FlashesofMerriment
A Mosaic Presentation of a Dream
And when his hand he had stretched forth
To mine, with pleasant looks, whence I was cheered,
Into that secret place he led me on
~The Inferno
And the tree was happy
~The Giving Tree
You can hear voices at night, spinning strange tales when the mind is restless and the body lies still. Bizarre stories that confuse and leave you wondering how the world is. Or maybe you hear stories that irk and make you reconsider your life, awakening remorse or unexpected gratitude.
Sometimes the story is mere ghastly vapor that says nothing and means nothing. When a story is hollow like that, it is because you were talking too loud to hear the night speaking. You may have been even voicing the story yourself verbatim, but you weren't listening. For all stories are aliens, trying to infect our soul and leave us changed. Only a corpse is unresponsive to an invasion. Legend speaks: a living spirit is penetrated by God with every word, and is warped to fit His . I've also heard versions of this legend where the source of the breath is an act of Satan.
Yesterday, when I was listening, I felt myself changing. If I became a saint or a vampire, I do not know yet. But I am certainly not human. Not like how I was, anyways. My glowing skin makes creatures in the dark visible, pitiful beings, trying to hide from the world. I do not know if to bless or curse them. I do not know yet what I am.
The story that changed me, I've already forgotten. I don't even remember my own face. The breath that was blown into me blew everything inside away, even itself.
Each star told a chemical saga about explosions of majestic proportions. No one was listening. The royal trumpets blasted at epic volumes, but there were no ears to hear it. The colors were grand—there were no eyes to see. For millions of years, the universe was ignorant of its own beauty. Celestial symphonies still into the void and today there are a few who attend to them.
The little boy walked confidently, holding his father's hand. A springtime stroll, with no aim other than the pleasure of each other's company.
“Look at that tree! What beautiful pink blossoms!”
The father his son up to the branches, who gently stroked the petals.
In one year, this memory will dissolve from all human minds, just as these petals will disintegrate into nothingness. No photograph, no record in any journal, nothing.
But no love is lost for that reason. They never loved each other in order to reminisce at old age or to be written in history books. They loved because they could not imagine anything better in life.
Sweet things are always sweeter when they are painless, but there are some who have a particular taste that prefers the pleasure to be spiced. It is a taste reserved for the insane.
I weave with the wind, a lazy green blade of grass, with no anxiety to grow. Why grow? Why be taller? Rather, let me bask in the sunlight and drink the sweet dew that comes each morn. I do not know if I overflow more with pleasure or with gratitude. Bliss is my lot.
So I wished to live—until I was interrupted by a rude smack. What do I see? An angel of G-d! It comes whipping me, commanding me to grow. As if life is imperfect! It seems The Creator is not yet done with His labor. I only wish He wouldn't pass the buck to me. I say, if He doesn't like his own work, He can change it himself. No need to make me a slave. Let me enjoy the bounty of the earth, let me be as I was . Why all this trouble?
The wizard slowly set his bricks, forming first a layer, then a wall, all bringing him towards his goal: an enchanted palace. The labor was tedious and long, and I pitied him for his toils. A sweaty man in coarse robes. A coarse man in sweaty robes perhaps. Alas, all my teasing jests could not perfume the stink of my heart, stenched jealousy and spite. I envied his final prize. Oh, to have a palace of my own! To be king of somewhere like that royal wizard.
But what am I but a Yorick, a jester, a clown, a man-child who knows no patience for distant futures. My eyes see a blank page and can a line of wit, but never a novel. I cannot conjure worlds the way he does. The incantations he charms his stones with are longer than can fit in my memory jug; the mystical measurements of his architecture beyond the breadth of my skull.
Oh, wizard, you can rule an infinite empire, if given enough time. But I only play with my flashes of merriment. I am a flower, bestowed little time to dance in dazzling colors. You are the great oak that witnesses my birth and death.
The bronze sculpture shone in the moonlight. Hades—terrible and tragic. Maybe a faint trace of mischief. The artist stood before it, musing.
I am proud of this. I find it beautiful. I do not know which causes which.
He recalled the repulsion on the faces of his friends. They didn't understand. They didn't see. The grotesquerie and morbidity of the underworld god only raised their concerns about the sanity of their friend, the artist. If they gossiped about his freakish mind or if they were indifferent to his well being behind his back, he did not know. He hardly cared.
The chilling wind howled, and he caught whispers of his genius.
