A bruised smear on the horizon as a corkscrew plume of dust wandered across the bay.
The yellow sands of the Gobi desert arrived with banshee shrieks. The wind becomes an animate thing as it passes over this island.
The roiling waves provide its own trackless landscape as the sands drop unnoticed past the bay.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you, I’m Cynthia Gates with the Cincinnati Times. My first question is ‘what.’”
“What?”
“Yes. Followed up by ‘the fuck?’”
“…” a confused look turned to recognition as the man backed away.
Angry scramble to the stage as the reporter loses her cool. A frenzy starts as she begins biting anyone in her way.
“I’ll have justice! Wayne Conners! I’ll have my motherfucking justice!”
A prim aide got between Wayne and Cynthia. “Wayne, tell me you did not fuck another reporter in an Applebee’s,” she hissed. Jennifer knew she didn’t get paid enough for this kind of shit.
Damp mustiness spoke of wicker men left to rot.
Gideon had forgotten the rule. Never walk the fields between Blessings. The changing tide of seasons curled the edges of protection the village elders renewed each Hallows Eve.
A ragged crow man hung from a lacquered post. Straw spilled from its burlap guts. Gideon stopped. A scuffle of sound came from the crow man. A dry shift of hay.
“Just a critter,” he said skirting to the side of the post.
The movement grew louder as he passed it. He broke into a run without looking back. A wet thud hit the ground behind him. A scream escaped his lips. His legs kept pumping. The line of the field in sight.
And then the ground.
He struggled to reason the change before he felt a shaft of ice in his thigh.
A vicious slash lit his neck with fire. Gideon’s scream slumped into a mew as blood pooled around his brittle form. A deep rhythm of thudding steps circled the boy.
A heavy voice echoed around him as a cold wave approached.
“Tribute.”
I take a taxi to work everyday. I sit in the back and stare out at the lush, green forests and deep blue waves that fold over each other like boneless puppies.
Lavender sprigs infest an otherwise uniform wall of foliage. The buildings in the south of the island are a mix of battered aluminum sheds, wooden slat houses, ceramic tiled topped manses, or other odd ends that squish together like a heaving bookshelf.
None of the wood looks cured. My fingers twitch every time I see planks that will curl and bend under the oncoming downpours of typhoon season. The pungent vapors of Thompson’s sealant tickles my nose for a second before time resumes. A passing moment from working on projects with my dad. More and more, I realize all the practical lessons he taught me as I stood in watchful silence.
The spring air holds warmth like a fuzzy swimming towel after a dip in a cold pool. It feels invigorating to clear the cobwebs from my mind as I once again walk mazy routes through my tiny section of the taffy stretched island.
Scratch meals weasel their way into existence in my newly clean kitchen. The vagaries of my recipes lend themselves to the musical flow of creation rather than a strict march towards some ideal culinary outcome. My oft-delicious hodgepodge makes for a suitable reward on days where it’d be easy to end my town wanderings with a stop into the Family Mart for a bento.
I’ve stopped to ask myself why I need a second year here— and it feels that I could provide a whole host of nebulous musings and chatter. But the underlining factor is that I still feel I’ve got some important things to learn— that what I’ve come to experience on this island has already impacted me in ways that I won’t fully understand for years (if ever).
Like reading the cribbed scrawl of a morning recollection of some half-forgotten dream, I know there’s an element of conscious rediscovery here.
As the winds continue to blow and pollen fills the air from the budding trees and flowers— I know that it’s not in the answers that meaning lies— but in the questions.
Today I found myself thinking of the moss green glow of the fish tank light that lit my ways as I padded between the kitchen and the living room at night during childhood. The tank held red and blue neon tetras, elegant angelfish, and a whole host of other species that I can’t recall— only the time I spent with my nose pressed against the glass or a mischievous hand dipped into the water to brush the scales of a emboldened fish.
