The warm air is salty on your tongue. Your feet fly across the hot sand. It clings to you but cannot slow you down. The song of the waves beckons you, pulls you inexorably home.

Your next step brings you within their reach, and they lap eagerly at your feet. They tug on your ankles, begging you to join them.

Each step is lighter, easier than the last. The waves wrap you in their cool embrace. You float, weightless. A seagull soars through endless blue sky, and you want to call out to it that you, too, know what it feels like to be free.

I used to drink my coffee with cream and sugar, the way my mother takes it. I wanted the benefits of coffee without the bitterness, and that's what cream and sugar does: takes away the bitterness.

But over time, too much cream and sugar is unhealthy. My mother always takes her coffee that way, but she doesn't take it every day the way I do. Coffee is her dessert with dinner in the early mornings after working nights. I drink it to keep me from missing my morning classes.

I'm afraid relationships are much the same. Cream and sugar, cream and sugar. All the benefits but none of the bitterness. No matter how great it feels and how indulgent is seems, it's not a forever kind of thing.

And I've learned that without the cream and sugar, I can manage the bitterness with a touch of salt. A bit of humility, a pinch of self-reflection, a dash of accountability.

And that's how I manage to reap all the benefits of my daily cup of coffee without the bulk of the bitterness.

For things that live a long time, there's no true way to rid the coffee of bitterness entirely. And a small dose of that unpalatable taste is well worth the benefits I'll be able to reap a long time from now. So long as I take my coffees with a grain of salt.

The earth sighed seven times.

The first morning she heaved – oceans of garbage flooded beaches like tourists, never resting until the seas were emptied of every human relic ever tossed off a ship, every wine cork long forgotten after empty smiles and shallow promises, every distorted piece of plastic that brought momentary ease, fleeting joy, or a bit of convenience- then she sighed.

My dog barked seven times that day. No more, no less.

I hoped it was over, but then came the second morning. A guttural cough rumbled under my feet, and the world erupted. Every dormant volcano came alive with fire, and steam, and spirals of smoke. The seas began to boil and rage and roar, and then I feared it was the end. But it wasn’t. The earth sighed a second time.

My dog barked six times that day. No more, no less.

The third morning, the earth burbled and burped until every human corpse was lifted from its resting place. On land, they rolled out of the ground onto perfectly landscaped yards and gardens and ruined the mood for many a party. This one felt personal. My old dog was buried in the back. His resting place lay undisturbed while bloated bodies bobbed alongside buoys in oceans, and lakes, and rivers, and oh, what a stink! That night she sighed again, and I thought I heard mirth in the sound of it.

Five barks from my dog that day. No more, no less.

The fourth morning the earth groaned and the ground ruptured and fractured – consuming governments, and swallowing civilizations, and splitting countries, and families, and even hairs. Well, I only guessed that last part. Then the earth sighed a fourth time.

My dog barked four times after I fetched her out of the rubble. No more, no less.

The fifth morning the earth sang – through warbling birds and whistling trees, through the bellows of whales and the humming of bees – and it was beautiful! The song was full of hope and new beginnings. But many could not hear her song, though the sound was deafening. Men cleaved to their old ways, licking honey from thorns that split their tongues and numbed their senses, and the poison – oh the poison! Millions died because of it, and it seeped back into the earth. That night the earth was silent. Perhaps she was thinking. The quiet unnerved me as I bolted my doors, listening for earth’s song but only hearing the sounds of booted men patrolling streets, and cocking guns, and shuttered blinds, and whirring blades from aircraft overhead. Finally, the earth sighed a weary sigh.

Three barks that night. Three damning barks. No more, no less.

I awoke the sixth morning with a start as the earth shrieked. I covered my ears, and my cheeks flushed with heat at the pain in her voice. Her cries were desperate. They were horrifying. They were accusing. And they were powerful. Earth’s protective ozone shattered, and my skin blistered and cracked under the heat of the sun. I barricaded myself in the cellar as the top of my roof melted away into nothing. As night fell, the earth sighed a sixth time.

My dog barked twice. No more, no less.

