This is my first post of my writing. Feedback, good or bad, is appreciated. Enjoy. Dr Howard Corbin Dr Corbin was eating dinner with his new wife and her ingrate son. Chicken, 3 months of marriage and they had chicken 32 times. His child bride, Sheila, was 23 years his junior. He used to love chicken. His mother would wring its neck and bleed it out Sunday after church. He would watch it die, discretely. He was fascinated by that instant when the certainty of one's death is accepted. As a young man, in the triage tent on the "front line" of Vietnam conflict, he used to work with an erection. Not a raging one. It would just waggle in his boxers and rub against his thigh. He was a demigod, choosing who would receive grace through his over skilled hands and who was not worth the effort. He had met Sheila 8 years after his first wife left him. He hasn't done anything wrong. You aren't the man I married his ex would scream, every fucking fight. Of course I'm not, we got married 22 years ago. "I" grew up. She would slam the door of the house she had wanted, he had paid for, get into the sl500, slam the door on the car he bought her. Then drive to the bar and would buy her drinks on his amex. Maybe after a bad fight she would take a bar fly to a motel near the airport paid again with his credit card. Sheila had been introduced at a dull dinner a friend had thrown. She had walked in just as soup was put on the table. It was a magical moment. He had just put a large forkful of salad in his mouth. A rivulet of dressing slid down from the corner of his mouth unheeded. To say she was striking would be ungenerous. Mrs Sheila Corbin Sheila was born in Cambodia in 1974. She always thinks of it as being sold into slavery. In reality she was adopted shortly after her birth because most of her family had been killed, Her mother dying during Sheila's birth. She was fortunate to be "purchased" by a kind english family. She was fed and schooled with the other children by the rest of the house staff. She was released from service to attend college and never looked back to Asia, there was nothing there for her. She came to university of Maryland on a partial scholarship. The boys went crazy for her, Asian with a clipped British accent. She took lovers. They gave her things. Beautiful things. She donated them to churches, she was not a whore paid in jewelry. In her junior year she was dating a poly sci major. He was going places, he had interned in a senator's office. On Saturday night after an epic party they went back to his swanky apartment. They made beautiful love and Ryan. She didn't hate the baby, just resented him. He represented a door that had closed for her. She barely finished school while raising an infant. The poly sci major slowly pulled away after she told him that it was immoral to have an abortion. He sent her a $3,000 check after the birth. What the hell was $3,000 for and how did he decide on that number? She cashed it, only because she needed the money. She was 29 when she met Dr. Corbin, Ryan was 9. She loved him almost instantly. She had tried, on her own and through therapy to find out why. He was old and white so he seemed so much older. White men after 50, yuck. They are falling apart from the roof to the basement. He is kind and a doctor, if there had been a doctor at her birth at least her mother would be alive and she could have stayed with her family in Asia. That was the best answer she could come up with. So much kinder and serene than those self proclaimed spiritual men. 9 out of 9 times what you saw is what you got from Howard. One therapist said it was transference, never knowing her own father, I desire to have an intimate relationship with him. At the end of the session she invited her to coffee, on the pretext of talking about the therapy. She politely told her no and that she would be cancelling the rest of her appointments. The Corbins The doctor, as she always thought of him, had swept her off her tiny feet. They sat drinking brandy in the library, after the dinner party, until their friend, almost physically, kicked them out. They went across Martinsburg to the waffle house that was barely open. It was 3am and the Beaver Dam strip club hadn't swept its citizen debris to this side of the street yet. They talked, they laughed, his honesty drove her to truth. Her pat story of her childhood unraveled until the thread of history lay bare between them. Of course the "truth" is not a complete factual reenactment, but the omission of the all the lies. They had finished their pecan pie and drinking the dirty water, represented as coffee on the menu. Three sirens walked in. Their clothes unsuited for the November night. A down vest over a white tank top over nothing. Yoga pants and ugg boots. Was it the uniform of strippers going home? They ordered quickly, the young man behind the counter was shy but his desire radiated off him like a neon sign. The girls flirted, probably without realizing it. After they made their orders, and the man's night, they sat in the back giggling and waiting for the numbers to be called. A pair of street toughs walked in loudly. Without making eye contact with the boy behind the counter they turned to the booths. They had already cased the joint. Walking by the doctor and Sheila, the black one looked in the dr's eyes, puts a hand with bloodied knuckles on his shoulder and says nice pull grampa. They sit with the girls, boxing them in. Used to being in control of their interactions with the "clients", one of them start berating them. The Dr can't see what is happening past the high backed booths but he does see the kid behind the counter move down the bar and reach for an invisible shotgun. Howard, the dr, excused himself from Sheila. He walked over to the table that the 5 of them sat. What do you want old timer asked the scrawny white one. Just making sure these ladies were enjoying your company Howard replied. He casually drew back the right side of his sport coat revealing the pearl handle of the Colt .45 he had carried with him since he moved to WV. The gun was his sidearm from Vietnam. The handles a gift from his father for returning safely from fixing the boys when they got shot up in the war. One of the girls felt the temperature drop and almost knock the black teen on his ass pushing her way out of the booth. Your order is ready said the counter boy, the girls went to collect the greasy bags. The toughs retreated giving Howard a hard look. Helena gave him a kiss on the cheek on her way past.


Once upon a time, there was a man who hated everyone. he wasn't always this way - growing up, he actually tried to befriend most people. However, as time went on, and the more he learned about the world, he became more and more cynical about humanity. Having been born right before the turn of the millenium, he grew up during a time of rapid technological change. So fast, that it made more sense to continuously reject social norms since by the time one had become comfortable with them, new ones had replaced them already.  His hatred for humanity stemmed from ignorance - all around him, it seemed like those in his wealthy nation were solely concerned about making money and avoiding all forms of pain. These people were just absolutely horrid people - nouveau rich that could not be bothered to do anything but desperately seek out attention for being the best little boys and girls in the world. Whether it was having a high paying job or being seen at the trendiest restaurants or having the most prestigious educational pedigree, these yuppies wanted nothing more than to be validated - even if it meant hurting those around them. Living in their plush, luxurious bubbles, they had no time or interest to expend on others. When it came to history or philosophy or spirituality, they were poor as can be when it came to understanding and empathizing with the billions of other humans and animals that had the unfortunate misfortune of having to share a planet with these insufferable narcissists.  Over time, the man became more and more cynical about these people. They had constantly let him down as he learned the ways that they lied and tricked people to get their way. There were even people who would feign interest in humanitarian causes just to superficially look good to get what they wanted, but when real sacrifices were needed, they would vanish. The lengths that people seemed to go for self-enrichment was truly abhorrent, and it seemed like there was no end in sight to the growth of such malignant social cancer in society.  There were bright sides to recognizing such degeneracy and vulgarity. The deeper that the man's cynicality went, the greater his appreciation for those that exemplified grace and dignity. What shocked this man the most was the observation that it was the people that society seemed to reject and denigrate the most who actually displayed the highest levels of consciousness for their fellow conscience. Whereas the depraved were plastered over billboards and celebrated in all forms of media, the untouchables always seemed to exhibit a genuine compassion and love for those lucky enough to be in their lives despite being invisible.  The man supposed that had he never had the abhorrent experiences with these covert barbarians, he never would have come to the realization of who the real champions of humanity were. It is said that experience is the best teacher, and this man was exceptionally well taught. Maybe that's all life is, the man thought to himself - a continuous cycle of disappointments that simultaneously flung you deeper into the pits of misanthropy while further exalting the holiness of those whose actions provided the hope to keep going anyways.


