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[elisepax]

And Weary Journeys Lie Before Me (A Short Story)

He became sensible of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night.

-- A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens

My chains, my captors. So little time they give me. Mercurial masters, I cannot know how long I will ever stay at one place before they force me to move again. Have I save him? I cannot know. He mocked me – called me an underdone potato. More of gravy than grave, he dared say! To me, a ghost!

I have very little control over my chains. From the moment my eyes opened to this new place, they have been wound about me, sometimes so tight that a normal human would be crushed to bits; other times they seem to loosen; but always pulling, wrenching, tugging, in whatever direction it wants to take me.

I am hurled upon the cold steps of a small church outside of town. I adjust my glasses (yes, even here my eyes are clouded) to see a dying woman at my feet, who had attempted to climb the steps for aid. Her strength given out, she slumps over and clutches a tiny bundle tucked inside a thin, worn cloak. The bundle had gone silent long before she had collapsed on the church steps, in that last desperate hope for assistance. Blood-tinged sputum spatters her lips and chin. She is so thin I wonder how her shivering does not break her bones to pieces.

I reach out to touch the woman and her bundle, though I know it is useless, I cannot give aid, not now, not ever. There is one last wretched cough. Her head turns, and she sees me; a veil draws aside; she understands now.

The church door finally opens with a terrific loud squeal, and a beadle emerges, a bottle in one hand, cane in the other. The woman’s body slumps over and the inert contents of her arms spill upon the church steps. The vicar considers what to do as his cane nudges the pile of flesh and rags.

“Will ‘ave to clear this up in the mornin I s’spose,” he slurs. “But not tonight, tis Christmas Eve ‘o course!” He takes a swig and steps down past the bodies as he makes his unsteady way into town.  

There’s nothing I can do, and the feeling is unbearable. The chain clutches at me ever tighter. No rest it allows me. Its jangling clatter, its clutching, wrenching torque unrelenting.

Then I am gone.

I move with the spirits. My pain is unbearable, my shame unforgiveable. A great choir of mourning in the sky, the melodies and harmonies ever dolorous, ever hopeless.

The chains force me to walk, their eternal prisoner. Sometimes I trip and fall. The chains seem to get angry at this. They respond by coiling ever tighter around me.  So very heavy they are. The ledgers and deeds, scrawled with the ink that added untold misery to peoples’ lives. The steel cashboxes, padlocks, purses. So many. And yet nowhere near the length that awaits Ebenezer.

Ah yes, Ebenezer. How angry the chains seemed to get when you mocked us. It was the chains that grabbed my hands and smashed the cash boxes together, an infernal drum corps. That got his attention. Color drained right out of his face. I could have smiled, if that were possible.

As we move again in the night, at length a light appears in front of me, floating like a will’o the wisp, yet it is more than that. It approaches and engulfs me with its blinding light. Truth. “You must be the first,” I say.

“I was,” the light says. The light seems female, but I can never be sure. So bright, this light. I feel no warmth coming from it. I have not felt warmth for the past 7 Christmas Eves.

“I have wasted valuable time,” the spirit says to me. “He is stubborn.”

“It is a little drop of eternity that you are expending,” I say. “Future generations will be grateful.”

The light seems pacified though I cannot be sure because the chains drive me on.

In the darkness of London, I find myself among the wealthier streets, enrobed in the same polluted fog, but not so filthy and wretched as where I started from at Ebenezer’s lodgings. Carriages pull up to return the well-to-do from their evening entertainments. Beautiful young women and strapping young men step out and back into their homes, laughing gaily and feeling blessed by God for their wealth. For all of my years on earth, I never saw the point of these fripperies.

As we walk, the chains and myself, I see another light, but it is carried by someone. A giant of a man, dressed in a deep green coat with a white mantle. He smells of pine, cinnamon, hot chestnuts, plum puddings, warm fireplaces, roasted meats. In one hand he drinks from a horn, where the light emerges. He drinks the sweet liquor and greets me with a long, deep-chested laugh.

“You are the second,” I say to him.

