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.

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.

Darkness All Around

Dark, dark night of dewy grass and forgotten lots. A car is parked alongside a misty road, a white four door Sedan with rounded edges. Three doors are open and the overhead light is on, illuminating the interior of tan upholstery and carpet. Moored in a little bay of black asphalt, it glows warmly like a candle in a dark room. Around it the mist roll and curl and obscure dark stretches of road beyond the small empty parking lot and vaster blankets of green grass. It eclipses the yellowed bodies of naked trees whose leaves have blown far away, leaving only a few little golden tokens spread about the bed of grass.
The sky is void of the twinkle of stars huddled behind the invisible cover of clouds. Without street lamps or the light of civilization, the sky above is unfathomable and inky. The headlights of the parked white car shine out a few feet from its nose, casting their beam over the grassy floor and sea of sparse trees being swallowed by the voracious fog.
A tall young man stands in the parking lot embracing a young woman. He is clad in a bright red cape donned over crisp blue jeans and a new polo shirt of a dark navy hue accented by a band of lightly colored stripes that encircle his chest. The red satin horns of a devil are pinned on his head. His face is clean shaven, his short cropped hair is dark, his eyes are gentle and deer-like. He is engaged in pressing the girl enthusiastically to his breast, his cape rippling in the breeze that moves the white fog around them in sheets of mobile moisture.
The woman holds a video camera in one hand and presses her blonde head receptively into his heart. Her clothes are shabby and oversized, faded wide-leg denim coupled with a baggy long sleeved T-shirt.
A milk chocolate skinned black girl with silky rings of curled hair falling around her Egyptian looking face stands apart from the couple, hovering near the car. Her arms are crossed in front of her body and she stands with her weight resting more heavily on one leg than the other, like a crane poised in the banks of the Nile. Her brows are expertly shaped, her lips are glossy. She wears big slim hoop earrings and a white shearling jacket with slim jeans that accent her diminutive physique.

Ranch House

The darkness wraps around the low lying ranch house like blanket. All around it, the vast countryside is quiet and dark, an extension of the shadowy gardens that make up the estate. The warm yellow light of fire spills out of the windows of the house, laced with laughter and faint music. The door is ajar, casting a sliver of illumination onto the porch where an orange plastic bowl adorned with black cats and cartoon ghosts sits filled with individually wrapped sweets. It is a single story home adorned with wrought iron lanterns and wooden shutters and doors; frosted with stucco like a mocha flavored cake topped with a red tile roof. The house rests like a sphinx, stretched out upon the earth, gazing with glowing eyes into the night. The air is damp and filled with the autumn odor of crushed leaves, damp hay, and moist ground cover. A mischievous wind promotes these scents and adds a fresh ionized quality to them as they circulate together, wailing and whispering over fences and through the branches of trees. Many little gardens surround the house. Each unique community of plants is linked by stone lined paths of compacted dirt. In some, there grow little pea plants, broccoli, and other plants which are presently out of season so that their little beds of soil lay dormant. In other gardens, squash grows happily on twining green vines adorned with broad leaves that specialize in soaking up the photovoltaic power of the sun. Other garden patches are for flowers and ornamental shrubs. Little brass wind chimes hang from trellises laden with creepers. Weathered wood and wrought iron benches appear in little coves off of the main pathways. These are usually accompanied by trees. Some are laden with little green apples, others bow under the weight of ripe red pomegranates. Yet others are standing naked upon a blanket of their discarded leaves, ready for a long nap before spring returns to insist that they put on flowers for her. There are stepping stones with designs engraved upon them; butterflies, flowers and the like, positioned to add beauty rather than to serve any functional purpose. Now and again, a bird bath is tucked along some path, but the waters in them are filled with soggy yellow leaves. The little dirt trails wind their way through the gardens in search of the buildings that make up the estate; wooden barns that house workshop space instead of livestock, a cottage or two for guests or servants and sheds for gardening tools. They make up their own little village set in the vast nothingness, adrift in a sea of field grass and old oak trees that sprawl out into the blackness of night. A dirt road passes the east side of the ranch house, a main road that must lead to other lonesome estates, and farther off it must at some point connect to one of the black roads of civilization. Here, however, it sleeps silently under the moon whose white fullness is obscured by black clouds that assume phantasmal shapes. They drift across that glowing patch of sky, absorbing the illumination and keeping it to themselves, using it as a backdrop to showcase their eerie forms. The road trails off at the crest of a hill in the north. Crowning the hill on the west side of the road is a gnarled old oak that bends over like a an elderly giant with a crooked back. The grasses sway and shake when the winds icy hand rumples them like a brother mussing up the hair of a younger sister. The grass protests with a low hiss and the wind howls with delight.

