Category: Theme Issues

That stare he uses.

That stare they all use.

Who?

They. The boys.

What boys?

All boys. The boys I know. The boys I’ve seen. Why do they do this?

Do what?

Stare. Stare at me with those daunting eyes. Those eyes that linger for just a second too long. Those eyes that tell me so much more than what their mouths are saying. Those eyes that…

What’s wrong with that?

Everything, Ignorance. Everything is wrong with that. Don’t you see?

No.

Then come look. Open your eyes for once. See them taunting you, craving you, telling you the secrets you’ve wanted to know, whether you’ve asked to hear them or not. See, my friend, the eyes are the gateway to the heart for these creatures. They are relied on to express what has been held back, what the lips will not permit to speak. And the longer the lips hold back, the stronger the eyes grow.

Do you understand now?

No.

See, the stronger the eyes become, the harder it is to resist.

Resist what?

You truly are your given name, I see. As once said, open your eyes! Can you see them pulling you into the pit of temptation? Confusion lingering in the question, “Is it love?” Only to bring you to a fork that splits down two paths, one of heavenly well-fed desires and one of deep despair? It’s usually coursing you down the second path?

Excuse my frustration, but do you see now?

No. For I apologize, Suspicion, but no. And never will I. Although Ignorance has been a given name to me, I often go by another. One that often means much more to the falling, to the hurting, to the calling, to the caring. I prefer to go by that name, if you will. And, whether you know this or not, you are my enemy. I can only doubt your ways, Suspicion. Those stabbing eyes are only welcoming in my perspective. Those eyes help me understand the aching, the hurting, the falling. Nothing else could explain the depth of these beautiful creatures as well as those stabbing eyes. Those stabbing eyes that express what the lips will not permit to speak. Those taunting, craving, secret-telling eyes. Those gateways into the heart.

So, if you will, refer to me not by my given name, but by my chosen name.

Call me Love, Suspicion.

Call me Love.

“What?” Penny said groggily as she opened her eyes.

“Aw, man! No! We missed the best part! This DVD must be scratched. I’ll try to rewind. Sorry, you missed your, like, favorite part. Oh my gosh,” Stephanie yelled as she fiddled with the remote. Eventually they figured it out and rewound to the part where Peeta and Katniss kiss in the Arena’s shelter, just before she leaves to get medicine to heal his wounds. They watched the rest of the movie, shed a few tears, and danced to the end credits’ songs. Penny set down the popcorn bowl, which was now full of the always unwanted un-popped kernels.

She turned on the news, and a reporter, a young blonde woman with crazy, bright red lipstick, appeared. “We have reports from all over the world; car crashes, planes falling from the sky, surgeons falling asleep during operations, and high death tolls from roadwork and machinery crews. Theories are pouring in on what happened to humanity from 8:00 P.M. to 8:03 P.M. During those three minutes, the world slept and nearly 15% of the population was killed, leaving another 30% badly injured. More to come on this as-yet unexplained international crisis. I’m Chelsea Taylor, and this is Channel 5 News.”

Once the report ended, Penny changed the channel, and then changed it again, and again, and again, until she was holding down the “channel up” button. Every single station – Disney, Bravo, Hallmark, Nickelodeon, HBO – every single station – had reporters; Disney stars, Kim Kardashian, all freaking out about whether their loved ones were okay.

“This is a joke, right? This has to be a joke,” Stephanie scoffed in disbelief.

“A joke the whole world is playing along with?” Penny snapped.

They each tried to hold down the fear rapidly growing inside of them, both refusing to bring up the elephant in the room; neither knew where their loved ones had been the moment the world fell asleep.

