Arches of Ice

    I was gliding upon a chunk of ice which slid across frozen expanses of still chill water. Natural arches of crystalline substance beckoned in a sinister fashion as I approached at high speed. The icy arches were pale blue and arctic white, blinding in their purity. But I knew that beneath the glossy exterior, filthy dirt festered beneath- a core of wormy goo. I attempted to maneuver my way across a landscape, dizzy with expectation and adrenaline ringing in my ears. And the air was thin with altitude and smelled suspiciously minty as if enhanced by a man-made chemical substance.

    I felt terrified, angry, and yet somehow increasingly determined as I skimmed the frosty crests and snowy depths. At once, I attempted to escape an entity and yet pursue something so beautiful that its goodness outweighed the ugliness of my fears.

    My grandfather had arranged for me to stay with him as a guest on a very large skyscraper-boat. Very tall and wavering with the uneasy shifting of water’s liquid body, the building pulled at its anchor, trying to float away. On the other hand, the mighty architecture’s regal presence as portrayed through the jaws of its elaborate entry doors boasted an aura far from flighty.

    The mullet-man approached me, beady dark eyes sucking energy out of the surrounding atmosphere. I exhaled over and over again in hopes of avoiding his dark stench. He gaped wide and foreboding like an ancient cave, while his garments proved misleading…so sporty and modern. My grandfather had retired to his penthouse for the evening with a couple of buddies, which left me alone in a faceless heartless crowd with Mr. Mullet. He sat down on the floor beside which I rocked back and forth upon my heels, planning my escape. His two silent parents, visiting from a distant land, took their seats in blue plastic chairs rimmed with silver studs.

    Meanwhile, “he” had begun his presentation regarding underwater plant-life. Describing how various saltwater vegetation digested its food and reproduced, he spoke with arrogance and obstinate certainty. But he was sharing untruths merely to appear educated. I picked up what seemed to be a paperweight or clear bubble-like cage of sorts, but Mr. Mullet quickly snatched the piece out of my grasp. I began to wonder at the life inside as I saw movement and leaned toward the silly man so as to get a second look. The small red creature had coarse crocheted skin and very much resembled a sea anemone. And it was twitching and writhing in short electric spurts as if tormented or even deranged. I believed the exhibit to be a life-form while Mr. Mullet argued with me before an ever-increasing audience that the fabric exterior was nothing more than yarn; that beneath the rough weave danced a tiny fish who used the costume as a full-body mask.

    I was dismayed, though even with the man’s insistent and superior attitude, I did not fully believe him. To prove his point, he presented other examples of underwater stitchery within which the small fish was prone to hide. He exclaimed with delight when the fish darted out of the clear bubble and into a long shallow aquarium, in order to travel from one crocheted galaxy to another. I looked on in horror and disbelief. Suddenly, I felt the irresistible urge to leave the building which had over the course of time become as dark as a basement.

    I ran across a field so green and freckled with wildflowers it felt as if I were dreaming (interesting-

the sensation of dreaming within a dream). A sense of liberation washed over me as I savored the

cool breeze which whipped about my long tangled hair. The sky was blue, the atmosphere clear, and

in my rush I forgot my worries…for a mere instant in time. Out of seemingly nowhere appeared the

man with the mullet. He was running beside me. I turned to look at him as we ran and he was

smiling. So I returned his smile, feeling warm and happy. But then he began to pass me up; I

increased my speed and passed him, then he returned the gesture. Pretty soon the world felt mangled

and raw. I awoke angry.


