by Garret Ford
“A dream- yes, my dream, naturally…-” My friend, drinks deep.
“Or the gods dreaming…” I ponder that thought.
“Careful, you will give me a god complex.” She said.
“I know a good therapist, don’t worry.” I said, winking.
“What happens when god wakes up?” She finished her drink, unsteadily grasps at the bottle, and stops.
“The universe ends, I guess.” I frowned slightly. “A book ends. We close it, return to our greater reality- the illusion is over- the curtain lifts. God’s sight changes.”
“Would you have any regrets?” She asks me quietly.
“Entanglement.” I turn and kiss her gently.
Deep in our cups; our favorite album, teeth black with wine, dizzyingly drunk. Our lips hold softly, for a moment. She smells like vanilla and her lip gloss tastes like cotton candy. Her fingers interlock with mine and pulls me close.
“Entanglement?” She whispers in my ear.
“One mote, distant from another- is intertwined.” I said softly as she runs her fingers through my long hair.
“Me too.” She clutches my arms and kisses my hand softly.
I close my eyes and think to myself “Finally, I’m home.”
Our lips caress each other gently. So soft. So tender. Dreaming.
“I love you.” I whispered, afraid the world would hear.
“I love you too.” She whispered back, similarly.
We made love that night, not idle fucking. The next morning, she is accepted into university and is moving away. We keep seeing each other until she leaves town; her parents throw a party on the night she leaves town- I can’t book it off work-... I’m late to the party.
“Can you drive her to the greyhound station?” Her dad asked.
I happily oblige, perhaps they knew- and didn’t care.
Our last night in the city, dull roar of nightlife. We stand at a bus terminal, duffle bag at her feet, brick wall behind her, pavement, wet from the spring rain, the glow of the neon sign above us, radiant red, cool white, and icy blue, stark beauty. Alone, together. I check my flip phone.
11:11. I wish she would stay with me.
Dream or nightmare; everything ends.
“I'm going to miss you.” I said; I want to beg her to stay, one of my other-selves did- but I did not. “Why don’t I ever say what I mean.” I think to myself.
“Me too.” She said.
“God be with you.” She whispers in my ear.
The bus arrives at the terminal, it was inevitable. I caress her face one last time. The lesson of the apple orchard is repeated. A kiss on the cheek, our fingertips touch for the last time. She boards the last bus, and is gone. The night sky spirals above. Stars- bright enough to pierce through the city lights, please, guide me home.
The ceiling fan is spinning, making a soft clink as the pull chain dangles against the antique brass finish lamp. Day-dreaming again. Impossible to tell one from another. I pat the faux leather ottoman beside me and find my fancy smartphone.
20:01.
“Well, here I am.” I think to myself.
The rocky shore, wind whispers softly through the old growth forest behind me, salty sea breeze, fills me with vigor. Ships, immense pass through the straight. Old memories drifting into and out of consciousness. One ship passes closer to the island and I see an emblem of a mythical beast.
“Cool bird.” I said, skipping a rock across the water at the ship.
Four skips.
“That is a phoenix, not a bird.” My sister said.
“What do they do?” I ask.
“They are immortal.” She said. “Each time they die they combust and are reduced to embers and ash- but are reborn, greater than they were before.”
“Burning up like that would suck.” I said.
“The price of immortality is suffering.” She said.
Suicide parade.
Fake floats filled with flowers and revels?
LIE. LIE! LIE?
Pretend to be…
Overjoyed- when I want to…
DIE.
Outwardly wonderful occurrences-
IMPOSTER
LIAR.
Snap and snuff it.
Spit on the family photo album, burn it to ashes.
Awaken.--Music plays.
Music, sweet anodyne.
Caress the pain.
Love your pain until it isn't pain. It is joy.
Energy.
A lilting tune,
Soothe the savage beast
Scourge the soul.
Pain of mine, remain closest and dearest.
Hold my hand,
Sweetness.
