The trail rounds a bend, and I spy a granite wall. Inside that wall there is a cave. Inside that cave lies darkness. I have returned. I smell her. I smell him. I smell them. They call to me with the wind through the trees. Their voices sound from the gurgle of a small creek coursing downhill over mossy stones. They call me home.
Leaves fall around me from the tall maples, oaks, and hickories. Across the stream, a dervish of pine straw sweeps through the shady dark trunks of a patch of slash pines.
I don’t belong here.
I look at my hands. I see my wedding band. I shake the watch I received as a gift from my eldest daughter on my too-skinny wrist. I remember my girls. I remember their hair, their smell, and their laughter. I inevitably remember they are gone. I note my fingernails and how clean they are. I turn my hands over and touch the bumpy line running up my arms. That line is ugly and purple and seems to grow larger every year. I remember a crimson river collecting as a cloudy delta in the ocean of my bathtub.
I don’t belong here.
But it started here. I think. I don’t know because it was all so long ago. It seems a nice enough place for it to end, all the same.
I hear birds sing a song and know the words. Some people might say they are not words, but those people would be wrong. There is meaning. That’s all words are in the end. Songs convey meaning. Music carries emotions. The forest has a song all its own. That song is nothing if not meaningful.
A shock of cold creeps up my leg. I look down. I see myself walk into the stream. My pants grow dark with creeping moisture. Chill bumps rise on my arm. A shiver slinks down my spine. Overhead, a trio of crows caws as they leap from branch to branch to branch. A flurry of leaves, nuts, and pinecones shower down in their wake.
I hear a rustle and see something dark and large – A bear? A deer? A mountain lion? A wolf? A troll? A dragon? – creep through a patch of underbrush. Twigs rattle in the wake. There’s a growl or a cry or a laugh; it is hard to tell the difference. I think I see fresh hoof prints outlined in mud. Worms wriggle up and fill the dark indentations like anemones.
I don’t belong here.
My daughter had been a little girl once. She sat on my knee. She held my hand and dragged me around everywhere as little girls are wont to do with their daddies. I let her carry me. I thought I was the parent. I thought I was in charge. I thought I was the protector. I thought I was keeping her safe and sound. I never dreamed she was the only thing keeping me from being lost. That’s what I am without her: lost. I need her hand in mine so I don’t slip away.
I trudge forward through the creek. I splash as I lose my footing. I slip on moss and algae. I scrape my hands. Loose moss sinks beneath my fingernails. My arms are slick and white with cold. My teeth chatter, but I hardly recognize this. I don’t feel the cold even though it eats at me and sends my pulse into a frenetic fury.
I come closer to the cliff I first saw when coming around the bend. The gurgle of water becomes a roar. I look up and see the waterfalls. They cascade down from above. Beneath the base of the falls, I can just make out the dark outline of the cave. The walls on either side of the opening appear soft and languorous, worn smooth by an eternity of erosion.
I don’t belong here.
I look back behind me and realize I am on a rise. This is a natural overlook. Below me, a river snakes through a valley. A city sits on the bank of that river. Cars drive on streets. Children play on playgrounds. Adults sit in offices or work construction. It is Halloween. Once the sun sets, the carved pumpkins will be alight with fire. Families will take to the streets with glow sticks and bags for candy. People will smile and visit and knock on each other’s doors. They might not knock on each other’s doors any other time during the year, but they will on that night. At least the children will. The adults will hang back and watch from the curb or sidewalk or simply stay at home while getting drunk and watching horror movies.
I always liked Halloween. But not this year. Not last year. Not the year before.
Every little girl, no matter the costume, looks just like my little girl. I find myself wondering if she might be underneath that wig? That make-up? That mask?
I belong here.
The cascading water slows and then stops. Lingering puddles in the rock drip. The birds stop their song. The crows land next to me. They stand silent and regard me with obsidian eyes.
A tree falls behind me, then another.
A dragon sweeps by blowing smoke and fire.
A troll rides on the dragon’s back. The troll picks its nose and laughs. It sings a song whose words are meaningless and untrue. I hate that troll.
The dragon knocks the cliff with a spiked tail. I’m not sure if the action was on accident or on purpose. I doubt that it matters. The impact of the beast against the cliff breaks the stone apart. Rocks fall around me. It grows dark. I am buried. Water seeps through cracks above me. I relent. The chill overtakes me until there is no chill, only numbness.
I touch the scars on my forearms. They vibrate and pulse. I dig in with my hands until I can feel myself. Pink light erupts from my torn skin and muscle. This blushing illumination lights my way. I dig and dig. My hands grow wet. I will keep digging until I find myself, until I find my way back home.
