CEREAL AFTER SEX

Rural West Texas

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Rural West Texas. Flat. Brown. Isolation. Lost dreams. Ragged old motels. Dirty convenience stores with the lingering scent of unruly humans. Fast-food restaurants with a glaze of stickiness one cannot wipe away. A restroom door that will not lock. Someone has to stand guard. High school football stadiums are the apex of architecture here. Looking out a sun-splashed window. Have to squint. That brightness of life in no-man’s land. But then, there are men here, and women, and children, and refugees, and wayward wanderers. Like dust in the wind. To have the existence of dust every day. To wake up in a silent room with the cracking sun creeping through the curtains. An alarm clock suddenly starts to beep. Slam the button. Groan. Throw legs over side of bed. Peel the curtains away. It already looks hot out there. The world is colored brown and bleached yellow. A few trees are green. The moon forgot to make its exit. A man bemoans his entrance.

He awakens hungry. Decides on frozen waffles with specks of artificial blueberries. He pushes the toaster bar down. Red lines of electric heat. The glow is like hell. There’s a pop that startles him. He scrapes butter across the waffles, pours the syrup on. Damn it, they’re already cold.

Outside and the war helicopters are marching overhead. The killing sound of those blades slicing at the air. Nowhere is safe anymore. Except out here in this devilish grin perhaps. Where hell really exists, and the homes stand still like the warmth of spring guts. That inside feeling, in the soul, man. The pain of these savage feelings when one’s life just isn’t quite right. The fear comes up when he starts the car and begins to drive away. Work is death. Work is a waste of his human essence. What if he just went on driving, needle the downtown capture and just keep going. Rural West Texas is all around and armed with the measles gun. What a calm dream it would be not to worry about surviving anymore. Think about that long breath one could take. But no. Work is a cage. Work is a torture. Work derails true dreams. Unless you’re one of the lucky ones who love what they do.

Living room windows flow by. A thick tree in a yard. Crumbling play sets, old tire swings. A lopsided shed or barn. Distant ghost voices. An old man is inside the house sitting on a couch mumbling to himself in the dim light. He’s wondering why it is that he took care of everyone he could while they made their way through life and now he was left alone to fend for himself. Forgotten. There is a cloister of ungrateful, selfish people in everyone’s world.

There’s an abandoned train station on the outskirts of a broken-down town. Tumbleweeds plastered to the stonework, the work of wind and obstruction. A long crow flies against the warm blue of the sky. His cowboy boots grind against the buckled pavement of an old parking lot. Weeds coming up through the cracks. His thumb rolls against a spark wheel, a lighter ignites, flame to tip of deadly cigarette. Inhale. Exhale. Looks around. The wind is whispering long lost tales of historical dead space. He thinks of roses and the tender petals. He reaches down and plucks a bright yellow dandelion. He rubs the flower against the back of his hand. It’s supposed to mean something but now he doesn’t remember what it is. Maybe some sort of magic to brew in the rural West Texas of dreams and nightmares.

By
Aaron Echoes August

Special thanks to Edge of Humanity Magazine for publishing three of my poems recently: Coffee Shop Rain, The Translucent Wander Pain, and Space Curtain. Please go check them out! Also, a reminder that my new e-book is now available for purchase: The Apocalypse Pipe. The print edition will be available soon. Thanks for reading and supporting independent creators.

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The Under-Believer

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Do you have a rainbow? A colorful one—like cereal. No, I meant an umbrella. For the coming monsoon. I’ve been watching the radar for the last 72 hours with no sleep and it looks like there is a possibility for some storms. I had to get on the radio and warn people. I’m the neighborhood sky watcher. I have my own little broadcast station up in a treehouse out in the back yard. I’ve got all sorts of wires and extension cords running from the house. Sure, it’s dangerous, but not stranger danger dangerous.

The mantel of a giant oak. Excursions to Coffeeland and glossy cups. Cacophony kamikazes divebombing. I see the big clouds of explosions. I’m not making any sense to these poor people. Yes, you. Reading this right now. You. How’s your life? Pull up a chair. What’s going on in that head of yours? Are you thinking about living or dying? Did you go to church today or are you a non-believer? Are you wearing pajamas or social clothes? Coffee, like me? Or tea?

