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I was recently reminded of how I did battle with Mothra.

It was a hard fought skirmish, lasting a better part of 45 minutes. Weaving and bobbing all about.

Mothra was devious. Cunning. Wiley like a coyote. Like s/he could sense my next move. And parry defensively at will. Strategy built over generations of evolution, sewn into their very genetic fabric.

But, in the end, I was more than Mothra could handle.

Trapped in the gentle cupping of my meaty paws, it was not to be Mothra’s end. There would be mercy.

Mothra deserved liberty. And so, s/he would be freed outside.

I called out for assistance, as my hands were full, and the door was opened for me. I stepped outside into the dark, into the calm opacity that silenced Mothra’s frayed nerves.

Behind me, behind us, the door slammed shut.

A voice could be heard cackling from the other side: “sometimes, sacrifices must be made.”

In the end, Mothra and I were not much different.

Photo by Mikkel Frimer-Rasmussen on Unsplash

If we observe the world around us, we have the opportunity to learn The Truth.

The Truth, capital T, that crosses all labels, genders, races, cultures, sexualities, and any other terms of stratification.

For example, the other day on my drive in to work, as I pulled up to a red light, I nonchalantly shifted my gaze about as we drivers often do.

I took that few moments of driver’s respite to soak in all the majesty that the industrial side street I was on could offer – the big chimney stacks spewing copious amounts of billowing white mist, lightly dusted with sulphur, the big rig trucks backed with skill into the truck level loading doors, the protective bumpers compressed to form a soothing seal around the edges.

As sometimes occurs, my eyes locked with the distinguished gentleman in the fancy, gleaming sports car beside mine.

But this time, it was different. It was electric.

We both stopped. Frozen in time.

He with his left index finger shoved knuckle deep into his left nostril, obviously scratching his nose. From the inside.

Me, unable to avert my gaze, trying to understand how such a small nose could take in such a large finger.

And then it hit me.

The Truth.

No matter who you are, or what you do, if you are inside of a car, at some point you will have an itch that needs scratching, usually at a red light.

And that is what he, the posh gentleman in the fancy, gleaming sports car, taught me.

Photo by Erwan Hesry on Unsplash

It feels like an eternity has passed. But it’s only been minutes. It doesn’t matter. To him. Or to her. They sit on opposite sides of the short, rectangular table, staring intently at each other. In that moment, they are adversaries, this much they both know. Both with their own purpose, their own agendas.

In the ripening silence, the battling duo reach an impasse.

As the depth of the stillness grows, the burly man with his weathered features leans forward and places his scarred elbows on the cheaply finished surface of the table, his calloused palms flat, fingers spread wide.

Pressing his fingertips downward, they blanche and the once delineated half moons of his nail beds disappear into the whiteness, the blood forced out. The hardness and coldness of the scuffed table sends a small jolt into his awareness.  A reflexive flash of movement is visible across his face; his jaw clenches as he ignores the discomfort, focused on the seemingly insurmountable task at hand.

He shifts his immense frame forward to create proximity but not enough to induce threat, his biceps straining against the weight they are now tasked with holding up, the cuffed short sleeves of his polo shirt stretched to their limit. With this simple act, the man brings himself closer to his worthy opponent, trying to find common ground from where they can start the process anew, where he can salvage this interaction.

“Look, I don’t have all day…”

There is an edge to his voice.

She looks up at him, her fixed eyes barely flicking upward to register his voice as it cuts through the quiet. Instantly, he feels his face flush with heat, the rising anger bubbling up from deep within his belly. He manages to choke it back down almost instantly. His years of training as a high risk interrogator enables him to catch himself before he loses his cool, his control. Before the visible ticks and tells, the ones we all have, can be used by his worthy opponent to chip away at his smooth external veneer. Before she can expose all the cracks below his unblemished exterior, thereby gaining the upper hand.

A quick thought flashes through his mind. It has been a long time since any of his subjects have stirred this response in him, awoken it in such dramatic fashion. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, counting to five.

He is one of the best in the industry with accolades and awards liberally sprinkled through his storied 20 year policing career. He is directly credited with brining down indoctrinated terrorists and deranged gunmen in high stakes standoffs in his life as a public servant. He deals with some of the most cunning, cerebral miscreants, always managing to find a way in, to gain the upper hand in the weaponless battle of wits, never once unholstering his weapon, or requiring his charges do the same.

