Princess Lottie Pt. 3

When Lottie woke she was warm, dry, and more than a little confused. She opened her eyes and recognized nothing around her. She was lying in a large, comfortable bed with clean downy sheets. Her head throbbed and her throat felt like it had never come in contact with anything wetter than sand, but the sun was warm on her face and the gentle chirping of birds made her forget the horror of nearly being burned alive by an irate, visually impaired dragon. She sat up and immediately regretted the decision.

Her arm exploded with pain and all at once the memories of the battle with Helgarth raced through her mind. Sure, she’d been in dangerous predicaments before, but usually she only sat on the sidelines watching. Never had she been the one doing the rescuing. Her heart hammered rapidly in her chest and her left arm screamed to remind her of the consequences of her actions. She gasped to keep from crying as her burns radiated heat though her body. She clenched her eyes shut and ground her teeth together in attempt to will away the pain.

“Oh, you’re awake,” said a squeaky voice. “Guess it’s time to change your bandages.”

A withered, spindly hand cradled Lottie’s arm while Lottie did everything she could to not choke the life out of the old woman the hand belonged to. The woman removed the bandages and the couple of layers of skin that didn’t seem to want to be separated from them. Lottie screamed and lost control of her limb. The offended arm jumped to life on its own terms and slapped the woman across her wrinkly face.

Ignoring the princess’s protest, the woman renewed her grip on Lottie with strength that was surprising in someone who looked as if she’d fall over in a strong wind. She smeared a thick, gluey salve into Lottie’s burns. Relief instantly rushed over Lottie and she swooned a little. The woman cackled and proceeded to wrap the arm in a clean, white gauze. When she was finished, she thrust a seashell into Lottie’s hand.

“Drink,” she ordered.

Lottie drank. Cold, fresh water slid down her throat taking her breath away. She refilled the shell three more times before she had drunk her fill. After the water came a slightly larger shell filled with hot soup. The soup had large chunks of crab and a spicy, coconutty taste which Lottie found delicious. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. When the last dregs of soup were finished, Lottie sighed contentedly and handed the shell back to the woman.

“How was it?” said the woman removing the shells and soiled bandages. Lottie belched in response. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” the old woman cackled.

“Who are you?” Lottie asked.

“Oh, Lordy, where are my manners,” the woman said. “I’m Agatha. And you’re Lottie. Princess Lottie to be exact.”

Lottie was taken aback. “How do you know my name?” she said.

“Your friend,” Agatha said. “The boy in the dress.”

“Calix!” shouted Lottie. “How is he?”

“Oh don’t worry about him,” Agatha laughed. “Him and the dragon’s out collecting firewood for me.”

Lottie’s heart leapt. “Godric’s okay too!”

Agatha had to force Lottie back into bed. “Now, you just calm down, little lady,” she said. “Don’t go working yourself into a fuss. Both of your friends are just fine. It’s you, you should be worried about.”

“I’m fine,” Lottie said. “Never felt better. How long was I out?”

“About a week,” said Agatha.

Lottie coughed and nearly passed out again from the shock. “A week?” she said.

Agatha nodded and began to move around her tiny hut tidying things up. For the first time Lottie got a good look at the place. Agatha’s house was very small, barely large enough to fit the bed Lottie was currently lying in, a fireplace, and a rickety table made out of seaweed and driftwood. All around the circular room hung herbs, flowers, and other plants Lottie had never laid eyes on. The table was littered with seashells and glass bottles containing ointments, potions, creams, and powders. A small cauldron sat at the edge of the table beside a well-used mortar and pestle. Not exactly the accommodations Lottie was used to, but she decided that she like the place. It was homey and had a pleasant briny scent.

“Your home is lovely,” Lottie said.

Agatha beamed with pride. “I built this place myself,” she said. “It’s not much, but it’s homey and has a pleasant briny scent.”

Lottie shrugged that off as a coincidence and eyed cauldron. “Are you a witch?” she said.

Agatha rolled her eyes and glowered at her. “I could have been,” she said. “But I didn’t pass the entrance exam. Had trouble with transfigurations. My toads always retained their human eyes.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lottie said.

“I could never make any of my spells stick anyway,” Agatha replied rinsing out the seashells and arranging them neatly on a shelf. “Some people have it, some people don’t. I only wanted to be a witch because of my mother in the first place. I come from a long line of prominent witches. I’m afraid my mother was quite disappointed when I never seemed to display a gift for it.”

“So all these herbs and things…” Lottie said.

“Medicinal,” Agatha said. “Never amounted to much of a sorceress, but I’m a top notch healer.”

“I’m glad you are,” said Lottie. “I’m not sure I’d be here if not for you.”

