The dishes clatter and clank all around Jane as she tries to brush the cobwebs from her mind. Every thought is weighted down, something holding them in place, thick and sticky, like wading through rivers of molasses. The waitress asks her something, but Jane only waves her off, not entirely sure what the question was or even caring. Dead by midnight. The last image she could remember looking at revealed something to her, but her mind retreated from that knowledge. Something bigger than memory loss was going on around her, something she used to be a part of, and something she voluntarily pulled away from. Jane gets up quickly, setting her head on fire. She staggers in the aisle and slams into another waitress, the explosion of porcelain and glass. Jane finally steadies herself and walks out, ignoring the muffled yells and admonishments that cascade over her from some distant world, never looking back to consider what she now left in her wake.
As inspired by this photo by :iconscottjamesprebble:.
I hope it will suffice.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
War of Words
“Where am I?”
Jane awakens in a flurry. Her gun removed, her items placed neatly on the night table beside her bed. Rolling quickly towards the edge of the bed, she lands silently on the plush, carpeted floors. Gathering her items up quickly, she makes for the first and only door she sees. She explodes into a dark hallway, wood lined, ancient, the fresh scent of wood lacquer and stain wafting through the air.
“Ah, you are awake. Please, join me, Jane.”
She cautiously enters through another door, cracked and glowing from within. Sitting in the center of the room is an old man. Graying hair, taut withering skin plastered across his skeleton. His movements are smooth and elegant. He waves to a nearby chair, inviting Jane to have a seat. Jane sits, and begins.
“Who are you?”
“Ah, who are you?”
“What do you want?”
“But, what do you want?”
“Stop! I want answers.”
“I’m sure you do, but you know I don’t have them.”
“Who is the man I keep seeing, the one from my memories and dreams.”
“Now, that is the question. Who is that man? He is someone we both wish to meet.”
“Why?”
“He is the key.”
“The key?”
“To everything, and there is little time to find him.”
“Why? Is he about to die?”
“Not that I know of, no. But you are.”
Jane stands up quickly and falters away. The calmness of his voice induces panic and hysteria. She looks desperately around for a way out, but only sees the door she entered in, closed tightly. She didn’t remember closing the door.
“Please, sit. You are ok for now. You have a little time. One day, in fact. Please sit. Would like some tea?”
Jane slides back into the chair, deflating into it, desperate and confused.
“Listen, this is very important. That man is dangerous, to both of us. He is the only man who can help you remember, and he is the only man to who hurt my associates and me. We would like him gone.”
“Why would I help you? I want to know what I forgot.”
“No, you don’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Who do you like made you forgot Jane? How do you think I knew how to find you?”
Jane tried to remember, she had just gotten into a cab, to head in whatever direction she felt compelled to go. Then the sting in her neck and then nothing, shortly after she woke in the room she had only just left.
“I should kill you.”
“Now that sounds like the old Jane.”
“Who did this to me? Who took my memories?”
The old man sighed, “You did, Jane. You did it to yourself, and you asked for our help.”
“Who are you?”
A grisly smile spread across the skeletal face, a finger flicked behind him. Jane looked up and saw it then. Terror and fear flooded her senses. Her brain shut down defensively, trying to run so fast and hard when her feet and body would not, frozen in dread, too horrified to even react.
She comes to in a diner. A single note, the words crawled as if written by a corpse, is sitting in front of her. It has only two words on it.
“Kill him.”
The gun is safely fastening in a holster now strapped to her side.
As inspired by this photo by Scott James Prebble.
I hope it will suffice.
Jane awakens in a flurry. Her gun removed, her items placed neatly on the night table beside her bed. Rolling quickly towards the edge of the bed, she lands silently on the plush, carpeted floors. Gathering her items up quickly, she makes for the first and only door she sees. She explodes into a dark hallway, wood lined, ancient, the fresh scent of wood lacquer and stain wafting through the air.
“Ah, you are awake. Please, join me, Jane.”
She cautiously enters through another door, cracked and glowing from within. Sitting in the center of the room is an old man. Graying hair, taut withering skin plastered across his skeleton. His movements are smooth and elegant. He waves to a nearby chair, inviting Jane to have a seat. Jane sits, and begins.
“Who are you?”
“Ah, who are you?”