Happy, curse of joy- passing refrain.
The body remembers what the mind forgets.
Whatever that means.
I forgot my miserable pains-.
Grim cloak, cast aside and smile?
With joy in my heart.
Sunshine on a snowy plain?
Warmth despite the cold.
Gunfire echoed through the hallways of the university. The illusion of safety is shattered. People began screaming and pushing. Gunfire, closer now. Occasional screams- yelps. People running.
“I’m fucked.” I think to myself.
The student body becomes a river of flesh. I can’t keep up. I dodge around a corner to avoid being trampled. I peek out around the corner and make my way to a stairwell. I open the door slowly and peak through.
Police draw their pistols at me and I scream. I raise my hands in the air. They quickly move up and pat me down. My hero.
“You need to evacuate, there has been shooting. The gunman is loose in the school still. We have cleared the stair well down. Go. Run.” The officer said in muffled tone through their thick insect like gas mask, gripping an assault rifle.
“Can’t I come with you?” I pleaded softly- hopeful.
“Too dangerous, the stairwell down is clear, escape. Don’t let anyone else come up this way, we need to keep casualties down.” The other officer said pointing to the stairwell.
“Thank you.” I said and ran down the stairs.
I hear gun fire from above and a door slam. An ambush?
“Who’s there?” I asked. No answer. Footsteps.
Fight, flight- why am I freezing?
“There you are.” They said.
They stand at the top of the stairs, black trench coat. I nervously smile, frightened but frozen. Then recognition. Familiar…
“We can’t go up that way, there is a gunman-” I said pointing for us to go down the stairwell.
“I know.” He said, drawing a gun.
This was the last moment of my life, and I pissed myself.
“No, no, no, please no!” I cried out.
“You are the fourth one, the last one.” He said.
He pulled the trigger. I fall backwards against the cold concrete. Smashing my head against the wall, my ruptured innards splattered against the concrete. Stuff happens.
I hear jackboots coming. Shouting about shooting. Too late for me. Fuck. My perspective shifts, I am hovering above the rash and bloody deed. The assassin starts down the stairs, only to be ambushed by the riot squad.
RATATATA! Lifeless, the gunman falls and pisses himself.
I, the loyal assistant stands handcuffed outside the compound.
“Where is your leader?” The commandant asked me.
“Alpha and omega- Beginning and the end! Within you- within me! The tide rises!” I laughed. “The Aquarian age rises!”
“Blindfold?” The commandant offered me the final courtesies.
“I will look the ones that kill me in the eye.” I said, stoic.
“Cigarette?” The commandant offered a Morley, my old brand.
“Filthy habit, those things will kill you.” I said, sardonically.
“Any last words?” The commandant asked, their guard tied me to the post beside the bodies of the other dead cultists.
&nbs
p; “We are the heralds of the new age! Viva Aqua…” I yelled.
“Let me rephrase, any last words that are NOT cult dogma?” The commandant sneered, and checked a box on their clipboard.
I stood, tied to the post, thinking.
The sutra Namu-Amida-Butsu echoed through my mind.
“No final thoughts?” The commandant checked their watch.
“I wanted to say something profound but I got nothing.” I said.
“The less you say, the more it means.” The commandant said.
“…” I said.
The commandant raised their baton, rifles loaded, aimed.
“3. 2. 1.” The commandant counted, baton lowering.
“Fuck, this is probably my final thought.” I thought to myself.
“Fire.” The commandant Ordered; cold as death’s icy grip.
“This sight is dismal, and the ears are senseless that should give us hearing- to let them know our commandment is fulfilled- that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Where shall we have our thanks…” I said, forgetting what comes next.
My drama teacher smiles and claps me on the back.
“I may make an actor of you yet- now notes... lines exist to be memorized, why are you so forgetful- great emotionality.” She said.
“Was it believable?” I asked.
“Nearly, a few flaws.” She said, showing me the lines.
