Angel

An excerpt from my short story, The Final Peal of the Dead, A Floundering

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The dripping sound hadn't stopped when I woke up. Well, my mind flickered to consciousness in the way the mind does when the eyes don't feel like opening yet. I'm not sure if that counts as waking up or not.

Drip, drip drip...

I tried not to think about what had just happened; a part of me—hopefully the smart part—seemed to have decided that I wouldn't like it when I realized. So for the moment, I hung there, eyes closed, motionless with lethargy and waited. I knew I was still in the truck, because I was hanging from something that felt an awful lot like a seatbelt.

I think it was the breeze that fucked up my careful application of not thinking about my surroundings. It whistled in my ears loudly, thickly. The city was too quiet somehow. Not that it hadn't been quiet ever since people quit bustling and started shuffling without much enthusiasm; it just felt different now. Worse, somehow.

My eyes opened reluctantly, giving grandose entrance to the sight of a thousand fires and a looming mushroom cloud where a city had once stood and it dawned on me: I was in a fallout zone. I was slowly, surely, being radiated to death. I would die of something bizarre like uvula cancer and nobody would ever know. I cursed my birth and shut my eyes again.

God did not exist and I was in hell. That, I decided, was the most intelligent solution to this whole fuckup. People didn't become zombies in real life. God didn't let them. But they had, and so He must not exist. And now the world around me was burning with fire and radiation just like hell must be. This was hell and God did not exist.

I fought back a wave of guilt at the thought, as if I had been caught in the act of doing something I shouldn't have. God didn't exist, right? So it didn't matter. It couldn't.

Eventually, I had my wits about me enough that freeing myself from the remains of the truck cab, which—I swear—looked a hell of a lot more like curly fries than any kind of vehicle. It was smashed and driven into the concrete wall that sided the freeway. I wasn't sure how I'd lived through this curious ordeal, but decided not to give it much thought. Some things are best left uncontemplated.

“Hello.”

My eyes opened almost hard enough to make my head rock back and forth. I couldn't move much, but gave a valiant effort to twisting and turning to see where the voice had come from. Nothing assauged my panicked curiousity.

“Would you like some help?” The voice was coming from somewhere nearby, but my ears were ringing for some reason, making it difficult to distinguish. It was deep, adult male, but carried a sort of wisened innocence that belayed anything I'd ever learned about anyone. Maybe it wasn't innocence, but a sort of willingness to help. That made more sense, at least.

“Sure,” I muttered. My throat felt raw for some reason. I didn't bother to think about it much.

My seat belt clicked free, leaving me free to flail before hitting the pavement spread eagle. It was warm and gritty and I'd skinned a knee. Reason enough to direct my slowly accumulated anger at the invisible voice.

“The hell? Hey, genius! What, do you have wings or something? 'Cause I don't. That hurt!”

He stepped out of the truck cab, which, I had to be impressed, was suspended a few feet above the pavement, embedded so firmly in the wall that it couldn't fall to the ground, and landed easily, bending his knees only a little to absorb the impact.

Swathed in dark jeans, black t-shirt and a coat the exact same hue, his face was framed in long, black hair that blanketed his shoulders in a messily tidy way and a decent beard framed his mouth. He looked like Jesus, only...darker. No halo on this mysterious figure. He wore a rifle slung over his shoulder and carried a handgun that slipped behind his coat before I could make out the model.

“How'd you get in there? Where did you come from? Who are you?”

“My name is Jacob. What's yours?”

“Call me Buddy. My name is no concern of yours. Who are you?”

“Okay, Buddy. I am an angel.”

I barked a laugh, couldn't help myself, at his words. “Like hell you are. Fine. What do you want?”

“I saved you.”

“Did you now? Last I checked, I just got nuked into a fucking wall. That's not what I'd call saving, Jake.”

“Jacob. And I did save you, but you don't have to believe me.” He started walking away.

“Hey!” I called after him. “Where are you going?”

“We have to leave now. Before they find us.”

I assumed he meant the zombies. “We? Why would I follow you?”

“Because I'm your angel.”

“Again with this angel shit!” I sputtered. “Look, delude yourself all you want, but don't try and suck me in, too. I'm fine with whatever just happened.”

“Obviously.” He continued walking as I hurried to catch up.

“Okay,” I conceded. “Where are we going?”

He looked over at me. “Wherever you're going, Buddy.”

I watched him for a moment, puzzled. “Uh, okay. Well I was looking for some friends.”

“You have friends?”

“Yeah, I—well, kind of. Come on.”

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(Like what you see? Look for an update in the near future for more information on where the rest of this is going.)

