Just Ralph
Pa calls me dumber than rocks all the time, especially when he asks for my help, but also when he doesn't. He called me dumber than a rock when I was sitting at the kitchen table stirring my Ovaltine and Ma was right by us fixin' breakfast on the stove. "I didn't mean to spill it." I said, cause I didn't and then cause he made me real mad I also said, "My name is Ralph, not Dumber, not Than, and not Rocks, and then he said, "You're dumb like a fox," and Ma said afterward, patting me on the back real soft, real nice, "That means he thinks your smart, Ralph." Why doesn't he make up his mind?
Ma calls me stupid, but never to my face, only when she's on the phone with Gertie late at night and she thinks I'm fast asleep, but I'm not. Sometimes I just lay awake for no reason at all listening to night sounds, the owls hoot and the squirrels scurrying on the roof, wishing I was one of them instead of me, cause they don't use words; just screams, barks, hisses and coos, which are much easier to understand and less likely to maim.
It would make me smile if Ma could call Gertie when I do things right, like turning the compost, or stacking the wood, or shoveling the snow, but she doesn't. She only calls Gertie to tell her everything I want to forget and hearing it again makes me sad twice in one day. I didn't mean to kill Miss Sarah's kitten. I only squeezed it hard because it was the cutest thing I had ever seen I forgot for a minute how strong I am. And I didn't mean to look in Mr. & Mrs. Gimbel's bedroom window next door and see them both naked. I thought I was supposed to go help people when they moan or scream. Gertie lives so far away, I never get to see her face when Ma tells her about my mistakes. That's what she calls what I do, mistakes, and then she always says, "He's just too stupid to know better. He's really not a bad person."
So if I'm a good person, what's so bad about being stupid, or being dumb? As far as I know there are lots of really smart people, that do lots of really bad things, and not by mistake. On purpose. And as far as I know, I've never done anything bad on purpose, so why can't they just let me be just Ralph, instead of stupid Ralph or dumber than a rock Ralph. I've never met a fox, but if I do, maybe I'll ask him, "Are you really dumb or really smart, and does it matter?" Maybe he'll answer and maybe he won't.
Adolescence: The End of Dreams
It began with a pig, and it ended with a horse. City born, he knew nothing of pigs, nor of any other barnyard animals. Back in grade school his class had ridden the bus to a farm one day. The farm had smelled and felt dirty. The very ground was dirty with mud, shit and straw. The animals had been dirty, even the white wool of the sheep had been matted with filth, so that he no longer cared to count them at night. The animals had all stared back at him from black, avaricious eyes, especially the squinting pigs. The pigs with their blank, hard, and unfeeling gaze. It was the pigs’ eyes that had left him the most fearful impression.
It was only a dream, but a realistic dream, and a haunting one. In it he was not yet old enough to drive, yet the dream was a of a car crash. It was a dream of speed that would not brake, and of a wheel that would not steer. The dream was of an impact with another car, a driverless one. It was strange that the car meeting him head-on was driverless, but it was his dream after all, and a nightmarish one.
In this dream he awoke in the midst of the cold and the twisted metal of the car to hear the sound of a tire spinning smooth and easy upon its broken axle. The hiss of a cracked radiator freed the poison-sweet smell of antifreeze to drift heavily upon the cold air. Snow blanketed the ground beyond the car, and sifted inside it through shards of broken glass. He was trapped, and hurt inside the wreckage, and resigned to whatever the dream would bring next, being powerless to stop it. Cold crept in from every direction, save one. His one hand was cold, the other warm. That hand, the stretched out one, was strangely, comfortably warm. He tried to pull that hand in close, but it would not move. The trying was painful. It would be easier to sleep, easier even to die than it was to try. If he could sleep the warmth in the hand might spread, it might become warm all over while everything else was so cold. He closed his eyes for a moment... a moment only. Just for a short rest.
