Man In The Moon Tattoo
A Tasty Secret
Secrets. Everyone has them. Well I have one... and its big. I will tell you it. That is if you can get through this story. I won’t make it easy for you. What good would that be? There would be no value in the secret if I were to just blab it out. It may clear a few things up for those of you who are confused. I can just imagine you are saying the words, “I’m not confused” with your inside your head voice. Too funny. Trust in this, confusion wouldn’t know confusion if it bit its lips off. You are confused. That I don’t doubt at all.
A cold body is pulled from the river. It hasn’t been in the water for very long. There are no noticeable marks are injuries that would indicate how he died. The police are called and the coroner’s office sends someone to retrieve the body. A young man, maybe twenty-five years old, lays naked on the cold steel table. Several lines have been drawn on his body where the coroner will make his cuts so that he may be able to determine what it was that killed the man. Blood samples have already been sent to a lab for analysis. The police are still trying to find the dead man’s identity. A secret the dead man was not easily going to share. He had no wallet or personal items on his body and the only mark was a fairly recent tattoo. The tattoo, an unusual looking spider about the size of an adult palm and that looked like a large female funnel spider, was located on the dead man’s right calf. It was determined as recent as the area the tattoo was covering was still red and inflamed.
Red and inflamed eyes don’t see as well as they should. Too much burning and itching to stay focused on one thing for too long. The secret is not to look in any one area on the road ahead. If you can keep those paining orbs moving, you can squeeze out a few more miles before you have to shut it down. The real danger is closing them but convince yourself that they still are open and it isn’t just a dream that they still see the road ahead. The vibration of the gravel road side on the other side of the road brings home the reality that it was a dream that your eyes were open. The shock of realizing sleep just fooled you brings you to a sharp awareness. Trust me I know, it is the fourth time tonight it has happened to me. Numbness in my head is making it hard to see distinction between real and unreal. There are lights ahead, some sort of rest stop. I believe now is the time to pull over for a spell and catch a few winks. Not too many, got to keep going and I don’t have time for sleep. Why do they light up these rest stops so darn brightly? I have to cover my head with my shirt to block out the light. Seems stupid to me. Now that I have stopped. I might as well use the restroom. That is if it isn’t locked up. Well now, isn’t that my luck, its locked up. I don’t care. I’ll just go around back and do my business there. Odd, there is a ladder stuck in the ground that isn’t up against anything. It just goes up into the night sky. The shadow from the building makes it too difficult to see how high the ladder goes. How unusual. Why the hell is it here? What is it, a ladder to the moon?
Yes daddy, if we can find a ladder long enough, we can climb it and eat meatballs on the moon. I really want meatballs daddy. Everyone in my daycare knows the moon is made of meatballs. So can we do it? Yaaaeh daddy! We are going to try to find a ladder. I think if you find two ladders, we can carry one up with us and when we get to the top of the first one, we can then climb the second one. But we have to remember to bring the first one with us when we climb the second one so we can climb that one after we reach the top of the that one. That is how we can climb up to the moon and eat meatballs. And daddy, you are the only one I want to eat moon meatballs with. Because I love you and you love me... And we love meatballs.
Party. An odd word for it. Mostly it is like a meatball of people all mashing together and cooking in sauce. Not so much a party as it is a feast of indulgence. And never does it feel worth it when you wake the morning... or afternoon. A feast best not eaten. Better to not be a meatball in my opinion. Last night I was a part of a meatball that left me wondering who I was when I finally did wake. Not my room. Not my car out front. Yet I had keys to both. The clothes on the floor, not mine either. And, a large tattoo of an ugly spider on my calf. It burns like hell to. Where the heck did that come from and what did I do last night?
Night is when the spirits range wild. There are places where the spirits are more there then others. In those places, there are people who develop certain sensitivities to the spirits. Odd folk they are. Witch doctors, Shamans, Spirit mediums, Ghost talkers... the list goes on. They often live apart from other people in little shacks or old RVs. People bring them food. Not so much out of care and concern. More out of fear of them and what they may be capable of. Even those who claim they don’t believe in spirits and ghosts still walk quietly around these folk. To anger one is to invite disaster from a plain of existence beyond our control. One such person of powers in the spirit world had an interesting niche. He was an old aboriginal man who was also an artist with down right erie abilities. He could paint pictures that seem to appear in more space then they occupied. Like there was another dimension in what you saw but your brain just couldn’t quite put it all together. He used a kind of ink that wasn’t ink at all. It was made from some sort of plant he grew that was unlike anything found just about anywhere. While he did his art, he would chant in his native tongue at a level barely audible to the ear. A fire was always lit and another kind of plant would be added to the flames producing a smoke that caused hallucinations. One last thing about his art, the pictures he created were alive.
