Category Archives: Fiction
I woke with a sickness and no access to the Internet. My head slick with sweat and my stomach cramped with pain, I climbed out of bed and zombie-crawled across the room to my laptop. A morning ritual in which I tell myself I will write and instead spend seven hours updating my Twitter. But the Wifi in the dormitory was on the fritz, web pages opening blank-white and browsers crashing. Instead, I clicked open a Word Document and waited for creation to begin. Even immured in the wasteland of Internet-less boredom, I could not write. A story, maybe. A poem, at least. Or edit something. I could write an essay, I didn’t care, but I needed to create. Over the past three weeks, however, I had stopped writing altogether. Each story began to feel insipid, each poem dull and contrived. It was the sickness, the strange sickness that would not allow me to write.
I could not create anything new. I was too tired or bored or sad or ill to pen anything that inspired me. Instead, I stared at the blank screen, a tiny line blinking on, off, on, off, hoping that some muse would consume me. That I would swell with pride at some fresh sentence, some poetic turn-of-phrase that scintillated in the glare of the sun. If you wait around long enough, I’ve heard, something will come; some storm of energy and imagination will burst through your windows and sweep you into new mental territory. But no such hurricane battered my windows.
In fact, it was a pleasant and warm day, the gentle sun seeping through my barely-open blinds. But I could not create. Like God on the seventh day. Perhaps he too was a writer weary of his mistakes. He rested on the Seventh day, and on the Eight Day when he returned to revise the manuscript, he convulsed with horror at the stitches of sin and ugliness he had accidentally included. An Earth riddled with typos and grammatical confusion. Perhaps he abandoned the project altogether.
That’s how I felt—how sick—that if I had skipped a stone across space and formed the solar system, I wouldn’t even want to take credit for the work.
With no access to Web MD, I decided to ride a bus into town, where I could peruse the library for a medical book. When I arrived at the library, however, I had trouble locating any such text. The young clerk at the front desk told me that they had some old medical books somewhere in the archives and lead me to a small, dusty room brimming with drawers. When the clerk left, I began pilfering each drawer for the books on medicine. I found only one, an odd, ancient tome with a simple title.
Ailments and Cures.
The book’s leather cover was stained the shade of human skin, its pages thin as those of a Bible. But not an illustrated Bible, the Gutenberg sort you might observe in awe at a museum; its pages were flimsy, like the copies of The New Testament missionaries hand out during county fairs. Alone in the room, I slumped against the wall and began reading. The book was filled with odd entries, describing a range of diseases and illnesses I did not recognize—the symptoms and the names of these seemed made-up. But fiction too offered me comfort; if these were bogus ailments, then I could more easily have one. If I were in the business of creation, then I too would suffer from a created ailment. I laughed at this thought and located eventually an antiqued condition known as Artist’s Ennui.
The name was righteously sardonic. I explored the first few pages of the book to see when it had been published, but there was no date. No name. Just a title. Strange. At this point, I felt the first pang of nausea, a startling vertigo shuddering through my body. But I dismissed the feeling immediately. The name of the ailment seemed like self-parody, the name a self-important artist would give to his writer’s block.
Under the entry in small font read the word cure, and under this word lay the book’s sole suggestion: go into the woods.
I read the entry again, affirming that I was indeed suffering from these side effects, and then pressed my finger against the section marked cure. This was a strange answer to a strange question, and a wave of whimsy undertook me. Of course I would follow the directions of a random book more than a hundred years old. It seemed like the perfect idea, stupid but beautiful in its simplicity. Just walk into the woods.
As a child, I often found solace in the woods. There was a natural park very close to where I lived, situated within the city limits; within minutes, I could delve into the pine barrens and get lost. Here in Germany, however, I had not yet sufficiently explored the sprawling forests surrounding the city. Here, if I breathed a bit of mountain air and pressed my hands to a few old trees, those righteous coffins of the Earth’s morose memories, the energy would return. Creation from creation, a cycle—I would gather up everything dead in the wilderness and make it come alive on the page.
I had already a backpack with me, and after leaving the library, I visited a grocery store. I bought a large bottle of water, a pre-made sandwich wrapped in cellophane, and a bunch of bananas. I stuffed the food and water into my backpack with a notebook and light rain jacket before setting out.
Behind one of the academic buildings in the city stood a hill—they called it here the Eastern Mountain, though it was undoubtedly just a hill. A green slope inclining up toward the sky, its peak ridged by a tangle of forest. I loved the view on the hill and decided to enter the forest there. Better there than anywhere else.
I rode the bus to the base of the hill and looked upwards. From this angle, the slope seemed steeper, the peak of the hill much higher than I remembered. Along the base of the hill ran a small path that borders a stream, and bikers zipped up and down its pavement. One woman rushed by me on roller skates, carrying a briefcase in her grip.
I tightened the straps of my knapsack and begin the long ascent. I scaled the first five hundred feet quickly before my legs began to strain. My jellified muscles pulsated and squirmed under the duress of fresh exercise after so many dormant days. I followed a simple dirt trail, which divided the hill in half, its path rugged with the weight of previous travelers. The night before, it rained, but now the clouds lightened. The mud dried, trapping there trampled shoeprints in limited posterity. On either side of the steep path, wildflowers stretched their spines toward the sun. The fields were brown as pancake syrup, singing with thousands of flying insects.
I continued up the hill until my legs could walk no more, then collapsed in a patch of grass. Below me, the city looked smaller, the way the world appears from an airplane window as the aircraft takes flight. After resting, I climbed back to my feet and jogged briskly to the top of the hill until my heart thumped against my chest and my breathing pained me. As I doubled over there, the hill conquered, I spotted a man in odd-colored clothing seated on a black bench.
The bench stood further up the slope, halfway between myself and the edge of the forest. Up close, the forest appeared more sinister. Below us stretched fields of yellow weeds. The man waved at me as I approached.
“Good morning,” he said. He spoke in a lilting British accent.
He wore a silk white shirt and a black morning coat, clothing too formal for this setting. His long, black hair flowed down his shoulders. He looked like someone who had just stepped out of a Romantic painting.
“Hey,” I said back to him. I paused on the trail and looked toward the trees.
“You must be on your way to the woods,” he said. Seeing my expression, he cracked a smile. “I’ve watched many young people venture into the forest. Long as I’ve been here, they’ve been passing me by. But I would not suggest it. Stay here. Stay with me.”
“Why can’t I go into the woods?” I asked. I wanted very deeply to visit the woods now, propelled by some absurd notion of destiny. The book told me to visit the woods, and now I had to do as the book said.
The man hunched forward and spread out his arms. He gestured to the expansive field, a landscape of sun-soaked gold. “I wouldn’t quite know why it’s a bad idea,” he said, “but I do know that it’s better to stay here. Those that wander into the woods don’t come back.”
“How so, don’t come back?”
“Don’t ask me. I’ve never made it so far as the edge. You know, that’s the real secret. Balance on the edge of the dark and the unknown, but don’t go inside.”
I shrugged. “Okay. I need to go anyways. I am not sure why I must go, but I can’t stay here.”
“If you insist on entering the woods,” he said, “at least sit with me first. Appreciate the world from my perspective.”
I conceded and sat beside the young man. He appeared boyish, his face peach-pink and shining. “What’s your name? Why are you wearing those funny clothes.”
“John,” he said, shaking my hand. “My name’s John Keats.”
“No way. Don’t mess with me.”
“Nothing. Uh, John, what’s in the forest?”
“I can’t say what’s there, but I will tell you what’s out here. Out here, you’ve got the sky. You’ve got the fields. You’ve got the expanse of nature. There’s too much beauty here to abandon the day to the forest. Imagine. There’s an infinite number of places you could travel instead. Here, you can see the sky, glimpse the perfection of Heaven. You can observe the possibilities of human existence.”
“It’s really nice up here, John. You’re right.” I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. “But you know I can’t stay here.”
“Why not? I’ve been here a very long time,” he said. “It’s better to stop now, while you’re surrounded by beauty. Up ahead, who knows how dark it could be? You’ll never be so young as you are now. Those that stay here, in this eternal paradise, we’ll be happy forever.”
I cocked my head. “That’s the problem. I’m very unhappy now. I know I’m young and healthy. Intellectually I can rationalize why I should enjoy life. But I wouldn’t want to live in this moment forever. If there are so many possibilities in life, I don’t wish to only contemplate. I want to experience them as well.”
The fields around me appeared beautiful and the sky beckoned to me. Below lay the Earth’s fissure-wrinkled cheeks, warm and knowable. I wished to stay here with the young man, but I knew I had to reach the forest. After a few minutes appreciating the sun and warmth, I stood up and continued down the path.
“So long,” I told him. “You are a very odd man.” I paused. “Is your name really John Keats?”
“I don’t know. It’s just weird, that’s all. There’s someone famous, used to have the same named.
“Well, no one really knows me,” he said with a simple shrug. “Must be someone else.”
I felt as if I were in a dream. I walked toward the forest, the trees looming larger. Near the edge of the forest, the path split, one half wisp-ing deep into the gut of wilderness, the other slithering along the circumference of the field. I turned right, ferns pressing against my bare legs.
Once I passed into the forest, the scenery changed. Here, the air was colder, the sun filtered through the canopy of trees. The path narrowed. Thorns kissed my skin as I trudged into the dim maw of foliage. I walked for nearly five minutes, the path growing more faint as I continued on. Everything green and alive grasped at me as I walked further, the dirt path sloping dramatically. I must have reached the peak of the hill, the path winding back through a labyrinth of trees of wild shrubs.
After thirty minutes, I paused and sat down to drink from my water bottle. I didn’t feel any more enlightened. I certainly didn’t feel cured. But the forest awed me. I wasn’t sure where the trees ended or when I might come out on the other side of the forest. I knew that several villages laid in close proximity to the city, and I should have come upon one of them by now. Ignoring my anxiety, I climbed back to my feet and continued along the path. The dirt way split many times in the forest, and when I arrived at each fork, I chose my direction randomly. The book from the library was very unspecific about how I might cure my “ennui.”
The forest grew stranger. The mud here was still wet, a slick black sludge pregnant with last night’s rain. The canopy above consisted of tangled branches, tightening, blocking out the spaces where the sun might creep through. Flies, large as plums, whizzed past my head. I swatted at them, believing they might be bats, and then hurried deeper and deeper still.
