stream-of-consciousness fiction

Fixated in the mind, held in vain, gradually wriggling free. His last thoughts were so focused, and so clear. And yet they inevitably retreated into the background, obscured by the cobwebs of sleep. He lost consciousness. On the opposite side of the gauzy veil he found himself exploring an unfamiliar landscape, trekking across an open, dry grassland mottled with bushes, both lush and stale. There wasn’t any particular pattern to these shrubs, and it was quite unexplainable after a short inspection how certain bushes would thrive, and others would not. Everything else around them looked the same.

He took another glance at the sad and happy plants, shrugged, and moved on. It wasn’t long before the ground began to grow soft beneath his bare feet, and eventually, a cool mud pressed between his toes. He was at a riverbank, but here as well something seemed just slightly out of place. It was too beautiful. The water sparkled brightly in the sunlight, both pristinely clear and a perfect, aquamarine tint. Salmon and trout swam upstream as if racing, leaping out of the water, scales gleaming with every color of the rainbow. Birds sang a familiar tune. The scent of pine wafted down as he turned his eyes upstream, and he saw a grizzly bear on the other side stand on its hind legs, wave in his direction, and smile.

He sat down on the nearest boulder, which jut out above the swiftly moving river. This wasn’t so bad, he thought, and maybe I’ll find what I’m looking for here, too. Of course, he didn’t remember what he was actually looking for, but he knew he had been searching for something before he entered this special haven. So he closed his eyes and decided to imagine what it was. At once, a man jumped out of the woods behind him, babbling incoherently. He opened his eyes and turned around to look at the man, who seemed to be oblivious to the presence of another person in the area. The man’s voice crescendoed and lowered inconsistently, even with all the wild and energetic motions he was making. One moment he was standing straight as a pole with his head pointed up, expressing himself with shrill, multisyllabic vocalizations, the next moment he was quickly jumping from boulder to boulder like a terrified mountain goat, but whispering in the tiniest of voices.

He ran into the forest with a great urgency, and pressed on until the forest was so thick that it was difficult to see, even in the middle of the day. Who knew what awaited him, but he felt quite crazed and wasn’t concerned with his surroundings any longer. He had to escape, because what he had seen at the river was a sign as clear as day. Out of breath, he continued in this way for a while until he reached a cave, smelling damp with thick, mossy growth all around the edges. He wheezed and muttered to himself that this was probably the place, and even if it wasn’t, it would be nice to rest somewhere that seemed relatively safe.

As he walked in, he found the cave was completely covered in the thick, spongy, yellow moss. Wall to wall, floor to ceiling, over stalagmites and under stalactites, the stuff permeated every crack and nook. There was no visible rock surface at all. And as he crept ever more cautiously inward, he noticed that he was still able to see just as clearly as he had near the entrance. The moss was slightly phosphorescent, but it probably would not have made such a difference in visibility if it had not been everywhere. Deeper into the cavern, the ceiling rose to at least the height of any of the trees he had left outside.

He didn’t feel too motivated to move far into the large part of the cavern. Instead, he simply sat down where he had been standing, and reclined against a stalagmite. The moss was slightly wet, but it was very soft and comfortable. His adrenaline had left him - exhaustion caught up and began to take him away to sleep. But instead of sinking into the oblivion of sleep, his body began sinking into the moss. Little by little, his body was beginning to dissolve and turn yellow. By the time he noticed it, it was strange to find that he neither had the strength nor the desire to get up and walk out of the cave. It didn’t really even seem that bad to be absorbed by this very soft, organic creature. In fact, as he felt himself gradually disappearing, it seemed that his mind was being made more aware of many the things outside of himself. Whatever he sensed was augmented by the yellow moss. He was where the yellow moss was. He was everywhere in the cave. He could feel the dampness, and he loved those darkest corners where water dripped and those pools that would gather from the rainwater leaking through the pores in the cave ceiling. He thirsted desperately for that dampness everywhere, and used his energies to spread the water as far out as he could, in order to grow. All the way across the cavern, he was – and gradually inching out of another opening on the opposite, northern side of the mountain that housed the cave. He was gigantic. He was expansive. Not quite everywhere, yet. But he felt his senses were greatly heightened by joining with this organism. And it was growing.

