The Escape

I slip back into reality with no memory of who I am, nor what has transpired before this. I’m not alone, either; two armed guards are walking beside me. It seems I’ve been a willing prisoner (am I prisoner? For some reason, I feel like one…), because I am not restrained. However, they do seem ready to pounce if I make any sudden moves, so apparently I am an escape risk. Wait… Escape from where? What is this place? It’s outside… but not outside… Oh, we’re walking along the perimeter of a building. High wall to my left, government-looking facility to my right… Why are they always these sleek, chrome, grey-white buildings? Governments never have any imagination… Strange thought. Was that me? Must be, these guards certainly aren’t saying anything.

There’s someone up ahead. She’s standing by a door. Is that where I’m being taken? Must be. Something is bubbling up inside me, with more and more urgency. Panic. Why am I panicking? Is something bad about to happen? No coherent thoughts in my head anymore all I can think of is escape. I must escape. How? The guards are speaking to the woman now. She looks young. My age, maybe. …How old am I? I don’t feel like I’ve been alive very long. She says something about vents. Vent… I get flashing images of being huddled up in one, wrapped in a blanket… It’s comforting. Did I used to live in a vent somewhere? That’s strange. I must have been homeless. NO! Focus! Escape! I have to get out, fast! The guards are leaving me with her. I’ll get my chance soon. They need to go away first. But I can’t let her take me too far into this place or I’ll get lost. All these bright lights and identical hallways. Oh, there’s a vent here. That’s funny. Maybe she was just saying there was something wrong with it… Why can’t I think properly? What’s wrong with me? We’re approaching a door. It is the only door that is different and the panic has reached fever pitch. I need to get away. I need to get away NOW. RUN.

I do. I turn around and make a break for it, taking the same path we came from. The woman is yelling for me to come back, yelling for someone to stop me, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone else here. Yet. They’re going to come for me. The thought makes me run faster. I get to the vent and yank it open, intending to hide or find a way out. It’s blocked. I whimper in fear and frustration. Of course, that must have been what she was saying. I’ve done this before. They know. They don’t intend to let it happen again.

I keep running and get outside, a giant wall glaring right at me. Another to the right, meeting it at a corner. The sliding doors are behind me, with that woman getting closer. She is armed with back-up, now… I can sense it like the hot breath of a predator on my neck. In my peripheral vision, I see the guards who had escorted me here coming in fast from the left. It’s a long yard and they had left me eagerly, so they are still far off. I have time to make a decision. Get over that wall. Without pausing to think about it I rush forward, slapping my foot against the right hand surface of the corner and thrusting myself up, twisting my body to grab at the other ledge. Using both my legs and my arms I pull myself up and over, hearing the dismayed yells of my pursuers as I make the jump down. I have no idea how I did what I just did but there’s no time for me to think. They’ll be out soon, and they’ll be armed. I run.

It strikes me as odd how fast I seem to be, and if it weren’t for the fact I was being chased, I’d probably enjoy it more. I like this. Feet pushing the ground back and away, air rippling at my clothes. Then I see them in the distance, standing in their oncoming jeeps with guns drawn, trying to close in on me, and I forget everything except needing to get away. There are houses and buildings here. Quick as a rabbit, I flit to the right, leaping over a fence and finding myself in a small complex. I suddenly realise how winded I am and begin to pant, bending over to rest for a few moments.

“You seem like you’re in trouble.”

I snap back up so fast I hear my spine crack, searching for the source of the voice. One of the little house doors is open wide, a man sitting on the floor with some food, his side facing me. He must have been eating, or about to. My stomach growls a little. He hears, and chuckles softly. Long, slim hands attached to bony wrists toss two small scones across from him. I feel strangely safe for now, so I walk inside cautiously, shutting the door, and sit down. He smiles. He has a kind face. Weather-beaten skin and a thin, wiry body. But he doesn’t seem to be very old. I remember that I still don’t know how old I am. I don’t even know my own name.

“Eat,” he says, tearing a piece off one of his scones and taking a bite.

Hungry as I am, it strikes me that this is a very small house in an old complex. Even the rug we were sitting on felt thin and worn out. He may be sharing the only food he has for the night. “What about you? Is that enough?” I marvel at the sound of my own voice. It’s quiet, raspy from lack of water. Not too high-pitched, not as deep as a man’s. I realize I do not know how I look. The need to see my face is rising.