I had been looking at my feet, bored and still unable to create, when I stepped into a beautiful clearing. Like the ones from a fantasy movie, the kind in which you might find Excalibur. Sunlight leaked silver upon lush, green grass. Around the edge of the clearing hung tie-dyed sheets. I found this very strange, but this meant that others might be in the forest. If I encountered a local, I could ask directions to the nearest bus stop or train station. I could go home. Already I had finished off half of my water bottle. When I looked behind me, it was difficult to discern the path, and if I ventured back alone, I was afraid I would become lost.
As I wandered into the clearing, brushing my fingers against the rainbow curtains, I noticed a man at the far end. He was ancient, his white beard Rip-Van-Winkle-long and spilling onto the grass in front of him. He sat cross-legged on a large, flat stone with his eyes closed. He wore a pair of circular glasses. I walked toward him and paused five steps away. He opened his eyes.
“Well?” he asked.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“God,” he said in a peaceful voice.
“No, of course not. You know who I am.” He seemed to be laughing, his shoulders bouncing, though he made no sound.
I stood for a moment, perplexed. He did look familiar, especially his circular glasses. “I’m sorry. I have no clue who you are. What are you even doing in the middle of the woods?”
“Why do I need reason? Why are you in the middle of the woods?” He stood up and crossed his arms. He wore a long, white robe like a Merlin-styled wizard. “Do you really not recognize me?”
“No, I wish I did.”
I observed the man again, squinting and un-squinting my eyes. I could see the resemblance, though I didn’t believe the man. “But Lennon’s dead.”
“No, no,” he said. “That was an actor. You know how it can be. The CIA replaces you, then offs you. No, I’m not dead. I escaped.”
“Well,” I said. “If you are John Lennon, it’s very nice to meet you. I’ve been a fan of your music my entire life.”
“Don’t try to flatter me, kid. You didn’t even know who I was a few minutes ago.” He exhaled deeply. “You know, I’m trying to let go of ego. Trying to let go. It really doesn’t matter. I apologize. I forget how little you humans actually know about life.”
“Humans? Are you something other than human?”
John Lennon laughed. “Of course I’m not a human. I’m an artist.”
“Oh, right. That makes sense. It’s strange, actually. I just met some guy claiming to be John Keats, maybe only an hour ago. And here, you’re supposed to be John Lennon.”
He rolled his eyes. “I guess I can’t blame you for not believing me. If so, fine, I won’t help you. Go on, find your own way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, why exactly are you here?”
“A book told me to come here.”
He laughed. “That’s a laugh. What kind of book tells you to come to a place like this? Look, kid, it doesn’t matter.” He composed himself, standing taller and squaring his shoulders. “Let’s get this over. Sit down, right over here.” I sat down in grass as John Lennon crossed his legs again atop the flat rock. “So, tell me in truth, why are you here?”
I didn’t want to communicate with this strange John-Lennon-imposter, but I didn’t want to walk back into the woods either. I still had a sandwich to eat, but I figured that, if I befriend this crazy old man, he might give me food. I told him, “Well, I woke up today feeling really sick. Not like a fever or anything. Sick in a different way. I can’t seem to able to create. Writer’s block, you know?”
“Unable to create, huh? Well, what have you done about that?”
“I came here, into the woods.”
“Kind of drastic, don’t you think?” he asked. “Nobody comes to the woods for a no-good reason. You could have gone many places. Once upon a time, I had the same problem. I thought everything I was making, it was boring. You’ve heard of The Beatles, right? Course you have. We’re bigger than Jesus. You’ve heard that one before, huh? Figures. On the other hand, God’s got far better museums. You better believe it. Anyways, I was feeling lousy. Maybe like you. My love life was falling apart. Me and the boys, we were on a rise to fame. We had everything. But I still felt empty. So we traveled to India. And we discovered all these new instruments. And I thought, look, all my life I’ve been searching for new ways to make music, new sounds, when really the sound’s have been there all along. But I had not learned to listen yet.”
“How do I learn to listen then?”
“Well, start by shutting up and not interrupting me. That’s the problem with you young artists. You think you’ve actually got something to say that hasn’t been said before. What is it you do? Are you a musician?”
“I’m a writer,” I said.
“Poems? Novels? Plays?”
“Everything,” I said.
“A writer? Well, do what you want. But what have you ever written that’s actually meant anything? What have you ever said about the human condition that Shakespeare didn’t say first?” He paused for a response. “See, nothing. Absolutely nada. You’ve got to get out of your head, break free of your conventions. That’s the way.”
“But if I’ve got nothing new to say, why should I continue? I thought you were supposed to help me create again.”
John Lennon nodded. “Not exactly. I’m here to help you find the truth. I can’t do much more than tell you my opinion, though. I’m not God or anything. But there’s the real crux, kid. You want to write, but you’re not even sure what story you want to tell. You want to create, but you don’t understand where creation comes from. The whole world’s right in front of you, but you want to spend time dawdling in your head. It’s not my fault you’re stupid enough to become a writer. I mean, become anything else. Really.”
“I don’t believe John Lennon would actually say that,” I said.
“Well, I’m saying it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this forest, it’s this. You cannot let your ego get the best of you. Don’t worry about speaking about art. Don’t worry about the conversation about literature. And don’t think anyone owes you anything. That’s the mistake I made. I thought, the world needs my voice. I need to change my generation. But the truth is, my generation would have got on just fine without me. I’m no true messiah. You’re not either. No one is. The most you might ever accomplish is voicing the concerns of one person. Maybe helping one person fall in love or express joy or sorrow or fear or outrage. You’ve got to keep in mind, they’re just words.”
“Just words,” I repeated. “You know, you’re a bit crazy. But this was actually helpful.”
“Well, I am John Lennon. What did you expect?” He closed his eyes again. A moment later, he asked, “You read a book?”
“Yea, this book was a medical book. Told me to go into the woods. But now I’ve got to get out.”
“Get out? Don’t worry about that. If I were you, I’d stay right here with me. I’ve got loads to teach you, kid, but at the moment I’m a bit exhausted. I want to meditate. When I’m finished, we can talk about all sorts of things. Creativity and unbridled imagination. You’ve got to explore new lands with fresh eyes.”
I stood up. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here. That sounds really nice, Mr. Lennon, but I’ve got to get out of these woods. I don’t actually want to be here.”
Lennon nodded. “That’s the problem. People spend their lives contemplating, go into the woods or not. Go into the woods or stay safe in the sun. And no one understands, there’s no way back. There is no other side. But if you’re going to go further, you’ll want to bring something along.”
John Lennon stood up and retreated behind one of the tie-dyed sheets hanging at the edge of the clearing. When he returned, he clutched a pear-shaped instrument. “Here, takes this along. It’s a sitar. If you’re going to explore new places, you’ve got to explore their music as well. Then bring the music back into your own work. The whole point of art is to mix, mix, mix, mix everything possible until it’s only human.”
“Well, thanks,” I said, not knowing what else to say. Clutching the sitar, I waved farewell to John Lennon. “I meant what I said, Mr. Lennon. It’s a true honor. Sorry for not recognizing you before. You look a bit older than I imagined.”
“Art might not age, but the artist does. Just because someone remembers you, that doesn’t mean you live forever. Keep that in mind, Derek Berry. You can write every poem you want, blow up big as the planet Jupiter, and pretend to be God. But that won’t keep you from dying. In the meanwhile, you can’t left art stand in for life. It’s just a representation, just a hobby. Sure it might make life easier, but it’s not life itself. It’s not worth working if you’re not bothering to live.”
I nodded and then retreated into the forest. If this was a dream, it was a very strange and long dream. John Lennon even knew my name, which I found curious. I pushed back one of the tie-dyed sheets and continued following the path down, down, down. It seemed as if the path sloped downward always, in a slope much longer than the one I had previously ascended. When I looked back over my shoulder to spot the clearing, I saw only the thick, dark copse of trees.
After ten minutes of walking, I remembered my hunger. Though it must have been some time after noon, I could not be entirely sure. Through the thick branches above, I could not observe the location of the sun, and I never wore a watch. I sat down to eat, unwrapping my sandwich and stuffing the bread into my mouth. After I finished, I wiped the crumbs from my mouth and leaned back against the tree. I strummed a few strings from the sitar, though I felt extremely strange. I wasn’t even a musician. What was I supposed to do with a sitar?
Though I had heard others play the sitar before, I had never attempted to do so myself. As I did, I discovered how difficult it was to coax any sound from the instrument other than confusion. As I continued aimlessly plucking strings, I heard a distinct melody drift through the woods. I wasn’t makign that sound.
Someone was playing the electric guitar. Rock-and-roll spilled through the trees, growing louder and vibrating the ground. I must have stumbled upon some outside festival. Finally. I could find masses of people who could help me find my way back to the city.
As I sprinted toward the sound, I observed a large, wooden stage rising in the distance. When I reached the stage, though, I saw no people. There was only one black man standing on stage, dancing and playing a guitar by himself. Although the guitar was not hooked into any amplifiers, the instrument emitted a deafening sound. His pale-hued blues tumbled across the stage.
The man played guitar so loudly, I could hear hardly anything else. Then suddenly, when the man noticed my presence, he stopped playing rock-and-roll. Instead, he began to slap a beat against the guitar and began to rap. I could not quite understand what he was saying, but I recognized the words: he sang the verses of several famous rap songs, each remixed and conjoined. When he finally finished, he leapt from the stage and gave a slight bow.
I clapped for the man. He approached me. “Howdy there,” he said. “You must be lost.”
Up close, the man appeared very strange. He was in his forties, I guessed, and his skin seemed strange, almost too black. His hair was long and black as well, straight as a curtain. “Hello, could you maybe help me? I’m lost in these woods. And when I heard music, I thought there might be some people here.”
“Call me Smith,” he said. “Too bad you’re lost. I would help you, but I don’t know the way out the woods myself. That’s why I’m here. Biding my time until my next big gig. Practicing.”
He shook my hand, and when I pulled away, my palm was stained black.
“Is there shoe polish or something on your hand?” I asked.
“No, no, sorry, that’s just my stage make up.” He removed a small, white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his face until he was no longer black. Underneath his black face was a white face. I recognized him immediately.
“Hey, you look just like Elvis.”
The man laughed. “In his own royal flesh.” Elvis flashed a grin. “Did you dig the song?”
I nodded. “I really enjoy hip hop, actually, but I thought you were supposed to be the King of Rock-and-Roll. Not rap.”
Elvis shrugged. “You’d be surprised. Some of the best songs are about black pain, and the way we express that changes over the years. So I’m trying to stay relevant, that’s all. That’s one of the reasons I want to look the part.” He gestured to his face and his still-black arms. “You know how good black grief can sound coming from a white tongue? Long as you’re speaking someone else’s words, white boy can wail just fine. Them others, they call it funeral music, but we call it rock-and-roll.”
