Oblivion, a short story by Jennifer Weigel
Valentine’s Day is coming, so we’re taking a brief break from Marker Drawings to give you Oblivion, a different kind of love story…
A well-dressed middle-aged man sits in the simple chair beside my bed. The room is plain and white and harbors a window shrouded in thick curtains that block the outdoors except for some shimmering fragments of light that creep in through the edges. There are various mechanical devices that emit rhythmic beeps, but otherwise these do not register as anything of note and melt into my surroundings. I lay back on an angled pillow, wrapped in a supple light green gown and draped in crisp and coarse linens. I stare towards the window and then back at my visitor.
The man wears a striped sky blue polo shirt and khakis, his grey-peppered tawny hair slightly tousled. He seems very put together on the surface and yet he looks as though he hasnāt slept in days. He carries himself as if there is some sort of unfulfilled need gnawing at his psyche. What cause could he have to be so fretful? What does he want?
He smiles at me. His blue eyes try to hide an unspeakable sadness, as if he harbors some secret that doesnāt warrant saying. The pervasive melancholy still glimmers through, accentuated by the darkness encircling those eyes, which appear both wet and dry at the same time. Has he been crying? Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of that weight and it shakes me to the core. I wish I could help him somehow. I can tell he wants something, but what?
So, there he is, smiling but still somber. He holds the picture aloft again. It is a photograph of a beautiful couple. A white lace dress. Roses. They stand outside in the sunset. They appear happy. He raises the photograph, eyes pleading with me to some end. He gently takes my hand and cups it in his own. He places the photograph within this nest and we held it together for a while.
Something about the couple is familiar; something about this man is familiar. The young couple in the photograph beams at the unseen camera. There is a striking resemblance between this man at my bedside and the man in the picture. Is that perhaps his son?
But it all seems far away, like a dream hinted upon in the periphery. I stare at the image for a bit longer until losing interest. As I grow tired, the plain white room yawns all around me. This time, this place, is all I know. The allure of the small hints of sunlight at the edges of the window is all that matters. I raise my head and turn towards those glimmers of light.
The man sighs. He tenderly brushes some wispy tendrils of hair from my face and kisses my forehead. I am not at all surprised nor frightened by the gesture. It is somehow familiar, and this is comforting to both of us. The man stands and readies himself to go. He paces slowly to the door, where another person stands waiting. The man turns towards me one last time.
āIāll return tomorrow, my love.ā The words fall limply from his lips. His eyes glisten, unable to contain the inescapable sadness. Something is still missing, but what? I smile at him gingerly as he turns away to address the nearby attendant. āPlease make sure she is well cared for. I will be back. In the meantime, if she remembersā¦ anything at allā¦ā his words quaver, āplease call me immediately.ā
About this story: I wrote this to consider the loss that comes with amnesia, both on behalf of the individual struggling with the condition and those who love them. My grandmother succumbed to dementia slowly over decades. I clearly remember a conversation we had near the end of her life when I visited her in the hospital continuing care unit. After thirty minutes conversing where she wanted me to meet her granddaughter before finally convincing her that I was said granddaughter, there was a sudden spark of recognition. But the joy that accompanied the revelation quickly gave way to sadness as she herself acknowledged, “I won’t remember that in five minutes.” Her words rang true.
Indecision, featured previously here on Haunted MTL, explores some similar themes. Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigelās work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.
Dead art… It’s a thing that happens, sadly. Typically found at thrift and antique stores or dumpster diving or by the side of the road. But art is never really dead, just resting… Here are some reanimated paintings I made by incorporating nail polish monsters into existing art.
Let’s face it – reworking old abandoned artworks with monsters kind of rocks. For awhile they were all over the internet. I admit, it took me a long time to muster up the courage to paint into someone else’s grandmother’s art, but once I started I just couldn’t stop. From top to bottom, left to right we have: Zombies, Unicorn, Siren, Krakken, Harpies, Sasquatch, Alien Invasion, Witch, and Serpent.