The man watches me. He can tell I’m struggling with something, but says nothing of it. “I always buy extra. Don’t worry. Please eat.”

I gratefully reach for one of the scones when the door bursts open. In an instant, I am across the hall and in the kitchen, hiding behind the fridge. I hear a yell, then a thud. My heart races. I’m terrified and guilty. No. No, no, no please let nothing have happened to the man. Please let him not be dead. Grabbing a knife from the counter I glance out towards the room. Only one of those men, coming this way. As soon as he walks through the door I growl as my arm swings out and I stab him as hard as I can. Not waiting for anything, I get the hell out of there. There’s no time to check on the kind stranger. I can only wish he’s okay, and make sure to stay away from people. Their kindness could get them hurt. Those who were kind, anyway.

I run without a single break in stride, slowing only marginally as tiredness makes me lose momentum, then speeding up again a second later. There’s no one out but me and the men coming after me, though I have yet to see them. I know they’re out there. I change directions. Climb over walls. Vault over any obstacles in my way. Hide, and then break into a run again. I don’t care where I go, so long as it’s far, far away. I still have no idea why I ran. All I could say for sure was that I knew that once I walked through that door, there was no going back. I am a liability. Whatever they wanted from me, they did not get. And we all know what happens to liabilities. I nod my agreement and pick up speed.

But the night drags on, and soon I am too tired to continue. It strikes me as odd that it has taken me this long to tire out. Adrenaline, probably. Find a place to spend the night. Yes, I need to sleep. I see a large villa close by. It’s big enough that I think I can risk hiding somewhere on the grounds. I can leave in the morning before I am discovered.

Exhausted, I climb the gate slowly, trying to keep my movements controlled for as little sound as possible. At this point, the temptation to just let myself crash to the ground and sleep where I land is almost overpowering. Only the thought of what would happen if I did keeps me from it. Luckily for me, the only lights on are those in a few rooms on the higher floors, so I can sneak about easily, crouching low and close to the walls of the house.

Then I stumble across the children. They spot me right in the middle of their play, and curiously make their way over. Probably heard my labored breathing and turned to look. Crap, what the hell are they doing up so late? Why aren’t they afraid of me, a stranger who’s broken into their house in the middle of the night? I don’t even care anymore. The exhaustion is taking over. Just as they reach me, saying things I can’t quite hear, I slump to the ground and it all goes dark.

Robbery at Point Lame*

Child abduction. Really? Of all the crimes in all their varying degrees of intensity that the Mob could accuse me of, they chose child abduction. You had to hand it to them- that’s the quickest way to discredit anybody. Even murderers and most serial killers can’t stand child abductors. Sick, twisted beings.

I’m not, by the way. A kidnapper of children. Sick and twisted, on the other hand… let’s say the jury’s out on that one.

I don’t even want to be here, in this dreary little suburb where the most exciting thing that happens is someone letting their grass grow over the height limit. Scandalous. Well, it was scandalous until I showed up and the Mob accused me of being one of the lowest of the low. Ironic, considering what they are. They didn’t even need proof. In this world, with all its evils, an accusation is enough. No one would take the chance of assuming the talk is wrong, whether they had kids or not.

Anyway, like I was saying. I don’t WANT to be here. I just have to because the Mob is here. And where the Mob goes, I go. There must be more to this town than meets the eye if they would go through the trouble of setting up shop and then making sure no one would come near me. Except the kids. Kids don’t believe adults half the time. They go with their gut. But cuz they’re kids no one ever takes them seriously and given the nature of the sign floating on my head, no one would ever let them get close enough. The Mob have made sure that not only am I viewed with utter suspicion, but that I have no allies. I’m surprised the cops haven’t shown up with a surprise warrant because a kid is a minute over curfew.

They’re not the real Mob, by the way. Not the Mafia, I mean. They just picked the name for the confusion and fear it would strike in the hearts of men, when it was mentioned. And it’s not like the real Mafia would be too eager to claim copyright infringement, so the name stayed. Pretty clever, these guys. Just never clever enough. And I’ve been keeping a very close watch on them in my time here (while the rest of the town keeps a disgustingly close watch on me. I can’t even go to a park).

