Stories – Alexander J Hernandez

Cello, My Love for Thee

January 7, 2019January 7, 2019 Alexander J HernandezLeave a comment

I fell in love with the cello in my junior year of high school. It was during a senior’s final solo with a piano accompaniment. Before then, the cello was just another string instrument overshadowed by the violin, in terms of performance. Granted, my exposure to expressive players was limited to teenagers struggling to be expressive, period.

I don’t remember her name, the cellist. It wouldn’t be hard to figure it out. But I don’t want to know. I fell in love with her playing, in that moment cemented years ago.

I knew her in the way most do in high school, recognized the face. She was elegant, her style of play exciting. She was so expressive, with eyes shut, she moved to the memorized music, or perhaps the music moved to her. The slits of her red satin dress fell to the sides of shapely legs, framing the cello in a artist’s embrace.

Seconds into the performance, my imagination began to form the idea of a story. The story’s setting solidified by the rhythm of bow and string. Her skill served as not only the turnkey to creativity, but her physical movement, the constant shift between tension and release as her shoulders leaned into each bar, gave the story a theme for which my own emotions at the time could filter through.

I will admit, that the beginning of the story could have been mistaken for a Evanescence music video; somewhere between My Immortal and Wake Me Up Inside. Thankfully it came into a life of its own.

The same cellist performed the very same piece, upon the balcony of a tower that overlooked a gothic city bathed in the light of a full moon. Her music carried far into night, drawing the downtrotend from their wells of thought. Behind her, the lord of the estate on which the tower stood, marveled at his prize.

Her music sang of a forlorn life that was regrettably her own. She lived in a fantasy twisted by the ambition of one she trusted, long dead. Amongst the upturned gazes, a heartfelt wish was given to the wind for the cellist to be freed.

As the performance came to an end, the cellist held the final note, giving it time to settle with the waiting silence. That final act, allowed the performance to slip free from the degradation of time.

I was dating a musician at the time; specifically a violinist (cliche, I know). I bring this up, because after the cellist’s performance, her and I exchanged a look. In her blue eyes, she fought to keep the rise of jealousy from showing.
Due to my inexperience, after we left the event and shared our thoughts, I was too blunt in my admission of the cellist’s allure. The viper of jealous had won. It loomed in the shadows of the face she gave. She admitted, with a tinge of bitterness, that the performance was exceptional for a cellist.

If at the end of the world, the cellist music was played, I’d welcome the chance to hear it once more.

As an aside, someone I deeply care for recently picked up the cello. They were kind enough to send me a clip of them playing happy birthday, for well, my birthday. I’m sure they aren’t aware of just how genuinely happy the gift made me. It brought back a cherished memory at a most needed time.

The range of a cello paints the most vivid of worlds in my imagination, despite its intended purpose in service to its more shrill sister. The cello can lull me into the allusive sanctuary of sleep, just as easily as it can stoke the fading flame in my soul. I love the cello, for it is the instrument of Creation.

Garden of the Verdant Moon

In the garden of my grandfather, through the dieing petals of a passing time, I saw the Verdant Moon rise above the horizon. The surrounding prostrate decaying plants became vibrant again, their darkened bark now arched upward. The ground toiled over into a soft bed of moss. Insects left the shelter of secrecy, to bask as I, in the light of the Verdant Moon.

January 3, 2018January 2, 2018 Alexander J HernandezLeave a comment

It stayed but a moment, cast by waves of distortion, forcing its way into this world. Captivated by its radiance, my dreams forever stolen, locked in the gaze.

The years following, zealously given over to this obsession. I needed to see it again, needed to know why. I looked for it in all of life’s experiences, only to have it kept in the corner of my eye.

In my dreams, was it possible to gaze at the Verdant Moon once more. So I slept, choosing to fall into the preserved memory. But, such a reliance on the delusional means, caused the false moon to distort. As if it grew angry that I, but a human, had tried to hold it in my mind.

Eventually, corrupted by this hubris attempt, my dreams were that of nightmares. The garden had become a bed of horrors. Sitting there, the dead branches would twist themselves about my body, making small cuts along their tightening embrace. Long dead buds greedly lapped up my blood spilt. The moss grew fungal, releasing spores that both dulled my sense of reason, but hightenined my sensitivity to pain. The insects returned to their hovals, chiming in a haunting choir of regret.