Of Drunken Men and Pinatas

A blog entry written not too long ago, though it has faded in my memory enough that it could be years past.

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As my life has progressed, I've faded in and out of a blogging habit. There was a time when I wrote ranbling, drawn-out stories of how my day had gone in some futile effort to garnish some form of attention from the few friends who read it. But the desire to share my life so fully with random people left me to return some months later as a stronger desire to write about things abstract or to wander my way through subjects I thought were interesting. But, in the end, this, too, simply left.

But now I am jobless, and in dire need of something to do with my time. So I do the one thing that comes naturally to me. I write. And, sad though it is, the writing that comes easiest is not always fictitious. I wish it were.

Today, I've decided to tackle the subject of people and socialising. Because it fascinates me and because it's been on my mind. I'll start with a short story.

Early this morning, not much past midnight, as the Canada Day revelries wound to a close, I found myself squeezing aboard an LRT in one of Edmonton's train stations. The car was packed with people and I made a comment to a few of them that if the train were to collide with anything, we would at least be safe, since our close proximity didn't allow for much jostling.

As the train pulled to a stop at another station, the door directly to my right slid open, revealing a leering, drunken man. Rude and abrasive, he called into the car with an offer to “cop a feel” from anyone inside. Naturally, this struck me as repulsive, but his drunken state also awakened a bit of humour and I tried to keep a straight face as I drilled a look into his eyes that spoke clearly of his need to back away.

He noticed. That is, he noticed me. And proceeded to direct his offer directly toward yours truly. Words failed me and a small grin found its way through. Thinking that it would provide him with more entertainment, I pointed out to the platform, where a trash can sat, rather artistically I might add.

His reply wasn't much more than a slurred, “fuck you,” but again, struck me as vastly hysterical as I bid him a good night. He got the parting shot, though. As the train pulled away, the people inside the train car burst into laughter at the sight of his drunken, rude gesture.

So this long and possibly arduous story brings me to my question. People, in general, when seen face to face, are usually quite polite. Go to any social gathering and you're bound to run across someone who's having a bad day but nobody even notices because it's so well hidden.

People are fantastic at creating masks for themselves. Masks that look so much like themselves that hardly anybody can see through it, and that at great effort. It makes me wonder. After all, isn't life a more joyful experience when we can be open and honest with one another? Not with every subject, mind you, but it seems to me that hard times call for assistance. And what are friends for if not to haul their comrades through the mire of life and back onto the green grass?

But it isn't “socially acceptable,” is it? The only times when people are treated with forgiveness for being rude or indecent is when they're intoxicated somehow and that's only because they can't control themselves any better.

I'm not saying it would be better for us to do shots until the dam breaks, though I'm sure there's a place for that as well, but I am curious as to why we build these walls around ourselves. Seems to me that life would be much simpler without all this red tape and pretense.

After all, isn't the castle the marvel of architecture and not the walls that surround it? I can speak for no one but myself, but I say what's on the inside is always more beautiful than the paper mache that surrounds it.

Unspeakable

My attempt at writing something akin to Rudyard Kipling's collection of darker short stories.  This was definitely more of an experiment than an actual attempt at writing something publishable, but sometimes it's best to try painting with your off-hand.  It's educational, at least.

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I met him per his request in a dingy bar on the north side of town. The once-polished wooden bartop was etched in swirling patterns from numerous beer mugs and bottles, sent and received, tender to patron and vice versa. Dim lighting, having once created a calm atmosphere, now served to conceal, if badly, dirt in the corners of the room. The tavern was dark enough in some places that its few occupants, whom I assumed to be regulars, stood out as little other than hazy forms, for there was smoke in the air. Apparently, non-smoking laws did not apply here.

I returned my gaze to my acquaintance who was also smoking a cigarette. It wasn't his first, either, judging by appearances, for a boquet of the things already occuped the nearby ashtray, fresh enough to avoid the mashed, ashy look of their comparts. His face, though white, was still handsome, or had once been, as it was now lined with age. I took his appearance in with a start, for the last time I had seen him, he had been dressed in a well-cut suit, with hair well-arranged and his shoulders square.

But now before me sat a man defeated, it seemed, by whatever ordeal he was about to reveal to me. An ordeal, I hoped, would be false, for a tale with such an impact would undboutedly excercise some of its power upon me as well.

And, though it has, I record the following for more to read. Not to invoke fear, though I am without a doubt that it will, even, terrify some, but to inform. Because no man should have to suffer as this man did, mentally and emotionally, that is, for he emerged in better health than would be expected. But that is cutting in near the end of our story and I have yet to begin, so without further adieu, I shall write it.

