Thursday, December 18, 2014

The Teeth Taker

I heard you put gum in your sister’s hair-- is that true?
No? You’re not lying are you? Well, that’s good.
I mean, you wouldn’t want the Teeth Taker to come-- would you?
What-- You don’t  know the Teeth Taker?
Well, you know about the Tooth Fairy right? Of course you do--
Well, the Teeth Taker is her evil twin brother.

The Teeth Taker tried to steal his sister’s magic,
but, the Tooth Fairy stopped him, and put a curse on him.
She turned him into a monster: replacing his skin and bones-- with rotting teeth.
But, that wasn’t all, he was forced to constantly rebuild himself,
taking teeth from lying little boys and girls as they sleep.

How do you know if he’s coming? Well, as long as you don’t lie you’re safe.
However, if you do happen to be a liar-- they say if you listen very carefully you might just hear him...

You’ll hear the pitter-patter clatter of his tooth-tipped toes,
as he skitters and scuttles on skull-torn bones.
You might even hear him quietly weep,
as his brittle limbs crack and creak.
He slowly opens the door to see the little liar,
as he sleeps and dreams-- ignorant of the dire.
You’ll feel a prick as his needle-like finger numbs,
then he plucks a tooth from blood-slicked gums.
He’ll pop out one after another-- and slowly maim,
as he carefully cares for his failing fragile frame.
After he’s finally torn away the last tooth,
he shuffles away-- abandoning the blood soaked youth.
He curses and cries as he finally leaves,
leaking silent tears as he grieves--
knowing there will never be enough teeth.

Well, at least that’s what I’ve heard.
Of course that’s true-- would I lie to you?
Goodnight champ, see you in the morning!

What’s that?
You did put gum in her hair?
Oh...
Well... I’m sure you’ll be fine.

A Theory

Chalk dust settled on my shoulders, as I wiped away the day’s lecture.
I started slightly, as a polite cough came from behind me.
I turned to face Mr. Johnson, an elderly gentleman in a mothball-scented tweed jacket.
It was refreshing to see an older face in my class, among all the mockingly young ones.
He offered in slightly shaking hands, a thick stack of paper, along with a weak smile.

Taking the stack, I was startled by the weight, but more so by the squint-inducing typeface.
Mr. Johnson usually just wrote sparse meanderings on whatever took his fancy.
Another cough returned my gaze to the old man’s now worried face.
“I-I hope it’s not too much, I-I just thought you might--” he stammered.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m just glad to see you found something you’re passionate about!” I chuckled.
The man nodded curtly, and scuttled out of the room.
Looking back at the papers, I finally read the title:

A Theory on Achieving a State of Nirvana

After reading through a dozen essays about mourning dead grandfathers and “life-changing” vacations,
I remembered Mr. Johnson’s essay-- gladly picking it up for a change of pace.
As I began, it became clear this was far from Mr. Johnson’s typical wax-poetic mentality.

It seemed the paper was discussing the theories of a scientist, apparently his father,
which seemed to suggest that the religious concept of nirvana was scientifically achievable.
Thoughts of grades and grammar fell away, as I grew increasingly fascinated with the text.
It seemed his father, and now he, had believed that sections of the brain could be stimulated,
leading to a state of enhanced mental functions-- while shutting down the physical elements of the body.
Then, the writing took a turn from theory-- to practice.

It seemed the rest of the paper was discussing entirely new experiments, all by Mr. Johnson.
He began to explain how through experiments, he had finally found a means to achieve this “nirvana.”
He claimed that tests had found the process “easy to perform,” even using “a simple electric hand drill.”
Although he claimed this evidence came from “a living subject,” he never said what, or who, that was.
It finished with a diagram which showed how to perform “the process of ascension,” on yourself.
At this point I wasn’t sure sure how to react, was it all just made up? Just some elaborate joke?
I mean, he had me convinced.

The next day Mr. Johnson wasn’t in class...
or any day after that.

The radio played a news segment about an old man in a coma, found with self-inflicted head wounds.
I ended class early to drive to the hospital. I had to know if it was him.
I kept telling myself I wouldn’t find him there-- that it had to be a coincidence.

