Short Stories and Poetry

03/03/16

THE GHASTLY LIGHTS

There is a place off the beaten track of stone streets and dirt undertow in a town that no longer has a name – that name has long since been left stolen by the machinations of man; lost to names and memories for any and all folk who may have once resided or even heard of such a place. Apparently save for me; the tale of this long forgotten place I will inform you of.

I was an accountant, working in the local bank – and as mentioned previously, I have forgotten the names of those who I catered for, the money they coveted no doubt still residing in our vaults and safes. I would handle the names...yes, I would. I would handle their names, the amounts proportionate to their earnings, those little expenses we hide from ourselves unknowingly and the ones we do know of but refuse to speak about. I’m talking about sex, for the unlearned. I would handle their accounts, the transactions – no matter the deed, unless illegal by law both natural and not – and file them accordingly. It was on one such shift that I first heard news of the ghastly lights, the slowly burning ghostly embers that had swallowed people and buildings hole from the inside. Mira (if that was her moniker), one of our secretaries, who I had utmost confidence in and of, was the first to speak of these ghastly lights. A town house at the end of crooked and narrow streets – the cobbles of which resembled teeth strew on the ground, I remember – had never been vacated, but the occupants had not been seen forthwith for over a fortnight. They had been there, the smiling happy family, and then...they had not. The postman had been the first, if I recall, to note of this obvious error in location, delivering mail to an empty house. The reason the mailman had not thought the house abandoned was due to a strange light, a hue of golden red that shone through the curtains that had been long pecked at the edges by moths.

I and others had come once mentions of this strange light had begun to circulate, and we noted that once the door was open, the stark and barren house had no source for this light to be produced. The house was dark, I remember; a suffocating, noxious dark that stretched into the forever. On the outside, that light, however, stood like a poignant reminder. There had been someone, anyone, here, and then there had not. I stood outside of the building, and Mira had linked arms with someone next to me, her nails painted the colour of steel and her hair in the process of being dyed from a sun-stricken blonde to a beautiful steel and silver – she wore jewellery in her hair constantly, or that was the purpose of such an endeavour.

‘Those people, oh my god. Where are they? I, what the fuck is that light? I don’t understand,’ she spoke, and I leant to her, her hair touching mine for a moment in a summertime breeze.

‘I don’t either,’ I said. She turned to me and looked with eyes that edged towards the emotionally stricken and dark. We both turned to the house as the search party, for lack of a better word, left. I sighed and shook my head side to side, and the light was constant. We noted then, amongst the group gathered in that small place, that the names of the occupants had been stricken and lost from our memory. The people dwelling that abode had not just been lost physically, but lost...in every way.

I and other townsfolk in this nameless place noticed other disappearances’, other people lost to that phantasmagorical light, but by the time we had found out about that particular residence’s inhabitants being lost to these strange lights, we had already forgotten their names. The second place to be lost was a barber store and the occupants within – there still were shreds of shorn locks on the floor, hues of amber and rose and brown and grey. The next was another house, and so on and forthwith, till the consignment of the lost was far outweighing the sum of the remaining.

I finished a shift at my office, signing the names of people who had disappeared – such was practice by this point, I assure you – as we put their final motions and monetary actions to fruition. It was accepted, at this point in the town’s life cycle, that the lost had simply moved on, and the lights were...well, we didn’t know. How could we map the unfathomable? Better to map the ocean floor for all the use. I finished my shift, and walked along a desolate and dark street. Mira, by this point, had long since gone – the ghastly lights that had now swallowed the town in its greasy golden waves had taken her, too – but I thought of those eyes, clinging desperately to the colour, till I realised the colour was possibly inaccurate to my mind’s eye. I had forgotten her, and everyone else of equal importance or of lesser. I sat on a bench, stricken high with snowfall from a previous evening, and ran my hand upon it, wiping off excess snow. I took a seat, reaching into my overcoat for cigarettes that I had become beyond caring the ill-intent of. I thought of the people, the lies we tell ourselves – no doubt you are guilty of this, but that is by the by – that we will always be there for the people who matter. I stared at a house, or perhaps some cobweb licked storefront, and stared at the golden-red hue that bathed the cobbles and pavement in front of it with a kaleidoscopic light that bordered on the cosmic. I sighed, staring at that light, as it sung to me from the window, and I looked up at the windows of buildings that bordered it.

They too were stricken by those lights, and I looked behind me, craning my neck to observe more or similar lights that all were glowing to me from the windows in the dark. I was an accountant of a dead-town, I realised, and I laughed. Oh, how I did laugh. I got up, and went to my car – I daren’t leave anything too valuable in my house anymore, in case those lights would rear up on my windows, and I too would be lost to that illumination. As I started my car, I looked for a final time at my house, which I believe was painted blue. I had a white picket fence, which contained a maintained lawn and a single apple tree in the right corner farthest from the house itself. As I looked at it, I saw one of those ghastly lights flicker into existence in my bedroom window first, then the others in sequence – stairwell, living room, front door hallway. All were bathed in red. I let the cigarette fall from my mouth, before I shook my senses back into myself and drove away. I’ve driven ever since – down dark roads, stayed in the company of jazz players in the south and writers in the east, played the organ in a circus, even, for a time – and never stayed in one place for too long.

I wonder of memory, if we really do remember the people who count for the most in our lives. They filter in like ghosts from a sieve, grip us tightly in the night...and then vanish into it, as it they were always a part of it.

I fear for those ghastly lights, which had swallowed up my town, the names and memory of people; and I fear that, one day, they will come for me. Would this documentation stay? Who knows? I don’t.

And neither would you.

08/02/2016

THE ABYSS GAZES FURTHER

(AN EXTRACT FROM ACROSS THE GULF BY Ihah al-Ry.)

CHAPTER 6 PART 3

The day the void came; it came swiftly. The year was this year, or so we remember. The families of the town of Thorley lay in their homes within the valleys and trees of England, and those trees were like giants such were the height. This was before the years of technology, before the creations of man allowed the ability of communication. We were born with mouths, and thus have learnt not to use them.

The town spoke in hushed tones one night, as they noticed the abyss one day. It resembled a cloud in the sky – no, a cloud implied form, some form of cohesion. This did not. It was a hole; some kind of nebulous thing that came quietly one morning in the spring. The locals contained in them various standings of men and women and they looked out over the fields and plains and they say it approach, slowly. The men spoke in hushed tones; some of them leaning on their implements and staring with old tired eyes and aching bodies and souls and they spoke.

I don’t know what that is, said one; an old man with the beady eyes of blackened pearls. He spat on the ground loudly, and his wife and family stood by his side. His plain wife held a child close, the boy seemed slow witted and his eyes stared impassively and idiotically up at that hole.

I think it’s something from the bible, said another man in his vestments, and he led an expedition to the mountain where the void rested above and never returned. The town in the meantime began to talk of the void, steadily approaching and unwavering, a constant moving obelisk in the sky like some basalt disc being spun by a god.

The men talk over their ales and the women who parade themselves like objects to be used cooed in their ears and smoked and the men danced on that first night and the woman joined and none complained. The second day – when the priest was to return – the men and women looked out and saw no man or return from the party save the feeling of ghosts fleeing down the mountain. The women held their young, and noticed the abyss had moved closer in the night.

By the second night, the men had spoke of devilry up in the mountains; but none could say what. No man, for there had been few by now, had returned from venturing to the void. What are we going to do, asked one of the younger men, a rough farmhand with a pockmarked face and hair the colour of wood. We aren’t going to do anything, said one of the older men. Hair and eyes the same colour, the colours of stone.

This thing’ll pass and stay away. I’m sure of it, spoke the man again.

But what about the priest?

What about him.

He hasn’t come home.

The man spat, and the older men and the younger and the women listened as he spoke over the edge of the steel flagon that now had a steady bubbling liquid dancing over the edge of the lip of the rim and the man drank.

The priest was a damned fool.

Why?

A few others joined in.

Why was he a fool?

Because he thought he could shout up at the void and the damn thing would back down.

By the third day, the void had now not only travelled but grown. A few men during the night had complained of restlessness and a few other of the more stranger and impeded began to howl up at the night sky like animals and could not remember why they had done this if they remembered at all. The gap in the sky resembled some dark windowless gloom of a room, as though beyond the sky there was that void and nothing more. The abyss did not howl back or give acknowledgement; it merely was as if it had always been. The men looked at it, at the halfwits as they danced in the shadow of the dark above, the sky a pale blue in contrast to that cataclysmic black. The halfwits had lost semblance of themselves and had gone about rolling in the mud and thrashing before lying still for hours at the time before some snap of the synapses made them lunge about and holler like animals. The man with the stone hair and the stone eyes looked up at the abyss and then back at the halfwits and then back again. A painted whore came next to him, her makeup hurried and smudged and she had dirt and blood on her knees and her feet were bare and her face pale beneath the makeup.

Are those men okay?

They aren’t here, said the man of stone as he looked up again. They’re up there, he said, nodding to the abyss.

That night a meeting was held by firelight in the town hall and the men and women left sat on the wooden seats as the mayor – a fat man whose frame seemed unsupportive of the rest of his heft – sat at the front on a raised wooden stage that was the colour of burnt oak. The town hall was a large white building that would be mistaken for a church from a distance by travellers but travellers never came anymore.

The mayor spoke loudly and gestured like the ringleader of some travelling show or a peddler of miracles running from the back of abandoned wagons, but the townsfolk were silent all the same.