Showing posts with label halloween. Show all posts
Showing posts with label halloween. Show all posts
Friday, October 21, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Along the Lonesome Trail
Trace turned just in time to see something move away. Vines swayed along the brush in the wake of the unseen thing. He could smell it. It smelled like animal carcasses on a warm day and burning leather, overpowering the familiar scents of dry air and falling leaves. There was a howl, and Trace tightened his grip on his rifle.
“C’mon out you stinking bastard,” he said through clenched teeth.
Something stirred further in the brush. Leaves and pine needles rustled.
Trace pulled the rifle up and set his sights down the barrel. The full moon overhead glinted off the steel of his gun. He cocked with his thumb. He pressed against the trigger, ready to squeeze at the slightest provocation.
He looked up and down the trail. He found it empty. It was just him and Buttercup, an aged mare grown fat in pasture. Buttercup’s eyes were wide. Hot breath steamed out her nostrils as she shuffled her aged legs.
“Still, Buttercup. Still.” Trevor patted her greying coat. He walked down the trail and looked off into the brush.
Buttercup looked from side to side. She turned her head to regard the brush and screeched a pained neigh. Something large was atop her when Trevor turned around.
Trevor aimed his rifle and fired.
Something roared.
Trevor ran forward.
When the smoke cleared, Buttercup lay on the ground, a gaping hole bleeding from her side. Her hide was peeled back in three parallel shreds.
The leaves along the brush rustled and swayed, but the trail and clearing were empty.
“Damn!” Trevor reloaded his rifle. He stood over his horse and looked Buttercup in the eye. She stared back, her eyes moist and wide. She shuddered. He lifted the rifle to her head and fired. “Damn.” He didn’t look down at her again. There was no need.
“Come back here! Face me!” Trevor roared at the surrounding forest.
Somewhere in the distance there was a sound. Almost like a laugh, more like a bark.
Trevor looked up and down the trail. It remained empty. The dark mound that was once Buttercup lay lifeless and still. “That was my favorite horse, you monster. Now you’ve done it. It’s one thing to eat a man’s goats, but another thing altogether to eat his horse. I’d had her since I was just a boy. She was like a sister. Get out here!”
He stood silent and listened. There was no movement, no sound, just the wind.
Trevor turned around.
Something blocked the trail. As a shadow, it looked like a man – a very large man, but a man nonetheless – but Trevor knew it was something else, something equally as bad if not worse. And that was saying something considering Trevor’s opinion of humanity in general.
It stood still, blocking the trail ahead. The moon stood high above the form, making it a mere silhouette. Trevor pulled up his gun and fired.
Smoke rose into the sky. The bullet pinged as it ricocheted off a boulder somewhere in the distance. The thing was gone. It dissipated and came back together.
It laughed. The laugh turned into a howl.
Trevor quickly reloaded and fired. He reloaded and fired. He reloaded and fired. And then there were no bullets left.
“Die! C’mon. Die!” Trevor cocked his empty gun and fired off a click. He looked at his rifle. "Shit."
He looked ahead. There was a glint of sharp teeth raised into the facsimile of a smile inside a cloud of dark smoke.
Trevor took in a deep breath of air and raised his shoulders back. He tightened his grip on his rifle and prepared to swing.
The thing solidified and ran at him. The ground shook beneath Trevor’s feet.
Trevor reared back the rifle in his hands. As the form of the creature approached, he swung through the air, connecting with nothing.
There was a sharp pain in Trevor’s side. He dropped the gun, reached down with his hand, and pulled it away wet with blood. “That just ain’t fair!”
“Whoever the hell said life’s fair?”
Trevor fell to his knees.
“Pa?”
There was a laugh that turned into a roar and then the thing was upon him.
Trevor’s scream echoed along the lonesome trail.
“C’mon out you stinking bastard,” he said through clenched teeth.
Something stirred further in the brush. Leaves and pine needles rustled.
Trace pulled the rifle up and set his sights down the barrel. The full moon overhead glinted off the steel of his gun. He cocked with his thumb. He pressed against the trigger, ready to squeeze at the slightest provocation.
He looked up and down the trail. He found it empty. It was just him and Buttercup, an aged mare grown fat in pasture. Buttercup’s eyes were wide. Hot breath steamed out her nostrils as she shuffled her aged legs.
“Still, Buttercup. Still.” Trevor patted her greying coat. He walked down the trail and looked off into the brush.
Buttercup looked from side to side. She turned her head to regard the brush and screeched a pained neigh. Something large was atop her when Trevor turned around.
Trevor aimed his rifle and fired.
Something roared.
Trevor ran forward.
When the smoke cleared, Buttercup lay on the ground, a gaping hole bleeding from her side. Her hide was peeled back in three parallel shreds.
The leaves along the brush rustled and swayed, but the trail and clearing were empty.