Quiet Field

The sky is a midnight blue verging on purple. Tiny stars sparkle dimly in the far distance, small and scattered glistening white points of light. In comparison, the moon is a swollen white orb dangling in the night sky. Against the darker hues, its whiteness is dazzling. Beneath its dewy gaze the grass is visible in hues of green verging on blue drenched in the nighttime atmosphere. The individual blades are thick, but soft and moist. A sweet odor comes up from of it, mingling with the mustier smell of the soil beneath its mane. The air is warm enough to accommodate bare skin while still managing to be refreshingly cool. Small creatures of the night move gently under the silver light. A rabbit with chestnut colored fur tests the night air with a small pink nose and slips in and out of its little hole, down the cool long tunnel and out upon the springy carpet of grass. Something flies silently over the landscape, a shadow that is visible for only a moment before blending into the dark skies.
The grasses ride a casually sloping hill to the crest and reach out to the east as far as the eye can see, disappearing beneath the curtain blanket of night. In the west, they are interrupted by a simple concrete porch and the dirty white stucco of a large Spanish style house. Its walls rise two stories. The first floor is void of windows, save for the sliding glass doors that open out onto the porch. The second is composed of a balcony lined with wooden rails painted to match the chocolate brown trim of the house, which looks almost black without the sun. The house is dark and silent, capped like a mushroom by a red tile roof whose color, like that of the grass, is altered by the evening’s disposition.
To the south, there is an out flow channel that extends like a concrete riverbed from the base of the mountains that loom behind the house. Empty of water, it stands as a barrier behind a fence of linked chain. The presence of moisture in the air comes without its complements. The east opens out upon itself as a grassy wilderness. In the distance, just barely visible, two barren trees stand guard and beyond them a dirt path leads to strange roads hidden from view by the border of a forest. The tall conifers seal the field, protecting it from the world beyond.
In the patch of land between the house and this forest wall, the grass is overcome by wild oats. Overgrown, they constitute a waist deep sea of crackly yellow stalks upon which praying mantis’ and crickets perch. The later chirp tenderly into the night, rubbing their little legs together with languor, taking breaks between sets. While the crickets play their lazy songs, the Mantis’ stalk their prey, smaller bugs that hide under the dainty sheaths of oats. Beneath this brittle canopy of wild grains, field mice scurry on the errands of busy little mammals, grateful to be out of the sight of the shadows which pass overhead, wings beating softly against the delicious evening air. Disappearing into the east, and running along the chain link flanked wash, stands a row of somber olive trees, as dutiful as Roman soldiers. Their leaves are dark and glossy. The unripe olives hanging among the branches are purple, although under the moonlight they are almost the color of coal.

