A game

Warning: This is not a happy story. Sorry Gary.

"Let's check out this house," I suggest, drawn to the bright colors rippled by curling, peeling paint. It is the largest house on the dilapidated street, and I see no reason not to explore. My friend shrugs.

We walk up the front steps and pull open the tattered screen door, screen hanging loose like peeling flesh, just as you would expect. The hallway is dark, musty, but not as dirty as one might have thought. I walk on the boards, confident they will not fall in.

"Not bad," I say, turning around to my friend. He is sillouetted by the bright, diffused light outside. I see two other sillouettes move behind him, flanking, blocking the doorway. I suck in my breath.

"Perfect," says one of the shapes, a woman. My friend spins around, I'm sorry I couldn't warn him.

"We needed two more," says the other, a young man. "So glad you could join us. Did Javier send you?"

"Javier? I don't know a Javier," I reply, my heart slowing as I think I see a way out of this. "We just wandered in. But we'll be going now."

I can see the woman shake her head, though I can't see the features of her face, backlit as she is.

"No, we need two more players. You'll have to come with us. Follow him."

"But," I start to protest.

"Follow him," she growls. My friend hops away from her, and follows the young man, who has opened a door and is walking downstairs. Lost, I do the same.

The basement is lit with yellow light, eminating from a few camp lanterns. In a corner, eight people sit in a circle, some reclining on pillows. The yellow light leaves strange shadows on their faces. The woman we encountered above shuts the door behind me, and, with a firm hand on the small of my back, guides me to take a seat. The room smells sharp, not the dull moist basement smell I would expect, but a pointed, harsh smell, like an auto repair shop. Like metal on metal, I decide as a sit. My friend is sitting across from me, and we exchange wide, nervous glances.

A man sits to my right, ramrod straight and solemn. He pushes his shaggy brown hair from his eyes and surveys the group.

"I think you know the rules," he begins, but then his eyes fall upon my friend and I. "Ah, newcomers. Well, a review is in order then. It's very simple. Keep your cards facedown. Play a card by turning it over in the center. Do what the card says. If it's a zero, you die. That's it."

I stare at him, certain he's joking. Mistaken. Something I've imagined. He narrows his eyes at me. He's fairly young, in his thirties probably. He looks strong under his thin grey t-shirt.

"I'm not dealt in to this game," I try to explain. "I think we should go."

The man lifts an eyebrow. "Oh, but you are," he says, gesturing to my side. I see a messy pile of cards, about 10, with a faded, gold diamond pattern on the back. "You are in," he intones. A sick smile spreads across his face. "And it's your turn."

Trembling, I pick up a card and throw it into the center, flipped to reveal its underbelly. The card was originally blank, without spades or hearts, and had a few words written in black marker. Sighing with relief, I don't even read the words. Not a zero. The next person goes, so I assume there is nothing for me to do.

The card throwing circles around, silently. The leader laughs, often before each card is revealed. I wonder if he knows, from the top sides, what the bottom says. No zeros. He smiles, relishing the tension. The rest of the faces are expressionless, captivated, perhaps, by the game. I glance at my friend. I can see the vein in his neck throbbing, casting a tiny undulating shadow as fear fills him.

"I need to use the bathroom," I venture. To my surprise, the leader nods and flicks a hand.

"That way," he mutters, pointing back up the stairs. My back is to the wall, facing the stairs, so I step across the circle. My friend gets up to follow me. No one objects, and we walk to the doorway. I glance back, as I open the door to the stairs, and I see someone else getting up. I hurry to open the door, and walk up as quietly as possible. At the top, behind my friend, I see two more people following us, at the bottom. I can tell, from the angry look in their eyes, that they are not hoping to use the bathroom as well.

The front door is shut, bolted and locked with a key, from the inside. I turn and run down the hall. My friend follows, I think. The house creaks and betrays my movements, and I can hear little else.

There are no exits. I see no large windows, no back doors. Panicking, I throw open a door. It leads to a closet of a bathroom. Above the toilet, about 10 feet from the ground, is a window.

