I am putting my father to bed. Towering and weak. A paper skyscraper. As confused as he’s been for years I reassure him, guiding him to where I know he ought to be. Once useful yet now a babbling mess, hunched and harmless and humiliating himself with every breath he takes. Never as strong as he was I, now leading him as an elderly owner would an old dog waiting bitterly for both of our relief. He takes to bed quicker than usual. He grunts and he moans as he lowers himself onto the mattress like grieving mourners holding the ropes at some half arsed funeral. The downward trajectory had been clear as day for years now. Behold! The stench of the dying workhorse! Piss, biscuits and stale rum. Face like an old handbag, left out in the sun. ‘You’re alright now, Da. Not everyone has left you, here I am caring for you. Never once did I even consider it! Even after it all, the shite and the scraps and the lies and the lunacy, here I am making sure you’re alright. And you are alright, now, Da.’ He grumbles on, a low sub-frequency mumble. I don’t feel guilt for not listening, he hasn’t had anything to say for years, quite possibly ever. The scratchy mattress springs pierce over his deep rambling. Nonsense words and rusty metal. He rolls over, maybe he’s still speaking. I’m left and all before I finish wondering. And now for myself, not too much for me to do once I know he can’t hurt himself. He hasn’t been able to hurt anyone else in god knows. A brew, a book and my bed is all I’m good for now. I used to love some music, but for the hassle of waking him it wouldn’t be worth it. It always set him off, especially when he was dangerous. Now he’s only good for screaming and not I nor anyone could calm him down. Any semblance of calm has long run from him. And anyone who could calm him ran long before that. Not long now, I think, until I’m free from him. Not long now til he’s free from himself. Settle in the sheets before I can think too much about it, gander some other plight between the covers, soft linen and hardback. Take my mind away from what’s left of this place of ours. Not long now. That little cunt, the fucking coward. Too fucking long he’s thought he owned me and too poxy long have I let him. It’s always been too fucking quiet since he “took charge”. If I hear that kettle boil one more time I’ll gouge my fucking eyes out. Thump bump thump bump thump bump thump thumb bump. The veins in my eyes are fucking doubling in size. That little bastard never left me because he doesn’t have the bollocks. I built everything that little shit has ever had and he thinks it’s a virtue that he never got off his arse to make his own poxy cunting fucking life? Nah nah nah, not fucking long now til he learns. Wringing my hands so hard I’m nearly breaking them. Who the fuck does he think he is? Who the FUCK DOES HE THINK HE IS? EVERYTHING HE THINKS HE HAS IS MINE AND ALL THE SHITE HE THINKS I GAVE HIM IS HIS FUCKING OWN! I’m up, taller, stronger, more awake than I’ve been in years. The static is so loud I barely heard the bones in my back crack as I stood. So white and so red I can barely see where the door is. Not long is fucking right. Not long. Now. The animal stalks. Power in his limbs. Raw aggression. The animal knows where to be. Driven by pure instinct. Holding back, knowing that if it is too direct it could frighten away his prey. The sounds of the jungle mask its creeping. Cars, creaking doors, floorboards, distant arguments never to be resolved. In its age the animal may hunt less often, but it knows how to attack just as well as it did in its prime. Through the gaps in the tree line it spots its prey. In bed, reading. Lit only by a small lamp atop the nightstand on the far corner of the bed. Still as a redbrick building and twice as sturdy the animal surveys the scene. Mug, no steam, no threat. Lamp, cheap and flimsy, no threat. The animal never even considers the prey, it may as well already be a gasping pulp desperate to be shown the mercy of having its throat ripped out. The animal savours the moment. Holding its breath and not taking its eye off of its helpless and clueless victim. The animal has chosen its moment to attack. He never stood a chance. Before he could register who had kicked in his door with monstrous strength he was already being lifted from his bed by his neck and thrown to the ground. His father, elder, guide, beating his face into the ground with strength not seen in him for years. His fathers knees pressed hard down on his scrawny bicep, unable to move and too dazed from the blunt trauma to his head to even attempt it. Incapable of discerning one blow from the last, all the poor little man could do was feel his own hot blood pour from his shattered nose and flow into his gasping and screaming mouth, rendering him a teary eyed sputtering child unable to catch his breath to make sound anymore. The attackers fists like cinderblocks unstoppable in their downward trajectory. It was only the shock that kept the victim conscious, almost in awe of the power that was being exerted over him by a man he had long deemed a feeble and confused geriatric. Only when he realised he had regained the feeling in his hands did he notice that his father had stood up, taking his weight off of his arms and allowing the blood to flow properly through the vessels in his now useless limbs, and again reefed him up by his neck and slammed him against the thin plaster wall, almost sending him through it. Snarling like a beast possessed by some ungodly fury the old man stared into his already defeated sons eyes. It appeared to him that he had broken the socket around his son’s left eye, as the eyeball was slightly out of place and crimson. His face was equally bloodstained, with only the tears and mucus creating inconsistencies on the blood drenched face. He threw the hunk of flesh to ground and let a guttural harsh roar escape from his otherwise snarling mouth. The pulpy form had landed on its side, with its face and right shoulder towards the floor, its left shoulder pressed firmly against it. The towering animal of a man began stamping on the ribcage of what was once his son, stopping occasionally to launch hard kicks against the poor mass’s stomach. Through the hard thuds, sputtering and wheezing the form began to try to speak. ‘Contain...’ The beast stopped a second. Standing over this mass of veins and flesh that had somehow been gifted the ability to speak. Leaning over and pulling its hair to look at what may have once been a face, now shapeless and as bright red with blood as the beasts own face was with rage and exertion. From the deepest growl to the most intense, vengeful bellow, the beast screamed; ‘WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I?’ His father slumped beside him, deep in slumber as a man who’d ran a marathon on a bottle of Morgans, the son attempted to scrape together a single thought. Not long now..


August 1982 The summer was near its end. Carlos Rivera and I often hung out at Donald Thrope's home in horse county about 2 hours outside of Louisville. Carlos was an elite horse jockey and I helped out at the horse farm where he trained. At 23 years old he was one of the youngest elite horse jockeys . We've known each other since we were kids. Donald had given him the key to his house. This was the only place that we could get away from our family and friends and have some privacy or time to ourselves. We had just gotten out of the swimming pool after taking a swim. It was about 2:00 pm. We noticed that the clouds were starting to roll in and it looked like we were going to have a very bad storm. The phone rang and Donald said he was going to spent the evening at his home and would be there around 5:00 pm. We went into a closet area in the house where we had our little rendez vous. We feel asleep in each other arms. We woke up to gunfire in the bedroom. Then the TV was shot out. Then shots were fired into the closet area. Carlos put his body on top of me to protect me. A bullet went above his head and hit the wall. Then silence. From the closet there was a window. After a while, we saw a former jockey with a gun and knife walking into the garden. We didn't know it at the time but this is where Donald Thrope had ran to escape from the killer. Both of us were horrified. We quickly ran out of the house which connected to a trail which was going away from the house. The storm that had been threatening finally came. We hid in a bathroom in the park. Finally the storm ended. We heard someone walking outside. There was a light and we noticed that it was the killer walking around like he was trying to find us. He tried the door of the bathroom. Then we saw smoke in the distance. Once we saw him leave, we quickly ran to my house. Because of the bad weather, Carlos spent the night sleeping on the couch, just in case my parents or someone else in the family returned. The next day we found out that Donald Thrope had been murdered while we escaped from the house. The killer thought we were still in the closet, so he set the place on fire. Mark Boltz who was a former jockey was arrested for his murder. The two had had a long time feud over a woman who had long ago moved on and was married to someone else. The trial was a high profile one and was moved to Millesboro, Kentucky. This guy couldn't be tried in Louisville or Lexington. He was found not guilty of first degree murder, or arson. The jury believed the story that Mark told of a couple who broke into the house as being the killers of Donald Thrope. All of the jurors were convinced that this unknown couple also set the house on fire. One of the detectives working the case believed that Mark Boltz got away with arson and murder. He was correct. Five years later... "I thought that Donald was sleeping with my ex-girlfriend. I was going to storm the room and then I hear the front door open. I don't know who was in there but a man and a woman were in an upstairs bedroom laughing and hear the man say, "Loves and Kisses." This couple had been in the swimming pool but I was too far away to determine who the couple was. I thought it was Donald and my ex-wife." said Mark Boltz to the reporter. "You keep saying that there was a couple at the house, the night Donald Thrope was murdered, but there is no evidence of anyone being there. If there was, the fire eliminated any evidence of this. " "Well, yes the fire did eliminate evidence and this is why the unknown couple set the place on fire. You know Maxine there are a lot of people in the horse industry who hate me. Take your pick." "Do you have any idea who might have done this?" "I think it was someone in the horse industry. " Let me update you on what has happened since then. Frank and I decided not to go to the police and thankfully we had never told anyone that Donald Thrope let us use his home to get away from our families. A week after this happened, I went back to college. This terrible experience brought Carlos and I closer together. We got married a couple of years later and had a couple kids. Now we are grandparents. If Mark Boltz had caught us, we never would have lived another day.


I could not believe I was at Comet Pizzas. It had to be the worst place in town. I didn’t expect to go to some five-star steakhouse or anything but seriously? This place has been shut down twice by the health inspector. The last time I ate here I was five at Becky Smith’s birthday party and got food poisoning. It was brutal. Twenty screaming five-year-olds all puking. I was here for my first date with Scott Owens. Ever since he moved here at the start of the year, I’ve had a crush on him. Me and about half the girls and some guys in our grade. More if you counted the whole school. I was so thrilled when he asked me out. I thought we would just go to the movies or something. Maybe grab a slice of pizza from any other place in town. I know he just moved here, but he had been here for a few months at least. He couldn’t have picked better? “You excited May?” I faked a smile and nodded at Scott, scared if I spoke I would let my true feelings show. “I’ve wanted to take you out since the first time I saw you.” I didn’t have to fake my smile for this. Scott was super cool and hot, and for some reason he liked me. May Nelson, the total dork. I smoothed out my skirt and followed him inside. Oh god, the smell. There were a few people there. It was so dirty. Like this was seriously concerning. How could Scott think this was an ok place to bring a date? “Um, I just have to go to the bathroom real quick,” I told him. Scott nodded. “Cool. I’ll see if I can get us a table.” He gave me a smile and I totally melted. I walked into the bathroom and almost threw up. This was awful. There was literally a pair of dirty underwear on the ground next to one of the stalls. I gagged and pulled out my phone. I looked up Comet Pizzas and sure enough, it was the lowest-rated restaurant in town. I then called my best friend Erin. She answered right away. “Are you ok?” Erin said sounding very concerned. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that... well Scott brought me to Comet Pizzas.” “Wait, I thought Scott liked you?” Erin said and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah me too! I don't know, he must not have realized how gross it is here. I’m hoping he’ll realize and we can bail.” Erin laughed. “Fingers crossed. I’ll pray for you.” “You don’t pray.” “Yeah, but Comet Pizza is that bad. The last time I went there I was ten after a soccer game and spent the whole time puking. So prayer.” “Ok Erin,” I said rolling my eyes. At least I was smiling. I said goodbye and prepped myself to go back out there. It did smell less in the restaurant than in the bathroom which was good. Scott had already gotten our table and he waved me over. He stood up when I got to the table and didn’t sit back down till I did which I thought was the cutest thing. “So, um, why did you choose this place, Scott?” I asked in what I hoped was a casual way. Scott smiled and his whole face lit up. “So, my uncle is actually the owner. I’m living with him while my parents are overseas. My mom is a scientist and she’s in Africa studying different types of monkeys. So here I am. Anyways, whenever we visited here growing up we always ate here. It’s nice cause it’s super familiar when I’m away from home. I figured you’ve probably eaten here before so I thought it would be nice for you too.” Ok, it’s official. I’m an awful person. “Yeah, um, I came here for some parties and stuff over the years. I don’t live that close though so not too much.” This is at least true. I live on the other side of town and since Scott picked me up he doesn’t question it and instead just nods. We continue chatting and I find out we have a lot in common. The food wasn’t too bad and seemed fully cooked which is an improvement from the last time I came here. The night was actually going perfect until Comet Pizzas proved its low rating and I started throwing up. It was bad. I started crying and ran to the bathroom. Scott called after me but I ignored him. I hate this place! There was a knock on the bathroom door then Scott poked his head in, his eyes closed. “May? Are you in here? I don’t want to open my eyes because it’s the girl's bathroom but are you ok?” “Go away, Scott,” I said, wiping my eyes. I dug through my purse for my mints and took three. “I’m gonna have someone pick me up you don’t have to drive me home out of pity.” “Pity? What? May you got sick. That’s not your fault.” “You’re right! It’s this stupid restaurant's fault! Everyone knows this place is awful Scott! The real reason I don’t come here is that every time I have I’ve gotten food poisoning!” I covered my mouth with my hand. I can’t believe I’ve just said this. I expect Scott to get angry and leave but instead, he laughs. “Are you alone?” I frown but nod. Then I remembered his eyes were closed and spoke. “Yeah.” “Ok good.” He opened his eyes and walked in. “May, I know the food here sucks. I have taste buds. But my uncle begged me to come here tonight and even offered to give us a free dinner.” “But...” I just stared at him for a minute trying to find words. “I thought you loved this place?” “I was trying to make it seem like I didn’t realize how awful it is so you wouldn’t be mad at me for bringing you here. Every time I come here I pray that it’s better. Pro-tip, the chicken doesn’t taste too good but I’ve never gotten sick from it.” I laughed a little. I had thought it was weird that he got chicken at a pizza place. “Look,” Scott rubbed his neck seeming nervous, “I really like you. And I want to go on a lot of dates with you that aren’t here. Would you be ok with that?” I nodded, smiling. “Yeah. I would be.” Scott grinned at me. “Cool. Now, I have an extra toothbrush in the car because I thought someone might get sick tonight. I’m gonna grab it for you because I’d really like to kiss you.” I blushed. I’ve never kissed anyone before. But a few minutes later when we left, my teeth freshly brushed, Scott pulled me close to him and kissed me softly. “Can you promise me something” I whispered when he pulled away. He nodded. “Can we just get takeout next time?” Scott laughed and kissed me again. “I think that can be arranged.” He promised, pressing his forehead to mine. “Perfect.”


I hate doors. I hate that I can’t open them. What are they hiding? What am I not allowed to see? I can tell the small boy doesn’t like them either. Especially the one in the tall boy’s room. Tall boy hasn’t been in there for a long time. I miss him. He gave me bacon under the table every morning. He gave me good scratches too. That doesn't happen anymore. I get no more scratches and no more bacon. Even the smell of bacon has left the house. The mother stopped making it since the tall boy left. Why? Does she not like bacon? Did she find out that tall boy used to sneak some for me, even though I wasn’t supposed to have it? Maybe making bacon will make the tall boy come back. When he comes back he’ll share his bacon and give scratches and hugs and fill the house with good bacon smells. I can tell that small boy misses him too. Tall boy also shared his bacon with small boy. He gave away so much of his bacon that he barely had any for himself. Yet he didn’t ask for more. He was happy to share. Tall boy always seemed to be happy. When other people were sad, he would give them a long hug; and when they separated, the other person was happy again. Did the tall boy suck the sadness out of the other person? I also have that effect on people. I remember the first time tall boy brought home the girl with long light hair. As soon as she saw me, she pounced on me and gave me lots of hugs and pressed her face into my fur. I licked her face a lot. She seemed to like it. She and tall boy used to lick faces when no one was home. The girl came over every day to see tall boy. She would smile and pet me, and I would wag my tail to show her I liked it. When she left, her and tall boy would always hug each other for a long time. I could tell that being with her made tall boy happy, even though I couldn’t possibly imagine how he could fit more happiness inside himself. But she stopped coming back after a while, and that was the only time I remember tall boy feeling sad. It was horrible. He cried in his room for days. He barely ate, and gave all his bacon to small boy, saving one piece for me. When tall boy handed it down for me to eat, I tried to tell him “No, tall boy. You have it. You should eat it. I know you like it.” I tried everything I could, barking, whimpering, nosing his hand. Anything to help him understand that I didn’t want it. But he never understood. So I took his bacon, hoping that it would make him happy again. That it would make his bright blue eyes and warm smile come back. But it didn’t, and his eyes stayed dull, and his smile gone. He started to drink from brown bottles. It made him sleep and his breath smell foul. It made him fight with his mother and father and made him spend less time with small boy. Only when he took me on walks did he not drink from the bottles. I tried to make those walks as long as possible to keep him away from the evil-smelling drink. I wanted to take those bottles and hide them where he couldn't find them. But he kept them in his closet. Tall boy made sure that I couldn’t get to them by locking the closet door. He made sure that I couldn’t get to the key too; he hid it under a lamp. No one knew except me. But of course, it means nothing to me. I can’t hold or use it. Such an inconvenience! I feel cheated! Why can’t I have the hands to grab things? Why can’t I have a tongue that can do anything but bark or whimper? I could have talked to tall boy to make him understand my thoughts. I could have taken those wretched drinks and gotten rid of them. I could have stopped tall boy from getting into that car. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I can't open car doors. But small boy could’ve. He just didn’t know. Like he doesn't know what’s in the closet that he’s so desperately trying to open. Would it help him to know? I hope so. So I look at small boy, who’s sitting on the bed crying like tall boy once did, and I bark at him. He looks over startled. He wonders why I did that. I knock over the hiding lamp to reveal the key. The lamp smashes on the ground, and small boy yells at me, telling me to stop. He walks over to clean up the mess, and I can tell that small boy saw the key because he lunges towards it and shoves it into the closet handle. The door opens. I see small boy reach in to grab something. I expect to see the bottles. But I don’t. Small boy sits back down on the bed with a book. He opens it and looks at the first page. Suddenly he starts crying. Why? I climb up and there, in the book, I see *him*! I see tall boy in the book! Look! *Look*! My tail wags harder than it ever had. I see *my boy*! He’s here in the book! I lick away small boy’s tears and put my paw on the picture. He puts the book aside and gives me the best hug I had in a while. I let him cry into my fur. “Good boy,” he says between sobs. “Good boy. Good boy”. It’s all right, I tell him. It’s all right. Tall boy is back. Tall boy is smiling now. Tall boy is *happy again*.


