The Creation of Shadows

 

“Good night, Jonathan,” his mother said from the doorway. “Remember to sleep on your side.”

              “Yes, mom,” he answered, “like always. You tell me that every night. I know.”

              “It’s just super important,” she answered. “As you get older, you’ll come to see why.”

              Every night at bedtime it was the same comment from his mother until Jonathan grew up and moved out to his own apartment. Lying down for bed each night, even though his mother was not there, he still heard her admonition. But it was one particular evening when his girlfriend spent the night that he laid on his back and she was curled up on him. Her head on his chest, one leg bent on top of his and her arm across his stomach. He initially felt odd lying there looking up at the ceiling, but the bliss of her warm embrace overruled everything else.

              When he woke the next morning, he was still on his back and his girlfriend could be heard in the kitchen, preparing him breakfast, he assumed. Sitting up, the sheet was stuck to his back and came up with him. Reaching behind him, he peeled the sheet away and turned to see a large black spot in the dead center of where he had been laying.

              Hurrying into the bathroom, he angled the mirror and looked to find a small open orifice directly between his shoulder blades crusted with a black substance. “Oh man, that is not good,” he thought. Pulling the sheets from the bed, he started a load of laundry and then took a shower.

              Hearing the bathroom door open, he heard his name called. “John, are you in the shower already?” his girlfriend asked. “I would have joined you. Anyway, breakfast is ready.”

              Kissing her as she left for the day. He sat at his laptop and tried to find something on the internet about what had happened to him the night before. Calling in sick for the day, he spent the next several hours researching but came up with nothing.

              Sleeping alone the next night, he slept on his side, as usual but experienced nothing like he had the night before. The next night, he slept alone again but flat on his back to again find the same orifice and black secretion. “This is crazy,” he thought. “Something is seriously wrong, and I cannot be doing laundry every day.”

              As Saturday approached, he had an idea. Staying up extra late that Friday night, when Saturday afternoon approached, he spread an old sheet on the bed and laid down for a nap. Setting up his cellphone to video record himself sleeping, he tossed and turned for a while but eventually fell asleep. Waking up two hours later, he felt the black stickiness on his back again and saved the video recording to his online account. Pulling it up on his laptop, he skimmed through the video as he watched himself struggle to fall asleep. Finally reaching his point of sleep, he watched each second for the next two hours and made a strange discovery.

              As he drifted into sleep and finally into REM, he could see small wisps of darkness swirl around him like smoke, coming from all directions and sink into his chest. Recording himself that evening, as he deliberately slept on his side, he watched the video the next morning but saw no darkness.

              Repeating the video process multiple times, he saw the same thing each night that he slept on his back. Sitting on the bus the next day, he overheard two older women speaking of chakras and the color of auras. Immediately struck by the familiarity of it all, he spent the next evening studying what they had spoken about.

              Making an appointment the next day with a local natural healer, he scheduled an aura reading with her. “I have to admit, Jonathan,” she said after the reading. “I have never seen colors like yours before. It’s as if your normal colors are polluted by threads of darkness, blacks and browns. I don’t know what to make of it.”

              “Well, that doesn’t sound good,” he answered.

              “I don’t know what it means,” she said, “but I would like you to try something for a week and then come back in for another reading.”

              That evening, as he prepared for bed, he laid on the tile floor in the kitchen and watched a cycle of colors play across his laptop screen from the kitchen counter. As he drifted toward sleep, he held onto the semi-sleep state and changed his thoughts to only of darkness and gathering it like fireflies in a swarm around him. Envisioning himself standing on the sidewalk in the midday sun, he poured the darkness out into the shadow that lay behind him.

              This was a process he repeated each night for the rest of the week. Walking that next Monday to the bus stop for his appointment, he looked at the shadows of those around him and comparatively speaking, his own was far, far darker than all others.

              Relaying his experiences to the healer, including the shadow observation at the bus stop, she suggested that try creating a second shadow that was independent of his natural one. Eventually succeeding in his shadow work, he began to notice that people began avoiding him on the sidewalk and in stores. He noticed strange looks and greater than normal distances between himself and others.

              Spending more time at home and more time sleeping, he noticed that the more he focused his darkness into shadows around him, the better he slept, but at the same time, the further people moved away from him.

