Okay, so I was 18 years old, and I was dating this girl. And, like, dude, I’m not gonna lie to ya; I was just straight up, head over heels in love with this chick, man. Like, I swear to God, she looked like sunshine and smelled like the rain. And those are my two biggest weaknesses. So, I mean, what can I say? I was super into her. Anyways, we started dating in like August. So, by the time Christmas rolled around like five months later, I was just beyond smitten with her, ya know. And I just really wanted to make the holidays special for her. So...I decided I’d buy her four gifts. Why four gifts? Well, that’s easy. It’s because I’m a giant loser, and, even at eighteen, I already had a fucking weird obsession with making shit rhyme. So I decided I’d get this chick... Something Expensive Something Cheap Something Useful And Something Sweet And I know what you’re thinking; like, dude, that doesn’t even rhyme. But, whatever, fuck you guys, I figured it rhymed close enough, and either way it would look cute written in a card. Plus, I mean, it was a good excuse to buy this chick a bunch of shit, and I was excited to do that because she was dope as hell. Okay, so, first up, I needed to buy her something expensive. And that was pretty easy. I just went to this jewelry store, and I bought her this like really pretty, super sparkly bracelet. It was like $200, which at the time was like 80% of my entire life savings. But it was gorgeous, and I knew she’d love it. So I bought it. Next, I needed something cheap. And again that was super easy. This chick was obsessed with “Hugs”. You guys remember “Hugs”, right? They’re like those colorful fruit juices that come in the little plastic barrel-like containers for kids? You know what I mean, right? Well, yeah, this chick adored those things. So, I just bought her a whole bunch of them. And then, because I’m fucking adorable, I also bought her a big bag of Hershey’s Kisses. So, for something cheap, she was getting...”Hugs”....and Kisses. Okay, next up was something useful. Now, I gotta be honest here, this one was mostly for me. You see, like, this chick lived with her mom and sister. But, like, her mom was never fucking home. So we’d spend a shitload of time at this girl’s house, and I’d often end up spending the night in her room. And in her room...she had a tv, she had a cable box, she had a DVD player, and she had a speaker system. Which was neat or whatever. But, it also meant she had four different remote controls. And, dude, I swear to god, this chick could never figure out how to work any of them. So, every time we’d go to watch a movie in her room, it would turn into this whole fucking project about what buttons to hit on what remote. So, again mostly just for my own convenience, I decided for something useful; I’d just get her a fucking universal remote. And so I did. Okay. So... Something expensive - check Something cheap - check Something useful - check The only thing left for me to get her was something sweet. Now, you guys know me, I’m like the sweetest motherfucker of all time. I write love poems, I do a lot favors for friends, I take care of random old ladies who live near me. Sometimes I’ll just get bored and raise like 10 grand for charity. Like, your boy is sweet as fuck. But, for some reason, when it came to getting this chick something sweet...I was just drawing a blank. Like, I just couldn’t come up with any ideas. So, I spent weeks racking my brain, but by the morning of Christmas Eve, I still had nothing. And I was still one gift short. So it was just before noon, and I had pretty much accepted that I’d only be giving this chick the three gifts. But, either way, I decided to head over to the Lewiston CVS to grab wrapping paper. It was snowing pretty good outside, but I easily made the short trip. I walked into CVS, and then suddenly, just like that, BOOM!! IT HIT ME!! THE BARBIE PHONE!!! You see, back in October, this chick and I had stopped at CVS to get Halloween candy. And, at the time, she spotted this “Barbie Phone” in the little tiny CVS toy section. And she went nuts for it. It was like a real wall telephone, but it just had a Barbie theme to it. And there were like buttons on it that you could press to have Barbie say things while you were talking to someone. Like, dude, I know this thing sounds weird, but whatever, it was just a “Barbie Phone”. I don’t know how else to explain it, but the details really don’t matter. Either way, this chick had wanted the phone so much because she was a nerd, but I had refused to let her get it because it was clearly made for like 12 year olds. However, now, here I was, at CVS, in need of something sweet to buy this girl. So why not the silly Barbie phone she had made such a big deal about a couple of months ago, right? So, I enthusiastically walked over to the little CVS toy section to pick up my final gift... But there was no Barbie phone. Anywhere. I was like, “...........fuck.” So, now with much less enthusiasm, I walked up to the front counter. There were two employees there. I said, “Hey, uhhh, you guys had this Barbie phone here a couple of months ago, but I don’t see it now. Any chance you have one hanging around out back?” They were like, “A what now?” I was like, “Uhhh....a Barbie....phone?” They were just like, “Yeah, I don’t think we sell those.” I was like, “No, dude, you guys totally had one in the toy section back in October.” They were like, “Well, if it’s not there anymore, then we must be out.” I was like, “Damn, man. Is there anyway for you guys to check if the CVS in the Falls has it?” They’re like, “......no”. I’m like, “Awesome.” So I left the Lewiston CVS, feeling defeated. But, as I walked out, I saw a sign indicating the company’s Holiday hours. And it said they’d be open until 5 o’clock on Christmas Eve. And it was currently only about 12:30. So, I figured, fuck it, I’ll just drive up to the CVS in Niagara Falls real quick to see if they have this stupid phone. Unfortunately, it was getting snowier and snowier outside, so the drive was somewhat treacherous. But I eventually reached the Falls CVS. I went inside, walked right over to the little toy section, and.... No Barbie phone. .....fuck. Again. So, I once again approached the front counter and asked them about the phone. But, once again, they had no clue what I was talking about. However, they were still way more helpful than Lewiston had been. They said they couldn’t check inventory of an item without a barcode, but they suggested I try the CVS in Sanborn because it was the biggest one around. I asked them for the address, and they just printed it out for me on a list of all the area locations. So I left the CVS in the Falls. By now, it was about 1:30. And it was snowing really, really bad. But, like, dude.... I kinda wanted to find this fucking phone. So, I embarked on my trip to Sanborn. Now, keep in mind, I was eighteen at the time, so like I didn’t have an electronic voice on my phone telling me where to go or anything. There wasn’t any GPS. It was just me, winging it. So, it took some time and a little luck, but I eventually reached the Sanborn CVS. And I went inside... And...lo and behold... STILL NO FUCKING BARBIE PHONE!! So, driving to Sanborn through a fucking blizzard had taken me forever. It was almost 3pm already. Every CVS would be closing at 5. I was quickly running out of time. I checked the list of area locations. There were basically only two options left for me. There was Tonawanda. Or there was Newfane. I knew with the weather, I’d never be able to do both. So I had to choose. And I chose Tonawanda. So I left the Sanborn CVS and began my trip to the Tonawanda CVS. However, as it turned out, I had no fucking clue how to get to Tonawanda, let alone find the CVS there. And, it had begun snowing so fucking much that I literally couldn’t even tell where I was going. Before long, I was just completely fucking lost in white-out conditions. The time kept ticking away. 330. 4. 415. And I just had absolutely no fucking idea where I was. I was just like driving down random roads, trying not to die. And then... The craziest thing happened... I saw a sign that said, “Welcome to Newfane”. I was like, “Dude, what the fuck?!?” I realized I had somehow managed to get spun around in the snow and driven in the completely wrong direction. But...I looked at the time...and it was only 430. I saw a gas station and pulled in. I quickly ran inside. I shouted to the lady working, “Hey, is there a CVS near here?” She replied, “Yeah, it’s like two blocks down on the right.” I was like, “No fucking way”. I hopped back in my car, and shot down the road until I saw one big sign with three little letters. I pulled into the parking lot. It was 4:42. I ran inside. I went straight for the little toy section... And, guys, no fucking joke... I found the Barbie Phone. BOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!!! Dude, I was so stoked. Like, this is a true story, you guys. I legitimately drove all over on a snowy Christmas Eve looking for a stupid Barbie phone. But I actually fucking found it at the last second. Okay. So, it took me forever to get home that night. But I made it. The next morning, Christmas, I did brunch and presents with my family. Later on, I drove over to this girl’s house with her gifts. She was also having a big family thing, and as soon as I got there, we all sat down to eat. We hung out there for a few hours, but we were with her family the whole time, and we didn’t have a chance to do our presents. I ended up having to leave to go eat more food with my parents, but the girl and I planned to meet back up again afterwards. She promised she wouldn’t open her gifts until we were with each other again that night. Well, the night soon came. And I drove back over to her house. And as soon as I pulled into her driveway and got out my car; her front door burst open and she came running out at me. She barreled down the driveway, reached me, and just leapt into my arms. And then, on Christmas night, underneath the stars, we shared the type of kiss you’d normally only see at the end of an old Hugh Grant movie. We finally stopped kissing, and I asked her, “What was that for?” She smiled and said, “I got impatient and opened my presents.” I laughed and said, “Oh yeah? How’d I do?” She was just like, “Ian, I literally cannot fucking believe you bought me.... ....such an expensive bracelet.


