Ode to a Willow (CA - Willowman)
Quote from Indy on August 17, 2020, 6:30 pmThe slight fellow didn't move, keeping his head bent low over his slumped body. He seemed still... yet for the rise and fall of his shoulder with each breath, the next coming out shorter than the previous. His bony fingers started to curl around the other, turning white.
The mountain still cried for the woman's death in frantic, scratchy tones intermixing with the air. But with what? And why? The creature had failed to eliminate her earlier, and the man had felt haunted by what little he had managed. Both were gone. Now there was only one left, an unhappy harmony of the two.
"Because I'm a wretch," he managed in a short breath, suddenly imaging the fearful affect his countenance must be having on her, "I can't kill you. But I can't trust you, either".
The slight fellow didn't move, keeping his head bent low over his slumped body. He seemed still... yet for the rise and fall of his shoulder with each breath, the next coming out shorter than the previous. His bony fingers started to curl around the other, turning white.
The mountain still cried for the woman's death in frantic, scratchy tones intermixing with the air. But with what? And why? The creature had failed to eliminate her earlier, and the man had felt haunted by what little he had managed. Both were gone. Now there was only one left, an unhappy harmony of the two.
"Because I'm a wretch," he managed in a short breath, suddenly imaging the fearful affect his countenance must be having on her, "I can't kill you. But I can't trust you, either".
Quote from Adriana on August 17, 2020, 7:23 pm“You’re not a wretch.” Amelia responded quickly. “I’m not upset, and I’m not afraid. Trust is hard, for anyone. I won’t ask you to trust me.”
She stood, putting a hand on the door.
”But maybe, someday, I would like if you didn’t feel the need to kill me.” She kind of laughed, but couldn’t fathom the demons that must be bearing down on his soul.
“Please try to rest. I will visit, anytime.”
“You’re not a wretch.” Amelia responded quickly. “I’m not upset, and I’m not afraid. Trust is hard, for anyone. I won’t ask you to trust me.”
She stood, putting a hand on the door.
”But maybe, someday, I would like if you didn’t feel the need to kill me.” She kind of laughed, but couldn’t fathom the demons that must be bearing down on his soul.
“Please try to rest. I will visit, anytime.”
Quote from Indy on August 18, 2020, 9:09 pmThe days passed on. Their arrival and departure was marked only by the numbers on the white board in his room. Each day he watched a staff member erase the previous day and write the next, as if all that was required to pass the days along.
It was strange how routine the alien world had become to him in his few weeks there and stranger yet how even still the dates on a calender might be still the most bizarre of them all. How much time had he lost, and how much would he continue to loose ? The days were spent aimlessly devouring the books brought to him each morning.
He still asked for Amelia. His trust of her had not improved, and yet familiarity alone made her a comfort. It was better the devil he knew than the devil he didn't. It was tiresome besides to keep track of all the names and faces of the other staff. One was far easier.
One morning as she entered he glanced to her - his posture leisurely as he spread across one of the sitting chairs at the far end of his room with a book propped on his knee. He still didn't take his eyes off the woman, and would grow tense if she moved too quickly or slowly or closely - yet it was as much the mark of trust he showed these days as any.
"You know," he said to her in a languid voice matching his posture, "Most of my problems in life have been because of a woman".
The days passed on. Their arrival and departure was marked only by the numbers on the white board in his room. Each day he watched a staff member erase the previous day and write the next, as if all that was required to pass the days along.
It was strange how routine the alien world had become to him in his few weeks there and stranger yet how even still the dates on a calender might be still the most bizarre of them all. How much time had he lost, and how much would he continue to loose ? The days were spent aimlessly devouring the books brought to him each morning.
He still asked for Amelia. His trust of her had not improved, and yet familiarity alone made her a comfort. It was better the devil he knew than the devil he didn't. It was tiresome besides to keep track of all the names and faces of the other staff. One was far easier.
One morning as she entered he glanced to her - his posture leisurely as he spread across one of the sitting chairs at the far end of his room with a book propped on his knee. He still didn't take his eyes off the woman, and would grow tense if she moved too quickly or slowly or closely - yet it was as much the mark of trust he showed these days as any.
"You know," he said to her in a languid voice matching his posture, "Most of my problems in life have been because of a woman".
Quote from Adriana on August 18, 2020, 9:18 pmAmelia was writing on a clipboard, taking note of the medicine and times they were taken. He was on several supplements, but they were able to stop antiobiotics and steroids a few days earlier. The anxiety medicine might be permanent. Amelia chewed on the pen in thought until Willowman spoke.
She looked up from the clipboard, her expression pensive, and rested herself against the dresser.
“Is that so? A partner type of woman?” She asked, genuinely curious.
Amelia was writing on a clipboard, taking note of the medicine and times they were taken. He was on several supplements, but they were able to stop antiobiotics and steroids a few days earlier. The anxiety medicine might be permanent. Amelia chewed on the pen in thought until Willowman spoke.
