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Vanning

Vanning

 

 

Vanning

 

 

Short by

 

Lucus Anthony Ren

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright

Vanning

© 2015, Lucus Anthony Ren

Self-publishing

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. Limit of Liability and Disclaimer of Warranty: The author / publisher has used its best efforts in preparing this book, and the information provided herein is provided “as is,” and makes no representation or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaims any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for any particular purpose and shall in no event be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damage, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.

For my wife, her passion, support.

Preface

 

 

 

 

1809

The wind brought with it the smell off the mountains. A grey odour. A shifting. It drifted from deep within the source of mountains birth. Its presence was of a meaning not yet known, where age shut light and heat-less flame forever away.

 

1934

‘That wretched. Land will never be the same.’

 

1965

Where is that civilized bus stop? She was wet thinking of the shifting colours in his eyes, their splitting orgasms. A wanted change in his odour from induced erotic pain. Madness. Addiction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grey

 

The shift came holding the mountains grace till travelers passed, flinging outwards drifting upon the caravan, a swirling-twisted thought, gently kissing, embracing, then secreted inwards. Men turned in their saddles looking skyward, fading minds thinking how odd it rained without clouds, opened sagging mouths wider, eyes rolled to showing their full whiteness. Animals slowed their once hurried advance, now mindless, drifted off the trail. Tethered they formed a drunken snake with no bearing in mind, only that of momentum.

 

The Kunuklar Mountains surrounded an expansively open plain the caravans travel. Always snow caped when sun shined they lit as beacons, eighteen peaks of white light seen afar. Somewhere within this range lay the grave of Princess Surimaklar whose reign ended only after six years when she was kidnapped, held for a never-paid ransom, then tortured and killed. The only proof of this laid in the form of a golden horse tattoo skinned from her hip and returned to her kingdom along with a brief explanation of her death.

 

The devastated kingdom thought her as ‘The Lighted’; clairvoyant in nature, knowing present and pending nature of many events. It’s widely believed she expected this, therefore the ransom was not paid. Nor were trackers sent after her, for certainly if the Princess was in any danger she would have informed the kingdom before her abduction.

 

An immediate council was held upon return of the tattoo. Panic grew in the kingdom with news of murderous armies advancing; the prosperous region would certainly fall. Correct and profound action establishing a new leader must without delay be taken. Once achieved, the order would be given for scouts sent forth with one command in returning with those reasonable.

 

That same night those foreign armies slew all within the kingdom. Eighteen noble scouts were sent forth before this, and it is they whom stand upon the pecks shining their lights searching for the murders of Princess Surimaklar. To protect the scouts from harm the shaman blessed them with the ability of bending the environment. Due to the elevation very little grew from this white-grey soil, when danger neared the scouts altered colour into the world around them. It was widely known and believed in certain regions and groups of people, that the scouts would smell the colour grey when peril was near. Closing their mantels they would shift. Simply not be visible. Only that which remained behind this shifting was a fragrance having no definition. If asked, a person would state they smelled wet earth, or dust. Wild raspberries. Sweating horses. The scent of sex. No two could agree on the same, thus deemed uncertain. Grey.

 

Disorientation. Unsure footing, heavy in speech. Slow in thought. Man or beast it didn’t matter, they were all affected, thoroughly displaced through the shift, removed from their norm. It was the scouts only defense, as they wore no protective armor nor carried weaponry. There wasn’t a need, for their mission was that of finding and returning those accountable for the death of the princess. It was also the only way traveling over expansive-distance quickly. Shifting was not simply camouflage, but transport as well, and it was this which disrupted those as the shift passed through them. Delusionizing.

 

The scouts never found the murders nor the tomb. Word reached them of their kingdoms massacre, which only drove their seeking further. Eventually, they became the hunted. The last of the three were caught and feed alive to starved pigs, their heads shaved and teeth pulled saving indigestion on the pigs behalf. A pig can eat through bone in seconds, but teeth and hair were hard on the gut. However, their mantels with the golden horse of Princess Surimakalar embroidered thereon were not among any of the captured scouts.

 

Information came that a man would be found with three fingers missing at a council meeting of the elders in Tashmara, but care must be taken as many were searching for the last three scouts, and ‘three fingers missing’ would be one of the murders. The three scouts shifted, gently and without notice as they had done every occasion. They removed their mantles and replaced them with simple robes, which caused an alert. Why they did this isn’t told. Caught by the delusionization that before had saved them.

 

The caravan of man and animal flowed forward, their minds adrift in softness, unaware of the consequences events long ago caused, and the changes made in their own appearance from it. They were no longer the same that departed two weeks ago with provisions for the camp, still four days out. Those experiencing the shift in Tashmara long ago would certainly notice the significant difference between then and now, for in Tashmara their skins were not turning grey nor were animals salivating such as in this case, and in quantities the pack animals did drool. Shifting simply gave you a heighten state of drunkenness, but only a few minutes. No animals were affected and there was a measurable radius of its impact of only several meters. This present situation was very different.

 

So in feeling rain it wasn’t, rather that of their skin pealing open. They rode further over the plain hooves splintering on smooth sand. They managed another seven winding kilometers before the first horse fell into its own dust pile. Tethered the caravan simple stood there for several days till the last finally dissolved. The men however hadn’t to wait that long. They blew away in that afternoons wind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Light and Deep

 

‘I can’t stop it’, Deep voice said.

‘Move’, Light voice said.

Owner of the Light voice moved quickly. Agile fingers slipped but could not grasp the engaging work. Difficult as it was with the surrounding darkness aiding and hindering at the same moment, but it was the continuous scratching sound causing excessive irritation, seeping and giving birth into the very source of darkness itself. Relentlessly, it had gone on for days. Perhaps weeks. There was no telling. You knew little and grew more forgetful the longer you spent in it. The essence of time simply ushered out, replaced with a devastated sensation of expanding madness. Odours became reference points. The olfactory system being adrenaline injected flamed with a greedy survival purpose.

 

Notable hearing improvement would surface had it not been for the prominent, bellowing screech with its unknown origin. Not acknowledge at the time, it kept them from complete insanity; the ability of screaming without causing notice.

 

Reliance factor reduced to touch and smell the later becoming more acute especially in deciphering between human, animal, or something that was still a mystery. A moment where factors slip some, and particular, having points of reason attached to them.

 

Fingers of Light voice slipped with ease. The smell was both exhilarating and nauseous. Sweat steadily flowing into eyes, flies waltzing across face and neck as their host had no hands to bother them. Fly bit irritation didn’t register in the brain of Light voice; too busy with thinking of how rude orchestral brass sections are. These flies themselves feeling hunger and thirst similar to their host, searching with flickering tongues softly absorbing precious minerals and fluids now produced in robust quantities. Darkness, slippage, flies. Ears deafened by relentless shrills, or not, rasping at sanities realm unable in seeing other thoughts.

 

Stale air mixed with rancid waste born from once flourishing times. Silence and freshness are dreams not spoken for fear of releasing unbridled sprites whose sole purpose be consumption. In this endless cracking, feelings appear in the distance. So many nerves never used before. Far away. And very long ago. First though only as a whisper, it glanced to areas holding the most promise. Studying the chance, weighing the elements, making logical choices, then finally advance. The stronger targeted first, less of a threat. Methodically was its suit. Always with a purpose, it strode hallways, shuttered chambers, swallowing the light. Those remaining became feeble, incompetent. Liars to all.

 

The norm was in killing and sex. The killed didn’t really matter. Having sex with something dead or living didn’t matter either. Simply an event in passing time. Essence of the roots. Little changed in all the time having plundered worlds, spawning, teaching. The act of inferiority. Trappings of a not so coherent time. Yet none possessing this fact, see themselves in error and still do nothing, or little in altering their evolution. So much for random, explosive violent fits. And we think we are clever. What do you think the reply would be from Deep and Light voice should you ask if they think they are clever? Light voice having a finer dexterity, still had problems grasping the present work. This work was now becoming very serious. Mind, and life threatening serious. Serious to a point of madness. So, does Light voice think, ‘I am clever, and I will service this meeting my own ends,’ or is there some other demanding warrant? Of retribution perhaps?

Deep voice was of another breed. Asked what you wanted to be in the adult world nearing the threshold, Deep replied, ‘Why, what’s wrong with the way I am?’ Deep was a natural leader and found abundant satisfaction with the opposite sex due to charisma and honesty aspects. Learning came easy, one degree followed another. Job titles, travel, high-end lifestyle. Relentless pressure. So much for self-improving instinct literature.

 

And now this. The job was logistics, same as it always had been, but with a sordid erotic keyhole through which to gape. The tasks were simple and straight; appraise potential markets and report recommendations within the set time. The set time elapsed some time ago. And as in darkness there is little the understanding of time but mainly of bodily functions. Though the first seizure occurred just before the lights dimmed, leaving fingers trembling and sweat flowing under the mildest distresses.