I jump onto the toilet and struggle to force the window open from below, barely reaching. It budges and, as I pull myself up to the ledge, I force it open further. I can slide myself out on my stomach, sliding sliding. The cool outdoor air kisses my cheek, a blessing. I am about to pull my hips through when I feel someone grab my ankles. They pull, I pull. I'm slipping back through the window, freedom evaporating. Suddenly, the grip weakens. I scramble to pull myself out, and tumble down onto the grass. It hurts, it was a hard, jarring fall, but I hardly notice. I'm out. I run.

I run and run. No sign of my friend, and my stomach churns for him. But still I run. I'll find help. Surely there is a house that is occupied, somewhere here.

The dilapidated street streches into countryside, and I run alongside the road. I see a house ahead, a prim wood frame house, and I allow myself to slow. No one is following, I can let myself breathe.

I knock on the door, a man answers. Wearing a worn sportscoat and jeans, he looks friendly. I try to explain. He ushers me in, not believing me, but solicitious.

"Now, now, just sit here and rest a moment." He shows me a tidy, bright sitting room, facing the street. "No one's chasing you, I'm sure."

I don't believe him, I look outside. Empty, green meadows. But I still don't believe him. My friend isn't with me, I didn't make this up.

"Now where were you again?" he asks.

I look out the window again, and then I see them. The messy-haired man, confidently leading a column. I see my friend, and sigh, for some small relief. But the woman, the woman who first found us, she is not there. Dead, I think, although I could not justify it.

"They're here," I breathe to my host as the column turns towards the house. I jump up, hesitate like a scared rabbit, and run. Hide, hide, is all I can think. Like a child, I run to hide in the first room I can find. A workroom, with a large table. A blanket underneath. Stupid, scared, I throw myself under the table and try to hide my bulk with the blanket.

Footsteps come soon.

"Don't be silly, my pet," the leader's voice chides. "You are a part of the game now, you cannot leave before we've finished playing."

His large boots stop in front of the table. Without hesitating, without even a shred of consideration for my hiding place, he reaches down to drag me out. "There we are," he says, standing me up. I see the rest of the group standing behind him. Blank-faced, except my friend. Who looks scared. Seeing his face, my lungs clench up and my head pounds. I flail, and grab something hard and cold on the work table. In a rush, I lunge at the smiling man's throat.

The razor blade knife cuts the side of his throat. I shudder, feeling the resistance of his skin, his vein, and then the give of it before the blade. Taking advantage of his surprise, I grab his arms from behind. He is larger, but I have a knife against his throat. Half of his neck is becoming slippery with blood.

"We have to end this," I say, not knowing what I'm saying, to the gathered group. "This is a madness he drives us to, to sacrifice ourselves."

"I am not the killed," he whispers. "You are. Quit this foolishness." From behind him, my face in his blood and his straw-dry hair, I can hear the power in his voice, whisper not withstanding. I look over his shoulder and plead.

One of the group grabs the razor blade from my hand. I gasp, and stagger backwards. Fear clouds my vision. But no cut comes. A moment later, I see the leader staring down at his bloody hands. The razor blade is passed to another, and another stroke comes.

"We must all kill him," someone says. "So no one is guilty."

I hardly follow what happens, so much movement, but so little sound. Finally, I see the man stumble back into the hall, turning for the first time to face me. He is a torrent of blood, agony.

"Zero," he utters, and collapses. Someone, quicker thinking than I, grabs him and pulls him towards the back of the house. We follow. The body thumps down the back door steps, not leaving too much blood. A creek flows swiftly, deeply to the right of the house. Two people drag the body across the long grass and throw it in. The water rushes to meet its burden, to carry it away. We shuffle through the grass, exhausted. Free. Or perhaps not.

Claims

He found it strange, later, that so much happiness could spring from that irritated, put-out moment. For, after all, to sit somewhere is to claim it, to call it yours, even temporarily. "That is my seat," one says. Or, "Oh, am I sitting in your seat?" It is impossible to have a seat if it is someone else's - if so, it cannot be yours. So, naturally, his irritation upon walking out of his rowhouse - his house, mind you - and finding her sitting upon his low retaining wall.