She looked up from the clipboard, her expression pensive, and rested herself against the dresser.
“Is that so? A partner type of woman?” She asked, genuinely curious.
Quote from Indy on August 18, 2020, 10:08 pmWillowman flipped another page to the book absently, then raised an eyebrow and exhaled a puff of air in derisive amusement. The lightness of the expression still felt strange on him, like an old sweater that had grown too small over the years, yet he still held onto it long enough to remember what it had been like.
"Not necessarily," he noted, "Many different women, known in many different ways".
He lingered on his current page, his fingers studying the text.
"My mother died when I was four," he said suddenly, "Car accident".
He hummed, continuing in thought, "When I was six, my cousin Denise spent the twenty dollars I'd been saving under my mattress all summer on a barbie dream house. To be fair, she got it for a very good deal".
He considered further, "My first girlfriend, she was a real witch. Nothing I did was ever enough. I got a tattoo to impress her - Can't say if I impressed her, but I did get a skin infection and had to have it cut out".
He tapped a place on his upper thigh where, presumably, said tattoo had once existed.
"Let's just say," he glanced upward, flipping to the next page more for dramatic effect than having finished the page, "It went downhill from there".
Willowman flipped another page to the book absently, then raised an eyebrow and exhaled a puff of air in derisive amusement. The lightness of the expression still felt strange on him, like an old sweater that had grown too small over the years, yet he still held onto it long enough to remember what it had been like.
"Not necessarily," he noted, "Many different women, known in many different ways".
He lingered on his current page, his fingers studying the text.
"My mother died when I was four," he said suddenly, "Car accident".
He hummed, continuing in thought, "When I was six, my cousin Denise spent the twenty dollars I'd been saving under my mattress all summer on a barbie dream house. To be fair, she got it for a very good deal".
He considered further, "My first girlfriend, she was a real witch. Nothing I did was ever enough. I got a tattoo to impress her - Can't say if I impressed her, but I did get a skin infection and had to have it cut out".
He tapped a place on his upper thigh where, presumably, said tattoo had once existed.
"Let's just say," he glanced upward, flipping to the next page more for dramatic effect than having finished the page, "It went downhill from there".
Quote from Adriana on August 19, 2020, 8:32 pmAmelia listened to his words, but was more interested in the ability he had to draw up memories now, things that seemed previously repressed. And how he recalled them with detail. So why was Arthur dead? Maybe for the same reason as Amelia.
“Not exactly a great track record, no.., I’m sorry. And now you have to deal with me, too.”
She returned the clipboard and tidied up around the room briefly. “Tonight is salad and smoked salmon. It’ll be up shortly...”
Amelia paused.
”What do you want to be called?”
Amelia listened to his words, but was more interested in the ability he had to draw up memories now, things that seemed previously repressed. And how he recalled them with detail. So why was Arthur dead? Maybe for the same reason as Amelia.
“Not exactly a great track record, no.., I’m sorry. And now you have to deal with me, too.”
She returned the clipboard and tidied up around the room briefly. “Tonight is salad and smoked salmon. It’ll be up shortly...”
Amelia paused.
”What do you want to be called?”
Quote from Indy on August 19, 2020, 9:39 pmWillowman deflated slightly to Amelia's question, his posture momentarily locked into the languid position as if he had become a statue. Yet he recovered quickly, exhaling in a smooth motion and flipping another page and pining his thumb to a word. The bravado returned, a sweater-size too small or not, he could at least mind the role.
"I don't know," Willowman admitted, "But I've been looking for one".
The man nodded to the piles and piles of books in the room, sorted into meticulous stacks. Some had little notes sticking out of the side. He shut the book he had in his hands, turning the cover to catch Amelia's gaze.
"Homer maybe?" he shrugged as he waved The Odyesey in his fingers.
"Edgar, Sherlock, Iago, Richard the third?" he continued, glancing to the stacks.
"I've had so many names," Willowman said somberly, the bravado slowly retreating as he sunk into his chair, "I guess I don't know how to move into one".
Willowman deflated slightly to Amelia's question, his posture momentarily locked into the languid position as if he had become a statue. Yet he recovered quickly, exhaling in a smooth motion and flipping another page and pining his thumb to a word. The bravado returned, a sweater-size too small or not, he could at least mind the role.
"I don't know," Willowman admitted, "But I've been looking for one".
The man nodded to the piles and piles of books in the room, sorted into meticulous stacks. Some had little notes sticking out of the side. He shut the book he had in his hands, turning the cover to catch Amelia's gaze.
"Homer maybe?" he shrugged as he waved The Odyesey in his fingers.
"Edgar, Sherlock, Iago, Richard the third?" he continued, glancing to the stacks.
"I've had so many names," Willowman said somberly, the bravado slowly retreating as he sunk into his chair, "I guess I don't know how to move into one".