I feel my own powers, and the beauty of my creations; whether their source be only perceptible to myself, or to all with a refined taste. And what a price I pay for my powers! My vision leaves me isolated and cold.
He laughed to himself. They would think this arrogance.
He gazed upon his work. Biting winds roared around him and Hades.
This god would understand me. Some are destined to be messengers of darkness. But we do not abandon our search for pink blossoms. We give you back your own abyss, and point your eyes to the small flowers growing in the cracks of the chasm.
“Do you think they’ll ?”
“I doubt it. We’ve already proven our intelligence and articulacy. If we babble like madmen and they don't understand, they will blame themselves. Looking into our chaos, they will find patterns of their own minds. And they will credit us with the wisdom.”
“But surely there’s a limit?”
“Haven’t you read The Waste Land? How can there be a limit to man’s vanity and folly?”
“Wait, what do you mean by that?”
Nothing is real. My hands are made of dreamstuff and when I pass them before my face and my eyes tell me the truth—dreamstuff indeed!
My eyes too are dreams, as are yours, as is the book you hold, the words you read, the thoughts you think– all of it the dreamstuff of The Name who fancies the insanity of our world. We are his fantasy novel. Do not dismiss this ephemeral reality of whimsy as nothingness; rather quiver in terror, your hair erect like the quills of a furied beast, for His dreams are more solid than concrete slabs, or to be accurate, His dreams are the concrete slabs that form towers that reach the heavens.
The philosophers still debate if He dreams in mathematical equations, or in prose. I stand with the schizophrenics who are convinced God is a poet and His poetry has .
She spoke sweet nonsense. Her childlike musical voice lightened the soft, empty room, turning the unfortunate circumstances into something playful, or if not that, at least more tolerable.
The poor girl was trapped in a , singing her whimsical mantra ad nauseum.
“One-two one-two and through and through,
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!”
Her calm and joyous chanting eventually released her from Samsara. Now, finally free, she bathed in Nirvana unfettered with uncomfortable memories. She left her suffering behind, chaining it to the floor of that familiar, dark and musty basement.
The giant spider crawls across the vast dreamland; with each step, rainbow spheric waves expand until they dissolve into the infinite space. From a distance, I might have thought it beautiful, even majestic. But not now.
It is hungry, and it is hunting me.
My mind flees it in terror. It does not seek my body– such a thing is meaningless for this monster. No, it wants to find every joyful memory, every worthy aspiration, every drop of in me and devour it.
I run until exhaustion, and then I run some more. I don't harbor any fantastic fancy that I will ever muster the courage and slay the spider. That is not my lot.
“If you it, take it.”
Those exact words echo already for years in my mind, and each time I snuff them out. I keep my lion chained and watch him with a vigilant eye. Who knows what damage awaits a moment of laxity.
No matter how many times I deny myself the seductive command, it still chases me. It feels like I'm trying to flee the horse that carries me, and no matter the speed, no distance is placed between us. My fellow travelers surely see me as a pathetic clown. Why doesn't he just step down off his horse? Why does he not split the rider from the steed?
It was in her strange little shrine under the Ashera, amongst the sounds of chirping birds and buzzing insects that the dark priestess told me these words. Hearing such terrible folly, I recoiled. These are supposed to be holy prophecies?! I committed myself to fighting these false gods at once. If this is what their great wisdom tells us, then I will have no part of it. My soul is a pristine jewel, and I will polish it daily. I will never succumb to that filth.
“I feel no remorse. should I? What was bad about what I did?”
The harsh light shone on the dark face, distorting his otherwise pleasant features.
“She was asking for it. You think a girl dresses like that because she wants to be ignored? She got my attention allright. She knew it. And she could have had a good time, if she wasn't such a baby. I'm not scared of life. I love it. If something is being offered, I'll take it and enjoy myself. I'll put myself out there, I'll take the risk of getting burned, and if I win, I get my prize. I deserve to enjoy myself. Why shouldn't I? Am I less human than you?”
My shoulders tensed. I felt my heart beat furiously. This was a man walking the same streets as my mother, my wife, my daughters.
“Man, people will cage you in a million ways, just because they are too weak to walk. If you just walked, you wouldn't want to cage me. You wouldn't dislike me. You'd be happy. We'd be brothers.”
The dark night made it difficult to run without tripping on the gnarly roots or crashing into the trees that permeated the forest. And yet, Aral, lean and tall, held a steady pace to keep up with the wild dakini, his prey.
