And then, nothing. An infinite ocean brimming over with nothing. He was floating in it, swaying, eternity gently lapping at his toes and washing over his face, almost motherly caresses wiping away the crimson trace of his misdemeanours.
- You naughty boy.
The drift carried the soft whispering. Suddenly he was little again, his motherteasingly chiding him for some minor misconduct.
- I didn't do anything!
He felt compelled to yell, to justify his hand stuck in the cookie jar. The surf giggled, tickling his sides and tugging at his fingers. His eyes were still closed, he didn't even know if he was capable of opening them, mostly because he didn't want to. This trace of a memory was too faint, too delicate to be shattered by what could be lurking outside his mind. Like a playful mermaid, the rippled vastness taunted him,murmuring provokingly until the silent clamor was almost ear-splitting.
- It's not my fault I liked Joan!
Everything went dead still. Pulled onto dry land like a stranded skiff, he stayed still, anchored, and thought of the woman that had navigated his debacle. Joan. JOAN! He screamed soundlessly.
The last he had seen of her was the tantalizingly red ribbon in her hair; the two loops of the bow joined at one end but helplessly separated, oscillating to the rhythm of her graceful gait. His memory slid down her slender neck, stopped momentarily at the curve where it joined the shoulder to form a perfect harmony of almost mathematical symmetry , each contour of her torso so carefully sculpted that he'd often thought that if God ever lost his job as being the supreme destroyer of the universe, he could find work as an engineer.
Many a times, he had marveled at her near feline poise, her earth-coloured skin and lightness of being giving the impression that at the least sight of danger she would fade into her surroundings - disappear – the cold air of her presence and the ice shards of her narrow eyes betraying the notion that she'd even been there in the first place. At times, his crotch scorched like a desert in the blazing sun, he would close his eyes and reach out for her, feeling the air,stroking her imagined back, as if he were molding her in his memory. He would knead her soft earthen skin, draw lines with his fingers of be ads of perspiration that glistened like dew, his nostrils flaring with the scent hedidn't know but imagined to smell like a wild garden, heady scent of ivy weaving in and out of the seducing fragrance of subdued lavender.
He dared not dream of her, not even his dreams were safe from the prying eyes of the scientists? reaching into control and suppress. He would lie in bed, writhing, burning, throbbing, not allowing himself to wander off into the trap of being caught dreaming anything outside the prescribed Guidelines for Appropriate Oblivion, thus breaching all laws he himself worked so hard to enforce upon others. His imagination was his only refuge, because no one could impeach you for remembering. Even if those were memories of things that never happened.
Joan. His lips moved, sucking on the decadence of that single syllable, stretching out the vowels into a prolonged sigh, the salacity of this lascivious moan sending pangs of revulsion down to his stomach.
You horny fuck, he thought. Is this what you think of when you're dying?
"Dying? Who said anything about dying?"
The voice, loud and shrill, thrust its way into his ears and he bolted upright with a jolt, only to be pushed down again by a hand whose size did not match its strength, its gnarly fingers resembling talons digging into his already sore chest.
Surely, he thought, this must be way outside the Guidelines. Someone must be in my dream with me.
Monday, August 16, 2010
EC A Chapter 11: Dan Pham
The Riverrain pounced at Anthony, the quickness of it all made Anthony believe these attacks were regularly performed; the attacker's body seemed to explode like a coiled spring. Anthony's windpipe was crushed by the sheer force of his attacker's strike. They fell to the barn floor, the sound of the Riverrain's seashell necklace ringing in Anthony's ears.
The surprised vagrant felt the Riverrain mount his chest and stomach. Anthony was skinny and underweight; he felt supressed by the riverrain's proportioned mass, toned and solid. More deadly strikes followed. Anthony felt the force of his attacker's sharp elbows trying to break into his skull. His temples flushed with heat, but every time his arms went up to defend, they were broken away like carrots sticks at the most malicious time in a child's development, recess. The Riverrain's boney attacks practically broke his arms.
In an instant, Anthony saw his cigarette butt still lit. Using his left hand to defend again as a distraction, he brought it up. The Riverrain crushed it again, but this time Anthony brought the cigarette to the Riverrain's eye and dug it in deep, anything to buy him some time..
The Riverrain jumped up, but made no noise. He held one arm to his eye. He knocked Anthony again and moved away silently to nurse his wound. Air filled Anthony's lungs again with the pressure off his chest, and Anthony's mind raced. It told his his body to move: Get up. Yet his arms hung limply at his sides, shivering with bruises.
Suddenly, Anthony thought of Joan coming down the river, her hair wetted and black like seaweed. She looked like an apparition, an angel, and a demon. She was everything he wasn't. Was she here to save him again? Maybe another recurring dream. Even baby Moses was in her arms. He realized then that he felt more alive than he had ever felt in the past year, despite everything, Dr. Denman, the fighting, the running, the guns, the killing, and all the drugs, all the drugs that had helped him lose his capacity to grow. Was it really her?
Anthony sputtered, still on his back, "Joan?"
The Riverrain's shadow answered. Two of its long arms arched over Anthony's head. Between those hands, a cradle-sized rock eclipsed the moon up above. In slow motion, Anthony blinked up at the rock right before it came down. It had tiny holes in it and came screaming down through the Minnesota air. Anthony heard its whistle.
"Whoo-sa!"
It fell directly into the front of Anthony's skull. His head bounced off the ground and the rivets in the wooden boards became soaked, deeply filled with his blood.
And then he died.
The surprised vagrant felt the Riverrain mount his chest and stomach. Anthony was skinny and underweight; he felt supressed by the riverrain's proportioned mass, toned and solid. More deadly strikes followed. Anthony felt the force of his attacker's sharp elbows trying to break into his skull. His temples flushed with heat, but every time his arms went up to defend, they were broken away like carrots sticks at the most malicious time in a child's development, recess. The Riverrain's boney attacks practically broke his arms.
In an instant, Anthony saw his cigarette butt still lit. Using his left hand to defend again as a distraction, he brought it up. The Riverrain crushed it again, but this time Anthony brought the cigarette to the Riverrain's eye and dug it in deep, anything to buy him some time..
The Riverrain jumped up, but made no noise. He held one arm to his eye. He knocked Anthony again and moved away silently to nurse his wound. Air filled Anthony's lungs again with the pressure off his chest, and Anthony's mind raced. It told his his body to move: Get up. Yet his arms hung limply at his sides, shivering with bruises.
Suddenly, Anthony thought of Joan coming down the river, her hair wetted and black like seaweed. She looked like an apparition, an angel, and a demon. She was everything he wasn't. Was she here to save him again? Maybe another recurring dream. Even baby Moses was in her arms. He realized then that he felt more alive than he had ever felt in the past year, despite everything, Dr. Denman, the fighting, the running, the guns, the killing, and all the drugs, all the drugs that had helped him lose his capacity to grow. Was it really her?
Anthony sputtered, still on his back, "Joan?"
The Riverrain's shadow answered. Two of its long arms arched over Anthony's head. Between those hands, a cradle-sized rock eclipsed the moon up above. In slow motion, Anthony blinked up at the rock right before it came down. It had tiny holes in it and came screaming down through the Minnesota air. Anthony heard its whistle.
"Whoo-sa!"
It fell directly into the front of Anthony's skull. His head bounced off the ground and the rivets in the wooden boards became soaked, deeply filled with his blood.
And then he died.
Monday, August 9, 2010
EC (1) Chapter 10: Simon Li
“And that’s how it happened!” when he finished the story, Bobbie the rookie looks up at his inquisitors. His eyes, still a bit dazed from the break-in, are like two blue calm pools rippling from a tossed stone.
“So you are telling me that you thought Joan was dead?” Director Jenkins’s brown eyes beams right back at Bobbie’s. Underneath the fluorescent light, his bald spot glistened like snowcaps in mid-noon. But the clock of reality reads 12 AM, and Bobbie’s butt cheek had first made acquaintance to the moss green linoleum chair three hours ago. “Yes.” Bobbie yawns.
“But she’s alive.” Jenkins peers forward, almost as if he's trying to stare through Bobbie.
“Yes sir, I saw her got up and talk to those men with M16’s. Like I said, I thought those guys came in and doubled tapped her. “
“And you saw this while you were hiding underneath Anthony’s bed.”
“Sir, I was outnumbered by a dozen men armed with rocket propelled grenade launchers.”
“God damn you are a pussy.” Dr. Denman finally interjects.
“I work the desk in the Agency sir. I have one Berretta and two clips on me when they bust in. I fired a couple of rounds. They just shot everyone up so quickly.”
“And you chickened out and hid underneath the bed of our harvest. “
“If you must put it that way sir.” Bobbies nostrils flared with a frustrated exhale, and his hawk nose crinkled slightly.
“No wonder they have you working in the Intel Division.”
“Alright, I think that’s enough for tonight.” Director Jenkins jumps in.
“Can you grow proper facial hair, because I am worried about your hormones,” In pale lights, Dr. Denman’s lips twists into a clowning smirk. His deep-set eyes did not shift away from Bobbie as his head waved around in a pendulum infinity.
“Dr. Denman!” Jenkins quickly adapts to the good cop position.
“That’s okay director Jenkins. Dr. Denman, central might not know anything about what you are doing to the harvest, but everyone working here in the institute knows everything. I understand that you have to bend some rules some time. But the harvests are a good part of the company’s investments. Central might not go so well with your little experiments with their ripping process.” Bobbie’s lip shifts into a smirk and his squint into two flaring gems. “They might suspend me for this, but you, you are put in charge of this whole institute…”
“You son of a…” Denman shoots up from his seat. The veins on his forehead bulges for a second
“I believe it’s getting late, Bobbie you can go get some rest.” Jenkins pressed a red button on the intercom, “ Mason, come escort Mr. Currens out home please.”
“I can get home fine.”
“No I insist.”
Another young man in black suit comes in, Bobbie remembers him from Tunis, Mason Rex, very handy with a shotgun, but terrible at keeping a poker face.
“Where to?”
“The Safehouse I suppose. “ Bobbie yawns again. He gets up slowly, glares at Denman one last time, then march out steadily. Mason followed after him promptly. Outside the door Mason’s partner, Bautista, a menacing hulk-like man wearing aviators, closed the door behind the two.
The room remains quiet for a while.
