Tones of Outdated Enlightenment

Tony was struck with a particular realization as he listened to the woman on the phone. Fascinated by the idea of interrupting the telemarketer to reveal a key part of his life that he had just now, during this conversation, come to the understanding of, he spoke up.

"Excuse me miss?" And then louder as she had failed to hear him, "Miss?"

She stuttered to a stop, obviously thrown off by the existence of someone on the other end of the line. And then after a terse silence she said, "Um yes?"

Tony savored the tone of these words; it was the conventional response he had provoked on purpose. It proved that she was human and not just a machine for selling... what was she selling? He had missed that part. The tone suggested she expected something of him. And not just a random something. She expected that he would dismiss her now; make some lame excuse about not being interested or being too busy or something and cut the connection. He held the silence just long enough and:

"Sir?"

There it was. The delicate tinge of fear; professionally masked, true - but definitely there. She was worried. Worried that he was angry or at least, indignant. Part of her expected he would now rail at her for interrupting his dinner; for being that most loathsome and pathetic creature: the telemarketer; for causing all the world's problems. Or whatever. Tony almost changed his course to give her what she desired, but his desires won out. So instead he asked, "Can you ask your advice on something?"

"Um..." she replied, obviously startled. Like dear in headlights, telemarketers thrown off their spiel will stare wordlessly over space, over telephone lines at the virtual headlights of the unexpected response. Often they fall back into their well rehearsed lines, but Tony wasn't going to give her the chance.

"You see, I've just realized that those things I like to do, I no longer want to do," he said being careful to punctuate. This was important after all. "And those things I want to do, I no longer like to do. So I'm not really sure what to do."

There was silence on the other end of the line - he found that he could not read it. Tony played the words over once in his head to make sure they were correct. Yep, that was his current state of affairs. The Lord's own truth, as his mother would call it.

He was slightly unnerved to realize how eagerly he awaited her response; that he was unable to even continue until she replied; unable to really breathe. It was like she had unwittingly become the Oracle of Delphi, and her silence was that of the gods weighing his worthiness. This stranger on the other end of the line - the woman who's prefabricated and poorly delivered speech had triggered some neuron in his brain, who's words had unknowingly caused in him the realization that he no longer understood his own motivations, and therefore no longer knew himself - would she provide answers as well as questions? Did he even stand a chance of getting her number?

He chuckled as these thoughts wandered through his mind and then vaguely realized that he had missed something. Some small detail had gone astray in the last few minutes. Some opportunity missed. A voice called to him.

"Sir, are you still there?" a man's voice came from the receiver; an overly cheerful and only barely out of puberty voice that sounded to Tony like the fall of Troy. He made a half-choked noise which was apparently the cue for the voice to speak again from his demon-possessed phone. "I am sorry for the inconvenience, but Caroline has gone off duty for the evening. Now, did you decided which magazine you were going to sign up for? Remember if you sign up for five subscriptions you will receive a free gift!"

Police Blotter: The MailBox Gang

so i'm a bit behind the eight-ball on this one - this is a scratch fiction tag from monkey0 :

• A Meadowlawn Road, woman reported that her mailbox
was attached to her house when she left in the morning,
but was gone when she returned.

• A complainant said someone burned his mailbox, which
is across the street from his Indian Church Road residence.

• During the overnight hours, someone stole mailboxes
from the front of homes on Pacecrest Court and
Waltercrest Terrace and destroyed a plastic mailbox at
another Pacecrest address. Pieces of the mailbox were
found in the driveway.

• Someone placed a number of small firecrackers inside a
Fawn Trail mailbox, charring the inside when they exploded.

• An Old Post Road, Lancaster, man reported that after
hearing a loud noise outside his residence, he looked out
the window to see a vehicle driving away with his mailbox
and post in the trunk.

• A Kraus Road resident reported unknown person
damaged the homeowner’s mailbox.

From where he stood, Toby could still see the rest of them on their bikes - barely within sight but not out of reach. Eagerly, he peddled as fast as his little legs would go, leaning forward and rising from the bike seat as he did. His stomach turned a bit and he almost cut the brakes when he got to the top of the hill on Old Post Road, but big boys don't wear helmets, big boys ride hard and fast, and big boys are never, ever scared. So down he went.