Jennifer Burnside

Dream of Destruction

    She was running down a dingy hallway and encountered a dark green apartment door. She was looking for somewhere to hide and didn’t know where the baby was. Bursting into a barely lit room, she doubled over, breathing heavily. She felt a presence in the room and looked up with a start. Two men sat cross-legged on the floor in the midst of chaos. Rumpled piles of soiled clothes and dirty dishes lay in mounds all around them as if their empire. They gawked at her in a hypnotized stupor, glassy eyes shining like the glint of a wild animal’s gaze from the shadows of the forest. They giggled together in slow motion, though their voices were high like pre-pubescent boys. With long scraggly hair shifting across their faces, she could not tell where their eyes kept wandering, until she realized that they were watching small rats scuttle across the floor and through the trash that surrounded them. She was stunned when she looked at the hands of the two men, which were stained red and brown from dirt and dried blood. For they were catching the rats in their bare hands and grasping them with such specified force that the rodents slid right out of their own skin and fur, to land on the heap of rubble, pink and naked. As she watched a few rounds of this gruesome activity, she suddenly felt free to leave the room and walk away from the ugliness. As she turned, the men began whispering to each other in slithery little tones, mentioning what a shame it was that she was leaving them; that they would have no one for whom to present their violent talents. But as soon as they expressed their disappointment, their faces contorted into moldy clay masks, and slid off to glide down their lean bodies. She exited the room and closed the door firmly behind her.

   

Jennifer Burnside

Funneling

    Entering the chamber that boasted no access, a wall of wailing creatures barred the way but did not deter the lava from taking its victims by the throat and sucking out all of their life juice.

    The volcano emitted the most putrid of grimaces, seizing the land with arrogant derision, and what was once lush and green lay flattened and ashy gray in the aftermath.

    A war was fought at the base of the mountain, in circles the fighters beat at their own chests and mutilated their own faces until the vultures flew in to serve as masks and to fawn sadistically over the loss of the others.

    Like a twisted carousel of dead ponies and princesses, the sinister upheaval that was your glance fell upon the happy dandelions, quickly putting out their weak flames which they had borrowed from the sun at the moment the solstice turned her head away from the road to catch a glimpse of yesterday’s apologetic smile.

    Dismantling the notion of time itself, premonition makes its way into the straw, lights a match, and sets her free.

    And she is none the weaker…only brighter and more steadfast, as necessity deems fit.

    The smoke is invisible to her and not even the scalding of such partially-penitent souls will move her as she enjoys life and looks to the future, claiming all that is genuine as her own manifesto.

 

Jennifer Burnside

The Truck

    The white delivery truck had been parked outside the tidy little convenience store for more than half an hour. Fine dust yet churned in the wake of the truck’s sudden halt, where it had scraped up against a crumbled curb. And the vehicle’s flurried driver, lacking in either time or consideration, hadn’t made the effort to straighten out her crooked parking job. It was very unusual for the time, that a woman would operate such a large vehicle, without the presence and aid of a man. And even more extraordinary was it to see a woman lugging heavy merchandise over her shoulders and under her arms- without the least sign of effort. I always marveled at this sight which I had the pleasure to behold every Monday morning at 6 a.m. sharp. And I now wondered about the woman as she remained inside the store- much longer than was usual. While I kept watch from a mere dozen paces away, across a one-lane dirt road, I perched on the sagging porch which overlooked my Uncle’s meager gas pump. Chewing listlessly on the crushed tip of a striped straw, I felt the huge distance of the short space which divided “us” from “them”, and closed my eyes to avoid reality- as if escape were that easy.

    The sweet little girl with the cherub face peers inquisitively out the rear window of the delivery truck. One day a week she savors the bumpy ride down country lanes with her adventurous mother at the wheel, as they make the rounds to those merchants in town who purchase their dairy goods. According to the girl, Monday is the one day worth living for. She gets to enjoy the passing view without lifting a finger, and recently at one of their stops, has taken a special interest in a particular ramshackle abode, a dwelling so tiny she imagines that elves live inside. The girl stands on her tiptoes in the back of the truck to look out the smudged rectangular window. She is mesmerized by a shimmery veil which wisps like smoke in the soft breeze, partially masking the interior of the one-room shack. Oddly enough, a decrepit and stained porch broaches two sides of the structure in front of which stands a dingy gas pump. And along the railing, miniature sculptures, potted plants and brass trinkets sparkle in the sunlight. From the lean branches of a hovering tree hang coins and glass eyes which spin around from their threads of twine. How the girl would love to venture out and investigate…but her mother has forbidden her to leave the safety of the truck.

