Chimes of Thought

Mr. Waters drug the body from the road to the alleyway. Shout! Shout! Moonlight danced down in flecks of illumination. They can’t hear me. She didn’t weigh much but Mr. Waters managed to still break a sweat. He tossed her into the city’s garbage which caused trash to shoot into the air. Quickly he looked in all direction hoping that no one heard his loud mistake. Please let someone hear me. She had not charged much for Mr. Waters to have his fun but he would have never guessed her to be so brittle. I’m a disgrace. He had consoled her when she wept; he even caressed her back with a touch filled with compassion before he defiled her.

Mr. Waters looked into her eyes as she stared blankly up at him, the garbage surrounding her. I can see your face you bastard. He slammed the lid down before he darted away into the night. His car felt warm on his pale skin. Quickly he slammed the door to warm himself up. He turned the key in the ignition causing a rumble to erupt from his engine. He directed his eyes at the garbage bin with melancholy in his eyes.

“Melancholy in your eyes, that’s a bit strange.” Mr. Ice said from the backseat of Waters’ car. Like any man Mr. Waters was quite frightened.

“Who are you? How the hell-?” Mr. Waters exclaimed.

“Don’t exclaim to me Mr. Waters.” Mr. Ice said as he bit a chunk from his apple.

“Exclaim-?”

“Mr. Waters questioned Mr. Ice from the front seat; his face had turned to the color of snow, almost resembling the dead prostitute in the trash. Laughter erupted from down below his car from a thousand orphans.” After Mr. Ice finished his words the laughter did occur and a flock of bats scattered from the windows of the apartments across the road. “Mr. Waters turned as the bats flew off to the moon. Quit funny isn’t it Mr. Waters, said Mr. Ice.” Mr. Ice chuckled.

“What is this?” Mr. Waters was frightened. Violins began to screech from the alleyway where the prostitute laid in suspended animation.

“Your coat is red, wait now its blue. Mr. Ice snapped his fingers causing Waters’ coat to transform into a dark shade of blue.” Mr. Ice took another loud bite from his red apple. Rhymes of Goodbye by Scott Walker began to play from the radio. My dad would play that song every night after he got home from the mine, one day he never came home. Mom told me I’d see him in heaven. Mr. Waters turned to the radio in shock.

“Sound familiar Mr. Waters, said Mr. Ice.” Once again Ice took another bite from his apple.

“Yeah, my mom, she’d always listen to this when she cleaned the house. I haven’t heard it in years.” Waters began to tear up.

“She left you when you were young, dropped you off at the mall and never came back. She died from a heroin overdose two years ago, if you wanted to know. But she did not abandon you out of hatred; she carried your picture with her everywhere she went. She died clutching it. Her pimp chucked it when he found her though, sorry.” Mr. Ice adjusted his watch. “It was the one with you and the toy dump truck. Do you know where she got it?” Mr. Ice questioned. I can’t move a muscle, please help me, anyone, please.

“No…” Mr. Waters had become very-

“Solemn-She nabbed it from a bin at a convenient store the day before your birthday. She only had enough money for her fix, so she had to think fast if she was gonna get you a gift, and stealing was natural to her by then. She was a junkie that still put her kid first, in a strange way.” Mr. Ice smiled wide. Waters leaned back onto the door with his eyes looking at the garbage bin where his little fling laid.

“I miss her.” Mr. Waters mumbled.

“The little whore you stashed in the garbage or your mother? Mr. Waters turned to Ice in anger.” Mr. Ice threw his apple out of the window.

“I didn’t kill her, I didn’t mean to, I-” Mr. Waters was at a loss for words.

“Let it get out of hand, said Mr. Waters. After his words left his mouth his actions were finally apparent, he had murdered someone making him a worthless killer. Feels good to accept it doesn’t it Mr. Waters?” Mr. Ice said to my killer with a grin. Suddenly the woman’s finger twitched with life.

“Who are-?”

“You, questioned Mr. Waters. I am someone you met in the back of your car.” Mr. Ice laughed; his teeth turned a dark yellow while age rapidly progressed across his face. I can move my hand, I can move my hand! Blood began to trickle out of Mr. Waters’ eyes. He grabbed his throat.

“Wha-?”

“T.” Mr. Ice said as he leaned close to Mr. Waters while wrinkles dug deep into his face. “Let’s take care of that voice of yours.” Pain immediately consumed Waters. He was “shocked by the intensity he felt rising in his throat. It was like a million needles covered in salt tearing into his flesh.” Mr. Waters groaned as a book opened up in his lap.

“I’m-.”

“In extreme pain, he said clutching his throat. Yes I know, said Mr. Ice.” Soon without warning Mr. Waters coughed up his tongue. It fell down onto the opened book that stared at him. “Speaking is for talkers, while listening is for listeners. Personally I’d prefer you to be a man who can only stare.” Mr. Waters coughed up blood as he grabbed his ears which “began to burn with the intensity of coals buried within blazing fire.” I can breathe!

