Category: nonfiction

Plot Bunny #3

A cobbled square sat in the middle of a town, much like any town. Wide and open, with all the stores lined up around it, crooked teeth that had a uniformity of Byzantine design. A flare for flamboyance that was smoothed out by the stones to a pearly white. At the corner, between the smithy and the barren wall that kept the poor from entering, was a little shop. It had but one window, that framed the wide open courtyard, elevated by a mere three steps. While the bustle of daily consumption filled the square, with the pungent fragrance of garlic, incense, smoke, sweat and flowers merging, those three stairs sat eagerly for a guest. It was quite known around town, that Hamlets bookstore was without a doubt the loneliest of stores. Rumors from shaking heads, and passerby’s just enlarged the myth with every new mention, until it was almost forgotten. Inside was a young mind, the captain of the tomes, who shepherded the dust that wisdom tends to collect in quiet.

Tree

There once was a girl who lived on a street, next to a darkened tree. Every other house nearby was painted in colors bright. This house, among the candy coated ones, stuck out in its purple overtones. With the grim but elegant gothic that curled in black stucco along the corners. A menacing statue of some strange beast peering through its vine tomb, at the silly people in their daily routines. All the children with toys at play, were whispered to stay away. “This and that”, they said, “this and that”, to each-other about the house under the darkened tree.

The girl, was always locked away, checking the window in haste to see if any letters had arrived late. You see, a letter was supposed to have been written, the one that was most important. Not much of anything good happened to this small corner of the world, so the wait was very real indeed. Since, no other children, even in their rebellious youth dared to approach the house, and most had even forgotten anyone ever lived inside, it was hard to find decent companions.The shadows had always been the best-est of friends, fickle as they were, and quite demanding too. They needed candlelight to even come over at night. During the day they danced away at every tick and tock of the large pointy grandfather clock. She always knew that there had to be better out there, but the cursed tree outside kept strict rules. Never leave, never ever ever leave, or else, was the basic premise. For what? Was the question that dangled and teased in those long hours putting dresses of debonair Victorian style cloth, ripped from the shades, on to the candlers that seemed to be everywhere. Who is that big mean tree to tell me what to do? Did everyone have such a dilemma she wondered? It didn’t much matter, there was that letter. Yet, as the last bits of sunlight melted in reds and yellows to create orange on the white-washed walls, the reality of the mailman arriving in a hurry at the door dissipated.

The morning arrived bullish as ever to take over the quiet blackness that always flooded this strangest of houses. Like some eager virgin courting a maiden, the sun rushed about returning sight to all the ancient furniture, delicate rugs, and frighteningly large chandeliers that were no longer seen anywhere else. Especially not with the pinks and yellows, shiny cars, and perfectly uniform yards that seemed to give even more power to the architecture. The neighbors had each taken one moment or two to wonder but like with most strange sights, it was just pushed aside usually, like some elephant everyone chose not to notice. She noticed all of them however, watching each one as if they were in some oddly written play. Going to and from, always busy with what they were doing, each day with a new sort of purpose and wonder at doing the same exact things. What a life to live! To do things, and then to do them all over again, was still better than being free to do anything trapped within those stupid walls. Each task, or mission, or game, never brought that same type of wonder for her, it did make for interesting days and even more curious games. How many ways could the portraits of unknown faces, debonair, be talked to? What story today could be given to the fat lady who never smiled, not once, not ever once. Or the man with the mustache curled just so, with the poofy collar that must of already gone out of fashion…she always wondered how it ever became a fashion. Could they be married today? Or divorced tomorrow, just friends, or secret admirers, or how about vengeful friends taking stabs at each-other? She sighed that most familiar sigh, with droopy eyes that were always in the corner looking towards the door.

Bipolar 2 (draft)

It is 7am, and, I don’t know this reality. Eyelids heavy, they begin to climb to search the room for familiarity. “I am awake, this isn’t a lucid dream”, I shakily remind myself, as the suns orange glow slides through the shades.

 

Comfortable in my bed, I notice right away the strange physical ick that wasn’t there last night. The body wants to burst through the wall and take off in a neverending run, but the brain is drowsy, with a melancholy that traps the desire to move in an awkward twitch. Yet, behind this all, is something new. Trapped in bed, knowing this is all a result of the new meds…like a hidden crystal lake is a different vision.

 

Imagine a pyramid alone in the desert, when the full moon sits at the crown of the sky, illuminated…inside buried deep in a sarcophagus was the person I had always meant to be.

Now at 7:30, the golden prison opens, and like a Pharaoh gazing upon a lost empire…I see for the first time the wreckage, the struggles, the delusions, and insanity with clarity.

“There is the manicdepressive type, who is, perhaps, the least understood by his friends, and about whom a whole chapter could be written.” -Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous written 1939.