The Collectors, Page 2
Mark Holtzclaw
Molly's imagination was filling in and coloring the details.
If only she could walk over and introduce herself to him. But then what would she say? Why did everyone treat her like poison? Only once had she ever been asked out, and that had been arranged by her parents. They had tried to find someone for her… anyone. But the simple truth of it all was that nobody seemed to care. They took one look at her, and never looked back. Perhaps her parents should have named her Medusa.
Molly removed the bottle from her pocket. She should have brought the bottle of Autumn Courage with her today. Psychologically that might stimulate and motivate a conversation. And then sentences could be swung back and forth.
Molly took out the folded questionnaire and began to fill it in. Under favorite places, she put down Griffith's Memorial Garden. For hobbies, she wrote that she liked to collect memories. Then she put down her age, sex, physical description and personality profile.
Did these things really work? Molly had worked at Date-a-Mates for nearly a year now, and she had no idea how successful they were.
Sunday finally began to get drowsy. The sun had lost its brilliance and the insects collected in the chill air. Dusk seeped into Molly and numbed her. After a while her feet woke up and found their way back down the familiar trail. Another day had come and gone. The weekend had died. It was not even worth a paragraph for her diary.
She let herself be swallowed by that institution known as home, and led to her chamber, the cell at the end of the hall. Twilight had begun to blossom its purple stains throughout her room. With sleepy-haste, Molly attired herself for that thing that called itself a bed. She rested deep within the landscape of blankets that waited to entomb her slumbering cadaver. And there she would remain in silent and still repose, until the dawn came to release her from this simulated imitation of death. Then time would resume its melancholy stretch through another day.
And so she would go on, renewing herself in this vehicle called sleep; until the ferry took her to the dark streams of forever. To sleep beneath the ground that waited to embrace her… until she became like the earth itself. Just dust!
Molly dreamed over a wedding of tombstones. The line that separated life from death was removed, and forgotten relatives walked again. Granny Hawkins and Cousin Marsh skipped with her through gardens of people. They were celebrating the marriage of the dead. The Creator was returning for his church, and every living and dead thing cried out in wild joy. Songs of hysteric glee were carried over the sill of yesterday.
And the sun did rise. Across the heavens from the east… brilliant and glorious, - a chariot of flames riding the skies- gliding the cemeteries of the world moving west. The people changed into beams of light and were carried off by the sun. Golden rays stirring the sleeping souls of yesterday; awakening them to a blinding resurrection. And the dawn probed its warm fingers over the dreaming eyes of Molly Hill. Her eyes yawned open to her room. And she pondered the trilogy of life.
From Womb
To Room
To Tomb.
People were prisoners before they were born, incarcerated when they were alive and locked away forever in death. Did freedom ever exist or was it merely an illusion?
Molly hastened to the mailbox in her robe and stamped off her questionnaire to Date-a-Mates. It was better this way, she reasoned. She did not want anyone to see her bringing it into work.
♥ ♥ ♥
The week moved slowly, and Molly wondered if the computer world would locate her missing half. And then one afternoon a letter arrived. It was branded with the Date-a-Mates insignia. She tore it open with excitement. Inside was an appointment to meet the other person. The meeting place was Griffith's Memorial Garden. Molly had put that down as her favorite place. Did the other person put that down too?
She jumped and bubbled and spouted in suspense. The day was to be March 3, 2012. That was less than a week away. But to Molly, meeting this nameless man, seemed an eternity. She sometimes found herself staring at the clock, trying to force the hands to move faster with her eyes.
♥ ♥ ♥
The magic day was finally born. Molly was to arrive at two and wait by the front gates, but instead she came early. She posed beside the columns like an expectant statue watching the street. But nothing stirred there. In fact it was empty. Even the wind waited. The hush continued on. Molly glanced at her watch. It was already after two. Not even a car passed. The avenue was desolate.
Then something touched her. It felt her shoulder and rapped gently.
Molly looked around. To say she was surprised would be an understatement. For before her eyes stood the dark youth who dug the graves. He was dressed differently now.
His lips parted.
“It is you!” he breathed. “The weekend-girl.”
Molly felt happy-nervous, a jumble of emotions about to explode.
“You noticed me?” she asked. Her voice sounded different to her.
