Screaming White Noise
by Karl Giese
Copyright 2012 Karl Giese
Cover design by Andrew Pennington
Table of Contents
Part I: Me
Part II: You
Part III: Us
Part IV: Forever
dedicated to those who have stood by me,
to those who have endured me,
and to those who despise me
Part I: Me
An Introduction (not for the faint of heart)
I've become peripheral. I am Rosencrantz to the world's Hamlet. My face is no longer recognizable while my words are something to enjoy over the awaiting of a dessert. I've become everything I've wanted: nothing at all.
"Oh how deep of you," they will say to a face they are not sure is mine.
"Oh he really needs to talk to someone," they will suggest to one another after the cordial encounter before finding the right bottle of prescribed medication to combat whatever currently trending mental disorder they are struggling to control.
"Wasted potential," they will sum up after dividing my estate.
This is the beginning of my catharsis.
I can't speak face to face because I don't believe my words. I can't paint a picture of my emotions because I think a blank canvas can only be better if covered in black. I can only write how I, somehow, am the only sane one anymore.
You understand, don't you?
You do know me, right?
The Moth
I watched a moth try to escape.
“The lights are too bright for me to fight. Can you do me a favor on this night? Open the door and allow me to soar.”
“No,” I replied.
The moth circled the window which led outside while I boasted my pride.
“Friend I require, do not add me to your pyre. Show me the fresh air, for my wings are beginning to wear.”
The moth fell to the ground and tried to crawl under the crack causing his wings to tear back.
“My wings are torn,” the moth said with scorn. “For this you shall curse the day you were born.”
“My mother does. Now I’m your judge.”
“And of my jury and execution, is that your solution?”
“An answer without a problem?”
The moth began to hum.
My right eye turned to glass and shattered after the vibrations passed.
“For this you shall see the unmasked face of insanity.”
Moth eggs filled my eye and now roll down my face each time I cry.
Lullaby
I’ve never been very good at this because I was never quite sure of what to say. I wish I had the ability to wash it all away.
The dream remained serene throughout every scene while I swallowed chlorine.
I dreamt that I drowned. When I was found, there was no frown or sound. I was simply laid down. The dream remained serene throughout every scene. I wanted them to cheer but as they got near the fear was their cheer and I was the only one to shed a tear. The dream remained serene throughout every scene.
As the lid began to close I reached out for a rose but my pose opposed any rose joining me before the lid closed. The dream remained serene throughout every scene.
I was lowered to the ground and there were still no frowns or sounds. I was simply laid down. The dream remained serene throughout every scene.
And when I awoke I began to choke out the chlorine from the first scene that made this dream so serene. I simply laid back down without a frown or trying to make a sound because no one can hear you when you’re six feet underground. Since I was never revived, I was buried alive.
This was no longer a dream, but I couldn’t allow myself to make my final scene any less serene.
I Didn’t Write This
Your life is plagiarized. Your actions and your words are mirrored images of something you have encountered. Even your appearance is questionable. No one has ever said, "You look like you." No. You always look like someone else. Your conversations are scripted. That's why you have trouble in social surroundings. You're unable to formulate responses, so you remain quiet. If it's correspondence however, you're able to meticulously rehearse your lines in order to keep the storyline going. The scene hasn't changed in a while, has it? You're running out of material, so the audience is becoming bored. They're starting to figure out what will take place in the next episode, but your ego refuses to admit it. You need a season finale before someone has a sneak peak and spoils the outcome. We shouldn't even think about what would happen if you began to lose viewers. If you can't bring them in, you will be eliminated. You are a carbon copy. It'd be easy for us to replace you.
What should I do?
Why don't you start portraying your real life.Tell them your real name. They won't believe you at first. We want that. They'll come back to be sure. The absence of truth will gnaw at them. Tell them your real name. Tell them how you read the Communist Manifesto and decided you liked his name better..how it would keep them further away. Tell them your real name.
It is true. I've integrated many aspects of the outside world into my own life in order to make it more appealing, more intriguing. No one would ever suspect my name to be false, so it was the perfect beginning. I've lied about my real name. My real name is Friedrich Engels.
Stay Tuned.
Slow and Steady Wins the Race
Don’t forgive them father; they know damn well what they do. It’s a joke towards you, really. You’ve given them a chance to prove how they have changed. Now look how they’ve repaid you. They take the most important aspect of life, living, and turn it into a burden.
“I’d rather be dead.” Then why are you telling someone? You think your monotonous threats fall on anything but deaf ears? That’s like me asking if my questions will be answered.
