A certain sort of something, that feels like a fairytale.

On a morning of little consequence, a young man with warm air in his lungs and firm valves on his heart was walking through the wind and the grass.

Some would say that he was hopelessly lost; but others might politely suggest that for one to be lost, they must surely know where they had been going in the first place. And so it was, with no destination, the young man with warm air in his lungs and firm valves on his heart strode on. And on. Alone through the twirling wind and the whipping grass, alone on a path that wasn’t much of a path at all.

But winds change, as winds are wont to do; and as the young man walked, the wind turned chill before beginning to howl like a young wolf on the night when it first discovered the moon. Even so, he strode on. And so it was that the young man with warm air in his lungs and firm valves on his heart came upon a proper path.

Well-tread, beaten through the tallest grass; it was formed of sandy brown gravel, circular stones that seemed far too perfect to have been formed in nature. But they were.

At the head of the path, a grizzled fellow with the face of a deflated toad sat alone, tossing bits of gravel into his mouth and listening to the nightmarish sounds they made against the mortar and pestle of his teeth. When he saw the young man, he spat out a feast of chewed-up stones and grinned.

“Howdy hello,” said the young man with warm air in his lungs and firm valves on his heart.

“Salutations.”

The young man had not been prepared. No man, no man could have been; for what came from the vocal chords of that speckled little creature that looked as if he’d been flaked off a taller man’s back, what emanated from the deepest depths of that squat-spud’s throat, was the purest, most melodic trill of a voice that one could ever hope to hear. It was a voice that could send a shiver up the spine of a morning. And so it was, that the young man with warm air in his lungs and firm valves on his heart fell to his knees and vomited tears.

“Er…” said the Toad-faced man.

Eventually, the young man managed to gather his composure amidst the wailing winds, and this time managed to brace himself when he saw the other about to speak.

“You seem a stout chap,” said Toad-face, with the raw power of a thousand arpeggios.

“Aye sir,” said the young man, as he kept his knees from buckling, “Aye sir! I sir, am indeed stout of person -- after all, I’m a young man with warm air in his lungs and firm valves on his heart.”

The Toad-faced man’s head tilted, as if he were looking for the core of a puzzle box.

“That may be, that may very well be…” the squat-spud Toad-face said sympathetically, symphonically, “But this path ahead, this trodden-spot of sandy-stone…this path belongs to me, young lad. I have little to call my own, but I do, I do have music -- and it turn, I have the path. And in turn, you should turn away.”

Despite the strength of the path keeper’s voice, despite the range of its influence, something began then to rumble inside the young man. The warm air in his lungs began to turn and churn and yearn like a gale, and the firm valves on his heart began to shake and quake and ache like the gaskets of a steam engine. He was angry.
He really, truly was.

“What do you mean?” said the young man, with all the force he could muster.

“I mean nothing,” serenaded the Toad-face, “nothing which is meant as an offense.
“But the path ahead is not one for you, even if you’re boisterous, even if you’re blessed, even if you’re brave -- the path ahead is for those who have music. For those who have suffered to find their voices, who have suffered through the voice itself; for those who have taken the time to sing.”

As this opera came to a close, the young man with warm air in his lungs and firm valves on his heart suddenly found that he could not help himself. He was angry.
He really, truly was.

The warm air in his lungs grew hot enough to boil his blood, and the blood then surged through the firm valves on his heart, sending the young man forward as if he were an engine, a gnashing, burning, hellish engine that charged toward to the Toad-faced man with a singular sense of purpose. The young man grabbed a fistful of the immaculate gravel and rammed it down the squat-spud ugly fellow’s sonorous throat, which caused him to choke and sputter and fall to his warty knees; what remained of his beautiful tones were all but lost in the howling of the first-moon winds. And so it was, that the young man with warm air in his lungs and firm valves on his heart set forward on the path, finally having someplace to go. And so it was, that the young man found himself hopelessly lost.

For the path was long.

So, so long.

Long, and cold, and winding, and dark.

For even with the warm air in his lungs forcing back the frost during the endless nights, even with the firm valves on his heart keeping him always moving, always forward, charging down the countless turns on the sandy-brown path; even with all the efforts of his breath and blood, the young man still had no harmony.

He couldn’t sing his way through sorrow, couldn’t see his way with sound. The young man with warm air and firm valves had no music. And so it was, that the young man grew old.

The warm air in his lungs had long-since cooled.
The firm valves on his heart had worn themselves down.
Still on that path, with that wind howling ever louder,
Still on that path, with that grass growing ever taller.
Still on that, on that…that same sandy-brown gravel.
Still lost.

Until another morning, still one of seemingly little consequence.
The old man had lungs with no air; the old man had a broken down heart.
And so it was, that he could go no further.

He fell. With the wind spinning around him, sending up clouds of dust from the unknown recesses of the tall grass, he fell to his knees. His hands hit the gravel; the stones were surprisingly warm between his fingers. The old man shuddered. Despite the wind, he could hear the sound of his bones. And then, as if it had nothing left, his body fell. Face first. Into the smooth, warm stones.

Which is when it happened, of course.

The last of his breath -- the last, tiniest, hidden puff of air was pushed out from the depths of his lungs. Alongside that, there occurred the last, the last, the last, shakiest, involuntary flutter of his heart. And so it was that the old man, in his last moment, whistled a pure, revelatory note.

The note sang above the scream of the wind; the note tore through the density of the grass. The note spun up, around, and down, forcing everything that stood to lie flat as if in deference, forcing all that were alive to weep as if in shame. It forced the sky to blanche.

The old man was dead. But even so…he might have heard his music.
It was far too far from being lost.
It was nothing but beautiful.

A resting place.

Another night.

Here we are, basking in the warmth of our cathode ray tubes (that are not, in fact, cathode ray tubes) on yet another summer night. Looking for things to do. Things that have been said. Hopes that had been made, some time before.

I’ve got something for you, intranetts.

Something that was conceived as a shot in the dark.
It was a little bit of an attempt at getting out there in the world, utilizing the means of the MACHINE OF DEATH Anthology. It was a shot.

And as is so often the case, my shot in the dark got swallowed up by nothingness. No harm done, no big deal. But still…

I want to lay it to rest. Somewhere other than here, within the humming confines of my extravagantly screened laptop. I want to give it somewhat of a sending off, so that I don‘t feel quite so sad about its humble passing.
It’s a story.

I told it, and it sparked away into another night.

And now it’s being told to you.
One hopes that you might find something to like.

--------------------------------------------

What’s to say about it?


I don’t know. I never know anymore. Just a soft flurry of images drifting ahead of me, ones that I can reach out and grab with narrow outstretched fingers, like snowflakes in a fall. Out there, they stand unique, their own little design made of encapsulated time; and they turn to water in my hands. At first, I didn’t know.