“Close but no cigar.” I said.
“The intention of the closing line is thus; Filthy creatures, the two things we humans are best at is killing and fucking. Now, who the fuck is gonna pay me.” She smiled and put her hand on my shoulder.
Chapter 16-
“Aliens exist, why bother with us is debatable.”
Chad H. North
I am watching cartoons in my uncle’s rumpus room. I want to stay in this place where there is no time to keep track of. I am sitting comfortably on a paisley chesterfield under an old knitted blanket. The rabbit on the TV is laughing at a duck holding a sign. I don’t get it, I can’t read, but I laugh anyways. My mother comes down the stairs, looks through the beaded curtain. She is younger, she is smiling.
“It is time.” She said.
“Can’t I keep watching cartoons?” I asked.
“Those shows are too violent.” She said, shutting off the TV.
“But they are funny.” I said.
“One day you won’t think death and violence is funny.” She said, shaking her head.
“They don’t really die, they come back in the next scene.” I said, pleading.
“You will understand when you get older.” She lied.
It hurts. I lay on the cold hard hospital waiting room chairs in the fetal position. My friend sits beside me and strokes my hair. I look at my hands, they are gray as the concrete. I can barely hear them talking over the noise of the emergency room.
Fucking sick. Vomiting for hours, I couldn't even keep water down. I go to the bathroom and vomit again. I splash water on my face and look into the mirror. The bathroom is spinning. Painful gurgling in my stomach- I quickly pull down my pants and rush back towards the stall- burning diarrhea sprays forth, half-in and half-out of the toilet. I groan in agony; a spicy sickly stench fills the air. Not with a bang- or at old age surrounded by loved ones. I meet death here, the punch line to a joke; the one where they die surrounded by shit and vomit in a hospital bathroom. My shitty hands try to clean up, but spread more shit than they clean. Déjà vu. For a moment I grasp at to slow my fall, but it doesn't help. I fall anyways.
“Namu-Amida-Butsu.” I mumble a half remembered prayer.
“Looking pretty bad pumpkin.” I hear a voice.
“Who’s there?” I asked.
I get up off the dusty earth and pull the shards of glass out of my hands. I am bleeding. Far too much. I stumble towards the house, towards safety. I look at my hands, the flaps of skin hanging off my hands, bone is visible. So much blood. I don't feel pain. I am detached. I watch myself stagger and fall. Leaving a trail of bloody hand prints as I make my way inside. The bandages staunch some of the bleeding. I look up into the bathroom mirror; see my pale haggard reflection.
“Bloody mess, what a shame, pumpkin.” I hear.
“You can go in now.” She said.
I get up gripping my garbage can and slowly walk behind the nurse. My stomach is imploding. I grit my teeth as they lead me down the hallway, I keep my eyes on the back of their feet. The hospital is busy, I can hear the wailing of other patients echoing down the hall way. They lead me into a small room with glass windows and a bed.
They led my friend away. I undress and put the soft greenish gray robe on, lay down. The pain is blinding, the cries of the other patients seem to grow louder. Unknown illness, vomiting, blinding pain, and gray as the concrete. I wonder if I have infected my friend. Sharing isn't caring in this case. Two nurses arrive: the man has a perfect cleft in his chin; the lady reminds me of Mrs. Claus.
“How much pain do you feel? On a scale between one and ten, one being the lowest and ten being the highest.” She asked.
“Nine? The only way I’d feel worse is if you set me on fire too.” I said, cringing in pain as the IV is hooked up.
“We will get you something soon.” He reassured me.
“You aren't alone here.” She said.
“Thanks for coming with me.” I look at my friend through the glass, they wave, I wave back weakly, my friend smiles.
The doctor enters and looks me over. The nurse gives me morphine. Reality becomes an impressionists painting. Moments pass- the nausea passes. The bag empties, it is changed, droll excitement.
“We need to have your electrolytes stabilized before we can let you go. Do you need to call anyone?” They asked.