“How could I not?” the boy replied shyly. “I’ve always wanted to talk to you. But I was afraid that you might run away; that you would rather be by yourself.”
Molly's eyes smiled at him.
“Oh, if only you knew how much I wanted to talk to you.”
Then she observed a strange gadget slung over his shoulder.
“It's an old cassette recorder,” he explained. “I collect sounds in here.”
He touched the object with his hand.
“Wherever I go, my silent friend accompanies me. You see, it has a much better memory than I.”
Molly was ecstatic and emotionally electrocuted.
“I collect memories, too!” she cried. “Only I put them in bottles.”
“Bottles?” he echoed. “Now how would one go about doing that?”
Molly pulled an eye-drop container from her pocket and told him about the collection she had hidden at home.
“But please,” she prompted him. “Tell me more about your collection of sounds.”
His blue eyes searched her. A light twinkled and sparkled there.
“Alright, but first you must walk with me through this great land.”
He swept his arm in a classical gesture at the cemetery.
Molly bowed and flourished her arm.
Then they strolled, side by side, among the afternoon shadows, like virgins in the woods.
“Along time ago,” he began. “I had a diary where I recorded all my secret thoughts and fondest days. Dreams painted on paper walls, a house of many stories. But I found that I was losing the essential and most important part of those days. And that was the sounds, something that no printed word could ever recapture. The sound of life - moving, breathing, scurrying - in another time... trapped forever on plastic tape.”
He paused to drink in the distant sea-air.
“So it was on my sixteenth birthday when my parents presented me with this recorder. I have treasured it ever since. And it has never let me down. It has a fertile mind of its own. And though it has but one ear, it hears everything. Nothing slides by unnoticed. Can you imagine that?
Molly was mesmerized by him, and fell under the spell of his words.
“So this,” he continued on “Has become my explanation for life. This is the proof I offer, for my last seven years in this world. The truth my existence is not a dream. The cassette tape has replaced my diary; and the microphone is the pen I use to write with. I have a collection that is as vast as my apartment. A library of forgotten sounds shelved here, resting there. My trip to Mirinah Heights on the desk, Uncle Jamison's funeral on my nightstand, everywhere, everyplace, a new day was waiting to come back and be discovered again.
“Each night, I lie upon my bed and listen. I blind the windows, dim the lights, and shut my eyes. Then the time-captured aromas reawaken my mind. My ears translate the smells, tastes and sights of that particular day. And so it lives again for me. Until now that has been my life. I collected, but ne
ver gave. The clock told me I must change, or I might spin my life away in circles of sound. And so I filled out a certain questionnaire at Date-a-Mates.”
His eyes met her and she felt a connection.
“And here we are now,” He smiled impishly. “Joined together by a modern society, by a whim of electronics; linked by a common interest in life, death and everything between.”
Molly tilted her head in acknowledgment.
“That is the sandwich we must all consume.” she mused. “Oh and by the way, my name is Molly. “
He grinned loudly, his teeth catching the light.
“And I am Brentnor. “ He nodded to himself. “Now I know why God created so many different people.”
Molly flashed her ‘smile for rare occasions’
“Why is that?' she asked.
“So there would be someone for everyone.”
They had reached the end of the path. As if anticipating the mood, Brentnor drew closer to Molly. Then reaching out, he touched her tenderly.
“I have finally met myself.” he said.
Molly arched her brow into a question mark.
“I see so much of myself in you.” he explained.
Then he kissed her gently on the cheek.
Blood invaded her face. And her eyes began to mist as liquid-happiness rolled down her cheeks.
Molly instinctively removed the eye-drop bottle to catch them. But she hesitated and put it back.
Brentnor was tempted to switch on his cassette recorder, but instead he brushed her cheek softly, letting the tears perch on his finger.
He put his hand to his lips and tasted them.
“I believe it is joy.” he chuckled. “It has the flavor of delight!”
His eyes pondered her a moment.
“You collect what’s in tears, and I collect what's in ears… sound. But now the time has come to put away the time-spenders. For the real thing has come at last.”
♥ ♥ ♥
And so it did. In that following month of March; when spring bloomed and God rested on His Heavenly Throne. Our two strangers became friends, and then husband and wife.
So it was no surprise to their family and friends that their wedding was held at Griffith's Memorial Garden.
And as Molly had observed, “What better place in the world was there to say: ‘Till Death Do Us Part.’”
