Can't penalize biology. The nun's unspoken glance. That side-eye. The murmur when you walk inside. They know too much. Blurriness. Vision spotty. Real blurs unreal. Unadulterated. Unapologetic. Unbridled. The world keeps watching. That's why they invented blinds.
I don't scrutinize with the hive. My cynical nature is to cause debate, an issue in search of a punchline. But no one crosses that threshold. Inhuman. Alienation is not a social science; it is a prognosis of a bigger symptom of societal collapse. Diagnostic effects. Diagnosis is sic. Triple six on wired telephones. Debatable? No one tries.
I used to scrawl in silence. Lines for the philanthropist on the floor between the toilet and the fenestra. Tipsy toes peer inside to ignite a fire. A place in disguise, for hire. Higher they travel, on parachutes, drums for an AA-12 gauge firestorm.
Instead, I remain quiet. Let them believe. Can't penalize biology. Ouroboros. There is no place like home, staring at my new sinkhole. A grave on wheels, I waltz in the hide of a camper shell, with books written by a Naaldlooshii.
Poetic death with a knife. Just the tip, dipped in the blood of enemies to write. She wasn't a wolf but a fox in disguise. Both have canines. Both have bite. One is beautiful. Red hair shimmering in the light.
The fields are dancing with fireflies. A house in a cornfield. Hitch on tow, fifth wheel. A sparkle in the eyes of amber. A mosquito trapped inside. Bloodsucking parasite.
The ex-wife pulls up. 'My days' with my son are at her convenience. I don't argue. I spend whatever time with him I can. Deep down, I'm in the same boat as Beatrix: a coward who can't pull the trigger. He gives me purpose; otherwise, it's a dark road to travel. Honesty is the best policy. Brutal and brash. Something you can trust. Someone's real thoughts and opinions.
He stares at me with a look that makes me feel like everything has hope, for a moment. Till she arrives to pick him back up. Then, silence. The thoughts. Intrusive what-knots. Why is everything how it is? Questions on a treadmill, running into an ocean of flawed decisions.
"You got him for a few days. See you finally bought yourself something? Are you okay?" Her voice holds honest worry. She divorced me because I became a soulless entity, not because she doesn't love me. I just don't have much care left in me.
"Just a deal that landed in my lap. Easy flip if I don't like it."
"Well, it's empty. You should put some stuff on the walls. You were always good at art. Something you can teach him."
"When he's old enough. Right now he's two. Give him a podium, and he'll give you a speech until the streetlights come on."
She pivoted. "You alright?" Her eyes squint, a direct question followed by a watch to see if I lie.
"What is 'alright'?" I pick him up, an easy deflection, and start hooking up the television. Stop, bring out his new toys. All I buy is things for him. I've been that way since he was born. Unless it involves health and transportation, I sacrifice for the little squirt.
"So you aren't?"
"I'm a product of my environment. Just a reflection of the world I live in." I pause, then go back to the TV.
"You know my number if you need anything."
"Tell me the world is fine. When it is, then I will be. You don't understand that now doesn't matter. I see the trajectory. When we are gone, and he has children_that is where my problems are."
With that, she stood staring at the floor, then walked outside. I'm not good conversation these days. No one really likes me around, but that is an issue I don't spoon-feed.
Cynicism and nihilism don't point to hope in the end. Therefore, these tags are just to hold back the voice pointing out the problems. It takes two to tango. Two cents for change, not a penny less.
Two words to break you. "I'm sorry."
She will never hear it, but I say it under my breath after she walks away. The television comes on, playing educational shows. We go four-wheeler riding. Nothing intense. Waldeinsamkeit moments. Nature is the one thing, next to him, I can actually feel something from. So I don't ponder too much on the rest of the world. He talks, but it's gibberish with occasional sentences. Unfortunately, I learned the hard way that some sentences are too early to teach.
"So can we go back to your camper? I'm ready for sleep. Night-night, puh-wease?"
"Of course." We ride through the forest, back across the hills that led us from existence. Deep in the woods lies a pedestal. I always stop and show him. It is forgotten. A great battle was fought here, the vines suffocating the surroundings. These are the moments that bring a single tear.
