Samhain

(This is the first draft of my first attempt at Neo-pomo-esque fiction. It goes with a previous poem of mine "Soon You Will Be on Top of the World". I simply made each section into a story. I am NOT a post-modern writer so this is a little bit out of my comfort zone. I know that its not quite as neo-pomo as a lot of stuff. I'll continue to try to push it more towards neo-pomo as I revise it...even though I'm not fond of neo-pomo BUT it's an assignment.

Samhain

PART ONE: THE ALARM
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”

I’m not sure why I let my Homer Simpson novelty alarm clock repeat itself so many times before hitting the snooze button, I’ve been awake for about an hour. I bought the damn thing because I hate mornings and I thought that waking up to Homer Simpson might make the act of getting out of bed a bit easier.

It hasn’t.

In fact, the alarm clock is pretty useless. I came to a unpleasant realization shortly after buying the short statue of Homer holding a donut that my cursed mind won’t allow me to sleep to the designated wake-up time. Without fail, I wake up before it goes off. Sometimes I wake up five minutes before it goes off; sometimes I wake up an hour before it goes off. Any which way, it hasn’t changed the fact that I hate mornings. Now that I think about it, I think that I let it repeat itself so that I don’t feel bad about spending $27.99 on the damn thing. No offense to Homer, it’s not his fault that my mind already had a built in alarm clock.

My feet are cold and its probably because the blankets aren’t even on the bed. I’m not sure what I do when I sleep but holy hell, if I could sleep one night without kicking my blankets off my bed, maybe I’d actually be able to get some use from Homer. Oh well.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

It’s six in the morning. Who would be calling me this early? Should I answer it? I probably should, I haven’t received a call for weeks unless you count Luke; Luke is a bill collector.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

The number is showing up as ‘Unavailable’ on my caller ID. It’s probably Luke. His number is always unavailable. Sometimes I can’t wait until I’m in hell and I get to call Luke, collect his soul; I suspect though, it’s already been collected.

I haven’t even looked outside but I can already tell that it’s colder than yesterday. It’s getting to be that time of year. She’s coming, Cailleach Bheur, that old bitch. I have a sense for these sorts of things. Most people don’t, but I do. That’s why I sleep in a windowless room. She can’t get me in here. I can’t risk waking up with her crooked face peering at me through my bedroom window, not again. Unfortunately, I also know that I can’t hide in this windowless room forever. I know I’ll have to face her again. It happens every year at this time. That BITCH! She’s probably on her way as I sit here.

Where’s my med’s?

They’re probably in the corner of my closet with my dirty laundry. Everything seems to end up there anyways. DAMN, the bottle is empty!

“Hello, yeah…can I get a refill on this prescription? What? ...no refills! You’ve got to be feckin' with me. I have to call my therapist?! Shit! Okay bye.”

I run my hands through my hair frantically, sitting on the edge of my bed in nothing but boxer briefs with empty medication bottles at my feet.

It begins.

PART TWO: The Store

I don’t mind a good walk in the middle of the day. Perhaps some fresh air will help keep my mind off her, Cailleach Bheur. I can sense her clawing at the horizon though and this is messing with my head. She’s definitely coming. It’s too early! I’m not ready! I'm never ready.

It’s only a mile to the store so I put my headphones on and search for some band, any band, to take my mind off her. I’m in the mood for something aggressive. With a 30 gig IPOD, I should have plenty of choices to look at. Lagwagon?…no, they’re too melodic. NOFX?…no, too political. A Wilhelm Scream?…no, not quite aggressive enough.

Perhaps some metal, some Scandinavian death metal. They really know how to make some good music over there.

Amon Amarth?...Mmmmmm, close but too Viking-ish. They’ll probably remind me too much of her.

Carnal Forge?...maybe later. They might be too aggressive. Listening to them too much might cause me to start flailing my fists around and I really don’t want another Cop to pull over and ask me if I’m okay, again. It always ends with the subsequent sobriety test, which is humiliating to do when it’s obvious you weren’t driving. I’d like to avoid that today.

In Flames?...perfect.

Their guitars have just the right amount of warmth to carry me to the store. I once listened to nothing but In Flames for six months straight, right through winter. Everymorning, I’d wake up and begin listening to Clayman and by the time I made it through all of their albums, I’d start over again. I couldn’t get enough of those Swedes. I still can’t. If I’m honest, I knew I was going to listen to them, I just felt I owed a look to the other bands that live in my IPOD.

Is today the beginning of another six months In Flames? I didn’t get sick of them then; I doubt I’d get sick of them now.

Pushing play is like pushing the morphine button at the hospital; sudden relief. Hearing Ander’s voice scream melodically the lyrics of Pinball Map allows me to take a deep breath of relief. I sing along under my breath:

Sometimes I don't belong
Release me from your world
Pacified by the small things in life
I wait for earthquakes to rearrange.

Never been able to use the force
I only have it read to me
Despite all the misguided faith
(Maybe) I'll find a place in this mess

With every step I take, my voice gets louder until I’m screaming the chorus just like Anders:

Wish I could rape the day,
just something radical
Lost the sense of sweet things
Who's gonna take me widely?