Quote from Indy on August 22, 2020, 3:14 pmThe spindly fellow shook his head, his energy abruptly spent on any further communication. Though with each passing day it became easier, there existed a very clear barrier that - once crossed - would make each word like an impassable hurtle. Willowman sunk into the chair, his interest in the novel in his hands waning, and studied the little details of the room.
And still She lingered, the voice in the air. Sometimes he could forget her, yet she was always waiting for him with taunting words.
You fool her, the mountain rumbled, pleased, but you do not fool me. The man is only a convenient face to be worn, nothing more.
The spindly fellow shook his head, his energy abruptly spent on any further communication. Though with each passing day it became easier, there existed a very clear barrier that - once crossed - would make each word like an impassable hurtle. Willowman sunk into the chair, his interest in the novel in his hands waning, and studied the little details of the room.
And still She lingered, the voice in the air. Sometimes he could forget her, yet she was always waiting for him with taunting words.
You fool her, the mountain rumbled, pleased, but you do not fool me. The man is only a convenient face to be worn, nothing more.
Quote from Indy on August 24, 2020, 7:51 pmOne month later…
In a month’s time, much progress can be made to a man. The flesh of Willowman’s cheeks had changed from sickly shades to that of health – perhaps not the picture of it, but rosy nonetheless. His hair and beard were well-groomed and the hard edges of bone softened again. The scabs on his fingers turned brown and fell off, revealing pink skin beneath. He did not believe the man could truly have returned, for his very face had been made strange in its familiarity, yet in that month he found the change more than just a matter of appearance.
He’d told Amelia about the mountain. He hadn’t meant to. Her insidious voice had been a companion to him for so long, he had once found the thought of losing her the same as loosing his own arm. But he had grown weary of it, tired even… doubtful. And so the confession had come to him, almost unbidden. And Willowman had found himself surprised by how she listened without interrupting. When he’d finished, the weight and magnitude of the thing had fallen aside like a great shackle.
He still heard her, sometimes. But the medicine helped. And the man could rest and recover, and forget the days of the creature…
He turned to Amelia one morning, sitting at one of the overstuffed chairs and quaint round tables just outside of the kitchen-area. An early morning tea had become a strange and fascinating tradition of theirs, and seemed to be becoming something of a book club as well. He supposed it was natural, after reading the number of books he had, to find someone to talk to about them. Amelia made an eager enough participant, though he sensed the woman was trying to expand their little table.
Their current project sat at the center of the table with tea, keenly dissected with sticky notes and little notebooks full of partial essays.
“I suppose all I’m saying,” he noted with a jab of his long, spindly fingers to an offending section of the text, “Is that it’s a lousy ending. You have a great set-up: some kid that can remember histories long-forgotten, a powerful mentor-student relationship of a man full of regrets and a boy full of hope, a dystopian society …and you end it with the kid freezing to death, hallucinating about Christmas? Really?”
He took a sip of the steaming tea, allowing his outrage to fall into silence. He stared into the depths of the cup a moment, as if in thought, before his eyes lifted to meet Amelia's for her response.
One month later…
In a month’s time, much progress can be made to a man. The flesh of Willowman’s cheeks had changed from sickly shades to that of health – perhaps not the picture of it, but rosy nonetheless. His hair and beard were well-groomed and the hard edges of bone softened again. The scabs on his fingers turned brown and fell off, revealing pink skin beneath. He did not believe the man could truly have returned, for his very face had been made strange in its familiarity, yet in that month he found the change more than just a matter of appearance.
He’d told Amelia about the mountain. He hadn’t meant to. Her insidious voice had been a companion to him for so long, he had once found the thought of losing her the same as loosing his own arm. But he had grown weary of it, tired even… doubtful. And so the confession had come to him, almost unbidden. And Willowman had found himself surprised by how she listened without interrupting. When he’d finished, the weight and magnitude of the thing had fallen aside like a great shackle.
He still heard her, sometimes. But the medicine helped. And the man could rest and recover, and forget the days of the creature…
He turned to Amelia one morning, sitting at one of the overstuffed chairs and quaint round tables just outside of the kitchen-area. An early morning tea had become a strange and fascinating tradition of theirs, and seemed to be becoming something of a book club as well. He supposed it was natural, after reading the number of books he had, to find someone to talk to about them. Amelia made an eager enough participant, though he sensed the woman was trying to expand their little table.
Their current project sat at the center of the table with tea, keenly dissected with sticky notes and little notebooks full of partial essays.
“I suppose all I’m saying,” he noted with a jab of his long, spindly fingers to an offending section of the text, “Is that it’s a lousy ending. You have a great set-up: some kid that can remember histories long-forgotten, a powerful mentor-student relationship of a man full of regrets and a boy full of hope, a dystopian society …and you end it with the kid freezing to death, hallucinating about Christmas? Really?”
He took a sip of the steaming tea, allowing his outrage to fall into silence. He stared into the depths of the cup a moment, as if in thought, before his eyes lifted to meet Amelia's for her response.
