The Flammarion Syncope

by Garret Ford

  The curse of ninety-nine wracks the hearts of man. The circle is complete when incomplete. An incomplete circle is complete in incompleteness. The spheres are broken. The traveler falls. Wanderers of the night sky, long weary road unto Olympus.

  The spooky music echoes outside to the street, the pumpkin glows on the doorstep, I open the door to the Halloween party.

  “Welcome! About fucking time, you showed up, come in.” My friend is dressed as Dracula greets with a hug and a can of beer.

  “I am a midnight wanderer!” I said, showing off my costume.

  “Zombies are so last year.” He said to me.

  “Hey, don’t say the Z-word- I’m a ghoul.” I said, offended.

  “Ghoul?” He asked, taking a drag off his Caribou cigarette.

  “One is a living monster that eats the dead, the other is a dead monster that eats the living- huge difference.” I said.

  “Splitting hairs, they are both undead monsters.” He said.

  “Undead zombies are movie zombies; real zombies are made with magick- and drugs.” A girl dressed as Ishtar said.

  “I don’t believe in magic.” I said, laughing.

  “Careful, she will curse you.” He said.

  “Cursed me with what? I’m already undead.” I said.

  “A hangover!” She said, waving her fingers.

  “A self-fulfilling prophecy isn’t a curse.” He laughed, handing me another beer as I drained the last drop from my can.

  “You should talk, Dracula.” I said, poking at his widows’ peak.

  “Dracula is a universally understood evil. In every culture Dracula is hated. Look it up on the internet.” He said.

  “What about you, what are you supposed to be?” I asked her.

  “You know.” She said, dancing a little.

  “Mondo Topless…?” I said, I am laughing

  “I’m a god.” She laughed.

  “Gimme a better hint.” I pleaded, still laughing.

  “You laugh at a god?” She laughed.

  “Frequently” I said.

  Empty heavens above.

  The spheres are incomplete. The passion is palpable. I am nothing.

  Void eternal.Surrounded in hell below.Gehenna.

  A place away from god. I am the pages. I am the letters.

  Poetry for spoilt milk; rotten with colloquial doggerel.

  Beyond;

  Walls of the pulpit,

  The water of the river,

  Above the minaret.

  I am the empty footprint in the temple.

  I am before every beginning, I am beyond the end.

  I am without and within,

  I am death, the destroyer of worlds.

  I am alpha and omega.

  I am void. I am entropy.

  I am Aleph. I, Dei Mons.

  Frozen.

  The sphere moves leaving behind myriad motes.

  Each mote. Effects-Another mote.

  Entanglement.

  A mote connected to mote.Though.

  A soul connected to soul.Distant.

  Chapter 3?

  “Beggars only keep their own company.”

  Chad H. North

  I sit in an awfully comfortable chair, I don't like the office. Reminds me of something vague and half forgotten, somewhere I felt safe, even has the same frilled pillows and venetian blinds. Painting of a sunset, she turns on a noise machine, I sink deeper into the chair, deep as pain, softer than lies. The sun shines in my eyes.

  “Close the blinds?” I asked.

  Privacy. Quiet. Darkness. Oubliette. Familiar, smell, incense. She is a professional woman, wearing a pant suit, oddly reminding me of someone now long forgotten.

  “What brings you into counselling?” She asks, sitting down across from me.

  “I have things I don’t want to remember anymore.” I brush my hair out of my eyes and look away, embarrassed.

  She starts something called an assessment, a release of information, and explains the counselling process. I don’t understand the jargon, but nod along because I want to pretend, I’m smarter than I am. Funny, I thought counselling started with me talking about my mother. I look up to see if she had a look of horror on her face. Placid face of the moon, luminous, light, surrounded by the dark of the office.

  Old scar. It heals over but pain is felt if someone traces their finger over it. They seem nice, so you trust them. You let them in. You let them kiss you and hold you- even fuck you- in more ways than one. The worst kind, they use you, leave you. An accident happened, the scar remained.

  The counselor gives a concerned frown and asks how long ago this had happened. It was four years ago. That day everything changed. The counselor nodded along as I recounted everything.

  “These are all normal responses to trauma.” She said.

  “I’m traumatized?” I asked, as if being bitten by a unicorn.

  “Yes, these experiences all come with the territory.” She said.

  “What do I do though?” I asked.

  “Well, you have asked for help. Now-- I can help you process everything-.. There are different things we can try.-.”

  Déjà vu?

  Being wanted. Being good for something.

  Finally.

  A problem. I’m problematic.

  OrAnd

  Guilt. Mistakes were made

  Gin and tonicStuff Happens.

  Screaming. Shame.

  Accident.Singapore Sling- Blame.

  Hatred.Loneliness.

  The emergency rooms.

  Real horror show. Wake up screaming.

  Ascension.Breathe out, Breathe in.

  Solitude. Police Tape.

  Tap left.Tap right.

  Comfortable numbness.Sweet oblivion,

  Children? Tick. Family? Tock.

  Job? Tick. Fun. Talk.

  Accident? Bad dream.

  I’ve seen nothing awful, why the panic?