We need to talk about that hole up there. It’ll be here in a few days, but we all have to remain calm. There’s no reason or room for consternation here.

A few men murmured and a younger man stood up, his hair parted down the middle crudely and his voice mild and milquetoast.

That thing up there. I don’t want to be here when it comes. I heard noises last night from the mountains, and I think it was from that thing.

Don’t be a damned fool like that runaway priest, said the mayor, waving a hand dismissively as the jewellery on his fingers gleamed and the light danced upon them and the rings contained rubies and other gems.

I’m not a fool, said the man again. There are noises from in there, and I’m not staying.

The mayor looked at him, his brow furrowed and stern.

Where will you go? There is nothing for miles. If this abyss travels over us and ignores us, then what will you do? You’ll have run away from us in times of needs. Our crooked roofs may not be the strongest but they hide us well in the night. If you run out there the moon’ll give you away.

There isn’t a moon there to give me away, said the man, and he sat down again and was silent. He would leave that morning, away from the town, and he was never seen again either. On that fourth day the women began to scream as their children would hurt themselves – throw themselves from roofs and smash their faces into the walls; they were slick with blood, skin and wall both. A woman took her son outside, after he had tried to hurt himself with a knife.

Why did you do that? She said through tears. The boy stares past her before looking up at the abyss, now merely fields away.

Because I got told to, said the boy.

That night the women began to strip themselves and wail and moan and drove themselves along the dirt paths towards the fields while the men watched afraid and the children cried for sisters and aunts and mothers and those other relative kin. The children followed suit, to the hollering of the halfwits and the men watched in the firelight on the inn through the windows at the darkened woods and grassy knolls and saw the vague shapes of the women.

The next and final day the men watched at the abyss came overhead, and the few who had not joined the wailing and the maddened and the blighted and the sickened looked from their porches or through the filth smeared windows at the sky and watched as the hole above gave way to something else that could not be explained and could not be described. The hills grew alive with shrieking and the sound of musket and rifle and the smell of fires and the town burned and the dead left in their states – mouths turned up, some corpses so defiled they resembled the slaughtered cattle of the other lands and eastern ways and cultures – and the other began to scream and shake more till the dawn broke and all was quiet.

By the morning a contingent of the king’s soldiers had come through the land seeking answers for what had happened on the trail of the abyss. They sat in the dark by campfire and rode horses through the day and the nights were long and the days were fleeting.

They passed through the ruins of the town of Thornley and were stricken with such mortal feelings that they could not reproach and relay the situation in words. The town was filled with the dead; butchery had taken place. Some of the roofs had taken to caving in, and some of those occupants were smashed with the kiln and pillars of the roofs and there they had caught fire. Other lay with pieces of them missing and trails of blood that led to them that started from seemingly nowhere. Corpses had been crushed and thrown to the floor as if from a great height; and they were so smashed into the beaten and bloodstained ground they resembled part of that natural architecture and nothing more. The ground was soft with decay and the bodies of the men and women of the town had mingled with it.

A halfwit still yet breathed in a ruined house next to a corpse, whose stone coloured eyes were filled with a sharp contrast of red as if the veins in them had burst at seeing something. The soldier spoke commonly to the halfwit who chewed on a chair leg and thrashed and swung at the soldiers.

Ye gods, man, have composure! What evil tyranny had forthwith come in the night to thee? What had stricken thee so monstrous and ill willed of mind?

The halfwit stared at them through blood caked fingers held over his face as a crimson mask.

The night, said the halfwit. The night came overhead and there was something in it.

What, man? Speak.

There was something beautiful in the abyss and I can’t explain it but I can’t. It didn’t look of anything.

What do you mean, halfwit? Speak, please, said another, masking his nose and mouth with a gloved leather hand at the smell of the halfwit.

It was beautiful, but it was something wrong.

The halfwit went silent then, and stared at the soldiers with glazed eyes and a mouth that gaped and showed crooked teeth that had broken upon the chair leg and drool stringed itself out of the corner of his mouth like spiders webs. He never again stirred till after the soldiers had gone, when he marched out into those fields and kept walking till his body gave in and he gave his body unto the soil and the snow that was now falling and he died there; and the town died with him.

*

In some far off land, there is the sound of many men and women walking. They walk through a desert; though not how you nor I know of them or the name of such place. The desert stretches for miles beneath an orphaned sun and those men and women walk solemnly and silently. They are led by a man in yellow robes; whose form is hidden beneath these robes and there is a trail that follows him of the rags that drip like tendrils into the sand.

These men and women know not how they got there, but they know they saw something beneath a broken and rotten sky once in their various towns and cities and countries and they knew nothing then save the heat of the sand.

They walk on, and on, and on – through the black of night and the scarlet’s of the day. The abyss gazes onward and further, further by the day.

***

01/02/2016

THE SPIRAL SMILE

The first sensation I had was of my body aching; the starting point of this horrible ache – which still gets me, from time to time – being at my wrist. I peered out at the sun, as it cast grey shades through my window; the little pieces of dust, those little motes, dancing and pirouetting like they were in some ballroom. Using my left hand, the one where that horrid ache had decided to ignore, I swept my hair back, which was slick with sweat and perspiration. It felt like I had run a marathon in the night; and maybe I had. I was hung over; my mouth felt swollen and my head filled with a pain that was hot white at my temples, and a dull throb in my forehead that seemed in time to my heartbeat. I felt off balance, and coughed once loudly. I closed my eyes tight, and rubbed a hand through my hair as I stood, uneasily, my shaking legs like some tremor in the ground. I felt light, like I had lost something, and I reached to close the blinds with my right hand.

Which is when I saw it.

There, in the palm of my hand, was a spiral; a thin cut that stretched all the way across my palm. It was a red line that could have been painted on with the most minute of brushes; a swirl that started at the crux of my wrist, before steadily converging into the centre. I clenched and unclenched my hand, tracing a line with my pale fingertips as I did so. Under the skin, I could feel the occasional object; a small object, burrowed in there. It didn’t hurt per say when I was touching it, but I felt a nausea sweep over me as I thought about it. I quickly ran to the bathroom of my single floored apartment, and dry heaved into the bowl. Nothing came out. The sick feeling that hung heavy in my stomach went away, and I stared again at the swirl; the enigmatic mystery that now lay on my hand.

My alarm clock rang, and I stood up. I looked at the time, 7:00am. Shit. I jumped in the shower – the water stinging my palm a little – and got changed. I jumped in my car after getting my suit on – probably illegally, though that’s neither here nor there anymore – and drove through the town of June, Texas. Rolling fields flanked me as I drove from my house to Marseille’s and Son’s life insurance. The small town was yet to waken, but soon the sun would drag the town’s folk from their beds, out into that orphaned day and leave them to their devices, and when the sun would go down there would be nothing but memories of a day. As I drove, I remembered something my mother used to say to me, though I don’t know why.

‘Sometimes, people have that beautiful and awful habit of having the right dreams at the wrong time.’

I locked my car, gently massaging my palm, and headed into the office. There were only ever four people on staff; including me. Margaret Vernon was an old, grey-haired woman. Her eyes were bulbous, and sometimes when we spoke I’d get the urge to cup my hands under them, in case they fell out as we spoke. Estelle Pierce was the only one reasonably close to my age; and I’d be lying if I didn’t have a crush on her. A few years shy of me at 25, but I can, and indeed did, dream. She’d smile at me warmly over some coffee mug; the side showed a cartoon cow that said in wavy, wobbly text “Good Mooorning!”

She probably thought it was cute, so, I guess. Orson Marseille was the lead manager, and at the time, was the owner. He was a real mean son of a bitch; I’d joke – only over text, because I’d die of embarrassment in real life as my nerves would fail – with Estelle that the only reason anyone buys life insurance is because talking to Orson would shave years off your life. The crotchety fucker.

So that left me. George Rice, slick shit life insurance salesman. Could never get a deal, but folks liked me enough. I think, anyway. I’m not too sure. I sat down at my desk, one right at the front; two large glass windows sat in front of me, so the first thing you’d see as you walked past – God forbid –  was me, no doubt scratching my head, looking at my watch, or randomly looking at customers accounts. I just browsed them while I was bored, and it did something to the time if I was at least doing something. The town of June was hot that day, I remember; and by break time I was beginning to shake from the hang over, the dehydration, and the heat.

I met Estelle by the water cooler, a paper cup in her hand as she looked at her phone, her face completely blank and uninterested. She had one arm folded across her chest, and she had her other hand on her elbow like she needed the support. I smiled at her weakly, and she looked at me with barely hidden indifference. Just like all the pretty girls did at school; life tends to be like a spiral. You always go through the same things. Ahahah.

‘Hey, George. You okay?’

‘I, yeah. I mean, I feel kinda...’

‘You look awful. Like, you might need to think about taking life insurance awful. I can hook you up. Get my figures up.’

‘Yeah, sounds good,’ I joked, sipping water. That was when the first ‘contraction’ happened. You know when you get those little twitches, the kind that make your muscles jump a little under your skin, and it feels like something is gently pulling you from the inside out? It was like that, but there was a red, searing, nigh-on unbearable pain in my hand to boot. It was like the entirety of my hand cramped, including the bones. I dropped my water, the cup spilling onto the shit-coloured brown carpet. It was. It’s not anymore, but it was. I made sure I changed that early on. Christ, I hated looking at that carpet. I gripped my hand, and it felt wet. Estelle looked at me concerned; but only like if the fat kid at school who everyone bullied had fallen over and split his shorts from ass-to-front. ‘George? You okay?’

