I imagine . . .



  I imagine . . .

  A short story for the mind.

  M. L. Sanford

  Copyright 2015, by M. L. Sanford

  Illustrations copyright 2015, by M. L. Sanford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  Published in the United States by ArchitectM, Inc.

  This work is a fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control or assume responsibility for third party websites or their content.

  No shape returns.

  That world lost.

  My thoughts my escape.

  They begin again.

  ###

  I imagine his fuzzy belly, hot to the touch, the pinkish skin showing through the short curly brown hairs. His two tiny hind legs stroke the air slowly as I rub it, with an occasional scratch from the tip of my fingers, his legs thrust more sharply, suddenly, in response. I pause my caress and his head rises from the soft carpet cushioning his back, his dark sanguine eyes turn to me, inquiring. Why have you stopped? I have no answer.

  ###

  A shape passes me by.

  My view disturbed, thoughts fly.

  The hem of a white skirt flutters there.

  White shoes and stockings below, move and cross.

  They rest beyond now, away from my constant stare.

  ###

  I imagine the unwrapping, the part I confess to enjoy the most, the Christmas gifts stacked and heaped under the tree’s spreading evergreen boughs, flush with needles still green and vibrant, the air heavy with their aroma, succulent and sweet. The electric bulbs weaved and threaded among them, some flashing, others constant, the light bouncing off the shiny wrapping paper, their colors and patterns reflecting back a blurred glittery display to my eyes. First one gift, then another, the neatly folded and creased paper pulled from the boxes within, flying in pieces, ragged edged now, to the floor. The hours remaining spent exploring each gift, discerning their secrets, their hidden intent. My mind speeds wildly, seeking profound meaning within each discovery. Yet the only worthy find, the moments spent within, are the visions themselves, glimpses of times past. I cherish what little control remains.

  ###

  The shape returns then.

  Pauses before me, deathly still.

  I hear the words, know the meaning.

  But my voice is lost, unable to share.

  It moves away, ignoring my will.

  ###

  I imagine the jump, stepping off the high platform, my body arching out and down, my head pointed to the unforgiving ground below. My eyes turn towards it, watching as it rushes to me. My heart races, my arms flail wildly, deftly maintaining a trajectory that's straight and true. Then suddenly, the jerk of the anchor bound to my feet halts my descent, my approach to the ground abruptly stalls. I see its features sharply now, then it retreats away, just as quickly. The flexing of the anchor recoils my body backwards. Up, and up, until a moment briefly, I pause in midair, frozen there. I fall again, my body rocking to and fro, my trajectory no longer straight and true. My startled heart, its pounding calmed, my body shudders, the terror passed. Repeated falls with shorter ups and shorter downs, until I hang at end, dangling loose and swaying there. I'm lowered to the ground, hands grab my limp form, supporting it firmly; my feet touch first. I stand alone, breathe deep and long, life fills my lungs, my soul. So, I climb again.

  ###

  The shape returns, its hands obey.

  Now in front, they take mine.

  They move my arms, out away.

  Rotate up and swing around, my muscles twined.

  The motion's effect, to stay the whither.

  No sensations felt, my suffered brain has lost the thrill.

  The hands soon stop, my arms now dither.

  The hands rest mine, back to still.

  It moves away, the shape waits hither.

  ###

  I imagine the walk, passing beneath their broad limbs, spreading out above me, protective but ominous in their magnitude. Their massive trunks, buried deep in the earth, rising skyward, towering to heights unknown above, their tops gleam brightly in the sun. I walk below in their deep dark shadows. The smell of redwood, fern and moss fills my lungs, passing through my nose and depositing their essence; musty and sweet, sharp and moist. The path extends before me, open, tall and narrow. Their trunks fill the view on each side, thick misty fog beyond. They pass by me, marching slowly along, straight and proud; an army in review. The quiet belies the world without, my existence just beyond, there it must wait. I see others on the path, small ones, tall ones, walking thus. The small ones scurry here and there, disappear from view then emerge again, somewhere just beyond or just behind, moving with nimbleness not meant for me. Their laughter mixes with the veil of quiet, it blends complete, natural and beguiling.

  ###

  No shape returns.

  I return within.

  To visions alive.

  A life there waits.

