Etched Deep & Other Dark Impressions

by David Niall Wilson

  In the center, she will sit and smile and spin the wheel, and all the while, she’ll write the multi-colored strands of thought into muse-tight weaves of brilliance.

  They will come to her and give her a color and her name will go on the Carousel shrine…

  And she will reject them, as all colors must until the paints dry and the hues shift and the brilliance shows its elusive backside to the muse.

  BANISHED

  A Three Word Challenge Poem

  Banished / Eloquent / Fiend

  Grandpa claims his blood runs black,

  That the blue veins are just for show,

  And the black-light-glowing white hair

  Is just for a little while, such a little while,

  To an old man once a child,

  And Black is the color that once stained

  Those locks, ticking clocks, time and locks,

  Banished by the white-hot washed-out gleam

  Of years shining through skin,

  Bone showing through hair,

  No one cares, not really, no, but

  Not yet time to die, or grow cold.

  Death fiend dancing in the air above his head,

  Icicle trident poised breast high,

  Heartbound and hungry.

  Black blood and white hair,

  A little while, no one to care.

  In the babble of the world,

  Only the final silence

  Is eloquent.

  To Strike a Timeless Chord

  The streets were empty vacant and lonely. Clarissa stared out from beneath the old blanket she'd found. She felt the trembling begin to shake its way through her bones once more as the wind wormed its way into her make-shift shelter, pinching at her skin and dragging the warmth from her heart.

  She couldn't remember how long she'd slept in alleys, nor could she recall if she'd ever slept in this one before that night. She remembered her mother, and she remembered finding the blanket, days, months, perhaps years before. She remembered a rosy-cheeked little girl who'd given her a pastry to eat. She didn't remember that her name was Clarissa.

  She watched nothing in particular; there was nothing that mattered enough, nothing that could have dragged her to her feet, or out of the alley. Not even the hunger that ate away at her insides like a cancer, or the encroaching numbness that slowly claimed her limbs in the name of the steadily dropping temperature could have ever been enough. Clarissa was finished getting up, maybe forever.

  There was nothing left–nothing but cold, fear, and the night. She shifted slightly, dragging the blanket a bit more tightly about her legs, and it was then that she heard it.

  There was the shuffling of booted feet, the slinking, metallic clang of chains. There was muted, heavy breath that would be hovering, floating on the icy air. She didn't look up, but she knew he was there–knew that he'd seen her, and what it would mean. The air seemed warm, in that second, against the chill of her heart.

  As the chain swung through the air, its passing created a hollow, humming note of bittersweet music, biting through the blanket, casting aside flesh and slamming into bone. Clarissa felt herself letting go–releasing the moment. In that second, she heard the note bend, heard it blend to a different sound, a lamenting, weeping note–joined by others to create a chord–and all was still.

  Johnny was late getting home after school–really late. He pedaled furiously, forcing his old Schwinn to new limits, new speeds. He knew his mother would understand–he'd been working on the sets for the school play, painting and designing trees and cardboard houses. It was not his mother he was worried about, but his father.

  His father did not care about school plays. He cared about very little, in fact, beyond beer, supper, and having his own way, and a part of that was "my family waiting with open arms when I get back from bustin' my ass all day." Johnny had not been there when his father got home, nor would he be there in time for dinner, and that was bad . . . maybe real bad.

  He knew his mom wouldn't let it get out of hand, not while he was in the room, anyway. It wasn't himself he was afraid for. She always took the pain, always turned his father's anger away from Johnny bore the weight of it herself. Somehow that hurt worse than the whipping would have.

  Johnny pedaled like mad–he was racing for his mom, a white knight flashing down the street and through the darkness–a savior.

  Bertie Jones was in a hurry too. He'd been at Big Sid's since knockoff, nearly four hours now, and he'd been drinking straight through. He knew how Karen was going to take it, could hear her high-pitched, ear-piercing bitching echoing through his mind already. Sometimes he just had to stop for that beer–those ten beers–just so he could stand to go home.

  He slid around the corner, narrowly missing the curb and grinning to himself. He could still handle the old Dodge; that much was sure. Nobody knew these streets like he did–nobody. He slammed off Oak and onto the main drag at Crescent Drive, barreling down the middle lane as he always did and punching the gas. He'd be home in no time. Karen would bitch, but he'd get her to drink a glass of Boone's Farm, loosen her up a bit, and . . .

  Johnny watched the car as it closed in on him. He knew it was in the wrong lane, could see the figure hunched over the wheel clearly, but he didn't move out of its way. His arms wouldn't turn the handlebars. His mind wouldn't respond. It couldn't be happening to him. The man would see, would turn aside and all would be well.

  Bertie saw the boy on the bike, and he honked his horn. Damn kids. The punk had plenty of time to get the hell out of the way, though, and if he knew what was good for him, he'd be doing some getting real quick. Damn quick. Bertie punched the gas again and the Dodge shot forward with a screech. Damn, popped it in third!

  In slow motion Johnny felt the bike, finally answering the call of his mind, turning to the side. He felt the tires slip, felt his right foot drag behind, felt it skid on the road, bounce up, then collapse. The car never hesitated, never turned aside, and Johnny's last sight, his last earthly vision, was the stupefied, unbelieving stare of the man's eyes, staring right at him, through him even, not really seeing.

  The metal of the bike gave quickly under the grinding force of the car, scraping on the road with a high, keening whine that seared its way through Bertie's brain. It was like the screeching notes of super-amplified guitars, the feedback at a mega-watt rock concert, and as he felt the wheel slipping, remembering that he had to steer, that even if the boy was dead, he was not–yet–the whine slipped to a clearer note, a sad note, blending with sounds from somewhere else, somewhere inside, into a chord. Then all was still.

  Nigel stared at the pile of white powder on the table. It was there, just waiting for him, waiting for him to get the balls. No fear in that powder, he thought, no hesitation. It knew what it wanted–it wanted him.

  He was already flying. There was enough combined Coke and Heroin in his veins to kill three average men, but he knew he'd live. He knew it with bittersweet certainty, knew it as surely as he knew that one day he would die.

  Why not today? Why wait? He'd seen the edge, how about the other side? A little Morrison philosophy for the masses, a tribute, if you will, to those who'd gone before. Truly gone.

  He scanned the walls of his apartment, letting his gaze linger on each photograph, each album cover, each memory and each pain. Melissa. She was gone, too, more truly gone than even Morrison, because Nigel could follow where ol' Jim-bo had gone, Melissa wasn't coming back.

  There had been one time, with enough Coke, when he'd thought that one of the endless string of groupies that had paraded through his room and across his bed was Melissa. His warped-out mind had told him that she'd slipped in with the other tramps to win him back.

  Then reality had kicked him in the balls, slamming back into place with finality and mocking laughter. The drugs had faded, the girl had been so stoned she had to be carried to a taxi and sent on her way, and the memories that had surfaced in her passing still lingered to tap and chisel away at his sani
ty. Time to go now, before that eroded, too, and he got locked away where there were no choices, no doors to the edge or windows to the abyss.

  Nigel Waters, man with everything, man with nothing. Already gone. All that remained was the image, the plastic mannequin image he'd formulated to hide himself from the cameras and the world. Now it was empty, and they didn't care. Image was everything–who'd said that? Some athlete, he thought vaguely, someone who didn't understand the truth of it.

  The heroin glittered in the dim light, mocking him, calling out to him. He felt his hands moving as if in a dream, following the commands of his mind, but not at the time they were issued. He was fascinated–possessed. He managed, somehow, to get the hypodermic to rest in his hand without dropping it, and he brought it to the arm of the chair.

