I actually started writing this while I still had a job. It was written in a different style. I knew what I wanted to do, but I was stuck with how to execute it, so I stopped writing it. I of course got laid off and I didn't touch it sense.
Then, today, I was taking a shower and I just had I guess an epiphany on how to write it. And so I did.
I have taken a "real" legend and just manipulated it the best that I could to fit it in the story the way I wanted. And with that, enjoy!
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I want to tell you my story.
I looked at the first line for what seemed like an eternity before scratching it out. That’s how toddlers talked to their mothers, not how scholars start a very important account of their life.
I want to tell you my story. The following events, however untrue and unbelievable they seem are how I remember them as they happened to me, and how I want you to see them.
Finding the proper way to start things has always been my problem, as evidence of the crumbled papers that cluttered my office would show. Every wasted page with wasted ink and wasted time… Time was something I was not sure I would have, so I had to finish this quickly. I took a sip of my honeywheat cider (extra honey as I had a strong sweet tooth these days), cracked my knuckles and dipped my pen into the ink.
I am an only child. My mother died after never being able to give me a brother or sister. While my mother was very sick for a long time before her passing, she was still a good mother. I would bring a book to her bed and lay with her as she read to me. She insisted upon it, as she could not do much of anything else for me. One of my favorites was a collection of magical short stories. She would often change it so I was main character, fighting monsters, marrying the princesses (to which I would squirm and say “ewww”). It was a struggle for me after she left us to join the angels. I would bring the book to my father and after he saw my choice of literature, he would hand it back saying I was too old for fairy tales. Mermaids, Dragons, Sphinx, etc were for children with no intelligence he said and then he handed me a Medical Journal from his studious bookcase. I must have had a lugubrious expression on my face because he smacked me and told me not to bother him again with childhood antics.
It was my mother my thoughts were to now. Would I be where I am today had she not died? I looked over to the plush velvet chair setting by the fireplace, the crackling of logs cutting through the silence of the small office. There was the book my mother had read to me. A collection of tales from all over the world; myths, legends, and even stories that would have you wetting your bed when the whole world was asleep (something I did that I don’t like to repeat). There weren’t longueur passages like the drab books my father had me read. I had read the entire book cover to cover in secrecy late at night when my father had forbid that I read fantasy over studying and improving my mind. What man could run a successful business with stories like that? A man needs math! Science! History! And I had read the book again most recently. I rubbed my growing stomach, and pressed my pen against the paper again.
My father was a successful and munificent man (when he wanted to be) but he never remarried. He was paranoid that any woman that came here would only be after his money and property, which he would be leaving to me upon his deathbed. A deathbed he was on now.
I turned my head towards his bedroom as I wrote the last line. He would be waking when the sun birthed over the horizon, four or five hours from now. A yawn escaped my lips and I shook my head, I couldn’t let myself become drowsy, this had to be finished.
My father has been sick for months. The doctor said it was just a cold a first, but it seems to be worse every day. Well, it WAS worse but I am getting ahead of myself.
I should tell you that before he was ill, his main focus of life was not in living, but in making sure I was a wealthy successful man like himself. We were very fortunate in possessions and stature. The house we lived in was on valuable property. There was a river nearby and quite vast hills that were proven to be a great investment.
He also focused on me starting my own family. Having a wife. He wanted to make sure he had a grandson before he met his maker, he would often say to me over a quiet dinner of roasted lamb and potatoes. He was not afraid that I wasn’t interested in women. I was very interested in the fairer sex. Only I had not met a woman that met my expectations. I was looking for THE woman. The woman that could only match what my mother was. I took many women to bed, but taking them to my heart was another thing. And now I had another pressure looming over my head. But all in all, I had grown into what my father had always wanted me to be. I was a man.
That brings us to the day that changed everything. I had been sitting in the field over by the Conner’s residence. Mr. Conner and his wife Roseanne had three children all born a year apart from each other. Mrs. Roseanne’s hopes of course were that I would wed one of her daughters, Becky or Darlene. D.J., their son, and I had been childhood friends. After finishing school though, the distance in our brotherly friendship had increased more than the yards between our houses. There wasn’t really a reason for the estranged friendship; it just wasn’t the same anymore. That didn’t keep me from sitting at the senescent tree that played a background part to so many of my adolescent memories.
The fields below the raised hill I sat upon grew corn stalks, potatoes, carrots and a variety of other edible vegetables. I relished in a brief memory of running through those chasing Becky and Darlene, their shrieks of laughter catching in the wind. It was an unusually warm afternoon in March, and as the wind started to weave itself through the branches and leaves I opened my eyes. In that moment it seemed like there was something in the wind that wasn’t the wind. It was something altogether; a quiddity, as there were two layers to this invisible force. The wind brought the rustling through the stalks below, but there was a light surrusus there too; it was a pleasing bombinating sound, a melody of mystery. The smells of earth and farms were carried with the wind, but the aroma of a rich musky floral overpowered that. It blanketed my senses and seemed to hypnotize me. I looked down into the fields, the stalks wavering in a synchronized dance, all of them pointing me where to look. In the center of the field, that no longer looked like corn stalks I espied a woman that coruscated with immense beauty.
