Multiple stories
Another World
My pulse beat out a steady rhythm as the chair back dug uncomfortably into my spine. Mechanical voices droned from the speaker of the television. Only one speaker, the bane of movies that require stereo sound. The keyboard keys click redundantly, each key rising and falling, making a sound all its own, though all too similar to the other keys. The only distinguishable sound the space bar. It clicks its very own sound, changing the sounds of the rhythm, varying and breaking the monotony of the clicks. The computer hums out the mechanical whisper of technology, and though the room is silent, the voice of the television reminds me that true solitude is a thing of the past. Everywhere you go you can plug in to some form of media to embrace you with the company of other humans, whether real or pretended. It is impossible to be alone. Quietly, I push the power button, and the television protests in the form of an electric whimper, but the plea goes unheeded. The pages of a book, the forgotten media, whisper their peaceful beckon. In the aftermath of the television’s death rests only silence and the persistent tug of the book, unopened on my shelf and staring at me. Without trepidation, I reach for this timeless form of entertainment, and slip into another world
Another Time
Screams ripped me from my bed, the open window pouring sunlight onto my eyelids. I rose, moving across the short room to peer out the window at the park across the street. A dog barked and a child screamed. Recess. Every Wednesday, the shouts of children pull me from my bed and drag me across the room to look at them. Children, enjoying games that only they can fathom. Running and jumping. Dodging invisible swords and making the sound effects that fit a massive battle best. Two young boys run around, swinging their arms about them, crying out occasionally, warning one another of an impending doom before an enemy soldier. One boy quickly moves up the slide, arms akimbo and gestures to his friend. I turn from the window and prepare for life as a student, more complicated than the carefree days of full-scale battle.
Summer’s End
Four different laughs permeate the air, the different tempo, pitch and meter of each lending to a singular discordant harmony given rhythm by the dying wails of the burning log. Three hot dogs, skewered by sticks, sizzle out protest as they dangle precariously above flames constantly licking their undersides. A fourth stick tentatively withdraws from the fire, the cylinder of animal byproduct on the end having tumbled off of it moments before to join its two companions beneath the shelter of the log. As if to ensure its safety, the hot dog rolls in the ashes before bumping into its comrades. Ryan’s third attempt is a failure, and he concedes defeat, taking a seat and soaking in, with good humor, laughter at his expense.
There is no music playing this evening, as we bask in the glow of a floodlight, and absorb the heat of a fire in a barrel. This is odd, but strangely right. Our voices are all the music we need, for they are what is familiar.
My hot dog is the next to exit the flames. Brian’s follows. Only Jeremy remains. I note with no small irony that this is the order in which this will end.
Solitude and Spray Bottle Storms
There was a time when I would retreat to the forest behind my house, flee to the creek to hide. I liked the woods. It was safe there, because it was just me. A comfort existed in the forest when there was nothing but the trees and myself. The creek whispered soft words to the forest as I would sit, enjoying the company of the pines and maples.
*
A fake tree sat in the living room. A base for G.I. Joes. Jeremy and I would play there, and construct elaborate storylines. Believable storylines, such as the man who was possessed by demons, and the only way to save him was to kill the Cobra Commander. We would invent weather patterns to fit the mood of the story, and when it rained, our mother would get angry at us for getting the hardwood floors wet. We couldn’t help it, though. We weren’t weather forecasters, so we couldn’t plan wars only on days that it didn’t rain. It just happened.
*
My mother once told me of her old home. She told me about the day when it only rained on one side of the street, and the water run-off caused a lady’s front yard to bubble up like a trampoline. She told me that she and the other neighborhood kids used to play on it, and that it lasted for a week. When she speaks of this, I can see a glint in her eyes that the working world seems to have attempted to steal from her. She leaves, when she speaks of this, and though you can’t see where she went, you can tell that she’s glad she’s gone there.
Random words
“You’re late.” The words reverberated through the room for a number of minutes as Dellen stepped into the room. He brought a hand up to rake paint-splattered fingertips back through his matted brown hair.
“Well…there’s a reason for that,” He began, though he was curtailed before he could finish his thought.
“I know. You’re always on about this or that, you’re so absorbed in your work that you lose all track of time. You know, it’s the kind of thing that used to really draw me to you, but now it’s just pushing me away. You really need to get your shit together, Dellen, and get your priorities straight.”
Dellen hesitated for a moment, unsure as to how to answer, insecure with any answer he could give. He’d always felt undeserving of Katrina, and it had always seemed too good to last, and finally his fears were coming to fruition. “I know, I really need to work on that, I’ve been trying, though…the painting is only half-done still, you know I don’t leave mid-painting,”
“I know, and I’m flattered. I really am, but I just don’t see this working between us, because I need structure, and it’s a completely foreign concept to you.”
