Hic Iacet Occam's Razor (LJi s8e9)
Dead air coalesced with the murder holes between farmed pines, their trunks deftly delving into a rich stygian loam. The small pulp spaces between each row allowed for only glimpses of the sun's gleam. An outlying fragrance of wood smoke softly permeated the windows and doors of the roomy vehicle. The apricot vault of the heaven rained a bright terra-colored glow over the sullen scrutiny of the front seat.
Jeremy's fingers itched along the edges of an elaborate digital camera, his eyes lightened by the expiring eventide. His last classes meandered into agony as he waited for this instant, this time, this trip. Merely ten minutes outside the city limits, his driver appreciated the break outside of their routine to the unknown wilderness around their town.
Murders of listless carrion-crow retreated from bittersweet, peach plasters of sky to roost, blotting out the dying throes of a fleeing star. The birds were cockroaches of the welkin; swarms of flying ants marching over an orange lawn back to their hill. The myriad of buzzards prophesied the middle of deer hunting season and the mountains of fresh carcasses. They soared at the smell of blood and entrails left by men with large rifles and sought refuge only at night. Dawn would bring new meals and scents upon sharper senses, supplied freely by so-called higher beasts that spit fire.
Sharpening his eyes over the birds' trajectory, he saw the premier wisps of smoke to accompany the aroma, compelling him to grimace with a fold of his arms. "Is there a problem?" queried the driver.
"Blood and smoke," Jeremy's seething voice spewed from gritted teeth. "Don't know the head allowed per hunter this year. Not that it matters. They'll kill all they want if the numbers are high and they can hide it. Only the stupid get caught by wardens."
"Why is hunting so big down here?" his driver asked in sincere curiosity. Harry was a rare oddity to Jeremy; a city slicker who moved to a rinky-dink suburb to attend a community college. Hunting season was nothing new, but outsiders couldn't conceive the cascades of claret cast during that yearly quarter.
"It's tradition. We build up so they adapt and grow smaller and smaller, overpopulating. Then we set our numbers pretty wide and sell the ammunition, calling it preservation. The meat's not bad, but it reeks of good ole American gun worship."
"Preservation?"
"Yeah, like it ain't a thing. I've seen it my entire life. Watch drinking with hunters in the offseason, too. I rode out with a guy, mid-thirties, went to church with him, knew him my entire life, and he liked to supply minors. So, he had his rifle strapped behind my seat in a Jeep. We're off drinking in the woods, avoiding police, and as the headlights caught a deer, the thing froze and that crazy bastard just draws his rifle out from behind me and blows the damn deer's head off. It was the middle of July. Since then, I'm busy if he's asking."
"Huh..."
Silence filled the transport as the driver shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His compatriot merely stared out the window, pondering the clouds above the trees. His throat pleaded for nicotine at the sky's suggestion, eliciting Jeremy to light a cigarette with a popping of his neck. The automatic window cracked with a boney finger depressing the button. Air allowed a woodsier flavor in and cigarette smoke out. In his abeyance, the wayfarer finally asked the driver a simple question: "Do you actually believe in ghosts?"
"Not sure. Never seen any proof, if that's what you mean. But anything is possible."
Jeremy stopped, rolling the filter of his butt in his fingers; the white fluff stained a deep brown with tar. "...I keep hoping I'll see proof."
"Wouldn't that be something? If the Mansvale Lights were actually proven an unexplainable phenomenon..."
"Yeah...it would be."
Gravel was flung from the tires of the white mini-SUV halting at the soft shoulders of an outer rural highway. Harry carried the air of a conscientious observer, the wide eyes of a tourist with the caution of a child in a tall land; his passenger was more grizzled and uncaring, bearing his weight in his shoulders draped in a wool overcoat that seemed more at home in a Humphrey Bogart movie. The click of doors and seat belts released the two to a southeastern back-country. Bags shouldered and a fresh cigarette lit for Jeremy, the footing over a worn trail led them to their groundwork of setting up a telescope, camera and laptop, nods passed from driver and gloomy companion. A 3G tablet joined forces with their computer, cuing up an amateur video.
"Well, Harry," the somber gentleman said with his lips clutching a cigarette. Jeremy's nimble pointer finger unlocked the iPad and tapped over the screen in succession. "What we're working with is this video from last fall as cut and aired for television. I need you to get the filters and base spectrometer ready, just in case. Chances are, it'll be just like last time, though."
"Yeah...hunting snipe," Harry replied, peering at a dark, grainy clip detailing an amateur spectator catching a disembodied ghost light. Each ball appeared as celestial fireflies of reds, blues, purples and whites, dancing in the distance like intangible druids worshipping the forest from the confines of the film. With a jerky edit, a science fiction show seemed to "explore" the amateur ghost light video, coming to the decision that it wasn't faked, implying a supernatural origin.
The impassive Jeremy snorted derisively at the sensationalized conclusion, turning back to his agent. "This is...just about the same place as the video, in relation to that Adopt-a-Highway sign," Jeremy points at the screen. "Anyway...everything ready?"
