The Flammarion Syncope

by Garret Ford

  The wine empties and his looks improve- my teeth are black from the wine by the time that chess is over- I let him win- I wanted to drink more. Sufficiently sauced, I pat the chesterfield beside me.

  Obediently, he sits down beside me. I put my hand on his chest. He smells my hair. His teeth keep grazing my lips when we kiss.

  “You're hot.” He kisses me gently.

  “...” I kiss him back, he groped me blindly.

  “This is nice.” He said, smiling.

  “...” I close my eyes, and I imagine past fucks.

  He leads me to the bedroom, it’s about fucking time. We continue on his bed. I close my eyes to abide the feeling of disgust. His hands fumble with my clothes- repeatedly- is he a virgin? We awkwardly disrobe; he looks away as I do, almost embarrassed. I turn and look down at his disappointing downstairs department. Is that a dick, or three inch clit? Size matters. I blow him. He tastes funny, does he even wash?

  “I really like you.” He smiles sweetly, from the odd angle.

  “Thanks.” I take the dick out of my mouth to answer.

  “We don’t have to do this.” He said. I squint at him confused.

  I take the cock out of my mouth, cocked my head to the side.

  “Do what?” I asked, then went back to blowing him.

  “Like, sex.” He said, sitting passively.

  “I do like sex.” I'd feel almost flattered if I wasn't fucking horny.

  “If you’re really sure. You want to.” He said.

  “Way to kill the mood, is he going to ask for my ID next?” I thought to myself and almost burst out laughing.

  “Really.” I take his balls out of my mouth to answer him.

  Fucking flattering; my mind drifts and I plan my schedule next week, boring fucks give such boring fucks.

  “Can I?” He whispers softly.

  “Yes.” I consented, with disgust.

  “We made love.” He probably thought.

  We fuck. I feign enjoyment. After quick thrusting, I feel his leg spasm. He quickly pulls out afterward as if to hide that fact that he just came. I feel the warm pearls of cum cling to me. Embarrassed, he rushes to the bathroom. I can hear him showering. Naked. Alone. Disappointed. Drunk. The shower stops. He awkwardly stood in the doorway in a plush green bathrobe. Like hospital scrubs. The bathroom light glowing behind him.

  “You should go home.” He said, avoiding eye contact.

  “Uh. I’m drunk.” I said. “Can’t I stay.”

  “No, but I can call you cab.” He said.

  “… -” I lied.

  “…” He said plainly.

  “Fine.” I was mad at myself more than him.

  I get up off the bed, awkwardly dress while he stands staring at me from the doorway. I stumble to the door. I can't drive like this. I can't believe this is happening.

  He tries to kiss me as I leave. Stagger and almost fall as I go down the garden path out of his trailer. I feel like kicking one of his gnomes. But I don't. How long was I in there- He didn't even offer to call me a cab. Fucker. I fumble for my keys and get inside my car. I turn the keys in the ignition and look up at the trailer. He stands in the window watching me as I pull of his driveway. That is the last time I ever see him. Drink and drive. I think and drive.

  Nice guys aren't good guys.

  Once they get what they want, you are out on your ass.

  Being nice is their sickly sweet veneer of kindness.

  The convenient mask for possessive lust. I was nice to you, now you owe me. I end up in a park outside of town somehow. I must have blacked out while driving. Still Drunk. I staring up at star light and it is a warm summer night. The sky is limitless and black. I am alone.

  The stars once guided lost sailors across the vast uncharted ocean. I wish I had stars to guide me through life. Anchor-less. There I was, or here I am, a sailor who cannot see the stars.

  What damned deal had I struck, why was I lost. I thought of how awful it would have felt to lose sight of land for the first time; the dread as the horizon turns into an endless ocean. Mistakes were made.

  Hungry, vast, and merciless.

  What was I doing with my time on this earth? After all, nothing actually mattered unless I believe it does. Do what makes me happy, that is what my mom said. A falling star streaks across the sky.