“But I’ve been doing my best to fix that-“
“And you’ve been doing your best for as long as I’ve known you, and frankly, Dellen, your best just isn’t working for me. I’m sorry, but you’ve had your chance…more than you probably should have, and God only knows why I’ve been sticking around waiting for you, but I’m done with that, now.” Dellen stood, shocked, dragging his hands along his paint-stained khakis as Katrina rose to leave. “I should have listened to my family, but I thought that you would be different. That there was a chance for you, but now I see that I was wrong. I’m sorry Dellen, but I just can’t handle this. I can’t stand living off of the income that we have. I need someone stable, Dellen.”
Addled, Dellen stood in the center of the room as Katrina left. He remained silent for moments, long after she left, before he finally mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”
The Want-Ad
The wind bit into Druitt’s face as he stepped from the front stoop onto the sidewalk of the teeming streets. His long dark hair was cast wildly about his face, though he minded not, as he had put little time into styling it. He would simply step out of the shower and let it dry. There were days when he would regret this, and by the icy chill of the breeze he had felt, it seemed that this was going to be one of those days.
A bicyclist cursed at him as he haphazardly stepped from the front step onto the sidewalk, nearly causing the two to collide. Momentarily he was startled, instinct propelling his hands upwards to protect his face, though the moment passed and the bicyclist continued on his way. He wore his finest clothes today, which admittedly were not the best that money could buy, though with his limited budget it would have to make do. The streets were brimming with motion at this early hour, he realized, as often he would still be in bed while the work crowd bustled about on the city streets.
In the distance, it seemed that he heard the faintest whisper of a voice, hardly audible at this point, though the voice was ever-present. You will fail. No matter how hard he tried, the voice remained engrained in his mind, so deeply entrenched in his being that the weeks of treatment he had been receiving for his disorder had not yet been able to eliminate it. The voice was growing fainter, though, and Druitt was able to function as a normal member of society, no longer crippled by his illness.
His gaze alighted on a public trash can that resided just across the sidewalk from the front steps of his apartment building, and he watched a scrap of newspaper waving in the wind. The trash can was full, and the streets were full, and momentarily vertigo struck Druitt as he grew claustrophobic from all of the noise and life surrounding him and pervading the slim roads betwixt the towering buildings. Deep breaths beat back the claustrophobia, and Druitt’s eyes shifted to look at the crumpled classified ad of a newspaper he had found nearly a week ago. This, his invitation in hand, he quickly submersed himself in one of the streams of pedestrian motion and allowed himself to be swept off by the current, simply another passerby, devoid of his individuality. His destination was the address scrawled quickly on the back of the fragment of paper as he moved towards an interview for an apartment. Glad to leave his old, roach-infested apartment behind, he relished the first steps that his semi-recovery permitted him to make.
Kilroy
Matt stooped to pick up a rock, looking out at the creek for a moment, before turning his gaze to examine the cracks of the rock that rested in his hand. “I still don’t understand,” he spoke, after a moment, flicking his arm forward and sending the rock skipping across the water, coming to ground beside a foraging squirrel who promptly scurried off, abandoning the task he had been working so hard to accomplish. Matt’s gaze traced after it for a moment, watching the squirrel quickly ascend a tree, before breathing in the thick scent of decaying leaves, and pulling a hand up to rake across his forehead to remove the sweat from his brow.
“What don’t you understand?” asked the dark figure standing at his side. His dark hair hung down into his face as he pulled his trench coat tighter about him, oblivious to the oppressive heat that pervaded the forest around him. He’d evaluated the question and had his own assumptions as to the direction that the question would take, and drew his coat towards him in response. He didn’t like answering questions; much less questions that were difficult and had answers that people didn’t like to hear. In the best of times, Hamlet was very soft spoken, though, and to elicit any response at all from him, beyond the few words he would use in response to questions was a feat indeed. Fortunately, Matt knew enough about Hamlet to get him to say more than a few words.
“Well, what gets to me is that there’s supposedly a big ineffable plan. But parts of it just don’t really make sense. I mean, I know it’s all supposed to work out in the end, but I’m not sure that I can ever understand what leads up to the end,” he took a slow step back, turning to face Hamlet, shifting his attention from the water before him. “More specifically, why is it that certain people have to be unhappy in the process of getting to the end before it all works out?” He hesitated, “I mean, I guess that’s the part that doesn’t quite make sense to me.”
