Stranger
A SHORT STORY BY MICHAELA CATALANO
"You know, I've always wanted to do this," I said.
"What? I mean, what is this, specifically?"
"Don't do it!," somebody shouted, hands forming a makeshift megaphone over his face. "You have so much to live for!"
"Oh, I'm gonna do it," I yelled back. "I'm gonna do it, I swear to god I will." I swung my legs back and forth over the abyss, watched birds drifting through the distance. "I've got nothing to lose!" I turned, looked at her. She was sitting next to me, legs folded, watching with interest. "I don't know," I said to her. "Not this exactly, you know. The idea of this, that's what I wanted to do."
"The idea?" She raised an eyebrow. "They idea of dying? Or the idea of killing yourself?"
"Neither of those," I said.
"Ma'am!" A cop or somebody was yelling through an actual megaphone. I assumed it was a cop. I didn't know. I wasn't paying attention to the crowd any more. "Ma'am, please, come down and we can talk about this. We can get you help."
"Nobody can help me!" I screamed. "This is it! This is my last resort!"
"So if it's not either of those, then what is it?"
"It's not that important. It was just a thought. You know, you shouldn't be up here. The FBI is after me, they'll get you too."
"The FBI?" she said. "Why, what'd you do?"
"They're after me. They put microchips under my skin, when I was sleeping. After they took out the ones I already had in there, I mean."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, the Illuminati's probably in on it too. They're all after me. I found out their secret."
"Ma'am, please! Come down!"
"Fuck you! I'm not coming down! Christ."
"What is their secret?"
"Man, don't you see? It's so obvious. Area 51, all that shit? It's not a cover up. It's a distraction. All those crash sites and weird research areas, nothing happened there. It's faked. And while they're playing us all for idiots they're perfecting the real secret. And now they know I know."
"So what is the real secret?"
"They're keeping the Anti-Christ golem imprisoned in the Large Hadron Collider."
"Ah," she said. "I always wondered."
"So, tell me about yourself," I said.
"What?"
"I don't know. What kind of books are you into?"
"The ones that are worth reading," she said. "So why are you killing yourself, exactly? If you're on the run from the government, why are you giving them what they want?"
"Oh, I'm not," I said. "I just lie to strangers for fun. Listen, you seem pretty cool. Wanna hang out?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Let's go get some food. You like Indian?"
"Yeah," she said. "Let's get some Indian."
Friday, September 5, 2008
Understanding
UNDERSTANDING
A SHORT STORY BY MICHAELA CATALANO
I was in bed the night white fire fell from the sky. My brother was sleeping on the couch. He died. I didn't. I don't think there was anything more to it than that.
I was in bed, but I was awake. Night brings out my most morbid and fatalistic thoughts and that night was no different. I turned thoughts of death over and over in my head, focused not on the means but the outcome. Crossing the river. Traversing the doorway. Slipping under the veil. My own voice multiplied in my head, echoing off that vast space, words bleeding into a single ringing discordance.
And then it was quiet. I tried to think and I couldn't. I tried to speak and no sound passed through my lips. I stumbled silently to the floor and then the window, ripping open the blinds. The sky was lit by rings of white light, shining haloes, twisting and winding together, shedding long streams of luminescence that fell faster and faster toward the ground.
Down on the street people were running en masse, tripping over each other and running nowhere at all. Then the fire hit. Thin shafts slamming into the ground, hundreds of thousands of them within my field of vision alone, like tracer rounds fired straight down. Some people were hit, and they died, collapsing wherever they stood. It went on for a while. Time meant nothing then, in utter silence. It might have been a few seconds or minutes or hours. Then it was over and the lights in the sky spun off into the black.
I turned and looked back at my bedroom. The ceiling was burned nearly completely away by hundreds of impacts, the bed perforated with charred and smoking holes. I was untouched.
There was no sound in the world, no thought the rest of that night, and I remember little of it but fleeting images and scenes. I remember a man in a black coat crouched over a body, not moving. I remember the streets still clogged with residents running until their legs gave out and they lay bewildered among the dead.
I woke in the middle of the street. The sun was shining and birds sang obscenely from all around. I went back into the apartment. My brother was sprawled across the sofa, cold.
I walked for hours. I don't know where I thought I was going. I guess I didn't know then, either. I had to move. Burned out buildings and the twisted husks of cars lined my way. The asphalt was studded with small black holes. The streets seemed empty of all life.
Later on, in the afternoon, I crossed paths with a young woman who was walking in the opposite direction. Her clothes were already dirty and torn. She was covered in bruises, scratches and cuts.
"The judgement of God has been passed," she said, her eyes feverish and bright. "Don't you think? It was water last but the lord keeps his promises. First with water then with fire, he cleansed the world of our sins. Don't you see?"
I shook my head. "Where was thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare, if thou hast understanding."
Her eyes widened. She took a step back.
"Nothing," I said, "Is done for such a simple reason as judgement."
She raised her head and stalked past me. I walked on.
The sun drifted lazily down through a purpling sky, and it was not until dusk that I saw another person.
"Hey," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. "Hey, come here." He was tall and pale. He wore a dark shirt and blue jeans. "Look at this." He raised a shaking hand. There was a small rock in his palm.
"Look at this." The rock rose into the air and hung there, a foot above his palm.
I didn't know what to say.
"I can do this," he said. "I couldn't do this before, but I can do this." He turned to me. "Stay still," he said. I didn't really have much of a choice. At first nothing happened, then I felt something tugging at me from above, a suction growing stronger until I was lifted off the ground. I panicked then, yelled, and he leapt backward, releasing me. As soon as I hit the ground I was running, and I didn't stop for a long time.
I'm on a roof now. Somebody's roof. I don't know whose. Nobody's now, of course. I live in this house, but it will never be mine. It's night, and with the power out everywhere, I can see the stars more clearly than I ever have before. I'm lying back and staring up, and I'm not thinking about the end of the world or even about dying.
