Fiction—“To Paradise First Tending,” a Tale of Chief Inspector Henri Moreau
En 18—, dans la ville d'Arles
I woke to the impression of fingers tapping against my chest. Crouched on my gown was a scorpion battering its seven tails against me. These scaley tines struck with the blur of a harpist, the fury of Xenophon on the Hellespont, and I immediately, once conscious, struck back, slapping the thing into the window.
A green smear on the pane. The scorpion squirmed where it fell, wriggling down into jerks and then an armored stillness. I pulled down my collar to check my chest – only bruises, no expansion of wine-colored boils. As banal as it sounds, I sighed in relief. It had been the same scorpion I found nesting in my papers, seeking refuge from the cold. The one I neutralized by snipping its sacs and putting it in a container on the desk with my insects – the worms which produce garrote's rope, the fireflies in a fireproof jar.
Only a poor assassin would use a useless scorpion. No, deduction led me to pursue other designs which led the arachnid from the crown of glass on the floor to my bedside. Perhaps utter accident or a want for warmth carried it to the plains of my being, followed by the recognition of a great living enemy. The thing may have had some memory of its gelder. Maybe God is a playful devil.
This was before I knew of my enemy – the man who hides behind the wasps.
The boss sends his regards
I sat down by the river Styx as I have done before,
I chanced to see the ferryman as in years of yore.
You see I brought with me some souls in need of passage.
The Ferryman says he "What payment have ye for them and all their baggage?"
I have obol a plenty to pay their way now don't look long any do not tarry
For there are many souls and much to carry.
I have a message to give ye,
"The boss sends his regards and remember how it should be!"
Orpheus’s Lament
I sat down by the River Styx
Knowing I'd never feel her kiss
My Eurydice
She was taken from me
Dissolved into the mist
And my hand it groped the hilt
As I agonized in my guilt
If I used the blade
Could I see her face?
Would in vain my blood be spilt?
But instead I built a pyre
And for her I played my lyre
I remembered her
Then her red embers
Welcomed me into the fire
Love Letter whispers from above
a crown prepared
unblemished gold perfection
gleams on opalescent standing tower
reaching highest level
heaven’s 7th plane
awaiting your consignment
no work of men’s crowns comes so close
upon this soiled earth of man endowed
a crown for you to keep ’til future end
in your eye, raise your head on high
that day you’ll cast it at his worthy feet
in return gratitude
do not as fools fooled seek
whether from highest or the lowest
from men of dust
he has made you for a final day
to be higher than the highest archangel
at death’s portal one day
will stand transformed,
’til then green in envy,
satan’s chagrin!
what can reaper grim death do you?
cannot keep or take you,
you belong to the king
transforming power awaits now
here prepare, receive a golden crown
death though exceedingly formidable,
cannot keep or take you
son of God your king has conquered even death
man’s final foe
take heart, be strong, take faith
prepare to take love’s gift
to you whose offspring are the king’s
chosen royal fit to crown, he will
in light translation’s power
death does tremble has no hold,
only for those who submit to its king
eschew the king of fallen earth
scums’ broken lies premised founded
false proven corruption’s yield
death’s king his stench’s carrion
roadkill, battlefield smell
foul breathed offers grants
burning pain’s corrupted crown,
antithesis, eternal servitude
to snake of old,
king of grinning skulls’ crossbones
hell’s wake, make haste
ditch this king!
seek the king of glory
love incarnate
man’s true made image ’fore the fall
mystery true of ancient days, when
the first bird sang, the first star shone
gleamed in eve’s eye
whose pure love’s essence breathed
of God for adam
lovely woman graced,
eden’s garden
take the prize freely given
God’s gift of love
don’t argue about it,
get caught up in it
just do it
don’t twist your mind,
abstain,
why harden?
man propensities, genetic spirit fault
death preferred than swallows truth
commonality to man’s intrinsic swoon
hard shell of heart and soul,
death by fog, thick head
swollen drugged, lies induced,
demon’s boon master of deceit
human host gained
“go ahead do what thou willest
god lies to you, rebel his will,
eat forbidden fruit, you won’t die!”
- age old lie,
multitudes believe . . .