I nodded, but I felt the bones in my hand move. I nodded again, before I grimaced at her. ‘I’m okay, just having some issues. Cut my hand last night, giving me problems.’ I nodded to her again, before I nodded to the bathrooms. She smiled a little sternly, her brow furrowing before she stared back at her phone. I headed into the bathroom, and locked myself into the cubicle. I sat down, and noticed the blood.

The cut on my hand had opened, causing little streams of blood to run down my hand to the tiled floor. But there was something else. There was a clear fluid in the blood, making it a little diluted and thick; and it dripped to the floor with great plops. I could see those little objects in my hand, too – or the edges of them. The meat that surrounded them – that used to be the muscles of my hand – were dark, almost like the maw of some animal. It looked impossibly deep, like some dark canyon, outside of logical space, was inside my hand. I saw the muscles jumping, and my fingers wiggled on their own. I touched one of the objects, a sharp, white thing – and the rest happened. The pain exploded again, and then stopped. It hasn’t happened since, either; which is good. When it happened, I wanted to cut my whole damn arm off. The cut pulled back more, and I saw they were teeth. Dozens of little fanged teeth, in the spiral in my palm. I nearly threw up looking at it, but didn’t. I could close my hand properly, and when I did the cut closed; when it was open, there was the mouth again. A smile, carved and given into my hand. I couldn’t see the bones of my hand, but given the depth that the cut must’ve been, it’s easier to assume they were simply not needed anymore.

‘What the fuck?’ I said, as I stroked one of those little fangs. Then the voice came, as clearly as changing to a different station on your car radio. There was no movement in that mouth – no discernible way that it was able to speak, except that it didn’t need a logical way to speak – and I shivered with the tone. It was like...it’s like someone is cutting bones with a rusty saw.

‘Calm down, George,’ came It’s voice, echoing in some valley in my mind. I looked down at my hand, the blood now clear, and I realised what it was. It was spit.

‘I,’ I stammered out, before holding my hand over my mouth. The mouth twitched on my hand, those little fascicular jumps noticeable on the muscles of my wrist.

‘Calm down’ the voice repeated, and I stood up. The mouth salivated, and I took a little toilet paper and wiped the edges of my hand. I don’t know why. It just felt...it felt right, natural, you know? It felt like I should’ve done it, so I did. The mouth twitched a little. 

‘I need you to calm down,’ said the smile, which spiralled.

‘I.’

‘Speak, if you need to. Don’t, if you must.’ I ran to the sink, putting water on my hand from the tap. It fell down into the maw; that open fanged mouth, and disappeared. There was no sensation of it when it entered; like how you’d expect. It merely hit my hand, went into the mouth, and was gone.

After a moment of this horrifying sensation, I shuddered, and turned the silver tap off, the bolt on it squeaking a little as I did so. I stared at my palm for a moment longer, before it spoke again.

‘Don’t ruin this. Just be silent.’ It pronounced the “S” like a snake; like some kind of childhood movie where the snake was the bad guy, saying words deliberately with an S at the beginning just to prove that, yes, it was a snake. There was something horrifying of what could have been in the mouth, what would happen if I dropped something in. I shivered despite the heat.

‘Go back to work.’

‘But, I. What, what, I. The, the fuck? What are you?’

‘Go back to work,’ the voice said, before going silent. I stared at my hand for a second, before putting it in my suit jacket, and heading out. I peered out, hoping Estelle wasn’t there, but thankfully she was at her desk, typing away. I wiped my face with my other hand, before I went out. I walked calmly over to my desk, before Estelle looked at me. She raised her eyes up to meet mine, and I gulped and smiled.

‘Yeah, sorry about that, uh. Didn’t feel good.’

‘Yeah, no worries.’ If that read as those she wasn’t concerned; you’d be correct. I took a seat down by my desk, and smiled at a person walking down the street. He waved back, and I nearly took out my now smile-carved hand. Instead, I waved awkwardly with the other, which felt weird and wrong. Margaret came up to me, a pile of folders held in those bony arms, nearly up to her chin. They hung at chest height, and she looked at me dismissively at seeing me wave.

‘Am I interrupting?’

‘I, sorry, Margaret. I, uh. A customer waved at me, so I waved back.’ She placed the folders on my desk, and I looked at the pile with a little sigh. I didn’t mean for it to come out, but Margaret – the hag – picked up on it all the same. She spoke like some teacher, some librarian reprimanding a school kid. I felt a little white hot anger flare up, but I let it slide. ‘I don’t see any customer here. Just like I don’t see you doing any work, here. How did you even get a job from Orson? He should’ve thrown you out soon as you came up in that dirty suit and mangy hair.’

The hand spoke.

‘Margaret,’ said the voice, and she didn’t look as though she could hear it. She simply stood stoic, and I saw some of the light in her eyes leave. You know the old shows, where someone get’s hypnotised and they simply stare off into the distance? It was that, but pronounced. She got paler, I’m sure, but she bore no reaction.

‘Margaret? Go away. Take your files and go away. In fact,’ the voice said, ‘ I want you to take the files, sit outside in the road, and eat them. If cars honk their horns at you, I want you to ignore them. The paper is delicious.’

‘Is it like steak?’ she said, and her face twitched like the muscles in my hand did. I felt the muscles in my hand jump like they were dancing to some ancient beat on tribal drums. It felt almost soothingly rhythmic, and I clenched and unclenched my fist, feeling the teeth with a finger tip as I did so.

‘Yes. Just like the steak your uncle Samson made.’

‘That’d be great,’ she said, as she picked up the files. Her face still twitched and contorted painfully, and I stood up as she walked calmly to the front door. Estelle watched from her desk, a curious look playing across her face like she had just read about how to appear surprised and watched to try it out. Margaret went outside and closed the door gently behind her, and she sat down in the baking sun on that asphalt, a few bystanders watching curiously. The sun glistened off her glasses, the shine making it seem like she had no eyes, merely lights, and she opened the first folder, taking a sheet of paper and ripping it. She placed the paper in her mouth and chewed slowly; her face seemingly frightened. I then realised it wasn’t that she was doing this via mind control, or anything – her body merely had a different driver for a time, and she was painfully aware of it. I almost smiled, if it wasn’t for the shock.

‘What the hell?’ Estelle said, appearing by mind side by the window. I ran a hand through my hair, and I stood dumbfounded.

‘I, I. I don’t know. Maybe, she, you know. She maybe had a, I don’t know. I don’t know,’ I said, shaking my head and staring at the floor. Part of me felt pretty happy, but, seeing Margaret crying in the Texan sun and eating mounds of paper, I don’t know which part. I felt the smile twitch, and the sun danced on the glass box of the windows. Orson came out from his office, his thick arms swinging to-and-fro. He reminded me of some kind of gorilla; a gorilla that somehow had afforded enough money to buy a life-insurance store.

‘The fuck are ya’ll looking at?’ he said, and on seeing Margaret eating the files and documents of customers outside he added ‘oh, fuck’s sake. Old coot finally hopped into crazy land.’ He turned around with a grunt, and Estelle looked at him.

‘Are you not going to help?’

‘So long as she isn’t acting funny in here, why should I? She probably just forgot her meds,’ he said, and I wondered how vile a person could be made and I also wondered about teeth and how shiny they were and how they glistened like daggers in the dark, even more so when the daggers are held in front of stark dark like how the maw in my hand was. I shook the thoughts from my mind, and I looked out again at Margaret, allowing the lights of the sun to put everything into a soft, certain focus as the police pulled up. I went back to my desk, and Estelle sat back at hers.

‘Estelle,’ the voice said, and I noticed a tension to it this time. The twitching happened again, and this time I was sure I heard the bones in my hand click and crack apart only to be reformed. There was no pain, just a sense of formless bone and then sudden crystalline construct. Estelle turned to me, her shoulders and arms quivering, and her head jerking to the side occasionally. I could see a tendon in her neck twinge and twang and dance.

‘Estelle. I want you to go and do a dance for me. I don’t want you to look at me. Close your eyes and dance like you did at that party when you were in college, and all the boys leered and poured beer on you. You even remember the smell, don’t you, of that beer?’

‘It smells like apples,’ she said, and began to take her shirt off. I stood up, holding her by the shoulders so that she couldn’t remove the shirt anymore. She stared vacantly at my throat, her eyes twitching and her mouth agape. Drool leaked from the corner to the floor. I felt the mouth on my hand twitch as it was placed against the skin of her arm, and I pulled away when I saw a few lines of blood drip down her sleeve. The mouth on my hand had red drops and stains on the whites of the fangs, and I saw the bite mark in Estelle’s arm and shuddered. A great, jagged patch was missing, a chunk roughly the size of a child’s fist was missing from her bicep. I saw a tear run down from Estelle’s eyes, and I realised she felt the pain of that bite. The hand chewed, and I wiped it on my trousers, being careful not to nick myself on the fangs. Blood had now pooled on the floor from Estelle’s arm, and I quickly grabbed her jacket, a thin letterman style one, from behind her chair. I wrapped it around her arm, placing her hand on it and making sure she held it tight. I sat her down on a chair, so she was hidden from the window, and waved a hand in front of her eyes. They were vacant; completely gone. As far as I’m aware, Estelle is currently at a respite home near Mulberry, Texas.  Her mind, according to doctors I coerced – and I am pretty forceful – is simply vacant. She has some functionality, apparently, but no more than in a several disabled, nigh on brain dead capacity. The lights are on, but nobodies home. I think about that, sometimes, but usually try and push it out.