“Damn!” Trevor reloaded his rifle. He stood over his horse and looked Buttercup in the eye. She stared back, her eyes moist and wide. She shuddered. He lifted the rifle to her head and fired. “Damn.” He didn’t look down at her again. There was no need.
“Come back here! Face me!” Trevor roared at the surrounding forest.
Somewhere in the distance there was a sound. Almost like a laugh, more like a bark.
Trevor looked up and down the trail. It remained empty. The dark mound that was once Buttercup lay lifeless and still. “That was my favorite horse, you monster. Now you’ve done it. It’s one thing to eat a man’s goats, but another thing altogether to eat his horse. I’d had her since I was just a boy. She was like a sister. Get out here!”
He stood silent and listened. There was no movement, no sound, just the wind.
Trevor turned around.
Something blocked the trail. As a shadow, it looked like a man – a very large man, but a man nonetheless – but Trevor knew it was something else, something equally as bad if not worse. And that was saying something considering Trevor’s opinion of humanity in general.
It stood still, blocking the trail ahead. The moon stood high above the form, making it a mere silhouette. Trevor pulled up his gun and fired.
Smoke rose into the sky. The bullet pinged as it ricocheted off a boulder somewhere in the distance. The thing was gone. It dissipated and came back together.
It laughed. The laugh turned into a howl.
Trevor quickly reloaded and fired. He reloaded and fired. He reloaded and fired. And then there were no bullets left.
“Die! C’mon. Die!” Trevor cocked his empty gun and fired off a click. He looked at his rifle. "Shit."
He looked ahead. There was a glint of sharp teeth raised into the facsimile of a smile inside a cloud of dark smoke.
Trevor took in a deep breath of air and raised his shoulders back. He tightened his grip on his rifle and prepared to swing.
The thing solidified and ran at him. The ground shook beneath Trevor’s feet.
Trevor reared back the rifle in his hands. As the form of the creature approached, he swung through the air, connecting with nothing.
There was a sharp pain in Trevor’s side. He dropped the gun, reached down with his hand, and pulled it away wet with blood. “That just ain’t fair!”
“Whoever the hell said life’s fair?”
Trevor fell to his knees.
“Pa?”
There was a laugh that turned into a roar and then the thing was upon him.
Trevor’s scream echoed along the lonesome trail.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Piggy
The Mother stood and looked out her kitchen window. Her hands mechanically washed dishes and scraped away bits of dried gravy and beef: the remnants of last night’s meal. Her hands were protected from the scalding soapy water, from the dirt, and from the waste caking the inexpensive china by the thick skin of her pink rubber gloves. She looked out the window towards the clouds and watched them march overhead, marking the passage of time, and so much seemed wasted. She didn’t think about her hands. They moved on their own with an ingrained knowledge borne from endless repetition. Instead of thinking, she dreamed.
“Momma, I made a friend.”
Startled, The Mother turned around to face The Daughter. “Oh, really? That’s nice, sweetie. What’s your friend’s name?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll call her Piggy. That’s kind of what she looks like. She’s got a curly tail and everything. She’s pink!”
The Mother rolled her eyes. She thought it might be a real friend this time but knew this would be too much to ask for. “So, she’s not real then?”
The little girl laughed. “She’s real. Why don’t you come outside and see her?”
“I’m busy washing dishes, honey. You go on out and play, okay?”
The little girl looked down at the floor. “Really, Momma, why don’t you come out and see her. I don’t know if I trust her all the way. She’s kind of weird. She walks on her hands and knees. She’s got a pig nose. She’s got a bunch of ninnies all up and down her tummy like a doggy. She lives in the gutter.
“I’ve told you about that gutter! You don’t play there! You’ll get bit by a spider or a snake or something.”
The little girl looked outside. “She’s calling me. Should I play with her? Would you like to meet her?”
The Mother turned her back to the child and rolled her eyes. She looked up to the clouds, remembered her daydreams and smiled to herself. Her daughter was just like her. She turned back around to face the child. She knelt down to her level and planted a kiss on her forehead. “You can go on out and play with your new friend. Just make sure you stay away from that gutter, okay?”
The child looked outside. She turned to look back at The Mother. “Okay, Momma, I got to go. It sounds like Piggy’s in trouble. Can I have a knife?”
The Mother smiled at her daughter. “No, honey, you can’t have a knife.” She left the sink and walked over to the cutlery drawer. “But you can have this.” The Mother handed The Daughter a wooden spoon. “Here’s a nice sword for you, okay?”
The Daughter looked at the spoon. “This isn’t a sword; it’s just a spoon.”
“It’s whatever you want it to be, right? Remember what we talked about?”
“Imagination, huh?” The Daughter shook her head and walked outside.
