None of this mattered at the end of the night, when he walked into his depressing trailer, flicked the light on, and collapsed onto his creaking computer chair. It all fell away. He was alone once again, and this state seemed to be increasing in frequency. Bullock, alone, leaning back in his chair. Watching something on his monitor, listening to the night sounds beyond his window.

He tried to find a significant other, but he would state quite often, "I don't really have the energy to deal with it." So he wouldn't deal with it, and therefore he remained alone. Lonely and alone, his days blurred together like an impressionistic painting. Each brushstroke representations of his stubbornness and stagnation.

Luckily, his imagination ballooned, and exploded, and sprayed absurdist filth in all directions. Surreal imagery slapped against the trailer's walls, and slid down, leaving a residual trail. He imagined poetic cockroaches reciting soliloquies, their antennae conducting like batons. He imagined dramatic landscapes that shot off like bullets into the distance. He imagined run-of-the-mill workers having gothic conversations under candlelight. He imagined nooses dangling from the ceiling. They barely held on, swinging ever so slightly. He could see a gigantic pill bottle jangling just above the trailer's roof. And then whatever was holding it would snap, and bang, boom, flatten his home forever.

He imagined delightful kisses, pecks of lust, and shrills of adoration. He imagined her, that beauty to end all beauty. So clear were her luscious pink-lipsticked lips. Quivering. He blinked. The monitor, black. The room, black. And morning light peeking at him from the blinds.

"Dude, that guy is a prick-fuck."

"A prick-fuck? What the fuck kinda insult is that?"

"I don't know, you know... a prick-fucker motherfuck."

"You're just sayin words, dude. How dare you diminish the greatness that is Bartholomew."

"No. No. His name is Bartholomew?"

"Yeah, bro, that specimen of a man is ol' mew. We call him Mew. Or rather, I call him Mew."

"Oh yeah? You call him Mew?"

"Ow, you fuck, why'd you do that?"

"Because where's your loyalty? Fuck Mew. Why don't you suck him off if you're so enamored by him?"

"Maybe I will."

"What?"

"You heard me, you shit-prick-stain. I'll suck him off right good."

"You gay?"

"No, I'm not, and that'd make it all the better."

"Dude, what in the flying fuck are you talking about? You gonna put Mew's penis in your mouth?"

"I might if you keep testin me."

"Well shit, Demetrius, don't do anything brash... like suck Mew off."

"I'm not, but you're being a prick-ass; give Mew a chance. He is an intelligent man. I know he looks oafish, but there's an entire ocean of substance under the surface."

"Ok, ok. Damn. I'll take your word for it, I guess."

"You wanna meet him?"

"Meet Mew? Sure, why not. He better not be a dumbass, though, or I'm out."

"Eh, Mew, over here."

"Hey."

"Sup, my name is Rodgerio."

"Rodgerio, that's a strange name, bro."

"It is? What about fuckin Bartholomew? That ain't much better."

"At least it's sophisticated. You can't say the same for Rodgerio. Sounds like your parents threw random shit together and called it a day."

"Oh yeah? Well, Bartholomew sounds like... the bible or some shit."

"That's the best retort you're packin'? Man, Demetrius told me you were chill."

"He is cool, Mew; give him a chance."

"Nah, fuck this. I'm out. I know when I'm not wanted."

"Demetrius... is he cryin'?"

"Yeah, he is. Thanks a lot, you prick-butt-ass-fuck-wallet."

"Yeah? Well, at least my name isn't Bartholomew. What kinda name is that... like the fuckin... bible... or... fuckin fucks... Bartholomew... what a riot."

Daddy, do you know where the water gun is?

Tim, you mean the super soaker?

Yea

It’s in the shed. It’s unlocked.

He’s a swell kid, isn’t he? All rosy cheeked and ready for the life ahead of him, you and I? Well, you and I, we’re beyond the pale my old friend. We should be hanging in that shed on hooks. Put us out to pasture, right? It’s good meat. Except you, you’re all skin, and some bone. A real bony bastard, you are. Hey man, you know I am just fuckin with you, right? We’re all good, don’t you worry your bony little head. Just eat your cake, and shut the fuck up.

So after that, my walk home was creeptastic. I heard sounds, and the sounds followed me. They were like bird chirps or something. More like squawks, these god-awful squawks. I ran after that. Heart pumping along as my legs became drenched in cortisol. I could almost feel the muscles pulsating beneath my skin. But I got home and shut and locked my apartment door. I tossed my keys across the room. They landed on this bright blue hook. I dove into my bed and covered my head with my red flannel comforter. Like a fucking child, I listened for more squawks. Nothing. It was all quiet. I relaxed and unclenched my fists. Sleep came fast like a knife in my gut, and I could still hear echoes of those damned squawks as I drifted to sleep.

In the bookstore the next day. A nest was found, hidden away in the rafters. Big bird heads dangled from the ceiling tiles. Their bright black eyes simmered before me. Beaks bellowed a terrible sound. And that mannequin, that mannequin was the source of their ire. Bulging bird shoulders flexed, pecking at the lifeless thing. The eyes still creeped me out. The mannequin's eyes, but now it was more than that. I was more afraid of the larger-than-life birds eating the mannequin's polyurethane skin.

They reared their gigantic heads back and gulped down its limbs. And eventually hacked them back up. They viewed us, my brother and I. And my father, laid up in his bed upstairs. We were not enemies to these avian intruders. At least for now, when I walk home at night, I no longer have to be creeped out by the mannequin's cold eyes. Only the squawks.

I have grown increasingly cynical regarding sexual attraction. If anything, the entire process bores me. The fucked up part is, I have no control over my own body. I cannot choose a diverging path. That path was set in stone for me when homo erectus bipedally traversed this planet. When homo erctus got an erection and passed on his seed, it set in motion me, a mere sexual cog in the greater gears of human reproduction.

I am very obviously aware that when you find love and sex together. It is an incredible aspect of human life. But even that is simple chemical reactions firing in the brain to create bonds, and therefore reproduce, care for that reproduction, and flourish.

It's a trifle to me now. I still am but a slave to my own sexual desires, but I attempt to ignore them. But, say, for instance, I am zoning out, which I am likely to do in certain situations. And a woman walks by with a nice buttocks. Inevitably, I will stare. Not even by conscious choice; it's some need to ogle that butt. But it serves no true purpose; it's the same to me as going to a strip club. What is the point? To be blue-balled? To have unobtainable sex wiggled before my face? Boring.

These reasons directly tie to why I do not enjoy casual sex. For me, sex is a deeply intimate experience. To commodify it and devalue the level of intimacy it requires blows my mind. Not to knock those who participate in this practice; more power to you, but it is not my cup of tea.

I suppose the main point is the underlying angst these sexual desires instill in me. To see abject beauty fluttering before me, and at the same time, understand deep in my soul there is no avenue to pursue it. That creates the angst. So I think, dubiously, it would be a far greater life if all sexual appetites and romantic hunger ceased to be.

This line of thought is dangerous, and I even understand it is a fallacy. For if this truly came to be, I would no doubt miss all of it. It would be similar to if food lost its taste. Or maybe even if we as a species no longer were required to piss or shit. Would we miss squatting over the toilet and dropping the kids off at the pool? Some undoubtedly would, and still others would say good riddance.

This essay's topic is a muddled mess. In the end, the only true point I have is: sometimes when I consider my own sexual desires and yearning for romanticism. It makes me sad, and that sadness creates disdain, and that disdain causes cynicism. But at least I am aware of it. That yearning makes me human, and there's nothing wrong with that.

"The pure evergreen fecundity of us, ever more greener, ever more verdant in need and want. We are but slaves to our habits, but slaves to our desires; we can no more truly control ourselves than the Earth can control its spin. We can control ourselves no more than gravity can control its suck. We make new, we entwine, these gestalt repopulating needs, we are reproducers. And these divine rites, sex and love, can humanize even the alien."

A tome sits in a library in Monowi, Nebraska. The librarian, Fellipe, was appointed caretaker. As was his father before him, and his father's father before him, and his father's father's father before him—a chained lineage of watchers and keepers.

Inside, all contained human knowledge. A baroque, man-made testament to the ingenuity of our race. It is sought by many. To some, a rumor; to others, a sacred artifact known only through whispers.

Fellipe, a forty-one-year-old former drug addict, spent the majority of his days in quiet contemplation. He meditated in the morning, dusted the book jackets in the afternoon, and typed away on his computer in the evening.

And that's not to say Fellipe did not field phone calls concerning the tome because he did. Just last week, some loon called him in the middle of the night.

"Hello?"

"Hello, yes, why are you calling this late?"

On the other end of the line, the voice of a very obvious youth, voice cracking and all.

"I was just wondering about the tom-"

"No, nope, it isn't real. You fucking kids can't keep this up. Some of us have lives. Some of us need sleep. I suggest you spend more time in the real world and less time in the clouds."

He hung up. Fellipe fielded at least ten similar calls a week. And the callers ranged from snot-nosed brats to doctoral candidates doing research for their dissertations. They all got the boot just the same.

You see, Fellipe had a penchant for extremism; it was in his blood. Like his father, the old curmudgeonly bastard, Fellipe was fast-tracking himself toward the same fate, and he was not angry about it. In fact, he embraced his cynical future.

The library was nameless and, in terms of architectural beauty, ugly. With a shit-brown facade and jutting angular dimensions, Monowi had spent considerable tax dollars attempting to convince Fellipe to renovate. He refused.

Inside the barren book dump, dust caked quickly. It was more surprising to anyone that Fellipe still retained lung functionality. Not to say he didn't cough, but he usually took precautions and wore a bandana wrapped around his face.

Not a single soul in a fifty-mile radius ever entered the library. And that was for one simple reason: Fellipe did not allow book borrowing. Instead, he hoarded his collection of first editions, flimsy paperbacks, and matchstick-thin children's books to himself. He read voraciously. He would not dare risk the chance of some dumb-shit borrowing a book and never returning it. This idea awoke him at night from deep slumbers, sweating profusely.

Teenagers did occasionally wander in seeking employment. But this did not end well; Fellipe would herd them out swinging a fly swatter and yelling

"I don't need no fucking help."

Incidents such as this compounded the stories that were told concerning Fellipe. Local teens whispered under underpasses about the surly old man held up in his haunted library.

His life was one of solipsistic servitude, and that suited him just fine. It was everyone else who couldn't handle his intensity. In the end, Fellipe only wished to be left alone to his own devices. To read, dust, write, and watch over the shared history of human civilization in solitude.

PART 2

Demetrius Salinger, an African-American twenty-something living in New York. He attended New York University. His major: anthropology with a minor in psychology. He and his girlfriend Charlotte Brant sat on his bed. They argued, but not explosively; it was a quiet argument. Demetrius used large words, and Charlotte kept smacking her forehead. It was an argument about Demetrius' plans, that plan being his pilgrimage.

Demetrius had heard of a book. A book filled with disparate entries spanning from the birth of writing to now. At first he ignored it all and dismissed it as outlandish hyperbole. But the seed had been planted, so far back in his brain stem that it had almost fused with his spine.

So, his plan created in haste was a road trip. From New York to Monowi, Nebraska, his calculations indicated roughly twenty-one hours of total drive time. This estimation, of course, did not take into account car troubles, dire emergency bathroom visits, or more ominously, unforeseen circumstances. The last could entail any number of happenings, from alien abduction to a serial killer kidnapping him and stringing him up in a basement.

But this topic was the main thrust of each of their arguments. Charlotte argued how dangerous and absurd the whole idea was. While Demetrius argued for wanderlust and discovery beyond what Charlotte could seemingly understand.

They appeared at an impasse. But Charlotte was not done; she finally offered to join Demetrius on the road. He knew this was coming, so his canned response was blurted out.

"No, baby, I don't want you to be involved in my nonsense."

"I want to be all up in your nonsense. I just don't want you to go, that's all."

"I know, I know. Listen, this is just something I gotta do, ya know? I'll be back before you can shake that ass for anyone else. I promise." He grinned sheepishly.

"Ok... But take too long and it'll be shakin to my heart's content."

They embraced. And Demetrius' pilgrimage had the go-ahead. It required hours of packing. In one large blue valise went toothbrush, toothpaste, ten pairs of blue jeans, twenty-one pairs of underwear, ten t-shirts spanning the colors of the rainbow, an assortment of boredom-killers: novels, encyclopedias, anthropology textbooks, Rubik's cubes, jigsaw puzzles, a ringed notebook and various writing utensils.

Demetrius vowed to document the journey in that very same notebook. And although his prowess for prose was lacking, he thought it better to attempt, if for nothing more than posterity.

On the day he stood in front of his Ford Focus, a rusted hunk of shit he purchased before matriculation. Under the passenger side wheel well, volumes of an unidentified fluid continuously leaked. Every night, a large puddle formed, and every morning he mopped it up.

The only positive attribute he could ascribe to his Focus was: it ran. And that alone was a miracle in itself. Red paint chipped, revealing the copper patina underneath. It had eaten through four sets of brake pads, and, the brake lines busted last year. All in all, Demetrius had sunk one to two thousand dollars into it, and at this point he adhered to the sunk cost fallacy because to him, regardless of the car's idiosyncrasies, it was still his baby.

He got an oil change for her. And a general tune-up, which further inflated the sunk cost, but was required. Especially if he expected her to brave fifteen hundred miles. He loaded her up and said his goodbyes to Charlotte and his parents. And with one final nod, he was on the road.

New York traffic initially sent Demetrius into a tizzy; behind a particularly slow Sunday driver, he lost his cool and laid on the horn. The old woman driving, hunched over like Quasimodo, rolled her window down. Shoved out a wrinkled hand and gave him the finger. Demetrius scoffed, but did nothing about it.

Once officially out of New York and making his way into Pennsylvania, he sighed with relief. No more butt-clenching; he could relax and cruise. But his hopes were dashed when a sudden irrepressible urge to piss struck him. And stranded in the middle of what seemed like miles upon miles of interstate, he wiggled contemptuously. His bladder filled. And filled, and filled until he could no longer take it. He slammed on the brakes in such a pissed-off state that as he exited the vehicle, his left foot snagged on the seatbelt and catapulted him forward; his stomach hit the guard rail, squeezing a trickle of piss from his peehole. He groaned. Unzipped, pissed, and drove off, cursing.

Despite the tribulations Pennsylvania presented him, the rest of the ride went smoothly. He admired the overcast sky, which always seemed about to burst with rain droplets, but didn't. All around him, forests peeked over the interstate; the tops of the trees, verdant and swaying, seemed to him to look like dancing disco afros.

But as the sun set in the distance, streaming tendrils of orange and grey swirled above. And night fell with a hush. In the car, the encroaching darkness elicited many yawns from Demetrius, and as his eyes grew heavier and heavier, he searched for a rest stop.

He found one. He pulled in and shut off the engine. Rolling the window down, the din of several dozen crickets echoed. For a moment, Demetrius just clenched his eyes shut, listening. Each chirp louder than the last, and to him, for some unknowable reason, it felt romantic. Perhaps it was the divine moon just above, or perhaps it was the absence others. Whatever it was, he leaned back. Cranking the seat, he lay there supine, detailing in his mind the craters of the moon.