“So Joan turned on us.” Jenkins breaks the silent.
“Appears so, fine girl too, cute butt.” Denman keep his stare at the door like a hyena staring down a lost prey.
“To who, do you think, Russians, Chinese, the English?” Jenkins muses on with Denman.
“It could be the French, they are always suckers for a good dream.”
“It could be them.”
“You think we can trust Bobbie?”
“Hmmph.” Denman answers with his nose.
Bobbie creeps along the fence on the other side of the old warehouse. He counts quietly from the first posts. One, two, when he hit fifty-six he stops, then quietly taps the aged plank.
A moment later, the fifty-six post detached from the rest of the fence. And a female figure appears on the other side.
“Come in.”
Bobbie looks around, then quickly squeeze in through the fence. Then, just swiftly as it opened, the gap in the fence closes behind after him.
Following after the girl, who is speed walking through the junkyard behind the fence. Bobbies picks up his pace.
“Is he awake?” He asks.
“Not yet. He’s right in the middle of it when we broke him out.” The girl kept walking.
“Damn. It’s crazy that he remained catatonic the entire time.”
“It’s fucked up what they do these people, just because their brainwave is a little bit different.”
“Can’t blame them though. They do fetch a hefty price.”
“Yes they do.” The girl keeps on walking without looking back.
“Especially Anthony, nightmares man, fucking slasher flick of 23rd Century.” Bobbie hops forward a few steps to catch up. “Where are you going baby, now that we have gotten him out. Who are we going to sell him to?”
“Who else needs an incessant dream machine that spits out Zen like hellish nightmares.”
“The Vatican?”
The girl pauses, looks back, her raven ponytail whips around with the fluid motion of her turning head. She raises her left eyebrow.
“Silly boy, the Japanese.” Then she turns back around and resumes her strides.
“Go figure. Is he still talking in his sleep?”
“Yup, he’s been mumbling Moses for the last few hours.”
“I wonder what he sees behind those lips of his when he goes under.”
“Probably a whole different world. I experienced one of his dreams before. I woke up feeling numb.”
“Well, our buyers will love him.”
“How did you get rid of Mason and Bautista.”
“With this.” Mason stops, the girl turns around again. Mason flashes his favorite rondel.
“Man, You are old-fashioned.”
“Thank you, I am also classy.”
“I hope it was clean for them.”
“Like counting one two three.”
“Alright, the whole cold blooded killer act is getting kind of creepy.”
“But it’s what we are Joan. They had made us perfect life takers. And all we can do now.” Mason’s straight blonde hair flew with the night breeze, making a stalk contrast with his unrepentantly still body.
“Oh Bobbie. Come here.” Joan walks forward to embrace Bobbie’s towering body.
“Baby, but it’s okay, you see, we are going to make it, those Japanese will pay us big time.”
“Oh Bobbie you are so sweet.” Joan runs her finger through Bobbie’s golden locks.
POP! A hollow sound of ejecting cartridge bouncing against the concrete floor quickly follows.
And Bobbie’s body goes limp.
“I am sorry Bobbie. There are no Japanese buyers.”
Bobbie crumbles to his knees. His towering body now a fallen Babel, “why?” he utters in his gasping final breaths.
“The dream that I took from Anthony, in that dream I murdered my own father. I need to know Bobbie, I need to know how to father died. I am truly sorry.”
“You… bitch…”
“You are right Bobbie, we are all just what we are, perfectly broken machines meant to break each other. At least I can help you out of your misery. You poor miserable brother of mine.”
Then at that moment, something strange happened. Bobbie smiled, a trickle of crimson slips down his chin. Then he uttered one word before he closed his eye lips to slip into an eternal dream of his own. “I… do… love you… Joan Nguyen.”
Joan stood silent as she watch Bobbie falls. “God Bobbie, I am really sorry. You are truly an awesome man, and you are absolutely beautiful, but my real last name is Hinagpis, and I am a Pinay.”
Then without looking back, she resumes her march. Against the pale glows of the junkyard’s nite-watcher lights, her entire body slowly becomes a silhouette as she marches away. The crimson ribbon holding her pony tails together sways with her body like a waving hourglass.
“So you are telling me that you thought Joan was dead?” Director Jenkins’s brown eyes beams right back at Bobbie’s. Underneath the fluorescent light, his bald spot glistened like snowcaps in mid-noon. But the clock of reality reads 12 AM, and Bobbie’s butt cheek had first made acquaintance to the moss green linoleum chair three hours ago. “Yes.” Bobbie yawns.
“But she’s alive.” Jenkins peers forward, almost as if he's trying to stare through Bobbie.
“Yes sir, I saw her got up and talk to those men with M16’s. Like I said, I thought those guys came in and doubled tapped her. “
“And you saw this while you were hiding underneath Anthony’s bed.”
“Sir, I was outnumbered by a dozen men armed with rocket propelled grenade launchers.”
“God damn you are a pussy.” Dr. Denman finally interjects.
“I work the desk in the Agency sir. I have one Berretta and two clips on me when they bust in. I fired a couple of rounds. They just shot everyone up so quickly.”
“And you chickened out and hid underneath the bed of our harvest. “
“If you must put it that way sir.” Bobbies nostrils flared with a frustrated exhale, and his hawk nose crinkled slightly.
“No wonder they have you working in the Intel Division.”
“Alright, I think that’s enough for tonight.” Director Jenkins jumps in.
“Can you grow proper facial hair, because I am worried about your hormones,” In pale lights, Dr. Denman’s lips twists into a clowning smirk. His deep-set eyes did not shift away from Bobbie as his head waved around in a pendulum infinity.
“Dr. Denman!” Jenkins quickly adapts to the good cop position.
“That’s okay director Jenkins. Dr. Denman, central might not know anything about what you are doing to the harvest, but everyone working here in the institute knows everything. I understand that you have to bend some rules some time. But the harvests are a good part of the company’s investments. Central might not go so well with your little experiments with their ripping process.” Bobbie’s lip shifts into a smirk and his squint into two flaring gems. “They might suspend me for this, but you, you are put in charge of this whole institute…”
“You son of a…” Denman shoots up from his seat. The veins on his forehead bulges for a second
“I believe it’s getting late, Bobbie you can go get some rest.” Jenkins pressed a red button on the intercom, “ Mason, come escort Mr. Currens out home please.”
“I can get home fine.”
“No I insist.”
Another young man in black suit comes in, Bobbie remembers him from Tunis, Mason Rex, very handy with a shotgun, but terrible at keeping a poker face.
“Where to?”
“The Safehouse I suppose. “ Bobbie yawns again. He gets up slowly, glares at Denman one last time, then march out steadily. Mason followed after him promptly. Outside the door Mason’s partner, Bautista, a menacing hulk-like man wearing aviators, closed the door behind the two.
The room remains quiet for a while.
“So Joan turned on us.” Jenkins breaks the silent.
“Appears so, fine girl too, cute butt.” Denman keep his stare at the door like a hyena staring down a lost prey.
“To who, do you think, Russians, Chinese, the English?” Jenkins muses on with Denman.
“It could be the French, they are always suckers for a good dream.”
“It could be them.”
“You think we can trust Bobbie?”
“Hmmph.” Denman answers with his nose.
Bobbie creeps along the fence on the other side of the old warehouse. He counts quietly from the first posts. One, two, when he hit fifty-six he stops, then quietly taps the aged plank.
A moment later, the fifty-six post detached from the rest of the fence. And a female figure appears on the other side.
“Come in.”
Bobbie looks around, then quickly squeeze in through the fence. Then, just swiftly as it opened, the gap in the fence closes behind after him.
Following after the girl, who is speed walking through the junkyard behind the fence. Bobbies picks up his pace.
“Is he awake?” He asks.
“Not yet. He’s right in the middle of it when we broke him out.” The girl kept walking.
“Damn. It’s crazy that he remained catatonic the entire time.”
“It’s fucked up what they do these people, just because their brainwave is a little bit different.”
“Can’t blame them though. They do fetch a hefty price.”
“Yes they do.” The girl keeps on walking without looking back.
“Especially Anthony, nightmares man, fucking slasher flick of 23rd Century.” Bobbie hops forward a few steps to catch up. “Where are you going baby, now that we have gotten him out. Who are we going to sell him to?”
“Who else needs an incessant dream machine that spits out Zen like hellish nightmares.”
“The Vatican?”
The girl pauses, looks back, her raven ponytail whips around with the fluid motion of her turning head. She raises her left eyebrow.
“Silly boy, the Japanese.” Then she turns back around and resumes her strides.
“Go figure. Is he still talking in his sleep?”
“Yup, he’s been mumbling Moses for the last few hours.”
“I wonder what he sees behind those lips of his when he goes under.”
“Probably a whole different world. I experienced one of his dreams before. I woke up feeling numb.”
“Well, our buyers will love him.”
“How did you get rid of Mason and Bautista.”
“With this.” Mason stops, the girl turns around again. Mason flashes his favorite rondel.
“Man, You are old-fashioned.”
“Thank you, I am also classy.”
“I hope it was clean for them.”
“Like counting one two three.”
“Alright, the whole cold blooded killer act is getting kind of creepy.”
“But it’s what we are Joan. They had made us perfect life takers. And all we can do now.” Mason’s straight blonde hair flew with the night breeze, making a stalk contrast with his unrepentantly still body.
“Oh Bobbie. Come here.” Joan walks forward to embrace Bobbie’s towering body.
“Baby, but it’s okay, you see, we are going to make it, those Japanese will pay us big time.”
“Oh Bobbie you are so sweet.” Joan runs her finger through Bobbie’s golden locks.
POP! A hollow sound of ejecting cartridge bouncing against the concrete floor quickly follows.
And Bobbie’s body goes limp.
“I am sorry Bobbie. There are no Japanese buyers.”
Bobbie crumbles to his knees. His towering body now a fallen Babel, “why?” he utters in his gasping final breaths.
“The dream that I took from Anthony, in that dream I murdered my own father. I need to know Bobbie, I need to know how to father died. I am truly sorry.”
“You… bitch…”
“You are right Bobbie, we are all just what we are, perfectly broken machines meant to break each other. At least I can help you out of your misery. You poor miserable brother of mine.”
Then at that moment, something strange happened. Bobbie smiled, a trickle of crimson slips down his chin. Then he uttered one word before he closed his eye lips to slip into an eternal dream of his own. “I… do… love you… Joan Nguyen.”
