Scribbled in a Bathroom Stall

We are not born, only dreamed
A cruel and bitter lie
A dream of love and loss and fear
And in that dreaming, die

Temptation in the Mountain

"Hello," said the snake.

It was huge, the size of a man. It reared up on its belly. It scanned the cave casually, like a visitor impressed with the wallpaper.

"Hello," said the boy.

He could see the snake clearly, somehow, despite the darkness. The creature had foot-long fangs and a cold pair of beady eyes. Yet it seemed friendly enough.

"Are you here to kill me?" the boy's voice was light. He couldn't really care either way.

The snake chuckled, "I could ask the same of you. But no, I'm not. I mean, I'll kill you eventually, but not till you ask me very nicely," Snakes like their little jokes. The snakes voice rang like a little echo off the cave walls. The boy did not laugh. All was silent, then.

The snake licked his great fangs, "Have you thought about what you'd want to do with the world?"

"In what way?" the boy didn't really believe there was a giant snake here. Even if a snake could get so big, it certainly wouldn't chatter away. Something very strange was happening, but what else was the boy to do in the dark?

"Let's say the spirits bless you with a great power. Now you can change the world in any manner you please. What would you do?"

"I would take away the hunger and the sorrow,"

"Would you?" the serpent smirked, "And would the people thank you?"

"I don't know,"

"Without hunger or sorrow, would the people remember you? Would they sing your name? Would they care?," like some rodent-flesh caught between the teeth, the boy could smell rotting breath, "Would they hate you?"

Those cold eyes gleamed and that pink, forked tongue flicked through the stink of death. The boy trembled at the noise and shouted, "Go away! Go away!"

But there was no snake. There never was a snake. It was just the boy in the dark with all the rocks closing in.

Maybe the snake would come back if he asked nicely.

Bride of the Sky, Part Three

And so the Spirit that is the sky walked in flesh through the gates of his palace and into his great hall. All his wives stood in a gracious line to receive him with fond blessings. He looked upon their lumpy bodies and greasy hair. He saw them dribble and drool. Each wife smelled of dung.

"Ugh," said the great spirit.

Further down the line one of the wives had blown her nose so that the mucus now hung from her nose and stuck to her lips.

"Oh, gross," said the great spirit.

Finally, he walked to the last of the line and set his eyes upon Mela. He spied her ratty wig and her sack-cloth dress. He sighed, shook his head, and walked past.

The spirit walked to the last room at the end of the hall, the forbidden room, and shut himself inside. As the door closed, the wives cheered and hugged each other, cackling in triumph. Still clad in hideous disguises, they shuffled back to their various tasks around the palace.

Distraught, Mela hurried to one wife and asked, "Why do we paint such foulness on our bodies?"

"Hush girl," the woman looked angry, "to do otherwise is to invite death,"

Mela gasped. Her hands hid her face in fear.

"Our great husband would take the fairest of us for slaughter," the woman's words twisted with a sneer, "Such is his bountiful love that he would burn us in a horrible way if we appealed to him with beauty,"

"I had no idea,"

"You have only been here a short while. We all have a good life here. In the fullness of time, you will come to see our wisdom. Hide your beauty and stay away from that forbidden room. You will live happy," the wife nodded and returned to her fond diversions.

Yet Mela was troubled indeed. Her thoughts fell on the look of her husband as he paced the hall. His sky blue skin and his cloud white eyes. What strange wants could muddle his mind that he would burn the beauty from women?

And so Mela approached the forbidden door. The latch lifted easily and swung open. The inside was dark, save for a yellow glow that cast strange shadows on the ceiling. The room was completely bare save for a large, magical table in the center of the room, the source of the light. The Spirit that is the sky laid in the corner, curled up, shielding his eyes from the shadows on the ceiling.

Mela approached the table and gasped, the whole of the world laid out before her. Mountains and rivers and forests all spinning by, reflected in true detail by the magic of the glowing table. Mela stayed awhile in that quiet room, watching the world underneath. In every strange country, every foreign land or exotic kingdom, in every field or meadow, she saw the suffering. The world grew dry and hungry. Sickness and weakness reigned over the peoples of the world. They rent their garments in hopeless despair and feared the coming winter. Mela felt their terror and fled the forbidden room.

She ran out among the wives, who all clucked and tutted at Mela's fear.

"You were told to stay away and you did not listen," they said to her.

"Does that table tell the truth, do the peoples of the world suffer so?"

"What does it matter? People suffer and die everyday. Even with a full belly, they'd find something to fight over. Suffering is their business,"

Mela was shocked to hear such callous words, "We can do nothing to help them?"

