The Writings Of Luke

I'll add more selections of my writing if people request it. :) Here's two of my favorites.

Third on the Moonshelf

By Luke Rolka

The moon was thin and silvery that night, nonetheless it blanketed the sleeping town with creamy white light. Nothing but a rat, a mouse, or a prowling cat moved, in the streets and houses of the city, and a silent tremble awoke nobody in their peaceful slumber. Nobody, that is, but I, the inconspicuous apprentice, an apprentice of the tailor.

I was curled underneath my covers at the time, and by and by, something awakened me, what—I could not tell for the life of me. My dreams would have told me of a ripple in the Earth, a disturbance in the air- something which I’m sure the plant at my small circular window would surely have felt better. All looked well, my sole possessions were still placed in perfect arrangement on my shelves, and my clothing trunk was undisturbed. I got out of bed fully, then nearly recoiled back and under my sheets again, as my feet had felt a strange pulsation which was unbeknownst to me before this time… not such pleasant a feeling as the beat of a heart, but something far colder. I touched the floorboards again, and it was gone; my toes could feel the rough, knotted wood, the cool surface was unrevealing to say the least... I could have dismissed myself as fearful, dreamy. Though dearly wishing to get back into bed, as if strung like a marionette, I practically dragged myself from my small quarters provided by my master, into the shop.

The shop, like my room, was tranquil and untouched, the ticking of the clocks were soothing, and seemed to hypnotize the many hued rolls of fabric which were piled on counters. Even the moonlight which was in the room seemed to flow and ebb in beat to the time keepers. My heart ran cold as the world shuddered again, not only, it seemed, the ground, but the very air around me as well. Nothing seemed to notice the shift, and when running my fingers down a countertop and subsequently viewing the dust upon my fingertips, too thick to have gathered over the night, it almost seemed as if the room was more bored, than upset. I realized that the moonlight which streamed in though the window ended up only on a single shelf at the opposite end of the room. Looking over at that shelf, I forgot that which awakened me and thought about it, that shelf. It had always been my favourite one, where three puppets my master had constructed sat. I walked over to the puppets, knowing with an unsettling phobia that my footsteps were out of synchrony with the ticking of the clocks.

The puppets were each pale faced, especially so in the moonlight, but still, the three had a softening rosy color on their pine cheeks. My master, though a tailor by profession, was multi-talented, and these three puppets that sat on their own shelf was of his working. He never intended to sell them, instead keeping them as pleasurable little pieces of art to look upon everyday.

The third puppet on the shelf was a jester, and the wooden skeleton donned a costume of multicolored, whimsical cloth, and there were even tiny bells on its hat. The face had always been curiously devious to me—its leering grin, its piercing eyes. From some... almost primal instinct... what instinct, I do not know, I reached to that particular puppet, and removed it from its moonlit shelf. I looked into its painted eyes, and taken aback, they seemed not to just to be painted on the head, but it was almost as if they had depth, as if I could look into the puppet, and see a mind it didn't have. I thought this was something one could only see in a living being, indeed, never before had I looked at a lifeless puppet in this way.

The heart and the mind is an incredible mystery... a connection which can run though the lifeless and bring them a consciousness which existed nowhere but in my mind. At the moment I stared into that puppet, I realized that life was nothing but a dream, created by no one, not even the God I had so devoted myself to. I am the dreamer, the keeper of my interpretations. All my beloved friends, I realized, were nonexistent but to me, a dream without which I myself would not be. A curious puppet, that which I held. What could it tell me if it could only but speak?

Suddenly, my master bounded into the shop from his room, which was located fairly near to the puppet shelf, and without even looking at me, he sputtered maniacally, "What is going on? Dear Lord!” His face was glinting in the moonlight from sweat, and his dark eyes were wild with fear. He sank to his knees, and started to weep. I was, as you could well imagine, greatly perplexed by this turn of events, and couldn't make head nor tails of it. I felt no pain, no affliction of distress to confuse my thoughts, which were then clearer than I ever have imagined that they could be.