I know it sounds silly, I know it sounds stupid and you are probably wondering, "Man, what the fuck is wrong with you?" But you HAVE to listen to my side of the story. So, please make judgements after you hear what I say. I have been not been able to sleep for four nights now and my blood is rushing so hard and fast through my veins, my heart is beating so rapidly that I feel like if I don't explain myself to anyone, I would do something terrible again. So, here I am, writing this down to a bunch of complete strangers, to let this burden off my chest and to also gain some advice to help myself out. So, I have been an avid anime fan since I was a literal child. Anime gives me a sense of reality, like there's a 2D world out there, much more fun, happy and pleasant to be in. Ofcourse I am not talking about the thriller/horror animes because then there wouldn't be much difference between my fantasy reality and real reality. Why? Because even my mother killed my whole family (unfortunately I turned out to be alive) and that would make for a great horror storyline. Growing up, I got bullied for multiple reasons. Be it my mother being a murderer, or for being poor, or for having a feminine voice, or even a short and skeleton-y body etc. But the thing which hurt me the most was when they targeted my anime loving self. They told me I was a 'fucking weirdo' for getting happiness from a bunch of 2D characters, that I was just like my mother who was detached from reality. My low self esteem never allowed me to fight back. Instead, I quit watching anime. Maybe, I was weird, maybe I would turn into my mother later. So, I kept quiet and tried to endure everything as much as possible. Tried to get good marks, a good job and just live my life in peace and solitude. Everything was going good until I met my girlfriend six months ago. She was a beautiful woman, someone that I definitely don't deserve. Always felt inferior, always felt like she would leave me one day but she took away all my worries. The most humble, pure soul I have ever met. So needless to say, I was in a happy relationship for quite some time. Until, she started behaving in a really weird manner. Everything about her...seemed peculiar. The way she would stop speaking mid sentence and just stare at me with a blank face and a flimsy, dreamy smile reaching her ears and then abruptly go back to speaking really irked me. The way she would stare wide eyed at the ceiling at night and then snap her head at my direction scared me. The way her arms would tightly wrap themselves around my chest to the point I almost couldn't breath... terrified me. But I was scared to lose her. After a long time, I had found happiness. And maybe it were just a bunch of weird habits she had. Who knows? So, I overlooked those. And the stress from constantly ignoring something that was making me uncomfortable made me start something I had left a long time ago i.e watching anime. In retrospect, it was where all the hell broke loose. The first anime which I had started watching after a long time had eerie similarities with my life. My girlfriend started acting more weird. I started getting nightmares about my mom killing me. I couldn't work properly so I got fired. And I got super emotionally invested in that anime. Every night I felt unsafe sleeping beside my girlfriend. I would feel her nails across my chest, scratching my chest so hard that blood would splatter across the bedsheet. I felt like something was seriously wrong with her and if I don't do something, she would do the job which my mom had failed to do. But as I said, I was a coward. So, I kept watching the anime and the similarity of the plot line to my life of the anime shook me to my core. The lines between reality and fiction blurred. I felt like I was the boy on the screen, anxious and terrified that his girlfriend was going to kill him. It was as if the anime was showing my future. One night, my girlfriend sat beside me. She had the same hollow smile on her face and her black beady eyes stared at the screen of my laptop. "Babe, are you watching an anime?" She asked, digging her eyes into mine. "Yes." I nodded, trying to keep my eyes away from hers and glued to my screen. "You said you wouldn't watch these things ever again." "Yes, but I am stressed out and I need an outlet." I responded. "This anime is boring anyways." She smirked, her eyes filled with pure malice. "The girlfriend kills him." My heart dropped, my hands growing cold. I slowly turned my head towards her and the look in her eyes, send chills down my spine. So cold, so unlike the woman I fell in love with. I saw her hands behind her back, slowly coming to the front and towards me. A metallic glint. I had to react fast. So I grabbed my laptop and repeatedly bashed her head till her head was nothing but chunks of fleshes and bones on the ground. But for some weird reason, while I was smashing her head, her screams sounded absolutely terrified. Probably, I even heard her say, "Babe! Why are you doing this? What is wrong with you?" But I had to. So I killed her and hid her rest of the body under my bed. But the most peculiar thing out of all is that, when I searched for the second season of the anime, nothing came up. In fact, the anime doesn't even exist. Right now I am very confused. I need help. How do I get my girlfriend's rotting body to stop smelling so bad? I can't sleep because of the pungent smell filling up the air. No matter what I do, it doesn't go away. I wonder what my mom had done with her murderous shenanigans. Or wait, what I had done in the past, to blame the murders on my mother. How did I do it? I can't remember. I just remember that nobody questioned it for some reason, like why did my mother suddenly disappear after the murders? Why was I all bloody or the only one alive when my mother had killed eveyone in the room? Or why I was constantly referring to knowing the future because I had seen an anime telling me about my mom's murders? I don't know. As I said, anime is reality for me. So I hope you understand my point of view and why I had to do what I had to. For now, my girlfriend's dead body is kept beside my mom's dead body, under my bed and I hope I get rid of her rotten dead smell too, just like I had done with my mother's dead body, years ago.


“I shoved through the overcrowded and noisy halls, trying to get to my classroom in time so that I would not receive detention. The acute edge of a locker jabbed into my ribs as I tried to avoid a teacher who was still waiting for my essay. But bad luck leered at me every corner I turned. “Mr. Smith,” a harsh voice called me out, “Mr. Smith, where is your essay. It is a week overdue.” A group of people jeered at me as I tried to dodge a half eaten sandwich. “Uh, I have it, I just need to get it from my locker,” I lied. The tall figure seemed dissatisfied but he let me go, disappointment clear in his dark gaze as he watched me fight my way to my History class. The class was eerily silent as I waited at my tattered and worn desk. I wouldn’t call it mine. It was temporary. Our school had this rule, if the teacher was not there within 15 minutes into the class, we were permitted to leave to hang out outside. The awkward air and painfully bright lights pierced the mood of waiting. Now would be a good time to finish that essay. Pulling out a brand new composition notebook, I clicked a pen and started writing. But my words did not form an essay on “The Structure of Life” as I had been instructed. It formed a diary entry. Dear Diary, I am procrastinating. Did you know that procrastinators procrastinate because they have so many things to do that their brains can not focus on just one thing? I have this essay I am supposed to turn in. Sincerely, Jerry As soon as I signed my name in cursive, I immediately regretted my entry. I felt like such a girl, to be writing in a diary, let alone writing in cursive. I watched protectively as the ink sank into the lined papers. Dear Jerry, I know how you feel. I have felt that for all my life. I always think that i have so much to do and I can not decide how or when to do it. It’s alright. Just start with a flow map or if you are feeling extra daring, the introductory paragraph. Dear Diary, Thank you for your advice, I really needed it. Right now we are heading outside because Mr. Freeman did not show up to teach us. I am kind of disappointed because we were supposed to learn about the Great Schism or something like that. But I would never admit it to anyone because people would call me a nerd. Sincerely, Jerry Dear Jerry, Yes, the Great Schism is very interesting. Don’t worry about being called a nerd, information is always useful. Tell me about yourself? Dear Diary, My name is Jerry Smith. I am in eighth grade. My favourite color is dark green but when I told this to my younger sister she said that green was too sickly and murky. My younger sister is ten years old and she is obsessed with penguins. I absolutely love spending time drifting into the wonders of a book but I don’t think I should read a lot, people would think I am too introverted. I want to dye my hair but people would think I was depressed. There are so many things I want to tell you. Sincerely, Jerry Dear Jerry, I love the color green, it reminds me of nature and the outdoors. Reading is my favourite thing to do also. You can dye your hair, don’t care what others may think of you. Dear Diary, I love playing on the playground. I don’t know why there isn’t any play structure in middle school. I hate sports and exercise but I can not say that to anyone. I want to join the theatre club but I would be the only boy there and I don’t want to take that risk. I want to take art but my parents will not allow me to drop Spanish. I love watching cliche romantic comedies but I pretend to like horror and action films. I probably should really be starting on my essay- Sincerely, Jerry Dear Jerry, Playgrounds are cool, middle school is not. Theatre club sounds like fun, take a shot (Cue the Hamilton Music), and although Spanish is useful, if art is your truest passion, you should join. What is your favourite cliche romantic comedy? Dear Diary, I love the movie “Flipped”, I think it is exciting and also funny. You should watch it. There is always the classic, “The Princess Bride”, but I think that if I were to truly choose it would be “Flipped”. I like listening to Broadway productions. I like the extra tinge of dramaticness and reality in the songs. My mother took me to see an off broadway production of “Thoroughly Modern Millie” and I made the mistake of singing a tune on the bus. I like reading “The Phantom Tollbooth”, I think it has a new approach on figures of speech and I am blown away by the creativity. Sincerely, Your friend Jerry I knew that my diary was one hundred percent reliable and would respond to me no matter what. I knew that my diary would not judge my opinions and what I like. I knew that my diary would always agree with me. But I was not aware that my diary was me.” “Mr. Jerry Smith you have been subjected to twelve months in a mental asylum for claiming that your 99 cents composition notebook wrote back to you and told you to attempt to murder the principal of your school. Expert psychologists and detective’s have confirmed that you were indeed writing back to yourself and listening to your own young and stupid advice.” The law faced the psychotic and schizophrenic maniac like a concrete dam. People would whisper and make fun of his younger sister for years. Jerry Smith’s younger sister. The one who’s older brother imagined he was talking to a diary when he really was writing back to himself. And Jerry Smith would endure the worst. He was the one who had truly been so crazed that he would write to himself. He was the one who attempted to stab sweet and caring Principal Sanders to the death claiming his diary told him to. But he was his diary.


Old fishermen rowed their boats along the quiet banks of the river; which ran through the center of the small village, giving life to the rocky valley. The northern mountain hovered over the quaint village, protecting it from the outside world. Large pines resided along the edge of the rocky mountain, covering the small river and the town along it. A child, his feet bare and muddy, walked along the river watching the fishermen pull in the small fish by net. He soaked in the little sunlight peering through the shady trees, his toes feeling the earth beneath him connecting him with it. He felt the mountain speaking to him, whispering the secrets of the world. His mind filled with the stories of people who he will never meet. The river treaded along beside the curious boy, until, the mountain became silent. The child’s head only filled with the soft touch of flowing water on his ankles. The boy stopped his morning routine and stood still, waiting for another story, even a simple whisper to come. He decided to walk up the bank of the river to the dirt path, few people were out on the streets that morning. It was early, the sun just rose a while before, and the fishermen had just set along for their day. The child sauntered toward the northern mountain hoping for a quiet word from the earth beneath him. The village began to fall behind him as he trudged toward the mountain and out of the town. He walked beside old pastures with rolling hills, that begin to be planted along the mountain edge. The child stopped at the mountains path and listened. He only felt soft wind in the air. The boy began to climb the rocky terrain, his feet blistering from the hot stones on the path. He pushed forward to find something, the boy hadn’t a clue what he was looking for exactly, just something he could call an answer. The boy by noon day stopped at a ledge on the mountain. He could see his entire village, tiny in comparison to the mountain he stood on. He sat to cool his feet, overlooking the town below him. He thought of the mysteries that may hide in the world outside of his small town. “You’re quite young to be a traveler.” A voice from behind startled the boy, he turned and saw an old monk walking from the forest. The boy didn’t say anything, he was surprised to see someone as old as the man was on the mountain. The monk sat beside the young child, his robe green as the pine needles, and brown lace like the earth. The two sat silent for a few minutes, the child could see the monk breathing slowly, taking in the scents of the mountain. “I was surprised you were able to hear me,” said the old monk, the boy wasn’t too surprised. “My voice is soft, and my old age seems to have an effect on it, my words seem to trail off with the wind sometimes.” The child looked back at the village below, he just wanted something to listen to at the moment. “I used to live in the town, I would listen to the fishermen row with the river, and the laughter of the people was beautiful. I would love to just sit back and listen, taking in what I could, the melodies of the town I once knew.” The monk reminisced in gleeful nostalgia. The child was quite jealous, he wished he could hear the town as the old monk. The village seemed quiet to the boy, not much laughter and smiles anymore. “I know the town has become quite silent over the past years. Old traditions become tiresome; the people get caught up in their daily lives until the only sound left is the mountain whispering her secrets.” The monk preached, the boy looked at the old man, happy that the monk heard the mountain too, nobody he knew could hear the mountain. Although the man did surprise the boy, he seemed mysterious and quite obviously was a powerful saint. “Though you know what doesn’t seem to ever change?” the monk asked. “the mountains beauty, it always is a sight to be seen.” The boy looked up, realizing he had been missing the grand picture all along. There was always something to be found in the quiet. The beauty shines through the mountain even when the times change. When the town is silent the mountain is still there to protect us and show the beauty of life that’s worth living. “I can tell you’ve found your answer young child,” the monk said turning to the boy, the child now realizing the monk was blind in both eyes. “Remember, even when there is nothing to hear, there is always something to see, even when you’re as blind as me, or as deaf as you my boy.” The boy stood and signed his ‘thank you’ to the wise old monk, realizing he was the one whispering the mountain’s old stories to him. The child began his trek back to his village, ready to find its silent beauty again.


