You Don't Wanna

This is an excerpt from a larger piece I'm working on. Some of you may know where it came from. Obviously, memory and imagination have filtered the experience. Thanks for reading!

“No limit to the limit – I thought I told ya. You don’t wanna go to war with a soldier” the drill sergeant calls out into the morning air, cutting like a bayonet through the marching boots. Soldiers go to war. That’s nothing new. Its another day of training for Alpha Company – a company of engineers in training. Not the six-figure salary kind. The kind who clear minefields and demolish bunkers. The kind with an eighty percent casualty rate. The kind who die.

The faces of the marching troops are as diverse as the reasons they signed up. Immigrants looking for citizenship. White kids from the midwest with nothing left. College students earning their tuition – swapping books for boots. A grown man hoping to provide both an example and some money for his kids. Ideological zealots with a desire to become dangerous. The list goes on. Today they all march to the same cadence. “Hooh – Haah – I wanna slap somebody! Hooh – Haah – I wanna leave them bloody!”

It’s a violent place by nature. Every day and every action is accompanied by violent imagery. These trainees will be the next set of bodies on the tip of the spear. “Engineers – lead the way!” they’d shout while spacing themselves to march. For all their pride, the bleeding edge is what makes their task so fatal.

I’m stuck in a small formation behind them. They call us “holdovers” – a group just as varied as the company we fell out from. Some of us had discipline problems. A few couldn’t take the stress. Others realized they made the wrong choice. One of us, a grown woman, is losing her mother. An unlucky few of us are injured to the point of becoming non-trainers. All of us walk – out of step – together. Following the main company to wherever it travels. Right now that happens to be towards breakfast.

I fall into the realization category. I had joined as a Guardsman – with a desire to be a first responder during disasters in my community. I chose to be an engineer because they told me that I would be first into the disaster zone. I wanted to pull people from rubble – not make it. I wanted the adventure. I wanted to be a hero when heroes were needed. I wanted to save people.

But, the reality of training is death – not saving lives but taking them. Potentially, losing yours in the process. A heroic sacrifice? Sure, in the right circumstances. But I see nothing heroic in dying in the desert far away from the community I took an oath to protect.

“Motivated – Dedicated – I thought I told ya. You don’t wanna go to war with a soldier.”

My only motivation is to go home. My only dedication is getting out. And I sure don’t want to go to war as a soldier.

“Company – Halt!” and the boots fall for the last time in front of the dining facility. “The order of chow is – One – Three – Two – What's the order of chow?” each platoon in the company calls back in order. It’s like something out of an educational cartoon. “Ready – Shift!” and the neatly formed platoons shift themselves into two ordered columns. Us holdovers loosely form up behind them. We barely dress right dress or cover down – and it shows. What use do we have for the almost theatrical discipline of the main company? We're quitters. Our only focus is home.

Freshman Works

My freshman year of high-school was my first introduction to publishing writing online for others to read. To celebrate one year of The Silent Page lets look back on some of the better examples of my work from nearly five whole years ago.

The first is this story that I thought was very clever when I wrote it. Not entirely sure what I was shooting for but I titled it "A Peculiar Dream". I think you can see some of the dances with the strange that have continued to feature in my works as time has gone on.