The Mother resumed washing dishes with her hands while her mind wandered to strange vistas. She lost herself.
***
“Sweetie! Honey! Where are you?”
The Mother turned around in frantic circles. She looked behind shrubs. She looked in the storage shed. She held her hands over her eyes to block the sun as she stared across her lawn. A chorus of grasshoppers infiltrated her mind, and the beginnings of a migraine formed just behind her temples.
“Sweetie!”
She decided she should check inside. Maybe she did not hear The Daughter enter the house? Maybe she was just in her room playing? She scanned the yard one more time with her eyes. Then she saw it.
There was a strange darkness in a corner of the gutter. Where a concrete drainage pipe had once been, there was only a massive opening. Bits of asphalt from the road crumbled down into the newly shaped hole. It looked to be about ten feet across. The Mother ran to the hole and looked down. She could see nothing but blackness.
The Mother fell to her knees and cried out at the empty sky. Clouds rolled by overhead, but she did not notice them.
***
The Husband grew concerned. Every day when he came home from work The Mother would be standing on the edge looking down into the darkness of the sinkhole. Once the rescuers stopped searching, The Husband hired a contractor to fill the hole, but The Mother would have nothing to do with that. She wanted it to remain open. She still believed The Daughter would emerge unscathed.
Best estimates provided that the depth of the sinkhole was over fifty feet deep, at minimum. They learned their land was built on top of an old iron mine. The ground had shifted and revealed a network of long-abandoned mine shafts.
“It’s dangerous. We need to fill it up.” He said to her one day while she stood looking down over the edge. He stood behind her and held her shoulders.
She shook her head. Tears dripped from her face and fell into the darkness.
***
“Do you hear that?”
The Mother looked at The Husband. It was dark in their bedroom. The lights were off inside the house. The Husband rubbed sleep from his eyes, sat up, and leaned over to turn on the bedside lamp.
His wife’s eyes were large and bright. She turned her head quickly, her hair whipped around her face. “Do you hear it?” She grabbed The Husband by the collar of his faded TOOL t-shirt.
“Hear what?”
“Pigs.”
The Husband frowned. He held up a hand to silence The Mother. He listened. There was the tick-tock of the antique clock in the living room just outside their bedroom. There was the whir of the air-conditioner. He focused his ears for anything that might sound out of the ordinary and jumped as the ice machine clinked out a fresh batch of cubes in the kitchen.
He shook his head. “I don’t hear anything. Can I go back to sleep now?”
The Mother nodded her head.
***
Time passed. The Mother's sleep grew restless. She often awoke to the squeal of pigs. They sounded both far away and nearby at the same time. She'd lay awake with her glassy eyes trained on the popcorn ceiling. Sometimes she connected the dots on that ceiling and imagined the profile of The Daughter's face. The Daughter was never smiling. The little girl's mouth was always open wide in terror as she released a silent scream.
***
The Husband snored. The Mother did not mind. This helped her stay awake. She wanted to stay awake.
Once she knew The Husband was good and asleep, she slipped out of bed. She wrapped a robe around her shoulders and slunk her feet into a pair of flip flops she used as slippers. She walked slowly and carefully, not wanting to make any noise, trying her best to avoid the spots in the wood floor that creaked if stepped upon. She did not want to make a noise. She wanted to be alone.
The sound had been for her. The Mother was the only person The Daughter had told about Piggy. Piggy was waiting. Piggy would have answers.
She slipped out the door and into the humid night. A thin layer of fog clung to the overgrown lawn. She rushed towards the sinkhole.
She looked down over the edge.
A pig’s squeal rose up from the darkness to greet her. Tears fell down The Mother’s cheeks.
“I should have listened, baby. I should’ve come out and met Piggy for you like you asked. Why didn’t I listen?”
Clouds moved overhead. A shaft of moonlight revealed something on the edge of the sinkhole. The mother squatted down to see what it was.
She saw the splintered remains of a broken wooden spoon covered in dark stains.
The Mother reached for the spoon and held it in her hands. She imagined The Daughter’s final struggle.
A pig squealed and The Mother looked up. A large pig stood upright directly in front of her. The pig's eyes were endlessly dark. The beast’s chest and stomach were lined with swollen teats which seeped a dark liquid.
The Mother growled and ran at the beast. She stabbed and stabbed and pushed against the weight of the monster.
Earth shifted during their struggle.
The Mother slipped. She fell. The sinkhole ate her.
***
The Husband hired a new contractor. This time they filled the gaping hole in the yard without protest. It hurt The Husband too much to see the sinkhole. It was a constant reminder of good things lost.