She didn’t tell me. Not at all. And so I went on with my living, not having a glimmer of suspicion of the things that would come to be. The things that would grab my silly little world, and shake it with a thunderous sense of violence that I doubt I can ever truly comprehend. Nor would I want to. She had known something.
She? Jill. Her name was Jill.


And she was my love on this Earth.

Anyone would have told you that she had a certain sort of something on that night I first saw her. At least, when they saw her. I for one had spent the majority of the evening rooted to one spot, staring at the frozen eyes on a statue of a classical Roman. His eyes hitting with a terribly, terribly expressive nature. They made me shiver, those eyes. And then…I saw her, her indescribable presence, and all else was stricken from my memory. She made me quake, back then. She still makes me quake now.

Still. Nothing about her was still, her existence being one of omnipresent motion, one that swept up willing little me into a series of a separate-yet-connected life moments, in a manner of such grand immediacy that to this day, I’m still unsure of how I found such a presence in my arms. I was never much of a…I was never a devastating man. Never the sort that brings someone to stand casually in a doorway, enticing growls building in their throat. She saw something. In me.

So it was that she graced me with that feeling of her omnipresent life. Dances built on park benches and soft footfalls across dewy grass. Sharp ideas and murmurs in our sleep. Quiet whispers and dreamlike sweat in the night. Sitting close together on Sunday mornings, eyes glancing over Times headlines that announced things like: “BLESSING OR CURSE?,” or “PRIME MINISTER TO DIE BY WAY OF ‘INSURANCE FRAUD’: Public Demands Explanation”. Headlines of the sort that occur even now, this very day. Back then, we would disregard and discard such announcements, while we giggled and pulled in for an achingly soft kiss. God…that softness.

During those times her fingers would somehow always find mine. And I can remember…I remember how they would quiver. Gentle and firm, like a babies’ heartbeat.
Those were times when I could feel the world.

But even then, I suppose there were traces. Moments when her touch turned cold, where her terribly, terribly expressive eyes grew dead and distant, like the eyes of that Roman statue from a time before. I can still see her, the image locked in my thoughts. One of those moments. Her gentle and firm fingertips teasing the nearly invisible hairs across the surface of her belly, her voice echoing across time: “Found things still have a way of getting lost. Sometimes.” Sometimes.

I’d thought it would be alright. I’d thought it was just a trace of the world as it was, as it is; a side-effect of people as a collective coming to terms with their own mortality. After all, look at any street corner, any face in the pale gray of the morning. Look, and you’ll see it. We’re all more somber, these days. Still, I was happy. Happy with her warmth, happy with my life. She had been around longer, had experienced far more. And she, Jill had chosen me to be the one she caressed under moonlight, the one she whispered to during warm summer rains.

It was a cold winter storm when I found her at my door. Before then, we’d had countless days of wonder and joy. Yet this night was different, its existence drenched by that raging symphony of angry rain. Water beading on the surface of her coat, water clinging to the thin strands of her beautiful amber hair. She had a look on her face. Such a look. Her arms found their way around my waist, and she gripped me tightly.

She held on for dear life as we fell into the dark. I gladly let her grip her way towards safety, and I can clearly remember the way her fingers tensed on the small of my back. In the warmth of my arms, Jill gently fell asleep. Her hair was still wet from the rain.

Still wet, but not from lack of drying. The warmth of her body and the room caused the moisture to evaporate, slowly, but it was definitely there. My eyes moved over the thin haze that shrouded her head, and I couldn’t help it: It looked like her, a part of her; a part of her was trying to leave. As if any and all of her doubts were manifest above her head, pulling her away into the fog, a solemn funeral for human emotion. I could feel the concept of that, of Jill leaving. It was almost as if it was in my skin, trying to scrape its way out from inside of me like living sandpaper. The sound of that dragged across my eardrums, a terrible, jarring sensation. I didn’t know how I could do it. How I could slake her thirst. How I could make her doubts towards me go away. There was nothing. Nothing at all. So I tried for the only something I could manage. I leaned closer to her ear and whispered, “Tell me how to be in love.” She didn’t answer.
“Tell me how to be in love.”


That night, I had a dream.

I stood amongst a council of grand humans. Gods, even. Standing alongside them, my body covered with heavy armored garments that spoke of me being one of their own. In that place, in the air, one could taste a sense of stability and understanding, a feeling that these beings held on to their world with strength and ferocity of intelligence, with conviction and destiny. It was also only a moment before I realized they were all afraid. They and I.

Before us stood a creature unlike any nightmare. A wolf, yes; but bigger, stronger, angrier, uglier, yet with a kind of beauty realized by anything designed for a single, unwavering purpose. This creature felt rage that this place could barely contain. Its rage was a song in its eyes.

So I watched myself as I walked up and put my hand in its mouth. My colleagues moved toward it, slowly wrapping the creature with a binding that appeared be nothing more than a silken ribbon, thin and long. All while my fingers soaked in the hot saliva, which ran like the broadest river from the glands surrounding my hand. The beast was fettered; the beast fought his bonds. First with arrogance, then with rage. But his thin binding could not be broken, staying smooth and cool as it dug into the cursed flesh.

It wasn’t long before I went blind with pain. Lost in a world not my own, blood coloring the landscape with a disgusting flourish. I didn’t think I belonged. Not in this place, where truth was writ in blood on stone.


When I awoke, I was alone.

It felt like just another morning. Except after I had walked into the kitchen, if only to watch the last vestiges of the rain drift through the wind outside my window, I felt something. A stinging in my hand, as if a malicious insect had attacked during the night. When I gave it a closer look, I saw a miniature speck of red, staring me in the face and daring me to question its tiny world. So I squeezed it. The action brought out a single, gleaming ruby of blood. I swear that I saw it sparkle. It might as well have, anyway. Nothing else did.

Nothing. Jill didn’t bring herself by. Not that day. And certainly not the next.
So the days fell into the nights, and the nights wrapped over the days, mixing themselves until they got softer and smoother, more uniform the longer they went on. They all became the same, those days. Those nights. Those mornings. Those evenings. My useless sense of time.

I would go and stand outside, watching people drive home from somewhere and sit in their cars for a few moments before finally going inside. I would take care to observe the look on their faces, which was often just a touch of weariness after a hard-won day, but sometimes, sometimes, sometimes…it was more. A look of singular, genuine fear. Fear, and wonder. It’s the kind of look you see a lot these days. More and more, I find it hard to take. So more and more, I look away.

Instead, I found myself staring at the back of my hand. Looking over a majestic landscape of miniscule scars. As hard as I tried -- and believe me, I tried -- I couldn’t remember where they came from. None of them, not a one. Not a single memory tracing the outline of their smoothly curved backs. But this one, this new one, it stung. In her absence, it stung. It stings. Like the rain of that winter storm, darting at my face, hurting my eyes. But I stood there, and I endured. There was nothing else. Not from that day on, nothing else to give me a sensation of the moment when she had vanished. No matter how much it hurt, the pain was some kind of something, built out of the nothing of her absence. I stood there, alone against my elements, my own pain and confusion and loss. And yes, I endured.