"What's this?" He looks up, trying to read. It's too tall, so I pick him up. Instead of telling him what it says, I recite a poem off the top of my head.
"Here on this hillside, a wave of men.
Arrows and muskets, a truce broken.
They fought the North and the South, but they were neither.
None were slavers. None were slaves.
None wanted the bloodshed.
The war tried to force them in,
a war they didn't acknowledge.
So they fought not to be a part of it.
They all died, crushed by legions of oppression.
Innocent men, dead for true freedom.
A rare symptom of the human condition,
names forgotten yet were worth mentioning."
"Did you know them?"
"No, son. Not in person. But I do in spirit." I pick him up. "Let's get you to sleep."
The rest of the ride, I wonder if I said something I shouldn't have. I never know until he repeats my phrases. They are catchy. A bit of a problem, actually.
I get him to bed with cartoons, but as usual, "Tell me a story, puh-wease?"
"Oh, alright." I sit beside him and let the gears kick in. "There once was a boy, about your age, who wondered why no one painted. No one sang. No one wrote stories. It was a world not run by, but maintained by, machines. People sat around, lazy, reliant on the robots to a degree that became unhealthy. The very beat of their hearts was replaced by quotes from the hollow halls of hēli fīrnum."
He laughs. "What's that?"
I chuckle. "A computer. A software program. Love became a horrific video game with robot counterparts. But one day, the boy went downstairs and saw a bucket of red paint. He went outside, to the front of the house, and he splattered the walls with vermillion. The adobe was a vésicle on the face of the neighborhood. He had sparked a fire. Slowly, others started to paint their homes, until the whole street looked like an Easter basket. He brought life back into the marble. Remember, one boy can change the world. Every idea is one worth having. Goodnight. Love you." He closed his eyes, and I walked to my bedroom. My head hit the pillow, but the cogs never slowed down.
Another drop of liquid shimmers down my cheek. The hope lies not in the paint or the boy, but in the idea that the world would embrace it. I have faith in words. I have faith in art. I have faith in myself. But has the world drifted too far to realize it? Has it become 'second' nature? My lids grow heavy and finally fall. The curtains close, setting the stage for the next act.
The desk. She stands in the center of the room. "Welcome back." Her hair moves as if there is no gravity. Different than the last few times.
"How am I supposed to hunt trolls in my own brain?"
"My dear," she says, a smile opening her face, her teeth perfect and white. "By writing something that makes them not matter. They kept her from being heard. Tell her story."
"I can't just emerge a bestseller. Firstly, my voice isn't for everyone. Secondly, I'm not filtering_I'm raw and real. Lastly, what am I supposed to learn from them then?"
"Beatrix was hated until the very end because she showed a face of humanity they didn't want to see. Her voice was darker than the average person's. Yours is no different. What is normal now, is why they say literature is dead, so write something ambitious. The people who travel through your writing are the ones who will get it. The rest won't even pick the book up for more than a few seconds. Those are the trolls, the critics, the unsavable. A true lover of art will read any book, even if they hate it. They appreciate the opportunity more than their expectations."
"Savable? What are you saying?" My face was a mask of confusion.
"The world is off balance. Styx runs dry. There is no way to cross. A Lethean lullaby. Hades is faux. Cerberus starves. The world is all lights and liars. This is the truth: a world where you lie to help someone feel better instead of be better. The world needs a dose of darkness. Enlightenment from the shadows. Heroes of vengeance for art." With that, she ripped into millions of insects, scattering outwards in all directions.
"That was really helpful! Thank you!" I mutter.
Well, that was ambiguous and cryptic. So this is far more than just me and a dead poetess. Prophet implications? Laughable, but not entirely fictional. Many say darkness is evil, but the darkest stories are meant to scare children with lessons. Even that has been watered down. Does the world need a visceral lens?
I stare at the monsters roaming the edges of my vision. So what is it I am supposed to be doing here? The circle of grass had a cutoff, and I stepped from it, into the mushy soil. A creature nearby howls and charges.