Aftertimes

The air was heavy. It dragged across the moss, sagging underneath the great reach of old willow trees. The sun had come and gone, taking with it the voiceless limbo of an empty town.

Now nighttime, the gentle drone of cricketsong wafted through the mist. Against all odds, it would seem they remained. Fallen branches, like fingers, scraped the sides of the boat. I froze at the sound, its hair-raising echo piercing through the quiet. However, there was no real reason for me to be afraid. There was no one out there. That much I felt sure of, with dismal conviction.

My imagination entertained the idea that somewhere in the shadows, an alligator was rising to the swamp surface, gazing at me with ancient eyes. I pictured it lying in wait, anticipating the moment that I’d lean towards the murky depth to skim ungloved fingertips across the marsh. Perhaps taunting my fears, I dipped my hand into the water, its coldness soothing my sore palms. It had been a while since my last break and my death-grip on the paddles had whittled my fingers into bone. After a few moments, I felt a tap against my thumb. Instinctively, I ripped my hand out of the river, the boat rocking violently as I leaned away. Taking a breath, I peered intently at the mossy surface. Not so far away from the canoe, a small twig bobbed away from where my hand had been. Notably, not a gator.

“This can’t be real,” I thought. An existence haunted only by the monsters my mind creates. Of course, there aren’t any gators because there aren’t any animals. No fish, no frogs, no birds. Just the peculiar torment of life on a voided Earth. I closed my eyes, setting the paddles down beside me. Maybe that’s why the gator invaded my thoughts in the first place. After weeks of loneliness, even its predatorial vigilance was welcome company. Unexpectedly, I began to laugh. A series of hysterics hung around me in the empty air as the canoe slowed to a stop.

“That’s it. I’ve really done it. I’ve driven myself crazy,” I muttered. The trees bent in the breeze, rustling in agreement. I let out a shallow breath before rowing onward.

It’s a funny thing, being watched. For eyes to follow you, curiously, devilishly, burning holes in the back of your neck. You turn around, catching the moment their gaze snaps to the window behind you, or more disconcertingly, meets your own. And not for anything you may have done, or anything you may be wearing, or any of the decisions one makes between waking up and arriving in that moment. No, this particular interaction is happening simply because of what you are — or more importantly, what you are not, in that instant.

In the Beforetimes, I’d wish I were invisible. I thought that if I were invisible, older kids wouldn’t chase me down backwoods paths, hoping to grab fistfuls of my hair as I ran. No one could call me tarbaby if they couldn’t see me at all. Blissfully, I would be left alone.

Yet here I am now, trying desperately to undo that very wish. My father always said, “There’s no underestimating the power of one black child’s wish.” But his lionhearted faith in my future could never have predicted the impossible reality in which I now find myself. Finally left alone, but terribly lonesome, in the Aftertimes.

Sagging tree branches gave way to wide open sky, inviting moonlight down to commiserate with the river fog. Even in the darkness, I could make out the concrete outline of the Pee Dee River Bridge. Over a decade ago, after a particularly heavy hurricane season, the water sludge climbed the bearings, threatening to wash away cars as they barreled through the rain. As a dare, my friend, Junebug, and her older brother decided to cross the bridge in his old green pickup truck. Not wanting to be left behind, I rode in the cargo bed, watching the debris float along the river.

As I rowed out from under the shadow of the bridge, that memory felt faint. So many years had passed since that summer that I’d lost my grasp on the details. What year was that? How old was I? I struggled to recall. The image of the old pickup truck had all the markings of sun-bleached newspaper. Crinkled and yellow, it crumbled into dust as I leafed through its pages. More and more, I noticed my memories grow jaundiced. It would seem that time has warped them past the point of recognition.

I turned around in my seat to take one last look. The bridge was congested with abandoned cars, paralyzed in phantom traffic. One van had careened into the railings, its tires leaning precariously over the edge. There was no way I would have been able to cross the bridge in a car. It seemed taking the canoe was a good choice. Shaking my head, I turned back to face the river.

