Dark Night of the Soul

At a café he sat. The crowded art on the walls failed to excite him. A field of flowers, painted by a 60 something old retired grandmother no doubt. A pastel pink background with white flowers, with textures. The blackboard walls appealed to him, as the vibe of the whole house turned into a cozy commerce.

He took a sip of his herbal tea—the cold breaker blend—and thought he detected hints of cinnamon and chamomile. A woman with a stripped hat and transparent glasses used sign language to communicate to her friend. He welcomed their silence. To his right, a row of four round tables, of which three were occupied. On the far end, an older man with brown hair and grey beard watched his phone, his reading glasses neatly folded on the table beside his coffee mug. An empty table. Then a bald man, wearing a buttoned grey vest, typing wildly on his Mac air, stickers of a first nation woman hiding the apple logo. Next to him sat a middle-aged woman, serious and focused. Unused headphones lay forgotten on the table in front of her laptop, alongside two yellow markers. He wondered what she was up to. Was she writing, like him? The markers suggested she must be studying. A teacher, perhaps?

He wished he could get up, talk to one of these strangers, connect. But he remained on his chair, protected by his computer, his earplugs and his hood. What was he doing here? Walking through his latest—biggest—Dark Night of the Soul. He had no idea how to proceed, how to overcome this wave of spleen, this seemingly insurmontable inertia. He needed to reconnect with his core, his heart, his creativity. Where had it gone? Never in his life had he lost interest in the one thing that made him special, made him feel happy, made him feel useful, in a way. So why was it slipping between his fingers?

He looked at the damaged wooden floor…Fuck this guy is annoying. How am I supposed to focus on overcoming this darkness if this idiot is going to continue talking like this? I have shit to deal with, asshole. Maybe I should change the music, the Inception score is way too up and down. 

The real problem was, he had nothing to say really. There was absolutely no story in this place. Just people, talking and working.

So what does one write when no stories come up? One writes trash. Or one just keeps one's finger moving and see what comes up. How could this be, with infinite amount of stories in the world to tell? Everyone is damaged, everyone has something to share, something dramatic they want the world to know but what if I don't? I'm tired, I'm so tired of this process. Okay so I have to set up the scene, get to know the characters, and try to describe the story world even if I hate that part and then have them go through fake events. What's the point to all this. God I'm so deep. I should perhaps watch the masterclasses? Or brainstorm on the other story. Yes that might be for the best because nothing good is coming out of here this morning. I'm really trying, that's what's important. The intention is always the most important part of it all isn't it. My intention is to start loving the craft again. Start replenishing my well of creativity. Let the ideas flow, let the inspiration flood my brain and the excitement take over. I want to become a real artist. Someone who doesn't give a shit about the results, someone who only cares for the art and the craft itself. Someone who wants to write. 

Because I want two things in life. To fuck and to write. What else should I be doing with my life? I like butts and words, that's pretty much it. Maybe the problem is that I don't like words. Because they escape me. I am not a master of my tools. I don't have a crazy good vocabulary and I'm not super deft with style and all that crap. I have trouble letting the words out, and hitting the right nail. Maybe I should write in french and use deepl? That'd be something wouldn't it.

The Sources of the River

It turned out okay, in the end. He was standing on the edge of the river, his feet solidly anchored in the rock plate advancing perhaps a good hundred feet toward the middle of the river. The current grew weaker, near the close of September. Nothing like the rolling brown waves of May. Now the level of the water had come so low it created a brand new island out of the grey flat rocks. A channel, its shallow water trickling between the new island and the shore, separated this new island. 

He stood alone. What was he thinking about, no one knew, not even him. He might have considered falling into the dark water, let its current bring him all the way to the gates of the dam, downstream. Or he might have searched his soul for what he would write next. That's the curse of the writer. The gift. 

A stranger came to him, an old man. His bald head glistened despite the dim light on this grey afternoon. 

"It's peaceful," he said. "The sound of the river." 

