Escape to Dementia

2009-02-14T22:06:00.000-08:00

The fire was snapping only occasionally now. The kindling had become good sized branches and a dry dead log. Don had been very successful in getting the dinner-fire ingredients. He licked his lips, tasting the well-cooked oil on his lips. No meal had ever tasted so well. The Frisian was a master cook in the camp.

"Where did you become so well acquainted with camp-cooking?" Don asked the yellow and red outline of the Frisian across the fire from him. They had stayed late and enjoyed the meal. The dankness wrapped around their cozy place by the fire.

"I've lived in the camps nearly all my life," the Frisian replied."I was only a a few years from retirement from my legion." He eyed the Don warily, waiting for his reaction. The Don's puzzled look was reassuring , it didn't seem very calculated.

"Roman legion...?" Don couldn't say anything more. What was going on? Did he stumble into a movie shoot? He looked at the Frisian's clothes. "You don't seem very Roman to me."

"No, I'm Frisian. I enlisted year's ago to watch Frank and Goth tribes and keep the Roman order....good it was too. Pushed the Goths warring clans apart - made the farmer's happy, those that didn't end up as slaves." The Frisian's eyebrows lifted - eyeing the dichotomy of legal systems.

Don stared in some shock. What road had he taken? The world about him shimmered, as if was in a dream. He couldn't find his voice - or a thought to make a question.

"...but Rome called us back. My legion was decamped and marched out of the lowlands a couple of months ago. We were making our way up Rhenus when we ran into some trouble in Hercynia Silva. I decided that Roman retirement wasn't a very sound opportunity. I'm going back to Frisia and take my chances with the chieftains..."

Don looked at his travelling companion in a stupor. He could hear the Frisian's words echoing in his mind. Was he in ancient Europe or in some new variety of dementia? Vague memories of his life had been colliding ever more frequently with his days up until recent. The persistent buzz of these memories pushed him away from his caretakers. He had lost interest in the daily rituals and callous handling of his managers. The world beyond had called to him like Ulysses' sirens. Now where had those sirens taken him?

"....and you stranger? Hidden in this forest like a wilds man? I can't tell if you're old enough to run here to hide. One moment you seem aged and infirm, the next you're fit and ready. What's your story? Have you forgotten where you're headed?"

Don found his voice. "I am unsure where I'm headed... I just needed to get away. After a time I found myself here. Are we getting close to Frisia?"

The flames had become embers, the soft glow created strange features on the Frisian's face. It seemed like he was speaking through a mask."Frisia will come to me soon enough. Is it coming for you, as well?"

2009-02-11T23:22:00.000-08:00

"Here you go old timer." Don could hear the even tones of his Frisian friend. He felt the cool wet of water on his lips. He pulled his hand up to drink the offer.

"I thought you were younger," the Frisian looked at Don quizzically. "Don't worry grand-father, we'll set you straight." Don could see he was in the forest. The dark encounter must have been the result of his lapse in consciousness. He sat up sand nodded to the biscuit giver. "Thank you for the water. You have been very good to me."

"Don't think about that - you picked a good place to sleep. There's water just ahead of us - and with that came this." He held up a good-sized trout by it's gill. "Let me get a fire ready and we'll have a meal."

The water helped a great deal. Don felt much recovered. The thought of a fresh trout took away some of the pain in his belly. "I'll get some wood," he said, slowly rising to his feet.

"Yes. Good. Just don't put yourself in such a state again." The Frisian seemed to be warming up to him. Don wondered what had changed.

He turned to the woods to look for some deadwood. Bundled at the feet of a tree were a pair of pants and a blouse. Worse for wear, but similar to the bundle he had seen in the dark place with the old man. Strewn below was a rope and a tattered knapsack. They appeared to have been left there some time before.

Don slipped them on and hung the knapsack from his shoulders. Better that he use them than just leaving them to rot, he thought. Strange dream - so real, he wondered. He pushed into the wood to find some kindling.

