526. Thalassic Evenings

ed note: a Rashomon beginning, sorta.

Trev leaned on the railing, the ocean before glittering as a field of diamonds as the stars above gave yield to the rising moon.

"Beautiful moonrise," said Em.

Trev turned. "Not nearly as beautiful as your smile."

-----

Trev stood before the ocean, chest out like the figurehead on the bow of a ship, rail holding his waist in tow. Em floated from the cottage, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her hair falling on his chest, cheek on cheek, smiles felt rather than seen.

"I love you baby."

"Like a fish loves the sea."

"Come back inside then, and swim up my stream."

-----

Upon the shimmering ocean, a thousand tiny waves winked silent salutations. Trev smiled, drew breath, chest expanding, arms braced on the rail. Em approached, her sheer gown fluttering in soft night breeze.

"Boo."

"Hey."

-----

The wooden deck looked gray under the pale moon light, shadows extending like fingers into the cottage from his angular frame. Em smiled. Trev looked angelic in the cool light of night, his hair spiked from nocturnal activities, waving like long grass in the evening breeze. With nary a cloud on the horizon, the moon loomed above the horizon, his chiseled jaw silhouetted within the circumference of light.

"Beautiful."

"Yes."

"I didn't mean the moon."

-----

The cottage stood in the night as it had stood ten thousand nights before, almost. They say the light from a home changes in tone to the love within. From a distance, they said, the little cottage on the hill, that night, shone with a warmth no one in the village could ever remember seeing before. The light was not brighter; in fact, it was not anything anyone could put their finger on. Yet, undeniably, something was different and they all agreed, that difference made the labor of the day worth the warmth of the pillow.

-----

Soundtrack: Brooke Fraser's Hymn

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525. Endogenous Etiology: 2

Transcript from sometime in the future. Location unknown. Names redacted. (document 2)



Q.

A. I couldn't tell you when it started, no more than a man who slept late could tell you when the sun rose.

Q.

A. Look. I fucking told you I don't know. Ask me another stupid question and the session is over.

Q.

A. Don't apologize. Don't ever fucking apologize to me. Means nothing.

Q.

A. By the pauses. I would say memory, but that is long gone, like the flavor from a biscuit left in the sun. Insipid. Is that the word? Fucking insipid. My memories.

Q.

A. The juxtaposition of those two words. About how my fucking has been. Ever have an orgasm without having an orgasm? Didn't think so.

Q.

A. I don't laugh much anymore. Indulge me. Screw it. What did you ask?

Q.

A. Right. You know not by the thing itself because the thing itself consumes you, becomes you and you can no longer distinguish between it and you. So, you don't know. People look at you funny. They know. But you don't. That is, until you have slippage. You don't know what slippage is do you? Well, slippage is a flash, about that quick. A flash of light. And in that light, just in a millisecond, you know. You know that what is, is not as it should be. And you slip back into the humid dark. A darkness unlike anything out there because the darkness is within. There is nothing out there as dark.

Q.

A. It comes and it goes of its own accord. I've met no enemy I fear more. I never know if the day will bring light or dark and even within the day, like passing clouds, the moods change, sometimes on a dime. How. Why. I've no fucking clue. I do know, there was a time it was not this way. There was a time when the light was all there was. There was a time when I could do no wrong. Now, those times are like another life. I don't even recognize who that person was.

Q.

A. The shift, either way, happens in an instant. I can't predict it. I can't anticipate it. I can't control it. And those around me, they don't understand. To them, I'm an asshole. And, I suppose, looking from the outside in, I am. I treat them like shit. I know it. I know it when it is happening. I see it unfolding. And I am powerless to do anything about it. Except . . .

Q.

A. Leave. The only power I have is awareness. I haven't lost my awareness yet. I know when the moods shift. I know when I'm out of control. I know when I'm going to shit on anyone and everything in my path. I can't change the behavior so I have two options. Either they leave or I leave. Because if we stay in contact, bad things happen.

