Trapped in the Pages of Insanity

Our first fiction assignment was to write a flash fiction piece - something short and to the point.  The added element is we had to include something referred to as a "trope" - a singular object, idea, etc around which the action in the piece revolves.  Suggestions for locations included a yard sale, so I started thinking about a yard sale gone wrong.

This was what flowed from my fingertips, sitting in class...

Trapped in the Pages of Insanity

 

 



The sun, burning through the early morning fog, cut the chill like a barber’s razor.  Grass crunched under heavy feet, dew glistening like diamonds.

The tattered remains of a former life scattered the lawn on rickety wooden tables.  Brightly colored plastic, smooth glazed ceramics, and tarnished metal beckoned like the perfume of a beautiful woman.

Among the broken toys and tattered clothing, he saw something – something as beautiful as it was terrible.  He’d been looking for this book for years, and here it was – tossed aside like garbage.

His fingers gingerly brushed the cover, cool to the touch… jagged along a torn edge.  He lifted it, the smell of paper, ink, and dust – a heady aroma to any bibliophile – assaulted his senses and touched parts of him he’d thought long dead.

He must have it!

Setting the book down, he reached for his wallet.  He checked for cash and, elated with his find, went to grab his treasure again.

It was gone!

He looked around, wild eyed and panicked.  He must have it!  Where’d it go?

A woman walked away from him, something in her hands.

“Give it to me,” he shouted.

She looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

“I just found it!  You can’t take it!”

She shook her head and turned to leave.

He ran, tackling her from behind and knocking her to the ground.

“I have to have it!”  His eyes, glazed with adrenaline, bulged from his face.

He ripped it out of her hands, only to find his treasured book was a lunchbox the lady had just bought.

He rolled off her, defeated… depressed…

He laid there, looking up at a clear blue sky.  In the distance, flashing lights and sirens grew closer.

As soon as he escaped again, he’d find his precious book…

His prize…

His treasure…

… that part of his soul he’d lost so long ago to the ravages of time and insanity.

The Dump

As I was cleaning out the attic this weekend, I found all sorts of old junk that I had forgotten was even there. Of course, when I first stumbled upon my “treasures,” I wanted to keep everything I saw. Why would I have kept them in the first place? But, after pouring through box after box of broken toys and ripped parchment, I convinced myself that my “treasures” were ready for their final resting place. Being as this was Saturday and that trash pick-up day wasn’t until Wednesday, it required a trip to… the dump. Even now, I wince at the thought of having to brave the ever-present gloom that reigns there. The dump is a strange yet repulsive place… a place where people tend to bury the human spirit along with their trash.

From the main road, entering the dump looked like you were entering the grounds of a federal prison – and we’re not talking “Club Fed”. The perimeter was surrounded by an eight-foot high chain link fence with barbed wire invitingly curled around the top of each section. Following the slow procession of vehicles to the front gate, I noticed a man peeking through the blinds of a dirty office building. The building’s grey exterior was peeling away, the result of prolonged exposure to the toxic environment of hair spray cans, dirty baby diapers, and rotten banana peels. As soon as the man noticed me looking back, he hurriedly closed the blinds.

A man in filthy grey coveralls was standing out front to interrogate each passerby about their garbage. “Do you have any used batteries?” “Are you disposing of hazardous materials?” “Are you dumping used oil?” The list of questions went on and on for what felt like forever – until you were ready to surrender and admit to smuggling in a bag full of non-biodegradable Styrofoam containers just to make the man leave you alone. You’d even be willing to sign a confession in blood just to make this guy quit asking the never-ending parade of questions.

As I drove on into the interior sanctum of the dump, I noticed another unsightly building high upon a hill, overshadowing the recycling bins. This one had to be twenty-five feet tall and draped with rusted old sheet metal. The building looked like it had been rammed into by a wrecking ball at least a million times, and that it would collapse upon that million and first time, taking everything in it straight to hell. Trucks full of furniture, brush, and tree limbs were unloaded inside of the building – the dump’s own execution chamber. Within the walls of this building contained the largest crushing machine on the premises. When it activated, it made torturous scraping noised accompanied by splintering crackles. You could almost hear the death screams of each abandoned couch or chair as it was tossed into the machine like yesterday’s newspaper.

