Month: April 2010

He said they live on an incline. Does this street look like an incline? Drive further up the hill to the peak and gather yourself before you end up on a one way street with no place to turn. Take a moment at the stop sign and look about.

Well, this certainly looks correct. There goes the street name. Yes, and there is the turn and there is the incline. 1209… 1207… 1205… it should only be one block further. The trees in this part of town certainly are tall, and rounded. Do you suppose birds nest in the trees? If they are old enough I bet you that at least one man has been hung from the neck from the branch of one of these trees. Old towns such as this have those sorts of histories – the kind that remain hidden and are swept beneath the rug as new people arrive to fill the space left by abandoners and the dead. But I digress. We’ve arrived at 1144. You will have to park further up the street near the convenience store, only make sure to roll up your windows because I do not trust the look of that ghetto fellow loitering out in front of the telephone booth.

This would be a lovely place to go for a walk with a woman, wouldn’t it? Flowers blooming above like colorful bubbles of sorts, and the birds chirping like a melodic symphony. Women appreciate that sort of whimsical fare. Do you think she would as well? I don’t suppose you’ll ever find out, at least not until he is out of the picture, and you’re coming up on the place so you’d best prepare for a smile and a half-hearted wave. Who waves these days, anyway? I don’t suppose… wait, someone’s walking out. And would you look at that… did she get a haircut? My god, man! Forget the hair, look down. Look at her eyes. The stifled flicker. It’s still locked away – hidden from the world as some form of cruel self-censure. You certainly believe that you alone see this brilliance. You want to pursue that light. You want nurture it. If you reach out, the light may become brighter. Or it may go out altogether. Such is the risk, and you are no longer in a position to claim youthful exuberance.

So she steps out one leg first, a black stocking leading down to a foot wearing a flat shoe of some modern sort and leading up to a skirt that ends just above the knee and starts at the waist where the hint of a white blouse shines through the part in the thick Burberry coat draped over her shoulders which curve elegantly up towards her chin lowered slightly when she smiles and waves and calls out to say “Hey!” as her nose crinkles and eyes gleam with that flicker beneath the brim of a black, round hat that would look bad on anyone but her. So what? It’s just a woman wearing clothes, and that’s all. Now steps towards them unless you prefer to remain forty feet away and wave incessantly.

Be polite, and not too personal. Hold her hand, certainly, but do not go in for the kiss on the cheek. It will be too telling. You will linger. Hold her hand and apply light pressure, then turn to him and grip his hand firmly. Assert your position over him. Show him he whose hand he shakes is not a hand to be taken lightly. You will not do anything to harm the little fellow, of course, but show him regardless. If anything you will rest easier when you think back on the day’s happenings. You showed him, ey? Walk to them, and greet them, then follow them as they lead the way. Don’t fall behind, not if you can help it. Walk beside her at a respectable distance. Flank her, because as you can see he’s all too keen on keeping ahead of her. It’s just how he is. You’ve probably done it yourself, pal, so don’t go holier than thou on me. Remain between her and the street because cars or trucks or mad bikers may drive by and take her or hurt her. Who told you that you have to walk between your girl and the street anyway? Was it the old man? Well if you can’t remember I certainly can’t. In any case, if you can only serve as a wall I say take it. It’s better than nothing.

They’re certainly leading you far, aren’t they? The trees are bare here. You’ve never really seen bare trees save the odd one or two that people planted in the yard or on the bit of dirt next to the curb. The trees were always full, and blooming, even when they scattered leaves on the ground every winter. You used to rake those leaves when they told you to, when you were angry all the time. An angry young man. That’s an awfully cliché state of being, don’t you think? Of course everyone on the planet is some form of cliché so don’t feel too bad. You simply transitioned out of that cliché and into another.

Hey, stop listening to me. Don’t crane your neck and look around. She’s talking and you need to talk so that it’s not just her and him talking. Pay attention and talk. Well, isn’t that something. She’s talking about the trees! And before you go mad with spiritual kinship it is merely a coincidence, not a sign from the heavens that you are meant to woo this woman with your fancy talk about trees and what they represent. It’s chat, buddy, and nothing more.

The wind’s getting colder, and of course your coat is hanging in the closet at home. The old green coat, the one you insist on wearing for those few months in the winter when it rains enough to require a coat, is looking mighty worn. Perhaps a pea coat or some other hipster duds to look more cool? No? Well, then, don’t bother me when you get alienated for wearing the same old clothes. I mean, jeans and a T-shirt for years. Grow up, and while you’re adding action items to the list please do enter the restaurant that they both just walked into.

Pizza? How mundane, and might I add you’re certainly high and mighty when it comes to food as of late. Was it Mexico where you ate a tray of fried calamari, or Hong Kong? Both were good in any case. I mean, I don’t know what kind of oil they used but it was un-fucking-believable and they have posters of baseball players on the wall here and is that Lou Gehrig? Here, in the city they have a poster of Lou Gehrig? Hey and look at that, they’ve chosen the table right by old Lou. He can watch the cheese trail from each slice and act as witness to your ridiculous guarded conversation.

She sits amazingly well. Such grace, and style. Brings her knees together and places her hands over them as she sits. And look at how she removes her hat, and her coat, and it is indeed a white blouse and she did indeed change her hairstyle. It’s short now. It wasn’t short before. You like short dark hair now, don’t you? Yea, I figured as much. Now, that doesn’t mean you can comment on her hair. Yes it is a new style and she does look amazing with her hair styled in short layers that hug her face, but do not dare comment on it. Your friend sits beside her. Make sure to pay attention to both. Equal eye time for each. Do not linger on her, jackass! That’s right. Look up, at that television. Who’s playing? Arizona?

Burgundy streaks across fields of sod… what’s in a friend, anyway? Who’s this guy? This clown? Is he really a friend? I mean, what’s he done for you lately? Nothing. Not a single goddamn thing. The guy’s okay to hang out with and grab some beers at a bar with, but really that’s anyone. See the waiter? Yea, he could sit and listen and laugh just as well as this guy. Plus he’s taller and he’s more likely to want to hang around after your drunken arguments with the frat boys. He won’t want to pull you away and make you feel a foo–

She turned her head! Did–did you see her hair flutter? Wow, man. I hope you did see because… because it was every possible synonym of the word “beautiful” that you can think of. Thanks for sparing me, but I saw it too, and I’d agree. Amazing… You could talk of pleasant things, risqué things that would lull her into the proper course of conversation… but look at him. He must care for her. He must love her, still, because my god she is unbelievable. Do you suppose it’s possible that, somehow, you want her because someone else has her? Now don’t go withdrawing into your shell, I’m just thinking to the beat of a different drummer. It helps me understand you, because sometimes you simply confuse the hell out of me. You lack consistency in your madness and I’m left without a clue as to your intentions. Before you start to feel please grab that pitcher that the waiter just dropped off.

Her, through the brown ale and foam. Beer goggles do nothing. She is, and has been, a woman unmatched… until tomorrow when you reflect on today and realize yesterday is not a time to linger in.

Discuss the weather. Discuss work. Discuss things that lead to jokes and joke about things that lead to reassuring nods and then a laugh. Oh, see, now she’s talking… yes, very well, turn to her. You have reason to look her in the eyes. Oh, and she’s a freckled one is she not? Most certainly. Like a child in a sandbox, the sun beating down on every kid around you, and that girl with the dark hair and darker freckles hanging upside down (what is a jungle gym anyway?) and smiling and flicking her tongue through the hole in her teeth. Don’t feel bad about not remembering her name—you were a child, and kids don’t think about each other the way you’re thinking of this woman now. But, there was something. An impression of a future that has left you reeling. Powerless you are not but susceptible? And how.

Did she just laugh? Laugh! Chuckle at the very least. Can you imagine sitting with her at the booth beside us? Next to her, holding her hand, the smell of her perfume (and hopefully not your cologne if you’ll listen to me for once and not wear the acrid stuff) filling the space, wafting and billowing around while discussing more than trivial status updates. Or maybe discussing the most trivial nonsense imaginable. The point, of course, is that it would be discussed by the two of you. “The two of you”, now isn’t that a nice thought?

… Jesus Christ, man, you’re such a woman.

Pizza’s here, so’s the second pitcher of beer. Joy, and indulgence that you can indulge in. One slice, two extra hours on the machines. Second slice and she’s had her second glass. Did you just finish off your fourth? Pig. Drunken pig. Oh, how she laughs. My suggestion to you: learn to write sonnets. It will be a useful skill when you move on and realize this one’s out of bounds. Keep it in the court and you’ll find yourself a nice cheerleader to keep you company. Oh, man, remember the cheerleader. In the short shorts? Who was that, Maria? Or Steph. It might have been Steph.

The names, man, the names. Don’t forget your names.

The hour draws near, and it’s sad. She’s sad. I can take it even if you refuse to see it. Corporate secretary living with a retail monkey? She can’t be happy! Logic and life draw us to wants of extraordinary proportions. We’re faulty but really what’s wrong with wanting great things? Life is short, and as far as we know it’s the only one we have until the sack of flesh we call a body decomposes and returns from whence it came. Things we have to do… people we have to love. Responsibilities we don’t need. Weights. He weighs down on her and it will only hasten her descent into a life of mediocrity and despair.

Well that’s interesting, isn’t it? When’s the last time you were happy? No friend, not content. Happy.

Cool night. I love it up here, you know. You should move up here. L.A. wasn’t like this. The high desert wasn’t like this. The shack by the side of the road up in Eureka was definitely not like this. This is something else, and I say enjoy it until you get sick of it. Find yourself a roost and feel what there is to see. Hear the end of it and then you can say you’ve truly lived. Brush yourself against dirty walls and wood grain bars. And wish, hope, that somehow she’ll be with you. Holding your hand… whispering “you’re acting like an idiot” in your ear. Cool night, and she’s right beside you. No need to feel alone.

Dismissals, goodbyes, and the pleasantries of life. Shake his hand again, firm again, you’re the man and he’s mush again. Hold hers gently, and wait, the lovely doth draw closer. She draws herself in for the cheek kiss. She smiles. She breathes… like any other woman. She breathes like she does. You damn yourself by elevating her to the top of the pedestal. You relegate her to “goddess” and now the simplest interaction sends your chest into a flurry. What if she was old? Sick? Missing an arm? Would it matter to you? You can say “no” all you like and she smells so damn alluring. Perfume. And her lips are… where was I? Lips. Pretty lips and warmth.

Lingering!

The shuffle back to the car late at night. The midnight routine. No one out, no one else to justify your existence at this moment. Right now you’re all alone here, bud, and there’s no way to avoid that fact. Tomorrow you should call Kristy and go somewhere. Yea, I know. It’s just Kristy. I just won’t stand to be around you and the after-seeing-her mood. At least Kristy will keep you distracted so I can relax for a while. Kristy with the jangle and glimmer of necklaces, bracelets, and rings, and that long gorgeous hair. You know, long hair? That used to be your thing. The trees again, see how they wave as the sea air batters them.

Well if all you’re going to do is sulk in the face of logic then I’ll just stop trying. Get in the damn car.

Turn the key. Reach for the knob in the same place it has always been. Ah, fate be damned! Tonight’s one of those nights when the car has declined to cooperate with your attempt to escape and get on the road, where you feel safest. Constant motion and the sound of wind blowing past the car have always been a comfort for you haven’t they? Pull the knob all you like, but the electrical’s still out of whack. Those lights won’t be coming on for a while so just stop fussing about with the wiring underneath the dash and sit upright. You know, you really should have gotten that fixed a year ago when it first became a problem.