Joan stood silent as she watch Bobbie falls. “God Bobbie, I am really sorry. You are truly an awesome man, and you are absolutely beautiful, but my real last name is Hinagpis, and I am a Pinay.”
Then without looking back, she resumes her march. Against the pale glows of the junkyard’s nite-watcher lights, her entire body slowly becomes a silhouette as she marches away. The crimson ribbon holding her pony tails together sways with her body like a waving hourglass.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
EC (1) Chapter 9: Brian Comstock
“Why did they leave the boat?”, Anthony asked aloud.
He began to wonder whether or not he should go after the Riverains and hunt down baby Moses, but how would he find them, and what direction had they gone? He went to each window and peered out. Each vantage point was surrounded by water and submerged trees. The banks of the flooded river were difficult to ascertain. It was getting late in the evening. The sky began to mimic the depths of the river. His time in the bush told him he had about thirty minutes of light left, if that.
There it was again.. movement up above him. Was it a rat? The shadows of the rafters eluded his query. He grabbed the pitchfork and circled around down below, peering up into the murk.
A pair of eyes.
They glowed dimly in the far dark corner of the rafters. It had to be a Riverain. The eyes were the same. But what the fuck was it still doing here? Anthony pretended not to see it and circled back to the far side of the barn, being sure to keep that thing in the corner of his eye. His heart was thumping. Was it a spy? There just to keep dibs on his position? But why? If it wanted to kill him, it could have done so already. He wasn't sure either way.
Still, he figured he could untie the boat and make his way out of there fast enough to leave the thing behind and be on his way, wherever that may be. He certainly didn't want to spend a night in that barn together with it.
He looked back up to the spot where he had seen the eyes.
Gone. His heart jumped to life again.
THUMP THUMP, THUMP THUMP
He sprang out of his corner and began surveying as much of the attic he could see. Was he just imagining this? Just another trick his warped brain was playing on him? WHERE WAS IT? It was too dark to tell. He had to know. The lamp. Was there any way to get it going? Was that even a smart idea? A barn full of light in the middle of the river would draw attention for sure. Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing right now.
Sometimes being a smoker is a good thing. He grabbed the lighter out of his cigarette pack, snapped it to life and held it up. The tiny little flame was enough to break the eerie darkness up above.
“Thank GOD”, he muttered, realizing the attic was empty. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it up and took a long drag. He decided it would be ok to light a lamp just long enough to get the boat out of the barn and be on his way. Moses called out to him. He had to go after that baby. He felt it.
He walked over to the lamp and pulled off the glass top. There was hardly any oil left inside, but it would do. The lamp wick started without any trouble.
“Where did they take you, Moses?”, he thought. Anthony turned and froze.
Sitting in the boat was the Riverai
He began to wonder whether or not he should go after the Riverains and hunt down baby Moses, but how would he find them, and what direction had they gone? He went to each window and peered out. Each vantage point was surrounded by water and submerged trees. The banks of the flooded river were difficult to ascertain. It was getting late in the evening. The sky began to mimic the depths of the river. His time in the bush told him he had about thirty minutes of light left, if that.
There it was again.. movement up above him. Was it a rat? The shadows of the rafters eluded his query. He grabbed the pitchfork and circled around down below, peering up into the murk.
A pair of eyes.
They glowed dimly in the far dark corner of the rafters. It had to be a Riverain. The eyes were the same. But what the fuck was it still doing here? Anthony pretended not to see it and circled back to the far side of the barn, being sure to keep that thing in the corner of his eye. His heart was thumping. Was it a spy? There just to keep dibs on his position? But why? If it wanted to kill him, it could have done so already. He wasn't sure either way.
Still, he figured he could untie the boat and make his way out of there fast enough to leave the thing behind and be on his way, wherever that may be. He certainly didn't want to spend a night in that barn together with it.
He looked back up to the spot where he had seen the eyes.
Gone. His heart jumped to life again.
THUMP THUMP, THUMP THUMP
He sprang out of his corner and began surveying as much of the attic he could see. Was he just imagining this? Just another trick his warped brain was playing on him? WHERE WAS IT? It was too dark to tell. He had to know. The lamp. Was there any way to get it going? Was that even a smart idea? A barn full of light in the middle of the river would draw attention for sure. Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing right now.
Sometimes being a smoker is a good thing. He grabbed the lighter out of his cigarette pack, snapped it to life and held it up. The tiny little flame was enough to break the eerie darkness up above.
“Thank GOD”, he muttered, realizing the attic was empty. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it up and took a long drag. He decided it would be ok to light a lamp just long enough to get the boat out of the barn and be on his way. Moses called out to him. He had to go after that baby. He felt it.
He walked over to the lamp and pulled off the glass top. There was hardly any oil left inside, but it would do. The lamp wick started without any trouble.
“Where did they take you, Moses?”, he thought. Anthony turned and froze.
Sitting in the boat was the Riverai
Saturday, July 17, 2010
EC (1) Chapter 8: Daniella Caspers
The desert landscape seemed to melt through the windshield, blurring inescapably around Leah in wavering rivulets. Leah momentarily was brought back to her childhood in Mississippi, when her father would let her sit in the closed cab of the pickup truck as he sprayed the soap off the windshield with their coiled, green garden hose. Leah always felt comfortable watching the world swirl away into giant streams of soap and come shimmering back, clearing in the still, humid summer heat.
Leah was awoken with a start by the blaring horn of a semi-truck, and cried aloud as she wrenched her rusty '84 Volvo back into her own lane. The glare of the headlights had momentarily blinded her, and the muscles of her body braced themselves for the impact she had barely missed. Leah pulled over the the side of the road with her heart hammering in her chest, like a hummingbird fluttering helplessly in a glass jar. She shakily ran a hand through her hair and looked back to the toddler in the backseat, his tiny mouth parted in sleep.
The two lane highway was curiously quiet in the still desert night, and as Leah turned off the ignition the whole sky seemed to come ablaze with thousands of pinpricks of stars. Leah bit her lip against oncoming tears, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyesockets to prevent the reaction. She had been driving for almost 26 hours, stopping only once in Texas to get applesauce for the baby and take a two-hour nap in a gas station parking lot. Her whole body ached with exhaustion, her legs and temples throbbing. She bit on her lip so hard she tasted blood in her mouth, but refused to let the tears come, her knuckles turning stark white against the black plastic of the steering wheel.
Leah had fucked up badly, and she knew it. She was in over her head and so she did what she always did best whenever she felt overwhelmed: leave. She packed a bag of mismatched clothes in the Volvo and put Tony in his carseat, smearing dark mud on the license plates of her car and fucking bolting out of Atlanta at 3 in the morning two days ago, heading for the blazing neon and dead, wavy heat of Vegas. Leah took a deep and almost wheezing breath, like she was pushing through the surface of a dark and nearly bottomless pool. As soon as Tony was safe at her sister's, Leah would finally be able to breathe. Or so she hoped.
"Fuck," she whispered softly to herself, leaning her forehead against the steering wheel. She wished Anthony was here to brush the hair out of her face and tell her it was okay like he used to before he lost his mind, choosing imaginary voices instead of her and their child. The thought of Anthony just created a dull, throbbing ache in her gut, like something had been cut out of her. Like something was missing.
Still, she couldn't blame Anthony for her problems. She struggled to stay on her feet and keep from drinking too much, but it was hard to raise a baby in a new city by yourself. Leah had turned to people she thought she could trust.
And she always trusted too easily. Or she thought she could get away with fucking up by wearing low-cut shirts and speaking in her sweet Southern drawl. But charms like that don't pay back twenty-five grand, or make up for the fact that she tried to use counterfeit bills to front the drugs. She should've known that drug dealers always can tell. The cut from where they pushed the blade against her throat in the basement of their house still glared red and angry, even in the dim and bluish light of the desert nocturnal glow.
She looked at the odometer on the dash. Just a couple more hundred miles 'til the safety of the grey concrete and fake bamboo flooring and chlorinated pool of her sister's. Just a couple more hours 'til she and Tony were safe.
Leah turned the key in the ignition, the engine thrumming solidly to life as she pulled back onto the highway. She didn't notice the car parked a half-mile back alongside the road do the same, keeping a clear distance from the scrutiny of her rearview mirror, its Georgia plates reflecting dimly in the pale wash of the desert moon.
Leah was awoken with a start by the blaring horn of a semi-truck, and cried aloud as she wrenched her rusty '84 Volvo back into her own lane. The glare of the headlights had momentarily blinded her, and the muscles of her body braced themselves for the impact she had barely missed. Leah pulled over the the side of the road with her heart hammering in her chest, like a hummingbird fluttering helplessly in a glass jar. She shakily ran a hand through her hair and looked back to the toddler in the backseat, his tiny mouth parted in sleep.
The two lane highway was curiously quiet in the still desert night, and as Leah turned off the ignition the whole sky seemed to come ablaze with thousands of pinpricks of stars. Leah bit her lip against oncoming tears, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyesockets to prevent the reaction. She had been driving for almost 26 hours, stopping only once in Texas to get applesauce for the baby and take a two-hour nap in a gas station parking lot. Her whole body ached with exhaustion, her legs and temples throbbing. She bit on her lip so hard she tasted blood in her mouth, but refused to let the tears come, her knuckles turning stark white against the black plastic of the steering wheel.
Leah had fucked up badly, and she knew it. She was in over her head and so she did what she always did best whenever she felt overwhelmed: leave. She packed a bag of mismatched clothes in the Volvo and put Tony in his carseat, smearing dark mud on the license plates of her car and fucking bolting out of Atlanta at 3 in the morning two days ago, heading for the blazing neon and dead, wavy heat of Vegas. Leah took a deep and almost wheezing breath, like she was pushing through the surface of a dark and nearly bottomless pool. As soon as Tony was safe at her sister's, Leah would finally be able to breathe. Or so she hoped.
"Fuck," she whispered softly to herself, leaning her forehead against the steering wheel. She wished Anthony was here to brush the hair out of her face and tell her it was okay like he used to before he lost his mind, choosing imaginary voices instead of her and their child. The thought of Anthony just created a dull, throbbing ache in her gut, like something had been cut out of her. Like something was missing.
