Thank you immensely for the narration, u/Harold-Sleeper000
This is a story that is close behind Dark Horse in how much I've wanted it narrated. Glad to see it come to life!
Please check out the video and support our friend. Have a wonderful rest of your day, everyone.
I just wanted to say what an honor it was to grace this beautifully written story about an insufferable main character. And i'm even more stoked that another friend actually decided to narrate it!
Make sure to check out both people and show them some love! u/MelodyEverAfter and u/JLGoodwin1990 .
I hope this makes it on the podcast! Grab-bag, stand alone, which ever.
[A story heavily inspired by Charles Bukowski’s Cut While Shaving, hope you enjoy it. I did in fact copy u/David_Hallow and u/donavin221 formatting. Sorry 'bout that.]
They have such loud, comfortable lives in their parcels of life.
Bread and water at the ready, sleep that comes easily, and the relief of convenience.
They don’t need to try, it just mends the further they go along.
Cherishing the moments they share, embracing a conversation without words, compassionate while never lifting a finger.
It is not right!
Hardly.
I try!
I always do.
Exerting my admiration, and yet I can find no such results.
Mine shakes with fear, flinches at my hand, and recoils in disgust at my touch.
Tears of a yawning smile, while mine mixes salt and iron with theirs.
Screams of a ticklish couple, while mine does so in fear.
Dances of joy, of hope, of reciprocal love.
Why does my recital feel so clumsy?
Baltering while while they soar.
A blinding light that turns eyes to pale blue, but mine to scalding rage.
Mine is hate, is disgusted, is afraid, is… is—
She is not here. By my hand, she is no more.
They remain.
If not but only a memory.
When we were younger and full; content at our decision to join.
I miss them.
Maybe.
Maybe I can join them.
To bathe one last time in light.
Wouldn't that be nice?
Goodbye.
[You can bet your bottom dollar this is a soul-less shill. Hoo boy! I got permission to give the tiniest of blurbs for a longer, more elaborate story I am working on. Keep an eye out for it. A title that has "Tales Exclusive." Have a wonderful day everyone.]
I really enjoyed this little unofficial event, guys. It was beyond fun. So many talented authors put themselves out into the world. That takes a lot of confidence and should be commended. I will need a long break to collect myself after reading 60+ stories and a dozen Series. Make sure to check out more of these authors' work and support their future journeys. Hopefully we can come together again and push for more fan stories to be narrated by the boys. Have a great rest of your day everyone.
What Dreams In The City That Never Sleeps
I'm Glad The World Ended This Way
Something Is Wrong With My Neighbors and The Longest Title I Read
Hope you guys check out the story soon! I like that he can become the character of the story with his voice acting. Hope you enjoy.
Well ladies and gentlemen. It is almost done. It was certainly an undertaking.
I hope everyone had a great week and that you all are doing well.
I wanted to make this post to give the spotlight to some late submissions.
Hope you guys enjoy.
Series list will be posted tomorrow.
[These are the stand-alone stories that I like. A separate list is coming for series. I still need to circle round back to those. Everyone gets one.]
[BTW, I need reminders from everyone that submitted series. Send me part two of your series please if I already read part one]
https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/JfThqEevda
https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/FK6rFfHwNX
https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/LTu7ugT73l
I Went To Sleep And Discovered A God
https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/zr084QDaA1
A Woman Is Murdered In Front Of My House Everyday
https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/lBtiGX3rzX
[I'm very late with this one. I must admit, never in my wildest dreams did I think that Breathless would be my most popular story. Kind of wished it would be one of my longer works. Thank you for the support nonetheless. This isn't my best work, but I hope you guys still enjoy it.]
Near the sun baked sandstones, a parched beast rests in shaded secrecy. His breathing, a snotty, salivating struggle. Groaning in pain from a laborious pursuit.
He speaks aloud to himself, "This isn't possible. I should've lost them days ago."
As he radiated in trapped heat, an oddly curious creature glided overhead. Black as pitch, the bird descends until it finds a lip on the sandstone and perches close to the beast.
"That was quite the chase, dear friend. Have you managed to catch your breath yet? I think I spotted the monsters on the horizon," said the crow.
The heavy exhales sound like geysers as the tired beast heaves in sharp agony.
"Not yet. I... I need to find the hills. But I'm struggling to even stand right now."
The crow pricked his feathers before facing back towards the beast.
"Don't worry, you're not too far from those rolling hills. A day's sprint at most. Just head in the direction where the sun sets," the crow relayed as he shook off old dust.
The beast lowers itself to lay on the cold stone floor. Where its knees and elbows meet the floor, it shook uncontrollably.
"Do you think I can lose them in the desert? The canyon will lead me to it, but only I can cross it during high noon. The monsters walk on unprotected toes," the calming beast asked.
"Maybe. Although.."
"What?"
"Nothing. It was just a passing thought."
Desperately, the beast asked, "What? What is it? What aren't you telling me?"
"I have seen them use the hides of fallen beasts to shield their bodies from the elements. Or, perhaps I was just seeing things"
"Thank you for telling me. I better hope the high noon sun is too much for them."
"I wouldn't wait here for too long. You're oozing blood and that will lead them right to you."
"I wouldn't worry about that. The river washed away all the fresh wounds. I just need to soak as much of this shade as physically possible. The desert is a day's worth of hard sprinting. I intend to only stop when the sensation of soft grass touches my hands and feet," a weary and somewhat rejuvenating beast exclaimed.
"Better hurry up, those wounds won't stay closed forever. Sooner or later, you'll shift your weight wrong and the ooze will pick back up where it left off."
"A few more breaths. That is all I need."
The beast grew quieter and more collected. All the while, the crow fidgeted with a concealed object. The beast looked up to face the crow.
"I'll tell you what. Once we get to the tree, we'll find out if any fruit has sprouted." A voice full of bravado addressed the crow.
"Sure."
The crow merely tossed an absent minded glance before returning to whatever had his full attention.
"Something wrong, friend?"
"How long have we known each other, dear friend.
"My, it must be going on eight winters by now."
"A long time to know someone. Although, not nearly long enough to truly understand someone."
"By that you mean?"
It was ever so slight, but still, a noticeable shift in tone. The eyes of the crow never before looked so beady. At that moment, the crow wasn't looking at the beast like they were friends.
Following the awkward silence, an audible squelchy noise originated from where the crow perched.
Asking in earnest, the beast spoke to the crow, "What is it that you are fiddling with, friend?"
"Does it bother you?"
"Crow, show me what your talons are wrapped around."
"Running so hard that your mind blocks out the pain of slicing yourself wide open on thorns and pointed edges."
"Show me, now!"
"Losing pieces along the way."
"Crow!"
When the crow brought out its talon from behind black wings, the beast winced and shut his eyes. A faint rattling broke the silence. Looking back up towards the crow, the beast saw that a single acorn clung comfortably within the closed talon.
The crow asked the beast, "Do you want some?" Rattling the acorn in its beak.
Hesitant to answer, a hushed, "No thank you," left his lips.
"Me neither. Too much bitterness in these things. But I do feel like expelling some stomach contents," said the crow before cracking open the nut and scarfing down all the meat.
As soon as they settled, the crow began to hack up everything in its stomach. Vomiting up a crimson red glob, the beast recoiled in disgust.
The crow gripped the morsel and took to flight. Squeezing it tightly as he made a trip down the canyon and back; drops of blood trailed behind.
The confused beast asked, "Crow, what is that?"
"I thought you'd recognize your own smell.
All of the fear.
All of the exhaustion.
All of the desperation
All of the hopelessness."
"Are you sick in the head!"
"I'd think of myself as quite sane actually."
The crow then laughed at his own joke so heartily that it rattled his beak into a wooden alarm.
"Shhh, shut up. You'll lead them right to me!"
The crow didn't say anything; not at first. Instead, he stared back at the panicking beast.
Right when the beast was about to speak, the crow interrupted, "You don't get it do you? I want them to find you."
A shock of cold metal echoed with its words. The beast stood frozen; suspended in time. When his nerves adjusted, he asked the crow a single question, "what?"
"When they find you, it'll feed my murder; every generation will have its fill."
"Why? Why would you wish this fate to fall on me?"
"The beasts have always been a great friend to the murders, but you cannot feed us. Every bit of food goes to your insatiable appetite, and we are left to subsist on scraps"
"I helped you to find fruit, fodder, and water for many years. I thought you of as kin"
"I'm sorry, but you're no longer someone I can rely on. Once a friend that I held dear, you are a walking carcass that prolongs the inevitable."
"How can you assume what has not yet come to fruition?"
"The monsters leave enough. Generations feed off of your sacrifice. There is no longer a need to wait on you."
The beast sobbed as the sound of shifting rocks inched closer. In a moment of anger, the beast yelled out, "You would trade peace for slaughter? What then? When the fields can no longer be tended by the herds, the seeds of trees no longer spread among leaf litter, and the ground underfoot crumbles into dust because beasts no longer walk the earth. What will there be left?"
"A new dawn"
"And whose dawn will that be!"
"Theirs"
Suddenly, there were no more words that the beast could muster. He lingered until the first pointed tip grazed his flank. New adrenaline found him, and he took to the desert sand.
The crow lamented to himself aloud, "I hope the end is swift for you, dear friend."
There are some restrictions I want to apply to my request before accepting submissions.
As you guys know, I like to read your stories and give them some surface level and little in-depth feedback.
I wanted to acknowledge that some stories are not getting as much interaction as others and are, for the most part, wholely ignored. If you're story has been up for quite some time and no one is engaging with it, send it my way. I will read it in it's entirety, but I may be slow with a response. Series are welcome and should expect to take even longer to read.
I hope the community comes together after this to start uplifting smaller writers. Happy writing everyone! Don't get overwhelmed.
I wanted to get this out there from the moment I read some stories by u/AugustusMartisVT and his Bitter Verse series. Back then I was relatively new and didn't have any real way of sharing stories that I liked. He has been of tremendous help in shaping the way I write and edit my stories. Most importantly, he is such an integral part of the community when helping other and giving them feedback. He is a swell guy.
Here are some of my favorites that he has written:
He also has published work like his incredible story "The Bitter Question."
He is one of the first people that I wanted read on the podcast.
We could come together as a community to push for his stories to be read by the boys and use this as an opportunity to support one another yet again. Keep writing and have fun doing so.
Their wagons and carts sunk deep into loose grains, beasts of burden groaned under fiery heat, and men rode on short, tough mounts. The wandering caravan came to the governor's town with the intention of solidifying a strategic alliance with the governor's nephew. An emperor in his own, but referred to by many as shah. It is there in the town where the governor sets his sights on bleeding wagons filled with silk, porcelain, and silver. Whether it was suspicion or greed that drove his hand, the next flurry of events set into motion an awful fate for the empire. The governor requests permission to pillage the caravan and disregard the party's offers of alliance. The shah agrees and the entire line is put to the sword. Soldiers and traders alike are carved up bloody, but in their arrogance, the town garrison misses a single diplomat. He rides out with all haste back to his home beneath the eternal blue sky.
It had been morning when the massacre ended, but late into the night, as the governor and his men dined; a knock at the gate came.
Three men, dressed in fine garbs and riding on eastern steeds, requested an audience with the murderer governor. The emissaries relay their message, "The king of kings is willing to forgive this action and accept the surrender of those responsible. Your shah knows what he is capable of, for was it not he that sent diplomats to the capitol of the Jin Dynasty?"
The governor remembers the reports from his nephew. The city of Zhongdu was a smoldering crater in the earth. Surrounding the city was a putrid vapor, a mountain of bones, and the earth underfoot was slick with human fat. To hide his discomfort, he laughs at their "king of kings" and his demands. The three of them are then promptly beaten and left horribly disfigured. Their leader is beheaded and they are sent home bloody. The governor retires for the night.
The morning prayer bells are interrupted by an awful din of unfathomable numbers. Chants in an unfamiliar tongue wake the town in a panic. The governor scales his high walls, but he is in shock. He bites the back of his hand in awe of the unending host that stands before him.
He quickly gathers up the stolen goods, but fails to find the fine silks or porcelain. Shaking envoys are sent to return the hoards of silver still left. Before they can reach the host, a choking black cloud blots out the sun. The men are reduced to pin cushions for freshly loosed arrows.
The governor looks on in fear, but something on the horizon diverts his gaze. A man gray in the face and hair sits atop his mighty mount. From so far away, the governor can still see honed skill and discipline in the old man’s eyes. So fierce were his eyes that they made the governor tremble and avert.
It becomes abundantly clear that the opposing army neither wants nor needs the returned carts. The town becomes besieged and the inhabitants are quickly massacred. As the siege drew on, the army broke into wandering bands. Heavy engines pelted the walls until they began to crumble. The river supplying their moat was cut off, and the bands returned shortly after with thousands of prisoners. It was almost too fast to process; the captured were forced into the parched moat and were then fashioned into a bridge for their crossing. The army bashed against the gates until they began to buckle. The last inklings of resistance were snuffed out by trebuchets. The gates fell and the hordes of nomads poured into the breach. A once thriving town of thousands is reduced to hundreds; the governor among them.
The governor had been found cowering within his private estate. There shortly after, he was ripped out from where he wedged himself and brought before the old man’s camp. He spoke with a calm voice, “I sent those men to Otrar to procure an alliance. Had you accepted my trade, then we could have conquered all the world together. Your greed sickens me, Inalchuq. You spat on my generosity and used your newly acquired kindness to rescind your wrong doings. However, I am not angry with you. I merely wish to sate your greed with a parting gift.”
The old man pointed towards a heated crucible filled with molten silver. Inalchuq panicked and tried to fight his captors, but to no avail. The crucible is then poured into his eyes, ears and throat. The silvers boiled his face until it became sunken inwards and the contents of his skull began to leak out of new fissures.
The old man mounts his horse and addresses his army, “It is here where we begin the land and arduous march to Samarkand. My horde of the steppe, will you join me to relieve the Shah’s shoulders by parting mind from neck?”
The horde exploded into a cacophony of chants and shouts. They move to carve a bloody path to the heart of the Kwarazmian empire and to wipe out millions in their pursuit of revenge.
​
Boarding the next flight to New York, the rising star was bound for home. It was the same as the night she left it. However, all she wanted to see was her father, it had been far too long. Reconciling at the old, cramped apartment.
"I hope you're not upset with me, dad. I made sure to come home as quickly as I could."
"I wish you told me about your plans. We could have worked something out after you graduated."
"I'll finish school, I promise. I just want to see how this unfolds."
"Do you have any other plans, Clarissa?"
"I want to make sure you're taken care of, Dad. Making sure that you never have to worry or toil away ever again; those are my plans."
"You've never owed me anything. I'll be fine."
There was something more for why she had come home. As all things had been, there was business to attend to. Her eyes darted all around the grand theatre; never had she seen such ornate designs. It was only in the magazines where she ever get as close to these marvels. It was prepared for her; her! Every accommodation, every invitation, every glamorous detail, and every specially carved out pedestal; everything was made fit specifically for her. The clamors of moving components beautifully filled the echoing hall, but she couldn't help but feel a void forming in her chest.
As she sat there, alone in the vastness of the grandeur, a calming hand rested on her shoulder. To her surprise, a well-groomed Mister Morrison dressed in attire befitting the momentous occasion. After catching up on lost time, the moment of calm gradually became more bleak.
Morrison took notice, "Why are you so worried? I cannot even imagine getting this far. You should be proud of your success."
Caressing where her skin should have been stained green, Clarissa finally admitted, "I feel disgusting. Every step of the way was paved with my filth. I fear I will never be clean again."
"Do you desire to rectify these issues?" An interested Morrison asked.
"I want the people that made me feel this way barred from my moment. I want them as far away from me as possible." Burying her head in her arms and knees.
Morrison offered an impossible suggestion, "If I could make them pay, would you offer them up? Stare them in the eyes one more time? No matter the cost?"
She stared at his open palm, seeing how inviting it was, and accepted.
Denying her loved one’s invitations, The young star redirected them away from tonight's galore. Filling their hopes with hollow promises.
Lights.
Acclamations.
Audience.
Opulence.
A great fragrance that danced on the tip of her nose. To think that everything was outfitted just for her. A blinding shimmer that recognized her greatness, her belonging, her place, and her accomplishments.
Seated, her audience was filled with many unfortunate guests: harsh critics, unimpressed equals, and the exploitative. A carefully curated list. For tonight only, every voice that denied her, her rightful place would get the performance of a lifetime.
As they drank from lavish decanters and ate from fresh crops, an announcement brought her to the main stage.
To spoil such men was unfathomable, but it was the perfect lure for these belittling hearts.
It was time to perform.
In their enthralled trances, not a single member noticed the brass bars slithering to lock them in. Every high met its mark and every vibrato carried leagues. It was her night, even as it was the last. Then came the closing verse of a triumphant ballad.
A truth. Bitter shock; an ugly taste of perdition,
A surface broken, now gave way to awful ruin,
A pursuit now parched, turned to salty putrid,
And the sip took more, led astray by folly ambition.
The theatre boomed with applause, but it was cut short by a quaking earth. The roof caved in and the cloth seats burned away. While the others bashed themselves against barred doors, she watched in awe of the sight. In the chaos, her eyes narrowed on one putrid soul; Valentine. As she willed it be so, molten gold flooded the space and claimed its victims. Valentine wore his crown just as he always wanted it.
As the walls closed in on themselves and the cavernous theatre began to collapse, the young star crossed her legs and sat patiently for the awful death. Corpses charred black and smelling of brimstone stood as her inanimate audience. In the next moment, a choking black smoke filled the shrinking void, and her sight darkened.
However, that is not what happened. She opened her eyes to a dark and humid abyss. The faint glow of green and blue danced in the distance. Suddenly as she bore witness to this all enveloping darkness, it was ushered out by a blinding overhanging chandelier. The shaft of light revealed a solid stage and a microphone. Speaking into it, “hello?” A low bellowing din of thousands hoarse their awful cheers. Obscured by the light, the audience makes their presence known. Crudely molded trophies shaped from the flowing rivers of gold were thrown onto her stage. The blue glow of distant pyres grows until the audience is illuminated by burning brimstone. The court is filled by thousands of flickering and dancing members. Most of all, atop the highest point stood Mister Morrison. He bowed before the young star and gestured to her to begin again her lovely song.
Deep within the belly of the earth. That is where our burning star now plays her greatest pieces. To an ever appreciative audience that will never tire of her voice. Eternally, entertaining all of Morrison’s countless legions.
[Another two part series. Hope you enjoy.]
The best of talent shines brightest in the right conditions. In the suburbs of Queens, a young girl lines the walls of her room with all her idols. Mae West, Dorothy Danridge, Anna May Wong and Dolores del Rio; all the greats of fair repute. She gazes into their eyes and envisions herself standing shoulder to shoulder with them. "One day," she says, "One day, people are gonna say my name too!"
A knock at the door breaks her out of her daydreaming. "Clarissa Emerson, it's late. Go to bed now. You have school in the morning." A soft, soothing voice asserts; the one of her father's. She groans complaint, but doesn't disappoint. Dimming her lights, Clarissa settles into bed and clasps her hands together. School is important to her, but the dream career waits for no one. She will act on that pursuit after graduating.
The morning brings revitalization, and off our young star goes; off to make her plans, for the coming years are sure to test. School starts at eight in the morning, the autumn air is laced with a soft cool, and her best apparel compliments the changing season. She was looking forward to participating in her favorite elective; theater. Just as everything seems as it should be, a tap on her shoulder redirects her stride.
"Ms. Emerson?" said the counselor.
"Oh! Hello Mrs. Lorraine. What can I do for you?"
"We need to discuss your performance," a little bit of worry weighs on her words.
Secluded by dim lights and a cramped office space, the two discuss the news.
"I hope I haven't said something to alarm you." Clarissa apologizes without knowing the transgressions.
"Ms. Emerson, it isn’t that. Your grades are plummeting. At the beginning of last year, you were among the highest scoring students of your class. But now, you're falling into the lowest quarters. Care to explain yourself, young lady?"
The swinging of her legs ceases and the air begins to hum. Clarissa wasn't the one to fall behind without her reasons. This one had a name; Rebecca Chamberlain. The two knew each other from their elementary days. Friends from their first encounter, the two were inseparable. However, high-school had proven too much for Rebecca. She barely scraped by middle school with passable grades, but when faced with algebra, intermediate English, and chemistry, she crumbled apart. Clarissa did her best to help out her best friend by letting her cheat off her papers. Even if it meant she'd lose out her own academics, it was a small price to pay. The thing is; that bill collects. Growing until it is too big to ignore. Clarissa was no longer an exemplary student. She fidgeted with her brass bracelet.
Too afraid of confronting the counselor, but too loyal to admit aiding her friend's cheating, Clarissa shuts in. Mrs. Lorraine takes notice.
"Ms. Emerson, you can try to make up for that lapse with a repeat of the school year. I'm sorry. It is the best option I can give you."
Clarissa shuffles her shoes, unwavering in her attempt to avert her gaze, but answers in a hushed voice.
"I understand. Thank you, Mrs. Lorraine."
She departs from her office, hidden face full of emotion, and makes her way to go about the day concealing her discomfort. It is a hard thing to pull off when all her friends gather around. Always clustering to form their clique. She gives out compliments and whispers tame gossips, but she can not confide with them. The theater did little to improve her mood. The day just passes at a rushed pace. Waiting for the bus, she stands beside Rebecca, staring at the sunlit concrete; twiddling her thumbs in a fidgeting escape. Suddenly, repressed sobbing breaks the quiet queue. Rebecca holds her hand over her mouth and fights back tears, frivolously. Pleading bleeds into her speech.
"I'm sorry, Clarissa. I'm so very sorry. It's my fault. It's all my fault."
"What do you mean, Rebecca?" She asks as all her worries leave her to comfort her friend.
"I heard Mrs. Lorraine inform the teachers that a list of students will be repeating the year. It shouldn't be you. I was too dull to make it." Rebecca cried out.
The announcement did little to turn her against her best friend. Instead, she consoles Rebecca in her moment of panic.
Wiping away sniveling tears, Rebecca tries to make amends. "If we hurry now, I can admit my deception and you won't have to pay for it."
Before making her way back to Mrs. Lorraine's office, Rebecca is stopped in her tracks by a grasping hand.
"It's okay, Rebecca." Her hold turns into an embrace. "I'm okay. I'll figure something out. We always figure something out."
A hug conceals the grief, but for just a moment, everything is in its right place.