She slipped through the trees, dancing and skipping away, her gown flowing behind her. She was a gazelle.
Finally he reached her where she stood panting. Her face glistened with sweat, her cheeks flushed crimson. Her form was perfect, igniting Aral’s desire. Aral smiled and placed his hands around her neck.
The dakini spoke with red lips and tongue, stained from the blood that nourished her.
“You have caught me, but without grace. You run like a lame famished dog chasing a rat, there is no in your steps, no playfulness in your hunt. True, you can take me, but know that I have no desire for that. Perhaps you should learn to dance and play, and then return to the forest. Then, if you catch me, we can enjoy the bliss of wild lovers under the moon.”
The tribe slept peacefully in the dark forest, their stomachs pleasantly full from the meat that had been roasted on their fire. Only young Elero was awake, tending the fire that had cooked their meal. His eyes stared at the dancing god of heat and light.
Behind him in the wood, Elero heard rustling. He turned to see, but his eyes, used to the bright flames, could not make out any forms amongst the trees. Suddenly, a man lunged out and hit his head with a club. Elero fell to the ground dazed. He tried to call for help, but no sound came; his neck had been stabbed with a wooden pike. The last thing Elero saw before he sunk into the ebony mouth of eternal rest was his own blood on the killer's face and chest.
Everything was done silently, and the murderer quickly took a branch and held it to the fire until it was lit. He ran back through the forest, almost dancing, doing his best not to let the flame extinguish. He brought the prize to the feverous whooping of his . He was worshipped in gratitude by his people, for now they too would be blessed with the red flower.
Malkiyah squished the black insect between his stained fingers, squeezing the ooze into a miniature clay bucket. It was the one hundredth sacrifice to Beliyal.
Beliyal’s totem was of simple form; a mere empty bucket with a tiny hole near the bottom. The little statue of clay had received the blood of one hundred various insects, from roaches to flies.
Malkiyah closed his eyes and whispered Beliyal’s name, again and again. After many repetitions, his voice began to rise into a slow and arabesque musical chant. Malkiyah kept his awareness on his mind, waiting to be infused with power. He did not know what to expect exactly, but was confident he would notice a change when it happened. Nothing. His patience drained, he entered a state of desperation and began to scream Beliyal’s name hoarsely. He feared what tomorrow would bring if he would still be alone. He gave a last primal screech, praying fervently he would be blessed with some power.
The spirit of Beliyal’s entered Malkiyah, a small new voice that would guide Malkiyah, teaching his tongue to speak cynical remarks that would deflate a saint's motivation, or a stern chastisement that would smother a playfulness. He would be another small spy for the forces that guide human desires to vicious cycles of insatiable hunger.
Malkiyah sighed, sure that even with all his exertion the summoning had failed. Such was the cunning of Beliyal.
Their eyes stung from the sweat of their brow, slowly moistening and then overflowing beyond their eyebrows. The sun was shining its most brilliant light upon them. The worshippers savored the piercing rays, devouring the afternoon blaze with determination. From their mouths came exultations and songs of praise to Aton, the sun god, source of life, infinitely powerful; Aton, the one beyond all mind and matter.
They stared at the almighty deity with faith that man what he beholds.
One face was for the outside, another was for in.
The outer face was, eyeless, with black hungry sockets. A fanged smile with oversized canines, as if imported from species, dripped murky saliva. A large crooked nose protruded, optimized to smell fear, pride, or any other trace of a weakness to be manipulated.
The inner face was exactly like the outer face, but without a trace of humor.
Why do they pelt me with stones? Why do they hate me? Mother! Why?
She held him .
Little one, they hate you because you do not see good and evil. You do not understand the ways of man.
Lies! I too see good and evil! Do not believe their lies, Mother!
Ah, my son, but you see it slowly, and with different eyes. And that is enough to be hated.
Why?
That you ask this question shows that you do not understand their ways. Hush little one. Rest and let me tend to your wounds.
Alarm bells. Red lights flashing. This is not a drill.
Everybody is laughing, but not you. You are different. You see what will come. The tragedy is already scorched on your mind's eye.
Warn them? But they won't believe you. You don't even need to try.
How much time do you have? Never enough. There is no action to dodge the charging bulls of fate. The canyon is too narrow, and infinite walls climb to the heavens. You are in the depths. The ground rumbles from the stampede.
