Short Story

Will and Test and Meant


He dreamed of new things, of old habituals, of the longing, of the going down, and it was heading down to a far away distance from where he was sitting. He sat in a crowded room; not of people crowd, but of stuff crowd. He looked and felt himself wanting to get away, this very day. The only way he was going to get there was to delegate it to his imagination. His feelings got created there.

They dwelled melancholically there, fuelled by his thoughts and associations. The room reminded of what his daylights fixated on. He was not anywhere near here where he felt, except those feelings that appalled, repelled and persecuted him. He saw his limitations within the tight room of things; surrounded by things that did not matter anymore. Things that constituted dismay and dust. Things that harboured immaturely of the non-progressiveness he was. Progress was certainly one way he thought he wasn’t being. He succumbed to objects more than desires. The tower of Babel was built on his shit. He hated it all, and it resembled nothing of him in the end. Why did he collect? Why did he horde? Why did he keep? It was one too many why’s and three too many thoughts. He felt abandoned by the very person he wanted to be. He kept a diary in his mind of things he wasn’t, and this engulfed his senses and attacked the essence he was projecting. The paradox he was facing now seemed overwhelming, and the clamour came about him in a defiant rejoice. “You are not alone anymore! You have US!” It all proclaimed joyously. His things; his stuff; his entrusted belongings.

He had this affair from early on when his father died. Left a Will; a Will of ambivalence and with an abrasive rub to all who he said he loved. He loved none, let alone himself. And his family’s leftovers fought about his things. The good and the bad came out. His estranged wife, whom he hit once on recognition of his failed attempt to be with anyone he actually acclaimed to feel love for, reclaimed sufficient sums from the very son she bore who was his father’s guarantor to be obliging of his odious wishes. This was the older son. The heir. The reign. The beguiler. His father, the ruler, wished all to have none. This son had no choice but to obey, but to then storm out crying due to the pressure he felt he had to accompany his father’s deed. He never forgave.

This same father left his only son to shine in the dark he shone. And yet, this was a down-and-out man who not only violated his only son’s wants, but endorsed the erosion of his adopted son’s ambitions but could never support. This very son, the outer, was not one he understood. He was afraid more of him because he wasn’t him. He was no one. He represented nothing he had, nor knew, nor cared for. But the older son, the fair-haired wonderment, this was his, and he abused his senses beyond the grave. What for? He was dead and therefore forgot it all. He had no more of the memory for the late life he had. And he had nothing, but his family gave everything.

The boy walked out on what was to be his version of his father’s Will and Testament. It was printed and he, the brother of the other, obeyed. It was given to him to defend and define, but in the very defence and definition, he failed. The poor boy had no other escape except to leave. He never cried in front of anyone before, but he cried to his dead dad. This, for sure, was mutiny. It was a blight on all who seek the money they fought over. They fought not willingly but because of the Will that prescribed atrocities. He, a man of little worth, inwardly created such worthy heretics to his divinity. They fought his godliness nevertheless, as anxious as each other, and as saddened by the whole saga as it was. The good son, fair weathered, stormed out of the meeting leaving them open mouthed with a lawyer whom presided and validated; the son felt alone. Vanquished due to his allegiance to his beloved father, and all was left bereft of the fallen one. They all felt defeated. They all felt the lack of want. They all felt no love from the man they wanted it from. They all wanted to be acknowledged.

The dead don’t give.

His sister threw a grenade into their life before by exclaiming she and the right son where flourished with his love as opposed to the adopted. Her statement was only wanting to grab at the love-crumbs of the ashes of her biological father who was reduced to. This adoptee’s father came back in a jar from afar, for fuck’s sake. His uncle, the husband to the father’s sister, said they all died overseas, these types. These geneticists of a bad heart. A flawed heart. One heart failed at his attempts to revive, from a sofa, in a foreign country under a flawless blue sky. He was a doctor, so he knew what to do, and yet there was nothing to do but practice. He lost a very dear and enduring one. She was loved but not by some. So it goes for all.

But her brother and the father and husband to the rest of us was examined upon his Will. He left it all for the anger it seemed to them. A bloodbath he wished to see, but it was only ever enacted on his death. What a strange fellow to keep hold of feelings when he had nothing to hold to. And it was prescribed as any drug given, for he was a pharmacist. A beacon to many in the locale of his pilled empire. He held high advantages in clubs and organisations in the countryside for all of the dim witted beings who believed a certain education meant superiority to be the proclaimer of authority. However he got it. He landed on the moon of morons. He escaped the city of sceptics. The country behaved as he wanted. He was home, and always will be. The club gave him a headstone in a parking lot to prove his worth to a life.

And he was holy loved, this man of means and wants. He had it all and not once did he actually believe it himself. He kept up appearances as it seemed he needed to. He was a good son as well. His only photograph of him and father fated the belief when he followed him willingly. It looked sad to his sons. It was not what they thought, but they never knew the older man. He died before they were born. And his seed was implanted in the only grandson he never saw. But by god he would be proud of his stupid honour.