THE END
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If only she could walk over and introduce herself to him. But then what would she say? Why did everyone treat her like poison? Only once had she ever been asked out, and that had been arranged by her parents. They had tried to find someone for her… anyone. But the simple truth of it all was that nobody seemed to care. They took one look at her, and never looked back. Perhaps her parents should have named her Medusa.
Molly removed the bottle from her pocket. She should have brought the bottle of Autumn Courage with her today. Psychologically that might stimulate and motivate a conversation. And then sentences could be swung back and forth.
Molly took out the folded questionnaire and began to fill it in. Under favorite places, she put down Griffith's Memorial Garden. For hobbies, she wrote that she liked to collect memories. Then she put down her age, sex, physical description and personality profile.
Did these things really work? Molly had worked at Date-a-Mates for nearly a year now, and she had no idea how successful they were.
Sunday finally began to get drowsy. The sun had lost its brilliance and the insects collected in the chill air. Dusk seeped into Molly and numbed her. After a while her feet woke up and found their way back down the familiar trail. Another day had come and gone. The weekend had died. It was not even worth a paragraph for her diary.
She let herself be swallowed by that institution known as home, and led to her chamber, the cell at the end of the hall. Twilight had begun to blossom its purple stains throughout her room. With sleepy-haste, Molly attired herself for that thing that called itself a bed. She rested deep within the landscape of blankets that waited to entomb her slumbering cadaver. And there she would remain in silent and still repose, until the dawn came to release her from this simulated imitation of death. Then time would resume its melancholy stretch through another day.
And so she would go on, renewing herself in this vehicle called sleep; until the ferry took her to the dark streams of forever. To sleep beneath the ground that waited to embrace her… until she became like the earth itself. Just dust!
Molly dreamed over a wedding of tombstones. The line that separated life from death was removed, and forgotten relatives walked again. Granny Hawkins and Cousin Marsh skipped with her through gardens of people. They were celebrating the marriage of the dead. The Creator was returning for his church, and every living and dead thing cried out in wild joy. Songs of hysteric glee were carried over the sill of yesterday.
And the sun did rise. Across the heavens from the east… brilliant and glorious, - a chariot of flames riding the skies- gliding the cemeteries of the world moving west. The people changed into beams of light and were carried off by the sun. Golden rays stirring the sleeping souls of yesterday; awakening them to a blinding resurrection. And the dawn probed its warm fingers over the dreaming eyes of Molly Hill. Her eyes yawned open to her room. And she pondered the trilogy of life.
From Womb
To Room
To Tomb.
People were prisoners before they were born, incarcerated when they were alive and locked away forever in death. Did freedom ever exist or was it merely an illusion?
Molly hastened to the mailbox in her robe and stamped off her questionnaire to Date-a-Mates. It was better this way, she reasoned. She did not want anyone to see her bringing it into work.
♥ ♥ ♥
The week moved slowly, and Molly wondered if the computer world would locate her missing half. And then one afternoon a letter arrived. It was branded with the Date-a-Mates insignia. She tore it open with excitement. Inside was an appointment to meet the other person. The meeting place was Griffith's Memorial Garden. Molly had put that down as her favorite place. Did the other person put that down too?
She jumped and bubbled and spouted in suspense. The day was to be March 3, 2012. That was less than a week away. But to Molly, meeting this nameless man, seemed an eternity. She sometimes found herself staring at the clock, trying to force the hands to move faster with her eyes.
♥ ♥ ♥
The magic day was finally born. Molly was to arrive at two and wait by the front gates, but instead she came early. She posed beside the columns like an expectant statue watching the street. But nothing stirred there. In fact it was empty. Even the wind waited. The hush continued on. Molly glanced at her watch. It was already after two. Not even a car passed. The avenue was desolate.
Then something touched her. It felt her shoulder and rapped gently.
Molly looked around. To say she was surprised would be an understatement. For before her eyes stood the dark youth who dug the graves. He was dressed differently now.
His lips parted.
“It is you!” he breathed. “The weekend-girl.”
Molly felt happy-nervous, a jumble of emotions about to explode.
“You noticed me?” she asked. Her voice sounded different to her.
“How could I not?” the boy replied shyly. “I’ve always wanted to talk to you. But I was afraid that you might run away; that you would rather be by yourself.”