2009-02-07T20:55:00.000-08:00

Don's vertigo was slight but consistent. He felt thirsty and still hungry. Although the air was warm, like a mild summer day, his lack of clothes was bothersome. He felt more complete, physically, than he had felt in his entire life - and was entirely comfortable in his nakedness. He felt as if he had returned to Paradise. The shock of meeting this Frisian had returned his shame at his nudity, nevertheless he marched on, following his reserved companion.

As they continued, the dense foliage turned to deep forest with large trees rising up sparingly from the knotted floor. High above, the sun speckled through the high boughes. The Don's stomach gnawed at him and he could feel the giddiness of his lack of repas.

"Frisian, hold a bit." He sank to his knee in the loam of the path. He put his hand to his head and rested his spinning skull in his hand. The days of march and change had taken their toll. He felt as he had the night he fell against the tree befuddled by drugs and atrophy.

"Penitent - you keep me from my goal! What holds you?!" The Frisian scarcley looked back , so anxious he was to reach his home.

"I need to eat, friend. I've been....," Don stumbled, not clear on what he could say, losing the energy to finish his thoughts.

The Frisian stepped back and surveyed his companion's state. "You seem to be fading away, stranger. I swear you've put on twenty years since you woke....." He paused and looked about. "This is a fine spot to camp, here. My goal is a way before us. I should break with you here a bit."

Don slipped to the ground and watched the branches spin about. His eyes closed and his body convulsed as he passed out.

As the dark spun about a faint silhouette or illuminated shape wheeled away and back. Don tried to focus on the glow, but felt too ill to make the effort.

"Keihole ! Come to me!" He could feel a hand grasp a tuft of hair at the back of his head. "Keihole! Right here!" Don opened his eyes and looked into the hard stare of a pair of faded blue eyes. He opened his eyes wide - "Yes. Alright, I'm here," he murmured. The blue eyes pulled him to a clarity of consciousness that felt like crumbling paper.

"Keep your wits. You'll still need them awhile yet.." The voice was sharp, but wavering. Don looked at the wizened face and grey locks of a thin old man tucked into a great coat like a robe. He had a little black cap on his head flecked with dark and light grey. His grip was strong on Don's hand and the power of his person seemed even greater.

"Have you lost your way?" The old man cackled. Don wondered what would be so funny about that. "Yes, you look quite lost. Let's give you something so you don't attract too much attention." He pulled Don to his feet and slapped him on the cheek. "That should open up your mind. No way to meet your maker - with those years of dissolution clouding your way. Snap up boy! Unlock that bit you've got hidden away."

Don shook his head. He didn't know where he was now. The forest had gone dark - or he was in some dark place. The old curmudgeon was the only thing he could see except for himself. He couldn't tell from where the light was coming that illuminated the two of them.

"Here, take this, Traveller," the old man reachd into a bag at his feet and pulled out a ball of cloth. " This will carry you through til when we meet next." He unfurled the cloth and Don could see it was a rough pair of pants and a blouse. "Put these on and get yourself ready!" The old man admonished him. With that Don was suddenly in darkness, spinning about and falling.

2009-02-07T00:07:00.000-08:00

The tickle at his nose woke up the Don. He flicked at a fern frond waving into his nose. Unconsciously, he waved it away. Aggravated by the fern’s insistence, he started awake . Attached to the frond end a squatting man stared at him with an implacable expression. Although the language was strange and foreign to the Don, he could understand its meaning clearly.

“Sleeping late pilgrim?”. The man had barely moved his lips. He was rooted to the ground and,yet, ready for violence.

“I don’t know”, Don stuttered “What time is it?” He rubbed his face, brushing away the stubble of the forest from his unshaven face.

“The sun’s up - the new day has begun already - you penitent”. The man was not making any threats, but seemed threatening enough. He felt like he was dangerous and Don was cautious to reply. “I guess I got a little lost in the woods”. The man nodded slowly, “You would be lost to have been sleeping in this glen without a stitch of clothes, weapons or companions. The Don found himself suddenly very exposed and mystified. Why was he naked in these woods. Where was he, how did he get here? He vaguely remembered the great dog and hours of walking, running, was there anything else? That woman?