I remember the nights when my family sat on the couch and watched old episodes of “Zorro” and “The Three Stooges.” I can only recall the soft breeze during summer as the screen door was all that kept us between the world. The ambient heat from the day settled peacefully into the light shadows of the summer night. If you stepped outside with bare feet, you’d be greeted by still-warmed pavement that sent little pulses of pleasure up your legs.
I’d sit on the porch during the rare thunderstorms— captured by the roiling energy that charged the air. I’d watch in wonder as distant strikes of lightning brought the world to a standstill. The thunder followed after like a haggard dog.
I remember standing in a cluttered kitchen— always a book, magazine, or newspaper spread across available surfaces. During the weekend the voice of Garrison Keilor would fill the room. I’d sit around ready to hear the newest tale of “Guy Noir” and the fictionalized version of St. Paul — “A city that knew how to keep its secrets.” The tongue twisters, subtle turn of phrase and looming shadows of a haggard private investigator dug into my bones. The elements of a “beautiful, mysterious woman,” alliteration, and the penchant for being a ham have dominated my own stories— often without a clear recollection of why.
But as Jane Ellen Harrison wrote— “you cannot unroll that snowball which is you: there is no ‘you’ except your life — lived.”
Often we can forget the inspirations that have been planted in our personal gardens of creativity.
I can link the old muscle cars and lifted trucks from the countless “Auto Trader” magazines I’d beg my dad to bring home to my love of heroes with a reckless need for speed. The audio book set up at my family cabin held suspense and thriller stories my tender ears (and heart) were to young to hear. The sense of looming dread has infused itself into both my nightmares and horror stories. I can feel the expansion of time and its warping of reality as I craft the stories that have kept me wide-eyed during many long nights.
I’d pester people for their weird, unexplainable stories during my childhood. The late night “Coast to Coast” didn’t help with my bursting enthusiasm for explanations of the seldom believed. I’ve grown to maintain the enthusiasm, but it’s tempered by a skepticism that both drives for proof and recoils at the thought/ terror of finding it.
I think of the plastic Roman Legionnaire armor and shining swords I’d wear as I quested through the three lot garden and the front sidewalk. I even buried a broken sword, only to rediscover it years later in the forgotten space between the garage and the neighbors house. A pine hung overhead— littering the ground with sharp needles and gobs of sap. I knelt in the dirt and held up the forgotten sword— feeling a faint sense of change in the way childhood moved. I buried it again and haven’t touched it since.
If five year old me talked to myself today— I can think of three questions he’d ask. “Got any food?” would be the first out of the gate. I’m nothing if not pragmatic about making sure mealtimes (or snacks) are to be had. “Got any good stories?” Far too many to count, but not enough to stop searching for more. “Did you find your robin?” Not yet, but all in due time.
At times the memory of childhood can seem distant in the way that stars do. Vast and unreachable— but visible and inspiring (in many ways). It’s through slow entreaties and unexpected emergence that we find ourselves eye to eye with people we have been. They’re still there within us— wondering what we’ll do next. Just as we ourselves will ask the coming versions what they plan to do.
I hope to find myself once more wandering through a garden— eyes wide at the magic that transcends the mundane as an adventure once more offers it hand.
Ezra Sinclair? He’s the type of guy you’d start to describe as “he’s the type of guy…” and then realize you don’t know a single true fact about him.
You’d realize all you saw were smoke and mirrors— and as you try to extract yourself from the imminent social awkwardness and sick feeling that you’d been played— you’d still wish he was there.
That’s how it was to live life with Ezra Sinclair.
Ebullient, eccentric, faintly diabolical, and woefully poor at time keeping, Ezra made for an inspired dinner guest and horrendous roommate.
Kerry Sullivan learned the extent of Ezra’s limp empathy during their three years rooming together at Yale. Ezra never seemed to attend class, but received top marks. Kerry had his suspicions— but couldn’t fault Ezra if he didn’t get caught.
He’s the type of guy you’d be reluctant to define your friendship with. Certainly no one qualified him as their “best friend.” But there were cases of “close” and “dear” even if from afar they seemed strained.
It begs the question— can you be friends with a force of nature? Or are you resigned to admiring it? Knowing that you can’t unpack a tornado or quell a tsunami.
We arrived at the Yamaguchi compound before I had my last sip. After I finished, Kenshin nodded towards the door, and we exited into a fortress. The compound had high concrete walls topped with barbed wire and a host of cameras and guards around the entrance. I had no doubt other guards were roaming the grounds at scheduled intervals. The air felt tense. The same type of charge before a storm hits. I took one last look around before following Kenshin inside a stout, four-story building.
I was led to a traditional sitting room with tatami and found myself alone after Kenshin excused himself. I sat on a cushion and struggled to find a comfortable position. The amount of travel did not lend itself to flexibility. Maybe in my next life, I could return as a yoga instructor.
The sliding door to the room opened, and three men walked in. I recognized none of them. No surprise there. The Yamaguchi family contended for the largest Yakuza organization in all of Japan. Two younger, smartly dressed men escorted an older, slightly scruffy-looking gentleman. He wore a beard badly, but so did I, so points even on that. He waited in front of the cushion for a second before seating. He stared at me— but with no name or idea of who he was, I didn’t have much to go on.
“You’re the arms man,” the older man said—more a statement than a question. I wasn’t going to enjoy this one.
“Correct. My name is Desmond Kane. I’m here on behalf of my boss.”
“Why is he not here?”
“The Boss? I can’t answer that. Your organization requested a meeting, and I’m here to facilitate the transaction,” I said, trying to judge a response from his features. Easter Island statue continued his living repose. “Shall we begin?”
“First we must start the conversation,” he said, raising a hand. One of the men behind him turned to go to the door and opened it to an attendant waiting with a tea tray. The girl didn’t hurry into the room. She glided at a restrained speed— like a crane circling a shark rather than a girl holding tea. We didn’t speak as she poured the tea into two ceramic cups. The man nodded once, and the girl disappeared back outside. The man took a sip and then lifted an eyebrow at me. I joined him. I did not particularly enjoy the grassy-tasting tea but provided a brave face.
I finished my cup and looked at the man. Did he want to stretch this out? Fine. Each hour padded the bill and I was in no hurry to walk away from a job the Boss had specifically chosen for me to do.
“How often do you sell in Japan, Mr. Kane?” The opening foray.
“Not as often as I’d like,” I said politely.
“And your boss?” And the first bite.
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Let’s say either and move onto more pleasant conversation,” I put my tea cup down. “What are you looking for? More M-3’s and AR-15’s?”
“No.”
We sat in silence while he stared at me in a stone dog impression. I’ll sit here all day. Well, maybe some breaks for stretching my knees.
“I want exclusive rights. No trading to anyone else in the country.” Audacious bastard.
“That’s a steep price,” I said balancing between customers in my head. The report I’d read described the Yamaguchi family as steadfast, but occasionally explosive. “Are you prepared to match the other orders we may have received from competitors?”
His eyes crinkled with a mischievous joy. “Yes. Expect an increase in orders. We are in a time of great… transition.” He raised his hand and one of the younger men opened the door. “You’ll receive a document detailing our requests. I will see you again at their delivery.”
He rose in a single motion and swept out of the room before I confirmed anything. Fuck.
Kenshin reappeared and came into the room to lead me through the house and back to the car. Sitting next to my seat was a leather folio. I opened it, took a scan, and quickly closed it. I nodded at Kenshin and he rapped the glass to the drivers compartment and we departed. Kenshin gestured back to the bottle from before. I shook my head. He didn’t need to see my hands shake.
I had forgotten how the plane bucks and bends under the weight of the ocean winds. My mind wandered as it does. My ribs creaked as the memories of the night before returned unbidden. The dull thud of piston-like punches held a violent rhythm as they smashed all sense out of the men bound on the floor. A pool of dark water sat idle five feet away— occasional tremors spreading across its surface. I hadn’t been able to watch the improvised re-sculpture of the man on the ground. The boss didn’t like that. But he didn’t like much. I’d be fine.