The bus ride home wasn't its usual comforting self. Where a tiring day might be slowly wisped with soft rocking, this trip was one where her mind rushed with every thought of breaking the news to her father. He already had his fill of life: his wife passing away, the bills piling on top, and now, his daughter had to repeat the year. It was the strain he was already experiencing that Clarissa feared most. The fear of becoming burdensome, especially in a tight situation.
Home. It should've felt safest at the apartment, but after everything that unfolded, it was the last place she wanted to be at. Dinner was difficult to wade through, for her father was always ready to learn about his daughter's day. She got by with single word responses and smiles. It was when she was heading into her bedroom that her father pulled her aside. Feeling like the charade was up, Clarissa buries her face in his dark coat. However, her father tells her something very touching. "Your mother would have given up everything to see you now. Know that she is always proud of you. As am I."
As she sat in her bed, head racing with quick fix solutions, a titan of an iceberg emerged to dwarf them all. Putting on her best clothes, packing away several changes, and sneaking out with socks padded feet; she acts on her thoughts. Grabbing her bracelet before rushing out the door, quietly. On the one plan she held close to her as much as her mother's mementos. Clarissa made her way to Rebecca's complex and threw pebbles at her window.
"Who is it?" A barely audible whisper asked.
"Rebecca, it's me." Clarissa announced.
"What are you doing here this late?" She asked.
"I came to tell you where I'm heading and that you need to keep it a secret." A little excitement leaked into Clarissa's hushed voice.
After Rebecca nodded in acknowledgement, Clarissa confided with her.
"I'm going to California! It's time that I work up the courage to become what I've always dreamed of! Please, don't tell anyone where I've gone."
"No. No no no. I can't do that, Clarissa. Don't do this just because of school. I'll take the blame. You don't need to run away because of me. Please! Stay." Rebecca, hyperventilating, panicked at the announcement. "Please, let me make this..."
She was cut off. Clarissa spoke in a low and reassuring tone.
"It's okay. I promise. I was always going to do this. If not now, then after graduation. When I tell you that I have no regrets for our friendship, I mean it."
Quiet streams led down both their faces. Rebecca cried into her hands and turned away from Clarissa. It was a wordless confirmation.
Weeks passed in a blurry display. The journey West was paved with difficulty. Clarissa stretched her dollar to its absolute limits. Budgeting on change that would put her grandmother to shame. It was worth it in the end. When a tired Ms. Emerson stepped off the bus, a city of slopes and hills laid in front of her; Los Angeles.
It was a new experience that changed her outlook. Suddenly, her guilt was put at ease and the promises of fame seemed more favorable. Bustling streets, shiny new cars, and dapper ladies and gentlemen. She walked in their air and wasn't ushered out. For the first time in a long time, she felt welcomed.
Getting a job wasn't easy; there were very few places that were hiring seemingly eighteen year olds. She found a diner that didn't need to confirm with a guardian and soon got to work raising funds for her endeavor.
At night, Clarissa would seek out auditions for a whole host of miscellaneous roles. Most were booked with fellow starry eyed and aspiring gals. That is until she got the chance to showcase her raw acting skills. A small studio dimly lit by burnt out street lamps. Inside, Clarissa waited in line with other auditions. Every other act looked to be lackluster. Clarissa felt confident in her abilities to capture the gaze at the sight of the competition. As she prepares herself for the display, a hidden talent reveals herself.
Tall, agile, and beautiful. The room seemed to slow down to a grinding halt as this pop up took to the stage. All stared in awe; all except Clarissa. Where everyone else had gleam in their eyes and slack in their jaws, Clarissa's eyes were filled with worry. Following the woman with glossy eyes, fearful expression, and a shut mouth. Everyone else saw beauty incarnate, but she saw a dream killer.
Her performance was beyond memorable. Clarissa wished it was inspiring. How she wished it invoked some side of her to pursue this dream with resounding reverence. None of that happened. She saw someone who wanted it more than her and it scorned her.
When it came around to Clarissa's performance, she found herself tripping over herself. A recital that, in her head, played out much differently. Every step knew its place, every line was said with earth shattering awe, and the glint of the spotlight was on her. In a bright delusion, she had turned heads. The dreary and dull reality was much bitter.
"Ms. Emerson?" A stern voice requested, "I'm sorry but that was lacking."
"I just need more time to get my bearings. Please, just one more chance," Clarissa pleaded.
"It's not just that, Ms. Emerson." After placing his glasses on his nose bridge, the man continued, "It's everything. Your mannerism, your ticks, your looks, and that chip on your shoulder. It's all weighing you down. I want to give someone that chance, but you just aren't that person."
"I don't have many options, sir. Please, just one more chance," Rubbing her green stained wrist, a defeated Clarissa begs as she cannot even bring herself to look him in the eyes.
The man gives her some advice; more or less a suggestion. "You have a face that would fit best for radio broadcasting."
All the frustration, anxiety, anger, and sorrow built up inside her. A single remark nearly diminished her cheery exterior. Despite everything she wanted to yell out, Clarissa bid farewell and quickened her exiting. When she was far from the judging eye, safest in her loneliness, she collapsed. For tonight only, she let herself fall apart.
Work was her only coping mechanism. In an echo chamber, she was complimented and told she was headed for better horizons. Even though she knew that these friendly latitudes didn't contribute to her seeking, it was still a reassuring notion that healed her after that abysmal performance. In her element, she felt on top. Something nudged at her. A lingering thought that branched off into action.
More weeks passed before she received a call to another audition. This was not one where she would dawn a new character nor even the acting of an alien situation. No, it would be where her voice carried her. After arriving, Clarissa made an unusual request of the organizers; she wanted to go last. Not out of selflessness nor even good sportsmanship, rather it was to observe if this competition was worth her time. If there was someone in line that could outshine and crave even more than her, then she didn't want to stay longer than she needed to.
Each and every woman in attendance sang their lovely song, some that came for recreation and others for their opportunity to rise. They were admirable in their attempts, but Clarissa knew they didn't compare to her voice. It was a coveted secret and she struggled to hide her smile.
When her performance came, all noise had ceased. The others sat attentively as she summit the stage and her mouth hovered near the mic. That slight hesitation came and faded when her ears plugged and a low rhythmic hum drowned out the world. Their eyes widened, hands held close to their hearts and jaws went slack.
Her vibrato surprised the makeshift audience. A soprano in her own right, Clarissa sang with all the spirit of Big Mama Thornton coursing through her. With no other accompanying musicians, her voice made up the balance. A few of the others began to clap their hands in rhythm with Clarissa's singing. The sprite of the moment passed over, and before she knew it, the other contestants were cheering her on.
Clarissa felt invigorated, for there was no denying that she had earned her place among the finalists. Waiting patiently for the results of her performance, she relaxed and eased up. There was no hint of losing in her mind. Eventually, she heard her name and walked over to the manager. A little joy faintly visible as she skipped over.
The atmosphere of the office betrayed her emotions. It was cramp and quiet, even the hum of iridescent light bulbs did little to dispel the silence.
"That was some performance, Ms. Emerson. You got a standing applause from everyone." The manager said warmly.
Clarissa responded. "Thank you. I wanted to pay homage to a small town legend."
"You certainly did well."
"Thank you."
He gave her a warm smile, but soon he straightened himself out and delivered the next news in a dry voice.
"Although, you didn't get the signature."
Taken aback, Clarissa weakly asked, "What?"
"Yeah. It was a tough decision. But I did try to think more longterm and you're just not someone I can see making a return on investment."
"But," she had difficulty in finding the right words, "But I thought this was to recruit a voice? Why didn't I get signed?"
"Ms. Emerson, I need to put a face to your voice. Unfortunately, yours won't sell stages." A plain statement, but it shook everything in Clarissa's world. "Thank you for your time, but we're going with someone else."
Ushered out, Clarissa made her way to her rented apartment. As she sat there, marinating in her disappointment, a last ditch effort came to mind. She put in her application for yet another series of auditions and requested an advancement on her paycheck. The gears were now in motion for her last opportunity.
Clarissa arrived at another late night audition. This time, dressed in recital apparel, she eagerly awaited the other women to finish up their choreographed dances. Clarissa stood at the precipice of a great long journey. Tonight, she'd have to truly impress the judges, less she loses out and exhaust all her options. The spotlight illuminated her magenta frame and she was off. A great bright ribbon that blurred in her element; elegant, masterful, and nimble. By the end of the night, no one denied her pursuit.
Again and again, night after night; Clarissa climbed the rungs and grew closer to her goal. Not a moment too soon either, for the most esteemed artists stood by the finish line. Her heart raced and her breath shook. So close now, she turned in her resignation and thanked the diner for all their help. At the last and most defining performance, she looked at the pillars of the industry. In her head, she was already standing beside them as an equal.
At the grand performance, Clarissa shuts out all other noise and focuses on her display. As the curtains parted, she darted for the stage and practically glided over. With the grace of a fast moving torrent, she carved through the air like a lance. Making the sharp maneuver to rise and descend uncontested, she made herself seen. At her highest point, Clarissa saw their expressions. Every last one filled with awe struck. On her last sauter, she felt embraced. Safely on top of her slice of the world, she didn't take the time to correct her footing. As she descended, distracted by the adoration, her landing crumbled under her weight. The next thing she heard was a disheartening snap, and it was all over.
The fall was the least devastating event to happen to her, because in her inaction, Clarissa lost her spot next to the pillars and couldn't get back on her feet so readily. Reduced to sedimentary recovery, she fell deeper into her own pit. When her money ran dry, the hospital had to discharge her.
It was rough waters from then on. She struggled to get a job, moved with pained groans, and failed to get responses to her applications. Clarissa felt like the world had prematurely moved on from her when it didn't even make an attempt to linger on her. It was looking hopeless. She threw in an application, absent mindlessly, thinking she wouldn't get an answer. It was to her surprise when she got an answer one hot afternoon.
In a remote part of the city, Clarissa hobbled to a pristine theater. Inside, she was met with the choking scent of cheap cigars and even cheaper alcohol. A well dressed gentleman greeted her in the hall and they exchanged pleasantries. Valentine was his name, and he saw a passive stream of income from Clarissa. A desperate, strong driven lady that only needed the lowest of promises to persuade her. In his office, Clarissa felt the dirty and dodgy atmosphere soak into her, but she sat intently as she waited to hear Valentine's proposal.
"You've certainly made quite the name for yourself, hon. And that latest performance! Oh, you had me holding my breath, before and after the fall. I'm terribly sorry, truly, for your injury. It must've hurt more when you had to rest," he said with a faux sense of worry.
"I didn't think anyone would even remember my face. Why are you interested in me?" She asked
After dusting off his cigar into the ashtray, Valentine's tone shifted, "I can get you the fame you're after. And you might help me get a crown I'm chasing. Of course, we need to establish the terms. But be warned, you won't get much farther if you aren't willing to do anything. I can only get you so far before we dip into your terms and conditions. But hey, it's your contract afterall."
She didn't like that caveat. It was manipulative, exploitative, and greedy. Despite all her internal voices screaming at her to turn around and walk out that door, she didn't. In front of her was a door, and all she needed to do was walk through it voluntarily. Ignoring what may lay behind it. "What do I need to do?"
Valentine leaned forward, "That is up for you to decide." Sliding a paper back contract, there were boxes to indicate terms. Each one took such a huge bite out of her potential earnings. It was intimidating. Before he could coax her further, a fast written signature manifested and the deal was almost over.
"I knew you had it in you, hon." She could imagine a hiss escaping his fiery breath. As she got ready to gather her things, Valentine snapped his fingers to get her attention.
"Woah, hold on now. You're an eager little doll aren't you? We still need to seal this deal, watertight."
Clarissa contained an angered agitation, "I've already signed it. What more can I do?"
"How about a little peck, hon?"
Funny how that works; Valentine wasn't a bad looking guy, but this request made him hideous to the core in Clarissa's eyes.
She'd gotten a poorer version of what she wanted. Everything that Valentine promised was misleading and a cheap rendition of what it actually was. The money she earned, however, was night and day from before. Even after the cuts, it was nice to have some disposable income. It was the following weeks that tested her.
Odd requests, morally questionable reservations, and distasteful, depreciating demands. All wearing her down and taking time away from her recovery. She was worsening, but that appearance was heavily hidden under a mask of makeup and perfumes. Her brass bracelet was replaced by a silvered one.
The worst came when Valentine wanted to reinforce his hold over Clarissa. Often it was a simple kiss, but as the weeks dragged on the requests gradually grew in intensity. Kissing became hugging, embracing became coddling, and even that wandered into the carnal. When it reached the intimacy she abhorred greatly, her fears grew. Thoughts she never imagined herself having crept into her mind. The fear that if she gave Valentine what he wanted, then he wouldn't even bat an eye as she was discarded.
She kept him at a distance and let him get only so far with her body. As despicable as these exchanges were, at least they were over quick.
So much time had passed. A few months ago, Clarissa was at home writing in her assignments; settling on the floor as she worked. There were no crippling demands, no exhausting requests, or monstrous men. It was simple, but it was suffocating. Clarissa didn't mean to hurt her father or her mother. So she took with her a portable piece of home. In her head, she was certain she could shake Valentine off and make her own gains. It would have been a reality if she didn't forget to weld her borders shut.
After a day of networking and obscure magazine shoots, Valentine led her back to the studio. Maybe it would have been different. Maybe if she denied the gesture, then she'd still be of use. Whatever the alternative was, it didn't matter. What happened ended the reciprocal business exchange. Valentine got what he wanted, and it shelled Clarissa into a husk. Not even a day later, talks of replacing the "tarnished merchandise" were getting thrown around. She curled up into a ball and locked herself away.
As she went out to collect the last of her cheques, Clarissa noticed a pained groan and went to investigate the source. It was an old man, stricken from an aching back and curled into the fetal position. Clarissa went to help the man.
"Hey hey. Are you alright mister? It's going to be okay, I'll call an ambulance for you," she said.
Putting his arm over her shoulder, the old man groaned out, "Ma'am, it's my back. I think I broke something."
Clarissa shushed him, "Wait til the hospital, mister. They're gonna take care of you. I promise."
After the man was loaded up, the medics asked if Clarissa knew who the immediate family members were. When she said no, they claimed that he would need someone to help him get his papers in order at the hospital. She wanted to say no, seeing as she herself was already dealing with her own injury, but when she saw the man in a world of pain, Clarissa obliged.
It had been some hours before the two met when the man was conscious again. Clarissa sighed in relief. It had been a while since she cared for someone else. Apparently, the man had nearly displaced a vertebrae but it was her quick response that saved the man's mobility.
When the doctors had left the room, the old man introduced himself properly.
"Well now, if it ain't the angel herself. Thank you, miss... uh..." He struggled to address her.
"Clarissa. Clarissa Emerson." She said to help him along.
"Clarissa! Thank you for helping me out, Miss Clarissa." Excitedly, the old man announced.
"It's nothing, mister..." She struggled to put a name to him.
"I'm Langston Morrison, but you can call me Mister Morrison." He said warmly. "I beg your pardon, but I don't know how I can ever repay you darling."
"And I wouldn't accept anything anyways. Let's just make sure you can heal up, Mister Morrison." Clarissa reassured him.
Astonishingly, Mister Morrison made a quick recovery and was discharged within two months. During that time, he and Clarissa had grown close: playing chess, drinking tea, and sharing memories. By the end of it, Clarissa had spent all her money to help Mister Morrison. Not dwelling on the thought, she helped Morrison to get back to his crumbling house on the other side of the city.
"I seriously can't repay you enough, Ms. Emerson. I'll go get something from the house. It may not be worth much, but in this city, I'm sure it'll fetch ya something," he was stopped before he could act on that promise.
"Mister Morrison, believe me when I say that you don't need to. You being in good health is enough for me." She said sincerely.
Mister Morrison's face and tone changed somberly, "Oh. That's something new. Well now, I'll still give you something. Don't worry now, it isn't taking from me, but it is something that means the world to me."
Disappearing for a moment behind the doorway, Mister Morrison later emerged with a crumpled piece of paper. Intriguing in its appearance, Clarissa took the worn parchment and thanked him.
"Thank you, Mister Morrison."
He spoke worriedly, "But you don't even know what it is, Ms. Emerson."
Clarissa stood attentively and heard his story.
"A long time ago, my wife would send me off to work with this little poem. I think she believed it brought good luck. To me, it was always her that brought it. I want you to have. If you want something to change in your life, all you need to do is say one of the stanzas aloud." With that, he waved her goodbye before she could get a question out. Shutting the door, he disappeared.
Clarissa made her way home to find on her door an eviction notice. She took the warning down and entered the room. Throwing her things on the nightstand, she checked her things to see if there was a small chance at mending this issue. When nothing presented itself, she stared out her window and involuntarily waited for the worse to come.
Her spirit now broken, she tested if the phone was still operational. When the dial registered, she tore off the bandage and called her father.
"Hello? Clark Emerson. Who is speaking?"
"Dad, it's me. I want to come home." A weeping voice requested.
Her father could have been more angered at her disappearance. He could have, but a shaky breath resonated on the other line. Instead, he sighed in relief that his daughter was safe and sound.
"I'm sorry, I'm so so..." her words were interrupted.
"I don't care, Clarissa. I'm just glad you're okay."
Eventually, they both were bawling their eyes out.
"I want to come home, Dad."
"Okay, Clarissa. I need to gather some money to get you. It can't be right now, I promise I'll make my way out. A few months at most. Just sit tight."
It may not have been the answer she was expecting, but she was put at ease after his plans were made. She sat down at the table near the window. That is when the note Mister Morrison gave her caught her attention. She read its contents intently.
A well untouched, Such as the un-aged hand,
Ripples of calm that lull weary heads, slumber’s call,
Abundant to many, cool water’s gift to all,
Full and reflecting. Loft in its great wide expanse.
But was it enough? The petrified well
Was there more than this? Like a gentle push,
Is there so much more? Moving a single foot,
Is a sip allowed? A thirst to quell.
A truth. Bitter shock; an ugly taste of perdition,
A surface broken, now gave way to awful ruin,
A pursuit now parched, turned to salty putrid,
And the sip took more, led astray by folly ambition.
It was strange. For what purpose did these cryptic riddles serve? Be it malicious or sincere, the wording alone made Clarissa apprehensive. However, Mister Morrison said that they were his lucky charm. That each stanza kept him safe and prosperous, even if he believed the magic came from his wife. It couldn't hurt to try and recite the first stanza.
"---Loft in its great wide expanse." It took a few minutes, but in that time she brushed the silly little poem as a soothing reassurance. Before she could disregard the stanza in its entirety, a sharp, stinging pain shot up and down her broken leg. Beneath green and blue veins, shards of bone shifted and poked out. They cut her leg to ribbons and Clarissa bit down on her fist until her knuckles became white and red. The leg moved as if it were alive, making itself correct. The white hot pain was too much. She fell out of the chair and gazed helplessly as the splinters unified to become one once more. Drifting off into an involuntary slumber.
Heat. Something hot and viscous pooled near her face and it pulled her out of a star-less night. A sickening peel nearly forced her contents back up, but she burned her throat to keep the bile down. All around her, a red and browning film formed where the healed wounds met the hard wood tile. Beneath it, smooth skin covered her wounds and her knuckles looked pristine. All that remained to indicate the injuries was the dried blood. She didn't even question it, only getting up to turn on the shower head and wash away the iron smelling viscera. The scene confirmed the poem, and that frightened her.
When she finished showering, the phone rang, as the noise bounced off the walls and to her ears. It was the initial acting gig. Their studio was making a new movie and they needed a vocalist. Her free arm hovered its hand over her mouth. She took the job without a second thought. There wasn't really much she could do besides call Valentine and share the news, begrudgingly. He confirmed the logistics; signing all the paperwork, while brushing off rumors of letting her go. What good fortune that it came to her as she was nearing defeat.
The deal went through and her voice was heard in the background of a high grossing film. Her name appeared in the credits and the sight brought her to tears. At the premiere, flocks of interviewers rushed over to Clarissa and wanted to hear her, see her! She received so many offers: to join movies, to write beautiful music, and to show the world her face.
Alone at night, separated from the others at a grand party, Clarissa stared out into the city of gleaming lights. Until her peace was interrupted by an unfamiliar voice, but an eerily familiar presence.
"Wow. It's so refreshing to see you here Ms. Emerson. What an honor to make your acquaintance, properly," a sultry, intimidating voice addressed her.
"It's you! The dr..." Clarissa held her tongue and rearranged her next sentence carefully. "You're the woman that made a room silent."
She held out her hand and introduced herself, "Victoria Ruiz. It is so nice to see you again."
In a former time, Clarissa might have felt overshadowed by the dream killer, but here, they met on an equal level. An imbalance made fair.
As they conversed, the woman stopped being the dream killer and became Victoria; an aspiring actor that traveled so far to make her bet with undercutting, shady managers. Clarissa told her all about her escapades. Her crushing defeats, her insecurities, her pain, and her doubts. An attentive Victoria's expression changed from curious intrigue to horrified concern. As Clarissa kept speaking, her voice was cut off by remarks.
"You're so young." Victoria remarked in a concerned tone.
"Uh. Yeah. I guess I am." She responded.
"You left so early." Again, but with much more worry.
"Heh. Yes." A quiet voice answered.
Victoria took a moment to assess the girl that sat before her and gave an earth shattering suggestion, "I think you should leave. Before it is too late."
Taken aback, the young girl fidgeted with her bracelet; green skin peaking out from beneath. Responding in a timid voice, "It is easy for you to say that, because you don't need to know how much I've wanted this. To be equal with my idols and to breathe in their air. I'm sorry, but I can't leave now. Not when I'm so close."
Leaving the party early, Clarissa tried to avoid the cold touch of unwanted hands. When she reached her apartment, she dwelled upon her thoughts. An unwelcomed phone call reached out for her, but she didn't answer it. Fear of being confronted by a pleading voice discouraged her. Only in the morning did she answer the next tidal waves of calls. Valentine had landed her a lead role in a musical and the producers were eager to hear her response. Dismissive, she gave an expressionless confirmation, but when the other line hung up, she burst out in excitement.
It was the break she was looking for and it landed in her lap so readily. However, a harmful memory crept into her head. Her initial performance was classified as lackluster. She didn't want to relive that trauma, so a worn piece of paper looked more tempting than ever.
She made sure to go down to the hardware store and bought a large waterproof tarp. Annoyed by the first encounter that left a permanent dark brown stain in her floor, she wasn't taking any chances this time around.