"Can I help you?" He asked, the irritation seeping from his voice. Or so he hoped.

"I'm just resting," she smiled. "Thank you." She made no movement, except to recross her legs. They made the cloth of her skirt flow, heavy liquid cascading down from the wall.

Her gratitude was genuine, if presumptuous, and he paused in his indignation for a moment.

"Well," he said, and then faltered, uncertain what he had intended.

"This is a beautiful view you have," she added, flicking her wrist towards the other side of the street. A hill sloped down across from them, empty of houses, showing lush green trees below. "You are fortunate."

He followed her eyes, and nodded. Fortunate, yes, he thought, he knew, though it was easy to forget. Startled, he sat next to her to look at it.

"You don't mind?" he asked.

She laughed. "It's your wall."

The Other Truth, Part 3

Continued from Part 2.

She felt a bright wave of cold and then the humid air of the jungle. She had never seen a jungle, no more than the scrawny trees that struggled to grow at the edge of the city's polluted river, but her heart recognized it nonetheless.

"Let me see your hand," the boy commanded gently. She offered him her upturned palm. "No, not like that," he scolded. "Fairytale nonsense, palm reading." He flipped her hand over, and traced his fingers across the faint shadows of veins. "The trees, they echo their lives here. Their power sings here, in your hands. We will teach you to learn it."


"We?"


He nodded, and led her past a curtain of vines. Two other teenage boys crouched around a small fire, and a girl her own age, not yet into her teens, stood behind them. The fire was unlike any she had seen, leaping up from the ground without leaving scorched black behind. The flames danced playfully in front of the boys' hands.


"Shamaan," her guide said, in greeting to the others. "I bring you Ulethe."


"Ulethe?" she asked. "But that's not-"


"Your name? Yes, it is. Perhaps you didn't know it, but it rises from your skin like your scent. This is one of the things you will learn."


The boys stood to greet her, and the girl behind them inclined her head in a small bow.


"I am Serij," her guide explained. "These are Ret, Veleu," he pointed at the boys. "And Kiuxo." The girl nodded again.


"Ulethe," she repeated to herself. "That's me?"


"Absolutely. You will learn to recognize this as the truth, but for now I hope you will trust me. Come, have some water." Serij offered her a hollowed gourd, with crystal water. She drank deeply.

The Other Truth, Part 2

Continued from Part 1.

The weekend hours spun past, filled with gossip and laughter and fresh-squeezed fruit juice in the heat. She did not think of the boy until she descended from the rickety bus and saw him sitting, wrapped over the plant.

"You would have a skill for it, you know," he said as she approached. He had not looked up, and she jumped at being addressed. "I can hear the jaguar in your blood."

"Are you crazy? Maybe you escaped from the hospital, eh?"

"Some people would say that. But I've escaped from nowhere. This is the prison." He looked up and around, grimacing. "Listen," he continued. "We have spun the song. Come here."

Stopped, she furrowed her brow in doubt.

"I will not hurt you. Look, I'll step away. Just come near."

He rose, revealing the plant for the first time. It had shed its yellow paint, and sprouted vivid purple flowers.

She hesitated, looked around, and then shuffled closer.

The flowers became transparent, wavering things constructed more of air than matter. A hum crept into her head, undulating in rhythm with the ephemeral flowers. Shocked, she stepped backwards.

"You see it then," the boy said flatly.

"Yes," she whispered.

"They did not teach you that in your school, did they."

"No. But I don't know what it is."

"What it is? It is too big to have a name, not properly. Some have tried to call it magic, but that is false. I prefer life, but I guess that could be vague."

She shook her head.

"Come with me," he said. "I can teach you much more."

"No, I ... school ..." she whispered, and hurried off.

She regretted it the rest of the day. All day, wedged into her hard desk at school, she thought of the boy and his wonders. I always wanted something to happen, something different, like the movies. I have to do this.

