Darkness Consumes

It was a young lad, maybe sixteen, who was rowing them through the dark waters that night. The air was clear and high, but the ruckus of the natural world created a sort of dense fog which made it hard to think. The man and the woman felt very out of place. They looked sometimes toward the shore, or at the water, or down at the little skiff, but not at each other. Maybe they exchanged the occasional glance, but they didn’t dare converse. The presence of their guide in the back of the boat somehow precluded their usual back-and-forth; besides, it was much too late in the evening and it seemed like the sky was paying attention to them.

Perhaps as they listened to the frogs and the water and the wind, they began to ruminate on certain misgivings. Perhaps she was afraid he resented her for uprooting their lives to come here, and perhaps she was a little ashamed of it herself. Perhaps he had his doubts about the integrity of the boat, but perhaps he was really worried that their relationship had become fused to their quest, and if she got what she wanted tonight, where would that leave them? I think it’s safe to say that they could both feel an end approaching, though it felt unreal, and they watched the oncoming shore with anticipation and dread.

The Duffel Bag

“What do you think of that, eh?” I leaned back and rippled my fingers impatiently over the arm of my chair.

“I think that I don’t believe a word of it.” My companion poked at the fire on which his gaze was fixed. I would have scorched his soul with the pain in my eyes if he’d have just turned his head.

“It’s true!” I wailed, “You have to believe me!”

He turned fiercely to me and spat, “Well now, what do we know about the truth?”

I stammered my confusion.

“That’s a poor start indeed, but I’ll forgive it.” He narrowed his eyes and slowly, malignantly, opened them before he bestowed upon me the old saying he’d just invented: “The fire of interrogation will burn up the lies; only truth can remain.”

The desperation that had been propping me up sharply from the inside retreated in the face of weary despair. I hadn’t a chance.

“What do you feed it?” he demanded.

“What? I don’t feed it; it just—”

His face bulged in triumphant outrage. “You monster! Perhaps it’s a bit out of line, but to starve it? If you’re going to lie you could at least do it with some decency!”

I tried to defend myself, but it was like trying to save yourself with a shield when your guts are forming a lost-and-found pile on the ground. He turned his back on me and alerted his extensive network of paranoids what kind of a person I was.

Anticipation perforates my heart.
At last, on seeing you, my heart unfurls
To rest atop the sweet pool of your presence,
Filling reserves and laying up stores; it knows

It soon will be apart, deserted, dried up
In desiccation, dull, perhaps for weeks.
Long whiles, and fantasies, will trouble it
And be its food, to keep its hunger sharp.

How many cycles more, and keel-hauls yet
Before I cannot bear this sweetest pain?
And will I have strength, then, to cut it off?
To bury hope, put love asunder? No,

I’d rather suffer silent for your sake
Than write this all again for someone else

I don’t expect I’ll ever die
Just keep on shuffling
Along these paths
And day by day
Fade away

—

Kiss me, child
What’s that you’ve got?
Show your brother
Not today
I’m sorry, child—
I can’t, today

—

No, I suppose you wouldn’t
understand…
I expect if you reach my age
you will
But I won’t be here
for you to tell

—

Words are a sad resort now
A childish game, empty nostalgia
As I lie here dazzled and dying
Armed to my teeth and ready for battle
These withered old arms
have strength enough
yet, for this
just

I’d like to pet the dog please,
May I?
Oh, but he will bite
He bids the sun rays prod him gently,
Belly to the sky
But should I reach my hand, I know
He’d just misunderstand…
Besides, I’ve places yet to go—
Not every dog’s a pet…
And could I break his daylit night?
Exchange his peace for my delight?
I’ll write this poem and let him lie
His handsome belly to the sky

(And maybe one day one of you
Will do the same for this young fool)

and what could be pleasanter?

than to sit

and drink that pleasant apple water

cool and mild

in easy reverence

before the setting sun

Poetry needn’t be fancy,
And some say that childish is best—
If you happen on something that makes you feel dancy,
“Write it down” is my special request

Poetry needn’t be perfect,
Although it’s quite nice when it is
But sometimes you have to jump over a stumble
And leave to the past what is his

Poetry needn’t be anything.
You do as your heart desires.
And though others may not catch your meaning,
Ankto veli porsak azhdopires

Chops

Every day he looks out that window and most days Chops looks back at him. Chops is short for Chop Suey which is a nickname for Susan which is an acceptable name for a cat, he thinks. Chops is the neighbors’ cat and he doesn’t speak with them very much and has never asked them what Chops’ real name is. That would be an interesting conversation.

“Hello, I know we don’t talk much, but I was just wondering, what is your cat named?”

And what if it wasn’t their cat? What if Chops belonged to the people one house over and snuck into the Walkers’ yard every day without their knowledge? Either way, such an inquiry would make him appear very silly and the name wasn’t so important after all.

Anyway, he feels like he and Chops have a special connection, which is a comfort to him when his work is going poorly. Because, yes, after he looks out that window he has to sit himself down and get to work. He spent the first 14 years of his life not getting to work, and look how that turned out, he likes to say to himself. He also likes to remind himself that talking to oneself is the first sign of insanity, but he doesn’t really believe it, or else he wouldn’t say it.

Reggie: Part 1 of 1

“So I walk in and there’s Reggie, right? Just sitting there with his eyes closed and that stupid Reggie smile on his face. He’s got his legs crossed and his arms spread out like he’s meditating, and he’s doing this sort of a low, weirdly continuous hum on one note. He takes breaths now and then, obviously, but whenever he does he just starts right back up again and acts like he was humming the whole time. But, you know, this is all classic Reggie, right? What else is he gonna do on a Thursday night?” Ed and I chuckle a bit at that, and he takes the opportunity to finish off his beer before continuing. This is also, of course, an intentional move on his part to increase tension in his audience (me) before cutting into the meat of the story. We both know he doesn’t give this much build-up to a story unless it’s really something.

Shambling

Sometimes little children will go out and meet in the woods with the great, shambling beasts left over from the old days. Only yesterday, in fact, a little boy was shambled to bits a mere thirty feet from my doorstep in the middle of the night. You never hear them scream, but the beasts tend to let out slow, low victory howls which make it clear there’s been a shambling. Now, if you don’t come from around these parts, you might be getting the wrong idea about shambling. You may think it similar to a mauling or a shredding, but believe me when I say the word “shambling” is better fitted to its use than it may seem.