"We're rolling," said Harry with a nod.
The stakeout was a brutal test of endurance. Jeremy watched the impending night and the looming flock flying overhead, heralding death and decay as brought by his species. Half an hour of recording passed in silence. It felt such a fool's mission, hunting for ghosts in the information age; who would waste their time? The man in the longcoat's heart sunk, so lost in his thoughts. There were many things he didn't understand; his mind resisted them all within the restrictions of logic. In the smallest margin within his soul, he wished to be rewarded for his internment.
Constellations patiently stood in astral line, waiting for their moment to shine as Jeremy stomped out his third cigarette. Looking fixedly on the ground, he felt the hairs on his neck stand with Harry's abrupt piercing gasp. Arching his point of view while rallying his nerve, Jeremy gazed into swirls of blue, red, purple, and white. His trench-clad chest beat with the brightening of his heart. A young man suddenly felt so small but validated, learning that the answer wasn't 42. There was a plan. Even his small college-born life was a part of nature's design.
"We're recording?" Jeremy calmly, serenely asked.
Harry nodded, "Yeah. It looks exactly like seconds 48 through minutes one and 23 seconds on the initial Youtube video. Pay-dirt."
With a flip of a switch, the usually indifferent young Jeremy stepped up to the telescope with his partner manning their laptop. At first glance, the optical filter froze in place to match the stopping of Jeremy's heart. Through perception, levels, and lenses, he made out the headlights and blaring lightbar of a highway patrol man plowing down the highway.
"I'll be damned..." Jeremy muttered, stepping aside to allow his partner a look. His frame felt heavier than a fortress with feet lighter than air. The dizzying spell pulled his head earthward as he leaned against a tree away from his friend to hide the tears in his eyes. His frown of infinite sadness depleted the thrill of the hunt. The budding detective felt as though he'd cut the cheek of God, as if their work were an affront on creation.
"Ah. The distortion was probably heat. Maybe Ponzo illusion or the stability of the inversion layer. The baseline agrees that it's manmade light."
"Yeah," Jeremy concurred. "I think we have all we need," he spoke, sliding the tablet back into his shoulder bag as his bearings returned with a hefty sigh.
The drive home was halted by an emergency blockade routing a detour away from a wildfire raging through parts of the southern swamps. The day's earlier prescribed burnings had gone horribly amiss. Hope was destroyed by man's intervention and the trees salvation had become their undoing by the ignition of nitrogen-rich peat that would burn for months. The buzzards knew death was all that mankind had to give as their wings beat over soot-flaked wind. Deep in the south, belief and tree were destroyed together, consumed entirely, leaving only ash and disappointment in their wake.
Author's Notes: This entry, Hic Iacet Occam's Razor (Here Lies Occam's Razor), is for a writing contest.
Jeremy's fingers itched along the edges of an elaborate digital camera, his eyes lightened by the expiring eventide. His last classes meandered into agony as he waited for this instant, this time, this trip. Merely ten minutes outside the city limits, his driver appreciated the break outside of their routine to the unknown wilderness around their town.
Murders of listless carrion-crow retreated from bittersweet, peach plasters of sky to roost, blotting out the dying throes of a fleeing star. The birds were cockroaches of the welkin; swarms of flying ants marching over an orange lawn back to their hill. The myriad of buzzards prophesied the middle of deer hunting season and the mountains of fresh carcasses. They soared at the smell of blood and entrails left by men with large rifles and sought refuge only at night. Dawn would bring new meals and scents upon sharper senses, supplied freely by so-called higher beasts that spit fire.
Sharpening his eyes over the birds' trajectory, he saw the premier wisps of smoke to accompany the aroma, compelling him to grimace with a fold of his arms. "Is there a problem?" queried the driver.
"Blood and smoke," Jeremy's seething voice spewed from gritted teeth. "Don't know the head allowed per hunter this year. Not that it matters. They'll kill all they want if the numbers are high and they can hide it. Only the stupid get caught by wardens."
"Why is hunting so big down here?" his driver asked in sincere curiosity. Harry was a rare oddity to Jeremy; a city slicker who moved to a rinky-dink suburb to attend a community college. Hunting season was nothing new, but outsiders couldn't conceive the cascades of claret cast during that yearly quarter.
"It's tradition. We build up so they adapt and grow smaller and smaller, overpopulating. Then we set our numbers pretty wide and sell the ammunition, calling it preservation. The meat's not bad, but it reeks of good ole American gun worship."
"Preservation?"
"Yeah, like it ain't a thing. I've seen it my entire life. Watch drinking with hunters in the offseason, too. I rode out with a guy, mid-thirties, went to church with him, knew him my entire life, and he liked to supply minors. So, he had his rifle strapped behind my seat in a Jeep. We're off drinking in the woods, avoiding police, and as the headlights caught a deer, the thing froze and that crazy bastard just draws his rifle out from behind me and blows the damn deer's head off. It was the middle of July. Since then, I'm busy if he's asking."
"Huh..."
Silence filled the transport as the driver shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His compatriot merely stared out the window, pondering the clouds above the trees. His throat pleaded for nicotine at the sky's suggestion, eliciting Jeremy to light a cigarette with a popping of his neck. The automatic window cracked with a boney finger depressing the button. Air allowed a woodsier flavor in and cigarette smoke out. In his abeyance, the wayfarer finally asked the driver a simple question: "Do you actually believe in ghosts?"
"Not sure. Never seen any proof, if that's what you mean. But anything is possible."
Jeremy stopped, rolling the filter of his butt in his fingers; the white fluff stained a deep brown with tar. "...I keep hoping I'll see proof."
"Wouldn't that be something? If the Mansvale Lights were actually proven an unexplainable phenomenon..."
"Yeah...it would be."
Gravel was flung from the tires of the white mini-SUV halting at the soft shoulders of an outer rural highway. Harry carried the air of a conscientious observer, the wide eyes of a tourist with the caution of a child in a tall land; his passenger was more grizzled and uncaring, bearing his weight in his shoulders draped in a wool overcoat that seemed more at home in a Humphrey Bogart movie. The click of doors and seat belts released the two to a southeastern back-country. Bags shouldered and a fresh cigarette lit for Jeremy, the footing over a worn trail led them to their groundwork of setting up a telescope, camera and laptop, nods passed from driver and gloomy companion. A 3G tablet joined forces with their computer, cuing up an amateur video.
"Well, Harry," the somber gentleman said with his lips clutching a cigarette. Jeremy's nimble pointer finger unlocked the iPad and tapped over the screen in succession. "What we're working with is this video from last fall as cut and aired for television. I need you to get the filters and base spectrometer ready, just in case. Chances are, it'll be just like last time, though."
"Yeah...hunting snipe," Harry replied, peering at a dark, grainy clip detailing an amateur spectator catching a disembodied ghost light. Each ball appeared as celestial fireflies of reds, blues, purples and whites, dancing in the distance like intangible druids worshipping the forest from the confines of the film. With a jerky edit, a science fiction show seemed to "explore" the amateur ghost light video, coming to the decision that it wasn't faked, implying a supernatural origin.
The impassive Jeremy snorted derisively at the sensationalized conclusion, turning back to his agent. "This is...just about the same place as the video, in relation to that Adopt-a-Highway sign," Jeremy points at the screen. "Anyway...everything ready?"
"We're rolling," said Harry with a nod.
The stakeout was a brutal test of endurance. Jeremy watched the impending night and the looming flock flying overhead, heralding death and decay as brought by his species. Half an hour of recording passed in silence. It felt such a fool's mission, hunting for ghosts in the information age; who would waste their time? The man in the longcoat's heart sunk, so lost in his thoughts. There were many things he didn't understand; his mind resisted them all within the restrictions of logic. In the smallest margin within his soul, he wished to be rewarded for his internment.
Constellations patiently stood in astral line, waiting for their moment to shine as Jeremy stomped out his third cigarette. Looking fixedly on the ground, he felt the hairs on his neck stand with Harry's abrupt piercing gasp. Arching his point of view while rallying his nerve, Jeremy gazed into swirls of blue, red, purple, and white. His trench-clad chest beat with the brightening of his heart. A young man suddenly felt so small but validated, learning that the answer wasn't 42. There was a plan. Even his small college-born life was a part of nature's design.
"We're recording?" Jeremy calmly, serenely asked.
Harry nodded, "Yeah. It looks exactly like seconds 48 through minutes one and 23 seconds on the initial Youtube video. Pay-dirt."
With a flip of a switch, the usually indifferent young Jeremy stepped up to the telescope with his partner manning their laptop. At first glance, the optical filter froze in place to match the stopping of Jeremy's heart. Through perception, levels, and lenses, he made out the headlights and blaring lightbar of a highway patrol man plowing down the highway.
"I'll be damned..." Jeremy muttered, stepping aside to allow his partner a look. His frame felt heavier than a fortress with feet lighter than air. The dizzying spell pulled his head earthward as he leaned against a tree away from his friend to hide the tears in his eyes. His frown of infinite sadness depleted the thrill of the hunt. The budding detective felt as though he'd cut the cheek of God, as if their work were an affront on creation.
"Ah. The distortion was probably heat. Maybe Ponzo illusion or the stability of the inversion layer. The baseline agrees that it's manmade light."
"Yeah," Jeremy concurred. "I think we have all we need," he spoke, sliding the tablet back into his shoulder bag as his bearings returned with a hefty sigh.
The drive home was halted by an emergency blockade routing a detour away from a wildfire raging through parts of the southern swamps. The day's earlier prescribed burnings had gone horribly amiss. Hope was destroyed by man's intervention and the trees salvation had become their undoing by the ignition of nitrogen-rich peat that would burn for months. The buzzards knew death was all that mankind had to give as their wings beat over soot-flaked wind. Deep in the south, belief and tree were destroyed together, consumed entirely, leaving only ash and disappointment in their wake.
Author's Notes: This entry, Hic Iacet Occam's Razor (Here Lies Occam's Razor), is for a writing contest.