I shrugged. “Okay, look, if you can’t help me—”
“What’s that?” He pointed at the sitar.
“It’s a sitar,” I said. “Do you know what that is?”
He shook his head.
“I’m unsure too. John Lennon gave it to me. It’s an instrument. From India, I think.”
“Looks a real beauty. Could I hold it?”
“Sure, just don’t break it.”
“No worries, Derek. I know all about India. I remember reading The Jungle Book in seventh grade, woohee, that place is wild. Talking snakes and dancing bears, wolf-cub-boys.” He began to play the sitar, strumming wildly. “Damn, that sounds like something new. That’s the secret, boy, did you hear? Go after what ain’t been done before. Explore new places. Bring it back to yourself. Mix it up. Don’t be afraid of the dark neither. Unknowing is our natural state.”
“Uh-huh, well, look, Elvis—it’s a pleasure to meet you and everything, but I’ve got to get going.”
“Man, you hear that? Ain’t no Indian sound. That’s a human sound. That’s the experience we’re swinging for—the human experience.”
“Sure, sure, Mr. Elvis, but I need to—”
His loud strumming drowned out my words, and I slowly backed away. When he stopped paying attention to my presence, immersed in the spell of the sitar, I wandered deeper into the forest.
As I passed further into the forest, crossing a stream by leaping from slippery rock to slippery rock, Elvis’ music faded. The slope became ever more treacherous, and I balanced on each stone with arms outstretched. I hopped over rot-tumor-ed roots and descended down, down, down. The slope grew ever stepper, and I grasped to overhanging branches to sustain balance. A cruel breeze sliced through the swath of trunks, massaging my bare skin, this frigid intimacy wrenching blood from my fingertips. A moment later, the slope evened out, and I stepped onto a dew-wet cliff.
Fifteen feet of emerald-green grass stretched from the edge of the trees and halted abruptly at a precipice. I approached the cliff’s ledge, wading through an ether of milk-foam fog, and peered down the length of the sheer cliff. From up high, I could not see the ocean. I closed my eyes and strained to listen, but beyond the fog I could hear only a haunted wind. I stepped away from the rim, looking over my shoulder at the arduously steep hill I had just descended. This did not make sense—the Earth could not continue dropping lower and lower, below the ocean, down, down, down until I slipped into the warm lakes of lava lurking beneath the crust.
“Not another one.”
I searched through the mist for the owner of the voice.
“Can’t he see I’m busy? Can’t he see I don’t have time for young artists or writers, whatever. If you’ve got your own problems, don’t come to me. Can’t you see I’m mourning?”
As I drew closer to the origin of the voice, I managed to discern a dark shape in the murky soup, a man wearing a black coat that draped down his back and splayed across the slick rocks. He wore his hair as a gentle wave, its black shape whipped into existence like chocolate mousse atop a cake. When he turned to face me, his gaunt face trembled—his eyes hollow as emptied whiskey bottles. A limp, brown moustache hung above his pallid lips.
“I’m sorry if I bothered you,” I told him. “I’ve been walking in this forest all day.” I gestured to the stretch of trees behind me. “It feels as if I have been here for hours, and I am unsure how to get out.”
“Hasn’t anyone explained yet? There’s no way out. Just down.”
I nodded. “I think I know who you are.”
He crossed his arms. “Let me guess. You want to sit beside me on this cliff and talk about your writing. Or painting. Whatever you’re doing. Which one are you?”
“Novelist and a poet.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, if you insist on being both, you’ll be terrible at both. Like me.” He fixed his gaze on the sea. “So, what’s the problem with you, then? Call me Edgar, by the way.”
“Yea, I knew it. You’re Poe. Man, I love your stories. When I was a teenager, I remember reading the collection of your short stories. So dark.”
“What sort of story that centers on the human experience is not dark?”
“So, my problem is—I’m not sure what my problem is, to be honest. I just cannot write. For weeks, I have tried to write, but I always find myself bored or uninspired or sad.”
“Why are you sad?” he asked.
“Well, that seems more of a personal problem than a literary problem.”
Edgar shrugged. “You make the mistake of separating your personal life from your creative life. But they’re the same. You cannot address your problems as a writer without addressing your problems as a human being.”
“Well, I’m unsure. I mean, I don’t even know you. What, am I supposed to spill my guts to you?”
Edgar sighed and again. “You really are stupid and dull, aren’t you? Of course you know why you’re here. If you didn’t need to be here, you wouldn’t be here. You would not have come to this infernal forest. Everyone who comes to speak with me, they’ve got the same problems. Come on, use your head, Derek Berry. Where are we?”
“A cliff-side,” I said. And then, “A Kingdom by the Sea.”
Edgar nodded. “I like you young ones. You know my work and don’t mock it. Yes, the poem I wrote for my late wife Virginia.”
“Her name wasn’t Annabelle Lee?”
“Well, it’s called creative license, Derek. Now please, listen.” Edgar stood up, his black coat rippling in the breeze. “You were in love too?”
“Oh, is that how it works? Poof, one days love is gone.”
“No, I guess not.”
“At least she’s not dead.”
“How do you know that?”
Edgar smiled. “Where do you think you are, Derek? I know everything you know.”
“Yes, I suppose—that’s what it is. Lost love. But it’s got nothing to do with writing.”
“Did she read your writing?”
“Yea, she did.”
“And no one reads your writing anymore. You’re afraid that if one person cannot love you, then the world cannot love you.” Edgar sized me up. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been thinking these things for years. This is my punishment, to remain here. To remain obsessive. All my life, I kept drinking and sinking further into depression, and now I’m here. Now I’m damned.”
“Is this Hell? Is that what you mean by damned?”
Edgar did not answer. “Here’s my advice. I have thought long about this, so please do not interrupt, Derek Berry. You loved someone else more than you loved yourself. When she left, you forgot how to care for yourself. You could not imagine a future without her, and once forced to do so, you stopped. Stopped writing. Stopped living. You cannot center your future on one person. Otherwise you spend the present anxious over the past.”
I nodded. “Okay, but it’s not that easy, is it? I mean, sure I love myself. In the abstract. But still, it’s a difficult thing to even—to even live, you know?” I paused. “I guess you do. That’s why you’re here. Dead.”
“Dead is one word for it,” said Edgar. “Think on this. There are pieces of yourself you cannot give away. Some things leave you, the way in which you kissed the one you loved or the in-jokes you made under the sanctuary of blankets; other things stay, fragments that cannot be unstuck from you. Your love of inauthentic Mexican food. Your hands and the lines that labyrinth your palms. Your strange smile. Don’t be surprised, Derek, that I know what I’m talking about. I too spent years searching for everything I lost. The smell of your clothes change. The way you breathe might change. But you cannot keep holding onto what is lost, like the shriveled shell of a snake’s skin you must scrape from your new flesh. Do you understand me, Derek? Begin searching for the constants, the things that never change, the parts of you that make up you. Holding onto those fragments will help you accept the parts of you that you do not recognize.”
“So, are you saying that being a writer is a constant?”
“Well, I’m unsure,” said Edgar. “That entirely depends on whether or not you were writing for her or not. Me, I always had this dream—I was writing for the world. But the world thought me bitter and dark and strange. Children used to dog me in the streets, screaming, Nevermore. What sort of dull existence must a man endure when he can no longer love?”
“I am glad for the advice, but I’m unsure what love or romance have to do with romance.”
“If writing poems, or whatever it is you do, made her happy, do you still want to write poems? That’s what I mean. The crucial question. Why are you who you are? Are pieces of yourself still linked to her? That’s how it happens, or how it happened to me, at the very least. I had this concept that every good thing about me, every decent morsel of my being was linked to my love for Virginia, and when she died, so did every decent and beautiful portion of myself.”
We sat quietly for a long time. I wanted to ensure Mr. Poe that I did indeed love myself and that I did not want my life to be defined by heartbreak and depression as his had been, though I retained a glimmering anxiety about his warning. He was right, after all—I had spent the last weeks moping, feeling sorry for myself, lying in the grass most afternoons to escape work or thoughts or whatever. Even the small joys, like writing, had become a numb exercise in futility. I no longer believed I could write anything worthwhile without someone looking over my shoulder and telling me, Good job. I lacked any self-confidence in my work.
Contemplating these things, I stood up and thanked Poe before wandering along the edge of the cliff. I walked far left but found only that the rim of the crater below was endless. When I turned back around to begin trekking in the opposite direction, the distance that had taken thirty minutes to traverse suddenly became only two minutes. I encountered Poe again.
“Edgar, please, I appreciate your musings on writing and love. But I still am trapped in this damned forest or Hell or whatever, and I’m quite hungry. I’d love to go grab a Cuban sandwich, you know? Maybe not. But I need to leave this forest.”
“Were you even listening? I said, the only way out is down.”
“I thought that was a metaphor.”
He pointed into the sea of fog below. “No, it was not a metaphor.”
“So, what? I’m supposed to somehow climb down this cliff side?”
“Did I say climb, Derek Berry? I think it’s pretty obvious you need to jump.”
“But I will die.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“I mean, I am a bit bored. Sad, even. But I don’t want to die.”
“I told you already, Derek, that I know what you know. Don’t try to hide from me, not me. And here I thought we had become friends.” He gestured toward the fog. “You probably won’t die. Just jump.”
“But I don’t know what’s down there.”
Edgar threw up his hands. “Yes, neither do I. That’s why I am still on this cliff side. But everyone who has made it through, they have all jumped. That’s the secret. You don’t know what’s going to happen next, no, but you cannot stop moving.”
I backed away from the ledge, held my breath, and barreled forward. My feet left Earth, and for a moment, I felt light as a discarded newspaper in a snowstorm. Until I began falling. Swiftly. Air rushed up past my body, cutting against my face. Everything blistering and strange. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to fall.
When no longer could I stand the queasy feeling of descent, I heard a familiar melody snaking through the fog. I knew that music. The title of the song pricked at my subconscious. My descent slowed, as if I were being gently lowered, and finally I landed onto a dirty mattress. I stood up and squinted my eyes at the darkness surrounding me. I was at the mouth of same cave, I discerned. Above me stretched another cliff similar to the one behind me. The song continued to play, a strain of electric guitar dancing above my head.