Agatha finished tidying up and plopped onto the bed beside Lottie. “You wouldn’t be,” she said. “Have you had a good look at that arm of yours?”

Lottie looked at her injured arm for the first time and almost threw up that delicious crab stew. She didn’t know what she expected, but it was definitely what she saw. The skin was blackened and blistered. What was left of it anyway. Her arm resembled something a butcher would discard than a fully functional limb. Lottie stared at it in horror. Agatha noticed Lottie’s expression and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s not quite as bad as it looks. We can fix you right up.”

“Really?” Lottie asked hopefully.

“Of course,” said Agatha. “I told you I am a top notch healer. You’re lucky that boy got you here when he did. Not an easy task dragging an injured princess and an unconscious dragon three miles to shore in time to save that arm of yours.”

Lottie was speechless. She hadn’t considered how she had come to be in Agatha’s hut, but she never imagined that Calix could have carried her. In a dress no less! She may have seriously misjudged his character. Lottie was almost too relieved when Agatha interrupted her thoughts.

“You know,” she said. “That shield was harder than blazes to remove. Most of it had melted right on to the bone. What on earth did you do to make them Iron Mountain dragons so angry?”

Lottie sighed and smiled. “It’s a long story,” she said.

“Well, your friends won’t be back for a while,” said Agatha. “And I love a good story.”

 

***

By the time Lottie had finished the story the sun was setting and Godric and Calix had returned. Godric still had a black eye and what appeared to be a broken nose, and Calix was missing his eyebrows, but both of were otherwise uninjured. After a few moments of hugs, tears, and a collective sigh of relief, a fire was built, dinner was cooked, and Agatha introduced them all to her homemade wine.

An hour later the wine was gone, the fire had died to smoldering embers, and Godric had challenged Agatha to a game of tic-tac-toe in the sand leaving Lottie and Calix alone. There was an uncomfortable silence between the two and for a while they were content to watch the last wisps of smoke rise and dance away from the fire.

Calix cleared his throat and tried to speak but nothing came of it. Lottie shifted her weight and scratched nervously at her injured arm.

“How’s your arm?” Calix said at last.

“Still hurts,” she said loosening her bandages. “And it itches pretty badly. Agatha gave me some salve she concocted that she says will heal it up in no time.”

She pulled a small jar from her pocket and unstopped it. She recoiled a little at the metallic scent that assailed her nostrils. Calix laughed.

“That bad eh?”

“Not really, “ she said. “Just smells like my grandma.”

She unwound the bandages and smeared the medicine on her burns. Calix whistled slightly.

“I didn’t realize it was that bad,” he said. “Is that bone?”

Lottie nodded as cool relief seeped into her muscles. She wound a new bandage over her newly growing skin, but couldn’t quite tie it off. She hated the look of pity in Calix’s eye as he took her hand.

“Here, let me help,” he said. Lottie didn’t like showing any sort of weakness but offered him her hand. His touch was surprisingly gentle and she found that she minded him touching her less than she would have thought. When he was finished he held her hand just a little longer than Lottie felt was necessary.

“Um, Calix?” said Lottie eying their intertwined hands.

He quickly pulled his hand back and even in the half light of the near dead fire, Lottie could see him blush. Lottie decided it was rather endearing and place a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied.

“Thank you for also dragging my unconscious body to shore,” she continued.

Calix snickered. “Oh, you were no problem,” he said. “Getting Godric here was the hard part.”

“Jeez, Calix,” Lottie said rolling her eyes. “Just say ‘you’re welcome’ already. Don’t be so damn modest. According to Agatha, you probably saved my life.

“I definitely saved your life,” he said. “But I you saved mine first back there in the Crater so I was just repaying a debt.”

“Oh, right,” she said, remembering the battle with Helgarth and shuddering. “I guess we’re even.”

“Not quite,” Calix said and his eyes fell again on Lottie’s bandaged arm. Lottie understood. Somehow Calix blamed himself for her injuries. She wanted to comfort him but didn’t quite know what to say. Another uncomfortable silence followed. Eventually she spoke.

“Calix,” she said. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. What say we start over.”

“I-I’d like that,” he said.

“Good,” she said. She looked around and breathed in the salty sea air. “Where are we by the way?”

“The Southern Isles,” he said. “The southern most of the Southern Isles, actually.”

“Does it have a name?” she asked.

“No. Too small,” he said. “Agatha is the only one who lives here. Tomorrow we can take a walk and you’ll see how small it is.”

Lottie noticed the hopeful tone in his voice but decided to play coy. “Who does Agatha heal then, if she’s the only one here?”

Calix scooted close to Lottie and pointed vaguely northwesterly. Lottie couldn’t help noticing that he deliberately smelled her hair as he did so. She didn’t really mind because she was intrigued by the agreeably tropical scent coming from his.