He'd ditched the helmet under a bush not far from his house so that he could grab it on the way home. He'd tried to tell mom that he was a big boy now, but she never understood. Toby figured this was because she had never been a big boy, she was a big girl after all. Now, leaning far over the handlebars as he'd seen the bigger boys do, he coasted down the hill and almost wished he'd kept the helmet. But he was a big boy, wasn't he? And there was no way that a big boy like him was going let the others see him looking like just a kid, was he? Especially not Trevor. No, not him.

Trevor was the leader. He wasn't the oldest or the biggest or really, the meanest or the smartest - but he was the leaderest. And that was enough. If Trevor said he was in, he was in. If Trevor was impressed with the fireworks over on Fawn Trail, they'd all be. If Trevor said he needed a black eye, then he'd get a black eye. That was just it. The others just listened to him. Toby listened to him.

When he got to the bottom of the Old Post hill, a stupid scaredy cat streaked out in front of his bike, surprising him. The handlebars seemed to jump right out of his fingers, throwing his shoulders back. While he fought to keep his balance, using his legs and the pedals to keep the bike up, he didn’t pay attention to where it was going.

It skidded up onto the sidewalk, dipped down a corner crosswalk, then up the other side and into the air. When Toby felt the wheels leave the ground he panicked, forgot all the boys and their bikes on the next block, forgot about Trevor, forgot he was a big boy and screamed.

.........

"Dude, I think I just saw his eyes flutter."
His leg hurt.
"You sure?"
His head, did not. That was weird.
"Yeah yeah, look he's movin"
Why was that weird? Oh right.
"Toby? You alright?"
A clear image of his green helmet sitting under the evergreen bush came to his mind. It was so clear that he could even smell the Christmas scent of the needles.
"Get back! Give him some room to breathe, people."

He knew that voice. Who was that? Trevor? That was definitely him. Immediately, Toby's eyes shot open and he tried to sit up, but a hand restrained him. "Woah, don't worry dude. Relax."

A tawny-haired boy with green eyes swam into focus before him. He had said to relax, so Toby relaxed. "Yeah, that's right. You're alright Toby. You're in. Forget about the fireworks - nothing but beginner's bad luck. But oh man you should have seen that old Mrs. Crabby Kraus' face when she came out to see her mailbox destroyed. It was priceless. You'll be in the history books for that little stunt."

she folded dreams between her arms and began to fall

Falling
her first sensation
falling
when she became conscious she felt like falling, like she wanted to fall, like she was falling

she.
i am she. i am falling

i tried to open her eyes, she had eyes, she opened her eyes. visually there was no change - dark was dark whether there were eyes or closed eyes - but at least there were eyes and she could feel they were open. that was a difference.

so she opened her eyes and stopped falling. well, no - perhaps she stopped and perhaps she hit terminal velocity. either way, she was done falling - had no more time for falling, only time for changes: there was light, a change of dark and darker and it was moving upwards; everything was moving upwards. around her and up.

everything was moving upwards but her - she wasn't moving at all, couldn't move.

ok, i breathed with her lungs. the sound echoed back, the sound of breathing like light moving upwards in the dark - it too moved upwards, wrapped around me and continued on its way. i lay back watching the sound move up the walls, reflecting with the light and then it was gone. the light left darkness in it's wake and i rolled over - rolled into the sound of coughing and stopped -

The ties won't let me roll over all the way.



I can hear Cody coughing and vomiting from the bathroom. His sputtering makes me feel dirty, like those same lips that are parting to pass partially digested food and stomach acid were dirty in my memories; like there were flecks of vomit drying on them even then, when he whispered to me in the bar, when he kissed me in hallway, when he... all vomit.

I struggle to sit up, half-heartedly - I don't really think I'll get out of this one. I just want a drag, one drag - I could smoke a whole cig in one drag right now. That's all the matters; for the rest, well, I'm not usually this stupid.

I had gone out with the intent that going out would distract me from the withdrawal symptoms. That not being in my dump of a place would help me forget that I have nothing left to sell or trade - well, nothing of any materialistic value anyway. I had contemplated the next step, but was not ready for it, didn't think I was strong enough (or weak enough) to go that far for just a fix.

I'd met Cody at a bar. Not my usual dive, not my hook-up dive either - I wanted to be anonymous last night. It was like he knew what I wanted even though I had decided I wanted nothing. He swaggered up, smiled shyly and made his offer.