Except I was breaking apart.


It was a bright Thursday morning when she returned to my door. She came alongside a cool breeze with a touch as delicate and light as a silk scarf. It moved around us as we stood, cold and immobile in my doorway.

I hadn’t a clue how long she’d been gone. My Jill-less world was nothing more than worry and regret, and now she stood there, close enough to touch. Her heartbeat fingers, right within my grasp. I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to say.

So, I was endlessly grateful when she spoke first.

“Sorry,” she said, “I’m sorry. I’m -- I’m so, so sorry about this.” Her soft voice couldn’t conceal a solemn need for tears. But still, she didn’t cry. Not a drop was spilled.

“No need for sorry.” My voice was pale like milk. And it was real. Whole. My voice in that moment was all of me, everything I had ever thought and felt, all jammed together with a single, uniting prospect: I just wanted warmth again. Warmth. Skin. Her. Sinking into me, faint traces of breath with a touch so gentle, they almost couldn’t be felt. But I could feel them. Right then, I could feel them. Almost as if they were a part of my own body. “No need for anything else. Not now.”

“Not so sure about that,” she whispered.

“Hey…” I moved in closer, dreaming of touch. But she would have none of it, her body suddenly quaking like the heart of the Earth, a fearful movement from the very core of her. That was a bad thing, that day. There was a terrible all-encompassing silence as she composed herself, as if even the breeze that had flowed between us only moments before was in service of her whims. She looked up, her eyes suddenly frozen and clear.

“I did something.”

Out of the periphery of my vision, I saw her movements flow with a certain deliberate pacing, one that seemed, so, so, so…unnatural. For her. It was wrong. Despite the way I had yearned for a reunion, hungered for it like a dog whimpering in a dark corner, it was then that I found myself stricken by fear. Fear, and wonder.

It was a fearful man that watched her reach into the back pocket of her well-worn jeans, watched her fingers come up with something small and thin. It was a rectangle of paper, about the size of a business card; the surface of it colored a mottled gray, like smeared ashes on the last-standing wall of a burned down house. I knew what it was.

These days, everyone does. Oh.

“Oh,” I said. “Oh.”

“I gave it your blood. I gave it a piece of you, because I needed to see.”

Oh. “Oh.” The stinging on my hand suddenly intensified, as if the beast that had taken hold of me with its world-ending jaws had finally tightened its grip, preparing for the true end. Its mouth then opened, wide and quiet, calm as the gaping depths of an ocean crevasse. My feet gave way and I tumbled into that limitless darkness. All while staring into it, looking deep with terribly, terribly expressive eyes. What had she done? To me? To her?

Jill’s hands came together and brought the scrap of contemptible paper closer to her, cradling it against the white cotton that was pulled down over her belly. Her interlaced fingers, still firm, alternately grew tense and relaxed in a series of even, steady pulses.

“What is this, Jill?” my voice cracked as I spoke, “What the hell kind of end?”

“It’s not…”

“Jill.” My voice was bone scraping on concrete. I had to know.

She breathed in. She breathed out. Again and again, as if building up enough rhythm to pull what was needed out of her, like it were latched on somewhere deep inside, someplace hard to reach. She spoke. She had to speak. “I’m still sorry,” she said, “For all of this. Nothing is ever supposed to happen this way. It does, though. Believe me.

“We’re all gonna die, I know that, I know that much. All of us gone, some…sooner.” For a moment she paused, a look on her face as if she might vomit; but she stoned her face and jaws, and made as if she were going to once again look me in the eye. She didn’t. But she came damn close. Seeing it then, I hadn’t a trace of doubt in my mind: There was effort here. A lot of it.

“But now, it feels like -- like I’ve killed you. Even though I didn’t do it, it wasn’t some decision that I made, it feels like I’m a part of it. Your death is in me.” And again, we were draped with a limitless silence.

In that space of time, that little world, I knew that I wanted to say something. Something important, something that might have made it just a tiny, tiny bit better. I’d had it right there with me, the thought in my head, the words in my throat. But for whatever reason, I couldn’t speak them. They lodged there in the base of my gullet, like some tiny animal, heart racing with fear at what might happen in the radiance of the sun. Here, now, I haven’t a clue what it was that I would have said. But it would have helped. I’m sure of it.

“I can’t stand this. Living like this, seeing you like this, knowing that it’s coming.” Jill’s fingers finally stretched themselves out, flat and open, the miniscule expanse of wispy gray standing out as a blight against the glow of her skin. “Could you?”

She looked at me, forcing her presence upon me in a way that I had yet to experience, even amidst all of the life that she had struck me with before. Her eyes grabbed hold of me, One. Last. Time. Those eyes. That hair. Those fingers. That voice. Those memories. That taste. Those feelings. That life, dancing within her. And in that very instant, I felt it all get pulled away. Moments being tugged from the very core of me, heartstrings pulled free and clear; and I knew. She was done. Gone.

Long gone. I stood there, alone, for twenty minutes, cool breeze still bringing the sounds of the world to my ears. It wasn’t until after I turned to open the door that I noticed the card in my hand. Pale gray, this proclaimed death. And hell followed with it.


What else is there to say?
I can see it. There it is, sitting on the edge of my bedside table, a heavy coat of dust nearly camouflaging it against the surface. Untouched by my hand, not since that day when I laid it there to rest. Nothing left to go on. No ground left to tread.

There are times that I find myself coming closer to it, looming my height over that tiny thing, as if I thought I might scare it away. Any time I get close enough to touch, my thoughts turn to ashes and my body falls apart. This won’t do, not at all. I know that much. Now, I know that much.

I can’t bring myself to look. Face-down, the information of me locked in between its own disgusting back and the smooth surface of my own fine oak. I can’t do it, I cannot bring myself to, will myself to, force myself toward a final decision. I don’t know what I want to do. Not since I’ve been left standing alone, just another pillar of salt waiting to return to the Earth. No motion to my moments. Just me and it, waiting for that day to come. And I know it will. I know, as she knew -- the day that I look will be the day that I die.

When I see those words, stamped onto that paper, that will surely be my end. It can’t be anything else.

I couldn’t stand it any other way.

--------------------------

Requiescat In Pace.
And all that.

A storied song for a gray day.

I’ve been rather tired as of late.
No ones fault but mine, of course. Working long nights, sleeping short days. Keeping myself busy to the point of crippling sanity, losing those moments where I’d do nothing more than stare deeply into the heart of nothing in particular, until I could manage to see through the epic tales of the dust that floated through streams of mid-afternoon sun, see through to everything they could hope to teach the world. Spending my time losing moments of nothing at all. It’s been happening. And yes, I’ve been tired. So much so that I’ve found nary an opportunity to sit my popping heap of bones down to start prattling away about…whatever it is that I might prattle away about on an idle Wednesday evening.