“See those lights over there?” he said. “Those are Major Isles. They make up the archipelago where Agatha does most of her business.”

“I see,” she whispered. A moment passed in which they both stared at the archipelago and then Lottie sighed.

“What’s wrong?” said a perhaps too concerned Calix. “Is it your burns again?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that,” she reassured him. “It’s just…I’ve never been this far from home before. There has always been a five mile radius on all rescue scenarios and kidnap situations.”

“How many of those have there been?” Calix asked.

“About two per year since I was eleven,” Lottie said. “Give or take.”

Calix’s jaw made a slight swishing sound as it struck the sand below him. After a moment of awkward staring he closed his mouth and said, “That seems excessive.”

“You get used to it,” Lottie shrugged. “Besides I’ve picked up some useful life experience from them, so it’s not all bad.”

“I’ll say,” Calix exclaimed. “The way you fought those dragons…I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Lottie blushed and was thankful that all that was left of the fire was smoke and ashes so Calix couldn’t see her cheeks redden. “Thanks,” she whispered.

For a while they sat in silence listening to the waves crash over the beach. Agatha’s wine had gotten the better of Godric and he now laid on his side with this limbs twitching ever so often as he dreamed of chasing butterflies. Agatha shook her head and stretched out beside him to look up at the stars. A cool breeze whipped in from the ocean and Lottie caught herself snuggling closer to Calix. Without thinking he wrapped his arm around her and instead of punching him in the nose, Lottie sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. This surprised them both and in order to break the tension Lottie asked him how long it would take them to get home.

“Four days,” he said. “Less if Godric consents to fly us there.”

“I hope he doesn’t,” she said. “I like the idea of having an adventure.”

“I’d hardly call this an adventure,” Calix said as he adjusted slightly to make himself more comfortable. His arm had fallen asleep but he didn’t want to remove it from Lottie’s shoulders. “Besides, don’t you miss your home?”

Lottie sat up and shook some of the sand out of her hair, untangling herself from Calix’s embrace in the process. Calix let out a disappointed sigh that he would have been mortified to know that Lottie had heard. “I don’t think you ever really miss home until you’ve been somewhere else for a long time,” she said.

“Oh. Right,” Calix said as he turned from her and hugged his knees. Lottie couldn’t see him, but she sensed that the boy was upset. She placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and turned him to face her. “How long have you been away?” she asked him.

Calix cocked his head to the side and did some quick math in his head. “Almost six years,” he said at last.

Lottie’s jaw made a slight swishing sound as it struck the sand below her. After a few moments of awkward staring, she managed to choke out the word “Why?”

“I’m not sure there even is a home for me to return to,” Calix confessed and Lottie thought she saw the beginning of a tear glistening in the corner of his eye. Calix took a deep break and said, “My country was attacked by a neighboring kingdom we thought were our friends. I lost everything. My crown, my home…my family… My sisters were five and six years old.”

The tear slid down his face and Lottie knew better than to wipe it away. Instead she took Calix’s hand. “Are they…” Lottie whispered.

“I don’t know,” Calix said. “I hope so, but as far as I know I’m the only living member of the royal family. And even that in name only. I barely escaped with my horse and the clothes on my back.” He glanced around as if noticing the horse missing for the first time. “And now I seemed to have lost those as well.”

Lottie laughed. She couldn’t stop herself and immediately regretted it. As it turned out she wasn’t the only one who found it funny. Calix laughed. He wasn’t sure if he found his situation particularly humorous or if he was laughing at Lottie’s reaction, but he laughed nonetheless. They both laughed and for a few brief minutes they forgot about violent invasions and fire breathing dragons.

I Say Bad Words in This Article A Bunch

So it would seem I haven’t written anything in quite some time; there are reasons for that.
Allow me to explain my absence with a laundry list of excuses:

I didn’t feel like it.

Now that you can, no doubt, empathize with my struggles and reasons for my disappearance,
it’s time for me to once again assault your round, viewing organs with some words I threw
together haphazardly.

This time around, I feel like tackling some major issues I’ve been dealing with in
modern society. You see, I acquired a job in January that requires me to stand/walk in
circles in the middle of a shopping mall. Through my daily struggles, I am a witness
to the perplexities and the enigma that surrounds mankind. In this I believe I have found
that man is neither inherently good nor evil, but something much simpler underneath.
I have found mankind’s commonplace; a massive discovery to unite the masses with one
common thread. Please read on…

Here are some common elements witnessed at my job with some regularity:

Dudes wearing Affliction shirts – The girl I’ve been dating went off on me about how
I judge people a bunch, bla bla
bla, something about my disliking for dudes in Affliction shirts, then some more complaining.
I had to stop her to tell her that I hadn’t caught any more of what she had been saying
due to my confusion over her suggestion that not all dudes wearing Affliction
shirts are douchebags.