Part one: Capers Harry had heard from God last night He hadn’t slept much at all that week, drinking every night to calm his nerves and to possibly coax himself to sleep. It wasn’t working. At the end of the week he was burnt out with hardly any money left in his bank account. When he arrived home that Friday he was debating whether or not he should use what scant money he had left to get more beer but then he would have trouble paying the bus fare to get to work next week. “Fuck, shit," he muttered to himself unconsciously, it was his most common verbal tic. He took out his phone and logged in to his bank account to try to figure out what he should do with his last ten dollars.There was $3.45 in savings like there always was, and in checkings there was $154.53. Harry closed his eyes and opened them. The money was still there. He logged out of his account and then logged back in. The money was still there. Had he some pending payment owed to him that was somehow forgotten? There was no reason he could think of as to why that money was there. He refreshed the page over and over again but it still showed the same results. It had to be a banking error in his favor, that was the only possible explanation he decided. The pale, bloated body he inhabited suddenly felt a burst of life and he shot up out of his house to immediately capitalize on this fortunate accident. At the corner store he withdrew all of the money so the bank wouldn’t be able to get it back until next payday then bought a six pack and a pack of Newport 100s. On his way back home the rush of energy that propelled him off the couch was starting to wear off, his steps slowed and his eyes became glassy. His racing mind has become quiet and serene, a trance like state comparable to meditation. Common sights were rendered unfamiliar. A peaceful and accepting air had engulfed him, he basked in the inner silence, relishing a break from the bad thoughts that he had to drink to silence. Then something happened. “You are dying.” It was spoken softly by a calm and certain voice. He looked around but the streets were bare this cold night. It must have come from his head but it didn’t feel like it was his own internal voice. Unperturbed by this development he continued on walking in his mindless state. Then not ten steps later in the same knowing tone: “You are dying and will be dead soon.” Harry stopped dead in his tracks.Standing there wavering slightly back and forth he started musing about death. In this hypnotic state he felt certain that he could accept death whereas usually he was terrified of it. But why be afraid now? There was no reason he could conceive of. But who had said that? “How?” He thought. A vision started to fill his mind, he watched as it manifested and began to play out like a movie. He was in a hospital bed, writhing in pain and clutching his stomach. His face was contorted into a wide twisted smile that was only interrupted briefly by a spasm of pain. A doctor entered the room looking concerned with a nurse at his side. Harry seemed oblivious to their entry. They parted at the front of his bed, each going to one side. Upon reaching his waist they leaned over and checked the restraints on Harry’s wrists. Satisfied that they were secure the doctor said “Come on in.” Harry’s mother came through the door. Harry’s body suddenly shot up, bound by restraints on his hands and feet his torso and legs formed a squirming upside down u shape like a yoga bridge. Then he let out such a howl it sounded not human. “KILL ME KILL ME KILL ME KILL ME FUCK SHIT KILL ME FUCK SHIT AAAAAAHHHHH MOM I AM SORRY MOM MOM MOM I AM SORRY MOM MOM MOM FUCK SHIT FUCK KILL MEEEEEE!!!!” His mother put her face in her hands and started weeping uncontrollably. The nurse ran over to her and led her out of the room by her wrist. The doctor leaned over Harry with a syringe in hand. The vision ended there.


It was during the second winter of the COVID-19 pandemic that we first learned of a deadly mutated strain of the virus. This strain the most terrifying yet. The virus not only mutated, it evolved. It evolved out of the realm of our understanding. Beyond our cognitive and scientific abilities. It no longer attacked the body; it attacked the mind. A catatonic like psychosis overtook its victims. A sinking heaviness would precipitate indefinite sleep that led to a certain early demise. All who contracted this mutated strain would succumb. It was theorized that the virus was ‘unlocking’ neuro pathways in the brain. Opening up channels previously closed. It started with a surprising increase in those effected by serious mental illness. A measurable surge of individuals displaying newly psychotic behaviors emerged associated with the evolving strain. A certain fatal mutated version however was thought to change the brains chemistry thus triggering a catatonic psychosis. Panic and fear spread faster than the virus, another virus of sorts. Those who became afflicted with the mutated virus would fall prey to the heaviness of sleep and lulling hallucinations. Sleep without waking until the prognosis of death. My job you see is to watch over those afflicted with this mutated strain. The ‘unclaimed’ as we call them. They are the homeless, the abandoned, the mentally ill, the elderly, the forgotten. Those who wither away in slumber, hundreds of them. I witness nightly the peaceful death the body surrenders to when asleep. The work fits with my solitary life. I have no real family to speak of, no significant other, no children, not even a pet. I have cultivated the ability to become invisible in any environment. A gift I have nurtured. I can stealthily move about a room. I have made my presence so small that others continue personal conversations in my presence. I am quiet and keep to myself. I am awkward and unbearably shy.               Nightly I walk the rows of bodies in beds. My friends. They lay perfectly still, relaxed, the easy ebb and flow of natural breath. They lay perfectly still with the exception of one thing. A flickering smile. They all shared this feature. It does not seem to matter that the body was dying because they were happy somewhere deep in the mind. They would pass whilst they slept, the heart would slow over several days despite interventions that should have no physiologically reason not to work. Predictably the heart would slow to such a rate unsustainable with life, but a smile would still affix them all. In rigor mortis and on. When the monitor above a bed would begin to chime, I walk slowly to the bedside to hold the hands of the dying. For it was surely not long. But the happiness in their faces made me sad and only deepened my frown.  One night I walked to the chiming bedside of a women. Her cheeks sunken, pale, dry skin. I silence the monitor and sit, her thin frail hand in mine. Her heart rate slowed. 50, 47, 44, 40, then into the 30s. Here she goes. I gripped her hand tighter. 38, 33, quicker now. I could feel the strong slow beats as her heart made its last powerful flushing strokes. Suddenly her chest filled with air! A loud powerful windy inhale! Her chest raised off the bed before she choked on the air. Her eyes flung open. Her heart raced. Grimacing her body became stiff and seizure like. We locked eyes both realizing the powerful grip we still had on each other’s hand. Her body quickly relaxed and she began to speak, “It’s an island. Oh GOD, an indescribable island! Oh GOD! I was warm from the inside out. I radiated the sun!” Her face grimaced and twisted an ugly contortion. Red blotches appeared on her face and neck, her lips sticking together with a thick white film as she spoke. Sloughing flakes of her lips fell off. She made no tears when she cried.  “The island is everything. Everything you need it to be. I had no pain. None of the physical and finally relief from the pain of my mind.” As she spoke on about the island her eyes fixed on the ceiling tile above us never blinking, not once. Then suddenly, she became forceful, grabbing me tighter, pulling me in close. Her breath was foul, the whites of her eyes yellowed. I recoiled but her grip was stronger than expected. Panic in her eyes, she rapidly spoke, “I have to get back! I could have stayed forever. I don’t have much time I can tell! What have you done?” I shook my head rapidly my mouth parted but unable to speak. I heard the loud alarm of the monitors from above her head. I look up to see her heart rate dropped to 20 then to 15, finally resting in a flat line. But not before we locked eyes again. I saw it then, the island she spoke of. I felt its presence and saw its fleeting reflection in the blacks of her eyes before the gray film of death washed over them.

Her grip on me loosened and her hand fell slack to her side. I sat back stunned. I felt I had just seen something forbidden. But seeing it in her eyes unlocked something in me. What was seen could not be undone. My thoughts, feelings, and emotions all barriers! I saw a place where you can be free from pain and mental anguish. Your body moves freely, smoothly without consciousness you are a pure free ‘being’. One with not a worry or care; because you simple never learned. The island welcomes you, warms you, the waves soothe your sorrows. Washes away years of hurt to reveal only you in your purest form. Stripped of pain both mental and physical. Shangri-La. She had reported a heavy dark shadow descended her, taking energy from every mitochondrial of every cell. “It was welcome. I was not afraid. My mind opened. You let it take you. Race, sex, social status, emotions, this matrix! All barriers! They fall away. And when the heaviness of my eyelids lifted, and it did, I was the most refreshed I have ever been. It was as if I had woken from a crypt like sleep and the cool ocean air was my first re-energizing breath. I was invigorated!”  After, whilst I remain at her bedside, I imagined my pains were gone. I was purely connected to my consciousness; my spirit was free and lifted. I could breathe with ease, my body wrapped in the warm silky tropical ocean air. Feeling only pure love and acceptance. The warm sun filled me from inside out and I radiated! The sweet rhythmic sound of the teal waves crested and crashed around me. Pure tropical beach bliss.               Eyes still locked I removed my ventilator hood slowly and placed it on my lap. My outer gloves then the inner. Gently and methodically, I removed the remainder of my protective equipment until my bare face gazed upon hers. A rare sight these days, one’s bare face.

                   As one could predict, several days later I fell ill. A certain calm washed over me. I felt as if I lay on the islands ocean edge, where every waves slow recoil sunk me deeper into warm wet sand. And when the mental fog begets upon me, I let it. And when the heaviness encroached; eyelids being pulled closed by the eternal weight of deep sleep I found a small dark corner to hide away in. Where I could be certain no one would find my body before its organ’s came to complete rest. And just as the warm darkness descended, I could hear the softly crashing waves and smell the warm briny air. ‘Rest now, tired simple being’ the virus lulled. And I did.


