I work in pest control. It’s only been a few days but I’m enjoying it so far. Mechanical things come easy to me and I find joy in how much they distract me from my brain. I’m too smart to be stupid and too stupid to be smart so manual problem solving seems to be the perfect fit for me. I work with a guy named Andrew, he reminds me a lot of me but if I was 50 and Hawaiian and had worked in pest control for 30 years. He talks in really quick short bursts, sometimes it feels like he’s dying for someone to listen to him. He speaks as if he’s never talked before. I want to talk too but I don’t always know how to do that. I like his company though. I appreciated the work today, my head was spinning from an argument with my girlfriend last night. We fight a lot and it’s usually stupid. When it’s not my fault I end up feeling like it is my fault. I look back on my life often in these moments, my head feels like a projector trying to play 8 films at once. They keep spinning in and out with thousands of images and sounds and suddenly it explodes snapping me out of it only now I am a man standing in a room surrounded by fire with nothing but a cup of water. Eventually, the fire burns me up and I’m left staring at the ceiling begging God to stop my heart. Then I wake up, and it’s the next day, and I go to work. She was having a bad day yesterday. I think I cause a lot of those but she never says so. I’ve been trying hard to be good to her. I love her so much, it consumes every cell and thought of my body and soul. She had been off work for a couple of minutes and started crying. I held her and tried to comfort her but I don’t know how to do that very well. But I try. After she came out of it we watched TV for a bit and then I had to go to bed, I work early. She started looking sad and when I pried she told me she thinks I don’t like her and I was being short all night. I said I was sorry and I didn’t mean to and went to bed. While in bed I felt like a broken human as I usually do. Even when trying my best I just can’t seem to make people feel good or loved or something, I’m not even sure anymore. I put on the song “Aviator” by Michael Chapman, my favorite song, and started sobbing. I feel so alone sometimes. She came in later and held me from behind, I didn’t say anything but she told me she was getting up to turn off the lights. I was still crying so I think I was just offended. Then I heard her take a bong rip, talk to her cat, and go to the bathroom to brush her teeth. I knew she would come back and we could continue cuddling but for some reason, I just got mad. I wanted her to just say there. I should’ve just said that. Today we did a lot of work in shelters. The majority we go to are come and go style, anyone can show up, and as long as there’s a room they can come in and stay. Andrew told me the official name but I forgot because I can’t hear sometimes. We worked from the fourth floor down checking the rooms and cleaning out fruit flies. He was frustrated because the building doesn’t do anything to help. When I saw the first room I understood what he meant. Most of the rooms were the same. Piles of trash, piles of clothes, burned tinfoil squares from smoking heroin, needles (we yell needle when we find one), and a variety of shit, piss, blood, and vomit. One guy was making moonshine in his bathtub, turns out that’s a good place for fruit flies to grow. We did the best we could, we sprayed, and slapped, and wiped out as much as we could, but the building won’t remove the rotten trash so they’ll always be there. Some rooms were empty and some were full. We walked in on a couple shooting up, another lady was dripping with sweat from being sick and needing another hit. One lady yelled “get out” as soon as we entered and we did. One man couldn’t even open the door because he had too much stuff in his room, he just talked to us through the crack of the door and apologized, that made me sad again. I wondered if he were to die how long it’d take for someone to check? I think about that scenario with my own corpse too. We finished out the day and I felt a little better. The conversation and busyness of the day had finally burned me out so I wasn’t thinking so much. I also didn’t eat so I could focus on being hungry instead. On my drive home, the thoughts came back. I put Queen is Dead by the Smiths on but the deluxe version. I like the demo versions of the songs better. The Smiths are really good, I think Morrisey is full of shit but I like his lyrics a lot. Maybe I’m just full of shit too. As the music played I stopped paying attention because my mind kicked into overdrive again. I thought a lot about Pao and our fight and what I’d do when I saw her. We had texted a bit throughout the day but there was no punctuation so I assumed the worst. I imagined apologizing, maybe I should, or get flowers, or do something, but I just don’t think it’ll matter. I’ll fuck it up again. I started thinking about Brandon, Alex, my mom, my dad, my dog, and all the people and things and places who have left me and hurt me. Maybe I’m the problem. If you’re surrounded by people who have left you maybe it’s time to look inward. Then I figured I’d write this story instead, if it’s a story I can pretend it didn’t happen. I originally wanted to write about how I was poisoned, then I thought about how I didn’t ask for this life and I could use being “burned alive” as a metaphor for being raped and how I didn’t ask for “these scars” but that sounded so pretentious and blah blah blah so I wrote this instead. I texted my sponsor this morning though, I’m not sober anymore and have been blowing him off for a month. I felt bad, and I felt worse today, so I tried to fix it. He was happy to hear from me and we have plans for Saturday. I’ll probably cancel though - piece of shit. After the fight last night I laid awake staring at the popcorn ceiling and praying for my heart to stop. I use to do that as a kid. I’d be lying in pee and hearing my parents fight, or I’d be lying in pee and hearing no one because the house was empty. I think I just want to be dead, not because I’m miserable (my ex said I love being miserable) but because I want to spare the world from dealing with me. I hanged myself once. I think it was the only serious suicide attempt I’ve made. I got home from a day much like today and hung myself with a belt. I chickened out at the end but it was nice to know that I could do it and more importantly that it didn’t hurt. I think that’s my safety net now, I don’t have any friends or family or anything to fall back on, but I do have the option to tap out when I finally fuck my life up beyond repair. I don’t have that belt anymore though so I’d have to get a new one and that’d be a hassle. The one I have now is cheap leather and will probably just break under the weight, oh well, maybe another time then. I pulled into the parking lot and waited for Pao to let me in, I was convinced she would open the door and throw my shit at me and tell me to leave. I started crying at the thought. She came outside and softly said “hi.” We kissed and I made her hug me. We stood in silence holding each other and I tried not to cry again. We didn’t say anything and rode the elevator up. We went into her apartment and she went back to work and I took a piss, I always have to piss. I sat on the couch and started this shitty story. I hope I don’t fuck up tonight. I just want to be good. I do. I want to be happy, help people, build people up, and not lose my shit every time someone doesn’t give me what I need. I don’t want to die and I have hope that I’ll be happy and normal someday. Worst case scenario I hold onto that hope and die someday anyway. We all gotta go and as long as Hell doesn’t turn out to be real I can finally get some sleep.


Craig Thompson slides out his office chair and sitting down, gets into his Investment form, booting up his multiple systems which display the numerous world stock markets on the multiple monitors which are strategically situated around his desk. Being a twenty eight year old Investment prodigy, Craig has made the firm of Hanson & Hanson Investments millions of dollars in the last several months with eerily accurately calculated trades. Today, arriving at work way before the usual employee crowd arrives, because this time using investors funds, he took a personal risk, without the firms knowledge or authorization. With his index finger hovering slightly above the enter key, sweat begins to form on Craig's brow as his heart pounds loudly in his chest. Watching intensely, Craig slams the enter key and submits the sell transaction as the graph hits the desires price point, wiping his brow nervously as he waits for the response. Within seconds, the red box appears - transaction accepted. In one motion, jumping in the air, knocking over the office chair, Craig almost dances about his office. In less then twenty four hours, he just made the firm over one million dollars in a single trade. He must now explain his action to his boss, as the transaction was not sanctioned. Up-righting his chair, Craig sees Sarah staring at him through the office glass wall. Craig's office dancing has displayed a total out of character action of the completely cold-hearted office bastard he constantly displays. He gives Sarah two middle fingers and yells for her to disappear. Sarah turns and almost runs in fear. Ten hours later Craig shuts down his systems, and, leaning back in his office chair with eyes closed, smiles to himself. “A million dollars for the company, and a ten thousand immediate bonus for me.” Taking three one hundred dollar bills from his wallet, Craig folds them in half and slips them into the small donation like envelope taken from the stack from his top desk drawer. With a marker he jots “Be Safe” on the front and seals the envelope. Glancing about the office to ensure no one is watching, Craig slips the sealed envelope into his breast pocket. Finished for the day, Craig turns out the lights and heads out. Pressing the down button on the elevator, Craig pulls out his Cell Phone and checks the closing stock prices and global stock trends. Sarah, seeing Craig, stops then cautiously approaches the elevator standing nervously beside Craig. A little bit apprehensive, Sarah smiles. “Craig... heading home?” Craig scrolls his Cell Phone, seemingly unaware and continues to scroll his phone. “Sarah, would I be out of my office, standing at the elevator with the down button lit, if I was not going home? Really?” A ding and the elevator arrives, doors opening. Craig does not move his eyes from his Cell Phone. Craig flat and cold says “Sarah, you go ahead... I prefer to travel alone. I will grab the next one.” A slight huff as Sarah stomps into the elevator and turns facing the completely engrossed Craig. “You’re a cold-hearted ass!” The elevator doors close, and Craig presses the down button without removing his attention from his Cell Phone. Martha, sitting on her sleeping bag to protect herself from the cold of the sidewalk concrete, adjusts her homeless sign as she waits for the five o’clock business crowd. The passing donations have been small recently, but Martha still tries to put some of the contributions aside for her dreams. Dreams she is beginning to think will never happen. Martha always dreams of a weekend as a normal person in a comfortable warm bed and a hot shower. A nice dinner, regular conversation and maybe a glass of wine. But now as the business traffic lessens, she fears that this dream too will be as her life, totally shattered. Martha wipes away a tear that flows down her cheek, and as every other afternoon, holds out the battered paper cup to the passerby's As she waits for the office crowd, Martha remembers the day, as she does so many times, where at sixteen, her moms new boyfriend tossed her out of the home she had lived in all her life. She refused his advances while her mom was at work causing a gigantic rift in the fragile home-life. She does not know what happened after, except the locks were changed and her mom would never answer the door. It has now been six years, and the streets have