Warning: Contains death and descriptions of corpses. Tommy was always an ill-tempered boy. He was as stubborn and angry as a wasp swarm. It’s easy to see why. He had to fight so hard to survive. He worked like a man before he had ten years to his name. Worse yet, his nickname was his only other. He was so young when his parents died, he couldn’t remember their last name. The Master Sweep may have known, but he didn’t give Tommy the privilege. Like many young boys with impoverished parents or none at all, Tommy cleaned chimneys. Tommy sometimes wondered who was worse off, the orphans or those who had been sold by their own parents. Some of them were as young as three. Most were around six. They relied on the Master Sweep for employment, food, and clothing. Called apprentices, the Master had full control. The sold ones had papers declaring the Master their legal guardian. They couldn’t escape until adulthood, though most wouldn’t make it that far. This lead to Tommy’s anger. A child with the rage of a grown man. It had been a routine day at work. Tommy went down a chimney expecting to emerge once it was clean. Now, Tommy was small for his age. That’s how he made it as long as he did. Many boys were left to starve once they got too big. Well, starve more. That was the day he was just a bit too big. He was stuck. Like many other climbing boys, he was stuck. In the dark and soot. His was born in the dirt and never got the chance to get out. He died in there. He lost the fight. But Tommy was stubborn. Stubborn and angry as a wasp swarm. And now, just as violent. He was no longer bound by his malnourished child body. Now, he’d show everyone what his malevolent mind could do. Tommy’s Master Sweep woke up in the night to the sound of coughing. He didn’t feel alarmed right away. He’d soon have good reason to be. He smelled soot, and heard a growl. One of the last sounds he’d ever hear. He went missing for a while. But they found him. A piece or two at a time. He was stuffed up chimneys of regular customers all over the city. The wider parts, like pelvis and torso, were found in the ovens. If a grown man could fit up a chimney, this story wouldn’t have happened. The head? Grand opening. I said he was missing, but I never said they thought he was alive. His head was found outside his house, coals shoved in where the eyes would be. It’s likely he was alive during dismemberment. I can’t recall where his eyes were, but I think I’ve conveyed the violence enough. Tommy wasn’t finished. Master Sweeps all over began turning up...all over. Authorities tried to stop it somehow, following the obvious pattern, but you can’t catch a ghost. They predicted the pattern correctly, but they were powerless to do anything about it. As powerless as young Tommy had been while alive. But he was contained nearly a year after death. My boss’s predecessor realized what was going on. Many ghosts come from that time and place, but our Malevolent Orphan was especially interesting to him. There was so much raw power. He used his expertise to capture The Malevolent Orphan, and brought him here. To the Dusk Museum. None of the ghosts have free reign, though some have more than others. Tommy has many restrictions, due to his volatile nature. Also because he’s a rare free roaming ghost, moving himself where he pleases. He’s very rude, but hasn’t tried to kill anyone here in years. Nowadays, he mostly stays in his area and insults people. Still hating the world. We give him things to do, but he doesn’t always cooperate. He does enjoy describing the things he’s done to people. I find it curious, that a child could have such a hatred for the world. A malevolence typically seen in jaded adults. But that’s what we gave, here at the Dusk Museum. It’s what we live for. We take pride in our displays. Thank you for your interest.


“I think we need to talk”, Max said. I stared at him momentarily, then shook my head in disbelief. “I need some sleep”, I muttered to myself. Clearly the lack of sleep from the last few nights was starting to take its toll on me. I rubbed my eyes, stood up, and started towards my bedroom. “Can I come?” Max asked. I didn’t even turn around this time, I knew it was my tired brain playing tricks on me. He followed me, even though I didn’t answer him. I brushed my teeth and got changed, by the time I got to bed Max was already snuggled down. I thought no more about it and went to bed, asleep before my head even hit the pillow. I woke up the next morning as I always do, to the sound of the dogs tail wagging in the doorway. I felt relaxed and rejuvenated. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table as I hauled myself upright. Eleven hours sleep! I must have needed that. I stretched myself out and got up, the dog getting more and more excited with each movement towards his breakfast. “Wee-wees first?” I asked him. “Yes please”, he replied. I stopped walking and stared at him. He stared at me. I was dumbfounded. Was I still asleep? Was this a dream? It must be...dogs can’t talk! “Sorry,” he said, “I know this is a bit strange for you, but I really do need a wee. Can you open the door, please?” “Erm, yeah...sorry,” I managed to stutter out, as my body switched to autopilot and opened the back door for him. As I stood watching my boy in the back garden, my mind was in overdrive. ‘This cannot be happening’, I thought to myself, ‘dogs can’t talk. Max is thirteen now, he’s getting on in years...if he’s been able to speak all this time why has he chosen to start now?’ I caught myself on this last question and shook my head. ‘HE CAN’T TALK’, I told myself firmly. I couldn’t explain it. I must be losing my mind. My thoughts were interrupted then by Max calling through the door, “can you let me back in, please?” Again, my body was doing it before I’d had a chance to think about it. Max trotted into the kitchen and looked expectantly at his bowl. I wasn’t keeping up with my half of the morning routine. I grabbed his kibble from the cupboard and poured a cup into his bowl. “You and I need words after breakfast”, I said to him as I placed the bowl on the ground. He plunged himself towards the dog food as if he hadn’t been fed in years. ‘At least some things don’t change’ I thought, then strangely ‘he didn’t say thankyou’. I made myself a cup of tea and watched the dog wolfing down his kibble. Once finished he moved his head immediately to the water bowl. He then sat on his haunches and looked at me, water and saliva dribbling from his greying muzzle. “Well,” he said, “I suppose we had better talk about this.” I stared for a moment, my brain unable to comprehend how my dog was talking to me in a human voice. A friendly sounding voice. Very different to the voice I’d imagined for him over the years. “How long have you been able to speak?” I asked him, wondering to myself if I was talking to a hallucination. “Since yesterday morning,” he replied, looking a little sheepish, “I don’t know how or why it happened. I tried to bark at that stinky ginger cat from across the road, but instead...I just said ‘bark’. It was a bit embarrassing really, I’m sure that cat was laughing at me!” Despite the utter confusion and bewilderment I was feeling, I laughed. I sat on the floor in front of him and kissed his nose, as I had been doing for nearly thirteen years. “My poor baby,” I said with a smile, “I’ll get the cat with the hose later”. He leaned forward and rested his head on my shoulder. “You’re the best” he breathed into my ear, which unfortunately wafted towards my face... “OH MY GOD!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands to my face, “I’m sorry to ruin the moment, but you’ve got devil's breath!!” “Oh, thanks very much,” he replied huffily, starting to stand up. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I claimed, although it was hard to hide my smile. I’ve always wanted to be able to chat to my dog, I might as well try and enjoy this. We chatted all morning. It was the most wonderful, but strangest morning of my life. Finally getting to ask my best friend all the things I’ve ever wanted to know about him, his favourite flavour of kibble, where he likes to go for a walk the most, and why he always growls at that one particular postman. Max asked me all the things he wanted to know. We talked about all our favourite memories. It was incredible finally getting to share all these things with my best friend. After talking for a few hours Max announced that he was tired and plodded off to my room for a nap. I went to make myself another cup of tea and began to process my thoughts. I had just spent the morning engaged in conversation with my four legged friend. I suddenly wondered if this was happening elsewhere. Were other dogs able to talk, or was it just Max? I abandoned my cup of tea, half made, and stalked over to my desk and opened my laptop. Surely if this was happening elsewhere someone would have posted it online by now? I opened facebook first, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. I tried twitter next, nothing there either. Nothing on any of the news pages I checked either. I was beginning to doubt myself again. Maybe I shouldn’t have shrugged this off. Then it clicked. I had wished for this. I had forgotten, because I say the words “I wish” an innumerable amount of times everyday. The memory seemed to slip back into place as I glanced towards my most recently finished painting. I had been working on it when I made my wish. I have a habit of talking while I paint. I don’t know why, but I always have. Usually to inanimate objects or animals, but I will talk to a person in a pinch. I had been talking to Max while I worked as I often did, but for some reason this time I wanted a conversation rather than just a one sided monologue. So there I was, painting and talking away and I just so happened to say “I wish you’d answer me once in a while”. I didn’t even think about it, I just said it. I’ve said “I wish” so many times in my life, why did this one come true? I shook my head to clear it. I considered my options, either I was going mad or I had had a wish granted. I pushed my fingers into my temples and allowed my hands to take the weight of my head for a moment. “Doesn’t believing it was a wish make me mad anyway?” I asked myself, out loud. Max padded back into the living room then and sat down in the doorway. I looked up as I heard the click of his nails on the wooden floor. I looked hard at him. He looked back at me silently for a long time. ‘Did I imagine it all?’ I asked myself. “What are you doing?” He asked me. ‘Guess not,’ I thought. “Seeing if I could find any explanation for this”, I answered, gesturing towards him. “Look, I lied before,” he answered, walking towards me. He sat by my knee and put his head in my lap, looking up at me with somber brown eyes. “I do know why I can talk,” he continued, “it started yesterday morning and it will end this evening.” “But why?” I asked him, stroking his greying face. “I made a wish that you could understand me,” he explained, “apparently you made the same wish at the same time, so it came true.” I gaped at him stupidly. “It’s a shame we didn’t both wish to win the lottery,” I joked. Who would have thought it? An offhand wish in amongst the many I make every day got granted because my dog made the same wish. No one would have thought it. I must be going mad. ‘Who cares,’ I decided once and for all, ‘if I am going mad and this is the only symptom, then who cares! If it gets worse, I’ll see my GP.’ With that decided I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders. “Walkies?” I asked the dog, he jumped up and ran to the door, tail wagging so fast I thought he might take off. I spent the rest of the day chatting away to my dog. After my decision to accept that Max and I could talk today, I felt much better. He told me he was going to stop talking this evening anyway, so if it continued after that I would worry. I had decided to enjoy my Sunday. After taking Max for a run around his favourite woods we returned home and shared some lunch. He was overjoyed that I allowed him to have some chicken, thanking me through the mouthfuls. He then had a kip whilst I began a new painting, which I became lost in for hours. Noticing the time, I realised we had both missed dinner, it was nearly ten o’clock! I wandered into the kitchen thinking about what to have. I opened a tin of what I now knew was Max’s favourite flavour chum, and plopped it into his bowl. I placed the bowl on the floor and called him in, surprised he hadn’t come running at the sound of the tin opening. Even now, he didn’t come running. He plodded slowly in with his head hung low and his tail between his legs. “What’s up, pup?” I asked him. He looked at me and whined. “What's the matter?” I inquired again. He barked, looking at me morosely. Then it clicked. He wasn’t answering me, he was barking at me. “It’s gone?” I asked, knowing the answer. He barked again. I sat on the floor and allowed him to come and sit on my lap. I kissed him on the nose and stroked his ears. “It’s alright”, I told him, “eat your dinner.” I kissed his head and stood up, suddenly feeling drained. I decided to skip dinner and began getting ready for bed. Once again, by the time I wandered from the bathroom to the bedroom, Max was already snuggled up on my bed. I climbed in beside him and kissed him on the nose. “Goodnight pup,” I muttered as I drifted off to sleep, wishing once more that he could answer me. Just for one more day....


