Writing in Grey

Joseph Schwartze

UCCS Honors Program A Darker World

The stories in this section look at the darker parts of our world. Fantasy is unnecessary to see depictions of true evil; it exists in day to day life. The mind does not have to warp itself in perverted defense mechanisms to see darkness in our average lives. These stories examine the consequences of the bad events in our world, from the lasting effects on a single person to the terrible choices some people are forced to make. We do not always know the darkness that surrounds us; only an unremarkable symbol might be the reminder. Other times, the darkness around us can be from our own choices, our own accomplishments, and we must live with that stink forever. These stories explore the grey in our world and how the black and white can mix into unfortunate realities.

Choices in the Dark

Clarissa took the shot, and she savored the burning sensation in her throat. She needed it, the pain. She needed the numbness that followed even more. Her eyes closed, and when she opened them, some 20-something college boy sat next to her. He was dressed like a preppy frat boy, with his khakis and a light blue polo shirt. She knew the drill. A pretty smile painted her features, and she leaned against the counter while she waited for him to say something. A quick adjustment and her dark red, revealing dress showed off more of her thighs and cleavage. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked confidently. “Straight to business, I like it,” she replied, “Please do.” The young man flagged down the bartender and asked for two more of, “whatever she’s drinking.” He looked back to her and smiled before introducing himself. “The name’s James, but you can call me whatever you’d like.” Clarissa smiled a too-nice smile, playing along, “Well, James, how’s a nice-lookin’ college kid like you end up in this dive bar?” Her words slurred, a sign of how many drinks she’d already had that night. James just kept on smiling. The grin was painted permanently on his lips, it seemed. He shrugged and replied after a moment, “Just looking to have a good time, find a nice woman. What’s a lady like you doing here?” Clarissa laughed; this boy had more confidence than some 40-year-old men at the top of their career. The drinks arrived, and she downed the shot while looking at him. She licked her lips slowly, and she finally replied, “A lady, huh? I like that. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll keep you around.” She winked at him and then told the bartender to keep them coming. James smiled, that perpetual shit-eating grin, and laid a few bills on the counter for the bartender. He downed his own shot, and tried to cover his reaction at how strong the drink was. “I guess you don’t mess around with your liquor, huh?” he spoke in a light-hearted tone. “I don’t fuck around with anything, James,” she whispered, leaning in closer to the young man. “Nothing, huh?” he replied, leaning in. “Nothing…” she sighed huskily, one of her hands landing on his knee. The new drinks arrived, and Clarissa extricated herself from James’s longing grasp to down the shot. The bartender was starting to water them down for her, as per the usual agreement; it made the drink burn less, and the needed numbness lacked as well. The young woman winked at him again, then turned to face the bar. He seemed at a loss, until she spoke again. “Nothing except my men, that is.” “Huh?” “I don’t fuck around with anything except my men, James. You get me?” “I think I got you.” “Actually, you don’t ‘got’ me yet, but you might soon,” her voice trailed off, taking on that seductive tone again. She bit her lip, partially to continue this image of temptress but also to sublimate the self-loathing she felt. He was buying into it so easily, and she hated it. “Oh, will I?” he asked after a slight pause, continuing the conversation. No doubt he was off balance by how forward she was. Usually he made the moves, at least she supposed. Clarissa looked at him sideways and gave a curt nod. That could’ve been done better, she voiced in her head, but she still didn’t want to do this anymore. Better to get it over with, she thought, turning on the barstool to face James again. “Yes, you will, and I think I’m done here. Let’s go somewhere,” her voice was sultry, suggestive, and provocative. Even the most naïve and inexperienced young man could recognize her tone. James nodded, and he took her hand. The young man suddenly seemed in a great rush as he threw more bills, notably much more than the barkeep needed for the drinks, on the counter. In a moment they were out of the bar and on the street, and then Clarissa pressed herself against James. One arm around his back and a hand on his chest, she trapped him in her grasp. As they walked, Clarissa kept careful track of their location. A right turn onto 6th Avenue, heading toward Central Park. Perfect, she didn’t even have to redirect him to the right location. They walked along, and as they did she felt his hands openly exploring her body. Even walking openly on the street, the boy kept making moves. She held off a laugh at how impatient he was, but she figured she could use it to her advantage. She could use it, even if she hated it. In a swift movement she brought her hand up to her chest and pressed a button concealed in the strap of her bra. A quick and rhythmic buzzing sensation told her the tracking device was activated, and she scowled bitterly. Clarissa didn’t want to do this. No part of her wanted this. But this was better than her alternative. Five minutes, and then this was over. Clarissa had to take care of it all quickly. She stopped on a corner of some street, and looked down the intersecting avenue. Mostly empty, with only a handful of people minding their own business. Alleys would be empty, she knew. “You good?” James asked innocently but also with a tone of worry. Putting on a pretty face, Clarissa turned to him and replied, “I can’t wait. Come on…” She dragged him down the side street hurriedly, eyes scanning wildly to find a suitable place to stop. He just followed along blindly, eagerly. She expected no more and no less. They strutted past one alley, and then Clarissa stopped and looked back. She pulled James into a kiss, and as he was distracted she scanned the area. No one around. Good. Retracting from the kiss, Clarissa made eye contact with James and smirked. “Come on…” she whispered, pulling him to the alley behind them. She walked quickly, stumbling once and letting him catch her. Down the alley and out of sight from the street, she pushed him into the wall and came onto him. Her hands slipped under his jacket and then his shirt, exploring the hot skin of his chest. Their lips met again, and Clarissa did not hold back this time. She felt herself falling into his lust, her body reacting as his hands gripped the edges of her dress. Clarissa rolled along the wall, shifting them so that James was holding her up against the wall. James did his job then. His confidence returned, and Clarissa let him make his moves. He lifted her up against the wall, and she wrapped her legs around him. The young man groped at her breasts as he grinded against her. His kisses moved from her lips, trailing along her jaw and then her collarbone. He left marks of his lust on her skin; remnant signs of his desire. “Come on…” she whispered again, pulling him by his collar to match his lips again. Guilt and pleasure flooded her body, and the cognitive dissonance ravaged her consciousness. She dissolved into the pleasure, pushing out the negative realities of her actions; for a moment, this could seem real, feel real—be real. Then the device attached to her bra buzzed again, and James noticed. “What was–” he began, and then he turned as a truck drove into the alley. Another pulled in from the other end of the alley, cutting off the exits. James dropped Clarissa to the ground, backing up a few steps with confusion and fear in his eyes. “What the fuck? What the fuck is this!?” Clarissa moved as fast as she could to the closer vehicle, and as she did armed men burst out of the back. They surrounded James, pinned him to the ground, and handcuffed him. He shouted, screaming about how it was Clarissa’s fault and that these cops were fucked when his father’s lawyer got ahold of them. One of the men finally punched him in the jaw, which shut him up. The attacker yelled into James's face, “We’re not police, dipshit.” Clarissa kept her gaze down as they gagged James and dragged him into the vehicle. She looked up one last time, at the exact moment to make eye contact. She mouthed, “I’m so sorry.” But he only looked confused and terrified. As they loaded him into the vehicle, Clarissa saw three other captured men already in the back. The captain of this group came up to her and patted her on the shoulder, “Nice, early in the night too. Head to a new bar, see if you can get another before we’re done.” As he finished a device on his hip beeped and flashed, and then he called out, “Alright boys, we got another one. Let’s get moving!” The trucks disappeared from the alley more suddenly than they appeared, leaving Clarissa in the shadows. That was the worst way she could be, thinking about her choices in the dark.

Your Confessional

In the darkness that night he came. He waited until after the rest had gone to sleep, and then he snuck into your room as quietly as the shadows themselves. Equally silently he incapacitated you, silencing you with a gag and tying you to a chair. After that, he stood in the shadows and waited. Just waited. “Can you believe I used to be afraid of the dark?” he asked. The question was sudden after hours of nothingness, and you were startled enough that you did not answer. “I said, can you believe I used to be afraid of the dark?” the voice reiterated. You shook your head solemnly, more confused than anything else. “Well, it’s true, and I wasn’t scared like every little kid is scared. I was debilitatingly scared. I couldn’t function in darkness. It shut me down like a knockout punch to the face,” he explained, chuckling at the end as if it were funny to him. After a moment he continued, “Yeah. Ironic, isn’t it? Considering what I do now. Kill people. From the shadows.” You screamed against your gag, the muffled noise seeming hopelessly dull even in complete silence. “Yeah, that won’t help. Even if I hadn’t placed that gag everyone else is sound asleep. Miracle of modern medicine,” he claimed. Although you could not see him you swore he had a smug expression on his face. He continued, “Anyway, I’ve made a habit. Probably a bad one, but one I indulge nonetheless. You see, anytime I have the opportunity for a perfect clean kill like this I take the time to let my victims say one last thing. Whatever it is, whatever they want off of their conscience, I take it onto mine. In return, I tell people how I used to be afraid of the dark and how I overcame it. A little rapport, y’know? Makes the ki— Makes me feel better about my profession. I’m not just a murderer; I’m a confessional.” You did your best to show your confusion despite the gag in your mouth. “Okay, okay. You don’t get it. Here,” he spoke, emerging from the shadows to remove your gag. “Now what do yo—” You screamed again. “Okay! Jeez, fuck. Shut up. I said no one was going to hear you. Why would I take the gag off if I didn’t know that for a fact? Fuck. I took you to be more intelligent than that,” his tone was disappointed; he had expected more from you. “Alright, so are you listening? Do you have any questions?” he asked. You began to shake your head, and then asked, “Why?” He huffed, “Why what? Why am I killing you? Why do I explain my past irrational fear of the dark? Why do I insist on standing in this shadowy corner? Why what?” You scowled and responded, “Why are you going to kill me?” “Someone wants you dead. That’s all I got, that and the money they’re paying me with. I don’t take the time to dig into that bullshit. It’s usually messy.” He paced back and forth in his corner now, moving his hands in motions as if practicing with a blade. You stayed silent, and after he realized you had nothing more to say he continued, “Alright, well here we go. Time for you to learn a little something about me. “You see, I was scared of the dark when I was younger, like I said, but like every other kid I also had friends who convinced me to make bad decisions. I was in middle school, seventh grade I’m fairly certain, when a friend of mine wanted to go and TP this guy’s house. He had done it to both of us on more than one occasion, so I figured we might as well. Now, on our street there were a few lights so I was alright as long as I didn’t stray too far from him. I stuck with my friend, we carried the toilet paper, and eventually we got there. “Now listen. We TPed the fuck out of this guy’s house. Like, multiple rolls per tree. Using a roll to go around and back over their cars to block the doors. Tossing the shit like maniacs over their roof. Hell, I don’t think you could quantify the amount of TP we got this guy with. But anyway, as we’re finishing we see a light come on in the house. My friend and I both went, ‘Oh shit!’ because of course we do. We stood behind these trees just as this guy’s mom turned on the front porch light and looked out. She saw the TP everywhere, and she sighed, but she somehow didn’t see us. When I look at my friend he had a look in his eyes like I’d never seen, an excitement I’d never seen in him. After a moment she turned away and we left the house behind. “Walking back down the street we both agreed that our fun wasn’t over, so we started to ding-dong-ditch every other house we walked past. Now, keep in mind, my adrenaline was still racing not just from almost being caught by the guy’s mom, but also because this whole darkness thing still scared the shit out of me. Diving in and out of the shadows was horrifying, but with my friend I felt okay enough to deal with it. So we’re ringing these houses and running off, and we paused at one and waited for someone at the door. We’re hiding behind this bush and this woman calmly opened her door, looked around on the porch to see if anyone was there, and then turned around and nodded to someone we couldn’t see before closing the door. “Weird, right? Well, my friend and I thought so too so we stopped to see what was up. Less than a minute later the garage door opened and out drove this big-ass truck and the woman waljked out with two dogs. And I mean vicious, tear-a-son-of-a-bitch-open, looking dogs. My friend and I, luckily far enough away to not be immediately seen, booked it. We’re legging it, and we’re putting some distance between us, and then my friend just up and vaulted over this fence. I saw him soaring over this and I thought, ‘Fuck.’ I couldn’t do that. I heard him land with a painful thud and go, ‘Dude. What the fuck do I do?’ He just said to find somewhere else so now, without a friend and in the darkness, I ran to the closest tree and climbed the fucker. “Now, this is where the story gets scary. I get up the tree and stop moving just as the truck crept by. I looked down at it, but it just went on. The guy didn’t see me. A moment later the woman walked up and her dogs stopped at the tree. I could feel my heart beating. The two dogs looked up, and then their owner did too. I stopped my breathing and fucking panic. They looked looked and then the dogs turned away and kept walking down the road after the truck. The woman’s gaze lingered a moment and then she followed, eyes scanning the street as she left me behind. “Now just envision this. Here I am, some 11 or 12 year old, piss-my-pants afraid of the dark, hiding up a tree from these people with dogs that look like they could kill me. Oh! And my friend fucking abandoned me. I should’ve just gone home and never ever snuck out again, right? But you see, it was this moment that made me realize what darkness really was. There may be reasons to be scared of the dark, but it could also be a tool. In that darkness I had hidden from that woman and her dogs. In that darkness I had escaped that truck. With some confidence I picked my way down the tree, walked back to that fence and called my friend out. “We did go right home after that actually, and though the experience scared him enough that he wouldn’t go out with me late at night anymore, it changed me. I was always pulling pranks, fucking with people, using the darkness as my cover, and I loved it. As I got later into highschool I didn’t think there would be too much I could do with this esoteric skillset I had. “Man, I was wrong. I’ve got such an insane gig now, taking out targets for money like the spectre of fuckin’ death. And I get to tell people this. Tell people the story of how I came to be who I am. It’s a good story, isn’t it?” You want to nod, yet simultaneously feel conflicted with the knowledge that he would kill you soon. He continued, “Ah, whatever. You know it is. Probably just confused about the whole imminent death thing. It happens. But, as I promised, you have your chance now. The floor is yours to unleash whatever secret horror you have stored up in that noggin of yours. There’s gotta be something.” You paused, if that was even a possibility given your current state of inaction. What could you tell him? Then, like a bullet train, it struck you. That one thing you could tell no one. The one thing that could ruin your entire life should anyone ever find it out. You know what it is: your greatest shame. “Ah, I see it. You know what it is now. Come on, I’ll keep your secrets. I’ll be your confessional. Who am I gonna tell? And why? You’ll be dead anyway. Get it off your chest,” his voice was comforting, a diametric opposite to the purpose you knew he served. “Alright,” you whispered. Slowly, and in the excruciating detail you could only provide for a secret this terrible, you told him that disgusting secret.. “Damn. Wow. I’ve heard some shit, and you people still never cease to surprise me... Oh well, do you feel better now? At least you aren’t taking that shit to your grave.” You nod curtly, a perturbed grimace on your face. “Good!” He was cheery as he pulled out a gun with a silencer and put it to your forehead. “Now you can die happily. Adios, you miserable piece of—” Click.

It’s Not Just Me

They laid there side by side and gasping. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on their bodies, and it caught and reflected the light as their bodies heaved with the effort of refilling their lungs with oxygen. A whole minute passed before either of them could speak, and when it did they still worked on regulating their tone. “Really good,” the young woman gasped. It didn’t say much, but the statement gave what it could. The other just nodded, still recovering from the experience. “Didn’t know I could cum that many times in a row,” she said and giggled at the end. “So have I converted you?” the second woman asked. “No,” the first said, and she laughed again. “This was really good, but dick is just different. I think I’ll take either when I can get it. How—” “I knew you’d ask,” the second woman interrupted in a flat tone. “You did great, May.” “Wow, that really sounded like I didn’t, Jennifer,” May said back in a similarly flat tone. Their eyes met, and then both laughed. “So I really did?” “Yeah, for your first time. Better than others,” Jennifer answered. “Ohhh, for my first time, I see,” May teased and stood up from the bed, going about the room to gather her clothes. They’d been thrown… everywhere. “Still better than others!” Jennifer said, pulling the blankets around her as she sat up in bed. “If we keep doing this, you could be the best.” “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to keep doing this.” “Oh really? Mrs. ‘I didn’t know I could cum that many times’ doesn’t want to fuck me again?” Jennifer asked in a teasing voice. They both laughed, and May bent down to start pulling up her pants. The skinny jeans took a real process to get on. As she did, Jennifer noticed something below her waistline: a small question mark tattoo. For a moment, she felt surprise that she hadn’t noticed it before, but she had been… busy. “What’s that?” she asked. “I thought you said you didn’t have any tattoos?” “What?” May asked back, then nodded as she pulled her pants up over it. “Oh, sorry. That’s nothing, really. Not worth mentioning. I hope it doesn’t bother you?” “No, it’s fine. I mean, I don’t have any tattoos, but they don’t bother me. Why’d you get it? If you don’t mind me asking.” “Oh, it’s nothing,” May said, and she left it at that. Jennifer tilted her head, and finally stood up out of bed to start pulling her clothes on. May finished dressing and stood by the door. “Headed out?” Jennifer asked before May could leave. “Yeah. Kinda… got other things to do today.” “Not a cuddler, I guess.” “Never cuddled with a girl before. At least, not after…” “I understand, and we’re getting dressed anyway,” Jennifer said to make sure they didn’t leave the idea awkwardly hanging. “Yeah. But, I’ll text you,” May said, and she left before Jennifer could say much more. “Yeah, like I’m ever seeing you again,” Jennifer said as she sat on the edge of the bed, half-dressed. She thought that had been really good, for both of them, but something must have been wrong. Maybe being with another woman bothered May more than she let on. Jennifer shrugged and continued getting dressed again, at least until she realized she could use a shower. It had been really good. “Oh well, that’s just another one gone,” Jennifer said as she stripped down for the second time and moved into her bathroom. For a lot of women she met, she was just an experiment. Which meant she had a lot of hookups. Which meant teaching a lot of women how to pleasure another woman. Which also meant she had only ever had two “lasting” relationships, and one of those had been only two months. Jennifer sighed as she turned the shower on, and the cold water jolted her uncomfortably. However, it warmed, and she washed herself and played through the experience in her head again. “It was damn good though…” she whispered and remembered when May had been most “responsive.” Jennifer always looked to improve her technique.

Jennifer sat in the back of her anthropology class. General education, ancient and half- dead professor, classroom of two hundred students. She’d zoned out maybe fifteen minutes earlier, daydreaming about getting out of class and going to Taco Bell. This class would release at ten, the time that most decent restaurants closed. That meant fast food, and there were only two acceptable fast-food franchises: Chick Fil A and Taco Bell. Chick Fil A closed at ten, so Taco Bell it was. Burritos awaited her, filled with preservatives and fake cheese and pseudo- meat that would fill her up and later place her on a toilet. She smiled unconsciously, and suddenly realized she was staring at someone. The guy stared back, also smiling, and Jennifer blushed hard. He probably thought she was flirting, trying to get his attention. Fuck, she thought to herself, and tried to play it off with a roll of her eyes and pretending to pay attention. But the guy kept grinning to himself, glancing at her, and he completely failed to pay attention. How do I tell him I’m a lesbian without being weird? Do I, or do I just blow him off and let him think I’m a flirty bitch? Jennifer thought, cursing herself and paying no more attention than when she daydreamed. Just then her phone buzzed, and for a single frightening second she thought the guy had gotten her number. But, it was May, with a single word message: Hey Okay, Jennifer thought, the guy leaving her mind instantaneously. Wasn’t expecting this. What do I say back? She settled with a simple: Hey, whats up? And Jennifer waited. She felt happy May texted her again; she honestly expected never to hear from her. But, now it was all back to the game: Was this a second hookup? Was it something more? She looked up from the notes she wasn’t taking and grinned. She wished the guy would stop smiling at her. Her mind drifted to the time she’d spent with May a few days ago. She shifted in her seat, remembering the feel of May, her hands, her soft skin, her— Jennifer’s phone buzzed, and she checked the message instantly. She regretted it, thinking that she needed to get this girl out of her head, but she had to read it anyway. May had replied: Nothing. Wanna get dinner? Great, that told Jennifer nothing. It could still be just a hookup, or maybe something else. Though, it was a bit late to be trying to have a nice dinner. She replied: Yeah, Im out of class soon where? A minute passed. May texted: I’m used to letting the guy choose haha, what do you want? Well, Jennifer thought, guess I get to decide what this is. She responded: Taco Bell. Only decent fast food open this late May texted: The one near campus? Jennifer texted: Yeah. I get out at ten May texted: See you there And Jennifer put her phone back in its place under her thigh. That way it wasn’t out on the table but still easily accessible. She looked across the room to see the guy smiling at her, still, and she sighed. She would tell him off after class; probably the only way at this point to get him away. She looked at the clock and started counting down the minutes. Thirty left. Twenty- nine. Twenty-eight. She doodled on the page, still not taking notes. Considering every quiz could be found online with all the answers, she never would. She tried to distract herself thinking about the food she would buy. Tacos and burritos and whatever else. Nachos? Maybe. Her mind wandered, and the next thought that she recognized was an image of her pouring that disgustingly good Taco Bell fake nacho cheese over May’s body. Whoa, Jennifer thought with a laugh. I really need to hookup with someone else. Just to get her out of my head. But the daydreaming had worked, and the professor started to wrap up class. Jennifer thought about packing up very quickly and leaving, but the guy had already left his seat. There was no escape. “Hey.” She heard him as she slipped her notebook into her bag. “Hey,” she responded without looking at him. She put her water bottle into its proper place. “You busy tonight?” he asked. Wow, forward, Jennifer thought. “Yeah, going out to dinner with a… friend.” She hesitated over what May was to her, but she finished packing and turned around. The guy was a lot taller when he stood up, and he towered over her. She’d never understand how other girls liked that. He smiled, “Oh really?” “Uh, yeah.” She moved to push past him, but she noticed something about him. The way he leaned against the wall lifted his shirt up, just enough to reveal a small question mark tattoo above his waist. Did everyone have these now? “Well, could I get your—” “What’s that?” Jennifer asked, cutting him off and pointing to the tattoo. “Oh, nothing,” the guy said, and he stepped away from the wall. The tattoo disappeared under his shirt. Jennifer wanted to growl, but instead she just turned away and left the lecture room. “Wait, can I get your nu—” And the door swung shut behind her, cutting off his voice. She’d never wanted to leave a lecture so quickly before. Or get to Taco Bell, she thought as she pulled into a parking space. She didn’t remember speeding too badly, but she arrived at 10:07. She had driven fast. May probably wouldn’t be there yet, but Jennifer went in to place her order. She felt too hungry to wait. A line stretched from the register, and by the time she got to the front and ordered, May had walked in. “Couldn’t wait for me?” she asked as Jennifer filled up her cup at the soda dispenser. Jennifer laughed and shook her head. “Guess I couldn’t. Got a problem?” “Nah, I would’ve done the same.” Jennifer looked to the register. “Line’s short, so you won’t have to wait long.” “Yeah, I’ll join you in a minute,” May said and walked away. Jennifer went to a nearby table. May walked up shortly, “Original?” Jennifer asked about her Mountain Dew. “Baja is too… I don’t know, something about it is off to me.” Jennifer noded. “So, I’ve got a question or you. Important,” May said, leaning in. Jennifer’s heart faltered, but she nodded and leaned forward too, a calm look on her face. “What’s your Taco Bell order?” May asked and burst into laughter. “Oh, I…” Jennifer said, and then she tried to match May’s laugh as best she could. “I always get the same thing. Mix of burritos and some tacos.” “Variety, respectable,” May said, and she continued, “I do something similar. I get nachos with a cheesy soft and hard taco.” Jennifer grinned, “See, I used to get that, but it’s expensive. The burritos are cheap as dirt and just as good.” “No way.” “Guess you’ll just have to try it.” And she did, and she really enjoyed it. And then they went to Jennifer’s place, and May really enjoyed something else. “Never thought sex after Taco Bell could actually be enjoyable,” May said in between little gasps. “If you don’t wait too long… it can be fine,” Jennifer said. “That was just fine?” May asked, a clear teasing lilt in her voice. “Well, more than fine with you.” May grinned and sat up, and her tattoo practically screamed at Jennifer to ask about. “Hey, your tattoo—” “I said it’s nothing.” “Okay, but I saw another person with it in the same—” May’s truly stunned expression stopped Jennifer in her tracks. “You what?” the other woman asked. “This guy in my sociology class. He was trying to hit on me when we got out, and I saw it when his shirt kinda lifted up. I don’t know him, he’s just some—” “It’s not just me,” May whispered. “Not just you what?” May paid Jennifer no mind. “Maybe if we get together, we can do something. I mean, how many people could they control? If it’s not just me then—” “May, what are you talking about?” “The tattoo is a damn reminder, okay? Somehow, someday, I’m going to receive orders. I’ve had it as long as I could remember, and my parents refuse to acknowledge it exists, and I’ve never told anyone else about it because of what it might mean but… if it’s not just me…” “Orders to do what?” “I don’t know. Listen, you said your sociology class? What’s your last name?” “Spero,” Jennifer answered, deciding to play along to see if that might get her answers. “And this guy, how old was he?” “I don’t know! He looked like a frat guy. Dressed like one, anyway.” “Okay, so traditional student, probably from wealth. White? Yeah, duh. No one thinks of black guys as frat guys implicitly. Remember the usual profiles, May. Okay. What color hair? Eyes?” “Uhh, brown? And I definitely didn’t get a good enough look at his eyes.” “That’ll have to do,” May said, and Jennifer realized she’d been getting dressed this whole time. “You’re just gonna skip out on me again? Really?” “Sorry, really. I just… I need to figure this out. I should be able to find him from what you’ve given me.” “Why would you need to find him? Why would…” Jennifer trailed off, not even sure what questions to ask. “Don’t worry about it. Just… thank you, Jennifer. I don’t know what you’ve done, but it could be huge.” Jennifer only nodded as May left her apartment. She wasn’t even stunned anymore, just frustrated that this girl ran about with no consideration for her at all. “I need to hook up with someone else,” she said and opened up Tinder. She could find someone quickly enough.

Two days later, Jennifer sat on her laptop in her university’s library, casually scrolling through social media and procrastinating the online sociology quiz. At least, it was casual until she saw a too familiar face with a terrifying description: “May Wheman, college student, 22, was found dead earlier today in her apartment. Preliminary police reports suggest it was suicide.” The comments below the article went on about how sad it was that school could drive people to such lengths, but Jennifer’s thoughts traveled back to that night a few days previous. Jennifer wasn’t so convinced that May’s death had been at all her choice.

That Day

It wasn’t like the young man hadn’t seen it coming, but the weight on his chest when he awoke startled him. He’d been looking forward—no, not the right choice of words. He’d been nervously expecting this day to come. It was always the same time, every year, without fail. That was how anniversaries worked, after all. Each time, he saw it coming. Each time, it hit him with the force of a freight train. He sat up in bed and rolled his shoulders. The tension there dissipated, slowly, and he stood up a moment later. His eyes scanned over his room. Nearly bare walls. A pinned up letter from an old friend, a picture of a video game character he used to love, and one poster of a few women, scantily clad, but he could barely see it all in the lowlight. Even if he could, it meant little to him. This day wasn’t meant for enjoying life. From his dresser, he pulled down the pull-up bar he had bought some years earlier. He set it up in the doorframe and began his brief morning workout. A few pull-ups, two minutes of some cardio (this morning, jumping jacks), rinse and repeat. After a few rounds, he had worked up a decent sweat, so he stopped and put the bar back up. Taking a quick glance at the clock— 5:13, he grabbed a new pair of boxers from a drawer and made his way to the bathroom. He started off the shower cool and let the chill water run over his heated body. It caused him to tense, to tighten up, but he fought through the discomfort. A minute later, he turned the heat up and let the warm waters breathe life back into him. He’d never been a fan of the cold, not at all, but he used it to his advantage. A quick morning exercise, a brief stint in cool water, and he would never be more awake. The coffee he drank later was more for show than anything else. He dripped a bit of shampoo into his hand, rubbed it into his hair and scalp, and let the now blazing-hot water run it down his body. He scrubbed away as it did, washing away whatever grime he had on him. Probably not much; he wasn’t a hard laborer. When he finally shut the water off, he paused. His eyes hurt. And, though the shower was off, the droplets still fell from him. He turned the water back on and let it pour over him. His shoulders bobbed ever so slightly, and he let them. But he didn’t admit what was happening. Not to anyone else later, and certainly not to himself. After another few minutes—now he was behind schedule, he turned the shower back off and dried using his towel. His eyes hurt still, but it would pass, and the water stopped falling. The walk across the cool tiles made him move quickly, his feet dancing to avoid the frigid floor, and he dressed with even more speed. Two, maybe three minutes later he walked out of his tiny room and examined himself in the mirror. Simple jeans, boots on his feet, and a black pullover on his chest. It was cold outside, so he stepped back into his room to grab a coat, the grey thing complementing his black pullover well enough. Not that it mattered, only a handful of people might see him today. That was why he got away with wearing jeans. The young man grabbed his keys and wallet from his desk, and then moved into his kitchen. He grabbed the box of tea he knew he would need—this was that day— and left the place. His apartment seemed small as he walked through the parking lot to leave. In truth, it was small. Most people would hardly even consider it livable, but he didn’t need a lot of space. The bare walls of his room would have told anyone that. He would have even gotten away without a living room, but he had friends that occasionally liked to come over. He might make them dinner, watch a movie with them, play games if they felt like it. That was occasional though, and they all had living rooms too. If it saved a bit of his paycheck, he would’ve gotten away with a tiny kitchen, smaller bedroom, and even smaller bathroom. Shrugging away his thoughts, he started his car and pulled out. The time, 5:46. He ran a minute behind schedule now. That wasn’t bad. He could speed a little and get where he was going quickly enough. He did. He pulled up into the school’s parking lot at six. The place was empty—no, there was one other car. Probably a janitor’s, the only other person which made sense. No one had the sleep schedule that this young man had, and good for them. He longed for the days that he could sleep in until nine, even ten. Some of his students awoke on weekends around noon or later. He had never been able to sleep that late, but now his sleeping in would be their early- morning wakeup. He grabbed his bag from the passenger seat—when had he grabbed it on his way out?—and continued his ruminations. Truthfully, he appreciated the productivity boost that waking up early gave him. Sacrificing the few hours before midnight each day worked better in the long run. There weren’t many people who did work between nine at night and twelve, and he would’ve counted in that number. There were many people who did work between five and eight in the morning, and he did count into that number. He entered through the main doors, using his keycard to swipe in easily. There weren’t many teachers that could swipe in like he did, but after explaining his morning schedule to the principal and security team, they gave him the power and responsibility. It had led to more than one teacher asking him to come in on a Saturday or a Sunday to retrieve this or that—the cost of having power and being liked—but he gladly accepted that. He was even happy to help, as long as he wasn’t previously occupied with some other task. The walk to his classroom was quiet, the halls empty. He expected that, and he actually liked the feeling. Normally, places that had a lot of activity felt wrong when they were empty. This, however, felt tranquil to him. The young man believed he was unique in that assessment, that most of the other teachers hated being in the empty building, but he accepted that as one of the many ways he was unique. Most of his colleagues wouldn’t ever show up at six in the morning, and even fewer would ever consider doing exactly that on a Friday, the day they didn’t teach. He opened his classroom without unlocking it. He almost never locked that door, though the lock was functional. It was a safety measure more than anything else—keep out an active shooter or other intruder—but he had nothing he needed to lock in here. Occasionally, he would lock the door during assemblies if students had their bags in his room, but that occurred infrequently. The young man slung his bag at the foot of his desk and pulled out the slim laptop within. He cracked it opened, eyed the battery life—76%, and typed in his passcode. As it opened up, he grabbed the charger from within and stood to turn on the lights in his room. A few steps from his desk and he flicked the switch, the bulbs in the ceiling stuttering to life. He plugged in the charger, led the cord in the typical way around his desk, and plugged it into his machine. His computer sat ready at that point, so he opened up his internet browser and set to work. His phone buzzed. He ignored it. There were a few more papers to grade electronically today along with three stacks of tests. Such was the life of a history teacher, and he almost set to it before realizing he should check his email first. He opened it up. But he stuttered for a moment. His eyes refused to focus, they hurt, and he couldn’t bring his fingers to type on the keyboard. He dragged a thumb across the trackpad in some attempt to bring himself back to reality, and it failed. He had to let it wash over him. It would pass. The moment did, and after wiping away a few mysterious drops of water from the keyboard, he set to checking his email. Nothing too atypical. There were emails being passed around the faculty, information on upcoming events and assemblies and testing schedules for next semester. That last bit of information was coming a bit early, and it would almost certainly change, but he took a second to glance over it. It was early, and it was typical. Setting the future testing aside mentally, he checked the next few emails. There was a letter of recommendation request, which felt personally satisfying, and an email from a student asking about a late paper submission. Personally satisfying and personally disappointing, as he expected more from the student asking to submit a paper late. However, he put the emotion away and reminded himself that he had no idea why the student needed extra time. Anything could be happening in anybody’s life. Any day for someone else could be that day, just like it was for him, this day. The young man responded to the two students, affirmatives for each, and set to reading some papers. He commented here and there: good thesis, needs a transition, citation? and let the students have some idea of why he marked them down in the ways he did. Some time passed. He graded. Eventually, he glanced at the clock—9:26. He had been grading papers for a while, and it was time to take a break from that by grading some tests. Marking up papers required much more thinking that exams, as most of his exam answers were either right or wrong, the correct evidence provided or not. The papers required more intricate thinking, on the part of the students and him as the grader, to determine how well they did. Grabbing the first stack and a red pen, he set to work. As he marked on these papers—and marked far too much, he thought, this class wasn’t doing well—he heard noises in the hall. Some of his fellow teachers, finally arriving at the time that most did on Friday, just before ten. There was no reason for them to show up earlier; they only had to put in a half-day on Fridays, and that could be done at their discretion, time-wise and work-wise. They could grade, prepare lessons, or whatever else might occupy them. For some of the department leaders or teachers involved in certain organizations, they had more options. The young man could only grade and plan. A knock at his door—when had he closed it?—clued him into looking up. His department director, an older woman with a head of salt-and-pepper hair, looked down at him from the door. “How’s it going, Andrew?” “Doing well. Sheila.” He hesitated just a second too long before saying her name, still adjusting calling teachers by their first names. “You’ll get used to it,” she replied with a laugh, knowing exactly why he had spoken haltingly. “Getting some grading done?” “Yeah.” “Lots of tests?” Sheila asked as she eyed the stack next to the computer. “Yeah.” “You alright, Andrew? You look a little… tired.” He knew that tired was not the most accurate descriptor she could have used. “Yeah. Guess I didn’t get enough sleep?” he said with a light chuckle, trying to play it off. “You were here early this morning, weren’t you?” “I always am.” “You don’t have to do that, much less on Fridays, you know,” she said, coming closer to his desk and a bit of concern touching her voice. “I know it’s your first year, and you want to stay ahead, but no one is asking you to overwork yourself.” He looked up at her as she stood at the edge of his desk. He smiled genuinely, though it was strained by the thoughts that loomed in the back of his mind. “Trust me, I do it because I want to and because I’d be awake anyway.” “Well, alright. I’ve got some grading of my own to get done, but feel free to come into my class if you want to chat. We can talk about how this year has been going for you.” She turned to leave the room, but she hesitated for anything else Andrew might have to say. In reply, he offered a joke: “Do I want to have that discussion?” She laughed too, a wholesome sound that filled his chest with warmth. “You more than any of the other first year teachers I’ve worked over, I’m sure. I’ll see you later, Andrew.” She gave a small wave as she exited the classroom, gently pulling the door closed behind her. He felt it hit him, then. The warmth of Sheila’s company left with her, and for a few moments, the world grew dark. The young man struggled to get the test out of his lap, away from where it could be soiled. By what? Those things that fell from him, the ones he refused to acknowledge. Not yet, he told himself, feeling each second pass slowly. When it was done, he wiped his face, took a swig from his water bottle, and returned to grading tests. His phone buzzed, and he let it go until the sound stopped. After a few exams, he stood and walked around the room once. Stretching his legs, that was important. Sitting for too long was bad for one’s health, and he wasn’t trying to die early. Once he felt the blood flowing again, he grabbed his mug and left his classroom. He smelled it as he stepped into the hall, the coffee one of the other teachers had brewed. He stepped into the break room and poured himself a single mug, taking one cautious sip at it. It scalded his tongue, so he took another drink. Perfectly, burningly hot. He strolled back to his classroom and gave a slight wave at one other teacher he saw. Back in the room, he set about grading again. He checked the time—only ten sharp— and he contented himself with the knowledge that he was nearly done with one class’s tests already. He set about to finish those, taking the occasional sip from his coffee. When he cleared the first stack, he returned to the papers. There were only two left, and they went quickly enough, so he returned to the tests. At this rate, he would finish with all of his grading before noon. That would leave him plenty of time to do planning for the coming week, though he would still be here a few hours longer than any of his coworkers. That was expected—he was a first- year teacher and, more importantly, he cared. The mug eventually emptied, the tests ran out, and Andrew sat there at his computer wondering about what to do. He checked the time again, it was a habit of his, and saw that it was only 11:37. Still early, though he could go out for lunch soon. Maybe he could… Before he’d thought too much further, he was standing and walking to Sheila’s classroom. Outside of her door, he fought off a wave of pain, that discomfort that the day brought him, but he found it easy enough. It was always easier to hide the problem with others around. He pushed through the only partially closed door, and Sheila looked up with a look of pleasant surprise. “Andrew,” she said. “Can I do anything for you?” “I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch?” She smiled, “Of course. I didn’t bring any with me today; I was planning to go out and get some. I hope that isn’t a problem?” “Actually, I was needing to do the same thing. Could I come with?” “Certainly. If you give me just a minute to wrap this up, I’ll meet you at your classroom. Do you mind driving? My car is a mess.” “Yeah, I can drive,” he said and gave a curt wave as she returned to whatever task she had. Outside of his classroom, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He finally grabbed it and held it up to see what the fuss was about. A few missed calls, all from the same person. One text, just now: Call me later. “Fair enough,” he said and shrugged off the messages. He knew what they were about, but he was ignoring it all for now, for until he could face it. That wasn’t now; it wasn’t even soon. It was later. He had to make it until— “Ready?” came the friendly voice behind him. “Yes,” he said, clearing his expression and mind of any pain that had started to come on. They began to walk toward the main entrance of the building, Andrew slightly in the lead since he knew where his car way. “I’m going to be honest,” Sheila began, “I wasn’t expecting you to come see me again today.” “Was it something I said?” Andrew asked, his tone joking but his curiosity genuine. He really liked Sheila; she was a good teacher and very helpful, but he might not give that impression. He was devoted to success in his first year, sometimes to the detriment of his social interactions. “No, you seemed like you wanted to be left alone today. That’s all.” She said it all with a smile, but Andrew could feel the concern within her. He had gotten pretty good at reading people when he was in college, so he knew that she wasn’t telling the entire truth. “Well, it’s one of those days, y’know? But that seems the perfect time to reach out and connect with my department head. That, and I’m actually ahead in my work. I figured I could afford a lunch outing today.” She smiled and shook her head, “Ahead in your first year of teaching? You’re forgetting something.” While it may have been true, the words were spoken in jest. They continued chatting until they reached Andrew’s car. “Any preferences for lunch?” he asked. “You’re new around here, right?” “Yeah, just moved to San Antonio. I don’t really know anywhere to go eat.” “That’s fine. How do you feel about a restaurant, somewhat Cracker Barrel in style, but it’s a local place,” she asked. “Sounds great.” “Great! Take a left out of the lot, and I’ll direct you from there.” He did, and they talked more as he drove. The conversation revolved mostly around Andrew’s students, though he knew that she was using his perspective to learn more about him and his style of teaching. While she did have a general idea of his performance, she didn’t know how he operated, not on a personal level. Andrew felt the curiosity practically bubbling out of her as they talked. “Here, it’ll be on your right in just a mile. It’s the Cedarwood House.” “Cedarwood House?” “It’s got a lot of interior decorations—actually like a Cracker Barrel. Very old-timey, wooden interior, all cedar.” “Interesting,” he said. “And aesthetically pleasing. I think you’ll like it.” He parked, the two stepped out, and he now followed her lead as they walked inside. She took the lead, asking for a table and briefly explaining some of the items on the menu. After they had ordered, Andrew asked a question: “How long have you been teaching?” “Oh, thirty years? You start to lose track of exactly how long, but it’s something like that.” “Thirty years, dang…” He didn’t mention that she’d been teaching longer than he had been alive, and in fact could have been his teacher if he had grown up in San Antonio. “Did you ever do anything else?” “I worked for a library during college and for a few years afterward. Things were pretty different then!” She laughed, likely recalling how hard it had been to catalogue books before a reliable digital system. “I got into teaching after that because I got bored. I never worked with anyone, and I like people too much to spend all of my time with books.” That left Andrew chuckling too, and he responded, “Definitely, I understand that. I had a lot of people in college ask me how I could want to work with teenagers, and I eventually developed a good response.” He sat up a little straighter and used an affected tone, one somewhat comedic. “‘If you have to ask the question, then you won’t understand my answer.’” “That’s right! There’s just something about it. It let me get my maternal feelings out, before I had kids.” “You have kids?” “Oh yes, just two. They’re both…” she hesitated, then smiled and said, “About your age, probably. One is about to graduate from college, and the other has been in her career for a few years.” “What does she do?” “Petroleum engineer, working for ExxonMobil.” “Whoo! That makes good money,” Andrew said, a wistful smile on his face. Sheila understood the look, knowing what kind of money she had made and what kind of salary Andrew would have. “It sure does. I used to be worried about my retirement, and then she got a job working for them.” The older woman laughed as she said it, somewhat joking and somewhat serious. After their shared laugh, Andrew asked, “What about your husband?” He glanced quickly at her wedding ring. “Oh, he was a teacher too. Well, principal in the last few years. He, uhh…” She paused, looking down at her hand. Two fingers anxiously twisted her ring. “I understand what it’s like to lose people; I’m sorry. We can talk about—” “It’s alright,” she interrupted. “He passed just two years ago, so it’s still fresh in my memory. I’m alright.” Sheila looked back up into Andrew’s eyes, a sincere if strained smile painting her face. The waitress came with their drinks at that moment, and Andrew found himself wondering at her incredible timing. He thanked her, and she went away, though she cast a lingering look over her shoulder at him. Did he look good? A quick glance down reminded him that he had indeed dressed nicely today, and it was clear from the age difference that he and Sheila were not romantically engaged at all. He shrugged it off, glad that he could still appear attractive on this day of all days. “What about you, any girlfriend, boyfriend?” Sheila asked. Andrew caught her glancing down at his hands, noting the lack of any ring. He also noticed the progressive phrasing of her question, something he would not have expected in southern Texas. “Ah, yes. A girlfriend. We’ve been together for a while, but we’re living apart at the moment. She’s up in Wyoming at the moment, finishing up a job before joining me down here.” “Oh, distance? That has to be tough.” “It is tough, but it isn’t for long. We’ll pull through. We’ve been through worse.” Andrew didn’t mention the fact that his girlfriend had been shunned from her family for choosing to be with him. After their relationship survived that, he didn’t imagine anything was going to get in their way. “That’s sweet, though. Choosing to be together. My older daughter just went through a breakup because her boyfriend and her were going to be living apart for a while. It’s sad to see it happen.” “It is, but sometimes it’s the right decision.” Sheila nodded, and the two talked for a bit longer, letting the time pass before the food arrived. When it did, they dug in, each having something large and more filling than a typical lunch, but The Cedarwood House was a more dinner-centric restaurant. They finished, having chatted all the while, and Sheila asked a question that Andrew wouldn’t have seen coming after the meandering talk on various personal topics. She began, “Andrew, would you… No, do you think you’ll be teaching for a while?” “I plan to teach forever, or, not quite forever, but for my whole career.” “That’s good. We need good teachers, and I have a feeling about you.” “That I’m a good teacher?” “Well, that and you’re good at filling in the obvious.” They laughed together, and Andrew began the drive away. He turned up the music as the went, some song by Tom Petty playing on the radio. He liked it, and he figured Sheila would too. When he caught her humming along, he knew he’d been right. They pulled into the lot and walked into the school in a comfortable silence. It was nearly one now, their lunch having taken a little over an hour. As Andrew was about to turn to his classroom, he looked to Sheila. She preempted what he was going to say, “If you ever want to have lunch again, just stop in my room. On school days, of course, bring something to eat. Time and money dictate that we can’t always go out.” He chuckled and said, “Of course. Good luck finishing up what you have left today.” “You too, Andrew,” Sheila said and walked away, a bit of a skip to her step. The young man walked into his room, cracked the door behind him, and set behind his desk again. He was planning on staying until three, and that meant another few hours of work. He could likely plan for that long, but planning more than a week ahead was usually a waste, and he already had Monday laid out. Before getting started, Andrew walked to the breakroom and got a pot of water going. He needed the hot water for later, and as it began to heat up he returned to the classroom to grab his thermos. He scanned quickly over the his computer screen, the metal object being passed between his hands, and then he went back to the heating water. He felt scatterbrained, wandering back and forth in the school. The place was mostly empty again, or at least it seemed so. There were probably a few teachers, as scattered as he felt, quietly working on lesson plans, tests, or grading any number of assignments. The young man drummed his finger along the counter, fighting another wave of the pain. It was getting easier; he felt stronger now when he held back the tide. Soon, though, he wouldn’t have to. Soon he could let the waters run. He filled his thermos with the hot water and returned to his classroom. When he sat at the desk, a single drop of water fell onto his keyboard, but he wiped it away and went to work. Not yet, he told himself. Just not yet. Time passed. That was as much as he could say. Time passed. Some hours later, he heard a knock at his door. “Yes?” “Just checking in. I knew you’d still be here,” Sheila said, poking her head inside. “Of course I am. With today’s work, I’ll actually be ahead. I can enjoy myself the next two days.” “A rare occasion in your first year teaching.” “So I’ve experienced.” “Still, get out of here soon, alright? You’re not even being paid to work this hard.” “Are any of us?” She laughed and said, “You may have a point. See you Monday, Andrew.” “Seeya, Sheila,” he replied, enjoying the little rhyme. She left, and he checked the clock—2:57. He was almost done with Thursday. If he only stayed a little longer… No, it was time. He had told himself he would leave at three, and so he would do it. That was what he had permitted himself. Having to hold it back any longer would ruin him. He stood, packed up the few things he needed, and set out for his car. It took him long enough that Sheila was gone, and no one else was around to grab his attention as he loaded up. Only seconds later, he drove away, the school becoming a distant figure in his rearview mirror. He didn’t go home—no, that wouldn’t be for a while. He had somewhere else to be, something else to do. He had never had this opportunity before; he had never lived in San Antonio before. His whole family—hell, everyone in his life except for one person—was astounded at his choice to live in this city, so close to the military base it had happened it. But, he had needed to. This was the reason why. He drove to the San Antonio National Cemetery, a military cemetery. He parked, pulled his bag out of the passenger seat, and began to navigate the barren place. Barren wasn’t the right word. It didn’t look barren, it only felt barren. The place was alive, he knew, alive with the spirits of those who had passed. He felt it brimming with their energy, mostly positive. A lot of these men and women had died in service to their country, willingly, dutifully. Maybe he was placing his feelings upon them. Maybe they weren’t even there. He took comfort in the fact that he didn’t really know. Before long, he arrived at the grave. It was simple, just like the rest, and totally unremarkable. He knelt down beside it, and reached inside his bag. He pulled out two mugs made of a durable plastic—their old camping mugs, his thermos, and the box of tea. Lastly, he reached inside deeper and pulled out the old, faded envelope. With stitled motions, he poured the mugs full of hot water, and set two tea bags inside. He set one next to the grave, and set one next to his own knee. He let it begin to steep, and he reached into the envelope. The paper inside was nearly as faded, and as he unfolded the letter he held it out before him. That mysterious water—tears, he finally admitted—fell from his face, but he would not let it touch the paper. It needed to last, and the water could damage it. He scanned over the whole page once, admiring the handwriting—writing now gone from this world. He read the words to himself:

