Skip to main content

Find Your Own Way Out

 Find Your Own Way Out


What if things could be undone before you’d done them? Or after? What if you could be rewritten, and never know it? What’s beyond time, what’s beyond death? What lies out in the places between places, above and outside of places? What’s in the basement and the attic of God, the places he won’t look, won’t open up to us?



That’s what the note said in the empty, cold house. 


It’s handwriting was rushed, the letters looping and stretched, trying to run away from the page to somewhere else. Somewhere else beyond the ominous meaning, the fate of whoever wrote it. 


Water drip-drip-drips from the faucet. Trying to fill that uncomfortable, hungry silence. Something thumps in the attic, wood creaking before abating back into the quiet. 


There are things in the house. There is nothing in the house. 


Empty picture frames that you can feel unseen smiles from. If you’d run your hands across the walls there would be the essence of dust from a place lived in and weathered, but, they’re smooth and pale as something newborn. Untouched. 


The house between. The house undone. It feels like on a strong breeze, this will all blow away; vanish like dreams upon waking. In one window streams sunshine, another is an eye into starless, velvet darkness. 


I’ll leave you here, for now. You have the note. You have the quiet. The creaking upstairs. 


Find your own way out.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Lepidopterophobia

You are dying.  Doesn’t matter how.  Feels so far away now— doesn’t it?  That’s it. Take it easy. Let that last breath slip away, like the warmth that comes in a killing cold. Gentle into a silent night. No more looking up at those crowding, concerned faces; a herd of pale, pained moons.  - - - - - ___________ A dark tunnel. Familiar, but not. You’re welcome all the same. Hands groping, grasping against glassy coolness, stumbling—  Light.  The most perfect, pure sunlight. Every idealized summer, every perfect candlelight and warming fire, all that condescend sun-sure dances across a lifetime of days. It’s mere existence is the most pristine invitation. In illumination alone it says come closer . If you had a heartbeat it would be racing.  Up. Up. Forward. Scuffing, almost tripping. Surging forward, hands outstretched.  You’re here.  The Light. The Light   It’s so— wrong . It’s purity vanished, replaced with an organic and oily sheen. Lik...
Post a Comment
Read more

Suzanne and the Ferryman

 Suzanne meets Stan at the hotel. She’s anxious this time, flighty, long dainty fingers tapping on the counter. The sex is rushed, she drinks too much before and even more after. Suzanne botches the makeup in the bathroom mirror, it lacks her usual professional consistency presented at the office— hair wild and uncouth even after the usual meticulous twenty brushing swipes.  It’s raining out when she climbs into the car. A drizzle becomes a downpour, making winding turns through thick woods a dreamlike slog. Moss heavy branches hang low and Suzanne feels like they’re malevolent fingers reaching for her. The drenching escalates until her windshield is perpetually submerged, everything outside a dark chaotic painting of gloom and wetness and shadows. Suzanne reaches for glasses that aren’t there. Swerves. Feels stomach-churning emptiness as road beneath becomes empty air and treetops.  Suzanne wakes to the scent of wetness, and earth. Copper on her tongue. Trees reaching up...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Moons that Hunters Must Walk

 The Five Moons claim the sky with blood and cosmic violence. Crimson-saffron light splashes across the huge storm clouds beneath their fierce visages, and turns the world eerie. Dreamlike. Haskes, the Moon of Windfall. Storms curl into whirlwind frenzies across the bone-colored face. It is the place of howling furies and hellish nightmares, where hunters must walk across the Stormchasm to stand strong against endless wind-- or be thrown into bottomless abyss. Ahnios, the Moon of Waves. Hunters know the Tidesong, a deep welling howl of sorrow and exultance, the song to be sung out when those worthy sailed out across tsunamis vast enough to sunder continents into crushing abyss. A moon of an ocean untamed, beautiful, and unforgiving. Khinq, the Moon of Dunes. Those beneath the chaotic sky know the Blood Passage as a time of fear and annihilation, a time when the Moon of Endless Sand has returned from distant void to once again reign among its brethren. Red glows like silent, crawlin...
Post a Comment
Read more