BECKHAM V.

Lion the Skald’s personal diary:

This apology is long overdue. Not strictly to myself but to anyone who wishes to express themselves with any dignity. This goes out to the girls with braces in public schools that don’t know if they are good enough, this goes out to the painter who has no money to study abroad, this goes to the boy who lived in a bubble all his life and in that bubble, he managed to record his findings. This goes to everyone who was there with me that day, sailing towards the ruins of an abandoned chapel; fragments of a bygone culture. A death sentence for a wooden float filled with musicians, writers and other artists I don’t have time to mention. To sail to a place whose inhabitants are always silent.

An unknown soldier’s diary:

YEAR 1, Before Lunch:

Surprisingly very few people remembered why this lunch happened in the first place. In a harsh reach with grassy and misty terrain. A series of steel ships and stuffed scavenger tents, occupied as much grass as possible. Or was it skeletal remains being poked by birds? Hard to tell; I wish I had asked my sister. She died, buried under a sack of more than a dozen potatoes.

That day the stony long bridge with an equally long roof shined like a stack of juicy tomatoes. Veggies could be sensed for miles, so much that our horses began kicking around. The horses had at least three to four people navigating them to move forward. Their eyes were unseen as their blacksmith forgot to hire a decent barber. But even the men with knives inside their sacks had wine delivery boys marching towards them. Me and my brothers collected bones and pebbles. The future little scamps with a metal spear and bow, Mountain Lion the Unworthy with blond curls as bright and sharp as a bee and Mountain Lion the Warrior Bard with shorter black hair, but a smile as warm and comforting as a spring breeze.

Dozens of boats were sailing below the bridge, the Grandpa Corporation with white sails with three to two stripes either on the upper part or lower. This group of eco-warrior sailors wore assassin-like gray armor but spent their time fishing and documenting herbs, bait and even critters. Some even waved at me as I reached the bridge while others yelled that they wanted the Warrior bard to sign their spears.

These people had to wave at me with their wobbly and sweaty hands. While mine was supported by my two servants, skilled in raising my arm just in the right position. Most of these servants lived either at the tall black and white cottage at the center of this town. Others in tents as well as sleeping below the stars and enormous ribcages of dead lizards.

One of these blue and white ships crashed and tossed flames and any sailor, in any direction. The Mountain Lion that they called Unworthy drowned below the wreckage of the main support beam along with his servants. The sparks burned the floating bodies until they sank. The Mountain Lion’s body was never recovered. As the flames engulfed each scent of flesh, a roar was heard in the distance. First only one and then two for each minute. An hour passed and the servants began to speculate, whispering below the hundreds of brownish planks.

Some believed it was a water serpent that woke up after a decade. Others believed that it was a lonely mountain panther whose cups were killed while building the bridge. Some said that one of the Lion’s guards thrusted the cubs with his bare hands, from the side of the bridge. It took them less than a moment before the last one reached the waves; cold embrace of the true abyss. At least we thought.

Year 2, After Lunch:

The dozens and dozens of shipwreck pieces floated like a scattered jigsaw. The church bells banged from afar, while I was exploring a cave made from twigs and leaves. But I was sadly not alone. At least three people were holding a pink umbrella over my head. Another person wrapped in a blue cape, pressed a flashlight between his two nipples.

Despite their effort I tripped and discovered a stack of books with a note tagged to it. It stated that this bag should never end up on the Lion’s boat. The ones that nearly drowned a year ago. The boys carefully picked up the books from the ground and I punched one in the gut for that.

Extract from the Diary of Mountain Lion the Unworthy:

In my own opinion life is full of surprising simplicity. It’s what helped me create this flourishing hunk of rock. But unfortunately, I´m not the person who makes miracles and puts puzzle pieces together. Think of me more as a gardener taking care of fresh fruit and vegetables. I´m just the one to put a final touch, nothing more.

Here many creatures tried to make a mark on this world, from giant reptiles to clever humans. Decades passed, billions of names showed up in news articles and magazines. Some were scientists, some were actors, others just rebels trying to break conventions. A few hunted for glory, others decided to set sail and settle down in places where they could share their wisdom, freely.

His name was Carl Chomski, with an “i” instead of a “y”. At the time, he lived only a few miles away from a small town called Abridge. For years his family educated dozens in kindergartens and elementary schools until one day, Carl decided to flee. He constructed a medium-sized wooden vessel, in light-blue and white color making it look like a floating farmhouse.

An unknown soldier’s diary:

Weeks later, my eagles spotted him fishing on a freshly cleaned deck. That day he was visited by a reporter in an orange raincoat called Beryl. She wished to have an interview with him and got quite lucky. The man calmly walked down to the lower deck to grab a few garden chairs and by noon they lied with cold drinks in their hands. Then the teen put down her cellphone and started asking some questions of her own.

“Can I ask something more personal?” said Beryl.

