Short Stories
The Poet and The Miner
"Complete misnomeric fortifications fill my template of existence. What protection do I have against that in which I can not name? These names of essences I do not know. Could not know. I feel as though I have frostbite in the summer. A feeling of drowning in the air. Time and time again…" The Poet was enveloped by a dizzy spell. It was as though he was acutely aware of the motion of the constellations. He set his pen on the desk and began to lie on the floor. "You best hope I never find out your name!" The Poet yelled to an empty room as he lay there mentally spinning. The Poet is a strange, irrational man. Hench the belief that his dizzy spells are caused by supernatural forces and not simply a biological disruption. When the spell was over The Poet sat back in his chair. "these daimones of miraculous might wage war with my mind." The Poet continued to write,"If I but knew their name; my mind would be mine once more to reclaim." His tea kettle began to sing songs about steam. He got up in order to relinquish this vaporous chorus. There was silence once again and he poured the boiling hot liquid into his porcelain cup. As he went to put the kettle back on the stove, he reached for his cup at the same time. His left hand set the kettle safely down as his right knocked the porcelain right over, sending boiling green tea all over his trousers. This liquid had once made a kettle sing steam; now it's making a poet scream. Within seconds his trousers were laying on the floor and a cool wet towel was applied to his legs. "If I but knew your name!" He yelled as he shook a fist in the air. This is a man, as you can plainly see, prone to disillusionment. No doubt forces invisible to the naked eye exist. Angels, demons, call them what you will; even the name 'germs' suffice. If you knew the name of a particular germ could one then stop its spread? If so.. Farewell E. Coli! Alas, classification in no way is equated to nullification. He poured another cup and began to drink it. Standing there in his undies, looking out his window he saw a lovely green plateau that made a drastic, rocky descent into the sea. Waves crashed onto the rocky shore and lo and behold: mist was born. The sheer tranquility of the scene meant nothing to he. The Poet had names he needed naming. It goes without saying, that if indeed there were a name he needed to be released from his psychic prison, his cozy bungalow by the sea is not where it would be. His complex on this unnamable force forced him into sheer misery. Even if he was crazy, he deserved to have peace of mind. He sat back down at his desk, crossed his legs and drank the remains of his green tea. Picking up his pen to write he encountered a force in which he could name:
Inspiration
"Withstanding Space
Withstanding Time
Withstanding Earth
Withstanding Sky
To Name
Is to Seperate
To Name
Is to Divide
Withstanding You
Withstanding Me
To Name
Is to Know
To Name
Is Divine"
He was fortunate to know the name of inspiration. Inspiration was lucky to know his. He titled this poem:
"Naming The Nameless"
"Of existence of "non-existence" there are shrewd and obviously discrete signs in which the hidden hides behind." The Poet continued to write on the subject of the nameless. "The curves and folds of the brain are cascading waves of both the past and the presence. Future. A name that now haunts me too. Ignorance's kiss of bliss now laden with poison. The Knowledge of unknowledge, the most haunting type, leads the cells of my brain on a dark pilgrimage to pay homage to their own self-sacrifice. This, an egregious evil, in which I have been complacent for too long!" Complacency should have been the least of The Poets worries; still yet it was near the top of his list. Creating should be at the top. He is, after all, a poet. Though creating not pertaining to works of rhythm and rhyme, but that of creating problems where none exist. A problem well preserved in the lives of mankind. At least for the rest of men they wrestle with problems they can name. And if they can't name it, at least they are unconscious of their own unconsciousness. Mankind likes to treat the problem of suffering as if it were an algebraic equation: something to be solved and done away with. Once you find the X it is easy to find the why. The equation of suffering is just not this easy. If it be an equation at all it is of the non-linear persuasion. Maybe X is zero but it may also be two at the same time. Don't ask me why.
"The Poet," The Poet wrote, "is to express the inexpressable. If hidden within the Earth are precious metals of much worth; what more could be said of our own mind? Upon superficial investigation of the Earth we find merely dirt. The surface of the depths gives no hints of what you may find. If there is one person who knows what these depths hold it is he: The Miner. Mining be but the occupation of finding that which time has hidden. Things that are as old as time itself." The Poet began to have a revelation. He sat back in his chair and said to himself, "The Miner." He stashed his pen and his notebook into his desk and began to get dressed.
As he closed his front door and began to walk away, he thought to lock it. A strange notion seeing as though he never locks his door. He let his intuition get the best of him and turned back and locked it. He had a half smoked stogie in his corduroy jacket pocket and brought it out to give it a light. The rocky shore to his right was busy making mist and so was the sky. There was cobble stone beneath his feet that clanked with the rhythm of his shoes. One stride at a time he made his way to the village. A village that housed not writers, but miners. It was fitting that he lived a ten minute walk outside of the village. For this is what he was: An outsider.