"Are you hungry?” the man asked, “You look like you haven’t eaten for a while”. Don rubbed his hand on his belly and rolled himself up to sit. He found a grace and strength that he hadn’t felt in such a long time. The aches and pains, the folds of old skin had all been washed out of his body. He felt like a new man, or like a man he had lost track of in the last twenty or thirty years. He rubbed his scalp and found a tangled lock of hair. Strange. He hadn’t felt a scalp of thick hair there for a long time. Who was he? When did he last eat? In a misty memory, he could see that strange altar in his mind. There had been some food - wasn’t there?

"Here have some of this biscuit, I’m fed up with these army rations anyway." The man pulled a piece of hard oat biscuit from a satchel on his hip, strapped from his shoulder, and handed it over to Don. Don took it from him, cautious for the spring-loaded violence that this well-muscled man presented.. "What do I call you, Stranger? Do you have a name?"

Don bit into the biscuit and felt his dry mouth clot with crumbs. He pushed the bits around with his tongue and tried to remember who he was. The crumbs became a sodden moss of stuffing swelling through his mouth. He nodded at the taut warrior and chewed. His companion hooded his eyes and shifted his gaze into the forest. Don tried to pull his memories together. Whoever he was, he was certain that he wasn't that person anymore. Whatever he had done... whatever he had owned.... whomever he had loved, that person was just a faint memory to the soul laying naked in these woods. Maybe those experiences had led here - and maybe they didn't.... it didn't make much difference now. He swallowed down the masticated biscuit and whispered softly,"No one, just a traveler, Friend. Thank you for your care." Holding the biscuit up he nodded to his host.

"Do you know this wood?" The biscuit giver looked carefully into the Don's gaze.

"No... I am lost... to this park." The Don stumbled through the answer. He realized that the city park he had escaped into couldn't be where he was now. The stream and the dog - the day of wander. He was in a place that didn't exist a couple of days before - or he had been moved someplace else. "Where are we?", he blurted out.

The tight mask before him betrayed little. "It's a knotty piece of wood - that is certain. It slows my pace. I travel west to Frisia. It is time to return home."

"Frisia... where is Frisia?" Don shook his head as he questioned his guide.

"I'm not sure anymore," the tight mask relaxed and a glimmer of sadness whispered across the biscuit-bearer's eyes. " I haven't heard much of Frisia these past few years. I fear that my people have departed."

"Where have you been for so long?" Don tried a different tack. Maybe he could get a better reference point.

The tight mask returned and the biscuit-bearer stood up. "Where I won't be returning." He nodded over his shoulder. " It's time to continue on traveller. Which way do YOU go?"

Don had a sharp feeling of disorientation. His thoughts jumbled and he felt dizzy. "I don't know ... perhaps I could walk with you for awhile." The biscuit-bearer held his hand out for Don to pull himself up. "Thank You," he muttered uncertainly.

The tight mask turned away and strode to a part in the woods. Don scratched his buttock and followed.

2009-02-05T20:16:00.001-08:00

His shock of the contact with the forest maiden suddenly changed into a deep fear, as his heart jumped into his throat. From the gloom a wolf-like hound strode forward. Although the dog wasn't threatening, its size, close proximity and lack of fear gave Don qualms.

As if aware of its impact on the old man, the dog approached him and licked at the back of his hand and sat down before him. Don was tentative but encouraged by the maiden's last comment. He slowly put his hand on the dog's head and lightly rubbed. The hound kept its restraint and let its tongue hang from his relaxed muzzle, giving the appearance of docility. Don mimiced the emotional cue of this seemingly domestic wolf.

As Don relaxed, the dog leaned forward and nudged his knee, stood up and led him on out the glen to a path, barely discernible from the forest surrounding them. Don followed, understanding that the dog was here for his purpose. The dog seemed to know Don's destiny, but Don had no idea what path he had begun this night.

