John Swinburn

Ribbon Scrawl was tall and stupid. He was the kind of stupid you find in shuttered slaughterhouses, the kind of stupid you avoid if you’re smart. And you’re smart. Or you thought you were, until you found yourself locked in a shuttered slaughterhouse, its blood-soaked doors chained from the outside. The place, littered with decaying shreds of cow and pig carcasses, proved a bonanza for the hungry rats that caused the health department to close the place. And there you were, trapped inside behind massive, immovable steel doors, your only company Ribbon Scrawl and dozens, maybe hundreds, of rats. It might behoove you to consider how you found yourself in this mess, as that could offer a way out. But it probably won’t. You have nothing better to do, though, other than keep the rats and Ribbon Scrawl at bay, so why not?

The people who chained the doors had nothing against you. It was Ribbon Scrawl they aimed to lock away in the shuttered slaughterhouse. See, Ribbon Scrawl was not only tall and stupid, he was mean and vindictive and about as dangerous as they come. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. When those guys saw a chance to remove what can legitimately be called a demon—in the form of Ribbon Scrawl—from their lives, they took it. You were just a collateral casualty, an acceptable level of sacrifice in the name of civility and justice.

The aroma of vanilla floods my nostrils. Somewhere among the clutter of stalls, sweet vanilla cakes are offered to those with a sweet tooth and money to spend. Everyone wandering the stalls here has at least a little money to spend. Or, if not, a little something to trade. Ah, now I smell cinnamon and fish. And the odor of ripe tomatoes competes with coffee for prominence. An old woman, her clothes an explosion of colors against wilted mahogany skin, offers samples of sandía y fresas, watermelon and strawberries. A boy, who I know as Miguel, sees me and waves a mango at me. Today is market day, the day the village converges on the square to buy necessities and luxuries. Fish, cheese, vegetables, quilts, cakes—there’s so much here that my eyes and my brain can’t take it all in. I promised myself that I would spend no more than three hundred and seventy-five pesos, but I can already feel that vow breaking. As I stroll the line of open-air shops, my eyes lock on a striking woman behind a table just in front of me. Her skin is a lighter shade of mahogany than the watermelon woman. Her eyes, as dark as any I’ve ever seen, burrow into mine. She offers a hint of a smile as she nods, almost imperceptibly, inviting me to come her way. The woman is easily twenty years my junior, but I can feel that she is as attracted to me as much as I am to her. And then I see a boy step from behind her. Ah, she has a son. This is not good. But not insurmountable.

I sprint toward the other side of the highway, hoping to reach the shoulder before the car speeding in my direction reaches me. I misjudge its speed. It’s almost here and I’m only inches from the middle of the road. My only hope is this: my experience is simply a dream or a writer’s fantasy. And then, BAM! It isn’t a dream. I don’t make it across. As I fly through the air, my bones still in the process of breaking in response to the bumper smashing into my pelvis, I remember why I tried to beat the cars. It was a stupid reason, an invalid prompt that put me here, microseconds from the end. I feel the wind whistle around my ears as my body spins through the air. I must look like a rag doll. The pain of impact is slower to reach my brain than the experience of twirling in air. But it finally reaches that part of my brain that processes pain. It processes agony. My brain attempts to meld horror, agony, flight, and regret into a tolerable ball of experience. It fails. I feel rage that I attempted to sprint across the freeway. I feel anger than my feet were older than they once had been, and slower. I feel regret that my worst decision was my last. The pavement, wet with rain and gasoline, charges at me like a rabid dog, ready to rip into me and swallow my life as if it never mattered. As the pavement drinks in my flesh, I recall my first time behind the wheel. I was confident and arrogant. And I almost t-boned an old woman driving an invisible Buick. The pavement swallows me. I am gone.

Enter the animal. He prowls like a cat. But he’s a monster unknown. He’s a creature prehistoric, an enigma that stalks the night looking for victims to satisfy his appetite for fresh flesh and streaming blood. The sky darkens and leaves in the trees quiver and pull themselves close to their parent branches when he slinks through the dense undergrowth, searching for prey. Birds fall from the sky, overcome with horror, incapable of moving their wings when he passes beneath them. Even the wind howls in terror at  his approach, uncertain as to his intent or his capacity to inflict torment of epic proportions. The beast has razor-sharp teeth, powerful jaws, eyes that see through stone and steel, and claws capable of shredding granite and hope in a single swipe. The aroma of death accompanies him through the forest, sending even the fiercest wolves sprinting away in abject panic, in the baseless hope of saving their lives. When he slithers next to a tree, its bark blisters and falls to the ground in smoking clumps, offering evidence of the heat of rage barely contained within him. This animal leaves pools of anguish and desperation in his wake. Every step he take leaves a hot impression in the soil upon which nothing green will ever grow again.

Should you encounter this animal, abandon your dreams. Give up hope for a future. Cede all your wishes and acquiesce to the reality that hopelessness will forever rule your head and your heart. Do not attempt to capture or kill the beast. Bullets that pierce his leathery skin dissolve into steam and serve only to feed his venomous anger. Axes bounce off his impenetrable fur. Poisons serve as elixirs, giving him even greater strength. He rips through steel cages as if they were as soft as yogurt. There is nothing one can do to escape his claws, once his target’s scent enters his nostrils. He is relentless in hunting his prey. He will hunt his quarry to the ends of the earth to satisfy his craving for flesh. Even death cannot save his victims because his claws,  in their quest for satisfaction, can rip through the fabric of time and shred the gossamer membrane between life and its absence. Eternity is no salvation from his appetite. And know this: he is coming. He is pacing just outside your safe haven. He is beneath your window, just outside your door, under your bed, in the closet, waiting for you in the kitchen cupboard. Even sitting silently in the back seat or the trunk of your car, ready to spring at that moment when you are your most vulnerable. He resides inside your subconscious when you are awake and lurks in the corners of your dreams. He is there. He is waiting. He will strike. Know it. Accept it. Relish it if you can.