The man nodded, not wanting to continue the conversation, and yet, craving for it. 

"It's usually much more busy around here," the old man said. "I guess people got scared it might rain." 

"That must be it."

The man looked sideways at the stranger, and took in many details. He was wearing a long navy green coat, just like the one you see on Viet Nam vets in the movies. It made him think that the old man might be a homeless guy, but his black jeans, looking crisp and brand new, said otherwise. The leather on his boots shone as well and didn't show a scratch or a tear. 

Intrigued, he decided to open up a real conversation, since anyway, his real purpose for coming here had been destroyed by the man's presence. 

"What do you think lies, at the very beginning of this river?" he asked. 

The old man raised both his bushy eyebrows. And laughed. 

"Not a question you hear everyday," he exclaimed, and then became thoughtful. 

The man liked him instantly for really thinking about his answer, instead of saying some generality like "Guess we'll never know, huh?" or "I haven't the slightest idea." 

What he said, at last, was: "You wanna find out?" 

That surprised him most. The river must be hundreds of kilometres long. Was this stranger suggesting they get in a car and drive until they reached the river's sources? 

"Yeah," was all he said. 

They drove along the river road well into the night, criss-crossing the river, hopping on its western bank and eastern bank at every bridge. They often lost its sight, but the man could feel its presence, its continuous flow, nearby, and every time the road curved and hugged the banks, he could feel a great peace installing itself within him. 

"Now I'm really curious," he said toward 3am, speeding down the empty road. "We could have just looked at a map, but I want to see it. Experience it."

"You're a weird one," said the old man who had suggested they drove for hours in the first place. 

He didn't answer but kept driving. 

The river took them north for a great while, but then it fled east and they almost lost it when they reached the mountains. The road led them to a dead end.

"You wanna call it off?" the old man said. 

"No."

So they continued on foot, entering an evergreen forest. At places, the cliffs forced them to abandon the river for a while, and to take grand detours only to find the river again an hour later. Where no path showed, its rushing sound guided them. 

They came to a great boulder from which the current squirted. 

"We've found it!" the old man said, barely believing it. 

"No. It merely goes underground." And he continued, climbing the sheer cliff and striding on the plateau for a couple more hours. 

At last, they saw it. A great lake, so broad you couldn't peek the far side. 

"There," the man said. 

They stood in silence, beholden by the serene surface. No waves rippled on the perfect water mirror. 

"Shall we go back?" the old man said. 

He took his car keys, placed them in the wrinkled hand and shook it with both his hands. 

"You can take the car. Here's where I stop."

The old man stared at this man he had met only a few hours ago. "I can't let you do that. There's nothing around here. Surely you would die. Winter is expected early this year." 

"Here is where I stop," he repeated. 

The intensity in his eyes stopped the old man from asking more questions. He left him there. He could always come back to check on him later. 

Once he was alone, he walked into the water, ignoring the pleas of the loon, his fingers creating smaller ripples inside the larger ones originating from his ankles. He didn't stop when he lost his footing. He emptied his lungs, sunk to the bottom and continued walking toward the source of the river. 

A Good Deed

"Do you need a lift?" he said, smiling at the old lady carrying half a dozen grocery bags. 

"Get away from me, you freak." 

He could have left then, let her be stubborn and scared and forgo the help of a good samaritan. 

"Looks heavy is all," he continued, driving slowly at her side, bent toward the passenger door. "I'm one of the good guys. I just want to help, but it's alright if you don't trust me, with everything we hear on the news and all. Proves you're smart."

Her frown deepened, but she stopped walking. "Don't you have better things to do?" 

"As a matter of fact I do. I have a whole series I want to watch, catch up where my buddy's at. He's two seasons ahead," he laughed, which helped get rid of her frown. "Do unto others what you'd like done unto you. Wise Moses said that, didn't he? So here I am." 

His teeth were perfect, disarming, he knew. He noticed the change in her, going from fear to hesitation to acceptance and warmth. He'd seen that often. He had that effect on people. 