The only choice you have is to watch the horns as they impale, or close your in waiting.
Standing in a ring of fire was not as uncomfortable as I imagined. I assumed the smoke would choke me or the fire would boil my blood. It would be an agonizing death either way. But instead, it was just a pleasant glow, a kind warmth. Best of all, I was surrounded by all of my friends and family. It warmed my heart to see everybody together, gathering around for me, presenting to me their love.
I hoped they could see my smile through the black smokescreen. I heard them wailing. I understand. But really, it's okay. I'm .
I'll miss you. Allow yourself to forget me.
Untainted joys no more. I remember the day the sun was swallowed whole. Everything in my life is split to before that moment and after.
It’s not only me. Everyone who knew that God of light and warmth feels the tragedy. Together we mourn. Together, we cut our biographies asunder, locating every event in relation to the devastation.
We for resurrection; for a spring after this gloomed winter of cold winds that bite our eyes and noses, keeping them perpetually moist. But while we keep our eyes raised to the heavens, waiting to see that light shine again, we feel the shadow of the finality of death. Never our star return.
The beast walked, burdened with thousands of sins it had never committed. It allowed itself to be led into the desert wilderness, unprepared for the bizarre end it was soon to encounter. The man pushed it down a cliff, where it tumbled and shattered into a mess of blood, bones and organs.
The ritual was done meticulously following the holy instructions. The people were ; the evil within projected and brutally dealt with. Azazel was content– until next year.
The key silently slipped into the lock followed by a significant pause. Should it be turned? Was it really worth confronting the pain, when could be feigned?
The pale hand shook in terror for some moments that felt like eternity before carefully pulling the key out.
Tomorrow would be theater, and all the actors would play the same roles as today. But for one individual who was too fearful to open a door, the interpretation of the show would be darker and more resentful.
My fingernails are dragons; scaled, fire breathing, winged worms of devastation. They claw at my face, digging red trenches, scorching the earth.
The wisemen of the land are always trying to understand why. Why do they attack? What joy do they have in causing pain? They eat nothing. So why do they devour?
The rivers of blood murmur an answer, but the ears of the people are with sorrows. So they keep asking and asking, pretending true inquiry, while in truth they only scream their grievances.
Late again. Why is he always late?
“Shelly, sit down. I have something to tell you.”
Oh no. He's leaving me. For some stupid blonde slut. You liar. Now I know why you’re late.
“It's not easy for me to say this…”
He's looking down at the ground. He won't make eye contact. Oh no. This is really bad. He's been cheating on me.
“I just really don't want to let you down. You're the most important person in my life.”
Just say it Goddammit.
“I've been thinking a lot, and I might need to go to a psychologist. I think I might need help. With addiction.”
Which addiction? What? What are you talking about? Oh God. Mom was enough. I can't handle this. I'm going to be sick.
A poorly lit apartment in Jerusalem, a little after midnight. The juggler threw his balls in the air, creating a hypnotic pattern.
No audience.
Practice. Practice. Practice.
Didn't know what he was striving for. Would never be good enough to put bread on the table with these skills. Would never impress friends; there were none. A very mediocre exercise.
Compulsion the engine.
Throw catch. Throw catch. Throw catch.
Addiction.
Can’t, musn’t stop.
Every time a ball dropped he hated himself and demanded And if it didn't, if he was on a roll- why stop?
Why anything?
She plays to lose, but doesn't know it.
We know it. We see how she won't stop until she crashes and burns. We see how she always finds herself wounded. We see how her tongue aims arrows at her friends. We see how she will dance a dust storm to avoid looking and seeing herself. Look and see! But she can't bear looking at herself.
Because then she would know.
She would know that she is only at losing.
I have an alien in my gut. He speaks to me, and tells me all sorts of crazy things. He says Mr. Sombagull, my math teacher, is actually a demon from another dimension that tortures innocent animals, and that my big sister Rachel can read adult minds. That's why she never gets in trouble, even though she does things she's not supposed to. That's crazy.
His name is Jeff. That's not his alien name but it doesn't really matter. He says “What's in a name? Letters! HAHAHAHAHA!” Jeff thinks he's real funny and wants me to do stand up with his jokes. He's a real nutjob. I'm eleven years old. I can't do that!