This was a gene-d gene-know. His knowledge about pride was portrayed in prominence many years prior to his own son’s acceptance of the rusty throne and assumed entitlement. He wasn’t betrothing a throne, for he had never assumed he had one, but his son did. And this happened to be only the heir of air. He sat, squashed flat on arse. He felt abandoned by his own misguidance. He felt and was alone. He walked out nevertheless of the people who gathered to talk about the abolishment of the reign of the loved ogre by coming together and joining forces; but it felt none of the sort. They all felt failures. This was a kingdom of nought that the father and the father (and how many more) before had built, and thus came that it was not the successor to carry forth the father’s legacy. It halted there amongst the misery. Oh, hail the deceiver, the decadent; the unloving. We pray to the dead; the death and the dying. For this we wish on others, our lot. Come and be merry in the aftermath of the atomic bomb of love. He will destroy to your glory. Praise them and rise them who thinks them worthy, for they are not and never will be. Laugh at them who are the martyrs to the cause of confusion. Be mighty against the wicked Truth, the bend in the lie; the escapee of the law. Will and the Will alone is the untouchable grandeur so one thinks.

And so the outer one, the adopted, the leftover, looked upon his dead useless things. The remembering of what he was derived from the life of falsehood and gracelessness. He came to his adopted father’s alter and took the very same icon as a gift. And he holds it, stores it for the viewer to say “ah” and “oh”. To be impressed upon. To hold his love in things that adorned the one he thought he was giving love; the dead loving. He became the very thing his adopted father and others came to believe. It was what all of humanity behaved and believed in with such vile aspirations. The incense of innocence is enough to make one sick. We swallow the sickness continuously like a chick in the frenzy of the mother bird’s vomit. Each mouthful is sweeter only due to the acidity of the volume of spit proclaiming to be pure. It is solid. Lumps thought as fluid.
We again seek what we are owed. What are we owed? – he looks eerily at his stuff of purgatory. What is left except things, and do we want things to be the result of us? Yes. This is it. Here, in a room full of stuff, he concludes the falsehood of his belongings and to the stuff he accumulates.

He has no need any more of him, his stuff as him. Him being his belongings; the suitcase full of life’s  breaches. He cannot pass the insecurity gate to get on board with these alarming assortments. He thought he had one-hundred-mills of life’s sources, when in actual fact it was just an abundance of perfume. The Insecurity-personnel takes them and disposes of them to the bin in the corner. He is then free to get on board – to fly away.

This left with him enduringly.


Short Story

Nothing Found, Nothing Ventured

Nothing. Nope. Nowt. Naught.

The pinnacle of travelling to the countryside was really supposed to have a relaxing time and an adventure of the slow and sensual sorts. It was time that Julie and Mr Font could get a chance to be alone, to tap into their energies through sex, frivolity and glasses of wine. Their weekend break was a weekend rent in a remote part of the country, where the winds continued to howl even without a push of a strong gust, and on occasions (very frequent occasions), rain would fall at an angle of ninety degrees. It was what they wanted though. If the weather was shit, then the bed was the refuge; the real reason for their escapade. The space away from others.

Mr Font worked up until the dot of five on the Friday of their departure. Julie had an early drinking binge session with some girlfriends as one of the team in the research department at the university was leaving for pastures greener. The afternoon work schedule was to be replaced in favour of the special occasion: they knew they wouldn’t see her again, the deserter. So with one sloshed brain, another feverishly charged and with both pants full of pulsating lust, their trip took a longer than previously anticipated. Tripping through the open space of the countryside, the fields would hug corners and banks of various roads. Destination: east coast. Quicker by train it would have been, but Mr Font’s car was a fun vehicle (to him) and any chance he could spin the wheels, he would. Sometime in to the beginning of the tip, and within the green limits of the countryside, Mr Font suggested a wicked something to take them off track for a while, parking in solitude and secrecy. Nine nights without each other had built up some expectation, which was soon expelled. Mr Font and Julie were soon back on the road, relieved.

Julie had no interest in the car only that it was fast and sporty and made great oogling from strange staring men sighting blond hair in a red convertible. But soon the sun sank behind clouds, and with that, they just got thicker and thicker. It was a reflection of a happening to them before this trip; the sun will come out again, if not for the weather, then for them. They hoped.

