There once was a sick man, bedridden for life, never to see the great world outside the walls of his room. Even if that was the case, he had found his one talent, he could draw better than anyone else. Considered a great artist, the man took pride in his work, and with reason, as he was really skilled, but he could never draw what he wanted the most, the things that laid outside of his room, so he could only ever make portraits of rich folk and the like. He was used to getting clients each day, many powerful people came to visit just to try and get a chance of having a portrait for themselves. On a fateful day, as he laid on his bed with his eyes closed, the man was visited by a new client, a strange-looking person, the stranger didn't show his face at all, wearing a long coat, white gloves, and brown boots. The weirdest part was that he never spoke a word in the whole painting session, but the only time he did was as he was leaving, and the only words that parted from his mouth were "open your mind so that you may see the truth". Noone understood the man, but after he left, inside of the painting room, the servants found a foto on the ground, it was blank, but just in case they showed it to the master of the home. Not too long had passed since the man had visited, but as the artist laid in his bed, in his mind he found images of the world he had never been able to see before, amazing vistas with great mountains, green plains, dark forests, and many other things. Granted with such opportunity he took his pencil and started to draw these images so that he would never forget them. As the man finished the drawings he realized something, what he was drawing were twisted versions of what he could see in his mind, he tried time and time again to recreate what he saw on his mind to no avail. As he tried to fix the paintings the images started to slip away as if they were returning to where they belonged. And so he was only left with dark and twisted paintings that haunted him every day, he tried to burn them, but instead of turning into ashes, they remained. He sold them, but after one day, not even asking for the money back, they were returned. He could not rid himself of that horrible sight. Each passing day he had to bear the endless torture of having to look at his failures until he snapped, he couldn't stand it. Those horrible failures of his taunted him every day, and so with a pencil, the one he kept on a table beside his bed, he stabbed out his eyes. In pain and agony, the man screamed, his caretakers rushed to his room the moment they heard such horrific screaming. Once they were able to get in they were witness to things only seen in books of horror. An old sickly man, covered in blood with gouged eyes, wailing in his bed; scratching and hitting his head he cried "why won't they disappear?!". Soon after, the artist was dragged out of his room so the people could tend to his injuries, the screams of pain were replaced by deafening laughter. That night the man managed to escape the paintings, but once again the nightmare continued, this time the paintings were in a place he couldn't escape, his mind became the new prison. Not long after the incident, the man now had guards posted in his room, to accompany the man each hour of the day. The people started to become weary and paranoid as he could snap at any moment and harm someone despite being so frail and sick. It took no time for the man to start changing his behavior. His hair turned white, his skin became as pale as the papers he painted, his fingers grew larger and deformed. The weirdest thing was that he started to murmur strange words that no one understood at night. His room used to be well lit with many candles as he needed them to paint, but now that same room is shrouded in darkness. One day the man shut his doors claiming he was going to paint his masterpiece once and for all, he only opened the door to eat whatever his servants brought him. Two months later he was found dead along with every person in his mansion, his body was found beneath a painting, the one he called his "masterpiece". It was a maddening sight, a twisted world where the souls of the damned filled the sky, flesh and bone made the lands and the lakes were made of their blood, in the middle of that chaos you could find him, kneeling before a great figure, big enough to tower the skies. He left a single message behind "Close your eyes and open your mind, let him in so that he can show you the truth of this world and the one beyond, he calls me and I must answer, I finally understood, those paintings weren't a curse, they were a blessing".


This is just a write up of my experience's in addiction centers when I was admitted twice, for four weeks at the age of 17. I've been to youth custody, to adult minimum security, to psych wards several times. All before I was 18. So here is my thoughts and insight I learned or didn't learn. Addiction Centers. My opinion on centers like these is that the people that get admitted, don’t receive proper help when leaving the centers. Again, this goes with my personal belief that having someone secluded from society in one way or another, or an extended period of time can lead to more issues than what you even initially started with. You may have the insight, the group learnings and people trained to support you. At the end, it's all up to you. That's where the flaw is. We desire what we want, not what we need. Pleasure will overcome the state of null-ness that many of the people I met in the centers were. Filled with emotions but could only state out one, or act out with one emotion unless induced by drugs, the feeling of null. The past is persistent more than the present, and the future seems non-existent. We are talking about people who have endured enough problems in their life to never ever think of a future that is worth living. It's truly heartbreaking observing these people at the age they were, 15-50 year old's all under the same broken system bombarding them of being taken away due to being a “danger” to our “precious” society. Regardless people do what they want, or what they don’t; they have that option. The whole idea of locking people up to try and help them just to lead them right out the same door they came in, seems redundant to me. Maybe I'm speaking negatively and naivety. But I lived this, I was there when a dude had a heart attack next to me in a small hallway while he was talking to his mother. He was probably in his late 30s, but looked mid 50s. The next day I see him in the reading room which is usually empty as druggies would rather smoke a pack a day rather than read. I asked him about the heart attack and if he was doing alright, he said “not really an issue at all, happens quite often, i just can’t stop doing meth” I didn’t really say anything after that, and he looked back down at his book pretending I wasn’t even there. Its a scary thought, that someone is so disconnected from the world and his surroundings that even life threatening issues are abound, he’s a bliss with himself. I don’t understand. These people we’re probably the most caring people (at the moment) I’ve ever met, I’ve lived in various cities across southern Ontario and still, it’s hard not to think about who these people would have become if they didn’t experience certain events that lead to where they are now. I hope they’re all doing well. Every meeting someone would bring me a coffee, or a cigarette. Now mind you, I really didn’t like smoking cigs at the time, especially dirty old, hand rolled butts or native cigs. But how absurd and rude of me to not accept something from someone who just wants to feel something. A feeling that helps them realize they are human, either it be trading conversation or coffee, obviously we all connect in a way that most people can’t understand. Maybe they’re lucky for that, I just hope that the people I met in the places I've been, are in a much better place. Either that be heaven or hell, wherever they were then, just wasn’t for them. They couldn’t cope with it. It's not right that this is a common phenomenon within these practices and centers. Yes, to contradict what I’m saying, there are support buddies that can be at your side when you need it, when you crave. But let me remind you, you can lead a horse to water, but it’ll still take a piss in the lake. Morally, this is confusing for the average person who hasn’t endured the experiences that addicts have, in forms of drugs, impulsiveness or even too much coffee. Once an individual clings onto an “object” in the tune of the embodiment, that's where addiction is withheld by its own prisoner, the warden, you. It's really contradicting because we have so many of these centers that actually help people, you see progress, you see the one or two people that have achieved years of sobriety. But yet I still see the same people, time after time, go to the same meetings to only have a few hours sober. Everyone still claps because in the end.. a minute or a second sober is a milestone for an addict. Part of me was childish, because I was a child. 17. Watching these seemingly older and wiser people than I could ever be, but being stuck within the same prison they won’t allow themselves to leave. They have the key, they can get out of the cuffs. But our society doesn’t allow it, actually, more or less, doesn’t accept it. No one wants to see a half naked man on-top of a Tim Hortons screaming “God is mighty! I love spider man!” while being on a 3 day meth binge. I often wondered about their kids. If they did have any, because it seems like it's a common phenomenon that people with low self esteem and confusion in their own lives, at a younger age, with drugs or trauma involved is evident. You’ll see 17-23 year old's with multiple kids, multiple baby-daddies and relying on the government.. I’ve never understood that part, and maybe I never will. How can you bring a child into a prison you’ve created? You didn’t even give him the keys that you keep in your pocket? This is what upsets me the most, when it comes to the addictions of the older generations, is the outcome of the newer generations to come. I witnessed a man with a cyst on his arm, about the size of a golf ball because he kept injecting meth and wasn’t hitting a vein, just created a giant cyst. He had kids too, everyone has a family. The addiction is what drives the individual from their family and closest to them, because even themselves know, they are in a prison in which they created. How do you suppose you get out of this prison? Self help and living day- moment- second every day. The moment you stop doing something, you stop. Simple? Well, that's the case for your coffee addict, or your mother who won't stop buying wall art on Amazon, but for serious drug addictions the only rescuer is the individual himself. It really bothers me because I'm at conflicting thoughts with these types of methods as well. I’m a pure addict, impulsive as can be. I can relate to these people, try and understand, but I can’t hold it to me to empathize. They are their own play dough, they are their own sculpture. Nothing I say or do, will change someone else's addictions. You can move, you can love, you can hide.. you can become homeless. But you’re always an addict.