I’m an under-believer. I don’t believe in enough. I’m a rogue, a cynic. A hyperactive anaconda twisting my aches around the lighthouses. My thoughts are sparking off in all sorts of directions today. I’m a lamppost that has fallen and I am glowing weirdly on the ground. An electric sizzler. I don’t know how to rein in the all these small parts and assemble them into something coherent.

I had a dream about a basement. The steps down were cement, the walls in the stairwell were cement. There was a dim orange light. There was a landing and then a turn into deeper darkness. I poked my head out and called down. “Hello? Is anyone there?” Then there were noises—not a voice or kind words, but rather an undecipherable whisper followed by a hissing growl. But I had tempted it, drawn it out. There was a dream in my head. It was just a dream. It was frightening enough that it woke me up. Those sounds were just so otherworldly. My eyes flickered. I could see the light of a new day coming in around the edges of the curtains. There was a woman beside me. She was sleeping. She had left me a card on my desk. The front of the card was plastered with little wooden cats of all varieties. She wrote to me about love. Words of encouragement and assurance in that love. A love battle against a hateful world that we share. No one else would have ever done that. That’s why she’s my wife.

By
Aaron Echoes August

Special thanks to Edge of Humanity Magazine for publishing three of my poems recently: Coffee Shop Rain, The Translucent Wander Pain, and Space Curtain. Please go check them out! Also, a reminder that my new e-book is now available for purchase: The Apocalypse Pipe. The print edition will be available soon. Thanks for reading and supporting independent creators.
Haircut Day

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I went to get a haircut today but instead I got cut by the jabberwocky of life. I never even got to the place because of a traffic jam and chaos. There was some idiot bigot parade going on and things got out of hand. I saw police in riot gear. I saw tear gas being thrown into a crowd. I saw burning flags of various colors. I saw a mob overturn a car and set it ablaze.

I held up my finger to no one and said aloud, “Check, please.”

That’s when I got out of my car and walked across the jam and to the other side of the road where there were some railroad tracks. That’s when I started to pretend I was a train. The tracks went in a very straight line toward the horizon and were flanked on both sides by very green trees. It looked like one big green tunnel leading to who knows where. I didn’t know where. As usual, I didn’t know where I was going. I was supposed to be sitting in a barber chair, but instead, I got derailed by an assembly of hate.

It was cold but warm out. It was the second day of spring, and the sun was shining brightly. It was one of those weird kinds of days where I don’t really know what’s going on and I usually end up doing something wrong or crazy.

I felt a vibration in the tracks and heard the horn blowing in the far distance. A train was coming. I hopped off the tracks and scurried up the embankment and sat close to the trees. Soon there was a rushing stripe of oranges and reds and yellows. It was big, heavy metal thrusting like a young man let loose in Berlin. It was guttural, destructive, and industrial. A viper of power. A swoosh of mayhem.

The vibration faded and I went back down to the tracks. Silence ensued. I looked both ways and in each direction it was the same—straight metal lines rummaging through a southern landscape, and I felt life in my guts.

By
Aaron Echoes August

Special thanks to Edge of Humanity Magazine for publishing three of my poems recently: Coffee Shop Rain, The Translucent Wander Pain, and Space Curtain. Please go check them out! Also, a reminder that my new e-book is now available for purchase: The Apocalypse Pipe. The print edition will be available soon. Thanks for reading and supporting independent creators.
Tornado Soup

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I saw an old television set just sitting in the road. It wasn’t plugged in, but it was playing a show. The show was about a town devastated by a massive tornado back in the early 21^st century. I sat down in the roadway and watched. The images were very white, bleached out almost, and the fringes were an acid pink color. A lot of things looked like x-rays—toppled trees, dismantled churches, crushed schools, imploded cafeterias, bodies huddled like gargoyles, and they were spinning up into the vortex—stone was being turned into electricity.

The damage was catastrophic. I had to turn it off. I just sat there in the road and then realized there was damage all around me. Did I just survive a tornado? Is my mind fucking with me? I reached into my pants pocket and retrieved some candy. I got real sad sitting there and started believing that I was a terrible failure. I slapped my own face. “Stop it!” And then I got the taste of green apple in my mouth and then there was a tree that hadn’t been there before, and it was sprouting big, shiny green apples. I got up and plucked one off and bit into it. It was crisp, a bit sour, but refreshing.

