Short and Sweet

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Home.

I am freezing. I stand outside in cold rain, on the doorstep. I think it's snowing now. The wind is cold and sharp. But I won't knock. I won't ring the doorbell. I won't ask to step inside where it's warm. I'll stay out in the cold.

Outside, I am bravely fighting the elements which cannot be defeated. The wind rips at the shingles; I patch them back on. The frost freezes the ground; I give what little body heat I have to the garden. The road ices over; I melt it with salt of my sweat. The walkway and driveway become chest-deep in snow; I shovel away.

Inside, the elements cannot touch me. Inside, it is warm and comfortable. But inside, I cannot fight. I cannot martyr. I cannot.

Someone stands at the door, barely creaked open, calling my name, begging for me to come inside. But I won't; I can't. How could I enjoy the comfort when outside, a storm ravages so fiercely against what I must protect? How could I sit comfortably, knowing a war is going on?

No, I cannot sit. I do not belong in the comforts of a home. These simple comforts tear apart my insides like poison. I will not survive such a life. An allergy. Do not bring me inside, lest I suffer an anaphylactic reaction, my life cut suddenly short.

Home is outside. My home. Let me fight to my death.

I had a dream I was walking amongst the world in an endless sea of strangers. And all around me, I could find nothing-- neither safety nor danger. Every face was blank-- empty.

I awoke shaking. My heart rattled my rib cage, and the putrid smell of my own sweat engulfed me. Fear. I could barely breathe. And I reached for my phone, desperate to call someone and find that the world was filled with more than just strangers, but it was not there. The fear swelled up greater still. I leapt from my bed to find that my legs would not hold me. And I crashed to the floor, weak and helpless, beginning to cry.

I don't know how long I stayed there, crying in misery, too weak to withstand the terror of my dream. Perhaps it was a few minutes, but it was more likely years. Years and years of lying in fear, in desperation. Alone! alone, alone, alone.

At last, I clasped my hands together and whispered to the no one that surrounded me. The only sound was the echo of my own voice and my tired breathing. But a nothing sort of something replied. My legs stirred beneath me and brought me back to my feet. And they carried me from home through dark, empty streets. I should have worried, but the silent reply hushed my fearful thoughts.

And then, suddenly, it was day. I was in the middle of a busy street. People called out to each other-- people with faces! My heart danced. But they did not see me. Cars whizzed straight through me. And soon, I realised I was still alone. Angry, I cursed the nothing that replied, cursed my legs for carrying me, cursed the blind people who could not see me.

And the nothing spoke, voiceless, within the caverns of my mind, suddenly and with fierceness. The nothing spoke without words, without sound, without movement. The nothing merely was. But I was filled with understanding, having received nothing to understand. And my soul, for it lacked a physical home, seemed to explode out of my chest, and I watched as the entire street was ripped apart by the ethereal eruption. I became bodiless.

And as I drifted higher, I realised I had died. My body was in pieces, barely recognisable, and the people rushed to see if it was someone they knew. But upon finding my shattered flesh to belong to someone unknown, they continued about their days, unfazed.

And, at last, I understood that I had always been walking amongst the world in an endless sea of strangers, for who knew me? Who would recognise me, now drifting higher and higher away from the faceless beings? Who would remember that I had ever been anything else?

And the nothingness welcomed me, surrounding and embracing me. And, at last, I was not alone.

Earthly Existence

It all ended with a dull thud. No crash, no boom, no excitement. Only a dull thud, and it was all over. It all began just as mundane, and I can't seem to recall anything particularly noteworthy between the mundane and the dull thud. In fact, you can barely even consider it a happening at all.

As I said, it began mundane. I awoke that day, but did not get up. I'd fallen asleep on the couch again, and the TV was still on. It was the middle of the night, and some stupid infomercials were on. I gazed numbly at the screen.

It had become quite common that I'd wake up like this. My mother warned me that I might die in my sleep and not even know it. "Last I saw you, you already looked dead!" she scolded me. I wasn't sure why I should care. My earthly existence has ceased to matter. I had accomplished everything I hoped to on earth. I had no physical dreams to make come true any longer.

And so my body wasted away. I was unashamed. I could not care about my earthly body as long as my unearthly soul demanded all care be devoted to it. My soul held my true existence. My body could die, and I would never care, as long as what mattered to me remained strong: my soul.

When I awoke, I felt nothing. I had been sure that some bodily function had woken me up, but I felt no ailment. Regardless, I stood up to get myself food. I did not make it to the kitchen, however. Sirens were approaching, and my roommate rushed past me to the couch I had been sleeping on. Panic filled the air.

Everything gets blurred here.

It seemed my mind was trying to put information together in an earthly fashion, but, being only human, it was faulty. I could not comprehend why paramedics were rushing into my home. Nor could I comprehend why my roommate was stricken with such panic over the couch. And, finally, I could not comprehend what I saw when I walked back to my couch.

