Shotgun Wedding: Unfinished Stories With Not Much in Common

by Kevin Tilley

  Her hair being scattered to and fro. At the will of dynamic forces in severe competition. That hat must have been dislodged at an earlier mile marker. If I can believe anything I've seen up till, and including, now.

  Should I say something? Address the past? Inquire as to her current condition? Take a long look into her mouth? Or should I just play it cool?...and allow for this fading memory to exist for whatever length the Fates will allow. With a rapid succession of tragic slideshow images flashing before my eyes.

  Such a bad date.

  She answers all my questions with a slight movement of her head. A wonderfully familiar gesture. Letting me know that everything is okay. In this temporal state. It was always her special ability. Much needed way back when -- when the spark combusted, leaving all involved covered in ash. And even more so here. Searching for a light. At the end. Second guesses forgotten. For the moment. What more could I possibly ask for? Magical musings. A fortunate deal. Mountains leveled. The scale tipping imperceptibly to my favor. A mystically re-calibrated needle drawing its bloody conclusion. All mine. All right.

  A final verse seeping through the netted veil. Beckoning beyond the clouds into the very belly of the domed ceiling. Rising into nothing. Leather scented wonder. Don't leave me again. We can find a way. If we only try. Give it a shot. Bad thoughts ricocheting off the glassy orbs of madness. What else is there? Anyway. There. Where...

  Leaning close to steal one last kiss.

  But it's not her. Or, from another perspective, it is her. Miss Harlequin. Returned. Hat and all. In the very spot I could have sworn... Never mind. No sense in wasting an honest impulse. It's gotten me this far. Our lips touching a second time. Lingering beyond discretion. Indulging in this stand-in siren. What a cad.

  My calling. A recurring theme. Substituting the ghosts of my own making with matters at hand. Dealt out. Scooped up. With scarce thought to obvious pairings. Going bust.

  Making another pass by that fellow with the sign. Figures.

  Could I ever be forgiven? Is it possible? With so many gallons of toxic water down the drain. Here. Trailing northern lights. Diamonds flickering their final messages. Rocketing through the aftermath of a thoughtless big bang. The residue of worldly creation. To find a reason. To discover some path worthy of all that has come before. Of all that might have been.

  Two worlds. Crossing. Caught in sudden embrace. Folding together in quiet resolution. Parting with a gentle sigh.

  We're stopped. Where we started. Breathing in unison. Like we never...

  Everything goes dark. And comes right back again.

  …

  Day Two, Part Twelve: Needle Nose

  The midnight stretch takes some getting used to. Especially when it shows up in the middle of the day. Clawing at the depths of mainstream abnormalities. Jagged silhouettes making their presences felt in the cloudy levels. Far from the madding souls. A murder of winged beasts lining up on the power lines that lead from the deserted metropolis and disappear into the extremes of wasteland denial. Passing futile messages. Condemned to ever occur. Running laps. Repetitions returning. To their long lost sender. Exhausting all probability. Down to the core.

  Arrows pointing toward discrete, out of the way, sub-level directions. A free-for-all freefall into the snake pit of moral decay. Taking sucker punches from moderately criminal elements. Nothing to get too worked up over. Nothing even worth mentioning. Unless you happen to dwell in the arena of the mundane. Like me.

  Caught up in hazy observation.

  Trying to make sense. Out here on this lonely stretch of beach. Of these disgruntled daydreamers. These masquerading middle class bystanders. Contemplating the reality of the situation. Up for grabs. Offering itself in no uncertain terms. There for the taking. The kind of crystal clear vision that only presents itself in the chilly embrace of retrospect. Cold nights. Wistful days. Hanging on to whatever idea of the past you can realistically subscribe to. A point in time.

  It will be there some day. Dawning like a freshly spun spider web. Capturing my wayward attention with its sticky splendor. A trap laid on the shaky ground of memory lane. A cruel awakening. A last laugh from yesteryear that somehow ends up sounding pleasant. Comforting. Like a happened-upon letter from an old friend, whose kindness you always accepted too easily. Telling you that you did the best you could. That all our tomorrows were played out long ago. That everything you did or didn't do could not have ever made an ounce of difference. The world was not yours to save. The happiness you were afraid to find was with you from the get-go. So share in the chuckle. And get over it.

  Now.

  Stone drunk on the idea that you might actually get out of this trip alive. Limits pushed. Beyond all reasonable doubts. Bodily functions taken into reliable hands. Chemical additives doing their best to bring everything to a crashing and decisive end. Fighting the forces. Tear ducts chain reacting. Mutant desires bleeding their salty steams into the corners of my mouth. Where are we when we find ourselves in the firm grip of oblivion? Can we regard this as anything other than a total breakdown of unencumbered thought?

  Gotta betta hope.

  And you and I.

  Our ride is over. Come to a screeching halt. Three chords that could not last forever. As much as we would have liked them to. As much as we needed...

  Flames licking up the remains. The audience held breathless.

