Greta ran the comb up and down her lank, oily hair only twice. Did her hairstyle matter anymore? She was not Garbo, nor beautiful. Her eyes were wide apart, but her nose too wide and her lips were a comical shovel shape below. How strange Fate’s hands twisted her face in funny shapes while her mind’s engine spun turgid thoughts on melancholy wires. Her hallucinations continued at times: birds pierced the air with metal wings and laser-feathers rained death over Copenhagen’s east section every Wednesday at noon.
It was now 1:00 p.m. on a Wednesday in March. She had to turn west to face her psychiatrist. He smiled at her with a normal face, even a handsome one: blond hair, glasses, nice blue eyes, and a muscular build. However, sometimes, she saw his eyes bulge on crabby eye-stalks and then retract into his head once again.
She smiled a beatific smile looking up at her simple apartment ceiling. “Yes, I would like to try euthanasia. Sarco, you know. It’s a purple machine. You can have a breathtaking view of the seaside while you feel a little dizziness, then you expire. It’s a lovely advance.”
Dr. Patten shook his head. “Greta, it’s wonderful that you’re thinking about this invention. But it’s not a necessary addition to the euthanasia process. I think it’s for the futurist taste. This machine is no substitute for a physician’s careful supervision during the legalized euthanasia we now have in Denmark. However, we’re getting ahead of ourselves, hmm? I wanted to pick up again where we left off last Wednesday. Tell me about the dream you had. About America. About visiting your relatives in Texas.”
Greta moved her foot up and down, faster and faster as if she could make him change his mind about the Sarco, but she knew she’d have to talk about the dream again. But, if she couldn’t get into the Sarco, did she want to die? She may as well go to the horrible place with cowboys and fire ants if she couldn’t die as she chose. “I dreamed of a fire ant standing over a barren landscape. It was fifty foot tall, grown morbidly obese and grotesque from gorging on American toxic fast food and chemicals leached into their sickened soils. Its red eyes emitted laser pulses and sonic heat, pulverizing bodies and animals. Its weakness was also horrible: the country music that fills the arid air, the line dancing in hideous, off the rack boots stomping in soulless honky tonk venues. Yes, the music and dancing filled the ant’s ears and he exploded into red goo. But the goo only created more ants like himself.” Greta stood up and raised her eyes to the ceiling as she imagined the death of the noble fire ant.
Dr. Patten sighed and began to clean his glasses with a cloth he took from his coat pocket. “The dream is vivid and imagistic and I feel sorry for the fire ant. However, I think…you should refrain from calling Texan culture “horrible,” “hideous,”or “soulless,” during your visit …for your safety. Unfortunately, Americans still practice gun ownership. Of course, you have a right to your opinions. Note them in private and save them for your journal. And try to keep an open mind, won’t you?”
Greta closed her palm that had been reaching skyward in honor of the dream fire ant plagued with gigantism. “I shall keep an open mind. You will see. If Texas has anything wonderful to show me, it shall flow into my senses like artesian water from ancient wells known only to monster gods from realms hideous to us. But, I must be prepared. My reflexes must be ready to deal with lasers that emit from the eyes of my mind’s conjured behemoths who plague me day and night.” Greta sat down on her blue love seat and tried to keep her body still.
The psychiatrist replaced the glasses on his nose and crossed his legs in a tight formation to keep the crease of his slacks neat. “These conjured behemoths… remind me of the created worlds of specific writers, H.P. Lovecraft and H.G. Wells. Are you familiar with their fiction?”
Greta’s foot moved up and down in a furious motion even as she pushed on her knee as if to stop herself. “Lovecraft, yes. My visions curl from his dark matter. Perhaps the same gods whispered to us. But he was so wrong about racial equality. Wells? No. No. No. A hack, a free love, bohemian nightmare in tweed. Not Wells.”
Her doctor crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in thought. “Wells was known to be flawed and human in his personal life. He suffered from the limited beliefs of his day like his peers. But, his vision and innovation in fiction must be mentioned. Perhaps he was not as impressive in a linguistic sense. Style is subjective.”
Greta stared at him. The crabby stalks of his eyes bulged towards her and then receded into his head. “Why waste time talking about this dead Victorian?”