He retrieved the ringed notebook and a very expensive gold pen from his valise. And began to write the first passage in his journal.

August-8

Hello. My name is Demetrius Sallinger. I am a twenty-four-year-old anthropology major from New York University. I am not entirely sure how to write, well, at least. But I will try. Ever since I was little, I've had this fascination with human beings, at least more obsessive than most maybe. It's the way we walk, the way we talk, the way we are capable of truly heinous acts, and truly glorious good. It makes sense; hence the anthropology major. I guess what I am trying to say is, to me, the world is a largely scary place. And we inhabit it, with all our greed and ambivalence. Our history is therefore, more important than ever. So when I heard of this book, a book detailing all of that history, it struck me as insanity. It couldn't exist and most likely didn't. But inside my stomach, I could feel this indescribable pull toward it. Some otherworldly lust for the knowledge it purportedly contained. It may be a sham. It may not exist. It may be the same as me driving fiftmingleddddddndred miles in search of Zeus, or the Zodiac killer. Nonetheless, it is worth the effort. So, from this day forward. I will write in this journal, whatever comes to me, whatever naive kernels of information regarding the trip I can conjure. And hopefully when I am finished, I will have a workable draft of some kind.

Demetrius closed his eyes. And he slept there in the mostly abandoned parking lot, listening contentedly to the sounds of the night.

PART 3

Fellipe's stinging alarm awakened him. He tumbled from his bed. He flicked on the coffee pot. Outside his kitchen window, juevenile deliquents, that's what he called them, chucked rocks across the street. A few of those rocks bounced off car windshields. Fury raged through Fellipe in a snap, he flipped the window's lock, opened it and shoved his head out, and screamed

"You fucking useless, good-for-nothings. Go home, throw those fucking rocks at your parents' cars." He slammed the window shut. But one of the teens decided to respond, so the muffled retort was caught by Fellipe's keen ears. He opened the window again. "What? What the fuck did you say?" His cheeks jiggled as spit bubbled from the corners of his mouth like a rabid raccoon.

The teens decided it was best to ignore him, and shuffled away. "Thought so" he muttered. Fellipe poured himself a cup of cheap, black coffee. And sat at his desk, rearranging papers: manuscripts and bills, unfinished letters, and tax documentation. He swept it all into a drawer. He sipped contemplatively at his coffee. His current preoccupation was one of borderline obsession, Fellipe fancied himself an unofficial historian. That title, seemed to be the only bright spot in an otherwise duldrum life.

He read massive volumes of histories on any number of subjects. War, meteorological shifts, evolutionary ideals, politically pointed non-fiction, and even entirely fictitious novels that had nothing at all to do with reality. The last appeared to be more for entertainment, but he avoided fantasy and sci-fi. He was a man of grounded ambition.

The sun moved across the sky, and so with it Fellipe moved across the library. A garrish pink feather duster in one hand, and in the other a second cup of coffee. With a much needed zip in his step, he dusted up and down hundreds of bookcases. He skipped. Every so often twirling, seeming to dance to some unheard song in his head.

When he finished, thick clouds of dust floated through sunbeams. Inevitably, each spec of it would settle to the floor, which created a paradoxical loop of dusting and sweeping.

But it was break time, and back in the compacted kitchen, with splintered wooden cabinets; and meticulously bleached white floor tiles. Fellipe slapped two balls of ground beef into a cast iron skillet. He pressed. They sizzled. Smoke whirled to the ceiling as he peppered and salted. His day almost always played out in similar fashion. And this was a point of pride, he often would state, to those who would listen. "I know where I'm going." A vague catchphrase, and perhaps a way to rationalize his hermitic lifestyle.

Cheeseburgers, seared nicely, and crispy french fries, golden brown and steaming. He bit down, rivulets of meat juice falling from his chin. He exclaimed and said something self-congratulatory. Taking a swig of his ice-cold beer, he leaned back in exaltation.

And after the hours of cleaning, the library shined nicely. Each book flush with one another, he admired the symmetry. But through the window, the sun had vanished. And night came. Adhering to tradition, the last of his cleaning resided in a furtive place. At the very northernmost corner, behind a particularly tall bookcase was a small room. And inside that room, stainless steel walls; and heated, polished wooden flooring. As he entered, he checked the thermometers. One for the tome's housing and one for the room itself. He carefully monitored these temperatures daily to combat degradation. They each read 68 degrees.

It was also hermetically sealed. None of these precautions were Fellipe's doing. That dignity fell to his great-grandfather Tomosio, a rather ingenious architect who left his indelible thumbprint on the tome's security and care. All together, Fellipe, in comparison to his forebears, provided nothing of substance to his family's sacrosanct oath to protect this book. But he tried.

He opened the velvety housing case, and admired. It gleamed under the fluorescent lights above. He considered, once again, the meritorious purpose behind it all. And concluded, he was in fact happy for the chance to safeguard humanity's histories. He shot one last glance at the gilded tome, and closed the casing. He doubled-checked temperatures. And sealed it all back up.

Through all of Fellipe's curmudgeonly bravado, his actual bedtime routine was rather childish. He brushed his teeth. He flossed his teeth. He applied a healthy smearing of some kind of cream to his face. He heated up a glass of milk in the microwave. But not too long, lest it be scalding and burn his fingers. He played smooth jazz, that was more akin to elevator musac, just dull enough to lull him to sleep. That, combined with the warm milk, and the two ambien he ingested, conked him out for the night. And he dreamt of dust and words.

PART 4

August-9

The rest of my drive through Pennsylvania was wholly uneventful. Scenery around me seemed to be repeating, still-marching trees stalwart in their existence and vehicles of every make and model, and color, and function. We all barreled down the road at seventy miles per hour, aware of each other, but in our own entranced states of disassociation.

Before I knew it, I was barrelling through the northern tip of Ohio. Of note: the smells, for the most part it was only the type of innocuous scent that really has no clearly definable notes. But occasionally, an overpowering stench of cow shit seeped over my cracked window. I had to roll it up. Currently I am eating lunch at a McDonald's somewhere in Toledo, Ohio. I am almost through this bovinely dull state, into Indiana; if I drive straight through, I should arrive in Monowi by nightfall.

Demetrius' foot pressed the gas pedal. The car revved down the interstate. Inside, he bit down on a piece of beef jerky. A dozen discarded wrappers lined the passenger seat floorboard. Music bumped, some hip-hop song, he nodded his head to the beat. It was rush hour, the herd of cars around him came to a standstill. Demetrius peered through the open window. A freshly waxed SUV idled next to him. In the back seat two small children sat silently, watching mounted screens behind the front seat headrests. They noticed his gaze. The little girl pushed her face against the glass and blew. Spittle flecks jumped from her inflating cheeks, breath fogging the window. The little boy just watched Demetrius with a strange, wise stare. Meanwhile, Demetrius, lost in thought could not break eye contact. A staring contest ensued, each party unwilling to concede. The little girl winked and the little boy raised his diminutive hand and gave him the finger.

Hours later, the pile of wrappers flooded over the top of the passenger seat, every snack consumed. Demetrius bounced back and forth doing the I have to pee dance. He got off on the next available exit. Stopping at a nearby gas station, he scurried inside.

The bathroom was so horrendously grotesque. To the point he had no choice but to shield his nose from the stench with his right arm. Inside the bowl, feces piled. The mirror was covered in fingerprints, and blood, and some unknown white substance. But his urge to pee circumvented all of this, he unzipped and streamed atop the pile, warmth unlocked latent smells. Demetrius gasped for breath. He skipped washing his hands.

But that smell seemed to follow him, sliding into a nearby aisle, he flapped his hands all around him, and finally the smell dissipated. He perused snacks: candy bars, protein bars, beef jerky, chips, gummy worms, gummy bears, cowtails and caramels, he piled one of each in his arms and then picked up four energy drinks, he waited in the queue. It was about mid-day, and the gas station was packed. Most of the customers seemed to be bearded caucasian men, truck drivers or locals. But Demetrius noticed through his periphery, two people unlike the rest. He slowly cranked his eyeball toward them.

A man, and a woman, around the man's neck, a chain. His tousled, greasy black hair swung as he whipped his head back and forth to a song that blasted through the speakers above. The woman, a thin but buxom blonde seemed unfazed. She held the end of that chain with authority. All the while, each bearded good ol boy unabashedly inspected them. A fat one finally asked the question.

"What's up with that chain?"

The buxom blonde rolled her eyes. And without speaking pointed at her companion. Fat guy shrugged.

"What?"

This caused both of the transients to scoff. Finally, she responded verbally.

"He's my slave."

"Oh, more power to yall. I guess."

Demetrius paid as fast as possible and left. He checked his GPS. He was close. Once through Iowa, his destination would be within reach. He sped down the interstate. The surrounding land morphed, rolling lush fields of green, and miles of uninterrupted horizon. Above, clear blue sky; and puffy white cloud formations. Wind whipped through his open window, caressing his cheek. He settled into the drive. Foot glued to the accelerator, time passed easily.

And apart from a wreck, construction, and a herd of cows crossing the road. He was able to disappear in his mind, at least for a time. He thought of Charlotte, that curly hair which always seemed to drape her right eyebrow. And her galvanizing smile, and pearly white teeth. He thought of the four freckles below her left cheek bone. He thought of how much he missed her. And then his mind wandered to the tome. He imagined it. Not only the contents contained inside, but its shape and texture. He could feel its significance shaking every cell in his body. And then the GPS pinged. He was about to cross the state border into Nebraska.

PART 5

Monowi, Nebraska is insignificant. As Demetrius rolled through the town, it fully dawned on him the extent of that insignificance. A barren wasteland of unpatronized shops, unused laundromats, dilapidated, abandoned houses with overgrown yards and busted out windows. In one yard, a plethora of grimey garden gnomes littered about, their eyeholes pointedly plucked out. To Demetrius, it appeared to be the land of some despotic leader, or communist controller. And despite a shiny happy sun above, below reeked with the stink of poverty, and depression.

A roving band of teenagers were the only other human souls he could see. He stopped near them. They turned. Each member of the group held a cigarette between their index and middle finger. Three boys, two girls and behind them, another boy no older than six-years-old. Demetrius rolled the window down. Their leader, or it seemed to be their leader, blew a thick bluish cloud of smoke in Demetrius' face. He inhaled, and hacked and coughed.

Under this kids left eye was a striating scar that ran all the way to his plump lips. They waited, watching Demetrius with apathetic leers. One of the girls cackled, and whispered to the six-year-old. Clearing his throat, Demetrius asked, "is there a library around here?"

The same girl barked with laughter. Their leader flicked his cigarette and approached the vehicle. He held one hand up to indicate to the others to stay put. They abided.

"Who are you, Mr.?" the leader asked.

"My name's Demetrius, I'm not from-"

"I know that. Why're you looking for the library?"

"I just wanted to speak with the owner."

"Fellipe?"

"Yes, if that's his name."

"Man, that guy is a prick. Don't know why you'd wanna talk to him."

"Just wanted to speak with him."

The kid took a lung-busting drag and licked his cracked lips. He pointed northeast. "Over the ridge there. Good luck."

As Demetrius pulled away, he could see the six-year-old hitting a cigarette with reckless abandon. It all seemed ominous, or strange, or unsettling and Demetrius could not shake this inscrutable dread. He shrugged it off and drove over the ridge.

The library's stern pillars poked up into Demitrius' view first. And then, the entire building, it was an extreme eyesore. It seemed to slant slightly to the right. Big, with a kind of ancient Greek architecture almost like the colliseum, excrement-brown with chipping paint. Wide windows with white architrave, and newspapers shoddily taped over every inch of the glass. Out front, the blades of grass looked to be on growth hormones, each blade wide enough to see vascular bundles, and high too, at least five inches. An easterly wind flooded over the ridge, dipping down the hill, and at the bottom, the library's precariously leaning black, marble pillars resided. They were pure aesthetic, not attached at all. And as gusts of even stronger winds slammed through the geared-up grass, Demetrius parked the car.

The library's front door was heavy with rusted wrought iron hinges, and one shined copper knocker, and directly in the center: a peephole. Demitrius shivered before it, and knocked the knocker. He heard nothing. He inched forward and placed his eye on the hole. Through it, he saw a jiggling iris, deep-ocean-blue.

"What the fuck do you want? Who the fuck are you?" The voice attached to the iris croaked.

"My name is Demitrius, I'm from-"

"Listen kid, I am not interested in whatever it is you're shilling, comprende?"

Demetrius could not help but smirk, but his lips trembled. "I'm not selling anything sir."

"Called me sir, eh? That's more than these little douchebags around here can manage. Why're you here?"

Demetrius could hear banging, and rustling paper from behind the door frame. "I am writing a paper, I'm an anthropology major. And, well..." he glanced askance at his car for a moment. Taking a deep breath he continued his lie "it's on America's librarians."

Fellipe did not respond, but his rattling breath reminded Demetrius he was still beyond the door. After ten seconds of relative silence, he placed his eye once again over the hole. He could see Fellipe inside, his neck and back bent forward. He seemed to struggle to intake a full breath, his face winced in pain. He turned.

"Why would you want to write a paper on librarians? What's so damndably fascinating about us?"

Demetrius backed away, and thought for a moment. He scratched the back of his neck.

"What's not fascinating? Your job occupation allows you to distribute human history, knowledge, and entertainment with ease. Books need to be preserved, and that's exactly what you do, right?"

"Eh, I wouldn't put it like that. In fact, I don't actually let anyone in, let alone touch my books. So I'm not really the ideal candidate for an interview, right?"

"Actually you are, you know, I heard about you from some teens down the road there." Demetrius pointed over the ridge. "They didn't seem to have a very high opinion of you."

Fellipe guffawed, and what sounded like knee slaps echoed. "Fuck them kids. Fucking good-for-nothing pricks. Smoking cigarettes, and walking around, and breaking windows. I wouldn't listen to their opinions, everybody has em, and not everyone deserves em."

Demitrius was not exactly silver tongued, he often considered himself useless when it came to social interactions. His feet hurt. His back hurt. He just wanted to sit down.

"It won't take long." He finally said.

Once again, Fellipe did not respond. And right above Demetrius a midnight-black cloud floated past. It opened up. Round droplets of ice cold rain plummeted. The drops slithered off his scalp and flooded down his chest, soaking him.

"Alright kid, come in, but you aren't to touch anything. Anything. And I mean that."

"Ok, I won't."

The large door creaked opened. Fellipe's hair was black, pulled back into a tight ponytail. He was white, the pallor of his skin reminded Demetrius of some creature of the night. He imagined fangs behind his curled, red lips. His clothing was baggy, at least two sizes too big. He wore a faded grey flannel, and straight blue jeans that flopped from the wind. His cheeks were two sizes too big as well, jiggly jowls that seemed to want to slide off his face.

In Demetrius' nose, the musk of thousands of books. A specific scent you had to smell to comprehend. To the west: hundreds of bookshelves, overflowing with books of every size and shape. There were paperbacks, hardbacks, magazines, children's books and on one smaller, shorter shelf, glimmering first editions. Fellipe's stern gaze unsettled Demetrius, his eyes seemed to travel from the left most point of his shoulder, down to his feet and back up to the right most point of his other shoulder. And then he just watched him, apathy and disdain pouring forth in equal measure.

