As another weekend was met with random unhappiness performed by the idea that real loneliness sits around you in human form, I prepare for a new week of much the same. Nonetheless a gaily optimist; there is always that little bridge that exists that is there to welcome us into our dreams and take us away from the bitter tasks of a slave driven reality. No performance circles of the nine to five or heated voices of whip crackers and judgmental cows. The idea that perhaps a door will open with its loving arms reaching out is the object that drives the pathway when we are blind. But prison cells and shift and routine relationships aside; let us press on with the optimistic trail ways.
On reading my numerous manuscripts: I began to notice that I have several, and they are all promising future novels. My NaNoWriMo manuscript has sat locked away for months somewhere on the C: drive in the invisible folder aside a fantastic tale about two lovers who feared the shame of how they felt. Both of these unfinished manuscripts kind of had the same theme going—both are tragic—neither steer away from the obvious. The obvious in this case being that we all hold something in front of ourselves that says ‘this road if traveled will kill you, please find an alternate road and saturate your life with that speck of a soul’s death.’
Those signs are however not true. As an author, I can safely say that in my personal life I have kind of veered into oncoming traffic and that little taste opened so many doors. However, just teasing myself has also taught me another lesson which is procrastination.
There is an underbelly (at least for myself) of hopelessness and nobody there to cheer you along when the procrastination monster pushes you into an oil slick. You’re kind of slipping and stuck and unable to move forward. This bigger picture is just ahead and you continue to try and break free … but you just can’t seem to. That then leads to a pile of unfinished manuscripts that sit in a hidden compartment on the C: drive and something unseen will eventually become forgotten.
This made me mourn my truest self and my dreams and desires. I wept silently while going through the motions of a long workday and felt that my soul was nearly depleted, but then … something within had told me not to retire from the battlefield at this time.
It first came in the form of an invite by a colleague to author a paranormal article. I have written extensively for the National Paranormal Society for some time now, and mostly formal and educational pieces aimed to educate those in seek of the truth. It was observed that I have some talent behind my authoring skills and that alone ignited something within. It came next with an offer to sing my poem which was lyrically versed with Gaelic language entwined with English language. It knocked procrastination in its grimy teeth with an invite to appear on the back cover of a book authored by a man I look up to. These invitations are equipping me with the tools needed to finish the war without retreating to a submissive life that contains nine-to-five nothingness.
In honor of this new adventure, here is a snippet from the archives that I have revised a lil bit:
Alex bounced back up immediately and ran out into the torrential downpour after his son. The weather reports had thrice warned of possible hurricane force winds accompanied by raindrops that felt like bullets as they made contact with the body.
He ran through it nevertheless screaming through the night for Kieran, though he was too late as he saw Kieran’s Ford truck race off towards the marina.
The rain looked like thick sheets of quarter sized drops he observed as he fought through the wind and other obstacles to reach his car. He was at least 20 or so steps away though it felt like a thousand miles as the pain ripped through his head and torso. He could barely stand it as the drops had now transformed into hail bullets. He threw his arms over his head and struggled until he could crawl into the passenger seat.
Lightening shot down all over the Keyes coast accompanied with roaring thunderclaps that could wake the dead.
He swiftly slapped his foot down on the gas after powering up the engine and tore out of the water beaten driveway sideways as all he could think about was their recent conversation that reminded him of the time Kieran was talking through a fit of alcohol:
“Have you ever considered the possibility that maybe someone could find out, and have you thought of any other way out of it … Alex. Hm?
“I bet you didn’t …
“What I would do is I would go find an airplane someplace, and rent it. There is always some asshole willing to fly for the right price, and I bet he’d even consider this too. Take off in the middle of the night and fly aimlessly towards the biggest fucking mountain I could find daddy … and then … I would make him fly right into it so that I didn’t have to endure the judgment of a world who doesn’t understand our love.”
Alex came to terms of a reality that he was warned about all along; Kieran was driving to the marina to board his speed boat and navigate it into the infamous Bermuda Triangle during one of the worst storms in recent history.
A lump of remorse and grievance quickly raced into his throat as sorrowful tears rained down his face. The agony of knowing he could have stopped their love affair well before anyone had ever discovered it was the knife currently stabbing his back. He stomped the gas petal angrily screaming at the car to move any quicker against the hurricane force winds and cringed at ever ping of hail that slammed into the windshield.
He reached the dark marina and launched himself out of the door while the car was still in motion.
Kieran was nowhere to be seen; his truck was pressed against the outer fence with its door hung open and engine still running. Alex stood from the puddle he had fallen face first into and without wasting any time, he ran towards the dock. His whole life with Kieran dangled in front of his eyes like fresh meat to a lion … right there, but just out of reach far enough to anger the beast.
He remembered the day he was born, and the day he went to kindergarten. He remembered Kieran losing his first tooth and then his first little crush and even the family dog he had picked out from the farm down the road. He remembered building a sandcastle with him at the beach—the romance of watching a child with such gifts—he remembered each and every moment of Kieran’s smiling face until his mind slapped him in the face with the image of Kieran laying in an open casket while Vanda blamed him for her son’s death.
Through the haze and hail; he felt the inner implosion as he saw the back lights of their boat racing out into the open ocean in the direction of the Bermuda Triangle. His legs grew weak and he fell to the dock nearly onto his face. His arms jerked up and wrapped around his stomach as he drew his knees up towards his chest. All he could do was yell into the darkness with anything he had left for Kieran to come back. He tugged at his hair, he rolled around kicking and he punched the dock furiously until the blood seeped out of his wounds. Finally … he gave in and lay in the downpour with his face to the sky. He too had chosen demise and rightly so; he couldn’t foresee any waking moment on earth without Kieran there to love him, and to hold him.
The clouds shifted weight, and the heavy ones gave way to a paler shade of light that trickled down upon Alex.
He took the sign as one last shove to go after Kieran. His friend Gary Fields had left his yacht just a few docks away and had always left the keys inside of the hull. Alex broke in through the companionway and prepared to enter the ocean at port side.
She opened nicely to welcome him into her great waters as he set course in the same direction that Kieran had gone. The bounding main would show no mercy however; it would swallow him as whole as it did Kieran, nevertheless …
It is believed by the newly widowed Vanda that the two are adrift someplace into a new romantic life of love and companionship. And perhaps they are …