PRAIRIE.
Short story. Southern Gothic. Religious Themes.
Have you ever felt what it’s like to be the only one awake for miles?
It is 2:37 AM and I cannot sleep. I sit at my kitchen table with a newspaper that I can’t bring myself to read. This house, like the acres of land surrounding it, is devoid of a single human soul besides my own. Outside my window, the landscape is dark and motionless; not even the tall grass or the oak leaves sway in the night air. Between the heavy ticks of the old clock, the dead silence is broken by the sound of my breath. I try to distract myself with the weekly crossword puzzle on the back of the paper.
My first hint: “An open grassland,” seven letters. This one is easy. I neatly fill in the seven empty boxes with the word “PRAIRIE,” amused that the solution is so familiar. For a moment, the moon becomes visible through the window and casts subtle rays of light throughout the prairie. The shadows of trees and tall grass suddenly look like people rising out from the dirt, and the broken silhouette of the old windmill contorts into something menacing in the distance. A bit shaken, I convince myself that my late-night paranoia is getting to me. Then, just as quickly as it came, the moon disappears behind thick clouds. The landscape descends into total darkness, and for a moment I think, that’s what death must be like.
It is now 2:48 AM. I shake my head as if to erase my thoughts and turn my attention back to the crossword puzzle. I fill in a few more solutions, “WINDOW,” “MORNING,” and “OLD,” before the next hint catches my eye. “Eating the apple,” three letters. Pondering for a moment, I fill in three letters with my pen: “SIN.”
Gazing back out the window into complete darkness, I begin to wonder about heaven and hell. As a catholic-raised child, I was always terrified of going to hell; now, I’m only vaguely religious. Still, the fear of sin comes back to me as if I’m once again an anxious ten-year-old. That’s what I feel like, anyway, sitting at my kitchen table past my bedtime and cowering in the face of the darkness. Only tonight, I have no parents to protect me. I am trapped alone in this house until morning. I wonder if I will walk the path of death in this solitude. The thought sends a cold shiver throughout my body.
I mentally scold myself for inducing my own paranoia. Back to the crossword, I fill in “SOUL,” “LIGHT,” and “RUN.” The light above me flickers and I nearly jump out of my skin. I take a deep breath to slow my racing heart. It’s an old light, anyway. When was the last time I changed the bulb? My memory fails me and I brush the thought aside. I take notice of the time, 2:55 AM, and decide I will try to go back to bed at 3:00. The house feels so cold. Holding my shawl tight against my chest, I ignore the discomfort and fill in a few more lines. I’m nearing the end of the crossword. I now have “TRAPPED” and “DEAD.” The next hint says, “It never ends,” and almost intuitively I fill in, “TIME.” Time might be the only permanent thing on this planet. It doesn’t stop for anything, even death; It just keeps on going without you. The idea hits me that purgatory must be worse than hell. I imagine being trapped endlessly between life and death, between night and morning. How does one know when they’re dead? How does one escape the cycle? More importantly, how long have I been sitting at this table, waiting for morning to come?
As the hour hand finally reaches the three, it stops moving. I wait for the discordant chime signaling the end of the hour, but it never comes. I lose the comfort of the constant ticking, forced to sit in suffocating silence. I consider changing the clock’s batteries when I realize I’m completely frozen. I want to run to my bed and hide under my covers, but there is only one word left in the crossword puzzle. Determined to finish and prove myself brave, or perhaps still immobilized by fear, I read the hint: “You’re not _____,” five letters. Some are already filled in. I try slotting in a few different words, but only one fits. I don’t want to believe it. I keep trying to come up with anything else, but no other word comes to mind. Shakily, I grip the pen and write as neatly as I can:
“ALIVE.”
You’re not alive. I savor the phrase in my mouth like sour candy, then force it down my throat. I understand, now, why I’ve felt so uneasy—why I keep seeing figures in the darkness. This is not my home. It never was. I crumple the newspaper and throw it in the trash.
A beaded rosary sits on the countertop that I don’t recall seeing before. A pipe organ begins playing funeral songs in the distance. An ethereal chorus sings my name, rising as I approach the rosary. I adorn myself with the Lord’s protection for one last time. The knot in my throat condenses into a frail courage. Then, I make my way towards the front door, shutting the light behind me. Every creak in the floorboards sounds like a wail as the shadows rapidly close in.
I would like to believe that I’m the only one awake for miles; That I am not is what terrifies me. Holding the old rosary close to my chest, I open the door and step into the expansive night. I breathe in the fresh, cold air. I embrace the enveloping darkness. There is a sharp, animalistic cry in the distance, and the air is alive with spirits.
Spirals
First poem in the "Spirals" collection.
Desert of a soul
like thick, dry, brambles creeping up and over
the dying poet, lying face down in the
suffocating heat.
The summer solstice.
A scarab.
The eclipse, an omen of death.
Vultures circling above, watching, waiting.
Tomorrow it will rain, and the grass will grow again.
The poet will return only to die again next summer,
his perils forgotten.
Break the cycle, I scream.
Get out of here, and don’t come back.
It’s useless. I am an onlooker.
The vultures dive in to pick apart the carcass.
And so, everything spirals.
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