"---Is a sip allowed? A thirst to quell." Now came the waiting. Clarissa stepped into the tarp, expecting the worst, but was pleasantly surprised by a splitting headache. Her head writhed and pulsed so viciously, she felt as if her head would explode. An hour later, her head drastically cooled down and the room stopped spinning. It was overwhelming at first but she adjusted to her new memories. All of the best actors in history binded to her performances; now meshed together in a homogeneous mix.
It was meteoric. The rise. The ever climbing fame. A face now seen and a voice now revered, for she controlled emotion, thought, and hearts. Her performance was historic.
After filming had concluded, she went to collect a cheque that put all her prior others to shame. A fluttering began in her heart, not for monetary gain, but guilt. For all her accomplishments, she did very little to repay her original loan. With a goal in mind, she made it to her friend to correct the imbalance.
She thought of all the things she'd say to Mister Morrison. How he'd contributed so much to her image, how he refused debt, and his warm presence to fuel her to hold out for all of his miracles. She didn't notice when she had arrived, but looking up from her envelope in hand, the sight froze her blood. Once a rickety foundation, now only a bed of thorns and weeds stood in its place. With every semblance of a house now gone, she feared for her friend's safety. Descending into the brush, she tried to find Morrison, afraid that his life was in danger. A parchment laid folded deep within the thorns. Red spider webbed arms reached out for it.
"Ms. Emerson, I apologize for leaving you so worried. I know but one way of righting this wrong. I will meet you at your dwelling. M.M"
Confusion did not find her, for why would she question her dear friend's formality? Back at the steps of her apartment, she waited and waited, until only the chirps of crickets gave her company. It was late, perhaps she had missed him. Whatever the reason be, she would resume her patience in the morning. As the key met the lock, a sound of footsteps emerged from behind her door. In place of horror, only joy could be found. She would discard her reservations of proclivity if it meant she could hand the envelope in person.
It looked just as empty as the hour she left it, but a faint hint of another's presence could be felt. Seated at the table, a shadowy Mister Morrison waited patiently. Before she could hug him, Morrison spoke sternly.
"OH! Mister Morrison. You're all better. You made me worried when you wouldn't return my calls." She said excitedly.
"The paper," the warmth of his jubilant demeanor found no purchase in his words.
Confused, she asked, "Uh. What?"
"Give me the poem, dear," a simple request.
"Oh. Alright Mister Morrison. May I ask why?" As she handed over the parchment, her nail scraped against his skin. Apologizing profusely, she didn't bat an eye when a wisp of rotten eggs reached her nose.
Readjusting his seated position, Morrison said plainly, "Something bad was gonna happen if you read that last stanza aloud. It just wasn't right."
She could not understand him, "What?"
A single answer left him, "I like to lead the foolish down a dark path. Subjecting them to the thorns. But you are different."
All she could do was ask, "Why?"
She hadn't noticed until then, but within the shadows, his corneas were black and his pupils were a silvery white, "Because the last time someone cared for me, there was still a great plan for everything."
"Oh," Not fully understanding, she accepted his answer.
"This last form needs only a trade. What are you willing to give up for its luck?" Never had a question truly perplexed her, but it was said with all the seriousness that could be scraped together.
She held out her arm, dangling helplessly on her crimson arms was a tarnished bracelet.
She pleaded with him, "Please, Mister Morrison. Take care of my mother."
He nodded. Thanking her for all her concern, Morrison took the bracelet. When she asked if he'd take what he was owed, Morrison only pointed to her envelope. It was lighter, but beneath its seal, she felt a single note.
"How did you..." When she looked up, Morrison was gone.
Breaching the untouched seal, a single text presented itself to her.
Cold, crisp sublime is the victor’s carrion,
Excess shall determine the anointed
Basking in refreshing divine appointment
In the end there was usurped Paradise.
No pain infected her soft flesh. Instead, a cooling quench coursed through her fiber and her voice was made flawless. Right on cue, the phone rang and Valentine broke the good news.
New York wanted to host her; her! She was ecstatic, nearly forgetting to conceal her demeanor, especially in front of the lion's jaw. Confirming the schedule, she needed to share the news with her father.
"Dad! I have some exciting news to tell you!" she said.
"Clarissa? I have some news as well. I managed to gather some money to get you back here. I'll see you in a few days!" An encouraging announcement.
"Actually, dad, I am coming home. You don't have to spend a dime to get here. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised when I get home." She announced.
"Oh. When can I expect you?" her father asked in a confused tone.
"Soon. I'll talk to you in person, goodbye for now." A call ended before the reunion.
Boarding the next flight to New York, the rising star was bound for home. It was the same as the night she left it. However, all she wanted to see was her father, it had been far too long. Reconciling at the old, cramped apartment.
"I hope you're not upset with me, dad. I made sure to come home as quickly as I could."
"I wish you told me about your plans. We could have worked something out after you graduated."
"I'll finish school, I promise. I just want to see how this unfolds."
"Do you have any other plans, Clarissa?"
"I want to make sure you're taken care of, Dad. Making sure that you never have to worry or toil away ever again; those are my plans."
"You've never owed me anything. I'll be fine."
There was something more for why she had come home. As all things had been, there was business to attend to. Her eyes darted all around the grand theatre; never had she seen such ornate designs. It was only in the magazines where she ever get as close to these marvels. It was prepared for her; her! Every accommodation, every invitation, every glamorous detail, and every specially carved out pedestal; everything was made fit specifically for her. The clamors of moving components beautifully filled the echoing hall, but she couldn't help but feel a void forming in her chest.
As she sat there, alone in the vastness of the grandeur, a calming hand rested on her shoulder. To her surprise, a well-groomed Mister Morrison dressed in attire befitting the momentous occasion. After catching up on lost time, the moment of calm gradually became more bleak.
Morrison took notice, "Why are you so worried? I cannot even imagine getting this far. You should be proud of your success."
Caressing where her skin should have been stained green, Clarissa finally admitted, "I feel disgusting. Every step of the way was paved with my filth. I fear I will never be clean again."
"Do you desire to rectify these issues?" An interested Morrison asked.
"I want the people that made me feel this way barred from my moment. I want them as far away from me as possible." Burying her head in her arms and knees.
Morrison offered an impossible suggestion, "If I could make them pay, would you offer them up? Stare them in the eyes one more time? No matter the cost?"
She stared at his open palm, seeing how inviting it was, and accepted.
Denying her loved one’s invitations, The young star redirected them away from tonight's galore. Filling their hopes with hollow promises.
Lights.
Acclamations.
Audience.
Opulence.
A great fragrance that danced on the tip of her nose. To think that everything was outfitted just for her. A blinding shimmer that recognized her greatness, her belonging, her place, and her accomplishments.
Seated, her audience was filled with many unfortunate guests: harsh critics, unimpressed equals, and the exploitative. A carefully curated list. For tonight only, every voice that denied her, her rightful place would get the performance of a lifetime.
As they drank from lavish decanters and ate from fresh crops, an announcement brought her to the main stage.
To spoil such men was unfathomable, but it was the perfect lure for these belittling hearts.
It was time to perform.
In their enthralled trances, not a single member noticed the brass bars slithering to lock them in. Every high met its mark and every vibrato carried leagues. It was her night, even as it was the last. Then came the closing verse of a triumphant ballad;
A truth. Bitter shock; an ugly taste of perdition,
A surface broken, now gave way to awful ruin,
A pursuit now parched, turned to salty putrid,
And the sip took more, led astray by folly ambition.
The theatre boomed with applause, but it was cut short by a quaking earth. The roof caved in and the cloth seats burned away. While the others bashed themselves against barred doors, she watched in awe of the sight. In the chaos, her eyes narrowed on one putrid soul; Valentine. As she willed it be so, molten gold flooded the space and claimed its victims. Valentine wore his crown just as he always wanted it.
As the walls closed in on themselves and the cavernous theatre began to collapse, the young star crossed her legs and sat patiently for the awful death. Corpses charred black and smelling of brimstone stood as her inanimate audience. In the next moment, a choking black smoke filled the shrinking void, and her sight darkened.
However, that is not what happened. She opened her eyes to a dark and humid abyss. The faint glow of green and blue danced in the distance. Suddenly as she bore witness to this all enveloping darkness, it was ushered out by a blinding overhanging chandelier. The shaft of light revealed a solid stage and a microphone. Speaking into it, “hello?” A low bellowing din of thousands hoarse their awful cheers. Obscured by the light, the audience makes their presence known. Crudely molded trophies shaped from the flowing rivers of gold were thrown onto her stage. The blue glow of distant pyres grows until the audience is illuminated by burning brimstone. The court is filled by thousands of flickering and dancing members. Most of all, atop the highest point stood Mister Morrison. He bowed before the young star and gestured to her to begin again her lovely song.
Deep within the belly of the earth. That is where our burning star now plays her greatest pieces. To an ever appreciative audience that will never tire of her voice. Eternally, entertaining all of Morrison’s countless legions.
[Another two part series. Hope you enjoy.]
The best of talent shines brightest in the right conditions. In the suburbs of Queens, a young girl lines the walls of her room with all her idols. Mae West, Dorothy Danridge, Anna May Wong and Dolores del Rio; all the greats of fair repute. She gazes into their eyes and envisions herself standing shoulder to shoulder with them. "One day," she says, "One day, people are gonna say my name too!"
A knock at the door breaks her out of her daydreaming. "Clarissa Emerson, it's late. Go to bed now. You have school in the morning." A soft, soothing voice asserts; the one of her father's. She groans complaint, but doesn't disappoint. Dimming her lights, Clarissa settles into bed and clasps her hands together. School is important to her, but the dream career waits for no one. She will act on that pursuit after graduating.
The morning brings revitalization, and off our young star goes; off to make her plans, for the coming years are sure to test. School starts at eight in the morning, the autumn air is laced with a soft cool, and her best apparel compliments the changing season. She was looking forward to participating in her favorite elective; theater. Just as everything seems as it should be, a tap on her shoulder redirects her stride.
"Ms. Emerson?" said the counselor.
"Oh! Hello Mrs. Lorraine. What can I do for you?"
"We need to discuss your performance," a little bit of worry weighs on her words.
Secluded by dim lights and a cramped office space, the two discuss the news.
"I hope I haven't said something to alarm you." Clarissa apologizes without knowing the transgressions.
"Ms. Emerson, it isn’t that. Your grades are plummeting. At the beginning of last year, you were among the highest scoring students of your class. But now, you're falling into the lowest quarters. Care to explain yourself, young lady?"
The swinging of her legs ceases and the air begins to hum. Clarissa wasn't the one to fall behind without her reasons. This one had a name; Rebecca Chamberlain. The two knew each other from their elementary days. Friends from their first encounter, the two were inseparable. However, high-school had proven too much for Rebecca. She barely scraped by middle school with passable grades, but when faced with algebra, intermediate English, and chemistry, she crumbled apart. Clarissa did her best to help out her best friend by letting her cheat off her papers. Even if it meant she'd lose out her own academics, it was a small price to pay. The thing is; that bill collects. Growing until it is too big to ignore. Clarissa was no longer an exemplary student. She fidgeted with her brass bracelet.
Too afraid of confronting the counselor, but too loyal to admit aiding her friend's cheating, Clarissa shuts in. Mrs. Lorraine takes notice.
"Ms. Emerson, you can try to make up for that lapse with a repeat of the school year. I'm sorry. It is the best option I can give you."
Clarissa shuffles her shoes, unwavering in her attempt to avert her gaze, but answers in a hushed voice.
"I understand. Thank you, Mrs. Lorraine."
She departs from her office, hidden face full of emotion, and makes her way to go about the day concealing her discomfort. It is a hard thing to pull off when all her friends gather around. Always clustering to form their clique. She gives out compliments and whispers tame gossips, but she can not confide with them. The theater did little to improve her mood. The day just passes at a rushed pace. Waiting for the bus, she stands beside Rebecca, staring at the sunlit concrete; twiddling her thumbs in a fidgeting escape. Suddenly, repressed sobbing breaks the quiet queue. Rebecca holds her hand over her mouth and fights back tears, frivolously. Pleading bleeds into her speech.
"I'm sorry, Clarissa. I'm so very sorry. It's my fault. It's all my fault."
"What do you mean, Rebecca?" She asks as all her worries leave her to comfort her friend.
"I heard Mrs. Lorraine inform the teachers that a list of students will be repeating the year. It shouldn't be you. I was too dull to make it." Rebecca cried out.
The announcement did little to turn her against her best friend. Instead, she consoles Rebecca in her moment of panic.
Wiping away sniveling tears, Rebecca tries to make amends. "If we hurry now, I can admit my deception and you won't have to pay for it."
Before making her way back to Mrs. Lorraine's office, Rebecca is stopped in her tracks by a grasping hand.
"It's okay, Rebecca." Her hold turns into an embrace. "I'm okay. I'll figure something out. We always figure something out."
A hug conceals the grief, but for just a moment, everything is in its right place.
The bus ride home wasn't its usual comforting self. Where a tiring day might be slowly wisped with soft rocking, this trip was one where her mind rushed with every thought of breaking the news to her father. He already had his fill of life: his wife passing away, the bills piling on top, and now, his daughter had to repeat the year. It was the strain he was already experiencing that Clarissa feared most. The fear of becoming burdensome, especially in a tight situation.
Home. It should've felt safest at the apartment, but after everything that unfolded, it was the last place she wanted to be at. Dinner was difficult to wade through, for her father was always ready to learn about his daughter's day. She got by with single word responses and smiles. It was when she was heading into her bedroom that her father pulled her aside. Feeling like the charade was up, Clarissa buries her face in his dark coat. However, her father tells her something very touching. "Your mother would have given up everything to see you now. Know that she is always proud of you. As am I."
As she sat in her bed, head racing with quick fix solutions, a titan of an iceberg emerged to dwarf them all. Putting on her best clothes, packing away several changes, and sneaking out with socks padded feet; she acts on her thoughts. Grabbing her bracelet before rushing out the door, quietly. On the one plan she held close to her as much as her mother's mementos. Clarissa made her way to Rebecca's complex and threw pebbles at her window.
"Who is it?" A barely audible whisper asked.
"Rebecca, it's me." Clarissa announced.
"What are you doing here this late?" She asked.
"I came to tell you where I'm heading and that you need to keep it a secret." A little excitement leaked into Clarissa's hushed voice.
After Rebecca nodded in acknowledgement, Clarissa confided with her.
"I'm going to California! It's time that I work up the courage to become what I've always dreamed of! Please, don't tell anyone where I've gone."
"No. No no no. I can't do that, Clarissa. Don't do this just because of school. I'll take the blame. You don't need to run away because of me. Please! Stay." Rebecca, hyperventilating, panicked at the announcement. "Please, let me make this..."
She was cut off. Clarissa spoke in a low and reassuring tone.
"It's okay. I promise. I was always going to do this. If not now, then after graduation. When I tell you that I have no regrets for our friendship, I mean it."
Quiet streams led down both their faces. Rebecca cried into her hands and turned away from Clarissa. It was a wordless confirmation.
Weeks passed in a blurry display. The journey West was paved with difficulty. Clarissa stretched her dollar to its absolute limits. Budgeting on change that would put her grandmother to shame. It was worth it in the end. When a tired Ms. Emerson stepped off the bus, a city of slopes and hills laid in front of her; Los Angeles.
It was a new experience that changed her outlook. Suddenly, her guilt was put at ease and the promises of fame seemed more favorable. Bustling streets, shiny new cars, and dapper ladies and gentlemen. She walked in their air and wasn't ushered out. For the first time in a long time, she felt welcomed.
Getting a job wasn't easy; there were very few places that were hiring seemingly eighteen year olds. She found a diner that didn't need to confirm with a guardian and soon got to work raising funds for her endeavor.
At night, Clarissa would seek out auditions for a whole host of miscellaneous roles. Most were booked with fellow starry eyed and aspiring gals. That is until she got the chance to showcase her raw acting skills. A small studio dimly lit by burnt out street lamps. Inside, Clarissa waited in line with other auditions. Every other act looked to be lackluster. Clarissa felt confident in her abilities to capture the gaze at the sight of the competition. As she prepares herself for the display, a hidden talent reveals herself.
Tall, agile, and beautiful. The room seemed to slow down to a grinding halt as this pop up took to the stage. All stared in awe; all except Clarissa. Where everyone else had gleam in their eyes and slack in their jaws, Clarissa's eyes were filled with worry. Following the woman with glossy eyes, fearful expression, and a shut mouth. Everyone else saw beauty incarnate, but she saw a dream killer.
Her performance was beyond memorable. Clarissa wished it was inspiring. How she wished it invoked some side of her to pursue this dream with resounding reverence. None of that happened. She saw someone who wanted it more than her and it scorned her.
When it came around to Clarissa's performance, she found herself tripping over herself. A recital that, in her head, played out much differently. Every step knew its place, every line was said with earth shattering awe, and the glint of the spotlight was on her. In a bright delusion, she had turned heads. The dreary and dull reality was much bitter.
"Ms. Emerson?" A stern voice requested, "I'm sorry but that was lacking."
"I just need more time to get my bearings. Please, just one more chance," Clarissa pleaded.
"It's not just that, Ms. Emerson." After placing his glasses on his nose bridge, the man continued, "It's everything. Your mannerism, your ticks, your looks, and that chip on your shoulder. It's all weighing you down. I want to give someone that chance, but you just aren't that person."
"I don't have many options, sir. Please, just one more chance," Rubbing her green stained wrist, a defeated Clarissa begs as she cannot even bring herself to look him in the eyes.
The man gives her some advice; more or less a suggestion. "You have a face that would fit best for radio broadcasting."
All the frustration, anxiety, anger, and sorrow built up inside her. A single remark nearly diminished her cheery exterior. Despite everything she wanted to yell out, Clarissa bid farewell and quickened her exiting. When she was far from the judging eye, safest in her loneliness, she collapsed. For tonight only, she let herself fall apart.
Work was her only coping mechanism. In an echo chamber, she was complimented and told she was headed for better horizons. Even though she knew that these friendly latitudes didn't contribute to her seeking, it was still a reassuring notion that healed her after that abysmal performance. In her element, she felt on top. Something nudged at her. A lingering thought that branched off into action.
More weeks passed before she received a call to another audition. This was not one where she would dawn a new character nor even the acting of an alien situation. No, it would be where her voice carried her. After arriving, Clarissa made an unusual request of the organizers; she wanted to go last. Not out of selflessness nor even good sportsmanship, rather it was to observe if this competition was worth her time. If there was someone in line that could outshine and crave even more than her, then she didn't want to stay longer than she needed to.
Each and every woman in attendance sang their lovely song, some that came for recreation and others for their opportunity to rise. They were admirable in their attempts, but Clarissa knew they didn't compare to her voice. It was a coveted secret and she struggled to hide her smile.
When her performance came, all noise had ceased. The others sat attentively as she summit the stage and her mouth hovered near the mic. That slight hesitation came and faded when her ears plugged and a low rhythmic hum drowned out the world. Their eyes widened, hands held close to their hearts and jaws went slack.
Her vibrato surprised the makeshift audience. A soprano in her own right, Clarissa sang with all the spirit of Big Mama Thornton coursing through her. With no other accompanying musicians, her voice made up the balance. A few of the others began to clap their hands in rhythm with Clarissa's singing. The sprite of the moment passed over, and before she knew it, the other contestants were cheering her on.
Clarissa felt invigorated, for there was no denying that she had earned her place among the finalists. Waiting patiently for the results of her performance, she relaxed and eased up. There was no hint of losing in her mind. Eventually, she heard her name and walked over to the manager. A little joy faintly visible as she skipped over.
The atmosphere of the office betrayed her emotions. It was cramp and quiet, even the hum of iridescent light bulbs did little to dispel the silence.
"That was some performance, Ms. Emerson. You got a standing applause from everyone." The manager said warmly.
Clarissa responded. "Thank you. I wanted to pay homage to a small town legend."
"You certainly did well."
"Thank you."
He gave her a warm smile, but soon he straightened himself out and delivered the next news in a dry voice.
"Although, you didn't get the signature."
Taken aback, Clarissa weakly asked, "What?"
"Yeah. It was a tough decision. But I did try to think more longterm and you're just not someone I can see making a return on investment."
"But," she had difficulty in finding the right words, "But I thought this was to recruit a voice? Why didn't I get signed?"
"Ms. Emerson, I need to put a face to your voice. Unfortunately, yours won't sell stages." A plain statement, but it shook everything in Clarissa's world. "Thank you for your time, but we're going with someone else."
Ushered out, Clarissa made her way to her rented apartment. As she sat there, marinating in her disappointment, a last ditch effort came to mind. She put in her application for yet another series of auditions and requested an advancement on her paycheck. The gears were now in motion for her last opportunity.
Clarissa arrived at another late night audition. This time, dressed in recital apparel, she eagerly awaited the other women to finish up their choreographed dances. Clarissa stood at the precipice of a great long journey. Tonight, she'd have to truly impress the judges, less she loses out and exhaust all her options. The spotlight illuminated her magenta frame and she was off. A great bright ribbon that blurred in her element; elegant, masterful, and nimble. By the end of the night, no one denied her pursuit.
Again and again, night after night; Clarissa climbed the rungs and grew closer to her goal. Not a moment too soon either, for the most esteemed artists stood by the finish line. Her heart raced and her breath shook. So close now, she turned in her resignation and thanked the diner for all their help. At the last and most defining performance, she looked at the pillars of the industry. In her head, she was already standing beside them as an equal.
At the grand performance, Clarissa shuts out all other noise and focuses on her display. As the curtains parted, she darted for the stage and practically glided over. With the grace of a fast moving torrent, she carved through the air like a lance. Making the sharp maneuver to rise and descend uncontested, she made herself seen. At her highest point, Clarissa saw their expressions. Every last one filled with awe struck. On her last sauter, she felt embraced. Safely on top of her slice of the world, she didn't take the time to correct her footing. As she descended, distracted by the adoration, her landing crumbled under her weight. The next thing she heard was a disheartening snap, and it was all over.
The fall was the least devastating event to happen to her, because in her inaction, Clarissa lost her spot next to the pillars and couldn't get back on her feet so readily. Reduced to sedimentary recovery, she fell deeper into her own pit. When her money ran dry, the hospital had to discharge her.
It was rough waters from then on. She struggled to get a job, moved with pained groans, and failed to get responses to her applications. Clarissa felt like the world had prematurely moved on from her when it didn't even make an attempt to linger on her. It was looking hopeless. She threw in an application, absent mindlessly, thinking she wouldn't get an answer. It was to her surprise when she got an answer one hot afternoon.
