The moon cast strange shadows on the wall, the muted images seem to come to life as they slide in and out of the darkness, moving independently of each other, playing some elaborate game of hide and seek with this world and the other, you know, the one where magic and science live side by side, the place where our dreams go, or is it where they come from? Maybe it’s both, and neither. Marcus is never sure. Everything changes with each passing moment, so what was wrong before, could be right later. It’s a very confusing time for him. A new day has come, yet it’s still dark. Birds are singing, but no sun shines. This is the worst time for Marcus, lying in bed, unable to sleep, unable to tear his eyes away from the shadows’ dance. Questions swim in the deep parts of his consciousness, like the shadows on the wall, they too dip and dive, fleeting in and out of the darkness, allowing only the slightest of glimpses into that space in-between while their answers bask lazily upon the shore scattering at the first sign of discovery. Time crawls so slowly by that Marcus imagines he can see it inching across the floor, over the crumpled pile of yesterday’s clothes. It comes so close that he can almost picture its face. It’s young and beautiful with an air of omnipotence, its hair is long and perfectly kept, and the only thing that belies its age is its eyes. They are huge and out-of-place, color-less orbs taking in all they survey, there is no emotion in them, no sign of feeling at all, nothing but an endless void spanning the universe. Marcus envies those eyes for they hold no questions, they seek no answers, they simply are. What a feeling that must be, to have nothing to seek, nothing to ask, nothing to need, nothing….. The clock above his head ticks tearing him away from the image of time and forcing him back into it. He peers up at its ghostly greenish-white numbers and wonders if he remembered to wind it? It was a gift from a concerned friend, well, more than a friend and less than a commitment. The morning after the third consecutive night of his tossing and turning, she showed up with a beat up alarm clock that looked like it survived the First World War, but just barley. In her best honey-I-did-it-for-you voice she tried to explain how she had read somewhere that placing a clock like this next to a baby, (or was it puppy?), would help them sleep at night. Something about mimicking the mothers heart beat or some such nonsense…. He had stopped listening. Now he stared at it as its numbers went in and out of focus. Suddenly he had an overwhelming desire to smash it against the wall, but the feeling soon passed and he was left contemplating the shadows on the wall once more. He remembered sleeping and how much he had enjoyed it when he was young. The dreams, so many dreams….. Now if he could only have one…. His mother used to tell him stories about the sandman. Surely you’ve heard them? A man in a funny costume travels from person to person sprinkling them with magic sand that either helps them sleep or gives them dreams depending on who was telling the story. Pure crap, but nice for the kids. Of course there are other stories designed to entice sleep, but for the life of him he can’t remember a single one. And then there are those parents that use fear to motivate, telling the poor children that if they don’t behave and go right to sleep that the boogey man will get them. Cruel really, when you think about it, but for some reason it brings a smile to his face. Does the boogey man wait outside the window for him? The wind blows causing a branch to scrap the shingle as if answering his question and suddenly his heart beats faster. His mind tells him this is crazy. There is no such thing as the boogey man. But something inside drives him to stand and investigate something primal that runs deeper than logic, like a combination of fear and survival. He approaches the window cautiously, glancing out he see’s exactly what he knew he would see, nothing. Breathing a sigh of relief he turns back towards bed when he notices a nine iron in his hand and wonders when it got there. He tosses it onto the floor before climbing back into bed, and then he pulls the covers over his head and utters a silent prayer that he knows will go unanswered.
(2)
Lucy lived on the busiest street in the biggest city she could find. She loved the city, she loved the thought that if she wanted a bagel at three-thirty in the morning, she could get one, not that she ever did, but if she wanted to she could. The noises, the turmoil, the traffic, all of these things were a part of her and she held them all dear. She hadn’t always lived here. She grew up in a small town surrounded by corn fields and cows, just her and her mother. The house she grew up in was typical for the times. Some people called it cozy, she just called it small. Her mother was a vibrant woman, full of energy which she passed on to her, when Lucy was little her mother would tell her stories of Paris and Rome, of Vienna and Amsterdam and how someday they would see them all. You see, she was an aspiring artist and soon her paintings would start selling then they would travel the world together, attending parties, sailing on massive yachts, and have a large entourage of people to attend there every need. If Lucy thought back she could still see how her face lit up when she talked about it, but as the years passed her mother stopped talking about traveling. Eventually, she stopped painting. Soon she grew sick and after several years of pain, she passed. Lucy blamed the town. In her hormone induced adolescence she swore that the town had sucked the very life out of her, (which was closer to the truth than she could have possibly known, it was the pesticides used on the fields that caused the cancer that her mother eventually succumbed to, but that’s a different story) which she swore would never happen to her, so she packed up her belongings and headed for the biggest city she could find and live out her mother’s dreams. She made it to Paris last year, her artwork took her there. Sometimes she’ll dream of the town, the house, her mother when she was young, before the sickness, but most the time she doesn’t think about it at all, it’s easier that way. But on this night her dreams are filled with black cows eating ears of golden corn as they meander down Main St. past the Dutch Boy paint sign and head towards the smaller side roads. The people all smile and wave as they pass. Suddenly the smallest cow stops and stands on its hind legs as naturally as if you and I had; it reaches its cloven hoof into its belly and pulls out a pallet covered with paint. The paint squirms and wriggles on the thin piece of wood as it tries to escape but the cow is quicker and gobbles it up. With a quick look Lucy’s way followed by a sly wink it begins to spit the paint from its mouth forming a spray that colors the bleak surroundings, painting them in multicolored bliss. The houses become turquoise and green, the fine trimmed lawns turn yellow and red, the streets go from black tar to green velvet. The cow stops and looks upward, a flash of lightning splits the sky and the rain begins to fall, gently at first, then harder. The colors start to wash off of the buildings and the lawn, running in swirling lines of blues and greens and reds and yellows until they merge into black and scurry off down the sewage drains that line the streets. Harder and harder the rain falls hitting the roofs with a sound like hammers pounding on steel. The cattle begin to scatter, all but the small one who just stands there staring back at Lucy with sad eyes that are somehow familiar…. Suddenly a large torrent of water hits its cloven feet knocking it onto its back, washing it towards the drain. It cries out in a pitiful wail and reaches out towards her. Lucy tries to reach it, but no matter what she does she cannot, it’s as if she is stuck in quicksand, the more she struggles the further away it goes until finally it disappears down the drain. Lucy cries out but it’s too late. As she looks around for help she sees the town and its people are all washing away as well until she left alone, in the darkness of what used to be a town. She wakes up with tears rolling down her cheeks and no idea of why she is crying. It’s three-thirty and she craves a bagel.
