[The last time I was in Rome was, I think, the first time I experienced total bliss. It was four years ago; I had taken a big ‘Europe Summer’ trip, my last hoorah before I started work in the fall.

I’d been to London and Barcelona, Paris and Berlin. From the start of the trip, however, my eyes had been set on Italy. On Rome. I’d intentionally saved the best for last, and I was not disappointed.

The streets were full of life, the ancient cobbles themselves pulsing with energy. My stomach was perpetually full of pizza and pasta and sparkling water, and copious amounts of alcohol; somehow, there was always room for more.

I’d found myself in a group of fellow travelers who soon became fast friends. We went everywhere together. In my two weeks in Rome, I can confidently say we did it all. We came. We saw. We conquered.

And the beautiful thing was, so did everyone else. We were not unique. Every plaza, every museum, every cafe was full of people, young and old, eating the life-giving fruit of that city set on seven hills.

That trip, these thoughts, haunt me as I walk through the now empty streets of Rome. What few people I see pass without a glance, shadowed silhouettes bundled against the January cold. Shops are still open, but there is no one inside. The out-the-door lines for the hottest aperitivo spots are absent. The beautiful women laden with shopping bags are nowhere to be seen—neither are their countless admirers.

I’m alone in the beating heart of all that man should be.]

[Lucca Parodi pours me a glass of Lardarina while his wife Elena puts the finishing touches on dinner. My attention is divided between our conversation and Lucca’s son, Matteo, who calls me his ‘American uncle’ and won’t stop asking why American football isn’t actually football since they don’t use their feet. I make a joke about the band, but it gets lost in translation.]

Eric: They do use their feet, sometimes. Each team has a kicker.

[For the sake of clarity, I’ll be translating as best I can]

Matteo: But that’s one guy!

Eric: Yes, but he’s a very important guy. Some games are won or lost by the kicker.

Matteo: But… it’s not even a ball! You call it football but you barely use your feet, and you don’t play with a ball! Everyone knows balls are round!

Lucca: Easy, Matteo, we wouldn’t want to hurt Uncle Eric’s feelings. Americans are touchy about the shape of their balls.

[Lucca winks as he hands me a glass]

Elena: Lucca!

[I sip my wine, savoring its taste as well as the sight of Elena whipping Lucca with a towel]

Lucca: Easy! It’s a joke!

Elena: I don’t know why you bother with this one, Eric.

Eric: I consider it an act of Charity.

Elena: Ha! Well, at this rate, God will probably make you a saint.

[At this, dinner is served. Lucca and his family are originally from the Cinque Terre region, to the north of Pisa along the coast. The table is set with fresh seafood pasta, anchovy bruschetta, and enough bread to feed the neighborhood. I can smell the ocean in my wine, and taste it in the anchovies and mussels and scallops.

Lucca leads us in a prayer. We eat, we talk, and we laugh. For a moment, I forget why I am there, and am instead taken by that familiar feeling of warmth and comfort. But once dinner is over, Elena busies herself with putting Matteo to sleep, and Lucca motions toward the patio.

And I remember where I am.]

[Lucca and I smoke cigarettes as we sit and drink, eyes out watching the dying lights of a great city. I don’t smoke, but there’s something about an Italian cigarette that I can’t refuse.

I met Lucca during my first visit to Rome. He was a simple, personable bartender, and a damn good one. He worked a small bar near where I was staying, so I became a sort of regular. It was a surprise, then, when I discovered he had a PhD in reproductive biology and worked at a reproductive medicine and cryobiology lab.

When I asked why he was bartending, all he said, in poor English, was, “I love drink! It is passion!”

We quickly became friends after that.

Lucca doesn’t bartend anymore, however, not since being promoted to Scientific Director at his work—though he still pours a mean drink, and can spin a strange yarn.]

Lucca: How is the wine?

Eric: Fantastic, as always. I still have a few of the bottles you sent me. I keep them for special occasions.

Lucca: Hmmm, any ‘special occasions’ stop by for a drink recently?

Eric:… I haven’t opened a bottle in a while.

[Lucca snorts and shakes his head.]

Lucca: When do you leave again? I’m sure Elena could set something up if you’re interested?

Eric: Thanks, but you know this isn’t a pleasure trip. And given how things are…

Lucca: Hmmm, “A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.”

Eric: Strange quote from a man whose job it is to circumvent such times.

Lucca: Ha, all the more reason to reflect on it, wouldn’t you say?

Eric: Something to keep yourself grounded?

Lucca: Something like that.

Eric: I’m sure the church doesn’t see it that way.

Lucca: Hmmm, they surely don’t.

Eric: So how do you see it, exactly?

Lucca: I… I see myself as a caretaker; and if not me, then who? It is not a good argument. I’m not one to debate with priests or theologians. But even before… you know… these were not simple times.

[Lucca pauses to take a long drag of his cigarette. I do the same. I’m in no hurry to rush our conversation.]

Lucca: I’ve met those affected by my work. Couples declared barren by the world, swinging children between their hands that, if not for me, would not exist. And it makes me wonder…

Eric: Me too. I mean, I haven’t read in a while, but from what I remember, many of those revered by the church came about from unidyllic circumstances.

Lucca: Ha! Excellent point.

[Lucca sighs, blowing smoke into the cold air. I finish my glass of wine and raise a brow at Lucca. Without a word, he steps inside, only to return with a small, dark bottle and two stout glasses.]

Lucca: Ah, well, all of this aside… I don’t think my moral dilemma will last for much longer.

Eric: I assume this has something to do with “Operation Mandrake”?

[Lucca nods his head as he pours the cognac.]

Eric: You know I lost my job because of that tip?

Lucca: I thought you quit?

Eric: Yes. And I’m hoping you’re about to make that worth it.

[Lucca turns his eyes toward the city. For a moment, he looks lost in time. I can feel it, the weight of this conversation, and I wonder: just how many men have talked as we have, here in this place, over the last 2,500 years.]

Lucca: I think… I think I’m about to be out of a job.

Eric: You’re getting fired?

Lucca: I believe ‘laid off’ is the appropriate term. And not just me, everyone. Everyone in my field.

Eric: That doesn’t make any sense. We need people with your expertise more than ever.

Lucca: You’re right. As soon as the news broke, I dove into research—along with everyone else I know. My colleagues and I started internet chats: message boards, digital workspaces. We gathered mountains of data that first week. But by the end of the second, some people stopped being active. Then more. There were almost a hundred of us at first, friends and friends of friends. Last week, those of us left, maybe a dozen, agreed to work independently, or stop poking our noses into this altogether.

Eric: Why?

Lucca: Honestly? None of us trusted one another anymore.

Eric: Lucca, I need more than that.

Lucca:… Of the ten or so doctors I know personally who were in the message board, two are dead, seven have disappeared, and one informed me he was going off-grid, and I haven’t heard from him since; all he told me was that an official had paid a visit to his office. He said I would likely be visited soon as well, and it would be in my best interest to either work with them… or disappear as fast as possible.

The next day, I was paid a visit by one Dr. Adrienne Varga.

Eric: Who is she?

Lucca: All she said was that she was a member of the EU’s new neonatal emergency response team. Our conversation was brief but… direct.

Eric: What did she tell you?

Lucca: She said… she offered me a position. But she wouldn’t give details, no matter how hard I pressed. All she said was that I had been deemed ‘an ideal candidate’ for ‘further research into the neonatal dilemma’.

Eric: And what did you tell her?

Lucca: I said that I would need time to think about it. They wanted me to relocate, abandon my home, my job. Like I said before, “If not me, then who?”

If my friend hadn’t told me it was coming, I might have considered it. But I knew something was up… and I think she knew that I knew, you know? Gah, sorry. It’s confusing even to me.

Eric: But why do you think you’re out of a job?

Lucca: Because the next day, Eric, the police came to the lab. They took everything. The eggs. All the lab equipment; everything was loaded into trucks and shipped off. And they had papers. It was real, and now everything is gone. We’re still ‘open’; they didn’t shut us down. But there’s nothing. I don’t know what is going to happen, but…

Eric: What?

Lucca: From what I’ve heard, this isn’t just happening here. It’s happening everywhere. This… this EU team is confiscating everything from every lab within its jurisdiction.

Have… have you heard anything from America?

Eric: No, not yet.

Lucca: You should reach out to who you can. I wouldn’t be surprised if this is happening there as well.

The strangest thing about it was… it was the police. They were there, but the men actually taking everything—I don’t know who they were. They were government, obviously, but they refused to speak with me. Everything happened so quickly—and cleanly too. Precision, like they were following orders… orders that had been standing for some time.

[I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Lucca stares at me, his cigarette glowing between his fingers. For the first time, I notice the bags beneath his eyes, accompanied by a strange look.

A cold wind blows from the North. Despite the alcohol, I still feel its chill.]

Eric: Lucca… what is Operation Mandrake?

Lucca: I’m… I’m not entirely sure. My friend used the phrase in passing, before he went quiet.

Eric: Is your friend still alive?

Lucca: I don’t know.

Eric: If he was, do you still have a way to contact him?

Lucca: I have his number—but I’ve tried to call and he hasn’t answered.

Eric: Can you message him my information?

Lucca: Yes, I can try.

Eric: Where does he live?

Lucca: He works out of Stockholm. I doubt he is still in the city, though.

Eric: It’s a place to start at least.

[The silence takes us for a moment.]

Eric: What are you going to do?

Lucca: I’ve made arrangements. I haven’t told Elena yet, but… she’ll understand. I’m afraid I can’t tell you more.

Eric: I understand.

Lucca: Can you give me a few days before you post this?

Eric: Of course. Will I be able to contact you?

Lucca: No… I’m sorry. I’m afraid, Eric. I almost called you before you left, to tell you not to come.

Eric: Why didn’t you?

Lucca: Because this is bigger than my family and me. It’s bigger than anyone, and everyone deserves to know.

Be careful, my friend.

[The next day was my last in the city. I’d decided to head north the next day, toward Stockholm, and so I went to a nearby cafe to make calls and plan. When I returned to Lucca’s, the house was empty. Their car was gone. I searched the house and saw that some things had been taken—a picture here, a blanket. Dressers and closets were half emptied. I chose to take it all as a good sign as I left the house and called a hotel.

I didn’t want to be there when whoever it was that Lucca was running from decided to show up.]

Bill Bradford sits across from me smoking a cob pipe. The smoke smells sweet, and I watch as wisps of it drift across his leathery face. A pair of round glasses rests on his large nose. His face is wrinkled in the best way, full of deep lines plowed by years of laughter.

Bill offers to lend me an extra pipe. At first, I decline. This is the same man who once gave me a stern talking to in high school after I was caught sneaking around beneath the football field bleachers… with his daughter. A shotgun (unloaded, as I later learned) might have been involved.

But Bill insists, and soon we’re both puffing away and talking about old times. I have an early flight to Europe tomorrow, and have set up several interviews with those still willing to talk with me. But before I consult any more experts or men in high places, I feel compelled to first talk with Bill. A rancher and a pastor, as well as a good many other things, he is who I always picture when I hear the phrase ‘A good man’.

And right now, that’s the kind of man I’d like to hear from.]

Bill: So what’s the scoop kid?

[I should mention now Bill’s love of cheap jokes and expressive humor. His face is serious for all of three seconds before breaking into a laugh]

Eric: Well, ha, I guess that’s what I’m here to find out.

Bill: You don’t think…

[Bill points to himself with mock-disbelief in his eyes]

Eric: No Bill… I don’t think you have anything to do with what’s going on.

Bill: Boy, that’s a relief. I’m a sleepwalker, you know? And without Jill around these days, well, ain’t no telling what I get up to at night. I actually woke up in this chair a few weeks ago.

Eric: No kidding?

Bill: Honest to God. Fell asleep in my bed, woke up in this chair with coffee already brewing in the kitchen.

[Bill slaps his leg and keels over with laughter. It’s impossible not to laugh with him]

Eric: Oh man. God, I haven’t laughed like that in a while.

Bill: I’m here all week, ha. Seriously. If I go somewhere and Sammy finds out, boy, there is hell to pay. Though I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.

[I’m a twenty-eight-year-old man, but when Bill brings up his daughter Samantha, I can’t help but feel my cheeks get red. If Bill notices, he doesn’t say anything]

Eric: How is Sam doing these days?

Bill: She’s good. Real good. She runs the farm now, for the most part. I try to help where I can, but, well, I ain’t the man I used to be.

No, I mostly just try to keep in touch with folks these days. I’m not preaching anymore; did you know that?

Eric: I’d heard from my folks.

Bill: Good people, your parents. I still see them every Sunday. Your father and I are on the board together.

Eric: I imagine it’s like seating the two most obnoxious kids in class next to each other.

Bill: HA! That’s, well, that about sums it up.

Eric: Tell me, with everything that’s happened and is happening, what’s the mood like in church?

Bill: Oof, well… it’s not been great, as I’m sure you can imagine. Sam’s friend… you remember Jaqueline?

[I smile sadly and nod my head. The biggest hang-up in my adolescent pursuit of Samantha wasn’t her father; it was always her best friend, Jaqueline. The two were practically inseparable.]

Bill: Well, she had her second child two weeks ago. And…

[I’m struck by the sight of a speechless Bill. It’s not something I’d ever thought I’d see. After a few moments, he cocks his head and coughs]

Bill: Anyways, like I said. I’m sure you can imagine. I’ve been leading prayer meetings every morning since the new year began. But… If I’m being honest, half the time I don’t even know what to pray for.

Eric: What do you mean?

Bill: I mean… well… I’ve read the Bible and preached my whole life. But my whole life has been good years. Sure, I’ve had troubles, and the last decade or two has felt particularly sour. But, hell, give my life’s story to any apostle or early disciple of Christ, and they’d probably think I’m one of the most blessed men alive: Good family. Loving wife. Great kids. Stability. Security. Wealth. I really have been blessed beyond measure. These last hundred-odd years have, by my reckoning, been one of, if not the best times to be alive, without question.

But now… it seems those times really have come to an end, and I’m alive to witness it. And I don’t know what to pray for. I ask God to heal those kids, or heal the mothers. I ask him to stop this. But I can’t see the whole picture. Times are changing, and I feel too small and too old to ask for anything other than that the Lord’s will be done.

Eric: Do you think this is God’s doing?

Bill: I don’t know. See, people, consciously or not, like to think the God of the Old Testament died; that jealous, bitter, angry, wrathful God, that’s who Jesus replaced. It’s what the hippie converts taught, and it’s what I grew up on.

But then I actually read the book, and you know what I found? God was always right. When the people you love more than anything, more than life itself, act wrongly—idiotically… that sparks a special kind of anger. A righteous anger. Every time Israel wandered, they got what they deserved. The only good times were when they didn’t.

Now, what I said about my years being good was true. For me. But not for the whole world. We’ve done a lot of evil in this golden age. And sin has a way of staining the soul. And if enough souls are stained…

Eric: What are you trying to say, Bill?

Bill: Just—Gah… Call it what you want. The collective unconscious. The Spiritual realm. Some Metaphysical plane. Doesn’t matter to me, but I can’t help but feel that on some all-encompassing layer, the spirit of man has given up; Or failed, in some way. Our sins have accumulated. Something’s gone wrong, and it isn’t something we’re capable of just… fixing, you know? This all feels… it feels like it’s above us, somehow.

Ha, not to be morbid, but my grandson used this phrase the other day, and I found it hilarious. Know what it was?

Eric: Tell me.

Bill: “Lost the plot”. That’s what he said. I can’t remember the context. But… I think that about sums up our modern problem. We’ve just lost the plot.

Eric: How do we get it back?

Bill: I don’t know if we can. I, well, I can give you the pastor answer: Repent. Seek God. Make amends. And that is what I would say to anyone asking my advice, personally. But above that, collectively… I really don’t know.

Eric: It sounds like we’re out of luck then.

Bill: Well, the good news is that I believe in a God who’s a good storyteller. And he never loses the plot, understand? He is the plot, by my reckoning.

Eric: That may be true, Bill. Though I can’t say I’m a big fan of where he’s taking the story right now.

Bill: Ha, you said it.

[Bill’s eyes wander over my shoulder, and a new kind of smile crosses his face—a sort of smirk. I turn; coming down the long gravel drive is a beat-up truck: the frame’s rusted and the paint is patchy and faded, just like it was all those years ago.

Sam parks the truck, brakes groaning and creaking. She smiles at me as she hops out, a near-perfect replica of the smirk still plastered on her father’s face.]

Sam: So, your bosses have you on old-fart-interview duty now, huh?

Eric: Technically, I’m self-employed at the moment.

Sam: Oh, I see. So, you just like talking to old farts?

Eric: Not particularly. There is something about this one, though.

Bill: That would be the indigestion.

[The three of us share a laugh. Sam slaps her father’s shoulder and opens the front door.]

Sam: You sticking around? No telling who all’s showing up for dinner; what’s one more stray?

Eric: I’d love to, but I need to get going. My flight leaves in a few hours.

Sam: Hmph. Well, it was good to see you, Eric.

Eric: You too, Sam.

[Sam heads inside as I stand and shake Bill’s hand. He’s got a wry look in his eye.]

Bill: You sure you can’t stay?

Eric: I really need to get going, take care of some things before I leave.

Bill: Right. It’s just…

Eric: What?

Bill: Don’t…

[Bill lays a hand on my shoulder. I feel the memories at the time; I don’t think them—A million images of church and prayer and hands.]

Bill: With all that’s going on… just make sure life doesn’t get in the way of living, you hear?

[I can’t find the words, so I just nod my head and turn to go. But then, something stops me.]

Eric: Hey, Bill…

Bill: Hm?

Eric: When exactly was that sleepwalking episode?

Bill: That what now?

Eric: Sleepwalking. You said—

Bill: Oh right right. Hell, it was about a month ago now?

Eric: Can you remember the date?

Bill: Well… let’s see. It was about mid-December, I think. Almost Christmas, but not quite?

Eric: Does… does the thirteenth sound about right?

Bill: Yeah, it was probably around there somewhere. The family started pouring in the weekend before Christmas, and this happened a handful of days before that.

Eric: Are you aware that December thirteenth is, officially, the agreed-upon day that the defective births began?

Bill: No. I had no idea.

Eric: Do you believe in coincidences, Bill?

[Bill smiles]

Bill: My God is the author of the cosmos.

There’s no such thing as coincidence.

There is a picture on his desk of him smiling, with one arm around a woman, and the other supporting a small child sitting on his shoulders.

The man sitting before me is almost unrecognizable.]

Eric: Thank you for meeting with me today, Mr. Jacobs. I know you’re—

Owen: I really don’t have much time, so if we could just get right into it.

Eric: Of course, I understand. As you’re well aware, misinformation surrounding the defective neonates is rampant. Videos have begun circulating online showing the aftermath of various labors. Some show normal births, like the recent video from India, leading some to speculate that the defective neonate is a Western phenomenon.

As the newly appointed Public Health Emergency Czar, I was hoping you could weigh in on the validity of these claims and provide the public with some clarity on what we are facing.

Owen: Well, to be clear, this is not an exclusively Western phenomenon. Every country has been reporting the same thing.

Eric: That being?

Owen: That since December 13th, 2033, every newborn has been delivered in a comatose state.

Eric: Do we have any idea as to why this is happening?

Owen: At this time, no. Theories abound, many of which are, as you put it, misinformation. Our public liaison confirmed this morning that the video from India you referenced was in fact AI-generated. I would encourage everyone to take seriously only those reports that come from official sources.

Eric: Do you and your team currently have any leads? Are there any theories you are taking more seriously than others?

Owen: At this time, I am not willing to disclose such information. Rest assured, my team and I are investigating every lead. We are leaving no stone unturned.