“Indeed I am!” the giant says, his eyes are clear and kind but ominous at the same time. He takes another deep drink out of the horn and wipes his mouth. “Going to visit another doomed fool, thanks to you,” he says. “But a request is a request. I’ll carry it through.”  I look down and see two emaciated faces peeking out from his robe, by his feet. They look at me, shivering in the cold. A booted foot pushes them back to their hiding place

I feel it again, this impossible sadness, this incomprehensible misery, the chains tightening yet again. “I have so much to atone for,” I say. “You have my thanks, generous spirit, for granting my request.”

“Feh!” says the giant. “Well, I shall make the best of it. He will be good sport to endure my japes!” The giant drinks from his horn again and shambles drunkenly down the street.

Suddenly, the graveyard. I know this place well. My mortal remains lie here, at this tombstone where the chains have dropped me. It is unadorned, except for my name, year of birth, and year of death  engraved upon it. A cold granite memento reflecting the life I had not lived.  I hate this place worst of all. My captors force me to visit here every year on Christmas Eve. They delight in reminding me of things I so wanted to forget.

A shadow blots out the moonlight. I remember this shadow. He appeared to me once before. A skeletal figure, enrobed in a death shroud. The chains awaken and tighten yet again around me.

“I remember you,” I say to it. “Even in death, when nothing further can be done to me, I fear you still, spirit.”

The spectre says nothing, yet I feel his accusations against me. The winding shroud around him rustles, loosens, revealing a gaping, skull face, its rictus grin mocking me.

“This is a waste of time, Jacob Marley,” he seems to be saying. “A fool’s errand for an old fool who is seven times over the squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner that you were. Given so much, with so much power to do good for the world, and you would waste it on meaningless lucre!”

I walk backwards and trip upon a steel purse, falling against my tombstone. If I were corporate, my skull would have cracked against it. Yet my glasses teeter from their resting place, the bandage becomes undone, my jaw gapes. I am ashamed beyond words.

“Please, Spirit,” I beg. “Can you not tell me what will happen? Can you not allow me to observe? To know that some good might yet be done?”

Again the spirit does not speak but it turns to look at me and I feel that I can hear him. “Be thankful we are interceding at all,” he seems to say.

I grab the headstone and push myself up again. The spirit moves away but is not gone yet. I replace my glasses where they were. Re-tie the bandage and hear my jaws clack together. I am so tired. The chains are rustling, awakening. I feel their terrible weight, even more terrible than the chains that have held me down for the past 7 years. I wonder if the chains keep growing link by link, even after death.

“You would not appear to me – none of you – If there was not some hope! At least tell me that much! There is hope, is there not?”

The Spirit stares through me. The chains have awakened, they clench against me, strangling me, so that I cannot move except reach out one arm to the spirit. I beg, I cry, I wail, I think of all the death, poverty, ignorance, disease that plagues the world, all of the things I could have done but didn’t. Silent still, the spirit disappears into the fog.

Will Scrooge be saved? I cannot know. I will never know. The chains engulf and overwhelm me.

The sun is now close to rising on Christmas morning. I have moved yet again. No longer in the graveyard, I am back at Scrooge’s lodgings. All is still as the grave. And then I hear something, a crack of an old window sash opening. Ebenezer pokes his head out into the cold morning air. A church bell peals.

I am allowed no further time as I am whisked away. Did the spirits succeed? It is Christmas morning. Joyful for so many, a joy denied to those creatures such as myself. Deposited on a busy city street. Time to move on, the chains say. The future is for others to know.

[elisepax]

At this point, I’m posting a picture to remind myself that I AM trying. Watched a few more videos. Today I tried using dry shampoo to “add a little texture” as suggested. It helped maybe a squidge. Still, though, eveything is a big mess halfway down. Apologies for the laser-crazy eye.

[elisepax]

Oh Lord look at this mess. This was done on slightly damp, freshly washed hair. Sigh. You’d think this would be easy after watching a gazillion YouTube videos...but those women seem to have perfect hair for braiding. A little dry from dying, thin (I’ve even seen some of them use hair extensions to do their styles). I understand the process: section off a bit of top hair, separate into three even strands, cross on side over the middle, then the other side over the middle; then start taking hair from each side as you go down.

