A Hazy Black Ring

silence rang out on the day
that we should have spoken
but we thought it would be better
than trying to un-ring the bell

     where in the world are you taking me? i asked, breathless. you didn't respond; you like to keep me guessing. or at least that's how it seems from my perspective while i wonder how it seems from yours. when we reached the pinnacle, i found myself too awestruck to question anymore. the world opened up, all greens and browns and blues, and i was there with you. the silence embraced me, a warm blanket that was comfortable to the point of suffocation.
     i broke it, as i am wont to do, with a joke about the view, with a smile and a wink in your direction. as if i could not let myself be comfortable there, even for a moment.

and why should i be comfortable
when we are what we are and
when we're doing what we're doing
why shouldn't i be afraid of

     i never did find out exactly when it was that you fell in love with me, if you did, since i never found that out, either. you told me a few times, but i guess i had a hard time believing it. it doesn't really make sense, after all, this thing between us. but the pull you have over me—it's incredible. i think i do that to you, too, but i just think. too much thinking without any knowing.
     we moved away from the peak, our feet crunching against old leaves that lazily fell to the ground in colder months, their trees shaking them off with the grace of a wet dog, renewing themselves. it feels different from the hair that falls to the bathroom floor when i shave my head, but i can't pinpoint why. maybe if i could, i would find that renewal. as it stood, i just followed you along the path you were making.

what are we becoming as we
slink silently to the shore
plant our feet in the water
and will ourselves to grow

     at its apex, i fell for you, and at its nadir, i second-guessed. i let myself embrace the silence between us, depressed the need to fill it up with words. i reflected myself in the water and saw you there, a distorted image that was almost wrong, but not wrong enough to give me the pause i needed. just wrong enough to put a question in my mind, words that my mouth would never form.
     it wasn't the first time we met, and it wasn't the last, but it sticks in my mind like used chewing gum clings to old carpet fibers. and it stays there as my thoughts race, trampling it bit by bit until it is a stain, an unremovable bit of miscellany like so many others. some days, i should very much like to cut that square from my mind and replace it with a fresh piece, ignoring the incongruity; it would fade in time to match the rest.

we are alike in so many ways
i am drawn to the similarities
and fascinated by the differences
you said we make a good team

     when you asked me to run away with you, to put aside everything else that i had worked for, to start a new life with you in another place, i didn't have to think. i had been, instead, waiting for you to ask. the ease with which i shed my skin came as a shock to me, but i could never tell you no when your thoughts met mine. maybe i should have. maybe where in the world are you taking me should have fallen from my lips like it did on the mountain.
     but I fear that all i've ever wanted was quality time with you.

When you're finally done absolving yourself
Crane your neck for a better view
Find me in the liminal and let me know

I lied to you
on your dying day,
but I don't know
how lucid you were, anyway,

and I want to say
that, at the time,
it was more of a half-truth
than an outright lie

(and,
in a certain sense,
it wasn't a lie at all),

but it was mostly
the implicit meaning
behind it that you
might have gleaned

—had you the ability
to discern reality
from the waking hell
you were in—

that shames me so much,
and I wish that I could
fulfill all of the promise
that you thought I had,

but I've never really had
the wherewithal
to make anyone proud.

I think often about
Our times by the river,
You singing Sarah and
Me harmonizing while
Waiting for you to pass the joint,
Our cheeks aching and
Our toes digging into the wet sand.

It wasn't love,
But something nearly,
That held us together
From the first time that I
Awkwardly told you your hair was pretty
To the last time we spoke,
Still dreaming our dreams and
Planning out our lives together.

How easy it is,
Once proximity is a memory,
To be swept away in the
Current, and to believe
There isn't any fighting it,
To let circumstances dictate.

I wish that I could
Return us to what we were and
Undo all that has happened,
Fight against, and
Find you.

