The Killing Poke


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Keil has a killer idea for a horror movie. He also has a hilarious idea for a comedy. It’s called Trash Night. Keil has his finger on the pulse of environmental activism and Trash Night will help the lumpen wake the fuck up as we’re so inured to eating our Prole-e-O’s while our Prones vibrate and our LobotoVision Sets no longer ask us if we’re still watching things from decades ago, it’ll just play them because it knows how you, well, you. Our tightly woven world lets us forget that we aren’t making things better with our reusable bags, our “No Dumping” ocean drains, and whatever the hell else you think you’re doing to save the environment as you go on with your day because our normal day has always been structured around abnormal, abominable waste.

This is all covered by this idea Keil’s been carrying. For the sake of his sanity he needs to share this story because the message within is the essence of what H.P. Lovecraft called “Cosmic Horror.” Keil is the harbinger of our doom. He isn’t the first, but he’ll give it to you in a way you want to watch, and the effect will outlast other attempts of tree-hugging proselytizing because he connects the issue with all of us. His story isn’t his, it’s not ours, it just is. The story doesn’t care about us. Other attempts gloss it up, give it three acts and an after-school-special message, perpetuate the anthropic principle. But this story in and of itself has no self, its only message is obvious and dreadful. It’s the kind of story no one wants to bank on because it’ll make you pop opioids and antidepressants like the popcorn you spill during the latest Marvel flick (#hailThanos) and forget like the empty bucket you leave under the seat during the second act lull, which is all a second act is; the bathroom break (another term is “musical” #changemymind). Hollywood players don’t want their name attached to this movie because no audience will risk killing their #bestself or #blessedlife to witness something they already “know” but this time presented #IRL with #nofilter. Keil’s only savior is the horror fan. The horror fan will pay dearly to see this movie, to be entertained by doom and destruction, and thrill at being allowed to see exactly why this is their fate. I am also willing to bet the average American consumer will be curious enough to see this movie now. It’s time. We are all ready.

However, Keil’s story comes as a warning. He wants to ask us a question, he wants to know if we’re too late. It just might be because there is a system beyond the social structure monopolized by a few. It is not God, it is not conscious, it is merely something that does not need us exists outside our reality. It makes clear that what we consider reality is a contrived world that is always a work in progress. This isn’t a paper about living in a Matrix-type world or the universe as a computerized hologram or about us living in the last electrical impulses of brain death, or an attempt to scare you straight. This essay is a very unintelligent attempt at understanding what our world really is by utilizing Eugene Thacker’s three philosophical volumes: In the Dust of this Planet – Starry Speculative Corpse – Tentacles Longer than Night. Another reason I turn to Thacker’s work is because Keil’s story encompasses elements in Thacker’s work, and Thacker uses elements of the horror genre to state his thesis. Understanding Thacker’s thoughts means you will be scared for the rest of your life, but to understand his volumes you need to be well-versed in horror themes. This merging of thought and genre means you will be delighted by terror, which is the crux of all horror; value at the cost of comfort, joy at the cost of security. Horror gets you thinking more constructively than other story genre because it shows you a monster and gives you the tools to deal with it.

Pollution concept. Garbage pile in trash dump or landfill at sunset.

My monster at the moment is writing this paper for Keil. He thinks he’s getting a gloriously thought-out piece that’ll help get people interested in our movie. What he doesn’t know is that I have no outline, just Thacker’s volumes vandalized with my pencil highlights and sticky flags. Keil doesn’t know that I am in my underwear, typing away at a crude standing desk. I am flying blind like most protagonists in a horror film, learning as other characters die around them. Thacker would remind me that I can die at any time, I’m not in control, and that it’s possible I’ve already failed. Nietzsche and Schopenhauer were lighthearted compared to Thacker. So let’s dive into the pitch tides of Thacker’s mind. But first some ground rules:

1 – I make no promises of changing your ways. It isn’t that I’m not a decent salesman (I used to be a telemarketer – The horror! The horror!) it’s just that we may already be in the depths of failure regardless of what we understand and realize from here on out.

2 – Drink. Being sober while reading this will be a chore, I recommend a strong ale from Firestone Walker or Stone, or a Japanese whiskey such as Hibiki, or a fine rum such as Bumbu or Kirk and Sweeney’s 23. Please drink from the top shelf; paint thinners will just impede your happiness. Cocktails are fine, I just like to keep it simple with neat little fingers of the good stuff. If you don’t go for alcohol I applaud you. It’s important to stay hydrated, however, so please have water/juice/coffee handy. I originally pitched Keil my idea for this paper as a drinking game, but fuck that. Drink as you see fit. You’ll see it doesn’t matter how you play. It doesn’t even matter if you play at all. You don’t decide the rules or the game or your involvement. Just the act of drinking is a simple thing you can do to stay tethered to our world, much like some suicide survivors or former addicts pick up coffee and cigarettes to fill in the blanks left by departed fantasy, dysfunctional behavior, and delusion. Boy, won’t this be fun!

3 – I highly recommend Eugene Thacker’s three volumes on horror and philosophy. Deceptively skinny paperbacks, they are each packed with dense concepts that hit with the impact of an indifferent asteroid colliding with the indifferent earth, and you just happen to be standing their texting in the shadow of doom. If you really want to know what I’m talking about, then please, go to the source. This paper will certainly miss the mark if one is to be made at all.

The last thing I should do is tell you Keil’s pitch. It’s quick, clever, and if you blink you just might miss the point and end up reading this long treatise on something that’s too simple to need explanation.

“Your trash comes back to take you out.”

Awesome, right? I love it, too. But you still have questions. “I know this is important, I’ve heard the shriek of environmentalists before, but why can’t I just nod and agree that environmentalism is good and get on with my day?” Or,“I saw The Happeninga million years ago, it was meh.”For starters, fuck you, no we can’t let you get on with your day, that’s the reason we’re all in this mess together. For seconders, FUCK YOU, this is not nature taking its revenge, nor is it a lame experiment using weakly twisted endings, robotic movie stars, and insecure cities pleading for screen time. Garbage coming to life is strictly allegorical to help ease you into a very simple idea that is difficult to fathom because humans are not engineered to perceive the world in such a way. It’s also awesome to imagine garbage creatures shredding people, so there’s solid entertainment value in the premise if you’re not into the deeper pretentions.

As far as our “reality” is concerned, the Huns are already inside the Cathedral, so to speak. You know a healthy and stable environment is good, but you actually might not get the real why of it. Thacker is here to help. You’ve seen The Happening and you care not to see a rehash with a different monster. I sympathize, but GTFO. No, actually, please don’t go! I need the validation because I, too, am a sucker for “our world.” We will get to what I mean when I say “our world.” Thacker defined this in his three volumes, discussing the difference between “the world for us” and“the world in itself.” Thacker’s two sequels turn philosophy works into works of horror and then into gems of philosophy. I’m going to work backwards through these volumes and take his concepts as observations of actual reality. I think this chronology and context will be beneficial. First, using volume three, Tentacles Longer than Night, I will explore what we think about horror and fear, and how we deal with the unknown. Second, using Starry Speculative Corpse, we’re going to explore the physical body and how it fits into our perception of self and the world around us. Third, we’ll take a look at the world “for us”and “in itself” using In the Dust of This Planet. Through all three parts I will reflect on Trash Night and how each volume touches on the story that makes this horror film such a good idea, especially right now in our world. Don’t worry, I can’t spoil anything, I’m in charge of writing the damn thing and I haven’t even started!



Tentacles Longer Than Night is a fantastic title. All three volumes boast the best titles in all of literature. This third and final horror philosophy volume looks at classic works of horror as philosophical theses, as papers discussing the unknown. What this juxtaposition does is show us that there is more than fiction and fancy going on within these tales of terror. You’ve heard this before, true fear is when you encounter the unknown. That moment before you know, uncertainty and apprehension that will either end in your favor or not, and the scale seems to be tipping in an unexpected direction. That moment when“Either I do not know the world, or I do not know myself” (pg. 6). Thacker makes a clarifying point here, stating that “what is often at stake is the verification of something strange actually existing” (pg. 5). Like tentacles in black, watery depths, these thoughts have grasped us on multiple levels at some point in our lives, and hopefully only as we are consuming fiction. There are rules to the world as we sense it, scientific laws governing existence, and when something breaks these rules it resonates as horror until we understand it. But what if understanding does not come?

Trash Night fits into our real world—until the trash comes to get us. Suddenly all bets are off and the characters scramble to figure out the new rules to the world they thought they knew. “It’s all in your head. It really happened. These mutually exclusive statements mark out the terrain of the horror genre” (pg. 5). Even though Tentacles Longer Than Night is the last book in Thacker’s trilogy, thought is the first reaction of the characters in Trash Night. We see it in their eyes, an action paused, a piece of dialogue frozen as they witness the world behaving in an alien way. The mental gears turn and for a moment there’s nothing but fear. Panic spreads as new rules assert themselves via violent death borne from monstrous entities made from the waste of something as innocent as a discarded magazine or beer can. It’s silly, but also terrible because trash is everywhere and now it’s changing into cohesive beasts with one mind. This should be impossible, but your boo just got impaled and shredded by the innards of a waste bin, and you’re next as the rancid tendrils of whatever you threw out hours ago is now alive and thirsting for your blood. Trash Night finds its characters like others in the horror genre; frozen in thought, then debating the truth of a new reality. The phrase “think fast!” has never carried more weight than here. Imagine playing a game with one set of rules, then another set of rules is introduced when one of your teammates is murdered, and not just killed but pulverized by something that cannot be. At first you’re not sure if this is real or not, then you’re forced to figure out the new boundaries. “[…] Horror is not just the horror of fear or of a physical threat, but an indefinite horror. Language falters, as does thought.” (pg.? – my bad, I lost the location of this gem) An indefinite horror. The fear of a moment becomes your entire life. This alien moment expands, like tentacles in the dark, and while you’re caught up trying to puzzle out the reason for this wild trigger you don’t even realize your mind and body have failed. You don’t realize you cannot win against something you cannot fathom because it has never happened before and should be impossible. But… but… what if this fear is of the world you happen to live in? What if your brain, in the seconds before death, realizes that it was never your world? Trash Night isn’t just about humans fighting amorphous tentacular spider-squid-shadow trash beings, it’s also about the trash things attacking our human-centric world, which is how we think of all reality. Humans as groups think of our existence in various ways, and more so when considering individual thought. “But one commonality all these positions have is that they articulate a basic relationship between the human being and the limit of its capacity to adequately comprehend the world in which it finds itself.” (pg. 19) No matter what you believe, or what your core group believes, your thought cannot encompass everything this world holds. You realize what you hold is a mere sliver of what actually is.

The only reason any of us gets up in the morning is that we believe in a sequence of events for the day, in ritualized behavior to reinforce predictions, and specific patterns to guide us away from the unknown. For anyone who has had a mental breakdown you know how fragile these mechanisms are despite being so valuable to a comfortable existence. These elements are limited in their capacity to help us understand reality. We are unable to take in the big picture. We don’t have the software or the hardware.

We see this as the characters in Trash Night grapple with the impossible reality of murderous garbage. Our heroes cannot take it in and end up fighting as best they can using what they know of reality, which is no longer a crutch or even their reality, as this reality now allows trash to become sentient. We would not allow this, yet here it is, devouring our loved ones and forcing us to think of a way out of a real fantasy, forcing us to use what we know against what we cannot compute. The only way to win against trash monsters is a rapid and radical shift in perception, in prejudice and assumption. The worst fear is realizing your perception is all wrong, that your assumptions were not your reality taken for granted, but rather windows into the reality that has been in front of you your whole life. Once your mind goes, your body will follow.

artist: Jack Jerz @JackJerz


Instinct is your body reacting without the aid of complex thought. You act as seamlessly as breathing. This all depends on your brain perceiving a pattern or stimulus; but what if there’s a stimulus that has no mental registry? Thacker uses his second volume, Starry Speculative Corpse, to look at philosophy books as if they were works of horror. What I find interesting is the constant use of our presence in the world as examples to showcase these horrors. This second volume sees people acting on what they cannot fathom, how a body copes with the unattainable and inexplicable.

Misfortune is an event that threatens what you perceive as your life, its rules and boundaries. You take action to correct your trajectory, you deal with the problem. A solution is found when the problem is part of your world and you are able to rise above it using the tools you have, tools you were born with or ones you’ve honed over time. For instance, the problem of taking out the trash. You see the trash can is full, it’s an inconvenience but your mind sees this, knows a pattern to deal with it, and you take action. It’s simple, until the trash within the can moves, shoots out one or two exploratory antennae or fingers that stretch and seek your warmth. You knew how to deal with the trash before it came to life, and your plan was to tie up the bag and heft it out to the curb. Now, you’ve got nothing. Not only do you have the emergency of the thing that was not and cannot, but even after you slam the lid and run behind locked doors you still have to deal with this new entity and also figure out why the life you’ve enjoyed up to this point has allowed this to happen. “In Western tradition, nearly every philosophical position, every philosophical ‘decision,’ every assertion of being, identity, or oneness, relies on a minimal relation between thought and world, self and other, subject and object” (pg. 81). Everything we do every day is stake a claim on existence, our importance and physical presence feels necessary. Things that threaten our physicality are dealt with in two ways: one, the threat correlates with “our” reality and can be beaten through action, or two, the threat isn’t on our plane of understanding, so we run and hide or choose to ignore it if it’s not life-threatening (and sometimes even if it is). Some problems we perceive as annoying, like the buildup of dishes in the sink or the full trashcan you smell when you come home. Ignoring a problem is convenient when doing so reinforces your perception of reality. You don’t want to do the dishes or take out the trash because you have better things to do that are more important. You must be the center of your world if you are to be happy, and that is a severe flaw.

So, the trash is alive. What is alive can die, so maybe you can kill it, but you’re still frozen stiff in your hiding place. Your physical body suddenly has a reduced status in the world, if any place at all. Physics don’t change so radically, so you now get the uneasy feeling that this has always been the way of things. If this is real, then your importance, and resulting life expectancy, is meaningless. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve been taught has been bolstered by only human perception of the world, by doing things with your body that build on human concepts, from playing sports to writing a paper about living trash, we can do anything as long as our actions reinforce our importance. Even negative actions, from murder to political corruption, make us believe we’re the only movers and shakers on Earth. “From a certain vantage point, the history of Western philosophy looks like a somewhat panicky, feverish attempt to cover up the suspicion that there may not be more.” (pg. 153) Trash Night isn’t about the meaninglessness of existence, it’s more urgent than that bullshit. It’s about how our lifestyles are based on fantasy, not reality. As we live we’re generating an equal and opposing reaction. There is more to our lives than we perceive, but it negates our lives. Starry Speculative Corpse lends the human psyche depression and pessimism as the body’s only source of solace in the face of such indifference. Life isn’t meaningless, it just isn’t about us. We make it about us as best we can, but it’s a lie. “[…] we forget that the world is not human.” (pg. 143)

By the way, the trash monster is still out there. If you’re in a room with trash, then that’s coming to life, too. You get the analogy, right? We make a lot of things, we do a lot of things, but the most we make and do is garbage. We do our best to avoid it for health reasons, but we also choose to forget about it. Our true legacy is trash. Pessimism, nihilism, these are perceptions of a human world, not the real world. “The tendency to take the worst view of things, or the tendency to always expect the worst, is about an interpretation of the world, not about the world itself.” (pg. 138) The world we live in doesn’t mind that we are suffocating in our wastes. It doesn’t need our life-support system to survive; we do.

Trash Night gets scary when you realize it’s not about vindictive monsters, it’s about our attempts to escape the consequence of life for the sake of lifestyle. The story revolves around monsters because that’s fun, but the monsters are actually here and they really don’t need to come to life to kill us. Just as the monsters are an allegory for real trash heaps, the characters are us. They take action by running away, by gathering weapons and more people to help, by attacking the monsters, and when all that fails the characters realize they must change their very foundations of thought and perception in order to combat what doesn’t care and yet will kill us if we continue being human. Will they survive? Sure, although why haven’t solutions for our global consumption problems worked yet? Is it because we are fixing human problems instead of the actual problems? We cart it off, send it away, flush it, bury it, recycle some, but none of that actually deals with it. It’s the equivalent of running away from the trash monster and trying to ignore it even as more spawn from other waste receptacles. You realize that biding your time in a world that isn’t yours doesn’t work. You’re surrounded by something that will kill you, but it’s not evil, it’s not like you are able to ignore the real world, it is of the world and you made it possible. It’s a weird paradox, but it’s true. As you back up into the corner of the room you thought was safe the trash monsters slither and squirm to get at you, breaking things in the way and making more trash to add to its shape-shifting body, you realize that this is your fault and that your place in the world is insignificant. The paradox is that this is a comfort, the only problem is that we waited too long to make simple changes in the way we live. We don’t need to save the planet; we only need to save ourselves from ourselves.

What the hell? What is he talking about? Growing up in the ‘80s and ‘90s meant you saw ad campaigns designed to get kids active in saving the environment. Our hearts were in the right place, but the perception of reality is all wrong and no one talks about this because most people don’t think of reality being like what Thacker projects in his volumes, and even if you do then it’s just that much harder to take action until you change your mind to change how you move. If your mind can adjust, your body will follow and you can actually do something. This requires that you see the paradox that negates your own existence. Trash Night makes its point with unidentifiable monsters made from our refuse and reminds us through dark comedy and absurd death that “[…] we have never been one with the planet, nor does the planet require our cleverness and technical ingenuity to save it – from ourselves.” (pg. 9) So, the literal solution is to save ourselves by changing our lives to align with sustainable function rather than consumption. We don’t need to consider the planet; it doesn’t care one way or the other.

trash monster sighting


So, here we are. The last part of this journey. Part one explored frightening thoughts when alien stimuli make us witness the unknown, part two saw how our bodies, our muscles, and senses fail when faulty thoughts and selfish perception force us to deal with true horror using only human-world tools. It is clear we are inept when it comes to absorbing true reality, but my goodness, aren’t we good at absorbing high-grain alcohol? I’m not judging you here, this is a safe place. Whatever gets you through this paper, right? By the way, I joke about awful coping mechanisms, but I’m writing this thing on nothing more than coffee and snacks. If you are in a spiral of harmful coping, whether it’s addiction to substances or hapless behavior, there is help. Unfortunately, you will not find it here. Though, in a way I did help; you now know that your help isn’t here and you should go elsewhere. I’ve just narrowed your scope. It took several pages to get such solid advice. You’re welcome for that. This paper is feeling like a padded room, isn’t it? This is akin to my thesis, the world reveals itself in this inconvenient way, too, because we are too busy being human. “Tragically, we are most reminded of the world-in-itself when the world-in-itself is manifest in the form of natural disasters.” (pg.5) Inconvenient at best, deadly at worst, through natural disaster, climate change, and just plain physics the world reveals its true nature. It crushes, washes, shakes, burns, electrocutes, and blows away all of our glorified pretenses. Fasten your straightjackets, it’s going to be a batty ride!

Throughout all three volumes, Thacker pleads with his audience that in order to see things as they really are we need to forget that we are human. We need to drop all our beliefs, pretentions, attachments. He brings up nihilism and pessimism, the Western abrasive versions of these concepts and Eastern philosophies that embrace the void. All of which only reveal snippets of this “world in itself” as we live mostly in “a world for us.” Our perception of the world is limited, our ability to process the slick moments of truth are fleeting and fragile, and our ability to act according to the true physics of our world is pitiful. But why?

“[…] The problem is the very structure of belief, the very structure of meaning-making” (pg. 95, Speculative Corpse). Everything we do and think is human-centric. This is the best way for us to live and survive. We need to believe we are part of the world, we need to believe we control it and it shares in our successes and failures. That it supports our religions, governments, and societies. It’s hard to believe otherwise. It’s hard to believe that the pedestal we stand upon isn’t there for us to pontificate from, or that it’s not a pedestal at all. It’s also hard to believe that I’m discussing In the Dust of This Planet and I haven’t even used quotes from it yet. So, without further ado, allow me to draw your attention to The Kingdom of the Wicked by Anthony Burgess. This is the story about the clash between Roman Empire and Christianity. It’s a great novel, you’ve got the Apostles stirring up the people, Caligula in all his rancid glory, and a volcano that doesn’t take sides despite all the holy fervor of Paul et al. And the Roman Empire doesn’t hold a torch to Pompeii, either. The whole book has you witness atrocities committed both in the name of Emperor Little Boots (Caligula) and in the name of the new Christian god. Burgess builds so much meaning into the rise of Christianity you can’t help but root for those underdogs, such as the hilarious book-burning scene where “Silas and Luke, both bookish men, were uneasy about the incineration of some very fine volumes bound in leather with gold locks, but Paul said:

            ‘Look at that obscenity. And that. Dog predicating man. Man predicating dog.’

            ‘They could be sold.’

            ‘To other magical charlatans.’

            ‘But see the workmanship.’

            ‘On the fire with it, Luke.’ (Burgess, Wicked pg. 229)

Where some men see value others see the obscene. How can we see the true world when we can’t even agree on the value of things or ideas? It’s so ephemeral and shifting, yet from moment to moment it feels like that’s all there is, when really we only see an ozone of our creation that unintentionally hides the true nature of existence. This is the heart of everything Thacker exposes in his volumes, especially In the Dust of This Planet. At the end of The Kingdom of the Wicked, Pompeii erupts and casts molten lava and suffocating ash over an entire city and people who had spent their whole lives fighting for a just government and righteous beliefs. Both Christian and Roman loyalist meet the same fate. The world doesn’t care for us and is not against us. The world is indifferent to our wants and desires. The world does not recognize our pain. We exist here, but we are not part of the world.

And so can garbage. In multiple places in his volumes Thacker alludes to the dead as aligned with the real world, “the world in itself,” which we as living beings cannot see in total because of our sometimes overactive and sometimes underactive sensory perceptions and culturally/socially/religiously constructed biases. In a poem on page 150 of In the Dust of This Planet it states plainly, “A life form in dynamic, cosmic equilibrium/With its environment/Is dead.” Garbage is like a zombie, it once had “life” according to our perception of “things we use,” but at this point it is something cast aside and forgotten until it spills from its coffin of a waste bin, in which it inevitably is joined in force with other forgotten dregs of things deemed “useless,” spreading and making a mess in our lives as if it were sentient. Trash Night makes this apparent as it shrinks the time frame where garbage does its damage. Instead of taking geological time to see how garbage kills us, Keil’s story puts the damage on a human time scale, where the damage done is quick and violent. The garbage takes on life, and it literally would appear so if we were to see it from the real world’s perspective. In this way the garbage may appear evil as it rises from its grave in inhuman form and kills us, but it’s a simple statement of natural fact that we cannot live amongst garbage, so even in its indifferent dead form that is aligned with the real world it is perceived as evil because its indifference to our life is our death. The living cannot live in waste despite creating it on a regular basis. So, we throw it away hoping it never comes back, and if it does we call it some sort of “other” that gives it evil agency so we feel we need to fight it for our righteous existence instead of answering for our own mistakes.

We constantly see glimpses of this world-in-itself. It’s hard to define, but you get the concept, right? What Thacker dubs the world-in-itself is what he’s calling the actual world, the one we never see unless it’s killing us, the one that is the opposite of what he calls the “world for us.” It’s easier to explain the “world for us” and by contrast you’ll understand the difference and why Trash Night is profound. Thacker defines both concepts swiftly and with economy: “This is the world that we, as human beings, interpret and give meaning to, the world that we relate to or feel alienated from, the world that we are at once a part of and that is also separate from the human. But this world-for-us is not, of course, totally within the ambit of human wants and desires; the world often ‘bites back,’ resists, or ignores our attempts to mold it into the world-for-us. Let us call this the world-in-itself.” (pg.4-5)

Cute as a small-caliber bullet, Thacker’s words make a dainty hole in your forehead that appears to be a simple killshot but upon autopsy you see it’s done damage to your brain on a wholly supernatural level, ricocheting around inside your cranium, shredding and mutilating the gray matter within. The world we know and explore and study is merely the world-for-us. There’s another side to this planetary coin and its picture is bleak to us because it does not serve us. The sunrise you adore, the breeze that brings the smell of roses, the rain that tastes sweet, the cool surface of a water-washed stone. These are real sensations, but there is no meaning coming from the Earth with these sensations. The meaning comes from within ourselves, not Mother Nature. We feel happy with these sensations, terrified or disgusted by others. Some of these sensations are culturally modified and molded, others naturally dictate the essence of your survival and navigation of ourworld. The world-in-itself does not care one way or the other. It just is and will be so regardless of what you think of its physicality or how you interpret your sensory overload. Believing in its sanctity will not save you from a natural disaster or curry its favor. Remember Pompeii? Katrina? Going in the opposite direction, destroying the environment, will not incur the Earth’s wrath. Doing so will only make it harder for us to live because we need a healthy environment, the Earth doesn’t have will or agency of its own.

The Earth, by a series of cosmic events, somehow changed into an orb of life. It didn’t allow this to happen, it didn’t want this and (at the risk of the dreaded double negative), the Earth did not not want life to inhabit its surfaces. It seems we are trapped and terrorized by our own senses and our own perception of agency. We define the world in our terms and believe this is real. “The human is always relating either to itself or to the world. And these two types of relations overlap with each other: the human can only understand the human by transforming it into an object to relate to (psychology, sociology), while the human can only relate to the objective world itself by transforming the world into something familiar, accessible, or intuited in human terms (biology, geology, cosmology).” (pg.30)

This is why the world can get scary, and why we gravitate to horror even when we see the humor of affairs. Even when we define the world, and even while defining ourselves in the process, sometimes events or things around us do not play by the rules. We forget that “the rules” are not actually true, they are merely our rules for a game we play on a board we cannot sense entirely. Trash Night embraces the horror and humor of playing this “game.” The characters struggle to define and understand the rules the trash entities are killing by, hoping to find the loophole that will save them. The characters haven’t read Thacker. If they had, they would have embraced the void knowing their attempts were futile. The entities are monsters to us, their actions horrible to us, but to the “world-in-itself” these monsters are as much a nothing as we are. And even more difficult to grasp is both monster and human alike don’t even register to this world-in-itself, the truth of the matter is there is no registry, no scale. The world will not save us from our trash. Keil’s story is profound because while it is a scary and funny tale about teens battling creepy trash monsters (and boy they are gonna look cool, like H.P. Lovecraft slippery, slithery, spiky!) the story takes into account this “world-in-itself”and ends up being unlike any monster or disaster flick you’ve ever seen. Unlike those Hollywood blockbusters and even awesome B-movies, Trash Night takes into account the cold, hard fact that the world doesn’t care if Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is leading the way, or if Ed Wood is behind the camera. The world doesn’t care if Greenpeace endorses the film or if a vile corporation funds it for product placement that ends up subverting its hearty and terrible message.

artist: Jack Jerz @JackJerz

It’s scary to think about monsters that kill because it’s their behavior simply by being, rather than a will that can be changed with force or diplomacy. It’s also scary to get suckered into a horror-comedy film that confronts futility. However, this isn’t the case if you obey your beautiful, inevitable human biases and give the void meaning. This is how the characters in Trash Night piece together a solution to their battle. But is it too late? Guess we’ll find out once I stop writing this damn essay and get on with the first-draft rewrite. And don’t be fooled, even if showing the “world-in-itself” as trash monsters is a clever way to glimpse what our trash is doing to us, it’s still not a reveal of the secret world in which we dwell. But that’s ok, we don’t need that world, we have ours. Allow me a few more moments to draw this weird concept out.

“[…] the world is indifferent to us as human beings. Indeed, the core problematic in the climate change discourse is the extent to which human beings are at issue at all. On the one hand we as human beings are the problem; on the other hand at the planetary level of the Earth’s deep time, nothing could be more insignificant than the human.” (pg.158) I will argue that it does matter what we do with our world, the “world for us” because it’s the vessel that allows us and other species to live—including some who, given time, might become what we call sapient and write more philosophy-horror tomes). The more we damage it, the less likely it will sustain our lives. Duh! But what I am getting at is that we don’t need to worry about the world as the world, we need a radical change in our perception of it. We need to stop thinking of the Earth as something that needs saving; at worst it doesn’t care and at best it’s still too big an operation for us to take on. What needs to happen is that we need to include waste in the conversation. It can no longer be an unmentionable or an alien concept we hide from because our garbage isn’t alien, and it can’t be unmentionable when it’s just hidden inside something in your own clean home. Garbage needs to be addressed with humor and simplicity and efficiency because doing otherwise is scary and will continue to be just that if we don’t see that our waste is a part of our lives and doesn’t go away like past gods or outdated science. Garbage is the most solid example of the “world-in-itself” in our “world for us”—it is dead, no longer an extension of our will or agency, and it has no desire to continue your life or end it—but the accumulation of garbage inside our zone of “pretending it goes away” tips the balance in favor of extinction.