              “Something is different about you, Jonathan,” they would say. The further they moved away, the more he saw the need to deal with his darkness. Soon his girlfriend left him, his co-workers stopped talking to him and the neighbors became strangers. Immersed in his introspection and self-work, he could feel a new sort of reality swirling around him.

              The last time he left his house, his shadow, once an elongated version of himself, became a yawning void that completely surrounded him. Like walking into the mouth of a cave, he alone could see the colors but everyone else only saw darkness. His sleep became sweet, and his personal observations became true but he came to realize that he was completely alone and surrounded by darkness. He had become himself, but he had lost everything and everyone.

A Trinity of Unequals

 

It came as a great surprise when the Smith family gave birth to triplets. Mrs. Smith, of course, was tickled pink at the prospect of having three babies. “The more babies, the better,” she said upon waking up from the delivery. Mr. Smith, on the other hand, could only see his grocery bill doubling or even tripling in size. Overwhelmed with the sheer volume of work that lay ahead of them, he knew that he would be bottle feeding one of the little tykes while his wife fed the other two.

              Be that as it may, twenty years later, Mr. Smith knew that his earlier plans of handing over the farm to his son, now needed to be changed. “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians,” he could hear in the back of his mind. “Boys, I had fully intended to hand over the farm to my son but as there are now three of you, I’m going to have to divide up the land into equal parts and help you as much as I can with establishing two additional farms. But I’m convinced that you all will do just fine.”

              Plans were made, product and building materials were ordered and the idea of Smith and Son farms had shifted into Smith Brothers Farms. The community had gathered and over the course of three weekends, barns were built for each farm and trees were cleared to make room for crops.

              Boris, the first born, though only by seconds, called for first use of the team and the plow. “I’ve got crops I need to get into the ground as soon as possible,” he said. “I’ll work as quick as I can and then y’all can do what you need to do after that.”

              Stan, the next born, again only by seconds, assured his brother that the timing would be fine as his crops would be perfectly fine going in a few days later than Boris’. “Just let me know when you’re done, brother,” he said. “I’ll come over and get the team at your word.”

              Merle, the last born and clearly the least motivated, merely said, “Meh, whatever. I’ll get to it when I get to it.”

              The first inklings of summer arrived, and Boris stood at the edge of his field, thrilled at the phenomenal growth his crops had made. Standing with a great smile and his wife under his arm, he pointed out each crop and called them by name. “The corn is doing really well, so is the wheat, the beans and the potatoes. Darlin, we have a big summer ahead of us with all this food on the way. Our pantry will be stuffed to the brim by autumn. This is really good news.”

              “Let’s walk over to Stan’s place,” his wife said. “From what he’s been saying, it sounds like their crops are doing really well too.”

              “Let me grab my rifle,” he said, “and we’ll cut through the woods. That’ll be a lot quicker than following the road around.”

              Walking through a lush, green pasture, they stepped up onto Stan’s porch and knocked on the door. Almost immediately the door opened. “Hey, Boris, what brings you over?” Stan asked, motioning for them to come inside.

              “Oh, not too much,” Boris said. “We were out marveling at how great our crops are doing and thought we’d come by and see what’s happening over here.”

              “All right, sounds good,” he said. “Come on, we can walk around the property, and I’ll show you what we’ve got.” Slipping on his boots, he led his brother and wife around the back of his property. “This here are our succulents,” he said. “I’ve had a pretty big learning curve with these beauties. You’ve got to be really careful not to water them too much. And over here are the roses and tulips. I put these two together because one requires a lot of attention and the other is much easier. They kind of balance each other out. And finally, here is our field of wildflowers. These, of course, are super easy. Rainfall handles most of their watering needs but, if you remember a couple weeks back when it didn’t rain, I did have to supplement a bit.”

              “Oh Stan, this is so beautiful,” Boris’ wife said. “You have done a wonderful job.”

              “So, Stan,” Boris said. “This does look really nice and all but what are you gonna eat during the winter? I mean, I can’t imagine tulips and roses taste that good.”

              “No, no brother, you’ve got it all wrong,” he answered. “We don’t eat the flowers; I have a contract with a distribution company. They buy the flowers from me and then I go buy the food I need. It’s a win-win for me. I get to see all the beauty of these fields and I get a lot of money when I sell them off.”

