by Jane Brooke
Like Dim Dim’s blow torch, his words burn her soul, forcing her to think. She is a woman, after all. Everything, grief, splendor, the confusion of genuis, being the vessel of all life on Earth and now, a maiden voyage to the understanding that she is such a creature, she begins to weep.
Understanding such pain he hesitates, smokes, watching, enthralled by all of it, he growls. “It is never easy Mandal, the clarity, the ability for us to be honest with ourselves of who we are. It’s never easy, is it?”
Nose running, sniffles, tears dropping down her bruised face, she forces a smile. The first genuine one she feels has cracked her face in her life.
“A first for me.” Chuckles, “You...you don’t detest me? Find me repulsive?”
He laughs, coughs, wheezes, replies. “You’re joking, right. Of course not. I’ve been watching you, a bit of a voyeur, mind you, since you arrived. I figured you were some kind of outlaw, never thought different. “I’ve killed too. I can relate. When we make that choice, well, it’s like a tattoo, impossible to remove. By the way, what happened to your face?” Chuckles, cough.
Liberated, moment to moment, she shrugs from her shoulders, why not.
“It’s complicated, my brain, how it works. Been diagnosed, genius stuff, I’m humble about it. Because of me, a friend died back East. I’m, me, my brain, well, very complicated stuff, to say the least. I need physical pain, to balance out the mental pain.” She chortles, sniffling, continues, “I’m a real piece of work. I taunted Sue, the poor girl helped me. Poor girl, I really fucked up her mind. I’m good at that. She didn’t deserve it.”
“Sue?” He asks.
She nods at him.
“We all deserve it, Mandal. At times, every bit of it...Right?”
“I guess. I don’t know, I mean...I...I havn’t been thinking right, for about, say twenty-seven years.” Moans, shames, more moans, “Can I ask you something, Jason? Do you mind?”
Instantly, he violently cough’s, seizure like into a white towel from his sleeve. He hacks again, coughs seem to rupture from his throat, heavy breathing, he calms, in a glint of light, she sees a red stain on the white cotton, gasps.
“Jason, are you alright?”
“Yes. No one gets out alive.” He chuckles...”Alright. What do you want to know?”
The blood, her heart feeling like it is imploding, oh no seeing the drops of blood sweeps her brain, fighting her emotions, she says.
“Well.” She exhales smoke, “I know for a man like you, it could never be about the money, but...Why this? If nothing else, your work, the little of it have read, well, it’s phenominal. You should be published, to say the least. What’s going on? Why are you hiding here? Why this, Jason?”
He is silent, and now confronted with his own truth he can remain silent no longer.
Lifting his eyes, he stares through his tangles of hair, whispers.
“Have you ever been to the circus, Mandal? Walked around the outskirts of the big top? Where the disabled are exibited? Where the freaks sell their deformities like cheap trinkets at some out of this world freak show? Try to imagine that, if you can, the loss of dignity, for money. Your so beautiful, I am sure it would be difficult for you to understand, unless, unless you woke to find yourself suddenly a monster.”
She guffaws. “Now it is you that is joking, Jason. I’m so ugly, inside. I vomit when I see my reflection in the mirror.”
She drags from her smoke, happy now to be a truth teller, finally.
“Now, it is you Jason who wouldn’t understand.” Swallowing her reality, she continues.
“Anyways, what does that have to do with you? I know your hiding under that hood. I can see that something has happened to you, fire, you’ve been burned, I think. But honestly, who you are so gifted, talented, the horses, your soul, it’ doesn’t make a damn bit of difference what you look like. Nobody would care.”
“I’d care.”
Silence, his face lowers rises as he peers out at her from his hood, face hidden as now they perhaps will share what few human beings could never understand.