Screaming children. Not just screaming, but like, really fucking screaming – Parents
will straight up walk right next to me with a fucking five year old in a stroller that
I’m pretty sure is suffering from premature cardiac arrest and is also
prematurely passing a kidney stone simultaneously. They seem to not be bothered at all by
the horrific gurgling, crying, banshee wailing performances of the “child?” Anyway,
sometimes I wonder if it’s actually their child, or if the damn thing is being kidnapped.
I can’t very well ask though, for fear the parent would be offended or the kidnapper would
get embarrassed. The only time I found the wailing child to be acceptable was when this
total babe was pushing her very loud stroller next to me, but was wearing a low cut shirt
that showed off her hot boobs that were sexy and pretty big and also hot.

People really like the Beatles and think I’m some kind of super dick or down-syndrome
asshole for disliking them. Oh, I mean for hating the fuck out of them. Oh, and I meant
retard asshole – Yeah, I’m a musician. Yeah, I grew up with classic rock. No, I don’t
like the Beatles. I don’t give a shit if you think they are amazing songwriters or how
much they did for rock as a genre. I think the songwriting is drab, the lyrics are
awful, their voices bug me and tons of bands have outdone them since. I don’t care if
they were the first (they’re not). I can like and dislike what I want and even say retard
asshole if I feel like it.

People ask the dumbest fucking questions ever because only people ask
questions, so it makes sense that people also ask the dumbest fucking ones – I’m sure
most of you that have ever worked retail or sales know what I’m talking about. I’m not even
going to give examples here because I’m kind of lazy and, really, who cares? Is this thing
on?

U2 is still popular. Bono is still making money – I’ve tackled the U2 subject before
but it still baffles me.

Basically, I’m getting tired of writing and my wit is draining, so I’ll wrap this up.
My point is, mankind is stupid as fuck and the majority of people have that in common.
So they could, like, all gather ’round and have idiot conventions and talk about dumb shit
like Lil’ Wayne and maybe once they realize that they all like money and sex and hot boobs,
we can end all of this constant warring.

Alright, thanks for reading. I’m going to go relax as fuck.

The Rise of “Insert Superhero Name Here”

“Do you think someone could be a superhero in real life? I mean, do you think it’s possible to be done for real?” She sat down to think about it. “I think someone tried to be one in the 80’s”. “Well, what happened to them”, I asked. He fell off a building and landed headfirst onto a fire hydrant, but I suppose other wackos have tried it”, she said. “So, it has been tried. I wonder how many crimes he stopped, or how many arch nemeses he had, or if he was part of a justice league or a similar organization”.

I got up to look out the window and at the sprawling city skyline. I thought of an internal soliloquy appropriate for this moment like: “who was the scoundrel who decided to build a city on the backs of stolen dreams… and iPods”.

“You would just have to not land headfirst onto a fire hydrant”, she said.

“The only hard part would be finding out where the bad guys were and figuring out where they keep their stolen goods”, I said to no one. “That, and making an outfit”, she said. “Cape or no cape” I asked. “Definitely cape…OH, you would need a name, too”. “I think I could leave that responsibility to the press. That’s how Batman got his name, and he’s the best”. Neither of us said anything for a while. Clearly the conversation had lost momentum. “I’m getting kind of tired”, she said. “I think I’ll turn in”. “OK, I’m not tired at all. I think I’ll go for a walk”, I said.

“Are you gonna get a new iPod, she asked.

“Maybe”.

I walked down the street, looking into all the shop windows. “Where do you go to buy a cape? Barnes & Noble? Marshalls? Definitely Marshalls”.

The Bachelor

A bachelor once woke from a midday nap later than he had intended. He looked out his bedroom window to get an idea of what time it was, and was shocked to see how dark the sky had become. The dull green landscape outside had begun to blend into the moonstricken clouds.

He felt that he must have left some of his soul in his dream, since he only felt half-awake, so he threw on his petticoat and walked outside to breathe the cool wintry air. When he crossed the threshold of the house, he found that his house had been transported to the edge of a steep bluff overlooking a narrow valley of marshlands stretching into the horizon. The sun was setting into the crevice of the valley, turning the space between land and darkness peach and pink. The air felt bodily warm.

–          Such beauty and wonder, so much in this sight, and also in the oddity of my being here. I want to get closer.