Faced with no other choice, I returned to my grandfather’s garden, long after it passed to the care of another. On a similar night as that accursed moment, I walked along the same broken path. Beneath the same dieing petals, I knelt on withered legs and watched the horizon.

No moon rose that night.

A voice called from behind, “Another pour soul that hath seen the Verdant Moon.”

Startled, I turned to find a being silhouetted as human, dressed in a black suit, but for a strip of dull green that ran the length of their body. A cruel grin slithered behind stands of cascading ember hair.

“Come, sit with me awhile,” the being lured with a beckoning gangly hand. Where I knew for sure no table stood, there now was one, just off the path with two chairs eagerly waiting to fulfil their purpose. They shook at the notion of use.

“The Verdant Moon was not for you to see,” the being said in a lectoral tone as I moved to sit. The chair seemed to rise to meet my lowering. Once seated, I could feel hundreds of pin pricks forming to my contour. The pain was dulled a moment later, after taking notice to the scent of lilacs seeping from the legs of the chair. The chair gave a purring of satisfaction.

Across from me sat the being. The other chair seemed to resist their sitting. It gave a low growl in protest. The being paid it no mind as they were with arms rested on crossed legs. Again, that grin crept from behind the curtain of smothered flame.

“Two choices lay before you. Leave and lose your mind to the creeping madness. Or, stay and become one of the many plants rooted here. The madness will consume you, and haunt all those come to know of you. But, if you remain and take your place among them, you’ll have the chance of seeing the Verdant Moon again.” The begin’s hands swept wide, gesturing to all of the garden, before returning to their rest. They seemed to have been enjoying the movements of their physical facade.

“My life ended all those years ago. A part of me never left this garden as a child. It is only fitting that I am made whole in this End.” The words slipped from my mouth so resolute before my mind could begin to protest.

The being’s head rocked back as they let out a howl of laughter, alternating between a ferocious eruption of sound and the cackle of a winding whip. “You Drth never cease to surprise me,” the being said once it regained composure. “Take the stone from the table and swallow it,” the being instructed. As their head lowered to face forward, displaced strands of hair briefly reveal a single eye, or what should have been an eye. A polished verdant gem took delight in my reaction.

It felt of a familiar, powerful gaze. Averting my eyes, I now noticed the thumb sized stone passively waiting for me to pick it up. Much Like the table and chairs, this too came at the being’s call.

I forced a brief stay of my already reaching hand. What would become of me? A concern I quickly dismissed as my fingers lifted the stone. It had no weight and was polished smooth. Had it not been on the table, it could have easily been mistaken for a river stone. But, it gave a warmth of its own.

The being watched eagerly as I placed the stone in my mouth and swallowed. “It is done,” they said with aspiration. The chair beneath me began to rumble as the sensation of pin pricks became like nails driving into my skin, piercing muscle and embedding themselves in bone.

Racked with pain, I tried to get up, but could not move. My scream was even muffed, becoming a hollow shriek. The being rose from their seat and came to my side. My vision narrowed, with their hair filling my view. Through the burning pain, I could feel their long cold fingers trace lines across my head.

“I won’t deprive you of a better view, Drth.” They teased. I know not what they did, but I could feel myself turned about. I heard the crack of wood, and felt as if my legs were broken. Forced onto the damp ground, my head was pulled up. Again I saw the verdant gem of an eye.

“Watch Drth, a night will come when the chosen walks this very garden. And, when they are seen by the Verdant Moon, the spell will be broken.” The being pulled back from me, and before my world turned to black I saw their true form.

Arms grew, broke, and rearranged into that of long thick wings. Their torso shortened, pulling up legs that became muscular appendages that bent in opposing directions, ending in three jagged talons.

Above the mouth, their head expanded into a shoulder wide, as it was long flat crown. Their ember hair pooled into the surface, swirling in place to create the appearance of a shifting mirror. At the center was the verdant gem, pulsating with a sickening power.

The being folded into itself and was gone.

My vision is lost, but I can feel the world around me. The chair had fused with my body, and our legs and my laid hands took root. My back, head, and brace of the chair have sprouted branches. Lilacs grow from me.

Time has slipped away. All I can do is wait for the night of the chosen. For the night of the Verdant Moon.

Being Cool

“The thing about being cool, is that it’s all in the authenticity. Don’t try to be someone you’re not. It’s not cool to be uncomfortable with yourself.”

November 29, 2017 Alexander J HernandezLeave a comment

Enezey’s on a Friday night normally plays the part of a lounge over a bar. But, around midterms and finals at the surrounding universities, it becomes lively with many a youth learning the detrimental skill of drinking their problems away. The regulars typically don’t mind the change of pace. Especially now, when it contrasts the current winter night awaiting them on their trip home.

Avery thumbs the straw in their whiskey ginger casually, while their attention, and that of a few others, is drawn to a rather rambunctious group near the pool table as they begin to call for shots.

It’s a diverse group, each a painful reminder of how foolish youth can be. There is one Avery cannot help but relate to.

Off to the side, a young woman stands, awkwardly trying to be cool. They look the part with short hair, a leather jacket, and black pencil skirt. But what they lack is the air of cool. Their body language gives it away. They are trying too hard to be the idea of cool.

Avery cannot help but smirk every time this young woman tries to catch the eye of a certain full figured groupee. She comes close, but fails to act on the brief moment of connection.

Avery returns to their drink as this young woman resumes her facade of stoicism.

“Hey Ave, your glass is nearly empty. Want another?” Lola asks.

“Nah, I’m good. Close me out, please.” Avery downs the rest of their drink and rests the glass back on the bar. Fingers linger on the cool rim, as they reminisce on their own failed attempts at being cool.

Lola hands the bill and a pen over, returning Avery’s card. “What’s that smile for?” She asks.

“Just remembering. Thanks.” Avery signs and pockets their card. As they stand to put on their coat, they call back to Lola. “Mind if I bum a cig off you? For the road.” The request is paired with the gesture of bumping their right thumb and index finger up into their left palm.

“Sure.” Lola hands over a cigarette.

“Thank ya kindly,” Avery replies in a mock southern drawl as they turn to leave.

Coincidentally, the pool table section is near the exit, and the trying to be cool woman is now standing near the door. Avery cannot help but give some advice.

As they walk towards the door, Avery makes eye contact with this young woman, in the way of acknowledgment. She takes notice and curiously watches them approach.

Stopping beside her, but without turn to face them, Avery says “The thing about being cool, is that it’s all in the authenticity. Don’t try to be someone you’re not. It’s not cool to be uncomfortable with yourself.”

Avery turns to nod in the direction of the interest she has. “Be yourself, not who you think she wants you to be.”

The young woman breaks eye contact to scoff, and begins to say “You don’t—”.

Her words fall short when looking back to find experienced eyes looking into her own; as if they truly saw her.

“Good luck,” Avery adds before continuing to the door and leaving Enezey’s.

—
Through the door of our present, do we seal away our past, making it possible to continue forward. Should the door remain open, we’ll be pulled forever back.
—

Chicago’s winter is a blanket of cold that forcefully drapes itself upon you. Breathe too deeply, and it’s sharp edge threatens to fill your lungs. But, Avery does not mind the familiar embrace. It feels as if it were about to snow; the clouds overhead swell in anticipation. It would be the first true blizzard of the season. Avery takes comfort in knowing that they should have enough time to get where they’re going.

It’s a short walk, one that gives just enough time to take in how the City’s night is going. Avery isn’t the only one sensing the coming snowfall. People are hurriedly leaving their watering holes for the warmth of home. Sometimes in pairs, but Avery notices a lot of individuals calling for a ride. Love does not seem to be in the air tonight, for many.

Besides the occasional passing car, the night is quiet. Only a single siren is heard, far off in the distance, in the time it takes for Avery to reach their bridge. They refer to it as theirs simply because of how many times they have found themself crossing it; going on eight years.

It’s become a habit, coming by every so often, to lean against the railing and watch the rippling water. This is where they intend to smoke.

Pulling a lighter from their pocket, Avery laments on forgetting to pick up a pack before heading to Enezey’s. They’ll have to make this one last.

Holding the cig between their index and middle fingers, they click the flame to life, taking a quick pull before the young ember could be snuffed out by the canal’s own breathe.

‘Why am I still alive?’ Avery asks themself.

Right to it, then? Responds their inner voice.

‘I shouldn’t be alive.’

Ready to act on those words?

Taking another pull on the cigarette, Avery’s eyes fixate on the lapping waves breaking on the eroding canal walls. “No,” they say aloud.

Then, we are to lament on the past again?

‘It’s what I’m good at, apparently.’

After so many years, you are still here, on this same damn bridge. And, just like the first time, you could jump and no one would be able to save you in time.

‘Still a tempting thought.’

Then why not?

‘Because I’m meant to suffer a little longer, it would seem.’ Avery goes for another pull, but realizes it had gone cold. Relighting their only cig, they continue with their train of thought.

For one without a purpose, we’ve lasted quite a while.

‘Some small consultation.’

Someone’s watching.

—
My presence in this abyss grows heavy with the faces of those now gone.
—

Avery turns their head to see the young woman from before standing a few paces away. She is alone, and leaning heavily to one side. If they had to guess, it would be that she had answered the call for shots. Perhaps in a last ditch effort to work up the courage.

“Ah Ms. Cool. It seems you had no success.”

“Oh, Mr. Cool was it?” the young woman teases.

“That’s okay, next time. Unfortunately, it has become harder to just be ourselves. And, it’s Avery.” Another pull is taken.

“Cas. I’m starting to think myself isn’t good enough anymore.” Cas replies with an intoxicated sigh and false smile.

“Well Cas, I’m doing a bit of thinking myself. Care to join me?” Avery pulls the cigarette from their lips, in an offering gesture.

“No thank you. I don’t smoke.” Cas replies, coming to stand next to Avery. “But, I’ll join you.”

“Good for you. Actually, I rarely smoke,” Avery admits. Cas’ shoulder lightly rests against them.

“Bullshit. You were sucking on that thing like it would save your life,” Cas mocks.

“I do it for the aesthetic. And, how long were you watching me?” Avery asks with an accompanying raised eyebrow.

“Maybe you just like fiddling something with your mouth.” Cas jokes, ignoring their question.

“What if I enjoy fiddling something with my mouth?” Avery asks suggestively.

Cas toys with the idea, but does not answer. Yet, her hand searches for Avery’s.

“Hey, you think you could catch me if I jumped?” Avery suddenly asks.

Cas’ eyes widen in surprise and they step closer.

“Relax, I’m only speaking hypothetically.” Avery’s chuckle stops when they notice Cas had actually gripped their coat and arm.

“That isn’t funny,” Cas scolds. She hesitates letting go, but eventually does after Avery gives a reassuring nod.

“You’re right, my apologies. You really would try to catch me…” Avery’s gaze returns to the canal’s shimmering waves.

“The real you is good enough. It’s their fault for not seeing that,” Avery replies to Cas’ earlier statement.

“But, I want to be noticed,” Cas softly replies. “Why did you notice me?”

After a moment of thought, Avery simply answers “Because everyone deserves to be seen. Especially those that are use to not being noticed.”

Snow begins to fall, and Avery finishes their cigarette with a final pull.

“Time for me to head home.” Avery turns to leave, but pauses when they notice Cas’ fingers had found theirs.

Leaning in, Avery lightly kisses Cas. “Would you like to come over?” They ask.

“Yes,” Cas answers before returning the kiss.

—
Meeting someone new, invites the possibility of disappoint.
—

“Would you like a drink?” Avery asks as they place bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter.

“No, I’m alright,” Cas replies.

“Okay. Well, I’m going to have a glass.” Avery pours themself one and takes a brief drink.

Hovering the glass by their lips in their left hand, Avery walks closer to Cas, motioning for her to back up against a dividing counter.

“Hold this for me,” Avery says as they hand off the glass. While, their right hand begins to trace a line up from Cas’ waist, brushing lightly across her chest and collar, up a flushed neck, where fingers gently curl around the base of Cas’ head. Tilting slightly to the side, Avery leans in and begins kissing the side of Cas’ neck.

Flustered, Cas carefully places the glass of remaining wine safely further down on the dividing counter. Her attention is divided between Avery’s driven lips and now free and wandering left hand. Firm fingers rise up Cas’ thigh before curving in.

Following a gasp at the sudden sensation, Avery centers both hands on Cas’ lower back as they lock eyes.

“Mind if go down on you?” Avery eagerly asks as their hands curve down over Cas’ ass.

“Fuck yes! Eh I mean, I don’t mind,” Cas breathlessly corrects.