In a remote part of the city, Clarissa hobbled to a pristine theater. Inside, she was met with the choking scent of cheap cigars and even cheaper alcohol. A well dressed gentleman greeted her in the hall and they exchanged pleasantries. Valentine was his name, and he saw a passive stream of income from Clarissa. A desperate, strong driven lady that only needed the lowest of promises to persuade her. In his office, Clarissa felt the dirty and dodgy atmosphere soak into her, but she sat intently as she waited to hear Valentine's proposal.
"You've certainly made quite the name for yourself, hon. And that latest performance! Oh, you had me holding my breath, before and after the fall. I'm terribly sorry, truly, for your injury. It must've hurt more when you had to rest," he said with a faux sense of worry.
"I didn't think anyone would even remember my face. Why are you interested in me?" She asked
After dusting off his cigar into the ashtray, Valentine's tone shifted, "I can get you the fame you're after. And you might help me get a crown I'm chasing. Of course, we need to establish the terms. But be warned, you won't get much farther if you aren't willing to do anything. I can only get you so far before we dip into your terms and conditions. But hey, it's your contract afterall."
She didn't like that caveat. It was manipulative, exploitative, and greedy. Despite all her internal voices screaming at her to turn around and walk out that door, she didn't. In front of her was a door, and all she needed to do was walk through it voluntarily. Ignoring what may lay behind it. "What do I need to do?"
Valentine leaned forward, "That is up for you to decide." Sliding a paper back contract, there were boxes to indicate terms. Each one took such a huge bite out of her potential earnings. It was intimidating. Before he could coax her further, a fast written signature manifested and the deal was almost over.
"I knew you had it in you, hon." She could imagine a hiss escaping his fiery breath. As she got ready to gather her things, Valentine snapped his fingers to get her attention.
"Woah, hold on now. You're an eager little doll aren't you? We still need to seal this deal, watertight."
Clarissa contained an angered agitation, "I've already signed it. What more can I do?"
"How about a little peck, hon?"
Funny how that works; Valentine wasn't a bad looking guy, but this request made him hideous to the core in Clarissa's eyes.
She'd gotten a poorer version of what she wanted. Everything that Valentine promised was misleading and a cheap rendition of what it actually was. The money she earned, however, was night and day from before. Even after the cuts, it was nice to have some disposable income. It was the following weeks that tested her.
Odd requests, morally questionable reservations, and distasteful, depreciating demands. All wearing her down and taking time away from her recovery. She was worsening, but that appearance was heavily hidden under a mask of makeup and perfumes. Her brass bracelet was replaced by a silvered one.
The worst came when Valentine wanted to reinforce his hold over Clarissa. Often it was a simple kiss, but as the weeks dragged on the requests gradually grew in intensity. Kissing became hugging, embracing became coddling, and even that wandered into the carnal. When it reached the intimacy she abhorred greatly, her fears grew. Thoughts she never imagined herself having crept into her mind. The fear that if she gave Valentine what he wanted, then he wouldn't even bat an eye as she was discarded.
She kept him at a distance and let him get only so far with her body. As despicable as these exchanges were, at least they were over quick.
So much time had passed. A few months ago, Clarissa was at home writing in her assignments; settling on the floor as she worked. There were no crippling demands, no exhausting requests, or monstrous men. It was simple, but it was suffocating. Clarissa didn't mean to hurt her father or her mother. So she took with her a portable piece of home. In her head, she was certain she could shake Valentine off and make her own gains. It would have been a reality if she didn't forget to weld her borders shut.
After a day of networking and obscure magazine shoots, Valentine led her back to the studio. Maybe it would have been different. Maybe if she denied the gesture, then she'd still be of use. Whatever the alternative was, it didn't matter. What happened ended the reciprocal business exchange. Valentine got what he wanted, and it shelled Clarissa into a husk. Not even a day later, talks of replacing the "tarnished merchandise" were getting thrown around. She curled up into a ball and locked herself away.
As she went out to collect the last of her cheques, Clarissa noticed a pained groan and went to investigate the source. It was an old man, stricken from an aching back and curled into the fetal position. Clarissa went to help the man.
"Hey hey. Are you alright mister? It's going to be okay, I'll call an ambulance for you," she said.
Putting his arm over her shoulder, the old man groaned out, "Ma'am, it's my back. I think I broke something."
Clarissa shushed him, "Wait til the hospital, mister. They're gonna take care of you. I promise."
After the man was loaded up, the medics asked if Clarissa knew who the immediate family members were. When she said no, they claimed that he would need someone to help him get his papers in order at the hospital. She wanted to say no, seeing as she herself was already dealing with her own injury, but when she saw the man in a world of pain, Clarissa obliged.
It had been some hours before the two met when the man was conscious again. Clarissa sighed in relief. It had been a while since she cared for someone else. Apparently, the man had nearly displaced a vertebrae but it was her quick response that saved the man's mobility.
When the doctors had left the room, the old man introduced himself properly.
"Well now, if it ain't the angel herself. Thank you, miss... uh..." He struggled to address her.
"Clarissa. Clarissa Emerson." She said to help him along.
"Clarissa! Thank you for helping me out, Miss Clarissa." Excitedly, the old man announced.
"It's nothing, mister..." She struggled to put a name to him.
"I'm Langston Morrison, but you can call me Mister Morrison." He said warmly. "I beg your pardon, but I don't know how I can ever repay you darling."
"And I wouldn't accept anything anyways. Let's just make sure you can heal up, Mister Morrison." Clarissa reassured him.
Astonishingly, Mister Morrison made a quick recovery and was discharged within two months. During that time, he and Clarissa had grown close: playing chess, drinking tea, and sharing memories. By the end of it, Clarissa had spent all her money to help Mister Morrison. Not dwelling on the thought, she helped Morrison to get back to his crumbling house on the other side of the city.
"I seriously can't repay you enough, Ms. Emerson. I'll go get something from the house. It may not be worth much, but in this city, I'm sure it'll fetch ya something," he was stopped before he could act on that promise.
"Mister Morrison, believe me when I say that you don't need to. You being in good health is enough for me." She said sincerely.
Mister Morrison's face and tone changed somberly, "Oh. That's something new. Well now, I'll still give you something. Don't worry now, it isn't taking from me, but it is something that means the world to me."
Disappearing for a moment behind the doorway, Mister Morrison later emerged with a crumpled piece of paper. Intriguing in its appearance, Clarissa took the worn parchment and thanked him.
"Thank you, Mister Morrison."
He spoke worriedly, "But you don't even know what it is, Ms. Emerson."
Clarissa stood attentively and heard his story.
"A long time ago, my wife would send me off to work with this little poem. I think she believed it brought good luck. To me, it was always her that brought it. I want you to have. If you want something to change in your life, all you need to do is say one of the stanzas aloud." With that, he waved her goodbye before she could get a question out. Shutting the door, he disappeared.
Clarissa made her way home to find on her door an eviction notice. She took the warning down and entered the room. Throwing her things on the nightstand, she checked her things to see if there was a small chance at mending this issue. When nothing presented itself, she stared out her window and involuntarily waited for the worse to come.
Her spirit now broken, she tested if the phone was still operational. When the dial registered, she tore off the bandage and called her father.
"Hello? Clark Emerson. Who is speaking?"
"Dad, it's me. I want to come home." A weeping voice requested.
Her father could have been more angered at her disappearance. He could have, but a shaky breath resonated on the other line. Instead, he sighed in relief that his daughter was safe and sound.
"I'm sorry, I'm so so..." her words were interrupted.
"I don't care, Clarissa. I'm just glad you're okay."
Eventually, they both were bawling their eyes out.
"I want to come home, Dad."
"Okay, Clarissa. I need to gather some money to get you. It can't be right now, I promise I'll make my way out. A few months at most. Just sit tight."
It may not have been the answer she was expecting, but she was put at ease after his plans were made. She sat down at the table near the window. That is when the note Mister Morrison gave her caught her attention. She read its contents intently.
A well untouched, Such as the un-aged hand,
Ripples of calm that lull weary heads, slumber’s call,
Abundant to many, cool water’s gift to all,
Full and reflecting. Loft in its great wide expanse.
But was it enough? The petrified well
Was there more than this? Like a gentle push,
Is there so much more? Moving a single foot,
Is a sip allowed? A thirst to quell.
A truth. Bitter shock; an ugly taste of perdition,
A surface broken, now gave way to awful ruin,
A pursuit now parched, turned to salty putrid,
And the sip took more, led astray by folly ambition.
It was strange. For what purpose did these cryptic riddles serve? Be it malicious or sincere, the wording alone made Clarissa apprehensive. However, Mister Morrison said that they were his lucky charm. That each stanza kept him safe and prosperous, even if he believed the magic came from his wife. It couldn't hurt to try and recite the first stanza.
"---Loft in its great wide expanse." It took a few minutes, but in that time she brushed the silly little poem as a soothing reassurance. Before she could disregard the stanza in its entirety, a sharp, stinging pain shot up and down her broken leg. Beneath green and blue veins, shards of bone shifted and poked out. They cut her leg to ribbons and Clarissa bit down on her fist until her knuckles became white and red. The leg moved as if it were alive, making itself correct. The white hot pain was too much. She fell out of the chair and gazed helplessly as the splinters unified to become one once more. Drifting off into an involuntary slumber.
Heat. Something hot and viscous pooled near her face and it pulled her out of a star-less night. A sickening peel nearly forced her contents back up, but she burned her throat to keep the bile down. All around her, a red and browning film formed where the healed wounds met the hard wood tile. Beneath it, smooth skin covered her wounds and her knuckles looked pristine. All that remained to indicate the injuries was the dried blood. She didn't even question it, only getting up to turn on the shower head and wash away the iron smelling viscera. The scene confirmed the poem, and that frightened her.
When she finished showering, the phone rang, as the noise bounced off the walls and to her ears. It was the initial acting gig. Their studio was making a new movie and they needed a vocalist. Her free arm hovered its hand over her mouth. She took the job without a second thought. There wasn't really much she could do besides call Valentine and share the news, begrudgingly. He confirmed the logistics; signing all the paperwork, while brushing off rumors of letting her go. What good fortune that it came to her as she was nearing defeat.
The deal went through and her voice was heard in the background of a high grossing film. Her name appeared in the credits and the sight brought her to tears. At the premiere, flocks of interviewers rushed over to Clarissa and wanted to hear her, see her! She received so many offers: to join movies, to write beautiful music, and to show the world her face.
Alone at night, separated from the others at a grand party, Clarissa stared out into the city of gleaming lights. Until her peace was interrupted by an unfamiliar voice, but an eerily familiar presence.
"Wow. It's so refreshing to see you here Ms. Emerson. What an honor to make your acquaintance, properly," a sultry, intimidating voice addressed her.
"It's you! The dr..." Clarissa held her tongue and rearranged her next sentence carefully. "You're the woman that made a room silent."
She held out her hand and introduced herself, "Victoria Ruiz. It is so nice to see you again."
In a former time, Clarissa might have felt overshadowed by the dream killer, but here, they met on an equal level. An imbalance made fair.
As they conversed, the woman stopped being the dream killer and became Victoria; an aspiring actor that traveled so far to make her bet with undercutting, shady managers. Clarissa told her all about her escapades. Her crushing defeats, her insecurities, her pain, and her doubts. An attentive Victoria's expression changed from curious intrigue to horrified concern. As Clarissa kept speaking, her voice was cut off by remarks.
"You're so young." Victoria remarked in a concerned tone.
"Uh. Yeah. I guess I am." She responded.
"You left so early." Again, but with much more worry.
"Heh. Yes." A quiet voice answered.
Victoria took a moment to assess the girl that sat before her and gave an earth shattering suggestion, "I think you should leave. Before it is too late."
Taken aback, the young girl fidgeted with her bracelet; green skin peaking out from beneath. Responding in a timid voice, "It is easy for you to say that, because you don't need to know how much I've wanted this. To be equal with my idols and to breathe in their air. I'm sorry, but I can't leave now. Not when I'm so close."
Leaving the party early, Clarissa tried to avoid the cold touch of unwanted hands. When she reached her apartment, she dwelled upon her thoughts. An unwelcomed phone call reached out for her, but she didn't answer it. Fear of being confronted by a pleading voice discouraged her. Only in the morning did she answer the next tidal waves of calls. Valentine had landed her a lead role in a musical and the producers were eager to hear her response. Dismissive, she gave an expressionless confirmation, but when the other line hung up, she burst out in excitement.
It was the break she was looking for and it landed in her lap so readily. However, a harmful memory crept into her head. Her initial performance was classified as lackluster. She didn't want to relive that trauma, so a worn piece of paper looked more tempting than ever.
She made sure to go down to the hardware store and bought a large waterproof tarp. Annoyed by the first encounter that left a permanent dark brown stain in her floor, she wasn't taking any chances this time around.
"---Is a sip allowed? A thirst to quell." Now came the waiting. Clarissa stepped into the tarp, expecting the worst, but was pleasantly surprised by a splitting headache. Her head writhed and pulsed so viciously, she felt as if her head would explode. An hour later, her head drastically cooled down and the room stopped spinning. It was overwhelming at first but she adjusted to her new memories. All of the best actors in history binded to her performances; now meshed together in a homogeneous mix.
It was meteoric. The rise. The ever climbing fame. A face now seen and a voice now revered, for she controlled emotion, thought, and hearts. Her performance was historic.
After filming had concluded, she went to collect a cheque that put all her prior others to shame. A fluttering began in her heart, not for monetary gain, but guilt. For all her accomplishments, she did very little to repay her original loan. With a goal in mind, she made it to her friend to correct the imbalance.
She thought of all the things she'd say to Mister Morrison. How he'd contributed so much to her image, how he refused debt, and his warm presence to fuel her to hold out for all of his miracles. She didn't notice when she had arrived, but looking up from her envelope in hand, the sight froze her blood. Once a rickety foundation, now only a bed of thorns and weeds stood in its place. With every semblance of a house now gone, she feared for her friend's safety. Descending into the brush, she tried to find Morrison, afraid that his life was in danger. A parchment laid folded deep within the thorns. Red spider webbed arms reached out for it.
"Ms. Emerson, I apologize for leaving you so worried. I know but one way of righting this wrong. I will meet you at your dwelling. M.M"
Confusion did not find her, for why would she question her dear friend's formality? Back at the steps of her apartment, she waited and waited, until only the chirps of crickets gave her company. It was late, perhaps she had missed him. Whatever the reason be, she would resume her patience in the morning. As the key met the lock, a sound of footsteps emerged from behind her door. In place of horror, only joy could be found. She would discard her reservations of proclivity if it meant she could hand the envelope in person.
It looked just as empty as the hour she left it, but a faint hint of another's presence could be felt. Seated at the table, a shadowy Mister Morrison waited patiently. Before she could hug him, Morrison spoke sternly.
"OH! Mister Morrison. You're all better. You made me worried when you wouldn't return my calls." She said excitedly.
"The paper," the warmth of his jubilant demeanor found no purchase in his words.
Confused, she asked, "Uh. What?"
"Give me the poem, dear," a simple request.
"Oh. Alright Mister Morrison. May I ask why?" As she handed over the parchment, her nail scraped against his skin. Apologizing profusely, she didn't bat an eye when a wisp of rotten eggs reached her nose.
Readjusting his seated position, Morrison said plainly, "Something bad was gonna happen if you read that last stanza aloud. It just wasn't right."
She could not understand him, "What?"
A single answer left him, "I like to lead the foolish down a dark path. Subjecting them to the thorns. But you are different."
All she could do was ask, "Why?"
She hadn't noticed until then, but within the shadows, his corneas were black and his pupils were a silvery white, "Because the last time someone cared for me, there was still a great plan for everything."
"Oh," Not fully understanding, she accepted his answer.
"This last form needs only a trade. What are you willing to give up for its luck?" Never had a question truly perplexed her, but it was said with all the seriousness that could be scraped together.
She held out her arm, dangling helplessly on her crimson arms was a tarnished bracelet.
She pleaded with him, "Please, Mister Morrison. Take care of my mother."
He nodded. Thanking her for all her concern, Morrison took the bracelet. When she asked if he'd take what he was owed, Morrison only pointed to her envelope. It was lighter, but beneath its seal, she felt a single note.
"How did you..." When she looked up, Morrison was gone.
Breaching the untouched seal, a single text presented itself to her.
Cold, crisp sublime is the victor’s carrion,
Excess shall determine the anointed
Basking in refreshing divine appointment
In the end there was usurped Paradise.
No pain infected her soft flesh. Instead, a cooling quench coursed through her fiber and her voice was made flawless. Right on cue, the phone rang and Valentine broke the good news.
New York wanted to host her; her! She was ecstatic, nearly forgetting to conceal her demeanor, especially in front of the lion's jaw. Confirming the schedule, she needed to share the news with her father.
"Dad! I have some exciting news to tell you!" she said.
"Clarissa? I have some news as well. I managed to gather some money to get you back here. I'll see you in a few days!" An encouraging announcement.
"Actually, dad, I am coming home. You don't have to spend a dime to get here. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised when I get home." She announced.
"Oh. When can I expect you?" her father asked in a confused tone.
"Soon. I'll talk to you in person, goodbye for now." A call ended before the reunion.
I was back in the war, this time with a commanding officer barking orders in my ear; at least, I thought I was. I'm sure I was not proud of my actions. I bashed my rifle butt into skulls, lit fires to smoke out homesteaders, and left fields bare in my insatiable hunger. Silver, gold, porcelain, and gems were sacked from massive plantations, and I was a part of those raids. It is vague, but I think there was something stirring that day. The line of men were ready to run these civilians into the dirt for all their worth. I saw families huddled together and friends carrying each other along the way. Small young'ns that did not deserve the slaughter that awaited them. I think I could no longer stomach the horror, so I yelled.
"RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY! Get out of here! Hurry," the shouts left my lungs. Next thing I knew, I was knocked off my horse. I don’t remember how I got the revolver in my hands. In the next moment, bugles sounded a charging command. Their officer led them, emboldened with northern fervor. My party obliged the invitation and took to battle. Smoke choked the air and blinded visibility. Madness unfurled its awful gnashing maw that day. It was deep into this miasma that I saw a monster of a man hold his bayonet over the eye of a downed officer. I think it was me that had killed him. When he fell to the ground, a lone union officer stood a few feet behind with his gun drawn. I was on my back and salty mud worked its way under my eyelids. However, it was then that the Yankee ran over to me. I half expected him to grant me a quick death, instead he poured water over my eyes using his canteen. Standing over me was my dear friend, the man that saved me and helped me all my life.
Waking up from my exhaustion, I noticed that Socks had kept me from falling off my saddle by breaking into a brisk stroll. We had been wondering for so long that the landscape shifted from blistering deserts to canopied forests overhead. Tall cedars and pines created a network of shady coverage. I looked around us trying to gauge where we ended up heading. Socks, proven time and time again to be a loyal beast, stuck to the path I last left him with. We were hiking up a mountain I had seen in the East, it had seemed that we were in the right direction. I was operating off an empty tank, made worse by my ever growing dehydration. I took Socks off the path and headed across the mountain in search of water. A fresh water spring burst out from behind walls of red sandstone higher up on the mountain.
I set up two pans for Socks and his buddy. I drank like it would be my last taste of water in forever. I washed my neck free from the clumps of dried mud, the blood that stained my wounds, and the trails of sweat that left behind salt. I was lost in maintenance, oblivious to my surroundings, when the sensation of something being a little too close for comfort came over me. I threw everything back onto my hooved companions and quickly descended the mountain.
Ducking under a frenzy of branches, zigzagging around trees, and leaping over jagged rocks, I could not risk any chances. We reached the edge of the tree line and I strained to get a glimpse at whatever kept setting off my alarm bells. Scanning for any movement. Holding my breath to hear even the slightest shift in the pine needles. I steadied myself to avoid the errors owed to even the smallest twitches. Nothing. Not a damn thing. Was I mistaken? I wanted to confirm my suspicions, so I waited for a while longer. Until, I saw something emerge from the forest. A stallion, black as night, just standing a few hundred feet away from me. It couldn't be. The sense of the invasive eyes found their origin, but I had a hard time believing they were one in the same. I wasn't able to think about it longer before the shadow left us. I slept that night far from the mountain. Rest didn’t come easily but my battered body forced me to take any opportunity to recover. The starry night was the escape my mind desperately needed after the events I had experienced.
The next day was one that truly put into scope the severity of my situation. We were traveling along a garnet ridge when the mule began to panic at what I thought was nothing. Then the rattling disrupted what sense of lingering calm there was in the early morning. The mule had received the venomous kiss, leaving me to clumsily retrieve the Winchester. Needless to say, that rattler's head went missing in a puff of smoke. The mule, in a great deal of pain, fell down the ridge and slammed onto the rough bottom. A sickening snap found my ears. I wanted to help the beast of burden, I really did, but there is little that can be done when the leg is snapped in two. Heaving in anguish, I held my friend's head in my lap trying to calm him down. I didn't want to do it, but I also didn't want to leave him to suffer either. With one discharge, I granted him mercy. Despite the arid climate, rain fell on my face.
Our time at the garnet ridge was an extended one, yet I carried myself over the lip and back onto Socks. I gave the mule one last glance. I couldn't carry the luggage that he endured for hundreds of miles. I rode off to the East, it was the only thing I could do. Every time we kept to the path for a few hours, we'd encounter a new landscape. From the mountain we hit red sand. From there, the red desert transitioned into a vast and fairly shallow valley. It was a region packed with vibrance but its viewer was one whose curious nature had already been exhausted by many tragedies. I felt the sickness squeeze every bit of life out from beneath my veins.
I was weak. Weaker than when I had arrived. The world, often a still and anchored painting, began to spin so fast I could barely hang onto Socks. There was only red in the calm of the valley, but all at once the rays danced and filled the emptiness. Spiraling, twisting and concentric bands muddled up the beautiful canvas. I couldn't stand to bear this illusion any longer. I removed the cap from my canteen and washed away the insanity. In my mind's chaos, we had crossed the valley and stood on another mountain's doorstep.
It was there that I felt a foreign plague enter my radius. The same eyes were summiting the other side of the valley. The stillness, the quiet, the unchanging focus of eyes so honed in they physically hurt. It was beautiful nonetheless. A black figure superimposed against the setting sun. The contrast was captivating as much as it was unsettling. Always out of reach, but never out of mind. My persistent pursuer didn't have to overexert itself. I swear that the horse's muzzle had an oil dripping tar onto the dry earth, coiling like the body of a serpent.
As black as pitch, the liquid fell in droplets. We left for the protection of the trees. The image burned itself into my mind. I couldn't shake the feeling that it drank from anything but water.
