#Graves is a lonely old man. the reaper often is. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

funeral-clown · 4 years

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for @wormbabie

merry christmas/happy belated birthday!

It was cold. That was the first thing that registered. Any lingering warmth hiding in his body was being drained out by the cool impassive stone he lie on, drank up greedily only to fade and freeze. He felt this, the cold that went beneath his skin. Cold veins. Cold guts. Cold bones. The second thing he notices, as his eyes slanted open, was that it was dark.

Oh, he thought, in that cold dark stillness. I’m dead.

And he was. Yet his fingers twitched, and his eyes rolled, and down in the core of him something pulsed. Not a heart, his heart was as good as dust. It was different. The only living thing left of him.

Hunger.

It twisted his belly. His throat scorched with a dry unbearable heat. His fingers clawed and his eyes squinted against the desperate throbbing thirst that overtook him. There was nothing there, only cold and dark, and in fear and need he began thrashing. The heavy stone tomb, for that was what it was, flew off as though it were a styrofoam prop. Slow, aching, he lifted himself out, staring silently at his epitaph.

Gabriel Reyes.

No, he thought. Not any longer. Gabriel Reyes was a good man, a passionate man who’s heart beat and veins wept. His eyes didn’t glow red in his sepulcher. His skin didn’t have an ashen grey tone. He loved and lived and didn’t freeze. He fought monsters. He wasn’t-

He wasn’t a monster.

Gabriel Reyes was dead, and now he stood alone and cold and so very very hungry. Snarling, he burst open the door to the crypt and swept silently out into the night.

Reyes was alive. He brought hope. But something- someone, had killed him. Hollowed him out, then brought something hungry back in his place. Someone had changed him. He wasn’t Reyes anymore. Already, he could feel the pull on his gut, the call of some higher power. A summons he could not ignore.

Reyes had brought help.

The Reaper brought only death.

Jesse hadn’t waited around after the funeral. No one had expected him to, and the only one to look a little disappointed at his hasty exit was little Fareeha, too young to understand.

“Jesse,” Ana has whispered, gathering him into her arms, “My sweet boy. You will always have a home with us, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he had dutifully replied, letting himself go soft for a moment.

They both knew he wouldn’t stay. Not when the thing that had killed Gabe was still out there. Killed his mentor, his friend, his everything. The beast in his blood howled out mournfully at the loss, demanded he hunt her down. Hunting was what Jesse McCree did best. So with a quick good bye and a fierce scrub down in the church bathroom with cold water until his eyes weren’t burning anymore, he strode out into the burning morning. He didn’t wait to see where they laid him to rest. Rest was the last thing on his mind.

The first year had been about control. Specifically his lack of it. That had come with time, for which Reaper was quietly relieved. His head no longer pounded with aching need whenever he heard the pulse of a human heart. His teeth no longer grit through his lips at the faintest hint of blood. He was hungry, yes, but he was no longer mad with it. He could coil the hunger down tight into a small ball at the base of his belly, present but not persistent.

Under the Witch’s employ, he was often sated.

Still, long stretches came where she had no need of him. He would roam freely in the night, learning his new abilities. It had been 5 years since he had woken up, cold and alone, and the Reaper was a quick study. His tenuous control was iron clad now. He was never a man to be easily swayed in life, and in death he was practically stone. He answered to his Mistress, yes, but outside of her order he did not often feel ruled. Not by his hunger, not any longer. Not by the former members of his organization, hunters to the last. Jack was a bittersweet distant memory now.

The Reaper moved from town to town, feeding when necessary, spreading fear when bored. He was often bored.

Eternity offered little entertainment.

When he caught on to the hunter on his trail, it was almost delight that rustled in his chest. At last, a distraction from the cold and dark emptiness. The hunter was skilled, he could tell. They had to be, to stay on his track. Skilled, but fool hardy. He walked right into his trap, reckless.

Reaper laughed, letting the shadows grow long. The distraction had gone on long enough, playing cat and mouse and leaving fox trails with dead ends and cold tracks. He was ready to pick off the nuisance dogging his steps. He wasn’t ready for a familiar face.

Neither was Jesse.

He had been hunting the bastard for a while now. Another one of the Bitch of the Waste’s little henchmonsters. The Reaper, they called it. Jesse wanted to scoff at the dramatics. Gabe would have had a laugh about all this, were he still around.

The screaming girl in the warehouse was a trap, and an obvious one, but Jesse had his own ace in the hole, and he wasn’t afraid to go in guns blazing.

It was cold, and it was dark, and he was alone. But he wasn’t alone, was he? He bit back a snarl at the lingering presence in the back of his mind.

“Why don’t ya make this easy for yerself? Come on out where I can see ya.”

Cold, cruel laughter echoed through his bones. He forced himself not to shiver.

“Where you can shoot me, more like. Eh, cowboy?”

Jesse grit out a short, harsh facsimile of a laugh.

“Well. If’n it comes ta that.”

Red eyes glared from the dark, but the teeth? The sharp white teeth were bared in a delighted grin.

“And what can bullets do against shadows?”

“I aim to find out,” he snarled, letting off two sudden shots from his hip. They illuminated the corners for a second before splintering into the wood of the building. The eyes kept watching from fine mist, as Jesse rolled away to take shelter behind a pile of boxes. The flimsy cover offered little comfort.

“Don’t you know anything about vampires, boy? Did they not teach you before they set you on my trail?”

“I know plenty,” He called back, “Which is why these bullets are blessed!”

“Blessed. But a blessed bullet can’t do anything to smoke and mirrors, can it?”

The voice came from over his shoulder, and Jesse struggled not to flinch as superhuman strength dragged him backwards and threw him against the cold wall. He grunted at the impact, hoping his ribs were only bruised. A clawed hand grabbed him by the throat, pinning him with the somber threat of a crushed larynx. Not a fun time, even if it wouldn’t kill him. His guns were stripped and thrown into some dark corner. The line of stakes on his chest were plucked away. His holy water taken, Jesse’s weapons were all sought out, found, discarded, by freezing fingers. His skin was electric, every brush a shock that sent needles of angry protest down his spine. He ground down his sharpening teeth, kept his eyes closed to hide the glow. It wouldn’t do to give himself away so soon.

Then the sharp click of teeth by his ear, The rumble of laughter.

“Did they really send you to kill me? You?”