    With my two stringy braids swinging in my face, and floral head-scarf flopping over my shoulder, I stood up with mock determination as if I had something important to do, as if I had somewhere to go (rather than stagnate there on my uncle’s greasy grimy porch, awaiting customers who never appeared). I knew that I was being watched, which was a familiar sensation for me, being a stranger in a strange land. Lacking proper attire, and unable to communicate in the native language of the region, I spent all my time observing and contemplating. I was certainly accustomed to being noticed, as one might notice a stray mutt. Not only was I being noticed, but I was being observed with actual interest, by a peer. Uncomfortable, I wandered over to the gas pump, and feigning concentration, began to inspect it as if it were a rare fossil. In the meantime, I contemplated the porch and its infamous reputation. The fact that I felt pure envy toward a place rather than a person (since I spent more time alone on the porch than in the company of any person), clearly illustrated the depths of my solitude. My loneliness thrived in the quicksand of sticky guilt and recollection. I remembered absorbing the constant thrash of fighting and destruction throughout my first few years of life. I was the child of a sailor- always on the move- riding waves of sadness out at sea, in to port, on the town, and so forth. My father had left me here in this place so he could follow his desires, while I continued to miss him each night, my dreams increasingly laced with resentment. Adults had never made sense to me; they bated me with their lies, used me as a pawn to manipulate each other, and then abandoned me with frustration after they were exhausted from the seemingly endless responsibility of caring for me. The voices in my head would not calm themselves; like so many wild birds, riding the breeze only to crash repeatedly through the windows of my mind. It was as if I sifted through other people’s chaos; a recycled form of chaos which rarely had anything to do with me, but which somehow paved the painful path of my second-hand life.

    She tries to deduce what her mother must be doing at present- she has far over-stayed her normal delivery time. Usually, the hearty woman with bobbed hair and an unusually carefree demeanor, throws a couple of goats over her shoulder and heads into the immaculate shop by way of the delivery entrance. She makes several trips back and forth, carrying baskets of eggs, metal kegs of milk, and glass bottles of cream. She usually returns to the truck in 10 minutes at the most, with a wad of cash stuffed into the pocket of her horribly stained apron, and a grin on her face. The girl knows the inside of the shop intimately, even though she has entered on only three occasions when the shop-owner had invited the “poor little munchkin” to come in for an early morning ice cream cone (made with the milk from her very own farm). Though quite young, she recalls details with surprising accuracy. She sees the back entrance of the shop- its spotless white-washed metal door and fresh-scrubbed rubber matting. The floor of the reception area is black and white checked tile which proudly glimmers in the early-morning light. Display cases protect the purity of frozen delicacies and artfully placed cold-cuts. Atop the counters sit pale wicker baskets brimming with eggs and wedges of cheese. And behind the counters uniformed ladies bustle in their frilly blouses and pressed aprons, each of them with elegant hair swept up to overflowing in arrogant little ringlets. They appear to be setting things in order, sweeping away invisible dust, arranging and rearranging the order of displays, and obsessively plumping the pretty clusters of daisies and baby’s breath which drink from wells of fine crystal. Never before has a place felt so foreign to the girl who remains hatless in her simple frayed shift and bare feet. On the farm, she plays a part in the process of everything around her. In the truck she is her mother’s proud daughter. In the local chapel, she is the adorable wildflower who sings like an angel. But inside the convenience store, she is like a ghost; transparent for the most part, but if encountered, viewed by the “others” with something akin to distress. The girl hops from one foot to the other, causing the truck to shimmy back and forth. She worries about her mother who must be haggling over prices at this rate, and remembers how even with her confident beauty, firm handshake, and a strong sense of business, the kind woman was on one occasion inexcusably belittled and harassed by the pudgy, pink-cheeked shop-owner. Short and egotistical, the man had claimed to “catch a whiff of the latest fragrance- manure musk” in the hair of his supplier as he had peered down his nose at her “filthy little piglet”. The girl is whisked back to the present when a sudden movement flashes in the corner of her eye. Fixing her gaze upon the small shack across the lane, with the hope of glimpsing an elf, she is surprised to witness large dark eyes staring back at her with unabashed wonder.