￼ By C. N. Martin If I’d been given the choice between a punch in the face or a kick to the mid-section, I’d have gone with the punch. Ten years and fifty pounds ago my choice would’ve been different. That was before the beer belly, before I’d gone soft in the middle. I could’ve taken a kick back then. I’d have been more concerned with losing a tooth out of my pretty face than a cracked rib. A moot point I suppose, as the choice wasn't mine. I was gifted both. It was a fitting final jab at a life lived poorly. Bill was about my height, thicker around the middle and strong. He pulled me off the ground and walked me over to the side door and set me against the wall. “Joe, you okay, man? What happened?” “A meth-head asked me for a smoke, I told him I didn’t have any.” “He didn’t believe you?” “Apparently not,” I said. “You need a doctor or anything? You want me to call someone?” “No. No thanks. I’m good.” I pulled a Marlboro from the near-empty pack in my front pocket. My tongue pressed against the loosened molar and wiggled it, coating my taste buds in metallic booze-thinned brine. A cough rushed up my chest and I spat the blood into the rusted can of Folgers on the ground. The ache and stabs of pain crackled through my body like the cellophane around the misshapen pack of cancer sticks. It would have been much worse if I’d been sober. I lit the cigarette. At first I thought it was the soreness in my ribs that kept me from getting a good draw, but I was wrong. I hadn’t noticed the tear in the paper where the tobacco met the filter. Fuck it. I tore off the end, took a few puffs and threw the remainder in the coffee can. “All right, well I have to get back in. I got thirsty people in there. Let me know if you change your mind.” Bill put his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe as usual, and flicked the butt toward the bike rack where a little patch of dirt had become an unofficial ashtray. “Yeah, I’m heading back in, too,” I said. “I’ll finish my beer and get out of your hair.” “Stay as long as you like, brother.” The Corner was far enough away from the bustle of J Street that tourists from suburbia made only a rare appearance. They only came to midtown for the trendy brew pubs and coffee shops. This was a locals-only kind of place, my home away from home. Three blocks up, and three over and I was there. I shuffled in behind Bill, walked past the pool table, and into the bathroom. I hated that bathroom. The kitchen was the next room over and the heat poured through the paper-thin wall like a furnace. It was stifling even on a cold night, and the busted fan ensured that it always smelled like day-old piss. Its white walls and bright light were a stark contrast to the rest of the bar’s mood lighting and black paint. It was clinical without the cleanliness. After a couple of less than gentle taps from my fist, the dispenser coughed out a small mound of granulated soap. I pressed the chalky substance into my skin and washed the dirt from my hands and face. Shattered pieces of mirror clung to yellowed glue and cracked paint on the wall over the sink. I took an extra moment to examine my unexpected dental work in my reflection before I walked back to my customary seat at the end of the long mahogany bar. Tracy was right where I’d left her. “Bill told me what happened. Are you okay?” She ran her fingers through my hair and gave my scalp a quick scratch. “You need a haircut.” “Yeah, I’m fine. I just got sucker punched, and yes, I know I need a haircut.” I pointed to a heavy shot glass that sat next to the beer I’d left before I went outside. It was filled with a beautiful, amber colored liquid. “What’s this?” “It’s Buffalo Trace, from Bill. He poured it for you when you were in the bathroom. I don’t know how you can drink that stuff.” Tracy knew a lot about a lot of things. She had a sharp wit and a sharper tongue. She was a slave to just about every form of music, and she often spoke in movie quotes. Her curves fit her frame in just the right way and her style made her seem like a classic pinup girl from an old black and white poster made real. I’d never cheated on my woman. It was a principle thing and I suppose in a way I even loved her. But I’d thought about it, and I’d often thought about it with Tracy. Tracy was sex. She was all those things and more, but she was strictly a beer drinker and she didn’t know shit about bourbon. Truthfully I didn’t know much about it either, other than the fact that I liked it. That may not have been the best bourbon in the world, but it was damn sure better than the Canadian Mist that sat in the well. I raised the glass high as my ribs would allow. “Thanks, Bill.” The shot worked its way with the tender, caring burn of a well-remembered friend. “No problem,” he said. “You earned it.” He smiled and went about his business. Bill was studious in his work. Even on a slow Tuesday night he buzzed around the bar, wiped down the counter and polished glass after glass. He even made the occasional drink or two for the regulars. If it was busy I’d play the good patron and collect empty glasses from the tables and bring them up to the bar to help him out. It wasn’t busy. There was an odd quiet in the air, broken only by the infrequent cracking sound that came from the pool table in the back where Mike was practicing. “Give me a dollar for the juke box.” Tracy opened her palm to me. “It’s time to learn you some more music.” It’d come as quite the surprise to her that I didn’t own any music, or a stereo, and that the radio in my car was tuned to either sports talk, or NPR. It came as an even bigger shock when she’d found out I actually played a little guitar. The calluses that once graced my fingertips were long gone, and I wasn’t good by any stretch of the imagination. But I used to make a habit of teaching myself new things. Guitar had been one of them. She’d accused me of being a music hater, and while that wasn’t true, I clearly didn’t love it either. So she made it a point to school me on various bands and singers. I was especially bad about linking a band’s name to the title of whatever song was playing. There were five singles in my pocket, my net worth. It was all hers. I put the wrinkled wad of cash in her hand and she practically bounced the five-something feet to the jukebox. She hummed and bobbed her head side to side as she picked out a handful of songs. Her fingers flew across the touch screen faster than I could read the menu options, or what she’d keyed in. She caught me trying to peek, frowned and rolled her shoulder up to block the view. I turned my attention back to the beer in front of me. The vibrating sound of hard plastic against key and coin caught my attention and I pulled the phone from my pocket. I could never remember the zigzag pattern on the nine button lock, so I’d gone with a number password instead. Zero-seven-one-three. The German had sent me a pointed message. The text read: Tomorrow. 8pm. Your place. When I’d first met the man I was more than a little surprised at his brown skin, and the tattoo of the holy mother on his forearm. The matte black Dickies that hung loose around his waist and the plain white T-shirt he wore didn’t exactly scream of central Europe either. An acquaintance had told me he was given the alias because of his middle name, Klaus. Supposedly his grandfather was on the wrong side during World War II and eventually fled to South America. Twice I’d gotten extensions on the money I owed him, and all the while the juice had been running. And with those extensions came inflation. Two thousand became five. Five became ten. I’ve seen you at the poker table, he said. This shouldn’t be a problem for you. After my first couple missed payments I started to wonder if his nickname came from his sadistic predilection for dishing out pain. Twice he’d used a rubber mallet in an effort to collect; once on my left hand, once on my right knee. He reminded me that I didn’t really need those to bet, or fold. Perhaps his Nazi heritage wasn’t so dubious after all. I stuffed my phone away as Tracy meandered her way back. She raised her hands to the air, fingers and thumbs pressed together like the conductor of some grand orchestra. The music rolled in like a storm for the next two minutes. Thunder clapped over the speakers first. It was followed by the sound of leather boots making a slow march down a long gravel road. It was the sound of the old west. A solo guitar sprang up a sad, one-string-at-a-time ballad. Then there were drums, more thunder, and then humming in tune with a violin. Tracy was anxious; she wanted me to guess what song it was. She tried to coax the answer from me with a stare, shrugged shoulders and a waiting smile. I already knew the title. Of the few songs I did know, this was my second or third favorite. It might have been my first, either way it was up there. I waited until the last possible moment, and blurted out the answer before the lyrics came on. “Short Change Hero, by The Heavy.” “Yeah,” she yelled. “Get this man another beer.” Her hand whipped into the air to signal Bill we were ready for another round. “Guess you’re not leaving after all,” Bill said with a smile. His laugh had a short, choppy cadence, and it carried less bass than one would expect from a man with a neck as thick as his. It was a good laugh. He set the beer onto the bar in front of us and let the coasters soak up the foam that overflowed from the pint glasses. “That’ll be five dollars. Whose tab?” Tracy made a motion with her hand as if she were swatting away the question. “I got this one.” “Thanks,” I said. “Well you’ve had a rough day. I’ll tell you what; if you can guess the next two songs I’ll buy the next beer as well.” With my head cocked sideways I shot her a skeptical, bleary-eyed glance. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to guess the next two. “And if I get them wrong?” “Then nothing,” she said. “It’s just a reward if you get the right answers.” We sat and drank and laughed at little things for the next few minutes. We listened to the rest of the song, and for a moment everything that was wrong didn’t seem to matter. In the end though, she couldn’t see where I was coming from, and the Corner was no place for heroes. I managed to guess the next song as well. I’d seen a special on ESPN about Seattle fans chanting an elongated “Wilson” whenever their quarterback took the field. The opening bass lines of a song that shared his name brought the same response they received at a Phish concert. I told Tracy about it. She called it cheating. “Of course you only remember it because of football.” “Whatever works,” I said. If I’d won that battle, I lost the next. I’d guessed the song correctly; it was “Where Is My Mind” by the Pixies. Only I didn’t say it was by the Pixies, I’d said it was by the Pete Box. I was wrong of course. It was close enough for Tracy that she honored her bet, and Bill brought me one last pint. I took it down in three deep gulps. The clock on the wall showed 1:30am. Late for a work night, not that I was actually going in the next day. All the same, it was about time for me to get down to business. Tracy gave me a kiss on the cheek, I shook Bill’s hand goodbye, and waved at Mike from across the bar. The corner of the building was rounded, and made of thick glass bricks with a door that pointed a person to the intersection as they walked out. I’d always walked out that door when I left and I let the door lock behind me for one last time. I pulled a smoke from my pocket, and made sure it was intact before I fired it up. The draw was smooth and satisfying. The burn in the back of my throat was different from the bourbon, but it was just as familiar. The flickering neon sign above me set the shadows of the surrounding trees dancing on the blacktop. It was a silent dance, save the light whip of the pan flute wind against the leaves, and the beating drum in my chest. I stood there for a time and watched, mesmerized by the rhythm, and pondered my fate. I’d had the ten thousand just the night before. Twelve hours I’d spent grinding the table at the Poverty Ridge Poker Room, and I’d been killing it. The nervous, sweaty stench of a bluff stood out more than the obvious strength of a high pocket pair before the flop. I’d tripled my money. Then the whale sat down with a fat rack of chips and just enough skill to lose it. Of course I had aces. Every bad beat story starts with aces. I bet big, he called. The ace of hearts hit the flop with an eight of clubs, and a two of spades. I pushed hard and bet a thousand at a pot of eight hundred. I had the money I needed. I just wanted to end the hand and go home with a little extra. He should’ve gone away, but instead he did the wrong thing and pushed all his chips toward the middle of the table. Maybe he had an ace with a high kicker like a king or a queen. Maybe he called the raise with the dead man’s hand, ace-eight, and made two pair. Either way I was good. I called the all-in because that’s what you’re supposed to do. He turned over his cards and showed me his pocket twos; my best possible three of a kind, against his worst possible three of a kind. Of course he hit a two on the river. Every bad beat story ends on the river. My mind was already set on doing the right thing, that’s why I’d taken the day off. I’d wanted to see as much of my family, and as many of my friends as I could. I owed, and one way or another I was going to pay. I’d thought about running, but I’d given Tracy my last five dollars and the half-tank of gas in the Honda wouldn’t get me very far. The German would have found me anyway, or hurt people I cared about if he couldn’t. I really had only two choices. I could’ve waited for him to show up with his crew, but that would’ve ended badly. It would’ve been messy. He would’ve made an example of me, and he would’ve done it slowly. I didn’t want my folks or my sister to see what was left after something like that. The alternative was to do it myself, but I didn’t want people to think I was sad or desperate. I didn’t want any clean-up. That limited my options. No. The best kind of death I could hope for was an embarrassing one. David Carradine came to mind, the guy that played Caine, from Kung Fu. I thought about tying a belt around my neck with my pants around my ankles. It would’ve been pathetic, but it wouldn’t have been painful. It would’ve looked like an accident of sexual deviance instead of an act of desperation. It might’ve even made people laugh, and that brought me a strange sort of comfort. My train of thought broke when the neon sign shut off, and the last puff on my cigarette brought the taste and smell of a burnt filter. I spat, flicked the butt toward the bike rack and walked kitty-corner through the intersection. A bright silver Mercedes idled near the stop sign where I stepped back onto the sidewalk. The front passenger rolled down the window, and two large men stepped from the back seats as I approached. “Hey, Joe,” the German said. “Let’s go for a ride.


