Short Stories
The Devil's Food Cake
Egyptian antiquity is carefully laden with scenes of mourning and silent cries. If walls could speak I know they would have a lot to say. I know this because here in Cairo, the walls do speak. The keys to the Rosetta Stone are not mine to hold. My intellect is defeated and overridden by the pure emotion given to me by the temple enclosures. The language of emotion speaks not of memory. It speaks of that which pertains only to your current place in space and time. Currently, the middle of July, in 1904, is my time. Cairo, Egypt is the space where I reside. Nostalgia is the basis of my conversation with ancient wall faces. Why nostalgia? I have never even thought about Egypt until my parents told me this was to be our vacation destination. "Pay attention, Milton," my father said to me for the third time. "I know you're only nine but this experience will affect you for the rest of your life." I knew he was right but I am too young to understand why. We had been in many temples of Gods and Pharaohs whose name I could not even utter. The newly built Museum of Egypt is where we are on our current tour. Our guide's words are the last thing on my mind. But for just a moment I focus my attention on him and give him some of my time. "On this stela here are the hieroglyphs for the phrase, 'Soot is alive'. Also, here all the elements are described." I study the characters in which these words are contained. While everyone, including my father and mother, begin to walk away I stay. If these are the basic elements to life then I must have them ingrained in my brain, I begin to think. As I stood staring I began to feel a presence behind my back. It was as if someone was watching me. I turned around and nobody was there. All I see is a doorway with a statute inside. As I looked to my right I saw our group being led away further down the hall. Without even thinking my feet began to take me into the room. My jaw hit the floor. For here was a God that stands maybe nine meters or more. He had an elongated snout, two flat horns and both arms by his side. The room was very dimly lit and had a red rope so no one could venture near the God. But that didn't stop me. The ancient idol was pulling me in like a magnet. In front of it, just about three feet, I stopped and fell to my knees. The statue stands on a stone base. Engraved in it was the following:
𓈖𓍯𓂧𓁩
I look to the right see more:
𓆓𓍯𓏏𓁟
𓆓𓍯𓏏𓁜
𓆓𓍯𓏏𓁣
Suddenly, as if my mind and body were not my own, I spoke words that contained no vowels, consonants or syllables to make a linear brake. Backwards or forwards, I certainly could not tell. But there was one thing I knew. This was a magic spell. When my tongue had spoken its tongues; lights began to beam from the statue's eyes. It spoke directly to my mind. It's words rang to me as follows:
"Solidified hopes turned to ashes
Our dreams have been lit by magical matches.
He goes into the night without a light
Who can say if he is a fool or if he is a knight?
Two is the number of me and you
'Mirror, mirror on the wall' is both of our sacred calls
Object and subject, subject and object
This is our merry-go-round call to compete
As a unified separation we are everlastingly lusty
as we dance under the crescent moon"
I understood this intuitively and closed my eyes. Standing in the desert was now I. The sky was night but somehow light. The sand was blue and a soft, cold breeze blew. A temple stood in the distance. There was no fear. No. There was only peace. I began my pilgrimage in silence. No thoughts at all on my lonely walk. Just beauty stained before my eyes. I made it to the decadent entrance and became completely absorbed by the chthonic mood in the air. I walked into the stone ladened divine hall. There were torches on the wall. Flickering and dancing they showed my way down the straight, slightly narrow passageway. As I walked I looked at the walls and hieroglyphs were walking with me. I understood them all. Little spirits that had been with me my whole life. Now they have come to tell me 'hi'. I was led to a door that I gently pushed open. Inside I walked and there wasn't a single light. Darkness crept over my eyes and over my mind as the door closed behind. Though fear did not appear as it should.I then saw a light begin to shine. From a figure about ten feet away. It shone from his head that was revealed because he took off his hood. To his right stood a young girl. She held a tiny door in one hand and a basket in the other. She gave me a sense of peace. To his left was a disheveled, old hag. She had a head in one hand and a sword in the other. She gave me a sense of despair. In the middle stood the illuminated man whose head was a jackal. The light was emitting from his head as if it was a jack-o-lantern. His presence made me feel neither fear nor love. He handed me the most beautiful book I'd ever seen. I opened it up and there were no words on any of the papyrus paper. "Your deepest desire will be yours. Write it into The Book of Life." I didn't even have to think. He gave me a feather and ink and as quick as I received I wrote. I handed it back. The Jackal read it and slapped his face. "Goddamnit," he said. Both of the ladies began to laugh. At the speed of light I zipped out of the door and down the hall. Back into the desert and into my mind. In my lap sat a piece of Devil's Food Cake. I took a bite and said,
"Goddamn, this is really good!"