He woke up. The glow from the computer bathed the room in a blue glow. To the left of him the door stood like a monolith to a forgotten realm. He wished to never know what hid behind the door as he looked out the one open wall into the purple void. The void looked friendly. He stood up. The computer was speaking in a foreign language. He understood it. It told him of a time of heroes and legends. He listened. Then sat down. The door was watching and he wished not to anger it. The computer told him of a boat. The boat had come to take him to a land from which he could never return. He got on the boat. The door was annoyed. He looked back as the boat floated on and saw only his room in the void. The red purple clouds were swirling in the distance. The door starred on with unbridled glee. The reckoning had come. The boat continued until it hit a cloud. He got off and began to walk towards the man who stood watching him. The man had the face of a book and began to speak. The man told a story of heroes who had fought a great battle. The door was intently listening. He turned to see the door. The door was watching him from the boat. He told the door a story of myths and legends. The door began to smile and then creaked open. Inside of the door was a land of myths and legends. He ran into the door and looked behind him. The door closed and stared on. He sat next to a river that was running through the land. He saw the glow. It spoke to him of a time when men travelled the stars. He listened intently. The door looked at the river with a longing. He thought of the time when men travelled the stars. He stood and walked through the river. He looked down and saw a miniature castle. The castle seemed to speak. It spoke to him of a time when men travelled the stars. He picked the castle up and examined it’s immaculate marble surface. It was marked with the stamp of an artisan from long ago. He thought of the flavor of marble. He bit into the castle and a large egg fell out. The egg was made of gold and echoed a long forgotten chant that spoke of a long forgotten land. He picked up the egg and held it in his head. The door spoke softly to him. The door had known the artisan in a time before time. It told him of the artisans store and so He walked in. The artisan stood behind a counter. His face was blurred. He inquired as to his business. The artisan told him of his craft. The artisan made sculptures out of stone and wood. The artisan told of the difficulty of gathering enough beetles to make the stone to craft with. He had never heard of such a thing.

Light streamed in through the one window in Sean’s bedroom. How long had he been asleep for? He looked out and saw the road in front of his apartment building. Sean walked into his kitchen and poured some milk into a glass. He thought back to what he had dreamt but couldn’t remember much more than a computer. He looked to his right and saw the marble castle that he had received from his grandfather who had carved it for many years. Suddenly the dream came back. Sean took his glass and sat down in front of his computer and began to write the tale of the dream with the door. He stared at his screen. The first sentence was complete. “He woke up”

I remember writing this next one. I was sitting in church and decided to take the time to create something. Its short, not particularly clever, but it addresses the idea of legacies which has interested me for a long time. It is titled "The River".

I sit on the banks of the dried out river.

Water hasn't graced this land in eons

yet the remains of a river still exist,

the remains of a hard life's work continuing.

Will I have that same effect?

Will my life's works continue,

like ripples from a stone thrown into a pond?

I can only hope that they will.

Perhaps that is the hope of all men.

To live forever, even if only in memory.

Will these words leave ripples?

Or will they sink without a trace?

I look out into the distance

and see the sun setting far away.

I wish I could have seen this river

when the waters still flowed.

This next one is one of many prose pieces that I wrote on stack of note cards I would keep in my jacket. Again, another dance with the strange, twisted, and deranged. It is titled "The Valley of Faces".

The traveler speaks of a valley far away.

A valley carved in stone.

A valley that rarely sees the light of day.

A valley he walked alone.

The ground is made of faces

carved into the stone itself.

The faces have the same calm expression

staring into the sky above.

Their calm expression is fixed forever,

their countenance never swaying.

Faces created with unknown purpose,

forever watching the sky.

Strange rumors are spread about the valley

Where the faces are as far as the eye can see.

Rumors of their speaking have spread far and wide.

What do they say? Who knows except the gods themselves?

Let's do another one off the cards. This was the first in the series and was titled "Land of the Broken". There used to be a pencil sketch that went before it to illustrate what this world looked like but it is long gone. 

Staring off into the distance

The land of the faded star

Rises like a tombstone

garnishing the land.

Where once there was life

there is now sand

and the faded echoes of strife

like the distant playing of a band.

Upon the distant horizon

rises the dome

a monument of a land forgotten

by time and the ages.

The great pillars of eternity remain.

Sentinels guarding the land forever

until their creator returns

bearing the gift of destruction.

Yet even with all the dilapidation

some still call it home.

A fire here.

A cabin there.

Markers of life continuing

Ad infinitum.

Even if forgotten.

Amen.

It was kind of cool to see these old works again. I can see elements of them that have carried over into other things I've written over the years. Especially the stories off the cards. They were largely inspired by Adam Poots' Kingdom Death universe and T.S. Elliot's The Waste Land. Here's to another five years of writing! Hopefully I can look back on what I've written on this page with the same nostalgia some day!

