wordonism

In the end, I have only myself to blame. 

Somewhere, deep in the darkest recesses of my twisted mind, I always knew this outcome was a possibility, my just reward for a life lived such as mine. 

That edge. That precipice. That tantalizing dance of excitement and danger. It had always called to me.

Carefree to the rules and mores of an obedient, conforming society, I’d always been a wild child with a strong disdain for toeing the line. My mouth, somehow disconnected from the impulse control centres of my brain, disengaged from my prefrontal cortex, had left me with jagged scars both seen and unseen.

Making peace with that thought as it flits through my mind, I reach out gingerly to pick up the phone. There is a bone chilling cold that grips me from head to toe as I feel the heft of the phone receiver settle into my weakening grip. Why is it so heavy? I hope I don’t drop it.

I start to shiver uncontrollably.

Through the open windows, carried aloft by the oppressive heat and humidity, I hear the sounds of life. The birds chirping. The cars’ tires as they rumble along the heaved, undulating asphalt. The joyous cries of children and the rhythmic thumping of music, as the children and the band, play on.

My stiff, rigid fingers struggle to depress the resistant buttons of the rustic phone resting on the rickety table beside me in the dank, foul-smelling bathroom of that decrepit hotel on the outskirts of Havana.

I make the call.

You’re probably wondering how I ended up here; alone, contemplating my future, coming to the stark realization of what little of it I may have left. 

I wondered the same in that few moments after my eyes had opened, the heavy curtains of my eyelids finally defying gravity and allowing me to take stock of my situation. Eyes now open to the world as it is, not as I wanted to see it. How I had seen it.

I thought it was a dream. Or maybe it is. It doesn’t matter, either way, as this is my reality now. A reality that struck me the moment I read that note set down beside the telephone.

I read it at least a dozen times. Each time expecting the words to melt and blend and offer a different story, a different narrative. A better one. They didn’t. They never do.

That is the power of words written so plainly.

---

It all started yesterday in that little cafe called ‘justo al otro lado de la frontera’. I was walking along and heard the riveting sounds of music. 

The moment I entered, I saw her. Instantly, as we usually do if we pause to listen to our intuition, I knew she was dangerous.

She was stunning. 

The kind of stunning that feels like a sharp knife slicing your body open and exposing your insides in a way you never thought possible. Exposed. Vulnerable. 

Even in my current state, she continues to mesmerize me, a force like no other.

As I allow my eyelids to close briefly, waiting for the connection to hold, I can still see her long hair spin about her, a dark halo of mystery and intrigue drawing me in, my event horizon. 

I can still see her hips sway seductively, cavorting intimately with the pulsing Latin beats of Cuban son music; an ecstatic union of physical perfection and powerful psychic being – she would be the perfect ideal to show an alien being what dance represents. 

The hypnotic allure of the forbidden emanating from every magnificent articulation of her body compelled me – there was no other option – to approach to her. It was cliché. But it held to its truth.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who was pulled by her gravitational force, men and women both, surround her, creating a wall of gyrating, sweaty bodies.

“ven un poco mas”

With those words, our eyes met, and as the Red Sea parted for Moses, the crowd parted for me. I walked her way, the chosen one, my feet afloat on the ground. 

She presses against my body, her delicate perfume rising up to fill me, she is intoxicating beyond comparison, dwarfing even the effects of the copious amounts of drugs that have flowed through my body during my tumultuous existence.

She doesn’t speak English. My Spanish is limited. But we don’t need words to communicate, we are dancing in that little cafe, our bodies enmeshed, the heat and desire of our flesh intermingling as we twirl and shift. A cosmic dance.

The band picks up the tempo, frenzied, an unsettling pace which my intuition picks up, but my mind chose to ignore.

I slowly slip my right hand into her hair as it surrounds her neck, my fingers entangling with the silky tendrils. I pull gently, fisting a handful of those luscious locks. I tilt her head back and expose the smooth flesh of her throat. I feel her pulse on my lips as I lean forward to kiss her softly.  

The electricity is palpable. It heightens all my senses. Alive in every meaning of the word. I look into her eyes as she returns my gaze, the intensity setting off alarm bells deep inside me. Every fibre of my body, of my being, telling me to get the fuck out of there. To escape.

This one is dangerous. 

I can’t move. 

I realize I haven’t taken a breath.

As life giving air rushes into my lungs, my eyes are able to focus once again in the dimly lit café. It’s at that moment I notice a distinct mark on the pale skin of her throat that seared my lips. 

A tattoo. 

Four simple letters.

In clear, expressive black ink, they snake along the sultry curve of her neck, dancing with her pulse. A cursive metronome to her heart. 

J.O.S.É.

Again and again, I wonder why I didn’t turn around and run at that moment. My feet, which only a few moments prior had been floating, were now cement blocks, tethered to the dance floor, a masochistic bondage which pushed my ever extending boundaries into realms unthinkable; always needing more, chasing that next delicious taboo. 

I wish I could tell you what happened over the next few hours, but those memories only come to me in snippets and flashes, incomplete, surreal. 

The night is a blur, a twirling, writhing escape with that raven-haired vision who kept entreating me to come a little bit closer, the tantalizing son music, and la fée verte; nary a more deadly threesome have I imbibed in my lifetime.

I had been sent the warnings so many times. Repeatedly, I disregarded them. A foreign man in a foreign land. Immune in my youth and my hubris,

I was immortal.

Was.

In the end, we pay the piper – this idiom, used by my parents in my youth -now seems so apropos.

It is my time to pay up. The ultimate price. 

---

I’m brought back to my current predicament, jarred back from my reverie by the Spanish voice on the other side.

“Help, I need an ambulance.” 