I pushed on for what felt like hours. Without the usual ambiance of distant cars or animals rustling in the marsh, my trek through the dark waters felt endless. After a while, I noticed my shoulders tighten from overuse. I leaned back, taking a moment to look up at the clouds. There was truly no hurry, I had all the time in the world. Sadly, even that thought was no comfort. Having “all the time in the world” was the very predicament I was fighting so hard to reverse.

Most of us are taught to believe that time is linear. That every step we take can be tracked by the whirling hands on a clock. From the second we open our eyes, life proceeds on a steady, immutable clip. Nothing we could do could ever change that. We think that’s just how it is – mostly because that’s always how it’s been. The alternative is much too alarming a possibility to seriously consider.

A familiar lantern glow came into view. With a huff of relief, I rowed eagerly towards the muddy banks. Home. I swung my legs over the side of the canoe, the water splashing up my pantlegs. With sluggish steps, I dragged the boat towards the shore, heaving it onto the grass. I set the oars down, gazing up at the unassuming, riverside cabin. I didn’t need to come back. But I couldn’t help it. There was no way I could stay in the city. After everything that happened, I just needed to come home.

I made my way up the stone path to the backdoor, grabbing the spare key from its hideaway under the mat. After a few insistent turns, the door unlocked, swinging open with a quiet groan. Wasting no time, I walked in, my wet boots squelching against the tile. I slipped my bag off of my shoulders, letting it slam against the floor. As I closed the door, I noticed the sound of a running faucet coming from the kitchen. I looked down to the rug, noticing its oriental pattern had been darkened by moisture. Quickly, I strode across the room to the kitchen, where an overflowing pot was splashing waves of water on the tile floor. After turning off the faucet and removing the drain plug, I took a seat at the kitchen table. In front of me, a glass of water sat next to a small bowl of half-eaten stew. Feeling something flatten under my shoes, I peered under the table. A pair of worn slippers, now sullied by water and river mud, rested against the table legs. Despite not having seen them in years, I quickly recognized them as belonging to my father. Where was my family now? I looked away, listening to the water rush noisily down the drain. The sink gurgled. The pipes groaned. I felt the pangs of guilty heartache. It was never my intention to send them away too.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. I know how to fix this,” I said, rising from the table. I turned on my heels, hurrying out of the kitchen. There was no point in wasting any more time. Looking down the hall, I felt the years slip away. Suddenly, I was a child all over again. The floorboards creaked under my heavy footfalls as I strode towards my parents’ bedroom. I placed a hand on the doorknob, turned, and pushed.

Stale air had settled into every corner of the room. Unbothered by curious fingertips, a blanket of dust cast a grey haze on the old wooden furniture. I crouched next to the nightstand, opening the bottom drawer. In the low light, I could make out the silhouette of a few familiar items neatly stored in the cabinet. I reached in, pulling out a leather-bound bible, its thin pages folded and crinkled from insistent pen markings. I placed it on my lap and gingerly reached back into the drawer. Cold metal sang against my fingertips. I breathed a sigh of relief. The gun was still here.

I set the revolver on the carpet next to me, looking down at the worn bible in my lap. I ran a finger over the engraved lettering on the cover. Reverend Anthony Cass. This bible was my father’s oldest possession. In the somber quiet, I remembered his voice, how its rich timbre could melt even the coldest of hearts into shades of clarion gold. I could hear it still.

“Saints, let’s read the text. Psalm of David,” I picked up the revolver, its weight heavy in my tired hands.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” I checked the cylinder, seeing a full set of bullets in the chamber. With a click, I snapped it closed.

“He makes me lie down in green pastures.” I pointed the gun at the window, exhaling before pulling the trigger. The glass shattered, the sound deafening in the eerie silence. Weakly noting that the machinery seemed to be in working order, I set the gun on the rug next to me. Five left.

