To take time in dismantling, to pay particular attention to the
revealing, is to share with one what one has been without. With this in
mind, or with this mind within a mind, one may begin to see the familiar
shape come forth, the beckoning of which we write.
Like a caress from behind, an unknown leech attaches itself to our
collective back and begins to dine. Without knowing his name or the
proper way with which to refer to him, we are left to accept this as our
lot and continue on our way.
When the leech grows heavy and his thirst becomes quenched, he will drop
away to seek out another prey upon a later day. For now we should remain
pleased for we are without disease, as our kind friend had an upstanding
notion of ‘clean’.
It is this fact alone which we are noting, the dismantling was but an
aside. I can not say for certain, but I relish this squandering, this
outward display of chagrin. Have you not noticed it for yourself, this
pleasing array of ill will?
“Oh!” cried the child, finding himself sitting next to a precise
duplicate of none other than he.
“Oh!” cried the child, finding himself sitting next to none other than
himself, a precise duplicate of he.
There were two children, both who were the same.
There was a child, a young boy, who was twice present, though only once
“I have a fondness for duality,” said the boy, speaking to himself while
perched happily upon a bench outside the schoolhouse door. Inside the
schoolhouse sat a concerned teacher, one who had just now made a note of
“Oh!” cried the boy, for he had forgotten his name entirely.
There was a once a small child, one the age of nine, who had once found
himself beside himself with fear. This fear had never left him and he
continued to play despite of it.
“Have you a moment for a question?” asked the babe, pulling upon his
mother’s blouse. “Anything for you, dear,” replied the mother, not
taking her eyes off the strange man who was approaching the house. “I am
two,” said the babe, “aren’t I?” “Yes, dear,” said the mother
It was merry bout, a contagion transmitted only by happiness, the
suffering one of contentment. He lay in the sun and nursed his riotous
wounds, schematics of circumstance moving dancingly through his head,
though himself ever watchful for an unwanted thought.
He knew it well, this misery of joyfulness, this plague of exhilaration,
and he begged it to cease, to leave him in pieces with a more somber
peace. He rolled onto his stomach and began to weave together blades of
grass, cursing his lot and cheerfully whistling a tune of good spirits.
Before long he noticed that in his distraction he had inadvertently
disturbed a nest of ants, an army of which ascended upon him and gave
what he wished, good fortune at last. With his final breaths he called
out from beneath, thanking each one, individually by name.
And so he perished at last, taking all with him but a sprout, one which
grew from his unmarked grave, replenishing the skies with everything he
had taken, for it had been his dying wish to see for nothing and be it
He often could not sleep for he missed her so, and his head was filled
with instances of their friendship, spiraling and swirling, sending him
ever closer to the brink of madness. He would sit at the edge of his bed
and re-read the letters she had sent him, again and again, far into the
night. It was a terrible affliction and he found himself controlled
completely, by her and for her.
When the pain became too much, his heart too heavy and his will ever
small, he would tip-toe down to the parlor where he kept her visage
under lock-and-key. Carefully he would remove the picture and lay it on
the floor before him, where he would get down on his knees and weep
sorrowfully until the morning broke.
He had always been a perturbed child, easily startled and constantly on
edge. The reasons for his anxiousness were largely unknown, and if asked
he would point to a reliquary on the shelf and murmur ‘the answer lies
It is but a slight nuisance, this botheration. It is small, a tiny
splinter, a simple shard of glass. It rests gently in my foot, only
letting its presence known when I go to take a step.
Four times, perhaps five, she has protested. Quickly she shrieks,
shouting into the empty air, then suddenly quiet, the tiny voice silent
as fast as it was loud. It is as if she cannot help herself, this most
petite of friends. When she calls out I take notice, extending a hand in
aid, attempting to free her from such a steadfast entrapment. But she
does not move, stuck as if by glue into the sole of an otherwise plain
I have made a bloody mess upon my floor, the viscera of a thousand
wounds collecting and pooling, then making its way elsewhere, perhaps
under a chesterfield, soaking into the duvet. It was all in an effort to
free her, to allow for release into the cold room, then abruptly she may
descend into a bag or container, made to be silent as we no longer can
stand her cries.
But we are together tonight, as one, ourselves seated pleasantly,
bandaged and bored. I shall exert no more, my attempts are in vain. She
is happy where she has rested, and my discomfort is of no concern. As
long as I have her, for the time we are near, I shall not speak an ill
word of her, I refuse to pretend. We are here for now, quiet and dear.
And at once there was a culprit, an innocent slaughtered for knowing.
And as they watched, their gaze blurred by the smoke and occasional
ember, their own sense of right was paralyzed, unmoving and scant, just
as the last limb descended to, dropped amongst the remembrance of law,
their own hearts knowing that justice had been served. And back to their
dwellings they shuffled, the boy’s cries but a memory, and only then did
they realize that they had tortured and burned their own begotten son.
Feasted had they, when nothing had been hungry.
She rests herself besides the lake and removes her sock and shoe so that she might dip her toes into the sparkling water, its cold lap causing a shiver to prance mirthfully up her spine. She asks the gentle waves what she might do to find remedy, this lake a proxy for a mother, and she props herself so that her ear is tuned perfectly for the water’s response.
“Though for what do you wish to find a remedy?” Asks the lake, its flow folding around her toes.
“For all of it,” she whispers, “For these small difficulties and for the ones that are found to be so enormous that I find myself severed, torn into pieces by the sharpness of them, myself before a window, high up, contemplating a leapt conclusion. Why does it all cause me such desperate consternation and concern?”
The lake breathes in calmly and then exhales a wave which subsumes her ankle completely. “If you consider the plot carefully, you will discover that there is but one variable within your control, that being your reaction to all, and therefore if we were to find a way to reroute your reaction, then we would be well on our way to a worthwhile destination. Though it cannot be as simple as pointing in some direction and declaring that as our path, as if stepping out upon a remedy is as easy as traveling along with entropy as a solitary guide.
“Instead we must first determine how to simply buckle a shoe, how to bes