Instead I think often about
Dreaming with you by the river, and
Spend my days avoiding mirrors.

let's not call it “giving up”
maybe “moratorium” is better
i’ve never been one
to call myself a quitter

(but i’ve never been one
to call myself lots of things)

i spoke to you often
about the power of a word
about finding just the right fit
about agonizing over it

(not that you understood
but i understood that)

it seems so final
not just a drop of the ball
but an intentional release
a saying, “i was never
enough,”

(and a thinking about
the truth behind it)

let's neither call it “giving up”
nor embrace the finality of the words
let's give it another Name

it's in the penumbra
that i find you
the place where no one looks

the periphery holds
our dreams
our fears

our silence

we can exist here
descending into the fantastic
and closing our senses
and our minds
and
and
and

it will pass
the silence
with our dreams
with our fears

while we wait

Yellow flowers on green wallpaper
A million eyes to see
My fingers caress the bedpost
My neck twisting

My heart beats unfairly

Orange flame on a white stick
The cherry glows and
I catch a glimpse of
A yellowed fingernail
I inhale and hold it
Until my lungs protest

It still smells of you here

Two smiles encased in glass
My fingers slink around
As my toes retract
Clinging futilely to carpet fibers

My brain goes gathering
As a million eyes watch
I empty my blackened lungs
And drag another match
Across the side of its box

I'm doing it; I'm doing it!

Thursday, August 13th—5:54 p.m.

1,146 words. Approximate reading time: 5 minutes, 43 seconds.

Nolan pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow with his right hand while he tightened his grip on the handle of his wagon with his left. The sun was hanging low in the sky, and he knew that he had gotten off to a later than usual start heading back from the woods.

He trudged along silently. Every so often, he would turn his head back to look at the carcass of the deer he was struggling to pull along with him, and he would smile. It would be a wonder if he made it home before dark, but at least he’d be returning with enough deer to feed his own family and a neighbor or two for a little bit, and that would be worth missing bringing anything to tonight’s dinner. It would also help make up for the loan of baking supplies that Eartha had given Marilyn last week when they were out of flour and a caravan wasn’t due for another week.

Nolan’s boots crunched on the broken asphalt underneath him, and the wheels of his wagon scraped and squealed slightly. This was Nolan’s favorite route, because it took him through the old town center. The sounds of his boots and the wheels of his wagon on the asphalt were therapeutic to him, and a good signal that he was not far from home. He looked around, surveying the ghost town that was once the county seat. It looked very much like it did not ten years ago. Most of the windows were gone from the buildings, and there was some graffiti around, of course, but for the most part it seemed like people avoided this area.

Nolan remembered what it was like when he was a kid, and his parents would bring him into the city center. His dad would go look through the antique shops while his mom would take him to the consignment shop and the thrift store to find clothes for the upcoming school year. The streets were bustling with people and cars, and there was a beautiful cacophony that only came from the mixing of hundreds of conversations between friends, travelers, and songbirds. Now the only sound was the crunching of Nolan’s boots and the scraping and squealing of his wagon’s wheels.

It was still beautiful, in a different way, Nolan would think every time he took this route home. He would usually stop in front of the thrift shop and look through the area where the front window had been, and imagine himself and his mother in there, rifling through racks of used clothing searching desperately for something that wouldn’t make him look poor in front of the other kids at school. And so, though he was already quite behind, he stopped again when coming to the thrift store.

He stood there, so lost in thought of the simpler problems of yesterday, that he didn’t notice the other man approaching until he was only a few yards away. When he did notice, however, he sprung immediately into action, dropping the handle of his wagon and pulling his bow from his shoulder. He removed an arrow from his holster and nocked it, pulling back on the string and aiming it at the man.

“Stay back!” Nolan shouted, anxious to protect his game from anyone that may decide they needed it more than him. “I don’t want to have to hurt you!”

“Woah, woah, woah!” the man responded, throwing his hands up immediately. “I don’t mean any harm, I promise. I’m not even armed.”

“What do you want?” Nolan asked, not releasing the tension on his bowstring. “I don’t have anything I can spare.”

“Well,” the man said a bit sadly, “I guess that is sort of what I was looking for. I, uh... I used to live around here, and, well, my wife, she died and so me and my kid—”

“You got a kid?” Nolan asked, holding his aim at the man’s chest.