  ###

  A speck of brightness appears at the narrow dark path's end. It grows brighter, larger still. I reach out towards it, grasping at the light. The marching army recedes from view, the light spreads all around me, the shadows dissolved. Blue sky covers me now, tall green grass below, their seed heads sway in the breeze, brushing at my legs with tender caress. My path cuts through them, their sweet pungent aroma beckons me to linger. But I walk on.

  ###

  No shape returns.

  I return within.

  To suffer naught.

  That way remains clear.

  ###

  The sound starts low, mixed with the crackle of my shoes on the small granite stones. A rushing surge afar, it stops and comes again, then recedes once more. The horizon of seed head tops, at once high in my view now lowers gradually, the blue sky follows, it turning darker, mixed with clouds. The rushing surges increase in volume, their pattern clear, its call unchanged. The darker cloud sky merges with shimmering streams, grey and bright white, undulating below. They expand in my view as I walk on, the seed head tops dissolve away as the shadows did. The roar of the waves, the rushing surges, suddenly burst onto me, flooding my senses. I walk to its edge, it flows toward me, slithers away, then rushes back, the pattern relentless. I drop to my knees, the course sand rubs my bare skin, and dip my fingers into its coldness. The foaming water surges back, then past and around me. I can feel it here, just in this place; deprived of it there.

  ###

  My frozen view then jerks, wasn't by me.

  The push from behind the cause alone.

  It swirls and turns, from a force unknown.

  Then moves straighter now, to a place beyond.

  It swirls again, turning quick.

  Then stops again, with a second jerk.

  Now the floor below me, a new view lurks.

  Of different pattern, of different work.

  Voices sound, come friend or care.

  The shape returns, the white skirt there.

  It passes near, then moves away.

  ###

  I imagine that I'm floating, alone in space without helmet or suit. Just floating, as if in water. I spread my arms out to the side, then wave them up and down. It moves me through the empty space, I kick my feet; it moves me faster still. Soon I gain momentum, more, and still more. Until my speed like a streaking comet, the planets glide by, one to the left, then one to the right. The sun fades quickly into the deepening blackness behind me. I cross galaxies, pass through ti
me, my empty shell is left behind.

  ###

  The shape returns, with hands again.

  Now in front, they show their wares.

  The food I crave, my sustenance brought.

  Without it here, I wither there.

  I sense no taste, I long to savor.

  In my brain, the signals waver.

  The hands soon stop, the task complete.

  The shape recedes, the skirt diffused.

  My view returns to deadly still.

  Once again.

  It moves away.

  ###

  I imagine the curvature of it, its tautness sustained by the winds force against it, the effect sends us gliding. The single mast holds it there, the broad sail moving with the wind as it turns round it. The ropes that bind it flexing and stretching, all the while the skipper eyeing each wave and telltale, adjusting the trim and course with precision. I sit with my feet out catching the spray, the wave tops tickle my toes now and then. Then lean back, my hands brace me from behind, the sun beams warm on my face and open shirt front. My eyes close now from the sleepy embrace, only the sound of the spray fills my ears, as the bow cuts and crashes through rolling waves. Just then, amidst my sighs of inner peace, the clouds ahead turn angry black, a sudden squall catches us at rest. The skipper yells out, Hold tight and pray! We grab the lifelines with knuckles white, clench our jaws with gritted teeth. The spasm of light, then the crash of thunder pounds the air with a horrific sunder. The wind whips the rain straight as arrows, stinging our faces, pelting bare skin. We cannot help but wince and cower. Our clothes are soaked, they hang limp on us dripping. The deck rocks wildly, this way and that, our stomachs churn with it, our eyes roll in fear. Amidst the tumult we strangely yell out, a shriek into the wind, a guise to mask the rising terror. Our faces go pale, with lips thinly drawn. Almost broken, our spirits thrashed, the calm returns, the storm has passed. Still the hull, with sturdy prow, gamely carries on, as we turn to look back in gaping awe. Our witness of nature told to others, but words alone are weak and hollow. Only the shared story, among survivors, can convey the true sense of our savaged souls. Surviving the storm, we cheer our good fortune, the skipper winks, he knows the close call. I gladly take the challenge and welcome its return. My hope for it desperate, left without such visions of life, I fear before long, I wither within.