"So, what do we do?"

"I'll ask a few simple questions, and you answer them."

"Whatever, to the kitchen then."

He moved with quickness, it surprised Demetrius because Fellipe's posture, that of someone with horrible arthritis, should not be able to gallop across the floor with such verve, but looks could be deceiving. He followed, attempting to keep up. The wide open rooms, condensed. A long narrow hallway led into a kitchen. In the sink, piled high were remnants of the day's lunch. Several flys buzzed about, Fellipe snatched up a flyswatter and smashed a couple, flinging them to the floor. They landed atop a few more of the unlucky ones.

Fellipe pointed at a chair. "Sit." Demetrius sat. Two plate glass windows allowed in the waning evening light. Outside, more overgrown grass and thousands of mosquitos which slapped repeatedly against a single light hanging from a post in the center of the yard.

Fellipe sat, and groaned. His knees cracked. He swept his hands across the wooden table. And then interlocking his fingers, stopped all movement, and stared. "Proceed."

Demetrius feigned journalistic confidence, and raised the ringed notebook, which contained nothing more than two entries he himself had written. And, on the last page, chaotic doodles which were drawn in his calculus class, his boring calculus class.

"Ok, first are foremost. What is your name?"

"Fellipe."

"That's it?"

"No, there's two other names in there somewhere, but you aren't privy to the information."

"Why is that?"

Fellipe batted his eyelashes. "I don't know you. Didn't your mother tell you not to talk to strangers, or in this case don't give out your last name. Especially considering I have no fuckin clue if you are who you say you are, and on top of that, you could be the police."

"The police? Do I look like the police."

Fellipe sucked at his teeth, and leaned back. The chair creaked. "No, but sometimes the police don't look like the police."

"I'm confused, but moving on." Demetrius stifled a contemptuous sigh. "How long have you been a librarian?"

"About..." Fellipe's focus wandered toward the ceiling. He used his fingernails to pick between his two front teeth. And like a panhandler, he retrieved his gold: a hunk of blackened broccoli. "I think, roughly, fifteen years?"

""You don't remember?"

"No."

"How many books are in here?"

"I'd say roughly five thousand. I have a ledger around here somewhere with the exact amount."

Demetrius' stomach felt heavy. All the snacks consumed mingled around inside. He burped, and Fellipe chuckled. "Got indigestion?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"You want a water?"

"Sure."

Fellipe rummaged around inside the small white fridge retrieving two bottles of cold water. He placed them on the table. Demetrius swiped his and took a large gulp. Cold water slid down his throat. He could feel it hit the bottom of his stomach.

He recomposed himself. "I have a question about one book in particular."

Fellipe's expression turned sour. "I hope you're not implying what I think you're implying."

A bead of sweat rolled down Demetrius' cheek. "The tome of infinite knowledge."

Fellipe slammed down two balled fists on the table. His bottle of water bounced in the air and landed on its side. "Motherfucker, goddamn motherfucker. I should have known." He said with spit flying. "That doesn't exist. Were you one of the dumb-shits that called here?" His eyes flared. "It's a myth, you really think that sort of thing actually exists?"

Any cordial air had been sucked clean out out of the room. In its place, a contemptuous hurricane swirled just above Demtrius' head. He tried to speak but no words were produced. Fellipe was up now, pacing. "You tricked me. You lied to me."

"No, I didn't lie." Demetrius stated.

"You didn't? It sure in the fuck feels like you did."

"I am an anthropology major. And I am writing."

"Writing what?"

"My journal to find the tome."

"Well, you can write that it doesn't exist. You can write that you failed." Fellipe gesitculated. "I am telling you it's not real."

"I think it is real." Demetrius said. "I think you're lying."

Fellipe crossed the kitchen, and towered over Demetrius. His fist raised.

"What the fuck did you say you little snot?"

"It is real." Demetrius whispered and averted his eyes.

Fellipe lowered his fist. He breathed in and out. "Who told you it even exists? And furthermore, why did you believe them? You fell for some idiot's ruse."

"It wasn't one person. It was a multitude of people. It's all over my college."

Fellipe sat back down, and chugged his water in one gulp. He tugged out the tie holding his hair. Straight black and grey locks flowed over his shoulders. He shook his head. Hair whipped his face.

"Tell me something." He leaned forward resting his elbows on the table. "Let's say for instance a book like that did exist. Do you think they'd leave its protection to a guy like me?"

"I don't know. I don't know you."

"A book like that would be highly coveted, right? And obviously everyone and their dog knows of its existence. I would never be able to keep it safe."

Demetrius leaned forward now mirroring Fellipe's posture. "Look, you obviously have kept it safe, somehow. I am not asking for much. I only want to see it. Maybe even hold it, and then I would leave you alone forever."

Fellipe leaned back again. The chair creaked again. He ran his fingertips across his protruding stomach. All the while he inspected Demetrius. "You tell me one thing." He began drumming his fingers on the table. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Tell me why I should."

Demetrius groaned inside. He searched the interconnected mental highway which at that moment was in gridlock. Hs finally said "I'm just curious. Curious of what secrets it holds. Curious of the writing if contains. Curious about what every human is curious about."

"And what's that."

"Why we exist. Why we are. Who we are. How we are."

"I don't know if someone so young has the capacity to understand it."

"I think that's flawed logic. Are you saying only the old and wise deserve wisdom?" Demetrius finished the last drop of water. "We deserve to know just as much as you do."

"Fine kid, fine." Fellipe stood and walked out of the kitchen. Demetrius followed. They walked past a bevy of books. Demetrius noticed hundreds of old, withered book jackets. Some were torn, and underneath the spines were burnt. He noticed that the majority were well cared for. Pristine.

They stopped. Fellipe reached past a row of novels, and pulled. There was a click, and a bookshelf swung open. They entered. At first there was no light, and then there was. It was a small room with stainless steel walls, and warm wooden flooring. In the center of the room a small box held up by a custom-built scaffolding. Fellipe scanned two thermometers embedded in the east wall.

"Have to keep the temperature just right." He said.

He approached the box, and pressed a button. It opened. Demetrius maintained his distance. Until Fellipe gestured him forward. "Well, do you want to see it or not?"

Demetrius stepped forward and peered over. The inside was lined with black velvet. It was a large book, and the front glimmered. Demetrius' jaw slackedend. He could feel energy emanating from it. A powerful presence, it commanded him to grah ahold. Fellipe could see now Demetrius' desire. "Hold it." He glanced at him, but Fellipe just nodded.

He reached in. His fingertips brushed against the spine. Jolts of energy flooded through his hand. And for one miraculous moment, Demetrius could see all who came before him. He could see every cycle of human will looping into infinity. His heart soared. And he felt the pure bliss of understanding. It filled him. It satiated him. And as he ran his fingers across the cover Fellipe whispered. He whispered hundreds of words. He whispered thousands of words. The lights pulsated. A strike of pain traveled through Demetrius' body. It tunneled his vision. Black dots hovered in his periphery. He could see Fellipe smiling. He spoke.

"Take it with you."

Demetrius gripped the tome. The room softened. His vision blurred. He dropped to the floor. And the tome dropped with him.

THE END

He twist the key, around

Flipped, and dragged, around

And around, swirling buzzing bees, around

And around, whirling dastardly, around

Captive underling, around

Sinking deeply drowning, around,

Struggling breathing keening, around

Spinning and spinning and spinning,

No oxygen, around

Digging deeper, and steeper, around

Clawing creeper, and creeper, around

And around and around, and around, and

Darkness, surrounding, around and around and around, and

One angelic beam in lustrous stream, around

They pulled.

They tugged.

They saved.

They are, around and around, and around, and around, and, around.

The very top of the growth is a gnarled sight. Crags string together and pull down the sides. I am waiting to see if it's worth seeing a physician. Oddly, there's no pain. When I flick the cap, it jiggles like a waterbed.

It is the first day of my new job. I feel like a kid in kindergarten attempting to learn the intricacies of social norms. All around me, fresh faces form expressions. Their visages float past me. Their mouths change and make sounds. These sounds mean something, although I grin in appreciation of their attempt.

My new boss is a big man. He wears big shirts. And big pants, and his mouth and lips form big words. I nod. Even his name is big, although I don't remember what it is.

My new official title is garment inspector. I have to stand before the production line and quality-assure. This means inspecting the garments' thread quality. If there is a single fray, the piece is subsequently relinquished; we toss it in a bin. These are recycled. And later, that same article of clothing reemerges anew.

There's a woman here; she's very articulate. When she speaks, my intestines seem to rearrange. It hurts. Her earlobes are pulled down by large hoop earrings. A sparkling stud rides along the crevice of her nose. Her cheekbones angle outward like small daggers. When she's near me, there's a redolent sting of vanilla. Her name is Darla Ann Remington.

The growth began to thrum with pain. But the pain was pleasant, and with it came a delightful tingling that spider-webbed up my legs. Darla noticed my grimace. Her mouth formed into "You ok?" I nodded in appreciation for her concern. The shift had ended. She left. I left. We left.

Driving home, I heard sizzling. And I smelled sewage. The aroma of rotting eggs permeated the car. I breathed in and wheezed. It was an overwhelming stench. With my left foot pressed on the gas pedal, there was this terrific burning sensation. It built and built. I slammed on the brakes. And looked down at my shoe. Over the left pinky toe, the growth had burned through the material. It wiggled out like a worm. The pain could no longer be borne. On the median, I tumbled to the asphalt and frantically untied my shoelaces. Kicking the shoe off, the cool fall air surrounded my foot. Afraid to look, I glanced behind. Dozens of motorists had stopped; following them was the strobe of red and blue. I collected my courage. And looked; my shoe had split in twain. The growth, once subtle and sort of cute, now was a girth. It glowed ruddy. For a moment, I could see a rippling effect across the surface. Like a pebble plunged into a lake. The pores enlarged. Hundreds of individual chasms spread over the surface. I could see my bone through the shadows.

A police officer jogged up. He peered down. He backed away and formed his mouth into "Good god, what is that?" He stood a good distance away. Behind him, a group of onlookers had amassed. They peeked over his shoulder at my disgusting foot. They murmured. Someone yelled

"What happened? What the fuck is wrong with that guy's foot?"

Someone else yelled back

"Fuck if I know. But I have trypophobia, I'm outta here."

There were now countless pairs of eyeballs attached to the grotesque mass. It bubbled up. It deflated and leaned. The people were now all around me. Their mostly magnanimous eyes were poised for any sudden transformation. But the police officer did nothing to quell the crowd; if anything, he was the most engrossed of them all. So I finally formed a question.

"Can you call an ambulance, please?"

"What?" The police officer's entire face drooped down.

"Can you call the paramedics?"

"Oh, yeah, sure."

He seemed reluctant to move, but he did, and dialed the number. And after a few moments of indistinct conversation, he was back, gawking.

The thing on my foot no longer burned. Instead, I could feel it tugging at my toes. And not a constant tug, intermittent repeated tugs. This caused the onlookers to gasp. Their mouths let loose a slurry of expletives in addition to other words.

"It's a goddamn tumor."

"It may be... like a wart or something."

"A wart? What kind of wart looks like that?"

"You never know."

"No, it's cancer. That guy's fucked."

In the distance, the soothing shrill of sirens. I attempted to roll over, but when I did so, my foot flared up again. In fact, at the cap, a gush of blood puked over the top. Which caused even more gasps and more words.

"Gross, it's fucking bleeding."

"See? That ain't no wart. It's probably stage 4 skin cancer or some shit like that."

"Honestly, you're probably right. I was just trying to give the guy some semblance of hope, but nah, he's most definitely fucked."

Waiting on the paramedics, I scanned the dusk-fallen sky. Hundreds of stars glittered across, and one in particular to the northeast twinkled. The crowd's constant words faded, and inside my eardrums, the familiar sound of a fan whirred. I was in my mother's home, in my bedroom, lying in my bed. A fuzzy comforter pulled up to the bottom of my chin. The TV softly hummed, and the smell of grilled cheese wafted past my nostrils.

I awoke to immense pain. It felt like my pinky toe was being squeezed in a vice. Tears flooded down my cheeks as I opened my eyes. A man and a woman were hunched over me. Above their squirming heads, a third man, more like a boy, inspected my facial features. I could see his thin mouth flapping, and using his rigid tongue, he created lispy words

"He'sss crying."

"We know." The woman retorted.

The third man angled in further; I could smell his mustache. I do not know how to describe the scent, the musk of mustache maybe. But they finally noticed my consciousness. The lispy kid nodded at me. The curt woman smiled. And the smelly mustached man wiggled the upper lip carpet at me.

"Good morning, Mr. Damiel."

In my groggy state, all I could conjure was an appreciative smile. They backed away. The hospital room was crunched tight. A window, closed. An IV hooked into my arm. A gown over my body. And a minuscule TV hovering above. To my immediate horror, I noticed my left foot was drenched in blood. Mustache must have noticed my shock because he made more sounds

"No need to be alarmed. We had to perform surgery."

Wrapped tightly around the toes, a bandage adhered to where the growth once was. I cleared my throat.

"What was it?"

The three glanced askance at one another. Mustache gestured at the curt lady. The curt lady gestured at Lispy. Lispy rolled his tongue over the roof of his mouth.

"We don't know."

"You don't know?"

"We are unsure of what exactly is on your foot, Mr. Damiel."

"But you cut it off?"

"We tried."

"So it's still sucking my foot dry?"

"We need to do a biopsy."

"Is it cancerous?"

"It could be. We have never seen anything like this."

"Just get it off. It hurts."

Lispy pointed at a nearby pain chart. On it, a spectrum of pain from nothing to extreme. Depicting the levels of pain: smiley faces.

"What would you say you are?"

"Extreme." I mirrored the grimace on the last smiley face.

"Would you like something to alleviate the pain?"

I nodded. The three other humans in the room moved. Their hands moved. Their feet moved. They fiddled with the IV. Hanging something upside down, it leaked into my vein. I could feel passion coursing through me. Sheer unadulterated bliss; every cell in my body roistered. I leaned deeper into the uncomfortable bed. My eyelids struggled under the weight of dopamine.

Mustache whispered above me

"I am wor"

It is staggering how impactful one fateful miscalculation can be. These people, the ones who have larger-than-life personalities. Their charisma is a gravity well, and it sucks and sucks. Even the most erudite, intellectual individuals can be caught in the maelstrom of happenstance. Even those you love who you've deemed of sound mind, can escape you, they slip through your fingers. And in the ineluctable heavy waves of reality, your paddle does little to shift the dinghy.

I'm a journalist, writing an article for Digital Mosh, and tonight is a show I have been amped for for months. It's in a smallish bar called Fourth and Night. This band, [redacted], have been slowly climbing their way up the food chain. Their sound can only be described as messy; each set I catch is a shit-stained, out-of-tune cathartic affair but with raging charm. The lead singer, [redacted], is a tour de force in her own right. I would compare her throat to an old gramophone; the cavernous tones she can belt send shivers down my toes.

So it goes, I sat at the bar on Saturday, eight pm, and drank my Bloody Mary. I saw the band's manager, [redacted], so I hounded him for an interview. He reluctantly agreed.

