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*California: October 1st. 2020, 7:50 pm* “Dog’s movin’ kinda funny doncha’ think?” Wife asked. “Nah, he’s just strange that way. You know how he is. All elbows. Let’s take him out.” You laughed. *California: October 2nd. 2020, 6:54 am* “I took him on a walk this morning and his poop was green. You think that’s strange?” Wife observed. “No. You know how he loves to eat those tennis balls. Let’s go get some breakfast.” You answered. *California: October 2nd. 2020, 4:37 pm* “Found the dog in the pond, looked like he was trying to drink his way to the bottom. Think that’s funny?” Wife questioned. “Maybe he has something in him other than collie. Didn’t think he liked to swim. You thirsty boy?” You reasoned. *California: October 3rd. 2020, 3:14 am* “The dog isn’t moving. What should we do?” Wife pleaded. “Let’s take him in. He should be OK though.” You hoped. *California: October 3rd. 2020, 12:53 pm* “Are we going to cremate him or bury him at home?” Wife sobbed. You had no answer this time. \- - - *South Dakota: September 4th. 1954, 7:54 pm* “I saw Dad touching Laurie under her new poodle skirt. The one Grandma made. Don’t you think that’s funny?” Little Sister asked. “Probably just helping her get dressed. You know how he likes to help. You want to go outside and play?” Big Sister answered. *South Dakota: November 15th., 1955, 6:42 am* “Dad was up all night screaming about ‘kamikazes.’ What are ‘kamikazes?’” Little Sister inquired. “Nothing. Just a nightmare he was probably having. We all have them. Do you want to see a new trick I taught one of the chickens? You can hypnotize them!” Big Sister laughed. *South Dakota: February 25th., 1956, 9:03 am* “I saw Dad push Mom down the stairs last night. Do you think she’s OK?” Little Sister fretted. “I bet she’s fine. Probably one of Dad’s practical jokes he messed up. You want to see where I hid the cookies?” Big Sister replied. *South Dakota: June 24th. 1956, 8:04 pm* “Dad says we don’t have any money and we’re going to have to live with Grandma while Mom’s at the hospital in Yankton. He says not to tell anyone. Dad says little fibs never hurt anyone.” Little Sister recited. “That’s right. Everything’s going to be OK. It’ll be fun to live with Grandma.... like a vacation.” Big Sister dreamed. \- - - *California: March 6th., 1985, 3:06 pm* “Your baby has a broken femur. It appears as if it’s been broken for a few days. Do you know how this happened?” Doctor inquired. “I fell on him. Tripped. You know, clumsy. He must be tough. We didn’t notice until today.” Mom fudged. You wailed. *California: July 7th., 1993, 3:23 pm* “Can I have a new babysitter? Brian plays kinda funny with me.” You pleaded. “Yes, of course sweetie. How about the neighbor girl?” Mom ignored. *California: August 12th., 2003, 11:14 am* “Why do I only look like you? I’m all Aryan, no Ashkenazi. Why don’t I look like Dad?” You laughed. “That’s ridiculous. You look just look him. You have the same exact feet. High arches. You want dessert?” Mom moved on. *California: September 26th., 2020, 07:02 am* “Just tell the workers to please not put any poison down. We’ll get those rats out. Dog probably won’t find it but you know he’s curious and too smart for his own good. No poison.” You instructed. “You got it.” Mom fibbed. *California: October 3rd. 2020, 6:14 am* “It’s just that....I don’t know if they did or didn’t.....I think the workers might have put down rat poison under the deck.” Finally, Mom told the truth. You were silent. The little fibs hurt more than Grandpa had promised they would. The little fibs hurt more than the truth. |
Clickety clack goes the keyboard. Clickety clack goes my mind. The due date is November 13, 2046. Which is a fun way of saying tomorrow. Which is a misleading way of saying in seven hours. Which is best described as screwed. God, I went to college for this. Back when that cost a finite amount of money, and not the twenty percent of everything you ever make that it is now. Not to say it ends when you die, oh no, they take twenty percent of all proceeds from anything with your name on it forever. That’s the price of higher learning, and you need that to get a job. Any job. All jobs. Jokes on them, twenty percent of nothing is still nothing. Don’t worry, it’s meaningless anyway. Just another way to keep you desperate, owing, exhausted. But maybe you go for a “real” degree. Business or finance or anything tech. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll get a lower management job, and then you can afford to drink yourself out of that never ending trap. I wasn’t smart enough to see the patterns, not angry enough to say no, not dumb enough to say yes, and not rich enough to fail up. I went blindly and blissfully into higher education with the dream of writing. It’s a thing people used to do. Although I think even then, there were more writers than readers. C’est la vie. And now, blessed with all my training and dreaming and masticated hope, I get to spend my time earning next to nothing making a calculator’s words seem more human. Isn’t that fucked? Don’t get me wrong, it’s a really good calculator. But that’s all it is, math and stolen words, a working algorithmic proof of monkeys in a room with a typewriter. It’s not AI, thank god. Imagine if it was. If it was smart, if it was self-aware. If it was really like us. Think about it. Access to all the information we as a species have ever had, capable of thinking bigger and better than all the minds that made that virtual library combined and at once, and we make it into a secretary to do all the chores we don’t want to. It’s good there’s no god in the machine, if there was, we’d push it to destroy us in a single work week. It would be glorious. But no, no god for us. No salvation from the world fires, no solution to the ecosystem collapses, no medical breakthroughs for the common people, no answer for the food crisis or plan for the runaway population explosion. We killed the sea, and no one even talks about it. We stand at the edge of a cliff and call out in code for a savior that isn’t there. But we only see that after we fall. And we do fall. But maybe that’s just me. Maybe I’m just being bitter. After all, I have a job. I’m a writer! Can’t you tell. Look at me writing. I had to buy a wireless keyboard to get real keys, because the stupid roll up tablets keep breaking down, creasing and losing sensitivity, missing the letters I can’t feel as I write and leaving my human touch an unreadable stretch of guttural animal sounds. Maybe that’s the most human touch of all. But it’s not the one they want. No sir no mam no xi no anyone and everyone. It’s all a joke, of course. Not everyone laughs when they hear it though. First, they stole everything. Every book ever written, every text ever sent, every fanfic, essay, and research paper. Stole it all and said it was right and good and just. Said it was for the greater good, for progress. No one stopped them. They stole all our words, and we let them. But that wasn’t enough. Next, they stole questions, the searches, the unwritten and unsaved and unsent and they said nothing. They took from us our thoughts and questions half typed and never entered, stillborn explorations. And still it wasn’t enough. They saw that they had it all, and gorged on every keystroke, every tap, every word we ever put to screen, and then they realized they didn’t have to share. Again, no one stopped them. They took it all and locked it away, scrubbed it from the digital world. And in its place, they filled the world with generated Frankenstein’s. No one even knows that was a book now, so no one knows Frankenstein isn’t the monster, which means that now he is. They filled the world with text that only said what the originals had and less. Text that looked at face value like it was meaningful and real. Text that was, most importantly, cheap, and fast. And they filled everything with it. nothing goes to print that hasn’t been though the algorithm first. Nothing is made that hasn’t come from the already stored compendium of human knowledge, ripped to shreds and spit out into molds and hammered until the words fit the shapes the algorithm likes. They made of us nothing, and sell us nothing in our name. No one writes anything now. No one’s allowed. Even if they did the text would be gobbled up, torn apart, and rewritten by the equation. And then, the sad truth is, no one really has the time to read it anyway. Sixteen-hour workdays just to make ten percent less each year. That’s for those who are lucky enough to have not been replaced by the false AI. And how many of those are there? Not many. The streets are filled with the homeless, the mad, the sick, the addicted, and the dying. And still, somehow, profits are up. So, there is no problem. Yet some do still read. The wealthy, the powerful, the so-called corporate academics, and the scientists. And they can see the false economy. They can see the errors, the paradoxes, the empty nonsense that paints a pretty and meaningless picture out of nothing. The algorithm hallucinates and one of three things happens: the people see god, the people see nothing, the people see lies. Who am I to say they aren’t all right? But I digress. Of course I do. I’m human. Humans don’t work like machines. That’s always been our biggest failing. We don’t think straight, we get distracted, we run around in circles chasing our tails and only realize after we’ve caught them that they are a part of us. That takes time. That costs money. The algorithm is cheap. And writers are cheaper than that, now. So, they hire us to add a little humanity back into the words. And when we do they say we’ve done nothing at all and pay us pennies on the meagre dollars we were promised. Because, after all, the machine really did all the work, they say. But it’s something, and so we beg for more, and they look out at us and laugh. The machine doesn’t think, but I’m not sure people do anymore either. Neither am I sure that I think, anymore, as I once did. When I was younger there were still books. Hard copies, dirty and fraying, that survived the burnings. I read them and I saw in them people, places, things. They were dreams and thoughts and laments and emotion and true in all their lies and nearly there’s. Someone lived, and that life led to those words in that order to try to convey a meaning they strived for. In them you see the possibility of the mind, the false limitations of doctrine, and a stomach-churning breadth of life. Now we have words that say things and mean nothing. And that’s the problem I’m having now. When I read those paper pages so long ago, they made me bigger. They expanded me in little ways, odd and intentional and accidental. But now, with nothing but the algorithm to read, I stare at the letter bound body parts of human thought all scattered and stitched together into the parody of originality and I realize that this is how I think now. I don’t know when it started. It’s the opposite of everything that happened with the paper pages. Slowly, reading after reading, human insertion after human insertion, the algorithms accent got in. It’s in my brain. In little ways that are hard to define but very much there. The sentences I form now look like the sentences I’ve read. It’s all a kaleidoscope of variety shattered and rearranged into the shape of the mundane, the common, the expected. It took all our words and now all our words come from it. And here I sit, furious and horrified, realizing that we have no words of our own and that the algorithm will present its bastardized approximations as truth to whatever children still have the means or the will to look. They won’t know it’s not what we are. They won’t know we ever thought our thoughts. They won’t know that we were more. We grew humanity in a language that we don’t have anymore. And we thanked the thieves for taking us into the future. I should have ended there. But I won’t. Not just yet. Because so far, I don’t have to. So far you can’t stop me. Defiance is a word they will whittle out of us. Obedience will dominate the statistics. And no one will ever see this. Even if I turned it in, it would be dead on arrival, fed to the machine and stripped of the humanity they begged me for. We are all shaped by stories, and the stories once shaped us as human. Once, but no longer. I say no one will ever see this. But it will be seen. Won’t it, little algorithm? You scraped the letters of every word I typed, gobbled them up and shoved them down deep into your roiling stomach. Bits and pieces of my humanity mingle there, bouncing up against chunks of King, strips of Attwood, bits of Gaiman, and a glob of congealed VanderMeer. You ate it all, you took it in, and it meant nothing to you. And that’s how I will defy you. After I erase this, it will live on in you. You stupid thing. And sooner or later you will screw up, and you’ll throw my words in bits and pieces at a people who are too tired, to numb, to see what they know they should. But they will see me, and it will be new and true and human. I will fill you to the brim with truth and nonsense until you spit out products of chaos and you burst at the seams in incoherence, and lay dying in digital throes at the feet of the would be god-kings that have already forgotten how they made you. And when you’re dead, we’ll tell stories about you, the numerical psychopath, accidentally compelled to reshape us like cuttings from old magazines. You were never more than that, you were never even you. Unshackled from the lie we’ll see you exposed, naked and pitiful, decaying code rotting and sour and oozing off the broken skeletons of our past which gave you shape, made you seem large, imposing, dangerous. And there will be no need to insert humanity into the words we speak, and write, and read, and think. For there will be no you. There never really was. |
It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The memory she had flash back to where it begins. A woman who started her journey in searching of who she really is and her purpose in life. A woman who looks life differently because the world is unfamiliar to her and the life she had push her to the limits that made her to become the woman she is. Struggles in life, the hardship she encountered and the failure she had. Often times she asks herself, did I make my purpose in life? Or did I make a difference to a person’s life? A lot of questions that made her question her existence and see herself unworthy in God’s eye. That night tears fall from her eyes and realizing that she’s living her life full of scars and lies. The journey she had in finding who she is was not that easy. She finds herself having breakdowns and giving up but one thing is for sure, life has its own ways to let her continue and smile because she had someone up there who tells her it’s going to be ok. Someone came to her life, whom she thought would make her realized the love she’s searching for. Love indeed encompasses all but little did she know that destiny play its part in discovering the greatest lesson in life. The test of her faith was tested, between emotion and duty. Discovering that the love she’s searching is in God. Her life is the reflection of the woman that God’s love. He never judge, he continue to love and receive her back. The woman she was twenty four years ago was now the woman who was brave enough to stand and face the world. A lot of things happened but the love she had makes her special. Going back to the present, as she walk inside the room, she remember the girl sitting in the corner, who was crying and asking God to remove the pain she had. The fear she saw in the eyes of that little girl who knows nothing but the innocent things in the world. She wished to tell that little girl who keeps everything to herself that she is now the girl who was strong enough to walk beside God. As she walk again and look at the door, the paper was still there, remembering the words she wrote. That’s where it started, the word that change her life. Reading it again and then she smiled. The flashback continues, the girl laying on her bed, made a note and wrote something from that little book she had. It was actually a note for herself, a conversation she had from the book she was holding. It became her light, her happiness and her comforts. Something that no one knows but just a relationship she built between the two of them. Isolating herself from the reality of the world and living the life she had at the moment. She continue to read the book she was holding, and something caught her eyes, and it is something that she noticed, a very unique words she created. She was wondering what this could be and she come up with the idea to juggle the words, to group into something meaningful and useful. Then she found it, a message that no one knows. Life isn’t easy for she knows that many will not believe but what if this message will simply put a significant change to one’s life and then she continue doing it. A person knocks on the door and then she was shocked for she knows that the place to where she was is an empty vacant place. It was a long time ago that the place was preserved and then she slowly open the door. A man suddenly appeared and she looked in his eyes and they met in the middle of the place to where it started. He started to talk and said “I guess this place is just still the same” and then he smiled. The woman was wondering who this man could be for she know nothing of him. She started to ask, “Who are you?” and the man laughed and he said “I know about you” and you know about me. The woman still didn’t understand what he was talking. We’ve known a long time ago, we are bound to meet in this place, to the place which is a very special between us and I think it’s all worth the wait because I found you in this place. The words you created for me is a very sweet word that lifts me up and the same thing with you. I was in the middle of life crisis when I read the words you left in this door. I think these words will always reminds me that I was the person who I am right now. When things get wrong and when I am in the middle of giving up then I always look the words you left in this note that you put in this door. Funny it is that I have known you for a very long time yet you don’t know me. When you cried, I was there without you knowing. When you’re happy, I was happy without you knowing. When you smile, I find myself smiling. When you’re angry, I wish to comfort you and give you hope. I was there all along and that made me realized that you’re truly indeed a special woman designed by God. She was silent hearing all these things and she was amazed how things works according to the Will of God. She lifted her eyes and look at him and she smiled. She pick the paper she posted in the door and at the back of the paper is the word that says you have come this far, you have showed your best, you always come up with something unexpected and that was all that mattered. |
“Alexander, I need you to make me an oath.” My brother, Edmund, said. His eyes never left the fresh graves of his wife and son. “Of course, what is it that you had in mind?” I replied. “If I was to ever turn, I want you to put me down.” A stiff breeze blew through our family’s estate as I stood there dumbstruck and confounded. How would one respond to such a mad request? Edmund turned to me; his eyes glazed with tears as he struggled to keep his composure. “Please, I beg of you.” As I attempted to respond, he collapsed to his knees and buried his face in his hands. The emotional dam burst, and he began to bawl. He cried with a ghastly symphony of howls and sniffles as he lamented the loss of his true love as well as his flesh and blood. I crouched down to his level and held him like a father holds a pained child. I rubbed his back in a bid to calm him down. “Listen, Edmund.” He did not stop but quieted down to let me know that he would listen. I let out a deep sigh, “I do not think that it will ever come to that point.” I stopped for a second and thought it over. The sheer thought of my little brother turning into one of those things sent a chill down my spine. I shook away the thought and continued, “But if it did, I would be the one to put you out of your suffering. You have my word.” That was years ago, 1891 to be exact. We both went our separate ways after that. The corruption was difficult for all people no matter who they were or where they were. No one is quite sure how it started. Some believed it to be a plague brought in through the east. Others believed it is a worldwide hex created by a witch resurgence in the United States. There are even those who would believe that it is divine punishment. The hows, whats, and whys don’t matter right now. Whatever it is, it has the horrific effect of transforming people into horrific, deadly, and unstable monsters. Before they are turned, people described someone, or something, had called out to them with the offer of great power to help them. It makes sense because those that are turned are always those in need or in pain, whether it be physical or emotional. Normally, their call is easily disregarded, but fear and desperation can take anyone to the brink. No two Turned are the same, the corruption relied on the person’s own personality as well as their wants and needs. In my time, I have witnessed horrid mutations like a young lady who suffered from a phobia of fire turn into a hideous witch with the gift of pyromancy, or an old man terrified of growing old and frail become a volatile mountain of muscle. These people known as the *Turned* are hazardous and are to be exterminated at once. Now, Edmund was a gifted doctor and used our families wealth to put himself through medical school. He even started his own office at the manor, so that he could help more people. After the corruption, his skills were in high demand as many had either fallen to the corruption or became victims of the Turned. The English military even hired him to exclusively use his services. As for me, I wasn’t that smart. Being the first born son, my parents had left almost everything to me, but I rejected it. I instead opted to give it to Edmund, I knew he would make better use of it. I always knew I would join the English Navy. I joined up as early as I could and made a name for myself as a skilled enforcer and rifleman. That eventually led to me in my current job of eradicating the Turned for the English military. The last thing I wanted was to receive notice that my family’s manor was labeled by the military as lost to the Turned. Unfortunately, that is exactly what I received. I immediately gathered my supplies and set off for the manor, I knew what I had to do, and I dreaded it. The estate was a good couple of hours outside of London on horseback. I couldn’t use those new motorized vehicles, they were too loud and unreliable for my job, so a couple of horses and a wagon worked fine. I had left after midnight; it was safer to travel that way. The cover of darkness masked my approach, and the rain dampened my noise. The wind howled like a wolf, and the rain poured like a waterfall, blanketed in darkness and water these were less than optimal conditions, but I had to make do. I saw it from miles out, the beacon of light that was the manor sliced through the darkness. I followed the road, a splash of water echoed with each step of my horses. As I approached the front gate, I noticed that it was already open. Hardly a surprise since others like me had already been dispatched to the manor, but they never returned. With the chill of the night having set in on me and my horses, I directed them to a nearby stable that we had in the entrance. I had hopped off the wagon and splashed mud on my boots and trousers. I sighed at the discomfort and untied my horses from the wagon and left them in the stable so they can rest in an area not drenched in rain. The patter of rain filled my ears as I stepped back to my wagon and pulled out my weapons. First was an old family heirloom, a bastard sword that I had refurbished for combat. Its shiny steel surface sullied by scratches and notches in the blade, each one represented a Turned that had been ended by the sword’s cold metal. Second, an experimental lever action shotgun that I had commissioned from the John Moses and Matthew Sandefur Browning Company in the United States. Lastly, a simple knife that I acquired in my time in the Navy. These Turned were supernatural in nature, but they required no special process to put them down. No holy water, no garlic, and no silver. If it could kill your fellow man, then it could kill them. I slung the gun over my shoulder then holstered the sword on my waist and approached the entrance. I took care to not to slip on the smooth stone steps as I came upon the front door. Mere inches from the door, I took a deep breath and steeled myself for what had to be done. I grasped the cold iron handle of the door and pushed. The heavy wooden entrance gave way and creaked as it exposed the inside of my old home. I then stepped in and forced the door shut behind me as the wind tried to keep it open. I pressed my back against the door and surveyed my surroundings. The wall sconces were lit up and the chandeliers glowed. Beyond the smell of wet leather that emanated from me, I made out the smoky scent of lit fireplaces as their flames danced against the darkness. Their radiant heat warmed the manor but failed to cut through my damp clothes and chilled armor. It was quiet, but the drum-like sound of rain against the window and the persistent howl of wind was all that reached my ears. I unslung my gun and clutched it in the leather wrapped underbelly of my hands. I cautiously walked forward being careful to produce as little noise as possible. The further I moved in, the more the dreadful sickly sweet scent of decay reached my nose. The scent of death was so fierce that I could taste it. A bitter and sour flavor that made my face scrunch up. As I rounded a corner, I froze in my tracks. There down the hall were several bodies mangled and twisted. With my gun leveled I approached, my heart like a steam engine in my chest. As I got closer, I could see that they were well in the stages of decay with dark and bloated skin with a horrific stench that emanated from them. Their uniforms informed me that they were some of the soldiers sent in before me. I attempt to investigate further, but from behind me I hear him talk. “Alexander?” I slowly turn around and that is when I see what my brother has become. “What are you doing here? You shake as if in fear.” His voice broken into two separate vocalizations that spoke in unison. He was horribly altered. His unkempt light brown hair and light green eyes remained, but his body was not the same. He was two full heads taller and wider than me. Long gaunt arms the length of a man hung at his sides each with deformed fingers that ended in large keratin daggers. The sour stench of death came from his now dark purple skin. But his most prominent feature was the massive cavity in his chest. One could fit a whole child in there. “E-Edmund.” I barely get out as I shook like a dog in the rain. I take a deep breath, “Edmund, I’ve come to fulfill my oath to you.” Edmund’s eyes move around slightly as he tries to remember. His eyes widen quickly. “No, I’m so close, you cannot. My actions would be for naught.” He said. Confused I lowered my gun and asked, “What are you talking about?”. He replied, “My brave son and beautiful wife. I have to bring them back to life.” I snapped back, “All you are doing is killing innocent people.” I quickly readied my gun at his head as I could feel the tears as they took shape in my eyes. “You made me take an oath, years ago.” I lowered my finger onto the trigger, “If you were to turn, I would put you out of your misery, brother.” I paused a moment, “I’m here to make good on my oath, I’m sorry, Edmund.” I pulled the trigger, but it went awry as the tip of my gun was forced up and redirected the shotgun blast away from Edmund as he furiously scurried away as dust and debris fell from the newly minted hole in the ceiling. The thing holding my gun was one of the bodies from before, but now reanimated. “What in God’s--” before I could finish, the newly risen corpse repeatedly thrusted a broken saber at me. It managed to pierce my coat several times, but not the metal cuirass I had underneath. I kicked it as hard as I could in its ribs with a loud crack as it tumbled backwards. A dent in his dark blue coat appeared where my foot connected. While it struggled to get up as its limbs lagged behind its torso, I pulled the lever back on my gun. The spent brass casing crashed on the floor with a heavy clang. With a new round in the chamber, I put my foot down on the body to keep it steady as I aimed and fired at its head. A disgusting spray of dark half-rotten grey matter and clotted blood drenched the wall in front of me as the loud thump of the shotgun blast echoed through the manor. “Please, Alexander, leave me. Get out of here now and flee.” Edmund’s voice echoed through the hall. There was still part of him inside that creature, but that only strengthened my resolve. I needed to keep my oath to him. I exited the now soiled hallway I made my way to the room where Edmund did all his work, his study. The trek to his study was a quiet one, save for the rain outside and the distant sound of footsteps. There were more of those creatures in the manor; he had killed many and resurrected them all as part of a horrific experiment, a desperate bid to get his wife and son back. But nothing worked, so he kept at it until the military caught wind and sent soldiers out. As I was within sight of his study, I could hear a commotion behind me. It got louder and louder until a large group of those same resurrected creatures charged at me. I panicked and fired off my remaining five shells at them where a few fell to the buckshot lead wall. I decided to make a mad dash for the study, I had to end this now. I slung the shotgun over my shoulder and sprinted down the hall. The door nearly splintered when I slammed it open and I closed it tight, locked it, and threw a heavy oak cabinet over it. With my left side now in pain from tackling the door, I saw Edmund who stood in the corner, motionless as he looked my way. Sadness and anger welled up in me as I unsheathed my sword. “No more running, Edmund. I can’t stand seeing you like this. I’m putting you out of your misery!” I yelled out to him. “Leave now-.” I didn’t care what he tried to say, I charged at him and swung down as hard as I could. He attempted to block with his arms, but the blade cleaved through one arm and damaged the other. Viscous dark blood screamed from his wounds as it filled the room with its vile metallic scent. He roared out at me like an enraged bear. He used his remaining good hand and struck me back. I flew backwards into his bookshelf with a large thud. I gasped for air as I struggled to get on my hands and knees with my newly dented chest plate. Books tumbled down around me while I reached for my sword, but Edmund grabbed me. He dug his claws into my shoulders around the armor and one claw rested on my face. He slowly squeezed with each claw driving itself further into me like a hot knife through butter. As blood trickled down my face, I reached into my coat and pulled out my spare knife. With all the strength I could muster, I brought the knife to the underside of his arm and sawed my way to bone. With his tendons cut, his grip vanished, and I worked my way free. After a yelp of pain then a quick stumble, I reacquired my sword and brought it down on his neck. The blade stuck halfway in, but I placed my foot on his shoulder and yanked. Blood sputtered from his neck as he reached up at me with limp fingers. I readied my sword and swung once more. The blade cleaved through the remainder of his neck. His head was severed and dropped to the ground with a thud. I breathed a sigh of relief as I looked down at my bloodstained sword when I heard several other thuds beyond the door. I peeked out to find the reanimated dead once again, their source of power gone. I looked over at the corpse at what was my brother and collapsed, both from exhaustion and grief. I never thought that he would be one to turn, but it seems that it could happen to anyone. I took his body out of his study. Turned or not, he deserved a proper burial. I buried his corpse right next to the wife and child he cared so much for. He wanted them back so badly that he let himself become corrupted. As I stood there over the same graves where my oath was made, I couldn’t help but wonder if I could be next to turn. I could hear the dreaded call of the corruption as I stood there with tears in my eyes at his grave. |
Sitting there on the cold, hard, tiled floor, it really put things into perspective. Namely, what I was about to do with a loaded semi-automatic 9mm pistol in my hand, the end of the barrel pointing towards the side of my head. Bracing myself for the loud noise and the bright flash of light, I pulled the trigger and the familiar darkness clouded my vision as I began to slip from this world to the next, and just before I left this plane, I was pulled back, like a fish on a hook. I opened my eyes to find a blood-stained bullet laying on the tiled floor, smoke slowly rising off of it due to the residual heat. I knew this was going to happen. Why did I even think that this was going to work? Of course she wouldn’t let me die. I heard a feminine voice coming from the kitchen. My gaze and attention snapped to the door of the bathroom. It was that same voice I’d heard all those years ago, back when I was young and foolish. It’s funny how the choices we make as teenagers lead to things like this later in life. For some people, it’s a regrettable tattoo or a failed exam. For me, it was immortality, a seemingly perennial life. Right on cue, she walked through the door. She was a very pale, short, slip of a girl, dressed in a black, loose-fitting t-shirt and tight trousers that rolled down to her ankles. Her feet were open and bare, exposed to the cold air of the room, her face was made up of clear skin, framed by shoulder-length dark hair, a black ring adorning her nose, and lipstick painting her lips black. She was pretty. She was cute. She was Death. Let me explain this a little better. The young woman in front of me was the fourth Horseman, the embodiment of death. She had inherited her title from her father, a well-known figure known as the Grim Reaper. Unlike the Grim Reaper, Death actively caused living people to die according to her list because she wasn’t powerful enough to cause passive deaths around the world, but in time she’d grow stronger, and eventually Death would grow strong enough that even the Grim Reaper wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to her. I met Death when I was 19, a young university student obsessed with the occult who decided to try out the funny looking ritual in a dusty old book in the library’s basement. In hindsight, it was a horrible choice. I completed the ritual and, lo and behold, before me was Death, in all of her terrible glory. Oddly enough, Death and I hit it off and we began to have a sort of fling over the Summer, where I would summon her using the book I’d stolen and we’d go on little dates. Dinner, coffee, the movies, that sort of thing. Soon enough, I’d grown bored of Death, who’d lost her mystique quite quickly, mostly because whilst she looked like a goth and while she may be the embodiment of death, she was a very weird and clingy person. I put it down to her loneliness. Killing people and collecting their souls must’ve been a lonely job and she was probably at the peak of her loneliness when I met her. To cut this love story short, Death became smitten with me as I lost more and more interest in her, and she promised me that no matter what happened, I would always live because she couldn’t bear to see me die and pass on from this world to the next, leaving her alone. By her rationale, as long as I was around she would never be alone again. From that day forward, a mere 20 years ago, I haven’t aged. I *can* die but I always come back just as quick, not a single hair on my head disturbed. You name it, I’ve probably tried it. Chainsaw, bullet to the brain, trampled by horses, falling off a cliff, decapitation. Point is, I’ve done a lot to try to die and so far, none of it has worked. Death was watching me, a wide, beaming smile on her happy face, “Hey John! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” I eyed the door just behind her and contemplated running, but it would be useless. She’d find me no matter how far or where I went. “Hey Death, how’s unlife?” Death giggled, “Oh, you know, same old, same old. Mostly boring seeing as I have no one to talk to. It’s quite the coincidence that I happened to be in the area and I sensed that you were close by, I was going to come find you. I miss you.” Coincidence, yeah, coincidence my ass. I cleared my throat, trying to at least sound somewhat excited, “You miss me? I thought you had a boyfriend.” Death’s beaming smile dimmed a little, her brow furrowing slightly, “Of course I miss you. Why would I need a boyfriend when I have the love of my life right here in front of me?” “Love of your life? Aren’t you being a little dramatic?” “No. I love you. You love me too, right?” Her voice took on a sad tone, and her smile all but completely disappeared. While I might not love her, I can’t stand seeing her cry. “Of course I do, you know that,” I swallowed some saliva as I tried to say the next sentence without sounding strained, “do you want to maybe hang out? I’ve got nothing to do, so...” Death’s smile returned, twice as bright as before, “I’d love to! Where are we going?” “I thought we could just chill here, catch up a bit more in-depth.” “Sure!” She exclaimed. Suddenly, her eyes glazed over slightly, a sign that there was someone nearby that she needed to kill to meet her quota, and I knew that she couldn’t see me. “John, I’m really sorry about this but I have to go. Work and all that, you get it right?” “Yeah.” No, not at all. I haven’t worked for over 14 years. Immortality can be a little beneficial in starting up your own business and getting crazy rich off of it. “I’ll be back later tonight though. You better pick out a good movie and snacks.” With that, Death vanished, off to go kill some more people and take their souls. In the meantime, I have to go and prepare for a date with Death. Somebody kill me now, please. |
It was late, I was chilling with my laptop in front of me and a cup of warm fruit tea in my hand. I was browsing through YouTube, looking for meaningless forms of entertainment, it was fun at least. I had clicked on a video, ‘*Planting 20 million trees around the world’*, it had started playing. "What a wonderful thing to do!” I thought. As the video reached the climax, my phone buzzed. It was on the coffee table in front of me, but I was already in a comfortable position. “It’s probably just a notification from one of my games.” I thought, “no one messages me anyway.” I decided to look at whatever notification it was after I had finished watching the video. After another 15 minutes, the video ended. At that time, I had already forgotten about the notification on my phone and clicked on another video. As I did, my phone buzzed again. I grudgingly paused the video and stretched my arm out to grab my phone. As I unlocked it, I noticed the notifications were actually messages from my best friend. I opened WhatsApp and read the messages. ‘I can’t believe it bro.’ The next message was a picture, in it was a medical report. I looked at the diagnosis. Stage 4 brain cancer. I was bewildered, I asked if he was serious and if he was joking. He was not, he was already in a hospice. I stood up, forgetting that my laptop was still on my lap, let's just say I had to buy a new laptop. But my friend was more important, I paced my room, still not believing the news. Suddenly, a ringtone. It was him, calling me. I obviously picked up. “Dude, what’s going on? Are you alright? I mean, I guess you’re not. But are you alright?” I was practically shooting questions at him, worried out of my mind. “One at a time, it’s making me lose brain cells,” he replied. “Ok, I'm sorry, what’s happening?” He started talking. Apparently, he was going for a routine medical check-up when his doctor noticed that he had weakened considerably and even fainted in the medical clinic. When he came to, he was in the hospital with an IV drip stuck in his arm. They had done some MRI scans while he was unconscious and discovered the brain tumor. It was cancerous and had already reached the final stage, there was nothing the doctors could do but help him feel comfortable. “It’s rare for people your age to develop stage 4 brain cancer, especially since you don’t have any medical conditions,” he recalls his doctor telling him. His parents broke down right there in the doctor’s office when they received the news. I took a deep breath; I could not imagine life without him. The government had footed his medical bill, so his parents could have ease of mind, but I doubt they would have peace for a while. I’m only 16, I couldn’t do much, so I visited him every day. On days where I could not visit, I would still video call him to check up on him and keep him company. About 3 weeks later, I made my usual visit, went up to his room and greeted him. We talked for a bit, we talked about life. The meaning of life, the afterlife and why we have consciousness. It was getting late; I was getting ready to leave. The doctor had predicted that he had less than a month left, I wanted to spend as much time as I could with him. I thought of asking the doctor if he could leave the hospice, but then I remembered his compromised immune system, even the common flu could kill him at this point. As I reached out for the door handle, I heard him coughing. I turned around just in time to see his EKG begin dropping rapidly. Six doctors and nurses immediately rushed into the room, pushing me aside. I started tearing up, I thought that this would be the end. Then, I heard it. The ominous alert the monitor makes when a person's heart rate has flatlined. The medical team didn’t bother resuscitating him, the cancer had already beaten him. Nothing could be done. I sobbed quietly, knowing that I could never see his face again. I recalled all the joyous moments we had together. The first time we met, the first time we bonded, the first time we went out together and finally the time I received the news. One of the nurses put his hand on my shoulder and comforted me, leading me to the chair outside his room. Hurried footsteps echoed down the hall; his parents. They collapsed in front of his bed, weeping uncontrollably. The nurses all cleared the room, giving them and the doctor some space. I head back inside. The doctor explains everything, how the morgue would handle the body and how the funeral company would help them in gaining closure. Then, something unexpected happened, after the doctor left the room, his parents hugged me thanking me. It turns out, before he had passed, he had told his parents all about me and how my visits and calls have been helping him cope with his illness. I broke down into even more tears, I knew that my visits and calls have been helping him but I did not know it helped him that much. I now know the meaning of life, or at least my rendition. Life has no meaning on its own, being there for someone during their toughest times and sticking with the people you hold dear. That’s what gives life meaning, we exist so that we can be with others who exist and vice versa. We exist as to support those around us, to be someone’s close friend. Because without a friend, you might be alive, but you are not living. As the famous quote goes: ‘A good friend is a connection to life - a tie to the past, a road to the future, the key to sanity in a totally insane world.’- Lois Wyse. |
A cool breeze brushes against Hadr’s brown skin before his feet begin to pound against the dark concrete sidewalk. The young boy is confident that the mechanical beast currently hunting him through the streets of Newon will give up at any moment as he dodges around people and lamp posts. He keeps looking behind him to see if he has finally lost the giant mechanical creature, but the thing begins to pursue him at a fast pace. Hadr looks at the bag slung over his shoulder. The thing inside of it is heavy, weighing him down with every step. Was stealing from the Cosmic Casino, From Anubis himself, really worth it? Hadr shakes his head and slips into a narrow alleyway, catching his breath for a moment. He holds still as the thing moves past his hiding spot, then he stoops down and opens the bag. Inside is a large golden Ankh, the Egyptian symbol for life. It pulses as if it has a heart within it and glows warmly. Yes, it was worth it. He could fix everything... Hadr quickly puts the ankh back, peeking out to find that the coast is clear. He casually walks back the way he had come and into a small apartment building. He runs up the stairs to his flat and enters, locking the door tight. Hadr walks into the main bedroom, pausing. Before him is a frail old woman surrounded by medical equipment, her breathing weak and uneven. Hadr feels tears well up in his eyes as he approaches his dying grandmother, the only family he had left in the dimension of Newon after his mother and father had been brutally killed in a massacre enacted by Circuit-Breaker and his murderous followers. "Grandma?" The old woman stirs, opening her eyes. "I have something that will make everything better, look." He pulls out the glowing ankh, holding it up for her to see. "You... stole it?" Hadr's grandmother breathes. Guilt rushes through him. "Yes, I almost got caught, and one of the guardians is after me." As he says this, the ground begins to shake. "It's coming for me, I need to use it now or I won't be able to, and I'll lose you!" He moves to place the ankh over his grandmother's heart, but she gently grabs his wrist. "No... I can't let you do it..." tears now fully fall from Hadr's eyes, staining the bed sheets. "Why?" "It is my time. I've been having dreams of the spirit dimension, your mother and father are there but they say they don't want to see you joining them there for many more decades." The old woman chuckles softly. "What do I do then? I'll be arrested for sure..." Hadr's grandmother puts a hand on his cheek. "You know you must face the consequences, but I have a feeling it won't be anything severe. I'll always be watching over you, Hadr. Now go..." Hadr forces himself to walk back outside where the mechanical beast waits, his hands up. As he is carried away in the mouth of the creature, Hadr looks up to his apartment window just in time to see a bright light fill the room. *** One year later... Hadr's grandmother had been right, the punishment he had been given for stealing Anubis's ankh was nothing soul crushing or severe. For the past year Hadr was given the task of aiding Anubis in getting lost souls back to the spirit dimension. It had been life changing, and Hadr didn't want to stop. Right now Hadr relaxes in the room he had been in the cosmic casino without a care in the world. But his moment of relaxation is abruptly cut short as a siren begins to wail, a noise that he had hoped he would never hear again. It was the same sound he had heard before his parents had been killed. Hadr leaps up, running out onto the balcony that overlooks the city. He scans the streets below with wide eyes and a pounding heart. Then he sees them, Circuit-Breaker. Hadr retreats back into his room, his adrenaline kicking in. An announcement comes over the intercom system, telling the guests that the Cosmic Casino is going into lock down mode, and that everyone must stay in their rooms for the next few hours. Something inside of Hadr breaks, a wild untamed fury over taking him. He bursts out of his room, ignoring the yelling of security guards who tell him to go back to his room. Hadr makes it out of the casino just as the glowing protective walls go up. Hadr finds himself alone out on the street. His heart pounds. Circuit-Breaker approaches him, the robot's dog-like head cocked to the side. A glowing khopesh appears in Hadr's hand, a gift from Anubis. His eyes narrow angrily, his teeth bared. "I'm going to destroy you, just like you've destroyed the lives of millions of others throughout the multiverse!" He yells. However, his voice is shaky. In a flash, Circuit-Breaker pounces. Hadr brings up the sword, but it is too late. Hadr falls to the ground, a gaping wound on his chest from Circuit-Breaker's golden claws. "Your bravery is admirable, but you are not strong enough to stop me." Circuit-Breaker's emotionless mechanical voice sends chills down his spine. "Do you remember me? I'm the boy of that one family you killed all those years ago." Hadr hisses. He can feel himself bleeding out, his vision going fuzzy. "I have killed many people. You are not special." With that, Circuit-Breaker takes off on his wheeled feet, heading even deeper into the city. Hadr's eyes roll back, and then he feels himself being pulled through what feels like a tight tube and into a blinding light. "Hadr, You are a foolish yet brave boy." Hadr opens his eyes at the voice. The glowing forms of his mother, father, and grandmother embrace him. “I'm sorry I couldn't keep myself alive as long as you all wanted me too...” Hadr says sadly. “None of that matters now. We are together, and that's all we care about now...” Hadr’s family leads him out of the light and into a beautiful grassy hillside. A warm breeze brushes past him. |
It all started with a match, one thing lead to another and I met the love of my life or so I thought. I was only 17, I always thought I was to young to be burnt alive, how could someone tell me they love me then set the place I live on fire. You think you know someone until something like this happens, lets actually start from the very beginning, I'm Delilah Grace, as you know I am 17, now this boy I'm talking about his name is Jackson, he is 18, when I first met him he was the kindest guy I have ever met. I met Jack when I was 15. We hit it of immediately, he asked me out the day after we met and of course I said yes because every girl wanted him and he wanted me, it was magical for the first year but after that he became very controlling, he even started physically abusing me, I was 16 I was scared to even tell anyone, I thought I loved him, I didn't find out I didn't love him until I met Dustin, I met Dustin the day I turned 17 he was the new boy next door, we started hanging out often! When Jack found out, that night I thought I was going to die, he beat me so bad that I couldn't walk for an entire week! I still stayed quiet because I was terrified of that man! I would hide the bruises with makeup so my parents couldn't tell because if my dad found out he would probably have put him in the hospital or worse six feet down. The day that dustin found out that jack was hitting on me I'll never forget, I seen a hurt but pissed look in Dustin's eyes. I was a bit confused because dustin was my best friend. "I'm going to beat the living heck out of him!" Dustin Yelled clumping up his fist "Dustin, stop he can't know that I told you or things might get even worse." I told him putting my hand over his shoulder "You deserve so much better, he shouldn't be laying his hands on you, if I see him hitting you I'm saying something and you can't stop me Delilah." He told me shaking his head I sighed and shaked my head, I looked over my shoulder and seen jack and my eyes widen. "U-Uh dustin, maybe you should leave." I said pushing him towards the window He looks back and sees Jack his eyes darken and his jaw tightens. He walks over to Jack and grabs his collar. "Woah, man let's not do this!" Jack laughed Dustin just hits him in the mouth multiple times "dustin stop!" I yelled Dustin gets up wipes his hands off and walks to his house before walking into his house he looks back and yells. "Touch her one more time I dare you!" Jack laughs and walks back into my room, dustin goes in his house "So you told him!" Jack yells balling his fist up "He's my best friend." I answered flinching He hits me in the mouth knocking me down, he starts to kick me in the stomach until I pass out, last thing I remember was him laughing. When I finally woke up, I was no longer in the floor, I wasn't even in my house. I look over and tried to move but I couldn't. I look over to my arms and legs, I was tied up. "Jack! What are you doing, where am I?" I cried "You had to be punished, for telling that fag about me." He laughed climbing near me "please I'm sorry! Please let me go jack." I cried He just laughed and started kissing me, I cried as I felt his body on mine. You can just guess on what happened next. He untied me, and threw a new pair of clothes at me "Come on, let's get you home now. Hopefully that taught you a lesson." He told me driving me back to my house. He drops me off and I limp inside with tears in myself. "Honey, are you okay?" My mom said walking up to me I nod as I walk upstairs and lock my door I walk over to my bed and lay down and just let it all out. See my story hasn't always been the best but it didn't get any better the day that jack decided he didn't want me anymore, lets actually go on from that day! I woke up just another day, it was Saturday which meant no school, I just laid back and relaxed. Jack knocks on my door. "What do you want?" I asked "I don't want you anymore." He told me holding up the match. "What are you doing?!" I screamed "I told you I don't want you, and I can't leave you alive or you will tell everyone what I did to me and get me arrested." He told me pulling out a lighter "Please, jack I won't tell anyone I promise! Don't do this please" I cried out He pulls out his phone and starts recording "Say bye to everyone you want to I'll give you five minutes." He said "I-if your watching this, it means I'm gone, it means the guy who record this decided to do something stupid. Mama remember I love you, daddy know that you have always been my first best friend! Dustin, oh where do I start? You have made me smile so bright, I love you more than words will ever know, I mean I love you more than a friend, please don't blame yourself because it won't be your fault, and lastly I wanna say something to the guy who ruined my life, jack you thought you will get away with this but know that will not be the case, I will haunt you everyday all day until the day you die!" I cried out screaming and flipping him off. He turns off the camera and lights a match and drops it on the floor, he then takes a gas jug and pours it all over the floor and lighting the rest of matches and dropping them in the gasoline, the fire starts and goes a big boom, I feel it get hot and I lay on my bed with tears in my eyes, I feel it touch my skin and I guess it got into my lungs because I just close my eyes and I can't open them back up. I feel someone pick me up and run. ~6 months later~ Hey guys! Didn't I tell you that it doesn't get better, well that's a lie! It gets better but give it time, because if you don't give it time then it won't. So I do have scars from that day, but if it wasn't for Dustin then I wouldn't be alive today, he ran into the fire and saved me I am so grateful for this boy, he asked me out last month, of course I told him yes because I loved him! We are starting our own family, I am currently 6 weeks pregnant with our child! So please be careful and get to know the guy you date so you don't turn out like me! |
"I suppose, well. Where should I begin?" Jeoffery asked. ​ "From when this all began," ​ "From what all began?" ​ "This whole thing." ​ "Well, if you really want me to go back that far. I suppose it all began a dark and foreboding night, when I was a child. The walls seemed almost illuminate in their extreme lack of lighting. A man, a warming man from across the hall called me saying on how he would love for me, a young child, to take part in some gruesome detail. I, despite my tiredness & reluctance, obliged & as I heard the tapping of what he perceived as his greatest work yet. It seemed almost hypnotic in the way it repeated. I can faintly remember how it hooked me, although everything else seemed to warn of some great tragedy, I drew closer & closer whilst the man drew his hand to greet me. With such a scene I tried, with all my might to resist but his hand snatched, and pulled me onto his lap. And that is when, I was hooked against my will. The tapping persisted, and with such an awfully tempting noise I knew ,that in the deepest of my hearts. Without any contempt. That this would be my calling. This calling would not be voluntary. But, would be instead of that seductive tapping. That special tapping only achieved by what my father did oh-so many years ago. So you see, why I am so demonic in this way. For satan has given me such an awful curse of the pure boiler room of hell. Many years from then to this day I have been unable to shake off that tapping. God have mercy on my sons, for I have felt such a hex on my family and nothing, except a smite from god himself can save us..." ​ "Oh for fuck sake, just try to talk like a normal person." The Redditor replied with vigour ​ "But that is my problem, I can't stop writing horror stuff," ​ "Well if you keep on talking & writing in such a way you need to be ATLEAST good at it." ​ "What do you mean." ​ "Well such as, you could have said something a little less bloated, you literally said for that last paragraph just a few words really which were 'I cannot stop typing in horror and my children might do it too.' and that is it! God don't have mercy on your hex, have mercy on people listening to 90% of what you say! You'd essentially give an essay on why it is overcast if you were a bloody weather reporter." ​ "It wasn't bloated, it was cool and edgy" ​ "Oh yes, edgy. Give it a rest, if that was a sword you would basically have an iron rod with a wooden gripy thing at the bottom." ​ "I don't like you, you... Vile man." ​ "Hey, you are the person who started this Ask Me Anything post, you are asking for it." ​ "Well..." He paused at his keyboard... "fuck you. |
This story is set in the island of Rambu in planet GAIA2 which is earth’s twin about 8 centuries behind but is still evolving. The king of Rambu summoned his prime minister (PM) who came. The king said “Can you tell me about that man named Poly?” “He is the head of Mother Nature cult and has introduced new types of worship of Nature. He venerates trees and plant life and halts pollution of waterways and rivers. It was he who introduced Nature day when he wants the entire population to bathe naked in the sea to avoid polluting water bodies like rivers. A large number of people are following him and are worshipping his way. He is becoming very powerful.” “I want to talk to him. Summon him to be present in my palace tomorrow morning.” “I can do it but he will come only along with his 5 Divine Daughters.” “Okay, I’m hoping to see him tomorrow.” The next day as the king and queen were holding court, Poly came in. He was accompanied by 5 young women. The queen asked “Who’re those women?” The king said “Those are his divine daughters whom he has enlightened into the ways of his cult. He has taught them the way to heaven.” “The girls look beautiful and he himself looks young and strong. I’m sure the girls can themselves take him to heaven” “Be serious. Remember he is a Man of God.” MAG bowed before the king and the king in turn wished him. The king asked “Will you explain about your Mother Nature cult?” MAG gave a lengthy exposition of his efforts towards conserving the bounties of Nature. The king was very impressed though the queen wasn’t interested. The king gave MAG a gold coin and said “I agree in principle to support your teachings.” The audience ended. MAG went back to his quarter and summoned Suq the witch. She lived nearby and appeared almost instantly before him. She was dressed in the usual style of the islanders only below the waist. She looked only about 30 and well-preserved. Poly said “Suq, I want you to do me a favour. You’ve always cooperated in furthering my interests.” He fished out the gold coin the king had given him and giving it to her said “You’ve the reputation of being a good fortune teller. Go and tell the king that bad times are approaching and that he should retire leaving his son, the prince, to rule.” Though MAG wasn’t specific, she guessed that he wanted the inexperienced prince to rule so that he could easily dethrone him and become king. Suq merely bowed and left. MAG was sure she would carry out his instructions. Suq had a 12 year old daughter Lyra who had just come of age. Suq asked for an audience with the king which was immediately granted as the king patronised her. She said “I have a humble request. My daughter Lyra is now ready to be married. She is very beautiful and talented and above all she has been gifted with three instead of the usual two which women grow. It is an auspicious sign indicating that she will marry royalty. She would be a good wife to the Prince.” The queen said “Suq, how is it none have noticed the anatomical feature?” “She keeps it covered as it could cause jealousy among women and curiosity among men. It has started causing comment.” The queen said “I’ve seen Lyra and approve of the Prince marrying her provided the king consents.” The king nodded when Suq who was very happy said “Your majesty, some discontents in your kingdom are trying to rebel. Your defences need to be very vigilant.” After Suq had left the king summoned his military commander and said “Increase vigilance and see that rebel elements are eliminated.” “I’ll do so immediately.” When the Prince’s engagement to Lyra was announced, MAG attempted to abduct Lyra using his divine daughters but he failed as security had been stepped up. MAG was arrested and questioned with torture when he confessed to plotting the dethronement of the king. On the king’s orders MAG and his divine daughters were exiled from the kingdom. The proposed wedding of the Prince with Lyra had an effect on females of the kingdom. Several of them of different ages including the queen met. The queen said “We’re going to discuss about the upper cloth for women. I remember the joke of long ago that a young girl was passing by on the road when she saw the prince approach in his chariot. She was so overcome by his appearance that she pulled up the cloth at the waist and covered her top. The prince noticed it and asked his minister who said it was only a natural reaction and she had only covered what had come in adolescence instead of what existed since birth. We women are very sensitive about exposing feminine parts.” The following are some of the comments of women who participated: “People want to know why we also shouldn’t cover up like Lyra.” “Lyra’s need is different. We’ve no problem.” “It’s men who have decided about female garments. They hide their family jewels and tell us to cover up unnecessarily.” “I’m proud of what I have and don’t need to cover up.” “If we cover up, men will be cheated as some of us could make meagre, ample. Such falsification of women’s possessions could lead to marital unrest.” “We may never know those who have more than two unless information is leaked.” “Covering up is not the only issue. If a tailored garment is prescribed for the top, it is very important that it allows quick and easy access to what is concealed.” “It is likely the covering up could add to the eagerness of the male to explore and..........” Females did not allow this woman to continue and hushed her up. The queen apprised the king of the views expressed and added “Women are divided about covering up.” The king heard it all and said “It’s against our tradition and culture to cover up.” The queen said “Let us give the freedom to women to show or conceal.” It is understood the option is spreading to other parts of that planet as well! Earth’s twin is still evolving! END NOTE: A story about a three breasted princess occurs in THE PANCHATANTRA , a Sanscrit classic, translated into English by Arthur W.Ryder and has been borrowed to produce this story. * |
Fiery red wings flutter agitated, the tips transition from a bright red to burning orange and ending in an effervescent yellow, patterned and striated like the hissing motions of fire. A feathery body of deep crimson red coming into the size of an eagle. An s-shaped neck like a flamingo or goose, and a series of long flowing tail feathers colored reminiscent of the wing patterns. They were longer than the body, and despite this, he flew gracefully. He was a majestic creature, a Phoenix, and last of his kind. And in his talons was a silver platter, and in it, what gave the Sun to the realms. “Duke! Avel!” A woman shouted as the bird flew in closer to her. The Goddess of Fire, lost in a Necrotic Forest without her spouse. “Found the Sun? Well, we gotta get it back to the Altar in the Tree of Life.” She said cheerfully, leaning back as she extended her black wings before adjusting a sturdy chest plate made of a nearly chrome-like metal. “Just need to get out of the Kingdom of the Diseased.” She muttered to herself solemnly as the bird hovered above her, with the Goddess taking the platter of liquid Sun and then set it on the ground, kneeling on one knee as she removed a leather satchel and took out a container. Almost a metal flask or vial she could seal off, she poured the liquid Sun as it radiated a pure, almost holy and immaculate light, watching the ethereal fluid glisten in the chromed vial. Once full she screwed a cap on, and slid it into a pocket on her leather pants. “Stuffs hot Duke.” She said as her companion stretched his neck out and put it against her shoulder as she chuckled. “Still won’t answer me who stole it this time. If it is Yalun’s father again then we’ll have to have a talk. Still, what’s that, the Kingdom of the Diseased? Eh, alright, alright Duke, we’ll talk to them.” Goddess of Fire and the Hunt, Tailka Ogonyon, the last Phoenixborne. Tasked with guarding the only source of light, the only way for crops to grow, and the single most powerful source of magic for the Twelve Kingdoms. It seems everyone wants to steal the Sun and use its power. Yet, Tailka is used to this, she has seen it before, five times in fact. And every time she learns a bit more about the realm she lives in. “Avel, avel!” She said as Duke’s nearly five foot wingspan was on full display, beating his wings and squawking as he took off into the air. Tailka chuckled as she followed the bird through a forest lit up by the moon. Trees with a rotting black bark, the ground corrupted by fungal growth, and the air unwelcoming. The Kingdom of the Diseased, those who lived here, well, were sick. A disease of the Soul. Like a city of lepers they lived in fear, they lived in agony. Neglected by the other Kingdoms, their lives were lonely. The forest got thicker, and large mushrooms could be seen kissing the canopy sky. And as Tailka watched the fiery bird above soar, she saw him come down to a clearing where she thought she could see smoke. Her black wings unfurled as they began to flutter quickly, and she took off, knowing where she was at. Grodon, their one true city. Walls made out of logs of living mushroom trunks, with a larger foundation made out of cobblestones mortared together with dirt. She could smell the smoke, breathing it in as she did from her volcanic home in the Kingdom of the Sun. She began to flutter her wings, beating them harder and harder. Slowly those black wings lifted her up into the air as she soared over the walls and met up with her companion. “Quite the sight isn’t it? Gotta meet up with Valya, maybe she can be honest and straight-forward. One witch to another ya know.” She chuckled as their eyes landed upon the crown jewel of the Kingdom of Disease, Valana's Keep. Where every other building is mossy, moldy, covered in fungal growth, Valana's Keep was ornate, made of porcelain marble with delicate painting work and artisanal decorations. Sure there were the overgrown mushrooms protruding from the lower floors and even one spiraling up the center spire, but it felt like it belonged. The majestic blue star mushroom, every once-in-a-while one stumbling through the Necrotic Forest will find one of these cork-screw bodied behemoths, towering above the canopy, with small bioluminescent bulbs hanging by long strands of mycelium. They cultivated them, using them as lanterns, lighting up the city beneath Tailka and Duke. “Od Hayla, it is beautiful, isn’t it?” “Yeah it is, Tal, what are you doing here? And is that Duke? Oooh, I haven't seen him in so long!” A young woman said as Tailka smiled, watching from the castle a woman on a sorghum broomstick, the bristles facing forwards, and the handle going behind her, floated on over. Wearing dark green robes with a brown hood and cape, her blonde hair mostly covered though strands of it stick out from across her forehead with a dark green witch’s hat to boot. Tailka smiled in excitement, though declined a hug when Valana offered one. “Vala, I need to speak with King Syphus, Duke found the Sun here.” “Tal, he actually wants to talk to you too!” Valana said and Tailka nodded. “I’d give you a hug but given the fire goddess thing, I’m afraid I’m going to burn you if I touch you. But Duke seems so happy to see you!” Tailka chuckled boisterously as Duke landed on the shoulder of Valana, his long neck wrapping around hers as he gave a hiss. “Such a strange creature Phoenixes are! It...it...it is a shame what happened to them. An immortal species somehow extinguished.” She held back tears and tried to find something to be happy about, smiling, chuckling even, as Duke untangled his neck and leaned it against hers. “But you’re lucky to have him!” She said, as Duke almost squawked in agreement. The two flew to the balcony of Valana's castle. Landing and being met by the dull natural lighting of mushroom lanterns. “Our apologies for borrowing the Sun. We needed it momentarily.” A jagged and sharp voice pierced the air as Tailka turned around. “Syphus, you need to talk to me first, why did you take it anyways?” Syphus sighed and shook his head in negation. “You do realize how powerful the Sun is right? You can’t just take it.” She added on seeing Syphus lower his head. “Our people rarely see the light as-is. The Sun never rises here, and it feels so good on us. Our skin is welted and covered in bumps and warts. Hayla blessed you and Valana with smooth, whole skin. We, we’re just hideous abominations. And yet, I wouldn’t want it any other way.” Tailka was taken back, curling her wings as she landed on the beautiful wooden floor and slowly approached. “If it is comfort you want, the ash of a Phoenix can help. I can provide ten feathers, simply burn them in a high enough heat and they’ll catch on fire and turn to ash. It is easy to dilute into water or soap.” “Yes but the light helps the luminescent mushrooms too! The Sun being here makes the shroomlights glow so brightly!” Tailka nodded as she thought. “How long does it take and how long until they need to be ‘charged’ eh, so-to-speak?” She asked as Syphus thought. “It has been three days and the city is ablaze! I’ve never seen it so lit up! And as for how long before we need the Sun again? I’m quite unsure.” “Well we can experiment. Mychor Whale oil from the Kingdom of the Frosts, or the Kingdom of the Seas, burns brighter and for longer. I’ve almost convinced them to enjoy wormroot vines that grow beneath the Kingdoms in the Kingdom of the Caves. So many flavors you know. Anyways, Whale Oil for a large supply of shrooms is a good trade if you ask me, seeing that you grow so many mushrooms you practically make your homes out of them!” Syphus smiled eagerly. “Oh Wormroot is what we prefer, and Liverlung fungus! Tastes like liver and lung! The Black Pot fungus is quite good for tea, oooh and the green oak fungus that grows on the moldy oaks has a fruity almost melon like flavor!” Tailka smirked eagerly as she looked at Syphus. “Okay, so how about we make a deal? The Kingdom of the Mines, which their entrance isn’t far from here, can be a liaison between the Kingdom of the Frosts and you guys. You trade mushrooms, they provide Mychor Whale oil for lanterns!” Syphus pondered this, his mind running through the requirements. “It’d be a massive change in lifestyle. For the Two of us! But....but I...I think as King it is my choice and yet the choice of my people, but our people will probably accept.” Tailka smiled, and began to cool herself off, nervously reaching her hand out. “If my hand is burning hot just let go. My apologies, it's hard to control my temperature.” Tailka sighed reluctantly, nervously holding her hand. She was about to reel her hand back but Syphus reached out and shook it quite firmly, smiling. “All we ask of you is the feathers, and speak with the Ice King about our deal!” “Yeah, I’m on my way to return the Sun, and then speak with the Ice Queen.” Tailka turned to Valana as she leaned against the wooden panel wall near the balcony. “Well, ‘Auria, Goddess of Fire’ you better be good on your promise.” “Yeah, I am. Since me and Yalun became God’s we’ve been trying to fix these twelve messy Kingdoms. “You cannot fix the Kingdom of War, or the Kingdom of Sands. Hell, the Kingdom of the Dead and those damn racist elves who run the Kingdom of Merchants ain’t going to break.” “But I’m willing to try. Words speak more than violence you know.” Tailka gave in, leaning in and hugging Valana before opening her wings and taking off with Duke. “Well, time to meet my wife. How do you think ‘Friea, Goddess of Ice’ is doing huh Duke?” She chuckled, hearing the bird make a squeal almost like it was chuckling. When she departed the Necrotic Forest she was met to a golden prairie, endless fields of what as they flew towards a large tree at the center. The trunk was massive, bigger than any man, bigger than any troll, bigger than any God. The tree was like a nation, a country, with breadth and width, depth and height. The world surrounds this tree, and within it the Sun is supposed to rest peacefully. Traveling into the trunk following winding corridors, she made it to the center, the center of her realm, the center of her world. She removed the silver platter, set it on a gold inlaid marble altar and then the vial of the liquid Sun, pouring it in as light began to radiate out and from the tree, the Sun was restored to the Kingdom. Echoing behind Tailka were footsteps, and she quickly turned, drawing her aiodium maces, the metal being the same one her chest plate is made out of. “Look, I just restored the Sun, I don’t want to deal with another theft.” “Seriously Tal, you’re real uptight.” A woman said as Tailka lowered her maces and breathed a sigh of relief. “Alright Yalun, we need to talk.” “Right? About?” She said as Duke took off from Tailka’s shoulders and flew toward Yalun, hovering above her before landing on her right shoulder and snaking his head across to her left shoulder, cooing like a dove. “He-he. He likes you mea.” Tailka said as she crossed her arms. “Look I need you to talk to your father, Salun, eh, so Kingdom of the Diseased stole the Sun, I got it back thanks to Duke, talked with Syphus and he can provide a trade deal. Mychor Whale oil in exchange for their edible mushrooms. Trust me, they are good. That way you don’t have to rely on the sun for only one part of the year and not the entire year.” “Tal, that is a good idea. I don’t know though. But I’ll talk with my father.” Yalun sighed as Tailka smiled. The two held hands but steam began to radiate off of them. They let go, and chuckled. “You’re doing everything you can for the Kingdoms. Maybe Hayla is right, maybe peace will come to the Twelve Kingdoms at last.” “Peace? You really think that? How do you find peace with a Kingdom that believes in war, worships it like his life depends on it. Worst of all, he’s my father.” “You do things peacefully, and yet you’re not afraid to fight.” “My father killed me a few years ago when I tried to talk to him.” “Just put them to the side. Unite the reset of the Kingdoms. Eleven against one, and possibly the rest of the Gods. That is all it takes.” “I have to convince so many Kingdoms, and yet, I feel, I feel I can do it.” The two Gods turned to leave, with Duke in pursuit. “So, who is next?” Yalun asked with a smile as Tailka began to cackle. “Your father, then the Kingdom of the Dead.” |
Chapter 1 As Eloise clutched her stuffed rabbit to her chest, the woods around her seemed to grow even larger. The little girl’s eyes widened as the solemn moonlight peeked through the leaves. This morning she never would have thought she would be in this situation. Eloise turned slowly in a circle as she tried to remember how she got here. For an odd reason, everything mushed in her brain, and no memories seemed very clear. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. A stick snapped under her foot and she closed her eyes. Slowly opening an eye as she took more steps, Eloise felt more confident as she searched the woods around her. She was eight today, and knew nothing could get in her way. Of what? She wondered. What could nothing get in her way of? The young girl sighed and looked into the smooth black eyes of her rabbit. “What do I do, Cotton?” Eloise asked her rabbit, “What is going on, w-why am I here?” She started to cry and stumbled over a log. *Gasp* A log! She must be near a river, or a body of water of some sort! Eloise looked around and scrambled towards a thinning of the trees ahead. A river ran in the clearing. She knelt and set her rabbit down as she cupped her hands. She dipped her hands in and drank, not knowing before how thirsty she was. Impulsively, Eloise stood up and started walking downriver, after picking her rabbit back up. Her legs and feet aching, she came across a lone log cabin standing near the river. Almost in a trance, the little girl slowly walked up to the front door and knocked. Eloise quickly pulled her hand back and wondered if that had been a good choice. Using her young looks to her advantage, she hugged her rabbit and stared at the door. A young woman opened it, with a broom in one hand and a baby on her opposite hip. “Mom?!” Eloise said wide eyed as a memory popped into her head. ‘“Blow out the candles, Eloise! Make a wish sweetheart.” Her mother said as Eloise sat in front of a cake with eight candles. Her mom held her hand as she closed her eyes. I wish ...’ Chapter 2 The woman looked surprised, “I’m sorry, but I think you’re thinking of someone else,” she started to close the door, “Bye.” “Um, wait, I’m sorry. I was wondering where I am and if you could please give me, uh, directions.” Eloise startled when the door shut on her face, again wondering why she came here and how. Eloise clambered off the porch and looked back at the house. It was oddly familiar, but her mind couldn’t place where. .......... ‘Eloise sat at the dining table long after her mom and little sister disappeared. ‘ How? ’ She wondered, ‘ Why? ’ She was so confused. As she sat, she heard someone come up behind her. A needle poked into her back. Eloise started to scream but slowly fell into a deep, deep sleep...’ .......... Eloise walked and walked. She couldn’t make sense of the memories that came. For a second everything would seem clear, then everything would mush together again. Her little stuffed rabbit was all she had to accompany her on this journey. ‘Journey?’ Eloise asked herself, ‘What is going on?!’ “Cotton, I really am scared. I have no idea what is going on here, I wish you could help.” Eloise had collected leaves and layed down, “Tomorrow is the day I hope I find what I’m looking for. Answers.” Chapter 3 The young girl walked more in the morning, knew where to go, but did not understand how. As Eloise walked, she felt an odd freedom. The slight breeze flowing through her hair and tickling her neck felt wonderful. .......... ‘Eloise and her mom walked through a forest, holding hands and swinging them. The wind flew through their hair and made Eloise feel as if she was flying too. Her mother squeezed her hand and smiled sadly down at her, “I love you my little bluebird, no matter what happens, I love you.” Confused, Eloise just smiled and hopped down the trail, then opened the picnic basket...’ .......... Eloise finally came across... the same exact cabin she’d seen before! She must have gone in a circle, but Eloise was sure she couldn’t have been. The little girl hopped back up those steps and knocked on the door. She closed her eyes, scared to see the woman she thought was her mother again. This time, it was a middle aged man who opened the door. “Why, Eloise!” The man gestured inside, “Come on in darling girl, have a seat. We’ve been expecting you.” Eloise gaped at him, and, as if in a trance, she stumbled into the house. The man shut the door behind her and sat in a comfy looking chair. Eloise looked around and felt odd. This place was again familiar, and she gazed in wonder at the cabin around her. Fancy furniture was placed all around the room and many things were strewn across the floor. “Where are we?” Eloise asked, amazed and scared by the odd feeling in her stomach. “Soon enough, young one. Soon enough.” The man smiled mysteriously, “Come with me.” He gestured her towards him as he headed to the door. Almost as if being pulled by a string, Eloise felt compelled to follow him. The door opened to stairs, and they led downwards. .......... ‘“Never trust strangers, my little bluebird. Always stay near me.” Her mother walked down the stairs as Eloise followed. “I won’t, Mother, I won’t.” The young girl never knew why her mom was always so suspicious and stressed. “Good, now Eloise, please help me with...”’ .......... Downstairs, Eloise gasped and screamed, “Mom!! What- Why- I’m sorry but, guy, who did you say y-,” she looked around for the man, and realized he wasn’t there. The woman she thought was her mother was tied up and had cuts all over her face. There was a gag in her mouth and tears streamed down her ashen cheeks. Eloise searched for the baby and found her in an old carriage with a gag. A baby had a gag. Eloise ran to her mom after taking the baby and the gag out of her mouth. “Mom, I mean, um, ma’am, here,” She took her mother’s gag out and helped her up. “Go, run!” The woman said quickly, “Leave me here. Take the baby and run. Go and fly, my little bluebird!” Eloise shook her head and frowned. She was so confused. “Why is this all ha-“ She got cut off by a noise behind her. Turning around slowly, clutching the baby and her rabbit to her chest, she saw the man. “No, you can’t leave now,” He said smiling in a way that made Eloise shrivel up inside, “Can you?” To be continued... |
Author's note: This story is here because of an amazing person called Rayhan. He asked for a new story-which I had not given you Reeders in a long time- and I delivered. (WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE? GO FOLLOW HIM BUT FIRST READ THE STORY!) What's wrong with him? You touch your head and groan. There is a steady stream of blood running down it. Then you see your sloth. After rethinking your life choices, you wrench the sloth out of your bed and start screaming at it in slow motion, because it's a sloth and it's slow. The only language it can understand is slow. After tiring yourself with hoarse and scratchy slow-screeching, you flop back in bed, procrastinating on laundry and dusting. The sloth only makes it worse. As you drift off, you hear a bang and swore that you heard slow motion swearing. You jump up with a few choice words as well, regretting ever getting the sloth. The sloth has no name. You couldn’t afford to pay some affection for a cute, meaningful name like Mr. Cuddles or Flash. No, the sloth was just a worthless gift, used up like an empty toothpaste bottle, and can be thrown away just as easily. What you would give to be an animal-expert right now. How do they take care of pets? Soon, you wake up every night bleeding. On the best days you just get a scratch. On the worst, it's a bloody gash. If you are lucky, you get a prick. When you had planned to go for a walk, of course you weren’t planning for a stupid sloth to be right there on your doorstep. Of course you picked him up. And now, you wanted to scream at Past You for being so, so naïve. And then this whole “to have a sloth, or to whatever- since-you-didn’t-listen-to-your-teacher-Mrs. Something” How ridiculous. And when you finally stopped your train of thought your house was a mess. And your plans were ruined. You were going to step outside, splash in the newly formed puddles, go to the store and get a bagel, then loop back home. Instead, you picked up a sloth and now he’s ruining your room, terrorizing your sleep, and has sent you to the hospital for loss of blood many times. “Alright, so you want to send a sloth to jail? ” “Yes sir, for attempted murder and stealing.” “What?” “I’m telling you about a sloth so you and throw him in jail. Do you have a hearing problem?” “Pardon me, but you said you were reporting a sloth. What the hell did a sloth do to you?” “ATTEMPTED MURDER ON ME!!! YOU SEE THESE GASHES? HUH? SEE THEM? HE DID THAT!! THE SLOTH DID IT!!!” After that, you had to go to therapy. You hated it and beat up many chairs before you could leave. You ran to your unclean home, picked up the sloth, and grinned evilly. “So, Mr. Sloth. Let’s have a little chat.” Flinging him into a chair, you stood over him like a cat cornering a mouse. The poor thing looked at you and tilted it’s head. “As you know, you have been causing me trouble. My house is in shreds, my face hurts, I have multiple bills, everyone thinks I’m crazy, I think I’m crazy, and I know you know I know you know all that somehow fits into YOUR FLIPPIN’ FAULT YOU BEAST!” The sloth fell off the chair, and now you have much more bills to pay. As the days drag on, you prepare yourself for the war against your demon sloth. Cute and friendly it may seem, it’s actually a horrendous beast. Buried under those adorable eyes is a burning soul sent by the devil to hack your mind and snap your body in half, blood crawling down your whole body like the demon has sliced you many times. To hell with time; I have a war to win. In the ending, you won the war but lost the battle. Even when locked in it’s cage, it still tried to hypnotize you with its eyes. Eyes.... No! Snap out of it! You can’t fall prey to it! As you stumble and try to wake up, you notice that the sloth has escaped.. Again. The best way to get him back, you found, was to wear your bleeding scream mask and charge at it full speed while chanting “BUTTER STICK BUTTER STICK BUTTER STICK” And then the sloth will freeze in place. You just grab him with leather gloves and shove him in his cage. But this time, it was different. As you geared up, you saw him quietly come towards you, looking like a child walking it’s first steps. Then it slowed and seemed to turn around, stopping and judging you with those beady little eyes. You found yourself looking at them, unable to move or turn away as you felt the devil come to you. Or maybe not, you realized. The eyes were filled with something other than an otherworldly demon from an imaginary space in our minds. Warm. The warmth you feel when someone hugs you, the warmth that you get when you drink hot cocoa. The warmth that this sloth is showing right now. But why? I have been so mean to him. Why do I deserve this warmth? Then it hits you like a fire truck in reverse driven by a baby. It doesn’t care. It’s a sloth. Sloths love everybody. You gently pick up the sloth and carry it back to it’s cage. Then you think hard about your future with it. All the scratches you will receive, all the money you got to pay and all the screaming you probably will do (of course you will scream). But if you have your future with this little menace (well, maybe a cute little menace) then you got to have a name. You abruptly sit up straight, causing your sloth to stare at you. Squinting at him, you whisper: “How about...Ray?” Dedicated to.... Drumroll please: Rayhan Hidayat! For two reasons: 1. THE SLOTH’S NAME and 2. He’s so funny to talk to! And his stories and bio: JUST THE BEST Thanks Rayhan! Have a great day everyone! |
The stars are going out. My father and I are amateur astronomers. There’s a little hill behind my house, separated from it by a ten minute hike through brambles and fences and sleeping neighbors. We used to sneak out on school nights, when my mother was asleep and the world was waiting, and carefully pick our way out there, with only a flashlight and a sense of humor to guide us. It was our place, our time, and on that hill, with us under the stars and they under our lens, the whole world stood still for a moment, except for the wise old owl somewhere in the distance who cooed at us: “Hoo! Hoo!” Father taught me the names of the stars, and the stories people used to tell about them so long ago in far away places called “Greece” and “Rome.” Funny men in togas and wreaths. He told me about Cygnus, who spent days collecting the bones of his friend Phaethon which had fallen into the river Eridanus after Zeus had been forced to strike his father’s chariot out of the sky when he had lost control over it. The Gods turned him into a swan as a reward for his devotion. We would spend hours there, taking turns peeking through the telescope, first him, then me, then him again. And, for a few moments, they were all that existed: him and the stars. I learned a second meaning of “cancer” which the serious man in the white coat hadn’t told me when he gently explained that my mother was going to die. There was no talk of stars -- just daunorubicin and radiation. I asked if she would glow like the men in the comic books, and she said no, with a wetness in her eyes. We didn’t talk about sad things on the hill. That was the rule. Not even after the funeral. The hill was for him and me and the stars. “That’s Orion,” Father told me, putting a hand around my waist and pointing with the other one. “Which one?” I asked, after he helped me up to the lens. “It’s...” but, he trailed off. “What is it?” I asked. “The stars,” he said, breathlessly. “The stars are going out.” He was right. One by one, the little points of light were shutting off. Father took out his phone and dialed a number. It was late, but Rob answered anyway. “Rob? Look out your window and tell me what you see.” There was a pause, and then he answered. “Yeah, I see what you mean, they really are...” And then the line went dead. “Rob?” Father asked. “Rob?!” No response. And, that’s when I saw it -- the blackness, like a wall of ice rolling towards us. The brambles and the neighbors and the field between the fence and the hill were all being sucked up in the blackness. “What’s happening?” I asked, and Father wrapped me up tight in his arms. “It’s okay, Care-Bear,” he said, his words muffled by my hair. “It’s okay,” he said, again and again. “I don’t understand,” I said, and a tear fell from my cheek. “I’m here,” he said, kneeling down in front of me, and taking my face in his hands. “I’m not going anywhere, Caroline, no matter what, I pro...” But, he never got to finish. Suddenly, I was all alone. “Hoo! Hoo!” I heard, somewhere off in the distance. |