He had promised to give me my fix. Just give it to me. To grant me that moment when I don't have to be me, here, or now. He had said it was ‘cause I reminded him of his niece or daughter or someone, because I was beautiful. I had told him I was done with that shit, with all of that shit and he smiled again. Just smiled that shy grin, like a boy who knew the score but was too polite to tattle on his big sister.

"Well then, this'll be your celebration," he cooed. His voice was rough like tree bark but not unpleasant. "One last fix, for the beginning of the rest of your life."

It sounded like a good idea, sounded like exactly what I wanted - one last fix and free too. It was too good to be true. I knew it was too good to be true but I was in the sway of a serious fit so my mind easily smoothed over any doubts, leaving me free and willing to do anything. Making me invincible. I didn't even hesitate when he told me I had to go with him to get the stuff.

There's a silence from the bathroom, then water running. I struggle again and try to make out just what he used to tie me to the bed with - feels like rope, where'd he get rope? - but the little light that seeps from under bathroom door is not enough to illuminate anything and I can't even tell if the place has windows. He'll be out in a minute. I wonder if he'll let me have a cig, even if he has to hold it to my lips. He's gotta. The idea makes my whole body tense in anticipation. I don't want to see him. I don't want him to touch me. I want him to bring me a smoke. I want him to bring it now. I'm so tense that I barely feel my body shaking.

I relax involuntarily when the vomiting starts up again. The poor thing - he didn't even get a chance to turn the water off this time.

He'd promised a fix and he'd delivered alright - I had lost most of the night to the tricks of drug and memory. But I know why he's puking, I remember why he's sick. The stuff wasn't clean, I can feel its poison coursing through my body now - the same poison he is trying to exorcise. He'll fail. Even if he manages to get all of that shit out of his body, he'll fail - the possession has clawed its way into his soul and dug tunnels. I know, trust me, I know. That's why I don't feel the least bit sick, just antsy. Damn I need a smoke.

You see, the poor bastard, for all his smiles and promises wanted - wants to use me. That much had seeped through my desperate brain while he fed me for free, spread his filthy plans like dirty fingers over my spine. So he paid, is paying and will pay the price. I'm not totally helpless, you know - well usually. I do have certain weapons in my arsenal. Weapons that even assholes like Cody can't resist. And last night, for the first time ever, in all the years he's been seducing stupid bitches like me up here to drug out and use up, he did his own shit, took his own poison and now the addiction can have him... well, after he brings me a smoke.

Miles and miles and... (part two)

(Curious? Part One is Here)

"I won't let you keep hurting me," she says, not a child's voice any more. "I won't. And you can't control me anymore."

Sylvia hears. Sylvia smiles. Sylvia makes the girl (not a child any more) scream again.

The scream jolts me, but not enough. I lapse...

Somehow, the girl breaks free - again? as always? Her footsteps echo, moving quickly down hallways, stairs. Quick little steps - lots of echoes.

Sylvia laughs. Her footsteps do not echo.

The echoes pause, start, stop, but not for long. She's not lost, never lost - can't be lost - but the place is unfamiliar and she makes a wrong turn.

Sylvia smiles and the girl screams again.

The scream jolts me and this time I become aware of a point of view. I feel the smile but in the darkness, I cannot see - not the girl, not Sylvia, not the hallways. It is all darkness - my eyes will not open, but I feel her smile.

The girl screams again, a long scream, gaining in intensity and tone until there is no sound, until the scream itself is silence.

I lapse in that scream - losing my point of view, like opening eyes in total darkness.

The scream ends - no trailing off, no whimpering, nothing - just true silence, which floods my attention with such force that I am pushed back. Sylvia smiles again and again and again - all at me now. All at me. I don't like her smile. I know her smile. I know and suddenly I know that I am more than a point of view, that I know her smile like I know my face, like I know my own cruelty - but to Sylvia's growing dismay, I am not scared. She frowns, a painful expression somehow worse than the smile.

As if in desperation, Sylvia makes the girl (not a child any more) scream. A short scream that quickly degrades into whimpering and crying. The girl whispers something I cannot hear - she is so far away now.

I open my eyes and, for lack of a better word, come awake. The couch under me is familiar, but I'm not immediately sure why.

"Oh good dear, you're awake. We were so worried." I turn toward the voice and look into the eyes of Sylvia. Her eyes but the face is older: a wasteland of cracks and crevices. I grin at her, feeling her smile crease my own cheeks. Then I remember Raylyn and look to see the bastard still sitting at the cute little table with a lace napkin stuffed in his collar.