I'm lying and remembering the end of that night: the night sky so pure, haloes of white light flying up and away, out into the dark.
A SHORT STORY BY MICHAELA CATALANO
I was in bed the night white fire fell from the sky. My brother was sleeping on the couch. He died. I didn't. I don't think there was anything more to it than that.
I was in bed, but I was awake. Night brings out my most morbid and fatalistic thoughts and that night was no different. I turned thoughts of death over and over in my head, focused not on the means but the outcome. Crossing the river. Traversing the doorway. Slipping under the veil. My own voice multiplied in my head, echoing off that vast space, words bleeding into a single ringing discordance.
And then it was quiet. I tried to think and I couldn't. I tried to speak and no sound passed through my lips. I stumbled silently to the floor and then the window, ripping open the blinds. The sky was lit by rings of white light, shining haloes, twisting and winding together, shedding long streams of luminescence that fell faster and faster toward the ground.
Down on the street people were running en masse, tripping over each other and running nowhere at all. Then the fire hit. Thin shafts slamming into the ground, hundreds of thousands of them within my field of vision alone, like tracer rounds fired straight down. Some people were hit, and they died, collapsing wherever they stood. It went on for a while. Time meant nothing then, in utter silence. It might have been a few seconds or minutes or hours. Then it was over and the lights in the sky spun off into the black.
I turned and looked back at my bedroom. The ceiling was burned nearly completely away by hundreds of impacts, the bed perforated with charred and smoking holes. I was untouched.
There was no sound in the world, no thought the rest of that night, and I remember little of it but fleeting images and scenes. I remember a man in a black coat crouched over a body, not moving. I remember the streets still clogged with residents running until their legs gave out and they lay bewildered among the dead.
I woke in the middle of the street. The sun was shining and birds sang obscenely from all around. I went back into the apartment. My brother was sprawled across the sofa, cold.
I walked for hours. I don't know where I thought I was going. I guess I didn't know then, either. I had to move. Burned out buildings and the twisted husks of cars lined my way. The asphalt was studded with small black holes. The streets seemed empty of all life.
Later on, in the afternoon, I crossed paths with a young woman who was walking in the opposite direction. Her clothes were already dirty and torn. She was covered in bruises, scratches and cuts.
"The judgement of God has been passed," she said, her eyes feverish and bright. "Don't you think? It was water last but the lord keeps his promises. First with water then with fire, he cleansed the world of our sins. Don't you see?"
I shook my head. "Where was thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare, if thou hast understanding."
Her eyes widened. She took a step back.
"Nothing," I said, "Is done for such a simple reason as judgement."
She raised her head and stalked past me. I walked on.
The sun drifted lazily down through a purpling sky, and it was not until dusk that I saw another person.
"Hey," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. "Hey, come here." He was tall and pale. He wore a dark shirt and blue jeans. "Look at this." He raised a shaking hand. There was a small rock in his palm.
"Look at this." The rock rose into the air and hung there, a foot above his palm.
I didn't know what to say.
"I can do this," he said. "I couldn't do this before, but I can do this." He turned to me. "Stay still," he said. I didn't really have much of a choice. At first nothing happened, then I felt something tugging at me from above, a suction growing stronger until I was lifted off the ground. I panicked then, yelled, and he leapt backward, releasing me. As soon as I hit the ground I was running, and I didn't stop for a long time.
I'm on a roof now. Somebody's roof. I don't know whose. Nobody's now, of course. I live in this house, but it will never be mine. It's night, and with the power out everywhere, I can see the stars more clearly than I ever have before. I'm lying back and staring up, and I'm not thinking about the end of the world or even about dying.
I'm lying and remembering the end of that night: the night sky so pure, haloes of white light flying up and away, out into the dark.
Staged Home Movies
Staged Home Movies
A BRIEF WORK OF FICTION BY MICHAELA CATALANO
There are grey shapes all around, rectangular and crumbling. Everything is lit by a reflection. Sunlight ricocheting off the moon and down to here. Blasting through particles in the atmosphere and coming apart, filtering down into the damp earth and the cracks in the headstones and our bodies. There is no such thing as darkness. Sight is one of the many abstractions that make up a human being. That bounding light is dim here but I can feel its force. I close my eyes and I can see it gathering strength out there in the emptiness. It cracks the moon and falls to earth, infinite invisible meteors. I can hear the headstones shattering and a sound like lead rain. When you look up at the stars you're looking at the past. Nothing you see is real. Your eyes are projecting illusions that are already over. Everything is staged home movies you dug out of a moldy box in the garage and put in an old VCR. The video is halting. There are scratches across the sky. There's a storm, but not here. It never really stops raining and I wish I could hop in the car with you and follow the clouds across the world. See the whole world with dark skies and the sound of water, ripples and waves flowing murky over the windows. It's warm tonight and I don't know if I love it or hate it. Darkness is cold and summer nights feel like a dream. Every morning I want to go back to sleep, but when I look back on the day I realize I never woke up in the first place. I've been asleep my whole life and it's only when I'm with you that I wake up. It's only when I'm with you that I can dream. There's a flash of lightning and the ground splits open at our feet. I begin to fall and you reach out. I grab your hand and you jump in with me and we fall together. It's black for a long time and then there is a red glow rising far below. You tell me that it's creepier here than you expected, and I open my eyes. You are sitting down now, six or seven feet above a dead man. It isn't strange. We spend our lives walking on the dust of the worlds that came before us. A strange wind blows through my hair, devoid of temperature. There are planets and revolving balls of gas out there, lighting the way through nothing, all around us. If I look up there will be nothing but black felt. The stars here line the streets. It's not creepy at all. There's a serenity here that is unique. I don't think it's morbid. Death simply is, and is nothing more. This is a place of life and I feel comfortable here. We're lying together on grass that is beginning to glisten with dew. It's colder now as the slightest hint of orange is on the horizon. I can see our clothes scattered across the grave dirt. It's finally cold but I'm warm for the first time in my life. I touch your face and you smile. There is no gravity here. I am adrift in nothing. There is a school in front of us. Everything is gray. The cement is gray. The signs are gray. The grass is gray. The sky is gray. The bodies are gray. Scattered across the ground. There is no blood. I can't see you but I know you're here. We're digging a hole, and my muscles ache pleasantly. Hey, this one wanted to be an architect, you tell me as we drop him in. Did he fear death? Did he want to create something that would live on when he died? Did he want to be remembered even in some small fashion? He never got the chance. My back is wet and I feel a sting as something bites me. You're still there beside me. Hey, you say. Welcome back. The sky is purple and red and blue and the world is burning in the distance. We put each other's clothes on and run back to the car. Someone must have seen us by now and it's only a matter of time before the cops show up.