If that is all, I really mus—

Eric: Just one more question, please, sir, if you don’t mind.

Owen: Go ahead.

Eric: What can you tell me about Operation Mandrake?

Owen:… Where did you hear that?

Eric: What alternative solutions has your team been investigating?

Owen: F——— me, who have you been talking to? Huh?

[Owens stands and throws his hands behind his head. He truly looks like a man at his wits’ end.]

Eric: I cannot disclose my sources; however, rumors have already made their way—

Owen: Get the hell out of my office. We’re done.

[Despite my best efforts, Dr. Owens showed no interest in continuing our interview, and I was quickly escorted from his office. I’ve tried to reach out for more information before the publication of this article, but received no response.

What I have received is a strictly worded cease and desist from The White House Counsel’s Office, warning me not to release this interview. I also received strict orders from my bosses, who originally tasked me with reporting this story, likely the most important story in human history, telling me to slow down and not ruffle any feathers.

Suffice to say, I handed in my resignation this morning, which is why this and all further reports will be published here on SubStack.

Stay tuned for more updates.]

Upstairs, we turn right, and I’m shown the renovated master bath and bedroom, as well as Jack’s personal study.

“I always wanted a study,” He tells me with a beaming smile. The walls are stuffed with books, and the desk, custom-made from rich purpleheart wood, is truly beautiful. Peaking out from behind the desk, I notice a small box with cuts of purpleheart wood sticking out of it, but think nothing of it.

I follow Linette out of the room and continue to admire the home, but then she pauses at the stairs. She looks down the hall we’ve yet to see, then glances at me before giving her husband what I can only describe as ‘a look’. I pretend to fumble with my phone for a moment. Jack steps past me and asks if I’d like to do the interview in the Kitchen. I tell him that sounds fine, and follow the couple down the stairs. I sneak a glance down the hall. There is a single room, but the door is closed. I look back down the stairs, watching Linette as she descends: one hand on the railing, the other on her prominent belly. Given the nature of my visit and what we will be discussing, it’s not hard to guess what’s behind that door.]

Linette: How do you like your coffee?

Eric: Black as night on a moonless night.

[From the corner of the room, Jack chuckles, looks at me, taps his nose, and starts brewing some coffee.]

Linette: Ugh, you sure you don’t want to interview him? Sounds like you’d have a lot to talk about.

Eric: Maybe we could grab a beer sometime, but he’s not who the world’s made the face of the disclosure movement.

Linette: Hm, no, he isn’t.

[Linette sips her coffee and looks out the kitchen window. I accept the cup Jack offers me and take a sip myself. It’s quite good.]

Eric: So, why don’t you tell me a little about your work?

Linette: Well, I worked as a nurse. I’m a CNM, so I delivered babies all day.

Eric: How did you like your job?

Linette: Oh, I loved it. I was the girl who kept her baby dolls for way too long. I’d cry every time my mom tried to give them away.

So as soon as I learned that there was a job where you were around newborns all the time, well, it wasn’t even a question.

Eric: Did the job live up to your expectations?

Linette: For the most part, yes. But the rose-tinted glasses didn’t last long. My very first delivery… the baby was stillborn. I can still remember how I just cried and cried. Jack had to come pick me up. We’d only been on a few dates, but I didn’t have anyone else.

[Linette smiles weakly and looks to her husband]

I’m sure you’ve read about all of this already thought, right?

Eric: Yes, but I just wanted to hear it all from you, in light of what’s happened. Why don’t you tell me a little about why you started writing?

Linette: Oh God, why does anyone start writing? They think they have something to say, something unique. Or they want to get some stuff off their chest, I don’t know. I took some creative writing classes in College that I really enjoyed, but I was never really the ‘artsy’ type; you know, the girls in berets styling thrifted shirts with designer bags and smoking cigarettes on the quad. That just wasn’t me.

Eric: No, you don’t really fit the part, although some of my exes might be offended by that description.

[Linette and I share a laugh. Jack offers to refill our coffees]

Linette: I think the reason was that I just wanted to connect with people, you know? Talk about life, get to know some people. Make new friends. I’ve never been great at doing that in person, so I did the next best thing.

Eric: Write about your problems online?

Linette: Exactly! Finally, someone who understands!

Eric: Well, it seems to have worked out great for you. Before your last article, you were already sitting at around 1,200 subscribers on SubStack. And since your last piece, you’ve jumped to about 50,000.

Linette:… Last I checked, it was around 21,000. I haven’t really been on the app since everything happened.

Eric: Do you mind if I ask a little about that ‘everything’?

Linette: Go ahead, it’s why you’re here.

Eric: Well, what can you tell me about the experience that led you to post the article you wrote, “The last five babies I’ve delivered have all been comatose.” Could you walk me through the events that led to your writing this?

[Linette looks down at her coffee for a few moments. I can see the gears turning in her head, and wonder how many times she’s rehearsed this moment]

Linette: The day started out fine. I’d had some morning sickness, but nothing too crazy. I was a bit tired, but what nurse isn’t? I was just glad to be at work and to take my mind off things.

Then we had our first delivery of the day. A first-time mom. She’d been in labor for a few hours, but everything was going well. Until… well, she delivered the baby, a little boy. But he wasn’t crying. We all assumed the worst and got to work. But he was breathing fine. He looked perfect. He just… wouldn’t wake up. Nothing we did could wake him up. It didn’t make any sense. Everything leading up to his delivery was… fine. Normal.

A few hours later, it happened again. And then again. After the third we were all pretty shook up. After the fifth, we couldn’t look each other in the eye. I went home and just… sat there. I couldn’t understand it. I didn’t sleep at all that night. I called a friend who was on shift to check in after a while. She said it had happened four more times. There hadn’t been a normal delivery in the last 18 hours.

Eric: Is that when you wrote the article?

Linette: Yes, that’s when I started. It was about three in the morning, and I finished it in a little under an hour and scheduled it to be posted at six. I finally crashed after that and slept until around noon. When I woke up, I went straight to my laptop to delete the post. That kind of stuff could get you fired. But by then, well, you know the rest.

Eric: The post had already gone viral. My publication even ran a piece on it.

Linette: Yeah, I know. I still wonder why. I mean, as I scrolled that morning, I saw plenty of others beginning to post about the same thing.

Eric: I think you were just in the right place at the right time. This story was going to break one way or another. You just so happened to be who the algorithm picked up that morning—it was a well-written article though, just to be clear.

Linette: Hm, thanks. Although I wish the tech Gods had chosen someone else.

Eric: Why do you say that?

Linette: If I had known what was really going on… I wouldn’t have said anything.

Eric: You mean, if you’d have known the scale of what was happening?

Linette: Yes, exactly. I thought I was venting about the worst day of work I’d ever experienced. I didn’t know I was field reporting on what might be the end of the world.

[I can hear Jack shift in his seat behind me. It’s a strange moment. Birds are singing in the garden out back, while we sit inside discussing the end]

Eric: What would you have said differently if you’d known what was about to happen?

Linette: I wouldn’t have called them what I did.

Eric: Who?

Linette: The babies.

Eric: Why did you use the term ‘defective neonates’

Linette: Because it’s cold and clinical, and I heard someone else use it. It wasn’t even mine. Someone used it that night after the third or fourth delivery.

Eric: What would you have called them instead?

Linette: I don’t know. But you’ve seen what’s been going on. What people have been doing. It’s been what, maybe a month? A month without a single healthy, awake baby being born, and already people are losing their minds. I don’t know. I just would have done it differently. I… I would have reminded people that these babies are still alive, still human.

Eric: Do you have any reason to believe they might wake up, or that births will return to normal?

[Linette looks over my shoulder at Jack. She lets a hand drift toward her belly]

Linette: A reason? No, no reason. Just… hope.

Picture this: It’s 9 p.m. You’re on day four of a five-day church youth conference, and man, are you feeling it. No, not “The Spirit”; I’m talking about the ache in your legs from standing six hours today in worship, the crick in your neck from sleeping on an all-but-plastic mattress, and the bandaged cut on your arm you got during a rough game of mud pit capture the flag (it’s definitely infected, but your youth pastor [22] says it should be fine.)

Maybe that queasy feeling in your stomach is the spirit finally moving—or it’s the result of the two lobby lattes you drink in between each service just to stay awake. Either way, something big is happening for sure (possibly in your lower intestines). You wonder if it’s too soon to take your one self-prescribed bathroom break.

You look around. All your friends seem to be getting really into it: They’re jumping up and down or swaying with their hands in the air or on their knees just sobbing, while others stand around intensely praying for them. Intense is the best word to describe just about everything going on around and within you. Not good or bad or holy or evil. Just intense. You can’t help but wonder how you look, standing still, maybe tapping a toe to the music. You wonder if you should raise your hands or leave them in your pockets. You compromise by clasping them in front of you. You try to close your eyes to escape the light show, but you can’t escape the sweet smell of shekina glory (concert haze) tickling your nose.

You take a deep breath, and really, really try to think about God. Or not think about anything and feel him. Or open your heart. Or… something. Something’s supposed to happen, right? One of the backup singers on stage has stepped up and is singing in what you can only describe as Pig Latin. Everyone around you is shouting “Yes!” and “Amen!”. You just keep your eyes closed cause you know that if you open them and watch what is going on, you’re going to laugh. Not to be mean or to mock the person. You just can’t help it. It all feels so… silly. Fake. Performed.

If any of this resonates with you, congratulations! I would like to formally welcome you to the Society of Reluctant Evangelicals! (Formerly known as the Center for the Denominationally Homeless. We meet on Thursdays and chat about theology [mostly Lewis] and talk each other down from the banks of the Tiber.)

But seriously, all jokes aside, I’ve been a ‘non-denominational’ Christian for most of my life. And I have nothing against non-denominationalism, evangelicals, or protestants. I have nothing against Catholics or Orthodox either. What I’m hoping to address in this article doesn’t really have anything to do with doctrine or dogma or anything as serious as that (although I do believe it is kinda serious).

No, what I am most concerned about, are vibes.

Culture is probably the more ‘sophisticated’ term here. And the problem isn’t that evangelicals don’t have culture. Far from it. I just think the mainstream culture they do have kinda… blows. Or, at the very least, is hyper-specific to a certain type of person with a certain temperament, to the detriment of anyone who doesn’t fit into that mold.

And it is a mold. It is an expectation of behavior and compliance. Of integration. And I don’t mean ‘behavior’ in the sense of obeying scripture and acting rightly. The best I can describe it as, and I’m sorry if this offends anyone… Performative Christian Behavior.

Let me stop here and clarify: I don’t think hand lifting and dancing and just general charismaticisms are inherently performative. I believe that there are Christians to whom these sorts of behavior and expressions of faith come naturally, gifts given by God. And that is awesome!

But when these people become the sole cultural tastemakers of the faith… things just get weird. I’ve seen so many weird things that just kinda get overlooked because they ‘fit’ the ‘vibe’. Like, why are you holding and petting a live lamb during your girly Christian conference? Why is every men’s conference just so… depressing, and wildly overcompensating for the inherent femininity of modern evangelicalism? Where did you get that sword from, and why are you pretending to be Aragorn in front of all these high schoolers? Dude, if your skinny jeans get any tighter and your shirt any looser, I’m gonna lose my mind and puke into your Neff Beanie. Just focus on playing G D Em C and singing about rivers and valleys and stuff man.

I don’t know guys, it just never did it for me.

I’ve had more emotional experiences at Twenty One Pilots concerts than in church. I’ve had more moments of numinous revelation on walks in the countryside than in prayer meetings. I’ve felt closer to God in private prayer and reading than I have when surrounded by those who share my faith.

Or supposedly share my faith, anyway. If I took a poll of all those kids I went to conferences with to see where they’re at with God right now, I know the results would be bleak. Not that I’m perfect. I’m an idiot who’s been lucky enough to have a solid family that’s supported me through all my stumbling and helped keep me on the straight and narrow despite the many times I’ve wanted to jump off.

It just makes me wonder though. If the point of mainlining emotional hype and huffing straight Christian aesthetic gas wasn’t to give people a lasting heart for the Lord… then what was the point? That’s a question I really, really wish people would start asking themselves before just doing “Christian” things. Do you really need to have an organized youth service? Do Jesus and kickball really go together? Does the act of playing kickball itself need to be consecrated as “Christian” for it to be worth something?

Or is it possible that all these things we try to make “Christian”, inherently already are, because they are good things God made for us to enjoy? And the act of trying to make them “Christian” really just makes them worse?

I’ve heard it said countless times how many ‘seeds’ were planted at these events. And like, yeah, sure. Maybe. But who the hell is watering the seeds when the kids get off the bus and go back home? Sending Timmy to youth once a week isn’t gonna do anything other than let you check a box off in your conscience. Congratulations, you did the good parent thing. He’s good with God, probably, so you don’t have to worry about him anymore. Right?

The biggest, most glaringly obvious problem to me is that mainstream Christian culture appears to be little more than this act of “Christianizing” something, applied to mainstream American culture. That’s what it looks like to me, anyway. The culture got obsessed with pop stars and entertainment and counterculture (which is just an aesthetic in its own right at this point), and Christian tastemakers just tried to make those things Christian. We tried to adapt, to mold ourselves into something more acceptable to the palate of the average American. And you know what happened.

We became indistinguishable.

Scratch that. You could still tell the difference. One was just a bit lamer than the other and wouldn’t upset your parents.

And here we are, in 2026, and do you know what all the kids raised on secular American culture for the past 25 years, who now want something more, are searching for?

Anything that looks different from American culture.

People are waking up to the despair wrought by materialism. We’re looking at what the worldview of our elders has accomplished, and we are really, really pissed off. We’re starting to wonder if Man really did kill God, and if not, we wanna know where we can get his number.

And most of us do not want to go anywhere near anything that looks too familiar.

So it’s no wonder that many people are turning to Catholicism and Orthodoxy, two traditions that are, at their roots, not American (in the sense that they are largely unattached to American Culture)

The people yearn for smells and bells and robes and seasonal liturgies and midnight masses and ancient wisdom. They’re tired of Zoom church and worship services indistinguishable from the Kanye concert they went to last week. The idea of masking the Church and Jesus with a culture that inquirers might be familiar with doesn’t work anymore. People want something that feels different. They want their spiritual practice to look like something reserved for God and God alone.

I am not advocating for Catholicism or Orthodoxy, just to be clear. I’m also not advocating for evangelicalism or Protestantism or anything else. Every tradition has its own hang-ups, odd interpretations, practices, and skeletons in its closet. Everyone has their own brand of weird.

And at the end of the day, I think all you can do is commit to whichever brand of weird you find easiest to accept. If smells and bells and chanting move you and draw you closer to God, then chase after that. If ambient drones and speaking in tongues lights a fire in your heart, then by all means go for it.

All that matters is that you truly desire Christ and want to serve him in whatever way he asks of you. No matter what road truth leads you down, just follow it. It will lead to him.

I apologize for the rambling nature of this article. I’ve written this piece about five different times now, each time going down a different rabbit hole. I know this is riddled with logic traps and contradictions, and I haven’t really done any of the points I’ve brought up justice. I will probably write a follow-up (likely multiple follow-ups) at some point and try to be more focused, but I have to start somewhere.

I myself am still figuring out what I feel most drawn to. And I know debate bros want to argue about the Filioque or Infant Baptism or Predestination or any number of topics. For those entrenched within a tradition or worldview, anyone who thinks differently looks like an opponent to be challenged and crushed.

But as chairman of the Society of Reluctant Evangelicals, everywhere I look, be it in the Cathedrals of Rome, the altars of the Orthodox, or the strip malls of evangelical America, you know what I see?

People from all walks of life, crying out to God as they try to love him, his son, his church, and the world he made. It is always beautiful and striking; The unity of faith that transcends time and culture.

If you haven’t guessed, I’m not a big fan of modern worship music. However, I think this line from the song ‘Eyes Of the Lord’ by the band Pas Neos sums it up best.

Each man must go his way in the evil of this present age. The road to life, the narrow gate, will follow the path of Cain.

For each work, the Lord has found, He’ll require that man give account.

For those who act, in hate or love, will answer to him everyone.

God Bless You.

Three days before his passing, when he was struggling to speak and his consciousness was failing, my mom reported that he had been mumbling three words.

“Three more days.”

Three days later, he passed away in the night, and I was woken that morning by my brother-in-law. The funeral director needed help getting Boppy out of his room. The stretcher wouldn’t fit down the hall.

It was a silent drive to my parents’ house. Nanny and Boppy had moved in with them when he’d begun to require more care. My brother-in-law, a pastor, might’ve said something evangelical about how death sucks on the short drive. I can’t remember. I was just thinking about how I needed to get through this. He asked if this would be my first dead body. I said yes. He said he was sorry.

We entered the house and greeted the FD. We went into Boppy’s room. He was covered with a sheet. The plan was to use the sheet to carry him into the living room and get him situated on the stretcher. Then the FD’s assistant said my mom, who was in her bedroom with my grandma and aunt and various other female family members, had asked for me.

My stomach dropped. I kinda knew what was about to happen. I went to see her. She and everyone else in the room were a wreck. I hugged her, and she squeezed and refused to let go. She said I needed to stay back there with her. She didn’t want me to see Boppy like this. My grandma and aunt repeated her pleas.

And in that moment, I had a choice. I could stay with the woman and children in the backroom, or I could carry my Boppy out of the house and into the next life.

There were no children in the bedroom. Just my twenty-five-year-old self and the woman of my family.

I made the difficult choice.

I told my mom it was okay, that I needed to help move him, and that I would be okay. To my surprise, she didn’t really fight me. She let me go.

We got Boppy out of his room fine, got him on the stretcher, and walked him out to the hearse (a nondescript white van).

I don’t really remember what took place between then and the funeral. There was a lot of sitting with family and eating and sitting alone and thinking.

I am a Christian, and so I took comfort in my belief that Boppy was now in heaven with the Lord. I took comfort in the thought of seeing him again in heaven, and, ultimately, seeing him again on an earth made new with a resurrected body like that of our Lord. It was a bitter-sweet sorrow. I thought of how I wish I’d known him better. I thought of my own faults and sins.

I’d been to funerals before, but somehow this one felt different. My grandma (Dad’s side), whom we referred to as Me-Me, passed away during the COVID lockdowns. We had her funeral outside in the local park at the splash pad. Plastic neon tubes in wacky shapes spiraled above my head as I played guitar to accompany my sister who sang a hymn. We all laughed at the rather unorthodox situation. Me-Me wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Maybe it was just that I was older now, or that I’d spent this last winter also living with my parents, and thus saw Boppy every day. Regardless, this funeral was different. More solemn. I remember sitting in the prayer room at church with the rest of the family, waiting for the funeral to begin. A cousin of mine was there, and we briefly touched on the strangeness of it all. The ritual of the funeral.

We have very little true ritual in our lives these days—and I’m not talking about your morning routine or what you do before you write or your personal spiritual devotions. I’m talking about corporate ritual; the gathering of souls for a specific, religious or cultural experience. Something about ritual makes people uncomfortable, I think. It truly is foreign to us moderns. I feel that what rituals remain: certain services, ceremonies, graduations, etc, we tend to drown in either irony or deprecating acknowledgment of the inherent ‘silliness’ of the ritual. In our materialistic age, no matter how ‘religious’ or ‘spiritual’ one might claim to be, there lingers a discomfort when attending such rituals — none-so-more than a funeral; nothing fries the circuitry of our modern minds quite like a confrontation with Death.