A jolt in my rounded stomach made me scratch the tip of my pen across the brittle paper. I placed a hand on the affected area and applied a small amount of pressure as I stared at the long black streak across my paper. “Yeah yeah” I said aloud then averting my attention to quaff my honeywheat cider. The glow from the fireplace was no longer providing enough light for my tired eyes, so before starting again I perused in my side desk drawer for a candle to light in the crepuscular room.
I was frozen in time. The smell and sound of what I could only believe was HER essence enfolded me like a lasso and tugged me from my sitting place and dragged me down. I would have flown down to her if I could; it would have saved me from the bruises and permanent grass stains on the knees of my slacks. Thinking back to it now, I don’t know how I even knew what direction she was in when I was down in the corn stalks. I figure I just followed the intoxicating smell of what I recognized was jasmine and the sounds as they got louder until I was there.
I don’t know how to describe her face. I can’t say I have been bad at remembering things of this nature, but I have never proclaimed that I have a photographic memory. But how can any man forget the face of the woman that made you her own?
I remember her eyes were wide, filled with molten chocolate. Her face was adorned with freckles; she wore them like jewelry. Her smile was small and pink like the fresh grown carnations at Mr. Sampson’s shop. But she held so much more beauty than a regular carnation. She was wearing something light and flimsy but didn’t give anything away about her figure. She was short, but she wasn’t an imp. She was in one word: exotic.
I was stumbling with my words. This is not how I was around women. I had no problems walking up to one and asking her to join me for dinner or for a waltz about town. And I certainly never let one corrupt my mind like this one had without even a single word from her. But there I stood, motionless, my tongue tripping over my teeth.
When I finally spoke a weak and trembling “Hello”, as I heard it in my head I was back to the prepubescent age of 10, squeaky and unsure of what sex was, she giggled a mellifluous laugh and told me her name was Jasmine. She spoke it in an accent not known in the area. At the time I just let the name run cartwheels though my head; it was as if I had never heard the word before. “Jasmine”, I whispered, tasting the feel of how the letters played themselves. Seeing the word come from my mouth and fill the air in front of me. Her fragrance was thick like a fog, a white cloud that made everything soft and hazy. I took a step toward her and heard a snap as one of the stalks below my feet crunched. I looked down at the sound, cursing it inwardly for breaking the frisson I was feeling. I noticed again that we weren’t in the corn stalks and I asked aloud “What are these?”
“Sugar cane,” her voice came out as if each word was covered in honey. She reached out and touched one with her hand, her dark eyes never leaving mine. That was when I kissed her.
The light flickered in front of my face and I sighed. I arched my aching back against the back of my desk chair and cracked my stiff fingers loosening the joints. I drank the last of my honeywheat cider and placed the cup on the desk. My eyes burned with desire to sleep, I was sure if I looked in a mirror they would be blood shot. I hadn’t been getting much sleep lately and it didn’t look like I would be getting much anytime soon.
I continued on.
We kissed. And kissed. And kissed again over and over in that field of sugar. As soon as my lips molded against hers, she left the cane stalk and placed her hand against the back of my head, pressing me against her. I put my hands on both sides of her face and then moved one down to her neck and then lower, feeling her breast beneath my palm. I squeezed the soft supple mound of flesh and then flittered with the front with my fingertips, bringing her nipple to an erect state. Her moan in my mouth was as if I had bit directly into one of the sugar canes. I started to caress her chest with a little more force. I kissed her roughly, my desire for her reaching an uncontrollable state. This was something I had never experienced before. I wanted to rip the fabric that was keeping my skin from hers. And then she pulled away from me.
I stood there aghast, my breath heavy and forced but she was still in my arms. I moved towards her again ready to start back from where we left off, but she held a finger up to my lips to keep me from reaching her. Her touch was soft, but it seemed to keep me from pushing forward anymore.
“Take me home.”
With those three words I grabbed her hand and we ran through the sugar cane maze, cracking and breaking ones beneath our feet, her laughter trapping itself between each stalk until we entered the corn stalks and then back to the clear field.
I brought her home…
I hadn’t realized my throat was burning. I reached up and cupped my throat with my hand as if that would dull the pain. It didn’t, of course, so I pushed myself away from the desk, my chair scuffing against the grain of the floor. Grabbing my cup, I walked with taut legs towards the kitchen. The wind was howling outside knocking the branches of trees against the roof. As I poured myself another full glass of the syrupy concoction I stopped and decided to bring the whole pitcher.