They continued on through the gloom of the forest - moonlight breaking dimly through the canopy above. Don could make out an old, well grown forest with tall trees and a floor of ferns and bracken. It wasn't a long walk before they came upon a pool nestled among a denser growth of trees and bush, a small brook bubbling out from a parting of some grass covered rocks. Don fell at the pool, drinking to ease his cracked lips and feverish state. He lay there for awhile running the cool water through his hair and across his neck, throat and face. Don stripped the hospital gown shroud away, washed off the grime and soothed the cuts, scrapes and bruises of his escape. He limped into the cool, soothing water, drinking away his parch. He felt the water both washing away the years of filth, and replenishing his drug abused body. Once purified he crawled from the bathing pool and despite the chill fell asleep from the exhaustion of his trip. He slept through the last of the night and past the dawn.

He awoke to the call of birds. The dog was watching him carefully. Don was hungry and very awake. For the first time, as long as he could remember, he felt as he did before the melancholy pangs of middle age piled up and dragged him into old age. He could recall that he had been undone and that there was still something left to finish .

The dog roused, sensing his movement to awake and arise. The canine grumbled slightly to attract his attention and stood up from its haunch. Don looked about the glen surrounding the pool. In a nook of the space there was a sculptured bas relief. Don looked around him taking in the forest and pool, the bubbling brook purcolating from the rocks. He went to the little altar space to look at the matron and her dog pictured on the bas relief. Accompanying the seated goddess and her companion was a strange set of characters from another language. Don couldn't make any sense of the prayer, but he took the bread and cheese left by a previous visitor.

Thinking nothing of the intent of the one who left it, or the harm, he wolved down the crust and meal, noting that it was fresh. Replenished, he felt his bony fingers swelled with the replenishment. He could feel his entire body shedding its slack. He could feel his muscles gathering their supple again. He looks about the grotto. A thick forest surrounded it. A stream bent away through a mossy bed. The dog led him to a path within the trees. It was a narrow path between thick undergrowth.

They continued through a bramble of rich growth, the sun warming his shoulders. He felt light on his feet. The effort of the walk was not difficult and gave his legs renewed strength. Occasionally he would come upon a berry bush and eat the black or red berries that the wasps and bees didn’t bother.

In the forest, sunlight mottled the floor. Don's every step was a twitch of his muscles and frame. He was moving purposefully and exercising all of his muscles. He could feel his stomach tighten and his shoulders widen. He breathed steadily and with less effort with every step. He didn’t need to rest or think. The path the dog was taking him on was indiscriminate to him. He was recovering his forgotten physicality.

They walked through the day like this. The forest changed so little that it seemed endless. Don was like an automaton. Walking was its own pleasure. Hours later the light diminished. They had seen only small animals and birds. Hunger had finally appeared. The dog had been paying no heed to him. It was as if they were linked and he was drawn in its wake. Now that his attention wandered, it looked his way and gave a quick snort to bring his attention back. Don wondered if this dog was reading his mind.

He grew frustrated with his growing hunger , though and called out, “Here now, where are you going?” the dog ignored him, not breaking its gait. Don stopped short, “Come on where are we going?”. The dog disappeared into the forest, not stopping or looking back. Don was torn, he wanted to look about and find something to eat. The fruit of the brambles was long ago. His stomach was starting to wish for some of that bread he’d had early in the day. As the gloom deepened, his nakedness became more concerning. He wanted to make some kind of proper bed and find something to keep him warm. The dog had been a kindred spirit and he'd felt safe and purposeful in its company. He stepped haltingly in the direction of where the dog had been. As he looked about and distractedly stepped towards the dog’s path he soon realized there was no path to follow. He looked about and found himself with no place to go. Suddenly he felt very tired. He sat down on a mossy rock and scratched between his legs. Although hungry and now lost, Don felt satisfied with himself. He could feel his skin tightened across newly renewed fitness. He felt like he was ready to race.

2009-01-27T22:25:00.000-08:00

"Lost, are you Frijian?"

Don wheeled about putting both hands to his stick. Faintly, in the gloom, just beyond his view, there was a grey figure nestled in the dark. Don squinted, spread his feet and put the stick firmly between himself and the carnivore.

"You don't belong here, do you Mihan?"

Don grimaced. This disadvantage made him unsure what to do. Dressed in a night smock, barefoot with just a stick - facing some seer in their own deep glen. Don didn't know what to reply. What the hell did she mean, "Frijian"?