There was a rustle as his free hand rose to remove the bone white mask shielding the top half of his face, faux teeth like daggers framing his mouth, where his true fangs glinted death. His free hand tightened in warning.

“Oh, Jesse. I thought I trained you better, pup.”

His eyes shot open, gawking openly at his face. His throat worked hard against the palm of his hand.

“R-R’y. R’y’s?”

He brought his head down, leaning it against Jesse’s in a mockery of affection, stealing what little breath he had left.

“I missed you, runt.”

Moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes, and Jesse tried to tell himself it was the lack of oxygen.

“Y’r. Dead?”

Gabriel hummed, nodding his agreement. The slight movement brushed their noses together.

“Dead as a doornail, kid. And you.” A cold gust sighed against his cheeks. “You’re so warm.”

Gabriel released his throat, only to bring both hands up to tenderly cradle his face. The hunger he throttled down was raging, pulsing in time with his former partner’s heartbeat. His whole body throbbed in time with it, teeth aching to bury into his hot neck and drink greedily until all the warmth was inside him. But there was more. His dry empty veins were singing out in joy, and the feverish warmth was siphoning off into his skin, sparking underneath. This wasn’t just prey, a quick draining and casting the body aside. This was Jesse. His family. His boy. Reyes wanted to keep him. Wanted to make a feast of him, slow and sweet. Wanted to wrap him up in shadows and hold him tight and fast like a grave, so he couldn’t leave.

“Jesse,” he whispered, “Don’t you want to help?”

“Yeah, Boss,” Jesse choked out, holding back his sobs. “Yeah, I wanna help.”

“I’m lonely, pup. I don’t have anybody to kick around or keep me warm. Don’t you wanna come with me, kid? Just like old times?”

McCree wrapped his arms around him, ignoring him burying his face in his neck. Ignoring the twinge of teeth that sent every one of his instincts howling.

“Just a taste, Jesse. Promise, just a ta-”

Jesse dug his sharpened teeth into Gabriel’s throat, and tore. The dead flesh came apart in his mouth like tissue paper, black recycled blood gushing down his throat like cold death. His eyes glowed gold as he watched his mentor shriek, flying back, hissing and clutching his throat.

“Sorry, boss. Things change on the road.”

Gabriel glared at him, fangs bared, before going deadly still and calm.

“You really are a pup now, huh? Some mutt used you as a chew toy.” Gabriel laughed, a gurgling sound. “Does Jack know? Does Ana?” He took his hand from his throat, flesh already knitting back together. “How long did it take before they cast you out, Jesse. Or did they try to kill you first?” His sneer was an ugly, harsh thing.

“I left,” he replied simply. “Nobody chased me.”

“They didn’t know.”

“They didn’t need to.”

Gabriel smiled, wide, genuine.

“So you’ve got a touch of beast blood now. And you turned tail and ran. Right after me.”

“Right after you. To put you down. To end it. And your witch.”

Gabriel chuckled. No dramatic, booming laughter. No eerie snickers. Genuine humor, a soft remnant of his life.

“You got bit and you just ran off after me. God. You’re a smart man, Jesse, did you even stop to read up on weres?”

Jesse stiffened.

“I know enough. I know how to put em down.”

Gabriel laughed harder, setting his nerves on edge.

“Stop laughin’ at me.”

Gabe paused.

“Oh, Jesse. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at fate. You have my blood in you too now, don’t you?”

Jesse growled.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Gabriel was before him in a flash, crowding him again, but his hands were gentler now. Easing himself into his space.

“Did you know, Jess? A part of you must have. That little whimpering puppy part that wants to show it’s belly.”

He shoved at him, only to be caught in a firm, controlled grip. Reyes grabbed him by the scruff, eyes flashing with warm pride at the small, choked off whine.

“Did you know?”

“Know what,” Jesse muttered, cringing at his own inability to look up from the floor.

“Vampires and werewolves have a long history, Jesse. Back in the day, it wasn’t unheard of for a whole pack to be under a vampire’s command. Beastblood. It makes you want a pack, doesn’t it.” It wasn’t a question. “Makes you want leadership. But that’s no different than it was before, was it cielito? You still need a firm hand.” The one on his neck clenched down softly, and Jesse’s face burned at the indignity of it. “You drank my blood, runt.” Gabriel dragged him forward, into his chest, and Jesse wanted to scream at himself for going lax in his grip. “You’re as much mine now as you ever were. More, even.” Teeth snapped teasingly at his shoulder. “You’ll do what I tell you. Just like old times. You and me against the world.”

“I won’t,” Jesse whispered. “I won’t do a damn thing you say.”

“Jesse.” Shadows crept in around him. “You won’t have a choice.”

The last thing he felt before the shadows overtook his mind was the sharp pain in his shoulder as the Reaper’s fangs tore into him, followed by the warm floating acceptance. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream.

He slept.

When he woke up, it was warm. That was the first thing that registered. He was bundled up on a bed softer than any he had slept in for years, blankets thick. It was warm, and it was dark. He was not alone. An arm was curled around his shoulders, pinning him against someone’s side.

Oh, he thought. I’m alive.

Gabriel grumbled, sensing he was awake, and pulled him in closer.

“Mine,” he muttered, tucking Jesse’s head under his chin and nuzzling his nose into his hair. Jesse sighed, hot breath lingering on cool skin. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

“Mine,” Gabriel repeated, softer, before languishing in the warmth again and joining him. He felt sated.

#merry christmas erika!!!!#sorry it's late ajgfjfgigrf #mcreyes #i hope it's everything you asked for

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esmerodo · 6 years

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SAILOR MOON GEMSTONES & MINERALS: SAILOR SATURN

By ~ Mamoru Chiba

Sailor Saturn was born on Saturday, January 6th under the Zodiac sign of Capricorn. Belated Happy Birthday, Hotaru Tomoe! Since it is Sailor Saturn’s fate to be regularly reborn whenever she uses the Silence Glaive, her year of birth can change at any point! She was 12 years old during the S season, when Usagi was 15, then went back to being as a baby and was about 4 and 5 in the Stars season.