These days, it gets harder and harder to puzzle out what I might say.

So. Here’s one for me, and for you as well:
What does it take to tell a story?
And what does it take to build one?

I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve always thought about it. I thought that I might come here and head off into the territory of word-smithing with by making some manner of joke about a concept that doesn’t quite exist. Something like…“Secular Onanism,” maybe. Some sort of Something that might get you wondering what the tenants of such a thing might be, until you finally come full circle and realize that it might already be established by the wealth of fellows practicing self-flagellation in the name of Deity; a practice enjoyed by pale, pale Arthur Dimmesdale, and other paler, paler (and poorly-written, poorly-written) albinos alike.

Yes, I thought that joke might be funny.
It’s odd where these things go, sometimes.

…kinda maybe most of the times. Which is the way it has to be.
It has to be that way, it has to have the struggle of pointless meandering, it has to choke on its own indifference before the story can be built. It has to be a world we know, so we know where it might take us.

Because when you get right down to it:
I have no slathering jaws that open wide to rid the world of lives.
I have no thunderous growl that would casually lay waste to man’s resolve.

This is just another story of a guy walking down the street underneath the casual gray of the sky. Just another story of a man who exited a movie theater, who just witnessed an introduction built upon one person starting a friendship with the brazen act of walking up and declaring that you love their music. And it got to me, that story. I’ve started a friendship the very same way, just by me knocking on a cheap-ass dorm door and declaring appreciation towards a lonely violinist. Because that’s what should be done; we should gesture towards the lonely, while being sure to nod our heads. I did, that day. I gained a friend, that way. Later on I lost that friend, through a host of bad, bad things.
Just another story. Building it by living through it.

So. What’s it take to build a story?
It takes open ears and stretched out eyes, staring into the face of the Sun and listening to the roar of the Earth.

It takes a willingness to accept things as they come by.
Think of -- think of those beautiful times, when people you don’t know walk up to you, smiles stretched out on their faces, a world of memory on their minds. They hand you a camera, and ask you to take a picture. There, in that very spot, they’ve placed the future of their memories in your hands. Given you a chance to build a moment.
Given you responsibility over their story; of the things they wish to tell the people that they love and trust. It’s a beautiful chance, it always is. Whenever it happens, I just hope to fuck that I don’t screw it up with my storytelling sensibilities, hopefully giving them the right place at the right time.

What does that mean then, for your world right now? For the times you know and love, for whatever place and time, whether or not they happen to be right?

Next time you get a chance:
Take a moment.
I mean that.

Take it. From the very center of your day, grab a moment with both hands and hold on tight enough to make your fingernails crack into splinters. Take that moment, and just be quiet. Quiet and still. Hold on. Hold onto it until that fateful moment where it, that it in particular, where it grabs you in return and you begin to feel the tears welling up in your eyes. And then? Just let it move away.

Watch it slide into the distance like the fateful farewell of the five-cent koan.
Another thing to puzzle over, another world to make you tired. Another story to (hopefully) tell.

So.
Yesterday was my birthday. Said some things, did some things.
Could be I learned some things.

What’s it take to tell a story?
That -- that’s a part of my world that I’m still trying figure out.

And as odd as the lot of this might be, it certainly wouldn’t feel right any other way.

A blank page.

~open~

Picture a book.
In this book, there is a man.

A bit tall, a bit thin, a bit too concerned with things that he cannot really control.
He’s sitting quietly off to the side of his world, nestled gently within a nook that he’s claimed as his own. He isn’t doing much except for enjoying the state of a day that has yet to begin. Yes, it’s quiet. Quiet and still.

He takes a moment to look outside of the window. It’s an overcast morning, the sky swirling in place like a spoon stirring the milk left over from morning cereal; and the man wonders what his day is going to be. Puzzles out the possibility. Looking out at that sky, the one that stretches out farther than his fingers ever could, there might very well be a promise of things to come. He knows this, and he knows that it’s alright.

He does.

It’s when the man hunkers down with his sciencentric Roast Beef hoodie wrapped around him for warmth against the server air that he discovers it. The thing that will change his day. The thing that scratches its fingernails down the length of his back, leaving deep scars that make a game of tic-tac-toe when combined with marks of a time long since gone by. It hurts.

“I’m blank, today.” he says.
There isn’t a thought in his head.

This shocks and confuses him, a flurry of tangible nothings within his head that wither and die the instant they try to connect with anything, delicate butterflies falling dead onto the frozen ground. Blank. He’s blank. And within that nothing, he finds that he is afraid. The fear rip-roars through his body with a strength that makes him feel as if his very life is being torn from his bones, fire-gnashing thunder-crashing dynamite machines destroying all he has ever hoped to be.

“Where am I going, where have I been?” The question echoes throughout the space around him, and his eyes widen when he sees the space that he occupies. No longer is he nestled in that quiet nook, body surrounded by humming fans and light-streaked blinds; no, this time he sees the page. He sees the book. He sees where he is. In this book, there is a man. And the page he’s on is blank.

Blank.

Is that a good thing? Hard to say. Thoughts should be running through his head. Right here, right now. Right here, right now. Right here, right now. Thoughts. Right here, right now. Ideas. Right here, right now. Plans. Right here, right now. Dreams. Right here, right now. Thoughts. Right --

Damn.
Nothin’.

So much nothin’. So much that it overwhelms him, his body now heaving, an all-encompassing motion that gives his body the appearance of the need for vomit, but with the desire comes nothing else, no splatter of sickening color to give the space some cruel-but-welcome sense of definition. The man cannot figure it out. Figure anything out. So he does the only thing he feels that he may manage -- he tries to outrun it. He tries to run away from this nothingness, to bring himself to a place where his hand can touch a pureness of thought that grants meaning to this empty world, filling it with colors that will spread like light across a night-stained mountain. So. He runs.

Runs into the edge of the page, heaving himself against the edge of the world. HEAVE. HO. RUN. TO. Forcing himself to try to change this world, running his fingers along the edge, trying to find a new beginning, a different theme, a chapter title, a place with definitions beyond that color of uniform white empty that hurts his eyes, hurts his eyes, hurts his eyes hurts his eyes --

The page turns. Blank again.

Damn.
Nothin’.

Nothin’ except that same feeling. His heart undulates in his chest like a gasping fish; but not icy cold, no -- burning hot. And oh so warm. It’s a good thing, that warmth. But where…where did it come from?

“Where indeed?” The voice comes from behind him, like a splash of water exploding over the back of his head. The man whip-turns around, his eyes blurring, trying to pull focus on the thing that sits there amidst the blank, the new thing that might. Give. Something.