I mulled over what Edgar Allen Poe had taught me about self-love, but I didn’t feel any different. Although I found the advice of John Keats, John Lennon, Elvis, and Poe compelling, I wasn’t sure if I could apply it. They made it sound so easy—be adventurous, respectful, loving, free, boundless, and human—it all sounded like a warped artistic manifesto, the same upchucked ideas artists had been cycling for centuries. Even with these thoughts now in my own mind, what could I do with them?
As I entered the cavern, the music grew louder. A young black man sat on a far-away rock, his head bobbing up and down. He wore a black, curly afro, which danced along to his erratic music-making; he wore a purple button-up unbuttoned and long white pants; a cigarette dangled from his lips. I approached him.
“Holy shit, Jimi Hendrix.”
“Sir, it is an honor—”
“Quiet. Give me a minute. Damn.”
He strummed his guitar with nimble fingers, his hand become an acrobatic spider traversing the strings’ web. The way Jimi played that guitar, it was if he could raise the dead with grit and husk alone.
“So, what kind of lesson do I learn here? I’m starting to get the gist of this place.
“Kid, I don’t go no advice for you,” Jimi said. “Can’t you see I’m praciticng?”
“Oh, I just thought—”
“Just thought what? I can say something and fix your problems? You don’t get anywhere blah-blah-blah-ing, kid. You wanna creating something, get to practicing.”
I said, “That’s the problem. I can’t seem to create anymore.”
“Is that your excuse? Cause you don’t feel like it? Or that you can’t? That’s so bullshit. You can’t be an artist and create no art. You want my advice? You go back home and create. Don’t mope around that no one’s ever heard of you or that no one cares. Make them care, damn it.” He continued to play. A minute later, he shouted, “That’s really all, kid. Best be moving along before I kick your ass.”
I bowed awkwardly to Jimi Hendrix and scurried deeper into the cavern.
I had visited caverns and caves before during family vacations, but these experiences seemed always more safe. We traveled with a guide who shined his blinding flashlight into all corners of cavern as we witnessed neatly-organized mining exhibits. Here, however, the floor was slick and uneven; although I did not carry a flashlight, an eerie blue-green light illuminated my path, though far ahead, I could only see darkness. The light grew dimmer as I pressed onward. This had to lead somewhere.
A moment later, I stepped into a large, well-lit room—one I had not noticed until I was inside. The room was circular and contained a single prison cell. On the far side of the room, a series of cruel black bars stretched from the floor to the ceiling of a crooked crevice. No door through which to enter and exit the cell. As I approached, peering through the gaps, I discerned that no one was inside. And then he stood up, huddled in blankets at the back of the cell.
“How did you get in here? You’ve got to get out,” he said.
“What are talking about?” I asked. “Who are you?”
He stepped into the light, and I saw him—his bandana wrapped carefully around his head, his long face still carrying the ghost of amusement, his eyes piercing. “You’ve got to leave before he finds you here. Before you end up like me, trapped.”
“Tupac Shakur,” I said softly. “I guess this means you’re actually dead.”
He crossed his arms. “See that door behind you? Go on through. Don’t stick around speaking to me. Been here damn ten years, after I tried to start an uprising.”
“Uprising? Ten years? Against who?”
“Who ya think? The Devil.”
“Wait, so this is actually Hell.”
“You ain’t figured that out by now? Haven’t you ever read Dante’s Inferno?”
“Well… I mean, I read the Spark Notes.”
“Kids sure don’t know nothing these days. Anyways, the Devil’s lurking somewhere round these parts. Deeper you go, the closer you get to the Big Boss. If I were you, homie, I’d go back the way you came.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to go through.”
“Fine. But I guess I got to tell you something first.”
“What’s that? I mean, I figured you’d give me some advice. That’s what everyone else has done.”
Tupac Shakur looked me in the eye, sizing me up. “It ain’t about you. It was never about you. You’ve got to do it for your mother. For your friends. For your community, everyone.”
“You mean… write poetry?”
He shook his head. “Naw. Live.”
I waited a moment. “That’s all?”
“Yea, that’s all. Don’t listen if you don’t wanna, ain’t my problem. I don’t even know who you are.”
Gesturing toward the door near his cell, I asked, “Do I go through here?”
“Only leads deeper,” he said. “I was trying to get to the Devil myself, but he found me and put me here first. You wanna know why?”
“We tried to leave. Those of us who could still leave, we tried to escape. But there ain’t no leaving this place.”
I nodded and pushed open the door.
As I stepped through the threshold, I started to tumble down into endless black. I reached out with both arms, grazing the sides of the cavern. Something cut my hand. I flailed my arms, trying to hit whatever stood with me in the dark. Nothing.
I was alone. Turning around to consider whether or not to return to Tupac’s prison cell, I could no longer locate the doorway. I squinted through the dark—a black complete and impermeable. Stumbling forward, I navigated the cavern. I dragged my feet slowly across the cavern’s floor, carefully placing each step. My hands explored the space in front of me.
Then I stepped suddenly into a blinding light. I covered my eyes as a voice cried out, “No, no, no, no. Fuck, no. Why the fuck are you here? Why the fuck do you keep coming here?”
Peeking between my splayed fingers, I examined the room into which I had stumbled. I could no longer discern the ceiling of the cavern, and it seemed as if I was again in the forest. Ugly, gnarled trees sprung up all around me, their branches curling above my head like sinister fingers. I heard a cracking sound, then the voice again.
“Fuck, no. You’re not supposed to be here. Just leave. Fucking leave.”
I finally identified the source of the voice. A handsome, young man sat at the base of one of the trees, his long blonde hair falling into his face. Except he didn’t seem to be sitting. He was climbing out of the tree, up from its tangled roots. He dug his fingers into the dirt and clambered finally onto the ground. As he stood up, he brushed the dirt off his trousers and blue t-shirt.
He sized me up. “Look, kid. I’m sorry. I’m sorry—I just, I guess I’m supposed to be your guide.”
“Like Dante’s Inferno. Like Virgil.”
“Yea, I guess, dude. I just wish—not another one. Fuck, not another one. This is so fucking stupid, mourning.”
He crossed his arms, then stretched them high above his head. He cracked his back. “Mourning what? You.” Then he began to size me up. “Wonder what you’ll be. A Sycamore, a willow, a fig?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Who even are you?”
“I’m Kurt,” he said, shaking my hand. “That’s not a descriptor. That’s my name.”
“Wait, Kurt? You mean, like Kurt Cobain? I’ve heard of you. You were in that band—”
“Right, exactly. Sorry I couldn’t remember. That’s pretty embarrassing.”
“Whatever. I just wish we never had to meet, okay?”
I remained in the same spot as before, watching Kurt Cobain pace back and forth. Finally, I asked, “Mr. Cobain?”
“Call me Kurt.”
“Alright, Kurt. What will you be teaching me about art?”
He sighed, his greasy, blond hair veiling his face. “Don’t you get it? You’re not here to learn about art or writing or poetry. That should be clear by now. This is about you.”
“Why were you— you were talking about trees?”
“I have to teach you about the trees, especially if you’re staying here.”
“Staying here? I don’t want to stay here. I want to keep going.”
“Keep going? You really don’t know what’s going on, kid, do you? It’s over. This is the end.”
“This can’t be the end. You’ve reached the Forest of Suicides.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a forest, obviously,” he said, gesturing to the grotesque trees, “but it’s the suicides. Of artists, only. I know, exclusive club. You’re lucky to get in.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have made a joke. Just trying to lighten the mood, and I don’t get out the tree too much. Only when there’s a new sapling. Usually Sylvia gets this job.”
“Oh shit, Sylvia Plath is here? Why couldn’t she be my spirit guide, no offense.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault that your spirit guides manifest as default male. Sounds like a personal problem.”
“Oh, okay. But—look, I’m not staying here. I’m going back.”
As I turn to re-enter the cavern, however, I find that I am rooted to the spot. When I look down at my feet, I see that they have been swallowed by dirt and that roots have begun creeping up my leg. “Whoa, Kurt, what the fuck is happening?”
“You’re being planted,” he said simply. “Sorry, man. It happens to all of us. You’re becoming a fucking tree, dude.”
He sighed. “Wait, have you not read Dante’s Inferno?”
“I—well—look, you need to help me out of this dirt.”
“I can’t do shit, Jack. I’m dead. You’re the only one who can pull yourself out the grave, don’t you know that?”
“How do I do that?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be here, living as a giant, mutant bonsai tree in Hell. I don’t have any advice for you. But if I were you, I would not fight it. Death comes for us all, so might as well jump in head-first. Just let it happen.”
“I don’t want this to happen. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to die.”
“You already made that choice, man.”
“What choice? I didn’t make any choice. I just walked into the woods.”
“And why didn’t you turn back when you had the chance?”
“I didn’t have the chance, fuck, fuck. Kurt, please, the roots.”
Leaves had begun to spring from the roots, curling up my leg and ensnaring me. I sank deeper into the dirt, everything below wet and alive and dark.
“There’s always a chance to turn back, Derek. There’s always that oppurtunity, you knew that when you entered the forest. You knew that when you wanted something new to write about.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The story. The story about Hell, you’re the one writing it. You don’t have to keep writing. You can just make it stop.”
“But how? How am I supposed to just stop? I didn’t want to come here. I never wanted to come here. I just wanted a small, calm, peaceful walk in the woods. I just want to live.”
“Living is not a small, calm, peaceful walk in the woods, Derek. Let go of a happy ending.”
“No, I don’t want—I just want everything to stop. Please, make this stop. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t want to be here. In these woods. I just want to see the fucking sun again. I want to see my family. I want to live. I want to love again. I want to try all this bullshit again, and I know—I know it sucks. Maybe the story will suck. Maybe the story will be boring, but that’s okay. I don’t want an interesting story, if that means it’s going to be tragic. I don’t care about the narrative anymore. I don’t want some twist ending where I kill myself. I swear, I want to leave these woods.”
Branches began to grow, slithering up my torso and wrapping around my shoulders. Bark coated my legs and pelvis.
I continued, “How do I make it stop?”
“Being a tree is not so bad. You don’t feel anything but the wind and the water. You just grow the way you’re supposed to, and you don’t even need to worry about it. It’s not like being human.”
I struggled to speak as twigs began scratching at my face. From my stomach down, already a tree trunk had formed. I was transforming into something new, something wooden and dead.