"Hey fucker," I call to him, grasping Sylvia's shoulder to leverage myself into a vertical position; my legs throb only slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her fighting a frown and I stifle a laugh - I don't want to show all my cards. Not yet.

I smile toothily at Raylyn, who stiffens and tries not to look at me. "I would just adore a cup of tea - be a dear wouldya? And I could just murder one of those tasty little cakes."

Fractures

First there was light, like a broadening definition of existence. Something external in the darkness outlining the details of space. Something I had never seen. I reached out to take hold of the light, to grasp the space in fingers too thick to do anything but part the space into light and shadow; too thick for anything but shadows.

As I extended my arm, it became a solar system - an ancient relief of tensions in a universe that requires opposites, that requires strangers to forever be on the verge of meeting. On the verge.

My shoulder drifted into a constellation and got stuck, forcing my elbow to hinge around and trace the tail of a comet; a jet stream of ancient data reaching out toward distant points, which twinkled with laughter as I tripped on the event-horizon of an untied black hole. My knee collided with a globular cluster, sending each object spinning off into orbit. I would have kept going too, the dark matter only of consequence to an outside observer but a spike of solar wind slowed my collapse and I managed to grab onto a nearby binary system to steady myself.

This caused the bigger of the two bodies to tense up, struggling against ancient vendettas and imbalance but failing. This time, it supernovaed into old patterns, destroying the plateau it had worked so hard to create, scaring off its closest friend and singeing my eyebrows. The sudden reaction made my hair dance with waves of heat, like desert mirages of water, weaving nebula storms until it froze in the coldness of space, letting off only a little dark haze as it sizzled to a stand still.

Something above me and to my left caused my attention to drift with particle waves and I looked up, stretching to see over the present representation of the past-in-motion and there, just beyond my own effectiveness of change on universal extremes, I saw the mirror.

no premeditation

hey,

i wanted to take a moment to thank you for drifting thru my chaos - so to both those who comment and those who just read: Thank you and now's your chance.

thanks to jason evans and his Caroline, i have the urge to serialize a story but i can't figure out which one. so far there are 9 fiction excerpts from the chaos journals on this site. please take a moment and let me know which one i should continue with, which one you want to find out what happens next.

-mysfit

Faith

"There's something in the way she looks at you. Something in the way she orientates herself to you, turning her shoulders just like that, just one way or the other, as if physically defining your role in her world. And after a few weeks of knowing her - well, you just know that it is really her world that you walk through, that you try to change, that you struggle to exist in. And the way she talks! That tone! - 'Don't stress it' - I can't even come close...

"Everyone who meets her, they know. They know she's got a great big heart, big enough to trap us all, big enough to set everyone free. They can tell - you'd be able to tell, if you spent like ten minutes with her, with those eyes on you, with those - those - you know it's odd that for all this time I can't remember what color they are, but it's alright - it's not the color that matters, just those eyes and her lips slightly pursed when she listens.

"Oh and she listens hard, hard like you're the only important thing in the universe - like what you mean is the only meaning that matters - like her whole being is focused solely on your words, your gestures - those eyes reading beyond your ability to commune, reaching in and pulling out everything you're trying to hide, everything you're trying to say, to be.

"It's a strange feeling really. Kinda like being suspended, hanging in the moment right before the fall - at the top of the arch, if you know what I mean. You know how, when you toss something in the air, there's a moment of suspension right before gravity catches the thing, dragging it back down to the terrestrial plane. Like - indecision, yeah - like if given a choice the thing would keep going and you'd never see it again - and right then, gravity's not sure if it cares. That's what it's like when talking to her, but then, BAM! She always catches you with a word, dragging you back down to earth - with a word she could smash mountains - but her eyes make sure that you land softly. You got it?

"You know, but I can tell - I can see the sorrow behind those kind eyes, those strict and lovely cheek-bones - and it wears on me. I just know, not sure how, but she's fighting in there, fighting the big fight - fighting for all of us, if you catch my drift - for all of us: you, me, everything. But if we knew, it'd tear us apart, right? And if she loses... well, let's just hope she doesn't eh? Just talk to her, for like ten minutes - if you'd talk to her - you'll know - there's no way she's gonna lose. She just won't, not when it's all of us on the line. So, yeah, I'm glad she's on our side.

"But, it's hard being friends with the messiah. There you have it - sorry you asked, eh? Ah well, just go talk to her."