  In ancient times a comet was an omen of ruin.

  Today, you are supposed to wish.

  “I wish...” I mutter softly.

  “Wish in one hand and shit in the other and see what fills up first.” My counselor said rubbing her furrowed brow.

  “What?” I stare incredulously.

  “Don't pull that, you know exactly what I said and what that means.” She frowned.

  “But... it is difficult.” I muttered.

  “Excuses, Difficult- How?” She said.

  “I feel like sometimes I am doing fucking well and everything is humming along, then I realize how hopeless all this is and how I... I don't know. Everyone else gets breaks and I miss out. All my friends are getting married, are married, or having kids... I feel like I'm going to be stuck at the bar to pick up the tab.” I said.

  “You repeat yourself you know.” She said.

  “I do?” I said.

  “If that is what you believe then it is what is true.” She said.

  “Yeah, I guess.” I said.

  “Not I guess, you are fucking lonely- why don't you let yourself feel it. You are allowed to feel that pain. Humans are social animals and to be truly alone was a death sentence when we were evolving, you didn’t get to pass on your genes and nobody could help you hunt or take care of yourself.” She said.

  “I am going to break.” I said.

  “Then break.” She said. “We can work with the pieces and build up again, the way you are right now isn't working anyways.”

  The priest and I sit together in old leather chairs talking for hours, the room is small, boxes of bibles, and holy water. Between us, a small table, with a lamp and a small clown figurine set upon it. On the north wall, a crucifix, with our lord and savior watching over us.

  “Sin is like this, depends on the angle of the perception.” The priest said, the lamp is lowered.

  “Like a shadow?” I said.

  “The same.” The priest said. “Angle the light like this, now look at the shadow, much greater than the object.”

  “Disproportionate.” I said.

  “Angle the light like this, the shadow is smaller, much more than the object.” The priest said, the Lamp raised.

  “The sin grows with the light?” I said, understanding.

  “The sin is relative to the light.” The priest said.

  “The shadow is directly below the object, you cannot perceive it from this angle.” Priest said, The lamp is raised above. “That is how god watches us, from above. Upon the mountain top.”

  “From above, the sin disappears?” I said.

  “No, from above, all is as it must be.” The Priest said.

  “What do I do then?” I asked.

  “Pray; god leads those willing to act.” The priest said.

  “My confessional?” I asked.

  “Acts of atonement. All willing to atone are forgiven. They merely need seek it.” The priest said.

  “How long must I atone?” I asked.

  “A long life lived well in gods eyes, full of mercy, offering love, forsaking selfish goals, and being humble.” The priest said.

  “…” I mumble.

  “God knows what is in your heart. Even Saul the Sinful Narcissist could be turned into Paul the Baptist.” The priest said, placing a hand gently on my shoulder.

  “Thank you father.” I hug the priest.

  “Save the words, and let acts be your thanks to god.” The priest said softly into my ear, patting my back gently.

  “I will.” I committed.

  The priest rose and led me to the lobby. It is snowing outside. February, I hate February. We stand there, by the co
at hooks, the soft lighting illuminating the evening gloom outside.

  “Was that all there was too it?” I asked.

  “What did you expect?” He asked, placing a hand on my shoulder as I stood before the door.

  “I thought there would be more too it, you would tell I’m going to hell or I needed to burn in purgatory for everything…” I trailed off.

  “An ocean reject no river, god rejects no soul that seeks it.” The priest said, clutching his crucifix.

  “I thought I was supposed to punish myself.” I said.

  “A sin is punishment, atonement is balm.” He said, nodding.

  “You don’t think I’m evil?” I asked, ashamed.

  “You were lost, now you will walk with god.” The priest said.

  “Thank you.” I said, sighing in relief. “I thought I would suffer for all eternity- I don’t know how patient god is.”

  “Our patient god in heaven. Loves all creation, the final judgement will only come when the peacock angel- whom we name not- returns to the gates of heaven, seeking god for atonement. To which god will respond: I have loved you, I have forgiven you, now come home. Then all shall end.” The priest said, reverently.