One night he heard pigs squealing somewhere beneath him, somewhere deep down below. The sound made him shiver. He rolled over and went back to sleep by focusing his attention on the mundane reality surrounding him: the whir of the air conditioner, the song of crickets, the tick-tock of an antique clock, the fresh ice cubes crashing into their container. He knew these sounds. He understood them. He never was much of a dreamer. He thought the squeals were just his imagination – they had to be – but still the sound disturbed him. He eventually fell back to sleep that night, but the sounds continued.
Other oddities made themselves known. The sinkhole in the yard refused to be filled. Every few weeks another truckload of fresh dirt was needed to fill in the hungry hole.
One night his bedroom grew unnaturally quiet. He woke up alone in a pool of his own sweat. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom of his unlit room he could make out a shadow: the outline of a large hulking beast. In the cool blue glow of moonlight, he saw the impossible: a large sow with seeping teats. It stared at him with black, uncaring eyes. The Husband closed his own eyes. When he reopened them, the beast was gone. He heard the echo of a squeal.
The next morning, once fresh sunlight cast a measure of sanity onto the room around him, he washed a brown liquid out of his carpet where he told himself he had dreamed the figure of a beast stood the night before. He scrubbed and scrubbed and applied more stain remover. He spat into the rug and cursed the impossible stains that refused to be impossible and refused to let him forget.
“Momma, I made a friend.”
Startled, The Mother turned around to face The Daughter. “Oh, really? That’s nice, sweetie. What’s your friend’s name?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll call her Piggy. That’s kind of what she looks like. She’s got a curly tail and everything. She’s pink!”
The Mother rolled her eyes. She thought it might be a real friend this time but knew this would be too much to ask for. “So, she’s not real then?”
The little girl laughed. “She’s real. Why don’t you come outside and see her?”
“I’m busy washing dishes, honey. You go on out and play, okay?”
The little girl looked down at the floor. “Really, Momma, why don’t you come out and see her. I don’t know if I trust her all the way. She’s kind of weird. She walks on her hands and knees. She’s got a pig nose. She’s got a bunch of ninnies all up and down her tummy like a doggy. She lives in the gutter.
“I’ve told you about that gutter! You don’t play there! You’ll get bit by a spider or a snake or something.”
The little girl looked outside. “She’s calling me. Should I play with her? Would you like to meet her?”
The Mother turned her back to the child and rolled her eyes. She looked up to the clouds, remembered her daydreams and smiled to herself. Her daughter was just like her. She turned back around to face the child. She knelt down to her level and planted a kiss on her forehead. “You can go on out and play with your new friend. Just make sure you stay away from that gutter, okay?”
The child looked outside. She turned to look back at The Mother. “Okay, Momma, I got to go. It sounds like Piggy’s in trouble. Can I have a knife?”
The Mother smiled at her daughter. “No, honey, you can’t have a knife.” She left the sink and walked over to the cutlery drawer. “But you can have this.” The Mother handed The Daughter a wooden spoon. “Here’s a nice sword for you, okay?”
The Daughter looked at the spoon. “This isn’t a sword; it’s just a spoon.”
“It’s whatever you want it to be, right? Remember what we talked about?”
“Imagination, huh?” The Daughter shook her head and walked outside.
The Mother resumed washing dishes with her hands while her mind wandered to strange vistas. She lost herself.
***
“Sweetie! Honey! Where are you?”
The Mother turned around in frantic circles. She looked behind shrubs. She looked in the storage shed. She held her hands over her eyes to block the sun as she stared across her lawn. A chorus of grasshoppers infiltrated her mind, and the beginnings of a migraine formed just behind her temples.
“Sweetie!”
She decided she should check inside. Maybe she did not hear The Daughter enter the house? Maybe she was just in her room playing? She scanned the yard one more time with her eyes. Then she saw it.
There was a strange darkness in a corner of the gutter. Where a concrete drainage pipe had once been, there was only a massive opening. Bits of asphalt from the road crumbled down into the newly shaped hole. It looked to be about ten feet across. The Mother ran to the hole and looked down. She could see nothing but blackness.
The Mother fell to her knees and cried out at the empty sky. Clouds rolled by overhead, but she did not notice them.
***
The Husband grew concerned. Every day when he came home from work The Mother would be standing on the edge looking down into the darkness of the sinkhole. Once the rescuers stopped searching, The Husband hired a contractor to fill the hole, but The Mother would have nothing to do with that. She wanted it to remain open. She still believed The Daughter would emerge unscathed.
Best estimates provided that the depth of the sinkhole was over fifty feet deep, at minimum. They learned their land was built on top of an old iron mine. The ground had shifted and revealed a network of long-abandoned mine shafts.
“It’s dangerous. We need to fill it up.” He said to her one day while she stood looking down over the edge. He stood behind her and held her shoulders.