The stench was overpowering, unbearable – an odor of death mixed with the acrid aroma of despair. The wind stirred and brought along with it the stench of long-forgotten, abandoned, used baby diapers. I pulled my shirt up over my nose, trying to filter the bitterness through the lingering scent of fabric softener and my body spray, but it was too much for my crude attempt to hands.

I choked back a gag as I saw a fat rat fumbling with a half-rotted McDonald’s bag, oozing slimy aged lettuce and ketchup as it did. Weeds bordering the fence were littered with plastic wrappers, Styrofoam cups, and other non-biodegradable materials. Polluted water was seeping out of the dumpsters and had formed stagnate puddles infested with thousands of tiny, spasmodic worms.

I wondered how anyone could work in this foul environment and remain healthy, either physically or mentally. I also wondered how the county could afford to pay anyone enough to work in this harsh, alien terrain.

Most of the people at the dump all had the same blank expression on their faces, void of any emotion except perhaps disgust. They came in like robots, emptied their trash, and sped away as fast as possible without running someone else over.

There was, however, a sub-culture at the dump – those people disdainfully referred to as “Dumpster Divers” by most of the public. One of these dumpster divers, a man whose pants would not stay up and had dipped low enough to reveal a full inch and a half of his butt crack, was crawling through a dumpster full of old washers and dryers. At one point he surfaced, wiping his sweating face with one grimy hand, and paced back and forth furiously like he was contemplating the meaning of life… the world… and everything. Suddenly, he dove back in like he’d discovered the world’s greatest treasure at the bottom of this metallic coffin. No one paid attention to him… they all pretended his existence was nothing more than a mere shadow or trick of light.

At the next dumpster over, a young man was throwing away heavy, black plastic trash bags full of roofing shingles. The reason I know this? One of the bags caught the corner of the dumpster and ripped open while the young man was hurling it into the dumpster, causing shingles to rain down on the ground like torn piece of black hail. This caught my attention because he was standing almost directly under a sign that read, “ABSOLUTELY NO CONTRACTOR OR CONSTRUCTION DEBRIS.”

Within minutes, a man wearing a coffee-stained T-shirt and hat bearing the county’s logo approached the young offender. He asked, “Hey, sonny, whatcha got in them bags?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Just some old garbage.”

Knowing that the young man was lying, but not really caring enough to call him on it, the old man sneered a sinister yellow grin and said, “Them bags look awfully heavy, son. Are you sure you don’t have any body parts in there?”

They both laughed, and I decided to leave them alone. After all, my task was now finished.

So I left that eerie, malodorous place. I drove away from the dump as quickly as I could before I could bury my spirit – my very humanity – along with the trash I had dumped. The dump is death personified – a graveyard laden with the excesses of society. I ran away – far, far away – from the dump before it could sink its claws into me, infecting me with its decomposition and melancholy.

A Dark So Heavy

You know me. Deep down in the depths of your psyche, you know me very well. I am the thing lurking at the very edges of your world, where reality and illusion blur together. I am the ravenous creature that fed on your fears as a child – the monster in the closet; the bogeyman hiding under your bed, waiting to snatch you when your defenses were at their lowest. You didn’t realize what I was then, did you? Only when you were older… wiser… and more alone than ever did it dawn on you what I was. But you couldn’t verbalize it – couldn’t find the words to describe what was happening.

You have always thought me a monster, and I am. I am your personal monster. Your parents always told you I wasn’t real, but you never believed them. You could feel my cold icy fingers reaching for your heart in the darkness of midnight. You could feel the weight of my presence pressing down on you like that of a lover… a lover more concerned with your pain than your pleasure.

