Anathema On The Road Writing with Nietzsche

ANATHEMA

Henry Hunter

Conditioned air presses small bumps against my sleeves. Fingertips stretch towards the icy blue dial. I pause.

An organ bellows and violins scream, a lady climbs to a stunning vibrato! This must be Bach’s… Red light

Chest tight, eyes white, inhale a hissing curse. The tire’s screech lurches

to a halt.

A prayer of thanks dies, with the flap of cardboard against sunken ribs.

Eyes float above the blocky scribbles: “Please, I” “First”? no… “Thirst”?

I cannot help,

But look.

Dark sores chase, exhausted veins. Thin blue ridges collapse, sinking beneath bony ravines.

Oh God, outside my window. How his dark eyes blaze out from that festering canyon.

Desperate fingers wiggle inside empty front pockets.

If only I might slip into the soft glow of my phone’s screen. Anything but what rots in the fresh morning air. Hate, for the way he makes me feel my wallet. An unyielding bump in a plush leather seat.

I watch the pane slide down. His cracked lips split open, confessing a smile of shattered small teeth.

A slur of thanks, crackles, into croaks, like shaken gravel. His fists thrust against lungs, filled but without air.

Bent over, he chokes on a gentle cool breeze.

I too cough at the reek, that tastes like vinegar. Mash the button and the window rises once again.

Yet, the glass does not blind. Watch his rhythmic wretches. He rocks back and forth and his back…

So many curved, shallow streams of crimson. Etched by long yellow nails. Each shallow slice tracing the path of tiny creatures. Feet crawling unseen but always felt.

Look straight! His pocked face is rising. Indifference, swallowing back the hard lump.

I must not turn. I fear the mist in his eyes. Afraid if I look, I might only see that same sick bastard.

Green Light

ON THE ROAD

Henry Hunter

A crushed shell Red blood drips onto pavement I hear the familiar hiss of him shrinking Only yellow eyes peer out

Fear? Anguish? Nothing? No, I feel the cracks in his body Mercy is the bloody shell Blurring between blinks

The shell rests on green grass A spot in my garden Yet only leaves rustle In the cool Autumn breeze

I walk away But dream of his outstretched head Looking back across the garden I dream that my childhood The turtle, crawled on

Henry Hunter studied English at the U.S. Naval Academy and is currently studying English Writing at Wheaton College. He is a new writer aspiring to express beauty through language. His interests also include Arabic, philosophy, and Eastern Christianity. Currently he is learning creative writing under Dr. Niho Nonaka and is hoping to study at Oxford for the upcoming fall semester.

WRITING WITH NIETZSCHE

Henry Hunter

The more abstract a truth which one wishes to teach, the more one must first entice the senses.

Entice? Well yes, of course. You must lure the tentative creature from the cool recesses of the self. Waft the air with lurid imagery and break off bits of allusion to sprinkle along the ground.

Watch! His upturned nose sniffs in the shadows. Cautiously he emerges, unable to resist the musk of graphic scenes. Before you know it, the creature is scouring the ground for those scattered references. Their familiar flavors are irresistible when glazed in your unique zest. But your work is not finished.

Slip from your perch and snatch a belief from the now neglected refuge. Slaughter quietly and skewer it over a crackling blaze. Do not be alarmed as its body begins to blacken. Trust that the smoke will reach the creature during its gluttonous craze.

Excellent! You have done well. Following his nose, he stumbles past the threshold. Blindly he wanders into the thick of the unknown. Oh my, look here: he does not even see the symbols lurking in the darkness. This is good, they would be all too happy to claim him as their own.

Finally, the creature topples into your clearing. Ah yes, how he gags. Watch his eyes widen in fear. The source of that savory scent is now shown by the fire; it is his own god who lies charred over the dying flames.

Now! Strike the creature with the hammer of abstraction. Bash his naivety against the hard edge of truth. Rain down bonecrunching cracks that bludgeon him into absurdity. Swing the full weight of meaningless onto the soft-headed youth.

Alright, alright that is quite enough. I know, this is far too much fun. But do let him crawl away to expire. Oh yes, I agree. Perhaps the next one may put up a fight.