“I really don’t understand what you’re doing. Stop talking to air, or the wall, you seem…” Richie hesitated as he noticed his friend Trey, someone he had known for years, morph before him. His friend’s sharp, masculine jaw line, blonde hair, and shrewd piercing eyes remained unchanged, yet underneath the robust physiology lurked a malleable soul, beaten and battered and hidden away until this very moment—this ever so tenuous moment.
Trey’s face wore an expression of extreme distress and something that treaded near mania. He had looked at Richie just a moment ago, astonished, unable to recognize his friend of 8 years.
“Why this moment,” Richie thought, “why here, just as we’ve been locked away in this damn apartment because a riot broke out.”
Richie looked longingly at the door. He knew that if he left Trey, he would never forgive himself. A friend is supposed to be there during bad times. Besides, outside was surely more dangerous.
So, Richie pleaded with Trey; begged him to snap back to reality; reminded him of their mutual recollections, of how they met. But none fostered any hope. Something in Trey’s brain had shifted.
Trey turned toward Richie and lifted a finger, pointing at him, “you’re behind this, I know it, you tapped my brain, you’re with the CIA aren’t you?” he said with feverish eyes, “well, I can’t stay in the same room as a CIA agent.” Unsheathing a knife from the counter top set, Trey stared at him contemptuously, unblinking, unable to see anything other than blood and retribution.
Richie continued pleading, “please Trey…I…I can convince you it’s true, that we’re friends. Just give me 5 minutes and I’ll show you.”
Trey relinquished the 5 minutes, and Richie frantically scrolled through his photos for proof of their acquaintance.
“See, here, look here, that’s you and that’s me. This photo is from two years ago,” Richie said as his shaking hands held the phone up to Trey’s face.
“How do I know you haven’t been working my case for years. That you’ve faked it! I’ve seen this movie before, the CIA knows that time gives the illusion of knowing someone. But I know that people can put on a fake personality for years! You’re a liar! Scum!”
“No, no, it’s true,” Richie said. He tried to conjure up new ways of reasoning with the firm resolve of this mad man, but all that came to him were the same methods: pictures, proof of his actual job, knowledge of Trey’s life. Unwaveringly, Trey knew it was all a lie, all a part of a ploy to arrest him, to garner information from him. The government was after him, of that much he was sure.
The timer on Trey’s phone ticked down to 10 seconds, “as of now you have no proof,” he said lasciviously, “so…in, 5…4…”
“No, no,”
“3…”
“No, Trey no,” Richie noticed the ravenous look in Trey’s eyes and knew there was no convincing him out of it, so he grabbed the nearest blunt object—a metal lamp from the desk—and prepared to fight.
“2…”
Roars from the raging riot outside grew, matching the fever of the room’s frantic air. Richie reached for the door knob, but it had been locked.
“1…”
Richie turned toward Trey who was calmly standing, looking down at his phone.
“I’m sorry Richie, I wish I believed you.”
A sunset alone. Another sunset alone. The etchings on the great wall peculiar and contrived.
Your horse trots, your horse you ride. Camp is, as has been for weeks, meditative yet anxious; the stars inspire awe, but the creaks in the thicket make your heart thump.
You’ve ventured into the unknown; effectively unknown that is, for the trails are traveled and worn yet the feeling is all the same — alone. For once, yes, you are alone.
You dismount your steed as the setting beams paint red and yellow on the great rock wall. You take a deep breath — one that fills your lungs with warmth and pressure.
Nature’s anxiety keeps hold of you, but the anxiety of your past and your future melts away; you’re relieved. The knot in your stomach, the pulling of your hair — gone.
You feel a sense of purpose — to survive, nothing more. You thought this life, of dirt and of struggle, would be all tax and pain, yet escaping the ruins set you free. How peculiar.
I turned the corner, and by chance, as if in a fairy tale or poem, I stood facing a brick arch way about twice my height. It had been abandoned for some time, for the plants and moss were converging on their ancestral grounds; the beginning of a long journey toward nature’s retribution.
