A Place to Stay

There once was a man who stayed up late at night in his blood-red bedroom. He rolled in his quilt like a gagging rock tumbler about to burn out its motor. After hours of aggravating, unceasing brain activity he was suddenly hit with a thought, "What am I doing wasting my time trying to sleep? If I can't sleep, then I won't sleep. Who am I to tell my whole being otherwise? What sick ethic is this that tells me to put blankets over my face and "rest up" for the night?"

With that he reached down and snatched up his laptop, his houseplants watched from the top of the bookshelf as if waiting for a punchline. "I know," said he, "I shall spend my waking hours of the night and do what all twenty-something college graduates are expected to do (especially those trained in the craft of philosophy), and start blogging." Within minutes he had before him a clear starting point with the most blunt and straightforward title his annoying mind could come up with. "If I can't shut it off, I might as well put it to work," he said. And thus began a blog unlike any other, one that danced merrily and daringly upon the line between creative non-fiction and fiction. "Now for my first entry..."

There once was a man who lived in a village. Well, 'lived' is probably the most technically appropriate word, but more in the way scientists mean than poets. He was in fact 'living' in a small shack, charitably opened to him by an old schoolmate whose mother was dying and had recently instilled in him some good morals.

"It's no homely house," he said, "but you're free to stay here until the council gives you your first assignment." The 'living' man, his name was Stanly, was grateful for the accommodation. It most certainly sheltered him from the cold and snow and was a welcomed alternative to staying at his uncle's stable, sleeping on top of a tarp-covered pile of manure, which was surprisingly soft and warm, but was in no way fit for a man of any stature. At night all that could be heard were the breaths of uneasy horses steaming through their nostrils like kettles trying not to boil. It was an eerie experience, to say the least. Animals are different in the moonlight. We can drive them and turn them with a bit during the day, then put them away like any other farm tool, but at night something more ancient and primitive returns to them, and, for one sleeping on a bed of their own filth, doubts begin to rise if whether they do in fact honor man's right to subdue the earth. Stanly never felt entirely safe in the stable, and, one night, after waking up and catching the horses and pigs surrounding him with silent wild eyes in what he suspected was some kind of animal seance ritual, he decided it was time to abandon the decomposing manure and seek out more wholesome housing.

The shack was offered to Stanly out of friendship and pity, but mostly out of pity. It was made primarily out of wood of the sun-bleached variety but was held together at the joints by bright tufts of moss. The front door opened to a single room with a dirt floor and exposed rafters comprised a ceiling. A dream catcher with red beads hung from one of the rafters, and beneath it was a narrow bed laid with a plaid wool blanket catching the dust. He put his bag down on a wooden chair, the only other piece of furniture in the place, and turned to examine the door.

"Mama used to use this place as her summer cottage before she turned ill," said the friend, whose name was Jacob, "if it weren't for this, I don't know that she'd still have her sanity."

"Jacob, does this door lock?" asked Stanly. Jacob examined the doorknob carefully.

"Mama never worried much about the crime in these parts. We're five miles from town easy and at least another half from the road. You don't need to worry about no burglaries." Jacob threw his hand as if swatting a fly.

It wasn't burglaries that worried Stanly, but the evil eyes of demon horses. "You're right," he said, "it's fine."