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.
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