Life stretched on in all its crushing dreariness. He felt trapped: by his choices, by his body, by his brain. “Tim Carter?” called the nurse. That was him. “Room 7” she said. Well, he thought, let’s get some help. Or some answers, at least. He wrapped on the door. From inside he heard a muffled: “come in!”. The doctor was sat behind a computer: he looked like Bob Ross in a labcoat. “Mr, er, Carter is it?” he asked, squinting at his computer screen. “Yes, uh, that’s me” said Tim, pulling his seat nearer to the desk. “Well, what can I help you with?” “I, uh, well basically...I’ve been feeling bad recently. Like, really bad. I built up this routine for myself – you know, exercise, art, work, sleep, meals – but even that’s stopped working. I keep wanting to cry all the time, I’m just...just a fucking mess you know?” The doctor took off his spectacles. He looked at Tim with a father’s sympathy. “And have you been on antidepressants?” “Yeah, but they’ve not been working...I’ve tried them all at this point” “And have there been any big changes in your life recently?” “No, none I can think of...there’s no logical reason I should feel this way” “How about drink, or drugs? Do you do them?” “Well, yeah, I mean, I used too, they helped for a bit, but then they stopped working. So I don’t bother anymore.” “I see...so you’ve got a routine, you’ve tried all the antidepressants, you avoid drink and drugs, and there’s no logical reason for you to feel this way, am I right?” Tim nodded. “Have you thought about killing yourself?” “No...I mean, sometimes, fuck, I don’t know. Not all the time, anyway” “I mean...have you *considered* killing yourself? As an option?” “What...what do you mean?” “Well, like I’ve said, you’ve tried everything else, suicide might be the best bet at this point. I’ll write a referral for Dignitas if you’d like?” “Wait, what, no, *what the fuck*? Why are you telling me this?” “Look at it this way Tim – you don’t mind if I call you Tim, do you? - you said so yourself, there’s no logical reason for you to feel this way! You’ve tried everything! It’s quite obvious that, mental healthwise, you’re fucked. Sorry, but that’s just how it is. CBT would be like using a bucket to plug a sinking ship; it’s just not feasible. So why postpone the inevitable?” “But, you’re a doctor, Jesus Christ! You’re meant to help people get better!” “And I am, Tim, I really, really am” he said wearily “don’t you see? What is life, if not the pursuit of happiness? And if you’re always going to be *locked out* of life’s joys then what’s the point of carrying on? Do you really want to have this conversation repeated for the next five, ten, twenty years? Must you be like Sisyphus, doomed to repeat your burden for all eternity?” “Dude, I don’t even know what the fuck you just said. Isn’t there, like, I don’t know, some new drug? Some new therapy, even?” “Yes, probably...and you’d be on it, for a bit, and you’d feel better, for a bit, but then you’d build up a tolerance, or some new incident would come along, wrecking everything, setting us back to square one. Aren’t you sick of the skipping record that is your life? You’re a broken bird, you’re stale crisps, you’re the end bit of the loaf...the best you hope for is a few for is a few isolated peaks of happiness, maybe, in an eternity of gloom” “Fuck you, dude. My life has value.” “Yes, but what is value unless it’s recognised? I could say this pen is worth £100, but neither of us choose to believe it, so it isn’t true! You are incapable of perceiving worth in yourself; ergo, your life has no value” Tim stood up angrily. He’d had enough. “You know what? I think you’re the one who’s bitter, broken and useless. You can keep your judgements. I’m going to carry on living, if only to spite you!” Tim stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut. The doctor smiled.


It was bring your kid to work day tomorrow. The worst day of my life. How could I explain to my kid what I do? I had become a doctor to save lives. If only I knew. If only. I had worked in the ICU for nearly 6 months now, transferred from the ER due to how good i was with the lasso. I had never missed a soul. That was my job. When a patient passed, it was my job to secure their soul for recycling. The power monopoly EPL had a strict contract with RCR, my hospital, for all souls. For nearing two decades now we had learned that soul power was exponentially more potent than electricity or even oil. Everything from your microwave to your TV or even your phone, was powered by souls. How could I tell her? How could I tell her that her mothers soul was probably powering some jack asses nose trimmer? I couldn’t. And thanksgiving was right around the corner too. Damnit damnit damnit. My stupid family is going to ask me about my job too. No one knows. Even if they did, it’s not like anything would change. Their phones and hair dryers were too important. They’d turn a blind eye. Besides, the poor souls were worth more and the politicians knew they could sell the idea of sacrifice for the greater good. “Skrrr*Code yellow room 313*” That was for me. It was time for the next reaping. They couldn’t even call it something better than that? I’m a damn reaper. That’s what i do. I confine souls to a temporary prison before they’re sucked to a crisp by our machinery and are lost to oblivion. You’d think that with the discovery of real souls there would be a religious epiphany. No, there was money to be made. And i was the collector. They paid well too. Maybe that’s why i hadn’t left, maybe that’s why i hadn’t blown the whistle. No if I blew the whistle i’d be powering up some poor broads vibrator in a week. Lass wouldn’t even know a hopeless lanky man like me was stuck inside. It would probably kill the mood anyways. Fuck. I’m on. Nurses were scrambling in the room already. “Dr. Lez, we’ve kept all the windows closed as long as we-“ I held up my hand to stop her. “Just keep them that way I won’t be long.” I uncoiled my lasso from my fanny pack. Jesus they couldnt even give us cool bags for these death ropes. A fucking fanny pack? I slipped my goggles on and surveyed the room. There he was, just sitting there in the upper right corner of the room. Souls don’t have voices, but if this one did, he’d no doubt ask what the hell was going on. He looked scared, and he should be. This wasn’t right. It didn’t stop me though. I gave my rope a final tug and started to spin my lasso. I caught him around the waist and slowly pulled him in. Souls are also slippery buggers. Too fast of a pull and they’d be gone again. Got you. I looked to my tech. “McGaff grab the vacuum.” He grabbed the ancient device and started his process. My job was done. Maybe i’ll ask for PTO and just miss bring your kid to work day. Yeah, that’s what doctors do. I had a whole month saved up why not? Yes yes yes. Easy. I’ll buy Calliope ice cream and drive down to the fair. Yeah, screw it. I’m taking off.


(TW … depression, suicidal thoughts) “I honestly don’t know why I should even care anymore.” It was an unpleasant thought. She knew that. It was a thought to fight off, to wrestle to the ground and beat senseless, walking away the victor. She knew that. “Why do I bother? There is no point.” These thoughts, as if best friends, seem to show up together. The power of two makes it harder to fend off, needing a one-two punch to knock them both out. She had fought this demon many times in her life. It was an entity that lurked around her, above her, swirling and taunting. At times it had retreated to the background in silence. Out of sight and out of mind? Almost. The recent isolation had opened the door for the depression to enter her life again. Like an invitation to a birthday party but instead of balloons and streamers it decorated the space with darkness. She walked down the aisle without choosing anything. Forgetting to grab a basket on her way in, she held the few selected items in her arms. Protein bars. They make a good meal at her desk without requiring any prep or thought. That’s a plus. Cereal. A staple to be eaten for breakfast or a late night snack. Another plus. Stopping in the hair care aisle she stared at the vast array of products. Absentmindedly she twisted a piece of hair round and round her finger and then let it go adding to the mass of curls that did their own thing despite her efforts. She fantasized about getting a new hairstyle, walking past a reflection knowing that she looked good and felt good. Then she remembered the discomfort in the salon seat, the cape making her feel small and unattractive with her wet hair slicked back, the stranger’s hands pulling a comb through her knots. She grabbed a conditioner for curly hair putting an end to the fantasy. Struggling to hold her meager collection of items she again wondered, “Why bother”. She still didn’t have anything picked out for dinner despite roaming up and down the aisles. Looking at the meats, she was reminded of her mediocre cooking skills. She stood rooted to the spot staring at the choices for who knows how long. It just wasn’t worth it, she decided. It really wasn’t worth the effort. Walking to the front of the store in a trance-like state her thoughts went to the place that she would never allow them to go. A surprising calmness seeped into her as she considered the possibilities; the calmness turning into relief as the thoughts grew stronger and more defined. She was young, had no children for whom she was responsible. That in itself was a blessing and a curse. Otherwise, she would rise to the occasion. Drifting away from friends over the years, she resorted to commenting on social media posts and the occasional text. It became a better alternative than making plans, which she would inevitably cancel. As for coworkers, her home office allowed her the luxury of solitude. She really could just slip out of this existence unnoticed. Her thoughts went to her mother. How would she find out? The news would be devastating enough to destroy her. Would she recover? If she were able to find the words she could explain that it wasn’t her fault, that she had done nothing wrong as a parent. It was within herself, this depression, this monster that threatened her very life. Maybe she should write a letter while it was on her mind just in case. If the enemy won she didn’t want her words unsaid. Suddenly a flashback of herself a few years prior came to mind. As a teenager she had built up the courage to let her mother in on her feelings. It came out all wrong, she remembered, sounding spoiled, petty, ungrateful. She hadn’t been able to draw the picture of her emotions. And then the quick response came. “Snap out of it.” Oh, if it were only that easy. Snap out of it. How she longed to Snap Out Of It. Her turn at the register, the cashier asked the perfunctory questions. Did you find everything you were looking for tonight? Yes, thank you. Cash or charge? Charge, please. Would you like a bag? No, thank you. Maybe she should have chosen the self-checkout line.

