beast

A nameless fear washed over him as he realised he was being watched. He was mid-step, right foot hovering over a crack in the pavement when he'd spotted it out of the corner of his eye. Impossible to put to words exactly what he saw, a blur that had flitted between the shadows of the trees lining the pathway and disappeared, his brain registering the image half a second too late. He realised he was holding his breath, that every muscle in his body had tensed. He opened his hands, then balled them, opened them again and wiped them on his pants. Sweat stung his eyes and he blinked madly. His mind filled the uncertain void the blur had created with monsters, creatures of hair, and sharp teeth, and gore. He knew he was doomed. He knew, with a grave certainty, he could not outrun his foe, could not overcome or overpower it, could not reason with it. He could not escape. If he were to break into a sprint, and in one, two, three bounding strides take to the sky in flight, he would not be five metres above the ground when he would feel the creature's teeth sinking into his neck. It would not even take that, he knew quite certainly, it would not even take the creature physically attacking him, its presence alone, in the back of his mind, would anchor him and drag him down. Maybe the first bound would be weightless, even joyously buoyant, and the second even more powerful than that, his body flung airborne with grace and speed. But the blur, the blackness, he knew, would be there, watching mildly and maliciously, and smile as the third leap would- just- not- be- high- enough. The fourth leap would be shorter than the third. And by the fifth leap, he knew, tears of frustration would spring from his eyes, and his body would not even reach two metres off the ground, until finally he would be in the middle of the street jumping up and down like an asshole to no effect as the beast gained upon him.

So, what, then, is there for him to do? It was foremost important that he must not display any signs of fear, that is to say knowledge of the creature. Though his death upon the creature's claws was inevitable and the most he could do was delay it but a few precious minutes, to that end it was crucial to outwardly maintain the appearance of normalcy. It took several tries for him to find this, with his rearranging of how high his shoulders were to be held, if he should slouch, coolly, or hold a straight masculine back. If he should look his head around, as if surveying the surrounding environment of trees and houses, or if he should stare at his feet eating up the ground, as he was oft to do. But then would the creature read that as an invitation? A failure, even, to look the world 'in the eye'? Would that be the perfect opportunity to pounce? Should his arms swing, gaily, or would that be goofy, should they be held static at his sides, displaying strength, and self control? Should his hands be in his pockets, would that give the beast pause, thinking he held some weapon in his palms?

He eventually settled for a nodding stroll, head slightly inclined downwards but eyes fixated on the horizon. The relief of having decided on some, on any course of action quickly gave way to the reminder that he was being followed, tracked, by the horror. He remembered an old delaying tactic from his schooldays-- perhaps he should bend the knee, and tie up a shoelace. Of course both were done up tight already, double knotted, as was his custom, still tight and solid from the morning's preparations. He would have to mime exasperation at some string's phantom faulty, but the action would buy him a few seconds to look around, and to think. Perhaps even lure the beast into striking, thinking him distracted, and of course the crouched position is the perfect position from which to spring into a dead sprint, that's how the Olympic sprinters start their races, after all. But, no, he admonished himself, biting his lip a little too hard, that was stupid thinking. Stupid stupid stupid. He was not an Olympian, far from it, and besides trying to fool such a creature, a master of hunting, and of killing, was to mock it. He was nothing compared to it. He wanted only to be killed quickly, to have his body lifted up and slammed against a wall head first, to break his neck like a fish, or a rabbit, so as to prevent him flopping about too much when the beast began to eat him. He did not want the beast to play with him, like a cat would a rat with a broken leg, to bat him around, to eat him alive one bite at a time, to relish his screams and his spasms. He did not want to anger such a creature, so dreadful and cruel, he did not want to provoke it further. "Just over like that," he accidentally muttered aloud, again forgetting himself. The beast was majestic, in a sense, so supreme in its power as to be authoritative. It could snap his bones as easily as snapping finger and thumb. It was godly in its control of the situation. It was a wall. It was a black wave, that had started as a thin dark line on the ocean horizon, and had grown and grown and grown until it obscured all else. It was surrounding him. Encapsulating him. It was naught but fur and claw and it had him in its grasp.