I didn't drop to the ground. At this point, I was certain that I would never be able to climb back onto Socks. I slept on my saddle that night. The last of this infernal trip. Throughout all of the events, Socks stayed true and at my side. He had earned his release.
The morning of the last day, I took Socks to the open grasslands below the mountain. I searched for any signs of wild herds. When we found a stream, instead of taking a drink from it, we followed it to where the horses gathered. Many herds drank from the mountains's waters. It didn't matter to me which one was best, only that Socks could be let in. I dismounted. Cutting the straps that locked the saddle to Sock's ribs, I had made my decision long ago. I removed the bit from his teeth and unlatched his reins. I couldn't protect him, not in this state, so I entrusted his health to strangers. It was the best I could offer after all the grief I caused him. He lingered, but I chased him away every time. I went where he couldn't follow.
It's funny really. I remember having a different friend from a long time ago. He hated how the south betrayed him. For all his tireless work tilling land and harvesting cash crops, the Confederacy repaid him by cramming traumatic war deep into his psyche. When his life as a soldier proved to not be enough, the government confiscated his land. Every time, his sacrifice was never sufficient, so they took and took until they picked him to the bone. The war spat him out and left him spent. Life in Canada treated him better than everything he had experienced as the Confederacy's lackey. He boasted plenty. Bragged long into the night. Made sure to let us know how happy he had been. Until one day, he sat me down after talking everyone else's ears off. He spoke to me in a serious tone, "You know I never regretted my decision. I don't miss the history. Especially the snakes, mosquitoes, and malaria. But I miss my friends."
I comforted him as best as I could before giving my response, "You got out. That's more than can be said for most of us." He affirmed, "I know but it doesn't feel that way. Sometimes, I wake up back in the field. Shaken with fear and alone."
I interjected, "The war is over. Put the past behind you."
For a moment, he contemplated disclosing a thought that crossed his mind, "The past few years were pretty calm. Not much can rile me these days. Fishing, skiing, and camping mostly eat up my time. I thought nothing could bring me back to those choked skies."
I leaned in, and that was his cue to continue, "I was camping deep into the tundra. I thought nothing could happen since there were people far out amongst the frozen lakes. My carelessness nearly cost me my life. I didn't respect the land, so it tossed a beast my way. A calm, collected monster. I couldn't escape it, and it knew that. A bear, tall and mighty, stalked me for miles. I swear it felt like the days of long marches. The anxiety that built up in anticipation of ambush. This bear reminded me of everything I tried to leave behind. I didn't survive because I was skillful, but because I was lucky enough to find others. It never made so much as a low rumbling. If it hadn't left its tracks in the snow, there would be no evidence that it ever existed."
He passed away the following winter. The disturbing moment embedded his words into me ever since. I'd get the opportunity to experience everything he did for myself. My stalker still pursued me. It never stopped. Always giving me enough room to falsely assume safety, and without fail, it reminded me of its presence. Wearing me down until I dropped dead. It never ceased. I doubt it ever slept. Looming over me like buzzards scouting out a fresh carcass. I ran to hide in the sandstone chambers. I don't know why I did it, for that action alone merely served to delay the inevitable.
I wedged myself deep within the labyrinth and I aimed my rifle to face anything that might wander too close. My nerves turned to cold steel at the idea of slow but assured death. I didn't want to believe the sound of clacking was real as it neared. The dark horse reared its head as it impossibly wormed its way to find me. I deliberately took the narrow path to inconvenience it. It neared until the exit was completely hidden behind its figure. Its form molded like clay as its ribs scraped against the walls. At the other end of this narrow passage stood the stalking beast. I expected it to charge me down, pin me down to the cold hard floor, and tear me apart. Instead, it just stood at the other end. A silent, deafening presence. Eyes silvered by cataracts. I assume it was considering every possible escape route that I could take. After a long moment of scanning, it did something bizarre. Freezing in place, the horse unfolded its head like a blossoming flower. A sickening cacophony of popping joints and shifting bones broke the delicate silence. The newly formed maw was lined with barbs, its gums receded to reveal gleaming teeth. Where the skull should have been was only a pale, slender tongue that glowed bright; a mesmerizing pulse of flashing blue and violet lights. Eye stalks emerged from the dark of its throat, completing this amalgamation of flesh and bone. There. Right there. I saw the flower bloom, and I was lost in awe.
Before I could fully appreciate this display, the flesh flower clamped down on my arm and tore it clean off. Disappearing into the abyss of its mouth, I was broken from my trance and pain filled every fiber of my being. I kicked and screamed, scratched at its gums, and beat it over the head with the butt of my rifle. Nothing seemed to phase it until it opened up its mouth once again. I took my rifle and fired into its mouth. It didn't whine nor scream, but as it staggered I took the chance to slide past it. My body sank into its flesh as I squeezed past. I navigated the maze to find a scalable surface in the smooth sandstone. I heard the monster trailing close behind.
A newfound strength restored me, just long enough to climb. Thank goodness that it held out because as I rolled onto the top, I heard a single snap. The many jaws of the flesh blossom slammed shut trying to take me down with it. I am stranded here. Currently awaiting the blood loss to claim me. That thing is still pacing down there, waiting for me to show a little weakness. I'm never going to deliver this letter, that much is clear. I hate that I can never fulfill any requests my friends hand me. Since the end is near, I might as well find out what all the fuss is about regarding this letter.
"My Dearest Maria,
I am ashamed to admit it has taken me this long to reach out to you. So much has happened in the time that we last met. In those years, I have never forgotten about our moment. I no longer want to deny the spark that happened between us. I want to acknowledge you for all of your worth. I never meant to hurt you so. I want to reunite with you and offer you the life I should've years ago. I have gotten your letters over the years. I want to give Emilio the life I couldn't afford myself. Please, make your way East. My dearest friend has hopefully delivered you money to make the trip. Sort your obligations, please. Let us be a proper family.
Sincerely,
Robert Merrier"
Oh Robert. What did you get yourself into? I guess you can't be trusted, should have warned ole' Ulysses about you when you were off to Vicksburg. If anyone finds this journal, please finish where I could not. I'm not going to make it to Santa Fe, of that I am certain. I am so sorry, Brighton. Maybe someone else, someone better, will publish your book. I'm going to watch the stars cross the night sky one last time. Goodbye.
[Just this first part is 37,800 characters! I need to wait a day before posting the other half. Sorry. I truly appreciate everyone's support on my past stories. Keep an eye out for the second part. I hope you enjoy this historical fiction! Thank you.]
I still have nightmares; terrors that plague me even now as I live a simple life. Last night was different. It wasn’t the fields of battle I had known. It was plain. A bright blue sky and a flat white desert. Even in my sleep, my eyes strained to make sense of the scenery. Dancing heatwaves blurred where the two colors met. The simplicity of this nightmare was interrupted by the arrival of a distant figure. The warping shape solidified and gained form. A horse’s silhouette against the blue background. In its mouth, a rattlesnake dangled lifelessly. I woke up back in my own bed; my hands and face covered in sweat.
My morning now over, I got dressed and made my way to the bank. I wouldn’t allow myself to lose my job over a vivid dream I had about animals. I began work by filling out ledgers. It hadn’t even been minutes into my shift when I was summoned by some well-dressed gentlemen. A dear friend had sent them to collect me. This struck me as odd, but the reason behind this informal invitation became clear when we arrived at his estate.
Sadly, he had become bedridden from the gangrene that built in his legs. A sickly puss blanketing where his joints should have been.
Before the affliction took hold of his mobility, my good friend was making plans to travel out west and meet with an acquaintance.
It's difficult to recount our first meeting since he had come down with a leg rot. He was a very haunting figure just laying in his bed, all while being tended to by the best physicians money could buy.
Our conversation was eerily brief. I felt that he wanted to disregard his condition and only focus on the updating of our current lives.
"My friend, you needn't worry. I am pampered enough by kith and kin alike. I do not need my good friend of ten years to slow down for me." Barely shifting his weight to stare me in the eyes.
I took my seat beside him, taking care to not steal his sunlight as I spoke, "This is in no way a proper form of making a reunion. I had hoped you were just taking a holiday. The good lord knows you needed one after our abysmal last quarter."
"Nonsense, for I like where the work is. Keeps me busy, as one should be. I must admit though, you are the hardest working person I know. Farmhand, courier, and now the most diligent banker this side of the Mississippi." His vitality had put on a facade as his eyes gleamed with reminiscence.
I nodded my head in agreement. It had been too long. I didn't like to see my friend suffer as he did. An aristocrat by chance, he was a kind soul at heart. Always taking pay cuts to ensure the bank thrived. His accumulated wealth was one earned by continuous strategic investments such as bonds, shares, and trusts. He was also bold in cashing in on old favors. A soldier that saved many-a-wealthy.
I adjusted my seat to look at him straight on, "So much for catching up on lost time. I do wonder why you fetched me. It's not something small assuming the place of the meeting."
"The rot's devouring me. I can't make the travel out west. I had an obligation to make amends with an old acquaintance, but as you can see, I'd sooner expire than meet them face-to-face." Whatever sprite he had scraped together died when I brought up the subject.
I was caught off guard. It was unusual that he had friends in such rural places. I asked him as much pertaining to the request, "A brother in arms?"
"Something more important than that. Besides, all my wartime friends are dead. No. I need you to deliver this letter to Santa Fe. All that I need to say is written. I don't believe I'll get another chance to." His hand went limp as he passed over his possession.
I was surprised at the request. It's a daunting task to ask someone to make the pilgrimage west. Danger lurked in every pocket of the last untamed frontier.
Before I could poke further, he made a last minute request.
"Make the trip a quick one. Ride with haste. I would hate for you to succumb to the blistering heat from our idle chitchat." Even if I didn't want to know the truth, my belief was that he’d recover.
I chuffed. It was the last time I'd ever see him laugh.
He offered me a vast per diem to account for the logistics and issues I might face along the way. I scoffed at the sum, making sure he knew about my thoughts, "This more than you pay me in a year."
"Heh. It won't be the last I promise you. There will be more after you return. Compensation for the lengthy trip." His lungs weakly exclaimed as he settled back into his imprint.
I hugged my friend goodbye. The weakness in his arms made evident as he struggled to lift one arm in acknowledgement. As I write this section, I still remember him staring at me as I departed. Perhaps this is sentiment speaking but it felt as though he was gifting me the last shreds of his will. Sending me off with his strength and determination. He may have been a hard working man, but there's no mistake that he was an outstanding person.
When I entered the manor, I was eager to meet a familiar face. However, my departure was melancholic to say the least. I was taken home and told to catch as much rest as I could, for there were very few places of comfort along the trail. I couldn't say no to him. He afforded me a well paying position in his bank, as well as aiding me with my housing expenses.
In the morning, men from the manor delivered some essentials, all packed away in satchels, and handed me the reins to a staunch, hardy beast. Gray fur with lighter spots and all of his legs, below the first knuckle, were white. It is bad luck to name your animals, as they can succumb to terrible ailments and die on a whim. I disregarded this mental notion and named the gray horse “Socks.” I grabbed my Winchester and left my humble abode. Making my way for the west, all of southern Missouri bidding me farewell with waving branches. The wafting scent of cornflowers trailing close behind.
A sense of despair set in as I asked myself a question aloud, "If he's dead, then would I be expected to break the news to this stranger?" I didn't want to believe it but there was a high chance that my friend I had known for over a decade would not be home when I returned. I calmed my nerves and headed out on the road with many inns.
The trip took nearly ten days of slow paced trotting before we saw the borders to Indian Territory. It was quite a ways further but I was determined to escape the wooded forest land. I persuaded Socks to make haste with a slight kick of the heel. The transition from mountains, forests, plains, and marshes was so gradual that you could light a candle and watch it evaporate before you left the first terrain. This night in particular had seemed to approach fast. The setting sun cast a myriad of figures against the path. Their shadows playing tricks on my mind and building up anticipation that something was going to jump out at me.
A coarse hiss broke the tension so fierce that Socks knocked me to the ground. I cursed, "Damn Copperhead!" The slithering critter warned as it curled into the shape of a cow pie. I took out my knife and the snake struck at me. The sudden movement gave me the perfect opportunity to chop its head off. The mouth was now struck open with a surprised expression. I would need to avoid any occurrences like that if I wanted to make the trip all in one piece.
That night, I had some choice words with Socks about proceeding behavior. I went to sleep late after we checked in.
My morning had gotten off to a rough start because I slept in. I struggled to wake myself up and get dressed in anticipation for the long journey ahead. I saddled up Socks, drank murky water, and gnawed on hardened bread. I was in an absent state of mind. Riding but not taking notice of my surroundings. It was like a daze that one has during sickness. Gliding through time like a river washing over a wedged stone.
I have a difficult time when out on long trips. My mind wanders and I end up deep in thought. It affects me greatly. I hate the quiet. It invites all the bad memories. This was only exaggerated when crossing through Cherokee land.
I don't know if it was guilt, pity, or empathy but passing by the pitched tents and rows of fires filled me with a great deal of sadness. Thousands of far removed despots squatted near open flame to protect against cold wind. In prior years, a younger me would have hooped and hollered at their despair. A kid only knows the truth their parents tell them. Mine were no different. However, it was my time with the greys that opened my eyes to the bigger picture. We won many wars, and these poor few were only defending themselves the best way they could. My first real conversation with an Indian was at the Siege of Petersburg.
My eighteen year old self had just joined the greys, invigorated by my sense of duty. William Sherman had just carved through the south something bloody. I was very intolerant then, as shown by my blatant disregard for my fellow countryman. Irish volunteers, Free black men, and the tribes of savages stood shoulder-to-shoulder in those filthy trenches. It's strange how much a siege can wear one down, so much so that I would end up being shifted around the defense perimeter with bands of Indians. That's when I met my friend of the Cherokee. It's funny, I can't exactly recall his name, only his last name. Surprisingly, it was Brighton. As you can imagine, his maiden name was one of indigenous fanfare, flowery even for his lot.
We started out butting heads and shoving each other into the cold mud, but we both found ourselves sharing a flask. Bottles full of life found themselves thoroughly emptied as we passed our turns around. The flask is where we really connected. Where Brighton and I really became friends.
"You're not like the other strictens are you?"
I wiped away runoff, "I was like them up until I was thrown in with the eastern division. You're not so bad yourself, Bright."
"I know. Still got the bruises to show."
I laughed, choking on burning spit, I gave out a light-hearted cuss, "Damnit. Choked on my laugh. Wasn't even that funny."
We both laughed for an hour. Letting the potation work it's magic. Taking off the sleeve of worry, woe, and worse. It was then Brighton turned to me and asked, "Where will you go after this war has fought its length?"
I struggled to string together a sincere and serious response, "What do you mean?"
"I've been informed about my family's land being seized by both the Union and Confederacy government. I'm expecting to meet them on a new reservation. I don't think I'll get the chance at life I was hoping for. So let me ask you again. Where will you go after the war has been fought?"
I had only seen two emotions from this clay statue up until this point, boiling rage and piss drunk happiness. This was different. He had completely switched complexion and stared at me with sad eyes. I conceded, "I will probably go to where the industry is. Cotton is for the rich, tobacco for the privy, and indigo for the experts. I can't hardly get one to harvest let alone to budding. I'm more equipped to work with machinery."
"Where you're going, I can't hope to follow. I wish things would change for the better. I am more than the sum of my parts. I wanted to present that to the world with my writing."
The tone shifted for the somber. I wasn't sitting with some hollowed out caricature. Whooping, bow slinging, scalping and smoking were absent from the figure I was made to hate with the burning passion of a thousand furnaces. Sitting beside me was someone just like me. Brighton had ambition, passion, and ideas. He wanted to pursue what made him happy, what brought him absolute genuine joy. I'm no bookworm, but his work was plenty enthralling. I turned to him, placing my hand on his shoulder, and said, "You're going to be just fine. Whoever wins this brawl will listen to you. This war is fought by many braves. You are headed for good fortune."
I gave my friend a comforting lie. He was smart enough to probably see through it at that moment. Brighton didn't protest, smiling in acknowledgement, he asked me a grim question, "Will you take my book and publish it, just in case I don't make it through the smoke?"
I think he knew that he wasn't long for this world, but the notion still pierced deep and embedded a powerful sense of melancholic sentiment. I obliged his request and he was off for bed. I wish morning never came because of the Crater. Brighton was sent to where the action was. I don't think he had enough time to register the powder keg going off. Hell, I sure didn't. I have to keep convincing myself that his death was quick, but there were still greys alive after the explosion. Torn and mangled, but alive. I was busy holding down my section of the siege to fully process Brighton's departure. It's strange, I don't remember it raining that day, and yet there was a pool of liquid at the bottom of the crater. It wasn't until after the battle that I was informed on its true origin, it was neither water nor grease. I'll let you decide what it was for yourself.
I am ashamed. Ashamed that I couldn't fulfill his final wishes. That book still lies beneath the drawer of my desk. Collecting dust long after its author had died, a reminder of my failure.
When I broke from my trance, Socks was taking a brisk walk through the grass under a thick canopy. I was slow in correcting his direction, the slight jostle was a welcome remedy to my aching head. Once I patted him to remind of my existence, we located the beaten path and took off for the New Mexico territory.
Now, I was closer than ever to Santa Fe.
I located a travel stop on my route. A trading post on the border. I wasn’t able to leave the place in time to steal the remaining daylight. I was going to have to stay the night. It was just my luck when I noticed they had a mule for sale. That would lessen the load that I had dumped on Socks. Once I resupplied, I had to ask the owners for a spare bedroom. They didn’t have any, but they cleared the back office and charged me for the night.
I was well stocked with food, a new watering canteen, a beast of burden and medicine for any injuries I might sustain on the trip back. I hadn't noticed this earlier in the day, but there wasn't a cloud in sight. The breeze was gradually picking up, sand was kicked into the air just a little, and the distant blue of the mountains grew grayer and grayer over time. I went to sleep without heeding the region's stern warnings.
The calm of the morning betrayed the later hours of the day, the baby blue sky was painted with oranges, pinks, and reds. It looked like heaven's light was being sampled off to the eyes of all who beheld it. I got Socks and the mule fueled up, not wanting to waste daylight, I skipped my breakfast under the false pretense that I'd get a chance to sate my appetite in Santa Fe. We were off with good weather at our side. Oh how foolish I was.
The scorching sun came after us not long after we left the last inkling of civilization. That's when our troubles started. The wind stopped being a gentle breeze and fiercely grew into an onslaught of strong blasts. The grains of sand, formerly too heavy to be kicked into the air, now became sharp pins and needles that pelted me raw. The sky was blotted out by a growing haze of dust in the air. My once clear path became a fog of all the warnings I had been so careless in not heeding. That's when I saw it. A wall of tan clouds, growing ever vast and closing the distance rapidly, headed straight for me. Miles in each direction, the sandstorm enveloped the horizon and threatened my plans, so I acted with a quick reprisal.
I made a detour to hopefully avoid the storm but that did nothing to lighten the impact. I had to venture south as the storm was hot on my tail. It caught me rather quickly and sent us off the route by a considerably large margin. I was senseless, literally, as I tried to navigate the grainy field of view with nothing more than a flat cap and cowl. My eyes were bombarded with all manner of irritants. My lungs filled with sand and plunged me into a coughing fit. My skin burned from the tiny impacts the grains of sand left. I wasn't even afforded the luxury of a beaten path because the torrent of violent wind eroded the established path. For lack of a better term, I was well and truly lost. Thrown off the trail and at the mercy of the desert.
My best bet would have been to retrace my step but the wind made sure to rip that means of navigating this land from my arms. What path I might've taken had been swept away, leaving nothing behind, not even deep imprints. My travels now relied heavily on finding anyone to point me in the right direction. A task easier said than done.
The summer and the desert were designed to kill the ill-suited. The scorching sun, the dry air, and the hot sand reduced our party to a load of heaving and panting. Parched from just the one day, we searched for shade and water. It was just a little over noon when we came across a canyon. This was a welcome sight but the effort to find a safe decline would be tricky. The sandstone was beautiful. Shades of red, orange, black, and purple thrown about the canyon walls like paint. Thankfully, Socks was successful in pointing out a dune that stretched from top to bottom. I'm sure the mule and Socks would complain about burning their legs attempting to descend down the canyon. I know it's unusual to take the opinions of animals into consideration but they had been with me for such a long time that they felt akin to people rather than beasts. With that, it was decided that we'd have to wait for the sun to lower, just a tad, in order to safely travel down.
The blistering heat dissipated enough that it allowed us to travel down the canyon without complaint. The lush green grass, cat tails, cottonwoods and fruit trees seemed out of place in a desolate waste land. I saw that a small stream supplied the encased vivarium in perpetual potation. Salty cedars lined its banks the whole length it traveled.
Taking in the atmosphere, I got to setting up camp and let the pair graze while I checked on my map to see where on it there might be canyons. I could only see that the canyons were north of Santa Fe. I wasn't ready to assume that I was there just yet, so I held out for confirmation with a local. That would be tomorrow's endeavor. For now, I set my cot over top of a soft bed of grass, the first time my shoulders didn't splay out in discomfort. I could finally sleep like I wasn't miles away from home, like I never left behind my comfortable bed.
It might've been a few hours into the night when it started to feel unnatural, downright unsettling. I woke up to a trailing ribbon of smoke burning my lungs. I noticed the pair of hooved critters standing while sleeping. Everything seemed normal, other than my beauty rest being interrupted by white coals and dying smolders. I was ready to fall back to sleep. That's when I heard it. The average person probably couldn't notice the disturbance at a first glance. Sounds so imperceptible that it was safer to assume there was nothing at all. I could hear it. Rocks shifting ever so slightly from across the canyon on yonder cliff. I couldn't see anything in the pitch dark of the night. No help could be offered by the stars nor moon, but it was undeniable that something was just a tad bit off. Whatever was spying on me held its breath and lessened its movements. Attempts to stay hidden in the quiet of the darkness. It almost worked if not for its microscopic error. I could not shake the feeling of eyes focusing in on me. The atmosphere softened when, whatever the thing was, had disappeared behind the cliff's edge. I waited a while longer to make sure the piercing gaze was gone, but make no mistake, I was still paranoid that the thing was trying so hard to stay quiet. I dozed off when the fear died down.