  “A god of love and mercy.” I said, appreciatively I embrace the priest a final time, and walk into the snowy evening. I followed the lamp light, but eventually, the clouds cleared. Stars guided me home, finally at peace.

  Chapter 12-

  “Better nothing good, than something bad.”

  Chad H. North

  I hate February. The hospital room is small, I am alone. There is a stack of old magazines beside my bed. The sheets are those cheap itchy kind. I don't remember, how I got here though. There is an IV in my arm and a restraint on my wrist. Trouble again. I sit up, the window shows me patches of dead brown grass and snow. Frost on the window sill. The bare trees. The gray sky. Smoke billowing out of chimneys. I tug at my restraint a bit. The clink of metal against metal.

  Moving around so much growing up, I wonder, was I always destined to this place. Where is home- where the heart is? Did I have a heart; I keep being told I’m a heartless a robot. The door creaks open and an old nurse with blonde hair, green eyes. I ask her what is going on and she doesn't respond. She takes out a needle and inserts it into the IV. For a second I try and protest- then the drug hits me and I drift off again. I hate February.

  It is summer. My friend had gotten married. She lays beside me naked. The sunshine peaks through the blinds. I am sitting up on my bed when she begins to speak.

  “We can't keep doing this, you know...”

  “I don't regret it unless you do-” I blurt out.

  “… I’m married now so...” She said, embarrassed.

  “I get it.” I look down at my feet and touch my foot to hers.

  She climbs on top of me.

  “After today- I can’t do this anymore…”

  “Sounds good.” I want to swallow my words.

  An awkward fuck, an awkward hug, then she is gone. All is well that ends well. Keep your life. Have you cake and eat it too. Damn the consequences. Action and inaction are the same. Inaction is a choice, the same as action. Truth, perception or performance- I didn't believe I would so I didn't.

  I pace around my cramped apartment. I go to the fridge, I look in the cupboards, nothing looks appealing so I grab a meal in a can and shake it well. I don't open it. I feel like I would rather take my chances with starvation than drink another of these goddamn things. Why do I even have to eat, I feel a pain in my stomach. I sit at my kitchen table. I move bills aside and put my head in my hands. I sigh heavily. The buzz of the lights and the city noise is the only company I have. Will this gloom ever lift?

  Missed calls, my friend called to remind me of something. I had somewhere I needed to go. I needed to do something. Well, here I am. Graduated. Lettered. Drifting. Anchorless. My phone rings. I look. It is my mother. I feel a gouge in the pit of my stomach. I don't want to answer, but she will only call back.

  “Hey Mom.” I reluctantly answer.

  “Hi, Honey, I'm good. I wanted to see how you were doing with the job search?” She asks.

  “I haven't found anything.” I mutter.

  “For four months? Maybe you should volunteer-” She said.

  “I worked hard for four years-” I said.

  “You are only working part time right?” She said.

  “Everyone is getting married and has real jobs and I'm-” I said, playing the sympathy distraction card.

  “Okay, sorry- how are things otherwise?” She asked.

  “Nothing to write home about. The manager at work got fired for embezzlement so I got extra-shifts at work. That was kind of nice. Better nothing good, than something bad right?” I said.

  “Okay, well you know you can ask for money- if you need to I mean, you know that right?” She said.

  “Yeah. Thanks mom.” I pace nervously around my place.

  “Grandma and grandpa would like you to visit soon.”

  “I know.” I feel sick guilt sinking in. “It’s far away and…”

  “Dinner Friday?” She asked.

  “Sure, when?” I said.

  “Friday. I just said. Honey are you okay?” She said.

  “I have a friend coming over though so I should go.” I lied.

  “Oh? Okay. Well. Bye honey, I love you.” She said.

  “Bye. Love you too, Mom.” I said.

  I hang up the phone. I leave the kitchen and lay down on the chesterfield. I graduated with distinction. I got scholarships. My GPA was only point zero two points away from graduating with great distinction. The fan spinning and the street noise provides static to my phantasmagoria.