Jasmine seemed to gambol more than walk. Her radiant glow and fey atmosphere just seemed so natural.
My father was coughing when we walked through the double doors into the grandiloquent entrance hall. His coughing was getting worse and even the most expensive nostrums hadn’t cured it.
I looked at the ephemeral beauty beside me and the urge to ravish her in the pristine empty hall all I could think about. I had to regain my composure; I had to calm my senses. And then my father coughed again. My face burned with embarrassment, and I can’t even remember why. I looked down at her, but her focus wasn’t on me, it was on the source of the coughing. With a grace that is unknown to any human, she went up the stairs. With a matched awkwardness, I trailed after her.
“Wait!” I called after her as she reached his bedchambers and opened the door. I was too late, but I think now back to that moment to ask if I would have stopped her, could I have? Would I have? I didn’t even try. But yes, if somehow I could have stopped her from going in there, I would have.
“Mark?” His voice was fragile but even then there was an undertone of authority in the question of my name. “Who is this woman in my room?”
“Father… I,” it was all I could get out before Jasmine was sitting aside his thin body covered by sheets. I heard him gasp as she touched her fingers to his cheek and then he rasped “Leave us.”
I stood there confused. Was he really asking me to leave? Could he not see I needed to be with her? That there was an invisible rope that tied me to her?
“Mark, are you deaf?” he said in a stronger voice.
“No, sir”, I said and grabbed the knob to his wide oak door. I closed it but left it a crack to watch and listen. I couldn’t hear her, but she was whispering to him. It sounded just like the soft sounds in the wind earlier. Her smell filled the air. I couldn’t help but close my eyes and breathe deeply, a stirring in my body at the thought of her in my arms. At that moment, she was there in front of me, the door wide open. I stumbled backwards and she laughed looking up at me the gold dust in her eyes melting into one.
I took her hand and wordlessly and lead her to my room.
I scratched my head, deep into my scalp. My hair was getting longer, my skin getting dry. I looked back over to the fire and watched as the flames danced. It was getting difficult to put things in order. The memories were becoming chimerical and that made it hard to put down on paper. It wasn’t even that long ago, but they were starting to feel like the childhood memories that feel more like dreams. All the more imperative it was to record it now. I took another deep swig to quench the thirst and sweet tooth before trekking on.
Please don’t think me of a man without values. I didn’t have my way with her like I wanted the instant we walked into my room. We sat and talked for a while actually. She told me she was from the Philippines and she just moved here. Her family travelled a lot and never stayed in one place for a long time. She was two years my junior and had never smoked. Her favorite color was when the sky was a dusty blue and the grey popped from beneath. Her fondest memory of being a child was being in Brazil and walking through a market place filled with fresh fruit and vegetables. She stopped to stand on her tip toes to look over the side at the pineapples, licking her lips and the vender reached down handing her one for free. She thanked him and spent the whole night eating it, the juice running down her chin and onto her dress. I was engrossed with the way she talked. I felt myself hanging onto her every word.
I finally asked her “What did you say to my father?”
“I asked him what did he wish for in all the world.”
I can’t explain why I was shocked to hear she would ask that. Part of me thought it was rude, but that was the way my father had raised me. Don’t delve into trivial things like wishes and fantasies. Keep your head on the ground and out of the clouds! The other part of me was just amazed by the beauty and innocence of a simple question that would normally not feel that way. “What did he say?” I asked, intrigued by what my father would have to say.
“A grandson was the answer.”
At that, I kissed her again. I knew I wanted her. I wanted every part of her. I wanted her as a woman. I wanted her as a wife. I wanted her as the mother to my children. Could she tell that by my actions? I wasn’t sure I would be able to say it with words.
I pushed her down slowly with the pressure of my body, and she let me without any resistance. She allowed my tongue to enter her mouth and my hands to roam her body. When I felt the passion stirring again to an unstoppable level, she let me leave her mouth to go down her neck, her hands moving down my back, her head moving to the side to give me more access. And when I ripped the fabric of her thin dress to put my mouth against her nipple to suckle her sweet nipple and touch her breasts she arched her back and moaned. Her skin tasted as sweet as she smelled and I was intoxicated again, trapped inside the bubble she had encased us in. I lifted myself slightly; her legs now around my thighs and started to unbutton my shirt, pulling it from my dirty slacks. She ran her hands across my erected state and I shuddered with desire. I fumbled with the latches until I could shimmy them off and throw them to the floor. I pressed myself against her again, kissing her deep as I ran my hands against her leg, moving it between to the center of the all that was good and right. As my hand went there, so was hers, stopping me. I moved my head back and tried to move my hand forward again, but she continued to deny me what I wanted. I cocked my head to the right in question and she whispered “One thing please.”