I knew the seventh morning was our last, for the earth laughed. It was bitter and full of sorrow. It summoned the heavens forward, and they came. Meteors, and floating ice, and blazing stars struck the earth so violently they sent chunks of her spinning, spinning everywhere. They ripped her clothes and tore her flesh, but her response was laughter. Crazed, terrifying laughter. And then she sighed. Our beautiful, broken earth sighed. One final, mournful, dreadful sigh.

My dog barked once that morning. Now she lay mute in my lap as I pet her. I know she has no more barks for me. I close my eyes and take one last breath.

No more, no less.

Sleep-strained, sugar cube eyes brown like barley. Little girls run off to their mommies. "Run away, run away, run." Pounding feet calls to mortal fear. Fear to hate. Hate poured puckered fingers back in molten lava and struck us like a brand.

Perchanse this existance is the persistance of a motly craven waft that dances of an ulgy sort. Kind that hits the snot slurped, buried farce of flappy candies rotting in the wind. Immaturity breeds foul contempt of the court. Agression calls to mortal fear. Fear to hate. Hate burned the present held hands of gods sheep blood red.

And though we breed, we sink our teeth in a fleshy sack of fat, we mesh the world in our mortar crushing with our pestle, we hate. So trashy, gumpy piceses piled up on simple cares and sticking together like caramel stacked like skyscrapers high. You can't dig yourself out of the laquer filled dancing beast that takes us captive.

Because running away would never be scientifically possible.

The strangest thing happened

to Lilly McGown.

Her toe caught a crack

but she didn’t fall down.

She bumbled and stumbled

in front of a truck,

and Lilly found

herself falling up!

The crack wasn’t new

she’d seen it before,

it had stubbed a toe

and had caught the door.

’Lil had the means,

it could have been filled,

“but it was only a crack,

who had it killed?”

Poor Lilly expected

to crack her crown,

as always before when

falling down,

she’d split her lip

or blacked an eye

but this time Lilly

fell towards the sky!

She fell and she fell

forever it seemed,

she fell past birds

on feathery wings.

She fell past kites

and clouds and things.

’Lil Lil’ fell upward

as if pulled by a string.

Poor Lilly fell high

to the edge of black,

to that clearly drawn line

where you cannot come back.

She kicked and she waved

but she never could stop

this falling that fell

her right over the top.

Poor Lilly is gone

From her upward spill.

She tripped into Heaven

against her will,

so fill your cracks

and tamp them down

so you never trip up

like Lilly McGown.

.

Derek Hilliard loved numbers and walking. On his way home from the accounting firm where his office was located he counted his steps; 572, 573, 574. This was his custom with every trip he could justify not taking a cab for, which was most of them.

From his house he knew that it took 550 steps to make it to Nelly’s Diner for when he wanted a burger and it was 495 to the grocery store. The count began when his foot left the stoop of his small porch and ended when his foot landed on either the first stair of the establishment or when he passed through his destination’s door if there were none. Most importantly the number when he reached said destination was required to end in a numeral of 5. This could never waver. Day in and day out Derek ran trillions of numbers through his mind and they were all arbitrary and messy, ending in 4s and 7s and the like.

Goosebumps rose on his arms and neck just at the thought of it. Derek shook it out as he re-popped his collar against the chill lingering in the late October air. The cold normally didn’t bother him, but it seemed to be moving in aggressively this year. Glad I decided to bring -

- 575

- my scarf with me today -

- 576…

The sun had already dipped below the monolithic forest of buildings around him, but he could still see a puff of steam before his eyes with every breath and number counted. No matter -

- 577

- we’ll be home soon -

- 578

- and we’ll put on some tea.

Derek had finally purchased a new book the day previous and the thought of tea, his chair, and a night of Grisham put a bit of a pep in his step.

- 579, 580

He nearly lost his count, a disaster which had only occurred once before when waiting for a train to pass and he couldn’t control his compulsion to count the cars (he no longer traveled by the tracks), as he all but stumbled directly into a construction safety barrier. “What the?!” he started indignantly.

He recalled seeing the equipment and workers bustling about this section of sidewalk on his way into the office that morning, but now the machinery was abandoned and the workers were nowhere to be found. Reflective orange netting was wrapped judiciously around large construction cones and barriers, blocking off all passage through the site which was now littered with large chunks of concrete, rebar, and miscellaneous trash, undoubtedly left by the workers.

