Theater

The theater is dimly lit. In the eerie yellow light, shadows seem to come alive out of the drab patterned carpet and complimentary red velvet curtain.
There is a man that you recognize there, standing outside of one of the isles. He will greet you and tell you what you have missed, who else is here in the theater, and where you should sit with him.
The chairs are folding metal chairs that squeal and scrape when shuffled, making the noises of injured elephants. Black and white images flicker rhythmically across the screen. They are scenes from a dozen unrelated movies, edited together to the timing of the new music.
Does this movie make sense? World war two soldiers die in a trench, a doctor in a white lab coat walks a long hall, a white bird sits on a placid lake.
It seems beautifully profound in one blink, tied together by some subtle thread.
In the next- nonsensical, meticulously edited by idiots.
The people in the theater talk over the movie and scoot their chairs around. There is constant movement as those seated on the right of the auditorium stand and duck through the shifting isles of metal chairs to sit on the left.
The migration transpires perpetually with much clatter. In this theater where you sit, it is of utmost importance.

House of the Witch

Dark wooden steps extend treacherously into the hazy sky. The steps are wobbly, they creak and sag beneath any pressure, even the wind causes them to moan. Haphazardly holding it all together are protruding rusty nails; once vertical testaments to durability, they’re now bent in a multitude of ways disguised to snag bits of unassuming pink flesh.
Among the metal traps are spiders seeking refuge, ingenious little dwellers who’ve made delicate homes in the decaying timber. An the army of termites have rendered a safe ascent nearly impossible. Many planks are on the verge of crumbling and the long fall to the earth is far and hard.
At the top, miles above the earth is an old rickety house. Made from the same forest as the stairs, they share the color of wet earth. The house is small and broken, the window panes have shattered long ago and cardboard attempts to keep out the wind.
No one has seen her, her presence moves like a traveling vapor that touches the earth dwellers below; but within the walls of decay, in between soil and sky, the witch lives.

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.

Courtyard

There is a marble courtyard that sprawls in endless directions.
Multiple levels are connected by narrow pathways and carved steps, like a simplified Escher painting.
Below, the ground is a kaleidoscope of soft hues, cream and coral slabs cover the earth in subtle geometric patterns. Stairways of only a couple of steps are soft and unimposing, they gently offer a new direction. The smooth marble of intricately carved handrails lead to wide open chambers.

Above, the sky bestows clear blue light and the warmth of a mid-fall sun gently radiates the courtyard. Only the sound of the wind adds sound, for there are no humans or animals.
The courtyard is empty, it feels as if it has been this way for a very long time, longer than humans can imagine. But, the space is not forgotten, it is still tended while it waits patiently for something new to arrive.

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.

Pan in the Twilight

The time is both sunrise and sunset and the light from a sun in transit cloaks the mountainside in shades of yellow.
There is a dark figure hidden among thick woods that blanket the protruding earth.
He stands alone, quiet and still observing the earth below. He is a deep blue silhouette against the golden light. His motives are mysterious.
Both man and deer, his form changes constantly.
Sometimes his horns protrude, in other instances, his legs and hooves are obvious simultaneously.
Everything is motionless, the woods, atmosphere, the entire solar system seem to stand still in this moment, not even the wind touches his fur.

Mutant

The house slouches amid the green grasses and yellowed weeds. The concrete paths roll out from the back yard and side porch into the waiting street. They are cracked with great seismic lines out of which crab grass and yellow flowers spring eager to consume man's plan.
On the little side porch there are two men sitting on wooden chairs. To their left, the backyard glows in predawn light. Fruit has fallen from the pomegranate tree and lies rotting among the brick border that has been pushed into disarray by the tree roots. The grass is tall and mingles with anything else that will grow, some of it alive and some of it dead.
There is a creature chained to the back fence. The fence itself is chain link interlaced with brittle wooden blinds. Vines littered with little purple morning glories cling everywhere to its surface. The beast is fastened to it by the neck with a nickel colored chain. So short is the chain that the creature must keep its face pressed into the vines and may not sit.
It stands upright as a man, dressed in jeans and a faded red flannel, but the face is all wrong. Its head is devoid of hair and ears, and something like a short snouted dog muzzle is filled with fierce spike-like teeth. Its deformities call to mind some transitory phase in lupine development, it is neither man nor animal nor even a fully formed monster.
A young woman in a white dress stands very near to it, singing soothingly. Her flaxen hair flows freely over her shoulders and her feet are bare. Capturing drops of dew from the leaves of the vines in one cup she pours the water from that cup to another in a single fluid motion. Without fear of bestial impulse, she gently pours the water into the creature’s open maw, singing its own song to it.