Jeff, the alien in my gut, says he's going back to his planet soon. In just a few weeks. When he goes, I'll die. The only way to get out is ripping a hole in me. But I'm not going down that fast. I'm going to drink lots of beer. I'm going to beat my stomach with an iron bar. I'm gonna get Jeff before he gets me. I hope it will work.
This is my creative writing essay. give me a good grade. Jeff made me write these last sentences.
If she ever was to look into her closet, she would not find the skeletons she feared; her past sins were hardly consequential. Neither would she find suppressed horrors of cosmic proportions, for her soul was none too large to house such beings.
Yet, there was good reason she avoided peering in. Were she to open those doors she would find a murky puddle. Her pettiness and her inability to receive fresh clean waters.
I I could show her that behind those closet walls lies a new world. If she could just break down those barriers, she would find an endless blue horizon, beneath a warm sun. She could be the ocean, majestic, powerful, enchanting, and capable of swallowing and giving infinite love.
Broken glass scattered everywhere; under the table and chairs, with sticky juice splattering, mixing amongst sharp shards. The little boy stared at the ground. His face flushed red.
Every muscle in the man's back tensed.
“Goddammit. Be careful!” The voice was controlled, barely containing the ferocity in his throat.
The boy's lower lip began to quiver. The man, seeing this, sighed.
“Look. Just be more careful next time.”
The boy nodded.
“Go get me the broom and mop. We'll clean this up.”
Thousands of moments like these intertwined into a tapestry of a rich relationship, colorful, with unique patterns. Some strands were dark, some frayed. All together it was a of art.
None of my shoes fit me. One morning I wake up, and all of a sudden they're too small. How is that even possible!? Since when do feet grow so fast?
My wife says that they've been growing slowly every day, and I only noticed it now. But she noticed it before. She always notices things before me. So claims. She says her feet have been growing too. I don't believe her. I don't want a wife with big feet. I don't care, but still… I don't. If I wanted a wife with big feet I would have married one.
When I look at my feet, it doesn't seem like they are bigger. Aha! Maybe my shoes shrunk. Yes! That's it! My shoes shrunk overnight. I bet she didn't think about that option. I can just imagine the look on her face when I tell her. She has that funny “We both know I'm wrong but don't you dare push it and ask me to admit it,” look at these moments. I never push it and she never admits it.
So I went to the store to buy new shoes, but nothing there fit. Everything was too narrow, or too short, or both. Maybe she was right. I'm always wrong, no surprise. I really just want to be able to walk around comfortably, to go to the mall and amble around window shopping without being concerned that someone will notice my naked feet, hairy and yellow nailed. It would also be nice not to be wrong. Is this too much to ask for? A little consistency with feet sizes! A little self-esteem! Please God!
I go to the pharmacy to see what they have for my yellow toenails. Nothing. Fat, blue haired Asian pharmacists are the worst. I wish I knew what kind of Asian this thing was so I could be a more accurate racist. This pharmacy is a nightmare, a real freakshow. They've lost my business until they get back to being normal.
His back was a clenched fist.
It was anger like he had never known. A primal scream echoed in his skull. In his chest thumped a heart, a war drum commanding martial obedience. His body convulsed, muscles tensing like the quiver of a bow. He was locked and loaded.
He scanned for a target and found none. Would he whip the river that blocked his passage? Or curse the sun that shone on the day of his birth? At whom would he aim his arrows of fury?
Seeing no target, he aimed at himself.
He slings a rock and it bounces off the wall, hitting his bronze helmet and throwing him off balance. He stumbles on the hard floor and scrapes his knees.
He brushes off the dust and the sting and looks at the stacked titanic stones that brush the heavens. My enemy mocks me, he thinks.
“I will you. It is a matter of time, and I am more stubborn than thee.” He grimaces at the sound of his echo and takes a deep breath.
He picks up another smooth stone and slings it with all his might. This time it does not ricochet and hit him. Good, he thinks. I am making progress.
Drowning is my art. Once again, I hurl myself into the water. I exhale to sink and submerge. I wait one thousand moments, building up tension. Once I'm nearly dead I inhale. The water invades my lungs; liquid knives that shred my insides. I spasm and flail.
When my breathing finally dies, I search for my audience. Did they laugh? Did I amuse them? Do they love me?
It's never enough. I never believe them. I for their love more than for my own life. I must perfect my art.
The glimmerings of angelic dreams did not quiet the anxiety of the dying old man.
The bank account is dwindling. We don't have enough. Why aren't they ever on time!? We had a deal. They will have to pay.
