ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in London, Ronald Green is now living in Israel. Sometime university lecturer and ESL teacher, author of 13 EFL books. His short stories have been published in Tryst, Pindeldyboz, Aesthetica, The Sink and Unholy Biscuit. He has recently completed a novel "Outside In" and a co-authored novel "Circle Shattered".

           A light at dawn. A string of beads. A rush to earth. Maxwell felt the circle and glimpsed the end, but only for a moment. The moment, when it came, did so in that twilight zone between sleep and consciousness. Circles don’t have ends during the day. In the twilight zone the beads are already gone and the ends are not frayed, just a natural break. That’s what’s so horrific – so clean, so inevitable.

            He lay still listening to the sounds of the sleeping house. It was all so peaceful the string of beads. The horror was internal and would disappear as soon as he and the house arose. Why not rise now and feel the beads? Click, tick. No, the reassuring beads only fooled him because in the darkness he knew, knew what everyone did.

            Perhaps in some way knowing could change it, or at least slow it down. Like watching a kettle on the flames or the hands of a clock, tock.

            In the beginning he had fought back. Trying to minimize his great discovery. Mother earth waits for you like for everyone else. He had been

through every argument like the one about the smallest atom in the huge cosmos (that’s the one where we are nothing) or the one about the undying soul (here we are everything). Perhaps a second coming? Maybe that really happened? Too late though, because now the ends of the string appeared, clean of arguments.

            Why does the moment last so long this time? One look, one scream and then the window closes. Until today. Of course it will end soon, just like everything does. He remembered sitting in the dentist’s chair when the only thing he had to grasp was the knowledge that it would end.

            An analysis of horror: Horror is… The Truth. An avid fan of so-called horror movies he used to be, and was shocked by the visual effects. Yet not frightened. Terrible things that happened to other people – even real things to real people described in real newspapers – do not represent horror. Horror is Truth – the ultimate Truth. It transcends even standing before a firing squad, because only the bullets ripping through you is the ultimate Truth realized. Truth is what may have been and what will be, for they are both certain. The present is merely a movement between them. Did I say merely? How wise were the Hebrews; their language without present time, only past and future. Thus was the ultimate Truth ingrained in language. How superficial to imagine that it is only the future that is unknown when, in fact, it is the only thing that is certain. The ultimate Truth – a light at dawn, a rush to earth.

            The part between. How strange that he who had seen (not just seen, understood!) the ultimate Truth should have spent his energies on the mortgaged section. His whole being, as far back as he could reliably remember, seemed to have been motivated by the physical. The lure of a woman’s body was not just tempting, it was overpowering. A poor spy he would have made; just the hint of sex and he would spill all.

           If the human is the only animal to possess a mind then surely there should be better coordination between it and the body. “The mind is willing but the flesh is weak”, over-used as it is does sum up a state of affairs. But not today.

            Today was different. Today the mind was not willing. The mind wasn’t anything. In fact, nothing was anything, at least as far as he was concerned. And he wasn’t concerned because he was “he” and not “I”. At last the horror was here and it was worse than even he had imagined for he wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t living on somewhere else and neither had he ceased to exist. He was, for lack of a different term, in a state of suspended animation. His soul could see and think. So much for Descartes’ “I think therefore I am.” He was thinking, but he wasn’t. Descartes can be forgiven, however, because he was “I” at the time.

            He knew all this before the first person entered, took one look at him and confirmed it. The doctor, who came five minutes or five hours later, reconfirmed it all when a sheet was placed over his head.

            Then came the explosion. The colors came from within, but it was red that singled itself out and coated him in its aura. The color that had accompanied his birth continued long after. The blood that had covered him during those first few moments was not his but had it been, so much of other’s would have been spared later. The blood on which he thrust his way forward was given by others, always by others. Red. A dark red. Adom: red; adam: man. The rush to life has no more dignity than the rush to earth; the circle begins and ends in helplessness no matter what punishments are inflicted in between.

            Red – the blotches on his body, the mark left by the smack to his buttocks so as to coax life into him. Red was the rage building up in him during those first few years of abuse and then was reflected on the bodies of others. Red was the inside of a woman’s body in which he exploded with such frequency. Red safe when kept inside.

            Suddenly he was lifted by a red flame into the arms of Satan. Not just one. More joined in an orgasmic dance of fire and death. So many satans pulling him in 33 directions. Red wine was flowing but not quenching or, in fact, touching anything – the blood of Christ, the foot print of Mohammed, the beard of Moses. Did any of the satans have a nationality? Austrian perhaps, or Georgian?

            Regina was there as well, she who had given him the first mark, she who had pushed him into her red innards at such an early age. She who had no choice. Sucked into helpless confusion.

            Gathered round him watching. Strangers and eyes. A dance around him, helping him in. His little sister was the first within reach, then in quick succession his elder sister and brother.

            Something moved from somewhere, looking at him in a way that nobody had looked at him before.

            “Please leave me alone for a while,” she said.

            A door closed and she approached and then stopped. Her look was of shock puzzlement. What did he expect – sadness?

She seemed to pluck up courage then, moved the last few steps towards him and touched him. Moving a hand down his body, she rested it between his legs and then allowed the other one to join it. Now she was sure.

            But Maxwell didn’t need the ultimate proof that the Truth had been realized. She smiled.

            Retreating steps and the beginning of Eternity.