NAOKO-SENSEI’S TRAINING IN MINERALS & GEMSTONES: The reason we do this feature is because Naoko Takeuchi named most of her villain characters and associated each of the Senshi with a gemstone or mineral. Takeuchi-sensei studied chemistry in university in preparation to become a pharmacist, and as a result got to know all the lore behind a large variety of minerals and gemstones. See, she had promised her Dad, if this manga drawing idea didn’t work out, she could always fall back on working in a drug store! ☺ And as you will see, the mineral/gemstone knowledge did NOT go to waste, when that Sailor Moon manga thing worked out in a big way!

CAPRICORN: Hotaru was born on January 6th, under the Zodiac sign of Capricorn. The ruling planet of Capricorn is Saturn, the Teacher. The person born on January 6th is known as *The Philosopher* for their spiritual, idealistic, naive and honest approach to life. Their natural gentleness and shyness makes most people dismiss them as childlike and naive, and it is the rare person, like Chibi Usa, who can spot the Capricorn Hotaru’s underlying tremendous energy and intelligence, and value them as friends.

Relationships mean so much to the much to the January 6th person that they tend to give too much to friends and lovers and have to learn to take as well as to give. Thus the shy and lonely Hotaru was overwhelmed with happiness at Chibi Usa’s friendship and didn’t know how to respond.

January 6th people are fragile and easily hurt when their input isn’t valued or they’re not taken seriously. Hence, Hotaru is tremendously hurt when Kaolinite is rude to her, but her personality is too gentle to fight back. However, January 6th people are a slow burning fire of resentment which can cause them, when hurt, to rebel fiercely and exhibit irresponsible behaviour. Consider that the gentle person being hurt is a person with the awesome destructive powers of Sailor Saturn, and you will conclude it could be a VERY dangerous thing to be unkind to Hotaru!

Apparently January 6th people do finally settle down from their spells of cathartic anger and rebellion around the age of 45. So the Messiah of Silence could settle down and mellow out when she reaches her 40’s? Except, she won’t! Sailor Saturn is reborn and goes back to childhood every time she uses her Silence Glaive of Rage and Chaos. So she’ll never likely reach her 40’s! Good thing she seems to retain her previous memories each time she reincarnates and she grows up fast each time!

Capricorns need to find a place to express their wild side and need to channel their vast inner energy into sport or work or study, preferably surrounded by supportive intelligent friends. This, Hotaru finds, by becoming a Sailor Senshi and by having Chibi Usa as her best friend and having Sailor Pluto, who is also ageless, as her mentor, and, I would argue, her Eternal Timeless Mother.

JANUARY GEMSTONE POEM – THE GARNET:

By her who in this month (January) is born No gem save garnets should be worn; They will ensure her constancy, True friendship, and fidelity.

RED GARNET, PRIMARY JANUARY BIRTHSTONE (TRADITIONAL & MODERN): Sailor Pluto and Sailor Saturn share one other thing: the gemstone Garnet is special to both of them. I have previously discussed Setsuna’s use of the Garnet as a Talisman in her Garnet Rod, her garnet earrings, and her green garnet hair. Garnet is also the traditional and modern birthstone for the month of January. So we may be sure that Sailor Saturn really likes Pluto’s choice of her favourite gemstone. For more information on the gemstone Garnet, please see this link to the Sailor Pluto gemstone post: https://www.facebook.com/sm.mooniverse/photos/a.795022530564377.1073741918.383581028375198/1266348420098450/?type=3&theater

RED ZIRCON OR JACINTH, JANUARY BIRTHSTONE (ITALIAN OR RUSSIAN CALENDAR):

Zircons stimulate sluggish energy to move, and can have a dynamic effect on your health. They can help a person born in January to let go of feelings of depression and anxiety, which Hotaru might feel after the events of the emergence of the Mistress of Silence, when she recalls losing first her mother, then getting severely injured, and eventually losing her beloved father. I hope that Setsuna, Haruka and Michiru together would be able to help Hotaru let go of the past and look towards a brighter future where she is a respected member of the Senshi team and will in time, be the chief aide to the future next generation Neo Queen Serenity, Chibi Moon. The Sailor Quartet will also be the Next Senshi generation.

The Jacinth stone is a sophisticated orange sparkler that is said to instill wisdom, attract great riches and possess medicinal properties.

[REFERENCES: http://www.healing-crystals-for-you.com/zircon-crystals.html http://gloriousgiftideas.com/2012/06/19/jacinth/ ]

EMERALD, JANUARY BIRTHSTONE (TIBETAN CALENDAR): For more information on Emeralds, please see Sailor Jupiter’s Gemstone post here: https://www.facebook.com/sm.mooniverse/photos/a.795022530564377.1073741918.383581028375198/817648721635091/?type=3&theater

LAPIS LAZULI, SATURN PLANETARY STONE, FOR CAPRICORN: Lapis Lazuli, a beautiful blue stone often found with lovely gold veins of Pyrite and white patches of Calcite, is associated with the Planet Saturn and with Ambition, Focus, Direction, and Practicality. Since Saturn is a planet associated with intense focus, and the Silence Glaive is symbolic of the Grim Reaper’s Scythe of Saturn, dealing with death, this gemstone is very appropriate. You’ve heard the Spider-Man slogan, With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility? Well, Lapis Lazuli is the “Be Responsible” Stone.

Lapis Lazuli is the oldest of blue gemstones, discovered in ancient times before anyone had ever heard of Sapphires. Egyptian pharaohs and the rulers and heads of state of many other nations used Lapis Lazuli to help them bear responsibility and make life or death decisions. It is the gemstone of Purity and Nobility. Cleopatra is said to have used powdered Lapis Lazuli as blue eye shadow. When Sailor Saturn lowers her Silence Glaive, she holds the grave responsibility of planetary life or death in her hands, and so she must choose very very carefully.

The blue colour of the gemstone promotes truth, uprightness, clarity and honesty in communication, and in friendship, the need to take responsibility for what we do and say. It is the stone of Wisdom and helps you face the truth of situations, assess your resources, and do methodical long-term planning. What an excellent and beautiful stone for Hotaru to wear!

JET, OBSIDIAN & ONYX (CAPRICORN STONES): In addition to the gemstones mentioned already, there are certain gemstones that carry Saturn’s planetary power. So if you, like Hotaru, were born under the sign of Capricorn, you should carry dark stones like Jet, Mahogany Obsidian and Black Onyx when you need Saturn's unwavering, dogged determination in your corner.