The bachelor jogged up to the bluff, and more of the valley came into view. First, entire worlds presented themselves to him with each step. Then, a few new features at a time became visible. Finally, as he edged up to the precipice, all that was left to see was what was directly beneath. He knelt down and peaked over, and saw and elderly couple, a man and a woman, laying in two bathtubs filled with water, holding hands and bathing in the sun’s last rays.

–          This might have been an odd thing to see, but it makes sense. Now I understand why the sun, this valley, these marshlands, and this bluff all had to make their way to my house, and push away the suburbs and roads. Luckily, I don’t need to drive anywhere today, and all of this scenery will let the roads and the suburbs come back when these two leave.

The bachelor returned to his house, now feeling wide-awake, and fully refreshed. The half of him that was still sleeping had returned to him while he was outside, and he commended himself on his designs. He forgot the detail of what he saw outside. It became a blur in his mind. He could only remember that the sun was beautiful, and how lovely the sun made the head of that elderly woman. He distinctly remembered that, because she was so far below him, the shine of her hair had become distorted, like a halo. He could not think about the sun without thinking about the couple, and vice-versa.

The bachelor especially fixated his remembrance on the woman, and when he realized what he wanted from her, he ran outside. All was dark except for a sliver of red on the horizon. The moon burned hot on his back. He rushed up to the ledge and halted himself, for fear that he might throw himself over. He dropped his legs and wrapped his left hand round the edge, and scrambled down the near-vertical bluff, halting completely whenever he thought himself in danger of throwing himself into the ground. When he reached the bottom, he found the woman alone and naked. She was standing in the marsh water up to her thighs. The wrinkles of her face dripped into her neck. Her slender stomach, despite her petite build, slouched so much as to cover her genitals. Her pupils reflected the white of the fiery full moon.

–         Who are you? What are you doing in my house? I don’t need you!

She sundered up to the bachelor, and his stomach came a milky rush into his mouth. The vile floated on the murky water like an algae, and the woman produced a long piece of driftwood from the below the vomit and thrust it into the young man’s neck, breaking both the wood and the neck. 150 pounds of dead weight collapsed into the water, except the head, which struck against some elevated mud. All of his feeling was gone fun but for the wet sensations on the back of his scalp and the thistle crowning his face. He was merely a head looking up at a near-black sky draped with gray green curtains. The elderly man appeared in his vision, and spoke in a deep, authoritative, calm voice while the last flagellum of maroon slipped from his sight.

–                    Oh, to be young again! The man said this to himself, and in a whisper.

The man popped a capsule into the bachelor’s mouth and covered the horrified face with his wrinkled, oozing hand. The man removed his jeans while covering the bachelor’s mouth and showed them to him, seemingly so that he would know what the woman was about to do, since he could not see her. The man held onto them and looked. The young man mouthed some words while the man stared him in the eyes with a glare powerful enough to crack open a coconut from a thousand meters. The elderly couple continued their show until the suburbs and the roads returned, all at once, annihilating everyone and everything, except for the house of course.

 

The Clown’s Gotta Gun

Venice beach, always plenty of people there, walking, talking, eating, spitting, chewing, all needing their entertainment in whatever form. Gary Hubner stands proud, right in the middle of the concrete fairway full of the aimless human golfballs seemingly trying to hit a ‘decent approach’ or even a nice ‘ on the green’ as they walk past the shops on the side, the beach view on the other. Struck by God’s heavenly and blessed 4 wood at birth, trying to do whatever it takes to make it to the whole without hitting the rough. Or a sand trap. Or lose their turn early in a water hazard. No mulligans, bitch. Alone stand the clown in the throngs of passersby.

Don’t call me a mime. A street performer, an artist or even a clown. I’m the new age jester. I am the lowest form of entertainment other than the faggots street actors. When these people-mosnters-assholes-liars-evil beings walk by, in their mind nothing is more righteous than the thought of ‘I’m clearly better than this fucking guy.’ Like I can’t see it. Gary sees everything! I AM HUMANITY! I know your every sign, the way your one eyebrow raises over your peering eye as you gleem at me, probably mad I was enough of a fucking distraction that they had to waste their precious thoughts just to acknowledge it and reiterate in your mind that I’m the real asshole.’ No longer is their a troll under a bridge that a young boy avoids…no, now the bridge has to be 15 feet wide for the trolls to frequent, gone is their taste for the young flesh, so now I’m the boy, in the middle of the bridge, yelling”EAT ME YOU UGLY BASTARDS! SAY SOMETHING! LOOK AT ME I’M YOUNG AND TASTY! CONSUME!”

… but no one is hungry anymore, and their reactions bore me. You trolls are boring. I’m tired of seeing your busy side, your scoffing arrogant look for ten seconds faces, I’m tired of your offspring, their a.d.d. enjoyment of what I have to offer, I want to kick every one of your dogslaves to whom you insist I’m not worth the effort to sniff or get to know. Fuck you. All of you.

