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There was a place by my old man's house, deep in the woods behind us. When I was a kid I used to go there all the time with a few friends. The place seemed mystical in a way that I couldn't quite place a finger on. I hadn't been there in years, and I missed the fuck out of it. We lived in a small town in Arkansas that never quite grew into any of the larger towns nearby. I liked to think of the town as timelessly quaint, protected from the ravages of economical and technological growth. Our house was situated on a small farm which didn't need much upkeep and even though we couldn't supply much, there was enough to keep us afloat financially. As time passed, though, my dad lost the ability to keep the farm going. His death became the last rapier thrust, severing the ties I ever had with that bumfuck town. I have to go back. This annoying little voice in my head kept repeating in my head, 'There's something there you need to see'.
So I flew back one day and the town was just the same as it always was: boring to the highest degree. No one lived here anymore. At least, no one I care for. Some of the old timers remained just out of a nostalgic tie to the land, but my friends had all dispersed into careers, into lives filled with entertainment, into places I'd never go. I visited my old house, ramshackle as it was. They should fucking bulldoze this place. The farmland is dead. No one lives here. Just nuke the place. I continued to peruse some of the old curios in each room, concluding with my old bedroom. Dust had scrawled away much of the paint on the walls, worn down a lot of the junk on the desks, the wood on the floor. Bugs had made a habitat of my old futon.
“Certainly made a better home of the place than I did.” I remarked to myself.
A small bird on the windowsill looked at me. A beautiful bluejay... Its plumage was straight azure, stark contrast with the bleak color ugliness around it. Snow began to fall outside as it yelled at me, as if begging me to talk to it. I walked over and it hopped up my arm, stopping at my shoulder. It turned south, towards the ruins, and let out a shrill cry that rattled my eardrums. I hopped over the windowsill into the white abyss.
The putrid smell of an animal corpse stung my senses into alertness. A dead deer lay before the steps up to that most sacred of places. I looked back at my old house, saw that my tracks had already been erased by the snowfall. No going back now. The deer corpse was already decomposing rapidly. Snow buried itself in the deer's innards, cooling the once-alive meat. Ticks and flies swarmed all over, picking away small morsels for themselves, consuming the flesh like they were born into this world to do. The deer's face seemed frozen in perpetual bliss. Its eyes ripped out, bloodstained ground near its face. There were punctures all over the animal's body, whole chunks of flesh ripped out. I reached down to stroke its fur, before walking up the steps. The cave itself stood on a rocky precipice that jutted upwards from the flat earth around it. It was only about a hundred feet above the ground, but even standing at the very top you could see around for miles. Sun-blanched horizons would immerse you in their beauty; after twilight the night sky became a downer drug that was better than any prescription.
I sat upon those old steps, looking at some of the old dagger scrapings my friends and I had carved into the rock. Even after years of erosion, they remained intact. A giant heart that we carved way back when we were, what, twelve years old, still remained. In that heart, it read:
'Elijah + Nicki forever!
Love is a candle
Flicker flicker
Can't blow it out'
Me and her used to be so close. She was my everything back in those days. Not anymore, though. I accidentally pushed her down these steps. Her neck snapped faster than a twig crushed underfoot by a frightened animal. I was never given jailtime. I still blame myself for it. Why are these memories fighting, struggling back to the surface? Why am I even here? The bluejay then returned, tweeting as it hopped around the small summit before the cave opening. I watched the little bird retreat into the cave. Something about the absurdity of a bird wandering into a cave piqued my interest, so I followed it. Every now and then it would look back at me and tweet, until all I could hear was its voice as darkness became a film over my sight. I always remembered that the path would branch off a little ways in, the right path lead to a large chamber carved out of millions of years of natural destruction, the left leading to a dropoff.
The bluejay seemed to radiate some of its own light, strangely enough (and the little guy was odd enough as is), and as it hopped along it decided to take the left path. Of course it would take the harder path, the one that leads to a dead end drop. Does it expect me to grow wings? The small bird took flight somewhat before settling somewhere off in the darkness, shrill cries echoing everywhere. I had reached where the drop was, and noticed that now a path continued on the other side of the gap. The hole seemed large when I was a kid, but now it seemed passable. I took a few steps back and leapt over it, clearing the distance and landing on the other side, the bluejay flying away at the same instant. The cavern hallway started spiraling around in what seemed like a descending circle that opened up into a small room.
In the middle a fountain had been terraformed, with multiple levels separated by smaller and smaller rock plateaus. A small drip of water from the ceiling collided with the multiple layers of water, marrying with it, coalescing, producing children, having multiple affairs, then divorcing itself from its mate to fall off the side of the fountain onto the rock floor. The bluejay stood atop the fountain, tweeting. The water gleamed as if illuminated by a light deep in its waters, which then illuminated the room itself. I walked over to the fountain and took a drink of its water.
I'm now in the 1920s, riding around in a new Model-T. I'm a tall man in a well-kept suit sitting next to a gorgeous model-like wife. She's accompanying me to work at the business I run, which apparently is a small printing studio that produces Catholic and Christian liturgies, ones that become increasingly more narrow-minded with each print. I drive by a black man getting lynched.
Now the small chamber was filled with bubbles that seemed to have images embedded in them. One of them popped in front of my face, the small spray of water causing me to blink. I'm now in a military platoon bivouacked in a hot, musky jungle. Must be Vietnam. The guys are talking about some sort of shit like they miss their wives and wish there were some Vietnamese whores they could plow. I'm sitting with my gun at my side, staring into the flames. I get lost in the vermillion haze. A guy next to me shoves a small tab of something in my hand. I look at the tab of acid and consume it as if it were nothing. Close curtains, play over.
A place consumed in memories that span across time.
I dip my hand in the cold, frigid cave water and the room swirls and rearranges itself, the rock twisting into the image of a meadow. It's sometime in the future. There's no one around. A meadow filled with tulips goes on forever, mountains sharp knives on the horizon. I feel like the last person around but maybe I'm not; maybe I'm just isolating myself from the bullshit of common society. Feelings of hatred stab at my gut with their long knives and I can feel the anger bursting out like stomach acid climbing up out of my throat when I puke. I take a knife and cut through my femoral artery. Red splashes on the tulips. At least I added a little more color to this picturesque painting.
The bluejay continued to watch me, except now it ceased speaking. The bird looked past me, and I turned around to see one of the bubbles begin to grow and expand, slowly forming a humanoid shape. The woman standing before me looked familiar, only wet and gleaming. Her hair was long blonde locks that trailed down across her naked form. She reached out and touched me, fingering my longish brown hair, her hand trailing down my brown shirt and jacket, resting upon my denim pants, just above my crotch. She took firm hold of my junk and whispered in my ear.
“I'm glad you've come.”
“Nicki?”
No response. She kisses me, then pushes me into the fountain. The water drags me in with its liquid grasp. I see her face smiling down at me.
I close my eyes. I become a memory.
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