Hamlet paused as though considering the question, though Matt knew Hamlet well enough by this point to know that the only reason Hamlet was doing this was to make him feel as though he had asked a question that Hamlet hadn’t been anticipating. It was frustrating sometimes, but Matt rather appreciated the bond that they shared. He nodded his head slowly, as though he had finally arrived at an answer, before he began to walk off in the other direction. The forest slowly fell away, fading from perception and beginning to change and warp. In a few moments, the forest had vanished completely, and the soft earth had been replaced by the dark blacktop of paved road. It was dark, and a thin film of water coated everything, remnants of a storm passed.
“Damn it, Hamlet! Why don’t you ever tell me when you’re about to do that? It’s very disorienting to be in one place, and before you know it, you’re standing…” His voice trailed off for a moment as he looked about, taking in his surroundings. “And you’re standing in the middle of the street at night. We should move to the sidewalk, at least.”
Hamlet remained silent for a moment, considering Matt’s request, his mind dwelling on that which Matt had asked him to do. Hamlet decided that Matt was simply being sarcastic, as Matt was often wont to do. Even so, he figured it would be best to clarify issues such as these, “You don’t really want anything damned, do you?”
Matt watched him, blinking as realization set in, before he shook his head slowly. “Hamlet, if I didn’t know you any better, I’d say that was an attempt at sarcasm. What are we doing here?”
Hamlet watched Matt for a moment, before finally responding, “This way,” he spoke, walking off down the nearest street, turning through an alleyway, turning again. Matt followed, simply trusting in Hamlet’s sense of direction, though he himself had gotten quickly lost after only a few turns. “I really don’t know why that’s part of the plan,” said Hamlet, finally returning to the question Matt had posed earlier, “That’s a big part of the reason I ended up here-I could never understand that part, I mean, everyone might as well be happy on their way through life…” his voice trailed off for a moment, before returning, “It’s the flawless plan, though, and I dared to question it, so now I’m stuck down here with all of you.”
“All merciful is He?” asked Matt, sardonically.
“Now that was something that It never claimed. Your species made that bit up. It sounds nice, though, doesn’t it?”
“…Yeah.”
Hamlet finally came to a stop on a corner, bringing a hand up to lean against a street light which showcased a brightly glowing orange hand, signifying that it was not safe to cross the street here. Hamlet paused for a moment, watching the flashing sign while suppressing a yawn, as Matt attempted to acclimate himself with his surroundings. The sign changed, though, and Hamlet began to cross the street where permitted. “We’re here,” he said, before looking around him slowly, attempting to discern where he needed to go from here.
“Where exactly is here?” asked Matt, trying to figure out where he was. He looked at a street sign for a moment; though found that the letters were unusually difficult to read. Frowning, he looked back towards Hamlet.
“Does that really matter? We’re here, where we’ve always been.”
A violent, rasping cough came from a nearby alley, and Matt heard the sound of liquid hitting pavement in the aftermath, as the coughing man struggled to catch his breath. A retching sound that seemed to drag on forever, then another choking noise. Matt shuddered. “I’ll wait here,” he spoke at least, as Hamlet began to head towards the mouth of the alley.
Matt remained silent for many moments as he sat, growing oblivious to his surroundings and allowing his thoughts to carry him elsewhere, as he waited for Hamlet. Hamlet vanished into the darkness, and Matt could hear the sounds of Hamlet administering to the man in the alley, and said nothing. He stayed like this for a timeless eternity, his breath condensing in the air upon its release from his mouth. Time passed that Matt was only dimly aware of, before Hamlet finally returned, wiping his hands on a white handkerchief before setting it down on the ground. Matt’s gaze trailed the movement, and paused briefly to dwell on the blood that now stained the kerchief. For a moment he thought he saw an image in the bloodstains-some divine picture that completely eluded his limited knowledge of religion. “Are you allowed to do that?”
Hamlet looked at him, shocked for a moment, “Do what?”
Matt looked at the kerchief for a moment, “Leave a trace of yourself? I mean, doesn’t your touch change things?” He paused, walking over to the handkerchief, stooping to pick it up, “I mean, I know it says something.” For emphasis to his point, Matt opened the kerchief to reveal symbols scribed in blood on the inside. He looked at them for a moment, before he looked to Hamlet, “What’s it say?”
“Koko ni imashita,” spoke Hamlet guiltily, “…It’s Japanese.”
Matt watched Hamlet, still waiting for an answer, the look on his face indicating impatience. “I don’t speak Japanese.”
Hamlet sighed in exasperation, “Why does it matter what it says? It’s such a trivial focus…Yes, it says something, but…” His voice trailed off as he stumbled over his words. “It says ‘I was here’. Well…more or less.”