Still, she couldn't blame Anthony for her problems. She struggled to stay on her feet and keep from drinking too much, but it was hard to raise a baby in a new city by yourself. Leah had turned to people she thought she could trust.
And she always trusted too easily. Or she thought she could get away with fucking up by wearing low-cut shirts and speaking in her sweet Southern drawl. But charms like that don't pay back twenty-five grand, or make up for the fact that she tried to use counterfeit bills to front the drugs. She should've known that drug dealers always can tell. The cut from where they pushed the blade against her throat in the basement of their house still glared red and angry, even in the dim and bluish light of the desert nocturnal glow.
She looked at the odometer on the dash. Just a couple more hundred miles 'til the safety of the grey concrete and fake bamboo flooring and chlorinated pool of her sister's. Just a couple more hours 'til she and Tony were safe.
Leah turned the key in the ignition, the engine thrumming solidly to life as she pulled back onto the highway. She didn't notice the car parked a half-mile back alongside the road do the same, keeping a clear distance from the scrutiny of her rearview mirror, its Georgia plates reflecting dimly in the pale wash of the desert moon.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
ECL (1) Chapter 7: Simone Bui
oses’ basket was the last thing he saw before Anthony’s body dropped to the floor in a slumbering heap. Anthony suffered from adult onset narcolepsy, but you couldn’t ask him about it because, lucky for him, he also suffered from short and long term medical memory loss.
Anthony could remember the banana-shaped scar on Joan’s inner elbow that danced wildly whenever she threw her arms around, gesticulating like his Italian grandfather who himself often gestured maniacally with his right index finger crooking left just at the tip. He could recall vividly the bitter smell of mothballs in his mother’s sweater closet where he used to hide, and fall asleep, during turns of hide-n-seek with his older brothers. He could even remember the direction of the nap in the shag closet carpeting that left linty imprints on his face when he woke up, or how he would come out and realize the game had long been over and no one had noticed he was still missing. Such things, Anthony remembered.
But he couldn’t remember flying over the handlebar of his dirt bike when he was thirteen and hitting the impenetrable oak snag off the trail, cracking three of his ribcage bones. He couldn’t recall the jiu jitsu grappling match that dislocated his shoulder, or the rushed scuba diving descent during a Navy mission that left one of his lungs partially collapsed. It’s easy to think your body is indestructible when you have no memory of injuries.
Anthony awoke a few minutes later. Moses was gone. The Riverains, gone. The barn was silent--as silent as abandoned post-apocalyptic barns could possibly be. The scurrying toes and tail of a rat rustled in the rafters above. The winds outside took turns howling and hissing.
Those freaky bastards took Moses from him. But did Moses belong to him? Didn’t he want to be free of the baby in the first place? Hadn't he wanted a way out? In truth, it was too late. The choice was no longer his. Anthony had already fed Moses. Like it or not, once you feed a child--the most primary of basic of parental instincts--it binds you to them.
“The next time I find a floating baby basket on the Mississippi, I swear to god I’m paddling away," Anthony muttered. He tried to jump to his feet. A salient, piercing pain momentarily stunned him.
“Jesus Christ,” Anthony groaned, rubbing his stinging chest. He wondered why the hell it felt like someone had stomped on it. Wounded and sluggish, he staggered over to his boat bobbing outside the barn door, pocketing the chunks of stale bread along the way.
Anthony could remember the banana-shaped scar on Joan’s inner elbow that danced wildly whenever she threw her arms around, gesticulating like his Italian grandfather who himself often gestured maniacally with his right index finger crooking left just at the tip. He could recall vividly the bitter smell of mothballs in his mother’s sweater closet where he used to hide, and fall asleep, during turns of hide-n-seek with his older brothers. He could even remember the direction of the nap in the shag closet carpeting that left linty imprints on his face when he woke up, or how he would come out and realize the game had long been over and no one had noticed he was still missing. Such things, Anthony remembered.
But he couldn’t remember flying over the handlebar of his dirt bike when he was thirteen and hitting the impenetrable oak snag off the trail, cracking three of his ribcage bones. He couldn’t recall the jiu jitsu grappling match that dislocated his shoulder, or the rushed scuba diving descent during a Navy mission that left one of his lungs partially collapsed. It’s easy to think your body is indestructible when you have no memory of injuries.
Anthony awoke a few minutes later. Moses was gone. The Riverains, gone. The barn was silent--as silent as abandoned post-apocalyptic barns could possibly be. The scurrying toes and tail of a rat rustled in the rafters above. The winds outside took turns howling and hissing.
Those freaky bastards took Moses from him. But did Moses belong to him? Didn’t he want to be free of the baby in the first place? Hadn't he wanted a way out? In truth, it was too late. The choice was no longer his. Anthony had already fed Moses. Like it or not, once you feed a child--the most primary of basic of parental instincts--it binds you to them.
“The next time I find a floating baby basket on the Mississippi, I swear to god I’m paddling away," Anthony muttered. He tried to jump to his feet. A salient, piercing pain momentarily stunned him.
“Jesus Christ,” Anthony groaned, rubbing his stinging chest. He wondered why the hell it felt like someone had stomped on it. Wounded and sluggish, he staggered over to his boat bobbing outside the barn door, pocketing the chunks of stale bread along the way.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
ECL (A) Chapter 6: Guðrún Björg Ingimundardóttir
Prostrate on the floor like the pious of past religions, Anthony felt as if his breath had been snatched off of him and flung against the wall, the metallic taste of fear mingling with the deceivingly sweet taste of blood in his mouth . Of course he had heard about them, but he had written it off as an urban legend, as a way to crawl out of the void of dusk when the soft gyrating of TV's artificially sweetened teen fairytale creatures could no longer rock you to sleep.
But here they were, there were no longer just two of them, but they surrounded him now, a pernicious stillness exploding in the room and settling on everything, pervading the senses like a thick layer of ash, the appetent thirst of this subhuman silence swallowing all other sounds. Even the voices held back, as if unsure what to do. Anthony could feel molecules of air tumbling down to his lungs like pebbles down a well, but they felt stale and useless. What seemed like hundreds of pairs of glowing eyes stared at him when they may have been only a handful, the murky physical presence of these beings weaving in and out of each other like branches on a dead tree, waiting to fall on him. To crush.
Those were the Riverains, soulless poachers trawling along the banks of the Mississippi river, packs of nebulous wayfarers with hide was human but their behaviour was bestial. Unable to love or feel anything themselves, they would track down acts of love and feed off of them like a swarm of angry mosquitoes until nothing would be left of the people performing these acts of love but the burning rubble of human life, heart still beating but thumping as hollow and gloomy as the clang of bells belonging of abandoned churches in the starless night.
Wherever people would gather, seeking warmth from stray bonfires and other people's company, they would whisper in hushed, almost excited tones about these people, if such a term could even be used, rev up each other's fears and feel the titillation that chewing on these exaggerated horror stories evoked provide them with nourishment when nothing more substantial could be found.
Anthony had quickly dismissed these stories as hackneyed fables, folkloric Advil to fight off the painful ennui and hopelessness, but soon enough the drop began hollowing the stone and doubt started seeping in. What if? How? Could he let it happen? Every step he took from then on kicked up a swirl of questions and he finally sunk so deep into himself that the only thing he noticed was the endless flow of questioning that submerged him, the voices of doubt and warnings that washed over him, trickling down the walls, cascading down the stairs, even with each breath a new ripple of them was roused. He thought of the times when he would stand over his own child's crib, watch it cry but unable to hear it through the shrieking ebb and flow of his own mind. He was too far in to reach it.
This would exasperate Leah no end. She would scream, throw herself at him (a long with other things), beg, plead, but he dared not react. How could he explain to her what he was going through?
“You want yourself to get holed up in a madhouse?”, he'd ask himself and the kitchen shelves would wholeheartedly concur. How to explain the voices? How he had come to fear even touching her because he was afraid that he might attract what he'd call “the boogeyman” with a defying snort, only to be swiftly scolded by the voices. Not being a particularly amiable person to begin with, his retracting even further into himself turned him into a “worthless fucking troglodyte”, as had been Leah's last words before she drifted out of his life, carrying away with her the baby and leaving nothing but a arid and coarse feeling of solitude, as pleasant as a snootful of sand. In a way he was relieved. He felt as if he had committed a supreme act of love by saving them both from how he felt about them. How good it had felt to transfer the blame to something else instead of himself and his impotence, his godforsaken self and the voices! What a saint. What a goddamn saint. He thought back on how the voices had almost shrieked in delight when Leah left, barely containing their glee, their chatter echoing off the walls in Anthony's now empty house. The strange thing was that with them gone he loved them more than he had ever let himself before. Such a fucking saint.
Suddenly, he felt himself torn from his memories and pinned once again to the cold barn floor by a sharp jab in the chest from the creature holding the soiled pitchfork. One of them had separated from the others and approached Moses raising its gnarled fingers contorted with greed while a barely contained growl like that of a famished hyena ground Anthony's bones to a fine dust, making his body go limp with pain. Inside him, something gave in.
“Please,” Anthony begged, his tone of voice desperate. His eyes stung and the tears that filled them felt like the acid rain that had begun to fall from the sky after the meteor impact, preceded by an atmosphere of promise, but instead showered the earth with more destruction. Just like in old times. Anthony knew that all he was doing was setting the table for the feast, he could see the the glow in the creature's eyes grow steadily stronger until it was no longer flickering but burning intensely, peeling off the hardened expression in its face, revealing a ghoulish smirk. What Anthony felt, it felt too. Love. This inexplicable need to protect, carry, embrace and save the little bundle of virtually unidentified contents this overpowering need to give without receiving, living solely for someone else. His forces reached out to Moses, in his mind he wrapped his arms around the tiny and held it tight, while feeling the icy claws of the Riverains grasp for his for his heart, searching, grabbing, scavenging, leaving nothing behind but an arid wasteland, a dried-up riverbed once glistening with feelings and desires. The dam had burst, only to drown him and the child in the gushing flow.
“Don't hurt...the....my child.”
But here they were, there were no longer just two of them, but they surrounded him now, a pernicious stillness exploding in the room and settling on everything, pervading the senses like a thick layer of ash, the appetent thirst of this subhuman silence swallowing all other sounds. Even the voices held back, as if unsure what to do. Anthony could feel molecules of air tumbling down to his lungs like pebbles down a well, but they felt stale and useless. What seemed like hundreds of pairs of glowing eyes stared at him when they may have been only a handful, the murky physical presence of these beings weaving in and out of each other like branches on a dead tree, waiting to fall on him. To crush.