Guided by the pinball map
The driver, still unknown to me
Who was sent to glorify?
Before we injected this common pride!!!

As I reach the parking lot of the grocery store, I quiet down and act normal so nobody calls the cops on me. My therapist would be proud of me for acting so mature. Perhaps this is what growing up is supposed to feel like. I don’t like it.

As I approach the automatic doors of the store, I suddenly had a vision or perhaps an epiphany; I’m not sure what to call it. I just know that I suddenly realized that I could feel how Moses felt when he parted the sea, or I could at least think I was feeling it.

I raise my hand and motion for the doors to part. They do and I thank God for my temporary exodus into the store. I throw both of my hands high into the air, triumphant, but no one notices. They just go about their day, shopping for their families or their lovers. I wouldn’t know.

The epiphany left me with the desire to search for some manna and water of life. I’m tempted to ask an employee but I don’t want to take my headphones off. Besides, I’m not in a social mood. I'm never in a social mood. I walk down each aisle, slowly looking for manna but unfortunately for me, there isn’t a section for Ancient Old Testament food made by the hand of God. A box of Fortune cookies seems appropriate enough. The water aisle doesn’t have anything remotely close to the Water of Life so I turn to the liquor aisle. Again, I can’t find it, but I figure a good bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey would make a good substitute.

The lady at the checkout counter seems too happy. She obviously doesn’t realize that Cailleach Bheur, that blue faced bitch, is out there waiting. She might even be hiding somewhere in the parking lot, behind one of the many oversized trucks that smaller men use as compensation.

The lady runs my fortune cookies and my whiskey over the scanner. She is saying things to me with a wide grin of obviously bleached white teeth but I can’t hear a thing she’s saying. In Flames is playing ‘Clayman’, the title track, and I have no intention of pushing pause. I hand her my I.D., she stares intently at it.

I’m not sure why it’s taking her so long. Even though I’m only 25, I haven’t shaved in six years and have consequently grown a mountain man-ish type beard. I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m old enough to purchase a bottle of whiskey. But it's her job, I guess. Maturity, however, is a different thing altogether. Perhaps she has a photographic memory and she’s trying to memorize all of my information: my age, my birth date, my weight, my address, my donor status. Perhaps its protocol for this grocery store to take down all the information of any male purchasing whiskey and fortune cookies while refusing to pause Scandinavian death metal. I don’t care.

She hands me my I.D. and I give her a fifty and she gives me my change. It’s time to go. This place was getting old anyway.


PART THREE: The Cemetery

“Hello Mr. O’Neill, how is the missus?” I say after taking another swig from my bottle. “Still naggin’ you eh? That’s too bad.” The bottle is already half-empty…or half-full! Damn it, which one is it? Oh well. Mr. O’Neill is my favorite headstone because his has his picture on it so I know what he looks like. He looks like your typical Irishman: angry lip’s, wrinkled crooked nose, shallow mischievous eyes, wearing a wool sweater, and a wool skally cap. Right now, those features are quietly resting beneath the soil. I suppose I shouldn’t wake him; not yet at least.

She’s here. I can see her in the mist. Her grey cloak moves with the wind as she moves closer to me, engulfing me. I wish I could kill her with the blunt side of ambition but everyone knows that I haven’t known how to use that tool since I was eighteen. I guess you could say I was too competitive, too ambitious, too invested back then. When my competitiveness died, my ambition died with it. I guess the two were married together.

“Dear God,” I stumble to my knees in prayer, my head swimming in the whiskey, “tell me please, before she takes me in her chill filled lust; before she covers us all in the wake of her snowflake world…DEAR GOD, PLEASE, TELL ME WHAT I AM MEANT TO BE!” I finish the prayer by take a long swallow from the 'water of life' while making the sign of the cross with my right hand. My family is devout Catholic but I haven't been devout since my first confession. I told the Priest that I had never sinned. How could I? I was so young, I didn't even know what sin was. He got angry and told my father who beat me that night until I admited some sort of sin.

I haven't been religious since, except when Cailleach Bheur comes around.

By now, the whiskey tastes less and less like paint thinner. My vision is becoming more and more confused with the mist that surrounds me. It dances like some sort of dream I’m sure I’ve had before. The mist dances like the ghosts of those sleeping below the soil. It’s comforting to see even though my head is swimming, these ghosts prancing together in the foggy mist. Besides, my therapist says I shouldn’t drink alone anyway.

The Epic battle begins.

I feel a sudden slap across my face; over and over again she slaps me in the face, freezing my nose and ears, almost knocking me down to the now frozen grass. I quickly recover and open up my first fortune cookie. I’m not sure why I’m opening my fortune cookie except that it seems like the only thing I can do. Besides, I don’t want to waste the $3.50 I spent on them. As I un-wrap the cookie, I remember being told, or seem to remember being told, or maybe dreamt that the fortune of the cookie will not come to fruition unless you eat the cookie before you read the fortune. If I had been sober, I’m sure I would have realized the fallacious reasoning behind that belief. However, sobriety is far too often the obstacle between humans and God. Perhaps he wants me to read these fortunes, my only line of defense against that bitch.

