Trash Scroll

2016.01.06

“saw thru lite”

A muted blue glow through artisan blinds mixed with the early morning rattlings of birds and squirrels. “All around me are familiar faces, worn out places, worn out faces.” runs through the mind as your world comes into a grainy view. You woke before your set alarm, minor morning annoyances…

From your room you hear stirring,  stepping onto black oak wood, the ring of an ashtray, the crack of paper, as if someone had fallen from the air and plopped down right into the middle of your living room. You rise from your bed to investigate, shuffle down the hallway, expecting it to be the cat, but as you turn the corner your mouth falls open, aghast.

There he is, right there on your splendid coffee table standing on top of the old mail, coupon brochures, an old issue of ‘bon appétit’ and your hardback copy of the Olsen Twin’s ‘Influence.’

“i-it’s him… the missing man?” you think.

You had seen his face in the headlines, a mysterious disappearance of a man, witnesses at the station recall a slight sickness, a taste of metal, iron, aluminum, and copper at the back of the tongue as the early morning train slid to a noisy stop, there was reported a mild “displacement of time” but everyone there had seen the man, and then he was gone.

Most people dismissed this as some kind of Déjà vu, and put it out of their minds until his friends and family led themselves on a sloppy goose chase picking up breadcrumbs of his whereabouts after he had been missing for a whole three days… but it had been… more than that, a week and a half? two weeks? maybe since they began searching, and were beginning to lose hope of ever recovering a body… But there he was… eyes wide, arms at his sides, hands stretched wide open as if he was undergoing electric-shock, wearing the same ratty clothing he had been wearing in the pictures.

“wha-what, are you doing here!? what do you want!?” you labor the words, still staking claim to your wakefulness.

“Moi-Moira!?” you shout over your shoulder struggling to break your own connection with his widened eyes

“Did. you… Moira!? Where is my daughter!?” you scream as your eyes return to his, finally awake enough now to peer deep into them from where you stand at the entryway to your living room. Unbeknownst to you, he had just “emerged” from the far side of an inter-dimensional portal. He had been missing for nearly two weeks, but he had been folded, unfolded, battered, and fried, for what to him, may have been perceived as the expansive empty plain of geologic time, the marbled floors of a bank. The tectonic slip, condensed into something unimaginable, something not meant for men of this world. There was still a slow-glow of humanity, however having been confronted with a vast meteorological gaseous and indescribable outer-void intelligence, stretched thin upon the bend of the bowl of unknowable and unchartable stars… this glow took on, a strange patina.

“I-I want you to leave, now; please…Just… get down from there and see yourself out the front door…”

He began vibrating ever so… His image faintly distorted, the tracking was off on the VCR, the factory tint setting needed adjustment, you found yourself remembering your dad, his disappointment, your failures… there was a low buzz from somewhere unplaceable. He stared directly back into your eyes, as his lips began to part…

“what do you want?!” you demand as you remember the loaded gun underneath your mattress, a cold bullet in a dark chamber there.

He said only these words as the low buzz increased in volume.

“Zettajoule is the most exciting music going on in town right now… They are rearranging the face of reality if they don’t disintegrate from pure creation”

“get off of my coffee table…” you say low, some unknowable substance now streaking across the face of Ashley Olsen.

“There is no table, there is nothing between me and the table, what is table-ness? Are you a table?”

“You could be made to be…”

“There is nothing but the incredible space between atoms and there still is, so much, there is no you or me, I or she, you can’t even see me, there is no there.”

He looked at you as if he might suddenly lunge forward and take hold of the lump in your throat, so you turn, run back down the hallway and retrieve the pistol from beneath the mattress, the hum even louder now still,

But when you return to the living room, raising the fire arm before you, ready to level it directly at those two wild eyes.

He was gone.

Your clock radio sounded it’s alarm from your bedroom in the form of a top 40 station, static, the station coming in and out in undulating waves.

“If I could turn back time! / If I could find a way! / I’d take back those words…”