  My counselor's office is comfortable. The chair is soft and familiar, like that old green chair in my uncle's rumpus room. She is taking notes. Another friend commits suicide, and I’m back here.

  “Why was everyone around me giving up?” I said.

  “Giving up?” She asked.

  “He was a talented actor-..” I said.

  “And he committed suicide.” She said.

  My problem was minor. Nightmares of it punctuated my waking hours now, not waiting for me to fall asleep. Reality fluctuated inward and out. I would stare at an object and it would trigger images, burned into the backs of my eyes. Single frames of horror spliced into my daily life. Sleeping was even worse. Oubliette.

  “My dreams are hell and the waking world is purgatory.” I said.

  “The suffering is reaching a boiling point.” She said.

  “No rest for the wicked, I wish I remembered what I did.” I said.

  “You do remember though.” She reminded me.

  “I do- but was it real. Or is this a story I tell myself?” I said.

  “If it is a story, is the suffering worth it?” She said. “Let’s focus on the light, hold the buzzers. Listen to my voice.”

  All the woven strands, what a tangled web we weave indeed. The threads of fate, causality. If causality did not exist, and rather, I was simply reading the book from the beginning to the end thinking I was writing it from beginning to end. Then what, am I the writer of my life, or the reader? Who would write a character, this rough and flawed creature, as I?

  “Okay, now come back to the room.” She called to me through the mist.

  “It is good. I fucking like the buzzing things in my hands. I feel like after a few sets then things are cleared away. Like I can remember things and stuff.” I said.

  “Stuff?” My counselor writes things down. “Tell me more.”

  “Yeah, like things make sense, this negative commentary in my head and I have the images and that kind of stuff.” I said.

  “What do you mean images?” She writes more things down.

  “Like I will be looking at something and it will remind me of that night and then I will be back there for a second.” I am six years old.

  “Can you name a four objects in the room.” She asks.

  �
�Pillow, computer, tropical island picture, bookshelf.” I said.

  “What day is it?” She asked.

  “Day?” I repeated confused.

  “I have to ask these questions to make sure you aren't dissociating.” She said.

  “Is that a problem?” My voice wavers.

  “A fire door- if pain is too much you’ll shut down.” She said.

  Crippled insect under a microscope, things are going well enough. We keep working towards goals. I can talk about it now; not to anyone but her, but still. Therapy is working. Some days are awful. Some days are great. Some days I can think about it and not want to hide. To forget, what bliss.

  “Will I ever stop hurting?” I said.

  “These kind of experiences will always cause pain when you recall them. It would be unnatural if you enjoyed thinking about trauma, in fact an indication of further traumatization-. In the end you can only decide when the pain is tolerable versus how much is too much to bear. Trauma will always hurt, you will never want to sit at a dinner party and talk about it. Recovery is about not letting your trauma cripple you anymore. Transforming from a victim to a survivor, a victim is powerless, a survivor empowered.” She said, drawing a diagram about safety and what I miss out by trapping myself.

  The fortune teller sits across from me; staring strangely.

  “The death card does not necessarily represent the physical end. Death is an ending and brings change. Though in your case I get the sense that it is both- you are followed by spirits of your fallen friends and you are terrified of changes going in your life. Past changes have brought you discord and pain. Death is a special card in this way, ends are beginnings and beginnings are ends.” He said.

  “I suppose.” I murmur quietly.

  “No damn good at asserting yourself.” He said.

  Silence hangs in the air with the burning incense.

  “Regardless. The next card is what crosses you-” He said.

  “Do it.” The candles waver as my breath pushes the flame.

  My dad is unnaturally silent today during our drive, but is popping his jaw. He does that, a bear. In appearance too, he was a bear. Maybe that was why he refused to hunt them. Isolation. I wish I lived in the city with my friends at school. The hour drive in and out of town each day. Summers filled with endless work instead of holiday trips.