Gatekeepers of the Dawn

Yea, my quill quivers in my trembling grasp, and the words now blend together on the parchment as the words flow from fevered mind to gnarled hand. Oh, but there are now so many, so many words and I can barely control the spill of ink as I write what my mind sees. My writing hand is something of a claw to me now, but it must continue forth, pulling from my tormented mind the tales springing from some abysmal unknown of my sub-consciousness.

The candles are nubs, and the flickering flames are quivering as my hand does in this chilled, post-midnight breeze. I hear the wolves and other creatures of the night in the distance; these walls and curtains offer only the illusion of protection from the predators among us. My hand drives the quill ahead as I smear the chilled sweat from my brow, and I look to the window fast, watching for the dawn.

Stones, skulls, as well as other remnants of the lost, weigh the tales down, preventing them from a fate unknown if they were to scatter into the winds of reckoning. I scribble my thoughts, my emotions, and my fears quickly, lest the dawn passes me by, and I must wait for other dawns to come. Verily, I allow many, many dawns to pass as I unfurl the sagas twisting through my heart and soul. This tragic fact offers no solution, though, and I feel moments missed that could never return. Therefore, I drive a numbed hand ever onward.

I give my faith to the appearance of the dawn, confident it will come again tomorrow, and the morrows beyond. My teeth, the precious few remaining in this skewed maw, chatter as the night's last winds curl over my scarred, bare back. The torn skin crawls as the fog does over the moonlit meadows, and the snarls hiding within them. Alas, this life is destined for a purpose, for why else would I have it? The winds of fate dropped these quills before and onto me, dipping their points into my sweat and blood, making it apparent I am to flow from and through them. From there, the only other way out is down, so I accept the challenge to appease the Karma.

When I smear away the dribble from my chin with an ink-stained wrist, I look to the east, where the dawn illuminates the lands beyond the raging volcanoes, and I know my destiny lies over there, somewhere. For there, there in those lands beyond the fiery mountains, lies the haven of the tellers of tales as told in legend.

I, and those of my ilk, vie for this sanctuary of the Tale Masters; but we on this side of the range know we must appease the Gatekeepers of the Dawn. These keepers of the word, these Agents guarding the gates to printed success, must be gratified, or else the taleteller risks banishment to the abyss of the slush pile. There, the rotting corpses of failed quill-tenders amass to fill the chasm, and the Gatekeepers exhibit their jealousy, and want to fill it, too. The gagging stink fills it instead, awaiting displacement with my body, should the Gatekeepers desire.

I examine the work before me, dotted with tears and droplets of sweat, just moments after I scrawled the last line. Is it finished, is it done? Ay, I must concede there is no more; I searched and searched, and can find no more. I stand and turn, wincing into the light pouring over the range and through the plumes rising from Hell's fire. Grasping the stick that holds my body to my scarred feet, I commence upon the journey yet once more to the merciless Gatekeepers. Alas, I have long lost count as to how many times I have treaded this lonely path.

Beyond the refuge of my station, the journey is long, and full of peril.

Clutching the tale close to my racing heart, I start out once again, where I can see, so far, far away, the towers of the Gatekeepers of the Dawn.

The sands of time blast my thrashed hide, burying so much grit and pain into the open wounds while I struggle forth, securing the pages of this latest tale close to my breast. Above me, the allies of the Gatekeepers circle and soar, those shufflers of the slush pile, and though they are so high above me, I can feel their gaze piercing into me. Occasionally, I feel their dribble trail into a tender sore, stinging as it wells. Then, above them, cries the thunder.

It begins slowly as it always does, but inevitably the torrent wails, and the cold, driving rain clears away the sandy scabs, exposing the lashes to the torrent, where I feel fresh pain sear. Pain or not, agony or bliss, I must protect the viability of this manuscript, and its blessed ink.

"You may torture me as you always do, Searing Fate, but I will not falter in my quest! I will not taint this work!"

I feel the clutch of pages pressed to me, and know they are safe...for now.