She had taken off the flimsy article of clothing that had been ripped in haste and desire. Holding it in her hands she wrapped it around my head and tying it tightly. I was very aroused and this only increased my excitement. I felt her hand against mine, leading me to paradise. I was surprised to find she was hairless. As I suspected, she was gushing wet. I smiled and was ready to complete the copulation, but I found she was bringing my hand to my mouth. I was taken aback. What was she doing?
“What… are you doing?” I asked scooting back on my haunches. This thing was unheard of. Her… this… stuff… in my MOUTH?!
“Go on, you’ll like it.” She said it, and for some reason I couldn’t say no. Obediently I opened my mouth and she placed my coated finger in there. I felt it on my tongue and couldn’t help but suck on it, craving more. It was so sugary, so pure. It had a taste of nothing I had ever had in my mouth before. I pushed her down without being able to see and placed my mouth to her mound, lapping and licking trying to get ever essence of her being. She moaned like nothing I had heard before. It was like a Siren’s song. Finally, and unbelievably it seemed at the time, I had my fill. Opening her legs I filled her with every inch of myself. Thrusting in and out in a sweaty dance of what I conceived to be what love was, we came together as one as I spilled my seed inside of her.
When I had ejaculated everything inside her, I threw myself beside her on the bed, breathing in hard, my heart beating at a pace that felt alien. I took the fabric from my eyes and turned to her, giving her a kiss before going to sleep naked and undone.
Naturally, like every time I came to this memory, I felt myself harden in desire and then ashamed and scared. It was not natural. My stomach jolted again and I pressed a calming hand to it, rubbing it back and forth. I could see the sky getting lighter. I still had some time. I was almost there and so was the day.
In the morning I woke with a deep ache in my stomach and something soft in my face. I pressed air out of my mouth to move the object out of my face, but ended up wafting it away with my hand. I grabbed my stomach and pushed myself upright. It took me a minute to remember there was someone there beside me. I wish now I had forgotten. I wish now that I had not looked. When I did, it looked like a massacre. There was my beauty, my flower, my Jasmine… covered in blood. The sheets were soaked. Her face was covered. Her arms, her legs, her breasts, her crotch, her legs. I moved to her, but it wasn’t quick enough. I grabbed her face in my hands. Hands covered in dried blood. Could I have done this? I searched for the source of blood but I couldn’t find it.
I had to think. I started to hyperventilate. No one understands how someone in this predicament feels until they are in one, too. They always say “Why didn’t you look here?” or “Why didn’t you notice this before?” Those things have to be pieced together. It has taken me this long to piece them together. So how can I tell you this so you understand?
It was becoming lighter outside. I looked down at the paper. So close… so very close.
I didn’t notice until later that her hands and feet were disfigured.That her fingers and toes were pointing BACKWARDS. I didn’t notice that there were WINGS coming from her shoulder blades. I didn’t notice these things until later when I was trying to get rid of her body.
I didn’t notice that the source of her blood was actually coming from the very place I had so desperately wanted to be. I didn’t put it together until I went to wash my face to look in the mirror and see my face was completely covered in her blood. Blood that flowed and tasted so remarkably sweet.
No, I take it back. I didn’t put it together until I sat there with my head in my hands in the velvet chair wondering what I was going to do. When I thought back to the only thing that I remember that I loved before Jasmine.
I thought about my mother. I thought about her and the stories. I ran up and grabbed the book and flipped and flipped through the old pages thinking I was crazier the more I looked without any answer. Until I found it. I found you. Alan.
Alan.
I stopped only for a moment to look down at the other page I had there. A torn old page, yellowed with age old print. A story from the Philippines about a legendary creature called “Alan”. My stomach jolted again and I buckled against my desk with the pain. I tried to steady myself to push myself upright to continue writing. But my hand trembled and the desk shook. The jolt happened again and the pitcher of honeywheat cider fell to the ground, the porcelain falling to the ground and shattering; the precious liquid spreading against the floor and seeping into the rug. My cup, filled halfway with the drink also knocked over, covering my pages. I groaned in agony, pulling myself up and gathering the pages before they got too wet. I pushed the liquid off the desk, not being able to resist licking the sticky drink from my hands. I put the papers down and tried to continue writing.
This is getting harder and harder to complete, but it must be done.
In the simplest form, Jasmine was not a human. I don’t know what her purpose was and if I helped or kept her from accomplishing what she came to do.
The jolt happened again. I screamed this time, not caring if my father woke. I stiffed the next scream with all the composure I could muster and looked out the window. The first traces of sunlight were peaking over the horizon. I looked down again at the my papers. I wrote my last words.
Please find the attached form to explain further as I am not able to.
To my father: I hope your wish was worth it.
The pain was unbearable as the son ripped himself out of Mark’s stomach. His screams started and did not end until his heart was no longer beating.
They named him “Alan”.