“He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.” I wiped my palms against my shirt, trying to calm my nerves. From my pocket, I pulled out the bottle of pills, shaking two into my hand.

“He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.” I popped the pills into my mouth, feeling the dry scrape as they slid down my throat. After taking a breath, I continued the verse, buoyed by the memory of my father’s voice.

“And though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” I lifted the revolver, feeling the barrel rest solidly against my temple. Taking a deep breath, I thought of the Beforetimes. The Pee Dee Bridge with old fisherman leaning against its rails. My grandmother’s candied yams. The constant sounds of trucks rumbling peacefully through country roads. Junebug’s warmth. The sound of people laughing. The impatient honks of New York taxis. Music. Singing. Dancing. Love. Unconditional love.

“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil...” I trailed off, struggling to recall how the verse ended. In the lull, I became uncomfortably aware of gunmetal digging insistently into my skin. My throat tightened. Before a panicked cry could escape my lips, the memory of my mother combing through the curled knots at the nape of my neck crashed over me. I could feel her tender hand on my shoulder. Telling me to relax. Allowing one last bedtime story.

“Alright, come on now,” she said to me. I leapt into bed, awaiting the night’s tale. My mother climbed in next to me, gingerly tucking away a stray curl that had freed itself from my nightscarf. Every evening, the same story.

“They say the people could fly. Say that long ago in Africa, some of the people knew magic. And they would walk up on the air like climbin’ up on a gate. And they flew like blackbirds over the fields. Black, shiny wings flappin’ against the blue up there.”

I closed my eyes, sliding my finger against the trigger. The metal was warming in my palm. Welcoming my touch.

“The young woman lifted one foot on the air. Then the other. She flew clumsily at first. Then she felt the magic, the African mystery. Say she rose just as free as a bird. As light as a feather.” My mother pulled the blanket over my body.

“They say that the children of the ones who could not fly told their children. And now, me, I have told it to you.” She closed the book.

“Someday, baby, you’ll need to fly. Don’t be scared when it’s time, magic girl. Fly.”

Alone but no longer lonely, I could feel my vision cloud with tears. With quiet reverence, I gazed beyond the shattered glass and up into the cool night air. The sky glimmered in kaleidoscopic technicolor. Tenderly, the final three words of the psalm came to mind. I tightened my finger against the trigger.

“My cup overflows.”

Reap and Sow

June 19

Cheraw is a small river town in South Carolina. I was born here but didn’t stay long. For a long time, I thought that Cheraw was like those places that just have a way of conveying to its inhabitants that they’ve overstayed their welcome. Of course, that was when I was younger, and I thought that this little town was the root of all of my problems. I hated the buildings, the roads, the houses, and their muddy riverbanks. Funny, now that I’ve returned, I’ve realized just how benign it all really is. The roads are just roads. Without people, the town lost the very thing that ever made it a town at all.

People like to call Cheraw the “prettiest town in Dixie”. The phrase is smeared on everything, from travel brochures and bumper stickers to yard signs. Most of its citizens have lived here all their lives. Their grandparents told them trumped-up tales about the Confederacy, and as the years passed, spun fiction was billed as truth. Wrapped up in desperate longing for times gone by, they lost sense of the way things really are. And what they’d become. Nostalgia can be a powerful force.

As for me, I don’t cherish many memories from my childhood in Cheraw. The few good ones I have left are tinted with the unreliable haze of a moment misremembered.

The sun beat down on my back as I crossed the street, the soles of my shoes smacking against the pavement. The roads were littered with cars, still left lingering in the intersection. Some had rolled into the curb. Their batteries drained away, they sat in the sun with keys hanging in the ignition, forever suspended in time. I walked around their bumpers, making my way to the town’s pharmacy.

The door opened with a friendly chime. As I strolled inside, a gust of cool air rushed against my face. Someone had the air conditioning on blast. The door whispered to a close. Faintly, I could hear music playing from the speakers. La, la, la, la, la.

False hope is a fate worse than death. Overcome with a terrible ache for the Beforetimes, I rushed inside.