My gaze drew back to the puppet in my hands, and its face, even though unchanged, seemed to be laughing at me, laughing like a madman unleashed. My master turned his head slowly, toward me, his tears staining the wooden floor a darker hue. "Pallépio, save... us, please," he said, timidly. He breathed with some difficulty. “Every particle... of my being... is in utter terror from something that I do not know... or understand. Do you know how I am torn? Pallépio, forgive me, but I do not..." Shaking, he looked at the puppet I clutched in my hands. He then looked away, and shouted in a passion, "It is like as the puppet master has foretold our destiny, our fate! Am I only here to fade away like the moon does every..." he choked back a wave of tears then continued, "every morn, upon the rising of the sun... that... glowing orb which shines upon our everyday to show us... the way... which way, Pallépio? Which way? There’s… so many... so... many..." He sank until his head touched the floor and his tears fell silently.

	I said nothing, listening to a rumble in the distance... so delicate was
the rumble that I did not know if it was my imagination, had I become so
sensitive that I had mistaken my masters tears dropping to the floor as a
rumble? Then I felt it again... that rumble which had awoken me, and now, it
seemed nothing but a cackle from the Devil himself, a tormented peal of
thunder which for eternity had wished for more but didn’t realize it had
such what it seeks already in the power of its grasp. Beyond the coldness of
it, I felt no fear, as what fear would help save us in a time of reckoning,
as my master had so proclaimed. 
	"I could not survive silence, and now I cannot survive its opposite..." my
master murmured, lamenting over something I could not understand.

	The rumble gradually grew in intensity until it seemed that the very roof
above my head would collapse. I did not dare move, and even if I had wanted
to, I don't believe I could have. I felt like a statue, steadfast, going
nowhere. I hoped more by every second that I would be like a statue in the
last, that I could withstand any disorder come my way, or face any
horror—though why I thought this, I do not know, as I knew I already was to
that point. More fearsome would it be to stand a statue, than a man. Yet I
was neither, and I wouldn’t anymore be the humble servant but humbler still.
I looked back down at the puppet, and this time, it appeared to be studying
me with an intense curiosity, and I wondered how a face with only one
expression could bear so many emotions. When it felt like the quaking was
upon us, the shop window exploded, and glass sprayed over the floor,
counters, and the precious fabrics. 

	“…we all end like the simple rose… but we never shrivel, we only bloom,
until we die…” I heard my master wail over the din, and I saw horsemen in
the street, lighting buildings and homes on fire with ferocious torches,
biting to and fro with no restraint. I heard the screams of horrified
townspeople finding themselves martyrs unexpected on a night previously so
peaceful. I knew then that these people, both the horsemen and their
victims, were alike, but neither of them knew it anymore than picked rose
knew that it was going to soon end. I looked down at the puppet again, and
saw that all of its previous emotions seemed to have been drowned, and it
was nothing more than a leering, painted-on face, a wooden carving that was
brought to life by my feverish mind. Or maybe not so, I thought, and
realized that despite the ignorance of solid wood, it knew more than my
master or I did, more than all of mankind. It knew our state, our unstable
souls, our heartless demeanor, and I knew that God, the universal
consciousness, was in all things and its power was not infinite but had a
wisdom ages greater then any wise man on the history of the Earth, or the
universe. Setting the puppet back on the shelf, which was surprisingly still
lit by the moon, I turned around and faced the chaotic scene outside.
Walking to the door, I opened it, and humanity, every soul of every man,
woman and child heard my painless cry; and the pandemonium disappeared into
the emptiness of space.

An Excerpt from Zion: A Journey by Train

As remembered by: Luke Rolka

April 11 to April 21, 1999

Day 1

Awakening

The time was early- about 4:30am, on Sunday, April 11^th, 1999. The day had come, goodbye house. Won’t be sneezing your mildews for over a week. That, alone, was a big celebration in itself. Though my newly purchased Claratin and Claritin D 24 hour medicines were sure to protect me from the allergens that had been so tormenting my all too delicate nose. The night before, we had done most of our packing, which included all that we thought may be needed during the trip. This was a lot of things, by the way. The trip? An Amtrak voyage across America to Flagstaff, Arizona. From there we would travel to other destinations of shameless tourist interest. We had less than two weeks, and I’m sure if we had more, untouristy stuff would have been considered, surely.

	I had actually awoken later than I wished, but that was ok, despite our
later-than-expected departure, it made no difference. There is little of
interest during this part of the whole thing, though I must make it clear
that I had available my voice recorder, as I intended to use it. Which I
did, for some of my vacation, like approximately 5 minutes of it. 
	Then we left for Battle Creek Michigan, the location of the train station
we chose to use.
	