As he reached his destination his halfway-done cigar was halfway-done and his mind was now at ease. A lonesome, silent walk is all we sometimes need. The Poet, for the time being, had forgotten about that which he did not know. As his grasp of the unknown was lost momentarily, his hands grasp of the wooden door handle was found. As he walked inside he found everything as he expected to find: fireplace aglow, lights set a-low, a woody, silent room and an aching for ale at an all time high. Only one thing was amiss; instead of one face inside he found two. One he knew and the other was new.
"The Poet!" The Miner said with a gleaming face.
"The Miner!" The Poet said with a reciprocated face. He hung his jacket up and walked over to the empty seat at the bar beside the stranger.
"Poet, this is The Land Surveyor."
The Land Surveyor stood and reached for The Poet's hand. Smiles and hands were exchanged and The Land Surveyor sat back down. The Poet began to walk behind the bar to pour himself an ale.
"Mind if I help myself?" The Poet politely asked The Miner.
"You know you always do."
The Poet got a mug and filled it with ale and foam and made his way back to the empty seat.
"As I was saying," The Land Surveyor said, "the man's toes became rotten."
"Rotten?" The Miner inquired.
"Yes, rotten, rendering them completely useless to the rest of his otherwise completely healthy body."
"Rotten toes?" The Poet asked. "In what way were they rotten?"
"Rotten in every sense of the word. You're a man of words of course you know what rotten is?"
"Well, yes, I'm just having trouble conceptualizing what a rotten toe would even be like."
"Rotten in the same sense as a fruit?" The Miner inquired.
"Exactly." said The Land Surveyor, "Rotten in the sense of a fruit. What other sense of rotten is there?"
The Poet and The Miner weren't even sure how to go about answering that question.
"When they were squeezed juice came out."
The Poet and The Miner winched.
"Yes," The Land Surveyor chuckled, "and that's not even the worst part; as you can imagine, it had the aroma of feet and rotting meat."
The Poet was beginning to become sick to his stomach.
"Did this man go see a doctor?"
The Miner asked eager to get away from the description of said rotting toes.
"Yes he did."
"And what did the doctor say?"
"He declared it a case of the rotten toes."
"That's the medical terminology?" The Poet asked.
"Upon extensive research the doctor could not find any other cases that matched that of the man's affliction. Thus he declared it himself: Rotten toes."
"Oh," The Poet said, as he stood on his unrotten feet to go get a refill of ale. He needed ale now as an aliment to the thoughts of rotten toes.
"And who was this man to you?"
The Poet asked as he returned to his seat.
"He was my apprentice for two years before. Four more years and he would have had a surveying practice of his own. Damn shame it is."
"And this man," The Poet began to ask, though being afraid what the answer would be, "is now bedridden?"
"I'm afraid not. He died. The doctor tried to convince him to cut off his feet, but the man refused to have it done. Soon enough, he was dead from rot."
The Poet, The Miner and The Land Surveyor sat in silence for about a minute.
In one way or another we all die of rot, The Poet thought to himself.
"How did this conversation get brought up in the first place?"
The Poet asked the two.
"He asked if I had any kids," The Land Surveyor said in a solemn manner, "I do not, but this man was as a son to me."
"Well in that case I'm awfully sorry for your loss." The Poet said in a consoling manner. The Land Surveyor put his hand on The Poet's shoulder and grinned a mischievous grin.
"It's quite alright, Poet, in one way or another, we all die of rot."
The Poet was slightly taken aback, while The Land Surveyor began to softly laugh. He gave The Poet a wink and began to stand on his ripe feet. He finished off what ale was left in his mug and told the men, "Well boys! Duty calls!" He paid his tab he owed to The Miner and left a handsome tip and began heading for the door.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Surveyor."
"It was a pleasure for me as well, Mr. Miner. That goes for you too, Poet."
He put on his hat and jacket and began to open the door.
"Wait!" The Poet said in an emphatic manner.
"What is your name?"
"It's the same as you," The Land Surveyor told The Poet, "it's what I do."
With that he made his leave.
The Poet sat in shock for a minute or two. Something, he felt, had just occurred, but he didn't know what.
"Who was that?" The Poet asked The Miner.
"What do you mean 'Who was that'? He told you who he was! He's The Land Surveyor!"
"Well, of course, but that isn't his name!"
"Yes, and your name isn't The Poet, and mine is not The Miner. What difference does it make? We'll never see him again."
The Poet had never told The Miner about his dizzy spells and his obsession with an unnamable force. He came here to drink and get away from that which haunts his brain. He also did not want The Miner to think he was insane. He was his only friend in town. Somehow, someway, he had portrayed a complete facade of sanity. But now he contemplated telling The Miner for the first time. He quickly thought against this thought and let the unknown be unknown. The Miner would be of no help in this matter anyway.