Upon the hill and past the signpost that was the telling of the final tilt towards the second half of the trip, Julie became a little distracted of her feelings when she had to eat with some of them right away. She turned to speak to Mr Font.
“Can you leave her?” It surprised him, because they hadn’t really started to talk about the third wheel. She was at home with the other wheels of the family that he was prepared to give up this weekend to be Julie. Julie on the other hand was giving up her flat only. And a few indoor plants to attend with some water.
“No. Not yet. We have things to work out, and I don’t want to give up the children. It isn’t the time.” he was obvious, to the point, and frank. She was listening but refusing to listen at the same time. There was a sentence her friend said to her some time ago: when they tell the truth, always know when they do.
“Why…” she began to sound pleading, which she wasn’t prepared to do. She wanted to ask why couldn’t they be together, so instead she changed in mid sentence:
“…aren’t you leaving her? The children; we can make sure you get custody.” He smirked and brushed away the conversation with haste. He swallowed hard to avoid any interference to his genitals being active about the weekend ahead. He was thinking of that part.
“Look at the sky. It is so dark, and we are just half way to the house.” It was darkening slightly more than he had thought initially it would be like, this weather. He was not anticipating a storm, but it looked like one was growing a head of an enormous rage.

Julie watched the clouds and felt the wind’s gusty blows going hammer and tongs and other utensils at the car. The roof back on for this time of the year, was getting battered and bruised. It was only a soft top. Julie looked at the other soft top. He was blissed out on sexual desires and dreaming of legs akimbo, down to the lowest part of his base animal desires, he was close to sitting and pissing if it got any lower. She smirked, and cautiously ponders what was inhabiting his brain at this moment of desiring her bod. It was a tentative enquiry, and soon she backed down – didn’t want to go that far in. Didn’t want to know. The rain was coming and soon soaked everything.

Up on the last stretch, three hours a driving, Mr Font kept a little surprise for his passenger. He had found a bottle of champagne at home, around the place (it was hidden from his wife) and from reaching behind her in the cramped area that has no reason to be there, especially for additional passengers, he produced it with a glee and a surprise. Julie for her part was equally excited and gleeful, and loved the surprise.
“Tonight we will open this up and have a toast and get all snugly and cosy. We are nearly there.” And soon they were, another few miles and it was safely there, no harm and in time for a relaxing throw off of rainments and a wonder around the premises.

It had stone walls, four bedrooms and two bathrooms. En-suite with the master bedroom, and a large open planned space for the kitten and lounge area. Timber was an additional feature, and walls where dark tanned against grey slabs. An impressive site for a combo old and new styles. The main house it self would have been a few hundred years old, but the update was recent as two years ago. Julie above all gasped at the scenery as the dark started to descend. She still had time to take in the sunless sunset as the west coast was receiving the full pelt of the rays, but the remains of the day showed the beach in full view and a beautiful storm to anger the waves. She was standing at the best feature the house had to offer – panoramic vista via huge glass doors and walls, from floor to ceiling, a large outside decking from the house, with a pool. All as private as a nun’s bottom.

It was more than enough for the two of them, and she just held the view until it was gone to dusk and night. She hadn’t noticed that while she was doing this, Mr Font obligingly bought in the luggage and food for the weekend which was bought at the supermarket that day, on the way.She helped him with the bags of food, attending to the spillage of one of them that toppled over the bench. He in turn helped to put them in the refrigerator and groped her every time she got near playfully. He placed the bottle of champagne into the freezer to get the temperature down as quickly as possible, and then he grabbed her, flung her against the bench, and began to take her knickers off from under her skirt.

After the fling on the bench and on the kitchen floor, they untangled and enjoyed the setting of the ambience. The fellowship of their unity was engaging enough, but not prolonged enough. Soon Mr Font had another thought – food. He ate and she smoked. They both drank, and she smoked. They sat and talked about poetry in business and academia. She smoked. He went to the toilet three times. And still they drank. The champagne was perfect, and the red wine to follow was tantalisingly dulled by the senses that were swimming frantically in the drunkenness. She smoked, and he went to bed. She emptied the bottle, a few swigs, and then went out to the balcony that was a welcoming embrace of cold sharp weather. Therein had stopped, but its remanence was the soaked wooden planks and the glistening surface. It was clear now. The stars were there to greet her with sudden exposure which she hadn’t ever been subjected to in the city. She was born in the city and lived all her life there amongst the buildings, clubs and bars. She was a product of the environment that tilted toward glass and steel, not clay and wood. Rain was ever present though, and she knew much of this even in the confines of her albatross apartment. The expense made her hungry and powerless through the power she wielded as a manager. She managed nothing but the enforcement of the paperless office she had to instil, to which remained desktop starvation. She encompassed the speech and the clutter of a boy for nought. She had nothing to give. Not even herself. Except to Mr Font. She gave and gave. She embedded herself in to his mind, and took it to mean more than groin and grabs. But remained unconvinced that anything she performed even dented the absurd imagines of a mental case convinced of his own responsibilities. She was therefore left with none. No responses from any of the wants she endured. And the stars told her thus.

Upon the gathering of the air in her lungs, she smoked more to take the taste of his cum further away. It was never sweet, but the tastelessness of nothing. It couldn’t even be bitter. She had compressed much of her desires to this weekend, but instantly she had the feeling it not being a success. She moved cowardly throughout the wondrous rooms that were a joy to see, but never to belong. It was rented,as much as she felt now that she was. And he was asleep.

