The First Ocean

February 13, 2018March 17, 2018 ~ Piece, of the Sky

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The wind blew into the woods, an invitation into the darkness. Bern stood between two trees, one foot still in the clearing. She looked behind her. The cabin – her cabin – looked inviting and warm. She had told “Jerri” she was going to get more wood for the fire – and for that strange meat in the pack. But who knew how long it would be before “Jerri,” – that creature – grew suspicious. And yet, standing there, facing the abyss, Bern hesitated.

Bern heard something clink inside the cabin. The monster picking up the kettle, perhaps. Gasping between the reverberations of her heart, Bern moved as fast as she could and carefully as she dared, through the two-foot-deep snow.

The path sloped downward, into the wood. It felt colder, the exact opposite of how it should feel. The sky was clear; it had stopped snowing. Bern climbed over fallen branches, her boots snapping twigs. She jumped. Was that a shadow behind that tree? She strained her ears to fathom whether the creature was following, whether it had picked up on where Bern had gone and had begun tracking her scent.

Somewhere, to the left, there was a crack, and Bern took off in a dead sprint, scrambling through the underbrush, getting covered by snow dropped from disturbed tree limbs. She ran for several minutes in a straight line, before darting off in a completely different direction and clambering beneath an ice-covered log.

All was silent. Bern heard nothing, besides the heavy scrape of her own breathing. She was sitting in days-old snow, and only then realized she was sweating and shivering.

She couldn’t go back to the cabin. She wondered how she would find her way back, even if the creature was not there. Her eyes darted around. She needed shelter. There were underground snow shelters one could dig, so as not to die of exposure, but there was also the chance of never waking up. She had to keep moving, keep her body moving. Had to keep warm.

Bern struggled out from under the log and looked around. Between the trees, a light glinted. Bern squinted. The light flashed again. A flashlight? Bern heard nothing from behind her, no rushed footfalls. There was the light again, moving steadily away. Another traveler? Apprehensive, Bern pulled one foot out of the snow, and then the other. The hiker with the flashlight picked up speed. “Hey!” Bern yelled, “Hey, you!”

Weary, Bern pursued, nearly stumbling over roots, and rocks, rolling underfoot, “Hey, you – stop! Hold on!”

Held by a frightened carrier, the light only began to recede into the night. Pushing her chest to expand faster, Bern tumbled after the figure. The trees rushed past alongside her; the pinprick of light was all she could see.

Bern found herself out, in another clearing, blinded by the sudden moonlight. An expanse of flat snow stretched out before her. Bern scanned for another human being, footprints, anything. Instead, there lay the crumbling ramparts of an old mansion, rotting there, in the forest, sparkling with snow.

Dumbstruck, Bern blinked her eyes. Her arms hung limp at her sides, heavy, swollen. The stars twinkled unabashedly. Body temperature falling fast, Bern pulled herself toward the sunken door and kicked it open. Once again, she was at the threshold of a new darkness. “Hello?” she said, peering around, eyes adjusting from the outside light.

Inside opened outward, like a cathedral. The foyer stood as it had before, but with shifted tiles. Frigid air blew in from broken windows. A hole in the ceiling provided a natural skylight. Twin staircases ran up to the second floor. Bern crossed the once-beautiful room and took the stairs up to one of the open bedrooms.

The room was a child’s room, with dolls and a rocking horse. Bern dug into her coat pockets, one after the other, until her numb fingers closed around two small magnesium-ferro rods. She broke the rocking chair into pieces, tore off the doll’s hair and heaped the rubbish in a small pile. She scraped the fire-starter together until a minute spark ignited the offering of kindling.

She blew gently on the flame and fed it with chips of board pulled up from the floor. She put her hands to the wave of heat, trying to get warm. She fed and fed the insatiable flame. She couldn’t let it go out. She eyed the bed posts greedily.

“Will you burn down the whole house?” a voice said.

Bern turned on her heel, fists balled. A woman, in a gown from ages, past stood in the doorway. She was made of light.

