A little teaser from something I am working on...
Splash of Red. I found the dame in a dark alley on a dark night. Lots of gray. No color. Again, story of my life. Well, a little color now. Maybe my night was going somewhere. Her red lips lit up the night like some long star exploding in the sky. Only they split a colorless face. Colorless because of the other splash of red, the one that stained her white dress and spilled all over the black pavement.
This will make Them stop and think. Think about this dead world They’ve created. Just maybe it ain’t what They think.
But now I’ve got work to do. I don’t agree with this Life or the Rules but I follow them. For the most part. I try not to think about it. I just do my job and right now my job is all this Red everywhere. How it got here. When. Why. The first two were easy. A knife and about an hour ago. The guy was still around somewhere. I could smell him.
Not really. But it sounded good. The guy was long gone. Well, as long as an hour would give him. Maybe he could fly. You never know.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Monday, June 20, 2011
Part of a Dream
Part of a Dream
…and when I awoke, I had become one of the underbeings, growing along the roots and paths of the deep, crawling, slithering, scraping my way, suffocating beneath the soil but craving the darkness, the hiding place, bursting forth and claiming the land for the Wild...
Strange thoughts were entering my head… “that's what he gets for crossing my path when I take control of the forest, when the Wild sets in, when the primal screams of night take hold and the beast primeval is unleashed into a savage fury, destroying all and creating the earth again into the realm of the Ancient Ones, the Old Ones, the ones of the sacred mind”…
“Oooohliela,” they sing “Oooohliela,” as they crawl beneath the mud, sucking, gasping for life, they crawl towards you, the muck and the mire dripping from beneath their putrid brows. You stare horrified as they slowly gather themselves together, a rolling, slimy mass of almost-humanity cawing and cackling and reaching, ever reaching for you. You close your eyes in horror, then silence, you open your eyes and you are in a field of flowers and all is well. Was it a dream, a miasma of the mind? You feel a faint tremor in the ground and mud begins to rain from the sky, the horror has only begun...
The fires rage, the sky black as coal; the ground is aflame, the imps of the moor are dancing higher and higher, cackling in glee as upwards the inferno roars till your world is awash in shadow and flame, the royal couple of death. The ground trembles so violently you fall into the nothingness you now realize yawns beneath you, but you do not fall, held in place by a single speck of pure light. You are in complete balance and you feel confident, you know now what you have to do. "Be gone Night, I command thee, back O' Fires of the beyond, back, ye two, into the abyss"…
© 2011 Matt Wofford
…and when I awoke, I had become one of the underbeings, growing along the roots and paths of the deep, crawling, slithering, scraping my way, suffocating beneath the soil but craving the darkness, the hiding place, bursting forth and claiming the land for the Wild...
Strange thoughts were entering my head… “that's what he gets for crossing my path when I take control of the forest, when the Wild sets in, when the primal screams of night take hold and the beast primeval is unleashed into a savage fury, destroying all and creating the earth again into the realm of the Ancient Ones, the Old Ones, the ones of the sacred mind”…
“Oooohliela,” they sing “Oooohliela,” as they crawl beneath the mud, sucking, gasping for life, they crawl towards you, the muck and the mire dripping from beneath their putrid brows. You stare horrified as they slowly gather themselves together, a rolling, slimy mass of almost-humanity cawing and cackling and reaching, ever reaching for you. You close your eyes in horror, then silence, you open your eyes and you are in a field of flowers and all is well. Was it a dream, a miasma of the mind? You feel a faint tremor in the ground and mud begins to rain from the sky, the horror has only begun...
The fires rage, the sky black as coal; the ground is aflame, the imps of the moor are dancing higher and higher, cackling in glee as upwards the inferno roars till your world is awash in shadow and flame, the royal couple of death. The ground trembles so violently you fall into the nothingness you now realize yawns beneath you, but you do not fall, held in place by a single speck of pure light. You are in complete balance and you feel confident, you know now what you have to do. "Be gone Night, I command thee, back O' Fires of the beyond, back, ye two, into the abyss"…
© 2011 Matt Wofford
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Hard Rain
I awoke to hard rain. It was still dark out so I assumed sometime late evening as the fog of sleep still enclosed much of my mind. The room was filled with the sound of the beating rain on the roof. The more I listened, the more alert my hearing and senses became, the more violent the rain sounded. A steady drumming, a rain so full that the noise quickly became a consistent hum, the buzzing of a million insects. Further, the rain was so heavy, so thick, continuously drilling the rooftop so steady and consistently that I felt I could almost feel the density of the deluge, leaving me with the feeling of a slight constriction. A trick of the mind surely. Impossible to ignore, I tried to put the storm to the back of my thoughts and left the bedroom looking for a light switch in the hall and possible trip to the coffeemaker in the kitchen. I was fully awake with all the noise and did not think I would be much for rest again tonight. No power. Must have gone out in the night. I fumbled around until I found a flashlight in the hallway closet and settled for orange juice instead.
I sat in the living room with a few candles lit around me. The noise was louder here, or had it grown louder with time? More fierce? Still dark outside so I sat there until boredom and the ceaseless drumming of the rain convinced sleep to make another eventually successful attempt. I awoke some time later and though dull, there was enough ambient light from the dawn to allow me to see through the window. And what I saw caused no small amount of trepidation. Fairly comfortable until now, I suddenly felt cold and tense, gooseflesh rising from my skin. I stood in awe of the cascade falling outside. I lived amongst high hills with a good bedrock foundation and a sturdy roof so I did not worry for myself but for those in the valley below; I could not imagine what must be happening down there. Standing before the great waterfall of God, I could only wonder what cosmological alignment had cursed this place so today. It was not like watching a waterfall where the water flows as one, unbroken and complimentary. This was the opposite. There was no harmony. Each drop fell full of anger and malice seeking the demise of others with the same of itself. I stood transfixed for what seemed a very long time. I came to the realization that the light outside never grew in intensity or volume. The rain falling outside was so absolute that I could see no more than a few dozen feet from any window. There was no wind. The rain came straight down.
Captivated, I watched for hours. I could not go anywhere for surely any road would be washed out for miles and I could only imagine the extent of this storm. Not much of a reader and with no TV, I continued to watch. At first, the storm was silent. For most of the day, an eerie silence accompanied the rain. I certainly heard the falling water but there should have been thunder or something. Perhaps I was just too used to the noises of the modern world. Radios, televisions, cell phones, computers, appliances, cars, in short: life. Or at least my life.
The more I listened however, the more it seemed like maybe there was noise somewhere out there beyond the limited area I could see. I began to hear what seemed like muffled reverberations as if hearing canon-fire at a great distance. I could not guess as to what the sound might be. It was not the instantaneous boom of thunder. No extra light accompanied the rumbling and while the noises certainly seemed faint, barely perceptible beyond the pounding of the rain, I could feel a sight jarring with each report, slight vibrations felt underfoot.
I stared hard into the water, straining to see beyond the limits of my vision. I began to see movement, or at least I thought it must be movement since the absence of wind was still apparent. Bulging shapes in the downpour, stretching certain sections for a few seconds and then flattening out again like someone pushing against a sheet pulled tight and then pulling back. The harder I stared, the more these shapes or distortions became obvious. At times bulbous, a giant bubble forming, at times serpentine as if great snakes were gliding through the water, only there was no lake, just a solid wall of rain. Always the rain bulged towards my house, never outward, never away. I had the feeling of something trying to break through a barrier, an unseen plane only revealed by this otherworldly monsoon.
The longer I stared the more regular became these irregularities in the wall of rain. They still encompassed all sizes but some of the smaller ones became more defined, more penetrating, fuller and lasting longer before receding. As I was staring at one of the smaller ones, a particularly long lasting episode, it popped. I don’t know how else to describe it. And as it did, I beheld the horror of nightmare, for out of that hole came a thing hideous and black, plunging headlong into the earth before my window, a few feet from the house. I could see it in its entirety. Dark as coal, shaped vaguely like a man save for the protruding eye stalks and monstrous wings of featherless skin, membranous and semi-transparent. Claws replaced the toes and fingers and long sharpened teeth protruded out of the mouth. The thing appeared dead for it did not move and indeed there was a black mucous seeping from several places along its body. It did not appear to be wearing clothes, nude as a beast, with not a single hair evident.
I quickly looked back to the hole from which it had flown only to see a flat wall of rain before me. There was still the occasional temporary swelling but they were fewer and less regular in occurrence and at last they stopped all together. The creature still lay outside the window but for only a few more seconds as he was quickly washed away by the torrent of water falling from the sky. Washed away with all the black puss that had poured out of him until the only evidence he had ever existed was my own fearful memory.
What was happening? What did this storm intend to release upon the Earth? If this was happening here, I could not imagine what was happening in more populated areas of the world. If this was some sort of attack, alien or supernatural, I knew that I must be small potatoes in the grand scheme and if whatever power was behind the attack was able to breach this area populated primarily by me, what resources had it expended against those areas with thousands or millions of people? Against military bases? Capital cities? Had it been successful? Would I want to know? Would it be safer to walk out into the storm and let it take me away into whatever flood was washing away the land below?
What could I do? Where could I go? I did not think I would be able to drive very well if at all in the storm. The roof was not leaking yet but how long could it hold up? Quite a while I thought, as long as there was no wind to push the rain underneath the roof tiles. This did not really seem to be a threat. No wind yet. But that’s the thing about otherworldly storms from the realms of nightmare, you never knew what to expect.
How did I feel? What did I think? I didn’t. I tried not to. Who could logically confront what I had seen?
As I stood there pondering what to do, a strange thing happened. The rain stopped. It would prove to be a brief reprieve but what I saw in that short respite stopped my heart, stopped my breath. A tall mist hung up from the ground, higher than a man so I could not determine the condition of the ground but what I saw in the sky was more than enough to overwhelm my senses. A haze blocked the full sun from shining. Not clouds but a thick, dark haze. Not so dark I couldn’t see however. The things in the sky were truly terrible, powerful, horrible. Some were more of a kind like my visitor. Vaguely humanlike in size and appearance, even in flight. Some were smaller, flying reptilian things. Others were monstrous and huge, the obvious kings of their realm. I do not like to think upon them now. Dark and gigantic with yellow eyes and staggering jaws. Talons longer than any living man. Where I expected scales, there was only black skin, pulled tight. The monsters were large enough that even from a distance I could see some of the enormous musculature that must lay underneath. The skin rippled and shined with a silvery sheen at times, affording me a view of the many arms and legs, the twin tails swinging out behind like colossal beams. The large reptilian head of this leviathan with its glowing eyes and all those sharpened teeth appeared to be constantly searching. There were only a few of these evil lords, circling the skies, their hordes trailing behind. They searched with their eyes, twin cones of pale yellow light spilling forth from each upon the ground.
I realized with a horror what they must be searching for. Survivors. The fact that they did not appear to be acting on any impulse was not lost on me. Were there none left? Was I alone? Why me? I had not long to think upon these thoughts until I felt with a dreaded foreboding the pale yellow luminescence upon my windows. I looked into the eyes of one of the great beasts who opened its mouth and let forth a horrendous scream that rattled my very frame, rattled my home until I thought it would split asunder. There passed perhaps a second of still silence afterwards. And then they came. They came towards me with a rush of furious activity. Every beast in the sky it seemed was intent on my destruction. Beating wings, terrible cries of cruel and malicious desire. Ear splitting howls of murderous intent. I knew I could not last against even the first attack. And it was not far off. Maybe a thousand feet and closing. Five hundred. Three hundred. Then Boom. A noise split the sky more fierce, more terrifying than any scream from those monsters in the sky. I did not even have time to consider this new noise as the skies opened again and release a fury more destructive by far than that previous.
This was no rain. This was the end of the earth. This was the destruction of myself and everything alive.