There was rubble everywhere and it made me think of Barney Rubble. Plumes of hazy smoke rose up into the air like ghosts coming out of graves in a cemetery. Trees were splintered, cars were overturned, homes flattened. The personal belongings of so many lives were strewn across the path of the tornado and beyond.

“Hello,” I called out. “Is anyone alive?”

I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I followed a road as best I could. There was so much debris, and it was hard going. I came upon a blown-out Taco Bell. There were beans and dreams tossed about. I came upon a bank that still stood because it was made of stone, but all the windows were shattered. I went inside and discovered that there was money all over the place. I thought about it and then I thought about it again. It wouldn’t be right, but I’ve been poor my whole life. I’ve always struggled and suffered for it—simply not having enough green pieces of paper. That’s when I decided I was going to rob the bank. I’ve always wanted to rob a bank. I stuffed my fists full of bills and forced them into whatever pockets I had.

That’s when I heard a gun cock and a shaky voice say, “Hold it right there, mister.”

I slowly turned to look, and I saw a security guard on the other side of the bank counter. I had no idea where he came from, but he was battered and bloody and covered in dust. He was an old man, skinny, gray hair. A retired cop?

“It looks like you’re badly hurt,” I said to him.

“None of your damn business how hurt I am. I’m tough. You’re weak. Look at you gathering up the means to live for so many other people. You’re stealing.”

“It’s the end of the world. It doesn’t matter,” I told him.

“If it’s the end of the world, why do you need money?” the guard asked. “There’s nothing to buy at the dead-end store of life… You just take it. Now, empty your pockets of all that money.”

“If money doesn’t matter anymore, what’s the harm if I take it?” I said. “Maybe some god or gods will give it a second thought and let the world go on.”

The old guard thought for a moment. A religious man, I guessed. But then he leveled the gun and took a firm stance. He pointed it right at me. “Then I guess it won’t matter if I just take you out right now. If the world does go on, these folks will want their money back.”

He was serious. And that’s when I decided to bolt. The gun went off, but I was already out the doorway, at least what was left of it. I ran up the littered street as fast as I could, leaping over debris, side-stepping debris. I stopped to catch my breath. I turned around and saw a distant figure slowly marching toward me. It was the guard. He still had the gun raised but he was slow. He fired off another shot. Way off target. All I had to do was put out another good rush of running and I’d be far ahead of him. I could change direction, lose him forever. So, I ran again.

I came upon a half-wrecked hotel. I found a room that was still in decent shape and decided to take shelter there. I kept going to the window to see if the old guard was outside stalking me. I never saw him. I wanted to take a shower but there wasn’t any water. I emptied my pockets of all the money and threw it on the bed. There was a lot of cash. I sat in a chair they had there and pushed a button on the TV remote. To my surprise, the set illuminated. The power was out otherwise.

But what I saw on that screen was the oddest thing. It was more or less a reflection of myself. It was me sitting in the chair looking at the television set. But like when I found the TV out on the road, the images were bleached white with an acid pink outline, and I was merely a skeleton. Like an x-ray. I sat back in the chair and just stared at my skeletal self. Then the phone in the room rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. It rang and rang, loud and alarming. I got up and went to the desk where the phone sat and stared at it. I finally reached out my hand and picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

By
Aaron Echoes August

Special thanks to Edge of Humanity Magazine for publishing three of my poems recently: Coffee Shop Rain, The Translucent Wander Pain, and Space Curtain. Please go check them out! Also, a reminder that my new e-book is now available for purchase: The Apocalypse Pipe. The print edition will be available soon. Thanks for reading and supporting independent creators.
A Wayward Wish

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I scratched in my personal notebook with a blue ink pen because I was upset again: Why are you so proud to be hateful, and so eager to destroy the world?

The house was granular beige and shadows walked in front of the windows. The gargoyles up high had shoulders like mountains, and they wondered why I was watching them. I imagine the living room has a green couch wrapped in plastic and the kitchen counters are Formica. There’s a small table in the center and the chairs have silver legs and vinyl cushions. There’s a window above the sink and when I go to look out it I see a woman in the window of another house and she’s looking back at me. She whispers something across the dream expanse, “Do you want to go to the sea? It’s blue today.”