There was a track, of sorts, leading into the arch way and down a dark tunnel that cut under the forest floor. My senses were consumed by an eerie feeling — eerie and queer — and I hesitated to explore further. But, as a man driven by query, I knew walking on was not an option; I’m compelled to explore.
Flashlight in hand, I began my march. Unsure of what — or who — lived inside, I picked up a sturdy, bat-sized stick.
In just 10 meters, the sounds of the forest dropped away. Nothing pierced the silence save a few drops of water which fell from cracks in the roof, and back onto the ground from whence they came.
There were bugs and lizards scurrying as I walked by. The air smelled of nature’s damp musk. Scents familiar to the worms, the insects, and the moles, but foreign to me. Life in the dark, guided by pheromones and olfaction, moisture and stable temperatures; a life lived by long since diverged cousins of mine.
My anxieties vanished, I dropped the stick, and sat in awe of the beautiful simplicity. I felt the texture of the rough brick on my skin, I heard the sounds of the air and the water as a biotic symphony, and I smelled the drab scents as a unifying cologne.
In the blink of an eye, I would be back here, under the ground, and devoid of all my senses. But in this moment, I felt at peace with my destiny. To join the worms, the insects, and the moles will be the consummation of us all.
In the ground from whence we came.
They stood silently, one in each corner of the room, straining their ears for the anticipated moment. The children exchanged glances, from corner to corner, to confirm no one moved early: rule breaking would not be tolerated. Any minute now the alarm will go off, and spring the lifeless room into action, but patience was key. One early step, and you lose. One flinch, and you're destined for the horrors of sitting out the next game, and the loss of social credit. Lunch time for the coming week would be a tortuous affair.
“Ring ring ring....ring,” and so the race began. First to dive on his button was Johnny, not surprisingly as he was the most athletic of the bunch, second Drew, third Michael, and fourth, the poor soul, Danny. This was the first elimination round. Danny threw his hands up in frustration, and began to rumble about any excuse he could muster: Michael cheated, or Drew jumped early. Nevertheless he found himself sitting in a corner, watching as the others went on.
The next match was checkers, a game of wits, as it were. The boys knew intense concentration was needed to make the perfect move. Drew was clearly the smartest, and therefore the most formidable opponent. Drew and Johnny would start, then Michael was to play the winner. It was a swift victory for Drew, he made effortless connected jump after connected jump, and gave nothing but a smug, reproachful grin as his opponent walked off. For a moment in time, he felt like the Einstein of his generation, venerated after his second place finish in the last competition.
“I’m going to wipe the floor with you the same as him, sit down and feel my wrath,” the young man boasted as Michael took his seat.
Michael was shy, no one expected much of him, but for shy kids confidence comes at infrequent intervals. And he felt that Drews rain as the smartest in the group was coming to an end. Drew marched his pieces forward, across the board, his mind set on a swift victory. But Michael played slow; he played smart. He battled out a long defensive victory, and watched with smug satisfaction as his denigrated opponent, turn by turn, crumbled.
Michael spoke at a normal volume, a yell for a man of his character, “who's the best checkers player after all, bitch.”
Childhood is foreign to many adults. Foreign not because they don’t remember the experience, but foreign because in the process of aging, we shed off the appreciation and awe of everyday activities. It’s not logical to care so much about a game of checkers, but caring is precisely what makes the present moment impossible to ignore. Dedication to trivial affairs, both in loss and in triumph, embellishes life with meaning and purpose. And devoid of his normal state, Michael felt a stronger sense of pride than ever before. For once, he felt he was good at something.
Next up, the final round. Johnny was eliminated, Drew and Michael remained. What competition did our mighty warriors select to determine the best of the best? Why, arm wrestling of course. A true man's game. The achilles of their generation was to be unveiled that night.
“I went to the gym with my dad last week, there's no way you can win,” boasted Drew with swaggered arrogance.