"Richard, as we established in your first session, they’re yours. The information you share stays in this room. We are now in your third visit, and it’s mimicking the first two.  You haven't said a word for twenty-five minutes. If you aren't going to utilize the time—" "Well, Stanley," Richard interrupted. He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward on the small sofa, and continued. "As you just pointed out, it's my time. You're still getting paid, so what the hell do you care?" Not even trying to hide his smugness, he leaned back, and casually draped his arms across the back of the sofa. "It's Dr. Bennett, Richard. Please try to remember that.”          “Who names their kid Stanle y, anyway?” Richard snickered, seemingly on a roll with his sarcastic wit. Dr. Bennett gave him a pensive look, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He set his notebook aside, and picked up the phone. After a brief pause, he said, “Amy, please contact Captain Sheridon at the 53 rd precinct. Inform him I’ll have my evaluation and recommendation on Richard Sullivan’s return to work status by tomorrow morning.” “Yes!” Richard blurted out. With a wide grin, he shook his fist in triumph. “Finally, something positive comes from this total waste of time. I should have been back on the streets two weeks ago.” Dr. Bennett removed his glasses and took his time polishing them. Putting them back on, he looked across his desk, and said, “Richard, you have no idea what my recommendation will be, and the only person who considers this a waste of time is you. Have you forgotten why you were sent here in the first place?” Richard’s grin slowly faded. He looked down for a second, then up again with a serious, defiant look. Shaking his head, he said, “No, I will never forget the day I thought that son of a bitch was going to hack me to death with a machete. It was a righteous kill.” “No one has ever said it wasn’t,” said Dr. Bennett in a soft tone. “So, what’s all this psychobabble bullshit for?” Richard raised his arms in a sweeping gesture, then ticked off points on his fingers. As he did so, his voice grew louder. “The guy was high; he came at me with a machete; I told him to drop his weapon, but he kept coming. I fired my weapon, as I was trained to do. End of story.” Richard opened his hands like a book, then closed them. He stared at the psychiatrist. The doctor nodded, then said in a low, calm voice, “Except that guy who came at you with a machete was only fourteen years old.”  When there was no reaction or response, he kept going. “Even though your own safety was at risk, finding yourself in a situation where you were forced to shoot anyone, but especially a child, had to be the most difficult circumstance anyone could imagine.” Richard still said nothing. His gaze moved from the doctor to the floor. Neither spoke for several minutes. Eventually, and in that same relaxed, comforting voice, Dr. Bennett said, “When you’re out there keeping the public safe, and the adrenalin is pumping, it must feel like the best job in the world.” Richard looked up, and said in a more thoughtful tone, “You finally get it. Some of it, at least.” He stood up and paced in front of the sofa. Moving toward the desk, he placed his hands on it, and leaned in until he was less than a foot from the doctor’s face. Dr. Bennett backed his chair away a few inches. Richard didn’t seem to notice. He said, “And that’s exactly why I need to get back out there. Ya gotta know Doc, patrolling the streets, having to be alert at all times, it’s my life. It’s all I ever wanted to do, and I’m good at it. I hope to make detective someday.” Dr. Bennett nodded appreciatively, and gestured for Richard to go back to his seat. Maybe there would be a breakthrough, after all. That was the most the man had said about anything related to the job. He said, “I understand how important your work is, and from all reports, you’re really good at it, but Richard,” the doctor tilted his head a bit, “what do you do when the chaos dies down, and the adrenalin disappears? How do you untangle all of the thoughts from the day when you find yourself alone? It’s only natural that events would play in your mind.” “Oh, so we’re back to that. That was sneaky, Doc, playing up to me like you understood where I was coming from.” Dr. Bennett rested his arms on the desk, and said, “Look, I know you aren’t a callused, uncaring person. Maybe you came from a family who thought sharing feelings and being vulnerable were signs of weakness. I don’t know, but I promise you they’re not. What happened that night had to have left some kind of impression. Not only was he a kid, but it was also the first time you ever fired your weapon. I’m just trying to help you come to grips with the issue, and recognize the emotions and be okay with them.” Richard fidgeted in his seat, cleared his throat a couple of times, then looked up at the doctor with a defeated look. Shrugging, he gestured with open hands, then dropped them. Tears glistened in his eyes. Swiping at them with the back of his hand, he cleared his throat again, and said, “You’re right. I haven’t slept through the night since it happened. I can’t see a kid on the street and not see him.” A sob escaped, and he choked out, “Damn him! Why didn’t he listen to me and just drop that damned machete?” Tears were streaming down his face. Dr. Bennett moved slowly around the desk until he was standing in front of Richard. “Because he was high on PCP. You did everything right that night. The only reason you’re here is because you needed to say it out loud.” Richard let out another loud sob, then sat down and covered his face with his hands.          A knock at the door startled both doctor and patient. It opened, and someone stuck their head in. “I hope you guys are done. We need the room for another role-play rehearsal.” “Sure. Just give us a second to gather our stuff.” Jonathan Wells, playing the role of Dr. Stanley Bennett, patted his friend on the back. “You’ve come a long way tuning in to your emotions. You almost had me in tears. Great job!” Randy Thomas, aka Richard, blew his nose and said, “Thanks.” Standing, he grabbed his jacket while Jonathan picked up his empty notebook from the desk, and said, “We’ve worked our lines ‘til we know them backwards and forwards. Let’s go grab a beer.”


They say that every step brings you closer to your goal. Every stride brings a runner closer to the finish line. Every experiment brings a scientist closer to the truth. Every page brings a story closer to its ending. Could it then be assumed that the goal of life is to die? Yes. But then what would be the point? No? Of course not. Maybe… My name is… Well, that doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that 6 weeks ago, or was it 6 months, years? I really can’t remember. Anyway, the point is, I was just your average high school student. My favorite subject was science, and... I was on some kind of sports team. I had 3 really close friends, but I couldn’t tell you their names. Why am I telling you this? Well, I guess my point is that it doesn’t matter who or when, but that it happened, and to me of all people. I was just your average high school student. I guess times change. Track, that’s it, I was on the track team. \*\*\* Heaven’s a sorry excuse of a place allowing people to cope with death since the dawn of time. And people actually believe that they decide who goes there and who doesn’t? I, being a well educated individual, choose not to believe in such foolishness. Oh, I’m sorry, did I offend you? Too bad! This is my story. Besides, you were the one who chose to read it. No, please don’t go. I just had to let out a little steam, that’s all. I swear it won’t happen again. Come back. You're all I have left. Ah, left, the opposite of right. But the opposite of right is wrong. Is what I did wrong? Who cares. There’s no one left to tell me otherwise. It's just me and you. Right? \*\*\* Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. Does this mean that if I forget what I did, then I’m doomed to do it again? I mean forgiving is forgetting right? I guess I’m screwed either way. Screw it! Screw it all!! Oh wait, I already did. HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! No, please don’t go. I just had to let out a little steam, that’s all. I swear it won’t happen again. \*\*\* There are times in life when you must distance yourself from the ones you love because you love them. I guess that’s what I did. I loved them. \*\*\* Her name is Lucy, or at least that’s what it says on her picture. I couldn’t tell you who she is or how I met her, only that she was someone very dear to me. I mean, why else would I be carrying around her picture? Maybe she’s just some girl that I found attractive. No, that can’t be right. My heart tells me that she was someone special, someone important, but my brain hasn’t a clue. Well, whoever she is, you're all I have left. \*\*\* What if there was no finish line? What if the truth was grey? What if the story never ended? No, that’s crazy. Everything has to end. EVERYTHING HAS TO END. It's a law of nature. I... Voices! Oh no, they found me! Gotta run. Gotta hide. La la la, la la la, you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man! \*\*\* The voices are gone now. I guess I should take this time to tell you what it is that I did. It's the least I can do for a friend. Just know that I wish you not pity me. I wish that as you lay on your deathbed gasping for your final breath, you think to yourself, “How lucky I must be to have talked to the man who surpassed death.” (Takes a tape recorder out of pocket and pushes play.) *The following is a compilation of the clinical diagnosis of the patient known as #15301. The following tests and inquiries remain undocumented and unknown to the public and were only performed with the consent of the aforementioned patient. This research is the private property of Dr. Franklin J. Stirling and may be subject to copyright.* *Patient: #15301 Diagnosis: ??? Treatment: n/a* *Ever since Patient #15301 was brought into my custody, they have been the subject of my research. I lead them to believe that I was trying to find a cure for their condition. One can only feel bad for them.* *“Teen Survives House Fire” That’s what the newspaper article said. People were claiming it was a miracle, an act of God. I, being a man of science, chose not to believe in such foolishness. Just from reading that article, I knew there was something special about that person. I knew that they were the breakthrough I was looking for. I had to gain custody of them and learn their secrets. So, for the next 2 years I kept a close eye on them waiting for an opportunity to present itself.* *Fascinating. A slight mutation of the mt DNA found in #15301’s cellular genome allows the mitochondria to produce an infinite amount of energy, causing his cells to become overcharged, thus granting him an abnormality in cell regeneration and limitless age. In other words, they're immortal to some extent.* *After discovering this biological breakthrough, I decided to test my conclusion by “killing” them in as many ways as I could possibly think of. I must have tried every way known to man, but still, nothing would kill them. They did, however, show signs of physical pain. Further research and experimentation must be conducted if I am ever to find a way to save my dear Lucy’s life.* (End tape) \*\*\* That’s me! That’s my name, #15301. A mere number. Ooh, numbers. I like numbers. One, two buckle my shoe. Three, four shut the door. Five, six pick up sticks. Seven, eight lay them straight. Nine, ten… *All agents are still assisting other callers. Please continue to hold and your call will be answered as soon as possible. Thank you for your patience.