Whorehouse

The main room of the whorehouse has the decor of a doctor’s office; mostly bare, save some plastic chairs and a bio hazard waste basket.
The walls are pristine and white, devoid of stains. It is cold and germ free- lacking any human touch.
The linoleum floor faintly smells of bleach, it shines in a lacquered brilliance, reflecting the glare of the florescent lights overhead.
Upon the light beige counter tops, next to the large stainless steel sink, are two oversized turkey basters. They sit, on a clean paper towel- full of amphetamines and vaccines. The shots are administered before each paying customer.

Facing the Maelstrom

The sea level has risen catastrophically so that what was once a cliff is now a beach. Dark waves tumble chaotically with mammoth force. Creatures are rising from the deep.

Two gray whales breach, their colossal bodies sending the turbulent surface into even greater paroxysms. Swells climb to mountainous heights as innumerable Orcas surface to defy gravity with their awesome acrobatics. These great warm blooded killers move with speed and grace. Their presence is at once mirthful and predatory.

The building sea threatens to swallow the stormy sky. Only a band of fierce clouds streaked by momentary flashes of lightening remains visible. Huge sleek black bodies weave in and out among the choppy surge, darker even than the water, their white markings staring at the shore like big Egyptian eyes. This procession threatens to over take the remaining stretch of beach.

The waters lap at once unknown shores. A handful of daring human beings are in the water with the whales. Their tiny bodies are in constant danger of being swallowed up in the maelstrom, but like the whales, they are gleeful, eager for this encounter.

Panic in the City

High rise buildings in various somber shades cover the earth- dense in their geometric formations. There is smoke coming from one of the towers, shaped like a tall, thin pyramid, thick plumes of gray escape from its pointed peak, rushing to atmospheric freedom.

Surrounding me is panic, the road is consumed with chaos; cars are turning around, trucks are crossing lanes to exit, some speed towards the large bridge in the distance.
The burning gray figure looms close, the ominous vision that further turmoil is imminent.

Path Through The Hills

The hills are dusty and the color of camel humps. Bare of blade, they are littered instead with jagged rocks which thrust themselves out of the surface of dirt like little pointed teeth. The occasional twist of branch jutting out of the hillside only further illustrates the arid condition atop these sunny mounds. These are low growing shrubs and trees that reach out towards the sun and salty sea.
The path is cut into the hills and runs a course high over the green waves. It is narrow and settled deep between walls of parched dirt and sun warmed sandstone. A burrow passes with ease through most of its course, but occasionally the walls give way and the path rises steeply to a narrow ledge. Here the rider must give up the jouncing ride and lead the animal by tether, a perilous operation.
At times the road is lonely. Often however it is flooded by foot traffic coming from the opposite direction. Noisy conglomerations of tanned humanity, feet shod in simple leather sandals struggle to pass burrow and rider on the narrow highway. Baskets and bundles balanced on heads and under arm, they carry on their conversation without greeting the foreign traveler, their white teeth glinting in the sun as their smiles widen and heads are thrown back in laughter. Then they disappear around the bend leaving behind a haze of trail dust and the echo of their voices.
The distant murmur of the sea will fill the silence pending some future encounter. The road is always more solemn in their wake.

Cherry Trees on a Hillside

There are cherry trees in full bloom.

