Awake

Here's a story I wrote a while back, last story I've written. Dunno why the last paragraph is formated different here... don't know how to change it. Hope you enjoy.
               

As Michael lay prone on the edge of the decomposing wood dock and lazily swung his arms left to right and back again so that his ten soft fingertips glided across the top of the placid lake, he contemplated how little an impact he was making on the body of water. He liked the thought that he could cause change. He turned to a supine position, which he felt was better for thinking on account of the feeble and few distractions provided by any given sky, but found his view of this particular grey sky clouded by the apple tree his father had planted seventeen years earlier when he learned he would have a child and which now hung over the dock and lake. Michael shifted his position to remove the apple tree from his field of vision and his mind resumed thinking about the lake. Had any fish noticed the ripples he had created? Had any fish felt them? Had an underwater plant swayed because of them or had any lily pad been rocked gently as they passed underneath it? Had the tongue-eye coordination of any hungry frog been thrown off by the gentle rock of the lily pad on which it sat? This train of thought was halted by the realization that his thoughts were taking a morose turn. Michael attributed his sullen mood to the dark grey clouds overhead and the similarly coloured lake which made him the middle of a gloomy sandwich indeed. He became hungry and quickly became aware he had forgotten to eat lunch. He lifted his head and craned his neck uncomfortably towards his chest to look down the length of the dock. For a moment he stared forlornly at the small bungalow of a cottage his parents owned where he knew there was food for him to ear. He slowly let his head fall back onto the dock and laid his interlocked hands upon his chest.

When he awoke, the lake had changed. For a moment he thought he was staring at a demon hovering over a boiling lake of pitch before looking for a more logical answer. He realized it was raining and that the surface was being peppered by countless raindrops each one creating a small splash as it landed and turned from rainwater to lake water. The demon was a heron he was seeing from behind with its large flapping wings outstretched to contend with the rain and long skinny legs dangling below. It must have flown too far from home and been caught in the storm on the way home. The clouds were much darker now, nearing black, and Michael was unsure if that meant that darker clouds had replaced the earlier ones or that he had slept longer than he intended to.  He looked at his watch before getting up and heading for shelter from the storm.

“Where have you been Michael?”
“I fell asleep on the dock, Mom”

“It’s nearly suppertime already! What happened to doing your homework Saturday afternoon?”
“I already did mine! I already did mine!”
“Shut up, Lilly”

            Lilly squealed as her brother gave her a soft push and she ran into the kitchen, tossing her long, wavy, blond hair, to join her mother and take an apple from the fridge.
“Mommy, Michael told me to shut up.” she said somewhat distracted but loud enough for Michael to hear, all the while searching the fruit drawer.

            Janet O’Connell, a stout hearted, petite, redheaded woman, poked her head into the doorway between the kitchen and the living room where her son now lay sprawled on the old plaid couch with his eyes closed.

“Michael… try and get some work done before supper.”

“When’s Dad getting here?”
“He should be here in any minute. He said he’d be here for supper. He had some work to finish before he could leave. Now you work too!”

            He lifted himself off the couch and slowly meandered to his bedroom making stops at the bathroom and the bookcase where took nothing out. He’d once asked his father how many of the books in the bookcase he’d read.
“Most”

He’d wondered how. He still did, really.

            When he got to his bedroom, Michael shut the door. He opened his copy of Hamlet and positioned it on the floor, turned on the lamp on his bedside table, climbed into bed, lay on his stomach and buried his face into the crook of his bent left arm. He tried to think about something about Hamlet. Before long, he was thinking only about ham and he began salivating as his hunger returned. An unwelcomed creak startled him out of his train of thought. His mother was there, red in the face and talking. He had dozed off.
“Get up and get dressed, Michael. We’re going to the hospital. Your father has been in an accident.”

            He’d been found alive. His car was in the ditch, having hit a pothole filled with water and then slidding out of control on the wet pavement. The next driver to come through the road had phoned the emergency services but there was already nothing to be done to save his life by the time the paramedics had arrived. By the time they’d arrived at the hospital, his father had been pronounced dead from his injuries in the crash. It was final.

The following days, Michael thought a lot but remembered little. Between seeing his mother completely fall apart and the convergence of his extended family at his grand-parent’s house; the adults talking in hushed voices and each speaking to him with a faulty reassuring tone, Michael did know whether he felt like crying or simply going to sleep until things went back to normal. The days went by, and eventually years would, and things didn’t go back to normal.