Stained Woman

She lays upon a stretcher within the cozy confines of a white ambulance. The thin hospital mattress is covered in a white fitted sheet, its unfitted match covers her below the torso, hiding her spread legs and swollen belly. The emergency vehicle is parked in an abandoned parking lot in an equally desolate section of town. There are no sirens, no speed or haste. The back double doors are open, allowing the quiet breeze to enter the small rectangle. Her torso is uncovered by the sheet, but she wears two blue cotton T-shirts layered upon each other. Over the T-shirts, she has on a blue hooded sweatshirt and a green feather down vest on top of that. Her clothes indicate the cold, but outside, the sky is an unclouded blue and the sun continues to beat upon the black asphalt surrounding the vehicle. Inside the light is dim, illuminated only by the residual light of the day streaming in. A soft breeze enters and lingers, gently touching her face.
The blinking lights from the dashboard continue to flash red and blue and green. Every now and then, a bit of static comes through the radio, kkkkkchhhh….it lasts for a couple of seconds then stops as suddenly as it began. The pillow beneath her head is packed to the seams with fluff, being unrelenting in girth, her head as fallen almost completely off the pillow. Her torso and head lean at a diagonal angle to the left. She moans with pain, unable to control her neck and the heaviness of her head. Her forehead drips with beads of sweat, tiny glistening drops roll from her hairline, down her cheeks, collecting at the tip of her nose teetering on the brink of collapse. Her eyes are open just slightly, giving the faintest indication of consciousness. The eyelids flicker occasionally, but mostly, they remain still and just barely open. Her hair is straight, cut in a strawberry blond bob that reaches just above her shoulders. Her hair is tousled and tangled in the back and because of the drooping angle of her head off the pillow, strands from the right side of her face have streamed over her face to the left, creating diagonal wet lines of hair upon her pale white face. A sprinkling of tan freckles and sunspots dot her nose.
She stares at nothing, consumed by pain but unable to move or scream. Within the silence of the vehicle, she whimpers. After a moment of silence, she moans. There is a red blood stain across her lips. The blood is fresh and wet, still glistening bright in the reflecting light of the windshield. Her mouth is covered in a red gagged puddle of thin liquid, it reaches her upper lip and has stained her chin. She whimpers.

After Hours Theater

The mall is old and complex. Rather than a single unified design, it appears to have suffered a number of structural additions and modifications through its history, creating an architectural collage where classical styles meet modern and some corners are unplanned combinations of both. In the lower levels, there are long aisles, adorned with tall green plants and small lawns surrounded by metal bars. Over these alleys are narrow bridges that connect the upper areas, combinations of large department stores and restaurants and smaller businesses that are just a little more than holes in the wall. In the higher levels, the predominant wall color is red, but it is punctuated by some white and yellow. In the lower levels, the green of the plants contrasts with the red brick of the paths, the black metal bars and the white walls. The entire place is surrounded by a large parking lot, also organized by large flat level steps that connect through ramps.
Most of the lot is empty and most of the stores are closed. A single old fashioned diner has its lights on, but the chairs are turned upside down on the tables. A bookstore in the lower level is open but there is nobody inside, not even a shopkeeper. Aside from a very few stragglers that scurry about from one dark corner to another, the whole place is silent and desolate, bathed in twilight and the echoes of distant footsteps.
In one of the upper levels, there is an old movie theater, the kind that has several screening rooms. There corner where it sits appears to be specially forgotten and slightly dirty, a place that has been passed by. A long ticket booth, covered in thick glass with small openings for the exchange of money, is still buzzing with the light and sound of its high fluorescent lamps, but there are no ticket sellers. The lobby, covered in a thick red striped carpet, is clean and lit as well, but there are no ushers to be seen. There are small benches on the sides of the lobby, and tall ashtrays and waste baskets standing next to them. Some of the ashes on the trays are still burning.
Shiny posters outside announce the movies that are currently playing inside: two different horror movies, three romantic comedies, a western, a detective story and a drama. Inside, there are several sets of heavy doors that lead to the various theaters. All of them are closed, but an electronic ticker above each one still announces the movies and the hours at which they play. Beside one of the doors, there is a different poster, for a very old black and white movie, showing an elegant woman smoking a very long cigarette and an angry man in a suit and tie, a large drop of sweat dripping across his forehead.
Inside one of the theaters, a horror movie plays. Scenes of violence, fear and pursuit alternate with shorter moments of silence and calm. The light reflects on the screen and vaguely illuminates the few spectators that remain in the room.
There is a young woman in a white shirt and a black skirt. She leans back on her seat, her eyes fluttering between the screen and the theater. Sometimes they close, and she appears to be asleep, but then they open suddenly and she examines her surroundings once again. She is very small, of light skin and black hair. She appears to be concerned about something but doesn’t move away from her seat.
A man sits two rows behind her. He is wearing a thick winter jacket and blue jeans. He is about thirty years old and his eyes also alternate between being shut and watching the screen. Sometimes he looks at the girl that sometimes looks back at him. For a moment they share a moment of questioning, then they both turn back and close their eyes. He is a bit overweight and has the beginnings of a scraggly beard around his chin and cheeks. For an instant, his forehead shows signs of worry, but he leans back once again and concentrates on the film.
The third spectator is an older woman that sits towards the back, on the left hand corner of the theater. She is dressed in a light beige business suit, skin colored stockings and high heels. She has a black leather bag on her lap which she clutches tightly between her thin, slightly wrinkled hands. She recurrently looks to the exit, as if contemplating leaving, but then she looks back at the screen and becomes absorbed in the action once again. Her lips open and close constantly, saying something very softly over and over again.
The scenes of panic and bloodshed continue to play on the big screen before them. The same few people are being killed over and over. The movie is not progressing to an ending and there is no memory of where it started, if it ever did. When the light is particularly bright, the woman looks at her two companions and her muttering becomes just slightly louder.