What can I say- I attract chaos. Do not seek my attention! Do not strive for fame! Do not try to flatter me with acts of vanity and glory! I know myself quite well. I am very brilliant- genius level actually- scored and approved. I see Sunny enter the nightclub, looking around, a smirk on her face. She lowered her new granny-like glasses. From the moment she entered, all eyes were on her. It was another party in New York City. But to her- it was just ANOTHER party in another city. Rome, Paris, L.A.- dah-ling, how boring. She coughed deeply and out spurted a little blood. “Oh- how dare I,” she apologized in that infamous, clipped, British accent. She hadn't even realized her guards were rushing to her. “Ma toux,” she coughed again. "Ma petite toux.” She laughed. “Never mind, guards.” She slowly withdrew her white handkerchief from beneath her short, zebra-print skirt. My God- her skirts were, in fact, getting shorter. The black leather ones had revealed the famous red panties. What color is she wearing tonight, I wondered. I slap myself in anger. I knew she could read minds. “Oh Meaghan," she called, “darling. You over there. Hiyeee. That's my Yankee accent.” She smiled, and the whole crowd laughed. “Yuck. Is everyone laugh-ing at me? Oh- how unfair. I've attracted attention again. How unfair for you, buddy. Oh- God, it was your turn to speak. Oh, wait, it was always your turn. Every time of every day. Oh- my Goddamn, darling, how annoying were you in college?” she winked and smiled. “Because you were- like- really, really annoying. Did you have fun doing that? Did you have fun ruining that person or that experience for me? Well, apparently, it's still happening. You're angry because I am stealing attention from you again.” “DANCERS!” she continued, with disdain. She bit her cheek! She looked exactly how I imagined her to be. Beautiful, thin, and glamorous. “F- you, Sunny,” Meaghan shouted in anger. She was sick of being embarrassed, and upstaged, by her. A far-away look came into Sunny’s eyes, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She was stunned by this young lady's boldness. After all the times she had defended this little girl. How dare she! And then somehow I finally understood. It was all a charade. A big lie. Deception. I, too, had been tricked. Drawn in by the spell. Sunny was full of darkness. “How dare you not tell me you were here, young lady?” she yelled. I tried not to scream with delight. She had noticed me. It was really unfair how much I craved her eyes on me. She seemed so happy to see me too. Must be all that coke she allegedly took. And, somehow, having raised her voice and shouted, she seemed shorter to me. I took a chance. Here was my opportunity to seem bold and reckless, also favored by the gods. “Hey, Sunny,” I yelled. “I'll tell you what, young lady,” she sniffed. She took out some snow from the ring on her index finger and sniffed again. It was all true. “Oh- would you like some? How terribly rude and selfish of me not to ask,” she said to me. I had tried to avoid this. But here I come, Sunny. As I approached, she stepped back. “Don’t you dare, young lady, or else I’ll give you the spanking you deserve. You're better than this.” She paused for a moment, angling her neck. “Alright, kid,” she said, “everyone deserves to have a little fun. Here is some powder for the rest of the night. Just don’t become addicted like Freud. Later, kid, the DJ is playing my song.” She took off in the other direction towards the middle of the club and got up on a table. The DJ was playing a slow and sexy song- one of those Lauryn Hill 90's ballads. It reminded her of her teenage years- years full of angst, depression, and, of course, more parties. Something was wrong with the lights above the table- the bulbs kept flickering. Made it look like she was dancing with special effects. Suddenly, she reached up to adjust the bulb. And the table wobbled. “Careful, sweetheart,” I said, using her favorite term of endearment. I had followed after her and held the table steady. Probably saving her life. “ Oh, thank you, sweetheart, I almost fell,” she said, still looking up. Goddamn it, Sunny thought to herself. Even the table had not been bolted down. She could have toppled and broken her lovely head. This party was in serious danger. But the fact that they were using her security team meant that she had to make sure the job was done perfectly. So she quickly leapt up and saw the loose screws in the lamp. It hadn’t been the bulb at all. “Damn it!” She hated to curse like that. But, this was a safety hazard. She finally stopped moving and stood still. From the bar area, there came a flash. “Did someone just take my picture?” she shouted angrily, “we said NO press.” She waved one of the members of her team over. “Tommy, can you please get me a screwdriver? I have to fix this myself. Someone might get hurt. Unless that is the plan.” Oh shit. Her nose started to bleed. And she took out her handkerchief again and held it to her face, trying to stop the bleeding. After her nose had stopped bleeding, Sunny looked down and asked, “what are you doing here, kid? Wanna’ drink? I’m buying.” Am I awake, I thought. Am I dead yet? She was even more gorgeous up close and smelled like heaven. I wanted to scar her. Maybe a cut just below her right eye. She was too beautiful. “Of course, Sunny,” I replied, “I would love a drink.” As we headed to the bar, she suddenly muttered, “my nose, ouch.” Damn. It was the itch. Again? She started to scratch her pum pum. “Well, I'll be right back, kid. I'll meet you at the bar. Let me just quickly run to the restroom.” And she was gone, disappearing within the crowd into the back of the club. A few moments later, at the bar, she looked deep into my eyes and asked, “do you know who this party is for? It's my ex's engagement party. How cruel of his girl to book my company. They're over there in the VIP section. And I plan to ignore them all night.” “Well, he can't seem to take his eyes off of you,” I yelled above the music. She chuckled. “I know, right? Sucks for her.” She paused, lowered her glasses again, and looking towards the entrance, drawled, “here come the boys.” I followed her gaze and saw a group of Navy men. They looked so handsome and were headed right in our direction. “Hey, Sunny,” said their leader. “We just wanted to ask our favorite girl for a quick dance.” “It’s New York City, darling,” Sunny replied. “Here’s your opportunity. Step up boys- just ask her for a dance. She’s not very intimidating. Here’s your chance. I know you’re excited. Ask her.” “Lady,” a young one said, getting very close to Sunny. “Give you a quarter for a dance.” “Put all your quarters into stock investments.” She gave it back. She actually flipped it. “Here you go, young man. Invest in Spotify today. You’ll thank me tomorrow. Anyway, please, a quarter? How dare you offend me?” She laughed. “Awww- come on. Alright. What’s it really worth to you, boys? I'm not some cheap trick or slut.” “How dare you draw attention away from the bride, young lady?” I said, sarcastically, copying her word choice, adopting her cause, even affecting her accent. I thought that wicked bride. Sunny was right. That's a deadly attack. Quite unfair actually- a sin of commission. Sunny tilted her head back, and that pondering look came over her face again. A reggae song by Shaggy started blasting. She thought for a moment and then said, “Why not boys. Let's upstage the bride. DJ- come down- selector. It's time to dance. Let's go boys!” She let out a quick breath. Flipped up the collar of her jacket and was off. Didn't even say goodbye to me. And here I thought that we had become friends. How dare she then? I looked towards the exit. Time to go. No time to watch Sunny dance. Another job to do. Tonight was going to be a great night, I thought. It was probably all the coke. But I felt good! Here I am, Sunny- I almost yelled after her. I am the youngest assassin ever sent here to kill you. I stepped out of the nightclub. New York City was cold. And with Sunny back it suddenly felt colder. I zipped up my jacket. Sam Cooke's “A Change Is Gonna Come” followed me out into the night. Should I warn her, I thought. I cocked my head to one side and pondered my options. Nah- it seemed like Sunny was prepared for all eventuality. I thought about going back inside the club for one more drink with her. Or maybe a dance with a Navy man. But, instead, I kept walking. True, I had been tempted to complete the mission. To kill, Sunny- the “It-girl” of the NYC. But not many knew that she was the Queen of England's illegitimate, half-Black, granddaughter. And that's the reason I had been commissioned. It was about inheritance. It was always about money. But, then, I thought- even though I would be in trouble- I had to let her live. She was just too beautiful to send to heaven. And, after all, like everybody else, I also had fallen in love with Sunny. I couldn't wait to see her again.


