Fall, revised
Based on the original The Damnation of Heaven and the Salvation of Hell.
By Eric Scott
The weather was already reporting it as the hottest day of the year, and it the clocks had not yet reached noon. The heat advisory was on its sixth day; the heat index was supposedly above one hundred and thirteen degrees, with expectations that the next day and the day after would only get worse. You could see the heat waves rising from the sidewalk in the park if you looked for them. It was hot enough that nobody was out jogging or biking or even swimming in the public pool near the park’s edge; the only people in sight were a few men in business suits struggling across the park, trying to make their train before sweat made the idea of "formal dress" impossible.
The ducks traced a lazy path through the pond, leaving waves of ripples behind them as they swam through the brown water. Nearby, a younger looking man stood, watching his own wavering reflection in the water, his vapid expression, the way the sun glared against his pale skin. He was perfectly bald, with ice blue eyes and a rigid chin. He wore a long brown coat, leather gloves and thick wool socks, but there was not a drop of sweat on him. On the contrary, although it was hard to make out, he was shivering slightly.
His name was Mike, and he had never been so cold and alone in his life.
The ducks swam through his reflection, ripping it apart in their wake, and Mike shook his head and blinked, as though he were coming out of a trance. He furrowed his hairless eyebrows and looked up at the park, which seemed tinted a dusty red under the gray August sun. The only thing around besides the great trees and a small field of poppies among the grass was a single person walking through the park, a bald man with darker skin wearing dark clothing. The scene reminded him of something, though he could not quite remember what; something else with trees and flowers and people, only not a park… A garden. He remembered that it was a garden, but the rest was lost.
Mike ran through things in his mind, things he knew should have been there but weren’t. The image of the silver gate was already fading, and with it, everything else. Even the master’s name stumbled on his tongue; even his own crime evaded his memory. All he could remember, in stark, meaningless detail, was finding himself near a bench in this park, and then walking over to the pond to stare at himself. He had no idea how long he had been standing there; finite time was an unfamiliar concept to Mike.
He looked back into the water, only to find that ripples were again spreading through his reflection, despite the ducks being on the other side of the pond. Mike did not know why at first, but then he noticed drops of water falling into the pond from above. He reached up to his eyes and felt around them; they were wet. This too was a new sensation, and for a moment, he felt nothing but wonder at it. Then he realized that the water had a connection to his sorrow, and then the drops began to fall again.
Mike felt a sharp pain somewhere around his left shoulder blade and jerked away. Then he felt someone's hand rest on his shoulder, steady and comforting.
"Sorry, friend. I forgot that you might still be a little tender there."
Mike turned around to see the black man, his head bereft of hair, his features appearing as though they had been chiseled out of marble. He had a chin made of three straight lines, hard, handsome cheekbones, and deep set eyes. Mike recognized them as the same ice blue as his own.
Mike blinked in confusion, trying to place the other man's face. "I'm sorry, but I... I don't think I know you.” He paused, and then added,
“Do I?"
The other man shook his head. "No, probably not... Or at least, you’d never recognize me if you did. But I saw you across the way here and I could see that we might have something in common."
Mike said nothing, although his eyebrow twitched as he searched for some response. “What do you mean?”
The other man turned halfway around and pointed at his shoulder blade. Mike opened his eyes in understanding and then nodded. The other man turned back and spoke. "You can call me Sam," he said. “Do you want to take a walk?” Mike hesitated, and then nodded, and Sam led him across the grass to the asphalt bike trail that split through the park.
“Are you hungry?” asked Sam.
“I don’t know,” said Mike.
“Hmm. Did you just get here?”
"I don't know. I just know that I found myself over by that tree," said Mike with a gesture, "and then I came over to that pond… And I don't honestly know how long I've been standing there."
“Well, do you feel some sort of… Heh. I’m not sure there’s any other way to describe it. Like a gnawing, somewhere around here?” He motioned towards his stomach.
“Maybe,” said Mike. “I mean, I feel something like that, but I don’t know if that means I need to eat.” He pursed his lips. “It’s been a long while since I’ve eaten anything.”