“Hello? Is anyone here? Hello?” I hurried through the store, desperate to find a familiar face. Shopping carts loitered in the aisles, some with bags still left perched in their baskets. In the corner of my eye, I saw something move. Without a thought, I whipped around, locking eyes with the only occupant of the store; myself. Standing, disheveled and defeated, my reflection wavered – split between the warped mirror panels above my head. (Begone shoplifters!)

As the song slowly faded to silence, I stood adrift, confronted with a bird’s eye view of what I should have known to be true. The fun-house figure in the mirror frowned down on me. I frowned back. She must take me for a fool. Electricity buzzed in the fluorescent light fixtures. Intermission.

Before I could adjust to the quiet, the music restarted. No longer running through the store with my heartbeat knocking against my eardrums, I could hear the tune clearly. Blue Öyster Cult. Apparently doomed to repeat for eternity.

“Come on baby, don’t fear the reaper.”

I spun on my heels and paced to the back of the store. There was no point of wasting any more time. Numbly, I hoisted myself over the pharmacy counter.

“Baby, take my hand, don’t fear the reaper.”

I scanned the shelves, not sure of what I was trying to find. Pills, but what kind?

“We’ll be able to fly.”

I closed my eyes and tried to remember how I felt that night. Mindful focus sharpened my intuition. I took a breath, forcing my mind to relive that memory. Fear. Despair. My legs, frozen against subway tile. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t move. He was there. I couldn’t breathe. And then, all at once, the colors came, and they washed it all away.

I opened my eyes and looked down at my hands to see a small orange bottle. Rohypnol.

I closed my fist, sliding the bottle in my pocket, leaving the pharmacy. As I walked back out into the sweltering sun, the song played on. La, la, la, la, la. The only source of sound in my empty town, I could still hear its gentle refrain from across the street. A litany of dark irony followed me all the way to the boat. It droned in my mind as I rowed. But as I started pushing through the muddy river, I realized there was truth to its words. So, I sang along. The time for fear had passed. I had what I needed. Why be afraid of the very thing I was fated to become?

Phosphenes

“You know, there’s no Waffle House where you’re headed,” Junebug said, drenching her chocolate chip waffle in syrup. It was a balmy evening and she had a hankering for breakfast food. Not wanting to say goodbye just yet, I tagged along.

“They’ll still have waffles though,” I said. She shrugged, taking a large bite.

“Not the same!” Junebug retorted, grinning through a full mouth of mush. I rolled my eyes.

“Sure, I know.” A waitress approached the table in front of ours, her arms stacked with plates full of food. My stomach growled. I couldn’t believe I left my money at home. I hadn’t eaten much all day.

“Probably won’t be a Hardee’s either. We got that too.”

“Not sure I’m gonna be missing that one,” I said quietly, twisting the ring on my finger.

“So, are you just gonna be a whole different person up there?” The question caught me off guard. Junebug dragged her knife through the pool of syrup gathering on her plate.

“Whole different person? Like how?” I took a sip of my water, wishing I had gotten coffee instead.

“I dunno. Forget it,” she retorted. I shot her a dubious look.

“I’m just saying. Flora left, we don’t really hear from her, and if we do, I find myself not even really believin' it’s her on the phone.” Junebug’s voice trailed off.

“Well, I’m not gonna be like that.”

“You better not be.”

“But what if,”

“What if what?”

“I know it’ll be different, but I’ve never had to make new friends.”

“Oh, don’t worry, people are alike all over!” Junebug leaned back in the booth, kicking her feet up on the seat next to me. She dunked another piece of waffle in the syrup puddle on her plate.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m worried about.” I muttered. I looked down at my hands again, a sad feeling cascading over my body. If people are alike all over, what even is the point of leaving?

“You sure you’re not gonna eat? I feel bad, you watchin’ me eat all this food.” Junebug waggled her fork towards me, a sticky piece of waffle hanging precariously from its prongs. The pangs of hunger rattled my stomach.