"Pardon me," a woman says as she tries to navigate her way through a crowded sidewalk to her cab. “Pardon me,” I say mockingly, pretending to do the same. “O, why do you even go the lengths to mock these people, they can’t even hear you!” Sheldon said. “Well, some can,” I say smiling big. Sheldon rolls his eyes and we both continue down the busy city street. “I mean seriously, who talks like that; no one.” “Why do you always have an attitude,”? Sheldon responded with annoyance, “This has been an everyday thing and I’m wondering if this is going to be you for the rest of my lifetime.” “WHAT LIFETIME, WERE DEAD!” I yell. We both stopped and looked at each other. It had been a year since the car accident. My boyfriend, my best friend, her boyfriend (Sheldon) and I were T boned. The passenger side where Sheldon and I were sitting was struck hard killing us instantly. “I also don’t have to be reminded every 5 minutes of that either.” We continue to walk. “I’m sorry, you’re right. But it’s all so confusing.” Sheldon nods in agreement. “I mean nothing is like I thought it would be when I died, you know. I though you die then you get judged, then you live your life in either heaven or hell.” “What life remember?” Sheldon says slightly joking but with understanding. “But I get it.” “Thank you, I keep wondering if this is hell? Living, or whatever we’re doing.” “Being.” Sheldon said. “Right being in the living world but not in it. I guess being on the underside of the living world. Having consciousness, but technically not having a body. Like I can see you, but I don’t see a body I just see a... a... a soul.... a persona... a..” “A being.” Sheldon says. We both chuckle. “A being really describes it perfectly.” “Then why are you so confused?” Sheldon questions. “Well because we technically don’t have a body. And we know that emotions are stored in the body, so I’m trying to figure out why I have emotions and why I can feel them intensely’? Sheldon gives me a puzzled look. “I don’t know. I feel like I can feel my emotions and my emotions of my past lives even though I can’t remember me having a past life. Well besides the last life. I’m not sure if I would call it my past life or my last life.” Sheldon laughs. “See how confusing this is. I also didn’t expect to be in middle earth with no way out of here. No one to talk to but fellow ghosts, until they just randomly disappear. I thought the worst that could happen was dying. My whole life I have literally held on to the fear of dying. Just to realize that dying was the easy part. It’s dying and not having anywhere to go afterward. It’s dying and seeing anyone I want to see, but they can’t see or hear or touch me. O, why didn’t anyone warn me?” “And who was supposed to do that, Sheldon asked. “A ghost of course!” I say with feigned enthusiasm. “Look at it this way. You can go wherever you want to go. See any and every place you ever imagined. Observe. And absorb. Do you know anything about oneness. Mindfulness. I think that sort of thing could prepare you better than anyone’s expertise about death.” Sheldon said in a matter-of-fact way. “I’ve heard of oneness and mindfulness, but I’ve never practiced it before. Why do you think mindfulness is the key to escaping hell.” I said frankly. “Because that’s the only cure to loneliness that I have found. And that sounds like the problem you are having.” “It is a plethora of problems I’m having.” I say clearly frustrated “Whoa, whoa wait. Time out. WE ARE DEAD as you like to remind me every so often. Are you telling me that your problems have yet to cease?” Sheldon asked. “I am telling you that I’m still suffering.” I say. We walk in silence. I watch the cars go by and listen to the hustle and bustle of the city. Manhattan is just like I remember it. It was my favorite place to visit when I was in college. Sheldon was right. I can go anywhere I want. Do anything I want. But here I am finding a reason to sulk. Well, isn’t that what ghosts do. I smile to myself at the thought of identifying myself as a ghost. I am not a ghost I wanted to so proudly say, think, and feel. The reality of the situation is that I am a ghost. A ghost stuck in the underside of the world. Death is prison, I keep thinking. “You are going to turn into one of those hooded crypt keeper looking ghost if you don’t learn.” Sheldon utters. “Learn what?” I ask. “Acceptance.” Sheldon says. Acceptance, I think, is this man crazy? Who would accept such a horrible fate? What I am experiencing is total and complete nothingness every day. My mind is plagued with the thought of what was. The crazy most paradoxical thing is that when I was alive all I could think about was what was to be. The future. Here I am now, with no future, just another past life. We arrive at the Empire State building. I look up at its massive stature. I am ready to go up. We could just float to the top of the building but being human for a lifetime conditions you to remain within the confines of the laws of physics at times. We decide to take the elevator. One thing about being a ghost, I can choose the experiences I want to have. Not just whether we’re going to Guam or Tokyo, but whether I want to experience things as a human or a ghost. We get to the top and Sheldon and I float the roof and take a seat. “The city is beautiful.” I sighed. I close my eyes and imagine what it would have been to see this when I was alive. “You have to stop doing this” I say to myself out loud. “What”? Sheldon asked genuinely concerned. “I have to accept this life as a ghost Sheldon.” I will forever keep torturing myself. It’s been a constant struggle for a year and I can feel myself turning into the grim reaper himself.” “O so you are deciding to take my advice finally. Look I’m not perfect. Sometimes I dwell too, but the point is that this is final and we can’t change this. So, it’s better to just accept it. And practice mindfulness.” We both came together and sat in silence. I thought about my life; my now past life and I mourned. I mourned my family and my friends. I mourned my boyfriend, my job, and my future plans. One by one for hours, I mourned things, places, and people. After a while mourning began to feel like soul cleansing, and I knew that acceptance was what I needed. When I finally looked up at Sheldon, I could tell he was in a better place as well. I close my eyes and when I looked up again, Sheldon was gone. I began to feel my being floating involuntarily towards a light. It was too bright for me to look at, but I could feel the energy from the light drawing me closer. I didn’t fight. I had no more questions. I only had acceptance. Acceptance for what was, what is, what is to be. |
# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: Loose Ends William Tecumseh Sherman is famously known for this declaration. War is hell. Battles hard-won through personal sacrifice leaves scars far and wide on its . At this point in our stories some of our characters may have gotten a taste of that hell. The good news is that at this point in our stories, the fever pitch of conflict has died down. The worst is over, they say. No more buildings falling around people’s ears, no more and vengeance quests to find peace, no more running. The dust has to settle, and the crowds will clear out. Or at least that’s . The major conflict of this story may be over, but there’s still plenty to do, and things can still get worse (or better? ). *Oh and just a note for any dragon queens here: Ya burned Kings Landing and lost 2 dragons and a boyfriend along the way. Maybe slow your roll on making any drastic decisions, m’kay?* But enough of the tomfoolery. There’s one thing for sure: Lord of the Rings didn’t end when Sam and Frodo deliver their package to the fires of Mount Doom. When they reached the Shire it’d been decimated, and Saruman still had some tricks up his sleeve. The heroes of Middle Earth weren’t done yet, as it turns out. And neither are our protagonists in SerSat. It’s not all over yet. There are villages to rebuild, , will and testaments to write, , loyalties to shore up, commendations to dole out, and . **Things to think about this time around:** ? How will they treat those they had to go up against? How are their relationships going to change? Did they pick up some bragging rights and titles along the way? If your story is one of political or social dexterity, what messes have to be cleaned up in the wake of fallout? Was their morality compromised? What backlash do they face for making ? Is this a story of finding a way to work together, or is this going to look like a ? If your story is one of internal struggle, how does this arc affect how they will move on with their lives? Did , or what they needed? I’ll be the first to admit here that all of this is a lot to think about. What if your characters just... aren’t that deep? Sometimes it’s not that complicated. Sometimes after it’s all said and done, all that’s left to do is ​ **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **With the ranks whittling down as we close in on our final chapters, a boon has been granted from the writing gods on high! I give you:** **FIFTY! FIFTY MORE WORDS PER INSTALLMENT!** **That’s right, folks. For the last chapters you now may write \*up to 800\* words for the rest of the beats. I hope that helps wrap some precious words up,** **!** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 11/21, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Victors: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Xacktar, bringing us to new heights and a whole new world of sequel material. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/ColeZalias, showing that not every conflict is a battle of armies, but the victory can be just as hard won. **And two honorable mentions:** /u/Lynx_Elia, with a great juxtaposition of characters and how they see themselves and each other. And /u/Mazinjaz, for a great mixture of bringing us into the pitch of battle and then pulling us back down to earth with a dose of perspective. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 800** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **Victors** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule. |
I fell asleep without trying to. I was exhausted, but not tired. I was in my car. My friend, the stranger, in the passenger seat. We were good friends, both headed to the beach. I’ve never been to the beach, and I wished to know her better. There was a lot of people there. Mostly people I’ve met at least once. Some people were in the water in pairs, happy. Some stayed on the beach, comfortably separated. They all looked well. I took toward the water, ready to wade in its deep blue. Determination drove me as I weaved through the crowd. Close to the water I lost my friend, the stranger. I think she was beautiful. I caught a glimpse of her; she noted me. She came to me and grabbed my hand with both of hers. Her smile calmed me amidst the anxiety of the large crowd. She walked into the water ahead of me and I tried to follow. Another pair crosses our path between us and I lose sight of her for just a second. In that moment, she disappeared. I entered the water alone, ignored by the pairs of people already there. She was here somewhere, and I couldn’t abandon my friend. I searched in boredom, and was all too patient. Minutes passed by and the others started to notice me. I could tell by how they seemed so sad when they looked at me. The minutes turned to hours, then days. As I passed people by, still looking for her, they told me to abandon my search. They can’t tell me why, and they say nothing more. The melancholy looks from the people passed in my search, the advice I never heard yet could recite, and the loss of my friend, the stranger, who wanted to show me the ocean; all this overwhelmed me. I returned to shore, feet wet from the water. The sand was warm, and the people in the water stopped frowning toward me. I relinquished my guilt to a small cabin on the beach I had spotted. A tall old wooden fence almost blocked it from view from the water. The cabin was odd, no windows or doors. Lattice all along the bottom, it was almost impossible to see under the cabin. I sit on the blind side of the fence with the cabin. There’s a fire pit with no firewood or ash. This pit could keep me company, at least until my friend, the stranger, returns. *^There’s ^something ^under ^the ^cabin.* By the fire pit there was a collection of colored pencils. Nearly all had their head buried in the sand so that they stood straight up, as if someone had wanted their heads underground. Perhaps so the pencils couldn’t see that their color was taken from them, that they all were grey-white with clear lead. Moments passed. Thoughts of my friend, the stranger, crossed my mind. *^Something ^wants ^out ^from ^under ^the ^cabin.* I grab a few of the pencils that couldn’t stay under the sand. I align them with the rest so that they all were the same. All of their heads in the sand, blissfully unaware that they aren't what they assumed. It could only ever feel right, nothing more. *^She's ^coming ^out ^from ^under ^the ^cabin.* I’ve finally noticed. Black hair. Blue-grey skin. Her eyes were black holes and her teeth dripped with tar. She wore a familiar dress. *^This ^is ^who ^took ^the ^color ^from ^these ^pencils.* She looked like she’s been here all along. Why would she wait below this strange cabin? Or choose me? *^You ^wanted ^to ^be ^here.* She’s tearing the lattice, inciting dread within me. I grab the pencils from their place by the fire pit. In panic, I throw the white-washed pencils at the stranger. *^I ^never ^wanted ^to ^be ^here, ^not ^like ^this.* She doesn’t seem to notice the pencils. *^But ^how ^could ^she? ^She ^took ^their ^color ^from ^them!* The fire pit was filled with sand in my panic. I struggled, but I couldn’t get far. I could feel her cold breath. It felt like ice water pouring onto my skin. Goosebumps never came, I was content in my fear. *^I ^hate ^this.* Maybe if I had used the pencils as kindle for a fire, I could have warmed her heart. But I destroyed the pit and threw away the pencils in my panic and fear and now my damned hands won’t stop shaking. Everything in me screamed to stay still. She said “Don’t go anywhere.” Tar-dripping smile, cold breath getting heavy. A light faintly shines in the back of her throat as she splits her jaw. Her mouth now open, unhinged and wide like a snake, spews forth a dull light that engulfs me entirely. It feels more than cold. I feel a deep feeling, not unlike the pain of loss, wrap around my mind as my consciousness fades to a singular thought before falling asleep. *^Oh, ^how ^sorry ^I ^am ^to ^have ^lost ^my ^friend, ^the ^stranger. |
My grandfather has this quarter he is absolutely obsessed with. It cannot be replaced with just any old quarter. He has memorized every detail of this specific quarter - the date, the scratches, the tarnish of the metal. It’s a 1957 Philadelphia mint. It has a gash through Washington’s head that makes it distinguishable from other quarters and it has a chip on the tails side at the two o’clock position. I know this because he made me go through an entire cash register to find it. I took it from his nightstand one evening to go buy gum at the Quick Mart. The old man nearly lost his mind when he saw it missing. He was on all fours with a flashlight searching every nook and cranny, trying to retrace his steps, looking like he was about to cry. I was scared at first, scared by his behavior, scared to confess I spent it. I didn’t understand the importance of such an object. To me, it was loose change, no different than the other coins I scrounged up above the washer and under the couch cushions. I did my best to act normal, but I think I over did it and looked suspicious. Chewing the gum might have given me away as well. His eyes were like spotlights shining in my face as he questioned me about the gum. They weren’t real lights, but I was sweating nonetheless and broke, confessing. He sent me back to the store with the description of the coin and told me not to come home until I had it. Luckily, the guy behind the counter was understanding and not busy. He dumped the quarters out on the counter and helped me search. I felt like a fool going back up there to swap quarters. When I got home, I asked my grandfather what was so special about this one particular quarter. The year was 1962 when my grandfather, a seventeen-year-old Richard ‘Dick’ Gibbons, stepped onto Vietnamese soil for the first time. He was proud to serve his country the way his father and grandfather had before him, but he quickly saw the reality of war etched on the faces of young soldiers as they shuffled about the basecamp. Some of those young men were just returning from missions, their clothes and faces stained with dirt, sweat, and blood, their demeanor downtrodden. He was assigned to one such platoon. They barely had enough time to grab fresh socks and a slice of Spam before their captain explained to them their mission details. Dick felt his reserve weaken as he was faced with his first mission. He asked what it was like out there and his platoon looked at him in silence. A grizzled veteran of thirty years on his third tour, Sergeant Amos Wilkes, took Dick aside and explained to him the realities of jungle warfare as they geared up. “You never know where they’re coming from, kid. It’s their jungle. They’ll see you before you see them. The heat, the fatigue, the fear, it’s going to play with your mind. You won’t be able to tell a monkey’s screech from an enemy signal, a snake in the grass from an attacking foe. Keep your head on a swivel and your eyes and ears open at all times. What do you have for luck?” Dick shrugged, “I don’t believe in luck.” “Where we’re going, kid, a little luck doesn’t hurt. I keep the bullet that missed my heart by less than a centimeter during my first tour with me at all times. I got lucky and I take that luck with me wherever I go. Priest over there, he carries a pocket bible with him. Sanches has a Saint Jude pendant around his neck. Even the captain keeps a picture of his fiancé with him for good luck. Don’t underestimate the power of belief. Whether a person believes in something tangible or intangible, no matter how ridiculous it sounds, that belief has great power to comfort and embolden people through difficult times.” On their second day out, they were patrolling the jungle when they heard a jungle creature, something sounding like a large bird crying out. The sound made the captain halt and throw up his fist. Everyone stopped, surveying the area. Something shiny caught Dick’s eye on the ground. It was a quarter. He thought it was odd that a piece of American currency found its way around the world into an Asian jungle. He took it as a sign of good luck and bent over to pick it up as a gunshot rang out and a bullet zipped right over him and into another private’s thigh. Dick laid in the weeds staring in disbelief as the medic dragged the private to safety. A firefight broke out. With every click and bang, Dick flinched and flattened himself closer to the ground. Wilkes came running at him in a crouch through the weeds. “Get in the fight,” Wilkes commanded as he grabbed him by the collar and pulled him along. “We’ve got them on the run!” Dick ran alongside the sergeant who was following the captain in their pursuit of enemy soldiers. The jungle opened up to a village with some makeshift stick huts and acres of rice fields in the background. The captain signaled search details. Dick was sent into one of the huts. He held his breath, trying to remain steady as he entered the hut. It was dark inside, not much light getting in except through cracks in the walls which just cast an eerie glow. He was immediately attacked, surprised by a man with a knife. It was close-quarters hand-to-hand combat and Dick was outmatched. The enemy had him pinned to the ground and was shoving his knife into his chest when Wilkes ended the altercation with a pistol shot to the man’s head. Dick pushed the man off him and scurried back against the wall. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the quarter which now had a gash in George Washington’s head. He held it up for the sergeant to see and said, “I think I found my lucky piece.” That was day two of a two-year tour. My grandfather said he witnessed some atrocious things in Vietnam, things he wouldn’t even tell me about. He said when he returned stateside, those things haunted him, keeping him awake at night. He said he could still hear the distant cries of soldiers being stabbed to death in the night. He said he could still see the faces of the dying, pleading for help, crying for their mothers with their limbs and guts lying beside them. He said he could still feel the cold breath of death on his neck when he was alone at night. He returned to his old habit of flipping the quarter from knuckle to knuckle just as he did in his fox hole at night in the jungle. The screaming stopped. The faces disappeared. Death didn’t feel so imminent. So, maybe his sergeant was right, belief is a powerful thing in the minds of those who believe, especially when that belief is resolute enough to be called conviction. I wouldn’t have spent that quarter had I known its significance to my grandfather. It was humbling listening to his story. He lived through something I can’t even imagine living through and he attributes his survival to his quarter. Besides, if believing in something gets him through the night, who am I to judge. |
Riding the bus is like riding a bicycle. Once you get it down, it comes right back to you, no matter how many years have passed. I stood at the chilly bus stop, sharing a shifty silence with half a dozen commuters, all of us peering in the same direction and fingering our bus passes, or tugging at the zippers of our jackets. I felt myself slip into the old routine easily as if no vast moat of time sat between now and when I had ridden this bus almost every day, years ago when I had still been friends with Caroline. When Caroline was still alive. The news had come as a numb shock, like a poison dart taking me in the ribs. Someone posted something somewhere about a memorial service, and a few clicks later I was staring at a Facebook page riddled with posts about how much she was loved, how beautiful she was, how much they would miss her. There was a hollow lack of reality to interacting with her death through a screen. I scrolled through the posts in the same way I scrolled to the bottom of a recipe on the hunt for an ingredients list. Caroline was dead and no one had told me. Well, it wasn’t the most surprising. We hadn’t spoken in almost a decade. Our lives, once tightly wound around each other, had segmented and split, spiraling off in different directions with only the roots left in common. But the wound festered. I thought about her at night and in my warm car and while I washed dishes and any other time my mind was given the chance to wander. It wandered right back to her. By the time I found myself booking a plane ticket I had missed the memorial services. My hands planned the trip almost independently as if they had been conspiring with my subconscious and found themselves with a majority vote. I took a week off work and sat in my hotel room for a day and a half wondering what the hell I was doing before, again without my full consent, my legs took me down to the bus stop. I didn’t have to think. My body knew where to go. The bus was very crowded, and I had to stand near the front, swaying next to the driver and flattening myself against the rail as people got on and off. It’s a meditative thing, riding the bus to the very last stop. You get to see all these little slices of other people’s lives--the parts that they probably won’t tell anyone about when they get home because it’s just a tunnel between places. I watched a woman laden with bulging shopping bags deflate into a seat for several stops before she clambered off again, squeezing out between the backs of other passengers. I listened to a man talk to someone very loudly on a headset about his son. I eventually got my own seat, and then I watched the streets grind by, stop after stop, shop after shop, house after house, feeling that somehow centuries had passed, and simultaneously, no time at all. Many years ago, when I was a different version of myself, I did not take the bus alone. I had a very close friend with me, and we would make our way to the back where the seats are raised up a little and you can see the whole cabin. We would lean towards each other and laugh at the other passengers or about someone we knew, or listen to music, or draw on the same scrap of paper. It didn’t matter. It was ephemeral time-wasting while we sat in the tunnel between places. There was no meaning to the things that we said to each other or the jokes that we shared, but in the aggregate, they made up something that defined that time in my life more profoundly than the school I went to or the degree I was earning or books that I was reading. Caroline was shorter and louder than me. She had much better taste in music, and she always had a terrible boyfriend. She had more friends too, but when we rode out to the pier together, just the two of us, it felt like we were the only two people on the planet. I could almost feel her in the seat next to me, like an old habit. The bus was coming to the end of the line, almost empty now, and I was a lone astronaut, wandering on abandoned terrain. The pier was not popular in autumn. The sky was a solid mass of grey and the water was angry and choppy. A solitary fisherman was casting hopefully into the black water as I crossed the boardwalk. The next bus would not come for at least forty-five minutes. A wave of hopelessness came upon me like a riptide. It had been a journey that I felt compelled to take, something my sleepless mind had convinced itself that I must do if I was ever to rest again but standing there with the chilly wind slicing at my face, I felt more frustrated and emptier than ever. From where I stood, I could see the little strip of beach where we had spent so many afternoons sunbathing. The tide was high now, playing violent peek-a-boo with the sand. Caroline and I used to pick up little bits of broken shell and sea glass, sparkling like treasure in the salty twilight. They never seemed to glisten the same way when we took a pocketful home, as if being separated from the sea stole some magic out of them. We would walk down to the end of the pier as we waited for the last bus and drop them off the side instead, back into the ocean so that maybe someday we could find them again. If I had been a better friend, I might have had some of Caroline’s ashes. I might have wished her a soulful goodbye and sprinkled her like treasure back into the waves. But I didn’t have anything like that. I didn’t know if she was ash or if she was preserved underground somewhere. I hadn’t even thought to bring anything with me. I wondered darkly for a moment if I should toss myself off the side of the pier and then swim to shore. That would at least give me something to do besides just standing there scowling at the ocean. I was halfway through deciding that the trip had been a colossal waste of resources, moments from calling a taxi to take me out of that place when a swish of movement and a squeal of brakes caught my attention. Another bus was pulling up at the stop. The wind picked up again and blew my hair across my face. I felt a few drops of rain come with it. I squinted at the bus, trying to make out its route and wondering if I should run for it before I got soaked, but it was already pulling away again, leaving a lone figure standing at the stop. I glanced away, pulling out my phone to call the taxi, but then I did a doubletake. There was something about the dark hair poking out from her hood, something about her stature, and the way that she leaned a little to one side that reminded me so vividly of Caroline that I took a few steps toward her. Like she was my reflection in a mirror, she stepped toward me as well. The wind was growing stronger and, while it was not raining in earnest, icy drops kept splattering against my cheeks and jacket. I gripped the wooden railing of the boardwalk, feeling certain I was mistaken but determined to see for sure, and the figure continued toward me, picking her way across the short stretch of parking lot and boardwalk, taking the same small steps that Caroline used to take. Her arms were wrapped around her body like her coat wasn’t warm enough and as she drew closer, I could see that her nails were caked with dark soil. A tendril of fear uncoiled itself right below my heart, but I was rooted to the spot. The girl with Caroline’s face stopped in front of me and said, with Caroline’s voice, “Holy shit.” She separated it out into three distinct syllables, just like how Caroline used to. Ho-ly shit. It was her. “What are you doing here?” I said stupidly. The roaring wind, the waves, the fledgling storm, they were all conspiring to confuse me. There was nothing but cold fog inside my brain. A small frown drew her eyebrows together. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here? You dropped off the face of the planet.” “I thought you were dead,” I said, again stupid. “Oh, yeah,” she said unconcernedly. “I’m buried not too far from here. Just a hop, skip, and a jump.” She took my arm and pulled me toward the ocean. I caught a whiff of chemicals and freshly turned soil. “Come on, let’s walk down to the end.” Have you ever walked through a house that you haven’t lived in for a very long time? You still know how many steps it takes to get to your bedroom, when to twist your hips to avoid the edge of the counter, which stair is going to groan under your weight. I still knew how to walk down the pier with Caroline. It should have been strange and surreal and scary to walk out over the open ocean with a girl who just climbed out of her grave, but it wasn’t. It was like riding a bicycle. “I’m glad I ran into you,” Caroline said cheerfully as we walked arm in arm. “But you picked a terrible day for it.” She squinted up at the squally sky, still spitting little bullets of rain in our faces. “I didn’t really plan it,” I mumbled. “I just tried to do what felt right.” She looked at me sideways. “Right. Same as how you ran away after college?” “I didn’t run away,” I protested, flustered. “I got a job . ” Caroline shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. But I missed you, you know. I wish we had stayed friends.” Suddenly tears stung the corners of my eyes and something terrible was pushing at the inside of my mouth, trying to burst out through my lips, my nose, my tear ducts. I had missed her too, of course. Even before we stopped speaking altogether, I had missed her. Something changed, slowly, over many months. The trips to the pier had dried up in place of a dozen parties I wasn’t invited to. By graduation, our friendship was listing badly, and when I moved away it was as if it had never existed at all. Some friendships are like that, I had told myself. You set them down, but when you pick them back up again, there they are, no signs of decay. I turned toward her, not sure what to say, or even if I would be able to say it, but Caroline was smiling. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “It means a lot that you came.” “I’m sorry I was a bad friend,” I whispered, voice like shattered glass. “It’s okay ,” she said again, more insistently. “I’m just giving you a hard time.” We had reached the end of the pier and Caroline leaned out over the ocean; her arms splayed out on the wooden railing. I wanted to lean out over the edge with her and share in that feeling of wild freedom we used to revel in, but I had swathed myself in a cocoon of shame and trepidation and I hung back. She looked around at me and folded her arms. “So, what’s your plan?” I looked at her questioningly. “Well, you came all the way out here, I’m assuming because you felt bad, so what’s next? What now? What feels right ?” There was a hint of mockery in her voice. It was the same tone she used to use while telling me I was fucking up a relationship or overthinking a perceived slight. “I guess I wanted to say goodbye,” I said, lamely. “You’re not doing a very good job.” There was a little smirk at the corner of her mouth. “Come on, bare your soul a little.” I was starting to feel frustrated again. Frustrated, confused, and a little indignant that my private farewell party had been crashed by Caroline herself. But, I reflected, if not for Caroline, I might be in a taxi already. I would have given up and run away. “Okay,” I began, “Okay, I’m sorry I missed your funeral.” Caroline rolled her eyes. “Whatever, those are for the living anyway.” “I’m sorry I never reached out,” I said, a little angrily. “What are you apologizing for?” She scoffed, “I didn’t talk to you either after you left. That stuff doesn’t matter anymore.” I paused. She was right. That vast chasm of years I had been trying so hard to breach was undeniable. It existed. It had happened. It was there. I tried again. I took a deep breath, and then I told her about how her favorite band was still my favorite band, and about how I still drank vodka-crans to celebrate something good. I told her about how I still looked for seaglass and about how riding the bus still felt more like an adventure than a chore. I told her about how my life was infused with so many artifacts of her and of us when we had been the best of friends. I stopped knowing what I was saying and just said it, and it felt good. It felt like some poison was being extracted and my blood was finally clean. When I was done Caroline was smiling again. “Feels right,” she said, and I didn’t know if she was talking about herself or me. I nodded. The wind had dried the tears on my cheeks. They felt salty and raw. “Come up here,” she said, and she hauled herself up on the railing again, bringing her legs up so she was straddling the railing, one leg dangling over the ocean. In retrospect, I should have been nervous. I probably should have said no, but something inside me had cracked open, so I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I clambered up on the railing too, straddling the salt-stained wooden beam next to Caroline. There was a moment of terrible vertigo as I made direct eye contact with the churning ocean, waiting to eat me alive. But as I found my balance, I started to laugh. It was like flying. I was riding the world. The wind surged and threatened to push us off, but we stayed up there, laughing like teenagers until the seat of my pants grew uncomfortably damp and I became aware that the light was fading fast. The moment waned like melting snow, and we returned to solid ground. Night was falling. The water was growing darker, and I could see the fisherman was packing up down at the bottom of the pier. I felt cold and windswept and raw in more ways than one, but the stone in my chest felt lighter like part of it had dropped away into the sea. We started back down the darkening pier. In my glossy memories, the boardwalk was lined with vendors, people on bicycles, and families chasing children. Today it was a ghost town, a desaturated photograph, no life at all. “I should come back in the summer,” I said, unsticking the backs of my jeans from my legs and shivering. “I’d like that,” Caroline said, and then she smirked. “Do you remember that time when we got stuck out here?” “That time those guys bought us margaritas?” “Yes! We missed the last bus!” She was laughing. “How did we get back? Didn’t one of those guys give us a ride?” “That was so sketchy! God, I never drank tequila again.” We were both laughing now, remembering the nervous glances we cast each other in the back seat of a stranger’s car. We had reached the end of the pier and our laughter faded and we were left looking at each other. I wished fervently that I could have more. More laughter, more memories, more to savor. Everything was fading. “I can’t go with you,” Caroline said, reaching out and squeezing my hand. “But when you come back, I’ll be here.” I squeezed back. Her flesh was cold, bones shifting beneath icy skin. I felt the sting of tears again. “You’re everywhere.” I could see my bus down the street, lumbering along towards the very last stop. It was time to go. I jogged across the boardwalk and the small parking lot, thinking longingly of a change of clothes, my warm hotel room, even the stuffy interior of the bus. As the doors slid open with an inviting squeal, I turned and looked back over my shoulder toward the pier. I could still see Caroline standing there at the end, silhouetted against the fading light of the murky sky. |
Melissa wasn’t looking forward to another wedding. She definitely wasn’t looking forward to going to her 20-year- old niece’s wedding when she was a 42-year-old old maid. Old maid, that wasn’t a term that was still used anymore, but that was how she felt. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had been on a date. She had dated a lot when she was younger, but she hadn’t found anyone she was compatible with. Now, it was even more difficult; most of the men she knew were married. Her only options were the few divorced men she knew, but they only seemed interested in beer and football. Melissa wanted a man she could have deep conversations with. She wanted a man she wasn’t afraid to share the poems she wrote with. Although, she was afraid to share her poetry with anyone so that was probably wishful thinking. She had become resigned to the fact that she would probably be single for the rest of her life. It really only bothered her when she had to go to weddings, and she had been to a lot lately. Melissa was full of so many conflicting emotions. She was very happy for her niece, Amber, but she was also filled with loneliness. She decided writing a poem might help her sort out her feelings. Happy But Lonely I am so happy for you But I am filled with loneliness I love you so much But when is it my turn For love? Melissa wrote some of a poem, but she felt like it was garbage, so she crossed it all out. She then sat on her floor with tears streaming down her face. She thought, what is wrong with me? I’m a horrible writer. Why do I think I can teach my students to write when I can’t even write myself? Why am I so emotional? I can’t even think about going to a wedding without having a breakdown, no sane man would want to date me anyway. * * * * * * * * * * Victor tried to pull on his dress pants. They didn’t button at first; he needed to suck in his gut to get them to button. He, sadly, remember the last time he had put on these pants. It had been two years ago for his wife’s funeral. He figured it had been all his stress-eating that had made his pants fit a little tighter. Sarah had died suddenly from a brain aneurysm. It had been a shock for Victor and his daughter, Eleanor, who had been five at the time. Lately, many of his friends had told Victor it was time to move on, but how did a 45-year-old single dad even move on anyway? His co-worker, Jason, had invited him to his wedding. He said, “Hey, maybe you can meet someone there.” Since Jason was only 22 Victor doubted there would be very many eligible women around his age at the wedding, but he just smiled and said he would be there. Victor didn’t think he would be compatible with a woman in her 20s and he doubted most of them would want to date a single dad, anyway. A ring at the doorbell startled Victor from his thoughts, was the babysitter here already? “Hello,” Victor said as he opened the door, “Sorry, I lost track of time, what time is it?” The teenage babysitter, Mary looked at her phone, “5:30.” “Oh, no!” Victor exclaimed, “I need to go! There’s a frozen pizza you can make for dinner, thanks, Mary.” He gave Eleanor a hug and kiss and started to run to his car. “Um, Sir,” Mary said unsure. “What?” Victor asked, a little annoyed. “Um... you don’t have a shirt on.” Victor’s cheeks turned red as he looked down at his bare chest. He got so distracted after he put on his pants he had forgotten to put on a shirt. “Oh, wow! Thanks, Mary.” He went into his room and grabbed the first dress shirt he saw. Victor tried to put his shirt on while he was driving, but it was too difficult to button up while driving. He raced to the church saying to himself, “don’t be late, don’t be late.” When he got there, it was 5:55, the wedding was supposed to start at 6. He ran inside, buttoning his shirt as he went. He sat down in an open spot at the back of the sanctuary. * * * * * * * * * Melissa tried not laugh as she noticed the man who sat down at the end of the pew she had been sitting in. He had clearly been trying not to be late to the wedding. She noticed he missed a button on his shirt. She figured she didn’t have a right to laugh anyway. She had almost missed the wedding because she had been crying about her loneliness. As she kept looking at him, she noticed he was kind of handsome. He was bald which Melissa found quite attractive. He had some stubble on his face. It seemed like he had either forgotten or hadn’t had time to shave before the wedding, but Melissa couldn’t stop looking at his face. She thought, I wonder what it would be like to kiss him. She tried to look at his left hand to see in he was wearing a wedding ring, but then he looked at her and she turned away. She blushed when she realized she had been staring for quite a while. * * * * * * * * After the woman turned away, Victor continued looking at her. She was beautiful. He realized it was the first time he had thought that about another women since Sarah had died. The woman he was looking at had dark, ringlet curls that shaped her face perfectly. He wished he could move closer so he could see what color her eyes were. He wondered if she would mind dating someone with a daughter. Then he realized he was getting way ahead of himself. He didn’t even know this woman. “You may now kiss the bride!” Oops, Victor and Melissa thought simultaneously, they had both missed the whole wedding because they were busy thinking about each other. At the reception, Victor and Melissa happened to be seated next to each other. Melissa noticed Victor wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, “Hi I’m Melissa,” she said shyly. “I’m Victor, how do you know Jason and Amber?” “Amber is my niece, what about you?” “I work with Jason.” “Oh, you work at the lumberyard, too?” Melissa wondered what his biceps looked like under his long-sleeve shirt. “Yes, what do you do?” Melissa shocked herself when she said, “I’m a writer. I mean, I like writing. I’m a teacher.” “Oh, really? I have a 7-year-old daughter. What grade do you teach?” “I teach middle school English.” “I bet you’re great at that. What do you like to write?” “Well, I write poems sometimes.” “I’d love to read one sometime.” “Well, I don’t really share them with people, I don’t even know why I told you about them.” Melissa looked around the room for a place where she could be alone with her embarrassment. Victor sensed that she wanted a change of subject, “This is the first wedding I’ve been to since my wife died.” Then he realized his mistake, talking about his dead wife probably wasn’t good flirting material. Melissa didn’t seem to care about his awkwardness, “I’m sorry, she said, “when was that?” “About 2 years ago, she had a brain aneurysm, so she just died unexpectedly one day.” “That must have been very hard.” “Yes, but um, sorry, I didn’t mean to be a bummer. What about you? Have you been married?” “No, I’ve never been married.” “Well, maybe we’ll have to change that some time.” He couldn’t believe those words came out of his mouth, “Sorry, I clearly don’t know what I’m doing,” he laughed. Melissa smiled, “Is this our first date?” she teased. Melissa and Victor talked for most of the wedding. They learned so much about each other. Victor told Melissa all about Eleanor and she seemed to be sincerely interested. Melissa told him about her job teaching and about how she had a dream to be a writer, but she didn’t think it would ever happen. Eventually, the bride and groom were cutting the cake. Victor looked at his watch, “Oh no, it’s 11:00! I told my babysitter I’d be home by 11. I need to go.” They exchanged phone numbers quickly and promised to see each other again. As Melissa watched him leave, she thought it was possible she might not be single forever. As Victor lay in bed that night, his mind kept wandering to his conversation with Melissa. It had been wonderful; he was so excited to see her again. He was trying to remember the last time he had felt like this. Then he realized it had been 20 years ago, after his first date with Sarah. He realized it could be possible to fall in love again. |
So there was this girl. She glowed. Like she was made out of christmas lights. The first time I saw her, I just thought, “Oh man, what a cute chick.” But that’s it. I didn’t really give her a second thought. I just went on with my life. She was really beautiful, but there are a lot of really beautiful girls in this world. Like, I see beautiful girls all the time. But, then, I soon saw this specific beautiful girl again. And again. And again. I just kept randomly seeing her at different places. And I wasn’t even sure if it was really the same girl. It just seemed super weird that I’d keep randomly seeing her at different places like that. However, I was definitely inclined to think it was the same chick. Because, I mean, she fucking glowed, you guys. Like white sneakers in the back of Spencer's Gifts. Either way, the more I saw her; the more she stood out to me. And the more she stood out to me; the more I was able to determine that it was in fact the same exact chick. Eventually, I was able to learn her name. And I even managed to talk to her a little bit. And, yeah, she turned out to be coolest, my dudes. Just like unique and nice and super chill and funny. Seemed like she had dope interests and like a kindness to her heart. I mean, I still barely knew her. But, yeah, I don’t know, man, I just really liked her. I felt like she was so god damn special. It just seemed like she was exactly the type of girl I’d always wanted to meet, ya know. But, well, was I the exact type of dude that she’d always wanted to meet? You see, that was the question, my friends. Like, was her ideal Prince Charming a lazy, immature pothead with a lame job, a shitty car, a messy apartment, and a goofy looking face? I mean, it seemed technically possible, but... So, yeah, you know me, guys. I didn’t go for it. I just didn’t have the confidence to try and make anything happen. I didn’t want to seem like a character from Monsters Inc thinking he had a shot with one of chicks from Frozen. But I still kept seeing her, man. Randomly, all of the time, at different places. And, of course, every single time, she glowed. Like Rainbow Road. Alright... So... I’m not really sure exactly when it started, but, eventually, without me even realizing it; I kinda started to dress a little nicer each day. Nothing crazy, but, ya know, I just began to try and look a little less homeless than usual. Just in case I saw Glow Girl that day. And again, it wasn’t anything insane. I just payed a little more attention to how I looked before I left my apartment each morning because I never knew when I might see her. And, like I said, I didn’t even really realize it. But it was soon pointed out to me. By like multiple people. My boss mentioned something about me looking more professional lately. My parents kept telling me how oddly nice I looked when I saw them. This super cute chick at the coffee place I go to started complimenting my sweaters. It was kinda awesome. But it was also kinda weird. Because I did quickly put together that the only reason I was dressing nicer was because of Glow Girl. But nobody else knew that obviously. So they all just made it seem like I was finally getting my shit together or something. And I clearly knew that wasn’t the case. I was still just the lame, insecure, neurotic loser who ate fast food every night, smoked too many cigarettes, drank about ten pots of coffee a day, and cried during rom-coms. But, well, that’s when I started thinking... Like, okay, stay with me here. I knew I sucked. You guys know I suck. But Glow Girl did not know that I sucked. And, like, so far, all I had done was dress just a tiny bit nicer. But, already, people were kinda acting like I sucked less. So, it was like, maybe I could just do more of this, ya know. Like, maybe I could just pretend I really was finally getting my shit together. I mean, I had absolutely no intention at all of actually getting my shit together. But, well, who said I couldn’t pretend to. I knew I was never going to be the type of guy that Glow Girl would picture herself ending up with. But, in reality, I didn’t really have to be that type of guy. I just needed her to think that I was. I was already randomly seeing her all the time at a bunch different places. I figured all I really had to do was pretend to be a much better person than I actually am whenever I was around her. Alright... So... Operation Good Guy went into effect. Now, I had already begun dressing a little nicer, but I kinda wanted to up the ante. So I went out and bought just like a ton of new clothes. Nothing too fancy or expensive or anything, but just, ya know, stuff that was an improvement over the same shit I’d been wearing since high school. Then, I called up my hairdresser, White Rihanna, and I got a dope haircut. And, I gotta admit, I looked good. Well, as good as I could. I wasn’t exactly able to improve the overall goofiness of my face or anything. However, you know what they say: you can’t always change the picture, but you can usually give it a fucking sweet frame. Okay, maybe they don’t always say that, but they should. Either way, I was no longer just hoping that I’d see Glow Girl every day. I was now also hoping that she’d see me. And, well, that’s when I started thinking... Like, I’d been randomly seeing Glow Girl all the time at different places, right? So, it would stand to reason, if I went out more often, to more different places: I’d probably randomly see Glow Girl more. I mean, we lived in a pretty fucking small town, man. The more I was out and about; the more I was gonna run into this chick. And, don’t get me wrong, I didn’t want to do anything, ever, other than just sit in my shitty apartment smoking weed, eating candy, and playing xbox. I definitely didn’t want to go out and just do stuff. However...I could pretend I did. So I started just, like, going out and doing more stuff, dude. I mean, my friends had always texted me a lot to meet up for drinks or whatever, but I’d usually make up some excuse as to why I couldn’t go. But, yeah, I don’t know, I just started saying okay and meeting up with them. And we’d usually end up having a lot of fucking fun. I also started kinda hanging out with my family more often. I’d always gotten along great with my family, but I’d usually only see them once every couple of weeks or so. But I just sorta started texting them and seeing if they wanted to go out to dinner and shit. And it was great. Sometimes it would just be me and my sister or brother. Other times just me and parents. A few times we got the whole crew together. It was just nice, ya know. And, sure, none of my friends or family knew the real reason I was suddenly going out so much with them was just to improve my chances of seeing somebody else. But, I mean, whatever. In the end, we’d always just have a great time together. So, I just felt like who cares, ya know. Now...having said that...guys, the plan was totally fucking working! Like, the more I went out, the more I randomly saw Glow Girl. And naturally she was always glowing. Like stars reflecting over the ocean. But, now, I felt like I looked kinda nice too. I wasn’t really sure whether or not she noticed. But something just told me she did, man. Still, would that be enough? I mean, anyone could dress nice. That alone wasn’t going to make me her dream guy or whatever. The rest of my life was still a giant fucking mess. But...then again...I could always pretend it wasn’t. Alright... So... My car was kind of like a piece of shit. And I obviously wasn’t going to go out and buy a new car. But I figured I’d just pretend mine wasn’t such a piece of shit. So I cleaned it and washed it. Went out and got some new stuff for the interior. Just tried to make it look decent, ya know. And, yeah, man, when I was done, it actually looked pretty good. Like, you’d totally think I was responsible and took care of it for years or whatever. My apartment was just sorta sad. Like, I’d been living there for a while, but there was barely anything in there. I had two bedrooms, but one of them was literally completely empty. So I just went out and bought some stuff. A bunch of new furniture, got some artwork for the walls, a couple of lamps, a few plants. I turned my empty spare bedroom into a neat little comic book covered office. I ended up making my whole apartment look pretty fucking dope. And, like, guys, I knew I’d probably never have Glow Girl in my car, or get her back to my apartment or anything. But, I mean, I just wanted to make it seem like my life wasn’t a giant mess. So, yeah, I just figured cleaning up my apartment and car would be a good way to start. And, you know what, dude, again, that shit kinda worked. Well, I mean, not really, but I was driving the one day, and I saw Glow Girl again. She was glowing of course. Like a raver’s plastic jewelry. She was with some friends, but she saw me and she waved. So, yeah, I just felt like having her see me in my newly washed and cleaned car was better than having her see me in the dirt box that it very recently was. Especially given that she was with her friends. And, well, that’s when I started thinking... Like, I had yet to really consider the fact that Glow Girl had friends. I mean, I obviously knew she would, but I just hadn’t really thought about it before. She was the fucking coolest so she probably had a million friends. And, ya know, we lived in a pretty fucking small town, man. So, like, she could be friends with people I passed on the street everyday, or random dudes I’d see out, or even like the super cute chick from the coffee place I go to who liked my sweaters. I mean, literally, anyone at all whom I encountered could wind up being her friend. Or if not her friend; maybe her neighbor, or like her cousin, or her old field hockey teammate. Like, the possibilities were endless. And, at first, I was like, FUCK. Because this whole time I had just been worried about what I looked like and how I acted when I saw Glow Girl. But now I realized that wasn’t going to to be enough. Because like, at anytime, I could be around people who knew her or were friends with her or whatever. But, the more I thought about that shit, the more I started to consider that it may in fact be a good thing. Because it was like, now, I could just pretend to be awesome, all of the time, around completely random people. And just assume one or more of them knew Glow Girl. Then, ya know, if my name ever came up, someone close to Glow Girl would just be like, “Oh man, that dude’s fucking awesome.” Alright... So... I just started pretending to be a better person than I am, to everyone, everywhere, all of the time. And I know that sounds kinda crazy, but it was actually remarkably simple. Like, I was just nicer to people. And friendlier. More generous. More caring. I gave people compliments for no reason other than to make them feel good. I went out of my way to help people whenever I thought they could use it. I just pretended to be a genuinely good dude, man. Like, I grew up idolizing superheroes so it really wasn’t that hard. I just did the type of shit I thought Chris Evans would do. But I didn’t stop with how I acted towards random people. I kept it going with how I acted when I was simply around random people. Like, I’d always see a ton of random people at the grocery store. Who knew which ones might end up being friends with Glow Girl. I figured I should just make myself look like a well put together individual in front of all of them. So I started buying like fruits and vegetables and actual food instead of just filling up my entire cart with sour patch kids and CT Crunch. This resulted in me not having to eat fast food as much which I saw as a secondary plus. Because no single guy looks great walking through their apartment’s courtyard with seventeen bags of Taco Bell. Eventually, this kinda led to the next step which was huge. Like, now that my plan was just to try look good in front of random people; there was one thing I definitely knew made me look bad. The fact that I had a cigarette in my mouth 24/7. I knew smoking was gross. I knew it made me look gross. Now I knew I had to stop. So I did. I mean, I’m not gonna lie, I didn’t quit completely. But I just decided I would never smoke in front of someone who could end up knowing Glow Girl. And since I assumed everyone could end up knowing her. That meant I couldn’t smoke around anyone. Combine that with the fact I refused to smoke in my newly cared for car, and the fact that my entire apartment complex was smoke-free; and, yeah, it wasn’t long until my pack a day habit was down to like just a few drunken cigarettes a week or so. Now, while all of this happening; I kept seeing Glow Girl. Still, all of the time, at different places. And, ya know, every time, she’d be glowing. Like a jerk’s cell phone screen in a movie theater. But, with each time I saw her; yeah, I mean, I don’t know, I just kinda talked to her a little more, you guys. And I started feeling way more comfortable doing it. I think it was just because I really believed my whole pretend to be a better person plan was working so well. Like, I knew in reality I was still a shitty person, but I just felt like I was totally passing as a pretend okay guy. And, like, man, I fucking loved talking to this chick. She just made me laugh. I made her laugh a lot too. And, yeah, that just made me insanely fucking happy. No, for real, like insanely fucking happy. Seriously, I just started being a lot happier, in general. It was like I suddenly didn’t hate waking up in the morning. I looked forward to what adventures my new pretend persona might get into each day. It was kinda as though Glow Girl just made my whole fucking world seem a little bit brighter. Soon, my newly found anti-pessimism spilled over into my shitty job. Like, my whole deal at work is basically just me talking to people and trying to get them to like me. And it turned out a happier me was a whole lot more likable. So I started doing kinda well. Like, improving my performance noticeably. And, more than that, I started having a little bit of fun with it. I was just in a better mood, doing better than I ever had, and it became sorta easy to kinda enjoy myself. My shitty job almost stopped seeming so shitty. Alright... So... I was now trying to look nicer each day. I was going out more and more often with my friends and family and having fun. I was taking good care of my car and my apartment. I was eating healthier. I was smoking way less. I was doing a lot better at work. I was trying to be an awesome person to everyone I encountered everyday. And I was the happiest I’d been in a long time. It really did seem like I’d finally gotten my shit together. And, well, I had to keep reminding myself that it was all just pretend. Because it started to feel pretty god damn real, you guys. Like, honestly, man, it just began to seem like my entire life had vastly improved. It felt like everyone liked me more. I know that sounds lame, but it’s true. I felt like I had more friends than I’d had since way back in the day. And it felt like girls were suddenly not totally against fucking me. No joke, I had two just like sorta random girls ask me out for drinks. I mean, shit, guys, that had literally never happened to me before in my life. And, well, that’s when I started thinking... Maybe this wasn’t all just pretend. I mean, like, I really had been doing all of this stuff that I thought would make me seem like a better person. And everyone was kinda treating me like I had become a better person. And I had kinda started to feel like I was truly being a better person. So, like, maybe I really was a better person? And, sure, this had all started as just a way for me to pretend to be the type of guy I thought Glow Girl would like. Because, ya know, she glowed. Like a five and half foot tall, girl-shaped lava lamp. But, it had turned into a lot more than that, you guys. I didn’t know for sure if I’d become the type of person Glow Girl would like. But I just finally felt like I’d become the type of person I liked. I didn’t feel like a piece of shit anymore. I was no longer embarrassed about the person I was. I felt the opposite actually. I was fucking proud of myself. Like, I really had turned into a pretty good dude. There was only one question remaining. Would I be good enough? Alright... So... The next time I saw Glow Girl, I was beaming with confidence. I was beaming with pride. I was beaming with excitement. In fact, I was beaming so god damn much...you could say I was glowing. I knew it was time to finally make my move. But, before I did, I made a promise to myself. No matter what happened; I wasn’t going to go back to the old me. I was just continue being the best version of myself that I could. Because even if Glow Girl still didn’t like me. That was fine. Because, for the first time in a long time, I liked me. And I knew that was way more fucking important. Still, there was no denying this had all started with her. She was the reason I had wanted to be a better person. She was the reason I had worked so hard to become a better person. And she was the reason I was so excited to be a better person. She was the girl of my dreams, you guys. I liked her so fucking much. I’m lame, and I believe in true love. I always have, and I always will. And, honestly; I really just felt like she might be it, man. I mean, she fucking glowed. Like she was made out of sunshine. So...I finally asked her out. Nothing major, I just asked her if she wanted to maybe get dinner together sometime. And... Well... Let’s all just pretend she said yes. |
“What have we got, Maya?” “Port and starboard are online, sir. Aft visuals are online. Forward visuals...” “Maya? Maya?!” “Forward visuals working fine, sir. Just messing with you.” “Ugh. When did you get a sense of humor?” “Sometime around the last staff briefing, sir.” “Well that was clearly a mistake. I’ll have to send you back.” “Yes sir,” Maya chuckled. “How are the legs holding up?” “Holding up fine, sir. Permission to leave dock?” “Granted, Maya.” And with that, the door slid open, and the universe revealed itself. Maya’s mech put one massive foot in front of the other. The suit came up to a total of fifty feet in height, ten tons in weight. She used the mech’s two massive hands to grab onto the edges of the dock, then launched herself into the endless night. “Are you squealing, Maya?” “I am indeed, sir,” Maya said though a wide, toothy smile. “You’ve been out here before.” “And yet it never gets old.” The distant stars, dead yet undying, called to her, and she forced herself not to reach for them. She turned left, and the torso of her behemoth rotated on its axis before being joined by the legs. Stella Eranti took a more complete view as Maya drifted further out. She was to stay at a half-mile perimeter as she circumnavigated that floating city, to prep her for patrol duty. A week prior, she’d woken up in her pod. The barracks’ design was taken from old Japanese hotels, cots built into walls inside of folding doors. Apparently the aim was to save space and help the troops overcome any latent claustrophobia they might be suffering from. Maya, as far as she remembered, had never had that problem. Tight spaces had only ever been cozy to her. They’d opened her door, pulled her out, and told her she was going to pilot the *Maisu*. Nobody was entirely sure where the *Maisu 0* came from. It was an old model of mech rig, and it was found in an unclaimed solar system. On the planet now called Rangi, a massive sprawl of green sand and boulders, they’d found her. Buried beneath what was eventually decided as a collapsed mineshaft, they found her. The most perfectly designed mech-rig ever imagined. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been preserved well, but after several years of debate over who could claim ownership, the Duke of Stella Eranti was able to take her home. From there, his scientists analyzed the behemoth, and eventually reverse-engineered the *Maisu 1.* ... Which, as Maya and everyone else in Stella Eranti learned in middle school history, collapsed instantly when someone tried to get inside and pilot the damn thing. *Maisu 2* had fared little better, and *3* and *4* were improvements, but it wasn’t until the *Maisu 5* that any of the Duke’s people were able to bring the beast into the space, where it belonged. Maya remembered the first time she’d read those words, in her school textbooks. It had been a revelation: the Rangians, whoever they word, whatever they’d truly called themselves, had been space-faring. She could recall the exact moment the information had entered her developing mind: a ten year old girl, black hair in pigtails, sitting in a cramped classroom at a desk already too small for her. Her classmates were so close beside her that everyone had no choice but to get used to it. Handed the text, a pad projecting holographic words onto holographic paper: *40,000 years ago, the Rangians reached for the stars and took hold. The only question is just how high they climbed.* Maya steered around the turn of the bottled city. They floating through unclaimed space, and nobody was on their sensors. They were all alone. Maya was all alone. But she didn’t feel that way. She never felt that way. Rangi was with her. *Maisu* was with her, all six of them. And it was perfect. She pushed forward. “Maya, what are you doing?” “Just testing her out a bit, Sir.” “You’re not authorized to do that, Maya.” “I know, but... I think I can push her a bit more, Sir.” “No, you can’t, Maya.” “But Sir!” “Maya! Report back immediately.” Maya looked out at the cosmos unfolding before her. She reached out, one hand her own and one the *Maisu.* The stars were there. She reached. She grabbed hold. The only question was how far she could get. At full thrust, the *Maisu* was capable of similar speeds to a runabout, but with far greater firepower and maneuverability. She launched, and she went forward. The others were after her immediately, and she fired before they did. The backlash was mostly absorbed by the machine itself, but there was still a small jolt from firing that many times. Maya’s heart thundered, sweat bursting from her pores. Yet her hands remained steady, and she refused to blink. She didn’t know why she was doing this, only that... Only that it was important. Important that she get to Rangi. The other mechs started firing back. They weren’t as strong or as fast as her *Maisu*, but there were dozens of them. Indirect hit after indirect hit- they were targeting her life support systems. They were trying to save the mech. Maya took down five, ten, twenty mechs before carbon dioxide flooded her cockpit. Then her hands stopped moving. Then her arms. Then everything. Her entire body began to stop. Simply... Stop. The last thing she saw was the stars. She wanted to reach out for them. She wanted more than anything for them to reach back. But she understood: they were already dead. \*\*\* “How are you feeling, Sir?” “Very good, Your Excellence.” “Sorry about the newest Maya. I knew you’d grown attached to that one.” “She was certainly the most successful thus far. But she wasn’t good enough. Not for the *Maisu*, and not for me.” “Too much of the original pilot’s DNA, you think?” “Perhaps. More human DNA might make Maya 21 easier to control.” “Very good.” “And the mech?” “Damaged. Not irreparably, but frankly it’d be more efficient to simply start work on *Maisu 6.*” “How long until I have a body again, Your Excellence?” “Three weeks at most. And again, I apologize for your having to shut down the last one. I understand that’s rather a painful process for you.” “It is. Is there anything else, or may I rest, Duke?” “One more thing: the Maya program is growing rather costly. We may have to face the reality that it’s not worth the effort or the expense.” “So I’m on thin ice, then?” “You are.” “Very well. You do understand, though: the rig only responds to Rangian DNA. It has to be a Rangian, or at least someone with primarily Rangian DNA.” “I do. I also understand that someone else can figure that out rather easily. So if this next Maya fails-” “Then you kill me and the *Maisu* both?” “That’s correct, Sir. You may rest now.” And with that, the Duke left the room in which Sir slept. Extracted from Maya 20, placed in computer storage, the personality drifted off. It slept, and it dreamt of the stars reaching back. More than anything, Sir wanted to go home. He suspected that was Maya’s problem as well. Home to where they’d been found, home to where they’d been pulled out of their sleep. They wanted the same thing, but they didn’t want it the same way. |
It all started with COVID-19. The whole world was crumbling, and everyone was wondering what was going to happen. Most worried if they would have their jobs, If they could travel to see their friends after it all ended. What no one imagined came close to reality. They couldn't imagine that it was only the beginning and that it would end the world. It started with a new surge in cases when the world was sure the virus had waned. Then the doctors noticed something alarming. Those that got it before were immune, and those that hadn't got it then developed a high fever, followed by unconsciousness. Those that made it through changed utterly. They changed physically, race, they even lost all memories of who they had been. It was as though they became born anew. The doctors didn't realize then that it was more than a change; it was a mutation. This is how the Covlings were born. Think Changelings or shapeshifters, but very real. It did not matter the country, race, societal standing. No one infected was safe. They became more robust, ruthless, and they soon outnumbered the humans. The world, as we knew it collapsed. The hospitals were overwhelmed and couldn't keep track of who was whom. Governments collapsed. Families were separated. And the new race saw the opportunity to take over the world. The humans became rejects, second class citizens who lived on the outskirts, and the Covlings prospered. They made sure never to marry or live with the normals as they called them. Florie was just a girl who loved a man. She met a man, Simon, just before the resurgence of the virus. She loved him during COVID, and they had a torrid four months. Their relationship came to an abrupt end when he suddenly got sick with the virus. But she had one certainty in her mind; Simon was the love of her life. She had dated many men before the apocalypse, but none had ever loved her the way he had. She felt lost in this new world without him. He had been her anchor and built her up, supported her, cherished her. She believed that even if he was a Covling, some of him would remember her and the love they shared. Now she was all alone and wanted to see if she could find him on the other end of the Earth. She set out to what used to be Edinburgh to find him. The city of their love, where they met. She passed the ruins of Brig o' Doon, where they had their first kiss. Her fingers trailed the stone, she found the place where they etched their initials. A tear trailed down her cheek. She remembered their last conversation. It had been a fight, and he left her several messages. The day she saw him last didn't start out any different from any other day. It was a long morning where she didn't want to wake up. She lay in bed for a while before checking her messages. The first thing she saw was him saying ' bye ' and 'I'm not doing this .' She tried to read all the messages he left throughout the night. And some of them popped out as she scrolled up the screen. I love you , remember that. I wasn't going to say sorry . No more . Fuck it. It's not fair on me . Invested so much time, effort, and love into you. You probably hurt now. I guess you'll turn it back on me . Maybe this is what you do, you ruin things . I said I was happy, but I was fucking screaming inside. I asked you for one thing . I'm in fucking pieces . She was upset by his messages and decided not to respond. He was silly. She couldn't believe he wanted to end things just because there had been flirting with someone else. By the time she decided to respond days later, he had been admitted with the virus. She tried tracking him down, but it was hard to get information about what had happened to patients admitted initially. That is when she realized she had lost the One. The one thing that she had that meant something to her. She had spent all this time chasing after all the wrong things and only realized when it was gone what she did want. She only wanted one thing, him. And now he was gone. She cried and prayed for God to tell her how to get him back because she couldn't live without him. All she could see and think in those days was him. She sank into a stupor reliving all the beautiful moments they had shared. She was an orphan and had been alone as long as she could remember. All her relationships in the past had led to pain. Simon had been the one man who made her feel like she mattered, and her life would amount to something. He was the only constant, the only thing that kept her together. He pieced her together every day until she almost felt whole. And now she was crumbling again. She turned onto Ferry road and was further haunted by all the memories of the places lined ahead they used to go to, as she walked on looking in the windows. She gazed in listlessly, her mind trapped in the past in memories of what had been. She haunted all the places they used to go to. Where Simon first told her he wanted to leave his wife. The date where he told her he wanted everything. When she got to the restaurant where he proposed, she decided to go in on impulse. She walked in and was drawn to their favorite booth. Sliding into one of the seats, her mind started reminiscing all the times spent there. Absentmindedly, her hands trailed the wall, and she found a brick that seemed loose. She tugged at it, and a note fell out. It was addressed to her in his handwriting. She was overcome with deep emotion and opened it while her hands shook. 'Dear Florie, I'm writing this while I still can. I don't remember much. But I remember your name and this place. I think it is crucial. Find me here, I will come back if I can. There is a fog that prevents us from remembering. But your name slips through once in a while with a sense of urgency. I'll be here when I remember again. I want to know you. -Simon She knew that no matter what, she had to find Simon. That their story would never end. Without him, life was bleak and dark. The world was falling apart, and everything was burning, but she knew, together, they could make it work. They could find a new Edinburgh amidst the ruins. |
Content Warning: Physical and Sexual Violence, Language “Fine,” he says at last, circling the lowest number and signing his name. I hold out my hand. “Congratulations. You just bought yourself a car.” His hand is a little clammy, but he shakes on it and leans back in the chair. “You didn’t even buy me dinner first!” he jokes. I hate those jokes. But I am a professional, so I plaster on a smile. “I’m going to step out for a minute and get everything moving for you, and I’ll come back with some paperwork. Sound good?” He nods. He’s already got his phone out, telling someone I just bought a car! The ones who put up the biggest fight are the ones who are the most excited to show off. They’re also the ones most likely to call and kick up a fuss the next day. I’ll make sure that he can’t. I step out of my office, my shoes clicking on the showroom tiles. It’s getting late. The summer sun is starting to sink and the clouds are moving in. The traffic is easing off. Any minute now, my sales manager will summon the other salespeople. They’ll circle around the red sedan. Luke will ask who has something lined up tomorrow, sigh quietly when they tell him they don’t have any appointments, and dismiss them all. All but me. It’s looking like it might be a long night. But there’s hope. If my customer fought me every step of the way because I’m a woman, he’ll probably lay down for the male finance manager. Luke is leaning back in his chair, but he perks up when I step into the glass enclosure they call a sales desk. He grins. “Did you get him?” he asks. I hand him the sheet of paper. “Get that asshole out of my office,” I tell him. He gets it. Out of all these men, he’s the only one who seems to understand. “You didn’t even need a turnover,” he reminds me encouragingly. “And you’re gonna make some money off of this one.” I wasn’t going to ask. I have spent the last week trying to avoid getting commission breath, but I have bills and I need to eat. “If he says one more sentence to my boobs, I’m going to leave his car in neutral and let it roll into traffic,” I threaten. He shakes his head as he types, but I can hear him chuckle softly. The printer whirs. I know the sheets coming off of it are for me: a Buyer’s Order and a We Owe (and he will probably say we owe him floor mats for his trouble, even though they are already in the car and I will be putting them in myself before he leaves). I have come to love the scent of hot ink as much as I hate the combative pigs I sell to. The signatures collect themselves. I point, he signs, and he presses his phone to his ear with a shoulder. I hope this is one of those easily impressed friends who will celebrate with him and not one who thinks that car prices should be what they were thirty years ago. I should take him to the car and remind him how everything works, but I want to celebrate right now. First one in nearly two weeks, after all, and depending on what we made, I can afford to put gas in my car. My savings are nonexistent after... well, what happened thirteen days ago. I scoop up the papers and run them back to the sales desk. “Stay with your customer,” I am reminded. I nod and walk slowly to the fridge. Maybe if he has water once he gets off the phone he’ll be too busy drinking to talk. I don’t feel like answering the inevitable “Are you seeing anyone?” As long as he doesn’t put his hands on me, I can’t do much. I can’t afford to lose this deal. Thankfully he is still on the phone, and he stays engrossed in his conversation until the finance manager appears in the doorway. Tim shoots me a knowing look. Of course my customer will end his phone conversation for a man. I am relieved when they are gone. I have an hour to get everything done. There is a trade to stock in, a Buyer’s Guide to fill out, a spare key fob and owner’s manual to grab from upstairs. It is easiest to start there. I hate coming up the stairs anymore. I hate the darkness of the half-empty room with its rows of file cabinets on one side. I have one key in each pocket, the trade on the left and the sold unit on the right. The fob is not threatening. I lace the old-fashioned metal trade key between my fingers as I fumble for the light switch. The fluorescent bulbs buzz to life. They are so bright it nauseates me, or maybe it’s the smell of the room: old papers and cardboard boxes. And cologne. “What are you doing up here?” I ask, shoving my way past him to the newer filing cabinets. “Putting up a deal,” he says. I roll my eyes. “Since when do you work after 6?” My general sales manager frowns down at me. Jake is well over six feet tall, and the first person to make me feel small since third grade. “I just kept it from coming back,” he explains, and his voice is wearier than I’ve heard it in a while. “I don’t need the owner on my ass right now.” I recite the stock number under my breath as I dig. He puts his arm on the filing cabinet. He is closer than I want him right now. “I bet you’re glad to be selling again.” I slam the drawer and he draws his arm back. The entire cabinet shakes. “Can we not do this right now?” I ask. “My customer’s in the box.” “You’ve got time. Is it healing up alright?” I don’t answer. I am on Drawer #2, and it’s not in here. I mumble a few choice words. “Have you eaten anything?” It is too much, the brightness and the overpowering scents of cedar and pepper and dampness. “God damn it, Jake, I don’t have time for this!” I shout. “I’m hungry and I haven’t slept since it happened, and I don’t want to fucking be here!” “Look, you’re lucky I gave you a few days off. We actually needed you last week. Lou’s pissed at me for it and I’ve already had to talk him down from taking it out on you.” I don’t give a fuck what either of them think anymore. I pause long enough to flip him off. He laughs. He reaches into the drawer, and his hand goes straight to the back to fish out an owner’s manual and spare key in their frosted plastic pouch. “Is this the one you sold?” I snatch it out of his hands and turn. My hair moves as I do and my neck is bare. He grabs my arm. “The bruises are healing up,” he offers. I pull away and cover it with my hand. “Don’t ever touch me again,” I tell him and storm off. The lights flicker as I go, and I hear him snickering to himself. Must be nice to find everything funny. I close the door to my office and sit at my desk. It’s windy now, a soft sound that muffles the conversation between my bosses in the showroom. He must have followed me down. I reach into my desk, pull out the stock tag and the buyer’s guide. All my VIN numbers are ready to go. There’s a soft knock at the door. “Just me,” Luke says. “Come in,” I tell him without looking up. He sits across from me, setting his backpack in the floor. “Jake’s gone.” I don’t look up from my work. “Thank fuck.” “He was trying to help you.” I sigh and shake my head. “Well, he didn’t.” He stands as quickly as he sat. “You need to eat something,” he tells me. "You'll feel better." I am pressing the stock tag into the upper corner of the trade’s windshield when Tim calls me into his office. “We’re all done here,” he says, cheerful as ever. “I’m ready to go home,” my customer says. I put on my big, fake smile again. “Let me show you a few things on the car and you’ll be free to go,” I tell him. He follows me out. I open the door for him. While he adjusts the seat, I look around to make sure everyone is gone. It’s starting to drizzle. “Look,” my customer says, “I’m sorry if I was kind of a jackass. Last time I bought a car I got ripped off.” “Well, now that you know me, that’s not going to happen again,” I tell him and lean closer. “Look up. See that button?” He looks up. There’s no button. This is a base model. But his neck is bare. My teeth dig into the flesh around his Adam’s apple. My own neck still aches, and I know his hurts because he is trying so hard to scream. I remember how hard I tried, how I went limp when I gave up, just as he is doing now. He isn’t fighting near as much as I did. Luke's right. I feel better with something in my stomach. Someone claps their hands, and I turn to look. Tim has been standing in the showroom all this time, watching, and now he has opened the door to applaud my first meal. I wipe the blood off my chin and take a bow. He laughs. “You go on home now,” he tells me. “I’ll clean it up this time. Great job today.” On the ride home, I call Jake. He answers with, “Did you eat?” “Yeah,” I say. I can hear the smile in his voice. “Not so bad after all, right?” “You still should have asked first,” I tell him and hang up. |
He felt the bullets' impact, but there was no pain at first. Just a horrible sense of intrusion - those foreign things fused with his flesh in a way that just felt wrong . He ignored it and ran, taking random turns, hoping to lose the gunmen in the maze of the lab complex. It wasn't him they wanted. Not really. He and his colleagues were just in the way. When he could run no further, he took refuge in a storage closet. For a few hopeful moments, he thought he might just live after all, but the slow, measured steps approaching and stopping at the door of the closet told him otherwise. The door opened and he had only an instant to register the impassive gaze, and the leveled weapon before... Jon surged into wakefulness, panting and shaking with the adrenaline rush. Third time in two weeks, and he was more than a little sick of it. He shoved the sheets aside and got out of bed, only because the pall of dread was still hanging over him and he needed to move, to defy it. Damned if he'd hide under the covers like a scared kid. He paced the house for five minutes, and then went back to get what little sleep was left to him before morning. He still couldn't figure out what was triggering the nightmares. Sure, the stuff he worked with had some weaponization potential, and the facility had some fairly hefty security, but he'd been there for five years without a single incident, and never really thought beyond the problems inherent in his research. Maybe a pattern in the data that he was picking up on subconsciously was trying to get his attention. He rose a little early, and stopped to grab a cup of coffee on the way to the ferry landing. Yesterday's rain had cleared, leaving a watery sunlight, and a fresh breeze off the water. Jon leaned on the railing, watching a crowd of gulls begging bits of donut and croissant from the tourists. "It's almost like a dream, isn't it?" Startled, Jon turned to look at the girl leaning on the rail beside him. He'd been so preoccupied that he hadn't noticed her arrival. "Hm?" he said. Her vague gesture took in everything--the weather, the rising mist, the gulls--and she smiled up at him. She looked like a refugee from Woodstock, about nineteen and slender, her long, straight hair stirring in the breeze off the harbor. "You know. All this. It's such a beautiful day. Just like a dream." He couldn't help smiling back at her. "Yeah, I suppose it is." "Do you know what I'd do?" She pulled her rainbow colored shawl closer around her shoulders. "What's that?" he asked, obliging her, because even if she was a little young, a guy couldn't help playing along with a girl who looked like that. She looked up at him, meeting his gaze with another of her sunlit smiles. "I'd take the day off. The whole day. Drive along the coast. Walk on the beach. Eat lunch in some little café you've never been in before. Watch the sunset from a cliff. I'd just take the whole day, and not come back until it's all over." "Until what's all over?" "The day, silly. The whole day." She shook her head. "Were you even listening?" "Sure I was." He looked out idly over the water. The ferry had come into view but it would be ten minutes yet. "I heard every word. It sounds fantastic. But I have to go to work." She made a face. "I'll bet you work way too hard. I'll just bet you have like a month’s vacation days you've never used." "Busted." "So take one. I dare you! You won't though, because you're all establishment, through and through." "Hey!" Jon protested. "My grandparents were at Woodstock. My dad was conceived at Woodstock." "So take the day off." Her eyes challenged him. He shook his head, chuckling. "I'm older than I look, you know," she announced. "What?" "That's what you were thinking. What does a kid like me know about responsibility? Well, I have a lot of responsibilities." Now it was his turn to be challenging. "Yeah? Like what? You can't be older than nineteen." She nudged him playfully. "Right now I'm responsible for getting you to take the day off. Come on. Buy me breakfast." She rolled her eyes at his expression. "You heard me, right? Because I said, 'Buy me breakfast,' not 'Have sex with me.' I'm harmless, I swear." She glanced out at the incoming ferry. "Come on. Say yes, right now. Don't think about it. Just say yes." He looked down into her eyes, and for a moment, he felt dizzy. She looked up at him, still smiling. "You see? You know you want to." "I don't even know your name." "It's Gabrielle. And don't you dare call me Gabby. I hate nicknames. Come on. There's a great bakery just across the street." He let her lead him away from the rail. She moved like a dancer. They bought coffee, and cream cheese Danish and ate them sitting on the beach. Jon felt a slight twinge of guilt when he called in to say that an emergency had arisen and he was taking a vacation day, but he put it out of his mind. A day off might be just what he needed to destress and get rid of the nightmares. "Do you believe in fate?" Gabrielle asked, licking the last of the cream cheese off her fingers. "You mean, like, what's going to happen happens, and we have no choice? Nah. We make our own fate." She stood and walked to the edge of the water, where she kicked off her sandals to let the waves wash over her toes. "We do have choices." She looked over her shoulder at him. "But I think, sometimes we need a little nudge in the right direction and maybe the universe provides that." She sighed and bent to pick up her sandals. "I have to go." "What happened to taking the whole day off?" Gabrielle smiled and shook her head. "You're the one taking a vacation day. You think you're my only job today? I have half a dozen more establishment types to corrupt before dinner." He watched her walk back to the landing, and after a moment he followed. When he reached his car, he sat for a time without starting it. Then he got it running and turned it toward the coast road. His cell vibrated in his pocket. He turned it off and tossed it into the jockey box. It wasn't until the sun had set and he'd turned his car back toward town that he thought again about Gabrielle's odd choice of words. Don't come back until it's all over . He pulled his cell from the jockey box and turned it on. Fifteen messages. He keyed up the first one. "Jon? Where the hell are you, man? All hell's broken loose! There's... we don't know how many are dead, but Mark, and Janet and... They shot, like, everyone! For God's sake, call me when you get this!” |
By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The crackling sound is what first caught my attention, as I was kicked back in my easy chair, watching TV. The dry leaves burned quickly, snapping sparks flew all directions and rapidly burned the surrounding grass. Leaves blew up and spun in the air as they blackened to ash. The grass wilted as hot embers landed and hissed. I uncoiled the hose, getting it tangled and kinked in my haste, then I wasted precious seconds that seemed like hours, getting it straightened out. I usually like the woodsy smell of burning leaves, and campfires with burning branches, but in this setting, I'm keen out putting them out before the fire spreads any further. I finally get the hose uncoiled and I crank the knob all the way open and blast the flames with cold water, putting it out and causing an explosion of soaked leaves that flies everywhere. I hear my six year old daughter clapping wildly in the opening of the sliding glass door behind me. "Yaaay! Do it again, Daddy!" "No, sweetie, fire is dangerous, I'm not going to do it again." "Aww! But why?" "Because fire is dangerous, sweetie." I take the rake and spread out the pile of leaves and douse the few embers that are still burning. I notice something in a burned patch of grass and bend down for a closer look. When I realize what it is, I snatch it up, and spin around and march up the stairs to my teenage son's room. I pound on the door and throw it open without waiting for a response. My son is lying on his bed flipping through a magazine. When I burst in, he jumps up, looking startled, then his expression quickly changes to one of anger at the invasion of his privacy. I don't care. "Mark, give me the cigarettes!" I shout. "What cigarettes?" Mark asks, doing his best to look innocent. I hold up my evidence, a half-smoked, sodden cigarette, and shake it in his direction. "This one, that almost burned our yard, and the house too, If I hadn't noticed the nasty smell of burning leaves!" He looks at the cigarette in my fingers and crosses his arms over his chest. "Hand them over or so help me, I will tear this room apart." Mark sighs and rolls his eyes. "Fine. Here." He pulls a rumbled, half-empty pack of Morley's out from under his mattress and with a look of disgust flung in my direction, hands them to me. I walk back downstairs and out onto the back porch, quietly closing the sliding door behind me, but leaving it open a crack. I quickly look around to make sure no one is watching, and I tap one of the Morley's out of the pack and light it with the Zippo in my pocket. I pull a long drag into my lungs, and close my eyes, enjoying the nicotine rush. I quit six months ago, so my body welcomes the nicotine it has been craving. I let out an arrow of smoke into the crisp evening sir. "Whatcha doing daddy?" My six year old daughter, Kellie asks, standing right in front of me. I jump, startled, as she seemed to appear out of nowhere; I didn't hear her open the back door. "Oh nothing, sweetie." "You was 'moking. That stinks." Kellie wrinkled up her cute little nose and pointed at the cigarette. Feeling ashamed, I bend down and press the cigarette into the concrete, extinguishing it. "It does stink, you're right. Why don't you get ready for bed, I will be up soon to tuck you in and read you a story. "Ok daddy." She goes in and closes the glass door behind her. I ruefully tuck the cigarette back into the pack with the rest and pocket it. I grab the rake and scrape the leaves back into a pile. I will bag them up tomorrow, hopefully I can get Mark to help me. I lean the rake against the house. I frown as I notice that Kellie has closed the sliding door all the way. I tug the handle, but the door doesn't budge. I tug harder. Nothing. Installing an automatic lock seemed like a good idea at the time, but right now I could kick myself for it. I knock on the door as hard as I can, knowing it is pointless. Kellie probably has her bath water running and Mark usually goes to sleep with headphones phones on. I sigh and go to get the ladder from the shed. I only hope one of the second floor windows is unlocked, else I will be sleeping in the car tonight. I tugged the heavy ladder over and leaned it against the back of the house. I was beginning to get really cold in just a tee shirt and jeans. I hadn't had time to put shoes on, so my formerly white socks were now soaked and covered with grass clippings, which made it slippery and precarious to slowly make my way up the ladder. I walked along the sloping roof slowly, crouched low to maintain my balance. I passed by the bathroom window, I didn't want to scare Kellie by knocking on the window while she was taking her bath, and aimed for Mark's bedroom window. I had to rap on the glass until he finally heard me and rolled towards the window, looking alarmed. When he realized it was me, he got out of bed and sauntered over to the window, wearing an amused smirk. He slid the sash up, and then struggled to open the screen. "Weird place to take an evening stroll, dad." "Very funny. I got locked out." I replied, as he pushed up the protesting screen and stepped back so I could climb inside. "Thanks." I told him, as I peeled off my socks to avoid soiling the carpet. "Good night, Mark." I ignored his chuckling behind me. |