“We’ll see about that,” Michael whispered (he thought it was an intimidating snarl, but remember what i said about infrequent intervals).
The boys clasped hands and Johnny counted them down.
“3 - 2 -1 go!!” The boys let out grunts like that of tennis players, hoping it gave them an edge on the competition. Drew lifted his elbow for leverage, but the referees quickly called foul. The battle raged on. Michael was on the ropes, Troy was about to fall, but in this story there were no sly tricks, just the power of sheer will. He was down to mere inches from the table when a fire of resistance lit inside of him. “I spend my whole life coming in second,” he thought, “but not today.” Michael battled back and eventually slammed drews fist to the table.
Like a gladiator after his final victory, Michael threw his arms up with triumphant liberation. He felt he could not be stopped, nothing else mattered, not school, not girls, because Michael was a champion at last
“50 on number 5,” touted Jim Norse, with a stern face and a cigarette wedged between the corner of his lips. “Tonight’s my night, I know it without a doubt this time.”
“And what makes you so certain?” Asked the stranger next to him.
“I’ll say this lad, that horse isn’t the only thing I’m betting on.”
“Aye, then what else?”
“If I told you, then I’d have to kill you.”
“Fuckin hell, I didn’t know James Bond was here. Best of luck to ya then I guess.” The man scoffed, then chuckled as he walked away.
Jim Norse strolled to his seat, where he sat alone, scanning the bleachers.
“Well boys, I never tell a lie, you can write that on my gravestone.”
“Boss you’re one ballsy son of a bitch, do you have to tell a stranger every time?” Muffled the voice from Jim’s earpiece.
“People will refuse to see the truth even if it slaps them in the face. They think life is a joke. The reality they live in is an illusion, one so pervasive that death itself is buried under layers of unmanaged existentialism. I could tell them the whole stadium is going to blow up, and still no one would listen. You see, Jacob, people will drink and pretend everything is fine in the world, that this life is meant to be a Disney movie, but people like us see this world for what it truly is.”
“And what is that, exactly?”
“A dance, but only the strongest can participate, because a weak link makes the whole troupe stumble, and today we remove the weakest links of them all.”
“Aye boss, that we do, that we do.”
“Are the boys in position? We only have one shot at this, it has to be perfect.”
“Yes boss, John’s team has secured the north gate, Silvio’s guards the south, and I spliced the speaker wires directing them to our recording. Today, the world will learn there is a new force in town.”
“Very well.” Jim Norse loved chaos, he thrived in it. There was no reason for him to be inside the stadium as the bombs went off other than for his own depraved satisfaction. A couple more deaths by the hands of one man in the shadow of thousands will not be noticed, and Jim can’t help himself. He sat next to the nation’s leaders, and averted the bombs in that location, because for him this all a part of the dance.
The overhead speakers crackled, “…today is a grand day for retribution. For years we lurked in the shadows, as you drank and laughed your lives away, we watched, we prepared. There is a new party that will lead this nation to the glory it deserves, and history will write of ‘The Retributors’ until the end of time. And ladies and gentleman, we would like to introduce to your newest leaders in a sparkling fashion. If you survive, please let your friends and family know what you learned today. Let them know what happened here, as it will continue until our decrees are fulfilled. Fear not death, and may your final moments be used to make your peace.”
The crowd stirred and made a light commotion, but no one moved; no one thought acts of terror would ever happen to them.
“Jacob…let the dance begin.”
“My soul resides in the depths of depravity,” wrote the retired Canadian news leader, reflecting on her life.
“Retribution: once I thought it was my acting duty, now I see that vengeful moralism only leads to atrocities.”
She sat at the end of a dock in an alpine lake. The country side was the only safe place for such a public figure. For years she was loved and revered, a journalist fighting for their side, but her final publishings ended in disaster.
“I sit here, waiting for my death, writing about my inner thoughts, and peeling the mask off from my time in power. Maybe the world will forgive me, maybe they will see that power deludes even the humanists among us.”