And I do hope my tone echoes his, for, though I have replicated his words as accurately as I can, I fear that my own voice speaks these words in my own way. He was no storyteller, of course—which is why he asked me to accompany him through his memories in such a manner—so some aspects may have changed, but only in form and not in fact, I assure you. Although he did resort to pen and paper near the end, for his voice quaked so. That writing is his own.

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It was a hot, August day and I sought to escape some of the many duties afforded me by my home. I had allowed the tidiness of the place to escape my day-to-day control and it cried out to be thoroughly cleaned, but I could not bring myself to do so as the sky was so beautiful. I am not a lazy man, I will have you know, but summer is so short-lived in these parts, it seemed ludicrous to miss it.

On this particular day, I had taken it upon myself to venture out to the foothills of the mountains and I took my time preparing my lunch, which I had brought with me, upon a blanket I had also brought, while I took in the vista. Before me, rolled out far into the distance on many moguls, stood the mountains, their grandeur naught but complimented by the array of lush, green landscape before them. Hay bales scattered the land and a stream cut its way at the bottom of the nearest valley. A breeze was singing through the grass, harmonizing with the birdsong and putting me in a fantastic mood.

Not long after my lunch, I was finding my way through the grass; it was tall, you see. Up to my waist at places, in fact, and filled with brambles and thistles, though I did not mind much, being far too caught up in the beauty of the place. In the distance, I heard the starting of a chainsaw, but paid it no mind because it did not concern me. I wondered, if only briefly, who would find it in themselves to fell these trees, but dismissed that, too, as none of my business and returned to ambling without purpose.

In time, it became evident that I was drawing nearer to the source of that one sound that was not natural. The roaring of this tree-felling instrument. From my vantage point, I could see no trees falling, nor could I hear them, so I assumed the wielder must be clearing a path somewhere, perhaps reducing a tree to something more easily managed. I gave it a mental shrug and, for what I hoped was the last time, allowed my mind to wander about. This was my day off, my hooky from responsibilities unimportant in comparison. It did me little good to worry about things out of my control.

But I drew still nearer, for I did not wish to cross the river and it was winding toward the copse of trees from which came the sound. Reluctant, for I am not an outgoing man, I decided against attempting a crossing and proceded, instead, to convince myself that, were I even to cross the path of whoever was behind that shroud of wood, it would be a mere passing greeting, perhaps a small, polite exchange, nothing more.

Thus satisfied, I pressed forward a bit more quickly, now eager to get it over with. The trees drew near; I could see between them now, make out the occasional glimpse of the man inside. He seemed intent on his work, however, unaware of my presence. Ahead, I spied a small opening between the trees and river, a place where I was sure I would be able to find solid footing. Grateful to avoid unnecessary confrontation, I made my way forward again.

But my reverie, and I will admit some relief as well, was shattered by a scream. I whirled about as the sound of the chainsaw sputtered and died. It seemed as if the scream was still echoing through the valley, so clear and anguished it had been. Hesitantly, I turned toward the copse and made quavering effort to call forth, but it stuck in my throat. It could not have been a wild animal, I concluded as I passed through the first few of the trees; the birds had taken up singing again.

It amazed me how little sunlight filtered in through the trees, even when I entered the small, recently created clearing. Why someone should choose to work in such a setting, especially on a beautiful day like that day, was beyond me, though I soon saw the reason for the clearing.

In the very center of the felled trees and branches gaped a maw, which just happened to take up most of the space where a long ray of sunlight penetrated the cover overhead. Tiny particles of dust swarmed in swirling patterns at the mouth of the hole, illuminated by the golden beam.

Cautiously, though I did not know why, I approahced the opening and peered downward, then pulled back with a gasp that seemed murderously loud in the quiet. The birds had stopped singing now; I looked around for a source to their fear but saw none and returned my stare to the chasm at my feet.

The man was lying facedown, legs obscured in darkness though the sunlight displayed his plaid shirt quite clearly. His arms was splayed on either side of his head as if they had meant to catch his fall, and perhaps they had, it was hard to tell. I called down once again, but got no reply.

Then the thought occured to me and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out at the idea that he might be dead. Furiously, I settled down to my haunches and extended both feet over the rim of the abyss, determined now that the unnamed, yet faceless man be proven alive and well.

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And the rest is told not by me, but by the man who experienced it. He is not so accomplished a storyteller, but perhaps the rawness of his words will help convey the message better. I will admit that the tale seems extraordinary, for it is, but implore the reader to continue on.

As written by the man who experienced it:

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Then I felt myself slipping, cos of the grass you know, it was long-bladed and slippery, and I fell forward. Miraculously, because I cannot think of another reason for it to have happened this way, I landed upon my feet and fell to my hands, unhurt.