I don’t recognize my own voice, it’s weak, tired. Strained. My parched lips stick together, slurring my words. My tongue uselessly darts out to try to moisten them. It doesn’t work. I struggle to sound coherent.

The Spanish words are repeated in my ear. They are clearly spoken. Enunciated with a steely calmness. Rehearsed through practice and experience. My own words fall heavy in the thick air as my body slowly starts to shut down.

The shivering, relentless, causes my teeth to chatter.

My words, for once in my life, fail me.

I hang up the phone knowing the language impasse is too great and that my time is too limited. 

Without thinking, my fingers automatically dance along the buttons. Pressing here. Pushing there. I am dialling a number I had committed to memory many years ago, a number I had refused to dial for over a decade after we had both been unable to see it from the other side, a fight where words that couldn’t be taken back were hurled with the fiercest violence, as only words between loved ones can be used. Weapons. Poison tipped, jagged spears to the heart.

Back then, I couldn’t see the truth in her words, only the lies I wanted to see, wanted to believe. I saw the world as I wished it to be, not as it was. Now, I see them clearly. As clear as those four letters. If only I had listened to her. She had been trying to keep me safe.   

I call my mother. 

She answers on the second ring. Her voice. 

“Son…?”

How I’ve missed it. 

I hear a soft splash in the tub full of ice water where I sit naked, exposed in every way, my legs stretched out in front of me. I can’t stop shivering. 

Another soft splash. And then another. My tears are flowing freely now, meandering down the salty paths forged by their predecessors. Splash. A decade of sorrow unleashed with that one word.

“Mama. I’m dying. I need your help.” My voice cracks. The reality of my situation hitting me. Over and over. 

“Son…?” Her voice softer now, asking the question without wanting to know the answer. 

She had long ago warned me about the dangers of women with tattoos. Especially those with neck tattoos. But ever since I was a young boy, I was drawn to them. The designs, the shapes, the colours…a human tapestry that wove a web of tales so fecund and varied that let my imagination soar to heights that left me dizzy with lust and wanting. 

We had fought about it that fateful day, and I had left home, not looking back. I never thought that the woman who had given me life could be the only one who could give it to me again.

I should have known. That neck tattoo. Those four simple letters that burned my lips as I kissed them. Sealing my fate.

José. Bad man José. She belonged to him.

Why hadn’t I listened. Even my buddy Jay, and his group of American friends had tried to forewarn me.   

“Mama, they took my kidneys. I’m in a bathtub full of ice in Havana.”

Photo by Max Hofstetter on Unsplash

“Your package has arrived.”

We hear the distinct voice speak to us clearly from the advanced cyber home system that we’d installed over 10 years ago. 

It had cost us a small fortune back then, but damn, it was worth every figurative penny.

This now aging system linked all of our household electronics together through advanced artificial intelligence (AAI) and our own securely encrypted supercomputer, that we’d cheekily named Brain. 

By design, it makes everything easier – we simply offload our tasks to Brain and with its AAI capabilities, it does the needful. For those who can remember all those decades back to Alexa or Google Home, think of them as the germ line of this brilliant advancement, which as time passes, becomes the germ line for even greater advances.

We could be anywhere in our apartment pod and with a few simple spoken commands, all of our daily work, leisure, or home activities like ordering meal packets, undertaking medical assessments, sending emails, paying bills, or doing banking is processed through Brain in real time through its vast network of suppliers and vendors, the bits and bytes being deftly shuttled through highly precise algorithms.  

Though a decade old, it was one of two items which we had spent vast sums upon, scrounging up our valuable Q bucks – the new world currency that replaced the failed Bitcoin and the now defunct U.S. dollar as the global benchmark for trade. We had been lucky as early adopters back in 2018 when those emails had gone around coupled with a few fortunate investments (and subsequent well-timed sales of those shares) in tech companies.

The other item was the package that had just arrived.

It was delivered via same day drone service, as all packages are now delivered, and it came in nondescript packaging, as promised.

The two of us manage to hoist the surprisingly heavy box into our small space. It was bigger than expected, but I suppose the manufacturer has to protect the precious cargo inside. 

Sure enough, as we unlatch the biometric controlled release valves on the reusable protective case, the actual item is significantly smaller than its durable exoskeleton.

It is exactly as ordered.

We stand there looking at the exposed device, knowing what it represents, what it costs. My shoulders slump. I’m unable to set them, to hold them in place against gravity. My arms hang limply by my side. I feel her warm hand reach out and envelop my cold, shaking one, blunting the tremors.

I feel the shame and embarrassment start to creep into me.

I feel a tight squeeze on my hand, comforting, reassuring. 

For me. 

For herself. 

For both of us. 

It doesn’t matter. 

I look over at her beside me. Though she tries to hide it, I know she feels the same.

Battling hard, we force those thoughts and feelings back down – with all the technological advances science has come up with, you’d think they’d have figured out a way for us humans to absolve ourselves of guilt by now?

After safely untethering and gently removing the item from its protective case, we carry it to the small side table beside our bed and lay it down carefully. It fits perfectly in the space beside the old photograph we had printed out. Our smiles were so big back then.

“Brain, initiate PED start sequence.” I say this quietly, thoughts tumbling through my racing mind. She holds my hand tighter, her fingers fitting perfectly between mine.

Intertwined. We are one.

“Confirm, initiate PED start sequence?” Brain’s questioning voice cuts through the incessant chatter in my head.

Am I ready for this? This is my last chance to send it back because once the start sequence is initiated, there is no going back – there are no refunds. I will have to live with this decision for the rest of my life. So will she.

I hear a soft sight escape from her. 

This is now our reality, no longer a meal packet conversation.  

I close my eyes for a moment, a pause before responding. 