She shook her head. Tears dripped from her face and fell into the darkness.
***
“Do you hear that?”
The Mother looked at The Husband. It was dark in their bedroom. The lights were off inside the house. The Husband rubbed sleep from his eyes, sat up, and leaned over to turn on the bedside lamp.
His wife’s eyes were large and bright. She turned her head quickly, her hair whipped around her face. “Do you hear it?” She grabbed The Husband by the collar of his faded TOOL t-shirt.
“Hear what?”
“Pigs.”
The Husband frowned. He held up a hand to silence The Mother. He listened. There was the tick-tock of the antique clock in the living room just outside their bedroom. There was the whir of the air-conditioner. He focused his ears for anything that might sound out of the ordinary and jumped as the ice machine clinked out a fresh batch of cubes in the kitchen.
He shook his head. “I don’t hear anything. Can I go back to sleep now?”
The Mother nodded her head.
***
Time passed. The Mother's sleep grew restless. She often awoke to the squeal of pigs. They sounded both far away and nearby at the same time. She'd lay awake with her glassy eyes trained on the popcorn ceiling. Sometimes she connected the dots on that ceiling and imagined the profile of The Daughter's face. The Daughter was never smiling. The little girl's mouth was always open wide in terror as she released a silent scream.
***
The Husband snored. The Mother did not mind. This helped her stay awake. She wanted to stay awake.
Once she knew The Husband was good and asleep, she slipped out of bed. She wrapped a robe around her shoulders and slunk her feet into a pair of flip flops she used as slippers. She walked slowly and carefully, not wanting to make any noise, trying her best to avoid the spots in the wood floor that creaked if stepped upon. She did not want to make a noise. She wanted to be alone.
The sound had been for her. The Mother was the only person The Daughter had told about Piggy. Piggy was waiting. Piggy would have answers.
She slipped out the door and into the humid night. A thin layer of fog clung to the overgrown lawn. She rushed towards the sinkhole.
She looked down over the edge.
A pig’s squeal rose up from the darkness to greet her. Tears fell down The Mother’s cheeks.
“I should have listened, baby. I should’ve come out and met Piggy for you like you asked. Why didn’t I listen?”
Clouds moved overhead. A shaft of moonlight revealed something on the edge of the sinkhole. The mother squatted down to see what it was.
She saw the splintered remains of a broken wooden spoon covered in dark stains.
The Mother reached for the spoon and held it in her hands. She imagined The Daughter’s final struggle.
A pig squealed and The Mother looked up. A large pig stood upright directly in front of her. The pig's eyes were endlessly dark. The beast’s chest and stomach were lined with swollen teats which seeped a dark liquid.
The Mother growled and ran at the beast. She stabbed and stabbed and pushed against the weight of the monster.
Earth shifted during their struggle.
The Mother slipped. She fell. The sinkhole ate her.
***
The Husband hired a new contractor. This time they filled the gaping hole in the yard without protest. It hurt The Husband too much to see the sinkhole. It was a constant reminder of good things lost.
One night he heard pigs squealing somewhere beneath him, somewhere deep down below. The sound made him shiver. He rolled over and went back to sleep by focusing his attention on the mundane reality surrounding him: the whir of the air conditioner, the song of crickets, the tick-tock of an antique clock, the fresh ice cubes crashing into their container. He knew these sounds. He understood them. He never was much of a dreamer. He thought the squeals were just his imagination – they had to be – but still the sound disturbed him. He eventually fell back to sleep that night, but the sounds continued.
Other oddities made themselves known. The sinkhole in the yard refused to be filled. Every few weeks another truckload of fresh dirt was needed to fill in the hungry hole.
One night his bedroom grew unnaturally quiet. He woke up alone in a pool of his own sweat. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom of his unlit room he could make out a shadow: the outline of a large hulking beast. In the cool blue glow of moonlight, he saw the impossible: a large sow with seeping teats. It stared at him with black, uncaring eyes. The Husband closed his own eyes. When he reopened them, the beast was gone. He heard the echo of a squeal.
The next morning, once fresh sunlight cast a measure of sanity onto the room around him, he washed a brown liquid out of his carpet where he told himself he had dreamed the figure of a beast stood the night before. He scrubbed and scrubbed and applied more stain remover. He spat into the rug and cursed the impossible stains that refused to be impossible and refused to let him forget.
Friday, October 22, 2010
The Problem With Folks These Days
I guess this is the type a story I expect you might not believe. In fact, I expect you might wonder if I actually believe it myself.
Well. I do.
It’s the kind of story that starts on a deserted road. That’s always where this type thing begins, ain’t it? And as you might expect, I was all alone. Just me and the trees and the sky and the asphalt beneath my Firestones.