I waited for the attack I still thought was coming, waited for the creatures to tear down my walls and consume me, waited for death. A death that did not come. I waited for hours with no more sound than that of the torrential flood from above. I waited so long that the day’s events finally caught up with me and though I tried to stay awake, the constant adrenaline that had been running through my veins took its toll and I did fall asleep though I know not how long I fought it. Hours? Days? Minutes? I had no sense of time.
I awoke to stillness. Complete silence. Was I dead? I did not think so as I could feel the hard floor beneath me and did not think this was an item I was likely to take with me when crossing the divide. I began to hear the strangest things. Static. No rain. No screeching hordes. Static. I slowly realized that I must have left the television on. I tried all the channels but only static. No news of the outside world. What had happened? I looked outside to see the coming dawn in a clear sky. I went to the door, stopping to listen one last time, my heart beating, throbbing, threatening to burst from my chest. I turned the knob, hearing every click and creak in the mechanics. I opened the door.
Body littered battlefields have looked less shocking. And bodies did litter the field. Some human, some other. Thousands and thousands, gruesome creatures of all shapes and sizes as well the giant monstrous leaders of the sky. I was struck rather quickly with the overwhelmingly pungent stench of sulfur. I had no courage to go out looking for brethren survivors for what if something survived that was not of the brotherhood of man. But nothing moved. No wind, no sound. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the bodies began to quickly deteriorate. Yellow steam rising all around. The smell brought me to my knees. I threw up on the ground. I rushed back inside to escape the filthy aroma of evil death.
I sat there for some time completely numb. What had happened and why? What would I find when I did finally venture out, for surely my food would not last long. I could not imagine what the water must be like with all that black blood seeping into the ground. I ran to the water fountain and planned on drinking my fill. No water, no noise of water rushing through the pipes. Come to think of it, I could no longer hear the noise of static. The power was off again. I checked the TV only to find it was unplugged. I did not remember unplugging it and certainly not plugging it back in if I had. Where had the static come from? Was I losing my mind? The sky went dark.
What else could come? Surely there could be no more destruction. Could the Earth last another onslaught? I certainly could not and knew I would not. Knew that this was the end. Though it was dark, complete and unrevealing, I could tell something was happening. Sense it. I no longer felt the floor beneath me. I was floating in a sightless void, thick and inky. Was this the end after all? I wondered aloud if I was dead.
"No."
The voice startled me so badly that I can not accurately describe it. Then light. Small at first but growing quickly. He was not at all like I expected. Definitely formed like a man, with massive feathered wings and great stature, well built and beautiful beyond words. His majesty left no doubt for what he was. I did not expect the brooding countenance and dark frown upon his face however. Not the type of thing you would look for in this situation.
"You are not dead, but you are the last and you have been warned. Mankind must change."
"Last?" I asked. "Last person on Earth?!" I could not believe what I was hearing.
"No, there are two."
With that he was gone and my world came flooding back. I was in my home again, surrounded by a carnage ravaged world. Did I dream that? Did it matter? A knock at the door.
Hesitantly I opened it, again hearing every gear, every crunch of activity inside the doorknob. A woman. Dirty. Filthy. But alive; crying and sagging to the floor. I tried to lower her down gently
"So glad I'm not the only one,” she whispered. Her voice was shaky. "So glad I found you.”
I helped her inside. “It’s ok,” I said. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
“I’ll be ok; it’s ok. I’m just glad I’m not the only one.” She was starting to relax and I now noticed she was not as bad off as I had previously thought. After a few minutes, she looked at me and offered her hand.
I took her hand and felt awkward. Not sure what else to say, I thought I would introduce myself.
"I think the worst might have passed," I said. "By the way, my name's Noah."
© 2011 Matt Wofford
I sat in the living room with a few candles lit around me. The noise was louder here, or had it grown louder with time? More fierce? Still dark outside so I sat there until boredom and the ceaseless drumming of the rain convinced sleep to make another eventually successful attempt. I awoke some time later and though dull, there was enough ambient light from the dawn to allow me to see through the window. And what I saw caused no small amount of trepidation. Fairly comfortable until now, I suddenly felt cold and tense, gooseflesh rising from my skin. I stood in awe of the cascade falling outside. I lived amongst high hills with a good bedrock foundation and a sturdy roof so I did not worry for myself but for those in the valley below; I could not imagine what must be happening down there. Standing before the great waterfall of God, I could only wonder what cosmological alignment had cursed this place so today. It was not like watching a waterfall where the water flows as one, unbroken and complimentary. This was the opposite. There was no harmony. Each drop fell full of anger and malice seeking the demise of others with the same of itself. I stood transfixed for what seemed a very long time. I came to the realization that the light outside never grew in intensity or volume. The rain falling outside was so absolute that I could see no more than a few dozen feet from any window. There was no wind. The rain came straight down.
Captivated, I watched for hours. I could not go anywhere for surely any road would be washed out for miles and I could only imagine the extent of this storm. Not much of a reader and with no TV, I continued to watch. At first, the storm was silent. For most of the day, an eerie silence accompanied the rain. I certainly heard the falling water but there should have been thunder or something. Perhaps I was just too used to the noises of the modern world. Radios, televisions, cell phones, computers, appliances, cars, in short: life. Or at least my life.
The more I listened however, the more it seemed like maybe there was noise somewhere out there beyond the limited area I could see. I began to hear what seemed like muffled reverberations as if hearing canon-fire at a great distance. I could not guess as to what the sound might be. It was not the instantaneous boom of thunder. No extra light accompanied the rumbling and while the noises certainly seemed faint, barely perceptible beyond the pounding of the rain, I could feel a sight jarring with each report, slight vibrations felt underfoot.
I stared hard into the water, straining to see beyond the limits of my vision. I began to see movement, or at least I thought it must be movement since the absence of wind was still apparent. Bulging shapes in the downpour, stretching certain sections for a few seconds and then flattening out again like someone pushing against a sheet pulled tight and then pulling back. The harder I stared, the more these shapes or distortions became obvious. At times bulbous, a giant bubble forming, at times serpentine as if great snakes were gliding through the water, only there was no lake, just a solid wall of rain. Always the rain bulged towards my house, never outward, never away. I had the feeling of something trying to break through a barrier, an unseen plane only revealed by this otherworldly monsoon.
The longer I stared the more regular became these irregularities in the wall of rain. They still encompassed all sizes but some of the smaller ones became more defined, more penetrating, fuller and lasting longer before receding. As I was staring at one of the smaller ones, a particularly long lasting episode, it popped. I don’t know how else to describe it. And as it did, I beheld the horror of nightmare, for out of that hole came a thing hideous and black, plunging headlong into the earth before my window, a few feet from the house. I could see it in its entirety. Dark as coal, shaped vaguely like a man save for the protruding eye stalks and monstrous wings of featherless skin, membranous and semi-transparent. Claws replaced the toes and fingers and long sharpened teeth protruded out of the mouth. The thing appeared dead for it did not move and indeed there was a black mucous seeping from several places along its body. It did not appear to be wearing clothes, nude as a beast, with not a single hair evident.
I quickly looked back to the hole from which it had flown only to see a flat wall of rain before me. There was still the occasional temporary swelling but they were fewer and less regular in occurrence and at last they stopped all together. The creature still lay outside the window but for only a few more seconds as he was quickly washed away by the torrent of water falling from the sky. Washed away with all the black puss that had poured out of him until the only evidence he had ever existed was my own fearful memory.
What was happening? What did this storm intend to release upon the Earth? If this was happening here, I could not imagine what was happening in more populated areas of the world. If this was some sort of attack, alien or supernatural, I knew that I must be small potatoes in the grand scheme and if whatever power was behind the attack was able to breach this area populated primarily by me, what resources had it expended against those areas with thousands or millions of people? Against military bases? Capital cities? Had it been successful? Would I want to know? Would it be safer to walk out into the storm and let it take me away into whatever flood was washing away the land below?
What could I do? Where could I go? I did not think I would be able to drive very well if at all in the storm. The roof was not leaking yet but how long could it hold up? Quite a while I thought, as long as there was no wind to push the rain underneath the roof tiles. This did not really seem to be a threat. No wind yet. But that’s the thing about otherworldly storms from the realms of nightmare, you never knew what to expect.
How did I feel? What did I think? I didn’t. I tried not to. Who could logically confront what I had seen?
As I stood there pondering what to do, a strange thing happened. The rain stopped. It would prove to be a brief reprieve but what I saw in that short respite stopped my heart, stopped my breath. A tall mist hung up from the ground, higher than a man so I could not determine the condition of the ground but what I saw in the sky was more than enough to overwhelm my senses. A haze blocked the full sun from shining. Not clouds but a thick, dark haze. Not so dark I couldn’t see however. The things in the sky were truly terrible, powerful, horrible. Some were more of a kind like my visitor. Vaguely humanlike in size and appearance, even in flight. Some were smaller, flying reptilian things. Others were monstrous and huge, the obvious kings of their realm. I do not like to think upon them now. Dark and gigantic with yellow eyes and staggering jaws. Talons longer than any living man. Where I expected scales, there was only black skin, pulled tight. The monsters were large enough that even from a distance I could see some of the enormous musculature that must lay underneath. The skin rippled and shined with a silvery sheen at times, affording me a view of the many arms and legs, the twin tails swinging out behind like colossal beams. The large reptilian head of this leviathan with its glowing eyes and all those sharpened teeth appeared to be constantly searching. There were only a few of these evil lords, circling the skies, their hordes trailing behind. They searched with their eyes, twin cones of pale yellow light spilling forth from each upon the ground.
I realized with a horror what they must be searching for. Survivors. The fact that they did not appear to be acting on any impulse was not lost on me. Were there none left? Was I alone? Why me? I had not long to think upon these thoughts until I felt with a dreaded foreboding the pale yellow luminescence upon my windows. I looked into the eyes of one of the great beasts who opened its mouth and let forth a horrendous scream that rattled my very frame, rattled my home until I thought it would split asunder. There passed perhaps a second of still silence afterwards. And then they came. They came towards me with a rush of furious activity. Every beast in the sky it seemed was intent on my destruction. Beating wings, terrible cries of cruel and malicious desire. Ear splitting howls of murderous intent. I knew I could not last against even the first attack. And it was not far off. Maybe a thousand feet and closing. Five hundred. Three hundred. Then Boom. A noise split the sky more fierce, more terrifying than any scream from those monsters in the sky. I did not even have time to consider this new noise as the skies opened again and release a fury more destructive by far than that previous.
This was no rain. This was the end of the earth. This was the destruction of myself and everything alive.
I waited for the attack I still thought was coming, waited for the creatures to tear down my walls and consume me, waited for death. A death that did not come. I waited for hours with no more sound than that of the torrential flood from above. I waited so long that the day’s events finally caught up with me and though I tried to stay awake, the constant adrenaline that had been running through my veins took its toll and I did fall asleep though I know not how long I fought it. Hours? Days? Minutes? I had no sense of time.
I awoke to stillness. Complete silence. Was I dead? I did not think so as I could feel the hard floor beneath me and did not think this was an item I was likely to take with me when crossing the divide. I began to hear the strangest things. Static. No rain. No screeching hordes. Static. I slowly realized that I must have left the television on. I tried all the channels but only static. No news of the outside world. What had happened? I looked outside to see the coming dawn in a clear sky. I went to the door, stopping to listen one last time, my heart beating, throbbing, threatening to burst from my chest. I turned the knob, hearing every click and creak in the mechanics. I opened the door.
Body littered battlefields have looked less shocking. And bodies did litter the field. Some human, some other. Thousands and thousands, gruesome creatures of all shapes and sizes as well the giant monstrous leaders of the sky. I was struck rather quickly with the overwhelmingly pungent stench of sulfur. I had no courage to go out looking for brethren survivors for what if something survived that was not of the brotherhood of man. But nothing moved. No wind, no sound. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the bodies began to quickly deteriorate. Yellow steam rising all around. The smell brought me to my knees. I threw up on the ground. I rushed back inside to escape the filthy aroma of evil death.