“Let me know what you think of that conditioner. I’ve been meaning to try it.” “Oh yeah.” She looked down somewhat surprised that she had picked it out. She felt like she was just waking up, a bit groggy.

“I love your curls by the way. My hair just turns to frizz no matter what. No fair.” She looked at the young cashier with her hair pulled into a ponytail. “No, it’s cute. I like it.” “Yeah?” She brightened up, smiled.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

After swiping her card, she laid the cereal box down flat in the bagging area and arranged her items on it. As if it were a tray, she picked up the box and turned to walk toward the exit. The cashier smiled, commenting, “You look like a waitress.” Always quick with a comeback she replied, “Would you like fries with that?” The two women looked at each other and unexpectedly laughed. Something clicked inside her with the release of endorphins. She felt lighter, healthier, awake.

How did her mood change so rapidly, going from the depths of despair to laughing in the blink of an eye? Was the most basic conversation, just a few lines of banter back and forth, enough to bring her back from the brink? One small compliment, one silly off hand joke. The automatic door opened, and she walked through into the evening catching the tail end of the sunset. The cool air felt good. Her thoughts returned to the letter for her mother. Should she still write it just in case? She could tuck it into the drawer of her night table to be easily discovered. She thought of the one simple gesture, the cashier choosing to converse with her, that changed the outcome of the evening. Looking back into the grocery store as the automatic door was closing, she caught a glimpse of the young lady. She was smiling warmly at the next customer. This time the one simple gesture was a smile. As she turned away she saw the customers at the self checkout going through the motions, looking alarmingly similar to how she had felt just moments ago.


Where I come from Coke is a generic work for any carbonated drink. For instance—  I’ll take the fried chicken livers, green beans, and a Coke. What kinda Coke you want hon’? How ‘bout a Dr. Pepper? Where I come from

sweet  is the only way tea is served and potato salad has mayonnaise, mustard, and sweet pickles.

Like most young people, I suppose, I hated my hometown. I was young and impatient, and the place I came from was in no big hurry. Mostly though, I couldn’t wait to escape the claustrophobic gentility that was often a disguise for generational hate and racism.  Where I come from, black men still say

Yes suh, Mr. John

when white men speak to them and very old ladies don’t even blink when they let the

n word  slip.

Where I come from, if you look carefully on the exposed brick wall of the  Five and Dime— below the words suggesting you

See Rock City— you can still make out the words

white  and

colored  where the segregated water fountains hung.

Don’t get me wrong, not all my memories are bad. I grew up there. I learned to walk and talk. I had my first kiss and went to football games and dances. I graduated from high school and earned my first real grownup paycheck in that place that I came from.

When I go back to visit now, I can look at it with grace. I can sit and watch the sun set over the lake to the deafening soundtrack of the cicadas. I can drive down country lanes bounded on each side by unending cotton fields and glory in the vast magnolias that I know where old when I was born.

Much of my father’s family still live in the place I came from and like the cicadas and magnolias, I have learned to appreciate them. Growing up, I recall bickering and long-held grudges. I remember my grandmother playing my aunts and uncles against each other—whispering

this  in one’s ear and

that  in another’s.

But there are good memories as well. I particularly recall a picnic at the lake —a birthday party for my great grandmother. I might have been nine or ten. I can remember the burned sugar smell of barbecued pork ribs cooking over a hand dug fire pit and scoops of cold potato salad on thin paper plates.  I remember my grandfather, Paw Paw, turning a hand cranked ice cream churn while chain smoking from an aluminum folding chair. I remember exactly how that thin vanilla ice cream would melt and soak into the edges of the grocery store birthday cake. I remember cold sweet tea in red plastic cups. Now, for anyone who is not southern, the ratio is two full cups of Dixie Crystal White Sugar into a two quart pitcher of hot tea.  Looking back, it’s a wonder we are not all diabetic! While the adults cooked and gossiped, we children played. I can recall the feel of the mud squishing between my toes as we played waist deep in the edge of the lake. Our swimsuits were eternally stained dingy orange from the iron rich red clay in the water. My cousin, Regina, and I were the oldest and were expected to entertain and supervise the younger cousins. We accomplished this by taking turns pretending to baptize them. We would instruct each little one to cross his arms and lean back. Then we would hold them just above the water and ask,

“Do you believe in Jesus?”

We would pinch their little noses closed and dramatically lower them back into the smelly lake water. When they emerged, hair dripping behind them, we would all shout,

Hallelujah ! And then the next cousin would be waiting, impatiently crying,

Do me next! I’m next! In addition to my uncles and aunts, Granny and Paw Paw, my great grandmother, Margie, and her sister, Bonnie Jean were installed in folding chairs in the shade of the mimosa trees. (Great) Grandma Chandler wore a thin flowered house dress that zipped up the front and heavy black lace up shoes. On the front of her dress two large square pockets held a small package of tissues, her reading glasses, a pack of Beechnut gum, and a small Round red can of Garrett and Sons’ Sweet Snuff. Her thin gray hair was pinned to the back of her head with black bobby pins because she said it was just too hot to wear her wig. Bonnie Jean, who had left home, had a career and two husbands, wore a pair of polyester pants and a coordinating flowered top purchased from the ladies’ sportswear section of Sears and Roebuck. Both women fanned themselves with stiff square paper fans emblazoned with the name of the local funeral home on the front and quarter page ads for local mechanics, beauty parlors, and divorce attorneys on the back.

 Grandma Chandler worked as a winder at the local cotton mill for thirty-seven dollars a month. She retired after sixty- four and three-quarter years. When they asked why she didn’t make it an even sixty-five, she replied that she just didn’t want to. After she retired, she received a pension of thirty five dollars a month a Christmas box containing six oranges, a bag of hard ribbon candy, and a paper box of old fashioned peppermint sticks. On Saturday evenings, Grandma Chandler would prepare Sunday dinner. Where I came from

lunch  was

dinner  and

dinner  was

supper . She would fry chicken and cook turnip greens with a slab of fat back, and slice sun warmed red tomatoes from her garden. When the meals was complete, she would place it on the kitchen table and drape a clean flowered bedsheet over it until the next day, after church. She loved her family, Jesus, and Johnny Cash, but maybe not in that order.

I loved Grandma Chandler but I worshipped her sister, Bonnie Jean. Bonnie Jean was exotic. She had been to places outside of that place I came from.  She talked to me like an adult. Bonnie Jean liked to rock the boat a little and I hope I learned that from her.

Even as a small child, I took it to heart when someone would offer to wrap up a piece of cake for her to take home and she would declare, “I’m going to save myself from temptation later, I’ll just eat all my cake now!” There was, I thought, an important life lesson there and I embraced it fully.

I cannot escape the place I come from.  No matter how far I travel or how loudly I deny it.  The place—the people— I come from are part of me. You can hear it when I pronounce the word

bed

or  dead  with two entire syllables or declare that I am

fixin’ to go to the store.

You can see it in the way I dress, and walk, and talk.

You can feel it in who and how I love. And— You can taste it in my sweet tea.