There was a press against the flesh of the warm hand, a gentle pressure, a check for resistance that sent a chill down his spine, shocking life into his fading eyes. Those eyes followed his shoulder down to his elbow They noticed that the elbow was twisted at an awkward angle. The eyes kept moving down, past the twisted elbow, following the forearm out the window and through the shattered glass. At the end of the arm was a pig standing perfectly still, holding his warm hand in its warm mouth, it gently suckling.
The pig looked at him through piggish eyes, thick, dull, slow, hungry eyes. It did not bite down. It did not chew yet... but it would. It surely would, or this could not be Hell. When would it chew was the question? But then, he suspected that he already knew the answer, didn’t he? It would bite down when the hand tried to pull away from the mouth, of course. The pig waited as he did, wondering how the drama would play out, wondering which animal was in control here. Tired, hurt, and afraid, he fell back into sleep. Let the pig have what it would. He was trapped. He could not stop it, and it never really hurt in a dream anyway, did it? There was only imagined pain to fear.
Of all things, it was a horse that saved him from the pig, but a horse that exposed new fears and dangers. A bay horse. A great red stallion with white blazes upon its chest and feet. It was a tall horse, its auburn coat blazing heat ’neath the summer’s sun. He rode upon the horse’s back, a boy again, and as wild a boy as was the horse whose back he rode upon. The stallion ran break-neck across the beach, its hooves thrashing sand in strange directions while barely denting the crystalized dust. The boy, his heels spurring the raging animal forward, sped the horse through the firmer, damp sand before splashing fearlessly into an unkown, and unlivable, watery-world. The horse raged through the water, kicking wildy at the approaching waves, flailing ironed hooves at the breakers and screaming whinnies at an unfeeling ocean, an ocean with eyes as black as the pig, and equally fearsome, an ocean that would swallow him up just the same.
But the horse reared and kicked and screamed at the waves, unafraid. In fact it beckoned Poseidon, daring him out from his depths with angry snorts that sent ropes of mucus to meet the wavy froths. The boy sat upon the bay horse’s back, a witness only, but feeling the animal’s strength and fearlessness. In the dream he squeezed his thighs tightly below the water, gripping hard to the animal’s sides as the waves crashed against him and the rearing stallion. He finally pulled back on the reins, pulling his beautiful friend from the water, unwilling to see the great horse ended in the breakers, and flopping dead upon the ocean’s laps like flotsam. The horse was brave enough, and willing, but the steed was no God to stop Poseidon or his waves. The war horse reluctantly gave in to the boy’s direction upon the reins, letting go its anger.
He was in control. Not the pig. Not the horse. Not the dreams. He could make the dream do what he wanted it to do, if he did not lose himself to panic. With this knowledge the dreams stopped coming. Their work done, the dreams ended. Their lessons were no longer needed here, so they slunk off in search of another dark room, and another child lying wide-eyed in the night.
The Most Useless(ful) Thing
Speaking only of matters regarding the human race, this answer must be obvious. Oughtn't the most useless thing be that thing which spreads around the most uselessness? Thereby, the more effectively a thing creates uselessness in its individual users, the more effectively that thing spreads uselessness into the human world. It is the most useless thing based on its capacity to disseminate the largest collective engagement of human uselessness.
So what is this yet-unnamed useless thing? The current mad dash human progress is engaging in to gobble up every little tendril of useful behavior and relegate its responsibility to the functioning of a thing is creating a rabid marketplace for things with increasingly improving abilities to take responsibility for human behaviors, thereby creating larger margins of uselessness in the time and activity of humans. (Humans love this, of course. Free time lets humans do really useful things, like respond to unpaid writing challenges.)
This all also creates a market for these things (which is not necessary in a survival sense) that strongly reinforces the perceived need of said things, and a related degree of capitalistically-relevant urgency. Is it computers? Is it mobile computing technology? Perhaps microprocessors and semiconductors that promote exponential growth in sophisticated technologies around the world? Could it be all of these things, all together, as one lump-sum-of-a-victim in this vicious blame game, the wretched idea of technology itself that has decimated humanity's ability to think for itself?