Nikolai (One Page Exercise)

 

I used to work at the old folks home down on Mardona Street. You remember the place right? It was next to the hardware store before Bob went out of business. Anyway, thats tangential to the story. I used to volunteer there on weekends while I was in uni, every week from my sophomore to my senior year. It was good for me, both for my social skills and for my psyche. Helping people kept me sane during midterms and finals, gave me purpose when I felt lost in the sea of coursework, and even made me a few friends before I left. My dearest friend to come out of the experience, was the old mathematician Nikolai.

As far as I know Nikolai was born sometime in the early 20th century on a farm in Russia. His birth date was never recorded but he always celebrated it on January 20th. His favorite way to celebrate? A bottle of wine and a fancy coffee cake from the bakery down the road. I had the privilege of celebrating his birthday with him a few times during those years I volunteered. A couple sips of wine into his private party and he'd start to reminisce about his younger days.

When he was still a child he often would visit the village's priest, Father Serimov. An old man with a long white beard – always dressed in the signature black robes of an Orthodox priest. Serimov was well liked in the village and would often pass out sweets to the children who would come to the church and help him with chores. Nikolai was a big fan of fetching the candles for the parish. Red wax, golden flames, wisps of smoke – the way the candles could hold a flame until they melted away caught his imagination as a child. He told me that this curiosity that was sparked by the mystery of the candles would lead him to asking more and more questions.

Why does the sun set? Where do flies come from? How many stars are there? Questions that no one in his rural village could answer. Father Serimov was the only one who could attempt to fill the voids in his mind. Nikolai's appreciation for Serimov grew beyond the gifts of sweets, it was gifts of knowledge that kept him visiting. One day, during one of these visits, Serimov would tell him to pursue a course of study at the university in St. Petersburg. Serimov knew a professor there and, after some correspondence, managed to get Nikolai admitted to his program.

Years would pass and Nikolai would become an expert in his field, even publishing a few papers during Soviet times. But he never forgot the priest who had made it possible for his curiosity to become a career. A year or two after his graduation he went back home to his village and discovered that Father Serimov had passed away. The new priest gave him a note that Serimov had left behind shortly before his passing. Nikolai never told me what was in the note, but he summarized it as being the final treat from his finest teacher.

After I graduated from my studies I moved to a city on the west coast. I left my life behind in my home town and pursued a job in a research lab studying organic polymer synthesis. A year or two later I would come back to my hometown with my future wife so she could meet my parents. It was a cold January then – frost even covered the old river. I stopped by the bakery to visit a friend there and catch up on what was new in my small town. It was here, among the warm smells of fresh bread and cookies, that I learned of Nikolai's passing. That year he never ordered his special cake. I was heartbroken.

It turns out, however, that Nikolai had left a letter for me with the head nurse of the nursing home. When I visited her she passed it to me and told me that he gave it to her shortly before he died. A crumpled receipt in a wrinkled manila envelope. I won't tell you what the letter said, but old Nikolai left me with one last story. One last treat. One last memory of the old man.

The Shower, The Car

This must be the place

Stark white door with a modern handle

Guess I'll give it a knock

And see where the night might take me

"Oh come in, come in," he says

"Let's spin a Monkeys vinyl

and sip on chilled martinis"

Legs crossed in a postmodern room

We don't care much for the chic-

but he saw it in a magazine

and had to have it.

Plate glass windows

City lit bright

White-on-white

Sleek design

And this is how he lives.

I can't quite tell

What that painting's meant to be

Leaves interpretation

Up to me

Some blurry impressionist thing-

Maybe it means nothing.

Or maybe it means something to him

as he keeps talking.

"Oh, elegance-my excess

It keeps the haunting thoughts at bay

Someday all of this will vanish

All of this will slip away

and when I go - 

bury me with my money."

"Oh, the women I know

are dazzling in their dresses

Star-spangled in their excesses

all they want are my successes-

they're so easy to please."