It’s a woman. She’s sitting there, quietly munching on a slice of French toast, a hot cup of coffee throwing delicious steam into the air before her. She’s calm. And she smiles.

“Hi.”
“Hello,” the man speaks, his voice cracking slightly, “who might you be?”
Another smile. “I think you know.”

She reaches behind her back, and produces a tall coffee mug as if from nowhere, one that the man regards with a twinkle of recognition in the corner of his eye. It is -- it was -- an old sort of friend. One thought lost, once upon a time.

“I -- where did that come from?”
“From you, I suppose.”
“Really?”
“If you want it to, honey.”
“I -- I think I do.”
“Then why not? Let it be. Have a taste.” Her small hand reaches out to offer the steaming cup to his not-yet-ready fingers. He hesitates, but…not in a bad way. His eyes wide, his head steaming in a manner similar to the liquid in the colorful cat coffee mug.

His hands reach out, and take the mug from hers. Their fingers touch, for but a moment, and he’s embarrassed to note that his hands are cold. So cold. But she still smiles, and lets forth a quick and welcoming laugh. It’s enough to make him tremble.

The coffee transfers its warmth into the surface of his fingers. And then deeper, and deeper still; penetrating down to the bone, like nutrients seeping into the surface of the Earth. He raises it to his face, and warms his lips against the cup. He tastes.

“It tastes like --”
“ -- it tastes like sunrise.” The woman walks closer as the words escape her lips. The man merely nods, then gulps down another swig of burning, watching her movements. His mouth goes dry. He tries to speak.

“Build me, make me,” his voice shakes with traces of long-lost hope, “make me something good.”

Her voice responds, the soft coo of a turtle dove:
“I don’t need to, baby. You already did that yourself.”

And suddenly, they, the pair of them, are back in the nook, the sounds of their advancements muffled by the continuous drone of the servers. And the man, the man, the man…he can feel thoughts. Thoughts in his head, rushing about like rapids crashing through the rocks. Definition and depth, swirling about with a frothy sense of its own self. It’s a good thing.

Outside, the sun rises.
It's bright.

~close~

A slight beginning.

Well.

-------------------------------

To die is a privilege, granted to those who deserve respite.

It was I who said that. I remember it. I remember it clearly, because I remember everything clearly. Too clearly, some (including me) might say. Memory is often known to be a well-worn patchwork quilt, made of generational hands quietly sewing in tiny bits of history with love. With care. With anything, really. The incidental and the coincidental, all in that collection of individual memes, forming something that can be looked back upon with a sense of personal wonder. Not all of it can be seen. Not all of it can be regarded. But it’s all there. All of it. And when people remember, they often remember things of pure wonder. Not so, with those like me. Those who remember everything. Everything. Those who tend to wonder: Would the world, my life -- would it be better if I could forget?

I remember where I was, the moment that I spoke those words. But more importantly: I remember why. Because before I was sitting there, aside the best friend that I can manage in a place that I continually waste away my days, I was somewhere else. Somewhere cold.
Standing on a muddy hillock outside of Glasgow, staring at the corpse of a simple, stupid man. Watching his semi-long brown hair stand up, frozen in my eyes, although in the space of time it was probably whip-cracking him about the face, as if attempting to punish him for the foolishness that he had just partaken in. His face locked in a quiet mask that mingled an overall look of contentment with the slightest beginning of a grimace. His name was -- had been -- Daniel. And quite honestly, as stupid as I knew he was: he looked as if he had been a nice enough man.

Decent.

At least…he had been. Before only a few moments ago, before he found himself laying in a pile of half-frozen mud, his body formed into a position that made it seem as if he had been made of soft elastic. The blood on his head still moving, in all probability. Still fighting for its warmth against the conflicting desires of the gale. It flowed from a wound that would have been surprisingly small, had I not remembered an infinite multitude of wounds that had come before. As always, the man was dead. But he was not alone.

It was for her that I had come.

-------------------------------

There's more to it. More written down than these simple paragraphs, more spun than these initial ideas. There are places where this can -- where it is going to -- go. Places utilizing myths and fantasies, the roots of stories that we as a people have held close to us over the period of generations, ones that we used to explain and enlighten; ones that we used simply as an excuse to feel good. About something.

And like those stories, the ones manipulated by the vestiges of time -- I hope it may come primarily from a place of memory. If bits and pieces of the myth drop off and change, if only ever so slightly, well then...isn't that how they're supposed to go?

But even so, this moment isn't quite the time. Not yet.
Not yet.

Not yet.

A fuggered up something or other.

My head isn't clear. Can't think straight, can't think right, can't think clear, can't think anything.
So I'll do something else.

So I wrote some fiction.

Maybe it will help?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------



Margarine stole my shoes.
She did, I know she did, and they’re all asking me to prove it. They’re asking me to look at the words of the most cunning liar ever douched out of the crevices of Eva Braun’s demonic cunt, to sit and stare at the whore who took my precious leather shoes from me as I slept under that bridge that one time, stare at her and prove the crime, while all I desire is to cremate her ass, to baptize her with the fires that she was born of, putting her back in her rightful place.

“What’s up with those eyes, you think?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

Need proof, these days.
But there isn’t any proof, none at all, not a scrap of evidence to indict her of the crime that everyone and his Grand-Aunt Sally knew that she committed, right under my snuffling nose when I slept under that one bridge that one time. That’s probably why I couldn’t smell her, that has to be the reason, because my nose was damn cold, damn frozen, damn ruined by the nature of that night, that night under that one bridge that one time. That has to be it.

“So…do you know how we handle something like this?”

“Me? Hell no.”

She’s evil.
Pure evil, not a doubt in this crafty ol’ fuckin’ dome of mine, which is how she could slip around like a creepy specter and thanklessly take the things from me, the things that I want and I need to share with people the most, those shoes that I found, but they were given to me, even though I found them, pure nice leather, really smooth, feeling good all the time as my toes wiggled just a little, just a little too big, just like proper leather shoes should be. I miss them.

“But you’re here to break me in! Because I’ve only been on the job for a couple weeks, and…”

“A couple of weeks? So what? I’ve been on the job three years. Doesn’t mean I know how to handle something like this.”

Evidence?
How? How do you get evidence of some filthy demonic apparition, one who doesn’t have the decency to leave someone’s private residence alone, not treating the place as sacred, sacred like it should be, instead giving us all a scared heart because we don’t know when the hell that bitch is going to be coming by, slipping through our vision like the creepy sleepwalking skank that she is, getting ready for her nights of deception and thievery while the rest of us bother with breathing. I have to stare at her and give them the proof.

“Okay, man. You don’t have to get angry, I just figured that you might know. More experience, all that.”

“More experience? I’ve spent almost every day of my adult life filing paperwork.”