    Tearing my attention back to the porch, I relived the humorous episode which earned the porch its celebrity status. I saw the multitude of cats in the eye of my mind. They were everywhere, climbing the walls, feeding from fine saucers of antique china, mating, hunting, and running the household like a band of gypsies. My aunt was the culprit who dragged me into this hole-in-the-wall she called a palace for the gods. Our inadequate home had, quite literally, a “hole” in its wall, as the single room was only held up by three walls. And a luminescent paisley fabric veiled in parts the gaping face of where a fourth wall must have at one time existed. Here I had resided for a good six months, struggling to accept my fate among the feral feline nation, which my aunt so obviously worshipped. I had never developed a liking for the independent and rather narcissistic nature of cats, simply because, despising water as they did, the lithe creatures seldom lived on sailing boats or in my father’s damp transitional hovels. At any rate, the daylight was in full bloom, the sun was pale like my heart, and my aunt had just arrived from town lugging a metal bucket. Coagulated blood jiggled in the bucket and over its sides with gelatinous glee. In her white lace dress and white canvas boots (stained crimson in an abstract fashion), she looked like a gory ghost, torn from the pages of a murder mystery. She approached me with murder in her eyes, exclaiming that our local greasy-spoon diner wouldn’t spare the best of their leftovers for “her family”, so she had been forced to gather what she could from their dumpster out back. I was horrified by the sight of my eccentric aunt, and her foul words stunk more than the stink of gizzards, livers, and other edibles which had grown rancid with the heat of the day. My first inclination was to call my uncle and tell him that my aunt must have lost her mind somewhere along her trek home- that the heat must have gotten to her. But suddenly, I realized that my once-pretty aunt with her almond eyes and long tangled hair remained nothing more than a vessel, full of empty dreams and endless regrets. Her feline “family” had been feeding off of her adrenaline and angst for some time now. She was in every way their human puppet, their clown, and their only source of sustenance. Something inside me lurched with fear and disgust, and I screamed. In a flash, my aunt began tearing at her clothes, at her eyes, and threw the bucket along with its hideous contents directly at me. Fortunately, I ducked before the heavy object could collide with my head, but the faded chipped porch wasn’t so lucky. The porch railing was instantaneously doused in a warm goo of carcass leftovers. Without so much as a word, my aunt stepped out of her ruined attire and marched away from our abode, feral cats in tow. And while the memory of a slim woman in bloomers and camisole, leading a pack of cats down the lane was etched in my mind forever, no one ever saw or heard from her again. The story became somewhat of a legend in town, although for some reason, I was completely left out of the picture. It was as if I had been invisible, or even worse, non-existent. After the incident had blown over and the stains on the porch had faded to a lovely mauve hue, I continued to linger in the shadows as I was prone to do. I learned to serve as the eyes and ears for our little corner of the universe (since my uncle was usually down the street in the town pub, and if he did happen to be home, which was seldom, he was too blurry-eyed from drink to comprehend anything he thought he saw). I kept my ever-expanding knowledge private, and busied myself with maintaining the gas pump and preparing simple meals for my uncle. In my spare time I collected trinkets from the roadside, which had most likely fallen from the harried merchant vehicles I occasionally witnessed fleeing from town in the middle of the night. It was the big old truck from the dairy farm which brought me the only delivery I would ever receive during my era at the gas pump shack; the only delivery which would actually deliver me from my woes.

    As she stares at the dirty creature, dressed in the most exquisitely colorful rags she has ever beheld, something familiar lurches within. She feels at once a connection with the other little girl, knowing that they have something in common. But she also knows that the “other” is weighed down by sadness and loneliness- eyes uneasily darting about, fingers fiddling with the handle of the gas pump, thin shoulders hunched in a sense of defeat. The girl in the delivery truck strains on tiptoes, willing the other child to notice her through the hazy window. Her heels and calves become hot with the effort, and she finally eases down into a squat to rest briefly among her farm’s fresh products and supplies. She unscrews the metal cap of a cold bottle of milk, her hand smearing the moist sweat of condensation that has formed on the outside of the glass. Guzzling the creamy liquid, she refreshes herself, taking comfort in the simple pleasure of quenching her thirst. She gets up and heads back over to the small window to continue her curious observation. She gazes upon the porch across the lane with its blushing stains, sees a small group of crows cavorting on the roof of the shack, and then realizes that the gypsy child she had noticed is nowhere in sight. For a moment the little girl panics, skimming the area for any movement. Suddenly, something collides with the door of the delivery truck. The little girl feels the vehicle heave with added weight, and soon after, a colorful scarf appears in the truck’s rear window. Next appear loose strands of wavy brown hair, large startled eyes, smiling mouth, and the two young children quickly find themselves face to face through the glass. The humidity of their happy breathing fogs the thick panel, and this triggers a round of giggling. They begin making silly faces and from either side of the thick door, they instantly realize that they have found in one another a friend.

