“I shall tell her (Death) a story, and she will be kind to me.”
– Alexandre Dumas
The sun had
not risen yet,
but one could see its glow, peaking over the eastern
horizon that was full of rolling hills and cubic buildings,
bringing with it
the promise of brilliant lights;
full of oranges, reds, gold’s,
and yellows,
not to mention
the warmth of a new day.
Despite the coming tide of dawn,
the metropolis remained mostly asleep,
and why shouldn’t it?
It deserved the hangover
it was now suffering from.
The celebrations from the night before
had been beyond anyone’s expectations,
full of music,
dancing,
food,
and fireworks.
And of course,
alcohol.
The event was a massive success
which will be remembered
for a long time to come,
so why not take a day off?
The sun continued to
c—
r—
e—
e—
p further along,
its shimmering light
p u s h i n g the
dark
night
away,
causing the stars to
V
A
N
i
s
h
under a veil
of illumination.
The moon was nowhere
to be found,
probably hungover itself, getting drunk through osmosis from the alcohol vapors in the air, and nursing a migraine from being up all night as the city partied on.
Somewhere in the center of the slumbering city is a certain
building, a glamorous hotel,
forty stories high,
standing erect like
an enormous ivory
monolith
of the highest
quality
materials;
worth every star in its
prestigious title.
On the top floor,
where the best rooms sit,
a particular one has been rented out
at the rate of $40,000 a night.
There’s no need to see
what’s in the mini-fridge.
The room itself faced the East and was as prepared as it could be
to receive the oncoming onslaught
of light rays
that were now slithering
into the shadowed room;
splintered into several blades of light by the partially opened shades, hanging there like their cousins in limbo, cutting through the shadowy interior of the space.
A queen sized bed sat near
the sliding glass balcony doors
which lay directly across
the kitchen and it’s paradise island bar.
The sheets were tossed
and pillows
were ruffled.
The bed’s occupant
did not have a restful night,
this was a certainty.
The dark, midnight blue blankets
seemed to dance with the ever
increasing sunlight. Besides the empty
bed lay a dresser made from
various unknown exotic woods and a
coffee table to match. Upon the
circular table sat an off-cream
colored answering machine.
Its red notification light
blinked—persistently—blinked
next to a vibrant number one
of the same color;
someone
had
left
a
message
that
hasn’t
been
made,
and yet waited patiently to be heard.
From the kitchen,
the sound of a bottle
gently tapping against
glass, can be heard,
followed by the smooth
pouring of a liquid
over several ice cubes.
The silhouette of a
thirty-something
year old man prepares himself a drink.
It could be gin;
it could be vodka;
it could be everclear or absinthe,
but it most definitely wasn’t water.
Whatever it was, it was his fourth this morning. He downs the drink swiftly, in a single motion, easily emptying the glass of its fluids, leaving the ice cubes behind. Loosening his black and silver striped tie with one hand, he pours himself another drink.
His eyes are glazed over and sunken like the warships of old, downed by torpedoes of exhaustion; his short brown hair shoots off in every direction; the shade of a beard has begun to take root upon his square jaw. His Misty blue button up shirt is creased in uneven ridges, though is otherwise clean, unlike his black slacks; splattered with mud, creating the illusion of an alien leopard print. His bare feet shift tentatively on the hardwood floor as he downs his beverage yet again without a second thought.
Placing the glass back down on the island
surface, he stares into the clear container;
his reflection stares back tenfold, like the
distorted eye of some exotic insect. He
contemplates making another drink, but
then chooses to put the cap back on the
bottle instead, leaving the glass to wallow
with its melting ice.
Taking
a deep
breath and
letting out
a sigh,
fading away
with his
exhalation,
he walks
over to the
unmade bed
and looks
down at
the unimportant
answering
machine with
its droning
red light of
urgency and
importance.