I clamor over the dried bones of lost brethren, quickly praying for their souls. Once upon a time, they too worked under the dark, stormy night, fantasizing of the golden horizons, where they ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But no, they were not to know such fate, and their brittle bones pierce me, tear my knees, and even seek to tear the beloved tale from my embrace in a last-ditch effort for one more chance, even though their souls must admit they have penned their last queries and synopses. Ay, I may trip over the sheer numbers of them, clamoring for a place to tread, and if I fall, I can take refuge in the faith that one can continue forth on knees and elbows, regardless of injury or flesh lost.

I need to stop and breathe once and again, but just to retain enough air to keep going. I might peel the remaining scabs and suck upon the ooze for nourishment, for so often now, my brethren and I can afford no other sustenance. I push and kick away the dried bones, the reddened earth, and rotting flesh of the Ever-Rejected, and peer forth to where I can see the Robed One, far, far away.

"Oh, may I reach you this time, thou Patron Saint of Crossed-Arm Stare and the Glance Down One's Nose. May I find the holy opportunity to place my carcass under your thumb!"

As I fight the tide of probability and forge ahead towards the apparition of shallow promise, I glance to my right, and to my left, although I seek the strength to do anything but that. For to my right lies the urban sprawl, offering from its spewing stacks the Disgorge of the Hourly Wage, where monotony sucks the soul dry. The ennui pulls the soul and mind away as a thread from a sweater, unraveling the sanity of the local population, leaving it to clog the sewers, and therefore fill the urbanity with filth.

And to my left? Oh, to my left there lie all else mundane, including the summer vacation, with its fishing poles, long lines to shallow amusement, and marital contracts with fine print no male is allowed to peruse. There lie the picnics at the lake, where droves of ants seek to steal what there is of that pathetic distraction, too. There lies the sweet temptation of the line of credit, the rented RV, and the introductory interest rate. There lie the temptresses who hang upon the poles while one drinks away the paycheck promised to, well, the land of the Ivory Towers and their competitive wages.

This life, the only one to give and the only one given, must attune to the passions raging through it. Isn't that correct? Doesn't that make the most sense, even to us who fail to comprehend all the signs, hoping to clear the path with drive-thru meals, rum and imbibed narcotics? Then my heart runs uneven as I glance to the flowing robes of the gatekeeper, who...who seems to beckon me, yet once more?

Other than the shimmer of the robe under the moments of sun through the smog, and the ripple of said robe as the winds race from here to there, the Gatekeeper of the Dawn remains still, stoic, motionless, and void of any sympathy.

My filthy, wretched, stinking body crawls forth to the feet of the hallowed Literary Agent, this gatekeeper, and I am in awe just from his mere presence in proximity to mine. I inch forth as I drag my bloated belly along the ground, amazed that the dogs of doom are not racing in to drag my carcass from his feet. I find a suitably low place to stop and collapse, and I think through every utterance before I speak to this Sage of the Written Word.

"Oh, Gatekeeper," I cry through the sobs, "I am once more honored to occupy your presence without the gnashing jaws pulling me to the shadows of anonymity once again. I know you are in charge, thy hopeful agent. You are in control. I know you hold the conch and the keys to the refuge I hope to realize. I know I must fellate your every particular, relishing my slightest chances. I know I must be confident in the knowledge of my favorite color if I'm to avoid having my remains cast to the left or the right."

I shuffle forth and...and I see the feet of the gatekeeper before me. The image wavers as the tears well within my unbelieving eyes, and I find it hard to believe I made it this far yet again. With the use of my hair, what's left of my rags, and my own tongue, I wash the feet of this phantom with my tears as he stands unmoving above me.

I see his feet are washed, and I dare find my way to my torn knees. I dare not look to his face, although I am confident it is invisible through the hooded robe. I merely pull the manuscript from where it is seized to my sunken chest, and I hold it aloft above my bowed head and bent back.

"I freely hand this to you, Gatekeeper, praying it will impress and sing with the trumpets of the angels, lest my pulverized cadaver lubricates the way for the less-than-ideal. I know you will do the right thing."

I feel the tale ripped from my grasp, and I instinctively glance there to see the bony hand pull away the work of my heart and soul, and I realize I've lusted for this moment for longer than I can remember.