‘your own will be done’
“take instead, my love
for i have loved you from the foundations
of the world
that i gave my own son for you
believe in him and you will live forever,”
my love’s personified offering
grant for yourself
eternal life insured
pension gift signed
power above all powers that be guaranteed
eat it, drink it,
live it, get it
’fore the night comes crashing in
yes, it is war
life on this earth,
from birth to death
is war
lowly now, prostate your fall
by grace restored from your former state
was made low by envy’s lowest form
removed by hate’s subterfuge
like earthen muck,
attempts ’n strives persists to take your soul
unsatisfied with blood,
throughout the ages,
satan spill’d from henges old,
older still pyramids, equal purpose
myriad count and forms
upon the earth
built to worship this snake god, immortal
disguised, cloaked, transforming empowered -
master of disguise, myriad forms
still roams upon the earth,
willing human servants
human sacrifice paid through the ages,
even now in exchange belief,
his lies to eve, ”you will not die, just listen to me,
you will have life eternal!”
once crowned lucifer
with precious stones clothed
at his birth, he cast himself,
proclaimed self, king above
with/did spit in God’s face
upon the ground hurled
still this cherub cursed
war with God and man
determined enraged insane
prevent man restored in his place redeemed
intent to keep man to take his crown
inflamed envious one,
evil one, thief rapist,
father of lies,
murderer of man -
no myth!
rebel wishes upon you and me,
our breed gained servitude ’n worship
slaves sacrificed within his vile ranks
the king of many crowns
awaits for you in heaven’s light
surrounded by glory
the king of death,
cannot touch or take your crown
without your submission
your crown gleams on heaven’s stand
prepared for you and those believing
from creations’s foundations
when the first bird sang,
the first star shone,
gleamed in eve’s eye
whose pure love’s essence breathed
of God for adam, king
lovely woman graced,
eden’s garden queen
you and i progeny inheritors legit
made fit to inherit crowns of love and life,
no lie,
created in his image
follow the one who holds the keys
in midst of shining lamp stands
the son of man, Jesus walks
in the midst of pillared stars
who know and speak your name
secret words of mystery
love and life himself,
flesh and ghost, real
open your door,
invite him in for dinner
he will give you bread,
sit and he will listen
Finding Anabelle Glass
3rd November 2014
It was the next morning and Anabelle Glass still hadn’t returned home. Heston Chadwick knew this because the slam of her door hadn’t woken him up. That, and he had been making frequent trips to the fisheye lens fixed into his apartment door.
The corridor outside Heston’s apartment wasn’t something he particularly liked to look at. Its reddish rug, of which one could only slightly see from the looking glass, was fraying and dirtied from a thousand footsteps. Its walls were timelessly damaged – did they used to be cream? Grey? White? They were now mottled with age and misuse, edged with green mould, dirtied with fingerprints and layers and layers of picked-off wallpaper. The view from the looking glass had one redeeming feature, and that was the apartment door straight opposite Heston’s: The Home of Anabelle Glass.
It was closed more often than not, empty more often than not. In fact, Heston had never actually seen anyone but Anabelle Glass enter or leave her apartment – but when she did, he paid attention. What he knew of her apartment, what he knew of life beyond his own apartment and that small sliver of hallway, was recorded into one of Heston’s many notepads. This particular notepad was a teal one, decorated with small house martins and the long spindly branches they perched on. It was one of three house martin notebooks Heston owned and the only one which had been used as of yet. On its cover, Heston had penned:
Beyond Apartment 5a
And inside the booklet only a few pages had been used.
Heston wasn’t one for wasting ink or paper. Or thoughts. His apartment reflected that, with its mountains of old television magazines, boxes of cat litter for the cat he no longer had and empty mason jars. The mason jars in particular looked small and sad, sitting in their cupboard, waiting for Mrs Lewis – who would never return for them – to come and pick them up and fill them once again with a rich lemon curd or a ‘marmalade with a twist’. She’d leave them outside his door once a week on Tuesdays, until she didn’t.
