2015TR

TUSCARORA REVIEW 2016

2016 TUSCARORA REVIEW

As Above, So Below;

or, Phil, a Man at the Bottom of the Universe.

Thomas Semler

“Look thee above or look thee below, the same shall ye find.

For all is but part of the Oneness that is at the Source of the Law. The consciousness

below thee is part thine own as we are part of thine.”

“I, Death, come, and yet I remain not, for life eternal exists in All; only an obstacle,

I in the pathway, quick to be conquered by the infinite light. Awaken, O flame that

burns ever inward, flame forth and conquer the veil of the night.”

— From

The Emerald Tablets

hil Thoth sat beneath the navy blue sky on the beach at the Bottom of the

Universe. Overhead the moon loomed, casting its opalescent glow upon the

waters as myriads of stars and planets glimmered in their celestial orbits. The

waves crashed and receded over Phil as he sat weeping, his tears absorbed into

the infinite expanse of ocean. Throughout the night, sitting in the freezing waves,

he hoped to succumb to hypothermia, he wished for death; either that or one

of those monsters would slither back from the ocean and take him away. At the

rising of day, a ruby red sun emerged from the horizon line, painting the sky a

pretty purple-pink. Phil got up, shivering, and a wave erased his indentation in the

sand.

Walking upon the dry sand to the remains of King Carcinus’s castle, he

hopelessly searched the rubble for any sign of life. The desecration and carnage

revolted Phil. Everywhere he turned, the remains of his neighbors lay in scattered

limbs and pools of blood and bone. The night before, creatures of an octopus-

armed, tarantula-legged figuration emerged from the depths of the sea. They laid

waste to all the tribes and kingdoms along the beach. He was the only survivor.

He had watched the desecration whilst in his nightly private gambol, across the

highest dune-top on the beach. He basked in the peaceful serenity of the ocean

and night, when out of the blue the hideous monsters emerged and mercilessly

ravaged and destroyed the beach.

He stared at his reflection in a shattered mirror. His black hair and schmatte

had dried. A tear descended down his freckled-face and fell to the ground. He

looked down and discovered a purple robe. He no longer had to wear these

ragged garments anymore. He donned the robe and continued his search.

He ventured across the cracked marble floors into the basement of the castle.

Aligned on the wooden shelves was enough dry and canned goods to sustain him

for a few years. He gathered some into a basket and walked back upstairs. As he

was about to leave, he noticed a broken golden spear. He picked it up, supporting

himself with it like a cane, and left the castle.

Making his way back home, dressed in his purple robe and carrying his basket

of food and spear, he was startled by an absurd thought. Only a few hours earlier

he was ready to acquiesce to death, to die of hypothermia, or to be eaten alive…

why did he prepare himself to live, gathering food, when his end goal was to kill

himself? Why did he, almost subconsciously, return to the remains of the castle

and find clothes to wear to prevent himself from freezing?

As soon as he got back to his home, a slum wooden shack on the beach, he

decided that he would finally rid himself of his pain and kill himself.

He opened the door of his shack, threw his basket of food onto the bed, and

stepped back outside. He sat in the sand, clutching the spear in one hand. The

sunlight reflected off the golden rod. He planned to use it slit his throat in one

swift, clean motion. Shaking so much he couldn’t hold his hand still, he brought

the spear to the right side of his neck and slowly pressed in. As the spear entered,

blood spurted from his neck, staining the pure white sand. Moving the spear

slowly to the side, blood trickled down his body. Nauseous at the sight of blood,

the taste of it in his mouth, he gulped, gasped, and choked. He dropped the spear

and held his right hand against the wound. With eyes rolling back, Phil fainted,

collapsing onto the sand.

It was nighttime when he regained consciousness. He returned inside, sadder

and now embarrassed. What could he do? What would be the most successful

means to kill himself? He couldn’t cut himself; that made him queasy. He could

try to drown but what if it failed? There was nowhere he could fling himself off

of. He opened up his basket and took out a can of peaches, which he opened and

ate for supper.

In the days following, Phil would sit on the beach, oftentimes running his

fingers across the scar on his neck, feeling and caressing the tender pink flesh: a

permanent reminder of his tumultuous sorrow.

Sitting by his shack, eating a sandwich, Phil watched the ocean. He still

pondered how to die. He took a bite of his sandwich when he was struck with an

epiphany: I shall refuse to eat. I will starve myself! Yes! That was the only option.

He threw his sandwich into the sand; he had no need for any more sustenance.

What he planned would take weeks. It would be painful. But it was his only

choice.

He was nearing the end. All throughout the past few weeks, Phil had thinned

out more and more. His whole body ached, his ribs nearly protruding from the

skin. He had taken no food or water since his epiphany. He spent his time sitting

on the beach all day, gazing at the sky, the ocean, the sun and the clouds until it

was night and he returned inside.

Today was the day, he could feel it. His body could not last any longer. He lay

in the sand with his arms extended. The hot sun beat down upon his face. He was

fading…fading away. As he felt himself losing consciousness, a light brighter than

any sun shone triumphantly over his head. Scrambling up from the sand, he was