Mr. Waters shook his head letting his body do the talking. His pupils shrunk to the size of sugar, red veins consumed the whites of his eyes. Mr. Ice’s hair turned grey before falling to the seat of the car. I can stand, I’m standing. The garbage lid opened grabbing Waters’ attention as he shook with pain. “Can you still see Mr. Waters? If you can I’d like a node, it’s only polite.” Mr. Waters “began nodding yes rapidly hoping to catch MY attention.” Tears began to “stream down his face.”

I’m able “to speak now!” She yelled from the alleyway. Mr. Ice turned to Mr. Waters whose ears began to tear from his head. The violins from the darkness began to play a heavy A minor. “Help me!” The woman screamed as she darted down the street opposite of Mr. Waters.

“I bet you’d kill to say words like that.” Mr. Ice said as he opened the back door of the car. He began to walk down the long dark street as the violins hummed D minor.

BROTTFÖR

“Injustice, injustice!” Cried the dying wolf in the dense woods. Rusted arrows pierced the beast’s chest from the angels with clipped wings. A crow’s foot repeatedly tapped the hollow trunk of the tree. Sparks rose from the corroded path by the lake. Echoes lingered from falling branches like butterflies caught in mid-flight.

Groups of hooded figures with painted masks attempted to rebuild the broken wolf with gentle hands. “To be forgotten is a blessing.” Shouted the wolf in a weakened breath. This intrigued the crow who tapped the hollow trunk in a beat of three. Then came the wind. The frowns on the masks quickly transformed into smiles with the wind. But as quickly as it had come the wind left taking the smiles with it.

Spiral stairs formed from every dead branch as the land gave birth. Up in the sky the moon smiled as he smoked a small cigarette. Stars provoked him into giving them a glance but he returned to them only a blink. Down below the crow beat the hollow trunk with his beak.

Doves scattered in haste as the leaves blew with the returning wind. Smiles graced the masks once again. Arrows shot forth from the bleeding angels who frowned in pity while the wolf stood strong. Crowds of deer came from the shadows with glowing eyes, the trees simply creaked.

“I’ve never known them to be the sensitive type.” said the oak to the pine. Up above the crow chuckled as he bit a hole into a rabbit’s neck. A thousand voices erupted from within the roots. They hurled phrases in a trance at the men hidden in hoods. Angrily the crow flapped his wings in disdain for the moon. “But he is a good boy.” The flirty stars chirped back. A wall of arrows fired from the angels.

The wolf took the brunt of their attacks. “It was his choice!” Shouted the oak. “Keep still!” The pine sarcastically barked. The returning wind graced the masks with smiles. “Take my life now and watch it then grow!” The wolf cheered with the thousand voices. Oak looked at pine as his face froze. The crow attempted retreat but found himself melted to pine’s limb. As the wolf laid his head down onto the ground each man stood accepting failure. Snow began to fall from the moon as every star wept. Each man’s mask could not maintain an emotion. Instead they became a blur of reaction. Sparkles consumed the intruding deer while the rabbit held its bleeding neck. Each hair of the wolf’s mane scattered around the frame of the stairs while tears drowned them. The men looked up from behind their masks as the moon turned to blackness. Each star fell from the sky in an avalanche of light.

Eileen (Part Two)

– 

     Birds woke me in the early morning hours. Looking around me I found the fire had turned to ash but I felt warmer than the previous nights. Wrapped around me was Abigail’s blanket, her perfume was embedded in its fabric. My back hurt from the rock we had decided to sleep on. I looked up at the sky to see only fragments of the sun through the swirling snow. At my head sat Abigail looking up at that same sky. She wore my wide brimmed hat, the bird’s feather pointed straight up. She rested her arms on her knees. “It’s brighter today.” She said.

     “Have the clouds lifted?” I set up to cover her with the blanket which caused her to turn to me with a frown.

     “Is it not warm enough?” Her face showed anger but her eyes showed me that she was using anger as a shield.

     “It’s perfect Abigail, but you are shivering, I’m dressed for this you are not. A white dress will get you killed out here.” After saying those words I realized that she wanted that, much like I had but I had more fear of committing to that act then her. She gave me no answer instead she just looked away to the sky. I pulled the blanket up around her shivering body without an accompanying word. I sat next to her while I fiddled with    an old button from my coat. Her eyes stared at the sky. “Are you expecting something Abigail?”

     “I thought he’d have come for me by now?” I knew who she was speaking of; it was the same man we all expect to see someday. But he is not coming.

     “Are you warmer Abigail? You’ve stopped shivering.” Those comforting words took her from the sky. They grounded her in the reality she had placed herself in. I was happy to be there with her in that reality, whether I knew it or not at the time. The same went for her. Somewhere buried in both of us was the fragment of happiness. It was broken into a million pieces and scattered about, but with time it could be put back together.

     Abigail looked down at her feet showing me that they were bare. They were bright red with her nails cracked. I pulled off my coat to wrap it around them in an attempt to warm her. I pressed my hands around them to feel how cold they truly were. “Where are your shoes Abigail?” Anxiety consumed me.

