by Todd Shaddox
Oneness with nature is a crock of shit. Its magnitude smothers rather than nourishes. It is a constant reminder that we indeed are not a part of everything. We are aliens. The curse of introspection has separated us from that which exists here naturally.
The universally accepted (yet endlessly debated) theories of change are simply macrocosms of the instability in our lives. The thought that all is born,changes and dies is not reassuring; it’s disturbing. At best, subtly shifting the rug under our feet; at worst, propagating a horrific feeling of apathy.
The man who stepped into the elevator had half of his arm sewn into his torso. Jack had heard this unnerving technique quickened the healing of tissue – but that was merely a finger, a hand at the most. This was from the elbow down. Where was the rest of that arm?
He could hear the fingers, their joints flexing and nails clawing through thick goo; swimming in mucous. The man looked at him with a knowing grin and winked. They went down and the man went out, taking with him the sweet and sour smell of oxygenated blood and fetid puss.
Jack got off at the bottom, walked into the foyer and sat in the watching chair. As they entered from the elevators, a semi-vertical ray of light passed over their faces. The light illuminated more than their physical features. A sit fell across them, he knew everything.
To maintain his sanity he had created thousands of categories. Today, as always, he was distinguishing the good from the bad. He had tried this before with limited success. It’s really a lot harder than it seems. He eventually learned it necessitated the answering of one specific question. It didn’t matter what the question was as long as none of the possible answers were open to interpretation.
Today’s question was, “Would you destroy someone merely to better your own situation?”
“Ding.” The doors open and a tall, thin man steps into the future. He’swearing a fairly pricey suit with sub-par shoes. He tucks a folded newspaper under his arm as Jack laughs at the irony. Seven steps and the light slices through him. Six more and he’s out the door.
Jack follows with a confident stride. He has never, ever, been spotted. The man, whom Jack now called Stan, walked seven blocks to a coffeehouse, sat down with one cup black and began reading his newspaper
Jack lit a cigarette and coughed. He couldn’t quit smoking so he had decided to smoke only half a cigarette at a time. He was trying to decide which half to smoke. The tobacco crackled and he thought of the immigrant he had married once and how her eyes shone in the bright light. He thought harder and remembered her tooth and her sweater and the windshield.
As the fan blew the smoke to the corners of the room he saw the scars on his hand and the sculptured rug beyond. He stopped thinking and traveled through the deep gullies in the rug, pushing the strands from his face as he went.
He traveled until he reached the furthest wall, where he laid beneath the baseboard and concealed his nest with a scrap of paper. And he was happy just smoking half a cigarette at a time.
Stan paid his check, left a one-dollar tip and abandoned the diner. He rounded the block and walked by a small church Jack had never noticed. He strode into a barber shop and immediately sat down for a trim. Jack wondered exactly what stakes would lead poor Stan to destroy the happiness of another. The answer to his question was colorblind. There was only black and white. There was no scale of absolution.
In Jack’s opinion, Stan’s hair was now slightly too short. He followed him back to the building in which they had met and called to him as the reached the glass and brass doors. Stan turned just in time to receive an incredibly swift strike to the head with a pair of nunchaku. Actually, it was more to his face than his head. If you run your finger across the ridge of your eyebrow, you will come to the apex of an angle. This specific point is crammed full of nerves and merely pressing on it causes discomfort. This area of Stan’s face shattered like red clay and his left eye shot from its socket.
Jack watched him fall and noticed he could hear both the blood pouring from the gaping hole in Stan’s head and the arterial blood striking the pavement some three feet away. He stuck the nunchaku in his jacket and smiled at his retro weapon of choice.
He walked seven blocks to a coffeehouse. There was music playing and he leaned his head against the brick wall and let his eyes adjust to the browness. After awhile he could see and with this new vision, he noticed a girl sitting in front of the bar. She was pretty and all alone so he sat down next to her. As she ordered a drink he realized she smelled strawberryish and he blushed as he passed gas.
He was about to ask her name but as she turned and smiled he knew she was the Devil. The last of the spit mingled coffee washed over his teeth and he left. The sun was gone now and he could tell by the stillness of the air that the night would be foggy.
Todd Shaddox’s work has appeared in Apparent Depth, Huge Magazine, The Nepenthe Journal, Write Times, The Rage and The Little Rock Free Press. He exhibits the self-destructive behavior patterns of a great writer but lacks any genuine talent. He can be contacted at c_halton@hotmail.com.