For a moment, I was unsure as to why I was uninjured but soon found the source, and this shames me almost as much as it horrified me—my feet had landed directly on the back of the man below me, pressing him further into the mire that was the bottom of the pit.

And then my worst fears were confirmed, for he had not uttered a sound. I was forced, then, to come to terms with my situation. I was trapped at the bottom of a pit with a dead man lying facedown in the mud.

I was suddenly taken by a desire—the need—to see his face, for I didn't think I could ever be sure there was no hope for him if I didnt lay eyes upon his, if only for a moment. I fell clumsily to his side, getting mud all over my pants, and made to heave him onto his back as I gripped his shoulder.

I was surprised, then, to find that he would not move as easily as I had expected, but was stuck on something. Puzzled, I gripped both of his shoulders firmly and pulled one, to no avail, and again with all of my might.

Something popped, I heard a sound like liquid pouring onto dirt, the body came free of the ground and turned over with a ragged gasp that sounded more of a roar. I screamed then, I think, but I'm not sure. I did scramble backwards as fast as I could, though, because the dead man was sitting of it's own akkord, to my great disbelief.

The sight of him sitting like that has been burned into my memory forever, I know I will never forget it. Mud dripped from it's face, lining the wrinkles and forming them to be darker. It's white eyes stared at me from a gaunt face, they were rolled back so that I could hardly see m. Blood gushed from it's chest, too, where a big chunk had been tore free and when I looked to see what had done it, I saw a hand made just of bones sticking up out of the ground and holding something like meat.

And then he reached for me. I cant explain it, what happened next, but to say that I panikked. And wild as my eyes were, I laid them on the chainsaw that had also fallen in and made for it as quick as I could but he caught my ankel so that I tripped. My hand closed around the handle of the chainsaw as I landed so I pulled it toward me and pulled at the black handle on its side.

The thing almost sputtered to life on the first try and I should of been happy about that but the dead man was crawling towards me, his hand still firm about my ankel. His mouth was gaping, like it wanted to bite me. I think I was screaming the whole time.

Finally, the damn thing started up and I pulled the trigger as hard as I could, swinging it at him with all my might. The chain hit it's head, I don't know why I was watching still unless it was just to see that I didnt miss. I swung again and again, the chainsaw screaming and spraying more mud than blood, but there was plenty of that too, I can tell you. It covered my clothes.

Pretty soon, the body was lying still in the muck. I don't want to go into detail of how it looked now. I threw up more than once before I realized that the hand in the middle of the room was moving from side to side, seeking, I thought, to escape. I was horrified, all of a sudden, to think that it might be attached to another body.

And then I began to search for an escape in ernest. I could not see how far the walls of the cave extended, only one side was visible to me and I put my back against it, terrified of what might present itself from the shadows.

My searching gaze soon revealed to me a way out, but the hand in the middle had created a bit of a depression already and it's arm was revealed up to the elbow, which had enough room to bend now. I cursed, and there were tears falling down my face, returning my gaze to the beam that held up the roof.

The chainsaw was still rumbling in my hands, spattered with muck though it was, so I raised it to the ceiling support and cleaved it in two. Immediately, dirt began to sift from the ceiling, but did not fall. The beam had slipped down a few inches, but had enough support still that it was resting against itself at an angle.

A sound from the rapidly emerging skeleton brought my attention back around and I saw that it was now struggling to free it's last leg from the murk. My voice was nearly gone by that time, I am ashamed to admit that my breath had been coming out in a most unmaskulin way, but I managed a roar of fear as it took it's first step towards me.

I cannot say how or why, but I turned the tool in my hands not toward the enemy, but once again to the ceiling supports, this time directed at the vertical beam which supported the quivering one over head. It cleaved in two without much effort, the wood was old and brittle though damp as the rest of the pit. With a thunderous noise, the ceiling support crashed into the mud, crushing the skeleton a moment before it reached me. Still whimpering and drawing breath hastily I scrambled up the beam, which was now angeld into the hole so that I could make my way up to the surface and soon found myself panting for breath on the cool grass.

- - -

Thus ends the words of this unfortunate soul, safe though he may be. I shan't think the man will ever be the same for the things he has seen, whether they are believed or not, but there seems to be a twinkle in his oft glazed eyes, perhaps a joy found not in the memory of horror, but in thankful realization that it is over. And while I cannot support his story with any facts whatsoever—the pit seems to have been filled in—I can attest to the look in his eyes when he first revealed it to me, the look that did not vanish even after I had bought for him far too many drinks. Let his tale remind us all that an evil exists, not undefeatable, but exists nonetheless.