You cried tears into the pillow after your parents left you, assuring you there wasn’t anything there – that small pillow with the daisy-patterned pillowcase that your mother fluffed for you every night before kissing you good night. Once they left, you could feel me invading, and the tears would flow, staining the cotton case through to the pillow itself. I liked those tears. No offering could have been more delicious. I licked them off your pillow… from your cheeks, your lips, your eyes. Savoring their salty, fear-tinged taste, I licked you to sleep.

You should thank me. I was the only one who would ever touch you. Even when everyone else claimed to love you, I was still the only one to touch you. Every time you touched yourself, I was there – hiding in your fingers, wrapped around your skin like the lingering scent of a rose. Want to be touched now? There’s no one else who will do it – it’s just you and me. Together.

It was more fun as you got older. Feeding on your fear, that is. More pain – from your friends, your family, but never from me. I would devour you once they had finished destroying the few dreams you’d built around you. Sucking out the hope with deep strokes of my tongue. I made my home in that heavy pit of emptiness within your heart. Grown sick of closets, that’s where I felt my most comfortable – finally one with you.

Did you feel me there? Could you feel my icy touch when the one you wished to love pushed you away? Just a little push at first – a nudge, really. Then harder when you didn’t go… harder and harder, words and actions cutting you to the quick and searing your soul. Again! Again! It was good for me. Was it good for you too?

Feeling a little strange now? Don’t blame me. I wasn’t the one who placed the razor in your hand. It was slick for me though… and so sweet. The cuts from the razors left a small tinge of burgundy and that salty, acrid taste of blood. The taste was a million times sweeter than that of your tears – blood that told of the emptiness welling just beneath your breast.

You surprised me, you know, when you started to hit yourself. Just a few smacks here and there – your shoulders, your head – in an attempt to drive me away. But you can’t drive me out in such a cowardly way. So go ahead coward, bash your head against the wall; beat your shoulders; bruise your chest. Only one thing will drive me away, and that would take guts. And inverting into yourself – into that pit I made – is a coward’s way out. And it makes your blood sweeter. The smell is exquisite – blood tainted with orchids and vanilla – and I only grow stronger. I’m like an undertow – so dark, so heavy, and so cold.

What do you expect now? Standing there naked as you are, razor in hand. Do you want me to take that first cut? I won’t, you know. I’ll make you inflict that upon yourself. But when that first stroke of the razor does come, I’ll be ready. I’ll be there to lick at the blood as it drips to the floor, feeding and taking away the tears from your lips.

Trapped in my chains of loneliness and sadism, I’m all you have.

It’s almost complete, that special place deep within that only I can touch. It’s the part of you that knows. No longer lurking under beds, behind the dresser, or in the closet, I am with you – the only one who loves you. I’m the only one who aches to touch your lips, feel your breath, kiss your skin. I will feed forever with you as we are bound by a dark so heavy.

Nyx

(Greek Creation Myth)

An abyssmal void-
Dark, vast, and bitterly cold -
The powerful Nyx sat alone,
No one for her to behold.
A grand idea did strike -
A beautiful golden egg she'd lay
And selflessly warm the orb,
Sacrificing herself day after day.
Years and years did past,
And still our fair Nyx
Warmed her precious golden egg
In hopes the universe would be fixed.
Until finally a large crack
Throughout the space did ring
And the two halves of the shell,
Their curvatures did bring
The atmosphere - our loving sky
And breathable, clean air;
They also brought the very Earth upon
Which the humans labored with care.

Free Write - A "Slice of Life"

An assignation at midnight, shadows wavering like black flames coming on a warm, flower-scented breeze. His laughter was rich and thick as chocolate – as if you could pull it from the air and eat it. His voice slithered into the room, low and full of promise… silken whispers in the small hours of the night. He walked into the room, as if the air boiled invisibly around him.

She stood there at the window, beautifully silhouetted in that pure white light spreading like ice over the darkness. Not beautiful and not supremely brilliant, she was filled with something that took the place of both qualities – something best described as a profound vivacity… a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life. She was a sexual dessert of curves and points.

She whispered a greeting, a voice so close to silence that one must strain to hear it. That whisper hovered around his body like a line of warmth, a whisper of ghostly electricity.