"I don't want to be any trouble," she said. "I only live a couple blocks down." 

"Wouldn't have offered if I thought you'd be trouble." He winked. 

She finally walked up to the door and sat awkwardly with all her bags on top of her, as if afraid he'd run off with her provisions. 

"Don't you think society's sick, if we can't help and trust each other no more?" 

"That's one way to put it," she said non-commitingly. 

"I just think we ought to be more generous with each other, more giving. Not to judge, but let me ask you, have you been generous lately? Have you helped anyone?"

 She tensed, as if sensing he might not be what he had let on. 

"You can stop here, I can walk the rest—"

"Nonsense!" he interrupted. "You said two blocks. What can I do for you to trust me? Really trust me? Here, take my wallet in the cup tray. Don't be shy. There's sixty bucks in there. I want you to have it." 

"Please stop the car." She left the wallet alone. 

"I'm serious," he said. "Take the money. I'm sure you need it. Everybody needs it."

"Stop the car." She opened her small purse and took out a gun. It was smaller than her vein-laced fist. A tiny Glock 42 from the looks of it. 

"Now now," he said, driving on. "You won't need that. I'm giving you my money. Why would you need that? I'm just trying to be nice." 

"Let me out or I'll shoot." 

He looked at her before putting his eyes back on the road, his hands at 10 and 2, keeping under the speed limit. 

"I don't believe you will," he said cheerfully. "Here's what's going to happen. I'll drive you up to your doorstep, put those sixty bucks in your hand and drive away. No need to get angry or anything. It's not as if I was trying to abduct you and tie you up in my basement and keep you there for the next fourteen years or—"

"STOP THE CAR!!!" 

He braked hard enough for her to bump her head on the dashboard. 

"Oh dear," he said. "I'm so sorry! It's just that you scared me mightily right there. Why would you shout like that?"

Without answering, she worked the door handle as if it were an eject lever and jumped out faster than her old bones might have suggested.

"You forgot one of your bags!" He called after her. She all but ran to the door of a five-story apartment building, ignoring his pleas.

He got out and went after her, but she had already disappeared behind the locked door. He looked at the names of the occupants, hoping to guess her name. When he couldn't, he left the bag outside the door with a note. 

This belongs to the nice lady with a lovely brown coat and a purple scarf. 

He proceeded to drive back and parked on the street right in front of the grocery store. 

He had more good deeds to do. 

A Magnificent View

He stood on a beach, at night, gazing at a meteor shower. Two distant nebulas lit up the sky over the sea, their beauty appeasing his lonely heart. His ship hovered farther down, over the sandy hills. He had chosen this planet for a simple reason. 

It was deserted. Unfit for colonization. 

Gawking at the magnificent view, and breathing in the invigorating saline air made him wonder why. Hordes of tourists could have enjoyed the warm summer breeze, cozy in their hammocks, suspended between the posts of their hut-with-a-view. 

Until a hand, twice the size of his ship, shot out of the sea, crushed him in its fist and brought him underwater to some unseen mouth.

He should have done his research.

Sharksilo

The concrete grain silos surrounded me, their height crushing my soul and my mind in a way I couldn't describe. What would I do, now that I was all alone. There was a bassin in front of me. A pool of clear water, almost blue, which marked a strong contrast with the river that was polluted and stark and exhuded a real strong and sigusting stench. I wanted to strip and dive in the pool, and when I focused more precisely I noticed two divers, all geared up hugging the concrete walls. What were they doing there? I thought I was alone on this planet now. I had to find a way to make them see me, show them that I existed. But how? 