"Tell me what you seek, wayfarer. This wood isn't where you'll stay." The voice was feminine, but pure and familiar. A young woman of more than medium height stepped forward from the dark. In the gloom Don could see a fair haired boylike beauty. Her loose jacket didn't hide her feminine grace and the snug pants showed an athlete in her prime years. She stepped past the planted stick and put her hand on his cheek - her thumb teasing the crease of his lips.

"Speak to me, Don. This time is yours - just not this place. Where do you go?"

Her touch melted his distrust and fear. Her tenderness washed through him like a flood. His heart's love broke open and rushed to his loins. This creature was magic - lithe, beautiful and sympathetic. He could feel her power filling him with conviction. His member swelled and he could feel her warmth surrounding and caressing him. His mind swooned, closing his eyes, he felt as if he was falling. He couldn't open his eyes, but he could see her mounting him.She was like a wild frantic dancer, playing on the stage of his belly. He was revelling in long lost virility, sharpening his attention to his manhood slipping and kissing her fertile center. Her beauty and grace covered him and inspired him. He thought he was going to fill her, feeling her breath ready for his come.

"I don't know where I'm going. The owl showed me the way....", he gasped out. He opened his eyes and found himself on his feet - standing with the nymph taking her hand from his cheek. The endless love and sensual splendor, the physical connection and intense desire, all that was a slight swoon of her touch? He wondered if the hours of lovemaking was just a fantasy - that intense desire and lust by the most beautiful woman of his life was only a brief sensation? But here he was and little time had really passed. The blond hair was floating in this forest space, her green jacket undisturbed, the snug pants still tightly bound.

"Don't tarry here, Mihan." Her voice was like a simple melody - exquisite and warm. "You're time isn't long and you've much to do." Her soft green eyes looked in to his heart and held him like a child. "There will be another you will meet. His world is yours and the one you've left is done. Look beyond and forget what you've been."

So many question arose. Don wanted to blurt out his pleas, but his mouth formed only this short confession, " I love you so much." It didn't make any sense, but it was the complete truth - he had always loved her.

"I know, sweet Frijia... and I've always watched for you. Look for my sweet pet." She turned to leave. Din blinked and blinked hard again. She was older, her hair was tied up, showing her neck and the blond hair swept up into a strawberry blond mass. Her forest jacket was a formal maroon blazer, now and her tight pants were a loose gown. Don shook his head and she was gone. Beyond the gloom he could hear the panting of a canine.

2008-12-31T23:32:00.001-08:00

The forest deepened - the twinkling star-like lights on his horizon grew smaller as Don tread steadily along the path. As the bright blinking lights faded, his eyes adjusted to the dark. It was a deep gloom that shrouded the forest, not an inky black. the trees twisted together forming strange brooding shapes - the path had taken him to a blackened forest of mysterious life. These trees and their roots were almost growing before his eyes. Don blinked and rubbed his eyes. He was growing as well - or regaining lost growth. The farther he was from that killing bed, the younger he felt. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this alive, but he could remember this vigor. A time when he felt like he could march all day, when he could swim across a lake - and back. He could remember playing the Don all night and napping before dawn - to awaken at first sign of light, show his ardor again and work the day and night after. How could that rain of kisses not sustain a man for another day? Don remembered the lust had for life and could feel his limbs stiffen with that long lost strength.

Something was happening in this flight from death, he thought. He wasn't fleeing the smothering death that was suffocating his life away on that stank ward. He was meeting something - and it didn't feel like the proud death he thought he was flying to, like a moth. This dark path had turned him from these glaring beacons of stark oblivion. He was treading to something else now.

