Posts Tagged ‘Rough Draft’

He had lost her again. Not that he had ever had her, or known her, beyond some name – which was probably little more than syllables used to disguise. Elle, what sort of name was that? Clearly a fake name, a pseudonym, to hide some life she tried to escape from; little more than a desire for fantasy, no more or less than a child’s desire to escape into a world of pretend. Yet, she had escaped to him. In her fevered mind he had become a hero, a knight, or an entire kingdom for her to exist within, in the most purest of ways, devoid of any possible lie.

And he had lost her. Not her, in her body, as herself. But her in the fact that she was every girl he had ever met, or known, or not known, or even loved. He had made hasty retreat in the face of something unexplainable, something frightening, as such was a woman’s eye. He had not left without anything; however, from that dusty old study long entombed by an abandoned building.

He barely noticed that it was raining. Under his arms, half his loot was now getting damp. It was an old copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy, complete with Gustav Dore’s illustrations, and a preface written by Aldous Huxley. His other loot could not get wet for it was well enclosed within a solid bone bell jar. Within the fertile soil of his mind a seed had been planted, a seed which would grow into a kudzu of words, growing and devouring the nutrients of the field until all but it had died. Then he would arrive to harvest his bounty, but for now he just let it grow.

That, after all, was why he did this. Why he held such treasures only to discard them. Why he insisted on knowing only a first name. He couldn’t trust himself to not know them deeply. Even now his skin stripped of his flesh in the face of an insurmountable wet wind. It dissolved like sugar in the rain, running in the streams along the side of the road back toward her. She was still there; he could make it back before morning. But then he would forsake the kudzu for a flower, for the two cannot share the same soil. To write, or to love. His mind was burning with toil.

To make things worse the nausea had returned. The nausea he had felt only once before, in the presence of one girl, before writing books was even an option for him. Back when his fallow fields had not known a seed, before he knew what a harvest he could yield. It was two years before the shared the same bed. It wouldn’t be an entire year before the harrowing. Madness returned to his mind, blinding his eye, and making all houses look the same – he walked past his house.

He could smell her still on him. Some mix of exotic flower essence and distilled spirits. He needed to get her off him. Her weight had stripped skin from his bone. The hollow banging sound of his legs brushing together accompanied the wind howling through his open ribs. Beneath the once opaque calm sea was a violent muscle floor showing its labored work. Such footsteps that he made were the heaviest to make and were the footsteps of giants.

His transparent body made people passing by fear what thoughts raced through his mind. His eyes darted around, looking for something to explain or to understand, but found only blind colors. Answers were hidden to his eyes like the fish of the sea, like the leviathans in her eyes, like the words in her mouth. Strangers understood his confusion, and knew it well, as the mark of a madman who wanders around the streets looking for prey.

By the time he reached the bar all vital organs, all muscles, veins, and tissues had left a trail through the raining streets. He was an empty, hollow skeleton save for two objects: a brain, and a barely beating heart. He put the book on the table and motioned for a beer – since all words had left him.

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In the still dark universe a single bass line rhythm emerges – a metronome keeping time without light – a stable beat from which existence draws its life without the presence of beings, a primal heart beat. What little light that exists is spun from the reflection of a red-dwarf silk worm billions of miles away, and it clings to the side of a crystal decanter whose amber contents puff concentric rings in tune to the primal drum beat.

Across the room, barely lit by the moon’s webbed light, the contents of a polished cherry wood desk jump slightly up and down. A half eaten apple gains life and rolls casually off the side of the desk. It joins a discarded pencil, made dull by endless notations which now scattered half-opened books. Having long been forgotten they remained half open impregnated with the cryptic half-hieroglyphs on the desk. They undoubtedly echoed some thought that was sparked in the mind, quickly jotted down; to be returned to after the smoke was completed.  

Hovering over the slowly decomposing library of unfinished works a globe hangs like the moon. Its half lit Western Hemisphere is a world too far away for the works to ever reach. Darkness cuts from the Black Sea to the Red carving Asia in twain. What was hidden under the endless black was even less known to the abandoned works than the face that showed to them. Such was the condition of the room before that night, when the heart beat began.

The black, still, void waters had been infused with life because of the beat. Its measure gave it all a history, stability, tangibility. Before light even permeated the blinds, sound moved everything into rhythm, into being. Yet, once initiated, it had to grow. The once slow and methodical beat increased to a powerful writhing seizure – the birth pangs of a universe. Accompanying them was the rise of a violent quake that shook at increasing intensity. On the bookshelf the crystal palace was so shaken that it fell from its heights and shattered on the Persian rug – spilling its fine amber brandy.

“Oh God.” Through the silenced awe of inanimate objects a voice arises. It has a softness to it as it unfurls over the room. It is a whisper, a worried yet somehow preoccupied whisper. Immediately emotion is infused to a lifeless room. The voice hovers over the dark stillness like a face as soft as the voice’s tone. Another noise arises shhhh as if it pleaded with the first – urgent yet gentle like the wind.

Suddenly, without concern for the awe stricken inhabitants, a new thing emerged – life. A single porcelain hand with five pristine digits rise like the sun over the cherry wood desk. The finger tips spread a red painted dawn as the soft white skin gathered light previously invisible as its garment. Everything was about to change; it moved.

As quickly as the sun had risen it fell with an open palm. Life had arrived with a bang and trailing from it raised more life. In the wake of the sun was a pearl column that showed signs of tension. Inside life the gears of machinery coiled and twisted as if holding the weight of the world. Then came the origin of the voice being pulled up from under the desk by the fallen sun.

From behind cascading brown hair, two eyes pierce the darkness. Whatever it was, it saw. With the turn of her eyes she could swallow the entire desk. Two churning blue leviathans, both frightening yet alluring, sank into her face, as they concentrated on the darkness below the desk – as if calling something from the deep…

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A burning, searing, painful light pierced the windows to the car. The smell of half-digested whiskey would induce nausea in any man not half-dead or half-drunk. Luckily the only occupant of the car happened to be both. The sun cut through the queasy blue sky and reflected off the empty fifth of Jack Daniels now located amidst a treasure trove of forgotten trash in the back seat.

Sigmund Cane, whose name is known to us but not by himself at the moment, was a simple man, the last of his kind. Utterly content with his decisions, although such as they were no reflection of any former or present dream he ever had for himself, he was free to make ad hoc amendments to his ethical beliefs. Such amendments, so nearly as he could tell, lead him to late night revelries on Thanksgiving Eve in some dive bar neatly tucked between a church and a construction site. Although in his foggy memories it was a graveyard and a house.

“Drink on Saturday, confess on Sunday.” He laughed pouring himself head first out of the back of his car. “Crazy Catholics.” Another chortle was cut short by the realized sensation of grass on his unshaved face. The green horizon was cut by two deep brown wounds leading to his back tires. Gathering his wits about him, Sigmund realized his location was in the middle of a field – luckily not to far from home. Unluckily the field was surrounded by an old stone wall. More accurately, it had been surrounded until a local gentleman had disregarded its existence and driven his car directly through it.

The car itself served better as a bed than a form of transport now. It’s owner looking on for a brief moment as if calculating some abstract quantum equation.

 “I’d better start walking” Sigmund mumbled as he retreated from the field like a child learning to walk and how to fall properly. He left a scribbled note on the windshield explaining various situations which had theoretically occurred the night before in hopes that perhaps a Thanksgiving dinner might serve to cure his hangover.

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