Then, the horror. A big grey shark came up from the depth, its size unbearable. I wanted to crawl into a ball, hide from the beast even if it couldn't reach me from where I stood. But the divers! If I didn't warn them, the shark would surely devour them. What irony. To find wo of my peers only to watch them die in the most gruesome fashion. I wanted to shout, but they wouldn't hear me. So I did what I had to do. I jumped into the bassin. The water was warmer than I expected. It was warmer than the October air in fact. The sunlight didn't reach the shadowy waters though, the beams blocked by the towering silos. I felt my legs pop up, afraid of feeling the sharp rows of teeth on them. I swam as fast as I could toward the nearest diver, but he wouldn't see me, he wouldn't turn my way. The shark was nowhere to be seen. I dove and looked over my shoulder every second, exepcting to see the gap of an open mouth. I only saw the impenetrable waters. The diver finally noticed me, and I saw that he was holding a harpoon. His face, beneath his mask was weird, definitely not human. Its skin seemed oily and slimy, like that of an octopus. He fired his harpoon at me and the tip missed my leg by an inch, scartching me and drawing blood. The shark would smell that for sure. I swam back up, feeling no obligation to warn the diver anymore of the impending threat. Something caught my ankle. I looked down and saw a tentacle coming out of the diver's belly. It reeled me deeper and deeper until I was less than a foot away from my true enemy. I tried punching him and kicking, but the water slowed my movements down and I couldn't do anything but watch as the squidman swallowed my whole body inside his stomach. 

Where Has all the Magic Gone

This was where it would all end. On a bridge, overlooking a sacred river. Here, so close to the mountains, the water flowed with vigor. Its pure emerald tone shared none of the tar-black thickness of the same river near its delta, due to people overusing magic and corrupting every potent source. 

So people like me, the pitiful souls who had lost their connection with the arcane, came here, near the spring of the most sacred river of all. 

How did I get here? How had I failed my life so badly? Over forty, and nothing to show for. Where or when had it start derailing? Probably when my mother died. I was a wreck for at least five years then, using the darkest magic to keep me numb and even dipping in necromancy to bring her back. I wished I hadn't. No one should witness their own mom trying to bite off their neck, and no one should have to end their undeath in the most gruesome way. 

After that, Doris left me of course, and brought the kids with her. I was alone, a poor sucker who used to have great ambition. My grit, I knew, would be more than enough to make a great archmage out of me. Everywhere I would go, people would recognize the purple robes and adulate me. They would come to me and ask me for services that I would grant, and receive an ever-growing dose of love and adoration. 

Now, I couldn't even evoke a spark of light to amaze children or scare away the packs of rabid dogs that scavenged this forsaken town. 

My reasons for coming to Keshi were not dissimilar to the throngs of middle-aged men and women who had lost their power and their lives. But unlike them, I had no hope of finding my magic back by practicing some laughable poses and seeking the wisdom of some hack mystic. 

I climbed over the railing, heard the gasps of two women, ignored them, stared down at the frenzied white water and stepped into the void. 

How easy it would have been, less than a decade ago, to call upon the mountain wind and command it to slow my descent. I didn't even try. Time slowed down, as they say it does when nearing certain death. It seemed as if I was suspended in mid air for the longest time, inches above the roaring current, detailing* the rough texture of the rocks that waited to paint their surface a bright red. After a few seconds though, it became clear that I was suspended in mid air. I looked above at the bridge, annoyed, but also relieved in a way I had not expected. The two women were shouting in panic and waved their arms at the invisible street. Those two were clearly not my saviors. 

I turned to the southern bank of the river, sensing a fleeting knot of power like I used to be able to detect. It meant someone was using magic. A bald man—or woman?—sat on the polished pebbles, glaring at me openly. Their face hid no smile, nor any expression that trahir* their motivation for saving me. Then, the corner of their lips turned upward, ever so slightly, and I was suddenly released and swallowed by the ice-cold water. 

I felt my buttocks scrape over the sharp rocks and I bumped my knee on a boulder when I tried to bring my feet in front of me. The strong current carried me over a few hundred yards, uncaring, its teeth biting into my skin mercilessly, its whirlpools pulling me under and keeping me there until my vision blacked out and I thought everything was over, before it finally spited me back out and allowed me to take in a long gulp of air. The furious white slowly gave way to deep emerald, the river's way of signing a truce. 

My limbs sore and bleeding, I swam towards the shore and the river vomited me on a sandy bank before turning sharply toward the east.

I hiked back to the bridge, wet and cold, wanting to confront my unwanted savior. My relief was all but gone. I refused to become a dead weight for others to lift out of my misery. 

The bald person still sat on the river stones, staring at the rapids as if no one had tried to jump to its death a few minutes ago. Their skin looked as smooth as the polished pebble they caressed with their spindly fingers. 

"Why did you do it?" I demanded, my shadow blocking their sun**. 

They turned slowly and when their eyes met mine, I suddenly felt ashamed of what I had done. 

"Only a short-sighted monkey bites the hand that just fed him." I couldn't say if the voice was feminine or masculine. It was neither and both at the same time. 

"And what if the monkey didn't want food in the first place?" I asked. I would show him I was able to play the riddles game too. 

They laughed. "You must be from a faraway land, if you have seen monkeys who refuse food." 

"I am no monkey." I turned to go. 

"That, you are not. Monkeys do not jump over bridges, craving for death." 

I stopped to see if they would say more, hoping they would say more. When they didn't I resumed climbing the steep bank to the streets above, but they spoke again right before I was out of earshot. 

"The magic is not gone. Never gone."

My anger flared and I strode back to them, fuming. "How would you know? You know nothing about me. You have no idea how much pain I feel, constantly, how much I struggle. Every. Single. Day."

They nodded. "I do not." They got to their feet. "But the magic? It is never gone."

How would you know? I wanted to scream. 

"How else would you have known it was me?" 

I remembered sensing the knot of power. And I looked around the bank. We weren't alone as I had previously thought. Families crowded the opposite bank, and the streets overlooking the river were filled with merchants and passersby. Yet, I had never doubted one second the identity of my savior. I had sensed their magic. It could only mean one thing: They were right. My magic was still there, inside me. 

The New Covenant of the Buddha Christ Redemptor *UNFINISHED*

The church was called The New Covenant of the Buddha Christ Redemptor. Big name, big crowd. 

I let my friend guide me through the double doors, all the while fighting to let go of the feeling of being an impostor. It had grown on me as soon as we stepped on Hercules Prime. At first I thought the discomfort was caused by the change in gravity. I wasn't used to high-g planets. In fact, I wasn't used to being anywhere else other than Earth. Sure I'd been to Mars and the moons, like any respectable twenty year old, but I had never been outside the System. 

Basically, the hype around this new church came from this crazy idea that the Buddha and Christ were one and the same. That they were both incarnations of some higher being—some called it God, but most, like me, weren't comfortable with the term, not after what had happened during the Religio-Atheist Wars. After the Atheists had won the third war, the word 'God' had been banned, back on Earth. And people scowled and were shocked if you dared mention the names of Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Shiva or Yahveh. Being called a Christian was just as bad as being called a nazi. 

But on a remote world like Hercules Prime, anything went. 

The Pool *UNFINISHED*

My body reacted strongly to the smell of chlorine and the echoey sounds of children splashing in the water. I had avoided the pool for some years, after the incident. And I had expected a reaction, but not this one. My shoulders slumped down from their perpetual tension and it seemed as if my whole mind opened wide, just like after an hour of meditation. 

I headed for the locker room, and the relaxation deepened, reached my neck, my jaw. Why had I stayed away for so long? I knew why, but still. 

Most lockers were taken, and even those without locks had clothes in them. How people can be trusting… 

I stripped and quickly stored away my jeans, t-shirt, shoes and socks. It made me smile to think how I used to be embarrassed to be naked in public. Now I couldn't care less and even took a bit more time than I needed to put on my swimsuit. 

The showers were exactly as I remembered them, the yellow ceramic tiles glistening from the constant spray. A man and his soapy five year old laughed together. An older man finished and let me come through. 

"All yours."

As always in these situations, it surprised me that other people could actually see me. 