He shook his head. There was little else for him to do. It was not fair, of course, it was not fair. Nothing is. Nothing ever had been. But it should, he thought, it should be. It could be. It would be so easy. If the beast had given him some preparation. Some small years to train, to work out. He could be a worthy adversary, of course. In just a few years. He could train, every day. He would have muscles, and skills. He could learn to build weapons and how best to use them. He could build himself a body designed to fight. All the beast had left him with was his flabby self, not even his real self, a husk. If only the beast had given him some kind of warning. Some way of knowing. He knew the beast was coming, of course, he'd always known, he'd always been waiting for it, it had never been far from his mind. But it was a matter of when. The beast had not given him any sign-- not one sign!-- of when it would appear. If he had known it was today he would have started training years ago. He would have run every day, to build his stamina. He would have lifted to build his strength. He would have studied to hone his mind. He would have sought out others, and learned from them. How was he to know? It was not fair. It was simply not fair. The nerve of it. To deny him this. His one chance. His one chance of vindication. He had potential, he knew, he'd always known, he'd been told his whole life. He had the potential. If only the beast had let him showcase it! If only the beast had faced him, on an open field, on a flat platform with no shadows to hide in. To face him one on one, fists up, like all the movies and video games and dreams had shown him. Instead the beast, the coward, had pounced on him at such an inopportune time. He had no armour to strap on. He had nothing. That is what the beast was to gain from killing him now-- nothing! It was the beast's loss.

But he knew, too, that this was folly, that this was lying, that this was not going to save him. Now was now, and in the now the beast's jaws were tightening all around him.

dire lies

until
they die, they die
most will
buy, to buy

never
try to try--
just waste
time, and mind--

stare
at
the
clock--

and sigh, and sigh--
workin' hard for
high a price

never asking--
"why? O why?--
should I shy
my time awry?"

for the boss man--
so snide, and wide--
come march the
swine, in line--

O they'll
whine and whine--
yet watch 'em make
good time inside--

to the factory
lines obliged
only but
inside their minds--

in the binds
of dire lies

The Statue in the Basement

Someone had moved a statue of Venus, all her beauty cast and moulded in bronze, into a darkened basement. She had served many years as centrepiece and landmark in the town-square, envied by young girls, sighed over by young men-- and their gazes as time had weighed heavily upon her clear grey skin, causing it to become slightly rough and pebbled.
“I served my time well,” thought the lovely statue Venus to herself, smiling brightly in the dark, “I more than deserve a rest. And this basement, though, yes, a little small, a smidgen lonesome, and just a shade dark, is comfortable enough. All in all, it is a grand place to retire.” And so, smiling ever on, she settled in to sleep.

But alas, sleep would not come, and soon the statue Venus grew irked with her new setting. “These first hundred days have been a bore!” she thought, “This place is altogether dusty. And where are the children, who used to run circles around my feet, laughing and smiling upon me? Or the kind old folk, who threw superstitious coins and prayers into my fountain pool? Where are,” she smiled her mischievous smile, temper momentarily abated at the thought, “Where are the young men who would sigh with every passing glance at my smile, my naked breasts? Who sometimes, after a few night hours and drinks had washed over them, would creep to my courtyard to plant kisses on my stone lips? I thought,” she grew sad, her eyes full, pupil-less and wide, stared into nothingness, “I thought they loved me.”

Heralding this realisation came from above a great scraping noise, like a violent violin screeching some wretched musician's despair. The statue Venus was overcome with self-pity, and began to cry. Tears began to stream down her stone cheeks, chest and stomach, gathering in a puddle at her feet with a drip, drip, drip.

“Hold on,” Venus thought, “though my beauty has driven many a mortal man to weep, as my outstretched arms are immobile and can thus never return his loving embrace; likewise, too my eyes are stone and cannot weep tears. What is going on?”

With that, a single ray of sunshine no wider than a pin pierced the darkness of her new home. “Oh, how joyful!” thought Venus ecstatic, “The morning sun! And what's this...?” She listened closely for a moment, and sure enough she heard the sounds of-- “My old courtyard! I can hear the familiar noises of it-- the clip clop of the villagers' shoes and horses on the cobblestone! The ring of the blacksmith's hammer on his anvil! The song of the blue sparrows overhead! I suppose a stone must have come loose somewhere... what fun, to retire right under my old lovely spot, and now to have an ever-so-slightly-small window to listen through the sounds of my darling town!” She stood a moment and smiled and listened to the familiar sounds, when then the statue Venus noticed another sound not so recognisable:

Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Oh!” Venus thought, “The water! Well, it is quite loud... now that I notice it, it seems to dominate even the sounds of my beloved town! It can't be helped. It must be,” Venus thought, remembering the fountain she had adorned for many hundred years, “a run-off from my old abode, why, then, I must be exactly underneath my old spot!”

Drip. Drip. Drip.

