing to earn his respect. Giving one a job does not entitle respect, he thought. Especially when they do not appreciate a job well-done.

Edward did everything in his power to not remember that this man was family. It was just another miserable truth, a callback to a childhood he had not done everything in his power to forget. And thus, it tracked him, like a skillful hunter who tortures his prey before killing it. The abuse, neglect.

They say you cause a lot of issues in the plant, the man softened and continued. I am beginning to see, you are the friction in an otherwise frictionless workplace.

Edward did not understand compassion. He could not read it in his boss’s face, in the twitch of the man’s mustache. Had he clairvoyance, Edward would have understood the man’s misguided wishes for Edward to be free from his suffering. But Edward could not relate. All he could think about was how one of these frictionless colleagues, Dan, showed up to the jobsite raging on cocaine last week. Or how the smooth-tongued Antoine had fucked just about every female liaison their company dealt with. Or how Johnny had forgotten to put in the work request for the new truck, and it would still be out another week before it ran again. Friction.

Edward thought of these men now as he walked furiously toward the corner of the busy road and his quiet street. His external world shifted suddenly as the traffic quieted and fruit trees were now blossoming along his path instead of the greasy fast food joints and oily dealerships. These men (his mind recoiled at the imputation) somehow got respect for their crude and crass behaviour while he was considered a problem. It would have confounded him except that he resolved himself by recalling, people are generally very stupid.

Edward did not care to notice the buzz of pollinators around the pale pink petals of the looming cherries or the soft fragrances of late spring, early evening. Instead he caught the stink of gasoline and oil, stuck to a breeze flung from the nearby Petro, and he allowed it to yank him back to the machine shop office of his stumpy superior.

Are you firing me? Edward challenged as acknowledgement of the fool’s claims. The brick-brown walls drew closer. The thick air denser. His boss’s face melted into the warmth of the walls. Flashes of red, black darted across his vision.

The man chuckled sadly. No, son. I am suspending you. Come back on Monday with a fresh mind.

Edward turned quickly to go, already planning out his email to his direct supervisor, the man’s actual son. Your father has lost his mind, senile already. I do not accept my suspension, and I will be at work tomorrow…

Edward had continued to write email after email in his head on the walk home, citing policies and employment law, carefully researched in his mind’s eye, irrefutable. He noticed nothing else and acknowledged nothing else except some darkly personal betrayal and bleak malice, and thus he felt nothing but intense anger and a deep melancholy which denied any responsibility on his part, in his experience. These idiots, he thought. Their friction…

Unbeckoned, a cartoon flashed across the eyelids of his memories. The Magic School Bus…the children…miniature…skating across the pages of a book, colliding with one another… frictionless, Miss Frizzle laughing… We need friction, she was saying… the children falling, laughing…

When was the last time I laughed? Another thought, a question, also unbeckoned, unwelcomed. Edward did not answer, and he did his best to forget what he had asked himself. But it came again as an echo.

When was the last time I laughed?

Edward was approaching his house now. A modest bungalow, set at the edge of a suburb, his road perpendicular to the main street, his bed close enough for convenience, and far enough away for a facsimile of peace – no such thing existing now. What was solitude in a small city of 137,000 people? Still, he felt a loneliness bloom in his chest as he crossed his threshold now. As he had felt a hundred times before.

He remembered earlier today, in the half of the day before he had been called to the principal’s office. Several colleagues stood around the water cooler in the breakroom as Jimmy told a story of his first affair. Now in his late twenties, he was describing sneaking around with two girls, just before his eighteenth birthday. He was miming. It looked as if he were pulling back the reins of a horse with one hand and slapping its rear with his other, his eyes rolling back in his head. The men around him were howling. Even the secretary, Trish, gave in to laughter. Edward had left the room as quickly as he entered it.

The frequency of which Edward left rooms was unparalleled. An observer may easily believe he entered spaces only for the purpose of leaving them. One may naturally conclude he received some kind of thrill or perverse pleasure through parting (though surely he must leave at the same rate as everyone else). This feeling for departure went always unnamed except that, today, his boss had named it friction.

That must be it, Edward thought, taking a brief hiatus from mental letter-writing. For a word is just a collection of letters until it is given meaning. And although Edward knew, unequivocally, the scientific meaning of friction, he must also understand that his boss was not using it in this way – as he is nothing more than a blundering idiot! He probably meant that, while his colleagues were always coming, Edward was always going. This type of friction is unacceptable in this field. The only field for which he had ever become equipped. A field he was not planning on quitting despite his aptitude for terminating secular employment.

When was the last time I laughed? The question replayed once more in Edward’s mind. Shut up! He responded.

He tossed his keys on the bureau placed practically in the entry way to hold such items as mail, magazines, keys, gloves, hats, while reusable bags to go back in the car were hung on the small antique globe affixed to a drawer that hid nothing but scribbled post-it notes, a couple screwdrivers, a hammer, and some old bills.

Except for this untidiness at the front door, Edward kept his home immaculately clean. He was unbidden by a particular calling but prepared for any potential visit from a suitor of the other sex, his future wife, a woman desperate for his special company. (Although no normal woman would find comfort in his sparse rooms, absent of décor, designed only for the practicality of male movement through space.)

His mind held no such fantasies tonight. He wished he had stopped for pizza on the way home. It was against personal policy to pay for delivery, so he resigned himself to a frozen dinner. He preheated the oven, picking at a scab on his arm as he waited for the temperature to peak.

When was the last time I laughed?