A Point Through Time . The Only Words of Beverly West As recorded by Dr. J. Troyer, PhD Calvinstein Research Hospital, Psychiatric Ward B. . What is a line? Can you describe it to me? A point through time? A line is a point through time? . Here is a book Time is the pages Chapters are ages Flip through and have a look. . What is this dot? Just Flip the pages? Watch it move? . SLAM! <Subject slams his open palm on the floor> . Compress those pages! Delete those ages! What have you got! A line is point moving through ages! . Here is a line! Move it sideways, Now look timeways! A square is a line through time! . Now take that square. And just like so. I see you know. A cube is a square moving through time? . What is time? Is time the dimension which makes a point a line? What separates Cube from Square? That something is just one-thing moved here to there? . Yes of course! Now you have it! But that is just the door; I have more! . If a Cube is a Square, And a square a line, What is a point? What moved through time? . You’ve made the leap! You’ve guessed my game! But it is fuzzy down that small, Like point without choices. . But now go up! If each thing Is some other thing What are you, moving through time? . Oh fuck that! That’s to much! Time plus me is something else? And that plus time is else and such? . Again you’ve done it! Saw my clues! And saw rues! Now see the rest with truth to choose. . This can’t be forever Time upon time and time again . CLAP! <subject “claps” his hands in front of his eyes> . Open your eyes! We are a thing frozen in time! A thing, a thing, a thing open your eyes! . If I am thing frozen in time. Made from dots and points and lines. But time can’t be folded forever: Who is where time runs never? . And wherever one looks Nothing changes. Are we lines or dots? Pages or Books? . But that is our calling! That our trip through time Might not rhyme But would always be enthralling. . What is our picture? What are we painting? Through time, What is our legacy saying? . How depressing. How undressing. This line upon the paper is grown My painting is done and me through time is known . But that can’t be! You have a choice! This or that, King James or James Joyce. Our path through time rings our voice. . But if something is me dragged though time That thing is whole, like this line. The dots have vanished, their futures banished Their choices are plain to see. . So how can it be For the choices of me To be crafted in original time? . Do the choices I make change the maker’s choices Does creation mold divine? . And how would be For the choices I see To be stretched where there is no time? . That at the creation The choices’ formation The now can touch the divine. . No, we are here And it is there Between there is no line. Unless of course we are points, separated by time. .


Upon the evening before the quaint town of Midspire was encased in crystal, Clyde Cohen staggered towards the town's central palace -- strands of his violet hair whisked in a gale spurred on by a sea of the same shade. To say he was running late -- if you were so generous as to call his awkward stumbling a 'run' -- was an understatement, for Clyde's legs had been abused to such an extent that a hollow numbness infesting the limbs prevented him from telling which was which. “*Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn...*” he repeated, trance-like, suddenly halting and gripping over his knees in sharp inhales. As he composed himself, the reedy fifteen-year-old glanced at a towering structure overhead, his dread increasing tenfold on sight of it alone. Well known to the public as the abode of Sir Brinson Of Midspire; the Palace of the Duke of Cohen's hometown. And if he had picked up on anything after inspecting the stout man's many public speeches, it was that he valued punctuality over all else. So, with his wristwatch already confirming he was ten minutes overdue, and plus his senseless lower joints proving still to be only worsening with each step he dared take, Clyde winced upon thought of his prospects. Rubbing frantically across the skin of his thighs -- as though forcibly restoring their stamina by touch -- Clyde spent rapt attention plotting out the most efficient course across the bustling markets to the upper segment of the settlement. None of these devised routes seemed able to feasibly maneuver him in a timely fashion, and yet Clyde couldn't force himself to give up here. He'd already devoted too much just to lose to poor time management. With slight apprehension, he stood broadly, and extended an arm. Allowing his eyelids to droop over his vision, the purple-haired teen reflected on himself inwardly. The motion of his passing blood vessels and encompassing molecules -- their form, overall direction, movement -- all of this he processed as a passive observer, allowed to inspect by a greater force. From an outsider's perspective, this would have all appeared to take place within the same uneasy breath. A sudden bird's cry from above alerted him, and light hit his pupils once more. “Huh, a sandpiper?” Circling above, the bird hovered skywards, and with nought but an idle thought, Clyde commanded the creature to flap down before him. It landed on his wrist, talons carefully hung at an angle as though it were purposefully avoiding harming its master. “How'd you get to the Forgone Isle, little guy?” He inquired with a gentle stroke. “Barchan sandpipers like you should be all the way back in Osiss, not halfway across the Ruptured Seas.” Seeing as the Sandpiper was, well, *a bird*, it obviously didn't respond -- instead glancing away aimlessly in the strange sort of way such creatures always do. Like they're both incredibly stupid, and yet remarkably wise at the same time -- an odd sort of duality. “Well, if you don't mind me controlling you like some evil puppet-master for a moment...” Telepathically willed, it shot away from his reach someplace among the high-reaching clouds and settled. Clyde crossed his aching legs upon the ground -- his ever-more late attendance becoming increasingly worrisome -- and rested both palms upon his lap with closed eyes. Yet again, an intense, practically spiritual connection to the inner workings of his blood flow resonated with Clyde on a deeply fundamental level -- a level of what, exactly, he didn't know. When he next attempted to slide open his eyes a mere second later, it was as though he had to push against some looming force -- like a thin wall he must penetrate. With the methodical ease of someone whom has completed a task endlessly throughout their lifetime, he prevailed. A bird's-eye view expanded far below him, and the harsh whippings of the airflow struck him momentarily off-balance. With a gulp that came out as a strange chirping, Clyde slowly but surely adapted himself to the airborne beast's form. In a quivering of wind, he burst along with the direction of the breeze -- riding it in the same manner a train would upon rails. '*Think, think...*’ he thought mentally, scanning the landscape for any place that may serve as a speedy shortcut to Brinson's domain. '*If I show up half an hour late, not even blood manipulation will save my crippled chances...*’ And then... he found it. Barely contained in the corners of his peripheral vision, a sizeable wheat field expanded someplace between Midspire's trading center and the more wealthy portion in which the Duke's palace sat. Although sprinting wildly through the crop-growing pastures would make Clyde appear quite the fool, and possibly be an even longer distance than the roads themselves, not having to journey through the networking alleys would boost his arrival time majorly. Maybe to the point his shot at persuading Brinson wasn't nonexistent. '*Are the farms private property? Ah, screw it!*’ With a tinge of concentration, he severed his connection to the Sandpiper and immediately began dashing. He'd been resting just long enough for his thighs not to feel like they're about to implode on themselves, but for too little for an echoing pang in his knees to still be very much present. Nevertheless he endured, and after hopping over many fences, a handful of stray sheep, and imprinting the grass' green texture upon his jeans, Clyde was only considerably late instead of alarmingly overdue. Crossing a stone drawbridge, Clyde ceased his approach when a burly guardsmen crossed their arms to reaffirm authority. “What time do you call this, son?” Hailing from the highlands of Strasor, Andreas was a bulky, dark-skinned guardsman serving the Duke personally -- presumably in an attempt to escape the civil unrest of his homeland. Clyde didn't blame him for it; he wouldn't want to stay put in a country on the verge of all-out war either. He glanced to the wayside, his embarrassment plastered over his face like it was forever stuck cringing. “I understand this is completely unacceptable, but-” “Save it.” He interjected in a gruff voice. “Just hand over your ID and be on your way.” At first, the word 'ID' caused tremors of fear to implant seeds of panic within him, but Clyde quickly remembered he'd had the foresight beforehand to bring proper certification. From a rucksack slung across the boy's shoulder haphazardly, Clyde revealed a piece of bland-looking paperwork, and handed it over to the inspecting Andreas. The moving wall of muscle perused its contents silently, before abruptly speaking up. “AB- blood type, huh? You don't see a Possession user everyday,” he looked the boy up and down, taking particular focus on his hair. “Then again, you don't see people like you all that often.” Clyde couldn't help but wince at the comment. The irregular shade of his hair had always been a sensitive topic for him. “Well, back on track, I'm gonna' need you to demonstrate Possession -- should be harmless. Had someone with an Intoxication blood type sneak in the other day and attempt an assasination on the Duke himself. Can't have that happening again.” “What?” Clyde spat, rather rudely. “Do you know how late I already-” “And whose fault is that?” Disgruntled, Clyde grudgingly obliged, commanding the inhabitants of a nearby ant nest to reveal