The Shabbery Prince and The Stookish Filly
August 23, 2007
The blue glow of the great ferris wheel fades into the night and drains into a neon liquid on the grass below. The bright yellow of the merry-go-round flows onto the sidewalk and makes a glowing trail to a pool where all of the carnival lights are flooding. This giant pool continues to grow and hundreds of hoses sticking out of clown boxes suck this liquid up and spray it into the starry sky.
“Watch,” the father says to the little boy.
The constantly color changing glow shatters into the stars and falls in big drips into the nearby ocean. With that, the black abyss turns into a show of multicolored lights. What once was cold is now warm and the ocean is stiller than it ever has been. The sand on the beach retreats inward to the shore and sprays store fronts and giant glass windows with its anxiousness to escape.
Then silence.
“Watch,” the father says in a whisper that seems more like a shout because of how still the world is. He points at the ocean as it surges violently in gold and red and blue. “Watch.”
The little boy climbs on his father’s shoulders and stares eyes wide open at the shining water.
The father is booming with joy and pride knowing his son is watching this with him. His mustache rides briefly under his nose and his corncob pipe makes a puffing noise although there is no fire to light it.
Then he sees it, the little boy shading his eyes from the light, he sees a figure begin to emerge from the depths of the black ocean. Looking away for a brief moment he notices the stars are gone, the moon is gone, the rest of the earth behind him is gone. He’s standing with only his father on a sea of solid white marble in front of the ocean. Just feet behind them is a brobdingnagian mirror that spans as far as the eye can see in either direction.
The dark figure climbs onto the marble shores. The little boy can feel the coldness seep from the depths of his spine to his stomach to his lips. He hugs his arms close to him to stay warm. As the figure gets closer the boy gets colder, shivering so hard his teeth rattle, the figure is only steps away. His father is not cold, but smiling with the same expression. “Wait,” he says.
As the boy’s eyes focus he recognizes the dark figure, small and naked, deep blue eyes. He’s the Shabbery Prince from his favorite fairy tale The Shabbery Prince and the Stookish Filly. His golden locks hang behind him, wet from the sea and frizzed by the salt. Their eyes meet and the boy is no longer cold but warmer than he’s ever been.
The father lets him off his shoulders and the little boy walks to the Shabbery Prince. Without a word the prince motions with his left hand to something behind him. With a delightful bow the boy makes his way to a girl his age curtsying in a dress made of rags. Her beauty succumbs her stookish appeal.
The gold in her eyes shines at him and she smiles with perfect white teeth. He takes her cold hand and walks beside her towards the great glowing sea. The Shabbery Prince bows once again to the boy’s father who clutches himself in the greatest of pride and happiness for his son.
He sheds a great tear that lands but does not evaporate on the white marble below as the boy, the prince, and the stookish filly walk into the sea.
“Watch.”
And as the low undertone of the heart monitor fills the crowded ambulance, the defibrillator is placed back in its box as the paramedic shakes a heavy head over the young lifeless body.
The ambulance drives off into the distance as the father stands alone beneath the glow of the great ferris wheel.
© 2007-2008, Nick Rester All rights reserved.
Suffocation for your Inner Child
May 2, 2008
“Now bark.”
The collar on the boy’s neck tightens, he lets out a pitiful squeak.
“I paid good money for you boy, BARK!”
The boy barks loudly, then again.
A smile comes across the fat man’s face.
The TV flicks off.
The owner of Peter’s Sexemporium looks over at Alex.
He places his ‘World’s Best Dad’ coffee mug on the counter and undoes his suspenders.
Pushing the beads out of the way, he motions for Alex to follow him.
His thick Russian accent smothering the words. “It’s in the back, here.”
Alex doesn’t make eye contact with the man, he just stares at his shoes.
Quietly he says, “My.. friend, he wanted me to pick this up for him.”
The Russian laughs loudly and unlocks a black spray painted door.
Inside, it’s colder than Alex thought, he hugs his arms close to his body.
“I will need to see some ID” the Russian says, shuffling through some boxes.
“Of.. of course.” Alex says as he digs in his trench coat.
The Russian stands up and wipes the sweat from his brow.
In his arms he holds a white styrofoam cooler.
“I hear from Smenton you are good guy. I will give this to you cheap. $1200 American.”
Alex pauses, then nods.
The faded brown door to Alex’s 3b underground complex closes hard behind him.
Rain drips in black globs off of Alex’s over coat.
Pictures of ‘friends’ people he’s never met or was related to hang on his walls.
He clicks the light switch on under a picture of Barry Manilow.
Setting his mail down on the counter, he balances the styrofoam container with one arm and pulls a frozen dinner out of the freezer with the other..
Washing his hands, he glances over at the box and smiles.
The rest of his house is empty, no furniture, no designer art.
Just a TV in the middle of what would be his living room.
With steaming microwavable Hungry Man dinner in hand, he switches on the TV with his foot.
The Price Is Right fills the dark room with light.
But Alex ignores the TV and walks into the bathroom.
He places the dinner on the edge of the sink and sits on the toilet facing the bathtub.