Molly's eyes smiled at him.
“Oh, if only you knew how much I wanted to talk to you.”
Then she observed a strange gadget slung over his shoulder.
“It's an old cassette recorder,” he explained. “I collect sounds in here.”
He touched the object with his hand.
“Wherever I go, my silent friend accompanies me. You see, it has a much better memory than I.”
Molly was ecstatic and emotionally electrocuted.
“I collect memories, too!” she cried. “Only I put them in bottles.”
“Bottles?” he echoed. “Now how would one go about doing that?”
Molly pulled an eye-drop container from her pocket and told him about the collection she had hidden at home.
“But please,” she prompted him. “Tell me more about your collection of sounds.”
His blue eyes searched her. A light twinkled and sparkled there.
“Alright, but first you must walk with me through this great land.”
He swept his arm in a classical gesture at the cemetery.
Molly bowed and flourished her arm.
Then they strolled, side by side, among the afternoon shadows, like virgins in the woods.
“Along time ago,” he began. “I had a diary where I recorded all my secret thoughts and fondest days. Dreams painted on paper walls, a house of many stories. But I found that I was losing the essential and most important part of those days. And that was the sounds, something that no printed word could ever recapture. The sound of life - moving, breathing, scurrying - in another time... trapped forever on plastic tape.”
He paused to drink in the distant sea-air.
“So it was on my sixteenth birthday when my parents presented me with this recorder. I have treasured it ever since. And it has never let me down. It has a fertile mind of its own. And though it has but one ear, it hears everything. Nothing slides by unnoticed. Can you imagine that?
Molly was mesmerized by him, and fell under the spell of his words.
“So this,” he continued on “Has become my explanation for life. This is the proof I offer, for my last seven years in this world. The truth my existence is not a dream. The cassette tape has replaced my diary; and the microphone is the pen I use to write with. I have a collection that is as vast as my apartment. A library of forgotten sounds shelved here, resting there. My trip to Mirinah Heights on the desk, Uncle Jamison's funeral on my nightstand, everywhere, everyplace, a new day was waiting to come back and be discovered again.
“Each night, I lie upon my bed and listen. I blind the windows, dim the lights, and shut my eyes. Then the time-captured aromas reawaken my mind. My ears translate the smells, tastes and sights of that particular day. And so it lives again for me. Until now that has been my life. I collected, but ne
ver gave. The clock told me I must change, or I might spin my life away in circles of sound. And so I filled out a certain questionnaire at Date-a-Mates.”
His eyes met her and she felt a connection.
“And here we are now,” He smiled impishly. “Joined together by a modern society, by a whim of electronics; linked by a common interest in life, death and everything between.”
Molly tilted her head in acknowledgment.
“That is the sandwich we must all consume.” she mused. “Oh and by the way, my name is Molly. “
He grinned loudly, his teeth catching the light.
“And I am Brentnor. “ He nodded to himself. “Now I know why God created so many different people.”
Molly flashed her ‘smile for rare occasions’
“Why is that?' she asked.
“So there would be someone for everyone.”
They had reached the end of the path. As if anticipating the mood, Brentnor drew closer to Molly. Then reaching out, he touched her tenderly.
“I have finally met myself.” he said.
Molly arched her brow into a question mark.
“I see so much of myself in you.” he explained.
Then he kissed her gently on the cheek.
Blood invaded her face. And her eyes began to mist as liquid-happiness rolled down her cheeks.
Molly instinctively removed the eye-drop bottle to catch them. But she hesitated and put it back.
Brentnor was tempted to switch on his cassette recorder, but instead he brushed her cheek softly, letting the tears perch on his finger.
He put his hand to his lips and tasted them.
“I believe it is joy.” he chuckled. “It has the flavor of delight!”
His eyes pondered her a moment.
“You collect what’s in tears, and I collect what's in ears… sound. But now the time has come to put away the time-spenders. For the real thing has come at last.”
♥ ♥ ♥
And so it did. In that following month of March; when spring bloomed and God rested on His Heavenly Throne. Our two strangers became friends, and then husband and wife.
So it was no surprise to their family and friends that their wedding was held at Griffith's Memorial Garden.
And as Molly had observed, “What better place in the world was there to say: ‘Till Death Do Us Part.’”
THE END
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