My problem is, my hair is kinda soft, uncolored, and thick AF, so I keep getting my fingers tangled and losing the strands. No matter how much I brush it, I still lose the strands. And the hairs stick to each other like glue, no matter how well I’ve brushed.

So maybe this is an impossible dream...still, the above is day 2 and I’m actually on day 3, which went a teensy bit better. Day 3 will post tomorrow.

[elisepax]

I’ve always wanted to be able to braid my hair. But, growing up kinda tomboy-ish, I never learned. I’m now 52 and I like having long hair but also sick of ponytails and bandanas. Time to revisit girly-girl stuff.

For my next 100-day challenge, I will be teaching myself to braid my hair. I have viewed dozens of YouTube videos and Pinterest tutorials -- they all make it look so easy!

What I discovered for this first attempt is...well, it’s not a French braid.

I had to establish some rules:

1. Keep a trashcan handy because I’m going to lose a lot of hair doing this.

2. Sit in a comfortable chair.

3. Give myself a limit of 30 minutes for each attempt. If I fail, then I just do whatever.

4. Don’t panic

So the first thing I discovered is that my hair is not like the models in the You Tube videos. Their hair tends to be more textured and drier, and thinner. My hair is thick AF (oh yeah, I curse a lot doing this).

This first braid was done on unwashed hair, and my arms got tired so by the end of 30 minutes I had to defer to a ponytail braid. 

These next 99 attempts are going to be exercises in humility.

[elisepax]

And so I come to the end of my 100-day project. The late day sun, makes me think of sitting on a porch with a cold glass of lemonade, resting after a busy day.

Tomorrow I start my next 100-day project. It will be quite different. Hint: my arms are already tired. No, it’s nothing to do with push-ups or planks.

[elisepax]

Halcyon: adj. denoting a period of time in the past that was idyllically happy and peaceful. noun:a tropical Asian and African kingfisher with brightly colored plumage or a mythical bird said by ancient writers to breed in a nest floating at sea at the winter solstice, charming the wind and waves into calm.

Halcyon days of our lives: you don’t realize what they were, til they are gone, and you are looking back.

[elisepax]

This is the way he would remember her: her hair and dress flapping in the sea wind when they met for the last time. It was their place, their little escape from the world, their sea cove. But this would be the last time. He was going east, she was staying. There would be no future for them. Their last kiss felt like eternity. The wind blew through the cove and it sounded like the keening of mourning lovers. The kiss would end, but they would remember it, for years and years, long after they had found other mates and raised a family, had their careers and retired, and even during their last moments, they would remember their youth, which blew away in the sea wind and the sound of the gulls and all the ghosts of lost souls.

[elisepax]

She had surrounded her world with pink plushness. It was her defense against all the sadness. She had plenty of money to spend. Shen emptied out the apartment and repainted it in shades of pink. Then bought a new wardrobe. Designed her makeup palettes to match. Her friends thought she had gone mad, but she had money, and was generous, so they shrugged and took advantage. They became her “pink posse.” She knew they were using her, and did not care.

[elisepax]

This is one of my favorite desserts. Probably because I like smooth, creamy sweet things. This one is so perfect. That initial cracking of the sugar layer. The first bite with the sugar and the creme all in one mouthful. I have never made one, though; I always get them at restaurants. Maybe I will try someday.

[elisepax]

The captain was pleased. On the beach, spread out in front of him, the spoils of his last raid. Precious stones, coins, objects of gold, glittered in the sun. His crew were gathered around him. “Okay, mateys,” the Captain said. “Let’s bury this hyar treasure.”

The men, holding shovels, seemed to hesitate. The sun burned down upon their scorched faces, eyes squinting, staring at the captain.

“Well? The treasure won’t bury itself!”

The men shuffled their feet in the sand.

“It’s like this,” one brave man said, stepping forward. “We don’t want to bury it. We’re always burying treasure and never see it again. We’ll be dead and turned to dust and the treasure will still be in the ground!”

Another man spoke up. “We’re tired,” he said. “We want to go home.”