I was lying on the couch. My roommate shook me. She was crying, I realised. My body fell to the floor with a dull thud. And then it hit me: I was dead. She was delirious. I tried to speak, but my words fell on deaf ears. I was a ghost.

For a moment, I felt liberated. At last, I was freed of my earthly body! And then, a wave of sickness hit me. Suddenly, it hit me that she was crying over me, over my death. My mother would cry too. My roommate was already blaming herself for not doing something to save me, for not knowing I was dying; my mother would only be worse.

I tried to leap into my body, to return to my human life, but I was dead. I tried to speak, tried to smell, tried to feel, but all of my senses were gone but, somehow, sight. I could see that I did not want to be dead. I wanted nothing more than to return to my earthly life and live again. I suddenly understood what was meant by the words, "You don't know what you have until it's gone." And so I cried too. I shook, I flailed, and with a dull thud, I hit the ground.

I woke up the moment my body hit the ground. Infomercials were on, just as they had been in my dream. I stared at the screen, bewildered. I touched my skin, making sure it was real, making sure I was alive. I knew I was. I had only been dreaming; it was only a nightmare.

But I was shaken, forever changed. My lethargic slump ended with a dull thud, and my new life as an actually alive human being began immediately. I did not resent my earthly constraints ever again, but instead praised that I might have the chance to live. I felt as if I truly had died and been resurrected, given a second chance at life by some higher power. I did not waste it.

August Symphony

It was a long day. The longest day of the year. The air conditioner broke that morning, and so the hot, August Sun mixed with the heat of the flames from the smoldering, greasy grill made the day unbearable. The food must have tasted like sweat that day from all the sweat which dripped off of one, dirty, underweight cook from open to close.

He was miserable. The most miserable day of his life. His parents had kicked him out, too drunk or high or just plain dicks to care for their only son. He couldn't really think of any friends he had; it seemed everyone he knew only cared about themselves. Today, his boss yelled at him for sweating too much. "Don't drink water!" the boss spat.

He wanted nothing more than for the day to end. He would leave work at last, the sun would be gone, and he would ride his bike until he found a comfortable bench to sleep on for the night. Maybe tonight, one of his so-called friends would let him take a shower and wash away the sweat for only part of his day's wage.

The hours passed slowly. He clung to the idea of a nice, cool shower. It was all he thought about all day. His throat scratched painfully, dreaming longingly of cold water. His muscles screamed for hydration. His skin prickled with hope of cleanliness, of escape from the grease and sweat which suffocated his every pore.

But at last, he was free. The sun set. He clocked out, got his bike, and rode a block before his muscles refused to work any longer. He collapsed. His bike smashed his right leg. His head spun. His only thought was to get out of the street, but the thought was soon overpowered by the desperate need for water, for rest, for basic survival. The world blurred into darkness. He blacked out.

He awoke to humming. It was only later that he realised the strangeness of what had awoken him. A girl, perhaps a bit younger than he, was gently cleaning his face, but what awoke him was not the chill of the water but the softness and beauty of her gentle voice. It was a peaceful song, a lullaby. He didn't really wake up, but instead found himself lost in a dream.

He dreamt of a pleasant place. Soft grass, bright flowers, rolling hills. The sound of running water could be heard. The stream was singing something beautiful and sweet. He decided to go to the stream and bathed himself in it. It was the most amazing feeling in the world. Birds sang. A gentle breeze blew through the trees, adding the voices of the trees to the symphony.

He woke up on a swingset. He couldn't remember how he got there, only that he had had the most wonderful dream. Then he noticed something in his hand: it was a piece of paper. On it was written, in delicate handwriting, one word: "Smile." Confused, he turned it over. There was nothing on the back either. He scratched his forehead, and in doing so, unintentionally touched his hair. It felt clean. He ran his hands through his hair suddenly. Yes, his hair was clean. He touched his face; clean too.

He remembered his dream more now. There had been a pretty girl cleaning the dirt and sweat and grease off of him. Only she wasn't a dream. Perhaps she was an angel. I was sent an angel, he thought in awe. It was the greatest day of his life; he smiled.

Wait.

Creative Writing Saturday! Never been shared before and all, though this is another old piece of writing. I swear I'll have something brand new next week. Anyway, without further ado, here's "Wait":

Wait.

You turn around. Words splutter out of my mouth like a dying motor. I pretend you're smiling, but I can still feel that you're not. I smile-- not out of joy, but out of fear that we may never smile again. Still, you do not smile. I can feel the weight of all the years pressing down against my chest, against my heart, against my lungs. I cannot breathe.

What? you finally ask. Your impatience stings like a fresh cut. Only a paper cut, I tell myself, but even paper cuts become hell after the nine thousandth time or so. It hurts, no matter how much I tell myself it doesn't.

