A dream of Humanity.

              Authors note: the boy is humanity, the man is God.
                  The fog seemed thicker than ever to the boy as he wandered aimlessly along the road beneath his feet. He couldn't remember why he had started along this path, nor how long he had been on it. He just knew he had to keep going. It was more than an urge; it was instinct, primal and ancient, set in place long before he was conscious of it's existence. He had come across many obstacles on his way, but still he urged forward. He had been lonely on this path for a long time, only seldom had he had visitors from the hills and forests outside the path, and they left as quickly as they passed. A tablet given to him by an old man of wise stature and a book which was given to him by 4 poorly dressed men were among the many things he had collected over the years. He had lost all these things long ago, the originals at least, but he had done his best to remember and memorize them so as to keep his gifts near.
                As he continued his perpetual walk the boy dreampt he heard a noise in the brush to his side and turned in its direction. Out of the fog stepped a man dressed in white. To describe the mans face is impossible, for it seemed all ethnicities were represented at once. A strange glow emanated from the man, as if beneath his clothes their lay a spirit instead of a man. The boy looked into the man's  eyes, and the man began to speak. He spoke for hour upon hour, perhaps days. The man's voice was like a song, old as the rivers and sweet as the fruits of the Earth. The man spoke of the end, and then he left.
               The boy continued to walk, adding the man's speech to his bank of gifts. 

            

Conflict within

Kyler Wandler

Duality poem

Deep inside the mind

Lies a secret door

A secret room that reeks of gloom

Where opposites are stored

Outside in the shadows

Creeps a silent face

A doppelganger of yourself

Leaving not a trace

Man is always two

Contrast day and night

A civil war within ourselves

A fight of dark and light

A fool thinks but alone

Unaware of his reflection

Good and evil side by side

Obscure to his detection

A tale of men and man

We harbor fear inside

It manifests when contemplated

We ignore it when we hide

So woe behold the door

Deep inside the mind

It remembers tales and fights and war

Its age surpasses time

DUALITY

The Door by Kyler Wandler

Authors Note: This story relates to the Novella Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It is about the duality of man and the tender state we are in at mind. The subject was interesting and fun.

Within the mind lies a door, and within this door a room. The door is situated in the dark and uncharted fathoms of the mind, hidden and repressed by the age old fear of man's duality, the fear of the darkness behind the light which humanity strives for. Something dark is behind the door, too dark to know or see, and so it remains a mystery. All we know is that behind it there lies a room. Something within the room throws and swiches the balance of the mind to and fro as if it were only a paper boat at the mercy of a wave, and so naturally we hide from it. Such power over ourselves within ourselves caused by oursleves is not only confusing but entirely horrifying. We arethe light seeking not to brighten the darkeness, but to hide from it, for the dark is too powerful a foe for mere mortals. So we hide. To fight the dark is impossible, to destroy it is to destroy ourselves. The light cannot exist without the dark in the same way that noise cannot exist without silence or life without death. We are the life, the noise, the light in a soul of division, and within this small room we store all of the things which we hate yet crave. And so be warned, within this room is your equal, within this room is your opposite. Let the door be, it is not one for contemplation, it is not for exploration. It is for preservation,and so it should preserved as is.

The Boy and the Shadows

The Boy and the Shadows

By: Kyler Wandler

I could hear the heavy footsteps of my stepfather long before they reached my door. As the thuds grew nearer I could tell by the weight of each stride that whatever he was about to say bode ill for me. I can always tell, and in this household, recognition is key.

            After what seemed like forever, the thuds coming in even and repetitive tones like the tolling of a bell, he reached my room and swung open the door. There was no knock. He never knocks, although it’s one of the many house rules he instills. Apparently he’s above the law.

            “Living room, now.” He says. The look on his face is hard to describe. Maybe annoyance? Disdain? It doesn’t matter, really.

            “What did I do?” I ask, though I already know. In a house of countless rules set in stone, it’s impossible not to violate some. The rule I’ve broken is one of the most important, however.