So, we need to end our ignorance and deal with our trash if we want to escape the equivalent of Trash Night’s monsters coming back for us as we go about our fractured lives of fantasy, living as if the world was truly made for us.

Our garbage is already destroying people in many parts of the world. They are feeling the killing strokes of waste. We are merely feeling the annoying pokes, an unsavory smell or unsightly litter, the loud crash of a dumpster being emptied in the morning—but this is only a preview of the coming world. It will feel like revenge, but this is just the weight of existence.

This is the new world ordure.


By the way, until Friday night (6/15/18), you can help bring about the Trashpocalypse by donating to Trash Night’s campaign:

Again, donating or not, making the film or not – the trash is still coming for you.



Burgess, A. (1985). The Kingdom of the Wicked.Franklin Center, Pennsylvania, USA: Arbor House Publishing Co.

Thacker, E. (2011). In the Dust of This Planet(Vol. 1). Alresford, United Kingdom: Zer0 Books.

Thacker, E. (2015). Starry Speculative Corpse(Vol. 2). Alresford, United Kingdom: Zer0 Books.

Thacker, E. (2015). Tentacles Longer Than Night(Vol. 3). Alresford, United Kingdom: Zer0 Books.

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Hourly in the Flood

They were losers.  They used to be scary in their bright blue jerseys with the crimson scorpion dead center that you could see from the field goal kick, swarming across the trampled turf like a spray of water and blood.  The Scorpions were badass because they used to be the champs.  The Scorpions would always be scary because they were scorpions.  It didn’t matter that it wasn’t true.  They had illusion and history on their side and no one could change that, no matter how many losses, no matter how angry Coach Rope got during hell week, no matter how hard he cried behind the bleachers at season’s end, people respected The Scorpions, but they also didn’t bet on them.  The scouts stopped crashing their games.  It used to be different.

The downfall of The Scorpions, and Scorpio High School, happened when Colt Zurk stopped playing.  There is no “I” in team, but without Colt the team fell apart like removing the keystone in the archway over the front entrance to the high school, the oldest building in town.  Today the school pumped out pristine students ready for any mediocre college, but no longer the athletic gods recruited by Ivy League institutions.  Those Olympians paid for the Italian marble that made the stairwells and hallways echo, their winnings also funded the library, and most importantly, Colt Zurk was one of many athletes whose plays paid for the sports equipment and fields that were now the icons of shame as if tainted by a curse.  Rumor had it that so many tears were shed on each field (one for each major sport) that the salt killed the grass no matter what the grounds keepers did.  Eventually, the school had to fire the keepers and install Astroturf because funding losers is a rich man’s game.

As of six-months ago the school was no longer an Ivy League primer.  Scorpio High was named for its inception, All Hallows Eve, 1929.  By all accounts it never should have succeeded.  It survived and thrived as a modest immigrant establishment helping students assimilate into American society, ushering them through the gateway of the American Dream.  Over the decades it became a benchmark and rite for the development of all, until today.

Colt Zurk stopped playing.  Kyle overheard teachers and administrative staff try to figure out how the town’s crown had lost its cherished jewel and the only answer anyone ever came up with was that Colt Zurk stopped playing.  That spoiled mother fucker.

Kyle was too much of an introverted wuss to point out that Colt was not the only reason.  Students all across the board were doing poorly.  Teachers quit and fled the cheap rural district for better jobs in the city long before Colt vanished.  The student president successfully campaigned to keep the soda machines and abysmal (yet delicious!) lunches on the menu when every other school was upgrading their menus for health.  There was also a bullying problem at Scorpio.  This phenomenon probably had something to do with the goddamn namesake.  If you identify as an arachnid with a poison stinger and pincers you eventually want to grab people and stick them for real.  If there was any one problem with Scorpio, if you could nail one thing down as the reason it was failing, then Kyle believed it was just the school’s strict adherence to tradition.  The district’s policies ignored technology and mental health, forcing students to use ancient Texas Instrument calculators and leveling everyone regardless of gender identity to an absurd level of pre-WWII masculinity.

Kyle was seeing staff and students fracture like the building itself.  The newest addition had been a Cold War bomb shelter.  Nothing else had been touched since then.  The plumbing failed like clockwork, the electricity sparked fires inside walls, the windows were tinted in such a way as to allow only fiery colors in, blocking out cool greens and blues.  The glass was forged with gold for this effect, originally installed in 1929 to dazzle everyone with the institution’s resilience to the crashing economy.  The town wouldn’t dare touch such a landmark that had never had a blemish until now.  The people would never admit they needed to burn it down and get modernized.

Nope.  Blame it on the AWOL quarterback.

Kyle saw his chance and got to work.  He balanced AP classes; Calc, English Lit, History, Bio-Chem, Physics, Qualitative Analysis (they called it “Quality Anal” for the lulz), SAT Prep, and Poli-Sci.  He also was involved in the debate and drama clubs.  He never got involved in sports, detested them for the kinds of assholes who joined and for the empowerment the sports institutions gave to those assholes.  If Kyle wanted to enroll Ivy League without sports he had to grab everything else and then some.  Yet, some bozo who ate lead-chips with his frosted flakes drowned in Simpler Times lager could get a full scholarship if he could catch an object or throw one – nothing else mattered.  Kyle replaced his prejudice with sports.  Let them try to deny me now, he thought looking towards the schools he dreamed of enrolling.

Kyle tried to convince his friends to join him.  He laid out the scientific evidence and cultural qualifiers for his argument – health, babes, power, future.  His friends laughed it off, they had plans for their future already.  They were adherents to the tried and true method of market research yields coincidental opportunity, which required everything but sports.  In fact, anything physical beyond typing and rotating a mouse detracted from their potential as the next Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, or Stephen Hawking (some of them were even jealous of Hawking – All he does is sit there and think out theories and no one says boo!)

Kyle alienated himself from these lifelong friends.  He picked up Schwarzenegger instead of Dostoyevsky, Paterno instead of Nabokov, and it was painful at first.  But then The Gains happened.

He didn’t know the jocks thought his AP classes stood for “Asshole Production.”  Kyle took on his current AP courses and sports.  It was his battle against hip ignorance, the invisible clique everyone dubbed the Ignorant Horde, and they were worse than the Freaks (aka Goths).  The Ignorant Horde were kids who had the aptitude but no interest.  They were nihilists and every year they grew and were tolerated with more and more patience.  Kyle hated the IH more than he hated jocks.  Kyle had anger issues and sports had been suggested for him on more than one occasion, especially after the time he chucked his Texas Instrument at Donald Ribald’s smug face for being such a wise-ass in Calc.  Donald was also the kid who wanted to be paralyzed so he could think all the time and not get in trouble for it – Kyle had tried to do Donald a favor and was sorry he missed the shot.

Kyle had to bring the football team back into the limelight because without a key sports team the Ivy Leagues would not see him.  Or so he thought.  He had debates with himself in the bathroom mirror while Mom and Dad shouted at reruns of Jeopardy and chuckled over America’s Funniest.  Kyle missed doing that, sitting with them and laughing and yelling answers.  But he was going crazy, a good crazy.  He had no time to himself, but his self wouldn’t pay the bills in the future, wouldn’t slay dream-girl pussy, and certainly never land the good life.  Fuck self.  That was the sentiment of the latest debate with his reflection, fuck self because no one gives a shit after Kindergarten.  Kyle recognized the paradox of arguing with himself.  He struggled with the idea of Free Will, too, but thankfully weights and the change in his diet helped him not think.

Yeah, The Gains happened.  Skinny scarecrow Kyle used his brains to change his diet.  He ate whole rotisserie chicken and steamed veggies.  Nothing else, just veggies and a stack of real protein.  He punished himself in the gym.  He wore a baseball cap, the brim tee-peed so he couldn’t see more than the weights in front of him, and no one could see his face go dark purple lifting eight-pound dumbbells.  Study hall periods became one of two things, weights or shits.  He realized the hard way that mass media focuses so much on weight loss that the little guys are left to discover the horrors of The Gains.  He was lucky to be in the teachers’ good graces, which meant he could rush to the bathroom any time he needed.  Unlike the Ignorant Horde, who needed hall passes to even turn their heads away from a dry erase board, Kyle could rush a men’s-room-squat after dumbbell squats, or any time his body needed.  At first his body had no idea what to do with all of this forced protein, but Kyle had always been a quick learner.

Kyle whipped his self into shape.  Girls started noticing, laughing during the first month as their jock steadies pointed him out in the weight room benching ten pounds, but then they got curious.  For one he smelled good, something about the change in his testosterone levels.  Even while sweating kettle bell throws, or running seven miles a day to and from school with his backpack loaded with the tools of learning he smelled like the Marlboro Man, or James Dean leather goods.  Another reason he was a curious specimen was that he refused contacts and wore his staple thick glasses just so people wouldn’t mistake him for some new kid.  And finally, he earned Them Gains.  He had been fighting over his meek and mild biology for months and achieved Olympian-bod-status.  Ripped, chiseled, yoked from calves to neck.  Yet, he was not distracted.  He got maybe four hours of sleep per night (given that it takes the average person ninety minutes to reach peak rapid-eye-movement rest) and juggled all of those AP classes without stimulants.  He had a deadline to meet.  Hell Week was coming.  Sandra would not divert his mission.  Let her burn, Kyle thought and he knew she liked his cold shoulders as she watched him alone on the bleachers as he did offensive and defensive runs alone on the ruined field.  He got a thrill seeing her rebuff the standard jocks’ advances.  Sandra ignored top-tier alpha males while sketching in a notebook and sneaking looks at Kyle.  She had a mission, too.  He was motherfucking magma as long as he never indulged in more than his path.  As long as he remained mysterious he was sure to be the one to save the Scorpions from infamy.

In secret, just before bed, he outlined his autobiography and dedicated it to over-loaded kids everywhere, and to Sandra.  He had visions of super bowls and book deals, of movie cameos and primetime interviews.  Of Sandra melting his cold heart with lips as plump as cushions in an Arabian harem.

He was truly a self-made man.  Kyle was ready for Hell Week.

Hell Week was not the hardest part of football training, but it weeded out the ones who would not make the team.  Coach Rope was the weed whacker.  He exterminated losers with extreme prejudice.  He was a tiny Asian man, and he demanded respect through his voice alone.  Clear, American, his voice seemed to erupt from his veiled eyes as he never opened his mouth wide, except when the Scorpions lost and he was found crying behind the bleachers.  If anything, Kyle hoped he could stop Coach Rope from crying.  The man had been majestic, and underneath the vile, abusive language was a man in love with maturity, male development, and respectability.  Rope was a true leader and gentleman.  But when it was game time he called everyone baby boner, cuntcake, fuck buckle, cashew cock, booger brains, twat swat – and forming exclamations such as “Great catch, dribble dick!” Or “Run like diarrhea over the Hollywood Hills, Jail Bait!”  Ninety-percent of the time none of the Scorpions had any idea what the hell he was talking about, but most of them figured out the essentials through context and volume.  Coach Rope was a man of the world, so the school kept him on despite parental complaints.  He had mysterious connections beyond the state’s borders and would write glorious letters of recommendation for his best players.

Kyle absorbed Rope’s verbal abuse and found peace in the chaos.  He found a respect for sports he had never known.  It was tough catching and throwing, it was tough getting your body to move.  It took an insane amount of energy and intelligence to get to this point, and Kyle was realizing this point was the floor of the challenge and not the ceiling.

The more Coach Rope screamed the more Kyle cared.  Kyle called Rope Sensai and Rope did not understand the word.  The dude was truly American.  Kyle’s irreverence grabbed Rope’s attention.  Kyle loved the brutal hours spent on the field after school let out.  It was the perfect getaway from using his brain all day.  It was the perfect way to see Sandra from the bleachers; low sun glow through her dark hair (goddamn her).

The middle of Hell Week Coach Rope took Kyle aside.

“Look, light switch dick, you’re gonna be the all-star of the team, no shits or giggles, mother fucker, you feel it, too?”

Kyle took a second to translate Rope’s compliment, “Hai!”

To which Rope frowned and nodded.

“But you’re no Colt Zurk.”  It was the worst thing Coach Rope could say to anyone, especially someone who had worked so hard.  Rope knew it, too.  Rope was leading Kyle into some sort of arrangement.  Kyle had read enough literature to predict real interactions.  If you know the characters you know the story.

“You want Colt Zurk back.”  Kyle said, beating Rope to the punch.  Kyle felt betrayed.  He was only doing all of this for his own advancement.  After everything; the protein digestion stink, the rejection of friends and video games, the aches and pains of working muscles that had never known life, closing his eyes meant he saw text book columns in white on black – all of this glorious agony was not just so he could bring a loser back to the fold.

“Coach Rope.  I’m Colt Zurk.  You’re looking at him.  I know it’s only the middle of trials, but we both know I’m the best one here.”  Kyle said with a smug smile.  Rope razed his confidence with his eyes.  Kyle’s teammates glowered at him.  Kyle fucked up, he was breaking up the team before it had even solidified.  Colt Zurk would have brought everyone together.

“You’re not.  But you can get him back.  You still run with the Asshole Production?”

Kyle tried to calm down, to think of the words that would win this debate.  He hadn’t expected to need his brains out here, not with Rope, and certainly not to prove himself to the worst football team.  The words didn’t come.  There were no words because the argument had already been won the instant it was posited.  The adults and bureaucracy that kept Scorpio High alive were bound to an insidious curse and they needed their fetish back.  They needed Colt Zurk, there was no other way.

“When I bring him back you promise to make me captain.”  Kyle said, extending his hand.

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because he didn’t get lost.  He quit.”  Kyle spat into his palm as did the coach.  Rope met Kyle’s hand with an iron grip that squished.  Rope would enjoy showing that Kyle was wrong.  All apostates would kneel or perish once Colt Zurk returned and the Scorpions regained their former glory.

Kyle would be the school’s unsung hero, or the harbinger of terrible truth – like a scientist proving climate change has gone too far for any fix.  Either way this was a bad deal for Kyle.  He did not understand why he was so excited.

Colt Zurk was a funny name.  Of course Colt was the only “Colt” in the school, also the only “Zurk.”  If Kyle had time and wasn’t so invested in his body and his endgame then he would have spent hours in the library tracing Colt’s lineage, trying to find where the name came from and who had been a Zurk before Colt ruined everything.  Kyle was having trouble enough just locating the had-been football star in a school where there were two thousand students destined for stellar mediocrity.  Born to be mild, should be the school’s new motto instead of hic manebimus optima!  Kyle paused in his thoughts.  He could no longer translate born to be mild into Latin.  His Latin went to a late grave while he was making laps around the track, farting his way to another meal before his body burned what it had gained.

Kyle scoped The Nerds he used to hang with and they were wary of his orbit.  When he asked those former friends about Colt Zurk they looked at him like he was a stranger.

“He’s not with us…”  One said, a kid Kyle used to play board games with between study sessions.  They had created a modified D&D campaign that had lasted months with revolving dungeon masters, like a television show with multiple directors and directions.  They never finished the game.  Kyle could not remember where his character had ended up.  He had blurred memories of laughing and squirting black tea out his nose because they had all quit sugar thanks to their sucrose studies for a joint chemistry/biology/social studies extra credit.

“Have you heard anything about him?”  Kyle asked.

“Why?”  They were getting snarky, stuck up.  And nervous.  Kyle looked over his shoulder and saw Sandra dart away as if she didn’t want to be caught spying.  Kyle blushed.  His former friends looked miffed.  They were doing all the right things for their future and yet it felt useless when they got snubbed by girls.  They knew the only reason Sandra stopped by to watch was because Kyle was there, with his gun show and washboard abs under a tight shirt.  Their eyes told Kyle we no longer tolerate your behavior.  You do not belong.  Fuck off.

So Kyle did just that and went to find the next group of misfits.

The Freaks were arguing over how to best use the old dissection scissors to cut through fish bone.  They had a formaldehyde fish laid out on a table.  They all tried to act nonchalant, but they were excited, pulsing veins under pale skin, saturated eye colors flashing from mascara framing.  Asymmetrical haircuts and socially unacceptable t-shirt graphics.  They were like The Nerds, but once teachers started to dote on their development they rebelled with the ferocity of a caged animal.  The best way to get them to do anything good was to ignore them.  Kyle rushed in, hoping a blitzkrieg tactic would get past their pretensions.

“Colt Zurk.  Where is he?”  They looked up, that name had triggered something in them.  Was it fear?

“He’s joined the Eh’s.”  A fetching girl said, all sharp angles and long hair like Leslie Van Houten before desert starvation and multiple homicides.  Her gaze shimmered with kindness, unlike the Manson Family member she resembled.

“You sure?  Where’d you hear this?”  Kyle said.  The “Eh’s” meant the Ignorant Horde, which became “IH” in a text message, but when spoken sounded like “eh,” the sound of apathy, nihilism, zero fucks.  Colt had plunged from all-star athlete to the dregs of scholastic society in a matter of months.

“I saw him.”  She said, her eyes twitched with excitement seeing Kyle’s alarm shape his face.  “The school is keeping it quiet, but he hasn’t been turning in assignments, skipping classes.”

“So… he’s not here?”  Kyle said, engaging this strange beauty for his next course of action.

“Oh, he’s here.  They all are.  He brought them together.”

“So… he’s not in the Ignorant Horde?”  Everyone knew the Eh’s were in and out of school. They were like rocks in a river.  They never passed grades with everyone else, but they never drowned thanks to no child left behind.  Eventually they dropped out or quit the group and joined the Freaks in order to bridge the gap between revolution and a secure future.  Somehow the IH managed to gain numbers every year.  But no one ever saw them.  There was always that one boy in class who didn’t care about the work, or the girl who suddenly stopped caring about her appearance.  You never saw the clique together, like a series of seemingly unrelated annoyances you knew were connected in retrospect.  Bringing them together, making the Horde a real movement that could not be ignored would risk destroying them all.  By making the IH official branding, Colt risked pushing all of the underdeveloped underachievers into expulsion, psychiatric evaluation, or prison.  Rumor had it that when one delinquent was caught other IH members were behind the planning of the mischief.  For instance, last year the sprinkler system went off without warning, last month the seasonings in the cafeteria had been spiked with ghost pepper flakes, and last week the audio from the Jonestown Massacre played on such low volume that everyone thought they were hearing things instead of realizing the death throes were coming from the PA system.  Every single mystery had been solved with the capture of a single rebel, but it was obvious these sinister acts were executed by more than one person.

Kyle believed the goth girl because the mischief was becoming more serious, more elaborate.  Colt was a terrifying strategist on the football field.  Before Colt’s downfall military recruiters from every branch tried to get him to apply.

“Take me to him.”  Kyle said.  If he could prove that Colt had become the scoundrel punk behind an unbelievable IH uprising, then Coach Rope would take Kyle on as the new football captain.  Kyle was hoping to get this all done before he needed to fill out college applications.  He was barely keeping an ‘A’ average with his inhuman schedule and he had nightmares featuring red ink and the letter ‘F.’  Kyle would either break the system or his ambition would break him.  Time was the only factor.  The longer this bullshit took the faster he’d go down in flames.

The Freaks shrugged and left, all but the goth girl.  The others pretended to be chill, but Kyle saw they were nervous.  The goth girl poked at the dead fish.  She wanted to go, but she also had to warn Kyle.  Her alabaster face blushed, traveling down the smooth curve of her throat where he could see her arteries pump with trapped panic.  Kyle sat down beside her.

“I can’t take you to him.”

“Just tell me where.”

“I can’t do that, either.”


“My name’s Esther.  Do you know me?”

“I’m sure I’ve seen you in the hall.”  Kyle said, knowing for sure he had never seen her before.  It occurred to him he hadn’t thought of Sandra in the past few minutes.

“I know who you are, Kyle.  Everyone does.  You make all outcasts look bad.  The Eh’s make us look good.  Colt will derail you.  Why do you need him?”

“I need to take his place on the team.”

“Should be easy if he’s not there.”

“But he still is, right?  He’s this legend, like this school that just won’t die.  I need to show them Colt Zurk is dead.”  Kyle said and he smiled when she smiled.  Now he was blushing.

“I’m always game for a little schadenfreude.”  She struck out her hand.  Awkward introduction, but Kyle pumped her hand once like kids in an after school special making a pact to do something cute by the third act.

As they exited the lab Sandra was ahead of them.  She walked with the brisk pace of someone in retreat.  She had her hood up, her arms hugging her, the look and gait of a criminal trying to be invisible.  It was so unlike Sandra, the Scorpio beauty, that it too Kyle a moment to recognize her.  It was the first time she had hid herself from anyone.  She was really spying, instead of spying to get caught in the act in order to arrest attention.

Kyle kept his emotions clenched in his rock hard abs.  It was stupid to feel like he had cheated on Sandra.  It was an artifact of having been a sensitive skinny kid who spent his time fantasizing instead of doing.

Esther took him to the classroom assigned for detention for the evening.  Some of the students there were part of the Ignorant Horde, others were just dealing poorly with hormones or other issues that would not be helped with this sort of confinement.

They waited in silence.  Kyle stole his glances with caution.  His eyes caressed Esther’s face, the cat’s eye black liner that traced her large eyes, the shape of her asymmetrical nose – did she break it? – her thin lips, her platinum hair withered by chemicals… the neckline that plunged with suicidal intent.  Kyle looked away before he got too much of her on his mind.  Obviously, too late, so he looked, again, this time to try and figure out how to talk to her about something other than Colt Fucking Zurk.  She stared at the shut door of the classroom.  She was so serious that Kyle knew she was nervous.  She needed to say something to him.

“Does a girl like me have a chance with you?”  She said.  He smelled menthol on her breath.  It was her gum.

“Yes.”  He said without thinking.  Then he thought… the answer was still yes.  She was far from perfect physically, and most assuredly far from mentally stable, but he was smitten in a way he was not with Sandra.  Sandra was a spark of hotness that didn’t last when she was out of sight.  Esther was a grub inside his heart, chewing the chambers and growing into something hideous with wings, taking flight against his sternum, furious for release.  This feeling was ugly to Kyle because it was unknown.  He thought it was what he had felt when he saw Sandra on the bleachers watching him, but that was the same feeling he felt when he saw movie previews for rom-coms or Pixar animation, the culturally acceptable connection between corporate products.  Meet cute, three acts, happily ever after because the couple are the same people despite the differences peppering the story.  The differences are red herrings.  In a movie, he and Sandra would be together forever.

When he thought about real, hideous life, he saw a woman’s shadow that had been Esther all along.

For the first time in his life he knew one day he would die.  He knew for sure this was real and not a movie set up to reinforce the terrible nature of human happiness.  He questioned everything he was doing.  He knew he was on the right track because she was here.  Kyle wished he could shut his brain down, but it kept going.  It crushed him.  She thought he was the ideal when all he was doing was mimicking male celebrity.  She would never have noticed him before he had transformed himself.  Then again, maybe she was attracted to the fact that he changed for his own reasons.

“You think too much.”  Esther said and took his hand, sucking up his anxiety.  He turned to kiss her, but the door flew open making them both jump.  Out marched the condemned students.  Parents entered the building with folded arms, puffed chests, shaking heads.

Esther pointed at a Freshman boy.  “He’s one of them.”

Kyle went after the boy, but Esther did not move with him.  She gripped his hand and he turned to look at her.  She was upset, but not on the verge of tears.  No where close.  Her face was ashen, the kind of face Kyle had only seen in history textbooks featuring old war photography.

“I won’t go back.”

“Back where?”

“To Colt Zurk.  I won’t do it.  You have to go alone.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“You’ll think I’m dumb.”

“Of course not!”  Kyle laughed, but the humor he tried to inject to lighten her mood backfired.  She threw his hand away.

“Imagine the most bitter assholes finding each other, and thanks to Colt, they find something to believe in.”  Esther whirled around and left him on his own.  Quitting now was not an option.  He’d lose credit with her, he’d lose everything he had worked for, all the gym time and studying and lack of sleep and too much food would be for nothing if he quit now.  But a woman like Esther wasn’t scared of anything, and if she was scared now he knew he should be, too, yet he couldn’t feel it as he opened the exit for the skinny Freshman because the boy could barely keep his pants up without shoving both hands in his pockets.  The Freshman did not care.  He did not care that someone opened the door for him and did not care that this someone was walking next to him.

Kyle looked over his shoulder at the school to take note of anyone watching him walk away with a member of the Ignorant Horde.  He heard the weather vane up there and that grabbed his attention over the anonymous crowd leaving school.  The weather vane, an iron scorpion, listed in a calm breeze.  It would fall any day.  It had been this way for years.  After school, even on the football field when everyone was gone, you could hear it crying, begging for mercy as the wind moved it one way and then another, forcing it to grind against the rust that built up when it was able to stand still.

“The only way you’ll meet Colt Zurk is if you let me drive and you ride in the trunk.”  This was Colt Zurk’s doing.  Some how Zurk had made the unmoved move, to organize the unorganized into conspiracy.  Esther separated from the other students leaving.  She scanned the parking lot and locked eyes with Kyle.  She darted away when the boy waved at her with a sickly, undernourished arm.

Coach Rope stood on the field waiting for the oddball team to assemble.  Waiting for Colt to return.  Rope crossed his arms and watched Kyle watching him.  Kyle wanted to punch Rope in the face.  He had always wanted to murder Coach Rope.  When Kyle was a scrawny nothing he wanted to because Rope was hard on weaklings, now Kyle wanted Rope to suffer because Rope was too superstitious to accept Kyle as the new star of the football team.

Kyle dropped the keys into the boy’s hand and rounded the car to the trunk.  It popped open on clean hinges without a sound.  He climbed inside, feeling his weight shift the car, and he shut himself inside.

His eyes adjusted in the dark, the splotches of color imitating…

…The weather vane.  A nightmare in negative flashed across his mind, killing itself as it spun through its own decay, grinding against its rust until there was nothing left.  It had no choice.

His parents’ car finally jolted to a stop on a rough road.  Kyle had bruises from rolling and bouncing with a loose hand-jack and protein shakes.  The trunk opened and fading light filtered in.  Kyle looked up at a canopy of oak trees.  The boy walked away, indifferent to Kyle following or staying behind.  Kyle got out and his sneakers sunk into the soft earth.  The summer leaves were numbing, fall was coming or maybe it was just the IH sucking the life out of the woods that bordered the town.  They were all there around a smoldering campfire. Colt Zurk was there.

“Hello.”  Colt said.  They were smiling.  Some joke at Kyle’s expense.  The boy sat down by the smoking fire, no one knew how to entertain a flame… not that they cared.  Kyle approached.  Fuck this, Kyle thought and socked Colt right in his perfect jaw.  POP went the bone.  Colt flew backwards, landed on the dying fire and lay there, smiling, blood ebbing between a fresh gap in his teeth, the tooth somewhere else.  Kyle flexed his hand, it was bleeding from the first two knuckles. Colt’s tooth was stuck in between.  Kyle never felt the blow.  He pulled the tooth free and flicked it at Colt Zurk, the absent god of Scorpio High.

And they chuckled, Colt howled and sat up, his back smoked but it was just wet earth warmed by the innocent embers.  The white smoke filled the small clearing around them.  Colt’s body had smothered the embers.

“Hey, Kyle.”  Sandra said and who he saw was a stranger.  Sandra was veiled by smoke, her head shaved in patches, eyeliner dribbled, and her designer clothes were covered with splotches of enamel paint.  One of her heels was sanded down, the other sharpened in a false stiletto.  80’s Punk rock turned mutual destruction.  She smiled.  She hadn’t brushed in some time.  How much time has passed?  Kyle thought and he knew he was blushing because they were all laughing at him.  She was laughing.

Colt got up and smiled like Kyle had shook his hand instead of knocked a tooth loose.  He looked at Kyle, waiting for the questions, waiting for attention.  Kyle saw right through him.

“Get in the car, prick.”  Kyle said.  It hurt so bad to see Sandra like this.  A lukewarm mess.  If she were anything but human she’d be the lonely puddle in an old sidewalk, the safe haven for worms when the sun came out after a weak drizzle.  Colt knew something about Kyle, something Kyle was just realizing.  Fuck the football team.  The words slipped into his mind as if Colt had slipped them under his bedroom door.