I: Are you happy with [redacted]'s sudden success?

[redacted]: What kind of question is that? Cours [sic]I am.

I: Are you aware there is a rumor going around that [redacted] will announce their breakup tonight?

[redacholleredd you hear that? That's unsubstantiated, obviously.

I: A source close to the band.

[redacted]: I gotta go. Good talking to you though.

He's a fucking loon, that one. A real ball buster, assigned by the label and often maligned by his clients. Our sordid history shall not be revealed here, but suffice it to say he's a firecracker lodged in an asshole.

All around me, college-bound curly-haired freaks sipped their drinks. A few regulars, their balding tops shimmering under the lights, peered at the sudden influx of youth. Every so often, they shook their heads in dismay.

A few roadies tapped mics on the stage. One particular roadie, a young girl of about twenty-four, with clay colored hair and albino-white skin, is well known for her... proclivities. She's also my ex; we exchanged a glance and just as fast readjusted our eyes elsewhere. Becka and I dated what seemed like an eternity ago. We were in love. And then we weren't.

To my own dismay, she approached. A slate-grey [redacted] t-shirt flowing over her torso. As I watched her weave through the growing crowd, I couldn't resist imagining her naked, or rather remembering. [NOTE, embarrassing]

She stopped in front of me. She waved nervously. She began to speak, but I stopped her. I asked if I could interview her. She accepted but only under the condition that it's off the record. I agreed.

Becka: How are you?

I: Ok.

Becka: It's been a while.

I: Yes, it has.

Becka: Here to see [redacted], I assume?

I: Bingo.

Becka: [redacted]... I need to tell you something.

I: So, tell me.

On the stage, a row was taking place. One roadie was repeatedly punching another roadie in the skull; on the floor, he mounted him with no mercy. He wailed. Becka's dark-lit eyes sparkled and vanished as she turned. She mumbled something about being back soon.

Becka cheated on me. Quite egregiously, I remember the day. In my senses it remained. We lived in New York, in a ratty apartment run by a fuedalish slumlord. The kitchen sink wasted enough water to quench the thirst of those kids in Africa. Holes pocked the living room; you would take a step and be knee-deep in cardboard thin wood. The walls were permanently crusted with years of exhaled nicotine. Piss-yellow. It didn't help that we each smoked a pack a day either. (NOTE, may cut this later, irrelevant)

On a particularly frosty Monday morning, two years ago, I walked inside that ratty apartment. I forgot my keys. And there she was, legs V'd, taking it with ease. Our couch creaked. I coughed. And I left. And aside from somewhat cordial relocating interactions, we never spoke again.

I harbor no ill-will. We were young. It happens, all too often. But her choosing to speak with me, in that squeak-mouse voice I used to find so enchanting, confounds me now. I watched her break up the fight. She's strong for her stature. She reprimanded the two roadies and shot another glance in my direction. I smiled this time.

Bloody Mary number three, and I found myself in front of the lead singer of [redacted]'s dressing room. I knocked. It cracked open, and a pair of piercing eyes slit through. I asked if I could interview her. She denied, at first. But through some subtle coercion, she relented. The room smelled sweet. Her hair was down, floppy from the adjacent fan's blow. Its golden brown hue shimmering. She seemed to be unbothered by my presence.

It was silent for far too long. I mustered the wherewithal to begin.

I: How are you?

[redacted]: To be truthful, or lie?

I: Both?

[redacted]: I feel like absolute shit... I mean, just peachy.

I: Why do you feel like shit?

[redacted]: Look at you, Mr. Journalist. You don't have to be like that with me,[redacted].

I: Be like what?

[redacted]: Super serious, it isn't that dire.

I: I am just interviewing you, the same as I would anyone else.

[redacted]: Oh really? That's all I mean to you? An interview?

I: No, you're misinterpreting. I should say I am just trying to maintain some level of journalistic integrity.

[redacted]: Not to be mean [redacted], but you work for a podunk zine; it ain't that serious. Maybe you should work on your bedside manner.

I: Those podunk zines gain notoriety through solid work, right?

[redacted]: This conversation is boring me. Ask your questions.

I: Is [redacted] breaking up?

[redacted]: No coment [sic].

I: Come on baby, don't be like that.

[redacted]: Oh, now I'm your baby? I don't understand you at all. Put that away and come here.

Her supple skin, two tiny rosy red ovals on her cheeks. A pair of small framed pearlescent white and black glasses, perfectly secured to the ridge of her dainty nose. And plump, recently lipsticked lips. We kissed. Our hands investigated. They felt. They grabbed. A knock echoed through the door. [NOTE, this is gone, too much information and too intimate.]

It's a fucking travesty. Interrupted. The voice beyond called through; it asked if she was ready. She said yes. In a series of goodbye kisses and declarations, she winked as she disappeared through the open door. I heard her repeat my name to the roadie as they trailed away. The dressing room was immaculate. Only four streaking fingerprints across the bottom of the mirror. All around me was the intoxicating, saccharine aroma of [redacted].

Back in the crowd, I wriggled to the front. Directly above me, lights punched down on my scalp. A line of sweat formed above my eyebrow. And in my stomach, an unease swirled through my guts. I sniffed liquor and weed. The cement floor seemed glossy. Drippings from sweat and other fluids, but we, the crowd, vibrated with intensity. We swayed.

Over the speakers, they piped in Whitney Houston; we all collectively harmonized. Mid-utterance, the house lights fell. The crowd ooh'd and aww'd. The opening band, Rainaissance, took their places at their instruments. The drummer, freshly bald and sweating, stretched; veins beneath his skin pulled taut. Their vocalist, a thin and pallorless man, gripped the microphone and squeezed. And lastly, their guitarist, broad-shouldered and lumbering, retrieved the Stratocaster and rested it on the strap around his neck.

What followed could only be described as noisesome. A series of discordant, feedbacking tones filled up the small venue. Screeching notes bounced wall to wall. Each member of the band was grinding their soul to dust in aid of performance art. The drummer's glinting eyes, the singer's masturbatory clasp on the mic stand, the guitarist's rhythmic pelvic thrusting. A whirlwind of sexual passion, and in the crowd it felt as if we had amalgamated. One unit in synchronicity. Bobbing, and jolting bodies back and forth, back and forth.

I could feel the thump of the subwoofer crawling through my toes. My pupils dilated with rapidity as the house lights strobed to the beat. A joint passed hand to hand to hand, until it found my hand. I puffed. I blew a cloud to the ceiling. The singer sauntered to the edge of the stage. He peered inside the maw of the audience. Into the mic, he squawked. Clucking across the stage, the other two joined him. They stood in a row, using their heads to simulate bird pecks. The drummer actually slammed his skull, over and over and over. Blood dripped. But he was unfazed; he raised the sticks toward the sky and bellowed. The crowd bellowed back. Suddenly the lights dimmed low. All sound stopped.

I heard my own name, or I thought I did. The tone was too soft to comprehend, but even now I still swear that in that blackness, he said my name.

They built up. And up, and up until there was nothing but a wall of sound. I could see in the corner a long-haired woman's locks being blown back by the speaker. Sound cut. The lights turned back on. And they were gone. Each of us inspected each other, and our bodies, and nodded, and then we all roared with applause. One guy yelled out that he couldn't see how [redacted] could follow that. I chimed in, stating he was in for a surprise. He scoffed.

Becka materialized on the stage., Using a drum key, she cranked the snare. She used a towel to wipe sweat from the stool. Multiple men hooted and holl,ered, catcalling. She ignored them. A single light above dithered red. It centered on the crowd. It blinded me. Over the speaker, I heard my name whispered again, but when my vision returned, Becka was gone. A chill enveloped me. I needed a drink.

At the bar, a man greeted me. He was very inebriated. He spoke in a slow manner, enunciating every word, but failing miserably. I nodded in faux agreement and asked if I could interview him. This prospect caused him to reel backward. He caught himself. But agreed, sliding his elbow on the bar-top and resting his head on his hand. The other hand sloshed about an old-fashioned.

I: What's your name?

[redacted]: [redacted]

I: You a big fan of [redacted]?

[redacted]: Who?

I: You know... the band that's headlining tonight, [redacted]?

[redacted]: No.

[redacted]: Whas your name? [sic]

I: [redacted]

[redacted]: You a big fan of [redacted]... that's their name?

I: Yeah, I am a fan. But more importantly I am writing an article. Hence the interview and all.

[redacted]: I live... down the street, just down there. It's fifty four, forth street and Elmer or somethin, ya kno? [sic]

I: No, not really. I don't live around here. You just come here to drink then?

[redacted]: Well, shit man, you're a handsomly smart guy, you should com party with me, ya kno? [sic]

I: Mmm, I don't swing that way.

[redacted]: Who said anything about swimmin?

I: What do you think of the show so far?

[redacted]: Here, lemme buy you that drinks.

I: Sure, go right ahead.

[redacted]: Yeah, yeah put it on my tab. I'mma get some fuck fucky tonight. No, I just have a feelin about this one, he seems... swweety. [sic]

[redacted]: So, what? Sorry, he's a bud, I come here a lot. What'd you say?

I: Thanks for the drink, I have to get back to my spot.

He groaned and mumbled and slumped into a puddle of drool. The bartender was whacking him on the head as I left.

Once again in the center of the crowd, and Becka had returned. She stood still at the center of the stage. Unblinkingly. In the front row, a few asked if she was good. She didn't reply. She only stared. I turned to see what she was so focused on. At the bar, beside my drunken friend, [redacted]'s lead singer also stood. Her hand was placed on his scalp. And she rubbed, sensually. Fingers gliding through what was left of his hair. He didn't stir.

Was this some kind of ploy? Part of the show perhaps? It creeped me out. To not blink for that long, it couldn't be possible. This all became irrelevant, [redacted] strolled out from behind the curtain and took their places. The drummer, bassist and guitarist, all stood. The entire damn band was mannequin-like, we, the crowd had no clue how to react. So we cheered.

Five minutes later, they all blinked in unison. [redacted] spoke into a mic which spawned from nowhere. Becka seemed to dematerialize. The lights dimmed. Their first song began whilst she still caressed the drunken man's hair follicles. That deep voice resonated through my bones. Every syllable banged into me. She walked forward, through the crowd, and with one stretching step hopped to the stage. And then running to the middle, she jumped high into the air, and as she landed the band sonically exploded.

She screamed. The bass moaned. The guitar screeched. The drums wailed. And the crowd fucking loved it. Each of us bashed around, ping-ponging, heads slapped together and body meat collided. Massive bong rips floated above, and below a circle pit formed. I and the rest sprinted around and around, the world dizzying. My stomach flipped, I stopped. The world did not, and through my periphery Becka watched behind a curtain. One eye visible, it blinked.

Lights flickered as the band rocketed towards the climax. I glanced at those around me. Each of their shirts, drenched. Each huffing and puffing. As I returned my gaze to the stage, Becka crawled forward on all fours. In seconds she peered over the edge. I noticed in her left hand a little fillet knife. She flicked the tip against her thumb. Blood launched with each flick.

With a momentary lapse of movement, she inspected the floor below. And deliberately, the head raised, and the eyes discovered me. Holding the knife up, and showing it off, she placed it on her jugular. I could see her lips moving.

She punctured and pulled, blood sprayed. Spatters jetted about, covering the faces of unknowing concert-goers. She did not stop. The knife zippered up, and around, a full rotation. And then her body slumped into a pool of blood. The head dangled off the edge.

But not a single soul reacted. The song finished. In one final flick of light, darkness engulfed. I pushed forward toward Becka. Fumbling, my hand grazed her skin, slick with warm blood. I whispered her name. She didn't respond. I whispered again. Nothing.

Slowly purple spotlights rose. Serpentining across the venue, they pinpointed on me and Becka. [redacted]'s mic rose to her lips. She said my name. All around the outskirts of the crowd, men in black polos and bright pink shorts, and on their feet too large boots barely clinging on. They inched in. A tattoo unidentifiable from my distance resided on each bicep. In their hands, long flashlights. Each strange man used their light to create figure eights. My drunken would-be lover was among them. His eyes narrowed, and his expression, stony. I could conjure no words, I just gawked at [redacted] seeking an explaination. Instead, she sang. A more sorrowful rendition of I will always love you. The hundreds of voices surrounding me joined in. I stepped, backing away. And with each inch, the crowd matched. A gestalt organism that had lost all sovereignty.

My back hit the wall. A semi-circle of expressionless automotans all around. Piss dribbled down my leg. I could feel the warmth seeping to my knees. I closed my eyes, tight. She uttered my name once again. Echoing, the crowd chanted, and chanted, and chanted. My name on each pair of lips. My heart thumped. All my senses slithered.

I was going to die. I was going to die. I could feel it in my heart. This was the end, this was my death. My short, insignificant life flashed. Moments gone, decisions made in haste, loves lost and all the infinitely rotating futures that could have been.

I opened my eyes. Bright blinding light, and space, the place was now empty. At the bar, a stool span. [redacted]'s mic plummeted to the floor, bouncing. The drummer's sticks clattered off the snare. Becka remained, all blood drained, her once vivacious body, grey and dead. I held my index finger to her neck, no pulse. I ran my fingers through her hair, and for a moment I could see the woman I once loved. I could feel my youth. I could feel all the alternate universes where love had prevailed. And so I wept, in cold silence, I wept. The shock of it all, the confusion of it all swept away any logical thought. My only option was the door. My only option was escape. My only option was to finish my work. I could see the door's glassy patina in the distance. I could see pedestrians marching forward without care.

I kissed Becka's frigid forehead. And exited, scarcely able to keep myself upright. The night swooned under the moon, and I hailed a cab. Fleeing the scene, to regroup, to write, to understand, to contemplate the events behind me.

**

This piece was written by a man once employed here at Digital Mosh. It arrived in a sealed envelope, with the words TAKECARE painted in regal purple across the front. The contents: this piece (mostly unedited) and hundreds of polaroids. We cannot disclose what the images depicted, and for legality measures, involved names have been subsequently redacted. Many organizations involved in this investigation have given us clear and concise instructions on publishing this fascinating recount of what transpired that night three months ago. We cannot knowingly withhold information regarding the disapperances, or the murder of Becka Elaine Thomas. We hope through the collective fanbase our zine has amassed, information may come to light. So we plead, if you know anything, please call me, editor-in-chief Paul Roberto at 888-634-5734.

If you're out there, please return to us. You are not lost. You are not forgotten. You are not damned. We are here.

To excess is my modus operandi, and I know eventually it will catch up to me. And in my prurient obsession with battering my own body. I begin to question the validity of my own head, and how it functions. Inside that noggin, thousands of disparate thoughts bang around. I relate this process to a slowly rising din, imagine sitting alone in a room. Ass atop a cold metal chair, a single ceiling fan rocking from force above. It is the only sound, but this quickly changes when, from all four corners, noise, non-descript and whispering. These are your thoughts, and they pile together like dogs.

It becomes unbearable. And you close your eyes in a futile attempt to focus and silence the auditory apparitions. The ceiling fan grows quiet. The room grows dark. Your mind shrinks. Your thoughts swarm like honey-suckling bees. They cleave logic. Errant preposterous scenarios linger at the back of your neck. You scratch them away.

