HOME | DD

Description
When it gets hot in the city you can see the heat make the illusion of the buildings warping. The smells are ten times more potent, the people ten times more cranky, and the sewers were sufficiently more unpleasant.  Despite the heat, life carried on like clockwork.  The Subways ran, crammed with just as many people in their suits and briefcases, the tourists still stood in awkward places taking pictures at inappropriate times, and the crime went right on trucking. New York City never sleeps, never waivers, there is no rest for those who seek to pacify the demons that lash out at innocents. Battles were there, endless opportunities to hone skills, sharpen your senses, and noises were ever present to hide a botched stealthy foot fall. Air conditioning was nice too… and Italian food.  I miss the city tonight … every night.  I miss the warm nights, the cold nights… even the sleepless ones with the rattling of a subway car tearing overhead making the dust fall from the cracks in the bricks.  I used to lie there, wondering if it would come off its rails. What would we do if the car just broke free above us and revealed our home to unwanted eyes?  What would they do? What would we do? It would be around this time that I’d sigh to myself and roll onto my side.  I worry a lot.  It comes naturally with being the oldest of four brothers.  Brothers… I miss them too. As their faces flash through my mind I force myself  to focus on something else, my mouth is bone dry.  I reach under the brown burlap cloak and find my leather canteen. My fingers have the cork out and the spout to my mouth before I can give it rational thought.   The distraction wasn’t nearly big enough and I find myself sighing loudly before too long.

With reluctance I let the cityscape I have painted on the inside of my lids melt away as I open my eyes.  Jungle.  Jungle to the left, Jungle to the right, oh look, Jungle behind me… and there in the distance - waaaaaaaaay in the distance - is a little town… a few torches the only sign of life.  Here, when it’s hot there are no skyscrapers to warp.  There are trees that sweat, animals that cope, rivers that dry up, and on occasion a traveler of some sort moaning about the heat.  I would moan too but what’s the point? Hearing myself talk isn’t all that appealing.  And really, I’m not too keen on flapping my gums around this place anyway.

There are noises here too.  Not as loud or constant as in the Big Apple, no but it pushes a ninja harder to make less sound. The foliage makes it easier to hide given it’s a similar hue to my skin, a bit greener and livelier than myself as of late though I’ve noticed.  I can’t really say that I mind though, just makes it a bit more of a challenge.  Sometimes I wish I could walk around without hiding.  I watch the village; see its people carry on their lives.  It seems primitive compared to the bustling of Times Square, but more… rewarding? Fascinating? Appealing?  I don’t know, but they work, they play, they gather together like a family to share stories and supplies. I sit up in a tree listening to their voices rolling on the air, not understanding a word they speak.  I can guess at a few… but I know Donnie could translate for me.  My fingers cram the cork back into the canteen and hook it back to my belt before I stand on my narrow branch.  Looking up I can see through the canopy- lots of stars out tonight.  A breath of song reaches me as I leap to a new tree, one with a better view of the sky. When I look toward the town I can see figures dancing around a large fire in the center of town.  Singing, happy voices echo through the thick woods and I find myself wanting to go. I crave interaction.  I crave letting someone look into my eyes and not having to flee before they realize what they’ve seen.

I wouldn’t understand them, I tell myself.  But they’ve spoken in broken English to a few wandering souls that find them… they could understand me.  I don’t think my accent is strong… not like Raph’s.  He’s a genuine New Yorker the way he growls at… I catch myself smiling and redirect my thoughts. They wouldn’t care what I said if I approached them in peace. I am a ghost to them.  The Ghost of the Jungle: terrible, dominant, violent, and oddly enough a savior.  Chasing away Militia or thugs once in a blue moon has earned me the status of something supernatural.  Alone.  Condemned.  A wandering angry spirit that watches over them and destroys those that seek to hurt them.  How far are they from the truth? At the moment I couldn’t tell you.  I am bound here, not by chains or anything physical but by will by shame.  Is that what makes spirits cling to the world they knew? If so, maybe these people are more right than even I know. My branch creeks as I lean toward the limbs of another tree and begin moving silently through the foliage.   I forget about the stars as the scene before me comes closer.  I can hear their song, the sounds pleasant enough to make me overlook the fact that I don’t have a clue what they’re singing about.  I wonder if they’re singing about me.  They could be.  I can pick out a few familiar words, ones often shouted in panic when I arrive to quell the assault on them.  They sound so different when they’re not being shouted in a trembling voice.  They draw me to them with their vigor, their close knit lives, and their respect for each other and all that surrounds them. My three fingered grip stands out suddenly on a branch and I stop to stare at it.  For a moment it is alien to me.  I’ve moved so close to the village now, I can smell the food they cook over that fire.  It makes my stomach ache.

Blue eyes stare me down in my mind.  An empty pizza box and a pout accompany them.  A skateboard is tucked under his left arm as he plays up his childish method by making his bottom lip tremble. Okay fine Mikey,  I’d say with a martyred sigh and after a quick phone call one of us would stake out the delivery point and manage to get our meal without being seen.  We confused so many delivery boys. When I blink I’m not home.  My eyes are still held on my hand against the pale bark it grasps.  Somewhere, on the continent above me… millions of miles away there are more hands like mine.  Only four pairs of hands like this exist… how are their owners tonight?  Is Mikey shredding down the slimy walls of the sewers to intercept a pizza?  Is Raph pounding a punching bag harder than usual to forget what stupid thing he said to someone today? Is Donnie hiding the sweets from Master Splinter like an overbearing mother? My eyes sting and I push forward.  I can’t think like this.  I’m here for them… for him.  He wouldn’t ask me to do this if he knew I’d waste my time being homesick.  I reach the end of the trees, the notches in the wooden arms growing lower to the ground as I swing into place among them.

I can see the villagers now as I lean against a heavy smooth tree trunk.  Their faces, their clothes, and the way their feet flicker like the fire they’re all around.  A few of the younger villagers have painted designs on their cheeks and run around shrieking after each other. A fire work goes off and the stars I had admired earlier are joined by a burning flash of blue.  Must be some South American holiday, I decide.  I wonder where they got the fireworks for an instant then immediately stop caring as they shoot off another one.  I’ve never seen fireworks like this. On the Fourth of July they shoot them off over the East River, it’s one of the nights we all get out and go topside.  Though Mikey prefers Halloween… July Fourth is my favorite.  A bang and a sizzle of white bring me back and I wonder how much closer I dare to go.  My head is filled with memories, of voices I remember and can’t respond to.  I want to block it out.  Block out my continuing failure.  I spy a low roof and narrowly avoiding being spotted by a young couple, eager to be out of sight. Even though I can’t see them from my new vantage point they hold my thoughts.  I didn’t glimpse their faces, and in reality it’s not them I’m thinking about.  Humans are hard to approach I find.  You’re never sure what to expect from them.  April and Casey… they helped me understand what little I know.  I see them in my mind… with my brothers, my father.  Raph is glad for Casey’s company and the others flock to April like chicks to a mother hen.  She’s been so good to us.  To them.  Do they even remember me?  I sit near a brick chimney making sure to keep close to it if they should glance away from their festivities.

The fireworks don’t interest me anymore and I find my eyes swallowing up the closeness of the figures below.  Their reverence of the colorful blasts dissolving into appreciative laughter or cries when one pleases them.  Among the red hues of the flames I see a lined face smile at the young boy on his knee, taking in the wonder on the child’s face.  I see myself there and my eyes sting again.  Sensei, his furry face was so often lit by the candles in his meditation room.  His wise eyes held every answer I needed but he’d make me find it myself.  His boney hand would always be there to help me, his calm tone never faltering after failure only when we were reckless would he grow angry. Even then he would banish it quickly, he was there to laugh or endure a prank or pun.  He chose me.  I was the leader, I was the one who was responsible for everything.  I tried.  I really did.  I feel the first tear roll down my cheek and angrily rub it away.  I’m here to train.  Master Splinter sent me here to be a better leader… a better student… a better son and brother.  I’m not to return until I am all of these things.  The fireworks run out and a new wave of song fills the void they leave behind.  I watch them, as they reenact a battle with animated exaggerated enthusiasm. A boy waves a burlap sheet around as another swings long twigs around like katanas.  I feel a little odd watching them, knowing that they’re pretending to be me.  The Ghost.  The specter that protects them and fails his own family. I stand, the loose rocks on the roof sliding down the slope to rain to the ground.  The sound is enough to draw their attention and they see me.  I imagine what I must look like framed against the stars with the lingering smoke of the fireworks drifting away on the light wind.  Their eyes glitter in the firelight as they all huddle together in stunned silence.  I am a monster to them, welcome only in their songs and stories.  I want to leap down to them, beg them to call me Leonardo.  I forget the last time someone spoke my name to me and I wonder if hearing it would soften the agony of being alone.