"I guess you are right. It is just strange, though, he spoke a thought I had word for word. Then winked at me and laughed as if to elude to the fact that he knew too."
"What thought would that be?"
"That in one way or another we all die of rot."
"Hmm," The Miner said in a surprised manner, "that is peculiar. Especially seeing that I too had that same exact thought. I didn't think anything of it when he said it out loud. It's not that strange for people to share the same thoughts."
"Yeah it's really not." The Poet said in agreement. He knew as of late that he was hyper-focused on any peculiarity that came his way. He thought it best to just let go of trying to find meaning where maybe there was none. The fireplace crackled as the men drank their ales in silent contentment. After four more rounds The Poet began to feel the buzz of peace.
"How long was The Surveyor here before I came in?" The Poet asked out of sheer curiosity.
"Just around an hour or so, I suppose."
"He didn't stay for long once I arrived. What did he have to say?"
"Not much at all. He was just curious as to how an old miner like me came to own this here pub. Of course this led into conversations of my brother."
The Miners brother had left the mining village at an early age to pursue something higher. In this regard he was an outlier. The vast majority of men who are born here, die here. Their fate picked before birth; to do as the succession of fathers before them had done. His brother amassed great success and came to be known around here simply as The Banker. One day The Banker went to the bathroom only to shit a bowl of blood. This condition continued day after day. The doctors could find nothing wrong with him. So one day he phoned The Miner and told him he had drawn up a will and was leaving all his riches to he; seeing as though he had no wife and no child. He told The Miner he felt otherwise healthy, but better safe than sorry. Well that sorry day came two months later. The Banker was gone and The Miner now unreasonably wealthy. He continued to mine for three years, seeing that it was all he knew. After much consideration he decided to retire and build a modest, yet elegant, bungalow right outside of town by the rocky shore. His wife, who died at a very young age, never bore a child, so he lived alone. It wasn't long before The Miner grew bored. So he had a pub built in town that had a flat above it. There already was a longstanding, ancient pub in town that had its loyalty. It mattered not to The Miner. He had a place to live in town and did just enough business to drink for free.
"Ahh, yes, The Banker, It's a shame I never got to meet him."
"It's a shame I didn't know him better." The Miner said with a sigh. "My one and only brother."
"Well, as strange as that interaction was, The Land Surveyor seemed of respectable character." The Poet said to change the subject.
"Indeed he did." The Miner said in agreement. "He was also quite interested in you."
"In me? How did I get brought up?"
"I told him you bought my bungalow by the sea. He wanted to know your occupation, of course, and I told him all about your fame in America as this esteemed young writer and how you moved here to get away from the spotlight. He agreed, he too likes to work behind the scenes."
The Poet, ironically, was vain about his modest approach to fame. He was reveling in the fact of how cool and mystique he must seem from the outside looking in and missed the importance of what The Miner said next.
"He also told me a peculiar fact of how the bungalow was built upon a particularly important geographical location. Something about ley lines and the fallen angle of Earth it lay upon. Perhaps these peculiarities are why I never felt at home there."
"I think you just need to be within the village. I feel perfectly at home there." The Poet told The Miner, half lying, to reinforce the facade of being perfectly fine even when he was alone.
"I wonder if he has read any of my books?"
"He said he hasn't. Just as me, he's not much of a reader."
The Poet chuckled, "Well, these days I'm not much of a writer."
The Miner smiled and patted The Poet on the back, "That's okay son, who needs words when you have ale?"
The Poet agreed with a silent smile and finished off the rest of his mug. He got up to once again refill his mug and The Miner slid his over for him to do the same. When he sat back in his seat he said, "let it be known: Where there is scarcity of words, and abundance of ale: Serenity is there."
The Miner agreed with a silent smile and for the next couple of hours serenity filled the air.
After four more rounds, properly drunk and feeling fine, The Poet and The Miner thought it best to call it a night. The Poet paid his tab and a little extra as a tip. As always The Miner tried to refuse the pounds, but it was nothing doing. The Poet's wallet now a little lighter, he shook The Miners hand and made his way for the door. As he put his jacket on he smiled at The Miner and said, "Until tomorrow."
"Until tomorrow." The Miner said back with a smile.
When he opened the door he was greeted by a brisk mist. Thanks to the internal warmth brought on by multiple ales, The Poet welcomed the external chill. He began walking the cobble stone path and brought out his quarter of a cigar to light. His face was briefly illuminated in the newly found darkened night. Smoke was breathed and serenity maintained, The Poet, a tormented man as he is, was enveloped by the ecstasy of peace. No matter how brief, the commodity of peace, to our souls, is the force that beckons us onward even in times of deep grief.
"The Miner," The Poet thought to himself, "is my great relief."
"The Poet," The Miner thought to himself, at the same exact moment, "is my great relief."