Regardless, the funeral itself went well. I enjoyed it, which I know is a strange thing to say about a funeral. But I did. There truly was so much love and hope in that room amidst the sorrow. I was asked countless times some variation of, “How are you doing?” I always answered with some version of, “I’m fine,” or, “As good as I can.”

My sister sang a hymn, and ended it with the tagline of one of our band’s songs.

I can hear you say,
Do not be afraid.
I can hear you say,
Hold on one more day.
Now is not always.

I rode with my family to the graveside. Boppy was to be buried in Kaw City, where he and my grandma had spent most of their lives (at least in my living memory)

I was a pallbearer, so when we arrived, I got out of the car and waited at the back of the hearse. When the time came, I helped carry him to his grave and then stood with my family for the ceremony.

Boppy got a military sendoff. Not the full twenty-one gun salute—something was said about the military only doing that for active service members these days.

But to finally get to the point of this article, this retelling of a sorrow-filled day, there was something that happened that struck me at the graveside. One of the soldiers in attendance began to play Taps on the trumpet, those mournful notes ringing out across the cemetery. This wasn’t a TV funeral; this was an Oklahoma funeral. Men and woman in cowboy boots took off their cowboy hats beneath a warm February sun as a gentle breeze blew across the plains and tickled my stuffy nose with its allergen-riddled air. All stood in silence as the song was played. I remember how bright everything felt. The song ended, but the spell continued as the flag was folded. The soldiers worked with precision and grace. The lead soldier approached my grandma with the flag, kneeling down to present it to her. He thanked her for Boppy’s service. Neither he nor the other soldier in attendance ever broke, their faces stoic and strong—that is, until my grandma thanked the soldier and told him, “God bless you.”

He smiled warmly at those words.

I felt like I saw something at my Boppy’s graveside. Something true that we’ve forgotten. Something true about America, about what she really is, or at least strives to be. What we all strive to be. I still think about it. I will continue to think about it

We are haunted not only by the shadows of our fallen nature, but by the light, our light, that casts the shadow.

This is an abrupt ending, but I haven’t much more to say, aside from this.

God bless you.

  The trees grew
               in wild rows;
                           tall they stood,
             leafless and bare.
                             It was not yet their season.
                      They had been planted
                            For another.

No Trespassing:

I sat beyond the broken fence
deep within the wood
amidst the grass and fallen limbs,
and let the bugs crawl where they like

I listened to the wind blow
And the birds sing
And the distant highway drone
I took what silence I could

I watched thoughts never spoken
And dreams never shared.
In fear of what I'd lose
If I dared to gain. 

Carpet:

There is no mountain to ascend.
No temple, no altar
on which to lay my sins.
So I lay on the carpet,
and think of the carpenter
and pray.

Riddled With Hope:

Mired in doubt
Yet riddled with hopes,
As numerous as the sands.
Most have slipped through my fingers,
Though a few still linger,
Resting in the palm of my hand

There was a moment in the film Project Hail Mary that stood out to my sniveling cynical self.

The ship is spinning. Grace is unconscious, his bleeding face smashed against sci-fi lights and switches and buttons. Only Rocky is still awake. All will be lost unless the ship’s centrifuge system is re-engaged.

And, on theme with the film as a whole, Rocky makes a choice that he knows may end his life. He bursts from his climate-controlled bubble, engages the centrifuge, AND drags Grace to the med bay, saving his life.

When Grace wakes up, he finds a near-dead Rocky lying smoking and weak inside his bubble.

Rocky asks Grace to watch him as he sleeps. Grace promises he will. Then Rocky stops moving.

At this moment in the film, I was completely locked in (not that I wasn’t already). I was trying to think of what was going to happen. A part of me had hope that Rocky would wake up, but the last decade of nihilistic cultural indoctrination really had me convinced that he wouldn’t. That Grace would have to make a different choice: To which planet would he send the probes, and which one would he himself go to? What would he do with Rocky’s body? And, to just jump ahead with how this might’ve played out, what about the xenonite breeding pods? What would Grace do when, on his way home, the sample containers became compromised?

But then the unexpected happened. There was no disaster scene forcing Grace to quickly take action and leave his friend. There was no funeral, like with his own crew members.

Rocky just… actually woke up.

And the film went on.

And I remember how good it felt to watch that scene. Grace embraces Rocky’s bubble. God, it was just so good.

And it served as a great reminder of something…

You can give your audience a good ending

Like, you can just have Rocky wake up. Full stop. Let’s go save the stars.

For some reason, there is this belief in me, maybe you as well, that ‘good’ endings are cheesy. Corny. Fake. Because the real world is so awful and terrible and nothing good ever happens and the earth is dying and governments are corrupt and everything sucks and we’re all gonna die AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

*Take a breath

And I realized that’s… like… the point?

I had a similar experience with this when trying to finish the final story in my upcoming collection, Red Dirt Curses. Looking back, the original ending I had written was just… awful. So bad. The final story itself is already super dark (I think I’ve gotten most of that angst out of my system now), and the ending was like pouring squid ink on charcoal: Now it’s not just dark, but messy!

Only after my wonderful sister read it all over for me was it brought to my attention that, you know, maybe the main protagonist should have a, I don’t know…

Good ending?

A good ending? Are you insane! I’m a dark, tortured artist living in a post-modern hellscape. Every day I’m forced to do things I don’t want to do! I’m dredging through the remnants of civilization, writing stories about how awful things are that I can then thrust in front of people to show them the truth!

Dear Lord I am such a whiny little baby sometimes…also I did rewrite the ending.

Yeah folks. The reviews are in. People like movies that make them feel good and speak the words of our immortal souls: Love, Truth, and Beauty.

And Project Hail Mary has an interstellar shipload of Love, Truth, and Beauty.

And we should all pay attention.

Real = Sad = Really Stupid

It’s easy to get hung up on ‘realism’ while writing. My Esoteric colleague, cousin, and presiding chairman of the Frentian Society of Esoteric Oddfellows, , has an excellent article that discusses realism in films/stories. In it, he touches on verisimilitude

Verisimilitude: adhering to a set of principles or logic that makes sense in the context and cohesion of the story, so that the fictitious nature of the work supplants external realism.

When you use the logic of verisimilitude, you realize that Rocky waking up was the only thing that could have happened. If he didn’t wake up, then you are no longer in the story you thought you were in. And THAT breaks ‘realism’. That breaks ‘believability’.

It’s not that deep bro

I mean, it is but it isn’t. It can go both ways. I’m not saying you should never write a ‘dark’ or ‘sad’ story. Obviously, some of the greatest stories ever created are inherently tragic. They are thematically dealing with darker material.

But, you know, maybe branch out yourself every now and then. Try something new. Maybe we actually are entering the era of ‘hope core’. Despite the looming A.I. threat (which you can read some of my thoughts about here), despite the rampant degeneracy of Hollywood, despite the war in Iran and Ukraine and all the other places that the news doesn’t report… You can still have hope. And if you’re a writer, you can tell stories that share that hope.

I’ve found that writing has been very therapeutic for me. It has given me a way to work through thoughts and feelings that have troubled me for years. And if you’ve read any of my fiction here on SubStack, you might be thinking, “Yeah bro. Your stuff’s been depressing as hell.”

And… yeah, it has been. But I’m still glad I wrote the stories in Red Dirt Curses. I’ll definitely write more dark ‘horror’ stuff in the future. But I don’t know. The sci-fi project I’m on now, which I’m tentatively calling ‘Project Amber Fields,’ (yeah yeah I know it’s a placeholder, shut up) has me working with fresh ideas and themes, and I feel the need to really do it justice.

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Irony is out, Hope is in

I’ve noticed, and I’m sure you have as well, that we are living in an age starved of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty. And we’ve all dealt with this in our own ways. Personally, I took the road of the cynic and the skeptic, always playing devil’s advocate whenever someone strongly professed anything, or if I ever attempted to profess anything myself (it’s been very tiring and I’m sure very annoying for those close to me).

This, I now believe, was rooted in a lack of hope. And even as I write this, it feels cheesy! Have we not all heard these messages a million times before? How many sermons have I sat through, telling me to have hope?

Maybe that’s just pride; my own disbelief that I could have heard the simple truth spoken countless times but not understood it.

I still don’t understand it—not perfectly. But I don’t have to, and neither do you.

Hope doesn’t offer her hand on sunny days. She beckons from across the void, calls to us from seemingly unreachable heights, and asks us to have faith.

All you have to do is answer the call. Take Hope.

You know who you are. You’re going to do great.

— Carl.

Who am I?

These are the questions that have plagued the human mind since the beginning. And since the beginning, we have done all in our power to gain advantages in answering them—to gain control over our fate.

So we consult the bones—the tea leaves. The cards are laid out, our palms read, and our fortunes uttered from the mouths of those in communion with the gods, those holy men and women of our shared human heritage. The chanting of priests buzzes in your ears as smoke wafts from a raging fire. The Oracle, her veil removed, stares into holy water, searching for a sign. You can still smell the burnt offerings: slaughtered cows and chickens and goats.

You ask your question. Apollo takes the Oracle. And an answer, for better or worse, is given.

But as with all things within humanity’s long march toward rescue, the practice of divination has fallen in the worst way.

It’s gotten a lot lamer. (Aesthetically, at least)

We no longer ascend holy mountains to learn of our fate. We do not consult the Oracle or the Shaman. We don’t pray for the Lord’s guidance in our lives. The cards are written off as rubbish, the bones thrown into the trash, and the Bible left to collect dust on a shelf.

We don’t go to the gods with our questions.

We do the modern, rational equivalent.

We go to the computer.

Before I go any further, there are two things I need to clarify.

1. My stance on divination.

2. What divination is and how it ‘works’.

My stance on Divination.

I am a Christian. Scripture clearly states that divination is evil and leaves a man open to spiritual attack. It is a deliberate act of the human will against God’s providence, and the desire to seek out and ‘know’ the future stems from human anxiety and the desire for supreme control over one’s own life. You want to know what you will get and how to get it, and you want to know what you are at risk of losing and how to avoid losing it. I’ll discuss my thoughts (not really mine) on the Christian solution to such worries later in this article.

What is Divination?

I’ll let Merriam take over here

Divination: the art or practice that seeks to foresee or foretell future events or discover hidden knowledge usually by the interpretation of omens or by the aid of supernatural powers

Fortune telling, palm reading, ouija, tarot (when used this way), are all methods of ‘divining’ the future. It is the way we three-dimensional beings attempt to peer beyond the veil of the fourth dimension of Time. Divination is how people for centuries have sought answers to the seemingly unanswerable question:

What does my future hold?

The Modern Problem.

The problem is that, for us enlightened 21st century enjoyers, we know that divination is a load of bull.

(God is dead, and we have killed him type beat)

In our modern world, spirituality, the divine, God, and anything related to the ‘supernatural’ (I hate that word) is written off as ‘fake’. It isn’t ‘real’. At best, divination is a mere party trick or some hijacking of the human mind through psychological manipulation. Apollo didn’t possess the Oracle; she was just super high on hallucinogenic gas. The tarot isn’t real, you’re just projecting. God didn’t answer your prayers; you’re just assigning meaning where there is none.

We are simply big dumb hairless apes navigating a purely material universe whose minds still contain puddles of residual ‘primitivity’ that can be taken advantage of, right?

This worldview, consciously or not, has infected all of us and is rampant in all of our institutions.

But if God is dead and the spirits are silent, then who do I go to with my thoughts, worries, and fears?

Simple. You go to the supreme idol, the penultimate god made in the image of man.

Humanity will never be free of the gods. Not in this age, at least.

They may change form, but the substance remains the same. Our idols are still crafted of silver and gold.

A.I. And The Homunculus

Stay with me now.

Medieval alchemists had this idea of a being called a homunculus (I will not get into how ‘literal’ alchemical writings were; you can read the wiki yourself). These little guys were reportedly capable of… anything? Making giants. Altering the moon. Letting you walk on water. Superhuman strength.

They were beings of immense knowledge, masters of the occult, and contained great wisdom in their weird, oversized heads. They were also considered masters of ‘art’ or artifice.

They could ‘create’ things.

You can probably see where I am going with this.

A homunculus is nothing more than the medieval alchemical musings on artificial intelligence. That’s literally what a homunculus is, an artificial man.

And just like it turned out that we actually can turn lead into gold, it’s looking more and more like the alchemical belief in artificial man-made intelligences was real.

Alright, let’s calm down for a moment. So what if I ask A.I. questions about my life? What’s the big deal? Life’s hard and I have so many decisions to make. I don’t believe in all that New Age Spiritual nonsense, and I most certainly don’t believe in God! Is it so wrong of me to seek help from the machine that’s been trained on all of humanity? I mean, it’s read Dostoyevsky! (however that works). I just need some help getting my life under control.

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First lets address the different ways divination might function.

A great explanation comes from Ioannis Goldmouth’s article on Christianity and the Tarot, which you can read in full here. He frames divination as working in one of three ways.

1. Future events that are under the control of the human’s free will are subject to self-fulfilling prophecy. Once a fortune is told, it lingers in the subconscious mind of the person who receives it. This causes the actions of the person to autonomously gravitate towards fulfilling the prediction without them consciously knowing it, making it seem like this prediction was “fated.”

2. Individuals with a strong intuition already had a hunch that these future events were going to happen, they just projected that intuition onto the divination medium.

3. The deity which the fortune-teller invokes provides the information. This demonic spirit will feed intuitions into nous (eye of the soul) of the soothsayer. Once these demonic intuitions are fed into the readers psychic eye, the patterns within the divination medium (i.e. cracks in oracle bones) serve as a symbolic “alphabet” through which these intuitions can be externally articulated. Demons are ancient disembodied intelligences who have seen patterns and cycles play out for thousands of years, meaning that are very good at extrapolating these patterns into the future.

Now, all three of these explanations have merit. I’m not one to say that every instance of divination results in contact with the demonic. But every instance is the opening of a door, the ‘peering behind the veil’.

And you never know what you might see.

This is why divination is rightfully condemned in Christianity: at best it is delusional superstition based on guesswork and at worst it is communion with the demonic.

What The Hell is Going On

“Okay, but like, why does this matter? What’s the problem?”

I’m glad you asked, Mr. Self-Insert Objector.

The problem with divination, traditional or modern, is that the act of engaging with this phenomenon is tantamount to the surrendering of your will (Because that’s what it’s always about babbbbyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy).

Let’s draw up some comparisons. You’re a West Coaster in the mid 70’s, and New Age Spirituality is in full swing. You stop for a bite to eat in a little beachside town and notice a spirituality shack. Inside, you find crystals and tarot cards and books on how to connect with the great mother. You start thinking about that girl you met at a Grateful Dead concert last month. You’ve seen her a couple of times since then, and you start to wonder…

You pay for a reading. The cards are laid out. The Elder hippie wearing a marijuana leaf shirt looks up from the cards and stares deep into your eyes.

You walk out of the store, sad, but content. The cards were clear. It wasn’t meant to be.

But what the cards didn’t show was the absolute bro you would have met at a concert a month after breaking up with the girl that would have led to a new friend group, a new community, and, eventually, a new love.

Alright, let’s do this again, but make it post-modern.

You’re sitting alone in your room after a long day of sitting alone in your cubicle at your cushy office job that you drive to and from alone every day. The only words you’ve spoken today have been about numbers and spreadsheets and market caps and quotas (idk how these jobs work).

You watch an inspirational YouTube video, and your eyes are drawn to a dark corner of your room where your camcorder has sat unused for months. Beneath the camcorder are your old, dirty hiking boots you haven’t worn since taking this new job. You start to wonder.

You open Chat GPT. “How hard would it be to make a living off a nature/hiking-focused YouTube channel?”

The machine responds.

And it goes on and on and on, detailing all the theoretical challenges you might face. The further you read, the more deflated you get. That dreadful tightness in your chest that you spend most days ignoring begins to squeeze. You start rationalizing why this won’t work. You don’t have the money, time, or knowledge to make the project as cool as it seems in your head. You would lose all stability if you quit your job. You cringe at the thought of friends or family stumbling across your channel.

The machine is right. It’s too hard. You shut off the computer, watch a nature documentary on the couch, and fall asleep.

You don’t sleep well at all.

You completely ignore the joy of a new challenge. Of trying something new. Of waking up early to hike some trails before work. Of saving up for a new camera. Of posting your first video, getting your first like. Of that comment from someone local whose excited to see you on their favorite trail. Your first sponsorship. Your first collab meet-up. Drinks after a hike. Thoughts and ideas and love and life. A sunset from your new place, ten years down the line.

You put those old boots, now riddled with holes and falling apart, on a shelf in your living room next to your 100,000 subscriber plaque.

And maybe you had other jobs and did other things along the way. Maybe the channel isn’t the only way you ‘make a living’. But you’ll never know, because you let the machine talk you out of it.

The Question of Certainty

If all of this sounds stupid and convoluted, that’s because it is. That’s what divination is: imperfect glimpses beyond the veil that never show the full picture.

Here comes the part of the article where I can no longer dance around my real convictions.

We all want certainty. We all want to know that the decisions we are making and the lives we are living are the ‘right’ ones. We want reassurance that we are doing ‘what we are supposed to do’.

But no such assurance truly exists. At least, not in the way that we want. We want control over our lives. But control is an illusion. Our lives are not in our own hands, not entirely. The one choice we truly do have is in whose hands we will place our souls.

I believe that the peace we are seeking in divination, the answer to our anxiety, is only truly found in Christ, the author of creation, and the author of our stories. (For a great video explaining how to actually do this, check out this video from Father Moses.)

"Child, I am telling you your story, not hers. No one is told any story but their own".

— C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy

God does not permit us to skip ahead and check the ending before reading the whole book. He requires that we have faith and that we trust He is who He says He is: A really, really, really good storyteller.

Divination might reveal a true moment in your story of total collapse; a moment where the sun has set and all hope is lost. But is it not in these exact moments that God chooses to test our faith that he may reward our faithfulness?

“In the struggle for existence, it is only on those who hang on for ten minutes after all is hopeless, that hope begins to dawn.”

―G. K. Chesterton

You are not God. You do not know the future. You are a third-dimensional being intersecting with the fourth dimension of time at the moment of ‘the present’. There are forces above looking down upon you with total perception comparable to how you might look upon a drawing. There is nothing hidden from your sight in the squiggly lines of a child’s self-portrait.

You are but a child’s drawing, perceptually, in the eyes of the hosts of heaven and hell.

The good news is that above all, above time, above powers and principalities and demonic forces, there is another. And this Supreme Being is intimately familiar with your plights, for He embodied them in His incarnation.

God became man in Jesus Christ. He who is above all subjected Himself to all that is below Him, all that He created, that He might redeem and lead us out of darkness.

A.I. will make your fears seem more rational than they are, drowning out the voice of God, who simply asks.

“Do you believe I am who I say I am?”

If you treat A.I. like an omnipotent god of knowledge, you will begin, in your heart, to believe it is.

Within all of our uncertainty, within all of our questions, lies the one question that is truly worth asking.

To what, or to whom, will you surrender your will?

I. General Notes

II. Red Dirt Curses Collection

III. Paid Subscribers

IV. Project Amber Fields

V. The Lodge

VI. Final Words

I

General Notes:

Hey everyone. I know the ‘New Year’ buzz is behind us all now, but I’ve taken this January/February to think about and organize my goals for The Shiver Dispatch this year. No resolutions per se, just objectives; accomplishments I hope to call mine by the end of 2026.

If you’ve subscribed for the short stories I’ve written, don’t worry. I plan to continue to release free stories this year, albeit at a slower pace. Aside from some collaborations I did with some awesome publications here on Substack (Milk and Honey by M.N. Straun, Bellageist by Derek James Kritzberg, and The Midnight Vault), my stories posted independently of any event or collaboration didn’t receive much attention (I’m not being whiny; this is to be expected).

