Creative Writing

Most of the time I was searching; searching for what, I don’t know. We’d take the car and drive, sometimes to escape, but mostly to forget. I’d press the accelerator down and we’d be going 20, 40, 60 MPH, faster and faster, without any regard to the law or any officer or any damn pedestrian. The ines of houses would shift and blur, then turn into one big grey smudge that fell away into open country. I’d let out a little whoop, a holler, as I lurched forward, hurtling towards an uncertain death that I care little to describe, let alone articulate. But no, that’s not the beginning.

Let’s go back a couple months, perhaps to the night I was waiting for her at the creek. Yes, I was waiting on that rusted iron railing, looking for some form inscribed in those murky waters that the lamplights barely illuminated, something that I recognized in those wavering lines, like a truth recalled in a half-fiction that is barely remembered before being forgotten. It was one of those lazy, hazy, mist-coated summer nights in truth, I was going mad, beset by the heat and my own boredom; the ennui was scraping away at me like chalk at a dry-erase board, the noise boiling away my brain which roiled and seethed as I paced back and forth over the bridge like a tiger locked within its cage. My heart was pounding thud, thud and thud, thud I had already come to the conclusion that you- sorry, she-would never thud, thud, arrive; this was all a cruel trick played by fate, thud, thud, that I had foolishly made her my queen and she in turn had made me her jester, thud, thud, and so I cursed her.

An hour passed, although it felt like four. I called her so many times and she never responded, so I stood there, inclined slightly over the railing, feeling that my mood would improve if I jumped over. In the dim light, I saw an ant crawl over the stark white bones sticking out of my fist, a lone astronaut exploring the forbidden maze of a vengeful giant, but just as soon as I raised my hand did he rush back to his nest, where his Queen waited. It was summer-I’m sure of it- but then why were there so many dead leaves everywhere? The footpath to the bridge was full of them, and they were everywhere; they encroached on the edges of the creek, running over the footpath and onto the pavement, they stuck to my windshield and made little crackling noises as I stepped on them.

Then I heard a thud, thud, but this time it was from behind me. She looked at me and in the moonlight it seemed as if there was a corona surrounding her body; her aura seemed to gleam and shimmer in the darkness. I was the ship whose hull breached the surface of the sea, and she was the corposant that lit my mast. We embraced under the Moon’s gaze, speaking in a forgotten language that smelled like sex and magic and mystery. Yet underneath it all was a hint of a foul odor, a trace of damp and rotting leaves.

Time seems to bend on itself as I recollect more and more. My memories wind back like the hawsers pulling back an anchor, except the weight of my recollections holds the cables in gridlock while the ship burns and burns. That night we committed sacred acts, deranged acts; she convinced me to rob those paintings, then in the same breath commanded me to tear them to shreds; we played childish games such as tag and hopscotch in the park, then, later, we lay in a church that we had broken into and defiled; she convinced me to empty my wallet into the reservoir while I lay still laughing, watching the current pull the green bills under.

It’s over. Finished. Done.



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