On the screens of my eyelids I can replay some of my fondest memories from my life – I can smell the ocean, feel the cool, clear water on my feet as I walked along the beach with her. Being a drowner, rather than a swimmer, I never went in, but dabbled at the edges. I still hear the sound sometimes in those quiet moments of contemplation. Rhythmic and calming. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh. 

I remember looking back at our footsteps as the surf erased them, as if we didn’t exist. As if we were never there. 

Impermanence. 

Laughter. I can hear it vividly. Myself. Hers. My loved ones. My little nieces when we used to Skype before holograms came along, before they grew up, living their own separate lives, plugged in and connected. Too busy or too cool for their old uncle.

I see my friends. My family. Many have passed. Many, like me, struggle to keep up with life, assisted by tech but our failing biology still limiting us. Oh how I miss them all so much. We used to get together. Hang out. Meet up. We used to do this in person, but with all the technology, no one leaves their apartment pods anymore. We live in a hyperconnected society devoid of any true, meaningful connection. 

Together but separate. Starvation in the midst of plenty.    

Memories of that dinner party, tasting chocolate cake for the first time, that moment when the distinct sweetness touched my lips, how she tantalized me in that kitchen.  

And sex. From those first rapid yet exciting awkward fumblings in college dorms to the tender, exalting moments that left me connected in visceral ecstasy with another human being. All those beautiful women. Every single one of them who touched me in ways I can’t even put into words.

They all start to fade. Vanishing. A mist clearing.

I blink and my eyes open.

They’ve gone.

I close them again slowly. The heavy weight of my decision pulling them down. Gravity. In every meaning of the word.

My mind is taken back to the last 10 years. 

I remember the day of diagnosis. How we had asked Brain about the strange symptoms I’d been experiencing and how we had uploaded samples of my blood and urine for analysis. 

I remember how Brain, more efficiently and precisely, and with greater accuracy than any doctor from the past, by virtue of having infinite information access at its beck and call, had given me the news. 

My brain not computing Brain’s words. Disconnected synapses.  

I can remember exactly when my body started shutting down. When the ravages of that insidious beast took its toll, advancing science no match for millennia of fallible biology. My muscles soft and weak, progressive atrophy taking away my independence, often leaving me gasping and struggling, a shell of my former self, relying more and more on Brain to do even the most menial tasks. 

Over time, I lost my purpose, my meaning. I merely existed. Simply going through the motions of barking commands into the air. Sure it was easy, but it brought no joy like before. I no longer had anything to be proud of.  

It was an excuse of an existence.  

I had always promised myself that I would go with dignity, holding my head high, on my own terms. My pride. My arrogance. My last stand.

As I lived, I would leave. 

We had talked about it, she and I. 

We had always known, even as far back as 2019 that this could be our future. That’s why we had saved up for the Personal Euthanasia Device, the PED, through the Dying with Dignity Foundation. This way, the ethics of helping someone pass wasn’t shouldered by another human, a progressive evolution of the Physician Assisted Death movement of the early 2000s.

I know my body can’t carry on much longer, it tells me every day and every night. The messages are clear, distinct; in those quiet moments they reveal themselves.  

And even more frightening is that I don’t know how much longer my mind will last. I don’t want her to be the one who has to make that choice, that hard decision, for me. Or for herself. For us.

That’s what brings us here. To this moment. 

So now I have to make the decision.

My final answer.  

I turn and face her, my aching body giving me that final strength of conviction. I hold her beautiful face in my hands and press my lips against hers. Soft. I pull her body against my now frail one, the vigor of my youth evaporated, the power I once possessed, a mere shadow in my memories. 

All the other stuff no longer matters. The little things. The wasted energy. The petty squabbles. Fights. Only here. And now. Only that matters.

I hold her tight. 

I feel her melt against me, her head against my chest. Her arms wrapped around me, squeezing hard. She always did that. She always turned and pushed her ear against me, to listen to my heart beating. Her soft voice in time to my aging ticker. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. I smile.   

It felt right. 

It always did. 

She always did. 

In all these years, that’s never changed. 

That feeling of her body against mine. Real human contact. Real human touch. We’ve gained so much, and yet, we’ve lost so much. Our lives get easier and so much harder at the same time.

The double edged sword of technology. 

I break from our embrace and, still cupping her face in my hands, kiss her forehead softly. Tenderly.

It’s time. 

She looks up at me, her eyes glistening, a mirror of mine. She knows it. I know it. I take her hand in mine again and with renewed confidence in my voice, I speak the words.

“Confirm initiation of PED start sequence.”

“Confirmed. PED start sequence initiated.” I can’t be certain but I hear a tinge of sadness in Brain’s voice. Perhaps I’m mistaken, anthropomorphising Brain while I know it’s nothing more than advanced artificial intelligence coupled with super computing. Technology.

It can’t feel. 

My voice, though it quivers, matches the biometric voiceprint security so there can be no mistake, there can be no accident. It was my freely given command. Un-forced. Un-laboured. Un-coerced.

The device on the bedside table, sitting quietly beside that old smiling photograph of the two of us, whirs and buzzes, given the gift of life as it is about to take mine.

A trade. 

As the machine prepares for its final deed, I take her by the hand again. It fits perfectly into mine. Soft. My tremors have stopped. She is squeezing again. I never get tired of holding her hand.  

Today was a good day. We drank real wine, like we used to. A strong Malbec. We ate real steak, medium rare, with real grilled vegetables.

We laughed. We cried. We remembered.   

“Brain, play Come Sail Away by Styx.”

The music fills our ears.

And we dance.

Photo by bhuvanesh gupta on Unsplash

Everything you do in life will cost you something in return. 

It may cost you time. It may cost you money. It may cost you effort. 

It won’t come for free.