The fire went out, letting off black smoke. Water flooded the room. Bern looked around; water had flooded out to the entire horizon. She was standing in a sea, under a tumultuous sky.

Bern sank into the brine, her knees hitting a sandy bottom. The woman was at her side. She cradled Bern in her arms. Bern looked up into her face and saw that it was “Jerri.”

“You’re a monster,” Bern whispered.

Jerri smiled and looked down, right into her eyes, “But, I’m your monster.”

Batman Forever bat

Songs:

“All Along the Watchtower” – Jimi Hendrix

“Dazed and Confused” – Led Zeppelin

Fantaisie-Impromptu in C-Sharp Minor, Op. 66 – Chopin

Continued from Spirit Science

Counterfeit Movement

February 7, 2018April 5, 2018 ~ Piece, of the Sky

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Alli walked down the street; sweltering evening heat radiated off every surface. Steam rose from the underbelly of the city. The sun was a bright light at the bottom of a canyon of skyscrapers, a candle waiting to be extinguished.

Wiping the sweat off the back of her neck, Alli stopped in Nate’s Papaya Dogs. The yellow and white signage greeted the disinterested, chewing silently, staring, eyes focused on unknown points, and hunched over the mica table top counters.

The heat from the streets pressed in on her temples. Despite this, she ordered a tiny, white china cup of espresso. The beverage came back lukewarm and milk had been added to it. Alli sipped distastefully but drank the rest of the concoction.

Nealy clambered up on to the spinning black seat beside her. The waiter wordlessly brought the latecomer a Reuben, with A Thousand Island Dressing, and some fries. “Do you know that they hose out this place at 3 AM?” Nealy asked.

“No, I didn’t know that,” Alli said, eying her cup, and wishing it were not empty.

Her friend made a swift gesture in Alli’s direction, and the waiter appeared again, this time, with a new cup of espresso. This one was hot; Alli savored the taste of the ground beans. Fresh Arabica coffee, probably sourced in bulk, from Borneo.

“Thank you,” Alli said, “I see you like to come here often.”

The sun reflected off the aviator sunglasses perched on Nealy’s head, “Order the omelets and flapjacks.”

“But it’s Nate’s Papaya Hotdogs…” Alli said.

“Just do it.”

Alli ordered the food, and the same waiter brought the breakfast out in under five minutes. The omelet was whipped up fresh: American cheese, little cubes of pink ham; the flapjacks, thin and easy to tear, soft and light.

“How did you know that they could do this?” Alli exclaimed.

“I pass through here on my way home, from work, late at night, usually at 2:30 AM,” Nealy said, “I’m here when they start throwing the last customers out.”

Alli ate silently for a few minutes. The sun’s rays filtered through the diner, touching wrinkles and folds in the diners’ faces, and a hundred crumbs lying on the black and white, checkered floor. Hundreds of feet had worn down the tiles, leaving thousands of soft lines and scuff marks.

Alli used the flaky pancakes to mop up the savory cheese sauce from the omelets. “I will be right back,” Nealy said. She stepped outside, and lit a cigarette, in the waning, orange light, snaking down the buildings.

Alli cut the omelet slowly and watched the fry cook in the back hustle around an unseen grill. She could imagine the perspiration bursting from his pores, dampening the white apron, unknowingly running off a contorted brow into the cascade of grease popping on the stove.

Nealy returned, mopping her forehead. That afternoon, it had been a hundred degrees in Central Park, a flat, baked, green postcard in the middle of New York City.

“Do you want to come with me to Shanghai?” Nealy asked.

Alli put down her napkin, “When?”

“Two months from now.”

The espresso cup was empty again, “How? Why?”

“Don’t ask why,” Nealy said, “Just say yes.”

The waiter appeared out of the din and haze, on the other side of the counter, and refilled the espresso. “A cappuccino also, please,” Alli said, wiping her face.

“It’s for the venture capital firm,” Nealy continued, “but I do not want to go alone. We can eat shark fin soup and fugu, flown in from Japan.”

“How can you say that?” Alli asked, looking away. She downed the third espresso, in one go. Dallas had left, just one month ago.

counterfeit movement