I don't know, is all I can stupidly say. Because I don't.

Is that it? Are you done now? you ask, each word flung at me harder than the previous.

I just want to pretend this isn't happening, I say. And I know you're about to laugh-- but you don't. Somewhere underneath the stinging impatience, I see that I'm stinging you. Good, I want to think, but I can't. Bad, bad, bad!

But it is. Your voice aches.

Why? I want to shout. But I know why. I want so desperately to pretend this isn't. I want so desperately to ignore every glaring flaw, every mile-long misstep, every clear sign. I want so desperately to believe that this is temporary, that, soon enough, everything will, like magic, be fixed and you will be smiling again.

Can I go now? you ask. Your voice is impatient, but I know it is impatience to end the pain, not to begin it. This is the pain-- the parting, the goodbye. The infected limb is being cut off.
Yeah, I say, turning away. And I don't look back. You turn away too, and I know you do not look back. Because looking back would be suicide. Looking back would stop the amputation mid cut. Blood will gush out in floods, and you will be drained. I will be drained.

Each step away aches. But slowly, it will stop aching. This-- I know, you know, we know-- is the right path. This is the only path toward survival.

I do not fear we may never smile again-- I know. I will never look at you again, as tears of delirious joy cloud my vision, and smile. Nor will you ever smile at knowing I am with you either. This is the end, finale, completion. It does not matter why, for why will not change this. Why is useless.

And so I hold onto the last seconds, savour them, and watch the memories slowly die and fade from memory.

Christopher Allen Ryser

At last! My very first "creative writing" blog post. This was written in early 2009. Most of my Saturday postings will be new/unreleased, but I thought I'd start with a "classic" of my writing. Enjoy!

I fell asleep to the sound of him typing. Every night. I never asked him what he was writing. It was the Great American novel. Well, that's what he wished. Every night, he'd write and write and write. Type, type, type. Click, click, click. The sound of the keys, his sighs of defeat, gasps of inspiration, moans of desperation, all became part of me. I fell in love with the writer I barely knew.

His name was Christopher Allen Ryser. C.A.R. In my mind, he told me stories of his parents, both car-lovers, and how they gave him those initials. Other times, they did it on accident, and it was fate that made him a car-lover. Or ironic because he hated cars.

He had many stories. When he'd type at night, I imagined him telling me the things he wrote. They were fascinating stories. I sometimes wondered if his stories were anywhere near as good as the ones he told me in my imagination. I decided they were much better.

I did not know the colour of his eyes; I rarely saw him. He had short brown hair, a soft chin, and a tired face. My dreams were filled with him. He never stopped telling me stories. He whispered them into my ear as I laid in his arms. When he'd kiss me, his lips spoke to mine, telling them the most amazing things imaginable.

At times, the reality that he would never be mine, that he did not even know me, would consume me. It burned through me like swallowing hot wax. I moaned in pain when I thought these things. Christopher Allen Ryser, I whispered weakly. I wished my last name would be Ryser.
Was I wrong to love him? Perhaps, but it could not be helped.

He was a writer. He was a storyteller. He was a puppet master, and the world and I were his captivated audience. He was never published during his lifetime, though his niece managed to get some of his writings published after he passed away. She had been a beautiful little girl, always visiting her Uncle Chris and bringing him flowers. He told her stories. His voice was loving and strong and filled with a gentleness just for her. When he would speak to me, it was with a tired, weary voice, the weight of his writing heavy upon him.

He died young. Cancer. A week before he died, he did not write. Instead, he sat down at the foot of my bed and spoke to me in his tired, weary voice. This time, however, it was not his writing which ailed him; it was his own pending death.

"Look after her, please," he asked me. That was all he said, and then he wept. In my dreams, it was I who was in his arms, but this time, he was in mine. Neither of us said a word. He did not sob, but tears soaked his face and clothing.

After he died, his niece still visited. Now, it was I who gave flowers. I cared for her, just as her uncle had wished. As she grew older, she became a beautiful woman. She told me she was in love with me when she was 24 years old, so I married her and took her name. I knew I didn't love her the way I had loved her uncle, but I also knew I should never have loved a man.

She was a good wife, and I loved her as a sister. I wished I could have been a better husband, but she never complained. We had two children. Our son was named him Christopher Allen Ryser, Jr., after his great uncle whom he looked exactly like. Our daughter was named Lillian Alexandra Ryser, after her parents, Lillian and Alexander Ryser. She looked just like her mother. I loved our children just as I did their mother and great-uncle: with all of my heart.

In my dreams, I still heard him typing every night. He spoke to me. He told me stories. He cried in my arms, sometimes, and I told him how his niece and her children were doing. It seemed to make him happier. I never told him or anyone else, even in my dreams, that I had loved him. He knew.