Colt hawked blood.  “You’ve changed, Kyle.”  Kyle grabbed the boy who drove him here and got his car keys back.

“What are you getting out of this?”  Colt said.

“A future.  Move it.”  He kept his eyes away from Sandra, a strange guilt felt him up.  He wanted to get away with Colt in the trunk.

“I’ll be back.”  Colt said to his people.  Kyle was relieved there’d be no argument from him.  He’d show Coach Rope this thing and then he’d get on with his life.  Kyle understood why no one knew too about the Ignorant Horde, their agenda or members, they were like a cancer impossible to confront.  Every ounce of reason was met with indifference, they would never respond to treatment and in return those who tried to help looked like failures–

–Let them be ignorant, let us pretend they will die out on their own, let us pretend the asshole in third period, or the slug wallowing in gym class are not bound to the other ignoramuses in unholy apathy, let us pretend each and every case of belligerent stupidity is individual, let us pretend it isn’t a malignant growth–

Where did these words come from?

Kyle saw himself frowning, staring at the moss under his feet.  His thoughts had changed here in the woods.  They used to have a concrete structure and flow, but these words weren’t in his internal voice.  He felt sick.  He felt a panic rise inside him as if his own blood was a rising tide threatening his lungs.

They had been waiting for this moment.  The moment when he was closer to being one of them.

It’s their fire, it’s the smoke from their fire, LOOK… textbooks… they’re burning their textbooks, the glue and plastic in the covers is making some kinda toxic vapor.

But Kyle knew this was not the case.  Kyle was frozen because he saw his future stretch forward and revolve like a rock tumbling down a hill.  If he went back to Coach Rope with Colt in tow then he’d become the guy who broke the Ignorant Horde, he’d be the guy to contact to fix every stubborn asshole in every class and activity.  Coming back with Colt wouldn’t secure his future.  The muscle gain, the sleepless nights studying, the imbalance of sports and academia wasn’t going to unlock a comfortable future for Kyle, it was all a distraction pushing him into a position where he would become the key to other people’s comfort.

Hang with this guy if you want to look good, ask him for the answer, see that guy, be like him.  Don’t worry about him, he’s fine, he’s going places, you can use him to go places, too.  Oh, he’s been here for years, but he’s going places, go ahead and get ahead, he’s here for you.

“Kyle, I spend so much money on make up and clothes, I shade people who should be friends, I put out, and I never get what I need.  It’s what I’m told to do and I never get anywhere.”  Sandra said, rising above the white smoke that was thinning as the fire bed cooled.  She twirled her finger in a circle.  “Once the bonds of flesh are broken the world becomes apparent.”

It took a full minute for Kyle to snap into their mode, to begin playing their game of shameful semantics.

“So you burn your books in rebellion?  Shave your head?  Chop all your fingers off but the middle one?”  He said.  He remembered being scared, but the fear was gone like the smoke.  He knew this devil of doubt, knew how to handle these things.

They all bared flesh for Kyle.  Sandra pulled her pants down to show a section of thigh, Colt rolled up a sleeve, the boy mooned his ass, and two other nameless heathens pulled up their shirts… their chosen exposed flesh all showed DIY tattoos of the scorpion weather vane.  The flesh looked feverish, dimpled pink from thick needles and pen ink.

Kyle’s breath froze in his lungs.  The insanity of commitment is true horror.

“You never saw me.  I did everything right and I got nothing.”  Sandra said flatly, zipping up her pants.  “I used to be hot shit and it never got me anything but squeaky cycles.”

“I’m sorry, Sandra, but this isn’t my fault.  Seeing you like this doesn’t make me regret anything.”  Kyle said, wishing he didn’t use the word ‘sorry.’  It was the word of the unsure, the unstable.  He didn’t know what she meant by ‘squeaky cycles,’ he guessed it was some sort of high-context-cult-speak Colt developed after reading Nietzsche and Marx Sparknotes.

“We used to be the best students.  You don’t remember because we fell so far, but we saw the truth.  They want us to help everyone else at our own expense.  I carried the Scorpions for years and you’ll be next.  It won’t get you anything.  Fleeting hope at least, useless paper at most.”  Colt said, a smirk carving his chapped lips.

“Keep going, sounds like you need to vent.”  Kyle said.

“Don’t you get it, Kyle?  The squeaky wheel gets the oil?  You know what that means.  You make enough noise and you get what you want, so why don’t we get anything?”

“Because you’re a whiny bitch shocked by how much work you gotta do because no one cares that you’re not special.”  Kyle said and sighed when his words struck dead nerves.  Of course they had heard this long before they went over the edge into the pit of rebellion’s piss-soaked ashes.

“Wheels don’t care, wheels don’t think you’re special until you get them turning.  People like us are conditioned to be oil.  Your overachieving is slave labor to squeaky wheels.  You won’t do anything else with your life but keep others moving.  They will drown you in need.”

“Who wants to be oil in a world of squeaks?”  The others said in unison.  Kyle gasped weak laughter, like the time he caught his mother shaving lint off the sheets.  Reductio absurdum, his mom reduced the “house wife” to an absurd level of caricature.  No one gave a shit about linty sheets, not him or dad or the neighbors.  Yet, there she was, shaving the sheets smooth because doing less meant she was less.  People choose such lame battles.

Keep the rocks up in the air so you can pick up more so you can see where you’re stepping but keep your eyes on the rocks falling over your head and it just keeps spinning with nothing to keep it going and nothing to stop it and  stop thinking

“My brother went to college.  Five majors, all connected for maximum effect, you know, sociology, psychology, anthropology, law…”  This was the nameless boy speaking.  He couldn’t remember what his brother had degrees in, “He works retail, now.”

“Don’t you think that’s his fault?”  Kyle said.

“His fault that he took loans and worked hard towards something adults convinced him was still there?  His fault that he struggled throughout his school life to get those proofs of purchase to show employers?  His fault they said ‘no’?  His fault that he needed money right now and had to take on a dull job for terrible pay just to keep the hope of his future alive?  The only thing he got for all his hard work was the luxury of keeping his hope.  The same hope he started with, the same hope that’ll kill him, the same hope everyone around him loved because it made him oil for their squeaky lives.  They used his work to look good – my son, my boy, I’m friends with this guy, I fucked him, I know him.  People use us as social currency to purchase laziness and lost dreams.”

“Aren’t you tired of pleasing everyone?  Out of all the things you’re trying to be how many of them add up to you?”  Sandra said, flashing an ugly smiled.  Her filmy teeth looked fake, she hadn’t combed her hair or changed clothes in days.  They all were in the same state of letting go.

“For all the water in the ocean can never turn the swan’s black legs to white,
Although she lave them hourly in the flood.”  The cult said in unison.  Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus, Aaron speaking about race, coopted by Colt Zurk and white kids fed up with the status quo they should be entitled to, but have inexplicably let go because they don’t see it is theirs for the taking, so why don’t they?  Is it not worth it? STOP THINKING–

“I was oil.”  Fuck these guys, they’re still talking? Kyle thought as one of the IH was speaking, their voices were one long hypnotic drone, “I was like you are now, sports and smarts, the grades and babes, I felt like I had the world in the palm of my hand.  It wasn’t true.  That’s what they want you to think.”

Kyle coughed and woke up, “Colt, you dress it up nice but you’re just another guru harping a conspiracy theory to explain your bad luck and bad decisions.”  Kyle said, formulating his repartee on the fly.  It felt good to speak and hear his calm voice.  What he really wanted to do was swing his fists, again.  That felt good, that showed results with intoxicating immediacy.

Who am I?  STOP THINKING.  Kyle focused on forcing Colt to his parents’ car.  He had the keys, nothing was stopping him except… he did not know where he was… he did not know how much time had passed between the school parking lot and being let out of the trunk.  He was raised rural, but anyone can get lost without landmarks and signs.  There was only so much woods near his home, near the school, but this place was different.  He shoved Colt to the car, anyway.  Backtrack, follow the dirt path through the woods, get on the road, get back on track… start thinking… thinking about the weather vane spinning, moving without destination, pointing as if it were in control STOP THINKING.

“Lost?”  Colt said.  Kyle shoved Colt Zurk up against the car.  His cult followed, but gave them space.

Kyle checked his phone for the time.  Eight o’clock, and no available cell signal out here.  Three  hour drive.  Kyle guessed he inhaled a little carbon monoxide from the tail pipe through the trunk and passed out.  He could’ve died.  He wished he had.

“No one likes to talk about it.  Especially people like us.  We’re told hard work pays but it’s a clever way to steer us away from seeing our luck.  Body type, inheritance, circumstance, we’re told these things are results of hard work.  The closest truth about luck we’re told is that it is opportunity meeting hard work.  Take you for instance, white boy born into a well-to-do family given the freedom to pursue every desire within reason.  You chased your passions, you changed your body, your mind, you worked hard, but you were only able to work hard because luck allowed you access to calories and free time, surrounded by authority letting you believe this was rebellion.  You’re a tool repairing a machine that is designed to break.  People look at you and say “there’s a self-made man!” and no one sees the luck, the fortune in the face of an indifferent reality.  Meaning.  You reinforce the illusion of meaning.”  Colt Zurk said, on a roll, building up to his raison d’être, but Kyle knew what that was – nihilism – so he wound back his fist and struck Colt in his soft belly.  Colt doubled up.

“You can’t keep going like this, Kyle… you can’t be so many things… you’ll drown.”  Colt gasped.  Kyle breathed, flexing his fingers, wanting to shut him up and yet something stronger was fighting him.  Some shred of fear wanted to listen to Colt.

“Just get in the car.”  Kyle growled.  Colt crawled into the backseat.  Kyle kicked the door shut, denting the metal.  Colt’s followers looked cool.  Kyle didn’t care what happened to any of them.  He just wanted to get his life back on track who’s life?  yours or theirs? STOP THINKING.

“Get me out of here.”  Kyle said, flashing a look of violence at Colt through the rearview mirror.

Besides giving directions Colt stayed silent the whole trip back to school.  A car followed.  The boy who drove Kyle to the woods was driving the rest of the nihilists.  Kyle parked and shut off the engine.

“Kyle, are you happy?”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”  Colt said and smiled with genuine warmth.


“Because I found something that frustrates me, that makes me curious.  So, does this make you happy?  Where does this all end for you?”

“Where does what end?”

“Being so many things for everyone.  For schools, parents, teachers, government.  You’re drowning in a sea of identity.  Who are you when you’re alone?”

“Coach is still on the field.  Let’s go.”  Kyle said, ignoring the questions so he could ignore the pain in his gut, which was odd because Colt was the one punched in the stomach.

“If you’d calm down you might be interested,” Colt said, staggering ahead.  Kyle ached to play ball, he wanted things to be simple, again, but Colt kept talking sense STOP THINKING, “We’ve been going to the woods to dismantle things.  We started with grades, we started with school programming.”

“Great.  You know how hard I worked to keep my grades, to be the man I wanna be?  And all of this is kept in check by you.  I was born after my time.”  Kyle said.

“What time is that?”

“The Wild West.  I’d bring you in dead to collect my reward.”

“Murder… we didn’t get that far in our debates.”  Colt said, musing over the topic as if it wasn’t a joke.

Coach Rope walked away from the fumbling teens Kyle was forced to call teammates.  Rope’s arms dropped with the weight of shock.

“Colt?”  Rope ran to Colt and hugged him like he was his flesh and blood.  Kyle bristled when will this absurd theater end?  He had a flash of memory, his old nerd friends acting a play he had written in one of their backyards.  Theater absurd indeed, someone was the Marquis De Sade, another was Henry Kissinger.  Kyle missed being a silly intellectual with those guys, now he was just a cookie-cutter genius because he had no choice in order to balance the sports the school craved with the plethora of subjects each teacher held dear.  CLOCKWORK FLOOD and there is only so much time in a day, in a life, in a mind that needs to STOP THINKING

“Lookit him, Coach.  This is your star, this maggot I dragged out of the woods.  You know what he’s up to?  Destroying himself and others.  He needs help.  His ball days are done.”  Kyle said, bringing the focus back to reality.  The look he got from Coach Rope made Kyle feel like he had walked deeper into the woods instead of out of them.  A spooky feeling crawled up his back and laid eggs in every pore.

“I had such hopes for you, Colt.  You goddamn dick weasel.  Douche canoe!”  Coach Rope said, unable to grasp his original brand of cursing for the sorrow he tried to hold back.

Kyle stood there, sick on adrenaline that called him to fly from this alien fight.

Colt shook his head, unimpressed and unmoved by Coach Rope’s pain.

“Everyone has such high hopes for us.  I thought I had my own, but it’s all a lie.”  Colt said.

“Coach…”  Kyle said, reaching out to the old man before he knew what he was doing.  Rope’s lips quivered, then quaked.  Fat tears rolled.  Kyle had a hand on the man’s shoulder before he could recoil in horror.  Kyle felt ashamed being so scared and disgusted by a grown man sobbing.

“Fuck this.  I’m the football captain.”  Kyle said.

“Y-Yes.  Tomorrow you’ll lead practice, c-c-cuntcake.”  Rope sputtered between gasps for air.  The once great leader of young men retreated to the bleachers where the grass didn’t grow from the salt of his tears.

The Ignorant Horde applauded Coach Rope’s exit.

“You’re a wheel, now.”  Colt said and they laughed.  Kyle whirled around, fists up and saw fear in their eyes.  They were horrible, but they were still human.  The fear in Sandra stopped Kyle from demolishing Colt.

Imagine they call for war and no one shows up.  The first game of the Scorpions’ season was Friday.  No one showed up for practice all week.  Kyle could not find one teammate.

Rope paced the field, screaming vulgar insanity.

Esther jogged down the bleachers and met Kyle halfway up the field on game day.  “They beat you.”

The next day half the students did not show up for school.  Those who did refused to go to class, and if they did they just sat at a desk and did whatever they wanted.  Anarchy filled teachers with fear and rage.  But discipline only went so far when they realized they only had so much room for detention and only so much legal precedence in the face of parental backlash.  The horror of a social movement dawned by the end of the day.

The next day no one showed up for school except for Kyle and Esther and the teachers.  Everyone else was out sick.  Kyle had to hand it to Colt for staging such a massive protest, but he wondered what Colt wanted if he was destined not to be oil or a wheel.  What happens when you stop swimming in the ocean of hopes and dreams?

Then news came that everyone out of school really was sick.  A strange infection had sent the majority of the student body to emergency rooms all over the county.  Sepsis from filthy tattooing.  Tattoo artists all over had to prove their health standards and that they never inked a weather vane design in any form or served any student of Scorpio High.

Coach Rope had no team to train.  Sports were suspended.  Kyle’s former nerd friends chalked this up as a victory.  The Ignorant Horde was empowered even by those who did not join them.  Then, some started sporting a new tattoo, or so Kyle assumed because a few of them stopped showing up to classes, or popping ibuprofen like candy to ward off fever chills.

Then the classes stopped showing.  Kyle and Esther passed each other in the halls, unsure of how to stop their routine without one to replace it.  A healthy one, at least.  Teachers tried to keep the dwindling students focused, tried to show how their specific subject was essential to their future.  But even Kyle and Esther saw through them.  They knew algebra was of no use, or knowing how many died in the Korean War, or who got run over in that one novel by that one guy who wanted to fuck Daisy but was too much of a “good guy,” so he wrote about it and mooned over extravagance as if it were all such a wonderful time for everyone stop thinking…

Kyle and Esther formed a bond, a kind of end-of-the-world pact that held off the tyranny of Colt’s Great Nothing.  Lunch period extended, so did study halls.  The art room was shut down, music as well.  As the student population shrank, so did the school.

Coach Rope went crazy.  He tried to rule with an iron fist, but someone cut the power to the PA system and in the time it took a repair man to come out and fix it Coach Rope lost his power.

The school was so quiet you could hear the weather vane right through ancient cement, brick, steel I-beams, drywall, slate shingles, stained glass.  All of that solid material was rendered insignificant to the squealing panic of the weather vane above them.

Kyle and Esther made sure to walk out of school on time.  One day Kyle left a few minutes early and this was a mistake not to be repeated.  Every teacher pounced on him, begging him not to go the way of Colt Zurk.  It was Esther who saved him from the barrage of “you’re not alone” and “you can talk to any one of us, really!”  Now they stuck to the schedule.  They were just two of a total of sixteen kids still going to a school that was once bursting with two thousand.

Coach Rope climbed the roof.  Rope was going to kill that weather vane.  When he wasn’t coaching football or gym or masculine hygiene, he taught history.  Killing the weather vane was his reenactment of the Russians taking down the Berlin Swastika.  Kyle held Esther close, shielding their eyes with a textbook he hadn’t opened in months.

Coach Rope really was up there on the roof.  Everyone knew what would happen.  911 services were preoccupied with finding lost kids or sending ambulances to rescue sepsis cases.

Rope strained to climb the steep incline to the peak of the roof where the weather vane mocked him, twirling and squeaking like a court jester on his fifth jug of spiced mead.  For a moment Rope swayed, dizzy from focusing so hard on the spinning axis above him.  With a war cry he lurched upwards and took hold of the weather vane’s base.  He kicked and climbed up, his old skin bulging with hardened muscle.

Something fell and landed with a clap.  A shoe.  Kyle felt his stomach grow heavy, the world slowed down for this once great man on the roof.  Rope clung to the weather vane… a thumb let go, four fingers relaxed, the body leaned in a sudden fall forward, but Rope still held on and swung around the weather vane, swung with the weather vane in deadly camaraderie.  A roof tile flipped loose and shattered beside the sneaker.  Faculty floundered around Kyle and Esther, they heard them calling to Rope.

The rusty metal that had been grinding for who knows how long shrieked with punchline hilarity, then snapped loose with Coach Rope still holding on to it for dear life.  It happened so fast that Kyle was only able to see what had happened by replaying the horror in his mind even as he raced to help.  He saw Rope broken and bleeding beyond teachers making a boundary with their bodies.  Rope had been a pillar of the old way.  Now he sucked pavement through a maw of broken teeth and a flattened nose.  Blood still lingered in the humid air, a fine mist that drifted as if directed by the weather vane sticking out of Rope’s chest, spinning from the momentum of the fall and squeaking to a halt.  Kyle stopped fighting the teachers to get to the body.  What the hell can you do, man?  He asked himself.  He felt a tender hand slip into his.  Esther pulled him away.

“Keep moving.  There’s nothing you can do.”  She said out the side of her mouth.  Kyle let her take him.  He could only think.  He could not stop his mind.

A triangle the roof tile a short line Coach Rope got bigger as he plunged was he smiling as he fell? That weather vane made more noise than the manhe looked like a leaking plastic bag.  Kyle felt tears sting the space between his mind and eyes.  Kyle alone would not have saved the Scorpions or the school, not with this mental infection spreading in the dark corners of failed reason.

The school shutdown to deal with what it had been trying to ignore.

Parents blamed the school.  The school blamed social media.  The rural media, untrained for appropriate flame fanning, presented the various sides of the story in an incoherent mess that made citizens who weren’t parents or in school not care.  This removed almost half of the population from helping solve the problem.  “Let ’em kill theirselves, shoot.”  One divorcee was overheard in a restaurant, sparking hate from parents and one teacher, and applause from a group of misfit teens who were then arrested for indecent exposure when they showed the divorcee their weather vane tattoos.

The more parents tried to keep their children from mixing with the tattooed ones, the more tattoos appeared.  Anyone buying anti-inflammatory medication had to prove they had no tattoos, were not a student of any sort, and were adhering to one of the major religions as printed on ten page pre-checkout questionnaire at all local pharmacies.

Colt’s unfiltered nihilism penetrated young minds through emergence.  One day a teen was subscribing to social trends and traditional work ethic, building a stable life from the advice of parents, school, and wholesome celebrity role models, and then the very next day he or she was popping ibuprofen to hide their fever and the pain of infected DIY tattooing.  They shaved their heads in patches, burned their clothes (sometimes not taking off articles first), pulled teeth, glued pubic hair under their noses.  Kids used their talents for chaos rather than for worthwhile development.  They never seemed to benefit from their mischief, they were engaged in the outright dismantling of civilization and meaning.

Imagine breaking out the bottom brick in the walls people lean upon.  Or the floor they need to stand upon, or the ceiling that keeps the world from crushing them.  Imagine destroying all of that and building a wall where the fourth wall shouldn’t be, thus blocking the creativity necessary to stay sane.

First, the hospital staff went on strike because they could not get the growing Ignorant Horde to cooperate.  Then, hospitals outside of town refused to take anyone with weather vane iconography or suspicious fevers.  The police followed suit and a memo circulated law enforcement stations telling officers to treat the weather vane as a symbol of terrorism akin to ISIS or the sinister SPECTRE squid from James Bond films.  But unlike both fact and fiction these kids had no religious dogma, no political agenda.

They were ideological wrecking balls.

The various Christian sects prayed for the kids, then donated to charity, then held exorcisms, seances, rattlesnake handling, gibberish chanting, pray-ins and pray-outs, blood sacrifice of 4H blue medal thoroughbreds, and after one month of extreme devotion to their various bearded-white-men-cloud-beings they saw the truth.  Or rather, Colt’s truth.

Without warning priests, pastors, ministers, altar boys and choir girls were hacking heads off statues and using votive candles to sterilize sewing needles, guzzling blessed wine as Colt and his Ignorant Horde gave them the symbol of the Great Nothing.  A scorpion weather vane scrawled in thick black ink.

The Ignorant Horde imploded six months after they took over the town.  The task of victory was as simple as engaging the IH in open communication.  Everyone had been too shocked and afraid to make any sort of approach before Kyle got his spine back one night with Esther in his arms.  One calm night of insight and thought gave them the obvious answer.  They had gotten sick of rubbernecking the chaos around them, gotten over-shocked into the will to act.

They turned Colt’s people against him.  Kyle and Esther spammed the IH social media accounts with carefully planned arguments.  They exposed Colt for who he had become.  Colt was no longer concerned with nothing because the nothing he wanted to attain had become a certain something, which became a new culture where Colt was king.

Nothing is a myth we cannot obtain Kyle wrote in stark contrast to Colt’s controlling rhetoric.  Overnight Colt’s followers took knives from drawers in households all over town and dressed Colt, as in, they gutted him like a deer in season.  A lynch mob of parents found their children consuming human flesh in the Lover’s Lane section of the woods that surrounded their picturesque countryside.  The fire department put out a dozen illegal camp sites and extinguished the beginnings of a forest fire.  The coroner didn’t know what to do with what remained of Colt Zurk.  She ended up taking the remains away in a single Ziplock baggy.

The FBI came in with the National Guard and reestablished order.  The leftover Ignorant Horde went to court and entered the juvenile justice system with extensive therapy.  Kyle would never see them, again.

Kyle and Esther fell in love.  They had together weathered the flood of nihilism that had almost claimed them and their hometown.  The town placed them on a pedestal.  Esther was eager to adopt square clothes and make-up, to put conditioner and highlights in her hair just so adults stopped pestering her and worrying.  Kyle roved from school to school giving talks about surviving the ideological disease that almost killed him and the woman he loved.  They did their best to bring back the town’s stellar reputation, but it wasn’t the same.  It never would be.

Esther could only indulge in black clothes, heavy eye liner, and underground music when she was alone in her house.  She had to be a role model for girls on the edge, to show kids that conformity was rebellion.  She was bribed with college scholarships, a future.

Kyle was ready to take over the football team, but suddenly there wasn’t a team.  The entire sports department was sacked by the school board.  From his unmarked grave, Colt Zurk commandeered the influence and infamy of Charles Manson.  Schools all over chose erasure to talks.  Better to pretend they never had anything resembling Colt Zurk than educate about the dangers of Colt’s state of mind.  Sports died, nerds rejoiced.  Kyle blistered his way through the rest of high school just to get the hell out of there.

Groups of guys like Kyle and groups of girls like Esther stole into the woods where the Ignorant Horde used to meet.   They played sports and blasted underground music to let off steam as they slaved to get out of this broken town.  The odd thing they noted, the irony, was they felt the same amount of stress as before.  They were still drowning in the conflicting tides of adult expectation and their own dreams, the undertow dragging them under in two different directions.  Now they had to fight harder than ever to be themselves and at the same time fit into a world with a crushing atmospheric pressure where only one species of life had evolved to swim freely.

Esther and Kyle realized why Colt and his fiends had to hide and why they got sick of hiding.  They understood the cabin fever of the woods and the singing to the choir of their tribe that forced Colt to revolt in such a wave of disgust.  The lash out was borne of hatred of the other just as much as it was hate of the self.  Colt and his cohorts must’ve hated so much that in order for them to not devour each other Colt needed give them a enemy to vent upon.  And then Kyle and Esther took away their enemy.

The frustration with factory-line education and cookie-cutter growing up forced Colt and his fiends to bond in silent revolution, but like electrons inside a nuclear reactor they got too heated, their energy too immense for the core to contain.  The woods could no longer contain them.  It was either dissolve in the cooling pool of mediocrity, or meltdown that which had given them life.

Colt chose meltdown.

Kyle and Esther chose to cool off.  They stopped going to the woods.  They threw away their hip outfits and sports equipment.  They got part time jobs.  The other kids filtered back into their normal, safe lives.  Kyle and Esther told each other they did a good thing by stopping another rebellion they could have easily fostered.

Parents all over the county relaxed.  The Scorpion mascot was redrawn; glasses with eight lenses, books in it claws, a quill replaced the poison tip dripping scholarly ink.

Kyle and Esther became homecoming king and queen and ushered in a new era where the bookworm reigned.  Now there were college scouts lurking in math classes and dipping into English teacher’s test scores.  For anyone unfamiliar with the Scorpions’ history it looked as if the school had always pumped out scientists and literary critics.

Kyle proposed to Esther on graduation day and in one final act of rebellion they eloped on full scholarships to the other side of the country.  They graduated with top honors and found careers as mundane and sturdy as the neighborhood they gravitated towards. They told themselves this was what their parents had wanted for them, despite the fact that when their parents visited the old couples grimaced to their faces and smirked behind their backs.  The parents were disappointed.

“Things turned out great!”  Kyle told his father the night their collective parents were leaving.  Father and son were drinking lagers softer than carbonated water.

“Kyle… we slaved for something different.”  His father set the beer down and took his son by the shoulders.  “I didn’t work so hard to see you turn out the same way.”

“What are you saying?  I have no debt, a nice house, we’re good!  We made it!”  Kyle said, waving his hand as if he could go on down the list of successes.

“Your mother and I fought so hard to make it safe for you to fuck-up your way to happiness.”

“But we are happy!”  Kyle said.

“I think you’d be different if not for Colt Zurk.  We never would have let you fuck up that much, we wanted you to not go farther than us, just different, to go you.  We are happy for you if you’re happy, but the world ain’t gonna change if everyone behind us falls perfectly into our graves.”

“Do I remember Colt?  Are you kidding me?  That’s why Esther and I settled, why we did what everyone else does!  You expect us to fix everything, to go on this grand adventure of hard work and discipline that’ll turn out better than yours.  Your hopes are killing us.  We spend most of our lives dying for some dream you tell us about and by the time we realize there’s no time left we have to scramble to hold onto what we got because the dream is another lifetime away, at least…”  Kyle trailed off, he had wanted something different with his parents, with her parents, too.  Esther had given almost the exact same speech to her people.  He wondered if she told them the news.

“So, we’re gonna give the dream to our kid.”  Kyle said.  He didn’t feel the joy he had felt when Esther told him she was pregnant.  His father shuddered, a cliche reaction everyone sees in that movie where the aged main character sees the repetition of errors drawn out in  younger generations like mirrors toppling into each other, dominoes shattering and reflecting in razor’s edge the tragedy of a life wasted on the fear.  It’s not the mirror’s fault it reflects essentially the same thing, and that’s why Colt tried to shatter them all, so that in destruction the view would change.  Kyle’s father understood.

“Colt was a hero.  You tell your kid about him.  You raise him to be hell, not to live in hell.”  Kyle’s father left his beer behind, pasting on a smile for Esther and his wife.  But they knew what the men had been talking about, it had been a reflection of their own conversation.  Warnings given too late become regrets unburdened on children.

Esther and Kyle listened to their parents leave in finely tuned sedans, heading off in opposite directions that would lead to similar homes.  Kyle saw that no matter where anyone went they ended up in the same place.  He picked up the beer bottles and smashed one on the garage floor and another ricocheted off the ceiling, raining amber shards over them.

