Writers' Network

‘Do you fear Death?’ was the first question she proposed to the class. My religion teacher observed every girls reaction to her query. The words sat uncomfortably on each student’s desk as if waiting to pounce at anyone who defied the idea of Death. Her voice sliced through the silence, calling on me. Her gaze startled me into a reply.

“No.”

Every soul turned their eyes on me.

“Why not?” she asked. A lump formed in my throat, not unlike a lump that forms when you swallow a pill.

“Because there is God,” I replied. It seemed only fitting since it was the lone answer she wanted to hear.

I decided after that, that Death isn’t something I had to fear if I had religion. Only, Death had heard me.

The next year I realised I was substantially mistaken when I sat at the teacher’s desk weeping about the fear I had for my brother’s life. I could hear it in the corner of the room as she consoled me. The laughter of Death; a personal mock to those who defied him. I would draw in the stench of his breath everywhere I wandered. Each night was a battle, with Him against my subconscious that begged for mercy and sleep. On the rare occasions that I momentarily won a battle, Death would instead move closer to my brother and I would awake to his shrieks of protest to be taken to the hospital.

On those melancholic trips to the hospital at ungodly hours, I could smell Death relaxing in the backseat as my brother clutched on to my mother.

The only words that Death whispered in my ear were:

Death is to be feared, and those who do not fear Death are fools.

There is something to be said about love, which may or may not have been expressed prior to now. Love is a monster. It will chew you up and spit you out the second you begin to think just maybe you have a fighting chance. Every time you start to feel it creeping up, you dawn your armor and draw your sword. With each passing time you say, I will prevail. I will not be discarded again. I will not become just another mouse caught in the jaws of a python. And thus, the dance begins.  

You step once. Step twice. Swing.    

Miss.      

The monster steps twice. Steps thrice. Slash.       

The shield rises but not fast enough. A piece of armor falls to the ground and there’s no time to pick it up.     

You step again, and then again. A strong jab to the chest, but the creature’s tail swings out and blocks it.

This goes on for as long as it must until, at the end, your armor has failed you, and your sword lie broken before your feet. Love has conquered you yet again, and though you fought bravely and valiantly, you will not cower to the Death that which is imminent. You will embrace it and hope only that it will swallow you whole like the serpent it appears to be.

Yet, it never does.         

It chews on you as one might chew a piece of bubble gum, moving it about the jaw this way and that, savoring the flavor for as long as possible, and once the gum becomes old or worn down or flavorless, it is removed and replaced. Such is the same with Love.

Trust me when I say these things, for I know what I speak is true. I have been there on the front lines of the war between Love and Lust, and while I thought I was fighting the battle against Lust, my camp was raided one evening by Love and without any warning at all, I was defeated and subsequently discarded just as harshly.

Love has no loyalties.

A soulmate? HA! They don’t exist. At least, thats what 13 year old me thought before I met him. His eyes filled with adventure, and a tongue that wouldn’t stop forming words that enchanted me. His hands always there to catch me when I fell and his blond hair reminding me of sunshine in my darkest days. My soulmate.

It was the first day of high school when we met, attracted to each other like magnets. And we never really separated since then. We chose one another for every single project, group assignment, or task. One was never seen without the other, as if an invisible thread had sown our souls together. Your secrets, were mine, and mine were yours. We never thought we’d ever have to be apart.

3 years. Thats how long I saw your face everyday. I saw every change, every new blemish, every new pair of elastics for your annoying braces. Every high and every low. We got through them together. We fought once or twice, but the separation would only last 30 minutes. Who else was going to listen to our crazy stories?

I remember how your face broke when I told you. You didn’t shed any tears, but your silence was deafening. Our stitches were going to be ripped apart. I begged my parents that I had to stay, that we wouldn’t survive without the other at our side. I cried and screamed. Your tongue was numb for weeks. But we stayed together.

That last day was wonderful and terrible at the same time. You and a few others came to the airport. We had our last drink together. We sat together for the last time. As we let go, we could feel the thread rip, scarring our souls. You smiled, god I miss that smile, and told me for the last time “I believe in you.”

I don’t remember the words, only the gift.

It was an exchange of information, as nuanced and ancient as the marking of the stars and ascribing to them deities and demons.