Wasn't a sunny day, but being new to Missoula I didn't reckon on snow in September nor all the queer goings-on which happened next. The menfolk rode out early that day- everybody was still spooked by the killing of Mister Custer last June. A few ladies stopped by earlier, but since about two, nobody wanted to go out with the all dark clouds. I have all the groceries, the early apples and late cabbages, set to go back in the cellar, when a terrible howl commences outside and snowflakes, fat as the end of your thumb, start falling everywhere. I rush three baskets to the lift what Eli, the town blacksmith, installed afore I got here. I work the chains and levers to send them all down where they'll be safe from freezing. I'm just set to go down and settle them in when I hear a little wail from behind the row of dresses we got shipped in last week. I rummage around and, lickety-split, spot a basket with a bundle wrapped in it. Don't take no college boy to figure this is a baby what somebody done left here for me to raise. Only, when I check the baby, it looks like it must be some sort of monkey, as hairy as it is. Not so much the face, but its arms, chest, and legs all got a kind of fur, soft like goose down. And the little boy has peed himself. After raising six younger siblings, I know how to do this, but... As soon as I git a makeshift, but dry, diaper on the little fellow, he starts bawling louder than afore. Change, feed, spit up, then start over again. Pattern I know better than Colt knows revolvers. I pry open a can of condensed milk and git some in a cup. He won't take a spoon, so I have to soak the milk in a bit of cloth, then dribble it into his mouth. His skin is red enough he can't be more than a week or two old, and he's small to boot. He might be early, or his ma might have been a midget or some such like you see at a traveling show. Or maybe he's one of them before history people, seeing as how he's got that fur. But he got a good grip in his fingers and he likes his milk. After his feeding, he settles right down and I git back to the work of settling in for a snowstorm in September. Bout the time I'm finished down in the cellar, bell rings and I hurry up to see who in tarnation would be out in this sort of weather. I don't see nobody and am set to git back to work, when I spot the basket is empty. Ain't no way, no how, that baby got outta that basket and out the door on his own self. Body had to help him somewhat. I grab a coat, the basket, box of shells and a Winchester. Ain't no sense going out without all three. Putting shells in ain't easy with a basket slung over my arm, but I got to git going. I step out onto the boardwalk and the cold slaps me in the face. Beaumont weren't never like this. Nobody on the street, least ways so far as I can see. Snow's falling heavy like rain afore a hurricane. I look down and spot a place what's filling in where a body dragged something along the walkway. Can't make out no boot tracks, but that trail's the only thing I got, so I follow along like a calf after its mamma. Bout the time I reach the bank, I finish loading the shells and slip the box into my pocket. the trail rounds the corner into an alley leading back and I aim to go after whoever took the baby. Something growls, low like a wolf, making me lever a round into the chamber. I go round the corner with the barrel leading. Only ain't nothing there but the baby, crawling through the snow like it ain't cold nor nothing. I go to grab him up and he looks at me with his big pale blue eyes and I stop, staring in wonderment. I put the basket beside him and say, "Git on in, if you're so all fired sure of yourself." He crawls in and burrows into the blankets. I lift the basket and something is sure as sugar wrong. It weights too much, then I figure that I got the Winchester too, so it adds as much as a small baby, sort of doubling the weight. I make it back to the store and Mrs. Jackson is standing inside tapping her foot. She's an old busybody. Thinks she owns everything. She's part-ways right, seeing as her husband owns the sawmill and is on the right side of comfortable. "Sorry to keep you waiting, just had to step out for a moment. How can I help you?" "Miss Boyle, do you know how long I have been waiting?" "I was out for about ten minutes. So I reckon it's no more than that." "Would your brother care for your attitude?" She waves around the room. "Your store is entirely too cold." "I agree, but I ain't got let to put coal in the stove." I aim to make her decide I'm too stupid to know what she means so she'll git down to business. "I came her today-" Baby lets out a squall would do a locomotive proud. I look Mrs. Jackson straight in the eye. "I heard a baby crying and went to save it from the storm. Seemed the Christian thing to do. Reckon I need to feed it now." "How do you propose to do that?" "We got canned milk." I want to punch her to git her to shut her big bazoo. She don't never stop jawing. The baby bawls some more and the basket is getting a mite heavy, so I set it on the counter. His face pops up and looks like it belongs to an infant not a newborn. "Mama," he says. He's looking at me, reaching out with his hands, the chestnut fur on his arms visible for anybody looking. "He seems a bit mature for canned milk." Mrs. Jackson lifts her nose. "Indeed, his hirsute nature indicates he may not be human. Is he a red savage?" Low growl from the baby startles us both, but I'm quicker on the wiggle. I point to the door. "You can take yourself out and that's your attitude. This is the onliest dry goods and greengrocer in Missoula. So hobble your lip or light a shuck." She leaves in a right huff and I turn to the baby. He's sitting there, just staring at me, but he cain't be the baby I found earlier. 'Cept he cain't be nobody else neither. Can he? I check his mouth and he's just at the edge of teething. I grab some canned applesauce from the shelf and open it. He's big and hungry enough that he eats the whole kit and kaboodle afore I know it. Once he's done, I check his diaper, which is awful snug but not wet or nothing. Maybe I recollect it wrong. Maybe he was red from being cold and warmed up in the blankets. Or might have been the wet diaper. That gits kids riled faster than a hornet on a frog's back. Fussing and crying makes everybody red. Ain't no other thing it could be. All them folks talk of spiritualism is just grasping at straws. Good Lord knows what he intends and it ain't we should put our faith in some sort of hexes or magics. To try and warm the store up, I pull the shutters closed and light the Franklin stove. The Lucifers don't want to strike, I go through seven afore I git one going, but the kindling lights right quick and sets the wood to blazing. I don't aim to chase after the boy again, so I keep his basket beside me the whole time. He's all tuckered after his escapade, so he settles in and sleeps like he ought. It starts to get cheery until Mister Jackson roars in like a herd of cattle. "Damnation Mabel. What did you do to rile my misses so bad?" "Saved the boy there instead of waiting on her like she was the queen of England." I'm in no mood for Jebediah Jackson's nattering. "She went and called him some sort of Indian and him with eyes blue as the summer sky." Mr. Jackson ruffled the boy's hair with his hand. Lucky that the boy had gone under the swaddling again or the fur would have give it away. "Seems a normal enough child to me." "I ain't one to soft solder doings." I want him out, but he ain't leaving so I reckon I got to give him both barrels. "I calculate she was mostly riled on account I wasn't taking none of her guff." "She does have a temper." He pulls out a list. "I'd sooner bend an elbow, but I got to have this." I take the list and add the costs in my head. "That'll set you back a fair margin." "I'm good for it." He put a twenty dollar double eagle on the counter. "Add in a jug or three of hard cider to round out the cost. I don't fancy toting a pocket of loose dinero around." I git everything in order, and by then the snow is thick as ticks on a hound dog. Mister Jackson hoists the entire box, including a flitch of bacon, a sack of flour, and two jugs of Mrs. Boone's best hard cider. He staggers a mite and I help to git the door open, then, so soon as he clears the lintel, shut and bar it. I turn back to check the basket and the baby has disappeared. Again. "I am consarned if I can guess where all you might have got to this time." I'm so flustered I'm talking to the Good Lord, hoping he'll send me a sign. Then I know what I got to do, but applesauce is getting expensive. I decide I can search until I either find him, or he starts to bawling and makes it easy. I go over every foot of the store like I'm a scout tracking hostile Sioux. I'm stating to git riled when I hear him knocking into somewhat in the back storage area. I hike my skirt and run in, where I find he's trying to climb up for a big jar of hard candy, the sort as sells at three sticks a penny. I dash over and, before either falls, grab him then the jar. He's too heavy. I can't hold him with one hand. I know he wasn't more'n five pounds to start, but he must be thirty now. A toddler, like to be near two, but still with that tight diaper, the cloth ripping on account of his size. And he still got fur over most of his body. He latches onto me like a burr, wrapping his hands around my arm. "I don't know what all you are, but you ain't a human baby." The words are just out when the back door opens. I feel the burst of cold air but don't hear nothing. My hackles rise, warning of danger, but the Winchester is out front. I turn, slow as molasses, and find an old native woman wearing a Cheyenne leather dress covered with intricate wampum designs, mountains and clouds and falling snow. She leaves the door open and beckons with her eyes. "I didn't take this boy," I explain. "I found him and he latched onto me." "I know." She ain't talking English, but I still understand. "Old man winter lost his son while weeping for the people's children. I will tell him not all white men are so evil that you must be frozen." Then she disappears, alongside the boy, in a billowing cloud of mist. I know I won't never see neither again, and my heart gets a little colder with the pain of losing the boy as was almost mine.


“Oh my gosh!” Your friend squeals ecstatically as a questionably brilliant idea blooms in her mind. Holding her hands out as if she was trying to capture the perfect picture, she beams and nods firmly. “This will be perfect!” she giggles, cheeks glowing with a rosy haze. You glance at your friend through the reflection of the mirror in front of you, hands clenching momentarily and loosening again. The urge to question your friend’s intentions pull at every corner of your mind until you finally give in. “What?” your voice escapes in a cheerful groan; you have experienced enough of her antics to know when she is serious, and to your deep concern, she is. The word seems to pull her back to reality where she lands with a hard thump, obviously disappointed that you haven’t guessed yet. “Well... there’s this guy...” she trails off waiting for your looming objections to quit circling so she can fend them off. You hesitate, words caught in your throat like a mouse in a trap. She wiggles her eyebrows at you, grinning mischievously. “I knew that you didn’t really want to be alone forever!” A dramatic sigh flutters from her pursed lips as if she has waited for this moment her entire life. ## The warm smell of body odor and aftershave greets you like an old friend when you enter the room. A lone figure lays sprawled on your bed, idly flipping through one of your old comics. Your brows raise slightly at the unexpected sight, but you force yourself not to be too surprised. “I didn’t think you were able to read.” The words are a low rumble deep in your throat, quiet but filled with thinly veiled laughter. Your friend looks up from his spread-eagle position on your mattress. He ignores the jab and tosses the comic to the corner of your room where piles of other miscellaneous objects have gathered. You have tried to tell him not to but gave up long ago. “I had the greatest idea today...” Collin says, sitting up to face you. He smirks slightly, the corners of his saltwater eyes crinkling. “That’s dangerous,” you say with a teasing grin, waiting for him to finally cut to the chase. His smirk grows deeper, carving grooves into the sharp planes of his face until it becomes a barely restrained smile. “There’s this girl...” he trails off, monitoring your reaction with catlike eyes and a grin too big for his face. You keep your brow carefully smooth, refusing to let him see even a hint of your concern. His uncanny ability to read your expressions has always unsettled you. ## From your first step out of the house, you knew this night would be a bust. Something would go wrong. That instinctual knowledge has always warded you away from things, but tonight is your night. You refuse to let that underlying paranoia get to you. At least that is what you keep telling yourself. The tiny pessimistic voice seems to grow louder and louder the closer you get to the restaurant. It wails inside your brain, banging tiny hammers on the inside of your skull. Your hand hesitates on the brass handle and you are certain that when you open it there will be no going back. With a small self-conscious laugh, you throw your shoulders back. A deep breath filters in through your nose and with what might look like courage, you step inside. ## She is late. You knew that none of Collin’s ideas were promising ideas. But in a lone second of weakness, you let your constant mantra slip. You let unreasonable hopes fill your mind, and for all, you know this was a prank that Collin had made up. Your hands clench around the crisp white tablecloth, trying to find an outlet for your mounting frustration. Grip gradually loosening, you attempt to smooth out the wrinkles created by trying to strangle an inanimate object. A single strip of light from the closing door illuminates a silhouette cautiously approaching your table. Long, thin fingers gently pull the chair across from you away from the table. She sits with a graceful thump and introduces herself. Her fingers twist in her auburn hair that has been carefully curled. “You’re Dylan, right?” Her smooth, quiet voice carries over the din of the crowded restaurant. It reminds you of the ocean you swam in as a child, calm and warm, the water speckled with golden light. ## “Um... yeah. Yep. I am Dilan.” Your cheeks pull back into a dimpled smile as one of the many things that could go wrong is crossed off your list. The reassurance doesn’t last long; your list went on for several pages, but it helps ease a little bit of your anxiety. “And you must be Samantha?” “Well... no. It is just Sam.” He smiles at you, warmth sparkling behind his eyes. From across the room you see someone sitting alone at a table, sipping water from a nearly empty cup. An oceanic swell of relief fills you again, At least I’m not sitting alone in a corner, you think to yourself. ## Why am I even still here? The thought makes you take another minuscule sip of water. The glass is almost empty and the staff stopped paying any attention to you a while ago. You know that if she hadn’t come yet, she probably won’t show up at all. Her friend made her seem so nice, but it can be hard to see clearly through rose-tinted glasses. You look wistfully at the couple across the room, conversing easily with each other. Most of the time you don’t bother to do things like this, but to your surprise, you were actually excited. Her friend had given you the bare minimum of details about the girl you were supposed to be meeting. She is smart, you repeat the few facts in your mind. She has been scared to do anything like this, a sad smile pulls up the corners of your mouth. Sam, her name is Sam. Not Samantha.


I finally understood the point of funerals. It’s the “moment of clarity” you wouldn’t expect to happen before dying. But I guess it helps that my death so far has been long and drawn out. Hours melted away like the wax on my candle, and the sun should’ve been beaming through the attic window by now. I’m still surrounded by darkness though, my legs painfully asleep, my eyes toasted from the light of my single candle, and my world cut down to just this small circle of salt around me. It’s just me and her now. Me and It. Almost ten years ago, I skipped my grandma Lou-Anne’s funeral. I made a fuss getting into my kid's suit, only to never wear it again because a growth spurt hit afterwards. I cried and refused to get out of the car when we arrived at the church. Aunt Shirley was impatient to get in the church, annoyed that her sister couldn’t train her kid better. I guess my mom ended up having the same frustration and told my dad to wait in the car with me. He ran through the typical “Oh, are you sure? I wanna be there for you dear,” routine but was shot down. He breathed a sigh of relief when the two women went in the church without us boys. He turned around from the driver’s seat to look at me, with my eyes red and suit wrinkled, and he chuckled. “You know Dax, you’re lucky your grandma loved you. Always buying you toys. You know what she got me? She almost got me a divorce.” And that’s all he said about her that day. That’s probably why he was killed first. None of this would be happening if I had just gone into that church. Not to sound overly Christian or lean into the “born again bullshit” as my dad called it, but that church was important. The point of funerals is to come together and remember your loved one in the best light you could. That’s why in movies and books and stuff the grizzled detective always goes like, “Ma’am, you don’t wanna see the body,” and the mother breaks down because the guy is right, there’s no reason to remember your loved one as horribly disfigured. Hindsight really is twenty-twenty. A week ago, I came home from football practice drenched in sweat, reeking of teenage cockiness, but my mother pulled me into the kitchen. My dad and Aunt Shirley were sitting at the table looking stern. I immediately thought this was an intervention, maybe they found out about their precious high school quarterback smoking weed on the weekends. Pretty naïve in retrospect compared to what they wanted. My mom slammed the damned book on the table. Literally a damned book. “It’s called the Gospel of Eden, Dax, don’t be disrespectful and call it a B-movie prop.” My mom was in no mood for my sass. Her patience with me had sprung a leak ever since I skipped the funeral. “Jackie, baby, I love you, but...” My dad wasn’t enthused with the crusty book in front of him either. “Grow a spine Jonathan,” Aunt Shirley snapped. It turns out both her and my mom were in on this plan together for a while. Someone at their church spoke to them about grief and regret. One thing led to another and- “I swear to you all it works. Me and Shirley have seen it with our own eyes. All we need are some candles and a moonless night. But we need your help to do it. The more people that remember her, the stronger her connection to this world is. The four of us can bring her back, just for a night.” “Born again bullshit,” my dad said. Not then, of course, not to his wife, but just to me later on. I’m sure at one point, my mom and Aunt Shirley were beacons of kindness, raised by a single mother who worked her ass off to make ends meet for her two girls. If I had just gone into that church, I might’ve heard more stories about the “Invincible Lou-Anne, the one woman army,” or something like that. But no. I wasn’t too sad to go in. I was too scared. Getting incurably sick with a disease even the doctors struggled to pronounce is some reward for working so hard all your life. I’m sure the injustice of it all corroded my mom’s and Aunt Shirley’s faith in humanity, God, karma, whatever. I do have nicer memories of them from when I was really little, I swear. But it’s funny how those memories just corrode away, rust growing over it, holes breaking in them. That’s kind of what happened with my memories of grandma. Kind of like what happened tonight. Holes breaking in rust. “Look mom, it’s not disrespectful. If anything, it’s a sign of respect, like, ‘ Oh, you’re coming from heaven, we’re not worthy to touch you ’ or something.” “If anything, it’s a waste of salt.” I tried my best. I really did. Spent the whole week arguing against the idea. Why? Because I’ve seen a fucking horror movie before, that’s why. But my mom placed more faith in a stranger from church than her own son. Both she and Aunt Shirley did live through a séance already, so I wasn’t convinced I would die. But I figured a ring of salt around us would just be a failsafe. An unnecessary precaution. Why salt? I wish Google provided a foolproof explanation why, but it kept coming up, so why not? As the adults shuffled into the attic, candles and book in hand, I stayed behind and snuck two saltshakers in my back pockets. I felt stupid as hell sitting on them cross-legged on the creaky wooden floor. My mom went around the circle, lighting each of our candles, the only way we could see in this pitch black attic. The Gospel of Eden sat in the middle of our four person circle. I had taken a peek at it earlier in the week, but it wasn’t written in English, or any language I recognized. No pictures either. Whoever the stranger was that taught my mom how to use it definitely knew something regular people aren’t supposed to know. “Now, all we need to do is to focus our thoughts on Lou-Anne. Our memories are what will reform her. When I start the chant, just remember all the good times you had with her. How she used to be before...” My mom trailed off, holding back tears. Aunt Shirley grabbed her hand, the two seeing eye to eye for the first time in a while. They missed their mom, and nothing would stop them now. But me and my dad were just there, trying to support them, trying not to feel like set dressing. At least I was. “ From Eden we come, and to Eden we return. We ask for the Eternal Gates to open for us tonight. May the Lord of Hosts take our memories and bring- “ I think at that point in the chant I knew we were fucked. “Remember all the good times,” - I was seven when she died. I had the least amount of good times in the circle, and I feel like a piece of shit for thinking that. I know she hugged me and smiled when she saw how big I was getting. I know she got me the best Christmas presents, plus she brought over a toy every time she visited like ten times a year. Hell, she gave me my first football - how can I ignore how that started a domino effect leading to me being the star quarterback at high school? But... when she got sick, my mom insisted grandma stay with us in the upstairs spare bedroom. She refused and refused, wanting to stay strong and live on her own. She only gave in toward the end, spending her last month alive in that bed upstairs. “Don’t let Dax see me,” I heard her rasp while listening from the stairs. The door was closed by the time I snuck to the top of the stairs. A month of doctors and church members and mom and Aunt Shirley going in and out of that room. Never letting me in. On the last night, the ambulances came. Paramedics rushed upstairs. The red lights streaked into the living room, dashing across my face, the red drowning my world in what looked like blood. My dad was on the phone downstairs, furiously trying to get my mom and Aunt Shirley to come home from their quick grocery run. No one stopped me from going upstairs. My candle is almost out. The sun hasn’t risen yet but it definitely should’ve. I’m laughing at the absurdity of it all. I should’ve gone into that church and stayed out of the bedroom. It was really that easy. I didn’t even realize I had closed my eyes while my mom was chanting. I opened them when I heard Aunt Shirley gasp. In the middle of our circle, hovering above the Gospel of Eden, was Lou-Anne. Just like a ghost, almost see through but not quite, a grey wispy aura around her. She wasn’t facing me but I could tell it was her from the way her hair curled and was kept short to the floral dress she always wore. Her attention was fully on her daughters in front of her. “My baby girls,” Lou-Anne spoke, choking back tears just like my mom had just done. Her daughters were fully crying now, hands over their mouths. Aunt Shirley started to rise, going in for a hug, but my mom grabbed her quick. “R-remember, we gotta stay in front of our candles.” Shirley nodded and sat back down, still crying. But Lou-Anne started to flicker in and out, like a dying lightbulb. My mom gasped and immediately turned to look at me and my dad. My dad had started to crawl backwards away from the ghost, away from his candle. My mom shrieked. “Jonathan, get back here! You have to remember her or else!” “Or else” - that’s what my mom said. I don’t know if she knew the consequences of breaking the ritual, or if she was threatening my dad afterwards with words that would cut like knives. I’ll never get the chance to know for sure now. My dad shuffled back toward the candle, ass on the floor like a dog, muttering, “L-Lou-Anne, I- I- I missed you.” Her ghost paused and slowly turned around, letting me see her face for the first time. She was smiling, with the same twinkle in her eye as when she’d pull a toy out of her big purse for me. “Oh Jonathan, I missed you too. You’ve been treating Jackie well, I hope? Someone’s gotta now that I’m not here,” she chuckled. Something snapped in my dad. The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, except this time it might as well have split the camel into bloody pieces. “Of course I’ve been treating her well Lou-Anne. Y-you, you- you know, you always assumed I don’t treat her well.” “Jonathan, knock it off! She didn’t mean anything by it!” my mom scolded from across the circle. But he wasn’t having it anymore. There was a weight on his chest that he needed to get off, so he hijacked the whole séance to do it. I should’ve seen it coming. In some ways I did since I started to form the salt circle around me. But in the important ways I didn’t see it coming; otherwise I would’ve been anywhere but here tonight. “Lou-Anne, I take good care of your daughter, and I raised your grandson to be a fucking good young man, but you didn’t get to see that. All you did was criticize and- and-“ His confidence went out like his candle did. Her daughters couldn’t see it, but we did. My dad’s memories stopped being good ones, started to gravitate around the bitter arguments they had while she was alive. Bad blood that I wasn’t even alive for, but he still dragged me into his argument. So he stopped remembering her as a good person, and for a second, just for one goddamn second, he thought of her as he truly felt. He remembered her as a monster. She lunged forward toward him, nails growing longer into claws. He yelled as they sunk into his neck, veins snapping and blood streaming out. My mom rushed out from behind her candle to try and pry the ghost off him. I was frozen, the air sinking to what felt like subzero temperatures. I saw Lou-Anne’s ghost grow sharp teeth as she snapped at my dad’s face. “THIS IS WHAT YOU THINK OF ME???” she yelled in between taking bites. “No, please no Mommy!” my mom cried out, gripping the ghost- though at this point, she was fully solid, so I don’t even think a “ghost” is what she became. Blood gurgled in my dad’s mouth as he thrashed and revealed his nose was missing, a wreck of flesh and blood around a hole in his face. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aunt Shirley pick up her and my mom’s candle. “Jackie, I’m ending this shit!” she yelled, blowing out the candles. For the briefest second, I saw my mom’s horrified face turn around, too late to stop her sister. Then, my candle was the only light left in the world. Something about the chant rattles around my mind now. “ Eternal Gates to open... ” - like letting a dog out of the yard. If that’s the case, then the candles are the chains around the dog’s neck, making sure it can go back to where it belongs. Just a theory... but I’m sure as hell not letting my candle go out after seeing what happened. With three out of four candles out, the entity shook, trembling with a surge of power. It threw my dad to the ground and turned and grabbed my mom by her throat. By my flickering light, I saw Aunt Shirley turn to run down the stairs, leaving us behind. But the entity chased after her, still gripping my mom by the throat. They disappeared out of sight down the attic stairs. I heard a loud tumble as it sounded like the thing caught up to Aunt Shirley, and all three crashed down the wooden steps. “THE SACRIFICES I MADE FOR YOU GIRLS!” I heard it yell amidst the panicked screaming of the other two. My dad’s body laid by my side, face turned away, but the gash where his nose was burned into my memory. I stood to run toward my mom, drops of courage greasing my muscles to move, but as soon as I stepped out of my salt circle, I heard footsteps come racing back up the stairs. My nerves gave out and I fell back into my circle, thankfully keeping my candle upright. The screams had stopped by the time it made it back up the stairs. And then it stood before me. I never told my parents why I was scared to go to the funeral. I was convinced that for some reason, we’d all have to look at my grandma’s body the whole time, that the casket would be upright, and she’d be facing us the whole time. And I couldn’t bring myself to see that face again. That face I saw on her last night alive. “Dax. Dax. Please look at me,” it spoke. That’s how I knew it was no longer Lou-Anne in front of me. Not even an ounce of her soul left in this vessel. She went out of her way to make sure I couldn’t see her dying but I did anyway. The paramedics were taking her pulse and blood pressure, watching her convulse while trying to get the stretcher upright in the room. Her face was toward the ceiling but as soon as I naively stepped in the room, she turned to me. Skin crusted, discolored patches. Holes. Holes amidst the rough patches. Cheeks and forehead covered in them. Eyes sunken in. Not even able to look at me. Never to twinkle again like they did when she handed me that football. That’s how I remembered her. That’s the only way I could remember her. So that’s the only way she could appear before me now. I only took one glance at the entity in front of me, but it matched what I remembered. But it was amplifying all of it, feeding off of my fear, the holes in my memory. She didn’t have eyes at all this time, instead empty caverns where stale wind blew through. The holes in around her face were more prominent this time, forming a twisted mask pattern, the edges bleeding and angry purple skin showing. “Dax, look at me. Let me in,” it spoke, just standing there, watching me. I’ve spent what feels like a lifetime just sitting in this circle, crying in silence, not letting my tears touch the candles, knowing it’s watching me through empty holes. The salt must be having some effect, but I can’t risk what might happen when the last candle goes out, if it’ll cause another surge of violence. I wish I could remember her any other way, but I’m all that’s left. I’m the last one here alive. “Lou-Anne” can’t exist any other way except how I remember her. “I’m sorry grandma,” I whispered to myself, hoping she could hear me wherever she was, hoping she knew I remembered the twinkle in her eye. Hoping she’d forgive me for remembering the holes more than that.


Older Date It’s a warm summer evening and David is busy writing about himself to an unknown responder on a new date site. As he writes he is thinking to himself, this is far different from the days when I use to send a note to a possible date, asking for her phone number and pick up for next Saturday night’s dance.....I have recently taken up employment here, having spent most of my living in the north, how about you? He waits, wondering if his trying to reconnect his social life this way will work. Yeah, I know I want a new relationship but it can’t be the first thing one says, especially when it is not face to face. He gets up from his couch and goes to the kitchen to make himself a coffee, as he waits for a response to his opening introduction. As he does so, his mind goes into archive overdrive, stirring up his teen years of dating, dancing and after party joy rides in his good old Zephyr...while humming Dean Martin’s, ‘That’s Amore’. Just as he makes his drink, there is a ping sound from the lounge, and he quickly returns to his present engagement....online date site....response....Hi David, I like that you are new here,..... He continues to read and writes, nice profile pictures, where are they taken? I am interested in knowing more about you......my opinion is that we are in a better country at this time....their chatting continues for the next 15 minutes as David wonders when it will shift to the actual first date, as he types,.... nice chatting with you Mary, maybe we can have a coffee next week and talk about seeing the movie you have mentioned? The chat closes with the promise to do the same tomorrow night and there’s an exchange of love hearts. Being summer, the morning is bright and David prepares himself breakfast, then sits at the breakfast bar, reading the papers front page. Next it is the business section, to read the review he wrote on the Reserve Bank’s response to the housing price crises. Satisfied with what he wrote, he peruses other interests and subconsciously turns to the movie section, scanning for the movie mentioned by Mary. Ah, Mary he says to himself; nice profile pictures, her chats came across as very confident, this might go somewhere, he chuckles aloud. Now for today, Saturday; shall I do my usual, or go and see my brother? I wonder what he would have to say, about his older bro giving online dating a spin. Especially when he chatted to me over Christmas about giving it a go; nothing too serious, just a new way to interface with a stranger without being embarrassed. He finishes breakfast, put dishes in the dishwasher, and goes to the bathroom. Adjusting to living on his own, has taken some time maybe a bit more difficult than he first thought. It is five years coming Easter since he got that sad and unexpected phone call telling him Jean had died in a multi car accident. While he coped preparing the family for the news and dealing with the issue of burial, it has a haunting grip on his emotions when driving out of the city. It may be a nice day but it is the inner wrestle he goes through to persuade himself to get in his car and travel through the city to the open speed of the freeway into the countryside. Why his brother chose to relocate sometimes annoys him, but today it seems okay. Though there is an internal emotional struggle and bouts of actual pain, it is less of a struggle today, as he gives a ‘thumbs up’ sign to Jean’s white cross. He knows he cannot push her death onto his brother; how would he have known that his moving into a lifestyle block was going to result in the death of his sister in law. * * * * While David is driving out to have the day with his brother, Mary prepares herself to visit her good friend Sue. Sue is a long-time friend to whom she has come to for emotional help, is expecting her, not that she knows of Mary’s last night dateline chat. She smiles to herself as she recalls that thirty minute chat and the most handsome profile pictures she has seen for a while. He was polite, interested in her, asking about her likes and being prepared to make the suggestion of a date; of course it would be a ‘yes’ even though it was chat number one! Mary gathers her wits and tennis bag as she goes to the garage to set off for her ‘tennis date’ with Sue. The thought of a date, makes her heart flutter, telling herself not be like her teenage self, and to be true to her real age. Much has taken place since those years, life has been rough if not brittle but she is now a mature lady. She messages Sue to confirm they’re still meeting and telling her she is on her way. While driving across the city to the country tennis club Mary tunes into the local talk back radio. The topic, as most Saturdays of late, is the rising house prices that most places across the country are experiencing. The host is using the morning paper’s business section as the talking point and apparently is referring to a journalist write up on the Reserve Banks. As Mary catches up with the momentum of the topic, she hears the name ‘David’ being linked to the article, and processes bits of last night’s chat. There is a sense of a possibility that this ‘David’ must be her David to which she has another flutter, thinking, wait till I tell Sue my David must be the business journalist we both have many a time discussed, even going as far as rehearsing dating lines. She again, feels flustered but excited. Her phone rings and a text message appears on the car screen, Sue is affirming their date and is on her way. Mary can’t wait, she puts her phone on speaker and calls Sue, hoping she will do the same and not ignore her call. ‘Hi Sue, I’ve got a surprise and it can’t wait, I have to tell you’ she says, with excitement and actually hears Sue pause while imaging her questioning facial look. ‘Yes, well tell me if you can’t wait another twenty minutes’. Mary speaks, ‘I’m going to have a date with that journalist David we have talked about. You know the one we sometimes act out as a date’. Sue’s response is rather deflating, ‘are you for real or kidding me? How would you have organised this, you don’t even know him and furthermore you would be too embarrassed to ask’. ‘No, I am certain it is him’, she says, ‘I’ll tell you more when we see each other. My conclusion is it must be him, I can’t wait to tell you. See you there’ as she prepares to hang up before Sue can think of her next interrogating question. ‘David the journalist, sheesh, I don’t belief it’! Sue is heard to say, as Mary hangs up. * * * * * The countryside tennis courts are a means for both middle aged ladies to get out of their respective homes. Both being local girls, they have always respected each other’s opinions on many matters, today will be no different as far as Sue is concerned. Both cars appear in the parking lot more or less together. Mary, gives herself a quick look in the mirror and sees Sue is already locking her car. Mary does likewise and signals the club house, where there is a weekend coffee cart nearby; her idea is they both get a coffee and listen to the story of her online date chat the other night. Mary nearly trips as she rushes, dropping her tennis bag. Sue, sees it, holds her hand over her mouth, noticing how Mary manages to keep herself upright. They meet, order their coffees and select a table in the sun and Mary, fully recovered, plunges into her Friday night date chat with David. Sue can’t do much more than listen with her mouth open as Mary reiterates the procedure of date line chatting, with this middle aged man called ‘David’. She then explains how while listening to the local Saturday talk back, she has come to the conclusion it must be the journalist man they have often spoken of and that there could be an actual date with him! * * * * * David finds himself turning into his brother’s property, acknowledging the country’s setting as being therapeutic. His brother Ian comes toward him as he gets out of his car, extends his hand to shake and welcome him. Inside the suggestion is they head on down to the local tennis club as soon as possible, for club day doubles. Ian, tells David, ‘Pam is already there because she is with the local club whereas I’m a casual, but I still like a bit of tennis, don’t you’? Before there is an answer Ian indicates they better leave now to get there for the fun of playing mixed doubles, as he escorts David out towards his car. David is relaxed and okay with a bit of tennis, which is a family game though Jean didn’t really take to it, she would come to watch and look after the children. At the club Pam is busy organising the mixed doubles, she counts those there and those coming to realise she is two ladies short to make it possible for all the men to have a game. She looks up to see the same two ladies she has seen and met before, playing to the side. She wonders if they’d be willing to try a bit of serious mixed doubles, and plucks up the courage to go and ask. Mary and Sue stop playing as they see a lady getting closer. ‘Hi, I am Pam, I think we have met before, you’re Mary but I’ve forgotten your name’, turning to Sue. Sue acknowledges Pam’s memory, states her name, remarking that the club seems busier than usual, is there a club meet? Sue is pleased for the opening, ‘Yes, and in fact we are short of two ladies to complete a club mixed double; I’ve come over to ask if you’d both like to fill in, so all the men get a game. We ladies need two more, because my husband is here with David, his brother, who came from the city for the day. Sue, glances at Mary aware that the name ‘David’ is rather precious right now, to see Mary turn her head toward a group of men. ‘Yeah, why not’ Sue answers for them both. Pam smiles, ‘Great, see you in front of the club within fifteen, thanks again, the men will be pleased each will get their game on such a nice day’. Mary and Sue, converse discussing the pros and cons of sparing with the mystery David. Considering she has three ‘David’s’ twirling around her thoughts, Mary is preoccupied evaluating which one she will ace! Sue interjects her thoughts saying, ‘40 love’, and lets out a girlish laugh, causing Mary to drop her racket as they near the club house. She returns a friendly wink, bends to pick it up just as a hand is bringing it up to her. As she straightens herself up within touching distance is a well-shaped middle aged man, causing a brief touch of skin, as he hands her the racket, saying, ‘The pleasure is mine, have fun playing this afternoon. See you both on court’. The afternoon truly is warm as tennis players run about the courts, playing pretty good tennis, with the odd shout; 15 love, out, 15 all, 30-15, 30 all, 30-40, deuce. As for the two city girls they have fared well against their male opponents, winning a few sets and matches. It is the last round, they approach court three, two men introduce themselves as Ian and David; Mary is obliged to acknowledge David (the one closest to her), because he earlier handed her, her racket. Mary becomes self-conscious, of holding eye contact maybe a bit too long, but it seemed like he locked her gaze and she couldn’t divert her eyes. Sunglasses come to the rescue as she adjusts them, he whispers ‘May the best team win’. Sue and Mary serve first and from then on it is serious rallying as the men have the city girls more or less rushing from net to base line, to retrieve drop shots which nearly outwit them. Ian and David too, are given the run around, causing David to even outwit himself, as he works his backhand to their advantage. Coming to the net to shake hands all four are perspiring and breathing heavily. Both teams have played good hard tennis but the men have to concede the city girls to be the winners. * * * * * Coming out from the ladies Mary and Sue are chatting, feeling pleased about themselves on winning their last game. The club has filled and it looks like a sea of white, as they scan for somewhere to sit. Then out of the blue, who comes to the rescue but David with a broad smile. He, shows them to their table along with Ian and Pam; ‘Drinks are on us’, he says, as he asks Mary what she’d like, 'beer or wine? Though you seem to be the lady who likes a wine, I need to ask so not to be accused of second guessing'. Pam, holds her wine and says ‘Cheers to the city girls for winning against the country boys, giving them a rally for their money’. Sue, holds hers and replies, ‘It was fun to crush them, the best team won’! The chat centres on country lifestyle living as Mary tries various manoeuvres to work out which David she has warmed too. Conversation centres on him, telling them how he is adjusting to single living and his journalist vocation, (Mary breaths a nearly audible sigh of relief), as David continues to speak of his family, and the loss of Jean. Mary is now certain that this is the ‘David’ from last night dateline chat and the papers journalist but how does she ask him, is the question. Ian and Pam show surprise at David’s open chatting to the city girls, about his life, as he continues to say more, ‘Jean’s father apparently impregnated a young girl and was advised not to marry her. He moved to the North Island for work and a new life. The young mum and baby stayed south, finding support from family and friends. Sometime back Jean had decided to take a DNA test and that is when the possibility of a step sister came to light. She guessed they must be of a similar age and was in the process of further investigation, when the car accident happened’ adding ‘I do have the test results’. Realisation dawns upon Mary, that this must be the ‘David’ she chatted with last night and finds the inner will to openly ask him by coming straight out with her question; ‘David, are you the dateline David who I was chatting with last night’? David is clearly elated replying ‘Wow, are you the Mary’! Surprise is expressed by both at the coincidence of such a happening, as the others also express their wonderment and excitement. Pam announces that they have decided to dine at the local country club, and for Mary and Sue to join them. Mary at this point is too interested in David and hesitates. Sue comes to her aid by saying ‘Nice, but they need to return home’. All five raise their glasses and drink; David is beaming, Mary is hooked while the other three look on knowing they are about to witness an off the court singles. At this David stands, comes towards Mary, ‘Don’t worry about a date line chat, how about a real life chat, at the Waterfront Restaurant tomorrow for brunch’? Mary blushes, looks at him and answers, ‘Yes’. David, speaks his thoughts aloud, ‘I can’t help but wonder how much like Jean you are’, as he lightly kisses both her cheeks. Now it is Mary’s turn to be true to her feelings; ‘Brunch with you will be lovely. Out there on the courts you played so much like my late Jim, that I had to remind myself he died five years ago. If life has surprises, family ties are the most likely places to find them - maybe you’re his unknown twin’. She smiles and gives him a light embrace, saying to him as well as to Ian and Pam, ‘Thanks for the lovely day at the country tennis club’. Sue stands, picks up their bags, and walks away while Mary turns to acknowledge David with an air kiss. word count: 2845


Damon, a ghostwriter, finished the editing of yet another memoir he had written for a successful business person. Someone who climbed the corporate ladder and managed to become CEO of a large company, for a few years. And then, reading between the lines (Damon was good at that), the CEO was let go for underperformance. In interviews, the CEO was pleasant, if dully conventional. The type of man women want to marry, and then not talk to their friends about much afterwards. Damon’s draft title for these sorts of memoirs was invariably, Tales of a Typical Midwestern Childhood Much The Same As Everyone Else, until something more poetic, if less descriptive, came to his mind. The CEO hoped for a best-selling memoir that could be his calling card for his next career phase as a public speaker. Making a living by dropping words of wisdom from his mouth, as his favorite TED speaker does--the one he mentioned 200 times within 30 interview sessions. To celebrate finishing the final draft, Damon opened a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio that he had been saving for the occasion. After a few glasses, he wrote a letter to himself about the tired tropes of memoir writing. The ones he had seen too much of that should all be flushed down the toilet. Technically some of them were clichés, but ‘tropes’ had a more literary sound to it, and saying that word impressed his clients. They knew they were dealing with a literary sort of person. After another glass of crisp Italian white wine, Damon accidentally emailed it to his entire client list. The 10 tropes of memoir writing that should be flushed down the toilet: The story of when I was called into the principal’s office. The writing assignment this week. Let’s gut this standard inclusion into most business memoirs. Everyone knows it’s a trick to make you, a rich and/or famous person, relatable. You are not. In 1984, you received a stern talking to from the principal for stealing Joanne’s eraser? It doesn't make up for the thousands of workers you terminated last year, or the personal assistants you’ve bullied. “Things my dad taught me” Your dad didn’t have the internet. Next. Where I was when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. I don’t care. No one does. If you insist on keeping this in your published edition, I will ask NASA to restart the space shuttle program just to launch all 200 copies of your memoir into the sun. My childhood shaped me into the person I am today. No. I don’t think so. If you are a pop singer, please don’t make us think that your mother scolding you when you didn’t do your homework when you were 6, is the reason you were born with genetically perfect vocal cords and went on American Idol when you were 19. Talking of music, I’m now listening to Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance on repeat, and singing Bad Memoir over the chorus. Time for another glass of Pinot. Which leads into... “My parent (usually Dad) was an abusive alcoholic, and I managed to SURVIVE.” Statistically, 99.99% of children of alcoholics survive. That alcoholics are so proficient at making babies, while being so bad at taking care of them, is an unfortunate quirk of Darwin’s Theory that we all just have to live with. This one cuts closer to home for your ghostwriter. I was born into the most alcoholic, yet un-abusive family, to one day hit the pages of a best-selling memoir. Mom drank ten beers, then fell asleep on the sofa. The next day, she did the same thing again. A real page turner! I was bullied. When the well-built handsome men and gorgeous women I interview say they were bullied in school, it means something different for them than the standard dictionary definition of "bullied." Being the smallest boy out of two hundred in my high school class, I don’t need to read how you weren’t invited one weekend to a party that everyone else went to. Your struggle was one of popularity. My fight, was a fight for survival. But some tropes exist for a reason, so why not? “Being bullied in 7th grade at Greenfield Middle School gave me the internal drive to one day prove myself and achieve what I have today. I said to myself, one day I will return to the halls of GMS, holding a copy of my own memoir, and those who bullied me, will know I paid $50,000 to a fabulously talented ghostwriter to have it created, and they will apologize.” As for me, despite being 20lbs lighter than anyone else at school, I was not bullied. Bullied kids were predictable. A bully would kick the back of their chair, they would look back for one second, say “cut it out”, and then go back to their studies. The next day the exact same thing would happen again in that order. If my childhood in a family of alcoholics did anything for me, being unpredictable, or using the jargon of adolescence, “being weird”, was one of them. My family (in West Virginia) was so poor that.... What’s more Midwestern than the Midwest? West Virginia. All aspiring writers should spend a few months of their childhood there to gain the street cred to write into the myth of third-world poverty in WV. Or be radically different, and admit your childhood was middle class like most people, and The Seventies Show reminds you of it. It does me. In the days before the Internet, we had to do things (in nature, with physical objects) or else we would be bored. Yes. We ALL know that. And isn’t it great that now, we don’t need to be bored, and even nerds can find friends and even be popular, on the internet. My quirky hobby is... This can have potential, if your hobby is not baseball, football, singing, dancing, computers, or any of the dozens of other normal ways teens occupy their time, by thinking they might be on the edge of greatness with something, that they are not actually very good at. My one chance at true love left me, when I was __ years old. I hate to break it to you, but...Stacy with the great hair, or Greg with the soulful eyes, was not the love of your life. It was just the hormones. If you were on a desert island, like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, you would also have fallen in love with the volleyball. So, if your infatuation was based on the way he/she smiled that melted your heart, we don’t need to hear more. An astute reader, adept at detecting subtext, will have figured out by this point that I did not meet the love of my life in high school. My close beloved relative died young (and became very important to me afterward). I wrote something very snarky here. That I just erased. Because, yes, the pain of the human experience can really hurt. But straining to make lost ones sound more significant in your life than they actually were, by hyperfocusing and trying to create meaning out of small memories, may sound hollow. This is reminding your ghostwriter of the time (and it was only the one time) that his 10-year-old cousin, and best friend at the time, committed suicide, and your ghostwriter didn’t cry at the funeral, and people asked him why he wasn’t crying, but he didn’t have an answer, and people thought that was weird. I’m suffering from a very special medical condition (which makes it impossible to keep pizza down before noon, poor me) I have news for you, EVERYONE is suffering from a medical condition. The narcissist in all of us turns our brightest and healthiest face to the world. But, when I have attained most people’s confidence, they will tell me of some difficult issue they are dealing with, that they would rather not have the whole world know about. But, if your condition is truly something that only a few people in the world have, please let us know about it. Nicholas Vujicic, who wrote 50,000 words in Life Without Limits without having any arms or legs, is a good example. You might have a few inconveniences. He needs to ask someone to push the elevator button to survive. I’m important because, I made important decisions in important meetings (and I’m rich) There are a million people in America that have been a “senior manager” at some well known company. Good for you, getting paid for all your hard work and study. But it doesn’t make you interesting. If you were a stripper in Barstow Califonrnia, that would be far more intriguing to the average reader, who simply reads books to escape from the tedium of daily existence. I found God, Yoga, and/or a Plant Based Diet. Shove your plant based diet up a koalas rear end. My bad. Koalas eat nothing but eucalyptus leaves. They must walk around smelling like the yoga studio before class. Thinking about it more, these topics are not suited for a ‘General purpose memoir’ but could be a bestseller in the ‘Here’s Another Thing to Control in Your Life’ category. The human mind finds almost nothing more satisfying than having something to control. If you put test candidates into an empty room with a red button on a table, 100% of them will study the button, push it, and then push it some more, and then talk to it to see if that makes anything happen. Give us your unique spirituality practices, your rigorous exercise routines, and your highly controlled diets, so we can push those buttons, and tell our friends about it. And then everything was fine. In a good novel, at the end of every chapter, things are not fine. The cliffhanger is what makes us begin reading the next chapter. All the boring parts will be packed into the middle of that chapter. Those words function mostly to make the cliffhanger at the end fun again. Finally...something is happening again! In a bad memoir, at the end of every chapter, the world is at peace again after the narrator (who gained useful some useful life skill by being cleverly perceptive) fixed the problem or situation he was just facing. Often, a ‘luxury problem’ such as how to get into Harvard Business School, or getting that other Co-CEO fired for abusing the expense account Writing these guidelines has been much more satisfying than writing my own memoir. Someday I will get that started. I’m going to get all my clients to stop wasting my time with their run of the mill childhood stories, and get them to tell me some real stories by sending this to them now. [send] And one last thing, I always thought the song, Tell Me Why I Don’t Like Mondays, was by a Northern Irish band singing about their experiences in The Struggles. I just learned they were rich kids from Dublin who made it all up while they were on tour in America.