  Smile and laugh..- Brandy for the nerves..-

  Bad nerves.-.Unreasonable Pain.

  Oops..-When the pain is too much,

  The car crash survivor-.Pour on the brandy.

  That never sped again-.-The war will be over soon-

  I could’ve been in the pictures,I spent the entire war-

  Applause,Drunk…

  Bow,Wait,

  And, Scene---What did I do?

  “There are tunnels. They connect the memories together in a network. We reconnect the memories by doing counselling.” She said

  A chain link fence has a shredded plastic bag caught in the barbwire lacing the top. The wind rips at it but it clings to the barbs that further shred it. Each breath hurts. A water balloon slowly leaking out through a pinhole. Imagine my pain, imagine my healing. Bitter. Barbed. Painful. Rusting away. Into nothing. Relief.

  “Name three objects in the room.” She asked.

  “Painting, filing cabinet, pillow, venetian blinds, you.” I said.

  Session ends, she hands me the bill and I follow her through a labyrinth of passages to the front entrance. All manner of different counselors counseling all manner of different people. I realize, while alone. My case is not unique. My pain is common. All too common.

  The thrift shop, I'm too poor to splurge, but not too poor to shop. Shopping therapy, works. New to me clothes. The sign on the red wall of the dressing room: shoplifters will be prosecuted. Used books. Buy three, get one free. Herbal Gardening Guide, Murder Mystery, Harlequin Romance. I need one more. Odd novel, shattered mirror on the cover, lighter on the back- unpronounceable title. It would do.

  Leaving, the rain temporarily stopped- black clouds in the distance. The parking lot is nearly empty, smells like wet pavement and tar. A homeless lady is pushing a shopping cart arguing with a lamp post about the president being a flamingo. She limps in circles, I ignore her. She swears at the sky. Occasionally spitting at imaginary foes and then gibbers in an unknown language. The inner city is a giant oubliette- swallowing people whole, fading into t
he concrete. Truant shadows cast by morbid manifestations of death and madness. She moves in front of my car and I stop. She stares not at me but through me with her empty eye socket. Mad and lost in the storm.

  “Alas, poor Lear- I avoided him, Edgar.” I thought to myself.

  The streets are abandoned during the summer. Everyone leaves but I stay. The drive home is a long and winding road. I can sing, laugh, scream, yell, or even cry. Arriving at home, as the storm the thunderhead looms, towering above the other clouds with silver strands of lightening touching the earth below. Relax on the chesterfield.

  Life is. The climactic release and credits of film and the final “The End” of a book are a mercy. In art after the worst happens, the end is swift. Life keeps happening- everything is chaos, and none of it makes sense. I dream of happier times, past and to come.

  I am in darkness. Light lily pads provide a path; the figure stands before me. Familiar face, lost smile. I run towards her and hug her tight. I tell myself that if I don't let her go this time, maybe she will still be alive. She is wearing the same old hoodie she always wore, her skin has a lighter luminous glow to it, ethereal.

  “I miss you.” My voice cracked, and I sank to my knees.

  “I know.” She said.

  “Why did you leave?” I cried.

  “I was in pain. I couldn't stay.” She said.

  “My heart is a shattered mirror.” I cried.

  “I'm sorry.” She said.

  “Why, I didn’t know you were hurting-...” I asked.

  “Hush, this is the land of the dead. You can’t stay.” She said.

  “But I don't- …” I said.

  “Darkness gathers, we must flee.” She said, the darklings baying in our wake through the inky blackness.

  She takes me by my hand through a ululating portal. Suddenly, I am in the stairwell where we said goodbye, for the last time. The same dusty boot tray, the faded red door behind me. She sits down on the stairs, I collapse into her lap. I cry, deep, heaving sobs.

  “I don't understand...” I said.

  “Look, I'm all better now.” She said, and she rolled up her sleeves. “No pain anymore. See?”

  “But I’m still broken inside.” I said between the sobs.

  “You are sweet. You have to let go of me.” She said.

  “But I loved you so much.” I confessed.

  “You can't keep forsaking your life because of what happened to me. You have to keep living, cease clinging to the dead.” She said.

  I hugged her tight and buried my face in her lap as I cried. She gently rubbed my back with ephemeral fingertips, fading.

  “I have to say goodbye.” She said.

  “But I will miss you...” I said.

  “...” She said.

  “What if I forget you?” I said.

  “You won't.” She said. “You loved me too much...”

  I hugged her tight, for the last time.

  All fades, I awaken in my counselor’s office, hugging a pillow.

  “How was that?” My counselor asked.

  “Oh, I’m here now.” I said, looking around, confused.

  “You never know the last time you see someone, until it is the last time you see someone.” I said.

  “Visitations happen for a reason.” My counselor said.

  I turn and look out the window, snow on the window sill. The same all those years ago. I still hate February. Today, alive but hollow.

  Feather trapped in the hurricane. White stained crimson. The flecks of reality peel away. The divine wind does not save the sparrows. The atom breaks and the Vulcan’s ire roars. Shadows burn onto hard stone; the second sun rises.

  My scream destroys homes and drives men mad. I bring the wrath of Sol. Primal existence. Cells divide and consume. Breed and kill. The oldest instinct. Fill the space. I am not like them. I am not here to fill space with my own progeny.

  I am possessed by her gracious luminous glow. Luna beckons me forth. I am helpless but to wait for her embrace. Lofty dreams of safeguarded memories fill my mind. I am not alone in my thoughts. I have crystallized moments.

  I remember mortality, sweet mortality. I have no eyes and I must weep. Only the gods know the burden of immortality- a foolish mortal such as I couldn't hope to bear it. The likes of Gilgamesh and Enkidu sought to conquer it, what hope had I.

  I am sitting in a dark alleyway; there are dead leaves on the ground and chill in the air. I take out my glass pipe and pack it and light it up. I watch the flames consume the sweet anodyne, breathe in deep; then only bitter ashes remain.

  Inhaling deeply and holding it in, then exhaling slowly. Watching the smoke snake upward and away. I lean back against the fence and prepare for another and catch my reflection in a moonlit puddle. My god. Hoodie, sunglasses, sitting in an alleyway getting high.

  “You never change. Pumpkin.” A voice calls out.

  “Who’s there?” I asked, frightened by false fire.

  Silence, I take another long pull on my pipe.

  “Pumpkin. Wake up.” The voice returns.

  Silence, I can hear sirens in the radio static.

  We kiss in the hallway.

  “Less talk, get on your knees, suck my cock.” I command.

  She kneels in the hallway and obeys.

  “I don’t even do this for my husband.” She said.

  “What did I say?” I chastise her and grab her by the hair and she returns to pleasuring me. Moment later, I cum. She spits it on the tacky laminate floor. She looks up at me and smiles, strands of pearly ejaculate clinging to her mouth.

  “I did good?” She smiles.

  “It’s getting late, you better get home before you husband is done work.” I said, looking at the rooster clock on the wall.

  “I want round two, I’ll text and say I am grocery shopping.” She said, almost pouting.

  “No, no, we will get caught.” I said.

  “You’re right.” She said, getting up off the floor and pulling her large round breasts back into her shirt. “Again tomorrow? I can come by after he leaves for work.”

  “You can cum anytime.” I said, reaching into her shirt and pinched her nipple.

  “Ugh, pun. Did I miss any?” She asked, wiping her some of the cum from her mouth, licking it up.

  “No, you got it all.” I lied, smiling a damned smile while imaging her kissing her husband with that same mouth goodnight.

  I fear death, but I cannot realize my blessing. Death is but a short slumber, then resurrection. The ends and the sweet cups. The loop is bound eternal. The rowboat seeking to rejoin the ark. The great vessel, myriad souls in her hold. I cannot find my way among the cresting waves.

  I weep for the simian simpletons with hooks and plows. Wedding in water, waiting in the waves, weeping in the woods. The play continues. The seraphic delight while devils throws their pitchforks. Old gods slumber ineffable in the depths above and below. Time blinks away. The curtain closes, and congratulations are in order.

  The applause is thunderous. Encores continue unto infinity.

  A broken sword thrust into the ground plows fertile furrows for an orchard and our glorious golden apple laden saplings grow wide watered with the young blood. Our toil births a beautiful thing and the wise man tells the child to water it not. The mother knows the face of the master, but her children do not; nor do they listen to her warning.

  “Cherish light, hold love close, be humble.” She commands.

  I am beyond humanity and sin, The betrayal of transcendence.

  I seek beyond the world.

  I seek alpha and omega.

  Creation.

  Seek god.Create god.

  Consume god.Become god.

  Critical mass. Cells divide.

  The mind is wretched free. The soul is left in misery.

  The coagulate gore coalesces.

  Beyond the horizon,

  The ghostly orb of death,

  The pale rabbit of the sky,

  The godhead ab
ove us all,

  Luna, beckons to me…

  Ferryman? Carry me home-

  Carry me-

  I cannot swim-

  …

  Chapter 4-

  “Sex is love in the same way that oil is gasoline.”

  Lilia S. Delphia

  We take the train to the concert, their final show. The train smells like old milk cartons and tuna. People sway and avoid eye contact. I am not used to the train or the city. We are trying to meet up with my hairdresser, but she is flaky anyways.

  “We will miss the opening act if we don’t go in.” My friend said.

  I only care about the main act. He pulls me along through the crowd of people entering the auditorium and we head up onto the balcony seats, far above and away from the main act. After sitting, watching bored. The final show begins.

  “Let’s go down and join the dancing!” He said.

  “I can’t dance, I’m not shitfaced.” I replied, anxious thinking about dancing in the great flowing mass of flesh below.

  “But we will be closer to the band.” He said, puzzled.

  “Can we stay up here?” I said, smiling.

  “But this is their last show…” He laughed, pulling at me.

  “I can see everything from up here though.” I said.

  Weed smoke chokes the air. Cellphones held aloft, shining in the darkness- they illuminate our final revels. We sway and sing along to all the songs. It is the last night on earth. I am soaked in sweat, drunk, stoned- I dance; it is the final show.