Rest your arms on the steering wheel and lay your chin on them. Stare out into the wisps of fog rolling by. Don’t you dare think about light. Stare into the darkness. What do you suppose lingers out there? You’re not unique, hardly a soft little snowflake, and one of over six billion irrational beings on this planet. It certainly would be plausible to imagine that someone, somewhere, is sitting in the dark staring out across an empty street and accompanied only by the faint glow of street lamps, empty apartment windows, and the wispy fog. And who knows, perhaps that person is also a believer in safeguarding the soul against vicious and malicious assaults by the heart. Oh, now, I didn’t say that just to get you started on “feeling”! Keep staring into the darkness, yes, good… keep staring into the darkness.

When you’re ready, turn the key and get the engine going. It has been a long while and if you drive long enough in that darkness the lights are bound to come on again. That’ll get you home tonight. Of course if I know you, and I think I do, you won’t have the lights fixed until they shut down for good.

He said they live on an incline. Does this street look like an incline? Drive further up the hill to the peak and gather yourself before you end up on a one way street with no place to turn. Take a moment at the stop sign and look about.

Well, this certainly looks correct. There goes the street name. Yes, and there is the turn and there is the incline. 1209… 1207… 1205… it should only be one block further. The trees in this part of town certainly are tall, and rounded. Do you suppose birds nest in the trees? If they are old enough I bet you that at least one man has been hung from the neck from the branch of one of these trees. Old towns such as this have those sorts of histories – the kind that remain hidden and are swept beneath the rug as new people arrive to fill the space left by abandoners and the dead. But I digress. We’ve arrived at 1144. You will have to park further up the street near the convenience store, only make sure to roll up your windows because I do not trust the look of that ghetto fellow loitering out in front of the telephone booth.

This would be a lovely place to go for a walk with a woman, wouldn’t it? Flowers blooming above like colorful bubbles of sorts, and the birds chirping like a melodic symphony. Women appreciate that sort of whimsical fare. Do you think she would as well? I don’t suppose you’ll ever find out, at least not until he is out of the picture, and you’re coming up on the place so you’d best prepare for a smile and a half-hearted wave. Who waves these days, anyway? I don’t suppose… wait, someone’s walking out. And would you look at that… did she get a haircut? My god, man! Forget the hair, look down. Look at her eyes. The stifled flicker. It’s still locked away – hidden from the world as some form of cruel self-censure. You certainly believe that you alone see this brilliance. You want to pursue that light. You want nurture it. If you reach out, the light may become brighter. Or it may go out altogether. Such is the risk, and you are no longer in a position to claim youthful exuberance.

So she steps out one leg first, a black stocking leading down to a foot wearing a flat shoe of some modern sort and leading up to a skirt that ends just above the knee and starts at the waist where the hint of a white blouse shines through the part in the thick Burberry coat draped over her shoulders which curve elegantly up towards her chin lowered slightly when she smiles and waves and calls out to say “Hey!” as her nose crinkles and eyes gleam with that flicker beneath the brim of a black, round hat that would look bad on anyone but her. So what? It’s just a woman wearing clothes, and that’s all. Now steps towards them unless you prefer to remain forty feet away and wave incessantly.

Be polite, and not too personal. Hold her hand, certainly, but do not go in for the kiss on the cheek. It will be too telling. You will linger. Hold her hand and apply light pressure, then turn to him and grip his hand firmly. Assert your position over him. Show him he whose hand he shakes is not a hand to be taken lightly. You will not do anything to harm the little fellow, of course, but show him regardless. If anything you will rest easier when you think back on the day’s happenings. You showed him, ey? Walk to them, and greet them, then follow them as they lead the way. Don’t fall behind, not if you can help it. Walk beside her at a respectable distance. Flank her, because as you can see he’s all too keen on keeping ahead of her. It’s just how he is. You’ve probably done it yourself, pal, so don’t go holier than thou on me. Remain between her and the street because cars or trucks or mad bikers may drive by and take her or hurt her. Who told you that you have to walk between your girl and the street anyway? Was it the old man? Well if you can’t remember I certainly can’t. In any case, if you can only serve as a wall I say take it. It’s better than nothing.

They’re certainly leading you far, aren’t they? The trees are bare here. You’ve never really seen bare trees save the odd one or two that people planted in the yard or on the bit of dirt next to the curb. The trees were always full, and blooming, even when they scattered leaves on the ground every winter. You used to rake those leaves when they told you to, when you were angry all the time. An angry young man. That’s an awfully cliché state of being, don’t you think? Of course everyone on the planet is some form of cliché so don’t feel too bad. You simply transitioned out of that cliché and into another.

Hey, stop listening to me. Don’t crane your neck and look around. She’s talking and you need to talk so that it’s not just her and him talking. Pay attention and talk. Well, isn’t that something. She’s talking about the trees! And before you go mad with spiritual kinship it is merely a coincidence, not a sign from the heavens that you are meant to woo this woman with your fancy talk about trees and what they represent. It’s chat, buddy, and nothing more.

The wind’s getting colder, and of course your coat is hanging in the closet at home. The old green coat, the one you insist on wearing for those few months in the winter when it rains enough to require a coat, is looking mighty worn. Perhaps a pea coat or some other hipster duds to look more cool? No? Well, then, don’t bother me when you get alienated for wearing the same old clothes. I mean, jeans and a T-shirt for years. Grow up, and while you’re adding action items to the list please do enter the restaurant that they both just walked into.

Pizza? How mundane, and might I add you’re certainly high and mighty when it comes to food as of late. Was it Mexico where you ate a tray of fried calamari, or Hong Kong? Both were good in any case. I mean, I don’t know what kind of oil they used but it was un-fucking-believable and they have posters of baseball players on the wall here and is that Lou Gehrig? Here, in the city they have a poster of Lou Gehrig? Hey and look at that, they’ve chosen the table right by old Lou. He can watch the cheese trail from each slice and act as witness to your ridiculous guarded conversation.

She sits amazingly well. Such grace, and style. Brings her knees together and places her hands over them as she sits. And look at how she removes her hat, and her coat, and it is indeed a white blouse and she did indeed change her hairstyle. It’s short now. It wasn’t short before. You like short dark hair now, don’t you? Yea, I figured as much. Now, that doesn’t mean you can comment on her hair. Yes it is a new style and she does look amazing with her hair styled in short layers that hug her face, but do not dare comment on it. Your friend sits beside her. Make sure to pay attention to both. Equal eye time for each. Do not linger on her, jackass! That’s right. Look up, at that television. Who’s playing? Arizona?

Burgundy streaks across fields of sod… what’s in a friend, anyway? Who’s this guy? This clown? Is he really a friend? I mean, what’s he done for you lately? Nothing. Not a single goddamn thing. The guy’s okay to hang out with and grab some beers at a bar with, but really that’s anyone. See the waiter? Yea, he could sit and listen and laugh just as well as this guy. Plus he’s taller and he’s more likely to want to hang around after your drunken arguments with the frat boys. He won’t want to pull you away and make you feel a foo–

She turned her head! Did–did you see her hair flutter? Wow, man. I hope you did see because… because it was every possible synonym of the word “beautiful” that you can think of. Thanks for sparing me, but I saw it too, and I’d agree. Amazing… You could talk of pleasant things, risqué things that would lull her into the proper course of conversation… but look at him. He must care for her. He must love her, still, because my god she is unbelievable. Do you suppose it’s possible that, somehow, you want her because someone else has her? Now don’t go withdrawing into your shell, I’m just thinking to the beat of a different drummer. It helps me understand you, because sometimes you simply confuse the hell out of me. You lack consistency in your madness and I’m left without a clue as to your intentions. Before you start to feel please grab that pitcher that the waiter just dropped off.

Her, through the brown ale and foam. Beer goggles do nothing. She is, and has been, a woman unmatched… until tomorrow when you reflect on today and realize yesterday is not a time to linger in.

Discuss the weather. Discuss work. Discuss things that lead to jokes and joke about things that lead to reassuring nods and then a laugh. Oh, see, now she’s talking… yes, very well, turn to her. You have reason to look her in the eyes. Oh, and she’s a freckled one is she not? Most certainly. Like a child in a sandbox, the sun beating down on every kid around you, and that girl with the dark hair and darker freckles hanging upside down (what is a jungle gym anyway?) and smiling and flicking her tongue through the hole in her teeth. Don’t feel bad about not remembering her name—you were a child, and kids don’t think about each other the way you’re thinking of this woman now. But, there was something. An impression of a future that has left you reeling. Powerless you are not but susceptible? And how.

Did she just laugh? Laugh! Chuckle at the very least. Can you imagine sitting with her at the booth beside us? Next to her, holding her hand, the smell of her perfume (and hopefully not your cologne if you’ll listen to me for once and not wear the acrid stuff) filling the space, wafting and billowing around while discussing more than trivial status updates. Or maybe discussing the most trivial nonsense imaginable. The point, of course, is that it would be discussed by the two of you. “The two of you”, now isn’t that a nice thought?

… Jesus Christ, man, you’re such a woman.

Pizza’s here, so’s the second pitcher of beer. Joy, and indulgence that you can indulge in. One slice, two extra hours on the machines. Second slice and she’s had her second glass. Did you just finish off your fourth? Pig. Drunken pig. Oh, how she laughs. My suggestion to you: learn to write sonnets. It will be a useful skill when you move on and realize this one’s out of bounds. Keep it in the court and you’ll find yourself a nice cheerleader to keep you company. Oh, man, remember the cheerleader. In the short shorts? Who was that, Maria? Or Steph. It might have been Steph.

The names, man, the names. Don’t forget your names.

The hour draws near, and it’s sad. She’s sad. I can take it even if you refuse to see it. Corporate secretary living with a retail monkey? She can’t be happy! Logic and life draw us to wants of extraordinary proportions. We’re faulty but really what’s wrong with wanting great things? Life is short, and as far as we know it’s the only one we have until the sack of flesh we call a body decomposes and returns from whence it came. Things we have to do… people we have to love. Responsibilities we don’t need. Weights. He weighs down on her and it will only hasten her descent into a life of mediocrity and despair.

Well that’s interesting, isn’t it? When’s the last time you were happy? No friend, not content. Happy.

Cool night. I love it up here, you know. You should move up here. L.A. wasn’t like this. The high desert wasn’t like this. The shack by the side of the road up in Eureka was definitely not like this. This is something else, and I say enjoy it until you get sick of it. Find yourself a roost and feel what there is to see. Hear the end of it and then you can say you’ve truly lived. Brush yourself against dirty walls and wood grain bars. And wish, hope, that somehow she’ll be with you. Holding your hand… whispering “you’re acting like an idiot” in your ear. Cool night, and she’s right beside you. No need to feel alone.

Dismissals, goodbyes, and the pleasantries of life. Shake his hand again, firm again, you’re the man and he’s mush again. Hold hers gently, and wait, the lovely doth draw closer. She draws herself in for the cheek kiss. She smiles. She breathes… like any other woman. She breathes like she does. You damn yourself by elevating her to the top of the pedestal. You relegate her to “goddess” and now the simplest interaction sends your chest into a flurry. What if she was old? Sick? Missing an arm? Would it matter to you? You can say “no” all you like and she smells so damn alluring. Perfume. And her lips are… where was I? Lips. Pretty lips and warmth.

Lingering!