‘Why are you doing this?’ I yell to the hand, and the hand speaks.

‘Why not?’

‘Just, stop. Okay? Stop now. Margaret was a bitch, yeah, but, but Estelle is different.’

‘She’s different.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re as good a liar as I thought.’

Suddenly, my legs twitched, before becoming rock solid. I tried to move them, but I couldn’t. The feeling came over the  rest of me. It felt as though some dark forest had grown in my mind, and the world was covered in fog and I couldn’t move from the cold. I felt so miniscule, and I felt myself blink. But it wasn’t me that blinked. It wasn’t. I felt it happen, but I didn’t want it to. My legs moved, and I left Estelle there, brain dead. The jacket had slipped from her grasp, and she merely lay on the floor, her eyes wide but empty. I adjusted my tie, and then smiled. I felt the smile. The smile on the hand moved. I felt myself walk, calmly, the hangover completely gone like it was never there, and I opened the door to Orson’s office. He looked at me with wide eyes and I smiled. I took my hand – or something else did.

I place it, gently, on Orson’s face. As it is devoured, I feel the bones in his head give way and break. I feel a scream silenced as the shape of his head goes wrong in my hand, and suddenly his head is very malleable due to the bones being so heavily broken and I feel like I can shatter it and I do. I walk out of the building, past Estelle, still on the floor, still twitching slightly, though not as much. I roll up my sleeve – covered in blood – and I walk calmly out into the street. Some of the police point guns at me, but I tell them to lower them and they do, staring at each other with confusion. I take some money out of the bank – most of it, to be honest, and there’s no skirmish or lie – and then I go and buy the Marseille’s. I also buy a new suit. I get a haircut. I tell a young man to cut his hair and then eat the sheared bits.

I feel like I can never die, and part of me thinks it may be because of the fact I can’t. I visit Estelle, though it’s not really me. I want to scream, quite a lot – the things I see, you know, they stay with me a little. The smile on the hand remains, though I – or it – makes sure that the people who see it forget, or that there’s no way for them to speak of it. I don’t know why it was me, why I had this, why I woke up to that scar on that day in Texas. I sometimes forget which one I was; whether I was the mouth, or the person with the hand it belongs to. I sometimes sit on the roof of my house – my luxurious house, my sprawling abode with high statues and marble decor and beautiful, stained windows – and stare up at the night’s sky, the void above. I look up and feel myself smile.

Maybe one day you’ll be walking, you yourself, right now, and you’ll hear me speak. Sat at your computer or with your phone, you feel weightlessness’ to your body, as it twitches and shakes. You feel yourself slip away, replaced by me, smiling, in your head. How do you know you didn’t already let me in, unlocking the door for me as I come in? I could’ve made you forget, remember. Turn the lights off,  and listen, closely. Shhh. Let go. Listen to the dark.

I merely woke up one day, with a spiral.

A spiral, and a smile.

*

28/01/2016

THE TRADITIONAL WAY

Haley Morrisette sat in the main reception of Pine Oaks General, Oregon. She held her hands in each other on her lap, staring out of the window at the orphaned sun as it drove itself over the hills beyond; seemingly rising from some stretch of nothing that had gone before. She looked at her gloved hands, and shivered in the predawn, as it cast purple hues through the windows like streams of neon. A nurse sat at the plainly decorated reception, humming some song that was performed too atonal to recognise. It may have been some tune by Adele, but she couldn’t decide. The nurse lifted her head, smiling with as much warmth as she could muster on the morning shift, before Haley lowered her head quickly.

She clenched and unclenched them, before sighing and closing her eyes. It had been so long since she slept, it fell like her skin was likely to slope off the bones; she felt weighty, and occasionally her eyes would close for a second too long before she jerked back awake. The nurse saw this once, and smiled. The second time, she had no such courtesy left. After an hour or two – the time difficult, and slippery to grasp – the nurse said Hayley’s name.

‘Hayley Morrisette, to Dr Morton. Hayley Morrisette, to Dr Morton’s office.’ The nurses’ voice was crass and had a drone to it; like someone had dropped a weight. It was loud and bore no musicality to it. Hayley stood up, stepping over the feet of some vagrant, his clothes rotten and his teeth yellowed to the color of banana peel. As Hayley stepped past the nurse, she heard her talking on the phone.

‘Oh, yeah. It’s horrible. Yeah, all those folks in Point Truth. Shit. Well, I was talking to some folks there at the hospital...Andrea, yeah, at the hospital... and....yeah, just...yeah...’

She stopped conversing when she noticed Hayley stood there listening accidently, and she adjusted the thick rimmed glasses and ran a hand through blonde hair.

‘Its room five,’ said the nurse brusquely. ‘Hope its good news!’

Hayley nodded meekly, before turning and heading down a corridor bathed in cold harsh light. It lent slightly green hues to the hallway; and the smells – familiar, and strong – of alcohol, disinfectant, reminded Hayley of every other time she was in a hospital. It reminded her that sickness was a due course for humanity; the last disease in the incurable one. Strong alcohol and disinfectant was the smell of any hospital she had ever been to, and it did a lot to quicken her pulse all the same; like when she was young and an ear infection had caused her so much agony and pain. As she walked along, she remembered the lie every doctor told, too – the one they should never, ever be allowed to say – ‘This won’t hurt a bit.’

Dr James Francis Morton was a simple man from a simpler time; and his office reflected that. He had been born to a poor family from Wisconsin; a farmer father, and a housewife mother. Nothing had ever occurred in the domicile to disrupt that family bond, no sudden job losses or sudden wins. The Morton family had carved a name for themselves, one etched in stonework buried half the world away, or so it felt. Perhaps one day, someone would know the name Morton and be filled with reverence, but for James Morton, that was simply not to be. Hayley opened the door, trying not to make eye contact with the man who she had met three times now. He smiled at her weakly, and she took the seat she always did; across from his seat, the desk – wooden, a deep dark oak, and immaculately preserved and tidied – between them. His eyes were the colour of clouds on some wintery day, hers only degrees lighter than the table that rested between them, and those eyes met each other, for another time.

‘Hayley. Good to see you again,’ he said, and there was a little sincerity cutting through; and Hayley was glad to hear it.

‘Hello, Mr Morton.’

‘James, please.’

‘I don’t want to be first name basis with you. That makes it too casual.’

Dr Morton leaned back in his chair; the leather creaking slightly as he did so. He had a stern expression on his face; but there were traces of brevity to it. The man knew what she said was true; this wasn’t supposed to be anything other than an appointment. It was a sad one, to be sure – Dr Morton had dealt with three unwanted pregnancies in 2 years, all for Hayley. The last time was particularly calamitous, as she claimed that she was not active with a partner. ‘They aren’t just willed into being,’ Morton had said. ‘These things bloom, Hayley.’

Yes, making things casual would have been a tragic misstep, and undermined the importance of their relationship. She came to him with unwanted pregnancies, and he did everything in his power to help her along, till she was comfortable carrying to term. It was harrowing work, but she was young, and scared. Dr Morton saw pieces of his daughter in her; and imagined what would happen if Jane fell pregnant and the doctor wouldn’t help.

‘Quite. Maybe you’re right, first names aren’t the kinds of things we need, I guess. How can I help you today?’

‘I...’

Hayley sighed, staring out of the small boxed window, allowing some of that predawn light to enter the office in thick strokes like the brush of a painter applying colour. The streaks half illuminated Dr Morton’s face with light, his grey stubble having dark strips of shadow placed on it. She looked in his eyes, and he in hers once more; and found hers to lack warmth. He swore he could see the snow in them.

‘There’s another. I mean. I’m pregnant, again.’ The smiled left Morton, and he closed his eyes and sighed. He didn’t mean to; it was unprofessional, but he couldn’t stop himself when he started. Hayley seemed destined to give birth, no matter what; and she was young, and afraid, and Morton wasn’t sure he had it in him to help again.

‘I see,’ he said, opening his eyes. He raised a fist to his mouth and coughed once into it, clearing his throat afterward. Hayley remained stoic; though she was a mannequin made human but only in skin. The emotions hadn’t travelled to her yet. ‘I...Hayley, are you talking about another termination?’

‘No,’ she said. The room seemed still in the quiet, as her words echoed in the valley of Morton’s mind. No, she had said; a contradiction of everything she had proved herself to be previously. Morton smiled a moment, before sitting forward a little.

‘Ah, so, you. Ah. You think you’re ready, now? Who’s the father?’

‘No. I’m not ready. I don’t know the father. At least, not really.’

‘But, Hayley...’ he said, his voice showing more concern than he had in any of their previous encounters, due to the strangeness of her actions. He sat back again, looking at her with a curious worry. ‘But, okay. Hayley, the...okay. What do you mean, you don’t know the father, really? Was it, a party, or...’

‘No.’

‘Right...I’m sorry Hayley, I’m not following.’

‘You wouldn’t understand even if I described him. Even if I could.’

‘Hayley, what do you mean?’

She stared out at the now bright dawn, the purples replaced with an envious orange tone, bronzing the world outside as if all was made of brass and metal. She smiled strangely, a sort of relaxed and weary smile that seemed to somehow add years to her. She was shy of 23, and at that moment, with that smile, seemed to have doubled in years.

‘The dad. Dad. Dad. He isn’t, I. I can’t describe him. I get flashes of him, but. He chose me,’ she said, turning to him. Her eyes looked as though she had won a hard earned victory over some force beyond those two, beyond Oregon. Beyond the stars.

‘We went over this the last pregnancy, Hayley. You don’t just, become pregnant...you just don’t.’

