Thursday, June 9, 2011
he was living-dead,
Well…
It wasn’t surprising, really. Nothing living could have endured what he had. So…he was living-dead, then. There were worse things to be. At least he was animate and mobile. At least he had a chance for vengeance.
Best to get the lay of the land. He returned his attentions to the world around him. The sky was blood red, and there seemed to be no sun. Rather, the whole thing glowed in the deepest crimson. Interesting.
Now, the field of the dead . . . he gazed out over it. At first it seemed infinite. A single vast wasteland of arms, legs, shattered bodies, bits of flesh rotting as watched.
But, then, gradually, he realized there was a limit to it. Far, far away, almost beyond the range of his vision, there seemed to be a wall of some sort, rising and containing the spillage of cadavers. Ah.
Just then, some instinct warned him. Without thinking he threw himself to one side.
There was an enormous crash of metal. He whirled about to see a huge metal scoop or claw, like the open mouth of a steam shovel, crashing into the mound of bodies. He watched as it closed around a great mouthful of the dead, and then rose into the air, spilling bits of flesh as it did.
It wasn’t surprising, really. Nothing living could have endured what he had. So…he was living-dead, then. There were worse things to be. At least he was animate and mobile. At least he had a chance for vengeance.
Best to get the lay of the land. He returned his attentions to the world around him. The sky was blood red, and there seemed to be no sun. Rather, the whole thing glowed in the deepest crimson. Interesting.
Now, the field of the dead . . . he gazed out over it. At first it seemed infinite. A single vast wasteland of arms, legs, shattered bodies, bits of flesh rotting as watched.
But, then, gradually, he realized there was a limit to it. Far, far away, almost beyond the range of his vision, there seemed to be a wall of some sort, rising and containing the spillage of cadavers. Ah.
Just then, some instinct warned him. Without thinking he threw himself to one side.
There was an enormous crash of metal. He whirled about to see a huge metal scoop or claw, like the open mouth of a steam shovel, crashing into the mound of bodies. He watched as it closed around a great mouthful of the dead, and then rose into the air, spilling bits of flesh as it did.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Shai’ol
Lester stood, unthinking, gasping in the air…
He could breathe! He could breathe!
He did not wonder how it was that he’d been able to survive under a mountain of rotting bodies. He did not wonder how long he had been there. He did not wonder what malevolent force had cast him into this hell.
He simply stood and let the air fill his lungs. To breathe!
Gradually, he began to become aware of his surroundings. He stood, he discovered, in a middle of a vast field of the dead. Bodies stretched off in all directions as far as he could see.
Bodies . . . twisted, mutilated, some partly burned. Here was an eyeless head, the scalp half removed so the skull gleamed in the red light. There was a torso, legless, armless, its genitalia ripped away by some savage force.
They were nude. None seemed to have clothing.
Which reminded him. He glanced down at himself. Oh, fucking hell. He was nude as well, but the problem was his body itself. A vast, gapping, hideous wound stretched from his throat to his groin. Heart, lungs, guts. . . all were on display.
He did not bleed. The wound was dry. No blood flowed. He checked his pulse.
There wasn’t any.
He could breathe! He could breathe!
He did not wonder how it was that he’d been able to survive under a mountain of rotting bodies. He did not wonder how long he had been there. He did not wonder what malevolent force had cast him into this hell.
He simply stood and let the air fill his lungs. To breathe!
Gradually, he began to become aware of his surroundings. He stood, he discovered, in a middle of a vast field of the dead. Bodies stretched off in all directions as far as he could see.
Bodies . . . twisted, mutilated, some partly burned. Here was an eyeless head, the scalp half removed so the skull gleamed in the red light. There was a torso, legless, armless, its genitalia ripped away by some savage force.
They were nude. None seemed to have clothing.
Which reminded him. He glanced down at himself. Oh, fucking hell. He was nude as well, but the problem was his body itself. A vast, gapping, hideous wound stretched from his throat to his groin. Heart, lungs, guts. . . all were on display.
He did not bleed. The wound was dry. No blood flowed. He checked his pulse.
There wasn’t any.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Things Worse Than Anguish
Really angry now, Morris snapped. “I’m not, and it wouldn’t be any business if . . . “
“Take, for example, that book you’re writing,” Lester plowed ahead, as if Morris had said nothing. He tapped a finger on the papers he’d brought, the automatic writing. “You’ll never finish it.”
“I…what?”