He went to her, filled with images of his dreams. Dreams of kissing her so hard his mouth hurt; so soft his heart hurt; so long his neck hurt; so deep his throat hurt; and so completely that nothing hurts.

Standing behind her, nuzzling into her neck, this was a nocturnal visit filled with the promise of delicious physical intimacy. He savored the very sweet taste of saliva mixed with skin – skin unnaturally soft, like living velvet. She glowed like there was an ethereal light inside of her… a light only lit by the spark of his touch.

Turning to face him, her eyes drank him down like a parched man eyes a glass of water – eyes flaming with hunger, desire, and truth. Moving to his face, her eyes softened and grew liquid, a fervent passion flaring to life.

He kissed her, his lips soft as silk; gentle as rose petals; hot as the noonday sun. His tongue was a quick wetness exploring the inner reaches of her honeyed mouth. Passion roared in his ears like great waves that crash up and over the beach, never receding but only building more with each tick of the bright night’s clock.

Something inside him melted that hurt in an exquisite way. All his longings; all his dreams and sweet anguish; all the secrets held asleep within him came to life. At once everything was transformed and everything made sense. That first kiss united their souls, the spirits entwining in the very breath they breathed. And each exhalation was a baptism in fire.

He always knew that she could change minds and alter moods with just a touch, but now he knew that she could instantly take possession of a soul with just a kiss. For in that kiss, he lost his very existence.

With a voice soft, low, and more private than the setting, he whispered that he loved her. He stroked her face softly, knowing what his mother had meant when she had told his sister that love and electricity were one in the same. With every kiss, he felt a jolt in his soul; with every whisper and touch, he felt as if he’d been shocked into life.

They sighed together, an air of breathless intensity as the night turned to dawn. The coming sun was the first blue gaze of the day. This love they shared was much like a wild rose – beautiful and calm but willing to draw blood in its defense. Tested once by a merciless man to whom she’d been betrothed, he’d already shed that blood to keep her safe. Now, as they watched the sun spread its warming fingers across the sky like pale pastel ribbons, he knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do to ensure they would be together.

Free Write (09Jan09 23:48) - Springtime in Alaska

Spring is also when Mother Nature renews herself, painting the canvas that winter so carefully stripped just months before. Bees buzz happily from one flower to another, collecting nectar for coming larvae; ants studiously move to and fro, beginning to rebuild food stores depleting by the harshness of winter; flowers, trees, and other plants go into full bloom, displaying colourful foliage to warm your heart. Sounds wonderful, beautiful even, doesn't it? Like a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting, almost?

Unfortunately, that vision ends when springtime comes to Interior Alaska. Spring here is a very ugly, dirty time of year. Now, before you can turn on me, oh Constant Reader, and tell me that there is beauty in everything surrounding you, let me describe a typical Interior Alaskan spring day for you, shall I?

The weather is unlike any you have ever experienced. It can be well below zero one moment (yesterday morning at about 4 a.m., it was -10F) and well above zero the next (the high temperature yesterday was a scorching +41F and it's about +31F out there right now). The sky can be clear and beautiful, allowing you to bask in the sun - not a cloud in sight to obscure your view. Then, in a few hours' time, a chilled wind can blow in a snow storm of blizzard proportions, blanketing everything in a gentle white misery once again.

When the temperatures do rise and the sun is beating down upon the ground, a winter's worth of snow and ice melt, running into the dusty, dirty street. The daily melt freezes over night, leaving a skating rink on the ground - ice several inches thick and dangerously slippery.

And what does that melting snow reveal while it's melting? You get to see a season's worth of neglect by the supposedly caring citizens of Fairbanks. Gravel and residual sand and ice from the Dept. of Transportation trying to improve the intersections pools together on the street corners, causing other slippery hazards. Trash and debris casually, thoughtlessly dropped over the course of the long winter months' reappears, bringing with it the depressing reality that these caring citizens do not care as much as they claim.

Once the snow melts and the ground reappears, you are left with a large, borough-wide marsh. Mud and bog are the prevalent landscape, trapping you with cold, insidious fingers that grab onto your shoes or boots and hold you fast until you either abandon your footwear or dig your way out.