Matt simply nodded, then began walking again. “I don’t understand why you do that.”
“Well, it’s a subtle act of defiance. I’m doomed to wander the earth without ever lying down to rest, ever sitting down, or ever leaving a sign of my existence. It’s become a popular thing to do, so people shouldn’t think much of it.-“
“No…no, that wasn’t what I meant, but since we’re on the subject, it’s no longer a popular thing to do…it was simply a novelty. And people will notice a bloody handkerchief that has writing on it. And it isn’t very far from a corpse, at that.”
Hamlet sighed, though Matt continued, “Back to my other question, why do you do that? I mean, why do you stay with people when they’re dying?”
“When you die, do you want to be alone?” retorted Hamlet.
“Well, no, it’s nice to know that someone cares about you, I guess, but why don’t you just fix them? Why don’t you save them, and make them all better? I know it hurts watching people die alone all the time.”
“I’m not that kind of angel,” Hamlet spoke softly, “I’ve fallen.”
Matt nodded, but didn’t drop the matter, “But it’s within your power, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” responded Hamlet, “But if I did that, I would be The Great Unmaker, and there are plans for another to do that.” He paused momentarily, looking at Matt, “Why don’t you do anything about it, though, if you hate seeing people suffer?”
“I don’t know, I think I just want to let life run its course.”
“Now think about that one,” spoke Hamlet again, “Can you really let it run its course if you’re the one determining it?”
Matt looked up, surprised, “You mean, I was right all along?”
Hamlet smiled and nodded, “Indeed you were, My Solipsist .”
And then there was nothing. Matt spoke a single word to the void. “Shit.”
The rain fell softly onto the parking lot beyond the window, beads of the water sticking to the glass for a momentary duration, before finally losing their grip and slipping down, trailing their path that it might be beheld by another before it was indistinguishable from the other drops that resided on the window. The grey sky and dingy parking lot contrasted starkly with the sterile white of the clinic. I watched as a drop impacted glass, and then gathered moisture slowly, before finally beginning its descent-slowly at first, then with rising speed as it collected more water, growing fatter with its gluttony, yet increasing its lifespan. Only the infrequent beeping of the heart monitor beside me broke the reverential silence. The trail slowly faded away, starting from the top down, leaving the small rivulet to break apart into smaller drops of water, marking only where the drop had once been and no longer remained. The trail was not to be forgotten, however, as with each drop of rain that trailed downwards along the glass, a residue remained. Blip. A residue that it carried down with it on its descent from the sky, before stopping to rest on the glass, before once more continuing on its path towards the ground. It was a scene of doleful beauty as each drop of water fell to the earth, leaving so little of itself behind to be remembered, though leaving a bit behind.
Blip. It fascinated me to observe this, that each individual drop seemed to change nothing, only leave a futile trail of residue behind as though to say that it was. That it existed, and it had an impact on things, but so rarely are these things noticed that the efforts of the raindrops are only performed in vain. Each rain drop so small and insignificant, yet, as a whole, important. When given mass and time, it was amazing to see the changes that rain could make to things. Erosion and floods. Such a small part of nature, so often overlooked, but so important and necessary to survival. There were, of course, always good rains and bad rains, and some times things needed to be changed, and sometimes things that shouldn’t have been changed simply were changed. Blip. There was no getting around it, and it was only a fact that had to be accepted. Was this, then, what life amounted to? Were we all just drops of rain on glass, leaving behind only a residue of ourselves on all that we have impacted? Is that our legacy? My mind dwelled on this for a moment as I listened to the rhythmic beating of the heart monitor of the comatose boy. Without words, I rose, leaving, as the monitor went flat, Matt’s heartbeat stopping.
Okay, so, if you read all of that, I know I've probably bored the crap out of all of you, and that's really been posted for my own sake, since I've had my computer crash before, and that's the best way I know to save them, since I lose disks. And that's what I've done for creative writing this semester. I've not posted the poetry, because, frankly, I know my poetry sucks. And I'm kind of upset today. Partly because I feel as though I was blown off, and, while this normally wouldn't have been a very big deal, I now have difficulty handling it, because Ryan wore out my tolerance for it, and I was given flashbacks of that. I know that the person responsible couldn't help it, and I know it was the result of miscommunication, and I'm not angry, just upset. Disappointed, I suppose. The only anger I feel is towards myself, because I'm so damn hypocritical. It's really not right, I suppose, but I can't help it. I know I'm being an asshole, too, and that upsets me. I'm trying, but it's not really working, I guess. I don't know.