She knew it was only a matter of time until the mob came for her. And just as that thought appeared in her mind, she heard shouting in the distance. It grew second by second.
“I wrote a book, it’s locked in the safe under the floor panels in the kitchen,” she went on, “by now you have killed me, but please read what I have written, for I fear the mob I once led will rule.”
With irreverence, she looked over her shoulder and saw the seething crowd nearing the start of the dock.
Her last words: “History is filled with despotic acts in the name of a moral mob; it’s a grave mistake to join because, eventually, the mob turns on us all. There is no such thing as our group vs theirs — that is a contrived dichotomy and a pernicious one at that. ‘The line between good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being,’ all individuals have a chance to be good. I wish I hadn…”
And the crowd erupted in uproarious thunder.
March 13th, 2024. A third spacecraft crashed in the Arctic; our team, task force 119, dispatched early this morning to start examinations. We monitored from a couple hundred meters out, and no life appeared to be present. Before approaching, our team stepped into contamination suits in case of foreign disease or radiation. This precaution was of unknown necessity. The craft was 5 stories tall and stretched half the length of a football field, taking the shape of a cliche flying saucer. A year ago, I ascribed to the Fermi paradox, and charged ufologists with the crime of conspiratorial thinking of the highest order. Everything changed that day. I spent the walk contemplating the crafts implications for the world, more afraid than excited, and filled with unparalleled existentialism.
These crafts started crashing at high latitudes two weeks prior, and the Canadian military sent out teams of physicists and special forces to analyze the debris. Having just battled back the second pandemic in 5 years, the world was on a knifes edge. And scarier than any spacecraft, mass hysteria loomed before us as fear consumed the minds of all. Dark days surely lied ahead.
As we walked toward the structure, it appeared to retain its form better than the previous two crash sites, which exploded on impact. This craft sat relatively unscathed. How peculiar. ‘Was it materially stronger than the others?’ I thought ‘or, worse, was it guided down like a crash landing?’ My sense of the craft being devoid of life dwindled: my sense morphed into an internal plea.
Finally, we arrived. There was a break in the craft toward the rear that made for an obvious way in, other than that no doors or ports appeared to be present. Before we, the scientists, could begin examining, the special forces team stalked around the craft methodically poking the barrels of their rifles around blind corners. The outside was clear. Now…the inside.
Moments like these made me glad to have chosen the career of a scientist over that of a soldier, and thankful people with such character existed to take my place; for my heart nearly beat out of my chest watching them prepare for the break in. Like the well trained soldiers they were, they climbed up into the opening and began the search. The silence that followed knotted my stomach like that before a roller coaster drop. And then the radio on my chest crackled: all was clear. Before starting the full investigation, the scientists strolled around the interior with the utmost curiosity. There was no signs of life, none. The walls were smooth and the ship was void of any chairs, tables, or gadgetry of any kind.
“The secrets of the ship must lie within the materials itself, that or it’s well beyond the mental capacity of our species.” Stated one of the scientists with an air of uncertainty. Though no one admitted it, we were all clueless. Our only option was to excavate the walls and floors of the ship itself, and hope it revealed a hitherto unknown scientific property. We started with the already broken off pieces and strapped the unique ones onto our snow mobiles.
Later, on our last stroll inside before half the team headed out to begin testing, and half remained behind to guard, one of the soldiers by pure luck pressed into a section of the wall that clicked inward, and the ship began to rumble. The air became tense and our mics became quiet. Were there aliens in here after all? A latch opened to a room we had yet seen. Figures drew shadows onto the floor. And the dark days of yore gave way to the shapes that lie on the inside.
A ray of light pierced through a slit in the curtains. The team of three, waiting for the storm to pass, may see the weather window they’ve been waiting for after all. Having been stuck inside for almost two weeks, they knew this was an opportunity they could not miss. In this era of climbing, the early 1960’s, weather forecasting was in its infancy; they had to rely on pure intuition. It was summer in Patagonia, but summers in low latitudes are likely different from the summers you know and love; one week will be 60 degrees and sunny, and the following week just might bring torrential rains, or even snow. Breaks in storms are therefore taken graciously with a sense of urgency. Their target was the infamous Cerro Torre peak and to achieve the first ascent of the 10,000 foot face.
