This story marks the one-year anniversary of this series. It’s crazy to think I’ve been doing this a year already, and consistently. If I can say one thing, this project has helped me keep to writing. Not only have I been able to dabble in so many different genres, but in this process, I’ve been exposed to so many great artists and connections I wouldn’t have otherwise. Thank you to all the artists who have consistently created inspiring work. Without you, none of these stories would exist. Here’s to another year.
Thanks for reading.
Artwork by Mohammad Qureshi
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/QNNm8
DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.
The Story
Fire-engine red, lodged in a stump, split, silver grille formed to precision.
CRASH. Into bare feet. Broken nails, not the kind you hammer. A hammer fell, the kind that begins with sledge, made of iron attached to a blood-red face, howling, beating, beating beating. Like the wind had, through the open window, through his cage. White on white on white, crosses on crosses on crosses. Arms big enough to get through, though stumpy and short. Not this one, this now-one, perma-fogged cool to the touch.
CRASH. Through the now-cage. Elbows worked better than fingers. No blood in view, just white crosses he could fit his arms through. Still unable to escape this prison, though he was stronger now, smarter now, more resourceful. Who the hell had a fire-engine red hatchet? Hell had something. Scrape, scrape, scrape. No good. No time.
Curtains like pretty spider webs, cheered him to freedom. Clink, clink, clink, went the glass by way of fire-engine blade. The grip was good, strong, like the one that had tried to pull him through his cage when he had stumpy weak arms and only pictures in his head.
BITE. Went a mouth on his hand, went the broken glass he hadn’t completely removed. Little sister, full of teeth, should be on a fucking leash. Bite, bite, bite, he tried himself when he became a wolf, teeth so sharp, teeth so strong, nothing, oh, nothing ever could go wrong.
Around, around, around, we go. Around he went, the prison bars not the only way. He knew the ins and outs, so many there were, ones that even a joke of a hatchet could provide. Didn’t need it, door unlocked. The silence, oh, the silence, but wait.
Tick-tock-tick-tock. The circle of numbers he knew well, their significance set to the inner workings of the universe where time and space and clouds and sky and animals all work together in harmony to fit into a small box muttering the same things over and over again, and only he can hear it, and it tells him it’s time. It’s TIME.
A magazine, fresh with a white label at the address he’s at. D. Parker above, and the ink is slightly smeared. So careless, that machine, those hands. His hands. His machine of hands isn’t careless, unless it wants to be, when he wants to see things fly and burst like he’s the beginning of the universe itself, the beginning of everything, but he was before, so time doesn’t matter, the tick-tick-tocking is meaningless, a funny show really for D. Parker. Don, Donna, David, Dennis, Derrick, dog shit, denial.
Dehydration. It’s not good, no, no. Not good at all. Drink up little guy. _Drink, drink, drink. _Smells funny, tastes worse, but Dad doesn’t care, says if it’s good enough for his 57 cherry, it’s good enough for his boy, his good old boy, who is old enough to have a fucking drink with his old man. Old boy, old man, just fucking old. A bath is what he needs, not a drink, so that’s what he gets. Doused in car juice sitting in his favorite chair, and scratch from a stick is all it takes and he’s a god-damn-holy-fucking-hell-tree, rising taller than any forest he’s see, and the fire truck never comes.
Because its in his hand, that solid grip, that heft of red and silver, ready to lodge again. The lodge on highway twelve, or one twelve, because the number might have been missing. Missing like the night manager, so he took the number that looked most appealing, hanging from a bunch of thumbtacks, not hooks. Hooks would have been better. He found some in the closet in Room 112, like the highway should have been, might have been, called. Hooks he filed down because he always liked pirates but thought he could do it better. Five is better than one, right? How about ten. Definitely better.
This house was better than his, better than any house he’d been in. Donna or Denise or Dora came down the hall to tell him as much, show him as much, flashing her rings. All eight. Eight is less than ten, but he only had one now, and it wasn’t a hook anyway. It worked well. She worked well. Spinning on the floor, spattering and spilling. A very loud sprinkler, and he didn’t like loud and the floor was never thirsty no matter how much she wanted it to drink.
Daniel, Donnie, Dumb Shit was thirsty down the hall, with his half-full glass of burns-just-as-good-as-car-juice drink. The howl was like the red face from way back, from the open window. He could quiet it now, could have turned it into a hell-tree but thought better of it. Even fire was loud in the silence he found himself in. Found himself in a prison of bars he couldn’t touch so couldn’t break. Those hands grabbed for the wall as if it had handles.
He had a handle on things. He might be trapped but not forever. Nah, these bars would fall. More than halfway gone now, and he hadn’t been standing here long at all. Told you he was the master of time and the secrets of existence on that road that never ended and all that bullshit. You thought he was illuminating the mysteries of all that was and all that ever will be. Don’t think he doesn’t see you. He does, better in the darkness that you think you can hide in. He sees you in the light just as well, so what he’s saying is, you can’t hide.
He’s not even looking at you, head down, eyes almost closed, the cool tones of evening trying to cool down that fire-engine red, but they can’t. Nope. Never will, because he burns brighter than the sun that tried to imprison him again with its shadows stretched long, complementing his shoes he spent so much time shining, just for this day, just for you.
Here he comes.
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