The shuffle back to the car late at night. The midnight routine. No one out, no one else to justify your existence at this moment. Right now you’re all alone here, bud, and there’s no way to avoid that fact. Tomorrow you should call Kristy and go somewhere. Yea, I know. It’s just Kristy. I just won’t stand to be around you and the after-seeing-her mood. At least Kristy will keep you distracted so I can relax for a while. Kristy with the jangle and glimmer of necklaces, bracelets, and rings, and that long gorgeous hair. You know, long hair? That used to be your thing. The trees again, see how they wave as the sea air batters them.

Well if all you’re going to do is sulk in the face of logic then I’ll just stop trying. Get in the damn car.

Turn the key. Reach for the knob in the same place it has always been. Ah, fate be damned! Tonight’s one of those nights when the car has declined to cooperate with your attempt to escape and get on the road, where you feel safest. Constant motion and the sound of wind blowing past the car have always been a comfort for you haven’t they? Pull the knob all you like, but the electrical’s still out of whack. Those lights won’t be coming on for a while so just stop fussing about with the wiring underneath the dash and sit upright. You know, you really should have gotten that fixed a year ago when it first became a problem.

Rest your arms on the steering wheel and lay your chin on them. Stare out into the wisps of fog rolling by. Don’t you dare think about light. Stare into the darkness. What do you suppose lingers out there? You’re not unique, hardly a soft little snowflake, and one of over six billion irrational beings on this planet. It certainly would be plausible to imagine that someone, somewhere, is sitting in the dark staring out across an empty street and accompanied only by the faint glow of street lamps, empty apartment windows, and the wispy fog. And who knows, perhaps that person is also a believer in safeguarding the soul against vicious and malicious assaults by the heart. Oh, now, I didn’t say that just to get you started on “feeling”! Keep staring into the darkness, yes, good… keep staring into the darkness.

When you’re ready, turn the key and get the engine going. It has been a long while and if you drive long enough in that darkness the lights are bound to come on again. That’ll get you home tonight. Of course if I know you, and I think I do, you won’t have the lights fixed until they shut down for good.

The crunch reverberates in his mind.  One crunch, then another, and another.  Endless crunching across a plain of pristine brilliance, freshly fallen and not yet in a state of decay.  Slim shadows from nearby gangly giants protect the surface, and keep it intact.  Towering above all things, keeping watch, older than the eldest memory conjured by the weak creations of flesh that seek the safety of the giants.  They see in no visible spectrum, speak in no language known to exist.  The only audible sign of life is the howl of the wind through the myriad of appendages and a tired yawn of the bough.

They tower over him and demonstrate their power.  The hiker continues along slowly, aware that the pride of these mighty giants can be felled with a swiftness such elderly things are not aware of.  As he crosses a chasm of what could have once been flowing life he steps over a fallen giant, and plods along in silence save for the jarring crunching of his boots.

He remains on the path as it has been decided, marked by bright poles of ore and colorful woven flags designed to catch the attention of passersby, marching onward to his destination.  It, the goal he seeks, lies far ahead, though he is not certain for the frigid corners of the world are unknown to him.  He is of a different place full of warmth and drying plains; a place between the lands in the sky and the buried secrets beneath the vast bowls of wetness; a place no longer wanted, nor needed, existing far behind and even further ahead.  It is now in the pallid that he bears witness to that which he has never seen, nor touched, nor truly ever dreamed.  It is not as they write about, and images are false when compared to such a scene as that which is the real thing.  The sheer lack of flat, the unshaped beauty of imperfection, it rolls down towards the valley lying thousands of feet below.  Sending all manner of fallen things cascading down the cracks and crevasses between the amassing of frozen life and death and the once-organic shale of stone that supported the creatures that dwelled beneath a massive ocean.  The hiker wonders of these things though he does not fully understand, for although well-traveled is he, learned he is not.  Like the rest he simply observes and is content to witness that which few men see.

He then bares witness to the haze of miles far ahead, jagged peaks discernable yet clearly not true.  The peaks rise high, higher than the one on which he marches, and expand to fill the horizon with their gray and misty visage.  They fill the land, and stand in a vigil over the lands to the West, once guardians now reduced to silent witnesses to the end of the old times and the beginning of the new.  They will remain there to the end, and will continue to remain as new ages begin again.  The hazy peaks will forever see that which even the old giants will miss when they die and fall to the valley below.  They will exist now and forever.  To observe, contemplate, process, and accept such hazy peaks would be to accept that which is beyond him, grander than him.  There are decades of conditioning to undo before the hazy peaks may be seen as they are, rather than imagined as faint illusion.  He cannot fathom, nor does he care to for he has not the time in his quest to pause and reflect on such things.  The hazy peaks are, at the very least, contemplated.

Behind the hiker lies the center of all things civil.  Vehicles, bright and shiny underneath the giants (“beautiful!” they exclaim) and across the slippery black, march in unison as they search for a place in which to stop.  They looked, they slowed, they saw a man and chased him down only to be turned away when he revealed he did not plan to leave.  The great building. made up of strips of the giants’ corpses, lay near the bare black square and provided a place of temporary warmth and familiarity for those who cannot take the unfamiliar cold and landscape draped in shadow.  In it are directories and helpful types, but only helpful when one knows what he seeks.  He did not know why he was there, not truly, and they served no purpose other than to provide a smile and a tangible memory to be forgotten in a box (though some would argue that $7.99 for a memory is quite the fair price).  Outside, the blare of the search for a place in the civil world continued, and he placed his memory in the pocket of his coat as he returned to his own place in the line.  He, too, did not plan to leave, but merely to collect the bag of his belongings and sustenance, for he would need these on his trek across the sharply angled terrain.  He waved the seekers away; they continued along in silence to seek their place.  As he headed to the path a sharp sound, a rather hoarse cry, echoed to him.  It was a familiar creature, although unlike any instance of the species that he had ever seen.

It was a white beast.  Sharp ears erect, black glistening nose twitching as it peered from side to side.  The legs of the lanky body twitching, muscles rippling, it sat ready to spring upon anything it beheld or flee, as the situation required.  How it stared into the distance, regal, almost, though clearly not as that is a quality not imagined by the white beast but by his overseer.  The blood memory in the white beast, the rich history it held – it must have been a true sight to behold.  The white beast, ancestrally not white at all but flecked with streaks of grays, browns, blacks, and all manner of visually pleasing yet practical tones, once roamed across this land on which it stands.  The white beast once claimed prey and ate the bleeding remains in the times before it waited patiently for bowls of nourishment.  It hid beneath the land in wondrous dens that served its purpose and nothing more.  It roamed from giant to giant, hazy peak to hazy peak, never marveling (or perhaps it did, though it did not occur to the hiker) at the land it passed through so freely.  And free it was, for no creature guided the white beast.  The instinct and blood memory of a thousand generations served as its compass.

“Sitzen!”  The jarring sound came from somewhere near the white beast.  The hiker glanced to the side to see another man in green; a seemingly affable one, this green-man was the white beast’s director.  The white beast’s head turned, and it sat upon the ground, tongue waggling and eyes frantically darting as it returned from its memory-state to the present time.  It rolled, and leapt, and let out its hoarse cry.  It yelped, held the ball, lumbered from corner to corner – a spectacle for eyes to see, and how they did gather around to watch.  The hiker did not watch the white beast play, as he was already walking to the path.

The memory of the white beast comes to mind with every glance at the landscape and hazy peaks.  The white and pure terrain, unknowing, uncaring.  The sun still shines brightly upon him, as he does not dare attempt the quest when the sun is low in the West and the moon threatens to rise.  Such is the time of dread and cold.  Rare indeed is the creature that would dare to face such horrors as those that occur when the cold becomes too cold, and night too dark, and perhaps that is why there are so few creatures of the night on the high peaks.  They are built for such trials and have honed the skills necessary only after generations behind them have struggled and perished.  He is not equipped, this man, but someday perhaps he will.  For now he must be content to observe as the day wanderers did in their time before his species.

The ground  becomes harder, the grasses and sod giving way to rocks and stone.  The giants begin to spread out and give him room.  The colored flags have disappeared, the steps of past trekkers long since vanished.  Along his left side a grand cliff rises.  The sheer rock of the peak is exposed before him, free of life and not encumbered by the vegetation of the low lands which it originated from.  As he stares at the ever-rising cliff he feels his eyes water, struggling against the blowing winds of the high peaks.  The exposed patches of skin across his face dry and grow pale.  Onward!, he thinks to himself.  His goal is close, he knows, for the air grows colder and dryer with every step taken.  It may seem agony to some, an annoyance to others, and a challenge to a select few, such as this man.  He is encouraged to return to where he comes from, where he belongs.  The hiker pays no mind (perhaps at the risk of health and life, but such men that would continue on despite the danger are men not to be argued with).

As he nears a rise in the path growing narrower and narrower by the minute a distinct sound rises.  At first a whisper, then a rustling, and eventually a loud echo; the sound does all it can to call the hiker’s attention.

His pace quickens, and his legs grow tired as the hiker ventures over the boulders that block his view of the origin of the sound.  Every step taken and rock clamored over brings him closer, and upon reaching the top of the boulders, before he has seen that which he knows is there, the sound overtakes him.  Nothing, not his boots on the rocks nor his own labored breathing, are audible over the vast and overbearing roar that flows past him, through a crag in the cliff and along to the right where the peak has suddenly become steep and unmanageable by a body that has experienced a lifetime of unnatural comfort.  He stands upon the highest boulder overlooking the thunderous roar, his back stooped low and hands resting upon the same boulder.  He stands there.

Distracted by the impassable wall in front, and shadowed by the wall to his left, the hiker allows himself to remain still until at last he returns to the mind that brought him to this place.  His goal lies far ahead of this place and higher than he cares to imagine, yet as he observes his surroundings he knows that such a thought is a lie.  He looks in both directions; to the left there is the cliff, gaining altitude still as it resumes past the crag from which the roar emanates and around another bend in the path; to the right there is the sudden drop to the sides of the peak below where the hiker once stepped, and even further still to the valley below, where green fields and smoke dot the land from which he came; in front of him is the roar itself.  There is no visible means of crossing the chasm of thunder.  The hiker removes his pack, placing it on the boulder beneath him, and then removes his gloves, one after the other.  His hands are instantly stung, and no amount of warm air from between his lips can warm them as he surveys the land and the impossible path ahead.

A cracking voice resonates and words are spoken which are registered in the mind as pain, then anger, then pure lustful rage. The severity of the words typically determines the quickness in which the rage overwhelms. When the mind has accomplished routing the message it has then to delve into the archival series of events and experience that form a history and use them to attach significance to the words. A cracking voice, red eyes, and shimmering trails along cheeks all indicate sadness or grief almost immediately and such elements play an important role in the severity. If the words interpreted by the mind are damning enough, no further thought or analysis is necessary.

Some men may listen. Some men may be recalled. Some men may stop to fathom or even consider. Some.

“He… was just walking me home,” she tells him. “I didn’t think he could do this to me. He seemed nice… oh God, please…” Her sound as subsequent noise drowned out by the loud roar exploring the corners of the mind when the connections have been made. The vast emptiness that reigns over the mind is filled with an overwhelming pressure as the physical sensation of sound brimming from ear to ear presses and pounds against the skull. The mind needs to relieve such immense pressure and to force anything but the cause of the pressure to bear the brunt of the release is out of the question. It is rage, truly, but rage that must be directed along the proper channel else the man should explode within himself.

“I need you here with me. Don’t leave,” her gentle hand tightly gripped around his wrist. “Please, come back? We’ll call the police. He can’t get away with this. Baby, come here, come here.”