Q.

A. I feel like you are not listening. I can't fucking control it. I can't not be what consumes me in that moment. I can see it. I can know it. But I can't be otherwise. Imagine it this way. When you are drunk, you know you are drunk. You have that awareness. Now, that awareness does not make you less drunk nor does it give you better judgment. So you don't drive. So see. You isolate your ability to do harm. That is your option. Same here. When the mood changes, it is like in one moment you are sober and in the next you are drunk. And that quickly, you act like the drunk. Now imagine what those around you think? You see, there is no bottle in your hand. You are not at the bar. They see none of the outward signs. Just bam. One moment you are yourself. The next, you are an asshole. A danger to yourself. A danger to everyone around you. And no one understands. So you live with your sickness alone. Unlike a fever or a cold or the flu, you get no sympathy. Instead, you get scorn. And hatred. And you watch your friends, one by one, go away. They stop calling. The visits become less and less frequent. You understand. They don't.

A Story Sampler

524. Dans la ville

Rog and Yul attend a concert in the city. Yul's idea.

Rodrigo y Gabriela

523. Her Patroon

ed note: Kyra has returned and the crew has sought a reprieve on the Arc'teryxian world of Polaris. Trev and Em headed to a small seaside village, staying in a cottage just outside of town.


He slowed to match her pace, indulging the natural feel of cobbles worn in foot and aged buttery smooth in history, each stone perfectly imperfect in the charm of time when hand and hammer mattered. Her feet were smaller than his but smaller in proportion and they seemed to be just right, skin olive tanned, arches firm in curve. The breeze coming off the azure ocean was neither cool nor warm as much as clean and pure and her long dark hair fanned in the way young hair, rich and supple, dances in the wind, tickling his shoulder. He thought it was nice to walk so close, not by necessity but by choice, her fingers twined in his. She had chosen the lacing and chosen the closeness and she smelled of lilac with a hint of rosemary, part scent and part memory of sighs and caresses under the clear cascading flow of shower rain.

The village on the hill overlooking the sea curved and twisted to match the mountainside and where stone and mortar ended and rock and shale begin were as blended as the strokes of Rembrandt. Each hut and structure fit into the other, a family of russet roofs presiding over open doorways as brothers and sisters, bustling with goods and little feet. The sun, refulgent, shone but not too hot and the shingles of clay glittered as the sea that lay before. Smiles were as lanterns in the shadows and leathered hands placed the sacrifice of the soil alongside the bounty from the sea.

She held up a vine of purpure grapes, and to the eye they appeared as jewels glinting like amethyst and she as a princess worthy of oil and brush. He looked not at her but at the others and in the looking smiled, for they looked as he had once looked and as he would look again, the kind of looking that made one pinch perchance it all but a dream. They would dine for two in the coming dusk and she would cook as if it were their last meal and he would eat as if sitting on the edge of a cliff, not of clay, but of slippery time, falling and falling forever deeper.

Rendered coin traveled upon the counter patron scarred, their purchase satcheled in woven whey bags. They walked among the artisan wares, legs touching as if the slightest separation was a sin against love. As a plant takes energy from the sun, they fed off the light of each other, standing taller when together, smiling more often and laughing as children laugh for the prism of their day held neither grays nor blacks but the spectrum of joy and hope and love and an endless flow of endearments evidenced not in words but in touches and looks and nudges and of hands in the back jeans pocket of the other.

Her arm rode his waist as braided rope mooring her patroon. The shops were full as is wont on days of sun and skies of blue where the dulcet hymn of birds heralded church bells ringing the noon. Just in a nook, a small restaurant, outdoor seating facing the sea, appeared with the matador wave of the chef's hand, their path lighted by his warm smile. A table for lovers, linens white and utensils silver before goblets homed with red fruit. Somewhere the sounds of pots and pans clanked and latin voices susurrated forth on the aroma of dishes handed down from generation to generation, tongue to ear and hand to eye. They nooned without prink or preen, silver upon china clinking a cappella notes of murmured satisfaction.