We come to the climax, this being your deliberate attempt to quell the cacophony. You pop in a white Samsung earbud. And finally, the music muffles the onslaught. I am being grandiose. But at times it feels so, just this vague feeling of disconcertion. The moments of pure elation become fewer and fewer. A tide has shifted; the crisp midnight moon burns the shore.

All this, just to say I use a myriad of thought-quelling medicines. Vices, entertainment, and more, truly just noise. The silence is a cosmic beast lingering in the shadows.

It isn't all destructive; there are moments when this overthinking benefits me. If I consider every scenario, I am rarely surprised. What I am describing is anxiety. That feverish anxiety wins at times. And others I win. A constant struggle, neither side malevolent nor benevolent. If I could sit quietly in a room. Erase it all, I would. A curse and a blessing, it forms my personality.

This is why music, books, movies, and games are voraciously eaten. Art is a blessing; it is required. It is the cornerstone of me. I need it. I want it. I have to fucking have it. If I flood my brain with doubled-up plot lines and analytical considerations, that noise dissipates.

I essentially need to keep myself on a leash. Inside of me, there is another version of me. And it wants sustenance; it yearns for more. Simply more. If I provide the fodder, everything is copasetic. If not, well, it'd be like the Hulk. If the Hulk was an anxiety-riddled nerd. I suppose the Hulk is a nerd... but a cool nerd. What is so incredible is: I am capable of completely disappearing inside of an artistic medium. Games especially consume me; I can play a game, and look up, and five hours have transpired. That concept terrifies me. They appear to me like a black hole. They munch on time like a squirrel chews nuts. Those five hours become masticated and fade away.

It is the ultimate trick our universe undertakes. The more enjoyable an activity, the more we time travel. The less, the more we notice the excruciating passing of it. As I grow older, my stance on time has hard shifted. Time is the only currency we hold. Money, that's fine and dandy, but time is sacred.

All these vices or boons contain multitudinous purpose. But moderation is key; the shifting gears of my life, and the required tertiary influences. Sacred. I would not change my head. At least it remains somewhat unique in the schema of society.

I can either embrace the chaos, or fall ill to it.

***

Their sweaty backs pulled into knots. Two hunched masses, ripping muscles back and back. The sinew pumping under graveyard night, all around them, crickets chirped their song. As did the men; a work hymnal chanted.

Grim a-men

Grim a-men

We be grim

And we be men

Grim a-men

Grim a-men

Oh, the graveyard calls again

As they sang, corpse dust tangled in the air. The hacking sounded like paper tearing. A set of dried eyeballs jangled to the grass. And the moon shot beams upon desecrated men. A brown bag leaned, inside a severed hand, and on that severed hand, a ring. It glowed. Its incandescent beauty caused the men to marvel. One man poked the husk of a hand; the index finger snapped off. The ring catapulted to the tall grass. Their leader reprimanded the lout and ordered him to find it as he dug the tip of his shovel into moist soil.

Slicing through another bloodless hand, the leader of the grim-men raised the shovel over his head. "Men get to diggin'," and as his henchmen commenced to his bidding, he hefted his butt at a nearby gravestone. Fat rolled over the cold, flat headstone, and Billious R. Reginald peered at the night sky. A scream erupted; one grim-man, a muscular kid, spewed frantically. Bill reached forward, clasped the shovel, and he looked up. Dew-soaked grass, heavy under moisture, glistened.

Grim-entrails soared through the air, landing in his lap. The blood seeped, soaking his newly bought pants. He sucked at his teeth and began to tower over the situation. Inside his stomach, the grilled cheese and tomato soup he had eaten earlier sloshed. He surveyed the two corpse-dogs that unceremoniously tore his employees apart, one limb at a time. Burning, jet engine-like indigestion clawed up his throat. It slathered the sides of his internals with new coats of pain. He coughed. He hacked. He spat a wad of red phlegm onto the dewy grass.

"God damn it!" He roared with a splash of annoyance.

The corpse-dog's round eyes frenzied, found him. They enlarged. Globs of dried drool pedunculated; the eyes attacked. Bill side-stepped, used his whole 6'7'' frame and muscle to squash one to a pulp. Its body embedded above the graves. The second lunged, decayed fangs extended. In goes the sharpened shovel blade; the top portion of the dog's skull landed on another grave, fangs piercing sodden soil.

The grim-men were dead-men. What was left of their bodies hung all around, or buried deep. An intoned, hollow voice said

"Bill, how goes it?"

"Hello?"

"Down here."

Under the half-skull, under the moist earth, inside a casket, a muffled man

"Who's that?"

"It's me; don't you recognize my voice?"

"Can't say I do."

"Read the headstone, ya moron."

On it: Here lies Rupert Ingram, a father, a brother, a lover, and the best angler on the Referey Coast. 1932 - 1967. Across the front was an artist's depiction of a balding man, smiling.

"Remember me now?" The grave-man asked.

"Yes, yes, I do. Been a while. How are you?"

"Considering the fact I am dead, I am doing pretty good. Can ya get me outta here please?"

"Oh, right."

Billious, using his balled fist, beat on his chest. He beat and beat, jostling his ribcage. In there, the indigested food gurgled, his intestinal molten core buzzing. He burped. Piercing the shovel down, he quickly moved pounds of soil. A small pile formed at his right foot. The oak casket revealed. Bill reached inside and, with one hand, pulled the entire death-bed out.

"Careful, I am in here, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah. Pipe down." He kicked the bag of ill-gotten goods over; jewels, watches, gift certificates, coupons, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and one diamond tumbled out. Hands like a vice, the top of the casket flipped into the air.

The bald man smiled. Yet his mouth was lopsided, and his head was smothered by compressed dirt. Rupert's stare glinted, eyes white as fresh snow. And just as cold, the covering of tar-black dirt on his face popped those whitened eyes forward. They bulged. They seemed to reach toward Billious. He inched backward, all 6'7'' of him.

"What crawled up your ass, big boy?" Rupert said in a pleasant voice.

Under his chin, skin slag shed and drifted to the ground. For a moment, the two old pals watched each other; they absorbed each micro-movement. Bill could not help but ponder the implications of Rupert's sudden resurrection. A second wave of heartburn curdled his stomach.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Heartburn."

"Got any Tums?"

"Nope."

"Me either." Rupert grinned.

"No shit, Sherlock," Bill said. "Hey man... why are you here?"

"That's a terrific question, you big lug," Rupert said. "Any necros around?"

"No, just some corpse-dogs," Bill said. "Why're you looking at me like that?"

"Bill, do you not remember Mr. Aphid?"

"Sorta."

"Corpse-dogs... mean..."

"Oh, necros. That's true. I forgot."

"And, what else?"

"What else?" Billious repeated.

"To quote Mr. Aphid, 'all necros travel in packs, and they all faithlessly follow one being. The herd is one organism, and each necrotic mind is inexorably assigned to a..."

"Nertoom's Finger. How do you remember all this shit? Especially in your... condition."

"Billious, what exactly were you doing here anyway? Did you not realize you were near my final resting place?"

"Yeah, I actually did know. I told my grim-men to steer clear of you."

"Grim-men, eh? Have you sunk that low? What the fuck happened? You used to be at least a respectable philistine."

The sun peeked over the horizon. A bird chirped. And Billious pursed his lips, stretched wide and sighed.

"Desperate times and all that." He said. "There is one piece of information I do recall vividly. Mr. Aphid drilled this into us. "A corpse can never simply undergo animation; an animator must choose their vessel with careful consideration."

Those snowball pupils peered. Knocking his bony finger against his fleshy bottom lip, Rupert tugged down what was left of his eyelids. “Mere coincidence, I’m sure.”

Billious knew Rupert was lying through his missing teeth, but instead of calling him out. He played along. Rupert stepped through the grass; he stood at the edge of the graveyard. He watched the surrounding suburban homes. A cricket chirped, and then another. The mating noises bounced off each headstone. And on an abandoned street, a cat swaggered down the yellow line. Rupert turned. “Billious, can I tell you something?”

“I guess. Is it going to ruin my night?”

“Your night isn’t already ruined?”

“No, not yet, just inconvenienced.”

“In that case, I will try to keep it light. Do you remember that girl, Philluppa, from school?”

“Is that the girl with the enormous wart on the middle of her forehead?”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

“Then yes, I do, kinda hard to forget.”

“Well, we had a baby together.”

“When? I would’ve noticed.”

“It was a secret.”

“Ok, why the hell’re you telling me this?”

Rupert swept his hands across his necrotizing body.

“She’s why I am here. Or rather, he is.”

“He… your son, I take it?”

“Bingo.”

“And?”

“And, Simon showed great talent growing up.”

“Are you trying to tell me something, Rupert?”

“My son is a necro. Hence why I am here.”

“I see.”

“His intentions are unknown to me, but I am worried.”

“Do you think he’d do something stupid? I mean, besides being a necro.”

Rupert’s snow globe eyes gazed around Billious’ hulking mass. From behind, whispering chants.

Grim-amen

Grim-amen

We be the necrotic lords of the underworld

Grim-amen

Grim-amen

And with this sword, I consume your scorn

A pale white man slashed. Bill fell to one knee. And blood pooled. The cat bounded across the graveyard. The moon shone beams on desecrated men. Under the grass, Nertoom’s Finger radiated. In a single motion, the pale man grabbed the finger. Ripping the ring off, he tossed the rest. Billious lay supine; he inspected the stars. Above him, thousands of brilliant bulbs flickered.

If every day is a day, and I reside in those days, I am a part of those days. As the day moves, and the sun moves, I move. I become the sun. I am the sun. Or the sun is me; we are the same, the sun and I.

So there are these two workers; they are paralegals, and every day on their lunch break they have completely unhinged conversations in earshot of everyone else. Today's conversation went something like

"Ok, so, a pact, right?"

"Yeah, it's your turn, whatcha got?"

"How about this: whoever gets married first, the other has to off themselves."

"Like suicide?"

"Yeah, simple enough premise."

"Why though, it seems nonsensical."

"Well Jim-bo, it doesn't have to be logical. It just needs to have stakes."

"Well fuck Ronny-bo, those stakes are the literal stakes. Stakes don't get much more stakey than that."

"Work with me here, man. You're always complaining about not being able to find 'the one,' so with this you'll work harder to achieve that."

"But I don't want you to die."

"That isn't the point. It's the motivation factor. Think about it like this: when push comes to shove, would you rather me die or you?"

"What the hell kinda question is that? Neither?"

"No, that isn't an option, me or you?"

"Fuck man. Me, I guess. Self-preservation and all that."

"Exactly. This pact is foolproof. Let's sign it in blood."

"Blood? We're in public."

"Fuck it."

Skin slices and dices, blood flows, and on a napkin two bloodied fingerprints tell the tale of a pact forged in the exchange of bodily fluids. Their co-workers watch their macabre act with a myriad of emotions. Some stare, mouths agape. Some experience lust, their inner passions awoken. Some ignore it; it doesn't exist.

In the future now, one of the pact holders proposes to their boyfriend. A diamond ring, shiny and expensive. It glints. His phone rings. On the line, the other pact holder whispered.

"Heard you proposed."

"Who is this?"

"Ronny."

"Oh."

Under the guise of friendly banter, reminiscing, and catching up, the question is veiled. The conversation wraps up tidy. And Ronny unveils his inquiry.

"Remember the pact?"

"Yeah, we were just kidding, right?"

"I wasn't. We signed in blood, Jim."

"We were fucking around, man."

"No. We were not."

The line died.

Let me spin you a web. First, to preface, this is entirely from my perspective. And deeply personal, and all too revealing. But I need to distill it into words, to quell my raging heart. Many pieces of my writing have stemmed from this quiet raping of my internal compass. If anything, it was one of the most interesting experiences I have ever undergone whilst also being the most regrettable, anguish-inducing mistakes I have ever made.

It is primarily a cautionary tale, and to some it may seem melodramatic, arbitrary, and rife with hyperbole. But remember, this comes from my mind alone, and it is only my particular perspective of the world. And of love, and commitment. I may become garrulous at times, but this last year has been very difficult for me.

To begin, I am no catch. I really don't have a lot to offer a romantic partner. To put it simply, it's a pointless endeavor. And that was my viewpoint for eight years. I am 36 years old, and before I dated my ex, I was 35, so from the age of 27 to 35 I was romantically celibate, and celibate, celibate. I attempted here and there, the occasional stints at swiping. Varied conversations with girls, but I am cursed with this unending take on myself: I am not good enough. The worst part was this yearning for romance, and so many of my male friends urged me to just sleep around. I genuinely dislike that notion; I did it once. I hated it.

To attempt to wrap up backstory, I made friends with an unlikely group at my job. It was me, my friend, a 32-year-old, a 20-year-old girl, a 15-year-old boy, and my ex, a 26-year-old woman. Long story short, we were all friends for about a year. We would go to movies together, go to concerts together, hang out together, and throw parties. For all intents and purposes, a real friendship, or as real as a group of work friends can be.

My ex- we'll call her Melissa. And my friend, we'll call him Gilbert, well, to put it lightly, Gilbert had a mild obsession with Melissa; he would drone on and on about her. It honestly became rather annoying, and at the time I thought he was losing it. Melissa had a boyfriend, a long-term boyfriend, a years-long relationship. But she would flirt with guys at work relentlessly, very subtly, just enough so she could shirk off any questions about her intentions. She did this to my friend Gilbert, hence his "obsession." He is a lonely guy too; matter of fact, he is a virgin. So, if a girl showed interest, he was invested. And I feel for him because I too lack self-worth and have a harrowing inability to flirt and approach women. I have no rizz; the only form of charisma I have ever had is... I can be funny, maybe; honestly, I am unsure how I have ever charmed a woman into getting with me. It's a goddamn conundrum. But I have, somehow.

One night we all went bowling. Me, Melissa, Gilbert, and my other long-term friend- we'll call him Joe. I recall this night but only because, as we were driving home, I clearly stated, "I would never date Melissa." Alarm bells were ringing through my fucking skull, well before our relationship. I consider myself a somewhat intelligent man, somewhat. And I knew deep inside my soul, there was something wrong with her. I couldn't quite articulate, or rather, I did not have the correct nomenclature to diagnose it, but my gut knew.

Slowly but surely, Melissa and I formed a quiet friendship. Just her and me. Honestly, I had quiet one-on-one friendships with each member of our odd band of co-workers. Sidebar: I have noticed, and not to sound conceited, but often I am the glue that holds my groups of friends together. I am like Gandalf, assembling the fellowship; everyone knows me, and I bring us all together.

Melissa and I chatted on Discord. A lot, eventually. Like, we would talk all night, and then continue the conversation in the morning. In situations like that, I always question myself because good conversation can make me fall for someone quite easily. And, as my gut knew there were issues with Melissa, and she had a boyfriend, my lonesome soul still yearned for deep connection. So, I questioned her intentions. This was compounded by her calling me "handsome." Randomly. I recall she left a small note for me at work; it just said: "Here's what you need to do, handsome." It's an innocuous flirt, but my starved emotions latched to it as if a leech.

Anyway, we continued to talk, a lot. She invited me to dinner one night, just her and me. I went. It felt like a date, and my mind swirled with questions. For example:

"Is this a date?"