“Yeah, a little boy,” the man responded, and pointed at a cross street near where they currently were. “We took shelter over there in a storefront around the corner, but we got nowhere to go. I heard your wagon and I, look I honestly didn’t know what you had in it, I just knew it was another person, and you don’t see many people around these parts anymore.”

“Uh-huh,” Nolan said, keeping his grip tight. “Okay, I don’t wanna be a jerk or anything, but this here deer is for my family and for the rest of the families in my little town, and we don’t really have room for another couple of mouths to feed. I’m sorry, but you know how it is.”

“Yeah, I get it,” the man said. “But we could work. I mean, he’s sick right now, but when he’s better. And I can work in the meantime. We can help out and we won’t take up much space. But it’s good you got that wagon. Come over to where my son is and he can ride up in there with that deer. He’s not really too good to travel, you see.”

Nolan’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Actually, that’s not really on my way,” he lied, not wanting to get himself caught up in some sort of ruse. Best case scenario, the man was telling the truth, and someone else would eventually come along.

“Come on, man,” the man said, “I can’t believe you’re being like this. People around here used to be so kind to everyone and willing to help out. It’s why I came back here in the first place.”

“I’m sorry,” Nolan said, “But those days are long gone. You can’t really trust anyone these—”

An involuntary muscle spasm, probably from an old war injury. It hadn’t happened to Nolan in quite some time, though it had been hell working through it when it was really bad, especially when he was hunting. These days, it really only ever seemed to happen when he was under a lot of pressure or stress. This particular evening, Nolan’s wrist decided to act up at the worst possible time, resulting in a man lying dead in the middle of the road with an arrow through his heart.

Worst case scenario, the man was lying and there was a group of bandits waiting to ambush him and take his deer and maybe his life. Best case scenario, the man was telling the truth and there was a sick child in a store around the corner.

Nolan pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow again, before putting his bow back over his shoulder. He knelt down and gripped the handle of his wagon, then turned and headed back in the opposite direction, having suddenly made the decision to take the back way home, even though it meant he would be well after dark before getting back.

Surely someone else would come along.

Tuesday, November 13th—2:16 p.m.

1,307 words. Approximate reading time: 6 minutes, 32 seconds.

“Well, it’s hard to really pin down any one event,” Dr. Reynolds responded to the audience member. “Most of the records we have are from the Free States; New Medeo’s were almost all destroyed in the eventual uprising. But there were plenty of people that entered the Free States as refugees in those last few years, so we rely on those accounts to get an idea of what was really going on within New Medeo.

“What’s important to remember is that, while there is usually something we can point to that actually caused ‘the spark,’ as it were, there are often underlying tensions that go back several years. When historians say that the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand set in motion the events of World War I, they mean that was ‘the spark.’ The actual causes that led up to that event go back further.

“What we found in the accounts of refugees and of Free State government officials points, similarly, to a single death being the spark that set the entire chain of events into motion. Most interestingly, that death was initially overlooked by the public at large. It was, after all, one of those routine deaths that we are told occurred with staggering regularity in New Medeo. A citizen was found walking outside and was summarily executed for failure to abide by New Medeo’s laws.

“We actually don’t even know this citizen’s name, or why she in particular was the catalyst, as, again, the information that we’ve learned from refugee interviews tell us that this was not an uncommon occurrence. New Medeo, founded as a state focused on medical and personal safety for its citizens, had adopted policies that are still controversial to this day. Initially, citizens were quarantined to their house and directed to work from home as much as possible. They weren’t absolutely restricted in their movement at first, but were highly encouraged to stay home and avoid other people.

“Eventually, as New Medeo methodically gathered data on all of its citizens, a schedule was created for its people to follow, so that they may experience fresh air and exercise while still being able to avoid other people. As time went on, many citizens continued to express fear around even the precautions that were put in place. The New Medeo government placed an emphasis on expanding virtual reality technology and drone shipments for goods, working with major corporations that were headquartered there. The speed of development on these items was unprecedented, and within a few years no citizen had any real reason to leave their home. So, for public safety, leaving one’s home was forbidden.