Or...
The most useless thing is something else. The most useless thing is that which, at the moment of observation, is doing the greatest amount less than it could be doing if operating at 100% efficiency, the greatest differential sacrifice of its total potential use.
...Oh, C'mon... Don't make me say it...
Actually, it's not humanity's fault. The ego is an incredible psychological construct that is phenomenally helpful in allowing people to navigate their lives and keep waking up every day, even if they don't know whether or not there is any point in that; it can't be the ego that is the most useless. And the ego can't be blamed for not wanting to participate in this very, very specific and particular game of finger-pointing. But if you look closely enough, right over to where the ego is very firmly not pointing it's finger, perhaps you will see what is hiding there in plain sight, emanating its uselessness into the world in unmitigated and unrelenting torrents. It could be right there in the room with you, right now, reading these words right along with you. Or maybe, just maybe, it isn't... for now.
Untamed
Her eyes were the sea – you know, that mingled color between cerulean and aqua that changed and flowed and metamorphosed with the currents; sometimes turbulent and other times calm but with a flash of spirit, promising the abundance of her riches. Her ebony hair catapulted with the breezes, flashing touches of auburn and flecks of white. But ahhh – the skin – it was the silk of which dreams are born - tawny and rich, moist and golden. The lushness of her body lulled me into a false sense of security but when I plunged her depths, I encountered what true sensuality and eroticism could be. Long crimson nails drew blood in little trails down my back but left me begging for more. Her lush lips gathered me in fantasies and ecstasies that I never had encountered. Long tan legs went on forever until they reached her promised land, encompassing all that I ever was. My wild island woman lifted me to heights I never thought possible until she blew away, without a backward glance, caught in the tropical wind toward other islands in the sun, seeking the opulence of other treasures. But I knew that I would hear her siren call forever, way off in the distance, echoing in my mind, “Come to me, come to me!”
not space.
He consumes you in a way most don't understand. He's smooth in texture and consumes all void space around you.Your eyes have yet to consume him physically but your skin knows him well. Your eyes can only consume his action. You watch him bully a thin black plastic bag from a distance. He first lays flush against the bag then pushes the ground bellow it, lifting it high. He does this often with light objects. He nips at you when he is cold and bitter and would prefer you out of his sight. He even then pushes you around. It doesn't bother you as much as it did when you were younger and lighter. His breath clutters your skin with heat when he craves a better view of your body. He provokes small beads of sweat to escape you. He can even be quite the minx in the way he tugs at your clothes. He jumps beneath your skirt pushing it up as he touches your legs in a cool caress. He slithers beneath your shirt showering your stomach with cold unforgiving kisses. Your ears have become accustomed to his soft whisper and his ferocious roar used to intimidate you. You love the way he'd caress your body and shelter you from the heat of the sun. You hate the way he'd assault your hair in the car on a day where he'd felt strong. Your body begs for his presence, without him life seems impossible. Your body rejects him like a toxic relationship but like an addict comes back for more constantly. You begin to think of all the things people call him, air, wind, and oxygen. Can the air that takes up space be a character in that place?
Who is the Devil?
“Cross God one time, and you will be depicted forever as a bloodied goat man - but I’m the evil one.”
She crossed and uncrossed her legs.
Indeed, the young woman across from me was not unpleasant to look at. She was plain looking, mousy even.
If I had been told that the devil were a woman, my mind would have filled with a vision of a Delilah temptress, forked tongue slipping in my ear while I quivered with waning resistance.
Alas - no swirling smoke, no hopping henchmen. Dressed in crimson satin, a woman devil of my imagination would convince me to do vile things with whimsy.