I stopped at a light next to a man sitting on the corner missing both of his legs. I locked my doors and turned up the radio to drown out the vision, but I could not stop myself from reading his sign:
“Don’t judge me because of my handicap. I’d rather be missing my legs than to have to walk around in your self-loathing. God Bless.”
I unlocked my door and turned down the radio, but he had already left the corner.
At that point, I wish I had lost my legs. I didn’t want to understand him. I just didn’t want the chance to run anymore.
White Strips
I brush my teeth with the barrel of a .45. The sensation of metal scraping off layers of calcium causes one’s mind to sever itself from the body. The commoners refer this as becoming “disconnected”: one’s body turns completely numb in order to heighten every sense that rests behind hallowed eyes.
When you look at a broken face, you can see the patches of skin that are pulled tightly over the seams. Sometimes this causes tearing at the corners of the eyes and lips. That is why I don’t smile or frown. A mask is only as effective as the wearer allows. A minor deviation, the mask will shift. If you pay close attention, you can catch me folding loosened flaps inside.
I can no longer find the veins.
Waiting for that Illuminated Butterfly
Turn OFF you BASTARD!
The room is stagnant with midnight heat, and my restless legs may have a syndrome.
I try to force sleep, but the louder my commands, the wider awake I become. I search the synapses of my brain for a change of subject.
THERE! Welcoming me with an open mouth is the abyss of my past waiting to swallow me whole and keep me trapped forever.
More energy jolts my body to escape its black hole effects. Now my heart is racing.
My eyes burst open and I’m face to face with my digital enemy.
12:35…12:38…1
2:51…1:26…..
Did I fall asleep between those gaps?
I’m sweating, and my rib cage is depressing the mattress springs in rhythmic timing.
No. I’m awake. Those were simply marks when my sight refocused before blurring back into a linear red mist.
Turn OFF you BASTARD!
“Just a trip down memory lane.Only the good times. I promise.”
I’m being mocked. Instead of counting sheep, I’m counting the hours I’ve been awake and the hours until I need to return to the world.
The pressure against my chest is too strong, so I turn to my side away from the haunting red reminder.
Bad shoulder, roll over. My feet wrap around each other and shake violently like vines trapped under glass trying to break through to breathe.
My body has been through battle. I’m drenched and exhausted.
Turn OFf you BASTard…
3:03…3:16…3:………
6:38.
Fuck. I’m late.
Paper? No, Plastic.
As I waited for my turn to check out, an elderly man pulled his cart in behind me. I glanced over my right shoulder because I’m always curious to see what items other people devote time in their day to purchase. Why right now did you decide to leave the comfort of home for the chaos of a grocery store? Not wanting to seem intrusive, I held a concerned look on my face as I scanned the “As Seen on TV” items thrown clumsily on the shelves to appear as though I may have forgotten something that I could not possibly live without. Inside the man’s cart were two bouquets of fake flowers placed parallel next to each other. Nothing more.
“Is that all you have?” I asked and offered a smile.
“Yes,” he replied returning a look of embarrassment.
“You can go ahead of me,” I said to my Greek yogurt and whole grain wheat as I pulled back my cart.
“Well thank you!”
As the flowers were pulled to the clerk via vinyl, I wondered why he was buying these two bouquets. Maybe his was a widower. His wife of 50-plus years was suddenly taken from him, and he was going to visit her today. He would copy the placement of the flowers as they were in the cart under the shadow of a gravestone’s summary. He would lean a hand on top of the granite for added support as he creased his legs under him. He would tell her how there is still good in people, how I gladly moved to the back of the line, how when he needed reassurance that we received a lot of rain yesterday, I reassured him but promised it would clear up soon. Then he would lift one of the bouquets and place it down again and tell her how much he missed her. He bought the artificial flowers because, like his love for her, they would never die. He would choke up and fight the tears. But they would fall and in them would be stills of their past. Their wedding dance, their first child, when he stormed out but was welcomed back into her arms, all the anniversaries and holidays and family and friends. The tears would hit the ground and shatter because inside he was shattered. But he would collect himself because she wouldn’t have him any other way. He would apologize for not being there Mother’s Day, but the RAIN! It hasn’t stopped raining since she died, but I promised him it would clear up soon. I wouldn’t have given up my place in line if I didn’t believe it. He would reach for the top of the granite again and make a date for tomorrow afternoon. “Don’t be late this time,” he’d say and smile because she always loved his humor. He would see a break in the clouds.
“Stay dry,” I said as he pushed away his cart.
