Mycenae Myths

by dschapman

Is it Halloween already?

It is not Halloween.

No, this is not wind; wind doesn’t exist. It is not Christmas.

I have felt these memories before, when I was addicted. Always new nostalgia, always something pulling me back. Up the hill and down again, into the barn with my pants on fire – I lay in a bale of hay, the hay catches fire; man made fire, the jeering crowds fill the stadium, lightning flashed in the skies followed one second later by the celestial vivisection.

“If only we could do it again…” She stood at the top of the belltower and looked out over the red roofs of the small Belgian village. “Steal my heart,” it was a broken heart, and made of little pieces. I ran through the woods in a hurry, afraid and alone, and could not find her. I fell down at the crossroads and made a deal with God.

She found me face-down in the hay.

“My favorite holiday is Christmas,” she said. “Mine too!” Christmas makes me cry. I am a crybaby and my knees are covered in grease. A comet came down at the foot of the street and the hamlet came alive with light and majesty. I looked around for a friend but saw no one. The comet unfolded like petals and I crawled down deep inside it.

“Thank you for everything you have ever done for me, thank you for being my friend. I love you,” I did not say, because I could not do it, just like in the movies, where they do not speak, but you want them to. It is better not to speak.

We thought about space. “Imagine watching the shuttle explode,” she said, feeling morbid. “I can not imagine it.”

When she disappeared, I imagined her ghost, and took pictures of her in my mind, imagining the scenarios I could have endured, all better than the one I suffered. I put my hand through her hair and feel the tender fold of soft, warm flesh between my fingers and her bumpy skull. Our skeletons dance and bounce around and our nerve endings collide and combust.

No one thought to lock the door, though, and the miscreants crept in and watched, and grew jealous, and tried to rape us. I could not stop them bodily so I kicked one in the balls then grabbed my holstered pistol from the bedside table, chambering a round through its holster while I pointing at their chests. “Stop!” I yelled, as per my training. “Stop!”

They did not stop so I shot them, I called the police and a lawyer, and we cried. “At least it was only miscreants…”

A family of gremlins with grey bloated skin watched greedily from the branches of a nearby apple tree and break into the house in the middle of the night to take advantage of the gore and confusion. But their thin, plushy skin catches on the broken glass and is shredded from their bodies.

 

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