“Any citizens that were found outside of their homes were considered disease vectors and were executed on sight. After the first few of these, most citizens were sufficiently afraid to leave their homes (and really, a large portion of them were actually reporting happiness at not having to leave their homes). So the deaths became unnewsworthy, unless the government or the corporations felt the need to reassert the fear in their citizens.

“So, while we can point to the execution of an unknown New Medean as the catalyst that set events in motion, it goes far deeper than that. The biggest questions that we have to ask are why did the citizens tolerate this for so long, and why exactly was this one execution the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak? Unfortunately, we don’t have direct answers for that right now. Hopefully, as we expand upon our knowledge of digital archaeology, we can unearth more.

“For now, we have reports from former citizens that there existed certain spaces inside the virtual reality world that were, for all intents and purposes, hidden from the corporation that managed that world. It seems unlikely until you realize that the virtual reality world was robust enough to effectively replace the physical world in most instances. The entire idea behind the push into better and better virtual reality was to provide the citizens with a way to still socialize despite not being afforded the ability to physically congregate.

“So, small groups of citizens that were not satisfied with the status quo would attempt to hold clandestine meetings in the virtual reality space. Many of these attempts were unsuccessful, and the corporation shut down those spaces as well as the access of any individuals that were associated with those spaces. For New Medeans, this was effectively a death sentence, as they would be unable to access any municipal or corporate services, including grocery delivery.

“Like with the executions, these disconnections were broadcast to the public at large as a warning. But as time went on, more and more citizens, especially the older citizens that lived in the time before the disease, became disillusioned with the world they were living in. More clandestine meetings and disconnections were to follow, until a group managed to finally create a space that was hidden from the corporate eye.

“This group, calling themselves The Returners, rallied themselves into action after the execution of the unknown New Medean, though no one as of yet knows why. Group members totalling in the hundreds left their homes, risking execution (and indeed, many did get executed), and congregated in an abandoned skyscraper just outside of New Medeo’s capital.

“This is around the time that many citizens, fearing for their lives, attempted to take refuge in the Free States and the Quarantine Zones. And that’s about the extent of what we know. The Returners succeeded in their mission of liberating New Medeo from government and corporate control, but were ultimately unsuccessful in building a new state, as group in-fighting saw New Medeo split into two states, and the resulting civil war left both states in shambles.

“The Free States and the Quarantine Zones, in turn, joined together to absorb what was left of New Medeo and create a single unified state, just thirty years after the civil war that split New Medeo and the Free States. What’s interesting here is that the Free States, which experienced heavy blows in the war to infrastructure and, as a result of those along with embargos from most of the world’s countries, were left in an almost Wild West frontier state, didn’t have the same problems with its citizens. The Quarantine Zones, which similarly lacked technology after the successful uprising by quarantined citizens, also managed to maintain some semblance of peace amongst their various scattered zones.

“The difference, it seems, between New Medeo and the Free States and Quarantine Zones, is really about the connection of its citizens to each other. While New Medeo’s citizens were all constantly connected, they were also, if reports are to be believed, constantly divided over minor matters. In the Free States and Quarantine Zones, the only connection between various cities or zones was in the form of traders that passed from area to area, keeping citizens abreast of various news of the day.

“I’m aware that I’m rambling a bit, but hopefully you can appreciate what I mean when I say that it’s difficult to pinpoint any one event, though we give our best guess in the execution of the unknown New Medean. We can point further back to the appearance of the Disease, or to the civil war that created New Medeo and the Free States. We can even point to New Medeo’s policies and citizen dissatisfaction. It’s best, really, to look at the situation as a whole—one of the main reasons why digital archaeologists are so fascinated with New Medeo is because of how unprecedented the state’s creation was, and how quickly, in the grand scheme of things, it was dissolved.”

“Thank you, Dr. Reynolds,” the moderator said, “for your thoughtful and detailed response. Does anyone else in the audience have a question for any of our panelists? Yes, you, in the third row. Please step up to the microphone and introduce yourself.”