(3)
Curling up under the warmth of his favorite blanket, Alexander waits. His teeth are brushed, his favorite jammies are on, (the ones with bunnies and feet), and his best story book under his arm, he waits. Waiting for mommy to come and tuck him in and read his story. It’s an old book, tattered and dog-eared, it’s been passed from generation to generation, and finally it’s his. It’s full of stories of witches and knights, of damsels in distress and dragons, of faraway forgotten lands and his all time favorite hero, Morgan, prince of the land of Tallity and all around good egg. With his faithful companion Teele by his side there is no evil they cannot defeat, no army they cannot subdue, no princess they cannot save. Sounds of laughter come from the other side of the closed door. What’s taking her so long he wonders? Opening the book carefully, he scans the pages until he finds an illustration of his beloved Morgan. He is standing on top of a hill overlooking an onslaught of enemies. Dressed in silver and black, he holds his sword and grimaces, bracing himself for a long fight. (Oh, Connie, you are such a card!) Little does he know that hiding behind a large rock awaits his greatest nemesis, Drayko an evil warlock bent on bringing down the reign of Morgan. (Hey Con, get me another beer will ya?) He can practically hear the story play out in his head, he knows it that well. Soon mom will come in and read it to me for the millionth time. But what’s taking so long? (Connie, I just love your dress! Where did you find it?) Alexander’s eyes grow heavy as he stares at the picture of his hero. Suddenly the wind begins to blow in the picture and Morgan’s head turns as surveys the land. He turns towards Alexander and winks “Are you ready for another great adventure?” Alexander has already joined as he answers a hearty “Yes!” The painting shimmers as they move through it, turning it from paper to dream. (Connie, what about Alexander?) (Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. Him and that stupid book, that’s all he needs.)
(4)
“How you doing there, Moses?” asks the dark skinned man hovering over me. He has kind eyes and a tired smile, perhaps from overuse and under appreciation. With the quick movements of someone who follows an exacting routine, he circumnavigates the makeshift bed, stepping easily over the bundle on the floor representing the only possessions I currently have in order to stand directly in my line of sight. Again he speaks, “Everything okay?” I grunt a response which could mean either yes or no. He chuckles and shakes his head as he turns to leave, saying over his shoulder, “Well, you let me know if I do anything for ya.”
“Yea, you can do something for me,” a gravely voice coarse from old age and too many cigarettes responds, “you can get me the hell outta here!” After a few moments I realize that it was mine. It didn’t used to sound like that, but, as someone once said, the only constant in life is change. I’m not sure who said it, but it sounds like something someone would say. Some people would have prefaced that statement with “a great man once said”, but I won’t for two reasons; one, I don’t know any great men, and two, most of the things attributed to them they never actually said and I prefer to be honest, if possible.
“Now, you know I can’t do that Moses. You’re here for your own good.”
Have you ever noticed how when someone does something against your will it’s always “for your own good”, when in reality it’s only to make them feel better, safer, more in control of the world, of themselves. Moses? Why does everyone call me that? Sure, I quoted the scriptures but that was back when I was young and easily led. When I believed, but then you took Gert from me…. Then little Sara…. Next was Brutus…. You couldn’t even leave me the damn dog…. What was I thinking about? I had it a moment ago, but now it’s gone. My mind is going these days, I guess I suffer from CRS, can’t remember shit.
“What’d ya say?”
“Huh? You still here? Don’t you have somebody else to shackle to their bed? Go on! Get outta here!”
The tall man just looks at me sadly and walks away. Oh great, I hurt his feelings, I don’t know why I do that. Sometimes these things just come out and I’m powerless to stop them. Can’t get comfortable on this damn cot either. Hell of a way to treat a vet. I wish they would’ve left me alone. I was fine down by the tracks. I had my own spot out of the way and safe. I lived there so long that now I can’t sleep without the sound of a train rumbling by. There’s something comforting there in that whistle, in the vibrating. As his eyes grow heavy, a murmur grows in the distance, low at first, but growing steadily louder. The whistle blows as a train comes into view. An old steam engine with a cow-catcher and a huge black smoke stack in front billowing out dark puffs as it churns forward picking up speed to make up for lost time. You can just barely make out four figures where the engineer should be, an attractive woman in her early twenties wearing a long flowing wedding gown, a little girl in a flowery sun-dress clutching a teddy bear under her arm, a tall young man in his prime, full of life and joy, and at his feet, a dog….
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