Abandoned Gas Station

It is nighttime, dark and cold, the air tinged with the electricity that comes before a storm. It is a small town on the edge of a highway in the middle of a great flat expanse of dry land. The town is a tiny rest spot for travelers and a recurring source of sustenance for the few local inhabitants. There are two open gas stations, each with a corresponding convenience store. There are a few other stores and a car mechanic shop, all closed for the night. Few cars drive by, and even fewer stop. The traffic light flashes red continuously and the pedestrian lights have all been turned off. The tall dry grass on the edge of the road bends backwards with the force of the wind and some leaves float away towards the outer darkness.
In the little gas station on the north side, an old man slumps backwards against an old rickety chair, his head bobbing up and down with the weight of tired drowsiness. A single man fills the tank of his new red car, calmly surveying his surroundings as he leans against the back door. A large truck is parked on the side, its massive bulk forming a temporary barrier against the wind. A small brown cat scurries behind some large dumpsters behind the building.
In the gas station to the south, a fat woman sits waiting for clients. She reads a celebrity news magazine and sips from a plastic cup of coffee. She looks out to the street every so often and then back to her magazine and the dream world of the movie stars. There is a small sedan parked on the side and a large fat man sleeps soundly behind the wheel, little trickles of saliva dripping off the side of his mouth and down his chin.
A block further down, there is a third gas station, dark and abandoned. A light blue pickup truck is parked on the street in front of it, all its wheels are flat and the lights have been broken. The pumps are rusty and their design is from another era. The windows of the building have also been broken and the inside has been completely pillaged. An old cash register and some dirty ripped up newspapers are all that remain.
I sit on the step that leads to the forgotten main register. I am wearing a thick black jacket, the hood pulled back towards my shoulders, black pants and black shoes and a white shirt. Around my neck is a tiny porcelain mushroom, painted in with many colored lines and dangling from an elastic black cord. My back is resting against the wall and my eyes shift slowly back and forth between the dark cold street and the girl that rests in my arms.
She has a small fragile brown body, black hair to her shoulders and a delicate soft face. Her eyes are turned downward as she presses her cheek against my chest. She is wearing a black skirt, a light brown blouse, and flat black shoes. Her body trembles every so often and mine trembles in response. Her breath comes in loud gasps and tiny little sobs. I hold her head with my hand and softly caress her black hair and her forehead. I press her tightly towards me and she responds by pushing into me, as if she wants to sink completely into my heart and find a true hiding place in there, away from the wind and the cold and the loneliness.
Every few minutes, the wind makes a loud sound as it flows through the desolate gas station and the cold rush sends a collective shiver through both our bodies. She looks up at me as if to confirm that I’m still there and I look down and continue to caress her hair. I nod and her cheek returns to my chest.