themselves. After Andreas had finished marveling over finally locating the source of the invading pests, Clyde entered. In a walking motion so brisk it only didn't pass for running as doing so within that place would be outright insulting, he traversed a network of mahogany stairways, velvet carpets, and vast dining halls. All in all, he managed to arrive at the Duke's office fairly swiftly -- for someone twenty minutes late, that is. “Sir I must apolo-” Clyde cut himself off at the image that confronted him. Two more guards, much-like Andreas in build, conversed hurriedly with Brinson. By the unnerved expressions donned on them alone, Clyde couldn't help but be overwhelmed by a sense of close, inescapable danger. His pupils turned next to the disturbed thin line that had become Brinson's lips, and it was almost like the tension in the room was manifesting as an engulfing water -- and he was caught up in its tides. He was so enveloped with the trio that for a moment he'd almost neglected taking in the room itself -- the rest of the palace has been lavish, but this place was so filled with riches Clyde wouldn't be surprised if he could purchase a street or two with its valuables and still be left with a hefty sum. “Yes, yes, prepare as you will.” The Duke gestured with a flurry of the hands. “Leave me to my own affairs, for I must think.” As both guards left, exchanging raised eyebrows at Clyde's presence, the teen remained standing gawkily, unsure of what to do with himself. After a minute or so, Brinson finally acknowledged him. “I assume you were the one to send the manservant application... Clyde, is it?” “Yes Sir. I apologise immensely for my lack of punctuality, I understand this is reason enough to outright decline my application.” Clyde gripped his fists for support, wincing slightly. “If there's anything I can do to redeem myself...” Brinson sighed, stood up from his leather armchair, and faced a set of windowpanes at the room's side. He overlooked Midspire with a somber expression. “I would usually take you up on what you said, dismissing you without a second thought.” There was the promise of continuation in the man's tone, so Clyde remained deadly silent. “But with the future foretelling what it does, I cannot refuse extra hands. Pack your things, you can stay in one of our guest rooms for now before I find someplace more permanent.” On the verge of exclaiming in pure glee, Clyde bowed over and over, and over again -- to the point it was almost comical. But the Duke's words continued to unsettle him. Raising his head, he asked rather sheepishly: “Mind me asking, but whatever do you speak of?” Without answering verbally, Brinson lifted a finger at the window. Clyde was surprised to see the Duke was plagued by a brief tremble. But that surprise was nothing next to the exhilaration of emotions that overcame him as he saw what the Duke was truly pointing at. From the vantage point of a view this high up, Clyde could see over the entirety of Midspire, and what he saw beyond his home-town’s border caused him to physically gag. Husks. Thousands of husks. In simpler terms, brainless fiends birthed right from the toxic waters of the Ruptured Seas themselves, acting as witless servants to their long deceased master. Whilst a few of the things were expected every now and then, a town this far inland shouldn't be facing hoards in the *thousands.* “How... how are there so many?” “Look closer.” Biting a quivering lip, Clyde did so. In the center of the crowd, almost too far away to make out, a grey-haired man approached with a sly smile upon his face -- cloak billowing behind him. Brinson grimaced harder at Clyde's horrified expression, pity in his eyes. “We suspect it’s Vargen, White Cell of the Cells Of Igon. I don't know what that organization wants with Midspire, but trust me, you won't want to be out there when they finally arrive.” An intangible frenzy of half-connected thoughts circulated Clyde's mind, none of them fully coherent. “Do the townspeople know?” he inquired desperately. “My guards have just been informed, the populace shall know shortly, but I fear the further reaches of town won't hear in time.” “Don't you have a Possession type on hand to spread the message? Bird flight wouldn't take long.” Brinson chuckled grimly. “I'm afraid that blood type isn't as common as you so believe.” Defeated, Clyde remained silent. The one benefit to being raised in an orphanage, if there were any, is that you never had to worry if your family were in danger -- no matter the circumstances. But even so, could he really allow his chance of helping slide when Midspire had done so much for him? Despite all their wrongdoing, they had raised him without complaint after all... “If you would allow it Sir,” he began gradually. “I myself am a Possession user, so...” Brinson's eyes suddenly widened, hope flaring in his pupils. Dashing behind his patterned desk, the Duke scrambled to write something, before briskly tossing it over to Clyde. “Some of my guards who remain ignorant of our current situation are on post near Midspire's main entrance. Carry this via a bird to them as soon as you can. Back away if things get too dangerous. I have enough blood on my hands already, I don't need to stain them further.” Hastily nodding, Clyde sprinted out of the room -- note in hand. By the time he'd rushed through the entirety of Brinson's palace and finally emerged outside, Clyde's lungs panged in more places than one. He would of just possessed a creature directly from within if possible, but animals tended to avoid the smoke heavy airs above the Duke's domain. He assumed a crouching position for the second time that evening, and as he willed a bird to emerge above, nothingness devoured his field of sight. In bird form he took a wide stretch and- His eyes shot open. Befuddled, Clyde began to wonder what possibly could have caused the abrupt disconnection when he felt a weight in his lap. It was the same bird from only a moment prior, but instead of lively and chirping, a limp carcass. In its motionless beak, Brinson's torn letter fluttered. Numb, it didn't take long for Clyde to notice the shard of violet crystal protruding through the fallen creature’s chest. “What the...” His voice was hoarse, and only whimpers escaped his throat when he saw the surge of purple light bursting across town. No, not light, the reflecting sunlight had tricked him. Rather, this too was crystal. As a fang-like shard of the stuff tore the grass beneath him, thus knocking Clyde swiftly unconscious, his only regret was that he hadn't acted soon enough. Not even he could protect Midspire from its impending destruction.


Once upon a time, there was a man named Henry that married a toaster. Henry didn’t expect to marry a toaster. It all happened when he was dating this woman that had an obsession with avocado toast. Henry didn’t like avocado, toast, and this woman but he was always at her house. One day when he was at her house...again, she was showering and Henry was at the kitchen making cereal. He always came to her house to make breakfast because his old apartment had a doorless microwave, a minifridge, and a broken coffee maker for a kitchen. While making the cereal, he heard a whisper. He turned around. There was the whisper again. He thought someone else was in the apartment, he grabbed a butter knife to see where the whisper came from, and then he heard, “Hey it’s me, the toaster.” He walked up to the toaster and whispered back, “are you talking?” “Yes, dumbass,” replied the toaster. The toaster told him about life as a toaster with this woman. He hated it. It’s every toaster’s worst nightmare. With all the avocado toasts the woman makes, it’s no wonder no toaster lasted more than six months. The toaster didn’t want to have the same fate as the other toasters. The toaster wanted to live with someone that would give it love and not just shove avocado and a slice of bread down its throat. Henry didn’t even question why a toaster was talking. He didn’t even question his sanity to see if this was even real. Maybe the cheap perfume this woman wore was finally getting to his brain. Anyways, without hesitation, he unplugged the toaster and walked out of the apartment. The woman came out of the shower and saw that “her man” and her toaster was gone. In a span of a few months, the toaster dictated Henry’s life. The toaster told him to break up with his girlfriend, told him what to eat, when to eat, what to wear, and when to go to bed. The toaster also boosted his ego by showering him with compliments (or lies) about his intelligence and looks. The toaster was Henry’s mother, leader, master, god, and his asskisser. The toaster brainwashed him. Everywhere he went, he took his toaster with him. He took it to the grocery store, to the mechanic to service his old Ford Focus. He also took it to his mother’s house so he can introduce the toaster to the family. The rest of the family thought he was crazy. They thought his crazy behavior was his way to cope after breaking up with his girlfriend even though that wasn’t true. Their son was just crazy. Henry’s relationship with the toaster escalated when he proposed to it. The toaster cried toaster tears but everyone else rolled their eyes. He knew without the toaster he is nothing. He needed his toaster every day, every hour, and every second. He needed the toaster for affirmation, confirmation, and to boost his ego. He couldn’t part with his toaster, he took it everywhere he went in his apartment. He slept with it -- as in they just share a bed -- he took it to the bathroom to use the potty and he also took it to the living room to watch Sunday night football. He was more dependent on that toaster than he was to his mother when he was a kid even though the toaster didn’t pay any bills. Henry wasn’t the first person, the toaster did this to. That toaster has been married to eight other people before him. What happened to them is a topic for another story but for now even though his family is very close to sending him to the crazyhouse, Henry and his toaster are very happy. \ Originally posted on my Medium profile.