My pulse beat out a steady rhythm as the chair back dug uncomfortably into my spine. Mechanical voices droned from the speaker of the television. Only one speaker, the bane of movies that require stereo sound. The keyboard keys click redundantly, each key rising and falling, making a sound all its own, though all too similar to the other keys. The only distinguishable sound the space bar. It clicks its very own sound, changing the sounds of the rhythm, varying and breaking the monotony of the clicks. The computer hums out the mechanical whisper of technology, and though the room is silent, the voice of the television reminds me that true solitude is a thing of the past. Everywhere you go you can plug in to some form of media to embrace you with the company of other humans, whether real or pretended. It is impossible to be alone. Quietly, I push the power button, and the television protests in the form of an electric whimper, but the plea goes unheeded. The pages of a book, the forgotten media, whisper their peaceful beckon. In the aftermath of the television’s death rests only silence and the persistent tug of the book, unopened on my shelf and staring at me. Without trepidation, I reach for this timeless form of entertainment, and slip into another world
Another Time
Screams ripped me from my bed, the open window pouring sunlight onto my eyelids. I rose, moving across the short room to peer out the window at the park across the street. A dog barked and a child screamed. Recess. Every Wednesday, the shouts of children pull me from my bed and drag me across the room to look at them. Children, enjoying games that only they can fathom. Running and jumping. Dodging invisible swords and making the sound effects that fit a massive battle best. Two young boys run around, swinging their arms about them, crying out occasionally, warning one another of an impending doom before an enemy soldier. One boy quickly moves up the slide, arms akimbo and gestures to his friend. I turn from the window and prepare for life as a student, more complicated than the carefree days of full-scale battle.
Summer’s End
Four different laughs permeate the air, the different tempo, pitch and meter of each lending to a singular discordant harmony given rhythm by the dying wails of the burning log. Three hot dogs, skewered by sticks, sizzle out protest as they dangle precariously above flames constantly licking their undersides. A fourth stick tentatively withdraws from the fire, the cylinder of animal byproduct on the end having tumbled off of it moments before to join its two companions beneath the shelter of the log. As if to ensure its safety, the hot dog rolls in the ashes before bumping into its comrades. Ryan’s third attempt is a failure, and he concedes defeat, taking a seat and soaking in, with good humor, laughter at his expense.
There is no music playing this evening, as we bask in the glow of a floodlight, and absorb the heat of a fire in a barrel. This is odd, but strangely right. Our voices are all the music we need, for they are what is familiar.
My hot dog is the next to exit the flames. Brian’s follows. Only Jeremy remains. I note with no small irony that this is the order in which this will end.
Solitude and Spray Bottle Storms
There was a time when I would retreat to the forest behind my house, flee to the creek to hide. I liked the woods. It was safe there, because it was just me. A comfort existed in the forest when there was nothing but the trees and myself. The creek whispered soft words to the forest as I would sit, enjoying the company of the pines and maples.
*
A fake tree sat in the living room. A base for G.I. Joes. Jeremy and I would play there, and construct elaborate storylines. Believable storylines, such as the man who was possessed by demons, and the only way to save him was to kill the Cobra Commander. We would invent weather patterns to fit the mood of the story, and when it rained, our mother would get angry at us for getting the hardwood floors wet. We couldn’t help it, though. We weren’t weather forecasters, so we couldn’t plan wars only on days that it didn’t rain. It just happened.
*
My mother once told me of her old home. She told me about the day when it only rained on one side of the street, and the water run-off caused a lady’s front yard to bubble up like a trampoline. She told me that she and the other neighborhood kids used to play on it, and that it lasted for a week. When she speaks of this, I can see a glint in her eyes that the working world seems to have attempted to steal from her. She leaves, when she speaks of this, and though you can’t see where she went, you can tell that she’s glad she’s gone there.
Random words
“You’re late.” The words reverberated through the room for a number of minutes as Dellen stepped into the room. He brought a hand up to rake paint-splattered fingertips back through his matted brown hair.
“Well…there’s a reason for that,” He began, though he was curtailed before he could finish his thought.
“I know. You’re always on about this or that, you’re so absorbed in your work that you lose all track of time. You know, it’s the kind of thing that used to really draw me to you, but now it’s just pushing me away. You really need to get your shit together, Dellen, and get your priorities straight.”
Dellen hesitated for a moment, unsure as to how to answer, insecure with any answer he could give. He’d always felt undeserving of Katrina, and it had always seemed too good to last, and finally his fears were coming to fruition. “I know, I really need to work on that, I’ve been trying, though…the painting is only half-done still, you know I don’t leave mid-painting,”
“I know, and I’m flattered. I really am, but I just don’t see this working between us, because I need structure, and it’s a completely foreign concept to you.”