“It is persistent...” the statue Venus thought, “and consistent. But at least it's giving me a lovely bath-- yes, it shall help to keep my face shining and lovely!” She smiled ever into the darkness, tears running forever down her face.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

And so it was for many many years. During the day Venus the statue listened to the sounds of her old life under the sounds of the constant dripping, smiling at the thought of all the villagefolk milling and buzzing about through their day. She thought of the farmers going to till the fields, and the young lovers to walk hand in hand to nowhere in particular. At night she looked at the stars, what few she could make out through her coin-slit window, and often slept and dreamt of the day she would come out of retirement, to once more be looked on and adored by all.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

There was only one sound more annoying to the statue Venus than the sound of the dripping, and that was the sound of “Mary”. She wasn't quite sure who or what a “Mary” is, just that it seemed to be the word she heard most amongst the village talk. And everyone seemed to be saying it! Every village timbre touched upon the word "Mary"-- the village elders' rasped it, wheezing and coughing, the children, laughing, would sing songs that heavily featured the word, and in such loving, breathless, adoring tones!
“Bah,” she thought, “Mary, Mary, Mary. Myself, I don't see the appeal in it. Such a grating word, ugly, even-- Maare. Mary. I don't see what they love about this word Mary so much. To me they sound like bleating sheep when they say it. Mary, Mary, Mary. Bah!”

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Thought the statue Venus, “Despite the dripping, and the Mary-ing, and the,” Venus stared into the darkness of her home, “lonely, dark place they've put me in, I know that I am still a beautiful and cherished creature. In fact, yes, I'm quite sure of it. I'm quite certain I will soon be dragged back out, into the light, and installed into my lovely old courtyard. Or maybe,” Venus thought, “somewhere entirely new, and better. Yes! That must be the reasoning behind my so-called 'retirement'! They are constructing now a new fountain for me to be placed in, loved by all! Perhaps in a bigger town, so that I may grace a greater number of people's lives with my smile. Perhaps, even,” Venus smiled ever on, “a royal palace! Yes! That must be it! Soon I will pleasure a royal court and all its noble patrons with my presence!”

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Ttwo ghastly realisations came upon the statue Venus that night. The first was the meaning of the mysterious word “Mary”. The sky was clouded, so the statue Venus could see no stars or moonlight and was steeped in darkness eternal. It wasn't bothering her tonight, though normally it would make her quite sad: she was still pleased with herself for being eligible for the royal courts. Suddenly she became aware of the voice of a young man, who sounded very drunk..

“You're beautiful!” He was slurring, “Your eyes, your smile, your body, all of you makes my very heart ache!”

From her dark hiding place Venus couldn't help but smile, though she knew the drunk was not addressing her, and probably instead was accosting some poor village girl. For a moment the statue Venus indulged herself and imagined the boy was talking to her, as many had in the deep night hours such as these, and, of course, as many would again in the near future. So caught up in this fantasy, and in the young man's voice, was the statue Venus that she forgot all about the dripping sound of the water splashing at her feet.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

She listened: “Your lips, so full! Your eyes, so kind! Your hips,” the drunk burped; Venus continued to smile, “so curved! Like a river! I wish only to run my hands along and over them, O I do, everyday, as I walk by you.”

“Go on,” Venus thought, “Go on, tell me more, give me more!”

“Yes,” said the drunk, “Your hips, and your breasts, all of you, drives me to distraction...”

“More, more, more!” thought the statue Venus.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Every day,” the drunk slurred, “Every hour. I am thinking of you, and O my passions are stirred, every day, O yes, O my sweet and adorable Mary.”

At this Venus prickled. “Mary? That word uttered so adoringly by so many? Mary is a name? And what's more, a girl's name?” She thought, and listened hard, horrified.

“O Mary. O my sweet Mary. How I long for you. And yet,” the drunk grew quiet, and for many long moments Venus strained within the darkness, longing for his next words, and yet, with a heavy dread, somehow knowing already what they would be: “And yet,” the drunk sobbed, suddenly quite distraught, “and yet I can never have you. O my Mary, were it that I could turn you human, and make you my wife. Were it that you could smile upon me with warm fleshy lips, instead of mocking me from upon your pedestal, smiling upon all who pass you by,” the drunk's tone had grown angry, and bitter, “smiling at all with your whoresmile, your smile that should be reserved for me alone! Your lips I so long for are not warm things, but cold, and cruel, and stone! O my Mary! My Mary! My Mary! My Mary the whore!”