"Does she like me?"

"No, couldn't be, could it?"

Suffice to say, I was nervous. Even if it was never explicitly stated, it was a date. Just by the rules of the universe, it was. I realize my approach was infantile, but I was out of the game for 8 years. I felt like a virgin again. In all the ways someone could feel like a virgin. We went to our not date, ate, and it was ok. Undeniably, Melissa and I had some form of chemistry. I thought, maybe. I was so goddamned confused. I was so unsure of what she was doing or why.

We went to an anime convention together. We went to concerts together. She told me later about that concert, "I wish you would've just grabbed me from behind right there." And I said, "That's SA." All these activities together, I told myself we were just good friends. But her flirting tore apart that notion entirely; without it, we could have just remained friends. And how I so terribly wish we would've just held onto that surface-level friendship now.

The flirting escalated; she started commenting on my ass. It flattered me so much; no one ever complimented me so forwardly. To be viewed as a piece of meat, objectified, it was nice. All this caused me to pace my room endlessly, attempting to solve the puzzle of Melissa. She was a contradictory being; she said one thing and then the opposite shortly after. It's like someone begging you for sex but slapping you when you try. Whiplash. This warped my mind entirely; I was beyond helplessly perplexed.

It all culminated in a late-night conversation with the 20-year-old, something like

"I am going to tell Melissa I like her. Does that sound like a good idea?"

"I guess not, but I would be careful."

"Why?"

"It's just kind of a toxic way to start a relationship. Also, Melissa can be kind of a cunt sometimes."

All my friends admonished me not to pursue this, to move on and find someone else. But it was too late; I was falling into the deep black well of Melissa. Butterflies and gushy feelings galore, I had begun to like her a lot. An attractive, or at least I thought she was at the time, girl that actually liked me? It was an impossibility. I was a blind man. I was blind, being corralled like cattle. She was my shepherd, and I was the sheep. And not to be entirely crass, but I wanted to get laid. Of course I did, of course. After an 8-year drought, you're scratching for it.

Our conversations flooded through every topic. Sex being a returning flavor, anyway, back to the night in question. My harried body, fueled by a pack of beer, found the courage to confess to her. Reading my own words now, it was so fucking juvenile, but I had to. I made a promise to myself when I was younger that if I liked a girl, I had to tell them. Regardless of the circumstances, the chips would fall where they may. It was either that or be tormented by it. I would choose the former.

The conversation was simple, really. I confessed that I liked her; she denied flirting with me; she stated she did not want to lose me as a friend. A bit drunk, I told her that she was ethereal. And in the end, she ultimately fully denied me. I accepted that. And apologized the next day; I just told her that I had to tell her for the salvation of my own state of mind.

So, it should've ended there, right? Negative. One night, the 20-year-old told me that Melissa said

"What did he think I was going to do? Break up with my boyfriend, and he would move in?" And added, "I could never kiss him." This sort of broke me; it added insult to injury. It irked me; my intention was not to disrupt her life; it was to get those feelings off my chest. All she had to do was say no, and I would move on. In hindsight, not to belabor the point, it was a horrendous mistake, but c'est la vie.

So, I confronted her about this. And instead of owning up to her bullshit, she doubled down and escalated. She said she dreamed of kissing me. She said that the only reason she said these shitty things was to convince herself that she did not harbor these feelings or fantasies.

At this point, the bafflement reached terminal velocity. My overthinking mind was burning fuel at an astounding rate. And my feet would not stop pacing; this became my new normal. She was enigmatic, a strange enchantress who had cast a spell on me. To be clear, I take full responsibility for allowing all of this.

Second sidebar: Melissa told us a tale one day, about a guy she was fooling around with at her last job, cheating on the same boyfriend she had now. And how this guy, when she ended it, threatened to kill himself. Her response to this was indifference; she said to us

"Not my problem. His friends came to me wanting me to talk to him. But I said, he can figure it out, it isn't my fault." This statement sticks so clearly in my mind now. She seemed proud of this achievement. Also, how she attempted to date another co-worker of mine, and how she flirted with Gilbert. I knew all this, mind you, knew it all, and yet I persisted. The insatiable need for love, for sex, for connection it was too fucking strong. I quite plainly convinced myself that those dots were not connectable. That this crystalline habitual fuckery was not, just that, a clearly definable MO.

Back to the story, the tipping point of the escalation happened one night. In casual Discord DMs, I was talking about my brother. It was normal, just normal conversation. And out of nowhere she dropped

"I don'tt want to fuck your brother. I want to fuck you." This hit me so hard. It seems so randomly placed now because it was. She directed that searing declaration as if it were normal. I blushed and was at a loss for words. I think I said

"And I want to fuck you." Real idiotic, real smooth, but I was, as I reiterate, incredibly fucking confused. My whole body burned with the question: WHAT DOES SHE WANT?

It kept going; she was sick, and we were messaging; her boyfriend was at work. She said she was lonely or something. She said she wished I could come over and comfort her. I said I wished I could too. Eventually, she relented and told me to come. So I did, and I was frantic; I rushed there. As if a little boy awakening on Christmas morning, I dove into that bed with her, and she laid her pretty head on my chest. It's quite dazzling the reaction the human body has to the warmth of another human body, especially when that human body is someone you're developing such feelings for. I had forgotten. I had forgotten how it felt to be with someone else. I had forgotten romance. I had forgotten who I was. I had forgotten my own self-worth, so I chose the love I thought I deserved. And for that brief moment in time, I was whole again.

This pining now seemed inescapable. My heart ensared. For Melissa was a black hole, I could only gravitate toward the well. I helplessly clinged with claws latched, wanting nothing more than her absolute happiness. And with that, we arrive at the first kiss.

We sat in Applebee's staring into each other's eyes, holding hands and talking quietly. And after dinner, we stood under a white snow flurry. In front of her driver's side door, and as I leaned in for the kiss. She stopped me.

"Are you about to kiss me?" On her face appeared sheer disgust "yeah..."

"Well, wait, get in the car."

In the car, we discussed many things. To her, it seemed she was not ready for all of it to be real. I shivered. She said

"Just kiss me again."

We kissed. Her face turned into a lemon. Her lips puckered. This destroyed me internally, I was afraid. She said

"Try again."

So I did, and the same reaction. At that point, I was ready to leave. And I said as much

"Welp, I will get out of here then."

She watched me for a moment. And as her eyes followed my shivering, pathetic body she said

"No."

This made no sense, not at all, and I was a wreck. She said "let's go to Walmart."

We drove to Walmart. We searched for a coat to warm my shaking frame. We stood in the men's clothing section and she snapped a selfie, in it we each held a box of cereal.

I was home, and I typed. I told her sorry for being a terrible kisser. And she replied with "it's ok, we'll just have to get lots and lots of practice." This prospect excited me. I adore kissing, to me kissing is better than sex. So it went, our sordid love affair reached for the heavens or the hells whichever came first.

Sidebar 3: Around this time Melissa introduced a rather revolutionary idea. I could take myself on a date. She said I did not need anyone else, and so I took myself on this date. It was simple, I went to the mall, bought a pair of pants and ended the date by seeing A Complete Unknown. For some inexplicable reason, this self-date filled me with immeasurable joy. It still lives in my head rent free. It was the combination of talking to Melissa, feeling absurd happiness, and pampering myself.

I was happier than I had been in a long, long time. Melissa and I would hold make-out sessions, just outside of work. We kissed in her car. We kissed in the stock room. We kissed in clear view, stealthily. We kissed before she left work. I started walking her to her car. We messaged, declared how much we wanted to be together. She still had a boyfriend. It was all fucked, all of it was completely and utterly fucked. But I was too far gone, and that is not an excuse but it's true. I posed a simple rhetorical question one random night. "What do you think of calling your significant other pet names?" (I had never done this. I found it rather cringe in all honesty.) She immediately hopped on board. And even more than that, she asked what pet names I was thinking of. I told her: baby, honey shit like that. She directly after began calling me baby and honey. And I tried to, but everytime I did it hurt my soul. Somewhere inside of me all this was happening too quickly, I knew it and ignored it.

Anyway, most of this is boring, let's jump to the good parts. One night, I cannot recall how exactly, we began discussing her breaking up with her boyfriend. It took convincing, you see the only reason she seemed to stay with this boyfriend is because of fiscal dependency. There was some excuse about vet bills looming large over her head, and without him they would devour her.

She broke up with him, mind you she relied heavily on me to do so. I think now it was to make me culpable if anything in our relationship went awry. She was single, and I was single. But she seemed less than enthused, she also told me she did not want to jump straight back into a relationship. To be honest, that made no sense to me considering the fact I was the reason she left him.

We went about our business, going on dates, and having sex for the first time. It was good, I thought so. But, then again I was a literal starved man searching for her, the oasis in the desert. And then one night, after Chipolte and I having showed her my favorite movie Midnight in Paris, which she did not get. She said

"You can ask me now."

I wasn't even sure what she meant. She meant ask her to be my girlfriend. So I did, and after she followed up this with "I think I love you."

And I hit her back with my own volley

"I think I love you too."

We cuddled. I didn't kiss her. This caused her to cry. I asked why she cried. And she said it's because I didn't kiss her. So I kissed her and apologized. She also stated that she should not have been the one to say I love you first. These social-norms never sat well with me, why does it matter? This was not the only time she cried. A second night, I had been drinking and I called her mean. She bawled at this, and yeah, it was rather rude of me. But she was being mean, Melissa could be entirely mean.

Looking back now, I am unsure if I truly loved her. Or if I had just convinced myself I did. She bathed me adoration, daily. She would send me snaps declaring her love. She would call me "hot" on a daily basis, multiple times. I thought I had found my forever. I was on cloud fucking nine. I was soaring through the sky, and each step I took, I floated. It could not get any better, in those moments life was complete. It was a happiness I had let go, long ago. I figured it was an impossibility, I am not good enough.

She spoke often of marriage. And of children, when before she had stated many times that she never wanted to have kids. Her sister told me she saw her doodling her first name and my last time on a notebook.

I began staying at her house constantly. She urged this on, I at times would rather stay home. But she convinced me otherwise. And who am I to say no? She held all the power, she knew it too. I was drinking more consistently.

This relationship, it was my catalyst. I did not know this at the time, but it completely shifted my internal compass.

Five months later, I found out she was talking shit about me at work. Telling all my co-workers she had to "take care of me" which was a crock of shit. If anything I took care of her, I mowed her grass, took her out to eat, took her to concerts and theme parks. I bought her flowers every month we were together. She would not allow me to drive because every time I did she would blow up on me. This was the only source of conflict in our relationship.

One thing was true, her constant affection had sewn me to her. I loved her, or at least I thought I did. It all became very muddled, was it love or an unhealthy toxic attachment?

So, we're broken up, but I was now drinking heavy, heavy. I won't elaborate on the mechanics of that, but trust me when I say it was bad. So, so bad... and not even a year before her I would only drink occasionally. That is as much my fault, actually it's all my fault. It felt as if my world was crumbling all around me. The water was rushing in cold and I shivered just the same as I had on our first kiss. My life had no meaning, it was all pointless. A mirage that had appeared as a life, but was actually a pile of hapless goo.

I pined for her over DMs, repeatedly. She said such heinous words to me. A few of the highlights

"You have no ambition."

"I AM NOT GETTING BACK TOGETHER WITH YOU."

"I kind of wish you would just quit talking to me."

"You ruined my life."

"Just quit thinking about me, you'll get over it."

One particular night I asked her a question. "Was I good in bed? I am going on a date and I was just wondering." This was a ploy by me to inch my way back in, what can I say I still loved her. But she replied

"You were the best I have ever had. I dream about you and wake up wanting you."

This was completely out of left field. And suffice to say, I ended up calling her out for being jealous. She exploded in anger on me. You do not criticize Melissa. That was my fault too, the response just caught me off guard.

This: just quit thinking about her, as if it were that easy. She flicked her love off like a light switch. It was so simple, all these soaring words of love. They crashed and burned. For me, I have been in love only twice in my entire 36 years on this earth. I do not love lightly, and I approached her with true trepidation, but my heart had detached from my analytical mind.

So, I drank. And I drank. And I drank some more. I went to work, and she was there. I had decided to block her on every social media platform. It was for the best, mind you this insight took months and months of contemplation. I was still attempting to understand Melissa, to understand why she did any of this to begin with. We had a conversation before we even started dating, and I told her I was not good enough for her. But she just said "no, you are." She just told me exactly what I wanted to hear in that moment.

Here is the crux of where my mind was. I was pouring over every moment, and every happening that lead to all this. I questioned simply: why do I still love her? Why am I still pining for her? I had been in bad break ups. Was it simply the proximity to her? I could not understand why I still cared at all. She had hurt me deeply.

About four to five months after our break up, as I googled feverishly in the dead of night. It dawned on me. Her behavior had many parallels to that of a narcissist. To use me, devalue me, toss me away as if I had never existed. And her constant love bombing, it warped my mind entirely, it was very similar to a traumatic experience. This was solidified when she began probing me at work. One day it was a nice, cute interaction over some coffee creamer. The next it was anger, and vitriolic critiquing of my work. It waved between those two extremes, and until I gave her any kind of response, she would not allow me to be.

She needed me to remain in her orbit. So, instead, I chose to be a grey rock. I quit speaking. I withdrew to erase myself from her radar. It took three long months of just this to finally make her realize she no longer held court in my mind. The only sad reality is, she still did and still does. I cannot heal properly because of her actions. It was not enough to break me emotionally, she had to become a thorn in my side at my job. She whispered to my manager, and they became besties, work besties anyway. And I was fucking up, so it was all justified in everyone's eyes. No one could see Melissa for what she was, only me.

And so, here I am, to this day. Attempting to kick her out of my head, I want her evicted. I am trying to write her away. She still occasionally attempts to hoover me. But I remain a grey rock. And at times, I still gaslight myself into thinking that she is not a narcissist. And I am just insane, or obsessed. Either way, this year has been very rough. The one positive I gained from this experience: I began writing again. To tell me I have no ambition, when I truly do. I could not stand for that, so I started writing out of spite, but as I continued I recalled what I adored so much about writing. The joy it brought me, everyday. My ambition is to become a published author, I actually wrote this in a note,

"I will become a published author by the end of the year."

Well, I wrote that novel. I actually wrote two novels, trashed the first and continued with the second. I am not entirely sure the exact lesson to be gleaned from these words, I guess in the end, just be careful who you allow in your life. They can do much more damage than you can imagine.

"We fed on each other, me a lonely man, her a leech. I attached the teeth to my skin. And allowed symbiotic toxicity, just for a few months of temporary joy."

Horses driving in the distance. The sun dipped down. The farm bustled with animal activity. Hay, warm and tan, perfection for a nap. So his child body rested there. And as the sun was slit in half by the earth's curvature, it slipped away. Crickets chittered as darkness blanketed it all. Atop the barn, the weathervane spun as the wind rolled.

In town, inside one particular bar, Muddy Meiser's hundreds of townfolk crammed. Their bodies together, dancing. They twirled so nicely, doing dosy-dos. Line dancing, beer drinking, and having a terrific time.