“But I’ve been doing my best to fix that-“
“And you’ve been doing your best for as long as I’ve known you, and frankly, Dellen, your best just isn’t working for me. I’m sorry, but you’ve had your chance…more than you probably should have, and God only knows why I’ve been sticking around waiting for you, but I’m done with that, now.” Dellen stood, shocked, dragging his hands along his paint-stained khakis as Katrina rose to leave. “I should have listened to my family, but I thought that you would be different. That there was a chance for you, but now I see that I was wrong. I’m sorry Dellen, but I just can’t handle this. I can’t stand living off of the income that we have. I need someone stable, Dellen.”
Addled, Dellen stood in the center of the room as Katrina left. He remained silent for moments, long after she left, before he finally mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”
The Want-Ad
The wind bit into Druitt’s face as he stepped from the front stoop onto the sidewalk of the teeming streets. His long dark hair was cast wildly about his face, though he minded not, as he had put little time into styling it. He would simply step out of the shower and let it dry. There were days when he would regret this, and by the icy chill of the breeze he had felt, it seemed that this was going to be one of those days.
A bicyclist cursed at him as he haphazardly stepped from the front step onto the sidewalk, nearly causing the two to collide. Momentarily he was startled, instinct propelling his hands upwards to protect his face, though the moment passed and the bicyclist continued on his way. He wore his finest clothes today, which admittedly were not the best that money could buy, though with his limited budget it would have to make do. The streets were brimming with motion at this early hour, he realized, as often he would still be in bed while the work crowd bustled about on the city streets.
In the distance, it seemed that he heard the faintest whisper of a voice, hardly audible at this point, though the voice was ever-present. You will fail. No matter how hard he tried, the voice remained engrained in his mind, so deeply entrenched in his being that the weeks of treatment he had been receiving for his disorder had not yet been able to eliminate it. The voice was growing fainter, though, and Druitt was able to function as a normal member of society, no longer crippled by his illness.
His gaze alighted on a public trash can that resided just across the sidewalk from the front steps of his apartment building, and he watched a scrap of newspaper waving in the wind. The trash can was full, and the streets were full, and momentarily vertigo struck Druitt as he grew claustrophobic from all of the noise and life surrounding him and pervading the slim roads betwixt the towering buildings. Deep breaths beat back the claustrophobia, and Druitt’s eyes shifted to look at the crumpled classified ad of a newspaper he had found nearly a week ago. This, his invitation in hand, he quickly submersed himself in one of the streams of pedestrian motion and allowed himself to be swept off by the current, simply another passerby, devoid of his individuality. His destination was the address scrawled quickly on the back of the fragment of paper as he moved towards an interview for an apartment. Glad to leave his old, roach-infested apartment behind, he relished the first steps that his semi-recovery permitted him to make.
Kilroy
Matt stooped to pick up a rock, looking out at the creek for a moment, before turning his gaze to examine the cracks of the rock that rested in his hand. “I still don’t understand,” he spoke, after a moment, flicking his arm forward and sending the rock skipping across the water, coming to ground beside a foraging squirrel who promptly scurried off, abandoning the task he had been working so hard to accomplish. Matt’s gaze traced after it for a moment, watching the squirrel quickly ascend a tree, before breathing in the thick scent of decaying leaves, and pulling a hand up to rake across his forehead to remove the sweat from his brow.
“What don’t you understand?” asked the dark figure standing at his side. His dark hair hung down into his face as he pulled his trench coat tighter about him, oblivious to the oppressive heat that pervaded the forest around him. He’d evaluated the question and had his own assumptions as to the direction that the question would take, and drew his coat towards him in response. He didn’t like answering questions; much less questions that were difficult and had answers that people didn’t like to hear. In the best of times, Hamlet was very soft spoken, though, and to elicit any response at all from him, beyond the few words he would use in response to questions was a feat indeed. Fortunately, Matt knew enough about Hamlet to get him to say more than a few words.
“Well, what gets to me is that there’s supposedly a big ineffable plan. But parts of it just don’t really make sense. I mean, I know it’s all supposed to work out in the end, but I’m not sure that I can ever understand what leads up to the end,” he took a slow step back, turning to face Hamlet, shifting his attention from the water before him. “More specifically, why is it that certain people have to be unhappy in the process of getting to the end before it all works out?” He hesitated, “I mean, I guess that’s the part that doesn’t quite make sense to me.”