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna eat something, but I’m not in the mood for waffles.” I looked at the counter, watching the cook place a plate of toast, eggs, and sausage on the kitchen window. I slid my hands under the table, turning my empty palms to face upwards. Gazing towards the counter, I imagined how the plate of food would feel in my grasp. The firm, warm plastic with its steaming condensation burning against my fingertips. I closed my eyes, breathing slowly. I could nearly feel it.

“Using the colors again? Doesn’t get old, does it?” June commented. My eyes still closed, I smiled, shrugging. June chuckled.

“I guess it saves you a couple dollars.” I pursed my lips before discretely lifting the plate of pancakes from my lap and placing it on the table. I looked back at the cook’s window, feeling a twinge of guilt when I saw him glance back at the counter where the plate once was, looking perplexed. I took a bite of the sausage.

“What, are you gonna tell me another smartass word for what I’m doing?” I asked, smearing grape jelly on my toast. Junebug scoffed.

“No smartass word,” she replied, taking another bite before continuing.

“I’ve tried. But I don’t really know if there’s a word in the doggone dictionary for what it is you can do.”

Kenopsia

March 7

“Isn’t there some truth to it, though?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Isn’t there some truth to what?” I shot back flatly. Immediately after, I wished I hadn’t asked. I wasn’t altogether sure I even wanted him to expound upon his thought.

“To the stereotype,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. Pete stretched his legs onto the coffee table in front of us, his dirty green sneakers a stark contrast to the rich mahogany table. I watched as he snuffed out the cigarette before continuing. I looked away, folding my hands in my lap. Did he realize what he was saying?

“That’s why stereotypes even exist, because there is a little kernel of truth in em’.” I couldn’t believe that he’d say that to me. A quietness settled in the room as he traced circles on my shoulder, and I realized that he expected me to respond.

“Absolutely not.” I stood abruptly from the couch, knocking his hand away. I glanced into the kitchen at his roommate, who despite being within earshot, kept his back firmly to the both of us. I didn’t blame him, I wished I wasn’t in the room either.

“Oh, absolutely not?” Pete raised an eyebrow and pulled his legs back from the table. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“No.”

“I don’t know, I kinda feel like I might be right, I mean from what I’ve seen it doesn’t really seem like...well, you know, African Americans-” I cut him off, not wanting to know the end of his thought.

“Why in the world would you want to convince me that you are?”

“That I’m what,” he said, looking up at me with a smirk. It became clear to me that this whole charade was a game to him. Did he even believe what he was saying or was he just trying to get a rise out of me? Either way, I could feel the pinpricks of rage clawing down my spine. Words shot out of my mouth, quickfire.

“I don’t think you really understand what you’re saying. Don’t you think I would be more likely to know anything about this than you? Why does this matter so much that you’re willing to start an argument about it?” Impatient taxi honks filtered in through the open window.

“Fine. If I’m so wrong, then tell me. Tell me all about it.”

“Is this a joke to you? It isn’t funny, and honestly, it’s pissing me off.”

“Fine. Where do you want to eat? It’s getting late.”

It was surprisingly dark inside the bar. I went first, climbing up the spiral staircase, the ruddy light from the lantern casting a hellish glow on the doorway. Shadowy silhouettes occupied the tables, their forms barely discernable against the dim lighting. Pete placed his hand on the small of my back.

“Drink?” An old-fashioned glass of something amber was placed in my hands. I sat down and took a sip. And then another. Pete smiled, gently placing a hand on my knee.

I’m not sure what immediately followed. My next memory is saturated by fear.

“Let’s get you home,” he murmured to me.

“No. Just let me call my roommate, I think I should go back to my apartment.” The words spilled slowly out of my mouth like molasses. I swallowed thickly.

“But my place is closer,” he replied, snaking an arm around my waist and leaning my weight against his hip.