The sun now casts the three o’clock shadow somewhere past a giant Randy’s Donut. Bazinga the clown’s face is melting, morphing into a mutant Gary-Clown, Bazinga’s red tears now streaming down Gary’s face. A man with no shirt stares at tits. Tits hold a newborn, thinking how they would like to start producing. The dead act young, and the young can’t imagine they will be old yet. Or even if that means anything. Gary stands bored. His arms tired of the juggling, whether its balls or bills, he’s tired of it. His head drops, starts moving side to side, one fist balled, two fists balled. A mother with a stroller, tight designer shirt with designer implants to match and accentuate. The stroller, probably Gucci, probably worth more than Gary’s car. The little girl walking besides her mother. Equally un-attentive. Such a young age to have lost ‘wonder’. The American Dream.

Four steps, three steps, two steps… Gary grabs the little girl, faster than a falcon can mindfuck a field mouse with a single divebomb, completely changing the course of its life. In the seven seconds it took the mother to A.) get off the cell and B.) realize a clown had just picked up and slammed her six year old daughter in to the ground, Gary had already stomped the child into a writhing, gurgling flesh pile. In the time it took Gary to react to the quickly approaching ‘screamers’ he had managed to step on a matted patch of bloody blonde hair with one boot to get it off the other, seen where on the little dickbiters head the piece had come off, see the extremely satisfying look in the mom’s face, and finally had pulled out his snub nose .38 Special he named “Holdon Loosley” and at the stroller. Gary aimed at the still motionless mother, but he was caught on impact first.

On the long flight from standing position to arriving at his destination the pavement, he smiled and saw at least three or four people vomiting. Eight people motionless with the absolute funniest look that can grace the skin on a human skeleton to form into. Gary had been tackled by what he figured to be at least ten percent brains, 20 percent muscle, and 70 percent male insecurity. Gary couldn’t move, but didn’t want to, his view was perfect, Aside from the lifting and rising of his head as the rock arm lifted it, and the smashing thereof as it forced it further down. Gary could see the eye still left in the girl’s face looking at him. After the third bounce of the jolly clown face, he swore that eye winked at him. And Gary did laugh.

How it happens

Wind From the Sea

It happens very quickly actually. Homeless-ness that is. One day I had a home; sorta. I at least had a bed. For a while that is. It got thrown out when I thought I had bed bugs. Turns out it was just a good strong case of scabies. If anyone’s reading this back in Penn state, thanks. Anyhow. I was at work when it happened. I was standing on my forklift about 50 feet in the air struggling to get a 100lbs box the shape of a small car off of a shelf.. (more…)

Trip[ck?]s of Perception

While gallivanting along early one morning, a pair of friends stumbled upon a box. A similar box on the side of the road wouldn’t have garnered their attention, nor would an identical box in a dump or recycling facility. It was ordinary, to say the least. The box was intended as a cooler, all Styrofoam with protrusions bellied by hollows on either side of the box, presumably to act as handles, and a lid which fit snugly on top of the box. It appeared to have been left there for some period of time. The stickers were long decayed away, and there were smudges of dirt where there ought not be any. The location however did seem odd for such a box. It was top-up near a fallen tree and many more not-fallen trees. There was little brush around, as the not-fallen trees had shaded the ground so thoroughly that no sun-loving organism would be beneath them.

Their first instinct had been, obviously, to assume that there was a chopped-up, soupified dead body inside. Years of watching CSI: Miami and similar shows had told them to disturb as little evidence as humanly possible, and so they tiptoed their way towards the box. Being human however, they disturbed quite a bit of evidence; or would have if there had been any evidence. Trying to ply the lid off with a stick, they discovered the relative weightlessness of the cooler-box. The friends had foolishly jumped to the most extreme conclusion, as they so often did, but they weren’t entirely fools and knew now that there was no body in this particular box. Disappointed but not discouraged they forged on trying to open the box, with no intentions of touching it with their hands for fear of some disease the Styrofoam may be carrying. They soon succeeded by kicking downward on the lower, more boxy part of the box a few times and shoving up under the lid with a stick. To their mild disappointment, the box was filled only with stale air and a few pine needles.

Pushing the box over yielded far more exciting results. The space between the Styrofoam cooler and the fallen tree was occupied by a large cluster of slender-stemmed, blue-bruising, and fairly edible smelling mushrooms. Seizing the opportunity to snap a few pictures before settling down to their lunch of turkey sandwiches (sans mayo) and yogurt, they sat down and pulled out their cameras and brown paper bags.