Dr. Patten pressed his lips together and began writing a list of prescriptions on a yellow notepad. “To help your thinking process. You define H.G. Wells in a negative light just as you define the state of Texas in the United States of America. Yet, this is not always a truthful or helpful way to view the world around you. If you open your mind, admit that perhaps nothing is wholly bad or wholly good, but rather, an admixture of both, you’ll find new ways to see the world.”
Greta’s eyes widened as she thought of new sights awaiting her in Texas. “But.. what if I see Texas-sized behemoths with even larger laser death rays? What if the robotic birds that lunge downwards towards Copenhagen Square follow me to another continent?”
A corner of Dr. Patten’s mouth wobbled upward as if he were suppressing a smile. “We must deal with these things as they come.”
~~~
On a Wednesday in April, Greta sat on an enormous beige sofa in her aunt’s living room in Austin, Texas. Her aunt’s sprawling ranch sat on five acres and the rambling white ranch house was impressive in size. Greta dressed with care for her first American prayer meeting in a somber black dress and black Mary Jane shoes. She took a vintage head scarf in shades of inky indigo and covered her blond hair in darkness. Her Texan-born cousin, Bailey, however, wore a colorful blue dress with a drop waist that was a little tight around the bust.
Bailey put pink lipstick on her perfect lower lip while looking into a small, gold compact. “Aren’t you going to put a little lip gloss on? There’s a few hot guys at the meeting.”
Greta stared at Bailey. “I thought you went to a prayer meeting out of religious fervor and love for Jesus.”
Bailey nodded her head up and down. “That’s right. But you can’t always be thinking about Jesus day and night. And, please don’t talk about anything like….death tonight. Please. Just keep it light. Okay? Well, let’s get into my Escalade. You’re going to a prayer meeting, sister!” Bailey stuffed her makeup bag back into her suede satchel. “I’m bringing a guitar, too. We end the meeting with praise and worship.”
Greta followed Bailey down the concrete steps leading out to the sidewalk. She ignored the lizard man following them down to the car despite the fact he was over nine feet tall with laser eyeballs. He carried a rifle and a vest outfitted with grenades. His leathery skin looked as dry as a cactus. Greta quickened her steps being ever wary of the dangers of his weapons although her psychiatrist would have reminded her that the lizard man did not exist. “I would feel much safer in the car right now.” Greta shivered despite the sultry evening air.
Bailey nodded and smiled. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll get you to your first prayer meeting safe and sound. You’ll see. You’ll forget all about euthanasia when you meet Jesus.”
Greta’s mouth twitched. “Isn’t it usually the other way around?”
Bailey adjusted her mirror and turned on the air conditioning. “I don’t know what you mean by that. We’re going to get the Spirit moving in this vehicle. This is my favorite Christian music podcast.” She looked over at her cousin with concern. “What are you looking at in the backseat? Nobody’s there.”
Greta clears her throat. “I call them my conjured behemoths. I see a lizard man with shining eyes ready to release lasers, death rays into the air, killing us and many others within a wide radius.” She flashes a weary smile towards her relative.
Bailey bursts into laughter, throwing her head back. “You’re joking.” She peaks over again. “You’re not? That ain’t no lizard man. We got to get you to that prayer meeting fast. The Devil is after you.”
Greta’s eyes widened. “You mean… everything I’ve seen. My visions are real? Meaningful? But I must give them up? To Jesus?”
Her cousin nodded with vigor. “Absolutely. Has your psychiatrist told you life doesn’t have meaning? Is that why you chose euthanasia? We have to pray against the spirit of European psychiatry. We have to bind it in the name of the lord. I’m gonna pray right now sweetie. Over your life. Lord, please help my cousin find Jesus. I don’t know if He’s in Europe. I know my Mom and Dad come from there, but all I ever hear about is red light districts, rave music, heroin needles sticking out of everybody’s arms, ladies wearing red vinyl everywhere and smoking hookah pipes. Deliver us from evil. In the name, Amen.”