“Two reasons for that. First, because you’ve basically realized that you have no talent for that sort of thing. I mean, your first book was all right, but that was really your doctoral dissertation, and you had your major professor to edit it line by line, page by page, until it made sense. Your second book, well, that was a mess. I’ve tried to read it. Sentences go whirling into infinity. Logical connections get tossed out the window.”
Morris felt the fury take him. He meant to say something cutting . . . to yell …even to stand and threaten physical violence.
But he couldn’t move!
Lester continued without seeming to notice his paralysis. “Second, because you don’t give a damn any more. Years ago, you woke up and realized you were just going through the motions. Everyday, every passing day, it’s a gets a little more tedious for you. The papers sent off to ‘Prestigious Journals.’ The snide comments you put on student’s work. The office politics. The way you sit on grant committees and deny funding to all and sundry . . . regardless of the value of the projects . . . simply because you can. And because that’s the way it’s done.”
Why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he speak? He tried to move his arms, his head, his body . . . he couldn’t. He felt as though were buried in something. A hot, viscous liquid … like molten glass.
Lester spoke on. He tilted his head, like a dog. “And you’ve begun to hate it all. You hate it the way a man on death row starts to hate the walls of his cell, the calendar, the other prisoners, his guards. Begins to hate even his own lawyers, and the endless appeals that keep him alive. He begins to long for the chair, the chamber, the lethal injection that drips cold death into your veins. It would be a relief.”
He couldn’t breathe! He couldn’t cry out. He felt he was strangling. He had a visions of human bodies piled in great heaps…
“I think it is all rather horrible really. I mean, your life.” Lester spoke from some distant place. “Day in and day out. Sort of Sartre, don’t you think. But I can help you. I’m your gateway, you see. I’m the door out.”
He could move again! He gasped and choked. Dear God. What had happened to him? Dear Christ. He glanced up, found Lester’s red and yellow eyes looking down at him.
He found the breath to curse him. “Why didn’t you help me, damn you?”
“Because you didn’t ask.” The eyes continued their pitiless regard of him. “But, I repeat my offer. If you ever do want to escape . . really escape . . . just call. I’ll do what I can.”
“Go to hell.”
The man in dark leather smiled again. “Now there’s an interesting concept. All that nonsense about eternal suffering. As if.” He laughed. “As if there aren't things much, much worse than mere anguish."
Then, with a last “good night,” he turned on his heel and was gone.
“Take, for example, that book you’re writing,” Lester plowed ahead, as if Morris had said nothing. He tapped a finger on the papers he’d brought, the automatic writing. “You’ll never finish it.”
“I…what?”
“Two reasons for that. First, because you’ve basically realized that you have no talent for that sort of thing. I mean, your first book was all right, but that was really your doctoral dissertation, and you had your major professor to edit it line by line, page by page, until it made sense. Your second book, well, that was a mess. I’ve tried to read it. Sentences go whirling into infinity. Logical connections get tossed out the window.”
Morris felt the fury take him. He meant to say something cutting . . . to yell …even to stand and threaten physical violence.
But he couldn’t move!
Lester continued without seeming to notice his paralysis. “Second, because you don’t give a damn any more. Years ago, you woke up and realized you were just going through the motions. Everyday, every passing day, it’s a gets a little more tedious for you. The papers sent off to ‘Prestigious Journals.’ The snide comments you put on student’s work. The office politics. The way you sit on grant committees and deny funding to all and sundry . . . regardless of the value of the projects . . . simply because you can. And because that’s the way it’s done.”
Why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he speak? He tried to move his arms, his head, his body . . . he couldn’t. He felt as though were buried in something. A hot, viscous liquid … like molten glass.
Lester spoke on. He tilted his head, like a dog. “And you’ve begun to hate it all. You hate it the way a man on death row starts to hate the walls of his cell, the calendar, the other prisoners, his guards. Begins to hate even his own lawyers, and the endless appeals that keep him alive. He begins to long for the chair, the chamber, the lethal injection that drips cold death into your veins. It would be a relief.”
He couldn’t breathe! He couldn’t cry out. He felt he was strangling. He had a visions of human bodies piled in great heaps…
“I think it is all rather horrible really. I mean, your life.” Lester spoke from some distant place. “Day in and day out. Sort of Sartre, don’t you think. But I can help you. I’m your gateway, you see. I’m the door out.”