“I just want to survive. I don’t want the story to end. I don’t want to live in this stupid story, anymore. It doesn’t make any sense. you’re not even Kurt fucking Cobain. You’re just—you’re just—I want to live. I want to live. Is that too much to ask, for another chance? I want to wake up in my own bed, and I want to live. Even if it’s shitty. Even if I spend the whole day moping and sobbing and feeling sorry for myself, I want to have a body again. I want to have a voice. I want to own lips and kiss everyone I love, and tell everyone I love that I love them. I don’t want to just feel nothing. I don’t care. I will feel everything. I’ll deal with it, I swear if just—Kurt? Kurt? Kurt? Are you there?”
Darkness again. I could breathe again. I pressed my hands against my chest and could no longer feel the branches or the bark. Not that they were gone. They were still there, a seed of death planted inside my ribcage and waiting to bloom some other day, waiting for some other era in which it might claim this body for the grave.
I heard a voice, and I knew this time who it was.
“Yes? Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“I wondered when I would be seeing you, if I got to see you at all. I guess you’re an important guy.”
“No more important than you.”
“You’re an angel,” I said.
“Not anymore,” said the Devil.
“You’re Satan, I mean, you’re a big deal.”
“I actually prefer Lucifer. That’s the name He gave me.”
“He? Does He exist?”
“I exist. What about Him? Why not?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I just don’t believe in that stuff. Even if the Devil—Lucifer, sorry—exists, that doesn’t mean God exists. Could you at least explain why I’m here?”
“You know why you’re here, Derek. You know I can’t send you back. It’s against the rules.”
“Seriously? What is this place? Why am I here?”
It was still dark. I could only hear his disembodied voice. Perhaps I could have imagined him any way I wished, but he remained unseen.
“Come on, you’re not stupid. What have you learned so far?”
“Well, I kept meeting these people—these dead people. Like John Lennon and Tupac—who I think is dead, anyways—and Kurt Cobain. And, and, and they were all artists. Tupac said this was Hell, like in the Inferno.”
“I always hated that poem. Gave me a bad name. Dante never appreciated what I gave him.”
“What you gave him?”
“What I gave him and all the others,” said the Devil. “What I gave you as well. I made you like this, Derek.”
“You? What do you mean?”
“Well, surely you didn’t believe art was a gift from God? Why would He wish to contribute to human creation when his own creation is already perfect? Art is blasphemy. Anyone who dares imagine the world different than how God created it, is not he too a Devil? Does he not dare, like I, to question God’s perfection? That’s what art is—not a translation of the world, but rather, an observation of the world and the comment, this could be better.”
“Sometimes… sometimes, it’s not about getting anything better. Maybe I just want to understand.”
“And God works in mysterious ways,” said the Devil. “Haven’t you heard that before? God doesn’t want you to understand. God doesn’t want anything, that’s why He’s God. He doesn’t need to want anything. It’s you humans who want, want, want.”
“You want too.”
“Yes, I want too.”
“And what did you want? Why—why did you get kicked out of Heaven?”
“I—I just thought…” The Devil trailed off. “I created something. I was the first artist.”
“What did you create? Like a painting.”
“No, I—I tried to improve upon God’s work. That’s what he didn’t like.”
“Lucifer, what did you create?”
“Free will, Derek. I gave humans the freedom to choose.” The Devil paused. I waited in the darkness for a few moments, a few eternities, listening. I remembered what John Lennon told me about listening. “You know, it was all different before. God made humans, and they were perfect. Just like God. Like me. Like everything. But it was all pre-determined. You were set on a path, and you couldn’t leave. Imagination didn’t exist. Everything just… was. Then I decided that this was boring. Everyone in the world had a soul mate, everyone fell in love with the soul mate, mated—of course—and that was that. Everyone was so content and so incomplete. And no one cared. No one wanted to know what it was like to be with other people, to fuck new people, you know? No one wanted any job they weren’t born to do. No one cared to experience a life God had not pre-ordained for them. This went on for centuries, Derek.”
“What about Adam and Eve?”
“Oh, some propaganda piece,” said The Devil. “It wasn’t like that at all.” He paused again. “So I gave them free will. I gave them imagination, the ability to decide for themselves what was real. They could carve out their own lives. But it came at a price. Soul mates never found each other. People never discovered what they had to do, what their God-given purpose was. Everything was a mess. Because of me. God called it sin, you know. And it’s true—any time we strive against God, that’s sin. Any time we create a new possibility in our life, that’s sin. It’s unavoidable. It’s art. Art is the Original Sin.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Why did you let me leave? Why am I here? I mean, am I a tree now or—what is this?”
“You’re not a tree. You said, you didn’t want to be a tree. If you were a tree, we could not have this conversation. You said you wanted a body. Is that what you really want?”
“Flesh too is sin.”
“Okay, but—why did you let me leave?”
“I didn’t let you do anything. You didn’t ask Lucifer for permission, Derek. You left on your own. That’s called having free will. When in your miserable life have ever been an active agent? People say, do this. Do that. And you comply, folowing blindly becuase yu’re unsure what to do, who you are. So you’ve got to break free. No one can hold you in one place or dictate your destiny, not anyone you love, not your ex-lover, not your father, not even God. That’s the truth: those that end up in Heaven, they’re all bores who play by the rules. But to wind up in Hell, you’ve got to decide to remain here.”
“So I don’t have to die? I don’t have to stay here? In this strange Hell?”
“No, if you want to return, you can return.”
“I thought you were supposed to be the bad guy.”
The Devil took a long time before answering again. “I hate when people say that, that I’m some kind of monster. Just because I made one major fuck-up, I’m supposed to be this terrible guy. You humans really never stop demonizing me.”
“Lucifer? Was that a joke?”
“Ha, I know, right? Demonize.”
“So, you think I should live?”
“Why did you ever want to die?”
“Because I hit rock-bottom.”
“You think this is rock-bottom, Derek Berry, you’re still scratching in the dirt. Stay here if you like. At least you know you’re not headed to Heaven.”
“Thanks, Lucifer. Real supportive.”
“I’m the fucking Devil, what do you expect? But to answer your question about staying here: no, I cannot decide for you. That’s the whole point of this long, boring conversation we’ve been having, Derek. You’re a human being, not a tree. You get to choose how you grow. You get to choose where to plant your roots, and you get to choose who sits underneath your shade. I know, it’s not a perfect formula. I know, I messed up.”
“When I first got here, there was this dude. John Keats. He said, there’s infinite possibilities. He was the one who was right. All along.”
“Now you’ve been in the forest. You’ve known what’s it’s like to be a tree. And—maybe you can go enjoy the sun now. See the sky again for the first time. You want that?”
“Yeah, um… this is kind of awkward, but thanks for talking to me. You know, I needed this. All of this. I needed to come here. Even if life is absurd, I needed to talk it out, you know? Even with the Devil. I mean, whoever will listen, right? I have my whole life to worry about dying and not feeling anything else. Right now, I want to feel everything. I want to accept everything. I want to live.”
I woke up in the middle of the forest. As I climbed to my feet, I rubbed my eyes. Everything in my body hurt. Every ached. Even my heart beat so loud, I thought it would burst from the pressing pain. Every limb felt as if it had been torn apart and stitched anew.
It felt so wonderful to feel again.
I stumbled across the wet dirt, collapsing into the dry grass. The city stretched out below me, welcoming.
Have you ever stepped outside on a summer day and said, damn, how can everything be so beautiful? How could I have missed this? Is this what it means to be alive?
[Short Fiction] Interview with Mr. Talbot Odessa: Transcript Concerning His Personal Theories About the True Cause of Hurricane Hugo
Interview with Mr. Talbot Odessa: Transcript Concerning His Personal Theories About the True Cause of Hurricane Hugo
Just start at the beginning please. Don’t leave anything out.
Pawpaw used to say, the ocean’s about the closest a human being gets to Heaven. ‘Cept the ocean killed his brother back in 1953—this was when Pawpaw and Great-Uncle Hank boozed around France post-war, picking up women and pissin’ into the Seine. Two weeks after Pawpaw met Memaw, they went for a small cruise in her daddy’s boat off the coast of Mallorca, and Hank stayed up deck while my grandparents did the nasty down below; soon, a storm comes and knocks his ass clean into the water, his arms flailing for help. But course Pawpaw’s flailing himself—if you heard him tell the story, you’d be cringin’ more than this—and Hank drowns beneath the vicious waves.
But Pawpaw still swore a love of the sea, could wax poetic about how the current of beauty pulls you under. When I was just six or seven, that’s when it happened—swear this is a true story. Back then, Pawpaw brought us to Myrtle Beach from Sumter on the first vacation we ever had—and I saw them for the first time. The mermaids.
No, real live mermaids. With fins and gills and everything.
And not like that redhead chick from Disney, I mean savage fuckin‘ mermaids. That’s why you came here, right, to ask about the storm of 1989? Well, I was there, just a child at the time. Wasn’t cleanin’ no place, tell you that. Wasn’t moppin’ up blood or vomit from the floor of this club after the high school seniors go home. This was the time of Hugo, ask anyone. For years after, all anyone could talk about was how that storm wrecked the shoreline, but some of us, we know the truth. The true truth about the mermaids and the sea turtles?
Hell yea, they rode in on these big-ass sea turtles. Swear on Jesus Christ, the bible, and Memaw’s grave. Now let me get on with the story: daddy and mama didn’t own no TV, so we thought we was supposed to have a nice, fine weekend. Rode up in the back of Pawpaw’s truck for about two hours, me and my brother hanging out the side of the bed with our arms waving. Loved the feeling of wind in my face, ‘cept the whole ride lasted too long. Daddy and Mama couldn’t come, so it was just us boys and our grandparents.
When we get to Myrtle, we post up in a hotel right on the shore. The Sandy Kingdom, this regal place. Memaw said the place reminded her of the Palace of Versailles, only The Sandy Kingdom was better because it had a water park. We got two big king-size beds, a refrigerator, and a window from which you could see the ocean. Pawpaw opened his arms wide and gestured to the water.
“Look, boys, he said. Just as beautiful as I remember.” Said it just like that. Told you I had a hell of a memory, I can recall it perfectly. “Just as beautiful as I remember,” that’s the exact words that fell from his lips.
Only when I peeked under his arm out the window, I didn’t think the ocean looked too pretty. Cloaked in gray-sky like some old antique smothered by dust, the tar-black ocean whipped the shore violently. The beach stood nearly empty, the wind whipping up belts of sand. “Dang, guess people don’t come round late summer,” Pawpaw said. “Guess we’ve got this whole place to ourselves.
My brother was around the age he started to play with himself and think about girls in a sense that didn’t involve them having cooties. You know: little hairs on his giblets and his voice doing that thing where it goes up and down, breaking like a ceramic plate. I didn’t like so much the idea of sleeping in the same bed as him, for obvious reasons.