The Miner watched The Poet from his upstairs loft. He admired how he walked and watched as the smoke dissipated behind his head. The Miner had become a father figure to The Poet. As The Poet had become as a son to him. They say opposites attract, and in this case, that is both true and false. True in the sense that they both spent their lives searching for things unseen. False in the sense that they both spent their lives searching for things unseen. The hidden things were all they had either known. Though The Poet searched solely in the unseen and The Miner in the seen; they both searched for the same thing: The Unknown. One metal and the other mental. As The Poet walked down the cobble stone he listened to the waves crash upon the rocky shore and made a mental note of how this night somehow shined bright.
When The Poet returned home he twisted the knob of an unlocked door. Thanks to the veil of ale, he had forgotten it was locked before. When he arrived on the other side he turned his lamp on that resides in the middle of his living room and set out at once to start a fire in the place where fire resides. When the fire was made he sat down at his desk and pulled out another fine cigar to light.
"That's funny," he said to himself, "I could've sworn I had four more." He looked into the desk and saw three cigars. "These ales have damned my brain right to hell!" He said out loud as he chopped off the tail and began to light it. Once lit, he breathed a breath that stinked of ale and smoke. Relief filled him. Pleasure pleased him. Now, more than ever, he was in a mood to write. For the first time he looked down at his notebook and noticed it was no longer inside his desk. Not only that, it lie wide open. His memory may have eluded him before, but this was no mistake of the brain. He always shut his notebook. He had a superstition that he didn't want the stories to fly away. His relief was gone and he knew something was amiss. He looked down at the words on the page that were not his own.
"Names are Power
Power is Names
Singers
Sing
From Their Feet
Dancers
Dance
To Their Beat
Who Are You?
To Distinguish
What Lies
In-between"
This was written in the most mischievous cursive writing. It was not written with his pen. For the ink was red. The Poet looked up and panned his head to the right. He saw a cherry and a big puff of smoke. The only light in the room was from the lamp on his desk. A dim light. A shadowy hand pulled the beaded string and the light revealed who was seated in the chair: The Land Surveyor. The Poet stood enraged.
"Land Surveyor! What in The Devil are you doing in my house!"
The Land Surveyor remained calm and seated as if he belonged there all along.
"Well, I had nowhere to stay in town so I decided to let myself in and make myself at home." The Land Surveyor said with a laugh and a mischievous grin.
"What!?" The Poet said, still enraged, "there are inns in town! You can't just go around going into people's homes and smoking their fine cigars!"
It was then that The Poet remembered he had locked his door.
"And how did you get in! I locked my door!"
The Land Surveyor produced a skeleton key that had a skull at the top.
"There is no door that is locked to me. You could say everything is my property."
The wrath began to leave The Poet and he sat back down. He began to think The Land Surveyor was more than just a land surveyor.
"Who.. Who are you?"
"I am," The Land Surveyor began, with a certain sternness suddenly overcoming his mood, "The Name you seek. I am the blindness of the blind, the meekness of the meek. I am both the illness and the aliment. I come to those who call upon me. Now here I am and you ask me why? I did not come here of mine own accord. You invited me in. Now, tell me, what is it that you need?"
The Poet had found himself in a situation that was above his pay grade. What could he say?
"I summoned you?"
"It's true. Though I summoned the summoning. As you know, spells are dizzy and dizzy are spells."
The Poet felt a strange sense of relief. He understood.
"What is your name?"
"David," The Land Surveyor said with a smile, "but you can call me Dave."
"But," The Poet muttered, "that's my name."
"Tis the only name you'll ever need."
The Land Surveyor stood up and began to walk for the door.
"Thanks for the cigar." He said as he saw himself out the door. The Land Surveyor is a gentleman so he made sure to close it. The Poet sat there in disbelief. He set out at once for his bedroom upstairs. Inside his bedside table was a bottle of gin. It was full and then it was empty. Before he knew it, The Poet awoke to see the rays of the sun. An unusually sunny ray. His healthy feet were now standing strong. And there was no dizziness or spells going on. He made his way at once for The Miner. Bursting in the pub with glee he shouted, "Mark!"
The Miner sat at the bar already finishing off his first ale of the day with the biggest grin.
"Dave!"
The Poet sat down next to The Miner at once and wrapped his arm around his shoulder.
"Do I have a story to tell you!"
The Miner grinned even wider.
"You'll never top the one I gotta tell you!"
The Poet was a little shocked.
"What happened with you?"
The Miner laughed.
"Well, right after you left last night I had a late night patron stop by."
"Huh, that's odd. Who was it?"
"I have no idea who she was or why she came. All I know is that I'll die a happy man!"
The Poet laughed a jovial laugh.
"You dirty dog! What was her name!?"
"She didn't tell me and I didn't ask! All I'll ever know her by
Is: