summer hills

November 19, 2011
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“we are all merely clocks. our gears clank to the measure of someone else’s intent, turning for no reason viable to us, other than that it is our innate being, a stigma into which we are all born and assiduously maintain. with each rotation, our cogs morph and weather, our hands chafe and blister, and Poe’s metronomic pendulum inches ominously closer with each counting swing; this is our “divine” order of things. ‘Truth’ is only told to the masses, and salvation is a bigot. that we exist only through the subjectivity of principle is what i have come to know to be the only innate truth.”


it was then that he was taken, though only after her. she was gone, and he was left to bear her. the smell of sour flowers hung heavy in the air and he clung to his as he stood before her (She had always loved Iris’). everything was solemnly perfect. the hedges were uniformly cut, the grass was a sickly green, and the sky smothered him in its bright blue lid. only the stinging chill of the breeze gave any sign of Autumn’s cunning approach. he stood an empty shell amidst a black sea of faces.

he dug his eyes into the ground, a deferral of cognitive thought. he could still see the far-reaching stare of her absent emerald eyes, and the shine of her long black hair that lied softly upon the rope that held her throat. he envisioned the glow of the moon upon her soft blue lips, her feet hovering above polished tiling, and her slender shadow cast upon the wall amidst the twilight. it was almost angelic, except that her halo had slipped around her neck when She fell from heaven.

her new neighbors were also present, their stones in perfect formation, all in line as though in preparation of some sarcastic parade. their arms held wide, croaking crooked hymns to welcome her. he could feel their bones rattling beneath his feet and the scratching of a thousand ghoulish fingers upon the walls of their tombs. their shrill laughter pervaded the earth in mocking.

if the world had ever once been built of intelligent design, then the draftsman had died long ago. there was no sense to this. nowhere was it written that He was an indian-giver. he had played the fool of a “King”, as the rest were still. tools to be consumed, used to fatten the halls of His putrid palace with the echoes of psalms and worship. his swollen eyes stung and, wincing back tears, His insentient daze was broken.

his face was hot and his skin prickled from the beads of sweat forming beneath his freshly ironed button-down. he rested his rich violet bloom atop the cold black box, and amidst the humdrum of his gray existence he stood; he watched as She and his Flower were buried within the somber summer hills.

that night, he awoke to a shudder of an irregular sort; one similar in nature to the occasional whispers one hears when caught alone. he pushed himself up on his side and inhaled a deep wisp of air. his nose whistled with each yawning breath. he had felt His name had been called only moments earlier. he could still hear Its echo rattling within the back of his skull, gripping him by the spine. Its incessant murmurings slithered between the sheets and howled ill will through the doorway. It soaked into the walls and drowned his House in a foul wet stench.
then, the whaling grew louder; his body shook madly as the tortuous squeals ignited the room in agony. his white ashen eyes rolled violently around within his head and his limbs tore themselves apart as they fought helplessly against the encroaching dark. he felt his soul furiously set ablaze, and slimy strings take hold of his beaten bones. then all fell nil, and from over his shoulder, one final whisper cut through the silence. “Adam.”

the voice seemed familiar, but with a coarse undertone, as if every key of an organ had been played all at once. he felt the hair behind his ear tingle from the hot breath that swept across his neck. it lingered about his head, filling his lungs and nostrils; it seeped into his veins and spread its reek within him. He closed his eyes and lost himself to it; he felt the tightening grip of a pale slender arm around his waist, its long yellow nails digging into his side and the sharp crescent grin of his captor pressed against the back of is head; His tongue whipped violently between His fangs as he lulled him to sleep in sick ecstasy.


in the morning he awoke with a searing headache. He lied there in a grueling sweat and fumbled about himself. he felt different somehow, cramped, like the flaky skin of a moulting snake.

He pulled himself upright, and placed his bare feet against the chilled hardwood floor. He cast his eyes upon the workings of his room, the morning light shined brightly upon the wine colored walls and the jealous pictures that cluttered them. one in particular allured Him. it was she and he, standing in his late Father’s Garden; the old knotted Fig Tree sprawled out in the background, its twisted branches clawing out in all directions. he had always promised her to rebuild the garden, but now it was too late.

He looked out his late father’s bedside window. the once magnificent garden lay gray below, wilted and spoiled. and there, in the center of the weeded heap and tangled litter, stood the Fig Tree. it looked more like a skinned animal than a tree, with its exposed wooded veins clotted and tangled beyond repair. its bowed and wonky trunk hunched over the house, and cast its deformity upon it.

he leaned over his knees and rubbed his temples. he felt his mind meaning to explode from the building pressure within his forehead. he looked up, and moved his eyes across the floor to the far corner. there hung a black victorian mirror where he first noticed Himself.

he forced Himself up and shuffled over to the far side of the room where he peered into it. two moldering, discolored lumps, each about the size of a quarter emerged from His brow just below the hairline. they sat sunken deep in his skull.

the infringing growths struck him as odd, for he had not been injured, and could otherwise think of no other reasoning behind them. sensitive to the touch, the mountainous bulges were thick and rigid like bone from His very own cranium. they came to a rounded point about one inch above his scalp and grew at a slight curve. he looked at Himself warily, and was seized by the trespassing phantom behind his now sharp and shallow eyes.

“i ‘knew’ then that everything was different; i watched as she and my Father’s House were buried in flame against the dying summer hills. I started as a mustard seed, as do we all, but how can a tree stand without its roots? now a vile jeer ripples through my coffin, one that was built from my own bark, planks cut from my flesh. The charred sap oozing from the scars binds each together. A warm breath strews across my sweat covered face, i am not alone.”

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