Certain moments in life remain even after they have long since passed, drifting in and out of the consciousness of every one of us like tattered fabric in the breeze, not tethered to anything but the wafts of time as it surges ever forward, churning constantly.
Some parts are still vivid, colorful images, almost real enough to reach out and touch, and all the rest is ground into dust, so disintegrated that it is rendered undetectable.
All of life is precious; every second is irreplaceable, but do we miss the tattered holes? Is there any way to rue the loss of what we can no longer realize was ever there? No... But, perhaps the gaps are what make what's left so pure and so visceral. It is only natural to add value to what is left when recognized that some is lost.
The true experience of life is not only gained from the present. The present merely holds the keys to unlocking the past. Music, scents, words... All of the world is the match which might serve to reignite experiences long extinguished in our minds. Things such as these may not exist in the physical realm only for a practical purpose. Purpose implies perception of it's use, and altering this perception in turn alters the purpose. Anything and everything around us has the potential to ignite something deep within the swirling ethereal din of fleeting, used up memories.
Raindrops falling from the sky, landing on the uncovered head, brings forth an image, a frayed still life tapestry of emotion woven in a time of pain as it slithers seamlessly into the past, down the same face in a time almost lost, and mingles with the tears of yesteryear, before dripping from the chin and onto the ground in the present, once again lost among its uncountable number of fellow droplets in the soil; each one so incredibly insignificant compared to its innumerable counterparts, and yet each so powerful that it could invoke such raw emotion in the unsuspecting bystander.
Our world is not just rock and soil and plants and animals and water. A hidden world lies just beneath the surface of everything there is and ever will be, just waiting to be discovered. Portals to other times and worlds hide in the most mundane of things, with infinite potential just waiting to be tapped.
There is nothing esoteric about it. This ability is free to all of us.
You need only be willing to see that it's there.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Parker Thomas: Part III
The Shadow
All
of it was dark. Parker Thomas had felt himself stop falling what seemed like
hours ago. One moment he had been transfixed, staring into the bleeding eyes of
his girlfriend in a black-and-white spot-lit hill, cold sweat all over, and the
next, the lights were out, the ground was gone and he was falling. He lay on
his back, in the darkness, and wondered what all of this could possibly mean.
He was too scared to move, and even if he could muster the courage, he wasn’t
sure what he would even do if he did.
He drew another breath and choked on it. Parker
Thomas was suddenly aware that he was in the deep embrace of something fluid,
something viscous, something that tasted like metal. He sat up suddenly,
sputtering and gasping for air, flinging the stuff everywhere, making a lazy,
thick splashing sound which seemed to go on forever, without so much as an
echo. He coughed and spat, trying to clear his lungs, panicking all over again
when all he could see above the surface was still just pitch black and
cavernous. He began to feel agoraphobic and claustrophobic all at once; his
mind unable to decide if he was lost in the abyss or trapped in a box.
For all he knew, he was already six feet
underground.
“He-hel—“ He coughed, and spat one last time, “Hello?
Anybody?!”
His words went for miles, it seemed, and didn’t
hit a single thing. He sat in silence a moment longer, still waist deep in the
warm fluid. When he was just about to try again, he heard something: something
was softly dripping just ahead of him. He moved to stand, but suddenly an
orange flame erupted from the surface no more than 15 feet directly in front of
him, springing from nothing at all. He sat, mesmerized by the dancing licks of
flame, until he caught sight of his own hand, resting on the surface of the
endless lake, and realized what he was sitting in was most certainly not water.
Blood. It had to be. It was crimson red, opaque,
and thick. And then he remembered the taste; the awful mixture of warmth and
rust. He began to gag, spitting in a desperate effort to return every bit of
fluid in the reaches of his body into the lake.
