Part 2

Jack’s brain felt as though it were floating in a warm blue liquid. Everything was calm. His eyes were closed, and in the darkness he heard no sound, felt nothing of his body, knew nothing of his surroundings.

Jack’s forehead had directly struck the concrete. Hard. He laid their motionless on the train platform. Some witnesses fled, fearing the supernatural, while others came closer, either intrigued by the impossible or hoping to help the mysterious bleeding man.

As his eyes opened he saw blurry shapes crowding his field of vision from all directions. He heard dull, distant voices.

Jack’s eyes began to focus on the faces staring down at him. He heard unfamiliar voices. “Is he okay?” “Who is he?” “What did he just do?” The questions came from every direction.

A large man in a red sweatshirt knelt over him. “Sir?” He looked straight down into Jack’s eyes. “Sir? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are? Sir?”

Jack couldn’t respond. He couldn’t quite connect the dots just yet. He could, however, feel a dull, throbbing pressure coming from the right side of his forehead.

“Jack?” Finally he recognized one voice. “Jack, are you okay? Jack!” Emma was there. She was afraid.

It was difficult, but Jack concentrated and pieced together two words. “I am.”

“Ma’am, you’re with him?” asked the man in the red sweatshirt.

“He’s my husband.”

“My name is Evan. I’m a doctor.” The man in the red sweatshirt was direct and calm. “The way your husband hit his head, I would bet he’s got a concussion. He should be fine to get up in a few minutes, but for now--”

“Emma.” Jack wanted to tell her he felt fine, that he wasn’t even in pain, so he couldn’t have a concussion. His forehead just felt a little sore. He wanted to ask why he was on his back, and why all of these people seemed so concerned for him. He couldn’t quite piece together the words to ask these questions. He remembered that they had been at the stadium. That they had come out of the gates. That they had stood in line for a while. That he had tried to see--

Then it all flooded in at once. He remembered trying to see over this man, the doctor in the red sweatshirt. He remembered jumping. He remembered shrieks and horror and confusion. He remembered a crowd backing away from him. Now that same crowd closed in on him.

“Jack, my name is Evan. You just hit your head on the sidewalk. I need you to relax, ok?” Jack was not paying attention. His mind was replaying the impossible scene from only moments before. “Do you know where you are? Do you know what happened?”

He did.

Frantically, Jack reached for Emma’s shoulder but missed. She grabbed his arm to steady him as he flopped onto his side. “We have to go. We have to go.” It was a struggle to put words together, one after another, but now his adrenaline surged and gave him focus. “We have to get out of here.” The confusion. The closeness of the strangers, pressing in. Jack had to escape.

With his palms on the concrete and Emma steadying him by the arm, Jack struggled to stand. “Sir” the doctor sounded concerned and reached for his other arm. “Jack, you need to lie down, you’ve got a concussion, Jack, I need you to stay here, ok? “

Jack got one foot under himself and tried to stand. He fell into Emma who was crouched next to him. “We have to go!” He hoisted himself upwards using Emma’s shoulder. She stood with him, unsure of herself, but not knowing what else to do.

Jack gained his balance and looked up. He was looking into a crowd of faces, a sea of eyes that had seen the whole thing. Some backed away like before. A few stepped forward to help steady him.

“Don’t touch me!” Jack could see to the back of the platform, where the streetlights of the train station ended. It was dark there, down below at ground level, and the street seemed mostly empty. His heart was racing. He had to get out of the light, off of the platform, out of the center of this mass of strangers. He lurched forward.

Jack pushed and pulled at the shoulders of those who boxed him in. Frightened, they made a path, one by one stepping back to make way. Some still held up cell phones, recording Jack’s primal struggle to escape. Emma rushed to keep him from toppling over.

Fans continued to pour out of the stadium and onto the back of the train platform. These people, these newcomers to the scene, had no idea what Jack had just done as he painstakingly fought his way between them, against the flow, bleeding from his forehead and tripping over himself. He breathed heavily, his chest heaving as his momentum carried him unsteadily forward, passing by each curious face with determination.