Whatever the form of payment, you WILL have to pay that price. 

It’s inescapable.

This was the lesson learned by the people of Hamelin, a faraway land, in a long ago time. 

Their town was overrun by rats. An incredible infestation with rats everywhere. The pests were destroying the town. They would get into the food. The water. Homes were ravaged by the sheer number of these vermin. 

These filthy, disease carrying rats were leaving destruction and devastation in their wake. 

The townsfolk tried everything – cats, traps, poison – nothing was working. The citizens were losing hope. They were stuck. There was no solution.  

One day, a wandering stranger dressed in multi-coloured patchwork clothing appeared. 

The messiah.

He promised to rid the town of every single rat quickly and efficiently, but it would cost them a large sum to be paid on completion of the task. The townsfolk of Hamelin quickly agreed to his price knowing that it would cost them more the longer this infestation problem remained unsolved.

So he went to work, walking up and down the streets in his pied clothing while playing his pipe. 

Oh the sound!

The magical sound. Every single rat in town was drawn to his music. Hundreds and thousands of them poured out of every building, every gutter, and every sewer. Streams of vermin gushing like a burst dam from hither and yon. There were so many that they were trampling over each other to follow this man playing his divine tunes. 

He led them out of Hamelin and into the nearby sea where they all drowned, the siren call of his music overriding their innate instinct for survival.

Upon completion of his promised task, he returned to collect his payment, as just reward for doing what he promised. Signed. Sealed. Delivered.

A deal is a deal.

However, the townsfolk decided that since their town was now rid of the rats, they didn’t have to pay this vagrant. They reneged on their deal and violently chased him out of town. They figured they’d never see him again. What could he do? Nothing, they reasoned. He was simply a dirty vagrant clothed in that ugly pied suit.

Boy, were they wrong.

Not long after, the Pied Piper returned in the still of the night and quietly played another melody on this pipe as he walked the streets. This time it was all the town’s children who woke up and silently followed him out of town, drawn to the mesmerizing notes that emanated from his instrument.

The next day the townsfolk awoke from an extra deep slumber to discover that their children were nowhere to be found. They searched high and low. The children had vanished with nary a trace.

In the town square, there was a note.

The price for the safe return of their children was double the price to rid the town of rats. 

The citizens realized that they would have to pay. That putting it off, ignoring it, wasn’t an option. By choosing to chase the Pied Piper out of town without paying him they would end up paying more dearly.

In the end, they had to pay the Piper. 

The only alternative was to live quiet, child free lives.

Illustration by Kate Greenaway for Robert Browning’s “The Pied Piper of Hamelin”. Public Domain.

With those three words, my world came crashing down.

My life would never be the same again.

---

The day started off in the typical fashion. It was a lazy Sunday and my wife and I repeated our standard ritual that hadn’t deviated much over the last ten years of our marriage.

Like clockwork she woke up before me, an early riser her whole life. She started the French press in the kitchen of our cozy apartment and once the pungent odour of coffee had wafted its way to my nostrils, I’d risen. I completed my morning ablutions and then joined her at our breakfast nook to enjoy a mug or two.

Our Sundays always felt right to me – like the soft embrace one would get from slipping on a pair of old, comfy college sweatpants, hugging the hips and leaving enough room to grow. Sure, it wasn’t the most exciting day for us, but we realized long ago that this was exactly what we wanted.

I padded over to where she was sitting on one of the two rustic wooden stools we’d managed to score, a lucky antiquing find refurbished over a decade ago on a past Sunday excursion, when we used to be more adventurous.

As I leaned down to kiss her, I could tell something was off. She seemed agitated. Unsettled.

“Everything OK, honey?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.”

I felt a sudden, sharp stabbing behind my right eye. My eyelids pressed together in a feeble attempt to force down the searing pain, to blink it away, creases and folds rising up, puckering my face as I winced. The intensity stealing my breath, a quiet gasp escaping.

Stumbling and reeling, as though I’d downed half a bottle of cheap tequila, I reached out to steady myself on the counter. In that moment, I was drunk with pain. My wife didn’t move. She didn’t even notice. As soon as it had come, it had gone. No hangover.

I shook my head. Had it even happened? Was it imagined? Surely she would have seen my reaction?

“Are you sure?” I asked her as I put my hand on her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. As my words and actions unfolded, my mind still considered what I had just experienced.

“Yes.”

Another searing blast of lighting coursed through my face. My hand left her shoulder and the heel of my palm pressed forcefully into my right orbit, bracing against the unrelenting onslaught. I’ve never had migraines before, but could this be it? As soon as the thought entered my mind, the pain was gone. Vanished. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t noticed.

What the hell was going on?

She looked up at me and smiled, the soft corners of her mouth teasing upward, stretching her full lips. I would recognize her smile anywhere, the way it would light up her face, but this time her eyes looked different. They were full of something I couldn’t quite place. Confusion? Anger? Sadness? Resignation?

Taking the cue that she didn’t want to talk about whatever was bothering her, I figured I’d give her some space. I was sure she’d tell me when she was ready.

I made my way, coffee in hand, to the living room and plunked myself down on the plush couch to start the other half of my Sunday ritual. As I fired up the gaming console and prepared to do battle online for the next few hours, she came by and said she was going to step out.

As she turned to step out the door, another blistering spasm of pain shot through my face, worse than before. Infinitely worse. As with the others, she didn’t notice, and it was gone as though it was a figment of my imagination, the dredges of a dissipating nightmare, present but invisible, only the feeling remaining.

---

After playing for a couple hours, my bladder, in its supreme power, forced me to take a break. We had not scotch-guarded the sofa, so risking incontinence was not an option.