The completion of their turkey sandwiches and the satisfaction they had taken enough pictures to have a few acceptable ones in there somewhere signaled to them it was time to leave. And indeed, they would have left at that time were it not for a chipmunk which came crawling inexplicably out of the hollow Styrofoam cube. This was a rather odd contrast to the plain scene of two plain girls discussing innumerable plain things.

“I didn’t know there were fucking chipmunks here?” said one of the pair, a girl who was given to cursing frequently and generally the more outspoken of the two.

“Uhm… I didn’t either… maybe it wasn’t a chipmunk? It was probably a mongoose or something. I don’t know,” replied the other girl, who was slightly more reserved and who swore with only slightly less frequency.

They could have continued pondering the possible identities of the animal were it not for the fact their attention was once again stolen by the box producing increasingly curious oddities. Not the most curious of which was a spattering of washed out colors seeping themselves lacily around their now too-vibrant world. Soon thereafter, a man came crawling out of the box. The man would have seemed a welcome and normal addition to the web and other objects now surrounding them, if he was not so remarkable in appearance alone as to make both of the girls wonder if they had been victims of the murder they had previously suspected and were now facing god himself. As the mangod began walking ethereally towards the girls, they were struck by how ludicrous the idea of God crawling out of a Styrofoam cooler was and promptly burst into laughter. Brushing himself off in a rather haughty and condescending manner; the pine needles in the bottom of the cooler had apparently stuck to him on his way out; and frowning only slightly, he instructed the girls to watch out for something which may or may not be coming out of the box after him. He instructed them to tell him if such a thing were to appear, and helpfully added that they would know, without a doubt, when such a thing was to come out because it was his something. He then moved on, stepping along the webbing laid down earlier by the box.

“Well how the hell are we supposed to tell you if something comes if your leaving? We can’t call you or we don’t even know your name or whatever. Hello? Hello??” yelled the outspoken girl after the man, slightly annoyed by his assumptions they would follow his directions without question. For whatever reason, he seemed completely uninterested in elaborating, and continued walking over and around the web. The girls followed him with their eyes for a time, but this even became hard as the web kept swallowing him up and spitting him out elsewhere.

After giving up on keeping track of the man, the quieter girl began to ponder the wisdom of calling this thing a web, for fear of offending it if it were in fact something else. It resembled a web only in its hue and translucency. Other than that it resembled a vaguely paisley pattern in some places, and in others something more akin to the chaos of a carnival, and sometimes faded and opened and closed up into nothing and other times became another object entirely. While trying to decide whether this pattern had always existed and she could only now see it or if the box was explaining the pattern of the world to her by way of a web, her reverie was interrupted by that box once again incessantly producing random objects. The box was appearing to be more and more indiscriminate about what it brought into the world, seeing as this particular object was a pillow. A couch pillow, in fact; one with a palm tree stitched on the front of its tan surface.

Once the girls were thoroughly puzzled with the newest oddity produced by the not-so-ordinary box, their confusion was intensified by the chipmunk, now half the size of a human, seizing the pillow and scurrying in the other direction.

“Uhm, sir? I’m not sure whether this is what you wanted or not, but that..er… squirrel just came and got a pillow from this box. It wasn’t yours, was it?” More-given-to-cursing girl asked the man who was currently out of sight, thinking he must be near enough to hear her, and leaving out her usual swearwords due to more to shock than respect. Sure enough, the man walked up and out of a nearby fissure in the web the girls hadn’t noticed before, possibly because it hadn’t existed only a moment before. Cocking his head to the side, he inquired as follows:

“My girls, do you have any clue as to what would signify something important? I’m certain a couch pillow is of no import where I am from, and I would assume it the same here. If you could kindly only alert me to the presence of something significant, preferably the something I am looking for, it would be greatly appreciated. Many thanks, and do not come calling again unless you have my something.”

“How will I know if it’s your something though? I can’t know if it’s someone’s something if I don’t know what that something is. It doesn’t have your name on it or something?”

“Yes! something. That’s exactly what I said. Now that you understand that, Good day. Tell me if my something comes, and only if my something comes.”

“Why did the squirrel want that couch pillow? And more importantly, why was he so big?”

“Did I not say ‘Good day’? I did not mean, ‘good day for asking questions’ I meant have a good day, and be on your merry way. Though since I’ve wasted so much breath already, I will tell you I certainly have no idea why Julian would have wanted an embroidered couch pillow. You really have no idea what’s important, do you? Why should it matter that Julian is so large? Ask him why he is so large. He’s perfectly capable of answering such trivialities, and much less preoccupied. Now Good Day. Not for asking questions.”

Now thoroughly puzzled, the girls turned their attention back towards the overgrown squirrel, apparently named Julian.