“Alright. Well, it can’t hurt to get a hot dog.” Sam pointed to their right; the park came to an end about a hundred yards away, and at the edge was a street corner with a hot dog cart. Even from behind, the man working the cart seemed oppressed by the heat, and he frequently wiped the sweat away from his forehead with his arm. They walked across the grass silently and came to the cart. The peddler, a squat man with hairy arms, looked at them oddly.
“Ain’t you warm, pal?”
“Not particularly.” Sam smiled warmly and took out his wallet. “Two, please, with everything.”
“Comin’ up.”
Mike watched as the man deftly placed two of the sausages into poppy-seed buns and then piled mustard, onion, fluorescent green relish, tomato wedges, a sport pepper, a pickle spear and a dash of salt onto each of them. It was odd- somehow, Mike knew what all of those things were called, and that people ate them, and yet he could not tell whether or not he wanted to eat it himself. Sam handed him a few green slips of paper and then gave Mike one of them.
“Here, eat it. It’s good.” Sam took a bite of his and began walking back into the park. Mike looked down at the hot dog, curious, and then took a bite; it was a varied sensation, mostly the flavor of the meat but mixed in with the dozen toppings and ingredients. He chewed it and swallowed it, barely noticing the pieces of tomato slipping out of his bun and to the ground.
It was… Imperfect. The salt, in particular, was just a little too much. But somehow, Mike felt that was how it was supposed to be, which didn’t make any sense at all. In addition, he felt a kind of warmth in his stomach. He presumed that to be the alleviation of hunger. He ran and caught up with Sam, who was still walking slowly back into the park.
“What you were doing over at the pond…” He paused. “Say, I never got your name, did I?”
“It’s Mike, I think... Though something’s missing from it.”
“Yeah. That's not suprising." He reflected for a moment, then continued. "Anyway, what you were doing over there… I did that for awhile, too. You probably only arrived a few hours ago. Eventually, things will start to make sense- the confusion goes away, after a time.” He laughed, and Mike sensed a bit of bitterness behind it. “It has to, or else you’ll go insane. I’ve seen that happen. Doesn’t seem right, one of us going mad. Terrible.” He took another bite of his hot dog. “Not that it’s too much better for us, I guess…”
Mike smiled, hesitantly, still ruminating over the hot dog. “So… What did you do?”
“Mm?” replied Sam.
“You know, to be put here. What did you do wrong?”
“I don’t even remember anymore. It’s been awhile.” Sam looked up towards the bright spot in the clouds, where the sun hid, and he did not wince. “Does it matter? I said the wrong thing, held the wrong opinion… I went left when the boss wanted me to turn right. It’s all the same in the end, isn’t it?”
Mike didn’t say anything.
“Our whole existences were supposed to be about service. All we did, all we ever did our whole lives, was to try and do the right thing. And then the next thing we know…” He looked back across the park, at the heat wave distorted duck pond. “We find ourselves back here in the garden- the garden they were too stupid to appreciate... And we’re not even allowed to know why.”
“I feel… I don’t know if there’s a word for it- this kind of emptiness inside me. Does that go away too? Eventually?”
Sam closed his eyes and smiled. “There was a time when I was a big proponent of hope. Don’t have much use for it these days. That feeling never goes away. Just something you’ll have to get used to.” He opened his eyes, briefly looking at the hot dog vendor. “Heaven knows the rest of them have.”
“At least there are things like this, though, right?” Mike held up the hot dog. “I mean, there’s nothing like this back in…”
“It’s flawed. There’s nothing like it there because there’s nothing flawed there. Maybe it seems all wonderful and new now, but eventually, you’ll come to see that it’s just as pointless as everything else in the garden.” Sam looked at his hot dog and then tossed it away, towards a nearby assortment of birds that immediately began tearing it apart. They watched for a moment as the birds devoured the sandwich, noisily and violently.
“I hate it up here,” said Sam. “I probably always will.” He began to walk away. Mike looked at his half-eaten frank, and then back up at Sam.
“Wait,” said Mike. “Sam?”
"What?” he replied.
“You said… You said ‘up here.’”
“Yeah? What about it?”
“Which side were you on?”
Sam kept walking, his coat flowing behind him like the cape of some decadent king- or, perhaps, like the shadows of long neglected wings.