The boy slumbered. His face buried in the hay. He sweated. He rolled over, face to the ceiling. He opened his eyes. A man stood before him, drenched in moonlight. Atop his head, a top hat, he waved. He smiled. And opened his mouth wide. A single butterfly, blue-gold and made of light, fluttered out. It landed on the tip of the boy's nose. Two beady insect eyes inspected. And then it spoke clearly and concisely.

"Boy, the night is an odd place to sleep."

The boy shook his head. Sealed his eyes, unsealed his eyes, and made the sound of terror. The butterfly flapped up, reentered the man's mouth, and burrowed down his throat. It crawled through the esophagus and into the intestines, and cuddled up. The boy was unable to form any words. But the man could.

"Sleep now, child, just sleep."

Blinking, and he was gone. Gone as if he had never existed to begin with. The boy was frozen in fear, murmuring. At the barn door, his mother stood in a silken nightgown. "Joey, get to bed." She whispered.

"I saw something, Ma."

"Tell me about it tomorrow."

"Ok." In dejection, little Joey ambled back to the farmhouse and then ambled to his room. Flung himself onto his bed. And closed his eyes tightly. A few streaming tears splattered onto the pillow.

Article by Thomas Pych

In the infinitesimally small town of Moonville, Ohio, reports of an old abandoned mine alight in the deadness of the dark night. The sheer volume of reports forced the publication's hand; the editor sent me. During our eight-hour drive, my photographer, Rickard Owlal, opened his laptop and delved deeply into the history of Moonville. The name alone conjured images of the supernatural, the likes of the Mothman or the Jersey Devil. We at Mantle Media do not ascribe truth to any reports without doing our due diligence.

Rickard found a history of witch trials, mass psychosis, and in the 1900s, dozens of disappearing miners. The usual fare. From a distance, I got a clear view of the town: a few houses on the outskirts and in the center: shops, a police department, a fire department, and one single municipal building. Suffice to say, it was perfectly plausible that Moonville actually dropped out of the 1900s; it was a cultural desert. But it held some tantalizing homey charm; we parked near a food truck: Feathers and Hooves.

Upon exiting the car, my photographer and I were greeted by a woman. Nancy Geswat; she seemed as idyllically pleasant and as coldly surreal as the rest of her community. Her long blonde hair tangled as we spoke; a storm brooded overhead. She agreed to an interview.

T: What do you do?

N: I cut hair. Hair stylist.

scrhltlschrltltltscheltltl static

On the sidewalk, Thomas smacked on the side of his handheld recorder. It gurgled sadly. Nancy's beautifully rounded blued eyes blinked. "So, have any plans tonight?"

"No, no, I don't. Why?"

"We could go grab a beer or something."

"Ok, Thomas? Right?" He nodded. "You're on."

schrhtltlhscehtltltschrtltl static dissipated

T: Are you from Moonville originally?

N: Yep, born and raised. Where are you all from?

T: New York.

N: Big city boys.

T: What is the population of this town?

N: I'm not sure. Maybe... two thousand?

T: The mine, do you know of it?

N: Know of it? My great-great-grandfather was the foreman. We heard many stories about that mine growing up.

T: We can start simple. Does the mine have a name?

N: Limestone Flats Mine, nothin' fancy. Our ancestors didn't care for flair.

N: Why are y'all here anyway?

T: I am asking the questions here, Nancy.

N: Oh, excuse me.

T: You must know why we are here, so your question was rhetorical.

N: Rhetorical?

T: You knew the answer.

N: I suppose you're right.

N: Listen, beyond the surface, I cannot tell you much more. There are lights at night, but to my knowledge no one has investigated. They're scared.

T: Scared of what?

N: I don't know? The unknown?

schrltltltschtrltltltlrlrrtl white noise under hot heating sun

Nancy's expression is contempt. As Thomas beats on his unruly equipment, two more people walk into frame. Teenagers, small and hollow with obesity smiles. Nancy slinks away. "You two, you wanna be interviewed?"

The one on the left agreed overly enthusiastically. The one on the right seemed trepidatious. Their baggy black shirts billowing as the storm grew. One final smack murdered the malfunction

schrtltltschrtltlt normalcy

T: Who are you two?

T1: Franklin

T2: Maragret

T: You from here?

F: All my life.

M: Same.

T: What do you know about the lights?

F: It's fast as fuck.

M: It kills the dark.

T: The lights at the mines.

F: We went there last night.

T: And?

M: We saw... nothing.

F: It was a bust. Just a mine. The lights were even off. What sorta creeped me out, in the distance, they were brighter than usual, or seemed to be. And as we got up there, they flicked off. Creepy shit.

The recorder battery died.

Thomas shook his shaggy hair. "It died." The two teens laughed at his misfortune and slipped away, dragging their feet down the sidewalk.

The pair of journalists ended up in a bar. Seven men sweated inside. Their stink extruding through the front door. A wave crashed upon the pair; their noses wept. Inside, the patrons saw the two out-of-towners and swarmed them. Questions galore, voices gruff and cracking, their ears wept. Thomas attempted to explain their situation, but the alcohol had cast a temporary retardation on the bar-goers.

Fat lips smacked as all seven aged men crowded around them like circus freaks. Nose hairs noodled out, eyeballs pushed, ears wiggled incessantly, all the while Thomas whispered sweet nothings at Rickard, assuring him they would leave shortly.

One man in particular, fat and wholly uninteresting, sat in the back. He drank from his glass of iced liquor. Wiping his lips, he waved his hand. Thomas sidled up beside him, ordered a beer, and plopped down the freshly recharged recorder.

schrrrtltltrrrltltlt crackle crackle pop

T: Name?

U: Lincoln.

T: Like the president?

L: Is that a question?

T: Yes.

L: No.

T: Not like the president?

L: Nope.

T: What do you know of the mine?

L: They used to mine shit in there. Limestone or something.

T: Anything else?

L: Yeah, I heard some kids talking about lights.

L: Why you looking at me like that?

T: You're lying.

L: No

T: Yes

L: This is a shitty interview. Insulting even.

T: Tell me or don't, I will go there regardless.

L: You're going to the mine?

T: Of course I am. That's the only logical conclusion.

L: I wouldn't if I were you.

T: So you do know something.

scrhtltltltschrltltlt beer soaked non-static

"This fucking thing." Thomas glared at Rickard, who was now behind him, ordering a beer. The last of Lincoln's liquor was guzzled down his neck, and he left. Around him, the crowd ebbed; the two wormed their way on the street. In the distance, the mine glowed in spectral light. Thomas watched it for a moment, mumbling incoherently. He stepped forward. And behind him, Rickard asked

"Where are we going?"

"The mine."

Trudging up a wet hill, they crested the top. There it was, a small maw, light pouring out. At the mouth, they stared in. Wind whistled from within, rustling their shirts. Four ensconced lights glowed bright in the night. Past those, abject darkness awaited. Rickard wordlessly assembled the tripod, mounted the camera, and stood there.

"You going in there?"

"I kind of have to."

"You don't have to do anything."

A tremble shook Rickard's words violently. His face glistened with terrified sweat. The mine whispered to them. Not words, but the whispers of energy. Inside their stomachs, the beer swirled. A vortex, and as they both burped up the remnants, Thomas prepared himself.

With a phone in one hand and a flashlight in the other, Thomas moved forward. Immediately, he stopped. In front of him, an outline was there. A man, he spoke

"Hello." His voice was a bright tenor. The features completely obscured; Thomas rubbed his eyes. "Hello?"

"Yes, hello." The figure repeated.

"Who's there?"

"Me."

"Who's me?"

"I am me."

"This'll be an odd question. Can I interview you?"

"Interview? For what?"

"I am writing an article."

"On?"

"This mine."

"What about it. It's just a mine."

"Mind if I record?"

"Go ahead."

schrtltltltschrtltltlt apparition static

T: What is your name?

G: Phillup.

T: Are you a ghost?

P: What kind of question is that? No, I am not a ghost. I am a miner.

T: This mine is abandoned.

P: What a funny statement. It is not abandoned. I'm the foreman; I would know.

T: Dozens of miners disappeared in this mine.

P: Well, we're here. You have it all wrong, sir. All wrong.

T: Can you step out?

The enigmatic shadow crossed the threshold into the revealing light. What I saw will stay with me until I pass from this earth. He was bones, not clean, bits of rotten skin adhered to the arms and legs. And on his face, desiccated, dangling eyeballs still attached to the sockets. From behind me, Rickard let out a deathly screech, and all I heard were footsteps trailing down the hill. And then a bolt of lightning, and deepening thunder rolling across the sky. Phillup's chattering mouth appeared to smile.

schrrtltltshrtltltlt static of the dead miner's

He was perfectly capable of linking the chains of his melancholy himself. I appeared to be a much-needed observer. The tale he told confounded me so; this person he spoke of. They did not seem real—a significant other, taken to soaring, complimentary hyperbole. My acquaintance must have felt comfortable; he divulged too much information. He told me about their sex life, their love, their arguments. It was a lot to take in. I tried my best to reply, but each time I opened my mouth, he interrupted me. I pushed forward and asked.

"What does she look like?"

His description was disconcerting. At first it was normal, a woman with long hair and big, beautiful hazel eyes. But as he spoke, the details grew sinister. She was large; her skin was too dry, and her breath smelled like sewage. And he said that in her eyes he could see a vacancy. His voice rumbled, growing deeper. He gesticulated. His face grew red. With a shaky voice-box, he launched into a tirade. He said something like

"I hate her. I hate her so much. I hate her more than I have ever hated anyone. It's the kind of hatred that cannot be put into one simple word. It is beyond language; it is beyond emotion. I want to explode. I want to fucking disintegrate. I do not wish ill-will upon her; rather, I want to disappear."

My lips moved, but there were no words, no sound. You could tell he wanted to continue; he wanted to keep eviscerating her. His head tilted to the ground. He just shook his head. This man who usually was a fountain of words was reduced to a well. Deep inside, there were adjectives, but he had given up. And with closed body language, he uttered one last sentence.

"I'm just broken; I am not the same person."

I patted his back. A habitual display of comfort, although I disliked physical touch. He cried then. I could not parse this. I could see the heat and rage radiating from him, or at least it seemed I could. The only thought I could conjure: thank god I am single.

As a child, I figured a thirty-year-old had one foot firmly in the grave. All of this is compounded by modernity and how, now, we can prolong life. So we thirty-somethings are not necessarily ancient, just approaching the monumentous moment that is forty. So we can go through our mid-life crisis, bite our nails cartoonishly, contemplate mortality. Buy something that is way too expensive and take solace that we have that something. That something may stop the passage of time if your mid-life crisis purchase was a motorcycle. Perhaps you could squeal that baby into the cosmos and transcend time and space entirely; you never know.

They say "age is just a number." That's irrefutable; no truer statement has ever been stated. Age is a number, but it's also a construct made up to ascribe a numerical value to our skin cells slowly dying. Can you imagine a world in which time was nebulous, as in we did not keep track of it? It would unburden us, I feel; it would create a vacuum that we may use elsewhere. Instead of constantly considering death and time and growing older, we could critically think, create art, or become fucking doctors. I don't know, it's just a thought. Just a thought.

Imagine this: your once vibrant body reduced to pale wax. The skin withered, your teeth decayed, eye sockets sucked inward, and in the blackness within, a wisdom. Pure presence in your defunct coil; all that remains are the memories of all you have influenced, all you have ever touched.

And in the second death, the last time your name is uttered, the last time a memory of you plays in someone's mind. Finally, you are truly dead. It is our fate, all of us, and we know this all too well.

All these thoughts, the worries, goals, needs, wants, greed, lies, all of it will be gone. I attempt to hold this in my forethoughts, to remember that I will be dead soon in the grand scheme of things.

Not only that, I attempt to remember that I am but one single human being, on one single habitable planet, in one single galaxy in a vast ocean of stars, planets, and galaxies. We know nothing, and every time I find myself caterwauling in despair. I remind myself of my microscopic reality.

Imagine there were no mortal death and instead only the death of obscurity. All your self-worth would be tied to your name being whispered far and wide; those that achieve this level of renown never truly pass. Instead, their name is rapidly repeated in hushed whispers in corners of the world most cannot see. Their name envelopes all, ingraining into the very fabric of human existence, of human consciousness. I believe in the collective unconscious.

Just above my head, right now, is a cloud of the hive; we can hone our own consciousness to such a sharpened edge that we can pluck from it at will. But perhaps we are only given a finite number of pulls, lest we drain the well.

We are evolved primates, on a planet, having deep thoughts about our existentialism. We seem to be progressing, although at times we solidly regress. We are not the brightest. We hold the destruction of our own planet in the palm of our hands. We make war. We covet wealth sometimes, far more than inner wealth. Our society is based on this; every facet of life revolves around the pursuit of survival, and so all aspects reflect this pursuit. In a panoply of ways, we all tend to think our way is the best. There are no solutions; we are lost in a labyrinthian, ineluctable puzzle, unsolvable by these big brains. We can only float forward and as far upward as humanly necessary.

I'll buy that for a dollar. I'll buy that for a dollar. I'll fucking buy that for a dollar. A dollar cannot buy you anything in 2026, but in the past. In the past, that dollar could buy you so much more. It's all relative, all of it is relative. Inflation, economics, and dollars, stocks and shareholders. The little man, the middleman, the middle-class, the bourgeois. It's all relative. It is all relative. I'll buy that, for a goddamned dollar.

***

Herbert Rupert, a man of note. He graduated from Harvard at 11. He also became a millionaire by the age of 14. (Out of sight.) His mansion in New York is ornate and impressive. There are two pillars out in front. The girth and length of these pillars climb to the sky. Fifty feet of pure pillar; passersby often marvel at their audacity. He told randoms at a party once, "They're my two long dicks, I love dicks."

And he did love dicks; in his room upstairs, lavish orgies would take place. Moaning and slurping sessions in the dark of night. From the door, slamming squelching came, hard. (Far out.)

You see, Herbert ran a Fortune 500 company. His company produced toilets and toilet seats and toilet covers and toilet paper among other things. He hired the lowest-skilled labor to bolster his profit margins. In his factories, troglodytes lackadaisically made him millions. Millions upon millions, every single day. (Solid.)

He threw himself whole hog into the artsy circles of New York. Artists of much repute kept him company, and although Herbert had not one single perceivable artistic bone in his body, they held him in high esteem. You see, Herbert had aspirations deeper than making ridiculous amounts of money. (Dig it?)

Herbert wanted to write a novel. The only roadblock was his inability to write. Every time he sat down and placed the pen upon paper. Nothing but word-slop flowed from it. (Heavy.) His mind churned deeply with narratives, ideas so many ideas. It was as if his hand and mind were warring nations. Rupert caught in the middle, his hand down his pants.

The new friends, the artsy circle, they would tell him

"Just don't overthink it, man. Just write. It'll come out eventually."

They spoke about it as if he had a blockage. Maybe he should call a plumber, Herbert thought. So he invited all of them over, the artsy circle, to have a dialogue about what he could do to improve. Or to just spelunk into his own mind to mine the gold. (Right on.)