  Setting the needle aside, he reached for the red bandanna that lay across his knee. A dirty red bandanna. He smiled crookedly. Still holding onto that trademark, that rock, roll, and who-gives-a-damn image. Shit, he should have looked through the drawers to see if one of Melissa's silk stockings were still around. That would've looked better in the magazines.

  He wrapped the bandanna around his bicep, pulling one side tight with a trembling hand, the other with his teeth. Not a rubber hose, but it would have to do. He'd been searching veins out of skin for years–no problem. He'd find one. He always had.

  He grabbed the spoon next. It had some residue left from his previous hit, but he splashed it onto the floor, momentarily fascinated as light glittered across the arcing droplets. Shaking his head, he lurched to the table once more, nearly knocking the entire mess to the floor, and grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels that sat there. He'd always wanted to try this. One shot left, so to speak, might as well be the Jackmeister.

  He tipped the bottle back, taking a big slug and letting it wind its fiery path down his throat to his stomach. Then he tipped it once more–slowly, catching a spoonful of it and tossing the rest of the bottle aside where it shattered against the wall and dripped down to form an alcohol-abusive stain on the carpet. Didn't matter, not his problem any more.

  The amber liquid in the spoon quivered once, twice, and then was still as he rested it beside the needle on the chair's arm. And now for the flames and the finale, the grand show-down.

  He grabbed the spoon again and began to heat it with the candle that burned beside him, mesmerized by the flame, watching the red-gold flickers rise and fall, shifting about with a life of their own. It wasn't until the handle of the spoon began to get warm that he remembered what he was doing. Shit.

  He reached into the pile of powder and grabbed a large pinch–a very large pinch, dropping it into the whiskey. He watched it beginning to dissolve, then said, "What the hell," and tossed in a second pinch. He worked it all around with the tip of the needle, stirring and crushing, creating.

  He was creating a way out, a doorway to another place. When it was all one consistency he dipped the needle in and drew up several CC's of the mix–several too many. The bandanna, almost forgotten by then, had done its work, cutting off the flow of blood to his hand.

  "Good thing I only need one for this," he said with another grin. He stared at the largest poster on the wall. Jim Morrison stared back at him, one hand out in front and beckoning, calling out for him. He plunged the needle through his skin.

  "I'm coming, damn you," he said. As the drugs hit him, he slumped to one side, his eyes spinning back into his head, which lolled backward aimlessly.

  The spoon and the needle crashed and tinkled to the floor together, a brittle sound that rang through his fading senses like the peal of a broken bell, the notes of a twisted banjo. It all blended then, a single note, a single tone, blending with others that rose from his drowning mind to form a chord. Then all was silent.

  The hospital bustled with activity. There were quiet wards, of course, but it was never quiet in this one. There was too much happening, too many smiles and cries, surprises and miracles. Sandy pushed her cart quickly down the hall and stopped before room 112.

  She peeked around the corner first, making sure she was interrupting nothing. She'd been to the La maze classes, knew what they taught people in there. There was no telling what the couple inside might be up to, nipple massage, something more intimate. Anything that would help to hurry the magic moment, anything that would bring an end to the waiting.

  The woman was sitting up, the blanket held in white knuckled fists, and the husband looked up quickly as she came in, a nervous smile on his face.

  "I think it's time," he said breathlessly, turning back to gaze into his lover's eyes. "I think he's coming."

  Nodding, Sandy moved quickly, buzzing the desk and at the same time moving to the foot of the bed. With practiced hands she lifted away the blanket, eliciting a small gasp from the mother to be, and leaned forward to check.

  No doubt. This one was coming, and coming fast. There would be no hesitation, no waiting for the world to come to him, he was ready to come to the world!

  A nurse hurried in, the doctor not far behind, and Sandy moved aside with a smile, taking the woman's free hand in her own and murmuring encouraging words. The fingers she held tensed, but the young mother's eyes were clear and bright.

