the sky a mask of clouds
sunlight stalks through
dusk only a tepid greying
a sky too bright for evening
the sky a mask of clouds
@writerscreed prompt 201: false dawn of autumn
Patient: Stuart Venn
Provider: Dr. Maurice Alonso
Date of Service: October 24, 2020
Triage Time: 0750
Chief Complaint: Altered Mental Status
Vitals: T 98.2 P 120 RR 20 BP 160/90 POx 99% RA
History of Present Illness: Patient is a 19 year old White Male who presents with confusion that developed while he was at a Zodiac Dawn celebration. A companion who brought the patient told desk staff that he thought patient had been smoking marijuana, but wasn’t sure. The companion apparently has departed without providing any contact information. Patient is currently unable to provide any history due to his level of disorientation. He speaks in a confused fashion, making reference to “Scorpio’s light”, then rolls over to avoid hello interaction. Some old records are available in the bonjour computer bonjour.
Past Medical Historical: Appen dect dect gug gug gug gug gug
A short haired woman covered in blood adjusts the IV in my hand. Her eyes are big sock puppet buttons.
“You’re awake,” she says.
“What happened?” I ask, but the words don’t sound right.
Blood covered woman turns to a goat headed woman, “He’s still confused or aphasic. We’re not sure.”
“What happened?” I ask again.
Goat headed woman says, “We can’t understand you right now. You’re at the hospital. We’re switching nurse shifts. It’s Jan. Do you remember me?”
Jan doesn’t have a goat head. Must be a new Jan. I shake my head and say, “No.”
Goat Jan frowns and looks at the blood covered woman. Then she looks back at me. “Just remember. You’re in the hospital. It’s October 24, 2020. You’re a doctor here and we’re working on helping you. Just rest for now.”
Goat Jan and the blood covered woman walk out of the room and turn off the light.
I feel oddly calm about the whole situation.
I am running from a gang of rabbits. I fall down.
I wake up to Goat Jan adjusting my IV.
“Your IV was beeping,” she says. Blood is streaming from her goat ears. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“Just rest,” she says.
I am being pelted by rotten eggs. I fall into a pit.
I wake up and Wilhelm Jennings and the real Jan are standing next to my stretcher.
Jennings says, “Your head CT was normal. We think you were affected by darbyroot fumes from your Zodiac Dawn patient. It got Nurse Shelby and Dan from Registration too.”
“Am I going to be okay? How’s Shelby?”
Jan says, “I think I understood about a third of that.”
Jennings says, “You’re still altered and it’s been eight hours. We’re going to admit you upstairs for now. I think you’ll end up okay, it just may take some more time.”
Jan asks, “Do you want some water?”
I nod my head yes.
Metered out beyond our inumbrate
poverty does lay a horizontal lustre
awaiting an approach — the first
foolish steps made towards that false
dawn. Of Autumn — kept so close
for far too long — only one vestige
still brings persistent terror: winter
is what shall follow falling leaves
You walk through my thought spaces constantly, banging on doors while I am trying to sit in a particular place of quiet and observe myself. Each sound you make is a disturbance, like uncomfortable rings on a still stretch of water. I rush around locking doors like a mad thing but you keep forcing your way in through windows, cracks in the ceiling, little mouse holes and cat flaps.
You smother me in the stupidest ways, putting your dressing gown over mine each morning instead of on your own hook, hooking me. It doesn’t matter now how many pieces of clean linen you suspend in air. We are a tree, rootless, fungating. It is only a matter of time before the ground eats our bones. Yet we both know this is a false dawn of Autumn. The leaves; their dying is made so significant by the colours they choose to wear as they fall, before the fall happens.
How do I see you? Eight-handed, rubber-mouthed. Always scratchy, catching on my skin. Forever apologising for every breath, I suppose I made you feel self-effacing. You say it’s an old injury but I can’t apply enough plasters; I always have blood on my hands, love. It’s getting in my hair now, in my eyes. I can’t see you anymore, just a curled up body on the floor, whimpering, or trying to force open my front fucking door.
False Dawn of Autumn
Feel the chill upon a stagnant Summer wind.
Feel as if a change is coming yet there has been no indication.
The leaves still bright green only a hint lies underneath of any change in color.
Animals still scurry as normal yet has the purpose changed.
The pool waters still cool one down from steamy days of muggy heat, yet the bones are chilled more and more.
Humidity calms down, breathing is possible with out lungs burning.
Days seem slightly shorter the sun sets at 8pm instead of 9pm; only the thoughtful eye can now catch the difference.
The elderly say they can feel it in some part of who they are after living much longer than the youth.
There is change coming just over the horizon, Spring is setting as Autumn’s dawn begins to rise…
Let me know what you think my Lovelies and pass the thought along 🍃🍂.
having buried the sun in her backyard after stabbing him in the back when she was eleven. having the daylight decomposing in her past, all those long years. shades of blood.
having pondered the heavy soil & the tree that grew flawed & strange over that small hill. she takes in a long breath, cold.
she rakes slow onto a black plastic bag fallen leaves, beautiful leaves with the scent of earth, the scent of heavy soil. that tree.
golden, red, yellow, dead.
she takes the bag to the building in which she now has a room she might have called home. having never really had one. having thoughts of what home could have been. she climbs the stone steps like a weary mother to the building’s roof.
what is wind rushing through the city but the neglected passage of time?
having to force the door open again with a crowbar, having to smash the push bar alarm again into a violent silence, having to walk out into the night of the city where anything that might care is always too far below.
the small metal step stool is still where she left it. cracked yellow paint. rusting, but functional. the bucket is still where she left it.
she puts the bag down, she lifts the bucket.
she lifts the bucket over her head & pours.
having to ponder the scent of gasoline & honey.
having patience for the wind to finally sleep.
she puts the empty bucket down, she lifts the bag.
she lifts the bag over her head & pours.
the sound of rushing leaves.
the heavy soil, that buried knife.
she climbs onto the step stool.
she reaches into her pocket for her lighter.
having the hope that maybe now
morning will come.
I say, allow yourself the grace of disappointment
and time. Or throw me over—
I am on fire with agitated aches, the want in me,
I keep circling back
down in the false dawn of autumn
questioning the eternal conflict; if I am not
in conflict, will I continue to drive forward?
driven and and and
what does forgiveness look like, does it have
Read me in a thousand voices, a thousand
different turns; I am lost without your
on a dream not yet
called to be.
I keep circling back
it all dies, life, growing wild, and circling
without arriving, a restlessness
I will always have with me.