As it grew, ever so slowly, his body receded completely into the thick yellow moss. His consciousness was lost. Yet, his consciousness existed in all these little impulses, the reactions of the phosphorescent moss to the damp, dark cave, and its tireless, peaceful advance across foreign surfaces. Softness, taking over.

And as the last of his brain turned yellow, it caught one of those fleeting impulses, retaining it for a moment. This was the one he had been looking for. He had finally found it.

And of course, he didn’t remember a single thing when he woke up.

The Bear turned to the Rabbit, and cried out, “How could you do this to me? I have tried and tried to catch the Owl, but you can’t tell the Osprey this! You know that he would tell the families of Koi, who would be coerced by the talons of the Eagle, and it would only get back to the Heron, who’s friends with the Beaver. She would tell all the Voles she meets, who would easily spread the news to the Elk. If that isn’t something! They would be chewing the cud, and happen across your friend the Hare, who would probably tell the mama Ocelot as he’s being eaten by her little ones. Who could know what would happen after that, but most likely the Porcupines would overhear this, and go on to tell the Wolves. Then it’s all over. There’s no chance of me getting this premium aviary delicacy.”

The Bear ambled away, muttering to himself loudly about how inconsiderate and loose-tongued most forest animals were.

In a forest one evening:

The Fox said coyly to the Owl, “Who are you?”

The Owl replied, “I take it you mean you want to know my name?”

The Vole jumped into the conversation, saying, “Look out! He’s very mean!”

The Owl ate him right up.

The Fox slunk away, and in her place came a Fly.

“How do you do, Mr. Owl? I believe you owe me a snack.”

Mr. Owl said, “I’m plumb out for today. Why don’t you come back?”

The Fly left in dismay, and the Owl flew away.

After all was calm, the Fox returned.

She said, “Ah! What a lesson I’ve learned!

Don’t talk to animals, or you may find

That you have more problems than just in your mind.”

One time he had a vision:

Startled by the throes of death that suddenly came upon him like a cold sweat, his last thoughts were few:

First, there was no point in wondering why you are to die or who is causing it, if it is inevitable.

Then, who would care about him being gone?

Then, where would he go?

Then, pity for those left behind without him.

Then, pity for himself for being alone.

Ah, but he was not alone. As his spirit rose from his still alive, slowly suffocating body, he saw all the lovely woodland creatures dancing around in ecstasy. He realized that this was never meant to be a sad or pitiful event, but one that celebrated the changes that were about to take place. He began to gleefully grin an ethereal grin and floated higher and higher, until he saw the one with hands around his neck.

His spirit crashed to the ground, suddenly and firmly tethered to the last bits of his existence. However, it was no longer tethered to his own body but to the body of his assailant, which he had not recognized until this moment. His assailant looked up to see the fading cheer of the spirit beside him, and realized that even though he would never see nor hear from the spirit again, nor the body in his hands, it would be with him forever.

On waking from the vision, the sleeper cried and cried, asking forgiveness from his sins. Then he got up and ate some bread, and it was very good.

There was also a boy that added color to the world, but was completely unaware of how he did it.

Surreptitiously, he left his house one night under the cover of the mango trees (which are not indigenous to this area, but he was, at the moment, grateful they were planted there by some ignorant person. They grow sickly fruits that are hardly anything like the mangoes found in the supermarket, and they certainly are not very tasty). He was looking for a fox, a red one with an exceptionally bushy tail that he had seen earlier that day. As he walked along the moonlit path towards the forest, with a twig in his hand swinging to and fro, the boy was still amused with the first encounter with this furry creature. He had come across the fox in the afternoon after hearing rustling coming not far away from where he had been playing. She was curled up in a bush, meticulously and tenderly cleaning her tail. It looked like she had been a part of a paintball war - bright splotches of every color formed a haphazardly done polka dot pattern on her fur, and yet she appeared unhurt. The boy was perplexed and fascinated, and he went closer to look. As soon as the fox saw him she bolted, for a second revealing the other side of her body. It was completely clean.