They stand along the lower edge of an isolated hillside, creating a canopy above the trail up and through the land. Their whitish pink blossoms cover each branch in an explosion of delicacy. The flowering mass is so thick that they filter the harsh sunlight of midday, turning the rays into a diffused light with a cool tempered elegance.
In a fury to pollinate, the grove has dropped thousands of soft pink blooms, causing those that walk though the path to sink knee deep into silky petals. With the intention of making a crown, I reach to snap a blossoming sprig. Covering every curve of the tree, down to the thinnest limb, is thick metal wire, deep orange from years of rain and rust, but still dutifully clinging.

Final Walk

There is a black car parked just beyond the trail, on the shoulder of a forgotten road. The air is crisp with chill and a little damp.

Escaping from pale pink lips is an apparition suggestive of vitality. Breath, or spirit, it flees from those thin parted lips with every exhale. The breasts heave under the crisp blouse and tailored suit jacket, clinging to life as the lungs expand to take in another sacrament of life from the atmosphere, before expelling it again.
The shiny black shoes with their commanding square heels plod awkwardly along the dirt course. Shapely legs move mechanically towards their destiny, their elegant contours hidden by the smart gray skirt.

Their master, bleary eyed with un-cried tears has ceased to plead indignation or innocence. Her fate is certain.

In another setting, in a banquet hall, before a podium, in a marbled office, this elegant blonde creature would be an imposing figure, only those with power would dare to hold her frosty gaze. Here, her glossy hair and fine suit hold no enchantment against the low growing yellow grass and petite white wild flowers. The trappings and tricks of the cunning human animal and its politics fade against the elemental. In this quiet field laced by the outlines of towering trees, they only betray her mortal vulnerability.

With fawn-like submissiveness she tramples onward, the menacing figure at her back driving her along the path, towards the wilderness and oblivion. Calm and sure footed, this other moves with the absolute certainty of triumph. One black gloved hand wields death in the form of a drab 9 mm Luger. A shadow in a wool overcoat, this calculating, patient adversary urges its ward forward.

On she goes, waiting for the tell tale "crack" that will shatter the silence as bullet parts from chamber and slices through the same air that she now labors to breathe. With each progressing step the expectancy grows, but the only sound is that of her own ragged breathing and the crunch of dirt clods under heel.

A far away mist veils the sky muting the sun's seeking rays. It hangs like a white backdrop against which the jagged tree tops are a sinister green-black. They cut into the whiteness like a hungry line of teeth. The trail slopes downward to pass through a barren little valley. Nothing there but the stunted blades of yellowed grass fringed with sparkling frost and the little white flowers drooping with wet and cold.

Desolate Road

There is a car on a desolate road. It is alone, a small speck in a greater landscape of hills and plains. Somewhere, hidden in the valleys are rouge houses and abandoned cars, but now, the car is the solitary mark of the human world. The sun shines, warm and bright, but the air is cool…bringing with it the knowledge that this warmth will change into something else, that nothing is constant. The tar black road creeps at an angle, heading up towards the foothills beyond. Large hills, like rounded walls on both the right and left of the highway block the view of anything else. They are massive in their abruptness, the warm mounds resemble the thighs of a woman, with her legs spread wide apart. Hugging her skin and soil are the dry golden grasses that lay flat, all struggle towards growth has ended, the season has changed and they lay down on their sides, submissive to the great cycles.

Guest House

The house is mammoth and labyrinthine with red wood floors and elegant fixtures. The stairs are wide. There are both large airy halls and luxurious rooms, and cramped quarters and narrow corridors.

Tall and plain with a frank bearing, the owner of the house acts as a gracious host. He and his father built the house from the ground up, and yet he is anything but possessive of it.
Maintained and stewarded by him, the house accommodates many guests. They are drawn here by some thread of destiny, a mysterious call.
Some are more aware of it than others. Here, they wait for something. It is understood that only a few will be together in the end.
One gentle natured guest has hypnotizing blue eyes veined with amber. These veins of color seem to form a sigil of some kind, the shape of which is treelike. He sits upon a red velvet upholstered couch in one of the expansive common rooms. Overhead a golden chandelier emits a hospitable glow.

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.

