The Dark Road

A long journey on a dark road. Over my shoulder is the strap of a small cloth sack, holding cranberries and almonds. My chest is covered in a blue wool coat that reaches towards my feet and wrists. It is a long road, curving over the earth like a serpent, winding past deserts and over mountains and into valleys. It is a long road, a long journey and it continues with another step. One tiny step on the gravelly road mixed with dirt and dust. The earth crunches beneath my weight, each step grinding rock to sand. Night has fallen and the sky is metallic silver and black. There are no individual clouds, they have merged together, forming a giant blanket of moisture, a thick sheen of other-worldly color and implication.

I look to the sky, searching for something; for a shape in the heavens, a word to appear in the silvery darkness. I squint, my chin raised, looking, looking.

The journey is long, walked step by step, each one as important as the next, for the future can come only after the present has been walked. They are tiny little steps on an earthen road with nebulous edges that fade into fields of grass. The path is either forgotten and clear as the night time sky. The past is mine alone. Mine in this valley below a metallic sky. These little pointed black leather shoes carry me onwards, my only protection from the sleeping jagged pebbles.

It is a long journey on a dark road. The sky is metallic silver and black and a raven flies overhead. His wings are spread wide and full, adding another shadow of dark to the sky. He swoops in alone, circling the valley in wide circles, soaring on a cold wind that comes from a forgotten dead sun.

Surrounding me on all sides are steep barren mountains. They surround the valley like the edges of a high bowl. I walk slowly, taking little steps with my leather shoes. A raven flies overhead, ringing a bell. The sound moves through me, riding my veins like a thousand tiny ships.

It is a long journey on a dark road. The sky is metallic silver and black and a raven flies overhead, ringing a bell. The blanket of clouds begins to pulse, responding to the waves of sound. A wind begins to sweep over the mountain sides and my body shudders in the wind. I am the blend of mountain, of wind, of cloud, of blood; held together by the bell, its sound running through me like dark angels flying into the metallic night.

Mountain Path

The path is cut in the foliage, a brown band of dry compact soil that stands out clearly in some places only to taper off and disappear completely in others. Around the bend, behind a cluster of boulders, or dipping down a shelf beside tree roots that dangle out of the cliff face like long splintered fangs, it twists and evaporates and re-emerges with the same disregard for logic displayed by a photon fired through a screen with two slits. In the silver moonlight, it assumes a lackluster roll, out shone by the pale boulders that seem to bubble up from the darkness of the earth like matte pearls. A fine gauze of mist slowly chases its own tail around the trunks of deeply grooved and twisting trees and the lazy lumps and ridges of the mountainside, content to swallow the path here and spit it out there along its way. The moonlight’s reach is stunted and muted by the mist’s slippery moist hide. In the patches where it hangs thickest like the swollen length of an albino anaconda squeezing a live hippo into extinction, the moon’s soft glow is entirely denied admittance. In these places where the light fails to penetrate, the darkness steals around unhindered, like a purple stain oozing over rocks and soil and ragged tufts of bracken. It has a life of its own, wriggling beyond the moon’s impertinent gaze. The dark green of the undergrowth is blackened and forms amorphous conglomerations that bear resemblance to sinister animals crouched over their quarry. Real beasts play their dire games amid these imposters, hiding beneath the bony branches and brittle leaves. The waxen flash of a rabbit darting from one lump of foliage to the next punctuates the slow slinking of a scrawny coyote who would be invisible except for the sheen of his eyes. A startled faun streaks over the path and bounds away, again and again, imitating the delirious loop of a skipping record.
The fresh scent of juniper hangs in the air after it has been wetted under the mists crawling belly, along with that of sage, and something faintly evocative of licorice. The musky odor of dirt is also detectable after it has been excited by such a close encounter with this moist serpentine body of vapor.
The steep cliff side drops away completely into an abyss of shaggy greenery in some places and offers the path an opportunity to continue its discordant adventures along narrow slopes. The trees here and there reach their bare riveted arms skyward and seem to hold their clusters of greenery like wispy clouds or steaming platters proffered to the sky. Rather than reaching tall and lean they seem to be stretching horizontally as though they were trying to catch their balance along the rolling slopes and keep their platters from slipping away. In these endeavors they stand apart from one another, each aware of the others’ awkward situation and the need for space, each so absorbed with their own dilemma of equilibrium that they disdain to join the crowd.
Up above them the distant round moon watches their slow negotiations with the earth’s gravity. Her dark dimples and lines form the outline of the hare, betraying her personal sympathies in regard to the desperate games of the furry creatures scrambling around among the exposed tree roots and stark boulders. The path, inspired by the moon’s attention for exhibitionism, spreads wide in the high flat places so that she can get a good look at its perfect nakedness while the mist jealously keeps its secrets and conducts its private swirling search for its self, hungrily squeezing off little quadrants of earth and engendering darkness in the process.