Far, far away, beyond our borders and the scope of our learning, there is a Hill. The “H” is capital because the very presence of the Hill usurps all others; the bumps and undulations of the landscape are sucked in, absorbed into its singular mass with as much choice as twigs in a whirlpool. The Hill is not the jewel in a crown of smaller cousins. It stands alone. Alone, on a dusty plain, where long ago the earth heaved, cracked, burst upward, clambering fit to overtake the stars. Or perhaps, some subterranean shade hurled asunder its cavernous roof, and reared up above the mortal realm in the full gleam of its cave-dark majesty—only to be turned to stone under the Sun’s eye. No one knows. The Hill was here long before we were—it will tower still when we are but dust. The Hill at once inspires and terrorizes; a lonely mountain gleaming like fire in its celestial shower, yet turning one’s guts to ice. So monolithic is the Hill that the rare adventurer to find it simply turns back, unwilling to or incapable of comprehending how small he really is. Such a monstrous concept is better understood gradually, much as a mountain is summited in small sections; the view is cheap and paltry without a preceding climb.

The joining between dust and titan is gentle, almost imperceptible. The ground slowly swells, gaining a doughy softness as would a loaf in the heat of the sun. The slender multitudes of grass on the plain thicken, hardened and hardy from the rock-rich soil. A gentle grade leads the gaze delicately skyward, until the terror of the looming beast snaps eyes ground-ward, to begin the process again. There is nothing about the base of the Hill to inspire awe, or fear, yet it is definitively a different world—the threshold, perhaps, of a different world. The body knows what the mind does not, and whispers its knowledge in the space between every heartbeat. The skin shudders and wraps tighter, as if chilled. The muscles of the neck and shoulders hunch the body down, converting the strong explorer to a penitent, back-broken laborer. Fear, uncertainty, and guilt creep into the ears of the climber, whispering sweet doubts. A sense of judgment and disapproval weigh even the heartiest down, once they begin the climb. How can it not, when clearly they are the trespassers here, and not the Hill? It is here, finally, under an Olympian shadow, that the truth is glimpsed, if not yet fully absorbed. The world was not grandly designed as a playpen and toolbox, to be humanity’s kingdom. Men scuttle from corner to corner of their labyrinth, thinking themselves lord and master; they are fools. We are no more than a shimmer of light across the wild ocean. We change nothing; we create nothing; we are nothing.

The girdle of the Hill is a sanctuary. The prevailing cliffs above merely offer shade, rather than hurling it down with the weight of miles. Stout trees and shrubs flow down the slope, a flood of leafy beasts frozen mid-stampede. Here is the one place where the Hill supports life; goats skip nimbly over the rocks, squirrels fritter and nag, and though no one sees, the hunting cat stalks everything with a jealous hunger. The adventurer is heartened and inspired to continue the climb, though his limbs burn with the effort of movement. It is the comforting burn of life. Cool air pinches, pokes the skin, tugs at clothes, and drags fingers through sweat-damp hair. Come dance with me, it calls, sing with me, play. Play! The breeze is gentle, for now. Even the most seasoned mountaineer could not guess what this zephyr will become, as it climbs higher beside him. Like the rugged explorer, we, as people, will pause here awhile, in this fierce and untended Eden. We will wander its false trails, dine on its myriad fruits, and bathe in its frigid streams. Eventually, we, like the explorer, will wander aimlessly, until we finally swallow, turn, and face the crux of the matter. The cliffs lie above—unconquered, unreachable; daring us to step off of the shoulders of a giant—and scale its face.

The bluff face of the Hill rebuffs the sunlight like the breastplate of an armored god. It is majestic, glorious; epic in the scale of its construction. None of this is visible from the face itself. All a climber sees is dust and the film of his own tears. The only thing he feels is the ripping, excruciating fatigue in his pathetic muscles as they struggle against gravity—that, and the wind. The wind does not merely whip him. It flays him, tears the heat from his body faster than his heart can pump it out. It does not howl into his ear. It screams with a million tortured voices, it invades his soul; it resonates with the shrieking of his tendons as he slips, dangling from a single frail, human arm. Everything in the world, even his own body, is determined to make the climber fall. But even the Hill cannot rise and shake off this parasite. In the end, we are the only ones who can choose to let go.

We are the only ones who can choose to grit our teeth, to swing in and hug the Hill like it was Mother Earth Herself. The only ones that can decide to reach upward, and seize a single fingernail-hold. And we—humanity, the climber, the protagonist—are the only ones that can push. Push, push upward, through storm and bloody hands and arms so weary that even quivering takes too much energy, to grab just one more rock. Just one more step. And another. And another. And another. Until, heart palpitating, teeth chattering, we throw our hands over the lip of the sky, and clamber up.