Herbert was a pipsqueak. He wore large rimmed rose-colored glasses. Golden cufflinks, dark red ties, pleated pants, and large-toed shoes. Under the visage, he raged constantly; hot red blood boiled. He popped on his favorite suit. Standing at the mirror, he waved to himself. Muttering nonsensical words, they meant nothing. He opened his tight mouth wide, wide. He made this horrific sound, like a fire alarm underwater. He went, eereeooooohhhhhhh. His maid called

"Mr. Rupert, are ju ok?"

"Yes, Margarita, just fine."

Pangs of anxiety ravaged what sanity remained. But he regained some kind of composure and exited the bathroom. He walked down long hallways; under his feet, polished hardwood spruce flooring glimmered. (What it is?)

Lights baked him as his feet pattered down the whimsically winding staircase. Four picture windows, icily clear. In the dining room, his guests conversed loudly. They all sat at a round table. Herbert greeted with exuberation. "My fine folks, how are you this wonderful evening?"

Each artsy fartsy head nodded along. No one spoke; in utter silence, Herbert sat. He placed his pink painted nails upon the table. And began tapping out little beats; the circle stared statically.

Gina Delilo spoke up

"Whatcha call us fo, Herb?" Gina was a painter. Gina painted pointillism portraits of cats. A large tattoo on her left cheek was a recreation of one of those portraits. It was of a tabby cat, its eyes glowing red, its paws stretched, its claws unsheathed. The cat contained every color of the rainbow, but muted, degrading. (Dynamite!)

"I would like council." Herbert's wry smile scanned the round table of creatives. To the south, at the tip, Mick Vagarbon stood suddenly. The top of his head was bald, like recently polished china; it bounced light. His waxy lips pursed. His tired eyes blinked. "Council in what? I don't appreciate this bullshit, man. I am busy motherfuckin' man, ya know? I got shit to do. Stupendous shit that you couldn't even fuckin' fathom, man." (Heavy.)

He walked to Herbert and peered over him, gigantically. "You got alotta gull, you know? Ya fuckin' goddamn prick, man. Man, oh, man. What the hellda ya need counseling for anyhow?"

Mick rode bikes, specifically choppers. He was part of the Hell's Angels. Not one to be trifled with, but he had a soft streak. You could see it in his eyes. Somewhere deep in that hard exterior resided an inner child. Herbert peered back, but at Mick the innocent. (Groovy.)

"I would like to be a writer. But there's an issue." Herbert paused clumsily with all the tact of a lumbering bear. "I can't write." The circle chuckled lightly. Herbert was dead serious. (Heavy.)

"Whatcha want us to do bout that Herb?" Gina said.

To the west, Philmont Tyrandus raised his hand. "Question." This gentleman filled the room with urbane passion. In an erudite, sultry voice, he asked

"What would you like to write? A fine fellow such as yourself should have a plethora of material to choose from. Just create sentences, and write. It's all rather simple, really." Philmont was editor-in-chief of an underground zine called Grit. Herbert adored this publication; he would spend hours pouring over the articles, his vision dancing across the pages, ingesting liters of tantalizing wordsoup. (Far out.)

Philmont had class, the kind of man who pointed his pinky whilst he drank his tea. That pinky was manicured, meticulously cleaned. A quiff haircut on his scalp, coiled back sweepingly. Large heterochromatic blue and green eyes. A long, slender neck with three small freckles in a triangular shape under his Adam's apple. (Foxy.) Dainty ears situated to the sides of his head; those ears wiggled as he spoke

"You know, I have never once heard you speak of writing like this. Is this some abandoned passion? Perhaps attempting to reclaim some semblance of contentment?"

"No, I just read the pieces in your magazine, and it creates this insatiable lust inside of me. I want to write like that."

"I see. You could write like that, Herby, my little cherub." Philmont reached his hand across the table, resting it upright. Herbert placed his hand in his. They clasped.

"Do you want me to read your writing, Herby-baby? Is that it? I can do that for you, if that is your desire." A flare of the sexual fired in Philmont's pupils.

"Yes, Philly, that is exactly what I want. And more than that, I want to understand the mechanics of improvement."

"You want to write better?"

"Yes, well, I want to write at all. When I try to write lately, nothing is there but gibberish. I am not dyslexic. It doesn't make sense to me."

"Have you tried copying from your favorite authors?"

"Copying?" Herbert echoed.

"Yes, Herby, copying. Pick a novel or essay or piece of poetry. And copy an excerpt by hand. It's truly a fascinating way to, subconsciously or consciously, understand how a writer makes it flow. How a writer creates magic." (Dig it.)

Mick slapped into the chair. He reached inside his pocket. He dropped a small zipped-up black case on the table. He slowly unzipped it. He retrieved a syringe. Holding it towards the ceiling, he flicked the tip and squirted a portion of the contents out, which slowly slid down the needle. Wordlessly, he inserted the needle into his vein and pushed the plunger, and leaned back into the chair. Like honey, he began oozing down. (Heavy.)

The other three observed this hedonistic display and shrugged.

"Anyway, Herb-babe, let me read a piece you wrote." Philmont smiled with a saccharine stare attached.

Gina bobbled her head, the cat tattoo pouncing up and down and muttered something about Mick.

Rummaging through drawers in his study. Herbert held four envelopes. In these manila envelopes are four rejected manuscripts. Attached to each is a handwritten rejection letter. One read,

Dear Mr. Rupert,

We know of you; I personally have taken a special interest in your creative output. Although we are rejecting this current draft, continue writing. There is flair here.

Editor-in-chief, Robert Ingal

Briefly, Hubert reread the words he had written. It is gibberish to him; he slipped it back inside. And downtrodden, returned to the dining room. (What it is?)

Philmont and Gina thumbwrestled over Mick's incapacitated body. Gina won.

"So?" Philmont said.

"That it?" Gina said.

"This is it," Hubert said.

"Be gentle," Hubert handed the envelope to Philmont. He grinned dastardly. "I am always gentle Herby, I am a gentle, man. As you know."

,

,He read. "You submitted these? To Robert?" Philmont said. "Why Robert? Why not just send them off to yours truly? I have to admit, Herby-baby, I am a little hurt."

"I did not want any favors, Phil. You would have been gentle, correct?"

"I suppose so."

"I wanted to be ripped apart, or at the very least given a harsh lesson in the publishing business."

"I understand."

So Philmont continued reading. The four of them breathed. Existing. In some other place or some other universe, another four individuals spent their time much the same, if not identically. Philmont inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled and blinked. And created sharp eye contact with Herbert. In turn, Herbert inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled and blinked. And then they discussed the short story Herbert wrote. The good, the bad and how he could improve. Philmont's advice was vague, he patted Herbert on the back.

On the floor, Mick stirred from his drug-induced slumber. Upright, he slurred all the words

"What da fuckin' shit, wher the shit am I?"

"Herby's house darling." Philmont said.

Gina kicked Mick in the shin. "God Mick, you'rea moron, ya know that?"

"Moron? Who da fucka you callin' a moron, ya greedy cunt."

"Cunt? Didja just call me a cunt?"

Mick can clearly see this was a monumentally earth shattering mistake. Gina's eyes take a dive, ripping the zippered-up drugs off the floor she sprinted through the front door. Mick deadpanned between his two companions with disdain in his heart. "Fucin' shit. You two chuckleheads can suck my cock." He stood and lazily dragged himself through the front door too. In the distance he yelled

"Gina, baby, come back! Bring mah heroin back too, ya fuckin' slut!"

It grew quiet. The two blearily watched each other. There was a growing tension in the room. Herbert could feel his big heart pumping. Philmont could feel his little palms sweating.

"So, my little Herbert, would you like to join me?"

"Where to?"

"Was going to take a nice stroll to the corner store. Sound fun?"

Herbert can't help but lose himself in Philmont's, everything. Such a fine specimen, he thought. "Of course. I'd accompany you anywhere."

"Oh? Is that so?"

"Mhm."

The door closed behind them. The sun raged in the sky, dolling out unfettered heat. They were real close, real friendly. Feet stepping nicely, they maintained tension, choosing to refrain from conversation. Herbert could see Mick in the distance, long ago giving up on locating his girlfriend. He glanced back at them momentarily, flicked the bird in their direction and trudged forward faster. (Far out.)

"He's a real ball of sunshine that one." Philmont said.

"He is an acquired taste."

"Like coffee."

"Yeah, exactly, like coffee. Except coffee doesn't pass out in your dining room."

"I have to respect his willingness to not give a damn."

"I suppose that is an admirable trait."

"How about you?"

"Do I give a damn?"

"Yeah, do you?"

"I do, do you?"

"Mostly." Philmont side-eyeing smirks. Herbert cordoned off a section of his heart for Philly in that moment. Just for Philly, it was about 25%

"What are you buying at the cornerstore?"

"A candy bar."

"Sweet-tooth, eh?"

"I like sweets, real sweety for sweets."

"I like it sweet too."

That swelling sexual volcano was about to erupt. A bolt of sweat, sexily slid down Herbert's cheek. Philmont's pillar grew increasingly rigid under the zipped-up zipper. Their body chemistry bubbled, they were inside that love labratory. (Groovy.)

"Your writing is good Herbert. I am confused as to why you cannot see it clearly. Is it truly just gibberish to you?"

"It is. It's as if the words no longer hold any meaning. I attempt to read my own writing, and the words jumble up. It truly is reminiscent of vomit."

"Come now, vomit? Herby, you have innate talent. You just need to refine, clean up the vomit I suppose."

"I will Philly, I promise." Herbert let loose a magnificent grin, willing Philmont to freeze. In that moment he sectioned of a portion of his heart for Herbert, it was about 35%

"Good, my sweet Herby."

The corner store was empty. Except for the dirt-riddled man behind the counter. On his head was an absolutely guady white cowboy hat with rhinestones across the brim. He greeted them as they entered with a thick, imposter's Texan accent. Wads of white spittle flicked off his tongue as the two soon to be lovers hid behind the candy aisle.

They laughed, tossed in a few jabs about his atrocious appearance and surveilled the selection before them. Candy galore, an entire aisle of: candy bars, gummy bears, gummy worms, toffee, licorice, caramels, bags of candy corn, candy sticks, bubble gum, gumballs, jellybeans, wax bottles, lollipops, and a set of lushly red candied lips at the end. Philmont dialed in on the lips, tore the package open with gusto and inserted his prize.

"How do I look?" He asked with a full mouth.

"Gorgeous."

"Oh, don't, you flatter me."

He split the lips in half, handing the other to Herbert. They chewed. From the counter the pseduo-cowboy complained

"Don't y'all be eating in the store, ya gotta buy it first." Philmont giggled mockingly and swallowed his lips. He pointed then at a Babe Ruth. Under, the price sticker read: 25c.

"That's the object of my desire."

"Baby Ruth, that your favorite?"

"Oh yes, nothing quite like the immaculate crunch of a Baby Ruth, have you had?"

"No, actually."

Philmont was aghast, he grabbed the bar of chocolate and they stormed up to the cowboy. Halos glinting from the rhinestones pierced their eyes.

"That'll be one buck even."

Complaints were leveled haughtily at the man. His cowboy hat rocking back and forth as he shook his head.

"That'll be a buck mister, you ate those lips."

Philmont turned to Herbert. "I forgot my wallet, got a buck?" He nodded and dug inside his pants. Revealing a crisp dollar bill, each edge folded to a point. They paid. Outside, rain began to fall, drops smacked the cement. The redolent scent of petrichor soothed Herbert's nerve-racked heart. And across the street, Mick and Gina embraced. The zippered-up black contraband container dangled from his fingertips. His slippery scalp absorbed the cool rain. (Right on.)

Those two, facing each other each held a half of the Babe Ruth. As they crunched, rain abated and the sun set in the east. Warmth of light touching everything and everyone.

"It's good."

"It is, isn't it? Delicious." Philmont said. "Thanks for the dollar. I'll pay you back."

"Don't worry about it. I am a millionaire, remember?"

"Oh yeah..."

They were in silence as they ate. They watched the setting sun with reverence. And through Herbert's mind, the thoughts of a perceived future cascaded. A future full of love, contentment and vocation. With one final crunchy bite, he swallowed and smiled thoughtfully at Philmont. Their unsettled, immutably divided hearts slowly combining, bolstering the margins of their burgeoning love.

Look at this guy right here. He is standing there with a big, dumb smirk on his face. He has pitiful eyes. You can see into his fucking soul. And let me tell you, it ain't pretty. Under his chin are these stringy hairs; they look hard. It looks like you could break one off. On top of his head, long brown hair. It's thin, wispy. You can tell by his currently droning voice that he likes to hear himself talk. And good lord, those extravagant words he uses. This motherfucker believes he is the cat's meow, hot shit, big dick material.

Listen to him, holy shit.

"No, I meant we are just transients moving through this life. Ultimately we die, so what is the point? We should embrace every moment as if it is our last. Just throw caution to the wind and fuck, fight, and indulge."

The girl he is interacting with has no fucking clue what is going on. She seems like the type that only has original thoughts in their dreams. That mouth of his is flapping like a duck's quacker. She has the shades drawn, tufts of blonde hair strangling her eyelids. Oh my god, her mouth is open, drool is coming out! Wait, wait, shh, she may respond.

"You're right."

Absolutely riveting. They're in some gothic nightclub. Lights beating all over everything. Post-punk ripping through the whole affair. It's a poser party; their conversation is way too in-depth for such a setting. This guy is over here trying to woo this woman with an intellectual discussion. Grade-A choice bucko. Oh, wait, they're speaking again.

"So, do you usually come out to places like this?"

"No, honestly, I am more of a homebody."

Oof. My guy is losing ground. He is being routed. Women like the honesty, but for the important shit. Not admitting you're a house-bound loser.

"Like, you stay home usually?"

"Yeah, usually. You?"

In the grand scheme of it all. There is no plausible reality where this man pulls her. Not to harp on his appearance, but he looks like an emaciated chimpanzee. Although she isn't much better. She has a ring on each finger; she could probably knock a motherfucker out cold.

"I enjoy going out. But I also like to stay in, watch a movie, and cuddle."

She's smiling. What black sorcery is this? They're both smiling. Is this happening? Some formula was circumvented here. The universe will never recover.

"I love to cuddle. I like to hold hands too."

"Oooh, me too. Holding hands is so intimate."

What in the flying fuck are they even talking about? Why are they having this ooey gooey conversation in the middle of what looks like the devil's colon? He's leaning in. She's leaning in. There is some ineluctable pull between them. She is shit faced, she is trashed, she is fucking blotto. Has to be, no other explanation.

"You're very beautiful."

"Thank you, you're very handsome."

Did he slip something in her drink? He may be the GHB kingpin; I heard the cops were looking for him. Who knew he prowled goth clubs spouting utter nonsense?

"What's your name?"

"Darla, you?"

"Francis."

Yeah, those names match up quite well. And let's not even discuss Francis. Francis slings GHB- what a hustle. She leans in. He leans in. They are inches from each other's faces. Francis and Darla are about to fuse into some kind of terrifying monster.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Yes."

He asked permission. What an absolute menace. He is doing it. It's outstanding. They kiss. Awe-inspiring.

"Wanna get outta here?"

She's nodding. The impossible has become possible. All mathematics is forever in shambles. Tomorrow, the universe will collapse in on itself. Game theory was just an accident. We will never be the same. We will never recover. God help us all.