I think I got drunk and tried to recreate Midsummers Night’s Dream by the Bard as a younger man.
Enter, stage left,
A procession of gnomes
Miniscule green legs bound in woven leaves,
Bare chests rattling,
Grasping desperately for air
As they chant
“What won’t you do,
what won’t you do,
Yes, yes, you,
Tell us, tell us,
What won’t you do?”
I am 23. It is 2016 A.D.
I attended a University. I graduated with a degree in literature and Film Studies. I work at a kitchen in a bar. The honesty of the statement “my parents death is the only reason I have money today” hurts me more than the fact my parents died.
What was once the cute “oh silly drunk college kid” stage is turning into alcoholism and a severe lethargy.
I struggle everyday to make sure I look like I just don’t fucking care. I really really want to take some acid, it’s been almost three years. None of my creative efforts have been acknowledged by, anyone. That’s mostly my fault.
The women that come into my life have each left a slight perfume ghost, haunting my apartment and lips. The one I have now is using me to cheat on her boyfriend. Or make him jealous. Or something. There’s something heroic in my willingness to aid her. Chivalry incarnate.
The following is parts 1 & 2 of a novel I am currently working on entitled “There”. Told from three perspectives in two different dimensions with no chronological order, it’s a tale of two young people forced into an ancient magical conflict between the King and Queen of a magical realm. Pan’s Labyrinth meets any classic bildungsroman.
I fail to grasp the necessity of my continued existence. Tracing my own footsteps, following a shining light along the same path every year, ebbing and flowing between two separate people. My life has been perfectly dichotomized, and I smiled when I selected the blade that split me.
The snow hasn’t changed in this place in 20 some odd years. The pines standing tall, full of hubris, with snow cascading down. The wrinkled old apple tree’s, whose fruit stained my family’s lips for generations, look gothic and dead, adding a sense of morbidity always lacking during any other season. Winter has dragged his massive palm over this part of the world, and this orchard in particular.
Winter had dragged his massive palm the same way over this orchard for a long time.