Like every writer here on SubStack, I want people to actually read and engage with my art. I will be on the lookout for future collabs/events with other pubs, and plan on such collaborations making up the bulk of my free stories this year.

Aside from the stories, I have a growing interest in writing more articles and essays on topics that interest me. Likely, these articles will be focused on faith, consciousness, and the ever-stranger times we find ourselves living in (original, I know).

Alright, I’ve rambled long enough. Time for the good stuff.

II

Red Dirt Curses Collection

I’m excited to announce the launch of my first book, Red Dirt Curses. This book is a collection of horror stories, all connected by the sights, sounds, and smells of rural Oklahoma. Four of these five stories live free here on SubStack, but have been edited/polished for the RDC collection. The fifth story is a never-before-seen novella of mine titled ‘Camp Clear Sky.’

Ethan Taft is tired of church camps. Really, he’s tired of always being told what to do.

That’s why, when the woods North of Camp Clear Sky are declared off limits, he decides it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.

At least, that’s what he assumed.

Camp Clear Sky is a tale of faith, both lost and found, and the hidden weight that lies behind every decision.

I can’t wait to share this collection with you all. I will announce the release date soon. However, if you’d like to get a little more bang for your buck…

III

Paid Subscribers

Then consider becoming a paid subscriber of The Shiver Dispatch! Paying Subs will receive access to a paid-tier post that will include a free E-Book copy of Red Dirt Curses when it releases.

For future releases, I plan to run similar promotions, where all paid subscribers will have a window of opportunity to snag a free copy of any E-books I publish. After that window, the book will be available elsewhere online.

Aside from book releases, this year I plan on expanding the in-publication lore of The Shiver Dispatch. Expect short stories, audio files, and possibly even videos that dive into the history of The T.S.D.

And if that brand of Sci-Fi doesn’t suit your fancy, luckily…

IV

Project Amber Fields

I have a different sci-fi story I plan on exploring this year. I can’t say too much yet, as I am still figuring out my gameplan for it (Serialized release, self-pub with free E-book, etc).

But to give you a taste, here are some images to hint at what kind of world Project Amber Fields will be set in.

If this looks/sounds interesting, consider becoming a paid sub for first access.

V

The Lodge

Okay, homestretch here. I’ve been working on and off on a novel called ‘The Lodge’, a psychological horror/thriller following a group of young boys who stumble across something they shouldn’t have (very Stand By Me, Super 8, Stranger Things coded).

Aaaaaaaaaand I’ve hit a rut with it. I’ve since diverted my focus to Project Amber Fields and have felt a lot of relief in doing so. I’ve been writing seriously for a little over one year now, and have learned a lot in that time about the craft and myself. So much so that the foundational flaws in ‘The Lodge’ have quickly added up, and I feel the project is not worth pursuing in its current state.

I’m not giving up on it by any means, but I think I will be shelving it for a little while. Something in me feels that now isn’t the time to write it, and that I should grow more as a writer before picking it back up. I’ve fought this feeling for a while, pushing through it, writing more chapters, but there are just some fundamental issues that I don’t think revision will be enough to fix.

VI

Final Words

I know there is a lot of sci-fi talk in this post from what has mostly been a horror publication, but don’t worry. I still plan on exploring the dark and the horrific in my writing, but I feel like I need a little change. I’ve noticed some common trends in my writing this past year, certain tropes and images that recur a little too much. So, I wanna branch out and try something different. If you read my previous personal post, you’ll know that I don’t want The Shiver Dispatch to be something I hide behind, but a platform where I can grow as a writer and connect with you, the reader.

Thank you all so much for showing interest in my work. I don’t love the ‘support me’ language that gets thrown around when pushing for paid subs, so all I’ll say is that if you’ve found what I’ve written to be of value to you, or if you’re intrigued and want to see where all this goes, then consider becoming a paid subscriber. I promise to strive toward making my writing worthy of your commitment.

Much love everyone!

Subscribe now

Full series below.

• Part One

• Part Two

• Part Three

A side to every mountain
As to every man
A spectacle of witnessed beauty
Their cracks hidden in shadow

Tree lines of cultivation
Life on Display
Great pines rooted and firm
beneath unstable peaks

Above the clouds
Far off and unseen
Snow falls like scattered thoughts
Upon a bleak mind

The mountain is beautiful
Cherished for what it is
But the man
We find harder to love

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When I published my first SubStack story, Kaw Lake, the first thing I felt was fear. Not to say I wasn’t proud of myself, or excited that I’d actually accomplished something I’d set out to do. Those emotions were there, of course, but they lay tucked beneath a general blanket of fear and shame. I’d written something that I felt truly came from me, a piece of art that was my own and offered fleeting, small glimpses of myself to whoever cared to read. In short, I’d put myself out there for the world to see.

I really, really dislike doing this.

For those unaware, I’m a musician. A drummer. And I like being a drummer, no more and no less. I’m asked constantly by friends and family at gigs to sing, to swap places with my sister. And while I can perform a mean cover of Beverly Hills, I never really enjoy it. All those eyes on me, watching me, alone on stage with nothing but my voice and a mic. It’s uncomfortable. Any joy or relief I’d feel from the performance came only once it was over and I was safely back behind the kit. That’s why I love the drums; I can, in a sense, hide behind them. If eyes are on me, it’s because I’m playing a solo or a flashy fill, but it’s sporadic, and I can prepare these moments carefully beforehand until I can perform them without thinking.

(WARNING FOR HEADPHONES)

Anyways, I’ve tried to approach writing the same way I approach the drums. I tried to create something to hide behind. A layered webpage. An interconnected tale between individual stories. An alternate world where creativity has been stifled by artificial drugs manufactured from the spirits we’ve long since forgotten. I still think it is a good idea, one I plan on exploring further this year. But, post by post, I’ve realized that this isn’t enough. It is, in part, an idea without a soul. There isn’t any real reason any of you should be interested in it. Why would you be? It sounds more or less like just another sci-fi, dystopian tale. Maybe that’s all it is, but it’s my sci-fi dystopian tale.

What I’ve realized is that the problem lies with you not knowing me enough to care.

I know I’m not saying anything new. We’ve all been told to “be yourself!” That you are the brand. That people have to care about you, the real you, before they will really care about your work. And with the coming/already-here death of the internet thanks to AI, this is more true than ever.

The problem, however, is that at 25 years old I’m only just now beginning to uncover who I am—or, perhaps more accurately, I am embracing that which I’ve always been embarrassed by.

So consider this post a reintroduction for the new year. My name is Brody, I’m a writer and a Christian (Though, as C.S. Lewis might say, not a ‘Christian Writer’). Maybe soon I’ll write an article detailing my thoughts on ‘Christian’ writing and on ‘Christian’ as a genre niche within the industry, but that would be too much for this post!

I’m taking this time in my life to hone my craft, devoting as much of my energy as possible to the work, and trying to lay a foundation for something I can be proud to share with all of you.

As for the content of my writing, I’ve found myself drawn to the horrific and the dark: Intricately woven tales that paint the darkness in such a way that the light shines all the brighter; in your face, no filter horror focused on just how dark the darkness can be, and everything in between.

As for this publication, I want The Shiver Dispatch to be more than just a place I drop random stories and cryptic lore. I want it to represent all that I love about writing, and be a place to foster community with fellow storytellers and avid readers alike. I’m not sure exactly what that will look like, but I have some ideas and will be experimenting with new stories, pages, articles, and more.

I will drop another post soon with more details about what to expect from The TSD this year, and clarify the different pages within this publication.

This post is for you, all of you, who have read my work thus far and decided it was worth committing to. I am beyond thankful, and look forward to writing more stories and growing this community into something special.

Much love!

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Smoke billowed from the barrel of Loui’s snub-nosed Colt, his finger still clenched tight around the trigger. His eyes were trained on the now staggering body of Mr. William Cole. He already thought of Cole as nothing more than a body; he wouldn’t last long with a bullet in his heart. Crimson blood spurted to the dying rhythm of the man’s heart, spraying the snow-covered creche of St. Michael’s Parish and splattering across the plastic face of baby Jesus. Steam rose where hot blood met fresh snow, ascending to heaven like a temple offering of old.

Loui had been in a panic all day as he and his brother Dan frantically searched the city for Cole. He’d lost track of how many dive bars, “massage parlors”, and gambling dens the two of them had turned over in the last twenty-four hours. It was pure luck they’d found Cole when they did: a little past midnight, right on the dot for their deadline, drinking at a bar only a few blocks away. Loui had gone on foot after him, and Dan had tried to keep up in the car. Loui wasn’t sure when Dan had gotten lost.

Cole fell, crashing face-first into the nativity scene, casting Joseph and Mary to the ground as he threw his arms around the manger. Loui holstered his revolver, snow crunching under his feet as he approached. The freezing air stung his lungs. He took a deep breath, savoring the icy chill and the way it calmed his mind, distracting him from what he’d done. He’d wondered all day how he’d react, once the job was finished. He’d killed people before, sure… but this was more than just killing. As he neared the body, he reminded himself that he’d no choice, and that Cole was a piece of shit anyway—a liar, cheat, traitor, all the things men in his line of work were known for being.

“It’s like taking out the trash,” Mr. Lang had said. “Ain’t no thinking about it, it’s just something that’s gotta be done.”

The trash was choking on his own blood, spitting globs of the stuff onto the plastic baby’s snow-covered chest, now all red and white like a candy cane. Tears ran down his dirty face and mixed with the blood that now flooded the manger.

Cole’s lips moved, but not a sound came from them. Loui just stood there, listening for the sound of Dan’s car and waiting for Cole to die. Mr. Lang had been very specific in his request. He wanted the jeweled cross he’d gifted Cole returned to him, as proof of a job well done. In exchange, Lang promised to forgive Loui and Dan all their debts. It was a fair trade—hell, it was more than fair. It was just one life for two.

Something moved behind Loui. In an instant his gun was out and pointed at one of the stained glass windows of the parish. He watched as a shadow passed across the glass. He couldn’t see in, and he doubted whoever it was could see out. But someone was awake and had likely heard the gunshot. It was the early morning of Christmas Eve, and Loui imagined the priests were busy with… well, whatever the hell it was priests did at such hours.

He holstered his gun and stepped further into the nativity, obscuring himself from the windows of the church. When he looked back at Cole, now only a foot away, he knew that the man was dead. His body lay serenely draped across the image of the savior. Loui was forced to dip his hands in the warm pool of blood as he searched for the necklace. He held his breath as he slipped his hands around Cole’s neck, disgust growing within him like a tumor. It took him several tries to undo the necklace’s clasp; the blood made everything slick. When he finally got it undone, he drew the jeweled cross from Cole’s still warm body; he held his salvation in his hand, watching as the jewels glimmered beneath the twinkling lights of the creche. Mary and Joseph looked up at him from where they’d been cast down. He ignored their blank stares as he pocketed the jewel and turned to go.

Only, his feet wouldn’t move. He gazed around the small city park upon which the Parish had been built along the North side, and listened to the tranquil sound of falling snow. A strange feeling came over him; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d stood in such silence. He didn’t think it, but rather felt that it was wonderful and good; there wasn’t a siren or a horn to be heard, no idling engines or chatting people. It was just him, the snow, and his thoughts.

His thoughts were growing awfully loud.

The sound of creaking wood called out in that silent night, echoing across the snow. Instinct and bad experiences put Loui’s back against the plywood wall of the stable, out of view, revolver in hand. He listened. Snow crunched, slowly and evenly. Footsteps.

“Hello?” a voice called.

“Shit,” Loui thought. He drew the revolver up to his chest between both hands, his right thumb hovering above the hammer.

“He-hello? Is someone there?” the voice called again. Loui thought it sounded like an old man, likely a priest. He listened as the speaker descended the stone steps of the church, the sound of crunching snow growing ever louder.

“Dan, where the hell are you?” Loui thought, eyeing the street and listening for his brother’s car.

The speaker was so close now, maybe thirty—no, twenty feet away.

It was then that the arm of dead William Cole, unnoticed by Loui, finally decided to slump off the edge of the manger, the momentum of it sending the man’s body sliding off the side, where it crashed into Joseph.

“Is someone there?” The speaker called, his voice rising confidently now that his suspicions had proven true.

“Don’t come any closer!” Loui yelled. The shakiness in his own voice scared him. All was quiet for a moment, so quiet that Loui could hear his heart beating in his ears.

“What are you doing back there, son?” the man called.

Loui’s eyes shot to his left, to the body of William Cole. For the first time that night, he felt the icy chill of winter begin to seep into his bones.

“Are you a priest?” Loui said, his mouth moving faster than his thoughts.

“Yes,” the Priest answered.

“Then,” Loui started, “Father, if you know what’s good for you, you’d better go back inside and forget whatever it is you think you heard.” Loui kept a bend in his knees as his eyes darted around the park, searching desperately for a way out.

“My son,” the priest said, “if I knew what was good for me, I wouldn’t have become a priest.”

Loui groaned. He didn’t have time for this. Where the hell was Dan?

“Are you all right?” the priest said. Loui heard more snow crunch.

“Hey!” Loui shouted, banging the butt of his revolver against the plywood. “Don’t move!” He pulled back the hammer with a click; judging from the priest’s silence, he assumed he’d heard it. “Now, listen up, father. You’re gonna go back up those steps, shut the door, and not come back outside for a while, understand? I’m gonna leave, a-and you’re not gonna see me again, ever, and we’re both gonna forget this night ever happened, okay?”

The priest stayed put and didn’t make a sound. Finally, he said, “I don’t think I can do that, young man.”

“Well why the hell not?” Loui seethed, unable to mask his anger.

“Because, if I leave now, I feel I’d be doing you a disservice.”

“What the fu—the voice of Loui’s mother popped into his head, pinched a nerve there and whispered, “Language”.

Loui groaned and said, “What kind of disservice?”

The silence stretched out, and Loui hoped the priest would just leave. But then, with a strong voice that cut through the quiet, he said, “The disservice of not hearing your confession, of whatever sins you’ve committed tonight.”

Loui brought the side of his revolver to his forehead, feeling the cold steel as he hissed in frustration. “Who said I’ve committed any sins, huh?”

At this, the priest laughed—a genuine chuckle, like a father laughing at his child’s bad joke. “My son, who hasn’t today? Or the day before? Or the day before that?” He paused and then, quietly, said, “I’ll go up those stairs, if that’s what you want. But don’t kid yourself into thinking that either of us will ever forget this night.”

His words hung heavy in the cold air; Loui swore he could hear them, their very presence, still dancing atop the white snow. It had all gone to shit. Loui was still, his mind heavy, and he couldn’t find his voice, neither to tell the priest to go to hell nor ask him for prayer. An engine rumbled somewhere in the night.

Loui heard the priest’s feet move back toward the church. A second passed, and then another, the father’s steps growing softer and softer…

“Wait!” Loui called, something within him breaking. He looked at Cole, his belly in the snow, his face turned to the side as if to take one last look at his killer. Blood still dribbled out from his wound, the wound Loui had inflicted upon him. Death had taken him, dolled out by Loui’s own hand.

Why the hell was there a smile on Cole’s face?

“Yes?” The priest called.

“I’d,” Loui started. It had been years since his last confession. His own mind rebelled against him, assailing him with thoughts disguised as reason: he’d be in jail the rest of his life. His debts wouldn’t be cleared. What of his family, his daughter? What about Dan? Would he tell the whole story? This one decision would ruin his entire life, and he could never take it back.

Why in God’s name then did it feel so right?

“Father,” He said, surprised at the strength in his voice. He closed his eyes. “Father, I’d like to confess—

A single shot rang out in the cold, silent night. Loui’s eyes snapped open, but he remained frozen in place. He listened. A second later, he heard a thump behind him. Slowly, Loui stepped out from behind the creche.

Dan stood a few dozen feet away behind a tree near the road. Smoke billowed from the tip of his gun and was caught up in a sudden cold wind that blew from the North.

He looked at Loui, flashed a smile, and said, “Damn, that was close, huh?”

Loui had no words. He stared at the priest, the body already still. His eyes were wide, slightly covered by the wild hair of his gray head. Dan had got him square in the upper back. Blood stained his white collar.

“Hey, Loui, you alright?” Dan’s head was on a swivel as he ran over to Loui. “Hey, you got Cole right? Got the necklace?”

Loui nodded his head.

“Good, let’s get out of here. The car broke down a few blocks away. We can get her going and be at Lang’s before the sun comes up. He shouldn’t mind us being late, as long as the job’s done.” He slapped Loui on the arm, but Loui still didn’t move. He kept staring at the priest Dan had killed in cold blood. Loui suddenly felt… real. Alive, and well aware of who he was, what he was doing, and all that he had done. He felt naked, like every layer of what he’d always thought of as his humanity had been stripped back, leaving him alone and bare in the cold.

Dan followed his gaze, sighed, and said, “Mr. Jesus-boy shouldn’t have been up so late. Remember what mom always told us.” Dan slapped Loui on the arm again and chuckled. Loui didn’t look at him. Not yet. He let his gaze drift up the stone steps of the parish, to the simple yet beautiful stained glass window high above. A warm orange glow shone from inside the church, dispersing into a myriad of colors as it passed through the painted glass.

“Hey, Loui, what’s gotten into you?” Dan shoved him, and Loui stumbled back a few feet, whatever spell that’d come over him shattering. He nearly tripped over the priest’s body. Dan looked around nervously. “Come on, man we gotta get out of—

Loui didn’t fully realize he’d pulled his gun out; he wasn’t upset that he did. He pointed its gray barrel straight at his brother’s chest. His arm was shaking. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him. His face felt hot, especially behind his eyes. Dan tensed and raised his hand away from his gun, but otherwise remained cool. He looked at Loui not with shock, but with confusion.

Dan cast a glance at the priest and sighed, “Loui, I’m sorry, but there was no other way, you see that, right?” He walked forward slowly. Loui didn’t lower the gun. His voice failed him. He knew that if he spoke, he wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears. He felt his hand tighten, the trigger formless against his cold, numb fingers. He watched his brother inch forward, and hatred grew in his heart. He thought of all the evil he’d done, all the second chances. Dan must’ve seen his look; he froze dead in his tracks.

“Loui?” he whispered, his face softening, “Loui man, I’m sorry.”

Then, for a single moment, Loui didn’t see Dan as he was. He saw a young boy, confused and scared and brave as he held his baby brother’s hand on the way to school. The boy smiled, a smile capable of driving away all the monsters hiding in the closet of their shared bedroom. He saw the boys’ shattered front teeth, broken in a fight with the man who should’ve been their father, but was only ever the man whose house they lived in.

The boy stretched out his hand. He held a tiny toy cowboy revolver, a red ribbon tied to the barrel.

Loui blinked. The boy was gone, as was his gift. Dan stood motionless before him.

He lowered his gun. Dan sighed and marched forward.

Loui tried to speak, “I’m sorr—

The punch came hard and fast, landing square against Loui’s jaw. He heard something crack. He dropped his gun and fell to his knees. Dan threw a kick that hit Loui in his stomach, leaving him gasping for air.

“Dan,” he croaked, pleading as his brother turned him over. He ate another punch, this one straight on his nose. He let himself go limp, the stars above spinning.

Dan’s face was as cold as fresh snow as he rifled through Loui’s pockets, eventually finding the cross. He pulled it out, examined it for a moment, then stuffed it in his jacket. He looked around nervously, then lifted Loui’s face by the scruff of his shirt.

“Don’t you ever, ever, point a gun at me again, Loui. I don’t care if I shot the Pope or the President; you do that shit again, and I’ll kill you. Understand?”