  It took only moments, and as the father moved to the side, staring lovingly down into the pinched little face, the sound came, beautiful as any church choir, bright and full of light and life. The first sound, the "cry of life," as Sandy liked to call it.

  The baby's cries blended with the happy sobs of the mother, the mumbling, incoherent babbling of the father, the compliments from nurse and doctor alike, forming a note of hope, a harmony–insinuating themselves among other sounds that seemed to float in the air to form a chord . . .

  The old man sat on the street corner, as he always sat his flute in his hand and his battered hat turned up on the ground before him. The dark lenses of his glasses reflected the lights of the early evening, the glowing neon, and the passing headlights. If he could sense their presence, he made no sign.

  He held his instrument like a lover, caressing the length of it, his fingers flickering and dancing across the keys. His music was sad, but moving. You could see his world through that music, if you listened long enough, could imagine others. It carried pain, love, the past and any number of futures, all cascading among its soaring notes.

  Lovers stopped to listen, staring at the stars and forgetting the concerns of the day. A prostitute leaned against the lamp post on the corner, watching and dreaming, stealing back a moment of time no longer her own.

  Cars came and went, snatching silvery bursts of sound through open windows and carrying them off to other places. Echoes of the sound drifted through the alleys, across the streets and into windows. Then it was silent.

  The old man cocked his ear to one side, listening intently. None could hear what he heard, but then, none could see what he saw, either. He lived inside the music, in places far and near, but hidden. He frowned, and then grew sad. His eyes drooped and moments later he shook his head, as if in pain, or disgust.

  He lifted the flute once more, and a smile crept back across his face. Listening for just an instant more, he chose his moment and added his own note, a single crystal-clear tone, to those he heard.

  Those nearby were amazed. They saw a blind man, and a flute, but they heard so much more. A chord, a single chord–sad with ending, bitter with defeat, alive with promise. It was no sound born of an instrument, though none could say from whence it came. It rang through the night, catching at hearts and turning heads, and then faded away to another melody entirely. Soon all was silent.

  The old man let the flute drop to his lap, and he sat in that silence, dreaming his dreams and letting the music play on within his soul. Darkness claimed the city, but at its heart a light burned bright and steady.

  END OF DAYS

  A Three Word Challenge poem

  Antidisestablishmentarianism / Pluto / Orange

  In Ireland, where William of Orang
e laid his hat,

  Beyond the reach of Pontiff's Rome,

  The Church of England came, and spoke of God.

  And though the people cried, and railed, and fought

  Against this new encroachment on their home,

  The King, in England, only found them odd,

  And tried to force them to his iron rule.

  And that is why, in Irish Schools,

  While disappointing Clyde Tombaugh,

  By denying the 'planet' Pluto,

  When spelling, teachers must insist...

  Antidisestablishmentarianism does not exist

  And thus do we approach,

  The end of days.

  Etched Deep

  Ethan sat back in his rocker and propped one booted foot on the porch rail. He watched the sunset dribble down behind the trees. Trails of color streaked the clouds. The steady creak of the rocker emphasized the silence. Now and then he heard one of the animals shuffle in the barn.

  The shotgun lay across his knees, barrel angled out over the yard toward the tree line and the butt nestled close in to his waist. He reached down to the cooler at his side, lifted the rusty metal lid, and fished out a bottle of beer. It was cold. Ice water dripped onto his hand and his pants as he lifted it and twisted off the cap.

  A loud, muffled thump sounded inside the house. Ethan paused, cocked his head to the side, and listened, but the sound wasn't repeated. He took a pull off his beer. A few feet to his right Jake sprawled in a mass of wrinkles and fur. The dog watched Ethan sleepily. Ethan leaned back, closed his eyes and let the cool evening breeze brush him back through the years.

  He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't owned a dog. His father gave him a puppy for his second birthday. Casey, they'd called her. Ethan's sharpest memories of that dog began with the warm, comfortable scent of her fur and the deep, trusting gleam in her eyes.