Needless to say, I didn't sleep well that night, for my dream was filled with fear of the night. Rather, what was living inside it. I geared up for the long journey ahead and got to riding for any contact. Stealing every cool moment of the early morning, I made a note to avoid the hellish conditions of the high noon. Our trip led us towards a grand and expansive field of golden straws. We made it this far due to the position of the sun. I assumed we were south of Santa Fe, so I rode northward with the blazing rays pelting my back. I searched for any sign of activity but came up empty. Lonesome mountains were everywhere, separated by infinite oceans of gold. If there was anyone in this region, then I would have to scour every surface for even a hint of someone's presence. I believed I rode for hours until I had to rest, or more appropriately, escape the heat of the sun. My poor companions were panting, stricken with thirst and plagued by hunger. We had to find a source of fresh, running water and a plot to graze at. Purple hills, red mesas, and orange sandstone bulbs turned this otherwise bleak situation into a once of lifetime art exhibit. I took my hat off in awe of this beauty. Scanning the horizon, a plateau caught my attention. It looked like a pillar of smoke was rising from behind the rocky curtain. I was ecstatic to say the least. Our party took off to gamble our chances. Friend or foe, it didn't matter, I just needed to see another face that didn't have big blocky teeth.
The smoke was coming from a hidden spot in the canyon. Cottonwoods obscured my line of sight. Luckily for me, there was a muddy river at the bottom of the climb. Salvation. I couldn't exactly get the source so readily. Canyons have the difficult position of rarely offering up ease of access. Steep walls discouraged most but I was not most. We rode along the edge until it gave way with a gravel slope. The path I took led me further away from the encampment, socializing would have to wait until I rejuvenated. In the meantime, I took off all the weight that inhibited my four legged friends. They took their drink while I scoped out a narrow section of the river. It was a hike-and-a-half. Once I could see a shallow river bed, I made plans to cross. My party was already well into their meal once I returned, I waited until they finished up before making the attempt.
Rivers in the great wide West may seem warm, but don't be misled. They are freezing cold, running from mountain snow melt and cold ground water. It wouldn't take long before you succumbed to the frigid water and went limp. Drowning is a hell of a way to die. All the time in the world to assess your predicament before the air to your lungs was replaced by a freezing shock of liquid. Your brain, suffocating from every attack on its temple. With any luck, a strong current could bash your head against a hard surface and end your suffering quickly. Sorry, I didn't mean to get so macabre there. We didn't have to fight the river to get across, unless you consider weak ripples as adversity. If not, then it was an uneventful crossing. The smoke was within sight. I could practically feel the sensation of anticipation building in me like the flame of a furnace. Excited, I picked up the pace and readied myself to encounter my first person in a long while. My relief turned to horror.
It was a grizzly sight. A struggle had ensued, apparent from the thrashes in the sand and blood caked debris. A whole family was put to slaughter by something. I couldn't bear to see the kids in that state. The man I assumed was their father had his hand firmly fixed around a revolver. Not a single casing on the ground to indicate he put up a fight. God. Their poor mother. She... She didn't deserve that. Her hair had been peeled like it had the ability to slide off. She'd been scalped. The deep lacerations that stripped the other family members were evident of conflict. This whole family had the misfortune of encountering natives. Their arrows plucked from soft flesh. The horses they possessed were most likely taken as spoils along with anything they were carrying. I was worried then. Reptiles, currents, and storms had been my first encounters with danger but this was proof that my good friend was right to warn me. Even though I should have left then and there, I couldn't. This poor family had committed the unforgivable crime of existing in another's air, and they paid the fine with their lives. I wanted to give them a proper burial, right their perceived wrongs. It's a shame that I didn't know the Lord's prayer, but my best would have to do. I hated how easily digging their shallow graves came to me. I had hoped I'd never have to bury another soul ever again. Especially not children. The work was done and I mounted up. These lands were not welcoming of men such as mine. I retraced my path and swept away my tracks with branches. No expense was spared in erasing my presence. The new goal was to get as far as possible from this place.
The ride was buried in a thick blanket of unease, every moment dipped in palpable tension. I couldn't help but think back on the previous night. Were those eyes the same ones that carried out that slaughter? I didn't have time to process that thought before I turned my head to look behind me. A brave spotted me and took off in the opposite direction. Likely to gather more members of the raiding party. I wasted no time in trying to lose the arriving wave of death by cutting through the canyon. It was miles away, but it was my best bet. I drove my heels into Sock's belly and he darted in response. The mule followed suit.
I could hear the labored breaths as they drowned out any other noise. We were practically gliding over the desert. I don't know how it was possible, but I could feel a foreign presence enter my wide radius. I turned to face where the foreign presence entered from. More than a dozen braves tailed us, riding on tough mounts. These few men wore old union cavalry uniforms, customized by pieces of bright cloth, non-army issued boots, and varying hats. Their faces were covered in either colorful paint or shrouded by a bandana. The only way you could tell they were natives was by their decorated spears, bows, and firearms. At their head was an intimidating figure. Tall, even as he was seated, and full of quiet focus. Their leader. Even from where I rode, the eyes pierced through me.
"Kyah! Kyah! Come on Socks, don't fail me now," I yelled out as we made a desperate dash for the canyon. I had to slow them down somehow and there was no other way I saw fit than the one I enacted. Hoisting the Winchester over my shoulder, I steadied my foot with the saddle's holster until I gained purchase. I hung off Sock's side and aimed the rifle back at the pursuers. I fired a few rounds before the party stopped dead in their tracks. I had thought they'd been persuaded to discontinue the chase. Once I furthered the distance, they continued their pursuit. Damnit. He wanted to stay out of range but not out of sight. They weren't giving up that easily. I kept firing and they kept pausing, the dance continued until I was within sight of the canyon. I knew they'd just keep following until they closed the gap and gutted me for all my worth.
I couldn't just hide in the canyon, so once I made my way deep within the confines I made my last stand on a pedestal provided by the earth. The mounts were hidden behind the salty cedars as I aimed my rifle for the uninvited host. I laid there on the hot sand, lost in tunnel vision, waiting for the first brave to rear his head around the canyon wall. That never happened. Instead, I heard shifting rocks overhead and, before I knew it, the party caught me by surprise.
Their leader descended upon me with a gleaming hatchet in hand and attempted to cleave his way through my torso. I slammed the butt of my rifle into the side of his head. He lost his balance and went tumbling. Unfortunately for me, he took me down with him. The fight took us both towards the muddy water. The panic I felt in that moment was unreal. This kind of struggle was not new to me, but it wasn't to him either. I tried to separate him from his hatchet but found no success. Shiny metal caught my attention.
On his waist was a saber. I knew that I needed to get that off his person to make the battle a fair one. I pivoted and used his own weight against him. Losing his balance, he fell into the mud and I was quick to part him from his sword. What he could not afford me was an easy victory. He bent my knee in on itself and got back on his feet. I was staggered but the pain didn't register in that life or death situation. We circled one another, neither one wanting to open themselves to attack. I made the mistake that my dance partner didn't know the next steps to our choreography.
He caught me in my failings and tackled me into the dry clay. The saber out of reach, the brave drove his heel into my wrist and pinned me down. I wasn't ready for death. No one is. Not unless you have the privilege to age out of a profession where men often die young. Standing over me was death. The decision to option out of it wasn't in my control. It was his.
As he readied himself to drive that hatchet into my face, we all heard the blood curdling screeches. A mix of sheared metal and injured animal calls. It was then that my assailant got himself running. I laid in the clay until the resounding scream gave me the necessary drive to get out of dodge. Thankfully, the party failed to locate Socks and the mule. I struggled to get on my saddle, pain infested my right leg and left arm. After a little encouragement from the monster's cry, I jumped on and directed Socks to make off. He shook the entire time.
We summited the canyon's lip and took off for the East. Liquid courage soaking every muscle of my being. My nerves chilled at the theater play of events. I charged well into the East, ignoring my companions' complaints, until I was certain we were out of range. When I looked back towards the retreat, evidence of our departure was lost in the ocean of golden straws. I wasn't relaxed. There was no unwinding. The same question that bounced off the walls of mind came darting out my mouth like a shallow, breathless rasp, "What the hell was that?"
I have had my fair share of encounters with all manner of beasts. Bears, snakes, cougars, and wolves, they all had a distinct dialect. This banshee held no discernable elements. The noises that made up his harrowing call were ones that shouldn't have been married together. Metal scraping, spit webs peeling, glistening gums, and high pitched shrieks created a cacophony of unholy union. Socks and our accompanying stubbornness would not be sleeping standing up. I motioned them to crouch and I got to work building a sandy nest. The mound had to be erected as it was the only way we could afford coverage in an otherwise flat environment. My Winchester had never seen so much action, the barrel didn't even so much as cake in soot from our battle earlier. I took post as the light casted by the setting sun disappeared under the western horizon. It's no easy task to aim blindly into the dark in preparation for an unknown host.
I waited for hours as cold sweat burned my eyes, not wanting to look away for even a second in my futile attempt. I couldn't see anything, yet I remained vigilant for whatever came leaping out with claws, fang, or horn. Something did come for me. A band of things. I heard them compressing straw underfoot as they stalked our motionless party. Dried foliage snapped off and clung to mangy fur. I suppose their youngest and most inexperienced were not privy to the stealthy approach, made apparent when they began to howl and cry.
Jackals. Why would it not be jackals? The hunting party splintered into two. The horns of the Bison flanking my undefended sides. I made the difficult choice to reach in my satchel for lamp oil. I tore off loose cloth and dipped into the flask. The glow of flames betrayed their nightly camouflage. Four mutts became four carcasses. The other side of the assault didn't bother to avenge their fallen comrades.
It wasn't safe to rest there. I geared up and got the party's hooves to running. The petals of a bright Dahlia stretched across the eastern horizon. I wasn't in a fit state to keep going but I wanted to get far from the dangers at any cost, even at my own health’s detriment.
I'm sure Socks could sense something was wrong with me, he quickened his pace but took careful consideration in not agitating my wounds by softening his stride. I could smell myself all too well. Iron, powder, sweat, and dried up earth. It clung to me like a persistent gnat or like the pincers of a ravenous tick. I had hoped we would not face any more hurdles. My battered body could not face another obstacle. We rode for such a long time that my eyelids became heavy, my grip weakened, and my breath slowed. My clear sight of red sand became a vignette, and then I was out.
I was back in the war, this time with a commanding officer barking orders in my ear; at least, I thought I was. I'm sure I was not proud of my actions. I bashed my rifle butt into skulls, lit fires to smoke out homesteaders, and left fields bare in my insatiable hunger. Silver, gold, porcelain, and gems were sacked from massive plantations, and I was a part of those raids. It is vague, but I think there was something stirring that day. The line of men were ready to run these civilians into the dirt for all their worth. I saw families huddled together and friends carrying each other along the way. Small young'ns that did not deserve the slaughter that awaited them. I think I could no longer stomach the horror, so I yelled.
"RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY! Get out of here! Hurry," the shouts left my lungs. Next thing I knew, I was knocked off my horse. I don’t remember how I got the revolver in my hands. In the next moment, bugles sounded a charging command. Their officer led them, emboldened with northern fervor. My party obliged the invitation and took to battle. Smoke choked the air and blinded visibility. Madness unfurled its awful gnashing maw that day. It was deep into this miasma that I saw a monster of a man hold his bayonet over the eye of a downed officer. I think it was me that had killed him. When he fell to the ground, a lone union officer stood a few feet behind with his gun drawn. I was on my back and salty mud worked its way under my eyelids. However, it was then that the Yankee ran over to me. I half expected him to grant me a quick death, instead he poured water over my eyes using his canteen. Standing over me was my dear friend, the man that saved me and helped me all my life.
Waking up from my exhaustion, I noticed that Socks had kept me from falling off my saddle by breaking into a brisk stroll. We had been wondering for so long that the landscape shifted from blistering deserts to canopied forests overhead. Tall cedars and pines created a network of shady coverage. I looked around us trying to gauge where we ended up heading. Socks, proven time and time again to be a loyal beast, stuck to the path I last left him with. We were hiking up a mountain I had seen in the East, it had seemed that we were in the right direction. I was operating off an empty tank, made worse by my ever growing dehydration. I took Socks off the path and headed across the mountain in search of water. A fresh water spring burst out from behind walls of red sandstone higher up on the mountain.
I set up two pans for Socks and his buddy. I drank like it would be my last taste of water in forever. I washed my neck free from the clumps of dried mud, the blood that stained my wounds, and the trails of sweat that left behind salt. I was lost in maintenance, oblivious to my surroundings, when the sensation of something being a little too close for comfort came over me. I threw everything back onto my hooved companions and quickly descended the mountain.
Ducking under a frenzy of branches, zigzagging around trees, and leaping over jagged rocks, I could not risk any chances. We reached the edge of the tree line and I strained to get a glimpse at whatever kept setting off my alarm bells. Scanning for any movement. Holding my breath to hear even the slightest shift in the pine needles. I steadied myself to avoid the errors owed to even the smallest twitches. Nothing. Not a damn thing. Was I mistaken? I wanted to confirm my suspicions, so I waited for a while longer. Until, I saw something emerge from the forest. A stallion, black as night, just standing a few hundred feet away from me. It couldn't be. The sense of the invasive eyes found their origin, but I had a hard time believing they were one in the same. I wasn't able to think about it longer before the shadow left us. I slept that night far from the mountain. Rest didn’t come easily but my battered body forced me to take any opportunity to recover. The starry night was the escape my mind desperately needed after the events I had experienced.
The next day was one that truly put into scope the severity of my situation. We were traveling along a garnet ridge when the mule began to panic at what I thought was nothing. Then the rattling disrupted what sense of lingering calm there was in the early morning. The mule had received the venomous kiss, leaving me to clumsily retrieve the Winchester. Needless to say, that rattler's head went missing in a puff of smoke. The mule, in a great deal of pain, fell down the ridge and slammed onto the rough bottom. A sickening snap found my ears. I wanted to help the beast of burden, I really did, but there is little that can be done when the leg is snapped in two. Heaving in anguish, I held my friend's head in my lap trying to calm him down. I didn't want to do it, but I also didn't want to leave him to suffer either. With one discharge, I granted him mercy. Despite the arid climate, rain fell on my face.
Our time at the garnet ridge was an extended one, yet I carried myself over the lip and back onto Socks. I gave the mule one last glance. I couldn't carry the luggage that he endured for hundreds of miles. I rode off to the East, it was the only thing I could do. Every time we kept to the path for a few hours, we'd encounter a new landscape. From the mountain we hit red sand. From there, the red desert transitioned into a vast and fairly shallow valley. It was a region packed with vibrance but its viewer was one whose curious nature had already been exhausted by many tragedies. I felt the sickness squeeze every bit of life out from beneath my veins.
I was weak. Weaker than when I had arrived. The world, often a still and anchored painting, began to spin so fast I could barely hang onto Socks. There was only red in the calm of the valley, but all at once the rays danced and filled the emptiness. Spiraling, twisting and concentric bands muddled up the beautiful canvas. I couldn't stand to bear this illusion any longer. I removed the cap from my canteen and washed away the insanity. In my mind's chaos, we had crossed the valley and stood on another mountain's doorstep.
It was there that I felt a foreign plague enter my radius. The same eyes were summiting the other side of the valley. The stillness, the quiet, the unchanging focus of eyes so honed in they physically hurt. It was beautiful nonetheless. A black figure superimposed against the setting sun. The contrast was captivating as much as it was unsettling. Always out of reach, but never out of mind. My persistent pursuer didn't have to overexert itself. I swear that the horse's muzzle had an oil dripping tar onto the dry earth, coiling like the body of a serpent.
As black as pitch, the liquid fell in droplets. We left for the protection of the trees. The image burned itself into my mind. I couldn't shake the feeling that it drank from anything but water.
I didn't drop to the ground. At this point, I was certain that I would never be able to climb back onto Socks. I slept on my saddle that night. The last of this infernal trip. Throughout all of the events, Socks stayed true and at my side. He had earned his release.
The morning of the last day, I took Socks to the open grasslands below the mountain. I searched for any signs of wild herds. When we found a stream, instead of taking a drink from it, we followed it to where the horses gathered. Many herds drank from the mountains's waters. It didn't matter to me which one was best, only that Socks could be let in. I dismounted. Cutting the straps that locked the saddle to Sock's ribs, I had made my decision long ago. I removed the bit from his teeth and unlatched his reins. I couldn't protect him, not in this state, so I entrusted his health to strangers. It was the best I could offer after all the grief I caused him. He lingered, but I chased him away every time. I went where he couldn't follow.
It's funny really. I remember having a different friend from a long time ago. He hated how the south betrayed him. For all his tireless work tilling land and harvesting cash crops, the Confederacy repaid him by cramming traumatic war deep into his psyche. When his life as a soldier proved to not be enough, the government confiscated his land. Every time, his sacrifice was never sufficient, so they took and took until they picked him to the bone. The war spat him out and left him spent. Life in Canada treated him better than everything he had experienced as the Confederacy's lackey. He boasted plenty. Bragged long into the night. Made sure to let us know how happy he had been. Until one day, he sat me down after talking everyone else's ears off. He spoke to me in a serious tone, "You know I never regretted my decision. I don't miss the history. Especially the snakes, mosquitoes, and malaria. But I miss my friends."
I comforted him as best as I could before giving my response, "You got out. That's more than can be said for most of us." He affirmed, "I know but it doesn't feel that way. Sometimes, I wake up back in the field. Shaken with fear and alone."
I interjected, "The war is over. Put the past behind you."
For a moment, he contemplated disclosing a thought that crossed his mind, "The past few years were pretty calm. Not much can rile me these days. Fishing, skiing, and camping mostly eat up my time. I thought nothing could bring me back to those choked skies."
I leaned in, and that was his cue to continue, "I was camping deep into the tundra. I thought nothing could happen since there were people far out amongst the frozen lakes. My carelessness nearly cost me my life. I didn't respect the land, so it tossed a beast my way. A calm, collected monster. I couldn't escape it, and it knew that. A bear, tall and mighty, stalked me for miles. I swear it felt like the days of long marches. The anxiety that built up in anticipation of ambush. This bear reminded me of everything I tried to leave behind. I didn't survive because I was skillful, but because I was lucky enough to find others. It never made so much as a low rumbling. If it hadn't left its tracks in the snow, there would be no evidence that it ever existed."
He passed away the following winter. The disturbing moment embedded his words into me ever since. I'd get the opportunity to experience everything he did for myself. My stalker still pursued me. It never stopped. Always giving me enough room to falsely assume safety, and without fail, it reminded me of its presence. Wearing me down until I dropped dead. It never ceased. I doubt it ever slept. Looming over me like buzzards scouting out a fresh carcass. I ran to hide in the sandstone chambers. I don't know why I did it, for that action alone merely served to delay the inevitable.
I wedged myself deep within the labyrinth and I aimed my rifle to face anything that might wander too close. My nerves turned to cold steel at the idea of slow but assured death. I didn't want to believe the sound of clacking was real as it neared. The dark horse reared its head as it impossibly wormed its way to find me. I deliberately took the narrow path to inconvenience it. It neared until the exit was completely hidden behind its figure. Its form molded like clay as its ribs scraped against the walls. At the other end of this narrow passage stood the stalking beast. I expected it to charge me down, pin me down to the cold hard floor, and tear me apart. Instead, it just stood at the other end. A silent, deafening presence. Eyes silvered by cataracts. I assume it was considering every possible escape route that I could take. After a long moment of scanning, it did something bizarre. Freezing in place, the horse unfolded its head like a blossoming flower. A sickening cacophony of popping joints and shifting bones broke the delicate silence. The newly formed maw was lined with barbs, its gums receded to reveal gleaming teeth. Where the skull should have been was only a pale, slender tongue that glowed bright; a mesmerizing pulse of flashing blue and violet lights. Eye stalks emerged from the dark of its throat, completing this amalgamation of flesh and bone. There. Right there. I saw the flower bloom, and I was lost in awe.
Before I could fully appreciate this display, the flesh flower clamped down on my arm and tore it clean off. Disappearing into the abyss of its mouth, I was broken from my trance and pain filled every fiber of my being. I kicked and screamed, scratched at its gums, and beat it over the head with the butt of my rifle. Nothing seemed to phase it until it opened up its mouth once again. I took my rifle and fired into its mouth. It didn't whine nor scream, but as it staggered I took the chance to slide past it. My body sank into its flesh as I squeezed past. I navigated the maze to find a scalable surface in the smooth sandstone. I heard the monster trailing close behind.
A newfound strength restored me, just long enough to climb. Thank goodness that it held out because as I rolled onto the top, I heard a single snap. The many jaws of the flesh blossom slammed shut trying to take me down with it. I am stranded here. Currently awaiting the blood loss to claim me. That thing is still pacing down there, waiting for me to show a little weakness. I'm never going to deliver this letter, that much is clear. I hate that I can never fulfill any requests my friends hand me. Since the end is near, I might as well find out what all the fuss is about regarding this letter.
"My Dearest Maria,
I am ashamed to admit it has taken me this long to reach out to you. So much has happened in the time that we last met. In those years, I have never forgotten about our moment. I no longer want to deny the spark that happened between us. I want to acknowledge you for all of your worth. I never meant to hurt you so. I want to reunite with you and offer you the life I should've years ago. I have gotten your letters over the years. I want to give Emilio the life I couldn't afford myself. Please, make your way East. My dearest friend has hopefully delivered you money to make the trip. Sort your obligations, please. Let us be a proper family.
Sincerely,
Robert Merrier"
Robert. What did you get yourself into? I guess you can't be trusted, should have warned ole' Ulysses about you when you were off to Vicksburg. If anyone finds this journal, please finish where I could not. I'm not going to make it to Santa Fe, of that I am certain. I am so sorry, Brighton. Maybe someone else, someone better, will publish your book. I'm going to watch the stars cross the night sky one last time. Goodbye.
[Hope you all enjoy this two part story. I could not fit it within 40,000 characters.]
I still have nightmares; terrors that plague me even now as I live a simple life. Last night was different. It wasn’t the fields of battle I had known. It was plain. A bright blue sky and a flat white desert. Even in my sleep, my eyes strained to make sense of the scenery. Dancing heatwaves blurred where the two colors met. The simplicity of this nightmare was interrupted by the arrival of a distant figure. The warping shape solidified and gained form. A horse’s silhouette against the blue background. In its mouth, a rattlesnake dangled lifelessly. I woke up back in my own bed; my hands and face covered in sweat.
My morning now over, I got dressed and made my way to the bank. I wouldn’t allow myself to lose my job over a vivid dream I had about animals. I began work by filling out ledgers. It hadn’t even been minutes into my shift when I was summoned by some well-dressed gentlemen. A dear friend had sent them to collect me. This struck me as odd, but the reason behind this informal invitation became clear when we arrived at his estate.