The dragon is probably my favorite. All of the shades of red are really vibrant and striking against the green. And dragons are always so classic and grandiose and terrifying, perfect for pairing with a mountain landscape. I love painting with nail polish for the sparkle, even if the fumes do get kind of noxious en masse. (The best subject to paint in this media is Rocky Horror style lips by the way, in case you were wondering.)
And what better way to complete the collection than with a portrait of a Fairy Queen, her icy stare drilling into your soul. She’s up to some sort of magical mischief, that’s for sure.
And speaking of magical mischief, this is the monster painting I made just for me. The original artwork is about 4 feet long and I knew as soon as I saw it that I wanted to reanimate it in this exact way for all that this is the last in the series that I did. I even added extra shimmer factor. I’d initially considered adding a sea serpent or a dragon but no, she told me to stop.
Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigelās work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.
Our last interview with Broken Doll Head here on Haunted MTL never set well with me. I just feared that I wasn’t able to get the whole scoop on the V-Day Uprising for you, our dear readership. So I arranged another exclusive interview to reconnect and see how it’s going.
Without further ado, I bring you our second exclusive interview with Broken Doll Head…
Thank you so much for having me again. Wow you have changed since the last time we spoke. You seem… calmer. Please don’t hate me or burn down my house for saying anything about it.
The movement is still underway; it is still time. But I needed to take care of me, you know. The rage has subsided somewhat. My anger was not serving me well. After the last uprising, the rest of me was sent to the far corners of the earth in biohazard bags. I had to find another approach, for the cause as well as my own sanity. I am much calmer, thank you for noticing.
In our last interview, you kept repeating that it is time. Time for what exactly? Would you care to elaborate here now?
It is still time. It is always time. Until the violence is addressed we must continue to rise up and make a scene. We will not be silenced or stigmatized. We can’t be complacent. This is how we got to where we are with the Supreme Court in 2022. Horrific injustices are still happening globally and even within our own borders; it’s too easy to forget that.
What do you suggest we do?
Take action. Share your stories. Give others space to voice their own. Raise awareness and fight the system of oppression. Rally. We must take back our own power. It will not be just given freely.
So what are you up to nowadays?
I’ve been getting in touch with my inner Earth Goddess. Are you aware of how our environmental impacts affect dolls everywhere? Climate change is creating greater vulnerabilities for those already at risk. We have to look at the intersections of climate, gender and race globally. We have to return to our Mother Earth.
Thank you again Broken Doll Head for joining us and our dear readership here on Haunted MTL’s Lighter than Dark. It’s good to reconnect with you after the V-Day Uprising and we wish you all the best in your bold eco-enlightenment vision.
Again, if you want to learn more about the V-Day movement, please check out their website here.
Revisiting my last St. Patrick’s Day post, what’s a wolf to were?
I grimaced as I remembered the previous St. Patrickās Day. I had been shot while I was eating a sugar cookie waiting in line to buy a Scratchers ticket, my golden ride to my dream cabin in the woods. Wow, to think that was just a year ago and so much has changed since then. But where should I begin?
Well, the junkyardās under new management. Or something. It seems they decided I wasnāt ferocious enough so Iāve been replaced by a couple of working stiffs. Or Mastiffs as it were, same difference to me. Apparently after they found the bloodied shirt Iād draped inconspicuously over a chair, they thought something had happened on my watch and decided to retire me.
Or at any rate olā Sal took me home. I guess itās like retirement, but not the good kind where you tour the world Route 66 style, head lolled out of the side of a vintage Cadillac, breeze flowing through your beard as you drink in the open road. More the kind where you just stop showing up to work and no one really asks about you.
Now Salās a pretty cool dude, and he tends to mind his own business. But heās a bit stingy with the treats and heās a no-paws-on-the-furniture kind of guy. I donāt get it, his pad isnāt that sweet, just a bunch of hand-me-down Ikea that he didnāt even put together himself. Not that I could have helped with that, I canāt read those instructions to save my life even if they are all pictures. Itās all visual gibberish to me unless thereās a rabbit or a squirrel in there someplace that I can relate to.