“Why would you want a couch pillow?”
“It reminds me of home. Since I got sucked into this world for the next couple hours.”
“Pfft, don’t be such a baby. It’s just a couple hours. I’m pretty sure you could have survived without the pillow. And wait, what? you got sucked into this world?thisworld?what?thereisonlythisworldandyou’retoobigforthisworld!Youdon’tmakesense!” Said the typically less outspoken girl, though since she was thoroughly confused and frustrated by this squirrel and recent happenings, she was voicing her opinions quite flusteredly and was coming across as making even less sense than the nonsensical squirrel.

“Silly girl, [incoherent mumblings]no concept of time.” Julian said under his breath as he clutched his pillow defensively and walked towards the tree he was nesting under.

“I have a perfectly good concept of time! I know that sixty minutes equal one hour, that twenty-four hours equals one day, that 365 days are equal to one year…”

“SHH! You do in fact have no idea of time. You are explaining trivial things. Where I am from we measure time in thoughts and discoveries and memories and creations. I’m going to rest now, and while away these hours in thoughts which may lead to productions so that they might pass faster.”

“You have that all backwards. You just think that the time passes faster when your preoccupied. It’s just… fucking childish to think just because you’re thinking you’re going to speed up time.”

“Perception”

Mumbling about how it was obviously just his perception and his perception had nothing to do with what was really happening, swearing-girl continued going on and on and on about how she perceived the world. Meanwhile, less outspoken girl contemplated what the squirrel had said. She was perceiving reality she thought. But what if her perceptions were an illusion? She dipped her consciousness towards when she was a little girl and everything moved so slowly when she was bored, and when she was in action or occupied, everything happened far too fast. She began to wonder if she could be doing something for reality to get on with itself, because she was perceiving reality very slowly at the moment.

“What if we want time to pass slower?” she decided to ask Julian, but he had fallen into a pouting sleep on his pillow, and did not respond to her inquisition. At this time, the box chose to produce a clock. Ironic, considering all of the hullabaloo over time in recent moments. Rather wary of the clock, and only vaguely aware that the clock might be someone’s something, both girls silently agreed to approach the clock and investigate it. Investigating should not be conducted by these girls, as demonstrated by the mess they had gotten themselves into by investigating a mere Styrofoam box. Someone only knows what kind of trouble they would be capable of with a clock, and one produced by said box at that.

Upon nearly approaching the clock, the girls were set down elsewhere by the web-pattern. Both rather startled by the newest development and thoroughly annoyed with their newly bruised asses (the web had not been gentle), they stood up and forged once again towards the box and the clock. The clock appeared to have changed from its previous incarnation of an ordinary black-and-white wall hanging clock to a perhaps even more ordinary red standalone clock with bells, presumably to act as alarms, situated on the top. Not entirely sure whether they were mistaken in this observation and having their brains feeling increasingly muddled, they came to the fairly sane conclusion that they were insane.

Just then gravity turned up the intensity and pulled them towards the ground which had somehow situated itself behind them instead of firmly under their feet as had previously been so reliable. Feeling immensely discouraged, they laid flat on the upright ground, and went through the various possibilities of how this story of their trip into the forest was going to resolve itself, or if the apparently increasing gravity would just flatten them and they would rot into the scenery. They thought of all the movies about insane asylums, about virtual realities, thought about the movies resolved in dreams. They thought about this for days within the hours they laid there, everything perceptionally more important, their thoughts racing along ten tracks at once at speeds unimaginable for those stuck in a world lacking webbing and horizontal gravity.

Whilst wandering back towards the thought of how their story may resolve itself, one of the girls recalled a time the two had gone to see a psychological thriller at the local cinema. In her mind, she turned around and passed her eyes over a cutesy movie cardboard cutout,  another cutout of a more action-based film, an advertisement pushing various food and beverage products, and then settled upon an out of-focus poster, mostly blue, it appeared. The blurriness of the image had caught her eye, or her minds’ eye rather, and she began to sift through the thoughts in her head for what it might be. First she found the font of the title, a simultaneously scratchy and scrolly font, and her mind placed it squarely at the base of the poster, in white. Digging further into her mind yielded a girl in a blue dress with blonde hair and an inquisitive look on her face, fairly centered in the rectangular poster. She began to recognize the poster, and immediately [though incorrectly] placed a hookah smoking caterpillar and queen of hearts in the picture and filled the font with the words, “Alice in Wonderland”.

That was it! They were neither insane, nor had their world been turned sideways or cloaked in a web. They were tripping. The girl whose head had trapped all these thoughts voiced the realization that they weren’t insane, and the girls proceeded into giggle fits and an effortless enjoyment of their psilocybin trip before heading back to the car with a crop of mushrooms and their heads moving abstractly through their once again perceptionally same world.