‘Do you believe in time travel?’
Donnie Darko (2001)
I shook a man’s hand on Tuesday and by Thursday he was dead. Life cues the credits much too early, as a good movie you never want it to end and you’re left with an empty popcorn box filled with regret for not getting the free refill because the good part is coming up, you can feel it. Afterwards you realize how much you’ve been ripped off, but it’s too late, and throw out your proof of purchase along with the empty sweets, here one moment gone the next.
His obituary didn’t say how he died, just that he was a loving father and husband, recently widowed. We are only given a set amount of time to live, and I think half of that time is attributed to luck, the other half to love. When you lose the one you love, life is just a fifty-fifty chance.
As a kid you think the first person you meet and fall in love with is your soul mate. What they didn’t tell you is how new love feels every time it hits you, and how different it is for each person you fall for.
Love is as precious as life, and luck has nothing to do with it, but judging from that man’s smile after our hands unhooked, chances are he lived a good life.
She fled into the desert, and the stranger followed. It was getting hot, the sun hot on the back of his neck. That pack mule dropped dead between the two towns who’s names were as faint as the horizon piercing the desert. He couldn’t help but think she had something to do with that. There were miles of brown sand caked on his cracking boots, and his holster strap, criss-crossed across his chest, was in need of generous oiling. He had come upon a shanty, her smell lingered in the stale air. Inside was a man hovering over an open fire, cooking something that smelled like fish.
“Are you she,” he said to the man.
“Missed her. Maybe two, three days ago. Perhaps longer.”
“Have you food and lodge?”
“Indeed. If you’ll spare my life.” He looked at the revolver tucked on the hip.
“Be spared if your words hold true.”
“Won’t know until it’s too late.”
This woman whom he chased was known to create elaborate illusions. The sun could have cooked his brain to irrationality. However, the grime on the walls, crawling from the top of the wooden ceiling to the bottom of the dry, dry ground felt too real to be a misdirection. So he took his chances with this man, in hopes of catching she who flees.
“Head North,” said the man. “She told me East but I seen her head North.”
The stranger would go West, then, and chase her until she stopped running.
His guns were ready.
Edwin had long given up convincing his 15-year-old daughter to go outside and enjoy life. Who was he to talk about enjoying life.
Clifford wasn’t sure what it was, or whence it did came
Why, the Monster in the Attic didn’t even have a name.
Where the curtains ruffle and light escapes the moon, sits Buddha offering palms up to the skies. Atop the window of existential...