How pitiful, how improper, how unremarkable Mr Font seemed now. He wasn’t even interested in leaving his wife and children. Fuck them. Fuck them all. Yes, even his children. What right have they over her? She at least was here now and welcoming. She was wondrous. He slept it out, and drank it full. He was a taker, and never a giver. His spun was the only thing to give, and it was useless. He was snipped and therefore never going to have the children she was questioning whether to have or not. The choice wasn’t hers. It never will be with him.

The stars listened intently to her thoughts, and corresponded with each other to confer their thoughts. They all agreed. He was nothing any more. She had this feeling from the beginning, but took it to another level. A secret chamber and locked it up to never to be revealed. But never say never. It came back, escaped and caused havoc. Murdering with good intentions, and planting bombs of aircraft destruction in her heart. She was pissed, but now even more pissed than the alcohol could ever allow. She looked up and looked across. Expansive darkness fitted perfectly her mood. She had choices other than the ones she was thinking most prominently. But prominence is the key and the winner. She had this intelligence. When younger, her parents fought hard to make her dumb. Mr Font didn’t know she had parents. She doesn’t, not to her anyway.

Having given much thought, she was wondering what cause of action to take. She knew and she acted, returning and retiring to bed after the last cigarette and swill of drink. Off to bed, dear Julie and be at ease for the decision was clearer.

The next morning, he flopped over after a night of snores and twitches. He had been a loud oxygenated bod who kept her awake some of the night. It was more concrete for her to say what she had to say and do what she had to do. She felt cheap when he again went for her breast after a night’s lumber, and here his breath was vulgar and stunk. She hardly kissed him. Her body this time did not react to his attentiveness. His cock was hard and pokey. He made dashes to her vagina, as she just lied still and took it contemplating it was never going to be enjoyable again. She was suddenly saddened by this, and if he felt it he ignored it. She had nothing to show her disgust, as he continued on his best to penetrate and procreate nothing. He spent and seeded a dead birth. It never reached her own life.

He got up, and dressed after a shower. All the while she lay stupefied by the impact that had happened. She was on a weekend break with a married man who was not in love with her the way she wanted to be loved. She had intentions, and although conniving as she was, she could not convince him due to his dulled image on marriage and family. He was a blunt instrument, as blunt as his sperm has been.  She watched him dress in his refinery, and he smiled a docile smile. She felt sick by this. She had more to say and no one to say it to. The stars heard it, but they were gone. Befriend and eft for dead the next day. Mr Font got the breakfast ready. He was only good at doing, acting, and producing ideas. He was rubbish at compassion.

At mid morning, they had a walk in the woods near the ocean. The tress were straggly and unimpressive. Nothing tall or grandeur. Just slim and limp. Sand was the soil. The surf rolled brown sea to the shore of boring pebbles. The ocean wasn’t what she had thought. She had seen other oceans and seas. Blue and turquoise. Rolling waves like skateboarders doing tricks and stunts. She had no excitement here, and refused to go in the water when he beckoned. He beckoned a lot Mr Font did she remarked to herself. He was always beckoning, and when he didn’t beckon, he would just take anyway. She watched him as the surf gobbled him up, but released him soon afterwards. It felt somewhat disappointing that his head came up to the surface again. She had thoughts as she did of her family that drowning would benefit her. She watched and waited for the moment that never came. He lolled out of the water like a kid on cocaine. Innocently stupid and drugged. He grabbed her again, and she removed herself quickly. Mr Font noticed, but as usual thought no more of it.

Nothing. Nowt. Never.

Julie had her dinner on the balcony, the raft styled decking. She had a sinking feeling she was going down with the Titanic. She watched that movie in her twenties, and now in her forties she felt colder and deader than the actors who pretended to drown. To all accounts, she was not pretending anymore. It stung  that he was not willing to venture forward with her. She had images of his allegiance to his wife and children and the abandonment of her. She saw herself alone and old, dark and crippled. An overwhelming sense of worthlessness defended upon her sense and she was helpless. Mr Font came to her side not as an aid to her needs, but a wanting to his own.
“What did you think about the dinner I made? You liked it?”
Nodding, she replied yes. It was fine and thank you for cooking the meal. That was nice of you. Mr Font smiled, and kissed her lips. He was good at that. He felt good and covering her out with his was a good touch. But the other touching had other implications. Her therapist warned her against commitment. It had reverberations to her upbringing. Mr Font never knew any of this.