I'd better find the door-

Like I had so long before

The monologue

Of that deadbeat fraud

still echoed through the hall

Readers of The Silent Page may have seen a rough draft of this poem from late 2024. This is the only surviving creative work to have come out of the period when my grandfather passed away in spring of '24. This revision finally gives it the level of polish it deserved. I hope you all enjoy.

That Was Twenty Years Ago (One Page Exercise)

I have worked at the Greenhollow Public Library for twenty-two years as of last week. I started as a book sorter back when I was just sixteen and have since been promoted to a full-time librarian. In all my twenty-two years I have never experienced something as strange as today’s encounter. I was at the front desk, placing new stickers on the spines of some old volumes when a man I vaguely recognized entered the foyer. He had with him a pristine copy of a very old printing of Atlas Shrugged. I greeted him as I usually do and he asked if he could return the book. I hadn’t seen a copy of Atlas Shrugged in our little branch since I was a teenager. In fact, I could only ever recall one person checking it out. And then it hit me. Twenty years ago I checked a copy of Atlas Shrugged out to a man who never brought it back. I still remember what he wore, a gray overcoat and polished shoes, and the color of his eyes as he scanned the volume on the shelf. Here he was in front of me. Apparently unaged. And wearing the same outfit. Surely this couldn’t be the same fellow?

He strolled up to the counter and placed the book down. I flipped the cover open and searched for the barcode. There wasn’t one. Instead, on the inside cover was a paper checkout slip. We haven’t used those in well over fifteen years. “Did you check this book out at our branch?” I asked, incredulous, while continuing to examine the volume. “Yes, about a month ago” he said matter-of-factly. I stared at the book in my hands quietly for a beat. “Are you sure? It doesn’t have the stickers we put on all our books” something was all wrong about this. My mouth went dry. “Perhaps they fell off” he said plainly “I know the usual return time is two weeks, how much is my late fee?”. I stared at him, then back at the book, then back at him. “I-I won’t charge you a late fee” what else could I say? It’s not like it would be in the system anyway. “Thank you young man,” he said with a strange glint in his eye “I’ve got some errands to run, good day.” With that he strolled out of the library. I flipped the book over and over in my hands, searching for a reasonable explanation to the whole episode. Finding none, I set the book on the counter and glanced out the glass entrance doors only to see him sort of – vanish. No puff of smoke, no theatrics, no tractor beam. Just gone.

You Should Read: The Red Tower

 

Hello dear readers of The Silent Page! I come to you once again with another issue of You Should Read! With a very special spooky report, in honor of October having finally arrived!

Before I reveal today’s story, a note on weird fiction as a genre. If you aren’t familiar with it, its a genre of stories that started in the late 19^th – early 20^th century. You may have read examples of it from H.P. Lovecraft who was perhaps the most famous author to ever pursue the subject. Supernatural entities, dead gods, and grotesque objects are all tenants of its stories. I, personally, am a big fan of older examples of the genre (especially the aforementioned Lovecraft) but find newer stories lacking. Often they turn the unique concepts of previous works into cliches or boring derivative works that don’t keep the fiction weird but instead turn it into a paste-pudding norm. The author of today’s story, however, has made something very strange indeed while still keeping with what this genre represents.

Today I am recommending The Red Tower by Thomas Ligotti, a strange story about a red tower (who could’ve guessed!) that produces… things… and delivers said things to strange places. It is entirely told from the perspective of a fellow who acts as a sort of unreliable narrator. He speaks of rumors of the red tower, its productions, its deliveries, its history, and its fate but we can’t be quite sure of what he says. Half prophet, half madman, the narrator guides us through the red tower’s dark evolution from a stain on the otherwise peaceful landscape to a manufacturer of “novelties” to a distributer of horrors. What better story to read this October?

As always here’s the link to The Red Tower on the Weird Fiction Review site:

The Red Tower

Better check your closets in case the tower delivered you something.

Silent Partner