post-pop-pulp

FEAR OF THE MASSES Kristin Leharveau I know I’m insane... its just that when I see them, when they're present, I delude myself into sanity. I must believe in what has happened. The random jottings of a madman... typical enough. Is that what I am? what I’ve become? I needn't worry. I am still here. I see no-one else. 12/22/48? I know the numbers, but I don't remember... was it like this, then? I’m an old man, but not very. Not as some I’ve seen. The very old. I see them sometimes flickering in dim light, in black and white, raising their strong arms against bloody dictators, against despotic rulers, against the criminal who has offended them... when I turn into them, I am free. I float in the white clouds. But not often, not often enough. My fear holds me back, it makes me suffer. If I had a job... I laugh at myself. A job... if I had a job, friends, an old, dead life... black figures on a white background, that's how I see them now. I’m huddled in an alley, peering out from under the garbage: they run by in streams. I cant deny their call, their pull. But I can hide. I’ve seen others run. That's how I survived, I watched others run, I saw them fall, shrink, disappear. Their shadows get up and walk. It doesn't work. Does hiding work? I feel my bones, my weak flesh. Yes, I am still here. If forever exists, then I may make it. If I can keep my grip. Oklahoma, that name... I float. But I stop. My feet must remain on the ground. I must remain unhappy, disconnected, alone... I have seen no one. Since I met... no, they're all gone. The shadows grow long, I haven't seen day or night. Inside them, it is always night. Otherwise... I turn my head, listening... a trampling of feet, growing louder, shaking the earth, I cringe in fear. Their wind rattles the air, dry desert smells.. I breathe it in, resisting, the smell of old dry bones. They're gone. I am in a city, I pound my head to recall, to name the big nebulous forms in which I move, trapped. I know what food is, I know what garbage is. I understand that one becomes the other. Once upon a time ago, a very big pile... a long time. Hiding. Ago. A long time ago, hiding. What was that? A shadow.. I cover my head. They aren't bad, alone... soon, it will find a swarm to move with. The darkness has begun to mist over the white, lately, it seems stronger. How many will it take? I never heard about it in the papers, I didn't watch the news, those other faces. I miss them, when my dreams aren't filled with fear, I wonder why it happened, I don't know how. The marches, the death of the children, their shadows... but everyone knew about those. I keep old magazines in a bag, I carry them with me. I wish they were worthwhile. Only the celebrities and politicians are with me. I have four copies of a rock music tape. It is permanently damp here, except when the crowd comes by. The luminous mist is thick, and everywhere. One shadow is always in front of me, circling. It is confused. I don't worry for it, I know the crowd will be by. If they come before my food here is gone... I am inside. I am very excited. Much food in cans, and water from old pipes. Inside helps me remember. I followed the crowd, I was scared, but they never turn around, it is safest to sprint behind them, never away from them. The seething mass of running shadows was very large, they are getting larger, I hear them frequently now. I don't see anyone else, but I know they must be somewhere. The old dirt and mud on the counters from the flood make it dark in here. The pale even white from outside gets darker sometimes, sometimes a little bit lighter. Is it day and night are still out there, or are the crowds merging? It always gets a little bit darker after, never lighter. The bed here is old and mouldy, but I have covered it in plastic. Staying gives me hope, but I know it wont last. When I slept and woke I saw the streets outside filled with the thunder of darkness and many shadows passing, together, for a very long time, I watched them. I am afraid they may fill the streets and I could not leave. The shadows are out constantly, after a run, they are the ones caught in its wake, a newborn detritus. Outside is more dangerous, they never come inside, from upstairs I watch them approach and slow down, wander away. When there is a crowd, I can only distinguish the shadows on the outside, at its center, there is color in the swarming black mass, but not light. Their numbers increase steadily like a flood. Maybe they are from another dimension, they are flat like cardboard, and move stiffly, like paper birds. I find books here left in piles upstairs. Someone else had been here recently, I think, I read them, they give me ideas. Somewhere else, I think we are all part of one thing and it is sick. But then today which I cannot tell if it is it just seems like a stupid idea. I feel I must leave soon, there are only three floors here, perhaps if I went to a taller building... I feel them enter my head when they get close, but I think they are just climbing on top of each other. The streets have grown too narrow, they are a wave of a thousand bodies, I hear them rub and bump against the door, shaking the whole house. After, I peer outside; the door is eroded, splintered. The street is filled with rubble and garbage. I must leave, I sit by the door, ready for their next passage. The streets move in front of my eyes, but they are empty. At the periphery, I think I see them, but hear nothing. It is much darker. My street is avoided. I will wait. I’ve decided to go outside. They have not come for a long time; it is only across the street. I have peered through the dark, my eyes are becoming useless, adjusting. I listen for them, but hear only silence. the mist is much heavier, I breathe in water. The building I will go to is very tall, ten, twelve stories, perhaps there is still light at the top. I feel the doorknob, and pull off the nailed boards. there are four steps... I remember. I see the door across the street, in my head, I stared at it so long... the bag on my back is heavy with food. One foot in front of the other... I could not see a shadow if it was there, it would be the same color as the black mist. But I smell constantly, I recognize the dry desiccated odor. I move carefully across the sidewalk, my feet test the curb, test the black inky rubble. I am on my hands and knees, trying to keep straight. The sack keeps sliding off. Was that a distant sound? My heart weakly attempts to keep up with my fear. No... I feel nothing in my hands, the ground is solid, only the light is gone, not the form... Suddenly, I hear it, above... I stand, forget my direction... I run, blindly, terror in my heart flooding, I can not find the sidewalks, buildings... the sack breaks, the sounds of cans lost in the pounding roar of a million feet... I run, stumbling blindly, and... the sound surrounds me. I am...

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