Gallimaufry

I’ve written around thirty-three thousand words this year for the 2023 Gallimaufry. It falls short of the eighty or ninety thousand that last year’s 365 project possessed. Nor do I think it’ll make up that ground between now and the turn of the new year.

The point of this section wasn’t to do the same thing as the previous year. It wasn’t to push myself to complete a story or write daily. But still, it has this vaguely unfulfilled nature to it. As if by not giving myself a clear goal— I curbed the ambitious spirit of what this could have been.

When looking at it from a gentler viewpoint, I can see that I’ve continued to be productive as I’ve weaved my way through a turbulent year. So, it serves that many of the pieces in this section were reflections — as I tried to unscrew my head and hold it out to look at where I stood. To cast upon my footsteps with eyes that didn’t look down and contain the body in the same frame.

I’m trying to ask myself more questions about what scares me and what can drive my days onward in a more fulfilled manner instead of the hand-wringing that occurs occasionally. As if I were here, I was also waiting backstage for the curtain of a show to open. But there is no othering the sections of our life. It is all one rigamarole (or so it seems).

Some days, I don’t know if I write at this shorter length because of the simplicity. Suppose it’s the expedited fashion that appeals. Or if I’m scared to create something more significant— because then I know I’ll have to share it with the world. And once I share it with the world— it will no longer be mine. This is funny since I’m writing this on my public website— albeit without my real name or any real promotion.

The one thing I do know is that I have to write. Ideas come and scream in the cracks of my brain that trickle down to my ears, and they beg to be written down. I hear lines of dialogue that have woken me from dead sleep. I dream these dreams so vast and wild— beyond what’s written in the tomes of deciphering the meaning of dreams that I would swear to you I believe they are different worlds. Or different lives. Or both.

There’s a compulsion to scratch notes on parchment and tap on my phone screen into my fifteen hundred-something notes I’ve compiled since 2016 (android notes did not carry over in the great purge and transfer to the separatist kingdom that is Apple). I have journals in all my bags, and on a thirty-minute plane ride, I got antsy because I didn’t have a pen (even though I had my phone). That’s the level of background noise that fills my mind. I don’t even have one big, singular idea like I once had with Canyon Run and Alex Largo. It’s been shattered into a thousand pieces as I weave short stories together— intermittently stepping back to see the connections between them— gossamer thin.

It may be that this year’s project served to remind me to be bolder. Or to enjoy the ridiculousness of ferrying thoughts from my head to the page. Or both.

Dead Start

I went out to the car park to start my long dead car battery. I looked in the dark windows of all the cars occupying the space is until I reached mine. I didn’t look too close. It’s one of those nights where the wind has an eerie sound to it.

Sitting in the front seat, struggling to start this car, I knew I was the only person in the parking lot. The apartment building looming overhead full of shattered windows, dark spaces as everyone is already turned in for the night. Not even 9 PM in the world has gone still outside of this whispering wind.

The apartment building looming overhead full of shattered windows and dark spaces as everyone is already turned in for the night. Not even 9 PM in the world has gone still outside of this whispering wind.

I revved the engine on and off for 20 minutes. I drove one shaky lap around the parking lot the two months of no movement at all betrayed itself in the groaning of the suspension and steering column, as I slowly, slowly made my way back to my starting spot.

A support ambulance ambled into the driveway of the clinic next door. I hoped that no one would be compelled by their inner good Samaritan when they saw my flashlight on the engine block earlier. The water took his time as he loaded or unloaded. Whatever it was, he was there for. Slowly, slowly, like he was copying my earlier toward his lap around the car park, he finally drove away. The amber turn lights flashing left and I was left again with the shadows of the apartment building, dark windows, and a wind that made me quicken my step as I called time on the battery.

The hundred yards between the car and the stairwell to my apartment felt like they lasted two seconds short of breaking my weakened skepticism of the supernatural.

I climbed the stairs under the gaze of blue LEDs and prayed my active imagination would be left on its own. The winds picked back up as I neared the fourth floor. I turned my head to look out towards the ocean— spying a distant ship light burning orange. With my head cocked to the side I could hear the scuff of my shoes as I walked. I turned forward towards the only porch light turned on— mine. The meager rows of steel doors played sentinel to the creeping fears the incoming fog brought.

