The Creaky Cottage

Some switch turned on in my head that tugged at my cowardly tendencies. Leave this place go back to momma and papa, it whispered from the . That was no longer me, childhood was behind me. I had a fresh start in this cottage by the sea. It’s acquisition is still a mystery to me– and I assume it is a mystery to my family. Not that I know for sure of that fact, I haven’t seen them since graduation.

The doors, walls and windows creak a greeting as I entire the living room. A part of me tries to resist labelling it a complete dump- I need to make the most of my opportunities from here on out- I compromise with my negative thoughts; it has ‘room for improvement’.

And so do I. I threw my clothes in the least decrepit cupboard and settled on the stiff bed. The last owner had been a old man as decrepit as his home. A distant uncle he must have taken a liking to me even though I can barely remember meeting him as a small child. He was a black sheep of the family, which is why he probably liked this little secluded corner. Probably the same reason it appeals to me.

The first task in alleviating the creepy vibe is to remove that god awful mirror that almost takes up a whole wall. An old fashioned frame mirror, the cobwebs draped over were obstructing a view of the churning ocean behind me.

Something was missing in all this. And I couldn’t pick it, the disturbance in the room was like a vacuous absence, reasoned thought could not reach it. Before I could determine the cause I a man entered the room behind me. I froze like the coward I know I am deep inside, and couldn’t will my body to move.

Fight, or flight choose one for God’s sake. The intruder turned to face me. I said a silent prayer as I saw my own face as he (or I) look around the room. I looked behind me but I could not spot any other person, let alone my doppelgänger. I looked back, and there he was exploring the room just I had done moments earlier.

With great certainty, a new and equally terrifying realization came to me, the source of my previous unease was that I had no reflection of my own.

Muddled Sleep

Multiple lives dart within my mind. I can only feel them in the temporary state of mind that comes just before sleep.
I see the ghosts they move across a cross-section brain. They become corporeal in the sense they are constructed from ‘real’ memories, but these experiences have caused me to question what are ‘real’ memories, moreover what is ‘real’?

sea mist 033

The sudden pain in the back of my mouth is real. It comes and goes, I’ve rationally determined that it is my soul leaking out.
These dreams need to stop, so I will close my mouth at night. No spirit will be using me to relive its own past life.

My own life is difficult enough to manage without others muddling in my psyche.

There is one life I am unwilling to set free to the ether. For it I allow the window open a crack, my mouth slightly agape and a breath whistling through my crooked teeth; calling her…

Oh but doesn’t love always hurt, even loving a woman deep in sleep to the combinations of all inputs. She is a princess and a hydra.
I cannot banish her from the castle of my mind, my yearning doubles every time. The witch brings some friends sometimes, these are spooks who see me either as a hero come to take her from their clutches or as the villain hiding her in my lair. I know in my soul despite judgements of these common characters that I am the villain.

Oh but to be the villain to such a lady is privilege, although a curse in some regards. All other females are dim and do not sparkle as she does when she laughs. Like the sweet taste of heroin she has diminished all other pleasures, not only ‘real’ women. Food is better at the thought of her. The simple laughter of children reminds me that I cannot have any with her.

It is not enough to share precious moments with her during the wee hours when the moon blesses our love.

Tonight the spring tide is at the high water mark, I can hear the sloshing from my bed. She is calling through the crashing of the waves, to join her as she does every night. I cannot reach satisfaction here in my bed clothes, that is not what my soul is built for.

So with terror and the burden of great courage I allow my soul to whistle past my crooked teeth, through my mouth slightly agape and slip out the window. In the sea-salt mist of the coast marshes I am with my love.

And by the mercy of God, I pray I never awake from this midsummer dream.

Mac Macavity’s Wondrous and Tragic Life

Macavity fiddled with the light bulb, spinning it while it illuminated the desk he was desperately trying procrastinate opening the black envelop sitting in his hand.
He could turn on the bedside lamp but the bulb was a keepsake, for it had long forgotten to extinguish its flame though it was connected to neither a power source or any form of energy. The sentimental value of it was enough to cause him a considerable outburst as it smashed. A mournful whimper while the light spilled from the broken pieces like golden yolk. The luminescence sunk into the carpet of his the musty room.

As you have perceived- matter seems to forget itself in the presence of Mac Macavity. This aura of ‘forgetfulness’ has a intense effect on people the most. At 5 years of age Mac’s father and mother rejected their own son and sent him to the streets. He could not control this ‘power’ and saw it more as a curse that occasionally worked in his favour. They forgot he was there son and assumed he was a pauper who had been squatting in their house. However survival came easy when the normal rules of society needn’t apply, relationships with people however did not come easy.

bulb

Moreover, the basic laws of the universe didn’t apply to Macavity either. He was an outlaw in every aspect of the word, with one exception.

Newton.
To be specific: Newton’s Third Law.

What was taken has to be given back.

All though Macavity’s aura was seemingly random, he had identified certain patterns. The memories which he stole could not simply by destroyed but where placed in other objects. Brief moments, some bright and some dark embedded in the inanimate. The loose lightbulb that forgot to turn off had been his mother, shining so bright for the loneliest boy in the world. The previously bright blond colour of her hair had illuminated his world. Even long after she had lost memory of his name and face.

Macavity knew he had lost a piece of an angel that night in his forever shadowed study. His cheeks flushed and stinging eyes red with anguish and unbearable regret. Before leaving his dwelling he noted on a paper.

Let it be known,
that on this day,
The light has gone out in my life