“Kyle!”  Esther cried, ignoring the blood droplets stippling her arms and beads of glass in her hair.  She held her toned abs developed from Instagram fitness routines, signaling to Kyle who he had really hurt.  It would be a she or a he in nine months… Kyle immediately grabbed a dustpan and broom.

“I’m sorry, honey.”  He swept up the mess.  He had no idea what came over him.  It was a moment of rage where he was convinced he could not breathe, that he was drowning in something because he felt pressure on all sides, pressure that threatened to fill him with some vile disease.

Colt’s birthday fell on the day Kyle’s son was born.  There were no  more cult members to celebrate Colt.  Esther never told Kyle, but she visited Colt’s unmarked grave just to be sure it was all over.

The son grew up fine.  Just fine.  Kyle and Esther were happy only because they knew what the alternative looked like.  In truth they were bored with their son, happy that he was having fun discovering the same old things, but Kyle and Esther could predict everything their son would come across in school and with his friends.

“You think if we were immortal there would be new jokes?”  Kyle asked Esther one night before drifting off to sleep.

“What?”  Esther said, coming back to this side of consciousness as if Kyle had called her up from beneath some ocean’s waves.

“If we lived forever we’d never have to tell the same jokes because everyone would have heard them, we’d be able to move into new territory instead of repeating ourselves.”

“It wouldn’t just be jokes, dear, it’d be everything, you’d never have to teach anything because there’d be no blank slates coming up behind you.”

“You mean kids, Esther?  No kids?”  Kyle said to the dark room because she was asleep.  Kyle stayed awake thinking.  Kyle had trouble thinking of his son’s name because it was his own and his father’s mirrors stood for generations reflecting to the next a view of paradise and each mirror after is one more remove from paradise and the reflection becomes a mirror’s vision the further down and the only way to get a better view is to fall into the mirror ahead and on and on until you smash into paradise or shatter yourself–

“STOP THINKING!”  Kyle shrieked and Esther woke up with a yell of her own.  “Oh, no, we’re gonna die for nothing.”  They said to each other, echoing the despair they had been drowning in ever since Colt Zurk had taught them that all of their preparation and precautions were merely the rituals used by those before them to lead a life that was long gone.

They remembered their son’s name when they discovered the source of his sinister fever.  Holden was a Freshman in high school, fifteen years old, fifteen years after Colt’s death, and Holden had an infection from a tattoo.  Kyle and Esther stared at the scorpion weather vane someone had scratched into their boy’s chest.

They didn’t punish Holden.  They didn’t yell or cry.  For once they thought long and hard even though it was scary.  They knew the damage they could add to the situation if they did what they thought others would want of them, or what they believed without conviction what was necessary to fix something that was not broken.  They knew how to heal after being hurt for so long.

Kyle and Esther took Holden to a tattoo parlor and the resident artist fixed the crummy artwork with badass precision and craft.  Holden kept apologizing, he even offered to pay for the work and to do anything as punishment, but the tattoo artist showed him her own old weather vane tattoo, pulling up the edge of her cut-offs.

Kyle recognized her.  Sandra.  She had survived in her own way.  He was relieved.  She either did not recognize him or didn’t care to do so.

“Dude.  Chill.  Panic gets you nowhere.”  Sandra said, and worked on Holden’s chest with deft hands.  Esther told Holden he had nothing to apologize for, but she wished he wouldn’t shut himself down or in.  They all got him talking about the weather vane and they corrected his friend’s misguided information.

“I guess it can be a good symbol, too.”  Holden said, marveling that the needle didn’t have to hurt, or that something with meaning didn’t have to be taken on with uncoordinated urgency.  “Like, a weather vane outlasts a storm, right?”

Kyle held his son’s hand and said, “Don’t learn to swim from people who have drowned.  They will teach you to drink.”

Sweet Tooth

It wasn’t a crime.  It was almost a year after they received the same dick pic image and they swore off dating in order to avoid more abuse.  Sasha was the first to break.  She met a guy, a great guy named Robert.  A rich boy with a custom Porsche and a reservation in Beverly Hills for their first date.  Her best friends, who were also her housemates, teased Sasha and tried not to hate her too much.  Sasha felt guilty because she was the one who had proposed everyone go dry after the dick pic incident.  She forgot her guilt when her date rolled up in that Porsche.

Brown eyes with a shimmery iridescence, clean smile, and the right angles of symmetrical masculinity.  Her heart stuttered when he looked at her.  It had been doing that all night, but more so now that they were parked outside her house hours after he had picked her up.  It was time to give him an answer to the question he was too scared to ask, but she didn’t want to be a “whore” and ask herself.  She also felt sick, blaming the drinks she had but also thinking something else was wrong.  She couldn’t say what, but she knew she needed to slow down and think.  Sasha had all the trademark signs of tremendous love: heart skipping, dizzying shallow breath, and the warmth of her entire body blushing.  She couldn’t wait to tell her housemates.  Couldn’t wait to tell them how the world wasn’t as ugly and antagonistic as they had been lead to believe through experience.

She couldn’t wait, yet something was wrong.  They sat in silence.  Sasha felt sick, a soggy dread crept down her spine and languished in her gut for no reason at all.

Dating still had its perils.  Most of time Sasha and her housemates hadn’t been on dates to earn the hate they received.  Walking down the street was like walking through sniper fire in a toxic wasteland.  Almost a year ago The Timmy Incident happened when Sasha received a grainy penis photo from Timmy, a man who seemed like a good guy, and he even made several remarks about being a good guy between calling her a “slunt.”  Sasha had to give the boy props for the clever mashup of “slut” and “cunt,” but the motive behind the combination was violent.  Creativity sparked by malice was the trademark of a true psycho.  Almost a year to the day Timmy had contacted Sasha over a dating app and it started off well enough until she neglected to message back.  Forty-three-seconds later she got a dick pic for ignoring his last message.  After that it was nothing but rape and death threats.  Timmy had done the same thing to other women, including all of Sasha’s housemates on that night alone.  He was like a serial killer with a nervous twitch and a sledgehammer thinking he was a surgeon and all women were in his waiting room.

Timmy’s cock was nothing extraordinary except that the photo’s white balance was off, giving the sex organ a green sheen, like something found rotting beneath fresh produce.  Sasha had sent the picture (plus screenshots of words and phrases Timmy used) to everyone Timmy knew, including his female relatives.

“Let’s see how he likes it.”  Sasha said as her housemates watched her send the blackmail materials.  Twenty-four-hours later Timmy deleted his presence from the Internet and that’s when Sasha and her coven of bitches made a pact to forgo dating for an undecided amount of time.  Even though the shaming worked, validating its use was not worth the requisite mental anguish and social anxiety of being hunted by strangers.

In the meantime, they concentrated on school and their futures rather than on “carpe noctem” as the English master in their group liked to say before they pelted her with whatever was at hand.  Sasha never threw anything, at least the English master had achieved her goal whereas Sasha had tried to become a doctor and failed.  This was not her only failure, it was just one of many disappointing aftershocks ever since puberty.

Tonight was different.  The air tingled with delight.  Her date seemed like a good guy.  A beautiful gentleman made rarer by the money and manners he flaunted.  Her guard was almost down.  Laughter came easy, and he listened to her nervous banter.  She wanted to grab him by the ears – do not fuck this up, stay this course, you are man’s last hope!

She wished she had taken selfies with the Porsche.  The restaurant for their date was located in a five-star hotel in Beverly Hills.  Neon lights faded through impossible colors, million dollar sports cars sparkled.  He was dressed in bespoke Armani, she wore an old prom dress revitalized by an amateur costume designer on Etsy.

The food arrived in five courses.  A whirlwind of clinking glasses, red to white wine to crystal thimbles of exotic port.  The dishes shrank as the sexual tension grew.

“No desert, thank you.”  Robert said, dismissing the waiter with a smooth wave.  Robert asked if she was alright.  In retrospect this was when she started feeling ill.  It began with happiness.

“Yes.”  Sasha managed to say between missed heartbeats, with a purr, no less.  She wanted to scream it.  She was glad the atmosphere was dim otherwise Robert would have seen that she was tickled (literally) pink by the glamour and his chivalry.  Still, skipping desert indicated things were about to change.  He was getting confidant and it excited her.  At first she thought he had the foresight to get a room, but on their way out he steered her past the reception desk.

“I don’t want to keep you out late.”  He said with a shy smile.  Like an idiot she had talked non-stop about her job.  She was a pharmacist just down the street from the hotel, in fact.  She had bitched about her early shifts.  Somehow she had stopped from telling him her life was a big disappointment, did I mention I could have been a doctor if I wasn’t so easily steered?  I’m not saying I’m easy… here’s an unrelated question, What’s your policy for carry-on baggage?  Is this normal to feel sick when I am oh so happy?  

She worked at five in the morning, and Robert was such a gentleman that he wasn’t going to impose.  Oh, no, please, do!  She wanted to say, but instead she wobbled on the wines and port to deliver a kiss that she hoped would destroy the gentleman inside him.  Robert dodged the kiss and caught her in his strong arms.  Robert embraced her so warmly that Sasha fell back into the chaste fairytale he had constructed.

He drove her home.  Somehow Robert knew where she lived.  Sasha started to disbelieve her good fortune.  It’s too perfect.  Of course I drank too much.  I fuck everything (let me finish!) up.

“Sasha?”  He said, a waver in his voice that killed the dead air and her inner turmoil.  Sasha blinked slow, drunk on hormones and alcohol, and something else in her blood, a sick anxiety pounding in her ribs that made it hard to breathe and her heart race.  She had always been nervous around boys.  Nervous not only because she had bad encounters before, but because she had been raised to be a good girl, which was as full of contradictions as the Bible.  She felt her mouth filling with spit.

“Yeah?”  she gasped.

“I had fun.  I hope you did, too?”  He said.  Sasha fumbled for the door latch, the Porsche opened suicide-style.

“Yeah.”  She choked. Not here, not now!  Sasha willed the vomit down.  She gulped and belched silently out her nose.  How does he not see I’m sick?

“I’ll walk you.”  He said as if to a dog.  Sasha staggered ahead, too sick to tell him to go home.  She wanted a goodnight kiss at her door.  A kiss from him.  She wished she wasn’t so sick.  Sasha decided to puke in the hedge row before staggering upstairs to her room.  Robert did not hold her hair.  He crept backwards to avoid the sludge streaming from her throat.

“Let’s get you inside.”  Robert shoved Sasha with such ferocity that she hit the front door and slid to the FUCK OFF mat, a clever housewarming gift from her mother.

Sasha’s lungs filled with air, but nothing happened.  It was as if her lungs weren’t connected to anything.  Her body pulsed and throbbed, muddy blood in heavy veins, her heart shook instead of beat.  Her lips felt cool and swollen and when she touched them her fingers came back slick with black bubbles.  Robert lifted her purse and rifled for her keys.  He unlocked her home and lifted her up.  Another shove and she landed in the foyer.  She heard him lock the door and with a voice tinged with nerves and anger he shouted.

“Hello?  Anyone home?  Your friend is sick!”  Robert sat on the stairs beside her, yet he didn’t help her or look at her.  He was waiting for something.  Sasha’s housemates were out on the town having fun staying single.  Sasha had declined last minute for the date she hoped would be her last.  Sasha hadn’t expected it to be so final.

They were alone, and now he knew that, too.

“You slunts are all the same.  No wonder serial killers developed alongside feminism.”  He said, his face cupped in his hands like horse blinders.  He didn’t want to watch.  Robert was scared, but it was too late to turn back, so he had to muster apathy and prejudice.  Sasha got up, the sudden shift from romance to horror granted her a second wind.

“Apologize for what you did.”  Robert said, looking up, his eyes stung red from fighting tears.

The love Sasha was feeling was some kind of poisoning.  Her lungs were not transferring oxygen, her heart shuddered as if it had been watching snuff films all night, and she had to lean over to expel black sludge frothing from her belly.  She felt red.  Cyanide poisoning.  She remembered this from medical school before she was coerced into easier pharmaceutical studies so she could keep her weak scholarships.  The professors used extreme cases to keep class interest.  No one would ever see these cases in real life, let alone see a Ph.D. in Sasha’s case.  Sasha was forever torn between immediate fun and future stability.  She had been conditioned by an invisible force to choose easy over difficult all her life.  Now, this force was telling her it was easier to die than to live.

Fuck that.  In her discarded purse Sasha found a lint-covered stick of gum.  She slipped it into her mouth.  Robert chuckled, a nervous titter to relieve his tension.

“You’re one ugly girl.  You would’ve been lucky to have him.”  Robert said.  Sasha felt lightheaded as the sugar worked its magic.  She could breathe in slight gasps that wheezed inside her head.

“You won’t get away.”  Sasha wheezed from the back of her swelling throat.

“I will.  Timmy did this twice, poisoned girls.  One died, the other told the cops.  No one did anything.  I wanted Timmy to get you back, but he liked you.  You’ll make three and that’ll teach you all.”  Robert said.

Sasha swallowed the gum and got up on her knees, then to her feet.  She needed to get into her drug safe, her collection of stolen items from her pharmacy.  Sugar was a mere salve.  She couldn’t get past Robert on the stairs, so she stumbled for the kitchen.

She raided the cupboard holding their bakery items.  A jar of powdered sugar shattered at her feet, filling the air with sweetness.  Sasha shoveled it into her mouth and choked on white dunes and spat broken glass.  The world returned slow and vague.  Her lungs whistled with faint life.  She’d have the energy for the staircase, now.  Robert stood in the doorway watching her, putting on black leather driving gloves with holes exposing his knuckles.

“Apologize for Timmy.”  Robert said, trying to command, but his voice wavered.  “Apologize.”

Sasha rocked back on her knees and launched.  She flung her fist, opening at his face.  Sugar coated his eyes.  Her fingers were laced with broken glass and cut deep into his cheek.  With her other hand she crushed the tenderness between his legs, a feeling similar to squishing kumquats in a produce bag.  Robert fell, curling into a ball with his hands between his thighs.  Sasha could either finish him off and die, or try to get upstairs.  She lurched for the stairs.

The stairs to the second floor extended, twisted.  Her brain thought in red thumps and warping illusion, like fresh Polaroids spitting into open flame.  The cyanide was growing in potency.  She got on all fours and scrambled up the steps, then slithered.  Her flesh blazed cold and her clothes clung to her.  The stench of her perspiration kept her going.

Master bath, under the sink, the fireproof safe behind the towels.  Sasha flung the safe out and unlocked it with a tiny silver key she kept on her ring.  They all had one.  The house was home to an active tribe of five girls on the prowl for life and the drugs in this safe aided recovery from concerts, parties, exam prep, and jobs that began to early and ended too late.  And for the first time, saving life.  Sasha calmed down seeing her collection of uppers, downers, Ritalin, Plan B, joints, Vicodin, Seconal, and muscle relaxers.  Everything she stole working down the block from the richest people in L.A.

Sasha selected a B12 vitamin shot.  She injected the classic 1960’s prescription and felt the rush ignite her lungs and veins.  She had no idea how the cyanide got into her system. She could have eaten it, it could have dissolved in her wine, some forms would absorb right through skin.

Her date couldn’t help high amounts of sugar in the wines and port, glazes and sauces, but he had declined dessert.  He had driven her home so the hotel cameras would record them leaving, rather than recording them going to a room where he would be seen leaving alone.  Odd things came back to her, odd now that his chiseled jaw and jade eyes were no longer thirst triggering. He was attentive only to see if the poison was working.  He didn’t kiss her to avoid poisoning himself.

Robert had contacted her over Facebook, which was not as random as she had lead herself to believe.  Stalking in retrospect.  She had been blinded by beauty, charm, and money.  The poisoning was well-planned, but this guy was blinded by rage.  And he was doing it all for Timmy.  Timmy must be dead.

She vomited and felt better.  Now that she could think, the dick-pic-shaming from a year ago came back to her.  It was the only thing that warranted revenge.  If she did die the medical examiner would figure out that cyanide killed her just by looking at her blushing flesh.  Robert was sure he was beyond justice and Sasha believed it, too.

Robert screamed, that deep-throated roar that super heroes do to gather strength in the heat of battle.  She would’ve laughed at the machismo baloney, but she wasn’t in any theater and Robert was no half-naked Spartan.  His stomps echoed up to her, she felt his footsteps through the floor.  His steps stalled halfway up and she imagined he needed to pause to nurse his tenderized loins and “man up” for murder.  She knew she was right when he started yelling at her, mansplaining his intensions as if to justify his crimes to one of those patriarchal deities who protect weak men.  It takes one to know one.

“Timmy had no life after what you did to him.  He couldn’t go anywhere without some woman laughing at him or some guy pushing him around.”  Robert said through the door.

Sasha’s fear had been spent on the suffocating agony of cyanide, all she had left was rage.  She still felt sick, so she took an amyl nitrate tablet from the drug safe and chewed it.  She’d get the same treatment in a hospital; Dr. Feel Good shots and amyl nitrate tabs.  Poison countered by sweets and sweetness.  Euphoria made a good chaser for revenge, too.

“Timmy was a CEO.  He was very important and you ruined him and he was the best thing that could’ve happened to you!”

Sasha hid the drugs under the towels.  She palmed an amyl nitrite popper and lay down beside the pool of black vomit.  She gagged and fumbled to attract him.

Her date opened the bathroom door.  He was so tense he was wooden, robotic.  Sasha would have prescribed marijuana or methocarbamol, both of which she had in the safe, but Robert was beyond the aid of medicine.  Sometimes death is the cure.

“He killed himself a month ago.”  Robert said.  Sasha gasped intelligibly.  He kneeled beside her.  Still too far away for what she needed to do.

“You could’ve just ignored him.  He would’ve gotten bored and he would’ve found some other girl who was cool. My best friend killed himself over your ugly stuck-up face, and now you’re gonna die and wherever you go you won’t be able to ignore him.  He’s waiting.”

Sasha whispered something he’d want to hear.  He leaned in close, his ear above her mouth.  His rank stench cut through his cologne, his breath had soured since their date.

“You think I’ll go to prison or worse, don’t you?  I’ll walk free because the world was made for me.  The only struggle in my life is reminding bitches like you.”  Robert said and Sasha stuffed the popper between his loose jaws.  The plastic vial exploded inside his mouth.  He sucked laughing gas.  The shock sent him flailing.  He dug a pocket knife from his jacket, but an unwanted grin cracked his lips.  He reeled and dropped the knife, then his legs gave out.  He ripped the shower curtain and it wrapped him up as he crashed into the tub.

Sasha pinned him under the curtain.  She had another popper and she cracked the vial over his screaming maw.  His screams flipped to insane laughter.  He couldn’t breathe with her hilarious weight on his chest.  A third popper sent him over the moon.  He died smiling.  He died laughing at her.

Sasha flipped the corner the of the shower curtain over his stupid face.  She felt like crying.  Not for him, but for what the night had done to her, the collection of decisions past and present that had been made for her and turned her into a killer and realist.  She had started the night out optimistic, excited, and had hoped for a fairy tale story to share with her housemates, but now she needed to make sure there was no story to tell.  At least not this story.

Sasha tended to her hands, cut by glass and scraped from falls.  She inspected her mouth and found no glass lurking from when she ate powdered sugar.  Her tongue was dry and stung, sick on sweet saturation.  She decided to worry later about whether or not she swallowed any glass.  She cleaned up the unused drugs and puke.  She left Robert in the tub with the spent poppers.  She placed the safe of drugs in the back corner of her bedroom closet.  The police would be snooping around in the bathroom.  She took out the trash, putting the trash bags in the neighbor’s bin on the street.  She walked back up to her driveway and called 911 from the kitchen.

Sasha pitied Robert.  He could have had her, he could have lived.  Robert did not realize that he had been a perfect man during their date.  Motives aside, he had been attentive and engaging, he had delivered what everyone ever wanted; Robert made Sasha feel alive, important, like she was more than just another mammal destined to eat, shit, and die for no reason.  Robert should have seen this reflected back at himself, that in making someone feel special he was special, too.

He was sweet.  Sasha thought.  Things are sweetest just before decay.  Sasha imagined Robert and Timmy impatiently searching through fallen apples, angered by fleeting and unsatisfying sustenance when everything they needed was over their heads.  They blamed anyone but themselves for eating the mealy fruit at hand, spitting out the worms at imagined enemies.

Red and blue flashing lights revolved through a window.  Sasha opened the front door.  The police car prowled up the road and pulled into the driveway.  Two officers climbed out and sized up the girl huddled in the doorway.  They knew there was a dead body upstairs.  They did not reach for their guns.  All the cops saw was a haunted girl who had found her date overdosed in her bathtub.  All the cops saw was a girl whose innocence had been shattered.  They didn’t realize that innocence breaks more than once.  The pieces get smaller and sharper, hurting at first, then you put it back together, and after the third or fourth break it’s just annoying.  Sasha imagined a vase filled with nothing, fragile and useless, glorified for no good reason.

Robert’s corpse was removed and they tried their best to feign shock and horror, but Sasha heard the cops and medics joke about Robert’s death-smile and the drugs he overdosed on.  Sasha tried not to laugh with them.  They all had a part to play.  They were in uniform and had a culture to represent, otherwise the world would end.

Sasha answered their questions with lies that fit their need to believe in innocence and then everyone left.

Back in the kitchen she found the spilled sugar covered by ants.  She got a dust pan and broom and swept away the sugar and glass.  She crushed lingering ants.  They were entering through a crack in the corner of a window pane.  She left a dead ant there at the mouth of the hole.  One ant came through, its antennae flicking about.  It lifted its dead comrade and marched back through the hole never to return.

Dear Jim Thompson

Paul Vance read every book written by Jim Thompson while he was in prison for murder.  He was getting out today, and he feared life out there would be how Thompson thought of it; banal squalor, talent trapped inside a dehumanizing system, dead ends at every turn, no one worth trusting, and in the end, if not murder, then madness waited with a coy smile.  In other words, Paul was scared that life outside would be like prison.  He thought this way because after reading Jim Thompson’s books, Paul realized he saw life the same way.  Jim Thompson was his favorite author for the same reasons Bible-thumpers adore the Book of Revelations.  Thompson confirmed Paul’s own belief about reality.

Jim Thompson died the day Paul got on the southbound bus to Los Angeles, April 7, 1977.  Alcoholism, starvation, and a series of past strokes offed the unsung master of the psychotic thriller.  Thompson never answered Paul’s fan mail.  All Paul wanted was the guy’s own word that life wasn’t that awful, that things had changed.

Paul had his old clothes from 1952 in a plastic bag.  He wore his dead watch, winding it up proved useless.  His wallet held nothing.  He gawked at the new cars.  Cars without fins, cars that looked like sci-fi rockets.  He had watched cars change over the years from seeing the hacks park in the lot from the prison’s windows, but to see so much new technology huddled on the freeway was worrisome.  He wouldn’t dare say terrifying, yet he saw his reflection in the window and for the first time he saw that he had gotten old.  He went inside December 2nd, 1952.  Now is when I pay for my crime, he thought.  He had no idea what the world was about anymore.

He only knew that Jim Thompson had died because Thompson’s daughter inherited the author’s estate and called the prison to formally request that Paul stop sending fan mail.  Paul asked her if Jim had any last words.  Jim’s daughter hung up on him and the hacks came to escort him out of the prison.

Now he was on a bus headed to the city in which Jim Thompson had died.  Twenty-five years ago Paul had been driving for Jack Dragna and married to a woman who most likely forgot him.  The last he heard before going to prison was that Dragna might get deported back to Sicily and Paul’s wife, Ellen, was horrorstruck that Paul was going away for murder one.  She hadn’t believed it, she had no idea where the money was coming from and up until the feds came knocking she thought he was winning races.  At the time Paul’s son had no idea invisible powers were changing his future.  Michael had only been six-months-old when the FBI trampled through their Beverly Hills pad.

Paul couldn’t tell Ellen the truth back then because it’d kill her and their kid.  Better that she forget he ever existed.  The feds locked him up, kept him isolated.  He hadn’t read a newspaper in twenty-five years and did not believe word of mouth thinking that the gumshoes were feeding him disinformation.  JFK? Communists?  Korea?  Nixon? Vietnam?  Goodness,  he went to prison for a lie, how could he believe anything filtering through the system?

When Paul was arrested he was a big deal, above the fold big.  The papers said he painted houses for Dragna.  He was a hitman, they believed.  Paul was placed in solitary and questioned everyday about La Cosa Nostra.  He said nothing in order to save his wife and child.  Values did not exist, honor was a dead catchword like chivalry.  The Mob started as a way of survival for Italian immigrants who couldn’t mix with White Culture and everything that came after was greed.  He got more respect in prison than he did in Dragna’s presence.  Over the years, however, Paul’s infamy transformed to disinterest.  The FBI stopped questioning him altogether at one point and he heard that they were gonna let him go after he served his time rather than waste money on death penalty proceedings and appeals.  Besides, didn’t he know the Mob was on its way out?  Didn’t he see that he had gotten old and the info he once had was only good for historians?  Didn’t he realize the threat of Communism was too important?  Paul believed none of it until he got outside.

It felt like a trap.  The bus parked at Union Station and Paul knew that Dragna was waiting for him with a bunch of guys to make sure he didn’t say a word.  He froze under the hot sun, squinting at the glare coming off the brilliant bird of paradise flowers and rose bushes.  The colors were intense.  People shoved and shouldered around him using language he knew was English but he couldn’t decipher the slang.  He saw a metal box that blasted guttural, whiny guitars.  What’s this noise?  Music?  Paul liked it.  He didn’t like the hair, however, the guys looked like scum.  Unkempt hair, wild beards, and soiled mis-matched and ill-fitting clothes betrayed an unwillingness to grow up rather than a rebellion.  The women, well, he hadn’t seen the opposite sex in a long time.  They could do as they pleased as long as they were pleased to do so.  However, he could sense this new female freedom was more guerrilla tactic than actual freedom, a renegade behavior evolved to push back against invisible boundaries like he had learned to do in prison.  Paul and his fellow inmates did little things that almost broke the rules just to show that even in prison some things could not be bought, stolen, or governed.

“Creep.”  A lady said to him in passing.  Paul was gawking and he snapped his mouth shut.  His face burned red.  He moved on stiff legs, ready for a bullet that never came.  He didn’t want to believe it, but maybe Jim Thompson had been wrong about life.  Maybe things were better now, and would continue getting better.  The only thing he had to do was go to Dragna’s goons and make sure he was as square with them as he was now with the federal government.  Paul took a bus to Chinatown.

“We’re square,”  the goon said.  Paul didn’t recognize the outfit anymore, or the men running the show.  The message came down from the new leader of this broken pack of outlaws.  He also did not expect such a terse answer.  They didn’t want one last job and they weren’t scared of him.  They didn’t care about him.  While they didn’t want anything from Paul they weren’t going to give him anything, either.  He had done them a great service and he was expected to just move on

“What about Jimmy?”  Paul said the name he hadn’t uttered since he went inside.  The rage he used to feel was muffled now, almost drowned beneath his new life as a nobody.

“Jimmy who?”

“DeNicio.  Jimmy DeNicio.  I went inside for him, he–”  The guy hushed Paul with a dismissive wave that was almost desperate, as if Paul were about to utter a voodoo curse.

“He don’t work for us no more and he don’t wanna see you.  Leave it.”  Paul did without another word.  He was free as long as he didn’t dig up the past.  He suspected that meant he shouldn’t try to find his wife and son.  With time and occupation Paul knew he could start fresh and forget about everything.  He found a job at the library’s main branch, janitorial work, but it got him off the street right away.  No one noticed that the fiction and literature floor was dirtier compared to other floors that were spotless.  He spent the time on this floor catching up on his history.

On days off he went to the movies and explored the city he had abandoned.  It had grown, the populations had migrated.  Once wealthy areas were now rundown, and once unpopular or unpopulated areas had changed into havens for the rich and famous.  Driving around he found himself going to his familiar haunts.  The only one remaining was Cole’s downtown and he went everyday for lunch.  Beef dip with a manhattan.

She was waiting for him at the bar in Cole’s one afternoon.  She was drinking bourbon neat and beside her was his signature manhattan.  Paul’s first thought was why did Mickey Cohen send a woman to kill me?  Cole’s was a hangout for the rival boss and another reason why Paul felt safer there.  No one knew him in Mickey Cohen’s territory.  But she knew him and she had been watching him.  Routine kills more people than anything else in the world.

She looked at him in the mirror that stretched the back of the bar and he saw the white streak in her hair.  The rest of her long hair was going gray, too, so the lighting strike wasn’t so bright these days, but he knew her.  He blushed because he still loved her.  He hadn’t gone looking for his family because he didn’t want to get hurt.  It would have been better to hold memories and start over than to reconnect where his life had been severed.

“You’re so delicate for a killer.”  She turned to face him and he locked with her eyes, waiting for her to pass judgement.  She was hurt by what she saw.  “They did a number on you.”  She slid off the stool and went to him, arms held up and he froze.  She hugged him, wrapping her arms around him and Paul felt her hands join at the small of his back, which was something she had never been able to do before.  He had lost at least sixty pounds without realizing.  She was the same, just more signs of life and stress pressing in on her like the ocean’s depths on a submarine’s hull.

Ellen smelled the same and he inhaled the happiest moments of his past from her scents of crisp earth, whiskey, and smoke.  There was something else there, too, a new stench of electric ozone and stress sweat.  Nerves jangled beneath a calm sheen of icy, tense muscle.    He wrapped his arms around her, his hands fell to the familiar points and he found them harder than ever before.  She was never one to be so tense, but given the circumstances he didn’t hold it against her.

Paul expected her to pull away, but she hung on, unlike the rest of his world that had vanished.  He felt stupid for not going to her now that she was here hugging him.

“You never visited.  You never called.”  He whispered, the words sneaking out before he could censor himself and save the moment.

“I’m sorry.  The feds wouldn’t let me the first two years and after that…”  Ellen said, her voice vibrating in his vacant chest.  Paul steered her back to the bar and they sat down.  He gulped manhattan and savored the syrupy burn.  He waited for the story of her life.  He knew what had happened, she had been heartbroken and desperate at first and then the love had died and she moved on.  He wanted to hear it from her so he could move on, too.

“Michael is engaged.”  She said.  Paul had a hard time picturing his son being old enough to marry, mature enough to have picked from the world’s population someone worth his time.  All he remembered was Michael’s tiny pink face in a lumpy baby blue towel, playing on the living room floor.

“What about you?”  Paul asked, wishing she’d just say who she was now and what she wanted so he could know where he belonged.

“I’m here.”  Paul wasn’t expecting that.  He found himself scared and anxious, like the times he was naked in the prison showers, fearing the far corner but at the same time knowing that was the safest place just so he could see who was coming. Nothing but the longest expanse of slippery wet floor between you and the exit. Maybe it was better to get surprised just so you were closer to the exit.  “We need you.”  She said and Paul hoped Ellen couldn’t see the dread that made him kill his drink.  She blushed hard and quaffed the bourbon.  “Anything you want, just come home right now.”

“What’s happened?”

“I can’t just tell you.  You need to come home first.  Give us some time.  Give it a week and talk to me, tell me straight what you think of everything.”

“What’re you saying?  You want me to tell you if everything’s all right?”

“Yeah.”  She said and Paul laughed so hard he ended up coughing on lungs that had lost weight like his body.  Prison was reading, exercise, and smoking while waiting to stop a rape at his back or a sharpened spoon to his gut.  He was the last person anyone should ask for advice unless they were going to the can.

Dear Jim Thompson, Paul heard one of his dozens of letters to his favorite author and life coach, I’m a convicted contract killer and I just got out of prison.   I have no need to go back to the life and it doesn’t want me back, either.  My wife came for me, what’s the twist?  Paul hoped he wasn’t headed for one of Thompson’s unique existential hells, like the criminal utopia from The Getaway, or the madness of The Killer Inside Me.  If Jim were writing Paul’s life he’d be stabbing at a typewriter from some septic tank in the plumbing that ran between heaven and hell.  I’ll get everything I want and be too paranoid to enjoy it, Paul concluded.  That would be the sick sort of justice that only nature or a downtrodden author could come up with.

They finished their drinks and Ellen’s hand trembled in his as she walked Paul to her car.  It was new, a custom black Dodge Challenger, black leather interior, chrome moulding and rims.  Down the center was a white streak, like Ellen’s hair.

“You wanna drive?”  She asked, the keys dangled from a pale wrist.  With a glance Paul saw the large car key and the house keys; garage, front and back doors and they were shiny.  New car, new house.  Where’d she get the money?  Paul left them with nothing, all the more reason not to get back with his family.  He read her fast and subtle, a habit he picked up in prison.  Everyone learned to hide their tells and to read everyone else, everyone learned to read upside down and backwards from twenty paces so they could see what was laying on desks during parole hearings or janitor duty.  Ellen read like a woman in a Jim Thompson novel, oozing sex and mystery and dreadful consequence, which was so unlike Ellen.  The Ellen from twenty-five years ago was alluring, clever, and alive.  She wasn’t missing any of that, but she was using her charm to hide motive when she used to be open to him.

Paul let the offer to drive hang between them.  This was how he got into the mob.  Fast cars bombing down Mulholland Drive.  He had transformed a 1940 Studebaker to take the curves.  He got into drag racing as a kid, moving for harder and deadlier roads in L.A. and that meant Mulholland Drive.  They raced at night to avoid the law, headlights on until you knew the track and then you went dark to feel the car and the road.  Squares used drugs to get the same release.  He met James Dean before he was James Dean and they agreed it was the meanest and most gratifying road in all the world.  Paul didn’t know it, but Dragna had goons placing bets on the races and scooping the losers into drug-running operations, the losers that the road didn’t kill.  Paul was one such loser.  Dragna kept the winners for his races where they lived lucrative and crime free lives.  Paul drove for bank heists and heroin all in the dead of night in matte black and no lights.  They called him The Shadow until he took the multiple murder conviction.

Is she appealing to my new freedom or is this a setup?  Paul took the keys and got behind the wheel.  Car designs changed in a big way, the engines under the hood, the brakes and wheels and transmission, but the basics remained the same.  He knew this car before he turned the ignition.  He looked into the empty back seat.  He popped the trunk and Ellen frowned as he got out and inspected.  He wondered if the drugs were hidden in the car’s frame.  Every time someone went to the slammer for drugs Paul overheard some new way to hide drugs.  One day a car would be made of drugs through some chemical magic.  Paul got back behind the wheel, took a breath, and left his shitty third-hand lemon where he had been parking it for the past three months.  The Challenger was impatient to move, getting grumpy with anything less than fifty mph.  Red lights turned it into a shaking,  volatile devil.  It put the “imp” in “impatient.”  It was a glorious machine to behold, but it wanted to be free, it wanted to be a blurry streak in the vision of anyone unlucky enough to not be inside it.

“It’s Michael’s,”  Ellen said, “mine’s in the shop.”  She had her eyes closed, her hands white-knuckled on the seat edges.  Paul was driving from muscle memory, easing past slower cars, feeling comfortable at top speed.  He slowed down to the lawful speed limit.  That life was over, he could not take it back.

“Is Michael in the life?”  He asked, ignoring the Challenger’s call for speed as it idled at a red light.


“Where’s the money come from?”

“Nothing illegal.  But you’ll see.”  Ellen said.

“Sounds like you two did better without me.”

“We need you.”


“You’ll see.”  Ellen ended the conversation.  Their house was located on the west edge of Larchmont Village.  A nice place for families, an ideal location for upper middle class.  His family hadn’t fallen too far down the class ladder.  They had been secret royalty with Dragna’s payoffs for the drugs and bank heists.  Paul put Ellen and little Michael in a Beverly Hills address, but his conviction reduced them to paupers and after that he had no idea what had become of them.

“Don’t let it fool you, we’d be better off dirt poor and without Stacey.”

“Stacey is Michael’s wife?”


“Wife… soonish?”  He asked and Ellen only pointed at a driveway.  She desperately wanted help but was reluctant to give Paul the details, as if telling him would increase his skepticism.  What’s so bad about her life?  It was all so alien to him after twenty-five years of being a serial number.  This was what the American Dream was; nice house, safe neighborhood, cool car, a kid on the right track, and stories to tell at cocktail parties to show how far you’ve come.

There was a young woman blocking the garage.  From Ellen’s shudder Paul guessed this woman must be Stacey, his future daughter-in-law.  This is too fast, I have so many questions that should’ve been answered before this.  Paul realized this was another reason why he hadn’t returned to his former life.  There was too much to learn before he could even know if he had a chance of fitting in, let alone actually going about the hard work of fitting in.

“Is this your house?”  Paul asked, but Ellen got out of the car as it was crawling to a stop.  Paul looked in the side view mirror back down the short driveway, the name on the mailbox was M. Vance.  Michael Vance.  Paul’s son.  Paul couldn’t help but smile despite the forbidding doom Ellen had cast.  Paul climbed out of the car.

“Hello, Ryan, we finally meet you!”  Stacey said, her hands outstretched and for a moment Paul couldn’t decide which one to shake but she came in for a bear hug.  She was rail thin and had no strength so the embrace was like a jellyfish’s, thin strands enfolding around him just before a shock of poison.  Paul blamed his edginess on the past twenty-five years and Ellen’s ominous punctuation.  Ellen spoke before Paul could ask who’s Ryan?

“He just flew in from selling the land.”  Ellen said, her two-inch wedge heel smashing into Paul’s instep right through the prison leather.  Stacey stepped back and took them in, she smiled, they must look cute.  Then Stacey’s smile wavered as she studied Paul.  He still looked like he had just got out of prison.  No money, no connections, what fashion sense he owned had been exchanged for bland prison uniform.  Button down, jeans, brown boots.  It just made things easier not having to worry about daily attire, and Paul had never expected anything more from life, again.  “He’s exhausted, mind if I show him to our room.”  Paul bristled.  His anxiety hadn’t been this high since he had been trapped in a cell with a guy armed with a sharpened spoon.  The guy had been drunk on fermented apricots, and luckily whoever made the hooch forgot to remove the pits.  The cyanide from the pits wasn’t enough to kill, but combined with the moonshine level of ethanol Paul’s would-be-killer ended up dropping the spoon and puking for the rest of the week.  Paul had worn telephone books under his shirt, front and back, for the rest of his prison days just in case some other punk got the bright idea to kill a mob all-star hitman.  Now Paul was going to be locked in a room with a woman who should want him dead.

I can walk away any time, I’m free.  Paul followed the women into Michael’s house.

Once inside their bedroom Ellen pressed her ear to the shut door.

“What’s going on?  Who’s Ryan?”  Ellen ran at him and he backed up, checking his peripheral vision for a phone book.  She slapped a hand over his mouth and pressed her lips to his ear.

“Ryan’s my boyfriend.  They don’t know about you.”

“So you have someone else?”

“Ryan isn’t real.   You’re playing a part.  Michael doesn’t know about you and if you don’t tell them then they’ll act normal and you’ll see how bad things are here.”

“What?”  Paul said, hearing everything and understanding nothing because it was a complex plot being told by a woman who had gotten more beautiful with age.  She was pressed against him and he was sent back to high school when all the men were getting shipped out for the war, and he was feeling shitty for being too young to follow.  Then he met Ellen and the decades flew by until prison.

There was a knock at the door.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,”  Stacey said and the door swung open, “but I’ve got ribs in the oven and I was wondering if you’d love a drink.  Chianti?  Scotch?  Once Michael gets home he can whip up a cocktail, I’m the foodie and he’s the alcoholic.”  Stacey said with a titter and a wink as if she were on the set of one of those stupid family comedies Paul was catching during the last few years of prison.  Nothing made him want to risk the sniper towers and electric fence more than the fucking television.

Paul had turned beet red the moment he was alone with Ellen, now he was going to ash being caught holding his wife.  He realized she had never filed for divorce.  For the past twenty-five years Paul had fought tooth and nail to never be stabbed or turned punk and now he was here being held.

“Could we have some privacy?”  Ellen said.

“Ellen, I meant to discuss this with you… when you’re under my roof I’d like you to respect my family’s values.  Privacy is the devil’s playground.  Would you care for a drink?”

“You’re not family.”

“Bourbon, please.”  Paul croaked.  Stacey left them with the door open.

“See?”  Ellen studied Paul’s face.  “She’s a damn psycho.”

“Well…  well, I don’t know.  She’s… nice?”  Paul said, risking diplomacy because he had been in too many close calls not to give it a shot every time.  He talked his way out of a guard baton beating once.

At the dinner table Paul sipped chianti to be polite.  I asked for bourbon.  He could see the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle on the shelf with the the other rare bottles of hooch.  He thought about apricots and cyanide.

“So, Ryan, we heard so much about you.”  Stacey said.

“Oh.  Far out?”  Paul said. He smiled, unsure of where the break in the silence was going.  He smelled the ribs and all he wanted was to run back to his ugly car and Cole’s.  He had just started building a manageable life without complications and he could go back to it at any time, but he wanted to know about his son.

A car parked outside.  Michael came through the door with flowers.  He wore a suit and glasses, but Paul saw his son in the sharp cheeks and cleft chin.  The eyes had gone pale, but the warmth was the same.  Michael walked like Paul with a suave assurance in his stride as if his every move were choreographed.  Stacey didn’t rise to greet him, didn’t bother to introduce Paul.  Ellen cleared her throat and stood, holding a hand out to Paul and he took it and rose to his unsteady feet.

“Michael, this is Ryan, my…”

“Cut the shit, Ellen.  I’m Paul Vance, your father.  I just got outta prison, five counts of murder one.”  Paul said before he could think and hesitate any longer.  If there was mob trouble here Paul had to clear the air to clean it all up.  Ellen dropped to her chair, shaking with anger.  Stacey was the only one unaffected.  Paul focused on Michael, who wore a half grin and looked around for the joke that he missed catching.  Michael looked at Paul and saw the resemblance.  His smile shrank and one side of his jaw poked out, the tell that told the world he was grinding his teeth.  Paul had the same tick.

“Your mother thinks your lady is a bad choice.  That you’re in the mob.”  Paul said, pushing everyone towards resolution.

“Huh?”  Michael said.  I used to be this dense, too Paul thought and watched his son slowly turn to Stacey.  She wore a look of nonchalance, sipping chianti.  A kitchen timer far away rattled.

“When I went to prison I left you with nothing, now you got all this.  How?”

“What’s this about mobsters?  Are we in danger?”  Michael crossed the room to stand behind Stacey, placing a protective hand on her shoulder.  “What’s going on, Mom?  You say you want to get together, have a family weekend to get to know your boyfriend, by the way that’s weird enough you’re pushing fifty!  And now… this?

“Holy shit, Ellen.  Say something.”  Paul said.

“I will not have this language in my house.”  Stacey said.  Michael’s eyes flicked to the floor in shame.  She’s got him wrapped around her fingers with a noose, Paul thought.

“If you had just played along you’d see no one’s happy.  Now we’re all focused on you and that… crap.”  Ellen leaned over the table, menacing her son.  “Tell Dad what you told me last week.”

Stacey raised an eyebrow and Michael avoided her eyes.  He looked like a puppy who got caught after a furniture-shredding tantrum.

“Oh, get off it, Mom, I was just blowing off steam!”

“What did you say?”  Stacey said, drooping her shoulders so Michael’s hand slid off.

“Nothing.”  Michael said.

“He told me that you don’t care unless money gets tight, he goes for more credit or a loan from another bank and suddenly everything’s fine.  He said he was going to dump you and I think it’s a swell idea!”  Ellen said.  Paul felt pieces of himself die inside.  There was no emergency other than this domestic travesty, nothing illegal but certainly horrible.

Stacey switched gears, her face warmed with robotic precision, “This is how people get along these days.  Michael is a very good businessman.  Michael, baby, don’t worry.  You’re doing it right.  But did you really say that?  Are you done with me?”

“No, I just… things would be so much easier if we moved out of the city.  Like the desert.  And all these rules, what’s the point of your rules, babe?”

“There are no babes in this household.  Not yet, anyway.  Michael, we’ve had this discussion and I will not have it again, especially not in front of your tyrant mother or her killer husband.  I wasn’t going to say anything, but your mother has been trying to split us up for a long time, so I had to enforce rules in my house so that she couldn’t hurt you.”

Ellen jumped in, “You’re living on debt and one day all this comes crashing down.  Your father and I were there.  We followed rules, too.  Rules are fine, it’s the blind following that ruined everything.”  Ellen said and Paul marched to the bottle of Pappy and ripped the seal, popped the cork, and gulped straight from the bottle.  She was trying to setup a breakup.  This was the style of twist Thompson was famous for, the out of the blue plot change.  Paul didn’t understand how he was essential to this plan of Ellen’s.  It wasn’t likely that the sudden appearance of an unknown family member would change anything.

White smoke crawled from the kitchen and spread across the ceiling.

Stacey moved slow like a silent movie vampire.  Her eyes were intense and cold as she commanded them to “Get out.  Please.”

Michael was speechless.  Paul felt a twinge in his chest.

“Son, I know this is a shock, but I’m not gonna invade your life.  Just answer one question… are you happy?”  Paul said.  Ellen was so shaken by Stacey that she was getting her coat just so she wouldn’t have to look at her.  Paul knew how to make a standoff last.  He wasn’t leaving until Michael answered him.

Stacey elbowed Michael, “Yeah.  I’m happy.” Michael said.  Paul felt the air in his lungs turn to mud.  He had been the same way in prison, a mask, a shell, and in return he was able to believe he was happy because truth is easy to ignore in isolation. Michael was isolated, no one came to seem him or Stacey. The hooch on the side bar wasn’t opened, the pappy had dust on its shoulders, and the house was too clean. The house had never entertained anyone. It was a prison.

“Good.”  Paul said and took Ellen’s limp arm and lead her out and held her steady when the front door slammed behind them and Ellen shook so hard she would have fallen if not for him.

On the ride back to his car Ellen told Paul about Michael’s life.

Michael was in debt.  Every business transaction he made stopped one collector and grafted a new one to his back.  The horrifying part was that the only difference between Paul’s former life and Michael’s present hell was that this was all legal.  The system had adapted to incarcerate people without sending them to prison.  Stacey had Michael locked in a cycle, dangling the carrots of future peace and prosperity by way of hard work right now.

“He said he’s happy.  If people live on debt these days who’re we to tell him to live different?  Or love different?”

“He has no idea what he’s in for.”

“You don’t, either.  I think you’re projecting.”  Paul said, his voice trailing off on the psychological term.  He wasn’t sure he was using it right.  His head spun.

“Last week he was ready to break it off.”

“How close are you to him?”

“We were close, but she’s been keeping him isolated.”

“Because she knows you hate her.”

“Because she knows that I know she’s a gold digger.”

Paul slowed down the Challenger and parked behind his beat-up junker outside Cole’s.  The restaurant was closed and he could use a drink and a French Dip.  He killed the engine and they sat in silence for several seconds.  Ellen gripped his arm.

“You don’t remember what it was like, do you?”  Ellen said with venom steaming in the back her throat.  Paul had no idea what she was talking about.  “Living in debt, goaded on by the woman you love.  Getting deeper and deeper and then you just forget where legal crossed to illegal and getting out meant digging more.”

“He’s not like me, and she’s not you.  In fact, their lives are fine.”

“Michael is following in your shoes.  The only difference is that when it ends she’ll make off with the money.  Michael’s gonna end up just like you, broke and alone.”

“It’s his life.”  Paul said, hoping Ellen would hold on to him and at the same time wishing she’d let go.  Hold me different, kid, please.

“You can’t want this for him.  You don’t want him to make a mistake he can’t fix.”

“And you think breaking them up will fix his life?”

“She’ll never let him go.  You saw it, tell me you saw that much.”

“Yeah, I did.”  Paul didn’t want to admit that, but he could tell that Michael wasn’t happy.  Paul thought back on his mafia days.  Michael was held captive by Stacey the same way Dragna had trapped over Paul decades ago.  “Ellen.  I can’t do what you want.”

“What’s one more?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”  Ellen was not going to let him go without the secret he’d been keeping for twenty-five-years.  He looked her dead in the eye.

“I never killed anyone.  I took the rap for Dragna’s killer.  But you’re right about living in debt.  Dragna cashed in when I thought I was invulnerable.”  Paul said and the truth came easy.  He’d had twenty-five years to think of the truth.

“You never killed anyone?”

“Not a one, kid.  I’ve never even shot a gun before.  I was a driver, not a killer.”

“But why’d you do it?”

“It was either go to prison in the Jimmy’s place or get you two killed by the real hitman.”

“But why you?”

“Because Dragna needed killers to duke it out with Cohen’s killers.  Because I’d do anything for you.”  Ellen took a breath.  She had hoped for a killer.  Would she need me now?

“Michael will do anything for Stacey.  She’ll bleed him dry.”

“I’m not killing her.”

“You must think I’m some kind of monster.”

“You wanna save your kid.  I did twenty-five terrible years for you both.  I’d do it, again.  But no one is putting a gun to Michael’s head.  Who’re we to judge?” Ellen nodded and smiled.  A weight had been lifted from her shoulders.  She looked sad and beautiful in the pale blue glow of the street lamps.

“I’ve been going crazy.  I tried to split them up I don’t know how many times.  I lost my friends, you… and I couldn’t fathom losing him.  For some reason I thought he’d end up like you when really it can only get as bad as divorce and bankruptcy.”  Ellen chuckled and wiped eyes that shimmered with tears borne from relief.

“There are worse things.”  Paul said and not even a heartbeat later she was on him, her lipstick and tears painted his face.  Her hands held him as if he were falling.  “I’m sorry.”  She said and when he opened his eyes she was so close he saw one large eye staring back.  “I’m sorry.”  Paul kissed her.  She tasted the same, her face and body had aged but that kiss had not.

“I’m sorry, too.”  He gasped.

“What do you want?”  She asked.  She had asked him that question so many times before and he never had an answer until now.  His stone facade crumbled.  He had fought for years to never show emotion.

“I want to start over with you.  I want to make sure Michael and Stacey are happy.  We can be a family if we just talk everything out and be patient, get to know each other without ambition and money gettin’ in the way.  I think Stacey is stricken with worry for the future, that kinda dread makes people do weird things.”  Paul said, thinking of sleepless nights and phone books stuffed in his shirt.

“Take me home.”  Paul revved the engine and left his junker to rust in downtown Los Angeles.

Ellen lived in a quiet neighborhood far away from the spread out sprawl of L.A.  Her house was the size of a two bedroom apartment with a tiny yard and driveway without garage.

“It’s not what we used to have, but it works.”  Ellen said.  They both took their time to trek to the front door.  They were nervous.  Paul wondered if bra hooks had changed.

“It’s great.  It’s home.”  He said.  The backs of their hands brushed together.  His fingers found her palm and he held her hand tight.  She squeezed back.  She unlocked the door and he went inside.  He smelled lavender and laundry detergent.  In the shadows he saw a clean living room and a full coat rack with a hat on top in the far corner.  Paul shut his eyes and breathed.  Things were going to start over and he would get that rare Jim Thompson happy ending like in his later books that were awful.  Awful for for the reader, not the characters.  But this was Paul’s story, their story, and they were going to be happy for the rest of their lives.  Whether or not they deserved to be happy was something Paul was not going to consider.

Ellen slid a hand over his shoulders as she passed him to a light switch across the room.  A question came to Paul, “If you thought Michael was doing ok would you have come for me?”  Ellen answered by ignoring him.  She reached for the light and Paul felt the ruin he thought he had left behind coming back.

“No.  Leave it.  Come here.”  Paul said and held out his arms.  She turned and he saw her white teeth appear in the dark.

The coat rack and hat moved, and Paul’s open arms filled with the bright flash of a gunshot.  The silenced weapon snapped sharply and Ellen toppled to the floor.  Paul’s lungs filled with ice as did his limbs.

The lights turned on.  The coat rack and hat was a thick guy wearing a fedora.  He was the man Paul went to jail for a lifetime ago.  The hitman held a .22 caliber revolver with a thick tube screwed tight to the snub barrel.  The small caliber was a good choice.  Ellen’s head was intact, a neat hole the size of a pencil’s eraser leaked a polite stream of blood.  The small bullet had enough gas to punch through bone, but not enough to exit, which meant a cleaner getaway.  This was strictly business.

Ellen’s face was still smiling, frozen in the moment she heard Paul call to her in the dark.  She’d be there forever, now.  A limbo where she would always go to him and he would always wait for her.

“Get it over with, Jimmy.”  Paul said and straightened up for the bullet like a nervous groom waiting for holy permission to kiss his bride.  Jimmy used the gun’s barrel to tip his hat up above his brow.  Those smart brown eyes twinkled, the smirk made Paul want to knock his head off just as he had wanted to twenty-five years ago.  Jimmy had gotten fat.

“Don’t you wanna talk first?”  Jimmy said, sharp gravel voice from smoking.

“No.”  Paul said, unmoving.  Jimmy stepped over Ellen and got closer to Paul to inspect him.

“You can walk.  I know you won’t say nothin’.”

“You mean…?”  Jimmy shrugged an answer.

“I’m freelance and I ain’t paid for two bodies.  Besides, I never thanked you for taking my jail time.”  Jimmy tucked the gun in one of his jacket pockets, from another he brought out a roll of twenties.  Paul took it on instinct just as he had learned to do in the mob and inside prison; you took what was yours.  But this money was not payment enough for what he had lost.

“You wanna drive me to the safe house like old times?”  Jimmy said, as if it were the bad old days.

Paul was too busy trying to understand all that had happened.

“I’m sorry, Paul.  But you gotta understand this life with her was over the minute you went to prison.  Don’t kid yourself, you woulda had a good night but not an ever after.”  Jimmy lay a hand on Paul’s shoulder, heavy and firm, pushing him to the front door.

“Who hired you?”

“Some twist, get over it.  Cocaine is cheap these days and women’s cheaper.  We’ll get stinko and forget this.  No one’s too old for disco.  You know disco, right?”  Jimmy was betting that Paul hadn’t changed, that Paul was still a guy who’d paint a town any color just for kicks.  What had Ellen ever seen in me?  Paul wondered, and thought of Jim Thompson on reflex.  By reading Thompson’s collection Paul had read about himself, from seedy youth to mob hotshot, and decided he either needed to change or end up loathing who he saw in the mirror.  He had chosen Thompson because the guy wrote pulp, but that was a disguise.  Thompson was a gateway into real literature and afterwards Paul saw through other lenses such as Dickens, Maupassant, and Tolstoy.

Paul swung his right open palm against the side of Jimmy’s head.  His hat flew off and before Jimmy could turn around Paul hit him with his left, inches lower, and one more time with the right.  The three off-center hits in quick succession broke Jimmy’s neck.  At one time towards the end of his sentence Paul had shared a cell with a former football star who used to do this trick when the ball snapped into play.  Thanks to him the NFL was changing its rulebook.  Thanks to Paul a professional killer was removed from society, but ironically Paul had committed murder after serving twenty-five years for nothing.

“What’s one more?” Paul heard Ellen say in the eery hollow that followed death.

Paul knew Stacey hired Jimmy to kill Ellen.

Jimmy admitted he had gone freelance, hired by some twist. Ellen had only one enemy. Jimmy’s mistake was thinking Paul and the times had not changed.

Paul took the gun from Jimmy’s pocket and shot Jimmy in the side of the head.  He shot two more times into the wall and door.  The last shot boomed, the silencer was spent.

Paul made it to the Challenger before he broke down.  Thick sobs wracked his chest.  He had made it possible for Jimmy to stay in his line of work, but another voice whispered to him.  A voice in the back of his head as tiny as the bullet that killed Ellen.  Stacey would’ve found someone else to kill Ellen.  This was true.  Ellen had been trying to split Stacey and Michael up for who knows how long.  Stacey had planned the hit long ago, it wasn’t like ordering a pizza.

He sped back to Michael’s house.  He pounded on the door.  Stacey answered, wide awake and Michael followed, half-asleep.  Paul smirked, he could guess why Stacey couldn’t sleep.

There was no point in asking questions.  Stacey would dodge and run away, Michael wouldn’t believe any of it at first and then years would be spent correcting and managing the damage if she were caught.  If Stacey got away she would have no choice but to continue the life of a parasite and she had violent motivation to preserve such a lifestyle.  Either way Michael would spend the rest of his life dealing with a truth that would define his existence.  Paul had to create a new lie so Michael could move on faster and live a full life sooner.

Paul took a step back, raised the gun and shot Stacey in the face.  The tip of her nose flattened and her life snuffed before she hit the floor.  Paul leaned forward and put the final bullet through her left eye.  The two shots cracked and echoed up and down the street.

Father and son looked at each other.