His incredulity rose further as he wondered how was to get home now, or how any other vehicle was supposed to pass through at that. As he stood currently, though, he had the road to himself. To his right he saw a detour sign guiding the would-be traffic down a series of back roads that would most likely circle back around to 5th, where he now stood at 580 steps. If he had been able to progress forward, as he normally would, there only remained another 465 steps. If he took the path right there really was no telling where it would lead. I believe that actually might be where the train passes through. Right was a no go.

To Derek’s left ran a small trail he saw almost immediately hooked back right and looked to lead parallel with the sidewalk. To the left we go. Almost robotically he swivelled in place and proceeded down the path, needing to duck a bit under the small tree branches.

581, 582, 583.

A mild stroke of panic rose in his chest as he saw the path meander a bit further off to the left before him until it disappeared entirely into a small grove of trees. What if this didn’t lead back to the road? What if it was a dead end and he would have to walk back by the train anyway? He strained to see in the failing light what was beyond the trees and made out a brick wall. A small building, perhaps? It was likely he could skirt the side of it and be on his merry way. Hopefully.

584, 585.

He approached where the trail led off to the left. To his right he could see the reflective orange peeking through leaves and branches. He had no choice but to proceed.

586, 587.

The trees now ran into a thicker forest Derek was a bit surprised to find this close to the city, tucked away in secret. The forest ran off into darkness that would most definitely impede the efficiency of his trip and his counting. The trail, though, curved right once more and led into its own problem. Before him, affixed to the brick wall he had seen before, was what looked to be a small utility tunnel. Rather, it used to have been one for now small vines grew on and through the crumbling grout holding the building together and he could see thickets of weeds and unkempt tufts of grass dotting the gravel floor before it ran into total darkness.

He took a few hesitant steps towards the mouth of the tunnel. 588...589. Did he really mean to enter such a place? Derek was not one to entertain frightening thoughts of any kind outside that of losing his count again or coming upon a situation where he couldn’t round out the numbers, but he was not immune to finding a dark and isolating place such as the one before him unpleasant.

He squinted his eyes and saw a streak of light reflecting against the wall of the far end. The sun had all but set at this point which meant that it was likely to be form a street lamp at its outlet shining against the interior bend of the tunnel. Good, a shortcut. Let’s just get it over with. Derek began to walk into the tunnel with more than a hint of uncertainty about what he was doing. No matter though, the normal course home was just out of reach and this entire detour would likely only add another three hundred steps at most. He could slow or quicken his pace once he was back on track to bring the numbers in line again.

590...591...592.

He was torn in quickening his steps to get through the tunnel sooner, but the more the echoing darkness enveloped him, the less he wanted to be here. The soles of his shoes crunched on the soil beneath him, sending reverberations and startling sounds back at him in a disorienting fashion.

596...597…

He swallowed a lump forming in his throat. Almost halfway now. Nearly there. He could no longer make out the mostly vulgar graffitti on the ancient walls around him. The ceiling was uncomfortably low even as he had entered, but now in the void of the tunnel, fully within it’s shadowy grasp and unable to see where it was now hanging, it felt as if it were only inches from the hair on his head.

599...600…

Derek kept his eyes locked onto the streak of light now only a few feet from him. It was his anchor and waypoint in the claustrophobic darkness that was now everything his senses could perceive.

Crrrrrunch

The sound that he had most definitely not cause came from behind him. He stopped walking. 602 steps, remember that. He considered if he should turn and see what the origin of the sound had been, knowing full well that he didn’t want to.

It came again. Crrrrrunch. This time followed by the sound of something dragging. Then again.

A low gurgle of a voice emerged from the nothingness behind him. “Now what do you think you’re doing here?” The inquiring voice bounced all over the walls and ceilings, seeming to surround him in that moment.

Unsure of what it was he had intended to say, Derek opened his mouth to reply, but was only able to produce small choking sounds as he was frozen in place.

“This is my corner, my place.” Another prolonged step and the sound of dragging. It now sounded terribly close. “There is no room for the numbers you hold dear, boyyy.” The voice drew out on the last word and curled around him.