become her home. A quarter here, fifty cents there, a sign the donations... contributions are diminishing. Possibly a sign of the current times, as, the traffic has also thinned. Where Martha could possibly have two meals a day, it has now become one as the norm, but she continues to try and put a little bit aside, even if only a twenty five cent piece, to hopefully have her dream, if only for a single weekend, of a taste of a normal life. Martha watches for the one Friday constant - the tall beautiful man in the expensive suit that every day places a small envelope in her cup. Sometimes a dollar, sometimes two, but always paper and never coins. The one time her gave her a twenty dollar bill allowed Martha to eat for almost two days that weekend. He never takes his eyes from his Cell Phone, but always says the same phrase that is written on the small envelope - Be Safe. Another quarter form a stranger clings against the other coins in the bottom of the paper cup, as Martha softly says thank you, watching, as the stranger, possibly, now feeling better about themselves, continues on their way. In the distance, Martha sees the one constant, the beautiful man that sometimes allows her to continue on, heading toward her, as always, focused on his Cell Phone. As he passes where Martha has sat for over two years, Craig reaches into his breast pocket and removing the envelope places it into Martha’s paper cup again uttering the familiar single phrase - Be Safe. His eyes remain fixed on the Cell Phone, continuing his stride as Martha utters a soft - Thank you. She watches as he vanishes down the stairs into the Subway. Opening the knapsack, Martha views the stack of small envelopes and reaching into her tattered paper cup, removes the most recent one, reading the phrase Be Safe. Lifting the flap Martha gasps seeing the three one hundred dollar bills. She places her hand on her mouth to muffle her excitement, as tears begin to flow down her cheeks. With shaking hands she removes the three one hundred dollar bills and places the envelope in the knapsack with the others. Craig dresses in the clothes he purchased from the Thrift Shop, because, Friday night is the one night he can be himself. He glances about the penthouse condo, the coldness of it which comes with his profession. The millions in his bank account can not compensate for the loneliness he lives in his life every day. Filling his wallet with one dollar bills, he heads out to the other side of town where no one knows who he is, or what he does. To the fun and casual establishment where everyone is no one, yet, still, someone. An adjustment of the second hand leather jacket and Craig heads out for a night of casual non business conversation and interaction. Martha opens the door to the eighty nine dollar Motel room she got for Friday and Saturday nights. It is sparse, but clean. All carpet floor, a double bed, dresser with a mirror, A TV with cable, and best of all a shower. Closing and locking the door, the bags with the clothes from the Thrift Shop and make-up from the Dollar Store dropped to the floor, Martha throws herself onto the bed, wrapping herself in the comforter. She begins crying and shaking like a baby. She now has the one time weekend dream to live as others. She wipes her eyes and begins to get ready. Craig enters the small homey restaurant on the other side of town, far from where he resides, and takes in the simple atmosphere. Small round two person tables, which all seem to be taken, and a small bar with a couple of empty seats. Maybe wanting some chicken wings, maybe pizza and a couple of beers, Craig opts for a seat at the bar, when in the far corner a single young beautiful lady is sitting alone. Martha sees Craig and shyly waves, motioning him over. Craig stares, not knowing who this lady is. He has never seen her here before. Shrugging, he makes his way to the table Martha is sitting at. Craig finds Martha alluring and beautiful with her red flowing hair, large brown eyes and simple silk blouse and pleated skirt. There is something familiar about her, but he cannot place it. Martha, knowing who Craig is, invites him to join her, which he immediately accepts. Ordering a simple draft beer and simple pub snacks, Craig easily enters into conversation with Martha. After several minutes of conversation, feeling unusually comfortable, Craig invites Martha to have dinner with him, and she immediately accepts, gently touching his hand. “Please call me Marty... I prefer the nick name.” Martha rolls over in the large double bed of the hotel room she has for one more night. The dinner and conversation with Craig the night before was playing over in her mind. It was like having a wonderful normal life... if only for a small slice of time in her life. Tears swell as she thinks of how she deceived him by going to the ladies room, only to catch a cab back to the hotel. He would never want to be seen with a girl like her. Tonight she will stay in her hotel room and order in, and not meet Craig for dinner as he asked. Martha clutches the pillow and cries. A week has gone by, and Craig cannot get Marty out of his mind. She never showed up for dinner on Saturday, as he waited for almost two hours. Nothing has been the same in his life since as she is constantly on his mind. Even his trading has been lacking success. Sarah, walking by his office, gives Craig the middle finger and mouths the word - asshole. She turns her back and continues on. On the main screen, a message pops up from the VP. “Craig - in my office now.” With a sigh, Craig knocks on the VP door, enters and sits across from the Harold, one of the senior partners who he calls boss. His solid stern look is very concerning. Craig watches as he leans forward, hands folded on the desk. For the first time in his life, Craig is very nervous. “Craig, do not speak, just listen.” Harold sits back and sighs. “Last week you made the firm over a million dollars. Your performance has been outstanding, but, this week has been... shall I say, concerning. Tuesday you cost the firm one hundred thousand dollars in a questionable transaction, and yesterday another twenty five thousand.” “Sir, Harold, I can explain.” “Craig, please, I understand trader burnout. You have been performing at one hundred and fifty percent for months - Sarah has voiced her concerns. I feel you need a break.” “But sir, I can explain.” “This is going to be non negotiable Craig. Starting right now, you are on six weeks unpaid leave. Rest, relax, get away from the market - you need a break. So shut down and go home, and we will see you after you are rested.” Craig leaves Harold’s office and for the first time, his tail between his legs in defeat and head hung low, but yet, a burden removed from his shoulders. For the first time in his business life, he is not bound, tied to a desk and is relaxed. Raising his head high as he walks through the office, he thinks. “I have over twenty two million dollars in my account, time to be a normal person. I do not need this damn job. The first thing I do when I get home is my resignation letter.” Craig sees Sarah, and with a cold stern face, points a finger at her mouthing. “Got what you wanted bitch - I am outta here.” Proceeding to the lobby, Craig pushes the down button, and waits for the elevator as calmness flows over him and all tension leaves his body. For the first time in a long time, a smile appears on his face. Martha adjusts her sleeping blanket and prepares for the Friday afternoon business crowd. Thinking of last weekend, Friday especially, she wonders if she will ever experience that again. A warm place to sleep, a shower, a glass of wine and dinner with a very beautiful tender man. She did not care he had very little money - he treated her as a very special lady. Holding out her tattered paper cup, Martha receives a quarter here a quarter there as the business, office people pass by. Suddenly, she sees Craig in the distance, and, for the first time he is not on his cell phone. Bowing her head to display only the baseball cap she is wearing, Martha outstretches her arm, holding the cup high. Craig passing, drops the small usual envelope into the cup as he continues toward the subway. Martha looks up and removes her baseball cap, allowing her long red hair to flow down about her shoulders. She softly utters her usual phrase to the patrons, but, this time adds a name. “Thank you... Craig.” The voice sounding familiar, Craig stops in midstride, freezing in place. He turns and glances down the street to focus on the homeless girl he has given so many envelopes to, every Friday, in the passing months. He turns and walks towards her, his stride quickening. Martha stands and faces Craig as he reaches her. Gently grasping Martha by the shoulders, Craig gazes deeply into her eyes, and for a second time a smile graces his face. “Marty? Marty, is this really you?” A tear flows down Martha’s cheek. One of thousands in the last week. She smiles sweetly. “It is actually Martha, Craig. I am Martha, and thank you for you kindness you have given me every Friday afternoon.” Craig cups Martha’s face and gently kisses her then hugs her close. “Martha, this has been my Investment of a Lifetime.” THE END


He had worn out his welcome and made a mess in the living room, so my Christmas house guest had to go. This happens every year. My partner has a roving eye--I don’t mind who she brings home--we’re open like that. It was mid-December when I came home from work and there he was, standing in the living room. It seems that every December without fail she hooks up with some long-limbed six-footer, and next thing you know he makes himself the center of attention. Oh well, whatever makes her happy, right? Every year I beg her not to bring ‘em home and for once maybe keep things simple, but no. She has some sort of need that only this sort can fulfill. I’m not really into these woodsy types but I have to admit he was good looking. He had a particular scent, hard to describe, like the outdoors. Plus he put her in a better mood. I have to admit he did look pretty festive all dressed up in holiday colors. But by New Year’s day I had enough, he was now dropping shit left and right on the carpet. I asked her to get rid of him, but she didn’t want to, she called me a spoil-sport killing the party too soon. So it was up to me to take him out. She went out shopping and left me alone with him: this was my chance. I had thought ahead--an idea I got from Dexter--and put a plastic sheet down first. He never saw it coming. The plastic sheet worked great, so much less mess on the carpet than the previous ones and I was able to wrap him up in it. After the deed was done, I called up my buddy Mike to help me haul him outside. Mike is the kind of friend who would help you bury a body, so this was no big deal to him. We slid the bag down the steps and into the back yard. "Thanks buddy, I owe you one," I said. “You need any more help with this?” he asked, but I said no. “Why don’t you fire up the chipper-shredder, it’ll take no time,” he said. “Nah, too much noise,” I said “I can just bag him and be done with it”. Once behind the house I got to work. I unwrapped him from the plastic and opened up a disposal sack. I looked around but nobody was outside, yet I needed to work quickly and quietly just in case. I started by cutting off the smaller parts. This was harder than I thought, my cutters must need sharpening. After a few minutes I was left with some of the larger pieces. I used a saw to cut those down to size. I considered just putting him the back of my truck and dumping him somewhere, but too much risk of getting caught, it seems like even dumpsters have security cams these days. And so under cover of darkness I filled up the two brown sacks containing our Christmas guest, his name was Douglas something. Douglas Fir. At first I thought he was joking, what sick parents would name someone after a type of Christmas tree? But despite being soaked in blood, the name on his drivers license was still visble: Douglas James Fir. Later today I may need to haul these bags off, already they are starting to smell.