All physical sense is pounded away by the beating drums, all touch becomes meaningless save for the only touch that the mind can fathom, which is not this touch. Touch, like anger, does not express that which is in the man’s mind – the pairing of the terms pulsing andthickness may suffice. It is the compulsive need to feel flesh pounded beneath flesh as so much worthless hamburger is pounded by the hammer. A human equated to meat purchased at the butcher shop – such is the only type of thought that can exist. Gentleness is impossible in the cacophony of the enraged mind.

“Don’t do it! He’s not worth it! Babe, plea–”

Her noise is static in the background as the man steps toward the door and his hand pulls it open. The cracking voice and rosy cheeks dissipate as thick wood is slammed against thick wood and the silence of street lamps buzzing in the night overtakes him. All things are as indiscernible shadow beneath the glowing orb of hatred and rage. There is nothing save for the face, and the act, and the belief that it has to happen. No, more than belief. A desire, a lustful desire to commit the act, to carry it out in full. It must be understood that it is not an emotion in and of itself, but merely an extreme extension of anger. It is anger that people most often find themselves in the company of. The deafening presence of silence and screaming rage that simultaneously take hold of this man’s mind is a rare occurrence, and some people may be fortunate enough never to experience such a state of being. It is as drowning, and sinking helplessly below the surface of the water until there is only a pressure from within to take action and seek relief. He must break the surface or allow himself to drown.

The man as he was is now the man as he is, just as the man as he is will be the man as he will be when the ever-present thunder subsides and he will sit in a pool of blood and he will weep.

Fists clench as the feet pound the pavement and the throbbing in his mind continues its irregular assault on the senses. Every twig, leaf, and wrapper combust beneath the soles of his shoes as every step takes him further along the only path. The scattered mass of buzzing rages around him. As fallen crystals, raining down, striking him and all that surrounds him. Clinking and clicking and insanity’s relentless attack upon the core of the self. Louder, more expressive, sharper by the second in the focused barrage… him… hit… hurt… hunt… hollering… happiness, lost forever. She is taken, she is gone, she is not as she was and she will not be and louder still, horrid loudness pressing and hurting and wanting to explode from his eyes and lead him and it hurts. Groaning, hoping to drown out the sound yet it lingers and he must be rid of it, you see? He must be rid it, he must be rid of it, he must be rid of it.

A light shines down on the path’s direction and he turns a corner, physical and nowhere in the vicinity of emotional. It is there, as it was there before. The familiar sights and unfamiliar maddening screeching. Further still, by steps, and farther away as the echo returns to him. A reflective door returns the sound to him and his body begins to feel the crushing weight of the house inside the door. Before, this place was about the steps on stairs and ringing bells. Laughter inside, and calmative conversation. Trusted communication betrayed by lustful howling and it must be silenced, it must be made to stop.

She must have yelled, she must have wept loudly in bewilderment. The echo from such noise will be horrible and glorious and a relief unheard of in all of man’s existence.

A massive shockwave when flesh meets wood, and he leans forward to brace himself when the imminent occurs and the wooden door gives way to a man from which all the world’s madness flows.

“Hey, what the fuck?” What’re–” The first contact falls between a fist and the face of nothing. A nothing. The mind registers the face of the man in the doorway as nothing. So much hamburger. No one cares for hamburger. Pounds the hamburger. Pounds it into the wooden ground beneath his feet.

Flesh ripped open, bones cracking, blood amassing as strike after strike falls upon the cause of the horrid symphonic melody in the man’s mind. This is responsible; this does not deserve what is given, what is bestowed, what is gifted to all creatures. He took more than he is right to do and gave what he should not have and now, here, in a hallway, on the wooden ground, beside a black wall and a black table and a black rail the noise will cease.

The feeling of rhythm. Rapid beating against open palms. Painful jolts as fists strike flesh and bone and hands clamor desperately, scratching a face, pulling an ear. Words uttered yet not understood as the mind’s walls reflect a deafening roar—the desperate gasp for life goes unheard.

The crunch reverberates in his mind.  One crunch, then another, and another.  Endless crunching across a plain of pristine brilliance, freshly fallen and not yet in a state of decay.  Slim shadows from nearby gangly giants protect the surface, and keep it intact.  Towering above all things, keeping watch, older than the eldest memory conjured by the weak creations of flesh that seek the safety of the giants.  They see in no visible spectrum, speak in no language known to exist.  The only audible sign of life is the howl of the wind through the myriad of appendages and a tired yawn of the bough.

They tower over him and demonstrate their power.  The hiker continues along slowly, aware that the pride of these mighty giants can be felled with a swiftness such elderly things are not aware of.  As he crosses a chasm of what could have once been flowing life he steps over a fallen giant, and plods along in silence save for the jarring crunching of his boots.

He remains on the path as it has been decided, marked by bright poles of ore and colorful woven flags designed to catch the attention of passersby, marching onward to his destination.  It, the goal he seeks, lies far ahead, though he is not certain for the frigid corners of the world are unknown to him.  He is of a different place full of warmth and drying plains; a place between the lands in the sky and the buried secrets beneath the vast bowls of wetness; a place no longer wanted, nor needed, existing far behind and even further ahead.  It is now in the pallid that he bears witness to that which he has never seen, nor touched, nor truly ever dreamed.  It is not as they write about, and images are false when compared to such a scene as that which is the real thing.  The sheer lack of flat, the unshaped beauty of imperfection, it rolls down towards the valley lying thousands of feet below.  Sending all manner of fallen things cascading down the cracks and crevasses between the amassing of frozen life and death and the once-organic shale of stone that supported the creatures that dwelled beneath a massive ocean.  The hiker wonders of these things though he does not fully understand, for although well-traveled is he, learned he is not.  Like the rest he simply observes and is content to witness that which few men see.

He then bares witness to the haze of miles far ahead, jagged peaks discernable yet clearly not true.  The peaks rise high, higher than the one on which he marches, and expand to fill the horizon with their gray and misty visage.  They fill the land, and stand in a vigil over the lands to the West, once guardians now reduced to silent witnesses to the end of the old times and the beginning of the new.  They will remain there to the end, and will continue to remain as new ages begin again.  The hazy peaks will forever see that which even the old giants will miss when they die and fall to the valley below.  They will exist now and forever.  To observe, contemplate, process, and accept such hazy peaks would be to accept that which is beyond him, grander than him.  There are decades of conditioning to undo before the hazy peaks may be seen as they are, rather than imagined as faint illusion.  He cannot fathom, nor does he care to for he has not the time in his quest to pause and reflect on such things.  The hazy peaks are, at the very least, contemplated.

Behind the hiker lies the center of all things civil.  Vehicles, bright and shiny underneath the giants (“beautiful!” they exclaim) and across the slippery black, march in unison as they search for a place in which to stop.  They looked, they slowed, they saw a man and chased him down only to be turned away when he revealed he did not plan to leave.  The great building. made up of strips of the giants’ corpses, lay near the bare black square and provided a place of temporary warmth and familiarity for those who cannot take the unfamiliar cold and landscape draped in shadow.  In it are directories and helpful types, but only helpful when one knows what he seeks.  He did not know why he was there, not truly, and they served no purpose other than to provide a smile and a tangible memory to be forgotten in a box (though some would argue that $7.99 for a memory is quite the fair price).  Outside, the blare of the search for a place in the civil world continued, and he placed his memory in the pocket of his coat as he returned to his own place in the line.  He, too, did not plan to leave, but merely to collect the bag of his belongings and sustenance, for he would need these on his trek across the sharply angled terrain.  He waved the seekers away; they continued along in silence to seek their place.  As he headed to the path a sharp sound, a rather hoarse cry, echoed to him.  It was a familiar creature, although unlike any instance of the species that he had ever seen.

It was a white beast.  Sharp ears erect, black glistening nose twitching as it peered from side to side.  The legs of the lanky body twitching, muscles rippling, it sat ready to spring upon anything it beheld or flee, as the situation required.  How it stared into the distance, regal, almost, though clearly not as that is a quality not imagined by the white beast but by his overseer.  The blood memory in the white beast, the rich history it held – it must have been a true sight to behold.  The white beast, ancestrally not white at all but flecked with streaks of grays, browns, blacks, and all manner of visually pleasing yet practical tones, once roamed across this land on which it stands.  The white beast once claimed prey and ate the bleeding remains in the times before it waited patiently for bowls of nourishment.  It hid beneath the land in wondrous dens that served its purpose and nothing more.  It roamed from giant to giant, hazy peak to hazy peak, never marveling (or perhaps it did, though it did not occur to the hiker) at the land it passed through so freely.  And free it was, for no creature guided the white beast.  The instinct and blood memory of a thousand generations served as its compass.

“Sitzen!”  The jarring sound came from somewhere near the white beast.  The hiker glanced to the side to see another man in green; a seemingly affable one, this green-man was the white beast’s director.  The white beast’s head turned, and it sat upon the ground, tongue waggling and eyes frantically darting as it returned from its memory-state to the present time.  It rolled, and leapt, and let out its hoarse cry.  It yelped, held the ball, lumbered from corner to corner – a spectacle for eyes to see, and how they did gather around to watch.  The hiker did not watch the white beast play, as he was already walking to the path.

The memory of the white beast comes to mind with every glance at the landscape and hazy peaks.  The white and pure terrain, unknowing, uncaring.  The sun still shines brightly upon him, as he does not dare attempt the quest when the sun is low in the West and the moon threatens to rise.  Such is the time of dread and cold.  Rare indeed is the creature that would dare to face such horrors as those that occur when the cold becomes too cold, and night too dark, and perhaps that is why there are so few creatures of the night on the high peaks.  They are built for such trials and have honed the skills necessary only after generations behind them have struggled and perished.  He is not equipped, this man, but someday perhaps he will.  For now he must be content to observe as the day wanderers did in their time before his species.

The ground  becomes harder, the grasses and sod giving way to rocks and stone.  The giants begin to spread out and give him room.  The colored flags have disappeared, the steps of past trekkers long since vanished.  Along his left side a grand cliff rises.  The sheer rock of the peak is exposed before him, free of life and not encumbered by the vegetation of the low lands which it originated from.  As he stares at the ever-rising cliff he feels his eyes water, struggling against the blowing winds of the high peaks.  The exposed patches of skin across his face dry and grow pale.  Onward!, he thinks to himself.  His goal is close, he knows, for the air grows colder and dryer with every step taken.  It may seem agony to some, an annoyance to others, and a challenge to a select few, such as this man.  He is encouraged to return to where he comes from, where he belongs.  The hiker pays no mind (perhaps at the risk of health and life, but such men that would continue on despite the danger are men not to be argued with).

As he nears a rise in the path growing narrower and narrower by the minute a distinct sound rises.  At first a whisper, then a rustling, and eventually a loud echo; the sound does all it can to call the hiker’s attention.

His pace quickens, and his legs grow tired as the hiker ventures over the boulders that block his view of the origin of the sound.  Every step taken and rock clamored over brings him closer, and upon reaching the top of the boulders, before he has seen that which he knows is there, the sound overtakes him.  Nothing, not his boots on the rocks nor his own labored breathing, are audible over the vast and overbearing roar that flows past him, through a crag in the cliff and along to the right where the peak has suddenly become steep and unmanageable by a body that has experienced a lifetime of unnatural comfort.  He stands upon the highest boulder overlooking the thunderous roar, his back stooped low and hands resting upon the same boulder.  He stands there.