BLACK ONYX, CAPRICORN’S TALISMANIC BIRTHSTONE: Bestowing courage and power, a Black Onyx stone is so powerful indeed that the gemstone was assigned by ancient astrologers to the two most ambitious signs of the zodiac, Leo and Capricorn. Capricorn is a very conscientious industrious sign, and Black Onyx keeps the person born under this Sign grounded as they realize their ambitions. Black Onyx, the Talismanic Stone for Capricorn, also helps you regain your physical strength after you’ve been ill and is very good for past life work. Black Onyx helps you heal old injuries that have their origin in past life trauma; a handy gemstone for the sick weakly young Hotaru, that may help her deal with the injuries she suffered as a young child and regain her past life memories as Sailor Saturn. (Mamoru, a Leo, also had past life trauma as an injured orphan with amnesia to deal with, and also needed Black Onyx to help him.)

The black onyx stone is also thought to neutralize negative emotions and mental stresses, and stave off external negativity at the same time. Hence, Black Onyx makes a powerful charm both for self-mastery and self-protection.

Mahogany Obsidian may also be helpful in this regard, because it helps clear negative energy, provides protection against psychic attack, and removes psychic implants associated with past life issues (eg. Mistress 9). Jet allows you to draw on the Earth’s energies and channel this energy wherever you want it to go.

Jet, the black gemstone of sympathy, helps soothe pain and grief, an excellent gemstone for young Hotaru dealing with her loneliness and illness.

RUBY, TURQUOISE & BLUE TOPAZ (CAPRICORN STONES): For more information on Turquoises, please see Sailor Jupiter’s Gemstone post here: https://www.facebook.com/sm.mooniverse/photos/a.795022530564377.1073741918.383581028375198/817648721635091/?type=3&theater

For more information on Rubies, please see Sailor Mars’ Gemstone post here: https://www.facebook.com/sm.mooniverse/photos/a.795022530564377.1073741918.383581028375198/871013682965261/?type=3&theater

BLUE TOPAZ FOR TRUE FRIENDSHIP:

Blue Topaz is associated with loyalty and love; either romance or eternal friendship. We can be sure that Small Lady Chibi Usa and Hotaru will be the best of friends and two Senshi fighting as a team for the rest of their long lives. So maybe Chibi Usa can present a blue topaz as a gift for Hotaru to wear as a token of being Best Friends Forever!

[REFERENCE: http://www.jewelrynotes.com/blue-topaz-meaning/ ]

FLUORITE, HOTARU’S PERSONAL FAVOURITE GEMSTONE:

Fluorite, a very exotic looking stone often with purple at one end and green at the other, helps stimulate your mental processes and have a more organized thinking approach. It is another gemstone associated with the Zodiac sign of Capricorn and Saturn. Fluorite will stimulate your psychic abilities and promotes psychic protection.

REFERENCES:

http://mp3mp6.com/numerology/january-6-birthday-horoscope-personality-the-%20philosopher/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Birthstone

http://www.healing-crystals-for-you.com/capricorn-birthstone.html

http://kamayojewelry.com/zodiac-signs-birthstones/capricorn-birth-stone/

http://kamayojewelry.com/gemstones-names/lapis-lazuli-stone-of-royalty/

http://www.starslikeyou.com.au/gemstones/lapis-lazuli/

http://www.whats-your-sign.com/saturn-symbol-meaning.html

http://kamayojewelry.com/gemstones-names/chalcedony-stones/the-black-onyx-stone-of-power/

SAILOR SATURN FAN ART SOURCE: https://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=44528184

~ Mamoru Chiba

#sailormoon #sailor saturn #horoscope #birthstones #gemstones #hotaru tomoe #reposted from Sailor Moon: The Mooniverse

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wendylewis-blog · 4 years

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05.14.2020 /MamasDay+M-Th

Mamas’ Day

My friend Annie sent me a link this morning. I’m embarrassed that I never knew the actual history of Mothers’ Day. I’ve made the grave mistake for years, it appears as of this morning, dismissing the event as just another Hallmark holiday created to ramp up national consumerism—out of sincerity or duty. Actually, the bigger story has been omitted from American history. The patriarchy (not YOU, men I love) strikes again! There is real feminist significance attached to this day, which deserves not only our attention—but also, our reverence.

Teaser. “Mothers’ Day”—with the apostrophe not in the singular spot, but in the plural—actually started in the 1870s, when the sheer enormity of the death caused by the Civil War and the Franco-Prussian War convinced American women that women must take control of politics from the men who had permitted such carnage. Mothers’ Day was not designed to encourage people to be nice to their mothers. It was part of women’s effort to gain power to change modern society.

Thank you, Heather Cox Richardson. I suggest following her with an easy click at the end of the link and/or follow her on Twitter. She posts daily, is politically savvy and keeps it concise/in-depth/readable.

After canceling the initial Mothers’ Day plan with H/G/bbE/K because of bad weather, which would have put us inside the house, Kitty ended up in CF anyway to grab items I’d purchased for her at Costco. We spent an hour outside in the chilly grey afternoon by the fire pit after gathering kindling and firewood. She brought me brownies, a herby Italian verde sauce she’d made and a bottle of rye whiskey. H/G/bbE surprised me an hour later with a request via text to come into the yard in five minutes and brought tomato and pepper plants (woot!) for my garden. We all watched Ezra TV in the driveway for an hour. We especially enjoyed the episode featuring him teething on the steering wheel. Creative work, little man!

After they left, I poured myself a stiff drink and stared out the studio window into early evening. A gentle rain was falling. I let circumstance go, let sadness and angst go. I washed my turgid blackboard down and tried to embrace some peaceful emptiness. I was in bed long before 10pm, sliding willingly into the time warp sleep provides for me lately. It was another bittersweet time with my people—not touching, not sitting at a table together, not able to relax into each other the way we would have a couple months ago. But, they are my family and it is never a diminishing return to be with them. Thank you for driving down to see us even though we had called the gathering off. It was a good Mothers’ Day. I love you all more than I can express!