A warm breeze blew down the street, bringing with it the salty smell of the East River. On this overcast and hazy June afternoon, Pearl sat on outdoor patio on the corner for 49th and 2nd Avenue. A bottle of champagne sat tilted and sweating in an ice bucket on her table. The New York Times was spread across the entire table top, its corners flapping in the breeze. This was where you would find Pearl every day, for the last twenty or so years since her husband passed. Every day at lunchtime, she would leave her penthouse apartment--the 23rd floor of a high rise on E48th street, where she had lived for the past sixty four years--and head down a French café called Chez Henri. There, she would demand a table on the sidewalk--if the weather was warm enough--or right by the window. God help the poor soul who happened to take her requested seat before she arrived. Once she was seated, she snapped her fingers and called for the waiter. “*Garcon!*” she shouted. The waiter rolled his eyes to his fellow wait staff and slogged over to her table. “Yes, ma’am. What can I get for you today?” he asked, forcing a smile onto his face. “How could you not know by now?” she snapped. “And hurry, I haven’t got all day.” The waiter, smirked, nodded, then lumbered to the bar to grab a bottle of Veuve Clicquot from the wine cooler. Then he filled a stainless steel bucket with ice and placed the bottle of champagne inside, pushing it just enough so that the ice covered the wide base of the bottle.. Above his head, he grabbed the clean champagne flutes that hung in the dark, empty bar. He carried it out the old woman on the patio under cloudy skies. Pearl smiled with the kind of satisfaction that comes with the ability to manipulate people to her will. The waiter unwrapped the foil from the top of the champagne bottle, loosened the thin metal cage and popped the cork. He didn’t dare speak to Pearl as if she were an equal, he tried to avoid all eye contact. He had learned his lesson. The plop of the cork made a hollow sound that was drowned out by the rustling of leafy tree branches in the wind and the cars and cabs whooshing by and honking their horns on 2nd Avenue. While the waiter opened the bottle, the old woman did not look up from her copy of the Times. Pearl struggled to read the pages as they whipped in the wind. When the champagne flute hit the table and the waiter was about to fill it, she looked up and sneered in disgust. She put her hand up to stop the waiter from pouring. “That glass is filthy,” she said, shoving the glass to the waiter’s face. He could not see anything wrong with the glass, but he apologized anyway. He brought it behind the bar and ran it under some hot water, dried it and brought it back. Pearl smiled that same demeaning smile as she had done before. This time she did not look up as he poured the champagne. She continued reading the newspaper. “Can I get you anything el--” the waiter began. She flicked her hand up as if to toss him away before he could finish, still not looking up from the paper. The waiter left her there. The first fizz of the champagne’s bubbles hit her lips and she suddenly became more relaxed. It was not the alcohol working so quickly, but rather the comfort of routine that calmed her down. The headlines of the day were all about the president and the border wall. She liked the idea of the wall, in principle. *Why should we just let people into the country that will suck us dry? Why should I, Pearl Hoffman, pay my hard-earned money to provide for illegals to get free stuff in my country?* As much as she liked his policies, she did not like the man himself. She knew of him from his days in the New York real estate game. Everyone knew the man’s name, he made sure of that. You couldn’t walk a few blocks in Manhattan without seeing his name, written in huge gold letters, on the side of some gaudy skyscraper. He was boastful, braggadocious and came off like a slime ball who conned his way to the top. His father was very much the same. They had money and name in Manhattan, but they never earned respect. *No, not like my Marty. My Marty was a real gentleman and everything he earned was through hard work and sacrifice.* That is not to say that Pearl really knew what Marty did for a living. He went to his office everyday in Midtown and worked until at least eight o’clock most nights. Sometimes he would even have to stay overnight to get things done. *But whatever he did, he made his living with integrity.* Marty gave Pearl everything he could in life--the finest jewelry from Tiffany’s, clothes from Saks, a beautiful Manhattan penthouse--a penthouse that she still owned and lived in. That penthouse was in a building that was one of the first skyscrapers to go up after the war. *That’s right, the last* real *war. My Marty fought bravely against those Nazis. He practically freed those Jews himself! And he always remained faithful to me when he was over there, even among the beautiful French women. He would write me once a week and he told me how much he missed me. Back then, life was tough--we had to live in Brooklyn--but after he got back from Europe, Marty got a job in Midtown, and a few years later we had this penthouse. Then, I could live like a queen all the time.* *Oh, Morty, he’s been gone for almost twenty years now. I miss him every day. Our children Sarah and Rachel--they never call us. One lives in Los Angeles with her husband who works in the movies. That’s Sarah, she never had children. I don’t agree with that. As a woman, your job is to have children for your husband, and if you don’t, what’s your worth as a woman? This is what we were* made *to do. Anyway, she did not like when I said that, oh, around the time where Marty was really sick. We haven’t spoken since. But she’ll come around, I know it. I know she can’t have children anymore, but one day she’ll call and apologize and come visit her aging mother.* *Rachel has two beautiful sons, but I can’t go near them. Rachel is a lesbian, what would people say? I don’t much like that, personally. I know that’s not great to say these days, but it’s so...unnatural. I’m not religious or anything, I mean, I was raised Presbyterian and converted to Judaism for my dear sweet Marty, but that’s not why I object to her being a lesbian. It’s just not right. I’m sure her girlfriend--or wife, or whatever she is--is a lovely woman, but I could not live with myself, in this society, being proud of having a lesbian daughter. You just don’t do that, I’ll be laughed out of town. I know she made her lifestyle choice just to hurt me. When I told her how I felt, she didn’t like that, and she stopped talking to me. But I know one day she’ll call and apologize to her old dying mother, and my grandchildren will come visit me too.* With one glass of champagne down, Pearl snapped her fingers and called out for the *garcon* again. The waiter came strolling outside as the skies grew darker. Second Avenue was getting quieter as people left their lunch hours and went back to work. *I was not a very strict mother, but I always wanted to be sure that Rachel and Sarah had the right etiquette in high society. Marty and I were really something in New York back in the fifties. That was the last time this city was great. We would rub elbows with the likes of Bogey, Bacall, Hepburn--both of them--Carey Grant, Marilyn Monroe...Marty always made me feel like a movie star. He knew I could have been a movie star, I knew it too, but I did not want to leave New York to move to Hollywood. We stayed and I had children--for Morty--because that’s what a woman does.* *Oh, how I dreamed of being a Hollywood star though. Oh, and I would have been good too. Everyone told me that I had such talent. I tried out for a few Broadway plays, but I could just never put in the time to hone my craft. They told me I was good, and pretty, but I needed to be able to sing for Broadway. And as much as I could carry a tune, I did not have the time to build my vocal chords and learn all the dance steps to all the musical numbers. I could have been great though you know.* Pearl turned to the entertainment section of the newspaper and saw the latest movies that were playing. *I remember when they made that film with Judy Garland. Yes, Judy was a real talent. I don’t know how that Gaga can be so popular, she’s not very pretty. No, not like I was. I was prettier than her, I could have been a star, I just simply did not have the time. There were so many things to do.* Pearl took another sip of her champagne. Her face felt about as warm as the humid summer air that covered Manhattan that day. A single raindrop fell from the sky and plopped on the paper. Fortunately for Pearl, the drop landed in the middle of the articles, which she couldn’t read anyway. Her eyes had failed her over the years, and she could no longer read the newspaper, even with those hideous reading glasses. She would never be caught dead in public wearing reading glasses. When her vision started to fail her, she just kept looking at the paper for the pictures and the large print headlines. Mostly, she just sat and thought about what each image and headline provoked. The taste and the feeling of the champagne was heightened by the fact that Pearl never ate anything when she drank. She had half a grapefruit in the morning with black coffee and that sustained her until dinner time, which her live in chef would fix for her. She did not want to ruin her waistline, just in case Hollywood came calling. No, she didn’t have time to be a movie star back then, but she had all the time in the world now. The taste of the bubbles on her lips and the way the air was heavy and warm brought upon a memory of the night that she caught Vivian Leigh being a little too cozy with Marty in a private room at a party. *Poor Marty was being taken advantage of by Vivian. She was a siren, that one--and a floozy.* Proper ladies don’t fight, but Pearl had to protect her Marty. *So many women were after him, I had to fight them off because he couldn’t.* *That Marty, he was such a sweet, innocent soul. I could understand why all the women were envious of me. I was beautiful and he was rich, powerful and handsome, we were the most envied couple in NewYork in our heyday, I can tell you. New York is a wonderful place, but it used to be much better. There were so many famous and important people here back in the day, and there were always so many people to see and restaurants to go to, and shows to see. It really is the center of the universe. I think it still is, but it’s just not the same as it used to be. The shows have been taken over by the gays and the blacks. The restaurants are all run by Mexicans and Orientals. But isn’t that the whole world now? People have no sense of boundaries any more.* *Back in my day, people used to be dressed to the nines all the time. Today, half the women I see have their boobs hanging or they’re wearing sweatpants outside. When I first saw someone wearing sweatpants outside, it was a mental patient from Bellevue, she had escaped. But she must have set a trend because after a while, lots of people were wearing sweatpants.