            Tuesday afternoon, everyone put on their Sunday best to host the wake. Lilly looked very pretty in her dress but Michael didn’t tell her as they were leaving their grandparent’s house. Everyone sat silent as the car unhurriedly transported them to the funeral home. Michael simply admired his sister’s beauty. She wore a black, knee length dress and dainty shoes of matching colour. She did not smile, and yet, her reddish cheeks against her fair skin gave her a lively appearance. The bags under her vivid green eyes were barely visible. He never would have guessed she had spent the whole night crying if he had not heard her over his own sobs. The afternoon passed into evening and Michael had never seen so many people and so few smiles. It seemed the funeral home was bare of any life at all. The walls were painted “peaceful” beige and there were numerous paintings of flowers in bloom. His mother and grand-mother were occupied receiving condolences and all of the adults spoke inaudibly. But it wasn’t a library and, no one was reading, though Michael thought everyone could do with a little distraction. His father could have cheered everyone up he found himself thinking. He could have told a joke or something. He felt tired as the evening wore on and he saw Lilly was sleeping on her chair. To wake himself up, Michael left his seat and headed for the balcony for some air. As Michael stepped into the threshold of the door, he smacked his face into the clear glass door and stumbled back. For a moment Michael was filled with dread but the next, the whole funeral parlour burst into a sustained laugh and at once, as though an esoteric vow had been broken, the arthritic atmosphere of the room was soothed for a short time. As they rode home, Michael told Lilly, who had missed the laugh, that she looked pretty and she tucked her chin and smiled.

            
After the funeral, on Friday, Michael, his Mother, Lilly and their grand-parents went to the country
 house up north. Michael sat on the dock watching the rain pour into the surface of the lake with tired but alert grey eyes. He wore a red raincoat but it barely helped him keep dry. He cast his line into the water and began slowly to reel it in again slightly flicking it left and right absentmindedly. When he cast his line again he caught sight of a dove effortlessly flying through the rain. It was as though the heron he’d seen had been transfigured into a different bird and had returned. He barely heard the splash over the rain but turned his head to see an apple floating in the middle of a series of growing and quickly disappearing circles. He rapidly finished reeling his line a second time, reached out over the water and fished the apple out and then brought it inside for his sister. Things would never go back to normal. But they might become normal again. And on the day of his father’s funeral, he caught himself smiling weakly.

FORSAKEN ON VALENTINES DAY

A Poem for Tabia by Marta, Robyn, and Andrea

Your love is like a black eye
And from it tears of blood I cry
They fall like rain from hopeless clouds
And I'm drowning in them.
Where once was flame, has now turned ash
The memory of you leaves such a rash
On my wrist the long red gash
More to the floor, red droplets splash
One more for every day your gone
I fell the sun will never dawn
I live in eternal night. No one understands
What its like to live in forsaken lands
The frosted windows hide your face
I live inside an empty place
Is this how angels feel fall'n from space??
My heart is made of leather, not lace

Spleen, or How Bad You're Not

Here is me reading a terrible poem. I don't have anything to submit of my own at the moment, though if it counts as producing work of any kind, I did in fact draw the picture on the video just for this. Anyway, I just wanted to share this with you as a (re)commencement post! Long live HeartRape!

Spleen by Ernest Dowson
for Arthur Symons

I was not sorrowful, I could not weep,
And all my memories were put to sleep.

I watched the river grow more white and strange,
All day till evening I watched it change.

All day till evening I watched the rain
Beat wearily upon the window pane.

I was not sorrowful, but only tired
Of everything that ever I desired.

Her lips, her eyes, all day became to me
The shadow of a shadow utterly.

All day mine hunger for her heart became
Oblivion, until the evening came,

And left me sorrowful, inclined to weep,
With all my memories that could not sleep.

[1896]

A Spooky Tale (Title Suggestions?) - Part 1

            For hours Nelson had driven bent over the steering wheel, eyes darting frantically at the mirror, searching for pursuing light. Though it had been many miles since headlights last shone their incriminate gaze upon him, he felt hunched and oppressed, as if a large hand were pressing him deep into the cabin of the automobile, and smothering him. Beside him sat Clint, his partner in crime, with the revolver dangling loosely in his hand; he glanced now and again over his shoulder at Nelson's frantic urging.

"No one's coming for us; we left 'em in the dust," said Clint, crossing his arms and sitting back in his seat.

"Maybe they've set up a alarm at the next town. They'll catch us, I know!"

"No, they won't, Nelson. Calm yer horses. All we gotta focus on is drivin' to the next town, finding us a place to duck down for a few days, and then we'll drive straight on down to Mexico. They'll never catch us there."

"We shot a girl, Clint," cried Nelson, his eyes near tears. The roadster jerked, tipping slightly on its narrow wheels. "She--She's dead!"

"She ain't dead," snapped Clint, "ya don't know that. 'Sides, you helped her up yourself. She was breathin'."

"Barely," thought Nelson with dismay. On his palms he could feel the tackiness of dried blood moistened with sweat. His hands clung to the wheel, bound to his inexorable fate. "What if she didn't make it - then we'll really hang! We shouldn'ta shot that girl, Clint. That's not what I signed up for."

"Well, it happened," said Clint, "Sides, she had it comin'."

Nelson peeled his right hand off the wheel. It stung, his knuckles stiff and sore, clenched in a death grip. With his dusty sleeve he wiped his nose roughly. "I'm no murderer Clint. I'm not."