Rather than walking to the right outside her school to catch the bus home, she ran down the street to the left. As she hoped, the boy sat on the curb. The bright purple flower was nearly as large as his hand, and it breathed ribbons of blue smoke.

"Are you ready to leave now?" the boy asked.

"Absolutely. I don't care where we're going."

"That's good. Because if you had asked me, I could not explain."

He raised his hand to indicate for her to wait, and then he stood above the plant. He hummed, a deep crescendo, and the blue smoke grew with his voice. It snaked up from the blossom, out into the air, forming an arc. When it circled upon itself, it hardened, and the air inside shimmered.

"Let's go." He reached out his hand, and drew her into the circle.

Continue reading Part 3.

The Other Truth, Part 1

Every day, when she walked from her second bus down the four dirty blocks to school, she looked for it. To see it still there, still struggling and still alive, was a daily relief. She had first noticed the plant the week after the end of the rainy season, and the day after they painted the curb. The bright yellow paint was such a novelty that her eyes followed the stripe of the curb for her whole walk. And that was what made her notice it - a bloom of waxy green leaves thrusting out from a crack in the curb. It was a reminder of the jungle, the wild that had been subdued for their sprawling concrete and soot city. The curb painters had splashed half the plant with thick yellow.

She couldn't decide if the plant was a good sign, for in a way it represented the city's deterioration. But she found its tenacity a relief, nonetheless.

One day, a frown took root on her face as she approached the plant, which grew two blocks from the bus stop and just below the the speed limit sign that everyone ignored. Sitting on the curb, next to the plant, was a dirty teenage boy. His back curved into a bony half moon under his thin t-shirt, and he rested his elbows on his knees. The plant was hidden between them, caught between his legs. She thrust her lip out in a frowning pout and did not break her stride.

He was there again, in exactly the same pose, the next morning, and again the following day, a Friday. On that third day, she slowed, pondering him, wondering if he had chosen the plant as his anchor, or if it were a coincidence. She heard him whispering. Her feet dragged along the sidewalk.

"You, girl," he said without turning. "What do you want?"

"Me? Nothing," she said, startled, and quickened her steps to pass him.

"Have it your way. But don't worry. I won't hurt it. I want to help it."

"Help it?" She repeated. She paused, and looked around nervously. She knew always to be on the lookout for the strange, which could so easily become the violent.

"Of course. Help this 'rubber tree' sprout. The colonizer's name, of course, named only for its commodity, but it will do."

"Oh. How are you helping it?"

For the first time he turned to look at her. He had skin just a little darker than her own, with a broad flat nose and almond eyes that angled upwards, following his cheekbones. He was handsome, she admitted.

"Singing to it. You wouldn't understand. But I could change that."

"You're right, I don't. Listen, I have to get to school. I go home another way, so-"

"I know. I will see you another morning.

"You will be here Monday?"

"Is that how it goes? Any way, I will be here. We are spinning a spirit web, Inxitha and I, and it will take time."

She raised her eyebrows and walked on. A moment passed.

"I could teach you," he called softly to her back. She kept walking.

Continued at Part 2

The Journey

This one's for Gary.

Another one was ripe. The tree's branch uncurled, taking days to release the great bud ensconced inside. When the branch finally unfurled itself, the bud released and fell to the ground, rolling down the small hill. The bud rocked to a stop, settled in a mossy dip. For a long time it sat there, unmoving. Then, the outer shell cracked and split, falling open to reveal the snail. His bright blue shell glimmered, standing out like a gem against the green moss. He extracted his head and turned it from one side to another. He saw moss, which he knew to be moss, and he saw the massive tree behind him. His eyes swiveled back and forth, taking in the entire landscape. He saw no other blue gem snails, which he knew himself to be, and knew he ought to look for. The snail nodded to himself, accepting this information, and decided to inch his way forward, to explore.