His progress was abruptly halted when he ran directly into a heavy-set man with a backwards cap and a large soda. ”Whoa! You okay there?” The man could see that Jack was unsteady. He grabbed his arm to help.

As soon as Jack felt the man’s hand grasp his arm, all of Jack’s fear and panic mixed with urgency and confusion, and within an instant, Jack exploded.

He punched the man in the face, just below the left eye. It was a sloppy punch, the punch of a dizzy fighter still reeling from a hard blow to the head, but the surprise of the blow sent the man stumbling backward, spilling his drink on the shoes of others in the crowd. The man put his free hand over his face, sputtering a muffled “what the f---!“.

Emma, too, covered her mouth. She was stunned. She stared at her husband with fear in her eyes.

Jack’s head was pounding now as he saw single drops of blood fall down in front of one eye. He stood, dizzy and in pain, as more onlookers stepped back, tripping over each other, but never taking their eyes off of him.

The way they looked at him…

He started to run. He was desperate and anxious. He made his way as directly as he could toward the stairs that led down to the ground level behind the platform.

He turned back at the top of the stairs and saw Emma directly behind him. She was weeping and trying to keep up. He reached back and took her hand frantically as they descended the stairs that led down six feet to a shadowed sidewalk.

Jack couldn’t stop. They ran down the block, Jack stumbling now and again, Emma keeping him from falling completely. He had to escape, to get out of sight. He heard one or two shouts from behind, but kept running.

They had made their way three and a half blocks when Jack, unable to take the dizziness and the pain, finally ducked into a darkened alleyway. He fell forward onto his knees next to a huge wet dumpster. Emma knelt beside him, sobbing and out of breath.

Jack pulled Emma close, held her tear-streaked face in his hands, and desperately pleaded, “What just happened?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was quiet and weak.

Jack swayed. He fell sideways against the dumpster, dropped to the ground, and vomited.

My Tree

MY TREE.

-->

My tree is old.

Old and dead.

My tree has been cut down.

Carved up.

Mashed about… Pulverized!

Smeared.

Stained.

My tree is bound with cords.

Fettered

Crammed tight, used, abused…

And loved.

Poured over. 

Brings light,

Brings laughter,

Brings life.

Hope in the darkness? 

A friend to these lonely days.

Wise old days to those without days.

Young days to the old and bent.

My tree has the hearts of generations inscribed on its trunk.

My tree lifts me up and holds me, brings me down and makes me question myself, and opens the world before me like a book…

bradley

will we ever go
to that island on
lake michigan

off the coast
and far away

and this is not a chance
and not a change of pace
or a time to die
in that quiet place

damn it
you're far too young
to waste away

you've still got four kids
and three wedding days

and now we'll never go
to that island in the sand
that we passed months ago
when you were a better man

and if i'm alone, then you're alone
and if i'm afraid, then you're afraid

My Feet Hurt

I’m simply too tired to write. I’m too exhausted to think of any new ideas; to paint any new pictures that would be worth noting or exciting to read. Sure I've got pleasant ideas boiling, and that kettle is about to sing but tonight is not the night. Tonight is for trying to keep my eyes open and lips moving to make conversation, and to seem like an interesting individual.

I've spent the better part of the last week with my feet glued to the floor of a job I don’t like. I guess I stick around because I care too damn much about my co workers to turn tail and run. I care too much about the well being of the owner of the company to back down. I've come in on my days off.  I’ve given up glorious plans of social revelry. I've told myself it’s in the name of helping out another. I wonder if this is a lie and I've only done these things in pursuit of that almighty dollar. The dollar. You know, at the end of the two weeks it isn't that mighty. It’s pretty weak. God knows I hope this isn't true.