Springtime in Alaska - definitely not what your creative writing teacher ever discussed when he/she talked of the beauties of Springtime, eh?

Free Write (08Jan09 02:58) - Rollerskating

I hadn't wanted to go. Roller skating was for the young, and besides - I hadn't been on a pair of skates in years. But, it was eighties night at the roller rink, and my friend had pulled me out of the house. She said it was because I needed to get out more, but I knew she just didn't want to look foolish by herself.

We arrived just after things had gotten underway. She paid our ways in, and we headed towards the skate counter. I chose skates over rollerblades because I just never got the hang of those damn blades. Finding a secluded corner, I watched the skate floor as I began to change into the skates.

The colourful lights, revolving disco ball, and music was like a time machine. Suddenly, it was 1984 and I was ten years old again. I sat there, letting the sounds of Raydio's You Can't Change That wash over me like a piece of watered silk and decided I had to get it over with.

Upon unsteady ankles, I skated my way to the floor. I took one tentative step and then another out onto the hard, polished wood... and immediately fell on my ass. Laughing to myself and glad to have gotten the night's first humiliation over with that quickly, I got up and brushed myself off. I hugged the wall for a bit until it started coming back and then made my way for the main floor area.

It was exhilarating - out there on the skate floor again, a gentle breeze flowing through my hair. And the music!!! I hadn't heard most of these songs since I was in elementary school. They were well loved old friends - ones that had whetted my taste for music as a young child and got me interested in all types of sound.

She waved at me from across the rink, already having found this cute blonde to skate with her. He was holding her steady, trying to keep her from falling, and they were laughing. Oh ho, I thought. She had an ulterior motive for wanting to come out tonight. Then I laughed because I would have done the same thing.

We had probably been there for forty-five minutes when the first slow song made an appearance. I was about to go sit down and take a breather when I saw you across the floor. You had this slightly puzzled look on your face, as if not quite sure how you had wound up at a roller rink on a Friday night.

I liked what I saw. Dark hair, tall but not too tall - nice body. I was intrigued but ignored the urge to go ask you to skate. Instead, I made my way to the snack bar. Buying a bottled water, I sat down in a horrid plastic seat and watched the cozy couples out on the floor. I sat there, waiting for the moment a faster song would come on and I could make my way to the floor again, but there was the most unsettling feeling of being watched from across the rink. I glanced about, but all I could see was you. Surely you weren't watching me, I told myself. Must just be my imagination.

Finally, Bon Jovi's You Give Love A Bad Name came on, and I skated out to the floor again, grateful that the romantic music was over with. Time seemed to fly as I rounded the rink that night, feeling like a child again. As Tainted Love began playing, I tripped over my own toe stop and went down on the floor, taking some poor soul along with me accidentally. I assessed my injuries, concluded all I had hurt was my pride, and went to get up. A hand appeared in front of me, and I accepted the offer of help. As I got up off the floor, I looked up at my rescuer - right into your eyes. I was stunned. From across the rink, those eyes had been interesting. Up close, they were deadly - the type of eyes you could fall into forever and not care.

"Sorry for the collision," I mumbled, quickly releasing your hand as soon as I was up. "And thanks for the help." Before you could answer, I was off skating again.

I turned on my skates, moving backwards for a bit and watching you out of the corner of my eye. My heart felt as if it was stuck in my throat, and there were butterflies churning in my stomach. Never had one touch so effected my senses. But I didn't even try to work up the courage to talk to you - my friend had always been the pretty one of the two of us. I had accepted that and knew the likelihood of some guy coming up to talk to me while she and I were out together was slim to none.

I kept to myself, skating until another slow number came on. As Double began singing about The Captain of Her Heart, I exited the floor and retired once again to the snack bar. I watched her out there on the floor with the blonde and felt a pang of jealousy that it wasn't me out there with you.

The music changed. Air Supply's Even The Nights Are Better - that definitive skating slow song - came on, and I looked up to find you. You had disappeared, and I sighed softly.