* Today, Pearl wore a lime green dress, with a thick black belt and her pearl necklace. *Marty got me that necklace in Paris after he beat the snot out of the Nazis.* The rain started to fall harder, and the wind started to pick up, but Pearl was undeterred. “*Garcon!*” she yelled. The waiter dashed outside and she pointed to the awning. The waiter grabbed the pole and rolled out the awning over Pearl’s head, fighting the wind and the rain. Pearl stayed put, she had gotten wet, but she had her ritual and nothing was going to interrupt it. That bottle of champagne, it brought back so many memories. All the good times she had in her life were accompanied with champagne. After Marty proposed, there was champagne. At their wedding day, there was champagne. During their honeymoon in the French Riviera, champagne was all they drank. After she had Sarah and Rachel, she had champagne in the delivery room. In all those parties with the movie stars and other important people, there was champagne. Sometimes there was too much champagne. Like the time she woke up next to a man that wasn’t Marty. *Marty never found out, thankfully, and we moved on with our lives.* *I have always felt guilty about that night though. I had Rachel sometime later. That may explain* *why she is a lesbian.* *When Marty died, that was a hard time. Sarah and Rachel were there, but they didn’t look at me and they didn’t talk to me. I don’t know what I ever did to them. I raised them and they still don’t want to apologize. I don’t understand. I had my friends Hazel and Edie to help me through. We all became widowers and we got together to talk about the good times often and there were always bottles of champagne. And no matter how bad we were feeling about losing our husbands, there was always champagne. I even forgave Edie for the time she took advantage of Marty and made him sleep with her. I think he just felt bad for her. I was much prettier than her, but Morty was such a sweetheart, he just wanted to make her feel pretty. He was always thinking about the feelings of other people. Oh, how I miss that man.* *I miss Hazel and Edith too I suppose. Hazel died about five years ago and Edith has been gone for two. But more champagne for me, I guess.* Pearl looked out on the street watching people run for cover as the rain picked up. She could no longer hear the sounds of the cars on Second Avenue now, only the sound of a million raindrops echoing through the bricked canyons of 49th Street and Second Avenue. She laughed at the people who rushed around covering their heads. She called the waiter over once more, except she was more friendly and more kind. She asked him politely to pour the last of the champagne and to take the bottle away. “The check too, dear, if you please,” she said warmly through frayed vocal chords and weak lungs. He obliged and ran off with the bottle, and the bucket of melting ice. He returned in a moment with the check. Pearl was no longer looking at her newspaper. Instead, she looked around, a euphoric smile fixed to her face. She felt a warm glow around her. Her world was in soft focus, like a dream. She felt like she was there in the halcyon days--a memory, hazy around the edges. She really was something, but she could have been so much more, if she had the time. The check came and Pearl left the waiter a one-dollar tip on a ninety-dollar bottle of wine. He knew that would happen. He drew the short straw that day to serve her. Everyone at Chez Henri knew of Pearl, and none of them wanted to deal with her. She would be difficult, combative and make you bend over backwards for no tip. Nobody knew anything about her, despite the fact that she was there every day. She would not talk to them, she would barely look at them. If they even tried to speak with her, she growled something snippy back at them, or just ignored them. The wait staff cheered when she left her seat and walked--hunched over with her cane keeping her steady--back to her building. The rain let up by the dinner rush, and the waiter made one of his best nights in a year. He and his wife had been saving up to buy a condo and they were so close. A night like this one really helped him. After his shift was over, he took the 6 train to his apartment in the Bronx where his three children rushed to the door to greet him. “Hey, guys, shouldn’t you be in bed?” he said. “Oh, they really missed you today, Daddy,” his wife said, coming up behind them. “And it’s not a school night so I let them stay up.” The smell of garlic and onions and cumin filled the air in the small flat. “I got some rice for you on the stove, I’ll heat you up a plate.” “That would be great,” he said with a smile. He told her how much money he made that night and they smiled about how close they were to getting that down payment for the condo. He ate the rice and filled up until he wanted to sleep. His children kissed him before they went to bed. Back in Midtown, Pearl had a meal she would not remember, prepared by her live-in chef. She looked through her mail for a letter, but there was nothing addressed to her except for magazine subscription renewals, bills and a social security check. She checked her answering machine, but there were no messages for her. *Oh well, the weekend is here. Somebody might call me tomorrow.


Sylvia starts talking immediately. “Hey Nathan, I’m just calling to say ‘hey’, I guess.” Nathan clears his throat, it feels unnaturally tight. He tries to dig a finger between his neck and the starched collar. “Hi, Sylvia.” She sighs on the other end, collecting her thoughts. It almost undoes him. The tinny tone of her voice is faint and he knows she is in the car, using Bluetooth. He can tell her windows are open, the wind competing with her words. She’s driving back to her campus after the fall break, after the mini-reunion with all of their hometown friends. “I don’t really know why I’m doing this, I guess I just wanted to hear your voice. I...I miss you. Not just as my friend, you will always be my friend, I miss you . You weren’t yourself at dinner last night.” “Sylvia I...” He doesn’t know what to say. He has always deflected Sylvia’s probing into his well-being, kept things light. Even now, after everything, he doesn’t know what to say. The pause stretches, he almost hangs up. “I know, I know. College changes people. It was more than that though. You seemed so deeply sad. I mean, you laughed at the right times and asked the right questions, but something seemed...I don’t know, off.” “I know. It is. I don’t know how to feel better. Not without you.” Nathan’s eyes start to burn. Despite the authenticity of his feelings, the honesty of his words, he still feels shame at the tears and glances around the train car. An elderly woman is sitting across from him and is staring at him with something that looks dangerously close to sympathy. She gives him a small smile full of creased skin and he looks away, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. His mother had insisted he carry tissues, You never know. He wishes he had listened, regardless of his childish claim that he never cries. “Nathan, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this on the phone, I’m just worried. I hope you know I will always be here for you. I guess that’s all I’m trying to say.” Nathan’s stomach clenches and he suddenly feels as though he might be sick all over his dress shoes. The acidic taste of bile floods his mouth and he struggles not to hurl. He runs a hand through his hair, breathing deeply in through his nose, out through his mouth. If she meant it she would actually be here, not just saying empty words through his phone speaker. He hates her in this moment. “You’re a liar. You are a LIAR!” He slams his fist into the empty plastic chair next to him. The elderly woman is startled and her sympathy transforms into a look of fear tinged with disapproval. She snatches up her plastic grocery bags and shuffles further down the car, choosing a seat near a sleepy-looking mother gently rocking a screaming child. Nathan pinches the bridge of his nose and drops his head between his knees, the feeling of nausea growing stronger now accompanied with embarrassment at his outburst. He should hang up, he knows he should stop this. He presses his phone harder to his ear, wanting to hear every word, every moment. “I mean it, I do-Oh-” The line explodes with noise and then goes dead. Nathan drops his hand and slides the phone into his jacket pocket. He feels exhausted, spent. The wave of nausea slowly begins to dissipate. His stop is next. He sits up and straightens his tie. Smooths back his hair. The train shudders to a halt and half his car exits, he trails behind. The mother has set her child in a stroller and is heading toward the strip mall down the street. A couple side-step Nathan to enter the car holding hands. A man almost collides with him, chatting furiously away on what is clearly a work call. It all feels unreal to Nathan, people merely play-acting at real life because the world has so obviously ended. He can see the spire of the church looming over the surrounding buildings. He is going to be late, but he can’t face it, can’t admit the finality of it. He pulls his phone out again and sits on a bench in the train terminal. He dials his voicemail again. He’s lost count of how many times he has listened to the message since the day Sylvia left it for him, the day she... “Hey Nathan, I’m just calling to say ‘hey’, I guess.” “I miss you, Sylvia. So much.” “I don’t really know why I’m doing this, I guess I just wanted to hear your voice. I...I miss you. Not just as my friend, you will always be my friend, I miss you . You weren’t yourself at dinner last night.” “I can’t do this without you. It’s too hard.” “I know, I know. College changes people. It was more than that though. You seemed so deeply sad. I mean, you laughed at the right times and asked the right questions, but something seemed...I don’t know, off.” “I hate school. I am failing all my classes. It isn’t like high school with you by my side, helping me through it all, supporting me. I am just so sad all the time and now...now without you-” “Nathan, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this on the phone, I’m just worried. I hope you know I will always be here for you. I guess that’s all I’m trying to say.” “I know, you were. You always were.” “I mean it, I do-Oh-” That small gasp, more a question than an exclamation. A moment of utter confusion as her life is stolen away in a twisting of metal and rubber. Nathan sobs as the explosion of the crash quickly followed by absolute silence assaults his ears. The church bells begin to ring. He is late to her funeral, but he can’t do it, he can’t look at the sad wooden box trying to contain the vibrant life of Sylvia. He can’t face her distraught family armed only with the awkward verbiage afforded to those offering condolences. He can’t sit with their other friends all able to function in the face of their grief. He dials his voicemail again. “Hey Nathan, I’m just calling to say ‘hey’, I guess.”


The Vidal Sassoon killer is not a story of a simple killer. On the contrary, this is the story of an artist, a visionary, and a person who understands beauty more than all of the Renaissance artists put together. Oh, the person is a complete psychopath, but the brief moment when you don't realize someone is dead is like a gift for your eyeballs. The Vidal Sassoon killer struck first when roadkill was discovered on the side of the road, with a messy two-tone bob and superb use of hair dye and sculpting mousse. Drivers would stop and stare in awe as they passed by the roadkill. "I never had unnatural feelings for roadkill before, until today," one passerby was reported in the local newspaper as saying. When a ferret was discovered dead with a new, intriguing take on the bob in the early 1990s, the Vidal Sassoon killer upped his notoriety. A young Jennifer Aniston passed by the dead ferret and couldn't take her gaze away from the ferret's gorgeous locks. The next month, Jennifer Aniston got a role on the hit television show "Friends," and this haircut became known as "the Rachel." It wasn't until the year 2000 that the Vidal Sassoon killer finally escalated to human corpses. The police never confirmed whether the Vidal Sassoon killer was ever present at the site when Betty Connors, 84, died of natural causes. Nevertheless, the style was exquisite, using chunky highlights with colored extensions layered in what would become the hairstyle of the early 2000s. Only the Vidal Sassoon killer could make the dead look this gorgeous. According to Betty's obituary, "Betty had no style nor grace her entire life, but in the end, she was a work of art. When she died, it was the best she ever looked." A few years later, Sandra Tattersall died in a car accident after hitting a tree in the middle of the night. Who would come along just 10 minutes later? The Vidal Sassoon killer, that's right. This time, they would take some risks and use dreadlocks to accentuate her face. Even though her face had been crushed by the steering wheel, you couldn't deny that her hair was stunning. The "period of the dreadlock" began in the following years. Celebrities, teenagers, pot-smoking uncles, and Labrador Retrievers all began wearing their hair in dreadlocks. Over the next 10 years, the Vidal Sassoon killer would be killing it... at the salon. The dip dye ombre', the beachy waves look, and even the more casual half-up bun we're all stumbled upon at funerals. When Greg Mitchell fell off a roof while trying to fix a leak in 2013, the Vidal Sassoon killer went to work on what became known as "the return of the ponytail." While Greg Mitchell was on display, a young pop singer named Ariana Grande drove by his house. It wasn't revolutionary by any means, but it was just absolutely beautiful. For the rest of the decade, her ponytail would be her signature style. Many in the industry would bow to the Vidal Sassoon killer by 2015. A stylist in Los Angeles went on the record to say that if the Vidal Sassoon killer came into her salon tomorrow, not only would she not turn them in, but she would let them style her hair. It was late in 2018, and the Vidal Sassoon killer had not struck for quite some time. Late one night, there was a call that came in that a homicide had taken place. The police arrived on the scene and spotted a person in the shadows creating what they would be called a masterpiece. It was called the shag cut. Not only did it inspire celebrities such as Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift, Billie Eilish, and Lizzo, but the police refused to relocate the body, leaving it on display for two weeks until removing it due to the smell. Everything, however, would come crashing down in 2022. Ethel Lancer had died of a heart attack in the cardiac ward of New York-Presbyterian Hospital. The nurses had closed the door to her room for mere minutes, but it only took the Vidal Sassoon killer a few seconds to complete their next piece. It was an attempt to resurrect the beehive, but it failed. One nurse threw up in her mouth a little bit at the thought of wearing a beehive. The industry pounced on the Vidal Sassoon killer. "The Vidal Sassoon killer is a monster!" was a popular headline. "You've lost your mind, the beehive!" "Vidal Sassoon? More Fantastic Sams; when will the police arrest this person?" According to sources close to the case, the Vidal Sassoon killer may have hung up the scissors, dipped that comb in the blue water for the final time, and turned off the light in that mirror for good. The story of the Vidal Sassoon killer was one of beauty and horror, of art and spectacle. It was a story of a person who had been driven to the brink by their obsession with creating something beautiful, no matter the cost. However, I don't think The Vidal Sassoon Killer ever killed anyone. The works of art were performed on people who had already died. Is it a crime, then, to style the hair of a dead person against the will of their loved ones? Oh yeah, it's totally a crime; if caught, the Vidal Sassoon killer would serve major time.


MANY PEOPLE BELIEVE THAT MIRRORS REFLECT BACK OUR INNER SELVES. To some extent, they’re not wrong. There was so much blood. So much blood, and none of it my own. Well, save for the gashes on my arms from both my would-be victim’s nails and from the shards of glass blanketing the floor around us. The woman on the floor stared back at me, wide-eyed. She edged backward, the glass slivers chinking against one another as she shoved them aside in her haste. In another world, the sound might not have been unpleasant, reminiscent of the sound made when making a toast at a friendly get-together, or party. This situation, however, could not have been more dissimilar. “H-how did you do that?” She glanced fearfully beyond me to the now-empty sliding closet door; all that remained was the wire frame, bent from the impact. I took a step towards the woman, arm outstretched; an offer to help or a barrier to slow her progress, I wasn’t sure. “No!” She shrieked; her movements increasingly frantic in her attempts to put distance between us. “Get away from me!” “I’m not here to hurt you!” I protested, my arm dropping even as I did so, somehow knowing deep down that my situation was hopeless. She -a stranger to me- looked worse off than I, deep cuts across her torso that had torn through her sequined, halter top dress. Tears streamed down through her heavy makeup, smudging the kohl that lined her eyes. My -no, his - blood was caked under her nails, painted plum to compliment her dress. As a side note, I hadn’t known cuts could hurt so damn bad. The deeper ones throbbed, while the shallower nicks stung, as though I’d poured lemon juice into a papercut. It was somehow both exhilarating and terrifying, all at once. And the fact that it was exhilarating was terrifying too. I knew now why he enjoyed this so much, and I hated it. Sirens yelped outside. Time seemed frozen as I stared back into unfamiliar eyes. Harsh lights, red and blue, spun into the room, casting sinister shadows through the blinds onto our faces and the floor, akin to prison bars. A voice squawked outside, loud and robust over the speakers from the police cruiser. “Marcus Danbury! Come out with your hands behind your head!” Only then did I even realize that I still clutched a switchblade, the fingers of my left hand curled around the knife tightly. No wonder the woman was panicked. She had no reason to believe I wasn’t the same man who had stood in front of her only moments prior, ready to kill and filled with the thrill of the hunt. I threw it away from myself, heart pounding loudly in my ears. I’d left crescent moons in the palm of my hand which now bled freely along with the cuts on my arms. The feeling of being trapped was subtly creeping back in. Adrenaline still surged through my veins, and I searched for escape, throwing myself into action. Through no effort of my own, I’d broken free of my prison at last. By no means on this earth was I going to allow myself to be dragged into another, shackled for another man’s crimes. I moved like I was running through molasses, my legs seeming to catch every edge of furniture, my fingers feeling numb with disuse as I fumbled with door handles. The woman didn’t budge another inch as she watched my crazed behavior. “Marcus Danbury,” the voice came again after there’d been no response on my end. I froze again to listen. “You are wanted for the murder of Alexis Cole, Michael Smith, and Melissa Roberts. Drop any weapons you have and come out with your hands behind your head, or we will be coming in after you.” I decided then that I hated the name “Marcus” too. But, perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s rewind back to the beginning. My name is Marcus Danbury. I am an echo. A reflection. Some might even go so far as to call me a doppelganger. The former words have a more pleasant connotation, implying that I am merely part of what is already in existence. Doppelgangers, however, are often associated with evil, like being the bad one out of a set of identical twins. There are many stories about doppelgangers and their origins. Only one is true. Doppelgangers exist in what I like to refer to as the “mirror-realm.” We walk the same path as our alternate selves, forever doomed to an empty, silent space like that of an asylum’s padded room. Unlike the doppelgangers in stories told around the campfire, we are unable to act on our impulses, and our desires, left alone instead to our thoughts and our loneliness. Whether we wish to take our opposite’s place or not doesn’t matter, for we are trapped, for all eternity. The only time where this differs is when our counterparts encounter a mirror. Mirrors allow us a glimpse into the real world. We can hear and see what our counter sees, “meet” other people, and dream of a life outside. My dreams, like many others, involved escape. I wanted to take real Marcus’ place, though, not only for myself. He was a terrible man, a murderer, and I felt a burning need to prevent any further harm done by him. For so long, I had watched him hurt others, with his words, and his actions, unable to do anything to stop it. Then, today came my chance. I watched -not for the first time- as Marcus backed into the hotel room, his newest conquest in tow. She pulled at his clothes, and mine wrinkled in the places she grasped, though I could not feel the warmth of her hand. Marcus’ hand was twisted up in her shoulder-length hair, his lips crushed hard to hers as though breathing her in. But I could see the glimmer of light that hit the metal of his switchblade, could feel his malicious intent. I tried to shout, tried to do anything to alert the woman, but could only