James was the most experienced and unspoken leader of the trio. He spent years of his life traveling the world and climbing the hardest routes. He was tall, blonde and built like a viking. His partners were no scrubs themselves: Badal was Nepalease – from a community forged in the crucibles of the Himalaya mountains – and Nadal was Swiss – his master the Alps, with its unforgiving peaks. The team set out upon first light to begin their ascent. As James’s watch ticked to 8, the weather was perfect and sunny. Having hiked for just over two hours, they geared up at the base of the steep cliff. They had thousands of feet ahead of them, and only a few days to reach the top. Inch by inch they would battle their way up, stopping only for brief moments to eat, sleep, and rest. All three men were war scarred climbers, and no one dared show anything other than mental fortitude. But inside, they were scared – inside they had their doubts.
5000 feet up, and three days in, the peak still seemed hauntingly far away. Their skin was cracking at every exposed point, their hands and feet numb from the sheer cold and wind. For the temperature had plummeted in the last 24 hours, and the team laid awake in their portaledge trying to rake in the remaining wits they had. Climbing is a mental battle as much as a physical one; fear staves off the strongest individuals from moving at all. To climb peaks, physical strength gives you the opportunity, but the mind gives you the ability, and cold mountains slowly chip away at the psyche of all. Climbers fear bringing anything or anyone loved and dear, because like the gods of olympus, the mountains care not for mortals.
Most climb for glory, some for internal retribution. And Nadal concealed a secret he dared not share. His life back home was in shambles: homeless and all. He cared not for life or any of its wonder. Depression consumed his soul and death was a hopeful conviction.
There was no way they could reach the summit, they knew this. And on that day, the coldest of them all, with clouds looming in the background, the defeated team decided to turn around. Descents are deceptively difficult: the most climbing deaths happen on the descent, not the climb itself. James, with all his experience, implored the group to stay attentive.
“Remember, this is the halfway point, we have to stay calm and focused!” He shouted above the roaring winds – Badal and Nadal nodding in agreement.
They threw slings around boulders, trees, and knobs to fix their ropes to rappel. The clouds now overhead, bellowed and roared. It would take them at least 24 hours to descend, one hundred feet of rope at a time. And after the second rappel, just 200 feet down, the rope got stuck, lodged in a rock. With snow falling and a feeling of indignation stronger than they had ever felt, one man had to volunteer to climb up the precarious rope and bring it back down to safety. One slip of the knot, or tear of the nylon, and there they would be stuck, at the mercy of Zeus.
Nadal volunteered, and started climbing unassembled. He reached the top and found the stuck portion: the rope in the slit of a crack. He yanked, he pulled, and with gratuitous intent, he yanked himself right off the wall. He fell like a boulder breaking off the mountain, but the rope was free and his friends would survive, and Nadal was the dearly beloved left behind.