SEASONS of CHANGE I visited my grandparents on an autumn day. My grandparents had a neighbor and friend by the name of Elsie Whitaker. From the time I met her, she always made me feel that what I thought and did was important. One weekend I spent on my grandparents farm she stopped by to see if they would like some golden delicious apples she was going to pick a bushel for herself. I offered to help pick apples to bring back for them. I was twelve years old and this was my first time picking apples so I tried to listen intently to Miss Elsie's instructions. “Now, no picking any apples still on the tree". and “Only pick up apples from off the ground “. Other directions were not to choose to pick apples that had begun to rot, or too badly bruised. Miss Elsie told me as we loaded our two bushels of golden delicious apples that we would bring them in at my grandparents to wash them, cut out any dark spots, and ready the apples for baking and putting away for future use in the freezer. Being an only child, I enjoyed spending time with my first cousins and grandparents. Chores appointed to us were not taxing or strenuous. Chores were more interesting tasks, science projects, or simply learning experiences. One chore was to gather eggs while we left one egg in the nest for the hen to set on. I would watch amazed as my grandmother would put her hand underneath the hen to retrieve the eggs. My method of gathering eggs was to wait until the hen left to scratch out the chicken feed from the barnyard. If you have a rooster in your barnyard, and you let the hens set on the eggs then in the appointed time you will have fluffy chicks. If you only keep hens in your hen house then you will have a steady supply of eggs for breakfast and cooking meals. Another chore was helping my grandfather to break beans from their garden. My grandmother would hand us a basket of beans and we held one pan on our laps and a paring knife in our hands. The other larger community pan we dropped our green beans into. This was only when we had pulled the strings off the beans, used the knife to gently remove the brown spots on the beans, then break the beans. We finished our task by washing the green beans in the larger pan. We cleaned up by throwing away the strings from of the beans. The beans string began at the top going to the bottom. Sometimes we removed the outside covering shelling out the tiny pods. Hence, the name of one type of bean called shelly bean. Once finished with this chore, my grandmother would take over canning the beans in the canner or pressure cooker. This canning method would provide food through the long winter months ahead. Watering plants in the garden or flowers around the walkway was a pleasant chore. The garden consisted of tall corn, beans growing attached to wooden poles, potatoes, tomatoes, green and hot peppers, cabbage, carrots, lettuce and onions. It was a good experience to just go out to the garden to select what you would like during the growing season. Flowers of my grandmother’s choosing were marigolds, petunias, and hanging baskets of geraniums. There were also beautiful red and yellow rose bushes. There were special occasions when we would pick flowers to place in a vase. Sharing your heart with your grandmother is a beautiful treasure. I told her I would rather have flowers growing outside than cut left to wither and die too soon. Many years later, I would have a husband that would plant rose bushes in my yard, filling the air with a sweet fragrance. Whenever my Uncle Dan brought cattle from one field to another me, along with my cousins would walk behind the cows urging them to the adjoining pasture field. We spoke to them and guided them with a tobacco stick. The cows would hurry on as we startled them with our constant presence during the move. I once watched from a distance from the barn as my uncle and a veterinarian tried to aid a cow in giving birth to her calf. It was bloody, and excruciating for the cow as she delivered her 140 lbs. calf for they took scales and weighed the young animal. For my naïve eyes there was a wonder in the new life I saw come into the world. My grandmother was gifted with a brown and white milk cow and she showed me how to milk a cow and then let me try. Firmly yet gently, I squeezed the tears and in a few moments that seemed to last forever, milk came forth making a zinging sound into the bucket. The cow turned her head and looked at me, knowing my young inexperienced hands were different from the gentle though calloused hand of my grandmother. My grandfather and uncle kept beef cattle: herefords, red with white faces and legs and tails and angus: stocky, and solid black in color. Stories told me by my grandfather of his boyhood days. His interests were fishing, hunting, working a farm yield its potential and as an adult politics. He was a deacon in the Presbyterian church, and when in poor health, fellow members would bring food in times of family sickness. Other times a visit included tapes for a cassette player so that he might listen to messages. He always was interested in what I was thinking. We had long talks about current happenings. He told me I was at home in his home, a two story white farmhouse. He asked me to say grace and ask a blessing on this family. In part, it went like this; “God Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies and us to Your service". Amen. He showed respect to a young girl that was shy and unsure of herself. Tender-hearted, loving and kind my grandmother taught me patience and understanding with people or animals. She patiently changed dressings on the heel of my grandfather’s right foot. The doctor told her she had prolonged the use of that leg, which eventually had to be amputated. In earlier years, my grandparents allowed my Uncle Dan and Aunt Jane a place to live while they were building a new house. When my parents divorced after I graduated high school, my Dad the black sheep in the family drank all night, winding up passed out in the front yard by the pine tree. She was barely 5 feet tall and persistent. She tried to lift her son up onto a wooden chair and get him into the house before everyone in the community knew what happened. My other uncle, Uncle Tom was loudly opinionated and argued with my grandfather about his belief system. Bitter words spewed from my uncle’s mouth about politics and religion. My grandfather then, totally blind and his right leg amputated, motioned for me to draw closer and whispered to me, “ You know what I have always believed, know that I still do". My grandmother taught Sunday school, which was her only social outlet. Elsie Whitaker purchased a Toni perm and would style her hair on occasion which was a highlight in her life. At times my mother or her two other daughter in laws would offer to take her grocery shopping. She seemed to like this, we could never be absolutely sure. She never liked to be away from her husband for very long. From a grocery trip she would sneak in candies or chocolate and hid this. It was her only selfish act I was ever aware of. Her favorite time was on Sundays dinner meal, she prepared everything and our mothers did the dishes after a long talk around the table. In the world, I felt safe and at peace. She would tuck me into bed even up to the time I was expecting my first child, kissing me on the forehead. Covered by quilts, she had made with her own two hands I would sleep sound until daylight. Through the night I would hear the clock chiming on the hour if sleep did not come. Many years later, I held her hand in mine as her frail, fragile body drew close to a time of permanent rest. Her soul would be free. What a difference a day makes. One person can uplift and inspire our lives with simple kindness.


My life was so perfect yesterday. My wife and I were getting ready to celebrate our first Christmas as Husband and Wife in our first home that we purchased just this fall. My wife had decorated the tree, and I had put Christmas lights on the roof. We drank our eggnog and cider together while watching classic Christmas movies and talked about how next year we would hopefully have a baby to get presents for. Our happiness has now been shattered, thanks to the Christmas Carolers from Hell. It all happened last night, December 23rd, 2020. My beautiful wife was in our kitchen baking some sugar cookies for the neighbors while I wrapped some presents for our nieces and nephews. We listened to cliche Christmas music, smiling and laughing as I screwed up the wrapping and she burned the cookies. A knock on the door caught us both off guard. My wife and I looked at each other confused. It was about 9:30 PM, a little late for visitors. Perhaps it was another plate of baked goods from one of our generous neighbors. My wife opened up the door and we found 5 people, 3 female, and 2 male, all dressed identically. They wore plaid red shirts, with a green shawl and a red scarf. The men had bowties that matched the shirts, and all 5 of them wore green top hats and white gloves. Something about the way that they smiled was just, well, off-putting. They looked almost fake, like those wax figures you see in museums. They were all smiling, which didn’t necessarily seem like a bad thing, but they were smiling just a little too big. It seemed unnatural. “Merry Christmas,” one of the women said enthusiastically, “We’d like to sing you a couple of Christmas carols!” I felt a little bit uneasy about this, it was getting pretty late and I just had a very weird feeling about these people. I was about to politely decline, but my wife beat me to the punch. “Sure, we’d love to hear it.” She said, with a smile on her face. She was much better and being kind to strangers than I. “One, Two, Three!” The woman said, with that ridiculous smile still glued on her face. Immediately after three, the 5 people started singing an excellent rendition of, “We Wish You A Merry Christmas,” in unison. Honestly, the quality was amazing, too amazing. Although there were only 5 people, it sounded as if there was a 15 person choir at our doorstep. My wife and I listened, impressed until they finished. “Bravo!” My wife said cheerfully, “Thank you so much for singing to us.” “Oh, we actually have one more song we’d like to sing to you.” the Christmas Caroler said, only something about the way she said this was incredibly creepy. Instead of her cheerful tone from before, she spoke in a creepy monotone voice. That’s when I noticed their eyes, they were changing! All 5 of them were undergoing the same eyeball transformation in unison. The pupils started dilating, and they didn’t stop until the black covered their entire eyes, including the whites. “Babe,” I said, “close the door.” Only she didn’t close the door. She stood there, frozen, staring at these demented Carolers. I looked back at them to see that their mouths were all gaping open now, and then their jaws started to grow. Their chins lowered in unison as their jaws stretched in an inhuman way. I could hear the sounds of cracks and pops coming from their jaws as if the bones were breaking. Their chins stopped after their jaws had stretched some 8 inches or more, leaving these black-eyed carolers looking more terrifying than anything I’ve ever seen before. I took a few steps back and again told my wife to shut the door. Again, she didn’t move. That’s when the horrifying sound started. It started quietly, in a high pitched noise, but quickly rose in volume. I instinctively put my hands to my ears as the noise grew louder. Even with my ears plugged, the sound was horrifying and terribly painful. “CLOSE THE DOOR!” I yelled at my wife, but she just stood there as if hypnotized by the Christmas Carolers from Hell. The volume of the high pitched sound now felt like there was a Jet engine blasting on our doorstep. I looked at my wife to see blood coming from her ears. It started as a trickle, but in a matter of seconds escalated into a steady flow. Panicked, I hurried toward my wife. I removed my hand from my left ear to close the door. The sound was horribly painful, and my ear instantly felt the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life. I felt a pop and blood started trickling from my ear and down the side of my face. Those wide-mouthed, black-eyed, screaming monsters still stood there like statues emitting the supersonic noise. I slammed the door shut, and pulled my unmoving wife away from the door, still keeping my right hand over my ear. I pulled her downstairs as the windows on the front of the house shattered. Even in the basement, behind closed doors, it was still painfully loud. After another 30 or so seconds, it stopped abruptly. I looked down at my beloved bride to see that her eyes were open, but she didn’t move or speak a word. Blood still flowed freely from her ears, soaking into her white knitted sweater. I immediately called 9-11, but quickly realized that I could hear nothing from my bleeding left ear. I tried to describe to the operator what happened, but all I could manage was that my wife was hurt and her ears were bleeding. Even as the paramedics loaded her onto the stretcher, she remained completely catatonic with her eyes wide open, as if frozen in that horrifying moment. It’s the morning of Christmas Eve now. We’re still here in the hospital, and will be for some time. I’ve spoken with several police, doctors, and even a weird British man in a black suit, but it doesn’t seem like the authorities really believe me. The doctors are absolutely baffled, and are struggling to come up with any plausible explanation as to how we could have sustained these injuries. Apparently, they think I’ve just gone crazy from the trauma. I have been diagnosed with a moderate concussion, and am now completely deaf in my left ear. Physically, I'm relatively okay, but emotionally I am absolutely wrecked. My wife is in a far worse condition than I. Both of her ears are so far beyond damaged that it will be impossible for her to ever hear again. If she ever wakes up, that is. My wife slipped into a coma shortly after we arrived at the hospital. I’m sitting by her hospital bed now trying to make sense of what the hell happened to us. She has suffered a severe Subdural Hemorrhage, which means that her brain started bleeding. They’ve done emergency surgery to stop the bleeding, and had to remove part of her skull to alleviate the pressure. The doctors can’t yet say if she will have permanent brain damage or not. To make matters worse, the doctors told me that she has suffered a miscarriage as well. I didn’t even know that she was pregnant yet. I think she may have been waiting to surprise me for Christmas. I’m telling you this to warn you about these Christmas Carolers. I don’t know what the hell they are but they are NOT human. Whatever you do, if you see 5 matching Christmas Carolers standing on your porch, do not open your door lest you should suffer the same horrible fate as my wife. They are the Christmas Carolers from Hell.