My dreams that night were flush with all things post-apocalyptic. I was in an office building transformed into a flophouse of endless lonely cubicles, bare mattresses thrown down on synthetic grey carpet, bland tan fabric divider walls too short and porous to provide any privacy, a random empty chair here and there—askew, the bathroom’s flickering florescent light pulsing numbly through its plastic diamond-textured ceiling panel. I felt a disconnected calm inside me—a dead calm as I moved through the building. Everyone I saw in there was a stranger—except for an old bandmate I ended up in bed with— so impossible and surreal. It wasn’t the act, gratefully omitted, but the aftermath scenario instead—exposed, mannequin-esque bodies, no desire, no connection, no tenderness—only his crushing possessiveness after I explained that I had many other lovers even though I knew they didn’t matter either. I turned his noise off undramatically, easily as his panic escalated—the click of a switch—like turning off bad radio. He vanished, seemed to dematerialize on the dark street, leaving only strangers hanging on the corners, propped against buildings, inert yet somehow, guardian—but I felt nothing—nothing at all. Alive but dead inside.

Mon

I woke up at 4:30AM. Shared dream details with B before he headed off to a fresh pot of coffee and work. I always benefit from his insightful (often hilarious) perspective on my intrepid darknesses, asleep or awake. In a previous issue of Lockdown, I’d queried how the virus and physical distancing might affect our intimacies going forward, the dream standing as the latest metaphor. I laid back down, folding into the quiet of my bed and may have slept awhile longer, still rising before dawn.

Hours were spent in my garden that morning turning over soil in the crisp air, laying straw tiles separated from the bale in the wheelbarrow after cutting the blue plastic string. I laid them over the mulch that had cooked over the summer of 2019, which I’d lovingly spread a few days prior, prepping the ground for seeds that are en route to me: bush beans, marigolds, arugula, mustard, zinnia and nasturtium seeds from my sister, cilantro and basil from Etsy and those MD tomato and pepper seedlings from H+G. It’s been difficult to find non-GMO seeds around here—the same way it’s still hard to find TP, hand sanitizer, and lately, yeast and flour. I planted cilantro, Mexican tarragon, and basil plants I’d found in Northfield in pots, thyme and mint along garden edge that meets my front stoop.

The morning felt hushed, orderly—my act of civility engaging with living things that don’t speak but offer company and require only my willingness to share a piece of earth with them. Before the sun reached over the garden, I decided to put in one cherry tomato plant because a tomato cage represented future sustenance. I could imagine the little plant growing tall to fill the cage, yellow flowers appearing before the fruit. It felt romantic and I succumbed. I watered everything, filled the bird feeder and headed off to Redwing to run an errand.

It felt good to drive the winding two-lane roads between overwintered, as yet unturned spring fields, slipping down the bluff lines along the Cannon River, the sun all full of itself. The sky was cerulean blue with tiny cotton ball clusters of clouds. The world beyond my windshield seemed serene and normal—even pastoral—a momentary ruse worth believing against the numbing dripdripdrip of our internment. Returning home, I cleaned the kitchen with a similar communion felt with the garden and highways. FaceTimed with a friend and planned a fire pit hootenanny with him and a few friends soon, walked the dog and sat on the stoop overlooking the yard. We ate soup from B’s mama for dinner (thank you, Helen), brought in the tender herb pots for the night and was ready to sleep before 8:30, a rarity for me. I have to say, it felt like a pretty good day! I count them all, good or not.

Tues

It dipped just below freezing again last night and I really thought that sweet li’l cherry tomato plant that looked so sturdy yesterday could handle it but, ooof!—it’s droopy, quietly murdered overnight. Another casualty of Corona Times, like a broken promise, a breach of trust. I jerked it out of the ground without any tenderness and tossed it into the yard where it will eventually make love with mower blades and clipped grasses. I was mad at myself, of course. It’s just one tomato plant and I have more perched on the radiator under the south facing window, lined up like fresh recruitments ready for service. Still, each seedling, especially this year, feels like an individual.

I’m alarmed with the message being conveyed by the White House in recent days—normalizing the loss of life, the US population being at least encouraged and possibly forced back into a virulent world with the expectation that we can save the collapsing economy. The grim reaper is leaning casually on his sickle next to my dead tomato plant, the one I exposed to the elements too soon, the one I planted with careless impunity to serve my immediate desire.

Please listen to this conversation on Pema Chodron’s book When Things Fall Apart. I ordered it after years of intending to and it’s on the way. I will set it on the bookshelf next to my worn copies of Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, the Tao te Ching and Dillard’s For the Time Being. Reference books for being alive, human and uncertain.

JFTR. On Being continues to win me over. Here’s another one if you decide to check it out. She’s really smart and this guest, Ocean Vuong—brilliant.

Wed

A beautiful essay penned by Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s son Rodrigo. Thanks, C, for sending—and for the seeds which arrived today. I didn’t plant more today because still freezing overnight.

My college roommate long friend Toni linked me to this article over the weekend. It was SO fkn HELPFUL. It breaks down how the virus gets spread in a very practical way that you can use every day. This article is exactly why my fam and I reeled ourselves back from having lunch inside my house on Mothers’ Day. Everyone agreed.

Colbert has been killing it, as always and this one—so spot on. Also, Seth Meyers’ latest episode—I mean, please! Trump’s Mothers’ Day bit is truly—uhhnbelievable. Waking up to the absurdity of what is happening right now as it rolls and rolls. I also truly live for these socially distanced performances with Jimmy Fallon and The Roots. They make me joy-cry.

There are good ppl out there doing their best. We are all trying to do our best, even on our hardest days. Beating the zombies back one by one. Don’t believe that the angry gun-toting ppl are coming for us. They are few. We are many. It’s time to activate.

I’ve noticed lately I’m getting a sense for when Jimmy Fallon or Stephen Colbert, for example, might be having a bad day. They aren’t on stage anymore, they don’t have a responsive audience to pump them up, they are people like we are, broadcasting from their homes. They struggle with life under the pandemic just the way we do. I can feel when they are having to get up for another broadcast from home or lapsing in attention, disengaging or losing the thread with someone they are interviewing. It’s an subtle nuance to notice, and it makes me feel as if I am getting a brief peek into their humanity instead of simply watching them put on the show.

I��ve also been making... um, haha... bread—the kind of bread you have to knead and let rise and punch down and knead and let rise again and so on. I finally got some active dry yeast and made two sandwich loaves a week ago. On my second round yesterday, I pushed my 20+ year old Kitchen Aide stand mixer beyond its limit. Smoke drifting from the housing, dough hook seizing up, goodbye trusty appliance.