A BRIEF WORK OF FICTION BY MICHAELA CATALANO
There are grey shapes all around, rectangular and crumbling. Everything is lit by a reflection. Sunlight ricocheting off the moon and down to here. Blasting through particles in the atmosphere and coming apart, filtering down into the damp earth and the cracks in the headstones and our bodies. There is no such thing as darkness. Sight is one of the many abstractions that make up a human being. That bounding light is dim here but I can feel its force. I close my eyes and I can see it gathering strength out there in the emptiness. It cracks the moon and falls to earth, infinite invisible meteors. I can hear the headstones shattering and a sound like lead rain. When you look up at the stars you're looking at the past. Nothing you see is real. Your eyes are projecting illusions that are already over. Everything is staged home movies you dug out of a moldy box in the garage and put in an old VCR. The video is halting. There are scratches across the sky. There's a storm, but not here. It never really stops raining and I wish I could hop in the car with you and follow the clouds across the world. See the whole world with dark skies and the sound of water, ripples and waves flowing murky over the windows. It's warm tonight and I don't know if I love it or hate it. Darkness is cold and summer nights feel like a dream. Every morning I want to go back to sleep, but when I look back on the day I realize I never woke up in the first place. I've been asleep my whole life and it's only when I'm with you that I wake up. It's only when I'm with you that I can dream. There's a flash of lightning and the ground splits open at our feet. I begin to fall and you reach out. I grab your hand and you jump in with me and we fall together. It's black for a long time and then there is a red glow rising far below. You tell me that it's creepier here than you expected, and I open my eyes. You are sitting down now, six or seven feet above a dead man. It isn't strange. We spend our lives walking on the dust of the worlds that came before us. A strange wind blows through my hair, devoid of temperature. There are planets and revolving balls of gas out there, lighting the way through nothing, all around us. If I look up there will be nothing but black felt. The stars here line the streets. It's not creepy at all. There's a serenity here that is unique. I don't think it's morbid. Death simply is, and is nothing more. This is a place of life and I feel comfortable here. We're lying together on grass that is beginning to glisten with dew. It's colder now as the slightest hint of orange is on the horizon. I can see our clothes scattered across the grave dirt. It's finally cold but I'm warm for the first time in my life. I touch your face and you smile. There is no gravity here. I am adrift in nothing. There is a school in front of us. Everything is gray. The cement is gray. The signs are gray. The grass is gray. The sky is gray. The bodies are gray. Scattered across the ground. There is no blood. I can't see you but I know you're here. We're digging a hole, and my muscles ache pleasantly. Hey, this one wanted to be an architect, you tell me as we drop him in. Did he fear death? Did he want to create something that would live on when he died? Did he want to be remembered even in some small fashion? He never got the chance. My back is wet and I feel a sting as something bites me. You're still there beside me. Hey, you say. Welcome back. The sky is purple and red and blue and the world is burning in the distance. We put each other's clothes on and run back to the car. Someone must have seen us by now and it's only a matter of time before the cops show up.
Flight
Flight
A SHORT STORY BY MICHAELA CATALANO
I am eye to eye with the horizon and the beaten wing hung south into empty sky. There waits below me an earth-choked world shattered with fog.
In the terminal I sat alone watching endings. The air was cool and sterile. I felt as though in a hospital, but hung with a different sort of unright, the sort of unright that fills eyes rather than hollows them out. A man and woman stopped walking and he set his bags against a plastic sign. They became as close as they could in their context and each time he would break away and then return, not quite running, and prolong his relevance. My friend laughed each time. I laughed and in my stomach there was a different pain than I expected.
I have not paid to view the in-flight movie on my previous nine flights and I will not pay this time. I have held the minus side of the brightness switch on my armrest until the screen in front of me is dark. I sit and read from a book you will not see as I do.
My friend left with little ceremony. As I stood in the security line she appeared and said that she was leaving. I said okay. She did not say goodbye and I did not say goodbye, and she was gone. I looked to where the man and woman had stood together before they at last broke in truth and I could not decide if I was glad that I was leaving little behind or not. In the security line I was smiled at by someone whose honesty made him real.
Someone's child is crying, a faltering pure sound that has in it all of the things that the complex keep unspoken: I want. I need. I am not okay. I shift in a seat that is growing slightly painful and turn my head to the left where high hills rest low and sinuous. I look to my hands. They seem small and pale and streaked with blue. I cannot hold them steady unless they rest on my legs.
I sat by the gate and read and listened to they who would find themselves with me in flight. I felt that if I was truly known to them not one would find me something they could not hate, and I lowered my eyes and hated and picked at a small dark bite on my wrist.
I awake from a sudden sleep. The overhead air vent is cold and burning at my scalp and I fumble and wrench it away. Something rises with unshakable familiarity and I sit swallowing until I know and I unbuckle and rise with it and find to the restroom and wait behind others and know I will and then grow wider of eye and stumble down the aisle as sound muffles and sparking night opens over the passengers and seats and I strive through a dime of vision for my seat number and collapse and hold my head in my hands and wait until I am close again to normal. The man next to me asks are you okay. I speak.