     “I threw them over a mountain several miles back.” Immediately I grabbed her. She had her arms wrapped around my neck to hold her body up. My knees were weak and my arms frail but Abigail was standing in the threshold of death. My only mission was to get her as far away from it as possible. From her came no objection.

     For hours I carried her up steep hills and down valleys. Snow wetted my hair down; the cold began to freeze it. Abigail’s heavy breathing told me that she had fallen into a deep sleep. I kept my hat pressed down on her head to warm her ears while she dreamed. The feather stuck in the ribbon of the hat pointed behind us. During her sleep she managed to keep her grasp firm around my neck. I whispered to her that she would be ok. But during that brief time of knowing her I found her to be much like me, being ok did not matter to her or me.

     Mother Nature and the Sun fought against me. The sun was setting while the snow increased. Wind whispered threats into my ears. Snow piled up all around me until I was knee deep in it. Each step took strength I did not have. After I pushed through for several moments Mother Nature had beaten me, she tore me down and pushed me to my knees. I fell onto my back with Abigail still holding tightly onto my neck. The fall woke her with an attack of snow to her face. Unlike most people who would immediately stand when faced with such shock she stayed by my side. I could see my breath floating up above me as Abigail’s green eyes looked down. I felt like the drowning boy in her story, only I was a man who turned into a boy.

     Abigail held my face while forcing my eyes from closing. The darkness of the night began to creep up around us without warning as if it was late. But no matter how hard Abigail worked to keep me there and all the tears she cried I was fading fast. I had been there before in that place but it felt worse lying there buried in the snow. My head fell to the side as Abigail cried out in a language I did not recognize. Every tear she shed could not pull me from the abyss I was falling into.

To my surprise it wasn’t over. Standing ten feet from us was an old cabin covered in snow masked within the trees. I looked to Abigail with a strange smile. Her face was red from crying. My smile broke that pain in her giving her the ability to grin. I stood holding her once again knowing her feet were useless. Fighting against my legs became a chore as the storm attacked us from all angles. With each step I took Abigail and I closer to safety. In my mind I could have fallen at the doorway just as long as Abigail could have crawled into the shelter of that cabin. Both of us were young with little life behind us and too much before us. For some reason I felt I had to fight to get us to that road leading to the next day, a road both of us had never wanted to walk. The longer I had been there, watching each day pass; I continued to prolong the experience. Why did I desire to stand back up while at the feet of death? I did not fear death, I wanted it.

–

     I awoke to the cracking of a fire along with the whispers from the wind. I felt warm on the ancient cabins dusty floor even though my feet were numb. Everything around me slid slowly into focus. I could see a wire hanging from the ceiling frozen in the wind. An old photograph of a child stood on the fireplace mantle. Abigail was asleep next to me with her back up against the wall holding my frail pale hand in-between hers. “I hope you’re happy.” I couldn’t tell if I had said that or Eileen. Either way both of us had the ability to blame the other for our situations. In the end one of us would cut the others throat.

 

Eileen (Part One)

The wind howled like a pack of wild wolves. The leafless trees violently swayed within that fierce wind. Snow fell from the infinite sky above me. That falling snow collected on each branch, on each downed tree and onto my wide brimmed hat. Snow was everywhere; it blanketed everything in a veil of white. There was no horizon nor was there an indication of up or down. I was alone.

–

Somehow I found myself lost in all sense of the word. I had no future to look forward to and no past to fall back on, and the cold woods can be a lonely place. Solitude is something that encompasses you; it fills every portion of your body, mind and soul. It is something that causes many to be frightened.  The fear sometimes consumes and convinces you to attach yourself to situations and people that you will not benefit from in the end, and the end is all that matters.

     I was alone apart from my footprints following me in the snow. The sun never seemed to shine through the overbearing clouds. In every direction I was blinded by a wall of white. All sounds, if there were any, had been obscured by the cries of the February wind. What kind of place was this? Had I really believed that an escape would suffice? Had I thought it would solve the ills in my world? Ills I may have caused. Cowards retreat, cowards hide from what scares them, this I had done. I had become a coward in a world where only the fighters make it over the hill.

     When what was surrounding me became unbearable I found my escape in old forgotten words I had put on hold. But in times of need these old words were put on a somewhat intangible loop. While in deep sessions of thought I’d find myself reaching for the images they conjured up. But they were dead and in the past, buried somewhere near the remains of what I once thought was a reality. Missing it all was what brought me to that state of vanished limbo. How could something that was so meaningless long ago hold such an apparent weight of me? Maybe I had been to that place before, stuck between what I needed, missed and wanted. As I’ve aged I‘ve found that what we want is temporary. The pain we go through we bring on ourselves by coveting memories, possibilities, objects, lifestyles and vanity. Being lost out there I found this within myself. Through this I realized that what was spoken to me and of me when I was young still remained. It consumed me, it surrounded me. I was drowning in it, somehow lost out at sea with only retired words as a map to guide me. But to get somewhere you have to put one foot in front of the other, I took myself there. That isolation in the snow covered wilderness was what I had sought, so I could only blame myself for the position I had fallen into. Wonder what Eileen would think of me? Was I even a man anymore? Did it matter? Lucky for her she was still protected by the blurry past which had become a stone castle for her. She was too long ago; the face and the name would no longer be the same.