A week away from retirement, his incredible record now looks to be completed with a question mark.

The failed last stand.

She struggles against her restraints, pushing her body against the snug nylon straps that tether her in place, arching her back hard. The sturdy straps hold fast, unyielding. Her body falls back limp into her seat, his prisoner. Her eyes blaze in rage. The dark pupils dilated, reflecting the solitary light that hangs from the ceiling above.

She doesn’t care fo anyone but herself. She has demonstrated that time and time again.

Although she finds herself stuck, she still understands she is in the power position. That she has the ability to bend him to her will, whenever she chooses to do so. He is merely a pawn, a disposable piece in her game.

She remains silent, her eyes still lit with the angry fire.

“Why won’t you…”

He starts but doesn’t get a chance to finish, interrupted by the cup that hurtles towards him through the air end over end, it’s contents initially suspended in the air like a fine art tableau of paint blotches. Spatter on an ethereal canvas.

He had offered her a beverage when their delicate dance had begun, and it was commanded by gravity to the now dirty floor below his feet, droplets of the tawny liquid soiling his crisp, freshly pressed trousers, staining them. 

Her eyes are alive now, knowing she has struck a chord, engendered a response from him. Her own little Newtonian experiment. Action. Reaction.

“You little sociopath.”

A low guttural growl escapes under his breath. She is laughing silently, her dark eyes dancing, the corners of her eye lids crinkled. Taunting him. Demanding he engage in this high stakes game of brinkmanship.

He’s never faced anyone like her before. She is impervious to his techniques, his negotiations. They’ve been at it for over an hour and he’s no closer to his end game than when he started.

Reciprocity. Rapport. Threats. Engagement. He’s tried it all. Good cop. Bad cop. The carrot. The stick. Nothing is working. She is the Moriarty to his Holmes, but far more sinister.

“Why won’t you eat your breakfast?”

He finally cries in exasperation as he brings another airplane full of food on a spoon through the air in for a landing in her mouth.  

The little girl, her lips sealed in a tight, thin line, slaps the spoon away as her head turns, rejecting her father’s offering.

Photo by duong chung on Unsplash

What happens when I let my hair down on a Friday night…

Walking the dairy aisle of the local grocery store one time, a young child of about 7 or 8 is staring intently at me, head craned 180 degrees as he’s walking forward, perhaps even gliding on those light up roller shoes that seem the rage with the youngsters these days.

Unbeknownst to him, the stylish, leather jacket clad woman directly in front of him stopped abruptly to compare butter prices. There were deals to be had, after all.

Possibly enchanted by my wild visage and free-flowing locks, he did not.

I’m not sure if it was ass to face or face to ass, but I will admit, I laughed out loud.

Our young protagonist, with nary a word, quickly scampered and/or slid away to join his blissfully unaware mother-figure who was further down the aisle, procuring what would be his future sustenance.

The leather jacket clad woman turned quickly on her clickity heels to cast a scathing look upon my jungly being. Her disdain for the posterior intrusion etched plainly for all to see, directed in all its fury squarely on me.

Until she immediately realized the wee little ginger did not belong to me.

Those crazy Friday nights…

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

The list keeps growing.

Each week, more names are softly etched into the living memorial residing in the fibrous russet bark that covers the mammoth trunk of the magnificent Sequoiadendron giganteum. The giant, ancient tree has stood guard for centuries at that very fork in the road that separates these two neighbouring nations.

As stoic sentinel, it weathers the fiercest of storms, the ravages of fire and drought, and greets every visitor who enters this curious town with a deep sense of foreboding and awe. Rising dozens of meters into the sky, it pierces the marshmallow softness of the joyful cumulonimbus clouds that often gather at it’s peak to dance and play. The townsfolk claim it, not unjustly, to be a direct channel to the heavens above.

No one is certain how long it has stood there or whether it is truly still alive. It’s intricate root system dives deep into the fertile soil, to depths unknown, only to rise up in in a variety of twist and turns, leaving a confusing, meandering maze of wonder and amazement, somehow managing to avoid the clear, trodden path of the neighbouring town while abutting the smooth dirt road in a matted lattice that curls and twists in a confusing mass upon itself and its being.

The names of the disappeared.

Every night, in the fading light of day, the obedient townsfolk gather, aWake in the Field in front of the behemoth that they affectionately call Big Tree, as their mayor, his mop of listless, unkempt hair flopping on his furrowed brow – his red, rheumy eyes defiant – solemnly takes out his gilded ceremonial knife from its magnificently jewelled scabbard, gifted to him from sources unknown.

He turns his back on them, and slowly immortalizes those who have recently passed, knowing the part he has played.

And every day, as he raises his left arm to begin his sombre task, the distinctive mark of the elder becomes clearly visible in the setting sun as his sleeve, felled by undeniable gravity, exposes the deep circular scarring on his upper arm glinting with a protective sheen. His deft, meticulous movements steady and precise, his neuromuscular control intact – that blade his very own lancet to prick the living bark to death.

Pushed forward, then retracted. A living journal.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

In the eerie silence, the sound and the fury of the ceremonial knife slicing away at the robust bark, peeling away the viable, protective covering, exposing underneath a tender, vulnerable core, is a stark reminder of the dangers endemic to this nation. And the rising risk to those all around.

This living, breathing memorial, possessing that which it’s memorialized no longer do, grows by the day.

New names added at a dizzying pace.

Few make that choice. For most, the choice, made for them. Those in the recent past, a ritualistic sacrifice for the town’s contemporary founder, the self proclaimed mayor, who by virtue of his past station as a former physician along with the technological advancements at his disposal, spread his message far and wide, beckoning many to his new settlement, his revived nation, to his new first world order.

The deadly conspiracy.

The townsfolk are certain that danger exists out there against them. It’s what they’re told. A compelling narrative that preys on their fears, both real and imagined. They’re certain it came from abroad.

In their minds, they’re the defenders against an insurmountable conspiracy, a conspiracy of consensus. One designed by all other nations and towns – their very own neighbours – aiming to usurp their personal freedoms and enslave them to the wills and whims of those in power.

Against their neighbours they built their walls and defenses. Impenetrable. Buttressed by the support of those just like them. Reinforced and solidified, tempered over time like finely forged steel, unlikely to crumple under pressure, no matter how immense, how intense, brittleness burned out long ago. Doubled up. And doubled down.

The only way in, for acceptance, is to walk down that path, their path, past the memorial tree standing guard at that fork in the road between those two opposing nations.

A long lost past.

It was always this way between these two nations, but as things are alike, they are different. This town had faded to obscurity, populations much like fortunes, dwindling, until a resurgence a couple decades ago when it was rediscovered, as it always is and always has been for centuries. Silky words woo a new generation, a bolder generation, armed with the ability to unleash it’s miasma on the world at large, again, in ever growing surges.

Initially, in small pockets. Then slowly expanding like a vicious, tenacious fog rising up over the crested hills and valleys of the nearby towns and villages, impacts felt by those least able to protect themselves, wrapping the vulnerable tightly in it’s cloak of misery and needleless suffering.

From one chamber of believers to the to the next, using it’s capricious tentacles to procure small purchase, it expands exponentially against logic, defying science. It seeps into fragile, fenestrated minds, growing larger with the passage of time, in bits and bytes, transmitted at the speed of light, crawling deeper out of lore and into pervasive reality. Echoing.

As we know, a lie wrapped deliciously around a grain of truth, with the sound of promise, is a fruit that yields the sweetest flesh to those seeking it.

The fog lifting.

Many of the older townsfolk trace their roots to the neighbouring nation of V’aaxi, finding themselves unlike those who live there, not in practice but in principle, fleeing to seemingly safer pastures apart from the herd, in their new land.

Many still feel the biting scorn and ridicule from their former comrades cutting into them – having survived those searing barbs and insults only served to inoculate them against further diseased thinking from those sheepish, mercurial minds. Fleeing the toxicity.

But now, surrounded by those who are liberated by the gospel, their minds are free and clear. Uninjured. They too will spread it. Their Truth. It is their unifying purpose. Together they are stronger. United they will swell their ranks. Inflame them.

And there they stand on that quiet evening in the growing dusk, amongst their first world brethren and sistren, arm in arm. The setting sun casts their shadows in long, dark columns behind them, in solidarity with their fallen. The disappeared. As one by one, the names of their young and very young, taken too soon, are etched by the mayor into the red pocked flesh of the ancient Sequoia tree.

The weathered sign, on the opposite side of the massive trunk, absorbs the last of the dying rays of sunshine, welcoming newcomers, those wanting to see the light sooner, to the nation of N’tivax.

Photo by Yaroslav Кorshikov on Unsplash

Do you ever come upon those moments in life where you suddenly realize that Hollywood has had a much bigger impact on who you are?

I just had such a moment recently.

While filling the kettle with freshly drawn cold water to make my afternoon tea, I clumsily splashed the body of my t-shirt, leaving, as we’re all familiar with, that uncomfortable wet spot. This would not do. I couldn’t have this visible to judging eyes that surround us all.

To remediate the problem, I decided to use ingenuity – a hair dryer for a purpose other than drying hair. Simply brilliant MacGyvering, I could hear the angels cheer from above.

To the naysayers and the non-believers, I want to say, it worked. Within minutes of the high powered air stream doing its thing, I was dry. The wet spot, no longer wet. Blown out of existence.

But standing there in front of the bathroom mirror, my shirt now bone dry, another thought crossed my mind…

I have hair, full of potential.

And in my hand was a hair dryer, also full of potential.

Should I?

And I did.

And in moments, I was lost in what was reflected back to me in that mirror mirror on the wall.

Prince Charming, albeit ethnic, with locks of stringy coal tendrils flowing behind me, dancing in the warm winds of potential tapped.

Photo by Atlas Green on Unsplash

“Not today, please.”

The words tumble quietly out of the mouth of the disheveled man seated awkwardly on an elegant wooden bench. The dense, heavy ebony is adorned with intricate carvings of the globe. Each of the continents clearly delineated, the ornate relief work seemingly hand carved into the hard flesh of the Diospyros ebenum. The bench sits alone in a long, barren hallway that seemingly has no beginning and no end, extending as far as the eye can see.

He is perched uncomfortably on the edge of the polished surface, his hands braced firmly against his knees, as if holding every ounce of his being up against the crushing force of gravity below him, fighting the urge to float away and disappear into nothingness above.

His entreaty, fading to a soft whisper, is barely audible in the ambient noise of existence and the gentle whirring of the large, glowing orb suspended overhead. Its soft, warm light bathing half the bench, leaving the other half in darkeness.

There’s no memory of how he got there or how long he’s been sitting on the smooth surface. He has a vague recollection of coming through a door to his right. It was was marked one way, but his memory is foggy. He feels as though he has walked for years. It could very well have only been days. He can’t tell. It doesn’t matter. He shivers, but he isn’t cold. In this stark, sterile hallway, he feels alone. Lost.

The man looks up, pleading with his tired, sunken eyes. The sombre semi-circular moons that frame his lower eyelids darken further, coated by the downward shadows cast by his eyebrow ridges. His irises, expanded with the contraction of his pupils, catch a glint of the brightly flickering orb-light from above, briefly regaining some of their former lustre, a dark chocolate brown bordering on black. Just like the ebony bench. Within, small flecks of gold dance with life then quickly fade to nothing, the rippling echoes of a stone thrown into a pool of water until stillness returns.

“When, then?”

Her voice, while pleasant and friendly, is firm and clear. Unlike his statement, her question has no tremble or shake. Her reply is strong and practiced, as though she’s been through this negotiation before, in many forms, over many lifetimes. Always the same. A hint of amusement is palpable on her as she tilts her head ever so slightly to the right, her piercing grey eyes leveled directly on his, never breaking with his gaze. The beginning of a smile attempts to break onto her face.

“I’m not ready, yet.”

He sits up straighter. Upright. His voice rises along with his body, as though he’s mustered the last dredges of energy from his reserves to push those few words out. With conviction. A last ditch effort. But there isn’t enough energy, the well is empty, and his voice drops again on the last word. Falling. Softening. Failing him.

He’s no longer slouched over, having pushed his shoulders back and his head up for the initial drive. His eyes don’t leave hers, but they’ve changed again, weighted by a profound sadness, or perhaps realization of his current situation.