    She looked like a perfect little doll. With her blond ringlets and sky-blue eyes, I thought she was a miniature replica of “them”. I thought she belonged in the starched and arrogant world of the convenience store across the way. Her rosy cheeks and innocent smiling mouth boasted the comforts that only love and nourishment can provide. But when her mother returned to the truck, started the engine, and dashed around to open the back door of the delivery truck, I saw that both the woman and the child had callused working hands which were rough and soiled. There was dirt under their fingernails. Just like me, the little girl went barefoot, her frock was torn and her apron quite stained. I felt right at home. The girl beckoned wordlessly for me to sit down with her on a crate in the corner. She grabbed a cold bottle of milk, opened it, and nestled it between my empty hands. I thanked her in my language, my voice bursting out like a song; so this was how happiness was supposed to feel! The little girl’s mother stood outside, with one booted foot wedged against the bottom step of the back of the truck. She was looking over at my trinkets, at the gas pump, meager clothes on the line, the slouching porch. The engine of the delivery truck was still running, humming with contentment. With a start, she clapped her hands against her hips as if wiping something clean. The woman darted like a fawn over to my sacred tree and from it pulled the glass eyes and a few coins. Wrapping these things in my old red shawl which she tore from the line, she ran to the truck and tossed the “gift” in back with us. She looked at me shrewdly and I knew that she awaited some kind of response. I smiled, nodded, and hugged the gift to my chest along with the bottle of cold milk. Our mother grinned with joy, blew a kiss to each of us girls, and slammed the door firmly shut on my former life.

 

Jennifer Burnside

Wiser with Time

This is not a time where being nice has its advantages. Being curtly polite is the only thing that we can offer to such despicable cowards who fester in the slimiest of puke-holes, repelling other such loathsome life-forms. Known to only the most remote species that evolved from stagnant feces so ancient, it had a life and body of its own, the dwellers drip with deceit. Vapors light their path, preceding them with a proud stench, as they traverse hideous fields of rotten rubble and refuse. With our strides so light and agile, our footsteps erase their own remains in hasty wake.

    We do not heed their morbidly obese warnings as they wobble with self-contradiction, their falsehoods becoming confusingly entangled with every pathetic maneuver as they writhe in the stupidity that is their fruitless dimension. They are not worthy of a glance, nor even a nod. We will not listen to their breaths as they exhale excuses and sharply breathe in the cynicism that blinds them from their own contemptible reflections. There is no way to make up for the fact that their very existences drive stink-bugs to the grave with one mere whiff riding the traumatized breeze. Like sticky fingers lumpy with the debris of past, present, and future abuse, they massage one-other where it matters the most: precisely at the center of the top of the head where a soft spot is ever growing, where the skull never actually closed as there was not enough bone matter or brain substance to form complete structural spheres. Attempting to make up for their wrong-doings, only because they wish with all their acid hearts to commit even more fraud and destruction the next time around, they sit on their hands, defecating upon themselves in ignorant fashion. Monstrous visions of demonic throats clench and release the bile that foams from their deformed mouths, and as their lips deteriorate with quick-release chemical action, we needn’t fathom the discomfort in which they find themselves. And we will not sit in wait- the time is upon us where those who have illustrated all that is delightfully evil will publish their suffering beneath the mighty weight of humiliation.

    We will not give in; we have nothing left to give. We scorn them as we crush leaves with our toes and grind the memory of their sour faces into a sheer powder which will scatter itself across the ocean at the gaseous center of a vengeful earth. Despicable dedications are in order, and tension hangs heavy in the air, right before their smutty noses. We wash our hands of all that once consisted of their dirty little secrets. And as the sweet oil of love’s pure hope courses through our hair like the wind through the trees on a picnic-day, we await their doom with giddy abandon. The parade will pass, and good riddance, but oh what a show they will put on for us in the imaginations of our once-injured, twice-wiser hearts.

Jennifer Burnside