Loui said nothing. Blood pooled in his mouth.

Dan dropped him and turned to go, “Don’t come home until you get your shit together.”

Loui listened to the receding sound of crunching snow. His head dropped to the side. The dead eyes of the priest stared back. Loui knew he needed to get up, to run, to go home in a few hours and beg his brother’s forgiveness.

Instead, he lay there, gazing into the eyes of a dead man, while his mother’s voice echoed through his head.

Ain‘t nothin good ever happen after midnight.

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It was a quiet night in the old apartment on the corner of Linden and Aster; the TV played softly while Annie Burns helped herself to the latter half of a good bottle of scotch. The grad school boy from last night had left it. Annie knew he’d only bought it to try and impress her with his money, even if the cash came from his daddy’s account. He must have forgotten the bottle when he slunk out the door earlier that morning; Annie had watched his bare ass silently tiptoe out of the bedroom while she pretended to be asleep. She’d heard him fuss around in the living room, and something fell—the little plastic cup full of loose pencils and pens that sat on the coffee table, from the sound of it. She’d smiled to herself, picturing him half-dressed and scrambling to pick up her pens. But then, she’d tensed. A door creaked from the living room, the one that hid the little closet where she kept blankets and loose pillows. She’d held her breath for a moment, debating if awkward, post-hook-up conversation was worth stopping him from snooping around. But then Grad-Boy eased the closet door shut, and Annie heard him open the front door of her apartment and disappear, hopefully forever.

When she finally rose on that late Saturday morning, there was a hastily written note on the coffee table waiting for her. It was the kind of note she’d grown to expect from boys like him; he went on and on about how lovely she was and how he’d love to “Do this again sometime”.

“If he really wanted to,” she’d thought, “He would have left his number.” She’d snorted cynically and tossed the note in the trash, where all such notes that she received eventually found their home.

The TV in the living room played quietly as Annie sipped her drink, the night pressing in against the window beside her. An ad for Callixum Pharmaceuticals flashed across the screen; they’d made yet another variant of their wildly popular ideogenic line of supplements. This one was marketed to musicians and promised to induce a creative state ‘reminiscent of 2000s pop music and culture,’ whatever that meant. Annie dreaded the thought of work on Monday—by then, every Callixum-sponsored band would be pushing the same slop across the world and into the speakers at the art gallery where she worked.

She had just poured her second drink of the night when a sudden, hard knocking tore her attention from the screen. She set the glass down on the windowsill and stood. She crept over to the peephole, trying not to make too much noise. The loud knocking came again, making her flinch. She peered through the peephole, wondering if Grad-Boy had come back for his scotch.

The sight of two men in black suits sent ice through her veins, sharp and sudden, like the stuff she used to inject at all those college parties. She stood there, eyes fixed on the men as they glanced between her door and the hallway with empty, expressionless faces. The man on the left lifted his hand, but instead of knocking, he tapped the earpiece Annie hadn’t noticed until now. His eyes then shot to the peephole; Annie swore he was looking straight at her.

“Ms. Burns?” the agent said, “We know you’re in there. Please open up.” His voice was low yet youthful, and didn’t quite match his sharp features. His partner looked even younger. Fresh out of college maybe. She knew that look all too well.

Annie began to panic; acidic bile rose in her throat and made her heart burn. She needed a plan. She needed time. Could she make it to the closet? She turned and glanced at the door. Something was wrong with it. The slitted wooden panels seemed… off. Their even spacing was distorted; the bronze circular knob looked warped, almost oblong. The effect wasn’t fixed. It drifted and changed depending on where she focused. Her eyes began to ache, as if she’d stared too long at the sun. Her vision lagged when she looked away.

“Ms. Burns,” the young man continued, “please return your attention to us.” Annie leaned back into the peephole just in time to watch the man reach inside his suit jacket and lift something up to the glass.

It was a badge, a government badge, stamped with three large letters.

T.S.D

“I’m dead,” Annie thought. Back in college, she and her friends had used the same nickname for the T.S.D. as everyone else—The Shiver Dispatch. A dumb joke about the way you’d get shivers down your spine if they ever came for you. Annie was just now realizing how accurate they’d been. Something came over her, defeat or resignation, it didn’t matter. She knew these men would be coming through her door, one way or another. She dreaded the thought that something was already inside. She’d heard the rumors, studied them even. She knew what she’d gotten herself into; she just thought she’d been more careful.

As she reached for the doorknob, a distant, buzzing thought echoed through her mind.

“What had Grad-Boy noticed in the closet?”

She gripped the doorknob, turned it slowly, and then opened the door. The men immediately stepped inside, smiling as they passed Annie and entered the living room. She watched them as they looked around; they had an air of nonchalance, as if this were nothing more than a little checkup. But Annie saw how their heads were on a swivel, their right hands hovering near their belts, and the way their eyes kept passing over the closet door.

“Good evening, Ms. Burns,” said the young man.

Annie kept quiet. She’d instinctively retreated into herself, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest, trying to appear as small as possible.

“I’m Special Agent Hale, and this is my partner, Special Agent Tanner.” Hale’s voice was calm and clear, and his dead eyes did their best to sparkle. What was with these people and their eyes? Annie saw nothing but those eyes in every soul she met every single day.

When Annie still didn’t respond, Hale coughed lightly and added, “As you saw from my badge, we’re with the Thought Security Division, specifically the R.C.D. branch.”

The subdivision’s name rang a bell for Annie. The Rogue Creativity Department were the poster boys of the T.S.D., the ones all the cop dramas were about these days; shows featuring special agents hunting down psychotic ‘rogue creatives’, all in the name of keeping America safe, and the pockets of Callixum well lined.

Hale gave Annie his full attention, but Tanner seemed uninterested in these formalities. He’d wandered over to the window, where Annie’s glass and bottle of scotch still sat. He picked the bottle up and asked, “How does an assistant at a third-tier college art gallery afford a 2,000-dollar bottle of scotch?”

Annie met Tanner’s accusatory glare and said, “A friend bought it for me.”

Tanner let out a long, low whistle, “Some friends you got, Ms. Burns.” He grinned at Hale, who smirked and returned his attention to Annie.

“Ms. Burns,” he said. The tone of his voice slid down as he spoke, as if he were talking to a child. “We have reason to believe that you are in possession of illegal materials and possibly guilty of organic creativity.”

Annie resented his patronizing tone and stood firm beneath his implicative stare. “May I ask why you think this?”

“The details are unimportant,” Hale said flatly. “Suffice to say, we received an anonymous tip earlier this morning.”

Annie remained still, internally cursing Grad-Boy. She glanced at the closet, unable to help herself, and wondered just what he’d seen. When she looked back at Hale, she knew that one look had confirmed all their suspicions, not that they needed more confirmation.

“Annie,” he said, addressing her by her first name. “We are going to search not just your home, but the entire apartment building, top to bottom. But first, I’d like to give you a chance to fess up. I promise, it will make everything easier if you confess.”

A vision passed through Annie’s mind; a world where she refused, where she ran or fought or did something, anything, and somehow, against all odds, escaped. In that world, maybe she joined up with one of those terrorist groups that The News never shut up about, the ones that bombed Callixum pharmacies and painted real art on the sides of buildings, art that lasted a few hours before the T.S.D. cleaned it up. She felt that Hale could see right through her and knew exactly what she was thinking. Maybe he could. Her muscles tensed; her legs begged to spring into action. She saw Hales’ right arm lower slowly toward something hiding within his jacket, and braced herself.

But then, the moment passed, and Annie’s shoulders slumped as she pointed to the closet.

“In there,” she whispered. It was all she could say before her throat clenched and tears began to slowly drip from her eyes. She watched her tears wet the carpet as the agents stepped past and pulled open the closet door, ignoring her. They had everything they needed. Still, she followed them, peering between their bodies as they stood in the cramped space. Tanner was the first to spot it: a rag poking out from between the stack of neatly folded blankets, its edges stained with flakes of dried paint. Annie almost laughed through her tears. Her life undone, by dirty laundry.

The agents both looked around the small closet, their faces scrunched up and confused. Hale touched his earpiece again, his confused face returning to its regular, smug expression. He gave Annie a look, “Annie,” he said, “How do we get into the crawlspace above the closet?”

Annie spun, the sensation of being watched suddenly overpowering her. She glanced down the hall and saw the door to her room wide open. She swore she’d left it shut. Nothing stood in the doorway, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was there. The strange headache returned, and didn’t leave until she looked away, back at Hale. His smug expression had grown into a full grin, one that said “I know something you don’t.”

Annie realized that this was all for show. Hell, she thought he might even be trying to do her a favor by giving her a chance to be more compliant. Either way, she knew it wouldn’t matter. She raised a hand and pointed to the top right corner of the top shelf of the closet. “There,” she said. Tanner reached up, tossing the blankets that had been carefully stacked there down to Hale, revealing a small wooden trap door.

“You didn’t install this yourself, did you?” Hale asked as he tossed the blankets into the hall.

“No,” Annie replied. “It was here when I moved in.”

“Maintenance hatch?” Tanner asked, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice; he was probably adding this to the list of things to look out for in old apartments like hers.

Annie shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t know the answer, and she never cared to.

Tanner was up first. Annie heard him pull the cord on the single light bulb that lit the space; its dim, yellow glow filtered down through the hatch.

“Ho-ho-hooooolyyyyy shit Hale,” Tanner said, laughing as he spoke. “If this doesn’t earn us that raise, I don’t know what will.”

Hale ascended next, and Annie followed, unsure what else to do. Better to have one last look before they torched the place, she thought.

The space above the closet was low and tight; Annie figured it had been left this way after countless renovations. She wasn’t a tall woman, but even she had to bend over slightly to avoid hitting her head on the roof; the agents had to hunch over with their hands on their knees.

A small ember of pride burned in Annie’s chest as she looked across what amounted to her life’s work. Boxes upon boxes of scribbled paper and half-used art supplies lined the room. She’d filled countless notebooks with artistic studies: color and light, form and structure, perspective, texture, technique. Canvases leaned against the far wall, dozens of paint-lathered works now simply existing and collecting dust.

Despite Tanner’s initial outburst, both agents’ demeanor shifted subtly as Annie watched them look around the room. The two of them seemed almost… afraid of what they saw. Annie caught Hale’s eye, and all signs of kindness, even fake kindness, had disappeared.

Hale touched his earpiece and said, “Thank you, Carol. Report to the Field Office for your next assignment.”

Instantly, Annie felt the presence she’d been unable to pin down vanish. She couldn’t explain it, but the sensation of being watched lifted from her shoulders. She looked at the hatch; the wooden boards, the very lines and grooves of it, seemed to sway and dance in the light. The effect lingered for a moment, and then was gone.

The two men stood in silence until Hale finally spoke. “Tanner, radio for a disposal team. Go wait for them by the car.”

Tanner hesitated, then asked, “Uh, want me to take her with me?”

“No,” Hale answered bluntly. When he said nothing more, Tanner nodded his head and disappeared down the hatch. Annie heard him below her and swore he stopped by the window for a shot of her scotch.

Her attention returned to Hale as he stepped further into the room. He picked up a crusty paintbrush, examining it for a moment before dropping it to the floor. He grabbed one of her study books and flipped through the pages, flakes of oil pastel falling as he did so.

“Annie Burns,” he said quietly, more of a statement than a question or an address. “Thirty-one years old, near-graduate from the prestigious Caldwell School of Creative Studies. Hmph, you know, my little sister wants to go to Caldwell.”

Annie remained silent, so Hale continued, “Mother, dead. Father, unknown. No siblings. Early signs of, frankly, impressive creative impulses earned you a fast track through Callixum’s scholarship program, guaranteed your admission to any school you could wish to go to, and, not to mention, a tier-3 ideogenics supplement plan—do you have any idea what people would give for the kind of access you had? I don’t even have a tier-3 plan, and I work for the damn T.S.D.!”

Hale slammed the notebook shut, causing Annie to flinch as pastel flakes went flying in every direction. Hale tossed the notebook across the room before putting his hands on his hips and finally looking at Annie. “Now, help me to understand why someone like you, gifted in every way, given every advantage, would suddenly drop out a month before graduation, take a job she is wildly overqualified for at a community college as their student art gallery director—I’m sorry, ‘assistant’ art gallery director—all while setting up a secret studio in the crawlspace above her apartment. You traded a career, wealth, fame, and class for… this?”

Hale had slowly risen as high as the low ceilings would allow, his arms stretched wide as if he could strangle an answer out of the musty air. His intensity so frightened Annie that she found it impossible to answer his question. But then, as she met his gaze, she saw something in his muddy eyes. She cocked her head to the side, studying him as she would a model. There, at a certain angle, she swore there was a sparkle of… sincerity; a gleam of something that hinted at a genuine desire to understand.

Annie righted herself and, looking around, sat down in the only chair in her make-shift studio. She then took a deep breath and said, “I did it, because if I hadn’t, if I’d kept on the path I was on, I never would have been able to forgive myself.” The confidence in her voice as she spoke surprised both herself and Agent Hale, judging by the way he pulled back from her. Annie sighed and shook her head, “Have you ever looked at the stuff made through ideogenics? I mean, really, really looked at it? It’s all so… perfect. Maddeningly so. Every line crisp and clean, or expertly jagged and curved. Every eye is perfectly proportioned, or perfectly displaced. The colors pop so brightly in all the right places; their values pristine.” Annie leaned to her right and grabbed one of her notebooks at random, quickly flipping through its pages. It was an anatomical study she’d done months ago. She held it up so Hale could see. “It’s damn near impossible to get this right. The hours I’ve spent drawing arms and legs and shoulders, not to mention the foundational elements of a human face. I still can’t do it properly, and I’ve been trying for months.” She laughed bitterly as Hale stared at her, unmoved, his expression unchanged. “If I’d only pop a pill,” she continued, letting her head fall back to look at the dark ceiling, “I could drum up an exact idea of what I only wished I was able to paint. I could have a masterpiece done in an hour, in whatever expression or style I wanted. I could take it and show it off in a museum or gallery; I still have some connections, you know. Friends who think I’m just playing the long game, sequestering myself away like this in some abstract attempt to get in touch with those mythic names of old, still whispered in the back-rooms and secret places of every gallery and art school in the nation—names men like you fear. I could emerge from this apartment a new woman with a story that would sell. In a few months, Agent Hale, I could have the life you think I threw away.” Annie stood, gently returning the notebook to the box she’d taken it from. She began to advance on Agent Hale, “But I didn’t throw that life away. No, I ran from it like the plague; I ran from a life of false meaning, a life where my work was no different than the rest. I ran from a life where everything I created was untrue, detached from both myself and the world, brought forth by nothing more than a pill in a bottle that promised the world, but, as I came to realize, was taking my soul in exchange.”Annie was so close to Hale now that she could smell his breath. It was warm, human, slightly sour, and unmistakably real.

Hale was stiff, disdain radiating from his face. “It’s all the same,” he whispered. “You’ve any idea the number of studies we’ve done? It’s the same art, without all the nonsense.”

“Only it isn’t,” Annie whispered back. “You’d know that if you ever bothered to pick up a brush.”

The room fell into such a deep silence that the buzzing of the lone lightbulb was all Annie could hear. Hale remained frozen, his face a mask of trained, stoic calm that barely contained the pulsing fervor behind his eyes.

A creaking from somewhere far below ended the moment. Annie watched as Hale’s trained ears picked up on the sound. The noise became rhythmic, growing into the sound of clear, heavy footsteps ascending the stairwell. Neither Annie nor Agent Hale moved an inch until Tanner’s blond head poked through the trapdoor.

“Everything’s ready boss,” Tanner said. He started to climb into the room, but then stopped, as if he could instinctively feel the tension in the air. “The uh,” he continued, his voice much softer and hesitant. “The disposal team is getting their equipment ready… they’re uh… just waiting for the all clear.”

Hale took a deep breath. Annie’s heart raced as she waited, bracing herself for what she knew was coming. “Ms. Burns,” he said with a loud, clear voice, “You are under arrest for the endangerment of collective thought and cultural values. Agent Tanner, would you please escort Ms. Burns to the car and read her her rights.”

Tanner nodded his head and finally pulled himself up into the attic. “Come on now, Ms. Burns,” he said, taking hold of her arm.

Annie turned from Agent Hale, her eyes lingering on the surrounding studio. Memories flashed through her mind: long, lonely nights spent hunched over her notebooks, painting the same trees, bodies, buildings, oceans, and animals, over and over again. Not one of those nights alone brought any satisfaction, she realized. But together, as a whole, they became something she felt ‘satisfaction’ too small a word to describe.

Annie took Tanner’s hand and allowed him to help her down the hatch. As she descended, she gave Agent Hale a final look and said.

“Goodbye, Agent Hale.”

If he responded, she didn’t hear him. She walked what she knew would be the last steps in her apartment slowly. Passing through the living room, she stopped, causing Tanner to turn.

“What is it?” he asked.

Annie looked to the window, where her glass of scotch sat collecting condensation.

She smiled and asked, “Mind if I finish my drink first?”

Special Agent Hale listened as Tanner escorted Annie out of the apartment. Only he remained in the grim, makeshift studio. He began to pace, hunched over as he was, up and down the center of the room. He nearly hit his head on the lone, dimly glowing lightbulb.

“Damn that woman,” he said to himself. He couldn’t stand people like her, the kind he was made to deal with every day. So full of themselves, so certain that they alone were right, and that somehow the collective confidence and opinions of the rest of the world were wrong.

He shook his head and started toward the hatch. The disposal team would take care of the rest, and he had to get Annie processed before she could be shipped off to reeducation. She had confessed, so she’d earned that much; it would be a shame to throw a woman like her into one of the T.S.D.’s black boxes.

But Hale stopped midway to the hatch. His eyes were drawn by something barely perceivable hiding in the far corner of the room, where the light of the lone bulb only just reached. He heard a car door slam shut, either the disposal team heading up or Tanner shutting Annie in the car. A moment of indecision seized him, then broke. He marched across the room. A sheet had been thrown over something; only a small corner of what it hid remained exposed.

Slowly, Hale reached down and threw back the sheet. And in that instant, he felt as though his mind no longer belonged to him. He scrambled, seizing the wooden legs of the easel and dragging it into the light. There he stood, staring at what he somehow knew to be the lone, truly complete painting of Annie Burns.

It doesn’t matter what the painting was of. Maybe it was a self-portrait, or a sprawling, dynamic landscape. Maybe its style was romantic, impressionistic, conceptual, or baroque. It does not matter. What matters is that Special Agent Hale stared at the painting until a member of the disposal team tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to move. What matters is that he didn’t say a word, neither to Tanner nor Annie, on the long drive back to the Field Office. What matters is that he didn’t sleep a wink that night, as he lay awake, repainting the picture with his mind on the ceiling above his bed.

What matters, is that he never forgot the final painting of Ms. Annie Burns.

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A cloud of gnats swarmed Richard’s head as he stumbled down Yellow Bowl Road. The air was hot and smelled of the sudden storm. What began as a drizzle quickly evolved into a heavy downpour that scattered the gnats. The wind picked up, sending stinging rain into Richard’s face and chilling him to the bone. He barely noticed, his mind preoccupied with the task before him. He walked in darkness, thick storm-clouds consuming every ray of moonlight. Lighting flashed across the sky, briefly illuminating the trail, though Richard did not need it; he knew this road like the back of his hand.

‘…August 2nd, 2024…’, the words played through his mind.

The world hissed as the rain fell, a torrential pour that soon formed rapids running along the ditches to Richard’s left and right. He focused on the sound of the rain, of its taste in his mouth. He licked his dry lips, satiating his thirst with the heaven-sent water. Another flash of white sent something looming out of the darkness to his left. The post. The afterimage lingered before his eyes, but Richard knew what he had seen. The catfish were gone, replaced by bundles of limbs: hands, feet, and fingers and toes all strung up by wires. The sight stilled Richard for a moment, that all-consuming fear threatening to once more rear its head. Instead of listening, Richard approached the post and reached out with his free hand, his other still clutching Claire’s. He sighed with relief when all his fingers found were wet metal.

‘…Actor: Female, 5’7, 120 lbs. 17 years old. I shouldn’t have done this. I should have just taken her home, or better yet, kept driving…’

He left the post behind and pressed on until he reached the pull-off. It was empty, no young party-goers or fishermen out on a night such as this. Each flash of lightning gave Richard a glimpse of the river. It was a monster, its waters surging downstream, already threatening to spill over the edge of the riverbank and flood the road and fields behind him. Lightning cracked the sky and blinded him. As his eyes recovered, the whiteness of lightning was replaced by an orange glow. A large tree on the opposite bank had caught fire, its branches smoking and steaming in the rain. He watched as the wood split beneath the weight of the wind and rain—a terrible sound of cracking timber—and the tree tumbled into the river. He needed to hurry.

‘…But Claire was so… helpless, and trusting, and her phone was dead along with any hope of tracking her. I couldn’t let the opportunity pass me by. Sasha’s been begging me to buy her a new horse…’

He set his face against the rain and wind and pushed forward. The endless assault of water made it difficult to breathe; memories of his death in the river surged to the forefront of his mind. His pace slowed as the solid ground beneath him degraded into thick mud that clung to his feet with each step. He treaded carefully, letting neither rain nor mud dissuade him, for up ahead, at the end of this stretch of the road, he could see the faint light of Jeremy’s house. Pale yellow shone through its many windows, guiding Richard forward through the darkness of the storm. He reached the driveway, instinctively crouching low behind the house’s stone mailbox. One car sat in front of the house, Jeremy’s large brown pickup truck. His wife must be out of town.

‘…The Scene: Auction winner requests ($350,000) that the camera be positioned directly above the actor’s face, and that her heels be clipped so that her body will slowly drain of blood. When questioned, auction winner said they simply want to watch the life drain slowly from her eyes…’

Richard crept forward, his mind clear and his body tense as adrenaline began to drip into his veins. He tried to picture the act and how he would do it, but every time his mind would go blank. He made his way his way up the wooden front steps of the house, thankful for the storm for masking the sound of his approach. He ducked beneath a large window and peered inside.

‘…When questioned, auction winner said they simply want to watch the life drain slowly from her eyes…’

At first he saw nothing, at least, no signs of Jeremy or his daughter. A lamp was on in what he assumed to be the living room, and the TV was playing a football game loud enough for Richard to hear it through the glass. A set of stairs behind the couch led up to the second floor. A glass of wine, along with its bottle, sat half-drunk on a coffee table in front of the couch, a cigar still smoking in the ashtray next to it. Jeremy was home, that much he was certain of.

‘…Post shoot reflection: I made sure to clip the actor’s posterior tibial artery. She bled out in approximately 45 minutes. The Auction winner was satisfied and paid in full…’

Richard tested the handle of the front door. It was unlocked, the habits of country-folk ringing true. He eased the door open and stepped inside, quietly shutting it behind him. The house was pleasantly warm and smelled of good wine and tobacco. Announcers talked about the game playing on the TV as a ceiling fan spun softly overhead and sent thin trails of cigar smoke wafting across the room. Richard took a step inside, and then another, heading toward the couch. He picked up the glass of wine and held it in his hand for a moment before downing it in one gulp. It was rich and dry, full-bodied and highly tannic. He reached for the cigar next, placing it between his lips. The smoke filled his mouth, and he held it there for a moment, savoring it, before blowing it out and watching it dissipate. He took a few more drags, feeling the nicotine work its way into his blood, lightening his head and making his fingers tingly—he’d never been much of a smoker. A clock hung on the wall next to the TV. It read 12:16 A.M.

Something smashed loudly against the floor, followed by a voice.

“What the hell…”

Richard turned, his body feeling as though it were in slow motion. Jeremy stood beneath the door frame to the next room, likely the kitchen, judging by the broken plate of crackers, cheese, and meat scattered across the floor beneath his feet. Richard stared at him, the cigar still in his mouth.

“Who are you and what are you doing here—wait… Richard? Richard, is that you?” The words poured quickly from Jeremy’s mouth, and Richard could see his expression relax slightly upon realizing who he was. Richard didn’t blame him for not recognizing him immediately. He had no idea what he looked like, but he imagined it was not pretty.

“Christ… where have you been? The whole town’s been looking for you. Your wife’s been worried sick, Marilyn just sat with her a few days ago… Jesus… what are you holding?”

Claire’s hand was wet and cold. “How long?” Richard asked, “How long have I been gone?”

“Almost two weeks,” Jeremy replied, his eyes darting between Richard’s and Claire’s hands.

“Huh,” Richard grunted. “It felt like…days at most.”

“What did? ”

Richard removed the cigar from his mouth and returned it to the ashtray. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the tiny journal.

“Why?” He asked, his voice shaking as he spoke. “Why did you do this?”

“Why did I do wha-”, Jeremy’s voice caught in his throat. Richard could see the recognition in his eyes. “How did you get that?” Jeremy asked, his voice turning cold and serious.

“Dad, what was that are you ok—” Richard heard the voice peter out, and turned to look at the stairs. Standing a few steps above the base was Sasha, Jeremy’s daughter.

“Dad?” She asked, her eyes wide with fear, her voice trembling.

“Sasha, call the police,” Jeremy said calmly, inching his way between Richard and the stairs.

“Does she know?” Richard asked, taking a slow step forward until he was beside the table with the wine, his words reflecting horror in Jeremy’s eyes. “Does she know what you did to Claire, or where all your money comes from?”

“Dad, what’s he talking about?” She asked again, her eyes jumping between the two men. “Dad. Dad!”

“Dammit Sasha just go to your room! Lock the door and call the police-” For the briefest moment, Jeremy’s eyes left Richard to look at his daughter. In one swift motion, Richard slid his hand around the bottle of wine, stepped forward, and smashed it against the back of Jeremy’s head with a dull thud. Jeremy grunted and fell to the floor, red wine mixed with blood staining his clothing and the carpet. Sasha screamed and fell on her back, quickly turning and scrambling up the stairs. Richard paid her no mind; she wasn’t to blame for any of this. Jeremy moaned on the floor and clutched his head in his hands. Blood oozed from a deep cut on the backside of his head.

Richard dropped Claire’s hand and grabbed Jeremy by the collar of his shirt, the fabric stretched tight by the straining of the wounded man. He raised the broken bottle high, eying the torturer’s throat. He swung, but Jeremy lurched to the side and drove his shoulder into Richard’s groin. Nauseous pain lurched forth from deep within Richard’s stomach, distracting him for just a moment, but long enough for Jeremy to recover. Jeremy got his arms around Richard and heaved him to the side, throwing him over the couch. Richard tumbled and crashed into the glass coffee table, where he lay, dazed and groaning in pain. Jeremy was on top of him the next moment, blood oozing down his face, painting him with a fiendish mask. He brought back a fist and swung, his wild blows mostly grazing Richard. Richard ate a punch to the nose, feeling the cartilage break as blood began to flow. He quickly got his hands up and reached for Jeremy’s head, clawing at his eyes. Jeremy screamed with rage as he tried to bat Richard’s hands away. Richard reached to his side with his left hand while trying to distract Jeremy with his right. He found a large shard of glass and gripped it so hard he could feel it digging into his flesh. He didn’t care and held it tight as he drove it into Jeremy’s side. Jeremy screamed in pain, and Richard followed the blow by swinging his right hand into Jeremy’s jaw. The man instantly fell backwards, bleeding from his head and side.

“Sa-Sasha! Sasha!” He moaned. Richard crawled away from him, mind numb, body on fire. He searched for Claire’s hand and found it lying on the couch. He picked it up and returned to Jeremy. Richard had never seen such fear in a man’s eyes. If he didn’t know beyond a shadow of a doubt how monstrous this man was, he would almost feel sorrow. Or regret. Instead, if anything, he felt peace with what he was about to do. With his free hand, he grabbed the partially shattered wine bottle and, without hesitating, drove it into Jeremy’s thigh. He felt the glass crack further as it hit bone. Jeremy continued to scream.

“No no no wait Richard wait please I-I-I can explain I can explain everything just please wait WAIT!”

Richard drove his fist into Jeremy’s nose, cracking the cartilage and causing blood to pour out of his nostrils. Richard straddled him and pinned down Jeremy’s arms with his knees. Then, Richard palmed the back of Claire’s cold, dead hand in his own and positioned it around Jeremy’s throat, spreading the fingers until they lay perfectly against Jeremy’s windpipe. Richard saw Jeremy’s eyes gaze at the birthmark.

“How?” he gasped, voice ragged. “Where?”

Richard refused to supply an answer. With his own two hands around Claire’s, he began to squeeze. Jeremy flailed, using every last ounce of his strength to fight. He gargled, trying to talk, trying to further plead his case, but Richard would not have it. He squeezed harder and harder and harder until his hands were shaking from the force.

“Please-wait-I’m-I’m…” Jeremy’s eyes began to bulge from his head as his face turned purple. His fighting slowed, arms and legs twitching slightly, his spirit refusing to give up.

Richard leaned down, not letting up the pressure, and placed his mouth next to Jeremy’s right ear. He whispered, but his voice shook with rage, “I simply want to watch the life drain slowly from your eyes.”

The lights went out, and a sound like an explosion came from outside, accompanied by a flash of pure white light. It happened again, shaking the entire house. Richard heard Sasha scream from somewhere upstairs as heaven laid siege to the house. He kept squeezing. He had to be sure; he had to be certain that he was dead. He didn’t stop squeezing, not even when he smelled the smoke. Not even when the cop cars outside painted the living room red and blue. Not even when he heard Sasha sprint for the door. He kept squeezing until he felt hands on his shoulders forcefully pulling him away from the body. The officers said words, but Richard couldn’t hear them. He recognized them as they placed him in their car. One of their kids was Claire’s age.

A cloud of gnats swarmed Richard’s head as he sat in the garden. The late August sun was low in the sky, and the orderly on duty had deep pit-stains blossoming under his uniform. Richard inhaled the hot, summer air, savoring it on his lips. It had been a year since the trial ended, since he’d been sentenced. NGRI (Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity). That was the jury’s decision. Realistically, it was the best outcome he could have hoped for, considering the state he’d been found in and the words he’d spoken in the following days. He doesn’t remember much of what happened after he was arrested. All he knows is that he told the officers, both men he was acquainted with, the whole truth. All of it. Every detail, from first finding himself in the loop, all the way down to the smell of the scissor-tail’s breath. That had been a mistake, he’d later decided. But he didn’t dwell on it. He wasn’t, at the time, entirely in his right mind.

He knew they didn’t believe a word he said. Not until they’d read Jeremy’s journal for themselves. Things moved quickly after that. Jeremy’s house had caught fire that night. That was why Richard had smelled smoke before his arrest. It was the lightning; it struck the house an estimated seven times, superheating the wood and frying the electrical infrastructure. The house was ruined, but the storm and the quick response of the local fire department saved the most important thing. Evidence, namely Claire’s hand. They’d recovered it from where the heat had partially fused it to Jeremy’s neck. Richard’s lawyer never did stop wondering where the hand had come from. Richard never watched the tapes himself, the ones the police recovered from Jeremy’s computer beneath the garage. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. But he heard what was on them. Jeremy had disposed of Claire’s body the same way he’d disposed of all the others. He chopped them up and melted them down, liquefying them and pouring the gore down the drain beneath his actor’s stage. The piping led out to the river. According to Richard’s lawyer, who’d seen the tapes, there should be nothing left of Claire. But somehow there was, DNA testing confirming the hand was, in fact, hers. Richard knew how it had gotten inside Blossom’s dog house, though his lawyer didn’t like to discuss those aspects of the trial. The prosecution sure as hell did.

Richard sighed and rubbed the flesh where he once wore his wedding ring. He didn’t blame Sarah. She’d been through so much. Still, he wished she’d been there for him during the trial. He still remembers his lawyer’s disappointment when Richard broke the news.

“Shit,” he’d said, “having the wife present always helps.”

Maybe it would have, but maybe not—another detail Richard chose not to dwell on, though he wished she would visit. He didn’t get many visitors. Luis’s grandmother, an elderly Cuban woman, had come to visit and talk with Richard about a month before. She’d thanked him for “Giving that bastardo what he deserved.” They’d talked much about Luis, and a little about God. She even gave Richard a little cross hung on a silver chain. As soon as the woman had left, the hospital staff confiscated it, and he hadn’t seen it since.

The sun was setting, the garden’s trees now casting long shadows. The orderly called Richard’s name and told him it was about time to go. Richard nodded his head and sighed, giving the garden and its many beautiful flowers one last look. Something rustled in one of the trees overhead, prompting Richard to look up.

The scissor-tail sat above him, perched on a low-hanging branch. He recognized it instantly; he could have recognized its white chest and darkly accented wings even if it was hiding amongst hundreds of its kin. He stopped breathing and stared in awe of the bird. And for a moment that lasted less than a second, but felt like eternity, Richard glimpsed its true form once more. Or perhaps it was the first time, for the dreaded bird of sorrow whose feathers spilled worms as blood dripped from its mangled beak was not what he saw before him. What sat perched in the tree was beautiful, its many wings adorned with golden feathers that glistened in the dying, fiery light of the sun. Its skin was white, not with pale decay but with the purity of snow. Its beak was shut and unstained with blood. It pained Richard to look upon its face, for its eyes shone with the intensity of lightning.

The form vanished, and the scissor-tail flew away as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only an afterimage of glory that Richard meditated on as he was led back to his room. He lay in bed and tried to recall what he’d seen and commit every detail of it to memory. When at last he could hold his eyes open no longer, he closed them and clasped his hands against his chest, and began to pray.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name…”

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Richard wheezed as he walked, the kind of sound a child makes after crying too hard; his head was congested and his throat sore. He pulled himself out of Jeremy’s garage, journal tucked into his back pocket, Claire’s severed hand clutched between his fingers. He came to the end of the trail, stopping just past the overgrown gate leading to the main road. He stood there, silently, no Blossom, no scissor-tail in sight, eyes pointed down at Claire’s cold hand. With his right thumb he rubbed the skin of her birthmark and felt… nothing. He was washed, his mind and body numb; no longer able to feel even a hint of sorrow or sadness for Claire, or Luis, or himself. His mind buzzed with tense exhaustion; the mental barriers to which men hold fast for the sake of their sanity now washed away by the flood that was his present reality. With no control over his mind, his thoughts found voice, as if a million Richards were screaming into his ears, with no walls of excuses to hold them back.

‘I should have been there for Sarah. I failed as a husband. I failed as a father. I should have buried Claire. I should have cleaned out her room; led an example of moving on for Sarah, done everything I could to stop ourselves from wallowing in that pit of self-loathing. I wasn’t strong enough.’

Richard weathered the accusations of his mind and agreed with every single one. Once the voices finished having their say, Richard found himself standing at the end of Yellow Bowl Road. Like the trails beginning a mile east, the land rose gently up an incline, surrounded by trees. Richard glanced around, searching for the scissor-tail, but the bird was nowhere to be seen. He could still hear its voice ringing in his ears, but questioned what, if anything, had truly spoken to him. It was not lost on him that he was broken, his mind gone.

‘Maybe I’m mad. Insane.’ He thought. He gripped Claire’s hand a little tighter. ‘Even so, Sarah deserves to know what happened to our little girl.’

Richard placed one weary leg in front of the other as he ascended the small hill toward the main road. He stopped just short of where the gravel turned to pavement. An anxious fear rose in his chest as he closed his eyes and stepped forward. He took another step, and then another, before coming to a stop, his eyes still closed. His heart quickened and his breathing grew fast and shallow. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He didn’t want to find himself at the start once more. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t handle anymo-

The blaring of a car horn snapped Richard’s eyes open as he fell backwards. A gray SUV flew by, the driver looking annoyed and infuriated as she spared Richard a passing glance; he’d been so in his head that he hadn’t heard it approach. The engine rumbled on, slowly fading as Richard sat breathless on the side of the road, eyes trailing after the vehicle’s taillights. He hesitantly crawled toward the pavement. He stretched out a hand, feeling the warmth of the road and letting the tiny rocks and rubber filaments graze his palm. He was out. His eyes darted down the road, toward home. He was on his feet in an instant, legs carrying his ragged frame as fast as possible. He stumbled across the asphalt. The moon was full and the sky clear, letting Richard see clearly despite the hour. Fields of wheat swayed gently with the breeze, the wind tickling his ears as he limped onward.

Yet despite no longer being trapped in whatever hell he’d found himself in, despite being less than a half-hour from his door, despite possessing undeniable evidence of Jeremy’s crimes, Richard still felt nothing. His heart beat on, and thoughts continued to drift through his head, but it was the heart of a man hallowed out, and the thoughts of a withered soul. He had one goal in mind: get home.

‘After that…’ he thought, ‘after that I can be done.’

‘CAN YOU?’

The voice froze Richard’s feet to the asphalt. To his right was the eastern entrance to Yellow Bowl, and directly in front of him lay the short bridge that spanned the river. And there, perched on the edge of the bridge’s guard rail, sat the scissor-tail.

‘WILL YOU EVER KNOW REST, AS LONG AS HE LIVES?’ Its voice poured forth like a river, its rapids echoing along deep canyon walls until they reached Richard’s ears, sounding both far off and intimately close. And for the first time, Richard saw the scissor-tail for what it was. What sat before him was far too large to be a normal bird, its squat frame nearly rising to Richard’s waist. Its feathers fell as it stretched its wings, and scabs of flaking flesh teeming with insects and worms littered the ground beneath it. Its face was like that of a man, yet distorted and lumpy with solid black eyes. And its protruding beak—it stretched to the point of verticality, serrated tendons of muscles taught, blood dripping from top to bottom, a crimson outline for its dark, layered teeth. Richard’s very bones began to shake at the sight of it. He fell to his knees, trembling, and asked, “What are you?”

From beneath its feathered mass, it extended a human hand. Its skin was pale like chicken-flesh, spiderweb veins blotching portions a sickly bruised purple. Its long nails scratched the concrete as it climbed down from its perch. Richards’ heart quickened as the creature advanced, its eyes fixed on him. With a cold hand, it seized Richard by the throat. Squirming worms fell from its flesh and tickled Richard’s neck as they wriggled their way beneath the collar of his shirt. The thing pulled gently, like a mother lifting her child into its embrace. It brought Richard so close he could feel the blood dripping onto his scalp from the tip of its beak. Its breath smelled like thunder, but all Richard could taste was blood.

‘I COULD ASK YOU THE SAME, FOR I DO NOT SEE A SON OF MAN BEFORE ME. I SEE A WEAKLING, EAGER TO RUN AWAY IF IT MEANS ESCAPE FROM FURTHER SUFFERING.’

Richard struggled to speak, his voice coming in panicked gasps, “I, yo-you… wh-what do you w-want?”

‘THE SAME AS YOU. JUSTICE. DID YOU NOT BEG YOUR GOD FOR IT? DID YOU NOT PROMISE TO FORSAKE HIM IF HE REFUSED TO YIELD TO YOUR DEMANDS? AND YET, HERE I AM, BUT A MEAGER WATCHER OF THIS LAND, OFFERING YOU THE VERY THING YOU WOULD STAKE YOUR ETERNITY ON… AND YOU REFUSE?’

Its words sank deep, biting Richard to the core. This thing was something… other. He felt as though he could smell its age and taste its centuries in the blood dripping into his mouth. He spoke, “What do you mean by justice?” Richard stared into its black maw and waited for an answer. Instead, the being raised its free hand and pointed to the entrance of Yellow Bowl.

‘HE’S DOWN THERE, YOU KNOW? RESTING IN A HOME BOUGHT AND PAID FOR IN BLOOD, ON A LAND TAINTED BY HIS GRUESOME ACTS. CAN YOU STILL NOT HEAR THEM? THEIR FLESH CRIES OUT, THEIR BODIES CLOTHED IN MURKY DARKNESS.’

Richard listened and strained his ears, trying his damnedest to pierce through the veil of night-birds and insects, but he could hear nothing.

‘CAN YOU NOT HEAR EVEN HER?’

Richards’ breath caught in his lungs, and his eyes opened wide. Crying. Someone was crying faintly in the distance, a voice echoing up from the gully beneath the bridge, carried by a cool river wind. Richard would know that cry apart from any other in the world. He’d heard it in the delivery room. He’d heard it many nights from down the hall. He’d heard it the first day of elementary and middle school and several sad times in high school as well.

What he wouldn’t give to comfort her in her suffering once more.

“Claire,” he managed to whisper as his body began to violently shake. His sun-ruined face flushed as pressure built in his skull behind his eyes. The being quickly tightened its grip and, using its free hand to pull him in closer, wrapped him up within its wings. Richards’ vision clouded as he felt something hot and fiery leak from his eyes. He held a shaking hand beneath his face, struggling to see the red droplets of bloody tears falling from his own eyes.

And then Richard laughed; a short gasping laugh that sent him hacking and coughing and choking as his body convulsed. But he could not stop. It was too damn funny how much suffering one man could endure. His body shook as he laughed, and the shaking made his tears trace erratically down his face and body. The worms continued to wriggle against his skin, tickling him and provoking him to laugh further.

‘What a mess of life I’ve made,’ he thought, giggling as his tears hit his palm and dripped onto the worms below. It was hard to see through the tears. They burned his eyes the way sweat does after a long run. With no plan in mind, he shoved the being away and stumbled into the road, only to fall back to his knees. He blinked hard and rubbed his eyes with his palms to try and clear his sight, but all he did was smear the blood over his corneas. When he looked back at the being, it was like looking through shoddy red-tinted sunglasses. He could still hear Claire crying from the river.

“Make it stop,” he choked out, stifling his laughter.

‘SHE CRIES OF HER OWN ACCORD-’

“I don’t care I don’t care just make it STOP!” Richard screamed. The birds and insects fell silent at his voice, as did the weeping.

“I just…” he whispered, “I just don’t want to hurt anymore.” Richard gazed up at the being where it sat. Its wings sagged slightly as it spoke.

‘TO SUFFER IS YOUR LOT; IS THAT NOT ONE OF YOUR GOD’S EARLIEST PROMISES?’

To hear it put so plainly, Richard did not know what to say. He felt lost in a world far too big and far too painful to ever possibly be worth living in.

He gazed upon the being and asked, “Then what am I supposed to do?”

The sounds of the night slowly reasserted themselves like a child testing the waters after being sent to his room. A bird chirped softly. Crickets sang in the grass. With a sound like a soft and gentle rain, the being spoke, its voice strangely pleasant to Richard’s ears.

‘THERE IS ONE WHO WOULD SLEEP SOUNDLY, WHO DESERVES TENFOLD WHAT HAS BEEN SET UPON YOU.’

Richard knew who it spoke of. Like an ember drifting through a dry wind, its words floated through the fields of his mind until landing on a bed of parched grass. The faceless man, the object of Richard’s despair, opened his eyes, and Richard finally saw and accepted him for who he was, and what must be done about him.

The being slinked away, crawling back up to its perch on the bridge, not speaking until it was settled. ‘HAVE YOU, FINALLY, HATRED IN YOUR HEART?’

Richards heart slowed, and the red tears ceased to fall from his face. He felt… cold. Yet, deep inside, a warmth was slowly building in his chest. Each thought of Jeremy stoked the flame, every intrusive image conjured up by his broken mind of the horrors inflicted upon Claire and all the others adding fuel to the fire. He stood, wiping his tear-stained hands on his soiled jeans, and set his face against the being.

It did not move, and with its face stretched as it were, Richard could discern no emotion from it. Something tapped the top of Richard’s head. He gazed up into the sky; clouds had formed above, blocking the moon and plunging the bridge into a truer darkness. Rain fell softly as thunder boomed in the distance. Richard’s eyes drifted back to the bird.

The being spread its wings and rose to its full height, its spindly legs and narrow torso towering above Richard.

‘THE JUSTICE YOU SEEK LIES ON YELLOW BOWL ROAD.’

On April 2nd, 1989, my Momma died in her sleep. She was 82 years old. My brother Benji found her lying on her back with her eyes closed. I found Benji screaming, hunched over her cold body and slapping her corpse, big fat tears running out his wide eyes as he pleaded with her to wake up. I calmed him down, told him I’d call the doc, and sent him to wait in his garden. The barn needed cleaning, so after the call I worked while I waited.

It rained the day we buried her, like something out of a movie. A dull gray rain that lingered and made you feel wet even beneath your umbrella. Benji’s tears were all spent by then though; he’d done his crying before the rains, where everyone could see it. He didn’t talk for twelve days straight after that, like back when he was a little. On the evening of the twelfth day, he up and told me he was gonna clean the barn tomorrow. When I got up the next day, I found him swinging from the rafters. I’d stepped outside for my morning coffee and a cigarette, and saw that the barn doors were still open. I crossed the small yard that lay between the farmhouse and barn, passing Benji’s garden along the way. He’d just planted a few days before Momma passed, and already growth was overtaking the small plot. For all his faults, at least he’d had a green thumb.

The barn smelled of hay and dried dung and old timber. The wood came from the forests that once grew around the property. Our family had long since cut and sold all the timber, starting all the way back when Grandpa acquired the land. We were some of the first to settle in these parts, and the barn was likely one of the oldest ones in the state. The wood from the forest was good and stiff, as sturdy as a man could ask for. Benji’s body was stiff as a board when I cut him down. He landed in the hay. It sounded like a bag of flour, a low, dull thud. He kicked up dust when he landed, dust that caught the morning light passing through the open barn doors. I sneezed as I climbed down the ladder and inhaled the dust. It got in my eyes and made them water. The dust made me cry.

I poured whiskey in my coffee as I waited for the ambulance to arrive. I waited for a good long while. Our property was way out in the boonies. Technically, it all passed to Benji when Momma died. It’s just mine now. Lily pawed at my knee as I sat waiting on the porch. She whimpered and stretched her jaw into a wide yawn. Her canines were sharp and yellow. Benji’s teeth never did come in right. The ambulance pulled up the dirt road and passed the “Welcome to Oak Ridge Farms” sign Benji and I had painted when we were children. I kept my hands in my jacket as the men approached. The responder wore his navy blues, and he had a lip swollen full with tobacco. His partner looked nervous. We spoke for a moment, then I led them into the barn.

“Why’d you cut him down?” The lead asked. His name was Rick, and I took him for the lead cause there was no way in hell the other guy was in charge.

“Couldn’t stand to leave him up there any longer,” I said.

“You really shouldn’t have moved him. The police’ll say it looks fishy.”

I shrugged my shoulders at that. It was far too late to worry about how it all looked. I stepped back outside for some air while the boys called for the ME.

About two hours later, I said goodbye to the ME as he drove off with my brother’s body. The police had their questions, sure, but I’d been drinking buddies with the chief for years. He knew me, he knew Momma, but most importantly, he knew Benji.

“Damn shame,” he’d said shortly after entering the barn.

My mind was on the cattle out in the pasture, and the wheat growing in the fields. It was almost time for harvest. I had things to get done.

“He show any… signs? Ever tell ya what was on his mind?”

I shook my head no. “All he said was that he was gonna go clean the barn in the morning. It was the first and last thing he’d said since Momma died.”

The chief sighed and shook his head, “Damn shame.”

I walked the chief out to his car. He rolled his window down before driving off.

“I know you’re going through a lot right now. Just… take some time. Swing by in a few days, and we’ll get the paperwork squared away. I’ll go ahead and let the county clerk know you’ll be by soon, for the property transfer, and the dissolution of that, er, what was it called again?”

“Conservatorship,” I said quietly. “I’ll be up later, get it taken care of.”

“Right. You take care now.”

I watched the chief pull away, his truck kicking up a trailing ribbon of dirt that spiraled into thin clouds before settling in the grass on the sides of the road. He’d had a look in his eye, hadn’t he? A queer one? The kinda look you give a thug or an out-of-towner, not a man who’s driven you home countless times after one too many. No, no, I must’ve imagined it. I stayed outside a moment, pacing the gravel, hands laced behind my head. Thinking, ignoring the sting of sweat on my rope-burnt palms.

The paperwork all went through, and I buried Benji beneath his garden. There was some debate with distant relatives who thought he should be next to Momma. I didn’t want to do that to her, despite it all. I made sure to keep the garden intact. It was a beautiful garden.

That year was the biggest harvest Oak Ridge Farms had ever seen. Stalks of wheat taller than a man, with full heads of grain. I managed to pay off all the funeral expenses that year, with plenty left afterwards. I met a nice girl from the town over that year as well. Her name was Patty. Patty baked and sold her goods down at the local farmers’ market. She used Oak Ridge wheat for her bread and sold out every time. People couldn’t get enough of it.

But whenever I ate it, all I tasted was ash.

The herd was hit with a case of spring fever that year as well. The vet couldn’t believe it. Neither could I. Every cow that year gave birth to twins. Some even had triplets, all of them healthy and strong. The vet said he’d never seen or even heard of such a thing. The herd grew and grew, all of ‘em fat and robust. Patty started selling their meat at the market as well. We could charge whatever we wanted, and people would pay it. That’s how good everyone said the cattle at Oak Ridge Farms were.

But whenever I ate it, no matter how long I made Patty grill it, all I could taste was raw flesh and blood.

I could handle the wheat. I could handle the cattle. But what I couldn’t handle, what no one could handle, was the garden. It seemed to grow with a mind of its own, spreading every year, no matter how often I fixed the fence or trimmed the plants. Patty didn’t think much of it. In fact, she enjoyed the garden and its bounty.

“Looks like Benji’s still helping out from beyond the grave, huh hun?” She’d say with a smile. “I sure do wish I could have met him. He sounds like such a kind soul.”

I’d nod my head, but inside I knew something was wrong. The tomatoes burst in my mouth like pimples. The cucumbers cracked like bone. I couldn’t eat any of it. I couldn’t eat. Patty prided herself on preparing for each meal only what the Lord had blessed our farm with. She scolded me when she found grease stains on my shirt, or empty bags and cups in my work truck. The fast stuff was all I could eat. All I could keep down.

The worst came a year after Benji’s death, on his anniversary. I’d stepped outside to eject the meal Patty had made. I had to, otherwise it would curdle in my stomach. She didn’t know any of this. God, she didn’t deserve any of this. I’d barely made it out the door and leaned over the porch railing. I vomited right on top of Benji’s grave.

It was then I noticed the roses. They were magnificent; large flowers of deep lavender grew all across the garden. They grew as I watched, their petals blossoming, their thorns stretching longer and longer. I threw up again, and again. Their smell, their stench, was overwhelming. Like a field hit with blight. Like a dead cow left to rot beneath the sun. Like Benji’s room when he’d have an accident and Momma would ask me to help her clean it up.

In that moment, I waited for Benji. I knew he was coming. I knew I was about to pay for what I’d done. But damn it all, it was my farm. It was always supposed to be my farm. Why hadn’t she trusted me? Of course I was gonna take care of him; as if I’d abandon my only brother. To do that to me, to strip away all I had worked for and give it to an imbecile… what was she thinking? What choice did she leave me? My tears mixed with the bile staining Benji’s headstone as I waited for the roses to take me. I felt their petals lick my skin like the barbed tongue of the Devil himself. Those thorns inched near the crown of my head, and I prepared myself to die a wicked man, damned by my wronged brother, beneath the eyes of a just God.

Only Death never came. He whispered from the bushes. His voice laughed in the wind. But he never showed his face. The roses retreated, the thorns scratching my skin as they went, but leaving me otherwise unharmed. Patty found me there in the morning. My clothes were soaked with sweat, and she said I was shivering like I’d been out in a winter storm. I don’t remember any of it.

I still can’t eat the food. I take no joy in the fruit of my labor. But I no longer care.

Because there was another voice that night apart from Death’s.

And it said,

“I love you, Bubba.”

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Richard followed the bird as Blossom followed him. Together, they formed an unlikely trio. He’d surged to his feet to chase after the bird as it flew back the way he had come, the thought of justice for Claire spurring him on, fueling his every step. However, that initial burst of energy was quickly spent, and he now trudged determinedly onwards. Yellow Bowl buzzed with calls of insects and night-birds, and being on the western side, Richard could hear the faint hum of the highway a few miles west. The ambiance, the monotony of his walk, the heaviness of his heart and mind, all of it served to lull him into a trance-like state. His mind was torn, one half fully convinced that he was in an awful nightmare—for how could this be anything but a dream? However, the other half hung to the dark hope that justice for Claire really did lie at the end of this road, and he was determined to see it through to the end.

Rapid chirps from the scissor-tail drew Richard’s gaze up. He’d been staring at his feet and not paying attention to where he placed them. He searched for the bird and found it perched on the overgrown gate. Its barrier had been lifted and swung wide, the path into the woods now unobstructed. Richard let his hand run against the paint-chipped metal bar of the gate, flakes of white falling to the ground and staining his hands. He stared down the path. Two well-trodden lines of dead grass ran parallel to each other. He could not see far, for the path curved right about fifty feet in, clusters of trees and deep undergrowth obscuring the rest of the trail.

Richard looked to the scissor-tail. “What’s down here?”

The bird chirped once more, fluttering its wings, but it did not leave its perch. A wet tongue licked Richard’s right hand, and he looked down to see Blossom’s large, dark eyes staring up at him. He knelt and petted her behind her neck, all while his eyes stared down the trail. The scissor-tail wanted him to go, but it wanted him to go alone. With a deep breath, he stood and took his first step down the trail. He walked several more before turning back towards the gate. The scissor-tail and Blossom had not moved. Richard kept walking, but with a heavier heart.

He quickly became aware of the shift in his surroundings. The trees were dense around the trail, and the air seemed thicker here. The openness of the road was gone, and his ears now rang slightly as they adjusted to the muffled sound of the forest. The feeling was… oppressive. The occasional firefly drifted amidst the trees, and the ever-present buzz of insects continued, but none of it served to comfort Richard. He missed the road, the familiarity of it, the irrational but real feeling of control he had not realized it provided him.

The trail snaked its way further into the woods. After about five minutes, he rounded the final bend. He looked upon a clearing surrounded by thick trees. A decrepit shack with a garage door stood in the middle of the clearing, the tire tracks from the trail leading right up to its door. Richard approached the garage and held an ear up against its side. He waited, barely breathing, listening for any sign of life. After a few minutes of silence, he bent down and grabbed the external handle of the garage. He grunted as he lifted, the metal mechanisms screeching as the door slid open. If anyone were here, Richard knew his presence was no longer secret. Immediately, his eyes fell upon the familiar white sedan parked inside. The rest of the garage appeared unassuming: Dusty wooden shelves lined the walls, and tools lay scattered across their surface. Boxes and plastic containers were strewn all around the space, but what Richard latched onto was the smell. It did not smell like an old, out-of-use garage, nor did it possess that mechanical, greasy smell Richard expected from such a building. Despite its appearance, the dusty garage smelled clean—too clean. A chemically sterilized smell tickled Richard’s nostrils and irritated the back of his throat. He coughed into his sleeve as he stepped inside for a closer look.

He found nothing out of the ordinary as he inspected the garage. Richards’ frustration grew with every minute that slipped by. He began sifting through the boxes and containers, but found they were filled with mostly garbage: empty bottles of cleaning supplies, dirty rags, stained clothing. He turned his attention to the car, relieved to find it still unlocked. He searched inside, reaching beneath the seats, peeling back the edges to look in between them. He braced himself as he popped the trunk, but Luis Martin’s body was gone.

Frustration drove him to his hands and knees and sent him crawling around the floor of the garage. He opened every cabinet door, searching every crack and crevice. Richard slapped his hands hard against the cold ground.

He turned back to the sedan, getting down onto his belly to check beneath it. The dim light of the moon passing through the garage door was barely enough to see by, and dust kicked up by Richard’s search made his nose run and eyes itch. But there, beneath the car, Richard saw something poking up from the floor. A metal loop bolted to a square wooden board. Richard got his legs under him and opened the sedan’s door, throwing the car into neutral and placing his hands on its hood. He groaned as he slowly pushed the car outside. Once clear, Richard returned to the garage to see what the sedan had been hiding. A wooden trapdoor was embedded in the middle of the floor, a metal handle protruding from its surface.

The question of who owned this land was not lost on Richard, and neither was the most obvious answer. There was always the off chance it belonged to someone else, someone reluctant to sell to Jeremy, for reasons unknown. But since remembering that day at the fill-up station, a cold dread had started to drip into Richard’s stomach. Inch by inch, it was filling up, and Richard feared that whatever lay beneath that wooden hatch would cause the dam within him to break.

He gripped the metal handle with one hand and pulled. The hatch opened easily, no sign of rust or disuse on its hinges. Richard stared down into the darkness of the hole; a ladder ran along the side, and he could just make out the bottom, about twenty feet down. He had no light of his own to take with him. His skin crawled as he peered into the darkness. Long-limbed creatures twisted in the shadows, lurking at the bottom just out of view, ready to pounce the moment his feet were within reach.

Richard rolled his head and shook himself, as if he could physically dislodge the frightening thought. He gazed back down the hole. Nothing moved in the shadows. He placed one foot on the edge of the ladder to test it. It held fast, and he eased himself down to the edge before flipping his body and beginning his descent. As his head passed the threshold, he was overcome once again by an oppressive fear. No longer was he beneath the stars, no longer walking the open road. The concrete tube offered no comfort as its walls closed in around him. The silence was almost unbearable—no buzzing insects or chirping birds or baying cattle; nothing save the sound of blood rushing through his ears and what he swore was the echo of his heartbeat bouncing against the walls of the tube. He counted each step of the ladder as he went, trying the last trick in his book to steel his nerves.

He placed one foot on the ground, and then another, the chemical-clean smell intensifying with each step down. He held his eyes shut the whole way, his movements painfully slow. When at last he felt solid ground beneath his feet, his hands refused to lessen their grip on the ladder’s metal rungs. He counted in his mind, counted the seconds to what felt like an inevitable death. The seconds ticked by, yet nothing happened. After a minute, Richard forced his eyes to open. He blinked several times. He was in total darkness, only the faintest glimmer of the moon’s light making its way into the pit. But, as his eyes began to adjust, he spotted something protruding from the wall only a few feet from his left hand. Shoving down the childish instinct to remain still so the monsters wouldn’t see him, he felt his way to the left—still refusing to release his right hand’s grip on the ladder. He stretched out his left arm, fingers brushing plastic, and in a moment of recognition, flicked a finger up. The light-switch turned on with a dull click, and Richard had to shut his eyes against the bright fluorescent overhead lights as they sprang to life, an electrical hum filling the air. When his eyes finally adjusted and allowed him to see clearly, he found he did not know exactly what he was looking at.