The girl from Copenhagen cleared her throat. “Your broad stereotypes do not amuse us Danes. I assure you, your views have been corrupted by the Texan toxicity in your air and water, the daily violence with rooting, tooting, and shooting, and enormous cowboy hats and boots scouring the land leaving behind terrible scars.”
Bailey’s lips pressed together for an instant, then she relaxed. “Honey, what’s wrong with guns, boots, and cowboy hats? Not a thing in the world if you’re asking this cowgirl. Try to keep an open mind about things like your doctor said. I’m still discerning him spiritually, and I’ll let you know my verdict, but he was right when he said that. And I’ll keep an open mind about Copenhagen when I visit you next year.”
Greta’s mouth flew open. “You’ll really visit me?” Her eyes filled with tears. She caught a glimpse of the backseat and realized the lizard man had been gone for some time. “Let us experience your Texan prayer meeting.”
The Danish woman and her cousin walked through the quiet church grounds in reverence. The giant, round building took up space like any proper megachurch. Everything about it was oversized, carpeted in light blue, and fitted with the longest pews in Texas. Bailey led them down through a small elevator to the basement “Life Abiding Room” where the prayer meeting was held. They walked through a fluorescent corridor that opened into a cavernous meeting space, outfitted with a kitchen, fireplace, and a soundproof area for small children. Fourteen people around college age sat in a circle on metal chairs drinking coffee out of friendly-looking travel mugs.
A dark-haired woman with a short-lob hair-style and lovely brown eyes smiled at them, stood up, and walked over. She wore a long, tan skirt over leather boots, a denim shirt, and a turquoise necklace. “I’m Leesa, the college youth pastor. You must be Greta. We’re giving you a warm, Austin welcome. Please, take a seat. Would you like some coffee or Coke?”
Greta shook the counselor’s hand. “I will drink some coffee, thank you.”
Leesa scooted off the small kitchen. “Please, introduce yourself. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
The young woman sat very straight in the cold, metal chair. “I live in Copenhagen. I’m on a visit recommended by my mental health provider. I’m to fully experience Texas without reservation to access a life-changing experience.”
A large, young man in a giant cowboy hat near her emitted a loud whoop. “You’ve come to the right place, sugar.”
She stared at this living behemoth. “We shall see.”
Before the large, blue-eyed cowboy in Wrangler jeans could answer, Leesa returned from the kitchen with coffee in a colorful terrazzo mug and a Texas-size jewel-encrusted Bible. She handed off the mug to Greta, who mouthed a ‘thank you,’ and sat, centered, and straight-kneed. The lob-haired brunette opened the massive tome to a book-marked page in Romans. “Let us return to our series about things that prevent us from a perfect union with Lord Jesus. Millstones and Stumbling Blocks: How To Avoid Them in Your Walk With Christ. Leesa looked over at the big guy who had caught Greta’s attention. “Since I heard some noise from around your neck of the woods, Donnie Joe, let’s start with you today. Have you noticed any millstones in your spirit life since we met last week?”
Donnie Joe fidgeted a bit and loosened his bolo tie an inch or two. “Well, I’ve been telling y’all about my whittlin’s. I can’t focus up at the sawdust mill sometimes, so I go in the back and I whittle with my pocket knife, just like any good Christian man should, I reckon. But I don’t whittle what I ought to. I keep watching horror movies and dreaming up monsters and all kinds of strange things. I think about Bigfoot and what he might be doing in the woods. I think about that Wolf Man or Yetis. Sometimes, I make up my creatures. Why, the other day, I whittled up a preying mantis that ate Pittsburgh churning everything up in those huge mandibles. And… I whittled Death, too. Death with a sickle, you know? Pointing a finger. My boss almost sacked me. Said I was scaring the other fellas. He was going to throw my whittles away, but I promised to take ‘em home.” Donnie Joe sighed and looked at the other group members.
Greta had leaned forward in her chair with her elbow on her knee. Leesa gestured with a flat palm to stop her from interrupting and then she turned back to the restless cowboy. “I never said your whittling was the stumbling block. It’s what you’re whittling.You need to start whittling good, pure, lovely creations like Jesus or Jonah and the Whale instead of Death and Bigfoot. “
Donnie Joe nodded. “I’ll try to whittle a whale. I can give it death ray eyes like pow pow pow.” He made guns with his own hands and supplied laser like noises with spittle flying out.