 

The marriage was over. Faced with the fact the once then partner had trivial relationships to ‘cleans ones own pain, and rid themselves of the entire affair’ did little to persuade the choosing of this mission. The Company wasn’t interested anyway in their staffs’ personal situations unless they altered its objectives. Should these goals become more complex then a team assembled to deal with the case. Geared to handle situations at high political level too domestic, its leadership was out-sourced entities. With considerable finances nothing out of their domain existed. Deep was of senior standing, and scheduled for assassination. Light was to carry out that assassination. Sex between them was biting, intense multi-orgasmic psyche sessions relieving terrors, passions, boredom. Pressure holds, forced positions was foreplay, with thick-robust penetration lasting till exhausted. Both in their physiological prime nothing was obstructive, nor vulgar. Knowing the others advances assumed lame pursuit of non-required actions, sexually related or not. Pure rut’s scent consumed them.

 

While employed, Deep always initiated their corporate orders. Light being its sword-end enjoyed the side producing results. Working together, expressing the common goal, neither understanding nor felt they had a reason, in wondering what each held in their hands. For never having met in the light dictated an erotic fashion helping describe their physic through odor, sound, feeling, movement, which home economics class in high school did not provide.

 

For them surface depicted only the mask. Illusionary teams of thought built willingness patterns. It’s only wanted conscientious, that of an understanding essence. And wish. Or thought of one. A voice on the distant line gave certain details, ideas. Vision came from this, and promotion thus excused. Fumbling synoptic firing drew the hopeful, final lines. Passions, wants and needs, immigrant companionship of high intellect. A sad true reality of what evolution consisted of the feeble wondering to pass the time. And if chained how will that alter. That to pursue what is wanted. A dribbling, drooling hope pending on acceptance, or would it be that of vision.

Light was taken where sexed juices spilt mixing, consumed with lusts spastic cavity. Remembering the fondest, and wanting not in relinquish those times, willing to give none away, gout crossed its threshold. And it took. Stars wrathily shaped, whispering its past, “Goodbye, sail-well, but when you return, I’ll be older still”. Then grey formed, along with Rad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time With Rad

 

When twenty-nine he ate many pretzels. Loved honey. Believed. Loving humanity, animals, and deep colouring sun as it hide for the night. Boarded situations make expanding fellows, so the march began of the course. Two months later he was released.

 

The texture of the mantel attire was always in the sounds heard. Orphaned, tied on a plank like many, defecating. Starved. Study programs and images, paintings of your loved ones on walls and ceilings, biting your finger nails, wanting sex again, the look of a mirror, smell of shampoo, cold beer. What most wanted abscond. The consented situation was that of twelve weeks. He don’t want to remember the last weeks, but must as others having taken part moved on, and some way gained their balance. Three remained in remote contact. These being the closest. Thirty-seven attended the course. Thirteen died during in it. Seven ended life on their own terms afterwards. Besides the three, there is no word from the others.

 

This endeavor aimed at educating yourself on skills required in understanding the function of carpets. Three month was the term-course. We were all enthusiastic. It was their passion. The sun shined bright in what they wanted, adding that light towards sustainability.

 

He doesn’t eat pretzels now. Drinks more, and instructed his silent periods needed improvement. He misplaced and forget often, but nothing they could understand would educate them on real, everyday happenings. And they often say words they often hear. Those that gives meaning to their efforts, though they should not be condoned. Some do care. Some simply don’t and can’t understand.

Rad took the groups remnant out for a drink, and was killed after they said goodnight while looking left, but not clearly to the right while crossing a street. The sole passenger not hurt from their autos message, standing, tottering over Rad with that unnatural thought we use to make life’s declarations, “Am I responsible?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Committee and Ending the Carpet Ride

 

Rad introduced me to the Committee after the course. Fond memories. Committee people are focused, prepared and open. To the teeth. A granulated form of music having a tune that few outside that realm understood. Not being helpless in the fact we organized and promoted our projects the Committee funded, we in turn were bound. The governing body took as well as gave. If you had this pristine position having a funded project then you were in depths without any reasoning aspects intact. And so on such a mission I understood the meaning of vodka. Cigarettes. Honesty. Another use for toilet paper. And bettering my dyslexic aspects. The differed uses of contraceptives. That salt was good for you. Drugs were better and never-never land was a real place. I grew up on a farm with its nature, which came back traveling through Central Asia, the base for one of these projects. For the people there, and the project coordinators it became our time. Our commitment. We simply wanted to give. The laugh was when you came back asking the doctors for sleep induce medication.

 

Diagnosed with swing moods, friends, family, fellow associates, instructed me to seek professional subjects. The phone bills told of conversations building their consensus. The soft click of the filter on my teeth as the drag came in. Solidarity of floating smoked butts in water as to hold the stench, and mindless radio noise confirm certain facts. Often told eventually, I would run out, not being able to sustain such consumption. The fact in spending abnormal time on the toilet crossed minds. If they demanded me I was usually there, however not always in a sobriety state of their understanding, but then I wasn’t tested with their venues of coherent thought either, till vanning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Caravanning

 

Not entirely loss of sight, simply misplaced. Reversed virginity could be cruel. Yet that can be given and taken, but where can virginity be misplaced? If taken would it be vengeful when it reappeared?

 

Locals said while he recovered, it was in the air that he would see, not as before so well of course, but a fading from out towards the centre. Vision would always dampen, blurred slowly encapsulating his known world. He would be entirely bind within six to eight years, peripheral at first, ending with a tiny window in the middle, then nothing. Medication would help, but not prevent the sand twisting, burning deeper near imploding the eyes till the steaming brain dwindled. Prevalent winds took sanity, a prime commodity held while lead around for months with a stick and voices as guides. Mental balance jeopardized, eventually compromised. He became aware in this recess, of recovery. Slight crack opening just above the left eye, and knew his mind began leaking. He would lose dreams as it widened. Ability to reason, and lust for her would pool-up a foot deep on the surface of the camp floor where he’d pass-out whenever possible.

 

He wasn’t sure what’s in the air. No sedation possible except native brewed booze freely at hand through envisioning local interpretations creating forgotten times with its excessive consumption. During frequent near spin-out episodes of being certain he was some hybrid reborn, he could understand two simply facts; locals knew, others not. So when the locals tied him to a pole and striped him naked while in one of these bastard states, he didn’t refuse. He was simply at a wanted end. Locals needed peace, and hygiene as his cloths became a toilet frequently giving him infections, spilling pus and stench.

 

His proficiency in their language gave an understanding that if he argued, he would be taken to the trails and left. Autumn was near and nights grew cold. He would fumble around lasting a day or so till the wolves ate him alive as wolves take pride if you’re out there in that condition. Nature rules acutely.

 

Being rather clever simply move among the camps taking what’s needed so night becomes adventurously hideous. Trails are another entity breeding differently. Caravans up to ten men have been taken down. One form of protection is setting yourself on fire, grasping anything which come near, or running alight in any direction, preferably not towards the pack animals. This has on limited occasions only startled wolves, and more often simply delayed their meal. Burning oneself might be the better option of the two. It’s curtain those lighted their fires died from burns, which the wolves ate anyway. It’s chaos at best, and when faced with these elements the brain parachutes.

 

Naked he slowly withered on his ass into the mud which crept up the crack of his ass, slightly annoyed at the way it surrounded then engulfed his testicles. Real fear though came when he could not feel his dick thinking what had happened with it. He smelt something burning. Close to his face he felt a warmth prescience, then the smoke took him.

 

‘Smoke’s in the wind,’ claw marks from ravenous memories. He simple inhaled finding again counting droplets of rain hanging from a chess board forgotten by its players, simply wasn’t enough to control the churning his stomach made when he thought of biting her ass and how it tasted. Their first sex together was in question. Rumbling under sheets he asked her what she wanted. ‘A fuckin’ great orgasm,’ she rattled out, her long drifting hair consumed their space bonded them sticking every place sweat was. So the question he thought ‘what have I got here?’ was never answered. With her, he learned to turn everything off. Her enigma caught him, buried deeper then he’d have thought, and bored out his head in the end.

 

His time was up. Regarded extinct being from the Old World he possessed that gift of giving, which had its price. Seen as a frustrated, simple-minded fool who gave nearly everything away, therefore easily, and readily abused. Regarded ‘them’ as just awaking one day only to be wandering around, and not getting the picture, being paramount of course for most, left him aloft and shy. Making eye contact was peculiar, and is scraggly attitude put others off calling him the ‘Snorting Pig.’ Life’s cagey atmosphere not being his dress he took to the trails, now tied to a pole, naked those drops started to swell under their board. They gorged and bloated even as the rain slowed. He thought how’s it possible they didn’t tip the board over? What if they, were going to consume one another, becoming a single authority? Not possible they’re just drops of rain with some freakish trick played such as, falling. Why don’t these mutants drop? And who left the board out? Haven’t they any idea what rain achieves?