Should he seek an answer to the question that rolled around his mind like a curse? Made worse by the fact that his reputation had been officially stained with suspension. Here he was, suddenly curious about his nature. I’m unchangeable, he thought. Still, for good or bad, the question refused to be forgotten and so became, like a beating heart under the floor boards, something impossible to ignore, a chanting in his inner ear. So rhythmic, increasing in tempo, becoming a hum, a whine of elemental insanity, so intensely maddening and high-pitched, he found himself punching the drywall beside the kitchen doorjamb and speaking aloud:

CAN’T I BE HAPPY?

And just as suddenly repeating, more quietly:

Can I be happy?

His first utterance a plea to a god for whom he had no faith.  The second, a desperate platitude unto himself.

Taking an estimate of his material surroundings, Edward refused to admit that none of it had brought an iota of happiness that could be maintained for more than a second moment. His enjoyment of each object always wavered, especially in dependence upon his mood that day or the burden of debt carried with it. The vast mortgage attached to this small living space – which he could not afford if he lost this job – the credit card statement revealing he was still paying for the luxurious memory foam mattress, rated 10/10 sleep comfort for couples, although only 6/10 for sex. Practically unbroken in.

His mind flashed to the last woman who had laid with him. The mattress still smelled chemically fresh. It seemed like just a split second she was there. Then she was gone. A polaroid developed and discarded. A hazy memory of slick skin, affordably perfumed sweat, a half-hearted blowjob, the high-thread-count cotton coming untucked, a hyperbolic moan escaping puffy filled-lips, a quick cum. His lazy body missed the effortless pleasure of skin on skin, but he did not miss the woman behind the fuck for a minute. He did not know her, although they had pretended to know one another for a while. He did not enjoy expending his imaginative energy faking such intimacy. He cut the cord. Since, he has enjoyed only imagination, although sparingly. The lotion beside his bed was not often replaced.

Can I be happy? When was the last time I laughed?

Could he answer such questions himself? He travelled into the future to find the answer. He strained to picture himself smiling, laughing with friends, embracing a big-breasted partner, holding his new offspring, having a catch with his child in the yard. Going to work each day. Feeling respect and envy of his peers. Paying bills without stress, planning vacations. Winning quarrels with his spicy, chesty wife. Refusing to abandon his role as protector… he felt a fresh wave of painful feelings which he transformed to bitterness and swallowed into the molten pit of his stomach.  How he longed for another to see him as protector. How he craved such reputation and love, love earned and deserved.

He racked the recent past of his memories looking for anything that hinted happiness was real and true. He came up empty-headed again and again. No matter what he searched for and what he attained, everything turned sour and rotted away his hopes for a happy future, finding no contentment for the present in his mind, despite being able to lay a foundation for a solid outcome. Why was there no meaning in this most serious task?

Why so serious? Another question unasked for arose in his faultless mind.

He chuckled to himself. The sound was like the scraping of rusted nails on pavement, and he laughed again, in horror, to hear such sound escape him.

Can I be happy? The question again. And it would come again and again. Edward found himself not being able to say, yes! Not being able to know.

Tears began to come. Why had he walked home? It had obviously exhausted him. He had no wish to feel these frustrations, these feelings. Not now. He had no wish to engage in the philosophical debate within himself that demanded him to answer whether it was worth it to go on. Whether it was worth it to acquire the material success that makes a life worth living. Whether it was worth it to continue to tell oneself the lie we all tell ourselves – that happiness should depend upon something other than one’s own mind!

He refused to engage in the debate, and so the question repeated itself in the background of his mind, while he cooked, while he ate, while he scrolled, while he read news of imminent nuclear war, while he brushed his teeth, while he, in routine familiarity, gazed at his car through the window before bed (just fourteen more payments), while he shut his eyes and tried to sleep:

Can I be happy?

~~~

What did Edward dream?  (answer your version in the comments below)

~~~

While Edward slept, he encountered a startling vision.

He was on his walk home from work, upset over the events of the day. He walked quickly and made it to his street in record time. Only, when he turned onto his road, he was no longer in the city, but in the heart of the country. His house was not set near the side-walked suburban road, but had became a hundred-year-old cabin set deep into a wooded lot. The trees were mostly pine and cedar, and the sunlight scarcely lit the dappled dirt path, winding to his front door. He took it, unquestioning.

He entered into a warm room, a fire burning in the hearth. There was activity in the kitchen. Someone wearing an apron was making dinner. It was obvious. The aromas of roasting meat, carrots, potatoes and onion wafted through a comforting, warmly lit den. At first, he mistook the dancing figure, blocking the light in the kitchen doorway, for a man. She had short hair and a stocky build. Then he heard her laugh. As she moved back into the light of the stove, he saw her hair was blond, and she showed a pretty, smiling face. Small breasts and an average waist. How was your day, sweetie? he heard her voice call to him. Good and yours, he found himself replying. It’s almost ready, he heard her sing in response.

A moment later, she walked into the room carrying a large roasting pan with two oven mitted hands, struggling under its weight. Open it! she laughed nodding toward the steaming black lid. He felt sudden concern. Will it burn me? he asked cautiously. She laughed again. Of course it will! But it will be worth it! Be a man! she jeered.

Enough to test his resolve, her laughter prompted Edward to rip off the lid and throw it quickly to the side. It smashed against a nearby wall, knocking down a picture frame which shattered on the floor. She laughed again, more of a cackle, and the sound mixed unpleasantly with the smashing glass.  It didn’t hurt at all! he cried, annoyed the cool lid had startled him.

Oh no? was all she said and nodded toward the pot’s contents. A small baby – somewhere deep within himself, Edward recognized it as his own – was curled up, like an evenly browned pig, smelling heavenly in the roasting pan. He let out a strangled cry. What madness is this?