Sadly, he had become bedridden from the gangrene that built in his legs. A sickly puss blanketing where his joints should have been.
Before the affliction took hold of his mobility, my good friend was making plans to travel out west and meet with an acquaintance.
It's difficult to recount our first meeting since he had come down with a leg rot. He was a very haunting figure just laying in his bed, all while being tended to by the best physicians money could buy.
Our conversation was eerily brief. I felt that he wanted to disregard his condition and only focus on the updating of our current lives.
"My friend, you needn't worry. I am pampered enough by kith and kin alike. I do not need my good friend of ten years to slow down for me." Barely shifting his weight to stare me in the eyes.
I took my seat beside him, taking care to not steal his sunlight as I spoke, "This is in no way a proper form of making a reunion. I had hoped you were just taking a holiday. The good lord knows you needed one after our abysmal last quarter."
"Nonsense, for I like where the work is. Keeps me busy, as one should be. I must admit though, you are the hardest working person I know. Farmhand, courier, and now the most diligent banker this side of the Mississippi." His vitality had put on a facade as his eyes gleamed with reminiscence.
I nodded my head in agreement. It had been too long. I didn't like to see my friend suffer as he did. An aristocrat by chance, he was a kind soul at heart. Always taking pay cuts to ensure the bank thrived. His accumulated wealth was one earned by continuous strategic investments such as bonds, shares, and trusts. He was also bold in cashing in on old favors. A soldier that saved many-a-wealthy.
I adjusted my seat to look at him straight on, "So much for catching up on lost time. I do wonder why you fetched me. It's not something small assuming the place of the meeting."
"The rot's devouring me. I can't make the travel out west. I had an obligation to make amends with an old acquaintance, but as you can see, I'd sooner expire than meet them face-to-face." Whatever sprite he had scraped together died when I brought up the subject.
I was caught off guard. It was unusual that he had friends in such rural places. I asked him as much pertaining to the request, "A brother in arms?"
"Something more important than that. Besides, all my wartime friends are dead. No. I need you to deliver this letter to Santa Fe. All that I need to say is written. I don't believe I'll get another chance to." His hand went limp as he passed over his possession.
I was surprised at the request. It's a daunting task to ask someone to make the pilgrimage west. Danger lurked in every pocket of the last untamed frontier.
Before I could poke further, he made a last minute request.
"Make the trip a quick one. Ride with haste. I would hate for you to succumb to the blistering heat from our idle chitchat." Even if I didn't want to know the truth, my belief was that he’d recover.
I chuffed. It was the last time I'd ever see him laugh.
He offered me a vast per diem to account for the logistics and issues I might face along the way. I scoffed at the sum, making sure he knew about my thoughts, "This more than you pay me in a year."
"Heh. It won't be the last I promise you. There will be more after you return. Compensation for the lengthy trip." His lungs weakly exclaimed as he settled back into his imprint.
I hugged my friend goodbye. The weakness in his arms made evident as he struggled to lift one arm in acknowledgement. As I write this section, I still remember him staring at me as I departed. Perhaps this is sentiment speaking but it felt as though he was gifting me the last shreds of his will. Sending me off with his strength and determination. He may have been a hard working man, but there's no mistake that he was an outstanding person.
When I entered the manor, I was eager to meet a familiar face. However, my departure was melancholic to say the least. I was taken home and told to catch as much rest as I could, for there were very few places of comfort along the trail. I couldn't say no to him. He afforded me a well paying position in his bank, as well as aiding me with my housing expenses.
In the morning, men from the manor delivered some essentials, all packed away in satchels, and handed me the reins to a staunch, hardy beast. Gray fur with lighter spots and all of his legs, below the first knuckle, were white. It is bad luck to name your animals, as they can succumb to terrible ailments and die on a whim. I disregarded this mental notion and named the gray horse “Socks.” I grabbed my Winchester and left my humble abode. Making my way for the west, all of southern Missouri bidding me farewell with waving branches. The wafting scent of cornflowers trailing close behind.
A sense of despair set in as I asked myself a question aloud, "If he's dead, then would I be expected to break the news to this stranger?" I didn't want to believe it but there was a high chance that my friend I had known for over a decade would not be home when I returned. I calmed my nerves and headed out on the road with many inns.
The trip took nearly ten days of slow paced trotting before we saw the borders to Indian Territory. It was quite a ways further but I was determined to escape the wooded forest land. I persuaded Socks to make haste with a slight kick of the heel. The transition from mountains, forests, plains, and marshes was so gradual that you could light a candle and watch it evaporate before you left the first terrain. This night in particular had seemed to approach fast. The setting sun cast a myriad of figures against the path. Their shadows playing tricks on my mind and building up anticipation that something was going to jump out at me.
A coarse hiss broke the tension so fierce that Socks knocked me to the ground. I cursed, "Damn Copperhead!" The slithering critter warned as it curled into the shape of a cow pie. I took out my knife and the snake struck at me. The sudden movement gave me the perfect opportunity to chop its head off. The mouth was now struck open with a surprised expression. I would need to avoid any occurrences like that if I wanted to make the trip all in one piece.
That night, I had some choice words with Socks about proceeding behavior. I went to sleep late after we checked in.
My morning had gotten off to a rough start because I slept in. I struggled to wake myself up and get dressed in anticipation for the long journey ahead. I saddled up Socks, drank murky water, and gnawed on hardened bread. I was in an absent state of mind. Riding but not taking notice of my surroundings. It was like a daze that one has during sickness. Gliding through time like a river washing over a wedged stone.
I have a difficult time when out on long trips. My mind wanders and I end up deep in thought. It affects me greatly. I hate the quiet. It invites all the bad memories. This was only exaggerated when crossing through Cherokee land.
I don't know if it was guilt, pity, or empathy but passing by the pitched tents and rows of fires filled me with a great deal of sadness. Thousands of far removed despots squatted near open flame to protect against cold wind. In prior years, a younger me would have hooped and hollered at their despair. A kid only knows the truth their parents tell them. Mine were no different. However, it was my time with the greys that opened my eyes to the bigger picture. We won many wars, and these poor few were only defending themselves the best way they could. My first real conversation with an Indian was at the Siege of Petersburg.
My eighteen year old self had just joined the greys, invigorated by my sense of duty. William Sherman had just carved through the south something bloody. I was very intolerant then, as shown by my blatant disregard for my fellow countryman. Irish volunteers, Free black men, and the tribes of savages stood shoulder-to-shoulder in those filthy trenches. It's strange how much a siege can wear one down, so much so that I would end up being shifted around the defense perimeter with bands of Indians. That's when I met my friend of the Cherokee. It's funny, I can't exactly recall his name, only his last name. Surprisingly, it was Brighton. As you can imagine, his maiden name was one of indigenous fanfare, flowery even for his lot.
We started out butting heads and shoving each other into the cold mud, but we both found ourselves sharing a flask. Bottles full of life found themselves thoroughly emptied as we passed our turns around. The flask is where we really connected. Where Brighton and I really became friends.
"You're not like the other strictens are you?"
I wiped away runoff, "I was like them up until I was thrown in with the eastern division. You're not so bad yourself, Bright."
"I know. Still got the bruises to show."
I laughed, choking on burning spit, I gave out a light-hearted cuss, "Damnit. Choked on my laugh. Wasn't even that funny."
We both laughed for an hour. Letting the potation work it's magic. Taking off the sleeve of worry, woe, and worse. It was then Brighton turned to me and asked, "Where will you go after this war has fought its length?"
I struggled to string together a sincere and serious response, "What do you mean?"
"I've been informed about my family's land being seized by both the Union and Confederacy government. I'm expecting to meet them on a new reservation. I don't think I'll get the chance at life I was hoping for. So let me ask you again. Where will you go after the war has been fought?"
I had only seen two emotions from this clay statue up until this point, boiling rage and piss drunk happiness. This was different. He had completely switched complexion and stared at me with sad eyes. I conceded, "I will probably go to where the industry is. Cotton is for the rich, tobacco for the privy, and indigo for the experts. I can't hardly get one to harvest let alone to budding. I'm more equipped to work with machinery."
"Where you're going, I can't hope to follow. I wish things would change for the better. I am more than the sum of my parts. I wanted to present that to the world with my writing."
The tone shifted for the somber. I wasn't sitting with some hollowed out caricature. Whooping, bow slinging, scalping and smoking were absent from the figure I was made to hate with the burning passion of a thousand furnaces. Sitting beside me was someone just like me. Brighton had ambition, passion, and ideas. He wanted to pursue what made him happy, what brought him absolute genuine joy. I'm no bookworm, but his work was plenty enthralling. I turned to him, placing my hand on his shoulder, and said, "You're going to be just fine. Whoever wins this brawl will listen to you. This war is fought by many braves. You are headed for good fortune."
I gave my friend a comforting lie. He was smart enough to probably see through it at that moment. Brighton didn't protest, smiling in acknowledgement, he asked me a grim question, "Will you take my book and publish it, just in case I don't make it through the smoke?"
I think he knew that he wasn't long for this world, but the notion still pierced deep and embedded a powerful sense of melancholic sentiment. I obliged his request and he was off for bed. I wish morning never came because of the Crater. Brighton was sent to where the action was. I don't think he had enough time to register the powder keg going off. Hell, I sure didn't. I have to keep convincing myself that his death was quick, but there were still greys alive after the explosion. Torn and mangled, but alive. I was busy holding down my section of the siege to fully process Brighton's departure. It's strange, I don't remember it raining that day, and yet there was a pool of liquid at the bottom of the crater. It wasn't until after the battle that I was informed on its true origin, it was neither water nor grease. I'll let you decide what it was for yourself.
I am ashamed. Ashamed that I couldn't fulfill his final wishes. That book still lies beneath the drawer of my desk. Collecting dust long after its author had died, a reminder of my failure.
When I broke from my trance, Socks was taking a brisk walk through the grass under a thick canopy. I was slow in correcting his direction, the slight jostle was a welcome remedy to my aching head. Once I patted him to remind of my existence, we located the beaten path and took off for the New Mexico territory.
Now, I was closer than ever to Santa Fe.
I located a travel stop on my route. A trading post on the border. I wasn’t able to leave the place in time to steal the remaining daylight. I was going to have to stay the night. It was just my luck when I noticed they had a mule for sale. That would lessen the load that I had dumped on Socks. Once I resupplied, I had to ask the owners for a spare bedroom. They didn’t have any, but they cleared the back office and charged me for the night.
I was well stocked with food, a new watering canteen, a beast of burden and medicine for any injuries I might sustain on the trip back. I hadn't noticed this earlier in the day, but there wasn't a cloud in sight. The breeze was gradually picking up, sand was kicked into the air just a little, and the distant blue of the mountains grew grayer and grayer over time. I went to sleep without heeding the region's stern warnings.
The calm of the morning betrayed the later hours of the day, the baby blue sky was painted with oranges, pinks, and reds. It looked like heaven's light was being sampled off to the eyes of all who beheld it. I got Socks and the mule fueled up, not wanting to waste daylight, I skipped my breakfast under the false pretense that I'd get a chance to sate my appetite in Santa Fe. We were off with good weather at our side. Oh how foolish I was.
The scorching sun came after us not long after we left the last inkling of civilization. That's when our troubles started. The wind stopped being a gentle breeze and fiercely grew into an onslaught of strong blasts. The grains of sand, formerly too heavy to be kicked into the air, now became sharp pins and needles that pelted me raw. The sky was blotted out by a growing haze of dust in the air. My once clear path became a fog of all the warnings I had been so careless in not heeding. That's when I saw it. A wall of tan clouds, growing ever vast and closing the distance rapidly, headed straight for me. Miles in each direction, the sandstorm enveloped the horizon and threatened my plans, so I acted with a quick reprisal.
I made a detour to hopefully avoid the storm but that did nothing to lighten the impact. I had to venture south as the storm was hot on my tail. It caught me rather quickly and sent us off the route by a considerably large margin. I was senseless, literally, as I tried to navigate the grainy field of view with nothing more than a flat cap and cowl. My eyes were bombarded with all manner of irritants. My lungs filled with sand and plunged me into a coughing fit. My skin burned from the tiny impacts the grains of sand left. I wasn't even afforded the luxury of a beaten path because the torrent of violent wind eroded the established path. For lack of a better term, I was well and truly lost. Thrown off the trail and at the mercy of the desert.
My best bet would have been to retrace my step but the wind made sure to rip that means of navigating this land from my arms. What path I might've taken had been swept away, leaving nothing behind, not even deep imprints. My travels now relied heavily on finding anyone to point me in the right direction. A task easier said than done.
The summer and the desert were designed to kill the ill-suited. The scorching sun, the dry air, and the hot sand reduced our party to a load of heaving and panting. Parched from just the one day, we searched for shade and water. It was just a little over noon when we came across a canyon. This was a welcome sight but the effort to find a safe decline would be tricky. The sandstone was beautiful. Shades of red, orange, black, and purple thrown about the canyon walls like paint. Thankfully, Socks was successful in pointing out a dune that stretched from top to bottom. I'm sure the mule and Socks would complain about burning their legs attempting to descend down the canyon. I know it's unusual to take the opinions of animals into consideration but they had been with me for such a long time that they felt akin to people rather than beasts. With that, it was decided that we'd have to wait for the sun to lower, just a tad, in order to safely travel down.
The blistering heat dissipated enough that it allowed us to travel down the canyon without complaint. The lush green grass, cat tails, cottonwoods and fruit trees seemed out of place in a desolate waste land. I saw that a small stream supplied the encased vivarium in perpetual potation. Salty cedars lined its banks the whole length it traveled.
Taking in the atmosphere, I got to setting up camp and let the pair graze while I checked on my map to see where on it there might be canyons. I could only see that the canyons were north of Santa Fe. I wasn't ready to assume that I was there just yet, so I held out for confirmation with a local. That would be tomorrow's endeavor. For now, I set my cot over top of a soft bed of grass, the first time my shoulders didn't splay out in discomfort. I could finally sleep like I wasn't miles away from home, like I never left behind my comfortable bed.
It might've been a few hours into the night when it started to feel unnatural, downright unsettling. I woke up to a trailing ribbon of smoke burning my lungs. I noticed the pair of hooved critters standing while sleeping. Everything seemed normal, other than my beauty rest being interrupted by white coals and dying smolders. I was ready to fall back to sleep. That's when I heard it. The average person probably couldn't notice the disturbance at a first glance. Sounds so imperceptible that it was safer to assume there was nothing at all. I could hear it. Rocks shifting ever so slightly from across the canyon on yonder cliff. I couldn't see anything in the pitch dark of the night. No help could be offered by the stars nor moon, but it was undeniable that something was just a tad bit off. Whatever was spying on me held its breath and lessened its movements. Attempts to stay hidden in the quiet of the darkness. It almost worked if not for its microscopic error. I could not shake the feeling of eyes focusing in on me. The atmosphere softened when, whatever the thing was, had disappeared behind the cliff's edge. I waited a while longer to make sure the piercing gaze was gone, but make no mistake, I was still paranoid that the thing was trying so hard to stay quiet. I dozed off when the fear died down.
Needless to say, I didn't sleep well that night, for my dream was filled with fear of the night. Rather, what was living inside it. I geared up for the long journey ahead and got to riding for any contact. Stealing every cool moment of the early morning, I made a note to avoid the hellish conditions of the high noon. Our trip led us towards a grand and expansive field of golden straws. We made it this far due to the position of the sun. I assumed we were south of Santa Fe, so I rode northward with the blazing rays pelting my back. I searched for any sign of activity but came up empty. Lonesome mountains were everywhere, separated by infinite oceans of gold. If there was anyone in this region, then I would have to scour every surface for even a hint of someone's presence. I believed I rode for hours until I had to rest, or more appropriately, escape the heat of the sun. My poor companions were panting, stricken with thirst and plagued by hunger. We had to find a source of fresh, running water and a plot to graze at. Purple hills, red mesas, and orange sandstone bulbs turned this otherwise bleak situation into a once of lifetime art exhibit. I took my hat off in awe of this beauty. Scanning the horizon, a plateau caught my attention. It looked like a pillar of smoke was rising from behind the rocky curtain. I was ecstatic to say the least. Our party took off to gamble our chances. Friend or foe, it didn't matter, I just needed to see another face that didn't have big blocky teeth.
The smoke was coming from a hidden spot in the canyon. Cottonwoods obscured my line of sight. Luckily for me, there was a muddy river at the bottom of the climb. Salvation. I couldn't exactly get the source so readily. Canyons have the difficult position of rarely offering up ease of access. Steep walls discouraged most but I was not most. We rode along the edge until it gave way with a gravel slope. The path I took led me further away from the encampment, socializing would have to wait until I rejuvenated. In the meantime, I took off all the weight that inhibited my four legged friends. They took their drink while I scoped out a narrow section of the river. It was a hike-and-a-half. Once I could see a shallow river bed, I made plans to cross. My party was already well into their meal once I returned, I waited until they finished up before making the attempt.
Rivers in the great wide West may seem warm, but don't be misled. They are freezing cold, running from mountain snow melt and cold ground water. It wouldn't take long before you succumbed to the frigid water and went limp. Drowning is a hell of a way to die. All the time in the world to assess your predicament before the air to your lungs was replaced by a freezing shock of liquid. Your brain, suffocating from every attack on its temple. With any luck, a strong current could bash your head against a hard surface and end your suffering quickly. Sorry, I didn't mean to get so macabre there. We didn't have to fight the river to get across, unless you consider weak ripples as adversity. If not, then it was an uneventful crossing. The smoke was within sight. I could practically feel the sensation of anticipation building in me like the flame of a furnace. Excited, I picked up the pace and readied myself to encounter my first person in a long while. My relief turned to horror.
It was a grizzly sight. A struggle had ensued, apparent from the thrashes in the sand and blood caked debris. A whole family was put to slaughter by something. I couldn't bear to see the kids in that state. The man I assumed was their father had his hand firmly fixed around a revolver. Not a single casing on the ground to indicate he put up a fight. God. Their poor mother. She... She didn't deserve that. Her hair had been peeled like it had the ability to slide off. She'd been scalped. The deep lacerations that stripped the other family members were evident of conflict. This whole family had the misfortune of encountering natives. Their arrows plucked from soft flesh. The horses they possessed were most likely taken as spoils along with anything they were carrying. I was worried then. Reptiles, currents, and storms had been my first encounters with danger but this was proof that my good friend was right to warn me. Even though I should have left then and there, I couldn't. This poor family had committed the unforgivable crime of existing in another's air, and they paid the fine with their lives. I wanted to give them a proper burial, right their perceived wrongs. It's a shame that I didn't know the Lord's prayer, but my best would have to do. I hated how easily digging their shallow graves came to me. I had hoped I'd never have to bury another soul ever again. Especially not children. The work was done and I mounted up. These lands were not welcoming of men such as mine. I retraced my path and swept away my tracks with branches. No expense was spared in erasing my presence. The new goal was to get as far as possible from this place.
The ride was buried in a thick blanket of unease, every moment dipped in palpable tension. I couldn't help but think back on the previous night. Were those eyes the same ones that carried out that slaughter? I didn't have time to process that thought before I turned my head to look behind me. A brave spotted me and took off in the opposite direction. Likely to gather more members of the raiding party. I wasted no time in trying to lose the arriving wave of death by cutting through the canyon. It was miles away, but it was my best bet. I drove my heels into Sock's belly and he darted in response. The mule followed suit.
I could hear the labored breaths as they drowned out any other noise. We were practically gliding over the desert. I don't know how it was possible, but I could feel a foreign presence enter my wide radius. I turned to face where the foreign presence entered from. More than a dozen braves tailed us, riding on tough mounts. These few men wore old union cavalry uniforms, customized by pieces of bright cloth, non-army issued boots, and varying hats. Their faces were covered in either colorful paint or shrouded by a bandana. The only way you could tell they were natives was by their decorated spears, bows, and firearms. At their head was an intimidating figure. Tall, even as he was seated, and full of quiet focus. Their leader. Even from where I rode, the eyes pierced through me.
"Kyah! Kyah! Come on Socks, don't fail me now," I yelled out as we made a desperate dash for the canyon. I had to slow them down somehow and there was no other way I saw fit than the one I enacted. Hoisting the Winchester over my shoulder, I steadied my foot with the saddle's holster until I gained purchase. I hung off Sock's side and aimed the rifle back at the pursuers. I fired a few rounds before the party stopped dead in their tracks. I had thought they'd been persuaded to discontinue the chase. Once I furthered the distance, they continued their pursuit. Damnit. He wanted to stay out of range but not out of sight. They weren't giving up that easily. I kept firing and they kept pausing, the dance continued until I was within sight of the canyon. I knew they'd just keep following until they closed the gap and gutted me for all my worth.
I couldn't just hide in the canyon, so once I made my way deep within the confines I made my last stand on a pedestal provided by the earth. The mounts were hidden behind the salty cedars as I aimed my rifle for the uninvited host. I laid there on the hot sand, lost in tunnel vision, waiting for the first brave to rear his head around the canyon wall. That never happened. Instead, I heard shifting rocks overhead and, before I knew it, the party caught me by surprise.
Their leader descended upon me with a gleaming hatchet in hand and attempted to cleave his way through my torso. I slammed the butt of my rifle into the side of his head. He lost his balance and went tumbling. Unfortunately for me, he took me down with him. The fight took us both towards the muddy water. The panic I felt in that moment was unreal. This kind of struggle was not new to me, but it wasn't to him either. I tried to separate him from his hatchet but found no success. Shiny metal caught my attention.
On his waist was a saber. I knew that I needed to get that off his person to make the battle a fair one. I pivoted and used his own weight against him. Losing his balance, he fell into the mud and I was quick to part him from his sword. What he could not afford me was an easy victory. He bent my knee in on itself and got back on his feet. I was staggered but the pain didn't register in that life or death situation. We circled one another, neither one wanting to open themselves to attack. I made the mistake that my dance partner didn't know the next steps to our choreography.
He caught me in my failings and tackled me into the dry clay. The saber out of reach, the brave drove his heel into my wrist and pinned me down. I wasn't ready for death. No one is. Not unless you have the privilege to age out of a profession where men often die young. Standing over me was death. The decision to option out of it wasn't in my control. It was his.
As he readied himself to drive that hatchet into my face, we all heard the blood curdling screeches. A mix of sheared metal and injured animal calls. It was then that my assailant got himself running. I laid in the clay until the resounding scream gave me the necessary drive to get out of dodge. Thankfully, the party failed to locate Socks and the mule. I struggled to get on my saddle, pain infested my right leg and left arm. After a little encouragement from the monster's cry, I jumped on and directed Socks to make off. He shook the entire time.