While the dough was going through its rising process, I searched DIY fixes which were plentiful and also searched for parts through the Kitchen Aide website, discovering they—are—not—selling—them. Really? Boo on you, Kitchen Aide. You won’t force me to buy a $400 mixer ever again. Double boo on you, assumed capitalism. Until I’m able to find the parts I need via Etsy or wherever (NOT Amazon ever again), I’ll use the mixer my mother-in-law offered me since she doesn’t use it much and remind myself of the days when I used to knead bread by hand—that ancient task. Again—get it together, Lewis!

I’ll leave you with this brilliant essay from The Paris Review called Fuck the Bread. The Bread is Over. Thank you, Byrdie, for tagging me on this one. I’m still gonna make the bread one way or another because it saves money but I’ll keep the wise words from the authors mother closest to my heart, which translates loosely into stop holding on so tight to what you think you need.

Thurs

So, I’ve been writing today and editing and writing more and editing more. It’s all about thinking and re-thinking everything with nothing on my plate but time staring up at me. There is a strange blessing that has a chance to bloom inside this isolation.

Go gently, my friends, family and any strangers who may be stopping by. Thanks for being here with me. I really appreciate you, wherever you are today.

Stay safe. Be strong. Fall apart. Know you aren’t alone. Lovelove.

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gunthersthompson · 5 years

Text

Postmortem Character Assassination

It had been two days since I had dug the grave and left that throng of trees. As I drove, Collin came back to me in subtle ways. I saw him along the highways driving through Lubbock. Occasionally, I saw him standing by the signs, telling me how far I had left until the next city, but more often I heard him when the music started playing because he always controlled music in the car, even if he knew I hated it. His piercing eyes were running through the speakers. He would stare out of the window when he played something, always like there was some other, better place where he wanted to be. In those moments, he was so quiet that the air became sickness, every molecule tied to hardy misanthropy. I tried my best to see his self-destruction become a past problem. I don’t know if either of us knew that it was like we were riding in a hearse, unaccompanied but forced to acknowledge the fact that the reaper was ready.

The road was dead, the lines dead with it. The radio was hollow and robotic, so I switched it off.

The first town I came to after Lubbock was Roswell, just a few miles across the Texas border and the first introduction to the New Mexico landscape. Though it didn’t look different than the adjacent part of Texas (it had the same waving beige-green grass), it felt different. People in Roswell have a claim to fame with an alien crash. Every time I had been there before I was just passing through with my parents, but in the car now was just silence and me. It wouldn’t be hard to accommodate aliens and I even thought about driving to the crash site just to see if there were any beams waiting to extract someone. In the moment, I knew that I was hungry and that, by my estimation, these were not people I could stay with long. But the Roswellians would do for the time being. I chose the first restaurant that I came to, parked over toward its side, closest to the building, and thoroughly swiveled my head to make sure They hadn’t caught up to me yet. My luck was still high.

“Do you serve beer?”

It caught the waitress off guard and she just stared back at me with a tilted catch of the teeth. She worked harder to get behind my eyes and see what kind of alien I was, sifting through a number of reasons.

“It’s only 11:30, hon. Are you sure?”

“If I wasn’t sure then I wouldn’t have asked you. Just give me the cheapest beer that you have.”

She nodded, took the rest of my order, and then brought me the coffee, water, and beer that I had ordered and planned to drink in a quick succession. Glancing towards the kitchen, I could see her whispering something into her coworker’s ear, stopping and cutting short when her eyes found me. A slow smile after. I noticed, after burning my tongue on the coffee, that a lone paper was hanging lazily on the precipice of the booth-seat. There was a big coffee stain washing over the front page, but I could still make out Dallas Morning News toward the top. There was a mention of Collin as “Texas 20 year-old Found Dead and Buried in the Woods” on the third page but nothing about me anywhere. The feds were hiding something. They just didn’t want to tell the public. I was sure I was still in need of escape.

The waitress had put me in the front corner of the place, which I liked, and had left me alone long enough to doubt myself and shred the paper before stuffing it carefully into my pockets. She didn’t notice my hands or ask me about the paper, but instead asked if I wanted food and continued to smile while I stared back.

“Can I get you anything to eat? We got a chicken fried steak on special today, mashed potatoes and green beans on the side. In my opinion, it’s the best thing on the menu.”

“I’ll just have scrambled eggs. I don’t eat red meat.”

Her smile appeared again, more plastic this time, and she scooped up the menu I hadn’t looked at, “You might be in the wrong part of the country then, hon.” I watched her look over her shoulder twice; I could have sworn that she winked when she said that last bit but couldn’t be sure. She was working with the feds.

I went back to quietly sipping the coffee, water, and beer, all three tasting equally bitter on the tongue. Collin hated coffee. He loved red meat.

--------------------

We were behind a diner, some little place in Lubbock with a combination of SUVs and massive trucks in the parking lot, waiting on a dealer who had flaked twice that day. Collin was tapping his feet and I, not wanting to start something, glanced over to get him to stop. His eyes were focused and contracted, like the eagle closing his wings to chest in a steep dive towards the water. He was an eagle. He continued to tap his feet and I gave up. A car cloaked in a scratchy, dingy kind of grey pulled up, handed off a bag, and then twenty minutes later we were on the couch, chopping up rocky particulate into powder, preparing said powder into an infantry of lines. Spartan hoplites in proper phalanx form.

“Hand me that twenty-dollar bill; I don’t want to use a five.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to argue with you, I’ve waited all day for this coke and I don’t want to fucking argue.”

I handed him the twenty and, like an illusion, the lines vanished. He fell back to the couch, smiling for the first time in something like forty hours and sniffing harder every few seconds. We just looked at each other for a little bit, breaking silence with a stronger silence and bridging gaps with cocaine. He frowned, “Why do you look so scared?”

--------------------

The sky was fine and the wind mild as I stepped out of the little cafe and onto the gravel of the parking lot. I thought I saw an eagle though the two little girls standing on either side of their grandpa shouted about flying saucers. He laughed, explained that God made humans, and only humans. They seemed to take him at his word.