  An entire community of alcoholics and two pack a day'ers. A fire in the making. Disaster choosing its moment. The perfect combination of combustion and neglectful indulgence. All lucky breaks and highly fortunate close calls run out. Sirens and screams and mad dashes. Out to the streets. A sullen menagerie of displaced malcontents. Left to fend for themselves. Scalded. Hurt. Escaped.

  The underground rooms wait for the chosen few. A quartet of philistine prophets. Kicking up the dust. Making a masterpiece out of the suffering. The banality of restricted freedom. The loss of all earthly constraints. The kitchen crew serving up one more plate. Ladling out portions. A big mess. A great big mess.

  Switching between the fundamental call letters of your predetermined youth. Searching for that ordained frequency. That sweet spot of space. The one that will cut through all the intrusive noise. It's not all that difficult. Once you fall in with the landslide. Roll with the crumbling stones.

  Daylight. Mean daylight. Shining down. Mocking the steps of self-described wise men. Illuminating the feral declinations that wind down to a slippery gang of missing vowels. MSSNG VWLS. Smoke screened intelligence. Prying its way between the floorboards of limitless amnesia. Cutting asides. Deft observations. Crafty allusions.

  The envy felt when witnessing the carefree movements of loose hanging limbs. Free from thought. Enjoying the complete and thoughtless motion of pure reflex. Wondering aloud where I might have wound up if I had it in me to follow suit. Wondering what life I might be living out there in the real world.

  "The world you imagine is a world without consequence. It is an afterthought built upon smirking non-truths."

  That old man again. Appearing in the dizzy center of my field of vision. Guitar in hand. Dog resting at his side.

  "Huh? You say something? And wasn't I just sitting beside a fetching feline? The cat's pajamas. If you will."

  Bouncing off his visage. Replying in form.

  "The life you live is not your own."

  Funny. You could swear you've heard those words before. A smoky voice from the far reaches of laid back dementia. Sliding up the slipstream. Ringing in your ear. Tickling your fancy. Gently rubbing the tenderly exposed cartilage corners. Sending you reeling toward euphoria. For as long as it can last.

  …

  Interlude

  The life you live. The life you own. The life you left bundled on a randomly chosen doorstep. Abandoned. A tangential resting place. From the sidewalk. Hidden beneath the eaves. Sheltered and soaked. Mortgaged. Taken in and raised by wolves. Sinister eyes staring into the depths of a for
ming soul. Claiming territory. Picking away at the wide-eyed ambitions dancing along the freshly cut blades of an expansive front lawn. With strangers for neighbors. And friends far away. The sounds from outside amounting to nothing more than the limits of a tattered imagination.

  Help is not on the way. The storm has hit.

  Back at the hotel. Roaming the hallways. Slinking between the narrowing alleyway walls. Feeling the horizontal vertigo. Stretching miles ahead. And years behind. Unwilling to retire to the confines of my room. Expecting to cross paths with the white suited gent any minute. Orbits moving independently. From each other. Shaking before the grim specter of tomorrow. Destined to meet at some fateful and carefully calculated point in space.

  What happened to the good times? Where have all your winning hands gone? Not to mention all those prayers. Down the drain. Up in flames. Out the side door while you were sleeping. Certainly worth a decent musing. Can you put together the pieces? Can you begin to follow the river and feel the foamy mouth of the sea? Can you make it that far? From the very spot you stood.

  Long ago. Might as well be today.

  After all.

  Too late for yesterday. Too old for youthful exuberance. Too damn tired for sleepy daytrips.

  This is the last stand. My final journey into the heart of mortal permanence. Nothing specific. Nothing all too profound. Just a coughed up realization. Passing all these closed doors. Concealing their own private worlds. Haunting my every step.

  Birthday wishes thrown to the bitter winds of chance. Blowing out before they could really burn. Rack 'em up and watch them fall. Take your cue. From all those head strong mischief makers clawing at your sense of decency. Feel the flickering flames lick their way up forgotten asides.

  Not that it's any of your business, but why are you so fascinated by my meager meanderings. You two. Frozen in your steps.

  I'm just passing through. I'll surely see you later. At the buffet. Or on the other end of the bar. Laughing it up. Telling those stories you've both heard a hundred times. Can't even remember how it all got started. But this is the place for leftover memories. Nobody asks too many questions. And minor details are readily overlooked. The staff even goes to notable lengths to encourage the overall blurring. Part of the package.

  Floating by. Averting our eyes.

  Stepping out onto a third floor balcony. To catch my breath and feel the late afternoon shift. The rain strikes overhead with clear intent. Drops from on high. Plummeting to their inevitable destruction. Splattered. Remains kicked into the wet air. Trickling down the ivy web surrounding this tomb. Glistening green. Adding to the liquid splendor. Smacking my lips.

  Hold your cupped hand out from the railing. Allow some of the descending elements to make their final farewells in the warmth of your palm. Watch as the residue flows along your life line. Allow this one beautiful cycle to come to its rightful end. It's only natural. Not like you have somewhere better to be.

  Maintaining your longing petri dish. The milky substance of life. And horrible death. Reflecting your image in deteriorating pebbles. If you threw yourself from this height would you feel the pain you hold so dear? If you wrapped a silk scarf around your neck would you know? Is there any doom left in this wishful world to capture your fall? Who is to say?...