“Meatloaf tonight hun.”
His bathtub is filled to the brim with dirty brown water.
A pale saturated hand hangs awkwardly over the edge of the tub, the tips black, the fingers unnaturally skinny.
He raises the fork with the steaming dried out meat towards a black gaping mouth.
“No fuss tonight, I’m not in the mood.”
He clicks his teeth and smiles, running out of the bathroom.
He comes back in with the styrofoam box.
“I got it.”
Alex stares into the tub, then looks away sadly.
“You said.. you said if I got it you’d let me go.”
A smile comes across his face.
The tiles underneath his feet part, forming a dark hole in his bathroom floor.
“Thank you.”
Alex steps through the hole, holding the box tightly.
He lands on his feet in a hotel lobby.
The floors carpeted red, the ceiling a gigantic mirror.
People in tuxedos dance in the ballroom across the lobby.
Alex smiles and stares forward at an endless wall of elevators.
The elevator in front of him dings and the golden doors open.
He steps inside.
The doorman, a small humble man with a stepping stool as a seat takes a long drag from his hookah.
“Where to?”
Alex ponders for a moment.
“I’m not sure.. Where should I go?”
“That depends completely on where you want to go.” says the doorman indicatively.
Alex looks down at the box in his hands.
“I have to give this to a friend.”
The doorman looks up at him, his eyes deep and shiny.
“To the sanitarium.”
He mashes a button into the wall and the elevator moves with a jolt.
The doorman leans back and takes another drag, listening to the repetitious elevator music.
Alex stares at the ceiling of the elevator, a painting of a cat on a windowsill.
He smiles, remembering an old tabby he used to own in childhood.
“Elmo.”
“What?” asks the doorman.
“His name was Elmo.”
The doorman smiles.
The painting on the ceiling fades and turns to black.
Alex frowns and puts the box on the ground.
The doorman starts coughing, quietly at first, then loudly.
He holds a handkerchief over his mouth to stay polite,
The coughing turns to hacking, then vomiting blood all over the elevator floor.
Alex picks up his box and takes a step back.
The doorman hits himself on the chest then grabs and squeezes his throat, but to no avail.
The blood does not stop coming, soon Alex is up to his ankles in blood and phlegm.
The doorman falls with a plop face first, his clip-on tie floats away.
Alex stares in shock across the elevator.
The floor creaks then breaks open, sending Alex, the doorman, and everything else screaming down the elevator shaft.
Screams, shattering glass, then darkness.
Channel 5, morning cartoons.
Sitting in front of the 70’s TV, a small boy in cartoon astronaut foot pajamas and a bowl of Captain Crunch cereal.
Every Saturday morning the Channel 5 plays this cheesy little melody. “It’s a new day!”
This is the song Alex wakes up to.
Gasping for air, he quickly looks around the room.
A generic hotel. Nothing unique.
Nothing unique, except Alex is wearing cartoon astronaut foot pajamas..
He steps into the bathroom, looks himself in the mirror.
He turns on the faucet to wash his face, but no water comes out.
Looking around the bathroom he notices there’s no toilet, no shower, just black and white tiled floor.
He walks to the closet and pulls hard on the wooden doors. They don’t open.
Alex pulls hard on the window curtains expecting there to be no window. But there is.
And outside it’s dark. Only lit by multi-colored neon lights in every window of every shop, apartment, even neon streetlights. He takes his styrofoam box and leaves the room.
The hotel lobby is small with black and white tiled floors. One front desk by the door.
No one stands at the desk.
Alex rings the service bell.
“Hello??”
No answer.
The black phone on the desk rings.
Alex hesitates then picks up.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other side is staticy and distant, sounding like a 50’s radio, “Welcome to the Midnight Hotel, did you sleep well?”
“Yes.. where am I? And.. what time is it? There’s no clocks.”
There is a long silence on the other end.
“Well, this is Nowhere, sir, and it’s the middle of the night. Feel free to come back any time you like, we always have vacancy.” the phone clicks.
The street is wet and empty. No people, no cars.
As Alex walks he looks into the windows of the stores and department buildings, completely empty.
“How odd, an abandoned town lit up like this for no one.”
Rain begins to fall, he takes refuge under the awning of a coffee shop.
The door next to him opens, startling him.
A guy around 20, wearing a black and white sweatshirt with a collar going up the length of his ear walks out holding a cup of coffee.
“You, are late.”
Alex puts his hand over his heart.
“Who are you?”
“Let’s walk.” the guy says.
Alex pauses a moment and looks into the coffee shop which is dark and empty.
He follows him.
The guy sips from the coffee cup, he makes a face of disgust and throws the cup into an alley.
“I’m Cat, the muse of dreams. Here to help.”
Alex stares at his sharp k-9 teeth as he talks.
“I don’t understand.”
Cat puts his hands in his front pockets.
“What’s in the box?”
Alex had almost forgot that he was carrying it.
“I’m bringing this to a friend.”
Cat stretches his arms.
“Okay, well I’m suppose to help you find that friend. I know this place pretty well.”
He chuckles.
“Before I can help you find him, I need to make a quick stop.”
Alex nods.
“Thank you.”
“No, Thank you.”
Cat reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cookie, he hands it to Alex.
“Hungry?”
Alex takes the cookie and smiles.
They make their way to a large circular building with the numbers “1-27-32” on the front.
Cat opens the large metal door and lets it swing open.
“Come on.”
Alex is amazed at the size of the inside. He could swear that it was much larger than the outside of the building.
The ground is wooden and shiny, the walls draped with black and white paintings.
As the two walk all that can be heard is clicking of their shoes. Everything else is dead silent.
In the middle of the room sit two old men on an old gray couch playing chess.
Cat stops walking, he leans over to Alex.
“Careful of what you might think of in here.”
“Why?”
Cat keeps walking.
They make their way to the middle of the giant room, Cat leans against the chess table.
“Alex, may I introduce you to the Muse of Art and the Muse of Literature.”
The men don’t look up.
The Muse of Art moves a pawn and mutters, “Who is this?”
Cat puts his hands in his pockets. “A friend.”
“You don’t have any friends, you don’t even exist.” the Muse of Art said angrily.
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew who he was.”
The Muse of Literature looks up with dark blue eyes and studies Alex through his glasses.
“Yup.” Cat said cockily.
The Muse of Literature smiles a very jagged smile, “The very creator of this place.”
Alex looks very confused at this.
“I.. don’t understand.”
Cat takes Alex aside and tells him to wait for him by the back door of the building.
“I just need to ask these guys for help getting to the Sanitarium.”
Alex makes his way across the room again.
Towards the back of the room, the light fades out and all that can be seen is an “Exit” sign.
In the darkness it’s cold, he flips his collar up and hugs his chest.
Beneath the Exit sign, he feels for a door but there is none.
He feels a small hand touch his back in the darkness.
With a jolt, he steps backward and puts his back to the wall.
“Do you remember me?”says a little girl’s voice.
The coldness overtakes Alex and his knees buckle, he sits down on the floor.
The brightness of the room fades and he’s left in complete darkness, only lit slightly by the Exit sign.
A small figure sits on his lap, he can feel it breathing.
“Do you remember me?”
He closes his eyes and looks away.
“Yes.”
She touches the lid of the styrofoam box.
“It wasn’t your fault I died. I never should have questioned you like that.”
He doesn’t open his eyes.
“I’m sorry I made you so angry. I should have let you keep me in the basement.”
She stands up and takes a step back.
A hand grabs him by the shirt and picks him up, pulling him out a newly formed door.
“Thank you for remembering me.” the small voice says in the distance.
Alex sits in the waiting room of a sanitarium.
The flickering florescent lights reveal a dirty linoleum floor and a nurse sitting at the front desk.
He wipes the tears from his eyes.
Cat stands in front of him, holding the styrofoam box.
“I’m sorry, I should have told you to stay out of the darkness.”
Alex stands up.
“Room 3B, Alex.”
He remains silent while walking down the corridor of the old hospital.
Cat’s boots click loudly.
The elevator at the end of the hall opens up, Alex hesitates.
“Can we take the stairs..”
Alex opens the blue door to the stairwell.
Cat takes a step back.
“This is where I leave you, Alex.”
Alex stares at the ground. “What will happen?”
Cat hands the styrofoam box to Alex.
“I don’t know. The denouement is just for you.”
Cat holds the door open for Alex.
“Ciao.”
And once again, Alex is alone.
The stairs are not like any stairwell he’d seen before.
Instead of spiraling around each other, they ascend straight up, vertically, like a ladder.
Alex makes his way up the staircase, styrofoam box in hand, waiting to see a light at the top.
What seems like minutes turns to hours, his legs tired, but he keeps going.
Finally he reaches a faded brown door at the top of the stairs with the marking 3B on it.
He opens it slowly.
Pictures of ‘friends’ people he’d never met before or was related to hung on the walls.
In the empty living room where the TV used to be sits a hospital bed with a woman in it.
The loud solid tone of the heart monitor fills the silence of the room.
Alex slowly walks to the bed and places his hand on that of a long and skinny hand with blackened fingertips, unnaturally skinny fingers.
He sets the styrofoam box on top of the bed, he removes the lid.
Dry ice oozes from inside the box, Alex reaches into ice and pulled out a bloody bag.
He stares at the lump of flesh, a human heart.
Pulling back the blue blanket, he uncovers a gaping chest, a hole where the heart should be.
The skin around the opened wound is singed black, smaller holes scattered amongst the chest.
He carefully pulls the heart out from the bag and places it where the old heart was.
The machine beeps slowly, then faster.
Alex smiled.
He wipes the sweat from his forehead and stands, staring at the woman in the bed.
Her eyes open and she stairs up at him.
Her skin regains color, the wounds on her chest disappear.
Alex stands, holding her hand in the darkness of his apartment.
“I’m sorry.” he says quietly, “I’m sorry for everything.”
She says nothing, but smiles.
He reaches into the bathtub and pulls the drain.
© 2007-2008, Nick Rester All rights reserved.