“Wow! That last sack J.J. laid on Tom Brady, third quarter, seems to have left a very lasting impression him. Have you noticed that Chet?” Gerry Jerbette asks of his network co-worker. They had partnered together doing live action sports commentary for the past five years “Noticed? Are you kidding me? I’m way ahead of you Gerry. I’ve already had it entered in as a brand new game stat! …For fewest plays aimed at wherever J.J. Watt is positioned on the line of scrimmage,” Chet Doler responded. Chet was seventeen years Gerry’s senior, who was able to distort his true age by looking every bit a handsome-bodied, neatly groomed, male professional, wearing a flashy smile, studded with top of the line implants. Gerry was a kind of a twenty-nine year old near twin to Chet. Gerry looked collegiately young, was neatly groomed, and also had a flashy smile. But additionally had the musculature of a man who often Peloton’d his way through lunch. “You know Chet? Yeah. Now that you’ve mentioned it… I haven’t seen the Buccaneers moving the ball much to J.J.’s side of the line all fourth quarter. Not ever since the Texans have been rotating him from end to end, every third and long scenario the Buccaneers have gotten themselves into today,” Gerry said into his head mic with game enthusiasm. “Yeah. Not that hard to figure out really,” Chet agreed, repositioning his headset for comfort. “The Buccaneers have been double-teaming J.J. Watt as if the man were a nuclear threat.” Gerry loosens up his tie and drops his opinion. “That’s for sure Chet. The Bucs are lagging behind the Texans by three points, with thirty-seven seconds left to go in the game. And I’m legally sure there isn’t a single person in all the NFL universe who isn’t sure that Brady is updating himself, play by play, on where the Texans’ number 99 jersey is lining up,” Gerry said with a conspirator’s grin. “Yeah, I would too, if I had a Watt pest problem in Raymond James Stadium,” Chet commented into the network’s audio broadcast circuitry. Activity out on the field catches Chet’s eye. He glances down quickly at his monitor to double check, then back out onto the field, and replies, “No doubt about that Gerry.” “And I see that things are coming back to life here in the stadium. The Buccaneer fans are coming to their feet, and breaking the sound barrier with extreme prejudice.” “You’re right Gerry. The Ariens/Brady summit on the sideline has adjourned, and Brady is walking over to his offensive unit with ***the*** ***plan***,” Chet conjectures. Gerry nods and then adds his observation to supplement Chet’s commentary. “***The*** ***plan*** seems to be delivered Chet. The Bucs are trotting up to the line of contention. The wait for the fans is about to be over. And you better believe you can hear their excitement at thirty thousand feet above this stadium!” Chet presses his head phones closer to his ears, and then signals to the booth engineer to dial up his head set’s audio just a few notches. Gerry gives the booth engineer the same signal for the same convenience and remarks into his mic, “Brady must have an itchy trigger finger Chet, because the Buccaneer offense is lining up in the shot gun.” “Right Gerry. Which totally stands to reason. Seeing that he’s on his own forty-two yard line with no time outs left, fourth down, and eighteen long yards to go for a clutch first down,” Chet says, raptly fascinated. He throws Gerry a quick glance, and finishes by adding, “Look at him out there Gerry. Tom couldn’t possibly be more in hero mode. He’s got the apparent swagger of a legendary Superbowl champion persona about him for sure.” “Yup, hold that thought Chet. Cause there’s the snap! Brady’s pocket is forming around him like a Star Wars deflector shield. And there goes his crew of receivers streaking downfield like X-wings star fighters, trying to find a little free Grid Iron space to haul in a fast spiral delivery. And there’s J.J. working hard to crash the party.” “But he’s up against the double-team duo of Donovan Smith and Ali Marpet. They’re out to bar J.J.’s way like a pair of night club bouncers. But wait! Wow! Did you see that?!" Gerry exclaims excitedly, nearly performing a perfect imitation of a NASA rocket launch out of his chair. “You better believe I saw ***that***, Gerry!” Chet breaks in to reply. “That’s no optical illusion. J.J. just made the fastest lightening inside-fake, outside-spin move on Donovan Smith, the big Buccaneer tackle has probably ever seen in his life!” Chet says, in a soprano voice. “It appears that Smith wasn’t expecting J.J.’s fake and spin. Or that J.J. would suddenly not be under his hands anymore! Which is resulting in a very surprised Donovan Smith stumbling forward, in a very badly off balanced way!” “Right Chet! But look at Ali Marpet. He’s stumbling over Smith’s legs, trying to get to J.J.! Which is proving to be a bad move for both him and his teammate. Because they’re both headed for the artificial turf, and no doubt, a real good chewing out in the very near future!” Gerry predicts. In the very next second, Gerry’s index finger reflexively points out the broadcast booth window excitedly. Danger signals clanging in his mind, to broadcast, “Oh! And somebody better get Brady on his helmet radio and tell him what I’m looking at! J.J. Watt is racing in unhindered! And I’ll bet my paycheck he’s not rushing in to get Brady’s autograph!” Automatically, Gerry turns his head, but not his eyes, to Chet, and announces, “Looks like Brady is going to have to seriously consider grabbing two feet of space on the sideline, real real soon Chet!” Chet channels his counter-comment into his microphone, “Gerry, I believe you’re putting it way too mildly. Brady has to see he’s about to become a sack stat! There’s nobody open. He’s running out time! And he’s already out of downfield options. He’s a complete escape artist now!” Chet continues. “J.J. has gone to sack speed, and is rapidly narrowing down the distance between sacker and sackee,” Chet says ominously. On the tail end of Chet’s commentary, Gerry hurries to add his own take. “Yeah Chet! If Tom doesn’t find somebody to take that $120 piece of Wilson sporting equipment off his hands soon...!” Chet smoothly rejoinders Gerry’s commentary to say, “Not likely Chet. Brady will never make it to the sideline sanctuary, or the air express office either. He’s just a step away from getting Watt-ed for a huge loss.” Both commentators instinctively want to wince and cover their eyes, but don’t. When the play is officially over, they both look away from the field to look at their monitors and shake their heads, viewing the instant replay of the collision. While watching, Chet does the honors of summing things up for the broadcast audience. “Well Gerry, for all intents and purposes this game is already minted and printed. With only twenty-six seconds left in the game, J.J. Watt has just served Tom Brady Jr. with a penalty-free sack notice, and signatured it by way of a dutiful military salute.” “Right Chet.