Hey Andrew, So, my mom probably just handed this to you. Or she mailed it, but I hope you got it in person. I’m writing this because I know I might die. I’m writing this because I want you to know what you mean to me. I’m writing this because I don’t know when I’m going to see you again. I’m being deployed tomorrow. I’m stashing a number of these in my room, until I get back. They’re a safety precaution. You’re the only one I’m telling this. Besides my mom, you’re the only one who will know that there’s even more than one letter. It’s better that the others think they’re special to me. They are, but not as much as you, which is why I can even tell you that there are more. Andrew, you’ve been my best friend for a long time. We didn’t meet until middle school, but we still did so much in that time. We went camping with the scouts, hiked mountains, traveled across the country and across the world, went on double dates, cried with each other, celebrated with each other. We did it all. There’s not really anyone else that means so much to me. My mom means a lot, and you know that, but we’re different. With you I never felt alone. With you I felt I could do anything. And we did, didn’t we! We had those adventures, all of them, and nearly died a few times while doing it. I should get back to focus. If you’re reading this, then I’m gone, but I don’t want you to be sad. I want you to remember those times, those adventures. Don’t mourn me, celebrate me. It’ll be okay. Honestly, I just hope you don’t have to read this. If you do, then I hope you’re alright. You will be, even if it doesn’t feel like it at first. Love you man, Jacob P.S. Next time I’m up in Wyoming, we’ll try that cafe you keep talking about. You’ll get me drinking tea yet!

Andrew set the letter down, the tears staining his cheeks. He was sad. As much as he wanted to respect his friend’s wishes, he could never bring himself to not be sad. He took a sip of the tea, now perfectly steeped, and took the tea bag out of Jacob’s mug. “I’ll have you drinking tea yet,” Andrew whispered, taking another sip of his own drink. It was warm, a good shield against the relatively chill day. He looked at the stone, thinking, and then started to talk. “I had lunch with my department head today. She’s really nice, great teacher, has a family. Lost her husband a few years back, though, which is sad. I feel like I knew, before she even told me. Losing somebody teaches you a lot about people, especially those that have also lost somebody. Still, even with all that sadness, she was so nice, is so nice. I should probably reach out to my colleagues. I’ve been busy this semester…” Andrew chuckled, and he kept going. He talked to Jacob about the fall semester, about his students, about the classes and the assignments, about everything, even the weather. His mug slowly emptied; Jacob’s stayed still and cooled. When no trace of steam rose any further, Andrew reached for his phone. He sent a simple text: Home soon, call you then. He put it back in his pocket before any reply came, and he gently poured Jacob’s mug over the grass. Packing all of his belongings back up, Andrew stood by the grave for a moment. He knelt down one last time, placed his hand on the cold gravestone, and said, “It was good to talk to you, man. I’ll be back, and I’ll bring a different type of tea, too.”

Breathe

Breathe it in. Do you feel it? Do you feel the strength of your lungs? Do you feel the capability of your body? Do you feel the ease with which you draw power from the very air around you? Breathe it in. Do you smell it? Can you take in the aroma of your surroundings? Can you perceive how the gases around you form what you call scent? Breathe it in. Do you taste it? With every breath, do you understand how you came to be where you are? With every breath, do you know your place on this earth? I do. I stand right in my place and I breathe my air and I do my part and I prove myself to those I must prove myself to. I stand in my accomplishment, and I stand in my failures. Most importantly, I stand here and I breathe my air and I find that I do not like how it feels. I do not like how it smells. I do not like how it tastes. I find that standing here, surrounded by those of mind similar and dissimilar, the air is bitter. I find that standing here, amidst my own accomplishments and failures and that of those around me, the air is foul. Still, I breathe it in. I stand here in the acrid smoke of human accomplishment, and I am strangled. Still, I breathe it in. I sit here in the depths of despair and the heights of achievement, and I am smothered. Still, I breathe it in. I lay here and ponder what so many others and I work toward, and I am asphyxiated. Still, I breathe it in. I die here. Dealing with Madness

The stories in this section look at issues of madness, of the collapse of rational human thought. Sometimes, the human mind fails to recognize objective reality, and so it substitutes a more horrible, darker version. Sometimes our memories are too heavy for us to bear, and so they weigh us down. Sometimes we need an escape from the world, but some people’s escape must be permanent. Sometimes the supposed good we do for ourselves is truthfully very harmful. These stories could take place in reality, but not always in the mind of a functional person. These stories examine what happens when the complexity of our lives ruins us instead of helping us.

His Perfect Note

A young man read his note carefully. His finger traced the words, line by line, until he reached the end. Then, he sighed and crumpled the piece of paper. It wouldn’t do. He hadn’t written it perfectly yet. “Maybe I should just type it,” he mumbled to himself. He had tossed the idea around in his head for a while, but he always rejected it. The perfect note would be handwritten, not impersonally typed. He couldn’t even type it and then transfer it to handwriting; that would be cheating, and the impersonal feeling would still be there. No, he would write it out, all at once, by hand, someday. Then he could go through with it. Until that day… he wouldn’t. It wasn’t that he couldn’t; the young man had made attempts. But, he wouldn’t succeed. He almost considered those practice runs, tests, learning experiences. When he was ready, he would know all that he needed to. He stood up and left his room, the cramped space that it was, into the even more cramped space of the hallway. Out there, his roommate washed his face. “Doing some early morning writing?” one asked. “Yeah, how’d you know?” the young man said. “Heard you crumple up a piece of paper. You waste a lot of paper. Why don’t you just type?” He chuckled and said, “Less personal. I like the feeling of my hand writing the words.” “Well, I’ll never pretend to understand a writer’s mind.” “Damn right, and I won’t bother memorizing the thousands of chemical substances you know.” “Damn right,” his roommate said, and they both laughed. The young man washed his face too, and his roommate asked, “Breakfast at eleven?” “Yeah,” he said, and they both went back to their rooms. Twenty minutes until the weekend dining opened. Still, he’d been up since seven that morning. He’d done a little reading, some homework, and just failed to write his note again. Twenty more minutes until food, and his stomach grumbled in annoyance. Most other college students could sleep until three or four in the afternoon; what was wrong with his head? He turned on his laptop and watched YouTube videos until his roommate knocked at the door, and without a word he stood, grabbed his light jacket, and they walked to get food. “Think it’ll be good today?” his roommate asked. “It’s going to be the same eggs they had yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. And the day before.” “Yes, but they sometimes have bacon. And the hash-browns are always different.” “Yeah, it might be okay today, but I’m not getting my hopes up.” “Well, no, I wouldn’t either,” his roommate said and laughed. They kept chatting about the mediocre dining hall food until they arrived, and they went in laughing about how bad the chicken parmesan was. “See, just eggs and—” the young man stopped, seeing a cafeteria worker bringing a tray of bacon. And it looked actually good. “I told you!” his roommate exclaimed and actually pumped his fist in the air. “Alright, alright,” the young man said, and they both went quiet as they loaded their plates up with food. They separated at some point, and when he went looking for a place to sit, his roommate called his name. “Hey, Jared.” Jared turned and saw his roommate sitting nearby, a few other people around a table with him. He recognized all but one, a girl he’d never seen before. He made his way over with his plate and cup of orange juice. “Hey,” he said to all of them and plopped down into the seat. “Jared, this is Sophia,” his roommate said, gesturing to the girl that Jared had never seen before. “Hey Sophia,” Jared said, trying his best to appraise her without being obvious. She seemed cute, maybe a bit shy, but that was his type. “What were you writing about?” his roommate asked as the table went quiet. “Oh, just a short story. Little piece about this college kid who goes to breakfast with a bunch of his friends and meets this new girl,” Jared responded, a sly grin on his face. “Are all English majors as sarcastic as you?” one of the other guys at the table asked, also grinning. “Oh, not at all. They’re all very nice and genuine,” Jared said in a sincere tone, his face not revealing his sarcasm. “Oh, we’re sure,” his roommate said and clapped him on the back. The table laughed, and they fell into a conversation of the various things they had going on. Apparently, Sophia was also an English major, but a recent transfer from another university. Jared hoped he would see her more in classes. One of the guys had started a new club, and a few people at the table showed interest. It wasn’t Jared’s thing, but he said he’d go to a few meetings and try it out. As they finished up, they left. It was a weekend, but most of them had homework to get done of some kind. Jared and his roommate left near to the end, and Sophia left with them. “Which dorm are you in?” his roommate asked Sophia. “Lincoln,” she answered. The university had named most of the dormitories after past national presidents. A few were named after past university presidents. Jared thought that a weird mix. “You two?” she asked. “Roosevelt,” Jared answered. “It’s nice, one of the newer ones, so we have a common room on the floor with a TV and a pool table.” “Oh nice! Do y’all ever use it?” she asked. Jared noted the slight accent and replied with a laugh. “No, not really, now that you ask. Our RS uses it sometimes for floor meetings.” “RS?” “Resident Supervisor,” Jared’s roommate explained. “Oh, we called them RAs at my last school. Resident Assistants.” Jared nodded, “Were they useless at your old school, too?” “Yeah,” Sophia said, and they all laughed. They talked about the stupid things their RSs and RAs had done in the past, right up until Sophia went her own direction off to the Lincoln dorm. “She’s cute, and an English major,” his roommate said. “Sure is,” Jared replied, and they shared a look. “If you don’t call dibs, you know what’ll—” “Fine, dibs, you bastard.” “Good shit dude, let me know how it goes.” They walked into their dorm without more conversation, and they went into their separate rooms to do their own things. Jared sat at his desk and decided to try to write the note one more time. He also decided to try a different approach, something short and sweet instead of long and comprehensive. Maybe if he couldn’t say it all correctly, he could at least say some of it perfectly. He set to work, pen in hand and paper on his desk, and five minutes later he looked at it. So short, and so short a time, yet he felt done. He read through it:

I’ve tried to do this a lot of different times, as some of you are aware. I kept failing, and it’s because I wasn’t ready. But, if I get this note right, then I will be. I have written a lot of other letters apologizing to everyone, or at least the important people, and that never goes well. So, I’ll say this to you all. I am sorry. I know what I will do is selfish, but it is what is right for me. This world is not for me, and it never has been. I have always known, but I need to make sure my exit is appropriate. So, that is what this note is doing. Making sure my exit is appropriate. I love a lot of you. I love my family. I love my friends. I really loved you, Bethany, though I don’t know if you’ll even hear of my passing. I hope I don’t inconvenience any of you too much. I wish we could just consider this me moving somewhere far away, like Tibet, never to be heard from again. But, I know that the media will take this and run with it. A lot of you will wonder what more you could have done. There isn’t anything. As I’ve said, this world isn’t for me.

I wish you all the best,

Jared

He set the note on his desk with a small smile. Why now? Why would he feel that this note, above any others, was his perfect note? It didn’t feel too different from any others, aside from its length. Was brevity really all he needed? The young man nodded. It was, and he would move on now. He didn’t need anything. He folded up the note, put it in a very obvious spot, and then reached under his bed. His roommate heard a gunshot and ran to check on him, but Jared had left the world that wasn’t his.

Too Many Notes

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The alarm clock sounded like an appeal to liveliness, a period of wakefulness after good rest. The young man rolled over and slammed his hand onto the device hard; the beeping stopped. He continued his roll, sliding out of his bed lazily and placing his heavy feet on the floor. Cold. The floor was so cold, but quick steps saved his feet from freezing as he walked from his bed to his bathroom. The tile was even colder than the cheap carpet, and he was now hopping to keep his feet off the ground. He looked himself in the mirror and spoke, “Hey, Craig.” He tried to sound normal; he tried to imagine he was greeting another person amiably. It didn’t work, so he shook his head and turned to his shower. I don’t have the money for that, he thought silently while staring longingly at the showerhead. It had been a week since his last shower, much less a hot one. Craig just didn’t have the money to afford the water bill right now. He could get by other ways. The young man grabbed a hand towel and wetted it slightly under the sink faucet. He then rubbed it over his body, starting with his face and moving down to scrub himself. It was no shower, but it refreshed him and was certainly better than nothing. Moments later he walked back from the bathroom into his bedroom, still shifting his feet from the floor rapidly to avoid the chill of the floor. Craig sat at his desk, running his hands over his upper body to warm himself while looking at the wall. Whenever he thought of something he needed to do he wrote it on a sticky note and posted it on his wall. Recently, his life escaped his control. From the top left corner of his wall, Craig scanned through the sticky notes:

Contact bank. Pay bills. Get new job. Call mom, NOT dad. Go to church. Vacuum apartment. Call Marty. Buy new clothes. Call Jacob. Pay rent. Call Allison. Buy new toothbrush. Sell computer. Cancel phone plan. Buy food. Find cheap car. Read more. Visit library. Find a publisher. Get on Tinder. Pay student loans. Clean shower. Do the dishes. Buy shampoo. Sell unneeded furniture. Count all that spare change. Write more. Find a publisher. Go back to college. Get in touch with old friends. Send THAT email. Contact morgue about brother. Go see grandma. Change sheets. Wash clothes. Organize sticky notes. Buy a comb. Sell old phone. Sell CDs. Buy some mint gum.

“Some of them. Today. Some of them,” he spoke mournfully. He stood and pulled clothes from the tiny dresser he owned. Crappy sweatpants, a stained shirt, worn-down boots, and a frayed jacket. Craig looked down just long enough to tie his shoes, and then refused to do so again. He couldn’t look at himself wearing these rags. Out of his bedroom and into the main room, which was honestly the size of a broom closet, Craig walked. He then stepped into the kitchen, an equally tiny space, and grabbed a cereal box from inside of his fridge. The thing hadn’t been turned on in almost a month, but it still provided a good sealed space to keep food from pests. Craig couldn’t even afford to put out roach traps anymore. He sat up on his counter and reached into the box, pulling out a dozen or so cornflakes at a time and dumping them into his mouth. They felt wrong as he bit into them. Stale, he knew, but it wasn’t like he had anything else to eat. He only took a few handfuls of cereal. The box was almost empty, and he needed it to last a little longer despite it being stale. The young man returned the box to its place in the practically empty fridge, only another box of cereal and some nearly empty boxes of crackers inhabited shelf space, and exited the kitchen. Craig exited his apartment and took extra care to shut the door in the particular way he now had to. Sometime yesterday someone had broken in, and while he at first thought the door was a lost cause he determined later that it could still be shut and locked with extra force. The door could also be easily kicked down, as the locking mechanism wasn’t holding anything in place but the knob anymore. Contact landlord about broken door. The thought popped into his mind, and Craig immediately wrote it on the first of a stack of sticky notes in his coat pocket. At the end of the day he would place these new things to do on his wall and hope he would eventually get to them. The young man walked down the steps to the ground floor. He walked past his old parking spot, he had no money for a car anymore, and kept going away from the rundown apartments. As Craig walked down the sidewalk in this residential area he checked yards he passed. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. There, he thought as he saw the neon green slip of plastic in the grass. It was the day’s paper, but more importantly it was the “Employment” section of the paper. Craig steeled himself and took shorter strides as he scanned the neighborhood. There was no one around as far as he could tell, but someone could walk out of their door at any moment. Any moment… Craig took the risk, quickly moving up the yard to grab the paper and sprinting back to the sidewalk. He tucked his prize in his jacket; he held it in place with one stiff arm as he walked at a slightly quicker pace than before. Within a minute he was gone from the street. He took this turn and that and eventually wound up at his favorite park. The place was mostly empty, though Craig expected that since it was a chilly morning. He opened up the paper and took it apart, placing aside the sections he did not care for on the bench beside him until he had what he wanted. After a moment he held it in his hands, and his eyes scanned the page quickly yet thoroughly. Dishwasher - The Tea House - $10/hour - Drug and background test required Server - Pizza Pub - $9/hour + tips - Drug test required Painter - Joe’s Construction - $15/hour - Professional experience required Janitor - Central High School - $10/hour - Drug and background test required Etcetera. The jobs went on, more of the same with the unusual odd job of “Piano tutor” or “Chauffeur” that appeared sometimes. All the jobs listed some sort of contact info, most of them online application forms. Cancel internet subscription. Craig immediately scrawled the thought on a sticky note. The library had free internet access with their computers, and he couldn’t afford the monthly bill. “I wanted to go to the library anyway,” he muttered, folding up the employment section and crumpling the rest of the paper into his pockets. He could throw the unwanted paper away somewhere later. Craig stood at the bench and looked around. He made eye contact with a cop coming straight toward him. He wasn’t loitering. He wasn’t suspicious. Was he? Craig couldn’t bear to look down on himself, and in the next moment the cop was on him. “Where’d you get the money for that paper, son?” the cop asked. He was a grizzled old man, yet he was clearly in good shape. He had a five o’clock shadow, and he looked a little tired, perhaps from the graveyard shift he’d likely worked. Craig understood he was in trouble. The officer likely had received a report of someone stealing the paper in the adjacent neighborhood. Craig replied evenly, “Just happened to have enough, sir. Trying to get a job.” “Can’t imagine a guy like you is getting many handouts, much less any job, even one in a newspaper.” Craig grinded his teeth together slightly, “I’m just trying to get by, sir.” “Then why don’t you just tell me the truth. You stole the paper.” Craig looked down from the cop, making eye contact with his polished boots. He spoke, “I did, sir. I need a job. Trying to get a job.” “There’s been previous reports about papers going missing. That ain’t you, is it?” Craig looked back up and straight-faced lied, “No, sir. I wasn’t desperate enough before today. Only lost my job recently.” “Looks like a hell of a lot longer than recently…” the cop muttered, shaking his head. “You take off now. I don’t want to see you again, much less with a paper in your hands, unless you’re wearing something respectable. You hear me?” “I hear you, sir.” “Good. Get gone.” Craig turned away then, happy to see the incident over. He wanted to leave before the encounter, so he hurriedly left the park and walked down the city streets toward the library. More people were out of their houses now. He guessed it was closer to noon, as the sun was higher in the sky and it was warming up quickly. Craig owned no watch anymore. “Did you see tha—” “That man looks filt—” “Ew. Was that his smel—” Craig shrugged off the comments of people he passed by. They didn’t bother him much anymore, not after weeks of hearing them. Still, he couldn’t help himself. Shower more. He scrawled it onto a sticky note and replaced the pad in his pocket, continuing his trek to the library. Soon enough he stepped through the main sliding doors and past the front desk. “Welcome to th— Oh,” the front desk clerk said as he went by. She wore a face of clear disgust. Craig didn’t care. He walked past and into the separate room the library had for computers; he moved straight for the computers and chose one that looked out over the room, the screen facing the wall. He logged in with his library access information quickly and opened the browser. As he pulled out the “Employment” section of the paper he paused and looked at the empty browser page. Should I? Craig looked at the headphones settled on the computer tower. He then examined the room around him, but he saw no one else at any of the computers. A lusty smile on his face, Craig slipped the headphones over his ears and began to type in the search bar. Disgust took him. What depths had he fallen to? Watching porn, masturbating, in a public library? He closed “How could I…” he murmured, simultaneously wanting to flee the library and jump from its roof. Instead, he shook his head and closed the porn page that was still blasting him with the fake sounds of pleasure from the teen pornstar. Find a girlfriend. Self-disgust evident in his mind, Craig scrawled that idea onto a sticky note with his perspiring hand. He then went about his business. Much more soberly, Craig grabbed the Employment piece of the day’s paper and began to navigate to the sites he could apply on. If it required a resume he immediately closed the page; he had no resume that was worth giving to a company. Instead he filled out the forms for the less demanding jobs. He provided his email, his name, and the little prior work experience he had. He hoped it would be enough; hope was more than all he had. Contact old job for work reference. Adding that to his sticky notes, Craig completed applying for the jobs he could apply for. It did not take him long, and by the time he finished two others had come into the computer room in the library. Whatever they were doing, Craig did not care. He stood, looked down at himself just long enough to make sure some massive white stain wasn’t apparent on his waist, and left the library quickly. It was warmer now, almost warm enough to not need a jacket. Craig kept his on because it hid his hideous shirt. By the looks of the sun in the sky he guessed it was perhaps three in the afternoon. The day was passing him by; walking everywhere took a lot of time. “It’s not like I have much else to do today…” the young man muttered as he left the library behind. Craig did not want to go home yet. He wandered the city, ignoring the mutterings of those around him as he enjoyed the newfound warmth of the day. He sat on a bench outside of a bakery and smelled the fresh bread being baked. As he sat there a homeless person went by wheeling a cart of assorted items. The two shared a look, and then Craig glanced down at himself. Do I… Do I really look that bad? he asked himself silently. Did he now associate with the homeless? Shave more often. He shrugged off the disturbing thought, scrawled the idea on a sticky note, and noticed that the sun was setting. The lights of the city were coming on around him, and he struggled to think of what time it would be. “About six,” he said to himself, taking into account the earlier and earlier sunsets this time of year. If it was getting dark, then it was almost time. He stood and looked at the nearby buildings, his eyes scanning for an alleyway leading behind any of the shops in the area. He found one, directly adjacent to the bakery he had been enjoying. He could not have pictured it more perfectly, and as he slipped into the dark alley and between the buildings he smiled widely. In his mind, Craig sung a little song to himself: Gonna get some good food Gonna get some fresh bread Gonna have a good meal Not gonna starve to death He stepped behind the bakery, and he immediately checked the dumpster. Nothing, but that was okay. He could wait a while and grab something fresh they threw out. A loaf, a sandwich that just wasn’t good enough for a customer. It’d be more than good enough for him. Craig lurked in the shadows. To anyone walking by, which was luckily no one, he would seem to be a predator of the night, waiting for a lone woman or child to rape or rob. He was neither, but he knew appearances could be deceiving. As time ticked by Craig’s stomach growled; he was deeply hungry. It did not take long. Within an hour an employee of the bakery, dressed in bright green and gold with a colorful apron, walked out and tossed two loaves into the dumpster. Were they old? Misshapen? Burnt? Who cares? Craig thought, rushing forward as soon as the employee was gone to grab the bread. He took the discarded food in his arms, hugging it close like a child, and took a deep breath. They weren’t warm, but they still smelled of sweet, delicious bread. The young man took off, tucking the loaves under his arms and walking quickly away. Home, he was headed home now to eat and then to rest. He had not done much with the day, but he had walked far. That was the price of having no car nor any access to public transportation. An hour, maybe an hour and a half, was the walk he suffered to return home. If the bread had been warm before, it could not have been now, and the chill of the night brought shivers to Craig’s spine. He pushed his door open, sealing the entryway shut with force without bothering to unlock the lock. It was useless to even touch the thing. Without hesitation Craig tore open the packaging on the loaves of bread, his teeth sinking into one before he bothered to examine it. After swallowing the first bite he looked it over. Toward the end, luckily the opposite of where he’d bitten in, fuzzy mold grew in a sickening array of green and white splotches. Carefully, Craig tore off the section of the mold and threw it into the trash. Looking at the other one he saw it wasn’t moldy or burnt, just oddly shaped in a way that made it unservable. The meal seemed to end instantly, for the next moment Craig was placing the wrappers of the two loaves in his garbage can. The moment after that he regretted eating both of the loaves at once. He should’ve conserved, but he had been so hungry… Craig shrugged it off. The waste wasn’t worth it, but he felt full for the first time in the last week or more. With nothing else to do he walked into his room, shedding his disgusting clothing one piece at a time It was cold, almost freezing, and he realized he only hadn’t noticed it before because of his excitement for the bread. The fresh bread… Is gone. He knew it to be true, even as he salivated at the thought of tearing into the loaves a second time. Wearing only his underwear now Craig sat at his desk, pulling his sticky notes out and preparing to post them to his wall. It loomed ahead of him, the totality of his struggles personified by every little note detailing something he needed to accomplish. Calmly, he laid out the notes he had written for the day on his desk and added them to the wall. Some overlapped others and some were added to the bottom. Revisit the bakery. He scrawled that onto a note and then posted it to the wall. Only one note remained. Buy more sticky notes. Craig stuck the final note in the stack to the wall. Looking at the space above his desk overwhelmed him, yet he felt a sick pride at the array he had made. All the things he could get done. Someday. Craig turned away from his desk and crawled into his bed. He was so unbelievably tired. It seemed like he could fall asleep at any mo—

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The alarm clock was a death toll, signifying the end of his rest.

My Ritual of Release

I press my finger to my nose, hard enough to feel that break, to feel the pressure split, and then I lean over and relish in the feeling. I look down to see my blood dripping into the sink. It’s slow at first, hesitant, as if it knows it isn’t supposed to leave my body. But it keeps coming, and the blood begins to pool in the bottom of that space. I had closed the sink and prevented it from draining. My blood pools, and I admire it. The sensation washes over me, rushing through my body from that point of release in my right nostril. I love how it feels when my blood leaves me, but I’m afraid to harm myself. I know my way around a knife; trust me, I do, but I don’t really want to hurt myself. I just want the feeling of the blood flowing over my lip and dripping off the tip of my nose. I just want the feeling of the blood escaping me, being free. I just want the sight of my reddened lip, dark and sanguine. I just want the sight of the small pool, red and infinite in deepness. My literal life, poured out before me to observe. I love that feeling. The blood slows, and I frown, which mars the perfect maroon line that had graced my upper lip. I bring my finger up to my nose and press again, shifting at the moment of highest pressure to again feel that break. This time, the blood doesn’t fall from me like drips of water from a leaky faucet. This time, it flows. I watch the little puddle grow bigger, filling up the tiny sink of my apartment. The color deepens further and reaches that dark color I crave so much. The white porcelain contrasts against that red, and I smile as the previous splashes of blood are overtaken by the increasing pool. I look up at myself in the mirror, those crazed brown eyes staring back at me. The little red slash between my nose and my lip, giving way to my mouth. I trace my tongue up slowly, watching the pink muscle twitch in anticipation. It makes contact; I taste that coppery, delicious flavor, and I drag my tongue back into my mouth. Just a little, I’m not a vampire. The little bathroom around me is stark in comparison to the excitement I feel. The bare beige walls are my container, my capsule, my holding cell. I cannot let these feelings escape this room, this moment. I’m not hurting myself, not really, but the others wouldn’t see it that way. No, I’m not cutting, but they would see this a self-harm all the same. The blood flow is slowing again, so I bring my finger up to my nose. I press and shift, and it starts anew. Always anew. I briefly wonder how many times I would have to reopen the wound in my nostril to actually bleed out. I realize that I wouldn’t be able to, as I would eventually fall unconscious from a lack of blood and the clotting process would take hold then. But, I wonder. Ten dozen, a dozen-dozen times? It seems like I lot, until I remember that I have already done it three times. And it seems like so little blood in the sink. I wipe my finger across my lip, smearing that red line and highlighting my skin in a shade of red, and then dip that same finger into the pool of blood. Not even an inch deep, maybe three-quarters of an inch in total. But, it’s still flowing from me. I’ve never broken the seal a fourth time; maybe this will be the first time I do. But the blood starts to clot again, and the flow slows to a drip and then to a dribble. I sigh in contentment. I feel my relief. I do not need to continue this: my ritual of release. I am contented. I dip my finger to touch the bottom of the sink again, through the blood, and then bring it to my lips. That metallic taste spreads through my mouth; I smile at the taste and then smile wider at the red film over my teeth. Other people wouldn’t understand the joy, the pacification that I feel when I let this blood go. They would think it bad, but it is not. No, this is a good practice, something that keeps me sane. And I’ll keep doing it as long as I can, until I reach that point when I have to break the seal too many times. Hopefully that’s not too soon.

Rationality

Ed waited in his seat. One by one, the boarding sections for the flight were called. He was near the end; such was the life of an accountant with little money to spare. He accepted the minor hardship, as he flew to visit some family. He had been away from them for too long. His number was called, and he bounded up to the corridor to board the plane...

I like to think I’m a rational person. I think of statistics when I decide on a course of action. I think, “How does this work out for people? What is the likelihood of my success? What will I get from this?” Because of this, all through my life people have told me that I think too much. I always disagreed with them, but I now think they may be right. You see, I just survived a plane crash. My first thought wasn’t, “I should be dead.” My first thought was, “Statistically, I shouldn’t be alive.” Rationality isn’t the sort of thing to carry you through an experience like this. I’m not going to survive in… wherever the fuck I am by considering statistics, making a pros and cons list, and carefully reviewing my options. So how the fuck am I going to survive?

The first thing he noticed was that he wasn’t moving. The second thing he noticed was that every part of him hurt. The seatbelt confined him, but he could shift enough to look out the window. A forest waited on the other side of the portal, tall trees, grasses, shade and all. He reached to undo his safety belt, grimacing for every inch he moved. He pressed down with his finger, heard the click, and felt a little freedom, for what it was worth. He stood slowly, painfully, and looked ahead of him. The door to the cockpit, maybe a dozen feet away, loomed. He turned around. After one row of seats behind him, the plane disappeared. Gone, the only trace of it being scraps of metal and pieces of seats or luggage. The plane had been torn in half, or into more pieces, and his part crashed here in this forest. He stumbled forward to the cockpit, wondering about the pilots. He wondered about everyone. The flight was full; where did the people go? There was little trace of them, merely blood and a few carry-ons. The man knocked on the cockpit door. He spoke, “Hey, is anyone in there? There’s no one else out here. I’m a passenger, Ed Giflet. Where are we?” He waited a minute, but no response came. It was quiet with not even the sounds of the forest trickling in through the back of the plane. The world held its breath, and Ed held his breath with it. When no answer was forthcoming, he reached to open the door. He pulled it open, and a horrible scene greeted him. There was one man, the other nowhere to be seen, and that remaining one was dead. He laid on the floor, covered in his own blood, a small axe embedded in his chest. The cockpit window was broken open, large enough for a person to fit through, and the edges of the sharp glass showed hints of blood as well. Ed imagined the missing co-pilot crawling through the broken glass; Ed imagined something carrying the missing co-pilot’s body through the broken glass. “What the fuck…” he muttered. A terrible realization came to him far too late. Someone killed the pilot, cut him up, and left the axe in his chest. Ed reached forward for the weapon. His hand trembled, but he closed his fingers around it. The blood on the handle was warm. With a gruesome squelch, he pulled the weapon free from the body. He turned around, and at the back of the plane stood a figure. Ed jumped back, tripping over the corpse and landing in the splattered blood. The man, tall and imposing, took a few steps forward. In the bright daylight Ed could see every feature of him. He stood well over six feet tall, and his body was covered in rippling muscle. He wore nothing but a skirt of some kind, and he was covered in someone’s blood. Ed froze, the body of the pilot sickeningly warm beneath him. Bits of glass pierced one hand; the slick and bloodied handle of the axe greased the other. The figure stepped closer. It now stood maybe ten feet away. It took up the entire aisle of the plane, its wide body blocking all escape. It took another step forward. Ed’s grip on the axe tightened, but he still could not move. He could not stand against this beast of a man, against this pure physical power. He was nothing, barely over six feet tall and with the body of a middle-aged accountant. If this man came at him, axe or not, he stood no chance. Three steps closer. He survived the plane crash to die to this… native? Where was he? Who was this? Why would this man kill him? The figure, though it progressed slowly, seemed certain of its intent. Already covered in blood, Ed could not imagine it was coming to take him from this plane and bring him to salvation. Five feet away. The figure could reach out and touch him if it took one more step. Ed felt his heartbeat in his throat, in his arms, in every part of his body. It thundered in his ears, and his knuckles felt weak from their intense grip on the axe. It looked so small in his hands now, next to this monstrous human. One step— A call sounded from far away. Something human, but not speech. It made Ed think of what a wolf’s howl might sound like if it came from a man, and his heart fluttered at the thought. However, the figure seemed less interested in him. It smiled, a grotesque grin of sharpened teeth, and reached down to grab the pilot’s body. The corpse slid out from under Ed and onto the other man’s shoulder with no effort. It said something, a language Ed knew nothing of, and turned around. The corpse swinging on its body, the figure left the plane. Ed sat there, covered in a dead man’s blood, and thought.

This is my downfall. I know it. I have to think, and it’s going to kill me. How am I to make sense of this? How am I to understand why I am alive but the pilot is not, why the monster of a man came to take the man that he must have killed and yet left me alive? What am I to him, to them? Am I a sport to be played with? Am I more fun to hunt than a deer? I can’t stop asking questions, even as I try to prepare myself to survive. There are no statistics for this, no basis for my understanding of tribal men that hunt humans for fun. This place, those people, will kill me. I know that without reading some academic article. I guess it’s just a matter of when, where, and how. How can I accept that?

Ed sat in some brush a good distance from the plane. After the other left, he took a few minutes to recover, gathered some water bottles and little packages of food that he could find, and set off. The wreckage wasn’t safe; at least one of these monster men knew where it was. He had a few sticks, and he was using the axe to sharpen them to points. That made sense to him, having some weapons. A shitty spear was better than no spear, and it had more reach than the axe covered in another’s blood. Meanwhile, all around him, the forest came to life. The silence of earlier must have been from the plane crash, as birds and insects and other animals called out all around him. He couldn’t imagine the vividity [[is this a word, lets check] of all this life. The woods seemed to breathe around him, so full were they. He was surprised a deer or two hadn’t tromped over his newfound hiding spot. Ed took his time to sharpen three sticks to good points, and then he started moving again. More distance between him and the plane was farther that these tribal men needed to go to find him. He put the axe in one of his belt loops, unconcerned about the blood that covered him, and held the three makeshift spears in his hands. One in his right, his dominant, and two backup in his left. They seemed fragile, but he gripped them until his knuckles turned white. They made sense to him; they were a survival tool, and he was going to survive. It was a dry forest, most of the ground covered in decaying leaves and branches. He walked so that he could make as little sound as possible, and he grimaced every time he snapped a twig or stomped through a large pile of leaves. Through his trek, he spotted numerous animals. Rabbits, squirrels, snakes, lizards, deer, and he even thought he saw a boar, but they passed him by without a thought. They didn’t even appear afraid of him, which he thought was strange. Shouldn’t the humans here hunt them, instilling some fear in the wildlife? Was he that different from those monster men? Ed supposed he was, and thanked his lucky stars. It would make these animals easier to hunt, if that was what he had to do. Ed never hunted before, not because he held any moral quandary with it, but he never had the opportunity. This wasn’t how he envisioned himself learning to hunt. The day passed on, and Ed drank water from the salvaged bottles and ate a few of the snacks he found from the plane. They were unfilling, but as night grew close, he knew that he couldn’t live without them. Even if he speared a rabbit or some other animal, he couldn’t eat it raw, and he couldn’t cook it at night. The fire would draw attention, and he didn’t need any other encounters with these people. Ed stopped before twilight and set down his few belongings, the backpack with water and food, his axe, and the three spears. He set about gathering enough sticks to build a little shelter; he spent some time outdoors as a kid. He stacked the sticks up against each other, all resting on one central log, and left a little spot for him to slip inside. He examined it from the outside, and he grimaced. It was so obviously constructed, manmade, that even from some feet away he could see it. He then tried to obscure it, covering it with leaves and more branches until it looked haphazard, natural, and a little better concealed. Satisfied enough, he crawled inside with his few belongings and placed the backpack beneath his head to act as a pillow. That was when the howls began. Night set on the forest, and the monster men came out from their hiding places. Ed saw none during his travels in the day, and now he wondered how that was possible. Barely recognizable howls, grunts, and yips echoed all about him in the forest. Some seemed as far as miles away, yet he swore that one group passed maybe thirty feet from his shelter. They were organized, moving about in patrols, yipping and howling to convey messages that Ed could not understand. Once in the night he heard some other sound, the terrified scream of a woman. It disappeared, drowned out by a chorus of beastlike yells, and Ed heard nothing more. His heartbeat thundered through his body again, sweat collecting in his palms despite the cool night air. His breath was ragged, and he tried to control it in case another patrol passed close by him. None did, and as the night grew more quiet he felt some measure of relaxation take him. The adrenaline within him faded, and it left him exhausted. He fell into a coma-like sleep, desperate for the rest. Ed awoke with the first light of dawn peeking through the cracks in his shelter. He stretched as much as he could, the rustling of the leaves around him causing him to hesitate. They could be right outside, and he knew it. Axe in one hand and a spear in the other, Ed crawled out of his shelter. He felt something snap under his knee, and a figure collapsed upon him. He screamed and fought back, swinging with the axe and colliding with flesh several times. The spear stayed trapped against him, and he could not bring it to strike out. A few moments of panic later, and he realized that the form atop of him was not struggling. In fact, it wasn’t moving at all. And cold, deathly cold. Ed pushed it off of him and scuttled back, and he saw the mangled body of a woman. Fragments of her blonde hair remained, the rest scraped away in what Ed understood to be a scalping. Her eyes had been gouged out, and gaping red holes remained. Blood seeped from these holes and oozed down her face, dribbling into her still mouth that was pulled into a horrifying grimace. An unspoken wail of agony was etched into her features, and Ed wondered if she was alive when they took her eyes and her hair. The rest of her body was untouched, stripped naked, but without any marks. Except those that his axe inflicted on her. Ed dropped his weapon, horrified at his own mutilation of a corpse. A realization dawned on him. He had been spared from death, again. The monstrous men knew about his shelter, and instead of killing him left a sign of their knowledge. They killed another person to put fear in him, and he tried to rationalize their actions.

I am nothing more than a toy; I understand now. There must be something more than killing which these men, if they can be called such, enjoy. They like my fear. Even now, I know that they must be watching me. Why would they set a non-lethal trap such as the woman without being around to enjoy the show? They are in the trees, the shadows, hiding behind every bush and somehow slipping by unnoticed. Will they kill me? I am certain they will, but how long will they toy with me before striking a killing blow? I have never before thought that suicide may be the right answer, but if it spares me some pain and denies them their perverse pleasure, then that may the correct path.

Ed gathered his things and set off. He moved without hesitation, snapping branches and rustling piles of leaves without a second thought. Animals fled before him now, scared of the commotion he made if afraid of nothing else. He could feel the woman’s decaying blood on him, covering his face in a sticky gore. Could he force them to kill him? That would require finding even one of these men, and they moved like the wind. Ed gripped his bloodied weapon harder and trudged through the woods. The trees moved past him. He was purposeless. He could gain no ground without a definitive goal. What was he trying to accomplish? Kill some men? Kill himself? Ed growled at his lack of thought. He was mentally blinded, inoperable as a thinking being. He tripped, so wrapped up in his thoughts that he missed a branch too large to kick out of his path. Ed landed on the ground hard, the axe’s point narrowly missing his hip as he fell atop it. His spears flew from his hands, and he sprawled on the forest floor. “Fuck,” he grumbled and stood up. Something horrible waited before him. One of those men, seven feet tall and covered in muscle, stood a few feet away from him. It was not the same one, but it bared the same sharpened teeth. The gruesome smile terrified Ed, but the other let him stagger to his feet without moving closer. Ed, axe in hand, took a step forward. The figure did not move, smiling its inhuman smile and watching with a stoic face. It took a step forward, and he jumped back. The smile somehow widened. It took another step forward, and Ed stepped back again. He felt his pulse in his throat, his heart threatening to jump out of his mouth. The man, ten feet away, bolted forward. Ed ran. He knew he would be overtaken, but he ran. His feet flew underneath him, his legs maneuvering around obstacles on instinct. Seconds turned to a minute, and he threatened to slow down. The figure still ran behind him, but it stopped on his cue. However, another joined them. Two monster-men stood a dozen feet away from him, both smiling, neither breathing hard. Ed’s lungs struggled, his heart begged for release, and he could not even consider running farther. He ran anyway when the other two took a step forward. He was more conscious of his movement this time, and it slowed him. He stumbled over branches, his feet pushed aside leaves, and he could not keep a continuous pace. Still, the two did not grab him. Ed, his thinking brain struggling to comprehend, came to an epiphany: They don’t want to take me. They’re herding me. A third man appeared ahead of Ed, and he took a sharp right turn to keep evading his pursuers. He slowed somewhat, not enough to let them know that he understood, but enough to make them think he was tiring. Still, he worried. What if they grew tired of the chase and grabbed him anyway? He never could have outrun them, but he doubted he could sprint even thirty seconds without them catching him now. They ran him. He thought he would collapse, and he pushed on. He thought they might give in and grab him, but they kept his pace, erratic as it was. Ed came to terms with his death when they arrived at the base of a cliff; it was a standoff. The three, no—now four, monstrous men backed him up against a cliff. It was too high to scale without rope, maybe forty feet, and he couldn’t worm his way past them. Yet, they did not approach. Ed turned and regarded the bestial figures in turn. Inhuman eyes, grotesque smiles, and impassive stances. They all panted, which Ed would have taken as a comfort if he hadn’t collapsed at the bottom of this cliff. A minute passed, and they all stood there. One of the men turned to a compatriot and offered a strange hoot, some form of communication. The other nodded, and the impasse resumed. Ed, certain that they had no desire to approach any closer, took a step toward them. They all bared their teeth, taking on a stance that could never be mistaken for impassive. They would kill him if he got any closer. Ed’s heart almost relaxed before that moment, and though his breathing was steadying, his pulse raced. In exasperation, he turned around. It was just a cliff. Did they want him to try and climb up it, to fall to his doom and break his own limbs so they would not have to? Then Ed noticed it. There were plenty of cracks and crevices in the rocks, but this one was wide enough to slip through and deep enough the light didn’t reach the back: a cave. They wanted him to climb into the cave.

Was it ever for fun? It had to be, somewhat, to justify putting up the woman outside my shelter. But then, why? Fun and what? What will be in this cave? I struggle to ask the right questions as their eyes bore into me and I consider my future. How deep is the cave? How dark? I have no flashlight, no light at all, and my phone is a distant memory. I will not be able to navigate the space. My eyes may adjust somewhat, but no light is no light. My eyes won’t function in those conditions. Still, even knowing that I will die, I have to ask: what is the point of this?

Ed fell to his hands and knees and backed himself into the crevice in the ground. The dirt was soft, damp, and it clung to his sweaty hands. As he backed into the hole, the men walked closer. He kept moving, and the light grew smaller. The cave widened. He stood, and he closed his eyes to push away tears of fear. The darkness around him was all-encompassing, threatening. The slim illumination from ahead faded with every second. He went deeper. It was all he could do, and then he heard growling from behind him. No, it emanated from everywhere. The rock itself seemed to shake in anger, small pebbles bouncing against the solid ground. Ed fell to the cavern floor, holding on tight, but he felt something was wrong. He slipped, the cave moved around him, and the light that he retreated from grew distant far quicker than before. The floor shifted, and Ed was falling straight through the air. The rocks rushed past him, any one ledge threatening to knock him into another. The force would snap his neck. Ed brought in his limbs and forced himself to take up as little space as possible. The passage around him grew slimmer. He saw the passing rock wall grow closer. He felt his breath bounce off the surface. He was certain he would be caught in the collapsing tunnel. It opened wide beneath him, and Ed crashed into a pool of water. How far had he fallen? He was certain that he should have died from the impact, yet he felt fine. He sputtered and stood up in the waist deep water, and he knew that he was dead. If the water itself failed to kill him, it was too shallow to support his body after a fall like that. He understood physics enough for that, at least. Yet, the water covered him, the pressure light against his skin, and he seemed alive. He felt the same pressure in his skull and attributed it to being so deep underground. There was light in this cavern. It came from no particular place; it seemed to come from everywhere. It felt like moonlight looked, small amounts emanating from every stalactite and reflection of water and pebble. And body. The stench hit him. The water was not pure water, but was filled with the rotting flesh of too many corpses to count. The room smelled sweet and filthy, a combination of dirt and blood and age and rot. How had he not noticed them before? How had he not smelled them? You didn’t want to. His voice echoed in his head, and he pushed it away. He couldn’t trust his own thoughts. He struggled through the water, pushing out of it and around corpses. The cold clung to him, and he pulled tattered bits of skin from his clothing with shaking, hesitant hands. He stood on a sort of bank, the underground lake a part of a larger cavern that extended out before him. Beyond this point, there were no more corpses. A few crawled onto the rocks around him to die outside of the water, but they were dead all the same. He moved forward. You will survive. You have thus far. His voice seemed to come from deep within his head, bouncing off of his skull in strange reverberations. He pressed onward, encouraged, though he tried to quash the conscious thoughts. As he walked, the sides of the cavern floor sloped off into ravines. They fell away to startling depths, and Ed recalled his previous descent. Those caves at his sides looked even deeper, were even darker, and he feared them. Adrenaline and cortisol pumped through his blood and his brain. He wondered why the water gathered in the lake that it did instead of falling deeper. The thought was banished from his mind. Salvation is forward, across the walkway. He thought salvation a strange word to use, and the walkway even stranger. The thought wasn’t as easily dismissed as the others, and he followed its direction. The sloped sides of the cave floor gave way to stark cliffs, and the descent loomed on either side of him, inches from his feet. He walked just as surely as before. Shouldn’t he have worried for his balance? If he fell, he were dead. But, where was he going anyway? Forward. His voice struck him like a sledgehammer, the force of the word tangible. It spoke in his voice… and it wasn’t him. Accept me, it whispered. You don’t want your reality. You want mine. Ed thought himself inclined to agree, but he pushed away the insidious influence. He struggled with the world around him. Above, monstrous men intimidated him with force. Now this Thing Below wormed into his mind, begging for acceptance. Threats of body, threats of mind, threats everywhere, and Ed stood precariously perched on this walkway. Do you? it asked. Do I— The walkway disappeared below Ed’s feet and interrupted his thought process. However, he did not fall. The cave disappeared beneath him. The underground lake behind vanished into darkness, but the ledge ahead floated in space. His mind begged him to move forward, toward salvation, and yet he could not do it. It just makes no sense. It doesn’t have to, said the insidious voice, his voice, his mind. Ed wondered how long the Thing Below had possessed him. Since he entered the cave. Since he woke up that morning in his shelter. Since one of those monstrous men spoke to him. Since the plane crash. Since the brief meal he ate on his flight. Since birth. Forever, he whispered to himself. He could not distinguish between his thoughts and its intimations; he could not distinguish between salvation and damnation. Ed floated forward, his mind propelling his body. He came to the edge of the ledge and landed upon it, collapsing to his knees. A strange light shone ahead, a myriad of colors yet all contained together. No illumination spilled from the doorway ahead, but he could see it clearly. He wanted to step into it, but he could not. He wanted to escape, but he was trapped. He knelt before the light and clasped his hands. “Let me in,” he prayed. Let me in, he echoed in his mind. He accepted.

Reunion

The house was dark. Every curtain drawn, every light dimmed, every window blocked. Twilight spread into the room, but it only served to deepen the surrounding shadows. “Hey, Titus?” you called out. Your friend had disappeared for months; the police had declared him dead. His family had a funeral for him. Then, just as suddenly as he had vanished, you received a text from him. You pulled your phone out and checked the message, certain that you had read the address wrong: Hey, it’s Titus. Come to 602 S Palmer St. Come alone. We need to talk. Urgently. But no, this was it: 602 S Palmer St. The road was predominantly empty; the houses were few and far between with large lots of trees covering the spare space. It was practically a forest, though the paved road suggested differently. The street did not make you feel less isolated in this place. The view of it stretching into the distance reminded you of your vulnerability, and the fear almost took you back to your car. A realization dawned on you. Some of Titus’s belongings, including his phone, had been located in the search for him. Once the police claimed there was no hope they returned the items. Titus’s family had the phone; this was likely some cruel trick of one of his younger siblings. Your phone buzzed; a new message appeared: Was that you? I’m downstairs. Please hurry. You were still not convinced. You took a half-step into the house and called out, “This isn’t funny! This is not a joke. If you come up now I won’t tell your parents.” You added under your breath, “Maybe.” You waited. No person was forthcoming. No sounds rang out. The house was as still as before, and seemed even darker. Night waned, and after a minute you were about to leave when your phone buzzed again: Please. I’m waiting. You stutter-stepped out the doorway, taken aback. Was one of his younger siblings so committed to a prank? Was this something more? Your internal dialogue demanded answers. You stepped back into the house and pulled up the flashlight on your phone. It did little more than the low-light behind you, but it did something. Into the dreadful place you went, step by step, and you swept your light across the first room as you did so. The place was remarkably empty. No tables, no chairs, no shelves, nothing. A pervasive scent of cat urine assaulted your nose, but there were no such animals to be found. You began to doubt if anyone had ever lived in this house. At the back of the room a door appeared in the light from your phone. You walked toward it with slow steps. The place seemed to hum; in this place, you had no confidence. As you opened the door and revealed steps descending into complete blackness, a breeze swept through the room. A chill took you, probably the wind, and you turned as you heard the front door to the house closing. It was so agonizingly slow, and you could only watch as the last of the outside light was sealed away. It was only you and the flashlight now, and you were standing before an even more oppressive darkness. “Hey, Titus?” you asked the shadows. There was no immediate response, and then a brief shuffling sounded below. “Titus!” you called, taking the first steps into the basement bravely. Halfway down the steps you stopped; your phone buzzed. The message read: You came. Below there was a sound, like a single heavy step, and then silence again. The air was stiff. You dared not even breathe, let alone call out for Titus. The moments passed. Seconds became a minute. One minute became two. No further sounds came from below, and finally you could not hold it in any longer. A gasping breath, a balancing hand on the wall beside you, and still the only apparent presence was you. The house hummed as if pleased. You knew someone was in the basement, and it knew you were on the stairs. You suddenly doubted the idea of any prank. Maybe someone had killed Titus and was now after his friends. Was there anyone that wanted to kill you? Your phone buzzed again: Are you going to come down? We need to talk. “Who are you?” you dared to ask the nothingness. Hardly even listening for a response you checked your phone, certain it would come from there. You were right: What do you mean? I’m Titus. “Then why can’t you talk to me?” The question was obvious to you; the answer was not. Your phone did not buzz. You asked the question again, but as the seconds ticked by in the dark corridor you could not stand the silence. You spoke, “I’m leaving.” “Wait, please,” came the immediate response. “I’m sorry. I’m scared. Just come down to talk to me, would you?” It was Titus. Your friend thought dead was speaking to you, but it was wrong. His voice had always been deep and rich, but now it seemed too much so. The months of separation had changed him. It had to be that, and your doubt could only make him feel worse. “Yes, of course,” you responded after regaining yourself. You rushed down the second half of the steps, taking care to avoid the low-hanging ceiling at the bottom of the staircase. The darkness of the basement was no less complete with the addition of your light. You scanned the room, but it was as empty as the upstairs. There was nothing, particularly no sign of Titus. “Where are you? And why are you here? Titus, what’s happened?” you asked the questions and stepped farther into the basement, continuing to look for your friend. No answer came forth, and you scowled. What was all this? Titus spoke to you before—right?—but now silence reigned again. Tired of this apparent game, and feeling the weight of the house above on your shoulders, you sent a text to Titus: What is this? Across the room a light flashed. A phone screen lit up. You looked at it for one second, two. You were not just confused; you felt unhinged. With little hesitation you ran to the phone and scooped it up in your hands, your own falling to the ground in the process. As you grabbed Titus’s phone you noticed it covered in some substance. It was thick, gooey, and it covered the entire device in a disgusting grey layer. You dropped it to the ground, disgusted, but it did not matter. You could read the texts on the screen despite the film of biotic matter. This was Titus’s phone. It had been texting you. Immediately, as though fire burned inside you, you grabbed your phone and ran around the perimeter of the basement. There were no doors, no windows or window wells. There was nothing. The only way out was up the stairs, the way you had come in. There had never been a person in the basement. There had never been a Titus. Immediately, you recalled hearing his voice, and you fell to your knees in the dark place. Your phone dropped to the ground between your hands, and you tried to understand the reality around you. Were you crazy? Were you hearing things? Were you imagining the texts? Tentatively you grabbed your phone and made your way back up the stairs. Step by step you distanced yourself from the abyss of that basement, a lightless place of horror and dark imagination. That was what it had to be. Grief and an overactive imagination working in conjunction to trouble your mind. Titus was dead. You had to accept that. You had to move on, just as you were to leave this house. You stepped through the threshold to the ground level and moved toward the exit. The front door of the place would take you back into a world of sense, a world where your friend Titus was dead, and that was sad, but at least his memory did not speak to you. Except the phone. What about the phone. How had it… You stopped yourself from unraveling. You grabbed the knob of the front door and turned it, pulling it open and stepping into the— Basement. The steps led down into the darkness before you, seemingly mocking your desire to escape. You turned around, your spatio-temporal sense falling apart as you looked and saw the front door ahead of you. Your phone buzzed once, and you almost screamed at the thought that you would not escape the ghost of Titus. It was no message from the dead, but a message forewarning death: Battery: 5% “No…” you muttered, staring at the message in disbelief. It was not your belief that the phone battery would last forever but a preternatural understanding that staying in this place without a source of light was certain death that froze you. You switched the flashlight off. The phone screen, though dimmed at low battery, still provided some dismal light in this abyssal place. Maybe it would be enough. You had to hope, for you had nothing else. A morbid determination in your steps, you walked across the room toward the front door. As you did, you felt your sense of direction failing you again, and as you opened what you swore was the front door a different scene greeted you. It was clearly a bedroom, if only because it was the one room in the house that had any furniture and that furniture was a bed. On the bed laid a figure, unidentifiable from the distance with the little light you had, but you reasoned who the figure was. You stepped closer and saw his signature blond hair, more like a mophead than a human head. He was laying flat, and if not for the complete stillness you might have guessed that he was asleep. He was not. You stepped closer to examine the body, and you reached out to touch him. His hair was soft. His flesh was warm. This corpse was recent. One hand was balled into a fist, and within it you saw a scrap of paper. You pulled it from his fingers, and as you read it you felt dread wash over you like the weight of a lead blanket. In Titus’s handwriting: Get out of my head. get Out of my Head get out of My head, get out of my head, get out of my head, get Out Of my head get out of my Head. Get out of my head get out of my Head get out Of my head get out of my head, GET OUT OF MY HEAD, get out of my Head, get Out of My head get out of my head get out of My Head. Get Out of my head get out of my head get out of my head, get Out Of my head get out of my head get out of My head. Get out of my head, GET OUT OF MY HEAD You felt it then. Like a wave of terror, it was all around you. The house hummed. No, that wasn’t quite it. The house purred; it was content. Your phone screen flashed bright white for a moment, signaling the final death of its battery. There was nothing left. Even the note, the horrifying note, could not be seen when held an inch from your eyes. You were alone in the darkness, the nothingness, with only the corpse of your tortured friend for company. The house changed that. Light flooded the room, though there was no apparent source. You shielded your eyes instinctively, shutting them tight and throwing your arm about your face. It was blinding; and as fear still draped itself around your shoulders you understood that light was no better than dark. It might even be worse. You opened your eyes slowly and adjusted to the brightness. The scent of blood and ammonia assaulted your nose, and you held your breath to stop it, but you still tasted it in the air. Your shoes squelched against the floor, and you looked down, to your regret. The carpet was a tannish color, but disgusting yellow and brown and red stains covered the place. The bed where Titus lay dead was not remarkable, except for the liquid flowing down the sides. It was not blood as you would expect. It was grey, very obviously thick, and it bubbled. It sunk into the carpet, disappearing into the tan mass inexplicably. Your eyes moved up, though you wished they hadn’t. Across the walls and ceiling, Titus’s insane scrawlings continued, only these were clearly in blood. As Titus showed no wounds of his own you wondered where all the blood had originated, until your eyes settled upon the mutilated corpses of at least a dozen cats in the corner of the room. Light was worse than dark. Unable to keep your eyes on the walls, the cats, or even the floor your gaze settled back on Titus. You suddenly felt pulled forward. You wanted to touch that disgusting muck that flowed from his body. You wanted to roll in it, to feel it on your skin, to eat it. You shifted forward, and as you did you noticed the ichor did not flow down from Titus as you originally thought. It flowed up into him, disappearing into his skin as though he were absorbing it. You continued to inch forward along the repulsive floor, moving closer to the corpse and the strange liquid. With each motion forward your desire grew, and just as you were about to take it in your own hands you were stopped. A strong hand grabbed your wrist, and you looked up into the face of Titus. However, it was not Titus. He had no eyes to speak of, only that grey substance. It constantly oozed from every orifice in his face, slipping out and pulling back in a constant cycle. His lips moved, but no words came out. A sickening gurgling emanated from deep inside him, and the pure abhorrence that you felt at the sound brought you back to yourself. The house stopped purring suddenly. The being squeezed your wrist, shattering the many bones within. It knew you had escaped its influence, and it was displeased. Titus’s body pulled you up by your broken wrist, and the pain assaulted your sensibilities as the very reality of the situation did the same. As you looked into what passed for the creature’s eyes you felt it reinvading your mind. Your senses fell apart. You were not you; you could not be you anymore. You had only the last scream of a helpless mind: Get Out Of My Head

Coffee Shivers

Coffee shivers, I love them. I feel them course through my muscles, little shocks of pleasure and energy. My fingers twitch, my arms shift, and I bounce my knee. There’s a satisfaction as I take another drink, as I poison myself further. The energy isn’t real; it’s fake, but it feels so good. It all feels so good. It smells like a piece of heaven, but that characterization couldn’t be true. Addiction, something so tainted and impure, could not exist in such a space. Or could it? I consider my personal heaven, and a cafe comes to mind. It’s a small place, and there are only a few scattered groups of people throughout. A low murmur of conversation flows through the air just like coffee flows behind the counter. I have any selection I desire, any choice and type of my coffee, my energy, my poison. I never stop moving, going from one table to the next. I talk to people if I want, I read if I want, I sit and think if I want. But I always drink coffee. It’s eternally in my hand, the warmth seeping through the cup or mug I hold. Cup or mug. I consider the thought. I drink out of both equally as much, but I use cups because I have to, not because I want to. The mugs are how I truly enjoy my drink. I think of one in particular. It’s not ceramic—as I think most people’s would be—or even metal; it’s a sturdy plastic: durable, meant for camping, and a little abused. The edges have been worn by time, smoothed and roughed in unequal proportions. On the sides are brands, imprints of places important to me, places where I had some damn good coffee. Those coffee deliveries, I consider them. Waking up long before the light of dawn, dumping the brewed coffee into great urns to distribute it. Sharing the brew, not keeping it to myself. As much as I could drink, I could not drink it all. Thus, I share; I share the desire; I share the addiction; I share the poison. It’s phenomenal. Good conversations always spawned from those deliveries. I stand there at the back of my truck, my worn mug in hand, those others with their ceramic and metal containers. They talk about the cool morning air, the previous hot day, and the activities they have done or plan to do. I’m polite, but I don’t really care. Neither do they. It’s all polite, a show, a game so that everyone can get their coffee. At least, that’s what it is to me; maybe they do care. I put up a good show, and that was what mattered to them. The personable coffee-man, that’s who I was. I had a companion, the coffee-woman, and she was just as personable as I was. Perfectly friendly, nice, and just flirtatious enough to tease the men. I wondered if she did it on purpose; they fed into it like starving lions. It kept them coming for more coffee, and that was what she desired. Spread the drink, keep them on it, a little touch on the shoulder and cutesy giggle kept the drinks flowing. I raise my mug to my lips, considering how my current situation is not at all my favored place or personal heaven. In the back of some classroom, discussion occurring around me and without me, I sip on my drink. My leg bounces, my muscles tremble, and I feel so alive. I know it’s a ruse, a self-deception at that, and I care not at all. I can feel it in me, and that’s what matters. The drink is bitter, black, how I like it, and every touch to my lips and tongue fills me with something far beyond myself. The bitter flavor, not necessarily one I enjoy, is one that pushes me. I take another sip. Another. The coffee runs low, and I frown. It always goes so fast, but I can only drink so much. Too much, and I won’t sleep. No sleep, and I’ll die. A dead person can’t drink coffee: that’s not a fate I desire. I put the mug away and decide that the next day I’ll drink three cups. I have to work my way up, and I’ve been pacing myself for too long. More, slowly, and that will keep me alive. Build myself up to resist that poison, that drug of awakening, and I will be fine. I have to be fine. And I’ll keep drinking.

Bloodied Hands

My hands are clean, but I can feel the blood on them. It’s fresh and hot, even though the kill was hours ago. “Hey, buddy, relax. We’re not out there anymore. We’re safe,” the corporal speaks the truth, but I can hardly recognize it as such. “Yeah,” is all I say. I am unconvincing, as my fellow soldier drapes his arm around me. “Is it the death? It’s always the death,” he says. “Yes, Corporal Daniels.” The words are dead, a contradiction to my inner thoughts. The other man nods and says, “Tell me about it.” I swallow hard; I swallow fear. I open my mouth, but I close it again. He just waits, the patient bastard. He is going to make me talk. I manage, “I don’t want to, Corporal.” “I don’t care what you want, Private. I care to know that I can trust you when you go back out there. You want to leave me with my doubts? I’ll leave you on this cot.” The threat in the words is cutting, and the risk to my duty gives me some measure of strength. “It was cold,” I say. A beginning, but not much more. “And?” “And…”

I remember. A few miles outside Bagram, Afghanistan. 1437, 2:37 PM for civvies. A bright hour of the day no matter where you are, but in a war zone any time can be a dark time. I can hear the breathing of my fireteam, but not much else. The wind is wild, and the beating sun is as much of an enemy as any terrorist. The air is dirty, disgusting and painful to breathe. We are just outside a small neighborhood, a pitiful collection of brown buildings and a playground. The metal of the slide probably roasts kids’ asses, but right now it is empty. The place is abandoned. The houses all seem empty, but the families are inside. It’s just too hot, by my reckoning. I wouldn’t want to spend this day outside if I didn’t have to. My corporal, sitting in the passenger seat and ashing his cigarette, asks, “You boys ready?” We are. The task is simple. We’re just checking houses, looking for suspicious documents or weapons or secrets. This is how you catch insurgents, at least as far as we know. These people might know things, not much, but maybe something. We unload from the vehicle, the four of us exiting. It makes me think of a clown car as I see my friends spilling out of the military armored vehicle. Not because there are many of us—four, including me—but because of our gear. It seems to flow along behind us like a river, an endless amount of the things we carry. The levity is gone. We walk toward the first house. All of our weapons are up, ready. They always are, outside the wire. Even our steps are different, I notice. Careful, treading lightly but with purpose. A warrior’s steps. It seems fitting to me, and we come up on the first doorway. Corporal Daniels knocks once, twice. No, he knocks the stereotypical American “Shave and a Haircut.” No “two bits” sounds from within, so he motions to Private Messer. Private Messer speaks to the doorway, “Har zona?” He speaks a variety of Afghan languages, but whichever one he speaks matters little to me. I speak English, and everything else sounds like gibberish. Well, a little Spanish makes sense to me, but not much. Corporal Daniels nods and we all raise our weapons. The house is not empty, at least not likely, which means that whoever is inside doesn’t care to answer us. At a motion from Corporal Daniels, Private Messer and Private Miller move around the building. Securing a perimeter, cutting off escape. Corporal Daniels tries the handle, and the door is unlocked. Keeping it closed, he looks to me, and I meet his eyes. They say more than his hands do, and I know we’re about to breach and clear this building. My finger rests against my trigger guard. It shifts to the trigger for a moment before moving back. I don’t want to kill anyone today, and I won’t unless I have to. A crashing sound from around the house tells us that Private Messer and Private Miller entered. We do the same, Corporal Daniels moving in and sweeping his M16A4 around the room in rapid but controlled movements. No targets. I am moving in behind him, wordlessly doing the same and advancing. I check the corners, but the building is dark. Daniels moves in farther, and we meet with Private Messer and Private Miller. No one on the first floor. No basement, so we move up. Private Messer takes point, Private Miller right behind him, and Corporal Daniels and I take up the rear. I watch our six, looking for any and all movement. At this point anyone we encounter is an enemy, and the house is forfeit to a complete search. Maybe we’ll find something. I know Corporal Daniels is hopeful, though his face is as stoic as physically possible. He is focused, a warrior. I should be too. A sound, a latch clicking out of place, comes from down the stairs. Private Messer and Private Miller freeze. They hold their position as Corporal Daniels and I rush back down, our weapons up and ready. Below the stairs, where before there had been only wall, is a sign of a concealed room. My corporal steps toward it, his hand issuing me forward with him. We position ourselves around the opening, and I level my weapon as he prepares to open it up. A single motion, it’s open, and a group of screaming girls descend on me. If not for my finger resting on my trigger guard they would be bleeding, maybe one dead, and as they run from the closet I struggle to regain my breath. I look up at Corporal Daniels, and the bastard is smiling at me. I’m scared, and he can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the moment. “You… You almost pissed yourself… Cuz of those fuckin’ girls!” he wheezes out between laughs. He forgets himself. The building is still hot. We’re outside the wire. I grin, but I can’t bring myself to do more. This situation is still serious, and I know it could have been an insurgent in that closet. Private Messer appears on the stairs. “Sir?” “It’s fine, Private. We’re good to keep search—” Corporal Daniels realizes that not only had the girls run off, but there was a reason they were in that closet. Someone was hiding them, which meant someone was hiding something, and someone was still around. Someone descends on Corporal Daniels. He comes from the room behind him, and there is little I can do but raise my weapon. Private Messer does the same, and as the man starts barking out words I cannot understand a second appears in the doorway behind me. Private Miller, right behind Private Messer, has a bead on him, but no one shoots. Private Messer speaks, a stark contrast to the raving words of the man in front of me, and I cannot understand him. Corporal Daniels has fear, real and true fear that cuts deep, in his eyes. The sights of my weapon line up on the forehead of the man holding my corporal by the throat. How dare he do that. I chance a glimpse up at Private Miller, who looks back. I know we are the same in this moment. Our sights are pointed at the same target, if on opposite sides of the room. That target is the threat to our corporal, and even as Private Messer continues to speak incomprehensible and soothing words to the threat, Private Miller and I take our shots. Just as I pull the trigger, I look into the eyes of the man I kill. They are brown, unremarkable, but I recognize the humanity in them. There is fear, just as real as my corporal’s fear, and not just for himself. Are those his girls? Is it his son behind me? I know he does this for his family, just as I do this for mine. It doesn’t matter. In the next moment, that fear is gone, replaced with nothing. Then the eyes are out of my sight, his body falling to the ground. Corporal Daniels levels his weapon, turning it about and scanning the area behind his sights for more enemies. There are none, only a body. The girls are gone, and a younger man who looks like the one I killed lays behind me: dead.

I return to the present, shaken by my corporal. “Private, that was months ago. What happened to Private Miller? Your buddy? I know your first kill, I was there, I was the guy who got fuckin’ grabbed. What happened today? What happened to Private Miller?” the corporal asked.

I remember. Cold. People don’t think of a desert as cold, but the nighttimes are chilling. The dry air doesn’t hold any heat, and the worst freeze that I ever experienced was a night in Afghanistan. Admittedly, I’ve never had a truly cold winter back home, but one above zero is pretty cold. We’re all in the car. The engine is off, we’re quiet, and we’re all shivering. “You’d think our breathing would warm up this metal piece of shit,” Private Messer mutters under his breath. Corporal Daniels raises a finger to his lips and looks back at the man. The vehicle is silent again. We’re waiting for the signal. Ahead of us is a school, a small one- room affair meant for kids below ten. All the children leave well before sundown, but a light is on inside. More suspicious, all the windows are blocked up. Someone is inside. Multiple someones, more likely. It is our job to find out who and what they know. Not just us, though. Several other fireteams wait in armored vehicles just like ours around the place. It is a perimeter, and it will close in once we are all in position. 2159. We move at 2200. Done by 2210, that’s the plan. The clock changes. We leave the car like shadows. We inch forward, our heavy boots crunching the dirt below. I doubt any of us are consciously aware of the movement, the feeling of one foot after the other. Around us I know our fellow fireteams move forward, but I cannot see or hear them. We have no lights. We’re shadows in the night, unseeable. At least, we think so. It’s obvious to me that we’re not invisible. The crunch of the rocks gives us away, but at least we’re not signaling our arrivals with flashlights. At least we’re not easily spotted, just easily heard. It doesn’t matter; the shots ring out. The contingency plan falls into place, and every boot hits the ground in a run as the perimeter closes around the building. Muzzle flashes from inside. Muzzle flashes from my fellow soldiers. Muzzle flashes from my own gun. Am I pulling the trigger? I guess I have to be. We fall in around the school fence, a three or four foot brick wall that encompasses the playground. It isn’t much of a playground, but it isn’t much of a school either. We peek. We fire a few shots. We duck behind the cover. I can see my fellow soldiers now. Less of a shadow in the night, more of a shadow at a fireworks show. Briefly there, briefly not, alternating between light and dark as the guns fire. We fire at an empty window just like the insurgents fire at the empty space above our heads. There are no targets, merely the hope that the enemy peeks at the wrong time. We’re better than that. We’re US soldiers, the best military in the— Private Miller eats a bullet. What do you do when your medic gets shot down? I can tell you what I do. I panic, grab his head, and look him in the eyes. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know much first aid; the eyes are soulless and his spirit is gone. That doesn’t change that his blood still feels alive as it covers my hands. I try to stem the flow, not believing the truth of his empty expression. Private Miller is stoic, just like he is when he prays at night, just like when he drives the patrol car, just like when he shoots down the enemy, just like he always is. The other fireteams make their moves. The gunfire becomes more intense and then dies. I still don’t recognize my friend as such. I see his handsome face in the darkness, not a body. Corporal Daniels is the one that pulls me off of him. I realize he is dead when his head hits the sand. It does not resist gravity, it falls. I don’t cry then. I don’t cry as we load his body into the car and Corporal Daniels makes Private Messer drive. I don’t cry when I see him for the last time. I cry when I think about it. I cry when I see his blood on my hands. I cry when some bastard like Corporal Daniels makes me talk about it, dammit.

“I think the literal blood on my hands made me realize how dirty I am,” I say, shifting on the leather seat. My legs are spread out in front of me, the long chair of the therapist’s office rather stereotypical in nature. “Your service to our country makes you feel dirty?” he asks and writes something on his notepad. Yellow legal notepad, it is always at his side. I ponder it for a moment too long, and he looks expectantly at me while he repeats the question. I answer, “I… Yes, doctor... No, doctor. Not serving my country. What I had to do to serve my country. It’s different.” “Tell me how it’s different.” He scribbles away. “It just is. It’s like the difference between fucking and having sex. Someone smarter than me might be able to tell you, but all I can say is that it just is.” “Okay. What about serving your country makes you feel dirty?” he asks, ignoring what I have just said. I sigh and shift in my seat. I look up at my doctor, an aging man well past his physical prime, and for a moment I see my old corporal. They’re all the same, the fuckers who make me talk about it. Why can’t I just be left well enough alone? “The death,” I say. “The act of killing?” he tries to clarify. “No. The death. The enemy dies, my friend dies, I die, whatever. The loss of life itself. That make sense?” “Death is a part of war.” His voice is condescending. “That doesn’t make it okay. That doesn’t mean the blood isn’t still on my hands.” “Why does death bother you?” “Because it doesn’t matter who dies, I am a part of it. I am complicit, to use some fancy fuckass word. Even if my hands are clean I can feel the blood on them. It’s fresh, hot, everywhere, and everyone’s. I could’ve killed no one and had no one die around me in my time in Afghanistan, but I would still feel that blood.” “Maybe you should’ve never been a soldier if you hate death so much.” The words may as well have been a knife in the heart. “If the blood isn’t on my hands it’s on someone else’s, doctor. Someone will always have bloodied hands; it may as well be me.”

Weight of Memory

An innocent moment, and the Weight of Memory can bear down upon one’s soul. The Weight of Memory is not a term to be found in any dictionary, encyclopedia, or lexicon. This phrase is not the kind that can be truly understood outside of context. However, an understanding of it can be achieved with some simple parables. Thus: It’s late at night, and a young man is driving home from a friend’s house. As he passes through the city he changes the radio station; he flips through the channels without thought or meaning. Then a song comes on that he recognizes. A song comes on that he likes. A few moments pass with him absentmindedly humming to the tune, and then the Weight of Memory strikes him. This was her song, he thinks to himself. Instantly, he is crushed with the remembrance of her every smile, laugh, and touch. He cannot help but recall the tragic end to his lost love, the thought tainting every good recollection he has of her. Every movement now forced yet involuntary, the young man will perfunctorily act until he can forget and move past the Weight of Memory. One likely possesses a basic understanding of the term now, but one should also know that it does not apply solely to romantic relationships: There she lies, the girl on the couch. Bored out of her mind, like every night, she goes through show after show of whatever has newly caught her interest on the instant video streaming service she uses. A criminal investigative show this night it seems, though she hardly pays it any attention as her stare looks through the television. Her blank mind can’t even sustain a single thought, so wrapped up is she in the realization that her life is so incredibly mundane. It is in that moment the Weight of Memory falls upon her soul like a boulder, crushing the life out of her. Into the past, her contemplations move, and she recalls the days she spent with a great friend in a foreign country. The trip of a lifetime, the adventure of her life, and she could never live those moments again. A sigh escaping her lips, the girl settles her gaze back on the television and shrugs away the uncomfortable thoughts. Certainly another adventure would come along again. Her life had to have more excitement left in it. But until that moment, the Weight of Memory would lie within her. It should be clear now that the Weight of Memory is not only an issue for those with unfulfilled romantic desires. This sinister aspect of life can strike at anyone and at anytime. So how is one to escape its deadly clutches? You don’t. It’s coming for you. Right now it reaches its pernicious claws for your throat. All you can do is stave off its inevitable arrival with adventure after adventure, love after love, mistake after mistake. Be aware, you can postpone its onset for as long as you desire, but the longer you do the more formidable it will become. So go ahead and run. It can wait. It is not going anywhere. It will catch up with you. Good luck.

Been a While

“You ever wondered, like, why?” “Why what?” “Just like, why?” “Why what?” “You know what I mean man.” “Yeah, I do,” Jamie said with a laugh that bubbled up from his chest. In the next second both of them fell to the ground busting their guts, basking in the heightened humor of their high. When the two recovered and sat on their asses again Jamie took another hit from the pipe. Craig continued his questioning: “But I’m serious. Why?” “Okay, I’m serious too, give me more.” The two suppressed a second outburst of laughter. “Why are we here?” “How about: ‘Why does my friend always become the cliche philosophical stoner?’” “Shut up. I’m always philosophical.” “But I’m not with you normally, I only deal with the high you nowadays.” “Was I not philosophical two years ago?” “I haven’t met any philosophical physics majors, man.” The conversation lulled while the two passed the pipe back and forth. The air around them felt crisp but not cold. Jamie breathed through his mouth so his nose didn’t feel the sting of the sharp air, and he liked how the cold felt in his lungs. They were out in the woods behind campus, a hidden spot from when the two lived together in the dorms. Hotboxing their room was a bad idea, and neither of them had a car back then. The spot reminded Jamie of when he was younger, hiding under his bed to play with some action figures or read a book by flashlight. He felt the same there as he did here, safe. The places were only the same in his mind, they physically differed. Jamie and Craig were surrounded by trees, and to their backs was a rock formation that created an overhang, perfect for them to sit under. They were impossible to notice at a distance, at least until they started smoking, but very few people ventured back into the woods during the day. Most of the students had classes or work, and the foot traffic this place saw came on weekends when everyone from hikers to partiers polluted the woods with their presence. Jamie and Craig would be long gone by then, but a few markers would show their passing. “Good thing I fuckin’ changed then,” Craig said to continue the conversation. “Yeah, philosophy suits you more, and you’ll enjoy teaching it.” “Would’ve made more money with physics.” “Would’ve made more money with anything.” “I like money.” “More than happiness?” The two paused and considered the conversation, aware that the philosophy came out when they smoked whether they wanted it to or not. “I guess not,” Craig said. “I know dude,” Jamie responded with a bit of a smug smile. “You’re still rocking that physics ride though.” “And it’s killing me.” “Sure, but you’ll be living in a mansion with a hot ass wife while I’m getting by in an apartment with a…” “Cat. You ain’t getting a dog in an apartment.” “Not fuckin’ true. They have dog apartments nowadays. You know that.” “I…” Jamie paused and wished he didn’t have to concede. “I guess you’re right.” “Damn right I’m right. Philosophy major. I have to know what I’m talking about. It’s all I do.” Craig sounded sad as he said it, as if he thought that it wouldn’t be enough for him. “You’re better off as a philosophy major, Craig.” “Yeah, but—” “So go back to Physics. Hate the courses, the professors, the material. Complain about it to everyone. Do it.” “Everyone complains, and—” “Everyone complains because it’s how people talk, for some fucking reason. You complained because you hated it. Just stop and think about it man. You were in class before you came here. How did you feel before class?” “Excited, we were gonna discuss the readings.” “During class?” “Good. I had some weird ideas compared to everyone else, and the professor liked them.” “And now?” “Well, I don’t know.” “Fuckin’ wrong. You feel good about it. You like it. You’re looking forward to doing it again. It’s who you are man. You’re a man of words, not numbers, symbols, conversions and bullshit like me.” “What, you thinkin’ about changing too?” “What?” Jamie stopped and glanced down at himself, at his hands holding the pipe and lighter. “Why do you ask?” “Cuz you said bullshit.” Jamie took his hit and chuckled, “No man. Like I said, people complain, and that’s just how they talk.” Craig looked sullen, but he took his hit and stared straight into the bark of the tree ahead of him. Jamie could tell it wasn’t the high pushing him to do this, it was his thinking. He wasn’t lost in space, he was anchored to this spot. He was reasoning, to use the vernacular of the philosopher. Jamie’s consideration of his friend was interrupted by another question: “You never answered my question.” Jamie said nothing but showed a perplexed expression. “Why are we here?” “I didn’t answer because it’s not my place. You answer the why man. I answer the what, when, where, and how. That’s where our jobs lie.” “Who answers the who?” “I… I think that’s also you. Or me. I think everyone, depending on the questions the ‘who’ was answering.” “That’s…” Craig took another hit from the pipe. At least two bowls had been smoked now, but the flowing conversation made it hard for Jamie to keep track. “That’s too many words for me man.” “Yeah, I don’t even know what I just said. And I said it.” He laughed, packed the bowl, and they smoked the last one quickly and in relative silence. When they finished up, Jamie cleaned out the pipe and packed it away in his bag. Craig stood and shifted his weight from foot to foot as Jamie did. When they were both standing, they took the lightly beaten path away from their spot. Jamie brushed a few leaves onto the path behind them, hiding the traces of the trail. He knew someone else would find it one day and Craig and he would come upon a blanket wrapped around some condoms or a used needle or something, but he meant to stall that day for as long as possible. The sanctity of the place could not be ruined. It was a reminder of those early college days when the world felt simpler and when all of his food was a moment away in a dining hall and when there were no utility bills. The two walked a minute in silence before Jamie spoke up: “So when you want to smoke again? It’d been a while since last time. Let’s not let that happen again.” “Well,” Craig began. Jamie could tell he wasn’t going to like what came out of his friend’s mouth. “I was thinking about stopping. I’m gonna get a job with the university, doing some work on their philosophy journal and working with the philosophy department on stuff. Y’know, research in a sense. A loose sense.” Again Jamie had the feeling that Craig doubted his future. “But I can’t smoke if I’m gonna do that. They drug test, I’m sure of it.” “Alright, well—” Jamie began. Craig interrupted, “But we can still hang out, man. I can get you free meals here whenever you want. I know you still have some classes you’re finishing up so you’re here often enough. Just hit me up. I’ll use one of my guest passes.” “Yeah, I—” Jamie began again but cut himself short as the two of them reached the grounds of the campus. Students milled about now, not many, but that was because classes were in session. The few moving around were late, doing some other business, or just confused. Jamie knew he felt confused as a freshman quite frequently. “So I’ll catch you some other time, right?” Craig asked. “Yeah, catch you later man.” “Catchya later.” Craig walked away, but Jamie imagined he was disappearing into a crowd. The literal distance growing between them seemed to emulate the metaphoric distance of their failing friendship. Then Jamie wondered if he wouldn’t have been better off as a philosophy major too. “What the fuck ever,” he muttered and went to his car. He would be on time for work, but not by much. The campus passed around him, and before he was aware of it he was sitting back in his apartment after work. He was smart; he’d found a way to block out the boring nature of his data entry job and let the hours slip by unnoticed. Hungry but without the desire to cook dinner, Jamie poured himself a bowl of cereal and stood at the counter by the fridge. The sugary cereal felt tasteless, but he was still emerging from the stupor his job put him in. He reminded himself that it was worth it, that the company was paying for his education and his apartment (minus utilities) and that when he graduated he’d move up from the inanity of his internship position. “It’ll help you learn how we do things around here.” Yeah, type numbers into a computer. “It’s a good opportunity to engage with your future colleagues.” Yeah, fetch the old and disgusting bastard coffee. “You’ll look back on it as a learning experience.” Maybe of how much he wished he’d taken a different path. Jamie shrugged and finished the cereal, downing the milk and then rinsing out the bowl in his sink. Easier than cooking, but he knew he wasn’t going to get a wife with his ability to pour a bowl of cereal. Thinking of it, he realized his time to find a lifelong partner was probably running out. Didn’t most people find their spouse in college? He knew he’d read that somewhere. Even if it wasn’t true, he knew that his social skills weren’t up to par. Previously taking twenty-plus credit hours a week while working a thirty-hour schedule left time for eating and minimal sleeping. He had cut back to fifteen credits this semester, but now he worked forty hours at an intern’s pay rate. It drained him mentally and spiritually just as it used to physically. Jamie couldn’t remember the last time he had sex. “Fuck,” he said, and collapsed onto his bed. He felt like shit, not sick, but like the world was kicking his balls around in a plastic bag. His old back injury was acting up. His work and classes left him with hardly enough to even feed himself. His only friend wanted to quit the habit that kept them close. “Fuck, man. Fuck.” Jamie buried his face in his pillow and wondered if his phone had enough charge to last the night and wake him up in the morning. He hoped so. He didn’t have it in him to sit up and plug the thing in. ……………

“And you, sir?” “Oh I just take it black. Whatever size. I’ll be happy.” Jamie smiled at him, gracious that at least one of his superiors didn’t force him to write down their order of a “large, iced, sugar-free, no foam, soy latte”. He didn’t have the patience for it anymore. The last few months at his work agonized him, pained at his soul. As a kid, he heard adults complain about their day job, but he never truly understood why. They were doing something, they were making money. At the time he was so fed up with the drudgery of his easy classes he couldn’t understand that things could become so much more monotonous. But they did. Jamie walked into the coffee shop across the street from the building he interned in. That place, architecturally marvelous but not large, loomed behind him where he knew his coworkers sneered at him from above. Disregarding the imagined derision, he took his place in the line and zoned out. Not a full minute passed before someone interrupted his pleasant escape. “Hey man!” The voice was familiar but distant. “Craig?” “Yeah! Been a while. I haven’t seen you since last semester.” “Yeah, got busy, y’know.” “Yeah I guess. You still busy?” “Yeah.” “I can tell just by looking at you man.” Jamie snapped his gaze up to meet Craig’s. His eyes bored into his old friend’s, and Craig took a step back and wondered if he shouldn’t have said that, but the look faded. “Yeah, hard to sleep lately.” “Well you know my offer still stands. You can text me whenever and I’ll get you a half- decent meal.” “Half-decent?” Jamie asked in a facade of humor. “Fine, okay-at-best, whatever,” Craig said and played along. Jamie took no real humor from the words but laughed anyway. When Jamie did not further the conversation Craig said, “Hey, I finally asked out Blondie.” “Nope.” “What do you mean nope?” “I don’t believe you.” “Well I got a fuckin’ picture.” Craig pulled out his phone and Jamie moved closer to the counter. The line dwindled, and soon he could escape this social trap. “Look,” Craig said and held up his phone displaying a picture of himself standing alongside the blonde girl Jamie recognized. “Oh.” “Damn right: Oh. You faggot. I got the balls, did it, and it turns out she’s super into Nirvana too. It’s been a blast.” “Yeah, glad for you man.” Jamie took the final step up to the counter. “Guess I’ll catchya later?” “Yeah, later,” Jamie said dismissively and began to order the various coffees. He wasn’t certain if Craig walked away. He didn’t pay attention a moment longer than he had to. He stood to the side, stoic, and when the order was ready he returned to his work building. The coffees, delivered without a word, earned Jamie no thanks. He came to the last desk and set the coffee down. The man looked up at him, took the cup in his hands as if to warm his fingers and said, “Thanks, son.” The man wasn’t too old, not a day over forty, but he gave off a fatherly vibe that made Jamie comfortable with what he said. “No problem man.” Jamie turned to leave but the other man spoke again and caused him to turn around. “Hey, I know those other guys give you a hard time. You need something, just let me know.” “Yeah, alright, Mr…” “David.” The man said it in a foreign way, like Dah-veed. Otherwise, he had no accent, and it made Jamie wonder about his family. “Alright, David.” Then Jamie did turn away, and he returned to his small desk, shitty chair, and punched numbers into the system like he had been for a while.

It didn’t matter the temperature or time of day, the men working at his company wanted one drink: coffee. Jamie crossed the street with sweltering summer midday heat and ducked into the cafe. It was cooler than outside, but only barely. The scent of coffee filled the air, and the steam rising from the hot cups made the air muggy. Jamie could not stand the idea of drinking coffee in such heat, and it seemed the majority of people agreed with him. The coffee shop was much more empty than it had been in early spring, with only a few people sitting around at tables on laptops or phones. He imagined at least one of them was writing shitty slam poetry before a creative writing class at the nearby university. A humorless chuckle escaped his lips as he stepped up to the counter, no line barring his way. “Yeah, I’ll take…” The baristas were used to him coming in to buy coffee now, usually twice a day. The requests always changed, which made the business of placing every order tedious but the baristas trudged through it. Jamie imagined that they knew he hated this as much as they did. Or maybe he hated it more, as he had to carry all the coffee back across the street and give it to those fuckfaces he called superiors. “Thanks,” Jamie said as he finished the order, paying with the company card and then stepping to the side. He waited, but with no other orders the drinks came quickly. “Thanks,” he said again and then left the cafe. The transition from muggy to dry heat nearly caused him to stumble, but he kept walking and made it across the street. There were never any cars passing by here. Most of the spots were taken early in the day by the employees of Jamie’s company or the other shops along the street. The air conditioning of his office building was dizzyingly sweet after the heat of outside, and Jamie took a moment to adjust before making his way to the elevator. A few floors up, and then he passed the coffee around to those who asked for it. Although David didn’t order coffee the second time in the day, Jamie still passed by his desk on his way to his own. “How are you doing, Jamie?” David asked. Jamie turned on his heel and took a half step toward the other’s desk. “Fine, well enough.” “Work’s not bringing you down.” “Not at all.” “Not too busy?” “I guess not.” “So you got time to hang out with friends?” Jamie gave David a curious look and wondered what the man was getting at. “Yeah, if I wanted.” “And you don’t.” Jamie scowled and said, “Guess I don’t have many friends nowadays, David.” He said the name with venom, a warning for the man to back off. “I guess,” was all David said before turning back to his work. Jamie stayed for a moment longer, surprised at the sudden termination of the conversation, but then he turned sharply on his heel and left. Jamie sat at his desk. “Fuckin’ old man. Prying into my fuckin’...” he went on to himself. The rest of the day passed in a red haze, and Jamie left before any of his colleagues could heckle him about still being an intern despite his schooling having finished. “A position is coming, we just need to determine where you fit best.” They liked him as their coffee boy. “You’ve done a lot of good work for us.” He punched numbers into a computer for over a year. “We’ve increased your pay for the meantime, anyway.” Yeah, by a buck, and what’s more, he wanted his life to mean something. Jamie sat on his bed in the dark. Didn’t want to turn on the lights, that took electricity. Didn’t want to cook a meal, that took gas. Didn’t even want to get a drink, that took water. His phone sat in his pocket. No one had texted him for months, but he still kept it charged when he could be bothered. His father hadn’t called him in a year and a half. He felt a moment of concern, but it passed into apathy. The darkness around him was comforting and suffocating. He closed his eyes and felt no relief from consciousness. Bzzt! His phone buzzed one time. Singular. Not a call, but not an email. Someone texted him. Jamie pulled out his phone and checked who it was from. Craig. The message: Hey man, been a while. You’re done at school right? You should still swing by. They gave me a position teaching intro level courses while I work toward a Masters. If you get the chance I’d like to talk to you. Hit me up. Jamie let his phone fall to his chest, no desire within him to answer the message. Bzzt! Again his phone buzzed once, so he picked it up and checked the new text: Also, been cooking again. You always loved a good meal. Jamie let the phone fall back to his chest, and it did not buzz again. Still, his mind had something to consider. There was no ambiguity in Craig’s message, though it did not mean what it purported to mean. Neither Jamie nor Craig cooked, so they decided their first year that “cooking” was the best way to discreetly talk about their shared habit. Jamie’s confusion did not come from the message itself, but the implications. Craig was smoking again, but still working at the university where he could be drug tested at any time. This pseudo-faculty position likely differed from his job from before, but Jamie still felt uncertain. He wouldn’t be a part of his friend’s potentially life destroying habit. Or would he? Jamie considered David’s invasive yet insightful remarks from earlier. He needed a friend, and he wouldn’t have any luck making new ones. Maybe he was wrong about the university drug testing Craig. He picked up the phone from his chest and typed out a quick message: I’m free this Saturday, down for a good meal. He read it over several times, and then tried again: Haven’t cooked at all, but you’re right, I’m always down for a good, long meal. Saturday? He read over the new message, and then he sent it off with a satisfied grin. The reply came in before he could set his phone down: Sounds good man. Catch me by University Hall, noon. Jamie smiled to himself and put the phone down on his chest. It was going to die, but tomorrow was Saturday so he didn’t need an alarm. He considered plugging it in so that he could text Craig if he had to, but even his brief uplifting of spirit couldn’t carry him to do that. Regardless, sleep came a little easier that night, and the nightmares few and far between.

Jamie stood under the sign for his old university, his status as a recently graduated alum not enough to alienate him from the memories he had with the sign. The freshman year class photo. Teasing his first college girlfriend under the sign. She was a distant memory, and as much as he wanted the nostalgia to feel happy it struck him bitterly. Before he could fall into the pit of his memories he saw Craig walking up. “Hey man, been a while.” Craig wore very casual clothing but considering it was a Saturday it wasn’t like he had work. Jamie dressed pretty much the same, though he had always erred on the fancier side of clothing. “You know, you always say that.” “I do?” “You do.” “Insightful. I wonder if I have other habits of speech that my students are picking up on.” “Probably. You should ask. Maybe you regressed to that ‘like and um’ stage from our sophomore speech class.” “Yeah, fuck off, like you were any better. ‘T-talking to M-Mrs. N-Norris’ She scared the fuck outta you.” “And not you?” “I’ve always had more balls.” “Fuck man, you need to get me high before you can convince me of that.” Jamie felt it for a moment, a connection to the man in front of him, but the laughter emanating from his lips was humorless. He was not there, he did not care for his old friend, he acted. Luckily, the weed would be real and would really get to him after not smoking for so long. A few seconds of silence passed, and Craig turned away. Jamie understood that it was the start of their brief trek toward the spot in the woods. “Jane would be so pissed if she knew what I was doing today.” “Jane?” “You know, Blondie.” “Oh yeah.” “Yeah, yeah. Jane would be pissed if I was spending time with Mary Jane, you know?” Craig laughed, and Jamie offered a chuckle. “Fuckin’ dad jokes. You get her pregnant before coming out here with me?” “Hope not.” “Yeah.” “Remember your pregnancy scare with Sarah?” “Let’s not man.” “Or, let’s.” Jamie said, with more force than he had ever spoken to Craig, “Let’s not.” Craig said nothing more. He did not turn back to meet Jamie’s eyes, and Jamie was glad he didn’t. He couldn’t control himself lately, and he didn’t want to fuck this up before he got his fix. Free weed may have been a trap by Craig to bring Jamie out of hiding, but it was a trap Jamie would willingly walk into. They followed the little footpath between some trees and settled themselves against the rock. There was no sign of other habitation, so Jamie felt content that this private place was still sacred. His memories could live on. “So what do you have?” he asked while pulling out the preferred pipe, his pipe. Craig grinned and reached into his own pack. His smile was sheepish, teasing, and he revealed the plastic baggie slowly. “Khalifa Kush.” Jamie’s jaw dropped, and then his own smile formed. Sheepish, but not teasing, he was expectant. Only one word, a sincere word, “Nice.” “Yeah, yeah,” Craig said and the two of them went to work packing the pipe. A few moments later the lighter clicked and Craig took the first hit. Deep, long, and more than enough to get the pipe burning. He exhaled and a satisfied smile came over him as if he were already in the depths of his high. “Feels good man.” Jamie followed his lead and took a similarly deep hit, though he almost flubbed it and coughed it all out. He managed not to, but it caught him off guard. It had been too long. It felt too good, and he wasn’t even high yet. The hot air but the cool shade, passing a pipe between two friends, a slight breeze passing through the trees and the rock. Jamie smiled and relaxed. He needed this. “Feels good,” he said, and the two of them smoked.

It had been a long summer, but a good summer. Jamie checked his phone and saw no new messages from Craig, which was expected but disappointing. The two spent a lot of time together recently, and Jamie’s behavior showed it. He was happier at work, but he attributed that to his better sleep. He didn’t tell his co-workers what he attributed his better sleep to. Jamie took the orders for the coffee and replied to each person with a polite, “Of course, I can get that.” He came to David and said, “Black, large?” Jamie suggested large because David had bags under his eyes; he hadn’t slept well last night. “Yeah, but with two sugars,” David said with a grateful smile. “Feeling fancy today, huh?” “Feeling like I need something to get to fancy,” David replied with a smirk. “You been doin’ good recently, huh Jamie?” Jamie almost left to get the drinks, but he stopped to talk to David. It was a regular occurrence now, and he enjoyed the conversations they shared. They picked him up until he could get his real pick-me-up with Craig. “Yeah. Been sleeping better, you know. Work has been nice recently too. Summer’s done me well.” “Good, good. I think summer might end even better for you. People talk when you do a good job, and you’ve been doing a good job.” David smiled, but when Jamie pressed he would say no more. “Fine, but maybe I won’t be getting you those two sugars,” Jamie teased as he left to get the drinks. The sweltering street didn’t bother him, nor did the muggy air of the cafe. Even the line didn’t bother him, but to be fair it wasn’t that long. He placed the order with a grin, paid with a smile, and waited with a tap in his foot. Some upbeat tune with a name he couldn’t place, but it got him moving in the coffee shop, if just a little. “Uhh Jamie? Sir?” the barista said, hesitating as Jamie took a moment to turn around. He had been into the groove, totally zoned out from the world around him, but he laughed as he took the coffees. A minute later he was back in his office and passing out the drinks. Everyone seemed thankful, and Jamie wondered if it was his attitude that made them happier to see him. “Well, of course. Duh,” he said to himself as he walked up to David’s desk. “Got those two sugars for you.” “Real sugar?” “You didn’t say sweetener,” Jamie said with a smile and walked back to his own space. He felt appreciated, real, solidified in this moment with happiness. He was taken aback when someone approached his desk. “Jamie, right?” “Uh yeah. What’s up?” He had rarely ever seen this man before, and he wore a sharp suit. Someone higher up? Certainly, but usually he received his work from others around him. File this, sort that, input this data sheet into the system, whatever. David’s earlier comment crossed his mind, and he smiled as the other man spoke: “Would you follow me please?” “Of course,” Jamie said and stood from his desk. David gave a slight nod as he sipped at his coffee, and Jamie followed the stranger. Up the stairs, around a corner, and into an office. The man gestured for him to sit in a seat across from a desk, and then the man himself sat on the other side. “So, Jamie, you’ve been with us for a while but you still haven’t received a position.” “Yes?” Jamie asked, liking the tone of the man’s voice. “I want to—” he began but stopped, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “I should introduce myself, I’m Dr. Drakovich, project manager of this branch. All the research here comes under my purview.” “Nice to meet you, Doctor,” Jamie said with a polite but impatient tone. “So, as I was saying, I want to remedy that. We’re ready to offer you a salaried position, working alongside some of the other researchers as an associate. Do you think you could do that?” “Of course!” “I know, I’ve read your resume and reviewed your recent performance. Summertime is your time, huh?” Jamie smiled, and Dr. Drakovich went on. “To get this rolling we have a few things we need to do. In the next week you’ll be filling out a bunch of paperwork, new contracts and forms to set up your insurance and the lease for a new apartment, etc.” Jamie felt his heartbeat quicken at the mention of a better home. “We’ll be starting off with a drug test, nothing crazy like blood or hair, just your standard urine test.” Jamie’s heart nearly burst. His mouth went dry. His face changed as well, which was apparent in Dr. Drakovich’s next question, “You can do that, yes?” “Oh yes,” Jamie answered too quickly. Dr. Drakovich smiled, but it seemed to Jamie a smile of pity. He would fail the test, he knew that. This man ahead of him knew it too. “Good. You can return to your desk; someone will come by soon with the components I mentioned for your promotion. Have a good day.” “Thank you, sir. Y-you too.” Jamie left with stuttered, uncertain steps. David was waiting at his desk. “Exciting, huh?” Jamie’s expression prompted David to continue, “At least, I’m excited. It’s good to see your time finally pay off.” David said nothing more, he only gave a worried look at Jamie as he walked away. “Yeah. Pay off,” Jamie said as another man he’d rarely ever seen before approached his desk with a folder of papers. ……….. The two young men sat across from each other, only two weeks later. “So you lost the job.” Craig took quick hits from the pipe. He didn’t need the high as much as Jamie did. “Yeah, lost everything. And they basically blacklisted me. No company will touch me, at least not any around here. And with the fucking internet and connectedness and all that bullshit—” “You’re fucked.” “Yeah.” “That sucks man. That just sucks.” “I’ve got a degree, a year’s experience, and no chance of a job. I feel like all those fuckers with art and dance degrees. What the fuck do I do now?” “I don’t know man. I don’t know.” “Just. Just keep me high and I’ll be alright.” Silence fell between the two, and they just smoked. Hours passed, and the only notable passage of time was the shift of the pipe from one’s hands to the other. Jamie was too pissed and too high to talk, and Craig had no clue what to say. His friend’s entire life was meaningless now, at least by how Jamie measured it. They’d been smoking since just after noon, and now darkness was falling on the late summer’s day. “I’ve gotta go man,” Craig finally said after mustering up the courage. He felt bad. He wanted to be there for his friend, but he was hungry and his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. He knew it was Jane getting more and more pissed as time went on. She didn’t approve of his smoking, and she didn’t sympathize with Jamie. “Yeah, no problem man. I’m gonna stay here a little longer. It’s nice, and my apartment just feels like a shithole, you know?” “Yeah man. You do what you gotta do. I’ll see you tomorrow?” “Yeah, I’ll just be hanging here, chilling. Come whenever.” “Alright man, see ya.” Craig glanced back one time at Jamie, who only struggled to lift his pack onto his lap. Craig shrugged the sight away.

It was a little before noon, but it was still nice and cool. Thin cloud cover prevented the sun from making it into a blisteringly hot summer day, and the forest was even cooler in the shade of the trees. It was a beautiful day, and Craig appreciated the nature around him as he walked into the woods. Jamie had said come at any time, so Craig decided to go sooner rather than later. The two couldn’t smoke all day, and coming earlier might make an excuse to get out and eat something later. Craig hadn’t seen his friend eat since being fired, and he had definitely lost a few pounds. “Motherfucker needs some cake,” Craig said to himself, though he understood that he wasn’t any paragon of health either. He was too skinny. Maybe they could both put on a few pounds together. Craig walked between the trees that led to their sacred place and said, “Hey Jamie, you alrea—” It’s strange to see a person float in space, their feet off the ground as if levitating. It’s even more strange when their body is limp, their eyes blank, their mouths open but with nothing to say. Jamie looked like a puppet with a single string coming up from around his neck. It controlled all of his motion, the gentle sway of his arms and legs; he was a macabre doll with a pale body, bruised neck, and bloodied fingers. This wasn’t okay. This needed to be fixed. Craig began to climb onto the rock. He would cut Jamie down. But he stopped. “They’ll do tests on him. They’ll find the weed in his blood.” “They’ll ask me how I found him. I can’t lie. I could never lie.” “They’ll test me too, and then I’ll lose everything. My job, my future, Jane.” “I need to quit anyway. I was only smoking for him.” “No one else knows about this place. Only Jane even has an idea that it exists.” “I’ll just leave him.” “I’ll just leave him.” “I’ll just leave him.”

Craig’s bones ached walked down the little footpath between the trees and stopped just before the old place. He looked down at himself, at his collared shirt and vest, his slacks, and his dockers. He was the picture of a professor now, and with too many years experience teaching university; supposed that was right. That didn’t change how weird it felt to be his present self and visit this old place. He took the last few steps forward and knelt on the bed of leaves. To his right was the rock filled with carvings. More students had found the place since his time as a college kid decades ago. The only carving that mattered to him was one: “In loving memory of Jamie.” He patted the ground in front of him, and he remembered the last moments he had with his friend. He remembered putting his body deep into the ground, deep enough to avoid detection. Craig thought of times before that, times with the friend he had lost. “Hey man, it’s been a while.” Beyond Reality

The stories in this section ask the simple question: What if? The proposed scenarios could not exist in the real world. They depict monsters and spirits, world-changing abilities and powers. These stories explore humanity in a complex way; these stories attempt to understand how people act when faced with the unknown, with creatures beyond their understanding, with technology beyond their control. These stories question our understanding of the world, and what people might do when placed into a simulation, or the sacrifices science will make to progress technology, or the consequences of disappearing from humanity. Whether monsters, technology, or people, the question is always: What if?

Runner, I Ran

Runner ran. The river coursed shallow but swift. Staying on the east side of it outweighed the danger of crossing it. I turned my horse and rode north along the bank, upstream, hoping to find a safer place to cross. I rode at a trot, the animal’s hooves pounding along the gravel of the riverbank. The grasses adjacent to the water were a rich green, lush within the soaked soil. Flowers grew among them, a reminder to me of an easier time before monsters and men, before the fall of civilization. I kept my horse moving, and I heard in the distance the howls of more than one beast. I reached into a saddlebag and pulled out a small vial. The red liquid sloshed inside, sluggish compared to the motion of the horse. A vial of human blood, a distraction for the monsters. I soaked a small pad of cloth in the blood and let it drop to the ground. It would occupy them, for a time, but hopefully long enough that I could cross the river; I could escape the beasts. I rode for another mile, and a place of relative calm in the water greeted me. I let my horse take the first steps, but the water was deeper than it seemed. I kept my horse’s reins in hand but stepped off of his back and into the water. We swam the far divide between the banks. The water, moving at a comforting pace, seemed to bely the reality that I fled. I knew if the beasts came upon me now I would be dead, that they would come upon my horse and me in the water and drown us in the depths. I considered how deep this section of the water was, and then I put it out of my mind even though I was curious. No distractions, push on, make the bank. A current beneath the surface of the water tugged at my feet, and my horse moved farther downstream, taken with it. I held on and swam on my own; my horse and I resisted the pull of the water, the damning pull. I heard the crash of dangerous waters and pulled harder. The opposite bank seemed so far away, so impossibly far away. I swam. I swam. I swam. I walked as my boots scraped the mud and gravel and grained traction. The howls behind me informed me that I could waste no time escaping. My horse got his feet into solid ground, and I jumped astride his back again. I was wet and miserable, and my horse would suffer pains from the soaked saddle, but there was nothing to be done for it. We ran or we died, so we ran.

A day later I felt comfortable coming to a full stop. We sat beneath a tree, my clothes and the saddle and its accoutrements drying in the branches. We had escaped the beasts, cleared the forest, and now we had plains ahead of us. Good for my horse, who would eat his fill on grasses after resting his body, but less good for me. Few animals survived the creatures that prowled the land, even if few remained in the plains. That, and the monsters were not of flesh and blood that could be eaten. They were something less, or something more, and though they devoured the meat of others, nothing useful could be taken from them. Nothing but tales of survival or glory, though people to share them with became more and more rare. I leaned against the tree and fanned my journal back and forth through the breeze. It was soaked with the water from the river, still, and many of my words bled together now. The loss of them pained me, but I could save more than I might lose if I kept up my efforts. I did, flipping through the pages and catching a phrase here and there: The monster resembled some great bird… The bear could not have been larger, and it still died ignobly to some monster… The town was burned to nothing; only embers remained… I buried her alongside…

I looked up from the journal and blinked heavily. I kept flipping it through my hands. Even if I could not bear to look at all of the words, I could not bear to lose them, and so I fanned the pages. I needed them for my future, for whoever I might find. At least, that was the hope—that I would find people. My horse looked up at me, his big brown eyes seeming to ask if we were going to ride again. I could tell he didn’t want it, not in his tired legs or in his twitching tail or in his sad eyes did he want to move again. Maybe ever again, but we would. I had to eat, and that meant hunting, besides the fact that we had a real goal in mind. At the end of this plain was civilization, at least what remained of it. Scattered towns, small enough to survive and big enough to avoid the worst of the monsters. I knew everyone west of the mountains had died, and passing through those same mountains revealed no one had dared lived in them for some time. The worst of all the creatures I had seen had been on those mountains, and the treks to the peaks to gain a vantage point were torturous. Especially so when I had to temporarily leave my horse behind. My poor Runner, the reason I survived, though we were more mutually dependent than I often gave myself credit for. We rested the remainder of the day. My eyes fell closed eventually, and Runner stayed at my side. I didn’t even have to tie him off anymore. We understood each other, our need for one another. My journal fell into the dirt, but it landed open and the breeze continued blowing it until I awoke in the chill night air. I grabbed a blanket from the tree, still partially damp, but wool kept warmth either way, so I threw it over myself. I shifted over to lay closer to Runner, and he rested his head on my leg. We slept a while longer. Daybreak over the plains awoke me, and I gazed at the brilliant orange and yellow hues that overtook the grey sky. When grey became blue, I stood, dressed myself in the cold but dry clothing, and checked over the saddle. Runner stood some yards away, enjoying his breakfast while I prepared myself. I grabbed my journal and flipped through it one more time. Only a few pages stuck together, but water marks riddled the entire book. I would do my best to separate them later. I pulled the saddlebags and the horse blanket from the tree and checked them over. Everything was dry, at least, dry enough for a day’s ride. I looked through the weapons I had. My knives were all intact, though I would need to oil them later. My revolver, with three shots remaining, sat beside the blades. It would all need treatment, but I wanted to put more distance behind me. I checked my vials of blood and bandages last. Only three vials left, but plenty of bandages. Taking old clothing for cloth strips worked wonders, as there was no gauze left in the world. I worried about my lack of vials. I couldn’t take my own blood, not without risk of the monsters catching my scent in a more permanent way, and it might be some time before I found another human corpse fresh enough to harvest from. It was morbid, but a necessity for my survival. All of my tools came from others. Runner, even, had long ago been the horse of some other man. I never killed anyone, but when they left this world I took what they left behind. I whistled for Runner to come over. He nuzzled his snout against my chest and I rubbed his nose and up behind his ears. His gaze begged for us to get moving. He was ready again, and I appreciated that energetic glint in his big eyes. I loaded him up with the saddle blanket, the saddle, and the saddlebags and we went on our way. A chill wind blew across the plains this morning, but I couldn’t decide if it was a bad omen or simply the weather. I kept Runner where the grass was low, better for me to keep an eye out for holes and snakes. He wanted to protest and run into the tall grass, but I kept him in line with the reigns and we moved. Runner trotted along the plains, and I appreciated the vastness of this land. In the mountains, vision was always blocked, unless I stood atop a peak, but in this place I could see until the land started to curve. It made me wonder about the shape of the earth. The ruins of homes around me made me wonder about the past of humanity. We had spread so far, done so much, and now we were reduced to mere animals again. Animals with intelligence, but animals nonetheless and, as animals, we were subject to the terrible food chain of nature. Without civilization we were no longer on top. We were subjects to those monsters that roamed. I knew almost nothing about the “Fall of Humanity,” as so many elders put it, except that it was long ago. I spotted the ruins of an old road stretching into the distance, so I turned Runner toward it. Remnants of civilization, like some old standing houses and roads, helped humans survive to this day, but they were also reminders of how poor a life we lived. I put the thoughts out of my mind and pushed Runner into a gallop alongside the dilapidated path. Too destroyed, with uneven black rocks, to run along but the sides were still clear of debris. More importantly the road gave me direction, something to follow, like a river. I noticed my hunger when the sun had nearly finished its ascension in the sky. I turned Runner to a walk and let him chew on some of the grasses while I pulled a piece of jerky from a saddle bag and gnawed on it, the salty meat between my teeth filling my mouth with a smoky and overpowering flavor. I coughed twice, took swigs of water from one of my bottles, and continued chewing. I let Runner have another minute with the grass and then spurred him back to a trot. The convenient thing about a horse in the plains is that I’ll never have a lack of food for him. For me, however, I knew I would need to hunt soon. I couldn’t imagine anything too big living in these grasses. I might get lucky for a rabbit or two, maybe a bird, but nothing that could sustain me for a week or more. I should have stayed a day or two longer in those forests, hunting for a deer. A deer could feed me for a while, a long while if I supplemented it with other foods. A human needed more than pure meat too. It had been a few days since I ate a vegetable, and maybe a month since a piece of fruit. Such things were difficult to come by. I resolved to stop at the next house and check for something to eat. I had found old fruit trees and gardens of vegetables gone wild without human interference in the past. I hoped to be so lucky again. The next ruin of a home came into my sight soon, and I gulped down the last of my piece of jerky as I saw it. I pushed Runner back into a gallop for the last two miles, and I jumped off of him outside of the doors. I hit his rump and he trotted away, more than happy for another rest and chance to eat some grass. I explored around the house. Weeds. Mostly weeds. Not even something Runner could enjoy, much less something palatable for my stomach. I pulled them up as I went, hopefully killing them. I was alone in my task to weed the world, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try. The less weeds there were the more chance more useful plants might sprout up. Maybe some onions, carrots, even lettuce. Anything other than this rough and pokey bullshit. I looked for the remains of some old garden, something that the owners of this place would have tended long ago. I looked for a ring of rocks, marking sticks, bricks, whatever. I began to see how the entire place had been torn up. Something had fought and died here, something big. I wondered about what happened, and I began to notice different types of leaves sprouting from the ground. They looked familiar, but I prevented myself from becoming too hopeful. I took off my glove and dug around in the dirt with my fingers, revealing the orange flesh of a carrot. “Yes!” I said, and I heard Runner gallop around a corner to catch sight of me. I plucked the carrot from the ground and started to grab more, and Runner came running to get his own. “Hey, off! You can eat all that other shit out there. I can’t, so these are for me.” I pushed his nose away from the carrots, but after a few moments I couldn’t resist his needy eyes. I gave him one, and he marched away triumphantly. “Yeah! You better go. You ain’t gettin’ any more.” I dug up about a dozen small-to- medium sized carrots, the largest fitting like a dagger in my hand. In my search, I had also uncovered a rock, so I dug around it. It revealed what I sought, the outline of an old garden. I whistled for Runner, and he came back up reaching for the carrots with his mouth. “Nuh uh uh. I just need into the saddlebags, you jerk.” I grabbed one of my most prized possessions, an ancient text on gardening and different plants. I began to try and match the leaves I saw before me with plants in the book, and I recognized something called asparagus, some cucumbers, and some wild onions. I plucked them all greedily from the ground. I left a little behind, enough to support the growth of more food. I weeded the garden and a little around it, and then I packed all of my new food into the saddlebags. It was so much, a veritable feast, and maybe it was enough that I could share with Runner too. I would need to wash them off first, so I hoped I would find some body of water ahead. I didn’t like the taste of dirt, but I would deal with it if I had to. I climbed onto Runner, who protested, and we circled the house twice in search of anything else that could be useful. Even from outside, I could tell there would be no point in entering the ruins. I might scavenge some cloth, but I had enough of that, and the risk of rusty nails or collapsing boards kept me outside. It was not like I would find more food, and the tools that laid around or inside were beyond repair with rust and decay. Little could be scavenged from the world anymore, not like in the days of my grandfathers in the recent collapse of society. There was not even any usable old cloth, so I turned Runner on the road and we went. “On the road again! Oh I just can’t wait to get on the road again!” I sang out of tune, not that anyone was around to care except my horse. He whinnied sometimes, though in protest or encouragement I could never tell. Even bad music could be entertaining in the worst of times, so I kept singing. An old song, from before the Fall, if my ancestors were to be believed. I thought the nomadic nature of my life made it more fitting for my time, for a life on the run. At least in my mind, that made sense. It did make me reminisce of my family, and as Runner trotted down the old highway I thought about my father. I was an only child, born to him from a dying woman. She passed shortly after my birth, and so he had fought tooth and nail to find a way to feed his infant babe. It worked, and I lived, but he worried about me and my strength for so long that I doubted it myself. Other than that, I loved him as a father. Caring, and with the skills needed to protect a child in this world. He could hunt and fish and taught me to do both, though my bow was now broken a few hundred miles west. I didn’t know how to make a new one, and I hoped to be able to trade for another one day, if that could ever happen. The other thing my dad had taught me in our time together was the importance of life, of living instead of surviving. That was why I sang, even if I couldn’t sing, and why I constantly looked for people to share my life with, though they were few and far between; I survived in a world where that was unlikely, sometimes impossible, so I celebrated my existence. Usually only Runner was around to hear me do it. “A day of broken roads and bright skies, a day of monstrous toads and too few eyes,” I sang. Life was hard, and it was only harder if you thought of it that way. The sky changed colors, the sun making its way through the expanse of the heavens, and only a dim moon illuminated the road before Runner and me. I swallowed the last piece of jerky, mourning the lack of any water source to wash my vegetables and water my horse, and prepared to rest along the road. I gave Runner water from my bottle, and I felt the last few drops drip into his mouth. I took a single sip from another, my last, container, and I worried. I should have followed the river. Sleep came difficult with my worry, but it came nonetheless. I woke up before the dawn, and I took quick notes on the events of the previous day. The road, the house, the vegetables, and how Runner teased me with his hunger. My thoughts wandered to how he affected my life. He featured in my journal ever since our companionship began, and I felt glad to have someone to share my journeys with. No mother, father, and no kin or others to keep me company made a world lonely. Runner stood on the soft dirt a few feet away, his eyes twitching and his legs kicking lightly in some dream. I remembered our first encounter, that wild look in his eyes as his previous owner gave him to me. He resisted, and he fought, but I knew what was best for him; I prevailed in our struggle and through a few months of work I made him mine, fully. He became mine more and more with every passing day. The first time he rested his head on me to sleep I felt so comforted, so at home even in the transient wilderness. That was when I stopped staking him for breaks, and though he wandered at times he never strayed too far. He would come when I whistled, and he usually never even left my sight. I continued writing in my journal, a digression about the appearance of the plains around me, and then snapped the book shut. I prepared the saddle bags, saddle, and horse blanket. I dusted and brushed them off, but I waited for the sunrise before stirring Runner. He stood up and began to eat, so I loaded him with the riding gear while he did. I took another piece of jerky and gnawed at it as I mounted him, and I kicked us into a quick trot to start off the day. “Easy riding, you think? Gotta find a water source.” Runner gave no reply. “Better to move fast or slow?” Runner kept his pace. “You know, you’d be better if you could talk,” I said, and Runner gave a short whinny and tossed his head. “That’s better,” and we rode along the broken asphalt path toward something. What it was, I couldn’t yet say, but I hoped it would be water. The day stretched ahead of us, and as one hour turned to two I felt my mouth start to dry. I bit my lips, ran my tongue over them, and panted like a dog. Runner did the same, and I felt our pace slow before I kicked him to keep moving. I urged him to maintain the speed, to persevere, but I felt his struggle like a keen blade in my side. I didn’t like to hurt him, and this hurt. Dehydration cut at a person like a piece of obsidian, jagged, scarring, and debilitating. Runner began to pick up speed, but I could tell why. Then I felt a change in the air; a breath of a cool breeze, a hint, a hope, and a dream came by us. I didn’t push Runner any faster, but I kicked him again to maintain the trot. Water was ahead. Some form, enough to sate our thirst at least. However, the land was filled with silence. This was no roaring river, not even a stream or brook that would produce some noise. It had to be a lake, a pond, and that meant the water could be dangerous to drink. My muscles tensed, more in anxiety than excitement of quenching my thirst. All watering holes were bloodbaths; that was a fact of life. Ahead of Runner, a dilapidated bridge. He galloped the last half mile, and he came up beside the water and drank with a vengeance. It was a stream, a slow moving one with such a slight gurgle of water that I could still barely hear it as I stood alongside. I jumped from Runner’s back and drank too, just a few sips, and then I shooed Runner from it. I filled our canteens and containers, and then I had us sit in the shade of the few trees that grew on the bank. Wait, and drink, and wait, and drink, and slowly rehydrate before continuing. The stream went south, and I headed east, otherwise I would follow it. I was reminded of why I had abandoned the last stream, monsters and directionality, and felt comfortable with my choice. It had to be done to go where I wanted, a city to the east. Or cities. Dreams, really, I chased dreams to the east. I sat up to drink from the stream one last time, and I approached the water. It was a little after midday, yet the water was dark. So, so dark. I understood immediately, and I leaped back from the bank and shooed Runner from the water. It was not a moment too soon, as some great and monstrous serpent emerged from the shadows. It oozed darkness, as all monsters do, and just like most other monsters its mottled hide bore a dazzling array of color. Purple, shades of green, blue and teal and turquoise, but this beast was mostly red. Red jaws, red flesh, red fangs, and a red tail. The scales changed color from one to the next, and I slowly backed away from it as the iridescent eyes tried to lock me in place. It was ten feet long, more or less, with fangs thicker than my fingers. I backed up from the creature, and it remained still, only watching me. Waiting? For what, I couldn’t know. Runner was behind me; I could hear his heavy breath, and his hooves pawed the ground; I wanted to hush him but the movement could force a strike. I regretted that my blades were in the saddlebags. I was unprepared. I could die, and it would be because of my own foolishness. Maybe a rock, or a stick, something to keep it at bay and try to get ahold of its throat. It had fangs, so it was no constrictor, though that didn’t mean that it wouldn’t try; I needed to move, or it would take me down before a plan could be constructed fully. I juked left and dove right, my hands groping for something along the bank that I could make use of. My fingers encircled a rock, probably about half the size of my head, and I came up holding it at the ready. The snake had struck in the wrong direction, but it turned to face me and struck again. I thrust the rock in its way, and a cracking noise sounded with the heavy collision. The snake recoiled, and Runner came in with a heavy kick to its skull. “No!” I shouted, shooing my horse away as I came forward with the rock. The snake curled, but it did not strike again. Its head leaked some oily substance, blood of some sort. One fang was broken off, and that dripped a caustic red venom. The rocks below the snake bubbled where the venom spattered. I felt a twinge of pain in my finger, and I dropped the rock. The monster attacked. I stepped back from the strike and tripped, so the snake fell short, but it was practically resting its head on my chest. I reached for its throat and the snake recoiled again, its broken fang scraping along my hand. I looked at it, and I saw more than felt the burns developing on my finger and across the cut. The snake must have broken its fang on my rock. Runner came in again, and the heavy kick it landed on the recoiling snake’s figure rocked it and sent it into the water. Still, the monster came up. I clambered to my feet so that this time I would be ready. I quickly grabbed my dagger from the saddlebags and held it as the snake struck at me. It went low now, attempting to bite my calf. I picked my foot up, and it caught ahold of the underside of my shoe, just enough to hold it in place for a moment. I brought my boot and my knife down, twisting to turn the fang away from my skin and my dagger sinking into the monster’s eye. It screamed! It hissed and squirmed and tried to get away from me, but it was dead; we both knew it. Runner shied away from the beast now, but I held tight until I felt its body dissipating. Like all other monsters it collapsed into a dull grey ash, the previous vibrancy of its flesh disappearing. I retracted then, and quickly, for that ash would be just as harmful to me as the snake was in life. It would burn, but more so it would drain my very spirit from me. Touching the remains of a monster made one question existence, the meaning of our struggle for survival, and it turned many to suicide. At least, that's what my father had told me. His village, destroyed a time long before my birth when my parents were put on the run, had fought off monsters, and more than one man returning home from a successful hunting mission or defending the village killed himself in a fortnight. Hanging, drowning, whatever. I drew back from the creature and covered my mouth, taking deep but steady breaths and being sure not to inhale the monster’s remains. The wind was calm, relatively, and I thanked my luck for that. Some of the snake drained downriver, the water taking its dust, and I hoped none would drink it and find themselves despairing for life. I came up to Runner, and I pet his nose to comfort him. He relaxed for me, and a moment later he rested his head on my shoulder, nibbling playfully at my hair. My hand stung. “Not food, weirdo,” I said and pushed him away. His eyes flared, and he almost kicked up, but it was all in fun; we moved a little upstream to drink again and wash the vegetables, away from the snake. I took a moment to wash out my burning hand, and I prayed no further consequence would arise from the snake’s venom. We continued on our way. The adrenaline still coursed in my veins, in Runner’s too, so we moved at a swift gallop after we crossed the water. I wanted to munch into one of my new foodstuffs, but I resisted the temptation. Runner and I would enjoy them at dinner, a feast to celebrate our continued survival against the trials of this world. Rationing took priority over survival, but we would have enough to make us feel good, to put a pep in our step, to make Runner know that I cared for him. That may have been the most important of all. We slowed to a canter, and as the sky colored itself purple and orange and red we admired the beauty. The plains stretched farther than we could see, the curvature of this earth apparent in this flat land, and the sun setting on the horizon created an image unparalleled in beauty. My father had told me of old artists, Picasso and van Gogh, ancient even before the Fall, but I failed to see how anything of their creation could match or hope to rival this. The clouds in the sky caught the light, drenching them in reds and orange and darker shades as the sun disappeared. I was reminded of the monsters, reminded of how beautiful their bodies could be; however, their beauty was a deceptive one, not to be trusted, and only admired when safe. Their death too proved how false their beauty was, if death was truly what happened to them. Nothing so beautiful could cause such harm or fade into something so wretched, so abhorrent to men and animal alike; the mountains and the sky and the plains and the trees all went through changes, and though none of them matched the bewildering beauty of the monsters, none of them became something so wretched at their fall. Some of them even—the mountains, the sky—would never fall. They were eternal, timeless, and those creatures were not. I pulled Runner to the side of our path. I unloaded him and unpacked our array of food. He nibbled at the grass around our new camp, but I could see in his glances that he wanted to beg me for another treat. I laid out the vegetables, the carrots and cucumbers and onions and the strange looking asparagus. I grabbed a piece of jerky, and I gnawed at it while I thought about how to ration the supplies. Runner and I could have two carrots each and leave a good number for the future. We could split a cucumber, and each have a half-dozen onions. The asparagus… I eyed it, and it seemed so unappetizing. I decided to bite into it, and my teeth screamed at me to stop. It wasn’t terrible, but it was so stringy and raw-feeling it seemed much more like a grass for Runner to eat. I tried the other end, the part that grew in the ground, and it was even less appetizing. I decided to cut the asparagus into parts, the soft tops for me and the stalks for Runner. I would have let him have it all, since it was so difficult to eat, but I needed the variety in my diet. I would ration them out over the next few days, and they wouldn’t be at all a part of our feast. I put away the extra food and called Runner over. He kneeled down beside me, his heavy breath pushing into my chest from above the vegetables. He waited, expectant, but he wouldn’t go for the food without my permission. I fed him one carrot, and then half a cucumber. He seemed much less certain about the cucumber, and when I bit into it I agreed. It tasted like… strange water. A weird solid form of water, somewhat green, and less flavor than others I’d eaten in the past. I finished mine anyway, aware that it was healthy for me to eat more than pure meat, but wondered if I might give the rest to Runner along with the asparagus. I offered him an onion, and he shied away from it. He turned his head at the scent and almost stood up. I pulled the onion back and smelled it myself; I recoiled. The scent was stronger than I expected. I took a tentative bite, and it was almost too much for me, much stronger than onions I’d found in the past. My eyes watered, but I had an idea. I took a tiny bite alongside a piece of jerky. Still a little strong, but the taste was bearable. I did it again, and I resolved to try and dry the onions in the sun and keep them as a companion food for my jerky. It might make the gnawing enjoyable rather than necessary for survival. I fed Runner his second carrot, and he scampered off to eat more grasses after I offered nothing more; I continued my own feast, alternating between pieces of meat and onion and having my two carrots. At the end of it all I decided to have one asparagus head, but it put a bad taste in my mouth so I ate one last piece of jerky and onion. I packed away the rest of the food, checked to see that Runner stood a few paces away munching on some grass, and then wrapped myself in my blanket and pulled out the journal. I wrote of the encounter with the snake: It was a big thing, with a lot of colors. Most of it was red. It came from the creek. It had waited to ambush some poor prey. Me and Runner took it down together. It took us both, a rock, my knives, and his hooves. He wasn’t hurt. The snake got me twice. I have a burn on my finger from its venom and a cut across my hand. Tomorrow, we will press on. Together we will survive. I finished describing the road for the day, the surroundings on the plains and the general lack of excitement. Not that I wanted excitement—that almost always meant danger in my life, but it did make the journey pass quicker. I finished with a description of the feast and a hope that our water would last until the next body of it. I wondered how long this journey would last, and if it would be worth it in the end. Would there be the civilization I craved, or just a change in wilderness from plains to forests or mountains or—heavens forbid—a desert? The concerns plagued my mind, and a fitful sleep fell upon me in which I dreamed of an endless expanse of plains, forever traveling, only just surviving with Runner, until it all fell apart and some monster brought us down. No greater meaning to our existence. I longed for human contact, and I awoke from my dream when Runner bit at my arm. He lay beside me, and worry colored his brown eyes. I must have been moving in my sleep, so I pet his nose and laid back to rest, his heavy head finding its way to my chest. That comforted me, and the second bout with sleep came naturally and I rested well. The morning light did not awake me for some time. The sun stood midway between the horizon and its zenith in the sky when I awoke. It had been a long rest, and I felt it in my body. Everything felt relaxed, pure and rested. I sat up slowly and saw Runner grazing a few yards away. The sun beamed down on us, a comforting heat and nothing scorching. It might get hotter later into the day. The seasons changed quickly now, quicker with every turn of the earth. My father spoke of past winters lasting months at a time and being much harsher. I struggled to imagine survival in a world like that. In these days, winters were mild, and lasted a month or two, before returning to a blooming spring and a scorching summer. I believed it was somewhere in early spring now, though there was no good way for me to measure the turn of the seasons. Even days escaped me now, though my journal used to be dated. Time… Time only passed, I grew older, and Runner and I traveled. Those were my faint measurements of time. I loaded Runner up as he grazed and strapped down my belongings. I kept a dagger on my side now, correcting my foolish mistake after escaping the dangerous forest. I assumed the plains would be safer, that threats would be seen a long time coming. I let my guard down around the water, and I could not do so again. I already received more mercy than I deserved. I climbed onto Runner’s back and set us forward at a slow trot. After my rest I wanted to enjoy a bit more relaxation, an easy day. After that, the two of us could continue our slog, a day and more of galloping at a time, and with the heat of the sun rising I wanted water to follow. The risk of dehydration ran high when we sweat out all we drank. I pushed Runner into a quicker trot and let the sun go overhead. I chewed on a piece of jerky, an onion accompanying it, and laid out the rest in my shirt that was stretched over the saddlehorn. They were bundled together but exposed enough to the sun that they would dry given some time. Dried vegetables kept longer, and I had no other method of preserving them. A lot of vegetables tasted like horse shit when dried. A dehydrated carrot made an okay treat for Runner, but I gagged on the sensation of it in my mouth. A cucumber… I couldn’t even imagine dehydrating that. It was almost all water. The golden plains around us caught my eye. The sun glinted off each stalk of grass, a shining example of the beauty of the land. I remembered an old song, older than the Fall. “For amber waves of grain. For purple mountain majesty, above the fruited plain!” I struggled to reach the high note, and Runner whinnied to ask me to stop. “Fine fine, but it’s beautiful, you dolt.” Runner seemed to agree, for he slowed down and cocked his head to the side to enjoy the view. The next few weeks passed by in a tedium of exhaustion and boredom. I hunted, Runner grazed, and we lucked upon another garden, though it was not as fruitful as the other. We survived, our water carrying us through to the next source, just barely. Resting together at night, and rising in the morning to continue our trek. Runner nibbled at my hair to wake me up if I slept too long, but that only happened when he didn’t sleep with his head on my lap. That comfort, however little it was, helped me to rest deeper and wake up early. It woke me up, and though I knew he wasn’t leaving me, only trying to be more comfortable, I missed his physical presence. We had no excitement, and I was glad we were safe, but I longed for something to occupy my mind. One can only admire the beauty of a field of grain so many times. We rode through yet another expansive field, the third of the day, when something finally caught my eye. Something finally happened in our dismal existence besides the necessary components for survival. The grain in the area to our right shifted. I drew Runner up to a halt, and I looked out over the field. Runner twitched nervously beneath me, and I trusted his instincts. We had ridden at a trot before, a brief rest after a morning of galloping, but I pushed him again into a full run, his hooves tearing apart the soft ground beneath us. I kept an eye to our right, and I saw it again. The grain shifted, and no small part of it. I tried to peer closer, but then Runner neighed in terror. I had never heard him utter such a sound before, a sound of fear and anxiety and certainty for death. I kept studying the field to my right, yet another sight caught my attention. I turned to my left and looked upon the strangest and most disconcerting monster I had ever seen. It resembled no animal, no natural beast, but it came at us with terrible speed. To that side, in the field of grain I had previously ignored, rushed a massive cube of multicolored flesh. It seemed to glide over the ground, yet colliding with it and leaving a path of smashed grain and upturned dirt in its wake. I couldn’t hear it; all I could hear was Runner’s hooves, his panting breath, his racing heart. It moved as fast as he galloped, and I struggled to get him moving again. He ran, faster than I had ever seen, and I felt myself struggling to hold on. I rode well, if I could even call this riding: We fled. Then, I heard it more than saw it, and it sounded like an avalanche, like millions of pounds of earth moving at speeds that would belittle the quickest horse. To our right the field of grain exploded, a massive upheaval of earth that sprayed over me as another great monster emerged. It was a worm, a colossal burrowing creature with as many teeth as I had hairs on my head. We raced past the two monsters, their attentions focused on each other more than us. On either side of our path, the two things converged. The cube raced toward the worm, and the worm arked its massive head down to attack it. The worm’s mouth alone was larger than the cube, and I witnessed an incredible triumph of nature. Survival of the fittest, the strong eat the week, and that cube—more than three times my height, easily—disappeared into the gullet of the worm; Runner ran all the harder. I kept looking back, checking for signs of the worm following us, but I felt we were safe. I tried to shake off that feeling, but it remained. We were too insignificant for a monster so huge, so powerful. A man and his horse could pass under its nose unnoticed, or at least uncared for. Runner’s powerful legs pumped, and I could not get him to calm down. I decided we would rest early when he was ready to relax after the day. Still, I wanted to put distance between those fields and us. We rode on, and Runner’s legs stopped working so hard. We slowed to a canter, then a trot, then stopped entirely. He tottered on his strong legs, and I jumped from his back to ease his load. He stumbled forward a few steps, and I kept pace with him. We walked like this for some time, and then he gave up and took to the ground to rest. “Easy boy. Easy. Rest now.” I took off the saddle bags, the saddle, and let him breathe. I checked him over for wounds from the hard riding or flying rocks, but he seemed fine. Just the stress acted on him now. I pet his nose and he leaned on me, most of his weight bearing me to the ground. “Easy,” I said, but I did not resist. He needed me, he needed my comfort, he needed to know he still breathed; I could provide that. The sun disappeared beyond the horizon and darkness fell, and without writing in my journal or having any dinner, I succumbed to sleep with my friend. Tomorrow we would have to keep moving, but for the night we could rest. Our first bit of excitement in weeks and it had us ragged; I shuddered to think of the trials ahead. If that worm had come after us… The morning sun woke me up before Runner, the first time in recent memory that occurred, and I pushed his heavy neck off of me. I pulled out some food, I was starving from the previous night, and began to eat. I heard Runner stirring beside me, standing and moving a few steps away to graze on untrodden grass. I picked up my journal and recorded the strange monsters we had seen, the spectacle of one eating the other, and how we had given in to our terror and fled. It saved us, but that terror needed to be reined in. Literally and figuratively. We prepared for the ride, and shortly past midday we stopped to rest. No more excitement, no monsters, but also low food and water. I gnawed at a piece of jerky and regretted eating the last of the onions, and I tossed a few pieces of asparagus Runner’s way. The sun beat down on us, the spring on in full, soon to give way to the long summer. Clouds passed overhead, lazily casting shadows down upon us. One shifted above us, and the air took on a new chill. The wind also seemed far too active in comparison, and it came in great bursts. I looked up, but all I saw was a dark blot covering the sun. I chewed, Runner grazed, and a beast the likes of which I had never seen before came from the sky. It was the size of a lake, a massive lake, with a wingspan even larger. With one clawed foot it grasped Runner. He screamed, and I reached out, but the thing was gone before I could really stand and attempt to help. They disappeared into the distance, and I was spared the horror of seeing my best friend eaten. He was gone. On my person I had a day’s rations, two canteens of water, and my journal. My knife stayed in my boot. I tried to consider how I would travel without Runner. I would run. I had to move if I had any chance of continuing. I needed to meet our goal, for myself and to continue my legacy, to tell tales of my best friend, and to do it before some monster struck me down. I wrote down his passing quickly, tears staining the journal pages. I ran.

Mindless Thoughts

I’ve been able to read minds for a while. No, it didn’t happen when I was born or when I hit puberty. It happened after the first time I had sex, and that was jarring since the boy I thought loved me was really just an asshole. His thoughts made that clear very quickly. Since then, I’ve had a pretty easy time in life. Being able to see into someone’s head makes it easier to be… whatever they want you to be. I could read the mind of the smart kid in the class during tests and find the answers. I could read the mind of my teacher when we were having discussions and say exactly what she was thinking. It’s strange, but the ability to read the thoughts of others made me do less thinking of my own. At least, in some ways. In other ways, I did a lot more thinking. I thought a lot more about how to use others’ thoughts. How could I make that boy think that I was cute? How could I convince the teacher that I deserved a higher grade on an essay? Then, I started to think about how I could use this for a career. Considering I didn’t—and still don’t—want to work in a circus or some show, I had to think of something else. And I still haven’t figured it out. I figured psychology was too obvious of a choice, so I’m in my second semester of my first year as a business major, and I’m taking things slow. General education classes, electives. I’m doing that college thing of “figuring myself out,” and it’s hard. How do I know who I am when I spend so much time in other people’s heads? How do I know what I want when I think constantly about what others want? It’s exhausting, and that was before three weeks ago, when the weirdest shit started happening. See, I decided at the start of this semester that I would work on blocking out the thoughts of others. It used to be just like noise, a person’s thoughts would by the quiet whispers in an otherwise silent room. I liked being alone for that reason, but I wanted to do better. So, I decided to learn how to block out thoughts. It works pretty well, if I’m going to be honest. Within two weeks I had it to where I could either let all the thoughts in or block all the thoughts out. I taught myself to do that the same way I taught myself to meditate, by focusing on my breathing. The practices feel fairly similar. Now, because I can block out thoughts, I can also pick up more easily certain thoughts. Instead of sifting through a mass of whispers, I can listen to the professor’s thoughts at the front of class, and no one else gives a peep. And this is where things went wrong. Three weeks ago, I was sitting in the quiet section of the library. There weren’t very many people around, so it was easy to block them out or to listen in when I got bored of doing homework. But, when I decided to focus my ability on an empty spot nearby, I heard a voice. Just a whisper. It was maybe the quietest thought I had ever heard, but it was still there. I focused my mind on the spot again, and I heard it: “The real ones don’t believe because they can’t see us can’t hear us can’t feel us can’t taste us can’t smell us can’t see us can’t hear us can’t feel us—” I remember shutting my mind off completely. In an instant, I put myself into the meditative trance that usually took a few minutes to fall into. I had been so scared that I shut off the whole world. I came out of that gasping, and a girl some ten feet to my gave me a weird look. I waited until she looked away, and then I let all the of the thoughts around me filter in. It was just the few people around me, and that one girl thinking that I was really strange. I decided not to try and focus on the spot again. I decided to leave instead. I couldn’t pack up quickly enough when I left, and I went home to my empty apartment. Even with no thoughts around to hear, I blocked them out and focused on my own mind. Emptiness. Emptiness. The rest of that night I heard nothing, but the empty spaces started to produce sound, even when I didn’t focus on them. To make it work, these thoughts couldn’t be blocked out. I tried and tried, but their whispers wouldn’t go away. Three weeks have passed since that first moment, and my only saving grace then was that the voices didn’t know I could hear them. But now they’ve noticed. Now, when I sit in my lectures, I hear them whispering. They say the same things about the “real ones” and the fact that we “real ones”—normal fucking people—can’t notice them. Except for me. Whenever they notice that I’m around, they call me the “in-between.” They whisper it incessantly, maddeningly. “The in-between approaches.” “The in-between is here.” “The in-between listens.” And I can’t shut them out. At first they only noticed me when I thought loudly—and no, I can’t explain what I mean by that to someone who doesn’t read minds. Most people’s thoughts are always at the same volume. Then, they started to notice me when I thought at all, so I tried to keep a clear mind everywhere I went. Do you have any idea how hard it is not to think? To not think at all? Even when you’re operating on auto-pilot, your brain filters through so many mindless thoughts you would never recognize. I had to catch those and kill them. I became mindless, a zombie, and I would do as little as possible. Then, a friend or professor would address me and I would have to think and respond, and then they would notice me. I still don’t know what they are. If we people are “real ones” and I am the “in-between,” then they must be imaginary. I wonder if I’m going crazy, but I know that I can’t talk to anyone about it. There’s so much in my head about what I can do that I wouldn’t even get to the mindless voices before I was institutionalized. I’m so scared now. Every day is a battle, and I think that they’re starting to understand the dynamics of space. How they couldn’t understand it before, I don’t know, but they’re starting to congregate around my apartment. Every day, more and more wait for me when I get home. Every day, they whisper their thoughts more loudly. “The in-between comes home.” “The in-between listens.” “The in-between saves.” Saves what?! I think so loudly that it silences them all. I’ve never been able to do that before. “Us,” they all answer as one, and then they all repeat it in overlapping chaotic whispers. How? I ask, and they give so many answers that I just clap my hands over my ears, but it does nothing. “Save us.” “Link the worlds.” “Kill the real ones.” “Set us free.” Help me, I try to think, but I cannot hear myself over the cacophony.

“Has the patient shown any improvement?” the doctor asked. He was young, but he’d risen to take charge of the psychiatric ward due to his uncanny intuition with diagnosis. “She is still catatonic, with or without medication.” The doctor hummed to himself, flipped through the chart, and sighed. “Let’s switch her over to Quetiapine. Maybe that’ll have a better effect.” “Yes, doctor,” the nurse replied and then went on his way. The doctor continued humming to himself, ruminating over his patient. The toughest, strangest case he’d ever seen. The girl constantly whispered to herself, holding conversations with voices that weren’t there. Then, suddenly, she would become perfectly lucid and then talk to him as if reading his thoughts. Then, just as suddenly, she would go back to whispering madly about saving them and dealing with the “real ones.” She sometimes told jokes that her “truths” had institutionalized her. With a shrug, he moved on from the nurse’s station. He had other patients to work with today; he could think about his mind reader later.

Layers of Reality

The young man pushed the cart down the aisle and stopped next to the “Convenient Breakfast” sign. Convenient breakfast? It was convenient any time of day and, honestly, Jackson needed his Poptarts. He put them in the cart and kept moving. What else was he shopping for? He pulled out his phone and checked the list: all snacks. Expensive, but he had the budget. His job did him well. He moved into the chips aisle and moved down it, tumbling a few bags of tortilla chips, a bag of pretzels, and a bag of potato chips into the cart. He gingerly placed a can of salsa alongside the tortilla chips, and he left the aisle. Jackson moved into the next and grabbed the last things, a box of Goldfish and a box of Oreos. “That good shit,” he muttered to himself as he put them in the cart. An old joke among friends, but not a joke that anyone he knew now would understand. His shopping finished, he moved to the front of the store. Self-checkout for him, and he scanned the items from his cart, bagged them, and paid. Jackson left the store, and he hardly even noticed the cold as he pushed the cart into the holder in the parking lot. His ratty hoodie, gray and oversized, caught on the handle of the cart as he walked away, but he quickly undid the catch and returned to his car. He climbed in, started the engine, and drove away. He regretted getting moving as quickly as he did because of the cold temperature. His car, an old 1995 Ford F150, needed time to let its AC get working. As it was, his hands felt frozen to the steering wheel. But he persevered, and after a few minutes, hot air started to flow. The drive home was boring and short, but it took him fifteen minutes to make his way back. People didn’t know how to drive with a little snow falling and on the ground. At one stoplight, he barely made the yellow since the person in front of him braked and then accelerated. He sighed away his frustration and gripped the steering wheel harder. Before long he was home, carrying the bags of groceries up the stairs and into his solo apartment. He pushed the food items into the cabinets, taking one package of Poptarts out to eat at his desk. He nibbled at the tasteless edges as his computer booted up. The light of the morning stretched out ahead of his westward window. It was probably, what? Nine o’clock? He didn’t like shopping in the morning, as he usually saved it for an end of day activity, but he had been out of his favorite treats. That was unforgivable, and he couldn’t get work done without those snacks. His computer booted up, and he opened up his Javascript writer. He didn’t have any pressing projects at the moment, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do a little work and get something done. Even a flash game on the internet could bring him some income with the ads on the page. Jackson began writing the first lines of code, setting the basis for what would be a slice of life game. Something simple, relatable, that everyone could connect with even if it wasn’t very exciting. He began with a simple task for the player: You’re going shopping, and you need…

The young man, again in the grocery store, pushed the cart down the aisle and stopped next to the shelves of lunchmeat. Shelves wasn’t exactly the right word, as they sat in these individual rows and not on any one flat board. He shrugged and grabbed what he came for: two boxes of the honey-baked ham and a box of mesquite turkey. He always bought the good lunchmeats; they cost him more, but the flavor made up for it. He had the budget; his job did him well. He moved into the next aisle and grabbed his preferred bread. It was the cheapest stuff, dollar and twenty-nine cents per loaf, and he tumbled two into his cart before moving on. At the end of the row was more refrigerated items: eggs and cheese. He grabbed his cheese, some pepper jack, and whispered, “Some good stuff” to himself. It was an inside joke, but not one that any of his current friends would understand. He gingerly placed a carton of eggs in his cart too, and then he moved off to check out. He considered going into a line or doing self-checkout, and he decided he didn’t want that human interaction today. The woman cashier didn’t look particularly friendly, anyway. The young man scanned the items from his cart, bagged them, paid for them, and left. Marshall left the store, and he apathetically loaded his car up with the groceries he’d bought. He pushed the cart into the spot in the parking lot, and he pulled away. He straightened out the long sleeves of his shirt as he walked back to his car; the cold morning air bit at him in a way that it hadn’t in the store. He pulled at the collar at his neck and loosened it. He didn’t know why he dressed up any time he went out, but he did. Something about keeping up appearances and not going about in some ratty hoodie. He climbed in his car and started the engine; the 2016 Nissan Altima heated right up, and he shivered the last of the cold away as warm air washed over him. The drive home was quick and easy; just a few days before there had been snow and ice on the ground, but it had melted and cleared up. He made it through the stoplights that usually held him up without issue. With no delays, he walked into his apartment building soon and went up the stairs to his home. Marshall placed the various food items into his fridge, placing the bread up on top so it wouldn’t get cold. He’d heard somewhere that keeping bread in a cold place made it go stale faster. He took one loaf down and grabbed the end piece, something to nibble on as he went to his desk. The midday sun started to peek through his window, a warm sliver of orange light at his windowsill. He stuffed the last of the bread in his mouth and smiled. He could work better now that he’d had a snack. His computer booted up, and he opened up his Javascript writer. He didn’t have any pressing projects at the moment, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do a little work and get something done. Even a simple email script that he could sell on the internet could bring him some income. Marshall began writing the code, but he changed his mind a few lines in. Why a boring email code? He would write a game, an exciting slice of life game. Something simple yet relatable, that everyone could connect with. He began with a simple task for the player: You’re going shopping, and you need…

The young man, again in the grocery store, pushed the cart down the aisle and stopped next to the shelves of packaged beef. He examined the various pieces, the different fat percentages and weights, the different types and cuts of beef. Did he want ground beef, or did he want steak cubes? The recipe would work with both. He decided to go with ground beef, the cheaper option. He had the budget, his job did him well, but he liked living within his means. He moved along in the store and started grabbing his other items: celery, carrots, peas, potatoes, and some Worcester sauce. That last item was the only non-produce he needed, and he set it gingerly into the cart alongside the other carefully placed pieces. He decided to grab some chili powder too; he’d never been one for spicy foods, but a little kick wouldn’t be bad. As he put it into the cart he whispered, “That good stuff.” It was an old inside joke, one he used to hate because of his dislike of hot food, but now it gave him a chuckle. He considered going into a line or doing self-checkout, and he went over to the register with the shortest wait. He walked up and waited behind a person, and no one lined up behind him. Only a minute later he placed his few items on the miniature conveyor belt. The cashier greeted him, “Hey! How’s it going?” “Good, and yourself?” “Good, just earning my daily dime.” Mason looked up from placing his items on the belt and smiled at the cashier. She was cute with big brown eyes, a dark complexion, and black ringlets of hair framing her face. His smile widened a bit as he finished lining up his items. “Looks like you’re cooking something tasty,” she said, and he felt a small surge of excitement that she had decided to continue the conversation. “Yeah, family recipe.” “What is it?” she asked. “Trying to steal the family recipe?” he joked, reaching into his pocket to pull out his wallet. “Maybe, but I’d have to try it first to know it’s worth stealing.” Mason grinned and said, “Guess you’ll just have to try it.” He waited a moment as she finished weighing and pricing the potatoes, and then he asked, “What time do you get off,” he glanced at her nametag, “Mellisa?” “Eight,” she said, pointing to the card reader for him. He moved to pay. “Well, if you’re interested in a late dinner…” “I think I might be,” she said. “Then I suppose you could—” “You could text me, so I have your number, Mason,” Melissa cut him off, handing him his receipt with her number largely written next to his name. “I could text you. I’ll get this stewing, so you can know whether it’s worth stealing.” “That sounds great to me,” she said with a smile, and he returned it while wrapping the receipt around his phone. A subtle message to her that he would text. Mason left the store, and he felt the slight skip in his step as he walked over to his vehicle. It was a nice car, nicer than he thought he deserved. A 2014 GMC Equinox, complete with some modifications to the speakers. Mason liked being able to play his music loud when he drove. The chill air of the winter evening bit at his face, but he kept his jacket tight around him. He walked away from the car to place the cart in its designated spot. His coat sleeve got caught as he turned about, and he turned to undo it. It was his nicer coat, and he checked the spot to make sure he hadn’t torn it. It was fine. Mason grinned at his choice of clothing, as it might have been the fact that he was well-dressed that caught Melissa’s attention. He climbed in his car and started it up, the heat immediately washing over him and blowing away the cold. The drive home frustrated him. He had to stop for several minutes around a traffic light, as some fool in a truck had gotten into an accident. It was bad, with a minivan tipped over onto its side and the truck smoking with its front end smashed in. Some ice sat on the road here and there, but not enough to cause an accident in Mason’s estimation. After that, the drive went smoothly, and he walked into his apartment building to go up to his place. He lived alone, and tonight that might be a good thing. Mason placed the few bags of items on the counter and pulled out his phone. He sent a quick text to Melissa, and then he started preparing his stew. He started heating some water, and he chopped up the celery, carrots, and potatoes. He set the meat into a pan and got that cooking as well. He threw some salt and pepper over it, simple seasoning to get the meat tasting delicious. Most everything else went into the stew itself. Mason went to his desk without a snack, which was unusual for him since he always worked better with food. He had some time while the meat cooked before putting it into the stew, and then some time after that. He could get some work done. He started his computer and opened up his Python editor. He didn’t have any pressing projects at the moment, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do a little work and get something done. Mason felt distracted though, caught between thinking about what to talk to Melissa about and worrying about the stew. He decided to think about something simple, yet exciting. A tragedy. Mason began writing the first lines of code. It would be a game, an exciting slice of life game. Something simple yet relatable, that everyone could connect with, but with a twist. He began with a simple task for the player: You’re going shopping, and you need…

The young man pushed the cart down the aisle and stopped next to the “Convenient Breakfast” sign. Convenient breakfast? It was convenient any time of day and, honestly, Jackson needed his Poptarts. He put them in the cart and kept moving. What else was he shopping for? He pulled out his phone and checked the list: all snacks. Expensive, but he had the budget. His job did him well. He moved into the chips aisle and moved down it, tumbling a few bags of tortilla chips, a bag of pretzels, and a bag of potato chips into the cart. He gingerly placed a can of salsa alongside the tortilla chips, and he left the aisle. Jackson moved into the next and grabbed the last things, a box of Goldfish and a box of Oreos. “That good shit,” he muttered to himself as he put them in the cart. An old joke among friends, but not a joke that anyone he knew now would understand. His shopping finished, he moved to the front of the store. A cute cashier—brown eyes, dark skin, and nice curly hair—worked as a cashier, but he didn’t want the human interaction. Self-checkout for him, and he scanned the items from his cart, bagged them, and paid. Jackson left the store, and he hardly even noticed the cold as he pushed the cart into the holder in the parking lot. His ratty hoodie, gray and oversized, caught on the handle of the cart as he walked away, but he quickly undid the catch and returned to his car. He climbed in, started the engine, and drove away. He regretted getting moving as quickly as he did because of the cold night temperature. His car, an old 1995 Ford F150, needed time to let its AC get working. As it was, his hands felt frozen to the steering wheel. But he persevered. The drive home usually bored him, but with the bit of ice on the ground Jackson knew that he needed to pay attention. He did, but with his hands frozen and stiff as they were he felt like he controlled his car only enough to escape getting into an accident. That is, until the light ahead of him turned yellow, and though he wanted to blast through it, the person ahead of him braked hard. Crash! Both vehicles went skidding into the intersection, and the minivan he hit spun fast and tipped over onto its side. The car thudded into the icy road with a thud and the sound of glass shattering. No other vehicles moved throughout the intersection. Jackson slumped over his wheel, battered and bruised but overall okay. He just felt like an idiot, until he looked out the broken windshield of his car. The vehicle in front of him… It’d been hit hard, turned on its side, and he saw a woman in bad condition, covered in blood and apparently unconscious. Not only that, he saw a child’s seat, with the kid thrown out of it. Mason vomited, the hot and sour liquid cooling and beginning to freeze over his legs. “He must not have been wearing his seatbelt. He... must’ve not been wearing… his seatbelt.” Jackson kept muttering to himself, right up until he was pulled from his car and taken into an ambulance. As he did, he saw a GMC Equinox driving by in the limited area of the intersection that was still passable. Idly, he wondered if the driver of that car was having a better day than he was. He hoped so.

Jackson pushed the cart down the aisle and stopped next to the “Convenient Breakfast” sign. Convenient breakfast? It was convenient any time of day and, honestly, he needed his Poptarts. He put them in the cart and kept moving. What else was he shopping for? He pulled out his phone and checked the list: all snacks. Expensive, but he had the budget. His job did him well...

The Watchers

Do primordial entities dream of primordial sheep? Do world-eating monstrosities listen to the sweet lullabies of otherworldly instruments? Do incomprehensible atrocities of nature wean on the eldritch milk of their mother’s teat? I often lay awake at night and think. I gaze past my ceiling, past the rooftop. I look beyond the limitations of my physical sight. Through the mind’s eye, all is visible to he who watches. And so I wonder, who is watching back?

Color

10:29 PM. The night was warm, a humid and tepid feeling surrounding those that walked outside. The frogs and cicadas hiding in the woods chirped in the Oklahoma twilight. Dustin stepped up onto the concrete of the porch and checked his watch again. “Time for room checks, sir,” said Cynthia as she stepped up onto the other side of the porch. “Yep,” said Dustin while he suppressed a sigh at being called sir. He knocked on the first door, and one of the boys inside answered. “Hey,” said Oak. “Are you all in there?” Cynthia asked. “Yeah boss. Me, Austin, Zach, Chandler, Biggie, and Willy. We’re all here.” “Alright, thanks Oak. Remember, lights out in 30. And tell Biggie to keep his pants on. I don’t need to see him naked again.” Dustin walked away, reminded of how Biggie had earned the terribly accurate nickname. The rest of the rooms on this building went the same. Dustin walked up to Cynthia and asked, “All good?” “Yessir,” she responded. “Cynthia, how many times do I have to ask you to not call me sir?” “Just one more time, sir,” she said straight-faced, and Dustin couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not. “That answer ever gonna change?” he asked. “Always one more time.” A smile started to crack through Cynthia’s carefully formal facade, a slightly playful edge to the look of her gaze. He suppressed the sigh he felt coming, something he did a lot around Cynthia. “Alright, let’s get the other building. Get the girls’ rooms.” “Business as usual,” Cynthia replied, and the two walked off the porch and into the small field between the cabins. As they walked, Dustin looked up to the night sky. A bright streak of light soared between the stars. “Check that out,” Dustin nudged Cynthia. The two looked up together, but the spot came closer. It grew larger in the night sky, and Dustin realized it was coming to earth. “Holy shit,” Dustin said. “Is that—” Cynthia began. “Yeah, it’s fucking landing,” he interrupted The meteor stopped being a distant spec and started to take form. A bright, multicolored light. It whistled like a jet plane beginning its take-off, and then among that whistling was the sound of popping, and as they watched it fell into the treeline and out of their sight. The two young men eyed each other. They heard a distant boom, and they knew that the object had fallen into the lake. “Should we check it out?” Cynthia asked. Dustin looked at her like she was insane. “Yes, we’re going to check it out. Or, I’m going to check it out. Finish room checks.” “But—” Cynthia began, clearly more interested in the asteroid than the staffers’ rooms. “Yeah,” she finished, notably deflated and less formal. “I’ll let you know what I find.” “Okay. Next time something falls from the sky, can I go see it?” she asked. Dustin’s faced screwed up in amusement, but he said, “Yeah, ‘next time.’” Cynthia went off to check the rest of the rooms in the second cabin, and Dustin walked into the woods toward the lake. He wondered if he would run into any scoutmasters on his way there, concerned as they would be from the incredible splash and the weird whistling. Considering that Dustin could hear the sounds from the staff housing, he could only imagine others heard them as well. Dustin walked the moonlit trail at a brisk pace. He could have sprinted through it on a pitch-black night since he had walked it so many times in his summers working at this camp. He ran it one previous time in a footrace against another staff member, and he won that race: His opponent had tripped. The small bridge that let a creek drain through the forest and the trail passed by under Dustin. Now only a trickle of water flowed beneath the bridge, but during torrential storms he saw the bridge submerged more than once. It was on those days he was glad he spent the extra 30 dollars for waterproofing on his boots. He passed through the main section of camp, a collection of buildings for administration and food service, and then the pavilions scattered throughout a field that served as teaching areas. His mind briefly wandered through the old memories of teaching students about geology and environmental science at some of those tables, but then the lake came into view, glittering water sparkling from the moonlight. A few adults, flashlights in hand, milled around the Water Activities area. “Hey, hey. You guys heard that splash too?” Dustin asked as he walked up. “Yeah. Woke some of us in camp up. You know what it is?” “Honestly, no. I thought I saw an asteroid come through the sky and land in the lake.” “You mean a meteor?” one adult corrected. “Yeah, sure.” Dustin tried not to roll his eyes. “Anyway, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m going to see what I can for now, but I’ll have my wah staff check it in the morning.” “Wah staff?” “Water Activities, WA, or wah as I like to say it,” Dustin explained. It was an old way of referring to the area, one that only a camp veteran like him would probably recognize. “Okay. Well let us know at the leaders’ meeting.” And the adults all shuffled off, a few groaning to each other and themselves as they stumbled away. More than one wore sandals, a note that Dustin would bring up at tomorrow’s meeting. Inappropriate footwear led to snakebites. He didn’t like snakebites. After the adults had disappeared along the trails leading away, Dustin walked into the Water Activities area. He passed by the boat racks and tables and stepped onto the dock. He walked to the end of it, but he saw nothing even as he moved farther onto the lake. The water was serene, tranquil, as if no meteor had just plunged into its depths. “But it had to, right?” Dustin asked himself. There had been adults there too, more than he heard the sound. He wondered what it might be, and he resolved to call the central office in the morning and ask if they knew anything. A mistake from NASA? A mistake from a private spacefaring business? If one of those had done something, they would have alerted the office in the city, but no one would answer the phones after eight o’clock. Dustin imagined he’d be receiving a call at about 8:05 the next morning, a frantic voice asking him about space debris in the night. “Space Debris in the Night,” Dustin muttered as he walked off the dock. “Interesting song name, or band name, or something.” He shook his head and left the Water Activities area. His watch blinked 10:41 at him. He had time to make it back up to the cabins for the eleven o’clock room checks: Lights-out. After that he would sleep in his own personal cabin, benefits of being a camp manager, and wake up at five o’clock to begin the coffee runs. The thought of doing the coffee runs tomorrow nagged at him. The entire time would be questions about “that splash” and “the comet that landed”, or similar phrases. Maybe he could ask Cynthia to do the deliveries, but she knew nothing about those things. “Well, I don’t either,” Dustin said to himself. The difference was that he knew that he knew nothing, whereas Cynthia did not even know what there was to not know. The mental gymnastics made Dustin stop in his tracks just outside the office. He looked in, but the lights were off. The office manager had gone to sleep for the night, which was good. She needed her sleep too, just as much as any of them. A few minutes later Dustin walked into the staff housing area. A few other staff members who were over eighteen milled about, but he refrained from telling them to sleep. As long as they could do their jobs, they could stay up as long as they wanted; those were the rules. He joined Cynthia at a picnic table: their usual spot to wait between first and lights-out room checks. “Find anything, sir?” Cynthia asked. “What do you mean, earthling?” Dustin responded in a robotic voice. She seemed to look through him for a moment, not responding to his humor. “Nah, just a bunch of concerned scoutmasters. I told them it was nothing, and when I checked I found nothing. I figured the wah staff can check it tomorrow.” “Wah… staff?” Cynthia asked. Dustin tried not to sigh and failed, “Water Activities. An old way to refer to the area.” “Oh. Are you going to have them search the whole lake?” It was as much a question as a bewildered statement.” Dustin appreciated the rare moments like this when Cynthia let her serious demeanor drop momentarily. “No, just around the docks, the boat beach. Make sure that it—whatever it is—is nowhere to be seen by campers. And if it is, we’ll figure out what to do with it.” “Should I tell my fishing staff to look for it too?” Cynthia asked. As the director of the Nature Area, she also ran the smaller Fishing Area. “Yes, actually. That’d be good.” “Do you think it’s a piece of a spaceship?” “I don’t know what to think. I do know that we should receive a warning if it’s anything like that, but that warning would come from central. However…” he trailed off. “They’re all out of the office. So tomorrow they’ll give us a call.” “That’s my thought.” “Okay. And if they don’t? Sir?” Dustin knew he kept Cynthia around for a reason, unnecessary sirs and all. “If not, well, we call them and ask them to find out what it is.” “What if no one knows?” “Someone knows.” “What if they won’t tell us? It could be some government cover-up if they messed something up.” “What are you, a conspiracy theorist? It’s not going to be that weird.” Dustin glanced at his watch. “Now come on, let’s finish room checks.” “A minute early, sir?” Cynthia asked, that hinted at smile poking through her blank expression. “Yes, a minute early,” Dustin said and rolled his eyes. the two of them walked back to the concrete porch. The lights out check went smoothly. Everyone under eighteen was asleep, or on their way. Dustin bid Cynthia goodnight and went off to his own cabin and a time of restless sleep. The alarm sounded at five o’clock and Dustin jumped out of bed to shut it off. His cabin was mildly warm, but the bed that was warmer still beckoned to him. The bland surroundings didn’t do much good to enliven him either, as he hadn’t ever decorated the place despite living there for three weeks. Nothing about the tan walls, cheap green carpet, of faux-wood paneling would have been his style. The only personality he added to the cabin was his rich blue and grey sheets, and they contrasted too sharply with their surroundings to look good. Even so, his willpower pulled him through, and he started the large coffee machines in his cabin. As they heated the water he got dressed, his full uniform feeling cold despite the heat in the room. He washed his face, combed his short hair, and pulled on his boots. By the time he was done the coffee was ready, and it was time to greet a morning full of drowsy-eyed scoutmasters. He stepped out of his cabin and barely avoided the glistening strands of a dew-covered spiderweb. The little bastards liked his front porch since the lonely light in the night attracted so many moths and flies. With a bit of a scowl, he loaded up his ride and then trundled along the camp roads in a custom golf cart, coffee machines on the back and tied down. He pulled up to the first campsite and called out a single word: “Coffee!” A few grunts came sporadically from the tents, and within a minute three scoutmasters in a hodgepodge of clothing emerged. At least they were all fully clothed, if disheveled. Dustin could appreciate that. “You hear that splash last night?” “I sure did.” “Down at the lake?” “It sure was.” “What was it?” “Who knows?” The rest of the conversation was uninteresting, and after a minute Dustin left them behind in their messy state to go to the next campsite. “Coffee!” The scene was much the same, though one scoutmaster had the audacity to wear only his boots and boxers to come get a drink. At least they weren’t tighty-whities. Dustin could appreciate that. “What was that splash last night?” “Dunno.” “Down at the lake.” “I assume so.” “But no idea what it was.” “Nope, gonna have my staff check it out.” Another scoutmaster walked up with his son and asked, “Can my boy get coffee?” Dustin frowned and said, “We usually only let adult campers get coffee.” “I’ve seen your younger staff drinking it,” the scoutmaster responded. Dustin shrugged and winked, “Fine, but don’t go telling everyone else. We’ll run out of coffee to quickly.” The scoutmaster gave him a return wink and shuffled his son forward to fill up his camp mug. Dustin left them behind after a minute as well, and the rest of the campsites offered no more interesting conversation. He pulled up to the last one, and here the majority of the campers were up and about. It was an hour later, but these campers still showed initiative being ready for the day. Dustin could appreciate that. “Coffee!” “Hey, one of my boys heard some sounds last night.” “Some sounds? Probably a raccoon.” “I think so too, but I wanted to make sure there’s nothing more dangerous in the woods.” “Oh, no. I mean, those copperheads are real nasty, but they wouldn’t be rustling through the grass. Probably a raccoon, double check your smellables tonight.” “You got it.” The scoutmasters got their coffee, and then they all left to get their troop going and ready for the day. A little under an hour remained before breakfast. Dustin had time to go back down to the Water Activities area, but first he needed to offload the rest of the coffee. He drove through the camp on his golf cart, going around the ranger who didn’t even raise a hand in hello when they passed each other. “Antisocial asshole,” Dustin muttered, but he couldn’t hold the grudge long. The ranger did great work, even if he wasn’t a people person. That was probably why he did such great work. He spent no time socializing in the office like the last ranger. Dustin arrived at the cafeteria and hauled the coffee inside, setting it up alongside the cafeteria’s coffee machine that was already running. He wondered how long it would take the scoutmasters to remember which ones were his. His always had better, stronger coffee. Considering how many of the scoutmasters were military men, they appreciated strong coffee. Dustin walked back to his cart and gave a curt wave to some staffers that marched into the food service building. He checked his watch, 6:44 AM. Those staffers were on serving crew, and they were early. That, or they were dining hall staff, and they were very, very late. It wasn’t his problem yet though. Anything disciplinary would be brought to him in the course of the day. He rumbled away on his cart, headed for the Nature Area. He pulled up alongside the main pavilion and stopped. Cynthia already sat there, working on something or other. “Whatcha working on?” Dustin asked. “Checking the requirements for the Environmentalist Award. We have almost twenty adults that want to do it this week.” Dustin did some quick math in his head. “Twice as many as usual?” “Yeah, which means twice as many forms. Seems bad, and then I remind you that each award has about seven different forms to fill out, for some reason. Then it seems really bad.” Cynthia set her pen and paper down for a moment, rolled her shoulders, and then said, “Sorry, sir. Don’t mean to be complaining.” The playful edge that had previously been missing returned to her expression. “Do you do anything besides complain about work?” Dustin asked, feeling a little playful with his morning caffeine in his system. “I would like to think I do a good job, sir,” she replied evenly. “You do,” Dustin said, as uncertain as always how to play along with her teasing formality. It felt so serious, but at the same time, he could see the grin forming at the edges of her mouth. “Anyway, want to join me down at the Fishing Area? I was going to check for any sign of that… whatever it was.” “I already sent my fishing staff down there, but… sure,” she said, and she packed up her notebooks quickly and joined him on the golf cart. It rumbled along the well-worn camp trails down to the fishing area, and Dustin pulled up alongside the miniature fishing shed. He heard splashing from behind the willow trees that blocked most of the fishing area from view. Dustin took a moment to admire the location. He hadn’t ever spent much time there as a camper or as a staffer, but the fishing area was uniquely hidden. On a small peninsula into the lake, a small dock led out to a rock that stuck up above the water. That was where people fished, but the fishing shed and table sat here in this grove of willows, surrounded on nearly all sides and invisible except from the one path in. It felt peaceful and separate from the rest of the busy camp, at least until a shout broke the serenity. “Got one!” “Was that—” Cynthia began. “Oak’s voice,” Dustin finished. He stepped off of the golf cart and started to move for the small break in the willows that led out onto the docks. “Sir, I don’t appreciate it when you interrupt me like that,” Cynthia said from behind him. Dustin stopped walking and turned quickly enough to catch her subduing her smile into her typically blank face. “Sir?” she asked, the slightest lilt in her voice betraying the less-than- seriousness of the comment. “Sure, Cynthia,” he said, and he thought he heard her stifle a laugh. The two of them walked out onto the docks to see three young men up ahead, two of them watching the one in the middle reel frantically on his fishing rod. “Cynthia, I hate to be the bad guy. Can you—” “Yessir,” she interrupted. He could’ve sworn she winked at him too before her face took on a grim expression. Then, Dustin witnessed the fury of Cynthia unleashed. He wouldn’t have thought it an exaggeration to say that the wind and water around her responded to her agitation; she was a living hurricane descending upon the Fishing Area. “What are you three doing? I told you two to come down here to check for anything strange in the water, but I did not tell Oak to come down with you. And what did you do? You brought Oak with you. And what are you doing? Fishing! You fish all day, but you couldn’t stop for ten minutes to check the area when I asked you to. Maybe I should come down here more often. Do you two need more supervision?” It was at this point in the rant that Dustin noticed Cynthia had walked out onto the rock and up to the staffers. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought she would grab them by the ears to complete the scolding. He shrugged off the amazement at her authoritative ability and walked up to the group of four. He only caught the tail end of their discussion. “Yes, Cynthia,” the two fishing staff members said in unison. They walked past Dustin carrying their fishing poles, both of them giving him defeated and apologetic glances. “It’s not their fault!” Oak said, his voice too loud for Dustin’s liking. Lower level staffers shouldn’t talk back to their superiors, in Dustin’s mind. Cynthia seemed to have the same idea as she said, “It’s their fault for agreeing with you to go fishing. But it doesn’t matter. They’ll get their punishment. You were supposed to be in the dining hall this morning.” “But they said you had a special job for them,” Oak protested. “Exactly, for them! You cannot shirk your job responsibilities because you feel like it,” Cynthia said, and she stepped closer to Oak. “C’mon, Dustin? I didn’t mean to—” “This isn’t the good cop, back cop routine, Oak. You answer to Cynthia. The moment you answer to me, you’re in more trouble than you want to be in,” Dustin said. He knew the young staffer liked attention, but the office wasn’t the way to fulfill that. The office dealt with serious transgressions, the types of things that people got fired for. Oak’s face darkened, but something seemed to click into place. “Yeah, got it,” he said, and he started to walk away with the fishing pole in hand. “Hey,” Cynthia said, and Oak had the wisdom to turn around without mouthing off. “I’m telling the cooks that you need to do serving crew tomorrow morning to make up for today. Don’t forget.” “Got it,” he said and continued walking away. Dustin and Cynthia let him walk for a minute before following him. It would’ve been too awkward to walk alongside the disgruntled younger staffer. “Good work,” Dustin said as they crossed the docks back into the cover of the willows. “I know why they call you Mother Nature, now.” Cynthia smiled, and Dustin wondered if he had ever seen her do that before. He felt a new feeling of warmth toward her, a bit of respect from one leader to another. “You haven’t had to see me scold anyone before?” she asked in a voice that was too sweet after witnessing that massacre of the younger staff. “Well, I see you’re really good at code-switching, which is an important skill for any leader,” Dustin replied, completely ignoring her tone as he climbed back onto his golf cart. “Yeah, it has its uses,” Cynthia replied in a casual tone. “Sir,” she added with an affected formality. Dustin chuckled and started their ride up. They rumbled away, rolling past Oak who walked much slower than the golf cart moved. “I’m headed to the kitchens,” Cynthia added. Dustin turned to her and nodded, his mind wandering as he took the familiar roads and trails back up to the main area of camp. Cynthia looked a lot more comfortable than he’d ever seen her, and he wondered if that had to do with what he’d just witnessed. They’d worked closely together for the majority of the summer, with him in the Program Director position as her boss and her in the Nature Area Director; that, and they did room checks every night. He started thinking about the similar and different responsibilities they had. While she acted as a director, even more responsibility rested on his shoulders. He ran the camp, more or less. When asked, he always said more. Most of his staff would agree. They never saw the camp director, only the management Dustin did. He was everywhere, hands in every facet of camp operation to ensure it all ran smoothly. He was simultaneously the grease on the gears and the operator pushing the buttons. He— “Dustin,” she said, and her voice broke his train of thought. “We’re here.” He nodded and braked hard, the golf cart coming to a stop some thirty feet past the kitchens. “Do you always drive so distractedly, sir?” Cynthia asked. “How many more times do I have to ask you to not call me sir?” Dustin responded. “Just one more time,” Cynthia replied, and Dustin definitely saw her wink that time. He smiled at her, but she turned and walked away. They were over halfway through the summer session, four weeks into a seven-week summer camp, and Dustin hadn’t been expecting to make any friends in his leadership role. But… He let the thought trail off and drove the extra hundred feet to the office. He parked the golf cart in the usual spot, beneath a charming and small oak tree, and walked into the office. “Good morning, Dustin,” Abby said. She did not lift her eyes from her book. “How goes the office managing?” Dustin asked. “It’s easy when no one’s awake. Nothing to manage.” “Our great and powerful leader show himself yet?” “What do you mean? You’re right here.” Abby laughed quietly, and Dustin grimaced from the joking respect. Not that she saw his expression; she never looked up from her book. “Abigail.” “No, he hasn’t. Mr. Jenkins hasn’t come in.” “Thank you. Remember to flip the sign this morning. Yesterday he walked in with a line of scoutmasters because you forgot.” “Trust me, I know. Yesterday was dreadful. I hardly had time to read before lunch.” This time Dustin laughed, and he walked into his broom-closet of an office. He checked his watch, seven o’clock sharp. He had time to read a little, to join his office manager in her daily addiction, before breakfast and the leaders’ meeting. He grabbed a thick book from on top of his desktop tower. It was a fantasy novel, a story centered upon a hero who fought off invaders from another realm. It reminded Dustin of science fiction, except instead of aliens invading earth they were mystical creatures from another plane of existence. Dustin opened the book, a sound similar to cracking knuckles due to how worn it was, and he heard his assistant call from the main office. “How’s the novel?” “I would know if I could read it without you interrupting.” “I want to know what you think.” “You won’t be able to if you don’t let me read it.” “Fine.” Dustin plunged into the fantasy world, taken by the descriptions of battle between the hero and the monsters. They were high energy action scenes with bowstrings twanging, arrows flying, shields bashing, and swords ringing. Best of all were the descriptions of magic, of great boulders soaring through the air alongside the arrows and taking out columns of the invaders or plumes of fire rising up beneath enemy commanders. Dustin was about done with the book, but a major plot point remained unexplored. Would the hero survive the invasion, or would he succumb to the darkness that had literally infested him? “It’s seven-fifty.” “Fuck, what?” Dustin said, slamming the book down and standing from his seat. “Relax, you have time to eat after the meeting.” “I…” Dustin said. “Yeah, you’re right.” The two left the office together, Dustin marveling that the camp director still had not come in. Maybe he went straight to breakfast. The older man had taken to sleeping in later and later since Dustin had shown he could handle any morning emergencies by himself. The majority of the staff sat at a few tables outside the cafeteria, enjoying the cool morning air before the heat of the day. Dustin knew they would be there again at lunch when the summer sun baked the terrain with a temperature of at least a hundred, but it was nice out for now. As he walked up to the tables, a few of the staff stood, milling to the side of the area where the meeting would take place. He joined the group that chatted away. “Any program notes?” None spoke up, so he asked, “Any concerns?” “Any idea what happened in my lake last night?” the Water Activities Director asked. “We don’t know yet,” Dustin said. He looked to Cynthia, who nodded. “If any scoutmasters ask, say that we don’t know right now. We’re going to find out. When Abby knows, I will know. When I know, y’all will know. Okay?” The rest of the staff directors nodded. “I have something to ask you about after the meeting,” said Cynthia in a tone that was severe, back to what he expected from her. Dustin nodded and said to the whole group, “Alright, let’s get the meeting going.” The scoutmasters had gathered outside the cafeteria near the staff and chatted. Dustin ran up in front of them onto the wooden speaker’s platform and said, “Gooooooooooood morning!” The scoutmasters responded with muted enthusiasm. “Today, we’ve got plenty of activities on camp for y’all to participate in outside of your merit badge classes. My directors will get into that in a moment, but before I wanted to let you all know about what happened at the lake last night.” A few scoutmasters turned to each other and whispered, but Dustin heard no specifics. “The truth is, right now we’re not sure. I’m having my ranger look into it, and I’m calling the central office to try and get some information. When I know, you’ll know. Alright?” A general chorus of yeses sounded. “Alright, so up first…” The Water Activities Director stepped onto the platform as Dustin moved aside. He gave his program notes, stepped off, and the pattern continued until all the directors said their part. At the end, Dustin asked, “Any questions?” There were none, so the scoutmasters and staff went about their days. Dustin began to walk toward the food service building to get his breakfast when Cynthia intercepted him. “Sir?” she asked. “Oh, yes, sorry. What is it?” Dustin asked, stopping in front of the cafeteria. “Apparently a camper brought us a weird lizard that none of us have ever seen before. Oak happened to pass through the Nature Area at the right time to talk to the kid. We tried Googling it, but none of the results seemed right. Could you come by to check it out for us? I know you worked in my area when you were younger.” Dustin smiled crookedly and suppressed a sigh at being considered older. But, he always took an excuse to get out of the office and into the day, heat or not. “Sure. I’ll be by just a little after breakfast. Gotta make sure Abby’s alright in the office.” “Thank you, sir,” Cynthia said and began to turn away. “And don’t call me sir.” “Of course,” Cynthia said with her signature blank expression. She left to the Nature Area, deftly stepping over roots and rocks as Dustin imagined Mother Nature would. He sighed, wondering if the morning casualness had been a weird fluke and if they were back to only business. Even if he hoped to have a friend on staff, he could appreciate the respect she gave him. On the other hand, some staffers did not give him the respect he thought he deserved with his position, like the cooks. “You here for food?” asked the cook, and older woman with a constant and severe scowl. “Ye— yes?” Something about her tone gave Dustin the impression that he should answer no. “This late?” she asked. “Yes?” he said as much as asked. She sighed and walked away, a disgusted look on her face. There were no serving crew staff still around to prepare him a tray, so Dustin grabbed one and piled biscuits and gravy on for himself. He added an extra healthy serving of peaches, too, since he wasn’t a big fan of the main course of this breakfast. He took his tray and walked away, returning to the office and sitting at the front desk, opposite Abby who was finishing her meal. “Biscuits and gravy,” she said. “Obviously,” Dustin said. “I’ll take yours if you don’t want them,” she added. “I need to eat.” “Well, I suppose.” Dustin ate, and Abby returned to her addiction. One unsatisfying meal later, he placed his tray on hers and said, “If you could take this back when you get the chance. I’ve got some things to attend to.” “You always have things to ‘attend to,’” she said in a mockery of his voice. “I know, but I especially have things to ‘attend to’ today,” he replied with that same mocking tone. “Okay, fine.” “And if you see the ranger, tell him to stop by the lake with his fishing sonar. See if he can find that meteor thing.” “He won’t like that.” “He’ll like it better than unclogging showers.” “That’s… probably true,” Abby relented and wrote a sticky note to remind herself. “And our supreme lea—” Dustin looked up and saw that the camp director’s office door was open. Mr. Jenkins was there. “He’s working on the trading post stock.” “Good. He’s working,” Dustin said at a considerably lower volume. “That’s what I said.” “Alright Abby, I’ll see you—” “At lunch,” she finished and waved him off. He flipped the sign on the door around so it said open, but no scoutmasters waited outside today. Abby was lucky. Dustin recognized the heat of the day coming on. Even in the twenty minutes he had taken to chew through the cardboard biscuits and watery gravy, the temperature rose twenty degrees. He embraced that heat and took a sip from the water bottle he kept clipped to his side. It would be a good day. He admired the web of a zipper spider outside the office, the spider earning its name for the peculiar zipper shape in its weaving. At the ground there was a small anthill, and once he would’ve known the common and scientific name of the insects. Now he knew them only as little black ants that threatened the kitchen and the candy supplies of first- year campers. Dustin walked toward the Nature Area, not a far hike from the office, but he stopped several times to answer scoutmaster questions. “When is this?” “What is this?” “Where do we get our ice?” “Do we clean the bathrooms today?” He wondered where these questions had been at the end of the scoutmaster meeting. Most of them he could answer, but for those he couldn’t he redirected them to the office. Put Abby to work, he thought. Within a few minutes, he walked into Cynthia’s area. Two pavilions, a dozen and a half tables, and a handful of glass terrariums. The Nature Area was easily the smallest area on camp, but one of the attractors. In those terrariums were live wild specimens. Snakes and lizards, spiders, occasional mammals, and the very rare bird. The birds were only ever passersby, but a glass jar full of seed kept them coming. Cynthia approached him. “Over here, sir. It’s in the small terrarium.” Dustin followed her, and he saw Oak standing by the cage looking in on the creature. He watched as the thing happily devoured a grasshopper. It swallowed the bug whole, and immediately its belly swelled. “Strange,” Oak said, and Dustin caught no hint of animosity at the earlier discipline. “Strange?” Dustin asked. “Most of the lizards we catch don’t eat well, if at all. This one hasn’t stopped eating,” Cynthia answered from a step behind. “Strange,” Dustin agreed, and he examined the lizard. It was about four inches long, tail not included, and it had a large head in proportion to its body. Its claws were an abyssal black, and its scales shimmered like an oil spill on water. Dustin had a hard time determining the color of the scales underneath that sheen, but he decided on grey. “Have you washed it off?” “Sir?” Cynthia asked. “It’s covered in oil,” Dustin explained. “No, that’s the scales. They just… shine,” Oak said. Dustin realized the boy was too delighted by the lizard to be mad at him. Dustin looked hard at Oak and then looked back to the creature in the terrarium. It was swallowing a grasshopper, and Oak dropped in another as Dustin watched. The creature jumped for it, large hind legs propelling it with the force of a ballistic missile. Dustin was astounded at the quickness, though he had seen other native species of lizard perform similar feats of speed. A few moments of silence passed, and then Cynthia asked, “Do you know what it is?” Dustin did not want to admit defeat, but he shook his head. “And you said Google had nothing?” “Yessir, nothing quite right.” No hint of the playfulness from earlier, though maybe a grin ready to crack at his expense. Dustin said, “Then… I’ll call a friend. Director before me, knows this camp at least as well as I do, but different and older parts of it. Maybe it’s a lizard that we just haven’t seen in awhile.” He didn’t know what to think. His eyes scanned the creature one last time, and he wondered where it had come from. Certainly, Google had some answer about a voracious grey lizard, good in captivity, that shimmered like a mirage. “Okay, sir. Let us know,” Cynthia said. “So we can keep it?” Oak asked as Dustin walked away. “Yes, but put it in the locked cage. We don’t know if it’s venomous or not, and we’re not finding out the hard way.” Dustin pulled out his phone and walked back to the office. On the way he sent a simple text: Call me. His old friend, the Nature Director before him, was busy. He knew without needing to check, and he also knew that his friend could be a hundred times busier but would still find time to call him back later in the day. It was just a matter of time.

After the evening activities, Dustin sat alone at a table outside the staff cabins. It was positioned beneath a tree for shade, not that that mattered in the evening. Above him, stars twinkled, though the porchlights of the staff area caused too much light pollution to have a good view. Dustin watched the stars disappear behind the branches above, only to reappear with a shift in the wind. His attention shifted to the few staff members that milled about. 10:30 was approaching, so they all filtered back to their rooms, slowly but surely. “Sir,” Cynthia said from behind him and then moved around to take a seat in front of him. Behind her, he saw Oak moving for his cabin. “Hey,” Dustin replied. “This has been a good year.” “Has it? Only my second summer on staff. I don’t have much to compare to.” “Yes. The staff especially. They obey the rules, and that’s a new one.” “Camp gossip tells me that the last person to break a major rule on staff was you,” Cynthia replied, that look in her eyes apparent even in the dim light. Perhaps the morning hadn’t been a fluke. “That rumor still floating around?” “Yessir,” Cynthia snapped off the reply like a fresh new recruit in the army. Dustin frowned, but he decided he could let Cynthia have a little information: to grow the budding friendship. “She was beautiful, alright?” Cynthia took the bait. “Oh yeah, and?” “And a year younger,” Dustin continued without thinking. Regret settled over him like a heavy blanket. “A year that matters when you’re eighteen and she’s seventeen.” Dustin nodded and rolled his eyes. “The mistake of a younger me,” he said. “How’d you get away with it, anyway?” Cynthia asked, her voice more curious than playful. “Clearly I didn’t if people still talk about it. I’m the only staff member even left from that year.” “But you stll work here, and someone decided to let you run the place. So how’d you get away with it?” Dustin deflected the question by asking, “Why, you planning to make bad decisions?” “No one on this camp is interesting enough to make me risk this job.” “So you really like it here?” Dustin asked, happy that his tactic worked. “I do.” “Me too,” Dustin said, and Cynthia gave him a small smile. “Room checks?” she asked. He nodded, but as he stood up his phone buzzed. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.” Cynthia walked away. Dustin put his phone to his ear and answered, “Hello, Director Dustin.” “Doesn’t that sound fancy!” his old friend said. “Hey, man, how you doing?” “Not as good as Director Dustin himself, I’m sure. But ol’ Caleb is making his way.” “Better than I’m doing outside of camp life.” “But we both know camp life is the life that matters.” “Yeah, I wish I could agree.” “So, what’s up? You wanted me to call you, you know.” “Yes! Yes, it’s about a strange lizard the Nature area found. I don’t recognize it.” “You don’t recognize it! And you expect me to? It’s been a few years.” “Yeah, but you were always better at this than I was.” “Okay, you believe that, but lay it on me. What’s this lizard look like?” “Alright. Grey. Iridescent scales, like a rainbow. Massive back legs it can pounce with. Big head, little body, and it won’t stop eating.” “Venomous?” “Unsure,” Dustin said with a sigh. “Well. I don’t know. To be honest I don’t know why I asked about it being venomous because I was just as confused before as I was after.” “Well, no worries. We’ll figure it out.” “Hey, and let me know when you do. I’m curious.” “Will do. Take care, alright?” “Yeah you too, Director Dustin. I’ll see if I can make it down sometime, tell the young staffers some stories about little Dustin.” “Let’s not.” Caleb laughed and said, “Maybe not, goodbye!” The call ended, and Dustin stood there and looked at the stars. He had believed his old mentor knew everything about the camp, so not knowing about this strange lizard caught him off guard. Without him realizing it, Dustin’s gaze traced the path of the meteor from the previous night. “Strange,” he muttered, and he wondered why he never received a call about the strange meteor that hit the lake. “Sir, you want me to do your job all by myself?” Cynthia asked from a few steps behind him. Dustin turned and rolled his eyes, though he wasn’t sure if she caught the movement in the low light. “Gunning for my job already? The summer’s barely halfway done.” “I wouldn’t be trying for you job if you could do it,” Cynthia said. As an intentional afterthought, she added, “Sir.” He chuckled and walked up beside her. The next cabin up was Oak’s, and Cynthia knocked at the door. The young staffer himself answered, and Dustin asked, “You all in there?” “Yeah, Biggie’s in the shower,” Oak said. The anger was back in his voice. “Don’t forget, serving crew tomorrow morning,” Cynthia added to Dustin’s question. “I know,” Oak said, his eyes sharp and narrowed. Without the lizard to distract him, it seemed that being angry at directors was back on his to-do list. “Alright, lights out in thirty. Goodnight,” Dustin said, and Oak closed the door without saying anything more. The rest of the room checks went more pleasantly.

9:41 PM, his watch read. He heard the outside office door open and footsteps approaching him. “Sir?” Cynthia asked from the doorway to Dustin’s office. It’d been about a week since her verbal assault of Oak and the fishing staff, and they’d fallen into a comfortable rhythm of all business in front of other staffers and more friendly when alone. With Abby in the other room, Cynthia used her formal, no-nonsense tone. He turned away from his computer and spun around to face her. “No need to be so formal.” “Of course, sir, but I have a question for you. Have you found out what the lizard is?” Her voice shook. Her fingers wiggled nervously at her sides. A bead of sweat appeared at her brow, and it trickled down the side of her face. Dustin wondered what had her so nervous. “No, I haven’t. Got swamped with scoutmaster requests the last few days. Why? Do y’all still have the lizard?” The usual wild animal policy was to release them in under a week so as not to accustom them to human contact. It allowed at least two weeks’ worth of campers to see them, the campers the week that it was caught and the next week’s campers. Cynthia may have opted to keep it because of its strange qualities, that and because it ate so voraciously there was no concern about it starving in captivity, which was what sometimes happened. “We do, sir. I was wondering if you could come look at it,” she said. Dustin gave her a perplexed look. It was almost the end of the day, time for most staff to be heading up to the cabins for a few hours of relaxation before curfew. Still, she wanted him now. There was an urgency in her voice that told him he needed to see the lizard. “Yeah, of course.” He stood and followed her out of the office. A minute later, with no interruptions since most campers were back in their campsites, Dustin stood at the Nature area. Cynthia took him over to the turtle pen, a small rectangle on the ground enclosed by wood and chicken wire. It was aptly named the turtle pen, as only turtles could be kept in it without them escaping. As Dustin walked up he saw Oak standing over the pen, and the young man tossed a piece of chicken into it. The lizard jumped up to grab it. The reptile was the size of a cat, with a wicked-looking tail at least another two feet long. Its iridescence had taken over the grey pallor of the scales from before, and it almost shined despite the twilight. When it opened its mouth Dustin saw the interior was lined with rings and rings of teeth. They looked sharp, and they sliced through the chicken so easily. Dustin approached the side of the pen, and immediately the lizard moved away and hissed at him. Its scales flared up like the hair on a mammal, making the reptile appear even larger than it was. Yellow eyes fixed on him, and he met them. The animal did not relax but tensed as if preparing itself to pounce. The large hind legs waited. “Hey,” Oak said and tossed another piece of chicken at the lizard. It calmed and tore into the piece, forgetting Dustin. “What the hell?” Dustin asked. “Sir, this is why I wanted you.” “What is that thing? It’s growing so... “ “Quickly, yes,” Cynthia finished. “We don’t know, but Color is usually very friendly. He only shied away from you.” “Cohlor?” Dustin asked, emphasizing the pronunciation. “Yeah, like the Spanish word for Color. Cynthia let me name him,” Oak replied. “Him?” Dustin echoed. “Yeah. After he got a little bigger we did an inspection. And he doesn’t have a vagina, so he must have a penis. He, him, etcetera,” Oak explained. Cynthia interjected, “Sir, I’m wondering if we should be keeping—” Dustin interrupted, “Have you called the Fish and Wildlife Service?” “No.” Cynthia paused. “Should we?” “Yes! This is not… Did the growth not alarm you? Nothing I know matures so quickly, even if you constantly feed it. And stop feeding it so much. Fuck,” Dustin swore, and then stopped himself and took a breath. “Put it in the raccoon cage if you have to, and call the Fish and Wildlife Department in the morning. No, actually. Call them now, and call them again in the morning if you have to. They’ll know what to do with this.” “Sir,” Cynthia began. Dustin saw it in her eyes; she wanted to keep the lizard. “No.” “Dustin, we can’t just give Color away. What if he’s a new species? He could be named after the camp!” Oak nearly yelled. “No,” Dustin replied in his best commanding voice. “Our first focus is on camper safety, not becoming famous.” He turned from Oak and continued, “Cynthia, call them now.” He left then and as he stormed away he heard the two speaking quietly, an argument between Cynthia and Oak about keeping the animal. Cynthia would obey; Dustin knew that, though he was surprised that she wasn’t more concerned about the lizard. Oak needed to be reigned in. He just didn’t understand the danger with how young and how weird he was. Dustin remembered how the kid ate oak leaves like they were chips just because he worked in the nature area. “Helps with fiber, y’know?” Dustin muttered to himself, mimicking Oak’s phrase about why he ate the leaves. He stopped on the trail to the office and glanced around. No one could see him. He was alone. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth together. He told himself he was a patient man, but sometimes the stresses of the day got to him. He might apologize to Cynthia tomorrow, if he could stand to. Dustin tensed his shoulders and then let them slump, an old practice he knew to relieve stress. He then returned to the building, startling Abby as he entered. “Dustin?” Abby asked. “Yes?” “What are you doing?” she asked. Dustin could not tell if it was confusion or terror in her expression. “I’m… working,” he said. “Why now? I thought you’d head to the staff area after checking the lizard.” “Why are you so curious? Am I not allowed to do my job?” “Why are you so defensive?” “I…” he started to respond, but stopped himself. Abby didn’t deserve his anger. “Just read your book.” “Can do.” Dustin sat in his office and stared at the open doorway. Cynthia’s nickname, Mother Nature, ran through his head. Over the last week, he had spent more time with her around camp, and he’d started to see the reasoning behind the name. She acted hard as iron when she needed to, yet she could turn around and in the next moment gently pick up a lizard, snake, or even a spider. He shuddered at the memory of her plucking a spider out of its web just to let it run over her hands before setting it back into its tree. In that context, her wanting to keep the lizard didn’t seem too strange, but it reminded Dustin of his position. He had to be the one to make the smart decisions, not the fun ones. He was the last line of defense before the camp fell into chaos, especially considering Mr. Jenkins hardly worked anymore. Dustin’s mind settled on fuming about his worthless superior, and a few minutes passed without his notice. He checked his watch, 10:01 PM. Cynthia’s voice sounded from outside, with urgency, “Sir!” “Fuck.” She ran into the doorway of his office and said, “We were going to put it in the shed, and then Oak just let it go. It ran.” Dustin jumped up and moved out of the office. Abby asked, “Dustin? What’s—” “Nothing, Abby. Tell you later,” Dustin said as he followed Cynthia out of the office. They ran down to the Nature Area, something Dustin would never do. It was an official rule on camp to not run, especially in the dark; tripping hazards led to sprained ankles and skinned up knees, or worse. Cynthia ran only a step behind Dustin. “To the lake,” she said between panting breaths. “He ran with it toward the lake.” The Nature Area passed by Dustin as he sprinted. He silently thanked his innate knowledge of the camp as he deftly stepped over one rock or exposed root and then the next. He wondered how Cynthia was keeping up until he saw that she was lagging behind, and she suddenly waved him forward. “Keep going! I’ll catch up,” she said, and Dustin gave her a nod before taking off at a sprint. He arrived at the shore of the lake a second later, and he looked both ways down the water’s edge. Here, there were no obscuring willows, only the shorter cattail and other water grasses. To his left, he saw the shadows shift in the evening light, and he heard a distinct voice yell out in pain. “Oak,” Dustin grumbled, and he ran off in that direction. The younger staffer sat on the ground, cradling his hand and moaning in pain. “What have you—” Dustin began, but he stopped himself as he got closer to Oak’s side. The kid looked beyond distressed, his breath coming in ragged gasps and his right hand tightly clutching the left. “He bit me,” Oak said, and he uncovered his injured hand enough for Dustin to take a closer look. Color’s teeth had seriously injured the kid. Several inches of exposed flesh and muscle moved as Dustin watched, and the edges of the wound were crusted in a strange grey liquid that looked entirely unlike blood. Dustin’s stomach heaved at the sight of such an injury, and then he noticed Oak’s blood seeping from the wound. It wasn’t just red; it was red and blue and orange and pink, almost like the light reflecting off of an oil spill. Almost like Color’s shimmering scales. Oak clutched his hand back to his stomach and started wailing. “It burns, it burns, it burns it burns it burns…” he grunted through gritted teeth. Dustin’s mind systematically made a plan: take Oak to get medical care, call the Fish and Wildlife Department, organize a serious search for this dangerous lizard, find it and turn it over to the government, forget about it and move on with running his camp. “Fuck,” Dustin said, and Cynthia ran up at that moment. “What happened?” Cynthia knelt down beside the two others, and tried to look at Oak’s hand, but he wouldn’t pull it from his side. “We’ve got to get to the health office,” Dustin said, grabbing Oak by the armpits and lifting him up. Cynthia stood with them on the other side, supporting the younger staffer. He didn’t seem capable of lifting his own weight at the moment. They turned to leave the lake, and Dustin heard a shift in the grass behind them. Dustin looked over his shoulder. Color watched them, its eyes changing from a yellow to a red coloration in a single second. The light from the moon and reflecting off of the lake water made him look sinister and spectacular, a contrast of dark blues and light greys. Still, that oil-on-water coloration made him appear shimmering, otherworldly. Cynthia met Dustin’s eyes and he looked between her and up the camp, away from Color. She nodded and hobbled away, supporting the injured young man. Dustin fully turned about and reached down. His hands settled on a stick, a pitiful defense against this lizard he had seen move faster than his eyes could follow, but it was something. “Hey, Color,” Dustin said, slowly returning to his full height and bringing the stick in front of him. The lizard twitched, its hind legs ready to pounce. “Don’t wanna hurt you, buddy,” he spoke in a low, calming voice. “Just don’t come at me, oka—” Color pounced, and Dustin tried to bring the stick up in front of his face, but he had hardly moved it an inch when he felt the collision of the lizard with his hand. He scrambled, trying to throw the thing off of him, but he felt the claws dig in with terrifying strength. He realized he had somehow managed to jam the stick in the monster’s mouth, and he thanked his luck and tried to throw the creature off. Color jumped away, and Dustin watched as it spit out the stick and coughed several times. He didn’t wait for anything more, and reached for the pocket knife on his belt. He should’ve grabbed it before, but his mind had been elsewhere. If he could get lucky again, he could skewer the lizard and end this madness. He could run back to the office and call the Fish and Wildlife Department and everything would be okay. As he flipped the knife open, the lizard did something even more strange than its lightning fast movement. Color rose up on its hind legs, and its forelegs hung loosely by its side, like arms; they looked too natural in that position, and then the lizard raised on scaled limb and pointed at Dustin. It chirped, a sound like a bird being strangled with razor wire, and then sprinted off into the lake grass faster than Dustin could see. The adrenaline began to leave his bloodstream, and he felt the gash marks from Color’s sharp claws more acutely. He grimaced, and he began to walk up to the office. His mind felt hazy, confused, but then his phone started to buzz in his pocket. The time on the screen read 10:17 PM, nearly time for the first nightly room checks. He grabbed it and brought it up to his ear. Abby spoke from the other end, “Hey, Dustin? There’s a federal agent here to see you, claiming to be from the Space Intelligence Agency? She wants to ask you about the meteor and anything strange going on around camp.” “Great, I’ll be there shortly,” Dustin said through gritted teeth, the pain in his arm spiking momentarily, and he wondered if the agent was there to investigate the mystery of a strange meteor or control the mistake of a dangerous and escaped specimen. He couldn’t decide which one would be worse.

He Wrote It That Way

The writer sat back from his desk and sighed. “Again,” he said. “Fucking again.” He closed his computer and stood up. He paced around his room. He sat back down, sighed, and then stood up to leave. He wandered into his kitchen and idly made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It satisfied his hunger, but he still felt like shit. He needed to get something down on the page, but his mind failed him every time. Whatever he wrote felt bad, and he wasn’t sure how to take it in a new direction, or what that direction could even be. He ate the sandwich slowly and tried to really savor the flavor. Maybe he needed to do some writing exercises. He mentally wrote out a description for the peanut butter while he ate it. He described the texture of it, the smooth majority and the crunchy bits of peanut, smashed alongside the slippery and wet jelly with its smaller pieces of raspberry made into it. All of that was caught between two soft, and unfortunately cheap, pieces of bread that captured the whole thing. Thing? he thought to himself. I can’t think of a better word than that? This is why I have writer’s block. He finished the last bite of the sandwich and replaced the word thing with experience in his mental description, and then he hesitantly returned to his computer. The writer opened it up and stared at the pages he had written. Thirty thousand words, which was an okay start to a novel, but he’d been at that word count for three weeks. Three weeks, and he hadn’t been able to add even a thousand new words to that total. He scratched his head and closed the document. He always wrote fantasy, but clearly his mind and heart weren’t in it. He needed something else. He opened up a new document on his computer and then pulled out his planning notebook. He always planned by hand; he found that it let his ideas flow easier than trying to format them in a digital document. He started jotting down ideas in a web, connecting characters and locations and themes. Usually, he did a lot of planning for the world itself; fantasy worlds required a lot of explanation and creation for the reader. But, for this, he planned around his home city. Less detail into the world, more into the characters to compensate. He wrote out a simple plan for a short story, probably around ten thousand words, that involved a detective catching wind of a planned cartel attack on a target, proving the likelihood of the killing, and then getting caught in a firefight outside a restaurant where he defended the target. At the end of the story, the city recognized the detective as a hero and the man retires. “Cliche? Maybe, but better than nothing,” the writer said to himself and looked at the blank document before him. “Better than nothing,” he muttered, and he started with a physical description of the detective. A regal man, most would say. Tall in stature and with broad shoulders; he had a love for scones—not donuts, the writer thought to himself—but he also kept himself in good shape. Better for chasin’ down baddies, the detective narrated to himself. The writer laughed to himself. The man was stereotypical and also not, both in surprising ways. But, without even consciously realizing it, the words flowed out of him. He wrote four thousand before deciding to take a break, and then he realized he should just be done for the day. Trying to push the creative juices like that would run them dry, and he had only gotten them flowing again by breaking out of his norm. The rest of his day, the writer worked on other tasks. He was a professional writer, aside from his novelistic tendencies and dreams, so he worked on the content writing that his job required, spent some time on a freelance editing job that had been sent his way, and he finished with the email communication from his main job that required attention. Over the next three days, he finished up his story with the detective. The whole tale amounted to about fourteen thousand words, more than he had originally expected, but he felt happy with that. He was back in a groove. He was writing again for the reasons he really wanted to, not just the jobs he needed to do. After finishing up the story, he spent the next day in his office. He didn’t always come into work; he liked working remote, and the company had him sharing a desk with another person. Today was his day, so he did his content and blog writing at his desk. He rolled his shoulders and leaned back in his chair; he’d been producing social media content for nearly two hours without much of a break. He spun in his chair to stand up and walk around when a coworker stopped by his desk. “Hey,” the writer said. “How’s it going?” “Hey Geoff,” she said. “I’m good, you?” “Chillin’,” he said. “What’s up?” “A few of us were gonna go out after work today, head to that nearby pub. You interested?” “Hmm,” he said and dramatically spun in his chair, mock petting a cat like a supervillain. “Yes, Hannah, I think I am.” Hannah rolled her eyes and laughed, “You’re so goofy. We’ll be heading out at the end of the day. Meet us at the reception desk.” She turned and walked away from his desk. Geoff nodded and stood up. He would go get a drink of water and that would be his break. “Following me now?” Hannah asked. “Getting water,” Geoff said. “Blog writing is thirsty work.” “More than accounting?” “Wouldn’t know. I haven’t touched a non-tax related number since my freshman year of college.” Hannah asked sarcastically, “Are all writers so funny?” “No, just me,” Geoff said, and they both shared a laugh. Geoff stopped at the water cooler and filled up his small water cup. “See you later,” Hannah said as she kept walking by, and Geoff gave her a mini-wave. He filled up the cup, took a few sips while glancing around the rest of the office. People buzzed around the place, only ten in total. It was a small company, a start-up, and none of them actually knew if the job would be around this time next year. But, they were all giving it their best. More than a few of them were appreciative of Geoff’s work. He was good at community outreach; he brought in a fair amount of business. At least, everyone thought so. Geoff tossed the little cup into the trashcan by the water cooler and strolled back over to his desk. Aside from the social media, he also handled a lot of the rest of their outreach. That work took less creativity, so he set to doing that: emailing past customers about reviews, calling those he had numbers for. He actually really liked talking to customers most of the time. The company he worked for essentially acted as a middle man connecting those that needed a space for some activity with those that had it. It was like Uber, but for buildings. And the company was taking off. Geoff believed he played a big part in that. With a small company, community and relationship building was truly important. He made sure that their people always ended up satisfied. He hardly even noticed the passing of the rest of the day, since he spent it emailing and chatting with mostly happy people. He took another break at some point, but that was to wet his throat more than really relax for a minute. This kind of social work didn’t bring him down. He packed up his stuff—his laptop and mouse, notebooks, and pens—and walked over to the reception desk across the office space. Hannah stood there on her phone with a few other people. “Hey Hannah, Sherry, William, Quincy,” Geoff said. “You know, I’ve never met anyone else that will greet every person in a group when they walk up,” William said. He was a tall man, probably six foot five inches, and thin like a wire. “What do you mean?” “Let me show you,” Quincy said and walked a few feet away. He then turned around, walked back and said, “Oh hey guys, ready to go?” Quincy wasn’t nearly as tall as William, but he stood over six foot and was much more thickly built. Strong though and very fit, as Quincy had been a serious college athlete. Geoff chuckled and said, “Okay, I got it. But yeah, we ready to go?” Everyone gave a quick ascent and then filed out of the office. Geoff checked his phone as a few others jumped into conversation. Hannah poked him in the side and said, “Already being antisocial?” “Maybe,” Geoff said. “What’s it to you?” “You’re more fun to talk to when you’re not phone distracted.” “Hmm, I think most people are.” “You might be right,” Hannah said. They stepped outside the office building and she pointed down the street. “This way.” “We’re going to which pub?” Quincy asked. “Nice Annie’s,” Hannah replied. Quincy said, “Ohh, I thought we were going to—” “The one with the dancers? Yeah, no, Sherry and I weren’t feeling that,” Hannah said, and Geoff chuckled at the exchange. Of course Quincy would be the one to want a titty bar. William seemed more like a classy guy who probably went to jazz lounges on the weekend to smoke cigars and sip way-too-expensive liquor. And, well Hannah and Sherry weren’t lesbians, as far as Geoff knew; they probably just wanted a drink, not boobs in their face. The group walked down the street a little ways. Nice Annie’s was close by. They entered the place and Hannah went straight to a specific table. “Been here before,” Quincy said and elbowed William’s side. “Why do you think that is?” Geoff stifled his sigh. The other man could be funny, but he took an attitude toward women that Geoff didn’t always appreciate. He could understand making jokes about women you didn’t know, but coworkers… “Probably for hookups. This seems like that kind of bar, and she’s pretty,” William responded, yet his voice lacked all judgment. It was more just a statement of fact. “Yeah, I bet. She seems wild. You’re a lucky guy, Geoff,” Quincy said and poked him in the back. Geoff tilted his head and would’ve turned around to ask Quincy what he meant, but they were sitting down at the table by then. Hannah and Sherry sat on the other side and were whispering something, but they stopped when the men sat down. “Keeping secrets?” Quincy asked. “You probably don’t care about which guys at the bar are hot,” Sherry retorted, and the two women giggled. “No, I guess not,” Quincy said. The two women stood up and said, almost simultaneously, “We’ll be right back.” “Wait,” Geoff said, “drinks?” “Just get us some beers,” Hannah replied and then dragged Sherry away. “I got the first round,” Geoff said and moved over to the bar. Quincy and William started chatting about something, though William did seem more interested in checking whatever was on his phone. Geoff stood at the bar and waited for a moment before the bartender—an attractive young woman whose name tag said Annie, though Geoff wasn’t sure if he believed that—asked him, “How’s it going?” “Good, and yourself?” “Things are nice,” she said, and he wondered if that was some sort of business catchphrase here. “What can I get for you?” “Five… of those,” Geoff said and pointed at a beer bottle displayed behind the bar. “The Boston Pale Ales?” “Yeah.” He pulled out a few bills to pay and laid them on the counter. Annie returned quickly with five bottles, deftly holding them all in one hand. As he was about to take the bottles and return to the table, Hannah ambushed him at the bar. “Hey,” she said. “Hey,” he shot back and offered her two of the bottles. She took them and looked past him. He turned to see her watching the TV. “Crazy huh?” “What happened?” Geoff asked. He hadn’t been paying attention to the news the past couple of days. “Oh, I’m surprised you haven’t heard. Even you, living under a rock and all.” He just looked at her, a bemused smirk on his lips. “Okay, well, yesterday there was this intense shootout at that restaurant.” She pointed to the screen. “This detective had been tracking cartel movements in town and found out that they had a hit planned there, I guess. Now he’s being recognized as a hero for saving the people’s lives.” “Wow,” Geoff said. “What a weird coincidence, I just wrote a story that followed almost that exact plot. Detective, cartel, restaurant shootout. The whole thing.” “Maybe you’re not just a writer. Maybe you’re a psychic too.” Geoff laughed and turned to watch the TV. The detective, who was in excellent shape, patted his belly and said, “Better for chasin baddies,” in the exact tone and voice that Geoff had imagined his character having. His face paled, but he tried to play it off. “Alright, well, they’re gonna get mad at us if we don’t get those drinks over there.” Hannah shrugged, “I’d be okay sitting at the bar and talking to you.” Fuck, you’re going to make a move now? With our coworkers watching? Geoff thought. He tried to put on a nice smile and said, “Another night, when I’m not holding everyone else’s drinks.” He ended with a chuckle, and she picked it up. Geoff’s mind reeled as he sat back with his coworkers. Hannah making a move like that had him stunned, but even moreso the events on the news. It was so precise, exactly what he’d written had come to life. He could hardly focus on the night, and his coworkers kept joking with him and Hannah about him being distracted. She blushed and played it off, and he only disengaged more. A few hours later, they decided to call it a night. They’d given themselves time to sober up too, so they all walked to their cars and would drive themselves home. Geoff split off from everyone else quickly and luckily, as his car was parked on the opposite side of their work than anyone else. “See y’all later,” he said, and they all waved goodbye, Hannah a little hesitantly. She probably wanted another minute with him, but he needed to get home. After being out of sight, Geoff ran to his car and drove home faster than he would’ve dared most days. Geoff ran up to his apartment and threw the door open. Darkness greeted him, and he moved through it deftly. He knew every inch of his apartment, even in the dark. He flipped the light to his personal room on as he passed it and threw his bag against the wall. It hit with a dull thud, and he winced at the realization his laptop was still in there. He opened it more gently, pulled the computer out, and set it on his desk. The device started up too slowly for his tastes, and he immediately pulled up the story he’d just finished writing. In another window, he opened up an internet tab and found the recent story on the detective. As he read through each, his blood quickened and quickened. They weren’t similar; they were exactly the same. Without thinking too much about it, Geoff had written the story in his home city, using a cartel group he knew vaguely was active in the city, and he had named a real detective. Every aspect of his fictional story had been real, and he had brought them together in a new reality. Geoff slumped in his chair. Coincidence. It had to be coincidence. He would prove it. He’d write something so outlandish, yet still in the real world, that it couldn’t possibly come true. Then, he’d know. He’d know for certain. He took out his notebook and started planning. It would take place in his city, and… Geoff woke up to his phone the next morning as the sound of his alarm steadily grew in volume. When he peeled his face off of the desk and reached into his pocket, he saw the story he’d written the night before. Only a few thousand words, but it was properly ludicrous to prevent it from actually happening. He hoped. Geoff stood up from his desk and went about his morning ritual, brushing his teeth and wetting his hair down, washing his face and rubbing the bleariness out of his eyes. He’d shower later after his run, but first he needed to eat something. He didn’t know how late he’d managed to stay up, but the story was finished, and he was much hungrier than usual. Being creative required energy, and more energy than cheap beers provided. Geoff turned his phone to play some music and pulled out some bacon and eggs. A simple breakfast, and the best in his opinion. He set the bacon frying and leaned against the counter. The food sizzled comfortingly and deliciously in the pan; he tried not to think about it too much. It would only make him hungrier. He hummed along to the music, flipped the bacon, and let the minutes pass. He pulled the meat out and put the eggs in; that bacon grease worked well enough to keep the eggs from sticking, and that was important to make the eggs easy-over, the way he liked them. When the food was finished, the plate on the counter and waiting for him, Geoff checked his phone to turn the music off and to read some news. The story might’ve happened by then, and he wanted to know sooner rather than later. He sat down and picked up his fork, navigating to the same news site as the day previously. And the headline nearly made him drop his fork. It read: Hundreds of Cats Escape Homes to Drink Milk from Crashed Delivery Truck The details of the article followed, but Geoff didn’t feel that he needed any more. It happened again, and it happened so quickly. He put the fork back on his plate and pushed it away from him. His hunger had faded upon seeing the news. But, then a surge of excitement rushed through Geoff. It required him to write out the story, which meant it would be useless in any particular moment, but he could control reality. He could make the world as he wanted it, probably within some limitations, but even so, Geoff realized he had godlike powers. He could do almost anything. Geoff picked up his plate, hunger restored, and ran back to his computer. He opened it up and began furiously typing. Sure, being a god would be great and all, and he’d get to changing the world, but he’d wanted to be an author for as long as he could remember. He’d submitted manuscript after manuscript to publishers, but they returned only rejection slips. Now, they would accept him. He would write it that way.

Hunger Pains

“So you’re going home for Thanksgiving?” he asked. “Yeah,” Emily replied. “Damn, you’re braver than me.” “I don’t think my family is as bad as yours,” she said, and they both laughed. She eyed his nametag—John—for a second. “Nah, you’re just braver than I am,” John said, clearly meaning something beyond the family. Of course, Emily knew what that something was, but she tried to ignore it. “And what are you doing for Thanksgiving, if you’re not going home?” “Gonna have dinner with a friend.” “Oh, so you’re having a Friendsgiving.” “That is such a stupid-ass term,” he said, throwing his hands up and spinning in his swivel chair. “Hey, language. We’re technically on the clock,” Emily said and frowned dramatically at him. “Yeah, with all of zero people in here. I think we’ll be okay,” John said with a similarly dramatic gesture, sweeping his arms across the empty room. “Yeah, fine,” she said and shrugged. “Dinner with a friend should be fun?” “Yeah, it will be, and we’re not eating Thanksgiving food, so…” he trailed off. “So you should be safe,” Emily finished for him. “Yeah,” John said. Their faces both dropped. No one much liked talking about Thanksgiving anymore. “You’re… really not worried about... it?” “My family is going to be fine. We never pig out, even if it ‘tis the season,” she said a bit jokingly. “Sure,” John said. “So, just the family issues then?” he asked, trying to pick the conversation up again. “Racist uncles, aunts, and grandparents, all waiting to ask me why I still don’t have a boyfriend.” “Yeah, why don’t you? I mean, you know some great guys. One of them, what’s his name? I don’t know, but he’s got green eyes, brownish hair, in phenomenal shape. Oh, his name is gonna kill me. What is it?” he looked at her. “John, stop describing yourself, you asshole,” she said with a perfectly straight face. They both burst into laughter. “Yeah I know. Whenever you stop working here, I expect that second date.” “You’ll get it,” she said with a grin. They’d gone on a date months earlier, when she’d started working in the study room with him, and they had mutually decided to not go any further. They didn’t want to create an awkward workplace situation. As Emily’s mother would have said, “Never dip your pen in the company ink.” Though, the analogy fell apart on a lot of levels, especially for a woman. Emily said, “You really think I’ll stop working here before you do?” “You’re gonna graduate before I do, at least. I’m planning on working here forever.” “The cute coworkers got you hooked?” she asked; she loved teasing him. “Yeah, that and the basically paid homework time. But don’t go boosting your own ego too much.” They kept talking the rest of the night, and at midnight they closed up, took some of the snacks meant to be for students coming in, and left. There hadn’t been even a single sign-in, not that they minded.

Two weeks later, Emily sat on a couch surrounded by more family members than she could count. Two young cousins sat on her knees. She bounced them both in alternating order. They laughed and grinned at her, so she kept tickling them. A few others played on the carpet ahead of her. Other family members sat on the couch watching whatever was on the TV. Emily hadn’t been paying attention. She looked up from her cousins and across the room. There, her mother watched with two of her aunts. They seemed to be whispering and giggling. Probably something about how good of a mom she was going to be. Emily rolled her eyes. She picked her two cousins up, placed them on the floor with the others. Then, she navigated through running kids and tired- eyed parents to the kitchen. Most of the older women stood in here, working over this dish or that, pots and pans and bowls strewn everywhere in a chaotic mess that Emily could not begin to understand. She hoped she wouldn’t someday be a part of this mess, but she knew it was likely her destiny. Even her mom and the aunts in the other room had escaped only momentarily; they would be back in here soon. That, or else they were among those on the couch in the living room watching children. A few aunts, uncles, and older “children” like Emily did that. Emily grabbed a soda from the fridge and went outside. The backyard had fewer people, and those few gathered around the combination grill and smoker. All men. Emily rolled her eyes at the gender roles that were so carefully assigned and in place in her family. Well, it’d worked for them for years, and no one seemed to be complaining. Emily turned around and went back inside; she didn’t want to hang around a bunch of dads. She walked straight through the house to the front porch. Here, most of the teenagers sat around. Half of them were on their phones, but a few others were talking. Emily smiled, looked across the street at another group of teenagers doing roughly the same thing, and sighed. How many households across the United States had the same scene depicted inside and around them? Definitely more than she could count. She took a slight comfort from the infinite other choices where it might happen. She sat down next to two of the teens that were talking. “Hey,” one cousin, Jack, said a little too quickly. The other boy, Brian, said nothing, and they fell silent as soon as she walked up. “Oh, not a conversation I’m privy to, huh?” “Privy? Isn’t that a bathroom?” Jack said. “It’s also to, like, know about something. If I’m privy to it, I know about it.” “Oh.” Neither of them said anything. Brian pulled out his phone. “Alright, I get it. Cousin Emily is too old to talk about these things,” she said and started to stand up. “We just don’t wanna get in trouble,” Jack said. “Then you should do a better job of hiding it. I don’t care, but if you stopped a conversation that quick around your dad, you’d be in for it.” Jack grinned and said, “Yeah. We’ll do better.” “Alright. Whatever it is, stay safe,” Emily said and turned to go back inside. She paused for a second in the doorway. To say that… was she turning into an adult? She shrugged and walked through the door, dodged parents and kids until back in the living room, and sat down on the couch. She had hardly blinked before two kids sat on her lap again, laughing and asking her to play with them. She felt her phone buzz in her pocket, and she wriggled around to check it. It was a text from John. She decided not to indulge him; today was a family day. Another few hours passed, and Emily started to hear more groans and complaints from people. They were hungry. That food—the feast—needed to happen soon. The people seemed ready to burst, or maybe implode, when the women and men started to arrange the food on the table. The food stretched from one end to the other. She spotted a green bean casserole, and on one side was a basket of baked potatoes and on the other side a bowl of loaded mashed potatoes. There was a honey glazed ham that had baked for hours in the oven, and two turkeys prepared differently on the smokers outside. One had been smoked with hickory, and the other had been smoked with applewood and bacon. A small dish with the cranberry “jelly” or whatever it was sat to one side of the table. Emily noticed some people specifically sitting near or far from that dish, depending on their preference. Two heaping bowls of stuffing were placed alongside the turkeys, and to finish it all off two more plates of sweet potatoes were placed at the ends of the tables, one simply prepared with butter and brown sugar while the other was covered in marshmallows and chocolate and pecans. “Ready?” one woman asked. She was the grandma of the extended family, who the in- laws jokingly called the Mistress of the Kitchens. Emily knew implicitly that this woman had prepared and decided who would cook what as well as planned it all to be ready at the appropriate time for the feast. A chorus of assent sounded, and people sat all around the table. Most of the younger children sat around some smaller tables that had been set up around the house, and adults started to carve up and serve smaller plates for them. At least, they started before the grandma quickly cut that off. “Wait! A prayer?” she asked. Those seated around the table joined hands, and everyone else around the room joined hands in two circles, one larger and surrounding the other. There was some superstition that prayer helped lower the chances that it would strike the praying family, though Emily had no idea if that was true. Either way, she knew her family prayed because of their traditions. One of her uncles offered to lead, and he said, “Please bow your heads.” After a moment he continued, “We thank You Lord, for this life and the opportunities before us. We thank You for the family that You’ve gathered here, the generations of families brought together to celebrate this wonderful meal. We thank You for blessing us with this food for the nourishment of our bodies. We…” he hesitated, his eyes flickered around the table, and Emily realized he wanted to thank the Lord for protection from it. “... thank You for the happiness that You’ve blessed us with. Amen.” “Amen,” the dozens of other people parroted, and they all went back to finding their seat. The parents took care of their children’s plates first, and everyone waited while that happened. After they filed away from the main table, guided by teens holding little hands, the adults started shoveling food onto their own plates. Emily found herself seated between her parents and an aunt and uncle. They all reached and asked for dishes far away, scooped heaping portions of delicacies onto their plates, and settled back to dig in. Emily had hardly taken a bite into her stuffing when her aunt asked, “So, Emily, I haven’t heard about a boyfriend. You do have one, don’t you?” She tried not to choke. So forward, and not even a full minute into the meal. Emily hid her scowl well. Her mother replied, “Oh, don’t be silly. Of course she has a boyfriend. Right, Emily?” Emily continued to hide her scowl, though she wanted to retreat from the main table and go sit with the kids. However, she’d forfeited that luxury by turning twenty-one over a year ago. This was her second Thanksgiving at the adults’ table, and it was her second experience with this hellstorm of questions. “Uh, no boyfriend,” she said and stuffed another bite of food into her mouth as quickly as possible. “Oh, have you been dating at all?” her aunt asked, politely placing a much more manageable bit of turkey into her mouth. Emily shoveled it in with no regrets, hoping to stop their questions by being unable to answer. “Uhf, nof,” she said, trying to talk around the mashed potatoes inhabiting her mouth. “Hmmm,” her aunt said, but she stopped for the moment. “How are your classes?” her mother asked. A nicer question than dating, at least. “They’re fine, going well,” Emily said and bit into the turkey. A little dry, she noted. She felt a slight strike of fear as she realized how quickly she was eating the food on her plate. Was… it happening? She’d have no idea until she was dead. But, she— “What are you planning to do with that Communications degree, anyway?” her aunt asked. Emily tried not to growl at the woman. “There are a lot of options,” Emily said. How did they not worry? Other parts of the table ate intentionally slow. She noticed it was all the younger adults like her that did so, and a few even shot her nasty looks. How did the older generations put it out of their minds so easily? They ate with the same gusto as her, even the dignified Mistress of the Kitchens. Emily would almost rather talk about it instead of the questions her mother and aunt launched at her. It didn’t seem to be happening—yet. “Mhmm, I’m sure,” her aunt said and delicately put more food into her mouth. She moved with a certain grace, but she ate quickly too. “Have you thought more about having kids?” her mother asked. I knew they were thinking about that! Emily thought. She said, “A little early, considering I’m not dating.” “So, no,” her mother said, seeming disappointed. “Are you sure you’re not dating?” her aunt asked, and Emily almost stabbed her fork into the table. How did they manage to eat between all these questions? At least the men sat quietly. They were almost done with their first plate, and her dad seemed ready to fill up another. “No, I’m not,” Emily said and began to eat the sweet potatoes. The marshmallows, chocolate, pecans, and yams blended together into this incredibly delicious mixture. “What about that ballot recently? How’d you vote on those tax changes?” “Are you even legally allowed to ask me that?” Emily almost spat, and she failed to control her tone. Both her mother and aunt gave her a look of surprise, and then proceeded to talk around her for the rest of the meal. All for the better, Emily thought, enjoying the food. At this point, she felt sure that it should have happened—would have happened to some other unfortunate family, she mused grimly—but the realization helped her to relax. After this year, she wouldn’t be coming to any more family Thanksgivings. Even if her family was spared from it happening, this attitude towards her was ridiculous. Of course, if she skipped out and it did happen to her family… Emily tried to imagine living without them, without any family members. Her mind quickly moved on from the topic. A few of the people around the table had stood up and gone back to the kitchen. They returned with pies, placing them in the few spare spots around the table and a few on the children’s tables. Parents got up to help their children with pie. An ice cream tub—just one? Emily thought—came out as well, when suddenly a scream sounded from outside the house. This scream echoed in Emily’s head. People screamed like that for fear of death, or a horror beyond their imagining. People screamed like that when they died, or near enough. The entire room froze, and Emily felt the tension of existential terror seeping into all of them. Had it happened? But who screamed? Emily moved first, jumping up from her chair to run outside. In the street, a woman sobbed hysterically. Her shirt and hands were covered in blood. If Emily didn’t know about it, she wouldn’t have known what to think. But right now… She rushed forward, and the woman gripped her with both hands around her neck. “They’re all… they… they…” “It’s okay,” Emily whispered and cradled the woman’s head. She whispered soothingly, she cooed, she tried to calm the woman down. “They didn’t just… they… Oh God, if I hadn’t been late, I would’ve…” “Shh,” Emily continued, and as a family member came up behind her, she moved away from the sobbing woman. “Call 911,” Emily said to the family member—her father, by chance. He nodded, already holding the phone to his ear. Emily heard his voice giving the address and telling the phone operator that it may have happened as Emily started to move toward the house across the street. “Emily!” her mother yelled. She ignored her mother and ran up to the door. Before she looked in, she could smell the destruction. It was like a Thanksgiving table, the rich foods and well-cooked meats, but with a layer of gore on top. The cloying smell of blood, both dried and drying, hung in the air and clung to her nostrils. Even so, the stench could not prepare her for the sight. Normally, when it happened, the family ate themselves to death. They gorged themselves on food to the point that their stomach linings burst, and then they kept eating. They shoveled food down their throats until it backed up all the way to their mouth and stopped up their lungs. They ate until their bellies distended out from them for a foot, the skin stretching and maybe even tearing. They ate until they found nothing left to eat, and then they went searching for anything else that could even remotely be considered edible. Last year, a child had been found next to a bag of flour, a mixture of blood and the powder bubbling in their closed throat. But this… Emily had never heard of this happening. The family had clearly made a small meal, something that no one could have gorged themselves on if they had tried. Maybe it had been a preventative measure, or maybe the family had not had the money to afford a real feast. Either way, it didn’t matter. When they ran out of food to eat, the next edible object that most of them found… had been each other. Emily saw a man, his stomach distended to the point of his skin tearing, his mouth overflowing with pink and bloodied human flesh, crouched over the body of a little girl. He was still eating, still stuffing his body with more human flesh as his hands dug around in her chest cavity. Emily watched him raise some unidentifiable organ to his lips and bite deeply into it, groaning with satisfaction. Maybe even worse, his arms had bite marks in them, chunks taken out. She could see the blood and skin dangling out of the little girl’s dead mouth. Emily knew she hadn’t bitten the man to resist him, but to fulfill her own depraved hunger. Across the room, a woman lapped at the blood pouring out of a man’s neck. She—or someone else—had slashed his throat, and now she licked up the flowing blood like a dog. As Emily stood in stunned horror, she saw the woman start to bite into the cut flesh and pull away. Unable to hold it back, Emily vomited, the feast she had consumed earlier coming up mixed with bile and disgust. She held a hand to her mouth, but it pushed past and dripped and splattered to the floor in front of her, mixing with the blood that oozed across the room. So many more people eating each other filled her sight, and she fell to her knees and vomited again. Then, she felt it. Something, some spirit of Hunger, draped itself over her. She was hungry. She’d just eaten, but she’d vomited it all up. She needed to eat. She needed to eat now. She was so hungry that she’d eat the closest thing, whatever it was. Her hands started to scoop up the vomit in front of her. The slimy pieces of turkey—wet with her own bile—slipped in her hands until she bit into them. The chocolate and marshmallows had blended into a light brown mix, and she squeezed it over the mushy stuffing before shoveling it into her mouth. The moist food oozed down her chin, and she grunted in depraved ecstasy. She breathed in deeply, the cloying scent of blood mixing with bile mixing with the Thanksgiving feast in a delightful aroma. She shifted her posture to crawl deeper into the house, to search for more to eat after consuming her vomit, but something grabbed her and started to pull her away. No! She needed to eat! She furiously thrashed and resisted, pulling at the hands that dragged her, trying to tear them away—or maybe bring them close enough to bite. She licked the vomit from her hands, trying to put something in her stomach. But it wasn’t enough, she needed— Suddenly, her mind cleared, and Emily vomited again. Her father dragged her into the street, farther and farther from that other house. She vaguely heard sirens in the distance, but she felt more distress at what had just happened as he dragged across the road. It… I felt it… she thought, remembering vividly the desire to eat. She remembered the taste of her vomit, now seemingly vile, but at the moment so satisfying. She remembered the intense anger at being unable to eat. She would’ve killed her father—she would’ve killed anyone!—that stood in the way of her food. “Dad…” she murmured, a voice so weak as to be inaudible. “It’s okay,” he whispered back, patting her head and holding her. They sat on the lawn of her aunt’s house, and he rocked her back and forth in his arms. The rest of the family had come out from the house now, watching the empty building across the street. Empty, except for the corpses and those few still eating. Emily wondered if they could be saved, and then a thought struck her. She mustered her voice as best as she could, but it still shook, “Dad, the policemen.” “None of them will have eaten the meal today. They’ll be safe,” he replied. She wished she could believe that, but as the ambulances and police cars pulled up and the first responders set to work, she had no choice but to watch. The police went in first, likely to subdue those that were still eating so the paramedics could begin treatment. Emily heard shouting, and then she heard gunshots. None of the family left the place alive. The paramedics went first to the woman from the family who still sobbed hysterically. More police cars began to arrive, and officers held conversations in low voices about what happened. Eventually—Emily had no idea how long it took, had no sense of time at all—a paramedic came up to her and her father. “Is she alright?” the young woman asked, bending down to be at eye level with Emily. They were roughly the same age. “Probably in shock,” Emily’s father answered for her. “Whatever happened to them… she seemed affected for a moment.” “Another family member?” the paramedic asked, pointing to the sobbing woman who was being loaded up in one ambulance. A look past the paramedic let Emily see that the rest of the ambulances were being loaded with body bags. “No, one of ours, but she went over to see if she could do anything. At least, I think. She just went for it,” Emily’s father again spoke for her. “Understood. Sounds like your daughter might be a good paramedic,” the young woman said with a smile. “Any injuries?” “No. Just shook up.” “Okay. You’ll be able to do more for her than I can, in that case. However, you should keep an eye on her for the next few days. Only a few people have experienced… it and survived. Most of them relapsed and ended up eating themselves to death later. However, after three days, she should be clear.” Emily felt her father tense angrily. “Do you have to say this where she can hear?” The paramedic’s blank face revealed nothing. She said, “Better that she knows, so that she can surround herself with people.” The paramedic sighed. Emily felt her father relax somewhat, and she patted his arm and said tiredly, “She’s right.” Her father nodded and said, “Thanks. Can we hospitalize her for twenty-four hour observation?” The paramedic stood and gave a shrug. “You can probably find a psychiatric ward to take her in, but I haven’t had any experience with that. It’s worth a try.” Emily’s father nodded once more, and the paramedic went to help her peers load up bodies. The paramedics’ work was grisly business, so after confirming that she could stand alright, Emily’s father took her inside. The rest of the family looked at her with fear plain in their expressions. A few faces changed to sympathy as she met their eyes, but not all. The family had just witnessed it in reality. It was no longer a news story. It was no longer an urban myth. It had happened; Hunger had come to visit their neighbors. Emily knew she wouldn’t have to worry about family Thanksgivings anymore.

Later that night, Emily laid in the hospital bed. It felt strange, being hospitalized while feeling totally fine. But, there was no guarantee that she might feel fine in the next minute, so here she waited. Her father sat asleep in the corner of the room, having passed out an hour earlier. Her mother sat next to him, her head rested on his shoulder. She’d been asleep for a lot longer. Regardless, Emily knew she was being properly monitored. A little camera, installed just for her and her “recovery,” blinked red up in a corner of the room. A nurse at the nurse’s station watched it as she did other nurse’s station tasks, whatever those were. Emily smiled into the camera and gave a little wave. She’d never been an insomniac, but she couldn’t sleep tonight. Fear nestled itself in her heart. Fear ate at the edges of her mind. Even if she were watched, would they be able to stop her? They could restrain her, but what if she decided to swallow her own tongue? Emily shivered and tried, really tried, to put the thoughts out of her mind. She needed a distraction. Her phone buzzed the rhythm of a call, and she’d never reached for the device faster. She held it up, saw John’s name, and answered immediately. “...Emily?” he asked hesitantly. “Yeah, it’s me.” His sigh of relief warmed her heart. Then, he rambled so quickly, “My family was watching the news to see if it had happened again like the last five years and when I saw it was in Kansas and then even the same town you were in I thought your family might’ve been the ones and I got so worried that I—” “John,” she said to cut him off. “I’m fine.” “Did you hear about it?” he asked after a few moments of silence. She wondered what to say, and then decided on, “I didn’t have to. It happened across the street from my aunt’s.” She could feel his tension rise, even across the phone. “But you’re fine?” he asked. “I’ll be fine,” she lied. Who knew if she would be fine? “Emily…” his voice trailed off. “Yeah?” she prompted. “I don’t want to wait for that second date,” he said. Emily’s heart backflipped, and she said, “I don’t either. When I get back, I’m all yours.” The two talked for another two hours about random things, anything to get Emily’s mind off of it, and she never told him she was hospitalized. If she ended up being fine, she would tell him. Until then, she couldn’t make him worry. When they finally hung up, Emily fell asleep easily, exhausted and slightly more at peace than before. Five days later, she went on that date with John.

Trial

The machine stood open ominously. Blue light radiated out into the blindingly white room lit up with fluorescent bulbs from it. It buzzed at a high pitch, nearly inaudible yet piercing. Any louder and the researchers would have had to find a way to mitigate it for their own sanity. “Are you ready, Jacobs?” The grizzly looking man asked. No one would ever think of this muscled monster as a brilliant scientist in his field. His messy and gray-spattered black beard did not speak to his incredible intelligence. “Yes, doctor,” Jacobs replied evenly, monotonously. “Step forward, please.” He complied, taking measured steps toward the device. It began to whir even faster, and the lights within the chamber dimmed. Only the azure radiance of the mechanism illuminated the room. A countdown in dull red numerals appeared across the chamber. Glass doors slid open and allowed Jacobs’s entrance. He shouldered his M1 Garand rifle and stepped into the sapphire brilliance. The doors slid back behind him while he turned, standing just as he had been instructed. “Good luck, soldier,” the doctor spoke softly, his eyes gleaming in triumph. Jacobs nodded deferentially, taking one final glance down at his uniform. That of an American soldier in World War II. The countdown reached zero. The blue light switched to red and flared too brightly for Jacobs to keep his eyes open. A feeling of being ripped apart came over him, but it was not a painful sensation. It only lasted a few moments, and then he felt mud and water wash over his boots. He opened his eyes and looked about to see the empty expanse of untold miles around him. It was very quiet until the reality around him suddenly reached his ears. A whistling mortar shot overhead, and bullets whizzed around in every direction. He instinctively hit the ground and frantically searched the horizon. It took only a second to find the American flag, but that second was one closer to his death if he didn’t reach safety. Jacobs crawled forward, dragging and kicking until he collapsed over the side of a trench and fell a half dozen feet to the hard dirt. He felt a muzzle pushed into his cheek, but it retracted immediately. “Soldier!? What were you doing out there?” Jacobs stood and shook his head, buying precious seconds to think of an answer. He spoke after a long second, “I thought I had heard a call for a push, captain.” The man in front of him was garbed in an officer’s uniform. The captain sneered, “Get to a post and fire. We’re not losing another man to any Nazis today.” Jacobs nodded, saluted, and checked one thing before he moved away. “Captain Jacobs.” His great-great-great grandfather. He wanted to tell him to head back and to take cover, but he knew that doing that wouldn’t change anything. For any alteration made in Jacobs’s timeline, a new one would simply sprout from that moment. At least, that was what the researchers had told him. Still… Maybe in at least one his ancestral mother could be happy? “Move!” Captain Jacobs yelled at the soldier and dashed off, looking for men to support. Soldier Jacobs moved up to a position and poked his rifle out through the hole. He pointed it in the direction he had come and stood still. He had to interfere in the timeline as little as possible. This first trial was only a test to ensure that it was possible to pull a person back from a trans-temporal experience. A bullet thudded into the dirt next to his head, and Jacobs ducked to the side, following the standard operating procedure instilled in the millions that participated in this horrific trench warfare. After a moment to calm his heart, nothing the man had endured compared to this strange rush coming from the reality of being in a trench during WWII. He stood back up in a spot one section down, poking his rifle out and looking through it to take a few harmless shots into the ground. Jacobs thought to himself aloud, “Ten minutes and I’m out. After that I do whatever I can to survive. After that returning to my life doesn’t matter. After that this is my life.” It seemed that the ten minutes of his life would be the longest wait in history. Seconds ticked by like eons, and Jacobs would have no indication of his ability to return until the moment struck. He repeated the words of the hulking man in his head: “You’ll arrive inconspicuously, materializing into existence. We’ve tried to limit drawing attention to your entrance, for your and the timeline’s sake. After that, we have no control. You have ten minutes to ensure that you’re truly ingrained in that period, and then you’ll see something. We’re not sure exactly what form it’ll take, but we’re sure you can find it.” Jacobs remembered his question, “Why not to a more peaceful place? Why is the middle of a battlefield your choice?” “It’s easier to place you in a pivotal moment in history. We simply know more about it, and the more details we know, the more extraneous variables we can attempt to remove from your placement. Besides, don’t you want to meet one of your great grandpappas?” The Scientist Man’s laugh boomed jovially, so atypical for someone of his chosen profession. A mortar shell whistled overhead, soaring harmlessly wide but pulling Jacobs back into the moment. A soldier to his right called out, “Incoming!” Jacobs pulled himself low, wrapping his hands around his ears and curling to the side as he’d been taught. Even so, the next mortar landed close enough to blow a hole in the trench and knock him aside. He struggled forward, at least, in whatever direction he was facing. His ears rang. He thought he vaguely heard a plane cross overhead, and that thought was affirmed in his mind as bullets whipped through the air all around him. One buried itself deep in his leg, causing him to call out. “Masks on!” Jacobs tried to reach down, but he couldn’t get past the bursting pain in his thigh. Then a soldier grabbed him and pulled him upright, slapping a mask to his mouth. “Breath, man. Breath!” Opening his eyes wide and trying to see who it was, he faintly made out the name Jacobs on the other’s uniform. His great-and-then-some grandpa was saving him. An ironic smile graced Jacobs’s lips. It disappeared as blood and brain splashed over his face. The captain fell lifeless atop him. From the crater in the trench, German infantry surged, all wearing masks. They rushed past Jacobs, not seeing him beneath the corpse of the other man. He had been thrown into the moment just before the Germans took back some territory in the Battle of the Bulge. “Fuckin’ great…” Jacobs muttered, wincing as a passing Nazi kicked his leg. Then he felt it, a terrible pull at his entire being. Was this the ten-minute mark? It felt like he was being dragged by every molecule forward, and the he noticed the body atop him go flying, pulled in the direction he felt himself moving. Panic grabbed ahold of him savagely, causing him to push aside that agony in his leg and grip onto a board in the trench. Men screamed. The tempest of energy roared. A light flared out, first blue and then a striking red. The trench seemed to vanish into nothingness, replaced with dull white smudges to outline reality around Jacobs. It was as though every color had ceased to exist; all that remained were shades of grey. And then it all stopped. Jacobs felt all of the warmth around him disappear. The water in the trench froze solid, and his limbs felt stiff at the sudden and sharp shift in temperature. No more screams echoed in the trenches. They echoed in his mind. The trenches echoed a much more sinister sound: teeth gnashing and tearing into flesh. The only comparable thing in Jacobs’s memory was a nature video of a lion tearing apart its prey. No such beasts lived in this waste of a landscape, not with trenches marring the earth. Adrenaline coursed through Jacobs’s body and he stood, shaking away the mind-numbing pain in his leg. With stuttered steps he made his way through the ice-covered channels. Ten steps. Twenty. Thirty steps. Horror. Some malformed creature was bent over a body, tearing into its chest like a child unwrapping a Christmas present. From the wicked edge apparent in its claws, the monster was certainly not filled with childlike glee. Jacobs shifted his gaze away; he could not look upon the savagery of the beast before him. The worst part of all: It wore an American uniform. Faster than Jacobs could react, a second thing appeared, tackling the first and driving it to the ground. The two clashed like gods, throwing each other with incredible strength and healing through any slash of the others’ dreadful talons. One roared, a screeching sound that echoed throughout the trenches like a banshee’s wail. Jacobs wasn’t sure whether it sounded for him or for the other monster. The two continued battling, their conflict appearing eternal with the lack of progress either made. When the two began to gradually migrate further away Jacobs took his chance, limping forward and up through the crater blasted by the mortar. He picked his way up, arms lifting him into the open field and out of the dreadful trenches. As he stood he felt something rush past him, and as he spun to face it five unimaginably sharp nails sheared his side open and spilled his organs onto the ground below. Whatever it was slashed him again, spilling more of his life onto the frozen landscape. The creature lapped up his blood, rubbing the crimson fluids over its pale and torn body. It murmured, “Warmth…” Jacobs fell to the ground, shuddering in unspeakable agony as he tried to drag himself away from the monster. He moved, inch by inch, and the thing did not care. It stutter-stepped alongside him, continuously burying its face in the heat from his body. Ahead of him a bright light flared blue, wavering in intensity but not faltering. That was his way back home. The beasts could not let him and his warmth escape. A second and third appeared, and just like the last meeting between monsters, they fought like titans. With each strike, he heard them mutter, “My warmth…” He tried to move forward, but he could not. Jacobs strained to breathe, but he found hope in one last action he could take. The portal was maybe five feet in front of him, an impossible distance with his destroyed body, but there was something else he could do. Jacobs reached behind his ear and pulled on the microchip implanted there, yanking it out of its connection to his mind and nearly screaming in the sudden lack of sensation. He could not feel his organs spilling out of his body, nor his heat escaping through his exposed flesh, nor the terrible aneurysm he was about to suffer from the removal of his chip. But it enabled his passage through time, and it could pass through the portal. Jacobs, with the last of his might, tossed the thing ahead of him, guessing where the portal had appeared to him before the removal of his connection to the temporal rift. As it disappeared in the air, he almost smiled. One of the monsters crushed his skull in its struggle with the others.

On the other side of the rift, the muscled man waited eagerly. From his perspective, nothing was wrong with the experiment yet. Sure, Jacobs was taking a moment to return from the timeline, but that could have been a mere issue of his safety. After all, he was in a battlefield. So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he almost failed to notice the chip rematerializing in the room. It soared out from the rift and landed just before him, blood- splattered but whole. The scientist frowned and knelt down to pick it up. His eyes ran over the piece for a moment and then handed it to a technician. “Examine the recording footage. And let’s get the fourteenth subject ready. If it’s the same as the rest we need to modify the recall equations again.” With a heavy scowl on his face, the researcher moved over to a console and began to type in new figures, trying to work out the fallout-like waste caused by the recall rift. After a few minutes, a man dressed in an American WWII soldier’s uniform stepped into the room, looking eager and anxious all at once. The young soldier observed the machine ahead of him, noting the blue light and its hum. “Are you ready, Jacobs?” The grizzly man asked. “Yes, doctor.”

Unbothersome

Click.

“I sit in the back of classrooms. I stand on the bus. I eat only leftovers. I bother no one. Because I can’t. I’m not certain entirely how it happened. Everyone thinks I’m dead, but that’s only because I’ve been “missing” for so long. I don’t think I died and became a ghost. I would’ve left a body behind if that were the case. No, I’m just separate. I can interact with everything except other people. I am human, yet I am not part of humanity. It’s strange, but, I mean, of course it is. I’m used to it now. It happened overnight, as strange things seem to do. I went to sleep, just like normal how I tucked myself into my bed and played on my phone for about thirty minutes before succumbing to a need for rest. I awoke and I was gone. Not in a different place, but a different person from the night before. I felt different, but I thought I might have just been getting sick. It was my mom that clued me into the weirder, darker truth: “Adam?” she asked while knocking on my door. “Yeah,” I responded. Breakfast was prepared. My mom was in the gracious habit of getting up early enough to make me breakfast before school despite that it was hours before she needed to be ready for work. “Adam?” she asked again with hesitance as if I hadn’t responded. “Yeah?” I said and opened the door. I can only imagine how strange that must have looked to her, the door swinging wide as if I had opened it only to find that I was not standing there. I mean, I was, but she couldn’t tell. She was shocked, but her expression changed. She attributed the movement to a draft, the wind, something. “Honey?” she called out and turned around. “Mom!” I remember saying. “What’s wrong with you?” She went to the bathroom, but the door was open. I was not in the kitchen either. I was gone. She finally texted my phone, the desperation growing in her eyes. I watched the entire time. I watched my mother go mad with worry for a son who stood right before her. The moment she texted my phone was when she broke. She heard the message notification from a room away, from my room, but I was gone. I don’t want to talk much about the next twenty-four hours. Coming to terms with my new… “condition” while also witnessing my mother’s descent into madness was horrible. No, it was beyond that, but how could I describe the collapse of my entire existence? Here, just imagine it for yourself. You wake up one day and no one can see you, hear you, feel you, nothing. The only way to interact with them is through objects, writing a note on a piece of paper, leaving words in the fog of the bathroom mirror, classic “ghost” tricks. But you aren’t a ghost. You aren’t dead, and doing those things only drives them madder. I tried one time to communicate with my mom after opening my door. I held my phone up before her and texted the words, “I’m here.” That didn’t go well. She, of course, only saw the phone disappear and a moment later watched a new message appear. My mom is lucky not to be in an insane asylum after that stunt. The look in her eyes, fear and bewilderment and excitement and hope all at once that led to nothing worthwhile. I was there, truly, but not for her. Not in any meaningful way. So I left. I didn’t leave a note either. I thought it was too late for that, and I couldn’t have known what to say. Make a fake suicide note? Leave something indicating I had been kidnapped? Nothing would have made sense, so I just hoped my mom would pull through it alright. I think she has, knowing her fortitude, but without any other close family to lean on it must have been rough. I can’t help but feel sorry, but I’m in a different world now. I’m sure you’ve got some questions. The main gist of my new existence is this: I can’t interact with people. Everything else, just like normal. I can eat, breathe, walk, wear clothes. There’s a few peculiarities. I don’t have to eat, but when I do I have to shit. When I shit I don’t leave anything behind. As soon as it leaves my body, gone. I can’t even smell it at that point. Same with cum. I jack off, I splurge, and it’s gone. No clean up. That’s actually kind of an upside, but it’s a small silver lining. I can’t walk through walls or anything, like I said, not a ghost. I just can’t interact with people, and I can leave only strange traces of my existence. When I go to eat the things I touch disappear. The food, the plate, the utensils, etc. When I’m done though these things reappear. I leave them behind and they rejoin the rest of human existence. Clothes I put on disappear, but when I take them off they reappear. Yes, I can still get too hot or too cold, which I find incredibly annoying. My existence is strange, as I’ve said a lot already, and it’s also arbitrary. Why do the utensils disappear but not the seat I’m sitting in. Why do the clothes I wear disappear but not the clothes of other people when I “touch” them? I can’t come up with an explanation, and it’s not like I could have been accurately studied. Much less, I don’t want to be a specimen. On some level I’m still a person. I still have fun, get sad, and want to live. One of my favorite things to do is hang out at dog parks and freak out owners. The dogs can see me, but they can’t, and it makes for some true comedy. More than one dog park has been labeled as haunted thanks to me, and I take a certain pride in it. But there’s a reason I’m telling you this story. I’ve done the introduction now, and something has to change. Something sparks a turning point, and that is where it all begins. This is how it began:”

“I took a seat on a bus. It was traveling between New York City and Boston. I’d started to travel after being “Gone.” It was something to keep me busy, and more important it was free. The thing that keeps most people from travel is the cost. Anyway, I sat down and looked around to see who else was on the bus. No one interesting, no one worth listening to. As I looked around someone sat in me, and while this wasn’t uncommon I was still unused to it. It just didn’t feel right, it never did. What made this time different, and what made me hesitate to stand up, was that someone gasped as it happened. I stood out of the man, a man large enough to completely conceal myself in, and looked about. Now somebody stood out to me. A woman, a few years older than me, gawked straight at me. Her hand covered her mouth in the timeless and cliched expression of shock. She had an elegant look to her, not because of her clothing but her composure. Even this moment of surprise for her seemed contained, controlled, like she had been taught how to act instead of naturally learning it. No one else had any such reaction. She could see me, but I was still unnoticeable. I understood why almost immediately. Someone sat in her. Her expression shifted and she also stood. The two of us locked eyes, and we had a mutual understanding I never thought I would have with anyone. It was shattered when she spoke. “Good heavens! You can see me.” “Good… what the fuck?” I asked. I realize now that was rude as hell, but my mind wasn’t in the best place after spending a year in a familiar limbo. “Oh, I…” she began, but the bus started moving and we were both forced to sit back in the people on the seats. We stood again, regained eye contact, and she continued, “I sometimes slip back into old ways of speaking when taken by surprise. I still am… But, shall we sit?” “Uh, yes.” I took a new chair toward the front of the bus, and she sat beside me. There were no people in these seats, but that was more of a comfort to us than any real concern. I began, “So, you can see me.” “And you me.” “And you talk like that because?” “Because I was born in 1872, in Bristol.” “You… You what?” “I was born in 1872, over a hundred years ago.” “You look—” “About twenty? That’s because I am physically, or what passes as physical for what we are. In 1895 I became like this sometime in the night.” “The same for me!” I exclaimed, latching onto this point of connection. “I went to sleep one night, and the next I was… ‘Gone.’” “So that’s how you say it? I suppose that works as well as anything, but I prefer Unbothersome.” “That’s a fuckin’ mouthful,” I said and regretted it. “I mean, it’s just a lot to say. Gone is easy, quick, you could almost miss it. Kinda like…” “Yes, I understand, but I do not like the connotation of Gone. I am still here, as are you, but we cannot bother anyone. We are quite literally Unbothersome.” “But we are Gone where it counts.” “Are we to discuss the philosophy of our existence? I find it tiresome, or rather, depressing. There is no way to consider it without thinking about what we have lost, and I prefer to view it as a change instead of a lessening.” “You do talk like you’re from the Nineteenth Century.” “Because I am.” A thought occurred to me, “So you’ve seen a lot. You saw the first airplanes, the development of the atom bomb, the internet… Wow.” “Well, not quite,” she began. “You think of things differently today than we did in the early Twentieth Century. You can see the world as it changes around you, even in our state, thanks to technology. In the time of the first airplanes, the atom bomb, and the beginning of the internet things were not like that. I heard of things in whispers, conversations no one else was privy to, but I could not see them.” “Oh, that. That makes sense.” “It is unfortunate that I have lived the turn of centuries and not lived so many of its events, but at the same time I am blessed.” “Just to know about them?” “Yes, but moreso to escape the worst parts of reality. I will not know famine, war, terrorism. Not except through the vague connection with the rest of humanity. I have seen the world change greatly, but I have never been there for the moment of change, the time and place something momentous happened. You don’t know where history is being made as it is being made. That is something I have learned.” “Yeah, I guess so.” The conversation lulled. I felt I had nothing to say to someone who had lived for so long, experienced so much. A question struck me, “So we don’t age.” “How new are you to this?” “It happened to me about a year ago. I was eighteen at the time. I think I’m nineteen now, if I could say that.” “Yes, you can. I’m 144 years old. No one else I’ve met has contested my right to assert this.” “So there are more?” “Oh, yes. I cannot know how many. It’s hard to tell most of the time since we all appear like normal people to each other. It is only when peculiar things happen, like when someone passes through you or you make a racket without being noticed, that we can tell. You have not found anyone else like us?” “No.” “I suppose that makes sense. It has been almost a century and a half for me and I have only met two others, not including you.” “How old were they?” “I… am not certain. But younger than me.” “How old in both ways? When they… changed and how long they had been Gone?” “Oh, of course. I have been ‘Gone’ the longest of any other ‘Gone’ I’ve met. Physically, both were older than me. And both women, as well.” I almost asked for more details, but it didn’t matter. I looked the woman up and down and tried to address her. I didn’t know her name. “Fuck, uhh, what’s your name? I’m Adam. Sorry for not introducing myself, but I was kinda surprised, y’know?” “Oh my! It was my mistake as well. You can call me Mariah. Not much use for surnames these days.” “Mhmm.” I looked her up and down again and noticed she was dressed similarly to me, at least in a modern style as opposed to the era of her birth. “You’re not wearing anything that looks too… old.” I struggled to find a better word. She laughed, a truly happy sound. “Sorry!” I said on impulse. It had been so long since I’d talked to anyone, and I didn’t want to offend the one person I met. Even if she took it in stride, laughing to make me more comfortable, I wanted to endear myself to her. “Oh, no bother! I find it adorable how you cannot think what to say. But you are right, I dress with the modern styles. It is one of the ways I try to stay connected to the world, to the youth that I consider myself apart of. You are used to dressing this way, but you will probably change with time as well. It will make you feel comfortable, as if you fit in.” “Hmm,” was all I said. The conversation lulled again, and I saw that Mariah surveyed the land out the window. She looked so peaceful, so contemplative, that she seemed to me to match the era she was born into. Even in her modern clothing she struck me as an old soul, a thought I found terribly accurate given our situation and my hatred of the cliched phrase. After a moment I had to interrupt her. I had more questions. “You’ve had 144 years. What have you done? What were the others you’ve met doing?” “The same thing, all of us. Well, except maybe you. I know now what you’re doing, but we all travel to experience reality around us. One in particular, the oldest, was headed to the Himalayas. She wanted to see if those monks could experience her, and if not she wanted to meditate for the rest of time. That’s what she said to me, precisely. ‘I want to meditate for the rest of time.’” “That’s what I’m doing too. Traveling. I’ve stayed in the US for now, but someday I’ll do more. I’m still adjusting, y’know?” “I understand.” “Where have you gone?” “Given my 144 years it would be easier to list the places I have not traveled. I have avoided South America and Australia just because I wanted to see most of the rest of the world first, but I have traveled through all of Europe, most of Russia, Asia and the associated islands, and Africa.” “And now the US? You didn’t start here?” “No, I was born on the British Isles. That was where my change occurred.” “Oh,” I said. “Your accent, it didn’t sound too British to me.” “That’s because accents change. Today I hardly have a recognizable accent, and with all my travel and learning other languages I have probably removed what was my old speech. Not that I or anyone else could tell. The change has been too gradual for me, and you would not know. The others… Well, they didn’t even mention it. Where we’re from doesn’t matter. I don’t believe so.” “But it’s a huge part of who you are.” “Is it?” “Yes, inherently. It shapes you, whether you recognize it or not. Now, with us, we are something unique and exceptional and our ‘change’ has had a greater impact on us than anything else, but I still think of myself as an American.” “I… I suppose so. I have been to most of the United States; where were you born?” “Well, I was born in Canada actually. Premature and unexpected birth while my mom was traveling. I was raised in Missouri, Jefferson City.” “A lovely place.” “Debatable, but okay.” Mariah laughed again, a controlled giggle. I thought it was cute, and then I felt weird for feeling that way for someone who had lived so much longer than I had. A silence fell, and given the long bus ride I knew it could last a long while. We were stuck together at least until Boston, a five hour trip or so depending on traffic. Would we stick together after that? I had no plans except to travel, and that was what Mariah was doing too. Would she want to stick together? The other “Gone” were not with her now. Questions swarmed in my head, but I had four hours to learn it all. Maybe we didn’t actually get along. And if we stuck together, it could be for a literal eternity. The thought scared me a little. Eternity had no real bearing in my world, and only a slightly more tangible meaning in Mariah’s. A related question popped into my mind. “Can you feel pain?” It was sudden, and she jumped a little at my voice. I wondered how long I had been thinking. “Yes, can you not?” “No, I can. I was just wondering. Things hurt, but I don’t really see any effects. Like if I cut myself I could feel the edge, but my body shows no change. The pain fades quickly too.” “That sounds about right. I can feel pain, and I’ve felt some terrible pain.” Mariah physically shuddered, I assumed from a memory of agony. “But there’s no lasting effects. Not physically, or, well you know what I mean.” I nodded, “I do. It’s weird to me. How do we feel pain if there’s no effect on our bodies? That’s how we felt pain before.” “Something you may want to try, and something I gave myself to long ago, is to accept ignorance of our condition. Understanding it won’t change anything, and it’s only confusing. Why do some things that we touch disappear? Why do some not? Why can humans not perceive us, but other animals can? This way we live is confusing, and I’d rather enjoy the world around me as best I can.” “I… I guess so. But it doesn’t make you curious?” “It did, but like I said, I have long since given up on understanding what we are.” “We’re humans. Just different.” “We aren’t quite human. Not really.” I sighed and shrugged. It did feel pointless to think about it, but that was likely her attitude rubbing off on me. Again I found myself at a loss for what to say, but Mariah spoke up. “You’ve been traveling. What all have you seen?” “Not much. I only started a few months ago. I spent a while in my hometown, doing the things I couldn’t before. I…” I felt bashful then as I thought of the ways I had used my new existence. “You…” she prompted. “I snuck into bars. Stole gourmet food from restaurants. Harassed old enemies and snuck into people’s houses.” “Scandalous,” she said with a smile. Her eyes hinted at something I didn’t yet know. She continued, “I did the same thing. Except…” “Except?” I prompted, just as she had done to me. “I also snuck into this man’s house. I liked him, and he had been courting me for some time. I even then understood that I would never know him in any intim-” Her pause made it more than obvious what she meant but would not say. “But I was curious, so I snuck into his house and I watched him for a day. It was…” She became bashful. “A long time ago. I’ve grown up.” I felt secondhand embarrassment from her story, and I wanted to alleviate it. “You aren’t alone. I did a… similar thing. The girls’ locker room at my high school, I snuck into it so I could watch them change between gym classes. I never saw anything more than that, and after only a few hours I felt so scummy I couldn’t accept myself.” Mariah smiled, a tentative one that blossomed into a mutual understanding. We both knew this curse and what it pushed us toward. There were no consequences, no one to be accountable toward, and so we acted out of social norms. The only ones that could care were each other, but we’d both made the same mistake. I felt a connection there, and her smile warmed my heart more than anything else in my time of change. “Thank you,” she said, and silence fell between us. It was a comfortable silence, a moment when we were content to sit in our thoughts. The world outside passed by and we watched it together, solidarity found in something beyond our condition. I realized something then, something that should be obvious to me and others but seems to escape us. I realized that people in history are people. They want similar things and act in similar ways; they just dress and speak differently. Mariah’s formal speech stunned me, but I understood her as a person. We could connect. We did. It warmed my heart again, and I knew that I wanted to maintain this human connection. After feeling it again, I needed to. “What are your plans from here?” I asked, hoping to segue into my keeping her company. “Well, Boston in the fall. I am hoping to stay for a while. Go whale watching, historic sites, be a tourist. It’s not a modern invention you know, tourism.” “Yeah, they had the ‘Grand Tour’ or whatever for the aristocracy of Europe, right?” “Exactly. In this modern and connected world more people can be tourists, but the desire and excitement of travel have always been around. At least, as long as I have been and a little bit longer.” “You’re old, but you’re not that old Mariah.” She gave me a smirk, the kind that taunted me for the jab at her age. “Besides, you look great for 144!” I continued, liking the way she wore that expression. Her smirk shifted into a smile, and she jabbed back, “And you don’t look a day over eighteen.” I gasped in shock, “Really? You mean it?” “Oh, every word,” she sighed and turned away. It was playful, I could see it in her body language, so I played along. “I thank you for the compliment. It’s a wonder these days how anyone could keep their youthful glow.” “Youthful glow…” she murmured. She turned to look me in the eyes and asked, “Do you have anything from your previous life that you’ve kept with you?” I shook my head. The question confused me. “Nothing at all?” “No,” I replied. “You should have. If you can you should go back, retrieve a piece of your past. It helps you remember.” “Does this… condition come with memory problems?” “No, but… Have you not noticed? You have no reflection?” I had, but I had also never been a vain person. The idea of not seeing myself didn’t unnerve me. “Yeah, so?” “So, does that not bother you?” “Does it bother you?” The answer was obvious, but I needed to ask. “Yes. I’ve kept one thing through my ‘life,’” she put quotes around the word as she said it. I didn’t think of this life as different enough to warrant that, but I hadn’t been around as long as her. She produced a picture from her pocket that could have easily fit in the palm of my hand. “This. The only remaining photograph of me. It helps me know who I am, who I was, in truth.” Mariah was beautiful in the picture. Stern faced, but that was the nature of photography then. She stood in a floral dress in the picture, most of her body hidden in the shape of the clothing. There was no color, but I filled in the details as I examined it. “It was a white dress, and the flowers were red and blue and purple. It was uncomfortable, but it was my favorite dress. It was the dress that I met my betrothed for the first time in, and what I wore the last time I saw him before my change. I almost took it with me when I left, but I decided against it. I was a new person. I was accepting of that, even at the beginning.” “It’s a very beautiful photo.” “Thank you,” she said. She put it away gingerly. I could tell it was her most prized possession. “I still don’t think I need my own. I’m not even certain there’s an up to date photo of me in my old house. When I left, I mean. I would bet they’re all taken down now.” “You may not think it’s important now, but it might be in thirty years. By then it’ll be too late, Adam.” We talked at length about the importance of the photo, and by the time we arrived in Boston I had a new plan in mind, one involving a plane ride back home.

It was toward the end of the flight that I noticed Mariah had a nervous twitch. Maybe she disliked flying, but the entire time she flipped a pencil between her pointer and middle finger. The frequency that she moved it increased until the plane touched the ground, and then it stopped. “Not used to flying,” I stated more than asked. “Yes. The progression of technology. It’s phenomenal, but I still feel like I’m not a part of this world. It’s disorienting.” “I’m sorry, but we’re on the ground now. And besides, why be nervous? We can’t die, not that I’m aware of.” “We may be unable to die, but the sensation of falling through the air is horrible. And… we would survive, true, but think about these people.” “These people? Oh.” I knew what she meant. “Exactly. I have no desire to witness such a terrible thing, not aga—” She cut herself off. “It’s okay, Mariah. We don’t need to fly again; these people are okay.” “Yes, you’re right. Thank you.” “You say that a lot.” “Say what?” “Thank you.” “For what?” “No, that’s…” But Mariah only smiled as we exited the plane onto Missouri soil. We left the airport and got into the first taxi headed into Jefferson City. Being unable to get our own cabs, we had to rely on the chance that someone would head in the general direction we needed. At times being invisible helped. No paying for flights, long-distance bus fare, but in times like this it sucked. I had to walk most anywhere to get around. Rural country was the worst, yet big cities with public transportation were not always as bad. We got out of the first taxi a few minutes later and hopped onto a bus toward my old neighborhood. Seeing the familiar sights, the houses and schools and playgrounds, frightened me. It made me feel real again, and I didn’t like it. As much as I hated being alone, I liked my new freedom. No accountability, no typical life to live, just whatever I wanted. Forever. But alone. Except for Mariah in this moment, as she stuck with me. Maybe it was just to ensure I kept this old memento of my previous life. I hoped it would be for longer. I liked the company, the presence of someone I could relate to again. The human animal was a social one. We got off that bus and I checked the streets. We were maybe a few miles from my house, but finding another car to get us any closer would be nothing short of a miracle. We started the walk, and Mariah kept her eyes all around us. “Not much to look at,” I said after a minute. “I have been touring, seeing the sights, but not anything like this. Seeing how people live. That’s different. That might be a whole new adventure.” “I spent my first month sitting in the back of lecture rooms in the colleges around here. Learned a decent amount, heard even more gibberish, but it gave me a feel of college. It made my shift into this change more gradual, I think.” “I understand. The change was difficult for you?” “It was most difficult to see my friends and my mom deal with it. I’d also spent most of my life here, so I wasn’t ready to leave it at first. That was why I stayed near the university. Spent the nights in my old favorite places, and the school when it got too cold. Even if the cold can’t kill me… It’s unpleasant.” “I agree. I have loved every tropical place I have been to. The hot sun, cool sea breezes, shade on a beach. It is wonderful.” “I would like to go to somewhere like that.” “I would like to go back to a place like that.” We looked at each other, and I had the first glimpse of a shared future. I held onto it, but I did not pursue the idea. We walked along, and I realized we were close to my old home. I led Mariah up the path to the door, and I knocked loudly. “You can’t just open it?” “My mom likes safety. She keeps it locked, but if there’s no one here when she answers it she’ll think it’s just some ding-dong ditchers. We can get in like this.” Mariah gave me a look of confusion, but it faded. Whatever it was, she didn’t think that it was important enough to pursue at the moment. The night around us was dark. It was a strange concept of time that Mariah and I shared, as we no longer had any need to sleep. At first I slept anyway because of how normal it felt, but I realized I was forcing myself too. I had no need to rest. There are still times where I would lay down to close my eyes, but it is just a comforting feeling. A grasp at my old existence. I understood it’d been almost a full day since I’d met Mariah, but it felt like much longer. Time dilation, or something. That was one concept I never truly got the hang of. The door opened, and my mom looked right into my eyes. “Mom—” And then she looked back and forth across the yard for shadows, a slight scowl in her face revealing that she thought exactly what I had expected. Just some pranksters. Mariah and I slipped around her before she could close the door; I would not walk through my own mother. “How will we get out?” Mariah asked. “Just through the front door. We’ll leave it unlocked, but that’s no big deal. My mom will think she forgot to lock it. Now…” The two of us set into the home, my mom disappearing back into her room as we searched. Mariah followed me around the house as I checked all the places where my photos used to be, but there were none in the hallway, on the shelves in the living room, or even at my mother’s desk. There were none at all, and my feeling of reality sank into nothingness. Had I been forgotten? “None,” Mariah said. “Do you think she put them all away to try and move on?” “Maybe,” I said, an angry edge to my voice. I curbed the rest of my attitude and went downstairs into the basement where boxes of old crap were piled high. We started on those closest to the door, looking for photos of me. Still, nothing, and I began to feel that everything was wrong. Had I ever existed? Some of my old toys were packed up in boxes, but they felt so distant to the current me that I failed to recognize them at first. I paced around the basement until Mariah came up and placed a hand on my shoulder. My heart raced at the contact, my body reacting to her touch after having none for almost a year. It was fantastic, but I could hardly enjoy the sudden intimacy. It came to me in a moment of desperation, of great fear. My somber mood tempered the joy I felt. “It’s okay. This is not… uncommon for those who have lost somebody. Grief is not an emotion people can move away from so easily; it is something that walks with you, forever, and people will do whatever they can to remove its shadow from their life.” “I guess, but it doesn’t feel right. I feel like I never existed, like my mom never cared about me, like life just moved on without me.” “But it has to, does it not? If she locked herself in her room and cried over you she could never move on. You do not want that for your mother, not really.” She was right, and she knew it too. Maybe she’d given this speech before to others who became Gone. In the silence that followed our exchange we heard a sob from upstairs. A tinge of hope lit up my eyes, and I felt so guilty that I brought my hands to my head and knelt down. Mariah kept her hand on my shoulder and rubbed gently. “It’s alright,” she said, and I wanted to believe her. I stood up and brushed away her hand. She looked shocked, and as I started up the stairs she moved to stop me. “You don’t want to see her,” she said. “But I need to,” I replied. She chased me up the stairs, but I outran her and dashed into my mother’s room. The door was open, and I thanked my luck for that so I didn’t have to startle her with a self-opening door, but the sight ahead stopped me in my tracks. Mariah halted behind me, and I could feel her stiffen at the disturbing sight. Every picture of me that I knew and many more that I didn’t were arranged in a spiral pattern, emanating out from a central picture of me, the largest in the collection. Between the photographs were some old toys, printed texts I had sent my mom, and my old piano sheet music. The entire back wall of her room was a pathetic shrine to me, a remembrance of the life I had lived as her son. At the base of it sat my mom, her knees planted in the carpet, her head bowed, and her body wracked with sobs. I fell behind her, and my hand passed through her shoulder meaninglessly. “I’m…” “It’s not your fault,” Mariah cut me off. “You did not choose this. You only have to live with it. Adam, you can do nothing for her. Let us leave.” “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” I muttered over and over, a litany against the sight of my mom’s collapse into nothingness. Was she still working? Did she eat? Did she have enough money to pay the mortgage? What was going to happen to her? Mariah grabbed my shoulders and began to drag me away, and I provided no resistance to this. We were out of the house soon, and when Mariah closed the door behind us she knelt down beside me. “I’m sorry for bringing you back here. Let’s find a place to stay the night and forget it, okay? Tomorrow, travel.” I nodded without regarding what she said. I followed her blindly until some hours later I laid in a hotel bed. Mariah wasn’t in the room, but I shrugged off her absence. I clambered to the minibar in the room and grabbed the first bottle. I downed it with a complete disregard for flavor, and then I growled and threw the empty thing at the wall. No sensation of drunkenness took me, not even the hot feeling of alcohol in my stomach. “No lasting physical effects… I can’t even…” I stormed away and into the bathroom, turning the shower on to the highest heat and stripping off my clothing. I felt the scalding water burn my flesh, but the pain passed as soon as it came. I sat at the bottom of the shower, my head in my hands, the pain of my existence coming and going. It must have been some hours later that I heard the door open slightly, and Mariah coughed at the intense humidity of the bathroom. “Adam,” she said. “I have a treat, when you’re ready.” Her voice was muffled by the sound of the shower, and I ignored it. I heard the door open wider, and then she said, “You’re in here, right?” “Yes,” I said. I did not lift my head or do any more to acknowledge her. “Then whenever you’re ready,” she said. I stayed in the shower a while longer. When I looked at my body I felt strange. I could see myself perfectly, Mariah could see me perfectly, but to all others I was invisible. Would they see water around a human shape if they were to see me in the shower? Would the water appear to just pass through me? It didn’t matter. I wasn’t real. The scalding water didn’t even turn my skin red, it only burned for the moment it touched me. I could have been in that shower another hour before I finally got out, and the incredible steam in the room made it pointless to try and dry off. I wrapped a towel around my waist and emerged from the bathroom. The hotel room was also incredibly humid, so much so that Mariah wore a tank top and shorts compared to the sweater and pants she had been wearing earlier. She sat on the bed, her legs crossed under her and her eyes closed. She seemed removed from the room, separate as an entity in space. She was meditating. I walked toward her, but I felt wrong disturbing her. At her side was a white box, not too large but small enough to fit in my lap if I wanted. I watched her for a moment longer, and then her face changed. She smiled, opened her eyes, and lifted her head toward me. “You’re out,” she said. “Yes,” I said, cognizant of how I felt. “I was meditating. Were you waiting long?” “Just a minute, less even.” “Oh, good, this is the treat.” She took the box in her lap and opened it to reveal a cake inside. Red velvet, by the looks of it, and not decorated in any way other than a coat of rich white icing. I wanted it. “Like it?” “I love red velvet cake.” “So I guessed well.” “Very well,” I responded. “Thank you.” “It is nothing. You needed it. There are plates and forks behind you.” I turned and grabbed the items from the dresser. We cut into the cake and enjoyed ourselves, sitting side by side on the bed with slices in our laps. We ate the whole cake. The upside to not needing to eat is that, with no physical effects, you can eat as much as you want. Or whatever you want. Thirty minutes later I laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. This new life was strange, but it wasn’t bad. All bad, anyway. I doubted who I was, but I still knew deep within me that I was a person. I was grounded in that. I would be okay. “Are you thinking of sleeping?” Mariah asked. “Yeah, it’s comforting. Do you sleep?” “No. When I need some sort of rest, I meditate. Much more efficient, and easier since I need not be tired to meditate. “You should teach me.” “Now?” “No, I want to sleep now.” “Then sleep well. I think I shall explore the city for a bit. Will you stay here?” I met her eyes as she asked me the question, and I knew the unspoken words at the end. Will you stay here for me? “Yes. I’ll wait until morning at least. I… lost my appetite for traveling, at least for now. We’ll see.” “Alright, Adam. I will be back before morning.” I watched her leave the room, and then I buried myself under the covers and shut off the light. The darkness, comforting, surrounded me, so I succumbed to a fitful sleep.

I woke in darkness. A sliver of city light penetrated the hotel room through the window, but it was nothing compared to the blackness around me. It was not comforting like before, but surreal. I had a feeling that it was not the hotel room at all, that I had been transported to some other place, some hideous place. I stood from the bed and approached the window. The light was white, like a streetlight, but it flickered. I pushed the curtains to the side and saw reality. Fire. A sea of burning fire, yellow and red and orange, but closest to me it burned bright white. I fell back from the window, and the flames leaped against the glass and blackened it. They recoiled, but tried again. I knew it was only a matter of time before they succeeded and flooded my haven. I ran to the door, but it was locked from the outside. I was trapped. I turned to the bathroom and reached for the faucets, but no water came forth. After a moment blood spurted, great torrents of sanguine and viscous blood that coated the sink and counters and my hands and rose up around my feet. The glass shattered, and the flames roared in. I drowned in blood as I burned in flame, but I felt a pair of hands pull me through the murk. I escaped my torment suddenly, and I was surrounded by white nothingness. Below me hung Mariah and my mother, grasping onto my feet. They had pulled me free, and now they hung on me so they would not fall into eternal nothingness. I hesitated, but then I reached for Mariah. My hand passed through hers. I became nothing, just as I had in reality, and I watched her fall. Above me I saw the boiling blood and the crashing flames. Below me I watched my only friend fall forever. I closed my eyes tightly, but I still heard her screams over the boiling blood and roaring flames. My mother climbed up my leg and around my body, coiling like a serpent. Too late I realized she was a snake after all, and my throat collapsed under her tightening grip. I awoke.

“Adam!” Mariah yelled. The room was bright, the curtains open, allowing a flood of light into the room. I grasped her shoulders tightly and pulled her into my chest, relishing the feeling of her presence. She knew there was something wrong, and she asked, “Adam?” “Mariah.” “You were… disappearing.” “I was what?” “I know not. I have never seen anything like it. You became less there, like I was seeing you through a thickening fog. Distant, vague, indistinct. You appeared either obscured or far away, and moving farther. And you were screaming, and writhing, and such an expression of pain was on your face.” I realized that she and I still clung to each other, and I released the hold so I could look into her eyes. “It was… a bad dream.” “That was not just a bad dream.” “Then I don’t know Mariah.” “And there’s no way for us to know…” Her voice, somber and resigned, seemed to regret her previous willful ignorance to our condition. “I just won’t sleep anymore,” I said with a hopeful tone. It perked her up, if only a little, and her eyes met mine with severity. “You cannot ignore this,” she said. “Then what do I do?” I snapped. I almost regretted it, but anger coursed in me. Fire brewed in my veins, the sight of my mom still sore in my memory. She hesitated, “You…” But a silence fell, and I grew doubtful. “What can I do?” I eventually asked, fear tainting my voice as my anger had faded away. “You can…” She paused. “We can meditate. It helps me. Perhaps it can help you?” “Do you honestly believe it can?” Again, Mariah did not answer immediately. “Yes,” she said, and confusion tinged the word. Neither of us knew; neither of us knew anything about our condition. We could only hope. “So, teach me?” She smiled tentatively, and then she motioned for us to sit across from each other on the bed. We did, and she began an explanation: “Meditation has been used throughout history. Much, much longer than even I am aware of, probably. It’s most known as a Buddhist tradition…” I faded out; history had never been my strongest interest. Sometime later I became aware that she stopped talking. “Huh?” “Which would you like to try first?” “Oh, uh, what you do.” “Alright! If this doesn’t work for you I still want you to try the others, except maybe walking, to see if any work better. Okay?” “Okay.” “So, count with me out loud as we breathe. Start with empty lungs. Okay? Go.” We spoke together, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” “One, two, three, four, five, six…

“A quick digression. Meditation is weird. Experiencing nothing is weird, and I think that with the peculiar state Mariah and I find ourselves we can meditate even better than those monks who do it for their lifetimes. Especially Mariah in this case, since she has had a little longer to master it. But it’s strange. Even after being separated from reality with my condition, I can experience something even further, to remove my mind from my surroundings so completely so as to be nothing. It has helped with my problem, that thing which so scared Mariah in the hotel room, which I find ironic. Experiencing nothing has helped me avoid becoming nothing? Weird. Arbitrary, but it fits the rest of my condition in that sense. I think it has more to do with how I feel. When I unravel as a person, my form begins to fade. Mariah has never experienced this, and I don’t understand why I do. We don’t know how many other Gone may have passed into nothingness through this exact problem. Meditation solidifies me though. Mariah is glad for that. I am glad for that. I like living now.

“It felt like hours later, but only twenty minutes had passed on the clock when I felt Mariah’s hand on my shoulder. “Are you finished?” “Yes?” “Yes, you are. You will get better at coming out of your meditation, but for now I can pull you out.” “Only twenty minutes?” “You need only twenty minutes. If I go any longer, I am simply trying to pass the time.” “Why?” “It is just how it is, I think. I am no expert on meditation, at least not meditative theory. I only meditate.” I nodded, stood up beside the bed so Mariah would stop standing over me, and realized I felt a lot better than I had before. I felt cleaner, even, and it had nothing to do with my extended shower the day before. “What now?” I asked. I didn’t want to leave the city yet, but I didn’t want to spend the whole day in the hotel room, either. Neither of us wanted to dwell on the possibilities of my near “death,” if we could call it that. “Do you want to continue traveling? We can leave this place?” I shook my head. “You do not want to go back to your mother, do you?” I shook my head again. “Do you want to stay in the room for a day? Rest?” I shook my head. “Then I have no idea,” she finished. “Is there a pool here?” “I… do not know. You would like to go swimming?” “Well, a hot tub sounds nice. For relaxing, yeah?” “Good point. We will have to go get swimsuits.” “That won’t be too hard.” “Then, shall we?” “Yes, we shall,” I said in a poor imitation of her voice.

“The hot water of the tub buried me inside of it. The warmth seeped into every pore of my being, and I relaxed even with the loud sounds of a family playing in the pool only a dozen feet to the side. Mariah slipped in beside me, and I took the opportunity to check her out. It was strange, having seen her in the formal attire of the picture, to know now what was beneath the dress. She had fair skin, and she kept good care of herself. Slim, but strong. Lithe, like a hunting cat. The analogy seemed strange and accurate to me, though Mariah was no huntress. The swimsuit, a one-piece since Mariah carried with her a modesty from her time as a real person, clung tightly to her form. When she came into the hot tub, water slid down her arms and chest with a shine that caught my eye. I turned away and slid deeper into the water. Mariah giggled. “Of all the people you could take the time to look at, you look at me,” she said. “You’re real.” “And they’re…” She stopped. “I’ve never thought about it like that before.” “Like, wait what?” I had said something profound, something that caused her to think, and I hadn’t even realized. “Maybe it is not that they are real and we are not. Maybe we are real and they are not.” Mariah nodded, content with her words. “Does it matter who’s real? I think it’s more a matter of who we can be with.” Mariah smirked. “And what do you mean by that?” I slid deeper into the water, and Mariah laughed. It wasn’t fair, her hundred and more years of life over me. A question popped into my mind, one urgent enough that I brought myself out of the water for it. “Mariah.” “Yes.” “You’re… easy to talk to, but you haven’t had much practice talking in your life as a… like this. How do you…” “When you really want to talk to someone, what do you do?” “I…” I hesitated. What did I do? I thought about my crushes in the past, girls I couldn’t bring myself to approach but I wanted to speak to more than anything. What did I do? I imagined conversations with them in my head. The good, the bad, the neutral, to prepare myself for anything. “I pretend to talk to them. In my head. Not like in a crazy way or—” “I know what you mean, because I do it too. And I do it still. I have done it for over a hundred years. It was not perfect practice, but by listening and pretending to talk to people I could remember language. It was… always weird, and talking to you is much nicer, but that is what I have done in the past.” “Talking to me is nicer?” “Talking to anyone really, but yes, you. People bring surprises, and I can never predict how a conversation will go. Or what you will be curious about and ask, like this. You seem to ask a lot of questions about how we live this life.” “Because you have way more experience than me.” “True, you have a valid point there. But still, you are a curious person. And respectful. Not like a lot of people of your relative age that I see. That is true for all the time I have lived as well. Teenagers are horrible people.” “That’s depressing.” “But not always is it true, exception number one.” She gestured to me. “You have reacted valiantly to this change, better than I did…” Mariah’s face screwed up with concern, probably about my disappearing act. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll just get better too, especially with meditation.” Her face remained worried, so I let the conversation die and slipped under the water. Mariah seemed affected by my struggle, more than I would expect. She was latching onto me, certainly, as a kind of protective figure, though her flirtatious nature removed any maternal aspect from our relationship. I wondered what Mariah had been through. She had lived a long time, but a very different type of life. She left her family early and traveled alone for great stretches of time. She met only those few other Gone, and they left her behind. Maybe… She hated leaving people. She had to leave her family. Her and the few friends she made parted ways, and most everyone couldn’t tell she existed. The nature of a human is to be social, so she would resist anything that threatens her new capacity to maintain that sociability. Concern etched into her features, I determined to take a different course. I slid closer to her, and she gave me a curious look. This changed into a smirk, and then to something completely neutral. She was waiting, it seemed to me, uncertain of what I would do. She knew me, to some extent at least, so she would not expect my next move. I reached out under the water and tickled her sides. Mariah’s eyes lit up with fire, and then she struggled against my hands as she squeaked. It was a funny sound unlike anything else I had heard from her. After a moment her struggle relented, and then she took up an attack on me. He hands wrapped themselves around my sides, and I was forced to push back just as she had done a moment before. The best defense was her offense, and it had me squirming. It was a battle, so I went back on the attack. I steeled myself, thrust my arms out to grab her sides, and pulled her closer. I locked her arms against me, limiting her movement, and then I tickled viciously. Our eyes met, and I saw ferocity like I had never before known. This calm, collected, and patient girl from two centuries previous was about to whoop my ass. And we both knew it. She pulled her arms from my sides and grabbed my wrists. We entered a stalemate, but that tenacity remained. Her eyes smoldered. Before I could resist and continue my attack, she leaned forward and kissed me. I stopped. I mean, I’d been kissed before, but with a year lacking human contact I was already in some sort of stupor. It wasn’t fair, so I kissed her back. She seemed at even more of a loss than I was, but we persisted through our confusion. A few moments later she pulled away, and she met my eyes for a moment before looking down at my chest. “I had never kissed anyone.” The words hung in the air. I wanted to reach out and grab them, internalize them, make them my own, but I realized I had already done that. She had never kissed anyone before. “I…” It felt wrong to say that I had, but I grinned and said, “I couldn’t tell.” She smirked, and then she said, “Oh, you couldn’t?” I felt trapped. I couldn’t explain myself, yet I had to. “This is mean,” I said, and she laughed as I moved to kiss her again.

“You know what? I’m going to end the story there, but I won’t leave you hanging. You see, we’ve been with each other since, growing close and appreciating the company more than anything else. I know she needs it more than I do after her previous time alone, but I am ecstatic to have her along. Someone to touch, to know, to make me feel real is important. It’s important for her too. The reason I’m ending the story here is because I think that part is over, honestly. I could tell you more about where we began to travel, the things we saw, and how we became closer, but I hate love stories. I hate listening to them more than I hate telling them, but fuck me if I do hate telling them.” “Adam, are you about done?” “Yes, you can get Mariah in here to tell her part.” The voice on the recording faded away as it called, “Mariah!” “So that’s it for now. We were Gone, and for a hell of a long time, but now you can at least sense us again, even if it’s with some roomful of equipment. Fuck if we didn’t wait a few thousand years for it, and fuck if we didn’t lose a planet and a few hundred billion people in the meantime. There’s more to tell, but you wanted us to start with what was most important. Mariah was, is, and I suspect will be the most important, even if my physical reality comes back. To be honest, I’m not sure I want it too.” “Hey babe, you done?” “Yeah, you ready?” “Of course. I planned out what I’m going to say.” “That’s lame. I winged it, and it probably turned out alright. More emotional, you know?” “Way to call me lame right before I talk about how much I love you on tape.” “I love you too.”

Click. You watch the audio file finally stop playing.