What the hell? Last I remember, Darwin’s face is inches near mine. His breath stinks like he’d never met a toothbrush. I smell bananas on his breath: fuckin bananas! Now, I feel…warmth—and pressure; oh the pressure! It's suffocating. I can’t move my limbs, all I can do is push forward, and then….light. I scream. I wake up bleary eyed with the sounds of soft beeping around me. I’m still sore and tired, and I can’t make out Darwin, or Martha's face— and the room is too bright to be the Tavern. Suddenly, two lumpy shapes stand over me. “Look at him, he’s perfect,” a feminine voice crones. I feel something brush my face ever so slightly. “Do you think his head will always be this cone shaped?” a concerned voice quips. A larger lump pushes the two out of the way, their hands are meaty and deft. “It's alright lad, that's just from getting stuck for a bit, It’ll round out in no time,” a hat is shoved onto my head. I try to move my arms, but they are held against my body by a blanket of sorts. I must be in the looney bin? I should have never told Darwin the truth. Suddenly, I'm lifted against my will, and float over towards one shape. The shape becomes clearer, and it’s a woman, who bombs me with smooches: ARGG, I hear a splitting cry. Wait a moment, that's me, me crying. I try moving my hands again. “Oh look at him squirm!” she says in between sniffing my head and kissing me roughly. “The doc measured his head and it’s in the 65th percentile,” said the voice excitedly, “he’s gonna be a genius!” I’m suddenly taken from her hands and I float again to my coffin of sorts. “Alrighty mum, you did a good job, I’m going to take the little fella to get his stats and I’ll wheel him right back.” What sort of hell is this. I still can’t see properly but I feel a growing discomfort: an emptiness of belly. I try to ignore it, I have more important tasks at hand. Like escaping my restraints. The ride is bumpy and I sway from side to side gently. The lump above me yells out to passerby’s. “Don, look at this one, ugly little cone shaped fella, eh?” Another lump suddenly appears above me and I hear cackles of laughter. “Little grubby aliens, the lot of them, I could never understand the appeal.” Another lump appears, “oh you hush Don, it’s precious, just look at him,” a hand pinches my cheek. The feeling registers and I understand, I’m starving. I need an Ale, I need meat! I start to whimper. “We better hurry, the little man’s getting hungry.” Large hands unwrap my body and start poking and prodding. I’m cold and hungry and pissed off. Hurry the fuck up will ya! I try to say, but I've got a bad cotton mouth, and I end up pissing myself. I’m wheeled back to the room and once again placed in the giant's hands. I will admit, this giant feels more like home. Her voice is nice. “He’s hungry lass, will you use a bottle or the breast?” “A bottle I think,” she’s twitching now. “Alright then! Here you are” Something is shoved into my mouth and I gag. It’s disgusting, but I don’t know how to not suckle it down. I can’t stop. “Why don’t you try breastfeeding him Nell.” “Cause it’ll hurt Bart!” “But the parenting classes said-“ “Oh fine!” Suddenly, the object is ripped out of my mouth and I’m thrust up against a large, soft mound that smells heavenly. “Can you show me how?” Says the voice close to my head, I start looking for that smell. “Like this dearest, you smash the nipple in their mouths as far back as you can go, and the little fellow will do the rest.” Before I know it, the fleshy mount is stuffed into my agape mouth and I begin swallowing. Oh, the sheer joy, the warmth, the taste! I can’t help from becoming drunk from the bliss. I’m warm and full and…. I wake up. Where are Darwin and Martha? I’m still restrained, and I can hear the two giants speaking, arguing. “We can’t name him that Nell, he’d be made fun of his whole life!” “But it’s cultural Bart, and better than Barthalamew,” she whispers close to my face. I agree, that’s a shit name. “Fine, Ryder it is.” “Ryder! What a ridiculous name!” I chortle in my head.” “Oh look Bart, he smiled! Our little Ryder,” she says, her face is inches from mine; she must of eatin a banana, I hate those blasted fruits…. Wait a fuckin minute….


I never wanted this power in the first place. I tried hiding it when it developed but people soon noticed and my secret was out. This sort of power is in high demand and I was quickly snapped up as a sidekick by Phantasm, a high ranking superhero. I’m a healer. I can numb people’s pain and fix injuries but as with all superpowers, there’s a price. I experience the pain I take from others and inherit the wounds I heal. Phantasm knows that it hurts me but he’s just another typical bigwig superhero and couldn’t care less. Whenever I bring it up, he starts ranting about how everything we do is for ‘the greater good’ and berates me for being so selfish. I accompany him into battle, take the pain inflicted by his enemies and accumulate injuries whilst he stays unscathed. After he’s won and justice has prevailed, I usually end up in hospital. Sometimes if I’m lucky and the fight has put him in a good mood, he’ll take me there himself. I’ll slump in the backseat of his car and bleed onto the plastic sheet put there to prevent me making a mess, whilst he talks my ear off about how the world is a better place because of our courage. That’s if I’m lucky, though. Most of the time he just goes straight to the nearest bar to party and leaves me to make my own agonising way to the nearest hospital. I hate him. Sometimes I fantasise about walking away while he’s injured and leaving him to suffer, but I know I can’t. He’s a high ranking superhero, and if it weren’t for him the world would be in complete chaos. If I abandon him, whatever happens afterwards will be my fault. We’re heading into a fight now. Ursa, a notorious supervillain, is threatening to destroy the Super’s Society headquarters. Of course Phantasm is first on the scene. The Super’s Society pay his wages, after all, and he knows if it weren’t for them he’d be jobless. We arrive, Phantasm confronts Ursa, and I prepare myself. I scream as Ursa lands a hit on him. I’m used to taking punches, but Ursa has inhuman strength and the second-hand blow sends me flying into a wall. The battle continues and I curl into a ball as I take strike after strike for Phantasm. Dread seeps through me as Ursa manages to pin him against the wall. Even though he’s not feeling any of this pain right now, it’s clear that he’s exhausted. My stomach lurches as I realise that he might actually lose this fight. Ursa turns to face me and grins, revealing her characteristic jagged teeth. “Hey,” she growls. “I’ve seen you with this guy before. You his sidekick or something? What do you do?” Phantasm struggles and she backhands him. My head snaps sideways and Ursa starts to laugh. “Knew it. You take his pain, don’t you? I feel bad for hitting him so hard now. This dirtbag is the one that should suffer, not you.” I remain silent, trembling from a combination of fear and pain. I can tell from bitter experience that I’ve broken several bones and from the way this fight is going, I’m expecting to break more. This isn’t good. In this sort of situation, my mind always ends up jumping to the worst case scenario. No matter how often I’ve agonised it, I still haven’t managed to answer the question that plagues me whenever a battle starts going badly. What happens if Phantasm dies? I could save him. I’m sure of it, and I’m just as certain that doing so would mean my own death. Why should I sacrifice myself for a man who treats me like dirt? But if he dies, the villains will win. He’s one of the best, and a loss like that would be disastrous. Could I live with myself? “Tell me, how much does Phantasm mean to you?” Ursa asks. I don’t answer. “Would you die for him?” She presses her claws against his throat. “Because you will if you keep protecting him.” I freeze. I don’t want to die. Especially not for him. “You’re basically his slave,” Ursa continues. “It’s cruel. I bet he doesn’t care what happens to you as long as he gets his money.” My feelings must have shown on my face, since she chuckled and shook her head. “It’s not just you, either. So many so-called Superheroes have sidekicks that don’t want to be there. The entire Society is corrupt. I used to be a Superhero, but they denounced me when I started calling them out. Now it’s my mission to end this abuse. Nobody should be forced to be a hero. Or a sidekick.” “You’re right,” I say hoarsely. I don’t like siding with a supervillain, but I can’t deny what she’s saying. “So let me kill this guy. You can come with me afterwards and everyone will just think you died in battle. I won’t ever force you to take pain away from me, or anyone.” I freeze. It’s so tempting. She slaps Phantasm again. He screams, and stares at me in shock. Ursa’s smile grows. “Do something,” he splutters. “She slapped me. It hurt.” “No.” I say. Ursa reaches towards him with her claws. I swallow, feeling a painful lump in my throat. I’ve made my decision. “Wait.” I step forwards. It’s time for me to use the other part of my power. The part I kept secret. I grab Ursa’s wrist and lock eyes with Phantasm. “Now it’s your turn.” I press Ursa’s hand against my chest and slowly lean into her claws. Blood seeps out of Phantasm’s chest and I smile as he begins to shriek with terror. It’s painless- for me, at least. As Phantasm wails, I turn to Ursa. “Let’s go.” I’m glad I’m not a sidekick anymore. ‘Supervillain’ suits me just fine.


The water crashes in this dark; a washing roar, wet and briny, eclipsed only by the alarming sense of pressure that arrives with each new wave, searing our ears for a moment and leaving the blackness dripping ice in a muffled crescendo of absolute panic. Seaweed swaddles my legs like wet roiling toilet paper as I scream, “keep looking!”

“I can’t see anything,” Steph screams back at me, over the muting of a new wave, the terror in her voice thunking in time with the heavy driftwood logs the ocean is smashing into the entrance of the cave. Just keep it together, I tell myself, fighting the urge to yell, to rage, to fight the sea that’s already at my waist. You panic, you die, don’t die! My hands race against the wet course rock, the salt stings where the stone has cut and scrapped and peeled my skin, and in spite of that I slap the dark wall and push my fingers into its gritty crevices. I can imagine what my hands would look like, in the light, surely worse than reality, but nowhere near as compelling as what will happen when the tide fully comes in, and we’re still stuck here. Don’t be stuck here.

There’s nothing I can say to reassure her, there’s no way to know how far the cave goes, if it goes up or down, if we drown here or deeper in, our bodies lost and pickled in the dark, in this grave, was it always a grave, did we just walk into our own grave? Stop! My feet slip, the force of the swirling water threatens to drag me over, I can feel impossibly real boulders against my shin, and I know if I fall my bones will snap around them, so I grab desperately, at the dark, at the wall I don’t want to be there but suddenly hope is. The impact is like light, clear, stinging, painful light. But it’s enough to steady me, even though the sensation in my hand tells me at least one finger is broken, that’s still better than a leg.

“There’s something here,” Steph screams from the fwumping swishing darkness. I try to shout back but a surge of water splashes into the cave wall beside me, erupting and drenching the rest of me. My mouth fills with grit and salt and I spit as fast as I can, picturing the ragged dead things that must bloat and disintegrate in here.

I cough, and the saltwater burns my sinuses, “what is it?”

“There’s an opening, I think,” she screams as a new swell sloshes in and throws me back against the jagged wall. More blood for the sea.

“Where are you,” I shout.