Ancient Trees

Their bodies are gnarled and gray. Spanning out like the fingers of an outstretched hand their branches hold up crowns of fiery orange leaves while their roots, in some instances, surface above ground like breached whales.
The dank earth is obscured by a blanket of titian mirroring the canopy above. The color is startling and vivid, lending life to the ancient trees pocketed with dark cavities like open mouths filled with gauzy spiders webs.
A perfect morning light filters down through the florid plafond, caressing every bough, sparkling off of every arachnid spun thread, conspiring with these elements to perfect beauty, inspire awe, and make hearts peaceful. An assembly of monarch butterflies flutters delicately near a spiders meandering gossamer weave. It is positioned loftily between two high branches, one of which is bent like a crooked elbow. On another gray limb two brown squirrels play, barely visible behind the whitish veil of cobwebs.
The hush about the place in miraculously undisturbed by the creatures dwelling here. Their movements only feed the quiet with their rustle. Everything is drawn in like a stilled breath.

Dragon

There is flutter and fury within the grand stone banquet hall. People in shabby wool clothes anxiously wait, filling the second floor interior balcony- the ledge stretches the entire length of the stone room. On the main floor below, there are peasants holding torches, providing the light and casting dancing shadows upon the massive cold walls. In the center, filling the empty space is a blue dragon. Breathing fire and bearing a cross, he is a mile tall, easily reaching the ceiling, looking at those of us on the balcony at eye level. It is him that is calling the battle, calling the names of people and animals meant to fight- it is a battle for the universe, communicated both subtly and forcefully with his presence and fire.
I am on the balcony, the dragon is before us, he is calm, watching attentively. The carved stone railing that once prevented a fall from such a height has crumbled, nothing stands between us. There is a stainless steel table at the ledge, and upon it, a woman. My hands are gripped tightly around her neck, holding her forcefully to the metal surface. The dragon has made it known she is on the list of the "fighters". The realization comes as a shock, she thought she would be someone’s lover, this, perhaps sparing her from battle. Now, her body rocks and squirms, vibrating with pain while she is injected with powers meant to aid the fight. My hands tighten, gripping as she convulses, becoming bald. Her body soon evaporates, transformed into a flock of five bats, beating their wings furiously, they fly out of the grand room into the reddish black night.

The Outcasts

It is a creature too human-like to be anything but revolting for its differences.
Its saggy, baggy flesh droops from the chest and the area where it should have genitals. Worse, it is hairless but has a hideously long cap of flesh that dangles from the crown of the skull. This is much too long, like a nylon stocking made of skin and it makes me queasy to think of it incidentally flapping against me.
Totally naked, there is an embryonic quality to its presence, as if in an early stage of development its psychic as well as physical formation deviated from what we sapiens would consider completion.
There are others like it here and there. All are shunned by the nicely formed human machines that hurry to shop in the outdoor mall, their high heels clicking, painted faces turned from the abominations among them.
They seem cognizant, but in a way that is grossly different from myself and my kind, especially given the similarities.
They seem incapable of clear movement, and drift like timid bits of kelp on a tide, torn from the forests of the deep.
Making weird cooing noises as if it were imitating the sounds of birds, this one lingers around a fountain.
These sounds are not a language as we know it. It is consciousness riding in pure sound. Quelling my revulsion, I look into its eyes and begin to coo in response.

Theft at the Airport

I am in a crowded airport, in seems to be in an urban area, somewhere in the South. I am at the bottom of five stairwells and there are people, mostly black youth, going in all directions.

It is all very chaotic and I see a young man in a maroon jersey running up the stairs with my computer. I had left it on a podium, thinking my friend's would watch it, but never clearly communicating my need before i had stepped away to use the phone.
I stare helplessly as the boy is climbing to the top of the landing. I yell "stop that guy! he stole my computer!!" Some people reach out to grab him, both mechanically and unenthusiastically, barely slowing him down.
But he's stopped just enough that a small crowd of teenagers is able to descend upon him, slinging punches..they push him into the bathroom and retrieve the computer. When I suddenly find myself in the bathroom, I realize they haven'tbeat him to save my computer or to help me, they have stopped him because they want the computer for themselves. I hold the computer in my arms like a baby while begging them to let me make copies of my data before they take the computer forever.