"Thanks," I called, a few seconds too late. 

The water was lukewarm. Not too cold to be unpleasant and also not warm enough to be enjoyable. I rinsed myself quickly and hurried to the door leading to the pool. 

The bay windows let in the oblique rays of the October sun. The light hit the water and made the blue sparkle. Two boys raced each other to the slide. A whistle blew. A bored voice told the boys to walk. A girl squealed as she jumped three times on the spring board and launched over the water, laughing. Behind me, a middle-aged man came out of the sauna, his wide chest red and steaming. In the pool, a group of ageing women chatted, their heads bobbing over the water as they went through the motions of some underwater exercise.

All was good. 

I dove in the fast lane, embracing the slight discomfort that came with the initial shock. Immediately, I arranged my goggles over my eyes and started swimming quickly. To get the blood going. I was out of shape, but it didn't matter. It felt good. Inches from the wall, I flipped and kicked hard, changing direction. Wave after wave coursed through my body until I had to breathe again and resume my methodic crawl. 

At Lake's Bottom *UNFINISHED*

I remember the day when I went swimming in the cold lake. My balls retracted inside my body and my legs came up too, because I hated the feeling of the seaweed on my legs. What was I doing there that day? I was looking for a body. 

The body of my daughter. 

No one knew for sure if she had drown, but I could left no stone unturned. Two weeks already since she disappeared. Two weeks. How fucked up was that? I still couldn't believe she was dead, and yet, everything pointed to that. I didn't think she'd been abducted like they mentioned on TV. 

So I dove, and shone the light in the cold darkness. No fish lived in this underwater world. Just eerie weeds that looks like dead women's hair. A submerged cemetery. 

I came up for another breath, and went down under, kicking hard, ignoring my lungs's pleas. They needed air. I needed my daughter. 

Thing was, we weren't close anymore. We saw each other maybe two times a year, since her mother had died. Which was sad really. I remembered those days when she was three and I would fuss and fight everyday against depression. Her temper really did me in. That, combined with the lack of sleep. 

She would wake up at night and shout that she was done sleeping, that she was not tired anymore--at 2am. I wanted to scream and punch a hole in the wall. But I went to see her and cajoled her until she would finally accept to lie down and close her eyes. Sometimes, it took less than a minute. Other times, well, we were up for a good two hours. The best moment would come after the first hour, when I finally accepted that the next day would be totally useless and there was nothing I could do about it. A great peace submerged me then.

Today was different. I couldn't accept her fate. How could I? It would mean going back home, sit on the couch, and stare at the wall for the rest of my life. Or swallow the hard metal of a gun. I'd tell the clerk at the store I wanted to get into shooting practice. I'd only need one bullet. 

My hands and feet were numb from the cold, and even though I couldn't see them, I thought my lips must be blue. 

I kept at it, swimming farther from the shore. It wasn't a big lake. More like an oversized pond really. We would come here often when she was in her teens. She loved when we took out the canoe and paddled hard for the tiny island in the middle of the lake. We spent all day over there, fishing, eating our egg sandwiches and adding another room to the massive treehouse we had built over the years. 

Checking on it was one of the first thing I'd done after I got the news. Some kids had wreaked it: half of the structure lay on the ground because one tree had been axed. I had picked up the brown bottles and silver cans, put them in a garbage bag and left our past alone. 

I had almost reached the island when I found something hidden behind the curtain of slow-dancing weeds. My torch's beam reflected on a white object. It didn't look like flesh. Too bright for that. I estimated it was a good twenty feet below the surface, so I swam back up and breathed for two minutes, and when my heart slowed, I inhaled deeply and dove. I used both my arms, having tied my torch to my forehead, and kicked hard, heading straight down. I fought off the fear of seeing some monster appear from behind the slimy weeds and kept going. My lungs were on fire when I reached the bottom of the lake. My whole body commanded me to open my mouth and breathe in. 

My numb fingers raked the shiny object from the vase*.