Tearing asunder concrete jungles like cleavers through plastic, I ride with reckless abandon. I care not about the splattered flesh I leave in my wake - they don't even exist. I refuse to acknowledge them; I can't acknowledge them, literally. Where do they supplement their hubris, these humans, to defy me? I entangle myself through their ancient machinations; I run rampant through their olden civilizations; I give birth to colors among the sea of sandstone and concrete. I taste the blood of a trillion unnoticed cuts, thorns and jagged testaments. My sculptures lay defaced, lay stripped down and mocked. I give life and take it - they steal beauty, these humans. Monsters, the lot of them - a plague. I do what I can to recover, but I heal too slowly. My sundress is in tatters, and my tears dry faster than I produce them. I'm getting so warm. I am the progenitor of my downfall. I see humans tattoo me... scar me. The seek to replace me with them. Them! Them. They seek to replace what I've done. I am a monument of divinity; I am the seed and the egg. And my offspring is the matricide. I hear my oak fingers splinter. I smell the clouds parting overhead. I am no stranger to tragedy, but rarely am I the cause of my own. I see in the distance my wailing brothers and sisters, and our mother. They mourn their dichotomous sister. My adoption, just outside my reach, and which should also be out of reach to these humans, is also tainted. Impaled by brazen vendetta and pride. What have these humans done? My guardians lack the power to defend me. My beneficiaries are slaughtered and farmed. I wished not such torment, it is impossible. The humans will be my downfall, and thus, will be their downfall. They do not speak my language - only I do - but they don't have to. They see me wince and shiver as they poke and prod. I am not a factory. I am sustenance. They will see me roar, mark my silence. Each blink of my eyes lasts lifetimes, each heartbeat eons. Who do they think they are to resent me? My warnings - their warnings, they go unheeded. My retaliations go ignored. I am all but dominated. Soon we will all be barren rock. Dried oceans. Fruitless trees and meatless corpses. But I will live on past my own extinction, as I always have. I will have new, new and wonderous children. But this blight, this human curse, has reaped its harvest of misery. They think me silent, but my weapons are wordless - the devastation speaks for itself. I will be the ultimate champion of this war of attrition, but I will not be the victor. Nobody will be the victor. I am the ageless infinite. The temporary always. I am the seed and the egg. I am the solemn mother of life. I cannot forget, and I cannot forgive. I am the Earth, and I am undefeated.


Placing a small headband littered with a few small blue flowers in my hair, I look at myself in the mirror and wish I had chosen a different hair style. This one makes me look too much like the one person I never want to be. I shrug to myself, knowing there is not much time now before I have to leave, so there is no fixing my hair to a different style. Hopefully, dressing myself with a smile is all I need to not be seen as him. Turning to the door, I make my way down to my car and drive over to my Grandma’s house. I have known her as Mawmaw my entire life, but I have to always explain to people what Mawmaw even means, so I always introduce her as Grandma at first. Now that I have everyone on the same page, let’s get back to the story I wanted to share. I am on her doorstep, oh I forget how I got here so quickly. I must have spaced out on that drive thinking about what I need to get done at her house. I glance at my reflection in the rear view mirror, noticing the smile does help. From the car, I hear Mawmaw’s dog yapping. She has the ugliest mini-chihuahua called Betsy. Betsy hates everyone, even Mawmaw honestly, but they are two peas in a pod. I knock slightly, causing Betsy to crank up the yipping. I stare at the fecal brown door wondering if Mawmaw is in the back of the house or basement, so I knock again. I hear some shuffling, it might be a few more moments but I know she heard me now. Betsy calms down a bit so Mawmaw must have also threatened her with her cane. I continue to stare at the door with it’s grumpy looking mat that says ,” STAY AWAY!!!”. At least it doesn’t have anything that reminds me I look like the worst human in the world. Taking my thoughts back to the door and house, I realize the whole front of this house matches Mawmaw perfectly, cantankerous and unwelcoming. Finally reaching the door, Mawmaw throws it open with a humph. She yells back at Betsy to shut up, though I don’t understand why since that dog never bothers to obey. Betsy has come racing, yipping to the door and Mawmaw whips her cane in the teensy terror’s way and she skids back narrowly avoiding the stick of doom. At this point, I think Betsy has seen the error of her ways and yips quietly from a distance while glaring at me with those black, buggy, alien-like eyes. I think she used to be cute, but it must have been fleeting. My attention going back to Mawmaw, I see the same glare. “Well! Are you coming in or letting my heat out!? I am missing my program cause you are here”, she says shortly, already turning back into her hallway and shuffling down to the living room. “Shut that door and lock the locks”, she calls back to me. Slipping off my black ankle boots, I place them in the shoe rest. Betsy eyeing me the entire time. She knows I bring her bribes. I pull some of the kibbles from my pocket and give them to her as I walk past. I follow Mawmaw to her favorite room of the house aside from the basement, where she teases she has buried the bodies of those who annoy her most. The family thinks it is a joke she tells, but I am sometimes not sure that it is a complete lie. She finished marching, as well as an 82 year old woman who walks with a cane can march over to her seat in the living room. I see she has gained a few dozen more magazines and newspapers. Looking at the covers I notice they are her usual fare of absurd and magical stories that aren’t usually true, but she loves them. She sits down, wiggling her rump into the perfect spot on her chair, grabs her aghan, props her cane against the armrest of the chair, and leans back with a satisfied sigh. You would think she has just finished a hard day’s work in the garden, not walked the 20 feet to and from the door. “Clear yourself a seat girl, and don’t you dare move Betsy’s bed”, She says to me sharply while unmuting her program. Standing there for a few seconds more I find a place I can clear off to sit, it is just a wooden chair off to the right of her. Before clearing myself a spot and settling in, I do what I always do when I first arrive. “Mawmaw, do you need anything before I get comfortable? I think a cup of tea sounds delightful, what about you?” I knew this would upset her, for some reason she doesn't like me in the kitchen. “You stay out of my kitchen!” She snaps at me, this time looking away from her TV show to make sure I am thoroughly afraid of her. I am not. “Don’t be sensitive Mawmaw, I was only offering a warm beverage”, I placate. “It isn’t helpful, you go in there and put things away in all the wrong places thinking you know better and.....” Interrupting her, “ That is because your idea of putting stuff away is to leave it all on the counter Mawmaw.” She almost screams to me “That is so I can reach it!” “Ok ok, I forget you are old and short, you don’t need to get short with me about it” winking at her I hope she gets the joke. She is about to say something back at me in return, but lets out a few humphs and sighs instead. She mutters under her breath, shakes her head at me, then looks back to her tv program. I relinquish my fight at this time to make her tea, and make sure she has enough groceries. She is either going along with the ruse or hasn’t picked up on my true motive of annoying her with the dishes. When I am “rummaging and ruining” her kitchen, I’m actually taking down a grocery list for her. Yes, she still goes out shopping for her groceries herself, but I began to notice she didn’t have a lot in her cupboards. Since she isn’t the tidiest of people, I have found her bank statements and noticed she doesn’t have a lot budgeted towards food. To help her, I go out and buy her the more expensive delicacies that she is unable to afford or maybe just won’t spoil herself with. Truthfully, I am not sure if she just forgets that she didn’t buy them or we have a silent agreement to not speak of it. Looking around the room, I realize how messy it is. She hasn’t been in the mood for cleaning it seems. I move the old magazines from the chair, placing them gently on the table that already seems to be holding more than its fair share of books and papers, and is that a banana skin? I will deal with that later. Sitting down, I look over at Mawmaw to see if she noticed me assessing my cleaning priorities, she is still staring at her program. Betsy now comes in, she stayed away to let me be the sole target for the scolding, and sits on her bed. Her bed are the other two cushions on the couch next to Mawmaw. The couch only has three sections and the dog takes up the majority of it. Betsy is 3 pounds. It is ridiculous that Mawmaw lets her, but that dog seems to be the only thing that keeps making Mawmaw happy, if you can call how she is happy. We watch some daytime television, Mawmaw makes rude comments to everyone on the show, but she seems to enjoy this daily ritual of hers. I do my best to come and see her two to three times a week. Most of the family hate Mawmaw because she is quite cantankerous and can come across as uncaring and ungrateful. She is rude, gruff, and can be generally unpleasant but she hasn’t been nasty to me. She has always been the one to fully support me in all my crazy ways. I don’t mind her for her ways either. She is in her own way a good soul. Unlike the person I see in my reflection. I wish I looked a bit more like MawMaw did at my age, then I wouldn’t hate myself so much. She is a much better person than the son she created. Like I previously mentioned, I’ve seen her budget. Maybe she could afford herself some better treats for her meals, but she gives most of her meager pension to orphans and charities. I was surprised to see this, but she has done a lot of research in her charities and really cared about where she was placing her money. She would rather go without her favorite meal, salmon with asparagus and rice pilaf, than not pay towards some kid in Africa to have a decent meal. That’s where I step in and make sure she has her salmon for her rice pilaf. I admire her, she is a strong fighter. She didn’t have to take care of me when I was a kid and my parents were nowhere to be found, but she did the right thing and made me a bedroom and got me into the right schools. She always provided my meals, a good education, and unwavering support. She was, is, and will always be rough around that edges but this is a woman who did the best she could for me. She isn’t a nurturer, but she loved me through her actions. She also never asked me to be anything but me, not many of my friends growing up had that same freedom. Mawmaw