Unclean

A small, iron bell was ringing and the market square emptied rapidly, as a band of men shuffled dejectedly through the town. They moved like convicts, even though they wore the free man's garb. Every time I see them, I am disgusted, every time I see myself, I simply cannot believe it. "Unclean! Unclean! Do not touch, do not walk on tainted ground before the priest comes! Unclean! Unclean!" Called the town crier, and the folk were not slow to obey his directions. The pack of the unclean ambled through the town, and I with them.



"Don't be such a bitter herb!" My brother's voice came calling me to a memory. Years ago, before winter fell onto my skin forever, I had happiness of a sort. My brother and I would wander the countryside in search of game or fun. We would... talk for days at a time, or so it seemed. Golden days, languid days, far gone days. A shriek of terror brought me back to the present, only to see the face of a cowering woman rejecting my presence with her fear.



Why, why did we have to go to town? Why must we be revealed for all to see, for all our memories of goodness and life to be squashed and tainted in the greedy flames of hatred. I could smell their fear, and I could see the question in their eyes as well, why, why must we bear the presence of the unclean? Better to die than to be infected with the winter skin, with the ice burning away all feeling and mobility.



True, all true. Many times I had contemplated the knife, or simply wandering into the wilderness where the bear lived, and wolves prowled. Yet still, somehow, I held on. Not to hope, but to the slim chance of some cure or a reverse of my malady. It was known to happen rare, as it was, but I never dwelt on these thoughts of escape or rescue. For as soon as I looked upon the scales on my skin I knew, all the way down to my bones, I knew I was stuck. Stuck to live the thrice cursed life, with no feeling in my body, no feeling in my heart, and no feeling in my soul. I was numb, frozen to the core.



Every friend I had in life, for I had died even though I live, was now a sworn enemy, every cherished memory or treasured gift was turned into ashes in my mouth. I was useless, and worse, my only use was to be reviled and rejected. While the group of lepers were lingering in the town a stranger approached the place where we were gathered. He wore tattered clothes and walked with a sure stride. It seemed to me he looked only at me, even as he scrutinized someone else.

My eyes betrayed me and followed his every movement. I heard someone whisper a name, Jeshua, and then my own legs had no more strength in them. I wept, I had not the slightest strength in me except for sadness. I knew I had no right to even look at him, to even think or hope he would heal me. What was I but an abomination of hate? What was I but someone degrading into a living corpse? I had no right to ask... but I could mention. "Lord, if you will you can make me clean." I said, sounding dejected and forlorn.

"I will, be clean."

Dt

Being Truly Numb

Yesterday my pinkie and ring finger on my left hand went completely numb on the third joint. Whenever I use them it feels like they are "asleep". I have retained the dexterity inherent in them but not the ability to feel much heat or cold. I can tell when something is touching the tip by the way it travels like a wave up my finger. Because of this I can sympathize with people who live with numb appendages or paralyzation, or even leprosy. I don't believe the numbness will last very long but I intend to write a short story on the subject from the point of view of someone who suffers a condition similar to this. It is not ready yet, so be patient.

Until then,

The Stranger

Reset

Greetings, this is the Stranger and hopefully the following will not cause you to flee and come again no more. Poetry for me is... like standing underneath a waterfall and causing some of the water to flow in a certain direction using your arms and shoulders pointed in a uniform direction and angle. In other words, it comes when it wants and it rarely meets the emotion that spawned it. This short story is a free style poem who met a biography. Guess who it's about and I'll tell you if you're right! So enjoy the fruits of what the Gaelic would call the "awen" or the breath of the soul.

Green symbols danced randomly in the screen while a strange and rhythmic synthesized sound repeated on the speakers placed around the desk. The room was dimly lit by the half moon lazily sending its rays through the only window. One door led in, it was shut and had many locks placed upon it. All else was vague in the semi-darkness which covered everything with an obscuring haze. All else, except for a sleeping figure collapsed half on the desk and half in an office chair.

The teen aged boy had greatly unkempt hair, an old and well worn shirt, and long slightly baggy jeans on. He looked like he had been sleeping for a great while because dust had settled on his shirt. The haunting sound on the speakers changed its tune to something more akin to an Indian settar and the tempo became random and quick. The inscrutable green letters reduced in their haste to appear at various places and times and to just as quickly vanish; and upon the completion of their total banishment and the descent of a blank screen these words became evident in a white text.

Server reboot system online... Please wait... Please wait... Server reboot complete, Server self diagnostic initialized, running... Server self diagnostic complete. The Server is ready to operate the System, Server contacting System. Please wait...

When the Server was contacting the System the boy awoke and was coherent in time to read the words. What he saw next was this, Server System link initialized, transmitting data at 800 mbps, Server System link stable at 800 mbps. After a few more moments the boy stretched and turned on the light. Only one of the bulbs in the ceiling fan was working and the light produced was only slightly more powerful than the moonlight but the dark haze did draw back from the obscure objects and the boy quickly categorized them into their proper place in his brain. The box full of keepsakes, a chair with a bin of cds on it, a cabinet full of various useless items, and a tiny fridge and microwave.

He foraged in the fridge and salvaged some food from what may or may not be safe to eat. When he sat back down the following words were awaiting him on the screen.

Server System ready for operation: Command?

He began to dialog with the system.

Enter subnet drive number 6, run self diagnostic program 3. Execute.

Server System diagnosing subnet drive number 6. Please wait...

The boy had been having trouble getting online lately and because of the unresponsiveness of the computer he had been running diagnostic programs on every function of the computer. He ate his unidentified food as he waited and just as he finished the computer signalled its completion.

Subnet drive number 6 has a malfunction in .dll file number 777. Warning, if you attempt to repair the file the subnet drive may totally fail. Do you wish to run repair? Y/N.

Y.

Server System running repair program on subnet drive number 6. Running...

There was at this point no music from the speakers and the only sound was a rapid succession of high toned clicks. The screen blanked out for a moment and then reinitialized. When it did these red words appeared on the screen.

Server System repair of subnet drive number 6 a failure, the subnet drive has been scrambled. Server System recommends tech support. Server System will reinitialize Safe Mode in 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1... Goodbye.

The boy, having finally run out of other options went to his door, unlocked every one of his many locks and called for tech support. Who also happened to be his father. From then on out the Server and the System were in repair and the boy could e-mail his invisible friend who was now so close even though he was so far away.

Dt