The battery didn’t even turn over after the twenty minutes we spent revving in the dark. I stepped into my apartment and turned the bolt. Looking at the chain— I lifted it to the resting hold, but not the latch. My foolhardy way of pretending I wasn’t afraid of everything I’d yet to see.

37

She said “what?” The way others told you to go “fuck yourself.”

She only wore ‘Wet N’ Wild’ lipstick. An iconoclast. On her off days she’d wear giant ribbons in her hair and peruse the forty-six different colors of lipstick. Natalie didn’t need encouragement to let loose with her caustic wit. A term abroad saw her wander the grey cobbled streets of Ireland. A permanent drizzle cast the sky in a fry pan array of colors. Melodic voices whisked upon the air carried her nights on a whimsy of greater dreams.

You Can’t Cancel on the Trip— We Already Bought Beer

“Where the fuck is Zig Zag? Are you telling me directions right now?” Muffled sounds over the phone drag on as Liam wonders what the hell Ryan and Eric are doing.

“It’s a place! I’m not telling you to Bob and weave. It’s a ski town. Get your hands back on the wheel, asshole,” Eric said as he spoke back into the phone. “Sorry about that, brochacho, Ryan didn’t believe my instructions even though they were CLEAR. Anyway, what’s up brotha? You on your way to the campsite?”

“Only if you promise to never call me ‘brochacho’ ever again.”

“Sounds like someone’s got a case of the Monday’s. Did you have to fill in T-11 reports all day?” Liam could imagine Eric provide a sad clown face to accompany the voice.

“I’m serious. I will hang up.”

“Oh, come on, bro, lighten up! Tell you what, we’ll be pulling by the DQ in about ten minutes. I’ll grab you a burger and a shake, my treat. How about it?”

“Make it chocolate and I’ll see you guys in thirty.”

The phone clicked off and Eric and Ryan traded glances before cackling like hyenas. It was going to be a good trip. The pair had a maroon 1998 Astrovan on its last legs filled to the brim with Miller High Life and snacks. Their snowboards were strapped on top and they had some ratty blankets in case their sleeping bags didn’t do the trick for winter camping. Although in a yurt with a heater, Eric wasn’t sure it could be considered camping.

The boys collected their DQ burgers and accouterments, making sure to provide golden retriever smiles to the staff before pulling into their campsite. Camp Creek smelled of moss, ferns, and all the hours they spent outside in the woods behind their suburb smoking dime bag weed. Ryan and Eric felt at twenty-three, they could finally say they felt grow up.

***

Liam got off the phone as he pulled into the dingy five car parking lot of a general goods store. Grease and cigarette smoke colored the windows and the specials looked like they were from the thirties. Liam knew he had no shot of finding a spare battery pack here, but hopefully he could grab the rest of the supplies.

He walked in and immediately turned towards the drink section. The drive from Portland wasn’t that long, but he could do with a fizzy water. He heard a rustle behind him. He turned to find nothing. Weird. He looked through the fridge and couldn’t find anything without sugar. “Cream soda, orange soda, grape soda… where is regular soda water?” He mumbled as he flicked through the options. There were even a couple Jone’s sodas in there. What a throwback, he thought. Another rustle. This time he turned to see a stick, thin woman in a white and purple faded dress leaf through the chips before giving him a darting glance. He turned back and grabbed an orange soda.

Each aisle— he’d hear the soft rustle of some plastic bag being moved by the woman. She drifted between sections in a circling current. Never quite making eye contact with Liam, but lifting her head a little more each time.

Arms full and his heart pumping like he’d drank a triple shot of espresso, Liam grabbed the last item and headed up front— passing by the dark hallway in the back that a damaged sign overhead read “bathroom.”

The wall started closing in like an exam room after a long night. Liam could feel the creeping steps of the woman behind him as the aged linoleum failed to hide her presence. The store had the feel of a slaughterhouse— iron tang and a sickly sweet aftertaste that belonged to human flesh. A misguided summer internship at a morgue after listening along to true crime podcasts with his sister had left Liam with a morbid bent that weakened with every second spent in the store.