I sat there for some time completely numb. What had happened and why? What would I find when I did finally venture out, for surely my food would not last long. I could not imagine what the water must be like with all that black blood seeping into the ground. I ran to the water fountain and planned on drinking my fill. No water, no noise of water rushing through the pipes. Come to think of it, I could no longer hear the noise of static. The power was off again. I checked the TV only to find it was unplugged. I did not remember unplugging it and certainly not plugging it back in if I had. Where had the static come from? Was I losing my mind? The sky went dark.
What else could come? Surely there could be no more destruction. Could the Earth last another onslaught? I certainly could not and knew I would not. Knew that this was the end. Though it was dark, complete and unrevealing, I could tell something was happening. Sense it. I no longer felt the floor beneath me. I was floating in a sightless void, thick and inky. Was this the end after all? I wondered aloud if I was dead.
"No."
The voice startled me so badly that I can not accurately describe it. Then light. Small at first but growing quickly. He was not at all like I expected. Definitely formed like a man, with massive feathered wings and great stature, well built and beautiful beyond words. His majesty left no doubt for what he was. I did not expect the brooding countenance and dark frown upon his face however. Not the type of thing you would look for in this situation.
"You are not dead, but you are the last and you have been warned. Mankind must change."
"Last?" I asked. "Last person on Earth?!" I could not believe what I was hearing.
"No, there are two."
With that he was gone and my world came flooding back. I was in my home again, surrounded by a carnage ravaged world. Did I dream that? Did it matter? A knock at the door.
Hesitantly I opened it, again hearing every gear, every crunch of activity inside the doorknob. A woman. Dirty. Filthy. But alive; crying and sagging to the floor. I tried to lower her down gently
"So glad I'm not the only one,” she whispered. Her voice was shaky. "So glad I found you.”
I helped her inside. “It’s ok,” I said. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
“I’ll be ok; it’s ok. I’m just glad I’m not the only one.” She was starting to relax and I now noticed she was not as bad off as I had previously thought. After a few minutes, she looked at me and offered her hand.
I took her hand and felt awkward. Not sure what else to say, I thought I would introduce myself.
"I think the worst might have passed," I said. "By the way, my name's Noah."
© 2011 Matt Wofford
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
The Meeting
"...and you'll see on the next slide, the rates of return are..."
The voice droned on and on, the other worker bees buzzing with coffee infused finger-tapping and furious pen twirling. Most recognized the farce for what it appeared to be: job justification. I've got an easy job and I like it so I'm going to hold an endless amount of tedious meeting to prove to everyone that I'm actually doing real work.
A select few however, were in tune to the truth behind the seeming reality. The curly hair of the meeting administrator hiding two small antennae, the slightly greenish pallor of the skin, the awkward and stiff-jointed movements of one not quite used to his body, the vain attempt at light humor, recognized in universe as funny by approximately no one.
To what purpose came this droll host? His purpose nefarious or benign? Has he come to bore us to death, wiping out millions of brain cells struggling for the oxygen of stimulation, with weapons of PowerPoint and laser pointer? Or has he come in a genuine spirit of universal brotherhood with a sincere desire to anonymously help mankind achieve better business practices?
Or is something more sinister at play?
As the meeting progresses and minds click of one by one, searching for a happier place, some pleasant memory, the message changes slightly. And those in touch with the truth behind the seeming reality disguise their suddenly alert synapses, a discipline learned through years of training and countless “meetings.” Market conditions are discussed, cost reduction, consumer impact, natural resource allocation, profit analysis.
Catch that? Few do. That why those that do train so hard for so long, train to recognize the truth. When a financial regulation reform meeting casually tosses out a reference to natural resource allocation, anyone should be alarmed but minds at this point have traveled back to a favorite fishing trip, a cruise, a mountain retreat. The right notes are taken and contacts made deep underneath government offices. Intergalactic accusations are made and undercover agents are secretly removed from Earth, their antennae still hid behind curly wigs and dry humor.
War is averted. All thanks to the guy beside you who was paying attention during the meeting.
© 2011 Matt Wofford
The voice droned on and on, the other worker bees buzzing with coffee infused finger-tapping and furious pen twirling. Most recognized the farce for what it appeared to be: job justification. I've got an easy job and I like it so I'm going to hold an endless amount of tedious meeting to prove to everyone that I'm actually doing real work.
A select few however, were in tune to the truth behind the seeming reality. The curly hair of the meeting administrator hiding two small antennae, the slightly greenish pallor of the skin, the awkward and stiff-jointed movements of one not quite used to his body, the vain attempt at light humor, recognized in universe as funny by approximately no one.
To what purpose came this droll host? His purpose nefarious or benign? Has he come to bore us to death, wiping out millions of brain cells struggling for the oxygen of stimulation, with weapons of PowerPoint and laser pointer? Or has he come in a genuine spirit of universal brotherhood with a sincere desire to anonymously help mankind achieve better business practices?
Or is something more sinister at play?
As the meeting progresses and minds click of one by one, searching for a happier place, some pleasant memory, the message changes slightly. And those in touch with the truth behind the seeming reality disguise their suddenly alert synapses, a discipline learned through years of training and countless “meetings.” Market conditions are discussed, cost reduction, consumer impact, natural resource allocation, profit analysis.
Catch that? Few do. That why those that do train so hard for so long, train to recognize the truth. When a financial regulation reform meeting casually tosses out a reference to natural resource allocation, anyone should be alarmed but minds at this point have traveled back to a favorite fishing trip, a cruise, a mountain retreat. The right notes are taken and contacts made deep underneath government offices. Intergalactic accusations are made and undercover agents are secretly removed from Earth, their antennae still hid behind curly wigs and dry humor.
War is averted. All thanks to the guy beside you who was paying attention during the meeting.
© 2011 Matt Wofford
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Darkness
It was dark when the man awoke in the forest. Strange, he thought, strange as he had remembered seeing no signs portending the oncoming of clouds and yet no stars were visible in the night sky. Indeed, no light was apparent at all, save the barest hint of lighter darkness on the western horizon but he knew that would not last beyond a few minutes. What could he do? Nothing productive, of that he was certain, nothing but to sit down and wait for morning or possibly for the sky to clear enough to see by. Sleep? He viewed that as doubtful as he felt well rested and a chill was beginning to settle around him.
And so he sat down upon the now cool ground. Strange, he thought once again, strange that the air should be turning so cool in the midst of a warm summer. Strange as well that the air was so still. From where the cool air with no wind to drive it before? Strange as well the heavy silence that hung on the air. So thick it hung like a blanket, a weight that was physical. He could feel the absence of sound and a heavy thing it was. For how long had he been here now? How many hours had he now alternated between standing and sitting to keep the blood flowing? Days perhaps. And time wore on. The light never came. What he had once perceived as a lighter darkness in the distance was now gone as well. No sound ever broke the silence.
And so he stayed. Where would he go? Where could he go? At one point he had entertained the thought of bumbling about blindly. He fell after a single step and gave up in despair. He had accepted thirst and hunger long ago, knew there was nothing he could do. No noise meant that he was utterly alone. No light only served as reinforcement.
And so he accepted his fate. Where he was he could not fathom. How he had come here was lost to memory. He eventually grew too weak to stand and as he felt the end was near, he roared like a wild animal. Roared with a great tremendous sound that he could hear. He had not lost his mind. He could hear. And what followed the guttural noise of man? The faintest noise in the distance. Noise? No, more like the absence of silence. As heavy a portend as the noiselessness had been; the now perhaps buzzing, perhaps fluttering could just be sensed. Would his pounding heart not quiet! He held his breath. There was sound to be heard. And it was increasing. Almost recognizable, almost human.
“aaagwuuuuuub”
“aaagwuuuuuub”
“waaguuuuuuub”
“waaguuuuuuub”
“wag ub”
“wag u….”
No. Where did it go? Ill fate to tease him so!
“Wake Up!
The man awoke to a slap in the face from an angry wife.
"Imagine, yelling in your sleep like that!"
© 2010 Matt Wofford
And so he sat down upon the now cool ground. Strange, he thought once again, strange that the air should be turning so cool in the midst of a warm summer. Strange as well that the air was so still. From where the cool air with no wind to drive it before? Strange as well the heavy silence that hung on the air. So thick it hung like a blanket, a weight that was physical. He could feel the absence of sound and a heavy thing it was. For how long had he been here now? How many hours had he now alternated between standing and sitting to keep the blood flowing? Days perhaps. And time wore on. The light never came. What he had once perceived as a lighter darkness in the distance was now gone as well. No sound ever broke the silence.
And so he stayed. Where would he go? Where could he go? At one point he had entertained the thought of bumbling about blindly. He fell after a single step and gave up in despair. He had accepted thirst and hunger long ago, knew there was nothing he could do. No noise meant that he was utterly alone. No light only served as reinforcement.
And so he accepted his fate. Where he was he could not fathom. How he had come here was lost to memory. He eventually grew too weak to stand and as he felt the end was near, he roared like a wild animal. Roared with a great tremendous sound that he could hear. He had not lost his mind. He could hear. And what followed the guttural noise of man? The faintest noise in the distance. Noise? No, more like the absence of silence. As heavy a portend as the noiselessness had been; the now perhaps buzzing, perhaps fluttering could just be sensed. Would his pounding heart not quiet! He held his breath. There was sound to be heard. And it was increasing. Almost recognizable, almost human.
“aaagwuuuuuub”
“aaagwuuuuuub”
“waaguuuuuuub”
“waaguuuuuuub”
“wag ub”
“wag u….”
No. Where did it go? Ill fate to tease him so!
“Wake Up!
The man awoke to a slap in the face from an angry wife.
"Imagine, yelling in your sleep like that!"
© 2010 Matt Wofford
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Revenge
He stared down upon the tiny hamlet far below, his one good eye malignant and cruel. Slow thoughts swirled through his head, brooding thoughts of what the people below had done to him, had done to his race, of which he was the last. He did not worry that they would find him up here, so high above them that they looked like ants below.
And so he plotted his revenge, day and night, hour by hour, the evil thoughts of physical remonstrance consumed him. For years he grew stronger, feeding his strength on the knowledge that there would be no more like him, could be no more on this plane of existence. He knew he would join them again in the hereafter but could not leave this life until his work was finished. And his work consisted of a single detail: death and destruction to the people below.
And so he plotted his revenge, sometimes almost working himself into such a rage that he nearly forgot himself and went charging down the hill, reckless and foolhardy, alone, and barely stopping himself, reminding himself that he was not strong enough yet, not learned enough in the ways of spiteful justice. But he would learn and he would grow.
And so he plotted his revenge and on that fateful day he became through with plots and future actions. It was time he decided, time for revenge.
He flew down the mountainside at speeds hitherto unknown to him but he did not notice, flew through obstacles that at one time gave him pause but he did not notice. He rushed into the village in broad daylight for he needed the brightness of light to give glory to his ultimate achievement. He wanted the world to see and to know what he would do. The stampede of his attack brought him barreling into the first village resident to dare cross his path.
“Ouch,” the man stated, slapping his face, “I thought we had killed all the bees.”
© 2010 Matt Wofford
And so he plotted his revenge, day and night, hour by hour, the evil thoughts of physical remonstrance consumed him. For years he grew stronger, feeding his strength on the knowledge that there would be no more like him, could be no more on this plane of existence. He knew he would join them again in the hereafter but could not leave this life until his work was finished. And his work consisted of a single detail: death and destruction to the people below.
And so he plotted his revenge, sometimes almost working himself into such a rage that he nearly forgot himself and went charging down the hill, reckless and foolhardy, alone, and barely stopping himself, reminding himself that he was not strong enough yet, not learned enough in the ways of spiteful justice. But he would learn and he would grow.
And so he plotted his revenge and on that fateful day he became through with plots and future actions. It was time he decided, time for revenge.
He flew down the mountainside at speeds hitherto unknown to him but he did not notice, flew through obstacles that at one time gave him pause but he did not notice. He rushed into the village in broad daylight for he needed the brightness of light to give glory to his ultimate achievement. He wanted the world to see and to know what he would do. The stampede of his attack brought him barreling into the first village resident to dare cross his path.