              “Ah, oh, hmm,” Boris said. “I guess that makes sense.”

              “Hey, what say we walk over to Merle’s place and see how his crops are doing,” Stan said.

              Walking back around the front of the house, they passed by the barn, but Boris suddenly stopped at the main entrance. “Hey Stan, is that the plow and the team in your barn?” he asked.

              “What the…” he answered. “Yeah, I wonder… that’s weird. Merle was supposed to pick those up weeks ago.”

              Following the road around to Merle’s farm, they could see from the driveway that little to nothing had been done. Approaching the front porch, they found Merle sound asleep in a hammock and an empty bottle of vodka across his chest. “Damn, that ain’t good,” Boris said.

              “Merle, hey Merle,” Stan called out. “Wake up.”

              Startled at the sudden calling of his name, he sat up and nearly fell out of the hammock.

              “Oh, hey guys,” he said. “What’s up?”

              “Actually, we were going to ask you the same thing,” Boris said. “I was just over at Stan’s and the team and plow are still in his barn. Didn’t you borrow them several weeks back?”

              “Oh, ha, yeah about that,” he said. “I thought about it but then it occurred to me that so much stuff grows naturally and on its own, that I thought, why even bother planting crops. I’ll just harvest whatever happens to come up.”

              “Oh man,” Boris said. “That is not a good idea, Merle. Have you even looked in your fields? There ain’t nothin’ but weeds out there. And a lot of them at that. You’re gonna be eating weird, if at all this winter.”

              “Pfft, I’m not worried about it,” he said. “Something always works out.”

              “Uh… well… okay,” Boris said. “I guess we’ll be going now. Just let us know if you need anything.”

              Leaving the porch, the two brothers walked to the end of the driveway and stopped to look out across the weed scattered field. “Man, Boris,” Stan said. “This is not going to end well. I just hope he asks for help if he needs it.”

              “Yeah, we’ll see, I guess,” he answered. “Winter is only a couple of months away.”

              Standing in his pantry as the first flakes of winter snow fell, Boris couldn’t but help feel a sense of pride. The planting, harvesting and preparation had been hard work but doing so had provided well for his family. Looking at the rows and rows of canned goods, he could only see his youngest brother in his hammock holding an empty vodka bottle. “Well, I guess he figured something out,” he thought.

              The snow piled deep for the next month and finally with a break in the snowfall, Boris put on his winter clothes and snowshoes and went for a walk. Looking across the field, he could see bright lights and a plume of smoke coming from Stan’s house. Continuing on, he reached Merle’s house, strangely dark and lacking any sign of activity, including smoke.

              Removing his snowshoes, he stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door. Listening for anything, he heard nothing. Knocking again, he waited a few minutes and then knocked again. Putting his shoulder into the door, the slim wooden shim snapped under his weight and the door swung open. The house was dark and cold, just as cold as outside and it seemed that no one had done anything inside for quite some time.

              “Merle? Are you here?” he called out. But again, he heard nothing. Walking from room to room, he lastly stepped into the bedroom and could see the shape of his brother under the covers. “Hey, Merle, there you are,” he said. “Everyone has been worried about you. What’s going on?”

              The figure in the bed, oddly small, remained motionless. Reaching over and shaking his shoulder, his brother rolled to his back to reveal sunken eyes in a gaunt and dried out face. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Boris shouted, backing up. “Damn, oh man, this is so bad.” It was then that he noticed that Merle’s body was unusually short and thin. Pulling back the covers, he realized that the body that once was Merle had no legs and only one arm.

              Running from the room, he leaned against the counter in the kitchen and looking into the sink, saw a collection of bones, the meat scraped clean from them. “Well, I guess he had something to eat, at least for a while,” he said.

              “Oh my god, what kind of bones are these?” Picking up a pile of small narrow bones, he laid them out and realized that these perfectly matched up to the bones in his hand, and then it was femur bones he saw next. Sliding to the floor, he held his head in his hands. “Merle, what did you do?”

              Standing up and slowly walking around the room, he found a long hunting knife, a bone saw and several pools of dried blood on the kitchen floor. Swooning, he held onto the back of the couch and tried not to pass out. Walking outside, he made the long walk to Stan’s house.