The Captain furrowed his brow. Spat tobacco juice and took a swig of rum from the bottle in his hand. He looked angry, and then he stared at the treasure, and looked at his men.

“Blimey,” he said. “You know, you’re right. Let’s divvy it up and go home rich men!”

[elisepax]

“Where are we going?” the little girl asked.

The girl’s father looked down at his daughter and smiled.

“A new world,” he said. “Full of hopes and dreams. A place where we can be free.”

“When will I know we are there?”

Father pointed out toward the ocean.  “You will see a beautiful lady holding a torch,” he said. “She will guide us there.”

The man was afraid. It was a big risk, leaving the village. But it was the only choice they had. He looked toward the sea as the boat left the pier. He hoped the lady would not steer them wrong.

[elisepax]

Gunfire erupted before the cooking fires had the coffee ready. The soldier thought this was very unfair as he dumped the pot and ran for his rifle. Not sure where the shots were coming from, he whirled about in confusion, shooting here and there. Bodies were falling. Men screaming. The smell of gunpowder and bacon hung in the air as the shooting stopped. The soldier dropped his gun. He’d been startled in his sleep, while dreaming about fresh home-brewed coffee. Another man shot him in the hand so he would drop the rife.

The soldier sank to his knees, falling head first onto the grass. Not a word was heard, only the breeze blowing in the trees, like the last sigh of summer.

[elisepax]

There is nothing in the world like it. The smell of the ocean. When I was little, we would drive to Ocean City, NJ, and about 10 miles out Dad would turn off the AC and open the windows, and the smell of the sea would tell me we were almost there.

Today, I love to do the same thing. Only I’m driving, and I don’t get there as often as I’d like to. But the windows go down, and I smell it, and I feel like I’ve come home.

[elisepax]

She opened the door and her ex-girlfriend was standing there, holding flowers and a crooked smile. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

They stared at each other. “You gonna let me in?”

“I guess. Want some lemonade?”

“You always made the best.”

The first girl took the flowers and waved her ex toward the couch to sit down.

“So,” the first girl said, handing her ex the lemonade. “What brings you here? Haven’t heard from you in 6 months. Not even a text.”

“Didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.”

The ex took a long sip, smacker her lips. “I’ve been...busy.”

“And you’re dropping in out of the blue, for no reason?”

“I just needed sex, that’s all. Interested?”

The first girl thought a moment. It had been awhile.

“Okay,” she said. Sex out of the blue was never a bad thing.

[elisepax]

She bit into the fruit, watching the young man fill her gas tank. The gas station was in the middle of nowhere. She was lucky to find this station, as the car was running on fumes.

“You’re cute,” she said, taking another bite of the peach she had bought at the store. “What’s it like, working in the middle of a desert?”

“I can handle it,” the young man said. “I have a garden at home.”

The girl nodded. Finished her peach and tossed the pit into the trash. As she paid for the gas, she scribbled her cell number on one of the bills. “I’d love to see it,” she said. “Text me sometime.”

[elisepax]

“It’s a beautiful gown,” the princess’ maid said, as her lady strode out from the dressing room.

“How so?” the princess asked.

The girl wrinkled her brows in thought. She didn’t have the words, in her ill-educated brain. “Sort of...soothing?”

The young woman of royalty nodded. “I want to disappear in the background,” she said, turning as she gazed in the mirror. “I want to look like a harmless, nattering child.”

The maid was not sure whether it was appropriate to agree with this. So she remained silent.

The princess steeled herself for the ball. Other maids finished her hair, applied her jewels and crown used for social occasions.

Tonight, she would look harmless. She would catch the court off guard. She would attract the King-to-be and become his wife. And then...the safe green would come off, and she would take her rightful place in the kingdom.

[elisepax]

The two soldiers stared at one another. A rumor had run through the trenches that the war was over. But neither was sure. In an instant, a million thoughts ran through the brains of the two tired, shell-shocked men. Each had survived through the entire war without a scratch. Would this be it? They looked into their eyes, into their souls, for some answer to the question.

By the time one heard the whistling sound, it was too late. Later, their body parts lay strewn among the blasted soil, nibbled on by rats.