06-05-2021, 04:00 PM
i’m some sick hound, digging for bones
if it weren’t for second chances, we’d all be alone
if it weren’t for second chances, we’d all be alone
Here, the thing whispers in his ear and tells him where to set his foot.
On and on and on across the meadow, through the forest, where he seems to dim, flit in and out of focus. (Is he an apparition? Is he no more real than the thing that guides him?)
On and on and on along the edge of the river, the thing tells him where to set his feet.
But it is not always a kind thing because sometimes the child is a petulant child and he does not do as he’s told. Sometimes he sets a toe out of line just for the thrill of it and the thing that is not always a kind thing will deliberately tell the boy to set his foot in a hole. And the child who is sometimes a petulant child will cry out in pain as the ankle pulses in pain and the thing that is not always a kind thing will laugh with delight.
On and and on and on they go, the thing telling the child where to set his feet and the child sometimes doing as he’s told and sometimes not.
Until darkness falls and the world comes alive, laying itself bare before the boy’s eyes.
It is a secret world, just as he is secret. They are two things that cannot co-exist, you see.
Only one of them can be visible at a time. One or the other.
In the day, the child is visible to the world.
In the night, the world is visible to the child.
Never both at once.
It is day now and the thing tells the boy to set his foot here.
Here, the thing says and today it is not a kind thing, though the child has not been a petulant child today. But when the boy sets down his foot, the earth is not dry. It is wet, so dreadfully wet. He had heard the river but he had trusted the thing to keep him safe. (Never trust a dark thing. Never trust a dead thing.)
The boy stops short at the edge of the river.
“No,” he says to the thing, which tells him to walk further into the river.
Go, the thing tells him. Go on, boy.
“No,” the blind boy says, staring up at the sky, though he cannot see this either. “You want me to drown.” Oh, how the dead thing laughs.
On and on and on across the meadow, through the forest, where he seems to dim, flit in and out of focus. (Is he an apparition? Is he no more real than the thing that guides him?)
On and on and on along the edge of the river, the thing tells him where to set his feet.
But it is not always a kind thing because sometimes the child is a petulant child and he does not do as he’s told. Sometimes he sets a toe out of line just for the thrill of it and the thing that is not always a kind thing will deliberately tell the boy to set his foot in a hole. And the child who is sometimes a petulant child will cry out in pain as the ankle pulses in pain and the thing that is not always a kind thing will laugh with delight.
On and and on and on they go, the thing telling the child where to set his feet and the child sometimes doing as he’s told and sometimes not.
Until darkness falls and the world comes alive, laying itself bare before the boy’s eyes.
It is a secret world, just as he is secret. They are two things that cannot co-exist, you see.
Only one of them can be visible at a time. One or the other.
In the day, the child is visible to the world.
In the night, the world is visible to the child.
Never both at once.
It is day now and the thing tells the boy to set his foot here.
Here, the thing says and today it is not a kind thing, though the child has not been a petulant child today. But when the boy sets down his foot, the earth is not dry. It is wet, so dreadfully wet. He had heard the river but he had trusted the thing to keep him safe. (Never trust a dark thing. Never trust a dead thing.)
The boy stops short at the edge of the river.
“No,” he says to the thing, which tells him to walk further into the river.
Go, the thing tells him. Go on, boy.
“No,” the blind boy says, staring up at the sky, though he cannot see this either. “You want me to drown.” Oh, how the dead thing laughs.
orson