“Ask away.” replied Carl.

“Why did you choose to educate children here? On a boat?” said Beryl curiously.

Carl became silent for a second. Then he took a deep breath, got up and slowly picked up an oyster shell, still rotting. Just when the wind started to calm down the tutor flung the piece with all his might. Once sinking the shell´s impact created dozens of miniature waves forming circles quickly expanding.

“Words are merely signals. “Said Carl, “Animals can sense signals such as wind intensity or underwater movement. Words are types of sequences only humans can comprehend.”

“Interesting.” said Beryl while gazing at the water, “I wish we could test your theory.”

“Have I mentioned that I don´t get paid.” said Carl as he turned his face towards her, “That’s right. Each member of my study group came here voluntarily. Their passion gave my work meaning. Some of these kids want to leave the cornfields and do research, some want to become writers of fiction. Their capability is like those waves, language itself works on the same basic principle, rules are given, always present, but it is our own decision what shape words may take. We can shape them into anything we want: articles, essays, poems, whatever. Just like the man who comes and throws a stone, he can´t stop it from sinking but what he can change is where and what the dozens of waves get to touch.”

“I got so much already in my life: health, a home. My mind has served me well so why shouldn’t I share what’s left of it?!” said Carl, smiling.

“I couldn’t agree more.” said Beryl while staring at her watch, “I also heard that during one of your most renowned sessions you do certain linguistic experiments.”

“Yes well, “said Carl, “the main idea was to show my pupils the various versions of a language. The Khoisan language in Africa has only five distinctive clipping sounds, so I came up with an exercise where I’ve replaced articles with hand clapping. One clap or one beat to help them understand the symbolic current.”

An hour later their prolonged session finally came to an end. The next day Beryl went back home, went back to her office, to finish her latest blog. She had a long and promising year filled with success and even newfound love.

Carl unfortunately wasn’t so lucky. He died a year later in a fire on his cozy ship. The day it happened Beryl was sitting in her kitchen preparing some warm and delicious coffee. As the small sugar cubes began to fall and sink it made her wonder again about the importance of understanding currents.

Extract from the Diary of Mountain Lion the Warrior Bard:

The rusty red and yellow swings were squeaking heavily that day. I couldn’t blame them. The radio was also bouncing after receiving the news on 9/11. I was facing the window and still butterflies climbed up my sleeves as I was drawing stick men into a steaming piece of glass. It really annoyed the cleaning lady inside. Also, I missed another one of our singing lessons.

“Did you see the look on her face?! Ha!” another voice whispered.

Yet I was choking on my own saliva while staring at white paint droplets slugging downward. My only friend, partner in crime, was probably the most accurate live-action version of Huckleberry Finn I have ever seen; Hugo. We were both punished for trying to sneak out of our kindergarten with a pair of steel scissors that Hugo took from his grandpa.

We both decided to spend the remainder of our exercise time stealing the clay models made by the younger ones. Then we molded them into weird, wobbly figures, unable to stand on their own. Hugo and I almost had to switch to mud before the teacher’s whistle blew that idea straight out of our heads.

“You go first Hugo”, I said to him after picking up his brown snowman, “I got to tie my shoe.”

And so I went on my knees; scarcely remembering which knot had to be formed and were. The kids passed me as if I was a gymnastic obstacle. This leather donkey that you had to jump over; and so, they did. By the time I was done with my laces my back was aching so hard it produced a crab-like echo.

When I finally got to the sink where I could brush my teeth, everyone started to pad me on the reddish burned spots. Every time they did so, I ripped the toothbrush out of my jaw and accidentally repainted the mirror with my inner stream. I had no one to protect me once Hugo was chewing on his blankets and snoring.

I always wondered what they hated about me. In fact, before lying down I quickly grabbed one of my fellow dreamers by the wrist and asked them. She blushed and gave me her book titled “The Ugly Duckling”.

“It’s your dentures. They are too good.” She argued and gave me a hug before going to bed as well.

I could not close my eyes during the entire session. My caretakers would go from sheet to sheet, reminding each energetic soul to at least try to stretch a few bones. Instead, I stared at a tiny puddle of orange juice that was spilled by my spirit brother Hugo... That mess gave me an idea.

When I finally set foot on the playground the boys were just about to start their precious soccer game. My shirt was moist and sticky, after my swift trip to the cafeteria. I must have taken at least five juice boxes and used only a single pink straw. My smile was shining like jewelry being flushed into an old toilet. They cheered my new grin and invited me to play ball. So, I did, I played ball and I never had to ask for it again.

Extract from my own Diary:

That night I stayed up late. I remember creeping on my father watching TV. I kicked out any creeping servant. He was biting his nails as the towers that he visited four years prior, came tumbling down on the other side of the Atlantic. I hugged him because he was as scared as I was when I had been haunted by water, glass and steam. Same as the survivors, I too missed my proud and healthy smile.