Discount Store

A large warehouse space is dimly lit. The overall space is submerged in a grayish hue, though sparse yellow bulbs hang from single black wires clinging to the ceiling every fifteen feet. They hang like the stars, thirty feet from the ground, their light flickering like distant voices from eons past. Gray comes from the high cinderblock walls without windows and the cement floor that breaths a cold, unrelenting truth.
The space is divided into thirty long aisles by twelve-foot tall metal shelves. They shelves are heavy and solid, built for industry and the test of time. Each shelving unit has ten individual shelves packed with old cans of vegetables and beans, fruit cocktail, and dusty sacks of rice and dried lentils. Thirty rows fill the warehouse space, each one thirty feet long.
The discount store is empty of people, though full of old dented goods that await use, to have just one more moment of life. A refrigerated section hums in the far left corner, it alone emitting bright white florescent light, like the opening of a tunnel to another plane of reality. The cold section is stocked with several varieties of packaged tofu, still within their expiration date. There are cartons of milk and large chunks of yellow cheese packaged in cellophane. The light radiates out a few dozen steps from the cold section, illuminating a few hand-made ceramic sinks that sit on the ground beside a tall metal shelf propped against the wall.
In the first aisle from the wall, a magical knife rests on the floor below the first shelf of the unit. It stands out like a giant phallus in the store of mass production, one of only two things made with human hands and careful attention. It is large and mostly flat, curved like a bow, with a long dragon-like head at one point. It is made of silvery-black clay and a small careful sigil is carved into the forehead of the creature. It sits without a speck of dust in the shadow of the tall shelves piled high with cans of black garbanzo beans and peas.
A lone worker stands in the front of the store, behind a row of elevated cash registers, like silent players on a stage. The young man stands ready for a store of empty customers. His black hair manages to shine in the dim yellow light, somehow coming alive despite the gray of the walls and floor and absence of fresh new life. His tan skin pops out of his thin, tight white t-shirt, a testament to sun and melanin and vigor. He is comfortable here in his place, a king in this square castle of old goods and their hidden treasures.

Underground

The chamber is small, just a roughly cut square, six feet long on each side, just spacious enough for a handful of people. The floor is cut from inner earth and nothing disguises its raw nature. There are no rugs or tiles upon it, it is just cool, compacted earth that has the faint smell of decomposing leaves upon a forest floor. The contoured floor is a very deep brown, almost black and somewhat shiny in spots towards the center and more dusty and matte along the perimeter where the ground becomes the wall without any hard angles. There is nothing smooth about it, it moves like a soft miniature landscape with subtle differences in the height of each corner, between walls there are slight valleys and mountains, each one barely perceptible on first glance. Traces of footprints are visible in the dust around the edges and indentations of hard metal tools mingle among them, disguising their origin. The floor is cool at any given moment, made cold by the depths within the earth, hidden from sunlight and the touch of air and wind and light. The walls of the room are carved from the earth as well and they remain gritty, sloping in spots, protruding in others without any thought of geometry.
The space is almost completely dark, illuminated only by a very small fire that burns in the center of the earthen floor. Little bits of coal and small scrapes of wood crackle and cast elongated shapes onto the walls. The colors on the walls dance in shades of black that quickly jump into the realm of pale orange and then quickly move back towards the dark. In the flickering shadows that lick the walls, a couple of tapestries decorate the creased walls. They are semi-large rectangular pieces of geometric art made of colorful thick wool. In the firelight, it is hard to make out any of the colors, but the shapes do not divulge any mythic images, there are no distinct figures or representations, just hard geometric shapes: triangles, lines, squares, rectangles, circles. The shapes overlap and reach outwards, as if trying to be the one closest to the surface of the tapestry. The result is a fusion of lines that has no definitive subject. The triangles and squares and long lines are in sharp contrast to the imperfect square-ness of the floor and walls of the chamber.
In the center of the chamber, the little fire, barely larger than a dinner plate, is contained. Broken pieces of coal and thin logs burn and crackle, sending their smoke up in a long, thin current that voyages up into a ceiling that is completely black with smoke from previous fires. From the soft edges of the walls, the ceiling tapers up into a blackened peak with a thin hole at the very top which ushers the smoke from the room.
There is a vague shadow in the room, a thin man who moves quietly and softly around the perimeter of the chamber. His footsteps make no noise, his movements cast only the faintest glimmer of shadows upon the walls. His gait resides somewhere between anxious pacing and mindful, controlled movement. He is alert and attentive, aware of everything in the small space and watching it like a quiet guardian, waiting for a threat like an outdoor cat on the boundary of its land.
Beside the fire, standing only inches from its grasping flames is a short brown skinned woman. Her thin ankles and skinny legs lead to a very round stomach which has the shape of a large tree stump, lacking any curve. Hiding her legs is a skirt made from thick black wool that still smells of sheep and has little bits of leaves and small branches the size of toothpicks woven within the cloth. She has wrapped the long material around her lower half like thread around a spool and holding it all up is a large colorful sash that is tied around her stomach, in multiple knots.
In the firelight, the color of her skin is like black coffee mixed with milk. Below her beautifully embroidered neckline, her large breasts protrude from her thick white linen shirt like autonomous mothers ready to feed any and all creatures that would hover at her feet. Her thick, chubby shoulders lead to very thin, delicate wrists and to her hands that are clutching each other in a loose embrace as she stares with a fixed gaze into the small fire.
There are scattered gray ashes along the periphery of the fire, but the porous black coals burn bright in the center of the room. Sitting directly upon the burning wood and coals is a medium sized brass bowl which is about a foot high. Its mouth is wide and small flat indentations from a hammer grace the sides of the vessel. Inside the bowl, is a pile of fine gray ashes that fill it halfway. The woman’s smooth face is relaxed, her mouth is slightly open and curved in a small, almost undetectable smile. Her dark eyes, which are lined at the sides with thick crow’s feet are soft and hazy. Her eyelids are slightly drooping. The woman holds her gaze upon the bowl. The man in the shadows roams the periphery of the dark chamber in perpetual vigilance.

Descending Escalators

There are two long escalators side by side. The slates of the revolving stairs are shiny on top and black and gritty in the grooves. They are relics, having once been known as a technological marvel, now, they are well worn and barely maintained. The plastic handrails are scratched and dingy, the once shiny black plastic is now on the verge of being called gray. They are long, a couple hundred feet spans the distance from the sun drenched street to the dark lower level. Both escalators are bringing people down, bringing people from the bright, noisy street into the cool depths of the underground rail system. The tunneled opening to the subway is spacious; the graying ceiling is hundreds of feet above and lends an air of grandiosity; as though the riders are on path to a new, darkened kingdom. Halfway down, I can still feel the bright light from the street above which is saturated in the sound of screeching buses and the smell of overripe fruit. But the sounds of the city pale in strength to the thick silence of the inner earth. There are no sounds that compete for attention here. It is only the continuous mechanical drone of the revolving escalator gears that fills the space with sound. The crowd on the escalators is quiet, each rider stands silent and erect, looking straight ahead, like soldiers at attention, emotionless and still. The ceiling of the tunnel is spotted with the yellowed dim glare of old fluorescent lights. The subdued lighting adds to the quiet. On either side of the conjoined escalators are wide stairs of dark red bricks, made glossy by the countless shoes that have walked upon them. Covering the walls are billboard after billboard, each one colorful and shiny; like windows to another world, they flaunt the latest in technological innovation. My old friend is riding on the escalator to my left. His hair is a cushion of long fluffy curls, like the well-worn wig of a Halloween costume. He is wearing his favorite plastic sunglasses. The lenses are black and adorned in turquoise trim. I call out to him, well above the pitch of the escalator gears. He is only a couple feet from me, but he does not turn around. He is smiling, almost undetectably, with only the smallest corner of his mouth in a slight upturn. I call his name over and over, but he simply stands still, waiting to reach the bottom of the escalator but never fulfilling his goal. As much as I call, he never turns around, the escalator never stops moving, and the crowd never leaves.