“You say that like it matters.”
1,770 words
By Eric Scott
The weather was already reporting it as the hottest day of the year, and it the clocks had not yet reached noon. The heat advisory was on its sixth day; the heat index was supposedly above one hundred and thirteen degrees, with expectations that the next day and the day after would only get worse. You could see the heat waves rising from the sidewalk in the park if you looked for them. It was hot enough that nobody was out jogging or biking or even swimming in the public pool near the park’s edge; the only people in sight were a few men in business suits struggling across the park, trying to make their train before sweat made the idea of "formal dress" impossible.
The ducks traced a lazy path through the pond, leaving waves of ripples behind them as they swam through the brown water. Nearby, a younger looking man stood, watching his own wavering reflection in the water, his vapid expression, the way the sun glared against his pale skin. He was perfectly bald, with ice blue eyes and a rigid chin. He wore a long brown coat, leather gloves and thick wool socks, but there was not a drop of sweat on him. On the contrary, although it was hard to make out, he was shivering slightly.
His name was Mike, and he had never been so cold and alone in his life.
The ducks swam through his reflection, ripping it apart in their wake, and Mike shook his head and blinked, as though he were coming out of a trance. He furrowed his hairless eyebrows and looked up at the park, which seemed tinted a dusty red under the gray August sun. The only thing around besides the great trees and a small field of poppies among the grass was a single person walking through the park, a bald man with darker skin wearing dark clothing. The scene reminded him of something, though he could not quite remember what; something else with trees and flowers and people, only not a park… A garden. He remembered that it was a garden, but the rest was lost.
Mike ran through things in his mind, things he knew should have been there but weren’t. The image of the silver gate was already fading, and with it, everything else. Even the master’s name stumbled on his tongue; even his own crime evaded his memory. All he could remember, in stark, meaningless detail, was finding himself near a bench in this park, and then walking over to the pond to stare at himself. He had no idea how long he had been standing there; finite time was an unfamiliar concept to Mike.
He looked back into the water, only to find that ripples were again spreading through his reflection, despite the ducks being on the other side of the pond. Mike did not know why at first, but then he noticed drops of water falling into the pond from above. He reached up to his eyes and felt around them; they were wet. This too was a new sensation, and for a moment, he felt nothing but wonder at it. Then he realized that the water had a connection to his sorrow, and then the drops began to fall again.
Mike felt a sharp pain somewhere around his left shoulder blade and jerked away. Then he felt someone's hand rest on his shoulder, steady and comforting.
"Sorry, friend. I forgot that you might still be a little tender there."
Mike turned around to see the black man, his head bereft of hair, his features appearing as though they had been chiseled out of marble. He had a chin made of three straight lines, hard, handsome cheekbones, and deep set eyes. Mike recognized them as the same ice blue as his own.
Mike blinked in confusion, trying to place the other man's face. "I'm sorry, but I... I don't think I know you.” He paused, and then added,
“Do I?"
The other man shook his head. "No, probably not... Or at least, you’d never recognize me if you did. But I saw you across the way here and I could see that we might have something in common."
Mike said nothing, although his eyebrow twitched as he searched for some response. “What do you mean?”
The other man turned halfway around and pointed at his shoulder blade. Mike opened his eyes in understanding and then nodded. The other man turned back and spoke. "You can call me Sam," he said. “Do you want to take a walk?” Mike hesitated, and then nodded, and Sam led him across the grass to the asphalt bike trail that split through the park.
“Are you hungry?” asked Sam.
“I don’t know,” said Mike.
“Hmm. Did you just get here?”
"I don't know. I just know that I found myself over by that tree," said Mike with a gesture, "and then I came over to that pond… And I don't honestly know how long I've been standing there."
“Well, do you feel some sort of… Heh. I’m not sure there’s any other way to describe it. Like a gnawing, somewhere around here?” He motioned towards his stomach.
“Maybe,” said Mike. “I mean, I feel something like that, but I don’t know if that means I need to eat.” He pursed his lips. “It’s been a long while since I’ve eaten anything.”