Curly and Alfie

 

The weather could not have been any better as Alfie lay on the porch in a perfect square of golden sunshine. The golden sun, the blue sky and the gentle breeze all contributed to his casual in and out nap for the last two hours. Rolling to his side, all four legs stretched out into a glorious and stirring motivation. Looking out across the lawn, he swore that he could hear the grass calling him. “Alfie,” it called, “Alfie, come run and play on me. I’m here for you.”

              Standing up and stretching again, he let out a wide mouthed yawn and a vigorous shake. Sprinting down the steps, he ran the perimeter of the yard at full speed, circling the vast, grassy expanse at least four times. Flopping to his side, he breathed heavily for a moment but then caught the scent of the most glorious smell.

              “Oh, oh… what is that?” he thought. Sniffing around the grass, he finally found the spot and dropped onto his back, directly on top of it. “Oh yeah, oh yeah,” he thought, “this is awesome.” Twisting from side to side, he finally stopped and sitting up caught sight of the orange tennis ball. “Oh hey, there it is,” he thought. “I haven’t seen that ball in like forever.” Grabbing it and trying not to drool too much, he returned to the porch and placed his front paws on the screen door.

              Attempting a small bark with the ball still in his mouth, he waited a moment and then barked again.

              “Hey boy, did you find your ball?” the young woman said from inside the house. Pushing the screen door open, she took the ball and tossed it across the yard. Like a shot, Alfie bolted across the grass, retrieved the ball and dropped it at her feet. “That’s a good boy, that’s a good boy,” she said, scratching him behind the ears.

              “You’re pathetic,” he heard from the opposite side of the porch. Curly, the older and certainly far more grumpy other dog, looked at him with contempt. “Get a spine, you simpleton,” he said. “All they are trying to do is tire you out. You need to show them who’s boss.”

              “I don’t know why you’re so grumpy,” Alfie said. “Master and lady are nice people, and they take care of us. You shouldn’t be like that.”

              “Here, watch this,” he said. Slowly standing up, Curly picked up the tennis ball and held it out to lady.

              “Oh, really? Curly?” she said. “Do you want me to throw the ball for you?”

              Tossing the ball across the grass, Curly waited until it bounced into the back flowerbed. Slowly trotting to it, he walked past it and proceeded to dig up the bulb on one of the tulips that linked the back fence.

              “Curly, Curly, Curly, no, no, no,” she yelled. “Not the flowers. Bring me the ball.”

              Pulling the bulb from the dirt, he trotted back across the grass and dropped it at her feet.

              “Bad dog, bad dog,” she said, swatting his backside with her flip-flop. Picking up the bulb, she went back into the house.

              “Now why did you do that?” Alfie said. “That was just mean. You know that she loves to look at those flowers. That ruins them when you dig them up.”

              “Pfft, don’t be such a pansy,” Curly said. “You need to think for yourself and do whatever you want. “What makes them think that they are the boss? Why should we do what they want?”

              “Well, duh,” he answered. “They own everything. They pay for everything, and they take care of us. That’s why.” Turning his back, he returned to his side of the porch and lay down, facing the opposite direction.

              Alfie’s ears perked up as he heard the distinct beeping of lady’s phone coming through the open window. “Hey honey,” he heard lady say. “He did it again. Yep, the bulbs. I don’t know what he’s thinking. It’s like he deliberately is being naughty. Plus he’s just mean and grumpy most of the time anyway. Ok, we can talk when you get home.”

              Looking over his shoulder, he could see Curly sleeping on his side of the porch, completely oblivious to the conversation that just took place. “Well, I’m not saying anything to him,” Alfie thought. “He brought this on himself. I wonder what Master and lady are going to do?”

              Later that evening, as the sky just began to grow dark, Alfie woke up to the sound of the screen door creaking open. Cracking open one eye, he saw Master walk out onto the porch and grab Curly by the collar. Dragging him across the grass, he attached his collar to the short chain attached to the doghouse. “Oh, wow,” he thought. “Curly is not going to like that. That chain is really short.”

              “You’ve been bad, Curly, bad dog, bad dog,” Master said, as he walked back into the house.

              Watching Curly slink into the doghouse, Alfie in some sense felt bad for him. “I just don’t get it,” he thought. “Everything is so good here. Why is he like that? The rules are very simple.”