As I entered the hospital lobby, I asked the receptionist about the elderly man with head wounds.
She showed me to the room-- as the door opened I started violently.
Mr. Johnson was lying in the bed, head wrapped in bloodied bandages.
She noticed my reaction, and asked me if I was his son.
I absent-mindedly said “Yes.”
The answer just came... I don’t know why.
She rested a conciliatory hand on my shoulder, and said:
“I’m so sorry... He looks peaceful though, doesn’t he?”
I felt a chill crawl up my spine as I responded:
“Yes... Yes he does.”
I’ll never forget the look on his face.
I’ve never seen someone look so genuinely at peace.
I felt hollow as I left the hospital.
The feeling remained as I drove home.

I wasn’t sure what to think... I just stared at that disturbing diagram.
I know I shouldn’t give any thought to it-- clearly he was just some crazy old man.
But, why do I eye that drill sitting in my garage with this feeling of intrigue?
I mean, after all, it’s only a theory... right?

Out of Sight, Out of Mind

That’s the saying right? Out of sight, out of mind?
The more I think about it, the less I think that’s true.
I mean, I spent my whole life being afraid of what I couldn’t see.

But, I’m not alone.
Plenty of people obsess about what they can’t see.

Whether it’s staring into your backyard at night,
because you were sure saw something just beyond the treeline.

Or not being able to fall asleep,
since you just heard something crunch across the leaves and sticks outside.

Even the sinking feeling you get taking a late-night leak,
when you realized that the shower curtains are too opaque to see if something was behind them.

It’s only natural to worry about what you can’t see.
If you could just see that it was a deer, or a stray dog, that would be the end of it.
But, life isn’t quite that simple, so more often all you see is... nothing.

Hell, even if I-- or rather-- you, saw some intruder, at least then you could react, right?
You can’t call the cops because you think you might have heard something.
Believe me, I’ve tried...

How many times have you woken up with some unexplainable bruise?
You must just move a lot when you sleep, right?

Ever look down, and notice dried blood on your hand?
Must’ve got a papercut. Just didn’t notice you were bleeding, right?

Have you ever put your shoes on, only to find a pebble jammed against your foot?
How about a thumbtack? You work in an office, makes sense, right?

You ever slip on your coat, and find sandpaper sewn into the sleeve?
No? I guess that’s just me then.

I bought a video camera a few weeks ago, figure I’d at least get some peace of mind.
Set it up in my room, and actually slept pretty good, for once.
The next morning I went to check the footage, but, the memory card was gone.
Oh, and my coffee had metal shavings in it. That was pretty bad too.

But, maybe you’re right, maybe it is nothing.
Thing is, you can’t kill nothing... and I’m worried that nothing just might kill me.

Dust to Dust

Nearly invisible black specks floated down,
until the glorious snow-white carpet was reduced to a dull gray.
As the walls darkened, it felt like the apartment was slowly rotting.

I only moved in a month ago.

When I first noticed the small black piles, I thought it was mold.
When the landlord finally showed up, he said it wasn’t mold--
He said it was ash.

I thought he was just bullshitting me--
however, once I smelled it, I had to agree.
But, it didn’t remind me of sitting in front of a roaring fire--
It brought back memories of something left crackling in a frying pan.

He said he’d “look into it,” but I knew he wouldn’t.
I was used to his laziness.
I had already complained about hearing rats in the walls,
but he didn’t do anything about that either.

Eventually, I found the source of the ash: the heating vents.
I unscrewed the vent cover, and found it coated with ash.
The burnt smell was intense, and it was mixed with a new smell.
I couldn’t place it, but it had of vague air of rancid meat.

So, I called the landlord again, and he finally took some action.
The guy he called showed up, with a fiberscope in hand.
He figured some rat had crawled into the vents, died, then got fried in there.
He couldn’t explain all the ash, but said we’d find out soon enough.
So, we stared into the screen as he snaked it down the soot-caked ducts.

That’s when we found him.

Apparently, the landlord had decided traditional vents would’ve been too expensive.
He also knew someone who was willing to ignore construction laws.
This resulted in our heating ducts being a jury-rigged mess.
The landlord then decided to stiff the guy on payment,
knowing he wouldn’t go to the cops out of fear of getting caught.
Eventually, the guy decided he would break in, using those same ducts, and rob him.

Except, he got-- stuck. Makes sense, the ducts weren’t exactly “up to code.”
It was the dead of winter, so the heat was basically on all hours of the day.