‘The bible says you can.’

‘Are you saying God made you pregnant?’

‘No. And if it is God, I don’t want to go to Heaven.’ The smiled had faltered, and so had Morton’s. He now resembled the concerned parent all people turn into when dealing with the young – the feeling of helplessness in the face of the inability to help was cruel; and that feeling stretched forever.

‘Hayley, can you, explain? Please? I don’t understand.’

‘I wanted to get an abortion again,’ she said, but her voice was distant. She sounded like she was speaking from another room; like she was in a distant place. A safe place, far from Oregon, the office of Morton. Everything. She continued, her voice disconnected and the syntax of the sentence broken strangely in certain phrases.

‘I wanted it, but I can’t. I think it won’t let me. I tried to get rid of it last time, and then it came back. I have only ever been pregnant once to this father, the Dad, but the baby didn’t go. It was just a trick. It wasn’t gone. Can’t go.’

‘Hayley; that would’ve been...that would’ve been 6 months ago. You’d be showing, if there was even a chance of that being possible.’

She continued, ignoring his logic for it was below her.

‘The Dad, he. I can’t describe him. He’s in a box, kind of...more of a cage. A dark, metal box. It’s locked, tight, in somewhere dark. On the sides of the box save the top and bottom are holes. From these holes the Dad leaks out. I see it in dreams. His arms flap in the breeze. I think he has eyes, but not like me and you. Not like me and you. Not like me and you.’

Morton leaned forward, and moved his head slightly. Hayley didn’t move to meet or match his new position with her gaze. She stared at the wall behind Morton, as though she was staring over some barren desert, and the desert stretched for miles, and nothing would grow. ‘He has...his arms. They’re like...they’re like tentacles, really. I don’t know. I dreamed I was dying, and I was in the dark. The box was there, and the Dad was there in it.’

‘Hayley?’

‘I’m sorry Dr Morton. I think I need to carry the baby to term. Though maybe it’s not me speaking to you. Maybe the baby is to you. Maybe you are to him. I don’t know.’

‘Hayley, are you using again?’ Morton said, and he reached out a hand to gently touch her on the shoulder. The hairs on the back of his neck were electrified, and he felt as though he was reaching out to a ghost of a person yet to be brought into the world. As he reached, she jerked suddenly; he gasped loudly for a second, the sudden twitch of movement making him lean back away from her again. She spoke so clearly it was like her voice was made of glass and crystal.

‘I don’t need to use. I don’t need it anymore. I don’t want to kill my baby, though I don’t know if I could.’

‘Hayley, listen...I, I think you need help, again, okay?’

‘We all will,’ she said, the smile coming back. She shrugged her shoulders casually, standing upright. Morton remained seated, and Hayley leant forward, placing a hand on the desk on top of Morton’s. He didn’t move his, as he was taken aback with fear. He was worried she might hurt him, if he tried to do anything. Sudden movements lead to quickened reactions, and slower hearts for empathy.

‘Daddy will get out of the box when the baby is born. He’ll come through with him. He’ll kill me, giving birth, I mean. I don’t think I’ll make it through. But its okay, Mr Morton.’

‘Hayley, I...I don’t...’

‘He’s scary, Mr Morton. Like I said. He has eyes, but not like you or me.’

‘I...’

She patted his hand once, caressing it gently with her thumb. He looked into her eyes and saw a brief flash of something that he wouldn’t remember; not properly. In nightmares it came to him, and would every day for the rest of his life.

In a void there was a dark metal cube, the panels of it etched with gold and basalt. It floats in a dark, cold place; some place that seemed to stretch on into the infinite. No sun shined, and there was no reprieve from that long dark. The cube floated as though made of feathers, and the scale of the thing was enormous. How enormous was difficult to gauge, as there was no other object in that void of which to compare. Just a fleeting sense of sheer importance; of the idea the cube was mountainous. The cube span, and indeed on the four sides there were holes. Thick, slobbering, bone-coloured tentacles protruded from them, and flapped mindlessly, hopeless in that dark. There was a lock on one side, a great giant circle made of the dark basalt rock that seemed to glow luminous red like some obscene sign in a red light district of some tawdry place. A noise emanated inside the cube, and Morton became paralysed with fear as to what could produce those noises. It sounded unlike anything he had ever heard before, but yet there was something primal about it; like he had always heard it, that everyone had always heard it, since the dawn of Man. It was hard-wired into DNA, that noise. It was synonymous with fear.

Morton saw all this in that flash of Hayley’s eyes, and by the time he blinked again the image was gone, only to return in the bad dreams that would plague him most nights of his life. Hayley smiled at Morton, who by now was shivering a little at the brief flash of The Father.

‘I think, if I do make it, I’ll be a great mom. Traditional, you know? Home-cooked meals for my boy.’ She leant forward and kissed Morton once on the forehead, leaving a little lipstick mark on the skin of his head; slick with sweat.

‘Goodbye, Mr Morton. I hope you don’t get to see my son. I have a feeling he won’t like you very much.’

Hayley turned and walked out of the office, closing the door gently as she did so. She smiled at Morton once more, a friendly little thing that bore no malevolence or anger, no pain or regret. She smiled at her old friend, simply, and left. Morton would never see her again. He held his head in his hands, the little shivers subsiding, when the nurse voice drifted over the speaker system in his room.

‘Dr Morton? Are you ready for the next patient?’

He paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his forehead, before pressing a lacquered button on the speaker, speaking into it clearly and precisely.

‘No.’

*

20/10/2015

Powwow

‘God-damn it,’ I said, sat in the small little clinic’s waiting room at Oatman, Minnesota. My nose felt like it was on fire; occasional shooting spears of flaming pain that seemed to stretch around my jaw and my forehead, rather than just my broken nose. I closed my eyes, wincing; but the tightening of the skin there seemed to stretch open the cut on the bridge of my nose, and sent a small ice-hot sliver of pain there. I looked down at my blood soaked suit, the snow boots I had on mottled by the occasional red circle on their brown surface. Well, Adam Kinselmann, I said to myself, what a day you’ve had.

That wasn’t to disparage the place I was in, really, though. In truth, I loved Oatman; grew up here all my life. We’re a little closer to the border than, say...Sunset, or that small little collection of streets called Oskaloosa, which sat nestled in a low valley a few miles away, technically in Dakota. The few streetlamps I could see outside illuminated the main thoroughfare of the town; the old Silver Heights Mill vaguely visible in the distance like some Minnesotan Frankenstein’s Castle. Oh, you betcha. Oatman had character.

I was born here in 1961; to Mary and Patrick Kinselmann. My mom worked in the diner here, and my dad worked at Silver Heights. He used to be in the shipping part; taking cut logs to places like Duluth or even places like Laverne. The money was good, but I’d be lying if I said I remembered more of my Pops during those early years- my forming years, I guess, the years you spend your adult life trying to hold on to like smoke in a storm- than his cigarette smoke stained jacket, or maybe the way we’d watch the little league games when he was here. I don’t know. He was in a car accident when I had just turned 6; and the only things I had left were those. A jacket and some baseball, with my Pops, on cold winter days. It’s okay though; you can’t really miss something you never had.

I got used to saying that a lot as a kid.

My Mom did more shifts, we kept the house. Christ knows how; the woman must’ve had only one working joint in her body before the end, there. She always did good by me, my Mom.

In the spring of 1993, I fell in love with Gemma Storkhouse; the butcher, Samson Storkhouse’s daughter. I had maybe a girlfriend or two before that, but nothing quite like Gemma. Maybe it was the way she was into the whole music thing, or maybe it was the way her strawberry blonde hair would wave in the wind like a red tide, or hang lankily at her sides like a halo in bed. I don’t know.

We got married a year or two later, and she...I don’t know. We grew apart, I suppose. We aren’t divorced, or anything, but that’s what, you know, maybe should happen. I still...I don’t know. It’s kind of how I ended up in that clinic, that night. Kind of.

I remember my daydreaming out of the window interrupted by one of the nurses- Kelly Gaarlad, lives up on Crooker Street- came and called a young woman’s name I didn’t even noticed was sat there.

‘Milly...Winters?’ Kelly said in to the room, and a young woman stood up in the corner. She looked kind of like a punk, or maybe a hipster. I don’t know; kids act all weird when you try and guess what they’re going for with their fashion styles. She stood up, and looked back to her seat like she’d left something, before turning back to Kelly and following her to the nurses’ office. Couldn’t tell what was wrong with her, and she must’ve just been passing through, because...well, I’d never seen her, and when you own a supermarket like I do, you kind of get a feel for who lives here. Mostly because, well, folk buy things.

I heard the distinctive bell chime of the front door opening, and that instead took priority in my mind. He was an imposing guy, you betcha. He had on a great black overcoat, these kind of suit trousers, and some really hardcore snow boots. He had a smart haircut, a lot more pricey looking than mine, and a carefully (and recent looking) trimmed beard. It was his eyes, though. They reminded me of a documentary I saw a bit of the other day at my local drinking hole (where I was spending a lot of time, lately) about sharks; black, and this was accentuated by the gash in the side of his head, as blood flicked at the corner of his eyes. He seemed sturdy enough on his feet, so I didn’t get up. A nurse- she went by too quickly for me to know who it was- came over from behind the desk and came up to the man, her voice concerned but indiscernible as to who it belonged to. I overheard him though, clear as day. I’m not a snoop, or anything.

On a Thursday night, at 8:25pm and not a lot of things waiting for you at home, you take what you can while holed up wherever you are.