“How the fuck should I know,” the darkness shouts back. It’s enough to get a general direct, and as the undertow rips at my legs and I try to feel out a safe route towards her I wonder at the lack of urgency I feel; am I trying not to get my hopes up, or do I believe I’m already damned? What a worthless question, maybe it’s just shock.

“Where,” I yell again, half the word muffled as a heavy surge sings our ears into a burning temporary deafness. In that dark and heavy silence, I almost laugh at the coldness of the water, at the ache of its promise, always there, always ready; and us, we come to this thing as a novelty, to splash and to play, as though it is not a wild and fickle god.

“Here,” she yells, closer now, on my left.

I reach out and there she is, her shirt wet and rough, the skin beneath is cool in that way only water brings out. “What is it,” I shout again.

“I think it goes through,” she yells.

I stop myself from asking where, “can you fit?”

“I think so, but there’s a log, help me get it out!”

I reach past her, fingers jamming into slick rock then dancing along the surface towards her breathing. The water’s nearly at my chest, which means it’s almost at her throat, and still, she keeps focused. Then the wall is gone, and I nearly fall into the space it should have occupied, and there is the log. Nearly a tree. Heavy with water and swaying with horrible weight. It’s lodged in an opening. My hands feel in darting jabs, praying the water doesn’t crush my last good hand between rock and twisted tree trunk, and then I feel a bend. It’s hooked, not stuck.

“Push it towards me,” I yell into the dark, as the sloshing beside me gets frantic, becomes something more like swimming.

“We need to pull it out!”

“It’s caught on a bend, that’s all, you push, I’ll pull!”

 I grab the log under the water and pull. It moves in my arms in ways that have nothing to do with me and everything to do with the water. Its weight is terrifying. Then I hear a splash and the log starts to lever my way, and I can feel from where it is that Steph is underwater, wedged between the log and the boulders down there, shoving hard. I pull harder, it slips a little then a rolling current sweeps it up and she pushes and I pull and I wonder if she’s going to drown there, if the last living thing she ever does is help me push a log in the dark, trusting that I’m right, that I know, that I can save us; not knowing that I’m guessing at best. Then, as the water sloshes back, leaving rivulets draining from my hair, the liquid tickling the contours of my face, the log lists differently. Dangerous, heavy, swinging unstoppably in the slosh, and free.

“Go,” I yell, hearing her break the water with a gasp. And she’s splashing away and I’m right after her, swimming now, washed into the rocky sides of the little passage, aware, as I pause, that my feet don’t touch the floor, pretending not to know that. The tunnel goes farther than I could have hoped, but the roof of rock stays where it is, the water slowly bringing it closer until, with each new heavy pressure wave, my head cracks and snarls against the ceiling, and still I swim, following Steph’s splashes.

I crash into her, a slightly warmer mass tangled in the sickly-sweet rot of seaweed. I’m forced to breathe with my nose grating against the stone, the water sloshing into my nostrils, its chunky contents lapping the side of my face, caressing my throat and jaw and ears like a hungry lover. I hear a spitting spray, and she’s shouting, and I can feel the sound of her sweeping the ceiling and filling the little air that’s left with the one word I’m most afraid of, “Down,” she screams. And I want to vomit, I want to bite the ceiling, I want the numb pain in my hand to take over and fill me up and take this moment away.

The water is reaching for my nose and the world is laughing at me and I feel Eternity swimming in the cave and what choice do I have, what option but to dive and hope and pray that there will be air somewhere down and beyond. The water sweeps across my forehead and the air is gone and I’m feeling though pain and dark and debris and down, down, down, and it’s too far down, it’s only down, there’s no air here! But I push and drag and scrabble to reach Steph because I don’t want my corpse to be alone in here.

There’s a bend in the wall, and I drag myself along it, the water moves and mashes my ribs into the stone and air escapes in bubbles and I don’t have much more and then my lungs are burning and my head is pulsing with negative glitter and a voice in my head is shouting at me to breath and I scream ‘no’ at it in outrage and my air bubbles away, crawling along my face like living things, and the voice is right. I have to breathe. Somewhere, in the weightless dark, as I start to inhale the ocean and fire mixes with an electric buzz throughout my body, a hand grabs my arm and pulls. Hard.

My skin tells me there is air, the tension moving from oily to open like I’m being peeled back into the world. The water mixes with stony air inside my lungs and I’m gasping and coughing and twisting and bending and wondering if I’m going to drown in the dark here, in a miracle, in the air beyond the sea. I heave and gasp at the burn until my lungs crush out a rattling tearing cough that bites and howls deep inside me.

“It’s filling up,” Steph says, her touch is a shock, nubs of life in a lifeless place, ghosts in the dark. I flinch, and I’m ashamed. I draw in ragged breaths and turn to the touch.

“Farther,” I rasp.

“Let’s find out,” she says, grabbing my hand, my fingers explode with color in the dark, and I howl at it, that sweet, horrible pain. I scream, my voice tastes like the smell of beached crabs and the sound of seabirds, and I wonder if maybe I already died, and this is just a fever dream burning bright in some fatty corner of my brain. But she lets go quickly and the pain remains, and the scream dies out and I am alive as she touches my chest and I grab her hand with my one good one and she pulls me deeper into the earth while the water churns and rises at our feet, shallow and pushing, shoving us deeper in.

“Careful, the stones roll here,” Steph says from ahead, no longer shouting, the rush of water softened to a bubbling fwoosh behind us. We walk into nothingness, every step an act of desperate faith that ground will be there. Gradually, we slosh through it, feeling the walls for context, following a soft draft of earthy smelling air.

“The waters lower here,” Steph says from ahead, and I can hear hope in her voice. She’s right, of course, what had run as foaming sandpaper along our calves was now comfortably lapping at our ankles. It took a while to pick out the sounds tangled down here for what they were, the rawling bubbling swirl of draining water, siphoning off through lesser tunnels and sloshing vaguely underneath us and to either side, teasing in muffled slurps and tinkling dribbles in the spaces beyond our confines. But she hasn’t noticed yet that the floor slants down.

“Maybe we should wait here,” hide the fear from your voice, I tell myself, “Until the tide goes out.” The slosh-slosh of our steps rolls around the darkness, the sound itself sloshing along the rock.

“What if it fills up,” she asks, slowing.

“It won’t,” I say. It could, I think.

“We had to swim down a lot, can you climb with that hand,” she asks, and I can see her in my mind, a face that says it knows I can’t.

“You could get out, go get help,” I will hide the thoughts of being alone down here from my tongue.

“Even if I did, probably wouldn’t get back before the next tide,” she says, and my mind fills with jagged rock and salt and cold limitless dark awash in things that crawl and scuttle and wiggle and chirp.

Chirp? No, more of a click. “Do you hear that?”

“What,” she asks, alarm making her voice a cannon in this hollow place.

I shush her, pointlessly holding up my bad hand as a sign. There it is again, something familiar, or, familiar enough. Something not of the sea but the sky, and the above world in general. She inhales sharply and I know she’s heard it too.

“What is that,” she asks.

In the stillness I feel the breeze, a slight flutter of colder air, chilling one side of me more than the other in my sodden dripping state. Am I shivering? It feels like I’m shivering. I hope I’m just shivering. I look at the dark where my body should be, and it stretches and folds and warps into more dark in a way that makes me wonder if I was ever really real or had just imagined myself. Focus, I shout at the dark in my eyes. “I think it’s bats.”

“Bats don’t swim,” I hear her say, her hand cold and jittering in mine, “they had to get in some other way.”

“Doesn’t mean we can get out,” temper her hope, keep her thinking, keep her cautious, she’s better at this than me and I need that.

“Maybe not, but maybe it does. Or maybe we can shout, or see, or something,” she says, seeing options, yearning for sunlight. “We should check it out, just in case. We can always come back here if we need to.”

As though we know where ‘here’ is, as though the world is not riddled with holes all tangled like yarn and filled with darkness so complete it all but swirls about us. And yet, she’s not wrong. “Lead the way,” I say, and squeeze her hand.

The rocky slosh of sand and kelp and other things beneath our feet recedes until it’s only a slopping squish we stick and slide on and then it is something else, firmer, less gritty. The smell of ocean follows in our wake, the salt in the air stinging at our useless eyes, and more and more we come to pockets of cleaner air, stale but absent of fish and sand.

Still, my feet tell me we’re going down, but the bats are louder now, not one but many, their clicks and squeaks sounding too loud in the growing silence. By comparison, perhaps. The silence itself is oppressive, somehow worse than the roaring slosh of the sea that drowns, its weighed by the earth above us into a petty brooding thing, it resents us and the noise we bring. It resents nothing, it’s only darkness.

“It’s getting louder,” Steph says, and she’s right. The calls and clicks bounce along here, originals followed by echoes, and my brain realizes it’s not many but a few. And they are so loud, and we are so deep, and we’re going deeper, away from the sky, away from the sun.

In the dryer quiet of our march my hand throbs with fiery anger, the skin shredded, at least two broken fingers booming with nerve-bound agony. I can feel the sand, and my clothes, catch and sweep flaps of skin all over my body, the knowledge of those wounds a promise of the pain that will come when I stop moving.

There’s a new smell, now. Something animal, distinctly mammal in the way farmers or pet owners can recognize with a whiff. The clicking and tweeting is louder, so loud. How can a bat make so much sound? Its tiny body, fluff wrapped around a ping pong ball, seeing in sound, and fluttering with ease through this jagged crypt. So small. So loud. Suddenly, the sound and the pressure of the place changes and I know the walls are gone and space drifts beyond us, our crunching echoes telling my mind of vastness. The bats go silent, and that silence is crushing.

“They must get in somehow,” Steph whispers, and the tension in her arm and the little pulls and twists there let me know she’s turning her head, open eyes straining to make something of nothing. Something tumbles with a clacking rustle, and I tell myself it’s just the bats and feel the cave air with all my body because somewhere, in some tangled backwater part of my mind, I know I’m being watched. My gut is screaming ‘run’, and my brain is shouting ‘how’ and I sit between them and think of the hike I took once as a kid where I came across a bear, and how completely I understood at that moment that I was nothing, little more than gibbering meat, powerless and stupid and exposed before a truth I prayed wasn’t hungry. Which is a strange way to feel, deep in the earth. Gas, maybe, carbon dioxide poisoning.