The Mythology of Jazz
I conjoined everything I loathed and despised into three categories. First of which, the things I desired to destroy. Then the second, that which I could possibly make and create anew. Then third, that which I could experience preservation of and make as bearable as could be. But no matter the matter I still loathed the things I had to do. "Your food is getting cold, honey!" My lover called out to me. "Elizabeth, I'm coming, girl." I heard her grunt and thought about which category she would lie. I was penniless and discouraged. A starving artist who hated his only true friend: his wife. I got up from my desk and out of my study. Down the short well of stairs and into our kitchen. I plopped down into my wooden chair. Whose cushions were leaking out of their sides. "Bobby, baby, why do you always avoid me nowadays?" She said flicking her cigarette ashes onto her plate that used to contain chicken and dumplings. "Well," I began, "we only have four fucking rooms and they're all so small, I feel as if we're always together." She began to smile. But it went away when I told her, "though I can only fake taking a shit for so long." My smile began to rise. For some reason I love bringing tears to her eyes. I took a bite of my, now very cold, chicken and dumplings. "Goddamn woman, couldn't you have called me sooner?" All I saw was her black hair flowing in the wind. Then, the sound of the slamming of the bedroom door. I took two more bites and took out a cigarette to light. I just sat there smoking. Ashing into my pile of shit, thinking, I guess you could call this food. Rent would soon be due. I made twenty-five bucks last week from two magazines that published my writings. One of the stories I thought was the best work I could ever do. I was a writer. But this world is not in need of people like me. It needs lawyers, sailors, merchants, and fighters. It needs someone to light fires and someone to put them out. It has no need to be inspired. For that matter, Neither do I.
I was tired of Elizabeth's pale skin and model-esk composure. She used to be one. There wasn't too much money being invested in her though. She was worth more than working at the liquor store I surely knew. Slinging cigarettes and wine to the wino's. I contemplated this as I cleaned our red and white checkerboard kitchen table top. To be fair, I thought, I'm really satisfied with not having a lot. It wasn't that that made it pleasurable to see her pain. Her smug look was the thing I sought to wash away. The fuck does she have to be smug about? I put our dishes in the sink and threw my cigarette out the window. Dead leaves clutter the ground outside as right now it is fall. Shit, I thought, you could fucking burn this shack down. Good, I also quickly thought.
Back in my tiny upstairs study, I look out the window and see no fire. I wished it would have washed over me and my lonesome typewriter. Alas, there I sat, unharmed and content with discontent. I wrote Elizabeth's name in the list number two. I picked up my LP of Monk's Blues and looked at the picture and Monk and the moon. It's queer, I thought, that his middle name is sphere. I then laid the needle down and let his music sing. We were out of money and most importantly coffee. I picked up my last manuscript and it brought inspiration back into my heart. Though I loved this story so; something in me dies when I put it down on paper. The idea's I have feel alive. When I put them on paper they seem to die. This story I wrote was about a writer. So I could deeply relate to his fate. He loved and adored jazz. Just as much as I. He had a wife who was beautiful but for some reason he hated. Just as I did too. The writer in the story had waited so long for his breakthrough, he felt that his patience was now a vice. The parallels in the story crossed into my life a little too deep. Even the writer in the story wrote about another writer. In the story I wrote the writer was, too, feeling uninspired. The man made his way from his little shack, in urban Kansas City, to one of the quickly diminishing jazz clubs in town. 1972, just like in real life, was a decaying age for the jazz connoisseur. In the club there were very few heads. No women at all and mostly drunks just there for the cheap drinks. He got a double whiskey and a mug full of foam. Sat down on the right side of the club and let the inspiration of the quartet fill his ears. A man with a lavish suit made his way over and sat by his side. "The names Ray," his hand lunging out to him to say 'hi'. "Carlos," said the man I created in my mind. Ray asked, "how's life treatin' ya, slim?" "Not as good as it should, mister." "What seems to be the problem, Sunny?" Ray asked as the band finished a beautiful set and prepared for an intermission. "My life's gift is to write and it isn't fitting the romance I had in mind. And for that matter, neither is my wife." Ray smiled, "we all got our cross to bear. Just be careful what you write. There is magic in the word." Ray got up and they shook hands. Strangers acting in a strange way. A must have in any good story.