A hand on my shoulder snapped me out of my gloom. "Excuse me, but would you like to skate?"

I looked up in surprise - and it was you, smiling at me. That smile filled those eyes, making me want to just stare into them all night.

"Huh? Me?" Yeah, real smooth, I told myself. "Uh, sure."

I took your hand, and we made our way to the floor. Getting out onto that rink, I felt as if my heart would slam right out of my chest. My palms were a little sweaty, and I wasn't sure if I'd be able to stay up on all eight wheels.

My friend saw us and winked at me.

We skated out there to that slow, sappy song - skated as if everyone else had disappeared into the night. I was reluctant to release your hand when the song ended. My grip began to relax, and you looked at me. "Want to go somewhere and talk," you asked.

I looked into those eyes and couldn't say no. We exited the floor and found this little corner away from the speakers. We introduced ourselves and began talking. We talked the rest of the skate session, never quite making it out on the rink again. After the session had ended, we left for this little coffee place to continue our talk. Grabbing a table in the back, we drank coffee and talked the rest of the night. It was almost as if we had known each other for years.

As the sun came up, you drove me back to my place. We exchanged phone numbers and sat there, neither one of us knowing what to do next. I moved my hand to open the door, meaning to get out and go inside the small house I was renting. Throwing caution to the wind, I leaned over and kissed you - a soft first kiss in the pre-dawn blush of a steely sky.

"Call me later," I said and got out of the car. Smiling to myself and humming that Air Supply song, I let myself into the house and closed the door, collapsing against the back of it - a huge smile plastered on my face.

Dream Dance

“Last call,” the bartender shouted over the loud dance music. I looked down at the drink I had been nursing all night and sighed. Having been abandoned earlier by my friends for members of the opposite sex, I wasn’t quite ready to go home alone again.

I looked out on the dance floor, watching happy people moving to the pounding beat, and shook my head. Maybe one of these days that would be me out there. I wasn’t going to hold my breath, though.

I was almost to the door when the music changed. A soft slow song I hadn’t heard in years poured from the speakers, and I stopped… unable to move. I found the nearest bar stool and sat there, letting the melody wash over me and wishing somehow I was in someone’s arm. I closed my eyes, letting my imagination carry me away with the daydream.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice said, a warm hand resting on my shoulder. “Would you care to dance?”

Startled out of a lovely daydream, I caught a faint smell above the tobacco and alcohol. After so many years, I’d know that smell anywhere. It was imprinted on me like my own DNA. Not quite sure to believe it, I looked up … right into your eyes. The smile on your face lit up your eyes, and I was stunned. Unable to do anything but nod, you grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor.

We danced out there, swaying to the music and not saying anything. I looked up into your eyes and saw you smiling. The smile was breath-taking, and it was all I could do to make myself look away.

The music changed – another slow song coming on – and I was about to walk away when you pulled me tighter to you. I smiled softly and rested my head on your chest while we danced, sighing to myself about how short-lived some dreams are meant to be.

The rhythm washed over us smooth as a piece of watered silk, and I couldn’t help but look up at your face. You were smiling down at me – one of those thousand watt smiles that I feel all the way to my toes – and leaned down, barely brushing your lips with mine.

I could not believe it! I had just been daydreaming this exact moment minutes earlier, and here you were, kissing me on the dance floor. My pulse raced, and I lost myself in thought on the dance floor.

As the song faded, you brushed your lips to mine again. I smiled at you and sighed, turning to go grab my coat. The look on my face was on of utter defeat, and I made my way towards the door – dreams of what the night might have been flashing through my mind.

Your hand on my shoulder, spinning me around to face you, brought me back to that moment. “How are you going to get home?”

I started to answer and then remembered my ride home had left. “I don’t know. I’ll probably take a cab.”

You smiled again – damn it, why did your smile effect me this way – and said, “Would the lady allow a gentleman to escort her home on such a chilly night?”

I looked around and chuckled. “Lady?” I smiled at you and nodded. “This lady would love for the gentleman to escort her home.”

We went out to your car and headed for my place. Upon arriving, you hurried around to the passenger door and opened it for me, allowing me to exit easily. Holding out your hand, you walked me to the front door.

As I fumbled with my keys – god, I was so nervous – I tried not to look at you. Just one look would belie what I was feeling. I located the keys in the bottom of my purse – of course, they would have to be hidden under everything else – and as I was pulling them out, the contents of my purse spilled onto the porch.

Mortified, I quickly knelt down to pick up the various bits of clutter that always seem to accumulate in a woman’s purse. You bent down to help me, smiling and chuckling as you did.

I went to grab my hairbrush, and my hand brushed yours. I inhaled deeply and looked up… right into your intense gaze. I stared for only a moment, but it was one moment too long. I had fallen right there and then – fallen into those deep pools and knew there was no rescue.

“Uh, um,” I stammered as I stood again, unlocking the door. “Would you like to come in for a drink or something?” I gazed down, not daring to look you in the eyes.

“I would love that.”

We went inside, and I closed the door behind us, locking it out of habit. “Name your poison.”

“Do you have any coffee, actually?”

I grinned. “One cup of coffee coming up. You take anything in it?”

“Just black.”

I set about making a pot of coffee, the familiar routine settling my nerves a bit. Once it was percolating, filling the small house with its inviting aroma, I went back out into the living room with you, sitting across from you on the couch.

Silence settled in the room, like the chill of an autumn fog. Deafening as it was, I just could not bring myself to speak. My pulse was racing, and my blood was pounding in my ears. The one question I wanted to ask – what about her? – would not come to my lips.

“So, uh – uh, what brought you out there tonight?” I gazed at the wall behind you, knowing one look in your eyes would be my undoing.

“I ran into your friend. She said you were still there by yourself, and I thought you might need a friendly face after they had all deserted you.”

Defeated, I sighed, allowing my shoulders to slump forward a bit. So that was it. He only came out because I might need a friendly face. “Well, thank you. I do appreciate it.”

Silence came once again, as if neither of us trusted to say anything. What seemed like an eternity passed, just the two of us sitting across from one another without saying a word, before you moved over to sit beside me.

My heart skipped a beat. What were you doing? I couldn’t quite figure it out because I knew you had feelings for someone else – we had discussed it many a time before.

“What do you…” my voice trailed off as I looked into your eyes. They were intense and unguarded. The look was too inviting to resist.

I leaned forward, placing my hand on your cheek, and kissed you. At first it was just the barest brush of my lips but soon it deepened into something raw and passionate.

When I finally realized you were returning my kiss, I sat up. I looked at you, why already poised on my lips to ask, and suddenly knew. There had been no one else – you had been trying to find a way of telling me without knowing how.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I didn’t know how,” was followed by a soft, shy smile. Your gaze came up to meet mine, and I was gone – lost forever in the depths of those pools.

Free Write (06 Jan 2009 23:35) - Murder or Cure?

He laid back on the table, staring at the cold, sterile surroundings. A sense of unease built within his chest, and he could barely contain the tears. 54 years on this earth had boiled down to this - some stranger filling his veins and his body with poison.

She smiled at him, trying her best to reassure and to comfort. Fitting the the needle into his arm, she was careful to ensure that she'd tapped directly into the vein. There was no room for error... no recourse for missing her target. Adjusting the line, she opened up the lock and let the fluid flood the line.

He closed his eyes, terror washing through him. Memories of time spent with his wife and kids floated past like a slideshow, each moment more precious than the last. Could this really be it? Had he actually reached the end of the line? If he could do it all again, he knew he'd make sure that he spent more time with the ones he loved... ensure he took advantages of each opportunity life presented him and not squander away the time like some cricket in the sun.

The first drop hit his veins and burned like some sort of acid eating away at him. It flowed from the tubing into his arm and through his body, filling him with the most deadly type of poison. He tried to make the most of it, but his mind would not allow him to concentrate on the positive. Cold dread filled him, and a tear slid down his cheek.