The drunk had whipped himself from lust to despair into a blind rage, as drunks are oft to do, and to punctuate his last spitting words threw his bottle at his feet, which broke with a loud crash. He then stormed off somewhere in a stomping huff. When it was again quiet the statue Venus found herself in the dark, alone and crying hard, the water running down her nose in a thick stream falling heavier than it ever had before.

Through her sadness, and anger, and rage, and jealousy, and her feelings of desolate and absolute betrayal, the statue Venus heard the Drip. Drip. Drip. echo throughout her basement and with a slow horror realised the water had worn down and eroded her nose from her face.

06/04/2014

When one returns home from a lengthy holiday, often is there felt a great and hollow sensation; it is with no great ceremony that one is plopped back into the homestead; indeed, there are no trumpets sounded, no banners or announcements unfurled, no parade led; it is with a cool pomposity that one returns home; no, in fact, not cool at all, it is a warm and enveloping sensation, akin to walking through sluggish water barely a half degree Celsius higher than that of one's own body temperature; the difference is slight, but in its modicum is a noticeabley terrible length, barely able to be grasped and yet inescapable. Like the onward drudging march of time, like a child outgrowing its favourite clothes that fit it not a year ago. One views familiar sights, familiar walls, plaster, and of course cracks in said plaster, unconsciously; aware only of the shapes these objects make when one squints ones eyes as if peering into a dotted impressionist painting; these things so dreadfully familiar, gazed over not one but many too times in the idle moments that construct the day to day life as to be rendered invisible; and yet, at the same time, with that warm prickling wet itch, one is sharply aware of the discrepancies, the flaws, as it were, in the floors; uneven steps one becomes accustomed readily and with no small grace when one must pass over it several times a day, on the way to and back from the kitchen, or something, as it were; these discrepancies become hideously noticeable, offensive to the senses. One's bathroom mirror; its various streaks and spotted flecks unconsciously familiar, clinging to the image of ones face is suddenly deemed disgusting; in fact, one often gave a harsher treatment to the various hotel mirrors one has encountered on ones journey; yet in comparison shine like Jupiter next to Ganymede, a polished silver of most exquisite brightness. One distinctly remembers cleaning the bathroom mirror to a sheen; it was only in small steps that the spots and dots gathered one at a time to finally make a picture grotesque.
The fantastical items one brings home; often chosen in fits of madness, or “impulse”, one decides in a final sort of way that this plastic figurine or tick-tack or whatever nonsense so perfectly slips into the mode of ones tastes, formulated and honed through ones life from indeed ones very birth; unshakeable and perfect nostalgia clashes with hip, chic choice; one decides in one moment to carry said unfathomably tasteless nick knack for the rest of ones natural term, to attach it to one's hip; but of course, when finally set out, against the backdrop of the burrow, the den, the living room; these items become at once pointless and gravely insignificant lumps of plastic; they seem to melt into the background of one's home, dissolved into its very blandness; indeed swallowed up by the normality of the setting, becoming irrevocably a permanent part of it. And one remembers with gravity visits as a child to strangers' houses, often littered with likewise said lumps of plastic that are held dear only to the homeowner; as a child one found these things bizarre, confusing, almost alarming; and yet observed they brought no bother to the homeowner; in fact the homeowner seemed comforted by their presence; and on rare occasions to the despair of all present would lift one up, turning it all round as if holding in their hand an artefact of great scientific importance, and claim it holding many a great memory for the owner; though of course the plastic remains silent in their hands.
The food is gone; there is no food, one usually remembers to use up or give away the last of the food before one leaves as to not let a crumb go to waste; consequentially one must then refill the stocks before being allowed to retire for the first time, upon returning home; no matter how long the journey was, how many miles and hours and noises withstood; one trudges to the supermarket, and grabs items at random; old, familiar, easy items, frozen pizzas, canned soup; and, having remembered the exotic food on ones journey; resolves to do away with old favourites, and to institute new and better foods; healthier foods; rice, maybe, and cinnamon and egg. For one is tired enough to want to change, for the better, but far too tired to adequately plan such a drastic improvement. And one grabs entirely too much for a basket (but of course not enough for a trolley) and takes it to the self serve aisle; and several times the automatic machine breaks down, out of malice or design; and out rings the artificial ringing of a digital bell; and the supermarket employee, a boy of endless hostile boredom and rakish limbs walks over and without listening to ones apologies or explanations swipes his card and hammers an unknown but obviously simple code into the numberpad and moves on, as if he had performed the manoeuvre a thousand times already that day; as if he too has become merely another cog in the supermarkets machines; a perfect robot that responds to the smallest tasks with the confidence and worldly know-how of its programmer.

--

written whilst tired and OD'ing on kafka