     It became too much. That bitter wind attacking me from all directions. Trembling branches crashed to the ground cracking the ice covered snow. Rocks slid off the tall mountainside dissipating into the white glow below. I had been up for days forcing myself through the frigid pain. My boots were wet and began to harden under a thick sheet of ice. I looked above me for any sign of the sun but to no avail, everything had become white. Night to day meant nothing to me; the sky had seemed to forget to change with the ticking of the clock. I had to laugh at that thought. When I fell to the ground in exhaustion I could almost see the hands of an ancient clock spinning in a blur looking for a time to pick, but they were just as lost as me.

     When I woke I believed it to be dawn. I could faintly hear the chirping of varied birds off in the distance. After a moment of struggle I found myself standing again. For some obscure reason an image of Eileen flashed within my mind. She was a memory to heavy to bear and too strong to keep shackled to the floor. Her ghost had a voice that wanted to be heard or just eyes to see. I wondered if mine ever went to her and if she welcomed it.

     Behind me an old tree fell from its vertical stature briskly to the earth. It snapped off at the center resulting in a sound louder than a thousand gunshots. Each branch shattered like glass upon impact. Echoes of it bounced off of the mountain walls followed by deafening silence. I mumbled a few words to myself before I turned towards my destination; it was a place that I only remembered existing. Places are as obscure as the people that have been to them. We just become varied shadows on the floor where our footsteps once were.

     My stride had decreased within minutes of my distorted journey. Each footstep was slower than the first. Where I was going I truly did not know, but I knew I would never get there at that rate. I had various images of what I wanted or expected if I arrived but they changed with the wind. The truth at that moment was that I couldn’t seem to find anything anymore, even the feet that carried me there.

– 

     Halfway up a slick steep hill I felt true mortality. A few falls through the day caused some cuts and bruises but that became more and more ordinary as time went on. Each fall took me further down making my climb up that more challenging. Once I had finally crossed a slope that kept me from progressing I suffered the worst plunge in my time there. What I can remember of the incident was watching the surface I had thought could hold my weight crumple underneath me like dust. I cannot truly say how far I had fallen; all I know is that when I awoke wherever I had fallen from had disappeared above me in a wall of white.

     Lying there I heard Eileen’s gleeful laugh echo. I could not tell its origins. Had it been in my head generated by an old memory or did it come from somewhere within that mess? If Eileen was there with me at that moment she would smile at that barrier of fear and pain. She could shatter it with that twinkle in her eye. I on the other hand could never find that much joy within what appeared to be darkness. When I was down I was down, there was no other way for me to look at it. When Eileen was down she was up and flying with the birds. I’d look up at her with my hand out for help like a wounded bird begging to fly again. She’d always take my hand, curing me of all my ailments with just one touch.

     All I received from her was her joyous laugh that day, a day when I needed her more than anything in the entire world. I wondered if she could still face pain the way she had done so many times before. Sometimes what aided us before becomes a crutch. It tends to happen at times when you need it most. You become blinded by the surprise of it. Your weapon no longer reloads, the trigger doesn’t pull. In times like that the game has shifted like an image in water, you have to relearn sight.

     I felt like I was lying in the threshold of death. Caught in-between my past and what would soon come, neither one was appealing to me. But whichever option I was heading for standing to my feet was the only way of getting there. Reluctantly, forcing myself through various shots of pain shooting through my bones, I stood. Once up I immediately began walking where none of the fossils of my past self were. No littered footsteps leading in any direction, no broken twigs or fallen trees. The world shifted with each blink blurring the lines between reality and just another dream. I had to mutter to the sky in some hope for an answer “Eileen could I have another cup of coffee? I’m tired of this.” Of course the thunderous silence was all I got. But silence is far better than the clatter of a thousand shouting voices. Silence offers to you no opinion, no rule or suggestion; the mistakes you make within silence can only be blamed on yourself. I accepted at that moment that 90% of my decisions were in fact a mistake made while buried within my own silence while I was encompassed by the sound of others. All bets were off.

     When the sun managed to pierce through the foreboding surroundings it quickly succumbed to a quick death. Any light that did shine, no matter how dim, bounced from snowflake to snowflake dazzling my eyes. I had never been so frightened in my life while still finding joy within things. Everything around me provoked an array of feelings ranging from anger to tranquil meditation. Past Christmas’s crossed my mind, the smell of old photographs, voices I hadn’t heard in years all came flooding back in a surreal way. It made me wonder why I had ever left.

     Then from nowhere came the crackle of a fire, echoes rose from the distance like scattering birds. The sky was pitch black and littered with stars. Snowflakes twirled in suspended animation before me. Perfume lured me further through the abyss as if it had formed an outstretched hand to beckon me. Nothing was visible to me apart from the dismal scenery. What could be over the hill? What had made the effort to find me? Or did I find it?

     That scent triggered a flash of images I had forgotten. Eileen running after me through the rain screaming with tears trickling down her face. My solemn expression as I stared up at her on the foot of the stairs. A blurry night spent surrounded by people we never knew with faces that were all the same. A song a man played on an old piano at the corner of the street. Dreams we had of a life we thought we knew. The blindness we fell into during our youth. The lies we accepted as truth for the lies we were telling ourselves. And the way we said goodbye.

     The pessimism that crowded my mind had been somehow replaced by an urge to continue. I forgot the helplessness that surrounded me. I knew that before me was something different, at the time I had no idea as to what it could be but anything that differed from where I had been I welcomed. When you are desperate change is the only thing that helps you open your eyes. The mundane is blinding.

     Sitting before the fire was a young woman wrapped in a blanket. I stopped my progression to take cover behind a tree. Who could this woman be? Worse yet why would she be there in a place for the forgotten surrounded by things no one remembers. I kept myself shrouded in the shadows as she set before the fire. Her hair was a dark black that shined like a diamond. I could see the flicker of flames in her bright green eyes which stared aimlessly at the flames. They danced before her in a hypnotizing fashion, possibly pushing her into a trance.

     “You’re acting like I can’t see you. Do you think you’re clever or something, hiding like a coward? Shadows can’t hide everything, trust me I’ve tried them.” She spoke in broken English, her accent was unfamiliar to me I could not place it. Instead of continuing my charade I stepped out from the comforts of the night. As I approached her she did not look up to watch me. I expected hesitation, strangers are never trusted and I was a stranger.

     “Can I sit here?” I said in a voice that I had not heard in ages.

     “Why not, it’s a seat isn’t it?” I felt comfort in her words but she did not speak them in a way that should have convinced me. It’s funny how you perceive things when you think you’re mind is clear, but it always takes a turn and you find yourself blinded by someone else’s lies.

     We set in silence for several minutes. Surrounding me was warmth which was something I had not felt the whole time I had been there. Her perfume masked the scent of the forest in an aroma of sweet fruit. Something felt right within me, I was not use to it.

     “Do you have a name?” She asked me with her eyes still facing the fire.

     “If I did I don’t remember it, some things aren’t important enough to remember.” I heard the call from a bird past the hill I had come over. The night covered up everything that could have been seen.

     “You don’t remember your name but you still know how to speak. Am I right?” After she spoke she looked at me with a gentle smile but her eyes told a different story.

     “Yes, I can speak.” Nervously I had answered her.

     “What about manners? Do you still have them or are they not important enough to remember?” I felt as if she was attacking me.

     “Yes I still have them.” Something had changed within her, maybe I had offended her.

     “Then ask me my name. I asked you yours now ask mine. You did not offer to shake my hand when you set. I did not hear thanks come from your mouth when I said you could sit near me. The least you could do is ask me my name.”

     “What is your name?” After I parted with the words her smile widened but her eyes still held something I had never seen in someone’s before.

     “Abigail, my name is Abigail.” The flicker of the fire glowed on her face. She turned back to it as if she had gotten what she needed out of me and was done. Normally I would have accepted the silence since I desired it myself but Abigail was too illusive to leave alone.

     “How did you find this place?” Abigail turned her head slowly towards me thinking. She bit her bottom lip with a frown.

     “I don’t think words can describe it, at least the words I know. Use yours and tell me.” I wondered if I was dreaming.

     “My story or yours?” I wondered.

     “Whichever you know more about.” Abigail whispered with a turn of her head. I stared blankly choosing my words carefully before I spoke.

     “I came here because of everything I had seen and everyone I was stuck with meeting. I came here because of the places I was at. I came here because of the places I would never see. We’re all born with nothing Abigail and some of us are left with that. Not everyone is supposed to be with the others, we stray and fall off of the road. We blend in with everything that surrounds everyone still safe on that road.” Abigail spoke immediately after I stopped; I had expected another lull of silence.

     “But we’re happier off of that road. At least we think we are for awhile.” Her green eyes pierced my blue ones.

     “None of us are happy Abigail; we just forget we’re sad sometimes.” I held something in those words that Abigail took to heart. Somehow we had found each other out there. Both of us had put on masks long ago that said we knew why. Cluelessness is divine in the world we had both run from where nothing made sense except to be lost. It made the ugly elegant, the weak strong, and the speechless fill up with words. But the lost could never see that until it was too late.

     Abigail threw a stick into the flickering fire which was quickly diming. The moon had found a cloud to hide itself behind leaving us blind with only the remaining flames as our eyes. I looked at Abigail’s face as the flames danced off of it. Even cloaked within the nights shadow her green eyes glowed. I knew there was beauty hidden within her even if she had no intentions of finding it.

