The Past Burns: Hidden Marks

'How can you tell where the fire started, if it all ignited at once? How can you know where the poison entered the body, if it pours out everywhere?'

A horrible poem, I throw the book down in anger. The thing doesn’t even make sense for fuck’s sake. It might as well just be a whole load of nonsense. I wouldn't be able to understand it even if it did make sense, my head has been elsewhere of late. I can't concentrate on a single thing, it's so frigging annoying.

I wish I could just do something and all this bullshit with my mum would go away. As I think about it all I see the book has flipped to a different page when I threw it on the floor. I sighing, I push myself off the bed, and slowly bend to pick it up. I turn it over in my hands, studying it, remembering all the hours I'd spent scribbling in it. I was quite sure that it hadn't changed page when I hurled it at the wall, but apparently it had.

This page was covered in ornate designs. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it, I was so sure that I had never drawn anything like that, never even attempted to draw anything so amazing. I could never imagine it, so delicate and frail. It startled me with it’s immensity, even though it’s only lines on a page. It was confusing, like some sort of labyrinth - but with tiny pictures. I stare at it for a little while and the lines blurred together. A curl here, a swoop of some long forgotten pen there. All joining together to form something beautiful. A single image, one entire symbol, made up of thousands of intricate smaller ones.

I blink a couple of times, a bit moved by it, feeling a tear roll down my cheek. I watch it slowly fall and land on one of the rough pages. Frowning, I stand back up from my - less than comfortable - stoop and carry the book back to the bed with me. Lying my stiff body back down onto the bed, lifting the book above my head, I try to find and clue of the maze, looking for the indentations on any of the pages. Despite searching for almost a quarter of an hour, I find nothing and give up, I put the book down on my lap.

‘What the hell...’ I murmur, squinting at the pages, I lean in closer to make sure I’m not seeing things. I run my hands over the pages and it’s still the same. Nothing. It doesn’t make any sense. If someone made the lines with a pen, then there must have left some sort of mark behind. But it’s clean. Even the lines are starting to disappear, curling in on themselves to become nothing.

-- written by George and Cat Lee

From The Shadowy Mists

My only friend; she’d talk to me every now and then, in better times past, when I lived in paradise. Well past the final breath of the bell, we used to wander the high school’s lonely halls. The struggle of learning and its draining burden was thrown off our shoulders, I no longer alone. In isolation, by the dying light of sunset, we would meet and patch our wounds and ease our troubles. I would waltz with my lover, to the lonely piano and violins of a solitary man, each step another sliver of arrow shaft driven into my heart, bleeding passion for blood. Each note magnified the seductive smile of my partner, I playfully resisting her advances. She would take it in good fun, knowing I was hers. Then, love knew no bounds. We were equals, comrades in arms; two lovers, thrown together by fate. I knew not her origins, but we quickly bonded. She would giggle as the light of the dying sun would catch my silver rings when I flourished fingers as we spoke. Through her, I was taken into a different world. Though I saw naught but a dim hallway, we witnessed judgments cast upon us by mute shadows; looking on as we used dance slowly, gracefully, as I caressed her skin. Holding each other close; her soft flesh against mine, hearing nothing but the silent cries of existence, but listening to our private symphony, I lifted my cares; each struck snowy key, each bowed brass string, syncopating my steps.

Such was life around me:

Hallways full to bursting,

Groaning under the strain

Classrooms, barley containing

The young minds of this generation,

Wishing for the weekend so desperately desired,

Wandering, some anxious, some careless, some lost in dreams

A moment two hours past, captured by the open mind

Lying on the lounge couch, plush beneath my fingers,

We cared for nothing in the world

It was in such bliss that we lived in such days. But I knew not; each note slowly wove my hangman’s noose. It was then, with the final thread, the world fell from under me, and she stood there, smiling.

I awoke in the same hall, standing, empty and alone: once welcoming shadows resented my presence; a once warm safe-haven turned into an eerie wasteland. Not a trace could be found of her. No one ever knew.

I never saw her again; from the misted void she came, and to the misted void returned.

-- written by Paolo La'O

Two-Day Weekend ~ Day Five

We joked about it for years. When life nearly broke us, the e-mails would start. “Let’s just leave it all behind and run away,” you’d write, “I’ll come pick you up.” I’d smile when the words appeared on my computer scream, my heart skipping a beat because part of me wanted that. And badly. 

“Sure, I’ll pack the food and music,” I’d reply. We’d banter back and forth. It would ease us back from the edge, the despair softened for now.

Soon enough we’d conquer the crisis of the moment and move on. Because we are both strong women. 

Last Friday you e-mailed and started with the usual words, but the tone changed quickly. I felt that in some way I did not quite understand, this time was very, very different. My heart was in my throat. 

Because my face was flushed, and my skin clammy, when I made excuses to my boss that I felt awful and needed to leave there was no question. 

You said this time you were coming and I believed you. 

In the silence of the house, I moved quietly but quickly through the rooms, stuffing a backpack full of comfortable clothes, rummaging for piles of food, stuffing a tote with music. 

I had just hung up after talking to my husband when your car pulled in. Your long black hair tousled, your smile radiant, your eyes shining with a sultry mix of desperation and adventure. I had told the truth. “I’ll see you Sunday night,” my voice assured him with a confidence I did not entirely feel, “Thank you for understanding.” 

That phone call was five days ago. We have not returned. 

In the early afternoon I am driving. I know we are in Nevada, but am not entirely sure where. The wide-open desert landscape is very different from our East Coast home. You are dozing in the passenger seat. I glance over, and am once again stunned at how beautiful you are. 

We have spent the past few days driving by whim. We stop whenever the mood suits us. We have spent endless hours relaxing by a lake or a park. We read, we nap, we eat, we talk, we just sit. 

In a local hotel every night we bring in our backpacks, but never unpack as if this is just casual and temporary. From the first night we have clung to each other in the darkness. Every night and every morning we make love. This feels entirely normal yet could not exist outside of now. We do not discuss it. 

Tonight our fingers intertwine with unspeakable intimacy as I am once again shattered and brought whole by your touch. I kiss you lightly as we drift towards sleep. I understand in my soul this will not last. That soon you will simply turn the car for home and drop me off to the silence of my house and the arms of my patient husband. 

Or maybe you never will. 

Then what?

-- written by Moonspun