Distracted by the impassable wall in front, and shadowed by the wall to his left, the hiker allows himself to remain still until at last he returns to the mind that brought him to this place.  His goal lies far ahead of this place and higher than he cares to imagine, yet as he observes his surroundings he knows that such a thought is a lie.  He looks in both directions; to the left there is the cliff, gaining altitude still as it resumes past the crag from which the roar emanates and around another bend in the path; to the right there is the sudden drop to the sides of the peak below where the hiker once stepped, and even further still to the valley below, where green fields and smoke dot the land from which he came; in front of him is the roar itself.  There is no visible means of crossing the chasm of thunder.  The hiker removes his pack, placing it on the boulder beneath him, and then removes his gloves, one after the other.  His hands are instantly stung, and no amount of warm air from between his lips can warm them as he surveys the land and the impossible path ahead.

A cracking voice resonates and words are spoken which are registered in the mind as pain, then anger, then pure lustful rage. The severity of the words typically determines the quickness in which the rage overwhelms. When the mind has accomplished routing the message it has then to delve into the archival series of events and experience that form a history and use them to attach significance to the words. A cracking voice, red eyes, and shimmering trails along cheeks all indicate sadness or grief almost immediately and such elements play an important role in the severity. If the words interpreted by the mind are damning enough, no further thought or analysis is necessary.

Some men may listen. Some men may be recalled. Some men may stop to fathom or even consider. Some.

“He… was just walking me home,” she tells him. “I didn’t think he could do this to me. He seemed nice… oh God, please…” Her sound as subsequent noise drowned out by the loud roar exploring the corners of the mind when the connections have been made. The vast emptiness that reigns over the mind is filled with an overwhelming pressure as the physical sensation of sound brimming from ear to ear presses and pounds against the skull. The mind needs to relieve such immense pressure and to force anything but the cause of the pressure to bear the brunt of the release is out of the question. It is rage, truly, but rage that must be directed along the proper channel else the man should explode within himself.

“I need you here with me. Don’t leave,” her gentle hand tightly gripped around his wrist. “Please, come back? We’ll call the police. He can’t get away with this. Baby, come here, come here.”

All physical sense is pounded away by the beating drums, all touch becomes meaningless save for the only touch that the mind can fathom, which is not this touch. Touch, like anger, does not express that which is in the man’s mind – the pairing of the terms pulsing andthickness may suffice. It is the compulsive need to feel flesh pounded beneath flesh as so much worthless hamburger is pounded by the hammer. A human equated to meat purchased at the butcher shop – such is the only type of thought that can exist. Gentleness is impossible in the cacophony of the enraged mind.

“Don’t do it! He’s not worth it! Babe, plea–”

Her noise is static in the background as the man steps toward the door and his hand pulls it open. The cracking voice and rosy cheeks dissipate as thick wood is slammed against thick wood and the silence of street lamps buzzing in the night overtakes him. All things are as indiscernible shadow beneath the glowing orb of hatred and rage. There is nothing save for the face, and the act, and the belief that it has to happen. No, more than belief. A desire, a lustful desire to commit the act, to carry it out in full. It must be understood that it is not an emotion in and of itself, but merely an extreme extension of anger. It is anger that people most often find themselves in the company of. The deafening presence of silence and screaming rage that simultaneously take hold of this man’s mind is a rare occurrence, and some people may be fortunate enough never to experience such a state of being. It is as drowning, and sinking helplessly below the surface of the water until there is only a pressure from within to take action and seek relief. He must break the surface or allow himself to drown.

The man as he was is now the man as he is, just as the man as he is will be the man as he will be when the ever-present thunder subsides and he will sit in a pool of blood and he will weep.

Fists clench as the feet pound the pavement and the throbbing in his mind continues its irregular assault on the senses. Every twig, leaf, and wrapper combust beneath the soles of his shoes as every step takes him further along the only path. The scattered mass of buzzing rages around him. As fallen crystals, raining down, striking him and all that surrounds him. Clinking and clicking and insanity’s relentless attack upon the core of the self. Louder, more expressive, sharper by the second in the focused barrage… him… hit… hurt… hunt… hollering… happiness, lost forever. She is taken, she is gone, she is not as she was and she will not be and louder still, horrid loudness pressing and hurting and wanting to explode from his eyes and lead him and it hurts. Groaning, hoping to drown out the sound yet it lingers and he must be rid of it, you see? He must be rid it, he must be rid of it, he must be rid of it.

A light shines down on the path’s direction and he turns a corner, physical and nowhere in the vicinity of emotional. It is there, as it was there before. The familiar sights and unfamiliar maddening screeching. Further still, by steps, and farther away as the echo returns to him. A reflective door returns the sound to him and his body begins to feel the crushing weight of the house inside the door. Before, this place was about the steps on stairs and ringing bells. Laughter inside, and calmative conversation. Trusted communication betrayed by lustful howling and it must be silenced, it must be made to stop.

She must have yelled, she must have wept loudly in bewilderment. The echo from such noise will be horrible and glorious and a relief unheard of in all of man’s existence.

A massive shockwave when flesh meets wood, and he leans forward to brace himself when the imminent occurs and the wooden door gives way to a man from which all the world’s madness flows.

“Hey, what the fuck?” What’re–” The first contact falls between a fist and the face of nothing. A nothing. The mind registers the face of the man in the doorway as nothing. So much hamburger. No one cares for hamburger. Pounds the hamburger. Pounds it into the wooden ground beneath his feet.

Flesh ripped open, bones cracking, blood amassing as strike after strike falls upon the cause of the horrid symphonic melody in the man’s mind. This is responsible; this does not deserve what is given, what is bestowed, what is gifted to all creatures. He took more than he is right to do and gave what he should not have and now, here, in a hallway, on the wooden ground, beside a black wall and a black table and a black rail the noise will cease.

The feeling of rhythm. Rapid beating against open palms. Painful jolts as fists strike flesh and bone and hands clamor desperately, scratching a face, pulling an ear. Words uttered yet not understood as the mind’s walls reflect a deafening roar—the desperate gasp for life goes unheard.

He first appeared on a Friday.  I remember he seemed to be thinking carefully about his choice, but in the end he chose what everyone else chooses during the lunch rush: sliders.  After that he came in once a week, sometimes twice a week if he and his friends stopped by for sliders on Fridays.  Sometimes, I would be there to ring him up, but if it wasn’t me at the register he would not even look at me.  It did not matter where I was standing; next to the register, leaning against the counter, walking by him after I cleaned a table.  He would just look right into the eyes of Michelle or Jorge or whichever employee was helping him, oblivious to anyone and anything else that did not pertain to his order.

That was when I was not the one at the register.  When I was the person ringing him up, he would stare into my eyes.  I wondered if he knew what he was doing when he stared at me or anyone else like that.  He had the kind of hazel-flecked eyes that burn into you, almost as if he either hates you intensely or loves you more than he can bear.  At first I thought it was awkward to look into them, but then I realized it was not awkward at all.  It was actually kind of painful.  I wanted to look away, but at the same time I wanted to stare back.  I wanted to peer into the golden streaks that glitter under the lamp above the counter and get darker as you follow the streaks towards the pitch black iris in the center.  His furrowed brows, always low and close together casting shadowy patches over his eyes, and his lips pursed like he just said something he did not want to say and had to quiet himself.  But, his eyes.  I forced myself to look into his eyes because then I could pretend that he was there to see me.  That every week, or twice a week, he would stop at our restaurant just to see me, and look into my eyes, and touch my hand when I handed him his change.  He could not bear to be away from me or my hand, and every moment spent away was like agony to him, because his desire was too great and his heart could only stay away for so long.  He was not just there to eat burgers and joke around on his lunch hour with his friends or buy a pizza for him and some other girl he’s seeing.

I’d pretend he was there for me.

*      *      *

The first time I saw her she was at the register, leaning against the counter.  She had makeup on.  Not too plastered on, like some girls wear it.  She just had a nice amount of eye shadow and eyeliner all around along her lashes.  I think the term is “kohl-rimmed” eyes.  Some women wear it and they look kind of cheap, but not this girl.  Aside from the dark around her eyes she had real simple, flat black hair down to her shoulders, and she wore that powder that makes a girl look paler than she really is.  I liked that she looked so pale, especially with the black hair and dark around her eyes, but judging by the skin on her forearms and hands she probably didn’t need any of that make-up.  She was one of those classic fair-skinned beauties, like Snow White or some other make-believe character.  I could see her sometimes, when I got lost in a thought, as some princess walking along in a field of roses.  Her skin so bright that it would attract the attention of every misfit creature out there in that field and simultaneously scare them out of their wits to see such a gorgeous sight.  She would lull them in, their own curious nature and an indescribable attraction to this bright princess out in the field drawing them closer and closer until she sprung on them.  A few moments later they’d be dead, and she’d continue walking along unfazed by her own power over them.  Pretty as a picture.

But I’d seen lots of good-looking girls before, and I would see many good-looking girls long after she disappeared.  No, this girl had something else.  I caught it the first time I saw her, after noticing her make-up and fair skin.  It was on her arm.  The long, thin tendrils extending out across her forearm.  A black pattern over the faint blue threads intricately woven under the fabric of her skin, over the taut sinews that stretched as she handed me the change she held in her small hand.  A grotesque black shape that only the twisted calculations of nature can create, like the spirals of a conch shell or a long and evenly segmented bug that walks along on a thousand legs.  She wore it well.  I sometimes thought of asking her about it, that tattoo.  Why a spider-web?  Did she place it on her forearm as a symbol, as a joke, or did she think it just looked interesting?  Whatever her reason, I’d stepped into the parlor, and I was sure as hell stuck.

No, not stuck.  Caught… that’s what I was.  And I couldn’t shake loose.

*      *      *

On my more whimsical days I would see him roaming a desert in that blue truck that I always saw him drive into the parking lot.  Mountains would rise thousands and thousands of feet up into the air all around, creating a pit of sand and shrubs and living things that barely lived but somehow got by.  The sun shining down upon everything, down on the poor little desert animals that dashed across the sands looking for food and shelter, while the huge cacti towered above them and laughed amongst themselves at the silly little creatures’ attempts to survive.  Little chirpy things and buzzy things and the hollow wind would be the only musical accompaniment to the survival scene that played out day after day.  But as I sat or leaned or lay wherever I was at the time I would close my eyes tight and suddenly, he would be there.  That big blue truck of his with the ridiculously huge tires, narrowly missing the little creatures and leaving behind a trail of dust as he cut his path through the sands.  Defying the laughing cacti and chirpy, buzzy wind orchestra as he roared through the open land and let the sunshine come upon him through the open windows.  He was an explorer, this man.  He loved to roam free and did not like to worry about the inane issues that the rest of us deal with every day.  He liked to swim the ocean in the morning, climb the mountain in the afternoon, and rest in the valley at night.  Hazel-Eyes was the kind of man who made his own path.  The kind of man who took what he wanted.

Then, I would get depressed.  Why wouldn’t he take me?

*      *      *

On certain occasions I sat facing her as she worked at the register, with two friends sitting across the table watching the big television at one end of the place and one more guy on my right side facing the same direction I was.  I’d bite into my burgers and talk to the guys about work and football and the chick at work who was looking good that day, all the while stealing sly glances at the register.  She’d stand there, her body towards me but not facing me directly, sometimes talking to her big co-worker/friend who’d be off to the side with her back to me.  Sometimes that big co-worker/friend would stand right in the center of the area behind the register and block my view of her, and I’d just sit there burning a hole into her back at the spot where her too-tight T-shirt revealed a bra strap that was stretched beyond its limit.  I was prone to stare, as my folks used to tell me, but no one else ever seemed to notice.  So I’d stare and wait for her to move so that I could steal another quick glance of Spider-Web before she’d turn to enter the kitchen or manage some other task that was out of my field of vision.  Back there, where no one could see.  I bet she’d talk to the Mexican guys who worked the kitchen and smile playfully, turning them into mindless little drones who gave her anything she wanted.  Once they were smiling idiots gathered around her she’d walk her way into a big, empty back room with only a rug in the center.  Their eyes would remain locked on her as she’d reach down and lift the corner of the rug, careful not to shake up the layer of dust that rested precariously on the surface.  Beneath the rug there’d be a huge vault door, wooden and old with cracks running along the thick planks.  She’d lead them down there, one by one following closely behind, and when she returned from the vault there’d be no followers.  She’d replace the vault door, and the dusty old rug, and smile to herself as she returned to the register to help some customers that would suddenly appear from off on the side somewhere.