            “Go.” He replies. His voice is low and menacing and as hard as iron; a casual vice. It’s always been this way. There’s an additional tone in it tonight, stern and confident. He knows he won’t be disobeyed, not directly. For the few hours a night that he’s home, he’s in control. He knows this.

            There’s no point in trying to find a way out of it, there isn’t one, so I close the book I’ve been reading and leave the comfort of my bed and the solitude of my room behind.

            As I shut my door he turns and resumes his heavy pace, this time towards the living room. He doesn’t bother to check if I’m following. He knows I am. The cockiness of this and the fact that I have no power whatsoever to stop it is unbearable, like a massive weight upon my shoulders.  It’s like I’m carrying an anvil. I’ve been carrying this weight for years, and I’m growing weary.

            Too soon we reach the living room. I take a deep breath and analyze everything I can in the first few seconds we enter the room. Recognition is key.

            The walls are yellow and blue, faded and poorly arranged. It’s as if they’re merely an attempt to imitate colors of happiness. Hanging on those sickly walls are multiple paintings of Jesus Christ and other catholic fixtures. The couch is a long leather L slid into the back corner. It’s brown color doesn’t help the fact that it’s extremely uncomfortable. The lone lamp that lights the room is dim. The shadows of night creep through the windows and onto the walls and floors, unaffected by the pitiful light fixture. I hate those shadows.

            Sitting on the left hand side of the couch is my mother with her hands folded gracefully in her lap. My stepfather is above the law in the house, but she is impervious to it. She is the lawmaker; the president, empress, the dictator. My stepfather is merely an enforcer, there to uphold her regime. She hides it well though. She’s as manipulative and smooth as a serpent, and she lets him believe he has the power.

            “Take a seat.” She says, with a voice sweet like honey; the remnant of a southern twang only just discernible. I have no choice but to comply, already my stepfather’s hand is on my shoulder, pushing me down. Once I’m safely seated he steps back and crosses his arms, peering down his nose at me with cold blue eyes. From down here, his height of 6’ 2” is all the more obvious. It makes me feel small.

            “We need to talk about your behavior. Lately, you’ve been out of control.” Says my mother. She looks to my father, who nods, then continues, “You’ve been back talking, skipping chores, swearing, listening to disgusting rap music. You’re grades are just awful.”

            “—you’re never going to amount to anything. Don’t expect me to help when you’re some loser without a job.” Cut’s in my stepfather.

            My mother nods in agreement, than, with voice oversaturated in false sympathy says, “But I’ve put up with it and suffered through it. Because I love you.” Her voice is dripping with honey, and she carries out her lie perfectly except for one subtle thing. The lack of sincerity is hard to catch, but recognition is key.

            I keep silent.

            “This,” she continues, “is unacceptable though.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out my wallet. Earlier this morning while I was sleeping she decided she would look through it. As she opens the fold her facial expression turns from anger to sadness in one quick second, as if the expression was something she’d almost forgotten to do. It’s a subtle mistake. The look on her face is complete but for one aspect. Her eyes; they retain their steel.

            She reaches into the fold and pulls out a small plastic package which she slides onto the coffee table in front of the couch.

            “You had a condom?” This is unacceptable.” Her voice is soft and hard all at once. The sincerity is still missing.

            “I hope you know this is a Mortal Sin.”

            I remain silent, but my temper is rising.

            “Not only that, but you aren’t allowed to date until you’re eighteen. We’re a God fearing family, and breaking my rules will not be tolerated.” She puts emphasis on “my rules”.