In the midst of his struggle, Parker Thomas was
suddenly aware that he was not alone. The orange light had been intercepted, a
shadow cast over him. Slowly, he looked back toward the flame, eyes wide,
afraid of what he might find. There was a figure standing directly between him
and the flame. It was tall, maybe seven feet, he guessed, and thin. There was
no discrete outline he could see; the flames constantly twisted the figure as
they moved back and forth, rising and falling, giving it a bizarre quality of
shapelessness. All Parker Thomas could conjure in his head were the drawings of
the Grim Reaper, the hooded skeleton who ferried souls to whatever their
destination was.
Each just stared at the other in silence. Parker
Thomas could not make out any features in the darkness, but he could feel the
figure watching him, motionless. “Who—Who are you?” he finally stammered.
It drew a rasping, cold breath, and spoke, its
words sounding more like a hiss of steam than like an actual human voice. “You know why you’re here. You know who I
am. I live here; I guard the misdeeds you so secretly conjure. Now you can join
me here in the filth you created for yourself. There’s nothing keeping you from
me now.” It drew another hideous, difficult breath. Parker Thomas finally
stood up in the knee high crimson lake, not out of bravery, but out of the
desire to be able to run in the all-too-likely event that this ghastly creature
was about to attack him. The figure made no motion in acknowledgment.
“You did
this all to yourself, made the bed you must now sleep in, dug your own grave;
references all too appropriate for someone in your position. You and I have
been especially close lately, haven’t we?” The figure emitted a rasping
sigh that Parker Thomas could only guess was supposed to be laughter. He could
feel the cold sweat breaking out again, and he wanted to run, but he felt
himself rooted to the spot, paralyzed with terror. “The other girl, the other night, that was our best work yet, wouldn’t
you say? We always thought of it before, I never missed a chance to show you
what we could have done with her. Was it everything you always though it would
be? She really was quite talented.”
Parker Thomas spoke, before he could stop himself,
“No! No, no, no…” The terror seamlessly altered itself to regret. He could feel
the memories of that lecherous, lustful night being forced into the forefront
of his consciousness. “I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I did it.”
“Oh, yes,
you do.” The shadow retorted. “You
dreamed about it a long time. You knew you would break, you knew you would fall
for it. I knew it for a long time, all it took was the proper persuasion, the
perfect opportunity. Don’t deny it. You chose this.” It laughed hideously
to itself again, each gasping chuckle more eerie than the last. “Every sinner wants so desperately to deny
what he did was wrong. Tell yourself it will only happen once, promise you’ll
make it up to Miss Sadie Parker, rationalize it all away, and convince yourself
you still love her. After all, you can’t very well play the part unless you
believe it first, can you?”
“I do still love her.” He whimpered, all of what
little assurance he had completely drained. He could feel the doubt eating at
the back of his mind even as he said the words. “I would never do anything to
hurt her.”
At those words, suddenly the flame was
extinguished completely, returning Parker Thomas into the arms of darkness. The
air was suddenly frigid. His stomach turned, and he began to look around
frantically for any sign of the ghoul. He heard the sharp, labored breath
again, right where it had been before, and he tensed his muscles, and turned
rapidly to face it, ready to flee. There was a long pause, punctuated only by
the uneasy drip-drip-drip of the
blood from his fingertips.
“Is that
what you really think?”
“Y-Yes.” He choked out.
Two white orbs suddenly
opened, right where the shadow’s eyes should have been, and before Parker Thomas
could react, the shadow lunged through the mire with a sickening Whoosh! as it pushed through the sickly,
coagulated solution, and clamped a cold grasp as tight as a vice around his
neck. It lifted him off his feet and out of the lake, strangling him as it did.
He instinctively grasped to hold onto its arm for leverage, but his hands found
nothing. All he could do was stare into its blazing, round white eyes as they slowly inched closer to his
own. He struggled in vain, his arms and legs flailing hopelessly in the
darkness, the drops of blood flinging from his limbs the only thing which broke
the utter silence around them as they pattered dully onto the surface. He felt
its icy breath on his face; it smelled like rotten meat so foul it made his
eyes water.
“See the truth.” It hissed, almost a whisper.
Parker Thomas tried to
scream, but his breath was all used up.
The orbs pressed into
his eyes in a flash of exploding pain, and all he could see was blinding white
light.
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