She’d probably go back there just to get out of my sight.

*      *      *

Hazel-Eyes continued to come to my restaurant nearly every week for four months, until the summer.  Each time I saw him I became more and more lost, finding myself wandering through fields of hazel-colored flowers or riding in a big blue truck through the mountains that extend up from the shoreline.  It grew beyond my work.  As I sat on the train, he would be there sitting across from me, the light behind him creating an aura of amazing light that transcended anything I could imagine without him.  At school I would see him sitting on a bench between two other guys, looking back at me.  Piercing me with his gaze.  But, best of all, there were the good days.  The days when he would appear in my room as I slept and wake me up.  I would hear him, though he did not speak, and see him, though many times my eyes would be closed.  And he would sit by the bed and look at me to show me I was there.

One day in early summer he appeared in my living room, sitting on the couch and watching Jeopardy with my parents.  The flickering blue glow from the television danced across his blank, expressionless face.  I waited for him to turn to me and look into my eyes like he did every time I saw him, but he never turned.  I waited, and waited, until at last my mother noticed and asked me why I was staring at her and my father.  I turned away in silence and returned to my room to wait for him, but he did not appear that night.  The next morning was a Friday, and I decided then that I could not wait for him.

I had to do it, for us.

*      *      *

My mind was slipping.  I knew, because it’d happened before.  Minutes seemed like days as I waited to get out to lunch and grab a bite to eat.  The time spent away from that restaurant was time wasted not being near her.  Her pale, beautiful skin, at the time so beautiful and unlike anything I’d ever seen, and of course the spider-web from which Spider-Web got her name, extending and wrapping around her thin, elegant arm.  She’d fly around me, dark angelic wings springing from her back, her luminescent hands extended out to me, calling me.  And I would follow, because what else could I do?  She had me, her and her dark web taking hold of me, dragging me towards her like a helpless creature caught in some predator’s sights, until at last I could do nothing else but stop resisting and go to her.

My mind was slipping because I thought of these things.  It was unhealthy, I knew, because it’d happened before.  The web didn’t have me completely paralyzed yet, and despite the immense beauty of Spider-Web and all that she was, I couldn’t do it again.  When that Friday came, I suggested we go to the deli up the street.  They asked me why I was suddenly changing routine.  I told them we should man up and try new things.

I had to get a grip on myself and end it, for our sake.

*      *      *

“What can I get for you?”  Her hand rested on the counter as she looked at him, head cocked at an angle.  She waited patiently, glancing out the window as the rain from a gray day fell in silence.

He looked up and rubbed his chin as he pondered his meal.  There was the menu.  Then he looked down, and she was looking at him.  “I think I’ll just go for the All-You-Can-Eat Sliders,” he said.

He first appeared on a Friday.  I remember he seemed to be thinking carefully about his choice, but in the end he chose what everyone else chooses during the lunch rush: sliders.  After that he came in once a week, sometimes twice a week if he and his friends stopped by for sliders on Fridays.  Sometimes, I would be there to ring him up, but if it wasn’t me at the register he would not even look at me.  It did not matter where I was standing; next to the register, leaning against the counter, walking by him after I cleaned a table.  He would just look right into the eyes of Michelle or Jorge or whichever employee was helping him, oblivious to anyone and anything else that did not pertain to his order.

That was when I was not the one at the register.  When I was the person ringing him up, he would stare into my eyes.  I wondered if he knew what he was doing when he stared at me or anyone else like that.  He had the kind of hazel-flecked eyes that burn into you, almost as if he either hates you intensely or loves you more than he can bear.  At first I thought it was awkward to look into them, but then I realized it was not awkward at all.  It was actually kind of painful.  I wanted to look away, but at the same time I wanted to stare back.  I wanted to peer into the golden streaks that glitter under the lamp above the counter and get darker as you follow the streaks towards the pitch black iris in the center.  His furrowed brows, always low and close together casting shadowy patches over his eyes, and his lips pursed like he just said something he did not want to say and had to quiet himself.  But, his eyes.  I forced myself to look into his eyes because then I could pretend that he was there to see me.  That every week, or twice a week, he would stop at our restaurant just to see me, and look into my eyes, and touch my hand when I handed him his change.  He could not bear to be away from me or my hand, and every moment spent away was like agony to him, because his desire was too great and his heart could only stay away for so long.  He was not just there to eat burgers and joke around on his lunch hour with his friends or buy a pizza for him and some other girl he’s seeing.

I’d pretend he was there for me.

*      *      *

The first time I saw her she was at the register, leaning against the counter.  She had makeup on.  Not too plastered on, like some girls wear it.  She just had a nice amount of eye shadow and eyeliner all around along her lashes.  I think the term is “kohl-rimmed” eyes.  Some women wear it and they look kind of cheap, but not this girl.  Aside from the dark around her eyes she had real simple, flat black hair down to her shoulders, and she wore that powder that makes a girl look paler than she really is.  I liked that she looked so pale, especially with the black hair and dark around her eyes, but judging by the skin on her forearms and hands she probably didn’t need any of that make-up.  She was one of those classic fair-skinned beauties, like Snow White or some other make-believe character.  I could see her sometimes, when I got lost in a thought, as some princess walking along in a field of roses.  Her skin so bright that it would attract the attention of every misfit creature out there in that field and simultaneously scare them out of their wits to see such a gorgeous sight.  She would lull them in, their own curious nature and an indescribable attraction to this bright princess out in the field drawing them closer and closer until she sprung on them.  A few moments later they’d be dead, and she’d continue walking along unfazed by her own power over them.  Pretty as a picture.

But I’d seen lots of good-looking girls before, and I would see many good-looking girls long after she disappeared.  No, this girl had something else.  I caught it the first time I saw her, after noticing her make-up and fair skin.  It was on her arm.  The long, thin tendrils extending out across her forearm.  A black pattern over the faint blue threads intricately woven under the fabric of her skin, over the taut sinews that stretched as she handed me the change she held in her small hand.  A grotesque black shape that only the twisted calculations of nature can create, like the spirals of a conch shell or a long and evenly segmented bug that walks along on a thousand legs.  She wore it well.  I sometimes thought of asking her about it, that tattoo.  Why a spider-web?  Did she place it on her forearm as a symbol, as a joke, or did she think it just looked interesting?  Whatever her reason, I’d stepped into the parlor, and I was sure as hell stuck.

No, not stuck.  Caught… that’s what I was.  And I couldn’t shake loose.

*      *      *

On my more whimsical days I would see him roaming a desert in that blue truck that I always saw him drive into the parking lot.  Mountains would rise thousands and thousands of feet up into the air all around, creating a pit of sand and shrubs and living things that barely lived but somehow got by.  The sun shining down upon everything, down on the poor little desert animals that dashed across the sands looking for food and shelter, while the huge cacti towered above them and laughed amongst themselves at the silly little creatures’ attempts to survive.  Little chirpy things and buzzy things and the hollow wind would be the only musical accompaniment to the survival scene that played out day after day.  But as I sat or leaned or lay wherever I was at the time I would close my eyes tight and suddenly, he would be there.  That big blue truck of his with the ridiculously huge tires, narrowly missing the little creatures and leaving behind a trail of dust as he cut his path through the sands.  Defying the laughing cacti and chirpy, buzzy wind orchestra as he roared through the open land and let the sunshine come upon him through the open windows.  He was an explorer, this man.  He loved to roam free and did not like to worry about the inane issues that the rest of us deal with every day.  He liked to swim the ocean in the morning, climb the mountain in the afternoon, and rest in the valley at night.  Hazel-Eyes was the kind of man who made his own path.  The kind of man who took what he wanted.

Then, I would get depressed.  Why wouldn’t he take me?

*      *      *

On certain occasions I sat facing her as she worked at the register, with two friends sitting across the table watching the big television at one end of the place and one more guy on my right side facing the same direction I was.  I’d bite into my burgers and talk to the guys about work and football and the chick at work who was looking good that day, all the while stealing sly glances at the register.  She’d stand there, her body towards me but not facing me directly, sometimes talking to her big co-worker/friend who’d be off to the side with her back to me.  Sometimes that big co-worker/friend would stand right in the center of the area behind the register and block my view of her, and I’d just sit there burning a hole into her back at the spot where her too-tight T-shirt revealed a bra strap that was stretched beyond its limit.  I was prone to stare, as my folks used to tell me, but no one else ever seemed to notice.  So I’d stare and wait for her to move so that I could steal another quick glance of Spider-Web before she’d turn to enter the kitchen or manage some other task that was out of my field of vision.  Back there, where no one could see.  I bet she’d talk to the Mexican guys who worked the kitchen and smile playfully, turning them into mindless little drones who gave her anything she wanted.  Once they were smiling idiots gathered around her she’d walk her way into a big, empty back room with only a rug in the center.  Their eyes would remain locked on her as she’d reach down and lift the corner of the rug, careful not to shake up the layer of dust that rested precariously on the surface.  Beneath the rug there’d be a huge vault door, wooden and old with cracks running along the thick planks.  She’d lead them down there, one by one following closely behind, and when she returned from the vault there’d be no followers.  She’d replace the vault door, and the dusty old rug, and smile to herself as she returned to the register to help some customers that would suddenly appear from off on the side somewhere.

She’d probably go back there just to get out of my sight.

*      *      *

Hazel-Eyes continued to come to my restaurant nearly every week for four months, until the summer.  Each time I saw him I became more and more lost, finding myself wandering through fields of hazel-colored flowers or riding in a big blue truck through the mountains that extend up from the shoreline.  It grew beyond my work.  As I sat on the train, he would be there sitting across from me, the light behind him creating an aura of amazing light that transcended anything I could imagine without him.  At school I would see him sitting on a bench between two other guys, looking back at me.  Piercing me with his gaze.  But, best of all, there were the good days.  The days when he would appear in my room as I slept and wake me up.  I would hear him, though he did not speak, and see him, though many times my eyes would be closed.  And he would sit by the bed and look at me to show me I was there.

One day in early summer he appeared in my living room, sitting on the couch and watching Jeopardy with my parents.  The flickering blue glow from the television danced across his blank, expressionless face.  I waited for him to turn to me and look into my eyes like he did every time I saw him, but he never turned.  I waited, and waited, until at last my mother noticed and asked me why I was staring at her and my father.  I turned away in silence and returned to my room to wait for him, but he did not appear that night.  The next morning was a Friday, and I decided then that I could not wait for him.

I had to do it, for us.

*      *      *

My mind was slipping.  I knew, because it’d happened before.  Minutes seemed like days as I waited to get out to lunch and grab a bite to eat.  The time spent away from that restaurant was time wasted not being near her.  Her pale, beautiful skin, at the time so beautiful and unlike anything I’d ever seen, and of course the spider-web from which Spider-Web got her name, extending and wrapping around her thin, elegant arm.  She’d fly around me, dark angelic wings springing from her back, her luminescent hands extended out to me, calling me.  And I would follow, because what else could I do?  She had me, her and her dark web taking hold of me, dragging me towards her like a helpless creature caught in some predator’s sights, until at last I could do nothing else but stop resisting and go to her.