‘I, uh, slipped on the ice,’ the man said to the nurse. He scanned the waiting room for a moment, his eyes on me for only the briefest of times. It felt like he was looking through me, but I didn’t really mind. He could’ve had like a bad head injury or any other number of things wrong at the minute. I don’t, you know. Know. The nurse muttered something to him, and he replied with a ‘thank you,’ half mumbled, half forced out, like merely saying thanks to someone was painful for him. He then had a look around the waiting room again, and took a seat two away from mine, to my right. He ran a hand through his hair, and then winced when a finger accidently touched the wound on his forehead. As he made a noise, I looked at him; not really meaning to, just, I kinda turned to just...I turned because he made a noise, you know? He then faced me for a second, and his shark eyes- the dark 8 Balls, bordered in white- locked on my own generic green. I smiled and looked up at the TV, the screen off.

‘Hey, uh,’ I called politely, ‘can we have the TV on?’ There was no response, merely the screen flickering and the sound of static for a moment; before settling on the Oatman news station, OTPN. It currently showed a weather man with a map of Minnesota, his forehead shiny with sweat, and he gestured towards the East side, before waving his hands to the West. I couldn’t make out what he was saying; and the volume bar appeared, little green lines increasing in number from left to right.

‘Looks like a storm coming in,’ said the man next to me, who gingerly touched his forehead with bloody fingers. I turned to him, trying to make a polite smile on my face, which was difficult with the broken nose and all. ‘Oh, yeah, yeah,’ I said, looking back up at the screen and squinting at it. The skin on my face felt slack, and I realised just how old I was, or at least how old I felt.

‘How did that happen?’ the man said, touching the bridge of his nose gently and looking at me. He seemed polite enough; inquisitive, maybe, but polite. I smiled at him, wincing at the pain for a second before continuing.

‘Oh, uh, I...I, uh, I fell over at my house,’ I lied, before adding ‘ya know, like, off a ladder? Darn thing just...’ I clicked my fingers for emphasis, ‘...darn thing just, you know, gave way.’ The man nodded, wincing himself at the fake description of how I got my injury. I nodded to him, before asking him the same question.

‘Oh, I hit a tree on the way through town,’ he said with minimal concern. I opened my mouth wide to say something, but then my mind went blank and I closed it. I must’ve looked like a goldfish to the guy. After another moment, this time with some advert for some hair tonic or something blaring out over the TV, he stuck a hand out, which I took. He had a strong grip, but a weak fish shake.

‘Adam Kinselmann,’ I said with a smile.

‘Howard Baker,’ said the man. He then let go immediately, and twiddled his thumbs together. I lowered my voice and leaned next to him, trying to keep the waiting room relatively quiet, though looking back at it, I don’t know why.

‘So, uh, you hit a tree, huh?’

‘Yeah. I was on the 210 heading to Gowan through McGregor, but saw a sign saying I could have cut through here. Guess I just, you know,’ he cast his gaze outside to the snow, which by now had really picked up, ‘I just kind of underestimated how bad the snow would be.’ I nodded; it happened all the time, as my Pops had proven that night in ’67. Bad things happen, the world turns, and we stay still.

‘Ah, yeah, yeah. You, uh, local there?’

‘Passing through, is all,’ Baker said with a smile. I smiled too, wincing at my nose again as pain shot through the sides of my head like spears of flame. It felt like my face was made of paper as Baker talked to me in an even lower voice than mine.

‘So, uh...I’m not...’ he smirked at me, one eyebrow arched slightly, curious. ‘...You fell off a ladder? Really?’

‘Yes,’ I lied for the second time. ‘I mean, probably, it didn’t help I was arguing with my missus, you know. Distracted me.’ Not technically a lie, that one. Baker merely nodded, closing his eyes and chuckling slightly. He opened his eyes again, and the shark eyes looked older somehow.

‘Christ, if there’s ever a thing to break a heart more soundly than marriage, I haven’t found it yet,’ he said. I nodded at such a profound and old statement. He looked younger than me, and I saw no wedding ban with the dancing twinkling lights created by the overhead fluorescents. ‘Were you married?’ I asked, trying to sound a little more curious than what I actually was. Baker nodded, before looking over at the reception desk for some reason. His eyes were probably just wondering is all, it happens.

‘Uh,’ he said lowering his gaze to his hand where the band should have been. ‘I, I was till last year. She left me after cheating on me,’ he said. ‘My boss,’ he continued, ‘I got her a job being his secretary. Cliché, huh?’ I nodded in agreement. Clichés are really fucking hilarious, right up until they happen and you find yourself not able to sleep at night because of it. I nodded again, before turning to him. Despite such an admission, he seemed resolutely calm, which I found odd. Maybe he had healed better than most guys would in that circumstance.

‘Ah, heck. Yeah. Truthfully?’ I asked him, lowering my voice to nothing more than a whisper, as some guy on the TV talked about a crime series based around some stuff that happened in Oregon last year. Baker nodded, and I licked my lips nervously, because they were dry. I wiped my face with my hand, and then turned to him properly, my hands in my pockets to hide my whitening knuckles and shaking fists.

‘Gemma Storkhouse, she’s called. Been together since ’91. I, uh...’ I chuckled then accidently, though looking back I don’t know why. ‘I saw her, you know, uh, I saw her bills and stuff, she, uh...bought some things, you know.’

‘Things?’

‘For the bedroom.’

‘Oh.’

‘So I asked her about it, and, you know, she came right out with it, you know. Yeah. She’d been knocking it out with this guy who lives next door, this roofing fella. Says he’s the only one who’s made her feel like a woman in years.’ I choke out the last sentence, like the words hung inside my throat, claws into the meat, trying not to get forced out. Baker nodded, placing his thumb and forefinger either side of the bridge of his nose and squeezing. ‘Well, that’s awful,’ he said, but there was a quiet dispassionate nature to it. It was like he’d learnt how to be empathetic from a book, and was just trying it out on me. He looked at me dead in the eyes then, and the shark swam back into view.

‘You know,’ he said with only a modicum of warmth, ‘You should do something about it,’ he said. There was something there in his eyes; some kind of...I don’t know. It hurt to look in them, to be honest. It was like...you know the feeling you get when you’re in the dark, and even though you’re not scared of it, you’re scare kind of because...well, there might be something in it?

His eyes were the opposite. There was nothing in them. The abyss stared back at me, and I averted my eyes first. Baker then looked up at the TV, which read ANIMAL ATTACK! In a garish red font. It then showed a picture of a couple young folks, along with their names. Baker stroked his chin, before looking at me.

‘What’s that about?’ he asked, before looking up at the TV while I replied. ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘there’s a lot of...well, there’s been a few bear attacks, things like that. Oh yeah. You betcha. Crazy.’ Baker shook his head, as a news report then showed a playground where a bear had mauled a woman to death before being shot once then disappearing into the woods around Oatman. Point Pleasant had The Mothman; Oatman had Tann The Ghostbear. No lie. Penny Gotenborg saw it last week, as she tended the flowers in her garden.  The nurse from earlier then came back, and touched Baker lightly on the arm.

‘Excuse me, sir? Uh, your room is ready. Let’s take a look at that, uh, that...the, uh, the head wound. Yeah?’

‘Sure, thanks,’ Baker said, standing up. I looked up at the nurse then, and saw a name tag that said “Samantha Tolberg” in block capitals. Never heard of her. I raised a hand up as Baker began to walk away, and Samantha turned around, looking at me.

‘Hey, Mr Kinselmann. We’ll get you checked out in a little bit. Just gonna make sure this fella’s brain isn’t falling out.’

I saw Baker turn around then, and something...happened. He simply mouthed the words again, “Do Something”, but somehow I heard him say it. After a while, Baker didn’t come out, but Kelly did, the nurse I actually knew. The Milly girl was with her, and she opened the door to the snow stricken streets of Oatman slowly like someone was with her, when there wasn’t. Looked at the girl again, and she smiled at me once, her face happy yet tenderly sad. She then walked out into the cold, and I never saw her again.

I was getting my nose pushed back into place- which hurts more than you’d think- when Kelly asked me how it had happened. I was tempted to do the ladder lie again, but I didn’t see much point in lying to Kelly.

‘We were arguing because she was...’ I paused for a second, wondering what some guy like Baker would’ve said. ‘...she was fucking the neighbour.’ Kelly looked over at me, her eyes wide. I don’t think anyone in town had even heard me raise my voice, let alone cuss. In my head, I was already throwing out Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers. Kelly then gently touched my nose with a swab which smelt faintly of alcohol. She ran it alone the little ridged cut on the bridge of my nose, and I continued.

‘So, I, you know. I asked her why, and she got mad, like, you know. Real mad, saying it was my fault and stuff.’

‘Ah, yeah. You betcha. Yeah.’

‘So I, you know. She starts throwing things around, and, and I-I said “You be careful, dammit Gemma, that stuff is expensive maybe, yeah?” and then she threw a cooking pot at me from the kitchen. Hit me on the nose.’

‘Shit, Mr Kinselmann,’ she said, no longer swabbing or prodding but just stood up listening. I can’t tell whether it was out of pity or just to get gossip, I don’t know. Young folks these days are like books where the writing is all backwards. “Ouy dne pu htiw siht”, and you have no idea that it actually says “You end up with this” till someone explains it all to you. Christ, if you had told me that one day you’d have to worry about, you know...say, the...the way America is, I wouldn’t have believed you. Now the kids are all wearing bones in their noses and all manner of things. Folks wear pyjamas on the outside and then drink vodka and milk.

