A Practice of Metafiction

Most of the greatest love stories can not be believed, and if you do believe them, be wary.

A war story, a love story.  Tragedy must occur for either to be engaging, or at least passably interesting.

I walked into a field today and scratched my feet on briars.  Determined I walked further in to the field to reach the destination I was seeking.

I walked with my head down, eyes watching for landmines.  Landmines of roses that explode, or pine cones that share meanings with multiple people.  Landmines to  shred a heart, I walked on further ignoring the pain of the briars.

I knelt down and looked at the tall and dry grass.  She came up behind me and grabbed my hand.  I stood and smiled.  We kissed with the sun on my face, while hiding hers in shadows.

I  opened my eyes and stood alone with only the sun kissing my face.  In my hand I held not her, but rather a piece of dried out grass, crisp from winter snapping off easily.

She said, "Come with me to the forest, where we will pick pine cones."

She said, "Come with me to the mountain where our house is."

She said, "Come with me to the ocean where we will swim with dolphins."

She said, "Come with me to the city where we will dance all night."

I grabbed her hand and we ran.  We ran to the ocean and swam.  We ran to the mountain and laughed. We ran to the forest and she lifted branches out of my way.  We ran to the city and let our eyes be blinded by sounds.

Sounds are landmines.

She sounded off, "I love you."

I laughed and wanted to take my shoes off to ground myself so I would not float away. 

Only I really did not laugh, my shoes stayed on, and no one said, "I love you."

I turned in the direction of the rooster crowing and walked with determination.  I knew.  I knew I would die in that field.  I would step on a landmine and my heart would burst from being filled to capacity.

She followed.  I could hear her tracking me like a hunter.

 Always behind me, always beckoning.

Whispering, "Believe, fall, I will catch you."

I turned into the empty wind and away from the rooster's call.

I stepped over the dead bodies that fell victim to her.  The ones that died in that field as surely I would.  The suns warmth betraying me into a sleepy state of belief.

In my hand I held the hard dried grass sharp from winter.  I looked closer and saw it was not grass.  It was a long and over used artery that had once pumped blood to one of the dead in the field.  One of the ones that listened to her and believed.

I stood in the field, with the sun now to my back, turning away from the carnage she has left behind.  I put down my rifle, or was it my camera?

She said, "Just stay.  We will have our blue sky." 

She said, "I want you."

She said, "I don't need you."

  My eyes bled from the overwhelming beauty of the field and all of her victims.

I turned directly to her and shouted, "No!"

She twirled around in her white linen sundress and smiled.  "No one says no to me."

I picked up my rifle and shot it into the air, warning off the others that would make their way to the very spot in which I stood.  My shot told them to stay away.

They heard did not hear a shot, they heard the bells chiming at noon calling the faithful to gather. 

Each seduced by the call of the Siren.  Not three, but one reigns in the field.  One Siren.

I died that day in the field, along with the rest of the believers I had to lured in by warning them off.

On the edge of the field I now stood having been rescued by a whistle.  I turned and looked at her and it was my turn to laugh.  "You don't win today.  I have died a hundred times over for you but no more."

Her white linen sundress was torn and dirtied with the cries of her victims.  The dress itself was audible.

I shut my eyes, tossed my lit cigarette in the filed and watched my corpse burn.

She stood in the ashes watching carefully over the dead bodies as if each kill was a precious newborn to be taken tenderly to her breast for nourishment.

I got in my car and drove away and did not look back.

My white linen dress was unwrinkled. In my lap lay a piece of tall grass that snapped off as easily  as a crisp apple from a summer tree branch.


The above is true,or it is a lie.  Either way there is perfection in the death and resurrection of war and romance.