Riggs, the unassuming rookie, has been working as a school bus driver. Honestly, he’s the best man for the job. He looks like the kid you’d bring home to your parents, if you were the type. Baby-faced bastard. All blue eyes and blond hair, like he was carved by angels. How he turned so rotten as to work for the Mob is anyone’s guess, but what do I care? He did and he does, and that’s enough. Anyhow, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that whatever the Mob is up to, it has to do with that school and the bus Riggs drives. And they obviously want me nowhere near either, hence the child abductor rumour they threw into the air the minute I walked into town.

Or rather, flew. Well, not that either. Something in between, I suppose you could say. Brilliant for getting around, it really is. Saves on gas and plane tickets like you wouldn’t believe.

So now I’m in this tiny suburban town basically next door to all the wilderness, tracking a nationally notorious gang, with the entire population against me and no intel on what the heck these jerks are up to.

I love my job.

*I don’t remember why on earth I titled it this. Or even where the idea for this came from. A dream, probably.

Ira

Robert Frost wrote,
“Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.”
Anger is both.
It is all-consuming
And my mouth tastes sulfur
And my throat feels charred
Witches would cower at my insides if they saw
(And Hades would feel at home)
Then,
silence reigns
Screams are hushed down to nothing
Cold winds blow
And there is nothing anymore
(Or so the iceberg would have you believe
As it waits for you to sink)
There is a sense of stillness, of Zen,
when it comes to such cold fury
Medusa’s snake hair would be envious of my stare
My anger is the end of the world.
Touch me and you’ll freeze.
Touch me, and you’ll burn.

Life is a hypocrite.
A liar, a cheat.
A tease, a bully.
A carrot-dangler.
A lover of never-ending cycles.

Why?

To see who is brave enough to call it out.
To see who is smart enough to catch it in its lies.
To see who is strong enough to stand up to it.
To see who is wants it enough to get that carrot.
To see who is determined enough to break the cycle.

And if you’re not?

Then it teaches you how to be.
Only, it’s up to you to learn the lesson.

Isn’t it beautiful?

They were sitting on a bench overlooking the water, the city’s bright lights and impressive skyline reflected on the ever-moving surface. It was cold, and they both felt it, yet by unspoken decision they moved no closer to each other.

Finally, the silence became unbearable and he had to speak, if only to remind himself that he still could.

“Are you really sure it will work this time?”

His companion glanced at him, then went back to staring at the water. “I am.”

“How?” The word was out of his mouth before he had the chance to stop it. He sounded disbelieving and he felt horrible for it.

To his surprise, he caught a small smile flit across his brother’s face. “Because I don’t believe it will.”

He looked at him in confusion, wondering if this time, his brother really had lost his mind entirely. He could tell that he was trying to find the right words, so remained quiet.

“Before, I would work on my projects fully convinced that I would succeed. That this would be it and I would never have to worry again. I was tireless, exhilarated. I had complete faith. And every time, I would be proved wrong. This time, though, while all other emotions remain the same, I no longer have that conviction. And that is how I know it will work.” At last he turned to face him, the small smile back on his face. “I know it’s a strange idea. But it makes sense, somehow.”

He smiled back, understanding, and they both returned to staring at the ripples running across the city.

Before the rain

My god. This is beautiful. The sky is at breaking point with the weight of those beautiful ominous grey clouds. They’re lurking over us, and I can just tell they’re smirking as they wait for the right moment to let loose. Hanging onto our anticipation, feeding off the tension of the Earth as she waits for her thirst, and that of all she has borne, to be quenched.

The wind is doing its job too. Blowing fiercely, enjoying making plastic wrappers and aluminum cans rustle, rattle and crackle about. Making spirals and puffs and swells of sand and dust, a tribute to the clouds above, an imitation that even the arrogant wind knows does them no justice.

The world is quieter. The tension is palpable. Even the normal early morning sounds are muted down. Everything. Everything can feel the presence. That unique presence. Strong, confident, patient, wise. The presence of Mother Nature in beautiful glory.