After a long time, ages it seemed, the snail arrived at the edge of the world. He crept up to the edge, recognizing it from afar but wanting to see it, to experience the bliss of crouching upon the cusp of oblivion. He did so, and was amazed. Brown earth reached down below him, but beyond that he could not see anything except darkness. The sound of rushing, whispering air reached up to him. It called to him, begged him to merge himself with it. He shivered, and turned away. He made his way back.

The path he had taken previously was obscured, unrecognizable from the passage of time. The snail did not worry. He made his way as he could, sliding over moss and rotting leaves and bark. He met a moth, and passed a slug. He nodded at the slug and trudged on.

An ant, a massive ant, asked the snail for a ride. "I am traveling and could use some assistance," he explained. The snail pulled his eyestalks down into his shell as he thought. The ant was solitary, strange for an ant.

"Where are you going?" the snail asked.
"Ah, where," the ant replied. "To find something that makes me happy."
"That is a good thing to look for," the snail said. "I should like to look for the same thing. I have seen the edge of the world, and that did not make me happy. Should we search for the heart of the world?"
"You are an accommodating snail," the ant praised him. "I think we should search for the heart of the world."

The ant took his place on the snail's iridescent blue shell, and they commenced their slow journey together. They knew not to ask anyone where the heart of the world was, for they knew they would be the first to find it.

The snail crept along, and one day, as rain drizzled down upon them, he spotted a great cavern up ahead.

"I am certain that is the entrance to the heart of the world," he told the ant. The ant nodded, and the snail observed his agreement. Silently, they proceeded forward.

After a few cycles of light and darkness, they reached the cavern. It was dark inside, but they had no fear. They traveled and traveled, following the path into the heart of the world. The cave began to reverberate with a deep, contented sound. Even more confident, they continued. The air became warm, and all light was gone. The snail did not slow his pace, and the ant silently approved.

The first tickle was slight, almost imperceptible. Soon, more tickles followed, and eventually they became a warm, soft embrace, as the air around them thickened and welcomed them. A rumbling hum flowed around them. The snail and the ant had found the heart of the world, and they were happy. They smiled.

Story of an Artist in a Dirty Apartment

I don't vacuum very often, so yesterday, after long ignoring the accumulating filth to the best of my ability, I succumbed. I started with the carpet in the tiny closet I call my studio. Where I paint, crumple paper, cut fabric, and generally try to be creative. It didn't take long until the vacuum choked on something. I turned it off and sat down next to it. I would coach the vacuum to regurgitate whatever it had improperly swallowed, I thought. I found the end of a string, wrapped around the vacuum brush. That's easy, I determined with relief, and began to pull on it. The string was beautiful - thick and soft, made of shades of purple with gold strands interwoven. I watched with amazement as it spooled out from the vacuum. There was so much yarn, I laid it out in a circle around me. Pulling yarn, and piling circles upon circles around me. The yarn piled up. I smiled, enjoying the cocoon I was creating. More yarn, higher walls. Finally, it reached above my head. I pulled pile of extra yarn into my haven, and then tied a knot at the top. I found a needle in the carpet, and used the extra string to sew the walls of the cocoon into something a little more solid although, to be honest, they felt pretty sturdy already. Finally, I closed the bottom of my cocoon below me. I sighed with relief. A beautiful purple and gold pouch I'm in, I thought. What a lovely place to spend some time. I sat there, and thought purple and gold thoughts. Waterfalls, spirit gems, crumpled paper. Then, almost as if I had expected it, or invited it, something picked me up. This pleased me too. Such a lovely package as me in my purple and gold pouch should be picked up. Carried. I wondered idly where I was going. Perhaps to join a collection of pouches. That would be nice. I swung in the air for a long time. I could tell I had left the stale, stinky air of my apartment behind, and noticed a sweet, honeysuckle scent. As it should be. Now, I sway in the sweet breezes, happily ensconced in my cocoon, absent of physical needs. I can paint beautiful images in the air with my mind, and write these words for you. Perhaps it didn't start yesterday. Perhaps it was years, centuries. I don't know, I'm not waiting for anything. Just living in a world of inner beauty.