But where?
Where can I get the proof? Where am I going to look to send that bitch back to the place she was made, that greasy little slime bucket, trying to make me look a fool, well I’ll show her, I’ll show her but good what I’m made of, I’ll figure all of this out without even breaking a sweat on my brow. I haven’t broken a sweat on my brow in a while, actually I can’t even remember the last time that something like that happened to me, it’s probably a sign of something, something else that I have to figure out alongside this.

“Paperwork?”

“Yeah, paperwork. It’s most of the job.”

That’s it.
That has to be it. It’s connected, the nose and the shoes and the sweat, all of it coming down to that one time I was under that bridge, that has to be the connection. That’s how I can figure this whole shebang out, by tying them together with that common theme, leather and snot and drippy drippy, exactly, no problem, there we go. But now that I know that, what exactly should I do with it, it isn’t exactly the easiest problem in the world to solve, but that’s okay, that’s what I got, that’s what I can use to my advantage in this whole deal, I can salvage my pride, get my shoes, show her, shoe them all, learn to walk again.

“But mostly paperwork? For two whole years?”

“Three years. And yes, that is how it’s been working out. So yes, this is kind of new to me. I’m sorry, but it is how it is.”

So.
So I’ve got to figure out how I figure into all this. I remember that day like it were three years ago, even though it was last week, even though I spoke to that whore Margarine this morning, I think, yes, that’s right, this morning, I think, it has to have been this morning. What did I have for breakfast, do I think that she did something to it, something to keep me for speaking clearly to the people who want me to prove what it was that she did when she did it, so that we can get to the stake through her heart, putting my misery out of its pleasure, saving me from her and all her vile misdeeds. Jesus Christ, walking with me.

“Jesus Christ. I can’t believe that’s what I’m in for.”

“Hell, I don’t know. Might not go the same for you.”

That’s the ticket.
Try to remember. Remember it all, back to the first moment I saw her, saw her by that fire, where she was standing trying to keep herself right, right where she knew she belonged, and of course that’s the key, the clue, how all of this works, isn’t it, it has to be, I knew it was, I know it is, that bitch, that whore, that slut, that demon, that skank, that walking curse upon the planet Earth, the one made from Hitler’s blasted seed, or something, probably, I haven’t figured out the origin yet. This is getting side-tracked anyway.

“But you just said that it’s what I’m in for! I wanted to be a part of something, you know?”

“Hey, this shit works in different ways for everyone I’ve ever met. And besides, just because you’re not engaging in foot-chases every day doesn’t mean the job is worthless.”

What was that time?
It was. It was about five years ago, on top of the bridge this time, that time, as opposed to the other time, and I think it was where I met her, where the pair of us shared a bit of something something, and I talked for hours about the dog that I had left behind that night that my father decided it would be best if I went back to school, even though tough fellas like me never needed it. Showed that one.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Not hard to believe.”

Ok.
So the clock said seven-thirty. At least it would have, if I had a clock there, but I didn’t the only thing I had next to me keeping me warm and safe was the thing that she stole from me, the one thing that I needed next to my bosom, my arc d’ triumph, my goddamn prize whore of the Ganges, a prime export of my me that I needed to keep myself thinking right among all the other things that the world tries to pump me full of on a regular basis, and now I’m stuck here whimpering like some twirptich robot fucking loser asshole pap-smear, and I know exactly how I got down here. Exactly.

“Not that, I mean the guy. Look at him.”

“I know. Never saw anybody twitch like that before, ‘cept in the movies.”

I know.
I know it. I know how I got here but without my shoes keeping me free and clear, I can’t figure out how the how works, putting together the vapors of that evil ones existence into a tangible enough gathering so that the people around me will know what to do about it, being able to handle it in one fell motion swoop from the heavens, cleansing fire, wave of immolation, the new world of our new world order, where patent-leather shoes are given to the saviors as a symbol of their righteous path. I can do this.

“So…am I gonna have to field the paperwork on this guy?”

“Well, you probably should. Experience and all.”

Concentration is the key.
Force it, that’s what I have to do. Blare a path through all the bullshit and the distrust and the mistrust and the antitrust and the prototrust and the clear trust, a path so clean and virtuous that this mission that I’ve been given to steam-clean that slant-brained cunt wash off the face of the Earth, the way that it was all meant to be, all those times before, I just have to know the right place to looks and it’ll be so easy, so easy to fine it all, beyond everything else, beyond good and bad, righteous and evil. A new path.

“But how can I know what to file if I haven’t done it before?”

“Okay, come on. That’s not fair, you know how this works.”

That’s it.
I’m free, aren’t I? I’m free to choose the way that I make myself move, free to do this thing the way that I see fit, made free by the heavenly spirit’s the way that they made me free all those years ago, the first time that I was put on a crusade for the right of way, the time that has drifted away because there is too much confusion, I can’t get no relief, not without my shoes that keep me warm, except for the snwuffles I had that evening under the bridge, where I was sleeping because I had been put there, and now I think I know I think I know I understand what it is and what it was, all of it. All of it.

“Right, right, right. I’m sorry about this, it’s just…”

“Don’t worry about it, kid.”

So here.
Here I am, ready to work, ready to move. I just have to focus and concentrate, look into myself for that evidence that I still need, still need the proof, but I can get it if I focus, that much is certain and clear and right, no problem-o, all the way to the end, straight down the line, and you know, I think I might even be able to have fun with this one, fun with this charge in a way that I haven’t felt since back when I was still deceived by Margarine’s deceptive ways that had me dancing around in her clockwork web of cursed ways, making me the Rommel to her fucking Fuhrer. That bitch.

“No, I really should apologize about all this.”

“Experience is one thing, expectation is another. Don’t beat yourself up, you still have a chance to get your moment. You never know.”

You never know.
Not at first. Not when the pair of you are standing together, doing what some would call laughing with that pussy-ass joy of the moment, making your way towards a place where you might even call yourself happy, anti of the sad, making your way towards a different freedom than the freedom I just found. I thought I had almost found it that time. With her. In there. Over there. Where was I going, what am I doing, what did she do to me, who was she anyway, before I knew what SHE WAS AND WHO SHE WAS WHAT SHE DID WHAT I DID WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE. No.

“Sure, pops.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m like six years older than you.”

Don’t get crossed.
Keep it all together. All the pieces, the fluctuation and the interpretation, all that meaning that you just fixed together even though you didn’t have your pieces quite right, don’t let the lies of the past mess with the future of the path, just make sure that you know your enemy, remember who she is, who she came from, what she what she what she did to you, don’t forget, have fun with the thoughts remember what she did to you, the hurt and the pain and the lust and the evil, that slobbering mongrel of a horse-faced concubine, ruining your peaceful life with her entrance, sopping up jizz with her eyelids and not letting you think straight. Make it right.

“You called me kid.”

“That isn’t the same thing, and you know it.”