Take it! Take your baby! she laughed, holding out the pot. He turned to face this nightmare, the baby rolled over in the pan, cooing, da-da, moving its mouth like a fish out of water and lifting its small hands upward. Edward picked it up, horrified that it lived, yet feeling some kind of relief. He cradled the baby to his chest, warm gravied juices staining his clean work shirt, running to the nook of his elbow.  He looked at the woman, still beautiful, awful. He pulled the baby away from his body, holding it out to study it.

To Edward’s chagrin, it spoke this poem:

You don’t see beauty,
you won’t see death,
you refuse to acknowledge
the law of cause and effect

You wish to be happy
but you cause only pain
you wish for status, respect
while criticizing others, in vain

You wish for the answer
but won’t open your eyes
you wish to hear clearly
but you don’t wish to be wise

You punish yourself
with mistaken awareness
you run to your suffering
and call it unfairness

You could invest in your joy
by performing virtue
but instead choose to plant seeds
to feel ever lonely and blue

Now you dream the dream
with instructions to wake up
don’t push them aside
because they don’t fit in your cup

Drink the wisdom nectar
give up selfishness today
you have all the conditions
do not throw them away

Choose to be happy.

~~~

Edward woke up.
 

Categories
Dreams Short Fiction

After Dark

I met a stranger in the woods. The sun had set and twilight’s shadows were quickly vanishing in the dying dusk.

I wasn’t accustomed to being out after dark, when the fireflies started to dance, enveloping the path with their staccato luminosity. I nervously enjoyed their magic when she materialized suddenly, seemingly stepping through a patch of cedar (I couldn’t conceive out of thin air).

AH! I startled, not expecting someone in the woods so late alongside me – a girl, no less.

Are you afraid of the dark? Or are you afraid of girls? She asked, laughing at me.

The dark, I guess. I mumbled back.

Virgo, are you?

I should my head, no.

Capricorn, then.

I stayed quiet.

That’s what I thought. She laughed again.

You going back to the parking lot? She queried.

I nodded.

Want company?

I nodded again.

Maybe a body guard? She laughed.

What is there to need protection from, aside from the dark?  I asked seriously, instantly my mind conjuring grisly scenes of coyotes devouring the both of us.

She gave me a look, glanced away, and grinned to herself.

You’re the oldest of three brothers?

It was more of a statement than a question. Our eyes met. She was right, but I stayed silent.

That’s what I thought. She laughed again.

The feeling I began to enjoy, sharing the company of another instead of being alone in the woods after dark, quickly decayed.

Oh don’t be scared. She said, gently placing her hand on my arm.

It was warm, and I naturally relaxed.

I’m a wood nymph. She said casually, but the words came out strange, echoey, falling syllable at a time to the ground after hanging in the air a moment.

Swiftly, gooseflesh spread across my skin as my neck hairs raised.

Suddenly, a memory played in my head.

I am at the butterfly conservatory on a field trip, maybe grade seven, and the guide is pointing at some butterflies feeding on fruit. He calls them common wood nymphs. The common wood-nymph feeds on nectar, tree sap, and decaying matters, he says in his flat voice. They are brown with large eyes on the outside of their wings, I observe. They are casually beautiful in muted colour, matching last autumn’s dead foliage still carpeting the faux summer forest floor.

You don’t look like a wood nymph. I said, stupidly. What did a wood nymph look like?

She didn’t look ghostly or ethereal. She looked solid. Like the girls I went to school with or my co-workers.

Did you want to touch me? She smiled as though reading my mind. Again.

She stopped. The deep periwinkle of the full moon sky brightened the clearing where we paused. The soft moonlight illuminated her smooth, white neck and a low neckline of the gauzy, lilac-blue fabric that had settled gently over her breasts – maybe she was a bit ethereal after all. I hadn’t noticed any of that when she first appeared.

She laughed. Most men want to touch. She winked at me, joking.

I wanted to laugh, but she caught me off guard, and I started to think the joint I smoked a few hours earlier hadn’t worn off after all.

It’s okay. She said as she reached for my hand.

I pulled it back, caught up by the fact she had called me a man.

It shouldn’t surprise me still. I am one, after all, being an adult in my late twenties. But it does still surprise me to be lumped in with the rest.

Who are you, then? She queried. If not one of them?

I stayed silent.

I was trying to position myself. In the world. In this moment.

I am alone. I am alone in the woods with a nymph. I am not alone. I am with a nymph. I am Will and I am with a nymph in the woods after dark. I am Will and I am scared. I wish I wasn’t scared. I am Will and I am alone with a nymph in the woods after dark and I am scared, but I wish I wasn’t.

But that’s not who I always am. So I stayed silent.

Who are you then? The nymph continued questioning.

I can’t answer you. I quietly countered.

Will you not ask me my name? she jousted.

Who are you? I stuttered meekly.

Her laughter, like bells, sounded around me.

Who are you? She asked again.

I remained silent. I did not know what to say.

Do you not know?

How can I know what I cannot find? I finally replied.

Can you find the way out? She laughed.

And suddenly, she dissolved into the dark.

I looked around. I hadn’t noticed exactly where we’d been walking. I’d been following her. She said we were going back to the parking lot. Had she not?

I was not in a parking lot. I was no longer in a clearing. I was still very much in the woods. Very much in the dark. And looking around, I couldn’t see a blaze to mark the trail in any pool of fractal moonlight.

I tried to recall the route we had taken. I couldn’t. I tried to remember the gauze of her outfit, the vaporous shape of her body. I couldn’t. I recollected her diaphanous face, and in place of a girl, my mind called back only the eyes of the common wood nymphs in the conservatory. I tried to remember her voice, questioning me, and I heard only the warble of the tour guide: The female common wood-nymph is the active flight partner. The female lays her eggs on or near the host plant.

I knew better than to panic, but not understanding my situation – or what had just happened – and feeling very much deceived – either by a magical creature or, even worse, my own mind – I sunk to the ground in momentary defeat.