He already
knows who
the message
is from; the
only person
who talks to
him, let alone
giving him
any notice
whatsoever in
a very,
very,
very
—l—o—n—g — t—i—m—e—.—
Thirty-two is what he passes for,
but adding a zero
to the end wouldn’t
even come close to
his true age and he
can only look
forward to many
more zeroes being
added on,
either to be enjoyed
or lamented,
which is probably
what caused her
to follow him in the first place;
both fascinating and infuriating
her at the same time,
having given up on
figuring out how
he had evaded her
notice for so long,
and instead placed
her efforts into finding
a way to complete
her job, and having
a little fun along
the way, something
one wouldn’t exactly
associate with a
being like her, but
happiness in the workplace
is important after all.
Letting out a deep breath through his
nostrils, the man reaches over and presses
the PLAY button on the ever patient
device made up of plastics and metals that
will pass and expire long before he will.
Forever thirty-two.
There are worse ages
to spend eternity in,
besides maybe thirty-eight or fifty-nine,
but thirty-two fit him just fine.
‘YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE,’
the automated female voice spoke,
‘FIRST NEW MESSAGE,’
a brief pause breaks the robotic voice as the message is prepared.
It soon continues as another woman’s voice comes on: ethereal, a mixture of singing and speaking, yet neither one or the other; a voice filled with peace and dread all at once; a voice of inevitability; the kind of voice you have always expected to hear, or have been avoiding your whole life; a voice the man calls F(R)IEND.
‘I thought you should know that you died today.
The world didn’t mean to hurt you,
and that it’s sorry.
It isn’t holding a grudge,‘
the message went on with its otherworldly song,
‘and if you are,
you should probably let it go.
Just thought you should know.‘
Another moment of silence passes and the
man momentarily
wonders if she had forgotten
to hang-up the phone,
but he waves the thought away
just as swiftly as it came,
understanding the impossibility
of the thing: she never used a phone.
There isn’t a recorded message,
but she is there nonetheless.
She is all over in truth,
and even though everything
is familiar with what she does,
no one can truly comprehend
the enormity of the scope of her being.
‘Hello?‘ the message continued, ‘are you still there? I know you’re still there. Where else do you have to go?‘
Another pause.
‘You better not be sleeping, still. You know how much I hate it when you sleep. Don’t make me wait long.‘
The tape clicks as the
—PLAY—
button releases,
returning to its original position
as if it had been playing something
all along.
That’s the thing about the ethereal:
they
don’t
have
to
follow
our
rules.
‘Make you wait long?’
The man chuckles, ‘all you do is wait.’
The blades of sunlight
have begun their ascent through the
kitchen and opposing wall, highlighting
the pastel green color scheme and floral patterns which littered the bar; refracting through the empty alcohol bottles and glasses of ice and dew and condensation. There they would remain until the housekeeping unit came in. Regardless, the man would not be the one to move them.
Standing up,
the man tucks
his shirt back
in and fixes
his tie, before
half-heartedly
pat’s off the
drying mud
on his pants,
but he doesn’t
bother to put
any shoes on,
it’s more interesting that way.
The
sun had
breached over the
hills now, it’s golden crown
of cosmic radiance shining
proudly. The midnight
black of
the
night had
given way to
the bright blues of
the day.
Casually walking over towards the sliding glass doors
which led to the balcony, the man pulls the shades
back, letting the full barrage of light from the sun to
flood the extravagant room. He opens the glass door;
they gracefully glide upon their well liked tracks.
Stepping out upon the white concrete balcony, the
man carefully closes the door behind him with barely
a sound. He takes another deep breath, filling his
lungs with the curious mo(u)rning air.
Gripping the safety rail, the man pulls himself up
onto the balcony wall and grabs hold of the overhang
above him. Steadying himself in his precarious
situation until he is able to purchase a suitable
footing. Taking another long and deep breath, he
considers the strange mo(u)rning air.
He spreads his arms w—i—d—e;
hands f_a—n-n—e_d out
to their fullest extent;
closes his eyes and elegantly leans forward,
his toes giving the slightest push
off the railing before he is completely disengaged
from the steel, glass, and concrete construct.
Down
and
down
he
went,
falling,
but not flailing.
H
e
d
r
o
p
s
s
l
o
w
l
y
a
t
f
i
r
s
t
,
th
en
gra
dually
picks up
speed over time.
The windows and passing balconies
become a blur as the wind brushes by his being. His Hands Remained o-p-e-n; his arms still w—i—d—e;
his legs side by side. The sun’s warm fingers desperately raced, trying to catch the falling man to no avail. On and on he fell.
Strange, the man thinks to himself, his eyes still closed, I don’t remember it taking this long last ti—
/SNAP\
—CRUNCH—
_SPLAT_!
In spite of the sun’s best efforts,
it is ultimately the ground
who manages to catch
the falling man with its confident
and solid embrace.
Unfortunately, there are no witnesses around
to see the miraculous catch,
though the man’s body
would definitely beg to differ
that this was no miracle.
Far from it.
Just
another common
occurrence in the
everyday life of this
unique man who now lay
broken upon the concrete sidewalk.
Arms
and
legs
bent in unusual
angles;
ribcage
and
hips shattered;
spine
and
organs collapsed,
and yet against all probability,
the man’s head remained nearly undamaged,
save for a fractured jaw
and a particularly nasty cut
on his left cheek.
Staring
down
the sidewalk,
he
sees
a
figure
clad
in
black
slowly
making
its
way
towards
his
mangled
body.
His-sight-is-blurry-from-the-impact,-but-his-eyes-soon-realign-themselves-and-find-their-focus,-bringing-the-figure-into-clarity:-a-woman,-slim-and-elegant,-like-Audrey-Hepburn-dressed-like-a-lifelong-fan-of-The-Cure,-and-a-pair-of-wings-which-hung-lazily-in-the-air,-though-they-more-resembled-tears-in-the-fabric-of-the-universe;
sheets of reality,
each filled with billions
upon countless billions of stars;
her skin was as pale as a winter moon,
yet her dress was blinding
in its darkness:
a stark contrast
to the ever brightening day.
She stops
right in front of his body
and lowers herself down to a knee.
She pushes some of his hair
away from his face,
delicately brushing his skin
as if it were part of a delicate fossil.
The faintest of smiles
appears on her face.
‘That was fun,’ she
says. Her voice is the
same contradictory
tone from the
answering machine;
that voice of comfort
and dread; unease
and relaxation;
familiar and unknown;
soothing and disturbing.
‘I’d give it an eight out of ten. ‘
She starts to caress
his face in a way
that only a lover would,
the tips of her delicate fingers
performing a delicate dance,
barely making contact with his skin.
‘Can we go somewhere else?’
the man manages to croak
through his mouth,
‘this city is beginning to bore me.
It’s always the same thing:
party all night, sleep all day.’
The odd woman’s smile widens
at the sound of this,
revealing her bone white teeth.
She places her hand against his cheek
as his bones,
quite literally,
*
S
N
A
P
*
back into place.
When she removes her hand from his face,
all the cuts and blemishes disappear,
including his young beard.
Another minute later,
the man is able to stand up on his own
as if nothing had happened.
The mysterious woman looks at him
with blank, indifferent eyes,
but her smile remained.
‘Of course we can go somewhere else,’ she quipped
in her mysterious voice.
‘We can go wherever something is dying,
and things are always dying in this reality,
so in a way, I am everywhere.’
The pair of unusual beings stare at one another for some time as the sun shines on, finally breaking over the distant hills completely.
‘Where would you like to go?’
The man looks away,
lost in the labyrinth of thought,
trying to think of something new,
something no one else has ever done,
when it suddenly comes to him.
‘Event horizon,’
was all he said at first.
The
woman’s
smile
grew
even
wider
than
before.
This would
be a new
experience for her as
well.
‘I would like to see
the event horizon
of a black hole.’
Holding
out
her
hands,
the woman
takes his hands,
her cosmic wings wrap
around and envelop
them both.
One instant they are there, the
next, they are gone, far, far away.
FIN
A Place for Stories 