"The Spirit could help them if he wanted to; he is very powerful. He does nothing but sit and mope. If he will not help, what can we do?"

"We could go and beg him to bring rain to the people," Mela implored, wringing her hands.

"Beg him? All he wants to do is kill us. And what do we care for those people below? The moment they start to worry about anything, they pick a woman and sacrifice her. They don't care if we live or die, they only think of themselves. You were sent away too, were you not?"

Mela nodded.

"And so you should join us happily. As your unforgiving family has graciously removed you from their bosom, so now you can forget all their troubles and enjoy yourself this wonderous, new life,"

Pleased with their words, the wives all returned to their songs, and foods, and exotic delights. Mela, though, still felt a great trouble in her mind. The faces of her tribe, the worry of her family, the wilting crops.

Mela walked to a great, splashing fountain and with its waters, washed the mud from her face. The wives gasped and rushed to her, begging her not to continue. Mela pulled the wig from her head and the sack-cloth from her body. With scented oils, she annointed her skin. She combed the tangles from her hair and tied red blossoms to her braids. She found bright, rich silks to wrap her body. She ignored the frantic pleading of the women and walked to the last door in the hall.

She knocked and called out, "My husband, come and look upon your wife,"

The spirit opened the door and beheld her fairness with joy. His hands touched her face. He delighted in her fair scent and the color of her clothes. His white eyes shone with a bright light and all the other wives fled and crouched in fear.

"You are filled with joy and love," his words rumbled like thunder, "and it pleases me to see your fine smile. I wish to grant you a gift, that you have brought me such pleasure,"

"My lord and love, the people of the world suffer greatly. I would see them well again,"

He simply smiled and drew her closer. His lips touched hers and he breathed light into her body that she felt a warmth growing within. He held her close in an embrace as the heat grew to a terrible fire. She could feel it burning away like a bright sun inside her belly. She knew fear for a moment, but he held her and looked into her eyes and was a great comfort. She could feel the fire consuming her, though she did not blacken or melt. This fire consumed her and she became the fire itself. It was not a burning of flesh, but of the soul. And soon her body could not contain it.

Her flesh rent apart and scattered across the hall. The wives shrieked and wailed in fear. The Spirit returned to his forbidden room.

But the fire of Mela swelled and spread out. The world fell before her like she saw on the glowing table. With new eyes, she could see each child in every field, each mother caring for their family, each father toiling for love. She saw the suffering of the whole of the world and also their joy. The sight of it drove her to such fits of emotion that she cried great tears. The world was filled with her love and the rain fell.

The world grew green again.

Bride of the Sky, Part Two

Mela slept for a long time, and in the sleeping she dreamed of wild things and leaping creatures. She dreamed of a dancing flame who taunted and circled her. The dream seemed as real as waking life. When the flame landed again before her, she asked, "Are you my husband?"

The flame laughed and she awoke.

She lifted her head from her arms and found that she was laying on the floor before a majestic palace. Great golden doors open before a grand walkway lined with columns. Opulence and richness were in abundance. Mela stood and walked inside.

Women played and sang where ever she walked. Some were painting in a garden. Some tended a nursery full of playful, winged kittens. One sat by the fountain, knitting jets of colored water into a magical gown. The women saw Mela and welcomed her. They offered exotic foods and clothes. They promised to teach any of their mysterious crafts and the ways of their magic. They showed her to an elegant and comfortable bedroom.

"Welcome my girl, as you are now our sister, a bride to the Spirit of the Sky like all of us," they said.

"You are all wedded to the Spirit as well?" Mela asked.

"Indeed, he is loving and generous,"

"And what is expected of me? What are my duties?"

At this the other women looked uneasy and wrung their hands against their dresses.

Mela grew concerned and asked again, "With all these wonderous gifts, what does the Spirit ask in return?"

"In time, you will see. Just listen and do as we do and no harm will befall you,"

Mela felt a shiver of fear, "Harm? What cause of harm is here?"

They only smiled and returned to their fond diversions. The day passed pleasantly. Mela wandered from room to room in the palace, meeting all of the other women in turn and delighting in their work. She sampled fruits grown around the world and delicacies from ancient and mysterious kingdoms. By the end of the day she had been to every room save for one.

A pair of double doors stood closed at the end of the main hall. They were small and rather plain in design. Compared to the decorations of the rest of the palace, the doors were very easy to walk right by. Mela explored very carefully and herself amost missed them. She touched the handle and moved to open, but one of the wives struck her hand against the door, pressing it closed.

"We do not disturb this room, dear," she explained.

"Oh, am I not allowed?" Mela asked.

"This room is not for us. We leave this room alone," the wife explained carefully.