They’re nothing more than a mass of eyes now, petrified and still.  With serious mental effort I make myself move.   My feet fly across the roof and I leap into the trees. I hear them cry out in surprise at how swift my escape was, how flawless.  And as I retreat into the Jungle I hear them begin to regain themselves.  As I pound my fist into a hard tree trunk I hear them nervously start a new song.  Different and strange.  I choke on my painful breath and realize, there will be no more melodies of the Ghost of the Jungle tonight.  He has dissolved into the trees, and is best forgotten or else they might lure him back again.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
TMNT and all related characters are © Laird and Eastman
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Description
When it gets hot in the city you can see the heat make the illusion of the buildings warping. The smells are ten times more potent, the people ten times more cranky, and the sewers were sufficiently more unpleasant.  Despite the heat, life carried on like clockwork.  The Subways ran, crammed with just as many people in their suits and briefcases, the tourists still stood in awkward places taking pictures at inappropriate times, and the crime went right on trucking. New York City never sleeps, never waivers, there is no rest for those who seek to pacify the demons that lash out at innocents. Battles were there, endless opportunities to hone skills, sharpen your senses, and noises were ever present to hide a botched stealthy foot fall. Air conditioning was nice too… and Italian food.  I miss the city tonight … every night.  I miss the warm nights, the cold nights… even the sleepless ones with the rattling of a subway car tearing overhead making the dust fall from the cracks in the bricks.  I used to lie there, wondering if it would come off its rails. What would we do if the car just broke free above us and revealed our home to unwanted eyes?  What would they do? What would we do? It would be around this time that I’d sigh to myself and roll onto my side.  I worry a lot.  It comes naturally with being the oldest of four brothers.  Brothers… I miss them too. As their faces flash through my mind I force myself  to focus on something else, my mouth is bone dry.  I reach under the brown burlap cloak and find my leather canteen. My fingers have the cork out and the spout to my mouth before I can give it rational thought.   The distraction wasn’t nearly big enough and I find myself sighing loudly before too long.

With reluctance I let the cityscape I have painted on the inside of my lids melt away as I open my eyes.  Jungle.  Jungle to the left, Jungle to the right, oh look, Jungle behind me… and there in the distance - waaaaaaaaay in the distance - is a little town… a few torches the only sign of life.  Here, when it’s hot there are no skyscrapers to warp.  There are trees that sweat, animals that cope, rivers that dry up, and on occasion a traveler of some sort moaning about the heat.  I would moan too but what’s the point? Hearing myself talk isn’t all that appealing.  And really, I’m not too keen on flapping my gums around this place anyway.

There are noises here too.  Not as loud or constant as in the Big Apple, no but it pushes a ninja harder to make less sound. The foliage makes it easier to hide given it’s a similar hue to my skin, a bit greener and livelier than myself as of late though I’ve noticed.  I can’t really say that I mind though, just makes it a bit more of a challenge.  Sometimes I wish I could walk around without hiding.  I watch the village; see its people carry on their lives.  It seems primitive compared to the bustling of Times Square, but more… rewarding? Fascinating? Appealing?  I don’t know, but they work, they play, they gather together like a family to share stories and supplies. I sit up in a tree listening to their voices rolling on the air, not understanding a word they speak.  I can guess at a few… but I know Donnie could translate for me.  My fingers cram the cork back into the canteen and hook it back to my belt before I stand on my narrow branch.  Looking up I can see through the canopy- lots of stars out tonight.  A breath of song reaches me as I leap to a new tree, one with a better view of the sky. When I look toward the town I can see figures dancing around a large fire in the center of town.  Singing, happy voices echo through the thick woods and I find myself wanting to go. I crave interaction.  I crave letting someone look into my eyes and not having to flee before they realize what they’ve seen.

I wouldn’t understand them, I tell myself.  But they’ve spoken in broken English to a few wandering souls that find them… they could understand me.  I don’t think my accent is strong… not like Raph’s.  He’s a genuine New Yorker the way he growls at… I catch myself smiling and redirect my thoughts. They wouldn’t care what I said if I approached them in peace. I am a ghost to them.  The Ghost of the Jungle: terrible, dominant, violent, and oddly enough a savior.  Chasing away Militia or thugs once in a blue moon has earned me the status of something supernatural.  Alone.  Condemned.  A wandering angry spirit that watches over them and destroys those that seek to hurt them.  How far are they from the truth? At the moment I couldn’t tell you.  I am bound here, not by chains or anything physical but by will by shame.  Is that what makes spirits cling to the world they knew? If so, maybe these people are more right than even I know. My branch creeks as I lean toward the limbs of another tree and begin moving silently through the foliage.   I forget about the stars as the scene before me comes closer.  I can hear their song, the sounds pleasant enough to make me overlook the fact that I don’t have a clue what they’re singing about.  I wonder if they’re singing about me.  They could be.  I can pick out a few familiar words, ones often shouted in panic when I arrive to quell the assault on them.  They sound so different when they’re not being shouted in a trembling voice.  They draw me to them with their vigor, their close knit lives, and their respect for each other and all that surrounds them. My three fingered grip stands out suddenly on a branch and I stop to stare at it.  For a moment it is alien to me.  I’ve moved so close to the village now, I can smell the food they cook over that fire.  It makes my stomach ache.