              Several hours after dinner, Alfie went into the grass, found the tennis ball, and played catch with himself.

              “What are you doing?” Curly said from inside the doghouse.

              “I’m playing catch,” he answered. “That seems pretty obvious.”

              “Well, come here for a minute,” Curly said. “I want to show you something really obvious.”

              Dropping the ball, Alfie trotted across the grass to the doghouse. “Yeah, what is it?” he asked.

              “Here, stick your head inside,” he answered. “You have to be in here to see it.”

              “Uh, okay, I suppose,” he said. Walking to the opening, he looked inside and immediately felt a set of very powerful jaws dig into his throat. The strike was so fast and so strong that he didn’t even have time to respond. His body fell limp and he lay, motionless, partway in the opening.

              Dragging the now dead Alfie into the doghouse, Curly rubbed his neck and collar area on the bloody pool that had collected in the opening. Stepping over his now dead partner, he pulled backwards as hard as he could, nearly choking himself. Finally, the collar popped off, made slippery by the blood. Glancing toward the house, he saw and heard nothing from inside.

              Running to the side yard, he found the broken fence slat and slid through the small opening out into the neighbor’s yard, unhindered by any sort of fence. Trotting to the sidewalk, he began heading east. “I think I’ll go to Noddingham,” he thought. “Who needs people anyway?”

The Crane Family: A Fairy Tale

 

The Crane family had been longtime residents of the Black Valley, with a history going back at least one thousand years. Their land was robust and varied, producing many crops and creating many useful products. Just as with any family, they had seen their good years and bad years. On good terms with their neighbors, they enjoyed the yearly holiday celebrations and frequently exchanged gifts on the holiest of days.

              There was one year in particular, immediately following a very difficult time for their family, that surrounding neighbors began behaving in an odd way. Though known as a particularly godly family and had been for centuries, the neighbors seemed to forget this and viral, young men began paying more attention to the Crane household.

              Feats of strength and ability began to be displayed with invitations to celebrations heretofore uncelebrated by the Cranes. The matriarch began to take notice of the viral, young men and her attention began to drift. The family traditions and faithfulness that had been a part of the household for so long seemed to become rather drab and boring. Sending and receiving the occasional flirtatious note, the matriarch began spending more and more time away from home and in the parties of her surrounding neighbors.

              Whispers and furtive glances started to become the norm and the young women, normally under the matriarch's tutelage soon became concerned. More fighting and arguments began to be heard, something foreign to the typically peaceful household until finally one of the neighboring young men became more and more a regular part of the household until one day, the matriarch drove the father away.

              “He’s just a grumpy old man,” she would say, typically in whispers to the younger women. “Something new and better needed to be done and I’ve finally done it.” The young girls, confused and concerned, had no answer or comment to make in return. It was at that point that the Crane household began to change. More and more egregious comments about the father began to be made, slight twisting of the stories and little white lies were spoken until many in the home became lost in the maelstrom of narrative and deception.

              Two of the older sons in the household, Donald and Lawrence, sat in the east garden drinking tea, when they both started talking at the same time. “Something needs to be done,” said Donald, and, at the same time, “Something is very, very wrong with our home,” said Lawrence. After pausing, Donald finally spoke again.

              “I know that our house has been here for a very long time, but this business with mother’s new boyfriend and father’s absence cannot go unresponded. If we are going to save what is left of our family, we need to break away from it all. The direction they are leading the family is destructive.”

              “I agree,” said Lawrence. “We should declare our intention, sad as it is, and create our own new family lines. I hate to say it but we have been driven to this by the depravity of our neighbors. Maybe we can get some support from the Sarov family to the north of us. They have always been good friends and have helped us every time we needed help.”

              “Agreed,” Donald said. “Let’s send them a note immediately. I do not think we should hesitate in this. We need to act before any more damage is done.”

              Drafting their letter, they called for a carrier to deliver the note. Spending less and less time with the other members of the family, the two brothers could feel the animosity building. First it was the occasional unkind word or rude gesture until finally a fist fight broke out between Donald and his mother’s boyfriend. Receiving a black eye and blow to the kidneys, which resulted in the peeing of blood, Donald had enough. “I’m moving out,” he declared to Lawrence in the darkness of the back patio that evening. “I think I need to sever my household from all of this and cut myself off from this sacrilege. Will you join me?”