While washing my hands, I noticed something that I hadn’t noticed earlier – my medication was misplaced. I had taken my pill that morning, I was sure of it. It was part of my routine. Pee. Wash hands. Brush teeth. Pop the little blue pill. My bottle was shifted over one spot. Had I taken the wrong medication? I had been pretty groggy this morning, having been up late playing video games again.

I reached out and picked up the doppelgänger container. It was similar in size, shape, and heft but was empty. I spun it around in my hands to read the label.

CognitioVeritas.  

I didn’t recognize it. It definitely wasn’t my stuff. And it wasn’t my wife’s as far as I knew. Where did this come from?

Shit…

I remember taking the last pill. I had turned the container upside down to coax the remaining solitary pill into my palm. I’d told myself that I’d call the pharmacy to get the refill. I hadn’t been paying attention as I popped the little red pill into my mouth, it was such an automatic action.

Shit…

I’d taken the wrong medication. Fuck me, why didn’t I pay more attention?

My facial pain…of course…it was my body reacting to the unknown drugs. I did a quick self-scan but didn’t feel anything was out of place, at least I didn’t feel like I was going to drop dead.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the label was one of those peel-back types, the ones that had instructions in the tiniest font printed on the inside. Using the edge of my nail I managed to separate the layers.

Warning: The powerful medication contained in this special pill should only be used under the direction of a trained professional. The effects are permanent and irreversible. Always knowing the truth, and discerning lies, can have devastating consequences for those not prepared to have that knowledge.

I now realized that every time my wife had lied to me that morning I had felt pain. That was the power of that pill. It let me know if she was telling the truth or not. My eyes opened wide in awe.

“This is going to be AMAZING.”

The realization of my power finally hit me, I looked up at myself in the bathroom mirror, still clutching that empty pill bottle, a huge grin had spread across my face.

And then the second realization hit me harder, my smile crumbled.

As she’d left, I’d told her I loved her.

She’d automatically replied…

“I love you.”

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

A sudden flash splits the inky black sky of a moonless night and silhouettes a lone man in an empty square, his face upturned to the heavens, one shoelace untied.

As darkness returns, as if it were never gone, he has absconded with the light.

---

His thoughts are like the scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle dropped on the floor; he’s trying to piece together what was once whole from the mess that now exists.

There’s an immense fog, a miasma of dread that permeates his slowly waking consciousness. He tries to situate himself but everything is incoherent and laboured as if he’s swimming in a bathtub full of thick molasses. His cognition fails him, the synaptic strands frayed, the gossamer threads of memory torn and slashed, stray bits bumping and jostling each other. They exist as two dancers, following the same choreography, but slightly out of sync.

He tries to shake his head, to break free of the spider webs of confusion that have ensnared his usually deft mind. He tries in vain to blink his life back to focus, his heavy eyelids moving up and down.

There are sounds all around him. Maybe voices? Garbled. Tangled. They’re talking to him. He can’t make them out clearly. There’s no recognition. That fog is slow to lift. Why can’t he understand? The words are different. They sound different. Feel different. A language that’s too foreign.

He feels a sharp pinch in his left arm.

Clarity.

Standing in front of him is a being like no other. Realization strikes like a hard slap to the face. His captor. The man’s mouth opens. No sound escapes as air rushes out. He tries again. Nothing but deafening silence assails his ears.

The creature, what any human would rightly call such a being, reaches forward and places an approximation of a hand against the man’s forehead.

That light. Again.

This time instead of splitting the darkened night sky it splits his mind.

“We saw you, alone, in that open area.”

The man hears a voice inside his thoughts. This is beyond anything he’s ever experienced.

“How is this possible” he thinks to himself, “I can hear you without sound?”

“We saw you alone, in that open area. And we want to know what you were doing?”

Momentary confusion rises as those spider webs branch further into his mind. In a flash, his fear is replaced with anger.

“I was minding my own business” he spits out venomously, an automatic habit from his youth to challenge those in authority who questioned his being, questioned his right to take space, to be somewhere, to exist.

The creature either chose to ignore his acerbic words or didn’t understand the meaning behind the vitriolic tone.

“We have been watching you for some time. You often go to that place you call ‘the square’ by yourself and move strangely. You take with you that metal box that makes those loud noises. As those sounds escape that box, you contort your being. We want to know what it is that you do.”

The man’s face softens, betraying his fear and anger. His lips, on auto pilot curl up, pushing his cheeks precariously high up on the ledges of his cheekbones, ready to fall at a moment’s notice. The tension that had seeped into every muscle of his body releases, his body visibly slumping, relaxes.

He is grinning now.

A wide smile splits his face. The fear is gone. The anger is gone. He finds solid ground beneath his feet once again.

He is no longer beside himself. He is himself.   

“Aw, shit!” he exclaims “I was dancing!”

“Dancing? What is this dancing?” the creature’s voice reverberates inside the man’s head with child-like curiosity.

“You don’t know what dancing is?!” The thoughts or words, he can’t be sure, slip out before he can corral them. It wouldn’t have mattered, the creature doesn’t understand his incredulity.

“No. What is dancing?”

“Dancing is freedom. It’s expression. It’s an idea and a statement all at once. It’s a form of communication that goes beyond words and phrases. It brings people together and makes them feel. It’s connection that transcends time and space.”

The man is breathless with excitement. He is there, but isn’t. He is inside himself. Wrapping himself safely within his thoughts of dance, he is protected against the absolute absurdity of his current situation.

“Why do you move in such a manner? Contorting yourself? Your arms and legs and head – all shifting about.” The voice rattles loudly inside his head again, soundless.

The man barely pauses before the words rush out of him, cascades of syllables and phonemes pouring like a waterfall, frothing vividly as they come together, churning.

