Archive for free will

Hanging On: Twenty Six

Posted in short stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 30, 2009 by Keith Alan Watson

After each of the men had finished their portions of daily bread and dried meat, they felt the need to relieve themselves, so they both went out into the cold, wintry night. Whilst the men had been inside, the freshly fallen snow had thoroughly blanketed the ground, covering the sheets of ice in a thin layer of crystallized manna. Sam walked around to the south side to get out of the wind. As he turned the corner, his poor eyesight presented to him a blurred version of the hanging tree’s white-washed crown. Sam felt sorry for the big old oak. It had taken quite a hit from the storm. As Sam moseyed up to the house, he reformed a visual image of the scene they’d left behind, and shook his head in pity. Modest Mark, who’d always been bashful, had decided in the meantime that he’d go to the north side, wherefore he turned his back to the breeze, and took a whiz real quick. As usual, Sam was being a slow starter, so Mark beat him back to the door.

Mark walked into the house, and found himself alone. Right away he felt uncomfortable. Although nothing had changed, and no one else was in there, it seemed more frightful to him not having Sam’s fatherly presence nearby. Mark was still in the process of conquering a rushing current of troublesome fears. On and off in a random arrangement of sporadic sequences, and ever since they’d left the morbid grave situation, Mark had been getting flashes of those tormented faces he’d seen earlier. Mark was only alone for a minute, but in that short spell of time he came to a very welcome realization. It suddenly occurred to him that the faces he kept seeing were coming from his store of memories, and not from out of the blue. They were no longer being forced on him like they were before. Whereas previously, it had been a live production, a show over which he had no degree of control whatsoever, now he could recall a few of the faces at will. He could also put a stop to them by willfully thinking of something more pleasant. Mark was somewhat soothed by this newfound knowledge. For certain, he was glad to see that the curtains had closed on that terrifying stage. He’d actually been an eye witness to the whole rigmarole, and that he could hardly believe.

After Sam had finished his business, he went back into the house, and promptly made his presence known by stumbling over the door sill. “Whoa!” said Sam in embarrassment of his clumsiness. He turned around and gave the inanimate object a dirty look. “Damn thing.” He then turned and looked at Mark, who was sporting a really big grin. The Kid couldn’t help himself from asking, “Are you alright?” “Oh, yeah,” Sam said, as he tried to laugh it off. But he felt the need to explain himself further, so he said, “I caught my heel on the stupid door!” Sam had to place the blame where it belonged. Managing to be extra careful, Sam attentively walked to the stove. There were four logs left, so he put two of them in, and said, “There’s only two more pieces here. We’ll save them ’till morning.” Mark nodded his comprehension of the plan. Sam continued, “That’ll do it for me. I’m gonna lay down, before I fall down.” Mark smiled, and mimicked Sam, “Well, okey-dokey then. See you in the morning. Good night!” A thoroughly tired Sam replied, “Good night, Mark! Try to get yourself some sleep, okay?” “Yeah, I will,” said Mark, a little unsure of himself. “My blanket ought to be dry here shortly.”

Sam laid down, and curled into the fetal position with his arms crossed, and his hands in his armpits. In no time at all, Sam was out cold, snoring wildly. Finding himself alone again, Mark opened the gates that led to his inquisitive waking consciousness, and let his thoughts run rampant. A hodgepodge of questions and answers tumbled around in his mind. Racking his brains with their disorganized romp, the unstoppable display of various opinions continued to plead their cases, one after another. But the jury was still out, as far as Mark was concerned, so the judge was unable to conclude the whole affair. His inability to close the case kept him awake for a spell. During that period of time when consciousness begins to wane, and drowsiness settles in, Mark paced the floor, and fiddled with the fire. Every once in awhile, he’d walk to each and every window, and peer through the panes. Each and every gaze further assured him of his security, for never did he catch a glimpse of anything spectacular. Nothing out there appeared to be strange. Nothing out yonder ways seemed to be extraordinary. The only thing to be seen was the soothing fall of fluttering snowflakes softly landing on the ground.

When the flames from the fire in the stove began to die, the lovely light faded away, and the glow grew dim. Although he didn’t know the hour, Mark knew that it was late. He decided that it was time to lay on the floor, and count sheep. That would help him keep his mind off of other things, or so he figured. Mark looked down at a far-gone Sam who was all curled up on the floor. His blanket had fallen off, so Mark gingerly picked it up, and drew it over him, like any good nursemaid would do. Mark surveyed the room once again for good measure, and saw that everything was fine. He reached for his own blanket, and felt it to be satisfactorily dry, much to his pleasure. After a long hard day, and quite the outrageous night, Mark’s heavy, drooping eyelids clued him in to the fact that he was naturally tired. He spread his blanket on the floor between Sam and the stove, and laid himself upon it. Putting his worries behind him, and counting the sheep in front, he closed his eyes in hope of receiving a safe, and blissful rest in peace. But all Mark could do at this point was to hope for the best, and that was simply because he couldn’t read the future. Mark had no way of knowing what was in store for him during the next few hours, nor did he know that he would gain admission into the visionary realm of the unconscious. Mark was destined to be a lone witness. He was about to watch an ethereal event unfold, an event that was formed in the womb of a dream, in a dream he would not soon forget.

Disguised By Design

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , on October 16, 2009 by Keith Alan Watson

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