She wore a bright yellow dress with brown boots that came up to her knees. Her hair cut short and it looked to be a Hershey chocolate brown. He didn’t look like he belonged with her. He was wearing a dirty white shirt and black jeans that were a little too tight. His hair fell over the tops of his ears as if he skipped his last two barber appointments. I watched his hand slip into her hair and tucking it behind her ear. At first, she was surprised he came on so strong with the kiss. After a while she leaned in with her whole body. They were intertwined like the vines of jungle plants who grew too close to each other. Everything was innocent until I watched his hand move up her knee onto her thigh and under her dress. That’s when I dipped my nose back into my novel. I had always enjoyed reading here. I walked to the middle of the park typically where tourists didn’t gather and other natives didn’t know about. It was this giant rock sitting behind some tall grass right next to the water. I always packed a towel and laid it down next to the rock and read my novel. I couldn’t do this much due to the fact I had been in school all year, but now that it was summer I could finally find a little peace and quiet time. The couple had found the bench across from the walkway that led to my secret spot. They couldn’t see me, but I sure as hell could see them. I was a little jealous in a way. He didn’t feel her as if he was trying to take advantage of her. He touched her gently because he definitely loved her. You can just tell sometimes by the way people treat each other. I never knew what that touch had felt like but I had definitely seen it on others. They were only in the third chapter of their story. You know, the whole game of him trying to get her attention. Then he tries to grow some balls and ask for her number. After texting for a few days, he actually needs to pick up the nerve and ask her on a date. Finally comes the first kiss and possibly even sex. Even all of that, he might find himself introducing her to his parents. And oh God, possibly even marriage. Feelings just didn’t come that natural to me. I packed up my things into my dirty worn out backpack. Walking towards the subway, I stopped and stared at my reflection. My dirty blonde hair fell just past my shoulders. The green blouse I was wearing cut low enough to be sexy, but not too revealing. My mom jeans definitely set off the signal that I really wasn’t trying to impress anyone that day, and my Chuck Taylors contributed to that idea quite well too. I moved in closer towards the mirror, looking at my freckled covered face. It was a blessing and a curse. The freckles made me look cute, but too cute to look my age of 20 years old. I was mistaken for 13 quite frequently. My eyes were a light brown that had been seasoned with green flakes, being my most noticeable feature. I made my way down in the tunnels of the big city where I swiped my card and proceeded to the train. After sitting down, I pulled out my novel again. There was a woman and her baby sitting on the other side of my cart. The woman was playing on her cell phone while lightly waving a baby toy in front of her infant to distract them. I got only a couple pages deep in my book when I felt it. Gripping my ankle, I screamed loudly. It felt as if a thousand bees had stung me. When I pulled my hand away for a second, I saw my hand covered in blood. Was I dying? I moved my hand back quickly only because the air had stung my open wound. I dropped my book and wiped my tears away with my now open hand. Looking over, I saw the woman had been staring at me blankly while her child was screaming louder than I had. I moaned in pain and hunched over getting a better look at my ankle. A dark imprint had made its home right above the bone. I wiped away a little more blood to see the shape of a footprint appear. “What on earth?” I whispered to myself. The subway had stopped and I had fallen over in my seat. I grabbed the closest railing and with my other hand, grabbed my book from sliding on the floor across the subway. I stood up quickly shoving it back into my bag and ran off the train. After getting off, I looked back inside to see the woman staring at me as if I had shot someone. The train started moving and I watched her pull out her cell phone and begin speaking into it. I wish I could have heard what she had said, because I surely knew it would be about me. Walking home, I slightly limped because the muscles tensing up on my new scar made it sore. I made it back to my apartment where I found the door unlocked, meaning that Sherrie was home. Immediately, I grabbed the first aid kit we had stored in our extra tall kitchen cabinet. I then threw myself on the couch and began wrapping it with an ace bandage. “What’s up?” Sherrie yelled from her bedroom. “I’m not sure,” I responded. Sherrie came out in a long pink pastel shirt and pajama shorts. She was brushing out her long brown hair that reached down to her waste. A green moldy looking face mask covered her face. “Holy shit,” she said. Sherrie didn’t have much of a filter. “You should’ve seen the girl in the subways reaction.” “You got a tattoo on a subway?” “No.” “Well where did you get it Missy?” She sat down next to me unwrapping it. The air stung it a little because it was so deep in my skin. “I don’t know.” “You got drunk didn’t you?” she laughed. “No Sherrie, I didn’t get drunk on a Sunday and get a tattoo.” “Well, where did it come from?” That same question had been pondering through my head since the moment I first saw it. The little black footprint was pointed up my ankle towards my thigh. It had four little toes on it instead of five. I lightly touched it, knowing we were going to be together forever. “I’m not quite sure,” I whispered. The next day after work, I met up with Sherrie and her boyfriend Danny to grab a cup of coffee. The Starbucks in town are absolutely insane with tourists, so we always try to find new quiet and unheard-of coffee shops that not many people go to. We sat down at Culture Espresso which is slightly busy, but not too busy to the point where we couldn’t hear each other. The tables were small so we were really close to one another (including the strange man with stretched ear lobes sitting behind me). I had ordered a simple black coffee while they both ordered fancy drinks with extremely long names. Danny was tall and dressed well. He always styled his long dark hair back, making him look edgy and mysterious. Sherrie was just as beautiful as he was, which made them a cute couple. Sometimes they were almost a little too aware of that. Danny and Sherrie were quite an affectionate couple with random outbursts of PDA. They had to always be in constant contact with each other in any situation. Danny kept his hand either extremely far up Sherrie’s thigh, or directly on her hip whenever he got the chance. I sipped my coffee while he leaned in and smacked a big wet kiss on her lips. Sherrie grew a bashful grin and whined “babe” so loud that everyone in the restaurant was aware she had a boyfriend. Of course she had to return the favor and it resulted in a mini make out session. I didn’t mind and neither did anyone else around us. Although, this little fire inside me began to grow. What was this? I averted my eyes. “So, Missy, how is life? We don’t talk anymore. You are always gone out of the apartment! Well I mean I am too, but I miss you. How is work? Are you dating anyone yet? How is your tattoo healing?” Sherrie blurted out. Sherrie was from Michigan so she has always talked extremely fast. She needed to get everything out that was on her mind. “You got a tattoo? Where did you go? Who was the artist?” Danny added, matching Sherrie’s speed. “I didn’t go anywhere. I don’t even know if I’d call it a tattoo,” I managed to squeeze in the conversation. “It’s so cute though!” Sherrie added. “Show Danny!” I shifted my ankle from under the table and lifted up the cuff of my jeans high enough to where Danny could see it. The large ear-lobes man behind me peaked over and scoffed. “It’s very tiny,” Danny said. “Why a footprint?” “I guess it wasn’t really my choice.” They both stared at me blankly, which caused me to sip the rest of my coffee to avoid the awkwardness. “So how’s work?” Sherrie asked again. “It’s good,” I said. I explained what it was like to work at a movie theater. How annoying it was to clean the popper that made all the delicious popcorn people desired when they walked in. I told them about how I busted someone who tried to sneak in a fifth of vodka the other day and they laughed. We conversed for about an hour when Sherrie and Danny excused themselves to go out on a double date. When standing up, I immediately fell back down. The guy with the ear lobes jumped as a reaction to my fall. I was grabbing my ankle again. Except, it wasn’t just my ankle this time. The pain had moved farther up my calf in multiple locations. Sherrie and Danny stared as I pulled up the leg of my pants as far as I could to see what had happened. More marks. This time it was several footprints moving up my leg, as if a tiny person had worn ink and climbed up my leg. I looked up at Sherrie who was completely shocked. “You weren’t lying,” she said. “I told you!” I shouted. We made our way to urgent care, where they were just as baffled as we were. I sat up on the table in the doctor’s room and Sherrie sat in a chair in the corner. Danny waited out in the lobby. The doctor that was treating me was a tall woman with dark red hair and pale skin. She had very pouty lips and a deep voice. “So you have random markings that showed up on your leg?” She said reading her clipboard without even glancing up. “Are you allergic to anything?” “Not that I know of,” I said. “Alright well let’s have a look.” I pulled up my pant leg again and showed her the footprints. She moved in her face extremely close and stared at my leg. Then she tapped her lip with her pen. “Missy is it?” “Yes Ma’am.” “This is a place for people with problems. You and your friends need to stop coming in here with these tattoo pranks. You are wasting our time and money,” she snapped. Sherrie and I looked at each other. “Excuse me?” I said. “If you’re not out of here in the next 5 minutes I’m afraid I’ll have to call the police.” My jaw dropped. Sherrie and I grabbed our bags and ran out of the room. She grabbed Danny by the arm and yanked him out of the waiting room. Once outside, we made our way to the closest subway station and stopped to discuss what had happened. “What the hell,” I finally said after moments of silence. “She thought we were pulling a PRANK,” Sherrie exclaimed. “What?” Danny asked. “She kicked us out and said ‘stop coming in here with your tattoo pranks’ and threatened to call the police on us!” I said. “Had you been in there yesterday?” Sherrie asked. “No. Why?” “She almost sounded like you had been in there before. She said ‘you and your friends’ as if someone had come in and done the same thing.” We were standing in front of the gates that lead to the trains, so people had been pushing passed us. We couldn’t move though. We were all so shocked at what had just happened. “Wait,” Danny said. “Does that mean..” “Someone else has been having the same problems,” Sherrie announced. A few days passed, and my art on my leg kept growing. I was beginning to get used to it. The shocking feeling of being stabbed almost became a normal feeling. Of course I knew when it happened, but it stopped startling me as bad. Once I was ordering a dollar slice of pizza for lunch, and it happened. I jumped a bit, but returned to paying the nice man for my food. He looked at me as if I had done a backflip. Another time, I was changing in a dressing room when it happened again. I had slammed my back into the wall of the dressing room because it slightly surprised me, but then I continued with my shopping. When I came out, everyone stared at me. All I could do is awkwardly smile and move on. I became restless at night, wondering what that doctor meant. Who else could be having these problems? The tattoo had grown up my calf to my thigh and onto my stomach. Footprints traveled up my calf and were soon covered by beautiful colorful feathers. They looked to be water colored in blues and pinks. The feathers led into an abstract mesh of art on my stomach, still unfinished. I was preparing any day now for the tattoo to complete itself. While it was growing, I found myself traveling in different parts of the city that I hadn’t really visited before. I was searching for answers. I traveled to the university and searched their campus for someone who had any knowledge on my situation, but everyone stared at me oddly when I told them what was happening. I found myself exploring tattoo parlors and asked them as many questions as I could. The employees were always amazed by the work on my body and asked things such as who designed it, where I got it done, how much had I paid for it. This showed me that they weren’t actually listening to my questions. I had been searching and searching but no luck. All sorts of questions ran through my head. What’s going to happen to me? Will I be okay? What’s the point? Who else knows what’s going on? I was sitting on a swing set in the middle of the park, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. I was beginning to feel defeated. I could feel myself sinking into the seat, the flame of hope inside me was dying out. Stuck, was the best way to describe it. Sitting there for hours it seemed like, I finally decided I should make my way home accepting my defeat. When I looked up, I was surprised. A giant hawk sat in a tree dead ahead staring at me. We made clear eye contact. Its eyes shimmered with gold specks and it was blinding. It opened its mouth and turned its head so I could see its other eye. The hawk was beckoning me towards it. Not feeling any insanity, I stood up and moved closer. I was about a foot away from the ginormous bird when I reached my hand out to touch it. It spread its wings and stared at me for half a second before it took off. “Wait!” I cried. I picked up my bag from the spot I had been sitting and chased the bird from the ground. It was flying so fast I had to sprint. Booking it down the pathways, I weaved between groups of people who were touring the park. My eyes were glued on to the bird. It picked up its speed and I couldn’t chase it any longer. Finally, the screaming of the big city halted me to a stop. I looked around to see where it had gone, but I couldn’t seem to find it. I sat down on the nearest bench to catch my breath. Through my loud panting after running my marathon, I heard a faint noise. I wasn’t really focused on it until finally my breathing brought itself to a normal volume. What was the noise? I got up and walked the next block over where I saw a group of people huddled around something. There was music playing. I made my way up the slight hill that led to the crowd and mixed in with the tourists. There was a man sitting on a bench playing guitar. This was a normal spot for this to happen in the park. The man had a medium length hair of wavy brown hair. He was wearing a bandana around his forehead and he closed his eyes while he sang with his guitar. It was a very peaceful sound. His lips were full and they moved beautifully with his voice. His hands didn’t miss a single chord. He could have only been a year or two older than me. What had really surprised me though, was the tattoo that had sat right above his ankle. Foot steps leading up his leg. “Hi,” I said sitting next to him once he finished his song. I was wearing long pants today so he couldn’t see my art. “Hello,” he smiled at me. “You sing very well,” I said awkwardly. He chuckled, “Thanks. I was a big fan.” He was gesturing towards the big circle that was designed on the ground in front of us. It was a memorial for a famous singer who had been killed years ago, just across the street. “I have to show you something,” I mumbled. He stared at me confused. I lifted up my pant leg slightly to show him my footprints. “I finally found you,” he said. We were staring into each other’s eyes now. His were a seaweed green that mesmerized you the longer you looked into them. I felt connected instantly. That’s when the tattoo completed itself. It didn’t hurt this time, and I knew exactly what the pattern finished into. A beautiful bird of many colors now was painted on both of our ribs. Feathers and colors bursted out from its wings, pulling in its viewer to every little detail. It was too beautiful for any human to design.


The Devil's in the Details Hugh Donnelly, "Shug" to his friends rolled over in bed to be jarred awake when his hand touched strange flesh. Through tired eyes marred by a nasty hangover he struggled to focus on who was beside him. After a few seconds he saw a large woman, perhaps 220 lbs laying on her side, her ruby red hair covering her face. He thought "Shug, not again" He had a bit of a reputation - whilst he was sober he was the most pleasant man you could meet - posh almost, but once the demon drink was uncorked he became somewhat of a sad caricature of himself. It would bring out his promiscuous side tenfold. He once famously said he would "shag a barber’s floor" Now in the throes of self-revulsion and confusion about what had occurred the night before all he could think about was “How do I get rid of this whale?”. He rubbed his prematurely aging face in both hands as he tried to mentally prepare himself to chat to a total stranger who he presumably had sex with the previous night, this is of course if he hadn’t suffered from what had plagued most of his drunken sexual escapes – what the locals refer to as “brewers droop” He took a deep breath and reached out his hand to gently wake the stranger that lay next to him motionless. As his hand touched her shoulder he froze. She was stone cold – as cold as ice almost. He gasped, his heart was pounding hard in his chest, he knew something was wrong, very wrong. He climbed out of the bed and walked around to get a closer look at his mystery partners face, as he did he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror that hung on his closet door, that’s when he noticed there was dried blood on his t-shirt. Alarmed – he ran around the bed but almost broke his knee cap on the corner of the bed, he tumbled in pain almost unable to speak until he felt the cold numbness of endorphins rushing in. He crawled to the edge of the bed, swept that mop of matted red hair from her face to see one eye staring back at him, the other eye, or where the other eye should be - was nothing more than a gored socket. He tried to scream but nothing came out. He tried to stand forgetting he had almost shattered his knee only a few seconds ago – pain again came flooding back and he collapsed back to the ground now making guttural noises as he wept through pain, fear and confusion. His mind raced, “what the hell happened” the last thing he could remember was downing a triple vodka with red bull, an ill-advised move prompted by his lifelong friend Archie. The 2 of them had met in primary school and had been inseparable ever since. He fumbled in the dimly lit room looking for his jeans which contained his wallet cellphone and cigarettes. He saw the jeans at the foot of the bed and took out the cigarettes. He shook one of the last 3 out and with a trembling hand placed it into his mouth, his lips felt like old leather that had been left in the Saharan desert for 100 years, but he needed the nicotine to calm himself. “A Light” he thought as he realized he had no lighter – he shambled his way to the kitchen to get a light off the gas stove. He clicked on the gas and put his mouth toward the blue flame taking in a long drag from the cigarette before exhaling a cloud that was eliminated through daylight streaming through the window. As the nicotine calmed his frayed nerves he began to cast his mind back to the previous evening - again trying to search the halls of his mind for any clues as to who the mystery woman was in his bed, how she had got there and suddenly a new thought “Did anyone see anything?” Suddenly he though “My phone!” perhaps there would be some clues, text messages, voicemails or photos that could shine a light on the shattered mess of his memories from last night. He went back to the bedroom dragging his left leg behind him and grabbed the phone from his jeans. He put in his passcode and his eyes hurt as a web browser opened with blinding pure white light. In the search box was typed “escorts for hire” Escorts he though? “Why would I even bother – barely have 2 pennies to rub together never mind treating myself to a thing like that!” He clicked the home button twice to reveal all the apps that where currently running – Snapchat, Instagram Facebook and a bunch of other where open. He clicked snapchat. To his horror it was a selfie video of himself from the previous night standing at a bar with the mystery woman. He had an almost glazed look in his eyes while she had her hands all over him, in the background he could see Archie laughing while doing a finger in the hole motion as he cracked up. Next was a video of him arguing with a cab driver over a boundary charge while the mystery woman was hurling insults at some unseen person. The final video was of himself looking in the bathroom mirror laughing hysterically while he could hear voices on the other side of the door. Next, he clicked into his text messages, there was a barrage of them from Archie and a new one from someone called Donna which simply read “Testing this is your real number” Suddenly mystery woman had a name and a phone number – he could only assume it was her. Archie’s messages started off from before they went out with “Where are we meeting tonight” to “Hurry up and get here before I get too wasted” there was a bunch that looked like keyboard mash and a final message that read “Ya lucky bastard!” – what the hell did he mean by that? It’s hardly as if the woman now lying dead across the bed was a prize catch so either the text was tongue in cheek or by Archie’s standards she was a looker. In all honesty once Archive crossed the 5-pint threshold his standards fell lower than a snake’s ass in a wagon wheel track and he was also known for being a bit of a chubby chaser anyway, he once quipped “Well it’s just more woman to love isn’t it?” Suddenly he though, “Donna’s Phone!” he felt weird saying the name as he really didn’t feel comfortable using someone’s name that at least to his mind had never truly met. His memory of last night was still like a black hole, a void. His eyes darted around the floor of the bedroom looking for her clothing or a handbag. He saw a black leather bag slung over the corner of a chair. He opened it, fumbled his way through lots of tissues, makeup and keys and found the phone neatly tucked into an inside pocket. It was one of the newer iPhones, the lock screen prompted for facial recognition. He shuddered and wondered if a missing eye might scupper his chances. He held the phone to her lifeless face and to his surprise he heard a clicking noise as the phone opened to the home screen. He looked through recently opened apps. Instagram showed her with what looked like a new guy in every picture, he pondered how such a person could attract such a slew of men albeit ugly guys that wouldn’t look out of place on Jeremy Kyle or Jerry Springer. “I guess it’s easier for women to get men, it’s like putting out trash, you know eventually some guy in a truck will be coming to pick it up” Suddenly the phone started to vibrate as a ringtone of some pop song he didn’t recognize started to chime out. “James S is calling…” “Shit!” he thought, someone may be looking for her or maybe it’s just another guy from some other wild weekend? It rang an uncomfortable amount of times which made him think whoever was on the other end must be really trying to reach her. Finally, it stopped and quickly he started to check into the text messages, there was at least 8 messages between last night and early this morning from this James. Starting off with “Have a good time with the girls” and “Just checking to see if you’re OK?” and then getting more desperate… “Why haven’t you texted back?” “It’s 2:30am and you’re still not back and then the final one “You’ve got me and the kids worried sick, you didn’t come home last night, what the fuck are you doing?” His heart sank as he read the last message realizing this must be her boyfriend or husband probably completely unaware of her promiscuous lifestyle. And even more sickening “The kids…” His blind panic was returning, and he shook out another cigarette and went through to get a light. All he could think was – what happened between getting home to this morning, why is there a dead body in his bed and now even more urgently, she has a family that are looking for her! Suddenly he thought, “Fuck, phones have tracking in them” he knew this because of the nature of his work in IT. Google tracks your every movement as well as things like Facebook. All he could think of was. “I have a real mess on my hands here and I need to make it go away” He almost surprised himself how easily he was able to start thinking like a criminal without remorse to save his own ass. “The quarry!” he thought. He took a quick shower, took his clothes from last night and placed them in a canvas bag. He went through to the bedroom and found some new clothes to wear before taking the canvas bag outside and placing it in his firepit before dousing it in lighter fluid. “Fuck” he thought as he remembered he had lost his lighter. He went to the kitchen, got some cardboard from the cupboard and lit it off the stove. He limped out to the yard shielding the cardboard with his hands from the light wind before carefully placing it onto the soaked bag” It went up like an old dry Christmas tree burned for several minutes and then was nothing but a pile of ash and glowing embers. His thoughts now turned to how to get rid of the body. He went into the shed and retrieved a box of heavy duty trash bags, the type you use for collecting yard waste like raked leaves and downed tree limbs. He also grabbed some old rope, duct tape and a flashlight. He went inside and rolled out a bunch of bags on the floor next to the bed, they looked just like a body bag. He stood up and placed both his arms around the lifeless lump of flesh and rolled her off the bed which caused a flat thud. This again made his heart sink as he though, “what have I become?” He placed her clothes on top of her body along with her handbag and covered it all in trash bags before securing the whole thing with duct tape and finally wrapping it in rope. Hours passed like days as he sat waiting for night to come, thankfully daylight savings time had happened the week before, so it would be dark by 3:30 or 4pm. As the light dimmed he looked out of the window and felt a sickening tinge of guilt as he thought back to the messages from James and especially “the kids” He rationalized that this was just a big mistake and because he didn’t have memories of what had actually happened that it wasn’t really him that had committed this atrocious act. He also though “No more drinking, it’s time to find a new focus in life… party’s over!” As dusk became night he thought “Let’s do this” He dragged her body through the hall and out the back door to the garage, looking over his shoulder and at neighbors houses to ensure he wasn’t being watched. He opened the trunk of his Nissan and thought, “She weighs a ton and your knee is banged up” He reached down inside himself, trying to summon the strength, he cast his mind back to things that angered him, politics, assholes in the office and knockbacks from failed attempts at chatting up women. With every inch of his being he scooped her deadweight up to the rim of the trunk and with one final push of adrenaline flipped her weight over the rim and into the trunk. He then went back to the house and got some old dumbbells, the type filled with sand. He went back to the garage, threw them in and closed the trunk and looked around once more to make sure nobody was watching, He set out to the quarry which was about 5 miles from his house, he took back roads to up his chances of not being stopped by the police, this added a further 20 minutes to the journey, but he felt it was necessary. Finally, he reached his destination and drove his near to the edge of the drop-off. He didn’t want to get too close, his nerves where shattered now and he didn’t want to chance making the mistake of going over the edge. Again, he had to shift this deadweight but surprisingly this time was able to pull it off with more ease than last time. Her body hit the ground with a sickening crunch, he thought maybe he heard a bone break, this caused him to bend over the side of the car and vomit though not much came up, mostly bile. He wiped his mouth, hands shaking and thought “I will drag you through this, we will get through this” almost talking to himself in the 3rd person – it was the only way he could deal with the horror of what was unfolding – to separate himself from it all. He dragged the body to about 4ft of the edge and then proceeded to roll her the rest of the way. After about 5 seconds there was a massive splash, he shone a flashlight down and seen the black bags disappear under the surface of the black water. A new thought came to mind “The Cellphone!” If the police tracked its movements via social media or any other method the last location would be his house. He knew what to do but was cursing the situation “Will this night ever be fucking over?” He got back to the house and picked up the cellphone which was now running low on battery life. He saw 1 more message from James saying, “You can’t do this, you have to text me back we are worried sick” He put the phone in his pocket and want back to the car. He drove to random locations for the next hour, stopping briefly along the way. His thinking was that if he could create a fake trail of locations it would throw any potential investigation off his scent. Finally, he figured he had made enough of a false digital footprint and at that point rolled his sleeve over his hand and carefully rubbed the entire phone down of fingerprints, after this he proceeded to throw the phone on the ground and stamp on it until it shattered into pieces. When he eventually arrived home, he breathed a sigh of relief. He even felt hungry! How could he be hungry after such a macabre evening but his body’s need for food overrode his pangs of guilt and worry. Just then his phone buzzed. He picked it up and his eyes bulged in horror “Donna” suddenly his hunger had been replaced with pure sickening horror “he opened the message, gasped – on the screen was a photo of what looked like an eyeball with the message “I’m keeping my eye on you...” THE END.


The first time he asked me out. We went for a movie and though it was already midnight, we didn’t feel like leaving each other’s company. We took a stroll along the riverbed and there wasn’t a moment of silence. There just didn’t seem to be a dearth of things to talk about. I felt tired after a while so he suggested that we sit down on the grass, facing the river. I was hesitant at first as I didn’t want to get my dress dirty. But he took my hand and pulled me down beside him. I fell against him with a laugh. Our arms rubbed against each other. It was the first physical contact we’d had all night. My hand tingled from the roughness of the hair on his arm and I felt goose bumps creeping up along my skin. I knew he felt it too as his breath hitched when his arm touched mine. Conversation ceased and the tension was palpable. I could feel his gaze on me as I stared at the ground, not wanting to meet his eyes. He called my name, huskily. I shivered at the tone of his voice. I turned my head towards him and found his lips inches away from mine. I licked my lips subconsciously and his breathing labored. He tilted his head and started coming closer. A thousand thoughts were running through my head as my eyes fluttered shut. His lips touched mine softly, and then with a little more pressure. The sensations were incredible. I felt his kiss in places that shouldn’t be talked about. It got a little too overwhelming and I broke away. I opened my eyes to see him staring intently at me. “What are we doing, ?” I whispered, seeking reassurance. “Shh, it’s okay. Just trust me,” he replied as he lifted his hand to cup my cheek, his fingers stroking my skin. His words were strangely comforting and I nodded my consent. He captured my mouth again, this time with a little more force. His tongue traced my lower lip, prompting me to open my mouth. I complied and our tongues touched for the first time. We both drew a sharp intake of breath at the foreign sensation. His hand slid down to my lower back and his grip tightened as our tongues massaged each other. I could feel the warmth of his hand through the thin material of my dress. I realized I wanted to touch him too. I reached up and started stroking his jawline. He made a sound at the back of his throat and I felt him tense up. He broke away and started kissing my neck. “You taste so good,” he whispered while his teeth scraped the sensitive skin at the base of my neck. I couldn’t stop a moan from escaping my lips. “And that’s why we should stop,” he said, breathing heavily. I looked into his eyes and saw my own lust reflected back in them. I realized that both of us would lose control if we continued any further. He was right. I rested my head on his shoulder and he put his arms around me. I could feel his heart racing and I was pretty sure he could hear the loud heartbeats of mine. He kissed the top of my head and I smiled contentedly. It was the start of plenty more moments to come.


James is a smart boy. So smart in fact, that nobody likes him. But I believe that he'll learn that he didn't need friends or loved ones. He will realize that life is too short to worry about that and he'll start to focus all his intelligence into immortality. He will unlock the secrets of immortality and be one step closer to unlocking the secrets of the universe. However, he'll soon come to find out that there is no singular universe, but rather a Multi-Verse. There are trillions of universes to travel to. He'll come to find out that in order to travel to these new and strange places, he'll have to do what is said to be impossible, get sucked into a black hole. Nobody believed him, but he didn't care. In ten minutes the earth will crumble and be reduced to nothing more than another asteroid belt that revolves around the Sun. If it goes according to plan he'll have nine minutes and thirty seconds to get off the planet and to the center of the galaxy. But all does not go according to plan because, unbeknownst to him, the Earth has multiple protectors, eight to be exact. Fate has a different plan for Charlie. She wont send Death upon Charlie, that's overkill, instead she sends the closest thing to Death, The Doctor, Malacai. Malacai is one of Earth's protectors, in fact, he was once an inhabitant of the Earth, but that's a story for another time. Malacai is called The Doctor due to the nature of his powers. He has regenerative immortality, meaning that any time he dies, whether due to natural causes or murderous intent, he will always come back to life. For example, if he ages out, he'll come back to the age of 25. Or if someone pierces his heart, he will always come back fully healed. However, the reason he is The Doctor, is because he can heal anything. He gained all medical knowledge of every creature in the Multi-Verse. He can cure any disease, heal any wound, even heal someone emotionally, to an extent. Unfortunately, he can't do anything against James. "YO," He said, "you wanna go an evil villain monologue explaining exactly what i need to do to stop you or can you just tell me, like a normal person?" James, slightly surprised at his sudden manifestation, could only muster a mere "Wh-Who are you?" Malacai smiled, a bright smile that showed only the slightest hint of what he was capable of doing. "Who I am doesn't quite matter right now," he said, "but what does matter is the fact that you have eight minutes and twenty seven seconds to make a choice, and hopefully it'll be a smart one." James was in shock. *Who is this man and how does he know my plan.* "T minus twenty seconds before the seven minute mark." The Doctor's voice broke through James' thought and brought him back to reality. "If you wanna live to see tomorrow I recommend you hurry." James had made his decision. He decided to just kill every one right now. He pressed the detonate button to detonate the nuke he placed at the earths core. He calls it the Micro Black Hole, because even though it's no larger than a dime, where he placed it would cause a nuclear explosion that would turn the Earth to rubble. However, when he pressed it the nuke went off next to him. In a nanosecond, the entire platform was covered in the blood and innards of The Doctor. Blood, guts, and bits of bone was stuck in James' hair and all over his clothes. Naturally, the lunch he ate decided it didn't want to be digested and found it's way out of his stomach and onto the platform, mixing with what used to be Malacai's brain. "What the fuck!" was all James' could say. Then, slowly all the bits and pieces of bone were moving, to a center point. Steadily gaining speed until, to James' utter astonishment, it reassembled into the skeleton of The Doctor. Malacai, his left eye the only organ in his body, started to speak in a raspy, bone rattling voice."Hey Fate, Death, can I kill him?" James was confused as to what was going on, but before he could try and figure it out, that same voice spoke again. "Perfect." This was the last thing James were to ever hear as Malacai, despite being nothing but a skeleton with a left eye, swiftly made his way towards him. He extended his right hand and grabbed James' face with his bony fingers. "Begone, and may your soul never rest." No sooner had Malacai spoken than James' body crumbled into an accelerated state of decay. In minutes, James' body was returned to the very soil that sparked the evolution of every land based species. Malacai destroyed the platform and rocket as well, turning them into mere flakes of rust in a matter of seconds. With his tasks done he returned to his universe, via The Creator's help.    I've had this idea for a while now. I have most of my characters and plots memorized by heart. I just didn't know how to start. This was an introduction to one that has the most confusing, but interesting backgrounds. I'm open to any and all feedback and/or criticism. I hope you all will like the first glimpse inside my universe, The Happy-Verse.


A man was lost, hopeless, and alone in a desert that seemed to expand beyond the horizon endlessly. He walked over dune after dune for miles without purpose for he did not know whether he would ever escape this scorched land. He was at the mercy of the fiery wind as were the sand grains that raked his flesh. His thoughts in his wearisome head led him to the belief that this was the whole of his world. No edge, no end, and no escape foreseen. Memory of anywhere but here forsook him then. This was the cruel and merciless world wherein he would inevitably see the Noseless One, he thought, before being dragged into His shadows. His body, emotions, and thoughts were slowly approaching the End. Why weep? Why curse the land? He reflected. By *his own hands* he laid the cobblestones for the road which led him hither. He fell to his knees and felt the sting of the boiling sand. Even in his ascent to the crest of a dune that nearly shrouded the desert with its size, the man only beheld more aimless dunes in the forlorn horizon, condemned to the same lake of sand and fire as his soul. He then noticed some ways yonder a piece of paper that was folded up as if with human care. It lay buried halfway in the sand, becoming gradually unearthed by the wind. The man, now perplexed with its presence, walked to the where paper had hitherto lain and plucked it from the mouth of the sand. He unfolded it and held it delicately as one would hold a talisman. On it was written in large simple handwriting: I love you! The words of this mysterious short letter dumbfounded the man so severely that he was about to cast it away, feeling as he had been struck by a malevolent curse. He checked himself short, however, and reread the handwriting. The words he began to recognize but he knew not how. Warm, sweet, and euphonious were these words to his heart as he read them aloud again and again. He only wished to know its source. He knew not the source of this land—it was eternal as far as he knew in his haze of thoughts—but he wished at least to know the source of this enigmatic letter. Suddenly, as he had been gazing about the once barren desert, his eyes balked at a ribbon of bright colors below. Erelong, the colors manifested in the form of an exotic creature and the man quickly saw that it was a woman. His dull eyes brighten at the sight of her. She had auburn hair, a sun-kissed countenance and green eyes which cared not for the hot and dry hell they were in. Stupefied by the beautiful sight, the man thought time stopped and the earth he felt cool. She usurped the whole of everything he saw. The desert ceased to be his everything. Every light hitting his retina became hers. She appeared as lost as he and laid her gentle eyes on him from afar. She ambled to the summit of the dune whereon the man stood helpless. Every footprint she left in the sand, the man could have sworn, became of quartz. Her presence was unexplainable and the man thought her magical. The woman beamed and walked with grace to the man in a way that bespoke familiarity, whereof the man could not comprehend. Feeling the air chill around him, the man smiled back as a sudden joy began to pour into his vena cavas and fill his parched heart. He was happy to see the woman but he did not know why. Perhaps, because he was no longer lonesome? The man thought and thought but that wasn’t the reason. No. He felt there was something more. They walked to each other until their eyes met at a meter’s distance. “Did you write in that piece of paper?” He asked. The woman giggled then nodded sincerely. The man felt his heart hesitate. “Why, of all places, did you leave it here? Was that for me?” The woman’s cheeks rose and her mouth curved into a bright smile. “Yes, those words were written for you. As for why I chose to leave it here, I have been longing for the day you would find me. This is your last journey and I could not bear to remain hidden from you any longer. I had to show you how I care! You think no one cares about you or loves you but you’re wrong. I love you! O my dear! you have been blind all this time, but now that you can see me,” her eyes widened desperately, “you can see that I exist, right?” The man, overwhelmed by her impassioned words, took a step back. “Who do you happen to be?” The woman gazed blankly at him as her happiness began to fall with a heavy sigh. “Dear, I blame you none for your confusion. This is a strange enchanting land you have wandered into; where no one can follow you but I.” Sadness began cloud her eyes. “Through your calms and storms, sunrises and sunsets, days and nights I know you have felt my spirit. Alas, it pains me to say this, a few trying years have past and you have forgotten me. You no longer called out to me though I was always just a pray away. Can you surmise who I am now?” “Forgive me, miss, for I am a clueless man. I have not an inkling who you are,” the man felt guilty to say. She walked a step forward with forgiving eyes and smiled a sad fainter smile. She took his hands in hers, not taking her gaze off him. “I am Hope. I am what you have lost and what you need right this moment. I am the sustenance of your soul; the reason you live for today and dream for tomorrow; the reason the bees buzz and the birds croon about you. I bring the sunrise to your mornings and the stars to your nights. I rejoice with you and I suffer with you! I care for and love you above any mortal that treads upon the earth! Do you not see, dear? O I bless the heavens that I found you!” “Hope. That is a lovely name you have, miss,” the man began, oddly calmer. Although he was hesitant to believe her to be who she said she was, he felt joy, undeserving joy from the compassionate words her soft voice poured his way. Benigner words have never been spoken to him in all his life but from her. He felt himself unworthy. No. He cannot have a share in this divine. He thought. He with shame and reluctance removed his hands from hers. “I’m afraid I’m not who you want. You should go along now. I-it’s not safe here in this wretched heat.” At this the woman stepped a foot closer to the man, to his great surprise, and with angelic gentleness place her hands at his shoulders. “You are not who I want; you are who I need. Dear, I am a part of you! Don’t you see? The death of man is also the death of man’s hope.” His body began to lose its senses, beginning at his legs which by this time were weighing him numb. The man squinted over her shoulder and dark portentous clouds rolling over the distant dunes, consuming them whole, came in sight. The man was oddly mesmerized by the moving shapes of yon clouds and wanted to go closer to them, to see whether he may find his peace in the black fog. “I will never stop loving you,” the woman went on with mist in her eyes. “I will never stop believing in you. Do you believe in me? It is bad enough that you are lost in heart, mind, and spirit. The reality beyond as you may know, is worse. You are a lost man in a lost world. You have lost much in that world, I know. Things that you once believed in: Beauty, Truth, Hope, and Love. And I know the world has flogged and skinned your soul again and a-again.” Upon saying this, as an ill-fated dam, her rivers of tears broke forth. “But I beseech you to listen. You are not hopeless! Your only fault was losing sight of me but I forgive you. I know you see those approaching clouds, but please relinquish your want of going there! You have me, okay? As long as you have me, they can never harm us. I bid you rid yourself of these pains!” She threw her arms suddenly around the man, whose icy heart began to thaw from the new fire of emotions that had ignited from within. He was at a loss for words. Even in the pain she felt for him she smiled and her bedewed eyes shimmered at his with serenity; however the man’s state, she was happy to be there with him. She embraced him warmly and the fires of the Sun beating down on them tamed thence. He saw his eyes reflect brilliantly in her emerald orbs and the icy sheath of his heart evaporated at last in flames of love which now danced joyfully for this woman. “I-I love you,” the man spoke breathlessly. Upon hearing this, the woman’s countenance blossomed as a midsummer rose. Traces of her tears from minutes ago vanished in her sidereal eyes. The man thought it impossible but she did smile a smile more hopeful and beautiful than all she bestowed him before. He could have believed her to be a star who had taken the form of a woman—nay—a goddess beyond compare. Had he discovered something of after death or of before life? He pondered. For how could a woman steeped in utmost beauty walk before a miserable wight in a miserable land and wish him goodness and love without return? O how he wished her to be his to cherish forever! His agonized soul finally calmed when the woman lifted her palm up to his cheek. “Thank you, for letting me into your heart again.” With her arms still woven around the man, she kept him alive amid the scorched dunes. Dry winds began to violently stir the biting sand as the inexorable pale orb in the sky swelled. The black clouds were rolling closer and the land was slowly killing the man’s body yet his soul was preserved in the arms of Hope. He clinged to her as the winds roared and tore at his limbs and buried his head in her shoulders as tears fell down his face. The woman’s hair had the softness of feathers and the man cherished the embrace of this divinity until the whole wasteland became consumed in a storm of sand and darkness. The man screamed for his life as he felt the desert under his feet being swept away by the clouds. “Do not be afraid, dear.” The woman whispered to his ears. Somehow, the man heard her through the deafening storm and immediately calmed. The sandstorm raged on and all was silent but her voice. “I will give you a kiss so you will never forget me.” The last thing he remembered was her kiss upon his unworthy lips. He had glimpsed into the ninth sphere, he thought, of paradise. The man awoke from his sleep. He crawled out of his bed and stumbled toward the nearest window and beheld from his apartment room the smoggy city with dark skyscrapers looming ominously before a gray sun. He looked four storeys below and saw Pandemonium. It was hard to believe that he would have preferred to remain among the unsullied sand dunes, as a monarch of a desert land with Hope as his queen, over the the comforts of his apartment, but the truth could not have been clearer. The man wept for he felt lost, hopeless, and alone in a dark corrupt world. The ring of a doorbell abruptly startled the man out of his bout of misery, and he rushed to the sink, washed himself and tamed his disheveled hair before approaching the door which rung once more. As he slowly unbarred the door, his capacity to speak was lost. On the other side was a woman. She had auburn hair and green eyes which cared not for the smoggy city they were in. “Hi! I’m your new neighbor. I just moved in yesterday a few doors down and I, uh, wanted to give you this!” She held out a salad bowl. “I-I made it this morning,” she said with a warm smile, a smile the man thought uncannily familiar. The man, smitten with awe, could not but smile, receive her offering, and nod to her gratefully. The woman required nothing more from his response to be happy and went on, “I hope to see you again! You’re welcome to come by later for dinner.” She departed from the man but not before gazing back at him and waving her hand as she returned to her room down the corridor. His smile did not fade. He did not know how but he knew then that the flames of Hope still danced and rejoiced within him. He was not hopeless anymore; he was lost in darkness but now he found a candlelight and can begin finding his way; and although he was alone in that moment, by dinnertime he will be alone no more.


“ Stare at him for a while and you’ll see it, I swear to God… ” I recall these joking words from earlier, from a chaotic lunchtime with my sister, her friends, and a couple other upper-classmen, all spinning yarns about the odd, creepy, perverted, or occasionally interesting teachers and members of the administrative staff that haunted the high school. It was always something of a treat to hear these older students share their stories and opinions on classes and teachers, because it gave me the chance to analyze which hallways I should avoid, in addition to the classes. My sister’s best friend was this girl, Amelia, who Mia had been friends with since pre-school. Amelia was the sort of girl who got straight As through freshman year, but then caught the sophomore zing that made her start calling herself Amy and wearing button-down crop-tops. Mia, the future rocket scientist, sort of looked at her best friend in a condescending light these days, even saying, in her own elegant words, “yeah...Amy’s a whore but I love her.” In any case, Amy’s vivacious personality led her into some questionable (but interesting) interactions with various teachers. And it seemed her painted wide-eyed stories were a daily affair at the lunch table near the snack line.  Once she told us about Mr. Beaubien.

“Listen...the guy was packing, I kid you not.” she whispered, but the sort of whispering that isn’t really whispering at all, and in fact, attracts more attention than regular talking would. Though I suppose this could be the intent. “He’s bald, right? I’ll tell you, that guy’s...thing...looks just like his head.” “You’re disgusting.” Mia said, unwrapping the wax paper around her salami sandwich. It was Friday, which meant she’d go a little crazy and eat something other than lean turkey. Same for me, though I was a bit more of a fun-lover (I mean, a freshman dude sitting with junior chicks), so I’d eat salami three, maybe even four times a week. Speaking of unhealthy meat, Amy told us another story about the resident police officer, Officer Davis (“OD to all the cool kids”, he’d say). This story was actually whispered, and was so disgusting that none of us would believe it in a million years.

“You’re a fucking liar, Amy.” this farmer boy who liked to look up skirts said, cracking his can of Mountain Dew. Everyone else silently agreed, and Amy looked offended. If there was one thing that girl hated, it was being called a liar.

“A liar, huh?” she begged. “I’ll just have to prove it, then.” Two days later, OD was fired, and two months after that, he sat in a packed courthouse while a disturbing video played for members of the jury. No one ever called dear Amy a liar again.

But there appeared to be one bane of this girl’s existence. Perhaps, one nut she couldn’t crack: Mr. Atkinson.

“Look at the guy…” she said to us, huddled up, as the six foot tall, brown-haired, blue-eyed Algebra II teacher made his way down the lunch line. “Tell me he’s not a fucking alien or something. Stare at him for a while and you’ll see it...” It wouldn’t be hard to believe; this man was the most generic human being alive. It was almost fascinating how boring he was. His love for rocks led him to a YouTube channel with forty subscribers, where he posted rock-cleaning and hunting videos. He wore the same khakis and green flannel shirt every day, and always followed the exact same symmetric trail from the door to his desk when he entered the classroom. Apparently, he’d invested in Apple back in 2000 and often brought it up for math lessons. And his love of juggling was almost sensual. There was something about this man’s behavior...almost alien-like, robotic, so generic it was as if the aliens put all the settings on “default” when they sent their spy down to Earth. In any case, his plainness and devotion to a life devoid of intrigue meant that Amy would not be applying her mouth to a single phallus of his (no matter how hard she fought for it).

On the day we watched him, I agreed with her.

“It’s like the aliens set all his settings on ‘default’.” I said.

She laughed, told me I was hilarious.

This brief second of affirmation from an attractive female stayed with me all the way to sixth period, Algebra II, where I decided to see if this man could crack a smile, even once. It was a couple minutes before class, and I’d arrived early. For introverts such as myself, the confidence for telling a joke comes from arriving in a timely and prepared fashion, and considering your words for an extended period of time. At last, when I believed there was just the right amount of people in the room (enough to get a good laugh, but not so many that it would be too loud), I said, “Mr. Atkinson.” He said, “Mr. Cocciarelli.” I said, “So my sister and I were observing you at lunch, and we decided you seem like, if aliens were to send down a robot spy, the default setting for ‘human’.” A couple kids chuckled. Mr. Atkinson sort of looked at me funny. “You mean…” “Well, is there any truth to the fact that you might be a robot?” “Yeah, tell us!” Cam Kraus said, which brought forth a couple more snickers. Mr. Atkinson looked at the class with a little smile and stood up taller, as if to tell another awkward joke of his. But then, suddenly, his expression changed, and he turned his head to face me. He was smiling just a little, but his eyes had no life in them, and when his lips parted, I heard this incredibly high pitched whistle that made me cover my ears. The wretched sound had that crumbling effect that I’d learned about in music lessons, where the pitch becomes so distorted that it begins to shred your eardrums.

Then, it stopped.

Everyone was laughing, including Mr. Atkinson, who was now making his way to the whiteboard to begin the lesson. The bell was ringing, and a couple kids nearby were looking at me funny.

After class, I followed Cam Kraus out the door.

“My wife thinks I’m a machine, too…” he muttered, snickering. “Jesus Christ…” “What?”

Cam grinned at me, but his eyebrows narrowed. “You didn’t hear Mr. A? He said, ‘my wife thinks I’m a machine, too, if you know what I mean…’. The balls of a teacher to say that in class, dude.” “Yeah…” I agreed, slowing down as the flood of classmates surged past me. As the chorus of voices poured over me, I heard several people quoting Mr. A's joke, and continuing to laugh about it, saying he’d surely get in trouble if they didn’t keep their mouths shut. When the flood passed, leaving me alone in the hall, I turned back toward the math room at the end of the hall, where Mr. Atkinson always stood during passing time. There he was, arms crossed, leaning against the wall casually. I stared at his face, waiting for a reaction, a wink, a smirk...but he just stared back. I swear to God, for a second, his eyes were all white.


“I need to show you something. I know this is going to be a lot for you to take in, but it’s time for you to see them. I have been… afraid, to show you some of the things in these videos. I don’t know why. I think I just know I have to get it right; I need to get it right… for you and for me. I’m going to do my best… I promise.” “ Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Michael. Happy birthday to you.” “Who’s that?” “…That’s your mom.” “Oh... I didn’t think I had a mom.” “Everyone has a mom, buddy.… You just don’t remember her… she’s been gone for a long time.” “…She’s pretty.” “Your mother was the most beautiful woman… inside and out. And she loved you very much… I see her in you, you know.” “How can you see her in me, dad?” “Well… I see her in your eyes, mostly. You have her eyes, so blue and bright. I hear her in your laugh… she had the most beautiful laugh. It was so infectious, every time I heard it, I couldn’t help but smile. And you have it too. But I see her in everything. I see her in every part of you… This was your first birthday. That’s what’s on this tape. Your mom worked so hard to make it perfect for you. She made a little cake for you, just so you could smash it with your little fists. She invited half the town… all for you. She loved you very much.” “Where is everybody?” “What do you mean, buddy?” “You said she invited everybody to the party. Where is everybody?” “Oh, right… You see, the night before your birthday, we got a terrible snowstorm. Worst one in at least ten years. We must have got at least a foot of snow... Well, nobody could come because the roads were so bad. Your mother was so upset because she wanted your first birthday to be perfect. And she was worried that if nobody would be there for your party, it wouldn’t be. But she was wrong… it made it even more perfect. It was just the three of us, and that was all we needed. The electricity went out, but we just lit some candles and sat close together to keep warm. And it was just the three of us. It was the most perfect day.” “Why are you sad, dad?” “I’m not sad, son. I’m happy. So very happy.” “Why are you crying?” “I’m just happy to see her again, that’s all.” *The television screen went black as the tape ended. The father puts in a new tape* “What’s this one about?” “This was when you were born. December 31. Our little New Year’s baby, as your mother would call you.” “I look so small then…” “You were small. You were a very small baby. I was worried you were too small, but your mother thought you were perfect. She just held you in her arms and smiled. And you looked back up at her with your blue eyes as if you knew her by name.” “Wasn’t she tired…she looks tired.” “She was exhausted, tired to death. But she just couldn’t take her eyes off of you. All through the night she would just lie and watch you sleep. I tried to get her to rest, I offered to watch you myself, but she just smiled and watched as you slept. She told me that she didn’t want to miss a moment of your life, even if you were just sleeping.” “…What happened to her?” “…She got sick when you were just a baby, not long after your first birthday. Things you’re too young to understand and I’m too weak to explain. She fought so hard. She fought for you, fought every day just to see you. And when she finally died, she made me promise not to hold on too tight. To be in the moment. To make new memories… without her…I have not kept that promise. I am sorry, both to her and to you, for that… but first steps are hard… and they take time. But the time has come…” “The time has come for what?” “…For us to move on…for me to move on, I suppose. Even if it’s hard.” “But I don’t want to move on, I want to stay and watch these videos.” “We will, buddy, we will. You don’t have to move on. You can stay and remember her forever, and I hope you do.” “When can I see her again?” “Every night, buddy. We can see her every night, the both of us, right here on this couch. And while she might not be here with us, we can still see her…the best moments of her. And someday, these videos, videos of your first birthday, your first words, your first steps, will all be yours, and you will be able to see her whenever you want. But for the time being, just wait for me to watch them with you, because I like to see her too.” *A couple weeks later* “I can’t believe it’s snowing, again! Nobody’s going to be able to come to my party!” “I’m sorry, buddy, but it won’t be the worst thing in the world. We still have some presents and a nice cake.” “I know… but I just hoped all my friends would be here…and grandpa. It’s my sixth birthday, it’s a big day.” “You’re right, it is a big day. That’s why I got you something, something special.” “You’re letting me open a present early!” “Just one.” “What is it?” “It’s a camera. You’re growing up quick… you’re already six years old. You’re going to be making memories soon, the both of us will, and with this, I can capture every single one. And we can add these new memories to the old ones, and maybe your mother will be able to see them, too.”

*The lights flicker and go out* "The lights went out, dad." "That's ok, buddy. I'll keep you warm."