FEEF
FEEF
It was Saturday, perhaps past twelve but I could not tell for am I unaccustomed to, through my own dietary discipline, feel the lunch pains of hunger. As I said before it was Saturday, last spring and I was cleaning, as is the tradition of the house and while exploring the desolate mountains in the attic I came upon a book. For some unknown reason I felt it necessary to warily look around, though the eerie shadows cast by the exposed rafters gave me warm spinal chills, there was no one in sight. Again my focus shifted to the manuscript, it was ancient from the look of it, and I did not recognize it but I did the box, some of old Grandpa’s things that were packed up last winter when he died traveling to the store at the corner. He slipped, a broken hip was the doctor’s assessment, just in sight of the hobby shop.
You may say that Grandpa was a kid at heart. I know he was, for I saw his basement, and the collected models of all types. He said once when I caught him, with a laugh, in his cellar slouched over a workbench so intently involved with his work he did not realize my presence until I not in the least lightly tapped his shoulder. He looked up directly into my eyes for the work bench faced the stairs.
With a wave of the hand and a flicker of love in his eye. “You see Jerry they date back to the thirties,” then he smiled, “this is... my life’s work.” By the way he stated, merging pride and regret born from years of unmerciful questions I could tell he was a man possessed. By that animal urge to create, to hunt, to kill, as I was to later find out.
It seemed a kind of game for him, some said he was injured in the war, being one of the many to witness the atrocity of the camps on liberation day, only I feared there was some higher purpose to his existence.
I recall a story he told of coming on the train to Auschwitz hours after it was liberated, his company delivering supplies, burying the dead, and removing survivors. I can only remember now fractions of what he said but it was a tale of living horrors in the mind of a senile old man.
I tucked the book into my pocket to use later for bedtime reading, if my wife would permit a small indulgence, though I had never asked of her before.
That evening I snuck in some reading time while my wife the lovely Elinore Fontain was softly snoring. She loved me so she never wished to be called by her own name. Tucked beneath my covers, cozy and warm, the dull drone of the dying light bulb in the lamp on the table by the bed my eyes drooped yet I was intent in my purpose. I leafed through to almost half the book and began.
I have not felt the kiss of rose
Since more a year has passed
Have not time to touch the stars
Having only slow scenic rides
Across the river beaming
Radiantly
On wooden beams
I cry for love
Since more a year has passed
Yes, it was... yes, last summer a time for great triumphs over the introversions of my heart. We stood in the valley by the river and sat under the bridge. We talked of life, what we knew and how we loved. And there we named you Feef, born from all the imaginings of galactic fighters and wars unknown of mysterious plagues and mind control.
Constructed through thirty days in which there was no night a model life of toothpicks. I was there with her by my side, you Feef there only in spirit, for you conceived were not yet born.
She was soft brown hair and blue eyes and I was hair the same yet rougher, through some fission of unwanted souls embodied in a dream.
Oh you were conceived.
We painted pictures on the quiet dunes of the river bank. We traveled through plastic figurines, half smiles and half frowns for we blew their heads off.
One precarious invasion, forced to hold my breath for we came through the water, and utter surprise, flawless victory, she did cheat.
“Aliens took me to a higher plain of existence and now their armies destroy yours” She sneered not refraining the smile that composed her whole face.
Perhaps a side effect of the alien interrogation. “That was not stated in the rules. Why if I new there were aliens you would be dead now too, besides that would be a two roll turn allowing me time to escape into the water.” I hissed at that smile.
“No, there technology is so advanced it can make the move in one turn.”
“New technology purchase must roll 5 or higher on three of five dice.” I stated daring her to challenge the rules
“It was given.” And she mocked me with utter defiance.
“Hugh” I crossed my arms, thus began the workings in my head on the new rules.
It was a game then with many rules, sub-rules, rules for violation of rules, rules for purchase of advanced weaponry, super fly, armor, planes, tanks, aliens, animal and human mind control, spies, mind meld, transformation, watcher, cloak... The possibilities truly seemed endless.
The game evolving demanding the inclusion of models purchased, more figurines and forts built with sweat and Popsicle sticks. And finally rule 27c:
27c - The winner after annihilation opponent is entitled to all spoils of war and may hold Feef until challenged.
My eyes closed and I had to fight the forces of sleep. I was crying inside for on my arm was the feef. Imprinted on my watch I was my Grandparent’s initials F.(Fran)E.(Edwards)E.(Eric)F.(Fontain). That night I slept and the following day labored dreaming of wars and annihilation, that plain of existence in which my Grandfather lived. That night I snuck the bible into the bathroom, locking the door I protected the religion. Leafing through my withered and wrinkled manuscript that I could not help but visualize as Eric incarnate.
His face calling me from the beginning of the book I answered him immediately I fell on my hands and knees for he was there, as he began to babble I buzzed into the face of history.
“I was a poet and I was your friend, you, soon enough to find out, will see my godhood, but I am you as I read.” And he began to laugh and I personally thought the merger no laughing matter yet he continued. “You see I will forever be in you now, when you laugh a part of me will also. We are much alike, after all we are family, we both are poets and we both have passion yet you have the sight I never had.” Should I smile or vomit at the compliment? I pondered for some short time.
He began a short contemplation, on the nature of death I surmised, for he was quiet some many minutes, yet no indications of what it was he showed as he set the tires again moving that would occasionally persist later in life when thought returned to past. He resumed the grinding chatter with a recount of our human history then forward to the time of my Great, Great, Grandfather, the founder of the faith for it was he and his boyhood sweetheart who first played for the feef, a peak at godhood.
There was something he mentioned softly but I know not the whole yet only the part I consciously remember. The male progeny had never lost and until they did our souls were condemned or some Black magic humbo-jumbo.
He talked prolixly of rules and proper conduct to apparently extrapolate with validity nature’s creed.
I threw down the book exasperated as I fell to my knees hiding my head from his voice and I nuzzled into the corner and I cried and cried, I yelled in low moans and swore in hasty tears. “I do not want to play your game, I will never, and who are you to talk to me of philosophy. You are nothing but air formed by mistaken coughs and precisely placed footsteps to clutter massive amounts of dust into the form through my destitution looked familiar, see I can destroy the image.” I blew into his face and he disappeared.
“And it will again appear behind you. If you wish the haunting to cease you must read.” The book appeared, risen to rest on the washbasin, and lay open, the pages, out of some queer displacement of light I was sure, seemed of gold. As I lifted a black ritual to my eyes I could not read the words just flowed by me.
Pausing form necessity of air to live I sensed and entity gone from me so I looked into the eyes of a face unfamiliar yet... the fire in them I had felt inside before. “The fire, yes, the fire...” I nearly yelled at the top of my lungs, thoroughly embarrassed I stepped softly through the door to find my wife awake good I thought, and dissipated in the darkness reappearing in the garage I felt on the greasy bench for my cigarettes and lit myself one. I proceeded toward the door and through the cans I tripped and soon after my wife was dead and Grandpa never haunted me again.
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