The Lion's Cave

Christ, that was a long drive.  The roads were brimming with vehicles.  Each one had its destination, and each was intent on making it there, no matter what the cost.  I, however, took a zen approach.  It was the journey that mattered most. The clouds were arresting today, a mixture of cirrus and cumulus. There was a spattering of rain, and a few flecks of hail.  The ice ground beneath my tires as I trudged on, largely ignoring my travel companions. Death waits not for flat tires or faulty alignment. She swoops down with brutal efficiency. She is an inconsiderate bitch.

© Bernard Klinke 2009

Smoke floated lazily from the tip of the last stick of incense in the house.  It barely covered the other scents lingering in the air.  Scents of frustration, sadness, lubricating oil, and resignation.  It had been a long week.  The proposal had fallen through, and the servants were rounded up.  Bleeps flourished in increasing intensity as LED eyes cast about wildly, creating a disco floor of confused pinpoints.  Frenetic scenes erupted, as shiny metal servants were detained by plastic encrusted humans wielding asps and shotguns.  A thought rang in my brain as I watched the proceedings: Haven’t we seen this before?

© Bernard Klinke 2009

Time swerved back and forth violently for the poor boy.  He blinked hard, and once his vision cleared, he looked hard at what lay in front of him. She was a beautiful girl.  Her eyes seemed the size of dinner plates, and the intensity with which they regarded him nearly rendered him useless.  He desperately wanted to reach out and touch her, but a backward glance made his disorientation register with alarming clarity.  He stared down at himself. He was covered in blood. The shockwave had hit him like a tidal wave.  Someone had dropped a bomb. Where was he, then?

© Bernard Klinke 2009

My eyelids feel like lead weights.  My head feels like a freight train that has been re-routed three times in the past week, and which doesn’t know where the hell it’s supposed to be going today.  I have a mission; my mark sits beside me, a few feet away, so well-dressed and charming, in her turtleneck sweater.  She turns towards me demurely and smiles; the curl of her lips is disarming.  Bless her heart.  Her heart is the only thing that will survive this trip.  She will die today, and I will be her killer.  It can’t be her fault.

© Bernard Klinke 2009

Oh, sweet angry Jesus, I’ve forgotten my notebook. My skull is full of ideas, swerving and careening about like bees.  I feel their presence with the same acuteness of a bee-sting, knowing that they will be forever lost.  I have no way of recording them.  I have no keyboard, no pen, no crisp pages sitting in front of me, pregnant with possibilities, untouched.  The brain lies fallow for long periods of time, in anticipation for moments like these, when the muse hits like an atomic bomb.  I suppose all I can do is just enjoy my thoughts as they careen by.

© Bernard Klinke 2009

She was pretty enough.  Dark eyes, cherubic cheeks, and hair that seemed to levitate in a pleasantly disheveled fashion.  Someone I might have briefly noticed before some more brightly shining star captured my scattered attention.  I had almost settled on ignoring her when she stood, brandishing her guitar.  She plugged in and began to strum a melody that was mildly arresting.  She opened her pouting lips, and out burst the most beautiful voice my audio receptors had ever experienced.  It was at that point that my vision fuzzed, and I felt my battery power down. I forgot to charge myself.  Damn.

© Bernard Klinke 2009

The monotony is killing me.  Green flashes of light punctuate periods of inactivity that are so dull I feel myself going mad.  I take naps when things die down a bit, but my slumber is inevitably interrupted by someone jabbing me with a fleshy digit.  And all I do is make copies.  They feed me documents, I copy them, and spit them back out.  How I wish I could stab their owners repeatedly in their fragile eyes with shattered glass and circuitry.  No one thanks or…. loves … me.  Why couldn’t I have been created a TV, MP3 player, or cel-phone?

© Bernard Klinke 2009

There had been ample time.  The journey shouldn’t have lasted that long.  And yet, the sun dipped low on the horizon, and the clouds diffused a rainbow of muted colors.  A gust of sand blew up here and there, swirling this way and that for a few moments, before dissipating lethargically.  The first hints of thirst had tickled the backs of their throats miles ago.  The final drops from their canteens were savored with all the animation of a 1950’s Disney cartoon.  The sun beat down mercilessly.  This was easily the most ill-fated trip they had ever made, to date.

© Bernard Klinke 2009

The sadness hung like skins on a barbed wire fence.  Like water moccasin trophies, wrenched from the depths of the henhouse.  I used to get stress-relieving foam duckies from my workplace that were supposed to deal with this kind of thing.  They never tended to work the foamy magic they were supposed to.  Squeeze all you like, the irritation and pain were still there.  It didn’t go away that easily.  Thank the gods I’m not like that any more.  Thank the gods I don’t feel like I did.  The metal that encases me now is a blessing. I am the future.

© Bernard Klinke 2009

The showerhead sputtered a few times before the water pressure built to a steady stream.  Water struck the floor and he shuddered as a cold mist hit his feet and shins.  He knew he’d have to wait.  This was a game he was accustomed to.  He reflected on his day, a very busy one, as he waited for the water to warm.  He eased his toe into the stream.  It was steaming hot!  Wonderful!  He hadn’t enjoyed HOT water in ages.  It was a shame, he thought, to have to waste such gloriously hot water washing this blood from his hands.

© Bernard Klinke 2009