Sleep in peace, brave warrior.
Lay your weapons and burdens aside.
Accept peace and remain in it, knowing you fought well.
Against impossible enemies. Against fate.
You protected me. Loved me.
Now it’s time to become one with me. Become me.
And I promise you.
You will never know death In my embrace. Only eternal life.
As you sleep you will exist as the flowers.
As the pollen in the air.
As rain, hydrating the soil. Fueling and resurrecting life.
And one day –whence this planet dissolves– as the dust scattered among the stars.
Sleep well. My love.
(Sleep in Peace My Dear Sister, Rhea)
He sighed. Carved the webbing from the door along with the petrified corpse of his eight-legged friend Miles.
Miles was amazing. A solid friend who kept flies out of his basement and away from where he practiced his turntables every Sunday. And in return, he allowed Miles to use the real estate at the top corner of his basement door. To grow his web-condominium. Shelter from the unpredictable autumn elements.
He used the plastic knife to scrape webbing into a paper towel.
His dog licked his hand. Woof.
He softly pinched his dog’s ear. “I’ll miss him too.”
He found nothing about life funny. Or beautiful. Or remotely enjoyable.
He sank lower in his seat.
Well, there was his wife, and his many unpublished writings. That’s Beautiful. Enjoyable.
My writings suck.
“Then you have negative fourteen to the…” His algebra professor droned while slowly fading out of existence.
Can’t be me anymore. Must be better.
He slapped his nose.
It was a nasty habit. An indication that anxiety was about to overtake his already turbulent mind. Like a spider-sense but for obsessive compulsive writers who lack charisma and self-confidence.
He checked the time.
He sank lower.
He stood from his desk and walked to the window.
It was sunny, but deceptively cold. His toes were cryogenically frozen in his shoes- and will outlast him long after his death.
He thought of how much wife says he’s good. Had the potential to be something. Thought about how much she hated his short sentences.
He threw on his jacket. Grabbed his two cameras. Powered down his monitors.
May never succeed, but I have to try. I owe it to them. To her.
He’ll walk about. He’ll deeply reflect. He’ll continue to create and to work, despite fear.
He sulked. Protruded his lips. Stared fiery daggers into the cute young woman preparing Mother’s cheeseburger at an elderly turtle’s pace.
Past midnight. Should be home. In bed. But Mother needs help moving. And fast food at an ungodly hour. Sucked being the favorite. Favorites do the heavy lifting. Physical. Emotional. Lifting.
“Appreciate you.” Mother said.
“Want anything?” Mother asked.
Yes. Sleep. Freaking tired.
“Nah,” He answered.
Mother bit into a stale-ish looking fry.
“Good?” He asked.
Mother nodded. “Thank you, son.”
He smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Mother’s smile offset some of his saltiness. Some… Not all.
Reality’s collapsing around us. Just… us.
Volatile, inter-dimensional shifts bubbling throughout our home. We’re existing in the same space, breathing the same air. Or so it seems.
She enters our kitchen. Phases through me.
“Morning,” I say.
Silence. No reaction to me. She sips coffee. No slurps nor satisfied gasps.
Thick layers of brane… brain? Translucent fields inflaming and growing denser. Filtering my greetings. My regrets. My apologies.
I waved. “Hey”.
We are occupying the same time and space. But never quite the same time. And. Or. Space.
Mission critical. Must. Reunite. Our. Realities.
She’s more interested in war than peace. And by now… So. Am. I.
She’s in the living room. Morning exercise. Smirking like our disagreement is her improv skit.
“Sure… you’re above it all.” I climb the stairs.
“Your tone,” She snipes.
Riiight. Play innocent.
I return. “Don’t dictate how I respond.”
She snickers. “Wow.”
“Wipe your mouth before you argue.”
I scrape my lip-corners. “Always agitating.”
She judges. Points fingers. Ignites conflict like an emotional arsonist. Never concedes or compromises! Yet… my tone?!
“I’m done,” I ascend the stairs.
It scorched layers off his Lingual Papillae.
A mere thirty seconds for the microwave to bubble his mac and cheese into molten lava.
He gulped water.
Efforts… futile. Tongue screaming.
“You okay?” She smirked.
“Hot,” He replied.
“Want milk, baby tongue?”
He had warm cranberry juice. No need for milk, ice, or her debilitating jabs.
He blew on his bowl before eating another forkful of her macaroni.
“Tasty?” She asked.
Nicely crusted…. perfectly seasoned parade of cheeses. Brilliance in a bowl.
The best he’d ever tasted.
“Its okay,” He answered. “I’ve had better.”
He vehemently stared at the screen.
Technopathy failed. Nothing creative or profound had materialized in his thoughts or Word Processor. His muse was an unsurprising no-show. Why waste inspiration on atrocious writers like him? Right?
“What’s up?” She asked.
“Suffering.” He typed a paragraph.
“Food’s getting cold.”
“Cool.” He deleted everything.
“Hurry… Eat.” She rested a full plate between them. “You’re probably hungry.”
“Probably am…” He reached for the plate.
Stomach’s tight. Extremely lethargic.
He hadn’t eaten sinc-
She slapped the biscuit out of his hand. “Food’s on the stove.”
“Seriously?” He asked.
“Grab yourself a plate.”