Mela sighed and turned away, returning again to play with the kittens. The other women doted and fussed upon her. They exhausted the afternoon in such a manner, with idle play and fanciful chatter. Night settled quickly on the palace. The wives gave light to lanterns of colored glass along the hall. They prepared the evening feast and laughed along to silly poetry. They enjoyed roast duck and vegetables seasoned with a strange, fiery pepper.

One wife, standing by the window cried out, "Sisters, he comes!"

Up from the table leapt the women, scattering the food and plates in their hurry. Mela sat alone, watching in confusion as the other wives ran about. They smeared lumps of wax to their face with clots of makeup. They pushed pillows under their skirts to form unflattering bulges. They hunched and drooled and spat upon themselves. Soon, the whole lot of beautiful wives had transformed themselves into awkward, ugly hags.

"Oh, I almost forgot about you!" one woman said as she grabbed Mela by the wrist.

"I dont understand, what's going on?"

"Just be silent and wear this," The wife tucked Mela into a huge cloak of sack-cloth. With a wig and a bit of mud on her face, she was just as ugly as the others. They all lined up by the grand entrance as the wind blew the mighty doors open. An unearthly light from the sky signaled a bolt of lightning that struck the flagstones of the front walk. A tall and majestic figure of a man strode from the scorch of sky-fire. He wore elegant, red-runed robes and had skin like the sky on a clear blue day, his eyes white as clouds. He smiled and strode into his palace.

"Is that..." the question hung on Mela's lips.

"Yes, dear, that's our husband,"

Bride of the Sky, Part One

The season had been very dry; the crops grew wilted and weary under the relentless heat. All the peoples of the tribe clung to each other, worrying over the coming winter and the hunger that was sure to follow. They gathered their strongest and wisest men to seek out the great shaman of the mountains and bring him gifts of wealth and treasure.

After many days of searching, the men found the great shaman as he smoked the meat of a turtle from the river. The men fell to their knees, offering all the tribe's riches, and begged for help against the drought. The shaman waved away their gifts, instead carving the meat of the turtle and sharing some with each man. He sat and thought and watched the sky. The men began to speak again, but the shaman waved them silent. As night fell upon them, in the dark, the shaman told this tale:

There is a spirit that roams the sky. So breathes the dawn, so drinks the night. The spirit seeks a bride. His is the time as winter passes and green swells the land. As such, his bride must be young and beautiful. With his bride, he will bless the land and all things will bloom.

And the men asked how to present this bride to the spirit. The shaman replied:

Cover her eyes in the whitest cloth, so that she may not be blinded by the spirit's light. Bind her hands in the lightest, softest thread, so that the slightest effort might tear them apart, so the spirit knows his bride is willing. Lead her to the top of the holy mountain and leave her before the dawn, so that her beauty is the first thing on the eyes of the new sun.

And the men gave thanks and stood to leave, but the shaman rose in a fright and shouted:

Be you mindful, the bride must be brave. Above all else, her soul must have steel, for the spirit is easy to trick and fool.

The men nodded and gave assurance to the old shaman. Again they turned to leave and climb down the mountain toward the village. Behind them, the great shaman clapped his hands and shook his rattles. The stones of the mountain heard his call and began to sing along, happily. All the stones sang under the feet of the men as they climbed through the darkness. They did not trip or stumble.

Back in the village, the men consulted with the chief over the shaman's commands. They argued over which of their girls should become the bride of the spirit. One man argued for Elsi, a girl in the flower of her beauty, with a brightness of spirit and innocence that brought joy to all who knew her. Another man argued for Nolsamma, a girl of such inviting curves and friendly warmth that all men find so welcoming. A third man argued for Kora, a girl of such fair feature and noble bearing, she looked like she might've stepped out of a great painting.

The chief hushed all the men and thought for a great while on the words of his men and the commands of the shaman of the mountains. He rose and stepped out of his tent and called for all the people of the tribe. As they all gathered around, he told of the journey of the men, and the shaman sharing turtle meat, and the story of the spirit in the sky. The women of the tribe clutched their daughters close in fear as the chief announced his decision for a bride to the sky.

His finger passed over the tribe and settled on one girl. He called out her name, Mela. The tribe fell silent. Mela was pretty, but not very. She was young as well, but not very. She had lived near twenty winters without a husband, and unless a sickness took some of the more beautiful women away, she would likely see another twenty before she found one. The peoples of the tribe grew nervous as they thought the spirit might be displeased with such an unlovely bride. However, no one spoke up or objected to the chief about this decision, as they feared he might choose their daughters instead.

And so that night, Mela was bound by soft thread and blindfolded with white cloth and carried to the top of the holy mountain that leaned over the edge of the world, the first thing on the eyes of the rising sun. She went without fuss or complaint, happy to serve the needs of the tribe. The men loved her dearly, kissing her on the face and head as she waited. As the sky grew bright, they fled the sun's rays and hid in the darkness behind some rocks below.

As the sun rose and painted the world with its color, the men had to look way from the great, stinging light. As their eyes grew accustomed, they turned back to the mountain, but Mela was gone.

And on the Eighth Day...

The dead rose up
And shuffled slowly to the pub.
They crowded around me
And pawned their jewelry.

Rings, necklaces, cufflinks
Plucked from their own graves.
They bartered for drinks
They could not taste.

They shoved and elbowed me
Leaned in and pushed up to the bar.
They stumbled and waved for the bartender.
There was only one.

It was Monday and otherwise empty.
A bowl of neglected pretzels.
One lonely muffin in a case by the register.

Who eat's a muffin at a pub?

And the dead were thirsty.
They ordered stiff drinks
With well spirits
And poured them down
Papery gullets straight away.
The drinks splattered on the floor
Flooding through holes in stomachs and throats.

And they ordered another
And another.
I didn't want to say anything,
But they pushed up beside me
Shouting, waving, insisting.

I turned and asked,
"What's the deal, fellas?
Afterlife not cracked up
Like they lay it out in
Those goddamn books?"

"Brother," one said in
Careful, quiet tones,
His breath stale and bitter.
"You don't know the half of it,"

Someone Else's Legs

I woke this morning and was very surprised to discover someone else's legs dangling under my body. I stood and marched around the house. Sure enough, they obeyed me as a proper pair of legs should. If anyone that wasn't me were to look in through a window, they might not know that these legs weren't mine. I might not otherwise know my own legs underneath had I not spent my entire life previous with the same pair.

They were fine legs, strong and healthy, but they were not my legs. I gave the matter some thought over breakfast and reached the simple conclusion that they had to come off. I tried a few of the kitchen knives, but it was all too messy. I went out to the shed and tried the hacksaw, but the thin blade got all gummed up with ligaments. I couldn't get a proper angle with an axe or machete. Luckily my old circular saw was up to the challenge. I had to dismantle the safety shutter, but otherwise it all went smoothly.

I had gathered materials for tourniquets and bandages. I had even crafted a crude wheelchair for myself with some old bicycle parts and a deck chair. After all the fuss and splatter, though, I noticed that there was very little blood. Reaching down, the wounds had already healed smooth. Even further, I could stand up and march about again.

My torso hovered perhaps three or four feet off the ground. I could will myself here and there as if I still had legs. In fact, my torso would bob up and down like I was taking steps. I could run without being winded. I could kick over junk on the ground. I could jump up and down on broken glass. I could dance ontop of a campfire, though I had to stop once my bottom started to burn.

That first day was remarkable. I felt quite magical and interesting. I fell asleep that night thinking of the fun story I could tell my friends and perhaps some silly pranks we might be able to pull.

I woke with a strange itch. My legs felt fantastic, or at least the vaccuum of their absence felt fantastic. But now I couldn't help but view my arms with suspicion. There was no doubt in my mind that they belonged to me. Unlike yesterday's legs, these arms were certainly the ones I've been swinging around for all these years. Still, compared to the grand utility and simple delight of a pair of magical legs, two regular old arms seemed rather dull.

It bothered me all morning. I tried to put it out of my mind, but by early afternoon I was marching out to the shed again. Click, whizz, crunch, splatter. My old arms flopped to the ground, an ignoble end for such helpful creatures.

You can imagine my relief when I was able to wipe my own brow with my new, magical arms. Just like my legs, My shoulders healed smooth and clean. My new limbs, seemingly comprised of solid air, were strong and fit. I spent the rest of the day teaching myself to juggle burning embers. I wanted a show to match the story for my friends.

The next morning I couldn't help but notice how silly I looked as a floating torso. The human body isn't meant to float around like that. In the mirror I looked odd and oblong. And this began a terrible thought. If I laid a blade across my throat and severed the head from the torso, which would fall away?

Would I be a little head bobbing around? Would I be a sightless chest, wiggling its odd little nubs?

I should have learned not to ask such questions of myself. Sure enough, it bothered me all morning and by dinner, there was nothing else to it. I marched out to the shed, bent over and hit the button.

When I look in the mirror, I only see whatever lies behind me. For all intents and purposes, I have become invisible. I can't remember feeling tired; I haven't bothered to sleep in some time. I run as the birds fly, dance along planes in flight, and tumble off of buildings for fun. I've seen such wonderful and frightening things. I'd love to tell my friends, but I don't think they'd recognize me.