Hallways

First hallway: sixth door on the left.
I don’t know how it all started.
Second hallway: fifteenth door on the right.
I remember waking up, and I was just... here.
Third hallway: twenty-first door on right-- turn handle counter-clockwise.
It doesn’t matter how it happened, I just have to keep going.
Fifth hallway: puke-green door with peephole and silver knob.
In a lot of ways, it’s like a game. I mean, people love corn mazes, right?
Ninth hallway: take crowbar (behind tenth door on left) and force open fifth door on right.
Maybe it’s a test? Maybe I’m just some twisted version of Pavlov’s dog.
Sixteenth hallway: Run. There’s only two doors, must open right door within thirty seconds.
When you pick the wrong door... just don’t pick the wrong door.
Twenty-seventh hallway: Don’t open your eyes. Feel your way to the thirtieth door on the right.
I wish they would stop getting longer. My legs are so tired.
Forty-ninth hallway: Giant pile of keys. One of them opens the twenty-eighth door on the left.
It has to be a dream. I mean, really, think about the physicality of it. It’s just... too big.
Sixty-third hallway: Find the door that smells like oranges... reminds me of home.
There’s this constant high-pitched tone. Makes it hard to remember.
Eighty-ninth hallway: Open the third fifth sixth door on the left right. I think.
I’m running out of space to take notes. I mean, you only have so much skin. You know?
One hundred-twenty-fifth hallway: There’s a keypad. 978. I was sure this would be the end...
If it sent me back, like ten or even fifty hallways, I could stand it. But... all the way back?
Three hundred-fifty-sixth hallway: Doors all look the same, but have differently textured knobs.
I’ve never made it this far... I just have to pick one.
Maybe, somehow, this is-- nope.
Well... here we go again.
First hallway: sixth door on the left.

The Forgotten Tribe

An ivory mask, yellowed with age,
sat solemnly upon the crushed blue velvet.
A plain plaque outside a glass case was labeled:
“Tribal Worship/Ritual Mask - Date Unknown”

The surface was intricately carved,
the grooves filled with shimmering onyx.
The stark black etchings depicted ancient, forgotten groves,
filled with twisting vines, and unfamiliar trees.
Other markings showed a menacing, inhuman figure,
towering over a group of kneeling worshippers.

In place of openings for the eyes or mouth,
were immaculately cut rubies.
Each shaped with precise detail:
in the shape of reptilian pupils,
and a maw of needle-like teeth.

Whenever someone asked the curator about the mask,
all he could tell them was that it was an “anonymous donation.”

Most didn’t need the details--
Just the vague concept of savage rituals on blood-caked stone:
enough to keep them interested for a few, brief  moments,
but not long enough to really ponder its purpose.

It’s probably for the best.
Sometimes, the past belongs in the past.
Sometimes, we need to forget those ancient loyalties to bygone deities.
Sometimes, we have to ignore what may lay forgotten and unworshipped in the depths.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Beyond and Between

Dedicated to the unknown

A man thrashed and turned in a sweat-stained bed,
unable to find solace within the twisting tendrils of the sheets.
He lied back, and sighed, staring into the tightly drawn curtains.
He could not sleep knowing what once stood beyond that velvet barrier.

...

He had first seen her on a balmy August night,
as he threw open the curtains to welcome a chilled evening wind.
She stood on the balcony, head cocked in an angle of curiosity.
She was barefoot in an angel-white dress, with tumbling black curls.

She was standing behind the glass door,
nose nearly pressing against it, staring intently at him.
After he recovered from a startled tumble,
he sat on the floor staring into her eyes:
as green and sharp as finely cut emeralds.

He attempted to open the door, to let her in from the cold,
but she held the door firmly closed.
He attempted to ask if she needed help,
but all his questions were met with a blank stare.

He called the police, and met them outside,
only to have them point confused at the vacant balcony.
He was surprised, but relieved, and returned to his bed.

The next night, as he parted the curtains, she was again at the door.
Red-faced, he shook his fists; he screamed at her to leave.
She just stood, staring with soulless, verdant orbs.
He pounded the glass with desperation,
the glass cracked under the force.

That’s when she screamed, either in shock or pain.
He looked up, to see blood running down her face.
The wounds bled in line with the cracks in the pane.

He stood back as the cracks grew across the glass-- across her.
The blood drenched her once angelic dress, now dyed a dark crimson.
Her howling reached a crescendo, as fissures filled the frame.

And all at once it--she, shattered, sending sparkling shards cascading across the floor,
the moonlight dancing off her shimmering remains.
He stood in trembling silence, staring at the empty balcony.