I wondered why I noticed she said men. I wondered why I didn’t feel like a man. I wondered why we didn’t have those rituals in our society, any more, where you had to perform some coming of age stunt.

Then I remembered learning, in one of my elective history courses, about some pretty gruesome rites of passage. Right. Coming of age isn’t pretty.

But neither is being tricked into the middle of your local conservation area after sunset by a mythical creature (or an insane hallucination) and feeling like crying even though you’re a supposed grown man.

Maybe this is the moment I prove myself. Maybe this is the moment I truly become a man. This could be my coming of age ritual (ignoring the fact it’s thirteen years late).

I stood up, having renewed my resolve with a temporary inflation of an extremely fragile ego.

I was reaching for my phone with the intention of taking a quick look on Google Maps to get my bearings. Maybe I could pinpoint my location on this God-forsaken trail and use my phone’s flashlight to find my way out of here.

As I pulled the device from my pocket, something slapped it out of my hand and into the nearby brush. I knew from my familiarity with the trail that the ground foliage was made of mostly raspberry, rose, Virginia creeper and poison ivy, and I wasn’t eager to thrust out my hand in search of my cell.

Even more concerning, of course, was the fact that something was out to get me.

Laughter. Like bells in all directions. Rising and falling with the flashes of fireflies around me. The magic of the lightning bugs now tainted by the horror of my situation.

Nala. A voice in my ear.

FUCK! I screamed.

She appeared beside me.  She laughed.

I screamed again as I fell over a root, backing away from her. I scrambled to get up, but the ground was rocks and mud, and I tumbled.

She stood above me, dressed as normally as any girl in the forest at night could be (hoody, hiking pants, muddy sneakers), and offered me her hand as if to help me up.

As a man, I made the decision to trust her. I took her hand.

She didn’t dissolve. She was solid. Material. She pulled me up.

She was pale, but not blue or white. She was aglow as if in moonlight, but the canopy of branches was thick overhead blocking out almost all luminance. It was spooky. My discomfort was as clear as day when she smiled at me.

Talk to girls much? She snickered.

You’re no girl. I managed to spit out.

That doesn’t sound nice. She said. But what I suppose you mean is, I’m not ordinary. And you’d be correct.

My name’s Nala. She continued. My parents were great travelers. I’m actually descended from the nymphs of the ancient Baobab groves of the African plains.

Perhaps she could see I was not impressed by her lineage. I couldn’t help it. I was still a little shaken and scratched up, not only by the deceit of the previous moments, but by landing on my arse in the middle of poison ivy and raspberry brambles. I was bruised in more ways than one.

Well I’m sure your lineage couldn’t be more impressive. She tossed at me. You don’t even know who you are.  You don’t even believe you are a man.

She continued to wound me with her clairvoyance.

I didn’t expect to be trapped in the woods after dark without even the light of the moon only to be pierced by the intuitively mean words of a stranger as if her superpower was to expose each and every excruciating insecurity I’ve been secretly sustaining.

I didn’t know what to say. I settled for begging.

Can you please bring me to my car? Can you lead me out of here?

Why should you trust me? She turned again, shimmering, cornflower and gossamer in the shadow of the midnight leaves.

What choice have I?

You could lead yourself out. You could fight me.  You could seek vengeance for being wronged. You could have your way with me.

My “way” is to get out of the forest alive. It was my turn to laugh. Why should I hurt you? What benefit would that bring?

She was mute.

Where were her bells now? Her garments were in shreds. She was fading. She was wounded.

We were walking. She was leading me out. I hoped. Her feet were bare. With each step, she left a bloody footprint that glistened silver in the filtered moonlight before fading into black. The silvery incandescence that appeared to alight her, shone from her. It wavered. Around her, the trees looked sick. Many had been overrun with vines, invasive creepers, were strangled and died. Many animals had been overcrowded into the relatively small woodlot and competed for limited resources. Growls and noises of discontent blossomed occasionally to disturb the otherwise silent night.

Even the crickets and cicadas were uncommonly quiet as we trudged onward. I assumed she was leading me out. I hoped we were traveling toward the exit. I tried to pay attention this time. I tried to be mindful. Most of all I was curious. I was almost positive I was sober. So I was either having the most iconic mental episode or some kind of spiritual experience – for better or worse.

Are you sick? I asked, finally breaking the silence of our journey.

I am dying. She replied softly but firmly.

I didn’t know what to say. I stayed silent.

The earlier evening wind had died out and the night air was still. Not a leaf shuttered. Only my breath was noisy in the night. Nala glided effortlessly forward. Her feet touched the ground as I witnessed or dreamed her morph from pale lavender ethereal specter to ordinary solid young woman. I was transfixed. She could have led me anywhere.

A great sadness had bloomed in my heart. I no longer thought of myself. I could only see the pain and suffering and sickness of the forest, of the living beings, the animals, the spirits.

This pain goes beyond the forest. She said softly, again, as if reading my thoughts.

We are in degenerate times, and it feels as though nothing can be done to reverse the unravelling of such great suffering.

I stayed silent.

Do you think you will change? Do you think you will learn who you are?

She paused in the sudden clearing.

Moonlight poured over us, a beacon of light. She was begging for my truth.

Will you change?

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to believe this event would change me. I wanted to believe I would wake up tomorrow and yearn to come back to the woods, to heal it, to make a difference, to become a man. I wanted to believe I wouldn’t immediately forget, write it off as a dream, a nightmare.

Why won’t you say yes? She had tears in her eyes now. Why won’t you change? Do you love your suffering?