“Don’t let assholes drive you around.”  Paul said.  It was all he could think of to pinpoint what he had learned over the course of his life.  He was hoping for poetry after reading classics for twenty-five-years, but not everything could be poetry.

Michael did not notice that it took far too long for Paul to point the gun at him, or that the gun was spent.  Michael’s legs gained strength and took him to the telephone where he called the police.

Paul went back to prison for life this time.  His only respite from the dangers and doldrums of prison life was reading pulp and thinking of Michael, hoping his son was using his past to make a better future.

Michael visited for a time.  Paul answered questions about his life and his mother’s.  Michael did not seem disturbed by Stacey’s death, which made Paul wonder if his son knew the truth, after all.  Then, his son stopped visiting.

One day years later there was a package waiting for Paul without a return address.  Inside lay a hardcover book.  A book written by Michael Vance, the true story of a hitman’s son.  Paul didn’t read the book, he knew how it went from reading Jim Thompson.  Instead, Paul flipped to the front of the book and read the dedication.

To those who lie to heal those they love.

And then Paul got it.  After so many years he finally understood why he loved Jim Thompson.  Hidden under all the inflammatory sexism, depraved crime and haunting lunacy, there was a love for humanity burning so furiously it could only be recognized in rebellion.  Thompson went further than showing how crime did not pay, what the Pulp King did was show the darkest humanity so that the only takeaway for the reader was rebellion against Jim’s dreary pessimism.  To trigger humanitarian action in the most nihilistic individual.  To make his readers want to build an existence that proved such a dark world view is a lie.  To do what Jim was unable to do in his own life because he had driven too long in the dark, thinking he knew the way when it was just by chance he never crashed until old age.  Jim Thompson’s only luck was the curse of a long life of hardships and he wanted desperately for everyone to not share his misery.

Paul flipped to the back of the book, where the author’s short bio was printed.

Michael Vance lives in the desert where he is happy.

Paul smiled and put the book under his pillow.  He went to sleep that night dreaming of Michael behind the wheel of the Challenger with the rising sun guiding his way on dark desert roads he knew by heart.

A Window

Yesterday I noticed someone had tried to draw a window on the floor of the subway station.  Either this mysterious artist had to catch a train or run from the police for the vandal act, so it was left unfinished in what could only be misinterpreted as a swastika.  Unfortunately, I had to catch a train, too.  After work I saw that it was still there.  Here it is:img_2753

I thought maybe by tomorrow it would be gone, but I was wrong.  I did not bring a marker to help finish his/her work, so I couldn’t help the artist in what was clearly a secret collaborative performance art piece.  After another day of work I forgot to bring a marker back home and I saw that the window was still there and still could be mistaken for a symbol of hate.  I thought maybe I should hit the red emergency button and notify a subway employee, but I felt that this would rob myself and the unknown artist of the conclusion to the performance.  I got a marker and went back to the scene of the crime.  I finished the window:


But I’m not a very good artist, and I have been inundated by corporate logos all my life so the window looked more like Windows.  I didn’t want to make an illegible ironic comment on our times from what was clearly a piece not meant to be politicized, so I took a breath and resolved to be arrested.  After taking another few seconds to improve the work here is the final image:


I decided on a landscape image to contrast with the subway interior.  The surrealism of looking out a window (through the floor!) on a yard under sunshine, a horizon, a seemingly cliche nuclear family-styled house, and a cat/dog/bug thing frolicking in said sunshine I hoped would pull people out of their dreary subway ride.  I decided to go against my own wishes for a night scene in a graveyard because that’s what would make me smile and I understand that horror isn’t everyone’s “happy place.”  I chose to draw an ambiguous animal for similar reasons.  Some people prefer cats, others dogs, and a very few prefer bugs (sorry reptile lovers!  I did not forget you, the medium just did not translate!).  I chose to do broad strokes in black marker to match the original artist’s medium and style so there is consistency and the illusion of one idea instead of two opposing values.  I also chose simple detail and line structure because I was on borrowed time before the police arrived and because the simplicity allows for the viewer to immediately capture the emotion of the image without being burdened by realism.

My only hope is that no one sees the hate anymore, or at least they see how easy it can be changed.

It’s Just a Game

Two years after her father’s death Barb was still getting rejection letters for his manuscript.  Ever since her father’s death she received crisp envelopes and the form rejections inside were sterile, printed on sharp copy paper.  On his death bed she had forged an acceptance letter for him.

“Oh, God, no… it’s all over.  I wished he’d never find it…  how did he?”  Were his final words.  He died with a look of horror on his face.  She had served him a lie in his final moment and the guilt was killing her, but the mystery was worse.  It didn’t help that she stayed on in the house.  The house Dad died in and before him the house Mom died in – they died in the same room years apart.  Now, Barb slept in that room because it was too much trouble to move furniture and too expensive to move out.

The rejections kept coming, a vengeful ghost was haunting her with these letters from all over the nation.  They were inhuman, computerized printouts, so at first she thought it was a software bug in an automated system, but after calling and connecting with a revolving door of secretaries and assistants at multiple agencies she discovered all the literary agencies she contacted had received her father’s manuscript queries no more than two years ago, some as early as three months ago.  He’d been dead for two years.  Someone was trying to rip him off.  Barb took it upon herself to find out who.

Plausible, her father’s name was Michael Brown making it a common name for an extraordinary man.  Extra ordinary.  Mr. Brown, her father, was so ordinary he had extra to spare.  Her mother always said that her husband was melatonin personified.  Now, Barb thought of her mom.  Mom was gone, too, and that was a sad memory.  She had never gotten to know Mom in life.  It wasn’t until she was cleaning out Mom’s room that she saw her mother’s happiness was just a mask, a stiff nuclear winter to go with the nuclear family.  Barb was surprised, their lives were complete, everything they wished for was granted.  Her brother was late for both funerals.  His excuse was he was older, his excuse was his family.  Barb had neither age or obligation.  Not even distance.  So, she went to Mom’s funeral with Dad and even through the wake he was ordinary.  Ordinary tears trembled down his face.  Ordinary service paid for from the church she no longer went to because she could not force herself to believe anymore.  She was sure Dad didn’t believe either, but that would have been out of his character, not very ordinary at all.

It had been up to her to go through Mom’s things and separate the trash from the keepsakes from the yard sale items from the donation junk.  Piles of odds and ends she had never seen before.  What took her breath away were the board games.  Old cardboard boxes with obscure company logos and even weirder game titles.  Morbid curiosities, spectral adventures, the games promised both fantasy and the obscene.  Her mother had collected board games from around the world and hid them in the attic.  She had a family to play them with and not once had they even played the popular ones like Monopoly or Parcheesi, which Barb found mixed with the odds ones.  The games were all opened and the pieces felt new, the cards and fake money were crisp, but Barb knew that her mother had rifled through the games, read the instructions, maybe even played herself all in secret.  Barb had asked her brother about the board games because she did not want to ask Dad.  She had moved into their parents’ house to keep Dad company, and Michael was there “just for the funeral” he kept saying, reminding everyone that he was needed more at his job and with his family.  Michael’s family did not come with him because of scheduling issues, but Barb was sure Michael forbade them to come just so he could use them as an excuse in case she or another relative asked him to stay longer.

“Those games?  I heard Mom playing with Dad one day.  I had to leave the house, lots of thumping up there, ya know?”  Michael said with a grimace after Barb asked about the board games, suggesting Mom and Dad had some kind of game-night kink.  Maybe that’s why Dad had kept the games after Mom died, but after seeing the rejection letters for her father’s book Barb wasn’t so sure.  The two were connected.

“You didn’t throw out those games, did you?”  Her Dad had asked, already showing signs of the sorrowful disease that would kill him.  She told him she did and would not throw them out.

“And don’t play them.  None of them.”  Her Dad said with such seriousness that she promised she would not.  She didn’t have anyone to play with, so it all worked out.

But now, two years later, Barb raced up to the attic.  She had kept the odd games, the foreign ones and morbid ones.  She kept one in particular that came in a red cardboard box and had a blank black square board.  This board was like Metallica’s Black Album, her favorite during rough teenage years, the album cover was black with embossed black designs.  This board looked blank, but when tilted in the light black symbols and lines appeared.  A two-dimensional labyrinth.  That was it.  No cards, no fake money, no instructions.  It was packed in a box too big for just this board.

Chills shivered through her like a supernatural flu.  The games were inside a trunk her Dad had made.  He had picked up carpentry after retirement along with writing and she was often kept up at night while he banged and sawed in the garage.  He wrote most days.  Dad used to be a general practitioner, just a family doctor, and she was sure he had no background in either creative writing or woodworking.  The funny thing was, he slaved away at each hobby, developing a lousy talent for both but determined to do better as if his life depended on it.  Barb let Dad go and saw he was disappointed with every project.  This trunk he had made was uneven, the wood splintery and knotted and finished in a sticky matte lacquer.  A real shitty job even by amateur standards.  A rushed job, as if the trunk had to be made quick.

She dropped the board and it hit the floor with a metallic clang.  Sheet metal.  The game board wasn’t painted black, it was solid harsh metal.  She hadn’t noticed before, she was so preoccupied with the funeral.  She tilted the board and saw symbols and letters flash embossed black on matte black.  There it was… the title of the game in the upper righthand corner.  The title of the game was the same as the title of her father’s novel.

The novel that would not rest.

But which came first?  The book or the game?

She pushed the spooky feeling in her stomach aside.  Her brother had their father’s name.  It explained the continuing query letters, but not why she was getting the rejections.  She laid the game board down and called Michael on her cell.

“Why are you querying Dad’s book?”

“Because I like to find money anywhere I can.”  Barb rolled her eyes, of course.  Michael was money hungry with two children.  One born just out of high school, ending his college career before it began, and another years later before Dad’s death.

“You know there’s a game up here with the same title as his book?”

“He was a nerd trying to capitalize on what he thought could be a franchise.”

“So, you know how the game works?  Which came first?”

“I have no idea.  Mom was the one into games.  She made the Parcheesi set.”

“I threw that out, I wish you told me!”

“Oh, you weren’t born then, I guess it must’ve been 1979 or 80?”

“Don’t ask me, you were alive.”

“I can’t place it, but she made the game pieces and the board and we played a few times, and she worked on other wooden thingies.  The game nights stopped, though.”

“At least… the nights including you?”

“Ha, yuck.  I guess so.”

“I don’t remember Mom doing anything like that.  I do remember an old guy, Dyer or Dryer.  Supposed to have been some kinda genius.  Weird guy, though.”

“I don’t remember him.  Did you get rid of all the games?”

“I kept the weird ones.”

“You would.  Hey, speaking of weird, the kids…”  Barb took a breath in frustration, she didn’t want to talk about Michael’s children, but Michael didn’t like to dwell on things that weren’t his office or family, the things in his life that made his life.

“Michael.  What made you move out?  It wasn’t the baby.  People become young parents out here, practically goes with the high school diploma.”  Barb said, remembering crying one day after school.  She got off the bus just as he was packing his shitty car, his pregnant wife-to-be standing by.  They didn’t even say goodbye, and she couldn’t remember seeing his wife before that day, either.  It was as if this new life of his sprung from thin air, but she had gotten used to abrupt changes.  Unsuspected Christmas gifts, passing tests she should have failed.  She had always felt charmed until that day.  That day would mark the end of charm and the beginning of tedious curse.

“Mom and Dad fought, it wasn’t good for Wendy and the baby.  I always wanted to ask if that’s why you stayed, if you thought you could fix things.”

“They didn’t fight.”

“Barb, it’s ok, you can talk to me.”  Barb bit her tongue, he was only saying that because he wanted dirt.  He wouldn’t actually help her.  The curious thing was that she was sure her parents never fought.  No game nights, either.  Michael was trying to dodge the present by diverting her into the past.

“You haven’t got any acceptance letters for your novel.”  She said.

“Worth a shot.”

“For two years?”

“Hey, I read online this sorta thing can take a long time for a response, if any.  I paid a company to send the queries.”

“So, you never read the novel?”

“No.  You?”

“No…”  Barb said, surprised with herself.  The game and the novel were joined.  Her Dad wrote the novel, her mother built the game.  Both felt unfinished.  There were so many questions, why did they play alone?  Why is this thing metal if all they did was woodwork?  Where’s the rest of the game?

Barb sifted through the games.  The black board from the red box was so entirely different.  It lacked the warmth of shared experience and care.  Barb turned the board in a beam of sunlight from the only window, an oval that overlooked the overgrown lawn.  The flashing embossed symbols on the board meant nothing to her, hard lines and squiggles that resembled ancient text, but her parents didn’t know anything other than English.  Then, again, she didn’t know about the games, so what else was hidden?

She repacked the metal board inside the red box and tucked it under her arm.  She wandered the attic, looking for signs of her parent’s life up here.

Barb knew what she had to do after finding nothing else in the attic.  She took the game downstairs and set it on the dining room table.  She went to her father’s office,  now her office, and pulled out a cardboard box.  Inside was the only hard copy of her father’s novel.

The title: Wish

The same title as the board game.  She opened the book and started to read, and then she knew why it would never sell and why Michael, her brother, would never reap their dead father’s royalties.  The enormous book was a manual for the game.  Detailed instructions and by the third page Barb saw that she was reading incantations, or so she suspected because she understood none of it.  Did Mom and Dad toy with witchcraft?  It would’ve been laughable if not for the evidence of conjoined madness in the lonely house her parents had died in.

Barb went outside to get a dose of sunshine she had never needed so badly until now.  She was a shut-in, unlike everyone else in her family.  Michael was always doing dinner parties and play groups with other families and their children, her parents were always out and she remembered more nights with babysitters than family dinners.  That’s what made this so odd, if anything she should be the one writing in-depth directions to a crazy game without pieces.

Instead she binged on streaming slasher flicks and read herself to sleep with only the cat to keep her company.  She worked ten hours a day as a secretary in her father’s hospital.  She read some more paragraphs and still understood none of it, it was written in some sort of verse and the language was English, but the arrangements were disjointed.  She understood one part of a sentence that ran on for pages – blood calls the challenger[…]  Did a blood offering start the game?

The hospital.  Her father’s things were still there, at least the files were and they’d be there for another eight years.  Barb didn’t know why she felt she didn’t have eight years, or minutes, but she grabbed her car keys and left the house in a such a hurry that she had to double back and lock the front door.  Something in the air made her feel like she should stay with the game, an invisible attraction not quite strong enough to stop her physically.

At the office, Barb went through the files containing all of her father’s former patients.  Barb found the medical record of a famous physicist, Donald Dryer, another weird thing she never knew about her past.  She had rubbed elbows with a Nobel Prize winner.  She remembered a strange old man who visited form time to time – could this be his medical record?  DECEASED was stamped on the first page of Dryer’s file and she read he had died ten years before her parents.  There was nothing abnormal in the file, but there was no date of death.  This wasn’t unheard of, the man probably switched to a celebrity doctor after getting the Nobel Prize.  Barb found her own file, the perk of being the daughter of a physician became creepy but she found nothing unusual about her physical condition, except the long standing vitamin-D deficiency.  She took supplements when she remembered, but getting real sunlight beyond going to and from work was not an option.  She didn’t care for people and there were too many of them under the sun.

She took a look at her brother’s file.  The file was old (her brother’s official name was Michael Brown II) and ended just before he left for college.  This was about the same time he had said their parents were getting weird and he got a girl pregnant and moved away.  Mom died a few months after Michael left to take on his new, mysterious life as a father and husband.  The file said Michael was sterile.  Barb wondered how awkward that  exam must have been and… but Michael had children…

She remembered going to the stupid baby shower in a strange city where the basic bitches finger painted on Michael’s wife’s bloated abdomen and gave her gifts they had bought on dwindling credit to one-up each other.  Barb kept the cat company and couldn’t drink the wine fast enough because the other women were inhaling it as if this was the last party they’d go to for a long time.  She had pitied Michael’s wife, it was like watching someone volunteer for indentured servitude for at least eighteen years.  Barb ended up with the cat because the gray tabby hated Michael and his family.  It liked her, though.  It was more gecko than feline the way it stuck to her screen door.

Ah, shit, where was Mother Fucker?  She thought to herself.  Usually there were morning cuddles, then afternoon Netflix binges with the occasional hairball for attention, then reading in bed and  Little Punkasaurus would fall asleep on her chest.  Wake up, repeat, just not today.  The perk of being a loner was life never got complex.  After Dad died she couldn’t afford to be complex.  They had been rich and enchanted, but ever since Michael moved it was hard enough to pay for food.  The social downfall isolated her from former rich friends.  The only miracle was that the house was paid off before Dad died.  It seemed that once the money stopped coming in, so did the people.  She was happy to be alone and no longer struggling.  She didn’t need anyone.  She thought along these lines of logic when she felt lonely and was on the verge of downloading Tinder for the fortieth time in a month.

She wondered if Michael had met the surrogate father on some sort of dating app.  “Husband sterile, please help.”  If that’s true then Michael made a profile pretending to be his wife, creeptastic!  But how did he talk his vanilla wife into that?  Barb didn’t care for Michael’s children, the older one was a tween wretch and the toddler was turning out the same.  No matter where the kids were or what they were doing they were always out of place and always on the verge of a violent tantrum.  They gave off a vibe thick as a stench that they were not happy, and so did Wendy, Michael’s wife.  But, finally!  Barb had a reason to endure a conversation about his kids!

She dialed his number on the drive home and he didn’t pick up until she was walking up the driveway.  It was a nice day out, Autumn, Halloween coming soon.  Maybe she’d carve pumpkins and leave the light on so she could hand out candy.  She had a sudden urge to see little ghosts and goblins and their parent’s half-assed costumes as Debt Reaper  or Mortgage Monster.  The cat had a little Dracula cape collecting dust somewhere.

“Are your children yours?”  She said, cutting to the chase to catch Michael off guard.

“No.  What?  In what context?”


“Barb… did you find something?  Like a black game board in a red box?”

“Yeah, how’d you guess?”

“Don’t play that game.”

“I’m not playing a game, Michael, I got spooked by that stupid thing Mom and Dad made so I went through Dad’s office to see if there were any more weird things.”

“Just put it away and forget it.”


“Is it dangerous?”


“Then why’d they keep it?”

“Because you can’t get rid of it.  Just the pieces.  Did you try to get rid of it?  You didn’t hurt yourself near it, did you?”

“No…  wait, why’d you try to sell Dad’s novel if you can’t get rid of it?”

“Because if you transfer the game instructions the board goes with it, but it’s gotta be paid for, blood or money.”


The front door was unlocked when she inserted the key.  The key spun freely in the lock, like turning the dial on her fear.  This one goes to eleven.

“Look, I’ll deal with the game.  I just need to think of a good excuse for Wendy and I’ll fly out soon.”  Barb heard him, but she was preoccupied with the screen door on the other side of the unlocked glass door she opened.  This was the cat’s screen where he leapt onto it like a lizard.  The screen was bowed straight backwards, not hanging low like it did with the cat’s weight.  His little claws were stuck in the screen, too.  Sometimes that happened, one or two would come loose from him being stupid, but this time all of his claws were stuck in the screen.  It was as if he had been hanging there and someone had wrenched him off.

Michael was still talking, “You can’t give it as a gift, people throw it out and then it comes back to you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”  Barb said, hanging back on the stoop, afraid to go inside.  Why’s it always the stupid cat?  She thought, thinking of movies like Straw Dogs and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

“I’m talking about wishes.”


“Mom and Dad found a way to grant wishes.  We had a good run, a charmed life because of that game but I…  I guess they didn’t like what I did.”


“You mean… your kids, you wished them to life?”

“Don’t do anything with that game.”

“Michael?   Are you ok?”

“Never better.  I’m glad we had this talk.  Don’t play that game if you value anything in your little life.  I’ll fly down ASAP.”

“Listen, something’s come up, my door’s open and something’s happened to the cat.  I’m probably gonna die soon.”  Barb said to dead air.  She didn’t believe for a second that a schizophrenic board game was the reason Michael had a nuclear family.

She pulled a tube of pepper spray from her purse.  A larger than normal spray, police issue and illegal for the everyday consumer.  She hoped it wasn’t past its expiration.  She checked so she wouldn’t have to brave her home just yet.  It was expired by two years, which was funny because that would mean she had bought it when Dad died.   Was I always like this?  She wondered as she opened the bowed screen door and stepped into her home, the pepper spray leading her line of sight.   Stop thinking so much.  Focus.

But she couldn’t focus.  The cat who had many names, mostly curse words, was limping in the dining room.  Barb stopped breathing, willed her breath to hold.  If she let go she’d be crying.  This fucking cat, unlike her brother, had been there for her.  Terrible dates, financial fiascos, bad days at work, this stupid cat’s puke was worth more than most people.  And it was limping with a dead look in its eyes.  Barb lived in a quiet town.  Families, schools, a playground without even a hint of dog poop.  The only bad things in the neighborhood was the rumor that a witch lived here.  Such was the fate of a single woman living on her own in a house she could never afford.  Barb also knew there was no better breeding ground for a frustrated man with violent needs.  If the invader was still here she would prove the witch rumors true.

She went through possible encounters and solutions.  If he pulls a gun I’ll run, distance and obstacles increases survival, if he gets close and pulls a knife I’ll use the spray and disarm him, if he’s unarmed and grapples I’ll sink my pinkies into the outside corners of his eyes, hook and pull -POP!  Living alone had given her a willingness to trade serious injury for another shot at life if it came down to a fight.  She had had no one but herself for a long time.  In fact, in this moment, she wanted to murder someone.  Her cat was hurt.  It was a friendship contingent on kibbles in the morning and inconvenient cuddles, but it was real.

What was also real was the metal game board stabbed into the dining room table top.  It stood still, so it must have been there long enough to stop wobbling.  The wood was splintered where the sharp corner had embedded into the heirloom piece of furniture.  She had left it there in its box, but the box was now shredded on the floor.

Her mind betrayed her with an attempt at humor, Hey!  This is great!  You’ve always wanted proof of an afterlife!

It couldn’t be that simple.  The game was unrelated to her invaded house.  The game was unrelated to her brother.   But if that’s true…?  She kept her mind blank and checked her home, pepper spray in one hand, and she grabbed a razor-sharp and curved cheese knife with the other.  She found no one in her house, no James Ellroy type creepers or any sign of intrusion.  She tried to pull the game board from the table but it was stuck there.  She even got on the table, straddled the vertical board and used her legs.  She cut her palms on the sharp metal edges, but the thing would not budge.  She felt sick, and there was a ringing in her ears and an invisible force was pushing and pulling her in waves.  She looked at the cuts on her palms and saw the blood drop on the table top and… the blood was moving against gravity, collecting on the vertical metal.

Barb forced her body to move away, to chalk it up to being scared.  She got a towel and cleaned her palms.  The cuts weren’t that bad at all.  If she calmed down she would be able to perceive her situation as it really was; nothing but awful reality.

She left the metal game board in the table and checked all of the locks and windows.  The house was just this side of air tight.  The house seemed bigger though.  Every shadow, nook and cranny held a world of evil devoted to her torture.  She knew it was all in her head, but she could not ignore the evidence of actual, physical wrongdoing.

Barb picked up Nameless and they huddled together on the couch.  Soon, the Cat Who Shall Remain Nameless was purring and warming her belly.

“Hey, little man, what happened?”  She said to the cat, ashamed of the stutter in her voice.  She had no right to be scared because she was alone.  She should be glad that she had no evidence or worse to call the cops, but Barb had the feeling the night was just getting started.

When she woke up Barb wondered if she were still dreaming, but the coolness of where the cat had been proved she was awake in a terrible house.  The cat was hissing, arching its back.  She woke up because the metal game board fell over with a sharp clang like a guillotine.  The pages of her father’s instruction manual turned and dented, some unseen presence was prodding and pounding a page, yet the only sound was the crinkling paper.  Barb forced her body up from the couch with the cheese knife in hand and as she got closer to the dining room table she felt repulsion, a physical withdrawing forcing her to move around a space just big enough for a large man who was not there.  Magnetism, the word jumped into her mind and as if on cue the knife in her hand, the blade, warped and snapped, flying away and stopping in the wall behind her.  Her body felt weak, syphoned of energy and it seemed that the board was sucking it all up.  Just when the nausea was too much the force was gone and the cat retched on the couch and went to its food bowl.

The invisible presence was gone.  It was just a normal day, again.

But it wasn’t.  It wasn’t even day, yet.  The sun was a whisper on the horizon and Barb knew she had to play the game or suffer poltergeist annoyance for the rest of her life.  She didn’t want to be pestered ethereally or otherwise, but she did not want to do the ghost’s bidding.  This demon gave my brother children!  The horror was palpable.  She thought hard about what she wanted out of life, Michael said their parents had found a way to grant wishes in this game.  In quiet and boring hours of the day, at her job or alone she felt like she wanted things.  A new car, a loving relationship, a cat who didn’t puke on the couch.  But now that she was faced with actually getting something she found that she didn’t want anything.  Except she didn’t want to have company, living or otherwise.

She read the page the ghost had been jabbing at, directions on how to build the game’s pieces.  There were no pictures, so she had to decipher the strange text.  She guessed there were four tokens that resembled stick figures, two die, shreds of paper that could be money or tickets of some kind, a curved shard of wood that was a deadringer for a Ouija board planchette, and an hourglass.  Imagine all those childhood games you played while drunk and bored in the middle of nowhere and mashing them into one desperate extravaganza to conjure excitement back into the evening and you might get this.

Barb was competing to reclaim her solitude.

She tried to stay awake, but the cat was asleep and she didn’t know the first thing about woodworking.  The instructions were so strange and specific she was overwhelmed every time she read them.  By the time she was feeling like she knew what the instructions wanted the strange ebb and flow of magnetic energy was long gone and so was her fear.  Barb picked up The Pest and they went to bed like it was a normal night, but daylight was streaming through the window.  She sat against the headboard, wondering if any of the crazy things that happened really did happen.  The cat was asleep, it must be safe.  She inspected the cat’s paws.  No blood, but the claws were gone.  The cat whined, waking back up.  Barb petted it and rubbed its belly and it purred back to dreamland.  Maybe Little Bitch really got stuck on the screen this time, worse than ever before and there was nothing dangerous going on.

Why wasn’t there a lock on the stupid chest holding this game?

Because that would have piqued your curiosity.  A voice didn’t say, she felt the energy of the thought squiggle into her mind.  She felt the repulsive energy from before, sitting next to her.  The mattress sank with invisible weight.  Undeniably male, this energy, a tension between potential violence and kinetic desire.  You looked because your brother was trying to get it back.

“How?”  Barb said, glancing out of the corner of her eyes.  She was alone with this invisible energy indenting the bed.  She felt hot breath on the back of her neck.

Selling the instruction manual, you can’t just give it away.  There are rules.

She turned to the source of the breath and couldn’t as her body tensed against a human form that was not there.  She felt a hand slowly close over her thigh, finger by finger.  Two bodies, but also she felt it was the same phantom.  The beings were closing together with her in the middle and when she shut her eyes she saw the thing, a man split in half and and cut deep from head to tow, his ribcage was pulling shut around her, his arms folding to lock her inside.  She was sitting on his spine, his blood pooling on the bed–

She lashed out and the field of energy broke.  The demon cried, his howl flashed behind her eyes.

If you don’t play the game with me I will win.  You named no challenger for your blood.  The challenge defaults to me.

“But if I don’t play there is no game!”  Barb shouted at nothing.  The energy wasn’t gone, just far away.  She heard a noise downstairs.  The cat was up, arched back, drool spilling from a hissing mouth.  This was real.

The game is indifferent.  The game moves on its own and those who win get what they want.

“Those who don’t?”  She didn’t know why she was humoring it.  It seemed more dangerous not to, like a child with a gun and a vague understanding of permanence.

That’s for the winner to decide.  Barb shut the bedroom door.  She didn’t want the cat to interfere.  She went downstairs slow, a hand stretched out to feel the mysterious entity, the energy that flowed and repulsed.  She found the game board set with the missing pieces.  Four stickmen, two lopsided die, a warped stone planchette, a stack of uneven cards, and an ornate bronze hourglass.  It was a true hourglass, measuring that exact amount of time in crimson sand.  The holder was the head of an androgynous human in agony.  Face down it vomited blood, face up it choked on blood.

The glass was choking, had been for at least fifty-nine minutes.  She had seconds to decide to play.  She had to play, didn’t she?  It was able to touch her, hurt her, and it would do worse if it won.

“How do I play?”  Laughter filled the room from a faraway place that echoed.  There was a visible ripple in the air, a chilling wave.

Barb flipped to the beginning of Dad’s novel.  She read. 10, she picked up the dice, 6, she rolled, 4, she selected a stickman and set him on the board.  The last second drained.  Nothing happened.

“Did you win?”

Yes.  Thank you.  I’m sorry I scared you.  I’m sorry about your cat.  I was angry, you would be, too, if they took–

The energy left and she felt empty without it.  Its final thought through her mind was sincere, the tone was utter joy.  She felt fine, herself.  What did you win?  She thought and knew for sure it was gone because there was no response.  The board was still there and so were the pieces.  Barb got the box and put it all away.  She knew everything was back to normal when she heard the cat scraping its litter box.  What had been taken from the demon? He didn’t sound evil.  Sounded betrayed, regretful..

The telephone rang.  There would only be one person calling.

“Holy shit, you’ll never believe it!”  Barb said, relief and awe of surviving an ethereal panic dropped her to the floor.  Even the cat seemed better, despite being declawed.

“You cunt.”  Michael said so sharply that Barb could not help but feel the demon was talking to her.  “You played that game and you lost.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t want to hurt me?”

“Of course not!  He wanted my family!  And you let him!”  His rage made Barb recoil in fear.  He had never ever been so angry with her.  Grumpy, quick to judge, but never raging.

“Your kids?”

“I was saying goodbye to all of them before my flight and then, poof, they’re gone.  See you in six hours.”

“What’s going on?”

“You’re gonna help me fix this.”

“What happened to your kids?  Are they coming, too?”

“They’re gone, Barb, you stupid bag of hairballs!  Gone!  Because you just had to play the game.  What did you want?  Money?  A man?”

“Fuck you!  I didn’t want anything!”

“Don’t do a goddamn thing until I get there.”

“You took his kids, didn’t you?”  But Michael had hung up.  Barb flipped the hourglass – vomiting, choking, vomiting, choking, vomiting, and halfway through the final and choking hour Michael burst through the front door.

“I looked for that thing for a long time.  Where was it?”  Michael said, pointing a meaty finger at the metal board between them.  It hit her, her father’s last words.  Dad had played the game one last time and wished that Michael would never find it, again.  She broke the spell by finding it and playing it.   But it was an accident… She thought.

“That’s why you wanted to sell Dad’s book.  Whoever bought it would get the game, then you’d know where it was!”  Barb said, putting it all together way too late.

Barb kept the dining room table between them.  The cat hissed, Skinny Bitch always hated Michael and until now Barb had no idea why – it knew his family wasn’t real and Michael was pretty fucked up for stealing them.

“You’re just so practical and serious I never thought you’d play it.”  Michael seethed.

“You took someone’s kids!”

“Not someone, another reality of me.”

“Another what?”

“Dad treated a physicist and the guy had developed some sort of dark matter portal access.  Dad played the game with him to help get some miracle drug that’d cure some disease.  Dad made us rich.”

“And it wasn’t enough for you.  You had to wish for children.”

“Wendy came from there, too.

“From where?  The aether?  The void?  What do you call it?”

“It’s a second earth.  You’re there, everyone here is there, but different lives.  The guy who developed this portal designed this machine to open up the path.”

“But it’s a game.”

“It could only be a game.  Rules, a sensory simulation of a reality that isn’t there, complete mental focus.  It had never been done before because the materials weren’t right.  The scientist went to the other side with a copy of Dad’s book.  You have to play with materials from both sides.”

“But there are other realities?”


“But the game only accesses this one?”


“Lucky shot, another earth.  Could’ve been poison gas or aliens.”

“I don’t know.  It just is.”

“Why do wishes come true?”

“You’re focused on the game and if what you win is what you think then it becomes real here, subtracting from the other world.”

“You piece of shit.”

“I gave them a better life!”

“Did she want this?”

“I saved her.  And our kids.”

“But none of them were from here!  How would you react talking to someone who looks like your husband but in whole new reality?”

“Does it matter where they’re from?  They were happy.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Life is life wherever you go.  Ups and downs.”

“Wendy was a bitch, so was your daughter and your son was well on his way.  They didn’t belong here, they felt it.  I felt it playing this game with your other version, a repulsion.  I couldn’t live like that!”

“But I’m a good guy!  They have a future with me!  You know who I am over there?”

“Was Dad a good guy?  Were our lives built on wishes?  What the hell happened to the people we stole from?”

“I’m a goddamn car salesman on the other side.”

“And you stole your family.  These aren’t things you just wish for, Michael!”

“How would you know?  You’ve never done anything in your entire life!”

“I know because I don’t do what I don’t want, I don’t enjoy hurting people even if it means I lose.  I go after what I know I can get and it’s safe and it keeps things consistent!  I’m not lazy, I just know my boundaries.  People aren’t things, life isn’t something you can just design!”

“Are you telling me it’s not a game?”

“I’m telling you it shouldn’t be.  Games are something you go to when you want a break.”

Michael bit his finger and smeared blood on the board.  “I challenge you, Barbara Brown.”

The hourglass flipped.  Michael rolled the dice and the stickman moved three spaces on the black metal.  He touched the planchette and it swiveled across the board.  Michael watched the board, reading something that Barb could not see.  He cut the deck of cards, selected one, and moved his man a few paces ahead.  Michael played the card he drew.  The sand in the hourglass froze and in a blink the majority of the sand vomited to the bottom half.

“Looks like you’ve got twenty seconds for your turn.”

“I’m not doing this.”

“I had a feeling that’s how the other me won.  You refused to play just like you refuse to live.”  Barb leaned over the table.  Michael wouldn’t tell her how to play, he wanted to win and get his family back.  It was so sick, it was clear Wendy and her children didn’t want to be here and yet they had no choice.

“If you don’t play then I win.  If you do play I’ll still win.  Maybe they won’t feel so awful if you could be a better sister-in-law and aunt?”  Barb held out her hand for the dice.  10, Michael took three seconds to hand over the dice, 7, Barb rolled, the stickman moved two paces, 5, Barb selected a card.  It was blank.  3, she touched the planchette and it wiggled over the board.  1, she dropped her card on the discard pile and her stickman moved back to the start.

“You have no idea what you’re doing!  Didn’t you read the card?”  Michael laughed.

“There wasn’t anything on it!”

“You gotta focus.  You can’t win if you just play.  That’s why you have plenty of time to let the game absorb you.”

“I bet they feel more like these game pieces than they do your family.  No wonder they just did what you wanted, how could they argue with someone who pulled them from an alternate reality?”  Barb smiled when she saw her words cut Michael’s smug face.  He shut his eyes, rocking the dice in a heavy fist.  Barb’s hand darted out.  She thought about life and rules and games.  It all worked until it just didn’t.  Rules bent, mended, or broke, and games stopped working due to the players or… the pieces needed.

She felt bones snap in her hand as her hand forced itself against the negative energy forcing her back.  It wasn’t her turn, the game knew that much, but she was getting through and before she lost feeling from the elbow down she felt his game piece crush in her palm.  She pulled back her arm and cradled it.  Michael stood with his mouth open.

“You can’t do that.”  He said.

The hourglass choked on sand.

Barb ran away from the table, toppling a chair to give her a second or two to gain distance.  She only had to keep this going for an hour.  From out of nowhere the cat leapt and bit into Michael’s thigh.  Michael yelped and smacked at thin air because the Coolest Kitty On Earth was gone before he could get a hand on it.  How did it get out of the bedroom?  Barb spun around a corner and toppled a bookshelf.  First editions and signed copies spilled, dust clouded the air.  She kept going.  She heard him grunt and the squeal of wood gave her the mental image of him pushing the bookcase over.  She ran upstairs and locked herself in her bedroom.  She leaned into her dresser and it scraped up the floor all the way to the door just as Michael turned the knob.  He was kicking at it.  He had always been a sore loser.  Barb went to the window and threw the stickman out into the waning sunlight, but it came back at her, hit her in the face.  It clattered on the floor and slid across the hardwood.  She dove and missed it and it slipped under the door.  Going back to the game, she thought and she struggled to push the dresser back so she could get out.

Michael ran, she heard his panic stricken strides chase after the stick figure.  If he took his turn she’d have an hour to take hers, but she would not be able to pull this stunt, again.  The game rules said nothing about cheating.  Most games never account for cheats, but this is unrealistic given any world and any time with a fallible, free people.  Michael would either let her stay in her room or he would tie her up, or kill her to be sure he’d win.  He could just let her play, too, she had no idea what she was doing.

The cat jumped onto the dresser, meowing encouragement.  She got the dresser out of the door’s way and bolted downstairs.  Michael was on his knees scrabbling through piles of books.  The game piece was scraping over the floor under the piles of hardcovers.  It was attracted to the game, where it belonged, like gravity or reflecting light, invisible forces of nature called it.  She charged into Michael and sent him sprawling.  She made a grab for the game piece.  She caught it against the floor, but before she could curl her fingers around it, Michael wrapped his fingers around her throat, one by one, and the hot sticky sweat of his palms burned into her skin.  She felt the blood pulsing in her head just behind her eyes.  She got the game piece and stuck it in her mouth and it pressed against the back of her teeth.  Michael flung her against the floor, but she gritted her teeth against the wind flying from her lungs.  Michael was on top of her, peeling back her lips.

“You’re gonna watch.  You’ll see how happy they are!  You’ll see you’re a fuckin’ loser just because you think you can’t have anything!”  He was crying, tears of desperation and fear.  He didn’t really want to hurt her, but he was doing this for a fantasy only he believed in.  He had nothing else and could not even fathom earning what he had gained after getting everything so easy.  She felt blood pool in her mouth and choke her, he had torn her lips wide open and he got fingernails under her incisors.  His thumbs were prying her mouth open and even if he couldn’t do that the blood filling the back of her throat was going to make her cough and gag any second.

Her only other option was to stick her pinkies into the outsides of his eye sockets.  She did so, even with a broken hand her muscles forced her finger to obey.  Once dug in, Barb hooked her pinkies, feeling the squish of the white orb and the string of optic nerve against her curving fingers.

She ripped back her arms, yanking out his eyeballs.  She coughed blood into his face and the game piece launched into the air, arcing to the game board.  She heard it hit the metal and freeze in place.

Michael shrieked so loud and shrill there was no way the neighbors did not hear it.  He tried to get away, but she had his eyes gripped in her hands.  She let go and Michael flailed on the floor, torn between mauling her and coping with the worst pain of his life.  She got away, spitting her blood out on the floor, crawling over books and climbing up a dining room chair to catch her breath.  He was still screaming.

It was much easier to lift up the game board this time.  The metal didn’t cut her.  She raised it over Michael.  He was in mid-scream when she drove a sharp corner of the metal board through his skull.  She waited to get her wish, but Michael’s body was still there, his head bisected like Frankenstein’s Monster.  She stepped away from his pooling blood and sat back down at the dining room table.  The hourglass had about fifty-eight minutes left.  It happened that fast?  The game would wait that long to allow Barb to win.  In the meantime, she heard footsteps outside, then the doorbell.

Ah, shit.

Barb smoothed her clothes, sweats she reserved for her weekends.  The sweatshirt was printed with a tacky neon unicorn, but the blood made it grotesque.  She had to answer the door.  If whoever was on the other side heard the screams they’d start looking in windows and they knew someone was home because Michael’s rental was in the driveway.  Her car was hidden in the garage.  The cat was licking blood off its paws.  Barb thought fast and whisked The Dire-Wolf-Puma into her arms.

She answered the door.  Of course, super snoop Shannon was calling.

“Goodness, is everything ok?  I was walking the dog and heard the worst racket!”

“I’m fine.  Little Thing here got stuck in the screen.”  Barb said pointing out the claws still stuck in the bowed screen door she would not open for the worst neighbor.

“Oh, my god!  I thought there was, like, a murder or something!”

“No, cats scream like that.”

“But the car?  I thought I saw someone come in?”

“No, that’s a rental.  My car is shot, it’s coming back Monday.”

“But your lip!”

“Cats don’t know any better when they get in a panic.”

“That’s why I’m a dog person!”  Shannon said and Barb forced a smile so wide her lip bled worse.  It had the desired effect.

“Well, glad you’re ok!”  Shannon turned on her heel and power-walked away with her tea-cup gremlin in tow.  Shannon would spread the news and no one would be trick-or-treating her house.  Hell, no one would walk their dogs up this way anymore.

Barb locked the door and drew the blinds around the house.  She let the cat go back to lapping up Michael’s blood.  Barb respected the cat’s disregard for custom and the polite way of things.  That’s how these dummies survived evolution.  She sat and looked at her brother’s corpse.  He had forgot to be human in exchange for what?  A wish?  She pitied him, unable to find satisfaction in this world.  He gave up too soon and it wasn’t just the family he had wished for as she had  a feeling he started small watching their parents help that scientist.  Michael went after money, a job, maybe even his high school diploma – all taken from that alternate reality, destroying lives so suddenly.  Maybe the bad things that happened in your life were the result of someone else getting their heart’s desire.

Michael had never lived.  And me?  He was right… I haven’t lived.  But she wasn’t going to live a lie like he had, exploiting the other reality to do so.

It could do some good, but not if it took the good away from someone else.  Are we morally obligated to not just this reality, but others?  It was too much for her.  Barb listened to the hiss of the last grains of sand draining.  She felt that magnetic energy push her and she felt a voice invade her mind.

And what is your wish?  It was the mental voice of the alternate Michael.

“Nothing.  I can do this myself.”

But you helped me?

“Don’t worry about it.”  She wouldn’t wish this mess on anyone in this world or another.  This was her problem, the consequence of solving a problem before.  She was afraid to break the links of her life or lose track of them.  If she let the alt-Michael take care of this she might need him later to fix something else, which meant she would never stop playing the game.

The energy left the house in chilling waves.  The cat gnawed on one of Michael’s eyes.  Barb reached out and touched the metal board stuck in the floor through Michael’s cranium.  The pieces fell off the board and scattered.

She went to the garage and carried back tools to dismember Michael.  A grisly mess, but she handled it and disinfected and destroyed the evidence.  She suspected that Michael had done some of this work for her.  He had come here to hurt her, so he wouldn’t have told any friends where he was going, he wouldn’t have rented a car or used his credit card. When she got into the car she saw it wasn’t a rental, but a cheap third hand vehicle, which proved her suspicion.  He had paid cash for this junker.  He also no longer had a family who would look for him.  She took a short road trip and it felt good to get out of the house.  She transported Michael’s wrapped body parts and buried him across the rural outskirts beyond the small town she called home.  She parked the car on the bad side of town, which amounted to college parties and mild vandalism.  She left it unlocked with the keys on the seat and the pink slip on the dash.  She walked home in the refreshing Autumn air.  This work was a small price to pay in order to keep her freedom and solitude.

She cleaned up everything, and placed the game back into the chest.  She didn’t buy a lock for it.  That would only make people curious.  She hadn’t wished the game away because she didn’t want the alt-Michael or anyone else to deal with it.  She wrote a simplified instruction manual, a single page, to supplement her father’s tome.  One day, when she was gone, someone would find this chest and start the game.  Hopefully, her instructions would help the player think beyond greed.  Until then Barb ignored the pulls of energy drawing her to the attic where the game was hidden.    She didn’t think she would ever hear from alt-Michael, again.  He got what he wanted the only way he could, so he had no reason to play the game, either.  If she did answer the game’s call the challenge would be against someone new, someone wishing for something they didn’t think they could get and felt they deserved.  Barb ignored the calls, the push and pull of spooky magnetic energy.

But when the forces of the other world became too powerful and desperate Barb got out of the house.  She started doing things out there in her world.  When she returned home the energy was usually gone, it had lost patience, or maybe there were other game boards and other players around the world of both realities.  It didn’t matter, she refused to play.

She would grant her own wishes from now on.

Cats in the Belfry

I was offered $250 bucks to watch two cats.  At least, at the time I thought the guy had two cats.  The last time I had been to his place there were only two cats, a young string bean gray tabby and an older white fluff ball.  The owner’s an aging Latino soap opera hunk and he’s still cut from a slab of South American tan marble.  Let’s get rid of those budding questions, dear reader, nothing sexually weird happened, but then again… how do I know he’s still ripped?  Because he lived next door to my ex and since this is SoCal and he’s an actor he’s shirtless most of the time, outside whispering sides to himself for his next audition.  The cat owner is a nice guy, but you’ll learn that the crazy starts where the eccentricity ends.

For instance, who needs a cat sitter for two nights and a day?   No one, that’s who.  Unless your cat is on disability and if that’s the case why are you going out?  You should be with your cat!  I didn’t point out this glaring plot hole because I knew he was a little off and the money was easy.

One more thing to clear up before we jump into the madness; she wasn’t my ex the first time I saw his place and those two cats.  She was when I took the cat-sitting job.  I couldn’t say no.  I love cats, cats and I are instant buddies, cats break up my cold poker game exterior.  Meow.  $250 bucks to watch two cats for two nights while Soap was out on a shoot was a great deal for a guy like me.  And I needed the money.  Yeah, we’ll call him Soap.  He still gets industry work and he makes one-of-a-kind leather jackets that sell for thousands.

He also lives in a studio apartment with seven cats.  Is that a fucking typo?   It’s not.  Soap got five more cats between the time I first saw his place to the last time when I took the job.  My ex told me about the five extra fur balls the day of the job when I arrived to get Soap’s keys.  She lived next to him.  Awkward?  In retrospect not at all compared to the cat sitting.

Don’t worry, we’ll get there soon.  I gotta say I’m about three beers into this anecdote and I’m writing off the cuff.  I have no idea how to end this, anticlimactic and bitter is what I’m thinking, but that could just be the beer talking.  I also don’t own a cat myself.  Shocking, right?


I get the keys, she goes to work, and I get inside as quickly as I can without opening the door too wide because the string bean gray tabby and two black kittens bum rush me.  I don’t remember any of their names.  My relationship with animals, cats in particular, is very informal and crass.  Cats seem to respond better to “hey, fatso” or “dickhead” rather than their owner-given names.  It must be how I call them not what I call them.  Dumb dicks.

The studio apartment is nice, open, with plenty of light from large windows facing east and west.  Hardwood floors, a large queen sized bed next to the door with an enormous mirror on the wall over it.  In the mirror I see two more cats, but when I look they’re gone.  Instead of a headboard there’s a poster of Soap on the wall, a movie one-sheet starring him as a boxer.  Shirt off, gloves on, heroic expression, greased Latino lightning.  Soap doesn’t look like a cat guy.  He looks like the kind of guy who’d eat cats alive and say “this is one way to skin a cat, bitch!”  Very intense gaze that makes you wonder who’s going to die and you look around hoping you’re not the only person in the room.  Ok, I can deal with this, I think, knowing I’ll be sleeping in that bed with the poster of Soap hanging above me.  I just feel like I’m being watched, and of course I am.  Seven pairs of eyes are studying me from close up and afar.  I look at the skinny gray tabby, “you’re the troublemaker, aren’t you?”  I ask it and it responds with a whine and a head bump.

Cats are easy.  They are loners like myself, so I settle down to read a graphic novel adaptation of James Ellroy’s The Black Dahlia.  It’s an incredible book and I’ve been excited to read this graphic novel adaptation for months.  I get a few pages in and the cats get used to my presence, soon they’re back to pestering one another and loafing as if I wasn’t there.  The two black kittens cuddle on my shins and lap.  That’s when I get an email from my ex.  She forwarded this email from Soap detailing my duties for today, tonight, tomorrow and the next night before he returns the following morning.   He’s using her as a buffer because he knows he’s being difficult.  Using her as a buffer as if to say it’s her fault he’s being particular in the care of these cats.  He wants me to shoot the messenger.  He thinks I will because she and I are no longer together, as if that implies hatred.  I’m too nice, he should know that because I’m taking care of his seven cats when they don’t need anyone.

His neediness is advertised through his cats and the apartment.  I pity him.  Also, $250 bucks.

I said before cats are easy.  If you set out food they’ll only eat when hungry if you’re not around.  They sleep most of the time, too.  They use a litter box sparingly when there isn’t a human to annoy with poop smells.  Soap believes his cats are different, he thinks they’re some sort of clockwork felines.  He believes they must be fed on a tight schedule using four bowls, two cats per bowl and one bowl for the big white fluff.  The food is a mix of dry and wet food and should only fill a quarter of the bowl.  He details how I should go about this because the cats will “go crazy” once they hear the wet food cans and the dry food bag.  He makes it sound like I’ll have to throw them off me as I dish out quarter bowl servings.  This isn’t the case.  There’s a calico who gets curious and sneaks onto the counter, I toss it off.  The gray tabby gets in my face, curious and sweet, what’s the rumpus, bro?  I pick Gray Tabs up and plop it on the floor.  I’m not sure about any of their genders.  The two black kittens mew from the floor, the counter is too high for them.  Soap wants me to serve them at the same time, yet their bowls go in specific locations and in the email he says the cats know which bowls are theirs.  3×5 index cards with two names on each mark the bowl locations, except for the one reserved for big white fluff.  The cards are placed in four areas of the studio apartment.  One on the kitchen floor, two on a dividing wall nook type thing above the stove that looks into the living area, one on top of the fridge because Calico gets a solitary order, too.  So, there are actually five bowls.  I was just as mixed up then as I am now.  The lapse in memory has nothing to do with the beer.

*hic* *glug glug glug*

The cats move with me, feasting from the moment the first bowl is set down.  They move around, feasting at one and then another.  Their eating patterns are dictated by which bowls have more wet food and which bowls are unoccupied.  The name tags and locations mean nothing.  A fight breaks out between Gray Tabs and Calico, “knock it off, fuckers!”  I say in a bro voice as if we’re best buds in an after hours club.  They look at me as if they’ve never been yelled at and I think that’s true.  I go back to reading, the two black kittens snuggle with me.  Gray Tabs and Calico take a break on different levels of a cat tree that reaches the ceiling.

The white fluff doesn’t eat.  White Fluff eyes me with suspicion, so I say hello and carry on a one-sided conversation until it hisses at me.  Very well, Whitey, just please don’t pull a hunger strike.

I pause to read what Soap has written on his walls.  Ex calls them affirmations.  They’re more akin to a serial killer’s scrawl in heavy handed black paint.  The phrases revolve around the entire apartment in a two-foot width from the ceiling.  Things like  I am the alpha and the omega and I am God, which is redundant to me.  More positive quips like I am energy and more convoluted things he tells himself like  I am the never ending [blah blah blah].  You get the idea.  Soap has graduated from eccentric to creepy.  I imagine he unwinds every night reading these words and phrases and thinking of adding more.  He’s affirming his worth and importance in the world.  It’s not a bad thing to do.  I constantly measure my unworthiness.  I thank Soap for the life lesson, but this extreme raises my hackles.  What he’s doing is creating a world where he is still king.  Like Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard, or mother fucking Angelyne and her pink sarcophagus (it looks like a Corvette, but if you open up the trunk you’ll find canopic jars).  What Soap’s affirmations help him ignore is that relevance is a fickle pop-culture phenomenon and trying to keep up with it is like herding cats.

I want to take a shower, but the bathroom is sparse and uninviting.  The toilet paper sits on top of the mirror over the sink so the cats can’t get it.  No matter how I sweep with the dust pan there are always invisible bits of litter on the floor.  The litter box is inside the bathtub.  There’s only one litter box for the seven cats.  Soap says in his email via Ex that when the cats are done eating they one by one use the litter box in a nice orderly fashion.  Like how he believes they eat like clockwork, this detail is utter bullshit.  He says I need to clean the litter box between each use.  I don’t do that because only two cats use the box half an hour apart.  I read.  I text Ex and wonder if I’ll ever find love again while understanding that I never will if I keep talking to Ex exclusively and continue to be this nice.  I look around the room.  I get why Soap is the way he is – this place is safe.  It’s a refuge from the chaos out there.  It is the fantasy of control and it feels good.  I sympathize and worry that sympathy can lead to assimilation.  This safety is not sustainable.

My skin crawls.  I decide not to shower.  I shut the windows and turn on the A/C.  It’s dark out, the cats are settling down.  Except for Gray Tabs who bullies the other cats.  “Hey, string bean piece of shit, you wanna fight?”  I say laughing and we chase each other around for a bit.  I roll a paper ball and flick it around, watching Gray Tabs get mauled by the kittens as they all go for it.  They get tired and I go to the fridge to see if there’s anything to eat.  The fridge is empty except for a filtered water pitcher and a large jar of raw bee pollen, as in pollen collected by bees.  Little yellow pellets the size of large ants.  I stare at it, wondering what the hell this stuff can do, and then I spy the medical vials and a syringe laid out all the way in the back corner.  I shut the fridge, blushing.  I feel like I’ve invaded his privacy.  I think steroids.  I look in the cabinets.  No food.  I need to see what the vials are, so I duck back into the fridge.  No, not steroids, antibiotics for cats.  Soap plays doctor with his cats.  Soap has no affirmation in black paint referring to a medical degree.

I prowl the apartment, trying to piece together Soap’s psyche.

There’re news clippings of his acting career legacy from Variety and other Los Angeles sources.  The dates are conveniently cut out of the clippings, but Soap looks the same and the only tell is that the articles have yellowed with age.

I won’t allude to the obvious Dorian Gray reference, but I just did *hic*

I grab Soap’s keys and head out for some food from the nearby grocery store.  I return, careful not to let any of the beasts slip out as I enter.  I eat, talking to myself and the cats.  I’m taking in more protein and carbs, more of everything really.  My metabolism is so high that I burn through everything.  I’m trying to build muscle on my tiny, skinny 5’5″ frame.  I strip down to my underwear and stretch my body out, a before bed ritual I have to help me unwind.  I admire my physique in the mirror, my diet and weight lifting is working, but a wave of depression hits me and leaves my lungs feeling like dried husks.  What’s the point, buddy?  Ex should’ve been home by now.  She must be on a date.  I’m hurt that she isn’t hurt, that she got back in the game so fast (later I’d find out her dating life was misery just as solitude was mine).  Our relationship was hot, affectionate, and fun, long conversations and searing romance, but our futures have diverged.  It was a mutual break-up and I made the mistake of placing my self worth on our future together.  Without her there is nothing and I am stricken with dread of freedom.  I used to think my social anxiety was pretentious, a symptom of being a writer, but it has gotten worse.  It’s full blown damaged nerves and depression and the break-up did not help.  Like being unpublished, these are symptoms of being a writer.  These are also symptoms of a mental condition that deserves respect and socializing with strong friends.

And I chose to be alone in a crazy man’s apartment taking care of his cats.

But at this point I don’t think he’s crazy, yet.  It’s a close call.  No food, the affirmations, the way he believes his cats are almost mechanical all points to a guy who lacks control out there in the real world, he lost something or someone and he’s just picking up the pieces.  His news clippings show a respect and pride for his acting career and the need to believe it hasn’t changed.

As I eat and think too much the black kittens join me on the couch.  One sprawls on my book.  The other one talks to me in loud mews that stutter.  “Hey, what’s up, little man?”  I pet it and it curls up at my side.  The one on my book is asleep.  I choose this moment to try out his weight and exercise equipment.  I bench press the barbell without weights, it’s heavy enough as is and I stop to see if the cats are judging me.  Calico and Gray Tabs cast heavy shade, who’s the string bean piece of shit, now?  There are a set of adjustable dumbells on either side of the bench and I can’t even lift them as they are set to the heaviest weight.  I won’t tell you just how heavy.  I know, I know, the man card was revoked a long time ago.  I laugh at myself and I hear my phone vibrate from the couch.  I lunge for it.

It’s her, I think.  My neediness is disgusting and it takes me a moment to realize it’s not her.  It’s him.  Soap is on the other end of the phone call.

“Hey, can you open the window?”  He says and my body reacts before my mind does, my stomach lurches, my muscles go numb.  I look out the window as if he’s there and he’s not.

“The window?”  I say.

“Yeah.  I just noticed it was closed when I checked my phone.  They like the fresh air.”

Yeah.  Plot twist.  You called it way back, didn’t you?  I look at myself in the mirror, the big floor to ceiling mirror half hidden behind the bed.  I look at myself and I see it in the reflection over my shoulder.  Not a nanny cam, a true security camera.  It’s got infrared bulbs ringing the lens for night vision.  It’s serious and aimed at the mirror so it can see every corner of the apartment except the bathroom.