Blue eyes stare me down in my mind.  An empty pizza box and a pout accompany them.  A skateboard is tucked under his left arm as he plays up his childish method by making his bottom lip tremble. Okay fine Mikey,  I’d say with a martyred sigh and after a quick phone call one of us would stake out the delivery point and manage to get our meal without being seen.  We confused so many delivery boys. When I blink I’m not home.  My eyes are still held on my hand against the pale bark it grasps.  Somewhere, on the continent above me… millions of miles away there are more hands like mine.  Only four pairs of hands like this exist… how are their owners tonight?  Is Mikey shredding down the slimy walls of the sewers to intercept a pizza?  Is Raph pounding a punching bag harder than usual to forget what stupid thing he said to someone today? Is Donnie hiding the sweets from Master Splinter like an overbearing mother? My eyes sting and I push forward.  I can’t think like this.  I’m here for them… for him.  He wouldn’t ask me to do this if he knew I’d waste my time being homesick.  I reach the end of the trees, the notches in the wooden arms growing lower to the ground as I swing into place among them.

I can see the villagers now as I lean against a heavy smooth tree trunk.  Their faces, their clothes, and the way their feet flicker like the fire they’re all around.  A few of the younger villagers have painted designs on their cheeks and run around shrieking after each other. A fire work goes off and the stars I had admired earlier are joined by a burning flash of blue.  Must be some South American holiday, I decide.  I wonder where they got the fireworks for an instant then immediately stop caring as they shoot off another one.  I’ve never seen fireworks like this. On the Fourth of July they shoot them off over the East River, it’s one of the nights we all get out and go topside.  Though Mikey prefers Halloween… July Fourth is my favorite.  A bang and a sizzle of white bring me back and I wonder how much closer I dare to go.  My head is filled with memories, of voices I remember and can’t respond to.  I want to block it out.  Block out my continuing failure.  I spy a low roof and narrowly avoiding being spotted by a young couple, eager to be out of sight. Even though I can’t see them from my new vantage point they hold my thoughts.  I didn’t glimpse their faces, and in reality it’s not them I’m thinking about.  Humans are hard to approach I find.  You’re never sure what to expect from them.  April and Casey… they helped me understand what little I know.  I see them in my mind… with my brothers, my father.  Raph is glad for Casey’s company and the others flock to April like chicks to a mother hen.  She’s been so good to us.  To them.  Do they even remember me?  I sit near a brick chimney making sure to keep close to it if they should glance away from their festivities.

The fireworks don’t interest me anymore and I find my eyes swallowing up the closeness of the figures below.  Their reverence of the colorful blasts dissolving into appreciative laughter or cries when one pleases them.  Among the red hues of the flames I see a lined face smile at the young boy on his knee, taking in the wonder on the child’s face.  I see myself there and my eyes sting again.  Sensei, his furry face was so often lit by the candles in his meditation room.  His wise eyes held every answer I needed but he’d make me find it myself.  His boney hand would always be there to help me, his calm tone never faltering after failure only when we were reckless would he grow angry. Even then he would banish it quickly, he was there to laugh or endure a prank or pun.  He chose me.  I was the leader, I was the one who was responsible for everything.  I tried.  I really did.  I feel the first tear roll down my cheek and angrily rub it away.  I’m here to train.  Master Splinter sent me here to be a better leader… a better student… a better son and brother.  I’m not to return until I am all of these things.  The fireworks run out and a new wave of song fills the void they leave behind.  I watch them, as they reenact a battle with animated exaggerated enthusiasm. A boy waves a burlap sheet around as another swings long twigs around like katanas.  I feel a little odd watching them, knowing that they’re pretending to be me.  The Ghost.  The specter that protects them and fails his own family. I stand, the loose rocks on the roof sliding down the slope to rain to the ground.  The sound is enough to draw their attention and they see me.  I imagine what I must look like framed against the stars with the lingering smoke of the fireworks drifting away on the light wind.  Their eyes glitter in the firelight as they all huddle together in stunned silence.  I am a monster to them, welcome only in their songs and stories.  I want to leap down to them, beg them to call me Leonardo.  I forget the last time someone spoke my name to me and I wonder if hearing it would soften the agony of being alone.

They’re nothing more than a mass of eyes now, petrified and still.  With serious mental effort I make myself move.   My feet fly across the roof and I leap into the trees. I hear them cry out in surprise at how swift my escape was, how flawless.  And as I retreat into the Jungle I hear them begin to regain themselves.  As I pound my fist into a hard tree trunk I hear them nervously start a new song.  Different and strange.  I choke on my painful breath and realize, there will be no more melodies of the Ghost of the Jungle tonight.  He has dissolved into the trees, and is best forgotten or else they might lure him back again.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
TMNT and all related characters are © Laird and Eastman
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*