Doll Box

The building is shaped like a pyramid that never quite comes to a point. The walls slope inward and upward closing in on themselves. As high as the eye can see, covering the faces of all four walls, are the dirty plastic and porcelain visages of dolls. Some are just heads, others wear ragged dresses, sailor suits, or overalls to cover their little bodies. Some are missing an eye, from others an arm or a leg is absent, or even the hair which should adorn a head. In some cases the hair has been cut down to reveal the little round pin holes through which silky synthetic hairs once cascaded generously. Now only short outcroppings protrude like thirsty weeds from un-watered earth. They are bathed in shadows from which they peer out at each other timidly.
The smudges of dirt and dust upon their apple shaped cheeks blend inconspicuously with the general gloom. The only light to trouble the inanimate inhabitants of this space comes from a small round window positioned somewhere up high. It is dirt streaked and lets in just a touch of light, enough to make the occupants of the room visible. If the mass of dolls, with their dirtied lace petticoats and moth eaten pink bloomers could be lifted from the walls, only faded gray planks of wood would be revealed with splintered edges by their absence. The floor too is of the same wood planks looking ashen under a film of dust. This film is completely undisturbed, like a blanket of new snow, it is spread snugly over the floorboards.
In one corner, a spider is walking along, leaving behind pin prick arachnid footprints. His body is very round, his legs are not too long compared to other spiders. To the dolls he looks black, especially as positioned over the dust. To another spider he would appear to be more of a dark grayish brown.
He ambles along under an unfinished pine rocking chair. It too is subject to the powdering of dust. Its great curved sled feet rise up from the floor, the tips pointing toward a ceiling invisible in the murk.
There is no apparent doorway leading in or out. Along the wall on one side of the room a dark counter top with a few drawers juts like a fat lip from under the dangling legs of dolls. A few lengths of wire lay out across its surface, gathering ashen particles so that they have come to look fuzzy. They hang over the edge and just reach to the floor. On one corner of the counter sits a glass jar. Several bushy brushes, like those made for applying make up, cross lengths with a more petite variety, like those used for painting some fine detail. Hidden among their stems at the bottom of the jar, one blue eye rests unblinking, perhaps lost from the face of some poor citizen hanging high above.
There is a faded yellow paper laying out, also coated with the velvety dust. Upon it, faint graphite markings are approaching invisibility, now too faded to make anything of their original design out. From the outside the building looks like a chimney stack covered in shingles, all painted a robin’s egg blue. The panes crossing the round window are painted goldenrod, as is the lattice around the superfluous eaves at the building’s crest. A large black crow sits perched on the western lip of the roof, looking silently at the steely blue storm clouds as they drift out into the distance.

