A Stroll
Genevieve Marvin
You are walking along a winding path. There are woods on either side of you that stretch on as far as you can see. Beautiful red, golden and yellow leaves adorn the tops and litter the groundāit is chilly. It hasnāt started snowing yet, but you can tell from the way the air smells that snow is coming. You have lived here a long time and can smell an imperceptible change like that. Most people cannot. This morning, you chose to adorn a red jacket and brown hunting cap because of this. You are far from your house, here. Thereās a babbling brook some time away, but you can hear its chitter. It is not late enough into the winter that the creek is frozen solid. You look down at your hands. They are much older than you remember them being, but thatās okay. You touch your face. Your cheekbones are sunken but high, your lips like gashes. You remove your hand. No more touching your face, now.
To keep walking, please go outside and find the crunchiest leaf on the ground and stamp it out. Then, click here.
To go back from whence you came, click here.
You walk back from where you came and find what you left, which is not much. You walk slowly without purpose, over the log that had fallen over the path before. You donāt speak to the nagging voice that says you should have continued on, as it is very rude and very loud. Turning back the way you came from is a reasonable response to the start of a journey, you think, because sometimes you just arenāt ready to continue. You ruffle what little hair is on your head and adjust your glasses. A deer bows twenty feet ahead of you, eating grass. The deer is huge and beautiful, close enough that you can see blood caked into its soft brown fur. It must have run into something, a tree, a twig, a bur, something that isnāt man made, because it isnāt much blood. Just enough to mat the fur. It isnāt that the deer doesnāt notice you, rather, itās staringāit just isnāt afraid. It isnāt afraid because you have been here a long, long time. You will be here a long long time. You walk back and back.
To continue walking back and back, click here.
To sit in the forest on the fallen log and think more about where the deer could possibly have gotten cut, please feel free to stay on this page for as long as you need.
You walk forward through the forest. It seems that your legs are moving of their own accord, your boot-clad feet lifting up and setting down in front of one another. You think of how perfectly they were designed, and another memory floats to you. Itās of a small child with tiny feet that doesnāt yet know how to walk. She makes you feel gentle, soft, and so worried. She is your child. You wonder where she is, who she is, and it makes you uncomfortable that you canāt remember. A bird fluffs its wings in the underbrush, and you realize that you have come across the creek that you heard earlier. You stop at the crossing of the creek, as the trail continues on the other side. You canāt tell if this creek is too deep to cross. Itās so chilly, you can feel the anticipation of the water on your toes before it happens.
If you choose to walk through the water, fill up a glass with ice and water from the sink, and soak your feet and socks with it. Then, click here.
If you choose to turn around and go back and back, click here.
The deer trots off on its own accord. You continue to walk back, and despite having just come from this direction, you find the path anew. The trees glitter in the late day sunshine and the air bites at your nose. Up ahead, there is a cabin, which you suppose is your cabin. You walk up and place a hand on the doorway, and peer into the cabin. At the table, there is a large thanksgiving feast, one that you can easily imagine a large family gathering around. There is a fire in the fireplace. It looks inviting. You donāt see any people here, though, and you donāt remember lighting a fire. You never would have left it alone.
To try the door to get into the cabin, click here.
To walk along the porch and look for someone else, click here.
The water washes over your cloth-covered toes just as you imagined it would. Your feet walk over the slippery stones with surprising ease, but as you take a third step into the creek, your foot lands on nothing. You imagine for a moment that you can actually walk on water, because you donāt lose purchase immediately. But then, as it was always meant to do, your leg plunges into the water and your back foot stupidly tries to find a ledge on a rock that is too slippery, and down and down you go. A fantastic sound of body on water rings out in the trees, and then you are soaked. The water wasnāt very deep, but you misjudged your steps. A few seconds after falling, you notice something shiny in the water. You pick it up. It is a necklace. It is mostly caked in mud.
The necklace could be shined easily, and you can make out lettering on the locket. To clean the locket and read the lettering, take a piece of cloth from your favorite shirt, and cut it up into tiny pieces. Admire the way your Swiss Army knife scissors snip through cotton. Then, click here.
The necklace feels incorrect. The memories you have of this necklace are hidden in the back of your brain but feel heavy and dark. To throw the necklace as far as you can, to dampen those memories further, stick your hand into the cold icy water. Decide then, to keep moving forward beyond the creek. Click here.
