Strike Fiss‘ Manifesto
December 2001
He snuck out of bed before the sun came. It was how it had been all his life. The sunrise was the beginning of another day in his life. In life in general. How could he fight it in bed?
He robed himself in wool. Soft and warm gifts from countless birthdays and Christmases and the occasional paycheck or two. He did not wish to bring them, but knew without a bit of comfort, he would be too scared to leave.
As a boy, he was frightened by dreams. As a boy, he secretly wished to have them. The nightmares taught him in ways that normal people only wished dreams could do. They showed him different worlds. Bad worlds. Worlds of worry that he did not know. Pain he never felt. Darkness he was never allowed to turn off the lights at. They showed him the horror of the night.
It was beautiful.
As a young man…still very much a boy…but also old enough to decide his own path, he began this ritual.
It was simple, and poetic. He would live during most of the night. The parts that the light did not touch. There was a small hill overlooking the suburb. Nobody knew about. It was barred off from all but the smallest puppies and kitties by the large fence marked “High Voltage”. It led to the Interstate, and the land was nothing but grass leading down to pavement that only the odd car would use anymore.
On top of the hill was a tree. A lone Douglass fir that withered like a drying cactus. It provided shade. Shade at night seemed a strange thing to desire, however, the moon was too bright. The odd car made his stargazing and nightmare dreams end too quickly without it. He loved that tree. It stood watch over him. Guarding his silence.
He watched from his little heaven at the little hell beneath him. The lights of the town-houses. The smoke from their hearts, pumping the blood from the earth. The water to drench the engineered grass. The tiny hell-hounds barking at the car-alarm demons who would cry out into the night…always when they needed attention.
In the day, when he was forced to come down from his beautiful nightmare, the people would ask him to stay. They liked him. They wanted him to stay.
He tried. But every night, the hill stood outside the fence. He stood with it. More often than not, the calm nightmare of the hill would win his heart over the plastic little dreams.
He spent much of his life there.
The oddest thing is…he was happy.
Posted under Manifestoes, Short Stories
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