A SHORT STORY BY MICHAELA CATALANO
I am eye to eye with the horizon and the beaten wing hung south into empty sky. There waits below me an earth-choked world shattered with fog.
In the terminal I sat alone watching endings. The air was cool and sterile. I felt as though in a hospital, but hung with a different sort of unright, the sort of unright that fills eyes rather than hollows them out. A man and woman stopped walking and he set his bags against a plastic sign. They became as close as they could in their context and each time he would break away and then return, not quite running, and prolong his relevance. My friend laughed each time. I laughed and in my stomach there was a different pain than I expected.
I have not paid to view the in-flight movie on my previous nine flights and I will not pay this time. I have held the minus side of the brightness switch on my armrest until the screen in front of me is dark. I sit and read from a book you will not see as I do.
My friend left with little ceremony. As I stood in the security line she appeared and said that she was leaving. I said okay. She did not say goodbye and I did not say goodbye, and she was gone. I looked to where the man and woman had stood together before they at last broke in truth and I could not decide if I was glad that I was leaving little behind or not. In the security line I was smiled at by someone whose honesty made him real.
Someone's child is crying, a faltering pure sound that has in it all of the things that the complex keep unspoken: I want. I need. I am not okay. I shift in a seat that is growing slightly painful and turn my head to the left where high hills rest low and sinuous. I look to my hands. They seem small and pale and streaked with blue. I cannot hold them steady unless they rest on my legs.
I sat by the gate and read and listened to they who would find themselves with me in flight. I felt that if I was truly known to them not one would find me something they could not hate, and I lowered my eyes and hated and picked at a small dark bite on my wrist.
I awake from a sudden sleep. The overhead air vent is cold and burning at my scalp and I fumble and wrench it away. Something rises with unshakable familiarity and I sit swallowing until I know and I unbuckle and rise with it and find to the restroom and wait behind others and know I will and then grow wider of eye and stumble down the aisle as sound muffles and sparking night opens over the passengers and seats and I strive through a dime of vision for my seat number and collapse and hold my head in my hands and wait until I am close again to normal. The man next to me asks are you okay. I speak.
Words
Words
A SHORT STORY BY MICHAELA CATALANO
"Give me your words," he says. He leans in close and then low, his face to the side of mine, just above my shoulder. "I need to know," he says, and I can feel his breath on my neck.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, but I think I do. His hand is under my shirt. It's moving slowly up my stomach. It's warm. All of him is. I try to pull away and feel drywall against my back. For a moment I'm panicked, but just as suddenly I forget what I wanted to run away from.
"Please," he says. "I need to know." His free hand is wrapped around me. I don't know how it got there. The other is stroking my chest, hesitantly, needfully.
"What do you need to know?", I manage to ask, barely. My heart is pounding and it feels as through there is a baseball caught in my throat.
"What you are," he says, and his lips are brushing against my neck and my eyes are shut and I'm swimming in something viscous and right.
---
He is on top of me, and my shirt is off, fluttered to the floor some minutes ago, unneeded. My chest is heaving. His hand is tracing a line down my torso now, fingers trailing ponderously.
"When I was six I fell in the backyard," I say. "I hit my head. I thought I was flying. There were black clouds against a gray sky and no sun or moon and the clouds were whirling past me. They left brown spots on my skin when they passed. Like ashes."
His hand is down by my waist and it should tickle, but it doesn't tickle. He's trembling and kissing my neck.
"When I was ten I dreamed about the Rapture. I ran outside and stood on the lawn and watched my parents and all my neighbors floating up into the sky. Animals, too, and other things, cars, lamp posts. Everything was going to heaven bit by bit. And then finally it was over and I realized I was still on the ground."
His hand is somewhere different now. He is moving. My breathing is dizzy and short but I don't stop talking.
"I ran everywhere and jumped up and tried to float away but I couldn't. And then finally I came back to my yard with the huge green tree. The tree should have been in the back yard but in my dream it was in the front yard. Jesus was sitting in the tree, looking up at the sky and swinging his legs. I climbed up the tree and reached out to him, and he kicked me down."
His whole body is pressed against mine and somehow my jeans are gone and he's blazing hot, glowing red like a poker just drawn from the fireplace, and ice is melting everywhere and snow falls from the mountaintops with an echoing roar.
"When I was twelve my dad... I was at the beach and I got caught in a rip tide. It pulled me under and the water was pitch black. I didn't know which way was up. But I knew my dad was there and I reached out and thrashed and tried to find him and I grabbed hold of his leg and he shook me loose. And later when I asked him he didn't believe it happened. He said a fish must have bumped into him."
And there's something shining in me and I can't get it loose and it's burning away my insides and I can't get away.
"And last night I lay awake and I could feel something huge out there in the dark, pulling me toward it, and sounds and images were whirling around in my head so fast I couldn't make them out, and I have to run but I don't know where to and where do you run when what you're running from is yourself?"
And suddenly something has happened and nothing matters more than where I am right now.
---
"Hey," I say, shifting and holding myself closer to his chest. It's quiet except for us and there is nothing in the darkness. "Tell me."
"Mm?"
"Tell me what you are," I say, and the world is sideways and strange and absolutely right.
A SHORT STORY BY MICHAELA CATALANO
"Give me your words," he says. He leans in close and then low, his face to the side of mine, just above my shoulder. "I need to know," he says, and I can feel his breath on my neck.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, but I think I do. His hand is under my shirt. It's moving slowly up my stomach. It's warm. All of him is. I try to pull away and feel drywall against my back. For a moment I'm panicked, but just as suddenly I forget what I wanted to run away from.
"Please," he says. "I need to know." His free hand is wrapped around me. I don't know how it got there. The other is stroking my chest, hesitantly, needfully.
"What do you need to know?", I manage to ask, barely. My heart is pounding and it feels as through there is a baseball caught in my throat.
"What you are," he says, and his lips are brushing against my neck and my eyes are shut and I'm swimming in something viscous and right.
---
He is on top of me, and my shirt is off, fluttered to the floor some minutes ago, unneeded. My chest is heaving. His hand is tracing a line down my torso now, fingers trailing ponderously.
"When I was six I fell in the backyard," I say. "I hit my head. I thought I was flying. There were black clouds against a gray sky and no sun or moon and the clouds were whirling past me. They left brown spots on my skin when they passed. Like ashes."
His hand is down by my waist and it should tickle, but it doesn't tickle. He's trembling and kissing my neck.
"When I was ten I dreamed about the Rapture. I ran outside and stood on the lawn and watched my parents and all my neighbors floating up into the sky. Animals, too, and other things, cars, lamp posts. Everything was going to heaven bit by bit. And then finally it was over and I realized I was still on the ground."
His hand is somewhere different now. He is moving. My breathing is dizzy and short but I don't stop talking.
"I ran everywhere and jumped up and tried to float away but I couldn't. And then finally I came back to my yard with the huge green tree. The tree should have been in the back yard but in my dream it was in the front yard. Jesus was sitting in the tree, looking up at the sky and swinging his legs. I climbed up the tree and reached out to him, and he kicked me down."
His whole body is pressed against mine and somehow my jeans are gone and he's blazing hot, glowing red like a poker just drawn from the fireplace, and ice is melting everywhere and snow falls from the mountaintops with an echoing roar.
"When I was twelve my dad... I was at the beach and I got caught in a rip tide. It pulled me under and the water was pitch black. I didn't know which way was up. But I knew my dad was there and I reached out and thrashed and tried to find him and I grabbed hold of his leg and he shook me loose. And later when I asked him he didn't believe it happened. He said a fish must have bumped into him."
And there's something shining in me and I can't get it loose and it's burning away my insides and I can't get away.
"And last night I lay awake and I could feel something huge out there in the dark, pulling me toward it, and sounds and images were whirling around in my head so fast I couldn't make them out, and I have to run but I don't know where to and where do you run when what you're running from is yourself?"
And suddenly something has happened and nothing matters more than where I am right now.
---
"Hey," I say, shifting and holding myself closer to his chest. It's quiet except for us and there is nothing in the darkness. "Tell me."
"Mm?"
"Tell me what you are," I say, and the world is sideways and strange and absolutely right.
The Sold Sword Company
THE SOLD SWORD COMPANY
A SHORT STORY BY MICHAELA CATALANO
You don't know what king we serve, boy
You don't know what things we employ.
- Sunset Rubdown, They Took a Vote and Said No
Salient walked in front, Cleave behind and slightly to the right. Under other circumstances they might have moved side by side, but on this day it could prove useful for Salient to appear the master and the younger man the servant. A servant may be presumed to have lesser value than his master; it may also be presumed that the servant alleivates a weakness on the master's part. With Salient's outward appearance not necessarily suggesting a man well versed in the arts of war, Cleave ought naturally be seen as hired or indentured muscle.
And through this simple change in arrangement did two equally lethal partners present themselves to the men they planned to hire in a manner that offered them the greatest tactical advantage should their palaver turn hostile.
The walls of the shrine appeared almost to swallow the dim light of the evening sky. Time seemed not to have taken its toll on the structure; images of Cold and Thunder remained strikingly embossed, showing scenes of brotherhood and battle near as clearly as they day they had first been carved.
"I don't like this," Cleave said. "Why do they have to meet us way the hell out here?"
"It is part of their mystique, I suppose," Salient replied. "They insist on being seen only in forgotten places of worship, as befits their image."
"Right. Forgotten places of worship conveniently far from any decent civilization. And anyway, how many of them are going to be here? If they're half as good as they're supposed to be we could be in deep shit."
"There is little cause for worry. Simply because we are prepared for disaster does not mean it is likely to take place. I am sure our negotiations will be carried out amicably."
"Hmph." Cleave moved as if to spit, then reconsidered. "It's fucking hot. It shouldn't be hot when the sun's going down. This weather is bullshit."
Salient sighed. "I do not see how your complaining will ameliorate the issue. Now, please. Let me concentrate on the task at hand. The Company ought be here soon."
"Pleased to exceed your expectations, sir." The voice was light and filled with mirth. Its owner stepped out from behind a pillar of dark stone. He was a man of average height, build and looks. There was little of him that seemed likely to stick in one's memory. "Martyr, at your service." He extended his hand. Salient shook it.
"I am Salient, and my assosciate is known as Cleave," he said. Martyr waved at the big man, who nodded in response. "We have come, as previously stated, to request your services in a matter of utmost delicacy."
"Ah! You're in luck, sir. Such matters are our specialty. How, specifically, may we be of service to you?"
"There is an object I require," Salient said. "A crystal, to be precise. I have it on good authority that this crystal resides in the temple of St Edward on Sunspeak Mountain."
"St Edward," Martyr mused. "Hmm. A crystal, you say. Might you describe this obscure object of desire in more detail?"
"It is small; no larger than two inches long, an inch wide and a quarter inch thick. It is of a clear white color, and may emit a subtle glow when in darkness or deep shadow."
"Well, now," Martyr said. "How interesting. And you need our services for this retrieval because...?"
Salient coughed. "I have reason to believe others of some significant power desire this crystal themselves. I would not delegate a task so close to my heart to any I could not trust to see it to its completion."
"Of course, of course... I presume you mean only to hire one of my Company? Regardless, the limit will be two; I'm afraid Apostle is away on other business at the moment."
"It is of no consequence. I am certain one of your number shall suffice."
"Ah, now, here lies the real question. Which of us is it you feel is most suited to your task?"
"I would see the other man, if such is possible, before making my choice," Salient said.
Martyr smiled. "Certainly. You need only continue to observe your surroundings."
Salient did so, mildly confused as to Martyr's point, until he sensed Cleave tensing up at his side. He followed Cleave's gaze to the very wall they had first observed, nonplussed, until suddenly he saw it; a tall man in dark clothes, leaning superciliously against a carving of Thunder. Even now that he was aware of the man's presence, it was difficult to tell where the mercenary ended and the wall began.
"Step forward, my good man," said Martyr, "And introduce yourself to our esteemed clientele." The man in black stepped forward, but did not introduce himself. He studied his clients through sunken eyes.
"I apologize for my assosciate's... shyness," Martyr said, eyes gleaming. "Allow me to introduce Savior, the last of our number."
Salient looked the man over, then glanced at Cleave, who shrugged imperceptibly. Salient nodded. "I like the look of him." He turned to Savior. "I would request your services," he said.
"Forty drachma per day," Savior said. "Eighty up front."
"It is done," Salient replied, stepping forward. He handed the mercenary four gold coins, then retreated to his previous position.
"Excellent, excellent," Martyr said. "I hope you will forgive my brevity, but I have matters to attend to, and so here I shall take my leave of you. Ah, I see my assosciate has already done so. How rude of him."
Salient looked about himself, startled, and saw that it was true. Savior was nowhere in sight. He turned back to Martyr, about to speak, but the words died on his lips. Both of the mercenaries had vanished. He sighed and shook his head.
"Shit," Cleave said. "I still don't like this. I'm feeling like we're outclassed."
"So it seems. We must count ourselves fortunate that proceedings went so smoothly. Shall we go?"
Cleave spat, and the two men began to walk, side by side, the setting sun at their backs.
A SHORT STORY BY MICHAELA CATALANO
You don't know what king we serve, boy
You don't know what things we employ.
- Sunset Rubdown, They Took a Vote and Said No
Salient walked in front, Cleave behind and slightly to the right. Under other circumstances they might have moved side by side, but on this day it could prove useful for Salient to appear the master and the younger man the servant. A servant may be presumed to have lesser value than his master; it may also be presumed that the servant alleivates a weakness on the master's part. With Salient's outward appearance not necessarily suggesting a man well versed in the arts of war, Cleave ought naturally be seen as hired or indentured muscle.
And through this simple change in arrangement did two equally lethal partners present themselves to the men they planned to hire in a manner that offered them the greatest tactical advantage should their palaver turn hostile.
The walls of the shrine appeared almost to swallow the dim light of the evening sky. Time seemed not to have taken its toll on the structure; images of Cold and Thunder remained strikingly embossed, showing scenes of brotherhood and battle near as clearly as they day they had first been carved.
"I don't like this," Cleave said. "Why do they have to meet us way the hell out here?"
"It is part of their mystique, I suppose," Salient replied. "They insist on being seen only in forgotten places of worship, as befits their image."
"Right. Forgotten places of worship conveniently far from any decent civilization. And anyway, how many of them are going to be here? If they're half as good as they're supposed to be we could be in deep shit."
"There is little cause for worry. Simply because we are prepared for disaster does not mean it is likely to take place. I am sure our negotiations will be carried out amicably."
"Hmph." Cleave moved as if to spit, then reconsidered. "It's fucking hot. It shouldn't be hot when the sun's going down. This weather is bullshit."
Salient sighed. "I do not see how your complaining will ameliorate the issue. Now, please. Let me concentrate on the task at hand. The Company ought be here soon."
"Pleased to exceed your expectations, sir." The voice was light and filled with mirth. Its owner stepped out from behind a pillar of dark stone. He was a man of average height, build and looks. There was little of him that seemed likely to stick in one's memory. "Martyr, at your service." He extended his hand. Salient shook it.
"I am Salient, and my assosciate is known as Cleave," he said. Martyr waved at the big man, who nodded in response. "We have come, as previously stated, to request your services in a matter of utmost delicacy."
"Ah! You're in luck, sir. Such matters are our specialty. How, specifically, may we be of service to you?"
"There is an object I require," Salient said. "A crystal, to be precise. I have it on good authority that this crystal resides in the temple of St Edward on Sunspeak Mountain."
"St Edward," Martyr mused. "Hmm. A crystal, you say. Might you describe this obscure object of desire in more detail?"
"It is small; no larger than two inches long, an inch wide and a quarter inch thick. It is of a clear white color, and may emit a subtle glow when in darkness or deep shadow."
"Well, now," Martyr said. "How interesting. And you need our services for this retrieval because...?"
Salient coughed. "I have reason to believe others of some significant power desire this crystal themselves. I would not delegate a task so close to my heart to any I could not trust to see it to its completion."
"Of course, of course... I presume you mean only to hire one of my Company? Regardless, the limit will be two; I'm afraid Apostle is away on other business at the moment."
"It is of no consequence. I am certain one of your number shall suffice."
"Ah, now, here lies the real question. Which of us is it you feel is most suited to your task?"
"I would see the other man, if such is possible, before making my choice," Salient said.
Martyr smiled. "Certainly. You need only continue to observe your surroundings."
Salient did so, mildly confused as to Martyr's point, until he sensed Cleave tensing up at his side. He followed Cleave's gaze to the very wall they had first observed, nonplussed, until suddenly he saw it; a tall man in dark clothes, leaning superciliously against a carving of Thunder. Even now that he was aware of the man's presence, it was difficult to tell where the mercenary ended and the wall began.
"Step forward, my good man," said Martyr, "And introduce yourself to our esteemed clientele." The man in black stepped forward, but did not introduce himself. He studied his clients through sunken eyes.
"I apologize for my assosciate's... shyness," Martyr said, eyes gleaming. "Allow me to introduce Savior, the last of our number."
Salient looked the man over, then glanced at Cleave, who shrugged imperceptibly. Salient nodded. "I like the look of him." He turned to Savior. "I would request your services," he said.
"Forty drachma per day," Savior said. "Eighty up front."
"It is done," Salient replied, stepping forward. He handed the mercenary four gold coins, then retreated to his previous position.
"Excellent, excellent," Martyr said. "I hope you will forgive my brevity, but I have matters to attend to, and so here I shall take my leave of you. Ah, I see my assosciate has already done so. How rude of him."
Salient looked about himself, startled, and saw that it was true. Savior was nowhere in sight. He turned back to Martyr, about to speak, but the words died on his lips. Both of the mercenaries had vanished. He sighed and shook his head.
"Shit," Cleave said. "I still don't like this. I'm feeling like we're outclassed."
"So it seems. We must count ourselves fortunate that proceedings went so smoothly. Shall we go?"
Cleave spat, and the two men began to walk, side by side, the setting sun at their backs.
Deep Blue - One and One
DEEP BLUE -- ONE AND ONE
A SHORT STORY BY MICHAELA CATALANO
There was a flood, a world of water
The mason's wife swam for her daughter.
- Swan Lake, All Fires
"So this is how it all ends," he said. He was standing by the open window, looking down at the sea below. Slow waves broke against the first floor's walls.
"I guess," she said. "You know, when I was a kid, I dreamed about this. Not like prophetically, I mean like a fantasy."
"You wanted this to happen?"
"Hey, you don't have to say it like that. Everybody has dreams. Some are just darker than others. It seemed like such a beautiful way to go."
"It is, at that," he agreed. "We're going to lose this floor soon, too. Then it's only one more before the roof."
"What do you think? Two more weeks?"
"If that. Things have calmed down a bit, though... Maybe you're right. Two weeks. Less if there's a storm."
"Well," she said, rolling her eyes. "No shit. What are we going to do for food?"
"We'll keep on fishing," he said.
"And that's worked out great so far, huh? What, two fish a day, if we're lucky? You're not a fisherman. I never liked fishing."
"Too bad. We'll have to figure it out."
They stood like that for a long while. Gulls called, circled under the sun. The only clouds were white, harmless. A cool breeze. He scratched at his neck, stretched once. She watched him, idle.
"The last man I'll ever be in a room with," she said.
"Looks that way."
"The last two weeks of the Earth we knew. Just two of us, alone, surrounded by apocalyptic natural beauty."
"Mmyep."
"And you're sure you're gay?"
"Pretty damned sure."
"God damn it," she said. He laughed, she scowled, sat back in a chair close at hand and shut her eyes.
The next day they pulled two chairs up close to the window, opened it wide and set their lines. Hours passed and mostly they spoke. There were bites, but not many. In the end they caught one small fish before dusk fell and hunger became an issue.
"I can't believe you don't know what kind of fish this is," she said.
"Me? What about you? Why should I know what the hell it is?"
"You're a man. Men are supposed to know all about fish and cars and all that shit."
He laughed. "Sorry I don't fit your image of a man. I guess this must be a hell of a letdown for you."
"You don't say."
They cooked the fish over a small flame, carefully stoked. Whole it would not have sufficed as a meal for one, but they split it anyway, and ate.
"What about you? Aren't you... lonely, I guess?"
"Should I be?"
"You're a man. You're supposed to be the one who can't live without sex every five minutes, not me."
"Well, thanks for not stereotyping."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah, we've established that. We're crystal clear on that."
"So why?"
He sighed and rubbed at his right temple. "Why? I don't know. I just don't really give a shit. I never did. Sex is just masturbation with the added awkwardness of someone watching."
"Bullshit," she said. "Maybe if it's a one-night stand. You can't tell me you never had a boyfriend you loved enough to want to fuck."
"I can tell you that and I will," he said, but there was a hesitant quality to the words.
The next day they were not really hungry, only tired. She went to the window first, then called him over.
"Damn," he said. The water had nearly reached the window, and small sprays kicked up by the larger swells had begun to dampen the carpet. "That's happening an awful lot faster than I thought."
"I guess we should move up now. It's going to be pouring in within a few hours, I'll bet."
They moved up, and before long could see water spreading below the first step of the stairs. They were still not hungry, but he insisted on setting their lines again.
"It's not like we have anything better to do," he said.
"It's not like it matters in the long run," she said, but really she agreed. They were lucky and caught four fish. They ate well.
"So what did you want to be when you grew up?", he asked.
"All kinds of shit. I wanted to be an astronaut and a princess and a cowboy."
"Wouldn't that be a cowgirl?"
"I was a kid," she said. "I didn't think it through that far."
"Mm-hmm."
"What about you? What did you want to be? A fireman, a scientist, a cop?"
"Not really," he said, "I never really wanted to be anything at all."
"Well, what did you become in the end, then?"
"My parents wanted me to go to med school. I probably would have been a doctor. But they threw me out when I was seventeen. After that, I just worked whatever job I could get. A couple years back I got a decent gig doing tech support."
"That doesn't sound so bad," she said.
"What did you become?"
"Nothing," she said. "Nothing at all." Suddenly she seemed very tired, and he decided not to press the question.
In the morning they woke with wet clothes and water pooling about them. The stairs had flooded already. They moved to the roof.
"This is the last day," she said. "It has to be. It's rising faster. We might only have a few hours left."
"Better make every second count, then," he said, and so they sat there in the sun, taking in the ocean breeze. There were other buildings rising out of the water far off in the distance, but few higher, and those higher only by a couple of floors. A few hours passed and the sky began to darken.
"I wonder how many of them deserved it," she said suddenly.
"What?"
"Everyone who's died. How many had it coming?"
"A lot," he said. "I'd say at least half."
"More like three quarters. Except kids. Kids never deserve to die."
"Come on," he said. "Plenty of kids are real pieces of shit. There are some elementary school kids who were bullied into suicide. You think the kids who did that to them don't deserve to die?"
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe they did. But they have room to grow. They could learn."
"And adults can't? So what, once you hit eighteen, you're just fucked?"
"Pretty much," she said, but she smiled.
At that instant, rain began to fall. They sat nonetheless, talking. He wanted to get something to cover up with.
"Jesus, no," she said. "This is probably the last time you'll ever feel rain on your face. You'd give that up for what? Warmth?"
"Yes," he said, popping open an umbrella. She shook her head. Soon the water had filled the last stairwell. It covered the roof, and in the gloom they no longer knew where the edges of the building were. There was nothing except the sea and the wind and the rain.
And two people, together but still alone.
A SHORT STORY BY MICHAELA CATALANO
There was a flood, a world of water
The mason's wife swam for her daughter.
- Swan Lake, All Fires
"So this is how it all ends," he said. He was standing by the open window, looking down at the sea below. Slow waves broke against the first floor's walls.
"I guess," she said. "You know, when I was a kid, I dreamed about this. Not like prophetically, I mean like a fantasy."
"You wanted this to happen?"
"Hey, you don't have to say it like that. Everybody has dreams. Some are just darker than others. It seemed like such a beautiful way to go."
"It is, at that," he agreed. "We're going to lose this floor soon, too. Then it's only one more before the roof."
"What do you think? Two more weeks?"
"If that. Things have calmed down a bit, though... Maybe you're right. Two weeks. Less if there's a storm."
"Well," she said, rolling her eyes. "No shit. What are we going to do for food?"
"We'll keep on fishing," he said.
"And that's worked out great so far, huh? What, two fish a day, if we're lucky? You're not a fisherman. I never liked fishing."
"Too bad. We'll have to figure it out."
They stood like that for a long while. Gulls called, circled under the sun. The only clouds were white, harmless. A cool breeze. He scratched at his neck, stretched once. She watched him, idle.
"The last man I'll ever be in a room with," she said.
"Looks that way."
"The last two weeks of the Earth we knew. Just two of us, alone, surrounded by apocalyptic natural beauty."
"Mmyep."
"And you're sure you're gay?"
"Pretty damned sure."
"God damn it," she said. He laughed, she scowled, sat back in a chair close at hand and shut her eyes.
The next day they pulled two chairs up close to the window, opened it wide and set their lines. Hours passed and mostly they spoke. There were bites, but not many. In the end they caught one small fish before dusk fell and hunger became an issue.
"I can't believe you don't know what kind of fish this is," she said.
"Me? What about you? Why should I know what the hell it is?"
"You're a man. Men are supposed to know all about fish and cars and all that shit."
He laughed. "Sorry I don't fit your image of a man. I guess this must be a hell of a letdown for you."
"You don't say."
They cooked the fish over a small flame, carefully stoked. Whole it would not have sufficed as a meal for one, but they split it anyway, and ate.
"What about you? Aren't you... lonely, I guess?"
"Should I be?"
"You're a man. You're supposed to be the one who can't live without sex every five minutes, not me."
"Well, thanks for not stereotyping."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah, we've established that. We're crystal clear on that."
"So why?"
He sighed and rubbed at his right temple. "Why? I don't know. I just don't really give a shit. I never did. Sex is just masturbation with the added awkwardness of someone watching."
"Bullshit," she said. "Maybe if it's a one-night stand. You can't tell me you never had a boyfriend you loved enough to want to fuck."
"I can tell you that and I will," he said, but there was a hesitant quality to the words.
The next day they were not really hungry, only tired. She went to the window first, then called him over.
"Damn," he said. The water had nearly reached the window, and small sprays kicked up by the larger swells had begun to dampen the carpet. "That's happening an awful lot faster than I thought."
"I guess we should move up now. It's going to be pouring in within a few hours, I'll bet."
They moved up, and before long could see water spreading below the first step of the stairs. They were still not hungry, but he insisted on setting their lines again.
"It's not like we have anything better to do," he said.
"It's not like it matters in the long run," she said, but really she agreed. They were lucky and caught four fish. They ate well.
"So what did you want to be when you grew up?", he asked.
"All kinds of shit. I wanted to be an astronaut and a princess and a cowboy."
"Wouldn't that be a cowgirl?"
"I was a kid," she said. "I didn't think it through that far."
"Mm-hmm."
"What about you? What did you want to be? A fireman, a scientist, a cop?"
"Not really," he said, "I never really wanted to be anything at all."
"Well, what did you become in the end, then?"
"My parents wanted me to go to med school. I probably would have been a doctor. But they threw me out when I was seventeen. After that, I just worked whatever job I could get. A couple years back I got a decent gig doing tech support."
"That doesn't sound so bad," she said.
"What did you become?"
"Nothing," she said. "Nothing at all." Suddenly she seemed very tired, and he decided not to press the question.
In the morning they woke with wet clothes and water pooling about them. The stairs had flooded already. They moved to the roof.
"This is the last day," she said. "It has to be. It's rising faster. We might only have a few hours left."
"Better make every second count, then," he said, and so they sat there in the sun, taking in the ocean breeze. There were other buildings rising out of the water far off in the distance, but few higher, and those higher only by a couple of floors. A few hours passed and the sky began to darken.
"I wonder how many of them deserved it," she said suddenly.
"What?"
"Everyone who's died. How many had it coming?"
"A lot," he said. "I'd say at least half."
"More like three quarters. Except kids. Kids never deserve to die."
"Come on," he said. "Plenty of kids are real pieces of shit. There are some elementary school kids who were bullied into suicide. You think the kids who did that to them don't deserve to die?"
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe they did. But they have room to grow. They could learn."
"And adults can't? So what, once you hit eighteen, you're just fucked?"
"Pretty much," she said, but she smiled.
At that instant, rain began to fall. They sat nonetheless, talking. He wanted to get something to cover up with.
"Jesus, no," she said. "This is probably the last time you'll ever feel rain on your face. You'd give that up for what? Warmth?"
"Yes," he said, popping open an umbrella. She shook her head. Soon the water had filled the last stairwell. It covered the roof, and in the gloom they no longer knew where the edges of the building were. There was nothing except the sea and the wind and the rain.
And two people, together but still alone.
Malkuth Eternal
This is where I plan to post short stories and/or flash fiction. These may or may not be connected to larger works.
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