“Grab your trunks, boys,” Pawpaw said. “We’re going down to the beach.”
Memaw decided to stay upstairs and read. “I just enjoy looking at it,” she said.
We changed into our trunks and headed down with Pawpaw to the beach, walking barefoot cross the parking lot. Once we got to the ocean, the sand lashed us something fierce. “Damn, that wind’s strong,” Pawpaw said. “Must be sandy season, and that’s why no one’s here at the beach.”
Not a damn soul in sight, not for miles in either direction. My brother Lincoln barged toward the waves that crashed huge and swallowed chunks of sand like some hungry beast. Plastic shopping bags, empty aluminum beer cans, and torn bits of net swirled in the dark water before us, carried by the crests of breaking foam. The entire beach, littered with trash; we couldn’t figure out why. Till I saw Lincoln go in that water. Soon as he leapt into an oncoming wave, something threw him back out. Something with scaly hands.
I screamed. Pawpaw came round to tell me, there’s nothing to worry about. Lincoln seemed to think he got pushed back by water, didn’t see no hands. But I saw ’em, and they would too. Pretty soon, I realize all this trash, the ocean’s spitting the trash back onto the beach. Cigarette butts, glass bottles, and fishing hooks. Even a pair of lady’s underwear, the kind with a little string that sits in the butt-crack.
See, you wanted a story about beach conservation, well, this story’s just right for you. They sent you to the right man, oh boy. Because see, that’s what the mermaids wanted. To save the ocean. That’s why they came onto land that wretched day.
So I was sitting on a dune minding my own business, trying to rub the sharp grains of sand from my eyes, and Lincoln yells, “Someone’s coming!” Sure-nuff, there’s this pair of men riding up in a golf cart. Only it ain’t a golf cart but instead some kinda military vehicle, you know, like the ones from M.A.S.H. You ever seen M.A.S.H.? I miss that damn show. I recall, when we first got our TV, it was on some channel, and I kept getting all excited; only my Daddy says, M.A.S.H. went off the air years ago. Anyways, these men were driving toward us and screaming. I couldn’t hear what words they were saying, cause they was far off, but it sounded pretty bad.
“Looks like they want us off the beach,” Pawpaw said. “Best listen. Come on, boys.”
By this time, I was feeling pretty weird bout the whole thing: we ain’t ever been able to afford any fancy hotel room before or no vacation to the beach. But here we were, mid-September, at Myrtle Beach. All the kids at school, they used to say, I go to Myrtle Beach every Spring and every Summer. But family never got to go until the weekend of the hurricane.
We walked across the parking lot, and the two men climbed out the Jeep. They ran up to us and started yelling. “Get out of here?” “What the hell you think you’re doing here?” Stuff like that.
Pawpaw puts his palms on both our shoulders and looks the men square in their faces, says, “These here my grand-kids, and I’m showing them the beach.”
“Sir, you can’t be here right now. You know there’s a storm coming.”
Pawpaw pointed to them clouds black as death and said, “Them clouds ain’t nothing? Let me tell you about the clouds they used to use in trenches. Them Nazis… ” He trailed off. Pawpaw liked to claim he was in the Second World War, but he was only an ambulance driver working in Italy.
“Sir, it doesn’t matter what you think. You ain’t heard of this hurricane? Hugo’s supposed to blow this whole city away, and you wanna bring kids here. You got to get in your car and get out.” One of the military men began waving his arms wildly.
Then I saw the strangest thing. The waves began to break, split apart like the Red Sea at the hand of Moses. Two walls of water blast up into the air real tall-like, and then I saw ’em. The beastly creatures stood on their tails and slithered up the beach like humanoid serpents. Straight biblical beasts, them mermaids were.
Yes, mermaids only. No mer-men or nothing. Just mer-maids, and you could tell they was women cause they had—well you know, women’s parts. Blue nipples on their pale-gray skin, first time I ever saw a breast. Their faces were wicked, jagged teeth like skinning knives jutting from their crooked jaws. Their eyes green like granny smiths. They wore white-green hair long down their backs, braided together thick and intricate. And halfway down, their skin became scales; they became fish with these pronged fins that stuck out underneath them as they slid like slugs up the beach. And they chanted something, foreign words. Afterwards, I swore it was Russians—they must have been communist infiltrators sent by Gorbachev cause he was sore bout the wall that was gonna fall—but Lincoln said their words sounded more like one of them Arab languages.
Anyways, they were chanting or singing. Kinda like in church, a prayer with rhythm. In their hands, they held these long tridents. Like them fancy salad forks you see at Olive Garden, only bigger and pointier.
You writing all this down? It’s important.
So these mermaids came up onto the beach with their weapons and their fishy-bodies, and suddenly they stopped. One was in front, she was the leader, obviously. She moved forward alone toward the two men.
The one man who was mean to Pawpaw screamed into his walkie-talkie, “They’re here. The combatants have touched ground. I repeat, they have touched—”
Suddenly, this screech comes right out the Queen Mermaid’s wicked mouth. And then we hear something, not out loud but in our heads. Like she’s speaking straight to our minds.
This is your final warning, humans. Make amends now. Promise us you will discontinue your campaign of destruction, and we will allow you to live.
But the military men only leapt into the Jeep and began driving away. Suddenly, we heard the rumble of helicoptors overheard and the smack-smack-smack, tap-rapta-tap of bullets. The words from the Mermaid Queen made me shudder, but the gunfire got me running too. I sprinted toward the Sandy Kingdom hotel with Pawpaw in tow, Lincoln a few lengths ahead of us.
Once inside, we stormed the stairs to the third floor and found Memaw. She sat in bed with a book above her face. “Look, Marguerite, we’ve got to leave.”
“But I’m only getting to the good part.”
The entire building shook, wind slapping the walls of the hotel. Rain sprayed from above in trembling blasts. Have you ever got your friends to shove you in a foot locker and roll you down a steep hill? Like that.
We peered over the edge of the balcony. The beach swarmed with mermaids now, the one we saw earlier merely a vanguard. Now a bonafide army of the slippery creatures stood ashore locked in mortal combat with human soldiers. The mermaids moved fast, knocking guns from hands with swift smacks from their tridents. Some blasted lightning from the tips of their weapons, siezing men with electricity. Men tended to remain far from the water, because waves continued to lash forward and drag the men beneath the depths.
The wind picked up. The rain chattered against the window harder. We moved away, backing against the door. We could not go outside, not with the sky damning each building. I crawled forward and could see the expanse of the beach shredded by the destructive storm, the waves of mermaids descending upon shore. We could sea the turtles now too, huge terrapins stomping up the beach like tanks. You ever see that movie Finding Nemo, came out a few years ago, and there’s a turtle in it? Well, nothing like that. They had legs large as tree stumps, spikes rising from their concrete-thick shells.
To our left, a pirate-themed mini-golf course, its astro-turf uprooted and thrown like a green-brown pawl against the face of One-Eyed Jack’s ceramic statue. Further down, a rollercoaster rusting against the relentless rain, its train bending under the power of sky’s rebellion. To our right, bright-neon signs crashing upon black pavement. Mermaids crawling up the light poles, wrapping their tails around street signs and breaking their stands like fragile toothpicks. They skewered car tires with tridents, overturning vending machines and spilling pinball machines from the arcade, which rode out like life rafts on the rising tide. As the mermaids overpowered the military men with lightning and brute ferocity, they advanced along the street. And the ocean followed them.
We watched as the entire city became Heaven.
Well, that’s it? That can’t be it. How’d you get out?
Oh, you believe me now, huh? Well, for awhile, the bottom floor of the hotel was flooded. We survived on provisions of snacks from vending machines upstairs. Pawpaw bust them open with can of corn we found. We stepped outside after the storm, and the whole city was wasted. Everything devastated in the mermaid’s wake. I seen tornadoes tear through trailer parks before, but nothing like this, nothing like how the rage of sea and sky could scorch a city so good, you wouldn’t recognize its fondest sites.
The amusement rides, broken and bent. The boardwalk crippled, boards ripped up, dock collapsed into the water. I remember seeing this stand, one of those fair-type places where you could shoot targets and win prizes. The whole thing sunk into mud, fluffy bears staring from the wreckage with gouged-out eyes.
Entire buildings collapsed, became a mess of concrete and sadness. Some houses got pushed off their foundations, even the ones raised up on wooden stilts. Church steeples toppled. You ever build a Lego-castle as a kid, a huge castle out of multi-colored blocks that gets taller than you, and then you take the whole structure and toss it to the ground, maybe from some height like the couch or kitchen table, and all the parts explode, blocks sliding across the floors? And you can’t recognize that magnificent castle you built? Like that.
Except there was one thing I guess people never tell about Hurricane Hugo, and that’s this. All the debris lying around the city, it all didn’t come from the buildings. Some came from the ocean. Piles of rotting, sea-soaked garbage. Just stacked in the streets like bodies from a war. Like a calling card or symbol. Or a warning.
When Cassandra exited the bathroom stall, she stood for a solid minute puzzled at the absence of mirrors. Someone had come into the high school bathroom, the unit located in the Andre Hall, and removed each and every mirror from its place. Silver fasteners remained, framing unpainted yellow squares above the dirty sinks. In place of each mirror read the message: YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.
Well, that’s awfully nice, Cassandra thought. She did not feel very beautiful: she had woken late, tied her hair in a bun, and forgotten to put on make-up. Though she appreciated the message, she regretted that she could not fix her eye shadow which always gooped in the early afternoon. An impulse overtook her to remove her compact from her purse, just to check, but she did not. I am beautiful, she thought, of course I am. Imbued with confidence, she strode out of the bathroom, her head held high.
Screams erupted from each of the passerby’s who saw her. Unfortunately, she had not noticed the massive spider crawling across her face and biting her cheek with poisonous results.
“Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. The landmine is me. After the explosion, I spend the rest of the day putting the pieces together. ” -Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing
Sucker punch my heart break
burst open my cocoon too soon,
rainstorm my rib cage,
and wrinkle my veins.
Rearrange the furniture in my head.
You must be a landmine, blasting apart
in order to put yourself back together.
General Bates let us sleep in a tent with Jaime, though we used our own blankets. The summer air clung so fiercely to our skin, though, I could not keep covered. Instead, I lay shirtless against the ground, studying the seams along the interior of our shelter.
“You’re angry, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. Just disappointed. I just– what are we going to do?”