Julie ate sporadically, and finished a portion of the plate. Recognising her absence, Mr Font commented on her eating to draw attention to the moment they were sharing. She blinked three times to focus on this time, and remarked that she wasn’t feeling well.
“You ok?” He sounded sympathetic.
“I feel tired and I think things are a little confusing for me now.” Oh no, she was heading into territory that would cause rupture and splints. “I am feeling, well, like you don’t want to be with me.”
“Sure I do hon.” Replied Mr Font. He was however cautious of his comments. “I want to be with you all the time. I miss you, babe.” Babe was an ugly expression. Horrid and unflattering. In fact at the very worse, it was lazy. He was lazy. The whole arrangement was lazy despite his espionage. Julie looked away. Her friends encouraged her as they twinkled. She had support at least she felt.
“I think we better not see each other after this. I am feeling left out, and I am unsure I want to see you.” this had pangs of anxiety in Mr Font now. Something she at least wanted to see. He exposed a sense of fear.
“Listen, it’s just I can’t think of leaving Sam now. She is a good person and the children I will have to leave too, and I don’t want to do that. But I don’t want to lose you too.” He pleaded. He was pleading, but he didn’t pick up on it. He was interested in his own intentions. Fair enough, but not at the expense of herself she thought.
Julie could feel an argument coming on, but did her best to move away from it. “I just think it will be better for us to have some space.”
“No. Not really. Look, Julie, I love you and want you. Sam I don’t love, but it is hard to leave her now. It can’t be that for long, but I have to make something out of nothing…” After his talking on, Julie had nothing to hear any more. She heard what she needed to hear. The rest was just noise. She moved out of arms reach, and this gesture humiliated Mr Font. His surprise was replaced by blaming her for her being there, for her seeing him, and for her to fuck him. It was a horrible lash. It came from nowhere but from the pit of hm. His ideals were uncovered. Be still, and don’t move it felt to her. She had a cheese knife, and while he spat and sullied, she clenched and clutched ready for a moment when the line would be crossed. He did, and a slap went out and she hit him hard when he pronounced her slut. It was the hand free of the knife though, It was a reaction of restrain and tolerance despite the hurt and bitterness. He glared and grimaced. It was all he could do, except the worse was to turn his back.

Why had he become so aggressive so quickly, and yet it wasn’t a surprise? She held the knife steady in his back. Yes, it was in his back because he turned. He moved away, and cared little if nothing for her. And she wanted something for him to feel. And since her love and desires weren’t enough, what about the steel? He felt that, and he fell from that. To her feet he collapsed and to her horror, he breathed hardly. It was a deep plunge, presumably in his lung. Or heart or neither or both. She had no idea, despite her medical background. He was done for and felt the warmth of his own blood cover him like a jacket.

She stood motionless, and for a moment or two, emotionless. She was interested in what he was doing lying on the floor. She had no idea that the knife was even there despite her insisting it to stay put. She was distant, and removed.

He will obviously leave his wife and children now.

The ocean pattered like the sound of heavy rain outside the window of the bedroom, gently waking her up. The smell of the warm summer air came flooding through the glass doors to the master bedroom being opened. It was a glorious day. No clouds, no rain and no sadness. She felt it, and she leaned over to kiss Mr Font. Her arm across his back as he lay on his stomach. He was motionless. Completely without knowledge of her affectionate kiss. She rubbed his shoulders and spooned his body a bit to entice his awaking.

He would soon awake she felt. Soon he will be getting up, but not yet. She moved back away from him and lay on her back gazing out to the sea that was there as an excitable child: “come on! Get up!” it splashed.

His arm moved under the sheet and around her belly. He rubbed her in a dreamingly manner. He was sleepy but nearly there as a fully conscious being. He replied to her spooning with his own, and the dick was a nice hard gesture for the way it was going; the way they were to have this affection under the circumstances. He was moved by her, and felt it fall away from his life. He wanted to give it all up, and be with Julie.

The day to move out and back again to the city which saddens the whole exposure to the sun and sea. The day was vibrant. The drive took in a new air, as the sun shone all the way home. The homes to what they knew they were. Mr Font dropped Julie off sadly at her flat. She smiled to know that he was caring for her and feeling remorse to let her go. This was enough for now. She had felt it all too easy before for him, so seeing his suffering this much meant more to her than he knew. He kissed full mouthed on hers, and squeezed a tender squeeze on her thigh. He let her go, and she got her things and went indoors as he drove away. Neither of them took another look. Not today.

She kept this ideology of a promise through perceived telepathy. He would be back.

Maybe tomorrow.

Short Story

The Fall

The vertical fall was only a man’s height, but it took forever to crash. With a whirr and a whizz, the head tilted back and the eyes followed down from the horizon. The sea that saw the episode looked shocked, seemingly raced to gather him up as he fell, and so clashed at the rocks.  With waves as outstretched arms, it failed to grab him and retreated in helplessness. Judging by the  style of collapsing, it appeared he died of a heart-attack.


The poets came back with their most recent works, trepanning his emotions. He thought of nothing else but her at this moment – the remains of a smile, the eclipse of her hair across her moon face. Colours changed as the sky moved her sheets to cover the sunny face. She was not happy today.

He knew April balloons burst. His immaturity took to disliking his new fondness for strength, and only once did the ego highlight a terrible thought: the lose of many years before.

The love didn’t come from anyone else. He finally got to really feel it, even though he always knew. It wasn’t anything anyone could give, as neither did he.