"Please, impress your point that you wield the sword of success, as that point may pierce our hopeful hearts if I disappoint by any degree. Impress upon me the point that you police the sanctity of the publishing universe, and that if you were not vigilant in your quest, utter second-rate chaos would inflict those hallowed lands, spewing the blood and offal of mere amateurs and their minions through the gilded avenues of literary excellence. I would not, with intent, allow such a thing from me, and neither would you."

I lay my forehead to the ground, and anyone around might hear the hurried, whispered prayers uttered from my cracked, bleeding lips while the only other sounds are the winds, the howling of the rejected, and the turn of the pages of my tale as the Gatekeeper thumbs through at his easy pace.

Moments pass, and then minutes. Verily, these minutes are agonizing in their length of time, and hope simmers up. Could he accept this work? Might he hold it aloft, and possibly bear his smile upon this mere...writer?

I hear the pages, turn, turn, turn and...and then I feel my face pushed to the mud as the gatekeeper's boot drops upon the back of my neck.

I can only imagine what's wrong, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I have been armed with cheap food, undercooked fries, store-brand coffee, Little Debbie snack cakes, the herbs nurtured in the grow house around the corner, rum and who knows what else in order to wrench free the tendrils of imagination. I worshipped from the bibles of King's 'On Writing', The Elements of Style, and miserable Mailer's, 'The Spooky Art'.

But what else could...then I hear the building moan of the Gatekeeper, and I feel the steel toe of his boot to my obvious ribs. I hear his whispered raging, and then I look to see why.

The Gatekeeper of the Dawn holds the last page of my tale to my face, smearing it with my blood as he jabs his quill into my thinning scalp and then circles a line in the tale's very last paragraph.

All I hear him murmur is, "Misplaced Modifier."

Suddenly, the sky splits open with a fiery rage, lightning, thunder, and torrential rains as the Gatekeeper scatters my manuscript to this deluge. The pages, all of them, flutter out of sight and away forever, and I see my heart, soul, body and mind torn from me, and they are tainted.

Then, just out sight amidst the smog, begins the snarls and growls.

The wraiths of the Gate come forth, with smoldering irons in hand as I try to scurry away. But there are too many. Ay, there are so, so many.

My pleads fall upon deaf ears as they sear my flesh with their irons, and I bear forever branded upon my flesh the one word I feared more than any other in life.

REJECTED!

Despite the raging gales, I hear nothing but my sobbing sorrows. I look towards the Gatekeeper of the Dawn, this Phantom of Fate, this Apparition of Hopes and Dreams, fearful he may point to the left or the right.

I see his skeletal hand come from the folds of the robe, and see it slowly rise up, and then one long finger points to my fate.

He points to my lair. He points to my station!

Now, I am free to scurry. I call back as I tear my flesh on the broken bones of the forever rejected, and I say, "Thank you, beloved Gatekeeper! Thank you so much for this chance to continue on my quest! Thank you for giving a shred of hope that my pathetic existence has the right to prove its value to you yet once more!"

Suddenly, I am given the opportunity to see one beam of sunshine blast through the storms, and shine down upon the Gatekeeper of the Dawn as he resumes his static pose, waiting for the next teller of tales.

By that night, I find my way to my abode, where my items of no value, not even to the creditors, pawnshops or dealers, lie just as they were when I felt a twinge of hope within me, seemingly so long ago.

I reach up and touch the desk, feeling the curled pages of notes and thoughts. But I haven't the strength to resume just now. Crawling with the few fingernails I have left, I scamper to the rum, hookah, convenience store sub sandwiches and the Sun Chips, pledging to start over tomorrow.

Tomorrow is another day when I may begin a new work emitting from my heart and soul. It may prove to be a work worthy of the Gatekeeper, and he may not scatter it to the winds, but may clutch it to him, confident that he may find within it a suitable fifteen percent.

The bottles are empty and the hookah is cold, and I am so tired.

"God, may I find the strength of mind and body to write another tale, and may this one appease the world, and may my place in the universe be for more than mere grease for the machinery that drives the market economy forward. So mote it be."

I slump into the corner and for a few hours, I know nothing more.