A slow mechanic whirl announced the landing gears and prompt arrival at the airfield. Great. My bladder happier than my mind. Flying into Kansai was a pain. But at least it wasn’t O’Hare. Nothing’s worse than fucking O’Hare.
I should start over. My name is Desmond Kane— and I’m an arms dealer. Well, more of a “purveyor of selected goods,” but the United States government and other sovereign nations like that dispute that bit. Pity for them I didn’t have to dance the tune for ordinary citizens. Not now, at least.
There are a set number of independent arms dealers in the world. There’s a reason behind this that extends beyond economics— it’s a matter of global safety. It’s bad for business if you’re customers are all overly prepared for an offensive. How are you supposed to continue good business if there’s no one left to sell to? That’s why the Boss crafted the Accords. Standard rules don’t apply to those in the trade— but that doesn’t mean none do.
Sharp men with pressed suits and strict manners accompanied me from security to a waiting town car. No one spoke— they didn’t need to. The Yamaguchi family had done deals with me before. They know I’m not particularly eager to talk before we sit at the table. Not that there was much to be said. I don’t speak Japanese. At least not the kind the men who wait by the doors would understand.
“What a wonderful surprise. I had heard you quit negotiations,” the man said, handing me a whiskey-filled glass. One round ball of ice, two fingers of brown, just how I like it.
“I reconsidered,” I said, taking a sip. Hakushu twelve. Not a bad choice to start with. “You remembered.”
“Small details have no small tasks.” Kenshin Takamura gave me a small smile and passed me a folder. I didn’t open it. That would be bad manners when I still had a full glass. “I heard a former associate tried to arrange a deal.” Tried being the opportune word.
“The Boss didn’t appreciate the impropriety. We respect the relationships we already have. The dance card is full,” I said with a tight smile. I hoped it covered the nausea. There hadn’t been more than a smear of paste left last night. I took another sip. Steady. Even with the three thousand dollar suit and slicked hair, I didn’t forget that I sat across from a man known for flaying the fingertips of disobedient members as leverage against future “mistakes.”
“Sybil: a woman in ancient times who was thought to utter the prophecies of a god.”
Prophetess, witch, fortune teller— there’s any number of names to try and explain things that escape normal parameters. The oracles at Delphi themselves were named Sybils.
Years ago, when the name Sybil came up, I hadn’t thought to search for its meaning. For me, it was just the name of my next-door neighbor. Nothing more. Not until you asked me about that name— and how you’d never heard it before. How it came to you in a dream. And then that next day, you heard me say it. Knowing that I had never mentioned it to you before, it was a minor mystery, but one that stayed relatively mundane compared to the other oddities that the dream world provided you.
Still, yesterday I sat at my desk at the board of education and found myself searching for the definition of Sybil. My coworker had mentioned it, and I realized I never knew the meaning. When I read the definition it felt like a pitcher of cold water had been poured over my head.
You told me your dreams have continued to evolve in a curious and sometimes unsettling manner.
I wonder if the “Sybil” you heard was a new title bestowed upon you rather than the name of another.
I wonder what secrets and answers dreams might have for you yet.
And as always, I hope they are peaceful as they are curious. These dreams may take you beyond the realm of the known into the vast of what we are yet to comprehend.
Rotten flowers caught between the window and the drapes. Forgotten like an absent mug of tea. A sad yellow stain where vibrance once reigned.
I’m breathing like a dirty telephone call as I push forward through another abandoned house. The cycle of spring begins anew— this time— vibrance lives within the blossoms of sakura and children that scamper through the streets. The end of the school year is here.
As always— there’s an afternoon moon sitting high & bright over the ocean. A quarter of a million ways away. Spaceships depart from the moon at speeds of 25,000 miles per hour.
How fast do comet’s speed through the sky? Do the rocket ships drop like benevolent meteors back out of the sky?