I was down on Route 40 down past the city limits. I know this to be true because I remember all them potholes. I’ve gone back a time or two and those potholes don’t start up till you get past the city. I guess the state or the county or whoever don’t care much about the state of that road once it gets past where all them voters live. It ain’t used much, I know, but still, it just seems a waste to let a perfectly good road go outta shape thatta way. It’s just a dang shame. I never been much for letting things go to waste.
That’s the problem with folks these days. Everything’s disposable. Heck, just look at the divorce rate. Even spouses are disposable these days. Ain’t nothing sacred or meaningful anymore. It’s all just recyclable.
But,you know what? It really ain’t. Nothing’s recyclable. Once it becomes waste it’s waste and will always be waste and there ain’t nothing you nor no one else can do about it.
But people these days don’t think thatta way. Nothing’s worth preserving to this generation except maybe some danged old swampland or forest full a nothing but rodents and reptiles. I just don’t get folks these days. Animals and plants and stuff like that matter while people don’t? Seems a self-defeating philosophy the way I figure.
Anyway, everything made by us people is disposable. Or at least that’s the way most people think. But I don’t. I don’t think that at all. Just look at my truck. Now, I reckon to you it don’t look all that good. I’ll admit it was once much shinier than it is today. It don’t look much like it did off the lot thirty years ago. But, all the same, it’s a good truck. That commie Obama and his Washington cronies said they’d give me a tax credit for it if I traded it in a while back. My boy told me I should get one of them hybrids, can you believe that? But that’s just a waste. It’s been a dang good truck. It still is. It gets me where I need to be anyway. That’s all I ask for.
Besides, it’s packed full of memories. I know you don’t get that – the past don’t matter much to folks these days – but I can remember taking my wife and our oldest son home from the hospital in that truck. My boy had just been a little blue bundle at the time. He had the tiniest fingers. It’s hard to believe that anybody could ever be so small, but I guess we’re all tiny at one point or another the way I figure.
Some of us live our whole lives thatta way. Small, I mean. Some never want to grow. They live like children and die like children…
What’s that? You want me to get to the point? Dang it, I’m getting there! Just wait. Some things are worth waiting for. Now, I don’t know if the point, as you put it, is worth getting to or not. I reckon I got no way of knowing what you’ll feel or how. That just ain’t the way it goes, but all the same, sometimes it’s hard to know what to leave off and what to put into a story, you know what I mean?
No. I guess you wouldn’t. Your whole generation’s forgotten how to talk, I reckon. It’s all text this and email that. Sometimes there needs to be a little back and forth. You just can’t get that the same way on that there smart phone in your hand as you get it on a porch. I don’t know if it’s better or not. I don’t really care, but I know one thing: I’ve never had that carpal tunnel my boy got a year back. The Good Lord made us to talk with our mouths and not with our hands the way I figure.
Well, as I told you, I was out there in my truck. I was just taking a drive and hoping to catch a few catfish from a small pond down in the wildlife management area. There’s good fishing there at night, you know. I just toss out a few lines with some Oscar Myer’s and reel ‘em in till morning. The cats out there just love them hotdogs. But then again, catfish will eat just about anything, and I do mean anything.
That’s when I saw it. It came out of the water. Dangedest thing I ever did see. Like an octopus with the face and body of a man. Maybe I should say it looked like a man with a beard made out of squid. Hard to describe, he was. I studied him long and hard and think he had to be the most peculiar sight I ever did see.
Well, he came over and talked to me. I didn’t see his mouth move none, but I felt what he thought. He told me some of the craziest garbage I ever did hear. All about crumbling galaxies and hidden cities and people he called The Old Ones – they sounded kind a like politicians the way I figure – and he went on and on and on. He talked about worlds beyond worlds. I knew just by looking at him that he was crazy as a loon. Talking about other gods and such. That’s blasphemy the way I figure.
I told him I don’t believe in no God except the one I sing about on a Sunday.
The world kind of shimmered then and I saw things I reckon no man ought to see. I saw the sky itself as what it was. What it really was, I mean. He explained it in my head as the space between elements, whatever that’s supposed to mean. I tell you what it looked like. It looked like nothing at all. That’s the best way to describe it.
I told him that if that there was what he was selling I’d have none of it, and then I started telling him all that I thought was wrong with the world.
Eventually, he just left. He just up and walked into that nothing space and kind of drifted apart. He held his hands over his ears as he walked away.
That’s what’s wrong with folks these days, the way I figure. They just don’t want to listen. Let me tell you, there was this one boy who…
Hey! Where ya going? You ain’t even finished your tea!
Young people today just let everything go to waste, I tell you...
Well. I do.
It’s the kind of story that starts on a deserted road. That’s always where this type thing begins, ain’t it? And as you might expect, I was all alone. Just me and the trees and the sky and the asphalt beneath my Firestones.
I was down on Route 40 down past the city limits. I know this to be true because I remember all them potholes. I’ve gone back a time or two and those potholes don’t start up till you get past the city. I guess the state or the county or whoever don’t care much about the state of that road once it gets past where all them voters live. It ain’t used much, I know, but still, it just seems a waste to let a perfectly good road go outta shape thatta way. It’s just a dang shame. I never been much for letting things go to waste.
That’s the problem with folks these days. Everything’s disposable. Heck, just look at the divorce rate. Even spouses are disposable these days. Ain’t nothing sacred or meaningful anymore. It’s all just recyclable.
But,you know what? It really ain’t. Nothing’s recyclable. Once it becomes waste it’s waste and will always be waste and there ain’t nothing you nor no one else can do about it.
But people these days don’t think thatta way. Nothing’s worth preserving to this generation except maybe some danged old swampland or forest full a nothing but rodents and reptiles. I just don’t get folks these days. Animals and plants and stuff like that matter while people don’t? Seems a self-defeating philosophy the way I figure.
Anyway, everything made by us people is disposable. Or at least that’s the way most people think. But I don’t. I don’t think that at all. Just look at my truck. Now, I reckon to you it don’t look all that good. I’ll admit it was once much shinier than it is today. It don’t look much like it did off the lot thirty years ago. But, all the same, it’s a good truck. That commie Obama and his Washington cronies said they’d give me a tax credit for it if I traded it in a while back. My boy told me I should get one of them hybrids, can you believe that? But that’s just a waste. It’s been a dang good truck. It still is. It gets me where I need to be anyway. That’s all I ask for.
Besides, it’s packed full of memories. I know you don’t get that – the past don’t matter much to folks these days – but I can remember taking my wife and our oldest son home from the hospital in that truck. My boy had just been a little blue bundle at the time. He had the tiniest fingers. It’s hard to believe that anybody could ever be so small, but I guess we’re all tiny at one point or another the way I figure.
Some of us live our whole lives thatta way. Small, I mean. Some never want to grow. They live like children and die like children…
What’s that? You want me to get to the point? Dang it, I’m getting there! Just wait. Some things are worth waiting for. Now, I don’t know if the point, as you put it, is worth getting to or not. I reckon I got no way of knowing what you’ll feel or how. That just ain’t the way it goes, but all the same, sometimes it’s hard to know what to leave off and what to put into a story, you know what I mean?
No. I guess you wouldn’t. Your whole generation’s forgotten how to talk, I reckon. It’s all text this and email that. Sometimes there needs to be a little back and forth. You just can’t get that the same way on that there smart phone in your hand as you get it on a porch. I don’t know if it’s better or not. I don’t really care, but I know one thing: I’ve never had that carpal tunnel my boy got a year back. The Good Lord made us to talk with our mouths and not with our hands the way I figure.
Well, as I told you, I was out there in my truck. I was just taking a drive and hoping to catch a few catfish from a small pond down in the wildlife management area. There’s good fishing there at night, you know. I just toss out a few lines with some Oscar Myer’s and reel ‘em in till morning. The cats out there just love them hotdogs. But then again, catfish will eat just about anything, and I do mean anything.
That’s when I saw it. It came out of the water. Dangedest thing I ever did see. Like an octopus with the face and body of a man. Maybe I should say it looked like a man with a beard made out of squid. Hard to describe, he was. I studied him long and hard and think he had to be the most peculiar sight I ever did see.
Well, he came over and talked to me. I didn’t see his mouth move none, but I felt what he thought. He told me some of the craziest garbage I ever did hear. All about crumbling galaxies and hidden cities and people he called The Old Ones – they sounded kind a like politicians the way I figure – and he went on and on and on. He talked about worlds beyond worlds. I knew just by looking at him that he was crazy as a loon. Talking about other gods and such. That’s blasphemy the way I figure.
I told him I don’t believe in no God except the one I sing about on a Sunday.
The world kind of shimmered then and I saw things I reckon no man ought to see. I saw the sky itself as what it was. What it really was, I mean. He explained it in my head as the space between elements, whatever that’s supposed to mean. I tell you what it looked like. It looked like nothing at all. That’s the best way to describe it.
I told him that if that there was what he was selling I’d have none of it, and then I started telling him all that I thought was wrong with the world.
Eventually, he just left. He just up and walked into that nothing space and kind of drifted apart. He held his hands over his ears as he walked away.
That’s what’s wrong with folks these days, the way I figure. They just don’t want to listen. Let me tell you, there was this one boy who…
Hey! Where ya going? You ain’t even finished your tea!
Young people today just let everything go to waste, I tell you...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