  ###

  The hands return, they lift me up.

  My view swirls and turns once more.

  Blurred faces now cross it.

  Unknown to me, they fade away.

  Now darkness descends, from without.

  My eyes not seeing, yet open, unblinking.

  No shape, no hands or words remain.

  No calming thoughts but mine sustained.

  ###

  I imagine the ball, black and white checkered, rolling below me. My feet touch it lightly, deftly. Others crowd me from all sides, pushing and pulling, as I move with the ball. My quickness leaves them soon behind, my agile moves enthrall them. They will not surpass me, not while I run. The crowd above cheers me forward, my turns and twists draw gasps and roars. No fear, no wanting, will foil the score. It comes from within, my shot to the goal. No hands quick can change the win. My body reduced to a frozen waste, my mind still runs with the ball at my feet.

  ###

  The darkness remains, no hands return.

  No words to still my pain inside.

  What next must I, in silence affirm?

  The night alone, the view it hides.

  Broken still, next day will turn.

  The shape will come, within I churn.

  ###

  I imagine her face, the smooth lines of it, with round eyes, gentle and warm. Her lips move, words are spoken, I hear the message but deflect the meaning. My self-import, my path alone the single one. No matter my neglect, her love remains, within and without, the only true thing. Our bodies clasped together, we move without effort, gliding here, the ground just there. Without need, yet earthly binds remain, death delayed but sure to come. The expected journey, a long and full life, but darkness then descends. The unwelcome event, steals my control. Despair wrings out, the sorrow leaps. Then at last, a miracle brought, the little one comes and rescues my soul. She covers my pain with flowers just picked, then flits here and there, while the seasons run on. No care to pause her, knowing I am still there, she blossoms full. No look behind, will change her way. The gift of her, beyond my dreaming, to watch her grow each day of living. The path she takes, her own not mine. Her pain will come, no matter my care. While wincing inside, at my rigid state, I must endure, absent cures, for none come my way. My former life, lost and beyond, yet I will not be tempted to make a trade, lest I lose her then, a most bitter fate. The pain of it to great, I dare not think, the only choice, to stay the thought. Just the chance to see her dance, to face together the earthly trance, grant me these little things of life. Without them here, surely there, I am at end.

  ###

  The light returns from without.

  Brightly glowing, the morning light.

  My eyes brim with tears.

  Yet no one cares.

  Untouched, they run their course.

  The hands return and lift me down.

  The view repeats.

  The shape returns.

  With skirt and shoes, just there.

  The floor below swirls around.

  Hands touch mine.

  Words sound forth.

  Still within.

  I remain unchanged.

  ###

  I imagine . . .

  ***

  Dear reader, are you game for a challenge?

  What is the exact physical condition the protagonist suffers? Make a guess, but don’t share it in public. Let the other readers squirm!

  Send your guess to [email protected]

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  About the Author

  M. L. Sanford is a freelance writer and author, living in Decatur, Georgia for the past thirty years. He loves all fiction genres (well, almost all) but is particularly fond of mystery, suspense and thrillers, with an occasional dose of romance weaved in for that extra spice that benefits all good tales. At the culmination of a thirty-four year career as an Architect, Mark wanted a change. Since then, Mark has put his heart and soul into a writing career, creating stories that enlighten, delight and even fright.

  All of his novels contain some level of mystery or suspense, sometimes dark, and sometimes set at places around the world. His writing style has hints of, and similarities to, H.P. Lovecraft and Edgar Allen Poe.

  “I suppose my architectural background has something to do with that. My sense of scene details and spatial awareness, a skill needed in architecture, seems to come out in my writing. I hope it adds another layer to the reader’s experience and enjoyment of my stories.

  The mystery and suspense are not limited to novels either. Mark’s unique writing style is expressed in his short stories, possible more so, the shorts offering a less controlled and rigid environment. Some have even called them unconventional and experimental. But all his stories are equally intriguing and thought provoking. You decide.

  Find out more on his Author website: www.mlsanford.com

  or

  Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/author.mlsanford

  Other books by this author

  Short Stories

  Cutter’s Fall

  The Branch

  No More

  Novels

  Auguste and The Condition

  Travel the Wicked Raod (Coming out Oct 28, 2015, available now on preorder on Amazon!)