Alive or dead? I can’t tell anymore. I exist, that much must be true, but I no longer know how I exist. The line between alive and dead has become blurry. There are places that seem more real then others. There are people that also seem more real then others. My memories of my life have become spotty. I remember being a little boy dreaming of climbing to the moon. But I don’t remember what happen between that boy and the man I became. As a man, I remember a strange lady, how she made me nervous, and group of people who lived to have fun. There are random bits of memory floating around, some of it in clumps that have stuck together. An old man with weathered skin told me he could see inside of me, the tissue that grew in my head. And the story that tissue told him. I remember a rest stop on the road and an old camper on blocks a little ways behind it. I remember being afraid of a spider that was far too big for comfort. Last thing that I remember, and it is crystal clear, all my life I wished to be free of my mortal bonds... to free my spirit.
Spirits have troubles with water. Particularly moving water. It is like a wall that can not be passed. Unless a bridge is made for a spirit to cross, it remains stuck and unable to cross. That doesn’t mean a spirit can’t sense what’s on the other side of the water. They can. And some spirits become quite angry when denied access to something they want. An angry spirit causes much trouble. Particularly in the world of the living. That anger makes them grow strong. Stronger then the spirits that are not angry. Anyone who can sense or communicate with the spirit world become blocked by an angry spirit. The angry spirit harasses and torments the spirit mediums until the spirit mediums act to resolve what the cause of anger is of that spirit. There was an angry spirit that plagued an old shaman for a very long period of time. It was stuck on a river edge and could not cross to where it desired to be. The shaman sought the right solution that would rid him of the angry spirit’s tormenting. A man was delivered to him during the night. He could see through the man’s skin and found a perfect host that would act as a ladder to relieve the angry spirits ire... a spider’s bite that carried the spirit’s venom.
The spider on my calf burns and when I am not looking at it, it feels like it is moving. When it moves I look quickly to it but it stops as soon as my eyes fall on it. Still, its like those sets of eyes on its large head are starring at me, waiting for me to look away again. It scares the hell out of me. I need to go for a walk. I feel numbness creeping through my body and I am thirsty. Terribly thirsty. There is a door in the back of this room. It leads to a path in the sand. I lurch out of that room, not even caring that I wear not a stitch of clothing. I can smell a river out there somewhere. I want to go to it. Maybe go for a swim and relieve this burning in my leg and wake me from the tiredness that is settling in my bones. I just want to get to that river and nothing is going to stop me. I can hear the sound of humming, like bugs rubbing their wings vigorously. That sound is loud. That sound is becoming my whole world. I stand before a river. It isn’t wide but it looks deep and cold. The humming is becoming shrieking. I cover my ears with my hands as tight as I can, closing my eyes tight and clenching my teeth hard. That sound is still shrieking. Its coming from inside my head. There is a cold wind that chills me to my soul but does not touch the burning in my leg. I fall into the river holding my ears still. I don’t even try to swim. Something big tears into my being. It is hot and angry and it viciously tears my spirit from my body. It ravishes and suffocates me, or is that the river that has filled my lungs. I am dying and I think I am in hell because of the fire I feel. A monstrous thing that looks like a spider roars as it sinks its mandibles deep into my soul.
Getting back to my secret. Are you ready for it? I have tried my best to prepare you. Here it is, you are reading the stories of a dead man. That’s it. Not like stories written by people before they died. No. You are reading the story written after I died. I was released from my mortal form and I still exist. Infact, I exist because of your belief that only an alive person can write. You are what keeps me here. I have a body and it is made of words. I have content because of the meaning you invest in the words that are my body. A kind of vampirism. I thrive on your energy that is created by your thoughts as you read my body. A deal made with the devil. I allowed the devil to cross that which held it in check and in return, I exist feeding off you as any story I choose to create. No mortal boundaries do I know. Even after sharing this with you, you will continue to feed me by reading my words... my body. You won’t ever know which stories are just stories and which are me preying upon you. It is brilliant and delicious! That is my secret... and now you know. And it doesn’t matter to me at all. There now, there is a good victim who’s caught in my web and are left so confused that you don’t know you are my food. And you are tasty.
About the Author
I like to write things down. What more can be said. The stories speak for themselves, or so I think. Ultimately, I am only a road of thought. It is the vehicles of story that deserve the greatest attention...and the passengers they carry.
thuan's tattoo session
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