Those were the Riverains, soulless poachers trawling along the banks of the Mississippi river, packs of nebulous wayfarers with hide was human but their behaviour was bestial. Unable to love or feel anything themselves, they would track down acts of love and feed off of them like a swarm of angry mosquitoes until nothing would be left of the people performing these acts of love but the burning rubble of human life, heart still beating but thumping as hollow and gloomy as the clang of bells belonging of abandoned churches in the starless night.
Wherever people would gather, seeking warmth from stray bonfires and other people's company, they would whisper in hushed, almost excited tones about these people, if such a term could even be used, rev up each other's fears and feel the titillation that chewing on these exaggerated horror stories evoked provide them with nourishment when nothing more substantial could be found.
Anthony had quickly dismissed these stories as hackneyed fables, folkloric Advil to fight off the painful ennui and hopelessness, but soon enough the drop began hollowing the stone and doubt started seeping in. What if? How? Could he let it happen? Every step he took from then on kicked up a swirl of questions and he finally sunk so deep into himself that the only thing he noticed was the endless flow of questioning that submerged him, the voices of doubt and warnings that washed over him, trickling down the walls, cascading down the stairs, even with each breath a new ripple of them was roused. He thought of the times when he would stand over his own child's crib, watch it cry but unable to hear it through the shrieking ebb and flow of his own mind. He was too far in to reach it.
This would exasperate Leah no end. She would scream, throw herself at him (a long with other things), beg, plead, but he dared not react. How could he explain to her what he was going through?
“You want yourself to get holed up in a madhouse?”, he'd ask himself and the kitchen shelves would wholeheartedly concur. How to explain the voices? How he had come to fear even touching her because he was afraid that he might attract what he'd call “the boogeyman” with a defying snort, only to be swiftly scolded by the voices. Not being a particularly amiable person to begin with, his retracting even further into himself turned him into a “worthless fucking troglodyte”, as had been Leah's last words before she drifted out of his life, carrying away with her the baby and leaving nothing but a arid and coarse feeling of solitude, as pleasant as a snootful of sand. In a way he was relieved. He felt as if he had committed a supreme act of love by saving them both from how he felt about them. How good it had felt to transfer the blame to something else instead of himself and his impotence, his godforsaken self and the voices! What a saint. What a goddamn saint. He thought back on how the voices had almost shrieked in delight when Leah left, barely containing their glee, their chatter echoing off the walls in Anthony's now empty house. The strange thing was that with them gone he loved them more than he had ever let himself before. Such a fucking saint.
Suddenly, he felt himself torn from his memories and pinned once again to the cold barn floor by a sharp jab in the chest from the creature holding the soiled pitchfork. One of them had separated from the others and approached Moses raising its gnarled fingers contorted with greed while a barely contained growl like that of a famished hyena ground Anthony's bones to a fine dust, making his body go limp with pain. Inside him, something gave in.
“Please,” Anthony begged, his tone of voice desperate. His eyes stung and the tears that filled them felt like the acid rain that had begun to fall from the sky after the meteor impact, preceded by an atmosphere of promise, but instead showered the earth with more destruction. Just like in old times. Anthony knew that all he was doing was setting the table for the feast, he could see the the glow in the creature's eyes grow steadily stronger until it was no longer flickering but burning intensely, peeling off the hardened expression in its face, revealing a ghoulish smirk. What Anthony felt, it felt too. Love. This inexplicable need to protect, carry, embrace and save the little bundle of virtually unidentified contents this overpowering need to give without receiving, living solely for someone else. His forces reached out to Moses, in his mind he wrapped his arms around the tiny and held it tight, while feeling the icy claws of the Riverains grasp for his for his heart, searching, grabbing, scavenging, leaving nothing behind but an arid wasteland, a dried-up riverbed once glistening with feelings and desires. The dam had burst, only to drown him and the child in the gushing flow.
“Don't hurt...the....my child.”
ECL (A) Chapter 5: Dan Pham
Quickly moving supplies off the boat and onto the second level of the submerged barn, Anthony glanced around his surroundings, trying not to notice the stench of mildew seeping through the wooden boards. Its barn’s support beams were black with moisture, soaked from the impact’s apparent erosion of rivers from delta to floodplains. The former owner knew crops would never grow here again as tools had been brought up to the second level of the barn as well; however, this was shortsighted as rain had soaked through the decrepit rooftop and rusted a pitchfork, a shovel, and some gardening tools nonetheless. There was also a single window, fogged up from Anthony’s constant movement in the past few moments. Wiping the glass, the river stretched for miles; it seemed stale, frozen in time.
What a dumb way to let a baby starve, the shovel chortled suddenly.
Though alarmed, Anthony knew better than to talk back. Silent, he knew to expect another jab from the voices. Finally, it came.
Hey, you sack of shit, did you hear me? I just said, WAY TO GO, LETTING THE BABY STARVE LIKE THAT.
It’ll go away eventually, Anthony thought to himself. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three…
Aggravated, the shovel finally snarled, Leah wouldn’t have let the baby starve. But I guess you’re no Leah. You’re just a clumsy, mentally-retarded, Fuck-Up. Aren’t you?
Anthony swung around to tell the shovel to fuck off, but when he did, it just stood there, erect and cold.
Infuriated but reminded of the baby and Leah, Anthony gave in and checked in on the tiny infant. Its enormous eyes stared up at him, and similar to the expressions of a cow, Anthony couldn’t tell whether it was fear in its eyes or wonderment.
He broke into the bread and dipped small pieces into the water to soften it; afterward, he passed the bread to the baby’s mouth. This went on into the night time when young Moses finally burped with satisfaction and went to sleep. Anthony had the distinct feeling Moses was a baby girl and regretted not naming her something else. Drifting into sleep, Anthony wondered who her parents had been, how long it had been until he found the thing, and whether she would even live through the night.
Bemused that the voices had stopped while caring for the child, Anthony dreamed the child would grow up and save him from the monsters that haunted him. Maybe this child would even be the key to redeeming his failed life so far, choking him like a heavy rubber boot over his throat. Choking!
Suddenly, gasping for air, Anthony awoke to the knee of an adult on his throat; another held the pitchfork to Anthony’s face. It was night time still, but fireflies had left their reeds and illuminated the faces of two corrupt looking men.
The leader whispered in a suppressed and coarse voice, “Listen very closely, you sack of shit. First, I’m going to kill this baby. Then, I’m going to kill you. That is, if you don’t tell me exactly what I want to know in the next three seconds.”
The wet pitchfork hovered above Anthony’s eyes, and the droplets of water on its teeth looked like blood under the fireflies’ reddened glow.
What a dumb way to let a baby starve, the shovel chortled suddenly.
Though alarmed, Anthony knew better than to talk back. Silent, he knew to expect another jab from the voices. Finally, it came.
Hey, you sack of shit, did you hear me? I just said, WAY TO GO, LETTING THE BABY STARVE LIKE THAT.
It’ll go away eventually, Anthony thought to himself. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three…
Aggravated, the shovel finally snarled, Leah wouldn’t have let the baby starve. But I guess you’re no Leah. You’re just a clumsy, mentally-retarded, Fuck-Up. Aren’t you?
Anthony swung around to tell the shovel to fuck off, but when he did, it just stood there, erect and cold.
Infuriated but reminded of the baby and Leah, Anthony gave in and checked in on the tiny infant. Its enormous eyes stared up at him, and similar to the expressions of a cow, Anthony couldn’t tell whether it was fear in its eyes or wonderment.
He broke into the bread and dipped small pieces into the water to soften it; afterward, he passed the bread to the baby’s mouth. This went on into the night time when young Moses finally burped with satisfaction and went to sleep. Anthony had the distinct feeling Moses was a baby girl and regretted not naming her something else. Drifting into sleep, Anthony wondered who her parents had been, how long it had been until he found the thing, and whether she would even live through the night.
Bemused that the voices had stopped while caring for the child, Anthony dreamed the child would grow up and save him from the monsters that haunted him. Maybe this child would even be the key to redeeming his failed life so far, choking him like a heavy rubber boot over his throat. Choking!
Suddenly, gasping for air, Anthony awoke to the knee of an adult on his throat; another held the pitchfork to Anthony’s face. It was night time still, but fireflies had left their reeds and illuminated the faces of two corrupt looking men.
The leader whispered in a suppressed and coarse voice, “Listen very closely, you sack of shit. First, I’m going to kill this baby. Then, I’m going to kill you. That is, if you don’t tell me exactly what I want to know in the next three seconds.”
The wet pitchfork hovered above Anthony’s eyes, and the droplets of water on its teeth looked like blood under the fireflies’ reddened glow.
ECL (A) Chapter 4: Tom Hurlbut
With a swift motion, and a large weight of uncertainty, the baby was lifted back into the boat. Anthony paused a moment for the boat to stabilize before setting the basket down. Nobody wanted to raise a baby in a post-apocalyptic world, except for those who were lucky enough to know the responsibility they have to endure and learn to work with what is presented to them.
It had been 5 years since the meteor made impact, just east of the Rocky Mountains, in the South-eastern Utah region. Pressure from the impact travelled through the magma layer under the earth’s crust and created geologic havok on the opposite side of the world, off the east coast of India. The two disaster zones left the world in a dark dust cloud cover for over two years, with the impact area slowly filling in with water to form a newly created sea. Damage from the massive earthquakes and new crust faultlines rippled half the planet, leveling a third of the cities in the northern American continent and throwing the planet six degrees off it’s original rotation axis. Power and food reserves had dropped to the point of desperation, causing over 30% of the world population to starve to death up until last year, and more on that teetering edge as the weather slowly starting to improve in the past 9 months. For three years now the world was dealing with massive amounts of dark, intense cloud storms and torrential rains. This year appeared to be the final dark years as those hard weather conditions were beginning to subside, allowing the situation for this man and others to try to use a boat safely on the muddy Mississippi River without too much heavy flow or threat of being caught in a draft to one side through one of the flood destroyed levees.