“I can only view two minutes of pre-recorded video, it’s not live or anything.”  He says, sensing my hesitation and anger.  Mother fucking baloney.  I know how movie sets run and how cheap bandwidth is these days.  Actors sit around all day while the lighting department gets their shit together, and I can play a game on my phone with someone across the globe without a stutter in the action.  Soap has had nothing better to do than watch me watch his cats in real time.

This goes beyond caring and loving these animals.  He’s using the situation to control me in his controlled utopia.  He says the camera is there to stop people from breaking in, but if that were the case why isn’t the goddamn thing outside the apartment?

Soap then has the gall to ask if Ex will be spending the night here with me.

I don’t bother to dignify his perverse paranoia with an answer.  I open the window and leave the A/C running.  I pretend to believe him, smiling with casual dismissal, no harm done, buddy-o! but in the back of my head I wonder if he enjoys watching me in my underwear.  I could leave, I should leave.  The cats will be fine, but the money is still in limbo.  Also, Ex lives next door.  If I leave she’ll never hear the end of this betrayal, let alone never be safe from his next turn down his hairball spiral.

“Also, buddy, if you could not leave so much?  I get a text every time the door opens, makes me think my place is getting robbed, ya know?”  I wonder if he can see the murder in my eyes from the mirror’s reflection.  All my depression evaporates in a blaze of rage.  In this moment I’d kill him and it feels good to feel something so pure even when it’s so negative.

“And how are they?  Did you see how they know where to go when it’s time to eat?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s crazy!”  I say with every ounce of acting I’ve got.  He knows they did no such thing, watching me the whole time.  He’s fishing for validation and I don’t want to burst his fragile bubble.

“And the litter box?  Isn’t it something that they do that?”

“Yup.”  I take comfort in the fact that cats will eat their master without hesitation.  I look at Gray Tabs and nod, you got this, tough guy, man does not survive on bee pollen.

“You haven’t had any problems?”

“Well… the white one…”

He says White Fluff’s name here to correct me.

“Yeah, [name redacted to protect the innocent] doesn’t really like me.”

“Oh?  That’s odd… [redacted] loves everyone.  Although, my girlfriend of ten years never got along with [ok ok, I just don’t remember the cat’s name because it’s weird.  REDACTED.]

Ten years?  You don’t say.  I think to myself and add it to the evidence against Soap’s sanity.  I don’t dare mention that White Fluff didn’t eat.  Anything to not have to do something extreme, like pay a vet bill.   Or give it a shot of antibiotics myself.  Do not fuck this up for me, White Fluff!

“Well, I gotta get back to set.  Have a good night!  Glad everything’s ok…”  He says and I never noticed before, but now that I’m on DEFCON Five alert I can hear the ellipsis in his voice, like he wants to be nasty but can’t because doing so will snip the thin line that separates his lies from reality.  If he calls me out on my bullshit then it instantly spotlights his own.  I do my best not to laugh as I hang up.  Still, now I’m on guard and try not to look at the camera.  I try to pretend nothing’s changed.

I put on my pants.

I text her about the camera and the climbing creep-o-meter.  Holy shit, I didn’t think it was for real!  She texts back, relaying a time months ago when Soap had taped a passive aggressive note to the outside of his apartment saying CAUTION: Camera on premises, I will be notified of any intrusion.  The sign was taken down a few days later.  She didn’t see a camera so she thought he was bluffing to salve his paranoia.

The camera is on the inside!  I explain via text.  If your security is on the inside then there’s no deterrent to stop them from coming in, which is how he explained it all; burglar prevention.  Actually, this is how you design a trap.

The story teller in me extrapolates the next twist.  Soap isn’t on a shoot far away in the middle of nowhere, he’s close by, studying his prey before he closes in.   I take stock of any weapons on hand, there’re steak knives, the weights, and there are these cats.  I can throw them at him or at least they will get in the way, giving me a chance to pounce.  The problem is I’m exhausted.  The problem is I must maintain a civil manner in order to secure the money owed me and to prevent Ex from taking any collateral damage.  This part of L.A. contains a certain craziness I have never experienced anywhere else, that includes Philadelphia and East L.A., where both urban landscapes have their own brand of crazy, but it’s borne from the struggle to survive a flood of inequality and maintain a decent quality of life.  The West half of L.A. is crazy because entitlement reigns supreme here, and it is the patron saint of those terrified of obscurity.

I go to bed in my clothes.  The comforter is scratchy and stiff.  The pillows are too soft.  There is no scent of Soap and I think of Suskind’s Perfume where the main character has no scent of his own and goes on a killing spree as he tries to find acceptance in an indifferent world.  I’m falling asleep.  I feel the gentle weight of the black kittens sneaking on me, finding spots to sleep.  Gray Tabs leaps on my back and sits between my shoulders.  I calm down.

And I wake up to dishes falling on the floor.  I scramble from the bed, “you mother fuckers!”  I shout, because even with all the creepiness I know it’s the cats just being cats.  Sure enough, two food dishes on the floor, kibbles still rolling everywhere, and White Fluff is sitting on the stove with a look of shock and awe that’s either “Holy shit, I don’t know what happened!” or “Goodness, I didn’t think it’d be that loud!”

White Fluff licks his chops.  “You sneaky bastard.”  I mutter.

I pick up the unbroken dishes and look for something to sweep up the kibbles.  I don’t want to use the dust pan that seems reserved for the bathroom and kitty litter, but I do find a Swiffer-type broom.  It’s the only thing in a skinny closet in the kitchen.  It doesn’t even look like a closet.  But I pull at this panel in the wall during my search, and there’s the broom… AND a duplicate poster of Soap in his boxing outfit, but it’s not the full-sized poster, he cut this poster to fit inside the closet.  Cut it so it’s just the center strip of the poster, Soap looking muscular and regal.  It’s just his image and the broom in this closet.

And if he’s watching me in this moment then he’s seeing me staring into his kitchen closet at this minimalist shrine to himself.  I know it’s not just the door that triggers his phone notification, it can only be sound and/or light.  The door has no wired connection to the camera, I checked, so between the crashing dishes and me yelling and now playing with the cats, there’s a lot of volume and changes in the lighting as I turn on the lights and then turn them off.  I go back to bed and this time sleep peacefully surrounded by purring. I’m so blissed out that when I hear Ex get into her apartment next door I couldn’t care less.  My only hope is that this bullshit doesn’t enter her life.  No one deserves this level of entitled crazy control.  I pity the cats.

The next day I spend as motionless as I possibly can.  It’s easy for me to do.  I read.  I do play with the cats, I can’t help it, but they get bored with me.  Even  gray Tabs yawns after fetching paper balls and batting a feather toy around with me.  The kittens pass out in the middle of the floor.  I leave the apartment for lunch and dinner.  He texts me within seconds, everything ok?  I respond, yup.  Knowing that he knows that everything’s ok.  He’s only texting to make sure I know he’s watching and trying to guilt me into staying inside all day.  Fuck you, Soap, I won’t eat bee pollen and cat food.   Did he assume I’d be just like him?  That I would know to bring my meals packed, or order expensive delivery?

I get a text from Ex, he says I shouldn’t worry about the camera, he won’t watch us if I come over.  This guy… this fucking guy.  I tell her to stay away even though I want more than anything to talk to her face to face, to pretend things are the way they were.  She tells me not to give up on the $250, which at this point I’m thinking is a small price to pay to flip off the camera and waltz on outta here.  She reminds me I’m halfway through today and I can leave as planned in the morning tomorrow.  I do need the money.  I need to keep this powder keg contained.  I need to not indulge in fantasy the way Soap has been consumed by his own.

I read and get absorbed in Ellroy’s L.A., where men torture themselves over women and become haunted by their unattainable salvation thanks to bad decisions made for the right reasons.  The cliche is there’s always a woman.  Cherche la femme, it’s the driving force in The Black Dahlia.  Find love, find peace.  The woman is power, the woman will save you, your flaws or chivalry ruin everything.  Ten years.  I find myself thinking about Soap.  I’m staring at the graphic novel, the point where [redacted] shoots [redacted]  in the heart.  The frame that would be lovers looking into each other’s eyes if not for the gun smoke between them.

You should read The Black Dahlia.  Anyway, back to Soap right meow.

Ten years.  That’s a long time to only be boyfriend and girlfriend.  I wonder who she was, the woman who broke Soap.  I may be projecting my own affairs onto him, but it seems to me when you’re in a long term relationship you risk becoming the relationship, your self changes into the bond between you.  There is no more you.  There is only us.  And that’s bad news.  Judging by how he’s gotten worse he never saw the break-up coming.  The break-up broke him.  She got out because she was aware of her own needs, of herself, and saw that the us wasn’t cutting it anymore.  Or maybe it was the hoarding of seven cats in a studio apartment?  Occam’s Razor.  She noticed his eccentricities were no longer endearing and got out.

Out the window where the cats get their fresh air I can see the steps that lead down to [redacted] ave.  There’s a tree and the branches hush in a gentle breeze.  I hear footsteps and watch a gorgeous raven-haired model dressed in all black take the steps to the front door, which was propped open by a tenant on his way out.  In the one to two seconds I watch her rise up the steps I have her body, her clean face etched in my brain.  She’s looking down, her jaw is set.  She does not want to be here.  The cats watch her in sync.    Before I can even fantasize about her the cats tense up, and all seven of them appear and skid to a halt in front of the door.  White Fluff’s tail blows up.  Her boots stop walking just outside Soap’s door.  I see and hear the doorknob turn.

The door is locked.  It’s a habit of living in a city and of being anti-social.  I always lock up. I consider opening the door, but it strikes me that this is the woman who used to be with Soap for ten years.  I think this because who else would try to enter his apartment without knocking?  Soap would have told me she was coming over and for what reason if he knew.  There’s one photo of her tucked into the frame of a smaller mirror by the kitchen.  It’s an old 3×5 film print, but it’s her.  It’s the only pic that isn’t Soap in the whole apartment.  I saw her for mere seconds, I can’t imagine the pain of losing her after ten years.  Still, it doesn’t excuse Soap’s current behavior, merely helps explain it.  My own break-up hurt like hell, what’s my worth without her?  How do I start over?  My worth is my business and how I pick up the pieces won’t be like this.  Everything he’s done since that break-up has been a cry for help; his Cadillac with the Hemi under the hood, his custom Harley, his now shrunken but steady acting career, the leather jackets he designs all help veil a man scrambling and scrabbling for an anchor to reality when actually everything is fine.  The only thing wrong is that he can’t accept it.  Peace is worthless to those who wish to be great.  Peace is the horror of life because it seems banal.  We’re told stories in order to learn how to overcome problems, but what we’ve learned on accident is that there must be conflict in order to feel alive.  Anything less than chaos is a life not worth living is what we absorb and when there’s not enough drama we create it.  He’s found an unending source of conflict and validation in his cat collection.

I am in the eye of a mental hurricane.

I think he’s learned to play nice and Zen in order to magnify his problems and make the drama of his life seductive.  I stop playing my role in his story.  I don’t text or call him about the mysterious woman.  With any luck he wasn’t watching the camera feed.  With any luck she can live without whatever it was that brought her to his door.

I finish the graphic novel that night.  I feed the cats and clean the dishes.  I clean the litter box.  I shut the stupid window.  I hear Ex come home after work and it doesn’t hurt to know she’s living her life without me.  The problem was never her, or the break up, the problem has been my understanding that nothing is wrong, only that changes are taking place.  Stasis is the elephant in this apartment.  I need to move, be dynamic, adapt.  Soap has declared war on change and seeing how he lives was like being visited by my ghost of Christmas Future.

The next morning I say goodbye to the cats.  Gray Tabs bumps my fist with a soft forehead, the black kittens ring around my ankles and mew, Calico judges me from the top of the fridge.  White Fluff hisses at me and I feel sorry for all of them.  They have no choice but to remain here, captive to his wish for things to stay the same.

I leave that morning and wait for the eastbound bus on the corner outside the apartment building.  I hope Soap learned something about his life by watching it removed through technology.  I hope he gets his shit together.

He calls me.

“Hey, you left.”

“Yeah, I gotta go.”

“There’s no way you can stay until I get there?  It’ll be a little after noon, I think.”

“No.”  I say with no room for argument, a tone I use rarely.  A tone that is nothing but confidence and energy.  It feels good.

“Ok, that’s cool.  How about next weekend?  I’m going to be away–”

“I can’t do it.”

“You can’t call off or trade shifts?  I’m sure this pays more.”

“Look, it worked out this time.  I have my own life.”  I hang up on him.  I do have my own life.  It may not be glamorous or have enough conflict to grasp attention or fame, but it’s mine and I am happy.  The struggle was stopping a momentary lapse of sorrow and despair from becoming more than a moment.  It took seeing someone consumed by  self-medicated pity and doubt to end it.  It took seeing his Ex leave to know that he’s on his own.  So am I.  So are you.  And there’s nothing wrong with that unless you want it to be.

Query Letters

There’s an art to the query letter.  This post isn’t about that.  I did as best I could to condense my novel to a paragraph and still contain the wonder and darkness that the novel contains.  I wrote an eight page synopsis, then I discovered most agencies and publishers only want two pages.  More often than not, you’re reducing your 94,000 words to a single paragraph, with a second paragraph about you.  When you’re a writer you have two products to sell; your work and yourself.

There is no real answer to the selling and marketing of either.  You need presence and stock.  If you take the time to develop a following you won’t have the amount of writing you need to sate an audience.  If you work on the writing (that’s me!) then no one will know you exist, so no one buys your book.  There’s a point in the work where you must switch to the other element of selling your career.  I don’t know where that line lies.  I bet it differs from writer to writer.  This is why most writing courses teach craft over marketing.  There’s a clear how-to with craft and it’s fun.  Marketing is the nameless monster in the shadows.  Everyone who has survived to sell their wares has a different story of how they got past this monster.  Yet, when you try to follow the successful’s footsteps you find yourself butting up against a wall in the publishing labyrinth.  The minotaur is not far away and you don’t dare follow the yarn back to where you began.

So, you send query letters to hundreds of agencies.  You do the same for publishers.  You know you’re doing it wrong, you know your query letters will get jumbled with millions of others.  You feel sorry for the publishing house interns and novice agents who have to sift through the paper-cut slush.  Sometimes you get a reply.  By reply I mean a rejection.  This is a good sign.  It means someone read your letter and felt they had to respond.  Even if the reply is an automated email, someone had to hit the button to send it.  And to hit that button the person had to read your letter and make a decision.  They could have made the decision to pass without any response, most do.  With each rejection you know you’ve hit a nerve.

I mentioned to customer at work that I was sending query letters and getting rejections.  She agreed this was a good sign.  She had gone through something similar for her art.  She said there’s no such thing as a cut and dried marketing strategy.  The now famous writers and artists had no idea they would make an impact, they just loved what they were doing despite real life trying to stop them at every turn.  They had received rejection letters, too, and even more agents and publishers passed on their work from the void without any hint.  The customer said every person rejecting your work is looking for an apple when you have an orange.  You gotta find one person who wants an orange.

Last Call

Post-apocalypse.  One survivor.  Her name is Claire.  She was working as a telemarketer in rural Pennsylvania.  Bloomsburg’s the town, home of the Huskies.  You’ve never heard of them unless you’ve been kicked out of any of the local bars because their linebackers make better bouncers than football players.  Claire was in the middle of a sale when it happened.  Not a removal via linebacker, the apocalypse.  The End.  Whatever it was that ended civilization and life she had no idea.  Could’ve been The Bomb.  Could’ve been something new, like a germ, or the deadly joke from Monty Python.  A week after the incident she had countless theories and nothing to explain how everyone died except her or how she continued on in perfect health.  When hunger and thirst forced her to scavenge the local shops and fast food restaurants she knew she wasn’t dreaming.

Claire enjoyed engineering.  She loved math and mechanics.  She adored design and structure.  She was in line for a full-time position at the local power plant when The End happened.  The unknown event that brought destruction terrified her because it had no explanation.  At the same time, all she had now was structure and regiment.  It was all hers.  She got the job as a telemarketer to make ends meet while she waited for job approval. She learned about supervising shifts and maintaining safe levels within the plant’s core and shadowed the control room operators.  The nuclear power plant was in constant war against the chaos of atomic energy.  Then the mystery apocalypse happened.  She was two weeks short of her review for official employment at her dream job.

Most nuclear reactors can only run for seven days without maintenance.  After seven days the internal diesel generators die and the plant goes into meltdown.  Claire broke into PPL knowing that the security system would phase out before the diesel generators ran out of juice and allowed the cooling rods to overheat.  She was so preoccupied with her own primitive survival over the previous week that by the time she got to the control center she had just seven hours to halt a nuclear meltdown.  She stopped the catastrophe in six hours and fifty minutes by triggering the SCRAM unit through the antiquated fire alarm system, adding pressure to the water mains so the pipes would overheat with high velocity steam and force the alarms to go off.  When the reactor was silent she felt a thrill rise up in her like she had never felt before.  She wasn’t worried about being lonely, she was like the man in the Twilight Zone episode, Time Enough At Last, where the main character has all the time in the world to do as he pleases without human interruption.  Now that the local disaster had been resolved, Claire set out to have the fun she missed out on because people might have judged her.

Claire raced around in various cars.  She’d find one empty with the keys still in the ignition and peel down route eleven.  Wherever she went, what ever she did, her fun was loud and fast so as not to hear the silence or see the dead bodies.  Her days were action-packed until she realized that no one was going to rescue her.  Claire had to save her resources for the long haul.  So, she walked to the grocery stores and fast food businesses to save gas for generators.  She stayed longer and longer at the call center, working harder and harder at a job she had hated while waiting for a full-time position at the power plant.  She hated telemarketing because it was forced socializing and coercive conversation to manifest sales.  Now, she had the computers dialing all the office’s outbound leads.  The phones called thousands of homes per second and as the days stretched to months, Claire hung around longer and longer hoping to not miss the one call that would save her slowly dwindling life.  If she missed picking up the one call that connected to a live human then the computer system would take over and a recording would do the talking.

Since the power plant was offline and its stored energy used up, Claire’s first order of business was to rig a series of generators in the call center.  This wasn’t so difficult, Bloomsburg was a small farm town and a tractor and industrial farming equipment store was next door.  Claire couldn’t move the generators to the call center, so she used a sledgehammer to pound a hole through the wall separating the sales floor from her calling floor.  Through the hole she ran the cables, rigging power to sustain the most amount of energy using the least amount of resources.  Her next order of business was to bring gas to the store’s lot by parking it full with trucks and SUV’s, vehicles with large tanks.

Claire had the computers calling the entire United States for almost a year.  No one had answered.  She marked the empty vehicles in the lot with an ‘X’ by using a bar of soap she no longer used to clean herself.  Fresh water was hard to find and the plumbing had stopped months ago.  Cars with full tanks of gas were rare these days.  Gasoline evaporated over time.  Claire used shreds of garbage bags to help seal the tanks beneath their caps. She had an inventory running on the front window of the call floor where she soaped a crude map of which cars were X’d out and which ones still had fuel.  She ran the five generators in a series, but as resources fell below a comfortable level Claire let one generator die before running into the dark store to start the next one.  When this happened she used a flashlight to navigate the farm supply sales floor.  She let her phone go because there were no more cell phone signals.  Something had happened to the satellites or the atmosphere no longer allowed signals to travel.  She panicked every time a generator died because she worried that the few minutes the computers were offline would be exactly when one would have connected with another survivor.

Claire also hated when she had to start the next generator because she had to fumble in the dark.  Even if it were day outside the light could no longer get in.  Claire could not spare any water for cleaning.  The grime had built up on the windows and during the day she was glad as the filth kept the hot sun out.  She had never been afraid of the dark before, but now that she was alone the darkness terrified her.  She heard people in the hollow whine of silence.  She saw the glimmer of human shapes in the sparkling colors her brain cast in her vision as it tried to process the pitch darkness outside the beam of her flashlight.  In those horrible moments of darkness she knew it was awful to be alone because it would never be interrupted.

To cope with her solitude, something she had cherished before The End, Claire talked to motivational posters on the wall featuring corporate stock models smiling in business formal attire.  There was a gray-haired CEO white guy, a dirty blonde babe with a saucy smile in a pencil skirt and a pencil in her tight hair bun, and a young, confidant man who was moving up the ladder from intern to supply clerk, but his face elicited higher expectation.  The posters boasted motivational slogans.  To the CEO she talked about the car fuel status and breakdowns of last quarter’s investment in calling a particular state.  She gossiped with the saucy blonde about the boys she imagined, all of them former crushes from a pool of celebrities she remembered adoring before The End.  The young man’s poster she flirted with and ultimately friend-zoned him because she knew one of her celebrity crushes would be coming to save her.  This was fun during the day, but once night fell the three posters were in shadows.  At night Claire returned to lonely reality where she knew no one was coming for her.  She feared suicide and she tried to remember warning signs from high school health class, but most of those signs required the mirror of a social life.  Without other people she had no way of knowing her mental health.  She knew she was in trouble because masturbating was no longer fun.  She had no sexual energy, let alone any playful creative interest in anything.  Claire had become a robot, a tool used by her billions of cells that wanted to survive despite her depression.  She felt like the SCRAM system in the power plant, always ready to jump in to stop the core from melting down.

Deep inside her mind she heard herself having the same conversations with the posters.  She couldn’t stop saying the same things because she had nothing new in herself to express, but her body knew she must express something in order to fool it into wanting to live.

In order to live like her pre-history ancestors her brain needed to regress back into an primeval stage that had no capacity for art, an animal brain just above a vegetative state with only drive enough for food, water, and shelter.  In the world Claire had just exited such a person would have been labeled “simple,” but here in this frightening new world such a brain would be a blessing because she would be happy.   Claire realized that her civilized brain needed more than sustaining instinctual needs to stimulate health.  Lacking the means for a lobotomy, like an ice pick and courage, she knew the only cure for coming insanity and suicide would be socializing with real people.  Even just one person.  Just a phone call to know that someone out there was alive.  If that phone call… no, when one of her calls was answered she would know the address of the connected line and she would pack her meager possessions and make a run for that address.  She would risk any hazard out there to be with someone.

Claire talked to the posters so she would not think about why she was the only one to survive.  She didn’t want to think about being the only human alive on earth, let alone maybe the only living thing left on earth.  She hadn’t had a perishable item to eat since everything went bad at the local markets.  The markets smelled worse than the bodies.  No one knew it was coming.  There was no warning.  Claire didn’t bother to look for evidence in news papers or people’s possessions, she didn’t bother to write her own thoughts and record history.  History no longer mattered without any one else to to bear witness.  Nature continued to record its own history in seasons and tree rings and Claire felt outcast, surviving on prepackaged goods filled with chemicals that would eventually make her dead body impervious to nature’s will.

These kinds of thoughts made her shout at the posters to drown the reason in her mind.  She was shouting out sales pitches for new products she made up.  The CEO listened with that smirk bosses give underlings, but she knew he wasn’t listening.  She grumbled about the CEO to the saucy secretary, but her smile told her that Miss Saucy was secretly fondling the CEO after-hours.  Claire wanted to talk to the poster of the young man, but his spot was closer to the filthy windows and his head was sun-bleached and faded.  Decapitated.

Claire shut her mouth with a sharp inhale and hands at her cheeks.  She had been shouting at the posters and had been unaware until generator three died.  She was in the silent dark, caught off-guard.  She felt around one cubicle and the next, trying to find her flashlight, trying to remember where she put it.

“It’s got my fuckin’ name on it you bastards!”  She shouted at the posters in the dark.  The flashlight did have her name on it, as if one of her paper coworkers would take it from the fridge and eat it if she didn’t assign her name to the flashlight.  She found it where she had left it beside her deflating air mattress and piles of Hostess snacks.  She flicked it on and felt the familiar shudder of seeing the light create spooky shadows that flickered just outside her vision and on the edge of reason.  She kept the light on the floor, watching her feet march to the hole in the wall that connected her to the farm supply store.  She didn’t dare lift the beam up.  She made that mistake once a month ago and found that the posters leered at her, the wrinkling paper formed lesions and bubbles on flesh, the moving light over the uneven surface gave the illusion of movement to her imaginary friends.  She made her way to the farm supply store, weaving through its aisles as to avoid the spring displays of scarecrows that would appear wholesome and cute had life been normal.  They were quite the opposite in the dark, in the hard shadow cast by her flashlight.  She had a gas can ready beside generator four.  This was the last of the gasoline for miles around.  She set the flashlight down on generator three, the beam aimed at four’s gas tank.  She unscrewed the cap.  The noise was enormous.  The grinding metal, the gasp of air equalizing pressure.  The metal neck of the gas can rattled on the rim of the generator’s tank’s mouth.  She was breathing hard, knees quaking.  She was thinking of those scarecrows.  The beady button eyes, the sewn up mouths, the arterial spray of hay and twigs from stumped wrists and ankles, the bulge of dark red wax leaves billowing up from their neckline.  The barn nails impaling them to two-by-four crucifixes like some hideous display of medieval retribution.

The tank gurgled a higher pitch signaling that it was almost full.  She capped both the tank and gas can and retrieved the flashlight.  She yanked on the pull-cord and the generator grumbled to life, filling the store with its hum and vibration.  She took a long, slow breath.  The air caught in her lungs.  There was a rattling sound close by, like someone walking, staggering at an injured pace or a murderous gait from horror movies she tried not to remember.  She could barely hear it over the generator.  She dared to shine the flashlight on the main aisle.  Was one scarecrow missing?  Maybe more?  She had never counted them.  It never dawned on her to do so in daylight and at night she always avoided the main aisle.   Had there always been a clearance rack of jack-o-lanterns?  The rattling was on her, never getting closer, but not going away, either.  The metal jangled and echoed in the empty store just under the roar of the generator.   She grabbed her leg to stop it from shaking and that’s when she found the mysterious sound.  Her keys, the sound was coming from all the car keys she had been collecting.

Claire laughed and felt wet tears run down her face.  It was just her keys.  It would be hilarious if this was the first time she had done this.

Her breath stopped again, her heart skipped beats, adrenaline pumped.  A new sound, one she hadn’t heard in almost a year.  A telephone was ringing.  She raced for the hole in the wall, tripping over a scarecrow’s leg.  She sprawled, listening to the ringing phone.  How much time do I have?  She didn’t know, she had always taken a call before The End because if anyone let their computer take over they would be docked pay.  She got up, was that scarecrow smirking at her?  Her feet pounded over the linoleum, her shirt tore and her skin scraped going through the suddenly tiny hole in the wall.  It’s shrinking around me, it’ll catch me and I’ll die listening to the computer answer the call!  Her thoughts weren’t controlled, her calm evaporated into the dark around her flailing flashlight beam.  There was one computer screen glowing beneath layers of dust.  The phone connected to this computer was, of course, on the other side of the long call floor.  Claire bounded down the aisle.  She saw the posters blur by, her fair-weather friends leering at her, hoping she’d trip, again.

She got to the cubicle.  She answered the phone mid-ring.  She listened to the hollow echo of the ringing fade away.  She heard someone breathe on the other end.

Claire had no words to say.  She couldn’t even choke on the air trapped in her lungs that burned from the sprint to this cubicle.  She shined the flashlight on the posters.  The CEO, Miss Saucy, Mister Friend-Zone.  Help me!  She thought to them, unable to cry out.

“H-Hello?”  The voice said.  It belonged to a young woman.  In that one word Claire heard a familiar loneliness, a desperation she, too, had not learned to live with because of the dread of succumbing to insanity.  Claire spun around, waving her flashlight as if she could capture her voice in the beam.  She only saw motivational words and sales script.

She heard the CEO in her mind say, “Smile and dial, they can hear your mood!”

Miss Saucy snapped at her, “Get off the phone, I’m waiting for a call!”

Mister Friend-Zone said with annoying smarminess, “I’m sure I could make the sale, why don’t you let me try?”

Claire heard pitches and sales prattle tumble around her.  She cleared her mind and let her last shred of sanity do the talking.

“Please, help me, I’m so alone.”  The woman said.

“Hello, my name is Claire,”  Claire said, finding confidence in her voice and authoritative approach, “I’m calling on behalf of Quail Communications with a great offer for long distance or wireless…”  Claire lost it.  There was nothing there to connect with this woman.  She had been living beneath the surface of humanity for too long.

“Oh, no… it’s a robot.”  The woman said to someone else.  The line went dead with an almost inaudible click.

Claire stared at the screen.  The address remained long enough for her to memorize the woman’s location.  Three thousand miles away.  The computer went on to the next call.  Claire lifted her jammed ring of car keys into the flashlight’s beam.  She didn’t have enough gas.