“There’s a breeze here,” Steph says, and I think she means the cave but she’s pulling to one side, stretching at something, and I can feel it too. A current, gusting from a hole the size of a basketball in the wall, and nothing more.

“Circle the perimeter,” she says, and drags me along as she traces the circumference of our space with bleeding fingertips, the sound of them, slipping and scraping, mutters away, confusing the flapping scratching skittering bats above. More holes with more forest-fresh air, flowing in, absent of light or sound, only the brutal smell of pine from somewhere far above. The space is big, and the bats stir as we stumble through it, kicking stalactites and boulders, cracking our heads into outcroppings with our eyes wide open. Theres a gap, in the wall, my broken fingers hang at my side, curled against my waist to protect them from the cold hard stone, but I can feel the space in the sound of the silence there, somehow deeper, pulling my mind into its mute siren call, all promises of sunlight and open space.

“We’ll go back,” she says, “we’ll try your plan.”

I nod at the dark and she seems to feel it, pulling me back into the narrow tunnel and towards a floating death. And I think I’m more hurt than I thought, as we slip and crunch and stumble our way through the endless night, because I swear it still feels like the floor slants down.


**"Green," the patient replied, so thoroughly convinced of his answer that he said without even a moment's hesitation. This was the third time they had tried the crayon test and he still wasn’t showing any sign of improvement. Michael sighed, trying to keep his exasperation as slight as possible.** **He had to remember that this man suffered from a debilitating neurological disorder that caused one to see and experience things the way they were. Some suffered from this disease more than others; many merly lapsing into employing logic or making a factual statement on occasion like a mental hiccup, but resuming a normal state immediately after. Others showed symptoms more consistently, but could be easily coaxed out of it each time. Michael Gumstead's current patient was what most would consider a helpless case, and the more the usually dauntless Doctor Gumstead worked with him, the more he was starting to agree.** **"We've been over this," he said. "It's yellow."** **Doctor Gumstead put the crayon back into the box and pulled out a blue one.** **"How about this one?" He asked.** **"Blue." The patient replied.** **"White," the doctor corrected, his sigh a bit more audible this time. The weather was undoubtedly contributing to his foul mood. He found himself wishing that time had ended yesterday when it was hot and sunny. Yesterday had been his day off and he spent much of it outside, revealing in the wonderfully intense, skin-charing heat; enjoying the suffocating sensation of his clothes fusing to his skin while prickly-inch ravaged his crotch. The earthly incarnation of Heaven.** **Today was a direct opposite; the air was crisp, cool and, worst of all, breathable and the sun was slightly obscured by clouds, denying him the pleasure of having abrasive sun-rays penetrate his eyes like fiery daggers. Instead, his surroundings were rendered disgustingly seeable while the slight chill in the air filled him with a loathsome feeling of life and vitality. Of course, the patient he was working with wasn't helping much either. It was funny how someone referred to as a "patient" could make you feel anything but.** **This patient was strange in many ways; he was one of those that actually preferred the horrendous livable weather to the pleasantly soul-scorching days that every normal human being full-heartedly embraced. He was also a vegan as he considered the consumption of flesh and bodily fluids to be "kinda gross". Ironically, while he considered that gross, his diet consisted of plants; green things that sprouted from the dirt and contained neither blood nor mucus (okra being the only exception). The mere thought of such a diet made Doctor Gumstead feel nauseous.** **In one of several unsuccessful attempts to bring the patient back into normality, he had offered him a bite of his ham sandwich and when the offer was inevitably declined, Michael, not being one to skirt around the issues, asked very plainly why. This conversation was what followed:** **"I don't like meat."** **"Why not?"** **"It doesn't appeal to me."** **"Let's not be vague; if I'm to help you, I must know more about your illness. Trust me."** **"I don't even know what illness I have."** **Michael had expected that. Few patients were able to accept their condition right off the bat.** **"It's something you're going to have to face sometime or another and the longer you put it off, the more difficult it's going to be. Now why doesn't it appeal to you? I must insist on a straight answer."** **The doctor's permission had evidently emboldened the patient to speak more candidly, "I find it more than a little gross. You're eating slices of someone's body."** **"Is that any different from what you're eating? What's the difference between cutting the head off a cow and cutting off a head of lettuce?"** **The patient was confused. This was made evident by his reply--"Huh?"** **The one saving grace of those with his disorder is that they are very easy to confuse.** **"I’m examining the hypocrisy of your position; you find it disgusting to eat animal bodies but are fine with eating decaying plant bodies."** **"I don't eat them when they're decaying," said the patient, elaborating his backward point of view.** **"Plants do decay, do they not?" Gumstead insisted, eyeing his patient with fierce scrutiny.** **"Yes, but I--"** **"So you eat decaying plants,"** **The patient started stupidly at him, then opened his mouth as if to respond, then let his head drop to his chest, managing only a weak, "Sure."** **Ah, progress.** **"And meat decays too, so it’s essentially the same thing."** **The patient raised his head slowly as if he were struggling with the weight of his own skull. Doctor Gumstead was slightly offended; what right did he have to be tired? If anyone had the right to be exhausted, it was the good doctor.** **"Well," the patient began, "I guess it's because nature intended them to be eaten, by humans I mean--"** **"And animals aren't?"** **"Not when you get right down to it. When you consider that the seeds in fruit are--"** **"Animals were meant to be eaten," doctor Gunstead interrupted, not willing to put up any more deluded ravings, "why else would they be marketed as food?"** **"Profit," came the predictable answer. People with this condition held on to a paranoiac belief that corporations are run for the sake of a profit without necessarily being interested in the public's well being which, to be fair, was sometimes true, but not when it suited Michael Gumstead to believe otherwise. In any case, it was nothing that a bit of positive thinking couldn’t fix.** **Gradually, the topic of the discussion came to focus on life's imperfections, which was just where doctor Gumstead had hoped the conversation would lead, as he had recently taken a vehement interest in spirituality; not organized religion, of course, which was just a celestial form of brainwashing, but real spirituality; the logical kind that respected the intelligence of the individual and worked for the betterment of mankind as a whole rather than a perverse desire to control others. It was rather unorthodox to treat a patient according to the spiritual teachings, but nothing else had worked so far, so he gave it a try. He asked the patient about any personal problems he may have had in the past that might still be influencing his behavior today.** **The patient pondered for a moment then said, "Well, back in--"** ***"NOOOOOOOO*****," Doctor Gumstead bellowed, "it only seeeeeeemed that waaaaaaay because of your negatiiiiiiiiive perceeeeeeeeption."** **"I didn't even tell yo--"** **"You'rrrrrrre respooooooooonsiblllllllllle for yoooou'rrrrre owwwwwwwwn experieeeeeeeeeeence," said Doctor Gumstead, proud of himself for having remembered to gratuitously elongate nearly every word; an intricate part of any spiritual lecture, "The “prooooobleeeeeeem” you** ***thiiiiiiiink*** **you haaaaad would neverrrrrrr have exiiiiiiiiisteeeeeed had you not acknooooowledged it in the firrrrrrrrst plaaaaaaaaaaaace!"** **"You mean, I wouldn't have broken my leg skiing that day had I simply not noticed it?"** ***"Yes!"*** **Doctor Gumstead almost shouted, astounded by his patient’s inability to figure out the obvious. Gumstead’s heart sank just a bit as he realised his mistake in letting the patient finish a sentence, which is as much a taboo in the spiritual realm as logical consistency. This mistake at first prompted Doctor Gumstead to think that he was not yet ready to apply his spiritual lessons to everyday matters, but then, upon realizing that centering advice on something you know little to nothing about was about the most spiritual thing one could do, he knew he was on the right track.** **The patient stared at him for a moment and finally said, "But how--?"** **"I don't know why you have to take such a hostile position," Doctor Gumstead said quickly.** **"I'm a little confused," the patient said, "How could I have noticed my injury before--"** **"I’ll have to cut this session short," said Gunstead, "if you continue with that hostile tone."** **"What hostility?" The patient demanded rather hostility, "I was simply pointing out illogicality of--"** **"OK, so now you’re insulting me. It's little outbursts like that that got you sent here in the first place."** **The outburst to which doctor Michael Gumstead had referred had taken place at the patient's place of employment where he had questioned the need to update the "perfectly good" software of each company computer in order to make them more difficult to use. His employers tried their best to explain how the functional software was now well out of date, having been in existence for more than three minutes, whereas the update would needlessly complicate each task for the convenience of every employee.** **Somehow this logic, as sound as it was, didn't satisfy him and he exposed his unstable mental condition with the decolonization that the explanation didn't "make sense", after which he proceeded into an incoherent rant about how newer wasn't inherently better, and how it “actually needed to improve on something”.** **Soon, the entire office had gathered around the post-patient to try and understand just what in the hell he was talking about. Needless to say, no one understood a thing. Everything he said made too much sense for anyone to make sense of.** **His office manager had tried especially hard to comprehend his position, but every attempt at an explanation proved futile, difficulty in communication being another common symptom. Finally, the office manager; name of George, made him take the rest of the day off, believing that his inexplicable outburst of critical-thinking was merely exhaustion brought on by overwork.** **His wife was the first to witness the full extent of her husband's insanity. It came when she asked him to fill up the bathtub for her and he did so, prompting him to wonder why he hadn't started making the enchiladas that she had requested for dinner and why he was pouring a bath so early in the evening. His perplexing response was as follows: "You told me to draw a bath."** **The wife, Isabelle, replied, "But that wasn’t what I** ***meant*****."** **When he asked Isabelle why she didn't say what she meant, she backed away from him; slowly at first, then made a quick dash to the bedroom, where she locked herself inside and called the police.** **Now here was Michael Gumstead; trying to reason with a man who probably couldn't be reasoned with. Gumstead had started the case fully and enthusiastically embracing the challenge, but now it was getting to the point where he was beginning to question his own sanity.** **"You have been hostile to people," Gumstead insisted, "don't try to tell me otherwise. You are capable of hostility."** **"Um, sure. So that means that I'm hostile in every instance of my life?"** ***"Yes!"*** **Gumstead said excitedly, barely suppressing a mirthless laugh. He couldn't believe this really had to be explained, "You've been displaying copious quantities of hostility since you arrived here! With your relentless questions and endless scrutiny. Disputing my authority and undermining me at every turn!"** **We are allllllllllllll of one consciousness;" Gumstead said, quickly preventing the patient from saying anything else, "we are aaaaaall perfect! We are aaaaaall compleeeeeeeetelyyyyyyyyy eeee-*****qual!*****”Gumstead made sure to state how equal they were with the most smugly condescending tone and smile he could manage. It was always important for the spiritually evolved to let people know that they were just a little more completely equal than those around them, “buuuuut if I didn't teeeeeeeell yooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuu, what your** ***thooooouuuuughts*****,** ***feeliiiiiiiiiiiiings*** **and** ***intentioooooooooooons*** **are than hoooooooow would you** ***everrrrrr*** **knoooooooow?"** **"I'm sure I know my own thoughts, feelings and intentions." He was getting frustrated. A definite sign of hostility.** **This time Gumstead didn't bother hiding his sigh at this poor, silly, deluded man as he pondered what he could say that would get through to him.** **"Don't be so hostile." He said at last.** **A week went by with no noticeable improvements. If anything, his hyper-sensitivity had gotten worse. When Doctor Gumstead was having his lunch, the patient, in a fit of entitlement, asked if he could close his mouth when he chewed. Doctor Gumstead reacted by chewing louder; “In Norway, it’s considered a compliment to chew as loudly as possible,” he explained, “and I’m not going to stop being polite just because you don’t like it.”** **“It is not polite precisely** ***because*** **you** ***know*** **that I don’t like it!” Portested the patient.** **Doctor Gumstead said with a tight smile that would seem patronizing to lesser sentient beings, but which was actually very evolved and free of the slightest hint of judgment; “what’s polite and what isn't doesn’t change to match your feelings. Politeness was invented to show respect. Respect, I will argue, is about the most important thing one human being can have for another; it’s the cornerstone of our civilization, and why shouldn’t it be? It helps to be courteous to those around us; to eliminate the potential tensions and live in harmony with those we encounter in our daily lives, so with that in mind, I will force my respect on you whether you like it or not!”** **The patient slumped in his chair, his chin nearly reaching his chest.** ***So damn dramatic,*** **Doctor Gumstead thought, rolling his eyes. He made sure the patient saw it as that was often worked as a way to deter further arguments, then he resumed eating his sandwich, making each chew louder than the last.** **Within the next week, they had tried shock-therapy, past regression therapy and speaking in patronizing tones whenever he had expressed a coherent thought, and he had managed to resist every step of the way. Doctor Gumstead had considered temporarily forgetting his compassionate nature and employing corporeal punishment, but had always managed to resist the urge.** **Michael Gumstead returned to work feeling an odd emotion composed of being simultaneously fatigued and refreshed. He was fatigued for the most obvious reason-- his pain-in-the-ass patient, though, thankfully, this would be the last day that he would have to work with him. They would go through the motions once more and then he would write him off as a helpless case. Sadly, every alternative, much like Doctor Gumstead himself, had been completely exhausted. The simultaneous feeling of exuberance came from having had his opinion swayed by an interview he saw on television; they were interviewing the now notorious Narvadan prosecutor, Christopher Butterfield, who had just gotten a death sentence for a man that had strangled his wife to death with a phone cord.** **The prosecutor was under fire by a small percentage of the public for organizing a celebration party when the verdict was announced; the party had shot-glasses designed to look like syringes and a cake that was in the form of a tombstone, pictures of which were proudly uploaded to Facebook along with a video in which Mr. Butterfield, clad in a blond wig and formal blue dress, doing a mocking impression of the condemned man's sister for the amusement of his guests. Some people, the family of the condemned included, saw fit to question Mr. Butterfield's ethics. Doctor Gumstead counted himself among them; a prosecutor who would stoop so low couldn't be any better than the remorseless killer he had put on death-row.** **Still, he listened attentively while the prosecutor made his case; "I showed the offender exactly the same amount of mercy he showed his victim," Butterfield had said, "if you want to say I'm crass and maybe a little callous because of the way I conducted myself at a private party, fine. Just keep in mind how callous it was for that vermin to coldly and meticulously wrap a phone cord around Ms. Stratten's neck and squeeze until all the life drained from her body while she struggled, helpless and frightened. I'll bet the Stratten family are suffering too, but, of course, nobody cares about them. Nobody in the entirety of human history has ever cared about the victim, but I've been doing my damndest to try and change that!” At this point, tears formed in his eyes and his voice shook with uncontrolled emotion.“I gues**s **I just care** ***too much*** **about human life!" he bawled.** **The more parallels Christopher Butterfield drew between himself and the scum he had put on death-row, the more Doctor Gumstead came to realize that he had misjudged the noble prosecutor. Chris Butterfield was really a very compassionate man, he was just fed up with the way the media had always given sympathy and recognition to violent criminals while treating the victims and their families with cold indifference. He knew the media didn’t care about the victims of violent crime because TV and radio networks would helpfully remind him. Gumstead decided that Mr. Butterfield was a great attorney after all, and he did a pretty good female-impersonator to boot! Doctor Gumstead felt good knowing that he had been proven wrong. He liked knowing that he was never too wise to learn.** **The doctor entered the small chilly room where the patient was waiting. The patient looked the way the doctor felt; haggard, exhausted and eager to get the day over with. Doctor Gumstead produced a purple crayon from his pocket. "What color is this?" He asked in a dismal monotone.** **"Orange." Said the patient.** **Doctor Gumstead reached for the next crayon then stopped, unsure of what he had just heard. He asked again and this time got "Green". Gumstead looked at the crayon then looked back at the patient. His hope suddenly renewed for the first time in months. Excitedly he produced a green crayon.** **"Brown." Said the patient.** ***I’ll be damned!*** **Though Doctor Gumstead,** ***I will be DAMNED!*** **The breakthrough that he had been hoping for, but thought unobtainable had been reached! Gumstead couldn’t hide his excitement. He vibrated in his chair and grinned like a rambunctious child as he produced an orange crayon--"No color," the patient said, "it's transparent."** **Doctor Gumstead jumped from his seat and shouted something to the equivalent of “Yahoooooo!” Had he been wearing a hat, he would have beaten it against the side of his pants. He called up Mr. Mondale, the head of the hospital, and asked him to come down as soon as he could.** **"Which way is up?" Asked Gumstead.** **"Down." The patient responded.** **"Which way is left?" Asked Gumstead.** **"Right." The patient responded.** **"When is today?" Gumstead asked.** **"Yesterday;" the patient responded, "today was already tomorrow."** **“How would you describe the name Caroline?” asked doctor Gumstead.** **“A beautiful name for a beautiful person.” the patient said.** **It was then that doctor Gumstead began nudging Mr. Mondale in the ribs while saying, "Huh? Huh?"** **Mr. Mondale was impressed. He gave doctor Gumstead a firm handshake and enthusiastic congratulations. Then, just for the hell of it, a hug and a big sloppy kiss on the cheek...and he wasn't even Italian!** **The following week, they brought the patient in to meet with the country's foremost experts on human psychology to show them the results. After performing a series of cartwheels, backflips and aerial somersaults in an uncontrollably robust display of joy, they unanimously agreed that the patient, this David Miller, was finally ready to be reintroduced to the outside world.** **Doctor Gumstead wished David Miller luck and sent him on his way. For the next couple months, doctor Gumstead would respond to every mention of the word "hero" with an embarrassed smile and a modest shake of his head. "I just did my job." he would say, "I was on the verge of giving up, but then I got lucky."** **Still, Michael Gumstead would have been lying if he said that he didn't feel some sense of pride as he watched David Miller walk backwards through the gates of the institution with his backpack wrapped around his chest and his eyes staring directly into the mid-afternoon sun.** **Once a mental defect, now fit for normal society.