            I doubt she knows how stupid she sounds. She’s lecturing me about God and Religion when the only time her voice holds resolve is when she talks about her power. Somehow she twines herself in with God, as if she’s truly an angel. Religion is just what she hides behind to justify her actions. While the rest of us sit in church every Sunday on her insistence she’ll be outside on the phone with friends that secretly hate her or smoking her way to cancer. She rarely comes in with us, only just enough to maintain her image. At home she’s always ready to chide the rest of us and remind us that we’re sinners, but she’ll never find a flaw in herself. Pointing out her flaws for her is a mistake. But I’ve always been mistake prone…

            “Religion’s just a pretentious game for you.” I say. I quickly regret it though. The rest of my mother’s face turns to steel, matching her eyes. An iron grip takes me by surprise from behind. My stepfather puts me in a headlock, or something similar to it. Whatever it is, it hurts.

            Adrenaline begins to course through me, tensing my body into a coil ready to spring up.

My arms and legs feel searing hot, like a fever but without the nausea.

            “Don’t you dare talk back to me. You’re a 16 year old that needs to learn his place.” Says my mother. Her voice is calm, but there’s no honey to it now.

            “He’s a spoiled shit.” Puts in my stepfather.

            “I agree.” She says flatly. Of course I am.

            My stepfather’s grip on me is still iron tight. This definitely isn't the first time he’s been physical, not at all. But something feels dangerous about this tonight, as if the rope tying everything together has grown taut and old and is about to snap.

            “So, what are we going to do about this? We’ve taken you’re TV, phone, IPod, radio; it doesn’t seem to have done you any good. What should we do?” She loves to take things.

            “I don’t know.” I spit out. My stepfather’s hands are searing hot.

            My mother looks down at me, plotting what she could take from me next. All of a sudden her eyes take on a cold satisfaction.    

            “You’re too rebellious.” She says, then looks to my stepfather. “Maybe we should send him to seminary school, dear. Public school just seems to be teaching him to do terrible things like date and rebel at home.” The look on her face is so smug, so abhorrently vile…

            I can’t stand this anymore. I am done. With a tremendous effort I shake myself free of my stepfather’s grasp. With the blazing hot adrenaline helping it’s easier than I expected.

            “Where are you going?” he asks, his confident tone ringing like a long, worn bell in my ears.

I flashback. A thousand moments rush through my mind at once, a seething torrent, a whitewater river of memories both good and bad coursing through my being. I’m fading within myself, while myself fades out of me. That’s the best I can describe what happens to me. Memories flow past my consciousness. The day I found out my stepfather wasn’t my real father; I was eleven. That was also the night he'd gotten arrested for hitting my mother. He’d been drunk, that was the only time my mother didn’t have control over him. All the times he told me what a failure I am and will be. The endless months spent at home alone, grounded on my mother’s insistence. Those were the times when I dwelled on my hatred for myself and my family. The time I told them I wanted to be an astronaut and they told me to get real and come back down to earth. The times when I watched them fight, the times I failed to please them, the times I spent alone dwelling on the things I’ve witnessed. The times, the times, the times. I wasn’t going to take it anymore.

            I snap back at the sound of my mother’s voice. “You know you’ll go to hell for these sins.” She’s saying, casually.

            “I’m leaving.” I reply.

            I start walking towards the door, the corners of my vision are dark, as if the shadows from outside have invaded my eyesight now too. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears.

            I’m scared. Horrified, really.

            My insides are white hot. I feel like a conflagration’s rising in the pit of my stomach. Memories are the tinder, and my parents are the gasoline and the lighter that are igniting it. Everything around me seems slow and hazy. This adrenaline is making me feel strong though, and so I take another step towards the door.

            Crash.

            My stepfathers footsteps are like thunder coming up behind me. Before I can react, I’m face to the floor, his hand on the back of my neck. I can taste blood in my mouth, iron and vile.

            I can hear him saying something, but it’s just noise and I don’t interpret it as anything else.

            Instinct takes over. Everything is brandingly bright and hot as my elbow shoots up into his gut. He let’s go for a split second, just long enough for him to say, “You little fucker.” , and for me to spring to my feet and dash for the door. This adrenaline makes me fast.

            I’m almost there, reaching for the door knob, for freedom.

