PMS

 “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m making a fajita?”

“Can’t you see I’m using the kitchen right now?”

“Well yeah, but I’m hungry. Can’t we both use the kitchen?”

“No. I need that frying pan.”

“But we have another one hanging on the wall.”

“That one’s no good.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. Now get out of my kitchen.”

“No. I’ve already started frying the thing.”

“I don’t care. Out.”

“Hey, what are you aiming that at me for?”

“Out.”

“Now, don’t do anything stupid. H-hey, cut that out. That’s n-not… You really should take that awa- Alright, alright! I’m leaving. Jesus!”

That's a lot of blood

It all started off so innocently. I didn’t even feel a thing. I should have seen it coming, though. I already had about four other band-aids on my hands from before. Needless to say, the kitchen was never a safe place for me.  This time around, I was cutting horseradish. A seemingly mundane task. Just slice it up and you’re done for the day, I thought. My knife was sharp. It would be over in a jiffy.

As I pushed the knife into the root, I noticed that it wasn’t going in as smoothly as I’d expected. This stuff was pretty hard to cut. I decided to apply more force. And it worked. One, two, three slices. Easy as pie. And then came the fourth slice. It sounded much… meatier than I’d anticipated. I felt an itch on my left index finger. “Itch” doesn’t really cut it, though. It was more like a breeze, but it was a breeze in a part of the body I wasn’t even aware could feel that way. Sadly, this breeze was anything but pleasant. I lifted my left hand to see what it looked like. Or rather what it didn’t look like. It certainly didn’t look like a normal fingertip. It was as if someone had cleaved half of my fingertip with a knife. Which is precisely what had happened. Surprisingly, no blood. Yet.

Oh, there it was. Man, that’s a lot of blood. That is a lot of blood. I wasn’t even aware I had so much blood in me. Bright red, flowing like crazy, I was sure I’d cut through an artery or something. That was the first time I cut myself this bad. Having suffered a couple of burn wounds in the very recent past, I instinctively put my finger in the water. Big mistake. It didn’t hurt at all. No burning, to itching. It was just there. If only the bleeding would stop. Too bad I was too dumb to realize you can’t really let it all flow out under the water. Too dumbfounded to figure out anything by myself after standing in front of the sink like that for about ten minutes, I made my way to the living room. My wife was always smarter than me when it came to such stuff.

“Honey, I think I’m dying.”

“Oh wow. Okay, I guess this looks bad.”

“Yeah. And the carpet is all bloody.”

“Yes, that is a lot of blood. Just let me get you a band-aid.”

“I think we’ve run out.”

“You’re right. You really need to watch out more.”

“I know. I don’t wanna die. Please help me.”

“Shush. I’ll figure something out in a minute.”

And so she did. After a couple of minutes the bleeding was contained and all was well. From then on, I did pay more attention to what I do in the kitchen. Too bad there were so many other places in the house where I could easily hurt myself. But that’s a story for another time.

summer

There are days when my mind just goes back. It goes back. And back. And I can’t stop it. And I think. I remember. The blades of grass that seemed so tall back then, dandelions swaying in the wind, gently kissed by the orange brilliance of the setting sun. Butterflies, ladybugs, bumblebees. Summer. I can smell the sea. I see myself descending a slope. My bare feet meet the cold sand. It’s a dark gray in the shade of the rustling trees holding branches above my head. For a moment, the sky is gone. The dark corridor takes me lower and lower, traces of old wooden steps visible beneath the sand. I pick up a stick. It might come in handy. And then, I finally see the light. I leave the tunnel, the sand becomes golden in the sky stained by the sun sinking. It makes its slow descent into the dark, impatient waves of the ocean that are always ready to embrace its scarlet companion once again. The breeze assaults my face. Overwhelmed, I finally manage to breathe in. I smell the water. I rush down the sand, leaving holes behind me. I pant and raise my head. I realize that I am alone.

That’s when he runs down.

I hear his shallow breath, his paws digging into the sand with muffled thuds as he makes his descent down the corridor of darkness. A big, slender, black dog, his tongue swaying as he runs towards me, his brown eyes glimmering in the sunlight. I extend my arms to greet him. His fur is warm, dry, not a trace of the wounds I remember he had. He licks my face. It’s warm, wet. I’ve missed that. He sits down, looking at the sea, anxiety written all over his doggy face. He looks back at me. I show him the stick I’m holding. I throw it into the sea. Hesitantly, he walks towards the water. The moment it makes contact with his skin, he jumps up and starts wagging his tail. He runs into the water, the waves make him move more clumsily than ever. He was a terrific swimmer, though. He truly loved water. Then he reaches the stick. He makes his way back to me.

The sun has set. The sky turns a deep blue. There’s more stars than I could ever see in the city. I hear someone strumming the strings of a guitar. The tune calls me back, but I don’t want to leave. I fear he’ll be gone again. My mind drifts away and I wonder. Would he really have liked the sea? I never did get to find out. But I like to think he would. I told him all about it. And he really did love water.

I stand up and give him one final scratch on the ear. He’s barely visible in the darkness of the night. He looks like a black blob in the sand. He seems so small. I lean down and embrace his neck one last time. Then I turn away. I go back to the tunnel. Never looking back. The dark corridor is darker than before. I break a toenail on the wooden step. I can’t tell if it’s bleeding or not. But I finally make it through. The orange streetlights are cold and unwelcoming. But I know they’ll take me home.

The Journeyman

Prompt:

 

 They call him the Journeyman. Few know what he really looks like, and yet they all know he truly is, as they all follow him. For in your dreams he comes and beckons, lifting you from your sleepy abyss, leading you into the whirlwind of worlds unimaginable.

You feel his gentle touch as he makes his landing on your scalp. He dances down your forehead, ties a string to your nose and pulls you. Compelled by this dreamy invitation, you rise. Your body left behind, you start your journey. Flying across the skies, the dominion once ruled by birds that is now your own to command; breathing under the sea, among the dankest depths, encountering creatures beyond our comprehension; sailing across the stars, no barrier left unbreached, the lanes between worlds your home forever.

And when you wake, he brings you home safely. Some remember their treks in vivid detail, others are left knowing they had journeyed, and yet unable to find the words, having them always at the tip of their tongues. And then there are those who have forgotten their journeys forever. Yet not all is lost for them, as he will come another day, and another, always eager to lead the way.

And when you have reached the end of your days, he will come back to you. A tighter not than ever before, tied not on your nose, but on your ankle. He’ll gently pull you out of your abyss and guide you. For the true journey has only just begun, all dreams before only a taste of what is yet to come.