The clouds tease us further, allowing the scent of what they carry to drift earthwards, tantalising us with the promise of what’s to come. What we HOPE will come, for it may very well be that they decide to ask the wind to take them elsewhere, or perhaps decide to perform another day. In the meanwhile, all we can do is wait, and feel that presence, and be oh-so-grateful to be alive.

But what’s this? The sun making its appearance, slowly dyeing the sky pink and orange. And the clouds drift towards her like moths to a flame, entranced, in love, not caring that the energy she emanates will be their undoing. Floating lovingly to be as close as they can. The wind too has lowered his efforts to that of a small, cool breeze. He knows the sun can do nothing to him, so he is safe and and watches admiringly as she shyly reveals herself.

It seemed strange that such a beautiful thing knew not of her effect. That she could tame winds and turn thunderclouds to mere mist had never occurred to her. She just did what she did best, and loved doing: she shined her light bright as she could, without discrimination. All that was in her realm of giving, she gave to, content with that. Happy with it.

So there may not be any rain this day. But at least we have the sun, just as beautiful, if not more. No. Wait. Definitely more.

She was unreliable. Sometimes she shined her light too brightly, or gave out her energy too strongly. Sometimes she got too shy and hid away behind clouds only too glad to do as she wished and hide her away. And there was that matter of her dalliance with the moon… But since she did that while shining somewhere else, it’s alright really.

For all that, though, she is beautiful.

Magnificently so.

And I’ll just leave it at that.

I think too fast sometimes.

Thoughts will race through my head, then suddenly one, or several, will pass by without me even really knowing what they were. Only a vague impression of them. Then I’ll have to stop my train of thought, and go back, and slow things down, sometimes repeat them, over and over, so I won’t forget. Make sense of them, put them in words, proper sentences, describe them. I can’t stand thinking in chopped words or phrases. I always have to sort them.

It’s probably why I need to write so often. It’s easier to sort my head out this way. I can see the words, feel them beneath my fingers. But the irony of it is, when I get the tools to write, the thoughts disappear, only to come back once I’m away from this place.

Pen and paper, I can’t use. It’s too slow a method. One that can’t keep up with everything I think. Whenever I try I just get frustrated and then the thoughts go away again, to be replaced with what I’m typing now. Frustration at there being too many thoughts to take down at once.

How do we handle it? It’s like our brains are being shot with multiple machine guns.. ratatatatatatataratatatatatatataratatattat.. And sometimes it all goes so fast and so hard, I can’t understand how we haven’t succumbed to this incredible amount of pressure inside our own heads, controlling our body, never stopping, hardly ever slowing down.. How have we not exploded?

No wonder people go completely and utterly insane.

No wonder they end up losing their minds… They don’t lose them, they give them up, toss them away, unable to take that goddamn pressure.

Witches’ Storm

{Inspired by a dust storm.}

“Get away from there!” Nat yelled. The double-glazed glass gates were shaking ominously, despite the many hands of other students pushing against them. She was terrified they would come crashing down on their heads.

She was the eldest, so they did as they were told, stepping beside her while their eyes remained fixed on the doors. Nat cursed inwardly. She was deeply her regretting her choice of transparent curtains. A set of dark thick ones would have kept them from having to look at the sight ahead, maybe even muffle the noise, which was bad enough as it was.

The ghosts of burned witches past continued to howl then attack the doors all together, their wails and screams combining to form one mournful, blood-curdling sound. Beneath her terror, Nat couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. All they had wanted all those years ago was salvation, and even now the doors were barred to them.

It went for hours. After a while, the others grew used to it. The novelty wore off and they continued with their work, but Nat gazed on. She felt like she owed it to them. That to ignore them would be disrespectful; like their torment meant nothing.

She watched as they raised dirt and dust until nothing could be seen. She watched as they gathered storm clouds, speeding them up and pushing them to crash together and thunder their rage. She closed her eyes, shaking, every time they launched another attack, convinced that they would break through.

Finally, she watched as they faded away one by, one each with a mournful wail. Then she made the mistake of looking into the eyes of the last witch to go; the last to have died. As the sun returned, a single tear rolled down her cheek at the great sadness she’d seen within them.

“At least the town will never forget what they’ve done. They won’t let them. And we too shall always remember the betrayal of our ancestors, which is why these gates are made of glass. We must never forget, no matter how far out into the world we may one day reach, how we turned our backs in fear and pride.”

Nat looked up at her mentor and nodded. Taking her outstretched hand, they walked together to continue their Potions lesson. She turned back one more time to where the witch had been, and promised to never forget.

I don’t want to miss a moment.

I’m tired. Really, really physically tired. This is a combination of short lived amounts of sleep and disturbing dreams to go with them. It’s taking its toll, and right now, the temptation to just lay my head down and close my eyes is growing so great the backs of my eyelids sting, as if trying to give me a sign. “Go on! Let us close, you moron!”

Soon. I’ll give in soon, promise.

Resentfully, though. Because this time is mine. The time when everyone else is fast asleep, so I have no demands to meet, no errands to run. There’s no one to interrupt me from whatever I choose to do, like write this post. And the silence is not confined to the many walls that make up our apartment, but to the outside world, as well. I am awake to watch the world fall asleep, and savour each moment of quiet solitude. I am awake to watch it wake up again, before visiting sleep myself. It’s become a routine that I am, for once, rather fond of. Almost like tucking a child in at night, then smiling as you watch them set out into the world in the morning while you finally rest. It’s a need to check that the earth is alright, to watch it and feel it come alive.

I wonder what it is that makes night and day feel so different. Fewer cars on the road? The darkness? Less people walking about, if any at all? Is the silence just from the lack of noise, or from something within us? That connection all humans share, letting us know the collective consciousnesses of the people around you are at rest. Their brains have slowed down, relaxed, stopped buzzing, and so it’s quiet.

Whatever the reason, I like it. I love it. It’s these times that I am most at peace, which is why feeling so damn tired is annoying me. I don’t want to sleep and waste away what would be another hour or so of delicious tranquillity. I don’t want to miss sensing it slowly sneak away as the world awakes, and grows louder with the clamouring thoughts of conscious minds as they go to work, go to school, build, talk, laugh, yell, live or at least exist.

I don’t want to miss a moment of it.

But since I really can’t help it, eyes drooping right now in fact, I’ll just console myself with the thought of another night to enjoy, and savour. And I will cherish it to the very last second.

So for now, Goodnight

Words Are Useless

I dreamt of words that free and that bind
Of words from heart and words from mind
Words so cruel, words so kind
Words that reveal, words that blind

I dreamt of words bitter and sweet
Of words that fool and words that teach
Words better read, words made for speech
Words of small consequence, words of far reach

I dreamt of words of love and hate
Of words that destroy and words that create
Words of agreement, words of debate
Words that bring together, words that separate

I dreamt of words of hope and light
Of words crouched in weakness, words standing in might
Words that feel wrong, words that feel right
Words from the unrepentant, words from the contrite

I dreamt of words hidden within screams
Of words about reality and words about dreams
Words respectable, words obscene
Words that err, words that redeem
Words filled with sorrow, words full of glee
Words of generosity, words of greed

I dreamt of words that praise and defame
Of words that alter and words that stay the same
Words excitingly mad, words boringly sane
Words that don’t stick, words that remain
Words of pride, words of guilt and shame

I dreamt of words of anger and reprimand
Of words that give and words that demand
Words of the sea, words of the land
Words small and simple, words complicated and grand

I dreamt of words whispered and yelled
Of words organised and words thrown pell-mell
Words all in motion, words that stood still
Words of friendly greeting, words of sad farewell

I dreamt of words of peace and war
Of words despised and words adored
Words from the present, words from before
Words for tomorrow and forever more

I dreamt of words of prose and rhyme
Of words of innocence and words of crime
Words for forgetting, words to remind
Words of dark sin, words pure and divine

I dreamt of words of ugliness and beauty
Of words irresponsible and words of duty
Words that spoke of desire, words that poured with need
Words burning in passion, words hollow in apathy

I dreamt of words and they consumed me whole
Stripped me down and laid bare my soul
And when I woke, I woke in pain
For the very last thing they spelled was, “Words without action…
…are words in vain.”

Inspired by a strange dream, where I could take hold of words. Some slipped from my hands, some were in bold, others normal. Different fonts, meanings, textures. Jolted awake and wrote as much as I could before I couldn’t any more. Continued throughout the day. Changing, adding. Here’s the final cut. There’s no particular order, really, except the structure of the verses.