“What do you want?”
“But, what do you want?”
“Stop! I want answers.”
“I’m sure you do, but you know I don’t have them.”
“Who is the man I keep seeing, the one from my memories and dreams.”
“Now, that is the question. Who is that man? He is someone we both wish to meet.”
“Why?”
“He is the key.”
“The key?”
“To everything, and there is little time to find him.”
“Why? Is he about to die?”
“Not that I know of, no. But you are.”
Jane stands up quickly and falters away. The calmness of his voice induces panic and hysteria. She looks desperately around for a way out, but only sees the door she entered in, closed tightly. She didn’t remember closing the door.
“Please, sit. You are ok for now. You have a little time. One day, in fact. Please sit. Would like some tea?”
Jane slides back into the chair, deflating into it, desperate and confused.
“Listen, this is very important. That man is dangerous, to both of us. He is the only man who can help you remember, and he is the only man to who hurt my associates and me. We would like him gone.”
“Why would I help you? I want to know what I forgot.”
“No, you don’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Who do you like made you forgot Jane? How do you think I knew how to find you?”
Jane tried to remember, she had just gotten into a cab, to head in whatever direction she felt compelled to go. Then the sting in her neck and then nothing, shortly after she woke in the room she had only just left.
“I should kill you.”
“Now that sounds like the old Jane.”
“Who did this to me? Who took my memories?”
The old man sighed, “You did, Jane. You did it to yourself, and you asked for our help.”
“Who are you?”
A grisly smile spread across the skeletal face, a finger flicked behind him. Jane looked up and saw it then. Terror and fear flooded her senses. Her brain shut down defensively, trying to run so fast and hard when her feet and body would not, frozen in dread, too horrified to even react.
She comes to in a diner. A single note, the words crawled as if written by a corpse, is sitting in front of her. It has only two words on it.
“Kill him.”
The gun is safely fastening in a holster now strapped to her side.
As inspired by this photo by Scott James Prebble.
I hope it will suffice.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Raising Hell
The shower head drips slowly cease, the plopping splashes echoes quieting in the small bathroom. Jane combs out her hair, the fresh feeling of a warm shower preferable to the slimy stink of sweat and anxiety. Relaxed and reflective, Jane tries to make sense of the dream that woke her so violently. Each time she brings those images to her mind, she only comes up with fuzzy recollections. Walking out into the main room of her motel, she begins to slip her clothes back over her body. The fabric and warmth welcome in the cold morning, her body still yearning for the hot sauna mists of the post-shower bathroom. A memory flickers on and off, clouded and muffled. The man, standing behind a curtain of smoke and mirrors, is watching her, smiling. She knows instinctively this is the man she has been looking for, or actually is looking for her. Jane’s stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought of finding him. She knows they were lovers, but the anxiety and reluctance to find him mixes with the need to understand. On the edge of her consciousness, she knows there is a reason she forgot him, but now with all the questions coming to life around her, questions with claws, racking at her from all sides, she needs information. His memory brought her out of her cove, and she now knows he is the one who holds all the answers. Casting the vague thoughts to the side for the moment, Jane returns to getting ready to go back out into the world. She grabs the gun, and nonchalantly places it, hidden and easily accessible, at the small of her back, held by the waistband of her tight-fitting jeans. She doesn’t even notice it there anymore, as if it was made for her. The comfort sends a chill up her spine.
As inspired by this photo by Ari.
I hope it will suffice.
As inspired by this photo by Ari.
I hope it will suffice.
I'm Not About toTell You
The world all around is bleak and empty. Each footstep and breath is echoed into infinity as Jane stumbles around the dreamscape. The darkness isn’t cold or abysmal, only thick and quiet. There is a rustle of motion behind Jane. She turns to see a replica of herself standing, blindingly luminous from some unnatural light source. Jane slips through the darkness, unable to see her own hand in front of her face, but guided by the doppelganger lighthouse standing before her. The soupy black holds her back, but defiantly she takes one step after another and pushes her way through the world around her to come face to face with herself. The light of understanding glistens off the face in front of her, Jane stares at her own face, but no words are said.
“Who am I?”