Leesa shook her head. “No laser eyes. This must be a natural whale reflecting the scripture. I’m making a note to pray for you, that the Holy Spirit will renew your mind.”
Bailey sat in her chair with her hand raised. Leesa looked up. “Bailey, yes?”
Greta’s cousin straightened her skirt and nodded. “I’ll pray for Donnie Joe, too. It’s like the same demon is attacking him and my cousin Greta. They’re two peas in a tractor. She saw a lizard man in the backseat of my car tonight. Must have been a warning about Donnie Joe, you know? I’m getting chills.”
Leesa looked at Greta. “We haven’t heard from you yet and I wanted to welcome you to the group. Would you feel comfortable sharing experiences with us?”
The young woman nodded, still staring at Donnie Joe. “I have not known this spiritual life like you, but I do have stumbling blocks that prevent me from realizing my full potential. I thought they were hallucinations, perhaps beings borne out of vivid imagination but my cousin says they might be demons. They are monsters. They have laser eyes like Donnie Joe’s whittles. It is like he saw into the cornea of my soul and whittled out its contents with his sawmill pocket knife. I call my creations my Conjured Behemoths. In Copenhagen, every Wednesday, at noon, giant birds of steel rain from the sky and assault the fountain in front of my humble apartment. They scream and fire death rays into the water, and while no one is harmed, my psyche is torn so much so that I must delay lunch often for hours. I know that Donnie Joe is tormented by these conjurings. Are they from the wicked master of tricks, the devil? I know not. Does the beast mean to embrace us in feather claws? Are we doomed to be this way?”
Donnie Joe leaned towards Greta from his chair. He slapped his thigh. “Those birds must be a sight!”
A thin man with blue eyes cleared his throat. He sat on the right side of Donnie Joe. His right leg shook in threadbare blue jeans. “I don’t know if this monster stuff is relevant to my faith life. This French girl is scary but kind of sexy and that’s a stumbling block I guess. I’m sorry. I know you’ve talked to me about not telling women when they look good. But somebody French walking in… you just can’t plan for that kind of thing.”
Leesa sighed. “Joel, that’s your name? Uh-huh. You’ve got a point about relevance here. Maybe we should get back on track. But she’s not French, she’s Danish. It’s best not to name someone’s nationality unless you’re absolutely sure that you’re right.”
Joel sighed and rubbed his hair with his hands. “I’m trying really hard to do something positive here. I’m trying really hard. I’ll remember she’s Danish.”
Leesa smiled. “Thank you, I appreciate it. Greta, do you want to respond to any of his comments before we move on with the meeting?”
Greta shook her head. “Unlike puritanical Americans, I have no shame or hang ups about sexuality. I prefer, however, to keep living persons at arms length because part of my mind can’t be sure if my conjured behemoths aren’t real enough to harm a living sexual partner, perhaps with death rays or lasers.”
Donnie Joe stood up and walked to Greta as if he were in a dream. He took off his hat in reverence. He knelt before her on one knee and took her hand in his. “Miss Greta, I know you’ve never met a man who’s enough to take on your behemoths, but I would surely like to try, if you’ll let me.”
Greta stared into his eyes and knelt on the floor with him. She wept and touched his cheeks. “No one has said anything like this to me before. I have never seen a man as large as you. I shall consider what you have said over coffee and a pastry in the morning quiet.”
Leesa stood up and walked over to Donnie Joe. She motioned with her hand to two of the bigger guys at the edge of the circle. They nodded and joined her on each side. “I’m afraid we discourage this sort of thing here. Please, sit down now, Donnie Joe. If it’s the Lord’s will, you can talk to Pastor Bob about your inclinations towards Greta. However, seeing a man and a woman touch may invite sinful thoughts into our minds. We don’t want to become a stumbling block to our brothers and sisters?”
Greta began to tremble. “Nothing you saw is sinful. I have never felt so clean in my ongoing existential woeful life. I cannot stay in this place. The Main Street that your American writer Upton Sinclair painted in my mind exists here. Perhaps more frightening than conjured behemoths, are the everyday monsters of cruelty and intolerance…here, now in chairs of metal, in the sad blue carpeted pews, in the minor key of the derivative music you know.”