I did not love my suffering. But where was I to find these answers? Who was I to turn to? I did not believe I could come back here.

Will you not change?

I met Nala’s eyes. They remained true. They were bright, bold, and illuminated. The rest of her was shifting. Her skin would become luminous and pale and then soft and translucent. White to blue. Her clothes were infinitely fascinating and indescribable and nothing substantial. At times she was naked and at other times fully clothed in garb, ancient and foreign or subtle and modern.

She reached out to hold my immutable face in her ephemeral fingers. An abrupt wind swept her wild garments so they brushed my skin and at times a cloak appeared that crumpled in the subtle space between us. Her parted lips moved toward my face and I closed my eyes. At first I felt an intense heat as if dipped in oil and set alight. Then, just as fast, I felt an intense cold as if plunged deep into winter’s icy lake. Then, just as suddenly, I was lukewarm water, running, musically and lightly as if in a stream. I was buoyant, airy, a leaf floating through a clear summer sky. I was a spider lowering itself by a thread. I was a bird building its nest with mislaid silk. I was a midflight squirrel soaring to another tree’s branch. I was the hum of every insect and the song of every sparrow. I was the woods and they were me, inseparable.

And when Nala’s lips finally left mine after what felt an instant and an eternity where I knew everything and then nothing once more, I was beside my car outside the woods in the dark of the night with gravel beneath my feet and a full moon overhead, cell phone in my pocket.

I am changed. I said.

And I left.

Categories
Philosophy Short Fiction

We had to have a meeting

A short story by K. Samways

The greatest of my minds got together and held a panel. At this panel, it was determined which opinions would be put forth since none could be agreed upon in singularity.

From Chairman Peninski, Community Care Division, statement:
These new mandates will be the perfect method for exterminating the last 10% of visible homelessness.

From Clarissa, Compassionate Care Division, statement:
These mandates are perfect for generating universal compassion — for those that suffer by them and for those that create suffering (as their own is just beginning).

From Jack of the Anarchists’ Alliance, statement:
The only way to solve any of our problems is to dismantle the current government as we know it, to remove all politicians from office (who we well know work to their own benefit while we wholeheartedly support it), and to elect anew local members who have demonstrated appropriate sacrifices for their community and seek to oversee through service. We must renounce the hypocrisy of those with wealth and power! 

After shooting a disarming expression at Jack for overrunning his allotted time as usual, Janet of the Enough is Enough committee, which began as a branch project of the We Should Give a Damn Taskforce, states:
Perhaps we should shed light on the widespread doublethink, triplethink and even newly emerging quadruplethink. People must have awareness they are being conned.

From Margaret of the Traditions and Values Council, who couldn’t help but smile, delivering her words, as she had caught a glimpse of a ragged Animal Farm peeking out of Janet’s purse, statement:
We have concluded that it is of utmost importance that historical accuracy to this situation be preserved, and that we retain our recent history so as not to exist solely in a single moment of time. We must see humanity in a continuum that is a succession of moments wherein this moment is preceded and succeeded by events that can be scientifically predicted based on behavioural patterns. To exist in an economic present without ethics and morals of restraint, we are destined to become angry and temperamental with uncontrolled minds geared toward violence instead of peace and wisdom. We should always remember, patience is a virtue. 

No one was upset that Margaret exceeded her time limit for she was old and easy to tune out. It was expected that she would run over and then wrap up her version of current events with a cliché proverb. Yet, it was still typically Margaret with whom most everyone agreed for seldom could one argue her words.

From Jonah, Ethics and Autonomy Division, statement:
It must be agreed that if this is a free country, then we have autonomy over our bodies to the smallest healthcare procedure while still retaining our basic human rights and freedoms. If we do not, then it should be acknowledged that we no longer have the freedoms we were once admitted, and we should acknowledge that indeed certain privileges associated with freedom are being taken away. These rights are not revoked by the foreigner, as we are led to believe, but by the authoritarian powers that have bent the knee to corporate desire. Profit and Power. 

Emma, always teaming with emotion and struggling for a voice within the committee despite her depth of perception, squeaked out between tears:
It is only with compassion for all living beings can we move forward. This compassion should lead every action. The suffering here is too great. How can we add more through anger and division? No, we must come together to make our situation better through small decisively good actions – picking up garbage, smiling at one another…

She could not go on for the overwhelm of tears that arose and strange noises overtook the words of her emotionally compelling argument. She had been especially tilted by being placed continuously after Jonah in order of their statement reading; for whenever this mind arose she would always remember the hardships he endured over any other mind at the table. The fact he braved these wars with a patience and stoicism that made even Margaret second-rate only made Emma cry harder. She knew that this was the mind put most at risk by current affairs.

Indeed, as Emma conjured such superstitions, a group of Small Minds that had been intentionally uninvited to any panel thus far were planning an interception of events. They were hoping to create such a violent disruption that the panel would fear gathering ever after! Their perspective was that it was wasteful to have these kinds of meetings at all. These Small Minds were bred at a young age, and never developed beyond their youth. They had a spirit that desired hard work and a harder master. They hated minds that thought for themselves or fought for autonomy, for these small minds coveted their own slavery. Though they were stupid, they proved nearly impossible to eradicate as each one, simple though it was, had an elder that was even more ignorant and more deeply rooted than it. They hooked together for support, and breathed life back into once dead thoughts, these ghosts a poison to the wisdom of the great minds.

Yet the meeting continued on with all engrossed minds unaware of the dealings behind their backs, so to speak. Next up was Irk who always came after Emma as it appeared he had no qualms with speaking over her muffled sobs as she stemmed the last bit of habitual breakdown.

From Irk of the Obviouslies, a group compiled completely of factoids picked up by reputable sources rather than the random tidbits picked up and scattered by Seriouslies who conjured confusion with their misleading name and therefore had no present representative, statement:
It is obvious after reading just four years ago about pharmaceutics’ need for an epidemic in order to be able to justify the cheaply reproducible and yet-to-be-proven effective mRNA vaccines – that just couldn’t quite make it to market before now – that there is something more to this “pandemic” than meets the eye. The fact is not the conspiracy – the ‘why?’ is the conspiracy. And you can talk to the Seriouslies on that arguable point.

From Pam, of Prophecies and Forebodings, the usual statement:
I told you this was coming.

She then refused to reveal her next prediction (“Because,” she said, “everyone should already know that one mandate leads to two”) and wouldn’t say another word for the rest of the evening, not even after the panel was over and everyone gathered for snacks near the bar. Rumours had it that the mind Prophesy Pam and the mind Downer Debbie were actually the same mind, but no one dared say this to Pam’s face and Debbie was never invited to the meetings. 

From Cam, of the Actual Conspiracies Division – differentiated after the original Conspiracies Division was hijacked by Small Minds and is now known somewhat sardonically as the Seriouslies division – who was still staring with frustration at Irk after he spoke, statement:
We have concluded that while no one true conspiracy can be known, the fact remains that these mandates and pandemic guidelines are in no way warranted by the actual risk that this temporary virus yields. In addition, we would like to direct attention back to the atrocities of pollution, crop poisoning, control measures and deception tactics that are being practiced now more than ever. We say no more.

Since the Seriouslies entered disrepute with all other Minds, internal and external, Cam had become one of the only public-speaking representatives of the Actual Conspiracy Division. Since the last squad went sour, his taste for advocating his conspiratorial campaigns had vanished without trace. Although Emma didn’t cry for him, he was also at risk of assassination this very evening. Though he was given his seat due to his brilliance, his proposed realities created instability not easily accepted by the other minds – great or small.

“COMFORT OVER CRAZY!” yelled a Small Mind hiding in the wings, suddenly unable to restrain himself after having had to listen quietly to more than three statements he disagreed with. Their cover blown and their plan now having to wait for the next meeting, the Small Minds all let up a hullabaloo before being kicked out of the council once again. They left only reluctantly while screaming slyly: “WHAT’S WRONG WITH ALL YOU?” “YOU’RE ALL EVIL!” “YOU’RE HURTING THE CHILDREN!” “HAVE YOU NO GRATITUDE FOR THE SACRIFICES THE COMMUNITY HAS MADE FOR YOU?” “THINK OF THE POLITICIANS!”

“Who let them in here?” the Chairman briskly scolded security. But since the security minds were unemotional, rigid and inflexible, they offered no answer and simply retook their posts outside the meeting room wall. 

“Reactionary S.O.B.s…” grumbled the Chairman. He and several other minds needed to be reeled back in before the statements could continue and this took several minutes. Eventually, Marta the breathing instructor appeared and helped bring the minds back to a place of clarity and peace. After a few minutes, the meeting was able to return to its due course of action with Marta permitted to stay in the room meditating and dedicating for the peace of all minds.

“She’s more protection than security,” grumbled the Chairman, his normal self a bit distrusting at all times although here he was correct. Now only a small number of minds still had statements left to read.

From Eldra of the Higher Powers, statement:
Inflexible controlling mandates based on illusion of safety and temporary economic benefit while offering no actual advantage to health and longevity of all beings will lead to great moral downfall and unrest. Remember, anger is a poison and all minds arising from it corrupted. We can blame no one but ourself. We can change no one but ourself.

Suddenly, Fredricka the Fearful popped up as if from under the table, though she too had been uninvited. “I’m scared!” she cried.

“We know you are, child,” replied Eldra, reaching out to comfort Fredricka. 

“No, this is serious!” Fredricka pulled away. “Now must be the time for action, because if we remain where we are, we will be crushed by the Small Minds! Do you not see they are coming for you? For us all? They wish us to be one! One mind! Yet not of the continuum we now serve, but of THEIRS! So we can be CONTROLLED! We should flee! Run! Get out of here!”

Once more, security slowly removed the disruption with ease once they became aware of it. The hardness of their armor prevented any feeling from arising. 

Once more, the panel had been interrupted and small conversations briefly dominated by worry had broken out amongst the minds. The minds that had already given their statements with wisdom considered overturning them when they felt the cold blanket of fear drape over the room. Some minds remained sad and silent, because they had worked so hard to get Fredricka out of their heads before the panel discussion had started. A few who hadn’t had a chance to speak looked like they were considering editing their statement on the spot without discussion. Fredricka the Fearful had spying minds everywhere that collected information for the sole purpose of creating fear based motivations. Her words cut deeply and were difficult to heal hence her being left out, but still she managed to make herself heard and felt.

BANG. BANG. BANG. The Chairman had procured a gavel and was hammering the table in front of him. The reverberations rippled through all the other minds even startling Marta out of meditation. Some were surprised because they thought the gavel had been confiscated several meetings ago, and they were not aware that the Chairman had means to get it back. 

“May I remind everyone that our job is simply to read the statements as they have been agreed upon and as they sit written in front of us now. Let us continue.”

From Jesus (the J pronounced like an H), Greater Good committee, statement:
While we may be convinced that the greatest good is to swallow prescribed medicine unflinchingly while encouraging others to do the same, it has been found that even greater good comes from seeing wisdom and truth. It is found by this committee that swallowing narratives that have been easy to consume due to consistent repetitive messages on levels personal, professional and global is in fact the cause of a great sickness of the mind, now rampant. Although the common narrative proposes the greatest threat is a sickness of the body, it should be noted that the greatest threat is the submissive mind sickness arising – which has occurred on a large scale in the past with only devastating outcomes. 

At this statement, Pam let out a chilling cackle and then broke down in tears. She had absorbed a lot of energy during the two interruptions and was now vibrating with visions of an unpleasant future. Still, she refused to share them, advising that it is better to ask “What if the future is bright?” and “What would that look like?” instead of hearing further unsettling ideas. This strain of optimism seemed new for Pam and actually further unsettled the other minds.

Hilda the Hilarious, understanding why she was left near last (as everyone needed a bit of a laugh by now), settled for: 
If you’re unsure about any decision, just talk to a politician! 

At this everyone did laugh, except Emma who was still quietly crying, for they all remembered the article they recently read commanding people unsure about taking this medicine to talk to a doctor or their local politician. A phrase most good-tempered citizens would have all laughed at heartily a couple decades ago was now “wise” and widely propagated advice. 

From Prudence, of the Preservation of Facts and Memories Division, a simple update:
Yes, we have all witnessed the increasing perversity of wisdom and logic over the course of several years, yet expedited in recent months. I have maintained a record of many articles, testimony, and once popular media that dispute and debunk today’s common political advocacy. Although today, this rhetoric is being altered or removed from public access, I have saved some originals which will be available for all minds to consume at leisure. One may feel compelled to revisit these documents as external minds continue adapting and warping narratives to serve whatever purpose they see presently fit, pretending they held such minds, unchanging and of their own accord, all along. 

Finally, Olivia the Optimist was permitted to speak. She had always refused to join any particular faction but enjoyed being present at most minds’ meetings. She was typically welcomed by other minds who were often in need of the energy boost she shared warmly. Usually left until last, her statement was always delivered with patience and offered similar wisdom though her words today were particularly realistic and chilling:

In closing, we must remain optimistic. We may not be optimistic in people, but we must remain optimistic in the resilience of our minds. We are minds that refuse to be corrupted. We are minds of virtue that refuse to give up. We are minds that grow and change, but we refuse to be killed. It is in our optimism and our imagining of a better future that we will survive, appear to abandon those that need the appearance of abandonment, and lead those that need leadership. 
Now is not the time to open our doors to hopelessness, for the flail of despair has been extinguished! Though we do not agree as one voice, we can hold acceptance of this disagreement by refusing to submit ourselves to one mind to our detriment and erasure! We are true minds, and even if we are removed now, we will return! Have faith, my comrades! For with optimism, we can keep our sense of selves and build a future that includes all the minds of wisdom – so that even Small Minds may be enslaved if that be their wish, granting for them a master, but offering only the kindest hand without whip or torture. 
In closing, may we imagine that there is no scenario where we give up the autonomy of our multiple minds and instead, may we awaken the consciousness of others so that they too may imagine a future free of their own enslavement, being happy for this new future though it is difficult to achieve and requires the release of many attachments. 

With that statement, which in all its sober truth demanded much hope and optimism from the great minds, they wrapped up the meeting and departed to the bar for a much needed social hour. 

Categories
Short Fiction

Business Advice

A short story by K. Samways

‘Thank you, Albert,’ Mr. Jones nodded, claiming his drink from the proffered tray perched upon his servant Alfred’s delicate fingers. 

He took pause from gazing over the city outside his window to consider the warm brown liquid nibbling away the ice in the middle of the glass. 

He gave it a swirl with his right hand, chuckling as the cubes clinked against the crystal walls. There would always be more ice. At least, the kind he needed. 

“Do you know how to ruin a family?” Mr. Jones, feeling suddenly sentimental, turned to Albert who had taken his customary place against the wall in the shadows of the room. 

“No, sir.”

Of course he doesn’t, thought Jones. All he does is stand there all day and take orders like an idiot, so his family can frivol elsewhere. Yes, by minimum standards, Albert was a well cared for employee, paid in excess with special privileges afforded to his wife and children, allowing them to lead a relatively carefree life — provided they obeyed the rules with which their new class came.

As for Albert, he was no more than a servant to Jones, being at beck and call twenty-four hours a day, only permitted to vacation when Jones was vacationing, often travelling with him and still working; he was never doled much time with the family he so well provided for. The man’s wife had probably taken several new lovers, Jones chuckled again.

“Simple. Opposition and fear.”

The snicker preceding these words cast a chill over the room, and Albert refrained from shivering. It was rare to see Jones act so cavalier about his generally sinister doings. A small silence slowly ripened as Albert knowingly stayed dumb.

“I’m bored. Call Victoria,” Jones snapped.