Derek finally turned in place to see what it was speaking to him. The light bleeding in from the entrance of the tunnel he had come from was now a low and weak orange from the street lights on that end. The shadow was difficult to make out; he thought he could see what almost seemed to be a tophat on a human head attached to a fairly normal looking torso, but the legs were cartoonishly long and reached forward like that of a giant spider and his arms were of equal length, dragging like long strands of rope in the dust behind it. A scream caught in his throat as he watched this unreal thing make its way toward him with awkward, long strides. It moved as a marionette puppet, seemingly untethered by physics or gravity.

“Come back with me to dark under your bed, the void outside of your bedroom window where we will drink deep of the unknowable and I will sow you in with the others.” The things pace quickened, now only 30 or so feet away, which it would be able to cross in another three of its unnatural paces.

Derek finally broke free of his paralytic fear and ran for the exit around the corner in front of him. He was sure he couldn’t outrun the thing in the tunnel, but it didn’t matter. The shadow’s foot falls began to fall in a series of four at a time. In his mind he saw it drawing its rag like arms in front of it in a horrendous gallop. He dared not risk looking behind, though, as it would only slow him down and he might be overcome once again with the fright a child feels when they’ve caught sight of a coat hanging just so in cracked door of their closet in the middle of the night.

And then Derek was standing in a clearing on the other side of the tunnel, the sidewalk in front of him and a street light bathing him in glorious sanity once again. He took four long and hurried strides to put himself into the ring of light and turned to look at darkness form which he had just emerged, convinced he would see the thing lunging for him with otherworldly claws and a million small mouths to devour him. There was nothing, though. Just the mouth of the tunnel, almost leering at him.

Now the only thought persisting through Derek’s mind, other than he was sure he might never sleep again, was that he had now lost count of his steps.

#horror #obsession

I let go

All the time

Like a dandelion when the wind hits just right

Always in pieces

With no fear

But now I cling

Like vine to tree

Nothing could rip away

Growing with the tree towards the sun

#attachment #Clinging #Poetry #Flowers #Nature

I think I’ve done something wrong, touched something that didn’t want to be touched, and I cannot pretend that I didn’t want to, because I’ve done it now.

She was a moth, a real live ghostly white moth on the wet bike path pavement, fluttering helpless, one rainsoaked wing stuck to the ground. I stopped and watched and thought that I couldn’t do anything and continued talking to my friend with the contented notion that I would be useless here. And then an inconvenient pang of guilt weaseled its way into my stomach and I decided that I couldn’t just let her die, rugged-terrain treads zigzagging over her thorax as she lay there, defenseless. I turned back. I crouched down. And I tried my darnedest to coax her onto my finger. I felt a quiet triumph when those antennae felt the crook of my index finger and she slowly ventured up onto my hand: she trusts me. In truth, she probably just thought I was a handy twig or blade of grass, something to move her to higher ground, but I felt accepted in that moment by this tiny, frail, desperate creature. She had deemed me safe. From there, my friend instructed me to place her on a hearty sprig of milkweed. This is where things became complicated. Playing the savior, it turns out, is significantly easier than truly being the savior; being takes follow-through. Being the savior means not removing the moth from one quandary only to place her in the path of catastrophe.

Upon that milkweed leaf I attempted to set the moth gently down. But alas, her damp wing stuck to my finger. I tried to gently pry it off. My friend chastised me: “Don’t touch the wing!” I felt angry; I had no alternative method. If I hadn’t touched it, it would have certainly torn clean off the moth’s body when I placed her down and removed my finger. The wing would have stuck to me, and forgotten her, its owner. A traitorous wing indeed.

When I finally did remove my finger, her wings still safely attached to her body, she tumbled down, off the milkweed, into the grass. It was my friend’s turn to play savior. She placed the moth on her finger and guided her up to the milkweed again. And again, the moth’s wing stuck to the human hand. My friend attempted to place the moth onto the milkweed without touching the wing. It bent at an unnatural angle. I felt like criticizing her this time: See, it’s not as easy as it seems! Do you really think your method is better? Eventually she gave in and touched the wing, unsticking it from her finger. It hung uncertainly from the moth’s thorax, clinging to a body not quite anymore its own. It looked heavy with rain, an alien deadweight twisted from what it once melded onto naturally.

We stared at the moth afterwards - alive, safely embracing the milkweed, but looking like not quite a moth. We turned to each other. We laughed nervously, powerlessly. The mist thickened into a drizzle, and we, two mock saviors, walked quickly to the river to forget.