“Today was the first day of my holidays.” I laughed, bitterly.
“Ring if you need us.” The doctor closes the door.
Time staggers onward. The morphine helps.
“Namu-Amida-Butsu.” I repeat the sutra.
My friend is allowed to come in, but with mask and gloves.
“Could you turn on the music- something relaxing?” I respond.
“Sure. What do you want to listen to?” She shrugs.
“Vaporwave?” I respond.
“Let me see.” She fiddled with my phone. “There you go.”
The music dulls the pain. Or perhaps the drugs. Oubliette.
“This card is behind you.” The fortune teller produces a card depicting a horned devil sitting atop a pillar of stone. Beneath him a pair of humans, man and woman- turned to demons, chained to each other and chained to the pillar.
“The card represents that which is leaving your life right now. The dark, shadows, the occult, but not always evil. A symbol of bloody painful trauma. These, Adam and Eve, after they fell. Those who fall from undergo a transformation, or perish. After consuming the fruit of knowledge, seeing the truth for what it is, there is no way one can turn back. Santa Claus. You did believe in Santa Claus didn't you?” He asked.
“Yes.” I mumbled lowly.
“And what happened?” He asked.
“I was fucking excited for Santa Claus coming and my grandma told me that Christmas is about Jesus and not Santa, and that my parents were Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.” I mumbled.
“How terribly tragic. Your illusion was shattered and you were forced to confront the truth. What happened when your first relationship ended?” The fortuneteller asked.
“I realized the truth, I left him.” I mumbled lied.
“The truth is a terrible indeed- shattering precious illusions. But how free you became after shattering that illusion. The reality you perceive is false, a cloth over the table. While it has the shape of the table beneath might be hinted at by the cloth, it is not the true table.” The fortune teller’s words hurt, but felt true.
“You keep saying that.” I said.
“What do I keep saying?” He asked.
“The gods.” I said.
&n
bsp; “There are as many gods as there are stars in the sky. But they are beyond our wit. At best they don't know about us, at worst they do. Then again, being a god means omniscience- therefore we are beneath their attention- god is in his heaven, all is right with the world- as the poem goes.” He said. Smiling strangely.
“Can we continue.” I said.
“This card is what is before you.” He said softly.
The fortuneteller produced a card depicting a young nude woman pouring out two earthen jugs of water. One is being poured into a lake while the other is being dumped onto the ground, slowly winding back to the lake. Her eyes are downcast staring into the waters, in the sky above there are eight stars with eight points.
“Loss is coming- all change is loss, ill or well. Loss of identity, humans are ultimately greedy creatures, death or change are painful because- you are mourning that part of yourself- that is lost.” He paused speaking and stroked the card lovingly.
“The card also represents hope and balance. We are the blind beggars, grasping in the dark, believing the crinkle under our fingertips is Christmas paper wrapping, it is all garbage.” He smiled.
“What's funny?” I sneered.
“You have the potential to do as thou wilt, and yet you continue to do the will of others. Nobody can steal your voice but you. You can always speak out and do what needs be done-.” The fortuneteller trailed off.
“You speaking from experience-” I said.
“The pained postured, frightened eyes, words of anguish… the pain of all humanity.” He nodded, almost in reverence and continued.
“Stranger, ceasing your revels you embarked on a journey, through all the different paths with all the loves and pains it will bring. Retire to blissful nirvana and molder- or return a Bodhisattva and ascend- you may is for you to decide.” He said, grimly.
The office smells nice as usual, but the room has shifted, I feel my therapist’s disdain and disappointment. I stare through the bars that are my prison. I have no words. She sits across from me looking down at her clipboard. I listen. She is quiet. A silent moment or silent eternity are indistinguishable.
“A tiger is pacing and staring out the bars of the cage in the zoo, the tiger never turns to see the gate is open- it merely needed to be called and shown the way through pain is connection.” She said.