His foot struck something hard and threw him straight to the ground. He just barely got his hands out to brace his fall and eased to the ground instead of crashing to his face. At the same time, he glanced about himself. His dexterity and canniness felt completely normal and indecipherable. The stiff bones and atrophied muscles were not his anymore. The catlike sense of his youth had rejoined him in this gloomy shape-shifting tangle of trees and undergrowth. His senses were sharpened by this sudden plunge to the ground. He could feel at his foot the wide-ranging root from that sprawling chestnut tree behind and to his right. He could feel its winds and turns through the soil and into the wide old trunk with this toes. The sensation startled him, but didn't slacken his calm awareness - this cool appraisal of this mysterious thicket. Don was acutely aware that he had shaken years of lethargy and indolence, ages of futility and waste and reawakened to this lost youth. This was a renewal though, not a rebirth. As his mind clicked through the inventory of sensations, he could still feel the ache of his surgeries - the twinge of years of injuries - even the senile holes of his brain could be accounted - somehow these physical degradations weren't a match for this swelling of spirit. This was a marvel, but Don could feel an urge not to tarry in this marvel - there must be a reason for it. The forest that he could feel spread about him must be the reason - or the cause way of this elixir. He had to penetrate this gloom and find where this path led.

Don pushed himself up to his knee and looked about. There was no path! His eyes were well adjusted to the gloom now. He could see the still figure of an owl away on the branch of a tree. Its silhouette indicating its attention to his presence. He looked about, back from where he had come. somewhere he had slipped off the path and stumbled among the trees. He didn't see any faint trail or pathway behind him in the dim gloom, though. Maybe not being on the path was the way he found his strength? Which way to go now, he thought? He stared hard in one direction and then another to discern any causeway to pursue.

Nothing was what he could see - one way was a gloom of emerging shadows of trees as was the other. No clear avenue presented itself. Any choice was as bad or as good as the next from this vantage point.

"It doesn't make any difference - this or that, I just wish I had a bat..." he murmured, surprising himself with the silly rhyme.

The owl startled and dropped off the branch on to its unfolded wings. The big bird swooped by his face - its splayed wing feathers brushing past his ear.

Don quickly turned and just caught a glimpse of the owl's shadowy flight disappearing to the gloom.

"Well enough - the rapier knows this place well enough. I'll follow its lead." Do thought it was not cautious to be speaking to this gloom, but his mouth seemed to be finding voice without his thought. He shook his head slightly and stood up. He would feel more comfortable with a shillelagh, as a matter of fact, thinking back to his grandfather's favorite walking stick.

The trees passed by slowly, one to the left, another to the right. It seemed like they were maples, more than chestnuts, but he continued to spy those great large trunks often enough. This was quite an old group of trees - haphazardly arranged by their own natural growth. Don didn't know where he was - but he was sure this was no city park. It was a harbringer of his lost childhood - a nest of trees undisturbed by any interest of commerce. As he passed by one tree and then another on the owl's mission , he became ever more sure that this was quite a large nest, as well. How wild was this thicket?

He came upon a fallen branch. It was fairly straight - too large for a shillelagh, not quite up to a staff for prophecies. It was a good size to brace him on this walk, though. He took hold and stripped off the loose bark where would grip it.

"All I need now is a pair of sandals and I could cross the desert, too."

"There was that mouth again, encouraging a carnivore's interest", Don thought.

2008-12-24T17:42:00.001-08:00

The Don stumbled to a tree, hiding him from the glare of the boulevard. The light was blinding, garish, painful - he felt the bark of the tree pushing into his back, the exhaustion of the effort pressing him against the trunk. His breathing was shallow and labored. His chest hurt. His arms had aches and shooting pains that arced down to his knuckles. His wrists felt heavy, like weights hanging over his palms. Sharp pains in his neck made him cringe. Part of him wanted an angel to deliver him from this agony with an elixir of peace. Another part embraced the pain as a long lost friend, a reminder of life's balance due .

The pain renewed his effort to seize his goal. Confusion swirled within his sense of balance. He fell down the tree, bark scraping the soft folds of skin across his hands. Don landed on his side. The anger pushed him, as he held his head away from the ground. Waves of pain roiled through his body. The sudden shock of the currents of pain flooding his body stunned him. A whimper squeezed out past his gritted teeth. The anger gathered into a hatred for his petty physical self. "Be free", he raged to his hands, his shoulders, his arms. The rage pushed through his withered arms and he pushed through the incapability, the atrophy, the sloth and the loss. Slowly he raised himself. He pulled his leg and dragged it below his raised frame. His body shook from the effort, but he was nearly there. He pulled his knee under his hips and leaned against it. His heart was pounding - it made him swoon. He could feel the blood squeezing away from his mind. The dark expanse of nothingness pulled at him. The dulling thread of the dark shroud threatened.