     A wall of silence formed around us for several minutes. When Abigail’s voice shattered that wall I almost jumped in fright. She spoke to me in the best English possible. “When I was very young, still at home before I decided to run, I saw a boy drown in a neighbor’s pond. He could not have been more than six or seven but he screamed like an adult man. His voice was strong; something that would normally come with age but fear brought it out of the boy. I could almost see the reaper standing in the water next to him with a grin. I was too far away to save him; I tried to run to him as he cried. His screams were so loud that winter morning, I’ll never forget them. They roused everyone out of bed. They stirred my grandmother out of a deep dream. I could see his frightened face as he struggled, his eyes red from weeping, his mouth wide open taking in the water. His hands were rendered useless by his fear; he had forgotten how to tread. I saw his mother running from their home towards the pond in hopes of saving him. I knew neither of us would make it to him in time. I saw the reaper rest its hand on his shoulder as the boy’s body went limp. His struggle had finally ended as he floated face down in that pond. I had gotten to the pond when the last ripple touched the grass.

     “His father grabbed his mother before she could get into the water. He held her close to his heart as she cried. He whispered something comforting in her ear in hopes to calm her. I watched them as I stood shocked next to the body, wet from the icy water. The father looked to me for an answer to his boy’s fate. My somber expression answered his fears. Emotion took hold of him. Tears ran down his face. His eyes looked much like his sons, filled with fear and tears. I didn’t know what to do other than drag his body out of the frigid water. By that time my father had come to me with help. My grandma rushed to the boy’s parents to hold them.” Abigail looked deep into the fire for an answer. “He was so young, a boy who died a man’s death.” The remaining hours of the night were left in silence.

Mia

The car came at me like a nightmare, vague, blunt and loud. It sounded like a million screams. Sky was black. Crickets sang out of sight. My head pounded. Who was who? Where was I? Everything went white.

I woke up. Surrounding me were the walls of a cabin. Fire snapped in the next room. Mumbling came from far off. A cat purred on the chair next to the bed. I looked to the window, still night. Stars were barely visible. On the dresser was my typewriter. Papers were missing. Bastards stole my work. I struggled to stand. My car keys in my pocket. Feet hurt. Head hurt. Body ached. I leaned on the wall for balance. I could smell food. A woman hummed. I stumbled out, followed the smell. Where was I?   

Woman was in red, hair black, pale white skin. She stirred a pot of food, her back to me. I tried to speak but the words hurt. I fell into a chair startling the woman. Maybe I knew her, couldn’t remember. “You’re up thank god!” I could barely make her words out.

“Where am I?” I said in a gurgled tone. She ran to my side. Smelled like roses.

“It’s my cabin, I call it Mia.” The woman said.

“You named your home?” I could barely hold my head up.

“Mia means mine; I just thought it would fit. What matters here is if you’re ok. Are you?” She pulled her hair from her face. Her hand was on my shoulder. She felt my head.

“Creative. I don’t care about your houses name, what’s yours?” I slurred my words.

“Eileen, its Eileen what’s yours?”

“Winter, what happened?” I sat up.

“You were hit by a car. What were you doing walking at this time of night and with a typewriter of all things?” She exclaimed.

“Writing.” I felt her question was brainless.

“In the middle of the woods, for what reason?”

“Where’s the bastard that hit me?” I tried to stand. I fell back down.

“He sped off, sorry I didn’t get the plates Winter.” Eileen sadly said.

“What the hell were you doing in the woods?” I wanted answers.

“I was walking but close to home unlike you. When I saw you I tried to help but you just wouldn’t wake up so I drug you back here.”

“With those arms?” I looked at her thin frame.

“To be honest you are skinnier than me Winter.” She smiled.

“Where are the papers from my typewriter?” I forcefully spat.

“I’m sorry but there were none, maybe they are on the road. That thing is barely held together now. Are you a writer?” She seemed interested. She seemed like she already knew the answer.

“That’s what they say on the back of the books.” She set on the table. Her eyes glared at me.

“What have you written?”

“The newest was Sea Language, about a fisherman stuck on land.” I reached for my cigarettes. My pockets were empty. I gave up.

“That’s a good book; you wrote that one called 19 right?” Her hand pointed at me. I wanted to smack it.

“Yeah 19, I wrote it in a day, it’s about nothing.” I was offended by her tone.

 “Really, I loved it; it was your best one. Write more in day.”

 “You like books about a 1 and a 9 sitting at a table talking. You read the entire thing?” I was dumbfounded.

“Of course.” She darted to her bookshelf. In her hands was the red book. 19 was in white on the cover.

“You own it too?”

“I love the part when 1 tries to hang himself with 9’s scarf. Funniest thing ever! When 9 fell over and 1 went to help him, he was trying to kill himself but had to stop and help his friend, comedy gold.”

“I guess, I never read over it.” I frowned. I once again reached for cigarettes that were not there. Moon glowed outside. The pot of food boiled. Eileen pulled a cigarette from her pocket.

“I figure you are looking for one of those. You had six packs on you.” I grabbed the cigarette.

“Thanks, I guess I owe you a few thanks.” I mumbled.