“I can’t hold onto this feeling forever” he mourned. He took it to heart, to the very beginning  of his being. A spike in the epicentre of existence in all that he felt. He kept it right at the apex of all of the knowledge he acquired; all his incompetencies suddenly became known, the pinnacle of possibilities well within his reach as they always were. He just hadn’t been interested in them. Until now.

“I want to.” His focus kept him inadequate for the moment that he was experiencing. His own brain betraying him, and yet befriending him at best. At worst, it was not letting go. Coming with attacks and torture she portrayed what was really happening now; the longing for better. He hadn’t had this kind of better at all, even though he mulled it over a many millennia-minute, he never understood a single drop of his consciousness.

She, to him, was all too encompassing. All too Almighty. All too God. Never human. Let go and forgive even though he didn’t, he would. The arguments and the flaws were going to be subjected to judgement. What use and advantage was his judgement? He said many times I love you, and only once did he let slip that he didn’t. This was the real moment – the blessed moment he missed and messed up. Cowering, he tightened more saying that was freedom in is message. He said so. How could he be wrong? How ever could he find a way back to the beloved? How many gurus would it take to seek the right answer that he wanted, not what he deserved? He stopped being him long before, and he never let go of the thoughts; of what he was. Showing him him. Incomplete and riddled with confusing messages. He allowed poor poets to translate him  woes; spilling Nile like river flows of mess-ups into his organised chaos. He waded in and felt warm water made frozen.

He deserved this, he said to his heart as it ached with the back bent and collapsed legs, muscles folding and mouth dropping. His eyes fell and his arms flopped and his teeth clenched and his stomach churned and his fingers pinched and his toes curled and his chest tightened and his shoulders stretched and his anus gaped and his nose ran and his ears unheard and his knees buckled and his neck crooked and his penis seeped and his mind exposed the sorrow he kept for so long – for so god-damned long.

“I’m crying that you never came.” The melodrama played out to an unsuspecting audience of sea-gatherers and expressionless tour-gangs. But he wasn’t crying, nor had he intended to. I was pure showmanship. A startled performance before his failing eyes. Theirs, this crowd of inexperience, had scarcely time to recognise a man and his endeavours to entertain. They came to watch the sea originally. This falling man seemed more expansive than that which was crashing near them at the shore.

They saw from each their own vantage point a man looking ridiculous, looking stupid, looking provoked, looking awkward, looking clumsy, looking pale, looking hurt, looking needy, looking worried, looking dazed, looking drunk, looked drugged, looking idiotic, looking like he is having a heart-attack – everyone just stood, unable to move. It was all too fast and all too slow. Each of them, worried of being judged by their surrounding peers, made not a muscle move in the direction of the falling man.

They watched him crash.

A young man, gangling near, treated him with suspicion. An act of  criminality was being committed, and he was not going to be a part of it. Stepping away from the moment and the movement he made a space between them. Further from the fall he sort. From the height of living the fallen man made. The falling  portrayed a threat; the young man was not keen on engaging with a madman. Even though he saw him falling, stepping away was in order to be not a part of this lunatics antics. In all honesty, he thought he was drunk as the others did as well. Leave me alone and don’t bother me with your collapsing.

Here amongst the land-sea of people, he knew no one. No one knew him. He was alone amongst a clammer of strangers. He was amongst his kind, but not his kindred. Not one of them attributed him with that acknowledgement. They all had their soliloquy, and his like theirs, was their own. A great tragedy was unfolding to our friends, as he himself was heralding the passing of him. Hand waving and at the same time drowning, he bid farewell as he begged for help. He was, to him and all, a dying man. Farewell and begone.

He thought he was the only kind left, and ever of his sort; of himself. Him alone was a unique nature. His dreams had manifested unbeknownst to anyone around. He could see the same as they could not.

Falling man resides to know this – finally – and he accepts it with a breath in; giving in while exhaling out.

God of man made imagery clubbed him and gave him head wounds of unworthy. Worthlessness now. All of it. All of it descending like corpses in a pit. A pit of pity, and the piety that shows the usefulness – looking into the bag. It was of tricks and these are nothing. He gave nothing up of the skinned shield around him. He blasphemed himself, becoming his own anti-him. All the while, cursing at the folly of lies; lies all are keeping to make peace with a gormless god. This wretched god who laughs as many gods did before him. They live for it, as they keep them alive. At the moment death is happening, god runs to the bunker, coward and afraid, making more of an attempt to dispel than to help. At least these people unwittingly stayed to bear witness to an end of lies. Go away god, he spoke.

Tumbling Jack with the stand-alone Jill on the hill, with nothing more to offer and refusing to follow. For what would that do to her? Cause a headache. And so no one moved for the falling man.