“Ouch,” the man stated, slapping his face, “I thought we had killed all the bees.”
© 2010 Matt Wofford
Monday, June 29, 2009
Their World
Their world
I lifted my eyes and saw them there, as if they consisted of some living entity; a squirming, wriggling serpentine mass of semi-reptilian humanity, slowly moving arm in arm, legs locked in a permanent embrace, ever growing, ever strengthening, ever reaching, smothering and crushing anything with the misfortune to cross the path of this abomination, this disgraceful outrage to the laws of nature and man. Their's was a world of darkness and oppression, the heavy weight of time slowing their movement. In blindness they moved ever forward; tunneling, destroying, usurping the very land they were dependent upon. Their world contained no mercy, and in anger their wrath was terrible to behold. For years they struggled downward, down into the horrible depths that no man dare explore. For years again, they struggled upward, reaching for air, groaning for sunlight and having made their fill, chose to dive once more into the unfathomable depths to ponder the things that no creature dare whisper in the light of day. They were in fact, the roots of a tree.
© 2009 Matt Wofford
I lifted my eyes and saw them there, as if they consisted of some living entity; a squirming, wriggling serpentine mass of semi-reptilian humanity, slowly moving arm in arm, legs locked in a permanent embrace, ever growing, ever strengthening, ever reaching, smothering and crushing anything with the misfortune to cross the path of this abomination, this disgraceful outrage to the laws of nature and man. Their's was a world of darkness and oppression, the heavy weight of time slowing their movement. In blindness they moved ever forward; tunneling, destroying, usurping the very land they were dependent upon. Their world contained no mercy, and in anger their wrath was terrible to behold. For years they struggled downward, down into the horrible depths that no man dare explore. For years again, they struggled upward, reaching for air, groaning for sunlight and having made their fill, chose to dive once more into the unfathomable depths to ponder the things that no creature dare whisper in the light of day. They were in fact, the roots of a tree.
© 2009 Matt Wofford
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Warning (parts 1 & 2 of 3)
The Warning
I awoke with some stiffness in my joints, as if they were not used to movement. I could not explain it at the time except to say that I felt as if someone must when just arising from a coma, as if learning to walk or move again for the first time. Only later was I to discover the true horror of what had become of me. But I am getting ahead of myself, for one cannot truly understand the happenstances of another unless he knows the circumstances surrounding the occurrence. And though I know the reader may doubt my tale, please do not judge until you have heard all the facts, though I must wonder if, even having irrefutable proof, my story should be easily believed.
I have lived along the old, rugged coastline all of my life, my parents having passed on during my early stages of adulthood, and leaving to me, their only child, a respectable and secluded seaside cottage. Having made some commercial success, I was able to live in semi-retirement at a relatively young age. I was still called upon to consult for the local hospital as I had made my profession in chemistry and was quite learned in the new field of professionally administered medicine. For this I continued to receive a small fee which enabled me to live quite comfortably and to pursue the more gentlemanly arts of writing and scholarship. I must say that I exhibited some talent as there were several publishers who proclaimed an interest in my work.
I lived alone in the house, save for my trusted companion: a yellow retriever of the highest breeding. While some believe that dogs must only use or need intelligence rarely rivaling that of cattle or other livestock, I have seen a queer sort of intelligence in my gentle friend. He was there when I seemed to need him most. When a rejection letter came or when I was feeling perhaps some despondency on a dreary day; he was always there to lighten my mood and I hope that he was able to understand how much I truly appreciated him and his pleasing demeanor for all those years.
I was used to taking Scout (as I have called him all his life) down the beach for some distance during our walks in the early morning and late afternoons. On one particularly sunny day, I was feeling rather chipper and decided to walk a little longer. I could not explain then, nor can I now, what twist of fate caused me to make this decision, but it is one that will haunt me until the day that I no longer draw breath in this life.
Passing my usual stopping point, I noticed that the sun still rode high enough in the sky to afford me plenty of time to do some further wandering before heading towards home. I do not remember any specific train of thought, nor do I remember how long or how far I walked before I spied a run down dwelling in the distance. It was an easy thing to miss and I might still believe that I only happened upon it by chance save for everything that happened afterwards. I made my way towards the abandoned house, which was in actuality a very large establishment of near-mansion size and quality. The windows were completely boarded over and any whitewash had long since peeled away, leaving the bare walls to succumb to the winds and salt of the sea.
A feeling of long-standing history lay upon the place though I could not remember ever hearing a story concerning its existence before. It was almost completely covered in the growth of scrub-oak common to these shores. An ancient and nearly overgrown path still meandered to the porch steps and as I said, I was feeling unusually sprightly that day so I made my way towards the front door.
To my amazement the door stood wide open and appeared to be in prime condition. A sign hanging from an exterior wall stated that in no uncertain terms should any soul proceed further into the premises, citing some forlorn and forgotten rubbish about those who enter unannounced learning to do so in the most terrible way possible. I left superstition behind as a child however and knew better than to believe such fairy tales. I stepped right across the threshold and into the dark interior. There was not much to tell of concerning the inner rooms. That a family of some import lived here in ages past could not be doubted, for a great many rooms of stately proportion existed in the house and the bedrooms occupied the entire top two floors. The walls, floors, and ceilings were completely bare and as I grew quickly bored, I decided that my hopes were dashed as to finding any treasure or keepsake and made my way back towards the front door and exit.
A scribbling notice on the interior wall caught my eye as I started to step through the door. “You were warned,” was all that the notice said and I thought to myself that here was more nonsense and dismissed it entirely at the time. The rest of the trip home was a blur. I remember feeling extremely tired and worn out; attributing these feelings at the time to the extra distance walked that day.
As I previously stated, I awoke the next morn with some strange stiffness in my joints. I discovered that I lay on the floor and appeared to have fallen asleep there. My throat was parched and I was extremely hot. I tried to stand but found that I could not. There was an awkwardness to my joints that I could not explain. I could only force myself up by using my hands and feet to move around. It was dim in the cabin so I could not see very well but I noticed a very human shape lying and whimpering on the floor across the room. I struggled to make my way over, to distinguish who this poor miserable wretch might be. As I moved closer, the sun rose just enough to shine directly through the open window and into the terrible face that I now beheld. For staring back at me with the most terrified eyes I have ever seen on man or beast was a face I had come to know all to well. The face staring back at me was my own.
I nearly fainted from fright but tore my gaze away long enough to think. In my startled confusion, I looked down at my hands. But no hands were these! The feet of a beast met my gaze and perusing down the length of my body to the rest of my fur-covered skin and tale; I looked upon a body that I recognized and knew at once that the horrified eyes of my own face that I had looked into must belong to no other than that poor friend and boon companion, Scout.
In my panic, I nearly forgot my own state. What was I to do for the poor fellow? What was I to do with me? My heart pounded ever faster and faster. A strange tongue lolled out of my unfamiliar mouth immediately and began to pant and soon afterwards my heart rate began to calm and a feeling of tired sleepiness came over me to which I almost succumbed. I realized with no small amount of trepidation that I would have to act fast or possibly be stuck in this form. I cannot describe the relief I felt upon the dawning realization that I would at least have my own thoughts, my own intelligence to guide me towards a solution. If fate had left me in some hybrid mental state, I cannot fathom to guess what may have become of Scout or myself.
I tried to sit down, but lying on my belly with my head standing up straight apparently came very naturally to me in this state and so that is the position I quickly assumed and reverted to anytime I needed to think. The few attempts that Scout made at movement horrified me in the utmost to watch. The pitiful creature could not do more than flounder around and I could no more bear to watch this than to watch the slow death of a friend. I was not afraid for his or my life yet as we were both healthy specimens, in the prime of our relative lives, but I could not begin to grasp at how I might detain him were he to learn how to walk. What if he wandered in the sea; would he know how to swim or would I be forced to watch the death of my former body in some atrocious fashion? I could not bear the thought. I quickly came to the conclusion that I must find some way to bind the poor creature and keep him from harming either of us.
I remembered where I had kept a coil of rope though what strength there might be left in its fibers, I did not know. I made my way with increasing ease for an animal’s body is quite graceful and perfectly suited to physical activity. Walking came quite natural after a time and almost enjoyable. I cannot say that I truly enjoyed any aspect of my life at this time, but there did seem to be a certain innate joy within me at mere movement when in that animal form. I even tried to bark once but found that I had no clue where to begin this exercise. There may be more truth than we know about that old wives’ tale concerning the oddity of mind in “a dog that doesn't bark.”
© 2009 Matt Wofford
I awoke with some stiffness in my joints, as if they were not used to movement. I could not explain it at the time except to say that I felt as if someone must when just arising from a coma, as if learning to walk or move again for the first time. Only later was I to discover the true horror of what had become of me. But I am getting ahead of myself, for one cannot truly understand the happenstances of another unless he knows the circumstances surrounding the occurrence. And though I know the reader may doubt my tale, please do not judge until you have heard all the facts, though I must wonder if, even having irrefutable proof, my story should be easily believed.
I have lived along the old, rugged coastline all of my life, my parents having passed on during my early stages of adulthood, and leaving to me, their only child, a respectable and secluded seaside cottage. Having made some commercial success, I was able to live in semi-retirement at a relatively young age. I was still called upon to consult for the local hospital as I had made my profession in chemistry and was quite learned in the new field of professionally administered medicine. For this I continued to receive a small fee which enabled me to live quite comfortably and to pursue the more gentlemanly arts of writing and scholarship. I must say that I exhibited some talent as there were several publishers who proclaimed an interest in my work.
I lived alone in the house, save for my trusted companion: a yellow retriever of the highest breeding. While some believe that dogs must only use or need intelligence rarely rivaling that of cattle or other livestock, I have seen a queer sort of intelligence in my gentle friend. He was there when I seemed to need him most. When a rejection letter came or when I was feeling perhaps some despondency on a dreary day; he was always there to lighten my mood and I hope that he was able to understand how much I truly appreciated him and his pleasing demeanor for all those years.
I was used to taking Scout (as I have called him all his life) down the beach for some distance during our walks in the early morning and late afternoons. On one particularly sunny day, I was feeling rather chipper and decided to walk a little longer. I could not explain then, nor can I now, what twist of fate caused me to make this decision, but it is one that will haunt me until the day that I no longer draw breath in this life.
Passing my usual stopping point, I noticed that the sun still rode high enough in the sky to afford me plenty of time to do some further wandering before heading towards home. I do not remember any specific train of thought, nor do I remember how long or how far I walked before I spied a run down dwelling in the distance. It was an easy thing to miss and I might still believe that I only happened upon it by chance save for everything that happened afterwards. I made my way towards the abandoned house, which was in actuality a very large establishment of near-mansion size and quality. The windows were completely boarded over and any whitewash had long since peeled away, leaving the bare walls to succumb to the winds and salt of the sea.
A feeling of long-standing history lay upon the place though I could not remember ever hearing a story concerning its existence before. It was almost completely covered in the growth of scrub-oak common to these shores. An ancient and nearly overgrown path still meandered to the porch steps and as I said, I was feeling unusually sprightly that day so I made my way towards the front door.
To my amazement the door stood wide open and appeared to be in prime condition. A sign hanging from an exterior wall stated that in no uncertain terms should any soul proceed further into the premises, citing some forlorn and forgotten rubbish about those who enter unannounced learning to do so in the most terrible way possible. I left superstition behind as a child however and knew better than to believe such fairy tales. I stepped right across the threshold and into the dark interior. There was not much to tell of concerning the inner rooms. That a family of some import lived here in ages past could not be doubted, for a great many rooms of stately proportion existed in the house and the bedrooms occupied the entire top two floors. The walls, floors, and ceilings were completely bare and as I grew quickly bored, I decided that my hopes were dashed as to finding any treasure or keepsake and made my way back towards the front door and exit.