“Why the hell do you smoke those things? It’s a death wish. You are putting something in your body that you know is bad, why?” She whined. I frowned. I wanted to slap her.

“You stand in the sun, you’ll get burned, you drive a car, you’ll crash, you breath too long and you’ll breathe in asbestos. Get over it.” I took a deep drag.

“You’re moody aren’t you?” She spoke.

“I’m moody around people yes, when I’m alone I’m happy.” I blew smoke to the ceiling.

“I always hear about meeting your idol and being unimpressed, but I’ve never heard about someone being sad.” Eileen stormed away. I thought for a second. I put out the cig and stood. The place was small, she had nowhere to hide. I crossed my arms in the doorway.

“I’m your idol?” I was surprised.

“I’ve read all of your books, I own them all. You write with kindness I never thought that you’d be so mean.” She held back tears. I never felt good when a girl cried.

“Listen, I’m not always this way. I do care for some people. I just pin everyone under the ass section in my mind. To me everyone has that knife that they’re ready to stab into anything. Sorry Eileen.” I meant my words. I would have left if I didn’t. She turned to me, her eyes puffy. Eileen was the perfect name for my new novel. Now all I had to do was find the damn manuscript.

WINTER’S PSYCHE

In life Winter was an author which gave him the ability the manipulate words with ease. He kept his eyes glued to the pages of books most of his life trying to learn the perfect way to bend vocabulary to his liking.

When he ate, which was a rare occurrence, he saw each item as the word that described it not the item itself. His apple was not a shiny red object but simply the 5 letter word. If he were reading this now he’d murder me for using 5 instead of five. He felt that the “5” lost its power if the reader could not see the “V” after the “I”. To him the number “5” was vicious in every sense but without the “V” visibly present he felt he could not make his case. To him the 5 mocked the 4 since it had the exact number of letters as the number it stood for while the number 5 simply did not. It did not use 5 letters in its spelled out form, which of course is how much that number is worth.

When Winter died I was told to be the first and last to know. At first I was dumfounded by his insane statement. How could I be first and last at something like that? After a month of pondering over those words I realized it. I was the last to know since I, like he predicted, did not believe nor accept it, so in turn I was the last to know. For instance I was still buying him pie at the café 3 weeks after his death.

I attended a small gathering of his closest friend after his death. In his will he stated that on May 5^th a select few would receive an invitation to “The Opened Lock” party. As I sat there glaring at that ticking clock in the corner I worried that I’d be the only one to attend. Knowing Winter and his shifting emotions I felt he would never have friends to begin with. To my amazement 4 more people joined me in that small green room.

“Now let’s get started.” said a man in an expensive suit, I could tell that he would be the head of the room. “May I see your invitations?” He asked as he set at his desk. The 4 of us showed the man our invitations which he soon took.

“Can I ask how Winter died?” said an older woman in a pretty red dress.

“Like he always wanted alone in the woods.” said the man.  

“Can we just get this over with?” A snobbish kid spat.

“Soon.” The head of the room said. After an hour of watching the large man handing out Winter’s “gifts” to their designated receivers I was given my one gift. It was a thick stack of papers with Winter’s handwriting covering them. I was pleased with my gift since most of the others were clear jokes that were played on the receivers. The snobbish kid got a pocket with a hole in it, the older woman got a bag of eyelashes with a note reading “You left these on my pillow” and the other man got an old wallet. I went home to read over the notes that were given to me by Winter’s ghost. Most of what I read consisted of unfinished stories ranging from lost people to talking light switches. Then 55 pages in I found gold. I’ll put his little story in this manuscript for you and for those who are not familiar with Winter’s work. This may give you an idea of his absurd writing.

55

It was in that night. With the moon so pale. That I had met him. That him was just me. But “him” was not me. So I had to change. Death kept on my mind. I was told my age.

At first I thought it was just more gibberish like the previous 54 pages but this one made me wonder. Winter had died at age 55 and that little collection of sentences made it sound as if he knew his age of death. Then more things fell into place. Each sentence was 5 syllables with only 5 words in each. To add more depth to it I was given those papers on May 5^th, May is the 5^th month of the year, and this made that date 55. To me Winter’s obsession with 5 was due to his knowledge of his own death. This must have been why he felt the number 5 to be so vicious.  

Winter was very different which made him hard to reach. What I knew of Winter could have all been lies that he told for a joke. When Winter was very young he had spent most of his money on phony psychics and tarot card readers. In his words “These people know how to scam you, I could learn from them.” In my opinion I felt he craved answers. He feared life and said that no answer was ever good enough for his questions.

Winter’s first published book was the Abattoir Requiem which he wrote in his mid 20’s. 6 months after the book was published he took the typewriter that he produced the 1^st draft on to the lake. He filled it full of bullets before throwing it into the dark water. I had been invited to witness that event. The moonlight danced off of the deep dark lake while cicadas sung in the distance. Those insects silenced after Winter’s first few shots from his gun.