The boy walked on towards the forest. It was his playplace - it wasn’t a large forest, and so he knew it very well, having explored and adventured through the trees, not just horizontally, but vertically too. He thought in three dimensions because he was very adept at climbing trees, and so he knew where many important places were for animals to hide. In fact, the boy also hid his treasures in the forest, alongside the animal burrows and nests where he knew they would be safest. The animals didn’t mind at all, either. They helped him camouflage his special trinkets by packing all their important things right over his. He made friends with the squirrels and various birds, but he had only seen foxes occasionally and wanted to get to know them better. Now, he thought he would have a chance because in essence, the first interaction between him and the fox was a sort of introduction, a formality of greeting required before friendship. And so this is why he snuck out of his house in the middle of the night, to find the fox and remind her of who he was before she forgot.

The boy looked all over the forest, up and down, in the bush, around the bush, and could not find her. He wasn’t sure what types of sounds foxes made, either, and so he couldn’t call to her, but he looked for a couple of hours. When he planned his escapade, he was certain that he would find the fox sleeping in the bush, and then he could wake it up lightly and make friends by offering it some chocolate. It was really, really good chocolate that his mother had bought at the supermarket the other day, and without a doubt the fox would be his friend after that. But he couldn’t find her! He started to cry, because it was late, he was already tired, and he didn’t know where else to look.

In fact, the boy never really knew where the foxes went. At first it seemed to him that they didn’t spend much time in his forest, but they always seemed to be around. And when he saw this colorful fox so comfortably lying in the bush, he thought that this one was a weird fox that could be his friend, unlike all the rest.

While he was crying near the bush, he heard the soft pit-pat-pit-pat of footsteps from a short distance. He quickly jerked to silent attention, using his ears and eyes and even nose (these actions all held a funny similarity to the squirrels he spent time with), because when you can hear footsteps, that means it’s not a small, forest creature. A dim, diffused light appeared between trunks of trees a good amount of feet away, wobbling slightly as the human-like silhouette walked very deliberately in his general direction. It looked to the boy that the person was not quite headed directly for him, which meant that the person probably did not know he was there. But who knew? He still had enough time, so he quietly scrambled up a tree near the bush and hid between the leaves, waiting and watching.

The person did come straight to the bush. The person did use the dim flashlight to look around inside for something, but didn’t seem to find anything, and left just as deliberately as he/she had approached. The boy was scared, and so he decided to stay in the tree for a little while longer. He didn’t have a chance to recognize the person at all, because the person was wearing a winter coat with the hood pulled over his/her head. This scared him all the more, and he tried to think about what someone would be doing in his forest. He stayed in his hiding place a long time and thought, forgetting completely about the polka dot fox.

The next morning, he awoke in his bed, hearing his parents’ voices downstairs and the sizzling of bacon and eggs. He ran downstairs quickly, looked out the window, and sat down at the table. As he ate breakfast he looked covertly and quizzically at his parents, who were supposed to be completely unaware, if he had been sneaky enough. They seemed to be normal. But he had no idea how he had gotten home, and began to doubt that any of it had happened in the first place.

After breakfast, the boy went outside and looked around. Everything looked a little different than it had the previous day, but he couldn’t tell quite what that difference was. All he knew was that he didn’t really want to go into his forest anymore.

Rolling thunder.

We hear it in the distance. The bass tones reverberate throughout our bedroom, rattling our bookcase and the toys in our toy box, and we can instantly identify its source. Sister runs out first, and I follow not far behind, barefoot. As soon as we cross the threshold of our front door, we’re hit with a warm, humid rush of air and water and we cry out in delight, jumping up and down. It has just begun to rain, coating the grasslands in a misty, glowing, green haze. The sun is still shining from behind our house, keeping the warm, fuzzy feeling of spring present, but far off up ahead floats the dark, grey cloud formation from where the thunder came. We stand in front of our house, arm in arm. But we’re not outside just to soak in the fresh rain—we want a show.