A scribbling notice on the interior wall caught my eye as I started to step through the door. “You were warned,” was all that the notice said and I thought to myself that here was more nonsense and dismissed it entirely at the time. The rest of the trip home was a blur. I remember feeling extremely tired and worn out; attributing these feelings at the time to the extra distance walked that day.
As I previously stated, I awoke the next morn with some strange stiffness in my joints. I discovered that I lay on the floor and appeared to have fallen asleep there. My throat was parched and I was extremely hot. I tried to stand but found that I could not. There was an awkwardness to my joints that I could not explain. I could only force myself up by using my hands and feet to move around. It was dim in the cabin so I could not see very well but I noticed a very human shape lying and whimpering on the floor across the room. I struggled to make my way over, to distinguish who this poor miserable wretch might be. As I moved closer, the sun rose just enough to shine directly through the open window and into the terrible face that I now beheld. For staring back at me with the most terrified eyes I have ever seen on man or beast was a face I had come to know all to well. The face staring back at me was my own.
I nearly fainted from fright but tore my gaze away long enough to think. In my startled confusion, I looked down at my hands. But no hands were these! The feet of a beast met my gaze and perusing down the length of my body to the rest of my fur-covered skin and tale; I looked upon a body that I recognized and knew at once that the horrified eyes of my own face that I had looked into must belong to no other than that poor friend and boon companion, Scout.
In my panic, I nearly forgot my own state. What was I to do for the poor fellow? What was I to do with me? My heart pounded ever faster and faster. A strange tongue lolled out of my unfamiliar mouth immediately and began to pant and soon afterwards my heart rate began to calm and a feeling of tired sleepiness came over me to which I almost succumbed. I realized with no small amount of trepidation that I would have to act fast or possibly be stuck in this form. I cannot describe the relief I felt upon the dawning realization that I would at least have my own thoughts, my own intelligence to guide me towards a solution. If fate had left me in some hybrid mental state, I cannot fathom to guess what may have become of Scout or myself.
I tried to sit down, but lying on my belly with my head standing up straight apparently came very naturally to me in this state and so that is the position I quickly assumed and reverted to anytime I needed to think. The few attempts that Scout made at movement horrified me in the utmost to watch. The pitiful creature could not do more than flounder around and I could no more bear to watch this than to watch the slow death of a friend. I was not afraid for his or my life yet as we were both healthy specimens, in the prime of our relative lives, but I could not begin to grasp at how I might detain him were he to learn how to walk. What if he wandered in the sea; would he know how to swim or would I be forced to watch the death of my former body in some atrocious fashion? I could not bear the thought. I quickly came to the conclusion that I must find some way to bind the poor creature and keep him from harming either of us.
I remembered where I had kept a coil of rope though what strength there might be left in its fibers, I did not know. I made my way with increasing ease for an animal’s body is quite graceful and perfectly suited to physical activity. Walking came quite natural after a time and almost enjoyable. I cannot say that I truly enjoyed any aspect of my life at this time, but there did seem to be a certain innate joy within me at mere movement when in that animal form. I even tried to bark once but found that I had no clue where to begin this exercise. There may be more truth than we know about that old wives’ tale concerning the oddity of mind in “a dog that doesn't bark.”
© 2009 Matt Wofford
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The Brothers
The Brothers
I later learned that they had the most violent reputation around. White trash that the world looked down on, looking back through hateful eyes. Their lives were consumed by the anger of shame and an acceptance that they could not change their lot in life and that they would not even try.
All I knew at the time was that Danny said they were cool guys, brothers four years apart. The older one dropped out of school early and spent most of his time working on cars and poaching deer.
You had to walk through a swamp to get to their shack of a house which sat on dry land right in the middle. An old dirt road ran to there but that came from a different direction than the one we lived in. We usually went barefoot to keep our shoes dry; we were too naïve to know real danger and though the water often came up to our hips, anything underwater was out of sight and out of mind.
The brothers lived in a junkyard. Broken down automobiles, old appliances, furniture, and broken slabs of concrete covered the landscape for a hundred feet in any direction.
The house sat almost on top of the swamp, boasting old paint that was almost completely chipped away, lap siding still struggled to hold on in some places, the whitewash barely noticeable; many walls consisted of bare, unpainted plywood. Not all the windows had glass and some walls had holes that went straight through. Forget about air conditioning.
We spent most of our time fist fighting in front of the house. Not knowing their reputation, I was usually the only one who would fight and ended up taking blow after blow to the head. I landed a few good ones every now and then, but for the most part learned how to take a punch without hitting the ground.
***
I remember seeing the younger brother in school a couple of years after I moved away. He had a bad reputation with whites and blacks alike so everyone gave him a wide berth. No matter how many of his friends ended up drawing the line against me over the years, he always gave me respect and I respected him in kind.
© 2009 Matt Wofford
I later learned that they had the most violent reputation around. White trash that the world looked down on, looking back through hateful eyes. Their lives were consumed by the anger of shame and an acceptance that they could not change their lot in life and that they would not even try.
All I knew at the time was that Danny said they were cool guys, brothers four years apart. The older one dropped out of school early and spent most of his time working on cars and poaching deer.
You had to walk through a swamp to get to their shack of a house which sat on dry land right in the middle. An old dirt road ran to there but that came from a different direction than the one we lived in. We usually went barefoot to keep our shoes dry; we were too naïve to know real danger and though the water often came up to our hips, anything underwater was out of sight and out of mind.
The brothers lived in a junkyard. Broken down automobiles, old appliances, furniture, and broken slabs of concrete covered the landscape for a hundred feet in any direction.
The house sat almost on top of the swamp, boasting old paint that was almost completely chipped away, lap siding still struggled to hold on in some places, the whitewash barely noticeable; many walls consisted of bare, unpainted plywood. Not all the windows had glass and some walls had holes that went straight through. Forget about air conditioning.
We spent most of our time fist fighting in front of the house. Not knowing their reputation, I was usually the only one who would fight and ended up taking blow after blow to the head. I landed a few good ones every now and then, but for the most part learned how to take a punch without hitting the ground.
***
I remember seeing the younger brother in school a couple of years after I moved away. He had a bad reputation with whites and blacks alike so everyone gave him a wide berth. No matter how many of his friends ended up drawing the line against me over the years, he always gave me respect and I respected him in kind.
© 2009 Matt Wofford
Sunday, June 21, 2009
An Affliction of Blight
An Affliction of Blight
A heavy fog lay upon the dawn as I took my first steps into the morning air. I was not accustomed to taking my morning stroll so early but a restless sleep forced an early rise. Looking back, I realized it was no ordinary mist that hung in the air but at the time I was new to that atmosphere in time and place so took it to be standard procedure.
A short path led from the cottage into some light woods with a pleasant stream whereupon I occasioned to breakfast from time to time. I planned to be back long before early morning hunger pangs set in however so thought nothing more of taking provisions than I would a trip down the front lane.
As I approached the wood there seemed a dull pallor to lie upon them that I had not noticed before but being a man of some scientific study I attributed this to a queer play of light through the haze. As I moved closer, I noticed a strange smooth bark had overtaken the trunks of the closest trees. Rather, it appeared not to be bark at all but almost a soft skin, quite dirty but obviously light colored. Knowing that certain beech or varieties of elm exhibited such bark, I was not surprised in the least and would have thought no more upon the subject save that on leaning on the nearest trunk, there was a firm but spongy give to the texture. I was slightly alarmed at this discovery but had no idea to which cause I might attribute it. I peered into the fog above but could not see more than a few feet. I could not tell if there was blight upon the leaves or any disfigurement in the crown to affirm my suspicion of a sickness in the old forest.
This was in my mind a minor calamity however and provided nothing about which to be distressed. I had never studied these woods in depth so had no prior knowledge with which to base my theory of disease. Promising to myself to keep a closer eye on my surroundings in the immediate future, I planned to continue my stroll. There were minor health problems keeping me from performing my normal duties at the university where I currently enjoyed employment. The health staff had advised I take a walk every day soon after waking to help with circulation and a late shortness of breath. Furthermore, no blight in known history has ever affected the physiology of man so I had nothing to fear.
The air brightened somewhat as the day wore on, though the fog continued as thick and troublesome as ever. There was no danger; I could see well for a few meters in any directions, and the path was clearly marked but my frustration only increased as I found I could not leave the path for any distance to peruse the many rock outcroppings or mysterious plants in the distant haze. And there appeared to be no slackening of mysterious conditions upon the trees which were close at hand. No living trunks bore any resemblance to the few dead and weathered ones lying upon the ground and even these were hard enough to visualize as a blanket of mushroom-like fungus appeared to be covering every withered or decaying plant that had the misfortune to perish of late. This fact was not too alarming as this practice is common in any great plant habitat but the breadth and extent that was conveyed here tended to overwhelm the senses. Certain meadows were chanced upon, only to discover that the blanket-fungus extended too far into the whitish mist to see its end.
I began to be troubled by this fact as I moved deeper into the wood. The trees never became “normal” as I had hoped they would and the mushroom family appeared to have taken over everything in sight. I determined at once to turn back and head for home. I began to quickly make my way over ground that I admit; I had not paid much attention to before. Was the ground this covered in toadstools upon my entrance? The fungal spores appeared to be everywhere and though I couldn’t be sure, some of the former mentioned blanket-fungus seemed to have moved, or at least to have died out in one location only to have sprouted up quickly in another. Could it be that here was a new species of mass plant life heretofore undiscovered in the world of science? Though my studied mind’s curiosity was piqued, I knew that there were things amiss in these woods and that the best practice in such situations was to leave entirely and come back under a new light, on a different day, and after much rest. Yes, rest is what I felt I needed now more than anything. The heat of the day and the stifling heaviness lying upon the air was wearing on me more than I had noticed. But I must trudge on, must make it back to the warmth of my own bed.
I walked for perhaps several more hours and was growing increasingly hungry. I knew I was on the correct path for though the tree trunks still appeared to be covered in a uniform spongy, milky white blight, the ground was clear here and I remembered certain parts of this path from previous walks. It couldn’t be far now, I thought, and yet I was so very tired. The intensity of the fog seemed to have increased until I felt as if I was veritably swimming through the air as I walked. But then a clearing ahead told me that I was close to home. I noticed something was not quite right however as I saw no greenery through the opening, only more of the wretched mushrooms and blanket-fungus covering all. I began to worry and started off at a run only to realize that upon clearing the forest the haze, which heretofore was truly a blessing in disguise, had lifted. I gazed in wonder and horror at all that surrounded me: the familiar blanket-fungus covered everything to my eye’s horizon. There was no house; merely an ugly, squat toadstool of roughly equivalent size and proportion, whose stem was as fat as the crown. I slowly turned and glanced upwards only to find that the trees I had been traversing through were not trees at all and the smooth fungal caps adorning each confirmed what I had quickly surmised.
What was I to do? There was not much time, I knew. Quickly I pulled pen and paper from a satchel I had carried with me and made notes as fast as my hand would write, notes of everything I had seen, how I remembered it happening, and the pace with which it seemed to increase. Upon finishing I knew of nothing else to do save rest, which I so desperately needed, and so as I write these last few lines: To whomever finds this, please note that a man once lived here.
* * *
The little mushroom awoke that day with small remembrances of a terrible nightmare. Vague dreams of being one of those terrible man-creatures, walking on two legs and living in the belief that he was a being of supreme knowledge; above other plants and animals. Dreams were fast fading however and he knew this would be another good day as he stretched and wiggled, releasing some spores into the wind. Glancing down, he noticed a parchment of some kind lying on the ground covered in squiggly shapes and lines; there was something oddly familiar about it, but try as he might, he could not remember. Near it lay a haphazardly discarded satchel; odd bits of clothing and even shoes surrounded the little mushroom. How he came to be growing up through the neck-hole of a shirt was the oddest thing of all. Strange, he thought, but no matter. And turning towards the sun he began another day.