Not hard.
It can’t be, it won’t be. Making it right will be the easiest thing in the world, know that you’re back on track, keeping everybody focused, moving around through the air just like Margarine did when she wisped about and took what you needed to beat her, or so she thought, but I’ve you’ve we’ve gotten around that little technicality, and now all we have to do is stay cautious, keeping our sights locked, and we can have more fun than a cracker barrel crammed full of horse heads, the way we were meant to with this thing. Oh yes, it’s gonna be sweet.

“Whatever. Eight years is enough to make a difference. Plus, there’s all that experience you have.”

“Six years. And we just talked about how much that ‘experience,’ is worth. Hey…”

It’s time.
Time for it all. Time for the bridge where I spent that night that one time, time for evidence and justice and all the things that make the world sweet, make it alright for the children and the puppies and the Christmas carols to flood the air whenever the cock they please themselves, ready to wear myself out with enough action to get it done, whatever’s in the way, isn’t in the way, not with the focus, not with the drive, not with that SCREAMING CUNT OOZING HER WAY INTO MY PORES WHEN I DON’T THINK HARD ENOUGH, time to work, time to play, time to rock around the clock, time to fucking move. Right.

“What?”

“Did he just…”

It’s time.

“JESUS CHRIST!”

“SON OF A BITCH!”

HAHA!
Here we go! Here’s the motion, here’s the action, here’s the fighting, here’s the moving moving moving moving moving on to destroy the way I see the ones she sent and that’s alright I’m gonna get them these Nazi Gestapo pissSacks don’t depress me don’t scare me I know what I have to do and I’ll be damned if I don’t do what I gotta do gotta get where I’m going and to go where I’m getting they gotta get gone. Not my WAY!

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Which way did he…”

“South! He went south. You hurt at all?”

Gotta move.
Gotta move. Gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move gotta move

“My arm’s cut pretty bad. But I’m okay. WHICH WAY IS SOUTH?”

“It’s right behind…good god. Are you seeing this?”

Gottomove…
GOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVEGOTTOMOVE

“Jesus fucking Christ. That’s disgusting. And WHERE THE FUCK IS HER HEAD? It is a her, right? RIGHT?”

“I dunno where the head is. Calm down, kid. Where’s your piece?”

Stop.

“It’s right, uh, it’s right here, I got it, I got it. I’m fine. It’s cool.”

“Okay. Go to the car, radio backup. Got that?”

Can’t let this go.
Can’t let those Gestapo fuckpants ruin all of this after the fact, can’t let them. I won’t let them, it’ll be ok, be alright, be fine, they’re in my way, they were in my way, that makes it fair, makes the mission clear, makes it right. You heard that, Margie? You won’t get me.
You won’t.

“Yeah, backup, okay. Right, uh, pops, watch yourself.”

“Don’t call me that.”

You. Won’t.

“Right, right, sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Just get to the car.”

YOU.

“Okay.”

“Alright. Don’t forget he went…”

WON’T.

“…South, right.”

“Oh Shit.”

Can’t stop me.
You can’t Margarine. You wisp and you move and you try as hard as you can and you could but your ways don’t stop the purest of us and that’s me baby that’s this one right here. Can’t stop me.

“”

“Oh shit. Oh shit.”

Fuck me, fuck you, fuck it all.
I’m not depressed, I’m crazy, I’m going to rape your face and shove you in a hole that I dug in my backyard. Sixty feet deep, a hole that lets the dirt smear all over your skin, covering your angelic features with the revulsion that’s been boiling inside my gut for these years and months and days and minutes. Fuck. You. Enjoy your days of green. Enjoy your dances and your songs. Enjoy your concerts, enjoy your social gatherings. Enjoy your love. Because I won’t. I’m going to sit and watch, festering like a colossal boil that lives on the underside of all that you know, all that you fucking trust, you pisspigs of the world, uniting to spread your moronic message of living and dying. Ugh.

“”

“You can’t do tha”

It’s all mine, all of it.
Because I’m free.

“”

“”

Wait.

“”

“”

What was I doing?

A script and a statement.

I had hoped to finish this script today.

I thought it up this morning.

I planned to finish it this night.

But as they say, "A plan is a list of things that won't happen."

Ah well. I still have had time to create bits like this:

ELLE
Is that so?

She jots down some info on yet other one of her countless pieces of paper.

ELLE (CONT’D)
Maybe someday, Willis.
(beat)
If you go and get yourself fixed.
Like I said, I don’t use rubbers.

And BAM, the phone goes down.

Nathan blinks. Once. Twice.
Three times.

NATHAN
...the Fuck?

-----------------------------------------------------------



And this.




---------------------------------------------------------------------



MATTHEW
Have you ever been in love?

NATHAN
Couldn’t say.

MATTHEW
That’s a no. If you knew what I meant, you could definitely say, you couldn’t have enough to say.
Believe me.

He starts moving his feet, pacing in small motions

MATTHEW (CONT’D)
I’m not talking schoolbook, I don’t mean he’s cute-he’s cute,
or he’s cute-she’s cute, or whatever that might be. I’m talking about feeling nothing else
Can you imagine that? Having nothing but one person be your whole body and soul,
everything to you in one big-damn motion?
Can you?

Nathan says nothing. He merely palms a bullet and starts rolling it in his hand.

MATTHEW (CONT’D)
I can, Mr. Anders. I. CAN.
(beat)
Now. Could you tell me what it would be like if that person died?

Matthew stops pacing. He’s staring straight at Nathan, who still keeps rolling that bullet within his fingers, the motion gradually gaining speed.

NATHAN
I could imagine.

MATTHEW
Maybe you can, Mr. Anders. Maybe you can.
But if you can, if you know, if you’re that FUCKING PERCEPTIVE,
maybe you can tell me something else.
Maybe, maybe you can tell me what it feels like to not lose that feeling. Imagine if that person is still there, in your body, in your soul,
YOU COULD STILL FEEL THEM.
Even when they’re gone.
Even? Especially.

And with that, the floodgates open. No words, no grand sweeping wailing. He just maneuvers himself into the chair which he had previously shunned.

Matthew cries. Quietly. To himself.


------------------------------------------

And a good time was had by all.

A set of lies. Nothing more.

What’s your name?

Daniel Greensur.

What's up?

Well…I guess a lot of things.

With your life?

My mother looked at me for the last time today. I can tell. She’s going to live a little bit longer, but she won’t be able to see me, not while she knows me. From now on, I’ll be a someone. And in some ways, so will she.

and your thoughts?

I don’t have them anymore. They’re useless.

and your face?

My face is clean, I guess. I used some new exfoliating thing, it seems to work pretty well. But it does kinda burn. A lot. Seriously. But the face is clean.

and your energy?

I run a lot more than I used to. The hospital has a lot of space up there on the roof, and more and more, I just seem to be up there. Not sure why sometimes. But I end up there, somehow, and I just keep running and running. Pointless. I don’t even know why I fucking do it. Does that count?

and your genitalia?

