Together

We must be careful you and me. Yes …I’m sure you agree, “Very careful,” you probably say too. Me as a writer and you as a psychologist; can we continue on the path together? Even if the path is getting treacherous ---of course it’s terrifying, sometimes, but after a while, we’ll be somewhere else. Don’t you agree? We’ll have made it, “don’t you think?”

You have to see how the path meanders in our lush green surroundings. “It’s beautiful!” But yes, sometimes the path seemingly looks like an illusion? ---hitting and missing, but usually only for a moment, not, “Get Out!” like you might say. That dead-end you see can simply be called a bridge instead.

“But what is the bridge to us, to connect or separate?” you might say. You might willingly leap across the bridge to keep the distance between the two of us.

But: “Below the bridge is a creek where the rocks are mossy and slippery; sharp and dangerous. It’s very dangerous,” I say, so desperate, just wanting to go back ---back to those nights where our moist breath on each other’s neck removed the past and also the future, as we lived … Now! “We could fall on those mossy rocks below or a fate perhaps worse,” I continue, “We’ll slip and take two maybe three steps back, or you’ll look at your life without us. We’ve walked quite a distance without an impasse, until, and it is only this hand-bridge with a few slippery obstacles that are now in front of us. We can’t take a step backwards, not now, please, not ever! I’m scared.”

“But …Aren’t creeks like this one that rejuvenate us formed by mad storms?” You say. “But isn’t that the contradiction in every system.” I say, and, “Look at that beauty as the creek repeats its beauty constantly.”

“But if we do, we must cross the bridge, past the slippery rocks below ---together. “No,” you say, and also, “look at those jagged rocks just underneath the surface waiting for a slip. That’s terrifying! “Yes,” I say, “like me, they’re desperate; I saw the desperation immediately after I heard it. But …they’re just scared. Can’t you see that they’re trying to stick their heads out of the creek for a breath of air?” I try to explain. “We must also inhale deeply …decisions should come slowly.”

But, you might say, “The path is one skip and a hop away …from the stifling love I forced on you?” “But it always takes two,” I say. So the Writer cried not after the skip but after the hop across the mossy rocks and the hand-bridge as he realized he landed on the other side without her.

And while on the other side the writer could hear her ask, “What does the future around that corner look like for you?” And quickly he said, “It doesn’t look very bright, not without you. So ...nightly I’ll scream at the silvery moon, “I love you.” And I’ll hear a dreamy return, “I love you too,” somewhere, as we continue on the path …together? The End

Making Murder Into a Natural Occurrence

As the mountain slid quickly down to valley at another lower elevation the trains plus the mist seemed to be in limbo right there. And ‘right there’ was where they had recently relocated the train’s turnaround station.

On that quick difference of elevation I had been stopped in my tracks on one of my many walking expeditions, motivated, or more precisely, forced, by anxious dreams of my alarm clock buzzing the next morning, and so, I began prowling the streets of my neighborhood to relief myself of this with a vigorous walk.

And at this time, was exactly the time, when I noticed the trains spinning around in the mist on that quick elevation change as the transportation workers chucked out passengers in twos, which were no longer passengers, but were now …corpses?

And so, with the view of these murders, all my thoughts turned… mystical. But murder often has that effect, especially a well organized attack to make it look like a natural occurrence. But now the slaughter was visible right through my tired eyes.

Therefore, I should be thankful that I was walking to cure myself of these insomniac nightmares of my alarm clock buzzing, but I’m not, and therefore, maybe I am, because my anxiety had made me aware of this, now obvious, murderous fact.

And so, being a humanitarian as I had grown to be, maybe always, probably since day one of my life, I promised the city that I lived in, and also loved, that I would in fact …try to stop the killing. You see, not only were the dimly lit trains through the mist now visible, but the sound waves of screams from murder seemed to glide right down that step difference of elevation, without any hesitation, directly into my ears. It was lyrical, profound even ---Murder/Death!

But, and this is without a single follow up question needed, it was about the murderer’s selection process that had everybody fascinated. Nobody was sure who was going to be next. Were you killed because of eye color, hair color, not enough color, skin tone, monotone, bi-tone, too skinny and or fleshy, and I can think of a million other reasons about why we were all so confused and at the same time very…fascinated.

Soon though, the hopelessness came and it was palpable. Even hugging a loved one became labor intensive. Nobody wanted to release their grip, but me of course. I had my philanthropy work to do. But very soon, I’m sure because of innuendo and conjecture, plus perhaps murderousness, soon the train’s turnaround was rerouted right through each and every district in the city. It was convenient, very easy indeed to get transportation as the trains crossed over each and every intersection in the city. It dissected the city into T’s, upside and downside T’s. It didn’t leave a person Behind and that was nothing but NEW! ---so I began to cheer them on. I began to cheer the murderers on!

The End