The room was white, clean, and pristine. No dust littered the floor, except what Richard had carried down with him. The floor was polished cement, its only detail being a large drain in the center of the room, partially covered by a long metal table. From the walls hung what Richard could only describe as the tools of a doctor: an assortment of knives, saws, tubing, gauze, scoopers, pliers, and needles—things Richard had little experience with and could only identify from television or the occasional doctor’s visit.

From the opposite end of the room, a wall of black-screened monitors reflected Richard’s face. He approached the monitors, staring in disbelief at his reflection. He looked wretched, his skin clinging to his frame, hair tangled and oily, eyes sunken into his skull. Blood and mud stained his ragged clothing, and all at once, he became aware of the physicality of his pain—the revelation of Claire’s death had left him with no thoughts for the state of his body, but seeing his reflection thrust his condition to the forefront of his mind. His entire body ached, muscles burning with each movement. He hissed through his teeth as he inspected the leg the scissor-tail had pecked, dried blood fusing his jeans to his skin. He felt the urge to cry, but in his dehydrated state, his eyes offered up no tears. He tried to turn away, head pounding from the bright lights, but he staggered and fell against the desk. He groped for the desk’s chair, pulling it out and falling into it, breathing heavily and covering his eyes with a hand.

The desk shook as he sat, and when he removed his hand from his eyes, he saw that the monitors were on, the mouse now lying at a different angle. The screens now showed a pale blue, and the central monitor asked for a password. But above that sat a text box, presenting a username.

ForbiddenFruitMedia

Richard stared at the username, unsure of what to make of it. He looked around the surface of the desk, praying that the computer’s owner was so careless as to leave the password on something like a sticky note. But it was not the case, so Richard set about throwing open the many drawers and cabinets of the desk: In the one to his left, he discovered a small collapsible tripod, and in the drawer above, a digital camcorder, along with an ensemble of wires and cables. Richard closed the drawers, the periphery of his mind anxiously working through their possible uses. He tugged open the drawer on his right and looked inside, eyes settling on a small leather-bound notebook. He snatched the book up, unwrapping its leather strap and opening to the first page.

There, in clean handwriting, he began to read.

March 8th, 2000-

Actor: Female, 5’9, 139 lbs. 38 years old. Introduced herself as Cameron Davis. Acquired from the highway around 2 am, 36 hours ago. Her car had a flat, nail in the front right tire. I’d been dropping nails from the overpass.

The scene: Auction winner requests (100,000$ upon completion) the removal of all toenails and fingernails, followed by each individual digit, before removing a single eye to be dropped into the actor’s mouth as she watches (a bit redundant, in my opinion).

Post shoot reflection: Update account. No mouth play—at least, not until I acquire the tools necessary to keep the actor’s mouth open long enough to get a proper shot. Forced to give $50,000 discount for failure to deliver performance as promised.

“What…” Richard whispered with a shaky voice. His stomach rose into his throat as the implication of the words he’d read settled within him.

The next entry began,-

October 4th, 2000-

Actor: Male, 6’3, 221 lbs. 27 years old. Introduced himself as Kevin Hill. Acquired from the highway around 7 pm, 6 hours ago. He’d been hitchhiking. Said he was out exploring the country before settling down. I sedated him the moment he shut the door.

The Scene: Auction winner requests ($170,000) that I carve lines spanning the length of the Actor’s body, beginning with shallow lines, followed by ever deeper cuts until their flesh is easily peeled from his bones. (A large bid, but a larger job still. It will take many hours to complete to the bidder’s satisfaction.)

Post shoot reflection: The actor lasted 3 hours, even with the administration of an IV to prolong life. Died shortly after I began the process of peeling skin. Fortunately, the bidder was satisfied and paid in full.

Richard turned the page, and then another, and then another; on and on the accounts went, each detailing the gruesome deaths of helpless “actors”. Richard kept turning until his eyes skimmed a familiar name.

June 24, 2014-

Actor: Male, 5’7, 157 lbs. 24 years old. Introduced himself as Luis Marin. Acquired from the church, 8 hours ago. He’d been traveling after college, on his way to visit several state parks before starting his job hunt. His car had broken down, and the police sent him my way. We talked for a while as we drove. He was so thankful that I was helping him get to Wichita, and thankful to God that he’d broken down where he did. We talked much about God. He said his parents raised him in the faith, but had sadly died a few years ago. I sedated him thirty minutes after leaving, about 8 hours ago, once I realized no one would notice if he was gone.

The Scene: Auction winner requests ($250,000) that I slowly pour hydrofluoric acid over the actor’s body.

Post shoot reflection: A perfect shoot. The actor maintained consciousness far longer than anticipated. Bidder paid in full.

Richard barely had time to process Luis’s fate, as his eyes were already drifting to the next and final entry.

August 2nd, 2024-

Actor: Female, 5’7, 120 lbs. 17 years old. I shouldn’t have done this. I should have just taken her home, or better yet, kept driving. But Claire-

Richard slammed the notebook shut. No, no, he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t handle this. If her hand, still tucked up within his shirt, wasn’t enough, then this was far, far too much. He held one hand against the leather notebook, the other over his face. Inside, his body was a storm of emotions, all with no outlet of relief: Grief. Sorrow. Despair. All welling up within him, mixing into a pure concoction of the darkest parts of a man’s soul. He sat frozen, his head pounding, his eyes craving tears that would not come, his stomach threatening to eject non-existent bile. Richard had never felt so empty in his life, like an unused vessel sitting in the corner of an abandoned home.

‘HAVE YOU NO HATE IN YOUR HEART?’

The scissor-tails words echoed between his ears. At first, Richard refused them purchase. Then he pictured… Jeremy. Yes, Jeremy, his kind face smiling as he slowed to a stop next to Claire’s car and offered her a ride. He imagined the relief that flooded Claire as she hopped in the car with a man she thought she knew.

He had to know.

With a shaky hand, Richard reopened the journal.

But Claire was so… helpless, and trusting, and her phone was dead along with any hope of tracking her. I couldn’t let the opportunity pass me by. Sasha’s been begging me to buy her a new horse…

The Scene: Auction winner requests ($350,000) that the camera be positioned directly above the actor’s face and that her heels be clipped so that her body will slowly drain of blood. When questioned, the auction winner said they simply want to watch the life drain slowly from her eyes.

Post shoot reflection: I made sure to clip the actor’s posterior tibial artery. She bled out in approximately 45 minutes. The Auction winner was satisfied and paid in full.

RETURN TO PREVIOUS FILE? PART FIVE

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The moon glared like the eye of a devilish hound on the hunt. Richard stumbled down Yellow Bowl, pausing here and there to shake the cramps from his legs. Though night had fallen, the cloudless sky allowed the moon to light his way. The fields lay bathed in silver, and a calm hush had settled over the land. Crickets chirped in the grass, and gravel crunched beneath Richard’s feet as he walked.

As he neared the effigy, he saw that what he thought had been a trick of the mind was in fact true; the many strung-up catfish heads still hung suspended from the wire—but in reverse. River muck leaked from their fly-riddled mouths, falling upwards to the stars. Their rotten stench brought forth visions of the river, of Richard flailing beneath its murky waters.

The hazy remnant of Richard’s rational mind was horrified, but not by the physics-defying catfish. Rather, it was repulsed by Richard’s lack of a normal reaction. He questioned, not for the first time, if any of this was, in fact, real—if at any moment he could expect himself to wake from this nightmarish dream. But then, did he really want to return to his own nightmarish life? This thought struck his mind like lightning and made his eyes dizzy—the kind of thought men cannot stand to face for fear of what it will do to their sanity. Richard shook himself and pressed on, ignoring the prickly sensation of being watched by the catfish’s hollow eyes.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead as he walked. The ground beneath him, having spent hours baking in the August sun, radiated warmth, and a westward breeze was blowing in from across the pasture to his right. Dim specks of yellow floated over the grass; lighting bugs out for their nightly stroll. Richard slowed his pace as he stared at the bugs, remembering nights spent with Claire on their back porch, watching as the elusive bugs phased in and out of existence. That had been their spot, their retreat from the world; a safe place for both father and daughter, something Richard could always count on if the season was right and Claire needed to talk.

The cattle in the field paid no attention to the glowing bugs floating above their sleeping heads. Richard picked up his pace again as he neared the bend in the road—he figured he would stop at the pull-off to examine the car once more. He’d grown so hungry and thirsty, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t miss a bottle of water or a candy bar lying under a seat in the sedan.

But as he rounded the corner, his hope for sustenance was shattered. The sedan was gone. He broke out into what his weakened body considered to be a sprint, skidding to a stop where the car had been parked only a short while ago. He checked the riverbank to see if it had rolled down into the water, but the river was clear. He got down on hands and knees, inspecting the dusty gravel for tracks, but found none. Panic swelled in his chest as his more animalistic instincts took over. He threw himself into the piles of trash outlining the pull-off, checking over every empty bottle of beer or water and scavenging through countless discarded candy wrappers and chip bags; he didn’t find a single crumb.

Richard clutched at gravel, then threw his head back and screamed into the night sky, “SHIT!”. He cursed and hurled stones into the river, one after another, until his arms ached. This was not an anger of despair or defeat; it was the anger of the body, the rage of a starved man whose hope of relief had been ripped away by forces beyond his control. He stomped across the lot, ears buzzing, heart pounding—

‘WOOF!’

The sound startled Richard, so much so that as he tried to turn, he lost his balance and fell face-first into the dirt. He groaned as he lay there, rolling onto his back before opening his eyes. Blossom, Annie Reed’s golden retriever, was standing with her snout directly over him. With her large pink tongue she licked Richard’s face, smearing saliva and dirt across his cheeks. Richard lay there dumbfounded. Slowly, he reached up a hand to scratch behind Blossom’s ear. She lay herself down next to Richard, head on his chest, tail rapidly thumping against the ground. Richard put his head back down, eyes gazing up at the stars. The Big Dipper shone brightly against the blackness of space; Claire had had a phase a few years back where she swore she wanted to become an astrologist when she grew up. She’d spent hours reading books about space, studying star-charts, pestering him and Sarah for a telescope. This was in the midst of Richard trying to self-start his graphic design business, so money was tight. Nonetheless, he’d managed to save up enough to buy Claire a hobbyist’s telescope for her thirteenth birthday. It was still sitting in her bedroom, along with the rest of her belongings he and Sarah refused to clean out.

Richard gently moved Blossom’s head and stood. Damn his hunger. Damn his thirst. Richard had to get out of here. For Claire.

He started walking, turning left at the pull-off to continue down the road. Heavy panting drew his eyes down to his side. Blossom padded along with him, a joyous look in her eyes, her tongue lolling out of her mouth. Despite it all, Richard could not help but grin at the dog.

“Good girl,” he said.

Wind rustled the overgrown reeds that sprouted along the right side of the road, a coarse, whispy sound that scratched at Richard’s brain. After walking for a few minutes, he came within sight of Jeremy Wright’s house; Not a single light inside or out was on, and neither Jeremy’s truck nor his wife’s car was parked outside. Richard was not surprised. Whatever he was stuck in right now, he figured he was in it alone.

Blossom stretched her mouth wide and yawned.

‘At least,’ he thought, ‘alone in the human sense.’

Richard was tempted to search the house to see if there was food or water inside. But as he stepped toward the gate, Blossom began to whine and sat down on the far end of the road, whimpering with each step Richard took. Eyes on blossom, Richard extended a hand towards the gate. Blossom stood, and her whimpering plea turned into a snarling growl as Richard’s hand grazed the metal gate. He quickly retracted it and backed away from the house.

He continued to walk, Blossom sticking close to his side. The dog’s reaction made him uneasy, and the longer he walked, the more anxious he became. Head on a swivel, he was continuously looking over his shoulder or across the field or into the trees, unsure of what exactly he was looking for. He kept waiting for… something. Anything. He listened closely for the familiar sound of the scissor-tail’s call, but all he heard was the ambiance of drifting reeds and singing crickets. He slowed his pace as he passed the overgrown fence on the left side of the road, once again eying Blossom as he approached it. She began to whine once more.

“Gah,” Richard grunted. He was so far out of his depth. But the fish were floating, so as far as he was concerned, sense no longer mattered. Hesitantly, he kneeled before the dog. “Blossom, girl, are you…just, why are you following me?”

Blossom barked once and continued down the road, tail wagging behind her. Richard sighed and followed, the message clear—he was the one doing the following, not her. He tried to clear his mind and focus on the present. He had to finish the trail, and Blossom, as far as he could tell, was leading him to the end.

This horizontal stretch of Yellow Bowl was only a half mile, and Richard crossed it quickly. If he hadn’t been in the situation he was in, he would have described the night as downright peaceful. A nice, warm breeze, sleeping cattle, the mesmerizing blinking of distant windmills, it all helped to ease his worried mind. He was so caught up in his surroundings that he barely noticed when he reached the next right turn in the road. He rounded the corner, quickly arriving at the driveway to Annie Reed’s farmhouse. The road stretched up before him, this side of Yellow Bowl consisting of gentle rising and falling slopes until it rejoined with the main road. Richard was determined to reach the end of the trail, but stopped when Blossom began to bark.

Richard half-turned, glancing over his shoulder at the dog. She stood a little way up the driveway to Annie’s house, her eyes like two obsidian dots in the dim moonlight. As soon as Richard met her gaze, she turned her head and started up the driveway. Richard hesitated before jogging to catch up with the dog. He followed her up to the steps of the house; it was there she turned right, heading for a decrepit farmer’s shack made up of rusted metal sheets and termite-ridden wood posts. Leaning against the side of the shack was what Richard assumed to be Blossom’s own shoddy doghouse, a lean-to of plywood, red paint chipping off and littering the ground.

He faltered as he approached, coming to a standstill about ten feet away.

A putrid, rancid smell invaded his nostrils, pouring from the entrance to the doghouse. Blossom seemed not to care as she joyfully dashed inside. Richard could see her rooting around, claws scrapping against the plywood floor, before exiting with something held within her jaw. It wasn’t until she dropped it at Richard’s feet that his mind realized what it was.

A hand. A pale, blood-smeared hand. Blossom looked up expectantly at him, dark eyes beaming with pride. Richard’s blood ran cold as he stared at the thing. Its palm was up; no jewelry adorned its fingers. Richard looked from Blossom to the hand, but the dog held a steady gaze. Slowly, Richard kneeled before the hand. He lifted it by its index finger, pinching it between two of his own. Its slim bones suggested it had once belonged to a woman—its lack of wrinkles indicating a younger one. He twisted the hand to examine its backside, dropping it as soon as he laid eyes on the crescent-shaped mark between the crux of the thumb and forefinger.

He’d only ever seen one such hand with a mark like that in his entire life—the hand of his daughter. Richard suddenly forgot how to breathe. He remained kneeling, right hand propped up on his knee, where it had held his daughter’s. Blossom stretched out her head to lick his fingers. In one swift motion, Richard batted the dog’s head away with a heavy hand, causing her to yelp and retreat within her dog-house. Richard stood, lungs beginning to hyperventilate.

“No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no,” he whispered between ragged breaths as he fell back to his knees, the last layer of sanity peeling from his shattered mind. Claire was dead. She was really dead, and here was the proof. He thought back to her still-untouched room, frozen in time from the day she disappeared. Her popstar posters and make-up cabinet and stuffed closet and locked journal and wilting birthday flowers and dirty laundry basket and messy bed—all of it pointless and ruined and gone, fate sealed by a moment of recognition next to the bed of a dog.

Richard could feel the last wisps of his sanity melt away as his mind abandoned him. His legs gave out as he fell to his side, chest heaving as mournful, tear-ridden screams wracked his body. Claire was really gone, as was any remnant of hope or faith or joy left in Richard’s life.

Richard lost control of his mind, his thoughts running rampant with memories of Claire: Days spent drawing chalk-houses in the driveway. Letting her put makeup on his face for a tea party. Her laughing at his every bad joke. Watching her school musical. Witnessing her first steps—each memory tainted by the fact that there would be no more. Her book had been closed, for seemingly no reason, and Richard would never read another page.

The sun rose as he wept, the sky turning gray, then orange, then yellow. His tears soaked the dog-shit stained ground beneath his head. Blossom checked on him every so often, her tongue licking the salt from his tears before lying next to him in the dirt. Soon, he had no tears left to cry due to severe dehydration. His stomach no longer growled, and the thought of food repulsed him. His skin burned beneath the sun, his flesh cracking and flaking from exposure. Whether it was the moment he realized Claire was gone, or in the hours of grief that followed, it did not matter; Richard had resigned himself to death. To rest. To forgetting.

The moon was in the sky once more when he heard the soft flapping of wings. He lay on his side, curled up tight, his body reminiscent of thoughtless days within his mother’s womb.

‘GET UP’.

All at once, his senses returned to him, but his body remained frozen, a thin glimmer of consciousness struggling to the surface.

‘I SAID, GET UP.’

Almost involuntarily, Richard felt his limbs begin to move, muscles burning with a searing pain; hours of disuse demanding repayment. He rolled to his back, lungs gasping for breath between bouts of pain. He sat up, eyes rolling, unable to focus. Three birds swayed in front of him before merging into one scissor-tail sitting on Blossom’s dog house. The bird eyed him a moment before opening its mouth, a voice like wind rushing through a deep canyon pouring forth.

‘HAVE YOU NO HATRED IN YOUR HEART?’

Richard eyed the bird, its question rattling between his ears. The bird had talked. The bird had… talked? Richard blinked, eyes weary from tears. Hate sounded like a foreign word to him. He, a man who knew only sorrow and loss. He tried to muster up his voice, but it was barely a whisper. “Hate?”

‘YES. HATE. HATRED FOR WHAT HAS BEEN DONE TO YOU. HATRED FOR WHAT HAS BEEN TAKEN FROM YOU. DO YOU FEEL IT? DO YOU FEEL IT BOILING UP WITHIN YOU, ITS FLAMES GROWING UPON A BED OF DESPAIR?’

The bird sat rigid and unmoving, its tiny maw stretched far too wide, as if the voice speaking through it was too large for its minuscule frame. Richard stared at the bird, pondering its words, as well as the possibility that he had finally lost his mind. Birds don’t talk…but neither do fish fly.

Richard searched himself and tried to peer into his heart and mind. There was anger, yes, but not hate; and the anger was directionless, or, rather, it was aimed at what lay outside of his control: Life, fate, God. A purposeless anger at the hand he’d been dealt that only served to drive him further into despair.

He’d never been an angry man, never really seen the point. He’d seen his friends get angry, especially when they were all young and drunk. He’d seen the shouting matches and brawls and clenched fists and hurtful words, all of which never resulted in anything good. He’d learned to keep his cool, to not engage. If ever he felt the emotion building within him, he’d long since decided it was best to disengage entirely.

The seconds stretched on, but Richard found he could not answer the bird’s question. His body tensed as he began anticipating the worst, and the urge to flee pricked the back of his mind. But before he worked up the courage, the bird spoke once more.

‘NOT QUITE’

The scissor-tail stretched its wings, taking flight and landing a little way down Annie’s driveway, still facing Richard.

‘DO YOU WISH TO AVENGE YOUR DAUGHTER?’

The question caught him off guard. Despite his current state, the answer found him quickly.

“Yes, more than anything,” Richard spoke to the bird.

‘ARE YOU WILLING TO GIVE ANYTHING?’

Again, without a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “Yes.”

‘THEN KEEP WALKING.’

The scissor-tail took flight as a wet, slobbery tongue descended upon Richard’s face.

PROCEED TO NEXT FILE? PART SIX
RETURN TO PREVIOUS FILE? PART FOUR