On top of that my sister has come to town. It’ll be good to spend the holiday with some family. I don’t get to see her as often as I’d like, but that’s only because that dollar won’t stretch no matter how I pull. I could write about how much it means to me to have family here, and how it brings forward all the thoughts of my past and who I have been. I could write it. But I won’t; not tonight. It would be forced and really not from the heart, though the sentiment is true enough.

I read recently that the difference between a hack and a professional writer is that a professional writes regardless, and a hack writes only when inspired. I guess that makes me the latter, and tonight I’ll take it knowing that it won’t always be this way. Tomorrow I hope to be thankful to even have the desire and ability to sometimes writes something worthwhile. I wonder if there is any beer in the fridge...

Paint

Brittle boneyard of my soul.

Bleached and quiet.

Full of vacated moments.

I alone have time to examine
our
bruises.
Yesterdays clouts painted on my arm
forced into now with a touch.
Time-travel violence.

I write to keep the fear outside.
My pen locks the door,
the paper
hides the key.
I sing the way I hurt inside.
Bruises of dark cursive on your ears.

of warriors, coverings & sucralose

yesterday the waxing of the surf
the setting of the sun and table
met me with an open hand.

which reminded me of other spheres
on legal and stolen tranquilizers
when we shook closed fists right ways
and agreed to disagree.

you in your trench coat.
me in my wanton emotional
transgressions.

yet later in our disagreements
we sipped on uselessly sweet things
(in coerced proximity)
with the still and drear
and yearned longingly for
the surf to rise
and the sun to be reborn
with our hands held out
(with effortless disparity)
and our eyes chasing wildly.

those were the days friend.
the days we marked with mourning.

Part 1

“Honey, we have to get out of here.” He felt faint. His words came out slowly. “You have to get me out of here.”

Jack had just shaken the laws of nature, and he knew it. He wasn’t sure how he had done it, but he knew he had. And he was terrified.

Thirty seconds earlier, it had been crowded.

There were hundreds of people filing toward the open doors. Jack couldn’t quite see if the train was already full or if there would be room on this one yet. He tried to peer around the other disappointed fans pouring out of the stadium and onto the light rail platform. He arched his neck to find some sightline toward the train doors. It looked full.

“Shoot, this might take a while,” he said to his wife, Emma. He decided to give up and just go with the flow of the crowd for now. “Man, that game was rough.” Emma wasn’t listening. “Those nachos were good, though. Why don’t they ever taste that good at home?” She was digging through her purse for something.

He went back to trying to see ahead to the train doors. The crowd had stopped inching forward. He could tell that they were close to the doors, but he still couldn’t quite see if they’d make it onto this train. He didn’t want to wait for the 10:25.

There were two men talking about the game in front of him, one wore a leather jacket and the other a red hooded sweatshirt. Both were tall. Jack, even on his tip toes, could not see over their heads.

“I can’t see a thing around these guys,” he said to Emma, knowing he was basically talking to himself.

He needed to see over them. He strained himself, stretched and craned his neck as far as he could, but came up short. He was boxed in all around by hundreds of people, so he would have to jump to see around the two brutes.

He bent his knees just a bit, and sprang back up with as much vertical momentum as he could muster from a standing position. He pushed his chin up and looked down his nose toward the train as he got just high enough to see over the two tall men.

That did the trick. He could see then that the train was very full. He scanned for vacant spaces. No luck. They’d have to wait for the next one. It was late and he had to work early. Oh well, he thought.  What difference would ten minutes make? He was still happy just to have been at the game, even if it was a trouncing. No surprise. It’s a rebuilding season. Everybody knew it. Maybe they’d shuffle up the roster in spring and come up with something promising. What they really needed was to get rid of --

His mind stopped abruptly. Every other consideration, every other detail of life and existence vanished from his brain. He became immediately and horribly aware.

He hadn’t landed yet.

He was still looking over the heads of the tall men. He was staring at the train. He wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t he moving? Others were moving. He wasn’t moving.