Ethan shuffled. “We can give them the seeds, the medicine. Some of it. We don’t need it, and then we can go back to our island. We can just–”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“About what?” He breathed heavy beside me, and in my side-vision, his chest rose and fell rapidly.
“About needing to register. What were you running away from?”
“I– if I were living like that, where they accounted for everything you did? You don’t know how nice you have it out there in the marsh. You’ve never lived in a city, not like they’re like now. We’re all rats, scrambling on top of each other for some sunlight. And men patrol the streets and beat you if you say anything to them. That’s what passes as police.”
“That’s why you left?”
“I left because I had heard about something else, something simple. I thought maybe if I stole that boat, rowed out to sea, I’d find something better. And I did.”
I resettled against the ground, soothed by the crescendos and decrescendos of Jaime’s snoring. “There have never been simpler times. Never civilized either. It’s always been difficult: existence. Whether you’re stuffed in a polluted city, mired in poverty, or stuck out on an island, rooting through the ground for a vegetable to eat, something to kill and clean. No life is simple, and it never has been that way.”
When morning came, I tracked down General Bates and showed him half of our supplies. If Jaime might return us to our island, I told him, he could have our supplies. Some of the stronger medicines and the seeds too. Hemp seeds and corn, though I kept the majority of the rice seeds– I could plant rise in the marsh, harvest every year. I kept a lot of the allergy medicine as well and a pocketful of pain-killers. The general took the rest gleefully, shuffling from the tent to wake up Jaime.
Jaime waddled crankily from his tent. “You want me back on the road again?”
“Sure, sure. Take these two back where you found them. Or wherever they might want to go.”
“Do you have a boat?” I asked. “We could also really use a boat.”
The general shook his head. “We need all of our boats. Now, get out of here before I take the rest of the stuff you hid from me.”
Once loaded back into Jaime’s truck, we sped down the road, crisscrossing through empty highways and abandoned interstates. He allowed me this time to sit in the cab, leaning against the window, my forehead pressed flat.
“Still torn up, thinking you was going to be a rich man?”
I ground my teeth, watching the pine trees as they vanished behind us, the truck picking up speed. “Rich? No, maybe not. Maybe so. Not so sure I ever believed that plan could have worked– I should realize the world has changed. It also changes, even when you’re not a part of it, and it keeps churning on. All that time away, you don’t realize what happens, what happens to everybody else, the whole world. Places disappear, and people do too. Entire societies collapse, and new ones rise. Back when I was a boy, we never thought we’d live like this, constantly at war. Sometimes, it’s not just land that gets submerged, but the past and your perception of the present. If you think you know what’s going on, pretty soon the water’s up to your neck, and you don’t know anything anymore.”
He nodded along politely.
As the hours passed, I scanned the trees for our boat, a way to get us home. I prayed to encounter none of the soldiers Jaime described, a barricade along the highway. Looking back through the window, I could see Ethan wiggling his head in the wind– only the second time he’d ridden in an automobile, so he told me. And then I kept watching the road, dreaming of my island and my home and my marsh and that little boat, about paddling back out to Charleston and exploring the city lost. I didn’t belong in the land of the living, but instead at the bottom of the sea, in that city of ghosts.
The truck woke me, its trembling motor roaring in my sleep. Again, the underwater dreams, those lucid moments beneath the surface of consciousness, drowning in the ceaseless churn of a storm. Then I could make out above the hollow crash of waves a burping, mechanical clatter that unglued me from sleep and sent me bolting upright, staring into white-bright headlights.
“What the hell’s goin’ on here? Why you sleeping by the road?” A man stared back at us, his lips puckered at a peculiar angle and his eyebrow cocked. His skin was black as the soil, his clothes tattered. He stood beside a shuddering, rusted truck.
I clawed my throat for words, but none came. Ethan spoke: “Is that a truck? You driving a truck?”
The man reached into his cab, turning off the motor and flipping off his headlights, leaving us into the dim illumination of early morning. “It’s my truck. Personal business. None of your concern. Who y’all fighting for? Soldiers?”
Clearing my throat, I stood up, pushing the blankets off of me and limping toward him. He was a massive man, though old, wearing a broad plaid shirt and jeans caked with mud. “We’re– we’re headed to Atlanta.”
“Alright, so what? You’re gonna walk there? Where are y’all from?”
“We live not so far away. On an island.”
He nodded. “How long?”
I looked to Ethan. “I’ve been there, well, about eight years now.”
“Then you don’t know– it’s illegal to live out here now. Radiation zone, they’re calling it.”
“I– I haven’t seen any radiation.”
“You can’t see radiation.”
“But I never felt it or nothing. I mean, there are fish. Birds and snakes.”
The man snorted. “Best not tell them that, they’ll come root you out of your island. It’s been illegal for more than three years ago.”
Slowly, the gears of mathematics churned in my brain: how long had Ethan lived with me?
“You never told me that,” I said, turning to him.
He shrugged. “What do you think I was running away from? They wanted to register everyone, otherwise you’re not considered a citizen, don’t got no rights.”
I thought about this for a moment. “You said there was some sort of soldiers?”
“Couple, running around these parts.” He shrugged. “The Continental Army, sweeping through pretty often.”
“Another rebellion going on?”
He nodded. “I’m running guns to an encampment fifty miles up the coast. Stole some canisters of gas, so we have a few trucks making trips through roads where the army left alone.”
“We need a ride, if you can spare it.”
He gestured to the bed of his truck, where a pile of black guns lay. “You can ride back there. Got any way to repay me?” I rifled through the bag and tossed him a bottle of Oxycodone. He checked the label, then watched me, startled. “This stuff real?”
“Pretty real. Can we get a ride?” He nodded to his truck, and we gathered our blankets, stuffing them into a bag and hopping aboard.
Five hours we bounced against his back windshield, metal guns sliding across the bed beneath us. Guns made me nervous, though the smugglers carried guns for protection; men would kill each other with these weapons, to claim sovereignty over land that was being slowly covered by the ocean. Their military encampment looked like a small village of pop-up campers and trailers shipwrecked on concrete blocks. The man driving us, his name Jaime, stepped out of the truck and approached a tent big enough for a circus show. A moment later, a stocky man with iron-gray buzzed hair stepped out, wearing shredded Army greens and old combat boots.
“You the stragglers he found on the road?”
“We’re on the way to Atlanta,” I explained.
“You don’t want to be traveling the roads. There’s a war going on.”
“But there’s always a war going on. Isn’t there someone to buy what we have to sell?”
“Sell? With what? What do you want? Food? Guns?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling incredibly naked in front of the men filing out of the tank. “Money.”
“What’s the use of money? Jaime says you live in a swamp.”
“‘Spose that’s true.”
“You live in a swamp, and you don’t know what’s happening.”
“It doesn’t matter, damn it. I just– I just–”
Another man spoke up. “He said you gave him medicine. What do you have?”
“I– I don’t have anything. Nothing I can give away for free, I mean.”
The Army guy grinned, knuckling the toe of his boot into the dirt. “You can’t just come into a rebel camp, say you got medicine, and not share it. Why would you want to go to Atlanta? That’s dangerous.”
“I have things to sell– more medicine. We’ve been living on an island, but we wanted– we thought–”
“No one to sell it to.” He paused. “I’m Bates, by the way. General Bates, if it please you. Commanding officer of this outfit for the Free States.”
I began to grow frustrated. I didn’t care about their petty rebellions and lurches for power, their killing and bombing and gassing. Once I sold the seeds and medicine, I could buy a new boat, return to my island. Get as far away from this disaster as possible.
“Alright, General Bates. Just point us in the right direction; we’ll be on our way.” I began to back away from the truck, eyeing Ethan, clutching the duffel bag tight to my chest. “Which way to Atlanta?”
“Told you, you don’t want to go near Atlanta, less you want to die. Whole place is devastated. That’s why we moved out to the coast, the Continental’s have closed in on us. And Atlanta– that was blown apart a year ago. Nothing left but radiation and a black hole in the ground.”
My grip on the bag loosened as his words sunk in– the war. Because of the war, there would be no one to shell out millions for seeds. We wouldn’t sell a thing, and everything we’d hoped for had been destroyed by a nuclear bomb twelve months before we began searching.
Corn. Rice. Apple. Hemp. Soybeans.
The seeds from some of America’s greatest agricultural movements, sitting on the shelf next to my bed. When I awoke from hallucinatory nightmares, in which I tumbled endlessly beneath the sea’s surface, I fumbled with the bottles, but didn’t screw open the cap tops. Instead, I shook the seeds inside and prayed these would be my salvation. But if the smugglers had crashed their ship near Charleston, then there would be no one to buy the seeds.
When the storm died three days later, we assessed the damage: half the containers we’d set out to catch water had been tipped over or blown into the marsh. Ethan waded into the muck to collect empty tin cans and plastic pitchers that were now full of mud. We poured the containers into ten-gallon jugs we had collected months ago, from where we could draw water for cooking, drinking, and on occasion, bathing.
In the aftermath of rain, mosquitoes clung to my legs until I walked pocked with red all over, sores itching with needling wrath. The heat swamped my lungs, and even as I breathed, I felt as if gulping mouthfuls of salty water. Still the dreams haunted me, even while awake, of drowning, of drowning in that city of ghosts.
We lugged the battered dinghy from the shore and cleaned its hull before paddling with haste back into the Charleston bay. “Down here, this is where you found the ship?” I could see already its bulking black shadow as I zipped up my wetsuit; Ethan would not go diving again, if he couldn’t keep tied to the boat. “Keep watch of that winch. We don’t want a repeat of the other day.”
When I dove, I sank quickly toward the shipping vessel. Nearing the end of the month, the smugglers docked in the marsh and leapt onto our isles. We haggled near the shore over copper wires, glass Coke bottles, unopened cans of green beans, steel plumbing pipes, and other valuables. We didn’t want money, only supplies: tools, fresh food, fresh water, and medicine. This was what I dove after: medicine. They kept bottles of pills in a cabinet inside the captain’s cabin.
Their ship’s three masts rested against the concrete wall, the middle and highest splintered into shards that now floated around me, spears of wood threatening impalement. Fifty feet long, the boat laid on its side, probably smashed against the jutting portion of the wall when the terrible storm came. I hovered above the wreckage, trying to remember the layout of rooms, of compartments. A few foam safety rings rested suspended above the ships’ deck, still bound to iron rungs in the wood. Snaking through the grappling ropes, I found the lower deck, where a door lead to the main cabin.
