Are there any questions? Of course there are. What kind of question is that? They tell me my mother was a saint, and I wonder if there is truth to that. They tell me I am a monster wrapped in skin pulled tight across bones of oak wood. I brush my teeth to keep them white, lest someone should discover the truth.
* * *
I took in a deep breath. Cool air rubbed against my dry throat, and I coughed so hard it forced me to double over. It was from this position that I first saw the shadows flit across the grass. I had been sleeping on pillows made from the lips of lovers; from the moist slip of lips, and fast breathing. But just as soon as I was sleeping I was also taking in that deep breath and watching shadows ruffle the grass, without the grass moving at all. I breathed in again and wondered where my exhale had gone. Twelve monsters made of obsidian and rotting flesh fell from the oak trees. I took off in a sprint.
* * *
I looked into the face of my mother on the day of my birth and wondered what kind of look my mother had on her face. Was she happy? Was the twist of her lips a smile, or a curl of distaste? The photograph was small, Polaroid, and old. At this distance, I had no way of knowing.
Which meant one thing. I had to go into the photo.
Fingers sliding over the slick gloss of Polaroid film paper and ink; I trace the shoulders of my mother, the single white arm of a nurses uniform flashing out of the left edge of the frame. When my fingers met the blue and white of the blankets they started to feel like the cotton blend they were made of, and then I was in the photo. My mothers eyes are lit; face gentle, surprised; mouth soft. It was as if she did not expect it to really happen.
I suppose a lot of people don’t expect things they had been planning on for months.
* * *
“First thing’s first, who is your mother?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t really remember.”
“When were you born? We can work from there.”
“From all the mothers that gave birth on the day that I was born?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that a lot of mothers?”
* * *
I wake up on a train. I realize I have been riding for a few days now. I do not remember what I’ve been running from. The only thing I am aware of is the cold on the back of my arms, and the absence of food in my stomach. Hot breath filters out of my mouth, and I watch it rub across the glass and stick. The train growls and covers the yearning noises of my stomach, but I am mesmerized by the way my breath has fogged up the glass.
I’ve never had anything stick to me so willingly, or quickly. But then, it also fades. It marks up easily. Maybe things need to be kept in your body longer for them to become more solid, more real. Maybe that is why a baby takes nine months to come out, and breath is hardly visible. Maybe that is why I do not think I am as real as other people.
The train passes a field of oak trees, and I see myself running from twelve dark figures.
* * *
I wake up on a train. Immediately, I look out the window. The oak trees are there as I thought they would be, but this time the field is empty.
* * *
“I think my mothers name is Bluegrass.”
“No one called Blue Grass is listed in the directory.”
* * *
It’s old light, and there’s not much of it. But it’s enough to see by. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die, and I believe him. Mostly I see him coming after me in my dreams. Just behind those twelve obsidian beasts, just behind my own heartbeat, and the lobes of my ears. I am never rid of him. Sometimes I think he is my father. Mostly I dream that he will devour my knees and ankles to replace his own old bones.
I want to tell him my bones are made of wood. That they will splinter and turn to dust. Usually I just scream.
I always run.
* * *
“You don’t remember anything about your mother except that her name might be Blue Grass?”
“It’s Bluegrass, and I don’t…”
“…”
“Listen, I have some advice I remember. Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.”
“How can you miss everybody? You don’t even remember her name.”
* * *
I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only reality you and I may share. Just this Polaroid. You no longer exist anywhere else. It was my fault; you couldn’t have known you gave birth to a monster. No one could have known right away.
What first gave it away was my affinity for chasing-games on wooden playgrounds with mulch carpets. It was my bones calling out to the old wood. It was the dark corners under castles and pirate ships. It was the first child I devoured with glee, because I had captured him.
Of course, I was sent to the principals office.
* * *
My lungs burn. These creatures will not go away. The foremost one stretched open a great, black, maw and released a dark yawp. It was a fine cry—loud and long—but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow. The other eleven join in the call, and the Judge rises; dancing, burning, following on the heels of the hunt. One of these days he will see my fate through.
* * *
I wake up in the plastic chairs of a train station. My next train has just come in, so I board and settle into hard cushioning. I fall asleep and dream of holding an old Polaroid. There is a woman holding a baby. She looks like she could be happy. The baby seems relieved. I laugh about relieved babies. That is just silly. The trees grow infant clothes. I pick onesies of each color. I can hear baby laughter approaching. It sounds sinister, and I realize the trees are dripping black. The twelve have found me even here. I take off, and the onesies scatter into the air and behind me, leaving a trail. It means they will find me faster, and it is too cold me for take a deep breath properly. I collapse.
The stopping of the train wakes me up. Two men board, come to my seat, and stare into my bleary face. I look hard at the places where their skin is the thinnest to see if obsidian glints through. I cannot tell.
* * *
“Okay, tell me about your father.”
“I never knew him. I still have no idea who he is.”
“Is there any family you have that you do remember?”
“I had a cousin. He was younger than me. I remember his face.”
“What about his name?”
“No.”
“If we got a sketch artist could you describe him well enough to possibly identify?”
“Only if your data banks have pictures of people’s faces twisted in horror.”
“Horror?”
“I ate him. Piece by piece.”
* * *
They kept me awake while we traveled. Said something about not being allowed out of body. Thought I could escape somehow. I thought it was funny because I’m not that kind of monster. But they kept me awake anyway. Thirty seven hours in I closed my eyes, head drooping, like a person drunk for so long she no longer knows she’s drunk, and then, drunk, awoke to the world which lay before me. I was in some white building and its rooms were pale colors. Pale grey’s and green’s. They were bare of all furniture: no light fixtures, or windows, or outlets. It was as if the walls were phosphorescent. I had no idea whether or not this was a dream, but it was a good place. Even if I was dreaming those twelve ugly, rotting, bastards couldn’t get me here. I smiled a little, and then worried that my happiness was too arrogant, but nothing in the room changed, so I hoped I was awake, and things would remain as they were.
A thin rectangle of light traced along the wall to my left and opened. A stern woman with a sterner looking laptop entered. Her nails were painted black and I knew I had been deceived.
* * *
An early morning fog was lifting off the grass, like steam off my skin after I get out of a hot shower. I ran down the path, trying to keep in shape so I could escape better, faster. A young couple sprinted off ahead of me and I got caught up in the chase. Chasing is inevitable, though I did not want to do it. I knew what the end result would be. About some things there can be no doubt, and this is one of those things. If I win the chase, you lose all.
I devoured both of them before I had even caught my breath. And then, full and red and hot, I continued to run. I knew they would be chasing me soon enough.
* * *
“So your preferred method is eating people?”
“No. I do not prefer it. It just happens. I have no control.”
“And how many people has this ‘just happened’ with?”
“Twelve.”
* * *
Who knew I would end up a child killer? But they run so often, and their flesh is tender and sweet. I caught a young girl on the edges of a playground. I was not much older, but dark was somehow approaching, and her throat was softly white. She cried out just once, and I understood nothing about the light or time of day. That’s it. The sun in the evening. The moon at dawn. The still voice.
* * *
The first train whistle was dark blue smoke in sunny skies. I sighed to the tune of leaving, and got on board without anything but the clothes on my back, a pillow, and the money in my pocket. I did not intend to stop.
There were few seats left open, so I choose an old man to sit next to, and attempted to get comfortable, but he leaned over, “Ever seen these puzzles?”
“No.” I did not look. If I didn’t, then I would still be telling the truth, even if I did not know the type of puzzle. I had never seen the puzzles he was specifically talking about.
“They use numbers. Give it a shot.”
“Is this a challenge from you? Like a game?”
“We will call it a mental race, huh? You do one, I’ll do the other.” He smiled and his eyes twinkled. My stomach rumbled.
“You’re on.”
By the fourth ‘race’ I realized I had been losing and was now salivating almost uncontrollably. I took a deep breath and challenged him to one more game. I concentrated on the numbers rather than the scent of his mind hard at work, or the sound of his breathing gently wheezing in and out of his old lungs. When I won I ate him gradually. His soul swooned slowly as if he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. He was delicious.
* * *
I was peeling potatoes. Noodles boiled on the stove. I wondered who I was making food for, whether it was dinner or lunch. The shackle around my ankle itched. I looked down again. The fact that I was shackled to the ground registered as a bad thing when I heard twelve throats open in a horrifying call. I could not run if I was shackled. I peeled the potatoes faster, hoping that somehow I would be released if I finished fast enough. Just a different kind of race.
The Judge came and sat in a chair at the table. Even sitting, his body seemed to be in constant motion, and I knew he would never stop. I stood, got out two bowls, and served the noodles. I put the raw potatoes on top and then sat. I kept one bowl for myself, and slid the other over to him, “Father?”
“Wrong.” His voice was not harsh. It was not dark or cold or terrifying. It was not even deceptively gentle, or pure, or sweet. It did not seem to appear in my head without actually sounding. It was completely average.
“Why do you chase me?”
“Because you always run.” And then he laughed and opened his mouth, and his laugher rolled out like hills or waves, endless, and his mouth continued to open until his face split and his throat became a raw, red flower. From inside of that flower the twelve howling beasts rose like bees drawing away from nectar and prepared to mete out the fate I had been trying to escape. It was the nightmare of real things, the fallen wonder of the world. I had been caught.
* * *
I swung a wooden baseball bat at Bluegrass, and the crabapple trees hummed along. I swung over and over until it was soaked with blood, and then I ate it to restore my petrifying bones. Bluegrass died and that evening I dreamt of twelve monsters. The next morning I boarded a train.
