SHORT STORY LINKS

By blooded stone I built
The wall of bleeding stone—
And sit in solitude
Now huddled and alone.

By blood and stone I grew
The tree of memory –
And rest beneath its shade,
Bound by its history.
 

I found myself amid a vast desert—an oblivionic place—where I stood on cracked earth, my toes finding brittle crevasses, my feet burned by the sandy fire. It was an enormous emptiness, barren and broken, deserted and desolate, though my soul found it closer than any home. It was here the arching sun scorched the land with searing heat, where the wind blasted stone and flesh, incinerating and eroding all hope and will, diminishing them like a vaporous mist; but my heart ached in love—cherishing this place. All around it was a blasted landscape, distorted by ever rising waves of pure heat, and I was lost within its enormity, its raging vengeance, its thriving power, its beauty, which extended to the farthest edge of vision. Unmoved I stood naked, primal, stripped of the last lingering threads of humanity—more beast than man—burning, thirsting, and weeping dusty tears, which like salted stones clung to my flesh. Cracked by blistering heat, my wounded hands oozed waterless blood, which stuck to my palm, hardening, and solidifying into stones of the lifeblood. Should I not look haggard, bestial, or tormented?

Unable to stand, I withered, stumbling tremble-toed to the inferno's floor, burying my knees, crushing them through the crusted surface, plunging them into the depths of the sand. It was here, cradled between my quivering knees. I tightly clutched my leathery hands into iron fists, pushing the cerise stones from their frail refuge, dropping them to the unforgiving soil below. It was then I fell, motionless onto the bed of oblivion, forced into the infantile position, where I watched amazed as the black figure arose over my huddled flesh, towering into the heavens.

He smiled down at me—a placid smile—and stood over me. "Eat this." He extended a pale hand, dripping with blood, which held a mass of raw flesh.  It was an offering without explanation.

My cracked lips broke as they moved—splitting—and my swollen tongue remained fused to the base of my mouth. In a feeble whisper I managed mumbling words of a nearly indiscernible nature. "What is it?"

"Your heart," he answered.

Indeed the flesh moved rhythmically and evenly as it pulsated steadily, spilling blood through the black figures alabaster fingers, leaving glistening red lines, staining his clean hands. It rained blood, pouring in streams to the sand, spreading its mark across the thirsty floor of the begotten desert. I could not refuse it. I could not tear my eyes from its grotesque features.

With trembling hands I took hold of the pounding heart—it sledged heavily in my grip, heaving furiously against my fingers, stretching and pushing outward against my palm, then retracting with violent compressions, expelling a torrent of blood. Heat washed over my hands, eroding my tattered senses, as the muscle continued its endless work, pumping forth a river that consumed my shaking hands in the wet veil of red. The ferrous scent of the bloods iron core permeated the blistering air, burning my lungs with every shallow respiration. It was nauseating and enthralling, sickening, and fantastic.

"How will it taste?" cracked my voice.

"Only you can know".

Slowly I raised the pulsating flesh up, holding it before me. Blood streamed freely down my arms, tracing streaks of warm fluid, which rained from the bent elbow, adding to the marring stain on the desert. Death was upon me; I closed my eyes and bit ravenously into the heart—my heart. It shuddered between my lips, lifeblood spilling out of the unsealed corners of my mouth. It filled my mouth with an utter bitterness, but I could not spit it out. I choked and gagged, heaving, and still it remained, still it persisted, still I gnawed upon it, savoring it—until it was digested.

"It is bitter"—I choked.

The black figure extended a decanter of clear fluid, holding it gently in his hands. "Drink this."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Your soul," he answered.

The smooth crystal bottle contained a churning liquid. It was clear, swirling as if it was smoke, defying the principles of nature and gravity, yet containing the apparent substance of a fluid. With blood stained hands I took the decanter. It was ice cold – colder than the frozen tundra of the farthest northern reaches—numbing my fingers.

"How will it taste?"

"Only you can know," he answered.

As the icy numbness spread up my arms, deadening my tactile senses, I put the decanter mouth to my lips and slowly tilted the container back. The fluid did not pour; it charged me, driving down my gaping throat, emptying instantly. Stunned, I dropped the rare decanter, shattering it upon the ground. A soft sweetness—a subtle lingering aftertaste—clung to my moistened mouth.

"It is sweet." I whispered.

"Build now a wall to protect you. Nourish the spring that grows within. Remember the tree and the blossoms." With those final words the black figure departed, descending beyond the far horizon's edge.

I lay prone beneath the baking light, contemplating all things. In the distance a rumbling echoed to waiting ears. Slowly it arose, coming not from across the wasteland, but from beneath the burning sands. It grew in intensity, thundering and rattling the land, shaking the sand, churning the deserts deepest foundations. Then with a glorious crash a stone erupted from the blood stained sand at my side. From its porous husk sprouted another and another and still another. They multiplied, one from another, spilling forth, growing, stacking, towering, one on another, forming, forging, and building a wall. The wall sprouted, arose, and grew, rising over the desert, shielding out the searing winds. Then, as suddenly as it began, the roaring crashing ceased.

The red sand stone wall was impenetrable, tall and thick, circling around me, stretching out to a mile in every direction; I was contained within its circumference. Each stone was perfectly fitted with every adjacent stone. It was marvelous and monstrous, securing and isolating, protecting and restricting.

Beneath me another rushing sound—hushed at first—began and slowly, deliberately grew in volume. It churned and bubbled, gurgling out from the shards of the shattered decanter, spilling water over the sand, forming a pool, which steadily grew into a shallow pondlet. The water was clear and cool.

Astounded, I arose to my feet, and stood at the waters edge. Though my lips had not felt the coolness, and my tongue had not tasted the wetness of the water, I was revived and sustained.

At the center of the blood stained sand, my eyes caught the tiny green sprout, peeking out from beneath the first stone that had risen from the earth, the first in a line which led to the encircling wall. The sprout rapidly became a sapling, and as it continued to mature, the porous stone was displaced as a massive tree—resembling a massive white oak—sprang into existence. Leaves burst into life, and buds flowered, and fruit of all kinds populated the boughs, and roots ran deep.

With a steady hand I plucked fruit from the tree, and after a brief inspection sank my teeth through its skin and devoured the flesh of it. Instantly the vivid memory of the searing desert beyond the wall exploded through my senses. Sand burned my feet, wind blasted my face, my mouth dried out and my tongue swelled. I threw the fruit's core.

Quickly I drew another fruit and tasted it, discovering another bitter memory, a moment of rejection that bore me into despair. I pulled another fruit, after discarding the previous one's remains, and bore witness to a memory of failure. Again I tossed the half-eaten fruit and took another—pain; and yet again another—loss; and another—fear. Every fruit was a memory, a twisted dark memory, reminding me acutely of my desire for the desert.

Again I took another fruit—love. The old memory, nearly forgotten, played through my head as I relived the moment; I slowly devoured the fruit in its entirety. When the taste faded, the memory was lost with it, returning to the deep recesses of my inner being.

Looking back to the discarded fruit, I noticed six more trees sprouting, reproducing only the discarded memories. I shuddered. The desert, rejection, pain, fear, loss, despair, and all manner of things—all things—resided beyond the wall borne of my hearts blood. In here I was safe. I had my memories to remind me why I needed the wall, to remind me of the lethal desert, and I had food and water.

I sat alone at the base of the tree of memory. No one would know—no one would know… me. I took another bite—fear.