The face gazes blankly at Jane for only a moment, then swiftly and without hesitation, a finger flashes up and with pursed lips a hiss echoes over and over again, becoming an ear-splitting buzz that forces Jane to cover her ears. Down on her knees, crouching over in pain, she tries to look up. The strain blurs her vision but she can make out her double trying to say something, but only noise and static comes out, she attempts to cover her mouth, stop the noise, but to no avail. From the darkness a gray figure, much like the first steps into view. Tears flowing out from behind hands that are covering her eyes, Jane recognizes the figure as her own and she is crying, a dead child at her feet. Jane falls back horrified, but is pulled back in, hand still cupped over her ears, trying to block the squealing cacophony steadily growing all around her. She screams suddenly only to find herself in the bed of the motel, sweaty and exhausted.
As inspired by this photo by Scott James Prebble to be exact.
I hope it will suffice.
“Who am I?”
The face gazes blankly at Jane for only a moment, then swiftly and without hesitation, a finger flashes up and with pursed lips a hiss echoes over and over again, becoming an ear-splitting buzz that forces Jane to cover her ears. Down on her knees, crouching over in pain, she tries to look up. The strain blurs her vision but she can make out her double trying to say something, but only noise and static comes out, she attempts to cover her mouth, stop the noise, but to no avail. From the darkness a gray figure, much like the first steps into view. Tears flowing out from behind hands that are covering her eyes, Jane recognizes the figure as her own and she is crying, a dead child at her feet. Jane falls back horrified, but is pulled back in, hand still cupped over her ears, trying to block the squealing cacophony steadily growing all around her. She screams suddenly only to find herself in the bed of the motel, sweaty and exhausted.
As inspired by this photo by Scott James Prebble to be exact.
I hope it will suffice.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Trigger Happy
Staring into the mirror of the bathroom of the stinking, yellow stained motel room, Jane examines her face. She knows each pore, and soft, fuzzy hair that covers her delicate face holds some hopeful clue as to who she is. The man in the hotel room, the lover leaving notes of warning everywhere she goes, all of it seemingly familiar, and none of it coming to her easily. She watches the facial tics as they erupt, praying the next one would hit a switch in her brain, turning her on, letting her know what this all is. The wall paper behind her, only a bric-a-brac of patterns and color, all of it grays, dull and unremarkable, reminded her of the world outside. Behind it, something is covered and hidden, ugly and broken. Looking as her face, she had the same desperate feeling. She stands there, staring, like a seer waiting to learn what the future has to bring. Frustrated and tired, she sighs and notices the unconscious fidgeting of her fingers against the plaster sink, slick and smooth, coupled with the cold, familiar metal of the gun. She watches, fascinated with the way her fingers caress the trigger softly, careful not to press too hard. She barely understands the idea of too hard, but her body knows. She snatches up the gun quickly and begins to take it apart as fast as possible. Each movement is swift and calculated. Before her breath is completed, the gun is in pieces across the sink. All of it organized and placed in some proper order. Quickly, she proceeds to put it back together. The speed increasing with an urgency pressing down on her, begging her to move fast, build quicker. Jane perceives some looming danger surrounding and suffocating her with the gun broken and dormant. As the clip snaps into place, security returns and she looks at herself in the mirror. She isn’t the same person she was in the morning. The shadow covering her face is apropos. Something is missing. Jane wonders absently what her real name might be.
As inspired by this photo by Scott James Prebble to be exact.
I hope it will suffice.
As inspired by this photo by Scott James Prebble to be exact.
I hope it will suffice.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
From Up Here
Jane’s eyes snap open. The sounds and smells of the world accost her senses. Her recollection runs her through the last few moments leading to her sitting, confused and lost. She is running from the man, feeling that she might be even running from her past. Suddenly, in a blaze of motion and numbing chaos, she is in the middle of field. Naked and free she knows this was where she belongs. All other fears and thoughts melt away. The crystal blue sky hangs lazily over her head. Its gentle fingers pull back her hair and kiss her face. Peace is the only option here, peace and nothing else. A multi-colored sea of flowers sways around her. The waves of petals that blow off the surface cascade across her body, silk and satin against her skin. Climbing to the top of a fallen tree, dried and fossilized, she sits and breaths a little easier. Worry is nothing, pain and confusion cleansed from her mind and life. Jane watches the clouds drift by. Without thought or realization, the world slowly bleeds into hues of gray. Jane focus is solely on the clouds and the puffy mists that whirl and turn in the sky. Suddenly the mellow white of the clouds flashes and blinds her.