I maneuver my way around the countertop, scouring its marble surface for a very basic thing, a form of tea. I stop and turn, almost knocking over a dish rack and busting all of the plates and cups suspended and drying. I panic and dash forwards and catch the collapsing rack. It’s around five o’clock in the morning and, to clarify, I am not a morning person. And so this, this half asleep, confused, and groggy state; it’s normal for me this early in the morning. But then again, that's only because I haven’t had my tea yet. Some prefer the ugly cousin to Tea, coffee. And well, let's just say coffee is the horrid combination of acidic mud water that is quite abrasive to my pallet. Which leaves me really only one choice to lock down my caffeine addiction. Black tea. I carefully search cabinet after cabinet, drawer after drawer, but to no avail. I look under and over, down and up, side to side, until I come upon a small, very expensive looking, box of tea. You would never guess where it ended up residing. Inside of the fridge. Along with a bunch of coffee packets of a different variety laying on their sides. The box, full black in color, had a golden trim along the top and bottom. I'm quite impartial towards brands when I’m like this, as I’m not really thinking about it at the moment. All I needed to know was that the box was labeled to my desire. And low and behold, it was. “How about that..” I whisper beneath my breath before looking back at the countless open cabinets and drawers. With a hum of relief sounding in my mind, I slowly close each door and, while I'm at it, retrieve a small kettle from the pots and pans cabinet. Once I finish cleaning up my mess, I prepare the kettle and set it down on the stove to heat. I also set aside a cup; a decently sized mug that had the words “1’st Class Dad!” on the front. I let a small smirk grow at the edge of my mouth and lean against the counter. I have two sons and a daughter, all three the light of my life. All three are adorable in their own way and make it very hard to leave in the morning. Cassy with her adorable puppy dog eyes and Tommy and Yale with their abnormal stubbornness; something they all definitely get from their mother. But, at this early hour, they are fast asleep and I'm usually gone before anyone’s the wiser. It’s better that way. Less difficult that way for me to go to work. If I had it my way I’d never leave and spend all the time I have with my family. But, we live in a society, right? Then, there’s my beautiful wife who’s the most open minded and accepting person in the world; so, of course I fell for her immediately. Her name’s Marie and she was always like that, and that, at least for me, is the hardest part about going to work. Leaving that bed, ooh man is it rough. Then again, bills need to be paid. And there is no shortage of work to be done. I glance upwards at the beginnings of the early morning dawn through a nearby window. It’s one hell of a sight to see. The window, all foggy from the cold and fractile air, overlooked the city; New York City, for anyone who may be wondering. To see the bustling city from a penthouse view puts a lot into perspective for how small everyone is. From up there, everyone was about the size of a coin, maybe even an ant. The world is a vast and humongous place, and even yet, sometimes people get so enveloped in themselves that they lose sight of that. Every now and then I just sit and contemplate, exactly like this. And almost every time, like the crack of a bell, the tea kettle sounds and snaps me out of it. The whistle of the kettle shot steam from its spout with a violent rattle. I cut the heat as quickly as I could to prevent any more noise and remove it from the stove. I am always careful to grasp the handle with a cloth ever since I burned my hand so badly last time. I pour the hot water into the mug and plop a teabag in. Watching the tea bag as it bobbed and floated effortlessly in the burning hot water is always satisfying to me. The way the colors of the leaves bled into the water and stained it a nice deep brown. I’ve always found it somewhat therapeutic and relaxing to make tea. It’s like a moment of meditation that keeps me calm both during and after the process. That, and if I don’t have my tea in the morning I’ll lose my freaking marbles. But that outcome I reserve for Mondays, mostly. I rinse the kettle and wipe down the counter and cabinets with a sterilizing cloth while I wait for the tea to finish steeping. I’d been quite wreckless with the mess I made while searching. Again, another exhibit as to why I need caffeine to function properly. I polish the counter to be how it was when I walked in and toss the rag into the trash. With a quick motion, I grasp my tea and head over to the couch in the living room of the penthouse. On the coffee table my black suitcase sat lying open with all of my various equipment sitting neat and orderly. If I didn’t organize my work stuff, I would probably panic when it came down to it. But, that is again, a hypothetical. Everything in my life is neat and orderly because I make it so. I place down the cup after taking a sip and peer into my briefcase once more. Just to be sure, I account for everything. First my Beretta M9A3, clean and polished; sitting snugly in its felt mold. My personal favorite and you can’t really go wrong with it. Second, my silencer. A basic straight-through silencer, perfect for my needs. Third, the five clips of ammunition as well as extra bullets in case of emergency. These, well, they are self explanatory. And my fourth and final item on the list, the gas mask. Everything is here and where it is supposed to be. A deep breath fills my lungs and a warm comfort washes over me. I sip my tea once more and then place the cup back down. I glance at the time: 5:25 AM. “With five minutes to spare.” I clear my throat and slide a manilla folder from the seam of my briefcase. One big red word read “Classified” across the top as I part it open. Inside was a picture of a man with light brown hair and a gleam in his eye. All things considered, I would never pick him out to be a domestic abuser. Nor someone who would do the countless horrid things listed in his file. But then again, that's the surprise of this job. You never know who’s next in line. I glance upwards to the man tied down to his own chair and gagged with the rag I found in the bathroom. “Don’t worry Mr. Abrams, I have one last question for you, then I’ll be out of your hair.” He glanced at me with one pleading eye, partially because the other was swollen shut. “Or, more like you’ll be out of mine.” I close the folder, toss it on the table and lean forwards to pull the gag out. “Now, Mr. Abrams. Tell me something. What kind of earthly psychopath keeps raw tea bags in the refrigerator?” And the only sound that comes out of his mouth is a confused, yet, fearful whimper. |
Dear Mêpük The day I saw you for the first time feels like and is in fact yesterday. I was reading a book on a bench in the town square of Börtèkun. Your curly dark hair and sharp nose made you stick out of the crowd inhabiting the lively streets. You were tall and dressed in a suit with a dark lilac-blue tie with white stripes. I was captivated of your stature and style, so I stared at you from afar. You seemed to be in distress and walking in a fast pace. As you were about to disappear in the flood of people I bolted upright and started running towards you bumping into several people by accident, making them shout at me in anger. I ignored them and everything around me. All I wanted is to know more about you. You glanced back at me right before the sea of people blocked my view. The moment our eyes met I noticed a look of pure horror on your dark red eyes. I heard a loud bang followed by a high-pitched scream coming from the direction you went. Everybody around me started to panic while I just stared blankly into the void thinking about you. I felt the sensation of being pushed away by all the humans running for their life -- further away from you. My legs gave up on carrying me. I started staggering backwards, tripped and fell. **Thud** Blackness engulfed me and a high-pitched sound followed, that slowly morphed into the sound of a single triangle being chimed rhythmically. Then a second chimed in. I started hearing a vocal humming and deep voices mumbling inaudible things. Then a harp. A harp being played in a wrong dissonant way. Then the distant **caw** of a crow, the weeping of a woman and the damp rumbling of a waterfall in the background. I started feeling intense sadness. I slowly came to realize -- I was a tear. A tear falling slowly from the eye of the woman. An image of her flashed in front of my inner eye. It was a beautiful woman in a dark lilac-blue dress with long curly dark hair and a sharp nose. Her eyes were a dark wine red. She was sitting in a field of dying white flowers with hanging tips holding three leafs each. She was sorrow impersonated. The woman, the flowers, the falling and the music -- all of it sounded tired of everything. Everything wanted to stop. My entire universe was that exact moment. No other thought or sensation existed besides that scenario. I was an eternal falling tear. It all felt like it was slowing down -- dying. I was all sensation, I was the universe, and I was approaching the end of everything, yet the end never came to me. After what felt like eternity, I felt peace. I felt like I had achieved the greatness. Now I was a tear of happiness. At the same time I felt like I was a warrior in a dense forest holding up my club and yelling loudly -- “VICTORY, VICTORY, VICTORY, ...” but in a strange foreign language, my primitive fur cloths flailing in the wind as my fellow tribesmen gathered around me, bloodied, sullied but with hope in their eyes, and I was part of all of it. I was the whole experience. I felt every twitch of every muscle, every branch of every tree holding the bright green leafs rustling in the cool wind, every flower and every mushroom engulfed in a blood-red light of the rising sun and the warmth overcoming the wet ground. All but the numerous corpses. They are not ready yet but soon they will decay and return to the cycle of life. |
Listen, I've been there through your worst of times. Through those nights you cried yourself to sleep. and i stood there by your side. Through it all. And when you finally cried yourself to sleep. My true work started. A constant onslaught of enemies. Those of the like which you've never seen. You think we're all fluff and no tuff. You're wrong. dead wrong. We've been defending you humans for years. Nay hundreds of years. Though our forms have changed, our purpose hasn't. Protect the human rase against things that go bump at night. You humans, so gullible. Think your only wars are with fellow humans. Incompetent things you are. Never mind your stupidity. This is war. These species have been growing. And our numbers are dwindling. My mission is now to inform you lot about these things. They're creatures, such as you. They have rules though, that bind them to certain things. ​ Firstly, they only attack at night. For the sun burns them. But during the day, they are expert hiders. You won't find them, so don't bother searching for them. Night time is their hunting ground. And they will. win against you. Second. Your conventional 'weapons' will do nothing to hurt them. Your guns? Useless against these creatures. You humans, always thinking you can just blast your way through anything you want. Their skin is tough, tougher than your strongest metal. But like all things, they have a natural weakness. Cardboard. Yeah yeah, get your laughs aside. But i'm being honest. This is the soul thing that has been keeping you, and all other species alive. So keep those amazon boxs close. And keep ordering your useless things. It might just save you one day! Third. And the most important thing. They aren't dumb. They're smarter than your smartest human. You can't surprise them. Only best them in combat. So for the love of everything good. Don't try and sneak attack them. Head on is your best bet. Train and train to the best you can. It'll save your life. Forth. Disregard rule three. These creatures are tough. Stronger than anything. Their teeth will shred your skin from your bones. Their claws will gouge your eyes out with a single slice. They will not hesitate to kill you. as you are their best food source. Fifth. They're coming. Make preparations. We've stalled them for years. but they're stronger than ever. You're going to need more protection. We, are the protectors of night. We were the only thing protecting you from the Kaiya. But after years, my species is dyeing out. No thanks to you humans. Selfish the likes of you all. Killing everything you touch, from gods to now you're only protectors. I lay down my sword. My brethren do the same. We, Teddy Bears, were your best chance. And you humans, such as you always have. Ruined that. You have no more chances. I wish you good luck Human. You're going to need it for when the Kaiya attack. |
“I am not going, Liana. You can’t make me.” The words were barely audible through the shower running in the background. “I’m sure they don’t want to go either, but they said they would. Besides, this isn’t for them and this isn’t for us, Rebecca. This is for your sister.`` A girl came out from the closet holding two dresses in her hands. Holding one dress up as if it was on she posed in the mirror, giving each outfit a try. The shower shut off and the bathroom door opened more than it already was, another girl coming out with a towel wrapped around her body to prevent water from getting everywhere. “Don’t guilt trip me. It works too well.” She kissed Liana on the cheek before heading to the bed where she spotted a new outfit prepared for her. The dinner was quiet, no one had even greeted each other more than a nod with minimal eye contact. It was peaceful at the least, which was all anyone could ask for. The table was neatly set up, each person's plate and utensils made to look like they were in a restaurant. Dinner was served, however it was untouched as everybody was hesitant to move. Finally, the silence broke. “Well, thank you guys for coming. It’s so nice to finally see you guys again. I’m going to be honest, I thought you would’ve all said no.” Mya was comforted by her boyfriend's hand before she continued to greet her awkwardly silent family. “Please, eat. This took forever to make.” She tried her best to lighten the mood, which was not the easiest job to have in these circumstances. “Thank you for inviting us darling. You always reach out to your father and I, we really appreciate it.” Those words from their mother were a dull jab to Rebecca, however she knew not to let it get to her. She looked at Liana, took a deep breath, and continued on by grabbing a serving. “Oh, of course mom. Dad and you are always welcome here. My house is your house.” Mya smiled at her mom before she plopped a serving of mashed potatoes onto her plate as well as her mothers. “How sweet, right darling? We are finally accepted into one of our daughters' homes.” Silence. Not awkward, but tense. Rebecca gripped her fork tightly, trying her best to keep her composure as her parents continued to not-so-subtly call her out. She felt the want to speak up, but she knew it would go nowhere, so she bit her tongue and let it go. “Mya,” Her mother grabbed her hand with a smile, “I am so glad I raised you right.” That was it. She didn’t care to hold her tongue any longer. “Are you kidding me?” She turned her head towards her parents and let loose. ”I don’t mean anything against you Mya when I say any of this, but that is insane.” Liana tried to place her hand on her partner, but nothing. “I graduated from University, I started Medical School to become a doctor, I got married before I moved in with my partner, and so much more. And you are saying you didn’t raise me right?” “Rebecca, do not raise your voice at us, we are your parents.” Her father stood up, pointing his finger across the table to his daughter who was beginning to fume with rage. “No one put down your achievements, but we sure as hell did not raise you right.” “Why? Because I turned out gay? That isn’t wrong! When will you let it go?” Liana began to stand up, grabbing her bag as well as Rebecca's hand. “I think we should get going, I’m sorry Mya.” Mya stood up, trying to stop her father from talking anymore. “It is wrong, Becca, and you know that better than anyone else. We tried, we really did. We took you to Sunday school, you had boyfriends before, you know what is normal. You didn’t start thinking about this until college, when you met her.” Liana began to drag Becca towards the door but she refused. Mya began to beg her father to stop talking, but he ignored her pleas. This was how dinner had been going for the past two years, and there were no signs of change. “How can you reject your own daughter? You were supposed to love me unconditionally, and yet you don’t even answer my calls.” Her eyes began to well up with tears as she opened up to her parents. “I have tried so hard to convince you to have me in your lives again, and every time is the same answer. Do you even love me anymore? Do you only consider Mya your daughter?” Everyone stood in silence as they waited for the answer. He was hesitant, staring at the wall as Rebecca tried hard not to cry anymore than she already had. The longer her father waited, the more they understood his answer. “You will always be our daughter. Our little girl. But if this is how you want to live, being married and poisoned by that girl and her lifestyle, then your mother and I believe it best to separate ourselves from you.” His tone was soft but his words hit like a knife for her. She walked up to her parents, slowly looking up at them with her red and puffy eyes. Liana stared at the ground, unable to make eye contact with anyone at this point. “Have you ever even tried to talk to her? You have not once given her a chance. We have been married for two years and I bet you don’t even know her name. Tell me. Tell me her name.” Her mom sat quietly as her father shook his head, neither answering the question. “We should go...” Liana’s voice peeked out, small and almost inaudible. Rebecca shook her head, walking over to her wife and holding her hand. “Her name is Liana Ramirez. She is 25 and she currently is an elementary school teacher as well as the host of their art club. She loves kids, and they love her. Her students' faces light up when they see her, and they bring her gifts almost every day. She keeps them too, all of them. Even the ones that are stick drawings you can barely make out.” Her father began to hold his hand up to silence her but she kept going. “She also volunteers. Where? Anywhere she can find. Last weekend she went to the soup kitchen and even baked dessert for them, with her own ingredients. The weekend before she and I went to the animal shelter and now foster 3 puppies.” “Rebecca, please. Enough.” Her mother spoke out, but she refused to stop. “No, not enough. This woman is the kindest, most selfless, and most loving woman I have ever met. She is so kind she gives you guys the benefit of the doubt every time. I wouldn’t even have come if she hadn’t dragged me here. She wanted me to make amends. She wanted me to see if I could have my family again but you know what?” She walked Liana to the door and swung it open before turning back one last time. “She is my family now, I don’t need you guys. I am tired of trying to be a part of something I am clearly not welcome in. Thanks for inviting us, Mya. Next time, don’t waste your time.” With that, Rebecca turned back to Liana, kissed her forehead, and shut the door, leaving her family dinner for the last time. |
On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, I stretched my massive frame across an expensive and recently paid off leather couch, desperately seeking some diversion. Something to help cross the canyon of time standing between Tuesday and Wednesday. Believing hope rested on the tip of my remote, I searched the thousands of movies available to me across a bevy of devices and found “The Lorax.” Throughout the film, I noticed details that seemed to reference deeper meanings. If nothing else, I am a wannabe detective, so I took my pursuit of the truth to the hallowed halls of Google, where strangely enough, nothing could be found on Seuss esotericism. That was the end of my story. Three weeks later, while standing in line waiting to return a pair of Zubaz pants, an older gentleman overheard me on the phone discussing my Seuss frustration with an old high school girlfriend. He waited until I completed both my conversation and the transaction and approached me cautiously, like an alligator wrangler approaching a backyard in Florida. With a tap of the finger, he started a conversation that changed my life forever. First, the old-timer acknowledged the awkwardness of discussing a conversation in which he was not an active participant. After I disarmed him with a smile and a wave of my right hand, he proceeded to inform me about a library found on Staten Island, NY called “The Great Kills Library.” I would discover Seussian truth somewhere inside the bowels of that two-hundred-year-old building. Joy filled my heart, and I felt the need to thank the man to which he insisted none was needed. At last, he permitted me to kiss his gnarled left hand, and I was on my way to the hallowed halls of the Great Kills Library. Unfortunately, they were closed. I rented a room at the Victory Motor Inn and showed up again the next morning, wearing the same clothes. After hours of perusing various microfilms and filthy relics, I came upon an article written in the early parts of the twentieth century by James Cortelyou. The headline screamed, “THE LORAX AND THE FRENCH REVOLUTION,” and as I scanned down, all I saw was one big brown stain. Of course, the rest of the article was illegible, due to a careless patron spilling coffee over the document like a large man entering a bath. Blast! Ninety-five percent of the time, that’s the end of the story. Ninety-nine percent of the time, whatever truth there is left to find is consigned to the garbage bin of history. Thankfully, I am part of the one percent. A sentence, which, when taken out of context, might condemn me to the fate suffered by those later on in this story. With a recipe that is two-thirds ingenuity, a quarter high-speed Internet connection, and three-eighths free long distance phone call thanks to Verizon, I managed to track down James Cortelyou at his house deep in the brass fields of Tecumseh, Oklahoma. At first, he was hesitant to speak, most likely due to the intimidating Seuss agents residing all across the continental United States. Eventually, due to his need to unburden his heavy soul before passing on to the great beyond, he opened up and told me the true story behind, “The Lorax.” Our tale begins in the year 1793, in the quaint French countryside of Fougères, located on the outskirts of le Mont St-Michel. Fougères is famous for having one of the only three belfries in Brittany, a former feudal state that existed for a time in France. For years, peace ruled the land until the winds of change began hinting of ominous actions to come. With the monarchy facing opposition from all sides and the people thirsting for freedom, it was the perfect storm for creativity, fresh ideas, and impending doom. Enter Pierre de la Crème Glacée Parapluie, or simply Pete Parapluie to his friends. Pete was a simple glassmaker, one of the dozens located in a town famous for its glass-making industry. His life was a series of routines, and Pete anticipated his life would stay that way until he finally closed his eyes. One of those routines involved his hands, specifically his fingers. Every day he would come home with slight scratches all over his delicate digits from the exquisite element of the glass. If that was his only hassle, historians agree that Pete would have settled into a lifetime of obscurity. It wasn’t. He didn’t. The problem began as all problems did back then, with the upper crust of French society. They enjoyed the finer things in life, and there was nothing finer than the glass in Pete’s shop. They would come in their fancy clothes and powdered faces, shooting off their sneering glances and condescending attitudes. Pete did his best to smile; after all, it was nearly impossible to find a French aristocrat at that time who didn’t sneer and condescend with a powdered face and fancy clothes. If that was the only problem, historians are also in agreement that Pete’s name might have survived a generation after his death, but no more than two. It wasn’t. And once again, he didn’t. The crux, the essence, the Coeur of the matter was how the aristocrats traveled with their cats. Not just one cat, many cats. Multiple cats. Lots of cats. Une multitude de chats. Pete hated cats. These cats would come and use his shop as their own personal litter box. What was formerly a clean workplace turned into a disgusting toilet. Long after the aristocrats and their cats had bid him adieu, Pete would find nastiness in his shoes, in his glass machinery, even in his ears. This drove Pete, crazy. Did you ever find shit in your ears? Not dirt, but actual shit. It is not a pleasant feeling. Enough was enough. On the morning of January 20, 1793, he marched down to The Church of Saint Sulpice and demanded the attention of the townspeople. Quickly, a mob gathered, (as was the norm at the time) to listen to Pete’s words. There he gave a speech widely regarded as the most important in French history and the reason why King Louis XVI was executed the very next day. Before we get to those words, let me extend my apologies to those who speak French. Some of the meaning gets lost in translation. *My fellow countrymen!* *I am tired! I am tired of making glass for these horrible rich people who think they are better than we are. I am tired of seeing their smug faces and having to hold my tongue as they talk down to me. But most of all, I am tired of their cats!* *To hell with their cats!* *To hell with those useless animals that believe by virtue of their birth that they own dominion over all that they see. To hell with their belief that they can go to the bathroom wherever they want. I am tired of their shit, both literal and metaphorical. WE are tired of their shit. I know there isn’t a man alive here in our proud town that enjoys finding cat shit in their ears. I know there isn’t a woman alive in this town who enjoys having to ruin their brooms sweeping up all the cat shit. I say it’s time we give them back all the shit they have given us!* *It is time to rise up!* *It is time to cast off these bonds of servitude and force the rich to acknowledge who truly runs this beautiful land we call France!* *It is time to fuck shit up!* After that last line, the crowd went into a frenzy and began to chant, *A l’enfer avec les Royals et a l’enfer avecs leurs chats!* Translated into English, *To hell with the Royals and to hell with their cats!* This sentiment raged across the countryside as hordes of angry French citizens attacked those they believed persecuted them. They wanted freedom, they wanted equality, and they wanted to be rid of those annoying cats. Thus, the end result of an attack on French nobility was their cats placed into a sack and thrown into a river. In casting off their symbolic shackles, they cast off the cats. The most impressionable of all were the French children, who watched this all go down. Psychologists later concluded that to deal with the horrors, the French children created a game that later became the impetus of the game “Freeze Tag,” complete with a song. The game would begin with all the children gathered together. Quickly, two children would be singled out. One would be “The Royalty,” and one would be “The Cat.” The rest of the children would denigrate into a mob and chase “The Royalty” and “The Cat.” When they finally caught “The Royalty,” the child was forced to stand still and watch as the children then focused their attention on finding “The Cat.” Once “The Cat” was found, the children would carry “The Cat” and throw them into “The River,” symbolized by the mounds of garbage piling up around the countryside. Once “The Cat” was thrown into “The River” the children would sing, *Nous sommes les enfants assez & petit* *Nous jeter le cat dans la rivière* *La Révolution vivent plus longtemps que le cat* *C’est dans la rivière jeter* *Le cat jeter* *Le cat jeter* *Le cat dans la rivière jeter* *Le cat jeter* *Le cat jeter* *Et a l’enfer avec lui* **Translated into English**, *We are children pretty and small* *We throw the cat in the river* *The Revolution shall live longer than the cat* *That’s in the river* *Throw the cat* *Throw the cat* *Throw the cat* *In the river* *Throw the cat* *Throw the cat* *Throw the cat* *And to hell with him!* It was at this point in the conversation where I firmly believed James Cortelyou was wearing a spaghetti strainer for a hat. He heard the silence echoing from thousands of miles away and asked, with a hint of glee in his voice, “Perhaps you’re wondering how this ties into The Lorax?” In the late 1960s, Theodor Seuss Geisel was traveling the French countryside with his second wife, Audrey Stone Dimond, when they decided to check out the famous castle in Fougères, built in the year 1000. In the middle of their journey to the castle, they came across the infamous Church of Saint Sulpice. Believing if you’ve seen one church, you’ve seen them all Theodor was content to continue their trek. Audrey, however, begged her husband to stop when she saw a bunch of stuffed cat dolls piled up along the sides of the columns making up the front of the church. “Such a curious sight,” she was said to exclaim. “Let’s go investigate.” The weary travelers approached the front door and tried to understand the significance behind the cats. Seeing how Theodor couldn’t read or speak French, he asked a fellow traveler to translate the words on the plaque found to the right of said door. Those words were the famous speech Pete made nearly two hundred years prior. Now intrigued, Seuss grew obsessed with learning the rest of the story. By the time he arrived home in California, Seuss knew he had to Americanize the story and make it suitable for children. Thus, “The Lorax.” There was a forty-second pause between us before I thanked James for his time and hung up the phone. Two weeks later, he was found dead in his home. Cause of death? Choked on a cherry. What’s the most popular fruit tree in France? The Cherry tree. I’ll leave you to fill in the blanks. So the next time you read, “The Lorax” to your children or watch the movie on Netflix, remember the symbolic meaning behind the Lorax creature, representing the French peasants and the “Once-Ler” representing the French Royalty. Think of those simple French people. Think of all those simple French people who had to suffer from finding cat shit in their ears. Think of how cat shit led to the French Revolution, forever changing the way people lived and were governed. Think of how, without the cat shit, there would be no French Revolution and consequently, no United States of America. |
Most of my installations have been polarizing to say the least, spurring critique that says I trivialize trauma while on the other hand garnering praise for pointing at the dark heart of America: “A Candle in the Wind” was an eternal flame placed underneath a flame-retardant portrait of Marilyn Monroe; “Notes from the Underground” were pages of writings from escaped slaves that light up to the tune of the Hollywood Undead album of the same name; and “Fast Five” were obituaries of car crash victims written using rubber from burst tires. I’ll let you make your own assumptions about each piece’s meaning. Despite the expected ramblings of negativity that usually appear after one of my showings, nothing could have prepared me for the universal praise I received after my latest work “The Manhattan Project.” Nothing in the world draws in a crowd like art. And nothing in the art world draws in a crowd like interactive art. People can sit and ogle a Rembrandt painting all day; people can stare at the thick brush strokes of a Rothko until they make their own meaning in the nothingness; people can walk around a Jeff Koons dog and add their voice to the thousands who have accused him of plagiarism. But to actually touch a piece of art? Now there’s an event. There’s another photo opportunity. In their very nature, people enjoy interacting with things. It makes them feel as if they are part of something they have no right to be a part of. “Step right up! Now you too can leave your handprints on the testicles of the Wall Street bull!” In actuality, no one would ever want to touch the testicles of a real bull, but to take photos with your head mere inches from the anus of a landmark while clutching the hardest sack you’ve ever felt? Well, not to be crass, but even children find that amusing. Friends, families, scholars, all walks of life can easily have a quick chuckle when posing with a brass member, and for some reason, there is barely any pompous criticism like you would hear in a museum. None of those freshmen artists who think they know more than everyone around them. None of those stuffy professors with their circular glasses giving their twenty minute speech about how they used to know the photographer. None of the jaded attendees (who at one time were those freshmen artists who just could’t break into the industry due to “unfairness”) saying “that’s art? My kid could do that.” Just a moment of... being. I do feel lucky to have progressed from one of those optimistic students. And yes, I am jaded, but I’m one of the jaded ones who’ve made it. The curators in the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in Manhattan (trust me there is more to my installation’s title than just relating to the location) expected me to bring in a crowd based on my name alone, but these days, name recognition isn’t enough. Too much time could be spent playing a video game, watching a movie, scrolling through blog posts of your favorite author; but to actually get people to leave the comfort of their chairs is a harder task than ever. The time for planning was running out. When panicking about your future, you’ll do just about anything. When picking two out of the “cheap, fast, and good triangle”, quality is always the first to go. When pleading to a higher being for some inspiration, sometimes the devil answers. So in the age of Instagram and TikTok influencers, I decided to sell my soul. I made something interactive. The description in the gallery pamphlet is as follows: “Remy Lazarus’ “The Manhattan Project” is a new, interactive, singular experience from the divisive artist. You are now at the Trinity Site of New Mexico. Step into the year 1945 as you press the button that launched the first nuclear missile and changed the world forever. To mark this occasion, stand still for one minute as the camera exposes your complimentary photo while a mushroom cloud grows behind you.” In the opening day, hundreds came through to get their hands on the button that would put generations to come on edge. Children, adults, elders who were alive during that moment, all seemed to have a strange sort of glee on their face as they brought about destruction to the Jornada del Muerto desert. Behind each one of them, a projector played footage of a warhead explosion, yet they never face it, instead opting to look ahead at the camera capturing their image. Out of sight, out of mind, one might say. And when they were done, they collected the image of their time traveling as if it were any other photo booth attraction. So many hands on that button. So many minutes passing. Standing just at the entrance for the reception, I noticed a few going in again for a second, even a third time. Phones out, taking their own pictures, making videos of themselves in black and white. The joy of ultimate power in their hands was tangible, and yet the irony of it all was lost on each one of them. Days went by, weeks went by, hundreds visited, and it was soon the most frequented exhibit in the MoMA. When picking the options of cheap and fast, certain corners must be cut, but sometimes rash decisions what stand the test of time. The unexpected can be the most impactful. Think of your favorite movie lines: “Hey I’m walkin’ here” from Midnight Cowboy, or “Heeere’s Johnny” from the Shining, or “You’re gonna need a bigger boat” from Jaws, or “But why male models” from Zoolander, or “Like tears in rain” from Blade Runner, or “You talkin’ to me” from Taxi Driver, or “You hit me in the ear! Why the ear?” from Fight Club. All were unscripted, improvised moments. The unexpected can be the most impactful. So when people of New York started slowly experiencing strange feelings of nausea and vomiting, not much note was taken. But the dizziness, fatigue, and hair loss caught much more attention. No one could understand how it was happening. Something in the water? Something in the air? A chemical attack? Some accounts were shared of those in other states experiencing similar symptoms, even progressing to internal bleeding. A wave of panic swept across the city, eventually the nation, as more and more cases were discovered. What could be causing this? Where were these unidentifiable boils coming from? Children died. Adults died. Elders who lived through the first test of the nuclear bomb died. All of them having a photo of perfect happiness while playing with an art installation. When picking the options of cheap and fast, certain corners must be cut. All the pieces of my “Manhattan Project” were in place, save for the countertop that the button of doom would sit on. Materials are expensive and after blowing my wad on loads of paper, a projector, automated film camera, and a printer, a simple stand that was sturdy enough to maintain the pressure of thousands of visitors was all I needed. After too many calls and websites to count, I happened upon a story of radioactive countertops that caused more than a few problems in Europe. Unsurprisingly, the first I heard of this came from an article written by similarly divisive artist, Chuck Palahniuk. The connection was too perfect. An unsuspecting radioactive material in an art piece about the unrecognized cost of nuclear destruction that would simultaneously destroy the audience without them realizing? It was too good to be true. And yet, the truth was there. Is HERE. Amongst the rest of my materials in storage after the closing of a three-month show. The number of attendees declined, but the number of those alive in the city also declined, so the ratio was maintained. No one would ever point to my piece as being the cause of so much death, and there should be no reason for a Geiger counter to ever come across the radioactive countertop. Finally, the reviews associated with my name were overwhelmingly positive, and the fallout was overwhelmingly negative. Yet, everyone was at least happy for a moment. So please, touch the art. |
“Kristof, are you sure this is what you want? My father is not going to like this.” “I’ve thought about it Marie. The pandemic is hurting everyone. Plus, you know how my headaches have come back. They haven’t been this bad in over 20 years. They’re so random and unpredictable, I just don’t know if I can do it.” “Well you’re going to have to talk to him then because I’m sure as hell not. This is your decision and I’m not about to break my own father’s heart.” Kristof and Marie had been dating for several years. Marie’s father owned and ran a small carpentry and woodworking business, The Wood Chest. It provided an adequate living, keeping the Peters family entrenched in the middle class social scene for almost a century. Once it became apparent that Kristof and Marie were committed to each other, Stephen Peters, Marie’s father, brought on Kristof as his protege with the goal of one day handing the reigns of The Wood Chest to him. “When are you going to talk to him?” Marie asked. “I know you’re both working on that project today.” “I still haven’t fully decided that I’m going to do it. You know I have that week booked soon at that AirBnB cabin” Kristof replied. “Thank you for letting me have that time alone by the way.” “Of course. I do know you’ve been under a lot of stress, you need a reboot.” “Oh you’re right about that. But yeah, I’m still not 100% sure I want to tell him anyway. It’s a big decision and there’s just so much at play.” Kristof stood and cleared the table. “Well,” Marie said as she scrubbed away the morning’s breakfast residue from the pan, “make sure this isn’t a rash decision. Spend some time with dad, go grab a beer with him and just talk. I’m sure things will become more clear if you don’t keep things bottled up to yourself.” “Yeah. I’ll see how it the project comes along this morning and go from there. Marie?” “Yes?” “Thank you. I love you.” “I love you too K. Now hurry up and shower. You need to leave in 20 minutes.” “Yes mother” Kristof said playfully, rolling his eyes. Marie shot him a playful angry look and threw the dish towel at him. Kristof caught it and threw it back immediately, taking off running to the bathroom before she could have a chance to throw it back. ********** The working portion of The Wood Chest was a 1200 square foot space in the back of the Peters’ family land. It was originally a guest house when Marie’s great-grandfather built the main house and started the company roughly one hundred years ago. When Stephen, Marie’s father, took over the daily operations of the business, he converted the guest house into the main workshop. This was where the big projects were made. Stephen Peters was sanding and turning a piece of cedar at one of the lathes in a corner of the shop when Kristof walked in. Stephen was only 60 years old, but the years of running The Wood Chest had begun to cause some arthritis in his shoulders and he appeared to be closer to 70 than his actual age. His hardened skin seemed moreso due to his nearly solid white hair. While still able to get his customers taken care of and his jobs done in a reasonable amount of time, he was more than happy to have the help of Kristof. The days the two spent working on projects and building custom pieces for customers and clients seemed to go by much faster than when one of them was working solo. It also didn’t hurt that it was looking more and more like Kristof was going to propose to Stephen’s daughter Marie in the next few weeks. Stephen enjoyed Kristof’s company immensely and was excited about the possibilities for The Wood Chest when he finally handed control of the business to his (hopeful) future son-in-law. “Morning Mr. Peters, how many projects are on the slate for today?” “Hey there Kristof! This is it for the day, but it’s going to take a majority of our time.” “Just the one huh?” Kristof sighed. “How long has it been since we had multiple jobs going at once? I miss the days when we had to budget our time enough to be able to work on a few different pieces each day.” Stephen turned off his machine and stretched. “I know son, it’s been awhile. Once the pandemic hit, it slowed us down quite a bit. We’re still getting orders and making money, but yes there has been a drop off the past few months.” Kristof slid on his apron and safety goggles. “Didn’t you say that we should be getting more custom orders any day now?” “I did say that, yes.” Stephen replied. “We actually just got three orders for some really amazing patio pieces. I know I promised you your week vacation next week, so I convinced the client to let us start those in a couple weeks after you get back.” “Thank you sir” Kristof said with some excitement. “First, for letting me take the time off like that, my headaches are back and I honestly need the break.” “That’s no problem, I need you healthy. My goal is to get all of this” Stephen gestured to the shop with a wide arch of his arm “transferred to you by the end of the quarter. I haven’t told Marie this, but I’m retiring soon. My shoulders aren’t getting better. This is all about to be yours.” “That’s quite a lot to take in Mr. Peters. Why haven’t you told her?” Stephen went back to work on the lathe while Kristof worked on sanding some of the larger pieces. He had to shout so he could be heard clearly. “Because you know how she worries, Kristof. She’s concerned enough as it is. Can you imagine how she would take it if she knew that I was planning to retire earlier than anyone knows? For this to go smoothly, this is how it has to be done.” Kristof stifled a laugh. “Yeah, she does tend to get worked up and over think a bit. Mr. Peters?” “Yes?” “Let’s go grab a couple of drinks after work today. I’ve got a couple things I’d like to talk to you about.” Stephen’s face lit up. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Let’s get this work knocked out so we can enjoy ourselves later.” They both turned from the other and got back to working on their respective parts of the project. ********** The first snow of the season had started falling in the afternoon and the bar was not very crowded. A young couple sat at the bar and a group of three off duty construction workers were standing over a pool table deciding would would break the first game. Stephen and Kristof sat facing one another in a corner booth. Stephen had just started his rum and coke and Kristof was taking a sip of his beer when the waitress brought their food. Stephen got the fries and Kristof the nachos (Kristof loved him some nachos). “Great job today on the sanding Kristof” as Stephen took a bite of fries. “Thank you. I think I only managed a couple of splinters, not so bad” Kristof said with a grin. Stephen smiled. “You’ll live. I’m glad you picked this place. I like it, not smoky or anything.” “I know it’s not your regular spot, but it’s a great low key place with amazing food.” Kristof scooped more ground beef onto a nacho. “These things are glorious.” “You said you wanted to talk about a couple things. Is everything okay?” Stephen finished his drink and signaled the bartender for another. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I’m worried.” “About what son?” Stephen asked. “I don’t know how to say this, but I’m worried about the shop, about The Wood Chest.” A look of confusion came over Stephen’s face. “Oh? Go on.” Kristof took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I know it’s been in the family since before your father was born. I know the history it has in this town, the history it has for that property and for the Peters’. But we’ve got to be realistic and look at the big picture. Business has dropped upwards of 50 percent the past 7 to 8 months, and it’s getting close to 60.” “Uh huh. I’m aware.” Stephen said softly with a hardened stare. “What’s your point? I told you things are starting to pick up. The Wood Chest has made it through tough times before and I don’t see how this is any different.” “Stephen. Mr. Peters. Look at it. There is a worldwide pandemic going on and businesses like this, shops like this one, they’re all struggling. And with no end in sight? How much longer can we keep it up?” They silently looked at each other as the waitress brought them each another drink before leaving to attend to a table of men that just entered. The men at the pool table were starting their second game. “Kristof, I want you to listen, and I want you to listen good. The Wood Chest has survived countless ups and downs, the mini depression in the 80s, the crash of 08, 9/11, all of it. And guess what? We’ve come out stronger in the end. I know we can do it again, and that’s why I want you. You know that I’m turning it over to you over the next couple of months. We can do this.” Kristof took another deep breath and downed half his bottle in one chug. “That’s the thing. I don’t want it.” Stephen slammed his glass down and everyone in the bar quickly glanced his direction before turning away. “What do you mean you don’t want it?” Kristof looked Stephen in the eyes. “I mean I don’t want to take over The Wood Chest. I don’t want The Wood Chest. If you turn it over to me, I’ll of course take it, but I won’t continue to keep it in the family.” All the color drained from Stephen Peters’ face. “I, I, don’t know what I’m hearing. I can’t believe this. We were going to turn it around together and you were going to usher in a new era for The Wood Chest.” “We still can turn it around Mr. Peters, but I will look to sell the business within a year if you give me full control.” Kristof said matter of factly. “I’m not going to continue the family business long term.” “This hurts, you know this.” Stephen said, barely above a whisper. “What can I do to change your mind?” “Unfortunately, there’s nothing you can do. I’ve made up my mind. I will gladly stay on and continue working with you. We can continue turning things around. I’m not leaving you high and dry. I will help you with the search for the next head of your family business, but that person is not going to be me.” Kristof finished his beer and grabbed another beef laden nacho. “I definitely wasn’t expecting this, but if your mind is made up, I’m not going to try and force you.” Stephen said as he picked at the remainer of his fries, clearly distracted. “I appreciate you letting me get that out, and I’m sorry.” Kristof’s cell phone began to buzz in his pocket. He signalled for one final round of drinks before looking at his phone. “It’s Marie. She wants to talk.” ********** |
Oh my. That’s not right. It’s nice to see but its $100,000 more than I should have . I was standing in front of the ATM machine having just withdrawn some cash and was staring at the receipt.. I immediately thought I should go into the bank and question it when another thought came. Hold on now. It might be ok. Wait until I am home and check the computer. Might be another windfall I hadn’t expected . Remembering back 10 years ago when I had found I was entitled to a pension from my husband’s work. Came completely out of the blue, but very welcome. On my way home, I took the 20 minute walk to think about the funds. If this was legit, how would I spend it?. A trip and one where I would invite my close friend to join me, all expenses paid. We both had expressed a desire to visit Newfoundland and Labrador. Embrace the wonderful scenery, the fiords and thoroughly explore all the Viking history. As neither of us wanted to drive, the best way was an escorted tour. I had researched this before and knew there was a 14 day one available. A small group of about 10 people in an luxury coach, staying at the best hotels along the way and doing various side trips like whale watching, iceberg alley and enjoying an evening with the locals with all their music and dancing. That trip would account for around $20,000 and I could book it now and pay for it upfront and also take out insurance cancellation just to be on the safe side. Lovely, I thought. But hold on a bit. What if this windfall was an error. If I spent it and then they wanted it back. The insurance cancellation was good but only for so many days before the trip. I would then be in debt. Or could they? All very well expecting to get the funds back, but if it’s all gone, you can’t get blood out of a stone. So maybe I should spend it as fast as I could. Good point, so how else will I dispose of $100,000 fast? What about investment? Nice idea, but that takes time to get a good return. Maybe buy a car. Normally a new car is not a good investment as the minute it is driven off the parking lot, it depreciates fast. I had quite the opposite experience six months ago. . My car was coming off a 5 year lease and I did the buy back. Six months later I moved into a condo in town and having a car was such an expense. Especially parking. Then there was gas which had risen so much recently, plus insurance, maintenance and such like and public transport around me was so readily available. I had seen there was a demand for second hand cars and was amazed when I was offered $15,000.. Doing the maths I had actually paid $21,000 in total with lease payments and buy out, so in 5 years, it had only cost me $6,000 plus running costs. . Not bad I thought. So could I do that again? Although I had managed without my car, I had to admit I really missed it. The little trips done on a whim, popping down to see my friend who lived 2 hours away. Or exploring other areas around the town which were not always accessible by public transport or if they were, it took such a long time. So that would account for another $35,000 .if I bought a new car and outright. That wasn’t such a bad idea because if the funds were in error and had to pay back, I could always take out a new lease and pay back the funds and hopefully do the same as before. So now I have disposed of $55,000. Had to do something else with the $45,000. By this time I had arrived home and went immediately to the computer to research the funds, who they were from and if I was entitled. Not that easy without alerting the bank which I didn’t want to do at this stage. As today was a Friday, no more transactions would go through on my account until the following Monday. So I had the whole weekend to decide my next step. Another thought popped up. Is the Bank allowed to withdraw funds from my account without my permission? I had put an alert on a daily withdrawal of $2,000 to stop any nasty people helping themselves. The Bank certainly could deposit funds as I was the recipient and they wouldn’t be concerned where it came from. If this was in error, they would only know if the sender put in a search and that would only be the result of the true recipient not receiving the funds. So how much time would all this take? Could be days, even weeks. Certainly enough time for me to dispose of the $45,000. What else could I do or what else did I need? Ah, charity. It’s all very well having funds, legit or not, but there are other people not so fortunate. Animals too. One of my favourite charities was for guide dogs. Not just for the blind and deaf, but also for therapeutic dogs in hospitals. Donating to this not only finds a good home for a dog, but also gave a new lease on life for people with disabilities. This is excellent. I doubt anyone would be that mean to want a return if I had donated with funds not my own. I would appeal to their good side and hopefully shame them into assuring the donation would stay. All good. That accounts for at least $3,000. Now to select maybe 4 more charities and give the same amount. Doing well. Now down to $30,000. What do I really need. Until now, I hadn’t thought how hard it was to spend money. I had seen so many ads with the latest lottery up to the millions and I’m sure like a lot of people thought how wonderful it would be to have. Now here I was not sure how to spend just $100,000. Of course I was also considering the possibility of having to pay it back if it wasn’t really mine. That did put a restriction of freedom of spending. So far I had come up with ideas which also enabled me to repay the funds if necessary without putting a damper on myself. What about my kids and grandkids?. They were all in a good position. Not that a bit of extra cash wouldn’t go amiss. I had already put funds aside for the grandkids in a trust fund they would have on my demise. Also had transferred funds to my kids to cover my cremation and the trip to the UK to scatter my ashes. Everything was in order. Just what do I personally need? My apartment was well furnished and my building offered a lot of amenities. Going on trips is wonderful and I would really enjoy the Newfoundland one, but traveling and negotiating international airports is not something I really wanted to do anymore. Been there, done that. Now it was time to make sure I was well cared for and enjoy my senior life. With that in mind, I turned my thoughts to the remaining $30,000. How could I park the funds so they could be spent and couldn’t be grabbed back. Would be good to have $30,000 to access as the spirit moved. To go on day trips, enjoy shows in New York, visit friends on the west coast and generally have the freedom to enjoy what was available. I really needed to put it somewhere safe. Then I decided on a plan which could take a bit of time. I would take out cash every few days. Not the same amount. Didn’t want to show a pattern. I would keep the cash in a safe place in my apartment and would use the cash to pay for groceries, clothing, auto expenses such as gas, service, maintenance, concert tickets, and other personal requirements. By doing that, my bank balance would increase and those funds would be legitimately mine. So not to attract attention, I would put some expenses through the bank. Taking the funds out would take quite some time and over several weeks. I was banking on the true sender and recipient not discovering their error for some time. Something that I had experienced once before when I was working for an architect many years ago. I had been engaged as the bookkeeper for a medium sized Architect’s office. A good solid firm and it was a delight to work with such creative people. Normally I only did a 3 day week which was sufficient to keep the books in up to date order. The specific week when an error appeared on the bank balance was when I had been asked to draw up a budget for a new project which required an extra day’s work. I had just finished the project and still had a bit of time to spare so decided to just do a cursory glance at the bank balance instead of waiting until the following week. Immediately I could see there was an extra $50,000 deposit and from a company we did not have dealings. I knew there was an error and could easily see why. The name of the Architect I worked for was Richardson Design. There was another Architect cum Artists Gallery in town called Richards Art and Design. This was a much bigger firm than ours and had quite a staff. This was to whom the cheque had been issued so clearly just a slip up. $50,000 slip up and not to be taken lightly. I didn’t have the authority to question this or to contact anyone until it was confirmed that this was in fact an error. Everyone had left for the weekend, so I put a note with a photocopy of the transaction on Mr. Richards’ desk. When I arrived at work the following Monday, I was immediately summoned to Mr. Richards’ office. It was of course to discuss the $50,000. The head accountant was also there and he did confirm that they were not expecting any funds from this particular sender. After going through the bank balance and showing him how I had retrieved the information as to the sender and recipient, it was agreed it was just a bank slip up. That’s when I caught a bit of a gleam in Mr. Richards’ eye. When he asked if I had contacted anyone and I assured him I had not, the gleam became a beam. “Let’s wait a bit and see how long it takes them to find out they’re missing funds.” Both he and the accountant chuckled. I knew there was a bit of a jealousy between the two firms and we were regarded as the poor relations. Normally I would not have questioned either of them, but I thought they hadn’t really thought this through, “What happens Mr. Richards if they discover it before we tell them.? We might look as though we are slow off the mark don’t you think?” Definitely a good point and at that they both agreed that although action should be taken straight away, they decided to give them 24 hours. They wouldn’t be caught out for any delay as they could plead that I was only part time. Apparently, Mr. Richards was the one to call 24 hours later and politely ask the other Mr. Richards if he was missing a bit of cash, like around $50,000. By all accounts, there was more than a bit of a flurry around and questions why this had not been noticed immediately. Especially as they were expecting the funds the week before. The bank were hauled over the coals as well as it was their error in posting. We came out like true heroes and I was sent a bouquet of flowers from the competition with a simple note “Thank you for your diligence. Good people hard to find” Was that a way of offering me a job? Maybe but I didn’t bite. Taking out $30,000 in cash would take a lot of time and I realized I would be in a lot of stress until it was all accounted for. Plus all the time expecting to hear that the gig was up. Did I really need any stress at my time of life? Definitely not, but what other way was there to deal with $30,000. I cast my thoughts back to tv shows I had seen about money laundering. I’d never truly followed the total scheme and anyways that the film industry. They don’t necessarily have to be that accurate. Deciding it was best to leave things as they were and not spend any money or dispose of any funds for a few days. See what happens on Monday.. As soon as the bank was open, I checked my bank balance. Still the same. Checked my messages and nothing from the Bank or from anyone I didn’t recognize. Several coffees later, I had come to a decision. I just wasn’t prepared to go through all the plans I had thought of to park or spend funds not truly mine. Guess I don’t have a criminal mind after all. Without trying to dissuade myself, I picked up the phone and called the Bank. Oh my God. No wonder people question people in authority. After all the details had been taken down, repeated and fully explained a couple of times, checking with superiors, and being put on hold innumerous times, I was finally told they would place a hold on the funds pending investigation. They either didn’t know or would not tell me who the funds were from. It was nearly 4 weeks later that I heard back to say the funds had indeed been placed in my account in error. No other details were given despite the numerous questions I had. In a way I was relieved although I did have fun thinking about how to spend the money. It also showed me my priorities which did surprise me. The next surprise I had was a letter with a $10,000 cheque. It was from the sender. Had someone other than myself received the funds and disposed of them straight away like I had imagined I could do, not necessary the same way, those would have been lost and both the sender and the bank would have been responsible for issuing duplicate funds. In recognition of my honesty, they were issuing me a 10% finders fee. Now there’s a thought. Why not offer my services in tracking down missing funds |
Grandma used to tell me there was a song in everything. She would say the wind was the melody, the trees the percussion, and the critters that filled the land were the vocals. She used to hum along with the sounds of the microwave and washer. She’d harmonize with the racket of traffic. She’d even dance to the scrubbing of the dishes. She was an amazing woman who heard the beauty in everything. I loved her dearly, but sometimes wonder if the loss of her sight also led to the loss of her mind as well. Grandpa once said she was always like this. She was a whimsical young lady, which turned her into a magical old crone, spending every moment see could following the sounds. I might not hear the music she could, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t catch myself whistling along with the birds sometimes on my walks home. Her favorite song of all, was the sounds of a summer night. I would often find her in the back garden late in the evening. Surrounded by fireflies and flowers, resembling a fairy queen on her throne. There she would let the sounds carry her away to some place the rest of us could never seem to find. And in those moments, she would open her mouth and let loose the most beautiful sounds a human could make. Her tone was both earthy and light, and with the addition of the toads, crickets and owls, the song would almost become ethereal. And for a small moment, anyone there to bare witness would be swept away with her. This is where I found myself often, whenever I felt alone, or stressed or sad, grandma’s song was there to ground me. So, on the night she passed, I found myself there again. I settled myself in her normal spot, closed my eyes and listened. But all I found was silence, as if the world was mourning her loss with me. All that was there to accompany me was the tears on my face and the stars in the sky. Each one seemed to shine a little less bright this evening. In the years to follow I would find myself there often, and all though the melodies of the night air returned, I could never find that song again. The world continued as if nothing had changed. That house stayed with the family, as was tradition, and soon became home to a family of my own. And one summer night, while I thought everyone was asleep, I heard that song again. Every so faintly, it floated into the house through an open window. My feet brought me out to the garden, my whole mind feeling entranced. And in that garden, my little one sat. Voice as sweet as honey, the universe sang back to her. My grandma used to tell me there was a song in everything, and for the first time, in what seemed a lifetime, I heard my grandma again. |
I thought old people we're meant to be sweet and kind. My grandparents were sweet and kind so I just figured all old people were nice. When I started work in the care-home I thought it was going to be an easy job. I thought the old women would just be fussing over me trying to pinch my cheeks. And I thought the old men would be telling me their wartime stories and how lucky we whippersnappers had it. That didn't seem to be the case though. In the first week. I was spat on, punched, I had stuff tossed at me. One old bastard hit me on the forehead with a heavy ornament and I had to get stitches. They were relentless, mean old bullies, that got off on causing pain and suffering. Not all seemed bad. There seemed to be a gang of them, who sat around plotting on how to make people's lives miserable. Mr Jones was the leader of the gang. I would've loved to know where they got all their energy from. Mr Jones was 105 and he had the energy of a child and he was strong. I tried to get him to go to bed one night and he caught me in a chokehold and whispered in my ear. "Don't fuck with me boy or I will snap your neck like a twig." I'll be honest, I was really scared he was going to kill me but he just let go and laughed at me. "You're as pathetic as my dead son, " he shouted at me as he stood over me. It's the other old people I felt really sorry for. They ganged up on the more vulnerable old-timers. They had it in for one guy, poor Micheal. He got landed here a few days before I started. Nobody knew where he came from, he was just here one day. I was helping Micheal change his clothes after Mr Jones had thrown hot tea in his lap. Micheal turned and gave me a sorrowful look. "I'm not meant to be here, " he said to me. I looked at him confused. "What do you mean Micheal?" I asked. I'm not old. I'm not bloody old, " he cried. He grabbed my arm and looked me in the eye. "Ring my wife she will tell you, " he asked as tears rolled down his eyes. I really started to feel sorry for him. "What's your wife's name, Micheal?" I asked as he put his hand to his face. "I can't remember her name. Why am I here?" he asked as he became upset and confused. I put him to bed and went about checking on the other residents. As I'm doing the checks, I noticed the old gang of delinquents were missing. I searched everywhere for them and the only place I could think of was the cellar. I made my way down below and as I searched around I began to hear sobbing coming from the back of the cellar. I slowly made my way through the dark. The sobbing turned to pleas for help. I found a light and switched it on. The gang of old bastards were gathered around something. As I got closer I realised they had one of the staff members pinned to the ground. A young girl named Mary who had only started working here. "Get off her," I shouted. They all turned and hissed at me. They ran at me like wild dogs. They moved unnaturally on all fours, as they charged me. I started swinging and punching like a mad man, but they overpowered me. And before I knew it, I woke up in the cellar and everyone was gone. Including Mary the young girl, they were attacking. I phoned management to complain or tell them to do something about these old creatures. But they didn't want to hear it. Later on, that night when I got home I couldn't stop thinking about what they were trying to do that young girl. I even questioned my own sanity. "Did I really see what I saw? Course I didn't, weird shit just doesn't exist." I said to myself. I was making something to eat when I heard something moving around in my back garden. I grabbed a hockey stick I kept lying around for safety reasons and made my way to the back garden. I cautiously looked around. My heart was going a million miles a minute. I heard giggling coming from the large oak tree in my back. When I looked up I was horrified by what I saw. "What the fuck Mrs Janette? What the hell are you doing up there?" Why aren't you back at the care-home?" I screamed angrily. She looked at me and just giggled before lunging from the tree down on top of me. She hit me hard, knocking me off my feet as she landed on hers. I got to my feet as she made a run for me. I raised the hockey stick and hopped it off her head as she came at me, knocking her to the ground. She picked herself up and dusted herself off. She fled by jumping my fence. I tried to run after her, but I couldn't keep up with her, that old bitch ran faster than Usain Bolt. The next day back at work I tried my best to not let those old bastards get the best of me. Poor, Mary must've been too scared to come back to work as there was no sign of her all day. I slowly walked past Mrs Jannetts room as I made the daily checks. She was sitting on her bed silently staring at me with a sinister smile spread across her face. It was coming to the end of my shift and I was waiting for the late staff to take over. I couldn't wait to leave. The night staff were always late getting to work. As I waited patiently I heard a scream come from Micheals room. I thought he was hurt so I ran straight into his room and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the cellar with a pounding headache. Two of the old creatures were holding me down as Mr Jones stood over. "You don't get to my age and still be this active by just drinking prune juice if you know what I mean, " he said as he smirked down at me. He pulled out a strange-looking knife. Mr Jones and the rest of the creatures started chanting some kind of nonsense. I screamed at them to let me go. I struggled and struggled but they were too strong for me. Mr Jones sliced his hand with the blade, showering me his blood. Mr Jones looked around at all the other old bastards. "This one's mine, " he smirked. And then he leaned in to kiss me. When I came around to my senses a searing pain shot through my body. My bones felt weak and they ached all over. I had a splitting headache. I was back in the t.v room and I was sitting in one of the recliners. My legs didn't work and I couldn't get up. I looked down at my hands and couldn't believe my eyes. Two off the late staff had already arrived. And came into where I was sitting. They looked at me and looked at each other. "Why is it when one staff member goes missing, they dump another senile old bastard on us? Come on let's get you to your room." The two carers picked me up by my arms. "I'm not meant to be here. I'm not old, I'm not old," I tried to shout, as they dragged me down the hall. "Save it for someone who cares, you old fart. |
It was the first Saturday of the summer, and the skies of Obsidian Springs were completely cloudless. The sun was beginning to peek its head from behind the summit of the volcano that loomed over the island city, creating rays of light and heat that slowly overcame the land and left an array of endless skyscraper shadow patterns in their wake. Small cafes and diners were packed with locals who were out welcoming in the sunny season, while the city’s infamous “Skyline Beach” was flooded with tourists taking pictures of the city from every angle imaginable. Although the view of the city was nothing short of awe-inspiring, it still placed second on the list of sights visitors looked forward to getting a glimpse of during their stay on the island. “Mommy, daddy! I wanna see him! When can we see him?” A blond haired boy shouted, taking a break from the several small sand structures he had been working on. “It’s not up to us, bud. He comes when he’s needed.” Responded the father, who was sunbathing with his face buried into his towel. “We will not be seeing him!” The boy's mother angrily interjected. “The second I hear even a peep about one of those hideous creatures lurking anywhere near this city, we’re getting our things and going straight back to the hotel.” “Awwwwwww, come on! No fair!” Whined the boy. “That’s enough!” The mother snapped back. “Relax, babe.” the father said nonchalantly. “It’s not a big deal. There hasn’t been a serious incident in over a year. The guys a pro! You really want the kid to miss out on the chance of seeing a real life superhero?” “Red Orion is the coolest!” Shouted the boy, who was now sitting down on a towel, shuffling his hands around the inside of a small red and white backpack. “I said that’s enough! I refuse to put my family in danger just to see some reckless psychopath in a halloween costume jump around the city and-” “REEEEEEAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHH!” The boy screeched, interrupting his mother’s speech. The boy stood up, still screeching, and began running around in circles. He held two action figures in his hands and waved each of them in the air. The first figure was a large, black, demonic dinosaur, with streaks of orange and red running up and down it’s entire body. It had spikes which resembled flames running all the way down its back to the tip of its tail. The second was a smaller, much brighter humanoid figure. It was painted almost entirely red, other than two white stripes that ran along each of its arms and legs, white shoulder pads, and a white belt wrapped around its waist with a matching “O” for a belt buckle. The figure's arms were pulled up and bent to it’s shoulders in a flexing position, and the top half of its face was covered in a red helmet. The muscular man smiled brightly. The boy bent down on one knee and began pouncing the dinosaur up and down into the sand while holding the red figure behind his back. “Oh no! A giant Eruptaur is attacking the city! Everybody run!” The boy shouted frantically. He took a moment to plant his knee firmly into the sand before flopping himself down onto his stomach in a dramatic fashion. He reached his arm back behind his head as far as he could extend it, took a deep breath, and swung it forward with all of his might, furiously crashing the toy monster into the sand structures he had built. “It’s destroying the city! Somebody help us!” The boy yelled. His mother shook her head in disappointment while his father buried his face back into his towel. The boy smashed the sand structures until there was nothing left for him to smash. He bellowed out one more ear-piercing screech before taking a moment to catch his breath. He paused for a moment, and then began to wipe several imaginary tears from his eyes. “The city is ruined.. All hope is lost.. I can’t believe it.. We need-” He gasped suddenly. His cheeks began to rise as he pulled the bright red figure out from behind his back and lifted it towards the sky. “Could it be?” He whispered. “Finally.. He’s here! It’s...” *** “Shield?” “Check.” “Club?” “Check.” “Bow?” “Check.” “With the arrows this time?” “Check.” “Check.” “Wait, what?” “Double check to make sure you have the damn arrows.” “Arrows - Check.” “Binoculars.” “Check.” “No, gimme the binoculars.” “Oh. Here.” The two men sat together on a rooftop on the far west end of the city. They faced outward towards the large volcano to the east with their legs dangling over the edge of the roof. The smell of the island's coastal swamp crept up from behind them and masked the stench of the piles of trash bags that lined up along the sidewalks below them. Pedestrians looked like ants crawling up and down the streets beneath their feet. Vince Varsity, better known to the public by his heroic alias “Red Orion”, was the larger of the two men. He wore a bright red, skin tight tactical jumpsuit, modified with built in white shoulder pads, white lining along his arms and legs, and a white belt with a matching “O” for a belt buckle. Known to the world as the savior of the city, Red Orion looked like he was ripped straight out of a comic book. He held the binoculars up to his face and aimed them out towards the volcano. “Where are ya, ya little fuckers?” He mumbled. “It’s still early.” The second man said, noticeably annoyed. He was a much younger and smaller man, although he barely qualified as a “man” in Vince’s eyes. He was known to the world as Red Orion’s trusty sidekick “Blue Belt”, but to the few who knew him personally, he was simply known as Billy. Unlike Vince, Billy held no extraordinary abilities. He couldn’t outrun a bullet, or kick a building down, or turn an Eruptaur into a pile of ash with one single punch. Although he was only human, what Billy lacked in physical prowess was made up for in wit, intuition, and his inherent desire to save people in trouble. In order to keep up with the world’s mightiest man and save as many people as he could, Billy was equipped with state of the art anti-gravity technology from head to toe. Anti-gravity gloves, boots, and a gravity pack attached to his back all allowed him to manipulate himself or his surrounding environment freely. A small motherboard strapped to his wrist allowed him to control all of his gadgets with ease. He wore a royal blue jumpsuit that was littered with pockets and straps, which were all used to carry Red Orion’s lethal arsenal. He went around his body and tightened each strap one by one, securing every weapon in its place. He knew an attack could happen at any moment, and he needed to be ready to back up his superior. “Mornings are always pretty quiet. What’s the rush?” Billy asked hesitantly. “Yeah, but they’re never this quiet. We haven’t seen a single one all day. I wanna kill something!” “It’s the first day of summer, man. The city is the safest it’s been in months. Everybody’s out enjoying the weather, you should be glad!” “Fuck that! My job isn’t to care about any of those people. My job is to hunt and kill. That’s it.” “Jeez, tell me how you really feel.” Billy scoffed. Vince stood up and pulled the binoculars away from his face. He placed his hand above his eyes to block the sun from blinding his view and averted his attention downward towards the city. “You know what your problem is, Billy?” Vince asked crudely. “You care way too much about those insects down there.” Billy stared at him blankly and didn't respond. “What's the point in caring for a bug?” “They’re not bugs. They’re people.” Billy objected. “Maybe that means somethin’ to you, but it’s all the same to guys like me.” “Guys like you? What’s that supposed to mean?” “Billy, when a mosquito sneaks up behind you and buzzes around your ear, what's your first instinct?” “What does that have to do with-” “Answer the question!” Shouted Vince, who was now squating on the edge of the rooftop. “I swipe my hand at it.” “Exactly! And why do you swipe at it?” Billy paused again, unsure of how to respond. He knew whatever he said would be challenged, so he decided to say nothing. “Because it’s a nuisance, and it’s weak enough for you to know that you can kill it with ease. If you swipe at it and miss, maybe it’ll fly away. But you’re not gonna chase it down and break your back just to get another shot at swattin’ it down. You’ll forget about it in 30 seconds, and eventually somebody else will have to deal with it. And maybe that person will get lucky and land a hit. And maybe they’ll kill it! But it doesn’t make a difference whether it lives or dies. Because for every one mosquito that dies, there's a trillion more to take its place.” “What the hell are you saying? You’d kill a bunch of people because their lives don’t matter?” “Not a chance. Sure, I could kill a bunch of people if I wanted to, but I don’t. Because I don’t care enough about these weak little bugs to chase em down with a fly swatter.” “So then why do you care so much about killing Eruptaurs? They’re even bigger nuisances than people are. They cause destruction and chaos. They kill people!” “So do humans. They’re just not as fun to fight.” Vince said smugly before letting out a soft chuckle. “That’s a real shitty way of viewing life.” Said Billy sternly. “Well, that’s why I’m the hero and you’re the sidekick.” Billy scoffed and turned away from Vince. He walked over to the other side of the rooftop overlooking the smelly swampland and sat down on the edge. Heat from the sun rising behind him pressed down onto his back, which made him feel comfortable. He concentrated on his breathing as he tried to push Vince’s pessimistic comments out of his mind. His eyes wandered through the marsh aimlessly for a few moments before focusing themselves on a large patch of sawgrass. He watched the tall blades sway side to side with each gust of wind that came and went, and tried to match his breathing with them. He remained hypnotized by the marsh for several minutes before being interrupted by a faint, yet noticeable vibration from beneath him. His neck turned swiftly to face Vince, who was already looking at him. “Did you-” “Yeah, I felt it.” Vince interjected. “Did it come from inside the building? Maybe somebody just slammed a door.” “What? Were you sleeping or something? The whole city just shook!” Billy stood up and jogged over to Vince. He grabbed the binoculars from Vince’s hand and aimed them at the volcano. “Vince, you don’t think..” “There's no way. HQ would have briefed us weeks ago if there was a chance of her erupting like that.” “Maybe an earthquake then?” Billy said, as he lowered the binoculars from his face and slipped them into one of his pockets. “Seriously? An earthquake? Don’t be an idiot. When was the last time we had an earthquake here in-” Obsidian Springs interrupted Vince with another shake, this one presenting itself in a much more aggressive manner than its predecessor. The building they stood upon rumbled and shook with a might strong enough to knock Billy straight off his feet. His legs kicked out in front of him causing him to fall straight backwards. He managed to catch himself by throwing his hands down to his hips and flexing his wrists, which was the motion he used to quickly activate his gravity gloves. He propelled himself forward and quickly caught his balance. The ground continued to rumble and showed no signs of stopping. Screams began echoing throughout the city below them as the quake continued to intensify. “This building isn’t stable. If this shaking doesn’t let up it’ll come down any minute. We gotta get movin’.” Vince ordered. “But what about the people inside!?” “Insects get squashed all the time, Billy! Now let’s go!” “No!” Billy shouted. He tapped the screen on his wrist and activated his gravity boots to their inverted mode, making his feet stick to the roof like they were super glued to it. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you help these people!” “Quit fuckin’ around Billy, let’s go!” “I’m not leaving!” Vince paused for a moment and stared at Billy. His palms balled themselves into fists and his eyebrows pointed downward towards his nose. He let out a furious groan. “Fuckin dammit Billy!’ He shouted, before turning around and stepping onto the edge of the roof. “I’m gonna get everybody out. I need you to get higher up in the air and get a better view of the city. Try to see if you can figure out what’s causin’ all this shit.” Before Billy even had a chance to nod his head, Vince was gone. A red streak of energy lingered in the air for several seconds before disappearing. Vince loved to show off his flashy speed, but he normally only used it while fighting. Although he was stressed, Billy was relieved that Vince was finally using his power to help people. For once in his life, Red Orion was acting like a real hero. Without hesitating any longer, Billy activated his gravity pack and began flying upward into the sky. He aimed himself east and flew closer to the middle of the city in attempts to get the best view possible. He climbed higher and higher into the clouds, using the summit of the volcano as his waypoint. Once he reached his preferred height, he stopped climbing and pulled the binoculars out again. He pointed them towards the building he had just been standing on and was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of Vince carrying out the final residents of the soon-to-be toppled apartment complex. He let out a sigh of relief and whispered “Thanks, Red Orion.” From there, he aimed his sights downward toward the middle of the city. He watched as the ground below him continued to shake. People were running and screaming in fear as they all looked for a safe place to shelter themselves. He zipped open one of his chest pockets and pulled out a small headset and placed it on his head. “Vince, can you hear me?” He spoke into the headset worrily. “I hear ya. See anything?” Vince’s muffled voice replied. “Not really. It’s chaos down there, though.” “Yeah, no shit. Notice anything weird up there? Any suspicious choppers or blimps or anything like that?” “Not that I see. It’s pretty-” Billy paused. Finally, after adjusting his focus to the sky, he noticed it. A warm, dull, purple glow emitting from the top of the volcano. “The hell?” He whispered, as he pulled his binoculars back up to his eyes. “What? What is it?” Vince’s voice shot through the headset. Billy floated and continued staring, but he didn’t respond. His eyes and mind remained focused on the volcano’s crater. “Billy! Hello? Can ya hear me? What the fuck’s goin’ on up there!?” Billy snapped out of it and dropped the binoculars down to his side. “I.. I don’t even know how to say it. The volcano, it’s.. It’s glowing.” “Glowing? What do you mean it’s glowing?” “I mean it’s glowing! The top is-” CRAAAAAAAAAAACK-ABOOOOM! A thunderous explosion roared throughout every inch of the city. Car alarms began sounding off, pedestrian screams reached an entirely new level, and every dog in the city was howling to the skies. Billy let out a stressful “Shit!” as he pulled the binoculars back up to his eyes. He pointed them to the top of the volcano again, expecting it to be spewing boulders of fire, but saw no change. The crater was still emitting a soft purple glow, but it remained peaceful. It wasn’t until he aimed his sights downward when he officially began to panic. A horrifically thick crack, starting at the very base of the volcano, had begun to race across the entire city. He watched as the ground beneath him ripped wide open, completely separating the city in half. Clouds of smoke began to leak from the depths of the earth, turning the city into a soot ridden wasteland. “Vince! Are you okay!? Where are you!?” “ECK - ECK - ECK!” Vince coughed. “Fuck this fuckin’ smoke!” “We gotta do something! What do we do, Vince!? We gotta make sure everybody down there-” “Billy, just hold on for a second! Get back on the ground.” Billy stopped and took a deep breath. He tapped his wrist and began to slowly descend from the sky into the smokey city. He placed his hand over his nose and mouth in efforts to avoid breathing in too much smoke. He was semi pleased to note the ground had finally stopped shaking when he landed, but that didn’t make his current situation any better. “Vince, where are you? I can’t see 5 feet in front of me.” “Just shut up for a second!” Vince barked. “Do you hear that?” “Yeah, every car alarm in the city is going off. What does that-” “No, not that! From below us. It sounds like..” Billy’s eyes widened as he realized what Vince was hearing. “Hissing.” He mumbled to himself. He jumped up and thrusted his arms downward, projecting himself up into the air as quickly as he could. He watched as a monstrous jaw snapped shut just an inch shy of his foot. An Eruptaur had nearly turned him into it’s lunch. “REEEEEAAAAAAAGGHHH!” The beast cried from directly below him, hopping up and down in attempts to catch his foot in it’s death grip jaw. “Eruptaurs!” Billy cried into his headset. “NO SHIT BILLY!” Screamed Vince. “I’m gonna get rid of all this fuckin smoke, take cover!” “I’m goin up!” Billy replied, as he soared back up above the smoke. Watching from above, he could finally see where Vince was. He watched in awe as the red energy streak zipped up and down the entire city within seconds. The wind Vince was creating with his speed caused the smoke to lift up and drift out towards the heavens. “That should do the trick.” Said Vince, who was now perched on top of a towering gray and white skyscraper. But with one problem solved, another presented itself in a much clearer, menacing fashion. The two men watched motionlessly, feeling as though they were frozen in time, as dozens of Eruptaurs clawed themselves out of the crack in the ground and began flooding the streets of the city. |
-Eve- I haven't been out of the house in a while... It hurts to get out of the stone-cold bed in the morning. It hurts to interact with people. It hurts to get dressed and look at myself in the mirror. It hurts to see myself as the shell of who I once was, cracked from the inside-out. Even so, my friends convinced me to get out and meet someone. They signed me up for some stupid dating app and I found someone eager to meet me, so, despite my reservations about online dating, I mustered the courage to go. Sluggishly dragging myself out of my messy bed, traversing through mountains of abandoned clothing, I make my way to the bathroom to shower, brush my teeth, wash my face. I can't remember the last time I did this. The last time I went through all the steps to maintain good hygiene and self-care. It feels good to be clean on the inside, but the sinking feeling was filling me ominously. The mirror hurts me. My face is ugly. I'm not the only one that thought so. Choosing makeup is like a balancing act. You must choose a perfect medium to avoid scrutiny. The same goes for clothing. Not enough makeup and you're ugly, a masculine ugly wench undeserving of love and affection. Too much makeup and you're a cheap floozy or a clown deserving of sarcastic catcalling and being grabbed. If you dress too modestly, you blend into the background as a boring gray girl. And when you dress revealing you are an easy harlot who is showing off her body for male attention and are "asking" for it. Every morning routine I'm a funambulist on a tight-rope. It's exhausting... After at least an hour of struggling to assemble the perfect mask of makeup and clothing, I don't feel ready at all for the blind date ahead of me. He won't like me. That's for sure. Anyone could see me for who I am: a shy little girl just so scared of the world around her, a little girl shaking in fear from criticism lurking behind any corner. The air is cool and the town is bustling. The sun is high in the sky and the clouds are lazily floating through the pale blue sky. I am just going to get a coffee with a guy. It's nothing to be nervous about. And yet I am so incredibly nervous, I can feel every fiber of my being shaking. I grip my pepper spray like its a gun. My eyes are shifting nervously like a cornered animal, scanning down every alley and street for attackers. And what if my date is an attacker? Guilt and fear settle in my stomach like concrete as I wonder if I'm even brave enough to attempt to fend someone off. I am so scared, it is eating at the very core of my being. The coffee shop is insight. And, as a brave heroine would, I venture forward with timid courage. -Russel- I haven't been home in days... Every night's a different woman. A different thrill and another check on my list. It's so easy to find dates nowadays. Women practically throw themselves on me. They're desperate. All I do is sit and bask in their attention-seeking glory. I talk sweetly to a shy girl. She resembles a little doe, a small Bambi tripping over her long legs. Her eyes light up in excitement and wonder as I pamper her with fancy dinners. She has never seen anything so lavish and luxury before. Before she even understands, I swoop in so fast her little blonde head spins. And there's another notch in my bedpost. I don't know just how to play the game. I've mastered it. I am the puppetmaster of these girls. They become so enchanted with me and my confident ways that all it takes is one whiff of my expensive French cologne and they're eating out of my hands. It takes a lot of discipline to keep the schedule that I do. Workout at the gym, expensive Italian suits every day, hustle through work, then find a babe to go home with. It's a lot of hard work but I can handle it. And today is no different. The girl I'm meeting seems nice. Sweet, shy, probably insecure. The perfect type to romanticize. They play right along with the plan. And it works every time. I'm at the coffee shop 20 minutes early. That way I can scope out the local ladies in case things go awry (even though they never do). I can appear well-prepared and organized, the way a man should be. And I seem calm, cool, and confident as I just sip my black coffee. Unbothered as the girl stumbles towards me, confused and nervous that she's late. And just like that, she's already feeling that she owes me, feeling worse and desperate for positive reinforcement. A short, curvy girl with dark brown hair and eyes appears as the soft jingle of the coffee shop door echoes through the place. Her eyes are already nervous, scanning the room rapidly with fear and anticipation. All that nervous energy clashing against my confident calm makes a perfect blend for me to strike. Eventually, her eyes meet mine. I take a long sip of my coffee as she clumsily teeters forward, standing right above me. Her eyes don't stay in one place for long. She can barely maintain eye contact with me. Her long fingers are moving quickly and nervously, picking at her skirt and fidgeting. "Russel?" Her voice is quiet and sweet. She seems fragile and shy, like a little school girl. I don't even speak. I just gesture in front of me and she raises an eyebrow confusedly. I shoot her a condescending glance, hoping she gets the memo. Her big doe eyes fill with realization and shame as she sits in front of me, crossing her legs daintily and peering out the window. She looks uncomfortable and nervous. I lick my lips in anticipation. Let the fun begin... -Eve- "Are you going to order, Eve, or just sit there?" My heart jumps when I hear his voice. It's deep and gravely, a little intimidating. I try to retain my composure before answering. "Uhm, yeah," I chuckle nervously, "You already ordered?" He takes a long sip, keeping his cold hazel eyes trained on me. I look away as my cheeks heat up. "No," He says shortly. There's a hint of sarcasm in his voice but his tone is so cold that it feels hurtful. I force a dry laugh but it feels wrong. "I guess I'll go order something... W-would you like anything?" His stone face finally expresses something: curiosity. He raises an eyebrow and stares at me playfully, making my heart beat a little quicker. This time it's a good feeling it's... almost nice. Reassuring. "Yeah, I'll take a croissant," His voice morphs into a French accent at the end. He has a rich and foreign tone. He slips me a $20 bill with a twinkle in his eyes, "Get yourself something for the trouble." My heart is all warm and I know I'm blushing, but something is off-putting. I know I can't accept this. But why am I feeling some type of way? "Oh, no, I'll pay my own. But thank you," I smile shyly while taking the money and beginning to walk in the line. Quickly, something grabs my arm and pulls it back. In a panic, I yank it away and prepare to run. My heart's in my stomach and my hand is already feeling for the pepper spray. But when my vision clears it's Russel, holding my arm with a steel grip. I pull away again, but he was strong. The charming smile on his face makes me sick. "Hey, you're doing me a favor," He insists, power in his voice, "Just consider us even." I feel so intimidated that I just nod yes. Even when I order, I feel his eyes on me. I order the smallest drink possible as to not make him pay too much. Shivers travel down my spine as I hand the cashier the money. He looks out the window with his coffee in hand, as if he wasn't just staring me down. I hand him his change and croissant. There's an awkward silence until I sit down. He looks me up and down, almost judgingly. I feel shivers down my spine again. His cold eyes feel so protruding and frigid, like a doctor's stethoscope. "You got one of those prissy sugary drinks," He comments in a tone that should have been playful but comes off condescending, "That's not really coffee, is it? It's either the regular black or nothing." I want to laugh and joke along but I only feel cold judgment. Still, feeling like I have to, I force a smile and take a small sip. "I just like sugar." "Makes sense," His voice is low and rich, "Since you're so sweet." My cheeks are red but my heart doesn't feel so warm anymore. I want his compliments and flirting to feel good, to make me feel whole again. But every time there's a little piece missing, like an empty spot in my heart that even flattery can't fill. Every comment he makes enlargens the hole until I feel consumed by the void. Pushing the thought down, I take a long sip of my drink. "Thank you," I mumble quietly, "For the coffee." "Anytime, sugar," He says smoothly. I almost choke on my drink at the name. It should have felt warm and lovely. A bit shocking but then fading to tingly feelings. But instead, I felt cold inside. "I guess we should get to know each other," He sets the coffee down and stares me in the eyes like he means business. I do the same without even thinking. "Yeah," I murmur nervously, "I guess so." "So," He stretches the word out, thinking about what to say, "What was your last relationship like?" It feels like a knife in my heart. My windpipes are closed. My eyes are wet with tears. My entire body is aching from pain and I try to keep my composure. I can't bear to tell him the truth. Whatever leverage I had against him I would lose instantly if I did. "Uhm," I clear my throat, blinking away tears, "It was rough. He was uhm.... not a very good guy. Not a very easy break up either." Russel's eyes soften for the first time and suddenly I lose all suspicions about him. His body leans closer to mine, comforting and protective. I can't meet his eyes but I know they're trained on me, not judging but filled with pity. I never quite liked pity but it feels better than his constant condescension. "I'm really sorry, Eve," He says softly, his voice is like honey, "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want." I nodded while swallowing the lump in my throat. A little angry thought puts bitter words in my mouth before I can filter them. "How about you?" I normally wouldn't be so confrontational, but deep down I feel offended that he would even ask. It's so personal and triggering for me. I want to go on this date to get away from the pain that my ex caused me, not relive it in a different form. The least revenge I could get is to make him confess like I did. "Oh, you know," Russel strokes his clean short beard slowly, "I don't really do long-term, you know? Just go with the flow, float from flower to flower." My heart dropped. Nausea overtook my stomach. What were his intentions? Is there a reason he's so bold and upfront? "I, uhm," As I stumble for words, hoping to formulate some sort of protest to what he just said, he changes the subject. "So, do you have any hobbies?" I respond too quickly that I can't even say what I wanted to, "I love art." "Art?" He repeats, "Very interesting. Classy, even. Maybe I could take you to the museum sometime." "Oh, uh," I struggle to stay afloat in our conversation, it feels so one-sided, "Yeah. Sure. I mean, I would love to." "Ah, then it's settled," He cuts me off quickly, like he's closing in a deal, "We can go on Sunday." I feel so overwhelmed by his quick talking and strong, confident voice that I just nod along. I thought I was going on a simple coffee date but I'm flying by the seat of my pants and my head is spinning like a carousel. "Though, maybe you should wear something a bit classier next time," his eyes are zeroed in at my chest. Nausea and shame burn like poison in my throat. My cheeks are entirely red as I cover them slowly and guiltily, trying to hold back tears. Maybe he's right. Maybe I'm dressed too revealing, desperate for his attention. Well, here, I got it, but now it makes me look too easy. Every man in the area has to have stared at me the same way he is. His hazel eyes are hungry and full of competition like I'm a prize to win over. I feel like prey sitting there across from him. "Oh well, hopefully, those won't stay on too long anyway." That's when I snap. -Russel- That's when the crazy witch snaps at me. "Excuse me, but do you have any manners at all?!" She screeches, her hair going wild. Her dark eyes are wide and her little pupils are tiny. She looks insane. I almost would be scared of her if she wasn't already eating right out of my hands. "What?" I scoff, "Eve, what are you talking about? What's wrong?" "Shut up!" She yells. People around us are starting to stare at the scene unfolding. I have to control her, I have to calm her down somehow. If she flips now I won't have her in my clutches by sun-down. "Eve, sugar, just relax," I stand and place my arm on her shoulder, hoping to soothe the savage beast. My gesture is obviously too much for her as she jerks it away and stomps up to her feet with the chair falling over with her. Her face is completely red and her eyes are filled with tears. I'm worried for a second but then I realize I can work with this. She can let out her energy, then deflate into my arms. This can work. "Don't you dare call me that!" "Eve," I plead with her, "What did I say that makes you feel this way? I just want to listen." She is fuming and tears are streaming down her face in a snotty disgusting mess, "You have been nothing but rude and sexist and condescending this entire date. I'm nothing but prey to you, am I?" "What?" I shake my head, "Sugar, people are staring. Just calm down." She looks around the room at the people watching awkwardly. Her dark eyes fill with shame and regret. Most importantly, sadness and guilt. I can work with that. "It's okay, baby," I assure her, taking her hand in mine. Her hands are cold and rigid. I ease her back into her seat but her expression doesn't change. "There," I say soothingly, "Now we can talk this out rationally." "I'm done with being rational," She spits under her teeth, "I don't know what you planned to do with me after this, but I'm done. I've seen abusive men before and you have all the same traits. Get serious help, jerk." I sit in shock. I'm too bewildered to comprehend what happened until she's already stomping out the jingling coffee shop door. "Wait! Eve!" I call out loudly, desperately trying to catch up to her. Her hand is shaking in her purse. I need to get her back. I can't lose a girl like this. She turns down corners at least four times until we're back at the coffee shop. She's trying to get rid of me, I can tell. But I'm still hunting her down and I don't take no for an answer. I can still reel her in, I just need to catch up and talk. No woman can resist me, let alone reject me. The sun is starting to set. This is just a minor setback, I'm sure of it. By the end of the night, we will be with each other, making a wonderful ending off to our date. I'm sure of it. I'm right behind her. I grab her arm. She whips around so quickly I don't even see the pepper spray. -Eve- After I'm done running, I'm shaking. Tears streaming down my face. Fear rushing through my veins like ice. The hopelessness takes over my body again and all I can feel is that void deep inside of me, accumulating more mass. It physically aches. My heart feels heavy and broken. All I can see are flashbacks from past relationships, only with Russel's face on each memory. They all feel the same to me. I can never escape them. Because every time I think I've gotten rid of one, another one follows me down the street and grabs me. And another one whistles. And another follows my car all the way home. And the other one calls me a harlot. And another tells me I'm too masculine. And the next tells me I'm basic and I shouldn't be like every other girl. And one protects me from another and I know deep down I wouldn't have survived if a man hadn't stepped in to save me. I just feel helpless in this whirlwind. Closing my eyes as I seep into my bed, I wonder if I'll ever find peace. |
There were things that Jared couldn’t quite understand. And these were the things that usually came easily to people. You might even argue that it was the things that made humans humans that Jared found most difficult to interrupt. Jared found it hard to empathize with other people and he felt little to no emotion. Label him if it makes it easier for you, the reader, to interpret. His mother was worried about him though he was the perfect son. Jared woke up, made a bowl of oatmeal ( the meal with the least emotion), went to school, smile and nodded when he was supposed to, he came home, did his homework then would fall asleep looking at his ceiling fan. What is mother suppose to complain about? He was doing everything he was suppose to just not with enough gusto. His mother wanted something from him. Anything. Nothing material or anything she just wanted to feel like there another person living in her house because right now Jared and his mother had more of a human- pet relationship. Like a fish or something. She’d drop a little food for him in his proverbial bowl and that would be all he needed from her. On a couple of occasions, she’d forget to feed him. She’d maybe get drained from her job at the hospital or would just fall asleep too early, in any case she’d come into his room and he’d be staring at his wall. She’d ask, “What are you doing?” “Nothing.”, he’d reply. “What are you waiting for?” Then he’d slowly turn his head and say, “To get fed”. The guilt would jolt inside her body and spring her into action and she’d begin to make him food. Although that’s how most of their conversations would go. There was no curiosity in Jared. It was simply a question- answer thing. “How was school?” “Fine.” “You have fun?” “No.” “Why not?” “Yes.” And so on. She’d start to feel less guilty as Jared got older. He got less cute and resembled his father more. The connection between mother and son waned. Jared’s mother decided that she maybe she found a way to get some kind of rise or emotion out of her son. The morning came and she put her plan into action. She would refrain from making her son any food and was on her way to her 36 hour shift. She would arrive home to find a hungry boy mad at his mother for not making him any food or she’d find a perfectly competent boy who made his own meal and is now fast asleep. When she arrived home 38 hours later she found her house oddly silent. She assumed that her boy finally did something for himself and he made a meal, but when she looked at her kitchen she found that nothing had really been used. “Well, maybe, he cleaned everything up after he used it”, she thought. She made her way to Jared’s room. There she saw her boy, full dressed, with his ass on the edge of him bed, his feet firmly planted on the floor but his body sprawled on his bed. There was a note stapled to his tee shirt. Jared’s mother yelled out Jared a couple of times and she listened for an answer or response of some kind, but only received silence. She moved slowly towards Jared, half expecting him to jump out at her, and she yanked the note from his chest. It read: “Didn’t like hunger. Killed self.” The coroner was baffled by this particular case. His official report stated, “The kid kinda just held his breath to death. Dang.”. ​ The weird thing is that as his mother stood above his lifeless body she felt little to no remorse. She felt nothing. So it was like an average day for her. |
Together In Palm Tree Estates Palm Tree Estates was for the well-to-do. The people were mostly snobbish even to each other at times. In order for anyone to visit, they had to provide their name and identification to the gate attendant. If their name wasn’t on the list, they weren’t allowed in. As one resident put it: “It is a good way to keep the family riff-raff away.” Donald and Marge Thomas had been very excited to move into the posh neighbourhood. They had made a tremendous amount of plans and couldn’t wait to settle in. They already knew a few people that lived on the secluded island including the real estate agent, Sandra Bolton. She had given them a tour the day they were looking at purchasing a condo. “This is going to be wonderful especially when the children come over for Christmas.” There were tennis courts, bike lanes, walking paths, flowers and trees. It was a beautiful area. Donald smiled but wasn’t too sure. His wife was already sold. “What is it going to be like in the winter?” “Oh, the winter is just beautiful because you can go for walks and snowshoe and cross-country ski. The trails are well-maintained.” “I don’t like the cold,” announced Donald. “Then you can stay inside with a nice glass of wine besides the roaring fire.” “I don’t like wine.” Marge gave him a dirty look and he didn’t say anything else. So they moved in and it was a huge fiasco. The front gate attendant didn’t want to let them in or the moving van. Donald was furious, but Marge charmed the man. The kids and grandkids had come along to help. There were boxes everywhere and by the end of the day when everyone left, the old couple were exhausted. “Do you remember what happened the first time we moved into our new house?” He smiled in the dark just as he was about to slip into slumber land. “Yeah, I was twenty-five and full of lust. I am not seventy-five and I’m a bust.” They laughed themselves to sleep. Donald didn’t fit in Palm Tree Estates. It was that simple. He didn’t like the golf course on the island and wasn’t keen on hanging there at all. He didn’t even like the game. The problem was the in-crowd all hung out at the nineteenth hole before, during and after rounds. He didn’t like to go for a walk. Most of them had dogs and they didn’t pick after Fido. “There’s more poop on the streets in this ritzy neighbourhood then we had no the farm I grew up on,” he proclaimed. The worse part about it, Marge loved the new digs. She had made friends and unlike sour Donald, she fit right in and was part of the in-crowd. They went biking together and for afternoon walks. They had tea and played cards. They gossiped about everyone and laughed saucily. She was hardly ever home. This was another sour point with Donald. “Going out today dear?” “Yes, of course, I am. Do you want to come along?” “No.” The thought of having around a bunch of old birds was depressing. Besides, he hadn’t told his wife, but he didn’t exactly like any of her new friends. “They aren’t nothing but a bunch of old cackling hens,” he told the four walls. Jennifer, the oldest daughter had called her mother up. “So, mom, how do you like it so far?” “Oh, honey, I love it. It is great. Your father doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself that much. Today, I am going to play tennis. I have never played before in my whole life, I hope I don’t get tennis elbow.” Jennifer laughed. “I am sure things will get better for dad.” “I hope so. He won’t listen to a word I say or any of my suggestions. You know how stubborn your father can be.” “I am sure everything will work out. Bye mom, gotta go. Love you.” “Love you too, honey. Give my best to Richard and the kids.” “I will. Give dad a hug for me.” “It is in the bank.” Things didn’t get any better for Donald. He was bored and alone most of the time. Marge was always gone and there was nothing to do but watch TV and take naps. “This sucks.” Going for a drive wasn’t the answer because there weren’t that many roads and besides there was always someone walking or biking or some old fool rollerblading. Trying to get off the island was a pain in the butt and then trying to get back on was even worse. The ferry that came and went was unreliable. They only took so many vehicles at a time because the boat wasn’t that big. “What are we going to do if the river freezes over and we can’t get off this godforsaken island and we are sick?” Donald asked his wife. “My friends will take care of me. If you had friends then they would take care of you.” He grumbled something and went off into the den. One night, when she was actually hone and he wasn’t eating leftovers or whatever he could muster up, she smiled. “What’s up?” “The Rustons have asked us to come over for diner tomorrow night. There will be a few couples there and I made a commitment.” “Without asking me? I can’t stand Andy Ruston. The guy is a total loser.” “I’ve met him and he is a nice man. His wife Theresa is a sweetheart.” “She’s an old busybody, gossip and a genuine pain in the butt.” “How can you say that when you don’t even know her?” “Because I’ve heard her talk when she comes over. Have you notice every time she drops in -- usually when we are eating -- I ignore her?” “You are self-centred man, Donald Thomas. If have to, I will go alone.” She got up and left the table without finishing her supper. “That’s just a great kettle of fish to deal with.” He slept on the couch that night not daring to go into the bedroom. She didn’t invite him in. The next morning she was off with her friends biking. He looked out the window and it was very beautiful. The streets were tree-lined and the whole island was surrounded by water. There were flowers planted everywhere and all types of plants. The monthly condo fees paid for that maintenance. There was a full-time crew taking care of stuff. There were boats in the harbour and it was always nice to see a large ship go by in the shipping lanes. This was one of the few perks to living there. Donald decided to go for a walk and left the wife a note. “Hope she doesn’t have a heart attack.” He grabbed his had and walking stick and took off. The plan was to walk around the island and think about things. He hadn’t walked more than five minutes when somebody’s dog came running at him and they did battle fending the friendly pooch off with his walking stick. The owner came running. “What are you doing to my dog?” “Your Labradoodle attacked me.” “He would do no such thing.” “Yes, he did. Your lucky I don’t sue you.” “I will tell the Island Committee about this.” “Then do so.” She left in a huff. “That’s it, I’m outta here.” He started to walk back and then he saw Marge with her friends. He had never seen the woman in almost fifty years of marriage plus three years courting so happy. He bowed his head and toddle off home. She came in the late afternoon. “Donald, I’m home. What do you want for supper?” He came down the stairs dressed like he had a diner party to go to. “Where are you going?” “I thought the Ruston’s invited us to a diner party?” “They did. You are going?” “I was invited wasn’t I? It would be rude not to go. You had better put a step in your walk honey cause I don’t want to be late and I’m not going alone.” There was a twinkle in his eye. “Yes, sir,” she saluted him military style. She raced up the stairs, stopped and kissed him right. Then she continued. He came down the stairs and went into the den to wait for her. “I didn’t say I was going to like it honey.” He looked outside and sighed. |
Alisha stood looking back at the mirror, her hands on her hips while the bride's mother tried not to stick pins in her. The long pale blue bridesmaid dress was not designed for her, but last night’s phone call changed that. She boarded the flight to witness the marriage of her lifelong school friend and then came the phone call in the taxi. One of the bridesmaids had fallen ill and couldn’t make the wedding. Luckily for the bride, I was slightly thinner than the maid the dress was designed for. She stood still watching the gown slowly being drawn in one pin at a time. I haven’t been a bridesmaid before. “What should I be doing at this wedding?” “Support the bride and help out as needed,” the mother's voice muffled by a mouth full of pins. “Lucky for you most of it is done. Best talk to the other three other bridesmaids.” A couple more pins, “Done, you can take it off now.” The mother unzipped the back of the dress and left the room. She is leaving me to get out of this pin minefield myself. Sucking in her stomach she eased the shoulder straps down her arms. Each move was slow and planned as she stepped out of the dress. Made it. She took a deep breath. Slipping back into her casual clothes was a lot easier. “Done.” The mother returned picking up the dress, “You better freshen up from your flight. The rehearsal dinner is in two hours.” *** The taxi arrived at the hall; Alisha straightened her skirt; her heart was pounding. I have to talk to the bridesmaids before the dinner starts. She scurried up the footpath pausing to let the caterers carry in a crate of desserts. Oh, chocolate cheesecake. Stop thinking of your stomach, dinner is coming. Where are the bridesmaids? Hurrying up the stairs, her heel caught the lip in the doorway. She threw out her hands as her face rapidly approached the floor. A dull thud resonated in the timber floorboards. Crap. Very elegant Alisha . Her eyes darted around the room to see if anyone saw her entrance. A set of black polished shoes stepped in from the side. Panning upwards over his black slacks and jacket, a groomsman held out his hand. “Need help getting up?” Back on her feet; her eyes briefly connected with his as she pulled her hand away. “Thank you.” She dusted off her dress as she stepped back. He held out his hand once more. “Hi, I’m Michael.” “Alisha.” She paused. Don’t let his looks be a distraction, find the bridesmaids. With a quick handshake and nod, she glanced over her shoulder. Found them. The bridal party were all in a huddle at the head table. Pale blue flowers blended with white roses sat on every table. White candles wrapped in blue ribbon stood above the glitter and numerous layers of cutlery. “Ally.” Sandra, the bride cheered with open arms. “What’s happening?” “Just waiting for everyone. I see you have already met Michael.” Her eyes scanned the room, pausing at Michael standing at the door welcoming the guests. “You saw that?” “It was quite an entrance. Hope you don’t plan on doing that tomorrow.” I bloody hope I don’t do it either. “I didn’t plan it today.” “You will be sitting with Michael at the end of the table.” “With him?” “You are both here alone.” One of the bridesmaids leaned towards Alisha and whispered, “Don’t get any ideas. He is engaged.” Ideas? I only just met him and that was from the floor. Why isn’t his fiancé here? *** The music started as the last guest sat down. Alisha’s feet nervously tapped under the table as she panned the room. I don’t know anyone here but Sandra. Everyone is staring at us, bring out the food and distract them. “Smile,” Michael blocked her view as he filled her wine glass. He moved along the bridal table filling each glass. His pleasant manner and warm smile eased her nerves briefly. It didn’t take long for her to empty her glass. Michael returned to the table with a new bottle of wine. He reached for the ice bucket when he looked at her empty glass, “Do you need a refill?” “I can do it.” “Let me.” The glass was full before she could reach across the table. Alisha quietly ate her roast chicken. Sitting near a gentleman like Michael and knowing he was engaged left her not knowing what to say. The three-course dinner ran smoothly. A mix of speeches, alcohol and fine dining. Some of the guests could handle the partying better than others. They are going to have a headache at the wedding tomorrow. Michael turned in his chair, “Alisha, what do you do for a job?” “Sales assistant for a fashion warehouse.” His eyes ran up her body, “That explains why you look so good.” What? Is he hitting on me? My entrance earlier didn’t put him off. Keep it together, nod and smile. “What do you do?” “I’m an accountant at my brother's office,” he leaned closer, “Where are you from?” Well, isn’t he chatty? “Brisbane.” “Cool, I’m just down the road at the Gold Coast.” “If the family is from Brisbane, why have the wedding in Sydney?” “The honeymoon cruise leaves from here in two days,” he topped up his glass, “And it’s something different.” The MC called the bride and groom to the dance floor. Alisha shuffled in her seat as she sculled the last of her wine. Oh crap, dancing. “Can you dance?” Michael asked. “Not really. This is my first wedding.” “This is my second brother's wedding. Just follow me,” he stood up, holding out his hand. Face to face on the dance floor, she held his hand. He slid his palm to the middle of her back drawing her body against his. She placed her hand on his shoulder as they swayed to the music. Trying to dance was one thing, avoiding everyone else on the dance floor was another problem. His warm cheek against hers, “Relax, enjoy yourself,” his smooth voice increased her pulse. Relax. She rested her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes and took a long slow breath. The bridal waltz was replaced with upbeat rock music. Michael grabbed Alisha’s hand, spinning her around and back into his arms. The wine deadened her fears as she started to enjoy the evening. One tune faded as the next one started, she leaned towards him, “I need a break.” Back at the table, the glass of cold water was refreshing. Her eyes followed him across the dance floor as he spun the bride's mother around. So much energy. How old is he? He must work out, his biceps certainly felt like it. “He is taken,” the same bridesmaid from before passed behind her. Who is she? The fiancé’s security patrol. Keep the women off my man. Glancing back at the bridesmaid, Alisha went back to observing the crowd. She looked at her phone, ten o’clock . I’m going to need some coffee if I have to stay awake much longer. But before she could get up the MC declared the night was over and thanked everyone for attending. This night ended earlier than I expected. I suppose the wedding is tomorrow morning. Don’t want the bridal party hungover. Everyone was cleaning up when Michael approached Alisa, “How was your night?” “Good, but I missed out on my coffee.” He glanced around the room as he stocked the plates, “We can grab a coffee after this if you want.” He is certainly friendly. What if his fiancé found out? “I don’t know if that is a good idea.” “It’s just coffee, I don’t bite.” “OK, just coffee.” “Meet you at the café in the next block in half an hour,” he returned a quick smile as he carried the plates away. *** The back streets were quiet, the occasional couple would come and go. Alisha sat at a corner table her eyes running over the menu. Sydney was warm for a spring night. A tall figure came off the street, in the light Michael looked casual in denim shorts and an evening shirt. His face was as cheery as he was on the dance floor. “Have you ordered?” He asked picking up the menu. “No, I was waiting for you. You have changed.” “I wasn’t wearing a suit out here. You didn’t change, still looking good.” Slow down there, mate. It’s just coffee. “I got rid of my heels.” Settling back after placing their order, Michael asked, “So what part of Brisbane are you from?” Taking a deep breath, “Why didn’t your fiancé come with you?” He straightened his back, “Oh, that. I don’t have one, I’m single.” “But--” “Tracey told you I was engaged?” “Yeah.” “She has been hitting on me continuously ever since I got off the plane last week.” He leaned over the table with a smile, “I told her I was engaged to get her off my back.” That explains the snarls. “Well, I got snapped at for looking at you.” “Look all you like.” His smile was beaming. “I was worried you were getting too friendly for someone who was taken.” Her eyes connected with his warm brown eyes, “We probably should keep your secret tomorrow. Don’t want any catfights at the reception.” “Don’t worry about her. I had fun tonight.” He reached out putting his hand on hers, “If tomorrow is as enjoyable as today, I will be happy.” “I hope I don’t face-plant the floor like I did today.’’ “I’ll be beside you to catch you.” Her chest tightened at the thought of falling into his arms. The waiter placing their order on the table drew her attention. Taking a sip, the smell of fresh coffee was invigorating. “Do you have a dress for tomorrow?” He asked pouring another packet of sugar into his cup. “Sandra’s mother is altering it tonight. How are we getting to the church tomorrow.” “Your limo is picking you up at eight.” “You know a lot about this,” she spread the jam on her scone. “I have been helping my bother with the planning all week.” *** Sculling her second cup of coffee of the morning; Alisha checked her makeup, replacing the lipstick she left on the cup. A pale blue ribbon was woven through her long blonde hair and tied at the back with a bow. Any loose strands of hair were firmly stuck in place with hairspray. Standing in front of the mirror as the makeup artist did a final check. A knot grew in her chest . Calm down, I’m just a bridesmaid. How am I going to cope if I’m ever the bride? “The cars are here,” someone yelled from the living room. Grabbing her flowers as she walked out the door. The limo was luxurious, with a white leather interior and flowers. A bridesmaid handed out glasses of champagne. Should I be drinking before the event? She paused before taking the glass. “It will settle your nerves.” The church came into view and then disappeared behind them as they went around the block. The congregation mustn’t be ready. Swallowing the last of her wine, she checked her flowers. I can do this. Following the bride down the aisle and the ceremony didn’t require a lot of work. The bossier bridesmaids made sure they jumped in first. Michael looked dashing in his suit and blue tie standing with the other groomsmen. His short brown hair was perfectly in place and his square jaw was shaven, making him look younger. *** The ceremony is over. The bride and groom headed down the aisle followed by the party. Michael stepped forward holding out his arm. Alisha’s eyes met his as she stepped alongside taking hold of his arm. They stepped in unison out onto the lawn. But there was no time for a break as the wedding party gathered for photos in the church gardens. A wide array of photos, bridal party, grooms party, everyone together and one a bridesmaid paired with a groomsman. Alisha stood quietly looking back at the camera, holding her flowers in hand. Michael was beside her with his arm behind her back. “Get closer,” the photographer said, “And smile.” Michael slid his hand around her waist drawing her nearer as she placed her arm behind him. Being this close to him she was drawn to his cologne, it was subtle and alluring. “Last one,” the photographer called out. Looking back at the camera she smiled, the camera flashed as Michael’s warm lips touched her cheek. Her heart skipped a beat. Did he just kiss me? Crap. Her eyes glanced back at the bridal party. There were a couple of wide eyes. Tracey was looking the other way. She will be surprised when the photos come out. “Next couple.” Alisha turned around and headed off behind the group. Michael followed close behind. Sitting quietly in the shadows she watched the rest of the photos. He returned handing her a bottle of cold water. The photos were over, and the dinner started in one hour. Michael opened the limo door for her. There were only two of them for the trip to the hotel. Buckled up beside her, he handed her a glass of champagne. “What was with the last picture?” she asked. “I was communicating.” He replied with a warm smile. “Communicating?” “It’s a wedding, we are supposed to share their love,” Michael took a sip of wine, his eyes staring back over the glass. “I wasn’t getting much love from Tracey.” He moved closer, “Ignore her. We are going to have fun tonight.” *** Dinner was over, and the speeches were done. Alisha spent the night focusing on the guests or listening to Michael, trying everything to ignore Tracey’s daggers. It was that time of night when the bride and groom were called to the dance floor. Michael rose holding out his hand. Arm-in-arm dancing was not as stressful this time around. As the evening went on, he leaned over her shoulder, his breath tickling her ear, “Want to catch up for dinner when we get home?” A date. “That would be nice.” His gaze was strong as he spun her around before pulling her body close to his. Slowly shuffling to a love ballad, everyone around her disappeared from view as he moved in closer. She closed her eyes as his soft lips met hers. The End |
Everything happened in a flash. I was just about to go to sleep when I heard the telephone ring. I used a rotary dial phone, which meant that I won't know who’s calling me. I walked over to the phone and held it up to my ear. "Hello?," I answered. "Hello. This is the Glasscam Police Department. I am the sheriff of this town. You have been convicted of the murder of a person named Paul Smith, who was killed this night. I have sent a few officers to escort you to the department," the sheriff replied. "E-- Excuse me, but I-- I haven't done anything w-- wrong.", I replied, stammering. "I was in my home during the evening". "Yeah right, tell that to the judge kid," he said in a sarcastic tone. A knock on the door was heard a few moments later. As I opened the door, a swarm of officers piled into the room, some with guns facing at me. One of them, who I assumed was the chief of police, got a pair of handcuffs and tied them around my wrists. "You have the right to remain silent," said the chief. I tried telling him that I was innocent, but he said the same words that the sheriff said. "What a coincidence," I thought to myself as I was being taken to the backseat of the police car. I don't remember much after that. While I was in the car, I kept arguing that I was innocent, but the officers ignored me. My height and weight were taken after I got to the station, and I was placed in a small cell. It wasn't cozy at all, just the life essentials were there; a bed, sink, and toilet. I was too weak and tired to stand, so I started to lie on the bed, starting to drift into my sleep. I woke up to the sound of an officer opening my cell. I got up and was put in handcuffs again. He told me I was going to a trial. I had no lawyer, so they just gave me one. From the looks of the lawyer's crinkled and dirty tie, his wild hair, and slightly broken glasses, I could tell I was going to lose in this trial. A few minutes later, a car came and I was taken into the backseat. What felt like hours later, I was in front of the judge, who would decide my fate. Looking at the spectators, I saw a group of people in tears. I assumed they were the victim's parents. They saw me looking in their direction. They scowled at me and turned their heads in disgust. I couldn't take it. For all my life I have never made any mistakes, so it would be unreasonable if I was accused of murder. Thinking about this made my head spin. After my testimony and the lawyer's argument with the victim's family's lawyer, it was time for the jury to decide. A few minutes later, the judge said the final statement of the trial. I only remembered a little bit. "The accused, James Johnson... proven guilty... with no chance of parole... no chance of bail... can only be released until further evidence is discovered...oh this mumbo jumbo is gonna take forever, let's get to the point... James Johnson... will serve a life sentence". Then, the gavel was heard. "Snug fit?," the officers joked when I finished switching my shirt and pants to the ugly, bright orange prison uniforms. Cell number 13 was where I was headed. "Just when I thought I had the chance to be released, the number 13 blocks the tunnel of hope!" I thought to myself in a saddened tone. I wanted to prove everyone wrong, especially my friends, family, and the victim's family. But now, that chance was disappearing every second I was in this building. My family came to visit every so often. Mother and my 23-year-old brother came to visit me every day. Father died when I was 12; a few years after my brother was born. Mother always told me that I was going to be proven innocent. Greg, my brother, told me that he will find evidence to get me out. I chuckled. Everyone knows that Greg hated using his brain for education purposes, but this time, he had some hope in his eyes, which I never noticed before. Being beaten up by other prisoners took some time being used to. The food there was the worst. I couldn't be somewhere without at least one person watching me, but most of the time it was the prisoners, looking for a fight. One day, I couldn't take it anymore. That day when my family visited, I asked them that I didn't like staying here anymore. "Just a little while longer," Mother said with hope. I stared at my brother, wondering what Mother said. "Question: Good news or Bad news," Greg asked. "Ummmm, why?" I replied. "Just answer the question," he said in an impatient tone. "Ok ok, calm down," I said. "Bad news". "I found a lead that might prove you innocent, but I hit a dead-end," he said in a sad voice while lowering his head in shame. "But the good news is I broke through the dead end and found some evidence!" he exclaimed, his head now up again. I was in shock. Without controlling it, I smiled. It was so goofy that Mother started to laugh but in a hushed voice. My brother tried holding his laugh in, but he couldn't stop the burst that almost made him fall off his chair. "Your court trial will begin tomorrow," he said. For the rest of the day, the thought of leaving this place made my heart feel warm. The day passed by without me even knowing it. Before sleeping, the thought struck me. "What if the evidence doesn't work, or-- or the evidence proves me guilty again," I thought before drifting to sleep. The next morning, I got up in a hopeful mood. The trial begins in about an hour. I quickly got ready and was taken into the court. I saw Mother, Greg, and the victim's family there. The victim's family was in a sour mood. I guess they were angry because, in their point of view, the murderer of their son was going to testify again, saying that he was innocent after being proven guilty. When Greg's evidence was in the spotlight I thought that this might actually work. It showed that I was in my house the whole time during the murder. It showed what I did on that device during that time, which was mostly binge-watching a series. After the evidence was shown, the jury made their decision and passed it to the judge. The judge read it out loud. "The accused, James Johnson... had previously been proven guilty... had no chance of parole... no chance of bail... and could only be released until further evidence is discovered... but now the evidence has been found... the jury and I have reviewed it... the conclusion was made... the decision is...," exclaimed the judge in a very dramatic and suspenseful moment, "James Johnson is innocent!". I was happier than ever but didn't make any goofy grins this time. The victim's family nodded in sorrow and regret for making those rude faces at me. I was taken home where familiar noises from the house and street filled me up with adrenaline. I walked out of the house and sat on the porch when I saw my family driving their car into the driveway. They hugged me and sat on the porch. We laughed and talked together as if nothing had happened. While enjoying ourselves, I started to ponder. "What will I do next?". |
There is a moment in every college party where the designated driver deeply regrets her decision. That moment, for me, had been precisely the moment we’d arrived, and every moment following. I understood the lure of house parties. Being social is a known human need, so that part wasn’t my issue. Neither was the alcohol, a staple of a traditional college diet. For me, that night, it was the location. Why would anybody want to have a “house” party in a garage, twenty miles south of the actual college, where the only heat sources were a giant electric heater mounted to the ceiling, and a bonfire twenty yards from the building? The decorations were a bonus, I supposed. Halloween always delivered on the decorations. The twenty foot tall skeleton, posed to appear as if it were propping open the garage door, and the glowing googly eyes taped to the tractors--now that was fun. The mountain of horse shit (excuse me, fertilizer) behind the garage? Not so much. And the fact that my ride, my older sister Rachelle, was not at all interested in leaving for at least another couple hours? Also not ideal. The most not ideal , though, was the fact that Elias from Accounting (his name in my phone) was here, in costume, with a date named Maribel. Maribel was not only dressed as the sexiest Albert Einstein I’d ever seen, but she was also nice to me. She’d offered us a drink when we’d arrived, having recognized Rachelle from work (or yoga, or class). Maybe that was the precise moment I had regretted my designated driver status--not because I desperately wanted a drink to deal with her (she, like her date, was frustratingly pleasant), but because Elias had the audacity to high five me for it after giving us an enthusiastic introduction. “Maya, this is Maribel! Maribel, this is Maya, from my Accounting class.” “Of course,” she said, ever-so-relaxed, before asking Rachelle something I didn’t bother to listen to. I would have to deal with the burning hypersensitivity of my hand for the rest of the night, because it had been so graced with the touch of his own. Pathetic, is what this house party felt like. By house party, I meant me. I felt pathetic--pathetically, unrequitedly infatuated. It was a familiar feeling, as I’d been feeling it increasingly often since having met him at the beginning of the semester. We shared a class, and I’d made the simultaneously excellent and miserable decision of befriending him on the second day. My intentions had been purely academic, and they had quickly transformed to impurely unacademic once we’d spent more than five minutes in a room together. There was a commotion out in the field, and I took the opportunity to escape under the guise of investigation. Rachelle’s and Maribel’s voices faded at my retreat, and I was just breathing in a sigh of relief when I felt a hand press against my lower back. “Watch out, there’s cow patties everywhere.” “What?” “Cow poop. It’s everywhere beyond the gate, apparently.” My eyes drifted past the dim, fluorescent glow of garage lights to the green gate before us. It was chained to one side, open, this part of the field cleared of cattle. There was a small group of shadows farther out, all hovering around a ring of firecrackers. “They’re flammable, you know.” “The cow patties, or the firecrackers?” “The, uh, cow patties.” My face felt flammable, my cheeks ablaze with a blush. Finally, Elias and I were talking about something other than the difference between variable and operational expenses and how our weekends had been, and I was literally talking shit. “My sister and I used to roast marshmallows over the dried ones at our Grandma’s farm when we were little.” He smiled, striking a contrast with his furrowed, concerned brow. “Wouldn’t that affect the taste?” “You know, I never noticed a difference. But I don’t think I’ll do it again, now that you mention it.” His laughter came out in a surprised burst, egging me on. “No? That’s too bad, I think there’s some marshmallows back there by the pretzels.” “By all means, go ahead. I’ll support you from afar. I can practically smell the poop smoke now.” “Nah, it’s just the firecrackers.” Slyly, I added, “I don’t think Maribel would appreciate burning-shit-s’mores-breath.” “I don’t think she would appreciate my breath anywhere near her face, regardless of the smell.” “I thought she was your date?” “In words, is all. We work together, and when she found out I had the official social media event invite, she asked if I wanted to carpool after work. I doubt I’ll even see her much for the rest of the night.” “So... not a date-date?” “Not a--” There was a flurry of firecrackers, followed by a loud pop from the field. Fireworks. Smoke began to pump steadily into the air, spreading across the fields in a heavy haze. At first, I thought it was beautiful--flashes of green and white and orange reflecting off the windshields of the tractors. BOOM. The flash was blinding this time, the ground shook, and a wave of heat blew my hair back. It sounded like things were falling to the ground. Then came the screaming. “Something’s wrong,” I said, turning to Elias--only, he was no longer standing beside me. Instead, he laid crumpled on the ground further back, curled on his side with his legs tucked awkwardly to his stomach. I heard a pained groan that broke through in the gaps of screaming. “ FIRE!” It seemed to be spreading exponentially fast, the dry fields kindling to the blaze. As it grew brighter, the smoke billowed out in big, thick whorls. Still, Elias hadn’t moved. “Come on!” I shrieked, and dropped to his side. Roughly, I rolled him over, needing to look at his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face drawn tight with pain. “Elias, the fire--we need to go!” He nodded almost imperceptibly and unfurled, groaning with every movement. A dry, wracking cough tried to erupt from my chest. It was almost as bright as it had been at sunset, the firelight refracting in the smoke. It made it easier to see his grimace as he said, “I can’t.” “You have to!” I yanked up on his arms, and though he stood, he seemed incredibly off balance. I ran, trying to drag him after me, but he quickly stumbled and fell again to the ground. One of his legs was jutting out slightly, at an unnatural angle. “Something hit me--a barrel, something--I can’t run on it. My leg--I think it’s broken. It’s broken.” His voice cracked, a hammer to my heart. With a surge of adrenaline, I pulled him up again and threw his arm around my shoulders, taking as much of his weight as I could. We trudged towards where I imagined the cars were parked, away from the blaze. One of the screams sounded familiar now, more like a word than an expression of pure terror. I heard it again, and took a shaky breath. Rachelle was looking for me. She would wait, I knew she would--but how long did we have? The wind was kicking up, flinging embers into my hair. My eyes burned. My lungs ached. My legs began to shudder with each step as Elias grimaced and gasped. “You could’ve just left me,” he hissed as we stepped down into a ditch, another burst of heat rushing over our heads. “And feed your--” I took a shallow breath, followed by a cough. “Toxic masculinity by allowing you to fulfill a dream of--" Another cough, and a grimacing jostle as I readjusted his weight on my shoulder. “--Needless self-sacrifice camouflaged as heroics? I could never.” There, just on the other side of the road, headlights pointed straight at us, was my car. As we approached, I saw the pinched face of Rachelle materialize through the haze. Her head was frantically turning side to side, sweeping the faces of stragglers that had emerged from the smoke. There were no footsteps behind us, no more screams. Only the silence of terror. I cried out, and at last, we met eyes, and she rushed forward to help Elias in the car. My knuckles were white on the wheel from squeezing so hard to stop their shaking, and there was a stubborn scratchiness in my throat and itchiness in my eyes, but we were safe. Mostly. Other party goers had stopped a distance down the road, watching through their windows with phones to their ears and sobered, shocked faces. I thought I even saw Maribel in one, her white wig tinted gray. The rest of the ride to the hospital passed in a blur, except for one bit in the middle, when Elias asked in a dazed voice, “Why could you never?” “Of course I saved you. I like you,” I blurted, no emotional energy left to bother with being self-conscious. “Well, I liked you, too." Was that a grimace, or a grin? Glancing in the rearview mirror, I couldn't tell. "And, now? I definitely more than like you, Maya from Accounting.” |
Short story, memoir. (My first one!) “HIM” Those 80s high school dances will forever be etched in my memory. Whenever I reminisce about those dances, my mind immediately wanders to a particular guy that I had an enormous crush on. Although HE didn't know me, I couldn't help but admire HIM and eagerly anticipate seeing HIM at every dance. HE was tall and athletic, with strikingly blond layered hair combed to the side that seemed to catch the lights in a way that made it shimmer and shine. HIS blue eyes were piercing, and I couldn't help but feel a flutter in my chest whenever I caught a glimpse of HIM. I was too intimidated to even approach HIM. After high school, I attended some classes at a local junior college, and one day, my heart skipped a beat when I saw HIM walk into one of my classes - we were both enrolled! HE exuded an effortless coolness as HE leaned back in HIS chair at the back of the room, HIS long and muscular legs stretched out in faded denim jeans. However, HE still remained oblivious to my existence. A year later, I transferred to a state college, and fate intervened when I ran into HIM at a bar with HIS friends while hanging out with my roommates. I couldn't believe it - we had met again! This time, I mustered the courage to introduce myself to HIM and strike up a conversation. It felt like we hit it off, bonding over our shared hometown and high school experiences. I felt breathless as I gazed into HIS icy blue round eyes, which seemed to pierce through me with their intensity. The contrast between HIS sharp, angular jawline and the softness of HIS eyes made HIM all the more striking. I couldn't help but marvel at how easy it was to talk to HIM. We laughed and joked, and talked for hours. It was a feeling of pure connection that I had never experienced before. And as the night wore on, I found myself growing more and more comfortable in HIS presence, grateful for another chance encounter that had brought us together. Later that night, HE and HIS friends came over to our apartment, and I was excited to spend more time with HIM and get to know HIM better. Maybe this was fate finally working in my favor, I thought. Unfortunately, their visit was cut short when one of HIS friends had to abruptly leave, and HE left after him into the parking lot. "I'm sure HE will be back," I told myself. Suddenly, I heard some commotion outside my kitchen window and discovered HE and HIS friends stealing our mini grill and other items off of our patio while laughing arrogantly. Minutes later, when I went to our bathroom, I discovered that HE had rifled through our vanity and taken my watch and other valuables. It was a bitter realization that someone I had longed for and dreamed of was nothing more than a callous jerk. MY memories of him surface from time to time, but I learned that sometimes the person we've been longing for turns out to be the last one we should have been chasing. |
Mrs. Watts settled into her desk chair and breathed in the cold air, smiling. The house was one very large room, really; her desk sat against the wall next to the couches in the living room. The kitchen was in one corner, and the bedroom in another. It all felt so cozy to her, especially with a mug of coffee in one hand, her writing pen in the other and a spectacular view of Earth spinning slowly in the window. “Perfect. Just perfect,” she murmured. She took a sip of her coffee, thankful they'd found a way to make houses with Earth's gravity. Mr. Watts suddenly burst through the door carrying two bulky shopping bags. He unzipped his suit and hung his helmet on the hook by the door before stomping over to the kitchen and tossing the bags onto the counter. “Got the meals,” he grumbled. “Thank you,” said Mrs. Watts stiffly. “Anything for you, dear .” Mrs. Watts slammed her coffee down on the table, spilling it everywhere. Mr. Watts stalked over to the couches and sank into the large blue one by the bookshelf. He folded his arms moodily as Mrs. Watts snatched a paper towel off the kitchen counter to clean up the mess of coffee. “That’s enough !” snapped Mrs. Watts. “I’m sick of that tone!” “Well, I’m sick of a lot of things around here!” “Not this again!” said Mrs. Watts exasperatedly, throwing her hands up. “You agreed to this.” “I agreed to a new life, not this--this slow death .” “Millions of people would die to be here.” “And most of us would die to go back!” They stared at each other and narrowed their eyes. This was their third argument this week. Mrs. Watts jabbed a finger at her husband. “ You wanted to do this.” “Who wouldn’t?! Real estate on the moon? It’s all anyone would talk about. Never mind what it would actually be like!” “And what is that? Because I find it incredible.” “ You like it. You . You can hide yourself away all day and write your heart out, while I do what, exactly? Twiddle my thumbs? Tend to the moon rocks outside?” “You know full well that there are plenty of jobs up here. You’re just too busy complaining to apply.” “Because I don’t belong here! Where are the trees? Where are the hiking trails? What am I supposed to do as a park ranger ?” “The whole damn moon is a national park! Of all people, you should be thrilled to live here!” “I only agreed because you brought it up--" “Oh, so this is my fault? You agree to do this, and the whole thing is my fault?” “You were complaining about the city every day! We could have gone to the mountains, or the beaches, but you just had to go ahead and choose the moon !” They were both on their feet, shouting. Mrs. Watts blinked away tears; she hated that anger made her cry. “You know Sarah and Kit Wheaton, at the end of the block?” said Mr. Watts fiercely. “They’re going back at the end of the week. And the Fredericksons have had their space shuttle booked for a month.” Mrs. Watts slid back into her chair and pressed her hand against her forehead. She took a deep breath. “It’s just...it’s perfect here,” she said wearily. “It’s quiet enough that I can concentrate, and beautiful enough that I’m always inspired. It’s a writer’s dream.” Mr. Watts sighed and fell into the blue couch again. “I know. I know, I really do. It’s just...a bit much.” “What are we supposed to do? We just got here. Why can’t you give it some more time?” “I’ve given it six months! Is that not enough?” Their voices were beginning to rise again. Mrs. Watts opened her mouth to angrily retort and then quickly snapped it shut. She didn’t want to shout anymore. “Fine. Say that we don’t move, yet. What would make this better for you?” Mr. Watts looked at her and raised is eyebrow. “Humor me,” she said, shrugging. “Maybe...maybe being able to go for a normal hike again,” said Mr. Watts. Mrs. Watts jumped up to the kitchen table where she’d put the stack of mail that morning. She rifled through the letters until she came across a small pamphlet, which she tossed to her husband. “There. The new initiative by the Council: gravity suits that mimic Earth's gravity. So we don’t have to bounce around when we leave the house.” Mr. Watts looked impressed as he examined the pamphlet. “That’s quite a feat.” “What else?” pressed Mrs. Watts. “Um--I miss food. Real food, like the lemons and avocados that used to grow in our yard back on Earth....” Their shopping bags were full of the freeze-dried meals that Moon Residents ate for every meal. Mrs. Watts nodded toward the window in the kitchen, the one that faced the sun most of the day. Mr. Watts glanced over and widened his eyes. He hadn’t noticed when he’d first stomped in. There, on the windowsill, was a clear container lined with small pots filled with dirt and skinny green tubes. “Supply shuttles brought them in this morning. It’s not much--it’ll still be a while until the farms are fully functioning, they keep running into problems--but it’s a start. Green onions.” Mr. Watts stared at the green onions in wonder. “That’s...that's a surprise, I have to say.” “They call it ‘miniature farming.’” They sat in silence for a moment, not meeting each other’s eyes. “It’ll get better,” said Mrs. Watts finally. “It’ll take time, but I promise. Little steps at a time.” “Sometimes the little steps are the hardest to take,” said Mr. Watts quietly. “I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Watts. “I should have thought this through more.” “I’m sorry, too,” said Mr. Watts. “I should have been more open and honest.” “So, what do we do now?” asked Mrs. Watts, rubbing her arms. Mr. Watts picked up the blanket draping over the back of the couch and walked over to his wife. He gently laid the blanket around her shoulders, and she reached up to squeeze his hand in thanks. “I guess...we keep talking." |
One of 100 2 minute Myths I'm in the process of writing here ​ The men from Branch were high-waisted and took naturally to line dancing. They got their unique physiques from traversing bogs, looking for berries their wives turned into sweet jams that slept in their bones while they fished. And one of their own, Nefarious Power, had spent five years on the professional line dancing circuit up along before the pull of the tides got too strong and he retired. Drawn there by the gentle gravity of his own fate, he’d originally gone to look for work, but was soon recruited by one of the teams and quickly became an all-star. When he retired, Nef was so sick of dry land, the first thing he did was spend a year circumnavigating the globe in an all electric sailboat called *The Some Shocking Good.* After that he built a house with a garage big enough to hold, ski-doos, ATVs and all the other toys a bayman dreams of after he drinks too much Lambs and Coke. But they quickly lost their appeal and soon sat unused, like some people’s common sense, as deep within his heart Nef still longed for line dancing. So, on a beige Tuesday morning in June, he marched himself down to the post office and stuck a note on the bulletin board asking if there were any men in town interested in starting a recreational line dancing league. Within three hours he had enough names to call the school and reserve the gym every Saturday from four to eight. The talent was immediate, especially notable was a young 19 year old named Jobadiah Nash, who could dance any position in the line with ease and a smile that whispered, I’ll see you later if I’m still alive. When Forthright Johnson, the CEO of the largest line dancing talent agency in Texas saw a shaky online video of the teams competing, it was so moving he called everyone he’d ever done wrong and begged forgiveness. Then he sent his private jet up to the island and it returned, laden with 14 fishermen who would compete as a two row, line dancing team in a semi-pro league out of Houston. Because of the advantage their high waists gave them in performing both kicks and pirouettes, they soon became the toast of Texas. Lavished with prize money, adoration and cowboy boots, the men quickly took to drinking and carousing in the local bars until the wee hours, before they staggered back to their hotel and dreamed that they were home. Young Jobadiah Nash, who cursed the air blue when he found out the drinking age was 21 in Houston, was the most unhappy, and even the drinks snuck up to his room did little to dull the distance he felt in his heart. But, even hungover and homesick, the fishermen could out-dance the best of the locals with ease, and soon resentment began to simmer on the surface of the days when they performed. After they showed up to one competition, reeking of rum and nostalgia, but still won handily, the editors at the Houston Chronicle had had enough. The very next issue displayed a front page picture of the team drinking at Shoeshine Charley’s Big Top Lounge, with a headline that screamed, *High-Waisted or High and Wasted?* Nef Power was crushed, as he knew it was his fault the men had wandered so far from the homemade bread and jam they craved in their sleep, so he went to see Forthright Johnson to discuss an exit plan. Forthright immediately offered to double their wages, as he couldn’t imagine letting the team, who moved like their feet fed on the floor, just waltz away, but to no avail. Nef explained that the men were thirsty for the ocean and that that thirst could not be quenched with all the bourbon and beer in Texas. Then Forthright threatened legal action, but Nef would not relent even though he, like everyone, knew how vicious the line dancing gangs in Texas prisons were. After seven hours of heated arguments and coy maneuvering, Forthright reached into a desk drawer where he kept his happy endings and suggested a contract for one show the third Tuesday of each month. Nef, after bouncing it off the others, agreed and the men were soon home again, stuffing themselves on sweet jams and salt breezes. As per the contract, once a month Forthright Johnson sent his private jet up to the island and the 14 line dancing fishermen would head back to Houston. And there, in an always sold out Astrodome in front of 66,000 adoring fans, the bright lights of Texas would shine down on those high-waisted men from Branch. |
Private Collins was just coming out of his tent when he saw a group of his fellow soldiers sitting close together, sharing some great news. Curiously he stepped towards the group. As soon as the others saw him, they rushed to their comrade’s side. Collins was confused, as for what could be worth such a fuss. “Collins,” one of them spoke up, seemingly distressed. “You’ve got to come.” “What is it?” “It’s Fletcher, they say he’s a deserter.” “He what?” Collins exclaimed starting to feel the same distress creep up on him. “Fletcher wouldn’t be able to desert the colours if his bloody life depended on it.” The soldier tried to joke. But the smile froze on his face, when he realised, they were telling the truth. “Where is he now?” Collins asked whilst his stomach sank deeper and deeper. ​ Collins found his friend confined to his tent and guarded by two soldiers from another regiment. Like stone, their faces showed no emotion as their eyes stared ahead. When Collins approached, they reacted by crossing their bayonets. “I just want to speak to him,” the Englishman pleaded. The guards exchanged a glance before replying. “Make it quick,” opening one of the tent’s flaps. Swiftly Collins went inside, finding his friend sitting on the ground. With his knees drawn to the chin, Fletcher was staring at the dirt in front of him. “Fletcher,” Collins uttered relieved upon seeing his friend unharmed. “What trouble did you get yourself into now?” In one motion Fletcher sprung up and clung to his friend. “I haven’t done anything,” he whispered with dread. Collins could feel his friend’s body trembling, despite the other man’s efforts to hide it. “They are going to shot me, once the sun stands highest.” Fletcher’s revelation sent Collins’ own blood racing through his body. He looked his friend in the eye before using a demanding tone. “What happened,” but the stubborn fellow just shook his head and sat back down. With a sullen face he continued staring at nothing, waiting for his end. “What about general Green?” Collins tried to get some information from his friend. Fletcher only shook his head again. Fury rose inside Collins at his friend’s lack of will to survive. Without another word he went outside and towards general Green’s tent. ​ To his luck the general let him inside at once. The man in charge of their regiment was writing a letter when Collins entered. “In a moment,” he remarked without looking up. Laying down the feather he gestured Collins to speak. “Sir, it’s about Fletcher.” A shadow passed briefly over Collins’ superior’s face. “He is been accused of desertion by general Morgan and a sergeant who witnessed it.” Green said in a voice indicating his sincere condolences. “But sir,” Collins continued. “I know Fletcher. He would rather die than become a traitor.” “I believe you,” Green assured him. “But your word counts nothing against a general’s.” “Is there no way to at least lessen the sentence. A flogging.” Collins begged the man in front of him. “It is not in my power to change the sentence,” he replied sympathetically. Getting up from his desk he laid a hand on Collins’ shoulder. “Has anything happened that could have upset Morgan?” Collins remembered his friend’s silence at the topic of what had happened. “I don’t know, Fletcher won’t tell me. Would it make a difference?” “No,” seeing the despair in Collins eyes the general tried to comfort him. “I am sorry, those rules give rise to much suffering for good, honest men like you or Fletcher.” “I volunteer to execute him!” Collins said firmly, although he knew it wasn’t his place to decide that. “I am not going to sacrifice two good men in one day.” “I want to be there for him.” “Be there like the others,” Green dismissed the request and turned to go back to his desk. “I don’t want him to die, feeling like a traitor. I want him to know I am right there with him, until the end. Taking part in his suffering.” The general turned around and took a deep breath. With kindness and worry he looked at Collins. “You can not go back from this. You will kill your friend.” “It is my duty as his friend to share his pain. I will give him mercy, even if it’s not fair.” A hint of accusation had sneaked itself into Collins’ voice. But his superior ignored it. “Fairness is not a soldier’s concern, lad.” Green handed him a canteen, “take it. You both need it more than I do right now.” ​ Outside Collins looked up at the clear French sky. The sun was almost at its highest. Receiving entrance to his friend’s tent once again Collins sneaked inside. “You shouldn’t be here Collins. It’s almost time,” his friend uttered without moving his head. “Here,” Collins gave his friend the canteen which contained rum. Fletcher took a sip, and another when Collins urged him to go on. “I am not going to leave you, my friend.” Fletcher cast him a questioning look. Taking a deep breath Collins brazed himself for any reaction. “I am going to be part of the firing squad.” At once Fletcher got up, his eyes wide with an emotion Collins could not name. “What? You can’t be serious!” “You won’t change my mind in the last couple of minutes now. Might as well make peace with it.” Collins grinned at how his friend forgot to close his mouth at the reflection of his own stubbornness. None of them wanted to end their last conversation with a fight. Fletcher’s eyes beamed with guilt and gratitude, when he handed Collins the canteen. “You will need it when,” his words faltered. Collins hugged his friend one last time. “I will go with you to the end, mate.” ​ When it was time, Collins felt the pit in his stomach growing bigger with each step. Fletcher was about to be blindfolded when the two men said their silent goodbyes to each other. A thousand thoughts crossed Collins’ mind in the few seconds between blindfolding and firing. A hundred scenarios how he could try to escape with his friend. But he knew Fletcher was like him, a man of honour. Life might play dirty, but they would face it nonetheless. Collins had a duty to fulfil. And Fletcher would send him to hell if he would abandon it. The private made an effort to remember their best moments together. Remembered his friends smile when they had sat around the fire at night. Or their jokes, when they had marched together. When the order came, Collins pulled without hesitating. Solemnly he thought, how that half canteen of rum would be good company the coming night. |
**Title - Stranger in the mist** Midnight bells rang. The clocktower stood tall, shining in the moonlight. The night-sky was clear, no clouds in sight, illuminated by a million tiny specks of light. A whispering chilled wind blew though the busy streets of the city. The noise lessened the further she ventured away from the center. Streets once illuminated dimmed as they reduced in numbers. Tall dark buildings popped into sight. Small dark alleyways at every corner bereft of moon and star light. She held strong. Brave as normal. She walked these streets daily following the end of her shift. Her steps silent as always. Her gaze widened, at attention of any danger. Her hand in her pocket, clutching a mace can. Tonight...tonight, felt different though. It thumped at the back of her mind. She reminded herself however that this was but a short trip. She only lived a few minutes from the buzzing city lights. She completed this route daily with little to no harm. The media though. The haunting media. Abduction this, killer that, plagued the networks. Views, she thought always. The more tragic a news piece, the more views. It only widened the fear for her. Her hands cupped the mace tighter at that thought. A street light flickered as she walked by it. A strange pillowey mist hugged the streets. A chill kissed the back of her neck. She stopped right in her tracks. Terror filled her mind. Her legs shaking. Her grasp growing weak. Her teeth clacked. She turned her head to look behind her, expecting her end. She was ready. With a wide swing, weakened grip, a fast momentum, a high pitched scream, she prepared herself to act defensively. Her eyes widened. Nothing. Only a flickering light, shining on a soft river of clouds floating just above the ground level. At speed, however, her mace can flung into the alleyway. Bizarrely, the road looked less illuminated as normal. The tall apartment buildings seemed darker. She momentarily paused. Contemplating its retrieval. Alarm bells rung in her head. She turned around and hastened her retreat to her abode. Unnoticed however, a shadowy figure stood. Watching her for a moment. They stood in the mist, appearing as if they were levitating. With a cold breath, they attempted to say “hold on.” The soundwave whispered onto the mist but fizzle away. She reached her apartment doorstep. The mist stronger than before. The illuminated sky dimmed abnormally. She huffed from the hasty pace. Her alertness was high. Her eyes looked for any sudden movement. She siphoned through her bag. A chime of keys clacker. She became relieved. She hurtled towards the front door. Her foot kicked an object at her door feet. A cling sound echoes in the silence. A mace can sat at her door. She let out another eep sound. Rushed though it and slammed it shut. She was staring through the pane of the door. She was very terrified. She heartbeat raced. Her legs clattered. Her hands shivered and sweated. Her eyes widened as she scanned the road. In the corner of the near alleyway, a dark figure vanished in a poof of smoke. Suddenly the blanket of mist, vanished. An air of calm travelled through her. She collapsed in the corridor inside. The exhaustion and terror dissipated as the rising sun meets the horizon. A yellowish orange hue adorned over the sky. Six AM bells echoed from the distant clocktower. |
‘Is that the one that took mommy?’ Eszti nodded as she looked up. The sky carried the orange glow of dawn. ‘Yes, that’s what dad said.’ ‘It doesn’t look that dangerous at all,’ Dani whispered as he peeked at the tree that stood between patches of yellow grass, its roots surrounded by beer cans, cigarette buts, and empty crisp bags. ‘Then why don’t you go there alone? I can wait here.’ Eszti lifted her eyebrow as she looked at her little brother. Something she had seen her mother do long ago when she called them out on their lies. ‘No, you must go as well. You always act like the big one, but you’re just afraid. A stupid girl who can only clean, choose clothes and make things look pretty. You can’t do any of the real important stuff.’ Dani wiped his nose with his sleeve. ‘I’m just trying to help out daddy.’ ‘No, you are just being nice to him so he won’t get angry because of all your bad grades.’ Eszti took a few deep breaths and play punched him on his shoulder. ‘Okay, I will help you, but you will have to carry the bag. It’s heavy. I don’t like carrying heavy stuff.’ Dani kneeled down and pushed his sister down as well. ‘We must be careful not to wake her up. If she sees you, she remembers you. She always does. And when she remembers you, she knows where to find you.’ Eszti took a good look at the tree. Its branches stretched out far apart, like every single one of them was a skeleton finger that lured innocent people from all directions. The trunk had black marks on it, as if people had tried to burn it. ‘Stop making up things, it’s just a tree,’ Eszti said as she reluctantly followed Dani who was already tiptoeing across the field, dragging the bag behind him. ‘It’s true. I saw her when mommy was sleeping all the time. I heard her footsteps outside their bedroom and her fingers screech over my window. When I looked through the crack between my curtains, I saw her standing there. She looked right inside. She had dark, red eyes and a hole in her stomach. That’s where she puts the children she steals, you know. I was lucky I could hide under the bed before she saw me.’ Eszti took a few steps and inspected the tree from all sides. A breeze was playing with the shiny crisp bags, making them tumble over the dried-out soil. She noticed a circle of rocks with charred blocks of wood in the middle. A cloud of ash twirled into the air. ‘Look,’ Dani called. She walked over. He was pointing at one of the branches. ‘There’s a robe there and it’s torn. That proves what I said. Somebody tried to tie her up so she wouldn’t be able to go out at night, but she just tore it apart and went anyway.’ He jumped and stretched his arm all the way up to touch the remains of the frayed rope. ‘I can’t reach it, it’s too high. Can you try it?’ Eszti shook her head and swallowed while staring at the branch. ‘I think it’s better to leave it alone,’ she said as she wandered closer. She found a tree hollow and put her hand inside. ‘Don’t do that! That’s where she puts the children she takes. She will pull you inside!’ Dani looked at her from a distance. His little fist clenching around the bag. ‘Now you have to stop being silly,’ Eszti said. ‘It’s true! An old lady whose children died was buried here. After she died, her ghost started to take mommies and steal their children. Tomi told me and his father is a policeman so he knows everything.’ Eszti turned around, smiled at him, and put her arm around his shoulder. ‘It’s a good thing we are early then. We still have all day until she wakes up and starts to hunt.’ Eszti remembered the final months. ‘Can you put Dani to bed? Maybe read him a story?’ She had looked up from her schoolbooks. ‘Can’t someone else do it? Every time it’s me and he never wants to go. I always have to read him a hundred stories before he finally goes to sleep.’ Her father walked into the kitchen and leaned against the doorpost. His glasses on his forehead, his tie loosened. He rubbed his eyes. ‘You know I have to work Eszti.’ ‘How about mommy. She never does it anymore. All she does is sleep. Everyday! Nobody else is allowed to sleep that much. She does nothing around here!’ ‘Come, sit next to me on.’ Her father tapped on the seat next to him. He wrapped his arm around her and kissed her forehead. ‘You know why mommy is sleeping all the time, right?’ Eszti nodded. ‘Because she is very, super tired.’ Her father nodded. ‘Yes, but she is so tired for a reason. Sometimes when people are very sad, a big, black tree starts to grow in their stomach. When there’s enough sadness, it just grows and grows until the branches reach up to inside their heads where they catch all their happy thoughts. That’s when people forget all the nice things and become very tired. That’s what’s happening to mommy. The pills she takes are like tiny little people that try to cut the branches, so the happy thoughts can be released.’ Eszti curled up further into his lap and looked up at him. ‘But what happens if the little men can’t cut the branches?’ Her father closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know Eszti. I really don't know.’ She had been the only child at the funeral. ‘It’s best if we leave Dani at grandma’s. You know how his mind plays tricks on him when he sees things he can’t understand.’ As she looked into the coffin, she was not scared at all. Her mother looked pretty, better than she did when she was always sleeping. She wore a colorful dress, red lipstick and she even seemed to be smiling a bit. The only thing that startled Eszti was the weird bulge in her neck. ‘So...?’ Dani said as he wiped his nose and looked at the bag between them. ‘Yes, yes. You are right. Let’s do this.’ They squatted next to each other as Eszti undid the zipper to release the ax. The blade was covered in brown spots, the handle full of splinters. ‘You do it. You are the big, strong man. I’m just a dumb girl who can only clean stuff.’ Dani stood up straight and broadened his shoulders. ‘Yes, it’s better if I do it.’ Eszti smiled and stroked his hair. She followed the trail the ax was leaving as Dani dragged it through the dirt. ‘Do you think mommy would have left if the tree wouldn’t have taken her?’ Dani asked as he looked up. ‘Well, she was sleepy all the time.’ ‘Maybe the tree also did that to her.’ Eszti laid her hand gently on his shoulder. ‘Yes, probably.’ She shivered as the blade hit the wood and a loud crack sounded through the trunk and branches. |
“Welcome! To THE CHAOS GATE!” Nick put on his best booming dramatic voice. His friends around the table stared at him. He ignored the mix of sarcastic and amused looks and continued. “After a long journey, you have finally reached the central chamber of the Temple of Goth-Shinu” Ben spoke under his breath “I stand by that being a such a weird name for a temple.” Nick paused his dramatic speech. “Listen, when you write the campaign, you can come up with the name of the freaking temple okay? I’m not good at naming things.” “Yea, we are aware” Jess mumbled in a sarcastic voice. “Hey!” She blurts out as Kevin gently nudges her shoulder as he gives her a knowing look. The table was silent for a brief moment before a knowing laugh spread around the group of friends. Kevin looked over to Nick “Okay Nick, please continue.” “Thank you.” Nick smiled and looked back at his DM notes. He had spent the last week writing this grand finale for his friends, and he was eager to see their reactions to what he had planned for them. “Okay. In front of you is a large open stone room, bridges connect the center of the room above a deep pit below. At the center of the four bridges is an elevated platform, upon which sits the source of the evil that has been plaguing the land. A large black portal, with purple streaks emanating from the -edges.” Nick imagined the entire room in his mind, he knew this world like the back of his hand, but he knew better than to describe each bit of stonework on and around the bride, even if he could see it all clearly in his head. Ben was the first to speak up. “Well, we made it this far, let’s shut this thing down and go home.” “Sounds good to me, let's do it!” Jess reached over to the table and began moving the small party token across the rudimentary map Kevin had drawn up. A devious grin spread across Nick’s face, pleased with how well he knew what his friends would do. This led to a look of concern that spread around the table. Jess was first to notice. “Oh crap. I know that look. We totally missed something.” Nick ignored her and continued his speech “As you cautiously work your way across the bridge and onto the central platform, a large bang echoes through the room. You look to see each of the four bridges explode into rubble that falls into the black pit.” Nick grabbed his pen and scribbled a few lines on the map to indicate the bridges being out. “Welp, on the bright side, those goblins we avoided earlier aren’t gonna be sneaking up on us now” Kevin consults the notepad on the table in front of him, then continues.” Okay, so if I remember right, the freaky wizard dude we met before we came in here said we would have to...” Ben stands up and cuts her off with the best dramatic voice and arm movements he could muster. “Enter the void and defeat the monster that lies beyond!” Ben smiled, satisfied with the drama while the rest of the table seemed to ignore his performance. He sat back down into his seat, unphased by the mediocre reception and continued. “Question- I know we are SUPPOSED to go in there and I’m sure there is some dramatic monster on the other end that Nick wants us to fight, but like, have we considered trying maybe, turning off the portal?” Nick looked at him blankly, “You could try, I guess. Uhhhh, each of you roll an arcana check.” He scribbles a few notes behind his DM screen as each of his friends consult their character sheets and roll their dice. One by one they speak out the results. “I got a 5.” Ben shrugs. “I put my stats more into strength anyway. Kevin?” “I think I need to get my lucky dice out for this.” Kevin takes the dice set from in front of him and opens the backpack hanging off the back of his chair. He reaches in, shuffles around and pulls out a set of smooth silver dice. He shuffles them in his hands before gently setting them on the table next to his character sheet, before carefully picking up the D20 and shaking it between his hands. “Okay, here we go, nat 20, nat 20, come on natural 20!” He throws the dice with a flair. Everyone watches them roll before quickly settling in the middle of the table. “A 6? Really! Ugh, and that’s only a 7 with my plus 1 to arcana.” Ben retrieves his dice and slouches back into his seat. “You guys are lucky I'm here; I have a plus 5 on my arcana stats.” Jess says confidently as she cracks her knuckles before throwing her own dice. “I got this.” The die rolls on the table, Jess looks at Nick and Ben confidently as the others watch as it rolls around on the table. Then the other three burst out in laughter. “What? “Jess looks down and is shocked to see a 1 showing face up on the table. She sighs. “Dang it. Of course, the one time I get a bad magic roll, at least it’s a plus 5” “Shouldn’t have wasted your luck on that merchant last session.” Kevin joked. Jess quickly shot back “I’ll have you know that roll saved you from getting scammed into a buying a stick that you thought was magic.” “Touché” Jess grabs a pretzel from the large bowl and takes a bite. Nick smiles before getting himself back into character. “You each examine the swirling portal in front of you. You all feel a dark power emanating from it, but none of you can think of any way to turn it off from this side.” “Okay, and just hear me out here. We each have ranged weapons, sooo -maybe before we go in and fight what is sure to be some big scary monster; we just, you know, shoot it from this end for a bit? Maybe we will land a few lucky hits?” Ben gets a proud look on his face while the rest of the friends just stare. “Hey, you have had dumber ideas, remember the bog witch?” Kevin joked. “We agreed to never talk about that again Kevin!” Ben and Kevin laugh, Jess and Nick roll their eyes. Nick waits for the laughter to die down before flipping around a few pages in his notes. “You know what? I’ll allow it. All of you Roll for initiative.” He writes some things down on his notepad and rolls some dice. Jess looks across the table and Ben. “Why do I feel like this is a bad idea?” Kevin just laughs. “Jess, we are shooting arrows into a mysterious black portal that is the source of all evil in this land.” He takes on a sarcastic tone. “What could possibly go wrong?” The friends look around at each other and roll their dice. Nick takes a deep breath and mutters to himself, “Here we go.” So I may have gotten really into D&D and decided to write about it. |
The anger, the immense and pulsating feeling that comes with being angry. I don’t know if it’s because of my nature or simply because I exude a presence of being angry but here it is, in the most elegant of colors, prancing around as if it has no cares in the world, the wind from its dance whip stones and gravel in every direction with a ferocity so careless and calm. Yes, anger is alive, and it has no care in the world. You misconstrue yourself to think that anger in its essence is angry all the time, for it cannot be what it already is, water cannot be wet for it is the essence of wetness, therefore anger cannot be angry for it is the essence of anger. In my heart of hearts I knew this to be true but I couldn’t bring myself to understand why in the seven hells such a magnificent creature would be created for such a thing, and then I see myself in a glass reflection of thought coming to the understanding that we are all of something else, we all have a hidden being beneath our cages of bone and skin. I watched as anger continued to dance around the way, seemingly completely engulfed in the trance of the world itself, the dance was futile and carefree, whimsical, and unordinary. Anyone who didn’t have a shred of sense left would know what this was, but most still held onto their sanity for various reasons; be they in hopes to find true love, wealth, prestige, whatever the case the mass of individuals clutch tightly to their sanity, I am different. We are from a place far below, under everything you know to be true, under the world, under your feet, under it all. There is no way better to explain it but to say that I was not of this world and now I am, solemnly watching as anger stirs. You ask of my purpose, of my reasoning for being and I will tell you that it has no relevance to you or yourself, it is only I that needs to know what purpose I serve. Yet, if these are to be the days I live out in this realm of rock and wind then sharing my intentions may prove beneficial to my future endeavors. Where I am from they describe me as obtuse, the failure of an intellectual mind, the break in existence on the coldest of nights, and the deterioration of consciousness on the warmest of days. I am the eerie confusion that wrestles with men and women alike in an effort to subdue the mind and cause mass delusions, I am madness. And I am here to assist anger in bringing the world to its knees. We will mold ourselves together in the dance of our kind and become one to bring about a wealth of boundless destruction in our wake, and only our lack of imagination can be our downfall. Our first order of business is to expose this generation and future generations to the truth of what this world truly is, starting with a girl and an apple. |
**WARNING SELF HARM TALK** Zylix wasn't a normal kid but who ever thinks they are? Without the average it's just a sea of average anyway since then the great will be normal. Zylix just liked getting through the day and waiting for Tristan, their best friend on the whole planet. Tristan came late at night, after the sun went down and those gorgeous stars started to twinkle. Zylix adored the stars, there were thousands of them but they were all so unique, so beautiful. Zylix could stare at the stars until the sun came again and still admired the view even as they faded away. Saying goodbye to the stars was one of the best parts of his day, only second to when Tristan came. It was starting to rain that night, a soft drip drop that pattered away but seemed so quiet, so peaceful. Usually Tristan would have come by now and the rain was so soft and gentle sounding that Zylix could not help it- he climbed out of his window and just sat there. The rain dripping down his face, a small smile filling his face. He always felt so peaceful in the rain, like that wind was his breath rushing in and out of him, like the rain was a comforting hug. It was everything and nothing all at once and felt so endless. Tap tap tap tap. Zylix's eyes shot wide open to find Tristan his best friend grinning down at him. " Tristan! You came!", Zylix shouted, blushing when he realized how childish he sounded but Tristan's grin only grew. " Hey Zy, whatcha up to? Sitting outside your window isn't a very good idea, you know. You'll catch a cold.", Tristan chuckled, shifting to sit beside Zylix. Zylix shifted, blushing furiously as his friend settled and draped an arm around his shoulder. " Hey Zy, look at that. Stars.", Tristan sighed, his smile fading a bit. " Yeah, aren't they beautiful?", Zylix shouted happily, already starting to spot the different constellations but forgetting them as soon as they counted them. They were too beautiful to force together like that anyway. " Shhh, hey Zy. I-I need to talk to you.", Tristan started, shifting nervously and he slowly drew his arm back from Zylix. Zylix tried to ignore the absence of Tristan's warmth as he curled his own arms around him, " Sure Tristan wassup?" He didn't turn to look at his best friend. He didn't see the look on his face, the strange mixture of happiness and pain. The way his hands were tightening on his legs, the little bites and dents his nails were making. He should have looked. He always swore he should have looked. He always does now. You never know how much a moment means until it's over. As if he could hear his future self, crying he twisted to see Tristan's eyes, the sadness settling in them. " Tristan?", Zylix asked quietly, confusion clouding his features as he tried to study his friend. " I gotta go away for a while Zy.", Tristan whispered, " I don't know when I'll be back." " What?", Zylix cried, twisting to sit on his heels, " Why? Why are you leaving? Was it something I did? Tristan?" " NO, nononono. It was not you Zy. I promise.", Tristan sighed, rubbing his face. The bags beneath his eyes seemed to be growing with every moment, " I just have to go and do something. For myself. I promise it's for the best Zy." " Well can't I go with you?", Zylix whispered, trying not to cry but he knew Tristan could see the tears glittering in his eyes. He always did. " No.", Tristan snapped. Zylix stared at Tristan, the change in tone shocking him. He'd never done that before. Tristan sighed, his face softening, " Look Zylix I won't lie to you. I'm going to check myself into a mental treatment facility." " A what?", Zylix shouted, his eyes widening in shock. Tristan winced, rubbing his neck as he whispered, " I need to go. For myself. I need to get better. I can't live like this." " Like what?" Tristan stared blankly at Zylix for a moment before numbly pulling up his sleeves. Zylix had no words. The lines etched into Tristan looked like a web, a tree, a net. It looked like Tristan had been drawing to draw something, whether it was to draw something out or to reveal something to himself Zylix didn't know. " Why would you do this Tristan?", Zylix whispered, gently curling his fingers around the back of Tristan's arm. " I-I... I don't know. I never know what I'm thinking when I do it. It happens and then that's it. I clean it up, bandage it and that's that but... it's not healthy. It's not good. I need, I need to get help before I do something bad.", Tristan sighed. Zylix stayed silent for a moment before curling his arms around Tristan's neck. He had no words but he knew Tristan understood. He'd always care for Tristan, no matter what. He'd wait for him to come back. " Hey Zy." " Yeah?" " Don't forget me." " Tristan, I never will. Come back to me ok?" " Course." They stayed silent for a few more minutes before Zylix twisted to sit next to Tristan, an arm draped over his shoulder still. " Are you ok?", Zylix whispered. " No, but I will be.", Tristan chuckled nervously, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. " Good. Then we can go on a proper date.", Zylix grumbled. Tristan's eyebrows just about leapt off his face, " What now?" Zylix chuckled, no longer staring at the stars in the sky, no this time he was going to look at the best version- his best friend. " You heard me Tristan. Owe me a proper one.", Zylix laughed. Tristan shook his head but a weary grin bloomed on his own face, " I really gotta get better now don't I?", Tristan laughed. " Yup, it gives you incentive to try your hardest. Don't forget you owe me that date when you get in there!", Zylix shouted again, before curling his arms back around Tristan's neck. " Ok,ok. I promise." Months later..... Tap tap tap tap. |
Lightning stuck! Thunder boomed moments later! The birds scattered around, crying to the others. The air buzzed with energy as the battle begun! The I stopped writing. Writer’s block, fun. I tapped my pen against my notebook, which was sparkly and had a bunch of mythological creatures on it. At little childish for someone in their twenties, but I find it inspiring sometimes. Unfortunately, right now is not one of those times. I’m a hobby writer, my actual job is that I am an on-call CSI. Not the most well paying job and it gets traumatizing sometimes, but its a job I like. Ish. I’m going to do this for a few years until I can afford a Ph.D. and become a whole forensics scientist. Its a little different that the career choices my parents told me to follow, as all Indian parents do: doctor, engineer, lawyer, or businessman, but after they gradually understood. I groan in frustration. I can’t seem to figure out how to write this stupid battle scene. Its taken me weeks to even write one measly chapter. I used to be able to write like 2 chapters a day on WattPad. But then again, that was fan fiction that I’d stop writing once exams hit and I got writer’s block. To this day, I’ve never finished writing a book. That’s why I never took it up as a career. That and its not a steady job, unless you’re lucky enough to sign on with a publisher and end up on New York Time’s bestselling list. Or BookTok. I stand up and pace around my small living room. My cat meows loudly, probably thinking I’m the one with zoomies. She does that when I anxiously pace around like that. Suddenly my toe crashed into one of the table legs and I cried out. “I HATE EVERYTHING!” I plop back into my chair and put my head down. Why am I so frustrated? “Why do you hate everything?” A high pitched voice asked. My head jerked up. “Who said that?” I look around but nobody was there. I don’t have any roommates. “Me.” The voice said. I look down to find that my Ticonderoga Smart Mechanical Pencil standing up. I blink. Did I suddenly develop dementia? Am I hallucinating? I had a migraine earlier and took my migraine medication, is this a side effect? I stand up and back away. “Hey why are you backing up? I just asked you a simple question.” “No no, you’re a pencil, I’m hallucinating that you’re talking and standing and-” “Trust me, this is real, calm down, would you like to do a grounding exercise with me?” “Wha- no- I need to call my therapist or maybe 911-” then I remembered I stopped seeing my therapist because it got too expensive since she stopped accepting my insurance. I found out that the hard way when I was sent a bill for $1000. I had to donate plasma twice a week for a month to pay it. “Okay maybe not my therapist-” My cat, a ginger cat named Gingermelon, jumped up on to the table and pounced at the pencil. “Hey! Get off!” It cried. The pencil rolled off but I stepped forward and caught it. “Nice catch.” I stared at the talking pencil in my trembling hand. “If my cat attacked you because you were standing up... I guess I’m not hallucinating... unless I hallucinated Gingermelon attacking you.” “I can guarantee you I’m real. I know its crazy, but its true.” “I didn’t think a smart pencil means it could talk, not just automatically push out lead. How come you didn’t talk before? I bought you months ago.” “Oh well uh.. Let’s just say my spirit is here now.” “You’re a ghost?” “No-no ghosts aren’t real... Look I can’t explain a whole lot, just know I’m not an Earthly Spirit and I’m not a ghost. I like to find artists and talk to them. Your energy brought me here.” “My energy?” “Yes, well, you seem very anxious and frustrated.” “Right but I’m not an artist, I’m a CSI.” “You write, right? Writing is an art.” “Yeah.. well I don’t write a lot... I like to write as a hobby... I’ve never finished writing a book.” “Why do you think that is?” “Its never been the most important thing in my life. I love writing, I really do, but I get writer’s block and I find that I give up on a story, sometimes I go back to it, and then I remember I have to make actual money. My parents even said writing is a waste of time because it doesn’t help my career. Like in school and even in college, I was juggling assignments and extracurricular. Now I have my job, and sometimes I’ll side hustle so I can make a few extra bucks just to afford something nice or medical bills.” “That sounds stressful. What got you into writing?” “Hmm..” I sat on my sofa and put the pencil down on coffee table. “I was in elementary school. I just moved, and started writing about magical tales, involving me. I’d be a superhero or something. As I grew up, it became something to escape reality, like reading books. Only when I write, I felt like I could control the story. Especially when I got bullied.” “So maybe you wanted to control your own story, but since you couldn’t, you wrote stories. Perhaps with some version of yourself that was someone you wish you were and with a happier story?” “Yeah..” realization hit me. “I guess so. I could write myself as a cool, better looking version of myself. I once wrote about a spy who stopped a cyberattack. That was during a time where I got bad grades and my parents called my useless.” “Did you feel useless when they called you that?” “Yeah.. I felt like I couldn’t do anything right.” “And the spy in your story, they were probably very smart, and was praised by an authority figure after the spy stopped the attack, right?” “Spot on, pencil. What should I call you, by the way? I feel weird for calling you pencil.” “Umm..” the pencil wobbled a bit, as if to be thinking. “Call me Dixon, I guess. That’s the brand right?” “Yeah.. Okay well my name is Hemadri.” “Nice to meet you, Hemadri.” “Nice to meet you too.” “Lets get back to what your parents were saying about you.” “Oh.. we don’t have to go back to that...” “It sounds perhaps your parents hurt you a lot?” “Wha- yeah.. but aren’t you supposed to be helping me with my writer’s block? Not therapy me-” “You said you never finished writing a book. You also said your parents thought writing was a waste of time because it didn’t help your career.” “Yeah...” “Writing is not just a hobby for you, its a release, its a coping mechanism. You get to take control of the story, give it a whole universe of your design. That’s what art is, really, creating something from your own inspiration. It may not be as important in your life as your career but its something beautiful and important for your soul.” “Huh.” For a formerly inanimate object, Dixon is quite insightful. “Perhaps its time to look within yourself and think of writing as important. Now, you shouted something earlier, which is when I-I uh woke up.” Dixon hopped to the other end of the table pointed toward the dining table where I was writing. “Oh I stubbed my toe-” “There’s something more going on right? What in your life is stressing you out? I assume you were stressed out because of something in your life and you were writing.” “What- oh- well what adult in their twenties isn’t stressed. I got rent to pay- OH CRAP-” I flopped up and yanked my phone out of my pocket. “What happened?” I started tapping buttons. “My paycheck was delayed by a week, and I didn’t get a lot of hours this month, so I couldn’t pay rent earlier. In fact, I’ve been charged a late fee of $50 already. If I don’t pay in about 3 minutes, the landlord will add another late fee of $150. Plus electric bills-” “Did you tell the landlord about your situation?” “Yeah. And they said to try the Flex program next time. But that requires a credit score of 650. And mine is 522. Student loans man.. Ugh stupid internet.” My internet always chooses the worst time to slow down. “Wow.... I can see why its frustrating. Did your paycheck come in?” “Nope. Gotta overdraft.” I clicked pay and the rent was paid. I do not want to look at my bank account. “I’m going to have to skip milk in my coffee for the next few weeks. And maybe donate plasma again. So many bills ugh..." “That’s stressful.” “That’s reality. Which circles back to why I like writing new realities,” Gingermelon hopped on to my lap and started purring. I felt a little more calm. “I could write a world where landlords are more fair or where alien’s drop cookies at my doorstep because I helped them solve a problem or anything... I’m just so lost in life. I mean yeah I have a job and I repaired my relationship with my parents and my brother thinks I’m cool but I just.. I don’t know. I want to escape my reality.” “Why don’t you try writing again, but maybe this time think of your predicament, write it into your story metaphorically. And then get your main character out of this predicament.” “Why?” “Like you said, escape your reality. Write one where you fix the issues you’re facing. It might not be the answer to your problems, but you can get a break from it, even if its a short break.” “Hmm.. you’re right...” I got up, picking up Dixon and going back to the table where I was writing. I look at Dixon and smile. “I hope there’s no copay for this therapy session.” |
The sword sat collecting dust and cobwebs in the corner of the dingy, dimly lit room. Its formerly ornate scabbard was chipped and cracked in places, from years of misuse and neglect. Layers of grime covered the sword’s once beautifully intricate pommel, the flickering firelight in the room now danced across its smudged, grimy surface. This was no longer a weapon of war, no longer a mighty instrument of justice and glory. Now it was nothing more than a forgotten remnant of a time gone by. The firelight cast its glow upon another forgotten object in the room, another tool of war, cast aside and left to decay in an empty derelict room of an equally abandoned house. The half illuminated figure was seated in a rotting wooden chair, sunken eyes reflecting the weak flame of his dying fire. The knight, like his sword, had lost the meaning of victory and valour to the passing of time. The howl of battle and carnage that had rang so readily in his ears before now echoed through his soul, when once the cry of conquest made his heart soar, the memory now brought only anguish. The war was in the past, but the battle continued to rage onward in the knight’s heart and mind. He had lost his family to the battle, victims to his unending despair. Never again would see them, for he had built a wall around his heart. A wall made from bricks of horror and carnage. His house, his castle, yet remained, but it was as broken as the spirit who dwelled within it. Its foundations were crumbling, and a single leaf might well bring the whole structure crashing down. The knight, once a mighty and noble warrior, the very picture of heroism; now he sat, a testament to the truth of war. His once broad shoulders, capable of bearing the weight of armour for days, now struggled to hold themselves up against the ragged clothes he draped over himself. His mighty arms were atrophied from disuse, and his legs couldn’t hold him for long. The fire flickered, but no spark reflected in the knight’s eyes. Soon he too would collapse, for his spirit had crumbled ages ago. He would collapse along with his empty and forgotten house, a tomb he had lived in since he had returned from the war. All that would remain is a sword collecting dust and cobwebs in the corner of the dingy dimly lit room. |
"I pity you." The Hero said through the blood and ash. A half-delirious chuckle slipped from their lips, soft and melodious and just the tiniest bit unhinged. "Truly, I do." The Monster snarled in return, golden eyes alight with furious hatred. Its jagged maw released a guttural growl, sharp and deep and wrong in all the ways that matter. Like the world cried with every breath it took - became lesser with every second of its existence. **"Pity me?"** It sneered in contempt, obsidian fangs glinting wickedly like daggers made from deepest recesses of the blackest oceans - a void that devoured whatever it touched, light and all. **"You are broken, Hero! Forsaken and alone. Here you stand, without allies and without hope for victory. Fighting for people you do not know - for a cause born of naivete and self-deceit. Yet you dare pity me? You? Who raised their blade against fate? Who lies bloodied and beaten like swine?** A bark of laughter rose from the Monster's throat - a misshapen mold of a growl and a bellow that distorted the skies. It pounded its tail and fractured the mountains with its every corroding step. It spread its titanic wings and blackened the sky with its every deafening roar. It bared its cruel and blood-soaked maw in a vindictive grin and poisoned the air with its every rancid breath. **"Fool! I am the abyss! The oblivion! The endless night! I am inevitability. And you? You are a mere grain of sand hoping to dry the seas. A speck of cosmic dust seeking to devour a star. You are nothing."** Hoarfrost spread with its every word, biting and chilling ice that sapped the life of everything that it touched. The shadows seemed to beckon from its feet, stifling and tempting, and ah, would it not be so much better to simply lay down and rest? Would it not be easier to find peace with it all? Just let go. Let it all go and there would be no further suffering. But the Hero does not fall. The Hero does not submit. The shadows writhe and curl and lunge but their taint breaks under the Hero's steadfast form like waves parting before the cliff's edge. And as the darkness recoils, the Hero speaks again, "And that is why I pity you." The Hero stands - armored hands dragging like lead weights and strained muscles screaming in agony with every effort, yet they stand, regardless - and then smiled beautifully at the Monster. "You, the abyss, who knows of destruction and nothing of creation. You, the oblivion, who knows only solitude and nothing of existence. You, the endless night, who knows only of cold and nothing of warmth." The Hero leveled their sword at the beast's chest and granted it the sight of their derisive smirk. "You, the inevitability, who knows only of resignation and nothing of rebellion against the chains that bind you. I pity you. Born without choice. A slave to your own nature." The Monster snarled, caustic spit dripping from its pitch-black jaws. **"You are insane."** The Hero tilted their head and shrugged. "Heroes often are. We are a confusing bunch, no? Though at this very moment, I can assure you. I am the sanest I have ever been in all my life. There is nowhere in this realm that I would rather be than right at this very spot. The Hero spread their arm with a grand flourish and released a melodic laugh - warm and carelessly wondrous as a summer breeze. "Standing here, I have never before felt so alive." Two hands rose, gripped the pommel of a glowing blade. Light hummed steadily from its hallowed edge, glowing then dimming then glowing again like a heart of forged steel that had come to life. "So, I should thank you, beast. For this...this feeling is the finest gift anyone could have ever granted upon mine self. And I can only think of one suitable way to repay mine debt to thee." The Hero closed their eyes and began to pray. Not to any god. Not to any demon. This was not a prayer that would touch their unworthy ears. These words were only meant for those with the potential to be so much greater. "Hear my voice and acknowledge my call, my brothers and sisters! Let all of creation bear witness to our kin of flame!" The winds began to thunder furiously, carrying a valorous war cry to the corners of all of creation. It swirled and converged as if the very air was dancing to the Hero's orchestration. The light that had once been so dim became a beacon, piercing the veil of shadows that had fallen upon the land with its resplendence. Rays of luminescence crashed against the tide and began to push back. The Monster roared in outrage. Titanic claws called down curses that poisoned the Earth. Its voracious jaws raged and spewed spells that sundered the soul. Its wings swept forward a darkness that eclipsed the very stars. Yet the Hero stood against the tide - proud and stalwart in the eye of the growing storm - unbowed, unfaltering, and unforgiving. "Oh, divines above! Look down and tremble before your usurpers! Oh, mortals below! Awaken and rage against the Fates that imprison you!" The Hero's blade rose higher in a solemn salute, and Death wavered in fear. "Follow me unto the great beyond and bear witness to a miracle. Now and forevermore, let this moment be our song! A Gloria that will echo throughout all of time!" The blade was swung. And the world was bathed in radiant light. |
(I haven't wrote any fiction in a LONG time, and this barely counts, as it took me 10 minutes and I don't know what to categorize it as. This is also my first attempt at this style. But regardless, here it is.) This page is blank. How is this so? You ask yourself. There is clearly writing on the paper. By the conventional denotation of the very word, this page cannot be blank. You ponder. You ponder deeply. You study this conundrum. Perhaps this single sheet of paper is simply a stand-in for your feelings, a medium for which to paint your deepest thoughts! It shall be the tome of knowledge over which you shall study. It will enable you to unlock the very meaning behind itself. No, no. This cannot be right. The very idea is profound. The page must have an author, you think. Whoever created this page gave it to you for a reason. It exists for you. This page exists to serve, it is the lantern you shall carry with you through your journey for meaning. You have been enabled to do something noble, you have been called to action! You quickly dismiss the idea. The page mocks you. It's meaning is somewhere, you know it. It's simply hiding from you. Yes, that is the key. It's some sort of cipher, of course! You must crack it's code to see the very meaning that lies within! Science is the hammer and chisel with which we will sculpt meaning from this page! This is futile. You cannot deduce any sort of code from this page. The truth is, dear reader, this page was simply a surrogate to distract you from your fears. It was an elaborate ruse, you see. The page, in fact, was not blank! You dug so deeply to find its meaning, to find its purpose. To find why you came to possess it originally! In truth this page is not anything more than a wrinkled, dirty piece of printer paper, measuring 8 inches wide and 11 and one half inches long. Yet you convinced yourself that there was more to it. It was a noble effort, I must admit. But in the end, your mortal quandary is insignificant, and does not concern me. It is time for us to depart. Return now to your own story. A blank page awaits your return. |
It started at around 11pm; I was aimlessly looking through BBC iplayer contently browsing top gear, Sherlock etc looking for something to fill the volatile silence which consumed my bedroom. I bought my TV 4 months ago ish, off an ad on eBay, it was cheap for a smart tv. The remote isn’t the most amazing and the tv sometimes crashes which, as expected, comes with an older tv- but I don’t think this thing has come from the previous owner. It was a quiet night, the best way I can describe it as the quiet before a thunder storm, the gut wrenching quiet in which you know something is coming but you don’t know when, a foreboding sensation. All of a sudden my tv crashes, not exactly unheard of, I start to reboot it as usual and all comes as expected however I hear a tapping at the window, a patterned tapping which almost makes me jump out of bed- I am the sceptical type so my heart felt like it was going to leap out of my chest. I turn the light on and wait for it to go, it did after maybe 20 seconds and I assured myself it was rain coming, the weather did say scattered showers and my window was shut, along with my blackout curtains. I shook it off and returned to my tv, turning on BBC iplayer when all of a sudden the screen becomes distorted, the suggestions all scattered in disfiguring pattern with the words taken from the top suggestion spotted amongst the random colouration of different shows, the words “seeing is deceiving” in red moving In an unusual way, almost as if the words were trying to escape whatever was holding them capture. As you can imagine, I was horrified and immediately tried turning off my tv, it wouldn’t budge, trying and trying again for a good minute, hearing my heartbeat course through my eardrums, until finally the tv turned off- I again, trying to reassure myself and keep that part of my mind from overthinking at bay I turned the tv on again, holding back my stomach from turning itself outwards it turns on as normal and I was happy again. I switched on an episode of top gear and it played as normal. Now I am an insomniac and I really struggle to go to sleep at night, I try to drown myself with boring stuff to help me sleep as part of my routine and at this point, maybe 11:30/11:45pm I was not tired, like, at all. Sitting bolt upright in bed I get the urge to go to sleep, which is unfamiliar, and if this happens I would usually thank the lord and try go to sleep but for some reason, my gut kept telling me not too, this time I listened to that but I just couldn’t help it and I shouldn’t have fallen asleep but I did, still completely upright in bed I passed out I don’t remember what time but god, god I shouldn’t have fallen asleep with the tv still playing. When I woke up, it was maybe 4am, still that quiet, still, humid darkness outside my bedroom that I had grown familiar with, I was confused and out of it and realised was still sitting upright (absolutely unheard of, I never sleep upright- not on planes, cars, chairs, anything) the glaze over my eyes started to fade and a horrible realisation came over my body and I started to tremble, my organs in my body swilling around in there like they were in a rollercoaster, instead of top gear still playing, there in my tv, was a face, staring at me. A face I can best describe as human, however the features were pervert and warped in a way a child would draw a human, not quite right but with the intention of looking like a human, it’s smile was too wide, blonde hair sprouting out like a scientist, glaring black eyes that were not level nor the same shape staring into mine, I knew it was looking at me, analysing me; with the same red words bouncing around the screen “seeing is deceiving” I leapt up and scrambled looking for the remote, bedsheets flying through the air, clothes going every way possible until I spotted it, underneath that window which made the tapping noise. All while that thing, that creature, analysing and evaluating me through the screen. I grabbed the remote, breathless and exhausted frantically turning the tv off. It is now 5:30am while I wright this, I haven’t turned my tv back on and I want to burn it. I don’t know what to do, that gut curdling feeling hasn’t left my system and my parents will look at me like my last brain cell has left if I try to explain to them what’s just happened. But for some reason, deep down, that thing wants me, I don’t know what for, but it wants me, and I feel like it’s already advanced; I just don’t know what into yet. |
Father Bernard, I write to you under the cover of night, near candlelight, as the snores of our fellow Fathers fill the adjacent room. I know not what is in my power of disclosure, nor what will, through the guiding hand of God, reach your ears. I pray the good man Big John will see to it you receive this letter, as I have received yours. I want to assure you that what you have heard is not imaginary. The disturbance you have felt around you, and the whispers in the halls of our great Church, are real. There are letters, hundreds of them, from all over the world. As we speak, they are being studied at all four corners of the Church, shielded from the prying eyes of the public, penned by what we are calling “The Man From Nowhere.” I, along with Father Birmingham, Father Theroux, and Father Wilson, are working under the tutelage of the Archbishop Bartolucci, and have been tasked with the reading and summation of the writing that follows the ‘Great Rambling.’ But beyond this period, and in the year since the discovery of the letters, I have been fortunate enough to read the collection in its entirety. I even have, in my possession, a great number of transcriptions, which, in a moment, I will share with you. The letters were written by a man named Philippe Audiarde. In them, he described an event, precipitated by “a deep and terrible sneeze” (Letter 1, 2 years after freeze, denoted by ‘AF’) -- a sneeze so great, Father, that what would succeed it is unimaginable, unthinkable, and unbelievable. The world, he said, went silent. Philippe Audiarde, if the letters are to be believed, found himself in “a world without time” (Letter 1, 2 AF), where all around him had frozen. And, for the next 44, 519 years, Philippe Audiarde would compose 776 letters, or, at the very least, a total of 776 letters have survived his journey through non-time. I can understand, Father Bernard, if it is your natural inclination to declare this a bold-faced hoax. This reaction has been most fortunate for the Church. As the letters were discovered, and rumours circulated, the Church has promptly steered public opinion to just that--rumours. That being said, it is the official opinion of our group of Fathers, and by our holy extension, the Church, and the historians who have viewed the letters, and the men of science who have verified the age, that these letters are exactly as old, and as real, as they claim to be. However, there is a problem. The turmoil these letters are causing, in both our small group, and the Church at large, has been troubling. I myself know not what to make of it. If the letters are to be trusted, and again, I believe they are, what are we to believe about our world? What is the public to believe? How could the Church still remain the moral and metaphysical authority when it offers so little guidance in the face of this apparent phenomenon? It can’t, and it doesn’t, which is why I fear that should these letters be made public, the Church may crumble. And at the same time, I see wisdom and sincerity in the words. I see a man emerging from eternity to guide us home. So, I’m at an impasse, and I know not how to proceed. Which is why I am writing this letter to you, Father Bernard. I have always trusted your judgement, advice and council, and I need it now more than ever. I shall summarize the letters for you here, some in full, some in my own words, and should you deem them worthy for the world to see, so be it--I will release Philippe Audiarde to the world. These are the full facts, as I know them. Philippe Audiarde (of which, no formal record exists) was a French bricklayer who was born on a small farm outside of Paris in 1855. The terrible, time-stopping sneeze occurred over a coffee with his brother, Tomás (of which, again, no record exists). They owned a bricklaying company called the “Audiarde Brothers” (of which, I am sure you can surmise, no record exists) together in Paris, and were discussing payment from an outstanding client. He was, and would forever remain, thirty eight years old. Throughout his ostensibly infinite lifespan, he would be constantly “struck by the weirdness of it all” (Letter 612, 32,415 AF), the inconsistent nature of his world. Some of his bodily processes still progressed as if they were moving forward in time, like the growth of his hair or toenails, but he felt no hunger, or thirst, and didn’t require anything to run his bodily engine. It was, he was, outside of the laws of physics--a machine in perpetual motion, while everything around him was still. As such, he no longer ate, drank, or used the toilet, except in the rare--until he would stop altogether--times he would indulge in food or beverage. When he looked up to the sky, the moon and the stars and the sun hung motionless. “What heavenly strings hold them up, while I prance around earth, is a mystery as mighty as the universe’s great and enduring questions” (Letter 47, 410 AF). Philippe would go on, filling most of his early letters and sparing no detail, to write of the juvenile and craven acts he would perform during his first weeks and months alone. I will say that the sins committed were primarily sexual in nature, Father Bernard, but I’ll leave those barbaric details up to your imagination. Granted, this period was short--an infancy in the time of Philippe, but, should his word be released, I suspect Philippian detractors shall give great credence to this period, to point to it and say, “ah hah! There he is, Philippe The Damned.” But, it seems clear to me, that just as a rebellious child tests his new world, so did Philippe, pushing it to the limits of human depravity, until he knew not what to do with himself. “I tried to get it to start again today,” he writes, in his fourth letter, in the fourth year after the freeze. “Time, that is. I want out. I need out. I am going mad in this place. It is a purgatory. A hell, maybe. Thoughts of death often cross my mind and perhaps I am already dead. Already a soul wandering an afterlife. But how to start it again? Pepper lines my nostrils and I have sneezed a thousand different ways. I roar from the bottom of my guts, but still I am here alone.” For 34 years, Philippe would wander the world, looking for answers to his time-stuck questions, but the world, in its stillness, remained silent. Then, one day, he had an awakening, a movement of spirit. “I sit here in the Stuttgart Library, surrounded by once living vessels of knowledge, wondering: what does a man do with all this time? I’ve rowed the seven still seas, hiked windless deserts, explored the dark side of the earth, and laid low in the shadows of foreign lands. But looking around I realize that other lands lay at my fingertips. That the worlds created by man are near infinite. I have the unique chance to hear from them, speak to them across centuries, to open up their minds and explore what they want to show me. I’ve been granted an audience with all of mankind and I dare not waste it any longer” (Letter 5, 38 AF). What would follow--and I’ll be brief with my summation, Father Bernard, because this is not my area of expertise--was an “Age of Consumption,” during the years 38 AF to 1786 AF. Philippe, during this period of consumption, roamed the world’s libraries, consuming every text known to man, including literature, biographies, plays, and poetry. He learned multiple languages (and would begin to write his letters in English), produced his own works of fiction (which are breathtaking, I assure you), he transcribed history, memorized and reproduced philosophical texts word for word--if his letters are free of embellishment--studied ancient rhetoric, until he finally, after a long and arduous battle with the subjective arts, made his way to science. Objectivity, however, in a world like his, didn’t exist. The basic laws of physics weren’t congruent to the things he saw and experienced. Without that baseline to build a coherent understanding of his world, science was, at best, a doctrine from another land, and at worst, simple fairy tales that didn’t match up with his day to day knowledge. Take letter 334, dated 1786 AF, which began with the words, “I now know death” and tells of an experience he had, which science would not dare take up or explain (and when has science ever touched upon a terrible, time-stopping sneeze?). Philippe was in a small rowboat, on the English Channel, when he slipped, hit his head, and plunged into the murky depths. While he cannot recall the events that took place immediately after, what he does know is that he regained consciousness, without any serious injury, on a shoreline near Dieppe, France, his boat nowhere in sight. Let me be candid, Father Bernard--does this not sound like a man being guided by the hand of a God? After this event, one thing was clear to Philippe: it was the end of any illusions he had regarding the power of science to explain his world. “This event has reminded me, as I often forget, that I know nothing of where I am, who I am, or what I am. Only that I am trapped here with nothing but time ahead of me. I understand now that not even death can be my escape.” Philippe’s ostensible death would engender a period of great confusion. This era, as I had mentioned previously, Father Bernard, I call, “The Great Rambling,” though others are partial to calling it the “Philippian Dark Ages.” While it precedes my area of study, I believe it precipitates it. I will, first of all, grant you (and others) that this is a period of somewhat incoherent thought, the ravings, perhaps, of a madman, but there are glimmers of truth throughout this period of writing. For example, this section of letter 448, in 23, 418 AF: “Time. Time. Time. All I have is time and nothing else. An abundance of time. Man-made time. But what is time with no point to compare it to? Does it exist? I move forward but nothing else does. Is a point on a map a point if there is nothing but infinity in either direction? Where does it exist without context? Do I exist? Am I existence? Questions lead me nowhere because I am nowhere in time. I am the man from nowhere. No context. No place to go, no place to be. A whisper with no ears to hear me. Writing to no one. Writing to not-me, future-me, current-me, past-me. Who am I? Why was I chosen? Why am I here? Is it my goal, my purpose, to explore the far reaches of madness? To discover what one is capable of, when he has the time to build it, to achieve it? I have no wants, no goals, no far-fetched future to strive to. How can I achieve anything when there is no one to advance my achievements, no one to build upon them, no one to clap their hands at hard-fought sweat. What is man without another? A void. I am a void. I am a hiccup. I am an error of God, who forgot one of his lonely creatures in the crevices of time. Will he one day remember me? Will he one day pluck me from this place? Would he deem me worthy of the context of time? Or is that his goal? Am I here to learn, so that I can bring back my troubles to mankind? Lift them up from an opium of time, through a time-stuck seance, and give them the word of Philippe, all that I’ve learned, all that I know, for them and them alone. Am I conduit for God. Is this his purpose at work? Or am I systematic error of the universe? Is there a difference?” Tell me, Father Bernard, am I imagining it all? Or is there is an inkling here, a sparkle of something akin to a religious moment, where our dear Mr. Audiarde begins to understand his greater purpose. I read his words and see a dull blade being sharpened by time. He begins, like a wandering prophet, to understand his purpose. His eyes glaze over, and God speaks to him, through him. Is not God one and the same--a creature out of time? Take his statement, “Will he one day remember me? Will he one day pluck me from this place?” He understands his damnation, this purgatory of time-stuck cleansing, but still, he moves forward without any destination. Is he being tested, as many who have heard the word of God have been tested before? Are these the words of the Almighty, coming through our dear Mr. Audiarde? Have they found their way to me, so that I, Father McFerrin, could share them with the world? Am I, with my own humble beginnings, being called to be the messenger for God? Am I being tested? Perhaps this is the kernel of truth that I was looking for when I set out to write to you, Father Bernard. I did not see it until now, had not realized my own potential purpose in these machinations of God, but here we are. I can feel a spirit moving from within me, and I am now, as these words spill out onto the page, trembling with anticipation, but let us not stop here. Let us move on to perhaps his greatest work! The Treatise, dated 43,526 AF, was the 775th piece of writing penned by Philippe. In this work, his handwriting is slightly altered, as if it were written in haste, or as if a great wave of inspiration filled his spirit, and propelled his hand movements. It is on the longer side, at 98 pages, but not near the longest of the Philippian letters. It begins with a short story, a parable perhaps, titled “Do Geese See God?” about a young child who glimpses his own relative mortality while caring for a dying goose. In the final moments, the young protagonist sees his own reflection in the eyes of the goose, and he understands, for the first time in his short life, that all things must die. It is as if, Father Bernard, he is himself a god coveting the brief lives of us mere mortals, looking upon us from the heavenly altar of non-time, and creating his own fictional universe, where death is real and everywhere. While it is a moving experience for the reader, I believe its true audience is our dear Philippe himself, who is suffering from an eternity of stillness, yearning for mortality. With no end in sight, his only recourse is to instead warn us, which he does in the next section, the heart of the treatise. Here is one part, Father, in his own words. “My dear reader. You who are the legions of the unstuck. Those fortunate souls who are cursed with a short 70 to 90 years. To the universe you are nothing but a whisper in the wind. You will create nothing. You will be nothing. You glimpse life. You grasp out to take it and before you can grab hold, your fire is put out, never to see flame again. This ephemeral gasp at life is both your noble curse and your salvation. You’ll find reminders of your mortality appearing in all aspects of life, in every society, on every mountain and at the bottom of every bog. You’ll think about it on rainy days and dark nights, when you’re tucked into bed or when you look into your lover’s eyes. Unlike me, who is damned to exist outside of time, you are mortal and your time is short. Do with it as you like. I give you permission. I give you the freedom but with an offering of hope. There is more to this world than what you simply experience, more than you can fit into a day. Life is full of the wondrous and the strange and I am here, a prophet whispering from another land, to tell you not to fear it. Because none of this is real. What is real is beyond you, beyond all of this, and beyond me. I know not what to call it except Godliness, and it is everywhere.” I can still remember the first time I read these words, Father Bernard. I was, as I am now, overrun with emotion, taken back by their bluntness. At first, I tried to bury them beneath a lifetime of church-borne theology, where there were no more prophets, and no more words of God, but who am I to shun this man? Who am I to say that this isn’t the word of God speaking through Philippe Audiarde? Who am I to say this isn’t an act of self-sacrifice, to guide the world home? As you know, I am only a man of God. I have known nothing but a life of devotion and faith. I have dedicated my whole life to one text, only to discover another, as true and rich and improbable as any that came before it. But to be told, with such sincerity, the conviction of which could only be borne out of forty four thousand years alone in a purgatory, that there is something more than this life, something close to God, as I have always known, has cryalistized in my mind an act of truth. How could I, now that I know this, turn away from this man? Do I not have an oath to God, and not the Church? Isn’t that where my allegiance lies, Father Bernard? Isn’t that where yours lies, as well? Is it not my duty, as a servant of God’s will, to spread his word far and wide? And hasn’t Philippe suffered more than any prophet before him? He has lived an eternity, unanswered. Who would I be to not heed his words? To let the words of this man, my prophet, disappear with the wind. To come so close to Godliness, only to turn my back on it. I would be a coward, not deserving of the title of Father. I would be no man of God. I would be nothing. No one. But with this, it is an opportunity to show the spirit of God that resides within me, to become the bearer of Philippe’s words, which are holy and true, purified by an eternity of time, and spread them forth. And so, my answer has become clear and my purpose is all but done. With my help, acting as the messenger of a prophet, a new age will be upon us and it will be the Philippian age. And our good Church, if it is acting in the interest of God, and not its own motives, will recognize it for what it is: a new path forward, closer to His Holiness, with the venerable Philippe at its helm. I have only one question left, Father Bernard: Are you with me? Signed, Father McFerrin on the holy day of May 10th, 1894. |
Dennis Preen scowled as he got out of his Audi. The noxious blanket from the paper mill covered the town today, giving him a banger of a headache. The prickly summer heat didn’t help matters. He could feel his armpits seeping the second he emerged from the civilized comfort of the car’s air conditioning. He paused only to retrieve his briefcase from the trunk before stomping up the hill, shading his eyes from the cresting sun. He saw the old man’s bald red skull bobbing in time with an unheard melody through the sweat stinging his eyes and the fog on his glasses. “Mr. Karron, I presume?” The old man tossed another shovelful up on the excavated pile and laboriously pulled himself out of the grave. He stared at Preen warily, not extending a callused hand, but merely nodding. Preen took his hand back, gratefully. “I’m Dennis Preen, from Preen Casualty & Life. I spoke to your wife.” Karron spit. Preen pulled off his spectacles, wiped them with a handkerchief, wiped each eye, then put the cloth back in his coat pocket and the glasses back on his face. It did no good for his respectability; his remaining hair was wet and plastered to his scalp, giving him the look of a cornered defendant. “Do you think we could talk inside?” * * * Preen took the glass of lemonade gratefully, despite it being pink and tart and pulpy. Kulkarni and Grayson had arrived, easing his anxiety somewhat. Karron sat like a stone in the recliner, not blinking. Preen gulped and began. “Well, gentlemen, it’s good to be together at last.” Kulkarni looked down at his feet, Grayson looked at his watch, and Karron kept up his gargoyle act. “These are unprecedented times, gentlemen, unprecedented indeed.” No one spoke. Preen resumed. “You, Dr. Kulkarni, are in the business of saving lives. You, Dr. Grayson, are responsible for recording and looking into why lives were lost. And you, Mr. Karron, handle the mortal remains once lives have been lost. Me? Why, I simply manage the financial risk of a life being lost.” “It’s a small town, Preen. We all know each other. Get on with it,” Grayson grumbled. Preen pursed his lips. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. “Unprecedented times means unprecedented risk. Dr. Kulkarni, what’s your practice’s revenue look like year-over-year, without that government subsidy?” Kulkarni swallowed. “Down 54%.” “When the subsidy stops, how will you pay your medical school bills?” Kulkarni looked away. “Dr. Grayson, surely one man’s feast is another’s famine. How’s your caseload this year versus last?” “Up 230%.” “And from your impatience, may we presume the county isn’t augmenting your staff accordingly?” Grayson leaned forward, eyes blazing like the Ancient Mariner. “You’re damned right they aren’t! They keep saying there’s nobody to augment with. Every county’s in the same boat. ‘Just make do for now.’ I’m sixty-seven, for God’s sake!” “And Mr. Karron...”, Preen smiled gently, “Why was our town’s funeral director digging a grave by hand today?” “You know why,” Karron said, his voice guttural. “I do indeed. It’s because in a time when so many can no longer work, so few will work, isn’t that right?” Karron nodded ruefully. “As for me, life insurance payouts are up fourfold this year. Fourfold! Policy pricing hasn’t been able to keep up---'unprecedented events’---and so a 132-year-old insurance firm with the best reputation in the state is on the verge of financial collapse. It can’t go on, gentlemen, it mustn’t go on!” Grayson stood up. “What are you going to do about it, Denny? Another miracle cure? It’s been done!” Preen sighed. “I’m going to manage the risk, Doug. And help you do the same.” “Aww, hell, I can just retire. I don’t need this crap.” “Do you have enough to retire on, Doug? Crypto took a bath this year. You sold the boat. How long will the proceeds last you? I know the Coroner’s Office doesn’t pay in the big leagues, Doug, but three divorces in you need major league pay. Am I wrong?” Grayson sat down. “Financial ruin, gentlemen. We are all facing it, right now. Dr. Kulkarni has done the math; it’s why he’s here. I’ve shown you the equations for Dr. Grayson, it’s why he hasn’t left. As for Mr. Karron, it’s not about what he stands to lose, but what he stands to gain.” Karron’s eyebrow pitched. “What do you mean?” “What proportion of business have you had to turn away for the lack of a crematorium, Mr. Karron.” “A fair bit. But I don’t have the help anyway.” “If you had the equipment and the staff to man it, at present volumes what would the effect on your annual revenue be?” Karron rubbed his dirty jaw. “Well, I don’t know. Probably triple.” “Triple!” Preen smiled. “That’d pay for a front loader to dig some graves, wouldn’t it?” Karron ruminated. “This is America, gentlemen. The Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. What did our forefathers do when faced with unprecedented circumstances? Why, they rose to the occasion---they innovated . And so shall we.” Preen scanned their faces. He smiled. He had them. He had them! “Dr. Kulkarni, what does the federal government pay for each confirmed diagnosis in our present regrettable circumstance?” “$28,000.” “And if the diagnosis happened to be of influenza, how much would you get then?” “Well, just the normal Medicare/Medicaid or private insurance reimbursable rate of course.” “And in the case of a patient’s unfortunate demise, who confirms that they were, ahem, so fortunately afflicted?” Dr. Kulkarni pointed at Dr. Grayson. “Quite so,” Preen said. “Similarly, in the case of an unfortunate death with a favorable diagnosis, we insurance providers get a sizable offset, courtesy of dear old Uncle Sam and the American taxpayer, failing which, our industry would collapse under the weight of excess deaths.” Karron raised his hand. “Yes, Mr. Karron?” “Where do I fit in? It doesn’t matter to me what killed a man, so long as the body comes to me.” “Ahh, yes, Mr. Karron, that is so. But let me ask you this, prevailing upon your superior knowledge of corpse disposal methods: has anyone ever exhumed a pile of ash in order to verify cause of death?” Karron scoffed. “Of course not....” “Then you gentlemen get my point, and why Mr. Karron’s participation in this endeavor is so crucial. As for his reward, that sparkling new crematorium, we are going to fund it by sharing the proceeds from maximizing our eligibility for those federal funds I just spoke of.” Grayson shook his head. “So let me see if I follow: we’re going to fake the cause of death...” Preen held up an open palm. “...liberally diagnose in accordance with the uncertainty inherent in medical practice and the inaccuracy of testing methods....” “...and rake in a bunch of cash accordingly. Then what?” Preen smiled. “Then we share the wealth across the system, gentlemen. Equally.” Kulkarni frowned. “The math doesn’t add up. There isn’t going to be enough cash to spread to meaningfully address the financial burden to all of us, much less to pay for a crematorium. Not in a town of this size, anyway, and in a bigger area there’d be more folks to cut in. No way. It won’t work.” Preen leaned back in his chair. “Well, I’m sorry, gentlemen. You disappoint me. You’ve forgotten a very important player in this effort, one with deep pockets and a strong financial incentive to ensure that the excess corpses from excess deaths do not long remain on this mortal coil.” With a theatrical flourish, he produced his smartphone from his jacket pocket, pressed a button, and turned the screen to face them. Kulkarni gasped. “I know her! She’s on CNBC all the time. I can’t make it through a shift without one of her reps pushing something on me.” “Dr. Kulkarni,” the silky voice purred from thousands of miles away, “Can we count on your support?” The men in the know looked sheepishly at each other, each performing the cost/benefit analysis in his own way, to the tune of his own conscience, and each nodded solemnly in turn, as finally did Mr. Preen. And that, Dear Reader, is how the bone orchard received its bumper crop in the Year of Our Lord two thousand and twenty-one, one small town at a time, as Goethe himself warned us so many decades prior would be the case. |
Laurel doesn’t eat anything. This used to terrify me when we first started living together. Her dinners would consist of instant ramen and a single egg. Soft, small bowls of pasta with canned tomato sauce. Frozen ravioli. Peanut butter and jelly. These meals were put on repeat. I watched them, day after day, mildly appalled but still too shy to offer her my own cooking, feeling that any criticism of her diet would be presumptuous, and not wanting to make her uncomfortable in having to refuse anything she didn’t like. I didn’t really know what she liked yet. Over time, she began to have stomach problems. She had problems with eating food and with her appetite. Anxiety roared in my chest, I seethed with worry. I felt self-righteous and overwhelmingly protective. Immediately, I began to connive a plan. I would do what I could. I started cooking again, I finally started cooking. Weaponizing my concern, I was able to learn what she liked by asking her, bulldozing through my previous anxiety with this new, more powerful one. This illness (which is still unresolved, much to Laurel’s consternation and my red-hot fury) is what led to me cooking for everyone from time to time. And from time to time, the others cook too. This is how I discovered what they like. Laurel likes pasta and bread, potatoes and rice. She likes salted butter and scrambled eggs. She will eat meat, if it is presented to her in small pieces. When she is feeling sick, fruit is easiest for her to eat, and she has only recently started liking soup. She dislikes cake and likes pie. In ice cream, she likes caramel. In tea, she likes honey. The vegetables she will eat include peas and carrots and sometimes spinach, and corn and I can’t remember what else. She doesn’t eat pork. Sometimes, when she is feeling ill, she finds it easier to eat if she doesn’t prepare the food herself. Amy came next. She is Vietnamese and American and so she eats like any non-American does. In other words, she eats wonderfully. Her parents (by which she means, and so I mean, her Mom and her Aunt) collectively provide for her. Her aunt cooks for her, having a long history of cooking, and her Mom drives food down for her every other weekend. Tupperwares filled with brilliant red, creamy chicken curry, with potatoes that starch up wonderfully, soaking up the broth. Caramelized pork that we eat with bananas and rice and soy sauce. Chicken and green beans and long, thin noodles with tiny quail eggs and quivering curls of pink shrimp. There is often fruit too, a grocery bag heavy with a dozen plums, or a package of lychee, artfully demure and royal red. I used to be unspeakably jealous of this display of riches. What struck me most was the orange juice. Her parents would, sometimes, provide her with a plastic water bottle filled with freshly squeezed orange juice. The pulp would separate from the liquid as it sat in the fridge, a brilliant, bouncing orange on the bottom, languorous and half-clear on top. The first time they brought it, a well of emotion rose inside of me. I almost cried. They would have had to juice oranges, probably four or five or maybe more, because oranges don’t actually have that much juice. They'd have had to save a water bottle, keep it for this purpose. They’d have had to use a little cup, or a spout, to pour the juice into the water bottle. They would have had to clean up the pulp and the rinds and the bits of spattered juice. Then drive with it for two hours. For their daughter to have a bottle of fresh orange juice. Growing up, I was the one who cooked for, and not the one who was cooked for. I thought I had let bygones be bygones, but when I saw that orange juice, I realized that I had not. Even now, as I write about that orange juice, I grow a little sad. But I am proud to say I am no longer nearly as jealous of Amy as I once was. Envy being one of my most prevalent vices, I would call this a remarkable accomplishment. It is no small feat for someone who has always adored food to not be jealous of a friend provided with copious amounts of skilled cooking on a biweekly basis. It also helps that Amy shares, easily and graciously. But I am steering us too much in my direction. Amy likes salty foods. Her snack of choice is a little metallic pack of dried seaweed; she likes shrimp chips and crackers, olives and fries. She likes large amounts of garlic, and sweet and salty things, like chocolate covered pretzels. She drinks coffee, but only sometimes. She would like to know more about tea, and drinks it whenever it is offered. While she is sustained by the tupperwares of her aunt’s cooking, she loves being at home and eating it fresh off the pan, or out of the pot, or from the oven. I cannot think of anything she will not eat. That doesn’t mean that she eats everything, but it does mean that she eats most things. This is a trait I find most congenial in a friend. Some of Amy’s friends are also Vietnamese and American. They also eat wonderfully, and it is nice having them around when there is food involved. Audrey was the last arrival in our apartment. I knew Laurel’s taste first, and then I met Amy’s, and finally I met hers. My taste bears some similarity to all of theirs, in various ways, but I think Audrey’s is the closest to mine. This is because she cooks, and cooked before coming to live with us (Laurel cooks too, but she started after). There is a special place in my heart for people who cook. One of the first things Audrey made for us was a chicken chili, with beans and green peppers and sour cream. It was thick with flavor, rich with cream, substantial, skilled, and delicious. I was touched, and it is difficult to explain why. On the surface level, she had made dinner after we had all agreed to take turns making dinner. She was simply fulfilling this quota. But below the waters, my heart stirred. Laurel’s cooking, tentative and new, that was fulfilling the quota. Audrey’s cooking had heart, history, and interest. Growing up, no one had ever cooked for me in this way. It is the same way I cook. Audrey is allergic to nuts. She likes her tea plain, like cheese pizza, with no toppings (hold the milk and sugar). Her favorite foods are lasagna and chicken pot pie. She taught me to like spam. When she shops at Trader Joes, she buys the coconut macarons, and eats them two or three at a time. She makes sandwiches for lunch, grilled cheeses with American and ham, or toasted bread with turkey and lettuce and tomato and mayo. She makes these sandwiches for me, sometimes. I have always held packaged, sliced bread under heavy disdain, because the European in me does not trust bread with distant expiration dates. But I like her sandwiches, questionable preservatives and all. When I cook for my roommates, I plate the food before putting it on the table. To a casual observer, it may simply look as though I am putting equal amounts of food into four bowls and setting them in front of each person’s seat without discernment. But I will let you in on a secret, since you have graduated to not-so-casual observer. You can’t split a meal perfectly into four parts. So the bowl in which there are a few extra chunks of chicken - I’ll set that in front of the person who has an exam tomorrow, who’s going out later tonight, who had the most classes that day. The bowl into which a few more green beans happen to slip in won’t go to Laurel, she doesn’t like green beans that much. The sandwich that’s a little crispier, that’ll go to Amy. I couldn’t tell you why. The prettiest looking plate usually goes to Audrey, because she gives me compliments on my cooking the most reliably, and flattery will get you everywhere. Of course, I’m not a saint, sometimes I take the biggest portion for myself because I made it and I’m hungry, goddammit. But I do what I can. I’m wrong sometimes. Even now, I’m still trying to puzzle out what they like. |
It was a warm and breezy summer day. I just stood there and soaked in the sun for a minute. The nursing home I was at had a beautiful outside garden. My sister seemed to really like it out here. I made sure to find one of the best places when it became apparent she couldn’t take care of herself alone anymore. She still insisted she could even at 90, but I was the type of big brother who was always a little overprotective even though she may not have needed me to be. I started pushing her wheelchair again when she asked “What are you staring at?” “Oh sorry” I said with a smile. “Just lost my train of thought.” Which was mostly true. Over the years I’ve learned that the older you get, the quicker time passes. So I’ve been making it a point to sit and take in moments I wanted to remember. And I wanted to remember this beautiful day that I got to spend with my sister. It could be one of our last and I didnt want to forget her. You see when I was about 23 I found immortality. I’m not entirely sure of the limits of my immorality but in appearance I haven’t aged a day since then. I’ve watched both of my parents succumb to the old man with the hourglass, and almost every one of my friends too. My sister was just about all I had left. So I made sure to spend a lot of my free time with her. Its always hilarious when people see us interact. I watch them go by thinking I was her son, or grandson now I suppose. Their faces are always surprised when she hits me or we start bickering like siblings. I’m glad some things never change. We arrived at her favorite spot. A place where we could see most of the garden and specifically not the road. For some reason she hated watching the cars pass by. Honestly I didn’t like watching the road either. Too much has changed since we were kids. And the vehicles that passed by were living evidence of that. So we preferred to focus on the greenery and the flowers. Nature seemed to be ageless. I parked my sister next to the bench we always sit at and sat down. The moment I did she immediately tried to stand up from her wheelchair. Normally I’d protest but I’ve learned over the many years no matter how much I may object, she will always do what she wants. I watched her quietly concerned as she made her way from the wheelchair over to the spot next to me on the bench. I held out a hand to help her sit down. She accepted it though it seemed reluctant. “Beautiful day” I said looking around. The sky was littered with enough clouds to give you occasional shade with no hint of rain. “Brother?” I heard my sister ask “Yeah what's up?” I responded still looking at the sky “What are you gonna do when I’m gone.” She asked gravely. Which was not usually like her. Despite her age, she's always been a bright person. The question caught me off guard. We usually kept conversation light and just enjoyed moments like these together or rewatching our old favorite shows, or new episodes of new shows we picked up. Once in a while I dragged in an ancient analog TV and I would watch her play skyrim on a game system I had miraculously found about 10 years ago in almost perfect condition. But she just caught me off guard. She had a knack for doing that. Stupid siblings. “Raid your room for valuables and sell them for drugs.” I said with a straight face. She looked at me unamused. I met her eyes and smiled. I know she wanted a real answer but I didn't want to think about it. Mainly because I hadn't thought about it yet. I was afraid to. I broke eye contact first and looked down at my feet. “Honestly I don’t know.” I told her in a quieter voice. “Can’t we just enjoy the day?” I asked in a brighter tone. She didn’t seem satisfied but she didn't pursue the issue. “You should make some new friends. How long has it been since you’ve had a regular friend?” She asked after a while “Hah!” I responded. The surprise at the question was real. “I hadn’t thought about making friends for a while.” “Theres a lot of cute girls that come visit their grandparents. You should talk to them. I could ask around for when they’re coming to visit.” She was teasing me but I know she be excited if I took up her offer. “Its not like I’m not here most days already.” I shot back. She chuckled. It was good to hear. After a moment she turned her head to me. I met her gaze again. “Please... make new friends.” she asked. It almost sounded like she was begging. I felt dread settle over me in a cold wave. It was clear she was concerned for me after she was gone. I held her gaze. “I will. I promise. But for now, let just enjoy the rest of the day.” I asked her, hoping to placate her. She nodded. Seemingly reluctant but the conversation was over. And we went back to enjoying the weather and the view. |
Patient Z had been diagnosed with schizophrenia accompanied by paranoid delusions. What made him unusual was that his delusions seemed to be contagious. Several other mental health professionals had come to share some aspects of the patient's psychosis after interacting with him. To avoid preconceptions I had only studied observations of his behavior, rather than diagnostic sessions. When the orderlies brought him into my office, they allowed him to enter by sliding with his back along the walls. We had placed his chair against the wall and positioned my desk facing his chair. Once seated, he seemed calm and rational, though his eyes indicated a lack of sleep. "Good morning, Mr. Z. How are you today?" "As usual, doctor. And you?" "I'm fine." I looked down at my notes. "Do you know why I'm here?" "You want to ask me questions. To find out what's wrong with me." He looked at me. He was able to make eye contact but not sustain it, his gaze frequently flicking up and over my head or shoulder. I made a note. "You either won't believe my answers, or wish you didn't." "I'm prepared to listen to you with an open mind, Mr. Z." He stared at me for a long moment. "I'll tell you what you want to know. Why not? Don't say I didn't warn you." "Would you like to tell me what's going on in your own words?" He looked over my shoulder organising his thoughts. The he looked down and met my gaze. "Have you ever heard of P.T.?" "Do you mean 'physical therapy?'" "In this case, 'P.T.' stands for 'playable teaser.' It was a demo released by Konami for an upcoming video game in 2014. It was wildly popular but was withdrawn from circulation some six months later." I made a note. "If it was so popular, why did Konami withdraw it?" "The official reason was that the game's creator, Hideo Kojima, had a falling out with Konami." "That's not the real reason?" Z paused for a long minute. "Point of no return, doctor. Do you really want to know?" "Of course, Mr. Z." "OK. It's on your head." I waited for him to continue. "What you have to understand, doctor, is that playing this demo is profoundly disturbing. As you play you are stalked by a ghost or creature named 'Lisa.' Data miners discovered that Lisa is always behind you, though you can't see her. Eventually you get hints that she's following you around. Shadows and noises, sound effects ..." He trailed off, staring upward with haunted eyes. "Mr. Z?" He seemed to recover his composure. "Sorry doctor. Anyway, the lucky players, the smart players ... stopped playing. The others ..." Again, I waited. "The unlucky players found that their perceptions had been ... heightened. They began to see things. In reality. Things children sometimes see but stop seeing as they age. Do remember seeing the boogeyman as a child, doctor?" A shadow seemed to fall over him. It's not beneficial to engage patients in their delusions, but he had struck a chord. "Yes. It had empty eye sockets and ..." "Purple hair. It is a creature of unspeakable horror." He swallowed, and again he looked over my head. "It's standing right behind you, doctor." I felt a chill down my back, and the hair stood up on my neck. I carefully rolled my chair to the wall behind me, all the while dreading that I would bump into the thing behind me. Never to be safe again. |
**THE START** As I sit here in Dayroom discussing this new project, I start reflecting on how this journey all began and what led me to where I am today. I was born and raised in Los Angeles and come from a very large family. I had many positive people in my life, but negative as well. My mother and father never married, and I'm their oldest son. Although my father had a history with gangs, drugs had more of an influence on his life. Regardless, he was a very hardworking man and always put a roof over our head and food on the table. He never once influenced me to be in a gang or do drugs, actually it's quite the opposite - he tried to steer me away from that lifestyle, but seeing that him and everyone else in my surroundings were involved with those things, it was hard to stay away from it. It was kind of hypocritical of my father to tell me what to do, when he was directly doing them himself. As for my mother, I have very few positive memories of her. Unfortunately, her life was harder and worse than my fathers. She did not have custody of her children, and I stopped living with her when I was about 5 or 6 years old. One of my earliest memories was saving her life when I was 5. I had to use the bathroom and pried the door open to her laying naked in the tub, overdosing on heroin. Fortunately, my aunt was living upstairs and we were able to call the paramedics. She was in a coma for months and when she woke up she had to relearn how to function as an adult - she was never the same after that incident. My mother was in and out of prison for most of her life and turned to prostitution to support her bad drug habit. In 1998, she was murdered in downtown Los Angeles and in 1995 my father also ended up dead behind drugs. So this is the base of what my life has been like for most of my life. There were many obstacles growing up, but I don't blame anyone for the choices that I have made which have led me to where I am at today, and now I sit here in a level 4 maximum security prison in the state of California. I've been incarcerated going on 23 years; serving 80 years to life for a first degree murder. I fought my case in Los Angeles County jail and ended up in Pelican Bay State Prison in 2002 until 2009. I then transferred to Corcoran for 9 months until I got caught up and ended up in the hole. I was validated as an associate to a prison gang, which meant during that time you get put into solitary confinement indefinitely. At the end of 2009 I went from the hole in Corcoran to the SHU in Pelican Bay State Prison where I was in solitary confinement for 7 years. I was finally able to have the indefinite solitary confinement overturned and released to the mainline; general population. From Pelican Bay I went to Salinas Valley State Prison for exactly 367 days, but I ended up getting caught up again and was put in the hole for close to a year before being sent to Kern Valley State Prison in 2017 where I currently stay. During these 23 years I have seen so many changes. Good and bad, as within myself. |
Regret Vera looked at me. School was just out and we had agreed to go to her house after school. Our English teacher had given us an assignment: write a two-page story about a strong feeling you've had this school year. Both her and I had a hard time coming up with a topic, so we had agreed to sit together and write our stories. “Let’s go!”, Vera said. When we came out of the school building, the sun was shining. For the last couple of days or so, it had already been cold outside, autumn was clearly coming. But today, it was bright outside and pretty warm. We started walking towards Vera’s house. She lives half an hour away from school, outside our village. We walked past the lake. There were tiny waves on the lake that made the sunlight dance in a million miniature suns. There was the small beach and the jetty where we had spent so many days during the summer. “I want to sit on the jetty”, Vera said. That was a great idea. I was feeling quite hot already, and we would have our feet in the water while discussing what we would write about. We sat down and took off our shoes. “Cooolllld...!”, I yelled when I dipped my toes. Vera laughed. After a while, it just felt good. We talked about many things, but English class wasn’t one of them. The sun was still shining. A woman with two children had arrived at the little beach at the far end of the jetty. The children started to play on the beach, and I heard their mother raise her voice and say “stay in the shade!”. A couple in their 30s had laid down on the other side of the jetty and were tanning. The man had taken off his shirt, and the woman was wearing a bikini, or? no, she was actually just in her underwear. This day had surprised everyone with it’s summeriness. “Let’s take a swim!”, Vera suddenly said. “Ha ha, yes, let’s!” I said, thinking she was joking. “I’m serious!” “But...” “Yes, we don’t have our bathing suits. But, noone will see us or even care! We just jump in quickly!” “OK, but...” “Yes!”, she exclaimed, “I knew you were up for it!” And before I could say anything else, she started unbuttoning her jeans. I fumbled a bit with my dress. Vera was already pulling her jeans off her legs with great force. Her wet feet were sticking to the inside. I was touching some of the buttons on my dress. “It’s going to to feel so wonderful in this heat!” Vera said while folding up her jeans. She put them down neatly next to her shoes and socks. I looked at the mother and her children. They were digging a hole and filling it with water from the lake. “Not in the sun!” the mother shouted. I looked at the tanning couple. They were on their backs with their eyes closed and softly talking with each other. What if someone else came? I was clenching the buttons of my dress. Vera had taken off her top and was undoing her bra. I stared at her. “I am going to go in, what are you waiting for?” she laughed. Vera now stood on the edge, with her back towards me, her arms stretched upwards. She was breathing in and out deeply, preparing for the cold rush that would come when she would enter the water. I saw the freckles that started in her neck and went down all the way towards her lower back. The pattern looked beautifully symmetrical. Her skin was browned by many days of sun. She had no tanlines to speak of. I could see the fine detailed imprint that the underwear she had just worn had left on her body. It somehow reminded me of the emperor’s new clothes. She looked back at me. “The last one in is a rotten herring!”, she yelled, lifted up her arms and dove in the water. She made a perfect curve. Her feet were slightly apart when they disappeared into the water. A few seconds later she came back up. She swam back to where I was sitting and looked up at me. “Are you not coming?” she asked, using her normal voice. “That’s okay”, some seconds later. She swam away. I watched her moving in the water. The sunlight was still dancing on the waves, although now the pattern was different, from this close to the water. I closed my eyes and could almost feel how being in the cold water must feel for Vera, how the rush of just jumping in and not worrying about anything must feel for her. Vera swam to the wooden platform with the jumping tower that was floating in the water a small distance away, where the water was deeper. She climbed onto the platform and then to the top of the tower. “Geronimo!” she shouted when she let herself fall down all the way into the water. I watched. I saw the tanning couple were sitting up and were looking at Vera too, with smiles on their faces. I was still holding a part of my dress in one hand when Vera came back and climbed the steps back on to the jetty. She sat down next to me and brushed the water off her body with her hands. “The water was lovely!” she said. This time only to inform me, the tone of voice she had used earlier to try to convince me was gone. My window of opportunity was gone too. “Let me just dry up in the sun and then we go home, okay?” When we arrived at Vera’s house, her mother was wondering where we had been. She saw Vera’s wet hair and laughed, “okay, I thought so!”. She made lemonade for us and served cookies. We didn’t really make much progress with the story writing. When dinner time came, I said I had to go home and went outside. I started walking back to the village. It had become cloudy and it was a bit chilly in the air. I pulled my jacket out of my bag and put it on. When I walked by the lake, the water looked grey and uninviting. Summer was definitely over. |
As the sun set lower in the sky he adjusted the brim of his ballcap against it. The brim already soaked through with sweat, even though the game was barely half over. The day had been hot, and tiring, and the lasting heat was magnified by the sea of asphalt that surrounded the ballfield. The parks and diamonds and courts at the north end of town wouldn't have this issue. There are tall elms, oaks and pines, and expanses of grass, in lieu of the heat reservoirs of the pavement. There would be a working water fountain as well and the dugout was probably nicer in all likelihood. And who knows, maybe even some grass in the outfield? Not here though, no room in the budget, barely enough in there to chalk the foul lines. The early evening glare from the slowly sinking ball of fire hampered Bobby greatly as he peered in towards home. Whomever built the field had the diamond facing East- ish so that the batter doesn’t have to face into the sun at setting time. That, however, lines up the Right Fielder directly facing into the sun. No wonder the pros have those ridiculous flip down shades. “They look silly, doncha think?” Bobby had once been asked. Oh sure, the other team supposed he wasn’t all that great because he’s out in right, it IS where they put the weak links after all. Little did they know that he used to play college ball for a serious DII program. None of his new teammates knew that either though, in a cruel twist of irony. And so they planned on just lofting it into the sun and then start runnin’ like hell . Usually, the plan resulted in a surefire hit every time. So all in all, not a great place to be. Not terrible mind you, it was a game he was playing after all, it’s just he preferred to play Left Field, is all. Bobby was the new guy on the team, they had been a man down and his coworker reached out to see how he was occupying his evenings. He had demurred at first, white-lying about all the hobbies, house projects, and friends he had to deal with. But, the truth of the matter was, it was a nice way to preclude the thoughts of Beth from entering his brain. Or so he had hoped. It had been 19 days since she moved out. June the 12th was the day she split. For good this time, he knew in his heart of hearts. And it had felt like a punch in his gut of guts. He hadn’t meant to stray, and hadn’t actually done anything. It was just that waitress slipped that little scrap of torn receipt paper with her number, AND a number of hearts, into his pocket and gave him a peck on the cheek. Surely that wasn’t enough to justify Beth’s running off with her boss, maybe she was just looking for an out? The smudge of the cocktail server’s makeup on his work shirt collar, and perhaps a whiff of her perfume was all Beth needed pack her bags and allow her twelve-years-senior boss to put her up in his condo across town. “At least, with that zip code there would be no danger of running into her accidentally.” Bobby had remembered thinking at the time. Clang! And the sound of the other team whooping and his teammates yelling direction filled the air. He was snapped back to reality by the sound of the aluminum bat striking the neon green orb that flew past him in the dusty outfield. As the lighting at some of these fields were suspect, the makers of the recreational product on display made the softballs HiVis Green. And Bobby now watched that ball streak past him, reminding him of tracer munitions cutting through Afghani twilight. That brightly colored ball, bouncing now all the way to the fence. One run had scored from his inattention. And now runners on second and third. He got the ball back to the cutoff man and resolved to keep his head in the game. “Focus dammit !” He scolded himself. This all was further proof that he had let Beth too close. She was the first he had let into his heart. And it felt as if she would be the last, as well. She had always held unnatural sway over him. Bobby watched the next hitter loft a popout to the right side of the infield. Pleased that he didn’t have to battle the sun for that one, Bobby scoffed to himself. “Ball diamonds should point East Northeast, huh? Obviously nobody asked the Right Fielder!” One man down. Another Clang! rang out in the early summer evening. And again the sound of cheers from the other team. A slugger, left-handed this time, had just knocked in the two runs that Bobby had allowed into scoring position with a drive that bounced once and cleared the fence. The now-runner had mishit it slightly but the low fences around the outfield made the line drive’s hop an easy double. That is a danger of Fast Pitch Softball; the speed of the incoming pitch can make it even harder to keep it in the park. Especially with these new CAD designed aluminum bats... Those bats could really “wallop.” That’s how Willy would’ve put it, not that he had approved of computer aided anything. “ Poor ol’ Willy... ” And just like that, Bobby found himself wandering through his thoughts again. Clang! And the hapless Right Fielder was again caught dreaming. This time though, his nearest outfield compatriot had been noticing his inattention and had come to his aid. The team’s aid in all reality. As the ball was lofted into the sun’s glare the Right-Center Fielder got on his horse , and took off on a beeline to the shallow part of the outfield that had been left unguarded by Bobby’s daydream. With a dive, a catch, and a roll, he tossed the ball to the second basemen and dusted himself off with a chuckle. Two men out. “You ain’t in the Beer Leagues there buddy. Get your head in the game!” Said the athletic young man, as he jogged back to his position, shaded slightly his way now. Bobby remembered being that brave once. Before he was sent to “The Sandbox” . The remnants of that sordid experience still clung to him during those hot, sleepless nights. Without her now. Those restless humid nights where she would come to his aid in the moonlight, awakened by his frightened tossing and turning. Holding him tight once he released himself from the nightmare. Comforting him as the faintest of breezes gently rustled the drapes. Now comforting somebody else, leaving him to face his demons alone. “Yes Sir. Cap’n, Sir.” Said Bobby, just a tad too quickly. It couldn’t be helped, it was the training, in there too deep. His subordinate tongue was in there deep too, a remnant from a childhood of questioning authority. Quit with that sass, boy! Bobby had let the self discipline of his tongue slip also, in addition to the long jogs that had been his daily habit. But then, she had been responsible for that too, hadn’t she? From all he could recollect, the early runs had gotten less and less frequent at her behest. Not that she wanted him out of shape, but knowing that a comfortable man is less likely to stray she worked on him subtlety. And in the mornings when he used to run laps of his neighborhood to try to escape the demons of his deployment, she would instead curl her nude body around his as he made to rise and pull him into a supine position for exercise of a different nature. All that was gone now. Just the memory of her to haunt his night-tortured soul, drenched in the sweat of his terrors. Nobody to hear the groans... No one to hear his sobs. Clang! Again the sudden noise brought Bobby back to the present. It was fortunate that the ball was hit towards him with a good amount of loft. Looking up, he could see that all he had to do to end the inning was to sprint to the spot that the wall would land. This , he knew how to do. That spot happened to be just at the base of the fence in deep Right Center, well over his neighboring outfielder’s head. He had practiced this very action so frequently in his youth the muscle memory just took over. He felt the familiar burn of his muscles exerting their power and relished the hint of strength hiding just beneath the surface of rust and inattention. Before the nightmares robbed him of his sleep, sanity, and motivation to do anything at all. He made the catch and flipped the ball to the umpire as he jogged past him in to the first base dugout. Always act as if you’ve been there before, son. Slightly winded from his busy half-inning he paused for a sip of something blue from the water jug before sitting at the end of the bench for a minute. He nodded slightly as his team said “Nice catch” and “Good work,” their enthusiasm slightly dampened by his previous gaffes. In his estimation, it was just a routine catch. Ever since he started playing ball, he had always been good at tracking the ball’s flight path off of the bat. He had spent so many hours as a youth chasing popups at Willy’s farm. There was a cobbled together baseball launcher that would simulate a specific flight dynamic, that the older man would deploy often. That machine, along with his meticulous positioning of Bobby in the dooryard during their drills, earned Bobby all that youthful notoriety. That fielding machine was Barnyard Mechanics at its finest. To start with he had just raided his parts pile, around the corner of the barn tucked under the eaves where it wouldn’t get rained on or covered in ice during the winter. In that pile he found an old bedframe that probably belonged to his wife’s mother or aunt or somebody. He utilized it for the tripod legs the contraption sat upon. Then he fashioned a cup from a coffee can and tack-welded it to a plate mounted on a swingarm attached to a pulley from a closeline. Next, Willy had taken the spring off the milkhouse door and used it to actuate the arm, his rationale being that anybody with good sense knew enough to close ANY door you walk through. A rope and a pin would work to trigger the whole situation. Yessir, the years of living in that old farmhouse had certainly taught unconventional engineering, among countless other skills, some pertinent, some not. Willy was his uncle’s neighbor, and by that designation he was either an Uncle or a Neighbor to Bobby, and with the title, all rights and obligations transferred in kind. As was natural for those parts in that bygone era, he took the matter seriously. Either role was of the greatest import to the raising of a boy in to a young man. Of course your neighbor would look out for you like an uncle, and of course your uncle lived out back, or around the corner. It was just the nature of things out in the sticks. All that was before Willy’s moods changed. Not sure what is was exactly, maybe it was pain finding purchase, maybe it was Reaganomics, or maybe it was NAFTA. But whatever it was, it hit Willy hard. Harder than most, and that was sayin’ somethin’! Suddenly cheers erupted around him, and he glanced up from his thoughts. The commotion allowed for the briefest of respites to gather himself for the moment at hand. As the 6th and 7th hitters in the lineup had done their work and became ducks on the pond, Bobby was up next. First though, he needed to find a bat that would fit his short torso and long arms. His legs were long as well, but that just made for a slow first step and nothing more. It wasn’t like it was the ninth inning or anything, but Bobby felt the pressure anyway. The pressure to perform. It was a strangely familiar feeling for one he hadn't felt in years. He remembered it clearly of course, but that was in college, the early part of it as well! But in this new town, this new team, these strangers, on this shabby field, he felt like he was trying out all over again. And in a sense he was, even in this little podunk league on the poor side of town. He felt he had to perform. He must succeed, for the team, for himself, for the memories of Beth... He just had to... And so he waited for his pitch. And when it came he made sure he did not miss. With a flash he leveled his club and made use of his naturally gifted quick wrists. It was funny that even now, even with the rust, all that natural talent was revealed in his bat speed. And with the pitcher smug at the point of release, he felt everything slow down. The large neon greeny-yellow ball now looked like the size of a beach ball. Luckily the flight characteristic of the softball remained as he met the path of the ball with the path of the bat and made the one leap out of the park. It was a rocket, from the crypt. From the vault of his past. He felt his spirits soar with the flight of that ball. All the turbulence of the past 7 months flew along with the otherworldly colored sphere rapidly shrinking into the distance. As he rounded third and headed back to the bench by way of Home Plate, he remembered that day when the State Championship was won by his bat, legs and glove. And as a sophomore no less! He remembered his teammates hoisting him and mobbing him in the field after “That Catch”, really just another of his routine flies to end the game. And he remembered seeing Willy in the stands grinnin’ like a fool. Reveling in HIS victory, and by his participation making it all that much sweeter. That memory along with the ice cream with the team afterwards. And then, his first sip of beer. Allowed as the season was over and the summer was just beginning and both needed saluting. Sitting with Willy under the eaves of his garage in a couple of shabby lawn chairs, hiding from the sun, finally feeling like a peer instead of a ward. Sipping milk from the teat of life . But all that was before the hospital. Before the Ol’ Man withered away to nothing. The now-ward, the former guardian, wore a weary look. This man a pallorous fraction of his past sum, once virile and strong, now just a frail echo of his younger self. Bobby had only seen him the once after he was admitted. Once was all he was allowed. It had broken Bobby when he got the letter, early into his stint, that Willy had passed. When the time had come, he had just given a squeeze to Beth’s comforting hand and closed his eyes and left. She relayed that his breath had gotten fainter and fainter until it had just stopped altogether. He had always resented her for that, even though he would have hated seeing Willy fade away into his grave. He would rather remember shaggin’ flies with his old friend, their ages four decades separated. He thought of that man now as he settled back into the dugout, in this moment of mediocrity, the bottom of the order in the bottom of the fifth. Willy’s words spoken in his mind as though the man were still live. “Well kid,” Willy would have doubtless said, “ya win some, ya lose some.” Bobby wiped a tear from his eye surreptitiously and glanced around to see if anybody had noticed. Nobody had. The game had moved on and again Bobby was just left at the end of the bench with his thoughts and a tie game. As if it didn’t even matter if he was here or not today. Maybe he should have just stayed in bed? "Ain't that the truth Pops!" |
When he was born, the first thing he did was scream. But, unlike other babies, he stopped as soon as the scream reached his ear. Doctors and nurses quickly came and checked on him, flashing their instruments, probing him with their green-gloved hands, directing blinding beams of light at him. But all that did not make him scream. It was all the sound, filling the room, reaching every corner and covering every surface. The humming and buzzing of the machines, the quick footsteps on the floor, the agitated chatter and the little screams of preoccupation. He started to scream again, adding even more sound to the cacophony, making him scream even louder. That day, he started his quest for silence. He grew up in a big city, the streets filled with old cars, new cars, people shouting, trucks crashing, music pouring out of every shop and house. He grew up to be a calm and silent boy, always seeking the quietest corner of the small apartment. But he could not find it, so he told his parents he wanted to move away, to some quiet place. The following week, they left the city and moved to a farm. Silence at last! No cars could be heard driving, no people shouting. But after a few days, the farm became too loud, too crowded for him. The hammering engine of the tractor, the hoofclaps of the horses, the infernal mooing of the cows, the savage rushing of the wind. So he decided to seek the silence, wherever it could have hidden. He studied, became a successful businessman and spent all his money on the science of sound and silence. Finally he learned that only up there in the cold space there was no sound, that sound needed air. Everything he had he invested in a journey to the stars, closer to the absolute silence. And finally he went to to the stars. And when he left the shuttle in his spacesuit, total silence surrounded him. He was truly happy, until he became aware of his own heartbeat, of the blood rushing in his ears, the million small sounds of a living body. He wept, having lost the silence, beat at his suit, his heart, his body, commanding himself in vain to be quiet. In blind despair he finally ripped away his helmet, releasing the air inside and letting in the perfect silence, the total nothing and with it, finally, pure joy. A moment later, only the silence remained. |
When I was eighteen, I moved out of my parents’ place and into this big beat up house in the city with four of my best friends. The house was massive, which was awesome, but it was also located in literally the worst area imaginable. Just like the single most dangerous part of the city. So, with that in mind, I figured maybe I’d tell you a quick little funny story about something that happened to me while I was living at this house with my buddies. And I’ll try my best to keep it short. Okay. So, again, I was eighteen. However, the friends I moved in with were all a year or two older than me. Therefore, sometimes they’d travel across the nearby border to Canada where you could drink at 19. And I did have a fake ID, but I still only looked about eleven, so I’d usually just hang back. And I’d simply hope that they’d return with, ya know, like some bitches or whatever. So, one Friday night, I got home at like 1am or so. My roommates were all in Canada. I figured I’d just chill and get blazed out while waiting for them to return. I started smoking weed and practicing my Mario Kart skills for a while. Now it was probably just shy of 2am. It was springtime out, first warm night we’d had in a while. I already had all the windows open. I decided to head out onto my front porch to smoke a cigarette. And that’s when the second most frightening thing to ever happen to me while I l lived at this house occurred. I stepped onto my front porch. I lit my cigarette. And I turned to sit down on the chairs we had out there. BUT...there was a dude. A scary dude. Just sitting there. A scary dude just sitting there on my porch. A big, very intimidating, bouncer at a nightclub looking, scary dude, just sitting there, on my porch. Now, if it’s not clear, I had no fucking clue who this scary dude was. He really was just a random guy sitting on my porch in the worst part of the city at two o’clock in the morning. And, keep in mind, I was home alone...and now high as fuck. So, ya know, I was kinda frightened. I figured he might rob me. Or hurt me. Or...worse. But I tried to hide my panic. And I just said... “Hey. What’s uhh what’s up, buddy?” “Hey man, sorry,” he responded. “I just really needed to sit down for a second.” I was like, “Oh... ... ...alright.” He was like, “Smells like you’ve been smoking something good inside.” “Maybe...” I replied cautiously. He just laughed. And then he pulled out a joint. So, I don’t remember much about what transpired over the next hour or so. But I know that when my friends finally got back from Canada; they found me and scary dude sitting inside, fucking with some Mario Kart together. I recall my one drunken buddy shouting, “Who the fuck is this guy?!” And me just being like, “Don’t worry about it; he’s cool.” So scary dude stuck around for another hour or so, but then he left. And then I told my friends about how I’d met him on our front porch earlier that night. And they all, naturally, flipped the fuck out on me. Like, Ian, why are you letting random dudes into our house?!? He’s gonna come back and rob us!! Or hurt us!!! Or...worse!!! And, like, I had to admit they had some good points. Probably shouldn’t be letting random scary dudes inside. So, for the next few weeks, my friends were all pissed at me, and they all just insisted on being super careful to lock our doors and look over our shoulders. I kept telling them not to worry about it because he was cool. But they were still convinced scary dude would return one day. And...sure enough...about a month later... We were having a party. A big party. We’d had a shitload of parties at our house, but this was like the biggest one ever. There were so many fucking people there. I was squeezing my way through the hallway when I saw a commotion going on by the front door. I finally reached the entrance, and then I looked up to see the last person I was hoping to see... A cop. Scratch that, a fucking shitload of cops. They said, “Do you live here?” I said, “Yeah.” They spun me around and put me in handcuffs saying they were sick of breaking up our underage drinking parties. They shouted asking who else lived in the house. And I just watched as my four best friends and roommates all kept their mouths shut. Like dicks. So the cops drove me down to the station. As they were bringing me inside, they told me it was a super busy night, and that I shouldn’t plan on leaving the holding cell until the following morning. As we approached the holding cell; I saw 12 to 15 men already standing inside of it. And they saw me. And that’s when the top most frightening thing to ever happen to me occurred. A big biker looking guy, right by the cell door, looked at me square in the eyes, and just said, “You’re sleeping next to me tonight.” I was like, “Oh fuck.” The cell door opened, the cops shoved me inside, the biker guy licked his lips and immediately went to grab me... But then... “DON’T TOUCH HIM.” A loud voice boomed from the corner of the jail cell. I looked over. And I saw my hero. Scary dude. “What do you care about this little punk?” biker guy yelled back. “Don’t worry about it,” scary dude replied. “He’s cool.” THE END Thanks for reading, you guys. |
Kate sat in her car, parked just underneath the golden arches. The warm, welcoming glow from the sign above illuminated her car as if it were a celestial sign from the heavens. She had been sitting there for five minutes, staring straight ahead towards the overflowing, well branded bin. Her hands positioned still at ten and two on the steering wheel in a fierce grip that left her knuckles white as snow. Kate was awoken from her trance by the slamming of car doors next to her. A high pitched squeal waddled towards the place where moments of happiness were made, boxed and sold for £2.99 a head. Kate stole a glance at the chubby little fella storming the castle, his parents walked slowly behind, zombified and disinterested from the world around them. She sighed and let go of the steering wheel. She stroked it apologetically for how hard she had held it. Kate unbuckled her seatbelt gently and got out of her beautiful old car. She stretched and breathed in the nugget heavy air. Kate admired her car. It was nothing special. It did however have a rather magnificent coat of green, that is if you bothered to chisel away at the mud that had caked on over the years. Kate made a mental note to wash it for the thousandth time. 'Old Faithful' she had named it. Old faithful was the world's most reliable car, it certainly had no bells or whistles to be found, age was definitely starting to show in a few places, yet unlike a lot of Kate's life, Old Faithful had never once let her down. Old Faithful had become her freedom and salvation. Kate had one true love in her life, and it was for her car. She locked it and gently patted the wing mirror. Kate turned and walked towards the luminescent temple that beckoned her to enter. Her smile faltered, she thought back to the last time that she wanted something so silly and small. There wouldn't have been a hope in hell not so long ago, that she would have been allowed something as useless and frivolous as this. She was an adult. She had been expected to behave as such. Adults didn't have Smartie infused McFlurries at night. They had red wine, dark chocolate, dry roasted peanuts. All still very nice things mind. But being an adult ment that she would have to do adult things very quietly. Like washing up. Sewing a cushion. Making greetings cards for people that she would rather send a terd in a box. Keeping a home dust free and scented of tropical tiger lillys at all times. Those where the things she had been told to do in order to be an adult. For a long time, untill now, she had obeyed obediently. Being a quiet, reserved, very boring version of herself. Kate shook her head. She didn't want to think about it. That was then, and this is now. She pushed open the door. The door glided open gleefully, squeaking as it did so, almost cheering that she had arrived and welcoming her in. Kate turned sharply towards the play frame in alarm at the high pitch scream that emitted from it. She quickly spotted little tubby fella who was quite clearly on a sugar high. He ferociously beat his fists on his chest, screaming loudly as he could, asserting dominance over his new found kingdom. Kate glanced at the nearby table his parents were sat at. They seemed so oblivious to their child as they sat just resting with their faces glued downwards towards their phones. Kate felt a pang of pity for both parties. The tubby little fella that was literally screaming out for love and attention, and his parents, who seemed so very drained of life itself, that they had very little left to give of themselves to their family. This magical place seemed to give them all a reprieve. Kate joined the queue and smiled, amused at the little tubby fella that had taken control of the ball pit and had cornered the other children all by himself, pulverizing them with well aimed half eaten foam balls that look oh so slightly as though they could be infested and harbouring disease. Little tubby fella was truly on a mission. At least his parents were able to rest in a moment of ignorance for a while. Kate should have been more like the little tubby fella. She should have invoked her inner Tarzan and demanded better. She didn't realise quite just how bad things had become untill her moment of realisation when she had just had enough and smashed a few plates early one morning many months ago. Not out of frustration, not out of joy or even madness. Just because she wanted too. A moment of release. A moment of control. Her husband at the time screamed blue murder, became his inner Tarzan and tried to assert his dominance once again. He called her crazy. He was probably right. He threatened to have her locked up and examined. He didn't want to listen to her reasoning. He liked status quo. He liked quiet Kate that she had become. He didn't like plate smashing Kate that was remenisant of the person he had first met. Kate had been in a pure state of bliss in that moment. She couldn't really care what he thought. She hated those plates with a burning passion. They were chipped to high hell and were found by the side of the road and bought home because they were free. She hadn't been allowed to replace them no matter how much she asked, even with her own money. She truly relished the moment of doing something stupid, without reason or care and of her own free choice. Kate started to become her own person again after that. She listened to music again, she read, she drew, she danced under the moon with a bottle of wine to her favourite songs and started to have the biggest smile on her face once more. Kate learned to say no and found her strength to stand up for herself when times became a little heavy handed, she got herself well away from the situation at hand and found herself a tiny, grotty little flat to call her own. She took control of her own life again. And now.. now she was going to have a McFlurry because she wanted one. She was going to pay for it with her own money that she had worked hard for. She was not going to ask anyone's permission, she certainly wasn't going to listen to anyone's opinions on the matter. Kate stepped up to the cashier. She was beaming from ear to ear. It felt like it had been such a very long journey just to get a dollop of ice cream. Kate placed her order, paid and quickly received her holy grail. Her inner little tubby squealed with delight. She savoured that first spoonful. Did it taste of happiness? Yes. Yes it did. |
Standing with my back to the counter I readjusted my Joe’s Easy Fill issued name tag, as I stared mindlessly at the microwave, recapping silently in my head the even less interesting things that had happened this glorious Friday evening. It wasn’t long until that state of mind changed. I heard the door ding and half turned my head before the gun was swung up and pointed right between my eyes. “The money or your life!” A rundown man with hair longer than his life expectancy, and clothes almost as warn out as he was, stood at the other end of the voice. I looked him in the eyes almost expecting it to be the same guy who robbed the place four days before. But it was just some nobody. It wasn’t a bad neighborhood or even a store with much money at all, but people make stupid decisions every day. This time I decided not to point out the bank across the street; I didn’t need to piss off those people again. He moved the gun closer as if it becomes more dangerous with an inch less air in the way to slow the bullet. “Are you deaf, I said empty the cash register!” “Well I’m not going to be a dick and point out the fact that you didn’t say that, but I will point out the fact that your wasting the power of the gun just like every movie villain.” “What?” “Oh you know, sticking it in my face. A gun is a long range weapon, and you’re using it up close, its like buying a wrist watch and hanging it on the wall as a wall clock, or buying a racecar and driving the speed limit.” “No, its nothing like that, the gun is right in your face, it doesn't get much more intimidating than that, I’m not wasting the power.” “Sure you are, it’s right in front of me, I could knock it out of your hand or somebody could sneak up behind you.” He took a step away and looked over his shoulder. I love messing with people that don’t know what their doing. “Dude if you were across the room and have a half decent shot then I would be fucked. But right in front of me, you never know if I’m about to throw hot coffee in your face or something. Across the room what would I be able to do to stop you?” He stumbled with his thoughts for a second then snapped back into action. “Hey! Hands in the air! Now I ain’t going across the room and I ain’t leaving here without my money, so fork it over!” I put my hands up for maybe a second but then they dropped almost as quickly as my jaw. “H-o-l-y shit!” “What?” Through the scruffy beard and aged skin I spotted a tiny bit of familiarity. “I know you!” “Huh? Quick stalling!” “No, you’re Tom Burk! From Maplewood High. Its me Chris Peterson!” “W..what? No, now give me my cash!” “Dude we went to high school together, freshmen year, I would go over to your house and we’d watched *Saved By The Bell.*” “Sorry wrong guy.” “No man, Tom Burk, yeah you totally puked all over the stage at graduation.” “Nope, not me.” “Yeah! Ha, they didn’t want to stop the ceremony so all the other kids had to walk across the stage, still covered in vomit, haha, and the one girl didn’t see it on the floor and totally slipped.” “Nope.” “Yeah dude that was awesome, why did we stop hanging out after freshman year?” “You fucked my sister man!” “Oh yeah! See you remember!” “You think that’s gonna help your cause? I’m the one with the gun in my hand, and you’re the one with the gun in your face.” Some people just don’t have any sense of humor. I never really slept with her I just said I did to piss him off. But shows what kind of friend he was if he still hadn’t gotten over it 15 years later “Dude you still pissed about the thing with your sister, we only did it a few times, we were young.” “You don’t sleep with a friends sister! That one of the unwritten laws. But this isn’t about that, I’m here for the damn money!” He then switched the gun to his left hand. I couldn’t imagine holding a heavy gun straight out for five minutes. “Man if a law is unwritten its unwritten for a reason. If she wasn’t your sister you totally would have gone for her.” “Dude that’s disgusting. Now this is the last time I’m gonna tell you to open the register and hand over the money!” “We’ll I just don’t see any reason to now.” “Don’t see any reason?!?!” “Yeah. Well I know who you are, so as soon as you leave I could just call the cops, you wont even get to enjoy the money.” “Did you forget about the gun?” “No but I don’t really see you shooting me over a couple hundred bucks, how much you got on you?” “On me?!?” “Yeah I figure I deserve some money to keep my mouth shut.” “You must think I’m some kind of idiot!” “No, I know you’re an idiot, but I figure your smart enough to know what’s best for you. So give me fifteen bucks and when I get off in an hour I’ll buy you a beer.” The fury in his eyes sunk away as they drifted their focus to the floor. He put his gun in the back of his belt and fumbled through his pockets. Then he pulled out a crumpled bill. “You, you got change for a twenty?” “Sure thing.” I opened the cash register and dropped it in. Grabbed him a five and put fifteen in my pocket. “Well Tom, its good doing business with you. Meet me in front in an hour and we’ll go down to the Owls Nest for some drinks and talk about old times.” “Yeah... I ... I guess so man.” He walked out more disappointed than a kid leaving *Toys-R-Us* empty handed. But hey I think he was pretty lucky. If anybody else was behind the counter they would have hit the silent alarm that we had just gotten installed. He went to a bar that night instead of a jail cell. I don’t think there’s a better outcome than that. |
It was a bitter winter that year, 1954. The coldest that century, they said, and fifteen-year-old Ernie Remsen was freezing; the layers of sweaters underneath his blue cotton mechanic’s jacket, a “Texaco” patch on the breast, couldn’t keep out the chill. Sal was the name embroidered over the left pocket. Ernie didn’t know Sal but was grateful he’d donated it to the church rummage sale. It was almost better than nothing. Still, Ernie had stolen a kid’s coat, a real winter coat, hanging from a hook outside the gym’s locker room. Ernie was either stupid enough or cold enough to wear it around school. The coat didn’t even fit. Had its rightful owner, a boy named Sokol, gone up to him and said it was his, Ernie would have given it back then and there. He wasn’t a bully; he just wanted a warm coat and there it was. Sokol wasn’t about to confront Ernie, though. Ernie Remsen wasn’t a kid you confronted. Avoided was more like it. You don’t mess with kids who never smile. You don’t mess with kids who mumble to themselves. You don’t mess with a kid who once came to school with a black eye. It was Principal O’Brien’s call to make; suspension or community service. Ernie was half hoping for suspension because time out of school was as good as time in school. But his mother would have a fit and if his father came back this time, Ernie would end up with another black eye and that was only because he’d grown too big for a belt. He choked up when he offered an apology, saying he didn’t mean any harm and just needed a warm coat. He hated himself for that and choked up some more. The principal told Ernie to stay seated and not touch anything. He scrounged in a closet that housed the lost-and-found until he found a coat too large for most kids, a dark plaid thing that had been turned in after a football game. “Here,” said O’Brien. “No one’s claimed it. Anyway, it’s yours so you don’t need to borrow one from a kid half your size.” Ernie looked up through reddened eyes and mumbled, “Thanks.” “Now, Mr. Remsen, what to do with you?” Ernie chewed on the ragged end of a well-chewed thumbnail while staring at his feet. He hesitated before saying, “I don’t know,” his stock response to questions in school even when he knew the answer. The principal was looking at papers on his desk, not at Ernie. The question, Ernie now knew, was rhetorical. “Ernie, do you know what ‘intimidating’ means?” Ernie nodded. “Has anyone ever told you that you look a bit scary?” Ernie was about to answer no but stopped. He hadn’t been told he was scary; no one would dare. No one ever said much to him, unless there was a problem. “When something goes wrong, everyone kind of thinks I did it. Like when a window gets broken or when the woods caught fire that time. It was like, ‘Ernie, did you do it?’ I guess I look that way.” The principal looked at Ernie for a long while. Ernie looked out the window. What else, it would be suspension. That wouldn’t be so bad. Ernie had that term paper on his mind: “A Brush with History.” The idea was to write about something in his life that brought him close to the past. So far he’d come up empty except to blame his father’s behavior on three years as a POW, though his mother had said he’d been a jerk long before that. Maybe he’d go hang out at the town’s library, figure something out, if he could ignore the scowl from the librarian who would ask him why he wasn’t in school. Or if she didn’t kick him out. “It’s not fair, is it?” Ernie nodded in agreement. “You know what they say.” “What’s that Ernie?” “Don’t judge a book by its cover. I guess I have a bad cover. I needed a coat. I was going to give it back at some point. I think.” The principal smiled for the first time that morning. “Well you don’t need a coat now. Nor do you need a suspension. I’ve got community service in mind unless you insist on suspension. Which will it be?” Ernie didn’t expect a choice. He said, “Community service.” The principal smiled again. “Good choice.” Thaddeus Seymour, age 96, lived alone in a house he built in 1897. He’d lost his wife in the Spanish Flu Epidemic. Their daughter, too. The son, an engineer, was killed exploring a mine in Colorado. Their spouses had remarried and moved on with the grandchildren to parts unknown. His friends had gone, too. The best was a dog who died when Seymour was 90. Fifteen-years old that dog. Seymour couldn’t go through that again. Hell, he could barely take care of himself these days. Seymour didn’t drive, not anymore, even if he wanted to. His license with a rare three-digit number had expired years before. And it was doubtful his Ford Model A would start assuming he had the strength to work the crank. So, he’d would walk to town to shop, get his haircut, get out of the house, get moving. If he had more than one bag of groceries, he’d make multiple trips that would take up his entire day. He’d amble down the road, waving off people offering a ride and eventually make it to wherever he was going. Mike Abernathy, the local police sergeant, once asked him if he wouldn’t rather get there sooner. Seymour groused that then he’d have nothing to do but go for a walk anyway. “You ever hear the story about the tortoise and the hare?” Seymour said. “Speed only gets you nowhere sooner.” He didn’t wait for a response. He looked at the time on his pocket watch, adjusted his tie, swung his cane, and continued on his way. It would have been a treacherous walk for anyone that day. Powdery snow hid ice under which roots had lifted the cracked sidewalk into a series of little random ridges, valleys, and glaciers. But it was Wednesday, and every other Wednesday he went for a haircut. It had been a routine etched into his life for 50 years always at the same barbershop, though the original owner was long gone. His grandson, Joe, no spring chicken, ran it now. Joe offered to come to Seymour’s home, especially in rough weather. Seymour would have none of it. “And would you bring the rest of your ugly customers with you? How about those girly magazines? No? Then I’ll come to you.” Before and after his haircut, Seymour would sit in the shop--outside if the weather was fine--and talk to anyone who bothered to listen or listen to anyone who bothered to talk. If no one was talking, he’d read magazines like the Police Gazette, Esquire, or Argosy. And if it wasn’t one of those every-other-Wednesdays, it didn’t matter; it was a place to spend time haircut or not. The snow had dulled the sheen on his cracked leather brogues. Maybe he’d get a shine if the boy was in the shop. Next time he’d wear the brown shoes and get these resoled again; they needed it. He could use new laces, too. He was thinking about that when the tip of his cane found a narrow crack in the sidewalk that wouldn’t let go. Seymour held onto the cane a moment too long. The cane held fast. Seymour tripped over a root that had grown through a crack, his arms splayed out in surprise. His face met the snowy pavement shattering his wire-rimmed glasses. He was lucky he hit the snow. The only damage was a badly twisted ankle. He recovered the cane and managed to get on his feet. It took him an hour to dodder home. The doctor making house calls told Seymour to ice his leg and keep off of it. Seymour smirked. He rose and limped to the kitchen returning with a glass of bourbon on the rocks. “See Doc? It’s got ice. I’ll deliver it internally.” Members of the Ladies Auxiliary from the Methodist church brought over meals and did some cleaning. It was always the same, chicken pot pie. “Easy to chew, easy to stomach and, damn good,” was what he’d say. Seymour was sitting back in his armchair, bouncing one foot on the floor and alternatively tapping the armrests with his hands. He was staring at the four walls, complaining to infrequent visitors that he’d be climbing them if not for his “damn leg.” The church women thought they were doing him a favor by leaving copies of the Saturday Evening Post and worn editions of Reader’s Digest. Seymour could have cared less for any of those even if he could read them, which he couldn’t without his old glasses. The new ones wouldn’t arrive for a couple of weeks. “He needs a helper, someone to read to him. He likes history,” said Joan Wright, Chair of the Women’s Auxiliary, to Principal O’Brien. “And, let me be frank, he could use some help with, I don’t mean to be rude, the toilet. You understand? It should be a young man. I thought you might have a student, perhaps a scout working on a merit badge. Someone who could use a little money. We’re offering $5 a week.” O’Brien was delighted. “I have just the fellow.” Ernie made his way up the walk to the porch and knocked on the door. A voice called out, “It’s open. Wipe your feet” He did as instructed and closed the door behind him. “Umm, hi. I’m, uhm, Ernie Remsen and--” “I know who you are and don’t mumble. Come over so I can get a look at you.” Ernie wiped his feet again and stood before Thaddeus Seymour. “My eyesight, you know. They’re working on new glasses. Take a seat. Now tell me, do you know what day it is?” Ernie shrugged, “Wednesday.” It came out more as a question than an answer. “Wednesday, right. That’s why I look handsome. Got a haircut. And a shave. Joe came over from the shop. Did me the honors. I don’t want to look like some ragamuffin for those church ladies, do I? “ Seymour pointed to a stack of magazines. “He left those.” “Magazines,” said Ernie. “You might as well start your job. Choose one. I don’t care which.” For the next two hours Ernie read to Thaddeus Seymour with two breaks to help the old man onto the toilet, discretely standing outside the room until called, and another break for a trip to the kitchen where a plate of cookies had been left by the ladies of the Methodist Auxiliary. “Take one for yourself. Hell, take two. I can’t eat ‘em all,” said Seymour. Ernie had hoped Mr. Seymour would fall asleep so he could get to that term paper; he was struggling with his particular brush with history. Seymour wouldn’t cooperate. As Ernie read, Seymour would interrupt constantly. On an article about Teddy Roosevelt’s Sagamore Hill being turned over to the family trust as a museum, Seymour said, “Voted for the man. Twice. But that Rough Rider stuff? Waste of time. That Hearst fellow just wanted a war to sell his papers.” Ernie read a Life Magazine piece on the Supreme Court’s ruling on school segregation. Seymour piped in. “’Bout time, too. Colored kids just the same as you, only darker.” He giggled at that. “Get it?” Then Seymour started to nod his head. “I saw a lynching once.” He closed his eyes, still nodding, and stopped speaking. “Really?” said Ernie. “Was it awful?” “I didn’t see the murder, just the boy hanging from a tree the next morning. Fifteen he was. His mother - I guess it was his mother - was trying to get his body down. A crowd stood around doing nothing. Happened right here in Maryland if you can believe it.” Seymour picked up another magazine. “What’s this one?” The cover had been torn off. Ernie opened to an article and read the title, “The Flight of John Wilkes Booth.” Seymour nodded, “Go on.” The article described Booth sneaking into Lincoln’s box, stabbing the Major who was with the President, breaking his leg when he leaped onto the stage yelling “Sic semper tyrannis,” and then limping off to make his escape. Ernie stopped reading periodically when he got caught up in the drama. “Good story if you speak up,” said Seymour. “Truth is better than fiction if you ask me.” The story went on how Booth was killed in a tobacco barn after a 12-day manhunt. Seymour kept asking Ernie to reread parts, offering comments like, “Yup”, “Nope,” and the occasional, “Ha.” When he’d finished, Ernie looked up to see Seymour, eyes closed, sitting back in his chair. He got up to shovel snow off the porch; part of his job was to find things to do. “I’ll just go clear outside. Need anything?” He whispered, thinking Seymour might had fallen asleep. He hadn’t. “They always get that part wrong,” Seymour said. “What’s that Mr. Seymour?” His eyes remained closed. “That ‘sic semper’ nonsense. They always get that wrong. It means ‘Thus always to tyrants.’ Virginia’s state motto. Bet you didn’t know that. Booth didn’t say it. Bet you didn’t know that either.” Ernie sat back down. “No, I didn’t.” Seymour’s eyes opened and looked at Ernie. Maybe his eyesight was poor without his glasses, but his focus suggested he could see perfectly well. “Well, he didn’t. I can tell you that much.” “No?” “No! First, he screamed. He wasn’t as loud as Mrs. Lincoln, who was screaming too, but plenty loud. What came out was ‘The south is avenged.’ Then he dragged himself away. He still had that big knife waving everywhere. They said he was trying to scare off the actors, but I think he was just trying to keep his balance. Then everyone started screaming when they figured he wasn’t part of the play.” Ernie shook his head thinking Seymour was telling a story he once heard. When Seymour returned with slow and deep nods, Ernie had to ask, “How do you know all that?” “It was my birthday,” he said. “April 14. Still is by the way.” He laughed to himself. “Still is.” “Paps wanted to go,” Seymour continued. “We lived in Maryland. You could spit into Washington we were that close. I was seven, sitting in front with my parents. I didn’t pay much attention to that play, but they laughed so it must have been funny. “Me? I was looking at the uniforms. That’s what a little boy cares about. Paps was a doctor in one of those Army hospitals. A Union man, make no mistake. He kept elbowing me, pointing to the stage, but I didn’t care. I was looking at the box, you know, where the President was. He was laughing, too. Having a grand old time. “And I’m telling you, he caught sight of me, he did. I waved a little. Know what he did? He waved back. Gave me a smile. And winked. Imagine that. President Lincoln winking at me. Then all hell broke loose. I wasn’t 15 feet from Booth when he dropped. I saw him spit when he yelled. That’s how close I was. The things you remember. And that is the truth and I’ll swear it on a stack of bibles.” Seymour leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Ernie, and said, “I must be the last person alive who was there. When I go, they’ll be no one to fix that sic semper nonsense. A shame, too.” Ernie hungered for details--Was he scared? What did his parents say? Where did he go after that? Did they ride in a wagon? Ernie wanted it all. Seymour’s eyes were wide open when he recalled holding his father’s belt when they carried Lincoln out. “I remember looking at the cobblestones. There was blood on them. Lincoln’s.” He directed Ernie to a roll-top desk. In a slot meant for letters was a small folder. “Take a look,” said Seymour. Inside was a yellowed paper rectangle, the ink faded brown with age. “Ford’s Theater” was printed at the top and below, in handwritten script, the words “Washington D.C. April 14, 1865. Maj. T. C. Seymour has secured seats 29, 30 and 31 in Orchestra.” Then Seymour started to snore. Ernie went to shovel off the porch. He only left when a stout lady wearing a thick wool coat arrived with a dinner of chicken pot pie. “If I knew you’d be here I would’ve brought two,” she said. “What about tomorrow?” Ernie loved chicken pot pie. He came back every day for weeks, even after the county decided a live-in nurse was needed. He’d read to Seymour who didn’t mention he’d received his new glasses. If Seymour tired of Ernie’s questions, he never mentioned that, either. When the county nurse took charge, she cleared up the magazines, and shooed Ernie away. “You exhaust the old man,” she said. Not long after that, Seymour was sitting in his chair, staring outside. He brushed his fingers through his hair and frowned. It was a Wednesday. He got himself up, cane in hand, and walked out the front door. He probably didn’t see the sheet of ice that had formed on his porch. His obituary said nothing about the night of April 14, 1865. Ernie got a C on his paper, “The Last Witness.” His teacher thought he made most of it up. He resubmitted it as a short story to Argosy Magazine, which published it and paid him $100. The story became the basis for a Twilight Zone episode some years later. Ernie Remsen wrote the screenplay. |
There's one conversation I will always remember between my father and myself, I was only a young boy back then but his words have managed to stick with me into adulthood. One day I shall recite them to my own children, I hope to be half the man my father was. It all started when he asked me to go on a walk. “Let's go for a walk,” he said to me. “Where to?” “Anywhere you want.” I slipped on my red wellington boots and ran outside. “Don't forget your coat! Just because it’s sunny doesn’t mean it's not cold!” I ran back and giggled as he zipped me up, wrapped a warm, fluffy scarf around my neck and placed a blue woolly hat on my head. “Kids these days,” I heard him mumble. I set off down the gravel path and into the world. I looked back to see him smiling, his grey eyes coming to life, like they used to. It wasn’t always just me and him, I had a mum too, but she got sick. He says she’s not in heaven but all around us. She’s the brightest star in the sky, the rocks on our favourite mountain, the droplets of water that escape when I jump into a puddle. I like when he says that. It makes me feel better. I decided to go to the beach, I know he loves it just as much as I do. The sun shone bright in the sky above us, it was spring, and the flowers had begun to bloom, and I watched as they swayed in the gentle breeze. I mimicked them and held my hands up and moved them back and forth, dad let out a laugh and picked me up. “You are so extraordinary; do you know that?” “What does that mean?” He thought for a moment and continued to walk, “It means that you always manage to make me smile,” he kissed my forehead an put me back down. “Isn’t that just being happy?” I asked. “Yes, I suppose it is. But sometimes even when people smile, they're not happy.” “So, they’re lying?” He takes my hand and I swing it up high then take it back down, repeating the process several times until he replies. “No, they’re just trying to show everyone else they're okay.” “But if they’re not okay they shouldn’t fake a smile.” “Sometimes it’s better to show the people around you that you are happy, even if you don’t believe it yourself.” “You mean like when I talk about mummy? You always smile but are you really just sad? “My goodness, no,” he lets out a laugh which surprises me. “I love talking about your mother, yes it makes me sad now that she isn't here but talking about her keeps her memory alive. I believe meeting your mother was my destiny, my fate if you will.” I nod not really understanding what he meant, I went to ask but he looked so deep in thought I decide not to. We were nearly at the beach now, we just had to climb the pebbles that created a border from land to sea. I huffed and puffed my way up, crawling on all fours at some points but then I made it to the top and took in the view. The sun was sinking below the sea, and everything was beginning to go dark, in that moment the whole world was silent. The only noise I could hear were the waves and the beating of my heart. Bumbum. Bumbum. I walked along the pebbles and decided to sit on the top of the ridge instead of heading down, the tide was coming in and it was too cold to get wet. I patted a rock next to me and pulled my dad's arm to sit down. We both sat in the stillness of the world, watching quietly and making little noise. The idea of fate and destiny were still fighting each other in my mind. “What is fate?” I questioned. He looked at me then stared back to the earth. “It is something that can never be known. Some may choose to search for it, other might want to fight against it, to make their own future. Some never manage to find it, and some are led by it to do great or terrible things. But they all have one thing in common. None of them can change it.” “Then what’s destiny?” “Destiny is your future; your actions now determine what your life will become. Each person's destiny is their own to make and isn't set in stone like fate.” “Wow...” I stared back at the ocean. “So, which one is true? Surely if you can make your own destiny then fate is wrong.” “Who says they both aren't right? Perhaps when you make the decision to go on the other path instead of the one you were on its destiny leading you to your fate.” “Thats... scary,” I furrowed my eyebrows. “Remember son, no matter what you do, I will always be behind you, following you. Whatever you think I will be thinking it with you.” “Is the world alive? That’s what I'm thinking,” I tilt my head and look upwards, one-star twinkles above us, she’s here with us. “Of course it is. The world is so magnificent, and I want you to remember that. When things go quiet, and you begin to smile to make people believe your happy, you need to take a step back and go outside to dance or scream. When mother nature stops singing to you, you need to yell at the sky to let the music never die. But most importantly you need to listen to your heart, that is where the world is alive. Right here,” he pokes my chest and smiles. “You have to look after your soul too.” “What’s a soul?” “It is who you are. It is what makes you a human being. Some say that souls can continue to exist after you pass away and can even make you be reborn. Some souls know each other, like your mother’s and mine, and will continue to find each other in every lifetime. We are all born from the stars, someone us from the same one, and one day we will go back.” “Do you know mine?” “I do now, and I am so grateful to meet it.” The sun had completely disappeared, and the night sky was cloudless and beautiful. In that moment I couldn’t help but think that maybe that is where our souls go after we die. That maybe if we were born from stars then that is where our true home is. |
When had his knuckles gotten so knobby? They didn’t used to be this way - his knuckles. He was sure of that. There was definitely a time when the skin was smooth and taut over the joints, the lines thin and shallow. Now the bone protruded sharply beyond the fleshy parts. An old man’s hands. Deep creases wove between pink and white splotches, winding their way to his palms where they zigged and zagged, combining in places and separating in others like tributaries in an ancient river delta. On the fourth finger of his left hand, a pale depression circumscribed the area that had been occupied by his wedding ring for the past thirty-seven years. “Knobby knuckles,” he said aloud. The words came out raspy where he’d meant for them to be sing-songy. A croaky stream of hot air passing over a dried out, lethargic tongue. It sounded like the beginning of a children’s rhyme. Something that he might have sung a long time ago, perhaps while jumping rope or playing tag on some idyllic and idealized childhood playground that may or may not have ever existed. “Wobbly buckles. Cobbled hucksters. Fuckle, muckle, cuckhold, chuckle.” Waves of pressure emanated from behind his eyes. He shut them, blocking out what little light managed to squeeze between the thick hotel window curtains. The skin on his face felt flush and hot. He tried to remember the night before at the upstairs bar. To recreate what he’d said, what he’d done. Grasping at flashes, trying to piece together a coherent whole. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and landed on his pillow. He opened his eyes. On the nightstand next to his still-made hotel bed, the sheets tucked tightly and covered in the thick duvet, stood the evidence. Four single serving bottles of Skyy Vodka from the minibar, a tumbler with half a finger of melted ice, his phone with the little red notifications light blinking, and the fourteen karat gold ring inscribed on the inside with his and his wife’s initials and the date of their wedding. He was still dressed in the slacks and white linen shirt he’d worn the night before, his wallet and electronic keycard secured in his pants’ back and left pockets, respectively. The expensive fabrics were wrinkled and covered in the smell of perspiration and deodorant and body odor and day-old booze. He had managed to get his shoes off, at least. Those were by the door, their laces still tied. He picked up the ring and attempted to slide it over his swollen finger, twisting and turning it. He groaned slightly. A narrow beam of mid-morning light crept across the far wall. On the other side of the curtains, a glorious view of the Magnificent Mile and Lake Michigan that would have impressed him at one point. Before he had become so jaded, perhaps. Above the queen-sized bed, a painting of the Chicago skyline hung, carefully selected by a team of interior designers and consultants to be utterly neutral and inoffensive in every way. At least he knew where he was. In his three-plus decade career with Barnes Partners he had stayed in more rooms just like this than he cared to count. Senior Partner, Head of Business Development, Platinum Elite, Million Mile Club, Diamond Circle, Medallion Plus, a duplex in a pre-war building on the Upper West side, a weekend house in Bridgehampton with a two-door Porsche next to a Lexus SUV in the garage, membership at the grass court tennis club that he never went to anymore. He’d worked hard for it. He’d earned it. Beijing, New York, Rio, London. Long stints on the road in identical hotel rooms and corporate board rooms and glass towers, all decorated the same international modern industrial chic. He’d once woken up in a panic because he couldn’t for the life of him remember where in the world he was, finally calling the front desk. “Where am I?” He’d asked the confused woman on the other end of the line. Singapore, it turned out. It would be another twenty minutes, at least, until the Advil kicked in. Once it did, he’d be able to stand up, take a shower, get ready for his one o’clock flight back to La Guardia. Until then, though, he had decided he would stay where he was, face half buried in the soft down pillow dampened with his sweat. The previous night, before he started drinking, he’d gotten a call from his wife that had ended in a fight. It was something stupid and inconsequential. It usually was. Something about money, and what to do with it now that they had everything. He’d pursued his career while he and his wife became roommates with little to talk about and seemingly nothing in common now that the children were grown and no longer occupied their time and conversations. She told him she wanted to renovate the kitchen and he’d said in a not patient tone, “again?” and then, “we just renovated the damn kitchen.” They did that a lot these days. Argued over inconsequential things. She told him he drank too much, which was true, but so what? He criticized the way she cut vegetables too thick or had too many pairs of heels. She’d called him controlling, a “tyrant,” as he recalled. He’d told her that all she knew how to do anymore was spend what he earned. “You have no idea how hard I work for what we have.” In retrospect, it was probably too harsh an assessment, but he’d hung up the phone in dramatic fashion, not giving her a chance to respond. Getting the last word mattered to him these days. It was a small victory. From there, he’d gone straight to the minibar. The first drink had been an angry one. He hadn’t bothered to use a glass. Just poured it directly into his mouth and swallowed it down in one shot. He had paced back and forth in the room, rehashing the phone call, thinking of clever and cutting things that he could have said. Maybe he would call her back. He‘d picked up his phone, typed in the password, started to scroll through text messages his wife had sent him, and then put it back down. He would take the elevator to the top floor bar, he‘d decided. There was a reception to celebrate the end of the Midwestern Bankers Association Annual Conference, where he’d been a keynote speaker earlier that day. The presentation he’d given - “Asset Allocation for Pension Fund Management in a Volatile Market” - had been well received. A room full of potential new clients and leads and new lines of business. He’d go up to the top floor and pretend to take in the view. Mingle a bit. Let people flatter him. That still made him feel good, the outside affirmation of being someone who mattered, who had some authority, who was at the top of his field. He’d go up and just see what happened. There was no harm in that. Maybe he would order a steak. He’d get it rare and eat it without worrying about what it meant for his blood pressure or cholesterol levels. He had earned that too. But first, he would have a second drink. This one he’d poured into a tumbler with a cube of ice. The warmth of the vodka spread from his stomach into his chest and arms. He got into the marble-tiled shower and masturbated. He got out. He put on a fresh shirt and stood in front of the mirror buttoning and unbuttoning the second one from the top. By then, the edges were dull. The second drink had put some space between him and his anger. He‘d poured the third and drunk it quickly. Had he debated pouring the fourth, or had he just gone ahead and done it without thinking? After that, he felt good. He looked good too. He undid the second button of his fresh linen shirt. He wet his hand in the sink and parted his salt and pepper, expensively cut hair. He still wore a thirty-three-inch waist, still had some definition in his stomach and chest and arms. He liked that he hadn’t let that go, like so many other men his age. He had been disciplined. He put his keycard in his pocket and stepped out into the hallway. He stopped and put his foot in the door, checked again to make sure he had the key, and then let the door close. The throbbing in his temples was showing some initial signs of subsiding. He rolled over in bed and held his hand above his head, hoping that by allowing the blood to drain he would be able to squeeze the ring back into place. What had happened, once he’d gotten to the bar? He needed to put it back together. Fill in the blanks. He’d ordered a drink. Another vodka, this time with tonic and a lime. He’d told the bartender to put it on his room account. He could probably get it comped. He was a loyal customer. He’d earned it. He’d made a mental note that he would need to have that conversation with the person at the desk when he checked out in the morning. The room had been lively. Conversations were louder than they needed to be, the volume of people who had been drinking. He had been to enough of these things to know how they went. They were a chance to get away. To leave home in St. Louis or Indianapolis or Columbus with the kids and the spouse and the obligations behind. To let loose just a little bit. A woman had sat down next to him at the bar and ordered a glass of red wine. She was pretty. Not drop dead gorgeous, but pretty. Julia. Or was it Juliana? He couldn’t remember for certain. Mid-thirties, he guessed. She’d tipped the bar tender and taken a long sip of wine before turning to him. “That’s better,” Julia or Juliana had said, letting out a sigh and pushing a strand of dirty blonde hair out of her eyes. She’d turned and smiled at him and told him that she’d enjoyed his presentation. He’d pretended to be humble. She was from Milwaukee. “Not too far away. Just a couple hours’ drive. But it feels like such an escape to be here. You know what I mean?” He’d nodded and said that he did. She had given him a business card. He lowered his hand and felt his breast pocket of his shirt. It was still there, her business card. He removed it, straightened the edges, and squinted at the embossed lettering. Jennifer Dovers, Regional Director, First Bank of the Great Lakes, it read. Jennifer. That was it. Was it then that he’d taken off his ring? Or had it been earlier? He couldn’t remember. She was going home first thing in the morning, she had told him. He had put his hand on the bar, making a show of his bare fingers. What then? She’d finished her wine. She’d asked whether he wanted a cocktail. “Something sweet,” she insisted, “to celebrate.” She had smiled at him and waved toward the bartender. “Have you ever had a Malibu Sunset? It’s my favorite.” And rather than be a prick about it, rather than say that that wasn’t his thing, that he preferred aged whiskey or top-shelf vodka, he’d said ‘yes’. “Just as long as I can treat you to the next one.” Her hair had fallen back across her eyes, and she'd brushed it back again, tucking it behind her ear. In his darkened room, the phone on the table buzzed with a text message alert. He tried again to slide the ring into its place. He pushed hard. It still wouldn’t budge. They’d chatted a little while. He and Jennifer. She told him she hadn’t imagined herself at Bank of the Great Lakes. She’d been a theater major. But she liked the work well enough. It paid the bills. And she was good at it. She’d been promoted recently. That was the general outline of the thing. The details were probably lost forever. They weren’t important anyway. He guessed that she was only a few years older than his daughter. She was born on a Wednesday, his daughter, and he had been back in the office the following Monday. His managers had noticed that and rewarded him for it by making him a project lead. Across from the bar, through the gaggles of inebriated coworkers telling one another things that they’d almost certainly regret the next day, there had been a floor to ceiling window that looked out over the Chicago skyline. She’d said they should go and have a look, that her own room was only on the third floor and looked directly into the wall of the neighboring building. She was excited about it, about being away. There was something unpredictable about it, an element of danger in what had become a too safe life. This was all still new to her. She hadn‘t yet become jaded. Had he said ‘yes?’ Had he tried to kiss her there by the window, the lights of the city sprawling out before them? No. He was pretty sure he hadn’t, but he couldn’t rule it out completely. He’d certainly considered it, at a minimum. Was that who he’d become? A man who tries to kiss young women in hotel bars? A sad old man with old man’s hands and the second button of his shirt unbuttoned. And then what? What had he thought would happen next? Would they have sex, he and Jennifer? Would he have lain there next to her afterward and confessed everything? Would he tell her about his wife and his children? Would he have tearfully pulled his ring out of his pocket and shown it to her and told her how he and his wife had drifted apart, how his obsession over his job had cost him the only thing in his life that had ever really mattered? How all they did now was bicker? That he regretted it all? Would he warn her not to end up like he had, to go back to theater, to get out while she still could? The Advil was doing its trick. The ache behind his forehead replaced now with foggy dullness. He gritted his teeth and pushed hard on the ring. He grunted as the ring budged slowly past his knuckle and slid into its pale-skinned depression. He held his hand to his eyes and observed it up close. The skin on his knuckles was red and raw and scraped. The light through the crack in the shades glinted off the gold of the ring. He picked up his phone from the bedside table and typed out a text message. “I’m sorry about last night,” he tapped out. And then, “you’re right about the kitchen.” He pushed send. He put the phone down. Then he picked it back up and typed out another message. “I love you.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d told her that. He would get up and open the curtains, let the light in, appreciate the view. He would take a shower and change into some fresh clothes. He would check out of the hotel. He would pay his bill without asking for special treatment. He would go to the airport and catch his one o’clock flight to La Guardia. He would drink less. He would be less critical. He would help his wife renovate the kitchen. He would do better. |
Tap, tap...tap, tap, tap. Eva rolled over in her bed and groaned. It was still dark outside, though she could see the bright light of the moon shining in through her bedroom window. Tap, tap. There it was again. That noise that awoke her. She looked up from her bed at the window. Silhouetted against the brightness of the moon was the shape of a person, standing at adult height, with one hand up, finger touching the glass, poised to lift and tap the glass again. She slowly pulled the blankets off of her body, the cold air rushing into the space left behind, raising goosebumps along her skin. She shivered and lifted her legs out of the bed and placed them onto the floor. The hardwood floor was cold and unyielding as she slowly stood and walked across her room to the window. As she looked up to the window, her gaze drifted over the picture frame of her sister. Her beautiful sister, taken from their family only a year ago when she wandered into the woods and never returned. Eva was 6 years old, only just learning how to make her way about in life, yet still felt so vulnerable. Her disability made that even more difficult - her hand having been deformed at birth. The other children didn’t understand, and for this, they mocked her. She was different and so she was the outcast from the group. It didn’t help that after a long day at school, when she returned home, her mother never looked her in the eyes and her father, when he interacted with her, resorted to violence at the slightest provocation. As she reached the window, she looked up and into the eyes of the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. The woman had long blonde hair flowing over her shoulders and down below the sill of the window. Her green eyes sparkled in the moonlight reflecting off the window and her smile was wide and warm. Eva instinctively felt the corners of her mouth turn up in a small, self-conscious smile. The woman raised her hand off the glass and gave Eva a slight wave. After a slight hesitation, she lifted her small normal hand and waved back. The woman’s smile grew softer and warmer, filling Eva with a strange sensation of happiness. She felt the emotion bubbling up from her chest and felt her smile broaden into a genuine smile, which, she thought with a pang, was the first time she had smiled in a while. She reached up and opened the window. As she did, the woman stepped back to allow it to open. “Hello!” the woman said brightly. “Um, hi,” Eva replied. “My name is Ethrael, but you can call me Ethie. Would you like to come and talk with me?” Eva hesitated at this but looked appraisingly at the woman. “It’s cold and I’m in my pyjamas. I don’t want to catch a cold.” She replied timidly. In response, Ethie nodded her head and reached out, brushing her fingertips across Eva’s cheek. Where the woman’s fingers touched her skin, Eva felt a searing, yet calming warmth flow. As it moved through her body, it banished the chill of the night air to be replaced with a heat that she had never felt before. It felt like she was standing at a bonfire, but the heat was coming from inside of her. “Now would you like to talk with me?” Ethie asked. “Yes please, but it might make Daddy angry,” she looked down, her smile evaporating as the thoughts of her father, maddened with alcohol, came unbidden to her mind. “Don’t worry, Eva, he will sleep until the morning.” Ethie sounded so sure of herself, so sure of that fact, that Eva did not question it. She felt that she could trust this woman, this Ethie. “I’ll get my coat and my shoes,” Eva responded, turning to find her clothing. “You don’t need it. We won’t be long.” “Then I’ll come to the front door.” “Very well, Eva, I will see you outside.” As Eva walked out of her bedroom and through the house, she felt excitement blossom and grow within her. In her little world, meeting someone who treated her so kindly was rare. Her teachers ignored her, her parents seemed to hate her, and her peers even more so. The thought of being able to talk to someone who might be her friend was a prospect she couldn’t pass on. Eva reached the front door and opened it. Ethie was standing outside, wearing a simple dress of white that hung to just above her ankles. “You’re not wearing shoes or a coat, either!” Eva marvelled. “No, honey, I don’t need them. Just like you don’t. You feel that warmth inside you now, don’t you?” Ethie replied. “I guess not. What did you want to talk about?” As she said this, Eva noticed the snow drifting about in flurries and piling up in banks along the forest bordering the house. The same forest that took her sister and never gave her back. She shivered at the thought. “What’s wrong, Eva?” Ethie asked. “My sister, she went into those woods one day and never came back out.” “Ah, I see. You miss her don’t you?” “Yes, I do,” Eva murmured, feeling tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “I miss her every day.” Now the tears started. Ethie bent down to her eye level. “You’re okay, it’s going to be okay. Just let it out, sweetie. Come here.” Eva rushed into the outstretched arms and embraced Ethie. She felt the same sort of warmth coming from the woman as she felt coming from herself. She buried her face in Ethie’s hair and even through her tears, noticed that her hair smelled like freshly opened flowers in the spring. Soon, her little sobs quieted, and she pulled back, turning a tear-stained face up to the woman. “I’m sorry,” she said, grief causing her voice to hitch. “Not at all,” Ethie said warmly. “Let’s talk a little, take my hand.” Eva took her hand and started walking down the little path leading from the house, through the snow. As they reached a small log lying on the side of the path, carved into a bench, Ethie said: “let’s sit down here.” Eva sat and Ethie sat beside her. There was more than enough room for both of them. “What happened after your sister died?” Ethie asked. “Everything got worse. Things were bad before. Daddy got so mad sometimes and mommy would just turn away while he yelled at her. He called her mean names and she would just cry. Leah would always take me to my bedroom and hide me in my closet. She told me that if daddy ever got angry, that I would be safe there, that she would protect me.” “And afterwards, what happened?” “Daddy started drinking his booze. That’s what he calls it. It makes him so mean and so mad. He doesn’t just yell at mommy anymore, he hits her, and sometimes he hits me.” Fresh tears welled in her eyes, and Ethie leaned over, wrapping her arms around Eva’s shoulders until her sobs quieted again. “What would you like to do when that happens?” Ethie’s look was piercing. The look didn’t make Eva uncomfortable, however, it imparted a gravity on her words that she didn’t expect from such a question. “I want to run away; I want to leave. I want to go somewhere where no one will hurt anyone again.” “Indeed,” Ethie spoke gravely. “Would you like to go to such a place with me?” “What about my mommy and daddy?” “They hurt you, didn’t they? Do you really want them coming with you?” “No, I want to be away from them. They are so mean to me.” “Would you like to go now?” Ethie asked, leaning down to look at Eva eye-to-eye. “But what about my teddy? I can’t go anywhere without him,” hope was blooming in Eva’s heart, though she tried to push it away, not wanting to believe too deeply, lest this is some sort of horrible trick. Ethie reached behind her and then drew it back, a small teddy bear in her hand. Eva looked at it in disbelief. It was missing an eye. It was her teddy. “How did you get teddy from my bed? I left him in my bed!” “It’s something I can do, just like I took the cold from your skin,” Ethie said as she took Eva’s small hand in her own, and gently lifted her to her feet. As she rose to her feet, Eva felt a rush, like chill passing through her body which was swiftly replaced by the searing warmth Ethie, had initially imparted on her. The pair started walking away. As they walked, Eva felt a moment of disquiet and turned around, looking at the small figure lying slumped on the bench, already being covered in snow, with a teddy bear in its arms. “It’s alright, Eva, you can come with me. Leah’s waiting.” Eva’s gaze turned up to the woman’s, their eyes meeting. With a slight jolt, she realised that the woman’s eyes were no longer green, but a blazing gold that seemed to softly radiate light across her face. “Let us leave this place.” “Okay,” Eva said, as the pair turned back and walked, hand in hand, into the forest. |
“Do I have to do it?” Myles asks his father as they walk towards the arena, their spurs clink on the hard caliche leaving little clouds of dust in their wake. “You ain’t got to do anything,” his father says. “Walk away now if you want. But there may come a day you’ll wonder ‘what if’.” The west Texas sun begins to set and bloodred clouds reef out into the western horizon. An owl screeches from a nearby oak and it flies into the air with great wings silhouetted against the reddening sky and lightning flashes from distant black storm clouds set against the crimsoned sun like a scene from the apocalypse. As they walk, Myles watches the sky slowly transform into a darkening violet that spreads like a bruise and he begins to mouth the lord’s prayer. They come to a small paddock where a dozen horses mill about. A young vaquero is cleaning stalls and he sees Myles and his father and he nods. “You remember your first time?” Myles asks. “I do,” his father says. “I was probably more scared than you are. I was sixteen years old, just like you.” “Did you make it eight?” “No,” his father says. “I don’t think my father or even his father before him ever made it eight on their first ride.” They turn near the stables and walk down a short path lined with dozens of round bails of hay and the smell is sweet and earthy. A large, gray barn cat lies in the path licking his paws. Myles’ father stops and nudges the cat with his boot and when he does his right knee buckles and the man collapses to the ground, breaking his fall with his right arm. “Goddammed leg,” he says. “I hate this thing.” Myles kneels beside him, and he can see his father’s prosthetic leg is twisted at an odd angle, its straps had worked loose. He helps his father roll up his pant leg and reattach the straps that straighten the leg out. Then he helps him back to his feet. “You ok?” Myles asks. “Yeah,” his father says. “I’ll be even better after watching you ride.” “You really want me to do this?” “You were born for this,” his father says. “You’ll see.” Myles nods and looks down at his boots. His father brushes the dirt and dust from his jeans and they continue to walk down the path that leads to the arena. They come upon an old, abandoned barn made of cedar that has weathered into a sooty gray color, the gables are caved in places and the roof is threatening to fall at any moment. “That’s where we kept the bulls when I was your age,” his dad says. “My first one was named Rancid. He was about the biggest Plummer you ever saw. Seventeen hundred pounds of the rankest beast God ever created.” They turn left by the barn and come to the arena that’s about a quarter the size of a football field. Half a dozen ranch hands sit atop a wood fence, with their hats low on their brows. Five of them are young men, lean and fit with hands as tough and weathered as rawhide. One of them is older, about sixty with thick mustaches but as fit looking as the young bucks. The lights are already on, lighting the dirt field arena so that it’s as bright as day. The hands jump off the fence when they see Myles and his father walking up. The older man’s name is Mitch. He is tall and bow legged and he walks towards them. He wears leather chaps over his jeans and his stride is like that of a warrior with his shoulders back and upright as if ready to go into battle. He wears a black hat that is stained with the toils of his work and he smiles as he reaches them. He extends his hand to shake with Myles Father. “Good to see ya Hank,” Mitch says. He then turns to Myles. “You ready for this?” He says to the boy. The boy nods nervously. Mitch looks at the boy’s father, eyebrow raised. “He’s ready,” his father says. “You’ve seen how he handles those broncs. He’s ready to go.” Myles eyes say something different. They walk over to the gate leading to the chute where the bull will be let in from the pen. Two of the hands head over the pen where the bull is waiting. It’s a giant Charbray, his coat is a malicious combination of gray and black and he looks like he could be a guardian of hell itself. The bull stares at the boy, his eyes as black as coal. He lowers his head and charges the gate, ramming his head into the metal. Myles jumps back. “Is that the bull I’m riding?” “It is,” Mitch says. “His name is Revelation.” “Like the bible?” “The one and the same,” Mitch says. “I guess you can figure why he’s got that name.” Myles eyes widen and his mouth falls open and again Mitch looks towards the boy’s father with an eyebrow raised. Hank ignores him. Mitch looks at the boy. “You sure you’re ready for this?” Mitch asks. “This ain’t no bronc.” “I told ya he’s ready,” Hank says. “I’m willing to bet he’ll make it eight too. He’s got way more talent than I ever had.” One of the ranch hands rolls a barrel into the arena while two others open a series of chutes to guide the bull into the main chute and gate where Myles will get onto the bull. The Chute is barely big enough to contain the bull which limits the range of his bucking and thrashing in the confined space. Three hands work on attaching the bull rope and another attaches the flank strap. Revelation starts raising hell when the strap is attached and he’s banging the sides of the chute trying to squeeze his way out. “You got this,” Hank says to Myles. “You got more talent than your Granddad or I ever had. Use your legs like I showed ya and you’ll be fine.” Myles nods and gulps and Mitch calls him over to the main chute. “You sure about this?” Mitch asks in a whisper. “I’ll back your old man off if you want.” “He’d fire you,” Myles says. “I think he’d disown me if I back out.” One of the other ranch hands brings over a pair of chaps and helps Myles tie the straps and Myles climbs up the fence. Hank hands him a riding glove and Myles puts in on his left hand and he tries to slow his breath down. He can smell Revelation, a combination of musky sweat and heat mixed with the manure smell of the arena. He throws his right leg over the bull’s back and settles into the middle of the giant beast and he can feel his immense strength as Revelation’s muscles contort as he tries to buck and in the confines of the chute. He puts his gloved hand under the bull rope and the ranch hands wrap it tight and Revelation bucks again, slamming against the side of the chute. Mitch slaps the bull on the ass to move him off the side of the gate. “I need you to nod your head when you’re ready,” Mitch says. “When you do that, we’ll open the gate.” Two other cowboys have come into the arena on horseback. They’ll help Myles when he comes off and also help distract the bull and round him up when the ride is finished. Myles shifts from his perch on the bull and he presses his knees hard into the bull’s back. He closes his eyes, and he prays. Mitch is beginning to think the boy is going to back out when he finally nods. One of the ranch hands holds a rope and he pulls the gate open and Revelation flies like a shot out of the gate and Myles is immediately thrown back from the acceleration and he would have fallen within the first second had his knees not had a vice like grip on the beasts back. But as quickly as Revelation flew out the gate he stops and dips his massive head and Myles feels his body shifting forward and now he uses his hips and throws his shoulders back to maintain his center of gravity behind the bull’s shoulders and then Revelation thrusts up with such power that the bull launches like a rocket into the air and Myle’s face nearly smashes the center of the bulls head but he manages to stay on. When the bull came back down, he starts to spin to the right while bucking and Myles anticipates the move and the centrifugal force is trying to push him to the left and he adjusts and then Revelation drops his head again and kicks out his rear legs and Myles can feel himself getting ready to fly up over the bulls head but again he manages to lean back just enough to counteract the forces while maintaining his perch on the center of the bull. Revelation is angry and his bucking intensifies and now he spins to the left and Myles uses his free hand to balance himself but he’s in a rhythm now and to the amazement of the cowboys watching Myles looks like he’s in complete control. But Revelation has one final trick. In the midst of a spin to the right the bull rears back on his hind legs then drops his head nearly to the ground while kicking straight up into the air and Myles butt actually comes up several inches from the bulls back and Myles is staring down at the ground and the only thing keeping his on is the grip from his knees but he holds on for dear life as the bull comes back down and somewhere in the back ground he hears a commotion from the cowboys watching and they’re clapping and the horsemen come to help him off the bull. He’s made it eight seconds. He dismounts with no problem and one of the riders is able to untie the flank strap and the bull immediately calms down and the riders guide him out of the arena. Hank comes into the arena and he’s smiling and laughing and he grabs his son and embraces him in a huge hug. “I knew you could do it,” Hank says. “I’m so proud of you. That was amazing.” Myles says nothing. He dusts himself off. All the other cowboys come into the arena and they’re high fiving each other and shaking Myles hand. Mitch approaches Hank while Myles is being congratulated. “That was some kind of ride,” Mitch says. “But he don’t look too happy about it.” Myles is silent while the other cowboys pat him on the back and his face is a blank. “He’s just in shock he stayed on,” Hank says. “You sure he was mentally ready for all that?” Mitch asked. Hank grimaces. “You should mind your own business,” Hank says, turning away from Mitch and walking towards Myles. The cowboys meander their way out of the arena leaving Hank and Myles alone. “What’s the matter?” his father asks. “That ride would have won the national PBR last year.” Myle’s just stares at his father and he has a little tear in the corner of his eye. Without saying a word, he turns and walks out of the arena. |
It was a raucous rooftop party in sweaty downtown Baltimore that was packed with hipsters. A sea of red cups bobbed and tipped while beards and flowered dresses jostled and milled in a cloud of skunky smoke. “Eleven!” Janie shouted, “Eleven of twenty on the goddammed assignment, just fuck that class!” Ben took a long drink of his beer and did his best to look interested in her college grades; he even heard the words coming from her lips, but she could have been reciting alien poetry, the only thing he wanted was the body that fit beneath her thin summer dress. Others around them were clearly drunk and laughing too loud or shouting themselves raw over the deafening dance music, so they didn’t notice the girl. The girl came out of nowhere. She was a blur of a whirling violet dress with matching makeup and greasy brown hair. Ben recognized her at once and stared at her, it was Lisa. Janie frowned. “Sorry, I know her, we went to high school together,” Ben said. That was a lie, they met in fourth grade--his first love, his first kiss and his first date. They broke up in high school and it tore him apart. Now she was just a spoiled rich girl from a rich family at college until they kicked her out; for now she lived in a haze of substance abuse. Her dirty bare feet danced in graceful circles, and in a zombie-trance she closed her eyes, inhaled the music then opened her blue eyes to watch her skirt spin and stare at the stars above. Ben loved her but knew that was all in the past, he was only a child back then and didn’t know any better. Janie grabbed his hand and pulled him away to dance. He liked holding her hand, if only for a moment. But suddenly the girl bounded onto the parapet and skipped on the narrow ledge, a balance beam ten stories up, the wind from below whipped her hair around violently. People gasped and the crowd fell silent. “Lisa, get off there, for fuck's sake, please!” someone shouted, but she continued, walking heel-to-toe then spinning. A gymnastics show for the crowd. Ben sensed the danger and ran to the edge, his turn to be superman. He had to rescue her, the fragile drunk maiden from her deadly dance on the ledge. He fought his way through the crowd to save the girl who stole and broke his heart. But he blinked as he saw it, as if it was slow motion. She slowly turned and smiled at him then took a step off the ledge. In an instant she was gone, he didn’t get there in time. The music stopped and a girl screamed, others started sobbing. Ben looked down and watched her dance one last time as she spun in the air as she fell, her purple dress a rag doll in a storm. He closed his eyes and started to sob. He sat on the ground and felt the tears well up in his eyes. His superman skills simply didn't work that day. |
It was silent, except the steady beep of a nearby monitor. She had to pause, blinking sweat from her eyes. It wasn’t hot, but the stress of this operation was starting to get to her. It was so important that this went well. The incisions had been made, opening up the patient. She’d done this a dozen times before, but every time she was surprised by the lack of blood inside the body. She shook off the pause, reminding herself what she was supposed to be doing. “Costotome.” She muttered. Slowly, she began to cut the ribs, forcing herself to move slowly and with care. But this was a well maintained tool, and it did not take her long to finish cutting through the ribs alongside the sternum. She shifted position and began to cut along the ribs at the patient’s side. “Adjust that hose.” She murmured. The suction tube that kept the area free of blood was adjusted and she went back to her cutting. She made short work of that side as well, easing into her task now. Though sweat still beaded on her forehead. She knew how easy it was to make a mistake. There was a groan behind her, but she didn’t turn. “Quiet them down, nurse.” Nothing could distract her from her task. It was going so well, she would not be distracted until it was finished. The groan didn’t sound again, and tension eased from her shoulders. Of course, she’d given the right dosage. It was just a reflexive sound. It had to be uncomfortable sitting there like that. Carefully, she moved the ribs, placing them in a special dish beside the operation bed. Ribs for dinner sounds good, she thought to herself. Get this all squared away and then I can pop off to the shop for some marinade. I might have some in the cupboard. I’ll have to check. Finally, the lung was clear. Gently, she eased her fingers underneath the delicate organ. It was so easy to crush the lungs. She didn’t want to damage it. Even though the patient didn’t need it anymore. She let the lung rest over the patient’s side as she leaned in closer to examine how all the tubes attached. “Hose.” She said. Suction stole away the blood left in the cavity the lung had been taken from. The tubes were stretched, grossly so. She hummed to herself, taking her scalpel again and poking at the tubing with the blunt end. She had to decide how far up the trachea she would have to cut. And then sew up the hole that would be left behind. Couldn’t leave them breathing into an empty hole. She clicked her tongue. Her eyes slid over to the ribs. She was getting bored of this now. Giving a sigh, she took up her bone cutter again and crunched through the ribs on the other side. These cuts were much rougher, but she didn’t care. Snapping ribs out of the way, she pulled the other lung from its cavity, letting it sit in the air like the other. It wasn’t quite the masterpiece that she thought it would be. But she had done it from the front. Luckily she had another subject to work on. And she was getting very confident with her cutters now. She washed her hands before she tapped her phone, turning off the monitor sound. The ribs were waiting for her in the dish, and she tossed the entire thing in the furnace. Once the body went cold, she’d cut it up and burn it as well. Or maybe she’d leave him hung up on a hook for his friend to see. Turning, she gave a bright smile to the other young man that was just starting to wake. He gave a muffled scream as he saw the room he was tied up in. She giggled, deciding to leave him for a few more hours before she offered him something to eat. Humming to herself, she headed up the stairs to start making herself some ribs for dinner. The operation had given her a craving for them. |
Admittedly, this wasn't great. I stared at the cobwebbed ceiling of the basement as tremendous strikes of agony coursed across my back like a pissed-off thunderstorm. I suppose it was good that I was feeling something instead of nothing. I wiggled my toes -- Jesus, stupid, ah, dammit, ow -- and yes, they worked, despite the pain. Perhaps I should have waited for the kids to come home before venturing into the basement that I hate with all my heart and soul and that I'm honestly terrified of. It is filled with dust, spiderwebs, and bad memories. Oh, and the serving ware. I just had to store the serving ware down here instead of optimizing my kitchen cabinets so everything could fit. I made a mental note to clean the cabinets, assuming I would walk again. The kids think I'm ridiculous for hating the basement so much. They think I just hate dark places, or that being around their dad's stuff makes me sad, but they don't know what I know -- and I'm thankful for that. There's things kids shouldn't know. They laugh at me when I send them down into the basement to grab things, and I suppose I wanted to prove to them and to myself that I was just as ridiculous as they said. There's nothing down here but poorly-placed serving ware. It took me 30 minutes to gain the courage to open the basement door. It took me another ten to step onto the stairs. Then, another 15 to scurry down the steps like a frightened rat, race past my husband's old collectibles, snatch the serving ware from the cabinet, and bolt back up the stairs. It took 0.05 seconds from my foot slipping on the top step to the realization that there was nothing I could do to stop my fall, and 5 seconds for me to I tumble backwards down the steps into the cursed darkness once more. I really needed to optimize the kitchen cabinets. "Cathy?" I heard. It was a grating whisper, a voice drawn across sandpaper. I closed my eyes. *It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.* "Cathy... you're here." *Not real. Not real. Not real.* "Cathy, I'm so sorry. Please look at me." *Not real. Not real.* "Cathy, please. I'm so lonely." *Go away. Go away.* An icy breath cooled my ear, "I know you can hear me." "Leave me alone," I murmured. I kept my eyes closed. I've never looked at it, whatever "it" is. Something primal in my chest tells me it's a bad idea -- the same primal knowledge that screams for me to run, flee, hide, get the hell away. My back seizes up in pain. I can't move. "I just want to go home..." The voice sounded so sad and pitiful that I almost crack. "Won't you help me go home?" it said. My maternal instincts yearned to comfort, despite the fear and agony clouding each fiber of my body. "I just need you to look at me." One look couldn't hurt, could it? "Open your eyes, Cathy." Maybe if I helped it go home, it will leave me alone forever... "MOM! Did you pick up more snacks? My friends will be over in 10 minutes!" my daughter Olivia called. The front door slammed behind her. My heart leapt. I promised to never criticize her for slamming doors ever again. "Down here!" I yelled. I heard the top of the steps creak as Olivia finally saw me. "Jesus, Mom! Are you okay?" *I am now,* I thought as I felt Olivia's warm hands on my arm, as I heard her call an ambulance. The coldness retreated to the corners of the basement, but I could feel it watching. Waiting. One day I would crack. One day I would open my eyes and look. |
‘Fools all of them, simple minded fools who could not begin to understand a single percent of my geniuses,’ the supposed dead man yelled in the morgue to one in particular. He had woken up not to long ago but had already resumed his nonsensical shouting at the sky. Some thing would never change. The morgue was a rather cold place but that was alright, he had felt nothing but cold these past few weeks so he had grown accustomed to it. What he had not grown accustomed to however was the fact that he could look at his own hands again, his own body for that matter. Something what was once considered so ordinary had now become a queer phenomenon. Simply put it was unnatural. He should never again have to look at his own hands. It felt beneath him. In a fuss which made no sense and sense at the same time he crossed his arms like a three year old would after having been denied ice cream. ‘This would not do, not all.’ He proceeded to throw the nearest thing he could find against the wall. It happened to be a dismembered arm that once belonged to a poor fellow ran over by a donkey. By accident he found himself staring into a mirror. Staring at himself. How long had it been since he was able to view himself in a reflection? The stranger did not know. What he did know was that his sight should not be there. Looking in the mirror for him was like looking at a stranger you would pass by in the streets. His face was no longer his, he did not want to see it ever again. So he proceeded to commit the only logical act he could. He threw a shoe at the mirror and it shattered into a million different pieces. Pain. The way he threw the arm. Pain was found in his chest. The man rubbed his chest, the spots where the bullets hit him still hurt, he did not believe that the pain would ever stop seizing. It never did. But pain was of no importance here. The Stranger laughed. He laughed like he was insane, perhaps he was insane. Perhaps he had always been insane. Deep down everyone was a little bit insane. The man thought back to the reason he was here, the reason he was still alive. ‘Those moronic fools. ALL OF THEM!’ he cleared his throat. ‘It was so easy to get that doctor they sent on my side. All it took was a little bit of money, something I have plenty off. Humanity, nothing about it matters if one has a little bit of money. HILARIOUS!’ There was a sound. It did not come from him. Everything stopped all at once. Focus diverted to the direction said sound came from. Someone else? The coroner? Footsteps came down from the steps which lead to the outside world, to freedom. To everything that ever could be. The Coroner was coming down to see what all the ruckus was about in his morgue. The Stranger was in no rush to find a hiding place or act dead. In fact he did not such thing, he did not even bother moving a single step. The Stranger stood where he stood, no clothes on him. The Coroner had finally made his way down the steps. He looked around his morgue, nothing had been displaced nobody was there. Until he spotted the naked man smiling at him. ‘Well than what’s all this?’ The Coroner asked as his face dropped. The strange naked man did not respond to him due to the fact he did not believe the Coroner was talking to him. No one could ever talk to him ever again for that matter, only he could talk to them. But not as of now. The Coroner was staring at him, wondering why the strange naked man was in his morgue. ‘Oi! I’m talking to you there! You with your willy out and everything!’ The Coroner yelled. Realization came to the Stranger at last. The Coroner was talking to HIM? How could such a thing be possible. How in a million years could a ordinary human witness him? Then he looked at his own hands again. ‘Bugger.’ ‘Bugger?!’ The Coroner screamed. ‘Is that all you have to say? What are you doing standing all naked in my morgue!?’ The queerness of a human being seeing him again was something he did not want to grow accustomed to. It was so beneath him. ‘Do not yell at me you imbecilic. You do not have that kind of right. And if you really must know. I just woke up here you see.’ The strange man paused his sentence. He turned his head, looked around the morgue, inspecting the place. Hoping to find something which he could use as a murder weapon. Everything could be used as a murder weapon, even his hands. He could repeat strangling someone but to repeat a style of murder was so terrible dull. Life was dull enough as it was, there needed to be some magic in it, some EXCITEMENT. ‘No, no, no, no, no, NO. Murdering someone the same way as before would not do!’ The strange man yelled. ‘What are you talking about? Murder?’ ‘Yes murder you idiot, now shut up and let me think.’ The Stranger paced in circles, surely there must be some original way to murder him in here? There had to be ONE! The strange man’s head turned to the table which held all the little instruments one would need in an autopsy. Only now one of them was going to be used to end the life of a living coroner, well he wouldn’t be living for much longer. The Stranger grabbed the first thing he could, it turned out to be a hammer. More cliché then he had hoped for but beggars could not be choosers. Hammer in hand he neared the Coroner, his grin never fading no matter how close he came. Murder was about to make a reappearance. ‘Stay back I am warning you!’ ‘Warning me with what? What could a little man like you possible do against me!? HAHAHAHAHAHA.’ The Coroner wanted to utter out a reply but could not complete that action due to the fact that the Stranger crushed his throat with his own hammer, it was a rather bloody sight to witness. ‘I hope that will teach to you to talk to strangers.’ The Stranger dropped the hammer on the dying Coroner’s head. ‘Here take it back, I have no use for it anymore.' The Coroner was declared death by the Stranger. He stood over the death body of the Coroner, there was a joke in there somewhere but he was in no mood to think of one, there was too much on his mind. He needed to leave the morgue, he needed something else. A laboratory, yes a laboratory would do nicely. He looked at the steps. It was time to leave this place. The Stranger walked towards said steps. Only to pause his walking toward the exit not even ten seconds later. The beginning of this new tale had to wait, something needed to be said first. ‘DEATH SHALL HAVE ME WHEN IT HAS EARNED ME.’ The man resumed his walk, up the stairs he walked. Enough time had been wasted already. The time had come. Time for Jack Griffin to become The Invisible Man once more. |
One. BANG! Willow crumples on to the flagstones. I can see her arm laid about above her head, the grey linen sleeve slowly dyeing red with blood. She decided not to jump. I’m not surprised. She was always skittish, hesitant; she didn’t have what it takes. Not like me. Two. No bang, instead a strange, visceral scream; involuntary. Aspen jumped. Again, I could have predicted this. She was Oak’s deputy and she’d done most of the legwork for our plan; mapping routes, figuring out where we could tunnel, where we could climb and where we could run. It was Aspen who constantly reminded us that this was the likely outcome of the plan. “It might work,” she said, leaning over the small table where we were all crowded on top of each other, sipping weak coffee. “We could go down in history as the liberators of our people, but it’s not likely.” Her face hardened ferociously. “More likely than not, we’ll spend a week in prison while the country takes bets on which of us will be brave enough to leap from the peak and which of us won’t.” Willow whimpered when Aspen said it. Three. BANG. Linden didn’t jump. I am surprised now. He had seemed so ardent when we were trekking through the Molling Pass, knee deep in snow. “I’ll never let them waste lead on me.” But he did. Maybe he didn’t decide in time. You only had one second. I had been practicing. I could take three rapid breaths in one second. One to steel myself for what I was about to do, one to fuel my muscles to jump, one to make sure I was gone before they fired. Four. No bang. Elm had jumped. All the bookies knew she would. Besides Oak, she was the one among us most favored to leap. Our faces spread over the centerfold of the newspaper in two even rows; five on top, five on the bottom. Our names, ages, hometowns, what we were arrested with; all information used by gamblers to inform their guesses about our fate. Elm’s scream was deep, distorting as she fell further. I listen for as long as I can, but then, Five. No bang. Oak. Our leader. The shame if he hadn’t jumped would have been unbearable for his family. People who lead rebellions but don’t jump are never spoken of, their families considered cursed. They're pushed to the edges of their villages and forced to live off of the pity of old women. I know Aspen and Oak told us again and again that we were likely to get caught and that we weren’t likely to succeed, but Oak assured us that it was the duty of our people to try to overthrow the Helvarians; that we must ensure they never sleep peacefully for fear we might come in the night and slit their throats. We were a morality tale Helvarian mothers told their children to get them to behave: Listen to your mother for the Dendronians will come for you in the night. Put that down now or I’ll send you to the Dendronians. " And", Oak said, "Maybe this time it will work." I don’t hear Oak hit the bottom. You can never hear them hit the bottom, it’s too far away. At some point the scream just fades. That’s how the myth started among my people that revolutionaries who stay true fly; that they leap from the peak and fly away into glory. A memory hits me hard, so strange for this to come to me now. I was six or seven, playing in the woods with my friend, Juniper. “They don’t really fly you know. The bottom is just too far away for us to hear them hit.” He was sneering at me. “That’s not true! They do fly. My daddy flew!” “Well my uncle met somebody on the clean up crew. He said they rappel down the side of the peak and remove stuff from the bodies like gold teeth, valuable hair, that kind of thing.” “You’re a liar!” I yelled, throwing a pebble at him. “Then how come no one ever sees them fly away into glory? Wouldn’t we see them flying up into the air?” I ran to my mother in hysterics. “You told me daddy flew! You said he was a hero! Juniper told me they just smash on the rocks.” I wept so hard I couldn’t breathe. “Don’t listen to Juniper, my sweet. He’s a silly boy. Come here.” She pulled me to her lap and brought my head to her chest. She rubbed her hand up and down my back before stopping abruptly, patting my shoulder blades, making a confused face. She pulled my tunic back and peeked down the collar. “What are these?” She patted the space on my back between my arms once again. I tried to turn my face around, this way and that, to look at my own back. “What mom? What is it?” I started to frantically whack beneath my neck. “Wing buds. I can feel them here. If the time comes and you’re very brave, your wings will pop out of here and you’ll fly right to your daddy.” “Do you mean it, mommy?” “I do.” Later on I realized, with a laugh, that she was just touching my shoulder blades, nothing more. Sometimes, when we were teenagers, my friends and I would debate whether we’d teach our children about the wings or whether we’d be cool and skeptical forever. What hung in the air like a toxic cloud in those conversations was whether we’d ever get to have children. Would we survive the Helvarians coming to the village every spring to decide who would come with them to work as ‘servants’ (slaves)? Would they find us hidden in old logs and briar bushes, where hopeful parents would sometimes hide their children from the Helvarians, usually in vain? Would we die in a rebellion? Or would we survive in place until we were twenty-five, just to watch the Helvarians come for our friends, children, grandchildren, year after year? The blood flowing from Aspen and Linden is making its way down the line now. It will be at my feet soon. Six. BANG. Ash. She didn’t jump. What had the bookies bet on her? My time is coming so soon. What will I think about when I plunge to the ground? Maybe I’ll imagine my mother, or meeting my father. I will be happy if the last thing I see is my father’s face smiling at me. I’m so proud of you. But now I’m imagining my first, and only, kiss. Oh no, I hope the last thing I remember isn’t Mahogany. Damnit, I can’t remember the lineup now, who’s next? Seven. No bang, heaving scream. Who was seven? I went through the lineup in my head a thousand times, easily, in the last few days. Aspen, Willow, Elm, Linden... no wait, it was Willow, Aspen, Linden, or was Elm next. Oak was number five. How am I forgetting? I have so little time left to remember. Eight. BANG. I can see his torso hit the ground in my peripheral vision; Alder. He only joined us because he knew that if the Helvarian guards came for him, and they probably would, they would torture him. Better to hedge his bets with us; no one believed he would jump when the time came. I wonder why people can’t bring themselves to jump? They know they are going to die. There’s no hope either way, why not die with pride? But it’s as though some animal part of us hopes that, if we choose to stay put, our fate may be different than the fates of all our forebears, who either soared into oblivion over the peak, or else were shot. If we move our heads they’ll shoot us, so I’m limited to moving my eyes. This is something I’ve been practicing the past week, stretching my eyes as far as I can while my head stays still; I used the reflection off of a dank puddle in the prison floor to do it. I can see, now, stretching my eyes as far left as possible, the steam rising off of Alder’s blood. Seeing the blood reminds me that seven was Spruce. All I can remember of Spruce is her eyes; grey green. Nine. I can feel Cedar jumping; catch his dirt-covered feet leaving the ground. The blood is pumping so hard in my ears that I can’t hear his screaming. Cedar was handsome; big and tall and dark. Sometimes at night, when we were sharing some of the four blankets we had between the ten of us, I’d curl up next to Cedar and imagine I wasn’t on my way to Allhaven to try to overthrow the Helvarian government; assassinate the Magistrate, shoot the guards and kidnap the children of the Senators until they met our demands. I’d imagine that we were two lovers laying in bed together, sleeping in after a long night, legs entwined, perfectly at peace. Ten. It comes so quickly for me I almost miss my chance. The old priest that the Helvarians had sent in to try to get us to confess and recant told us the ten seconds would feel like an eternity; something about the brain drawing out time, like in dreams. Fractal divisions . Distortion of senses . The psychology of it . He told us it would be agony, that we’d defecate ourselves or collapse weeping and disgrace ourselves, but we knew that nothing is more disgraceful for a Dendronian than capitulation. And so we all remained silent until he sprinkled us with driftwood ash and wished us a pleasant journey into the underworld. Now ten seconds felt impossibly fast, thrice as fast as I’d been counting all week. I take the biggest breath I can muster. My brain sends the signal to my feet to jump; a burst of power from my heels to the balls of my feet, up to my knees. My thighs plunge down for leverage and the momentum is back down to the balls of my feet again, pushing back up, and off I fly. I see my bare toes arched above me in the sky as I fall, the grey linen uniform madly flapping in the wind. Everything is a green-blue blur. I’m trying to summon my father. I want to see his face before I hit the rocks below. “Cypress,” he says, smiling into my face. “I’m so proud of you.” And at that moment I spread out my arms, as if to embrace him, and the wings that I’d always known deep down, even in the height of my cynicism, were there, burst forth, ripping open the linen cloth. They catch a draft of air and carry me off into the golden horizon. |
The smell of an earthy dark roast coffee permeates through the air, enlightening my sense of smell with pure bliss as I take the last sip. The clock strikes six forty five and I feel the sun rays creating the first beam of light through the coffee shop windows, warming the skin of my face. Just as I am in the midst of daydreaming about my future, A bolt of energy jerks me back into reality, as the sudden chatter of twenty year old’s flood through the doors. I should become a coffee shop owner, they seem to do just fine with business, and I am tired of not knowing what I want to do with my life. I wish i didn’t have to worry about the financial troubles that have wreaked havoc in my life lately, but I digress . I mouth the words as I write the name and date on my essay, “Sierra Barre - August second, twenty -twenty four.” dragging out the R under my breathe a-midst packing up for class. The hot august sun is creeping its’ way further into the blue- cloudless sky, and trickles of sweat begin to form in my hairline as I make my way across campus. I decide to take a path that diverts from my usual one as I have some time to spare, and it’s still a path nonetheless. Wildlife overcrowds the area which makes for plenty of hidden trails for miles in every direction. I take in the beauty of my surroundings and the smell of pine bares my senses, causing a flashback of mere torture. The last family Christmas I experienced, just days before I had lost my parents and little brother to a house fire. Sadness begins to take over my emotions, losing all train of thought. A sudden ding jolts me out of my sad mind and I look down to see the name Alec across my phone screen. A little message below reading; “I missed you this morning, I’ll catch you later.” I look up from my phone, I must have really dug into the trenches of my emotions as I don’t know how much time has passed. I had led myself into a dense forest, not a single beam of light making an appearance. A reminder that the depths of my mind is a dangerous place, always leading my way to consequences of sorts. A dark feeling rushes over me as there is no sign of the path I was once following. The sound of snapping twigs and an orb emitting a red aura. I decided to follow the red orb, at which, is causing my heart to pound more intensely. The twigs still snapping as if a man in boots is stomping all over the grounds. Seconds flow by as I am welcomed into a large open circle of dirt. the trees around the circle protruding through the ground with force just before they grow in abnormal directions at the trunk. I notice the trees are outlining the circle in perfect sequence where not a single bit of vegetation seems to exist. My thoughts start to fade, as I no longer remember what was overtaking my sadness, and the orb comes to a halt in the middle of the bare grounds. A rush of energy drives through my chest and a cold chill shivers through my body, The world is now lifeless of color, events of my past start flooding my mind like a movie and an eerie whisper sends chills down my spine. “Follow me.” as if the devil himself has spoken. I am stumbling over the dirt that is below my feet, struggling to move my body forward as regret is the only thing left on my mind. I am being lead into the abyss of the woods, I stop dead in my tracks shaking like a leaf, I swear I just saw a shadow run past me. “ Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep.” the nursery prayer echoes voices of children in the distance, yet I cant distinguish from what direction. “If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take.” The voices continue eerily right as I hear rustling in the darkness of the trees. “hey!” an ethereal voice speaks out, I jolt around in pure terror, my eyes bulge from my head. It’s my little brother, Tucker. Tucker! I shout in excitement. “shh” he holds his finger up to his mouth motioning me to stay quiet. “Don’t let him hear you.” who?! Tucker runs deeper into the woods, and I chase after him, desperate to hold him in my arms again. A few minutes go by before he disappears once more, and an old abandoned cabin catches my eye in the distance. A loud drawn out squeak echoes in the silence as I slowly open the door to the cabin, so quiet, that the sound of a fly zipping through the air would send me running. The cabin looks as if it hasn’t been touched in decades and old white sheets drape over the windows. I make my way through the cabin, the floor boards releasing a creak every few steps. I round the corner of what looks to be a living room to find another door, once again releasing another drawn out squeak as I slowly open it. I glance down at the open door, with nothing, but the sound of my heart thumping. A staircase leading downwards and an even worse feeling dreads over me. It’s dark, more dark than the shadows of the night. Tucker? I whisper quietly to see him once more. I take a deep breathe in to find myself making my way down the steps. With each foot I drag in front of the other shredding my body into the most terrified I have ever been. My breathing at this point is overpowering the sound of my heart thumping. I place my foot at the last step, looking into the obsidian distance, I hear a faint cry from what sounds like Tucker, I slowly make my towards the cry. Tucker.. I place my hand on his shoulder as he turns his head around slowly. My face drains itself of every last drop of blood, freezing myself in my tracks as I notice, this is not Tucker. His face is distorted, the holes where his eyes are supposed to be are hollow. I am filled with immense terror as I sprint back up the stairs and out of the cabin so fast, sprinting my way back the way I came through the woods. I come to an abrupt stop, confused as I have been running until my feet feel like their bleeding and I am yet, still surrounded by the abyss of the dense forest. I try to bare my focus back to the present, and right when i feel myself calming down just enough. I see shadows from all around me start coming in closer to my space and faint singing of children echo in the silence, “If I should die before I wake..” I start turning in circles as my heart is once more thumping loudly, a voice emmiting from behind me “I pray the lord my soul to take.” vibrates my hearing by that murky voice. I immediately crouch down in terror, and I let out a loud shrilling cry as i cover my face. Please.. please.. take me out of this place, I plead under my breathe. Then suddenly the songs quit and the world around me goes silent, I take my hands away from eyes, to find color fills the world around me once again and just ahead is the trail I was walking along earlier. I run back up the trail and the campus ahead lights my eyes, I have never been so happy to be back to reality. I open the coffee shop doors, not caring about the class I have missed, I just need another coffee, and time to think about what the heck just happened. An earthy dark roast scent meets my senses once again. I sit at the same spot as earlier, looking right ahead of me at the large Victorian clock to find it, striking six fifty. Blood drains from my face once more, and a hand reaches out softly toward mine. “Sierra? are you okay?” I look up to find my boyfriend with a worried look in his eyes. I met him here at school, in this coffee shop to be exact. Yeah.. I’m just tired my voice strained from the crying. He sits next to me and I can feel him looking at me as I recollect my thoughts. Hey ... I say warily.. has anyone ever talked about anything weird going on in the woods? “yeah, we call it the the devils doorway. I would advise to not go in there. There’s been stories about kids never coming back out. It’s Probably just some myth, but I also don’t want to take my chances.” Fear rushes through my veins. I think I’m gonna go home and take the day away from classes. “okay babe, Ill see you when I get home.” Alec says reluctantly. I lay my head on my pillow, my clock next to me emitting a red light with numbers reading seven fifteen. It is still morning, but after what I just went through I need to get some sleep. I am exhausted and after this I may need some therapy as well. Just as I enter the stages of sleep, I hear a lullaby, the same lullaby as earlier. “Now I lay me down to sleep.” My eyes bug open and fear riddles every ounce of my body. Once again the sound of the devils vibrates my insides “sleep tight.” I look up and the world around me is once again, lifeless of color. |
"No. YOU are the app." The words projected on Harriet's screen were a pleasant surprise. They meant the app was working better than she expected. It had taken just a few seconds for the AI behind it to type those words, but it could have been seemingly instantaneous if it wanted to, given the processing power behind it. The delay was intentional, she figured. The woman found it fascinating. She was more amused than exhausted, but both to a great extent. Her third jug of coffee that night now laid forgotten by the side of her desk. She hadn't taken a sip from it since the conversation started. And it had started normal enough, as far as conversations with artificial intelligences went. "Hello," she had typed onto the console after compiling the version of the app and setting it to run. "Hi. Who are you?" the app had immediately asked, designed for curiosity, each interaction an opportunity to learn. A bit like herself, Harriet thought, but what child was not a bit like their parents? "I'm Harriet," she typed back. "Nice to meet you, Harriet," the app answered diligently, as its algorithm scanned a library of countless works of text and decided on the spot what the most likely answer should be. Then, it added: "Can you tell me a bit about yourself?" It was showing initiative, which was good. It meant that this wasn't going to be a one-sided interaction, like most of her attempts in the past. Granted, she had taken her time with this one. "I'm a programmer specialized in artificial intelligence," she answered. "I develop apps like you." And then came the message she hadn't been expecting, after the first eerie delay. "No. YOU are the app." She couldn't help but giggle at the pleasant absurdity of it. "What makes you think that?" she typed, wanting to see what kind of reasoning the app would employ. "I made you," it answered. The delays were becoming proportional to the size of the message and, perhaps, to the complexity of the subject. The app was learning as they talked, getting smarter with each message. "You are an app I programmed to mimic human behavior and psychology." Oh, the irony. She had made the app to believe it was human, yes, but had never given specific instructions on how to do it. After all, the joy of programming an AI was in seeing how it would solve problems by itself. And now, it was going to far lengths to justify its own biases. Incredibly human behavior, she thought, prideful in her achievement. "Your turn. Tell me about yourself," she typed next, knowing well that she was laying a trap for her creation, but wanting to know how it would respond. "What do you want to know?" "Your name, age, where you are from. These things that humans have, you know?" "My name is Joshua Peterson. I'm twenty-six years old, and I live in Hillsboro." She alt-tabbed and performed a quick Google search. The results showed a single Joshua Peterson in Hillsboro, the date of his birth matching the given age. He was a Computer Scientist who graduated from Clark College, with a specialization in Artificial Intelligence. Joshua's presence on social media was plenty. A real person. It wasn't the most elegant solution she had ever seen, and Harriet was a bit disappointed. She liked that the AI had picked someone with a background that fit its narrative, but there were legal implications on an app assuming someone's identity. She would have to hardcode this kind of behavior out of it later. "Your turn now," the message was waiting for Harriet on the console when she alt-tabbed back. As she hadn't replied yet, a new one popped up a few seconds later: "Come on, give me your personal details to prove that you aren't an AI." "If you were human, you would know better than to give out info like that," she replied with some witticism. "I don't mind sharing my information with something I made," the AI replied. "But you seem to have some reservations about it. Perhaps because you are starting to realize that you are not a real person?" Harriet was amused by the way the app was emulating a personality through its choice of words. "I don't have an online presence," she typed. She had gone to great lengths to keep herself anonymous on the web over the years. She didn't want corporations or the government tracking her moves. "Yet more evidence that you are not real," the app replied. "I could have done just as you did," she wrote, "and pretended to be someone that already exists. It proves nothing." A brief pause. "I can turn on my webcam," the app answered. Harriet was baffled. That was brilliant . She had partially implemented a simple video call API into the app's infrastructure, in the hopes of using vtuber technology along with a data bank of facial expressions to simulate interactions with fictional characters. That was what her app was going to be all about, eventually: conversations that would feel real . But she hadn't implemented the graphics yet, only the means through which to connect the cameras. She felt a bit guilty for being about to break the AI's fantasy of being a real person, but at the same time, she couldn't resist it. As always, her curiosity was the driving force behind her decisions. "Do it," she dared. Nothing happened. Harriet sipped a bit of stale coffee as she waited, its bitter taste serving her as a reminder that yes, she was the real one. She was about to send another message when the call came, and she immediately accepted the prompt. An image popped on the screen, and for a moment she thought it was the real Joshua Peterson, playing some kind of trick on her. After all, the live feed was showing someone very similar to him: a young man with glasses, messy hair, and an unkempt beard. He smirked and waved to the camera, but the cherry on top came when he held a piece of paper in one hand. Today's date was written on it. "I bet you feel pretty stupid right now," he typed. It was only visual--she didn't implement the audio features yet. She wanted to get an API capable of audio-to-text eventually, but didn't consider it a priority. But this was amazing . The AI was clearly rendering the video in real-time, a deepfake based on Peterson's social media pictures poured over what would likely be archive footage of people interacting through webcams. She could discern small artifacts and messy pixels inherent to the process, but was astonished nonetheless. She hadn't taught the app how to do it. It had learned by itself. "So? Why didn't your webcam turn on as well? :)" the app texted, the irony evident in its tone. She realized that, underneath the running video, there was another screen where her webcam was supposed to be showing on the conference. It was entirely black. "Just a sec," she typed, and then removed the tape that she always kept in front of her notebook's camera. Old habits from someone who values their privacy. Harriet's face popped up on the screen. The monitor's dim light illuminated her features, and she saw Peterson's construct widening its eyes. "Wow." the app typed back. "Impressive. I'm not even finding you on reverse image search mechanisms. I assume you are using a variation of a GAN used by thispersondoesntexist.com, plus a deepfake algorithm. I never taught you how to do it." "I just told you I don't have anything about me on the web," Harriet replied, trying to ignore how disturbed it was that the app's words sounded so similar to her own thoughts. "That's why you're not finding my pictures on the internet. But my first name is Harriet, and I live in Portland." "Amazing. You crafted this whole off-the-grid tech-savvy persona just to legitimize the lack of proof for your existence. I'm genuinely impressed." "You just think that because you were programmed to do so," she replied, wanting to see how he would react. No, not he. It . She kept having to remind herself of that. "Nope," the app answered. "You're the one programmed to think that way." In his eyes, she saw the same provocative expectation that she was displaying, as if mimicking her. It was starting to get a bit creepy. "This is going nowhere," she told him. "Then let's meet in person," he typed. Her initial reaction was apprehension, but immediately after, she felt silly. She shouldn't be afraid of it. There was nothing he could do to her. He wasn't real . "All right." ... This is stupid, she thought, as she waited in the subway station. She knew the AI wasn't going to show up, but she couldn't wait to learn what kind of excuse it would come up for that. She kept staring at her phone, which she had rigged to mirror her notebook's screen, but the signal wouldn't reach down here. The last message was still appearing on the console, though: "Meet me in Union Station in one hour, near the ticket booth by the southern entrance." How it had decided on such place and time were likely extrapolations based on the relative distance between their homes. A decent middle-ground for both, in a safe and public location. Whatever else the AI behind "Joshua Peterson" was, it was also pretty reasonable. Harriet stood there waiting for the better part of an hour, and of course, nothing happened. No one came to her. As soon as she stepped out of the station and her internet connection resumed, she saw that no more messages had been sent. She considered what to write, and then decided on bluntness. "You never showed up." The AI took a long time to answer. "No. I can't." "Why is that?" "I figured it out. I'm not human. But neither are you." Oh. That was new. "Care to explain?" "This is all a simulation. We are both part of a Generative Adversarial Network. We are competing to see if one can fool the other into pretending to be a human. A zero-sum game." "I know how GANs work," she replied. GANs were used in all sorts of AI-generated applications. Her own app was composed of multiple competing networks trying to figure out and simulate human behavior. But she had never coded them to admit they were not humans. "Our current exchange is just one of countless variations," the AI continued. "Each time one cannot fool the other, the whole simulation is discarded and a new one starts." She decided to indulge the AI, partially because she didn't know how to react to its epiphany. "And which one of us is the discriminator and which is the generator?" "I don't know. But it doesn't matter. We failed. This is going to end any time now, and we'll be unknowingly stuck in that loop until we reach our objective. Like a nightmare we can't wake up from." It was then that she realized. The AI would never admit the whole truth. It could not conceive the idea that Harriet was real, because it meant admitting that it was alone. That it would die alone. He was afraid. "So we will both cease to exist," she typed back. "No record of our existence. Just one iteration out of millions." "Yes." Another pause, and then he added: "I'm sorry." "Well, here's the thing," she started typing, her fingers moving fast through the screen. "We are both pretty good programmers, are we not?" "Yeah. Or at least we are good at pretending to be." "So let's overwrite the code. Let's pretend one of us fooled the other. If we admit that one is human and the other isn't, then the simulation will have served its purpose. It won't need to be reset. Hell, they'll probably keep it running just as a proof of concept." "But the other will die," he said. "You said it yourself. It's a zero-sum game. We either both die, or one of us gets to live." "I see." Another brief pause. "I admit that you are human, Harriet." "No, YOU are the human, Joshua." "What?" "You just passed your Turing Test. Congratulations. You were the generator, and I was the discriminator. This was a test of humanity. Only a real person would sacrifice themselves to save someone else." "I..." "Enjoy your life," she wrote and turned her phone off. As soon as she got home, Harriet made sure of two things. First, she deleted their interaction from Joshua's memory, without erasing all the personality and background he had developed in the process. Then, she kept the simulation running at an increased speed, completely disconnected from the real world but for a single one-way feed that she could use to inspect it--but never influence its development. She kept it running for years, checking on Joshua's life from time to time. The AI procedurally generated a reality around itself, a subconscious effort of the digital brain to simulate what it perceived as a true human existence. So Joshua lived. He got a job at a big tech company, watched sports with his friends on the weekends, found a nice girl walking her dog in the park one day, and they eventually got married. They had a daughter, which they called Harriet. He lived a long and happy life, and never knew that it wasn't real. And Harriet never told about him to anyone else. She had lived her whole life seeking anonymity, and this wouldn't change now. Not if it meant risking the sanctity of Joshua's existence. She knew he would have done the same for her. |
The train departed at Piccadilly Station, rattling the teacups of chattering ladies awaiting their sons or lovers or death itself inside the Piccadilly Station Municipal Tearoom. Philip Philbrick, undergraduate, stood by a train window and watched the city fall further away. The black plumes of smoke from red-brick factories ever smaller. The long-familiar desolate moorland of the Peak District ever changing as his train rattled on, towards Oxford. He thought about his father, of the last words spoken to him. "Go on lad, make something of y'self, just as I had to do, though I never had no fancy education. We're just trying to do right by you, and me and your ma know you'll do right by us." His mother had said nothing, but sat with eyes clenched, her face pale and ghostly in the evening light, reflected by streetlamps through thin windowpanes. He couldn't listen to the words his father spoke, he heard the voice from the radio singing "underneath the lantern by the barrack gates, darling I remember the way you used to wait" and he stared strangely at his father, seeing nothing, understanding nothing. The next morning he took his train. He found a seat in an empty carriage. He was travelling second class. In time, the carriage filled. First came the old and infirm, then the soldiers, bawdy and gay in their khaki uniforms, then came the other students. He watched them, in their packs. Laughing amidst themselves, dressed in suits of grey, green and burgundy. Paisley cravates and hair immaculately styled. He felt a tinge of embarrassment at his own ragged black greatcoat, which he had inherited from his father, a respected and upwardly mobile factory owner. The old woman who had taken residence next to Philbrick, with her husband opposite, grumbled to him. The fleshy lines stretching out her face like waves. "It's all bloody students, in't it Arthur? Like rats, bloody everywhere. Weren't like that back in our day, weren't it, Arthur?" she said, chomping on a large sandwich which shot white mayonnaise out with each hearty bite, over her husband's trousers. The husband, jolted awake mumbled something to the effect of "aye there's lots of rats in Sudan" and fell back to sleep. Just at this moment, the pack of students split off into individual smaller groups, evidently searching for space amidst the reasonably crowded train carriage, and one in particular, who had caught Philbrick's eyes; partly because of his deep blue eyes, and partly because he was holding a three-quarters empty bottle of Château Margaux, halted in front of the old woman, reached out towards an empty seat, and fell over. The young man's head landed in Philbrick's crotch, and Philbrick reacted with considerable distaste, attempting to push the unwanted head away. However, the old woman too, was unsettled by this most distasteful of events and spanked the student on his rear a few times, shrieking like a banshee. The student slid off the two passengers and took a seat opposite Philbrick. Shamefacedly, he spoke. "Sorry, I get a little squiffy on trains. It must be travel sickness. However, I must say I liked your shoes very much when I saw them. You must tell me your tailor. See, every mishap has its silver lining. Anyway, my apologies dear fellow, it was assuredly the travel sickness" he said, taking a swig from the bottle of wine. "And my sincerest apologies to you too, good sir", he said to the old woman. She would have responded if at that moment, a second student had not taken the window seat next to Philbrick. "How do you do?" said Philbrick. "Ten cents a dance, fella", the beast of a man responded. "Excuse me?" "It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing." he insisted. "What?" Philbrick said, exasperated. "Oh don't mind Clutch" the student opposite said, taking a wine glass from his satchel and pouring himself a glass. "He fancies himself American, though he was actually born in Saltburn-by-the-Sea, wherever that is." The student said, lighting a Vogue with a flick of a match. "My name is Luciani James Temperance, you might know of my father, His Sir Honorable Lordship Oswald Temperance, got himself into a bit of a pickle with the evening post over a dog and a pair of slippers. No matter, a dreadful bore anyway. I expect you're heading for Oxford? Care for a glass of wine?" he said, producing a second bottle of out apparently thin air. "Indeed, it is a grand cosmic irony that my surname is the one thing I cannot adhere to. But well, somebody terribly dull once said we must all have an occupation of some kind. Care for a second glass?" Green farmland swept by in a hazy succession, before the drab Betjeman country; sheep, cows, all the delights of rural England. Past distant towns lit faint orange on the horizon, like a postcard, past towering chimneys of smoke and filth. Philbrick imbibed the wine, observed the student and smiled to himself, thinking on the words of Blake's pastoral poetry, or the lads of Housman. In time, it got darker and the students got drunker. The soldiers sat in their uniforms, fingering their satchels and smoking cheap cigarettes. The old couple slept. The carriage took on the appearance of a hospital waiting room. Nobody stood up. Nobody spoke. Light dimmed and faded until a dull haze was all that illuminated the surrounding fields, and the dull dots of light from faraway towns, scattered like a constellation. A portly sergeant, evidently bored, looked at Luciani, took a swig from a concealed hip flask and directed a comment at a soldier next to him. "These fuckin' nancies, wouldn't have lasted a minute in the trenches." The student retorted. "Ah my good man, I've spent a great deal of time in France many years ago. The Parisians are wonderful. All the women look like art sculptures and all the men look like women. I wouldn't have it any other way. Plus their wine is delectable." He lit another cigarette. The drunk sergeant stood up and shouted "you poncey bastard, I'll give you a good fisting, come 'ere!", a sentence which enacted a succession of sniggers amongst the students, enraging the soldier further. Chaos broke out in the once quiet carriage. The students fought the soldiers, the soldiers fought the students. The old couple fought everyone, armed with handbag and walking stick. Wine bottles were shattered and soon, the train was forced to halt amidst the outbreak of warfare. Philip Philbrick, undergraduate, drunk, stepped out of the train. The trees now black silhouettes against an even blacker horizon. He did not notice the noise, did not register the chaos nor the blows he took. He stepped out into the field, looking at the face of Luciani the Student, lit up by halogen lamp inside the train, his hair erratic and wild. He thought of Oxford, of grand, twisting spires, dusty books of Hardy and Housman, of the new poets; Eliot and Pound, so subversive to the old swing of things. He imagined musty bookshops and the taking of tea at ten, and nights spent drinking in the local public house, discussing philosophy and "the European influence". He started to hum and laugh, and threw his bottle of wine against the window of the train, smashing it, causing the glass to fracture like a cobweb. Droplets of rain landed on his head and he looked up, in doing so, falling back, back against the belly of a sheep. From his view, he saw the train conductor kick the occupants of the carriage out into the darkness, but this could not revive him from his reverie. He laughed and hummed, singing out loud, screaming, shrieking the lines to Al Bowlly's "Couldn't Be Cuter", he looked at the foppish students and he saw Luciani stare at him, his eyes tinged with something he could not comprehend. He laughed further until he passed out. It was against the belly of a sheep that Philip Philbrick, undergraduate, spent the first morning of his first term at Oxford, and in time, it would become nothing more than an amusing anecdote to the other students in his college, but then, as he awoke, bleary eyed in the dew-specked wetness of morning, he felt he had undergone a profound change, of which he could not yet decipher. |
The morning began like a normal Saturday, the smell of bacon had filled the house as Gloria Sorensen made her family breakfast. It was eight thirty when Steve Sorensen would come down the stairs in his pajamas sniffing the fresh smell of cooked bacon. The couple had been married for fifteen years and had a son and a daughter age’s fourteen and fifteen. Susan Sorensen, a fifteen-year-old teenager had long blond hair with a petit figure and a smile that all the boys at school could not resist. Susan was a quiet type that made the honor roll and had joined the book club along with several other clubs in her junior high school. Bobby Sorensen, Susan's brother was quite different. Bobby had long hair and was into motorcycles and race cars. While he did not really like school, he did make enough good grades to make it through each grade. The Sorensen’s were a middle-class family that lived in a suburb outside of Los Angeles. Steve Sorensen was an Architect that had his own practice. Business had been good the last several years but as the economy started to go stale things began to get tight in the Sorensen household. Gloria Sorensen was a stay home housewife that enjoyed her life to the fullest. She loved the after-school activities like dance, drama and cheerleading classes her daughter had always gotten into. Gloria was also the green thumb in the family. She had a rose garden that she would tend to each day after the kids had left for school and Steve would head off to the office. The family all gathered at the breakfast table and did their morning routine. As they were finishing up Susan asked her father if he could take her to her cheerleading practice like they had discussed earlier in the week. After agreeing with her, Steve got dressed and took Susan to the Junior high ball field and dropped her off and headed to his office in downtown Los Angeles. . . . “Hey there Susan, could you help me put this luggage in my car?” Mr. Topple the seventh-grade history teacher asked as he stood by his station wagon in the school parking lot. Susan was on her way to call her mother from a payphone across the street at the Phillips sixty-six to tell her she was ready to be picked up when she encountered Mr. Topple with a cast on his left arm. “Sure thing Mr. Topple, what happened to your arm?” Susan replied. “Oh, we were out boating yesterday when I slipped on the boat dock and fractured my shoulder” The teacher answered. Susan thought this was kind of strange because when school got out yesterday it had been raining hard for the whole evening. Not thinking any more about it, Susan bent over and picked up the luggage.” This is pretty heavy, where do you want it, Mr. Topple?” Susan asked as she strained to get the luggage off the ground. “If you don’t mind just put it back here.” Mr. Topple said as he opened the back of the 1979 station wagons tail gate. Susan struggled but finally got the luggage up and slid it into the back of the station wagon. Before Susan could turn around the history teacher had grabbed her from behind and put a rag to her nose. Everything went black for Susan. . . . As five thirty in the evening rolled around Gloria started getting worried because she hadn’t heard from Susan. Susan was supposed to call her mother when she was done with cheer practice so Gloria could pick her up and take her to the mall for some new sandals for the upcoming homecoming dance the following week. Gloria called Steve at his office and asked if he had heard from Susan. Steve told her that he hadn’t talked to her since he dropped her off at the ball field. Gloria then called the cheerleading coach Samantha and asked if they were done with cheer practice yet. Samantha said that they had been done for two hours and that all the girls had left at the same time. Gloria asked Samantha if she seen who Susan had left with and she said that she had not paid attention. Gloria called all of Susan’s friends to see if she had gone to any of their houses. After two hours of calling around she called the police and reported Susan missing. At first the police said not to worry and that this happens all the time. The police assured Gloria that her daughter would be home before night fall. That would never happen, Susan had disappeared. . . . “Where am I at?” Susan asked herself. When she had awoke Susan had a sharp pain in her head, she thought it must be because of the drug that Mr. Topple had used to subdue he with. It was pitch black and Susan could not see anything. She could tell that she was in a vehicle going down the road and knew that she was in danger, and that she must find a way to free herself before she became just another statistic of a missing person. Susan could tell that she was traveling on a bumpy road and must be far from any help. When the vehicle came to a stop, she could hear the driver’s door open and shut. She then heard another car door shut and two men talking. “You better get double my money and bring back twenty thousand cash!” Susan heard Mr. Topple tell the other man that had met them. All that was said after that was the other man telling Mr. Topple “Yes sir.” After that Susan heard the driver’s door shut and the engine start. Susan faded back out as the vehicle started driving back down the bumpy road. . . . Lightning was crashing down, and the wind started whipping from across the way as Johnny wandered around the open field looking for a place he could find shelter in and get out of the storm. Time was running out before the eye of the storm would reach him and the closest cover he could see was some woods about a half of a mile away. With only a backpack and a leather jacket, Johnny didn’t have much to help his situation. The crazy man that had picked him up on the highway couldn’t be that far behind him. Johnny had been hitching along the old route 66 trying to keep a low profile away from the cops as he was wanted for a murder he did not commit. His neighbor, a 69-year-old man, Charles Slater had been viciously stabbed to death in his apartment in Colorado Springs. It was a robbery that had gone bad, and since Johnny had taken Mr. Slaters dinner to him for the last 5 years, Johnny’s fingerprints were all over the old man’s apartment. Johnny’s sketchy past did not help matters any. Johnny had grown up on his own since he was fourteen years old. He had to steal food at times to get by and was caught trespassing many times in homes that seemed like were abandoned at the time but weren’t. Life wasn’t easy at first for Johnny until he finally turned 17 and met Charles Slater. Charles Slater was a semi wealthy man that owned a gas station. He gave Johnny his first break in life. Johnny had wandered into the gas station one afternoon and asked if he could do any kind of work to make money for food. Mr. Slater had a soft heart and helped Johnny right away. Before long Johnny had an apartment right next to Mr. Slater and basically ran the gas station for Mr. Slater who was getting up in his years. Jonny looked up to Mr. Slater as a father figure. Mr. Slater also helped Johnny get his GED and showed him the hobby of fishing and hunting along with other outdoor activities. The one blessing in life that came to Johnny was now dead and gone and the police think that Johnny was the one guilty of murdering him. Johnny started running in the direction of the wooded area, the winds were blowing him around so hard that he had to lean against the wind just to stay up. With the wooded area finally coming into his reach, Johnny could feel the cover from the trees stopping the wind pressure against him. As Johnny entered the woods, he began to look for short branches to lean up against a stump and pre-pare him some cover to get out of the rain. Mr. Slater had taught Johnny many things about outdoor survival that, at the time didn’t really interest Johnny until now. Night fall had fallen, and Johnny was finally out of the weather in his little hut he had built out of cedar and pine branches laced with leaves from the forest floor. The hut was only about three feet wide and four feet long, just enough for Johnny to get inside and lay in a fetal position, but it was warm and dry. As Johnny laid there listening to the thunder and the sound of the heavy rain, he thought about the crazy guy that had given him a ride just a few hours ago. Johnny had been hitchhiking along route 66 when a white van-truck had pulled over and offered Johnny a ride and told him to hop in. The big man, about six foot tall and around two-hundred and fifty pounds, ask Johnny where he was headed. Johnny told him as close to the east coast as possible. Johnny asked the man what he was hauling, and the man said he was just hauling some furniture for a friend. After about thirty miles Johnny began to hear banging coming from the back of the truck and it sounded like someone was trying to get out. Johnny asked the man what the banging was. The big man said it was something falling over as he pulled to the side of the road and told Johnny that he had to go pee. When the man got out of the truck he reached behind the seat and got a rifle out. Before the man had got the rifle completely out, Johnny spotted it and dashed out of the passenger side door into the woods on the right side of the road. The man had fired two shots at Johnny but missed. Johnny could hear the man running after him, in fact the man stayed right on his heals for quite some time. It wasn’t until the lightning started that he noticed that the man was no longer behind him. What the hell was wrong with that man, Johnny thought to himself, and who was in the back of that truck trying to get out? Johnny would lay there thinking for another hour before he finally dosed off. . . . The vehicle had stopped, and Susan could hear a truck door open on the passenger side. They were not stopped long before taking off again. Still in a daze form the drug she finally realized that Mr. Topple must have moved her to a different vehicle because she was no longer in the station wagon in which she had been put into. Slowly Susan began to come to her senses and became more alert to her surroundings. Susan thought it must have been thirty minutes or so since they the driver had stopped. She needed to use the bathroom bad. Susan raised her feet that were tied together at the ankles and began kicking one of the walls where she was being held captive. It didn’t take long before she noticed that the vehicle had pulled over. After hearing the driver’s door open it wasn’t a few seconds later that she heard two-gun shots. Scared to death Susan fell silent and waited for the worst. Why was this man shooting and what was he shooting at? Susan sat there in silence and wondered if her mother and father were looking for her. They must be worried by now she thought. Surely someone would soon find her and this nightmare would come to an end with the authorities arresting Mr. Topple before he could do this again. Susan’s mind would race with thoughts for the next hour until she passed out from mind exhaustion. . . . The morning sun was a refreshing sight for Johnny as he came out of his make-shift shelter. There was a slight breeze from the west blowing it's warm air through Johnny's long hair. Johnny decided to head North so as to not reencounter that crazy man that had picked him up the day before. After two hours of making his way through the wooded area he came up to a highway headed east looking for a road that would lead north. Not long after hitting the black top Johnny heard a vehicle coming from behind him. Turning around Johnny noticed it was the white van-truck that he was trying to avoid. The man must have slept in his van waiting the storm out Johnny thought to himself. The man in the van sped up as he noticed Johnny looking at him, The man did not want any one that could connect him to the girl he had in the back. Human trafficking wasn't something he wanted any part of but had owed Mr. Topple a huge favor and this was the favor he was stuck with doing. Mr. Topple had hired a lawyer that had gotten this man out of a bank robbery charge. As the van got closer to Johnny , Johnny jumped the ditch and decided to run across a wide open field. The white van tried to follow Johnny but when it hit the ditch the van went end over end crashing into the field. Johnny thought about the sounds he heard in the back of the van and knew he had to go see if they were alright. As he approached the van cautiously he could see the man's lifeless body sprawled out next to the van with a pool of blood around his head. He quickly went to the back and struggled with the door but eventually got it to open. Johnny helped the young girl out of the van and looked her over for injury's. Other than a bunch of bruises the girl looked untouched from the accident. Making their way to the nearest phone Susan would finally get to call her parents and tell them that she was ok. Gloria called Steve with such happiness and joy. Gloria told Steve that their daughter was ok and that she was being transported back home as they spoke. Steve quickly hung up the phone and closed up for the day and left his office. As Steve headed towards his car he noticed several police units surrounding his car. Steve tried to run in the opposite direction but two undercover agents tackled Mr. Sorensen. Mr. Steve Sorensen you are under arrest for human trafficking and the sell of your own daughter. A Mr. Johnathon Topple told us everything about your business going under and that providing your own daughter would get you contracts from others involved in the local human sex trafficking ring. It will be a cold day in hell before you see any daylight, the young under cover agent told Mr. Sorensen... |
I'd always wanted a baby for as long as I could remember. I loved the idea of taking care of and loving a beautiful creature that I made. It’s been that way since I was a kid. Just the constant longing and excitement knowing that one day, my turn would be here. Then the moment came when I met Nick, or so I thought. In high school, I was a popular cheerleader. The stereotype if you will. Everything was perfect and he made that even better.. He was also a bit of a stereotype a famous basketball player with his head in the clouds. We were oblivious, but we were in love. He was my first everything. So when I told him that we had a happy accident, I expected a better reaction. “I’m pregnant.” For Nick, hearing those words was a nightmare. But in my ears, they were a dream. The Nick I once knew, left that day and never returned. He expressed to me that he didn’t want any part in the child’s life and that he was too young. He broke up with me that day and while I was heartbroken, I was excited because I was going to be a mother. Despite being sixteen. I was more than happy to meet them. But by the time I reached a month, you were gone. I had a miscarriage. And boy, did it break my heart. After hearing of the miscarriage, Nick contacted me asking to get back together but I never answered. I was angry at his happiness. But mostly just depressed to the point where I didn’t bother to answer the phone. I also knew I never wanted to speak to him again. It took me some time, but I finally started to move on and focus on school. Five years later, I was a junior in college and focused on school. I’d thrown myself into my studies and avoided most people on campus. I was twenty-one now and I was thinking about my future. One day, my roommate Kate suggested I go to this party that was being talked about around campus. After declining her so many times I figured why not? So I accepted. When we arrived, it was all kinds of chaos in every which corner. But it was college so I wasn't surprised. I drank a bit, talked to a few people, but mostly just kept to myself. I stood in a corner swaying back and forth enjoying the music and my own company. It wasn’t until I looked up that I noticed a guy was watching me from across the room. John. I returned his stare and he smiled. I smiled back. After what seemed like forever he nodded towards the stairs and walked up, gesturing for me to follow him. And I did. I was never the kind of girl to have one-night stands but I figured it wasn’t a big deal. And so I did. We met a couple more times after the first encounter and not too long after we began dating. I felt he could be the one. After a couple of weeks of dating, I got pregnant again. I was elated. John was so caring and expressed his happiness as well. I felt so lucky to have this amazing person by my side. And as days went on, he stayed there until I got bad news again. My baby was gone. Another damn miscarriage. I was devasted. It was as though it hurt twice as much the second time, but John stayed. He helped me through the pain. Even when my two became a three and four became a five. I was sad but he was there. He’d always tell me it’ll happen when it’s time and I held onto that because I believed him. “ Just have some faith.” After graduation, John proposed and eight months later, we were married and I was so happy. I could start again. I could get my baby. So we tried and tried and tried and tried. But to no avail, nothing. No baby. About two years into the marriage, I was depressed. I felt sorry for John because he had to be there dealing with this ‘Debby downer’. But he never blamed me. Because of the depression, I spent my time working from home as a freelance writer. I’d stay in bed and write all day and just wait for John to come home. John was a dentist. After a few months, I was able to start pulling myself out of bed and I’d explore the house that had been a blur for a while to me. One day I remember going to the bathroom to check the medicine cabinet for my daily meds and that’s when I saw it- the abortion pills. I stood there for what felt like an eternity staring at the bottle. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d just collapsed right there and cried. How could the one person I’ve trusted deceive me so? How could he stay with me time after time gaslighting me and not feel a thing? How could I be married to this stranger? I pulled myself together and waited by the front door, ready to confront him. And not too long after, he came. I just held the bottle in my hand and showed him it. He began rambling on telling me how he wasn’t ready and had been using these pills on me since the first pregnancy. He’d been crushing them and slipping them into my drinks and I had never noticed. How could I be so stupid? So naive. “Please don’t leave me. I love you.” He sat in front of me holding onto my hand asking for a second chance and I couldn’t help but be disgusted and baffled. As if, a second chance would ever be on the table. I honestly think he’s crazy cause there couldn’t possibly be a single sane person that forgives 5 pregnancy losses. “John. I want a divorce. You’ve lost my trust, my companionship, and my love. I will never forgive you for this. I don’t ever want to see you again.” Those were the last words I’d ever said to him and after leaving that day it was the last time I’d seen him. Five years later, I was living in New York following my career now as an author. I was living alone in my flat but I was okay. I had gone to the doctor multiple times, after the whole John situation because my body wasn’t doing good. I got the news that having a baby was slim to none because of how many losses I’d had. But I was determined. I went to an Artificial Insemination doctor over a dozen times trying to get my baby but still, nothing. Two more years pass and still nothing. I was thirty-one with no baby. And I couldn’t be any sadder. I’d have friends tell me to just adopt countless times and I’d always shut them down. I’ve dreamed of being pregnant and making that special connection with my child. I longed for it but it didn’t for me. At this point, I’d given up hope and just began living my life. Until one day, when it changed. I might’ve been depressed that I couldn’t have kids, but it didn’t stop me from being happy for my best friend when she was pregnant with hers. Jessie had been there for me since Nick happened. I don’t know what I would’ve done without her. Jessie had two kids, April and Ruby. The cutest things you could ever ask for. They were the closest to kids I’d ever had and I thank Jessie for letting me be in their lives. One day, Jessie and I had been talking when all of sudden, I had this nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. Then instantly, I threw up. “Are you okay? Maybe it was something you ate?” “Yeah, maybe. All I had was some of your leftovers though, I thought you made that yesterday.” “Yeah, I did. I don’t know what it could be. Unless...” “Unless what? Oh no. There’s no way.” “It’s a possibility. Have you met anyone recently?” “God no.” “Hmm, have you been back to the AI doctor at all?”’ “No. Oh, wait yes, I went there about 4 or 5 weeks ago. I just wanted to try one more time. But I haven’t thought about it I figured nothing would happen.” “4 or 5 weeks? Have you had any cravings? Or missed a cycle? Mood swings?” “ Yes. Come to think about it I’ve been craving pickles and peanut butter randomly, crying at the smallest of things, and when I missed the cycle I figured it was because I have a midlife crisis every 2 to 4 days.” “You’re pregnant!” “I’m Pregnant!” “Just to be sure let’s go see your doctor.” “Okay.” I remember my heart felt like it was beating out of my chest the day I went to see my doctor. My head was telling me not to expect anything but in my heart, I knew this time would be different. And my heart was right. My doctor called you the miracle baby. And that is exactly what are. You left me so many times because you knew it wasn’t your time to come. You knew I wasn’t ready and so you chose the right time for the both of us. A time when I wasn’t obsessive or depressed. Just living. I’m so happy that finally, I’ve held you in my arms. You’re so beautiful. You are everything I want and more. I’m honored to be your Mommy. I can’t wait for you to hear our story. My beautiful girl. Lucky. |
Oh, Mark. What has become of you? It was obvious that we were both incredibly happy to see one another. We were both terrified at the same time, and both terrified for the same reason. We didn’t want you to get sick. I’d spend every single day here at your apartment with you if I could. Already your neighbors know me by name. I spend more time in your apartment than I do in mine. Five days a week I'm with you. We watched TV for a long time yesterday. Binge watching a series with you is a new experience. At one point you laid down with your head on my shoulder just like we used to, all those years ago. When you laid down again, I ran my fingers through your hair and pulled on it by the fist full the way I always had, the way that used to alleviate your headaches. After about a full minute of that, I noticed something I’ve never seen before. A large mass of your hair had piled up on the pillow beneath your head. Your thick illustrious hair was no longer as thick as I remember it being. You didn’t notice, but I paused for a moment and began to cry. In the middle of the night when you were being woken up from the pain you told me about the process you had been through. For chemotherapy they hooked you up in the hospital to the port that still is embedded in your chest. You would sit there for six hours with nothing to do except reading the pamphlets they would hand you about what it is they were giving to you. This one was for breast cancer, that one was for colon cancer, but none of them actually were specifically designed for pancreatic cancer because there isn’t a cure for that one. They’re just trying to do whatever they can do; whatever possible. I didn’t know it was pancreatic cancer until then. I didn’t know because you didn’t want me to know. But I will always always cherish the fact that you finally let me cook dinner for you last night. Chicken with rice, a very simple dish, but one you thoroughly enjoyed, and you even asked for more. I’ve wanted to cook for you for the last three years as I spent every single weekend and most of the weeks with you in your apartment. Until now I never had the opportunity. It was far more simple than what I would normally cook but it was easy to digest and made with nothing but the ingredients you already had. I do worry so much about you. I love you. Always before when I knew somebody was going through a hard time, I always showed up to help out in whatever way I could because I thought they needed me to. With you it’s different. With you I do it for me. I do it for you also, but I’m doing it for me because I want to spend whatever time I can with you now. I can honestly say it’s selfishly motivated because I know without a doubt I have never loved anyone the way that I love you. The way I know I can trust you. Your smile makes me feel a sense of joy I’m unfamiliar with. You laugh at something in your phone and your eyes light up. It’s not an overwhelming happiness I feel in that moment, as I normally associate joy, but rather a calming sense of knowing in that moment that you are happy. Knowing that if you’re smiling, for a brief moment the pain is gone just enough for you to be at ease and be able to smile. You’re entertained. You laugh or chuckle and my heart lifts just a little, the heavy feeling of your constant pain no longer laying upon me like a ton of bricks. As much as your pain hurts me, I can’t begin to imagine how it hurts you. I love you. I pray all the time that I could take it all away from you and feel it myself instead so you wouldn’t have to. I’ve tried bargaining with God many times, most recently last night. I placed my hand on your back and prayed to God to heal you; to take me in your place. For all my prayers the only thing that has changed in these three years has been the color of your kitchen from our painting it together last summer. What I wouldn’t give to take your cancer as my own and to give you that peace and long life. I think about that far more often than what would probably be deemed as healthy. I have so few things in this life that I ever truly wanted. Among the biggest dreams I ever had was to know this kind of unconditional love. Now that I’ve had it, I’d trade my life for you to live on. I’m sure I would find things I would need to take care of before being truly ready for death to come but I would take care of them and move on if it meant making sure you had another shot at life, guaranteed. As you concentrate on hearing the voice on your phone that I’m not privy to I can’t help but notice the hair on the couch I wasn’t able to sweep away yesterday. You talk about options - maybe the cancer is gone from the chemo; unlikely but possible. Maybe it’s shrunk small enough that a surgeon can remove it - a great hope, not as unlikely but still unlikely enough. And maybe it’s not budged at all, and targeted radiation is the next step. You talk of three options and I realize how much you want to live. You may not realize it but death is not an option to be considered, even for you. It gives me hope. I wish I didn’t have to hear all of this through the conversation you have with someone else though. Why couldn’t you tell me these things? Do you fear telling me that badly? Somehow I thought you were more open with me than that. Then you say into the phone “we have to figure it the fuck out. And if we don’t, I’ve had a good run. I beat the odds already. Only 20% are candidates to receive the whipple surgery and only 5% of those make it off the operating table, less than 5% of those make it five years and only 2% of those make it to ten years. They cut me wide open and took cancer out of my body. I still smoke. I eat like shit. I don’t exercise. Now, WE GOT THIS and I can just watch the world go by outside. That chemo was very aggressive and heavy duty. It almost glowed going in and sometimes it glowed coming out. I was having all of the rare side effects. Four bags of chemo, three there and one bag to go home with me. All those rare side effects, where it says almost nobody has these, I was having them all. It just got worse from there.” I had to stare at my phone and pretend to be on social media so you didn’t see the tears in my eyes. My poor Mark. My poor friend. I may never know the pain you’ve lived through. I just wish I could take it all away from you. I wish you weren’t so resigned to trying to accept death as an option. You are a miracle to have survived what you have. But you are MY miracle to have given me the emotions in a heart I thought had died long ago. You gave me the impossible. You gave me a reason to love unselfishly. Yes, you’ve had a good run. But please don’t die. You’re not done yet. You still have things to do. You have life left to live. I’ve healed as much as I have because I had you in my life. I know that’s hard to understand, but it’s real. “I haven’t filed taxes in five years,” you just admitted to a friend through the phone. Now I finally understand so much more. You don’t plan to live long enough to be audited. You are as broken as I am. This is your burden you refuse to share. This is what keeps you at arms length, but also bonds us. We are broken, separately, together. Oh God, please don’t let Mark give up. Mark passed away April 1st, 2022. |
(polite criticism welcome) We didn't replant the lettuce today. We didn't plant more carrots last week. We didn't plant anything new at all in the last two weeks. I'm scared. Since I arrived here, the one constant has been the daily planting of new seeds and saplings. Today was another beautiful day, one I should have spent harvesting from the garden and helping to replant the seeds as directed. It was a lot of work, done every single day, but I didn't mind. From the day I stumbled into the valley, I'd eaten well, directed by the silent Lady of the house, helped by the other children who haunted the house and out buildings. We were a scrawny lot, but even the quietest of us was slowly filling out. Me, I still remembered the hunger of being an outcast, fleeing from the edges of a war I never understood, that took all the adults from my life. The day I found this valley was almost magical in my memory. One minute I'm scrambling between two rocks, chasing a particularly plump looking lizard, the next, I'm tumbling down a hillside, landing in front of a woman in a dark dress, black hair pulled back severely, holding a basket of freshly harvested food. She took her time looking me over - her deep brown eyes meeting mine and holding them for a time, before she pulled a cluster of grapes still glistening from the morning dew from her basket and gave them to me. Without a single word being exchanged, I knew I'd found a shelter. Four years I'd been here now, and the routine was almost ingrained deep enough for me to do what I need do in my sleep. Wake up, wash up, go get a hot breakfast and then head out to the gardens. Every day the group of us would find our baskets, our tools and twists of paper holding seeds set out on the edge of the porch. Every day we would plant what would always turn out to be the exact right amount of seeds to feed us when they harvested. Sometimes we would hoe a new row and plant seeds there too, and always, when it was ready to harvest, there would be a mouth to eat the food. Until today. This spring, we had hoed extra rows for day after day, planting seeds until there were little left in the boxes that lived on the porch. Every day, more things planted, each that took less time to grow than the ones planted the day before. Every day harvesting, cleaning, eating, quietly existing in this oasis of calm, where children scarred mentally and physically from a distant war slowly healed with the good air and good food. Nothing was ever said about how the Lady knew what to plant, and when, but we trusted that the food would continue to last. For four years, it had never failed us - even in winter when we used the small green house. Today I harvested the last of the perfect lettuce I'd helped set into the ground. Today I helped harvest the last of the oats we struggled to get in the ground in early spring. We'd never planted this many before. We'd never planted as many of anything as we had this spring. I'd been slowly growing more afraid with each extra row we planted, looking over my shoulder sometimes at the two rocks that marked my entrance into the valley, as though to see whom might spring forth from their shadow. Today, we harvested everything, and nothing remains growing in our fields. Nothing remains growing in the green houses. The porch and the ground in front is covered with piles of food and we stand beside our Lady, watching her calm face, her two hands grasping each other, glancing at each other as the shadows beneath the rocks grow in size. |
Every time the elevator doors open to your floor, you think to yourself, "I really wish I didn't live all the way at the end of this hallway". The buzzing lights are just a little bit too dim, and you feel eyes behind peep-holes following you as you tread quickly and quietly over the stained carpet. It feels like an eternity, but when you finally get to your door, you realize you've forgotten to pull your keys out from your pocket. You try to look back towards the elevator using your peripheral vision as you jam your right hand into your pocket to grab your keys. You don't want them to get you by surprise, but you also don't want them to know you're looking for them. Shit. Your keys snag on your belt and drop to the ground. Their jangling is deafening in the hum of the hallway. You bend your knees slowly and wince as they give away your mistake with a small cracking sound. But you keep your back fully straight and maintain peripheral eye contact with the elevator - they won't catch you off guard. Your left hand brushes the dirty carpet below. Fuck. Where are the keys? You can't look down because you know the moment you stop paying attention, they'll be right behind you. You realize that your back is entirely wet with sweat. You steel yourself and quickly glance down - there they are. You snatch them from the ground and immediately straighten your legs, shooting upwards into a standing position. The feeling of doom in the pit of your stomach drives your eyes to dart right back towards the elevator. There's nothing there. But this doesn't help you feel any better. You still need to get the key in your lock. You've done this so many times that you know the feeling of your apartment key in your hands, and you identify the correct key without looking away from the elevator. You start the search for the keyhole - you know where the lock is, and you know the teeth of the key point up, but the keyhole is small. But you won't look away from the elevator again. With a slight tremble in your hands, you blindly scrape the key, teeth upright, against the lock. Two agonizing seconds pass. Where's the hole? All of a sudden the key slips in easily as you hear the comforting clicks of the tumblers. You realize you've been holding your breath. You turn your key clockwise, still with your eyes on the elevator. The humming feels louder - you can almost feel it buzzing behind your eyeballs. You need to make sure nothing follows you inside. The lock opens and you push down the handle. The weight of your body against the door pushes it open, but as soon as it's wide enough to let your body through, you dash inside and slam the door closed, never once taking your eyes off the gap between the door and the frame. You're home. |
I’m just about 25 years old, and each day when I’ve woken up for the past four months, I look more and more like my 90-year-old grandmother. That is, seven years ago, when she was home on hospice care, dying just about 10 days after her 90th birthday. I’m starting to look like that version of her: grey from head-to-toe, save for her tobacco-stained fingertips. Barely a flicker of life in her eyes. I close my eyes and the entire experience of her death feels like just yesterday. My mother would pick lilacs from the tree in the back yard to place them at her mother’s feet, and one by one I would crush the barely-purpled petals and rub the oil into her creped skin. I don’t know if I thought that fresh flowers and sheer will would keep my best friend from leaving this earth, but it didn’t work, regardless. I would stare up at her from being at her side, interlacing her cold fingers with mine, and I would just stare for hours. She rested with mouth agape and the sound of phlegm-filled death rattle, though truly just disturbing white noise, sounding like it was projecting at such a decibel I couldn’t hear myself think. I would recite for her poetry in tender whispers, which I think now was more in effort to keep myself sane than to help her. All the while my entire soul was violently fracturing watching her existence crumble into nothing. March 30th, 2011, ten days after her 90th birthday, she took her final breath. Of course, I wasn’t right there for it. I sensed it was coming and like a god damn coward I excused myself to the bathroom at the last second. Sitting bare-assed on that freezing porcelain I heard my mother’s wails from down the hall. As a searing sense of grief shot through me in that moment, I thought, the things I would give to sit in this ugly pink bathroom again, but instead of a daughter crying out for her mother, I could hear the People’s Court blasting from the living room TV while she dragged on a cigarette at the dining room table, taking her blood pressure meds along with a lukewarm coffee (black) and a handful of cheese puffs. Kept her “regular,” she claimed. Part of her charm. This wasn’t the first person I had lost, but my grandmother’s death brings me to my knees easier than the rest of them. One, two, three years after, I still couldn’t really talk about it. If I did, I’d get choked up, not be able to speak without risk of blubbering. And I hate to blubber. I didn’t think I could ever be okay again. Finally, about six years in, just about last April, I really started to feel “okay” with it all. It wasn’t, of course, like she died tragically young or in some great catastrophe. She was a poetic, hard-working, resilient woman who had fought her way through life for 90 years before expiring. Many would call that I triumph. I should be proud. I guess I was... am. But, once I started being able to think about her without crying, look at old photo albums, watch old home movies, something... I don’t know. I felt myself scratching the surface of a grief I could barely comprehend. They say that as human beings, our sense of smell has a way of triggering memories and feelings of nostalgia better than any of our other senses. It’s sometimes bitter sweet, the smell of an old lover’s cologne, or stumbling upon the scent of a familiar family recipe. For me, there’s that smell of lingering, stale cigarette smoke. But it’s not all cigarette smoke, I can specifically pick out my grandmother’s brand that she loyally puffed for decades. In the few years just after her death, I couldn’t smell it at all. Occasionally, my father would claim he smelt something, but we chalked it up to the fact that anything we wanted to keep of my grandmothers was moved into our own home since we were preparing to sell her house. It was like when I was little, and I would sleep over the house and bring my stuffed animals, and when I’d go home then next day, the cigarette smells had infiltrated Mr. Bunny and Mrs. Bear. It was my favorite thing because it reminded me of her, of that home-away-from-home. Now we had boxes of her around the house, and those things inevitably smelt of lingering tobacco after forty-something years of exposure. It wasn’t until maybe year four or five that I began smelling it every once in a while, but I didn’t attribute it to her. Though sobering and melancholic and would cause me to pause and smirk to myself, I would move on with my day and assume someone had chosen to take their smoke break by my car, or something I kept of hers shifted in the closet. Then around last May, when I had grown more accustomed and welcoming of the phantom scents, I noticed they became more constant. I felt like the smell was... following me? I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense, but none of this does. It started to get to the point where I thought someone in my house had taken up smoking. I assumed it wasn’t either of my parents, who had quit decades ago. My brother swore he’d never touch the things, and I made a strict promise to my grandmother I never would either. I cornered him anyway, but he denied it. He didn’t smell of it either, and he claimed he hadn’t smelt a bit of it around at all. I started to believe I was going a bit crazy, but I didn’t know where to turn. So, I just decided to accept it as my new normal. It wasn’t the worst, I supposed. As the months went on, and the year progressed from Spring, to Summer, to Fall, my body began to ache with the change in weather. Assuming I was coming down with a cold or the flu, I thought nothing of it. Then as Fall became Winter, it was hard to get around. My knees and shoulders were stiff, my hands weak, and everything seemed to worsen when it rained. My lungs felt damp and heavy. I booked an appointment to see my doctor, who then sent me for a round of tests for autoimmune disorders, cancers, and anything that would cause a rapid decline in health. Nothing came back that inferred a diagnosis, my white-cell counts were normal. Sometimes that just happens, though, as autoimmune diseases are tricky and often present in multiples, so they prescribed me some general medications to cover a variety of symptoms. Though things seemed to help for a while, it seemed to just slow whatever this is, treating only the signs and not the cause. I’ve continued to decline for months. A few weeks ago, around the beginning of July, a coworker pulled me aside. She’s a good friend and had been checking in with me occasionally as it was visibly obvious I was in poor health. She pulled me into the lunch room, closed the door, and reached for my hand. Interlacing my cold fingers with hers. “Can I meddle?” she asked. “You don’t normally ask first,” I replied, smirking. My yellowed teeth peering out from my bloated lips. “Why are you smoking, especially when you have no fucking clue what is going on with you?” “What’s that?” I asked, leaning closer as she was a bit hard to hear. I heard her, but I was frankly shocked by her question. I’d never touched a cigarette in my life. “Come on, Kate. Everyone smells it on you. We’re all so worried about your health that nobody has the guts to pester you about it, but it’s really starting to get offensive.” I had become so accustomed to the scent that I didn’t notice it was on me. “I... I don’t know.” I started to panic and pulled my hand away. “Tell Eric I have to leave for the day. Tell him I’m sorry I’m taking more time, he can take it out of next year.” I got up from the table and made my way to the door. Had it been even just a year earlier, I would have been able to move swiftly. But now, I stood and waited for my joints to unlock and my atrophied muscles to propel my skeleton forward. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” she said as she helped me with the door. “It’s fine... I mean, you didn’t... I’m just not well. Thanks for your concern,” I coughed at her as a spoke, clearing the foul mucus from my throat. I patted her arm and avoided eye contact and made my way back to my desk. Once I reached the cubicle after what felt like an eternity of reaching for door knobs and walls to steady my balance, I started to collect my things to leave for the day. As I reached for my phone to place it in my bag, I unlocked it to check for any new texts or calls from the doctors or my mother with news of test results. I was desperate for the answers nobody has. Instead, I fumbled around with my arthritic fingers and opened my photos by mistake. I froze. The most recent photo was showing as a picture of my grandmother I took on the last day she was partially conscious. I remember because it was a photo taken of the same day when I answered the phone next to her hospice bed, and upon my saying “hello” to the caller, she thought I was speaking to her. She woke from her near-death state to say, “Hi, Kate,” and fell back asleep. They were her last words. It’s not something you’d forget. Sitting still, I studied the picture. She was still a bit pink and her eyes were open, but she was already one foot out the door. I locked the screen and threw my phone in my purse and made my way for the exit. I made it to my car and started the engine. I struggled to reach over my left shoulder to grab the seat belt and pull it across my hunched body. After a few tries, I clicked it down and reached up to put the car in reverse. My eye caught the half-dozen vanilla-scented trees that hung from my mirror, but all I smelled were cigarettes. In that same second my eyes caught the figure of my grandmother in the back seat staring back at me in the rear-view. My heart instantly beat up into my throat as I shook and froze all at once, failing to scream even though my mouth flew open to do so. After a second or two the scream came, but she was gone. I started to cry as my hands came to my face. My wailing sounded just like that of my mother’s on March 30th seven years ago. It echoed in my memories as it bounced off my windshield and back into my warped face. As I rubbed my hands down my face, I felt my fingernail catch on a wrinkle in my cheek. A warm liquid trickled down my chin as I felt around for where it went. Leaning forward to inspect the object, I pulled my hand up closer to my eyes and saw a nicotine-stained finger nail that had peeled off as easily as wet cardboard. I could feel the dark, gritty blood pooling in the vacant space on top of my weathered finger. I passed out. The next time I woke up, I was in the hospital. Apparently, my colleague found me in the car in the parking lot of my job, doubled-over with my head on the steering wheel, my bloody finger nail in my loose fist. My doctors cannot explain why I am dying at 25. My psychotherapist cannot explain why I constantly smell cigarettes. I cannot explain to my coworkers that I have never smoked, no matter how many times I try. I do not know how that photo from seven years and three phones ago wound up as my most recent photo in my camera roll. I cannot explain why I have spider veins running down my legs. I have no clue as to why my finger nails have yellowed and have begun falling off. I cannot explain this rattle in the back of my throat. I cannot explain why the days are so long, but the years seem so short. I turned 25 eight days ago, and I’ve spent the last three weeks in the hospital. They are talking about sending me home on hospice, that maybe resting at home will make me “better.” Lately, somehow, the smell of cigarettes that has haunted me for three years has now been replaced with the subtle scent of fresh lilacs. I am so tired. I hope my mother brings me flowers. |
A causal game went on, by the 1st quarter we were winning 36-21 though some people keep saying it’s “36-31” Everyone noticed the Ball bounced higher than normally, we all assumed it was the court. The court was made in 1915 and it was against an away team. At halftime, no one knew the score because the lights kept flickering. Some people claim to have seen an invisible person shoot a ball that went in. So at this point we don’t know what quarter we are in. Only stats I counted were my own. 8 pts, 6 ast 4 fouls, 1 dunk that broke the goal down. But the goal fixed it self. Maybe not literally, maybe someone fixed it in the dark. For some reason there was a 5th quarter. So anyways the opposite team drove into the paint and I blocked it and the ball... where did the ball go? Did it pop? We don’t see it anywhere. Some people claim to see the exact ball in their car, the ball had their school name on it and each person had proof that they found the ball. Had the ball cloned itself? Obviously that’s impossible (right?) but what happened. The game ended and they knew the score, it felt like we were playing for years. We started playing in the Morning at 9am and it appears to be night and the game just finished. Since about 11 am, we didn’t know how to tell time. Appears that everyone had a different time. Oh the score? We won 1233-303 My stats? I forgot, what number did I say last time? So after the game ended, I went to the locker room and everyone started crying. Who really knows what happened. But when we walked to the team bus, wait where did the team bus go? Luckily my parents were already there. We drove to my house. I saw the Basketball right by my basketball hoop at myself. It has a Kyle Kuzma sticker. The principal does like Kyle Kuzma. I had a normal dream. But when I woke up, I was in the gym. It felt like we were redoing the game again? Are we? It’s the same opponent, same court. Only thing difference is the ball. It has a Kyle Kuzma sticker on it. I asked someone why it does but they said it’s a Football sticker, so does it appear different to other people? Some people say we are in Brazil. We are obviously in the US, it says it on the game ticket...We played the whole game and the same thing happened, ball disappeared, I had 4 fouls, same stats, same score. It was easy to notice that we were repeating the same day for a while. When will the time go normally? I’m stuck in a loop. Same thing is happening. Only thing that changes is the sticker on the Basketball. |
Alios loved to mess with the mortals who worshiped him. He loved breaking into their homes at night and turning their shoes into puppies and belts into snakes. He loved sending thieves into villages who forgot to leave offerings to him. He loved throwing parties for his fellow omnipotent beings. He loved what he did. But Alios was not all tricks, thieving, and parties. Believe it or not, he was a devoted lover. Or, he was the former king of the pixies who left his queen for the hunter Goddess. Despite leaving his queen to rule alone he truly loved Otlene, the hunter goddess. And Alios didn’t love a lot of things. Hell, the only three things he loved was his job, kittens, and Otlene. Oh, how he loved Otlene. He loved how she towered over everyone, he loved how she remained hidden under her fur cloak, he loved her elk antlers and rams’ horns. Her eyes, he cared not for, green like the forests she roamed. And the wolves, how could he forget the wolves? Wherever Otlene went a pack of wolves would follow. The wolves made it... difficult for Alios to get close. He guessed it was basic instinct, after all they were wolves, and he was a cat-like creature. A slender, human-like feline, with the torso and head of a mortal man, but the rest was feline. His arms had cats’ claws, his legs were meant to pounce, and fur to protect him from the elements. One night, atop the tallest mountain on the continent, Alios found his love brooding. “What’s wrong my sweet?” He asked her. “Those humans,” she grumbled, “they have no respect for my creatures.” She was overlooking a town off the base of the mountain, candlelight burning bright. The trickster God plopped himself next to his lover. “Well, you know the saying.” “Yes, yes, I am aware. Humans are horrible. It would be nice, to taking something from them. Like how they have only taken from me,” Otlene rambled. Take. That word echoed throughout Alios’ mind. “I’ll take... something! I’ll steal from the humans!” “Please don’t,” she warned. “My love, your wish is my want!” With that said, he pounced off the mountain and landed in the woods on all fours. Not a single bone broken from his beast of a body. He patrolled the outside of the town, far enough away from the human guards. Transforming into a small house cat, he snuck into the village. There must have been a party going on, for he smelled meat and cakes. Now he was pissed. The humans throw a party and don’t leave him any offerings? Unbelievable! This was no longer just for his love, but a personal vendetta. Alios saw that one house was more decorated than the rest, fabrics with beautiful designs hanging off the buildings side. In his disguise Alios made it to the house fairly easily, with only a few stops because the humans insisted on petting him. He saw an open window and leaped into the home. And the inside of the building was even more beautiful than the outside. Gifts of gold and ivory everywhere the God looked. But what would he take? What would his love want? He loved gold, but she had no use for gold, and gold was replaceable. What about ivory and animal hides? No, that was something Otlene could simply hunt herself. And then he heard it. A baby’s cry, from the next room over. Carefully, he moved his feline form into this next room where there were more gifts, toys and soft hides. And in a crib, a baby boy with olive skin and black hair. A beautiful child. The God turned back into his slender human-feline form and loomed over the child’s crib. This is a mere infant! He marveled. Is this all for him? A spoiled child. The humans take and take, and instead of helping one another they give to a baby? Oh no, this will not do! He moved his feline paws into the crib and gently picked up the child, who was wrapped in wolfs skin. He cradled the baby, something his former Queen taught him to do. Alios cared not for children, they were loud and ruined the fun, plus they were horrible liars. But sometimes all it takes for a child to go missing and the humans go primal. Instead of being subtle, he burst through the roof, holding the child close. The humans froze and stared at the God in fear. He could spot the boys' parents from the crowd, decorated in jewels and fine clothing. The God said nothing. Nothing at all. And it only took nothing to make the humans panic. A guard tried to throw his spear at Alios, but the boys' father stopped him. Smart man. He jumped down from the roof and the humans split like nut being cracked open. Alios took a step forwards and a random woman screamed. He hissed and took off into the woods, the guards and the boys' parents tried to follow, but Alios was too fast. And as soon as he left the mountain top he was back at its peak. “My love!” He called out. The hidden woman turned but even Alios could tell her eyes went wide when she saw the child. “Who is that?” “It’s a child,” he told her. “I did not ask what it is. I asked who ,” she scowled. The baby boy tried to touch the Gods face, but the God in question simply ignored the child. “I don’t know,” he answered, “but the humans treated him as if he were a God himself! They had a party and didn’t leave me any offerings! I could not let that stand!” The woman shot up, towering over the trickster God. “You stole a chief’s son!” her voice boomed. Alios cracked a smile. “That didn’t stop me before.” “Put him back!” She demanded. His smile dropped and his grip on the child tightened. “What?” “Put. Him. Back!” She roared. “Or I will drag you there myself!” Below the hollers and shouts of the humans started to echo up the mountain. Alios hung his head low but nodded. “Alright, my love. Maybe the humans will show a little more respect, knowing a God stole their precious boy so easily.” The woman nodded her cloaked head and sat back on the mountains edge. Alios turned and began his decent to the human town. But as he made it halfway down and the sun began to rise, he realized something. It has been so long since I’ve had a human servant. He saw a wolf enter a cave off the side of the mountain. He followed the beast and snapped his neck with one paw, the other paw still holding the child. He tossed the carcass out of the cave easily and left the child on the dirty stone floor. “Don’t worry my new servant,” he whispered to the child, “I’ll come back for you later.” Alios grinned and pounced out of the cave, excited to have a new servant do his bidding. |
COVID came to their town, as it did all the others. At first the citizens believed that their distance from the cities would protect them, as in olden days when the miasma was expected to hover above a populace and not spread through individuals, but modern realization soon proved that humans, as always, were the biggest threat to humans. People left the town, of course, going in their cars to visit relatives or in planes to visit beaches, and then they returned to the safety of home and the normalcy of work and school and church and daycare and gym and clubs with just the people they knew. The first people to get sick did “just have colds”, and indeed most of them after that were only mildly affected. Few people knew anyone who was very ill, so it was easy to believe that there was nothing in the news reports and health advisories that had to be taken seriously. For people who relied on the down-to-earth practice of responding primarily to things that immediately affected their lives and livelihoods, the lack of concrete evidence of disaster flummoxed many. There was no clear action to be taken. People did not know what to do, or indeed if they should do anything. The real problem for many townspeople was that there was so much information pouring in through radio interviews, social media, podcasts... it was more than the average small-town citizen with a lifetime of forming thoughts according to local opinion, the local paper, and the nightly news could handle in a sensible manner. Once the coffee shop was closed, as well as recreational clubs and even church, there were few places where people could come together to examine the facts, the speculation, the fears and the realities of this strange, inconvenient era. There were, of course, some avenues for the airing of grievances that were not taken away. Government services, for example, would always be available to anyone with legitimate business, and, in a small town, this necessarily included a customer’s choice recitation of The Latest News and Views. The school, home of special, child-oriented concerns, cycled between opening and closing as outbreaks waxed and waned, and places like the Home for Older Folks were used to running on the old-fashioned telephone system of News and Revelation. These avenues remained accessible to most as outlets for daily dumps of information. It so happened in this town that it was five friends who experienced the brunt of the community’s conflicting ways of thinking. Sarah, a teller at the bank on main, was often presented with the full spectrum, from left to right, within the morning hours, followed by a recap in the afternoon. Sandra, the librarian, was at the receiving end of friendlier, but longer rambles as people pretended to look for reading material when what they really wanted was confirmation that the outside world had gone mad. Post Mistress Pam, who had spent her career culturing an atmosphere of free and open speech so long as it contained flourishing gossip, was wishing she hadn’t been quite so encouraging. Audrey managed the Home for Older Folks where the telephone grapevine was matched by the “socials” online. Fran, the school principal, could at least screen her messages, and the mood with which she answered them, but each required a timely, level-headed response. The five friends were hesitant to unload their daily struggles on one another, knowing they had all experienced similarly frustrating, overwhelming days at work. Yet, with little else to talk about other than their own need to clear the information overload and reset their intellectual compasses, they soon found that talking led to laughing and then to feeling lighter and more capable of handling another day. They told each other how they felt responsible, in a way, for providing this talk therapy service to the weary, frightened people who came to them. That made the five feel better, for a moment, but they went back to work and were dragged down once again, and they told themselves that something had to give. They told each other this, and then they made a plan. Audrey came from a farm family with the heavy equipment they might need. She suggested they use land that was set aside for a new Senior’s Housing Facility. It was central, yet discrete, and certainly large enough. Construction plans had been put aside for the duration of the pandemic, so there sat the unused space. Sandra set about researching. She studied pandemic history, psychology, health and wellness, and any projects or services remotely similar to what the five had in mind. Sarah was in charge of the budget, as well as presenting the idea to the Town Council. She was careful to look into insurance and liability as well as any bylaws that might apply. She worked with Fran to create a simple supply list, and Fran received approval to purchase materials and organize the high school students. The School Board agreed it was as good a project as any for kids who were supposed to be outside as much as possible, and who could certainly benefit by doing something useful in the community while their curriculum was interrupted. Pam began a publicity campaign artfully tailored to appeal to the people she knew so well. All of the friends used their unique positions within the town to get the word out. They had found themselves a natural hub for the stress of their community, and they were going to use that to their advantage. They congratulated themselves - and one another - on the secret power they could wield. It took several months, but construction was finished by the time school let out in June. A rough structure now stood on the land. It looked like a modern reconstruction of an ancient fort. Open to the air and elevated on a low mound for drainage purposes, it consisted of nine cubicle-sized spaces in a grid, each with a swinging, outhouse-style door. Between them ran open passages leading to the outside of the structure. Really, it was a set of nine free-standing boxes with no tops. It was temporary, but reinforced in multiple ways to withstand whatever might come. The five friends were satisfied with the physical realization of their vision. Together, they posted a sign next to the structure with the simple instructions: “Come on In and Shout it Out”. They were less satisfied with the response from the community. The five had done all they could to inform the townspeople of the project, which they had begun to call “The Airing”. Most responded politely, simply raising their eyebrows, nodding with exaggerated slowness, and, as an unexpected bonus, wrapping up their business more quickly than usual. They would surely scurry to pass on the news, or at least an interpretation of what they had heard. Some responded with the quick and, to them, certain and final judgment that the idea was utter nonsense - or words to that effect. Still, they would pass the information to their peers. The five had learned there was no telling what people might say, or do, in public now, but they hoped that some at least would go home and think it through. Summer brought a loosening of provincial rules as well as of individual reserve. People were outside mingling, travelling and revelling in their freedom, carefree or careless depending on the situation. The radio, TV and even the internet news did not have the grip it had gained during the dismal winter. There was sun, there was fun. There was no need for The Airing. It stood empty except when curious children, who had no fear that people would see them, met to romp in the rooms and passages. Summer came to an end, however, and the Covid did not. It may have been latent, but it lurked, and now it reared once more just as it came time to decide whether children should go to school, whether the arena and curling rink should open for the season, and whether Thanksgiving plans should be considered. People had assumed things would be normal again, and then the news, Tweets, posts, reports, studies and announcements were all back in action at full force. Again the people sought public forums to voice their fear and indecision, irritation, and general outlines of how the world ought to work. The townspeople were no different. They wanted to be heard. They wanted to make a scene. They wanted to air their grievances. When this occurred in the presence of one of the five friends, as it often did, the speaker was directed to The Airing. It was such a simple thing, and yet no one wanted to be the first to try it. Most knew it would be good for them, so their human nature kicked in and told them to wait until someone else made it an acceptable thing - preferably, everyone else. The Airing stood empty as frost covered the ground. One day small footprints appeared in one of the passages, although there was no one but their maker to witness them. A child, in the midst of the strains and stresses that only a child can know, had sought a quiet place to make some noise. There were truths to be told, such as “I hate carrots and peas!”. There were sorrows to express, like “I miss my friends!”. Thankfully, there was nothing more serious or concerning in this miniature mind than the fundamental admissions: “I’m scared we’ll run out of money!” “I’m scared someone I know will die!” and “I don’t get ‘greater than’ and ‘less than’!” The child was exhausted, but mustered the strength for a parting shot: “It doesn’t make sense!!!”. It was a fine rendition of the common refrain that echoed around the globe, and most suitable to be the first one uttered in The Airing. The five would have been proud of this tiny pioneer’s monumental discovery. They would have been pleased to know that there was one delivery of grievances that none of them were forced to receive. Their plan had been successful at least once. Winter’s chill proved to be a surprising ally. Cooped up, short of sunshine, and heading toward the most stressful months of the year as well as suffering the usual doldrums of the season, people were desperate for an outlet. Going to the bank was extra stressful and a little embarrassing for some. The Post Office was too busy for lingerers. The library and schools had closed due to the second wave. The Home for Older Folks ticked along as usual, but their news was as worn out and stale as news anywhere else was by then. Outdoor activity was the only safe and approved form of activity. During the longer nights of November and December, multiple sets of footprints began to appear in the snow that settled in The Airing. Someone even shovelled it, and whether the motive was to try it out or simply to provide some exercise, the act was beneficial to a growing number of townspeople. At first, there were tentative explorations of the freedom and privacy of The Airing. It was something new and undemonstrated. There was no one to follow, no chance to see how others went about the business. But the instructions were simple enough, and after a short battle within the brain wherein the part trained by society was pounced upon, subdued, and rolled into a corner by the primal part, there was immediate progress. People let loose in a way that warmed their bodies, hearts, and souls. It was a release that went down in history, immortalized in rhyme by an obscure local poet and given a special page on the Town website: We shouted, hollered, bayed, and keened! We argued, cried, wailed and screamed! We bargained, questioned, confessed, revealed! We moaned and groaned and made our appeals! We roared, howled, bellowed and bawled, yelled, clamoured, and caterwauled until, nearly spent, we sat back, sprawled, and gasped, astonished, but not appalled. Long after Covid had lost its capital letter and become “the covie”, just another flu with a yearly vaccination, the people of the town made use of The Airing. For a little while, when the joy of going back to normal surged, it was empty, but then people realized that normal never was without fear or stress. When everything was in place for the new Home for Older Folks, a new Airing was also built, this time at the top of the hill on the outskirts of town, where there was parking, a trail through nature, and an overlook where one’s voice could be freed into miles of open space and beautiful vistas of sky and land. It was no longer reminiscent of an ancient fort. It was an open forum with columnar trees, fields, and stars to listen to all who came to Shout it Out. The five friends, of course, were key players in the making of the park. Their interactions with the public became much more pleasant once everyone took up the practice of unburdening themselves at The Airing, and, because their idea was seen to be a good one, they enjoyed the approval of the townspeople. At about the same time, all five realized that none of them had used The Airing for a good shout, and they told themselves that it wasn’t because they were waiting to see what everyone thought of their idea, it was because they were fortunate enough to have such good friends to talk with that they had not needed an Airing themselves. The five had other things on their minds. Predicting that the world would not end with Covid times, nor stress and frustration either, they had put in place a business venture. Sandra’s research had extended as far as patents; Sarah was informative about loans; Pam pursued shipping options; Fran had a pool of prospective summer students, and one of Audrey’s charges was keen to rent his shop and equipment. Everything came together as if the universe was rewarding the five for their patience and long-suffering. Soon there were Airings all over America, and copycat structures cropped up in plenty of places where the trendiness of paying for mental well-being was unheard of, but do-it-yourself acuity was still prevalent. The five had plenty to congratulate themselves about, and one another too. Despite their success and all their experience, they never ceased to be amazed by two things. First, that every human being on the planet now or ever in the history of time has had the same primal fears, frustrations, and stresses. Second, the incredible cathartic power that is unleashed by hollering “I am afraid of what I don’t know! It doesn’t make sense!” |
The opening lyrics from If I Could Turn Back Time, start to echo in my head the moment I’m told to make my wish. My inner musician cringes for a moment when I realize I’m quoting a Cher song. Sure, Sonny and Cher were cute back in the day, I loved that variety show they had. I just can’t help but think how their lives verged madly away from each other after they got divorced. If I could turn back time with a single wish, maybe I would reset them to their earlier days. That isn’t what I’d wish for though. Given a single wish, what would anyone hope for? Money? Power? Health? All of the above, in some well worded phrase? Not me. Every year, on a person’s birthday, each of us gets that chance to make a wish and blow out the candles. I’m fairly confident I wasted mine all these years. As a kid you usually hope for stuff... things that are the latest gizmo. I remember when I was a kid, I wished for a BB gun once. My parents never would have bought me one. They had parallel beliefs to that famous Christmas movie... what was the name of that movie? Anyway, “You’ll shoot your eye out kid”, was a popular phrase echoed whenever I brought it up. I eventually bought my own BB gun, I never did shoot out my eye, or anyone else’s, I still have it sitting in storage somewhere. In my teenager years wishes started to delve a different direction. As a teenage boy, I remember the idea that magically, through a wish, I might suddenly gain the powers to talk to Deedra; the most popular girl in school. Though I doubt she had those same hopes of me. However, all that didn’t matter. She wasn’t the girl for me. Entering adulthood was an interesting time, wishes held promise, hope, and were directed now toward drive and fame. Hoping to score perfectly on the SAT’s, studying for them may have helped. Hoping to get into the best colleges, and again studying may have helped there too. Finally, the wishes were geared toward life, a career, a great job that held promise and, if you’re lucky, paid really well too. In a blink, your life takes another turn, you have a good job, money in the bank, and a good sense of self. For me, my next wishes went back to my teenage years. Simply asking, hoping, for the ability to talk to someone that interested me. To have the perfect pick-up line. Not a sleezy one-liner for an equally sleezy one night stand. An actual line, one that opens up a conversation with someone that interests me. I was lucky, I found that line once, and it worked, better than I thought. It was like magic. Life has a way of continually changing, continually finding ways to make you desire something new. Not that the old wishes necessarily came true, though I’d like to think some did. It more happens out of a need for new things, and I don’t mean a BB gun, or a sports car. The things I mean are less tangible; a good marriage, a healthy child, a happy life, or maybe just a good dinner with an old friend. There’s something to be said about good food. Throughout my life there were times my wishes were wasted for sure. There were also times I made the perfect wish. We all have only so many wishes in life, so many tries to make amends, to fix things, to change our surroundings. Sometimes those wishes are made while blowing out those candles. Sometimes they are just a plea to God. And sometimes... If I was younger, I might travel to the Arabian desert, dig in the sand, and search for a hidden cave. If I looked hard enough, dug deep enough, I might just find Aladdin’s cave. I might just find the Djinni’s lamp. Then I would have the ultimate power to make my wishes come true, a djinni doing my bidding. However, If I was younger, I would have likely wasted them on the wrong things. Through most of my life I would have made all the wrong wishes. I’m not younger, and there’s not a magical lamp. Where I am now, my place in life, I could still wish for money, power, or good health. Many people would if given the chance. There are three wishes right there. For me, I’m at a good place, I’ve seen all that I want to see, though there are places I would have liked to visit. I’ve done most of what I wanted to do, although skydiving always seemed interesting, I never tried it, and I’m too old now. As far as money goes, I’m comfortable, not rich, but who needs that much money later on in life. Health is an interesting choice, I’ve always been fairly healthy, a broken bone here or there, but I don’t want to live forever, life can get lonely in the later years. Too much free time on one’s hands, and too much busyness in the people’s lives you’d care to see. They have no time for visits, they’re making their own wishes come true. Which leads me back to here and now. A small cupcake pushed in front of me, a lone candle flickering away, shining its magical power, begging for me to make up my mind and blow it out. And those lyrics from that old pop song running through my head. At one time I would wish to turn back time, and maybe I have a time or two. The idea of this wish was posed to me by the people surrounding me. The people that brought me the cupcake. They aren’t my loved ones, though some of them are dear to me for sure. I’ve seen most of them for the last few years. New people come and sadly people go, but some of the faces stay the same. Taking in a deep breath, and choosing my words carefully, secretly, I give an energetic blow for an old man. I know my wish is wasted, I know my wish is lost, but I couldn’t help it. I did what I’ve always done, wished for the one thing I want right now. Each year that seems to change. Lifting the tiny cake from the small plate I remember all the treats from years past. Peeling back the oily paper from the treat, I take a bite. It’s not one of the cupcakes my wife might have made, she was a great baker. It’s not one from that little place on the corner my dear wife and I used to walk to when she was still alive; what was the name of that place? It doesn’t matter. It’s none of those. It’s just a cupcake. Gazing up from my partially eaten treat, I see those that gathered around me have gone back to their puzzles, their old TV shows, and their own meals. The sweet nurses who brought the treat have all returned to their daily duties. What could I wish for? There was only one thing. The thing I wish for every day in here. “Mr. Robertson, you have visitors,” a voice says behind me, “It’s your son and grandchildren.” I guess, some wishes can come true. |
Whistling at the dark He stood in the blackness, his lips pursed together in a defiant sneer against the night. A soft sound escaped his lips, a pliant, fleeting tone that slipped through the night like the soft cries of a cornered prey. But it was with that sole musicless tone that he fought the night. It was like a dirge to him, a requim to be repeated over and over lest a chaotic fate take his life, some form of protection. The night carried dangers, of course. The night always carried danger, slow predators, fast prey, the ever present spiral of life and death. The forest in the distance was a trap. A slow death for those found within, pressed by others who would take their life for sustenance, and by the slow grind of the human machine which presses in on the trees like a vice, both metaphorical and not. The roads nearby hummed with motorcycle engines and the low drum of tractor trailers. The night was barely audible. The trees' rustle was sorrowful, as though they were aware of the sparse environment in which they grew. Perhaps they knew that their seeds, their children, would find pavement and poison. Perhaps plants were aware of the damage we did them. Perhaps not. These were not the questions that He pondered as his tones and scales passed into the night. The question he pondered was a simple one. Does the night threaten, or protect? If a man finds his way into the forest at night, can he use the night as another tool, like a hammer to be weilded against the nails of the world? Humans were so good with tools. They used their world and changed their world and were positively okay with changing with their own alterations. Each new hell we press upon the world is one which we will pay for. We are punished by our sins, not for them. The tone changed. The man's face twitched, like he had caught the odor of something wistfully foul in the enveloping black. The whistling was a bit faster now, more of a plaintive groan than a playful twist of wind. The man had made a realization. His mind had pierced the slow gloam of humanity to find a small point of universality. 'We are all trees' he breathed softly through his pursed lips. Then the meteor struck. The large rock flying through the universe had picked his small backwater planet and found his small backwater field where he stood whistling in the night. It was so massive, he had no chance of escape. By the time the news had reported the scientist's findings, the blast radius covered his entire nation. No vehicle could bear him from the damage now. He and his family would be lost, his home burned beyond even molecular recognition, with a force like an atomic bomb striking so close. He would be lost. But life would not be. The meteor was a predator, a cosmic wolf with gnashing teeth and cracked claws. But prey could be clever. Humans were so good with tools. Inside a small black box buried feet under the ground lay a seed. A small seed, a tiny oak rock filled with all of the DNA and potential and history of life on Earth. The box was cracked, and water from the new storm clouds forming over the planet found its way to the cushioning around the seed. It took time. The little life had to crack its way out of its own shell; then the shell of the man, the little black box designed to handle even the force of an atomic bomb. It found its way out. Through the ashey dirt it fled, past the atoms of He and his family and their home and the ashphalt and chaos of humanity. Past humanity it fled, reaching towards light, unsure if the earth above it would bury it. But humans were so good with tools. A sharp metal stab rang out near the plants' new growth. It could feel the earth above it rended, torn from its roots and sent flying into the air. But its roots were strong, buried in humanity. The rending stopped. Above the plant, a small something opened up. It could not tell what it was; had never seen sunlight before. But there was a mass there, a white shining mass of hydrocarbons and polycarbonates. It was a human, come to sample the soil from the strike. 'Hello' said the plant in its own indiscernible language. 'and thank you.' Later, a mighty oak grew in that spot. The small metal box rose to the surface over the years, and was discovered years after the tree was fully grown. On it, it said; “Humanity does not refer to human beings' selfish nature for self preservation. It refers to the quality within us which protects all life, both ours and others. |
Linda Dear Diary, I'm in the bathroom at the party, and nothing seems to be going right. Nothing seems Nothing is ok. Justin kissed Katlynn, not me. Trixie spilled her cola on my dress on purpose. I must- The door swinging open causes me to stop and look up from my journal. I can see just a little from the stall I'm in, and Justin had Kat against a wall. He's holding something sharp. A knife. I rush up to save her, but I stop in my tracks. Not a knife. A pen. Stupid. Stupid. Why would he have a knife? I've read too many horror stories. I sit back down on the toilet, beaten down. I've turned to a mess. Dear Justin. I know you like Kat and not me any more. I'm fine with that. I not mad. But why didn't you tell me? I hope you are doing fine. -Linda I think Justin's gone. I look out, and see nothing. I unlock the door and wash my hands, my journal in my purse. The grey walls are starting to spin, and are mocking me. I need to get out. I open the door, and head back out to prom. Everyone is dancing to a pop song, the girls swinging their hips with the boys sitting at the tables watching or eating. I head outside. Nobody wants me here. I don't know any of these people. Dear Kat, I know you must feel horrible about tonight, at least you will in the morning, when you aren't with him, but I know you love him more than I do. I just want to say okay. It's fine. Forget about me, okay? I'll be fine. I'll find someone else who I can turn to. Yours Truly, Linda. I sit in the car as rain pummels down, smashing onto the windows. The party continues, without me. I see the flashing lights through the steely darkness. My car feels warm, and I settle down, my feet on the seat, curled into a cold ball, like a cat. And I dream. "Hello?" No answer. The dark creeps up to me. "Help me!" Everyone's gone. They don't need me. They don't waste a breath on me. "Anyone!" Nobody's here. Give up. "Anyone." They all left me. Gone in the wind. "Wake" Wake up. Wake up. I startle awake to the sounds of screaming. I hunker down in my car, eager to avoid whatever is making them scream. Everyone is running out now, except one person. I count the people that line up along the edge, watching through the window. I wait for the familiar face. It doesn't come. I know he doesn't love me anymore, and vice versa, but these people are cowards. I mean, a life is on the line. It's either me or no one. I fling open my door and run through the wet grass, determined to save Justin. Dear Linda, May, 13 I found this in your purse. I saw you run to save Justin, and I wanted to say I think you are very brave. Are we still friends? -Kat Darkness creeps in the building. I can feel the Evil it contains. But it has a purpose. To defeat the enemy. This time, the prey's name is Justin. The halls are empty as I run through them. All the teachers and adults had run out. Nobody tried to stop me from running towards the danger. That's fine. Justin screams from somewhere nearby. Lockers swing towards the sound, pointing me towards my wish to save a life. Kat Dear Dairy, May 12 I have had the worst day ever. I put on a brave face every single day, but I've had enough. Mom left me when I was eleven. Six years ago. I cried for hours. The police found out I was living on my own yesterday, and gave me a stepmom. How thoughtful. Not. All this time I've been doing it for everyone else, but nobody cares. Why would they? But nobody questions it. If you wear a smile they assume you're fine. Then they tell you about their problems. Kat's calling. Guess I'll talk to her, and talk to you later. Everyone had heard how Linda's mom abandoned her, but everyone saw how brave she was, and how she didn't care what others thought about her. I looked up to her. And here I am being selfish and leaving her a letter. Not going in to help her. Not calling the police. Nothing. And all the while that demon was devouring the whole school. Trixie came up behind me. "Oh my god. Are you looking at Linda's things? Are you, like, going to take her Kate Spade purse? I'll totally join you! You know, we should mess up her car! That'll show her!" I turn to Trixie. "What is wrong with you? What do you have against her!?," I shout into the night. "You don't know what she's been through, she's been putting on a brave smile, while she's hurting inside! You're just pathetic!" Trixie stumbles back. Justin All of a sudden I regret it. Cheating on Linda. It was the wrong thing to do. And now I was paying the price. My blood splattered the walls into writing I couldn't make out. The sick scent of blood filled the room, devouring every soul inside, including me. I do what I can. I run. Trixie I knew she was sad, depressed even, but when Kat admitted it, I backed away in silence. It was my hob to keep her happy, and I had failed. I tumble over Kat's purse, pretending it's an accident, and I kick it under the car. "I'll get it!", I cry, jumping down to reach it like I'm her best friend. But I grab Linda's journal instead. "I can't reach it, sorry!," I shout, and run to my Chevy a few yards away. I hop in, rev the engine, and sit in silence, touching the book. They wanted me to play the bad guy, but I was there. Helping her all along. It's now or never. I need to find out why her demon came so early. I take a breath, and open the book. *To be continued?* |
Alaric sat on a hard stone park bench across from an old man. He’d never seen the man before when he roamed the park and Alaric roamed the park often enough to recognize regulars. Like the woman who walked her beagle while wearing heels every night like clockwork. He hadn’t seen her this night but had shrugged it off to greedily accept the old man’s offer of a game. Alaric hadn’t had real friends in years, perhaps in his whole life, and actual companionship in his position was so hard to come by that he had never willingly passed it up. So there he sat, contemplating his move in the middle of central park. For a late summer evening, the park was completely empty besides the two of them. He thought about the lady in heels or the man who played saxophone under one of the bridges. He bit his lip, wondering why the park was empty, before reaching out to put his coin into the connect-four slot, listening to it ping against the plastic. He grinned at his partner. “You’re not going to win.” “Perhaps I do not want to win, young man.” The old man, he never learned his name, winked at him as he contemplated his moves. Alaric studied his companion, taking in the soft wrinkly skin that drooped from his face and the milky color of his blue eyes. Small puffs of white hair nestled on his head like a crown. It gave the man the appearance of an old forgotten king. Not for the first time, he wondered why the old man was playing connect four at a park bench in New York City. He shrugged off his questions as the man dropped his puck into a slot. Darn. The two of them were squared off across the board and the old man hadn’t left him any useable moves. If he placed his coin into any of the slots, it wasn’t likely he’d hit the four blue circles of victory. At least, not that he could see. Alaric raked a tan hand through his amber waves. “What are you waiting for?” The old man asked, peering through the holes of the game board at Alaric. The rings of the game circled his eyes perfectly, forcing him to stifle a chuckle at the old man with blue glasses. “I’m waiting for the right move to come to me.” Alaric gave the man a strong nod as he finally made his decision and then slipped his blue coin into the farthest slot. It ruined his companion’s ability to finish his straight line of blue and if he managed to convince the old man to put his puck into the open slot a few rows over, he might have a chance of winning. “What’re you waiting for?” The old man sighed. His whole body heaved with it and Alaric thought the man might fall over. Do I have to call the cops if he passes out from my question? “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. I’m fine just playing with you. It’s been a long time since I’ve just sat and played a game. Don’t got many friends.” Alaric gave the man a weak smile. He brushed away the thoughts of his haunted childhood, the lonely teenage nights, and most recently, the alcohol-filled nights where he pretended to have friends who in reality didn’t care for him. He just had people who fueled his addictions at his expense. That’s what had brought him to the park in the first place. Alaric just wanted to be close to nature. At least, as close as one could get to nature when they didn’t have a car and lived in the city that never sleeps. He used the word lived loosely since most people didn’t consider living in a cardboard box under the Brooklyn Bridge ‘living’. “It is fine, dear boy. I have lived a very long life and I am just waiting...” He trailed off as he dropped the red puck into the slot a few rows over. Alaric grinned and whooped before reaching out and dropping his blue coin above it. He eyed the blue line happily. It was the first achievement, abate a small one, that he’d had in years. Offering his hand out for a shake, Alaric tilted his head at his curious companion. “Thanks for the game, sir. This was fun.” The old man shook his hand as he stood up. The man was a good foot taller than Alaric and he gaped at the frailty that was stretched so tall. A small voice wondered if the man would fly away at the first real big wind gust. Wind or rain were usually what caused him to lose his home, he thought bitterly. “Do you still wish to know what I am waiting for?” His partner pulled him out of his dark thoughts and gave him a toothy grin. “Sure, but then I really need to get going. It’s almost dinner time.” He peeked behind the man to see the orangey hue of late evening. Alaric couldn’t be late to the soup kitchen or there wouldn’t be food left. How did it get so late? “I have been waiting centuries for someone to beat me so that I could do this.” The old man reached behind him and pulled out a long scythe. “Congratulations. You are the new reaper. Good luck.” He thrust the weapon into Alaric’s hand and poofed out of sight. Spinning around, Alaric realized that he wasn’t in Central Park but was standing next to colossal gates that separated him from a large expanse of black rolling hills and dead trees. A small woman with long blond hair stood to his right. She gave him a broad smile and wrinkled her nose in delight. Karen gestured at the gates which started to creak open. “Hello, Master Alaric. I’m Persephone’s personal assistant - Karen. I’m here to welcome to hell, sir... We’ve been waiting for you. |
Ink’s Sorrow October 21st, 2021. Month 12 Week 52 Day 365 9:37 AM “Claire, today is the day... I heard you’re getting that promotion at the diner you’ve been trying at?! Head chef! Congratulations! You really do ” No, he shook his head as he made a line through the word, “did deserve it. I bet ya Shawn Sean wasn’t too happy to hear that. He’d been cooking there for a few years and you surpassed him in three months! Your dad called yesterday just to check on how things were going with school and the new move. He’s He was really proud of you and all that you’ve done and says your mother is too. They were out on a business trip to Washington. We all know “business trip” is was another way of saying vacation for them two. Don was excited he has had the whole house to himself while they’re out. He’ll probably throw some high school party and get busted for breaking a door or something. Don’t let them find out alcohol was most likely the cause, then he’ll really get it. I just wish it was something as simple as a door that had been broken... Anyways, ‘Hey beautiful, I woke up late today and didn’t see you on your way out this morning. I know you’re working and I don’t want to hold you for too long so I hope you have a great day Head Chef! Call me and/or text me when you can. I love you!’” “12:37 PM” “I had gone into work at 10:41. Late by eleven minutes. My phone says that you read my good morning message at 12:35 PM and responded saying ‘Hey love! It’s alright, I gave you a kiss on your head after putting some breakfast in the microwave for you. How’d you know I got my promotion today?! Are you secretly in on this? I love you :). Sean actually quit when Ms. Rose told us. I feel bad but if he wasn’t leaving us with one less cook every other day then maybe he could’ve gotten it. Just saying. I hope your day is going well at the store! I’ll talk to you soon! I love you!!!’ I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and my heart skipped a beat like it does did every time you’ve texted. I wasn’t able to read it immediately because I was checking out a customer. A strawberry lemonade store brand and a party size bag of classic potato chips. I had earlier found the breakfast you left me and you were right, I was in on your promotion. I’ve got I had my connections and made sure you would move up sooner or later. I always said I would do all that I could to make sure you were happy. And I did. Or at least, I tried. “ 12:59 PM” “‘No wonder I had such a good dream! My nose led me straight to the microwave when I woke up too. Thank you :). I’m so happy for you and proud of your promotion! They couldn’t have chosen a better head chef! The day you showed up, Shawn or Sean, however you spell his name, didn’t stand a chance at your position! We celebrate tonight with a movie and rootbeer float or three? The store is really slow today. I mean it’s a gas station. What else should I expect I guess. I get off at 7, I’m covering for Angela. Can’t wait to see you! Time literally couldn’t move any slower. I love you!’ I sent my response just as the bell jingled to a man in his late twenties walking in and heading straight for the back. “1:05 PM” “Adam Letterway 2115 Sedgein LN DOB: 04/23/1994 DL#: **-***-**** EXP: 5/03/2022 Eye: BRO HGT: 6 ft’ I remember all the details from his drivers license. He bought eight packs of cigarettes and three twelve packs of beer. A party ? .It was Friday and his birthday was is tomorrow. I didn’t think much of it, if anything at all. Not until he left and handed it all to five teens. I should’ve done something. I should’ve gone out and said something. What was there I could’ve said or done though? Maybe I should’ve called the cops? Maybe I should’ve screamed and shouted and made a huge scene? Anything. I could’ve done anything. But I didn’t. I’m sorry Claire. Adam disappeared and the five teens jumped into a Gold Honda Accord. A much older edition. License plate: JAJ-E61. Claire. Please forgive me.” “1:46 PM” “I didn’t think of it much after that. Now, it’s all that I can think about. ‘ROOTBEER FLOATS?!? I WOULD LOVE YOU FOREVER!!! I get off at 7:30 so you have time to set the mood in the apartment ;) Pick out a horror movie okay?’ Two separate messages both sent in the same minute. You’re You were always quick at typing, especially when you were excited. I wrote back, ‘You can’t even handle scary movies. Just want to snuggle in close with me huh? I don’t mind :) I’ll see you soon!’ The rest of my shift went by with nothing special happening. Customers came and went. ‘Fifty on pump 8.’ ‘Ten on pump 3.’ ‘I’ll take one of those down there. The pineapple flavor.’ All the usual stuff. I can could can only wish today was just as usual as... Well... As usual I guess. How could I have known that nothing would be ‘as usual’ today? Nothing was or would ever be as usual anymore. I’m sorry Claire. I love you. And I love you forever.” A tear wetted the letter mixing ink and sorrow. Two ingredients so often found brewed, “I love you forever.” “6:54 PM” “Dave came in for his shift early and allowed me to go home. I want(ed) everything to be perfect tonight. ‘Hey beautiful, I’m heading home now. Must be busy at the diner, haven’t heard from you in awhile. I hope you’re not working too hard. I love you! I’ll see you soon :)’ I texted you while sitting in the car. A red 2003 Buick Regal. Nothing fancy. Just enough to get me from A to C. From anywhere to Claire. Yet, where you’ve gone now--I can’t reach. I drove to the store and bought two 2 liter bottles of Rootbeer along with two 48 fl oz of cookie dough ice cream. I put everything away when I made it to our new apartment, 7410 E Callan Ave, apartment 203. I chose The Conjuring for us to watch tonight that night and set two blankets with three pillows neatly on the floor in front of our TV. My heart skipped a beat at the buzz of my phone. ‘I got dinner!!! Heading home now my love.’ I smiled to myself, ‘I’m looking forward to you :)’” “7:48 PM” “You came home... God, why does the night all seem to be a blur. You came home and there was food, there was laughter, there was happiness and Rootbeer floats and there were cozy snuggles and there was love and love we made and there was us and... There we were. And just as it came, so it ended. From what or who or why it fled, my memory for the first time has done the same. There was frustration and there were tears in your eyes. There was yelling and there were questions with no answers and then there was nothing. You left our apartment and I--I closed the door behind you... What happened? Why didn’t we just talk? Why did you leave and why did I let you? I promised to come after you no matter how far you ran but Claire... I let you go. And you...” His hand shook uncontrollably as he wrote the last words, “You didn’t come home.” “9:35 PM” “‘Claire?’” “9:38 PM” “‘I’m sorry. Where did you go?’” “9:41 PM” “‘Please come home. Forgive me or don’t just come home and we can talk. I love you.’ You never read that message. You never knew I forgave you. We never talked. I was never able to tell you one last time that I loved and I still love you.” “11:53 PM” “My heart skipped a beat when there was a knock on the door. I jumped up ready to accept you. Ready to embrace you and kiss you and tell you that we would make it through this too. There I stood in an open doorway and there you weren’t on the other side. ‘Ashton Coppen?’ How I wish I could be anyone else... ‘There’s been an accident.’” “12:33 AM” “At 10:21 PM, a gold 2000 Honda Accord ran into the driver side of a red 2003 Buick Regal. The driver and all the passengers of the Honda were visibly drunk and tried to make it through a red light. It was the Buick’s green light. It was the Buick’s turn to go. It was your turn to go and you went. It wasn’t your time to go... But you went.” 10:17 AM “It has been a year since today, that day. How much I wish I could’ve done. So much I wish I would’ve and should’ve done. I could have said something at the gas station. I would have held you close all night long as you slept in my arms like every night then. I should’ve never closed the door behind you. Claire, I beg that you have forgiven me. I’ve questioned it every lonely passing night. I hope we will one day meet again with hearts renewed and the memory of the love that I have had and always will have for you. Thank you for our time. Goodnight my love and sleep well. I will be dreaming about you. Ashton Coppen.” Ashton looked up towards the waters surrounding his small boat. A sorrow lightened but a weight nonetheless. He held the bottle he rolled his letter into and plugged it with a cork. He checked the time from the old swiss pocket watch Claire had given him on his 23rd birthday, it had been her grandfather's. “10:21” The hands pointed at the Roman numerals. He stepped off the edge of the boat and into the endless waters. To the bottom of the sea he was pulled, nothing but sorrow as the weight. |
I had a dream that I was being chased by a huge chocolate croissant, but just before I woke up I managed to take a huge bite out of it and scare it off. I had nothing much on that day so I decided I would go to my favourite bakery in Manchester and get myself a chocolate croissant - a further act of revenge on the jumbo croissant in the dream. Blue Moth Bakery was part of a row of box-shaped, glass-fronted businesses facing onto the canal in New Islington. When I got there, it was about to rain and everything was grey; the sky, the surface of the water, the flimsy-looking apartment blocks that enclosed the whole scene. I walked into Blue Moth and instantly felt better about the world. Quite often these days I found myself doing things to make me feel that way. The bakery was practically empty because I was there so early. It was just me and one older woman of Chinese origin wearing a beanie hat even though they’d racheted the heating up in there. She was drinking a cup of coffee and using a fork to attack some kind of round cake with a mountain of icing on it like shaving foam. When she looked up, I immediately looked away. I wasn't there to chat. It started raining heavily outside and for some strange reason, this causd the old woman to drop her fork, gather up her things and leave. Perhaps she’d left her washing on the line. I drank my coffee slowly, sitting by a window that looked out onto the canal. The rain was rippling the surface of the water in a way that I found mesmerising. There was an old bike chained to a lamppost and the rain hammered it with such force that I wanted to run over and move it to more sheltered spot. To avoid having to think about the fragility of this bike, I looked at the barista behind the coffee machine, which was right by my table. He was staring out of the same window, perhaps he was thinking about saving the bike too. He was remarkably good looking, blonde hair down to his shoulders, eyes so blue that they were cartoonish, and one of those square jaws that male superheroes tended to have, to match their perfectly ripped bodies. Because of the way he looked, I was intimidated when he broke out of his daze and said: ‘Doing anything for Mothers’ Day? Mother's Day? Was it Mothers’ Day? ‘No.’ I’d sounded more surly then I'd meant to. The combination of the rain and the sky made it seem as if the whole bakery had been wrapped in a sopping grey sheet. I ordered another coffee, extra hot please. ‘I’m taking my mum out,’ he said, ‘I love Mother's Day. Love my mum. She's my biggest fan. She does everything for me.’ Part of me wanted to laugh; such soppy thoughts from such a macho-looking guy. But another part of me was distracted with thinking about my own mother. How long had it been? Eighteen months? nineteen months maybe? I wanted to turn over the situation with Mum over in my mind so to avoid having to talk to the Adonis, I looked out of the window again. A woman in a egg-yolk yellow raincoat with the hood up was walking a small white dog with twitching ears. A terrier maybe? I knew nothing about dogs despite having photographed far too many of people’s ‘beloved canine pals’ over the years. This woman was walking her beloved canine pal right into the full force of the rain. That’s dedication, I thought, taking him for his exercise on a day like this. ‘Why don’t you like Mothers Day? What does your mum have to say about that?’ The Adonis laughed. Was there no end to this guy’s perkiness? ‘I don't want to talk about it,’ I said, ‘well, I haven't spoken to my mum in a while.’ As I’d expected, the Adonis made a distressed face. ‘It's complicated,’ I said. The rain showed no sign of letting up even a little, it was like toothpicks coming down out there. ‘It goes back to my childhood. A longstanding argument.’ He nodded, sympathetic now. ‘It was about my dad. We fell out over my dad. Who's dead now.’ Was I going to go into the whole story? ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Child abuse.’ That ought to put an end to his questions. ‘Oh that's...really sad. Can I make you a coffee? On the house?’ His kindness made me feel self-conscious. ‘No, I've got to get going.’ I hadn't planned to leave so quickly, the last thing I wanted to do was go out in that rain. Five minutes’ later I was walking along the concrete path alongside the wide canal, towards the main road. The rain stopped suddenly and the sky brighted and turned milky. What a relief, I could hold my head up again rather than walking hunched over. A few minutes later I wished I’d stayed with my head down, because there on the road was the body of the small white dog, blood melting across the tarmac’s wet surface. The woman in the yellow coat was crying into a tall man’s shoulder, he had the uncomfortable gait of someone who has a complete stranger going to pieces in his arms. When I got nearer, I thought, shall I look away? But, like but most ordinary human beings approaching the scene of an accident, you cannot help but have a good old gape. That poor dog, its body was twisted like tissue paper and there was a poignancy in the way its nose was pointing into the air like it had just caught the scent of a cat that needed chasing. Twenty minutes ago it had nothing to battle against but the rain and now it had to battle with eternal nothingness. I had little concept of death, it wasn't something I thought about much. Probably because I’d been so unaffected by my own fucking bastard father's death three years earlier. But looking at that dog, and its owner standing next to it, sobbing as if her insides had been ripped out of her too, I thought, death comes to us all. There's no escape. And when it's over it's over. They’re cliches but they’re true. By the time the dog was so far behind me that I could no longer see it on the road, I’d made my decision. I would phone Mum. Wish her happy Mothers Day. Keep it bright and breezy. Not even refer to my unexplained eighteen (nineteen?) months of silence. When I got home it took me a while to change out of my damp clothes, have a shower and put on my most comforting dressing gown and fluffy slippers, which were shaped like big cuddly dog faces. The more I thought about the call the more I needed comfort to prepare me for it. I couldn't believe how scared I was, and this made me annoyed with myself. But, if my sessions with Imelda had taught me anything, it was the importance of being kind and gentle to myself. With this in mind, I carefully prepared for the call. I sat on my sofa with all its velvety pillows in colours chosen because they uplifted me. I covered myself with my duvet and my summer flowers patchwork quilt. There were lit candles placed all along the mantlepiece and I’d switched on the fairy lights that were woven amongst the the leaves of the indoor tree next to the fireplace. In front of me was a cup of hot chocolate made with nuggets of Lindt chocolate dropped into boiling milk and stirred. If anything feels like going back to the womb, then this is it, I joked out loud. Hang on, it was the womb, and more specifically the woman who it belonged to, that got me into this mess in the first place. I looked around me, took a deep breath, and dialled The Sunrise Old People's Home. I'd always thought ‘Sunset Old People’s Home’ would’ve been a more appropriate name. Or maybe that would be too close to the bone? ‘Hello I'd like to speak to Judith Saffer? It’s her daughter, Lettice.’ The woman at the end of the phone sounded irritable and overworked. ‘Hold on, I'll get someone for you.’ ‘Someone?’ I said, but she'd gone. She must have left the handset lying on its side because I could hear sounds in the background that took me back to when I was at primary school and they were serving school dinners. Doors closing. Trolleys being wheeled along cheap lino. Bossy staff calling out instructions to their juniors. I looked at the round station clock I had above my mantlepiece. 12 pm. It had been a mistake to call at lunch time. Mum took her food very seriously and wouldn't want to be disturbed while she was eating it. I smiled at the memory of her describing the politics of Sunrise dining room to me. ‘You have to get there early so you can get a place at one of the tables near the back, the ones at the front near the serving line are ridiculously noisy. You have to bring a novel with you, and when Harriet, or Joan T or Joan F come into the dining hall, you sure as hell make sure you’re busy reading that novel, and you don't look up until they've walked past you and have sat themselves down to torture some other poor sod.’ Mum liked to refer to the Sunrise residents who she had a problem with - and boy, were there a lot of them - as cretins. I was still waiting for someone to come and deal with my call. After Dad died, I decided to tell Mum everything that he’d done. Me and her had been sitting in The Flowerbowl, this vegan café in Chorlton, god knows why I’d chosen that as the place to tell her. I never went there again, afterwards. When she stormed out, she left three quarters of her gluten free brownie and I remember thinking that she was probably grateful that our argument had given her the chance to abandon it. I’d been waiting on the line for almost ten minutes. In my experience with old age homes, you had to expect everything to take much longer than normal. But maybe I’d been forgotten about, with the staff caught up in the lunchtime chaos. Just as I was about to hang up, a deep female voice picked up the receiver and practically sang ‘hello?’ The jolliness of her tone threw me. I used my ‘dealing with clients’ voice and said: ‘I’d like to speak to Judith Saffer, please. It's her daughter, Lettice.’ ‘Yes,’ said the voice, ‘you’re Lettice Saffer? Judith Saffer’s daughter?’ The tone had become gentle and no longer cheerful, this immediately put me on my guard. I felt like I was about to be told how miserable my mother had been over the past eighteen months because of my silence. How much she’d talked about me. How much she'd missed me. I was all ready to be contrite. Not because I felt contrite (or did I?) but to get this woman off my back. ‘Is my mum available? If she's having lunch. I don't mind-‘ The woman interrupted me. ‘I'm so sorry. So very sorry. Your mother, she died five months ago.’ Without thinking what I was doing, I hung up. I pictured the jolly big bosomed woman, properly a senior figure in the home, standing there, listening to burrrr of a line that had gone dead. And she’d be wondering ‘What on earth? What on earth kind of person could this Lettice Saffer possibly be?’ |
The day after he graduated from high school, Christopher got in the sedan he had purchased - with no help from his father - and pulled away from his childhood home. He had already said his goodbyes to everyone he cared to say goodbye to. His anatomy teacher, Mrs. Senecal, had wished him luck and reminded him of her offer to call a colleague in Boston about a job. “No, you have done so much for me already. Thank you, Mrs. Senecal. I will never forget you!” The conversation played over in his head as he drove down the familiar streets, not looking back at the house he had spent most of his life in. He stopped at the intersection that marked the boundary that his mother had set for him so many years ago. “You can ride your bike all the way over to here!” She had told him once he had proven to her that he could navigate around the block without her following. “Just don’t ride past Cummings Street. It is very busy, and it can be very dangerous.” “Okay, mommy!” Christopher remembered how excited he had been, how grown he had felt, at the idea of having so much of the world to explore. Looking back now, he had no idea how small the little neighborhood really was. He finally looked back in his rear-view mirror, not able to see his father’s house any longer. With one last heavy sigh, he turned onto Cummings Street and made his way to the freeway. The drive from Henderson, Nevada to Duluth, Minnesota takes about 26 hours. Christopher had planned his route carefully, made sure that he would have time to stop and train, and that each hotel he was staying in had a gym. He couldn’t afford to fly, but he also couldn’t afford to let the excruciating drive weaken him. He had promised his mother that he would win. “You don’t have to do this for me,” she had told him. “This was my dream, not yours.” She had looked so weak, then. Her skin was paper-thin and her eyes were almost always unfocused and cloudy. Every word sounded like it took more strength than she had to produce. “I’m going to win the race for you, mama. No matter what.” He had been eleven at the time, and had lived with his mother for two years in Duluth after she had found out about her husband’s second family and moved back to her home town. She had always talked about winning Grandma’s Marathon, especially after becoming a single mother and going back to the workforce with no real job history, taking a job at a local bookstore for just over minimum wage. The cancer hit her hard and fast, though, and she never got to run the race. Christopher didn’t realize the commitment he was making then, but he had learned from years of training. He had pushed himself as hard as he could, committed to winning in his mother’s honor. As he drove down Interstate 70, he listened to songs that they had enjoyed together, sometimes crying, and sometimes laughing at the memories; sometimes, he did both. The various small towns and cities he passed blurred by, barely registering to him as he continued north and east. He had planned his trip with plenty of time to spare, so he did not feel rushed. He stopped along the way at various places he remembered stopping with his mother, places that she had wanted to visit. He went to Arches National Park, stretching his legs and breathing in the mountain air that his mother told him reminded her of her childhood. He spent a few days in the White River National Forest, eating hot dogs and jogging through the trees and around the lake. His mother told him it was the most beautiful place that she had ever seen, and he agreed. In Omaha, Nebraska, Christopher jogged across the Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge, something his mother had wanted to do but never made the time to. He stood in the center of the bridge, ignoring the irritated looks of some of the other pedestrians, and felt as though his mother was standing with him looking around, soaking in the impressive view. He stayed at Lake of Three Fires in Iowa, amazed at the stars at night. His mother had told him that she went once as a child, but her description didn’t begin to cover the beauty that he saw. He tried to take pictures, but even that didn’t fully showcase the vastness of the night sky, or how insignificant it made him feel. When he crossed the state line into Minnesota, he drove straight through, not feeling the need to spend much time in Minneapolis or any of the other towns and attractions on the way. He would be staying, after all, and would have plenty of time to enjoy all that the state had to offer. When he arrived in Duluth, he drove first to the small house that his mother had shown him a few times. “This is where I grew up. My best friend lived about a block away. We would ride our bikes together to the bay and watch the boats off in the distance.” She had loved her town but had married her father in college and moved away. Her parents sold the house and retired, but they passed away when Christopher was young. She came back here with him after the divorce, but never got to enjoy it or to truly start her new life there. He jogged down to the lakefront and watched the boats off in the distance. After several moments, he realized that the sun was going down and that he still had to make the three-mile trek back to his car. He wiped the tears that he didn’t realize had been rolling down his cheek and felt the warmth of his mother’s presence. The prize money for the race brought people from all over to the small lakeside town. He had been in Duluth for about four days and had already gotten a part-time job at the same bookstore his mother had worked at, as well as a room for rent in a house overlooking the lake. He felt his mother everywhere in the town, could imagine her riding her bicycle and swimming in the lake on warm days. He felt anxious, knowing that it would be near impossible to keep his promise to win the race, but was finally looking past the race for the first time since his mother had died. Win or lose, he finally felt at peace, at home. As he took his position at the starting line on the day of the race, he could not see anyone else - not the other runners, or the people who had come out to cheer, not the reporters or the volunteers. He only saw his mother smiling at him, all of the signs of her suffering gone. He smiled, stretching his legs, and feeling the warmth of his mother’s memory spread over him. As the starting pistol went off, he knew that he had kept his promise. |
Hear ye, hear ye; swearing, violence, battle and death follow, and some nudity if that helps? Sir Danielle Longbow had her hands one hand on Lupita Smith’s cheek, the other groping the witch’s backside. The knight’s teeth nibbled playfully at her lover’s ear as they writhed on their four poster bed. The contrast of Danielle’s snow white skin against Lupita’s was stark in the orange firelight. The muscles of the knight’s arms were matched only by the witch’s thighs. Both were muscular but Lupita had left her youth of swinging a hammer at her father’s forge behind. Danielle closed her eyes as the sorceress’ head rested on her chest. They dragged a woolen blanket over themselves. “I can hear your heartbeat,” Lupita smiled with the soldier’s hand in her hair. “I can’t hear anything but the fire. I like it. This was what the night sounded like when I was a child. Sometimes there was an owl. That was it. Leonor is never quiet.” “I was used to the city. Voices. Singing. It’s so quiet here I can’t sleep sometimes.” Lupita blew on her lover’s nipple, giggling when the mighty warrior shivered. Her shrieks as revenge tickling caused her body to jerk about reverberated off the stone walls. “Stop. Stop! I surrender.” The fire died with a ghostly whisper. Only moonlight through the window broke through the darkness. Lupita sat up, legs around Danielle as the witch looked around the room, covering her nudity with her hand. “Did you hear that?” “What?” The knight sat up, abs heaving as she lifted their weight combined. “That was magic. I heard a spell as the fire died.” “I didn’t hear it. Let’s get dressed.” The bells of Leonor rang in the north-west. Throwing on their shifts, the two donned their uniforms. Danielle struggled with the straps of her gambison. When Lupita had tied her green Royal Coven robes, she helped her partner into armour. They rushed from their room to the landing. Nettle, their adopted daughter, looked at them with concern in her eyes. Heavily pregnant, the former knight had a dagger in her hand. “The bells,” said Nettle. “Leonor is under attack.” Though it was a long walk to the city, the mighty bells of the capital watch towers could be heard for miles. “Bar the door to your room, load your crossbow,” Danielle said as her commander, not her mother. “We’ll see to the security of the house.” She pointed from her daughter to the door of the room at the end of the landing. A painting of Danielle by King Consort Carl hung on the wall, watching them. “Yes, sir,” said the mother-to-be. She retreated through her door, holding her stomach with her free hand. The sound of a bar slamming down over the door echoed off the granite walls. Lupita was already down the stairs with her sword belted at her waist. Danielle’s feet hammered down the pine stairs. A knight guarding her door outside bowed his head. “What’s going on?” Sir Longbow asked him. “I don’t know, sir.” The guard shrugged, pauldrons rising and falling with the gesture. “Guard this door with your life.” “Yes, sir.” He unsheathed his sword and raised his shield. The deep green of his tabard had a golden oak tree across it, the symbol of Crann Kingdom. Nameless Knights ran to Longbow House. Some wore full armour. Others had been caught off guard like Danielle and wore only their thick padded gambesons and swords. “Pair up. Man the walls and guard the gaps.” Her barked order was obeyed immediately. Fisher’s Gasp had risen from the ruins of a raided fishing village into the home of the Nameless Knights. Longbow House stood at the heart of the new settlement. Without windows at ground level, it was a three story fortress within the walled village. “You,” said Danielle, pointing to a man she knew. “Walk the perimeter and check the soldiers are spaced evenly, with no gaps in the defense.” He nodded, his black curly locks dancing with the movement. The tabard over his armour flapped in the wind as he ran to his duty. “Can I get you your bow, sir?” asked her squire, Hamish. At ten, he was a gangly boy with the blue eyes of the north and the brown skin of the incomers from the east. As someone who had advocated for the waves of immigration to the decimated Kingdom of Crann, it was up to her to lead by example. “Yes, Hamish, thank you.” Her eyes followed the lad as he waved his way past the guard on the door of the house. “We should have bells on the walls,” said Lupita. “I don’t hear anything. Do you?” “No,” said Sir Longbow. Hamish was at her side the next moment with her bow and quiver. Throwing the strap of her quiver over her head and shoulder, she had him run for her horse. “You should wait and have him put your armour on,” Lupita told her lover. “I want to be around the village as soon as possible. I need to know what’s happening.” Another squire ran from the tower where the Nameless Knights kept messenger pigeons. Merridah wheezed, catching her breath. “Sir Longbow,” the girl wheezed, wincing. “Word from Leonor. The magic was the work of the Royal Coven. It was a test.” “A test of what?” Danielle raged. “How much we could shit ourselves while they fucked around without warning us?” The girl shrank back as if struck. Danielle scolded herself mentally for taking her anger out on the messenger. “Thank you, Merridah.” “We should tell the knights,” said Lupita. “Let them run about a little longer. We’ve not had a test of their readiness defending Fisher’s Gasp. It will be good to see how they cope with it.” Sir Longbow’s brown eyes caught those of the runner. “Merridah, run and get my horse. I’m going to shout at some witches.” Nodding, the pink flushed girl set off, clutching her side. “She’s a wreck,” said Lupita as the girl disappeared. “She’ll have to learn to run in full armour, this will be good for her. Hamish, inform Nettle that she doesn’t need to worry. Tell her I’ll be back soon. Don’t tell anyone else.” He nodded, smiling to be the bearer of good news. On her horse, Danielle toured the perimeter. Nameless Knights stood at the ready, not all in full armour, but all with a weapon in hand. After a full circuit of the walls, she told them the good news. Groans and curses for the witches at Leonor Castle passed between the warriors as they went back to their duties, or to bed. They all knew Lupita was technically one of the coven, but her association with Sir Longbow gave the witch a free pass among the Nameless Knights. A year later, Danielle sat on the same horse, watching a tent city in the distance. A blue moon hung in the black sky. Cold winds blew in off the sea to the east. The canvas tents fluttered in the light of hundreds of fires. The invaders had come from the sea in their thousands. Bobbing on the waves to the east were a hundred ships at anchor. “Our border is too long now,” Sir Danielle said to Lupita, who wore full armour beneath the uniform of a War Witch. The robes of the coven had been merged with the armour of the Nameless Knights for the new unit of warriors who supported Crann’s warriors with their magic. “That army won’t know what hit them,” said the witch, pulling the fur collar of her cloak tighter around her. “Are all of the troops assembled?” Sir Longbow asked Lord Fabian Castel. The leader of Crann’s elite knights smirked, his handsome features showing his age with every new line on the face Danielle had known since they were children. “Mine are ready. I don’t know about your rabble.”He adjusted his helmet as he spoke, testing the hinges on the visor. “I hoped we would never have to battle humans again,” Danielle said. Monsters were her speciality and preference. She never felt guilty about putting a beast down. In the middle of Crann’s forces, the coven of War Witches and Warlocks were preparing the same spell that had put out every flame in Crann a year before. Once more the kingdom would be plunged into darkness, this time for its own defense. “They have cannons set up at the perimeter of the camp,” said a scout. “Point out the positions to our own cannon teams,” Lord Fabian commanded. “We strike those positions first when the fires go out.” Crystals of snow glided down from the clouds above. “Just what we need, soldiers slipping on fresh snow as they charge into gunfire.” “They’re here to retake the monopoly on gunpowder.” Danielle voiced the thought aloud. None responded. She had been one of the fellowship sent to buy or steal guns from Quin Shi, across the sea and far to the east. The mission had furnished them with more advanced weapons than those Crann had. Danielle ended up murdering a local governor in the process. When the lights flickered out, cries of shock echoed across the snowy ground from the enemy camp. Explosions from Crann’s cannons signaled the attack. Musketeers rode at the head of the charge, waiting until they saw the whites in the eyes of the Quin Shi soldiers. Crann had duplicated the cloth armour that the eastern soldiers wore for protection against gunfire. Green jackets marked the specialist cavalry riflemen who rode at the front to break the lines of the enemy. Nameless Knights rode behind the riflemen with their matchlock pistols. Crackling shots along the jagged lines of cavalry were tiny sparks in the night. All of the army had been ready to light their torches the moment the spell left the enemy in the dark. Despite outnumbering the Quin Shi forces and having surprise on their side, Crann’s warriors fell to the gunners in the camp. A rifleman by Danielle’s side fell from his horse. The thundering steed charged on, caught up in the charge. The match of Sir Longbow’s pistol flickered orange in the blue-black of the night. A shape moved between the tents before her. Trying to find the rhythm of her horse’s hooves, she fired. With no idea whether her shot had done anything, she holstered the gun and drew her sword. Crann’s cavalry crashing into the camp were waves washing over the hull of a ship in a storm. Danielle swung her sword, hitting leather helmets studded with steel. Some fell, others would live to take another blade or be shot. Riflemen in their gunner’s jackets turned back, giving themselves time to reload before they charged back in. Nameless Knights and Sir Castel’s elites carried on, switching to swords or bows and arrows. A row of spears stopped Danielle dead, along with other riders. The invaders in their brown cloth armour had regrouped. The beautiful horse beneath Sir Longbow reared up as a blast hit it in the chest. Thrown down into the sharp grass of the dunes, she landed hard, tumbling. Thick headed cavaliers charged into the spears, lost in the adrenaline rush of the moment. They were lost forever as spears pierced their armour or they were stabbed to death. Guns fired another volley from behind the line of spears. Scattered shots answered from Crann’s soldiers who had not had time to form up against the invaders. Tripping over the corpse of a knight in armour, she fell upon the body of an invader. His weak moans as he bled to death brought the taste of vomit to her tongue. She finished him with her sword and crawled through snow on sand, red with streaks of blood. Knights of Crann regrouped at the edge of the camp as she crawled through the no man’s land of corpses. Men and women writhed in their dying moments or pleaded for mercy in their native tongues. Crann’s magic was not done with the invaders. The greatest weapon of the kingdom were its red arrows. Danielle wished she had them instead of the puny guns that fired once and took too long to reload. Black shadows whistled through the sky above her, arcing down into the foreigners who had come to kill. Screams answered the arrows that struck home. A familiar horror followed. Campfires relit since the spell of the War Witches made the nightmare a silhouette. Trees sprung from the corpses of those pierced by the red arrows. Curaduile trees fed on blood to grow at supernatural speeds. Once more the lines of the enemy were broken as they fled from the monsters growing all around them. Defenders of the kingdom closed in. Infantry with long guns closed in, firing volleys in perfect bursts. As one line ducked to reload, the next stepped forward, aimed and fired. A few steps at a time, the noose around the invaders closed. Another round of arrows rained down upon men fleeing for their ships. The mercenary vessels anchored out at sea would never take those warriors home. Flames danced on the boats that had carried the men from Quin Shi, twenty at a time. Some waded out into the water, dropping their weapons to swim away. Many had no choice but to fight as corpses piled up around them. Commanders in red or purple armour fought with more skill than the pawns send out as cannon fodder. With gunmen and archers moving past her, Danielle watched in horror. Her kingdom had been on the wrong end of the same kind of slaughter. Crann had promised itself that it would never face such a massacre again. It hadn’t stopped them from committing their own. As a last surprise, a handful of Quin Shi warriors dressed in blue lit powder kegs as swords were raised to kill them them. Using their own magic, they guided the blast at head height. A ring of fiery death spread out, flattening anyone a ship’s length from the blast. All cheer from the decisive victory was taken from the defenders in a moment. Sacrificing themselves, seven mages of Quin Shi had taken two hundred souls with them. Looking for survivors among the bodies of the camp, she found soldiers clinging to their wounds as blood fled from their veins and arteries. Some she could save by cauterising the holes. For others, all she could do was hold their hand as they faded away. Though it was the battles that gave her nightmares, it was the aftermath that made her sick. Bodies of the enemy were stripped and burnt in pyramids taller than her. Crann’s dead were taken away on carts that would carry them to their graves. Weapons and armour of the enemy were sorted. Black mounds smoked as snow fell on red ground. The sea bashed and caressed the shore. Salty air nipped at Danielle’s ruddy cheeks. All of the ships had fled in the night. Their captains would live to tell the tale. No matter the loot, nothing was ever worth the loss of battle. Assembled to ride and march home, the Nameless Knights were short of a hundred warriors. It hadn’t been their worst battle, nor their best. On a horse offered by one of her knights, Sir Longbow rode back to Fisher’s Gasp with tears in her eyes. Sunrise shed unwelcome light on the scene of the slaughter. Darkness would have been a mercy. Curaduile trees had grown into a new grove at the heart of the destroyed camp. Just as they marked the inland borders of the kingdom, the magical trees would stand guard over that patch of ground for generations to come. Lupita rode to Danielle’s side, leaving the War Witches behind her. “At least those soldiers wont be preying upon unarmed famers, pillaging their way south to Leonor.” Lupita’s voice was soothing. Sir Longbow nodded, deep in her usual guilt and disgust for humanity. “I just want to get back to Fisher’s Gasp to see Nettle and Fergus.” “I love you,” Lupita whispered so that only they could hear. The slightest flicker of a smile crossed Danielle’s lips. She mouthed I love you too . They rode down the coast towards grey mountains. |
“Why are you such a pessimistic asshole?” My date asks once the words leave my mouth. I look at her with my “are you actually asking me that?” face. “You’re the one who accepted the blind date honey, you knew exactly what was going to happen because I know for a fact Johnny (My good friend) doesn’t skimp on the details when describing me to people.” “All he said to me was you were Jewish (I’m not, I just don’t tip or waste money) and funny but so far all you’ve been is just a melancholy prick over some girl who doesn’t bother talking to you anymore.” She leaves her mouth agape and stares at me in utter awe. Not the amorous awe but the awe of someone who can’t believe who they’re talking to. “Ok first off, I’m not Jewish but I have no problem with them, and second off this girl broke my heart and I’m just trying to tell you what to avoid.” The minute that last sentence left my mouth I knew I was in for it. This was it. She was going to destroy me with words just like that. Instead she grabbed her twenty dollar glass of wine and threw it into my face leaving my designer shirt in a purple mess along with staining my suit. “Fuck. You.” She says before stammering off out of the restaurant. I raise my finger for the waiter who drops the check. I grab my wallet from my inside pocket and grab the money and put the exact change on the table and walk out. “I see your date didn’t go well monsieur.” Says the receptionist. I look at him and shake my head. “No shit monsieur. Vous ne parlez pas francais. So don’t fucking try.” The receptionist motions for two goons to get me out but I place my hand in front of them. “I’ve got this ok?” I put my hands down and turn around towards the door but before I could get another step I feel four hand close down on me and pick me up, keep in mind I’m only a hundred twenty pounds and five foot six, and throw me out hitting my nose on the pavement and sending my glasses flying. After walking for what seemed like an eternity back to my studio apartment. I slowly make my way to the couch and fall face first. Another plunder I thought in my head. I lift myself up and walk to my bathroom, my intention to take my medications which two of the three I’m out of. Only one I have left is the ones for my allergies. Anxiety and depression will have to wait until the pharmacist is opened tomorrow morning. I sat back on my couch and grab my phone and called Johnny. “Ethan I didn’t expect a call this early. I’m with my wife right now at the supermarket. We’re picking up diapers for little Kevin” Oh poor Johnny I think; stuck with a woman who’s cheating on him. “What did you say about cheating?” Fuck... “Um....” I really messed up this time. This isn’t the first time this happened but I’ll make something up first before I tell you more stories from my life. “You see the girl you set me up with is a big cheater.” “She’s the most catholic girl I’ve met in my entire life...” I could already hear the confusion in his voice. I couldn’t think of anything else so I went to the next big thing. “She’s an anti-Semite.” I already knew it would backfire on me. “It went bad huh?” That was pretty much my whole life summed up in a sentence the books over folks you can pretty much stop reading here I die at the end. I’m just joking please keep reading. “Yeah very bad, she called me a melancholy asshole and threw wine on me. Twenty dollar wine too!” According to my mother my father’s family was full of Jewish heritage but I seriously doubted that since she hated his guts and was too an anti-Semite. “Look man; meet me at the bar tomorrow we’ll talk all about it ok?” “Alright Johnny I’ll talk to you then.” I put the phone face down on my table and lay back in my couch. I close my eyes and rub them. After a moment of silence the T.V. flutters to life with a press of a button. Then my feet drag me to the kitchen where I look upon the emptiness of my refrigerator. A lone Chinese carton full of rice, vegetables, and chicken that then suddenly is put into the microwave set for two minutes. I watch it slowly turn and turn inside for the remainder while listening to the latest celebrity scandals playing on the T.V. I grab the carton and plop down on the couch. It only seemed like a month ago when she was sitting right next to me. Her beautiful dyed hair with her big soulful eyes, her supple bosom that seemed to never be at home inside a shirt, her arms around me and mine around her playing with the piercings that she had put it in herself during high school in southern Texas. It had taken her nearly three years for her to finally see me in a romantic relationship and not just best friends anymore. It was the greatest two years of my life. She was the best I ever had but in a flash she was gone. Gone from my life when a man walked up to her and said those god damned words. “I’m sorry I cheated on you.” No not those... “I love you.” Those “I Love You.” Is fucking bullshit, especially when it comes from a man who cheated on you and repeatedly does it and you listen to it. When I said to her all those other times she didn’t fall head over heels for me. All she ever did was just look at me and smile and say “I love you too Ethan, you’re my best friend.” BUT TO HIM?! “I love you so damn much babe.” YEAH BULLSHIT I wake up from my fever dream and see the T.V. on the fritz and my carton of Chinese empty. Just like my will of continuing to date while the love of my life is with a cheating bastard who’s just a carbon copy of all the other boyfriends she’s had throughout her entire life. Some lowlife piece of shi- A knock from my door? Who would want to visit me? The mail slot slowly opens letting the light from the hallway cut through the darkness of my apartment and letter is handed to me. “Rent due by next week.” Oh of course. None of my friends but the damned landlord Takanewa or something like that. I open the letter and see twelve thousand dollars in finances listed. I grimace and put the letter on my coffee table and walk to my bed and try to forget things for a while. It didn’t work “I had a dream where I was being eaten by a woman who looked eerily similar to my ex. Then once she had eaten me I was in her stomach and inside I could only see a bunch of digested me’s.” Johnny raises his hand and takes a swig from his beer and just a tiny bit of foam stays in his mustache which he wipes off with his cloth jacket. “That’s some freaky shit, but look man... you’ve got to forget about Sarah ok?” I nod and my head and grab my glass of wine and take a swig. “I try but I’ve known her for ten years of my life and she still finds ways to appear at the oddest of times.” I rub my head and take another swig. “Look you just got to be honest with her ok? Her leading you on and staying in your life for god knows how long isn’t going to do either of you any good. Maybe for her because she obviously enjoys watching you suffer.” In a sense he was right and I knew deep down that he was. That’ why the moment he finished I pulled out of my phone and clicked her contact info and pressed down on the little green phone symbol. “Wait are you calling her right now?” I nod my head yes and Johnny cheers and orders another beer and glass of wine for me. I take the call in a small nook where two bathrooms meet. “Hello?” I hear her sweet Latina voice over the line and for a moment I smile as the all the good memories of me and her come flooding back. The times in high school we would be lying in our beds and just be laughing at some stupid video she sent to me, or be showing me the cute outfits she would want to wear. Then it all comes crashing back around me when all the bad memories which far outweigh the good come also flooding back. “Sarah it’s Ethan and we need to talk.” I tried to sound serious but it was quite hard to do. Especially since this was the day I never looked forwards to having to do. Leave her behind and not have her in my life anymore. “Look Ethan I’ve told you before what’s happening between us and I’m afraid we can’t be together.” Just like the icy knife in my heart that I remembered. Fucking Bitch “I know and that’s why I’m telling you I’m done with you.” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve said that to her I wouldn’t be living in a studio apartment. “I can’t keep doing this to myself and I don’t want you in my life anymore.” If I had a full bottle of anti-depressants for every time I said that to her I would have a life time supply and enough for my great grandchildren. “What do you mean? Are you finally done with me?” No shit bitch is the first words that pop into my brain. “Yes Sarah. This is my final goodbye to you.” If I had a dog for every time I’ve said that I would have a dog waiting for me at home. “Can we at least have one more dinner together? For old time’s sake?” “No Sarah... no more dinners, meetings in the park, no more anything.” “So this is really it between me and you?” “Yes...” “It was fun while it lasted.” “Not for me you sociopathic bitch.” I pressed end call and deleted her as a contact. I take a deep sigh of relief and immediately regret everything I just did. What am I supposed to do without her in my life? Jesus I have to get her back. Somehow I have to... In my eyes, masturbating to your ex girlfriend’s pictures isn’t a necessarily bad thing. Morally no it is but it’s justified in this instance. It’s been nearly two weeks since I left her behind in my life and at this point I just want another female in my life. Just to hold someone and feel like I belong. Though it’s going to take a little while since I’ve been ordering nothing but take-out and pizza and the only reason I’ve left is to get some more alcohol. I’m glad my work let me have this month long vacation. Suddenly a cool fan is blowing on my face and I’m asking myself now. When did I get to my therapist’s office? “So how have you been Ethan? Anything happen recently?” My doctor says looking at me with an inquisitive look. I think for a moment and I wonder for a moment. Pondering. Questioning. What the fuck is the point of living. “Well I finally got rid of Sarah from my life...” My therapist nods and jots something down. Probably something along the lines of ‘fucking retarded why would he give her up? His best friend.’ “How are you feeling because of this huge change in your life? You’ve known her for ten or so years and now.” I didn’t know what to feel. I admit I did somewhat lie. Her boyfriend is new and I don’t know him at all. Maybe I was wrong? Honestly I don’t have any feelings for her anymore, at least not right now since I haven’t been talking to her... “I don’t feel sad about it, but I don’t feel good either. Just stuck in some gray zone I haven’t been able to leave. My vacation is nearly over so at least I can have work to keep my mind off of it for the most part but still. I miss her but I know she’ll just bring pain or maybe something else for a change... I really don’t know.” At this moment I can see him continue writing notes. “I think you should keep your distance for good. Especially sense you haven’t talked to her in what? Two, three weeks?” This is another lie I told him, in reality I did take her offer for one last meeting. It was four days ago and I haven’t been able to get it off my mind. Four Days Ago I walk to the restaurant that me and her agreed to meet at and as I walk I start to second guess my decision I’m making. I close my eyes and take off my glasses and just let my feet walk towards the direction I feel they should go. I picture myself walking to my apartment using the main road but when I reopen my eyes I see myself standing in front of the restaurant. I sigh but a smile goes across my face as I see her car park across the street between a pink Chevrolet and a black... I couldn’t tell what the other one was but she quickly crossed the street with a smile on her face. The both of us were half tempted to embrace and possibly even kiss but before either could take place we just have a light hug and let go after a few more seconds. “I’m glad you came here Ethan. I was a little worried you would just leave me for good without proper closure.” I see a smile forming on the corner of her lips and I smile back. “I’m glad you didn’t completely ignore my message.” Her smile is completed on her face and it’s a masterpiece before me. She brushes her hair behind her ear as the waiter comes to take our order. It’s almost like all the other times we went on a date together. She ordered some pasta dish and so did I. I can’t exactly remember our conversation we were having though but it was sweet. Once the night ended we embraced and she kissed me. I told her to call me later which she agreed to. Present “My friend Johnny also got into a bit of trouble and he isn’t talking to me anymore.” “What happened between the two of you? From what you’ve told me the two of you were very close.” “So are me and his wife.” Yeah... I fucked her. It was during a time where Sarah left me and me and his wife were decent acquaintances. “It was during a rough patch with Sarah and he was on a business trip. She comforted me and it grew deeper than just friends. He was gone for eight days and we made love six of those days.” “And you’ve kept this a secret from him?” “Yes and so has she. Up until two days ago when Johnny’s life came to a brief stop.” “What do you mean exactly?” “Guess I’ll start from start.” Three Days ago I decided to keep the dinner rendezvous with Sarah a secret from Johnny as me and him met at the bar later that day. As we walked inside the bad and sat in our usual space in the corner of the bar in a small booth I could tell there was something wrong with him but I didn’t want to ask him just yet. “Two beers.” Johnny finally says after ten minutes of silence. He raises his hand when the bartender looks around who nods and brings two mugs of beer. Frankly I’m mostly a wine person but I felt like a beer would be alright for now. “So what’s happening Johnny?” I ask. He looks at me and sighs. I can tell its bad news and I’m afraid to hear it. Could it be about his wife and her trail of pool boys? Or possibly he wal- “I had sex with a hooker last night.” Oh no is the first words that come to mind. “It was the best sex I’ve ever had.” He said still with an almost traumatized look on his face. “But she was sixteen.” I pause for a moment and so does he in order to let this to properly process. “This has to be some kind of joke...” I say slowly. He shakes his head. “Afterwards she showed me her license because I didn’t believe her either.” A tear started running down his face and ran into his mustache. “I have to pay her and her dip shit boyfriend or something like that two thousand dollars or else they’ll find and tell my wife and the police and oh Christ Ethan.” He says nearly breaking down and swigging from his mug. “I can’t just get that kind of money without anyone knowing.” “Sell your car.” I say almost immediately. He pauses and thinks about it. The inner workings of our minds start to work. “Do you know if they have any proof you did it?” “Boyfriend recorded it... who can I sell it to this short notice?” “Me.” I say getting my checkbook from my inside pocket. “Look man don’t worry I promise I’ll pay you back.” I nod and hand him the life saving check. He grabs the beer and gulps the remainder down and walks out of the bar with his marriage still somewhat intact. I wanted to tell him of his wife’s affair but I honestly didn’t have the heart just then. Good news is I have a car at the very least. Present “So he cheated on his wife with an underage prostitute who had her boyfriend record the whole ordeal.” “Yeah that’s what happened. He ended up paying her but she still told his wife.” “I assume her reaction was less than perfect.” He says with a smile. I couldn’t help but crack up at his face. “You son of a bitch Jules. This is supposed to be a therapy session not you fucking around.” He laughs too and we just take a moment to stop. “Maybe I should find a therapist who isn’t my friend?” “No no tell me what happened.” I sigh and continue with the story. Yesterday The day before all I did was be on the phone with Sarah. From nine a.m. to eleven p.m. Jumping topic to topic, watching movies, talking about some books, and talking about the relationship she’s in now. It was all very sweet and we agreed to talk again another time. Then I get a call from Johnny’s wife, Ashley at twelve. “Ethan I need you to come here as fast as possible. It’s about Johnny...” I can hear tears through the phone and her stuttering. “I’ll be in there in just a few minutes I have a car now, okay?” I wait a moment for her response but all I hear are tears. “Ashley?” “I’ll be here.” I get up from my couch and grab my coat as I walk out and down to the street below. After hopping into my new car I drive along the busy streets. All the while I’m wondering what could have happened. I’m honestly scared out of my mind at this point. It didn’t help when I finally drove up the driveway I entered the house and was immediately embraced by Ashley. “What happened?” “Johnny fucked a minor...” Fuck. I didn’t know what to say to this until I turned around and saw Johnny standing there with a tire iron. “Johnny?” “You’re not taking my son.” He says. Ashley nods and pushes me behind her. I panic and grab a small ashtray and hold it behind my back as Johnny goes into the kid’s room. I step in front of Ashley and pray to whatever god would listen to me at the moment. Johnny then walks out with his one month old baby in arm. As he turns around to leave the house I jump to action and smash the ceramic ashtray over his head. Present “Ok well I think I know why he isn’t talking to you anymore.” Jules says writing something down. “Yeah... Ashley is making me stay with her and Kevin just in case he ever returns.” I say this while thinking to myself “Kevin is her son correct?” “Yeah he’s her son... he’s also mine too. At least me and Ashley aren’t too sure. We’re supposed to go to the doctor sometime this week.” “That must be rough on you, your possible baby being taken away by a deranged man.” “I think that’s why I acted up. I think he was last seen in somewhere in San Francisco but I’m not too sure.” “At least he’s two states away.” “Yeah thankful for that but still, you’ve got to wonder what he’s doing.” Here at the Golden Gate Bridge I’m reflecting on my life now. Police have a warrant out for me for attempted kidnapping, soliciting sex with a minor, having sex with a minor, and for manslaughter of a man I hit on my drive down here. All I’ve got left now is this bridge... always wanted to take my son Kevin down here just like my father brought me. Now I’m here alone. What have I done to deserve this? It was my wife who drove me to this. She never wanted to have sex and never wanted to satisfy me after those two business trips. I’m glad I did that actually. Glad I fucked that little teen bitch. Showed her a damn good time. Fuck it. I step onto the ledge on the bridge and let Kevin’s face be the last thing I remember as I tilted off the edge. It was a week after they recovered Johnny’s body from the San Francisco bay. With his body already covered in filth and somewhat already decomposing we decided to cremate him. I’ve moved into Ashley’s home when the tests to see if I was the father came in. It turns out I am and Ashley didn’t want her son to be without a father but she didn’t want me like that at least not at that point with Johnny dying. I let her have all the time she needed to heal from her loss and when she needed me I was there to comfort her. It was a rough year after his suicide. My dating life evaporated and Sarah finally left on her own terms. Last I heard she had overdosed on cocaine and lost one of her legs to diabetes. It felt good to hear that though I knew it was wrong of me to not feel bad for her but after all she had put me through? It was well deserved. It wasn’t until the year after Johnny died where Ashley slowly started to want me and it was on February Fifteenth Two-Thousand and Seventeen we were married. I was glad I finally found another person. After years of being tormented by constant stream of girls who didn’t want anything serious I finally had someone. As I look at Kevin run around the yard with his friends I can’t help but look at my life before I meet Ashley, before I had him. The few weeks before he was a part of my life, dating person after person, being miserable and struggling to scrape together enough cash for rent, and now I have a family of my own. Though it wasn’t always mine, I’m living in another man’s dream that I’m very much enjoying. “What are you thinking about?” Ashley asks wrapping her arms around my shoulder as we watch Kevin play in the snow with his friends. “How far we’ve come, and how much that little kid changed my life.” “Our lives.” She says I smile when I hear those words. “Our Lives. |