 

Delirium explains truths abandonment, no twisted tales, simply ones ability to exaggerate. Dust gathers greater in corners not used, and the mind functions best when not used while thinking much. There’s the gut feeling teamed against logic that practical stuff, and hope waits like a dog wanting a walk. If something gets you where you can’t go on your own, do you use or abuse it for it was simple when it was simple? Sex for example. Whether abundant, or lacking its instinct leaned toward one direction; consumption. You spend time having, hunting, starving, rejecting it, still, the result is the same. Inhalation of burnt foraged material will change the norm. Now with his head covered smoke flowed freely through his lungs. The bag they used was course leading toward a tonnage weight on his neck. At times he felt a cool sip of air when the bag opened only to allow in more smoke. His consumption of having sex, and the hunger began.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fish with Coca

 

She bit hard on his inner thigh. ‘Jesus’ was his only word before she cut him off. ‘Don’t be childish. I see you with horses they bite too and you don’t whine.’ She started sucking the bite mark. Her tongue flicked increasing the sensation. ‘Yea but horses and dogs like or dislike their humans.’ She stopped, looked at him, ‘So take me like as dog,’ and slid over his body, breasts caressing his lips till he reach and grabbed her ass. She pushed down hard on his waist with hers feeling his arousal increase, she buried her lips on his open mouth. Her motion grew slow, she was wet from the bite and he felt that warmth. Her sliding fingers between the heat and cloths searched till she bite his tongue.

 

Her gift for spicy cooking hung in his mouth, then sank as he breathed her in. Cinnamon and garlic. Meat and something weird he had no idea flowed through their mouths. She mixed chocolate with just about everything and admitted its strong addiction. ‘Coca and fish make you horny,’ she quoted with meals. In those odours, he simply dropped off, willingly taken by her scent. She, rubbed her hair with onions. Letting regularly grievous amounts of gas, she didn’t take notice of those quivering when she entered their space. Foul and exotic a true free sprite claiming nothing. She took and gave accordingly to her own agenda. Most men feared her ideas, realizing she’d forgotten more they’d ever know.

 

Unlocking from his mouth, in a single bizarre movement, she pivoted on top of his hard erection, then lifted and pointing her ass at his face and said, ‘Bite me.’ Her heat inches from his face branded him. The fact that what she ate emanated from her crotch wasn’t an issue. Her smell brought his senses telling his mind, ‘eat this and be blessed’. He was starved, and feeling if he couldn’t eat her he’ll go blind, and inducted with remorse into that club of ‘should I or, not?’ rivaling groups of ‘what if?’ and ‘is it possible?’. So he ate.

 

Brown leaves fall when they are dead, or near so. Both their skin were near that deep brown. The contrast of her smooth, pearl-cream ass held open by his hands was death in passing moments, waiting their own circular revival. Colours simulated him, greater the difference the better. Years on the trails showed him wonders, she illustrated for him how to experience in touch what he saw. In feeling his hands move across her she slipped off that last thread of self-awareness, slowly sucking it in her warm, wet mouth. Lazily, she licked, moving her tongue over his hardness, raising and lowering while his hips twisting with their mouth dance. She pressed harder on to his burning, feeling her juice covering him, her orgasm nearing its start. Her hands massaged him, squeezing till she heard his paining moans, tickled his hard head with chocolate flavoured licks making him shake. Hands slid over him, stroked milking that cream shyly hidden.

 

Most thorns prick. His face, covered with her increased flowing liquor, didn’t matter it hadn’t chanced by a razor in days, it simply intensified the affect of licking her ass. Not driven by only what she was sucking on, also by what she tasted ambushed his belief, only crap comes from here, and no pleasure. Simply moving his tongue along her directional line gave reason to understand why chocolate was manufactured not simply for dessert. He kissed her crack, pulling her soaked pants bitten between teeth, then letting them snap back enjoying her throated groans. The trails took and gave. Dexterity and sensitivity in his hands diminished through the years leaving claws to handle the work vanning required. Having sex in the dark left some women asking men to remove those ‘gloves’ before going further, but she was different. She felt those hands and knew they were gifts as most men don’t carry such tools, drawing one caressing her ass, on to her breast. It summed up at times, feelings are about the moments you come into.

 

The hand is what it is. To help. In his way he massaged her, gently. Held her breast firm and rubbing her swollen nipples giving her deeper thrusts from his lips, and horrifying pleasures he hadn’t really understood till later. Her panties having enough were torn off. He licked her from the top of her crack down slowly, perishing under the weight the circumstances carried. Her ass raised, lowered, grinding as he kissed, bite, squeezed. Fingering her wetness moving in and out feeling her contract thinking, ‘ hell why use the finger?’

 

It is that solitary fact you think of, but seldom experience for the fear of it. Absolutely alone. You can deal with your build, but not how you’re built. Some elements simply aren’t possible to adapt in any recognizable or wished state. You can sit alone and figure out so much better than you ever could surrounded by others. Address issues dear or hellish. However if you are not careful you’ll end up on a different scale all together, that of insanity. If watching the cats play does it for you, excellent. If sex is chosen simply as a random commodity used for a tool to further ones’ interests, then what? After all, sex for some is simply just that. Scientific or emotional sex is a couple of circumstances. Whether it’s the high flying stuff or done in secret shadows, it aims to enhance understanding why things work the way they do. Screw the neighbour, no problem. Hamsters go at it, sure why not. Partners exchange it with others not their own, naturally. It’s like this weird image of who’s who, what they got, and those from another planet just tuned in. Come for dinner, enjoy the show. Then it shifts.

 

There is a combination of those ruled by brains or hearts, and both. The balance could be a trick of sorts. An invocation of insight perhaps able to control recognition, and of recall. I love you, but I don’t need you. When mastering one element we might miss out on others. Hurry up, then wait for nothing to happen. What is essential for home, school, and office, complete, authoritative and accurate? Honesty perhaps or illusion? What these two bring. And think if they’re in the same quarter? Is that enough? How should we improve upon the two? Make them confidant, their genre attached? Access to all?

 

Features become bungled, easily misread as communication falters. How’s it’s avoided between two naked lovers? When they’re apart? What form of communication brings souls closer? Before speech we conveyed through senses. Instinct. When did the drive for logical processing begin? At what point had one taken over another? How must we balance the two? Let them grow? Why must we communicate so intently? Even when it’s misinformation, we strive in the concept. Not want being left behind. Is that bad? Being not in the picture, fear takes us where it will, till the change happens. Survival.

 

Knowing we can go part way on hour own, and the rest with help. Sailors come, and sailors go, but it’s the men below that make the ship go. Being those vessels how then do we connect with our deck crews? As we etch our way do we find the engineers, and those top-side similar? Even separated by decks the need to converse pulls deep. Sink or swim became never so poignant. If you panic, you may drown. Dog paddle the way out. So he paddled to her.

 

In her dyeing her look grabbed hold yet clear sort of distant eyes instruct those watching them to find what they wanted. She sexed countless times with partners her own sex and opposite, wondered at its intensity, consumed by its simplicity. Her address towards life being no different. ‘I’ll mangle it cus it’s mine’ and slap fellow garlic lovers on the back before sticking her finger up their ass, should they inquire her lifestyles. It wasn’t enough to drink like a fish, she was a medical doctor sent on the trails to a remote mining camp collecting samples perhaps showing toxicities. Monitoring alcohol poisonings wasn’t required. It was redundant. Seeing products used in processing minerals had similar effects to that of booze, she inclined in believing both were partaken in. Understanding the conditions, she was compassionate towards those working the mines, and those caravanning stores, especially remote facilities. Where she headed wasn’t clear. Signing the contact was a formality she looked little after. Mine owners requested her as word reached a particular mine running too high production costs, 380 miles away.

 

Male doctors wouldn’t go there. Female ones never left the neighbouring cities and were rare to find at all. The owners never thought of asking woman medical professionals for such a task, the vanners themselves required heavy payment trekking there. Believing a women doctor was en-rout is the same as understanding the mechanics of how a monkey with a wooden leg kicks seeds out a pickle.

 

She was amputating a crushed hand in-field when hearing above the screeching, a voice brought for her work by one of the man kneeling on the screecher, ‘Diz don’t pay vhat yud make in da var wurks’. She had to cut above the wrist being too far beyond repair. The sawing started just at the joint. It would have been a quick cut and what of the hand remaining, would fall away onto the dry desert floor. However, it was the task of holding him still and long enough, while using no anaesthesia to get it done taking five men to hold him, though little could be done as he simply was losing too much blood. His screams intensified regardless of this, and though she had secured the artery his pale skin suggested a winding down of the soul. They all stayed with him until he died thirty minutes later. She then turned asking what far works these might be, and noticed the man informing her wet himself brought on either from viewing her efforts, or simply the inability of constriction.

 

Mine owners in her eyes were lying thieves selling others for the profit. She could not tolerate deceitful actions toward others for a profit. Not far off the mark were others to gain whatever they needed or wanted through bullying and trickery. Christ, when occurrences of this nature happened she spat blood. Red hair with red foam dripping down the sides of her throat normally wasn’t seen in humans. ‘The bastard shit-licker has to have his balls skinned, and made to eat,’ she stated hearing a theft occurred in the camp and the mine owner did nothing in remedying the situation. She signed the contract on one condition, the findings of her examinations are made public. The owners agreed. Sent by the owners, the miner informing her of this opportunity would receive cash, or whore services for one hour. So in making the pitch his reward instead was point blank to the head, and left for the wolves.