Green Skeleton Man Prompt It was a cold winter. And Jane, a newcomer to town, just finished unpacking her belongings from her utility trailer. A thick fog floated throughout town, engendering with it a dreary mood. Overall, though, Jane was happy to be moving out of the city, and felt relieved to be away from the noise, droves of people, and, most importantly, away from the crime that the city bestowed. For years, the city she once loved, and in her younger years craved, had finally slipped too far. A green fog hazed the city officials' judgments, assuring help was not coming soon. Months before her move in, Jane visited Pleasington and fell in love with the community: the houses were spaced out, the neighbors were friendly, and downtown housed all the consumer pleasures she needed. It was the perfect balance of suburb and city life. And most importantly, she would no longer have to worry about what or whom was around every street corner. Finally a new beginning, she thought. Though on her move in day, despite only having visited once before, Jane could not shake the feeling of peculiarity. Something was off. And walking back inside with her last box in hand, she noticed out of the corner of her eye a shapely figure quickly crawling past the brick edge of her house and out of sight. She gasped and dropped the box, but upon remembering the neighbors had various outdoor animals, she brushed off the shadow; I'm just stressed from moving and in a new environment she thought to herself, It was nothing more than the neighbors stupid dog. The door now closed behind her, and with the top bolt emphatically locked, Jane began to feel her tension ease. Facing inside, you could see the vast number of windows that decorated the walls. Like many newly constructed homes, the living area bled seamlessly into the kitchen and dining room. Daunting and tantalizing, the stacked boxes displayed hours of work that needed to be done. But first there was a celebratory beer to be drunk, and cracking it open she heard– Knock.....Knock. The banging stopped at just two and repeated at a slow interval – Knock.....Knock. The weather had turned from a dense fog to a torrential rain. Rain cleans the air and provides the chance for a truly fresh breath the next day, but cleansing requires that there existed nastiness before, so the obscenities among us peak just before every storm. Lockstep with the knocks, Jane’s heart began to beat at an increasing pace. A nervy scan of the room revealed no one inside, and she knew it must only be a neighbor, only a knock and nothing more, so why so anxious? Walking to the door, she grabbed a baseball bat, inched close to the eye hole and peered in....relief. It was her neighbor after all, John, dropping off a house warming bottle of wine. “Well how do you do this fine evening?”, he said with a light southern twang, “I don’t have much time on my hands, but just thought I would give you something to welcome you to the neighborhood.” Jane graciously accepted, and upon closing the door, let out a sigh of relief – another false alarm. And just as she began to feel the tension ease, she turned around and across the room, standing outside of the window, a shapely shadow stood on the other side of the glass. Frozen in a terrified stupor she stared at what appeared to be a man. It stood there, unmoving and with no regard for the roaring winds. Sockets remained where its eyes used to be and it appeared to lack skin of any kind. It was rail thin and had a sinister grin on its face. For seconds now, it stood there motionless with an umbrella in hand. Jane, now with her heart beating out of her chest, reached for the door handle, and twisted the knob, only to find it would not budge. Somehow the door was locked from the outside. Turning her gaze quickly back to the window where the skeleton before stood, Jane was in a full panic. For the apparition was now in the room, motionless and staring once more. Jane screamed with tears running down her cheek, “what are you and why are you here!!” But none answered. She raised the bat, shaking with impetuous intent, and decided, in that moment, that she was done with being scared. She spent years in the city fighting and was tired of her scared disposition. Tired of being a damsel in distress, no more, tonight she would fight. Charging at the apparition, now, she raised the bat like a greek goddess of war, and swung at the skeleton man that stood. Woosh, the bat moved and she heard nothing but air. Upon opening her eyes, the thing was gone, and she stood alone in a room sweating and panicked. For Jane was alone after all.
I hate safaris. This feeling had been growing on me for years, and until recently, I ignored it. For what purpose does it serve? I live in a city isolated from anything remotely close to a safari, and, short of the zoo, animal watching is only achieved by the infrequent run in with a small bird. I believe, however, that I can not ignore my indignation.
There is something beneath my psyche that continuous to breach the depths of my sub conscious, running the show for short periods of time. A thin veil of guilt will cloud my senses, and there must be a reason, there’s always a reason. For no man can hide from the power of his own mind.
I think…I think I figured it out. Evolutionary psychology plays a role, doubtless. At first, I thought I felt bad for the animals, but my anger is deeper than that, it must be. You see, I pondered, convicted, appealed and pondered again, but all along the answer was right in front of me: I desire to be an animal again.
Animal I am, city dweller I am not. But a slave to the concrete mass I have become. Turn the dial back 4000 years and humans lived within the food chain. Today, humans live within the World Wide Web. I do not feel angry after all. I feel like a modern painting in a classical museum: out of place.
