by Wess Foreman
Is everything all right, Honey? asks the wife from the passenger seat, stirring.
Just fine, Dear. Go back to sleep, now. Just fine, I say as calmly as I can, for everything is just fine. I am awake, now. Wide awake now, and almost home.
***
THE SLEEPER
On his twenty-seventh birthday, Cole Fender was triggered to remember something. What he remembered was that he was unlike anyone else on Earth. More to the point, what he remembered was that he was not a human being at all, but an alien.
"The planet Saedar," said Cole to himself, as if testing the sound of it upon his lips. Funny, it did not sound the same in the human/English tongue. From what he recalled - a process taking all of a second, wherein all knowledge of his true-self came hurtling back to him as dust mitesto a vacuum hose - the sound of hhis home worldounded less hokey, less trite, certainly less Mork-and-Mindy, in his native language [Saedarian?]. But he felt the need to practice and he did so for nearly an hour seated in front of a mirror. Practiced the name of his home world [funny, too, how he suddenly longed to return to it], practiced a few other alien names for things and alien concepts that he felt sure would come up in the long process of explaining to his friends and family who he really was. Who he had always truly been. There would be many questions, and he felt it important and only right to prepare himself for the task. There was a lot to explain and very little time and not everyone would believe him.
The need to explain everything to the homo sapiens he had come into contact with while on Earth was a very human compulsion, but it was a trait also shared with his own, Saedarian, kind. Fairness, morality, and love were more universal than most humans realized. Cole would probably not have to get into all that though, the humans would just assume that he was but displaying what he had learned here on earth, that he was being humane [what a selfish word-grab that was, he thought, possessing a universal ideal by giving it one's own name].
One thing he did pick up while on Earth was the impulse to apologize - a singularly human characteristic - Cole caught himself as he practiced what he would say in the mirror, caught himself softening the truth in the telling. Softening the cold reality. Feeling somewhat responsible for it all. For what was soon to come.
He practiced the only way he could now - his human-way now dissipating quickly from memory - in the Saedarian way, a fact-telling way told coldly in third-person monotone: "Cole Fender was from the planet Saedar. Cole Fender was much older than twenty-seven Earth years. Cole Fender appreciated all the human bonds that were formed and the friendships made in those many years. He thought himself human for so long and Cole Fender will continue to hold them all close within his heart."
And he paused to perfect the tone of the litany; anything too sentimental would only negatively affect the telling of it. Sentimentality, like the impulse to apologize, belonged solely to humankind. It was getting easier for him now though; the Saedarian in him was pleased. He took up where he left off, telling the rest of it in a pleasing emotionless way: "Cole Fender was sent to live among you, to soak it all in - humanity - to learn your ways, from birth to death, from cradle to grave. Along with many others on your planet, Cole Fender has awakened and must now return to his own people to tell your story, the human story. His mission is complete. Your existence will be remembered forever, recorded directly from Cole Fender's memory. The good, the bad, everything. The universe will remember you always." He paused in order to get the last part right; he must not mince words: "The invasion has already begun. Even after the invasion is complete and humanity is wiped out of all existence, Cole Fender will remember you always. Good day to you all. And good luck."
That last sentiment was Cole Fender's last human tendency, lending hope where none could possibly come to fruition. But even now, Cole Fender was no longer human. He was looking forward to seeing his home world once again. "The planet Saedar," said Cole to himself, as if testing the sound of it upon his lips. Only this time he said it in his native tongue. It sounded much better that way. What a strange birthday this has been, Cole Fender thought. He stood and headed out the door to tell everyone the news.
***
jump dot dot dot
jump
dot dot dot the
wind is coming up fast
feel the need to remind
myself to tuck and tumble
into a shoulder roll when
I hit and thinking that this
was much higher than I first
expected and this is going to
hurt this is going to hurt when
I hit thinking shoulder roll
when I hit then I feel the pain
in the soles of my feet and
my knees buckle and I don't — I
wake
up minutes later — yes
minutes and I've been sitting
here on the tailgate of a truck
and the others are all standing
around me talking among themselves
and I've been saying that that was
some jump and no guys I don't need
any help just need to sit down
somewhere anywhere and catch my breath
boy
did that hurt my feet and now my knees
and knocked the breath right out of me
and how far did I fall again from
up there? Yes I sorta remember that I
remember falling but nothing after that and
even now not completely awake and
it is more like
I faded in rather
than woke up and
that's the only thing
I remember really was the
jump
dot dot dot
true story.
***
As I Was Saying
“As I was saying —
and this isn’t meant to reflect
poorly on present company or
relatives or close personal
friends of anyone here of course
except wherever such poor
reflections are warranted and
even then I would expect there
to be a valid explanation for
such exceptions that would, in
effect, isolate said person from
infecting anyone else, in any
case I’ll be discrete, but we
shouldn’t let these matters
dissuade us from the point of
the matter which is this —
now what was I saying?”
***
Family Circus
Single panel
cartoon Family
Circus cut
from Sunday
comic section
dutifully edged
by colorful
magnets against
the kitchen
fridge reads
like eighties
pop song
lyrics — “Look!
He’s been
struck by
enlightening.”
***
How Many Words
if you were a
person say and
you spent all
your free time
online I'd say
you were a right
expert on the
subject and I'd
try to ask you
how many words
is too many to
bother reading
in a blog post
before giving up
and moving on —
I've come across
some long ones is
why I ask (and I'm
trying not to make
the same mistake
myself — thanks
in advance)
***
The Doldrums
Sometimes the doldrums come skulking around, like some old bon
e-tired hungry hound dog begging for handouts but too pitiful even to look you in the eye. Hardly looking at anything, really. All squinting and skulkified and pitiful. Thinking, “I’m just gonna creep up beside you and wait a spell. Don’t make any sudden movements, now. I ain’t gonna bite you — sure enough — ain’t gonna look at you, much less bite you. If’n you want to toss me a scrap — that’d be fine. Just fine. If’n not, well. Reckon I’m just gonna hang around a while to make sure you ain’t gonna change your mind anytime soon. No sir, ain’t gonna look at you, much less bite you.”
Sometimes there's nothing to do but wait it out for a while. Sometimes that works. Sometimes that’s all it is, just a matter of time. Then there are other times when that old hound dog gets it in his mind that here is just as good as over there, and he lowers his old bones to the cold dusty ground. Lays there looking up at you (only not really looking at you, just squinting up in your general direction). You didn’t even toss him so much as a scrap of old leather to gnaw on, to get his jaw a’workin,' to get him expecting another snack. Maybe next time a proper meal.
No, nothing worse than feeding him. He might just take up residency for good then. But you did not encourage the old dog — not this time — you did not fall for that old trick of the young and foolhardy. You ignored him, disregarded his soft whimperings without failing. Indeed, you were almost cruel in your indifference toward that old bag-o-bones.
But sometimes the doldrums linger. Sometimes that old dog has walked the same familiar dusty road for so many years that he gets too tired to pick himself up and move himself along. Sometimes he’s been beat down one too many times and he just wants to sit there, quiet in your shadow, content just to sit there, enjoying your lack of productivity and the silent, lackadaisical company of one such as yourself. Taking up your time, your talent, your best, and your worst. Everything you’ve built yourself up toward and ever hoped to be in this big world. And he drags you down (just by his presence there at your feet, he drags you down). And he’s polite about it, to be sure. Ever only polite and careful and quietly lingering. Wouldn’t bite you if he could.
***
About The Author
I am an artist and writer. I dabble in many other hobbies as well. Much of my poetry writing springs from my song writing, which has taken a backseat of late to other hobbies [as hobbies must do to make room for new hobbies]. One of my most favorite hobby is painting and I post articles and pictures of my work on my website, wessforeman.com. My other website is a tumblog where I post much of my shorter writings, musings, recipes and more — that website is wessf.tumblr.com.
I live about an hour [driving time] north-northeast of New Orleans with my wife and kid and our one fish, two dogs, and three cats — not that any of that matters. Point is this: thanks for reading this!
—Wess Foreman
Excerpt from A Slow Flowing River
Finishing the biscuits and laying back down on his cot and holding both hands over his ample stomach he heard footsteps at the doorway. He turned and saw the sheriff enter.
"Coffee?" said the sheriff, holding up a steaming tin cup in one hand.
Russel found his feet and nodded, "Thanks."
The sheriff squinted over at Saguaro and said, "What about you?"
Saguaro shook his head without saying a word.
"Lemme get your plate there," the sheriff grinned.
Russel passed his plate, knife, and jam jar through the meal slot. The knife slipped from the plate and clattered to the floor — almost making the same sound that Jerrod Price's saber made when it fell — and both men bent down to reach for it. Russel found that it was on his side of the iron bars and he picked it up. He stood and momentarily felt the heft of the blade in his hand. It was only then that he realized he held a weapon in his hand — could even reach the sheriff's soft stomach with it from where he stood. Could jab between the bars — jab right through the sheriff's button down shirtfront — right through the skin and pass between the ribs, maybe puncture a lung or stomach lining. Could be the killer they wanted him to be. Could so easily do that, not that he could actually do that, but physically it was possible. And all that took half a second before the thought dissipated from his mind and he passed the knife through the bars for the sheriff to take in exchange for the cup of coffee.
When they were alone again, Brand looked over at Saguaro. He was sitting once more a few feet from the wall — his back was straight as a sapling and his eyes were closed. Brand could hear a low reverberation emanating from that side of the room and he couldn't tell at first whether it came from Saguaro or from somewhere beyond the window. It was like the rumble of a distant stampede. It grew louder and Brand could hear that it was Saguaro. The large desert cactus. Brand thought perhaps he was praying or clearing his mind — a meditative ritual of some sort — and Brand did not interrupt. The humming subsided at last and the room returned to silence — quieter than Brand had remembered it ever being; so quiet that he could hear a lone spider scrambling along the floor beside the cot; he could hear the sounds of passing horses and people outside the window; he could hear the small chirps of sparrows foraging for grain in the field beyond the jail house; he could even hear his own heart beating, a steady thrum-thrumming in his ears.
"Your life will end soon," said the hollow voice that seeped from Saguaro's lips.
Brand felt a needling of dread in his stomach and all the oxygen seemed to be sucked out of the small room. The words were biting but he knew them to be true. He found that he could not speak, for to speak was to deny and to deny was to be untruthful to himself. Brand swallowed back the foul taste in his mouth left by biscuits and old coffee.
Saguaro was looking up at him with sorrowful eyes. "It is true, young one. Soon. And then you will enter a period of torment and testing. Your second life will be difficult."
"Second life?"
"The next life. You will be reborn, changed. It will be most difficult. I might see you again. Maybe in your third life."
"It's good to know I have so many lives to look forward to."
"Perhaps you will. The future is not always easy to see and it's near impossible to understand." Saguaro seemed pleased with this statement, smiling to himself and nodding thoughtfully.
Excerpt from Leito The Artist
You okay? Leito asks, trying his best not to sound too creepy, not to sound like the total stranger he is but also steering clear of sounding too familiar.
With his words, Julie's face scrunches up; she wipes away fresh tears with her palm, tries taking in air through her nose revealing a case of sniffles.
There are some tissues in the glove box, says Leito, if you want. With a lowered, softer voice, trying to be unobtrusive, invisible. He goes silent again, and Julie finds the small travel-pack of tissue paper there, wiping her nose, composing herself once more. Leito lets truck cab return to an emotional equilibrium before asking, delicately: You were good friends with him? With Daniel?
Julie smiles at him, With Dan? She pauses, as if waiting for Leito to respond but continues before he actually can: Everyone knew him as Dan, she explains, and seems to revel momentarily in Leito's misinformation, You must be a professor of his? Or . . .
Professor? Oh. No, I actually knew him a long time ago — growing up. Haven't seen him in . . . well, in most of my life.
He didn't grow up here, she says pointedly, and I'm not his friend, I'm his sister.
Leito does not process this right away but turns it over slowly, sorting out the logic of it [sister? Daniel had a sister?]. Sister? says Leito, Daniel had a sister? [For it is all Leito can think to say]
Julie responds with a dramatic sweep of the arms, ending in a ta-da! pose, hands turned outward, framing the face. She says: I'm right here!
I mean . . . I don't remember you . . . ah, that didn't come out right, either.
When did you know him?
I don't know, this would have been . . . sometime during elementary school — you know, ridi
ng bikes everywhere, digging in the backyard, getting in trouble at school —
Julie says, You're THAT Leito?!
Leito blushes, I guess so.
I knew you. I knew you. You and Dan were always playing together. Julie pauses, hesitating, then adds: I hated you!
You what?
Not hated hated — oh, don't take it so seriously — as a kid, you know? You two were always rough-housing, breaking my toys, knocking over my playhouse — don't you remember? Pink, with white-framed windows on the side? Mom used to make me play in my room when you'd come over because I'd always end up crying and bugging her to fix whatever got broken.
Leito smiles, shakes his head: Sorry, I . . . I don't remember any of that.
And I always wanted to play, too. Outside, with the boys. But I wasn't allowed. And Julie is smiling at Leito now, her eyes gleaming in the darkness beside him. She says, I cried so much when you moved away. I cried buckets. She stops talking.
And Leito stops talking, his breath frozen, his heart skipping its beat. Neither talking now. He can feel his face warming with the rush of blood. Driving. Leito just drives — finally coming to a fork in the road — he manages to says, Which way?
There, Julie points left. Leito turns left. Silence. Leito thinking, trying to remember Julie back then, little Julie, little pink and white playhouse Julie. Julie crying. Daniel's little sister crying. Crying buckets when Leito moved away.
Up here on the right, says the voice in darkness beside him, brick mailbox. There. Leito pulls in the driveway. It's an old white two-story, apparently converted into several apartments — Leito notes the little numbers beside the doors, counts one, two, three doors downstairs, one door upstairs atop a spindly staircase, maybe another apartment door around back. Leito stops and puts the truck in park. They sit in darkness. Leito waiting for Julie, waiting for Leito, waiting for Julie. The two of them. In the dark. Waiting. Sitting there, and Julie says, He was so full of life. You know? Always joking around. Showing off. She stops talking. And Leito cannot speak. Wants to speak but cannot. Doesn't know what to say. Wants to reach out to her. Wants to say he's sorry. For all of it — the playhouse, her toys, leaving, making her cry, and for her loss, her brother, so full of life, dead. Gone. All of it. Grown and gone.