Moon Glow

The night is dark, free from the light pollution of street lamps, illuminated only by a round moon hung white in the sky. Dust underfoot belongs to a dirt road, the end of which disappears into the deep purple shadows. Here it runs along the sparse rural fence of wire and wood to end wearily at the gate.
In the darkness, beyond the sagging lines of wire, an ample house lies low, hugging the earth under the canopy of a stout tree. A picture frame window glows yellow, promising warmth and comfort to those who will enter.
There are horses in stalls obscured from view of the road by nocturnal blindness. The stable can be only dimly perceived from where it hides behind the house. Outside the dominion of the fence, wild grass lays limp in the dewy moisture, it’s yellowness muted by moon glow. Bracken is charcoal hued, a reflection of the mysterious ambiguity bred in lack of light. The field spreads unabashedly under the caress of dark sky, a lonesome tree adrift in its vastness.
Near at hand there is the crackle of movement in the underbrush. The rustle of leaf and limb brushed by a sizable and advancing form. The cool electrifying night air awakens with its approach.
Moonlight glazes everything, the fence posts with their peeling white paint, the lonely tree in the field, and the big black wolf emerging from the inky chaparral. Its individual hairs lay like stiff black wire bristles upon its muzzle, spreading out and back, away from the black nostrils and round yellow eyes. A growl bubbles steadily in its throat like water coming to boil in a cast iron pot, and its pointed teeth glisten white, jutting from the pink gum line revealed by snarl curled lips. Its grimace is beautiful, riveting before the sleeping homestead, framed by purple night and bathed in moonshine.

City Lights

The city lights glow phantom like behind pyramids of glass and steel, forging a luminescent backdrop. Outside the city’s glass walls, the night is cold and dark.
They huddle around a burning steel can, their faces orange in the glow. Their hats and gloves are colorful, mismatched, and grimy. Greasy locks of hair dangle from under the hats. Fingers poke out of the broken ends of gloves. Jagged toothed smiles are lit by the firelight like those of jack o lanterns.
They jest and laugh defiantly, their eyes glittering with the knowledge of the street and the dark and this space beyond civilization. In the distance, a woman is screaming. The sound is strangled out by its companion noise, something unintelligible, similar to snarling.
They hear it. It barely scratches their surface, registering in the eyes as a momentary dulling. They continue to talk and joke and drink from dented tin cups passed round. Out beyond them a sleek train runs over a raised rail, noiseless en route to the dignified citadel. Beneath its trestles the pitch blackness yawns in on itself and the snarling slides back into silence.

Something Lurks

The ground is littered with leaves of brown and gold. Knotted oaks snake upward, their bodies fat and twisted.

One is missing its canopy. It has a gaping black opening in its trunk. This tree, or remnant of a tree, is to the left. It seems to offer both protection in terms of a place to hide and pose hidden threats of it’s own.

The landscape is uneven. There is a creek bed up ahead. I have advanced on this place repeatedly. Sometimes I find the creek full, other times at a trickle or bone dry.

Something lurks out here. It has taken someone I know.

I am almost in the creek when I catch a glimpse of it beyond the opposite bank. It is quick, running up right like a man, a blur of thick orange fur. I have not seen its eyes, but its mouth is black and has teeth for tearing flesh. It disappears amid the distant trees.

I begin to climb the bank and head in its direction.

Explosion

Everything in the room is beginning to darken and glow around the edges.
The edges jiggle jump and ooze. My heart is racing.
Everything inside seems to slow down and my flesh ripples and crawls so quickly that it must be undetectable by the human eye.
I am sinking fast. The darkness deepens, penetrates everything.
My companion holds me so that our faces are close. I kiss him and my cracked heart explodes, everything hot and black spills out of me.
First from my open mouth and melting tongue, then from every pore.
As I slip into oblivion I know I have been exposed. Everyone can see the contents of my heart in this shattered condition.
The secrets it held bleed into the view of the cruel masses.
Just before my mind and being fold into a tiny pin point and dissolve I am vaguely aware of a girl, sobbing like an animal in the distance.

Dividing Door

I am in front of a door...

more precisely, there is a doorway separating me from a friend; sometimes a door appears, sometimes it is invisible although the feeling of a boundary remains.

My friend is testing the lighting situation, looking at me through the peephole in the door...the sometimes invisible door.

She says she can see my dark shape, she knows I am there...although my details are completely obscured.