Bellies repleat in comport of desserts not denied. Wine judged by tongues quite divine as fingers found their kin beneath the shade of tyne. Commerce exchanged and promises endeared, a return requested with a smile and a hug.Thus was the first day of Trev and Em in town.

522. Torrid Impalement

Yul, back curved with the grace of twin taut suspension cables, lips parted in glistening heat, head back and regal straight, her lioness mane a shimmering waterfall, her angled eyes silted gray, said: "Baby, bring your instrument of torrid impalement over here and impart within me the wisdom bestowed within your hewn oak. Wield me darling as a knight wields his lance, take me as a cowhand takes his calf, use me as a cobbler uses his hammer."

Rog didn't need to be asked twice.

521. Capiche?

"My father was a surgeon. When I was three, he left. Cut me and mom out of his life. Mom was brave, always held out hope he would return, kindled that belief in me. I grew to hate her for that. Then I grew to hate the lack of empathy and compassion in my own heart. I lost a father I never knew. She lost a soul-mate. I was not a help to her. When I told her I was going to med school she just started crying. Being young and stupid and selfish, I just walked away, as if I was the victim. The idea of her sitting in the house alone, abandoned by the two men in her life she loved is not a memory I like sitting in.

"So I grew up at the window, so to speak. I watched the drive. Watched every hopper pass by. My ears developed a sensitivity to the sound of a vehicle pulling in. I just knew, he would return. I just knew it. Even on the dock, I was looking for two, not one. Of course, as you know, neither showed. Those first few days after departure were, and this is saying a lot, perhaps the darkest of my life.

"Can you understand? I'd like to tell you how great I am. But this is me. I have a lot of growing up to do. I'm not there. Yet. I know I should be happy for Kyra. I know I should be standing with open arms to greet her. But logic and emotion are two different things. Emotion, for me, is the stronger. There are times I'm overwhelmed. Times I'm just an observer in my life, as if I'm riding rapids and hanging on for dear life. No control. None. I just try to hang on. I don't try to win. I just try to do as little harm as possible and often that means a monumental effort just to keep my mouth shut. Sometimes that means leaving. Just walking away. And when I do, for self-perservation I wonder, is this how dad felt? Did he have to leave? Was he tormented by the same demons? Did he gift those demons to me--are they in my genes? Did he leave because of me? Think about that. Your mom and dad loved you. But think of growing up wondering if your dad hated you, hated you so much he left. Not just left, but left and never returned. Gone like the light before dusk, only this sun would never rise again. Imagine living in that darkness. Eternal, only you wake up every morning and run to the window thinking this is the day, the day the sun will rise, the day I will see the light again, and day after day you are greeted with nothing but interminal darkness."

Trev paused as if remembering he should breathe. Then he continued.

"As soon as the door shut, I lost control. Imagine needing to vomit, and as the urge hits you run for the bathroom, and somehow you are able to hold it within until you see the throne, and with that sight, you lose all control and make a mess of everything. As soon as the door closed, I lost it, consumed, the air sucked from my gut and out my lungs. The pain so great within my skull that banging my head to release the demons, to release the pressure, seemed the most natural thing in the world to do. The blood actually tasted good, the way familar ground under foot feels good. You know you are frailed up when pain is the best thing in your life.

"Want to hear more?"

Em searched his face, her eyes as lasers, trying to beam into his soul a light mere words could not. "Baby, I told you before and I'll say it again and I want you to hear me and hear me clearly. I want all of you. Do you understand?"

Trev bowed his head.

"Look at me. Wherever you go, there you are. There is no escape from yourself. So stop running. Or," she smiled, "if you must run, run to me, run to my open arms. Capiche?"

"You know, you're not really a callow limpet."

"A what?"

Giggles replaced words and arms and legs as rope twinning. Holding his face close to hers, his eyes looking like a frog, she said, "Let's go greet Kyra."

"Okay."