The Trickster's Nightmare

I inhale slowly.

Drip.

She talks to me between my screams.

Drip.

I believe it to be a she, the serpent; though I can not see her, for it is darker than the deadest of nights.

Drip.

Or am I blind?

Drip.

"They've forgotten you, treacherous one." Her words slither into my ears and bite as if they themselves had venomous fangs.

Drip.

I do not respond to her. It seems an eternity since I last knew how to respond.

Drip.

Is her voice the serpent's or the woman's?

Drip.

"The world ended long ago and left you here to rot with me."

Drip.

Is the woman still there?

Drip.

Who was she?

Drip.

"You deserve every sweet drop of pain I bless you with, and deep down, you know it."

Drip.

I do. But what did I do?

Drip.

What good is a punishment that lasts longer than the memory of the crime?

Drip.

"I wonder, when time ends, will you taste as good as your wife? Will you taste like sweet, useless self-sacrifice, like she did?"

Drip.

"No, I think you'll taste more like pain and loathing. Self-hatred so bitter, sprinkled with the salts of illusory grandeur?"

Drip.

The pause is always long enough for me to want the pain, so that I may actually feel something.

Drip.

My screams break mountains and my writhing create chasms.

There is always another pause, so that I may savor her blessing.

Drip.

She talks to me between my screams.

Drip.

"Your sons, your wife. None of them remember you."

Drip.

I know lies when I hear them.

Drip.

I know they're all dead. I don't recall how, and I don't recall their names, but I know.

Drip.

The splash of poison against stone is as loud as a hammer's strike.


Drip.

"Have you no will to break free? Are your son's entrails too strong a bond? You have always been so weak."


Drip.

I hate hammers.

Drip.

"What is that spark I see?"

Drip.

I dream briefly of blood and mistletoe.

Drip.

And of a wolf devouring the sun.

Drip.

I hear the serpent's scales scratching against the stone uneasily.

Drip.

"What is it that you've remembered? What stirs inside of you?"

Drip.

"Hate."

I tremble beneath my bonds.

Drip.

"Impossible!" she screams.

The restraints snap and I sit up on the three stones.

"You'll be but the first of many," I say as I reach out into the darkness.

Drip.

It was no longer venom, but blood that echoed in the endless caverns.

I stand and feel bones shatter and splinter beneath my feet.

Stones fell from the ceiling and smashed upon the ground.

I have made the world new.

Drip.

I exhale.

Drip.

The rock is jagged upon my back, and the restraints wet and raw against my chest.

Drip.

She talks to me between my screams.

The Last Leaf

Finally, the last leaf let go and died, and stumbled over the air to her feet. She stepped on it and it made no sound.

Grey was the color of the sky and of the frozen river, and grey was the color of her dress. Her nearly white hair and the dress danced longingly in the sharp cold wind. She stood upon the cobblestone path that winded in unison with the river along the edge of the park.

Dying grass covered with brittle leaves the colors of dying flames blanketed the rolling hills of the park. Barren trees reached in futility toward the clouds, silent wooden sentinels observing their domain.

She gazed across the river, her bright blue eyes fading into the pale whiteness of her skin. There was a house across the river that seemed to spark a distant fleeting memory in her, but she knew not what of. She just knew that she wished the lone tear that fell from her right eye was water enough to put out the flames that enveloped the home.

Fire consumed both stories of the old Victorian style house, which by now was a crumbling shadow behind the red inferno. Grey and black smoke billowed and rose to the sky and was lost in the clouds of the same color.

Unmoving, she watched as the firefighter carried a young woman’s body out of the blaze, but even from across the river, it was clear he was too late. The limp and charred body was set on a stretcher and paramedics tried in vain to revive her.

A teardrop fell from her left eye as the clouds sighed and let loose the first of many snowflakes to come. It fluttered—gleaming white brilliance—toward her. She extended her palm to catch it, but the flake continued on to the ground, never having noticed her at all.

Rainbows Preceded By Raindrops

It was raining. The days I remember best are always in the rain.

I was tired. I was trudging through the gray and the wet in search of a place that was neither of those things. The rain poured off of the rim of my top hat, giving me the illusion of perpetually walking through a waterfall. My black suit and pants were drenched and heavy.

I came upon a small café and purchased a black coffee to warm my insides, having given up utterly on saving my outsides. I sat at a little round table and drank my steaming beverage. I was alone in the establishment—the only one dumb enough to venture outside.

Why had I been outside? I don’t remember, and it doesn’t matter, really.

The pitter-pattering of the gray drops on the brown brick walkways drummed a melancholy rhythm into my eardrums. I tapped along to the beat with my fingers on the table, and then the sound of footsteps entered the song.

An elderly man entered the café wearing a bright yellow raincoat, a red shirt underneath, and green and purple striped pants. He had a thick white beard and curly white hair which hung down in front of his uncomfortably large glasses. He ordered a type of drink that I’d never heard of and sat down across the table from me and drank it in enthusiastic gulps.

“I couldn’t help but notice the drumming as I walked in,” the man said, motioning to my fingers. “Are you a musician?”

“Ha!” I chuckled. “No, I’ve never touched an instrument in my life.”

“What’s funny about that?” the old man was taken aback. “In fact, I find that quite sad.”

“Well, it isn’t intentional,” I replied. “I’ve just never found the time.”

“Busy with what?”

“School at first. Then girls. Then college. Now work. You know… life.”

“Pshaw! How proper,” he said as he looked up at my top hat. “Do you at least draw?”

“No,” I told him.

“Paint?”

“No.”

“Write?”

“No.”

“So tragic,” he sighed as he stood up. “Why don’t you stop following the path you’re expected to take, and just wander?” He snagged my hat and walked out the door.

I smiled for reasons I’m still not sure of. Something was different, and it was good. The rain stopped, but the beat carried on in my head. I started to drum again, and began humming a little tune along with it. The sun pushed the clouds aside and turned the puddles into pools of gold. I whistled my song and took my jacket off and untied my tie. I left them on my chair and rolled up my sleeves as I walked outside.

Whatever surface my whistling echoed off of seemed to brighten up. The red bricks of the café building, the emerald pines on the side of the street, the cerulean sky. It all seemed brighter now that I had my song.

I whistled…

                I walked…

                                I wandered…