 

She knew her orgasm would be strong, not with a man for several weeks made her mean. He was doing a fine job, but needing more she started rotating, rubbing and pushing hard as she felt his face in her while licking her wetness. She swelled. Tongue twisting, teasing, lapping deep into her. His hand squeezed tighter, massaging her hard nipple, then moved toward its twin. She felt his finger still gently moving in her thought it deepened its reach. He was a good boy she knew, one that could be trained well. He felt her wet tongue slip along, licking down. Her hands always caressing him, moving along to its head then down again. He loved her moans and panting, switching from on to another. Her forced-self on him was a delight as simply he laid, pillow slightly under his head she snuggled her crack between his lips and mouth. She jerked with spasms of multitudinous design. He had enough with fingers, her dripping heat, scent strong, lush, waved through and twisted them. He pushed her off. Letting go of him was worst now as he wanted his hardness deep in her. He slid out from under her spread legs and grabbing whiten hips he slipped into that soaked, dreamingly smooth wet hole she’d teased him. Her head arched back releasing a series of cries which lit the animal flame buried deep in both men and the women. She was firmly tight, her muscles sealed around him as he pushed deeper into her. His orgasm jolted. She squeezed his balls tightly. It suddenly stifled his desire, she sensed his near ejaculation, held them firmly till his rhythm subsided. He knew what she wanted, slow and deep. Take the time.

 

The scent of trail sex and beastly moans lured several dogs which accompany the caravan. They drew-in aroma thrown about, their instinct in turn arousing canine ambitions providing animal sex runs parallel. He drove harder in her she balanced on one hand, the other clinching his ass and pulled as he pushed, brain heating as the orgasm neared. He didn’t want this. Enjoying their rhythm blinded, a loss of sight gratifyingly surrendered. How she loved a man’s penis deep in her till she thought it would tear her. She felt them as they spanked and bite in their games, how they lusted after her only to realize she could take three men at once, out-screw them all till they exhausted their shriveled dicks, and crawled away in shame. She took pride in having sex only when sober, but most men needed a drink being with her.

 

He was different. He drank some, choose his partners carefully. He was a sought after person among women as he knew how to be with them. He was clever in letting them believe they were in charge, then sharply pulled the reins. We wasn’t cruel, but black humour was a trait which bore many offerings he took pleasure prospering from. His free sprite was his down fall though, carried in a youthful heart.

 

Those malformed droplets gathered. They couldn’t resist clinging together, their weight tilting the table ground ward. Gravity he thought, being a dark glue keeping things just so. It pulled and held all except these chess pieces slipping over the table’s edge and drifted, clinking together in the liquid womb that grew to the size of a wild boar. Why this particular creature he thought a reference mark wasn’t clear. It simply skipped into his brain, and stood next to the massing water which nearly touched the ground. He was mad that is certain. Boar, water, chess. He was loosing himself and wanting, needing that eclipse of an inner-part with vision and purpose. Thoughts dangling around him showing increased exposure in their rotting roots. Those elements dragged along slumbering, weighted with classic concepts of a better tomorrow. ’Don’t think too much dear,’ she said just before the explosion. They can work me too an early grave, but they can’t touch the mind he thought smiling as the blast shredded them both away.

 

The boar eyed him. Its yellow-red tusks, one turned upwards the other down, noting a place where barbarism the norm. He though why is there an eye which looks left, while its twin rotates in the socket? Clear white then the pupil appeared, not a circular motion, but rather random, spinning a chaotic whirling dance. And who played the piano this eye danced too? The notes where all wrong. Where’s the sense of tone here? Who’s responsible for this error in nature? And why, he thought, was it so damn important to be the loudest at family gatherings? Why had in their attempt taking each other, strive towards achieving nerve damage? It worsened when booze was added. Christ, then the circus folk came out, slapping each others with great welcomes, then giving the sabre to it. Madness was the prerequisite for attendance, that and blind faith trusting the hereafter for this must be karma. Tight and personal. His girlfriend attended such events, but first they laced their tobacco with hash, which helped the promised meltdown. Cigarette in one, glass in the other. A kinship of purchasing substance, enjoying it, and being illiterate it’s killing effect until announced years later. Had he known dabbling in such activates where currently reported to cause impotency, he would have written too those sources stating the widened sexual appetite such a drug induced, was one the authors of said reports should partake in themselves. But he didn’t. He read it years later while having a crap during some camel milking session, was used to wipe himself accordingly with humorous, nostalgic tastes of greatness during the throes of passion. Without the piano.

 

A distant mosquito drone on the hunt becomes noise with intent of causing nail biting, and fouled pants. Waking in lock-up after unanswerable drunken fights is a pleasing welcome to that of which was coming from the boars’ throat. This loathsome uttering in a monotonous tone grew as the boars’ eye banged out the beat on its broken keyboard. He lost it when this swine curling-mouth smiled at him. His mother not meeting his father was a wish right then as he had only the slightest understanding of its impact and true meaning while in eight grade he snapped the bra as a dare from lunatic best-buddies of the star-pigskin-hurrah-boy-sweetheart. Caught, hustled to the basement, pronounced incapacitated by the school nurse when found an hour later, his father-mother relationship seemed cursed. Anything spiritual, anything remote in guidance was of high demand. If there is something greater let it strike. So the keyboard answered a gesture of sweet compliance moving an octave higher. How being with family, that abode of righteous souls during one of their feasts at that moment, so surpassing beauty.

 

In that smile the tusks thickened showing the boars’ intent was not one of joy but rather sly wisdom in knowing, it had what it needed. Its throat bulged, swelling as a toad croaks suddenly vomit retched out in vile yellow pus spraying him. Before his eyes could close in self-defense, the damage held complete. The searing burns shot any consciousness still intact away to places a conscious goes for preservation. Licking its wounds the mind gave in. That alter element took hold of what remains in a soul whose shell carrying it sat naked in mud creeping up its ass, tied to a pole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Absolutely Consuming

 

Laying restless waiting for the drug dropped an hour before to take hold, being his first experience he’d really any idea what to accept. The doctors said you might feel dizzy, and sleepy. In a group with others they too volunteered for a case study program on its effects, reported the first of its kind thinking this would be an opportunity to make some money while having a nap. The doctors instructed the effects might last for up to an hour but not longer, with a reasonable amount of cash given after the experiment for their efforts the volunteers simply laid in rows of bunk bed and waited. Soft chatter between volunteers as doctors slowly walked along the rows of beds, scratching away on clip boards thoroughly you from a polite distance. Some had cameras recording the event, and some weren’t doctors at all who just stood in one place, in fact since he laid on his bed they, hadn’t moved at all. He thought maybe they had taken the drug too and just were asleep as they had no eyes so you couldn’t tell if they were or not. He was raising on his side for a better look wondering about these eyeless, pale-featured figureheads when the whispering started on the bed next to his. In looking at the whisperer he found his eyes tracing over ten foot distant between the figurehead toward a female whisperer wearing only a tattoo artfully engraved on her left breast of a cactus leaning toward the sun.

 

The ten feet travelled caught up to him a moment later while staring at the tattoo. The distance lagged like an expanded accordion, hearing in an echoing whiplash those begin their screaming, the black and white tiled floor breathing, raising and falling gently at first, suddenly large areas opened showing great teeth. If the floor was yelling, he wasn’t really sure. It stretched and fell to the crazed distant drum beat caused by his fellow drug candidates hammering their heads against walls, metal bed frames, even clipboards yanked from observers hands. The substance was taking hold.

 

Engrossed in that sun tattoo on her decadent form, his mind heard a twisted and humping different beat of the doctors footfalls, to that of squeaky mattresses being assaulted by crazed beasts snarling and choking one another in heighten sexual acts. It meant nothing to him at all these same squealers, now gaining their vocal high-pitched whining caricatures, were voices coming from the figureheads, for my God was that sun absolutely consuming! His thinking went even further telling him, ‘go ahead touch it, holy mother so sweet that will be!’. He was about to when the floor inhaled pulling down and bending, he and his bed into a lethargic grin. Black and white tiles waved, sliding along the bed cradled in its grin, a rocking motion where on its ends the bed came above the floors level, then swung sinking below and up again to the other end. A fatigued, smiling see-saw adrift, its sole inhabitant on this maiden quest, partially conscious, he was on a mattresses delivered by a genie who left hope on the shore.

His arm reached for her. Needing that touch the brain forced his movements he, thought prior to that afternoon not simply possible, now certainly bizarre. In wanting her cactus seeing not just his arm moving towards her but its wraithian shadow extending, entwining, elongated fingers, with blacken red encrusted nails, clicking together, summoning forth a sound he hadn’t heard in years, that of when out late on a scout night hunting desert snipes while blindfolded, senior leaders told him to best call the creature you must sit motionless, and rub your fingernails together. As fast as possible. Jesus, what was he thinking? This would actually work? For a snipe? They all had their laugh in the end as he finally pulled himself off the cold sand he’d sat in for over an hour. Disillusioned from the event, not noticing the dripping blood from his fingers would feed micro-organisms upon the earth, he walked back to the camp fire, thinking it is people such as this taking the first volley in trench warfare. Cannon fodder.