Make No Accommodations for the Cautious

	When we made our way through Battle Creek, The City of Cereal, we looked
for the station. We discovered that there was no trouble in finding tourist
spots erected by the Kellogg company. Believe me, it was difficult to resist
entering a building with a huge Toucan Sam(TM) on it. But, we resisted, and
found the station, which was closed for the time being. We, in our caution,
were very early. The station was small, and was apparently shared with
buses, particularly Grayhounds, and other fast dogs named after buses. The
place was easily recognizable by its fluorescent glowing glass pillars. It
looked like the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz, except that it was, as I
mentioned, small, in the industrial sector and only had train cars of a
different color. But it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t particularly
impressive, this was cool. This was our portal to exiting Michigan. We were
going to Arizona.  

	The station opened at eight. That was fine, it was about seven o’ clock,
our train wasn’t due out until sometime after nine.  We decided to go find a
place to eat. The things we dared to do...

When you’re out of options, you’ve got Mr. Don

We wandered around in our full size van, looking for a restaurant that we could eat at. We went down one road that led us to a run down area of Battle Creek (obviously untouched by the wonder of cereal known as Kellogg’s), so we turned around, and in our frustrations, we found a haven for hungry travelers- Mr. Don’s.

	The sky was dreary, the location worn by the years. A sign of modern life
did exist here- a fenced-in area which contained satellite dishes, which sat
next to Mr. Don’s. Was the fencing to protect from the age exuding from Mr.
Don’s or was it to protect from delinquent youth? It could have been for
either reasons.

	Entering, we found ourselves bathed in antiquity. At least, antiquity 20 to
40 years ancient. Picture the yellow light fixtures dangling from the
ceiling looking old, unwanted.	 The tables themselves were crude as if
shaped from the very first vision of mass-produced modern furnishing. The
booths appeared to consist of hard yellow plastic backing, though the
semi-circular booth we chosen was luxurious enough to include cracked brown
vinyl upholstery. 

Not surprisingly, at several of these yellow tables sat older men, talking and grunting (talking and grunting were actually the same thing) in their old early-morning routine that kept them going, day after day.

	“Grunt grunt. Rrrggg, aeh?”

	“Ehhh... drt hiff ggggrt.”

	Maybe I should have listened to it better, as I’m sure it was really very
refined grunting.  

	The place was actually a fast food joint rather than a full service
restaurant, where you ordered like a McDonalds. It looked like only two
people were working, a tired looking lady who was probably up hours before
we were, and some guy that was cooking. I ordered a short stack of pancakes
and a breakfast muffin with egg and an admittedly laughable patty of
sausage. These were ok, I suppose. At least they apparently bought food
items that were produced within this decade.

	There was one major problem, however. 
	To vent my fury on this subject, I was driven to writing a poem, just to
illustrate the extent of this.. this... 

	Atrocity.

	The orange juice. It was unspeakably tasteless. I drank it anyway, but
merely as a “final salute” to the poor orange that gave its life to become
such sad, soulless juice. I am, as you might have guessed, an orange juice
connoisseur, and feel that all oranges that become juices should at least be
half-way decent. 

	By the thin aisle where the restrooms could be found, there were three
deactivated video game machines, names of which I cannot recall. But one of
the games had a machine gun-type joystick, so obviously at least one of
these games involved violence. Anyway, these machines were as battered as
the rest of the place, recalling the chunk of plywood missing from one
machine, in what appeared to have been whacked off in an incident which
probably included a severe argument over which machine gun joystick should
be used.

Dust. Spider Webs. Bashed in vent gratings. Cracked tiling. Oldness. This was the essence of Mr. Don’s. Who was Mr. Don, anyway? Was he old and cracked too? All these questions came to mind as I walked into the restrooms.

The restrooms were in worse shape than the rest of the place, though clean enough so as to not require my gag reflex. The room was falling apart around me, I’m sure. The walls, of course, were covered with writing, most obscene. Should people rate public restrooms like they do with movies? A big “R” on some doors... or is this possibly a good excuse for those that have not learned to read yet? “I am refusing to read due to the FILTH that we find in restrooms today, Principle!” A logical argument to me. Anyway… for those that complain about Mexico’s accommodations should first focus on America. After all that, we left poor Mr. Don’s, and if I ever see it again, I expect for it to have fallen down. But if it’s here now, what’s saying that it won’t survive for another decade? And another? But the biggest question remains... will they still serve the same orange juice?