I don’t know.

Kelly gave me an icepack to my face, and I nodded my thanks to her. I won’t lie and say I don’t find Kelly somewhat attractive, but I’m not dumb enough to think an old goat can compete with young foxes. Kelly prescribed me some pain killers, and told me to rest it up. If there’s any really bad pain, though, I could’ve come back and seen other options. Ten minutes later and I’m near enough back at home, and that’s when I notice a police car in my drive. And another. I pulled up, got out of the car, and felt a light rush as I walked up the drive. Otis Blomquist, a young fella but a decent enough cop, stopped me. He had a reasonable build; a sheriff’s hat on, and a small patch of well maintained stubble framing his mouth. He was a spit of James Dean, I reckoned, but he’d never seen a James Dean movie, so eventually I let it drop.

‘Can’t let you go in there, Adam.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well,’ he said, a few tears in his eyes. He removed his hat, and placed a hand, firmly but with a friendliness to it still, on my shoulder. ‘It’s, it’s Gemma, Andy. Looks like a damn grizzly bear tore through there. Uh...Andy, this is gonna be hard, but you know that Damien fella next door? We kinda found him too, you know, all...’

‘They were screwing,’ I said, not really sure how I felt. I was upset, sure, but I think shock had settled in a lot earlier in the day, but I didn’t really want to cuss for the second time in an hour. I swallowed hard, my eyes beginning to feel tired, then wet, then just...normal, again.

‘I’m sorry, Andy.’

‘It’s okay,’ I said. He looked at me uncertainly, and then I added ‘I feel cold.’ He led me over to a parked Ambulance, and I sat in the back with a blanket on. As I shivered, I looked up at the house, the French patio on the second floor where I was going to jump off after what happened.

It had been difficult, I thought to myself, to try and make it look like an animal. I brought the blanket up to my mouth to hide a thin slash of a smile in the clay of my face. Truthfully, the real difficulty had been avoiding the urge to go to the cops after I’d done what I did when I caught them at it; and then it got harder after I saw the French patio balcony and thought it’d be easier to kill myself. So, instead, I decided something simple. I just left the backdoor open slightly, and nature did the rest.

With a little help from some discount Bear Bait, any road.

A little while later, after Gem’s life insurance checked out, I moved out of Oatman, and started a new supermarket in a little town in Washington called Imalone. Out of respect for my good friend, I called it Tann’s Goods.

I never did find out if it was our famous ghost bear; looking back, now, that kind of seems dumb. I think I was happy with my little Powwow with Baker, too. Kind of helped me think it was okay.

After all, it was just nature.

05/10/2015

The Visitor Chapter II!

II

Chloe woke up to the sounds of her blood pulsing in her ears. The pain in her forehead and body was explosive. The room span on its own axis, as the second alarm on her phone blared out John Carpenter scores. As she lifted her body out of the bed, she felt heavy, as though her skeleton was made of steel. She turned off the alarm, and picked up the glass of water by the bed.

‘Holy fuck. Oh my god. I’ve died.’

She laughed uneasily. She grabbed her phone, looking at her texts the night before with shaking hands.

21:05, from Jason: ‘Yo, bitch! Are you coming? I’m getting my drinkydrews on.’

21:30, from Jason: ‘By the way, I look fabulous as per. Get your boy-stealing shorts on, gurlllll.’

She laughed. Jason had been her Gay BFF since last year. He was more of a drama-queen than Chloe was, she thought as she scrolled through.

23: 50, from Mom: ‘Hey, hun. Are you staying at a friends? I thought you were coming home for 11. Give me a call. Xoxox’

She sighed at this.

00:04, from Mom: ‘R U okay? Come home soon please. Xox’

1:50, from Mom: ‘Chloe, come home soon. Or don’t. Stay at Jason’s. This isn’t fair on me.’

She had a few missed calls in-between, numbers she didn’t recognise, or were saved. Probably randomers. A few texts and calls from her on-off boyfriend (currently, the switch turned firmly to “off”), Carl Smithe, a quarter back at Point Truth High. That last text from her mom was heavy. Too heavy for her, really. Hung-over Chloe was not the person to deal with that, though. That was future Chloe’s problem.

She looked around her clothes strewn room, and got her shorts up from the floor. She felt the pockets, finding the one where she hid a joint from the party last night. She put a mix tape CD into the bedside radio; some 80’s post-punk, stuff like “The Cure”, and began her morning ritual. With the music sending out its vague, melancholic guitars and vocals, she opened her window, lit some incense, and sparked up. Sitting on the windowsill, her legs dangling over the precipice, she looked out at the woodlands, a field between it and the back of the house. No animal was in sight, save the few birds scattering the sky as the sun began to rise. She moved her longish blonde hair to one side, letting her shaved undercut (a recent addition, and one her mom hated) get some of the breeze.

Mom would’ve just gone to work, so she wasn’t worried about her catching her with the pot. She worked late too, so she could probably spend the day with Jason, maybe travel out to Pine Oaks and catch a movie at the drive in. There was a horror themed night out tonight, a George Romero triple bill. Exhaling warm, greenish smoke into the dawning sun, she thought about everything, if only for a second. After the joint, she flicked the tab out into the field, and closed her window, latching it. Her phone lit up as she made her way to the door, Jason’s face lighting up the screen. She ignored it, wandering out into the corridor. She walked along it, past the kitchen and her Moms study. Pausing in front of a door just beyond, she looked at the stupid poster of Big Trouble in Little China on it, and paused, resting her head on the door. She reached for the handle, and then stopped. Instead she slumped against it, her back to the hard oak. Shuddering breaths began to form, and she started to cry outside Katy’s room.

*

Olivia was a little early, so she spent time cleaning the central, circular, coffee counter in the middle of the room, before wiping down the wooden benches and the leather booths either side. It had just turned 7am when her friend Marie, a simple but nice enough waitress from Wisconsin, walked in. Her curly bob of auburn hair played the sunlight dazzlingly, and she gasped when she saw Olivia.

‘Oh my god! Liv!’ she giggled out, as she practically ran across to her and enveloped her in a warm hug.

‘Hey, May,’ Olivia said dispassionately. Marie released her from the hug, but still kept her hands on Olivia’s arms, and stroked them soothingly.

‘How are you doing? I’m sorry to hear about Katy.’ Olivia bit her lip, casting her gaze downwards.

‘It’s okay. Me and Chloe are coping.’

‘Yeah, good. She’s a strong kid, you know.’

‘I do. She can drink like her mom, too. So I know she has a high pain threshold.' Marie laughed at this a little, only a chuckle.

‘There’s the Liv I know and love.’

The rest of the day panned out how every other had gone before she took leave of absence, namely the odd person coming in, people she knew the faces of, but couldn’t really remember the name of, at least not anymore. It was around 12 o clock when Sheriff Wenters came in. He had a Stetson on, but God knows why. Liv liked to pretend he thought of himself like John Wayne, and, privately, joked that he probably practiced his meanest southern drawl in front of a mirror. He was a nice man, though. When Katy had died, he had been there. Despite the fact the case was cold, he had tried to do right by her and Chloe, taking them out to places and, generally, being a beautiful human being in a time when Olivia could easily see the human race as ugly and unearthly.

‘Morning, May. Liv.’ He took off his Stetson, before sitting at his usual spot, right in front of the cash register in the central coffee bar. He rested his Stetson on the counter, smiling warmly at Olivia.

‘Hey, officer Wenters’, Olivia said, already with his preferred cup of coffee in her hand. She placed it down no sooner as he had sat.

‘You know, one day I’m gonna think you’re expecting me.’

‘A busy officer of the law? Nope. No way you’d visit the only place in town with a decent cup of coffee.’ He laughed, picking it up and blowing on it, before taking a sip.

‘That’s true. I’m horribly cliché.’

His wedding band glittered solemnly on his finger.

May was up taking orders, visiting each of the patrons and writing their orders down on her little notebook. She stopped as she noticed someone she hadn’t seen before. He was a slightly thin man, attractive. His eyes were the colour of ice, she noticed; and his brownish stubble was immaculately cut. He had collar length brown hair, gracefully tousled, with a few strands of black in it; not a dye job, but natural. He dressed in a smart, brown leather jacket, the colour of dark wood, and had a vest and a beautifully comfortable looking cotton shirt on underneath, like a cowboy. She put on a warm smile, assuming this was simply a new person passing through town on their way to Portland.

‘Hello sir. Welcome to the First to Last Diner. Can I get you anything, hun?’

It took her a second to realise she was possibly accidently flirting with him, taken aback by his strangely rugged beauty. In a town where a lumber mill was really the only potential meeting place of men, apart from a couple bars and a grotty nightclub, the possibility of striking up conversation with a handsome man on a Thursday morning was a nice reprieve.

‘Mornin’, ma’am.’ His voice had the texture of velvet, and was soft, warm, and with more than a hint of a Kentucky accent to it. In her mind, May could have melted. She was recently divorced, maybe too recently, but not recent enough to mean she had to pretend she was married still. The man was at least a few years younger than May, who was rapidly approaching 32 with finality, but he, already, was someone who May could imagine not caring about that. An old romantic, she might’ve called herself, often wasn’t wrong about things like that. May liked to pretend, anyway.

‘Hi. My names Marie, but everyone in Point Truth calls me May’ she said, brushing back a lock of her auburn hair behind her ear with her hand.

‘Beautiful name, ma’am.’ He glanced over at the coffee counter.