My mind was slipping because I thought of these things.  It was unhealthy, I knew, because it’d happened before.  The web didn’t have me completely paralyzed yet, and despite the immense beauty of Spider-Web and all that she was, I couldn’t do it again.  When that Friday came, I suggested we go to the deli up the street.  They asked me why I was suddenly changing routine.  I told them we should man up and try new things.

I had to get a grip on myself and end it, for our sake.

*      *      *

“What can I get for you?”  Her hand rested on the counter as she looked at him, head cocked at an angle.  She waited patiently, glancing out the window as the rain from a gray day fell in silence.

He looked up and rubbed his chin as he pondered his meal.  There was the menu.  Then he looked down, and she was looking at him.  “I think I’ll just go for the All-You-Can-Eat Sliders,” he said.

A blanket of gray clouds was always draped over the sky at that time of the afternoon, and the sun was nowhere to be seen when the woman emerged from the grove of trees. The wisps of her pallid blue dress trailed behind her. Her feet, what little of them was visible beneath the dress, were bare. The curls of her eerily shimmery locks cascaded down past her shoulders and likewise trailed along behind her as she stepped forward along the tufted ground. The blank expression on her face did little to convey her purpose as she neared the edge of the seaside cliff.

In her hands she held an open envelope. It was that envelope which caught the girl’s attention.

“Hi,” said the girl.

As she neared the edge of the cliff the woman slowed and turned her head to the left. There was a little girl sitting on a log, or rather a bench carved out of a fallen log, a short distance from the edge of the cliff. Her back was bent over. She wore a gray scarf flecked with strands of violet, and a simple purple coat coupled with a pair of denim jeans. Her feet, unlike the woman’s, were protected from the cold ground by a pair of yellow and white polyester shoes. In her hands she held a doll adorned in yellow yarn and a blue skirt. The girl’s tussled black hair gently waved about as the breeze from the late afternoon blew past her.

She had watched the woman approach with the envelope in her hands and turned to look at her, and she seemed nice so the girl thought it best to say, “Hi.” The little girl continued to look at the woman even when she did not respond. Her blank stare made her seem despondent, or as the girl might have said she looked “real sad.”

The woman looked back at the little girl, blue gaze locked on her. She said nothing. The little girl could only look back for so long before averting her gaze to mountains across the sea in front of her, nearly hidden by the afternoon’s gray haze, then to her doll. She held the doll’s yarn hair in her fingers, intertwining the strings as she sat in silence. Her brows rose as she smiled and looked back at the woman, who was still gazing at her.

“Do you want to sit down?” The woman did not move, or even respond. “It’s made out of a tree, see?” The little girl knocked on the wood of the bench.

Blank blue eyes fell to the bench. Pale fingers tightened on the yellowed envelope as she turned her body away from the direction of the cliff. The little girl patted the space beside her, silently asking the woman once again if she wished to sit. The woman in the blue dress regarded the little girl and the bench with her blank eyes, and still she said nothing. As the little girl turned away and continued to play with her doll the woman’s feet began to take her to the bench, the rest of her body rigid and unwavering. Her hair and dress now billowed silently towards the trees she had emerged from. She walked to the bench and sat beside the little girl, placing the envelope on the bench beside her, bringing her knees up as far as she could and wrapping her arms around them. She held her two bare feet together beneath her, and stared out across the sea.

“Why do you look sad?” said the little girl. The woman kept her gaze on the waves below. She parted her lips as if to speak, but said nothing. The little girl thought she heard a noise, but it was no more than an inaudible whisper.

“Huh?” she said. She leaned over, bringing the side of her head closer to the woman’s lips. The woman was also slightly louder the second time, or so the girl thought. Narrow lips shaped and stretched as each word was slowly uttered.

“Lost… someone. Someone… very close… I loved.”

“Lost in the woods?” The little girl gestured to the grove of trees behind them with her empty hand. “My dad says if I get lost I should scream to high heaven and someone will come to find me.”

“Not lost.”

“Oh.” The little girl turned to look at her hands, fingers intertwined in front of her knees. “Are you lost?”

The woman closed her eyes and turned her head once to the left, once to the right, and stopped when she was facing the sea again.

“Not lost.”

“Oh, okay.” The little girl’s eyes drifted along the woman from her head to her feet. “Are you cold?” The woman opened her eyes and nodded.

“My dad says I should never go out without a jacket because the food in my stomach will freeze into ice cubes. Didn’t your dad ever tell you that?” The woman remained still, and the little girl did not press the question. She sat next to the woman for another few moments in silence, and then began to unwrap the scarf around her neck. The woman turned her head to watch when she noticed the movement near her. When the scarf was removed the little girl turned to the woman and held it up.

“Here, you can use it. My dad says I should be helpful or I won’t get any Butterfingers after dinner.” The woman inched her hand towards the scarf and touched her fingers to it. Her eyes widened, just slightly, as she moved her hand closer to the material, placing her hand flat against the woven garment. Eventually she coiled her fingers around it, and brought it to her knees. The little girl watched and giggled as she observed the woman’s ineptitude with a scarf.

“No, no, that’s not where it goes. Watch.” She stood and pulled the scarf from the woman’s hand, then walked around behind her. The woman turned slightly as if to watch what she was doing, but not enough to actually see. The little girl stood behind her and wrapped the scarf around the woman’s neck, leaving both ends dangling across her chest. She then pulled the woman’s hair out from beneath the fabric before returning to her seat, smiling all the way.

“See, that’s how. It will warm you up, watch.” The woman brought one hand to the scarf and felt its rough edges, tracing strands of fabric from top to bottom. As she did this the little girl picked up her doll again and resumed running her fingers through the yarn.

“Have you ever had Butterfingers?” she then said. “They’re reallygood. They’re the best candy ever.” The little girl smiled widely as she pondered Butterfingers. “I bet my dad brought some Butterfingers today, too. They’re going to be so good!” The woman remained silent. Obviously, she was not interested in Butterfingers. The little girl smirked and pursed her lips as she thought. Then, she said, “Who did you lose?”

“What?” said the woman. The little girl was glad that the woman was speaking loudly.

“Who did you lose? You said you lost someone.”

“Someone I loved…” The woman furrowed her brows, as if to make certain before completing her response.“… man.”

“Ooh, like your boyfriend?” said the little girl mockingly. The woman nodded in her slow, deliberate manner.

“Why did you love him?”

“Loved… him. He loved me.”

“But why?” asked the little girl. The woman lowered her eyes to her hands, which she placed in her lap.

“He loved me.”

“Oh.” The little girl thought for a moment. “Was he a good man? My dad’s a good man,” she said. “My mom says so.”

“Lucky, your mother,” she said. The woman looked away again, back to the mountains across the sea.

“What’s your name?” asked the little girl.

“Name?” She looked down at her hands once more. “Don’t recall… name?”

The girl smiled and looked at the woman incredulously.

“Everyone has a name.”

“Don’t recall,” said the woman. “Your name?”

“Jan.”

“Nice name… Jan.”

“I don’t think it’s nice,” she said. “Everyone calls me Jan-In-A-Can. My dad says they don’t like their names either, so they make fun of mine.” She poked her doll, then said, “Did you know that Jan means ‘gracious’?”

The left side of the woman’s lips rose. It was not quite a smile, but it was more than the blank, thin line that she had worn since she appeared from the trees.

“Dad says?”

“Nope,” said the girl solemnly. “My mom.”

“Funny little girl,” said the woman.

Jan scratched her dark head and stretched her legs out across the sandstone angled down towards the cliff. She stared at her feet for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Beyond her feet she noticed that the gray clouds were getting thicker, and darker. They filled the sky now and there were no light patches between the dark patches, like before. It was just dark everywhere.

The woman rose, then, and Jan did not even see her move to stand up, but she was. The envelope was once again in her hands.

“Must go.” She looked to her left, down at Jan.

“You have to leave?”

“Very sad,” said the woman.

“You have to leave ‘cause you’re sad?” asked Jan. The woman nodded.

“Cannot stay here… without him. No life… without him.” Then she added, “you come, too?”

Jan said her dad said not too wander too far.

“Not far.”

Jan squeezed her lips together as she considered the proposal. “Well, okay, but only if it’s not far away.” She approached the woman, who’s left arm was slightly raised towards Jan. Jan reached out and took her hand.

“Ouch, you’re still really cold! You should buy gloves at the store.” The woman closed her grip on the little girl’s fingers and began to lead her forward, away from the grove of trees and bench, towards the sea and the gray mountains.

“Where are we going?” asked Jan.

“A better place. Quiet place.”

“Quiet place?” said Jan. “That sounds boring.” The woman led her along in silence. The roar of the waves beneath the cliff grew louder, and Jan clutched her yarn-haired doll tightly as the wind grew colder and stronger. The woman’s dress waved along behind her. Her hair was as gray streamers, wildly flying while the oncoming wind grew fiercer. With every step she took it grew colder, and more dark, or at least it seemed so to Jan.

The little girl plodded along behind her, approaching the cliff’s edge. “Are we going to see the water? My dad says I shouldn’t go too close to the water without him or the mermaids will come and take me away.”

“Yes… sea is there. The sea takes away sadness.”

Jan looked down at her feet as they walked along. She noticed how white and clean the woman’s feet looked, walking across the stone. When she lifted her eyes she saw that they were close to the edge now, and could almost see the waves directly below the cliff. The mist rose higher and wafted around Jan’s head, causing her to shiver. She craned her neck to look down when the rocks jutting out from the sea below became visible.

“My dad says that when I’m sad, I should remember that there are people who love me, and everything will be okay.” She looked up at the woman. “Don’t you have anyone else who loves you?”

The woman stopped, erect and standing utterly still. The cessation of movement caused Jan to drop her doll in front of her onto the layers of shale stone. The doll’s feet folded down along the cliff’s edge, towards the water, and would have fallen right over if they had been just slightly further ahead.

Jan looked up at her and winced, partly due to the wind and the hair in her eyes, and partly to try and figure out why the woman stopped. “Hey, we’re almost going to see the water. Why’d we stop?” The irritation in her voice was not obvious to the woman, though Jan thinks she made it clear enough. “The water’s just there over the edge. Let’s see if the mermaids are there!”

A man’s voice called from far away, behind them. Jan turned and grinned, then reached down to pick up her doll. She pulled her hand away from the woman, which took more effort than she thought was required. “I have to go. My dad’s calling me.” As she walked away she paused, and looked back at the woman in the blue dress, who remained still, facing the sea and the gray mountains. She waited to see the woman’s face but the woman did not turn.

Jan could not wait too long when her dad was calling her, so she said “Bye!” and disappeared into the grove of trees.

The wind was howling, calling to the woman who remained at the edge of the cliff. Her loosely curled golden strands danced about her and occasionally stung her moist cheeks. The woman’s face remained blank and free of expression. She stood there for a long while, staring out across the sea. After some time she turned, away from the seaside cliff and back towards the grove of trees. She silently walked back across the bare stone to where grass was the more common footing, and she too disappeared into the grove of trees that she emerged from. Behind her there remained a yellowed envelope, caught between the thick blades of a tuft of grass growing in a crag in the stone. The wind from the sea blew furiously and took hold of the envelope, pulling it away from the bench, away from the jagged tufts of grass scattered along the stone terrain, and down and away from the seaside cliff. The envelope and letter inside fell to the violent foam below and were sucked into the frenzy, disappearing into nothing.