“I won’t be checking what you are now. We don’t have time. I need to get you to safety before we both get killed or eaten on this river.” He said, setting the child and carrier down in the far end of the boat for counter-balance. The reminder of Moby Dick had him more on edge now, wanting a safe harbor.
Scanning the water in the dimming evening light he gathered his strength and began rowing again. He wasn’t sure if there were any safe areas were in this area of the river, having usually visited another area further downstream, and the years of storms and floods changed areas frequently every season too. To his luck, he discovered a structure looming out of the water in the distance. He made an effort to get there as quick as possible, considering the safety of the situation which could be a possible benefit, or worse of danger, though he knew with a delicate package, he had to take a chance.
“Lodging for two I hope, in this forsaken hole of an area. Gods be with us.”, he said quietly with eyes upturned for a few of the words, not knowing if he was asking the nature gods of the various worldly theologies for their blessings, or if he was cursing the idea of religions altogether again. If there were Gods, they never seemed to time their blessings on him for when he needed them most. This seemed possibly to be another of those odd mythological quandaries which plagued him before.
The barn he was approaching had probably been caught in a flood and shifted here. The upper level of it now resting partially on land and partially in the water, was laying with the hayloft window in the water, most of it underwater with about the amount of the boat above water as the remainder of the opening for Anthony to row through.
“Tight squeeze, but something to work with. Make do with what we can. Of course talking to ourselves like this with…” he said, stopping at that moment remembering that that was one of the sayings his wife used to say in tough times. “Just get inside that thing you dolt.”
He scraped the bow of the boat through the opening on the upper jamb of the hayloft window, getting close enough to one side to grasp the weathered wood. The block and tackle shaded his entry as he guided the dinghy inside. He needed to lay flat in the boat, save for his arm extending out to use the side of the window to guide the boat in. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing, but he did it and got the craft into the shelter.
Once in the darkness he paused, allowing his eyes to adjust. He was surprised by the interesting bounties the view inside afforded the odd pair of travellers. Chain tied oil lamps, a third of one of the lofts still full of musty but intact hay bales and a wall of antique farm tools, the shadow of some on the wall of those fallen and lost.
“There were some thoughtful people around here at one time. They must have been good folk little one.” He was in need of a benefit now, given his confusion and desperate mental state. This was part of the adventure still in his head. He was dedicated to it no matter what the obstacles and challenges. He was too strong a man to fail and go back on his desire for a different start, or at least at one time he was a strong enough man.
He reached out to grasp the rope from the block and tackle, dry and brittle above water with weather and age, and flexible and waterlogged from the water below. Gathering up enough to throw on the loft, though as he did, enough of it splashed back into the water, spraying him and the boat with a relieving cold awakening. Over to that side he went, using the framing of the barn walls to pull the boat over to the edge of the loft by an open area where he took up the rope again. He tied the boat to a wood post there, angled from the damaging ride in the water, but strongly attached still the same.
First out he lifted the basket parcel he rescued before getting out himself. Making sure the boat was secure, he tested the still strong structure and floor of the barn remnant. When he was sure it was a good place, he began to move bales around to create a sheltered corner where weather and cold could possibly be kept at bay for the first night of stay in this hospitable refuge of time lost.
He did not truly understand what he was doing, almost as if the hard time of being a failed parent once before had never rubbed off on him. And just thinking of survival first at this moment, he seemed to put those memories aside for now as he worked to protect the child he did not yet know.
It had been 5 years since the meteor made impact, just east of the Rocky Mountains, in the South-eastern Utah region. Pressure from the impact travelled through the magma layer under the earth’s crust and created geologic havok on the opposite side of the world, off the east coast of India. The two disaster zones left the world in a dark dust cloud cover for over two years, with the impact area slowly filling in with water to form a newly created sea. Damage from the massive earthquakes and new crust faultlines rippled half the planet, leveling a third of the cities in the northern American continent and throwing the planet six degrees off it’s original rotation axis. Power and food reserves had dropped to the point of desperation, causing over 30% of the world population to starve to death up until last year, and more on that teetering edge as the weather slowly starting to improve in the past 9 months. For three years now the world was dealing with massive amounts of dark, intense cloud storms and torrential rains. This year appeared to be the final dark years as those hard weather conditions were beginning to subside, allowing the situation for this man and others to try to use a boat safely on the muddy Mississippi River without too much heavy flow or threat of being caught in a draft to one side through one of the flood destroyed levees.
“I won’t be checking what you are now. We don’t have time. I need to get you to safety before we both get killed or eaten on this river.” He said, setting the child and carrier down in the far end of the boat for counter-balance. The reminder of Moby Dick had him more on edge now, wanting a safe harbor.
Scanning the water in the dimming evening light he gathered his strength and began rowing again. He wasn’t sure if there were any safe areas were in this area of the river, having usually visited another area further downstream, and the years of storms and floods changed areas frequently every season too. To his luck, he discovered a structure looming out of the water in the distance. He made an effort to get there as quick as possible, considering the safety of the situation which could be a possible benefit, or worse of danger, though he knew with a delicate package, he had to take a chance.
“Lodging for two I hope, in this forsaken hole of an area. Gods be with us.”, he said quietly with eyes upturned for a few of the words, not knowing if he was asking the nature gods of the various worldly theologies for their blessings, or if he was cursing the idea of religions altogether again. If there were Gods, they never seemed to time their blessings on him for when he needed them most. This seemed possibly to be another of those odd mythological quandaries which plagued him before.
The barn he was approaching had probably been caught in a flood and shifted here. The upper level of it now resting partially on land and partially in the water, was laying with the hayloft window in the water, most of it underwater with about the amount of the boat above water as the remainder of the opening for Anthony to row through.
“Tight squeeze, but something to work with. Make do with what we can. Of course talking to ourselves like this with…” he said, stopping at that moment remembering that that was one of the sayings his wife used to say in tough times. “Just get inside that thing you dolt.”
He scraped the bow of the boat through the opening on the upper jamb of the hayloft window, getting close enough to one side to grasp the weathered wood. The block and tackle shaded his entry as he guided the dinghy inside. He needed to lay flat in the boat, save for his arm extending out to use the side of the window to guide the boat in. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing, but he did it and got the craft into the shelter.
Once in the darkness he paused, allowing his eyes to adjust. He was surprised by the interesting bounties the view inside afforded the odd pair of travellers. Chain tied oil lamps, a third of one of the lofts still full of musty but intact hay bales and a wall of antique farm tools, the shadow of some on the wall of those fallen and lost.
“There were some thoughtful people around here at one time. They must have been good folk little one.” He was in need of a benefit now, given his confusion and desperate mental state. This was part of the adventure still in his head. He was dedicated to it no matter what the obstacles and challenges. He was too strong a man to fail and go back on his desire for a different start, or at least at one time he was a strong enough man.
He reached out to grasp the rope from the block and tackle, dry and brittle above water with weather and age, and flexible and waterlogged from the water below. Gathering up enough to throw on the loft, though as he did, enough of it splashed back into the water, spraying him and the boat with a relieving cold awakening. Over to that side he went, using the framing of the barn walls to pull the boat over to the edge of the loft by an open area where he took up the rope again. He tied the boat to a wood post there, angled from the damaging ride in the water, but strongly attached still the same.
First out he lifted the basket parcel he rescued before getting out himself. Making sure the boat was secure, he tested the still strong structure and floor of the barn remnant. When he was sure it was a good place, he began to move bales around to create a sheltered corner where weather and cold could possibly be kept at bay for the first night of stay in this hospitable refuge of time lost.
He did not truly understand what he was doing, almost as if the hard time of being a failed parent once before had never rubbed off on him. And just thinking of survival first at this moment, he seemed to put those memories aside for now as he worked to protect the child he did not yet know.
ECL (A) Chapter 3: Simon Li
“Oh hell.“ And the talking comes right back. Dr. Denman did prescribe him something for that, but he had left all his prescriptions in the glove compartment of the Cutlass.
It’s easy for one to learn how to talk to himself. When one walks down a dark alley at night, a blur in the corner of his eyes can make him ask the wind, “who is there.” It is hard for animals to quell the urge to make whatever noise they can in the presence of fear. A child can imagine being stalked by monsters under the bed, and learn the language of talking to stuff animals. For a navy officer, who happens to be well instructed on how to transform human bodies into unrecognizable mystery meat with a precisely delivered 25 mm round, it is not hard to imagine being on the other side of the barrel. If he also happens to think about it harder, he would realize that eventually he would have to be in front of someone else’s barrel. Anthony, although lacking in artistic talent, has a great imagination. This imagination gives him thoughts, thoughts that must be expel into words, thoughts unwelcomed in a brotherhood that requires from all its member display of fearlessness, thoughts he can only speak to himself.
And so he learns to talk to himself when no one else is around. “that sure don’t sounded right.” “he’s not gonna live.” “I hope that’s not a torpedo coming our way.” And so on.
But somehow, he managed to make it through both tours even with his active imagination constantly playing tricks on him. At the end, the voice Anthony used to talk to himself said, “it is ok, the other guys on the other side have smaller caliber rounds.” This thought allowed him to hold on and finish his tours. This also made him appreciate his position in the world so much better, because the voice had enlightened him that one’s geographical location of birth can determine the difference between his life value as a human being with rights, or just some moving, breathing, soon-to-be mystery meats.
But it also forced his over-imaginative mind to think about what kind of thoughts is keeping the guys on the other side from surrendering. The voice usually has answers for every situation, but the voice never answered that question, out loud anyways.
But now the voice is speaking again.
“A baby this size probably would require some kind of nutrient in liquid forms. Noon now, from where I am, I won’t make town until sunset. I can’t give him or her anything, I have nothing to offer.”
“Put him back!”
Initially he tells himself that someone is probably looking for the baby. But his instinct already told him the moment he laid eyes on that baby. Someone who is careful enough to cloth and put this baby into a floatable basket to make sure he didn’t drown or freeze is a sign that that the original handler of the baby’s wished the baby to become someone else’s problem.
“Jesus, I just found Moses. “ Anthony continues with his rambling.
He is not very good with kids, he never was. Even before the shrinks and the pills, he was never good with being around people who have no idea what they are doing, especially ones that cries and shit on themselves all the time. Dogs on the other hand, he is very good with. It is because what dogs want is just so simple and natural.