A playful smirk forms on Avery’s yearning lips as they lift Cas onto the dividing counter. Her hands rest on Avery’s head as they begin to kiss their way down.

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—
Yet, the risk of disappoint does not outweigh the experience of intimacy.
—

Unable to sleep, Avery carefully slides out from under Cas’ spooning arm and leg. They replace their absence by pulling the blanket further over Cas. Before leaving their room, they gently brush a strand of hair from her face. Surprised by their own gesture.

Getting attached already? Their inner thought questions.

Ignoring that, Avery continues to the living room where they had set up a sort of blanket bundle in anticipation of watching the coming snowfall through their balconies sliding door. Plopping down on the stacked cushions, they drape their favorite blanket about them.

Are we to continue our earlier conversation?

‘No, I don’t have any cigarettes on me.’ Avery thinks.

And so as time slips into the early hours of morning, Avery sits in comfort while their mind plays a reel of painful memories. It is as if the snow became the faces of those that were once a part of Avery’s life, drifting down to become a collection of regret made manifest.

“Here you are,” Cas calls from the doorway of Avery’s room before walking over.

“You found me,” Avery answers, smiling up at Cas. “Sit with me.” They spread the blanket about them open and gesture for her to sit between their legs.

“Okay, but it’s my turn to be the big spoon. Lean forward.” Clumsily, yet charmingly so, Cas slides down Avery’s back, pulling the thick blanket over them both.

Cas’ arms invite Avery to lean back by enveloping them, coming to rest across their chest and waist.

Avery’s eyes track the falling snow through the sliding door, as they begin to resume their solemn thoughts. Until, Cas breaks the silence with a question.

Bringing her cheek to rest on Avery’s head, Cas asks “Besides when trying to pick someone up, why else do you smoke?”

Deciding to be honest, Avery answers “I normally smoke when I find myself debating suicide.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas replies while holding Avery closer.

“Don’t be, I’m glad you came along when you did. And, for this,” Avery says as they overlap Cas’ arms with their own.

“And the bridge…” Cas begins to say.

“My career started out in downtown, at a job that quickly became depressing. Most late nights had me passing over that bridge. Eventually, I started taking my time crossing it. At first it was something like a glance at the water, but eventually it became several minutes of just watching the canal,” Avery explains.

Cas’ hand begins to idly pass across Avery’s chest, unsure of what to say. Her fingers find a scar below their right collar. “How’d you get this?” She asks in an attempt to change the subject.

“I got that one some time ago.” Their voice drops as they continue, “there was a woman calling for help one night. It was an attempted mugging. But, the woman wasn’t giving in. I tried to help… but things didn’t go well.” Avery falls silent.

The extended pause makes it clear that Avery doesn’t want to say anything more on it. Having found herself in another difficult conversation, Cas let’s the silence continue. Gradually, she begins to notice many scars dotting Avery’s body. They all appear to be faint, only carrying a hint of their history.

“Sorry to have taken you from your friends,” Avery suddenly apologises. They bring up one of Cas’ hands to kiss her palm.

“Don’t be, they were more concerned about getting smashed anyways.” Cas leans in to kiss Avery. “Besides, you’re the only one to pay me any attention,” she adds.

Avery recognizes the faint smile and the sadness it covers. “Cas, thank you for tonight.”

“Don’t thank me,” she counters with a light laugh.

“So, you didn’t have any finals to get smashed over?” Avery asks, surprised by their own desire to learn more about her.

“Hmm?” Cas asks.

“Around this time, it’s common to see students drinking.”

“Oh! I guess it is a bit obvious.” Again, she laughs. It’s becoming a sound that Avery enjoys. “Some of my friends are going for their masters. I’m all done with that. But, they invited out.”

“So, how do you normally spend your day?” Avery asks, but thinking ‘When not picking up strangers on a bridge’.

“I’m an assistant programs director,” Cas answers. Though, it is not said confidently.

“Do you enjoy it?” Avery asks.

“I did, I do. The job has just changed quite a bit from when it started.” Cas’ answer mirrors Avery’s.

“Hmm I understand,” Avery says.

“It seems you understand a lot of things…” Avery feels Cas’ breath on their neck.

Glancing back, Avery sees that Cas has fallen asleep. They lightly kiss her cheek, before settling in to sleep as well.

‘Is it wrong for me to hope again?’ Avery thinks.

No, it never is.