"Ok, Nelson. You're not."

"I'm just a thief - thievin's not so bad, right? Man's gotta live."

"The only way we're gonna live through this heist is if you quit cryin' get us to some cover! We got twenty grand in the backseat, enough to buy us a ranch out in Mexico. Don't let her sacrifice go to waste." Clint slapped a firm hand on Nelson's shoulder. "Cheer up," he said, "Soon there'll be Senorita's aplenty, an' you'll forget all about the blondie at the bank."

"Yeah," said Nelson in a wavering voice. "You're right. I gotta keep my head straight. Can't start panicking now."

"Atta boy," said Clint. "Whereabouts are we?"

"Not sure," said Nelson, peering into the coming darkness. One either side of the muddy highway, trees began to grow closer and darker. On their long, swaying limbs hung tendrils of moss, which reached out toward the men, grazing their faces like little ghostly fingers. "I think we're comin' in close to Shreveport."

"Don't get too close to town. Let's stay out a ways in the country," said Clint, tension rising slightly in his throat. He regretted his unfamiliarity with the county; wherever they drove now was at Nelson's discretion. This was the one job Clint had kept him for, but as he watched Nelson's exhausted face and the manic fear in his eyes, Clint began to wonder if he had made the wrong choice. Perhaps he would have been better off on his own.

"I'll turn off here," said Nelson. "We'll find somethin', or we can park out in the woods."

The car veered off to the right, down a narrow lane through the trees. Night had fallen now, and only the dim headlights flashed on the tree trunks as the jalopy jumped and rattled over branches and stones. Exhaustion was settling over Nelson, now that the sun had gone away; the dark hung on him, whispering unpleasant thoughts in his ear. It seemed the deeper into the woods he drove, the more dread he felt in his heart, and though he swallowed deep and hard, thoughts of the dying girl came to mind. As he pondered miserably her pale, flickering face, Clint cried out, "There! Over there!" and pointed vigorously through the trees. There, in the headlights, was a small, overgrown driveway, invisible to eyes less desperate. With a sharp turn Nelson bolted down the driveway. They had found sanctuary at last! He could ease his pounding head and find peace, perhaps, in the merciful fog of sleep.

The lane was dense with saplings which snapped and scraped against the car, claw-like branches clinging. Soon the men emerged into a clearing. A half-moon shone dimly on the blue-green grass, which waved in a night-time breeze. On either side stood gnarled, black trees, like sentinels who, standing guard for many years, grew bent and wicked. They leered at Nelson as they drove past, and he shrank under their gaze; Clint, however, was giddy with relief.

"I knew I could count on you!" he laughed. Already in his mind he was gleefully counting his money, there were not trees but cacti, and women beat their silken fans over him, swishing their skirts.

Still the trees leered at Nelson, the knots in their trunks like unblinking eyes. Something about the place creeped upon his mind. Maybe it was the glint of moonlight through the branches, or the manic laughter he felt brushing just behind his teeth, the breathy fear he struggled to contain. Or maybe it was the bank teller's dimming eyes...

Suddenly, in the corner of his eye Nelson saw a pale shape peering in the window. He jumped with such fear that the car rocked, and he stepped hard on the pedal, throwing Clint against his seat.

"Jesus!" cried Nelson, shaking all over. Tears stung in his eyes. "D'you see that?"

"I sure do!" said Clint with enthusiasm. "She's perfect! Dammit, Nelson, you really are one surprise after another!"

At that Nelson wrenched his eyes from the side window and looked in front of him. Far down the end of the lane stood a rotted house, leaning in the moonlight. Its windows were shattered and dark, the veranda crumbling in places. And at the back end of the house, facing the moonlight, was a large bay window, reaching out from the second storey. All at once his memory poured over him.

"It can't be," whispered Nelson. "The Maycott Estate!"

"You're shittin' me?" asked Clint. "As in the Maycott Murder?"

Nelson nodded dumbly in response. “Albert Maycott...”

All the while the house loomed larger and larger, oppressing Nelson utterly as the truth become impossible to deny. Some cruel fate had caused him to return here, led by the traitorous homing instinct!

To Be Continued...

Seascape

The silent, random landscape seemed
to him almost lunar: rocks,
hairy with limp seaweed, tiny shells that
shattered like dry bones as he walked,
and flat sand.
His footsteps in that place could've
been the first.

Except it wasn't dead dry. Underneath
the stillness he caught
the creeping sense of wet life and the
smell of decaying
fish flesh.

The seamud sucked at his
shoes and bubbly seaweed burst,
splattering salty juice when
he stepped on them.
He nearly tripped over a
dead octopus clamped
to the ground. It looked
up at him. Its anatomical
jelly was both soft and firm
underfoot.

On a hanging
rock formation he
saw a girl, reading,
oblivious.
He could've
imagined her there.
Perhaps she
was part of
the landscape, like
the sea,
the shells,
the octopus,
the sand.