Don paused, resting on his knee, lowering his head and grasped for the glow of life to return. His mind sharpened from the battle. The surge of blood returned, He could feel his heart renewed from the struggle. A vague memory of other struggles slipped past. How many times had he taken this venture? Was that gate familiar? Had he been at this tree before, hiding from the glare of death beyond? It didn’t matter. The Don dragged his foot up and pushed up and leaned against the tree. Those battles hadn’t killed him. This battle was being fought now. It was time to move forward and discover what his fate would bring.

The trees formed a line, beckoning his path to follow them. From one tree to the next he moved resolutely, pausing on occasion to gather himself for the next. He could feel the damp of night on his shoulders, seeping through his thin robe. The cool was a blessing. The strain of this escape had made him hot. The heat was going to overtake him, pull him back to earth. The cool helped keep him moving forward. A narrow street appeared past the row of trees. Beyond were more trees and small paths. Don peered intently at the landscape beyond. Beyond the path passing between the trees looked like a grove of trees. Don waited for a bit before going beyond this narrow stream of a road and pushing on into the dark mysterious forest.

He thought back to those ancient forests he had met, the small villages and herds of sheep in New forest, the dark mass of the Black Forest that opened to magical villages of ancient peoples protecting their gates from interlopers, trading cautiously with the travelers that wound their way down from the Alps. What forest is this he wondered, on the edge of blinding city of ruin.

The angry glare of its ruthlessness shone all around, casting its glare to the sky. The sky seemed to hang over it, nullifying that glare with it’s dull sky. Only here did that glare pause. The forest seemed safe and held private from the ever probing glare - the watchful hatred, the callous exposure of the harsh city. Don stepped nimbly across the flowing street and down the path. It’s dark mystery beckoned him to join its route and find his way.

The dark boughs joined above him. Faintly winking between the dark mass of tree trunks and branches were small lights gathered on a close horizon. The path Don tread on was faint almost invisible. It became less sure, the smooth paving tuning into a mass of leaves and twigs from the trees above. The forest was quiet - but Don could feel a watchfulness. This presence tuned Don's senses. His exhaustion and swimming confusion was lifting away. His attention felt sharpened and he was more awake - the drugs and torpor were draining away. He could feel his lungs filling with the forest air rejuvenating and refreshing his soul. He was drinking in this air. The sensation of being observed renewed his decayed frame with a feeling of youthful vigor long unknown.

2008-12-22T14:32:00.000-08:00

He sat up in a start. His torturous dreams suddenly done, it was time to make his escape. His cellmates choked and snorted - dying or sleeping - it mattered little. The skinny one stared ashen out the window as if his redemption would fly down from the heavens to greet him. Don knew better.

His eyes darted from the cell to the hallway. His keepers weren't standing guard today. His eyebrows lit up with anticipation. The opportunity to escape beckoned to him. He could leave this torture chamber behind.

He got up from his bunk and tread uneasily, waveringly, to the cell door. It stood open! Very slowly he sneaked a glance down the hall and then up the other direction. The night was still, save for a murmur far up the hall and in the guard center. Bags of refuse were scattered about. Perhaps the guards were changing shift. Don didn’t care, his torturers could only kill him now - he was beyond pain.

Uneasily he staggered down the hall away from the murmur. The effort was exhausting, but he set his jaws and picked up each weary limb and forced his way through the agony to the end of the hall. A red flame flicked it’s notice of the way out. Each step powered the next, but the hallway seemed endless.

The stale smell of death filled his nostrils and made him gag.

There was the end. The hall broke in two - one this way, the other away. Cell after cell stretched down the halls full of snorting, rasping dying. Which way would get out? Behind him was the sound of shoes padding against stone. The murmuring had stopped? No time to think - he pushed on hoping he’d taken the right path.