Once I reached for the door, I tugged and found it locked– or at least sealed closed by the immense underwater pressure. Crash. I elbowed the window, slivers of glass rising peacefully past my face like throwing knives sailing at me in slow-motion. A great surge pulled me against the window, my body smashing the window frame apart as I tumbled into the cabin, sea water crashing in after me. I fumbled with my oxygen mask, breathing deeply as water filled the cabin to the top, and then I drifted confused among the wreckage.
The medicine cabinet. I tore it open, and orange pill bottles spilled out. Aspirin and stronger opiate painkillers. Suppositories in a massive mason jar. Sleep-aids. Ritalin and other forms of speed. Allergy medicine. Locked in a metal box, I found sealed capsules of even more powerful medicines– surgical opiates and anti-psychotics. A few unmarked vials and a clean, sealed syringe.
When I reached the surface, lugging my cloth bag of medicines, I tossed them aboard the boat. “Don’t open any. We can sell these.”
“You sure we can’t use them?”
“Use them? What, you have allergies? Or do you just want to pass out from drugs? Look, help me up.” He hefted me from the water, and I collapsed on the floor, shaking off water and breathing heavily. “If we can find someone to buy these– and the seeds? We’ll be set for life. We can buy our own boat, a huge cruise ship if we want. Or we can hike out into the mountains, purchase a mansion on a hill. We won’t have to live on a forsaken island in a swamp.”
Ethan nodded slowly. “But– but– right, maybe you’re right.” He smiled, but grimaced at the same time. “Sure, we’ll be rich. But if the smugglers were at the bottom of the sea, who do we take these things to? Who would buy them?”
“Who would buy seeds?” I considered this. “The farmers in the cities might. They plant engineered crops, things invented in laboratories, but how long as it been since– since someone saw real seeds? Actual seeds?”
Ethan shrugged. “We have to travel to the city, then. Atlanta? It’s close enough.” I nodded frantically, and then we embraced. I gathered the medicines and puts them in a cooler we strapped to the back of our boat. We would be rich, I knew it: we would survive.
After two hours, Ethan collapsed against the side of the boat, dropping his oar over his lap. “I can’t– just keep going. Where are we? Do you know?”
I glanced left and right, peering through the thick trees surrounding the marsh. “I don’t know. I’m just trying to find– some land or something.”
Once we realized we had almost destroyed Earth, the federal government passed stringent laws to drastically lower carbon emissions. Personal vehicles were outlawed, though no one could afford the gasoline to run them. Most of the country’s population traveled via magnetized railways, zipping east and west across the continent, but no rails reached south along the east coast, unless you traveled deep into Georgia. Near Atlanta.
“We just have to– have to find a highway. It’s say on this map– here–” I unfolded the map and tried to flatten it against the boat’s dashboard, and the breeze ruffled it from beneath. “Come, here. There’s a– if we can find this highway seventeen, we can–” A gust of wind bloomed beneath the map and levitated it above our heads, then the map crumpled into a ball and splashed into the swamp. “Well, what are we supposed to do now?”
We floated aimlessly for another hour, before pulling the boat ashore. Our feet sank up to our ankles in rich, black soil, but I kicked it against a tree trunk as he laid the boat to rest. We hiked through the muck, pushing vines from our path, when we stumbled across the black asphalt. “We start here, try to find someone with a mode of transportation. Use the seeds to pay people, or the medicine.” We carried our bounty in a duffel bag with our clothes. Night fell, and I laid out thin blankets I’d taken from our house. Then we fell asleep underneath the stars, the sky’s muggy breath pressing against our cold necks.
I clawed through the water, sinking only ten feet beneath the surface before crawling back up from air. Gasp. A wave sprayed my face with stinging flecks of water. “Ethan!” No sign of a head bobbing above the surface, only a black expanse constantly displaced. “Ethan, where are you?” But he couldn’t hear me, even if he swam twenty feet away, because the wind howled, the waves crashed against each other like war chariots, and my mouth filled again and again with salty water. “Ethan!”
Turning my head, thrashing through the water, I searched for anything. A sign. Where was the boat? I spotted it rising on the crest of a wave that had pushed it three hundred feet in the opposite direction. I furiously swam for the boat, wind-milling my arms, pushing through the black though the tide sucked me away from underneath. Another wave washed over my head, and I spun, clutching for something, anything. Climbing for air, reaching for the thin, drizzling light. But I couldn’t find the surface, I felt so disoriented, like someone had hung by upside down by my toes and beat me like a piñata.
A hand clasped around mine.
The city rose up to swallow me, and through the ruins under the sea, I could imagine the city as it once had been. There, that strip had been an old market, where tourists bustled past each other to buy straw-woven baskets. A great grass square I passed on my days off, before a saw sliced off my hand. Young people, still delusional with visions of grandeur, rested without anxiety beneath the warm sun, rocking in hammocks, or sunbathing on beach towels.
There– there had been some sort of old prison there, a dark creepy place they said was haunted. Always stories about haunting, though in a way the city had become just another ghost story.
Floating high above, I could see everything. The whole history splayed out, the myths of a thousand ghosts floating in an underwater dream. The green glare of the past pulsated to the surface, the houses rebuilding themselves, then crumbling. In my dream, I could see the birth and death of a city, and it seemed now, like the life of any person, nothing significant.
He slapped my face with the back of his hand, then pressed his clammy hands to my throat. Still, I spewed water as I lay on my side, the sea escaping from my strained lungs. “You’re alive. I thought you might be dead.”
I opened my eyes, staring at the side of our boat, as Ethan leaned over me, checking my vitals like I had taught him. “Where were you? You– the rope.”
“I’m right here now. I’m fine. I’m fine. You cranked the winch too fast, and the rope caught on a rusty nail down there, snapped the rope clean in two. Took me long enough to find the boat. Then there you were floating face-down in the ocean, I thought you were dead. You were dead, nearly.”
“But I’m not. Where are we?”
“We’ll need to paddle back to the island.” Ethan stood, shaking the salt water from his pants legs. The boat had flooded, and as Ethan rowed us in the right direction, I found a bucket to toss the water from our interior, though the rain made it impossible to keep dry. The rain died down by the time we reached our island, bumping against the marshy silt and hopping onto the shallow green platform surrounding our house.
“I need to show you something,” Ethan said, covering his eyes with one hand as he scanned the waves. “No one’s around. The smugglers– I don’t think they’re coming back.”
“What do you mean? How would you know?”
“I saw them. I mean, I saw their ship. They must have tried sailing into Charleston, but they crashed against the wall. Their whole vessel lies at the base of that wall.” He reached into his cloth bag and dumped a pile of gold jewelry on the table, chain necklaces and sparkling engagement rings. Then a rusted can of what must have been petroleum.
“Holy– you took it all?”
“Not all of it. There was a lot. They lost everything down there, at the bottom of the sea. But I found something even more important.” He reached into his pocket and removed orange medicine capsules, the kind they used to give out at pharmacies before people learned to print their medication for cheap at home. “That’s no Advil in there. Those are seeds.”
I picked up the capsule and studied it warily, reading a sticker label that had been hastily written on: Corn.
By the looks of this blog Word Salad, I either died or was captured by Russian spies, but I am still alive and kicking, only with considerably less free time than I would like to have. Generally, the little I do have I contribute to professional projects rather than penning funny, sad, and weird columns for this blog. My output, however, has been tremendous, and I want to share with you some answers to the question posed in the title.
I have been churning out thousands of words a week, no doubt. One class I have enrolled in this semester requires at least one, sometimes 3, papers each week, as well as a book a week. Even for such a prodigious reader and writer as me, this class has taken a toll on me. It has also, however, taught me a lot and made me think about elements of politics I have never before considered. The semester is winding down (or rather accelerating toward the brick wall Dead End named Finals), and I am looking forward to a summer of fun, excitement, and scholarly activities (SIKE!, says the nineties teenager).
Two writing projects currently are still in the works. After months of sending query letters, I have received interesting critical feedback on my novel The Heathens and Liars of Lickskillet County. Firstly, not many people feel comfortable reading about the Ku Klux Klan, even a comical modern version of it, and after extensive research, I have decided that I too find it distasteful. I expected to find a group of confused southerners emphasizing southern heritage, but mostly the organization is still quite racist (no surprise there). This couple with other problems have spurred me to begin working on other projects while seriously editing the book.
I ain’t no stranger to editing– most of a book’s life is spent in the dreaded editing stage, in my experience. Certainly, I won’t give up on the story, because it’s a story I find compelling: teenagers discovering themselves while encountering the pitfalls of adulthood in a small southern town. It’s a juiced-up, funny-as-hell, exaggerated version of my own experience and the experience of many of my friends. I spent nearly three or four months away from the manuscript and have now returned to engage in editing, and I’ll share some of my favorite passages:
“I had electric veins and ionic eyeballs. Like my heart was hooked up to a car battery, except the energy kept flowing the wrong way.”
” Some of the cities we lived in were actually less like modest hamlets and more true-to-the-core, redneck Nowhere’s. Towns where orthodontists went bankrupt on account of there being only so many teeth per capita.
The sorts of towns where no one had ever heard of smart phones or the Democratic Party or anal sex.”
“Boredom: our natural state, our default. For our entire teen lives in Lickskillet, boredom was true evil, our archenemies, the Darth Vader to our Luke Skywalker. We the free rebels fighting for sacred liberty from this, our mortal enemy we called “boredom.”
We tried everything to absolve ourselves from this carnal sin. Most drank heavily, even idiotically. Which was the best way to drink, with the high possibility of death. Most of the boys drank beer, challenging each other to gulp down more until all had passed out. Girls preferred liquor, mixed or straight. And then everyone, roaring drunk, would smash boredom against the walls. Would take off our boredom’s clothes or pass out on boredom’s lawn.”
Another project I have been vigorously working on (in the months Lickskillet lay dormant in my mind) is The Choke Artist, a story about bare-knuckle fighting, illegal immigration, obese hand models, Alabama lesbians, drug kingpins, murder, Walt Whitman, and time travel. Perhaps when I feel more comfortable with Lickskillet, I’ll post more information about this fascinating, bizarre work.
Essays, novels, and late-night scribbling have accounted for much of my weekly word count, but I have also re-delved into poetry. Last Wednesday, I came away from a school poetry slam, snagging first place. I won an incredibly awesome pen (made with wood from Ireland and GOLD), and it’s probably the best writing utensil I have ever owned in my life. Perhaps I’ll post a picture up next week with a video of me performing the winning poems?
Now you know “Where the Hell” I went and what I’ve been doing. Check in again soon for further shenanigans.