Hamlet paused as though considering the question, though Matt knew Hamlet well enough by this point to know that the only reason Hamlet was doing this was to make him feel as though he had asked a question that Hamlet hadn’t been anticipating. It was frustrating sometimes, but Matt rather appreciated the bond that they shared. He nodded his head slowly, as though he had finally arrived at an answer, before he began to walk off in the other direction. The forest slowly fell away, fading from perception and beginning to change and warp. In a few moments, the forest had vanished completely, and the soft earth had been replaced by the dark blacktop of paved road. It was dark, and a thin film of water coated everything, remnants of a storm passed.
“Damn it, Hamlet! Why don’t you ever tell me when you’re about to do that? It’s very disorienting to be in one place, and before you know it, you’re standing…” His voice trailed off for a moment as he looked about, taking in his surroundings. “And you’re standing in the middle of the street at night. We should move to the sidewalk, at least.”
Hamlet remained silent for a moment, considering Matt’s request, his mind dwelling on that which Matt had asked him to do. Hamlet decided that Matt was simply being sarcastic, as Matt was often wont to do. Even so, he figured it would be best to clarify issues such as these, “You don’t really want anything damned, do you?”
Matt watched him, blinking as realization set in, before he shook his head slowly. “Hamlet, if I didn’t know you any better, I’d say that was an attempt at sarcasm. What are we doing here?”
Hamlet watched Matt for a moment, before finally responding, “This way,” he spoke, walking off down the nearest street, turning through an alleyway, turning again. Matt followed, simply trusting in Hamlet’s sense of direction, though he himself had gotten quickly lost after only a few turns. “I really don’t know why that’s part of the plan,” said Hamlet, finally returning to the question Matt had posed earlier, “That’s a big part of the reason I ended up here-I could never understand that part, I mean, everyone might as well be happy on their way through life…” his voice trailed off for a moment, before returning, “It’s the flawless plan, though, and I dared to question it, so now I’m stuck down here with all of you.”
“All merciful is He?” asked Matt, sardonically.
“Now that was something that It never claimed. Your species made that bit up. It sounds nice, though, doesn’t it?”
“…Yeah.”
Hamlet finally came to a stop on a corner, bringing a hand up to lean against a street light which showcased a brightly glowing orange hand, signifying that it was not safe to cross the street here. Hamlet paused for a moment, watching the flashing sign while suppressing a yawn, as Matt attempted to acclimate himself with his surroundings. The sign changed, though, and Hamlet began to cross the street where permitted. “We’re here,” he said, before looking around him slowly, attempting to discern where he needed to go from here.
“Where exactly is here?” asked Matt, trying to figure out where he was. He looked at a street sign for a moment; though found that the letters were unusually difficult to read. Frowning, he looked back towards Hamlet.
“Does that really matter? We’re here, where we’ve always been.”
A violent, rasping cough came from a nearby alley, and Matt heard the sound of liquid hitting pavement in the aftermath, as the coughing man struggled to catch his breath. A retching sound that seemed to drag on forever, then another choking noise. Matt shuddered. “I’ll wait here,” he spoke at least, as Hamlet began to head towards the mouth of the alley.
Matt remained silent for many moments as he sat, growing oblivious to his surroundings and allowing his thoughts to carry him elsewhere, as he waited for Hamlet. Hamlet vanished into the darkness, and Matt could hear the sounds of Hamlet administering to the man in the alley, and said nothing. He stayed like this for a timeless eternity, his breath condensing in the air upon its release from his mouth. Time passed that Matt was only dimly aware of, before Hamlet finally returned, wiping his hands on a white handkerchief before setting it down on the ground. Matt’s gaze trailed the movement, and paused briefly to dwell on the blood that now stained the kerchief. For a moment he thought he saw an image in the bloodstains-some divine picture that completely eluded his limited knowledge of religion. “Are you allowed to do that?”
Hamlet looked at him, shocked for a moment, “Do what?”
Matt looked at the kerchief for a moment, “Leave a trace of yourself? I mean, doesn’t your touch change things?” He paused, walking over to the handkerchief, stooping to pick it up, “I mean, I know it says something.” For emphasis to his point, Matt opened the kerchief to reveal symbols scribed in blood on the inside. He looked at them for a moment, before he looked to Hamlet, “What’s it say?”
“Koko ni imashita,” spoke Hamlet guiltily, “…It’s Japanese.”
Matt watched Hamlet, still waiting for an answer, the look on his face indicating impatience. “I don’t speak Japanese.”
Hamlet sighed in exasperation, “Why does it matter what it says? It’s such a trivial focus…Yes, it says something, but…” His voice trailed off as he stumbled over his words. “It says ‘I was here’. Well…more or less.”
Matt simply nodded, then began walking again. “I don’t understand why you do that.”
“Well, it’s a subtle act of defiance. I’m doomed to wander the earth without ever lying down to rest, ever sitting down, or ever leaving a sign of my existence. It’s become a popular thing to do, so people shouldn’t think much of it.-“
“No…no, that wasn’t what I meant, but since we’re on the subject, it’s no longer a popular thing to do…it was simply a novelty. And people will notice a bloody handkerchief that has writing on it. And it isn’t very far from a corpse, at that.”
Hamlet sighed, though Matt continued, “Back to my other question, why do you do that? I mean, why do you stay with people when they’re dying?”
“When you die, do you want to be alone?” retorted Hamlet.
“Well, no, it’s nice to know that someone cares about you, I guess, but why don’t you just fix them? Why don’t you save them, and make them all better? I know it hurts watching people die alone all the time.”
“I’m not that kind of angel,” Hamlet spoke softly, “I’ve fallen.”
Matt nodded, but didn’t drop the matter, “But it’s within your power, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” responded Hamlet, “But if I did that, I would be The Great Unmaker, and there are plans for another to do that.” He paused momentarily, looking at Matt, “Why don’t you do anything about it, though, if you hate seeing people suffer?”
“I don’t know, I think I just want to let life run its course.”
“Now think about that one,” spoke Hamlet again, “Can you really let it run its course if you’re the one determining it?”
Matt looked up, surprised, “You mean, I was right all along?”
Hamlet smiled and nodded, “Indeed you were, My Solipsist .”
And then there was nothing. Matt spoke a single word to the void. “Shit.”
The rain fell softly onto the parking lot beyond the window, beads of the water sticking to the glass for a momentary duration, before finally losing their grip and slipping down, trailing their path that it might be beheld by another before it was indistinguishable from the other drops that resided on the window. The grey sky and dingy parking lot contrasted starkly with the sterile white of the clinic. I watched as a drop impacted glass, and then gathered moisture slowly, before finally beginning its descent-slowly at first, then with rising speed as it collected more water, growing fatter with its gluttony, yet increasing its lifespan. Only the infrequent beeping of the heart monitor beside me broke the reverential silence. The trail slowly faded away, starting from the top down, leaving the small rivulet to break apart into smaller drops of water, marking only where the drop had once been and no longer remained. The trail was not to be forgotten, however, as with each drop of rain that trailed downwards along the glass, a residue remained. Blip. A residue that it carried down with it on its descent from the sky, before stopping to rest on the glass, before once more continuing on its path towards the ground. It was a scene of doleful beauty as each drop of water fell to the earth, leaving so little of itself behind to be remembered, though leaving a bit behind.
Blip. It fascinated me to observe this, that each individual drop seemed to change nothing, only leave a futile trail of residue behind as though to say that it was. That it existed, and it had an impact on things, but so rarely are these things noticed that the efforts of the raindrops are only performed in vain. Each rain drop so small and insignificant, yet, as a whole, important. When given mass and time, it was amazing to see the changes that rain could make to things. Erosion and floods. Such a small part of nature, so often overlooked, but so important and necessary to survival. There were, of course, always good rains and bad rains, and some times things needed to be changed, and sometimes things that shouldn’t have been changed simply were changed. Blip. There was no getting around it, and it was only a fact that had to be accepted. Was this, then, what life amounted to? Were we all just drops of rain on glass, leaving behind only a residue of ourselves on all that we have impacted? Is that our legacy? My mind dwelled on this for a moment as I listened to the rhythmic beating of the heart monitor of the comatose boy. Without words, I rose, leaving, as the monitor went flat, Matt’s heartbeat stopping.
Okay, so, if you read all of that, I know I've probably bored the crap out of all of you, and that's really been posted for my own sake, since I've had my computer crash before, and that's the best way I know to save them, since I lose disks. And that's what I've done for creative writing this semester. I've not posted the poetry, because, frankly, I know my poetry sucks. And I'm kind of upset today. Partly because I feel as though I was blown off, and, while this normally wouldn't have been a very big deal, I now have difficulty handling it, because Ryan wore out my tolerance for it, and I was given flashbacks of that. I know that the person responsible couldn't help it, and I know it was the result of miscommunication, and I'm not angry, just upset. Disappointed, I suppose. The only anger I feel is towards myself, because I'm so damn hypocritical. It's really not right, I suppose, but I can't help it. I know I'm being an asshole, too, and that upsets me. I'm trying, but it's not really working, I guess. I don't know.