What? That’s…that’s not really…they’re fine. I guess.

and your mind?

My mind? I’m really not sure how I could answer that. Lately, I haven’t had the time to really do much brainwork, or work these things out, you know? I’ve just had too much on the plate. More important things. Let’s move on.

and your soul?

I’m a decent man. I am.

and your skin?

I never really gave it much attention. I guess it’s there. It’s doing it’s job, as much as it always has. Wrap-around. And yeah, it’s still there when I touch it. Still warm. Actually, now that you mention it, it’s kind of itchy. All over. On my whole body. It’s there.

and your taste?

Does that mean taste, like, the foods I know? Or is it what I like, in general? Or is it something grander, right, something like perception? Because I don’t know about this. I don’t know how I would really answer. Things like that…not up my alley. You understand.

and your insomnia?

Is it obvious? Around the eyes, I guess. I don’t like it when people notice.

and your sleep?

I really don’t like talking about it. You know? People look at you differently when they find out about your sleep habits. Like it bugs them, or like they want to help. It’s not their problem. Anyway, let’s not, ok? Didn’t I already answer that?

and your skill?

Heh. Haven’t used mine in awhile. Been busy, obviously. I mean, I had one. Everyone does, somewhere. With something.

and your head?

I, what? I don’t even know what that means. Can we hurry this up?

and your dreams?

Don’t.

and your life?

Look, man, I don’t know what this is about. I’ve been nice, and I talked, but this is just getting silly. You got what you wanted, right? Some guy, trying not to fall, letting the buzz of the lights annoy him awake? Move on, alright? There’s other people around.

Your life?

Shut up.

YOUR LIFE?

NO. MORE.

No more.

No more.




And so on.

A eulogy of sorts.

Her name was Pamela.

She’s dead now.

But she was alive, once. She was alive, and like oh-so-many people who were alive, who are still living, she had a story. Everyone has a story. And everyone has a story worth telling.

One somewhat gray afternoon, in the winter of 1983, a girl was born.

Her name was Pamela.

At least, that’s what it would eventually become. But on the day that she was born, she had no name. She only had a face, a face with dark eyes that glistened as if they had been washed over with morning dew. She was born without a name, and it would be a great while before she was given one.

Her parents were somewhat different from the norm, in that they believed that names were elusive creatures, things that they hadn’t the right to bestow upon their new pride and joy. A name was something that held wickedness and intelligence within its fragile fingers, things that brought down storms and raised up buildings. A name was something important. Important enough for her to choose on her own.

And so it was, that time passed by. Time went on, and the nameless girl crawled her way through the world, still not speaking, so still not giving herself a name. And as she grew, so did the world. Governments shouted at each other, people quaked and people cowered, insults and lies showering the globe with the insolence of their existence. But she didn’t care. She kept right on growing, as the world did nothing but continue to shout itself to its own inevitable destruction, not bothering to watch something truly important unfold.

And so it was, that she learned to speak. But time is not simple, and the first word she spoke was not her name. It was something that is considered trivial, but in that moment, that moment where the genesis of her words occurred, the one thing that took priority over her world was this: “Duck.”

She was at the park with her mother. She had been alive for two years and four months. Her eyes still gleamed as if they had been moistened by the morning dew. And she grew older.

It was a sunny morning in April when the fateful day finally arrived. Her mother had just gone down to the local supermarket in search of some eggs, getting ready to make a fine breakfast to get the weekend off on the right foot. While this went on, the young girl without a name was sitting on her fathers knee, telling her a story about how he had once found himself almost steeping upon a sleeping baby rattlesnake. His face contorted as he spoke, trying to get a different expression to emerge from his daughter. But she merely sat there, concentration holding itself between her tiny eyebrows, her eyes locked on a point that her father could not make out.

At that moment, her mother slipped on a patch of wet floor that had yet to be graced with a sign warning of its presence. As she tried to gain her balance in mid air, her head came in contact with the edge of a can that was part of a display of canned peaches. She would die in the hospital six hours later.

The nameless girl spoke: “I think Pamela is a nice name, Daddy.”
She was 6 years and 1 day old. Her birthday present had been a shiny red fire truck.

As she grew older, she grew smarter as well. She wasn’t exactly the quickest on tests, nor was she the slowest. But the people around her could tell that she had something within her, something that was always working, some kind of hidden mechanism that churned on and on behind those eyes of hers. She never told them about it. She wasn’t the type to, and they knew it. Just like they knew that she could see beyond them, to things which were far more important. And they loved her for it.

People are not always quick to accept those with eyes like hers; but every once in a great while, a person would also have something else, something within them that matched the intelligence which burned beneath their surfaces. Something that has never really been defined, but draws people with a quiet elegance, with a sense of empowerment, with ease and grace. And so it was, that while Pamela sat staring into the distance, smiling only when the world truly needed it, that she became the charming center of the world nearby.

Time passed.

And as time occurred, so did her stories, as will happen as life moves on.

When she was eleven years old, on a trip to the zoo, she caught her first real glimpse of an emperor penguin. She found that she loved it, and she felt that it loved her. It was a feeling that would last for the rest of her life.

When she was fourteen years old, as she was hiking in some woods with her best friend, a somewhat chubby girl named Jill, Pamela stepped off the path and stepped into a rusty bear trap, a relic of a year gone by. Jill would help her down the mountain, and would never tell her friend how much it amazed her that she didn’t shed one tear, despite the clearly terrible pain. Pamela would have a slight limp that would last for the rest of her life.

When she was seventeen years old, she lost her virginity. Two days after the senior prom. The boy was named Wilmer, and she had made him wait until after prom, for no real reason other than to watch him squirm. They would date for about eight more months after that. And then she would move on.

Like her, life moved swiftly. Buildings fell, and people lived. Buildings grew, and people died. Et cetera, and so on, so it goes. Time passed.

On a perfectly average day in the middle of February, Pamela had planned to meet Jill at a local record store, where the two of them would spend hours upon hours just browsing. They never seemed to buy anything, but that wasn’t the point of it, they just enjoyed each others company. But she never arrived. She was hit by a speeding Chrysler as she attempted to cross the street on a perfectly legal green light. Her dark, wonderfully deep eyes never saw it coming. And so it was, that they lost their gleam, the glisten that made them look as if they were covered by a fresh morning dew. Even without her, time passed by.

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There really was a Pamela.

She really was born in 1983, and she really died in 2005.

You probably didn’t know her.

And truth be told, neither did I.

But other people did know her, and they cared about her. They cared enough to mourn, and they cared enough to remind themselves, as well as other people, that their friend had died.

This wasn’t her real story.

But I hope that whoever she was, she would have enjoyed it.

Because everyone has a story. And everyone deserves one.

Right?