The burning sensation spread through. At first just an unpleasant warmth, it quickly spread into an ingulfing inferno. His body became feverish, and he felt as if he'd be consumed in flames at any moment. Biting his tongue, he refused to give in... refused to admit to the sheer agony that was consuming him from the inside out.

The foul fluid spread through his arms, his chest. It spread into his neck and stomach. Fiendish fingers reached out and prodded at soft tissues; they poked at his organs. He tried to curl into the fetal position and was stopped by the apparatus. Wishing for a mercifully swift death, all he could do now was wait.

But wait for what? What was standing on the other side of this doorway opened before him? Sweet relief? Or dark agony?

World War I Gas Attack

It was just before sunrise, and the sky was the colour of molten silver. A light fog had settled over us, and the dampness settled right to the bone. The air was crisp and cold enough to see your breath, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard.

We lay hunkered down in the trench, waiting for the first sign of Fritz (our name for the enemy) to appear on the horizon. Minutes passed into hours, and it seemed like we’d be in that trench forever. Some of the men dosed while others cleaned their rifles. No one was prepared for what was about to happen.

Our watchman, gazing through the handheld periscope we carried with us, suddenly sat up in alarm. “There’s a green cloud rolling along the ground towards us. It’s…”

I cut him off and grabbed the periscope. Looking out and fearing what I would see, I spied it – this green cloud rolling along the ground like tumbleweeds being pushed along by the wind. I swallowed the lump of fear that clogged my throat. Grabbing the bayonet laying at my feet, I began banging on an empty shell casing – our signal to one another to don our smoke helmets.

The smoke helmets were made of cloth and treated with chemicals. There were two windows (our “glass eyes” as we jokingly called them) through which one could see. Inside was a rubber covered tube which went into the mouth and was constructed to prevent accidental inhalation of the gas. A solider was supposed to breath in through his nose, the nasty gas being filtered through chemicals in the helmet, and out through his mouth, the foul air being forced out through the tube. One of these helmets was good for five to six hours, so we had to have two for each man on hand at all times.

The seconds ticked by slowly as the entire regiment struggled into their helmets.

The gas, which was much heavier than the surrounding air, poured into our trench and lingered there, unable to escape because of its density. I tried not to panic and just breathe deeply while the moment passed.

A scream cut through the silence like a pair of scissors through paper. One of the new men, a young man from Ohio, had been too slow putting on his helmet. The gas had filtered into his nose and mouth, and he sat there, hands clutching at his throat, unable to breathe. As the oxygen depleted in his brain and blood, his body began to spasmodically twitch, and our watchman started to retch.

The regiment pulled together and, grabbing the young man, we began to filter out of the trench. The goal was to seek a new place to hide, but our goal was short-lived.

A group of German soldiers was standing there, helmets on and bayonets at the ready, waiting for us to emerge. One man stood up without looking, and Fritz sliced open his belly with a bayonet, kicking him backwards so that his entrails spilled out.

Our soldiers began to fire, trying to clear a path to safety for the regiment. Shrapnel was bursting over our heads and all around us as we fought back against Fritz. As some of the enemy soldiers were felled by gun fire, others took their places. Nothing could stop their mad rush.

Suddenly, there was a loud cracking in my ear. My head became light; my throat got dry. A heavy pressure on my lungs and an overwhelming dizziness told me that my helmet was leaking. Turning my gun over to a man by my side, I changed helmets. The trench began to undulate and wind like a snake, and the sandbags surrounding us appeared to float on the air. The noise was horrible, and I sank to the ground. Needles seemed to be prickling my flesh. Then, as sudden as the onset, my world went black.

A friend removing my helmet cajoled me to consciousness on a now quiet battlefield. How delicious the cold, damp air felt in my lungs, fresh and untainted. They told me I had been unconscious for hours and that they had feared the worst.

I sat up and examined the first smoke helmet I’d been wearing. A bullet had penetrated it on the left side, just grazing my ear. The gas had seeped through the hole in the cloth and into my nostrils.

I gazed up at a twilight sky, thanking God I was still alive and more determined than ever to fight back all of the enemy horde that was threatening our American way of life.