  Who indeed.

  Looking up and directing my attention to the pale moon buried above. Beneath the black clouds and gray sky. The Devil is smiling. And God is attending to the needs of the Saved. And I am alone beneath a growling heaven. Suspended above a muddy hell. Alone at the edge of a last ditch effort. Insects dancing on my flesh. Fallen angels sadly shaking their heads and trying to figure out some way to forget. Oil-eyed birds hiding under leaves. Silent.

  I am sorry. I am so sorry.

  I never thought I'd get this far.

  Away.

  …

  Day Two, Part Fourteen: Non-Sense

  You watch yourself falling. Into the belly of a dark wish. Feeling the passing years. The silken stars. The tender lips of a desperate kiss. The silence you cultivated with such knee-jerk precision. The reiterations of countless miscalculations. In your palm. In the bend of a thought. Yours for the taking.

  Why is this taking so long? You turn around. And engage in thrown away petals. Containing their virtuous truths. She loves me. She loves me not. Just like that.

  Last call. Before...

  You catch yourself. In mid-thought. Tumbling through couplets that never quite manage to grasp the full measure of the situation. Slipping through fingers. Digits collapsing with each successive touch. A domino effect. The bitter argument of a game theory taken to sad extremes. A grim undertaking.

  The day is pouring away with the fierceness of the storm. Whatever surviving remnants of the afternoon are being pounded out. Veiled. Buried alive. The clouds are darkening everything beneath and blotting out the sky. Sending down an army of rain drops -- a dense formation of icy toothpicks. Exploding on impact. Splintering into a thousand seas. The thirsty ground gags from the flowing rush. Coughing up what it can't take in. Begging for more.

  Can you piece this day together? Is there any way for you to redeem all those missing hours? Did they get the better of you? The distant howl of a hurt dog. A lady in waiting. A forever stained dress blowing on a clothesline. Bones chained together. Nudging out their lives. Dancing to a non-existent tune. The hypnotic movements of a few outcast die-hards.

  So. What?

  Did you say something? Did you reach across? And if so, to what end? We've been down that road. And you know where it leads. Still...isn't there a chance? Why else am I here?

  Horses hooves. Wooden beams. A rip in the fabric. Down to the sewn seam.

  There is time. After all. So it would seem. Common sense.

  The caravan has arrived. Setting up camp in the courtyard below. You should have known they'd seek you out. The far reaches are no place for friendly strangers to battle the fallout of your inner wars. Give and take. Utter defeat. A forgone conclusion. In all its hinted glory.

  An aluminum awning is being drawn out from the rooftop of the lead car. Followed shortly by a festive band of ragged musicians. Kicking quickly into a marimba tune. Go figure. A few courageous souls belting out a joyous tirade against the shady prospects of a cruelly grinning evening. Sounding the possibility of another reality. Beside all this weeping self pity.

  Yes.

  Locks have been picked. The night has been given clearance to creep out from corners. Look, the moon is breaking through. And I am missing the touch I felt on the day we met. All is well. All is good. All is broken in this neighborhood.

  Did I say that? Or was I singing? Thinking.

  Into the night.

  Here we go again.

  What you'll ever be.

  What you've never been.

  The nightingale whispers her shadowy tune.

  And the day slides into a darkened noon.

  Time stands frozen before the stalking sand.

  The watch lies trembling, tending a missing hand.

  Where do you go, when all you know is here?

  What kind of world would live in a mirror?

  Find your feet. Stake your shaky ground.

  Turn into dust. And then turn around.

  Smile.

  Kick up your heels. And get about your crooked business.

  The touch of demons live only in the fleshy twists and turns of your drifting brain. The flood. The blood. The horrific synaptic crackles. Sending a particular brave traveler to cower beneath his final wit's end. Does the light beckon? Or does it burn to remind?

  Is there anybody around here who can translate this deeply foreign tongue? I'm late for a meeting downstairs. And I can't seem to remember where I left my good suit. I've got a ticket, but the store closed long ago. Is there any place left to redeem my slip? Careful...

  One two three.

  …

  Day Two, Part Fifteen: Close Ca
ll

  I can not move. I can not will myself to extract my visage from the idea of solitude I have pounded in with such deep intent. To release my weakening grip. And swing wildly. To travel beyond. Free from the forces that surround. Subtle tyrants clawing at my lapels. So tired. So struck. Down and out. The spaces have become stuck. In place. There is no safe distance. No matter how you cut it. Nothing falls apart. Despite all effort. In spite of those volumes you might have read.

  These are not complicated matters. That would be too easy. They strike at the basic chord of survival. When you least expect. When you think things are safe and sound. And that nobody is expecting. Bases covered. Connections intact. But you find yourself mistaken. On this final occasion. At this momentous point. Towing the line. A lasting impression. A long pause in the confusing process. As long as it takes.

  Tomorrow waits. All the while. Like an eager undertaker. A river running red. A lofted ambition hiding beneath a hanging rock. The silvery moon rays are slinking across the courtyard. Doing their best to go unnoticed. I guess I don't count. Not surprising.