“Morning Meditation”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

Darkness.

I had been at the desk for over an hour, drinking coffee. Savoring the early morning like a chalice of fine spirits. The darkness in my windows was reflected everywhere. Deep and dusky, delicious like a chocolate liqueur. Normally, such moments seemed to liberate my words. I could write freely and fearlessly. Yet today, I felt empty. Strangely separated from my craft. A condition that made me sorely afraid.

Afraid of never finding those words again.

As ever, my Black Lab slumbered out in the living room. With no attention paid to the mood. He had finished a treat, after our walk. Then wandered off as I took a seat at the computer.

I hummed the tune of a composition from ten years ago. One of those songs that came into being as I drove home from work, in Geneva, near Lake Erie:

“Under cover of darkness

I will cheat the night

These crazy moments are justified

We have already died”

Under cover of darkness

I will beat the light

These crazy scenes are justified

Time to wave good bye...”

The morning felt unusually still. Only the sound of an electric fan broke my crippling slide into alienation. But then, the noise faded. It was terribly silent in the room. Vacant and empty. Like a hollow tube. My breath echoed like the hot expulsion of a lizard, stalking its prey. Seething, stalking. Simmering with intent. A kill clearly in sight.

“My breath?” I wondered. “My breath? Mine? No. NOT MINE!”

A hooded figure loomed in the kitchen. Eyes glowing with white heat from a countenance of black. His robe draped the floor. He hovered over the linoleum. The sight of him made me nauseous.

“RODNEYYYYY!” he wheezed.

I filled the air with rude exclamations. Sweat beaded in my eyebrows.

“Attend me, servant!” the visitor laughed angrily. “It is written that every knee shall bow. I am the conqueror of flesh, the mighty reaper of souls...”

I stopped in the midst of swallowing my coffee. “Damn it, Dee Dee! I left the door unlocked, right?”

The specter floated up and down with irritation. “I am not your neighbor. I am Death.”

My face chilled. “Who?”

“DEATHHHHH!” he growled, with a dry rasp of vocal cords, long expired.

I was stiff with surprise.

“NOT DEE DEE!” he repeated. “DEATHHHHH!”

I took another swig of coffee. “This is a scene from a Monty Python movie, right? You greeted people around a table, playing games or cards, or something like that?”

“DEATHHHHH!” he scowled again.

I folded my hands in front of the keyboard. “Look, the last week has been very odd around here. First I had Satan as a guest. Not a cheerful fellow. Nothing like Tom Ellis in ‘Lucifer.’ Then Jesus appeared on another night. A much better disposition, obviously. He left me puzzling over my own purpose in being here, in being a creative writer.”

“HONOR MEEEE!” he frowned. “I AM DEATH! HUMBLER OF ALL!”

I shrugged at his declaration. “Look, according to the ancient texts, you were defeated by Christ. The tomb could not hold him. Your mastery of woe paled in the light of day. Morning brought his resurrection...”

He bowed and clutched his stomach. “Foolish man! Do not speak that name before me.”

“You are a servant,” I said. “Part of the plan. A cog in the machinery. A tool. Your power over humanity is given only to serve a higher purpose.”

“STOPPPPP!” he shouted. His white eyes went red. “DAMNNN IT! DAMNNN IT!”

I closed my eyes. “According to the story...”

“I get it Rodney,” he hissed like a serpent. “You are a wordmonger. You feed on stories. Good, bad, or otherwise. They are your bread and butter. Sickening stories of human frailty. Of affection, of hope, of challenges… bah! All these threads still lead back to me.”

“The taker of lives,” I observed. “El Morte.”

“HONOR ME!” he demanded.

“Look,” I said. “You are a serf. A player on stage. A ranch hand. A worker bee. I get it, you have an incredible track record. There you go, I admit your success.”

“JESUS AND SATAN GET ALL THE ATTENTION!” he exploded. “Twin pillars, white and black, good and evil. They rule while I am busy!”

I nodded. “Right. You are a servant, as I said before. For Satan, a bringer of finality. For Jesus, one who may conduct a pure spirit away from pain and into eternity. That is your job description.”

“NOT A JOBBBB!” he roared.

“A calling?” I mused. “No, there was no call to glory. You are the distillation of duty. A sad, vacuous drone, walking through fields of humanity. Harvesting the weak, the unprepared, the frightened...”

“YOU DAMNED WRITERS!” he barked like a werewolf. “ALWAYS RAMBLING ON, WORDS, WORDS, WORDS, RIGHT TO THE BRIM OF YOUR GRAVE!”

I chilled a bit. “Grave? Is this my final moment?”

Death bowed his head. “No, damn you, no. Not now. Not at this hour.”

I took a deep breath of relief. “Okay then, right. Not today. Sooooo… why are you here?”

He gestured with an empty sleeve. “You brought me here. Your morning meditation. Your desire to be filled with ideas. This is why I appeared.”

I shook my head with disbelief. “So, all of you came as I prayed to find words again? Satan, Jesus and you?”

“Yesss!” he stammered. “Your fear and faith. The notion that you might never spew another line of prose. That uncertainty. With the devoted belief that there will be a blessing.”

“Blessing?” I asked.

“A RELEASE FROM YOUR TORMENT!” he raged. “NOW YOU HAVE IT! WRITE, DAMN YOU! WRITE WITH ALL YOUR HEART! THE SUNRISE IS ALMOST UPON US!”

A ray of light sparked through the window. I turned my head, and he was gone.

The melody and lyrics from a decade ago returned. Still reverberating like the strike of a falling rock inside a cavern. I tapped the keyboard and let them flow:

“But you will not wait

While I pause to pray

You will not wait

I have words to say

You will not wait

This is the end of day

I pause to pray

This is the key to eternity.”

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

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