The gate stood before him in the dusky dark. A sign was above, but almost invisible in the gloom. Here was the portal, in or out, he couldn’t be sure, lack of certainty was his only clear thought. Everything else was a jumble of sound, within or without, it was impossible to tell. The uncertain gate looked final. There was nothing behind, only the gate was hiding beyond.

The crossbar seemed to pop the gate open. It pulled him through to a smooth path bounded by shrubs and grass. The muffled voices and hurried footstep behind compelled the Don to hurry across the grassy expanse. Above a dim moon fairly glowed behind a hazy sky. The glow of lights all around gave the sky a dull grey to its milky mist. Beyond the grass was a dark lined plain of gleaming metal cocoons with reflective glass smearing the light from the painful panels suspended above.

The Don stumbled amongst the shining metal forms, his robe billowed around him as he felt his muscles and tendons straining against the atrophy of timeless inertia. His gnarled hands guided him from one metal shell to the next, he could feel the dribble dripping from the corners of his mouth, the dried moisture over his eyes. He vowed to find some water and wipe the past off his face.

Ahead lay some trees and another path of flat white concrete - beyond that a wide street. Dimly he began to remember these machines using wide, vast boulevards of tar to speed their occupants from one part of this endless city to another. He could remember sitting in the comfortable cabins of these machines, listening to endless tales of political intrigue and economic counsel. How many false stories were repeated with authority to his disinterested ear in those many expeditions?

The Don could vaguely remember how slow anger had brewed in the many hours he pushed through those crowds of machines every day. The memory of that deepening anger stirred him forward.

"Not again, I’ll be free or die", he vowed, gritting his teeth.

2008-12-21T20:46:00.000-08:00

Swirling black chaos roared around the hole.

Darkness lit by the glow of its emptiness filled the space with bursting anger.

Within this emptiness, rushing space found gaps and poured in. As if there was wind in a tunnel, the angry rushing sound screamed like wailing sirens. Throbbing howling chaos wheeled around and around - an endless cycle of despair and emptiness.

Suddenly, as if another hole let the pressure escape, it burst to a stop.

He felt the darkness stuffing into his mouth and sticking like grit between his tongue and teeth. Too dead to move, but too alive to choke with this dark. He could feel light swirling beyond the dark. Vaguely, it lit his awareness. Soft shapes could be seen revolving around him, pulling and tearing at him - yelling and breathing at his shame.

He pushed at the dark grit with his tongue, blew the sandy stuff out of his nostrils. He could feel his eyes behind his closed eyelids, his mind within his skull stumbling through his brain, pounding against his head. He was breathing deeply, slowly finding his life. He could feel his shoulder jammed up beneath his neck and his chest pushing against the ground as he breathed. Far behind were his arms pinched between his body and the dark hardness beneath him.

His breathing became more regular. Everything hurt and nausea was accompanied by a pounding headache. He swallowed and opened his eyes. Below him he could feel his legs limply laying against the brown sand that he blinked from his eyes.

The headache defined where his forehead held his brain. His muscles felt like leaden balloons pulling his arms down into the sand. He rolled his head back and tried to see. the sand and sky blended together into a cacophony of light and color. Somewhere that rushing sound was leaving his head and pulling away. He rolled over on his shoulder and felt his cracked lips drain the fluid from his soul.

He felt sick enough to die, but thinking hadn't come yet.

He lay on the sand half turned over, his legs twisted beneath him. He was breathing well, but couldn't get the rest of him working properly. He couldn't see well and his mouth was full of dirt. He could feel his body bruised and scarred. He needed to drink.

"....where is some water?", he thought.

He dragged his arms up and pushed the ground away. Sitting up, he could begin to make out shapes beyond the color and light. Here was a beach, the sand dark brown and wet. Above him the sky shone a light blue - the haze of early morning tempering the heat of the sun.

Far below, at its low tide, the surf gently washed across the muddy flats. The sea stretched to the horizon, unobstructed by haze. Beyond the beach beckoned a cool forest. Around him was the char of the last tide. Bits of seaweed, shells of he dead crustaceans, carrion of the deep fed their spirit to the briny breeze. It was all too familiar, and never seen before. He had to find some water. The salty sound and briny sea would suck his life away - he had to get up!