“That’s dancing. It tells a story. My story. I move to music. I move my body – my arms, legs, everything – to the music. I feel the beat, I ride it. I live it. Those sounds you heard, that’s music. That’s my muse. It comes from the boom box, the stereo. That’s the technology, the metal box. My music is Dub Step. Here, let me show you.”

As if by magic, the man is free to move again. To dance for his captor. Or captors. He senses that he is being watched by not only this creature who is inside his head, but many others like it.

Once liberated from his invisible restraints, and while still seated, he shakes his body loose and tightens the laces of his sneaker. His aching joints feel the freeing lubrication of movement. The motion that is lotion.

He is ready. He is alive. He is free.

“I’ll need my music.”

In the immaculate silence, the pulsing sounds of Butch Clancy’s Foster the People Pumped up Kicks Dubstep Remix comes to life inside his head. It is everywhere and nowhere. It surrounds him. Envelops him. Emboldens him.

The man stands up. Compelled by the rhythm, his sinewy body flows with the sounds, a slick automaton with one purpose – to dance. His body pulses with every thudding beat, the deep rumbling staccato of bass causing a sharp forward/backward shift of various joints juxtaposed in stark contrast to the immediate, momentary pause when the sounds take brief respite. Over and over again, he shifts and cracks, pulses and pops, telling his story with movement, sharing a piece of him.

“Are you a robot?”

Laughter fills the room. It was an earnest question and one he had been asked many times prior but his current situation engendered this response.  The last vestiges of tension dissipate as his most human of sounds breaks the unbreakable silence.

“Some people think I am, but I can promise you I’m completely human. That’s called popping. Specifically, animated popping. I’m going to be one of the best in the world one day. My world, at least. The idea is to move quickly with the music and pause when the beat pauses. A quick stop. Then you ride the beat again. It can make you look like a floating robot. You need to feel the rhythm. You need to tell your story, man.”

The man begins to move again. His shoulders and hips moving in opposite directions, simultaneously. His feet twist and turn in sharp angles to his knees, impossible angles that seem like make believe.

“So you aren’t a robot?”

The man stifles a chuckle, understanding that this creature and his compatriots don’t possess the same understanding of humour.

“Naw, man. I’m just a guy who loves to dance.”

---

Marquese Scott is startled awake on the bench he’d dozed off on. The warm Inglewood air is quiet and still. He looks around. He is alone in the empty square but can’t shake the feeling that there are others around him, watching him. That he really isn’t alone.

Rubbing his hand across his face, and wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth, he remembers having the strangest dream. It felt so real.

He shakes his head to free it from the nap time cobwebs and puts the lingering thoughts of his dream aside. There’s only so much daylight left and he has to finish his video.

He sits down on the bench and presses record on the remote controls in his pocket. The camera comes to life and starts recording as the music begins to play.

As the first strands of Butch Clancy’s Dubstep Remix of Foster the People Pumped Up Mix hit the air, he reaches down to tighten his shoelaces, his body already starting to move.

He’s practiced this piece a thousand times before, but this time, it felt different.

Out of this world.

Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash

They say you always remember your first time, no matter how quickly it’s over.

For me, it didn’t even last two minutes, and I say that with a small twinge of shame and a slight pang of guilt.

After this experience, I know this will not be my last. It can’t be. It won’t be. 

How is it possible to acquire such an addiction post-haste? 

As I share this with you, I am still processing this otherworldly event.

My body, awoken, continues to tremble, my breath shallow and rapid. My chest, still heaves in delight at the lingering memories.

 I try to focus on the words I put down for you, but acuity escapes me. 

I am enraptured. 

The small raised bumps covering my still trembling skin are steadfast reminders of the consummate sensory explosions that so recently wracked my yearning, hungry body. 

This story, like all stories I share with you, began innocently enough. As they always do. 

I was over a friend’s place celebrating a birthday party. It had been some time since we’d all been able to get together, such is the adult life we had all hoped and dreamed for in our youth. The drinks were flowing as was my hair. 

There was an energy in the air. 

Laughter filled and expanded in between all the comfortable silences. It felt like one of those special nights – the ones where deep down inside you know something magical is going to happen. 

And the night did not disappoint. 

I saw her across the room. Our eyes met and there was an instant connection. It was electric. 

Since you, dear Reader, know me so well, I won’t regale you with the stories of charm and wit that I managed to exude as I sidled up beside her. We hit it off and soon were engrossed in deep conversation. As the night grew longer and the drinks grew stiffer, we danced without moving our limbs. While I didn’t realize it then, I do now.

She was going to be special to me. 

Soon, the other guests made their exits discussing babysitters and nannies. It was at that moment that she bade me follow her to the kitchen, away from prying eyes. 

We found ourselves alone, standing next to each other, heads close together, excited whispers and giggles exchanged. We stood in that distance that intimates a closeness, an eagerness for discovery. Holding us up, supporting us, was the marble centre island replete with a dazzling array of snacks and treats, many of which I’d never seen, let alone experienced. 

She turned to me, locked her eyes on mine, and in a request that I had no hope of denying, asked me to close my eyes and follow her lead. 

I could feel the pressure against my lips. The texture, soft and firm at the same time. Yielding. It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. A switch flipped. Instinct took over. My tongue, as if with a mind of its own, darted out to sample the wares. The taste was exquisite.

I knew, at that moment, there was no going back. She had ignited my hunger. A drive like no other that welled up from deep inside me, in places I had no idea existed. 

She awoke it from it’s 40 year slumber. 

For 40 years I had never tasted life in all its splendour until that moment. 

I wanted more. Longed for more. 

She obliged. 

She had read me like a snake charmer taming the wildest King Cobra. I was under her spell. 

She whispered about those sweet nothings again. Shivers ran up and down my spine. Tingles.