The woman across from me was buttoned down, no cleavage or flitting eyelashes. She looks like a mom. I try to keep my suspicion, any fool could guess that this was naught but a trick. Blue blouse and khakis did not an innocent make.
“Oh, this isn’t my normal form, this is a rental especially for you.”
A wink, there it was - the trickster was out to play. Ignoring that Lucifer was reading my unexpressed thoughts - I was filled with disgust. This woman possessed, to be used and discarded like some puppet.
“Don’t you recognize me?”
Staccato laughter burst from her, drawing the attention of the tables around us. It was that laugh that began the chill, which poured over my skin like oil.
“This is my fault, I tend to indulge in theatrics.”
She began to change. Sallow shrinking greying meat - half of her face ripped up with a violence, showing bloodless flesh - she laughed again, the laughter strange sounding from behind flapping skin. It was then that I saw the tire marks, which crawled up across her chest before me.
“Remember me now?”
I had tried to forget. Spread on pavement in the dark - I hadn’t gotten a good look. Besides, I had been very drunk.
Stranger Things ...
The stranger knocked upon the door,
A creaking, wooden throb,
And someone on the other side
Unlatched and turned the knob.
Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"
And, "May I use your phone?"
The person on the other side
Appeared to be alone.
An observation taken in,
No pictures on the wall.
He pointed somewhere down the way-
"Go on and make a call."
The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled
As wires were cut instead.
The gentleman began to sense
A subtle hint of dread.
A conversation thus ensued-
"So what has brought you out?
The rain has flooded everything,
And wiped away the drought.
Say, did you walk, or did you drive?
Why don't I take your coat?"
The stranger slowly moved his arms,
A sentimental gloat.
The water from the pouring skies
Enveloped cloth and shoe.
"Say, would you like a place to sleep?
I'll leave it up to you."
The person on the other side
Discarded his mistrust.
The stranger said his tire was flat,
And shed the muddy crust.
"The phone won't work," he also said.
"It could just be the storm.
Perhaps I will stay here tonight,
To keep me safe and warm."
The patron of the house agreed.
He hadn't seen the wire.
The chilly dampness prompted him
To quickly build a fire.
"You have a name? They call me Ed.
My wife was Verna Dean.
She passed away five years ago
And left me here as seen.
I guess it's really not so bad.
We never had a child.
I loved that Verna awful much,"
He said and sadly smiled.
"No property to divvy up.
The bank will get it all.
Say, do you want to try again
To go and make that call?"
The stranger grinned and left the flame
As to the phone he strode.
Within his pocket, knives and twine
In hiding seemed to goad.
A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;
Eviscerate him whole.
The twine would keep him firmly held;
The knife would steal his soul.
A lusty surge erupted hence;
A wicked bit of sin.
The stranger hadn't noticed yet
That someone else came in.
About the time a shadow fell,
He spun to meet a pan.
The room around him faded out
As eyes looked on a man.
A day or two it seemed had passed,
And when he woke all tied,
The stranger gazed upon old Ed
Who simply said, "You lied."
Reversing thoughts, the moment fled
And Ed said in a lean,
"No worries, stranger. None at all.
Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"
He looked upon a wraith in rage;
It seemed his little lie
Combusted in a burning fit-
He didn't want to die.
So many victims in his life,
Some fifty bodies strewn.
And now he was the victim; now
The pain to him was known.
The stranger fought against the twine,
And noticed by his bed
The knife once in his pocket left
A trail of something red.
A bowl filled full of organs sat
As Verna poured some salt.
She exited with all of them.
"You know, this is your fault.
We demons wait for just the day
The guilty take the bait
And play with matches one last time-
I simply cannot wait
To taste the death within your flesh;
The venom in your gut.
So now you know the way they felt-
Hey, you've got quite a cut!"
The person on the other side
Removed his human skin-
Before his wife came back for more,
He offered with a grin:
"Say, stranger, is there anything
You'd like to say at all?"
I looked at all the blood and said,
"I'd like to make that call ... "