It’s then that I turn around and there’s an old, odd man standing there. He’s wearing a black sweater, buttoned half-way, and he has a white Tee-shirt on underneath. He’s holding a black walking stick and he has it up in the air and he’s saying out loud to me in a threatening way, “What are you doing in my kitchen!”

I remind him that I’ve come to look at the house because I’m thinking I’d like to buy it. The Realtor steps in from stage left. She smiles. She bows. The audience cheers. She’s holding a clip board. “Remember, Mr. Fox? We had a showing today at noon. This is Mr. Brockhurst. I’m sure he could present you with a very tempting offer.”

The old man cups his ear and cocks his head. “Mr. Bratwurst?” he wonders aloud. “Is he a wiener?” He laughs at himself.

The Realtor mouths my name slowly, and it sounds to me like she’s underwater: “Brockhurst, not Bratwurst you silly old ignorant man.”

“He’s an immigrant? I won’t sell to an immigrant…”

I escape the kitchen and step out into the plush back yard. I retrieve a smoke from my half-empty pack and light up. The sky is cartoon blue with white cartoon clouds very slowly swirling and changing shapes as if the whole of life right then and there was an acid trip. It was then that a woman from the house directly across the alleyway came to the fence and peered over. She yelled out, “Excuse me, sir. But there’s no smoking in this neighborhood. I’m afraid you’ll have to put it out.”

“What’s that?” I answered back, and stealing from the old man’s playbook I said, “You put out? Can I have a drink first, misses?”

She made a sour face and stomped off to her house and went in through a door. I then saw her peeking at me from a window. She had her cell phone close to her face, and she was talking into it, and the whole time she was talking she was looking right at me.

That’s when the Realtor came up from behind and tapped me on the shoulder. She startled me, and I turned and regrettably snapped at her, “Please don’t come up behind me like that,” I snarled. “It really grinds my gears, and I already have enough nervous problems as it is.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Brockhurst. I was just seeing if you were ready to tour the rest of the house.”

I followed her swaying rear-end up the narrow stairway to the second floor where the bedrooms were.

“There’s three bedrooms,” she said. “A master and two smaller ones. And a bathroom here.” She presented it elegantly with a soft hand.

“All right then,” I said. “I’m getting a bit fidgety. What’s the closet space like in the master?”

She smiled. “Right this way.”

When we got into the master bedroom the old man was laid out on a neatly made bed. He was trying to imitate the sound of a peacock.

The Realtor went to the bed and touched his arm. “Mr. Fox? Is everything all right?”

His eyes popped wide open, and he grinned. “Don’t you think my plumage is lovely. My colors are so fanciful.”

The Realtor tried to soothe him. “Why yes, Mr. Fox. Your plumage is wonderful, and your colors are so very fanciful.”

“I’m glad you like them… Say, why don’t you hop on my pecker, lady. I’ve still got plenty of ink in my pen.”

He tried to reach out for her, and she stepped away. “Mr. Fox. What a fine and proper name seeing you are such a sly Fox. But I’m afraid you need to stow that pen away for another day. I’m working.”

His face turned glum, and he got up off the bed and went to the window. “Delores?” he said. “Is that you at the sill?”

The Realtor went to him and put her hands on his frail shoulders. “Who’s Delores?”

He turned to look at her. His eyes were wide and lost. “Delores is my wife. She’s perched out there on the sill. Don’t you see her?”

The Realtor played along and looked at the windowsill. “Why yes, she’s very lovely. Just like your plumage… Why don’t you sit here on the edge of the bed, and you can talk with her while I show Mr. Brockhurst the rest of the house.”

We stopped at the front door, and I pulled on my driving gloves. “I like the place. Let me consider an offer and I’ll get back to you.”

“All right then,” she answered.

“Say,” I began. “How about joining me for a coffee and a doughnut over at that little place on Vine Street.”

“Coco’s Diner?”

“That’s the place. We can talk business… Or pleasure, if you wish.” I opened the door and followed her out.

It was then there came a disturbing clamber and thud from inside the house. Mr. Fox had fallen down the stairs and now laid at the bottom of them. He was groaning and breathing hard.

The Realtor’s head turned. “Did you hear something?”

I stood still for a moment and listened. “Not a thing. It must have been the wind, or perhaps, a wayward wish.”

By
Aaron Echoes August

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