It was high school. It was a small place where one could learn as soon as they could walk. A certain diagnosis of being deficient resulted in my nerves and senses to subtly crackle with activity after I swallowed a pill every morning and afternoon.

Consequently, when I wasn’t filled with venom over the things people do without trying, and the things they do when they are I would talk. Between classes, to teachers and kids willing to listen, I would talk. My geometry teacher, a good man to whom I owe much, listened one specific time, about the things I’ve read. He asked if I had read this one book.

I had not, so he gave me his copy.

It was an unassuming thing, a little white hardcover one could fit in a jacket pocket or a purse. on the front was the title, in that 80’s style that ached to appear like it was from the future. the cover looked like a riot of static colored purple and blue. It was only later that I realized it was in the shape of a man.

I opened it, and like that, my mind felt opened. I could not only see, but I had learned how to see at the same time. I saw worlds that would be, that were already here, just not evenly distributed, to crib a line from the writer. I saw lines of thought, information, and connection with everything from that point. the chemistry that governed my mind had been lit up, processing the world in a way that wasn’t forced on me. When I had finished the book a week later, I knew elation and beauty and rapturous excitement for what can be, good and bad.

It was a story, and it began with fifteen words:

“The Sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.”

Swamps filled with ducks turned to rows of soil and plants. Farmhouses in their traditional red in the fields, and mountains in the distance, streams running through the fields. Plastic containers holding the plants neatly in rows glint in the sunlight, with sprinklers drenching the fields and visible pipes in the dirt. The people who live here don’t work these fields alone, they seem far too large.

The towns are bright and seem missionary in style, adobe buildings and small, dirty, colorful buildings everywhere, and graffiti lines the train tracks. Lady in front of me gets up, her jeans hang low and her shirt has a belt made of ammo. The train passes by the landfill overflowing with trash, and runs over the highway carrying cars to their destinations.

The mountains lull me to sleep, and soon enough, we hit the coastline. We overlook the bright ocean on a hill, and the water glints in the sunlight. Every so often, we end up in the middle of a hill, carved out so we can’t see the water, but then the grassy yellows yield to ocean blue and glittering white on a crème horizon, and a sense of serenity returns to my world.

On the left, there’s the air force base, Vandenberg, and on the right, there’s a sandy beach running into a perfectly blue ocean. The blue has gotten progressively darker and more intense, but there are still glittering white dots. There’s a few mission-style beach houses by the beach, and the sand here is covered in orange grass. There is some land off in the distance, on the other side of the water, and as we travel closer, I can see that it’s connected to our land. On my left, there’s a fence folded up and an abandoned barn. Land out here must come pretty cheap, or not at all. It’s so far away from a town. There are little valleys in the grass next to the tracks, and now the blue in the water has turned two-toned, both that beautiful intense turquoise and a darker blue. Even the horizon is a little blue now. The tracks are close enough to the ocean that I can see the tussocks of seaweed floating in the darker blues close to the shore, and I can see the yellows and greens and browns of the grass and soil overlooking the water. Almost as though to prevent us seeing the true form of Thetis, a hill comes up in front of the water again, blocking the ocean from sight. And now, to the left there appears a field of horses and a pasture, the horses grazing happy and free. Now there are trees overlooking the water, and the farmhouses are in the valleys and the hills. And through the trees, amid the water, I can see something, as though it’s in the distance. The water is calling to me. The mountains of seaweed form shapes, and the bluest water calls me to join it. And as the water becomes clearer to me, I can see the figure of a goddess rise out. And though I have never met her before, I know her clear. My lady Thetis, I call to her in my mind. It is I, Meredith. What do you wish of me?

And though I am amazed, she replies: I do not ask of you, else than that you be happy and joyful. I simply wish for you to delight in my presence, and to allow me to heal you of the pains and fears, which ail you.

Thank you, goddess, I bow my head, and I am ashamed, for I judged my lady of the sea. Like the water she inhabits, my lady is generous and stunning. The shimmering white waters where the sun meets the ocean scintillate like diamonds of her kindness. My lady, I have traveled here before, and I thought I met you, but we never spoke.

I have always been here, she replies, but I only speak with friends. You have dedicated odes in the name of the water I love, and so I consider you one. Be at peace, little one.