On the second taste, I was in heaven. Impulses, previously foreign to me ignited synaptic connections I’ve only dreamed of. Impulses cascaded through every fibre of my body, electrical gymnastics cascading through my nervous system, sending fireworks to every edge of my being. 

Compelled by emotions and feelings I’ve never felt before, I opened my eyes, panting slightly, licking my lips. 

We hadn’t been more than two minutes in that kitchen, and I was at my peak.

I could see her gazing at me, her head tilted to one side, an eyebrow cocked up quizzically. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked, a slight edge to her saccharine voice.

“I’ve never tasted such sweetness.”  

My words tumbled out limp and useless. They could not do it justice. There are NO words that could do it justice. 

“It’s like you’ve never done this before…”

Guilt. Embarrassment. Shame.  

I looked down at the ground, unable to return her gaze any longer. 

After such excitement, I was spent. Done. Finished.

She knew. I could tell. It was in her voice. Her tone had changed. 

Softer. Kinder. Understanding. 

I owed her an explanation. It was the least I could do. Perhaps she would look past my shortcomings. 

“I grew up in a very strict household. It was forbidden. We weren’t allowed. And then after years of that, I convinced myself it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t what I wanted. That I didn’t need it. After a while, I lost my drive for it. In the end,  I just didn’t want anyone to know – my dirty little secret.”

I mustered every ounce of courage I had and looked up at her, the soft glow of the kitchen pot lights creating a halo around her head. Her eyes glistened, as did mine.  

“This was my first time having chocolate cake. And I think I’m in love.”

Photo by Azamat Zhanisov on Unsplash

Once upon a time there lived a poor miller with a beautiful daughter. He was known by the townsfolk to be fond of the drink. One day, on his way home late at night after a few too many goblets of especially potent gin, he bumped into the King.

Under the influence of the liquid djinns, to impress his King, he boasted about how his beautiful daughter could spin straw into gold using only a spinning wheel. Intrigued, the King decreed that she would attend his castle where she would have to prove her father’s outlandish claim in one day and one night.

Success would bestow her royal favour beyond her wildest imagination – she would become his Queen.

Failure, in diametric opposition, would cost her life. 

The miller’s daughter was brought to the King’s castle and locked away in a chamber with only a spinning wheel and mounds of the finest straw. As she sat there on a stool in front of the immobile spinning wheel, the hours ticking by, she knew that she couldn’t complete this impossible task. She was doomed. Her fate was sealed. Her own father had condemned her to death.

She bowed down, the realization weighing heavy, put her head in her hands, and sobbed.

Suddenly, a funny little man appeared out of nowhere after hearing her pitiful cries. He made a bargain with her, a fair exchange. He would spin the straw to gold but at a cost. The price would be her necklace. The one which used to belong to her long-ago deceased mother. Her hands automatically went up to the piece of jewelry and touched it. The only connection they had left. It was an easy choice. She didn’t hesitate. Life for the necklace.

When the King arrived at dawn and saw the spindles full of gold thread, his seeds of greed grew into full forests of avarice – he commanded that she repeat it again under the same condition but with even more straw to make even more gold.

The poor miller’s daughter was again locked in a chamber with the spinning wheel and now even more straw. And again she grew despondent as the sun began to set and dawn drew nearer, knowing that the luck that had touched upon her the night before was nowhere to be found, and that this time it was the end of line. She could not spin straw to gold.

As she once again bowed her head and began to sob her wretched sobs, she heard the familiar voice of the funny little man. As she looked up at him through tear soaked eyes, he offered her another bargain. This time it would cost her ring, the only other item of value she possessed. And again, the poor miller’s daughter realized that her life was worth more than the ring. She slipped it off her trembling finger and gave it to the funny little man. He took her place on the stool and spun all night, his deft pointy fingers working magically, transforming the mounds of straw into the finest gold thread.

As on the first dawn, the King unlocked the door on the second one, his eyes met with the reflections and glinting of spindle upon spindle of dazzling gold thread. Seeing the incredible wealth in front of him, the King’s greed became all consuming. He demanded a third and final day of gold spinning.

The miller’s daughter was once again placed in a sealed chamber, this one bigger than the previous two, with mounds and mounds of straw as far as the eyes could see, piled up to the lofted ceilings, enough to feed an army of horses, a kingdom of horses, all the horses in the land.

On this, the third and final day, the sun began to set. The familiar dread and despondency began to course through the miller’s daughter’s body. Her life again on the line, she knew her only hope was that funny little man who had now helped spare her life twice over.

The darkness deepened and he was nowhere to be found. With dawn steadily approaching, her head dropped, her shoulders slumped, pregnant tears and sobs echoed in the giant straw filled room.

And salvation.

She heard him behind her, on this, the third night, with only hours to go.

She has nothing left to offer, nothing left to give.

She pleded with him. Begged him. Entreated him. Anything. She would do anything. Give anything. If he could help her, she would become Queen and she would be able to give him anything.

He asked for her first born child.

Because there was no way out, she agreed, her only pressing thought was to survive past the awakening dawn.

The sun broke the horizon bringing with it dawn and the King. He strode into the room, now a veritable treasury of gold, making him the wealthiest King to have ever lived.

Happy with the miller’s daughter’s gold spinning, they were married in an opulent affair. She began to lead a fairy tale life, one so far removed from her humble beginnings. Soon thereafter she had a child. The funny little man appeared to collect on her final promise.

The Queen begged him to take anything else but he only wanted the child. His 8 pounds of flesh. A deal is a deal. However, feeling sorry for the Queen, he agreed to give her three days to guess his name. If she could do so, he would rescind the deal. 

She sent spies all over the kingdom to find his name. After two days of failure, a spy overheard a funny little man singing a song using his name in the forest. It was the same funny little man. The spy returned to the castle and informed the Queen about what he’d heard.