So here I am, stuffing the cooking into my mouth and before I have even finished chewing the damn wafer, I see Cailleach Bheur hiding behind a large oak tree. She must be plotting her next move because she just seems to be hovering there, peeking at me around the trunk of the tree, laughing like a crazy hag. As she comes running out from behind the tree, I start reading my first fortune:

“Today is a lucky day for those who remain cheerful and optimistic,” I yell at her, spitting crumbs with every syllable. It does nothing so I throw the little piece of paper at her. She swoops in like a witch, knocking me against Mr. O’Brien’s headstone. I turn around and watch her swing behind another tree. She hit me so hard, I was left shivering uncontrollably. I take a long gulp from the whiskey to warm up, immediately putting another cookie into my mouth.

“ROUGH TIMES ARE BEHIND YOU!” My throat feels like it is in flames now as I stuff another cookie into my mouth, chewing furiously and swigging whiskey.

“YOUR PAST SUCCESS WILL BE OVERSHADOWED BY YOUR FUTURE SUCCESS!”
I continue to eat the cookies, gulp the whiskey, and scream each fortune I have at her. I have become a warrior, armored with words written on thinly cut pieces of paper. I throw each piece of thin paper at her after I read the fortune, each fortune disappearing into the mist with the crumbs showering from my mouth as I yell.

“GRAND ADVENTURES AWAIT THOSE WHO ARE WILLING TO TURN A CORNER!”

“PREPARE FOR THE UNEXPECTED!”

“DO NOT MISTAKE TEMPTATION FOR OPPORTUNITY!!”

“A SECRET ADMIRER WILL SOON SEND YOU A SIGN OF AFFECTION!!!”

“IF YOU CONTINUALLY GIVE YOU WILL CONTINUALLY HAVE!!!!”

“THE TIME IS RIGHT TO MAKE NEW FRIENDS!!!!!”

“A THRILLING TIME IS IN YOUR IMMEDIATE FUTURE!!!!!!”

As I read the last fortune, Cailleach Bheur blasts towards me with a shriek so piercing that I fell to the frozen grass with my hands over my hears. In Flames were still blaring in my headphones, I think it was 'Delight and Angers', but her scream cut through their heavy guitars and thick drums. As I am lying on the ground, I notice that I only have three fortunes left and I’m only now realizing that Cailleach Bheur is far too strong for me and my fortunes. Like every year, I’ll give in, let her win; return to my windowless room defeated.

I crush the last three cookies in my hands and stuff the broken shards of vanilla wafer into my mouth; the other fortunes are clenched in my other fist. She is coming at me from the far end of the cemetery like a witch on a broom stick. Even with a mouth full of cookies, I gulp down the last of the whiskey and read the first of the last fortunes:

“YOUR EVERLASTING PATIENCE WILL BE REWARDED SOONER OR LATER!!!!!!!”

Sooner or later? What the feck, I need it rewarded right now, this second, this minute, this moment. I throw the paper and read the next one:

“SOON YOU WILL BE ON TOP OF THE WORLD!!!!!!!!”

On top of the world? What is that supposed to me? Those last two fortunes didn’t even slow her down. I am certainly doomed. I slump down against Mrs. O’ Brien’s headstone. I’m sure Mr. O’Brien wouldn’t mind. “God, save me,” I pray with a whisper, pulling the last thin strip of paper out. My head is drowning so much now that I have to hold the paper a few inches from my face in order to read it.

“BE MISCHEIVIOUS AND YOU WON’T BE LONELY!” I scream my last fortune as Cailleach Bheur sweeps over me.

B - L - A - C - K - N - E - S - S!

C - O - L - D - N - E - S - S!

“S-s-s-sir,” a man is prodding me in the ribs, “sir, are y-you o-o-o-kay?”

“Oh hey Roger,” I say as I open my eyes and witness an old mentally challenged employee of the Cemetery. He’s been the janitor of the grounds here longer than I can remember. The younger kids like to tease him when he goes into town because he isn’t normal and he has a terrible stutter but he’s always been nice to me. No matter what I tell him though, he always calls me sir. “How are you doing Roger?” I politely say even though it feels like someone is pounding on metal inside my skull. The sun appears to have just peaked over the horizon.

“I am d-d-d-doing g-g-good Sir,” he nervously grabs my hand and helps me up, “We h-h-had a m-m-mighty cold f-f-f-frost last n-n-ight didn’t w-we.”

“Aye, we did,” I say, spitting up blood from my throat. At my feet is a pile of paper fortunes, an empty whiskey bottle, and cookie crumbs. “Forgive the rubbish, Roger, I had a bit of a party last night with Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien here.”

As Roger stared at the headstone of the O’Brien’s and back at the pile of rubbish, confused by what I said, I push play on my IPOD and walk home.