Your hand reaches the door handle and as you are about to turn it, you are flooded with a great sense of belonging. You remember meals at this table. You can imagine what it was like, once, to have an established seat at this table filled with family. A wife that cooked the most gorgeous meals. It was a bit antiquated, but you decided a long time ago together that that would be what it was. As long as you did the dishes and promised to never try and bake bread again, it would be okay. You remember the feel of her lips on your temple, but you canāt remember her name. You search your memory for it, but not for long. You wonder about where she is, where the dog who curled up by the fireplace is, a hound dog. A young child as well, in a highchair, you think your daughter. Sheās only two. Her name comes easily to you, as easily as her auburn hair and bright smart eyes. You think maybe theyāre in there. Something makes the handle hard to turn and you peer into the house. You are met with your reflection.
To study your reflection, know that it is not the reflection you remember having. The man staring back at you is an old man, with graying whisps of hair and skin stretched taught over a scalp filled with liver spots. Please question where the time went and hum your favorite tune. You do not have to turn to a page to accomplish this. Decide to walk on past the house, since all hope of entering is now futile. Click here.
To try the handle again, start this page over. Your hand will reach out down to the door handle, and as you are about to turn it, you will be flooded with a great sense of belonging. You will never turn the handle. Feel free to read this page for as long as it takes to accept. Stay stuck in this memory forever, please, choose not to turn the page.
The porch is empty. Trees rustle from the wind. It feels, in this moment, that the whole world, or at least all that you know of the world, is empty. You have the sudden urge to scream out to make yourself known.
To scream out and startle no one, hereās a thought puzzle from George Berkeleyās A Treatise Concerning the Principle of Human Knowledge: āIf a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?ā Wonder about why you are alone in the woods on the porch of a cabin. Wonder why no animal comes here. Walk away from this place now and ponder the thought puzzle. Find a book and write down your thoughts and put them into an envelope and send it somewhere. If someone screamed in the forest, supposing that someone was alive, would any other living soul care to wonder why they were screaming? Click here.
Annabelle is carved in a looping script along the locket. Your heart hurts for Annabelle, suddenly, and you remember that sheās your daughter. When did you have the time to have a daughter? The memories of her auburn hair in the sunshine float into your heart and flit away again, making you warm. You are standing in icy water, though, and when you think about your counterpart who birthed Annabelle, you come up blank. This tears at your stomach and makes fat tears roll down your cheeks and hit your lips with salty bitterness. The warmth that you felt for Annabelle darkens as you stare into the water.
The warmth in your stomach darkens considerably. You have trouble remembering the good times you had with Annabelle. Suddenly there is the tangled hair and scraped knees and tears and screaming. So much screaming. It seems unlikely that a child could scream that much, that her throat might become barren after emitting such noise. Again, as you try to remember the counterpart that birthed her, you come up blank. You are left with the uncomfortable feeling that there was never a woman who Annabelle called mother. Or, at least, that that woman left when she was very young. Please take this information gently, or else find a book that holds all of your childhood memories and hope and tear up the pieces violently. Iām sorry itās like this. Iām so sorry. Click here.
Just beyond the creek, there is more forest. Thereās nothing remarkable about this part of the forest. The leaves fall here just as they do everywhere else. Your boot catches on the root of a tree. You fall, and as you brace yourself, your hand grazes the branch and gashes open the palm. You expect blood to flow out.
To tend to your hand, first find a good book and open it up and read it. Perhaps Octavia Butler, or Vonnegut. Cover to cover. Forget about this story. The next place where I can send you wonāt bring you any joy or happiness. I have this page here so that you might take a deep breath and wonder why your hand isnāt bleeding and decide to stop thinking about why your hand isnāt bleeding. Think about Annabelle. Think about your lovely wife in the cabin.
Or, get up, keep walking, and click here.
You come to a clearing. The woods part for an old cemetery. The realization of what youāve stumbled back to is immediate. The flesh on your skin rips at the seams and falls behind you as you stumble forward. The story began and ends at a spot about twenty yards ahead of you. Beyond the old graying, moss covered stones that say Marvin and Holmes. You encourage your legs to move even though they seem stuck here. The cold is bone chilling, so cold that you fear that the weak bones in your arm might become brittle and snap. The light is fading, but even if it were pitch dark, you would know what it was. You have always known. You are met with three simple headstones, two well-worn patches of earth, and an empty grave.
This time, when you look at your hands, you are not shocked to see them withered away to a few patches of skin over bare bone. You believe the empty grave to be yours.
To hold your face and try to make these headstones and the reality of them disappear, cover your eyes with your jacket. Realize that your jacket is with the rest of your skin, and that you must look. You have no choice. I asked you not to turn to this page, my love. Annabelle lived a good life with you. You must forgive me, and you must stop coming here like this. Now lay you down to sleep and rest my darling. Climb your tired bones into the empty grave and be with us. Close these pages now.