The Color Wheel
“TRY TO imagine a brain that resembles a three dimensional Technicolor color wheel, where an endless amount of letters, words, images are forever being scrolled upon it. They never end. They are always there. Always different, every day, every night, every moment and constantly evolving, changing, line for line, story for story. When you wake in the morning, they are there. When you dream, they are living color people, doing things you have no control of. If you do not write them down, if you ignore them, they will die. They will dissappear into brain matter, just to haunt you later when you expect them least, begging you to create them so they might live.”
He laughs, head bobbing up and down, giggling like a mad man. Mandal stares at him in disbelief.
“Way, way to dramatic, Mandal, yes I know. It’s hard to describe. It is a continuous word reel spinning, never stopping, a burden mind you. I accept it, though never wishing it upon another.”
She gawks, for after ten years of bumping with strippers, mobsters, whores, idiots, murderers, rich Johns that wanted her as Arm Candy, she pinches her wrist, painfully, convinced she is in a dream. She has fallen in love, head or over heels. She can not understand it, but it is there.
“I...I...Think I understand...I...I mean how could I...?...I’m me.”
Unable to help himself, guessing he wants to show off, just a little, he says. “Give me a word, an image, anything.”
“I’m sorry, what.”
“You want to see, yes, say a word.”
Eyes suddenly peek to a corner of the barn.
A Samurai Sword hangs on a braided rope from a nail. How she missed it her first swing around, she does not know.
Loving Japanese lore, culture, even studying Japanese once, she loves Stump the Poet says, “Samurai.”
An invisible quarter falls into the slot in his head, down the chute, clicks, his eyes open, he begins to speak.
“The Samaurai, before Sepuku, proudly kneel, blade set to palms, as they begin to pray to their sky gods, bemoaning them for rain to wash their souls clean of sin before the blood letting. Within the ancient Japanese ritual of Bushido, death is forever welcomed, recognized, respected as an honored dinner guest. But, normally, death, like smoke, finds entries within cracks, crevices, filtering freely where it does not belong, always an intruder, and unpredictable visitor. Where as life, forever is a silk trail of life, tenuous, fragile, above all, vulnerable, yet, always welcomed by warriors with joy. Death, joys conterpart is an enigma, shearing apart the silk of life. Destiny, is another spirit, which visits with many faces, with many different names; fate is one name; loss of mortality, is another. It is the hooded sicle carrier, fashioned of the lore of the Samurai. It is not a story of warrior ‘ acting behind painted, porcelain actors masks, nor tales told within Kabuki. It is tragic, complete, final. As is its custom, deaths messenger will only be recognized with in the shadows of evening, for it first visit, is final. The night it rained, there was still no hints of its finality.”
“See, something like that.” Jason humbley says.
“WOW” is all she can say, as he madly giggles away under his cowl.
Eyeballs blinking, living in Feudal Japan, she wants to leap across the room, bend to her knees, hand him his sword, so he can cut her head off. Blinking away, she comes back, whispers. “Fuck....What in Gods name was that?”
“Don’t know, it’s gone now.”
“WHAT...What do mean, gone?”
He twiddles his fingers into the air, says. “Poof. Gone forever.” He giggles.
“Though I could, if you asked, repeat it verbatum, though that stuff just came out of my head, as you heard it. “ Giggles, “I sort of have instant recall.”
“No way...That’s imp
ossible. How often do you do that?”
“About a thousand times a day.” He just can’t stop giggling it feels to damn good to stop.
“CHRIST.” She moans.
She stands, starts to frantically pace back and forth, mumbling erratically to herself, waving her arms back and forth.
“What are we going to do? What are we going to do?”
Stopping in mid stride, crazed, her eyes crack around the room at the hundreds of documents, stacks of papers, piled from floor to roof. Running her hand over her buzz cut, she plops back down on her butt, looks at him stunned.
“Jason, what are we going to do?”
Absolutely mesmerized by her, already in love with her, though every gene in his body warns him not to be, he smiles.
“DO?”
“YES DO. We have to get you out of here. The world needs you. Don’t you understand how much?” We have to get you published. Let me take care of you. Listen, I have tons of money, really, more than I indicated before. Enough so you will never have to live another minute here. This is outrageous. I thought I was crazy...Let me lov...”
“I’m not going anywhere. I like it here.”
She hesitates for a moment, sighs.
“Jason...You live in a barn.”
“Yes.” He smiles though she cannot see it, “But, It’s my barn.”
Frantic, she sweeps her arms around the stacks of paper, sighs.
“You are not listening to me. You could be...you could be at leasst comfortable...maybe famous even...I...I...”
“STOP.” He says, as he coughs violently.
Hyperventilating, she tries to composure herself.
He grows serious, as his jaw clenches in anger, not for her, but for himself, for it has gone too far.
“I think your being a little melodramatic. I’m not going anywhere. I don’t belong out there...I think you should go now.”
“NO, NO, NO.”
Her mind begs, as for the first time she is exposed to real, raw sparking feelings and emotion.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I...I am so confused...I’m not delusional, well, for the moment that is. I just want the rest of the world to see you...I want to take care of you...I...I...”
“You can’t even take care of yourself.”
He groans, sighs, he sees in the shadows as her face tighten and, then grimices. He has hurt her; his heart fills with sorrow having done so.
“I’m sorry, I didnt mean to say that. Please, just go, you don’t know what I am. GO.”
“But...But wh...What about your work?”
He guffaws, coughs lightely.
“You can have it. All of it. A gift from THE creature. Take it with you when you leave.”
She is not who she is for no reason. Suddenly, anger replaces her sorrow; enough of the lies, his, hers, the worlds as she stands.
“Yeah...Well I have a gift for you.” She seethes, as she feels if she does not touch him her heart will vaporize.
To his horror and like a feline predator cat she begins to move toward him. He is satiated and spent; there is no where he can dissolve within now.
Helpless, he watches her move to him, kneel before him. Lowering his head, unable to defend himself, his hair spills down his face, as the cowl still hides it, as he whispers.
“Please don’t.” Begs from his rasp voice.
Kneeling, she stares at his cowl, his long hair, his breathing is increasing as his hers. Some where out in the desert she hears coyote’s crying, being answered by his horses. The stallions are whinning, grunting and snorting. They are savage creatures like her, living within the wilderness of night.
Her hand lowers, finds his hand from the sleeve of his cloak. She grasps it, shudders, feeling his trembling fingers, the odd feeling of the burnt skin, feeling almost reptilian in its texture. Yet, it is warm, soft, with ridges, not like a human hand. It is not like any she has ever felt before.
At her touch, she hears him groan, as he lowers his face to his chest. Yet, he cannot resist as she raises his hand, presses it to her cheek, as she tries to meld his skin within her own. He feels her tears on his skin, raises his eyes. Darkness covers his face, as he inhales her breath, smells her skin. She stalls, breathing, caring for him, not herself, loving him, wanting to share with him, a man, a creature that now she loves.
Her eyes close, his hand is laid upon her cheek. She seems to go into a trance as a glow consumes her mind as perhaps it consumes his. Power is flowing through his finger tips into her mind. She opens her eyes and whispers.
“In this world, there is hatred, vile men, death of the innocent, odd, poets that stay hidden within the secret caves of their mind. There is salvation for such men, perhaps one way only. It is from the touch of a mad woman, who understands them, feeds them, knows them, loves them.”
Thunder struck, she falls back on her heels wondering where her own words had just come from.
Face, struck with hair, still hidden of the darkness, her face illuminated by the greeen monitor behind him, he whispers. “See, you can make something beautiful from nothing, also.”
Instantly, she realizes that he has jarred the door open of her own imagination.
Satiated in emotions, she takes her hand, with it, trembling fingers, she touches his hood. Ever so gently she lifts his chin level with her own, only to be stopped by an iron grip wrapped around her wrist, preventing his face from exposure.