His ship rolled on. The sun grew near, and animals hungered for the lowest on their food chain. Figurehead cameras humped away, burning figures into their reeling minds, his own lost in a symphony composed by some retched form within himself which neither snipes nor orgasm could get a hold on. A better understanding mattered now of how far the mind can go before shimmering out. He was almost there, bound to the fact you’re caked in cold mud brings with it its own consciousness. A type showing phenomenons left alone, unwanted, damaged, but valuable. And in sitting nearer to mental collapse then one ever wishes too, he thought tied to a pole, freezing isn’t a bad way to move on. That the pus-spewing boar had good intentions, and those leaving the chess board out, might have simply forgot, and leaning cactuses would be watched more closely.

 

 

 

 

Wood Returns

 

Driving unguardedly back and nearly he tore off the aluminum garage door, remembering was proper when installed years before. Limp and pulled down to the left in the rear-view-mirror appeared a dying, male genitalia now possessed it. This came to thought seeing his naked skeleton caught in the mirror yesterday. Smoking every day, yesterday was not just a grand day, it was sublime. Yesterday hadn’t met today at all yet, so what happened today had no reflection upon it. What happened today took a huge step into that nonsense known as ‘better times’. He, thought if luck would have it should the car roll forward this stumpy door would fall to the ground. After all what appeared to be holding it upright was the car and whatever stopped it from cracking off in the garage, only he couldn’t remember what was in the garage that kept this from happening, except the look of the door illustrated clearly, it wasn’t something small.

 

Trying desperately in that odd meaning of the word, seeing through eyes burnt with pot, and damage from years before, gazed at that garage world he had lost. He gave up, letting the brake off and watched the pick topple into the back window blowing out the glass on to him. How is it possible the magnitude of crap could happen in such a short time? And how could glass break like that? Was the glass-guy responsible for its construct having a crying moment screaming ‘Holy shit my life is so fucked, she’s sucking that mother shit slinger bastard’s cock!’ instead of minding his work? A defect in glass and its contact with a limp falling penis? Freak of nature? Physics? Geometry? As the final tinkling of fallen shards faded he knew glass-guy was in fault, that he realized his girl was chugging another guy, that caused such a disastrous effect, that he eventually made the papers by blowing her into small pieces, while the shotgun used was a gift she gave him for his love to kill things, now meaning her as well. No karma here for him to deal with, maybe a fact that glass-guy replacing the window was his neighbour, and did it as a favour because he enjoyed his company and pot. That the three would sit for hours rambling on, with only two knowing which cock was dealt with is a thought he sweep violently aside. His justification for this was direct. She was hot, loved to blow, and was very good, causing more then once a trouble fact in pulling the sheets from his ass. She would tie him and shove banana-scented oiled fingers and toys up him till he passed out. One time he woke with his back roped on a horses back. It was hot. Blisters grew from the sun. So did his erection in retracing the events till its blackness wedged into his brain. She would slip him acid, go for a drive then drop him off in unfamiliar cities with notes attached illustrating mental faculty disorders, and to please not feed.

 

In removing himself from the car to inspect this situation his dark glasses fell and the light was a snake bite. And, it bite again, but holding on and twisted till his knees hit ground, hands covering the intensity. Neighbours watching knew he was genuflecting toward a Greater Good and should do so every minute of his worthless life, for he was king of sinners and the Greater Good has burned his eyes with flaming whips and now will walk the earth in shameful great misery, all knowing his deed shall never be undone. His neighbours thought of him as such simplifying their lives knowing there is a chronic farting heathen in their flock which must, in redeeming manners, be cleansed. They placed it upon themselves to sever this demon and get him off their plane and into something more suitable for here is a clear case of ‘I’m more then blind, doing drugs legally because it helps kill what’s left of me quietly’ and they would’t tolerate such an asinine. In his praying for death act, and theirs for everlasting wanton flaying of his ass, his car simply rolled forward as the brake not being set, jumped the curb spearing his prick neighbours vintage car he thought the God of, seeing it was a Ford Cortina.

 

Authorities arrived pronouncing the near-blind a drunk, shameful entity, coward, womanizing bastard with shriveled genitals due to chronic masturbation and abusive usage in a wide variety of illegal, and possibly legal substances, and emancipated attire attributed to not eating meat. In this area animals are devoured at every meal. Thrills of finding a way to remove his memory from the annual neighbourhood barbecues was a high point for him. Entire streets are blocked off several days before the festivities constituting further the sense this was a golden sign from something far Greater than themselves, and should not be taken lightly. After all, bovines are made to be eaten. And justly so for great books written upon the subject and the need to uphold the standings of such literature was a prerequisite in meeting the ‘Great Ones’ themselves. Hearing this his thoughts turned to escape. In that moment, seeing their intent, he wondered were the ‘Great Ones’ anyone he knew or heard about? Dead senators or emperors? Inventors, musicians? The patent owner for condoms?

His brain nearing its end, could only think as they questioned him, ‘Why hadn’t I used a stronger door?’ As their voices faded in his falling forward, yet a fraction before his face bounced on the street he noticed a large wooden crate in the garage which caused this entire senseless commercial re-run he always had when he took too much, for in it was after all, the cause of his consumption. Then the road took his face for a holiday.

 

He slipped into his chair, reaching under, pulled out his stash and light-up. Hearing the taxi’s drown as it moved perhaps back to the hospital faring another victim, he drew hard and started dreaming but before that last small circle of vision floated away as he always slept with his eyes open slightly, a bonus at dull parties, to some extent a bizarre gift one obtains with eyes blasted from sand and various quantities of sulphur, copper and whatever else being mined, he slipped towards vanning. Smoking reduced the continuous pain his head gave him, and did the same with the newly broken nose, severely bruised right side of his face, and ego. Nothing better than having a smoke and drifting off he thought. And in going he often went to where he felt at least somewhat at ease, Central Asia.

 

He awoke and it was dark. Or maybe he was totally blind because what medical experts say isn’t necessarily correct. They are after all gods in their own reckoning. And these gods said he’d lose all sight within ten years after the explosion. It was now nearly twenty, maybe nineteen or twenty-eight as he wasn’t really that sure, it was coming and that’s it. What the hell ‘it’ is he had no idea. Dark matter with an edge? Insight with after all a vengeful sort of a humoristic, psychotic attitude towards ‘Oh please I just so much want to get off for personal pleasure.’

 

The clock turned nine, or twelve. It would be evening he thought. Feeling his lower face wet he found the matches and light shown when struck. Touching his wet lips and chin he thought of an old friend lost years ago. His best friend, for dogs and horses don’t lie. Either they like you or go for the groin. Some hump but most bite, in those thoughts the droll rubbed away held that same force which slaps ones attention out and down the road too a wise and greater place. The gut. He studied his friend often. It illustrated how honest animals are and how intuitive, resourceful, instinctive we are not. The fact his friend was shot dead always called upon him to think not so much about humanity, rather if a dog could shoot, would it? Spending years on horse back winding through geography most wished never to go, the brain may evaporate leaving nothing but the form carrying it. The soul departed long before any of this relinquishing its property. Qualms weren’t an issue. Accordingly, nature took back at conception.

 

The thought lasted too long and his fingers burned. He struck another, aimed at the candle and with a better glow he stood. Wanting heat from the fireplace, but in that up-right motion his head simply gave out. A scream of its own accord ripped through the house, a side of the world dark anyway, not his own, followed through whimpering sigh. From sit to stand, that ever so short elevation caused his blackout lasting well until the sun held high again, two days later.

 

The cold eventually reached in burning his lungs. It created a weird reaction causing an already weaken bladder to release, furthering the chill waking him. Wondering how shivering made him piss distracted a momentary thought of why the carpet tasted like salt. He gave up, went back to the salinity question, then further back, remembering he tried to get to the toilet after the first blackout, couldn’t and pissed on all fours then curled up and dropped off again. He must be face down, lips on his piss. From the first pissing. Then he heard the mail dropped through the door. Not possible. Returning from the hospital Saturday afternoon, it must be Sunday. In fact, it was Monday. The brain wasn’t working well, instinct branded into old, wiry muscles, pulling him up towards his first intention off getting the fire on. Many times on a dark trail near freezing, he built fires using numb fingers. Here should be little contest, yet it took several moments before his face felt the warmth and smells of heated wood. He did this with eyes closed, as light had its harmful intentions. He found as long as they stayed closed there was relief. Of a sort at least.

 

He consumed fire. Both lovers. Always there. It was his master, yet he, the creator. With scant resources and arduous conditions on mountain paths he always managed to get the fire lit and keep it. Pack animals loved him. He’d tethered them closely and call out ‘the words’ in a praying manner. Humans, seldom travelled with him, thanking whom ever they needed not being there. Those accompanying him, upon their return spoke that if it wasn’t for his inability to feel the weather, they would have frozen. Human and beast in those times, knew of divine intervention. When thanked he only gazed into the fire, with slightly closed eyes. Most agreed there was little refection of fire in those eyes. Mostly darkness.