His nurse smothered the thoughts with a pillow. Nonsense. Merely a mad man obsessed with the next day; a day that will never arrive.
His body slumped in release from the he carried; Atlas finally shrugged.
If he loved me, he would take more initiatives. He wouldn't even ask me what I want or need, he would simply do it. There it is laying right in front of him. Is he
And so, he must not love me. He must not care.
To hell with his smiles and jokes. To hell with his silly smirk. Where there is love there is sight, and he has no fuckin’ eyeballs.
The couple walked past the beggar without even a glance; he was a constant part of the scenery just like the arches, the stonewalls, the view of the place sanctified by all. There was nothing in him that demanded attention.
But this time, the man felt a little tug at his conscience– perhaps he could spare a coin. He paused and felt in his pocket, and turned around to drop the coin into the plastic cup, and quickly jogged to catch up with his wife.
She looked at him and smiled. “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know. I guess I figure either he really needs the money, in which case I gave him. Or he doesn’t, in which case he’s mentally disturbed. And I can spare that for a man.” He wanted to change the topic. He didn’t feel like analyzing his motives.
“That’s sweet of you. Of course, he could just be a crook.”
She planted herself in her garden some years ago. Since then, it has sprouted and bloomed. Now there are many little frolicking winged souls, dancing and playing, amongst the uncut grass, colorful weeds and thorny vines. If you draw near you can hear their tender music.
This is how she chose her final rest, to be fed to dirt and be a blessing unto the earth. She can be resurrected, now spread thin over generations of fairies. All her flesh has dissipated, all that is left is myth.
The village was on fire. Samuel’s eyes were blazing, reflecting the towering flames. He was proud of his work. Indeed, he was a loyal servant of his God, and had succeeded in fulfilling the divine command.
This evil field would never bloom again, this wicked people would be forgotten forever.
Behind Samuel, a young Hebrew scribe, witnessed the total massacre. Not even the babes were spared. The wailing of the mothers haunted him.
This scribe wrote his testimony, and he is the reason the word Amalek is still spoken today. For some it an infinite rage, but for others, a warning against boundless hatred and revenge.
Fairy hands clenched and then flung punches at his face, tickling him, causing his bass voice to erupt in a stifled giggle, much to Pixellasia’s frustration. All her fury was aimed at trying to pain him in revenge for stealing her words. Now she was mute and angry.
“Cat got your tongue? Finally some quiet.” He enjoyed his superiority, after decades of suffering from her incessant .
He closed his eyes and leaned back in his throne, listening to the tranquil silence. Savoring the emptiness. Pixellasia stepped back and pouted. She hated feeling so weak. She thought how she might harm him. He must have some weakness. She didn't expect to ever get her speech back, but she wanted at least some sort of revenge.
Pixellasia smiled at her idea and flitted away on her hummingbird wings, coming back with a lighter, and lit his long black beard. When it caught fire, he did not laugh, but instead roared in anger and crushed his fairy wife's skull with his fingers like a peanut. He quickly smothered the fire with his bare hands. His hands were wet with fairyblood and brains, and some had stained his shirt and the misshapen singed beard. The mirror showed the king how ridiculous he looked now.
Pixellasia had her revenge, and witnesses claim she died happy. Her husband forever regretted that day.
I saw a man pursuing the Round and round they sped. This confused me. I asked the man, “Please, explain to me your actions.”
He looked at me with pitiful eyes. As if my question was a confession of my suffering.
“I fear the dark, what it may awaken in me. I always feel the bitter blackness at my back, about to pounce and drag me to the pits of despair.”
“But surely there is a cure!” I cried.
“I have found none,” he called and ran on.
If the world could see the monsters all around them, they would pull their hair out and beat their chests in agony, wail to their King in Heaven for mercy to relieve them from this terror. I cannot see all the monsters. Only one. But from him, I understand that there must be myriads of impure and vile creatures around me. I barely keep my sanity just experiencing one. Woe to those who see everything as it is!
Inside my skull dances a dybbuk. He wears a shining shtreimel and a midnight bekesha, patterned with images of dismembered corpses. His long white beard is shaped just like a holy Rebbe, which only serves to highlight how wicked he is. He doesn't teach me Torah, he taunts me and plays with my mind until I scream. When I do, he just laughs.