We summited the canyon's lip and took off for the East. Liquid courage soaking every muscle of my being. My nerves chilled at the theater play of events. I charged well into the East, ignoring my companions' complaints, until I was certain we were out of range. When I looked back towards the retreat, evidence of our departure was lost in the ocean of golden straws. I wasn't relaxed. There was no unwinding. The same question that bounced off the walls of mind came darting out my mouth like a shallow, breathless rasp, "What the hell was that?"
I have had my fair share of encounters with all manner of beasts. Bears, snakes, cougars, and wolves, they all had a distinct dialect. This banshee held no discernable elements. The noises that made up his harrowing call were ones that shouldn't have been married together. Metal scraping, spit webs peeling, glistening gums, and high pitched shrieks created a cacophony of unholy union. Socks and our accompanying stubbornness would not be sleeping standing up. I motioned them to crouch and I got to work building a sandy nest. The mound had to be erected as it was the only way we could afford coverage in an otherwise flat environment. My Winchester had never seen so much action, the barrel didn't even so much as cake in soot from our battle earlier. I took post as the light casted by the setting sun disappeared under the western horizon. It's no easy task to aim blindly into the dark in preparation for an unknown host.
I waited for hours as cold sweat burned my eyes, not wanting to look away for even a second in my futile attempt. I couldn't see anything, yet I remained vigilant for whatever came leaping out with claws, fang, or horn. Something did come for me. A band of things. I heard them compressing straw underfoot as they stalked our motionless party. Dried foliage snapped off and clung to mangy fur. I suppose their youngest and most inexperienced were not privy to the stealthy approach, made apparent when they began to howl and cry.
Jackals. Why would it not be jackals? The hunting party splintered into two. The horns of the Bison flanking my undefended sides. I made the difficult choice to reach in my satchel for lamp oil. I tore off loose cloth and dipped into the flask. The glow of flames betrayed their nightly camouflage. Four mutts became four carcasses. The other side of the assault didn't bother to avenge their fallen comrades.
It wasn't safe to rest there. I geared up and got the party's hooves to running. The petals of a bright Dahlia stretched across the eastern horizon. I wasn't in a fit state to keep going but I wanted to get far from the dangers at any cost, even at my own health’s detriment.
I'm sure Socks could sense something was wrong with me, he quickened his pace but took careful consideration in not agitating my wounds by softening his stride. I could smell myself all too well. Iron, powder, sweat, and dried up earth. It clung to me like a persistent gnat or like the pincers of a ravenous tick. I had hoped we would not face any more hurdles. My battered body could not face another obstacle. We rode for such a long time that my eyelids became heavy, my grip weakened, and my breath slowed. My clear sight of red sand became a vignette, and then I was out.
[I forgot about this story. It was supposed to be for a different competition that I am proud some friends won. That being said, I hope you all enjoy this story. It was a lot of fun writing this prompt.]
I hope you aren't upset with my decisions, my love. The bastion that is my mind broke the moment we could no longer be together. All those years we spent cultivating a home, crushed by your untimely departure and my inability to let go of you. In desperate hope, I clung to every semblance of your presence. Our life together, although brief, yielded countless mementos, novelties, and sentimental ornaments. If I was ever to see you off It would be with you in the dress I weaved per your request. I hope that is one thing you can be proud of me for.
Every detail held up to your very strict standards: those cornflowers sit upon white lattices, the threaded straps were made soft, and I took the time to embroider your initials where the hanging cloth met soft ankles. Forgive me for not looking at you but I could not bring myself to even give you one last glance. I was the one to warn you of my cowardice and timid nature, but you didn’t care. Watching your box be lowered into the earth felt like looking into the void, that persistent but faint feeling to jump in with you.
In my mind’s absence, you were already buried beneath clumped dirt and jagged stones. I waited there, with the unrealistic hope that you would crawl out and we could mend our broken life back together. Why can’t you humor me? The warmth of your smile, the sight of your lively eyes, the cheer in those welcomed embraces, I held onto all of it. I mourned you like the world had lost one of its treasured saints and heaven gained one more star. With no one to talk to, I broke down. Why? Why would you leave me with the last words that ever left your lips being, “move on,” How could I? Letting you go would be tantamount to forsaking you.
I’m sorry, but I rejected your wishes. We laid together once more, you on top of your bed of dirt and I on the cold ground wrapped together in your wool blanket. Imagining your eyes, I looked longingly into those pools of ink. No matter how much I pleaded with you and begged of you, no answer ever came. Days passed and your blanket sank ever more onto my side, but I corrected it by covering you in what was left of my will. I wished you would tug on the blanket like you did in life. What did you expect of me? I did not want to tarnish our time on this earth by burying you deep in my mind nor by getting rid of shards of your existence.
You said that we would brave this world together, but you were my world. And when you died, my world died as well. It took many hands to tear us apart a second time. My family wanted me to forget you, but I refused any notion of the matter. Despite what it took to separate us, I knew that your home still needed its long overdue maintenance. I had hoped to keep the house neat and tidy, but my lengthy departure left it in a worsened state. I felt that I had failed you in more ways than one, but this forced me to become a shut in. I locked every gate and door, closed every curtain, and extinguished the porch side lantern. There in the dark, I lit candles to keep me company, making a great effort to clean every keepsake.
You always knew how to make the house feel like home; every mess, every clutter, and every square inch of the house was packed with character. It doesn't even feel like I lived in this house, that's how much of your soul you poured into our every day living. My own touch was tucked away in a dark corner of the world you made. My desk was never this clean, there always was an unfinished or incomplete book I was working on. It's funny really. In my attempt to let go of the past, as I flipped through the pages, I saw your branding at the most recent entry. A lipstick stain where I placed my initials. O' love, where are you now that I can't pretend I'm stronger than I really am? I will cherish this even against the advisement that I shouldn't.
The first night was one filled with an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. Overhead loomed the memories of our time together. You were a great choreographer whereas I was a novice author. How our paths managed to cross is a mystery that still perplexes me to this day. I was down on my luck after my first book failed to fly off the shelves, a sense of defeat that had me questioning my capabilities. Your theatre was open to the public for the low price of 25 cents, a price I was willing to dish out since I had no future prospects of making a living. My seat was still a disappointment, for a beam stood in my line of sight. Still I looked past it onto the brightly illuminated stage.
Every performance was forgettable. Clumsy as they were, the dancers still garnered applause. I was ready to conclude my purchase was a complete waste and that I'd be having sleep for dinner. That's when a fair lady of decent height, dark lengthy hair, and lively complexion stepped onto the platform. There, on the empty stage, you performed a graceful recital, all while others dozed off. I was fixated on your pirouette and how you seemed to glide through the air like water. You were a treasure to have been my great fortune to have witnessed. After the theater closed, I nervously awaited your departure.
My hands were clammy and my posture was poor. Finally you emerged from the fold and I approached, where I showered you in praise. A beautiful muse, flustered and timid. I made my adoration known and asked for your affection. You left without answering, but a small part of me had the lingering assumption that you obliged me.
Quiet as you were, my timidness never allowed me to speak for you. Our decision to move to the dense forest was one that came after my most recent book sold decently, just enough to afford a good bit of land.
The plot was an isolated clearing deep within the forest. Our luck was plentiful as it bordered near a cliff to the north, a pond to our south, and an infinite view of the sunrise to our east.
You can imagine my surprise when a two story loft was already established upon this neck of the woods. I wasted no time in stealing credit for this when you asked me if I had prior knowledge of it. Truth be told, the house was unknown to everyone, even the land developers that sold me the plot. Poor thing, it was mighty despite the weathered look. Inside, the elements had worked their way into every wall and floorboard. This towering obstacle didn’t seem to phase you, because after standing and analyzing the house you got straight to work taking note of everything that needed refurbishing.
I was thankful that our combined income was enough to cover the materials needed for the project. Horse drawn carriages brought mountains of boards, panels, and components to the foot of our remote abode. We worked countless hours to rebuild the beauty of this lost gem and you added every bit of your character to its vastness. I never thought I would find myself coming around to the color burgundy, I had been a strong fan of navy blue up until this point. The house really was a statement piece, because our fireplace was emerald green, the rooms were different shades of red, every internal and exterior corner was highlighted by white and the porch wrapped around the house. To add the cherry on top, our house was crowned by a weathervane, a mare variant. Truly our house was the stuff of legends, for it brought you joy and me a slight bit of embarrassment. A barn buried deep within the clutches of a dense forest.
Our first night spent within a walled house and beside a roaring chimney was victorious. It was pleasant to seat myself by the green tiled mantle instead of wavering on through smoke in the eyes. I was thankful we would never have to spend another agonizing minute out on the dusty, uncomfortable ground.
It was one you decided to depart from with an early rest. After you left and I stepped out into the cold night, I stared out at the treeline while the moon hovered above.
As it rained light over the canopy top, I sheepishly took out a small wooden pipe, remembering how you hated the smell of tobacco. This was a great opportunity to indulge in decadence. From my overcoat pocket, I grabbed my tiny pouch of dried leaves. Packing the fodder into the barrel of the cannon, I lit the fuse and smoke came bellowing out in a transparent ribbon.
I looked back out towards the canopy but the heavy smoke from the chimney blocked my line of sight. A slender figure loomed in the background, cloaked in shadow and obscured by thick smoke. It stared back at me with piercing white eyes, like two holes poked through black fabric. I stood up and attempted to confront the figure. It pointed up towards the second story, right where you were sleeping. I tried to look stern and well put together, a poor attempt to say the least. We exchanged glances, that is until a sudden noise broke the eerie silence.
My tobacco burned a hole through my poorly constructed pipe and the bowl hit the hard deck with a heavy thud. Scared me half to death. It stole my attention for less than a second, but when I looked back up the figure was gone. I don’t know who they were, but one thing was clear. They knew where we lived ,and worst yet, where we slept. I retreated inside and locked all the doors. Taking the liberty of barricading the windows and doorways with boards. I didn’t catch much sleep that night. Every night from that point on was spent with one eye open. As a means of security, I suggested we both purchase .38 revolvers, just to be safe.
I can't quite explain it but that night felt as if it was the last time our life was ever tame again. Two years. Two painfully long years. That is all it took to compromise the foundations of our small and inconsequential life. O' death, it worked its way into our lives, but the lambs bore the full force of its strong tides. I remember our daughters but not as they were. My mind made their characters for them, like it was only hours ago that they cried and made loud disagreements. You never voiced your concern about raising children far from paved roads, but you didn't protest the idea of raising them wild either.
Although, while they would have grown up wild they certainly weren't going to be birthed wild. You and the town doctor fought the real battle, I was just your crowd of supporters. It was the last push that was the most concerning. I braced for small complaints from small lungs. It was quiet. I don't think the doctor could have coated this devastating development with all the sweets in the world. Our daughter was gone before she was ever here. Maybe...maybe that's when you started to put on a better disguise. And what did I do? I shook from the new reality but I suppressed my melancholy beneath an emotionally absent shell. If you were good at hiding your emotions, then I was callous in their dismissal.
I should have been more available. You were hurting and all I did was contribute to your anguish. What I did next was borderline cruel.
I was so selfish, so much so that I made it known to you. I wanted a family. Far beyond just two people, for I still wanted a daughter. Like always, you did not protest. Forced was this union to the point it did not bring anything within the realm of compassion. My selfishness was impartial to your pain.
We made two precious children, and the earth swallowed them up. I can’t imagine how you felt, for I was barely managing to keep my composure. You stayed strong for a coward like me. The worst was yet to come. I promised you something from town as a means to bring some semblance of happiness back into our lives. I had put an order in for a set of brass grooming instruments. I remembered you looking at them and taking the time to assess their craftsmanship. Gearing up to head out, I hugged you tightly. I just wanted to remind you that you were loved. That you were cherished. That you were treasured like sapphires. You were very good at hiding your emotions and disguising them as something else. You threw me a smile and caressed my cheek. You managed to trick me into a state of ease.
I left and you got to work to enact your plan. When I returned, the rustling of the leaves and the creaking of the branches felt especially loud. Louder than usual. The atmosphere was as dense as these woods. In my heart I knew something was wrong. I was within view of the house and the sight didn’t bring me any comfort. I signaled the mare to make haste, but it didn’t make any difference. I entered a cold home, one without its owner. That’s when I saw you. You, a beautiful muse, with bleeding wrists. Laid in a pool of your own making.
I still cannot get over how well you crafted your facade. I left thinking you were in a better state of mind than me. I returned too late and saw how you truly felt. Two became three, and the earth swallowed you whole.
That brings us to now. Your beautiful palace is barely kept together by my incapable hands. The family has suggested I look into selling the land and bundle our house with it. I would not listen to reason. Instead, I became a recluse boarded up within your vast hall, holding down the fort. All in a frivolous attempt to keep everything in place for your return, a man can hope for the impossible.
These halls are anything but still. Out of the corner of my eye, I see figures shuffling in and out of rooms.
The fire keeps me company, but it too has taken on new life. As if it were trying to jump out and grab me, the outstretched hand of the flames nicked a few too many instances.
I am punished for my incompetence. Punished by every splinter, every nick, every cut, and every sleepless night. I am bashed for how I turned my back on you. You, a gem I carelessly lost, and one I did not treasure despite your every bit of compassion.
Even now, I hear you knocking on the walls of my skull. It sounds awful. As if a grandfather clock had been jammed into my mind, the tolls are deafening. How many many times have I told you? I’M SORRY!
However, the tolls became wooden and the rhythm softened. I could hear now that they weren’t bells tolling the hour, but the sound of a visitor.
The most impossible thing would happen to me. You never liked her, despite my attempts to remind you she was only a friend. Clarice helped me to publish my book. She is and will always be a welcome friend, but she did not come as a friend. I opened the door to greet her as I would with every guest. Her intentions were not what I expected. We conversed and she gave her condolences. It was nice to hear someone other than family and in-laws state their pity. That is when the topic shifted to something that even now I cannot fathom. Clarice asked me one simple question, but it was not to me.
“What now?”
It broke me. Now that I didn’t have a world to live in, what would be my next course of action? How, in this impossibly large world, could I go on without my greatest tether. I spent a long time dwelling on the question. I didn’t even notice when she placed her hand over mine. I must have scared her when mine recoiled in surprise. I couldn’t deal with this, not right now. I rushed to usher her out. However, Clarice turned to look at me before she left. There, she confessed a long repressed infatuation aimed towards me. I don’t know what she expected, but it probably wasn’t an abrupt dismissal. I really couldn’t deal with this. It was too much. I leaned on the shut door with my back pressed firmly against it. Waiting for the sound of clacks to pitter patter away into the distance. I fought back tears. How could I be presented with this decision? My beloved wife had just died. Her memory was burned into my mind. Her scent. Her image. Her presence. It wasn’t something I was ready to just toss away. I am not a bachelor. I will never be a bachelor. It wasn’t Clarice's fault. She didn’t kill my wife or cause my woes, but my ignorant mind placed all my built up anger upon her.
The heat of my anger went away when hours passed. Perhaps this was my avenue back to normalcy. If I was ever to move on, I would have to come to terms with my new reality. O’ love, you weren’t coming back. I was too delusional to see it. Too hopeful to let go of you. My one and only.
I held your picture, sliding my hand to wipe away the accumulated dust. I remove you from the glass and wooden frame. Making my way towards your emerald fireplace, topped with a pine mantle. The fire I built was dying, so I set you aside and threw more logs into the coals. As the fire was gaining its foothold, I sat on the hard wooden floor caressing you with my fleeting admiration. I didn’t want to do it, but I wanted to regain my independence and walk out to form a new world. The room lit up with the resurgence of an emboldened flame. This was it. The next step to letting go. Time stood at a standstill, was it truly a coincidence that happened as I neared the fire?
Holding you in my hands, I felt as though I was making a horrible mistake. It was as if burning this picture would cause irreparable damage to the kingdom you created. The empress of these lands, reduced to ashes and her memory left to fade away. An end unbefitting for such a tall figure of the dense forest and the red keep. Please. Please don’t be upset with me. I just want you to rest and for me to move on.
I cast you into the flames and instantly hyperventilated. The borders of your picture closed in on themselves. The warmth of your smile was fading and a cold chill set in. I burned my fingertips to rescue you from the rage of the flames. I pressed my palm to snuff out the embers that nearly wiped away your image, but still the damage was done. I panicked so greatly that my vision grew darker. I fell unconscious. Drifting away into a nightmare.
I walked down a long and narrow hall, lined with every memory my sub-conscience could muster. Behind me a wrathful fire was erasing everything. In a desperate act, I tried to fight off the flames, but my dreamstate was burned badly by the uncontrollable outbreak. I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed as many memories and ran down the hall. The fire kept pace and it followed me in a chase. I would lose a frame every time I picked up the pace. The fire only seemed to gain speed and the heat was burning the back of my head. I ran and ran and ran, but the flames enveloped me. I melted and the memories burned away. The floor gave way and I fell through into the abyss. The fear and pain that covered me like a net jolted me awake.
The house was as I left it. The quiet of the night sky was everywhere. That's when I gained my bearings on reality. That’s when I saw you.
You just stood there. There. There in the reflection of the mirror. Could you blame me for abandoning every sense of fear? How the dread was a fleeting moment. All I wanted was to see your beautiful face ever since you left a hole in my heart. I neared you and placed my palm on the surface of the gilded mirror. I couldn't move your long hair out of the way but still I felt the calming of your presence. Stuck in a trance, I couldn't tell just when you plunged your hand into my chest. The wriggling of gnarled digits finally broke my fixated gaze. I looked down and saw spindly fingers digging around for my heart. Panic set in.
I couldn't control my fear and it forced me into a sprint. My attempt to coordinate an escape led to me leaping from the top of the stairs to the first floor. A moment that felt like ages as I had time to think about the descent. You were fast. Faster than sound and more nimble than a cat. Every framed picture, I saw you making a dash for me. Reaching your claw out for me, blackened finger tips still greased by drawn blood. I hit the floor with a numbing and paralyzing impact.
Out of reach, your rage filled every corridor and ushered away the silence. Glass flew through the air like falling glistening snow. I curled up into a ball, avoiding any possibility of being snatched up into the dark. Splinters, dust, and glass shards cut my skin and surrounded me. You looked far more terrifying than I could have imagined but still I couldn't see your face. White hot rage filled your eyes, while the dark cloaked your frame. I warned you of my cowardice. He took over and covered my eyes for me.
By the end of the rampage, in the reflection of a million shards, I saw you pointing outside. Out towards the cliff that sat atop the northern point of your kingdom, but the coward in me made his case.
It's not my fault. Everyone is always trying to make me think differently. "Do this, do that, stop moping about, move on." When I was ready to move on, that is when you came back to me. It didn't bother you that I was hurting just standing in your house, that I kept revisiting your resting place, or when I was curled up in a pool of my own blood thinking of you. I was in a petrified moment of never-ending mourning, but when I decided to leave behind the painful past you judge me. What more can I possibly do? This house is not my own, so why would the rot and the wear and the erosion find its way deep inside me?
I'm sorry. I am so sorry I am not strong for you. I am plagued by pain and troubled by remorse. I miss you but not like this.
I may not have understood you fully. At least not now. However, I will do as you ask. I will not stay a minute longer, for your absence has left a deep pit where my heart stood.
My dear Elizabeth, I am coming home.
I know what must be done now, after all these pages, to truly be with you I must cast away all attachments that keep me grounded. I'm sorry. I am so sorry. I know how much you loved your palace. It had to be done if I had any chance of being with you when I crossed over. You loved every minute detail that made up your palace: the intricate corridors, the vast foyer, and the Northside porch. I could never grant this kingdom of yours an honorable end, not even in my wildest dreams, but oil and wax will do the trick.
When they lowered you into the earth's warm embrace, I crumbled into a million pieces, with no hope of surviving on without you at the head of this manowar. In my hand I hold the last tether that anchors me to the void, so I will let this flame touch saturated wood and bind me to the painful past no more. It grew and grew until the mighty face of this fort began to buckle, and eventually crash in on itself. The sound of crackling and popping filled the air of the cold night.
Embers and cinders danced high above your beautiful garden. Scalding hot coals burned the sweet grass you carefully cultivated. The fire burned on and on, stripping panels of their sturdy walls, shattering the stained glass, and giving way for the roof to crash through every floor.
At that moment, deep within the heart of the raging fire, I saw you. Dancing something so beautiful I couldn't help but fall on my knees and hands. I saw you dance through the flickers of the flames while staring back at me. You slipped through the towering spires with such agility that all would envy your grace. With such nimble agility you navigated the flames and pranced around the ashes. When the fire began to die, you left the charred ribs of your palace for the vastness of the stars.
Behind the brightness of the stars, I could see you perform something but it was hard to make out just what that was. I focused so intently on you that I didn't notice the time when the heat had dissipated. You must have seen my attempts through my squints, because it was then that you moved onto your pale white stage upon the face of the moon. I could see clearly your pirouette as it was in life, but I saw your arms cross near your waist. One hand wrapped around the other while you held out an invitation.
It was your beckoning candle.
The smell of smoke didn't agitate my weakened lungs, rather it was reminiscent of your scent. The aroma created a powerful urge to pursue you. I hope you'll forgive my appearance. I didn't have time to dress for you, perhaps you'll excuse my emaciated frame and bloodless skin. Even then, your heaven facing hand still held out for mine. My first steps into the night were heavy, but I made my way towards your welcoming presence. As I stepped forward, I tried to join you in dance.
My clumsy attempts left something to be desired, but you didn't care. You were a graceful choreographer and I was the fool that held you down. I baltered towards the cliff that stood north of your palace, the closer I inched I felt all of life's plagues leave me. I noticed something within you becoming more jubilant. You began to dance as I came closer. You were dancing and it brought me much needed comfort. You were dancing. I was dancing. The stars were dancing. The remnant flames were dancing.
We.
Yes, we.
We all were dancing.
This was not a farewell but rather the beginning to a new chapter. The world was dancing and celebrating our reunion, my lovely Elizabeth.
I shed the worries and woes, the fears and doubts, and the pain that your loss had left me. At the edge, I stood there looking out towards the abyss. I glanced at your beautiful frame against the moonlight. I took one last glance at the home you built. It was razed to the ground and still it was art. The night seemed to perpetually linger, but I would not waste another second straying from paradise.
I'm coming home.
Out there.
I will meet you beyond the northern edge.