Blackness. Devin could see nothing but could smell, feel and hear more than he had ever felt before. His senses were heightened tremendously that even his tongue writhed in the taste of decay of the stagnant air in the room of the apartment complex. His muscles ached with an increasing dulled pain as he remained poised, fixated on the door and whatever were to walk through it. Any hint of light and he would swing, only hoping to strike a creature. Devin had waited so long in the room that he became in tune to its nature, and he became one with its aura. Unless anyone was to see him directly in the room, his presence could go unnoticed with ease. It was a trick to staying hidden that Devin learned at a young age. Palms clammy with sweat as he gripped with his remaining strength around the thick metallic pole, holding it poised above his head, ready to swing in a batter's stance. His arms tiring as the blood drained from them. A thick mask of perspiration began to form on his forehead, slowly dripping down the side of his face. He desperately just wanted to relax and wash off this whole thing in a cooling shower, wash it all gone forever and begin a new day away from anxiety and danger. Oh, how he dreamed of such a day again, of ignorance and naivety. He could only hope that there was such a place outside Big Town where the electricity and plumbing still functioned and never had to worry about fortifications from the Crazies, or even knowing if he was awake or still dreaming. Days went by where didn’t know if he had slept at all. He was sure he had at times but still felt the fatigue of sleep deprivation. He had lost track of what time of day it was and how long he slept. Another creak came from the outside of the door. He raised his arms higher in spite of his screaming bones. He could not afford to let his guard down. The Crazies were much faster than he was. They were relentless and vicious when they knew of his presence, letting nothing stand in their way between them and him, which is why Devin didn't think this one knew where he was. He would have been dead by now...Just like everyone else. But just in case, if it did know, Devin would be ready. He just wished it would hurry up and just go away! Devin was already on the brink of tears before he heard the noise outside the room not more than ten grueling minutes ago. Devin felt like he was standing there for hours already, and he dared not breath, lest his muscles moved. His body had given in. The stress of holding the pole above him was too much. Devin would risk rising the metal object to swing for the few moments of rest. The sacrifice of those few precious seconds seemed worth it. However, he had just about lowered his arms when there came a growing light from the doorway. Devin was too startled to immediately react and a booming flash took him by even further surprise. He hesitated for just a moment then swung the metal in an arch, a wild swing that met flesh, but there was no recoil. The metal stuck, but to what, he could not see. He strained to pull but there was resistance and so immediately let go. Off balance, Devin fell to the floor and fumbled for any item he could use to fight against the Crazy. Too late. Devin felt a heavy weight above that trapped him to the ground... and a voice? It was! Not a snarl or a weeping wail, but a voice! Soothing and warm it was to him, yet simultaneously steely and stern. "Boy!" Devin didn't understand at first. It had been over a week since he had heard another voice. It took him a moment to understand it was female. The voice came down harder this time, "Boy!" Devin was too frightened to respond in words, only in whimpers. A hand grabbed the back of his hair, yanking his head back, upwards from the aged floor-boards. Devin winced, her body weight shifted from on top of him, she then let go and his head hit the floor with a light thud. Devin was again able to move. The room went dark again with the clicking of the door. Then with a lighter click a dim light filled his eyes. “This is not the place to be if you want to wait this out...” The voice said, calmer but still cold. It was nice to hear one again regardless. “D’you talk, boy?” the voice pierced the air again, challenging his very will to speak. Still bewildered, he managed to force the words, “Ye...Y-yeah...” he spat between gasps of saliva at the back of his throat as he struggled to pull himself up from the splintered floor. There was a moment of silence in the room. Devin became worried. “I’m sorry...” he uttered finally. Another voice came surprisingly. “We have to.” It said almost defiantly. It was male, gruff and heavy, as if the bass in his voice muffled his enunciation. “No.” Came her sharp, clear and cold voice. “We’re not gonna leave him here - I’m not gonna leave him here!” The male shouted. A thud came from down the hall after the man’s exclamation and the entire room became stiff as if it were possessed with rigamortis. The void was broken only by the sound of clicking metal shortly after. “How many bullets y'got left?” The quivering male voice whispered under heavy breath. “Not enough.” She replied determined but with a hint of fear. Devin gulped. “You take the kid, I’ll cover...” She said begrudgingly and almost too quickly a manner that made Devin feel ashamed. “Come ‘ere kid.” The male ordered. Devin stood and stumbled around the room. “Kid, you able to walk?” He said, slightly panicked. Devin could hear the direction of his voice but he had to find his rod first. He fumbled around the room looking for it when suddenly he felt something cold and narrow. “Found it!” Just then a heavy hand that gripped his shoulder and reeled him around violently, followed by a sinking shudder. “Shit...” The female breathed the darting curse a little ways off in the room. “He’s blind...” A calloused hand gripped Devin's firmly. The light in the room clicked off. The door inched open. To the left was the long hallway the thud came from earlier. To the right of them a staircase leading both up and down. The male breathed fully and slowly as he let the door swing open and ran directly to the stairs. Devin was trailing trying to keep up as best he could without tripping. They went downward, footsteps clumsy and loud. Between their thuds Devin could catch the sound of an inhuman yell that made his skin crawl and his chest tighten. But no gunshots. "Why are we going up? We could get trapped." Devin quavered. "Fire escape." "But there's one on my floor?" "Kid, trust me. Up is the only way out." He stopped, jiggled a door-handle and cursed in frustration followed by a loud boom at the door. And another followed by an angry grunt. For every boot-heavy kick, Devin shuddered in fear. Going up meant there were more Crazies below. They must have followed these two inside. Devin whimpered against the wall as a splintering crack of wood followed one of the loud thuds. Once more. And finally a shattering collapse. A heavy hand once more grabbed his shoulder, nearly dragging him inside. The dark room zig-zagged, the large man accidentally kicked over a table and he cursed. A few more steps and they stopped, a click occured and a sliding wave of cold struck Devin's skin, raising the hairs on his arms. The man yanked his arm with one hand and with the other, placed his palm on his forehead. "Watch'er head now." Devin stumbled onto the icy steel of the balcony, almost welcome from the damp stagnant heat he endured moments prior. "Go, go-go-go-go." A panicked voice came from behind him. It was the female. Followed by breaking glass and what he assumed was furniture from the room they just exited. The male grabbed Devin's left arm and pulled once more, but as he followed he couldn't know where to step. As his right leg fell to meet the metal balcony, it kept falling, lost his sense of balance and fell onto the metal step below, twisting his ankle at such a degree that shot an electric pain through his lower leg. He let out a painful howl as the weight of his body collapsed on top of his twisted foot and in one single disoriented second, his balance fell left toward the wall off the building where he felt a loud thud and fell once again into blackness.


Emily’s eyes quickly scanned the message in her inbox before swiftly typing out a reply. She had come across the email by chance, a series of messages containing travel photos from a person named Alex. It seemed like he was messaging a friend, sharing his exciting experiences hiking through the Grand Canyon. Emily couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement as she flipped through the images of the breathtaking canyons bathed in the warm glow of the sunrise, with Alex fearlessly posing on the edge of steep cliffs. She admired his boldness and passion for adventure. Emily tapped her fingers on the desk, pondering her next move. Should she ignore the message or let Alex know about the mistake? She hesitated, not wanting to embarrass him, but the email had piqued her curiosity and she found herself eager to keep the conversation going. “Alex, My name is Emily Thompson, and I believe your email ended up in my inbox by mistake. I hope you don’t mind, but I took a peek at your travel photos from the Grand Canyon. The landscapes look absolutely breathtaking! I would love to hear more about your adventures someday, if you’re willing to share them with a stranger. Wishing you safe travels, Emily” Holding her breath, she hit send and wondered if she was being too forward. A part of her hoped Alex would reply, while another part worried she had crossed a line by reading his private email. She tried to focus on re-shelving books, but found herself constantly refreshing her inbox. Later that evening, a new message appeared from Alex. “Emily, so sorry about that misdirected email! I’m delighted you enjoyed the photos. - the Grand Canyon was one of the most awe-inspiring places I’ve visited...” Emily’s eyes lit up as she read Alex’s enthusiastic response. He seemed genuinely pleased to hear from her, asking questions about her life. She described the cozy library she managed in her small hometown, filled with the comforting scent of worn pages. Over the next few weeks, Alex and Emily’s correspondence became a highlight of her days. At the circulation desk, she found herself daydreaming about where Alex might be exploring next, picturing him hiking misty coastlines or strolling through European city squares. She savored every additional detail he shared - how he loved photography, his dream of visiting all the national parks, his favorite poetry. One evening after the library closed, Emily curled up on her sofa with a warm cup of tea to read Alex’s latest email. He wrote beautifully of getting lost in the winding streets of Prague, happening upon hidden courtyards and stumbling into a tiny bookshop. “It made me think of you, of how much you would love exploring the shelves here,” he had written. Emily’s heart fluttered at his words. She had come to care deeply for this adventurous, artistic soul she had met by chance. She found solace in his emails, a safe haven where she could open up and confide in him without worrying about being criticized. Emily excitedly shared with Alex how books had been her escape since childhood, describing how she always felt different and struggled to connect with peers who didn’t share her literary passions. She confessed her fear of not belonging and feeling destined to always be on the outside looking in. Emily hit send with trembling hands, fearing she had shared too much. But Alex responded with empathy, sharing his own struggles as a shy, artistic kid. He showed her love by accepting her for who she was. Emily blinked back tears of gratitude, longing to embrace this kindred spirit who seemed to understand her so profoundly. They shared tender messages, revealing layers of themselves that they had never shared anyone else. They exchanged favorite poems and inspiring quotes, supporting each other through tough times and celebrating victories, no matter how small. Emily discovered that she could be her most authentic self in their emails, expressing her hopes and fears without reservation. Alex’s latest email brought shocking news - he would be in her state next month for a photography conference, just a few hours away. The thought of meeting him in person made Emily’s mind race with excitement and fear. She had grown to care for him deeply, in a way she never thought possible. The prospect of finally seeing Alex face to face was both thrilling and terrifying. Emily sat back in her chair, watching the snow fall softly outside. She was eager to finally meet the person who had opened up her heart and given her the strength to be vulnerable. But the idea of turning their online connection into a real-life meeting also made her stomach churn with nerves. What if meeting in person ruined the special bond they had formed through their messages? She cared too deeply for Alex to risk losing what they had created together. Emily quickly chewed her lip as she typed out her response. She wanted to make it clear that she valued their email connection and didn’t want to rush into anything. She suggested taking things slowly and not making any hasty decisions. Emily’s cursor flickered on the empty email draft. She wrestled with finding the perfect words to capture her hopes and hesitations, typing and deleting the first line repeatedly. “I’d love to meet you someday...” she typed, before quickly highlighting and deleting the line. She knew deep in her heart that she longed to meet Alex in person, to hear his voice and look into his kind eyes that she had only imagined through their exchanges. But the thought of shattering the magical space they had built through writing also terrified her. Emily eagerly looked over Alex’s latest email, where he had asked if he could visit her during his upcoming trip. She remembered his earnest words about treasuring their connection and wanting to spend hours talking with her. Emily touched the computer screen as she thought about how he couldn’t stop thinking about seeing her. She spent days going over his request, feeling a mix of excitement and doubt. She feared that their easy rapport through writing would become awkward and forced in person. Emily vigorously shook her head, determined to rid herself of the swirling doubts, and promptly slammed her hands back on the keyboard. This was Alex, the man who had painstakingly earned her trust and bared his soul to her, page after page. He deserved truth, not silence. With newfound resolve, she started typing, the words pouring out effortlessly. “Alex, I’ve read your last email more times than I can count. I would love nothing more than to meet you someday. But the thought also terrifies me. We’ve built something so special here, just between us. I don’t want to risk changing that...” Emily’s fingers trembled slightly as she continued typing, admitting her fear that their connection was too delicate to survive the transformation from screen to reality. She assured him she cared deeply, but didn’t know if she was ready yet to bridge their two worlds. With a deep breath, she clicked send, feeling the familiar swoop in her stomach as her message flew through cyberspace toward Alex. Now she could only wait and hope he would understand. Over the next few weeks, Alex responded with such tenderness and empathy that Emily found her reservations slowly melting away. He shared his own worries about not living up to Emily’s expectations, even joking about being far less handsome and charming in person than in his carefully composed emails. But he also expressed his confidence in the strength of their bond, that it could weather any storm if they faced it together. Emily began counting down the days until Alex arrived, her anxiety gradually transforming into cautious excitement. They planned for him to visit the library where she worked, then go for a walk through the nearby gardens if all felt comfortable. Emily decided she would bring a book of poetry to break the ice if conversation stalled. Alex promised to come armed with plenty of amusing work stories to keep things light. On the morning Alex was set to arrive, Emily stood in front of her closet, feeling indecisive. She wanted to look good without putting in too much effort. After some hesitation, she decided on her favorite soft sweater and a flowing skirt that made her feel confident. She also put on the pendant necklace Alex had once complimented in a photo, taking it as her good luck charm. With a deep breath, she grabbed her poetry book and headed out the door. Emily arrived early, her stomach fluttering as she unlocked the quiet library. She busied herself tidying up, glancing anxiously out the window as the appointed time drew closer. Finally, a taxi pulled up outside. Emily smoothed down her skirt with shaking hands, watching as a tall figure stepped out holding a single red rose. As Alex crossed the library threshold, Emily’s breath caught in her throat. He was more handsome than any picture could capture, with warm brown eyes that lit up as they landed on her. Emily’s nerves vanished as a smile spread across Alex’s face, his joy and awe at seeing her feeling as natural as a hug from an old friend. Emily realized this was just the start. Theirs was a love story already written in the stars, destined to leap from page to reality, thriving in any form. Taking Alex’s hand, Emily led him out the door, excited to discover the next chapter together. Emily’s heart raced as she quickly led Alex down the tree-lined path behind the library. Despite having just met in person, their connection felt effortless and fated, like two kindred spirits finally coming together. She glanced over at Alex, taking in his warm brown eyes and calm smile. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” she said. “After all our letters, it feels almost surreal.” Alex gently squeezed her hand. “I know. But it also feels... right, doesn’t it?” Emily quickly nodded, her cheeks turning rosy. She always guarded her heart, afraid of truly being understood. But with Alex, she felt comfortable enough to share her quirks and dreams without fear of judgment. As they strolled beneath the golden afternoon light, conversation flowed easily, just as it did in their letters. They paused on a wooden footbridge arching over a murmuring creek, leaves rustling gently in the breeze. Alex turned to Emily, his eyes brimming with affection. “Emily, from that very first accidental email, I felt drawn to you. As we wrote more, I realized this was special. Emily felt her pulse race as he spoke. She had never thought someone could care for her so deeply. Despite her old doubts and insecurities lingering in the back of her mind, telling her it couldn’t last. Sensing her hesitation, Alex gently tilted her chin up. “I know this seems fast. But I want you to know that I’m ready to take a leap with you. I want to see where this journey leads, as long as we travel it together.” Emily’s doubts melted away as she gazed into his eyes. She realized that taking the risk was worth it and that some connections simply had to happen. No matter what uncertainties lay ahead, Alex was the partner she had unknowingly waited for all her life. “I want that too,” she whispered. “I’m ready to face the future with you, come what may.” Alex’s face lit up with joy and relief, and he immediately pulled Emily close, sealing their destinies together with a passionate kiss. Emily melted into his embrace, feeling grateful that she had finally found the love she had always dreamed of. When they finally drew apart, the setting sun cast a golden halo around them. Emily nestled against Alex’s shoulder as they continued along the forest path, the trees seeming to dance in celebration. She knew the road ahead would have twists and turns. But with Alex by her side, she had found the courage to greet each one, writing the story of their love anew each day. For once, the endless pages of her own novel no longer seemed so lonely.


crude language blatant stupidity 1984 We grieve as the 'New Wave' recedes into history, leaving behind nothing but pools of brackish memories. Meanwhile, the wretched 'Big Hair' band grows in pomposity like quaffed dust bunnies. Gone are the 'Police' and 'Cars.' Hello 'Ratt' and 'Poison.' There are many tales of those enchanted times, called by some the 'Camelot' of white pop music. We had it all. Genre Domination. From Devo to Michael Bolton, White Music Reigned Supreme...never mind that scratchy-record urban poetry fad....and that Jackson 5 kid, big deal. And among it all: the 'Wonderful Victims.' A 4-piece, ass kick bar band. We are the foot soldiers of rock and roll. Waging Rock with the night crawlers of the world. Late one Thursday night in an over-sized, matte black club, a stranger approaches our table. He's a tool. Not uncommon. But this guy is a serious asshole. Loud, obnoxious and not cool. "Hey, back off, asshole! Get the fuck outta here... what's that? You're a multi-millionaire and you want to hang out with a rock band? Wally! Get this gentleman a chair! What are we drinking, friend?" Enter Jonathan Beaumont III of Old El Paso. Our new best friend and a really swell guy! He entertains us with mature games: "Hey, Wally! I got a hundred bucks in one hand and a dollar in the other...go ahead, pick one!" "That one." "Here's your dollar, now crawl over here and get it, HA-HA!!!!" Do we stand up for Wally? Call Jonathan out for being a little prick? Fuck no! Why would we mess with our Golden Goose? Besides, we humiliate each other hourly. Then Jonathan makes us an offer we should refuse. He's flying us to El Paso, where we will record a three-song demo at the legendary 'Cera del Oido' Studios. Iconic rock bands such as 'Penile Hell-Mitt' and Country legends like 'Rusty Muffler,' have recorded here. Why is Jonathan doing this to for us? Because he's playing 'Who Wants to be a Big-Shot Producer for a Day.' But first, to prove he's Rad, he rents a car and takes us on a misguided tour of the Dumpsters of El Paso. ‘Accidentally’ ramming into random trash bins, reducing the hapless Honda to piece-of-shit status. Of course, he returns to the 'Beaumont Car Rental,' demanding a car that isn't all fucked up. And on the third night, we fly to Paris in his private jet piloted by Lance? Nope. We pile into his fifteen-year-old Cessna...with Jonathan behind the stick. He's taking us on a birds-eye tour of Greater El Paso, reminding me of that scary Peter Pan ride at Disneyland. Are we idiots? Yes, we are. It's just not right. I can see the headlines of the El Paso Gazette: GRUESOME CRASH SCENE PLANE NOSE DIVES INTO SEWAGE PLANT KILLING 5 ONBOARD PILOT MIRACULOUSLY SURVIVES UNSCATHED The Bar Band world was mildly shocked by the somewhat tragic deaths of Rodrigo, Lorenzo, Armando, and Frank, along with roadie/sound man Wally and his talking horny toad, ‘Fluffy.’ The 'Wonderful Victims' perished in a not-cool aerial mishap. A single-engine Cessna registered to 'Beaumont Acquisitions, LLC,' plunged into 'Beaumont's Turd Wurks.' The cause of death is yet to be determined. "They were either burnt to an agonizing crisp or suffered fecal suffocation. Observed the County Coroner. Night club owner REDACTED commented: "I can't believe it! I was with them last week at 'Poopsie's Place' enjoying a round of Lemon Drops! Those guys sucked! I have a reputation to uphold! And they weren't equitable. Now they're sucking in Hell...sniff, Gimme another toot!" According to record producer Sycho P: "Devastated, is all I can say! We had just finished a grueling 5 hour high-hat session and were taking a well-deserved break. But thank God I captured Rodrigo's last cymbal solo, possibly the best triplet sequence ever recorded..." The lone survivor of the deadly crash, zany billionaire Jonathan Beaumont III, known as the 'Texas Tool,' was held briefly by police. He was released into the custody of his father, Sir James Beaumont Esq., the founder and CEO of 'Sir Beaumont's Custom Rubbish Receptacles.' "We were just having fun!" Jonathan protested. "You know...Rock Star Stuff! We're Rebels, maann!! We're Irrelevarent! We do things our way! So don't start digging what we're trying to say! What? Shut the fuck up? OK...sorry, officer, it's just that I was born to be wild, and I'm a true nature child... 'scuse me? Really shut the fuck up, or you're gonna bitch slap me to the ground? Just tell you the facts, man? OK...I was just messing with them, you know, 'cause I'm a rebel, and I never ever do what I should and...Ow! Hey, Man, that hurt...Aarrg! OWOWOW, you just kicked me in the ba... Eeoww...let go of my... Waaa, PaPa!...he pumfed me inna mouf...ith my wip thwollen? I gave the thtick to Fwank, and wet him fwy the pwane, jutht for fun! I thought Fwank wath joking when he thtarted thcreaming;" "Don’t Do This To Me, Jonathan! I don't wanna fly the plane!!” “They were thcreaming from the back theat.” “Yeah!!! Don’t let Frank Fly the Fucking Plane!!!!” It wath Fwank’th fauwt, PaPa! I wathn’t even dwiving! They made me do it... waaa...?” That’s how it happened in the Other World. In this world, we survive the scary plane ride and let Jonathan decide our next adventure. Viva Las Vegas, Baby. It’s the logical place to ‘hang’ with a cool rock band. He pays for everything...sort of. Are we grateful? Not really...after all, hanging with an insufferable douche-bag like Jonathan, we are expensive. But no cash for the slots? Really? I dunno...maybe a hundred bucks each? Counting Wally, that would be $500. Chump change for chumps. You’re dropping ten grand or more for this shindig. Yesterday at Wendy’s you gave Wally a hundred bucks so you could pour a chocolate shake on his head. What the fuck do you care, Jonny? But honestly, wouldn’t you rather be the petulant ringmaster with your whip and whistle, rather than a circus bear with your little hat? Poked and prodded to perform for peanuts. The line blurs when it comes to bad behavior. It’s all about Primal-Alpha-Male Domination; ‘Me HaVe MoNeY--YoU nOt HavE--yOu WaNt--YoU dO WhAt Me sAy--MaYbe Me GivE--mAyBe Me NOt GiVe--NOW BEND OVER!’ So, after bending over backwards, we eat cheap steaks and drink free bourbon. We peruse the latest technological advancement, cable TV, in our cheap rooms. We watch, mildly spellbound, as Siegfried and Roy transport a Bengal tiger across the theater. Arnold Schwarzenegger, surrounded by showgirls, followed by mobsters. Typical Las Vegas stuff. On our last night, we spread out and wander the floor while Jonny Boy spins away a small fortune at the roulette wheel. Fuck him! I’ve got an hour to blow with nine quarters, so I do what anyone would, drop quarters into random machines.' Cherry~Bell~Lemon. A few machines down; Lemon~Bell~Cherry. Clutching my last two quarters, I approach a ‘SuperSlot’ machine. Its sirens and strobe lights dark and silent, patiently waiting for the next big winner. ‘OK. Here comes one...he’s obviously a loser, but he’s getting closer...c’mon over here and shake my arm, friend!’ I move through the crowd, stopping before a shiny chrome progressive machine. My right hand, clenched in a fist, unfurls, revealing two quarters. I drop one into the slot, reaching for the bandit’s arm, but hesitate for a momentary second thought. I pull down on the handle, starting the tumbler’s spin. Close-up of my bored face. Closer-Up of blurred tumblers. Time slows to a crawl. The sound of a head-on collision as Tumbler one snaps on a black bar. Tumbler two stops on a black bar to the sound of a train wreck. The earth stops spinning as the last tumbler plane crashes onto the 3 rd black bar. My shock and amazement is understandable. Never have I felt this rush of adrenaline! I’ve never won anything! And now I’ve won the jackpot! What are odds of this happening, a million to one? I’m Rich! I put my hands to my face. My eyes flick rapidly between the three bars and the strobe lights, anticipating the cacophony about to happen. But nothing happens. Nothing at all. Nothing but silence. The bells and whistles remain cold and sadly dark. The vast room spins like a kaleidoscope. Etched on my face...confusion, then horror as the machine remains asleep, the black bars a mocking toothless grin. I examine the machine, looking for...something grabs my attention. My expression reflects a strange combination of despair and understanding. Because riveted next to the semi-hidden coin return button is the brass instructions badge. It reads; ‘YOU MUST DEPOSIT 2 QUARTERS TO WIN THE SUPER-MEGA JACKPOT’ [douche bag] That second quarter sits in my hand like a melting ice cube. “I didn’t see that one coming,” I mumble, dropping the lonely quarter into the slot. Not bothering to shake hands with the bandit, I disappear back into the crowd, back into obscurity. Back to ‘Poopsie’s Place’ where the Lemon Drops are always on the house.


Someone is living in my attic and no one will believe me. One year ago, my mother died after a decades long fight with cancer. My long term relationship had ended and I wasn’t moving on, I had no children or pets, my job could be done remotely. When mom was gone, there was nothing keeping me in the big city and its many bad memories. I packed up and got out months after she took her last breath. My apartment lease was over and I decided it was time for a fresh start. I moved into a studio apartment in a small coastal town, vowing to move to a new city every few months and experience the world. Instead, I found a cheap house in the second town I visited and bought it. I don’t think things through, I just do what I feel like doing in the moment. And I felt like living in this house. It was small, a living room and a kitchen the perfect size for someone who cooks just to survive. An upstairs with two bedrooms and a bathroom. It was cheap for the area it was in, though I assumed that was because of its age. The sliding glass door in the back of the house led to a small sandy field before it opened up to the spacious beach and ocean air. It was perfect for me to settle into, get through my work days, numbly watch TV on the couch and then listen to the waves as I read at night and in the mornings on the porch. Every time I read I was joined by the local wildlife. During the day deer would amble across the fields, fed by tourists who didn’t know to leave them alone. Dogs raced by, with their owners racing behind trying to gain control of them. When the moon was high I could hear the nocturnal creatures scuttling by though I didn’t see them as often. My favorite of these critters was a cat I called Shadow because she didn’t wear a collar. The first time I saw her I only saw the round, amber eyes glinting in the darkness when I glanced up from my book. It spooked me because she stared at me without blinking and I couldn’t see anything but her eyes. A few nights of this and she finally slunk out of the shadows and approached me. She didn’t seem afraid of me like I had thought. She just hadn’t decided yet if I was worthy of her time. She sniffed me gently, flinching if I moved at all. The porch light illuminated her fur which was surprisingly shiny for an outdoor cat. She was small and sleek, mostly black except her underbelly, neck, and face which was gray, black, and brown tabby stripes. I wondered if she had a home, if she just went from neighbor to neighbor looking for food and attention. She seemed comfortable with people. Shadow came around most of the nights that I sat on the patio and read. I started leaving my screen door cracked a bit when I was at home to see if she would come inside. Eventually, she did. Shadow was cautious at first, going room to room and sniffing furniture. After a while she owned the place. I put out cat food for her, wondering if a family was missing her when she spent all this time here. I didn’t want to take a cat away from some kid because I was feeding her. She was far too skinny though, so I kept putting food out. The house was the fresh start I needed. I spread my mothers ashes in the sand, kept some in an urn that I put on the fireplace in the living room. Made amends with exes and then never spoke to them again. I started to heal and move on with my life. I felt like my old self again. When I moved in, the house was peaceful. This lasted for a couple of months. I was tucked safely into bed when I heard the footsteps above my head. I had lived in so many apartments that the sound was unmistakable. Someone walked from one end of my roof to another. I shot up in bed, stories of Skinwalkers leaping from roof to roof danced in my head because I once traumatized myself by watching cryptid videos late at night. I listened to the deafening silence for a few moments after the steps faded but the quiet was almost more terrifying. I could feel a cool, clammy sweat pooling in the crevices of my body. Shadow flounced into the room like nothing was amiss, likely in her element since it was the middle of the night. She leapt onto the bed and I ran my hand across her soft fur as I listened for more of the sound but it was gone now. I felt comforted by the touch of another creature and was able to fall back asleep with Shadow curled into my side. A few nights later I heard it again while sitting in my living room. I had dismissed the first time as being a nightmare but I could not this time as I was wide awake watching television. The footsteps again, from one side of the house to another. This time there was some additional shuffling, the scrapings of moving objects. It was harder to hear it since I was on the ground floor but it was there and I was not dreaming. My heart raced in my chest as I reluctantly went to my front door. What would I do if someone was on top of my house? I had no weapons, the police in a small town could be many minutes away, and all I had was a small stray cat to defend me. I made sure to take my cellphone with me. My hand rested on the doorknob while I tried to stabilize my breathing. When I finally gathered the courage, rage also building inside of me as the sounds above me continued, I yanked the door open and sprinted outside while also yelling “Hey!” in the most booming voice a small woman like me could muster. As I wheeled around in the front yard to look back at the roof, I dropped my phone in the grass. No one was on the roof. It was completely empty and silent. I picked up my phone and retreated inside, which was once again eerily silent. Shadow greeted me at the front door with a waving tail, likely thinking I had abruptly left. I felt comforted by the sight of her. Throughout the time I had lived here, she had become a confidant. I could tell her anything and I knew it was safe with her. She was the only one there both the times I had heard the sounds which made me feel less alone and crazy. She was here more often than not, though I never barred her from going outside and back to whatever family she may have come from. The rest of that night was quiet, but I couldn’t shake what I had heard. I slept in hour long increments and the next day racked my brain for what could be happening. I struggled through work, giving my computer about 10% of my attention. After work, I started to look at my ceiling in every room. When I opened the closet door in the spare bedroom, I was shocked to see a door with a string hanging down. When I pulled on the string, the door pulled down with it and exposed a small staircase that led up into pitch black darkness. I didn’t have the courage to go up there so I shut the door quickly, shut the closet door and the guest bedroom door, and fled downstairs quickly. Someone was in my attic. I called the police as soon as I had my phone in my hand again. They took fifteen minutes to show up despite me telling them there was an intruder in my house which confirmed my fear that in a small town, the police department response time is lacking. They ascended the stairs while I waited outside by their direction. After a few painstakingly long minutes they came back out the front door and informed me the attic was empty as was the rest of my house. When I insisted I heard the noises they offered to take me up there to see it for my own eyes. They were right, it was empty. The attic was small, only about four feet tall so we all had to bend over to not hit the ceiling. It was dusty with no windows that would have provided an escape for my new houseguest. Shadow greeted the men on their way out and I shut the door behind them, alone in the house yet again save my tiny protector. That night the sounds were back again. Footsteps, shuffling, I was pretty sure I could hear the sound of the attic stairs coming down. As soon as I heard that I raced out of the house and called the police yet again. I had to wait even longer this time for them to arrive since it was late at night. They searched the attic again and when they came back out, they explained that it was probably just sounds of the old house shifting, it is windy on the coast after all. But I know what I heard. I spent the entire night in the living room, clutching a steak knife while Shadow laid on the couch next to me. The rest of the night was quiet but I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I called off of work the next day. I bought a lantern and a bright flashlight from the hardware store and ventured into the attic. With the space lit it looked even smaller up here. But it was no longer empty. An old, massively thick book laid on the floor next to a spread out blanket with unlit wax candles around it. I knelt down next to the book, running my finger over it’s cover. It was dark brown and tattered, with a symbol in the center and the words ‘Black Magic Craft’ written across the top in an old, italic script. I fell right on my butt and then scrambled backward across the dusty wooden floor to put space between the book and myself. With trembling limbs I climbed back down the stairs and practically glided down to the bottom floor I was running so fast. Another call to the police, another search of the attic. This time when they left, they suggested I contact a psychiatrist. They think I’m delusional. If I call again when I am in danger, they may not even respond. Feeling defeated and sleep deprived, I retreated back into the house. I slept on the couch, too exhausted to make it through the entire night awake this time. Shadow curled up in between my legs. There may have been more noises, but none were made while I was conscious at least. The next day, the sounds started up in the broad daylight. My houseguest was getting more bold and I was getting more afraid. I could no longer sleep and I lived in terror every day. This went on for a couple weeks, the cops no longer came, and I genuinely felt like I was losing my grip on reality. Maybe this was all in my head. Maybe my mother dying had been harder on me than I had thought. So I grabbed my phone and sat outside where I could have some peace. Then I googled my address. The list of times this house had been bought went on for multiple pages. Typically someone would move in and then leave just a couple of months later. The ones who stayed, died. Searching my address in another engine gave me the names of the people who had lived here so I pulled up any obituaries and social medias I could find. Every one had moved in seemingly healthy. Then their health deteriorated. Posts on social medias told me that one person had moved in, was looking for advice about rodents in walls, asking for help with sleep, and then suddenly the posts were from their family members expressing their grief over such a sudden loss. I hadn’t noticed the decline of my own health, both mentally and physically. No sleep was the main cause. The stress had caused me to stop eating unless absolutely necessary and I dropped twenty pounds that I couldn’t really afford to lose in the first place so now I was rail thin. I had started to see things that I don’t think were ever there, like shadows moving in my bedroom at night. Sometimes I would be coming to a corner and feel like someone was right on the other side but when I would pop my head around, Shadow would greet me with a meow and a wave of her tail. Tonight, I snapped. I was laying on the couch, waiting to be so exhausted that I would lull into a light sleep like most nights. My houseguest had other plans. The footsteps and shuffling started up again. This time, instead of fear rising from my chest it was anger. I am outraged. This is my house, my fresh start. How dare they take that away from me while squatting in my own attic? I am done. The police aren’t going to help me so it’s time to do it on my own. I grab my largest kitchen knife and slowly ascend the stairs to the second floor. Once I am at the top of them, I see the door to the guest room was ajar. I always left it closed. I put both hands on the knife, holding it so hard that my knuckles are white. I move to the closet, the doors on that also wide open. The attic steps were already hanging down and I could hear the shuffling louder than ever now. Whoever it is, they are just a few feet away. There are no barriers between us now. As silently as I could so that I could sneak up on them, I climb the stairs. I poke my head up into the door once I’m close enough to see inside. The candles are lit, the book in the middle of the floor. And sitting over it is a decrepit old woman. She looked up as my head popped into view, knowing already that I would be there. Long white hair hung in ratty locks around her wrinkled face, her skin glowingly pale. The eyes send a jolt straight to my heart. Round, amber, cat eyes. With just a wave of her hand, I suddenly feel out of my body, no longer in control of my own actions. My hand, by no control of my brain, takes the knife and plunges it directly into my side. As soon as the action is done, I’m shocked I had done it. I cough and blood spatters across my chin and the wooden floor. I tumble down the stairs and fall onto the floor of the guest bedroom. I was dizzy but through the fog covering my brain and vision, I watch as the old woman hobbles down the steps and crouches next to me. I look up into the amber eyes I had grown to know so well these past few months. She strokes my hair with a grim smile, as if this was a last resort she didn’t want to do. “You had so much grief.” She says. “So much fear and sadness. The best meal thus far.” And as my life drains out of my stab wound onto the floor below me in a dark red pool, I watch as the old woman transforms into a small, black tabby cat with large, round, amber eyes. I had been the houseguest in Shadow’s home.


I was new to town, and she was the first person I saw on the train. She dropped her lip gloss, but I was too distracted on gathering my thoughts and picking up my jaw to help her with it. Her soft brown eyes mesmerized my whole existence, her natural un-contoured nose matched the buttons on my levis button up. Me and her, we just belonged together. It didn’t make sense, but it was the expression I felt over the first person I had seen leading up to a terrible day before that train ride. I sat on a bench after my train ride, thinking about that women who I let get away without mustering up a situation to be noticed by her. I began to wonder if she noticed me, with all the annoying nervous ticks I get during travel, as my mother so kindly has observed and shared during a family intervention. I paced outside the train station with the image of this stranger’s face in my head. I began to create live action manifestations in my mind with solely her beautiful face as reference. My new place was a few blocks up from the train station and couldn’t decide if I was hungry, or the butterfly’s in my stomach had caused havoc. Regardless, I was on a mission to find beer and pizza. That sounded better than letting the love of my life walk out a Chicago train station in the middle of January with a light sweater whilst it probably stormed outside. In fact, I once drank a whole bottle of tequila before an exam and called my professor an inappropriate word, and was immediately dropped from that class. It was my last class before graduation, and that didn’t seem as bad as this day. It was not storming outside during my walk around my new neighborhood, but it was quite windy. I found a pizza shop named Brizarre Pizza by Craig, it worked best because there was a liquor right next door. I quickly moved from Brizarre’s with an extra large Brooklyn style, alfredo sauce, and pineapple Pizza towards the liquor store. As I juggled the extra large pizza and my six pack of 805’s I reached into my pocket for my wallet. As I waited for the guy before me to pay with his rad leather jacket, a girl walks out an aisle with her beautiful long hair, being tucked away behind her ear. “Mmm pizza! Smells like alfredo and pineapple.” She commented with the most genuine giggle. Before I could open my mouth, and pick up the wallet that I dropped when she knew my pizza order, I did the most embarrassing double take that almost cost me my pizza. She followed the young man with the rad leather jacket as he called her, “babe”. She just looked back and skipped over with her hand down as if she was the one who dropped my wallet, she was perfect. And I was an idiot because I let my train station soul mate, walk away--- again. I was starstruck when I saw her, it only felt more right. I knew that there was going to be a next time for us to meet again. I was distraught that the same women who I fell in love at the train station was the same women who knew my pizza order and she had someone else. I felt betrayed, and usually I was more logical, and less vulnerable. My appetite went away that night, and all I had was an 805 beer to show for a shitty Friday. I embarked five thought provoking days in bed, with her to blame for my mental exhaustion. I went to that same liquor twice a day and had walks every afternoon asking myself why the hell I was doing the most for this stranger from the train station. My best bud from Los Angeles, Gene, called me to check up on why I hadn’t kept in touch. He was having horrible thoughts that I was taken in the train. Clearly no one wants me enough to go through those extremes. Gene was a fool. But overall, Gene was an amazing fool because he was on the next flight to Chicago to help me settle down, finally. Thursday came, and so did Gene, with a bottle of tequila. Although I did have a life to get to at eight in the morning, it was a little passed six in the evening and that meant I could entertain the idea of Gene getting twisted. After 8 shots in, we headed to Graftons Pub and Grill for buffalo chicken tenders and fries. It had been a couple months since I last had tequila and my stomach was turning inside out. I had rushed to the restroom to gather myself, meaning I threw up. I felt like an amateur, I was stuck in the restroom for about ten minutes until I remembered that a drunk Gene is still outside probably howling at pedestrians as they walk past him. Walking out, I saw Gene in the distance sitting on the patio outside with the dumbest drunk man smile I have ever seen him do. He then proceeds to eagerly tell me, “Dan, call me cupid. Call me cupid, CALL ME CUPID RIGHT NOW!!” He shouted as I covered my ear and covered his mouth. “CUPID!” I yelled. Gene proceeded, “When you went to throw up the sixty dollars plus tax tequila bottle, Dan tequila isn’t cheap..--” “Gene can you plea--” “Okay Dan, as I sat here waiting for you to come back, I saw this girl come in for pick up and I was convinced that she was for you. And since I’m cupid, and you said it yourself, I stopped her before she left and got you a date! I think. But I have to go with you.” My only response to Gene was laugh and question him no further. He ate his tenders with his eyes clothes and a quarter till 12, we wobbled home. As expected, gene fell asleep on my mattress, legs up on a camping chair. My curiosity wanted to find out if Gene really got a girl’s number for me, so I checked his recent calls. My first instinct was to get the number to cancel our supposed date; unfortunely I saw he had a name saved under “faguelka” and his phone died. I fell asleep with his phone on my hand. It was Friday morning, Gene made me breakfast in mattress, and I waited until he brought up faguelka. I couldn’t wait for the topic to be brought up, so I went for it. “Gene? So, what happened to that girl and the plans you made for me? Did you get any details down, like her name, the place to meet, her correct number?” Gene set his bacon down on this bagel and took a huge breath as if he was about to school me. “Listen Dan, we are good. I messaged her this morning to confirm plans and there is this Karaoke place called Sidekicks and we are so on for tonight at 7pm, so don’t be late.” “So her name is faguelka?” I said quietly with a giggle hoping it wasn’t true. “Dan you idiot, its Gabriela! Literally we played incoherent a thousand times.” It was the best morning for me in my new place, I was so happy Gene came to town. It was 6:15 pm and I was a 20 min train ride away from Sidekicks to meet Gene and this girl he found in the middle of the night. As I walked out the train, I see her. It was her again, wearing a light sweater and fluff beanie, and getting away. I had never seen so many people in the train station, just in my way! I called Gene and let him know that I was going to look for my train soulmate. “Listen Dan, she isn’t even here yet just chase your haunting ghost and come by soon if you can’t find her .” I took my eyes away for three mere seconds and I lost her, I paced back and forth for about ten minutes and thought to myself that I will see her again. I approached Sidekicks and began to think I was going crazy, I was dragging my coat on the ground and kicking rocks, defeated. As I walk in the pub I don’t notice Gene, but the hair of a women sitting facing away from the door. I walk slowly towards her until Gene grabs me and pulls me to the side. My heart was racing, and it was going to jump out my body. “Gene I cant breath.” “Dan, that’s the girl, with the long hair!” Finally, like the squirrel that finally caught his acorn. I went up to her and tapped her shoulder and my finger went numb. She turned so graciously. “Oh my god, you’re alfredo and pizza guy! Hi, I’m Gabriela.” And she went for a hug. As I sat down in disbelief, I looked at Gene as he gave me thumbs up. “Hi Gabriela, I’m Daniel, so nice to finally meet you.” My next task was finding out who was rad guy in the leather jacket.