A medical bill, associated with my recent colonoscopy, arrived in today’s mail. It was for pathology work. I logged on to my medical records to find details of the pathology report. As I already knew, the pathology exam found nothing awry, but I was curious to know details. In reading the report, a collection of words intrigued me: “terminal ileum and colon anastomosis.” That started me on a path that educated me about the human digestive system, especially the lower gastrointestinal tract.  Though some of my “education” was simply a reminder of what I already knew but had forgotten, other aspects presented brand new information to me. The first aspect of my education was of the former variety: I was reminded that anastomosis, in medical parlance, is a surgically created connection between two structures. Usually, the connection is between tubular structures like blood vessels or the intestines. In the case of my pathology report, the term referred to the point at which, in 1990 or 1991, doctors in Toledo, Ohio performed a resection on a span of my small intestines, then connected the remaining link to the colon. They had suspected I was having an appendicitis, but in reality I was experiencing the agony of Crohn’s disease. They found bad intestine during surgery and, since they were there, removed it. Actually, I think that has made my life much better than it otherwise might have been. I still very rarely experience symptoms of my now essentially dormant Crohn’s, but my experience pales in comparison to people who live with the full-blown  disease every day. I have a friend, with whom I’ve rarely communicated of late, who suffers from the debilitating aspects of the disease; she was my first “crush” in junior high school. She’s now a senior level  lawyer for the Department of Justice. That does not guarantee either happiness or health. But, as usual, I digress.

I am absolutely fascinated with http://www.innerbody.com/. The site is interesting, educational, and it is so exceptionally well done that I wish I could give it a gold star rating that would cause the universe to visit the site. I learned more in my zipping from page to page than I might have learned in gross anatomy class in medical school, had I been admitted into gross anatomy class in medical school, which is unlikely in the most positive way of putting it.

I told my friend, Millie, this morning over coffee, I think I am experiencing symptoms of ADHD. She said she thought I was, instead, showing symptoms of stark raving madness, the sort of insanity that causes people to steal machetes and go on killing rampages in the chambers of the House of Representatives. I recoiled in stunned horror at her suggestion, then grabbed the sword from the guard standing nearby. My deft slice through the air brought the guard’s head into the basket. I asked Mille what she thought of THAT? She rolled her eyes and said, “Myra might have scurried away at that monstrous act, but I will simply call you on it! What did that poor bastard do to you?”

I stood, in stunned silence, wondering what to do. There was only one thing to do. Eat an ice cream sundae rich with habanero pepper. And so I did. And I cannot finish my tale, because my mouth is afire. My brain is boiling. My hatred of medical insurance and the bureaucracies that support it cannot possibly be viewed with justice.

Linda crept next to me, as I sat unhappy and angry in my chair. “Hey, lover boy, shall I remove you from the ugliness of this angst?”

I said “Yes” and turned my head. In an instant, I was gone. Yet the ugliness remained, spilling across the horizon in layers that convince me of this: the only road to happiness is to be found in either another planet or another dimension on this one.

But back to my medical bill. I’ll pay it. You gotta pay for something, other than your $600+ per month premiums. (Give me a (excuse me) f***ing break).

Yes, Obamacare (ACA) needs to be fixed. So do many things. Do not discard real protections If you do, I will do bad things that will impact your friends and family. And mine.

Enough. I wish you a magnificent remainder of your Saturday and an even better Memorial Day and remainder of time on earth!

Her smile conceals savage fury of infinite intensity. Look closely enough and you’ll see bitterness escaping from the upturned corners of her mouth. Beware the simmering anger, hidden beneath her engaging grin, capable of erupting in full-throated rage. In an instant, the acrimony growing inside her could escape in an explosive release; heat so great that it would not boil oceans but set them ablaze. Do you see her? Do you see the woman standing in line at the grocery store? Do you see her at the post office counter? Do you see her waiting to cross the street while she’s walking her dog? Do you see her staggering out of the bar just after midnight? She is the one who could end the world for someone with the misfortune to cross her at the wrong moment.

Material for books continues to spill from my fingers, onto the keyboard, and then splash across my computer screen. I’ve created a half-dozen plots in the last few days alone; every time I begin writing on one of the novels-in-waiting, another idea pops into my head and I feel obliged to stop to document the concept lest my memory fail me later. I must record these ideas, for they have enormous potential. But somehow I must turn off that “new idea” creative spurt and redirect that energy to “story process” creative spurts.

If I were to write just 2500 words a day, I should be able to churn out a novel a month. In a year, I’d go through a quarter of my ideas and in four years, I’d have pumped out all forty-eight novels that reside in my brain. This is madness. I must first get just ONE finished! It will occur. And in the meantime, I WILL develop, polish, and publish one or more compilations of my stories/poems/essays (the mix is what I find appealing, but an audience might find dreadful).