The man at the counter stood off-kilter, like he was propped up by a broken mop. Skin the color of aged newspaper, Liam didn’t want to read the stories hidden there.

“Youse a city boy, ain’t ya?” Wet lips smacked— at odds with the dry, thin features of the rest of his body. “Lotsa of ya ‘round here lately. Youse gonna run in them woods?” He whistled the words off. Liam tightened like a bow.

“Don’t know about all that. Just here for some time on the mountain.”

“Ain’t gotta be shy, boy. Youse ain’t nothing special.” The man started ringing up the items one by one. Making sure to look at Liam after each one. Two hundred miles from the ocean and Liam felt like he was staring into the eyes of a bottom feeder— pale, murky bulbs that balanced on blindness and keen interest. “Reckon youse be campin’ with all this wood. Youse up the way?”

Liam could feel the inside of his ears, the pulse of blood as he struggled not to show anything. “I think my friends got a cabin. We might even be up at the lodge. Just wanted to play it safe,” he said a little too fast. The man smiled— showing piano key teeth that hadn’t shined since RC Cola was served at restaurants.

“That’ll be mighty nice,” he said looking down at the last item. A can of propane and a lighter. “Youse have a nice time now.” Liam paid and grabbed the groceries, trying not to burst into a run to the car. Ryan and Eric owed him big time for this. He turned back once and found both the women that crept in his blind spot and the cashier stand by the window.

“Fuck this,” he said hurrying into his car and peeling out of the parking lot.

***

The engine ticked as it cooled down. The boys set about getting the tent up before Liam arrived. The third member of the trio— and the occasional outcast to what had been a childhood duo, Liam possessed the foresight the other two often lacked. Which his arrival made clear as he dropped a bundle of firework and flicked on an electric lantern.

“Why the fuck did you choose this place?” Liam said in a snarl. Eric and Ryan looked up ready to argue, but saw the pale pinch of Liam’s face and the wide eyes.

“Dude… what happened?” Ryan asked. “You almost hit a deer or something?” Liam tossed the rest of the supplies on the ground and stood there for a second.

“Where’s the beer?” Another warning sign to Ryan and Eric. Liam only drank in moderation and he never kicked off a bender. Ryan grabbed a cold bottle and gave it to Liam. He downed half of it before speaking. “I stopped by that store on the way up.”

“The one in Zig Zag? Next to the coffee shop?”

“No, the one a little further up. It had its own lot.” Ryan and Eric shared a confused look. They hadn’t seen one.

“And? You get offered to marry someone’s daughter? Participate in a blood ritual? What’s up?” Eric said trying to spark a laugh.

Liam’s eyes went flat at the blood ritual mention. “There was something wrong with the people in that store. Creepy. They were off… I don’t know. The guy asked where we were staying.”

“Oh,” Ryan said looking from Liam to Eric. “What did you tell him?”

“That were were in a cabin or up at the lodge. I wouldn’t have actually told him where we were going.”

“Cool cool.” Eric bobbed his head. “Besides, we’re like in the wilderness. Wouldn’t it be crazy for someone to track you down or something?”

Ryan punched Eric in the arm,“Dude, don’t say stuff out loud like that.”

“Forget it,” Liam said waving them off. “Let’s set up camp. I’m sure it was nothing.” He took one last look at the road into the campsite before turning back to their messy circle of supplies. Had to be nothing.

Ah, beans

The milky foam in the pitcher bubbled over the side as Iris stared at the door. Someone who wasn’t supposed to walk back into her life strode through like a magnet had pulled them.

A jingle of bracelets and an annoyed tone broke her reverie, “Are you waiting for the milk police to show up?” Iris gawked at Alicia briefly before realizing the hot mess on her espresso bar.

“Oh! I didn’t mean to do that. I’ll clean it right up!” She kept her head down and wiped at the counter with a pungent sanitation rag. Careful not to look at the newcomer or Alicia. This wasn’t the place for the past to unravel. Iris listened to the click of leather heels approaching the counter.

“Welcome to Java Land, my name’s Alicia, what can I get started for you?” Even the way Alicia spoke had a sharp, plastic-wrapped shine to it. A Barbie doll done-up and sent off to a coffee shop to play for the holidays. The customer didn’t immediately reply. Iris heard the rustle of clothes and hoped she wasn’t being stared at. She kept cleaning the now non-existent milk on the counter.

“What’s a good espresso drink? You know, the ones with milk in them?” Iris knew she was being stared at. Please, please, please answer this, Alicia. Her cheeks felt like she’d spent a night caroling with hard cider. All puffy and red— she begged for a hole to open under her feet.

“Oooo our Christmas latte is to die for! But personally, I love the peppermint mocha. It’s the perfect amount of chocolatey and minty— almost like Christmas in a cup!” Iris saw a slow nod in her peripheral.

“How about a regular latte? Sugar before a run probably isn’t great.”

“That totally makes sense. I should have known. You look like you work out.”

Another nod, slower this time, “Ah, thanks. How much is it?”

“It’ll be four dollars,” Alicia said, sounding like a deflated hot dog, “What name can I put on it?”

“Vince,” He said as Iris stood stock still. She saw him walk two steps over to stand before her machine. “It’s been too long, Iris. I’ve missed you.”

Red & White Flags

Every week I go by a construction site on the way to Tsu Tsu where they’re expanding the road into the mountain under Uchiyama pass. Over the course of a year I’ve seen the crease of the road dig deeper into the side of mountain face.

There might be another tunnel made in this half-moon stretch. An airy bay amongst the trees that overlook Oura beach far below.

I wonder if it’ll be finished before I leave.

Whether the giant steel barrier that reaches thirty-forty feet into the air protecting the workers as they place new gray cement blocks to secure the mountain face. I wonder if that will come down before I leave. I wonder if I’ll bid goodbye to the geriatric road workers waving alternating white and red flags.

I wonder where on the island they’ll go next on this never ending quest of redoing the roads.

I doubt it will be the western side of the island. I’d drive for hours through the old (and sometimes new) roads without ever coming across another person.

Hard to imagine on an island that doesn’t possess a width wider than eight miles at any point.

But somehow in the stretched out, vast deposits of connected islands in this actual archipelago, there is nearly three hundred square miles.

Most of it is forest, but the rest? That’s the roadwork.

Feet Underneath

“She would beg ‘please’ like the world would break open if you didn’t say yes.” The parade kept marching down main street as León stood absently staring with Kallor. Kallor tried not to listen to León moan on about his supposed “one true love” although from Kallor’s point of view it sounded like a failed venture. Something he knew plenty about.

“This is not the time for wishful thinking,” Kallor said to León as a cart filled with buoyant flower girls rolled past.

“I’m not being wishful— I’m being… I’m being honest!” León scraped at the ground with a worn heel. His riding boots had fallen into disrepair. “It’s better than riding a black cloud of despair.”

“It’s not a cloud of despair. It’s introspection. Something you should spend a little more time on than aimless moping. Tell me something, León, do you even remember the color of her eyes?”

“Valeria’s? They were beyond description.”

“My point exactly.”

“That’s not fair. It’s just that I don’t have the words to describe them. I don’t think anyone could,” he said looking wistfully at the dancing girls following the flower girls.

“They were a light green, León. Lovely, certainly, but easily described if you remembered anything more than the ache of your balls.” León frowned and looked at his crotch.

“I think you’ve become an old, grumpy bastard.”

“I thought all grumpy bastards were old,” Kallor said rummaging around his coat for a note. “and I ain’t old yet. Just seasoned, is all.”

“Like rotten meat, aye.”

The two men watched the final wagon roll through the street and they started towards it slowly. They wove in and out of the crowds in a practiced manner. All raised hackles and hurt feelings were left for clinking mugs of ale for the end of the job.

Four guards covered the final, ostentatious wagon. The gilded golden edges shone in the sunshine. The attention of the crowd was on the young maiden standing at the front of the wagon, near a plain clothes enforcer who drove the wagon on. The countess of Veltham struck an inspired figure for young men and doddering fools alike.

Perfect timing for Kallor and León to show why they were the best footpads in the kingdom.

Two rough hands slapped down on the shoulders on Kallor and León stopping their advance. “Well if it isn’t the third worst thieves and two stupidest men this side of the Galarn River. León. Kallor. How are you boys doing?” Tachyon Vils said with a gold littered smile.

Behind Tachyon stood a regiment of unmarked guards with assorted sneers, cudgels, and blades. A couple familiar faces dotted the line up and León paled at the connection his brain made. He and Kallor shared a tight grimace and listened to Vils continue on his airy dressing down of his former guild mates.

“So what do you say, boys?” Vils said shaking a pair of cuffs and a fistful of coins. “Which one will it be?”

“You want us to join your gang?”

“Guardsmen. I’ve moved official as I was just saying. You’d be temporary deputy’s for an expedition to the Malton reach.”

“Malton? But they’ve been dark for over a year now. Nobody even tries to get in there,” Kallor said thinking of their last failed adventure. They’d lost half a band to the roving highwaymen between the former Malton reach and the outerlands of Veltham. Kallor wagered you could fit five old forests in that stretch, but he wasn’t a mapmaker. Or even much of an outdoorsman. He didn’t like the idea of leaving the city.

León reached for the coins and received a slap for his troubles. “Verbal confirmation first,” Vils said rubbing his hand. “I’m a stickler for rules.”

Orange Blood

Standing lost in the center of a strange town- he was another young man with nowhere to go— but urged by something to go somewhere.

As with all great adventures— his story began with a mistake.

Valeri Smizen saw the splash of orange blood spilled in the Tenhorn jungle. He saw it in a dream and knew it to be true. He saw the beginning of the end for the enclave and all who hid from the magic trappers of the Kielen King.

Valeri wished he’d dreamed of anything else. Even the flames of the grand hall would have been better. And those were words he’d never utter out loud. Not to anyone. Not even himself.

Cinnamon Toast

Drowsy car rides delicious like buttered cinnamon toast. Luxury of stretching time as thirty five minutes expand into a warm eternity.

It has the feeling of forever.

Same as a first love and the early autumns of your life.

The same as the excitement before the first day of school and swimming during summer break.

A moon so bright and clear you can pick out the craters like aphids on strawberries.

The air is so fresh you could inhale the world.

It has all the makings of a divine day.

But even looking at the dappled sheets of sherbet that color the setting sky, it’s hard to imagine I’ll remember the crisp purity of this moment.

The bright yellow sprouts on a green frond.

A panting ochre dog hanging out the rear view window of a blue Robin egg cat.

No— I doubt I will remember much of this day in any time at all.

A gentle patter into the pool of frozen time

That singular time important to me— and yet not important at all.

Because I cannot hoard it. Cannot bend a meaning or force a gain.

You submit to time— or are dragged by it. Either way it carries you.

Like my feet carry me as my stained white ASICS scrape over the cracked cement at the neighborhood park.

Where I halt to hear the rustle of animals stirring in the brush.

The frenzied call of a bird sounding more like a bubble machine than animal. The “chit chit chit” of distant birds and the long horn of an incoming jetfoil boat.

The moon overhead slung like a lazy seer. Hanging over the horizon as it shifts waves.

Minutes

Stiff-necked and blurry-eyed. The hiss of pain escaping cracked lips. Rows of red rice and burgundy trees. A lazy arc of a winter sun overhead.

Reading the minutes of a speech written by a lost man in his last moments.

Precise incisions to ease the flow of trammeled thoughts.

White letters pointing to cobwebbed lined roads.

Heaters on full blast and the rhythmic click of the gear shift between drive and second.

A big leather bag and stained canvas shoes at my feet. Electric blue weather mats matching my fifty year old flannel.

Alternating opened eyes as the the rays serve as blinding spears.

A sprained thumb, a year past, typing words.

An audience of empty windows— half-filled bay. Puttering boats pulling in dwindling amounts of squid. Fisherman and fish both head north. Hokkaido holds former residents of this southern edge of the island.