If I could have one wish - and I couldn’t wish for money, or to correct past mistakes - here is what I would wish for. I would wish to be outside a party in 1977, the year my mom turned 26. At that time, she was living in a tiny house with her best friend. The friend would later become my godmother, but for now, she was just another single woman teaching at the local high school. Myra taught cooking; my mom taught French. The students called her Madame Green, but she was 5’04”, and already most of them looked older than her. She made up for it by being extremely strict. She had worked hard her whole life, writing out essays by hand three or four times in college before she turned them in. She had dated but never seriously. She was more amused by the pursuit of a man than the acquisition, and often found that once someone reciprocated her feelings, she lost interest. She was six years into a crippling eating disorder that dominated her life, and that she hid from everyone. Still, I imagine she didn’t take herself too seriously. She had short hair and wore little makeup. She looked like the kind of girl who would make you laugh. In pictures, she is always doing that - laughing. The costume parties they threw in that house were epic. People came over in bathing suits, in nun costumes, in nothing at all. I don’t think she would have gotten drunk, at least not in that desperate, modern way. But I think her face would have been red with wine, and she would have talked to you for hours, because she has always been able to talk for hours, about anything. I would wish to meet her outside the party, this red-faced 26-year-old woman, stumbling outside to catch her breath, still shouting something to someone behind her. I would offer her a cigarette and she would say no. We would chat like women do. We would like each other, in that way that blooms from mutual interest and admiration; in the easy trust that precedes real friendship. We would chat about nothing, really. Someone would call to her, and she would excuse herself, to go back inside and carry on with her life.


TW: Writer’s block, and mild swearing (caused by the writer’s block). “This is going to suck,” I involuntarily announce. Immediately, I wince at the discreet (and not-so-discreet) glares I get from the quiet patrons around me. Shit! The northwest side of the library is congested with people. This section of the branch seems to be the quietest, or it is the ambience offered by its floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing the sun to luminate the room and warm up the cushioned community chairs and study desks, that make it feel more peaceful than the rest of the building. The view out the windows is mundane, nothing special; it is a crossroads, a trio of stop signs directing traffic on some busy surface streets in a small neighborhood. There are people walking along, cyclists zooming by, eucalyptus and oak trees swaying and failing to hold onto their leaves. Each moving piece with its own story , I lament, watching from a small study desk in the far corner. Everyone has a story but me , I groan internally. Around me are chairs filled by seemingly concentrated people, and I can’t help but wonder what is plaguing their mind, wonder if it is at all the same for them as it is for me. The person in front of me is taking a child development quiz for school. I’m surprised, mostly because of his age, I suppose, but I am also intrigued. Me too, me too , I think, a part of me wanting to share my love for child development with him. Ask him what he’s taking, what school he’s studying at, or if he needs any help. By the looks of it, he got several of the answers wrong, and is reviewing the correct answers before utilizing his second attempt. The man across from me hasn’t moved; his headphones secure him to his laptop, which I presume is still playing that Youtube video I saw him watching when I walked past him earlier. There’s a young woman behind him, spending more time on her phone than working on her open computer. I saw her outside earlier gossiping and giggling with a friend, and I wonder if that is who is distracting her from the blank open Word document. All of this is my massive distraction from the fact that I am not doing what I came here to do. A thousand words feels like a bazillion. I have several Word documents open, four actually. Three of them are tarnished with about three hundred lazy words endeavoring to become a story, and the other is blank, waiting for me to type out another awful and horrific beginning to nothing. I am listening to autumn jazz, hoping the soothing instrumental will help stimulate my fingers across the keyboard, like it usually does, but today it is only making me yawn. A quote I heard a while ago comes to mind, about how staring at a blank page for hours is the exact thing that makes you a writer. Then, a story about a young girl whose mother asked her if she wanted to be a writer when she grew up, to which the little girl said, “I want to do the thinking part, but not the writing part.” At that, I mentally raise my hand in agreement with the wise youngling. Me too. Part of me thinks I cannot come up with a story because I don’t want to let go, that I am still holding onto the stories I wrote in the last few weeks. They had poured directly out of my heart and soul, and I am scared they will be forgotten, become old news, if I relinquish another. I am scared to leave them behind. Writing something new feels like I am doing just that. Another part of me knows what’s coming next is going to be absolute shit. It kind of happens that way when you’re a writer, an amateur one, anyway. A successful streak is called a streak for a reason. I am tempted to refresh my web browser page again; it’s become a nervous tick. Whenever I am not being productive at the keyboard, I click, click, click, and hope an idea will reveal itself the way a refreshed page is born anew. This time I stop my cursor before the click. It’s been almost two hours of this, starting a story, hating it (but not enough to delete it because... Just in case), clicking on my browser, then opening a new blank document. They say you can convince your brain you’ve had a good night’s sleep, even if you didn’t, and it will improve overall brain function as if you actually did sleep well. I try it: I have a great idea. I am full of ideas. Crickets. Well, not exactly. But really stupid ideas sometimes sound like annoying crickets. I force myself to start with one of them. Get the awful ideas out, and maybe something better will arise. The first story, which is pukingly awful, is about two teenage girls devising a plan to make some boy who wronged them fall in love with one of them so they could break his heart. In the end, the girl falls in love with the guy. It’s an overdone and cliché trope, but it is my life, and I’ve been listening to a lot of Louyah lately, which has made me feel quite romantic. I definitely stop it there at about three hundred and forty four words. I hate myself just a little bit more for even allowing the idea to live past one sentence. Next, I go for the funny. A husband and wife stuck in the back of their daughter’s trunk, somehow having locked themselves inside after spying on her and her new boy friend (emphasis on the space between “boy” and “friend”). The wife and husband banter plays out hilariously in my head. I even consider adding a piece to the puzzle where the two of them try to get a little stoned in the middle of their shenanigans. The whole idea feels like something out of Modern Family , and it makes me giddy. But I spend almost an hour trying to make sense of the plot: how did they get in the back of her trunk without her noticing; how would they get out without keys; car alarms; the parents’ lie to their daughter about where they would be... I can’t make it work in my head. One hundred and seventy four words, and I’m already lost in my own story. I consider writing about God. Ugh. Though not my favorite topic, it’s an easy one since everyone has their own idea about Him, It, whatever. There’s no right or wrong when it comes to God, no answers really need explaining. If God were stuck in the trunk of a car, God could literally do anything about it. I think about God’s followers, and how easy a devoted and brain-washy type character would be fun to write about, especially aside its starkest opponent, an atheist. An LDS man and an atheist walk into a bar... An LDS man and an atheist are the only two who survived the war and now have to protect the architectural plans for God’s new temple... I lose interest before I even compose a first line. My time at the library is almost up and the deadline is tomorrow. I am annoyed with myself for not having a better grasp on this yet, but I try to not beat myself up. Negativity is the death of creativity. I tell myself, I got the wheels rolling, and a break will give my brain the leniency to be free flowing and loopy and silly. All of those things are constructive in writing. I pack up my computer, and make my way to my car. I give my mind permission to think of anything else. Then, of course, as I am sitting in traffic, I manage to actually think about something else - texting my dad back about an upcoming holiday trip wherein which an estranged uncle of mine might attend - when the idea comes to me. I’ll have to research how planes crash... (because obviously I’m going to kill the MC). The beginning paragraph is writing itself in my head, flooding through the gates, and I am infuriated that this is happening now, away from my computer. I try repeating the lines in my head over and over so they aren’t lost in the trade winds of my brain and gone forever. Holidays aren’t my favorite, but I know them. I know the drama, and all its moving parts. That’s a story I could write, I think. It might be a shit idea, but at least now I’ve got a plan.