            All of a sudden a train hits me from behind with a thundering clash of steel on steel. I turn around and in an instant his hands are on my neck in a classic choke.

            My emotions in this moment are hard to describe. On one hand there’s an anger, a swelling and dangerous volcano on the verge of erupting. What makes this man think he can touch me?? He’s not even my real father. On the other hand, there’s a sorrow though, a sorrow that runs so deep it feels as if im drowning in a sea of liquid pain with my memories and thoughts of what will never be weighing me down like an anchor tied about my waste. Why did it have to come to this…?

            I look into those blue eyes, my back against the door to freedom, my own weight keeping it shut, and I see my emotions reflected in his eyes. He doesn’t want this either.

            Then I look past him and see my brother shouting something while my mother stands there, arms crossed, the same smug smile still on her face.  

            The volcano brewing inside me erupts. My body’s acting of its own accord now, my instinct of self preservation and hatred mixing together to create a frantic, explosive wrath. My arms extend straight out – right into the chest of my stepfather. His grip on me is released. I start to make my way towards the sadistic bitch that I call my mother, but he gets in the way again. He shoves me back, infuriated that I pushed him, and my head hits the door. I don’t feel it though, and I bounce back toward him with inhuman speed. My left hand clinches into a fist and drives into his gut, doubling him over, and almost simultaneously my right fist slams into his jaw.

            The blow lands right at the corner of his mouth, and blood immediately begins to flow out freely, and as the drops fall from his chin to the floor, he slumps down to the floor.

            I tear my gaze away from his limp figure and look towards my mother. The smug look on her face is gone now, replaced by a look of genuine terror. It’s the first time I’ve seen her face tell the truth in a long time.

            I don’t know what else to do, so I open the door and run. It takes me about five minutes to sprint the mile to the park. I’ve never run that fast before. When I get there I still don’t know what to do, and the shadows scare me. I make my way back to the house, sticking to alleys and back ways, praying to remain hidden. When I arrive though I remember everything that had just happened. I’d been so busy running that I’d forgotten…

            I start crying, and I don’t stop for at least ten minutes. I haven’t cried that hard since God knows when…

            I need to find some place to go…

            I look down and find myself a mess; my knuckles are bruised and swollen, and it’s 40 degrees out but I’m wearing shorts and a t-shirt. My feet are aching, and I look down and see tht I have no shoes or socks on. I’ve been running barefoot.

            Eventually I start walking and arrive at the Laundromat near my house. Hardly anyone comes here at night, and at this point I just want to be alone. I go to the bathroom in the back, and when I look in the mirror I’m disgusted.

            Looking back at me in the mirror is a monster with disheveled hair, eyes red and swollen from tears, and an inflamed and scarlet neck.

            I leave as quickly as I can.

            It’s got to be around 12:00am now…I need somewhere to sleep, else I’ll freeze to death out here amongst the dark shadows of the night. I feel as if I’ve become one of them now. I’ve become what I hate and fear, but I guess I was one all along.

            I go back to my house, and what I see scares me just as much.

            Parked outside are two police cars. Through the windows I can see my parents and the officers talking.

            I don’t have anywhere else to go…so I steel my resolve and after a few minutes I have enough courage to go in.

            “Maybe this is for the best.” I think to myself. “Maybe my parents are right. Maybe I was wrong.”

            As I go in, the officers tell me to take a seat while they listen to my mothers side of the story. I sit on a small stool in the corner, the shadows of night spilling over me from the windows, engulfing me and accepting me as one of their own, and I listen.

            I listen as my mother tells them it was all my fault. That it was without a doubt all my doing.

            When it’s my turn to explain I say nothing. Words cannot explain nor describe the pain I feel at this betrayal. I simply sit in my corner, becoming as much of one with the shadows as I can, embracing their cool indifference.

            As they place the cold metal handcuffs around my wrist and lead me to the squad car, I feel only a cool relief that I’m leaving.