The bronze-rimmed clock beside the door – one of many strategically placed timepieces to grace the walls of the apartment –told Heston it was thirty eight minutes past ten. And no Anabelle Glass. This worried him for several reasons, reasons he then decided to write into the house martin book:
Reasons to be concerned over Anabelle Glass’s mysterious disappearance:
1. It is midmorning.
2. Her phone has rung and has not been answered.
3. It is a weekday and on weekdays Anabelle has to go to work (aside: workplace still unknown).
Heston set down his pen and notebook and checked his wristwatch. It was an ancient thing that worked less than it broke and trapped his arm hairs inside its strap sometimes. Mid-morning meant that he could make the switch from Rooibos to English Breakfast tea, switching cups and teaspoons. This wasn’t wasteful, because Heston would return to these cups once it was mid-afternoon.
The door across the hall remained shut and the corridor stayed empty.
Several hours later, Heston heard footsteps down the corridor. He left his book where it was and moved to the looking glass. House martin booklet left shirt pocket, where he’d kept it, thinking that yes, I may need this later and pen was poised.
A large man, muscled in places muscles didn’t usually reside, and with hair cut so close to his scalp it was a wonder his skin hadn’t been nicked in the process, strode into view. The man paused outside Anabelle Glass’s door and from the other side of the looking glass, Heston’s throat went dry.
This man was a complete stranger. In all of Heston’s many notebooks, particularly in his house martin collection, there had never been mention of this huge, almost-bald man. His hands were raised to door level and he was standing at a slight angle – serendipitous for Heston’s viewpoint – and began to work at Anabelle Glass’s lock. Those thick fingers looked like they shouldn’t have been able to do anything nimble, let alone jiggle some sort of lock-picking tools in such a manner as to open her door – but open it they did.
Heston watched as the huge man stepped into the room, dwarfing the doorframe comically. Then, for many long moments, Heston was left to watch the closed door, as though the worn paint and scratch marks on it could tell him what was going on behind it. Faint noises travelled across the floors and to Heston’s ears: the man moving heavily about her apartment and the scraping of furniture. A pang of jealousy had Heston clutching his pen a little tighter – this man, this intruder, was seeing the inside of the apartment Heston had been preoccupied with for years. Where Heston had barely made it past the front door in his findings, this man had barged his way in and was seeing what Heston had imagined seeing for so long.
Not for the first time, Heston hated that he couldn’t leave Apartment 5a.
Three minutes and thirty two seconds passed before the man returned. He had a thick wad of files in his hands, a determination in his eyes and lines etched into his forehead. As he came through the door Heston could see his face perfectly, but only looked for a moment before trying to see past the huge body and into the elusive Apartment 5b. A wasted attempt: the only thing visible was shadow-work and the ghostly shapes of furniture.
The man shut the door behind him, the action making the muscles in his biceps coil like a snake moving underneath his skin, and stilled on his feet. He was looking at Heston’s door, now. Heston’s apartment. Throat thick with something unnameable, blocked by a tongue too big for it and teeth that didn’t feel quite right, Heston held his breath and his skin broke out in shivers whilst being far too hot at the same time – the hairs on every single body part were standing on end. Breathing? Fast. Too fast. It was eerie: did this intruder know Heston was watching? How could he? He couldn’t – but he watched Heston’s door for several long moments before moving back down the corridor the way he’d originally come.
Within the walls of Apartment 5a, Heston slid to the floor and clutched at his corduroy trousers, trying to calm himself. He lifted a hand in front of his face and couldn’t keep it from shaking. It was quiet, save the ticking of many clocks and the uneven, ragged breathing of the man on the floor.
a first and final destination
where are we going?
far.
somewhere the trees can't touch.
downstream,
maybe.
we'll see.
i don't want
the flowers to wilt
where we walk.
the natural progression of the daylight
keeps us in line
and sometimes,
we march in place.
are we close?
probably not.
it takes years to follow the scraps that are left of your heart
and decades to piece them together.
why do it?
it makes us better.
weary eyes,
we are droopy.
can we go back?
this soil does not nourish me.
i am not in full bloom.
dirt-caked fingers,
holes worn in jeans.
gloves off.
hands up.
gritty knees.
i am done.
i am not.
we are not there.
we are not far.
i would rather rot
before i settle.
bloom where you're planted.
i'm sorry.
i will root when i am home.