The man I wrote about in the story I wrote had just also written about another man in a similar situation. And he wrote he found his wife dead of suicide when he got home. Carlos got up, feeling tipsy and a little inspired, made his way home. On his way he saw a giant owl dead in the middle of the street. An odd omen to see. When he got home, he too found his wife in a pool of blood. His story had come to life. Magic was indeed in his own words.
I sat at my desk and sobbed. I'm not sure why but a part of me wishes this could also be me. Well, I thought, the first step is to make my way across the street. The humor was dark but my laugh was light. So I made my way to the jazz club. I love autumn so this was a lovely evening walk. When I entered the club it was as if I had walked into my own writing. No differences could be seen in the two scenes. I sat down to the right. Just to continue the script of which I wrote. Several minutes passed by and my two shots were gone and my foam almost depleted. Suddenly, a hand appeared on my shoulder. "Let me buy you a drink, stranger," the strange man spoke to me. "Sure," I spoke back grinning. The fellow was dressed to the T and I had never seen him before. He quickly returned with my order. Sat down and stuck out his hand. "The names Sunny," he told me and I replied, "Bobby." He tipped his hat and said, "pleasure to meet you." "Pleasures all mine. I certainly appreciate the booze." Tipping my hat I replied. "I spotted you from afar and could just feel your blues," he explained to me. I begin to have the feeling I was in my own writing even more than before. "One could say," I say. "Say, Ray, what's the matter with ya anyway?" I couldn't believe it! He called me Ray. In my story Ray called Carlos, Sunny. A reverse had just occurred. For the first time in my life I thought about the power of the word and began to get very nervous. "You know the wife and the career ain't what they seem to be," I told Sunny. The band hit their last note and began to make their way to the bar. Twinkles started emanating from Sunny's eyes."You's a writer?" He asked. "How'd you know that?" I asked back as he started to laugh. "I have an eye for these things ya know. Jazz is my art and it too has been a burden on my Soul. The world needs what it doesn't want. Us artists have the cure to their needs. Only issue is writing them down causes a part of us to die. Life is a story, my friend. If you change your heart; your story can change at any time. My story is a mystery just as yours is too." I noticed for the first time his necklace had an owl with a ruby embedded in the middle of its head. Pains entered my heart and I stood ready to run. "There truly is magic in the word,"I muttered before I fled. Sunny then grabbed me hard by the arm. "I'm an author too, Bobby. Wise words will will wisdom for you and destructive words will will destruction for you too." Tears filled my eyes and he let me go. I started to fly. I had never ran so fast before. Entering my home and practically demolishing the door. "Liz!" I yelled in the mode of survival. Finding her in our room and laying in our bed. Tears dried on her face. I had never been so elated to see her in my life! This was as though I was seeing her in a brand new light. "What stopped you?" My voice said trembling. "I looked out the window and saw two owls staring back at me. One flew away and the other stayed. The remaining ones' eyes I saw in it relief. I knew this would be you, if I were to leave. I now hate you, too. Your last story killed me because I know you wished it were true. My revenge was to stay so that you would lose." Relief and grief mixed like colors of a painting. "You changed my story and my story changed me." She sighed, "that's how myths are supposed to be, honey." I sat on the bed and held her hand. "My love for you is no myth. It is the real thing. That is something that will never change, darling." She agreed and we watched the autumn leaves fall outside. If there is one thing Jazz and Poetry have in common it is this: