by Garret Ford
All my suffering was in vain. I wanted to live in that world- the world I could not have. Healing, dreary, dreadful healing- mend this broken wing that the sparrow may fly. Not at this part in the narrative, of course; time flows strangely, a winding river with many eddies, whirlpools, and waterfalls.
“The tiger stops looking at the world behind the bars, that it cannot have- the land of what if- and accepts the world it can have- the world of what is.” She said, smiling.
Silence. I held the knot and cut it.
I forbid dignifying her words with a response.
I pretend a dog was barking at me.
NO- No- No- No- No- No. No- No.
No- No-No-No.
No. No.No.No?No.
No. No- No- NO!
No, no, no, no, no… No…NO!
Eternity of Torment. North-west.To Find.
Ache! Damn, my heart has been encased in stone.
I am lost to the gaze of the gorgon.Wise Owl.
My suffering is comic gold. The audience roars.
They howl.Hoot.They applaud.North.
I weep.My most painful moments- comic gold.
I was too dumb to have checked the door.
To see if it was locked.Cosmic horror.
Drum roll.Snare. I’m here all night.
Take my life for example. Hoot hoot!Open the gate.
No, seriously,Bind the key.
Take my Life,Arise!
Please. Feast!
But seriously folks, you’ve been a great crowd, tip your waitress.
I forget my story was written before you, gentle reader began this journey with me. The start, the end, set within a matrix of causality- which is the same as within your own life, our revelations wiped away- a foggy mirror- a misty morning. I had been ambushed by a grotesque, which now sat across from me.
New Game Plus; the reaction prescribes the action. The fool, not the hero? A dagger in my heart.
“You are still stuck huh?” She said condescending.
“Not stuck. I came back to kill rats in the basement.” I lied.
“But this area is too easy.” She said.
“I wanted to look for secrets.” I lied.
“You found the secret room last time.” She said.
“Oh yeah.” I pretended to know what she was talking about.
“You are high enough level to kill the bandits now.” She said.
I wander aimlessly through the tavern basements, rats respawn and attack me, I kill them. Lost.
“You missed it, you’re lost.” She said.
“I know the way.” I lied.
“You missed the exit; open the map.” She said.
“Map?” I look down at the controller.
“Select is the map button.” She said, pointing.
I press it and the map opens, the exit is north of me.
“You’ve been playing without the map. No wonder you got lost in such an easy area. You should have asked for help.” She said.
“I didn’t want to say anything.” I said.
“What are sisters for.” She said, taking the controller from me.
“I can do it.” I reached briefly, and retracted my hand.
“You can, but will you? Probably not.” She said, leading my character out of the basement. “At least you gained a lot of experience points, the monsters later on will be much easier now.”
“You think so?” I asked.
“Only if you payed attention- and didn’t just spam the heavy attack button.” She said.
“No.” I lied.
“You should have put some points into magick.” She said.
“But I’m a warrior, not a wizard.” I frowned.
“Potato, tomato.” She said, gesturing emphatically.
Surprising isn’t it.
That the wizard of oz;
Does not end,
With Dorothy,
Shanking the good witch,
For not telling her about the ruby slippers?
Odd.
Easy.
Easy?
Easy-peasy.
Ha-ha-ha-ha.A joke.What mirth!
A gambol. How jolly.A jape. A jibe.
Pretty funny. Pretty fucking funny.
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Tears?
Moment of silence now.BRO
KEN
Construction workers begin jack hammering outside.
“Hey, People are trying to grieve their loss of identity in here!”
Sweetest suffering, my only child.Nightmares.
I could always nurture you my dear.Suffering.
You, my dearest of children, you give me identity.
And meaning.
Dreamland is over. Time to wake up.
I was tilting at windmills all along,
Nobody had the heart to tell me they aren’t giants.
It was me. It was always me. Now what?
I love my suffering and my pain.
My pain was all I had for so long,
and now,
no longer needed-
I kept it?
A security blanket.
A soft fluffy stuffy bunny rabbit.
A companion cube.
A terry cloth monkey to cling to.
Sickness now. I am mute.
My reflection in the bars of my prison.
I am the prison.And the prisoner.
I see I am older now.
This-
All
Happened decades ago?
How old am I? Why do I feel so small.
Tempus Fugit.
My friends are all married?
I’m alone? Hitori.
The pain. The misery. The loss.
What was the point of that though?
I’m a cockroach.
I can’t die.
I am invincible; At least at the quantum level.
I refuse to go quietly into that good night,
RAGE.Rage, Rage against, The dying of the light? The machine.
No,I had chosen,
To suffer.
It gave the pain meaning. The road less traveled-
It gave me life.
Joy. That which we do not grasp is lost…
Fallacy. The line isn’t like that.
That was the difference- My pain has given me- Meaning otherwise I wouldn’t have survived.
Echelon 7
Now I had survived. I made it through hell,
I thought it was my pain that sustained me.
Not the meaning behind the pain. So I held onto pain.
I mistook the life-vest for a helicopter.
Swirling black abyss-Pierced by shining beacons.
Photos of dead celebrities.
Repetition for remembrance.
New path. I choose the mind.
I choose transcendence---
I choose ascension.
I’ve lost but I’ve gained. I’ve become what I am.
But I’ve survived.
Even if it was hell. Fuck.
Now I am free to live.
Now I can get on with my life.I wish I had learned this earlier.
Always left out, fuck it.
I chose purgatory-I chose this.
I chose limbo. I chose the fires to burn away my sins. I chose to suffer-.
I’ll play by my own rules.
Even if it means playing alone.
Wait, stop- where are you going?
Darkness; I see lights on the wall. This is all so long ago though. Why am I here again? I hear my brother playing on his computer. I go to the kitchen of my childhood home. I stand in amazement. This was my family. All now lost to time.
“Mom, can I have some hot wings?” I asked, looking into the fridge.
“You hate spicy stuff.” She said, looking over from the couch, watching a movie with my dad.
“I think I will give it a chance.” I said, taking the wings out of the fridge.
“Your funeral.” My brother called over from his computer.
2:30.
I go outside while I wait. The night air in the country is good. The stars are brighter; somehow, or I forgot how dark it was back then. No neighbors or light pollution from an encroaching city. The yard has the chicken house, the corral, and the dog house. My dog, long gone now, scratches at the door. The microwave beeps, the wings are done. My mom wasn’t wrong, they are too spicy; I eat them anyways, too proud to retreat.
Return to Oz. The world, once beautiful, in ruin. My dad and I stand at the front step at the old estate; overgrown, wood rotting, and fences collapsed. Idyllic lives are for sheep in the sun.
The old paunchy pale man with gray hair is signing books. He is wearing sunglasses and spouts misquotes, sometimes his voice changes from a damn proper announcer type voice to hoarse deadpan. Occasionally someone will ask him a question and instead of answering he simple exhales like a rasping corpse until they stop talking.
He claims to be this great writer, that if we don’t like art, we should go make our own. He stood at the front of the convention and lied for an hour then told us to buy his book of lies. I pick up a copy of his shitty liturgy of lies. I hand the fresh-faced blonde woman a twenty-dollar bill.
“We aren’t taking any more fans for now.” Security closes the velvet rope behind me.
“I’m the last one?” I asked, the security guard nodded.
“Lucky.” A sad fanboy looked down at his feet.
I wasn’t a fan though. It didn’t matter that his book was made into a film, it didn’t matter that he was rich, or famous, or whoever the fuck he thought he was. I knew.
This is my only chance to meet the reclusive bastard. Time drags, the line advances, a petty pace. The smug fuck is sitting in front of me. A scarecrow he only looked convincing from far away, upon closer inspection the illusion faltered. The writer’s sunglasses were to hide the sunken black circles surrounding his eyes,
I had sailed the royal navy to hunt pirates- only to find this sinking vessel? Time is the almighty vindicator. I had rehearsed my acerbic tirade about his book countless times the night before. Now it felt moot. Never meet your heroes, but what about your villains?
He hasn’t noticed me yet, and he is explaining something to a fawning fangirl in front of me.
“Truth, lie, how much, how long, how often, boy, girl, vagina, penis. Who is who. What is true? I don’t think the world was ready for it. Stream of consciousness. Different people, in the first person. No, subjective and identity is removed, even in our relationships. Ignore it, you know? But for some reason, in a narrative we need it. But we never need it, day to day. You see your friend… Bartleby the scrivener, you don’t think- here comes my friend Bartleby, the scrivener. You think, here comes my friend. We don’t think I, Polonius, am thinking about this. I think almighty “I” about this and thanks to the internet, everyone is a friend.” The bastard was handing out signatures and shit encrusted pearls of wisdom. He looks at my face for a moment. It is time, I have a look of horror. He smiles, or grins- I cannot tell which with his yellowed crooked teeth.
But, the writer had previously seemed so worthy of my wrath that I had paid $200 to attend the Comic-Con, $20 for a book, waited for an hour in line so I could yell at him and it turns out, all he was, was this- nothing but a flawed man- not a sinful devil, nor wrathful god, another wretched human trying to figure out a way to live in the world.
He was afraid? Or Was I? I am silent.
“You are the last one.” His voice sounds like a malfunctioning fun house robot.
“I guess so.” I said.
“What was your favorite book?” He asked monotonously.
“I’m not a fan.” I said.
“It’s all cool. Why wait an hour to meet me.” He said, droning.
“I wanted to tell you how crappy you are.” I said, ashamed.
“Wana get rid of’em boss?” The security guard asked.
“It is all cool, man.” The writer droned.
“I saw you on stage talking and now getting close to you I noticed that, it is like you have two faces. The stage and…” I said.
“All earth is only a stage, so the bard said.” He said, butchering Shakespeare badly.
“All the world’s a stage.” I corrected him.
“You know?” He said, his face awkwardly switching to a smile.
“What?” I said, surprised.
“You corrected me too- a lesser person would have let me misquote that. But you, you are different. You have a mind. Do not squander it.” He said, breaking his monotone slightly.
“Does this make you happy then?” I asked.
“Everyone who lines up asks me to explain my art. Go find your own meaning in life and in art- is what I want to say, but ideals don’t take the place of meals. I can stop going to these things now though,” He said, shrugging.
“Because of me?” I asked.
“You are the catalyst. Or the alchemist.” He said.
“What do most people ask about?” I asked.
“Why is everyone so unlikable… how do they die so many times and why? What does the ending mean? And, who is who? Which parts are of Lilia, Chad, Chelsea, and Tobias. Is so-and-so gay? Will you open my milk mommy?” He said, cranky.
He stopped, opened a bottle of Fiji water, and drank deeply.
“Having regret and pain is universal. Self-loathing over perceived other better worlds taps into a special audience that is willing to spend money validating their own muddled existence- it doesn’t matter in the end, unless you think it matters- then it does- existential dread- is a luxury reserved for the affluent. They live in the what if, I grant them that. And you can make a lot of money off people like that.” He laughed sardonically, grinned, and rubbed his index finger and thumb together, implying money.
“On the other hand, the poor are too busy trying to survive their what is- not much market there.” He said, snarky.
“You’re no Joyce.” I mumbled.
“I never liked Guinness.” He said flatly.
“I could relate to the characters, that is what scared me- and made me hate you the most. The awkwardness, and the…?” I stopped.
“You too can write.” He said, sardonically. “Why don’t you?”
“I would rather have a life, I guess.” I said.
“A critic is to the art as a eunuch is to a brothel…” He said, gesturing, empathically; he got a distant look in his eyes as if he was remembering something wonderful- or awful.
“You wrote what you are saying...” I said.
“Indeed, I did. I did.” He said flatly.
“Boss, everyone has left or is leaving...” The security guard said.
“Thank you for waiting, and not yelling at me. You may yell if you want to, it might make for a good story.” He said flatly.
“No, thanks.” I said, smiling and laughing nervously.
“Feeling merciful?” He said sardonically.
“I genuinely enjoyed meeting you.” I said.
“Whomst should I make this book out too?” He said, taking his pen in hand and preparing to write.
“It is spelt like this.” I said as I showed him my name badge.
“Clever reference, but what is your real name?” He asked flatly.
Chapter 17
“Mao the poet, Hitler the painter, Manson the singer,
Be nice to artists.”
Tobias H. Charles
“This is what is crosses you.” The fortune teller turns over the next card; The card depicts a tower, being destroyed by lightening. Two figures tumble out of the ruins towards the ground. Screaming.
“I doubt this is good.” I sigh.
“That depends on your outlook. Only after having your illusion of reality destroyed can you pursue your dreams. This is what is troubling you, lately, you dwell on the past to a degree that is unhealthy. Count the loss; forget the victory. You ignore the wonders flowing around you. Cosigned
to dust and perpetually mourning rather than rebuilding?” He frowns a bit as he speaks, his words are daggers entering my heart.
“Are you this blunt with everyone?” I choked up.
“The cards speak for themselves. In this case, the card spoke to me in that manner. If you had a different signifier card, or perhaps had it not been precluded by Death, then it would have meant something different, perhaps.” He said with a devil may care smile.
“The next card is what crowns you.” He said.
The chancellor, and the council stand in robes. I sit quietly in my chair. Boredom and anxiety. I want to stay forever, I want it to be over. The guest speaker takes the microphone.
“In life there are three doors to open… …” He began, and droned until we are half-asleep.
“And so in closing remember to change which door you want to open, if another of the three doors have been opened.” He said, nodding cheerfully, stupidly as forced applause begins.
We stand up and walk single file. They read out our names and hand out the degrees. Something is whispered by the chancellor to the student as they shake hands. A magic word that they had toiled for four years to achieve? The line plods forward. I wave to my mother in the audience and smile the best I can. This life has come to an end. My friends I have made here, we all divide now. The marks I earned here, count for naught from now on. That ivory tower of academia dissolves into nothing. Sinking slowly beyond the horizon.
I shuffle forward. The names are familiar now. I watch the process, bow the head, extend the hand and smile for the camera. The cameras in the audience flash, cheering of loved ones, echoed through the great hall. It is almost my turn. Three more.