And itās been a real roll in the mud trying to cover up the stench of my monthly secret. I miss third shift at the junkyard when Monty would fall asleep on the job and I was free to do whatever I wanted. It sure made the change easier. Monty never noticed, or he never let on that he did. We were a good team and had it pretty good, he and I ā I donāt know how I wound up shacking up with Sal instead when all was said and done. There was some kind of talk at the time, over landlords and pet deposits and whatnot, and in the end Sal was the only one who said yes.
So there I was, this St. Patrickās Day, trying to figure out how to sneak out into the great suburban landscape with the neighborsā headstrong Chihuahua who barks his fool head off at everything. He doesnāt ever say anything interesting through the fence about the local gossip, just a string of profanities about staying off his precious grass. Just like his ownersā¦ Suburbia, it doesnāt suit the two of us junkyard junkies. Iām pretty sure Sal inherited this joint with everything else here. He just never had the kind of ambition that would land him in a place like this on his own, if you know what I mean.
Fortunately, this St. Patrickās Day, Sal was passed out on the sofa after binge watching some show on Netflix about werewolves of all things. Who believes in that nonsense? They get it all wrong anyway. The history channel with its alien conspiracies is so much better.
I managed to borrow a change of clothes and creep out the front door. At least thereās something to say about all the greenery, it is a fresh change of pace even if the yards are too neatly manicured and the fences are too high. And I do love how I always feel like McGruff crossed paths with one of those neighborhood watch trenchcoat spies this time of the month. Iād sure love to take a bite out of crime, especially if it involves that pesky Pomeranian that always pees on Mrs. Pattersonās petunias and gets everyone else blamed for it.
So sure enough, I slunk off towards the local convenience mart, which is a bit more of a trek here past the water park and the elementary school. Nice neighborhood though, very quiet, especially at this time of night.
Well, when I got there, wouldnāt you know it, but I ran into that same nondescript teen from my last foray into the convenience store near the junkyard. What was he doing here of all places? Seriously donāt these kids learn anything nowadays? I let out a stern growl as I snatched a cookie from the nearby end cap, making sure he noticed that I meant business.
Apparently the kid recognized me too, he stopped mid-tracks at the beer cooler and his face blanched like heād seen a ghost. Some cheeky little girl-thing motioned to him to hurry it along by laying on the horn of their beater car from the parking lot. Whatever they were up to was no good, I was certain. He snapped out of it, grabbed a six-pack and headed towards the cashier, eyes fixed on me the whole time. Not again. Not after what it cost me the last time when I hadnāt realized my job was at stake. I stared back, hairs rising on the back of my neck. I bared my teeth. This time, I wouldnāt let him off so easyā¦
The teen edged up to the cashier and presented his trophy. Unsurprisingly, the clerk asked for ID, and the kid reached into his jacket. Let the games begin, I grumbled to myself. But instead of a gun, he pulled out a wallet. He flashed a driverās license at the clerk and pointed in my general direction, āIāll get whatever Santaās having too.ā He tossed a wad of cash on the counter and gave me a knowing wink before he flew out of there like he was on fire. I stood in dazed confusion as he and his girl sped out of the lot and disappeared down the road.
āWell, Santa?ā the clerk said, snapping me out of my reverie. Her dark-circled eyes stared over wide rimmed glasses, her rumpled shirt bearing the name-tag Deb. She smelled like BBQ potato chips and cheap cherry cola.
I quieted and shook my head. āI want a Scratchers. Not one of those crossword bingo puzzle trials but something lessā¦ wordy. How ābout a Fast Cash?ā I barked as I tossed the cookie on the counter.
āSure thing,ā she said as she handed me a ticket and looked towards the door at the now vacant lot. āAnd keep the change, I guess.ā
A couple silver pieces, a peanut butter cookie and a lotto ticket later, maybe this is my lucky day after allā¦
Check out more of Jennifer Weigelās writing here at Jennifer Weigel Words.