              “Brother, this is difficult,” he answered. “I saw what the boyfriend did to you. I will join you if we can agree on inviting any of the other siblings to join us. We cannot simply leave without saying something.”

              “Agreed,” Donald said. “I’m certain Curtis is in agreement with us. We should talk to him first.”

              The conversation was had and Curtis, fully in agreement with his brothers, hesitated at the idea of breaking off and being on his own. “I’m thinking,” he said, “that instead of solitude, I would join the Sarov family. Let me talk to my family about this and I’ll let you know tomorrow. It really is just a formality, for I know they are in near perfect agreement with us.”

              Sitting at the dinner that Donald knew would be the last for the entire Crane family, a heated argument started on the south end of the table. Curtis and the boyfriend had started yelling and soon blows were exchanged. Horrible words were thrown about and the two brothers hurried their children from the room, to avoid exposure to the hatred and profanity. Rushing out through the front door, Curtis disappeared into the darkness of the night.

              “Where do you think he is going,” Lawrence asked Donald.

“I would suspect that he is rallying support from the Sarov’s,” he answered. “I really hope this doesn’t turn into an actual war. I just wish people would talk more and be a little more understanding. Everyone seems to have forgotten just who the Crane family is.”

Later that evening, after all the others had gone to bed, Lawrence and Donald sat around a campfire discussing the events of the evening dinner. “I think this is the last straw, Lawrence,” Donald said. “We need to act now. Things have only been getting worse and worse. I know every family has its issues and troubles come and go as the generations pass but this is a completely different story. Our mother has taken it too far. We need to cut off ties with them. I just wish more of the family would join us.”

“Okay, then,” Lawrence answered. “I guess our hand has been forced. Though I am not suggesting that we merge with the Sarov’s, we can reach out to them for help in case this defection becomes ugly.”

And become ugly, it did. Soon, weapons from the new boyfriend's family began pouring into the Crane household and despite all objections to the contrary, they all seemed to be pointed toward Donald and Lawrence’s property. Fences were built and hostilities increased. “Just leave us alone and everything will be fine,” they argued. But the Crane family would have nothing to do with.

“You can’t just leave like that,” they argued. “What about family? What about growth and maturation? Why are you so insistent on holding onto the past? Let’s move forward and become a better family.”

“There’s no longer even any point in talking to them,” Donald said. “They seem to have forgotten everything that we once were. We need to force this thing through but I don’t think we can do it alone. All of these weapons pointed in our direction are extremely unsettling. I’m sure the Sarov’s would be more than happy to send some help our way. We need to act on this right away.”

A brief note was delivered to Donald’s home that evening from the Sarov’s to the north. “Yes, brothers, we are more than happy to help you in this. We have been watching with heavy hearts as the Crane household has descended into what we would consider madness. Aid will begin arriving tomorrow.”

Letting out a long breath, Lawrence sat down with his head in his hands. “I hope we’re doing the right thing,” he said. “I really don’t want trouble but, I know, I know, we need to do something to save our families.”

As the light of the next day arrived, so did four brothers, heavily armed, from the Sarov family. Exchanging greetings and hugs, a map was laid out on the table and lines of demarcation were drawn. “I’m so sorry that it had to come to this,” said one of the brothers. “We’ve been watching the Crane family descend into chaos and it has grieved us deeply. We all believe that you are doing the right thing. We are more than happy to help and in fact, would be happy if you joined our family, as your brother Curtis has done. There is strength and peace in unity. But just know that we’ll be there for you.”

As news of the Crane household divisions spread, so too did the deception and animosity. Soon many of the other neighbors became involved with the sale of more weapons and threats of rejection and relational severance. Communication increased between the brothers' households and the Sarov family. Soon more brothers began to arrive from the north and the aggression increased.

“This is not what is supposed to be happening,” Lawrence said. “Why won’t they just leave us alone or at least just talk this out.” 

“We’ve tried talking, Lawrence,” Donald said, “but they just aren’t interested in being reasonable. We have to take a stand for all that is good and holy. Sometimes the majority is not right. Just because it’s legal and approved by many does not mean that it's true. It amazes me at how quickly they have all forgotten who the Crane family is and what we have stood for all of these generations.”