I looked up at him, noticing a calculating glint in his stare. Slowly, but then all at once, unadulterated horror crashed over me. I could feel his grip tighten on my ribcage. A shriek clawed its way through my teeth, crashing against the subway tile. Pete clamped a hand over my mouth and though my eyes were wide with shock, I couldn’t see him at all. I felt cold air on my legs. The hot sting of panicky tears formed behind my eyes. The more I screamed, the less of him I saw. All I could see were colors. I couldn’t breathe. Death by chromatic vertigo.

“I learned a new word today!” Junebug once said to me on the school bus home.

“What?” I asked, leaning my head against the window. This was ritual.

“Look towards me!” Just as I turned to look, she shone her small pink flashlight in my eyes. The light was blinding. I shut my eyes tightly.

“What the hell!”

“Okay now open your eyes.” I squinted, my vision clouded with shapes and abstraction.

“It’s a word for those little colors you talk about seeing right before you make somethin’ BIG happen. Phos-phenes!”

With every fiber of my being, I shoved Pete’s weight off my body, dully sensing him fade into the phosphenes. The momentum pulled me forward to my knees. I had never before felt so out of control. Panicked, I closed my eyes, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. A dull ringing echoed in my ears as I rolled to my side on the ground. A strong gust of air blew through my hair, tossing it around as I laid, motionless. My vision was blurry, a kaleidoscope of yellows and reds. A horn blared. Time passed.

At some point, I was able to move again. I pulled myself upright, grasping the metal column next to me. I looked around, noticing the subway was completely empty. Gripped by the tremors of abstract fear, I called out for help.

“Hello? Hello!” My cries were answered only by distant echoes, followed by silence.

I turned around, looking down the tunnel. Something caught my eye. The remnants of one lone dirty green sneaker lay pulverized in the crevice of the tracks. I looked closer and immediately wished I hadn’t. I pushed him away. That’s all I meant to do. I never meant for the colors to come.

“Oh god.” Feeling sick, I rushed up the stairs and into the city air, screaming for help. I searched for hours. I swung open every car door. I ran through every store. New York, the city that never sleeps, had itself descended into a waking nightmare. Empty. Quiet. Vacant.

“Is it a real word?” I asked Junebug one day as we walked home from the bus stop.

“I dunno. I think so.” She said, sprinting ahead of me. We were testing her light-up shoes in the evening dusk.

“Huh. How do you spell it?”

“K-e-n-o-p-s-i-a. It’s the weird feeling you get when you walk into a place, one that’s usually full of people, but it’s all empty and quiet!” She yelled back to me, her feet dancing like fireflies. I watched in wonder.

“Vacant?” My younger self asked.

“Yes,” I whispered, “Vacant.” Above my head, bright city lights shimmered and danced. Like a moth, I pursued them relentlessly, held captive by heartsick hysteria. Eventually, I realized that my fears about moving to the city, all those years ago, were woefully misplaced.

“It’s not people, silly. It’s places,” I mused. Without people, places were the ones that were dreadfully alike, all over.

Eschaton

June 20

What about you? How has time felt to you? If I’m right, there’s a chance that everything is fine. Maybe you didn’t even notice a thing. I’d like to think that, for you, life has quietly reset. Back to Beforetimes. As if the Aftertimes never happened at all. As if I never happened at all.

The days are getting longer now. Every night, I close my eyes and try to wish everybody back. In that hazy moment before slumber, I think maybe this time I’ve done it. But then, every morning I wake up to that silent sun and know that nothing has changed.

I’m getting close to Cheraw. I’ll be there tomorrow. I just want to see it one last time. I’m scared, but I know what I have to do. Sometimes the last resort is the only one. Even if it doesn’t work, at least I know I’ll be free.

I can’t explain what I’ve done. I certainly can’t expect you to believe me. If I’ve been able to fix things, life, as you know it, has never given you any indication that I could be telling the truth. I hope that’s the case.

As for me, I presume I’ll be lingering somewhere in the summer sunset. Forever taking flight in my technicolor sky.