“When will you be ready?”

As her smile came to be, it was extinguished. A ghost. Did it ever really exist? Was it ever really alive? He can’t be sure.

Her script is polished and practiced. As though she knows what will come next, the carefully orchestrated sequence of asks and entreaties. This was not her first rodeo. She has been doing this for an eternity. For life.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not an easy question to answer, is it?”

He doesn’t expect an answer but sometimes Life surprises us.

“I don’t suppose so. I’ve been doing this for a long time and no one ever seems to be ready. They always say they have something left to do, you see. But you can’t stop it, it doesn’t work that way. It won’t matter how much more time I give you, there will always be something left undone, something left unsaid. There will always be unfinished business.“

He considers her words carefully, knowing she’s right. She’s always right. She has all the answers. She knows all the questions. She always has. He thinks back on his unfinished business, reflecting on all the things that he has left to do. Things undone. Words unsaid. The missed opportunities and untouched experiences. He will never get the chance again. He knows it’s over. The crushing weight of reality pushes down on him, pushes against him, from within. It’s overwhelming. The air suddenly heavy, thick. He struggles to breathe.

“I’m not ready.”

He says the words again, modified from the previous to be more definitive this time, for his benefit rather than for hers. His eyes are glistening now, and he feels the burning within them. The tears. He swore there wouldn’t be any. That was his promise all those years ago. He tries to fight them off. It doesn’t work. They come anyway. They always find a way. Slowly at first as he speeds up his blinking, trying in vain to ward the inevitable. His eyes widening as his jaw sets, the muscles contracting visibly. He is no match for them. No one ever is. They grow, gathering at the edge of his lower eyelids, threatening to spill out.  

 “I know. There aren’t many who are.”

This time her voice is softer, kinder. Empathetic. Maybe it was the unmistakable sheen in his eyes. She is tempted to reach out and place her hand on his shoulder, which has slumped again. To comfort him as he sits on the bench. But she doesn’t move. Her aloofness often considered cold and uncaring. It’s not her place. It never has been. It’s how Life has always been.

Her eyes, much like his, with flecks dancing in the flickering light of that hallway that has no beginning and no end, look at him earnestly. Her face is calm, conveying infinite knowledge and wisdom. She understands that this is how it is. This is how it must be.

“It’s time.”

The gathered moisture in his eyes hits a critical mass and breaches the banks of his eyelids. She watches as the tears cascade down his cheeks freely. Each one silently following the one before it, ultimately breaking off and forging its own path. Creating its own life when ending that of its predecessor. Reflexively, she reaches out, and using the tip of her thumbs, gently wipes them away, her fingers cradling his jaw. A wet trail glistens on the crest of his cheekbones, highlighting the defined arch.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Lost in the moment. Numbed by Life.

Wordlessly, he stands from the beautifully carved bench, smoothing out his wrinkled clothing. Her hands return to her sides. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there since she spoke those words. It feels like a lifetime.

Looking around, he notices that the hallway isn’t actually barren, that the walls aren’t empty. There are incredible images etched into every surface, all illuminated by the glowing orb up above. Vast mountain ranges and raging rivers teeming with life. Animals of every kind and description. Plants and insects. The flora and fauna of the world. And all those familiar faces. He was so caught up with Life that he missed out on the beauty that surrounded his as he sat on that bench.

“It’s time.”

She repeats herself more firmly this time, leaving no room for doubt.

He starts and gives her a thin smile, his lips pulled taut. She hears a soft sigh escape as his shoulders rise and fall. With one last loving look at her, that sadness clouding his eyes, he turns on his heels and walks down the never-ending hallway, in the opposite direction from where he came in.

She’s right. It was time. He knew it. It was inevitable. He was resigned to it, like everyone eventually is. It had come. His time. Life had the final say.

He walks with purpose, head held high, shoulders set. He doesn’t look back. It’s too late for that now. She watches him go as he leaves her.

She turns and walks in the other direction. For the first time, like every time, she realizes that maybe she’s the one leaving.

She steps the wrong way through the one way door.

The tears come back. Trailing down her face.

Trailing down his. As he wails into the bright white light.

Unfinished business.

Photo by Kat J on Unsplash