When Jan returned with her dad they found the violet-flecked gray scarf on the rounded log bench, clinging to the splinters. Jan’s dad picked up the scarf and wrapped it around her neck, then kissed her on the forehead. He said Jan should never go here again because she might fall into the ocean and get eaten up by sharks, but that she is as clever as a fox for making up such a story. He took her hand and together they turned and disappeared into the grove of trees.

A blanket of gray clouds was always draped over the sky at that time of the afternoon, and the sun was nowhere to be seen when the woman emerged from the grove of trees. The wisps of her pallid blue dress trailed behind her. Her feet, what little of them was visible beneath the dress, were bare. The curls of her eerily shimmery locks cascaded down past her shoulders and likewise trailed along behind her as she stepped forward along the tufted ground. The blank expression on her face did little to convey her purpose as she neared the edge of the seaside cliff.

In her hands she held an open envelope. It was that envelope which caught the girl’s attention.

“Hi,” said the girl.

As she neared the edge of the cliff the woman slowed and turned her head to the left. There was a little girl sitting on a log, or rather a bench carved out of a fallen log, a short distance from the edge of the cliff. Her back was bent over. She wore a gray scarf flecked with strands of violet, and a simple purple coat coupled with a pair of denim jeans. Her feet, unlike the woman’s, were protected from the cold ground by a pair of yellow and white polyester shoes. In her hands she held a doll adorned in yellow yarn and a blue skirt. The girl’s tussled black hair gently waved about as the breeze from the late afternoon blew past her.

She had watched the woman approach with the envelope in her hands and turned to look at her, and she seemed nice so the girl thought it best to say, “Hi.” The little girl continued to look at the woman even when she did not respond. Her blank stare made her seem despondent, or as the girl might have said she looked “real sad.”

The woman looked back at the little girl, blue gaze locked on her. She said nothing. The little girl could only look back for so long before averting her gaze to mountains across the sea in front of her, nearly hidden by the afternoon’s gray haze, then to her doll. She held the doll’s yarn hair in her fingers, intertwining the strings as she sat in silence. Her brows rose as she smiled and looked back at the woman, who was still gazing at her.

“Do you want to sit down?” The woman did not move, or even respond. “It’s made out of a tree, see?” The little girl knocked on the wood of the bench.

Blank blue eyes fell to the bench. Pale fingers tightened on the yellowed envelope as she turned her body away from the direction of the cliff. The little girl patted the space beside her, silently asking the woman once again if she wished to sit. The woman in the blue dress regarded the little girl and the bench with her blank eyes, and still she said nothing. As the little girl turned away and continued to play with her doll the woman’s feet began to take her to the bench, the rest of her body rigid and unwavering. Her hair and dress now billowed silently towards the trees she had emerged from. She walked to the bench and sat beside the little girl, placing the envelope on the bench beside her, bringing her knees up as far as she could and wrapping her arms around them. She held her two bare feet together beneath her, and stared out across the sea.

“Why do you look sad?” said the little girl. The woman kept her gaze on the waves below. She parted her lips as if to speak, but said nothing. The little girl thought she heard a noise, but it was no more than an inaudible whisper.

“Huh?” she said. She leaned over, bringing the side of her head closer to the woman’s lips. The woman was also slightly louder the second time, or so the girl thought. Narrow lips shaped and stretched as each word was slowly uttered.

“Lost… someone. Someone… very close… I loved.”

“Lost in the woods?” The little girl gestured to the grove of trees behind them with her empty hand. “My dad says if I get lost I should scream to high heaven and someone will come to find me.”

“Not lost.”

“Oh.” The little girl turned to look at her hands, fingers intertwined in front of her knees. “Are you lost?”

The woman closed her eyes and turned her head once to the left, once to the right, and stopped when she was facing the sea again.

“Not lost.”

“Oh, okay.” The little girl’s eyes drifted along the woman from her head to her feet. “Are you cold?” The woman opened her eyes and nodded.

“My dad says I should never go out without a jacket because the food in my stomach will freeze into ice cubes. Didn’t your dad ever tell you that?” The woman remained still, and the little girl did not press the question. She sat next to the woman for another few moments in silence, and then began to unwrap the scarf around her neck. The woman turned her head to watch when she noticed the movement near her. When the scarf was removed the little girl turned to the woman and held it up.

“Here, you can use it. My dad says I should be helpful or I won’t get any Butterfingers after dinner.” The woman inched her hand towards the scarf and touched her fingers to it. Her eyes widened, just slightly, as she moved her hand closer to the material, placing her hand flat against the woven garment. Eventually she coiled her fingers around it, and brought it to her knees. The little girl watched and giggled as she observed the woman’s ineptitude with a scarf.

“No, no, that’s not where it goes. Watch.” She stood and pulled the scarf from the woman’s hand, then walked around behind her. The woman turned slightly as if to watch what she was doing, but not enough to actually see. The little girl stood behind her and wrapped the scarf around the woman’s neck, leaving both ends dangling across her chest. She then pulled the woman’s hair out from beneath the fabric before returning to her seat, smiling all the way.

“See, that’s how. It will warm you up, watch.” The woman brought one hand to the scarf and felt its rough edges, tracing strands of fabric from top to bottom. As she did this the little girl picked up her doll again and resumed running her fingers through the yarn.

“Have you ever had Butterfingers?” she then said. “They’re reallygood. They’re the best candy ever.” The little girl smiled widely as she pondered Butterfingers. “I bet my dad brought some Butterfingers today, too. They’re going to be so good!” The woman remained silent. Obviously, she was not interested in Butterfingers. The little girl smirked and pursed her lips as she thought. Then, she said, “Who did you lose?”

“What?” said the woman. The little girl was glad that the woman was speaking loudly.

“Who did you lose? You said you lost someone.”

“Someone I loved…” The woman furrowed her brows, as if to make certain before completing her response.“… man.”

“Ooh, like your boyfriend?” said the little girl mockingly. The woman nodded in her slow, deliberate manner.

“Why did you love him?”

“Loved… him. He loved me.”

“But why?” asked the little girl. The woman lowered her eyes to her hands, which she placed in her lap.

“He loved me.”

“Oh.” The little girl thought for a moment. “Was he a good man? My dad’s a good man,” she said. “My mom says so.”

“Lucky, your mother,” she said. The woman looked away again, back to the mountains across the sea.

“What’s your name?” asked the little girl.

“Name?” She looked down at her hands once more. “Don’t recall… name?”

The girl smiled and looked at the woman incredulously.

“Everyone has a name.”

“Don’t recall,” said the woman. “Your name?”

“Jan.”

“Nice name… Jan.”

“I don’t think it’s nice,” she said. “Everyone calls me Jan-In-A-Can. My dad says they don’t like their names either, so they make fun of mine.” She poked her doll, then said, “Did you know that Jan means ‘gracious’?”

The left side of the woman’s lips rose. It was not quite a smile, but it was more than the blank, thin line that she had worn since she appeared from the trees.

“Dad says?”

“Nope,” said the girl solemnly. “My mom.”

“Funny little girl,” said the woman.

Jan scratched her dark head and stretched her legs out across the sandstone angled down towards the cliff. She stared at her feet for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Beyond her feet she noticed that the gray clouds were getting thicker, and darker. They filled the sky now and there were no light patches between the dark patches, like before. It was just dark everywhere.

The woman rose, then, and Jan did not even see her move to stand up, but she was. The envelope was once again in her hands.

“Must go.” She looked to her left, down at Jan.

“You have to leave?”

“Very sad,” said the woman.

“You have to leave ‘cause you’re sad?” asked Jan. The woman nodded.

“Cannot stay here… without him. No life… without him.” Then she added, “you come, too?”

Jan said her dad said not too wander too far.

“Not far.”

Jan squeezed her lips together as she considered the proposal. “Well, okay, but only if it’s not far away.” She approached the woman, who’s left arm was slightly raised towards Jan. Jan reached out and took her hand.

“Ouch, you’re still really cold! You should buy gloves at the store.” The woman closed her grip on the little girl’s fingers and began to lead her forward, away from the grove of trees and bench, towards the sea and the gray mountains.

“Where are we going?” asked Jan.

“A better place. Quiet place.”

“Quiet place?” said Jan. “That sounds boring.” The woman led her along in silence. The roar of the waves beneath the cliff grew louder, and Jan clutched her yarn-haired doll tightly as the wind grew colder and stronger. The woman’s dress waved along behind her. Her hair was as gray streamers, wildly flying while the oncoming wind grew fiercer. With every step she took it grew colder, and more dark, or at least it seemed so to Jan.

The little girl plodded along behind her, approaching the cliff’s edge. “Are we going to see the water? My dad says I shouldn’t go too close to the water without him or the mermaids will come and take me away.”

“Yes… sea is there. The sea takes away sadness.”

Jan looked down at her feet as they walked along. She noticed how white and clean the woman’s feet looked, walking across the stone. When she lifted her eyes she saw that they were close to the edge now, and could almost see the waves directly below the cliff. The mist rose higher and wafted around Jan’s head, causing her to shiver. She craned her neck to look down when the rocks jutting out from the sea below became visible.

“My dad says that when I’m sad, I should remember that there are people who love me, and everything will be okay.” She looked up at the woman. “Don’t you have anyone else who loves you?”

The woman stopped, erect and standing utterly still. The cessation of movement caused Jan to drop her doll in front of her onto the layers of shale stone. The doll’s feet folded down along the cliff’s edge, towards the water, and would have fallen right over if they had been just slightly further ahead.

Jan looked up at her and winced, partly due to the wind and the hair in her eyes, and partly to try and figure out why the woman stopped. “Hey, we’re almost going to see the water. Why’d we stop?” The irritation in her voice was not obvious to the woman, though Jan thinks she made it clear enough. “The water’s just there over the edge. Let’s see if the mermaids are there!”

A man’s voice called from far away, behind them. Jan turned and grinned, then reached down to pick up her doll. She pulled her hand away from the woman, which took more effort than she thought was required. “I have to go. My dad’s calling me.” As she walked away she paused, and looked back at the woman in the blue dress, who remained still, facing the sea and the gray mountains. She waited to see the woman’s face but the woman did not turn.

Jan could not wait too long when her dad was calling her, so she said “Bye!” and disappeared into the grove of trees.

The wind was howling, calling to the woman who remained at the edge of the cliff. Her loosely curled golden strands danced about her and occasionally stung her moist cheeks. The woman’s face remained blank and free of expression. She stood there for a long while, staring out across the sea. After some time she turned, away from the seaside cliff and back towards the grove of trees. She silently walked back across the bare stone to where grass was the more common footing, and she too disappeared into the grove of trees that she emerged from. Behind her there remained a yellowed envelope, caught between the thick blades of a tuft of grass growing in a crag in the stone. The wind from the sea blew furiously and took hold of the envelope, pulling it away from the bench, away from the jagged tufts of grass scattered along the stone terrain, and down and away from the seaside cliff. The envelope and letter inside fell to the violent foam below and were sucked into the frenzy, disappearing into nothing.

When Jan returned with her dad they found the violet-flecked gray scarf on the rounded log bench, clinging to the splinters. Jan’s dad picked up the scarf and wrapped it around her neck, then kissed her on the forehead. He said Jan should never go here again because she might fall into the ocean and get eaten up by sharks, but that she is as clever as a fox for making up such a story. He took her hand and together they turned and disappeared into the grove of trees.