© 2009 Matt Wofford
A heavy fog lay upon the dawn as I took my first steps into the morning air. I was not accustomed to taking my morning stroll so early but a restless sleep forced an early rise. Looking back, I realized it was no ordinary mist that hung in the air but at the time I was new to that atmosphere in time and place so took it to be standard procedure.
A short path led from the cottage into some light woods with a pleasant stream whereupon I occasioned to breakfast from time to time. I planned to be back long before early morning hunger pangs set in however so thought nothing more of taking provisions than I would a trip down the front lane.
As I approached the wood there seemed a dull pallor to lie upon them that I had not noticed before but being a man of some scientific study I attributed this to a queer play of light through the haze. As I moved closer, I noticed a strange smooth bark had overtaken the trunks of the closest trees. Rather, it appeared not to be bark at all but almost a soft skin, quite dirty but obviously light colored. Knowing that certain beech or varieties of elm exhibited such bark, I was not surprised in the least and would have thought no more upon the subject save that on leaning on the nearest trunk, there was a firm but spongy give to the texture. I was slightly alarmed at this discovery but had no idea to which cause I might attribute it. I peered into the fog above but could not see more than a few feet. I could not tell if there was blight upon the leaves or any disfigurement in the crown to affirm my suspicion of a sickness in the old forest.
This was in my mind a minor calamity however and provided nothing about which to be distressed. I had never studied these woods in depth so had no prior knowledge with which to base my theory of disease. Promising to myself to keep a closer eye on my surroundings in the immediate future, I planned to continue my stroll. There were minor health problems keeping me from performing my normal duties at the university where I currently enjoyed employment. The health staff had advised I take a walk every day soon after waking to help with circulation and a late shortness of breath. Furthermore, no blight in known history has ever affected the physiology of man so I had nothing to fear.
The air brightened somewhat as the day wore on, though the fog continued as thick and troublesome as ever. There was no danger; I could see well for a few meters in any directions, and the path was clearly marked but my frustration only increased as I found I could not leave the path for any distance to peruse the many rock outcroppings or mysterious plants in the distant haze. And there appeared to be no slackening of mysterious conditions upon the trees which were close at hand. No living trunks bore any resemblance to the few dead and weathered ones lying upon the ground and even these were hard enough to visualize as a blanket of mushroom-like fungus appeared to be covering every withered or decaying plant that had the misfortune to perish of late. This fact was not too alarming as this practice is common in any great plant habitat but the breadth and extent that was conveyed here tended to overwhelm the senses. Certain meadows were chanced upon, only to discover that the blanket-fungus extended too far into the whitish mist to see its end.
I began to be troubled by this fact as I moved deeper into the wood. The trees never became “normal” as I had hoped they would and the mushroom family appeared to have taken over everything in sight. I determined at once to turn back and head for home. I began to quickly make my way over ground that I admit; I had not paid much attention to before. Was the ground this covered in toadstools upon my entrance? The fungal spores appeared to be everywhere and though I couldn’t be sure, some of the former mentioned blanket-fungus seemed to have moved, or at least to have died out in one location only to have sprouted up quickly in another. Could it be that here was a new species of mass plant life heretofore undiscovered in the world of science? Though my studied mind’s curiosity was piqued, I knew that there were things amiss in these woods and that the best practice in such situations was to leave entirely and come back under a new light, on a different day, and after much rest. Yes, rest is what I felt I needed now more than anything. The heat of the day and the stifling heaviness lying upon the air was wearing on me more than I had noticed. But I must trudge on, must make it back to the warmth of my own bed.
I walked for perhaps several more hours and was growing increasingly hungry. I knew I was on the correct path for though the tree trunks still appeared to be covered in a uniform spongy, milky white blight, the ground was clear here and I remembered certain parts of this path from previous walks. It couldn’t be far now, I thought, and yet I was so very tired. The intensity of the fog seemed to have increased until I felt as if I was veritably swimming through the air as I walked. But then a clearing ahead told me that I was close to home. I noticed something was not quite right however as I saw no greenery through the opening, only more of the wretched mushrooms and blanket-fungus covering all. I began to worry and started off at a run only to realize that upon clearing the forest the haze, which heretofore was truly a blessing in disguise, had lifted. I gazed in wonder and horror at all that surrounded me: the familiar blanket-fungus covered everything to my eye’s horizon. There was no house; merely an ugly, squat toadstool of roughly equivalent size and proportion, whose stem was as fat as the crown. I slowly turned and glanced upwards only to find that the trees I had been traversing through were not trees at all and the smooth fungal caps adorning each confirmed what I had quickly surmised.
What was I to do? There was not much time, I knew. Quickly I pulled pen and paper from a satchel I had carried with me and made notes as fast as my hand would write, notes of everything I had seen, how I remembered it happening, and the pace with which it seemed to increase. Upon finishing I knew of nothing else to do save rest, which I so desperately needed, and so as I write these last few lines: To whomever finds this, please note that a man once lived here.
* * *
The little mushroom awoke that day with small remembrances of a terrible nightmare. Vague dreams of being one of those terrible man-creatures, walking on two legs and living in the belief that he was a being of supreme knowledge; above other plants and animals. Dreams were fast fading however and he knew this would be another good day as he stretched and wiggled, releasing some spores into the wind. Glancing down, he noticed a parchment of some kind lying on the ground covered in squiggly shapes and lines; there was something oddly familiar about it, but try as he might, he could not remember. Near it lay a haphazardly discarded satchel; odd bits of clothing and even shoes surrounded the little mushroom. How he came to be growing up through the neck-hole of a shirt was the oddest thing of all. Strange, he thought, but no matter. And turning towards the sun he began another day.
© 2009 Matt Wofford
Friday, June 19, 2009
The Swamps of My Childhood
I remember the swamps of my childhood.
Recently, I have seen pictures of swamps in the media, filled with sparsely placed low-growing cypresses, wide expanses of rippling water, covered at times by “floating” plants, turtles sunning themselves on logs, only to scatter at hint of approach. At a particularly poignant moment, an osprey will fly overhead, and swoop low enough to enable us to see his piercing eyes. Those are not swamps. In the backwaters of the morass in which I happened to find myself from time to time, the sun could rarely be seen. There were no grand open spaces or rippling pools of water. The swamps were so enclosed and claustrophobic that only a rare wind could find its way inward. Stagnant is the word best used to describe those haunts that I remember. Motionless black water, at best brown and sluggish, existed amongst the towering cypresses and scrub vegetation. It was a dark place. The few animals that one could see were glimpsed momentarily, as a startled deer ran close by or a snapping turtle hissed before quickly diving underwater. Snakes abounded.
The swamps were not always completely submerged. One in particular only drowned during the springs and particularly wet summers. At others times it was perhaps ten percent covered in water, but it was always soggy. Water was never more than a foot below the surface. There was a massive live oak growing in the middle of that swamp on a spot of dry land. The trunk was nearly six feet across at its base, but it was not a true tree; it was three. At the height of an outstretched arm, the giant tree grew three heads, each two or three feet through the trunk. He was more than a hundred feet across from farthest leaf to farthest leaf. He was truly king of the wood. That tree is dead now, as is that swamp. It was drained and harvested for timber, roadways, and a country club with matching twenty-seven hole golf course.
Swamps were not the places of fear that we think of them as today. If it held any secrets, we knew them, and we knew our way through them. There was one that separated two neighborhoods where I grew up, a neighborhood being a collection of dirt roads, farms, trailers, and ancient houses. Having friends in the other neighborhood, we often crossed the swamp, the water remaining anywhere between our knees and our waists. Sometimes your wore shoes, sometimes you didn’t. You thought about snakes, but you didn’t worry about them. If anything, you caught them and teased them, or skinned the ones you killed and nailed the skin to a board. There were poisonous snakes, but our young minds did not comprehend that poison. It was something dangerous but in an abstract way. Somehow we knew our way through that swamp, always the same way. I learned by following the person in front of me the first time I went through. He presumably learned the same way and at later times others followed me through. I do not know who the first person to find the way through was. The passage through that swamp stopped by roads, abandoned vehicles, hog pens, and goat corrals. Many was the time that I found the carcass of some dead animal, usually a deer that had been skinned or de-horned. There were a few dirt roads that rounded a corner near the swamp and these corners were usually the dumping points. At times there would be ten or more of these bodies piled together and as a young boy I wondered at the slaughter.
The cypresses were so large that a boy’s mind imagined redwoods to be in a junior league. There were old forgotten pines, larger than their landed brethren and out of place in such a damp environment. But they were there, straight as a mast, with no needles until fifty forty or fifty feet. A short, but wide crown covered in Spanish moss seemed like it should belong to another grand Southern tree.
I have seen the nature shows where the paddling canoeist will knowingly navigate his way through a series of wetlands and marshes. The swamps I have known would never allow such an intrusion. A canoe could possibly go part of the way and then there would be a section completely forested off, too shallow and too dense to pass through. It would take weeks of work with machete and bush axe to create a path through to water on the other side or maybe bog or dry land. You could know the swamp but you could never know all of it. There was always a surprise and the swamp always changed. A favorite hideout one year would become completely submerged or grown over by the next. There was one hideout however that remained stable for many years. We affectionately termed it the “bear den.” After spending months hacking through the mosquito-infested wetlands, we were looking for a place to stop hacking. Machete and bush axe always take the path of least resistance when there is no goal. And that is the goal of young boys, to have no goal. We set off into the swamp with no purpose, only desire. Desire to explore or seek out new places. Since the swamps were ever-changing, there were always new places, new adventures. After coming to a large expanse of water that day, we decided our hacking of that place was through. We had created a passage through a swampy forgotten and unwanted land but it was ours. Off to one side of the open water was a natural shelter formed by the vegetation, and it was dry inside. Nearly ten feet across, five feet high and forming a rough dome, the enclosure blocked out the sun and much of the rain. There was a circular entrance through the branches that was perhaps three feet across. Our only explanation was that a bear or similar sized animal had used this place in previous years to spend the winter or lazy summer days away from the sun. It was a secret place that few knew of though all who did openly loved the place. There were times, during high rain season that the den floor was submerged but it usually kept dry enough for us to enjoy. That swamp became the lair of pirates and Tarzan, World War II and Vietnam, Civil War and the Revolution. The bear den became a pirate’s den for storing treasure, or an underground bunker, at times an Indian Teepee or home for cavemen. The years brought with it age and maturity, young boys turned into older boys chasing girls and glory, but there was always the bear den. Finally the boys turned into young men and the bear den was forgotten. At times I wish I could go back, even without youth, to that place, but the bear den was eventually bulldozed along with the rest of that swamp for timber.
* * *
My family was never dirt poor that I can remember but there were times when we certainly didn’t have anything to spare. When we moved back to the coast after nearly a decade of living in the piedmont, we moved into a small dwelling, for a proper house it could not be called. Maybe seven or eight hundred square feet, the house we rented was down a series of dirt roads and situated on roughly an acre of land. It had two bedrooms for the four of us, one bathroom, a front room and a den in the back. There was no true kitchen, only a converted hallway between the front room and the den. The master bedroom was probably eight by ten, and the one my brother and I shared was around ten by twelve. By the time we moved out, my brother was sleeping on the floor in the den and I slept alone in the bedroom where my growing feet hung off one end of the bed. We were told it was once the top story of a beach house that had been knocked off in a hurricane, and although this didn’t really add up in any logical way, it was the only way to explain the odd layout.
We moved there at the beginning of summer during the middle of a ten year drought. There was dust everywhere. Driving down the maze of dirt roads was a non-stop rattling of your bones as the car shook all over. The county smoothed out the roads about once a year. We had a couple of cats with us when we arrived and that eventually turned into seventeen cats, a large, singularly unique yellow dog, one chicken, a parakeet, fish, hermit crabs, turtles, a squirrel, and all the mice and snakes that haunted the place.
The thing we noticed right away about the cats was that they loved to have kittens. There is something about the coastal environment that is so smoothly romantic that you can’t feel it coming or going, but these cats seemed to feel the romance factor ten times over. I don’t even remember if we had any tomcats when we moved there, but it wasn’t long before rounding up all the kittens they produced became an all year task. Sometimes it would take months. We would notice a pregnant cat disappear and then hear her calling as she was giving birth. When the kittens were finally old enough to be given away, there was always another girl around to start calling again. Eventually those she-cats became she-devils in birthing intelligence. A day or two before their time was due, they would take off into the woods and the next time we saw them they would be leading a brood of half-wild half-crazed beasts into the yard. These tiny hurricanes of fury refused to be touched by human hand, although they had no problem eating the food we put out for the animals we did want. The mothers had taught them to be wary of the human hand though they themselves demanded the regular lap. Catching them usually meant spending all day running around with an eight foot fishing net and coming away bloodied and tired.
Saturday meant cutting the grass. Although this was a chore, it was summertime and we had everyday as holiday anyway. Saturday happened to be the day that at least one of my parents would be home in case we ran over a bare foot with the ancient mower. It did not always start, but did so with enough frequency to prevent its own destruction. The yard was basically in two halves, one slightly larger. That was my half to cut. It usually took all day: cutting an ever-shrinking plot of grass, mowing the angled ditches, weeds around trees, and occasional ant mound. If a friend stopped by and enough yard was cut, we’d have a game of home run derby. This basically consisted of knocking a baseball, golf ball, or anything round as hard as you could in as straight a direction as possible. If we found the ball, no homerun; if we couldn’t, no ball but you were the hero of the week.
A few hundred yards down the road from the house was a smallish pond, surrounded on the backside by swamp. Every spring, we would push or pull an old pierogie boat down to the pond. Fishing consisted of use cane pole or bb gun, although the cane usually brought more success. We usually tired as one can only catch so many Brim in a small pond. The boat tipped over easily and this was widely exiting especially considering the source of the water one could be tipped into. We always ended up soaking wet and stinking of stagnant swamp and pond water and everything that was contained therein. Besides fish, cottonmouths and giant frogs inhabited the ponds. Every now and then a snake would be caught instead of a fish and this became high entertainment for the rest of the day. As soon as any creature other than a fish was pulled out of the pond an array of locals immediately appeared on the scene to offer advice whereas the land would have been empty a moment before. The usual flood of animals would also appear offering what advice they thought worthwhile, mangy hounds or stray cats, sometimes a chicken, goat, or pig would make its way over as they ran semi-free in that area. The snakes we skinned and nailed to a board, the frogs we watched expand themselves until it seemed they would explode and then we would throw them back, sometimes diving in after them in a futile attempt to catch them again. A pond frog is rarely caught twice.
© 2009 Matt Wofford
Recently, I have seen pictures of swamps in the media, filled with sparsely placed low-growing cypresses, wide expanses of rippling water, covered at times by “floating” plants, turtles sunning themselves on logs, only to scatter at hint of approach. At a particularly poignant moment, an osprey will fly overhead, and swoop low enough to enable us to see his piercing eyes. Those are not swamps. In the backwaters of the morass in which I happened to find myself from time to time, the sun could rarely be seen. There were no grand open spaces or rippling pools of water. The swamps were so enclosed and claustrophobic that only a rare wind could find its way inward. Stagnant is the word best used to describe those haunts that I remember. Motionless black water, at best brown and sluggish, existed amongst the towering cypresses and scrub vegetation. It was a dark place. The few animals that one could see were glimpsed momentarily, as a startled deer ran close by or a snapping turtle hissed before quickly diving underwater. Snakes abounded.
The swamps were not always completely submerged. One in particular only drowned during the springs and particularly wet summers. At others times it was perhaps ten percent covered in water, but it was always soggy. Water was never more than a foot below the surface. There was a massive live oak growing in the middle of that swamp on a spot of dry land. The trunk was nearly six feet across at its base, but it was not a true tree; it was three. At the height of an outstretched arm, the giant tree grew three heads, each two or three feet through the trunk. He was more than a hundred feet across from farthest leaf to farthest leaf. He was truly king of the wood. That tree is dead now, as is that swamp. It was drained and harvested for timber, roadways, and a country club with matching twenty-seven hole golf course.
Swamps were not the places of fear that we think of them as today. If it held any secrets, we knew them, and we knew our way through them. There was one that separated two neighborhoods where I grew up, a neighborhood being a collection of dirt roads, farms, trailers, and ancient houses. Having friends in the other neighborhood, we often crossed the swamp, the water remaining anywhere between our knees and our waists. Sometimes your wore shoes, sometimes you didn’t. You thought about snakes, but you didn’t worry about them. If anything, you caught them and teased them, or skinned the ones you killed and nailed the skin to a board. There were poisonous snakes, but our young minds did not comprehend that poison. It was something dangerous but in an abstract way. Somehow we knew our way through that swamp, always the same way. I learned by following the person in front of me the first time I went through. He presumably learned the same way and at later times others followed me through. I do not know who the first person to find the way through was. The passage through that swamp stopped by roads, abandoned vehicles, hog pens, and goat corrals. Many was the time that I found the carcass of some dead animal, usually a deer that had been skinned or de-horned. There were a few dirt roads that rounded a corner near the swamp and these corners were usually the dumping points. At times there would be ten or more of these bodies piled together and as a young boy I wondered at the slaughter.
The cypresses were so large that a boy’s mind imagined redwoods to be in a junior league. There were old forgotten pines, larger than their landed brethren and out of place in such a damp environment. But they were there, straight as a mast, with no needles until fifty forty or fifty feet. A short, but wide crown covered in Spanish moss seemed like it should belong to another grand Southern tree.
I have seen the nature shows where the paddling canoeist will knowingly navigate his way through a series of wetlands and marshes. The swamps I have known would never allow such an intrusion. A canoe could possibly go part of the way and then there would be a section completely forested off, too shallow and too dense to pass through. It would take weeks of work with machete and bush axe to create a path through to water on the other side or maybe bog or dry land. You could know the swamp but you could never know all of it. There was always a surprise and the swamp always changed. A favorite hideout one year would become completely submerged or grown over by the next. There was one hideout however that remained stable for many years. We affectionately termed it the “bear den.” After spending months hacking through the mosquito-infested wetlands, we were looking for a place to stop hacking. Machete and bush axe always take the path of least resistance when there is no goal. And that is the goal of young boys, to have no goal. We set off into the swamp with no purpose, only desire. Desire to explore or seek out new places. Since the swamps were ever-changing, there were always new places, new adventures. After coming to a large expanse of water that day, we decided our hacking of that place was through. We had created a passage through a swampy forgotten and unwanted land but it was ours. Off to one side of the open water was a natural shelter formed by the vegetation, and it was dry inside. Nearly ten feet across, five feet high and forming a rough dome, the enclosure blocked out the sun and much of the rain. There was a circular entrance through the branches that was perhaps three feet across. Our only explanation was that a bear or similar sized animal had used this place in previous years to spend the winter or lazy summer days away from the sun. It was a secret place that few knew of though all who did openly loved the place. There were times, during high rain season that the den floor was submerged but it usually kept dry enough for us to enjoy. That swamp became the lair of pirates and Tarzan, World War II and Vietnam, Civil War and the Revolution. The bear den became a pirate’s den for storing treasure, or an underground bunker, at times an Indian Teepee or home for cavemen. The years brought with it age and maturity, young boys turned into older boys chasing girls and glory, but there was always the bear den. Finally the boys turned into young men and the bear den was forgotten. At times I wish I could go back, even without youth, to that place, but the bear den was eventually bulldozed along with the rest of that swamp for timber.
* * *
My family was never dirt poor that I can remember but there were times when we certainly didn’t have anything to spare. When we moved back to the coast after nearly a decade of living in the piedmont, we moved into a small dwelling, for a proper house it could not be called. Maybe seven or eight hundred square feet, the house we rented was down a series of dirt roads and situated on roughly an acre of land. It had two bedrooms for the four of us, one bathroom, a front room and a den in the back. There was no true kitchen, only a converted hallway between the front room and the den. The master bedroom was probably eight by ten, and the one my brother and I shared was around ten by twelve. By the time we moved out, my brother was sleeping on the floor in the den and I slept alone in the bedroom where my growing feet hung off one end of the bed. We were told it was once the top story of a beach house that had been knocked off in a hurricane, and although this didn’t really add up in any logical way, it was the only way to explain the odd layout.
We moved there at the beginning of summer during the middle of a ten year drought. There was dust everywhere. Driving down the maze of dirt roads was a non-stop rattling of your bones as the car shook all over. The county smoothed out the roads about once a year. We had a couple of cats with us when we arrived and that eventually turned into seventeen cats, a large, singularly unique yellow dog, one chicken, a parakeet, fish, hermit crabs, turtles, a squirrel, and all the mice and snakes that haunted the place.
The thing we noticed right away about the cats was that they loved to have kittens. There is something about the coastal environment that is so smoothly romantic that you can’t feel it coming or going, but these cats seemed to feel the romance factor ten times over. I don’t even remember if we had any tomcats when we moved there, but it wasn’t long before rounding up all the kittens they produced became an all year task. Sometimes it would take months. We would notice a pregnant cat disappear and then hear her calling as she was giving birth. When the kittens were finally old enough to be given away, there was always another girl around to start calling again. Eventually those she-cats became she-devils in birthing intelligence. A day or two before their time was due, they would take off into the woods and the next time we saw them they would be leading a brood of half-wild half-crazed beasts into the yard. These tiny hurricanes of fury refused to be touched by human hand, although they had no problem eating the food we put out for the animals we did want. The mothers had taught them to be wary of the human hand though they themselves demanded the regular lap. Catching them usually meant spending all day running around with an eight foot fishing net and coming away bloodied and tired.
Saturday meant cutting the grass. Although this was a chore, it was summertime and we had everyday as holiday anyway. Saturday happened to be the day that at least one of my parents would be home in case we ran over a bare foot with the ancient mower. It did not always start, but did so with enough frequency to prevent its own destruction. The yard was basically in two halves, one slightly larger. That was my half to cut. It usually took all day: cutting an ever-shrinking plot of grass, mowing the angled ditches, weeds around trees, and occasional ant mound. If a friend stopped by and enough yard was cut, we’d have a game of home run derby. This basically consisted of knocking a baseball, golf ball, or anything round as hard as you could in as straight a direction as possible. If we found the ball, no homerun; if we couldn’t, no ball but you were the hero of the week.
A few hundred yards down the road from the house was a smallish pond, surrounded on the backside by swamp. Every spring, we would push or pull an old pierogie boat down to the pond. Fishing consisted of use cane pole or bb gun, although the cane usually brought more success. We usually tired as one can only catch so many Brim in a small pond. The boat tipped over easily and this was widely exiting especially considering the source of the water one could be tipped into. We always ended up soaking wet and stinking of stagnant swamp and pond water and everything that was contained therein. Besides fish, cottonmouths and giant frogs inhabited the ponds. Every now and then a snake would be caught instead of a fish and this became high entertainment for the rest of the day. As soon as any creature other than a fish was pulled out of the pond an array of locals immediately appeared on the scene to offer advice whereas the land would have been empty a moment before. The usual flood of animals would also appear offering what advice they thought worthwhile, mangy hounds or stray cats, sometimes a chicken, goat, or pig would make its way over as they ran semi-free in that area. The snakes we skinned and nailed to a board, the frogs we watched expand themselves until it seemed they would explode and then we would throw them back, sometimes diving in after them in a futile attempt to catch them again. A pond frog is rarely caught twice.