He could move again! He gasped and choked. Dear God. What had happened to him? Dear Christ. He glanced up, found Lester’s red and yellow eyes looking down at him.
He found the breath to curse him. “Why didn’t you help me, damn you?”
“Because you didn’t ask.” The eyes continued their pitiless regard of him. “But, I repeat my offer. If you ever do want to escape . . really escape . . . just call. I’ll do what I can.”
“Go to hell.”
The man in dark leather smiled again. “Now there’s an interesting concept. All that nonsense about eternal suffering. As if.” He laughed. “As if there aren't things much, much worse than mere anguish."
Then, with a last “good night,” he turned on his heel and was gone.
Monday, May 9, 2011
The last few shreds of poor little Lester
At that moment, some part of Morris softened. He looked at the man before him and felt real pity. Here was an individual who had aspired to some kind of accomplishment, only to discover that it was as beyond his reach as the stars themselves. “Are you really leaving the program?”
He got a laugh by way of reply, and then, “Have a choice? After the performance I gave today?”
Morris tried to save him. “I could intervene. If you apologized to them, maybe I could talk to Professor Putridrine and …”
Lester raised his hands, revealing more gristly fake stitches at the wrists. “Please don’t bother. I’m leaving.”
“I’m …” Morris considered his words, then plunged ahead. “I’m very sorry.”
“Yes,” for once Lester wasn’t smiling. “Yes, I believe you really are. Unfortunate, really. There is a part of you that is, I think, genuinely decent. Problematic for me. It would make my life so much easier if you were rotten to the core.”
Morris said nothing that. He wasn’t sure what he could have said.
So, Lester continued. “You all are, actually. You, the others. A touch of humanity in all of you. You are complex creatures, you know.”
“Thank you. I think.”
“I wish you were more like me. I’m pretty much the same right through. Cut me open and you’d find I was sort of like a plant. A pine. All the same right through, except for a few tree rings.” Another laugh. “And, of course, the rind. That’s different, too. The last few shreds of poor little Lester.”
Morris regarded him warily from behind his mustache. This was the talk of madness. Lester was clearly disturbed. Was he also dangerous?
“Don’t worry,” Lester gave his former professor a grin. “I speak … metaphorically. If it makes you more comfortable, pretend I said ‘the former Lester,’ or the ‘previous me.’ It isn’t true, but it makes conversation easier.”
In spite or because of Lester’s assurances, Morris found himself becoming tense. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, but . . .”
“But you think I ought to be getting along, yes.” Lester seemed almost tender. “But, before I go, I do want to repeat my offer of help.” He stood.
Irritated, Morris “I don’t need your aid.”
“Ah, but you do. You see, you are desperately unhappy.”
He got a laugh by way of reply, and then, “Have a choice? After the performance I gave today?”
Morris tried to save him. “I could intervene. If you apologized to them, maybe I could talk to Professor Putridrine and …”
Lester raised his hands, revealing more gristly fake stitches at the wrists. “Please don’t bother. I’m leaving.”
“I’m …” Morris considered his words, then plunged ahead. “I’m very sorry.”
“Yes,” for once Lester wasn’t smiling. “Yes, I believe you really are. Unfortunate, really. There is a part of you that is, I think, genuinely decent. Problematic for me. It would make my life so much easier if you were rotten to the core.”
Morris said nothing that. He wasn’t sure what he could have said.
So, Lester continued. “You all are, actually. You, the others. A touch of humanity in all of you. You are complex creatures, you know.”
“Thank you. I think.”
“I wish you were more like me. I’m pretty much the same right through. Cut me open and you’d find I was sort of like a plant. A pine. All the same right through, except for a few tree rings.” Another laugh. “And, of course, the rind. That’s different, too. The last few shreds of poor little Lester.”
Morris regarded him warily from behind his mustache. This was the talk of madness. Lester was clearly disturbed. Was he also dangerous?
“Don’t worry,” Lester gave his former professor a grin. “I speak … metaphorically. If it makes you more comfortable, pretend I said ‘the former Lester,’ or the ‘previous me.’ It isn’t true, but it makes conversation easier.”
In spite or because of Lester’s assurances, Morris found himself becoming tense. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, but . . .”
“But you think I ought to be getting along, yes.” Lester seemed almost tender. “But, before I go, I do want to repeat my offer of help.” He stood.
Irritated, Morris “I don’t need your aid.”
“Ah, but you do. You see, you are desperately unhappy.”
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