He supposed he could just put the basket back into the river. He thought about that for a moment, along with all the problems that would surly arise if he decides to hold onto it. And he thought about his newfound “freedom”.
In a haze of uncoordinated body movements, Anthony finds himself lifting the basket up again, and putting it back into the river. He did this with the steadiest motion his body can possibly maintain, hoping that the baby would not make a sound, and everything can go on as if nothing had happened. With his course to nowhere once again in motion, so is his floating infant friend’s would-be short journey to impending doom.
“Well, let see where these waters will take us.” He mutters to himself.
When he gently let go, the baby made no sound, and grey of Mississippi simply float on. The basket, following the ebb of the current, began to drift away from the boat. Anthony watches as the basket floats away. He still didn’t know what to do. But he began to get this sensation that something is clawing at the bottom of his boat. He sprung up like a spooked coyote. There, on that rowboat that almost capsized but a moment ago, he puts all his senses on alert, in an attempt to locate an external enemy he could return fire at. Finding none. He grows disappointed.
Then he turns to look at the direction of the basket. It is still there drifting further away still in an innocuously steady rate.
He then just realized he haven’t even check if it’s a boy or girl.
Then he heard it, a muffled sound coming from underneath the boat. As if some sort of leviathan had just graze its hide against the bow of the boat.
“Shitty hell, Moby Dick found me.”
Incidentally, Tony already had a counter with Moby Dick once before, or at least he believes he had. Sometimes he calls it Jaws, or Loch Ness. Sometimes he meets other creatures too. But Moby Dick was always the most menacing one of them all. Dr. Denman disagreed with him. Denman told him, with that $60 per hour sincere smile on his face, being trapped inside a sinking ship is different from being swallowed by giant sea monster. Joan never liked Dr. Denman. But she would always come pick him up after his visits to Denman’s office. Every time she when she sees him walk out of the Denman’s door, she would hold him tight for a good minute and not say anything at all. That was the only thing he enjoyed about the visits to Dr. Denman, the few minutes when his mind can shed all thoughts other than the momentary comfort of complacency within her arms.
Then, realizing that it would be too dangerous with Moby Dick in the water. He decided that he should moor the boat for now. Slowly he paddles the dinghy with his center of gravity lowered, hoping it would help minimizing the chance of being throwing off by the next attack. Anthony paddles his floating abode towards the shore. When the Tony got closer to the basket again. Anthony thought about the danger of being out here with Moby Dick. At first, he consider the baby would help distract the leviathan’s focus so he could possibly get away unscathed.
For the strangest reason, Anthony thought of the time when his father had to help him put down his sick dog. He can’t remember the dog’s face, how it sound like when it barked, or the smell of his fur. But he remembered wrapping his tiny arms around the uncomfortably large butt of his dad’s old Remington 700. And hearing the phrase uttered with such grave sense of sullen profoundness, “Ways of the world son, ways of the world.”
Then, at that moment, hearing this phrase playback some 20 years later, made something snap inside Anthony. He open up his eyes, all around him the world is still grey and expressionless. But for some reason, the sound of the river suddenly sound so crisp, it is as if the soundtrack of the world had stop for a moment and reset itself.
He opens his mouth to speak, “I don’t…” and he couldn’t recognize his own voice.
So he coughs and hacks and tries to speak again. This time it sounded more familiar. But it is still different, it sounded more curious and hoarse.
“Boy, I wonder if Moses is a girl.”
Joan had always wanted a girl.
“Ok. fine, you are coming with me. But I am calling you Moses even if you are a girl.” with that said, he extends his hand, in one swift motion, into the running greys once again.
It’s easy for one to learn how to talk to himself. When one walks down a dark alley at night, a blur in the corner of his eyes can make him ask the wind, “who is there.” It is hard for animals to quell the urge to make whatever noise they can in the presence of fear. A child can imagine being stalked by monsters under the bed, and learn the language of talking to stuff animals. For a navy officer, who happens to be well instructed on how to transform human bodies into unrecognizable mystery meat with a precisely delivered 25 mm round, it is not hard to imagine being on the other side of the barrel. If he also happens to think about it harder, he would realize that eventually he would have to be in front of someone else’s barrel. Anthony, although lacking in artistic talent, has a great imagination. This imagination gives him thoughts, thoughts that must be expel into words, thoughts unwelcomed in a brotherhood that requires from all its member display of fearlessness, thoughts he can only speak to himself.
And so he learns to talk to himself when no one else is around. “that sure don’t sounded right.” “he’s not gonna live.” “I hope that’s not a torpedo coming our way.” And so on.
But somehow, he managed to make it through both tours even with his active imagination constantly playing tricks on him. At the end, the voice Anthony used to talk to himself said, “it is ok, the other guys on the other side have smaller caliber rounds.” This thought allowed him to hold on and finish his tours. This also made him appreciate his position in the world so much better, because the voice had enlightened him that one’s geographical location of birth can determine the difference between his life value as a human being with rights, or just some moving, breathing, soon-to-be mystery meats.
But it also forced his over-imaginative mind to think about what kind of thoughts is keeping the guys on the other side from surrendering. The voice usually has answers for every situation, but the voice never answered that question, out loud anyways.
But now the voice is speaking again.
“A baby this size probably would require some kind of nutrient in liquid forms. Noon now, from where I am, I won’t make town until sunset. I can’t give him or her anything, I have nothing to offer.”
“Put him back!”
Initially he tells himself that someone is probably looking for the baby. But his instinct already told him the moment he laid eyes on that baby. Someone who is careful enough to cloth and put this baby into a floatable basket to make sure he didn’t drown or freeze is a sign that that the original handler of the baby’s wished the baby to become someone else’s problem.
“Jesus, I just found Moses. “ Anthony continues with his rambling.
He is not very good with kids, he never was. Even before the shrinks and the pills, he was never good with being around people who have no idea what they are doing, especially ones that cries and shit on themselves all the time. Dogs on the other hand, he is very good with. It is because what dogs want is just so simple and natural.
He supposed he could just put the basket back into the river. He thought about that for a moment, along with all the problems that would surly arise if he decides to hold onto it. And he thought about his newfound “freedom”.
In a haze of uncoordinated body movements, Anthony finds himself lifting the basket up again, and putting it back into the river. He did this with the steadiest motion his body can possibly maintain, hoping that the baby would not make a sound, and everything can go on as if nothing had happened. With his course to nowhere once again in motion, so is his floating infant friend’s would-be short journey to impending doom.
“Well, let see where these waters will take us.” He mutters to himself.
When he gently let go, the baby made no sound, and grey of Mississippi simply float on. The basket, following the ebb of the current, began to drift away from the boat. Anthony watches as the basket floats away. He still didn’t know what to do. But he began to get this sensation that something is clawing at the bottom of his boat. He sprung up like a spooked coyote. There, on that rowboat that almost capsized but a moment ago, he puts all his senses on alert, in an attempt to locate an external enemy he could return fire at. Finding none. He grows disappointed.
Then he turns to look at the direction of the basket. It is still there drifting further away still in an innocuously steady rate.
He then just realized he haven’t even check if it’s a boy or girl.
Then he heard it, a muffled sound coming from underneath the boat. As if some sort of leviathan had just graze its hide against the bow of the boat.
“Shitty hell, Moby Dick found me.”
Incidentally, Tony already had a counter with Moby Dick once before, or at least he believes he had. Sometimes he calls it Jaws, or Loch Ness. Sometimes he meets other creatures too. But Moby Dick was always the most menacing one of them all. Dr. Denman disagreed with him. Denman told him, with that $60 per hour sincere smile on his face, being trapped inside a sinking ship is different from being swallowed by giant sea monster. Joan never liked Dr. Denman. But she would always come pick him up after his visits to Denman’s office. Every time she when she sees him walk out of the Denman’s door, she would hold him tight for a good minute and not say anything at all. That was the only thing he enjoyed about the visits to Dr. Denman, the few minutes when his mind can shed all thoughts other than the momentary comfort of complacency within her arms.
Then, realizing that it would be too dangerous with Moby Dick in the water. He decided that he should moor the boat for now. Slowly he paddles the dinghy with his center of gravity lowered, hoping it would help minimizing the chance of being throwing off by the next attack. Anthony paddles his floating abode towards the shore. When the Tony got closer to the basket again. Anthony thought about the danger of being out here with Moby Dick. At first, he consider the baby would help distract the leviathan’s focus so he could possibly get away unscathed.
For the strangest reason, Anthony thought of the time when his father had to help him put down his sick dog. He can’t remember the dog’s face, how it sound like when it barked, or the smell of his fur. But he remembered wrapping his tiny arms around the uncomfortably large butt of his dad’s old Remington 700. And hearing the phrase uttered with such grave sense of sullen profoundness, “Ways of the world son, ways of the world.”
Then, at that moment, hearing this phrase playback some 20 years later, made something snap inside Anthony. He open up his eyes, all around him the world is still grey and expressionless. But for some reason, the sound of the river suddenly sound so crisp, it is as if the soundtrack of the world had stop for a moment and reset itself.
He opens his mouth to speak, “I don’t…” and he couldn’t recognize his own voice.
So he coughs and hacks and tries to speak again. This time it sounded more familiar. But it is still different, it sounded more curious and hoarse.
“Boy, I wonder if Moses is a girl.”
Joan had always wanted a girl.
“Ok. fine, you are coming with me. But I am calling you Moses even if you are a girl.” with that said, he extends his hand, in one swift motion, into the running greys once again.
ECL (A) Chapter 2: Daniela Amodei
Just beneath the creaking planks of wood and rotten nails of Tony’s newest acquisition, a brown wicker basket bobbed joyfully to and fro in the Mississippi’s gentle current. The basket was the size of a car’s tire, more or less, and was partially covered with a frayed yellow blanket. The blanket had a large burn mark near the center that reminded Anthony of a spot on the passenger seat in the Cutlass where Joan had gracefully extinguished her cigar one muggy August evening (gone, he thought, all gone now). One long thread dragged unevenly beneath the murky surface, looking like an unnatural, skinny, slimy creature. Tony shuddered and his stomach turned over again.
Quickly he sat up, planted his feet squarely on the floor of the boat, rested his eyes on the top quills of a pine tree at the far edge of the riverbank. After a time, when the slish slush of the water no longer turned his insides into mush, he turned his attention back to his new floating companion. Carefully, methodically, for fear that any fast movement would make him lose his lunch, Tony paddled over to the basket.