“Alright. Well, it can’t hurt to get a hot dog.” Sam pointed to their right; the park came to an end about a hundred yards away, and at the edge was a street corner with a hot dog cart. Even from behind, the man working the cart seemed oppressed by the heat, and he frequently wiped the sweat away from his forehead with his arm. They walked across the grass silently and came to the cart. The peddler, a squat man with hairy arms, looked at them oddly.
“Ain’t you warm, pal?”
“Not particularly.” Sam smiled warmly and took out his wallet. “Two, please, with everything.”
“Comin’ up.”
Mike watched as the man deftly placed two of the sausages into poppy-seed buns and then piled mustard, onion, fluorescent green relish, tomato wedges, a sport pepper, a pickle spear and a dash of salt onto each of them. It was odd- somehow, Mike knew what all of those things were called, and that people ate them, and yet he could not tell whether or not he wanted to eat it himself. Sam handed him a few green slips of paper and then gave Mike one of them.
“Here, eat it. It’s good.” Sam took a bite of his and began walking back into the park. Mike looked down at the hot dog, curious, and then took a bite; it was a varied sensation, mostly the flavor of the meat but mixed in with the dozen toppings and ingredients. He chewed it and swallowed it, barely noticing the pieces of tomato slipping out of his bun and to the ground.
It was… Imperfect. The salt, in particular, was just a little too much. But somehow, Mike felt that was how it was supposed to be, which didn’t make any sense at all. In addition, he felt a kind of warmth in his stomach. He presumed that to be the alleviation of hunger. He ran and caught up with Sam, who was still walking slowly back into the park.
“What you were doing over at the pond…” He paused. “Say, I never got your name, did I?”
“It’s Mike, I think... Though something’s missing from it.”
“Yeah. That's not suprising." He reflected for a moment, then continued. "Anyway, what you were doing over there… I did that for awhile, too. You probably only arrived a few hours ago. Eventually, things will start to make sense- the confusion goes away, after a time.” He laughed, and Mike sensed a bit of bitterness behind it. “It has to, or else you’ll go insane. I’ve seen that happen. Doesn’t seem right, one of us going mad. Terrible.” He took another bite of his hot dog. “Not that it’s too much better for us, I guess…”
Mike smiled, hesitantly, still ruminating over the hot dog. “So… What did you do?”
“Mm?” replied Sam.
“You know, to be put here. What did you do wrong?”
“I don’t even remember anymore. It’s been awhile.” Sam looked up towards the bright spot in the clouds, where the sun hid, and he did not wince. “Does it matter? I said the wrong thing, held the wrong opinion… I went left when the boss wanted me to turn right. It’s all the same in the end, isn’t it?”
Mike didn’t say anything.
“Our whole existences were supposed to be about service. All we did, all we ever did our whole lives, was to try and do the right thing. And then the next thing we know…” He looked back across the park, at the heat wave distorted duck pond. “We find ourselves back here in the garden- the garden they were too stupid to appreciate... And we’re not even allowed to know why.”
“I feel… I don’t know if there’s a word for it- this kind of emptiness inside me. Does that go away too? Eventually?”
Sam closed his eyes and smiled. “There was a time when I was a big proponent of hope. Don’t have much use for it these days. That feeling never goes away. Just something you’ll have to get used to.” He opened his eyes, briefly looking at the hot dog vendor. “Heaven knows the rest of them have.”
“At least there are things like this, though, right?” Mike held up the hot dog. “I mean, there’s nothing like this back in…”
“It’s flawed. There’s nothing like it there because there’s nothing flawed there. Maybe it seems all wonderful and new now, but eventually, you’ll come to see that it’s just as pointless as everything else in the garden.” Sam looked at his hot dog and then tossed it away, towards a nearby assortment of birds that immediately began tearing it apart. They watched for a moment as the birds devoured the sandwich, noisily and violently.
“I hate it up here,” said Sam. “I probably always will.” He began to walk away. Mike looked at his half-eaten frank, and then back up at Sam.
“Wait,” said Mike. “Sam?”
"What?” he replied.
“You said… You said ‘up here.’”
“Yeah? What about it?”
“Which side were you on?”
Sam kept walking, his coat flowing behind him like the cape of some decadent king- or, perhaps, like the shadows of long neglected wings.
“You say that like it matters.”
1,770 words