* * *
For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I have only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.
* * *
I took in a deep breath. Cool air rubbed against my dry throat, and I coughed so hard it forced me to double over. It was from this position that I first saw the shadows flit across the grass. I had been sleeping on pillows made from the lips of lovers; from the moist slip of lips, and fast breathing. But just as soon as I was sleeping I was also taking in that deep breath and watching shadows ruffle the grass, without the grass moving at all. I breathed in again and wondered where my exhale had gone. Twelve monsters made of obsidian and rotting flesh fell from the oak trees. I took off in a sprint.
* * *
I looked into the face of my mother on the day of my birth and wondered what kind of look my mother had on her face. Was she happy? Was the twist of her lips a smile, or a curl of distaste? The photograph was small, Polaroid, and old. At this distance, I had no way of knowing.
Which meant one thing. I had to go into the photo.
Fingers sliding over the slick gloss of Polaroid film paper and ink; I trace the shoulders of my mother, the single white arm of a nurses uniform flashing out of the left edge of the frame. When my fingers met the blue and white of the blankets they started to feel like the cotton blend they were made of, and then I was in the photo. My mothers eyes are lit; face gentle, surprised; mouth soft. It was as if she did not expect it to really happen.
I suppose a lot of people don’t expect things they had been planning on for months.
* * *
“First thing’s first, who is your mother?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t really remember.”
“When were you born? We can work from there.”
“From all the mothers that gave birth on the day that I was born?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that a lot of mothers?”
* * *
I wake up on a train. I realize I have been riding for a few days now. I do not remember what I’ve been running from. The only thing I am aware of is the cold on the back of my arms, and the absence of food in my stomach. Hot breath filters out of my mouth, and I watch it rub across the glass and stick. The train growls and covers the yearning noises of my stomach, but I am mesmerized by the way my breath has fogged up the glass.
I’ve never had anything stick to me so willingly, or quickly. But then, it also fades. It marks up easily. Maybe things need to be kept in your body longer for them to become more solid, more real. Maybe that is why a baby takes nine months to come out, and breath is hardly visible. Maybe that is why I do not think I am as real as other people.
The train passes a field of oak trees, and I see myself running from twelve dark figures.
* * *
I wake up on a train. Immediately, I look out the window. The oak trees are there as I thought they would be, but this time the field is empty.
* * *
“I think my mothers name is Bluegrass.”
“No one called Blue Grass is listed in the directory.”
* * *
It’s old light, and there’s not much of it. But it’s enough to see by. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die, and I believe him. Mostly I see him coming after me in my dreams. Just behind those twelve obsidian beasts, just behind my own heartbeat, and the lobes of my ears. I am never rid of him. Sometimes I think he is my father. Mostly I dream that he will devour my knees and ankles to replace his own old bones.
I want to tell him my bones are made of wood. That they will splinter and turn to dust. Usually I just scream.
I always run.
* * *
“You don’t remember anything about your mother except that her name might be Blue Grass?”
“It’s Bluegrass, and I don’t…”
“…”
“Listen, I have some advice I remember. Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.”
“How can you miss everybody? You don’t even remember her name.”
* * *
I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only reality you and I may share. Just this Polaroid. You no longer exist anywhere else. It was my fault; you couldn’t have known you gave birth to a monster. No one could have known right away.
What first gave it away was my affinity for chasing-games on wooden playgrounds with mulch carpets. It was my bones calling out to the old wood. It was the dark corners under castles and pirate ships. It was the first child I devoured with glee, because I had captured him.
Of course, I was sent to the principals office.
* * *
My lungs burn. These creatures will not go away. The foremost one stretched open a great, black, maw and released a dark yawp. It was a fine cry—loud and long—but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow. The other eleven join in the call, and the Judge rises; dancing, burning, following on the heels of the hunt. One of these days he will see my fate through.
* * *
I wake up in the plastic chairs of a train station. My next train has just come in, so I board and settle into hard cushioning. I fall asleep and dream of holding an old Polaroid. There is a woman holding a baby. She looks like she could be happy. The baby seems relieved. I laugh about relieved babies. That is just silly. The trees grow infant clothes. I pick onesies of each color. I can hear baby laughter approaching. It sounds sinister, and I realize the trees are dripping black. The twelve have found me even here. I take off, and the onesies scatter into the air and behind me, leaving a trail. It means they will find me faster, and it is too cold me for take a deep breath properly. I collapse.
The stopping of the train wakes me up. Two men board, come to my seat, and stare into my bleary face. I look hard at the places where their skin is the thinnest to see if obsidian glints through. I cannot tell.
* * *
“Okay, tell me about your father.”
“I never knew him. I still have no idea who he is.”
“Is there any family you have that you do remember?”