Any uncanny, creepy sensation filled the air around him. From this angle, he could see that the blanket was securely fastened to the basket with absurdly large, oblong safety pins. The pins formed a semi-circle around the edge of the basket, keeping most of the blanket in place. A few had slid down low on one side, exposing a corner of the basket’s content to the wind. Something rustled ever so slightly inside.
Tony stopped the boat inches from the basket, and began to reach towards it, stopped, and then thought about paddling away. “I don’t need this,” he thought. “I’ve lost everything I ever knew this week—my family, my wife, my job, my identity: everything that makes me human.” Why pick up this basket among the Reeds? Nothing good could come of it, Tony was sure. No one in Red Wing, or anywhere else in the country for that matter, would ever drop a basket full of money or jewels in a river—that’s for damn sure. This basket could be nothing but trouble. Why not just leave it where he found it, float away placidly? Tony had had enough bad luck for one lifetime; why not quit while he was behind?
But curiosity got the better of him. Anthony reached over the side of the boat and tried to lift the contraption with one arm. It was surprisingly heavy. Tony’s heart sunk. This wasn’t good. He maneuvered the boat a little closer and this time, with his feet curled under a light box of supplies to make sure he didn’t capsize, Tony pulled the basket into the boat with the strength of both his hands.
A small baby—how young, Tony couldn’t be sure—lay in the basket, eyes closed, face blue. It’s tiny mouth was open slightly on one side, and it’s hands were curled beneath it’s tiny chin. Tony’s first harried thought was that it was dead. No baby could survive in this river for long and though he wasn’t far from shore the baby could have been here for hours, maybe even a full day. Tony shuddered as he thought of the wind last night—warm, strong.
He put his head right down next to the baby’s face. Tony had basic CPR training during his brief stint in the navy, but it looked like he wasn’t going to need it. He felt a tiny breath, like the fluttering of a butterfly, against his cheek. A few seconds later came another one. It’s breaths were slow, and uneven, but it was breathing.
Quickly he sat up, planted his feet squarely on the floor of the boat, rested his eyes on the top quills of a pine tree at the far edge of the riverbank. After a time, when the slish slush of the water no longer turned his insides into mush, he turned his attention back to his new floating companion. Carefully, methodically, for fear that any fast movement would make him lose his lunch, Tony paddled over to the basket.
Any uncanny, creepy sensation filled the air around him. From this angle, he could see that the blanket was securely fastened to the basket with absurdly large, oblong safety pins. The pins formed a semi-circle around the edge of the basket, keeping most of the blanket in place. A few had slid down low on one side, exposing a corner of the basket’s content to the wind. Something rustled ever so slightly inside.
Tony stopped the boat inches from the basket, and began to reach towards it, stopped, and then thought about paddling away. “I don’t need this,” he thought. “I’ve lost everything I ever knew this week—my family, my wife, my job, my identity: everything that makes me human.” Why pick up this basket among the Reeds? Nothing good could come of it, Tony was sure. No one in Red Wing, or anywhere else in the country for that matter, would ever drop a basket full of money or jewels in a river—that’s for damn sure. This basket could be nothing but trouble. Why not just leave it where he found it, float away placidly? Tony had had enough bad luck for one lifetime; why not quit while he was behind?
But curiosity got the better of him. Anthony reached over the side of the boat and tried to lift the contraption with one arm. It was surprisingly heavy. Tony’s heart sunk. This wasn’t good. He maneuvered the boat a little closer and this time, with his feet curled under a light box of supplies to make sure he didn’t capsize, Tony pulled the basket into the boat with the strength of both his hands.
A small baby—how young, Tony couldn’t be sure—lay in the basket, eyes closed, face blue. It’s tiny mouth was open slightly on one side, and it’s hands were curled beneath it’s tiny chin. Tony’s first harried thought was that it was dead. No baby could survive in this river for long and though he wasn’t far from shore the baby could have been here for hours, maybe even a full day. Tony shuddered as he thought of the wind last night—warm, strong.
He put his head right down next to the baby’s face. Tony had basic CPR training during his brief stint in the navy, but it looked like he wasn’t going to need it. He felt a tiny breath, like the fluttering of a butterfly, against his cheek. A few seconds later came another one. It’s breaths were slow, and uneven, but it was breathing.
ECL (A) Chapter 1: Ben Hair
"Whoo-sa!"
Anthony was practically doubled over, his stubby toes trying in vain to get a hold on the sandy bank as he shoved his raft, inch by inch, into the murky grey river. This is what the Mississippi had been reduced to: a cloudy, expressionless, dead grey. The sea's reflection was no sight to see, either. No clouds, but no blue either. Perhaps if there were clouds, they would have leant a certain dynamism to the sky above, but today, fate had other things in mind: blander, more banal, quotidian things.
Anthony, however, refused to accept what fate had to offer. Like a greedy big brother, what he had been offered was not going to be enough. Today, Tony refused destiny and chose action. Earlier in the day, taking one heavy blanket, a raincoat, a fishing rod, and a gallon of water, he sold everything he could and walked away from the rest. With the money from the car he sold (a 1985 two-door Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme), he bought a loaf of bread, a sharp folding knife, and a small, sturdy rowboat. Having served two tours in the navy, he knew what a sturdy rowboat resembled. And although this one, a deep green boat blistered and peeling under years of supporting the sun's weight, could do with a good scrubbing and simple paint job, it was going to do for now. Anthony would have plenty of time on his hands in the coming weeks.
After all, he was no longer employed, nor did he have any family that he could see. His job, his love, his family, his perspective had all disappeared in the preceding week as if engulfed by a heavy fog. First one end of the boat pierces the veil of humidity, feigning victory, but soon the fog creeps, and before you know it all that's left is the opposite end of the boat, stretching, extending its fingertips to flee from being swallowed by the overwhelming mass of air. With that image in mind, that caricature of fate and life in general, Anthony found himself sitting in his nameless boat as it floated further and further away from the banks of Red Wing, Minnesota and integrated itself with the larger Mississippi. He felt in his shirt pocket and realized he had a couple cigarettes and a lighter left. He had left in such a hurry he forgot to quit smoking. "Why fight it?” he figured, and lit up.
Anthony drifted, smoking a stale cigarette and observing the smoke emanating from its tip. Gently but constantly burning, the smoke seemed to divide the horizon in two ever so briefly before dissipating into the equally grey skies. Its movement reminded him of water being poured from a pitcher: smooth, fluid, infinite. Disgusted by his musings, he turned his head and looked at the world around him, expecting it to be drastically different from what it was before debarking on this journey. But there was nothing new or exciting to perceive; other than his being surrounded on all sides by the Mississippi, nothing had changed: the skyline was the same, the reeds on the bank the same, even the limestone typical of the area had been sucked dry of the interest it once held.
An immense frustration welled up in him, filling his heart and making it hard to breathe; seized by a violent nausea, he lurched himself over the edge of his rowboat and prepared to vomit. But what was looking back at him shocked him out of his sickly state, and he recoiled, nearly capsizing his small, sturdy boat. He took a breath. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, he felt himself creeping back across the boat and poking his nose over the edge. Tony never was one to miss a good train wreck.
Anthony was practically doubled over, his stubby toes trying in vain to get a hold on the sandy bank as he shoved his raft, inch by inch, into the murky grey river. This is what the Mississippi had been reduced to: a cloudy, expressionless, dead grey. The sea's reflection was no sight to see, either. No clouds, but no blue either. Perhaps if there were clouds, they would have leant a certain dynamism to the sky above, but today, fate had other things in mind: blander, more banal, quotidian things.
Anthony, however, refused to accept what fate had to offer. Like a greedy big brother, what he had been offered was not going to be enough. Today, Tony refused destiny and chose action. Earlier in the day, taking one heavy blanket, a raincoat, a fishing rod, and a gallon of water, he sold everything he could and walked away from the rest. With the money from the car he sold (a 1985 two-door Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme), he bought a loaf of bread, a sharp folding knife, and a small, sturdy rowboat. Having served two tours in the navy, he knew what a sturdy rowboat resembled. And although this one, a deep green boat blistered and peeling under years of supporting the sun's weight, could do with a good scrubbing and simple paint job, it was going to do for now. Anthony would have plenty of time on his hands in the coming weeks.
After all, he was no longer employed, nor did he have any family that he could see. His job, his love, his family, his perspective had all disappeared in the preceding week as if engulfed by a heavy fog. First one end of the boat pierces the veil of humidity, feigning victory, but soon the fog creeps, and before you know it all that's left is the opposite end of the boat, stretching, extending its fingertips to flee from being swallowed by the overwhelming mass of air. With that image in mind, that caricature of fate and life in general, Anthony found himself sitting in his nameless boat as it floated further and further away from the banks of Red Wing, Minnesota and integrated itself with the larger Mississippi. He felt in his shirt pocket and realized he had a couple cigarettes and a lighter left. He had left in such a hurry he forgot to quit smoking. "Why fight it?” he figured, and lit up.
Anthony drifted, smoking a stale cigarette and observing the smoke emanating from its tip. Gently but constantly burning, the smoke seemed to divide the horizon in two ever so briefly before dissipating into the equally grey skies. Its movement reminded him of water being poured from a pitcher: smooth, fluid, infinite. Disgusted by his musings, he turned his head and looked at the world around him, expecting it to be drastically different from what it was before debarking on this journey. But there was nothing new or exciting to perceive; other than his being surrounded on all sides by the Mississippi, nothing had changed: the skyline was the same, the reeds on the bank the same, even the limestone typical of the area had been sucked dry of the interest it once held.
An immense frustration welled up in him, filling his heart and making it hard to breathe; seized by a violent nausea, he lurched himself over the edge of his rowboat and prepared to vomit. But what was looking back at him shocked him out of his sickly state, and he recoiled, nearly capsizing his small, sturdy boat. He took a breath. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, he felt himself creeping back across the boat and poking his nose over the edge. Tony never was one to miss a good train wreck.
Hello!
This is the christening of our writing project Exquisite Corpse L. L stands for Lit. I believe all the participants here knows what this is about. For everyone else, it is basically rally race of writing between different authors. Each week we are going to switch author, but the story remains and everyone must improvise. So, enjoy, comment, or just do whatever.
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