There was still purpose in my stride, and, as I patted myself down to find my cigarettes and the ever-elusive lighter, I began to formulate the next stage of my flight from the law. I considered a fast break towards Colorado and the mountains as well as a beeline to the coast and Californian sun. But, like it was fated, a car cloaked in a familiar scratched gray went past at a relatively low speed for being on an empty road. I was adamant, to myself, that it was the same car I had met with Collin: the same peddler’s car who had sold him the fatal bag and forced me to say goodbye to a man.

My car was quicker than his and he didn’t seem to notice that I was following him, even as I hit a few of the same exits and pulled the same routine of changing speed. He didn’t drive like a drug dealer. New Mexico’s slack speed limits helped, and, within only half an hour, I was in a hot pursuit, hopefully towards vengeance. Collin’s voice tramping around my head telling me “Do it, do it. Kill the fucker because he killed me.” I agreed and stepped harder on the gas, coming within the normal buffer zone of about two feet behind the guy. Suddenly, I broke and swerved as his tire popped, the black shreds throwing back like fingers and hands outstretched from a grave. Most of them missed, but one of the biggest ones had smashed one of my headlights. The commotion threw the burning cigarette down to the floor, next to the pedals; It slowly burned the plastic piece in front of them.

--------------------

Collin was never one to hide himself or his problem. I saw it on a daily basis. Every time he was driving, his eyes narrowed, and, like he took it as a challenge, he sped up to meet another car, lingered long enough for me to clumsily reach for the wheel, and then proceeded to take a bump as they looked at him like a hyena. He was a hyena in the car. A laughing poacher with contempt for those staying inside of their own bounds.

“Good god, do you see that guy? He was trying to lecture me through the glass.”

I met eyes with the man. An older guy that didn’t look angry. His brows were crunched and descended, eyes pleading even in the glare between us. He looked, to me, like he was concerned. Collin lapped at the window and threw as much of his bag that he could manage up onto it, then slobbering globs of cocaine with gusto. He was a spectacle and he was central to the experience. The car was the rest of his pack, and, with it, he was spreading across the Texas savannah.

The old man broke, fleeing a scene apparently. He must have seen the two tires rolling towards us looking Machiavellian. He must have anticipated the fact that there was something very tense about the air at that moment. The left tire clipped the front headlight and left it only slightly fractured with a bulb still functioning. The right hit dead on with the steering column, denting the hood like a crater. Six inches of the black rubber had broken the shield wall of the glass; Collin’s nose was broken, but only slightly.

“Goddamnit. I paid forty fucking dollars for a broken nose.”

--------------------

Parked and breathing as steadily as I could manage, I watched through the rear view mirror as an older woman, probably 50 or so, slumped in awe near the back tire. Had I chased some kind of ghost simply because a dead man demanded it of me? Maybe the drugs weren’t only his problem but mine too. Maybe it was possible for a thought-osmosis to occur in which I started to imbibe the paranoia and frantic neediness. I ran my hands over my face a few times before I decided to continue on the current route, even though I had little to no idea where it would take me or if there was a gas station within a few miles. My sureness was split. My hands were shaking. I was in desperate need of the Sunday paper.

As it turns out, I was on my way back to Texas. The closer I felt to Collin (moment by moment and foot by foot), the closer I was to some kind of absolution. His voice started as I passed the same cafe from earlier, growing virulently until he seemed to materialize in the passenger seat, his phone and notebook clutched under a white knuckle grip.

“So it wasn’t him, big deal.”

“Easy for you to say. You get to be dead and I have to deal with it.”

“Not my choice, friend. Don’t you want to just leave all this shit though? We always wanted to drive to the coast and live there. I feel like you might be limiting yourself because of your dead friend.”

If I cried would that make me crazy? I thought of crying but couldn’t picture it with the road taking up most of my view. Growing bigger as I came toward it, there was a sign detailing the friendliness of New Mexico. According to it, New Mexico was the Land of Enchantment, though I couldn’t feel anything all that enchanting about such a place. I didn’t need enchanting but did need bigger. Everything is bigger in Texas. That’s what the litany of signs and mottos say. The headlines are bigger.

“We both know that you didn’t kill me, bud.”

Only miles from the next town, which was Texline on the New Mexico-Texas border, I was finally relieved of my friend’s ghost and comfortable that the passenger’s seat was empty. I could breathe easy again. I probably wasn’t crazy.

The welcome sign for Texas finally popped up.

As soon as I got to the first diner on the outskirts of town, my hands trembled. I needed another drink if I was to keep myself going because, despite how tired I was, I hadn’t slept in somewhere over 35 hours. There’s a certain fear the grips you after that much time. It’s a tigress who doesn’t want to mate, yet can’t say no. It’s a blank stare that, instead of being snapped back to focus, continues ad infinitum.

I walked into the place and the waitress bubbled at me with a very similar demeanor to that of the lunchtime waitress. Different state but the same calculated smile. I tried to smile back, but she forced me to frown.

“Just y’all?”

Had she just addressed me like there were two of us standing there? I looked around which confused her, and then sort of backed away for fear that it was some kind of trap or sting set by the police.

“Did you just say y’all?”

“No, hon. I asked if it was just you and then you went all loopy on me.”

“Oh, okay,” I told her that I was embarrassed. I wasn’t. I wasn’t convinced in the slightest that she didn’t say y’all. “Can I have that table over there, in the corner?”

--------------------

“Just y’all?”

“Just us”

Collin responded to the waitress and smirked, receiving one back in the process. He asked for the corner booth and she led us there, a slight hesitation in her arms as she laid out the menus. She looked back to Collin.

“Let me know when you’re ready.”

She walked away in triumph and Collin made sure to lean back and spread his arms over the whole booth. He was confident in the corner and never had an edge when we sat there. The diner where we found ourselves was dimly lit, like most Texas diners, and smelled like fried food. We sat there and stared at our menus for a few minutes before he even said anything else. He never looked at a menu that long. As I followed his eyes, I could see there was something hindering his vision. He blinked too much and grew a confused unfunny smirk on his face.

We finished eating, left the place, and then made the choice to keep driving even though it was completely dark outside. I was standing against my door with a cigarette burning and feeling full and complete. Collin was rifling through the glovebox hoping to find the bag that he had stashed when we thought the cops were onto us. Finding it, he poked his head up and swiveled around to look for cops. Something was worrying him because he didn’t take any from the bag and he kept talking to himself. He never talked to himself.

“Let’s go out to that cabin, Lee said he would meet me there and I don’t feel like going home anyway.”