Dead Man’s Hand
I hold the cards like shards of glass each symbolizing a time’s past. I lay them down with an upturned frown my eyes responsible for the only sound.
I turned the first expecting the worst. A burst of light muted my sight then took me to that night when I held her hand begging her to live then forgive then understand I caused her death because there was nothing left. My fears tasted like tears as the windows became mirrors. No matter where I turned I had to learn I could not hide my head until she was welcomed by the dead. I remained by her bed trying to warm her cooling skin as repentance for my sin.
Card: Ace of clubs.
The second card morphed into a phone which rang an ominous tone. “I’m calling to say goodbye.” “Why?” “I’ve tried, but now is time for me to die. I am not using a knife or gun or any number of instruments that could cause a mess. God bless and please visit me when you return west.” I dropped the receiver having this time believed her. That call became a shadow on the wall following me down every hall. I never let it go. I never let her know.
Card: 8 of Spades.
My eyes blurred as I turned the third. It told me to stand on my chair in order to know what is was like to be there. After a closer inspection of the directions, I followed the command then felt the weight of a gun in my hand. The gun lifted and I resisted causing the chair to become conflicted under the weight of the debate. As the gun reached my chin, the chair’s shin snapped, I collapsed, and the gun fired a blast. A few seconds passed. To my surprise, I was still alive. I understood what the card contrived. In reality, she hid her shame, and I missed the game.
Card: 8 of Clubs.
My lungs flexed as I was shown the next. A small doll with the ability to crawl motioned with its human paw to embrace myself for a fall. When I landed I was handed to man wearing white. I returned to the beginning of my plight. As I screamed, she beamed since my existence was expected to remain a dream. It seems on a previous night a similar man in white warned that if another child was born she would be mourned. How was she to know the hands she sewed would be covered in the blood of the last thing she loved?
Card: Ace of Spades.
I left the final card face down. I’d give them something to debate once I was in the ground hence the upturned frown.
Card: Unknown kicker.
Rookie
The tears outlast the years that passed while the scars in the back tell the story of a life that lacks something more than a little pride subsided by fears which only deprive the one of the some of the many of the none still searching for his chance to paint the smile and dance the dance that requires no beat or spectators in the seats carved from admirable feats. He can never speak softly and carry a big stick just to not speak and walk with clenched fists thrown to the ground assuming the sound made from the pound would force one of them to turn around and whisper the words that mean everything to him.
No.
Instead he’ll walk with his chin tucked into chest doing what he does best in pretending the rest are no more than the pawns of chess while he, the knight, moves two spaces up and one space right initiating another fight with hopes he might make it out before the rook is able to look up five squares with its mocking glare revealing the story to the knight who wanted to play fair.
Checkmate.
The knight crawls out of the way of the melee proud to say he has survived another birthday.
American Roulette
Nothing compares to the feeling of cold steel when it makes love to moist tissue. I remind myself of this feeling every year around this time. Before it happens, I can feel the perspiration accumulate underneath my skin as my eyes involuntarily tighten to close. I have to force them open because, in that moment, I want to watch the world around me stop, if for a second. The chattering of my teeth, to the point of almost breaking, drowns out all background noise. I am in a vacuum. I spin the chamber concentrating only on its struggle to come to a stop…then…click. My body drops to the ground like lead as I stare up at the ceiling trying to regain my breath.
They ask me why I do it. I tell them I do it, so I can truly live the next year new since I’ll never know when that familiar feeling will be accompanied by something other than a hollow sound.
One Hand Man
I met a man with one hand. I never asked him what happened to the other hand.
When he introduced himself, I offered the wrong arm. I didn’t pull it away out of embarrassment. I kept it extended out of embarrassment. The man awkw
ardly shook my hand with his hand, and our arms made a line, broken in the middle as though our artist had ran out of paper yet continued to draw on the table.
The man with one hand retracted his arm and asked what I would do if I won the lottery. I told him I would pay off my debt. It was a safe answer. One of those answers you give in order to save yourself any more detail. I asked the man what he would do if he won the lottery. He told me he’d buy a diamond encrusted glove, so people would have something to stare at other than a hand that wasn’t there. His answer was safer.
The man minus one hand then asked what day I would change if I could change one day of my life. Coming up with nothing, I asked the man the same question with an accusative tone. I figured this would be the point where he told me how he lost his hand. The man said he would’ve turned left on December 16, 1985.
Becoming irritated that I didn’t answer his previous question, the man and his hand asked what I would do for true love. I told him I would do anything.
The man told me to extend my hand.
Part II: You