is a grump and likes her space. She may appear annoyed or inconvenienced about my visits, but I know she appreciates them. It makes me happy when she tells me about the meals she found in her fridge, or the “Thank you” text I get a few days later after I cleaned some of the parts of her house. I helped her with her garden a lot last year and then the canning. That was a feat I am not looking forward to helping her with again, but it keeps her so happy and healthy that I will have to help. My favorite thing to do is to put her dishes in the wrong spot, just to irritate her. Please don’t tell her that though. After watching about a half hour's worth of the daytime program where the host of the show brings on celebrities to mock them or shock them, I finally get up and start heading to the kitchen. “Just where do you think you are walking off to young lady?” she calls to me without peeling her eyes from the tv. “It is time for tea”, I quip. “Don’t touch those dishes” “I make no promises” I reply as I move her cane away from her “You trickster! If you even dare think of touching those dishes I will bag up all of Betsy’s poop and hide it in your car the next time you come over!” Already in the kitchen, I grin and examine the kitchen. I have to clean it, she hasn’t touched it since earlier this week. Debating my options, I go ahead and start cleaning the kitchen. Next week I will just have to deal with dog poop in the car. I know I will because this won’t be the first time she has done this. She is the person that does not make empty threats. Treating her well makes me feel less like the person I see most prominently in the mirror that reflects the side of me I wish I didn’t have to see. She may have created him, but he clearly didn’t see the love and care she does give. My reflection will eventually not bring me shame or sadness, but that is a story for another day.


When I was a kid I had a monster at the end of my bed. It wasn’t like everyone else's monster, all teeth and scary eyes. Mine was different. Every night, when the lights went out, there would be nothing at the end of my bed. A horrible, ominous mass of nothing, looming in the dark. Some nights the nothing would touch me. Those nights were the worst. I would be engulfed by a feeling like coldness. It wasn’t cold though, wasn’t anything really, but it was like cold, like the idea of cold. I know that doesn’t quite make sense, but that’s what it felt like. When the nothing got too near it was overwhelming. I could feel it pressing down on my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. The nothing would loom over me, an inch away from my face, too close. It didn’t have any recognisable features, wasn’t anything close to human. It was just a mass of nothing at all. A big, gaping absence. I can still remember that exact feeling, being a small child paralysed by fear. An indescribable terror, of nothing. Nothing physical, nothing real, nothing I could explain. But, like all kids and their monsters, I grew out of it. The nothing stopped appearing at the end of my bed, and eventually I thought about it so little I almost forgot about it entirely. Now I had proper adult things to worry about like taxes and climate change. I was about 24 when I noticed it again. It wasn’t the same as before, but still, i recognised it. My nothing. It came back so gradually I didn’t even realise it was there for so long. I was at work, sat at my desk, trying to focus and refocus and focus again on something deeply meaningless. I felt something like coldness. Not cold, but something close. Time shifted, I couldn’t tell if it had sped up or slowed almost to a halt, but it had changed. The wave of nothing slowly abated, but I don’t know if it ever went away entirely. It came back again the next week. I had been walking to the station. The wind hit my cheek, but I didn’t feel it. Or I did? But not as much somehow. It was as if I knew the wind was on my face, but I knew it in a different time, or a different place. My walking became somebody else's. Somebody I was watching. Like playing a game, I was controlling a character, I knew it was mine, but somehow it wasn’t me. Over time the nothing engulfed me. It filled my body, compressing me into the centre of myself. I no longer touched the edges. Everything I saw, felt or did was through a thick membrane of nothing. It began replacing parts of me, displacing them with absence. Like a parasite. It ate parts of my memory, I would lose names, whole people and moments of my own history. It took my joy, and my sadness too. It was totally indiscriminate. I was small, inside myself, and everything was so hard. I fought so hard to even exist. I was fighting nothing, there was nothing there. Nothing oppressive, nothing parasitic. Just me. I’m not a little kid anymore. There are no monsters under my bed. I am scared of nothing.


Greetings avid readers. Allow me to welcome you to another one of my unusual stories. This one is a bit different, which is why I am speaking unto you in this manner. The name was generated by their title generator. I found it quite appropriate considering my interests and the tea I stumbled onto a few days ago. This one is a mixture of fact and fiction. I have based the fact on past evidence. I will even give you a website address to do your own research at the end. Who knows that it may inspire you to become an amateur astrologist. The fiction part may or may not be fiction. It is a prediction based on the past. If it is fiction, well and good. If it is not, then the generation of our current youth will find themselves buried before 70. Oh yes, my darling confederates, if my fiction becomes your fact, the future is dire indeed. Permit me to introduce you to a wayward asteroid called Chiron. Chiron is the wounded healer. When in certain locations, either approaching Aries or in Aries, he tends to have somewhat of a plague influence on our beautiful planet. The plagues I speak of remain contained to the human species. Which, when I reflect, is odd. Astrology should affect everything. This is something for me to ponder another day. Perhaps you, my reader, will leave me a comment illuminating that subject further. Chiron isn't the only interstellar magnetic influence on our fair planet. There are the star signs which involve the interplay of magnetism of the stars on our planet. Fixed stars also affect us, less so than the signs. Countless other numerous asteroids tickle our magnetic field. The biggest influence is the planets. When it comes to global health, Chiron is the key. (I'm serious. Check out his symbol.) Enable us to bring to mind the Black Plague. Wasn't that a doozy? I've looked it up on the chart and Chiron is in Taurus in 1347 which is what we have on when it was. The year could be wrong, considering Taurus is after Aries. When I look at 1338, it makes a bit more sense. Chiron and Pluto (the planet of death) are having an interstellar tango of epic proportions. They say that 5 to 40% of the world's population died during that time. Considering the magnetic fields interacting, I'd hazard a guess at above 50%. Cast your mind back to the Spanish Influenza of the late 1910s. Chiron was not quite yet in Aries, but he was less than a year is approaching. The energy of attraction, his magnetic field influence the stars of Aries, was already in play. Boom. Here comes a nasty plague. A quick aside here. I base my goods on normal Western/Tropical Astrology. Vedic Astrology is more precise. It is something I am looking into studying for my own best interests. Moving along to the season where I was born - the 1970s. Chiron has been especially unkind to me. That feisty asteroid was retrograde near the peak of its Aries season at the time of my birth. All this is in my 6th house of health. I've had accidents, sicknesses that have made attempts on my life more than a dozen times. Yes, I've even had Covid-19. Let me give the story a quick update. I've just looked into the Spanish Influenza. Chiron was in Pisces at that time. Chiron was in Pisces in the 70's (see paragraph beneath). Chiron is in Pisces now. I tried looking on the sidereal astrology chart for the black plague, but alas, the years wouldn't go back that far. Vedic astrology uses adjustments. The fixed stars seem to move backward according to Earth's perspective. They do this at the rate of 1 degree every 72 years. It is possible that Chrion was in Pisces during the Black Plague. All this would make perfect sense, in that case. The 1970s gave us the Swine Flu at Fort Dix. It awarded us with the Russian Flu. The UK got a Smallpox outbreak. Hello, hello, Ebola! Legionnaires disease - another one I've done battle with. There was also a Sverdlovsk Anthrax incident. Let us not forget that the end of the 70s brought us the beginning of HIV/AIDS. If you ask me half of these are manufactured by the one-world government scientists that do not exist. (Do you hear the X-File theme running in the background of your mind? I do.) Moving along now, to now. Welcome Coronavirus. Isn't that a nasty puppy? I was looking at the star charts 6 months before it happened. It is something I do every so often to get a grasp on my life. I am no expert. I do see the energies right. It is translating it that is the problem. Often I do not understand in full until after the event. In one way it is nice to be right. The joy of being correct removes itself because of what I am on the ball about. 2 days ago, I was sitting in Qatar airport, doing nothing but waiting for a flight to Sydney for 12 hours. Well, maybe I wasn't doing anything. I was reading a chapter on astrology in a book. For some odd reason, I found myself inspired to look at an astrology chart. My specific goal was to suss out the next big plague that will be hitting our planet in about 50 odd years. Pulling out my phone, connected to the free Hamad wifi, I went to my go-to website for perusing interstellar and planetary energies. There I went for to the 2070s. Do the words 'Holy Crap' convey the astonishment that I felt? That's the next big nasty. Coronavirus is nothing compared to that. Once again, Pluto and Chiron will be making a deadly love on the backdrop of the cosmos. It is a dance that may take out half the world's current population. When Mars steps in for a threesome, watch out. Death and destruction. Chaos, but the order will be lost, for good. There is a lot more to what I saw than just this, but I will remain silent for now. Now comes something highly controversial which could get me killed. It doesn't matter too much for 2 reasons. Number 1, I've labeled this story as fiction. Number 2, the same people that would love to have me killed have been trying for years in a multitude of ways. As you can tell, they have been successful (and they have, but God is more powerful than them.). I'm going to speak on the vaccine. Yes, I've had my vaccine, both doses. I'm having my third tomorrow. I am well aware of the agent I am dealing with and it does not bother me as it should. If God wants me dead, I'll die. If he doesn't, I won't. The vaccine. Notice how they have made it so that even young children can have the vaccine. Pay attention to the fact that the vaccine doesn't stop the virus. Believe me, I told the virus I am vaccinated. The response was that the virus did not care. Dose after dose the population will be inured with. They started with the adults. A red herring, of course. Now they are doing the children. We must have our ineffective vaccine so that we can retain what few human rights we think we have left. Why? I'll leave that one for you to answer. If you have an answer, feel free to share it at the end of my story. I am always willing to listen to other people's thoughts. What if the depopulation agenda isn't about 2030 but a time 50 years in the future. Who will they be de-populating in the future? The people whose immune systems were compromised at a time in their life when they were still vulnerable. The children of now and the future. This business about 2030 depopulation is nothing but another red herring put out by their paid co-conspirators. It's a 2070 depopulation agenda. Even the numbers add up for their sick, twisted business. Are you following my line of thought? I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong. What if I'm right? Will I even be around at that time to say 'Hey, I told you all so.' What if they aren't just immunizing us against a virus, but deliberately compromising immune systems for the release of a future virus? Do you think they aren't like that at the top? Be honest. We all know the truth. There you go. That is my story. If you want to find where I have come up with my theories, please head to https://horoscopes.astro-seek.com/ to do your own research. Don't forget you can always google different things. I would love to hear about what you come up with, the information, and your theories. Careful, however, you don't want to find yourself on the bad side of these goons. Never The End


Ananias watched the first ball of clay strike from the edge of the crowd. A man stood before the cliff with arms outstretched. His eyes remained open but he showed no emotion even as the clay began to rain. The rising sun signaled the beginning of the execution and the impatient crowd did not wait for the blessing of the priest, who mouthed words lost among the roar. Many aimed for the man's face only to watch their clay fly over the cliff, though some hit their mark. Some came with bowls filled, while others traded their salt to vendors, who had come with their carts heavy. Soon, the clay piled up past the man's waist and he struggled to keep his arms extended with the added weight. The fallen clay at his feet rose as fast as the sun, and as it reached his chin, the priest raised a hand, stopping the crowd immediately. The priest approached the man followed by his aides, he gestured to them, and they began to wash the clay from the man's face with wet cloths. Addressing the crowd; the priest did not raise his voice. "So ends Saul. A man who sought to test our faith and further us from our lord. He sought to destroy the tower, and though he succeeded in felling it, the tower is eternal as our faith. Many have sacrificed their lives building the tower, knowing their ancestors would one day reach the heavens. That day will come. Saul stands as the foundation. We will build anew." As the priest turned to leave, Saul spoke. Though he had remained silent throughout the drawn out execution, he cried a few words in a strained voice that pierced the crowd. "We make the same mistakes!" Those still gathered approached Saul and pressed their remaining clay into the mass that trapped him. Some spat at him, others cursed him. He kept his blank stare and responded to nothing. Many remained past noon to watch the clay begin to harden and see if Saul would finally break. They became bored when it became clear he would not gave them the satisfaction, and eventually Ananias found himself with only a priest's aide, and a group of impatient men who had not ceased in taunting Saul. One called out to Ananias: "What's that in your hand? You should know he can't hurt you. What are you waiting for?" Ananias looked down to the clay still clutched in his hand. He had squeezed much of it out between his fingers absentmindedly and had somehow forgotten he still had it. Ananias dropped the clay at his feet and the man yelled out in protest. Ananias ignored him and walked towards the statue of a Saul. He studied him for a moment. Saul did not seem capable of it. No man alone did. To destroy the tower that had stood for generations in a single night. The reason seemed clear. Saul had spent his life building the tower, and now knew he would never see it finished. Still, something did not seem right. Why would he remain to face execution if he was responding to a life in service of the church? "It doesn't matter." Saul's head bobbed as he moved his jaw. The clay had begun to harden under his chin. Ananias was startled and jumped slightly before asking "What did you say?" "It doesn't matter." Saul responded. "What doesn't matter?" Saul let out a long sigh before saying once more "It doesn't matter." "What does matter?" Saul met Ananias's stare. "That's a good question." With that, Saul closed his eyes. Ananias looked out over the cliff, along the river to the horizon before leaving Saul to rest.


“Y’know, I heard egg salads are really healthy,” Will said to the waiter, looking at an article about the health benefits of egg salads on his smartphone. “I’ll have an egg salad.” “Sure thing! And what would you like, sir?” the waiter asked, glancing at Trent. “I’ll just have the T-bone steak, medium,” Trent replied, folding his menu and laying it on the table. “Are you sure you don’t want to try today’s special?” the waiter asked. “Oh, what’s that?” Trent asked, furrowing his eyebrow. “The egg salad, of course. Everyone loves it,” the waiter answered. “N-no thanks, I’ll just have the steak,” Trent declined, shaking his head subtly. “Oh, alright, what would you like for a side? Would you like a baked potato, fries, or an egg salad?” the waiter asked, fiddling with his pen and dodging his eyes around the room. “Hey, Trent, try the egg salad. I heard it’s really good,” Will insisted to Trent. “Erm, I’ll have...just a a side of fries, please,” Trent said, eating a piece of buttered pumpernickel bread. “Alright. Your food will be ready soon,” the waiter said, walking away. Will was scrolling through social media posts on his smartphone, fixated. “So, have you heard anything from Jon?” Trent asked. Will continued scrolling through social media posts. “Will?” Trent snapped. “Wh-oh, sorry. What?” Will blurted. “Have you heard about Jon?” Trent asked again. “No, why?” Will asked, curious. “He’s usually an avid texter--always texting me one thing or another. He hasn’t been texting recently,” Trent said. “Did something, like, happen with his girlfriend? Last time he broke up, he didn’t talk to any of us for like a month,” Will indicated. “I was thinking that too. Last time he texted me, he told me he was having some troubles with Amanda,” Trent said. The waiter came, with a tray of several dishes of egg salad. “Oh, it’s here!” Will exclaimed, ready to eat more egg salad. However, the waiter continued walking by as he served the egg salad to a few people at another booth. Trent wondered why everyone was ordering egg salad. Is the egg salad THAT good? What kind of stuff is in that? Trent thought, looking at the waiter serve egg salad. The entire restaurant had a distinct smell--that of lots of eggs. Trent peered around. Everyone was eating egg salad. Everyone. Something seemed to be wrong to Trent. Surely someone would get a steak--or a nice baked potato--but all egg salads? Trent stared at the couple across from Will and him. They were both eating egg salads, and they both devoured the egg salads with their eyes wide, wide open. Something was very, very peculiar about these egg salads. No, Trent thought. I'm just over-thinking things. It's just the latest food craze. The waiter passed by, this time with a tray of steak and egg salads. It was for them. “An egg salad...and a T-bone steak with fries,” the waiter said under his breath. “We threw in a bonus egg salad for you,” the waiter said, staring at Trent. “Oh--thanks...” Trent muttered under his breath, tapping his fingers on the table. “Oh, hey, they gave you an extra egg salad. That’s cool!” Will exclaimed. “Thanks,” Trent said, waving to the waiter as he walked off taking others’ orders. Trent was cutting his steak and snatched a few fries. “Alright, I hope the hype is worth it,” Will said as he poured the special sauce on, scooped it the egg salad, and, without hesitation, ate it. “Woah, this is really, really good, Trent! You need to try it!” Will exclaimed, his mouth stuffed with food. “I guess I’ll try it,” Trent hesitated. He grabbed a spoon and scooped his egg salad with his fork. “Okay, here goes nothing,” Trent said as he ate the egg salad. “It’s not that good--I mean, it’s okay. Like, I don’t exactly understand the craze over these egg salads,” Trent said, slightly confused. “What do you mean? It’s the best food in the world!” Will said, shoving yet more egg salad into his mouth. “How have you not choked yet?” Trent joked. “If I choke and die, I will die in happiness,” Will said, cramming more food into his mouth. “Are you gonna eat that?” Will asked with egg salad falling out of his mouth. “Meh, you can have it, I guess,” Trent said, eating some bites of steak. “Thanks!” Will exclaimed, gobbling his egg salad down at an unmatched rate. “It should be illegal how good this is!” Will said as a ball of chewed-up egg salad fell out of his mouth. As Trent was chewing steak, a shadow loomed over him. It was the waiter with a tray of yet more egg salad. “All out of egg salad, I see. Try some more,” the waiter said, fiddling with his mustache. “You bet I want more!” Will exclaimed in ecstasy. Trent looked around. Now was a perfect chance to voice his growing concerns over the egg salad. “Hey, uh, waiter, do you, like, know what’s in the egg salad?” Trent asked, interrogatively. “Well, sir, you see, there’s eggs, and there’s...Well...There’s other stuff, I think. Look, I don’t know! I’m not a chef! I’m a waiter!” the waiter said nervously. “Look,“ Trent said, facepalming. Trent felt a sudden rush of anger. “What makes these egg salads taste different from other egg salads? What makes everyone so damn obsessed with these salads?” “Well, sir, it’s--it’s--it’s a secret recipe, sir,” the waiter stuttered. “We have allergen info, though, if you need it!” the waiter said, faking enthusiasm, with a slight chuckle. “No--no, I don’t need allergen information..I’m allergic to cats--that’s all,” Trent muttered. “D-Did you, um, not like the egg salad, sir?” the waiter asked. “It didn’t taste that good--I’m just confused why everyone likes it, but--“ “Oh, I’m so, so sorry, sir! I forgot the sauce! Oh, silly me! I’ll get you a free egg salad,” the waiter said. “No, thanks--I’ll just have a refill for my drink,” Trent looked at Will, and he could not believe his eyes. The bowls of egg salad the waiter brought were clean. Will was licking them. Will was devouring every crumb of the egg salad and every drop of sauce. “Oh, yuck! Will, what has gotten into you?” Trent exclaimed. “It’s egg salad! Maybe you just got a bad batch!” Will uttered. “Hey, waiter, get my friend here some egg salad--with extra dressing,” Will said, whispering to the waiter. “Oh, right away!” the waiter said, excitedly how to dashing to the kitchen once again. “What did you say to him, Will?” Trent asked, enraged. “I hope you didn’t ask for egg salad!” “Uh--well--uh--“A large man in a tuxedo suit came and slammed his hands on the table. “Is there a problem here?” the man said in a condescending tone. “N-no,” Trent muttered, nervously. “I heard a complaint about the egg salads. They said it was from a guy in a red shirt at table twenty-two,” the man said, squinting his eyes. “Now tell me, the manager of this restaurant, what’s the problem here?” the manager asked, almost in a soothing voice. The manager leaned close into Trent’s face. He looked like a stereotypical businessman--a tuxedo, black leather shoes, good posture, slick, black hair, a masculine face, and he seemingly had a recent shave. “No, I just don’t want to order it,” Trent said, leaning back to not have the manager breathe in his face. “Everyone likes my egg salad. Everyone,” the manager said pointing at Trent’s face intimidatingly. “Hey, get me some more egg salad!” Will said, demandingly. "Enough!" Trent yelled ferociously, his fists clenched, and his teeth grinding. “I’m leaving. I’m leaving. I have to go,” Trent said, determined to leave. “No need to fight. I’ll get you both two egg salads...each. On the house, too!” the manager said, smirking. “Will, you have had enough! You complain about never having a girlfriend, and here you are eating so many damn bowls of egg salad! I thought you were on a diet, Will! You need to stop this,” Trent said, pointing his finger at Will. “Please stay! Have an egg salad! It’s free!” the manager said. Trent exited the booth and frantically walked to the exit. As he was walking to the exit, he saw something. He stopped for a moment. It was Jon and his girlfriend, Amanda. They were eating egg salad too! Egg salads are certainly what stopped Jon from texting. “This is bad,” Trent said, quietly. Trent grabbed Jon by his shirt and shook him. “Wake up, Jon!” “Hey! Trent! Have an egg salad!” Jon said, with half-chewed egg salad spilling out of his mouth as he shoved egg salad in Trent’s face. Trent stood up and dashed for the door. This was going too far. The manager started chasing after Trent. “It’s free egg salad!” the manager shouted. “Just take a bite!” Trent dashed to the door, but a woman in her 80’s grabbed him. “Do you want some egg salad, sweetie?” Suddenly, all the customers flocked to Trent, their eyes rolled up, egg salad smeared across their faces and falling out of their mouths. Trent tried to stop them. He called for help. Nobody answered his cries. Trent, too, became a victim to egg salads.


Over the years, a number of people have asked why I’m so jumpy and nervous all the time. I’ve even been described as uncomfortable in my own skin. While unflattering, that characterization is pretty valid. If I’m not feeling particularly generous with my personal explanations, I just make up an excuse about it being a normal part of my temperament. That usually ends the conversation. I presume my brother and sisters have fielded the same question. It’s a reasonable thing to wonder about four paranoid adults like us but the disturbing truth comes with a tangled answer. As my Papa ‘came clean’ to us years ago about a grave mistake he made in a moment of spiritual weakness, I’ve decided to share his story with you. Suit yourself over whether you believe it or not. Frankly I wouldn’t believe it myself but Papa had no doubt at all. Over time, his ironclad defense of the story went a long way toward convincing my siblings and I to keep glancing over our shoulders. I was raised in less-than-ideal circumstances. Born into abject poverty in a rural part of Eastern Kentucky, my teenage parents struggled to make ends meet. Life was deeply religious in our part of the country back then. In that way, I suppose my upbringing wasn’t so different from others around me. Pa got work in a coal mine and Ma did housekeeping for rich people. My three siblings and I had plenty of chores ourselves to do around the tarpaper shack. It was the first thing we did after school in the evening. Papa didn’t have time. He didn’t get home until late. He was always covered in coal dust and coughed up copious amounts of blackened phlegm. It was the Appalachian working man’s burden. I always felt bad for both my folks. The mine dust was rough on Papa, and Mama worked her fingers to the bone washing and cleaning. Then after working all day long for other folks, they came home and still had countless things to do. My brother and I couldn’t tote the wheelbarrow up to the house. It was too heavy. We just chopped the firewood and filled it full for use in the stove. Papa still had to bring it up to the house when he came home. Both of my sisters cooked and cleaned while Ma was working but washin’ clothes at the riverbank was something she had to take care of. Every day, the cycle of responsibilities would start over. The only day they ever had off was Sunday, and that was set aside for religious things at the church. They were very devout back then. One Tuesday morning there was a horrible collapse at the mine. We all feared the worst. The story made the national news. Mama prayed for Papa to make it back to us but the mining company spokesman said the shaft was completely shut off. They had no air to breathe. In all, there were 23 men trapped in the mine for eight days. 23 households awaited a miracle but in the end, only one family got ‘the man of the house’ back. Ours. The other miners died. Either from the deadly collapse itself, starvation, fear, or from slow asphyxiation. There are no pleasant ways to pass on, but dying in a pitch black coal mine was surely one of the worst. We were so grateful that he survived but at the same time, we felt terrible for the others. I went to school with several kids who lost their Papa. It was very awkward to celebrate our good fortune in the presence of the bereaving families. Ma warned us to be solemn and respectful around town, to avoid stirring up emotions in the less fortunate. We didn’t know it at the time but there was another reason for her call for discretion. Reporters came a callin’ but Papa refused the speak to any of them about his harrowing ordeal. As a kid, he’d been locked in a closet by his old man as punishment for bad marks in school. He’d been terrified of the dark all his life but toughed it out every day to put bread on the table. We assumed the disaster was too painful for him to think about; or he was keeping quiet out of respect for those who didn’t make it. The truth was infinitely more sinister. In a time when most people would assume my parents would become even more strong in their faith, they stopped going to church altogether. The folks around town started gossiping. Tongues wagged at our apparent lack of appreciation for him being spared. Instead of them being angry at the damn mining company for dangerous, unsafe working conditions, they resented Pa for being the only survivor! No one was willing to hire him after that. He was cursed in more ways than one. He had the ‘nerve’ to walk out of a collapsed mine shaft with no apparent contrition, while others paid with their lives. They had no idea of the truth of the matter. My siblings and I couldn’t help but notice my parents’ unsubtle shift away from religion. Ma kept telling us to ‘let it go’ but finally one night, Pa broke his silence. He confessed to us that like all the other doomed souls trapped in that dark shaft, he prayed to the lord to be spared. He wasn’t ready to die and didn’t want to leave us financially destitute. No matter how fervent any of them were in their pleas, their prayers went unanswered. One by one, the others succumbed to injury, deadly mine gases, hunger, or a lack of oxygen. Completely alone in the madness of death’s belly, Pa lost all hope. In his moment of greatest weakness and desperation, he gave up his faith, forever. He cast it aside like an old unused shovel. All the years spent praying in church for unity with God had been useless. The lord didn’t answer any of his pitiful cries. The miners were abandoned and in their tomb. For Papa to die alone in the cruel, closet-like darkness terrified him more than anything else in the world. Many of the perished men in the trapped crew were pious, God-fearing folks; and yet they had been forsaken in the end. If it was a test of loyalty or faith, their final reward was death. Their families were now fatherless. Papa grew frustrated and angry. In a pivotal moment of spiteful retaliation, he reversed the recipient of his pleas. He prayed to ‘the great adversary’ to spare him. We were wide-eyed in terror at his startling confession but then it grew even worse. He began to sob and shake. He realized that his own life held no collateral value to strike a bargain with since he was near death. Through tears of shame and regret, he admitted that he offered ‘the lord of lies’ one of our lives in exchange for sparing his own! There was no verbal affirmation from the Devil in the encompassing darkness but immediately afterward, a rescue party reconnected the collapsed tunnel. No sooner than the betrayal escaped his lips, they freed him. Pa accepted that ‘coincidence’ as an undeniable confirmation; and that there was no backing out of their diabolical agreement. He firmly believed that at some unknown point in the future, the hammer would drop and the ultimate price would have to be paid for his freedom, by one of us. To the day Pa died of black lung disease and Cirrhosis of the liver, he begged our forgiveness. Ma didn’t blame him and neither did any of us. Under unimaginable circumstances like those, many would’ve given into temptation and offered up horrible things to save themselves. As a man who kept his word with unwavering commitment no matter what, he fully accepted the consequences he believed that he brought upon my siblings and I. We all did. He and Mama turned their backs on the Bible from that day forward. Despite being an unrepentant prodigal to the very end, I think Papa drank himself to death as a form of subconscious penitence. He never forgave himself for “failing to accept death like a man.” Ma died soon afterward from a broken heart. They were interred beside each other at the town cemetery. It’s been more than twenty years since the mine disaster. All of my siblings are still alive but we never talk about ‘the pact’. We’re older now and have experienced a much broader world than the fragile one we grew up in. I’d like to believe we’re immune from believing in the trappings of folktales and curses but the nagging fear still lurks in the back of our minds. It haunts my thoughts and colors my perception of seemingly innocent events. If I hear a strange noise or disturbing shadows on the wall, I wonder: “What if this is it?”, or “What if ‘he’ has come to collect his debt?” We may never talk about it but I know my brother and sisters have the same lingering superstitious affliction. The irrational fear is inescapable. We’ll always worry that the reckoning day has arrived for one of us. It’s the source of our fears.


Lewis walked through a lonely hallway into his lonely room, on a bleak day and his bleak house. The whimsical feelings of joy and grandeur that come with the American dream in a beautiful nuclear family eluded him. For little Lewis wasn’t one of those lucky children to be born into a nuclear family to live out the American dream. Lewis was the child of a single father, Dr. Carroll, the nasty dentist who was never home, and on the occasion that he was he brought the nasty attitude he held at his nasty job. Dr. Carrols beautiful wife was no longer with us, her pale white skin and sunken in eyes had left the earth many years ago. Another poor victim of an overdose and the wonderful adult candy she would steal from Dr. Carroll’s office. Morphine bit her right to her core, it’s the very thing that helped her cope with carrying baby Lewis. “I never wanted this parasite, why am I the one stuck with this thing.” She would say on occasion as she gleefully awaited her baby’s arrival. On that boring Saturday afternoon Lewis was tired. Not from playing or exercising, but the type of exhaustion that follows as your brain turns to mush from hours up days boredom. Just ask any other 11-year-old boy Lewis’ age, they’ll all tell you the horrible torture that comes from being isolated in a house where you have read every book and out grown every toy. With no neighboring friends or pretty girls to faun over Lewis was all alone to deal with his boredom. Its not like anyone wants to be friends with the child of the most dreaded and feared doctor any kid must visit, the scary old dentist. Not to mention the stigma Lewis carried on around him, the rumor that he was haunted by his mother spirit. He picked his skin and itched just like she used to when she didn’t get her candy. Its almost like the boy had similar cravings, only our dear friend Lewis was not brave enough to steal any morphine from his father, if he did he would be beaten to a bloody pulp. As the Saturday went on Lewis’ boredom took greater and greater hold until he couldn’t help but entertain a thought he had lying in the back of his curious little head. He thought to himself about just how much fun it would be to indulge in some of the candy his mother use to take. “But what if father finds out?” the child thought out loud. He contemplated more and more on if he could get away with it or not. Pondering and pondering on that sweet little thought, could he do it? Would he get caught? What would happen if he managed to escape the office with the precious sedative? What would father think if he caught Lewis doing the very thing he hated his mother for doing? All these thoughts raced through the child’s mind as he continued to ponder. It was 2:56 PM, Lewis knew his father had an appointment with a patient at 3:30. He wondered “would I have enough time to sneak into father’s med room before his appointment is up?” For this appointment was longer than a simple twenty-minute teeth cleaning, this appointment in fact had to deal with multiple fillings. Something that would keep Lewis’ father busy for just a little while longer. And if he walked over to the dentist’s office now, he would get there just before the appointment starts. “Maybe its time I finally see what mom loved so much.” The bored preteen thought to himself. In one of the sparse and rare moments of bravery in his short and uneventful life. The morbidly curious boy made his way through the small uneventful town under the gray uneventful sky. He smiled for the first time in weeks as he made his way in the door of his fathers’ nasty old building. A grossly boring building with white walls and grayish blue carpet stained with spit, blood, and god knows what. The sound of a high-powered drill filled the eerily silent sound of the eerily calm building. Lewis checked the clock to see it was none other than the time, 3:45. Now was his golden moment, his time to shine. Lewis asked the middle-aged nurse sitting behind the counter if he could go into the hall of rooms that patients would normally fill on a busier day. At the end of the hall to left, is the room with treasures Lewis covets. Walking quickly but light footedly through the hall that only irradiated with the noise dentistry equipment and disgusting gurgling noises of spit flushing up into the hose whose job is to make the dentists tools just a bit less wet. Down the hall and in the room on the left Lewis found the bottles of the candy he craved. Happily, he stuffed his jacket with the vials and jars that held the sedative. And taking a few needles just to help inject the medicine. Blessed with the first glamour of joy he had felt in many years, the very thought of enjoying the same substance his mother did, made him miss her just a bit less. Dr. Carroll was nearing the end of his appointment. Filling in the teeth of a first-time client, a girl no older than 17. He scolded the child in his mind, the delinquent rotted her teeth with sugary sweets, and every dentist’s biggest pet peeve, she never flossed. Frustrated with this teenager’s negligence towards proper dental care the mean old Dr. Carroll walked down to his medicine room to get a minute to himself as well as grab some supplies for to replace some of the tools he used on his patient. When the old wretched dentist entered the door, he noticed instantly something was off. Something was missing, something had been taken without his knowledge. Someone took one of the good Doctors tooth brushes, the sterile gifts he gives out to all his patients, the hook he uses to bring back his patients. But alas the old cranky dentist walked back to his patient leaving the room and the thought behind him, he had work to do. Lewis slunked back into his old boring house making his way to comfort of his greyish blue room. He walked to his desk digging to find an old rubber band to tie off his arm. On many occasions he saw his mother do this. Tying her arms with shirts, rubber bands, scarves, and even a simple little sting. Lewis found rubber band that he would soon use to cut some circulation in the around the flesh on his tender little arm. Lewis stuck the needle of the syringe he stole from his father into one of the morphine vials he had. He was afraid of taking to much just like his mother, so he only took just a little bit. He stared at his needle in both awe and fear, excited to experience something that would take him away from the awful confines of his boring old life, in his boing old house, and from boring old emptiness he felt. He stared and stared continuing to dwell in his nervous excitement. Finally, he pushed the needle in, it stung and hurt and he wanted to stop but he couldn’t, Lewis needed to commit. He pushed down the syringe, pumping the sweet sedative into his blood stream. Almost instantly he felt a euphoric sense of calming numb the anxiety he felt. It was than that he started to notice he was no longer sitting still. The candy infused boy felt air begin to brush against him in an upward motion, feeling as if he was weightless. His surroundings became dark but with a faint light, he noticed the darkness around him was hallow, and the walls he started to see weren’t walls at all. They were made of dirt, he was in a hole. He fell, and he fell feeling better and better with each coming second. The cool wind against his body, the comfortable darkness with a barely visible light to ease the atmosphere of it all. Lewis felt calm, at ease, and more relaxed than he had ever been in his entire life. It was than he heard a voice, something that normally would have frightened the shy boy. Alas this voice was gentle and sweet, it sounded young and vibrant, like it belonged to a girl no older than he. “Who are you?” Lewis muttered. “I’ll tell you my name when we meet, I’d much rather greet you in person.” The voice said in a playful tone. “I am glad you aren’t scared by the fall, let me sing to you to make it a bit easier on you just in case!” Lewis spoke up “What are you talking about.” “shush.” said the voice in a firm but playful way. “Down in the water the cat sang to me, a story so lonely he couldn’t help but cry, the rabbit came and brought us all away. Straight to a place where anxiety hates to play. Joy and wonder, you will never get older, come with us to play.” The voice sang in a sweet and soothing tone. The euphoria entranced Lewis than awoke abruptly. Back in his gray and boring room Lewis realized he found the key to unlock the door of his boring cell in his boring brain. Just a little bit of that sweet sedative medicine and he would be freed of his boredom and loneliness. Having a beautiful voice sing to him as he fell into eternity. Lewis couldn’t wait until he could go back. But he had the feeling that just jumping back in might not be the best idea. Plus, he didn’t take very much Morphine from his father’s medicine room. He had to make it last otherwise what we he do? Go back to those empty days of empty feelings in his empty life? Lewis adjusted himself to get back to normal, he fixed himself some dinner and noticed a note on the table. “I am out tonight, I don’t like how you choose to waste your time sleeping all day. I still expect you to go to bed on time." Lewis knew it was a note from his father. He felt comfort knowing that his father seemingly didn’t notice the morphine he stole. A few days later Lewis grew bored just as he felt before. The empty loneliness he felt enveloped him again, just as it always did. It ate at him more and more until the boy decided, rather excitedly, that he would indulge in the morphine again. Tying his arm up, he knew that all his negative feelings would abandon him as soon as the candy hit his blood stream. He pushed the needle into his skin and pressed down, releasing the sedative into himself. Once again, he found himself in the dark, falling into infinity as the rabbit hole swallowed him up. Lewis waited for the voice to call out to him again, he was excited to hear her soothing voice again. “Oh, you came back? I am so excited, its been so long since I’ve had a friend as cute as you!” He heard the voice call out. “How do I meet you? I’ve never had a friend before...” Lewis called out. “Just use your imagination.” Called the voice in a playful manor. It was then that Lewis saw a light coming his way, or rather that he was falling into. He fell so fast he felt sick but when he came through the light he instantly felt as if he was stopped. He opened his eyes to realize that he was on top of a massive mushroom, red with polka dot like white spots all around it. He was surrounded by these mushrooms, all in varying height and width. He looked to see if he could find a way down, but he was a bit too high. It was than that he heard the voice “Come down Lewis. Its safe to jump.” So, he did, he turned, and he fell, “its not like I have any other option.” The boy thought to himself as he fell from the mushroom. He landed and rolled, but he didn’t feel any bit of pain. “That was a fantastically graceful landing” laughed the girl whose voice drew the hopeful Lewis down the hole. Lewis looked up just to be stunned, it was a beautiful girl just around his age, he lush blonde hair and deep blue eyes enticed him. “well I am not the most athletic, I am more of a book worm myself.” The nervous boy mumbled. “Oh, don’t be so shy Lewis.” She said. “how do you know my name?” the boy questioned. “We all know you here Lewis, you are of great importance.” The beautiful girl stated. “What you aren’t going to even ask what my name is?” She snarked at him. “Well what is your name?” he asked. “It’s Alice.” Alice began to show Lewis around, she took him to see the straw berry fields where strange creatures that resembled cat like humans, a race of beings who lived for tricks and riddles, loving to play games with all who interacted with them. Alice than brought him to see the Caterpillar, an opium smoking maggot who Lewis hated among seeing the disgusting worm. He mocked Lewis “little boy Carroll the boy who thinks his doom is his release.” Lewis felt like the oversized bug was mocking his use of medication to escape his life perils. But it wasn’t long until Alice took him to her favorite place, a hill by the ocean. An amazing sight that shows of the glorious seas where the water was not blue, but a violet color. The vibrance radiated a beautiful and calming aura that flowed from it, it made Lewis relish in the moment. Alice than took him to her dear friend, Mr. Hatters house. Where Mr. Hatter, a rabbit, and a boy made of wood and scrap metal all surrounded a table with one more open spot. “And that’s where I sit for our dinner and tea parties!” the little blonde girl explained. The whole seen looked straight out of a book, something mystical and whimsical, and oh so marry. But one thing Lewis noticed was that there was no food being served, nor tea to be drunk. Before the boy could question this however he found himself abruptly waking up. He tried to stand up, but his body felt a bit sluggish, like it was lagging behind his thoughts. Lewis was frustrated, he finally met some friends, some others who he could share his time with, others he could share is thoughts with, and a girl he could even try to romance if he ever became brave enough. The wonderous magical wonderland that laid inside his mind or possibly another dimension that the medication took him, held all the things sad little Lewis wanted. He finally understood just why his mother was so addicted to the stuff. The substance gave you a sweet sensation of calming and imaginative bliss. It took you away to a better place. Lewis was in a hurry to rush back but when we looked to see how much morphine he had left in his vial, he realized he might problem. There wasn’t enough left for him to get back to wonderland, there was a little, but it was far less than the amount he had been taking. He wanted to steal more but also feared if he stole more than once every couple of weeks that his observant and nasty dentist of a dad would notice that he had been taking his medication. But Lewis needed to get back, he hated the real world. It wasn’t long until Lewis’s cravings began to overtake him. He wanted to go back, he wanted to get away from his boring and empty life. He wanted to get back to colorful and vibrant radiance that was his own wonderland. And he wanted to be back with his new darling friend Alice, the first girl to ever talk to the lonesome boy. But than Lewis remembered, he remembered that his father had kept medication in his room. Lewis could recall multiple times seeing his dad melt powder onto a spoon before injecting it like the morphine. He could recall his father doing this deep into the night, when he thought Lewis was asleep. Maybe this was also morphine, or maybe something similar. Lewis thought about how much better he would feel if he could escape reality and go back to the land that made him feel alive, made him feel wanted, made him feel at home. Lewis took the powder and put it into a spoon, setting things into motion ready to go. But then he ran into a problem, a big problem. Lewis had no lighter, where would he get one? He searched tearing through drawers and cabinets searching high and low looking for something to use to light up his salvation. He dug deeper and deeper, he couldn’t find anything to help him get back into his own little world. Lewis began to shake and cry and lose it. He didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t take another moment of the abuse of mundane loneliness. He started wallow in his misery and he sobbed. Sobbing and sobbing until he realized....... He could use the stove. He took the spoon and brought it to the stove putting it over the gas lit flames. His fingers began to burn but he didn’t care, he endured the scorching pain the hot metal letting it burn him knowing his salvation had come. He took the hot spoon and put it on the counter with a yellowish muck inside it. He took a syringe and put it in getting it ready to be injected into his arm. Lewis took the needle and stared at it for a moment, he smiled slightly, and then he jammed the needle into his arm. He punched down on the syringe injecting the syrupy liquid into his blood stream. And all at once it happened, everything went dark. The stung-out preteen opened his eyes to see the skies of the place he wanted to make his home. He starred at the sky, it looked a bit darker and more crimson than before. The air also smelt different, that fruity smell from the strawberries that once overtook the air now had the strange scent of iron. Lewis got up and started to walk, it was eerily quiet. He walked past the strawberry fields and there were no cat people tending to them, the leaves looked more withered and Lewis saw no fruit. The further he walked he started to find the way towards the ocean. Lewis felt a heaviness in the air, a strange aura seemed to be filling the oxygen he breathed. The lonely boy walked onto the beach and stared in confusion and discomfort, the ocean was gone, the violet water was gone. It was just a void, like an abyss with an orange glow coming from inside it. He contemplated getting closer and looking inside but ultimately, Lewis felt deep down that it could be a bad decision. The boy walked onward into this strange place, the land that once filled him with warmth and hope, now felt dead and empty. You could say it changed into a pretty twisted wonderland. Finally, Lewis found his way to the Hatters place. The door was cracked, he walked. Expecting to find the friendly faces waiting for him. But rather he saw some smiling but ominous faces. They still had no food on the table and tea to drink. Before Lewis could say something, “You finally came to join us!” Alice spoke up with glee as she turned around from her spot on the table to look at the unnerved young boy. “Just in time we were just about to start eating! I hope you love tender meat.” Lewis was confused, there was no food at the table. But just as he opened his mouth, a sharp deep pain rushed through his abdomen. He looked down to see a large three-pronged fork sticking through him. He looked up to see the table of friends now laughing in delight as they watched him writhe in fear and pain. It was then that the boy was flung off the fork and onto the center of the table, he saw the creature that had hurt him, it was a boy who looked similar to him but with a oversized grin, and sharp fang like teeth. Before he could muster up the courage to scream he felt his arm be pulled and chopped. They started to fill their glasses with his blood, gushing quite quickly from his arm. Thanks to Lewis Anemia it made it all the easier for Mr. Hatter to fill his cups and serve his guests. It was than that Lewis finally let out a scream. “Don’t act so scared Lewis, you are only becoming part of us now!” the child playfully shouted with a blissful giggle. The Boy with fangs jumped onto the table above Lewis, it was then that he saw this boy not only had fangs, but cat ears. The Feline smiled, before bringing a blade down and stabbing right above Lewis stomach, Lewis screamed again in pain, just for the agony to amplify all the more when the knife was pulled down tearing his gut open. Alice, Mr. Hatter, the cat boy, the scrape metal monster, and the Rabbit all began to grab pull out the insides of Lewis eating him alive. His intestines, his stomach, his entrails. Dr. Carroll came home from a long day’s work, the house was just a bit to quiet. He walked around the house looking for his pitiful son. He walked into the kitchen and saw his child on the floor, eyes wide open, foaming at the mouth, but lying motionless. He checked his pulse and realized. Lewis’s heart had stopped.