“I had a cousin. He was younger than me. I remember his face.”
“What about his name?”
“No.”
“If we got a sketch artist could you describe him well enough to possibly identify?”
“Only if your data banks have pictures of people’s faces twisted in horror.”
“Horror?”
“I ate him. Piece by piece.”
* * *
They kept me awake while we traveled. Said something about not being allowed out of body. Thought I could escape somehow. I thought it was funny because I’m not that kind of monster. But they kept me awake anyway. Thirty seven hours in I closed my eyes, head drooping, like a person drunk for so long she no longer knows she’s drunk, and then, drunk, awoke to the world which lay before me. I was in some white building and its rooms were pale colors. Pale grey’s and green’s. They were bare of all furniture: no light fixtures, or windows, or outlets. It was as if the walls were phosphorescent. I had no idea whether or not this was a dream, but it was a good place. Even if I was dreaming those twelve ugly, rotting, bastards couldn’t get me here. I smiled a little, and then worried that my happiness was too arrogant, but nothing in the room changed, so I hoped I was awake, and things would remain as they were.
A thin rectangle of light traced along the wall to my left and opened. A stern woman with a sterner looking laptop entered. Her nails were painted black and I knew I had been deceived.
* * *
An early morning fog was lifting off the grass, like steam off my skin after I get out of a hot shower. I ran down the path, trying to keep in shape so I could escape better, faster. A young couple sprinted off ahead of me and I got caught up in the chase. Chasing is inevitable, though I did not want to do it. I knew what the end result would be. About some things there can be no doubt, and this is one of those things. If I win the chase, you lose all.
I devoured both of them before I had even caught my breath. And then, full and red and hot, I continued to run. I knew they would be chasing me soon enough.
* * *
“So your preferred method is eating people?”
“No. I do not prefer it. It just happens. I have no control.”
“And how many people has this ‘just happened’ with?”
“Twelve.”
* * *
Who knew I would end up a child killer? But they run so often, and their flesh is tender and sweet. I caught a young girl on the edges of a playground. I was not much older, but dark was somehow approaching, and her throat was softly white. She cried out just once, and I understood nothing about the light or time of day. That’s it. The sun in the evening. The moon at dawn. The still voice.
* * *
The first train whistle was dark blue smoke in sunny skies. I sighed to the tune of leaving, and got on board without anything but the clothes on my back, a pillow, and the money in my pocket. I did not intend to stop.
There were few seats left open, so I choose an old man to sit next to, and attempted to get comfortable, but he leaned over, “Ever seen these puzzles?”
“No.” I did not look. If I didn’t, then I would still be telling the truth, even if I did not know the type of puzzle. I had never seen the puzzles he was specifically talking about.
“They use numbers. Give it a shot.”
“Is this a challenge from you? Like a game?”
“We will call it a mental race, huh? You do one, I’ll do the other.” He smiled and his eyes twinkled. My stomach rumbled.
“You’re on.”
By the fourth ‘race’ I realized I had been losing and was now salivating almost uncontrollably. I took a deep breath and challenged him to one more game. I concentrated on the numbers rather than the scent of his mind hard at work, or the sound of his breathing gently wheezing in and out of his old lungs. When I won I ate him gradually. His soul swooned slowly as if he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. He was delicious.
* * *
I was peeling potatoes. Noodles boiled on the stove. I wondered who I was making food for, whether it was dinner or lunch. The shackle around my ankle itched. I looked down again. The fact that I was shackled to the ground registered as a bad thing when I heard twelve throats open in a horrifying call. I could not run if I was shackled. I peeled the potatoes faster, hoping that somehow I would be released if I finished fast enough. Just a different kind of race.
The Judge came and sat in a chair at the table. Even sitting, his body seemed to be in constant motion, and I knew he would never stop. I stood, got out two bowls, and served the noodles. I put the raw potatoes on top and then sat. I kept one bowl for myself, and slid the other over to him, “Father?”
“Wrong.” His voice was not harsh. It was not dark or cold or terrifying. It was not even deceptively gentle, or pure, or sweet. It did not seem to appear in my head without actually sounding. It was completely average.
“Why do you chase me?”
“Because you always run.” And then he laughed and opened his mouth, and his laugher rolled out like hills or waves, endless, and his mouth continued to open until his face split and his throat became a raw, red flower. From inside of that flower the twelve howling beasts rose like bees drawing away from nectar and prepared to mete out the fate I had been trying to escape. It was the nightmare of real things, the fallen wonder of the world. I had been caught.
* * *
I swung a wooden baseball bat at Bluegrass, and the crabapple trees hummed along. I swung over and over until it was soaked with blood, and then I ate it to restore my petrifying bones. Bluegrass died and that evening I dreamt of twelve monsters. The next morning I boarded a train.
* * *
For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I have only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.