On the third day, the funny little man returned. He again asked the Queen to guess his name. As the Queen said his name correctly, he stomped his foot into the ground then ripped himself apart in rage. 

Flipped

You’ve likely heard my name. It rolls off the tongue in a manner both pleasing and terrifying at once. 

Over the centuries, I have been vilified, my story manipulated by those subverting the truth to assuage their own guilt and complicity in my demise. 

This is my story. You can choose to believe it or not, but know that the truth is immutable and history will prove this. 

I lived in a hut, hidden in the enchanted forest, on the edge of the kingdom. The nearby stream often carried with it the echoes of voices and stories and laughter that I longed for, drifting from within those castle walls. 

It had been centuries since I’d had any friends and even longer since I’d had any family. I had only myself. Oh, how I desired to have family again – to be part of something, to belong, to care and be cared for!     

My people were hunted and enslaved because of our rare ability to spin straw into gold. My kin were forced into servitude by greedy nobility seeking to maintain their station.

Only I remained, having survived the genocide – my parents, my siblings – gone. The loves of my life – my darling wife and beautiful child – gone. My old life, snuffed out like a candle in the wind.  

One day, I heard mournful wailing along the babbling creek. It was the sound of a young woman in despair that carried the same timbre as my wife’s cry as she was taken from me. I was compelled to follow it, against my better judgement. 

The sound took me through the castle to a locked chamber. Opening the door, I entered to see a young woman sitting on a stool, her head bowed into her palms, crying the most pitiful cry, surrounded by mounds of straw piled high.

Her father, a poor miller fond of gin, had made boastful promises to win the King’s favour, and had sworn that she could spin straw into gold. And so it was decreed that she would do just that or face untimely death for failure.

It was just her luck that I had such an ability. 

As is customary for this type of magic, a price must be paid. Everything has a cost. I explained that she must offer me something of value in order for the straw to turn to gold. Without hesitation, she offered her necklace in gratitude. 

I worked the spindle feverishly through the night, filling spool after spool full of luminous golden thread. By dawn, I had emptied the room of straw before the King arrived, leaving only untold riches behind.

The next night, I heard that wailing again. I followed the sound through the castle tunnels and found myself before another locked chamber, bigger than the previous one. Upon entering, I noticed more straw piled up, with that poor young woman crying amongst it in front of a spinning wheel. 

Through her tears, she told me that the King wished for her to again prove her ability, believing the first offering to have been luck of some sort. I offered to complete her task, to help spare her life, and in requisite payment she offered her ring. 

As she slipped off her ring and dropped it into my bony palms, I could feel the magic coursing through me. I would now be able to spin all that straw into gold.

I spun the spindle all night and turned the straw into the finest golden thread. As the sun crested, I left her in the straw-free chamber, her life once again her own, the King richer but no wiser.

For the third night in a row, thinking of my missing family as I sat beside that creek, I heard her wails pierce the quiet dusk. 

I made my way back to her, knowing she needed my help and knowing that I could help her. She was locked in an even bigger chamber, bigger than the previous two, with mounds and mounds of straw as far as the eye could see, piled up to the lofted ceilings, enough to feed an army of horses, a kingdom of horses, all the horses in the land.

She was beside herself with sorrow, facing imminent death if she couldn’t complete the task. 

I again made my offer, reminding her that this magic has a price to pay and could not be completed without payment. She had nothing more to offer. Nothing of value to make the magic work. No more jewels adorned her. She no longer possessed anything of meaning.

If this straw was not spun to gold, she would be dead at dawn.

A child. Her first born. 

As the thought came to me, I knew it was a heavy cost. For both herself and myself. But it was the only way to keep her alive. I told her I could spin the straw to gold but the price would be her first born when she was Queen.

She didn’t hesitate; whether she intended to remain childless or was caught in her own peril, she agreed immediately. 

I spent the night working at a madman’s pace. Spinning away, spool after spool. Success at dawn. Her life was spared and she became Queen.  The King had accumulated incredible wealth. The poor miller’s daughter had earned a crown. And I had gained a promise of a family.

Soon after, news came that the Queen had delivered a baby. I went to collect. A deal’s a deal, and the magical debt must be paid, the universal cost. 

In the time since the Queen had made her promise, I had built up my hut to house a young babe. I had removed the sharps and rounded all the edges. I had stocked up on all the items that a young baby would need to grow and thrive. 

It took me back to the time when my own child was alive. My little baby. I had so much love to give. 

The Queen, upon seeing me, knew why I had returned. She refused to hand over her child, offering me vast fortunes instead. Unfortunately, that’s not how the magic works. It had to be the child.

She began to cry, that same cry that reminded me of my wife. I broke inside and took pity on her. I offered her an impossible task – to find my name in three days. If she could do so, she could keep her baby. If she failed, I would have a child of my own to love and care for. A family again. And a magical debt repaid. 

I knew the risk I was taking, the magic had to be paid. There are consequences for not keeping the cosmic balance, but I was sure she would not find my name and in those three days, the debt would be made whole.

I underestimated her cunning. She had no intention of paying her debt. As Queen, she had resources to send spies all across the land and one of them happened upon my hut while I was away. He broke in and went through my affairs. He saw the only image I had of my family and upon it my family name. 

With this information, on the third day, she spoke my name. 

Rumpelstiltskin. 

And as all magical debts must be paid, it was my life that was offered for hers. 

She reneged on her promise.  

As the bolt of searing pain shot through me, my leg smashed into the ground breaking through to my hip. My hand shot out and grabbed my other foot and I pulled myself in two.

“Rumpelstiltskin” Illustration by Anne Anderson. Public Domain