Now comes her, and her powerful ways. It envelopes him and scratches at his decaying skin shield. He has time to look upon the gravity of the person who it was all along. He looks at her eyes that portrayed a hidden vice and a clear objective of negativity. It was pure. It was potential. It was her negativity he stole like a thief in the night. He came through the window-glasses and struck an angry fist upon the minds, stealing the treasures of  hate and therefore the objectivity of love. He kept it in him, and tried to make it his, but the moths knew there was light in the darkness, and earnestly battering away at the soul in an attempt to get at it. They would sooner die than be his. Upon seeing the love, the ashes that it was now, he became the phoenix. Begin the parody. Wanting this drama-love at this moment, this death time, he flashed a boot to crush and grind it as he had always done. But this was no time for this kind of thing now. He had no reason to have this hilarity any more. He wasn’t to live long, so triumphantly he returned to what was and what always will be: himself.

Hell, as he had heard, was not under the soil he was falling toward. From this avid eye, he recognised the soil and the manifestation of his life as dirt. The glorious hatred and the wickedness that resided, was not even remotely close. The sadistic and the sublime, intertwined and twinned with care and love. The huge grief fell upon the weak character that hid, bringing out in rages and thrashes of sadness and destitute. He felt tears of abandonment, perceiving the good he had done for his devilry to exist. The light was not all there was in searching as he was blinded by the darkness. He had forgotten the moths. Like old clothes in a closed closet, he was eaten.

He began to scoff now and bellow  winds back. He fought to be rid of the feelings he had and the fights he took on to regain trust. It was his trust he never regained. It was his fights he took on for himself. All else was an objective, a mirage, forever a filigree to his imagination. And he laughed at this. All laughed back. He found humour in it. Compassion overflowed with all of the lustfulness and hatred he ever had. If only this was summoned up in his life. If only he had been accommodating of himself and his wrongs of right. Oh the joy to have, and the horrors to endure eagerly. As man has never endured long enough that these horrors be terrible truths of lies. He gave in, the pathetic; he endures sugar too long. Salt he needs now, and plenty of it to balance his ph.

They are not the balance, as they are heavy sides of the see-saw. They know. He knew every one belonged to it without the use of clubs and staying in castles. They picked for themselves what they wanted, and this he accepts. He will say in his last breath “I never loved you” and it was this truth in him to be a lie of his life.

It was only life. Something bore it. Channelled it to the common space. He hadn’t a clue to life as he died. He was forever trying to forgive himself without knowing there was never anything there to forgive.

He had belonged to a tribe of morons, working all the while to enhance the feeling of it being right to be here or there. He  never took a step back and gave it space to breath; to taste the air; to have a say about whether it should live or die. But they weren’t going to kill: that is your doing, boy-o. You do the killing, and I will do the death, they whispered. But his ears were closed.

As he fell, the others in the vicinity of the sea-front-see-death continued to speak to none, but all knew of it eventually. Some took their time in coming to the obvious conclusion, but that became not so obvious in the wake of the falling man. They mentally produced pictures and graphs, some relating it to childhood, and others relating it to their dead mothers, but none of them actually kept their eye on the man’s death. They couldn’t see it because they were busily chatting in their heads of what might happen next. The channel was the same, the man was the same, the time was the same, but the event was different all the time.

He started to remember as he fell the times he spent going to events and practices – he sought out remedies and heroic returners written in gospels according to them and those;  the divine associates. He saw poets transform others, relinquish and uproot their transgressions. He longed to be a part of this elite and ideology, to be enfolded in the right way astuteness. He developed the personality of reforming, but never accomplished the workload – his was a lazy obsession filled with contempt.

The pulling began to happen in his chest. He acknowledged it, and the grip it had upon him. He worked out very quickly that it was as if death had a hand and made itself known. Infant, it clawed its way upon him, grabbing the chest first and then the shoulders, neck, arms. He wrestled him to the ground, and he swung his legs around his waist. The pulling continued, even though his body reacted stubbornly, his mind relinquished more and more. Giving up the air his head was at. Giving up the air his lungs ate. Giving up dreams he possessed. Giving up the sex he conquered. Giving up the endurance he postulated. Giving up the visions he rendered.

Giving up him.

Becoming void of all longing, he soon realised that the air was harder than the ground he once walked upon. The air didn’t enter him any more. It didn’t go into his lungs and into his lining like he was accustomed to. It bothered him little though, and centimetre by millimetre, his lungs pushed out but never took back.

Most things were happening inward for him. It was inward where he was reducing to. He’s inflation to the exterior had little to do with anything in his present condition, and he knew full well this. He was going into places he never knew existed, or to be rightfully accurate, he was entering places he avoided. He was never to be the same and this was of no consequence anyway to the outcome of this journey he is undertaking.

He kept a firm hold, for it would be the death of him. If that ever was for him to go, he would follow forever the traces left in the sand. Or so he thought. And the thinking was no longer part of this conversation. He was slipping away from any of his seance. Any of this glue.


He stopped missing – missing them all. He had a wallet of photos of the past and present. He had none of the many. He had listed them in his head especially for this moment, but what did they matter? What did any of them mattered?