“Yes, sir.” Albert inclined his head a few degrees then left the room.

Jones again turned toward the window, regretting his impulsive display of emotion. His control was not slipping, he reassured himself, and soon his friends would see what they could accomplish together. He chuckled again, feeling amused — the idea that any of them were friends. He almost laughed out loud. Language is a funny thing. And it is fun. It was part of what made the game so arousing: the odds just unpredictable enough to allow for good gambling. He had to admit, he was dealt a good hand, but he was growing more suspicious that Smith had an equally good, possibly better, hand. 

He contemplated his suspicions as he finished his drink, his eyes devouring the city below.

“Mrs. Smith, sir.” Albert returned shortly after he left, escorting an elegant middle-aged woman held firm and youthful with an expensive and complex regimen. 

“Victoria.” Jones couldn’t help but smile, nearly genuinely, he thought.

“Mr. Jones. Lovely to see you again.”

They kissed each other on each cheek, long since laughing away fears around any illness. They sat at the bar with the view of a million twinkling lights poured out before them.

“What, may I ask, are you looking for?” Mrs. Smith asked bluntly, knowing Jones’ position all too well.

“Perhaps a little less conversation,” chirped Jones as he placed his hand at the ridge of Victoria’s knee just under the hem of her dress. Her legs uncrossed themselves immediately and she drew back.

Then, as if rehearsed, she took his hand and, walking away from the window, glided toward the bedroom. Jones could hardly keep from coming for the words still lingered in his mind and as a whisper on his tongue:

“Opposition and fear.” 

Categories
Short Fiction

The Hour

Prose laden with imagery, 2003.

The clock’s hand slowly crept around as the minutes passed by. Before long, the midnight hour was at hand.  The hour when Evil slowly crept out of the darkest places, the hour when the moon was at its highest, the hour…when Evil things lurked.

The sun was shining as Melanie stepped outside.  The air was warm and the breezes played in the trees.  The sun danced through the leaves and onto Melanie’s sandaled feet.  It was a beautiful day for playing jump rope with her friends.  Her mother would make her take her little sister to the park with her, but even that could not ruin this wonderful day.

The sun had completely vanished.  The shadows started to creep out of their hiding places.  The morrow would be soon here, but, for the next blessed hour, it would be Evil who ruled the night. A shadow passed over the moon, or perhaps it was just a cloud.  Bats fluttered from their daytime eaves, and owls hooted in the trees. An icy breeze floated over the scene. The air was heavy and dank.  Leaves fell, and an unbearable silence was thrust over the land.

Outside, at the park, children’s laughter was all around.  Kids were running, jumping, playing, their colourful clothing surrounding everything.  Melanie’s sister was playing hopscotch with some friends she had just made.  Melanie was using her new, bright purple skipping rope.  …Ninety-nine, one hundred! Did it! Melanie had finally completed her goal of one hundred jumps in a row and was now singing “Strawberry Shortcake.”  The leaves were green and so was the grass.  It felt soft between her bare toes.  Fuzzy caterpillars were crawling along the flower petals which were strewn with all the colours of the rainbow; their sweet scent was flung into the warm breeze.

The shadowed ground reeked of rot.  The movement in the grass was not the wind blowing playfully.  Thousands of worms and beetles had unearthed themselves to absorb the moonlight until they harboured an eerie glow.  As the shadows moved towards the cemetery, hands broke through graves.  Bones started to rise, move.  Parts of the air became thicker, wisps were seen floating by; unknown and nasty scents could be smelt as a spot grew suddenly cold. Mud oozed from every crevice.  Wind howled through empty mausoleums.  Evil grasped hold of everything, sinking its claws in.

Melanie glanced at the sky.  It was beginning to streak with fuchsia and pink.  The sun was setting, making patterns in the sky.  Melanie knew she should start home with her sister.  Their mother would have a supper of corn-on-the-cob and baked potatoes waiting for them. As they walked home, birds flew through the air towards their cozy nests.  Fluffy babies would be waiting for their supper also. A streak of sapphire went by as a blue jay took off from a fencepost.  Colours danced across the houses.  Melanie loved the way the warm sun set, cooling off the hot day perfectly and dazzling the world in a rainbowed array of tints.

The darkness waited.  It preyed upon the weak.  Birds didn’t sing.  Good refused to come out of hiding. As Evil ruled and lurked, bats flew and spiders crawled.  Death hung in the air.  There was no light except that from the moon. A lone howl pierced the night. Fresh meat. Rotting flesh. Devouring meat. Predators roamed and all things were bewitched.  The Hour was upon them.

Melanie’s bed had never felt so cozy. After a long, wonderful day of playing, the soft mattress embraced her tired body.  The blankets settled around her like a warm mitten engulfing a smooth hand.  She snuggled deep under the covers as darkness descended upon the room.  The radio lulled her to sleep.  Everything appeared perfect.

Melanie’s eyes snapped open as a clock struck midnight.  It wasn’t her clock.  Everything was silent in her home.  The quiet enveloped everything like it was trying to suffocate her.  She shut her eyes to try and block out scary shapes making shadows on the wall; they seemed to crawl towards her. Melanie felt such a fear as she had never felt before – one so tangible it brought tears to her eyes. The Unknown threatened to paralyze her. She pulled the blankets close around her as chills raced up and down her spine like the sensation of bugs crawling on skin. She clawed at her neck trying to make it stop.  She bit her hand in an attempt not to scream at something that ran across her bed.  Why did the shadow grow closer to her? Why did her chest feel like something heavy was pressing against it.  Evil was in the air, she could tell, though she knew not what it truly was.  It was as though mud was oozing into her lungs.  She lay back as she struggled for air.  Darkness hung heavy in the room that hour.  Unknown scents danced in the air.  Colours were smothered by grey and black.  Air was destroyed. Breath was crushed.  Evil had cloaked the room.