© 2009 Matt Wofford
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Boar Hunt
The Boar Hunt
The hounds of hell are sniffing their way,
To that ancient god of old,
That old tusker,
That old war-pig,
He deals in death,
And does not suffer fools…
Howling and screaming,
Flame and spit drooling,
The ground trembles before them,
And those who know well,
Flee in terror…
There will be a clash,
Centuries old,
Tooth on Tusk,
Claw on Hoof,
Savagery and death…
Only one victor will stand,
Only one to rule the land,
And when the dust settles,
And the world is still again…
That old tusker,
That old war-pig
He deals in death,
And does not suffer fools…
Is standing alone
© 2009 Matt Wofford
The hounds of hell are sniffing their way,
To that ancient god of old,
That old tusker,
That old war-pig,
He deals in death,
And does not suffer fools…
Howling and screaming,
Flame and spit drooling,
The ground trembles before them,
And those who know well,
Flee in terror…
There will be a clash,
Centuries old,
Tooth on Tusk,
Claw on Hoof,
Savagery and death…
Only one victor will stand,
Only one to rule the land,
And when the dust settles,
And the world is still again…
That old tusker,
That old war-pig
He deals in death,
And does not suffer fools…
Is standing alone
© 2009 Matt Wofford
The Basement of a Learned Man
The Basement of a Learned Man
...the stairs led away into the dark beneath that old decrepit mansion, lying upon an ancient moor, steeped in history and folklore, tellings of old things that ruled the land, things that died out long before man first put pen to pad and began to record what happened to his race. Rubbish, poppycock, you think to yourself, yet that minutia of primitive fear that exists in the collective conscious of all mankind cries out stop! Go no further you fool.
But the man of science listens only to reason, only to what can be understood within the realm of what can be measured, quantified, tested and retested, leaving no room for the cause macabre that is certainly real, but ignorance is bliss (though I must wonder, to whom).
Nevertheless, you are a learned man and childhood superstitions hold no ground before you. So you descend those faintly lit steps deeper into the subbasement, the light from the lantern barely revealing the walls’ transition from stone to dirt and though your subconscious registers the fact, you pay no heed to the scrapings and scratchings on the old walls. You push aside the knowledge that steps have given way to bare rocks and clay upon an uneven walkway, and though you stumble from time to time, the fresh air that greets your face drives you onward. There must be an exit; for how else explain that cool draft assailing your senses and though your lantern begins to dim, you take no notice as you move further into what must be caverns carved before the rise of mankind. You take no notice of that old lantern until the flame finally and permanently is extinguished.
Utter darkness. There is no limit to what the mind of man can create and no limit of horror to which it can extend, and though you are a learned man, Darkness is a powerful spell. How far have you traveled; how long did you traverse that ancient path into the deep bowels of the old earth? The air still blows upon you, though its direction is hard to attain. Was the air cool before? It seems so warm now and perhaps from more than one direction. Was it that way before? If any air should be caught moving underground, it is only reasonable that it should be warm air, for the bowels of the earth are full of raging heat. It is certainly logical, though perhaps now you notice a pulsing rhythm to the air, not steadily blowing upon you but rather in short, steady breezes.
Still a learned man need not to worry, though now you may have come to the conclusion that the pulsing rhythm of air is not wholly unlike the rhythm of a creature breathing. Now you may finally notice that the steady pulsations are starting to increase and now you must certainly notice that the air seems pressed upon you more forcefully and though the directions may have seemed randomly multitudinous at first, only a fool would fail to notice the collection of breathing now gathering on all sides in an unending fluid of deep resonating exhalations. Only a fool would fail to notice the scraping of claw and tail upon the bedrock of the earth, only a fool would fail to notice the sounds of membranous wings gathering together and unfolding, as if stretching after centuries of dormancy.
But you are a learned man, and you know how the imagination can take hold, know how the denizens from the nether regions can become all too real, taking hold and digging in, claiming your mind and obsession for the Wild.
And though you know better, the scrabbling and heavy dragging of bodies across that floor in the dark sound all too real. The heavy panting growing intense as faster and faster the deep breathing closes in all around you, now from above; could it be from below? Mighty wings stretch with skin bounded upon millennia ago and the air is rushed around your head and screaming cries, now a piercing shriek as creatures whose names have not been spoken since the dawn of time begin to brush past ever so close, teasing you, taunting you, howling your name in a language lost to his world.
Trembling, shaking, you fall to the floor, a dead man, breathing your last few breaths of life. You know your heart must burst soon for no man can withstand the torture and taunting of these beasts who have played with their prey thus for ages untold. As you regress into the babbling puddle upon the floor, a hand brushes against your coat pocket and strikes a familiar object to which your mind makes a last grasp at sanity. A candle, you think, here in the pocket I have a candle! Dare I? Dare I strike the match and gaze upon my end? Do I waste my last sight upon those to whom I have been doomed? I am a learned man! I will know these last moments of my life.
The match is struck and ever so slowly placed to the wick. As our learned man draws in his last breath before fainting, his eyes adjust and focus on the spread of light, focus on the four walls of the small room in which he is lying, focus on the stairwell not a few feet behind, focus on the plain door at the top of the landing, focus on the dropped and broken lantern lying upon the cleanly swept brick floor, focus at the ceiling not far above, and at last focus on the crack in the wall into which a breeze is blowing from off the sea.
© 2009 Matt Wofford
...the stairs led away into the dark beneath that old decrepit mansion, lying upon an ancient moor, steeped in history and folklore, tellings of old things that ruled the land, things that died out long before man first put pen to pad and began to record what happened to his race. Rubbish, poppycock, you think to yourself, yet that minutia of primitive fear that exists in the collective conscious of all mankind cries out stop! Go no further you fool.
But the man of science listens only to reason, only to what can be understood within the realm of what can be measured, quantified, tested and retested, leaving no room for the cause macabre that is certainly real, but ignorance is bliss (though I must wonder, to whom).
Nevertheless, you are a learned man and childhood superstitions hold no ground before you. So you descend those faintly lit steps deeper into the subbasement, the light from the lantern barely revealing the walls’ transition from stone to dirt and though your subconscious registers the fact, you pay no heed to the scrapings and scratchings on the old walls. You push aside the knowledge that steps have given way to bare rocks and clay upon an uneven walkway, and though you stumble from time to time, the fresh air that greets your face drives you onward. There must be an exit; for how else explain that cool draft assailing your senses and though your lantern begins to dim, you take no notice as you move further into what must be caverns carved before the rise of mankind. You take no notice of that old lantern until the flame finally and permanently is extinguished.
Utter darkness. There is no limit to what the mind of man can create and no limit of horror to which it can extend, and though you are a learned man, Darkness is a powerful spell. How far have you traveled; how long did you traverse that ancient path into the deep bowels of the old earth? The air still blows upon you, though its direction is hard to attain. Was the air cool before? It seems so warm now and perhaps from more than one direction. Was it that way before? If any air should be caught moving underground, it is only reasonable that it should be warm air, for the bowels of the earth are full of raging heat. It is certainly logical, though perhaps now you notice a pulsing rhythm to the air, not steadily blowing upon you but rather in short, steady breezes.
Still a learned man need not to worry, though now you may have come to the conclusion that the pulsing rhythm of air is not wholly unlike the rhythm of a creature breathing. Now you may finally notice that the steady pulsations are starting to increase and now you must certainly notice that the air seems pressed upon you more forcefully and though the directions may have seemed randomly multitudinous at first, only a fool would fail to notice the collection of breathing now gathering on all sides in an unending fluid of deep resonating exhalations. Only a fool would fail to notice the scraping of claw and tail upon the bedrock of the earth, only a fool would fail to notice the sounds of membranous wings gathering together and unfolding, as if stretching after centuries of dormancy.
But you are a learned man, and you know how the imagination can take hold, know how the denizens from the nether regions can become all too real, taking hold and digging in, claiming your mind and obsession for the Wild.
And though you know better, the scrabbling and heavy dragging of bodies across that floor in the dark sound all too real. The heavy panting growing intense as faster and faster the deep breathing closes in all around you, now from above; could it be from below? Mighty wings stretch with skin bounded upon millennia ago and the air is rushed around your head and screaming cries, now a piercing shriek as creatures whose names have not been spoken since the dawn of time begin to brush past ever so close, teasing you, taunting you, howling your name in a language lost to his world.
Trembling, shaking, you fall to the floor, a dead man, breathing your last few breaths of life. You know your heart must burst soon for no man can withstand the torture and taunting of these beasts who have played with their prey thus for ages untold. As you regress into the babbling puddle upon the floor, a hand brushes against your coat pocket and strikes a familiar object to which your mind makes a last grasp at sanity. A candle, you think, here in the pocket I have a candle! Dare I? Dare I strike the match and gaze upon my end? Do I waste my last sight upon those to whom I have been doomed? I am a learned man! I will know these last moments of my life.
The match is struck and ever so slowly placed to the wick. As our learned man draws in his last breath before fainting, his eyes adjust and focus on the spread of light, focus on the four walls of the small room in which he is lying, focus on the stairwell not a few feet behind, focus on the plain door at the top of the landing, focus on the dropped and broken lantern lying upon the cleanly swept brick floor, focus at the ceiling not far above, and at last focus on the crack in the wall into which a breeze is blowing from off the sea.
© 2009 Matt Wofford
An Overgrown Path
An Overgrown Path
Have you ever beheld a wood at twilight,
Perhaps peered down an overgrown path at dusk,
And wondered what adventures might befall you,
Would you but take a step,
Down that Ancient walkway?
As the light dims you may perceive the encroaching growth of the forest primeval, an impenetrable wall of green closing in tightly on every side, arms of twig and branch reaching for you, attempting to ensnare you here forever, as the wild sets in.
You might sense the heavy and thick foreboding of old man Time as he creeps back in to take hold, unleashing the beasts of old; unspeakable creatures of horror and darkness, nameless in their magnificence and terrible to behold.
Yes, you realize too late that this was their domain, you remember the stories, the legends you heard when you were younger, stories of strange things that haunt the forest at night. For they come to hunt, to trap the things of light and day.
You notice now that even were it the height of day, only ambient light could penetrate that canopy far overhead. And neither candle nor lamp could pierce the thick jungle on either side of this trail.
You know now the stuff from which nightmares are made, and you run. You run back from whence you came, back to the safety of man and civilization. Away, away from the towering behemoths stalking silently after you, their heads brushing the uppermost boughs as they approach, ever faster, in your wake. You hear their breathing, feel the stomps of their heavy feet upon the ground and you run, run for your life.
You know it, you sense a large hand closing down upon you from behind, from above, the light is fading, but shall you give in?
Nay, nay, there is the light ahead and tired legs carry you quickly into the setting sun, into the safety of the known world. As you catch your breath, you look back. Wondrous thing to behold, it is only an overgrown path that greets your sight. Shall you ever again, I wonder, attempt that path at night?
Have you ever beheld a wood at twilight,
Perhaps peered down an overgrown path at dusk,
And wondered what adventures might befall you,
Would you but take a step,
Down that Ancient walkway?
As the light dims you may perceive the encroaching growth of the forest primeval, an impenetrable wall of green closing in tightly on every side, arms of twig and branch reaching for you, attempting to ensnare you here forever, as the wild sets in.
You might sense the heavy and thick foreboding of old man Time as he creeps back in to take hold, unleashing the beasts of old; unspeakable creatures of horror and darkness, nameless in their magnificence and terrible to behold.
Yes, you realize too late that this was their domain, you remember the stories, the legends you heard when you were younger, stories of strange things that haunt the forest at night. For they come to hunt, to trap the things of light and day.
You notice now that even were it the height of day, only ambient light could penetrate that canopy far overhead. And neither candle nor lamp could pierce the thick jungle on either side of this trail.
You know now the stuff from which nightmares are made, and you run. You run back from whence you came, back to the safety of man and civilization. Away, away from the towering behemoths stalking silently after you, their heads brushing the uppermost boughs as they approach, ever faster, in your wake. You hear their breathing, feel the stomps of their heavy feet upon the ground and you run, run for your life.
You know it, you sense a large hand closing down upon you from behind, from above, the light is fading, but shall you give in?
Nay, nay, there is the light ahead and tired legs carry you quickly into the setting sun, into the safety of the known world. As you catch your breath, you look back. Wondrous thing to behold, it is only an overgrown path that greets your sight. Shall you ever again, I wonder, attempt that path at night?
© 2009 Matt Wofford
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