And soon enough, the show comes. The masses of grey clouds ahead shove up against one another, each jostling and tussling for a better position in the pack as they billow closer toward us. The more they collide, the more friction and the more enmity between them. Their hostility becomes visibly apparent as we see little tendrils of light jump quickly between rivals and just as quickly disappear into the folds of condensation. Each of the creatures excitedly recoil from the shock and then rush up against a new opponent with even more fervor than before, and soon the cloud front is roiling with mayhem, crackling with delight in all the chaos. It’s as if the legion is motivated and driven and powered by its own conflict, and it looms ever nearer.

But we are not afraid. We stand courageously, arm in arm, awaiting the rest of the show (but also ready to retreat speedily into our house if we get too scared). The sky darkens, and clouds swirl over our heads and swallow up the rest of the open air, enveloping the sun. But the clouds that have arrived at our house are only the reconnaissance team, the light sentries, sent ahead to scout out the territory. They don’t yet have the mass and strength of the main body of the true stormhead, which is still at the horizon but clearly advancing in our direction at full speed.

FLASH. We see the first jagged edge of plasma in the air sizzle in and out of existence, and we brace ourselves for the onslaught. We count, “One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five one thousand, six-” BOOM. The rumbles surround us and the atmosphere trembles, vibrating the very air we breathe, moving the entirety of our bodies in a way we rarely feel. Mmm. Such a destructive force at this distance feels like an otherworldly caress to the both of us, and we soak it in along with the warm rain. We stand, arm in arm, and wait for another, because it has only just begun.

A young man, about as old as yourself (this is of course assuming you are approximately his age), left one day on a journey towards the apocalypse of his lifetime. He thought it would be appropriate to pack light, because not many people need many things after an apocalypse. He was one of the many, and thus left his apartment with one set of clothing, a pair of running shoes, and a backpack containing a book and a sandwich in a sandwich bag. The young man consciously chose to leave extra space in his backpack, for he knew that after his apocalypse he might find something useful. But he didn’t really know what he’d expect to find (he was more just the type that would be prepared for anything).

When the young man began his journey, he threw away all his keys, tossing them in the canal near where he lived. It was along the way, and so it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience, but he thought it significantly symbolic. So he took great care to make sure the keys went into the deepest, darkest shade of water he could find, and made a point to forget where that had been once he turned away from the canal.

The surprise to him was that his apocalypse came much sooner than expected. As the young man walked along some train tracks, he spied a clearing to the east and headed in that direction. All along he had planned to just follow whatever path that he felt most compelled to follow, but it really turned out that it was a pretty limited path. Even if his apocalypse came to him five days from the day he set out, he would only really be able to make it to the next city on foot. And he had set out rules for himself, too, like: 1) Only transport myself by foot; 2) Never talk to anyone; 3) If someone talks to me, ignore them; 4) If they force me to speak with them (like a police officer), that’s okay; 5) If I don’t find my apocalypse in five days, turn around; 6) Follow the most compelling path; 7) Look at nature to guide me; 8) Look in only places I would never normally look. He had other rules as well, but those other rules were rules which had not yet materialized as concrete concepts, and thus had no shape, even in his mind. But they certainly influenced his decisions when it came to the task of finding his apocalypse.

Between the time the young man came to the middle of the clearing and the time he left his apartment, he had been walking for about three hours. But there it was. Right there in the middle. However, there was a problem. The young man’s rules strictly stated only to look in places in which he would not normally look. But he had been compelled to go in that direction, which meant that if this situation ever repeated itself, he would certainly look there again, and so it would be a place he would normally look. Also, the middle of a clearing was generally a common place for interesting and magical things to happen—everyone knew that. So was this really his apocalypse? Well, it was sitting right there, waiting for him to touch it. After that, there was no turning back. Or was there? And maybe do some people have more than one apocalypse? Or maybe not only can people have more than one, but are there also many possible apocalypses that one could simply pass by or overlook? And had he already overlooked some? And who knows what would happen if this were someone else’s apocalypse…also, what would happen if he had set out five days later? Then would this one still be there, or would he even have walked this same path?

Too many thoughts, said the apocalypse to the young man. Just take me.

And the young man sat there with his questions, within easy reach of his possible-real-fake-someoneelse apocalypse.

“Keep my face from the ground, heathen. Hold my head back until you are so tired you can’t even see through those blurry, red eyes. If I defile any part of myself, it is because of you. If I find the smallest speck of dirt on my nose, it is because of you. If I am not spotless after this, it is because of you. Do not let go, or you will face much more prolonged distress than this simple exertion is causing you. Take a look around. Do you not see that I own everything? This house and its grounds belong to me, as do you. Yes, you have a choice, but you do not want to choose the alternative. Hold tight to me now, because I have control over everything around you. At my word, you could be bound up and locked away. At my word, you may find yourself without clothing and food. At my word, you may be given over to thieves. I have everything you desire, and you have none of it. I know there is fear inside of you, but it is not time for that now. You must keep hold, or I will become unclean. And once I have become unclean you will no longer be protected. Hold me now! If you refuse, you will never be forgiven! I cannot touch the ground! Don’t let go! I…need you…”

“But all I want is a glass of water! It doesn’t even have to be cold! I don’t need ice, I don’t need a straw, I don’t need a specific kind of container - I just want some water to drink.”

“Well, we have Kool-Aid™.”

“Can’t you just give me Kool-Aid™ without the powder?”

“We have Sobe™ Lifewater, we have VitaminWater™, we have almost anything you could ask for. Capri-Sun™, all varieties of Gatorade™, Coca-Cola™ products. No Pepsi™ products.”

“Don’t you hear me? You could just tell me you don’t have it. Do you have water or not? Just plain water.”

“We have everything you could need.”

“But I don’t want any of that. And you didn’t really answer my question, either.”

“You need water, and every one of these products has water in it. It’s pretty simple. Just BUY ONE. Don’t be so picky.”

“Did you hear about it? Someone told me the other day that I could find it here. So I came. I’ve been scouring the area for a while, lifting stones and whatnot, asking around, and calling out for it. No one has been able to tell me quite how to get to it. I’m pretty sure I’m in the right place, because I heard from multiple sources that this was the spot. So if it’s not here, what does that mean? No, that can’t be it. It’s got to be here. I’m just not looking hard enough. Yeah. I just have to look harder, because I’m sure I’m just missing it somehow. My eyes, after all, aren’t so good. And I can’t really bend down so far anymore. My back is already sore from lifting all those stones, and it would be terrible if it were someplace really close to the ground, because I’d have to end up crawling! But I guess in the end, it’d be worth it, right? If I really do find the best thing, here, in this place, like everyone’s been talking about…yeah. It’d be worth it. So I’ll keep trying until I find it, however long it takes.”

The book sat there in the library, in a small corner on the fourth floor, and waited to be read. In fact, not only did the book itself wait, a small range of pages roughly 40 turns away from the exact center of the book waited. What were these pages waiting for? It was pretty obvious, really. They knew they were going to destroy one person’s world and build it up again completely anew.

The pages waited without thinking, without caring. Silently and patiently they remained, as person after person picked up the book and leafed through it. Some only glanced at the book’s cover and looked to the next, disinterested. Some read straight through, cover to cover, in a single sitting. Still, the person whose world was to be changed did not arrive. But the pages did not worry.

I came to that library and read many books there. I checked out novels, nonfiction, even Tim LaHaye once. When I finished each book, I would place it right back onto the circulation desk and look for another. Nothing could satiate my desire for new ideas and thoughts, organized in as diverse a fashion as the very clothing of each author from whose books I read. But anything with stories! Oh, stories! Those were different. Not only were the thoughts organized, but they created a vivid world of meaning in which I could enter into. Live, breathe, learn, laugh, cry.

Still, that book waited for someone. Those pages waited for someone.

I went home again with a book I found. It was curious. It was poetic. Its imagery was so enveloping that I found myself nearly drooling when I read about the food described within. My senses felt on fire when I saw the protagonist in pain. I couldn’t even describe what happened to me in the climax of the book. When it was over, I looked at the cover and felt the ridges on the spine. How could such a world be contained within something so limited?

The pages waited. They waited and waited and waited. They just knew they were going to change someone’s life someday. They waited inside the book on the fourth floor of the library, on the corner of the main drag of the small, quaint neighborhood a little south of the greater city area, which happens to be a great port city that brings in trade from China, Japan and Hungary, among other places. And if you cross the ocean on which the city leans, you will find the same book, the same pages waiting for you in a library in a small town on the coast. Quite possibly on the fourth floor.

There is a man.

He was once a beautiful child, one that ran in fields and smiled with his mouth open in delight. Friends and family alike would remark that when he smiled, his round cheeks would glow with enough joy to cause at least a slight smirk on any viewer, no matter how cross. His uncle once said, “Why, he could even work a smile out of a cow,” and his parents constantly received offers for babysitters. The child’s shining blond hair and deep sea green eyes were what drew everyone’s attention, and his smile was what kept it.

He wasn’t yet old enough to be alone. He desperately climbed trees when his parents turned their backs in an attempt at freedom and independence, but he knew really how much he loved and needed them. Every time he climbed a sycamore, or a mustard tree, he would scramble up with all his wiry limbs wrapped around its trunk, and hold on for dear life, reaching towards a limb, stretching his own limbs for a handhold, anywhere. As soon as his papa heard the scraping of tree bark, he ran to the base of the tree below his son to catch him. Because, more often than not, this was the point where the child’s scrawny arms would fail him. He would lose his grip and fall, sometimes landing soundly on his back, knocking the wind from his lungs, sometimes landing in his father’s arms.

He dreamed of freedom. He dreamed of flying, of taking his parents with him on his adventures, if only he could go on his first one alone! A journey wouldn’t be the same if he had his parents behind him the whole time, and he wanted to take care of them, not the other way around. The child imagined scenes of his adventures, climbing hill after grassy hill, finding shade in valleys, resting by creeks where crawdads skirted to and from his hands. He especially looked forward to his walks through the forest, in which sunlight would filter through the pines, leaving tiger stripes of shadows on his arms. He would walk a path and listen to the quiet, hushed-yet-fully-alive sounds of the forest, hoping to hear a bird singing to him.

But one day, when the child awoke from this dream, he found it all gone. Everything, even the hope of being caught. His parents were gone, and he was afraid to even climb a single tree.

As the years passed, nothing kept out the bitterness. It came in droves from some unknown source. But really, the boy knew where it was from, and he didn’t want to deny it, or acknowledge it. He began to embrace this pain and suffering, reveling in the security it offered. Friends and family alike would remark, “He just hasn’t been the same ever since that awful event,” and pitied him to the point of smothering. They noticed the boy’s face didn’t have the same smile. He had the exact same, bright white, straight teeth, but there was no glow, no life. His cheeks lost their rosy roundness.

The boy fell in love, lost. Lost his love. Tried again and the bitterness entangled him before the girl could even say no. He thought of why someone might not want to love someone like him, and realized it was because he couldn’t climb trees. Arms like the boy’s were much too small, and everyone knew it. Distraught, the boy cried himself to sleep night after night, losing himself in more dreams.

He dreamed of loss. He knew he had been broken, and no one had repaired him. Falling from cliffs into trees, stepping on glass, seeing his parents across valleys he had never gotten the chance to set foot on, eating and never being full. His dreams were vivid. When he awoke, he sat, and the details and world around him grew dim. He saw no color, no vibrance. He heard no sound, and thought about nothing else but his present state. His eyes grew deep and sank into his face, and wrinkles came where stains from tears had never been given the chance to dry. He was still a boy!

The boy became an ugly man. The pain had warped his face and nearly turned it inside out. All of his features that were praised in his youth had become subjects in conversation to be avoided. His eyes were sunken, his skin was pale and his cheeks hollow. His hair was no longer golden, but a sickly color of yellow, with tufts missing. His eyes had faded from the depth of the sea to the dull blankness of a concrete room. Where had this joy gone, his old friends wondered. Who is keeping it away?

Most people fled from him as they saw him approach, passing through town. No, they never turned and went the other way, they just veered off course enough that eye contact was less likely, and any small talk was impossible. They wouldn’t have had to worry, though, because the man didn’t want to talk to them anyway. His home was inside his apartment, and he decided he didn’t need anyone’s pity any longer, because he had his own.

There was a man.

“Stephen, is this true?”