He claims his name is Yossele, just like my father, may his memory be a blessing. I don't know and I don't care. It's obviously a coincidence, there is no similarity between them. I just want this hellish thing to leave. He says only Mashiach can force him out, and I shouldn't hold my breath.
When it's quiet, Yossele sings off key. The words are perverted; he’ll sing a song giving thanks in a funeral dirge, or a lamentation of the exile as if it was a wedding. He sings again and again until I gnash my teeth. Sometimes, he tells me wild stories, about children getting lost in the forest, or an old man coming home to see his wife of fifty years betraying him with his brother. Why? Everything he does is so that I yell at him to shut his mouth. He just wants to provoke me. And when he succeeds he rolls on the floor of my brain and kicks his feet. Holding his sides, giggling, tears spilling from his yellow eyes. Like a
All he wants is to laugh and be merry, and his only joy is my madness.
I hope he dies with me. He says he won't. He says he'll find my children.
She meditated on her blemished skin, unsure whether to feel shame, or accept the harsh facts of her appearance.
If I must be ugly, let me at least be wicked, for to be ugly and sweet is too tragic to bear; the torture of being looked at with I would rather die.
Her teenage zits smoothed over time, but her claws never softened.
“Boy, just walk right through here.”
He motioned to the black door with a golden round knob, and I stepped to it slowly. Slowly, because I was wary. His voice was tinged with anticipation, and as my demise was sure to be his joy, he was not to be trusted.
Oh father of mine, denier of fate, and noose on my neck, you cannot outwit me so easily.
I opened the door and looked in the thick darkness. An infinite spiral staircase, with steps too steep for any human. One who would walk it casually would certainly break some bones on their descent. But I would not be that one. I set my foot on the first step of my journey.
Still I slipped. It was oiled. What a fool I am! How could I have missed it? I flailed and crashed on each step in that infernal darkness, rattling my bones and smashing my flesh into bruised Cursed trickster!
When I awoke, hurting all over, I saw my mother's face.
“You've failed me again. But I love you. Come son, and let me tend your wounds.”
My shame burnt my cheeks, but I was quiet.
Electricity flowed from the warlock’s fingertips into the minds of millions. He was the tyrant of their thoughts and the master of their desires, channeling them by his whim. Esoteric numbers that would be meaningless to the uninitiated on screens, relaying to him confirmation of his success.
Despite his unchallenged power the prince was distressed, his Eden still beyond his reach. While he ruled his domain with ease, he had yet to discover to what end.
Franz stared at the screen. His booksales were soaring, against his will. He wished to be read by ten people on earth at a time at most, and his friend had convinced him that maybe one thousand would be a fitting number. But the numbers on the screen were drops of water, filling up a car. A car he was locked in, handcuffed and gagged.
His phone rang.
“Max,” he barely whispered.
“Franz! Do you see?! We've outsold the Quran, the Bible! We are neck to neck with Harry Potter!”
Franz dropped the phone and dug his face into his hands, hoping they would welcome him as his grave. He wished his ghost would disappear from earth. He wished he could forget what he saw, and with the demise of his memory change reality as well.
He now saw how he was not an aberration, but the rule. There was more than a bit of him in everyone.
What a world, he thought. For Kafka to outsell Rowling is a hopeless incomprehensible world that knows it is hopeless and incomprehensible.
The city was slowly descending into the mud. At an imperceptible pace perhaps, but most certainly, it was sinking. Eventually, it would disappear and be fully immersed in sludge and silence. In the meantime, the children giggled in the playgrounds, lovers moaned in ecstasy in bedrooms, and old men drank coffee peering out of windows. Usually not, but sometimes, all of happened simultaneously.
There used to be a castle under my bed, that I would enter and explore when the boredom of quiet nights drove me to mischief. A huge grey stoned castle, with bright red flags with winged lions. The king, with a glorious snow white beard and crown of blue jewels, gave me leave to wander as I wished, and in gratitude I kept his palace a secret.
Some nights I would visit his powerful wizards, who could turn water into cherry cola. On others I would watch his knights valiantly joust for trophies. I would watch the court jester make a fool of himself and laugh myself to tears.
One night, hearing the terrible shrieks of witches and huffs of werewolves in my nightmares, I fled to the castle. The king told me that this would be my last visit until I would be old enough to be a child again. I cried and cried and hoped this was some terrible mistake. The next night, the castle was gone.
I still wait for that moment when my castle returns, but for now I enjoy knowing my visit it after I fall asleep.