I'm not a writer but I've always entertained writing about my life and my experiences. I like this alot, what do you guys think? Edit: changed some things. I roll over sluggishly, trying to find my phone that somehow always finds its way into the pillowy waves of my comforter. Without my glasses I search aimlessly, patting the sheets, looking for my phone. I find it half buried undernearh my girlfriends leg. Pulling it out from under the covers, the screen blinds me. 4:53AM. Fuck. This has been happening to me alot lately. I have a dream in which i die; always in different ways, but always by the hand of someone i love. I dont believe dreams are profound or anything and normally dont give them much attention. This one bothers me though, keeping me up. I keep trying to interpret some kind of meaning from it aside from the very obvious. I lay awake in bed with Emily, my girlfriend, next to me. While i try to remember every detail of the dream i lose myself staring at the ceiling. The fan flicks shadows upon the walls of my bedroom, illuminated only by the blue lightbulb from my lamp in the corner. Emily calls it the omnious lamp. It sits alone in the corner of my room casting a dim blue light eerily across it, yet somehow, the glow is relaxing. Its almost as if the light was a metaphor for the inevitable end that was staring me down, and for some reason i relax in it. The thing is i never get to really relax. My anxiety makes sure of that, and if it weren't the anxiety, it would be the paranoia. Its almost six am now and my mind is numb from replaying my Shakespearean demise over and over. I get up and go to the living room hoping that looking out over the city with a cigarette will ease my mind. I stumble around the living room looking for my pack and a lighter. Theres still lines cut up on the coffee table from last night. The ashtray is full of cigarette butts and roaches, my half empty pack laying next to it. I light up my smoke and inhale. I hate it, but i instantly feel calmer, if only for a few minutes. Disgusting habit i picked up back in highschool right around the time i started drinking and smoking pot. Not much has changed since then. My first taste of this lifestyle came shortly after that. I would sell some pot to my friends and occasionally we would come across some blow and geek out for the night. That was almost ten years ago now. All those years i was selling i said i would get out and grow up, find a job and move on with my life. Last week i turned twenty-five and im still here supplying this campus of depraved trust fund kids looking to piss off their parents with whatever drug they will crush, snort, eat, smoke or inject. Im in the process of trying to leave this life. Its catching up to me. The anxiety from looking over my shoulder is becoming debilitating. I cant sleep anymore. Im not happy. Im depressed and exhausted from putting on this facade. Everything is spiraling, i no longer have a grasp on my life. Its like ive fallen into a narrative with a vindictive author, hell bent on seeing me get mine . My luck is running out and i need to be gone when it finally does. This is my story.