The Long Cold Stare

By Nathaniel J Ratcliff

He stares at the same dingy wall without blinking. He does not eat, he does not sleep, he does not tire; Cliff Blair is completely frozen in a cryogenic tube except, for some unforeseen reason, his conscious mind is awake and alert. Maybe months, or maybe years, have passed since it all started, but one thing is certain, he can only see the same fox hunting painting that hangs motionless before him. What happens to a mind that is detached from all other sensory input besides the same static visual image, he wonders. Strange thoughts are all he has left and he is more fearful of what will happen when they run out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ebony Tower Press
• Release date: Sep 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733923941

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Copyright

Published by Ebony Tower Press™

Copyright © 2020 by Nathaniel J. Ratcliff

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. Published in the United States of America by Ebony Tower Press.

ebonytowerpress.wixsite.com/ebonytowerpress

ISBN-13: 978-1-7339239-3-4 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN-13: 978-1-7339239-4-1 (Ebook Edition)

This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, corporations, institutions, and organizations in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe their actual conduct.

Interior designs by Nathaniel J. Ratcliff

Book cover artwork by Haddy Kreie

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First Edition

Epigraph

Forever – is composed of Nows –

‘Tis not a different time –

Except for Infiniteness –

And Latitude of Home –

From this – experienced Here –

Remove the Dates – to These –

Let Months dissolve in further Months –

And Years – exhale in Years –

—Emily Dickinson, 1862/1929

Further Poems of Emily Dickinson #25

"And yet ‘tis very puzzling on the brink

Of what is called Eternity to stare,

And know no more of what is here, than there."

—Lord Bryon, 1829

Poetic Works of Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto X

The Long Cold Stare

Oh, sly fox, I have studied your smirking face for what seems like days now. Endlessly stuck slipping under that fence with such cunning and ease, while I remain here, just as frozen.

Why am I just starting to speak to you? You are just a tiny red blur of paint, after all. But in the context of all the other strokes and colors, you represent something more. The bronze plaque tacked into the frame below the ground hints at so much by saying so little.

The Chase of the Running Fox.

But it has been so long with no one else to talk to. So long, that there is no way to judge just how much time has passed. Tears would roll down my face now, if they could. But nothing moves in this frozen prison.

Maybe you have become something for me to project upon, but, in this span of time, my thoughts have drifted to you. So much time has been spent staring at you, hanging up there in your ornate frame, caught in a moment looking back at those pursuing you. Your full red coat of fur—frilled up your back in excitement—at first seemed to be a blob, but now I know every wisp of hair, every drop of saliva, laid out by the painter’s fine strokes—HK.

Like me, you cannot respond, or truly move any further from your horseback pursuers. With their pack of fevered dogs out in front, things certainly look dire. Yet, the expression on your windswept face has its own way of speaking. The bubble-gum tongue wagging out through your pointed teeth, makes it seem like you are enjoying the chase. You have taken this run before, season after season. Each time you throw your high-horsed hunters a new trick to make them wait another year to try it again. They may spend a year training and fantasizing how to outwit you, but this is no game for you. The focus darting out your narrow-slit eyes, tells that you have been on the run since you were a tiny puff of fur.

But who could say what expression remains stuck on my own face? As time drags on, there seems little chance a Shelleyan spark will bring me back. I must suffer this long cold stare for what could be centuries.

Where are my manners? We have not been properly introduced, Mr. Fox. I am Cliff, and I am stuck in a block of ice. Well, not solid ice, but the gel is just as cold.

Staring at the fox, its mouth remained static. Nothing about it moved, not even a whisker.

Not able to talk? Neither can I.

I cannot move or blink, feel, hear, or smell. My existence—if that is what this is—entirely revolves around seeing the twelve by eight wall in front of me. All I can do, hour upon hour, day upon day, is stare at you in your pastoral painting caught in a chase by a pack of hunting dogs followed by horse riders in red cloaks and black boots. You are the most interesting thing in my world, now. Sure, there is a dingy beige and mint green cinder block wall upon which you hang. It has fourteen cracks—yes, I have had time to count them all. Time and concentration have allowed me to know every crevasse, every mark, every blemish. I have all the time to ponder what accident, spill, or bump caused these marks, now each in their own various stages of fading. For a few, like the black, nickel-sized stain above the chip in the molding near the floor, I have developed working stories of their origin. That one, was a misplaced black work boot. It scuffed the wall and chipped the molding from when these large test tubes were hulled in, years ago.

Oh yes, there has been considerable time to ponder many things, but little forward progress. Everything is on repeat, I try to veer away but, there you are Mr. Fox. In this state, this prison, there