Nothing can live on the bald pate of the Hill. Not even the climber. But he is not sad. He is not anything. He is just a speck of dust on top of the world—until the dawn breaks. The Sun rears up its head, and gilds the whole world. The whole world. You can see it, from the top of the Hill. The full curve of its beauty is visible, the depths of its heart; the vault of Heaven, open and inviting. As we stand there, on the summit of our accomplishments, and breathe our last, rattling breath—we are small. We understand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let us wind up the day

Crank up the winds, stopper up the sunlight

Cross the tracks the wrong way round

And dance through the dust with the alley cats

 

Jelly burns, bloody tires, chains swinging free

Skins on the table, bones in the sink

Tears all dried up, and far too much to drink

 

Come with me, sing with me, pierce the piercing howl

Skip the fence, beat the bricks

Rattle your rosary beads

Beechwood, maple, ponderous ponderosa

 

Let us pop the world

Catch its humors in a sieve

Sift the hugs from the fangs

And let the chaff float away with the weeds

 

Cross the tracks the right way round

Bend ‘em, make a bow

Sit down among the dandelions

Make a wish, and

Blow

 

I wake to the sound of sirens and the smell of smoke. When did I black out? How long was I gone? I cough and sit up as best I can, looking around me. Everything is burning. Suddenly, I remember my child. I have to find my kid. I’m on the floor next to the oven that burns a blinding light. Crawling across the ground, hands and knees barely support me as I slowly make my way to the living room where his crib sits. I cannot find my kid.

Frantic now, heart pounding with urgency, I crawl to the bathroom in hopes I’ll find him there. Crispy soap, melted shampoo bottles, and foul-smelling towels surround me. My kid is not here. He is not hiding in the cupboard or behind the mirror. I cannot find my kid.

My lungs are clogged from smoke, and my breathing is labored as I search around the rest of the lower floor, wondering why no firemen, no ambulances have arrived to save us. Slowly, I gather up my breath enough to shout, “Enola! Enola!” No response. No faint giggle. No panicked wail. I cannot find my kid.

I manage to reach the furthest back room without too much difficulty, though the fire is growing higher around me. He got away, I tell myself over and over, until I believe it to be true. If that’s true, though, why haven’t they come back for me? I brush the thought aside. I’ve been moving around too much. Maybe they can’t find me. It’s worth it for Enola. I will do anything for him. The couch has nothing under it. The shelves hold nothing but the remains of shattered pots. I cannot find my kid.

Finally, I collapse and decide it’s time to drag myself to the front door. The firemen and doctors are here now, so I can ask them where he is. Trembling, in pain, fear, and smoke inhalation I manage to pull myself up to the door. All the men in white jackets rush over to me. “Where is my son?” I croak, barely breathing. Barely awake. Barely alive. Before they can answer, the world goes black again. I finally found my kid.

 

A beautiful female fox, with shining red fur, basks in the sun. A male is nearby, drinking from a stream. There is not the slightest hint of a breeze. Yet the heat is not stifling, it is pleasurable. The birds produce a melodic symphony. The sound of the male fox’s lazy lapping can be heard, along with the gentle trickle of the stream.  The female fox is dozing off, her majestic golden eyes becoming hidden by her drooping eyelids.

The male fox raises his head from the stream and scans between the trees. The female arouses and her black tipped ears flick back and forth. The birds abruptly stop chirping and there is silence, only for a moment. The deafening crack of a gunshot rips through the air and the birds take flight. The male fox falls and blood trickles from his shoulder. The female nimbly jumps to her paws and rockets in-between the trees, kicking up soil behind her. Shots are being fired behind her and soon the howling of hounds fills the air.

She races deeper and deeper into the forest. The trees and shrubbery grow thicker the further her legs carry her. She bounds over fallen trees and ducks under low hanging branches. With her ears flat to her head and determination burning in her heart, she draws near to her destination. She jumps through a thick bush and hunkers down in a small clearing, hidden by its surrounding vegetation.  She has reached the thicket.