Why poets fall in love as quickly as they do, and for what reason, is unexplainable; it is there way. Whether it is done from their passion, or madness, or whether thoughtlessness, or done with much thought, it is a mystery.
Within that enigmatic maze, he cannot deliquence now.
Thus he tranforms before her eyes, becomming what he has always been and that is a soldier.
“Not here, not now. Ride with me, in the desert, to the water pools. I will share everything with you, there.”
He stands and though slightly bent at the spine he is taller than her. She stands in front of him, he is taller; she likes that.
No words, he turns, moves to a table, takes a pair of leather saddle bags, fills it with fruit, bread and other things she cannot see. He slaps them on his shoulder, turns and sweeps past her, cape flowing behind him. At the door, he hesitates, looks at her, say’s solidly. “Come. You wanted to see my world, ride. So you get your wish.”
Extending a burnt hand to her, the soldier, the man he is, has always been twines her fingers within his own.
Pulling her stunned, broken, smiling face along with her soul and body, they rush out the door.
The Water Pools
THE BLOATED MOON is wrecking havoc on the desert world.
The two barbarians ride on Indian blankets along the arroyos. They are bathed in moon light, as madness seems to grip the horses, man, and a woman’s souls. Horses respect those that know them as well as guide them, for at times, they hold no common sense in their horse souls. Born to run, they serve to their own whims.
Moving out of the arroyos, the two horses break with power, grace, gallop wildly across the open plains. In the distance the white-mountains are set stark, almost as if Lunar landscapes reflecting the moon light off of their skins.
Riding bareback, reins in her leather gloved hands, Indian blanket, cold wind slicing against her face, all of it, exhilarates her. Though proficient, she finds it hard to keep up with the horse tail and flowing hair streaming in front of her. The desert is cold, the sky brittle, stars stark, yet neither rider feels such things.
Passion, insanity, tends to dispel natures way, yet only for awhile.
Stalling near the base of the mountains, horse’s breaths blowing steam, great lungs bellowing, Mandal pushes Jason’s scarf around her neck, feeling the bite of cold on her red cheeks, silent, a s
tudent for the first time. With out hesitation, he guides the horse up the mountain. Finding a pass etched into the Earth he moves along the arroyo cliffs pressing in close around them.
For some time, they move within the canyon walls, her eyes flicking at shadows, images she sees, or thinks she sees. He dismounts, with reigns held in his leather gloves. He begins to walk before her through the narrow canyon walls. He stalls at an opening in a cliff, a piece of moon graces her face.
She feels that perhaps she is an artist, perhaps partly like he. The feeling feeds her heart with good.
With reigns in their gloved hands, they walk, until they come to a cave opening set within a wall of earth. Standing near the cave entrance, he becomes a dark figure, yet he seems to be able to move freely in the night, not encumbered by it. He turns to her, moon light slightly illuminating his face, partially.
Though barely seen, she gasps, no other like it has she ever seen before.
Taking off his moccasins, his breath coming in gulps, he whispers. “Take your boots off, follow me. I have fire and blankets. We will be warm.”
She bends and unlaces her boots, instantly her knife, 38 clank to the rock. She hears him giggle. She blushes.
“Mandal, are you expecting a war?” He laughs, sweetly.
“I have odd hobbies.”
“Come on. Socks too.” He says, mirth is in his voice.
She smirks, takes her flop white socks off, barefoot, with out horses, saddle bags slung onto his broad shoulders, they walk into the cave.
Once inside she stalls, for it is an underworld of onyx. She does not have night vision like him. A moment passe’s, a flame ignites from a hemp torch. Fire, sparks flickering, light illuminates her new reality.
What she sees steals her breath away, installs wonder into her mind.
Holding the torch, he limps through the stone corridor for some time. Then she gasps, for now he is lingering near a mercury pond of water. It reflects the flames from his torch, undulating, shimmering upon its surface. She smiles, thinks.