Upon feeling the fall, he spent his time looking back at his son in the past. His ball was crooked and punctured. His son remained motionless with an ascending smile. He felt like crying, but for all the wrong reasons. He felt safe from all of these visions – he knew the special effects and make up. The timecode stamped infinite. His supposed creation slipped away, foamed and slithered into the sea.

So began what seemed moments of reconciliation for him. The party watching only could see seconds as he alone felt eternity. Each moment was spotted momentarily, moments he felt lasted before, during and after the sun. He became aware of the length of things; time no longer was made an issue of. At least understanding the end at this very moment, he witnessed a passing of a life and the coming of another instantly. He knew where he was, and he knew he was as safe as safe can be.

The televisions stopped broadcasting; the radios static. the internet distilled and the ground rose to greet him. He was coming back to something he never left – he knew he was part of it all. The centre of him was only an finite stop; an irregular point of registering feelings. They went as far out as they could, remaining always at his centre: he never left.

There was no more to give and no more to take. It was all going to rust and dust and turquoise and blue and hard and soft and irregular and peculiar and opposite and defiant and expressionless and emotionless and grotesque and eloquent and humorous and enormous and indulgent and ungracious. It was being what it was. Worry nothing. Nothing was coming to be heralded as much as those bastard angels who were meant to herald. Nothing of the heroism that himself and others all perpetuated needs and wants. There was no escaping the music of the choristers. The brilliant entrance of the exiters. It was no end and a complete stop. He came to realise his predicament. His knees were the first to feel hard ground. He was shocked by this and knew what was next.

The passengers of the long awaited mouthpiece of humanity gave a twitch. Twitch this and twice that; the brain twitched hoping something else would.

His moment had reached a bypass. It had managed to enlighten a bit more before its inevitable demise – it logged onto its current bearings and surmised the demise. He wasn’t worried. The brain acted this way for his last moment – for his escape. He took a notice of its behaviour – the brain that he only would presume it is him, and he glanced an awkward glance. He saw it was infinite and nothing more. It looked at itself and collapsed the boundaries. The mirror ball had nothing to reflect. It concluded it in itself was nothing more than a presence. A presence brought up by images, light and refractions.

When his hips bounced hard on the ground, it occurred to him that sex had (finally) escaped unharmed, and he reconciled his pelvis to the lushes of piss. It was warm and the last of it explored the outside world, hibernating in his trousers until some of it seeped beyond, and gained ground. He was aware that the fluid was harmonious to the event taking place in its surroundings and in its own fate. The warmth became cool-cold long after he departed. At this moment though he knew what co0l-cold felt like, and wished (for a moment) that this would continue forever. It would. He got to his belly.

His presence amongst the spectators became a clamber for steadiness. His position on the plateau encouraged tight security from the group which in turn accomplished more twitches from the cortex’s of the gathered.

His head like a ton and eyes that would soon fall out of their sockets. As he fell, the man came to another place nearer to where he is presently. All in a wrap, the people he had met came to him, and their stories as well in plentifulness. He heard them all once again. He saw his first love, naked in bed with him as he ended the mystery of what her body would feel like inside for the first time. He saw his father and mother, his  relatives, heard voices of theirs from sentences they kindly spoke. He grabbed an arm of his toddling daughter who went to close to the pool. He laughed with a friend at high school in class, where his teacher reprimanded them both for disruption. He saw a celebrity who was no one any more. He wrote a book of a whole galaxy of discoveries, that no one will be able to read.
And just like that, as his head lay still after a bounce – snap – light bristled and burst with a silent bang, calamity of sparks echoed visually, foreclosing the life he had. It was the will he now wanted. He got everything he wanted, and it was here he broke the light and found the warmth of ice. No more sights were to have as eyes don’t belong. Feelings dissolved one by one. Anger was one of the first to go along with fear and terror. Surprisingly love was quicker to go and hate was not found; interlocked as always. The feelings diluted into sugary syrup, seeping from within to somewhere he had no care for. And that was the final feeling to go – caring.

The others drew in close  by now, a moment carried them like a wave that pushed up against the stone wall nearby. The feeling of someone departing the mortal coil disrupted their plans for an enjoyable afternoon by the seaside. They would talk later of the fall, but now had them eager for more drama. It was the sea that brought them all together, but the man focused there attention away from a small horizon to a much larger one – their own.

The people crowded and flowed from all around, pushing and lapping as the sea does. Keeping the vigil on the man to see any movement, someone had the heroic idea to call an ambulance. Death was not getting out of here alive they muttered. Men in vans can fix.

Amongst them though was dead on the ground. All  witness to the fallen man’s gift to them as an expression of fantasy and romance. It was this romance they were in love with. None  knew this man’s life. None knew their own. None had an idea what experiences just happened. The voices around the grounded man spoke sullenly and often in shock, panic and awe, but none of the sounds was his. He never spoke no more. His voice, the one and only voice, had been silenced.

He could not tell them anything about it. It was done. The experience was past and yet extended beyond the crashing sea, over the collective horizons of the many oceans, and out through the stratosphere.

Nothing existed now for the fallen man.