watch, helplessly underpowered, as he turned his back to the mirror and raised his knife. Maybe it was the hiss of the blade, or she’d opened her eyes to see the reflection behind him, but the woman gasped and pulled away in time to avoid the disastrous trajectory. During the fight that ensued, she clawed at Marcus and he slashed back, both parties breathing heavily as they fought for the upper hand. Then, with a mighty shove -they say adrenaline can often help you accomplish feats you otherwise could not achieve-, the woman shoved Marcus into the mirror. I mean, literally. I couldn’t tell you how it happened, only that, one moment, I was in the mirror-realm, cheering the woman on, and the next, I had replaced my counter, the mirror shattered behind me. And now you’re all caught up. “Is there a back door?” I whirled on the woman, dark hair falling into my eyes. “A-a back door? In the Lexington? We’re... in a hotel room.” She stammered in confusion, as though I might have lost my faculties. That left either the main door to the room or the window, both of which were likely covered. Still, I figured the window was my best bet of the two. Halfway to it, I realized I had a hostage. I knew that I would never hurt the girl, but the police needn’t know the same. “I’m really sorry about this,” I apologized sincerely, moving swiftly to cross the room. Shrieking again as I grabbed her roughly by the arm, I pulled the woman so that her back was flush against me, retrieving the knife from where it had skittered under the bed. As I bent to scoop the weapon, I saw myself reflected in the mirror shards. I knew what many did not, however. It was not really me that showed in the reflection, but the real Marcus. Somehow, I could feel the burning ire in his gaze, though it varied not from my own in appearance. Still, I stood quickly, not daring to look again. The blade pressed against her throat, the girl could do little more than whimper now as I lifted the blinds and pushed the window open. As I’d expected, the police waited in the parking lot beyond. I had not expected to be on the second floor, overlooking the pool area, which was enclosed by a white vinyl privacy fence. A maid, drawn by the sound of the sirens, was at the end of the fence, peeking around the corner to watch, her laundry cart left abandoned outside the fence. Shouting to be heard, I called out to the officers. “Go around to the front of the building and stay there, or I kill the girl!” Geez, I felt guilty even insinuating I would do it. “Release the girl and come out peaceably, Marcus. You don’t want this to get out of hand.” The officer, a middle-aged man with a stereotypical handlebar mustache, responded, holding the receiver for his cruiser’s speaker. “Don’t pretend to understand what I want!” I answered, unintentionally giving them the impression of the unhinged murderer that they expected in my desperation to be free. “Do as I ask, and I’ll release her!” The officers talked amongst themselves a minute, but must have deemed me serious enough. “We’re going now. Release the girl.” True to their word, the police locked their vehicles and circled the building, at least far enough that they were out of sight. I had no doubt in my mind that they were ready to rush back in and nab me the minute I emerged, but I had no better ideas. “Go.” I whispered as I released the girl, again dropping the switchblade to the side. Needing no convincing, the girl rushed out of the room as I mounted the windowsill and jumped, wasting no time. If I wasted even a moment to consider my actions more carefully, I worried I’d lose my nerve. The pressure and chill of the water was nearly crushing, but I clawed my way to the surface and then free of the pool, splashing like a half-drowned dog. Already I could hear the officers returning, their sounds of pursuit like thunder. I leapt the gate, making a split-second decision as I saw the maid had followed the officers in all their intrigue. The clothes around and atop me began soaking up the moisture from my skin, and I felt the maid begin wheeling me away from the pool area, likely instructed to get away and resume work by a harried policeman. As soon as I heard the crowd of officers round the bend to investigate the pool, the gate squealing shut behind them, I vaulted free of the hamper, earning a shriek from the maid who’d wheeled me past. “Sorry!” I hissed loudly, breaking into a run. I found Marcus’ motorcycle easily, and jumped astride it, turning over the engine. The man had left his keys in the ignition. ”Cocky bastard.” I thought as I roared free of the parking lot. Hearing shouts behind me, I knew the police would not be far behind, and I revved the engine, picking up speed rapidly. I knew I needed somewhere safe to hide out till things cooled down some. Somewhere to shower, change, and find a less conspicuous ride. Luckily, it was easy to get lost in a city like New York. Perhaps it was because I’d subconsciously walked and ridden the way so many times in the mirror-realm, but, that, pieced together with the snippets I’d caught from passing reflections in glass buildings and windows, helped me pick my way through the streets, ending up at the door of Kowel house, an apartment building on Manhattan Avenue. Pulling my bike into the alley next to the building, I saw a small planter underneath the first-floor window. During the cooler months of winter, someone had put a cover over the greenery, protecting it from the harsh frost that accompanied the dawn. Sending out another silent apology, I borrowed the cover, -revealing tiny blue flower buds- tossing it over my motorcycle. My feet carried me the rest of the way to the intercom at the front of the building. A voice came over the speaker, and my heart panged painfully at the sound. “Hello?” I cleared my throat. “Hey, Lindsey. C-can I come up?” There was a beat of silence, and then I heard the telltale buzz of the front door. Taking advantage of her momentary weakness, I found my way in and up to her room, lifting my fist to knock. I didn’t even get that far before the door cracked open, though I quickly noted how she had not removed the chain to let it open fully. “What do you want, Marcus?” She hissed; blue eyes narrowed as she regarded me with distaste. They widened in surprise as she took in my appearance. I imagined I looked like death warmed over. The ride had dried most of my clothing, but the front of my shirt was still damp, I smelled like dirty laundry, and my arms were still sliced like ribbons, my hair shaggy. More than anything else, I hated what Marcus had done to Lindsey. She had been his only real love in this world. The only thing he’d regretted losing. And like him, I too had developed real feelings for Lindsey. From the bits and pieces of life, the snippets I’d gathered, I was able to see that Lindsey was genuine. Kind. A bright light in comparison to Marcus’ dark soul. Maybe she’d thought she’d be able to change him, once upon a time. But when she’d glimpsed his real self, the part he’d tried to keep hidden from her, she’d backed off, running as far as she could have -emotionally anyways- like the smart girl she was. “I know you want nothing to do with me, Lindsey, but I need your help.” I pleaded. Something about my tone, or my appearance, must have convinced her of my desperation, because she conceded, closing the door long enough to remove the lock and allow me entry. “What is going on?” She demanded, her brunette ponytail falling over one shoulder as she re-locked the door behind me. I fell into her kitchen chair, slumped with relief. “I reflected on who I was as a person and I’m making some changes,” I joked, recognizing the irony of my word choice. “I mean it, Marcus, I want answers, now. Do you know that the cops are looking for you? Your face is plastered all over the 6o’clock news! I’m crazy for even letting you in here!” “Malcus,” I decided. It was a small thing, but it was my first step towards independence, changing my name even by that one letter. “What?” Lindsey hesitated, breaking her tirade as she heard me. I stood again, careful to keep distance between us as I watched her shrink back. That hurt me, to know she feared me. “I know this will be hard for you to understand, but I’m not the same Marcus you knew. I don’t just mean that I’ve changed. I mean that I’m literally not him. You have to believe me... Please. But I have the same feelings for you that I believe you have for me, and I want to be with you.” I added as a side thought, “anywhere but here.” Lindsey, a no-nonsense person, was listening very carefully, clearly torn between tossing me out and hearing what I had to say. Her curiosity won out. “You have five minutes to explain what the hell you’re talking about.” I explained for what seemed hours, even drawing doodles to help her understand, though I realized afterward that my stick people were awful silly looking and did little to assist, more a fidget for my hands as I worked out nervous energy. Finally, I realized I needed to stop, and leave the rest up to her. She was silent for a time, staring at me curiously. “You drew those with your left hand.” That was all she had to say? After everything? “Yeah?” Then it dawned on me. Marcus was right-handed. Miraculously, Lindsey believed me. My sudden left-handedness, coupled with other definitive differences, helped to convince her. My tattoo of a wolf having switched shoulders, cowlick on the opposite side of my head, phone which showed all the characters backwards -a fun discovery which rendered the device more or less useless-, and my general attitude all contributing factors. We spent the next several hours in preparation. Thankfully, it turned out that she had as much desire to be with a good version of myself as I did her. Lindsey packed, I showered and changed into some clothing my counter had left behind, and she let me nap while she made sandwiches for the road and packed the car. She’d taken the first shift driving also, only switching with me when we’d stopped to refuel in Philadelphia. Lindsey’s head bobbed in her sleep as the sun rose behind us. It brought the hope of a new day, of new beginnings and possibilities. I had sworn to do better by Lindsey, to not become what Marcus had, and to lead a better life. I wanted nothing more than to get the chance to live my own life, and I wanted nothing to do with the path he’d carved. Looking in the rearview mirror, Marcus’ dark eyes gazed back into mine. I turned the mirror away from myself, focusing on the road ahead. She might have taken what I said at face value, but I knew Lindsey still was working to fully understand everything. I wondered how I would convince her that we needed to find a home with no mirrors?