Leesa looked over at Bailey; Bailey’s face remained unreadable. She then turned to Greta and Donnie Joe. “Maybe I don’t know any Upton Sinclair quotes offhand, but Miss Dolly said : BE NICE OR LEAVE. Those are the only words you really need to live by or I’ll eat my dungarees. I’ll give you a chance to collect yourself and talk to Donnie Joe outside.”
The beleaguered cowboy raised a hand and stood, helping Greta up as well. He kissed the Dane’s fingertips; Greta touched his nose with her forefinger. “Miss Leesa, I guess you’re right. I can’t stay here. It’s not fitting anymore, when you’ve found something like I have. I don’t think Greta’s monstrosities are demons. How could they be? I’ve looked into her eyes. I see a sky full of pink clouds, there’s so much beauty there. I think her mind’s creations must be beautiful and maybe my whittling’s are, too, in their way. They always were. I want to make art films, just like famed motion picture director, Michael Bay. The movies will feature every conjured behemoth in Greta’s mind. They’ll be made nearby- right in Austin Square now that I’ve found a muse, I reckon, if she’ll have me. We do need to talk about that. Thank you very much.”
Leesa sighed. “Donnie…. Good luck.”
The large man smiled. “It’s Donnie Joe, Miss Leesa. Remember that. The whole world’s gonna be hearing a lot from me and Miss Greta, don’t you doubt that.”
Greta walked hand in hand with her Texan out the corridor. “I’ll see you later, cousin Bailey. Do not fret about me for the rest of the evening.”
Her cousin stood up and called after her, “I can’t believe you’re leaving with Donnie Joe! He sniffed glue in middle school. His family don’t even have a swimming pool. There’s other fish in the pond! Be careful with him, honey.”
Greta turned for a moment, but said nothing. Her steps quickened to match her partner’s pacing. The echoing sounds of Greta’s ballet flats and Donnie Joe’s steel toed boots became less audible.
After a few moments of silence, Leesa winced at three sudden loud sounds coming from the hallway. She rushed to examine the cause and saw smoke coming from a hole in the ceiling. She then looked down and saw the gun in Donnie Joe’s hand. “Why did you shoot up the ceiling? Are you crazy?”
Donnie Joe tipped his hat. “No, ma’am.”
Greta stared at Leesa. “The horrors of your meeting justify this.”
Leesa smirked and put a hand on her hip. “I didn’t like you when you came in here. No one here is going to like either of you or your movies. We’ll ignore you and then you’ll go away.”
But they were already gone.
~~~
The two walked without speaking to Donnie Joe’s truck. He opened the passenger door for her and she stepped in with only one wobble. “This is not too extravagant a vehicle for your daily purpose,” Greta observed.
“It gets me from point A to point B, I s’pose. Mostly to the sawmill where I work and whittle. But today’s an off day. And I would love to spend the rest of it with you. How about getting to see more of Austin and ending with a picnic in the park?” His eyes sought an answer even while he adjusted his seatbelt.
“A picnic sounds like a breeze from the sky.” Could she relax like an ordinary woman? The world looked strange and new since she emerged from the fateful meeting with her soul’s fixation. The sky turned pink. A frightening cupid-like figure, corpulent and over nine feet tall, appeared. He was stark white and moved stiffly like a living statue. He stared and stepped towards her, but he hid away behind a bush in the parking lot.
Were her behemoths now speaking a love language? Did her mind have power even over the shade of the sky? She could make every day a spring day in Paris if she chose. She squinted, imagining a dove with a wing span over twenty feet from wing tip to wing tip soaring up into the air rather than streaming down. From the bird’s eyes sprang deathly lasers, yet they fired up into the sky causing no harm on the earth.
Debby Regan's first novel, THE MARSHMALLOW SHOW IS CANCELLED, was published by Outcast Press in November 2023. She is rumored to live in Huntsville, Alabama.
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Excellent work! The way the characters speak and the prose flows feels deeply dreamlike, which is fitting considering the nature of the story. I enjoyed this very much :)