“It’s the damn letters on that damn thing Ben, they don’t do it anymore. I can’t stomach hearing their clicks again.” He smoked an entire pack of cigarettes on the speedy drive there and began another pack after his first gunshot.

“I guess my biggest question is where did you get that gun?” I would have also liked to know why he called me Ben.

“You can get a gun easier than shoes in this country. What kind of question is that?”

“I guess a dumb one.” I said as I set on the trunk of Winter’s car. I jumped when he fired several shot at the poor object.

“Damn thing, must have been made in China, can’t be here, too durable.” Winter fired 2 more shots which destroyed the keys on the dark yellow typewriter. After he finished his new pack of cigarettes he picked up the typewriter and threw it into the lake.  

Nothing about Winter was ever calm or relaxed which unfortunately translated over to his interviews. During his tour of the popular talk shows at the time I suspected Winter to charge the cameras. I’ve included a transcript of one of those bizarre incidents here. But after watching the interview I’ve included here I realized something bizarre. I removed the journalists name along with the show this appeared on out of respect.

Interviewer:
Winter I have to say I really enjoyed the book-

Winter:
Yeah yeah I know, you read it, you loved it, blah blah. I bet you didn’t get past paragraph one don’t bullshit me (name removed). I know this game and you all play it daily for these cameras just get to your questions so I can buzz off.

Interviewer:
Oh, have I offended you?

Winter:
Just get on with it.

Interviewer:
What was your inspiration for the Abattoir Requiem?

Winter:
Bad dreams…

Interviewer:
Could you be more descriptive?

Winter:
Double numbers, they’re the worst (name removed) I had things telling me about being close to the halfway mark on the clock, the 3 plus 3 time.

Interviewer:
3 plus 3 is 6 Winter, do you mean 6 o’clock?

Winter:
Whatever you think will sell (name removed).

Interviewer:
Um, let’s get to critical reception, the critics have not been kind to your first novel but the public seems to think otherwise.

Winter:
Thanks.
(Winter began to light a cigarette in the studio.)

Interviewer:
Sorry Winter but you cannot smoke in here, this is our studio.

Winter:
Then can we finish this thing outside?

Interviewer:
Um let’s go to a commercial break.

When the show came back on Winter did not return instead they filled the rest of the time slot with the weather.

A year after Winter’s death I received a knock on my door. I had been very tired that morning and I was not prepared to deal with sobbing. Standing in my doorway was Pricilla, Winter’s daughter, she held a small envelope in her hands. I had seen her grow from a cute child to a beautiful woman in my lifetime. I was too old to deal with the trivial problems of a 23-year-old woman but I did care for her.

Pricilla set on my sofa while I made her a cup of tea; I refused to serve coffee in my home. She took the tea with a smile as I set in my well-worn chair.

“I bet you’re wondering why I’m crying?” She said with puffy eyes.

“I was wondering yes.” I said with a grin.

“I was supposed to give this to you at Winter’s funeral but I held onto it, I was jealous to be honest, he didn’t leave me anything and everybody else seemed to be getting things.” Pricilla said as she held the envelope.

“To be fair most of those gifts were cruel jokes, I think his gift to you was no gift. I doubt you’d want a dirty sock filled with cheese.” Pricilla laughed as she rubbed her nose. I took the envelope from her gently.

“I promise I didn’t open it, I just couldn’t bring myself to do that. Why haven’t you come to visit us? Alice misses you; she’s just not the same without Winter there.”

“I’m getting old Pricilla, getting out of bed feels like a full-time job anymore. I promise I’ll make the trip soon. If not I‘ll just haunt you after I’m dead.” Pricilla started to laugh as she cried.

“Don’t say that, you’ve got more life in you than anyone I know.” Pricilla was clearly lying but I was used to it by that age.

The two of us talked for an hour before I walked her to the door. She gave me a big hug before she walked down the hill to her car. I closed the door and watched her drive away through the window.

At my desk I quickly opened the envelope which contained a small note and several tarot cards. The note read:

Did you ever want to see a dead man old friend? Do you remember when I made you get a reading with that girl who could tell the future with these stupid things? Well here is your reading. She said each card gave her a full description of what they read such as death or wealth and the exact dates and time. You got a double number too my friend, 77, pay attention to your dreams and see if they can tell you where and when you’ll finally be rid of this world.

I looked down at the tarot cards which were covered in whiteout. I could barely remember when I had my reading done. It must have been early in our friendship when I still let Winter drag me places. I was quickly faced with a dilemma I had turned 77 earlier that year. Nothing extremely special was done for that birthday, I didn’t feel 77 could be any different then 76.

I wondered if Pricilla knew what she was doing; the entire thing could have just been an act that Winter had thought up before he died. But either way I had taken it to heart, I had begun this short essay in hopes of documenting everything if I happened to die like Winter had said.

If I do go at this age I want to say this: I enjoyed my time here and the people I’ve spent it with. My son and daughter, though far away, were everything to me. My dear wife if there is some strange place we go to when we die than I’m coming. And to Winter if that strange place is real then I will ask one thing of you. Please do not play anymore tricks on me.