Only Ending

The shoes stuck to the ground. Joseph carried on in socks as the sand melted into the road ahead. A near-invisible dot of black hung between the blue and orange. It was supposed to be hot. The sun took up the entire sky, or really, the entire sky was made out of sun. Somehow, there was air to breathe as well.

“Do I walk to you or do you come to me?”

Joseph was taken aback. There was no need to shout. A rustling wind picked up, and to the left of the black dot, a white leaf, the size of a tree, hurdled at Joseph. It wavered up and down like a bull on cocaine. Nerves quaked into fear that defecated out of his stomach.

“I don’t trust you!”

The white leaf twirled around into a tumbleweed. Curling Joseph and leaving no traces behind. Joseph reached out. The white leaf leaped away and continued its dance. Joseph waited before continuing his walk down the endless road.

“Which one are you?”

“Would you believe me?”

“No. But I don’t like liars — what are you?”

“What do you think?”

“First thing in mind… a blanket, a very waxy blanket.”

“If that’s what you think, then I am just that — even here you love to walk? Do you know where you are going?”

“I just follow this road, no?”

“I guess… You don’t have to follow the road.”

“Should I leave the road?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Aren’t you supposed to know something about this plane?”

“Only as far as to what I am.”

“Making me ask?”

“It would make me feel good.”

“So you have feelings.”

“Do you have feelings, Joseph?”

“Yes.”

“Then so do I.”

“What do you represent then?”

“Represent? I thought you were going to ask what I am,” the leafy tarp laughed.

“They mean the same.”

“Representation is more a reflection of what one is. Yet, reflections aren’t perfect. There’s the stem, but there is the seed. Which one is more of the plant?

“Mirrors can get blurry. Glasses. Silver pots — I can’t think in my head!”

“You are already thinking in your head.”

Joseph shrugged, “Alright, what are you?”

“A paper. At least, that’s how I see myself — maybe like a canvas.”

“You’re the first one I’ve met.”

“It’s your first time here. Took you a while. Do you think you’re ready?”

“I have to be.”

“Which ones are you looking for?”

Joseph raised his eyebrow, “Not who?”

“They can be who’s, if you want. It’s all you.”

“One is like a shadow — a human shadow, but I think he’s red sometimes. The other is water.”

“These are based on?”

“Dreams. People on the subway. I’m terrified of the ocean.”

“Interesting. Let’s keep walking, and maybe we’ll find something.”

They kept on walking. The sand grew darker and more opaque as though clouds had settled right into it. Or as if a giant sprinkle had moistened all the soil. From orange to brown, the two continued walking. The road never changed perspective. Slightly visible, slightly not, they followed the distance dot that could never be reached.

From sand to soil, the orange morphed into brown. Joseph took off his socks. Pressing his feet to the ground, he ran. His arms pumped like pistons as his lungs carried blimps of oxygen.

“Let’s carry ourselves to the end.”

Each stride ripped through the air. His body moved like an automaton down the road. The canvas provided cover as it started to rain. The road began to melt. Cute puddles rushed millions of years of erosion, shredding the soil into endless water. Twilight engulfed the once-bright blue sky. Joseph’s heart banged against his chest as his eyes latched onto the black dot.

A string was pulled. At his heart and leg, he froze, the last of his breath slipping out. Waves of indistinguishable people walked by. At first, they rammed their icy shadows right through. A middle-aged man followed a woman. Then a child on a scooter preceded an elderly man with a cane.

“Don’t look away,” Joseph told himself.

With one swift whack, the cane man sent Joseph to the ground. A stomach-churning pit grew. The canvas wrapped itself around while Joseph gagged out bile. It was unavoidable; his eyes let go, and in an instant, he suffocated into a dauntingly devoid blackness.

An eerie serenity cascaded. The canvas provided a thin strip of white. It led further ahead somewhere in the abyss.

“Table or desk?” asked the paper.

“Desk.”

“Lead or steel?”

“Lead.”

“Bed or chair?”

“Chair.”

“Road or sidewalk?”

“Road.”

“Freedom or slavery.”

“Slavery.”

“Journey or destination.”

“Destination.”

“Love or ambition.”

“Both.”

“C’mon.”

“There is no reason I cannot have everything I want.”

“How ambitious.”

Then a simple opaque body descended upon Joseph. The lights flipped on. He was in the middle of a beach, glued to a bench. Two people – he wanted to say friends – tossed a football over his head. One tried to throw it at him, but Joseph did not move an inch. He didn’t want to; the bench was so comfortable.

“Pick it up!”

Joseph just sat. Rarely does he ever feel relaxed.

“Joseph!”

Joseph imagined this is how a king must feel at his throne.

“Joseph!”

Looking down, the ball was right at his feet. It looked a bit bruised and deflated, curling into itself.

“You want to be here?” she asked.

“Right now… yes,” Joseph pulled the bench over himself like a blanket.

Brown hair, brown skin, brown eyes, she held a tight bronzeness like that of a copper statue. She brushed Joseph’s hair and kissed him on the cheek. She picked up the black dot.

“You don’t need this.”

Nothing came out of Joseph’s mouth.

“You don’t want this.”

The bench embedded itself into Joseph’s legs. She lost her bronze coating; her face twisted into blood red, then a slimy green, and finally a soulless mint. A wave approached. It flipped the sky back into black. The world was shaking. She held him there, smiling, taunting him with the black dot.

“Forget about it.”

The inches felt like miles. With all his might, Joseph stretched out his neck and tongue. Like a fish out of water, he wiggled and wrapped his tongue in hopes of just getting a taste of it. The tsunami was reaching its peak. An electric, gut-wrenching pulse banged throughout his nerves. Raindrops cascaded once more. She shook her head in laughter. Joseph reached and strained until finally it all went black.

“You’re here.” The paper lit a candle from one of its corners.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m scared. I’m not supposed to be that.”

The two walked until they were met with a man chained to a desk, writing. The paper held the candle closer and nearly ripped in two. The man was Joseph, a bare Joseph without skin or eyes or a mouth.

Joseph ripped a piece of paper from his guide and began writing:

I beat you! I’m here!

He slid the paper across the table. The man took the paper and wrote back:

How? Your arrival is your death. You lived and lost.

The figure licked the tip of his pencil and blew out a puff of smoke. Little black cinders and ash flittered down. He did twice more, longer each time, until a firestorm ignited the entire plane. The paper latched onto Joseph. In the midst of flames, a brutal hollowness was carved in Joseph’s chest. As the fire grew, steel coldness flooded, and a caving sensation of pure inability hiccuped between every breath. The man pierced Joseph through the heart. The paper’s white was desacralized to a murky red. It was crumpling and shedding, but did not waver; it would not let go of Joseph.

At the point of death, it let out a ringing laugh, “You wanted everything against death?”

Joseph smiled and found himself laughing like a manic child, “I couldn’t help it!”

The two laughed as if the air were made of nitrous. The storm was brought to a stunning silence. The flames diminished into sparks. Joseph lay flat as the cloth descended and put him to rest.