He turned his head slowly. So slowly, in fact, that he wasn’t sure he was turning it at all as he panned across the platform full of eager passengers. He was above them. They were below him. He wasn’t on the ground. Everyone else was.

Each passing fraction of a second felt as though it dropped him deeper and deeper into a dream.

His whole body tensed and froze. A sudden panic set in. He hesitantly looked downward. He focused on his shoes, and his eyes grew wide.

He turned his head to the right. “Emma?”

She was still looking through her purse for something. “EMMA?”

“Yeah?”

“I--  I’m--  I think I--  jumped.”

“I can’t hear you.” She turned. Her eyes didn’t meet his face but his right hip. She looked up. Jack’s eyes were filled with shock. She looked down, wondering what he was standing on.

Jack was two feet above the ground. He was standing on…nothing.

She gasped and slowly took a step backward, staring at his shoes.

“I’m not-- I can’t-- “ Jack stammered. “Emma? Emma, what’s happening? Emma, what’s under me? Am I—”

“What is this?” She took another step backward.

This time she backed right into a young woman talking loudly on her phone. Emma tripped over the girl and into the side of an old man in a long overcoat. “Oof!” He caught her under the arms.” Careful there, I gotcha!” Just then the girl on her phone let out a piercing scream. Her phone crashed to the sidewalk.

All heads in the crowd now turned. Then everyone nearby stopped cold.

There were scattered shrieks and gasps as anyone within ten feet pushed backward to get away. The tall men turned around and found themselves staring right into the chest of what appeared to be a much taller man right behind them. They quickly saw the truth. One of them blurted out some startled profanity as the other tripped over him trying to get back. They both scrambled to their feet again and backed up with the rest.

A wide circle had now opened up around Jack. Everyone on the platform and inside the train could now see something that they couldn’t quite understand. A loud gasp followed by an “Oh my god” was heard from inside the train as just then the doors closed. The train began to move as another scream rang out, then another. The train grew louder.

A loud chugging and swishing mixed with the growing commotion on the platform. The crowd seemed to crescendo along with the growing noise of the train. All seemed to blurt out their unfiltered gut reaction. “What is this?!” “Holy --” “Jesus Christ!“ “WHAT THE--”

The train’s piercing whistle erupted in one long blast as it departed the station and, in its echo, everything again went suddenly silent.

A full twenty-foot ring had opened up around the floating man and his wife. Emma had ended up on her back on the sidewalk, not yet able to stand up.

Hundreds of wide eyes stared like unlit light bulbs, waiting, watching, searching for reason. No one in the crowd knew exactly how long this silence lasted, but all recalled later that the silence was broken by one horrified voice, coming from eight feet above platform.

“I don’t know what’s happening!” Jack sounded like a frightened child in the last moment just before the drop of a roller coaster.  The crowd stared.

The girl who had tripped Emma and dropped her phone scurried forward into the empty circle. She reached down and scooped up her phone, then hastily jumped back into the crowd and started recording. One by one other cell phones began to pop up throughout the crowd, recording each passing second.

He was floating. He wasn’t moving. Not up. Not down. Not left or right. He was simply floating.

“Jack, is this real? Or is this some hidden camera thing or…” Emma asked. “I don’t like this, Jack, stop it.”

“I can’t stop it, Emma. I don’t even know how I started it!”

Jack began breathing heavily. Very heavily. And very deeply.

“Jack?” Emma raised herself to her feet.

He had been off the sidewalk for a full twenty seconds, a fact which was now becoming very real to him. He felt lightheaded as he looked around at the countless faces.

“Honey, we have to get out of here.” He felt faint. His words came out slowly. “You have to get me out of here.”

His vision began to darken as he saw the faces begin to swirl around him, slowly at first, then faster and faster. He felt all thoughts drain from his mind. He saw a glimpse of Emma as she rushed toward him with her arms stretched forward. She screamed. It sounded distant, muffled. Everything became fuzzy. And then everything went black.