Jane is sitting again, but in a plastic chair in the middle of a train station. Open in front of her is a locker door. The door is familiar, but nothing is in it. A draft from the over-powered air conditioning sets a scrap of paper to flap subtly in the empty space. Jane leans forward and sees the writing etched across its surface.
“They’re looking for you, Jane. Run. Run now.”
Jane runs. The new and uneasy sensation of metal pressed against the small of her back is distracting. She knows what it is and doesn’t dare pull it out. She runs until her legs burn and eyes blur over with sweat. Jane runs.
As inspired by this photo by Scott James Prebble.
I hope it will suffice.
Jane is sitting again, but in a plastic chair in the middle of a train station. Open in front of her is a locker door. The door is familiar, but nothing is in it. A draft from the over-powered air conditioning sets a scrap of paper to flap subtly in the empty space. Jane leans forward and sees the writing etched across its surface.
“They’re looking for you, Jane. Run. Run now.”
Jane runs. The new and uneasy sensation of metal pressed against the small of her back is distracting. She knows what it is and doesn’t dare pull it out. She runs until her legs burn and eyes blur over with sweat. Jane runs.
As inspired by this photo by Scott James Prebble.
I hope it will suffice.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
You Heard What I Said
Jane awakens on the bed, only a few moments after finding the letter. A strange man is standing in the doorway, half hidden in shadow. He looks down at Jane but says nothing. His face remains impassive and calm as he looks down at her, then around the room, searching for something or someone else.
“Where?”
Subconsciously, she understands what he is asking. Fear grips her tightly, tensing her muscles and stealing her breath. Danger and foreboding blankets her mind, blocking all rational thought. Jane, without hesitation, dashes toward the man. Only the urge to run and hide propels her forward and through the man in front of her. She needs to push past, to get away. The man is thrown to the side and reaches out, finding only air. Jane tears through the building, find each stair and door with ease, losing the man in a maze of contemporary brick and mortar. She explodes out into the street, her chest heaving with every exaggerated breath. The overwhelming sense of danger and panic floods her senses, struggling to understand, she glances behind her to see if she can get another look at the man’s face. It wasn’t her love, the man she left behind, but he was familiar in some dark way. Each time she tried to come up with the recollection, a door slammed in her mind, forcing her to look no further. Searching the street for some recourse, an escape from the mysteries and dangers of a past that not only haunted her memories but now bore down on her. She moves to lose herself in the crowd of people all around her.
“We will find you, Jane.”
She doesn’t turn or act is if she hears the words screamed into the world. People turn around to see what the commotion is, but Jane only keeps moving. She heard the words, heard her name. How does he know her? Jane wonders what or who she actually was running away from these last few days, months, or years.
As inspired by this photo by Scott James Prebble.
I hope it will suffice.
“Where?”
Subconsciously, she understands what he is asking. Fear grips her tightly, tensing her muscles and stealing her breath. Danger and foreboding blankets her mind, blocking all rational thought. Jane, without hesitation, dashes toward the man. Only the urge to run and hide propels her forward and through the man in front of her. She needs to push past, to get away. The man is thrown to the side and reaches out, finding only air. Jane tears through the building, find each stair and door with ease, losing the man in a maze of contemporary brick and mortar. She explodes out into the street, her chest heaving with every exaggerated breath. The overwhelming sense of danger and panic floods her senses, struggling to understand, she glances behind her to see if she can get another look at the man’s face. It wasn’t her love, the man she left behind, but he was familiar in some dark way. Each time she tried to come up with the recollection, a door slammed in her mind, forcing her to look no further. Searching the street for some recourse, an escape from the mysteries and dangers of a past that not only haunted her memories but now bore down on her. She moves to lose herself in the crowd of people all around her.
“We will find you, Jane.”
She doesn’t turn or act is if she hears the words screamed into the world. People turn around to see what the commotion is, but Jane only keeps moving. She heard the words, heard her name. How does he know her? Jane wonders what or who she actually was running away from these last few days, months, or years.
As inspired by this photo by Scott James Prebble.
I hope it will suffice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