“I know, we already agreed we would keep going. Are you okay? Seems like you turned manic all of a sudden.”

He snapped in defense and snarled as he replied, “I am FINE. Do you have to ask every five hundred feet? I told you before we got here that I was fine, and I’m telling you again. I’m fine. Please just get in the car so we can go, I think I saw some suits watching us before we went in.”

I hopped into the passenger’s seat and made sure to check for the suits. There weren’t any cars in the lot except for a beat up Ford truck and a red Pontiac Sunfire that seemed to have only recently been pulled from the mud. There weren’t any other cars or people, and I began to feel like we were heading towards something weird. The car started fine, but began to chug a bit as it sat near idling, like it had run out of willpower or energy. There was a smooth quality to the blackness that took over the whole window and, as I rolled it down, nothing but silence to be heard from any direction.

“Isn’t this where junkies go to kill themselves?”

“No, not all of them.”

--------------------

The waitress brought me a water and a coffee, but sort of scoffed when I asked about beer, saying that they only had Lone Star and Coors Light. She backed away from me when I almost snapped; I was clearly shaking in the hands. I slumped into the corner and threw my hands over each side of the thing, feeling like I was very close to something. There was a newspaper on the table that I didn’t notice when I sat down and this time it was out of Austin. The front page was clean of coffee but spread fear through me as I looked at the smiling portrait of Collin’s face. This was not a real picture of him. No mention of a killer anywhere. The feds had seized this one too. I could not help but think there was a massive conspiracy at play and I was at the center of its web. The beer could not come fast enough. Over and over again I scribble notes in the margins decrying the agencies and the government, and slowly my scrawl began to look more posed.

“You always did have some killer handwriting, chief.”

He was back and seemed bigger than when he was junkie-slumped in the passenger seat, also looking happier without the black pillows underneath his eyes.

“Do you think they will try to say I did it? You put it up your nose, so I don’t really feel like taking the fall for that one. I’m not a goddamn killer, Collin.”

“’Course not. Believe me, I am fully aware of the fact that I made my own bed. I don’t even think they would have half a mind to question you, honestly.”

“Either way, they’re coming. Do you see that white SUV out there?”

He paused and calmly searched the lot before seeing what I had seen. His head came back down and his neck stiffened.

“I see it.”

“They’re already here.”

The waitress peered over the counter, craning her neck when she heard buzzwords like ‘killer’, small town intrigue and gossip painted over her. She saw that I was seemingly talking to myself and made her way to what I assumed would be the phone around the corner. Collin and I made her when she walked back there, waddling like she was fleeing from something, and my blood started to course faster, my vision bored down into a tunnel. The feds were here and she had to tell them. She was a rat; I was marked and done.

“You better get her before she gets to the phone.”

I made a run for the back of the place, tripping slightly over myself but steadying and running firm through the back hallway, confused when I finally reached its end and not seeing a phone or the waitress at all. To my left there was an office. Somebody was humming inside. Papers were shuffling and I could hear the click of a phone. It sounded like an old phone, the kind that nobody had anymore. When I kicked in the door, the waitress from before trembled and shouted at me once before I could slam it shut. She wasn’t alone. I saw the man at the computer that wasn’t apparent when I first bust through. He didn’t look scared. He matched my eyes.

“I don’t know what you just told him, but I can’t let you call the police. I didn’t do anything; I didn’t kill him; He killed himself and I ran, which I shouldn’t have, but I did.” I flicked a switchblade off my belt, felt my hands shaking badly, and waved it at them like a cornered animal.

The old man spoke first: “Son, I don’t think you know what you’re doing. You’re from Texas, aren’t you?”

“Born and raised.”

“Then you know that, like most of us here in Texas, I have a Desert Eagle strapped to my side here,” he motioned toward the hulking thing on his belt, “and I am in no way afraid to use it if I have to. Please just put that thing down, boy.” I could tell that I was done. I was a turkey in the oven now. Everything about the room started to come back into vision and I wasn’t looking down a tunnel; I was staring at two people who had the means to end me.

“I’ll put it down when I know you aren’t going to try and put me in jail for something I didn’t do!”

Collin rested himself with both palms flat on the desk and started to take an overview of the situation. He shook his head at me and started laughing, cackling. He was every bit as alive as I was.

“You aren’t going to let this redneck shoot you, are you? Holy fuck, you are an idiot. Is this how you want to die? I guess it might be better than going with the two suits in the parking lot.”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up! You are why I’m here!”

“This just makes you look crazier you know.”

“Son, this is the last time I’m gonna ask you. Put it down or I’m going to shoot you dead.”

I had almost forgotten where I was and, in my own blindness, didn’t see that the man had pulled the hammer of the gun back to its ready position. My nose picked up the hint of chicken fried steak and my brain began to run through some kind of checklist. Collin, my life, every single shitty thing I had done. Hundreds of bags of blow. Two beers in two diners, one with and one without Collin. Chasing an old woman like a raging devil down the New Mexico highway.

I almost dragged my hand to my side and capitulated but hit a wall when, again, I saw Collin perched over the man’s holster-side. He was sullen now and didn’t seem to have much hope in the awkward frown that held his face together. Above the frown, he raised a key to his nose and then fell back, dragging cords and family pictures away from the desk as his body slumped in finality to the floor. My opponent’s eyes hadn’t moved and his wrinkled forehead grew lower and lower, getting ready for a quick movement. He was poised. I was shaking and faltering, my vision going in and out while Collin flashed dim and then bright at the far corners of my mind. I focused on the man’s face and (against my own will) forced the knife into my pocket without ever breaking eye-contact or a sweat.

“Please. Please just fucking shoot me.”

--------------------

I don’t have any way to order chicken fried steak anymore. The doctors in this place are supposed to be really good, though I don’t know what that means. I’m locked away in the back hallway of the place, as far away from the kitchen as I could be. They let me write in my journal every day between noon and one but can’t seem to corroborate my side of the story when I have to meet with the doctors.

They always tell me that most of that didn’t happen. Collin had been dead for a time before that, so it couldn’t have happened that way. Essentially they’re accusing me of writing fiction, which I still think is ridiculous. Do they always tell the insane that they are just making it up?

Sure felt real to me.

#fiction #writer #shortfiction #short story #drugs #loss #addiction #death

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