 

The wet crotch burned, walking very slowly with closed eyes toward the front door movements in any style produced painful waves flowing through a worn out form. Reaching for the post he found several letters one in particular larger than the others. He knew what it was as he received several other over the past month. Returning to the fire he placed this letter among the still unopened others. Anything outside the normal letter size deducted a ‘whatever’. It was a meaning he used when he didn’t care, and when he thought answering a question or remarking to a comment, needed only one word that composed of several thousands.

 

In sitting he forgot to change the wet cloths, but it wasn’t that which caught me. Fumbling through, he grew more interested in the amount of letters. In a day he might have two or three. Here lay more than twenty. Resting in the chair wondering the ‘whys and ifs’ there came the taping from the front door. Then a pause. More taping, and with greater intention. It stopped. The key turned. The door opened. A click of the light switch. The door closed. Foot steps. A voice. Smelling its odor. It came closure.

 

A lawyer was neither new nor old. The occupation had existed for some time, the amount of money made on cases differed, people needed them, being aggressive, ruthless, knew no free, always on the move, hunting, summed who started eating his brain after lifting a fraction of his eyelids seeing the shark before him. He knew it was watching him. It moved towards him and to the right, put something on the floor, and waited.

 

Focusing under duress can be interesting. Fractured mind forced thinking differently perhaps, is the true challenge. At any given moment how many thoughts does it process? Throw something absurd amongst all of this, and see what drops out. He loved to push it into corners, then let free-snap back clearing the conscious. He tried thinking of anything other than what he saw and felt. The first breast kissed. The severed hand left at this tent, a reminder. A urine infection past chronic on the trail. Sexual pleasures, bizarre in nature. How people become asinine? Coffee and cigarettes. Passing in thought, none taking hold. He was occupied in a more pressing matter; what’s in front of him, and how to eject his own screaming mind.

 

The shark stepped closure, and waited. He knew it was calculating. Probably smiling. Waiting. Strict discipline was its nature. Knowing it wouldn’t take long, lawyers had simple thoughts and grand ideas furthering their own ventures. The distance between them the odor of urine and whiskey grew. The crack in his brain widening he felt the shark reach out, touched him, then leaning away only feeling its hand glance his shoulder. He consumed all in that slight motion. Head folding over his chest he released the deep passion to vomit, promptly blowing on the table. Drippings from it rested on his lips, the smell enough causing the shark to back away, and sigh. Spoken words not understood coming from the shark made him wonder what’s the point in this arrival. He felt something placed between his outer thigh and the chair. Something thin. Paper, a letter. The shark retreated into that dark place where they all manage.

With damaged sight years back recovering, he learned the mind simply goes away. It takes off and leaves what’s left to fend for itself. What grows in its place was more influential. This entity always within, protecting, yet when alone, its conquers anything it wishes. In high-swing nothing short of death impedes that march. The brain having taken sanity with it leaving the field open, so fear may take its revenge. As it did now.

 

He griped the arm of the chair and slowly pushed, till his head rested back. In opening his eyes slightly, he retracted paths. Routes travelled. Before dozing off recalling when he first bought the house he placed a huge, detailed map on the ceiling of Central Asia. When friends came they would lay and wonder over the region eyeing details, using his binoculars confirming names and places call out. The who’s, and what’s of then. He saw the map in its entirety. Perfect. Absolute.

 

Had the shark left? It doesn’t matter. Shower, coffee, and a smoke, then open the post. Turning on the radio, hearing six days had passed since he returned from the hospital, his comma state ran away. Nearly a week passed in and out, laying in urination, not remembering whether there were dreams or not. The pain lessened by smoking, what the shark left appeared distant reading. While away the mail showed several attempts to contact him. Important notices from other sharks stating his request for a meeting in certain offices. Yesterday. And in not being there his paid a visit, leaving the letter along with his penned scratching of ‘Call ma ASAP!!’ note. He hadn’t known anyone with such illegible penmanship and it was difficult to read. They’re all the same. He only met one lawyer worth a pot to piss in, based in Kazakhstan; twenty-seven year old women having twin six-year old boy and girl. Full of life. Her husband travelled extensively in the region then disappeared the same year he met her. He heard from her four years ago, still no husband, both boys left Kazakhstan, residing in Germany. They married becoming German citizens. It was that or face retribution from their mother’s pro-human rights law activities. There is little secret what became of her husband’s body parts.

 

Reluctantly he placed call to the shark learning he was to appear this Friday for the reading of a will bringing headaches twisting toward the front. His lawyer gave no further details. Just be there on time. He would collect him or he could take a cab. A final note of great emphasis he being sober. As if there was another way. He hated this ass but needed him to handle his affairs, so they walked hand-in-hand. Actually, he wasn’t all bad, just fat, lethargic sperm and a glass eye from the Korean conflict. Why couldn’t she be his lawyer? Why not move there? What in all of this keeps him here? He had no family, very few friends, and no work. Stoned, fighting off migraines, remembering the car and garage door needing attention, and something else. Garage. The crate. On the way to the garage he saw the car, pushed back on to his drive way, window gone, front dented grinning through its broken face. They were twins. Then his eyes caught the old wood box.

 

It looked like a coffin. He’d forgotten its size, thinking it had grown. He approached the stained, stenciled wooden sides branded in Slavic. It hadn’t moved when hit by the car, keeping in mind it was massive, taking six men to move it only a few feet at a time. His world in a box. It perfectly fitted. The day he left that life, for another, recalling such. Lovers, departures, killings. Trails, horses, food. Corruption. Bending he pushed such thoughts aside, closing his hand on the hammer, jamming the crowbars’ edge under the lid, striking hard several times and lifted. With only a small gap between the body and its lid, odours encased years ago, flowed. Senses abandoned he struck the opposite corner of the lid. Hammered nails screamed as his weight dropped on to the bar enough allowing his hand to pass between. He reached inside.

This moment, with that life, collided, shifted, and slid apart. Little distinguished between the two times, being in both places, being whole. His hand touched, lingered, then withdrew. In standing he remembered. Then the hammer closed the box. Walking out that scent carried toward the house. Through his appointment today in lawyers offices. Through dealing with questions held only in brief explanations. Through once unopened letters that crowed his front door. Through migraines, a permanent companion, he would meet them sober, on their grounds, terms, demands, counsels, rubbish. It was after all just an old wooden box with old things. He disgusted himself while returning to the house, foraging those past moments.

 

In the sun-flamed light drilled him. It wasn’t that bright out. Sensitivity was there again and needed attention. Once he could think it off, swaying the minds’ hand, dismissing what made substance, and their eternity. Those belongings from Rad and their time spent together should remain boxed. In another distant garage. Fumbling for the door his fingers turned the knob and safely slipped from the eyes of nature.

The Taken Point

 

His lawyer was on time. They left the house drove to the offices of the appointed law offices. Thankful for this man. He meant well. Did what he thought best in his world. He was fine in his practice yet once removed lost all bearing for temperatures. He remembered once hearing when about twenty years old, ‘people become the environments they live in’. He supposed so. Adapt or die were elements most yielded for, even if they wanted or not. The person who told him this, a firm believer in Western religions, he couldn’t remember which region, but the man was his senior at work and 30 years in the trade. Looked at him with respect, and fear, he was kind though bore steel eyes toward those persuaded by drink, and ‘whatever’. Being young and free always doing ‘whatever’ causing the senior great discomfort, in parting the man gave him those words. Since then he thought how humans move, and why. How animals, and plants move with their whys. It was then, as it is now for him the questions of the whys, which brought him before places. Places not yet on maps, yet there since it all started.

 

Energy gives definition. It registers if one can see it. Temperature is in flux. Therefore everything is felt. He was born like the rest, had most of the same tools to work with, then screwed-up. Listening to his lawyer discuss what would most likely transpire during the meeting, brought forth further evidence in his inability of simply being a happy person, love life, and laugh it all off those points which brought others to their knees, outside religious ceremonies and sexual acts. His error in all this was not being able to reassemble. He fragmented from birth, thrown to the winds and told ‘smile and the world does the reverse to you’. His error was lack of concentration which brought his mother to school explaining why he should not stay back the year when the voice said,’ he needs more discipline’, was slapped with ‘if you tell me how to raise my children I’ll ripe off your arm and beat you over the head with the bloody end’. So growing up in already nomadic, desert place where he’d watch worlds construct their lives, where his father would gas the stray cats, using a box hooked up to the exhaust from the car, where he masturbated rubbing himself against his leg having the wet grow through his pants during typing class covering it with school books, thinking God I am fucked but it felt great, where his mother hated his father for surviving the Pacific War, where his brothers search out ways to fornicate with as many women as possible, where one brother whom he was closest too died and didn’t fornicate with women, but with men and didn’t look like the other brothers so he thought only years later, did the women have an affair, where his first sexual act was with a drunk who throw her own children out of the bed and during the entire process thought, ‘is that it?’, where he drank so much at times he could not piss for the sheer pressure on the bladder was to great, where if he had balls we could have done more, where if he’d studied he could have done more, where if he worked more he could have done more, where friends told him lighten-up or you’ll fry us all, where his only way was to care, where being to close would burn, where there simply was a way to find that others always want, were asked to do, and go, so he did, where it was too much, so he left.

 

 

 

Burn Meeting

 

A look the lawyer gave him, ‘are you listening, this is important be aware’ couldn’t possibly match if he didn’t smoke, he’d die. For sanctuary combined with blowing snow. It’s easy to hide. Her breathing always near. She folded up her leg, and when moving in bed asleep she would moan out a deep sigh. Luxurious. An orgasm of pure feeling of ones own-self. Peace. Like babies, just their, with not yet future impact.

 

The lawyer spoke of details which were there, had to be address, needed. Paramount action was required for Christ sakes and why haven’t you a tie on? This is important and in the love of, I don’t know why I do this. Haven’t you a look about yourself. How you have turned. Why haven’t you abandoned these principles of yours? You’re doped too much, and your drinking is to no end, you are so…… Good God man can’t you see there are options here? Such a situation. He had not much hope in today. Why now would her thighs claim him? The dope helped the eyes. The booze helped the dope. This lunatic driving under snow thumping along on such roads screeching about such a time. This system of abandonment or stay was in itself the purest, honest way of wanting what? That frame of just ‘go’. To the desert. Just out of this car. A cup of tea with leaves ill-harvested, for little if fuck-all wages, for the fat always want to stay, their ways, intact. You’re mine.

 

Glass. Everywhere with large indications as to where you were. His right wrist was cold. His face bled still. He needed to pee. It was the start of entering this new space, and told what he had to do. His lawyer entered first, announced. Spoke clear. He waved in the glass. It was huge. How could such a thing stand? Why? Would it? In wonders he was gently led by his attorney to rest in comfort which he sank. The seats at the reception folded over his head and he drowned. His now cold feet, accompany the wrist thought best stay in the car. And the show began. With a first thought of how better it is to buy Porto then red wine. The elevator opened. Make us proud son. Yes you’re half your father, but doesn’t count.

 

He could never remember which toothbrush had been used, by whom. There were only five living together in the house yet the cup help seven. He used several to clean his razor but can’t remember which, so it shouldn’t be a problem if they use his hair. His cynical mind working, I pay the bill so what manner. He slept with the feeling, ‘Christ have I ever lived such a lie as now?’ Then, how to get out of it? Where he kept the domain, was clean. Just thinking if someone came by and saw what filth, knives then flew. He needed and wanted to need. This drove depression, though he hadn’t noticed till she said, ‘You’re in your own world thought you try to do your best out of it. You have a good heart on the way out. You’re still fucked.’ He thought he was doing well so it broke him. He was aware he could not give her what she needed, died with that, as the blast took them. She dreamt into him. At times like these.

 

Odors ‘can’, and does. Can is strong. Can does. Can works. He smells her, in the elevator while standing next to his lawyer. They come into the meeting room. His feet cold maybe from with drawls. They sat. His thin ass warmed from the leather seats, thankful of razor-backed mules ridden up the passes, with days to go thinking all the time, or most, how it was for those not having this. His attitude grew out of wanting others to know what he felt. Why can’t they also want this? He calmed this till his death shortly after the meeting, not understanding why others don’t dive in. He remembered how they smoked and drank, taking the time. And now, he prostitutes in compromising. His entire being just that. A sell out, and then fight. He never grew up.

 

They joined the table for the frenzy, hungry attitude filling the frame life held, with sharks abound. Those with the facts read. They stated his problems, then the point. Issues discussed. Should he agree, then sign. His lawyer was truant for the dead meets itself. He though of the crate. It passed in that room where paintings hang and all wished to be theirs. That place where we believe is best, and hold it. That place of rest. His life was this, that place of knowing and wanting so, but not yet reached. That photo which you wanted to take, and slipped. A bed does not worry what the morning brings.

 

He was the father of a young women who’s mother had died. He would be responsible for this person till her twenty-eight birthday. He would have considerable funds in guarding this. He must never divulge his work, nor cause harm for his past employers. They looked at him with thoughts from simple minds.

 

Asked was he knowledgeable of these accounts, his fatherhood primarily, whether he could substantiate the circumstances. Eyes of his shark told the fact his client was not competent in holding a glass of water. Now, what could be said? He thought for a moment. He was never present for any death of family members. He didn’t have to go through that. He was always abroad, remote places in different time scales. Being there produced ludicrous ideas that he would learn more about himself, and why circumstances where so surreal it made perfection a plausible candidate for anyone who could grasp the facts. Yet how could riding a mule bearing supplies into distant arenas come to this? He needed burnt toast. It helped clear his brain. Something about the charcoal.

 

Could it snow more? And the time spent under it be more? More than just its smell and impacts. Would there be a place to hold dear? Just a place where those riding bulls for sport, being throw, then rise, and the love of stating, ‘I survived!’ only to have the animal charge again upon them? And if you did have that then what remains of your body afterwards? How much could it take? There must be affliction for such. Why then do it? What happens when you are at the time of thinking, who made the first chair? Who were the parents born several thousand years ago, and how you came out the way you are from them?

 

He waited outside, the arranged place to meet his daughter. She had long legs and a simple way. Nothing special, nor coward in movements, looks, fashion. All in place like children living above your flat, rolling their toys back and forth for days. It was a fact and you lived with it, or moved. Some elements are too simple. The mind doesn’t get it. Or complex, either how music composed for an entire orchestra, yet the composer is not able to play each instrument. Some men sit and urinate in order not to miss the water, or simply, ‘Why not, I haven’t the energy nor mind for aiming’ yet the penis sticks at times to the scrotum and the urine tends to run off. Simpler.

 

A greeting wasn’t there. They didn’t connect at the appointed bus stop. She walked around, and waited. He thought of snow and the time it first formed. They tried several days later, but he could not approach her. The elements of wind and frozen water came for them with the simplicity of get on the bus or freeze. He stood three persons away from her on the bus, and didn’t speak. He only asked higher guidance of self-exit and routes. A seated man offered his place to her. In speaking low, for she to bend, and his rising they both met as question marks do head-to-head. A simple way of one human towards another with kindness. The bus full, floated in its hiccups. He clung to the pole in desperation that cold will one day not bother him, heard her thanking the man, his remaking ‘with pleasure’. He noticed the peculiar mark on her hand when she grasped the seat to sit. It resembled a burn of sorts but one that had not healed well. The skin appeared not flexible enough, and tore open. Then the mark disappeared. An illusion perhaps. Tired, his eyes always having their issues. What he experienced simply didn’t happen.

 

Looking out the bus window he remembered a burn like that seen years ago just the same fashion. While on the trail, a hand reached out taking hold of the saddle horn showed similar markings, but for an instant. No. It happened twice. On the trail for sure, and the second was a person he meet before vanning. During the carpet course. Understanding the function of carpets. It was Rad. He pulled out a stool for a fellow student at the bar we had drinks one morning before the lesson. The same mark that couldn’t stretch, and split open.

 

Thoughts only of himself that watery day, of his common simplicity, caused him to wonder. It was no mirage. They preformed the same act. She was her mother. And Rad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haunted Voice

 

In the time of maturity, the haunted voice throbbed an ignoring thought, drifting down, tumbling inward where conscious once stood. In that mistrustful place of dreams and not, where sound lays no notes, and jasmine tea drank moments ago, comes loves courage sprang. It’s swaying thought pulsed and caressed souls, stabbing backs of feeblest entrepreneurs, for the wolf kills diseased and weaken, saving the strong to further its own. Humming, vibrations along shrunken passages, minds’ tilted spirit crossed directions, assured time created its continuance, then simply folded upon itself.

 

His thought cried dry tears after she boarded. The bus lurched from its stop, the same many times before, growing mad from the form of hostile virus growing upon his brain creating this ache, turned vengeful almost straight away. She pays the fare, finds a seat. Nothing changes. Only the cloths and where she sits differs each time.

 

It simply took a torturous ride causing his nose to bleed, which he wiped with the back of his hand causing part of his nose to fall onto his lap. While staring at his left nostril his head shot back the neck being fully stretched in a whiplash seizure of pain as his teeth felt they were being pushed up into their gums, and slowly pulled out. His head thrown violently forward against the seat in front cracking his skull open, showering blood and brain the consistency of red yoghurt and creamed corn thoroughly upon nearby passengers.

 

He remembered on the trail having teeth yanked without anesthetic. Quick no more then a few seconds. Attempting some morbid relief holding his head and face he felt a gripping and sudden yank on the ends of his fingers. In pulling his hands away the flood of red corn poured onto his nose which then dropped through his spread legs onto the bus floor. Turning his hand over he saw the finger nails lifting off their beds. He watched this bizarre wing-like insect parade as one by one the nails flipped up, twisted off, and feel. The hands shook. Brains further spilt.

 

Looking out one eye, smelling through narrowed nostril, the aroma of fresh cut tomato’s floating by. Then a wet dog. An old piano. Tea’s, paint, sex, drifted into his brain branding their mark. Cold feet, innocences, damp underwear after urinating not allowing the drops to finish, real hunger, being tired, cotton candy, loud noises, kissing, burnt flesh. Youth, crying, assassinations, money. Honesty. A good horse, laughing, lust. Being lazy. Lying. Horror. It came clearer in those last moments of his life on the bus. Not so much as karma, fate, or deities will, but that of energy rules us. Taking the bus everyday for a week, he never approached her. Never contacted her. Only after he left would she receive the papers and it was then up to her to act upon it. His only regret was not having one. It seemed so fashionable to have that. So ‘the Me’. He went without it.

 

 

 

 

Post

 

‘If you don’t, I’ll fuck you all’. It was bothersome. How then could you sleep? He shot the right eye blowing all after it cleanly away. It was point blank, smoke wasn’t an issue. Opium kept you together, or madness was the choice. He first swallowed its thick, black paste. And waited. There was a Norwegian women also in the camp sick. Thinking it wont hurt, he gave some to her. She wandered among the horses for hours. Returning to her tent, reappearing the next day fresh.

 

Still no post in sight. Seventeen days out from their offload when he shot the thief’s’ brain out. She died before they attacked, their wild beasts shredded the tent while eating the horse alive. It’s said that hearing this feast would change a person. There is something that does commit when thinking, ‘Well this trip is just what I need to avoid my simple ways’ in places where he sold out, or simply gained the upper hand. Of why the post brought what wasn’t there before. Why his father was forgotten. True, as the story runs, he was a man, created from little, so when Deep voice said go, Light voice left the shelter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pillow Time

 

There are places leaving you. Of wanting not to be, ever there. After just 13 months the Company arrived, Pillow Hill changed completely. Copper mined and transported with mules and mountain horses once fresh at the start, both man and animal deaths sone came in lies. ‘In Touch with Nature’ was common talk of Company concerns when discussing issues with the public. Maximize their capabilities, maintaining only the minimum. Their real issues placed among profit, yet when to stop the caravan so as not affecting travel? Allow the animals care, yet not impede production? Men and booze were important, but animals came always first till replaced. The Company paid well. Late delivery and production meant having fingers cut off. Non-delivery left noses and genitals dysfunctional.

 

Extraction and transport of mined copper allowed leniency of imagination towards the bizarre. Ending of the era, long in years for its recovery, though never would. As if nature gave up on its own-self. Known battlefields of the First World War held more promise for greed taking light, left a shadow roaming decades. What lifted and flew wide from that blacken, dead earth left the skin yellowed-pus filled ulcers popping, orifices bleeding. You survived or prayed, but mostly gave everything away to someone good enough to end it for you. When at the state of giving things away, you were simply entertaining the thought perhaps nature would behold a twist, and you would wake up feeling slightly better than shaved meat on fire. Desperate people, being near an end, wishing only to have a proper out-going party before their own pus bath, helped you in your biddings for release, sometimes before you’re thinking such, mostly when your creamy eruptions started, your defecation, and vomit environment started bothered them. Then your body was burned. Noticed on several occasions, death was not complete prior to the torching, as ‘We’re hungry, let’s eat!’ drove those flames. Fire cleanses all. Sin. Disease. Vans not dared enter these areas with supplies. How much would the living eat of themselves when there’s all these leftovers just waiting for feasting?

 

So what now thought the Company, what of this madness sweeping our profits aside? What befallen our ways? Executives stood in tight elite groups whispering plans executing possible recovery, whether the region quarantined, and let the situation eat itself to death. What if the public hears? Who’s accountable? Those with a more nervous outlook thought of their private, non-heterosexual explorations made public. And headed for the bar.

 

Flagship directors held fast, mustered in offices high above drone workers, came upon the remedy; close the area and kill anyone trespassing. Then wait and see. Perfect. Then one asked, ‘How long?’ and another, ‘How would you control a kill zone that large?’ They thought together, but privately on one specific point; should I do myself here, or open the window and step out? Except the big boss, because big bosses have plans to back-up their own plans. ‘We send in a doctor stating there was an explosion through negligence of the local receiver of properties stored accidentally with incompatible properties. With the doctor in there we blow it off the fucking map and work the details later. Let’s have a drink, I am late for my wife’s dinner party which gives me gas. Make it four fingers, no ice.’

 

Pillow Hill headlined in the press as big boss declared. Medical and Company experts where to assess the area and report with coherent diagnosis, treatments and how not to allow a repeat of such a tragic event from ever, ever happening again. Such hard times we live in these days and now the costs of commodities, its entire operations have to be increased. Securing future development and achieving constant safe-guard implementations are our priorities, the public and its well-being the main concerns here. This press report didn’t state how actions would elevate the cost. The Company gang-tortured, and they kept this in form. The report delivered to the Companies head office. Once altered, release for publication through certain friendly press associates made public at certain offices in the target region. Along with the release a statement mentioned the Company is searching employment of a doctor, and head-trail transporter.

 

The zone stayed in effect, allowing only the van accompanying the doctor with passage when the Company authorization. There were more wishing to leave then enter, keeping sentries very busy, who grow in wealth. Birds feeding on corps grew less each week till finally only a few lazily glided, circling high, then low. Then gone. Nomads confirmed the birds too didn’t wait till the dying were dead for the feeding to start. They witnessed birds pulling out intestines, organs, eyes, tongue while deep red-yellowed pus exploded from screaming faces. At night the wolves and wild dogs feed as well. Not much seen there from witnesses who stated however, how surprised they were a human, so vocal was.

 

The Company waited still, before allowing the van to pass. Seventeen weeks after the first report where they then allowed to enter the zone. The Company permitted time for the van to reach the mining depot then hit the switch vaporizing everything, calling it a day with pats on backs. Assess, rubbing firmly with soft-lazy ‘Let me’, and later, hard sex ensuing at that boozed and drugged-up venue where big boss gave his thanks, for himself and those drone boys. Some years later several photos of those events appeared showing goats and sheep in ridding themes. Neurotics masters astride on exaggeratedly thick pillows. Many share holders became distressed by these pictures, thinking ‘we paid for this?’ Others thought, ‘I want to join too’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Marking

 

His belongings either sold off or given away, yet in the garage remained the wooden box not yet collected. For nine months. His lawyer responsible for the liquidation of goods, received a letter shortly after his death on the bus. The letter consisted of a bank transfer with considerable funds and instructions the box not be removed, it would be acquired in good time. The following day the lawyer received a telephone call. At its conclusion he sat back and closed his eyes. An hour latter he stepped out his window and fell twenty-seven floors to the street. He nearly collided with a young couple. As he was cleaned from the sidewalk and car that he struck, his office was sealed. The locks changed with a notice on the door any tampering resulted with imprisonment. At almost that same moment, the lawyers house was seized. Two days from there, the entire contents of the office, papers, photos, telephones, light fixtures were removed. Not even the carpet remained. The lawyers’ two secretaries were questioned by investigators. After three days they were released. The report concluded the lawyer committed suicide, his office contents now property of collectors whom he had debts with. That’s not the truth.

 

Transported to an undefined location the office and house contents where analyzed. The massive wooden box stayed in his garage. The report, in reviewing all items in the lawyers office and house environment, including the automobile, in depth investigation of the lawyers private life, medical records, concluded he is being treated for mental illness. Evidence in both the office and house proved the lawyer inflict injury and sickness, including phycological upon clients. A Ford Cortina was found to have its breaks deliberately altered eventually causing it to crash into the owners garage door. Blood samples taken from the owner of the Cortina after his death on a public bus showed a terminal level of Juniper tar. Documents taken from the lawyers house disclosed the man was given Juniper tar mixed with gin over a period of six years. Documented surveillance of the lawyers cooperation and representation with a copper mining company and their main operation in Central Asia proved conclusive illegal activities of wanton destruction of State property, embezzlement, and murder. Evidence proved the copper company exploded one of its own extraction facilities resulting in several deaths including a female doctor employed to monitor and report heath conditions of workers in the facility. However, this cannot be substantiated as her body was never recovered. Records in the office of the lawyer illustrated her connection with a male referred to as Rad, as sexual and professional in nature. Documents in the house proved Rad is a code name, and both were involved in human mutation genotyping by sequence. A record lists the doctor as having given birth to a daughter October 1935 in Tashmara. The father is unknown.

 

Light voice replaced the report in its sealed tube. Deep voice looking under the bridge at passing canoes, said ‘Let’s take a look at that box.’

 

- End -

 

 

 

 

 

59


Vanning

The caravan of man and animal flowed forward, their minds adrift in softness, unaware of the consequences events long ago caused, and the changes made in their own appearance from it. They were no longer the same that departed two weeks ago with provisions for the camp, still four days out. So in feeling rain it wasn’t, rather that of their skin pealing open. They rode further over the plain hooves splintering on smooth sand managing another seven winding kilometers before the first horse fell into its own dust pile. Tethered the caravan simple stood there for several days till the last finally dissolved. The men however hadn’t to wait long. They blew away in that afternoons wind.

  • Author: Lucus Anthony Ren
  • Published: 2017-05-19 02:50:10
  • Words: 15495
Vanning Vanning