It was on the 6th of April, or maybe not, or maybe I am simply lying. Once there was I, a fresh graduate from a local night school, staring from a window. In a cramped apartment building I either padded the freezing greenery or watched the pigeons get tangled in the patriotic fabric. My neighbors said that the building on which I saw the flag was on fire. By nightfall they managed to suffocate the blades and that was also the night I lost my voice.

By the time the firefighters got to me I couldn’t do a single whisper. My mailbox almost nailed to the front door kept piling up with bills and angry letters. That evening I went to the park and a few men were shouting with a large poster attached to two wooden poles. These three men were standing on a podium that no one observed. According to one of them, they were complaining about the flagpole next to my home. They even held a burned book above their head and claimed it belonged to my father. I disagreed with every book he had I burned in our garden, meters away from a man with some climbing gear. It was 9 in the morning and he was sitting in a police car by lunch time.

I saw some kids about as old as my office laptop carrying orange cans that had droplets of gasoline still leaking out of them. Surprisingly I had to follow them. The day before I was tasked to spend today scraping off the smoky bits of anything; from dirt to flesh. But mostly bones; whole spine, skull, vertebrae, ribs, you name it. Then I collected the flesh into a rolling trash container that had a neon-lit smiley face on the side. I gave him the name Greg, but after a day that idea simply felt too silly as he was smiling for each meat pack, I dumped him inside. The stench was a mixture of rotten tomatoes and burned rubber.

After I got another car, this time a blank minivan to unload. The letters pile in the back came pouring in an instant. Five in total; the first felt like I was kicked between the legs by a lady in a wheelchair which meant that she still had a lot of effort. The second and third were from the same two sisters who agreed with that aggressive lady, stating that the flag’s three-part color pattern was rude and too striking, too bad that personally I was color blind since birth. I was surprised to see that someone had the ability to write letters in this late digital era.

I showed the scribblings as they were tied with a rubber band to the owner of the building. Old Mr. Greyhound with his albino-like skin texture he was only two years older than me. He was not bold but his hair was so pale you would barely notice a single flock. The man arrogantly decided to read the letters in the toilet while I waited outside. His daughter Carla was an attractive brunette and a widow sitting there and worked as a secretary. That piece of gum attached to the side of her perfect sharp tooth. Before I could finish my drooling Mr. Greyhound had passed away, right above his newspaper and the puddle of his own making. The colors were invisible as that morning the flag wore a shade of night, before bedtime.

I never washed any colors while I was married to Carla. The first time I ever stitched that sticky fabric was on the day she packed and left. I had nothing to do but smash bottles. After a week I decided to sell some as a side hustle to save Carla’s father’s factory. The lady that moved across the street took down a pink flag that waved there for over a week. She replaced the peace with a flag that had four men with guitars and a monstrous-size drum.

One evening, after my two kids went to sleep, I creeped in her yard. She was able to barbecue even at four in the morning, with the smoke and sparks grilling even the tiniest of creatures. The next day on the same spot I saw more than one lethal burn. At least three naked men, at the same time, frolicked through her main gate and into their cars. Two of which had only one set of wheels. That same year, my teenage son showed me a documentary on TV. It turned out that the three hairy but bald, chubby and shortsighted men were the rockstars from her hanged colors. By the end of summer, we decided to go on a field trip to the neighboring town. While unlocking the trunk of my car by using raised fists I spotted my neighbor in all her dark latex beauty and even handcuffs. She even had a partner in mere blue underwear also pressed against the side of a police car. They didn’t even give each other a kiss goodbye. Later that day in a pub, I found out that these two spend their mornings selling pot online and their nights with each other.

In a month someone set fire to their abandoned colonial-style house. Coincidentally, the flagpole slammed against the windshield of the police car that was guarding it. It was picked up by me, with a wooden stick. Retrieved from the small depths of a local puddle. I carefully hung the rag on the white-colored fence next to the pavement, and completely forgot about it. After finding out that Carla’s stepson, from another marriage was about to be stated as the latest in a long line of drunk mayors, I went to the streets. I found that banner in the jaws of a mut that my daughter left behind while leaving for college.

I took the piece and dangled it on my shoulders, covering my back and backpack. We reached a towering gallery building with arches and curves as tall as my home. Before anyone had a chance to speak, counter-activists ran forward and spat at the microphone. Unfortunately, she also bumped into a tray on wheels filled to the brim with oysters for some reason. I laid on a rough hospital bed for weeks. The flag that once had visited me every morning, was wrapped on my neck like an office tie. Its colors are fading also because of my sweat. Before the kids showed I managed to toss the rag aside and into the only bin in the room. I wanted to let someone else take care of the colors, the kids had enough that day. It was time to start thinking about other things, away from the things outside my window. So, from that night on, I kept closing my curtains. Signed Mountain Lion the Skald. who was once Mountain Lion the Carthusian who lost his words and tone?