Bath

There is a grass equilateral triangle, about 100 feet on each side, surrounded by three buildings, each three stories high. The buildings contain a repeating sequence of small alcoves, each with a door, a glass window and thick curtains. The upper stories have long balconies running along the alcoves with a thin metal railing on the side. There are stairways on both sides and small additional indirect lamps at periodic intervals on the edges of the roof. The walls are a light brown that looks almost yellow in the middle of the night, with only the very soft lights shining on them. The railings have complex adornments and each door has a number engraved in golden letters. It is all very quiet. There is no movement along the balconies and no sound coming from inside the rooms.
The grass is moist with dew, tiny drops of water linger from the slender leaves and throw off a welcoming scent. They are trimmed to perfection, all at the same length, giving the illusion of a flat surface. There are tall, black metal posts, almost as tall as the buildings with little lights at the top, that further illuminate the area. The posts stand on small cement squares, about 4 feet long, and there are three of them, one at each corner of the triangle. From the center of each side, there is a cement path that goes towards the center.
In the middle of the triangle is a metal railing in the shape of a circle. It is black metal as well, but shiny with moisture like the grass, and covered in tiny baroque figures. Where the cement pathways meet it there are small metal doors. Through the thin metal bars of the railing, you can see into its center, past the doors. There, in the middle of the entire configuration, is a pool of hot water. In the dark of the night and the beams of the lamp posts, clouds of steam are visible as they rise from the hot water and disappear into the night sky. The water is a dark shade of blue and it moves only slightly, with little tiny waves that shift back and forth along the surface. It sounds like the subtle echo of a beach as the miniscule waves hit the cement edge and recede. A low electrical hum underscores the gentle sound and an additional light shines up from the depths.
In the center of the pool, two women stand facing each other, waist deep in the water. One is very young, blonde and has a very slight body. Her face is round and child like, her long hair is wet and sticks tightly to her head and shoulders. Her small bare breasts are almost invisible in the midst of the hot steam, only her dark maroon nipples stand out in the midst of her soft, white skin. The other woman is older, her body is thicker and covered in curves. She has short black hair, also wet and pressed against her head and forehead. Her breasts are large, full and they fall towards her stomach. She is taller than the young one and holds her space with a calm severity. Her face is a delicate mix of gentleness and harshness.
They stare into each other’s eyes and very calmly bathe each other, slowly running their hands over each others arms, shoulders, breasts and stomach. The older woman reaches down, holding her hand in the shape of a small cup, brings it back full of water and slowly lets it drip over the younger woman’s body. The blonde barely smiles and repeats the same process, letting the water gently drip down over the brunnette’s chest.
Their eyes vibrate with an intensity that radiates out throughout the inner circle and out onto the grass triangle and the buildings that surround it. The grass, the lamp posts, the walls, the railings, even the numbers on the doors… they all shine in sympathetic resonance and are brought to life. With each breath, the women repeat the process… the slow dripping of the water, the calm response and the rhythmic intensity of their contact. There is no hidden identity, no silent purpose, no mountain to climb, no cliff to jump from… just another handful of water and eyes that burn like hot steam.

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.

Night Meeting

A wooden canoe floats on black water. Stolen from its area of storage, it drifts now in a lake, surrounded by 200 ft pine trees and swapmy shores. There is a hint of cooler days to come, but now, the night air is warm and still, not a ripple laps the wooden sides.
A young woman, perhaps 20 years old stands in the vessel, an ivory dress clings to her body. It drapes over her curves, covering her legs and arms completely, just the white of her chest is exposed, her heavy breathing accentuating the smoothness of her skin and roundness of her breasts.
She gazes at the black bearded sorcerer who stands waist deep in the water, just a couple feet from her. Returning her gaze, they are perfectly still. A soft glow of sparkling gold emanates the space around them.
There is no fear of this darkness, the night is theirs alone.