‘I would love to try some of your...I think I’m going to try some of that world famous pie of yours.’

‘Course, hun. May I just say, nice choice.’

As soon as she started scribbling, he coughed. He raised a hand up, politely stopping her from writing anymore. Looking at her, the man’s eyes seemed as dazzling as an iceberg.

‘Actually, ma’am, it may be too early for that. Sorry. I would, however, really love a steak, if it’s no trouble to you and your staff.’

‘It’s no trouble, sweetie. How you like it?’

He smiled, a warm thing that could clear away an icecap.

‘Bloody please, ma’am. A black coffee, too, if I may.’

She practically grinned at him.

‘Of course, sir.’ As she started to scribble, she bit her lip, before asking him.

‘Excuse me, sir, but I...I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Could I get a name? Not often we get a real, honest to goodness southern gentleman here in Point Truth.’

‘Oh, I don’t know I’m that, ma’am. Thank you for askin’, though.’

He looked back over to the coffee counter, and at Olivia, who was still laughing and joking with Sheriff Wenters. He smiled, with a weird form of iciness to it, before looking back up at May.

‘My name’s Ethan Felton, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you, May.’ She finished writing his order, before leaving and coming back with his coffee.

‘You thinking of staying here long? Lot of people head up to Portland this way, is all.’

He glanced back at Olivia, who was saying goodbye to the sheriff as he grabbed his hat and walked out of the door to the police wagon parked outside. He took the coffee from her, purposefully touching her hand delicately. His fingertips had the texture of wood.

‘I’m reckonin’ I’ll be staying a fair while, ma’am.’

Oh. Hi.

Text Copyright © Connor James Grant

All Rights Reserved

The graves jutted out of the ground like teeth from an open maw, and the moonlight was just beginning to shine. The moon itself was doing the peculiar thing it can only do in the winter months, and had risen earlier in the day, visible in the sky faintly in the sunlight.  The sound of a passing car was the only noise, though, except the slight breeze.  The trees which flanked the grounds of the place, bent low due to the snow. Their branches dangled into the yard like beads on string; ice stuck to the leaves, weighing them down.

A fine trail of mist had crawled along the floor, seeping through the gaps of branches and stones. It nuzzled up to the graves, and laced around the feet of the person stood in the yard. The man stood in a black overcoat, simple blue jeans, and black boots. Whilst it couldn’t be seen, due to him having buttoned the coat up, he had a simple, insulated black jumper on underneath. He removed a beanie hat, and stroked the stubble at his jaw. He cleared his throat twice, rapidly, before smelling her. It was a perfume of some kind at first; a kind of sweetness, and he recognised the sea salts she used as a spray to condition her hair with sometimes. Underneath all that though, was a strange sense of smelling the cold; that, and rot. The man didn’t turn around, but closed his eyes, smiling slightly.

‘Oh. Hi,’ he said.  There was no reply from the source of the smell at first, but he knew what it was. 

Who she was.

‘Hey,’ came the reply, slightly gravely and croaky, but not as bad as one would expect.  The man heard snow crunch underfoot behind him, and then felt her arms, cold and firm, around his waist. In the distance, the man could see the Graveyard Keeper, stood under the branches of a tree, smoking. The man nodded at the keeper, who merely bowed his head, before flicking the cigarette away into the darkness around him. The man then took the arms from around his waist, and felt the wrists there, the bone and the skin of it icy cold. The man felt a lump lodge itself in his throat, and he cleared it again.

‘I, I didn’t...I didn’t think, I didn’t think this would work.’

‘I know.’

He turned around then, and saw his love. Her eyes twinkled in the night like emeralds, but depending on the light, they could be grey. The shifts between a luscious, full green and the dire, dead grey was discomforting, but the man paid no heed. He took his love by the nape of the neck and kissed them, once, but deeply. His love smiled back at him afterwards in the way only they could, and the man felt something in his chest tug at him.

‘Alice,’ said the man, and she smiled at him deeply, her eyes warm, framed by the iciness of her pallor. ‘Milton,’ she said, holding him again. ‘It’s been a long while,’ she said. Milton smiled at her, and then checked to where the Keeper had been. He had gone now, no doubt back to the cottage where he resided and held sentinel over the dead of this place. Alice’s hand felt cold and skeletal in his, but he didn’t care, and he took it.

‘How long do we have?’

‘An hour, then he’s going to put you back.’

‘Oh.’

‘I know.’

Alice looked over to the cottage of the Keeper, brushing her blonde hair behind her ear. She bit her blue bottom lip with her teeth, as though in thought, before turning her head on one side and looking into Milton’s eyes.  She then said ‘he always looks so sad.’

‘I know,’ Milton said, removing his overcoat after noticing Alice was shivering. Her breath didn’t mist the air, but Milton knew better than to ask questions about such things. She smiled as she nestled into the coat, hiding her dress from the world and enveloping herself in the pitch dark of the coat. Milton smiled at her warmly, before taking her hand in his again.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, as they walked out of the yard, between the two trees which acted as gates.  The small dirt track wasn’t especially difficult terrain (nor would it be practical to be so), but Milton was still concerned that Alice would fall and...hurt herself? Fall apart? Turn into smoke? He didn’t know. Just beyond this dirt track was the main street of the town, the streetlights flaring obnoxiously in the night air. The small gated town of Sunset, Minnesota was quiet at this time, and the forests that surrounded it were large and dark. As Milton walked with Alice along the pavement which the snow and ice had made hazardous, he felt her squeeze his hand.

‘How long has it been?’ she said, looking around the street. There was some faint glimmer of recognition in there, but not enough to warrant any further inspection. Milton himself became lost in remembrance; a hospital bed in a stark white room in Duluth. He came back after a second, on seeing Alice’s child like wonder of things.

‘Three years, two months and near enough 19 days.’

‘Christ,’ Alice said, skipping over a grate, ‘I’m starving.’ Milton smiled at his long since gone fiancé, refusing to remind himself of what happened.  He then pondered the reality of what she had just said, trying to decipher it, but then gave up.

 ‘Well. Are you?’ he asked, strangely calm but still yet curious, a few tears slicking his face. He hid the great shuddering breaths from her, not wanting to spoil the time they had.

‘I don’t know. No. I guess not. I’m not sure,’ she said, slightly absently. A man walked his dog, some kind of Husky, across the street from them, and the dog merely sat down and looked at the couple with confusion; cocking its head to the side. Milton waved at the man, and Alice did the same. They took a left then down Crown street; and then a right, towards Monahue pier.  The lake had frozen slightly at the edges, and Milton looked back behind them. As the Keeper had explained earlier; he was there, parked in a funeral home car, pitch black, save the small glazing of snow marring the top of it. He was staking them out, so as to get Alice back to her proper place before anyone noticed, or worse, sunrise peeked up above the hills that surrounded Sunset. Milton and Alice walked onto the wooden decking, the wood creaking under foot for him, and barely making a sound for her. She looked down at her feet curiously as they walked hand in hand, as though she was learning to walk for the first time, or had been reading about it in a book but was experiencing it for the first time properly now. Milton embraced her again, taking her up his arms. The lake shimmer the moonlight back up at them like a reflection, frosted at the edges. A small shack rested at the corner of the pier; Graham’s Tackle and Bait emblazoned on an old sign.

Next to that was a small snow covered wooden bench, which Milton led Alice to, before wiping it down with a gloved hand.  Alice took a seat there, her knees close together. She pushed a piece of blonde hair behind her ear, and watched as Milton took a seat next to her. They both stared out over the frozen lake, out into the mountains and the valleys, the mist which drifted sleepily along the peaks and spires of them.  Alice heard Milton clear his throat again, and then looked at him with concern, running a cold, ghoulish hand through his hair.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked, her eyes warm but still yet dead. Milton wiped a tear away from his face, which was beginning to feel raw and warm from both the cold and emotion, and looked at her.

‘I’m, I. I don’t know. I miss you. I miss you so, so much.’

‘I know,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’m here now.’

‘That’s what hurts the most,’ he said. ‘You have to go soon.’

‘I know.’

They both then turned back to the lake, and Alice rested her head on his shoulder, filling his nose with the sea salt conditioner and the other scents she had accumulated, both in the grave and before.

‘You have to live, though,’ she said closing her eyes. ‘You have to.’ Milton sighed at this, the mist of his breath dancing in the air like the smoke of a dragon’s mouth. He kissed her on the top of her head, before saying ‘I am alive.’ Alice looked up at him then, and they kissed again, and then she framed his face in her cold hands.

‘No, you’re not.’

He closed his eyes then for a moment, and then looked out over the lake again, his face now slick with cold and tears. He felt the strength go out of his legs for some reason, and they went slack on the bench. She smiled up at him, and then placed her head, once more, on his shoulder.

‘You remember,’ Milton started, ‘the story about this lake?’

‘There’s a town under it.’

‘Is that true, do you think?’

‘Anything can be true if you believe it enough.’

Milton smiled then, and the two simply sat in silence, neither sure of what words to say. After a long while, Milton heard a cough from behind him, and the Grave Keeper was stood behind them, a cigarette smouldering between his lips. He looked at the young man with a peculiar sorrow in his eyes, one that was part pity, part sympathy, and something more.

‘Is it time?’ Milton said, looking down at Alice. She had fallen asleep on his shoulder, and looked as peaceful as she did when they first put her in the ground.

‘Yes,’ said the Keeper, his voice the texture of grave, but with an air of warmth to it. Her fingers were still laced in his and Milton looked down at them sadly.

‘I’m sorry, son,’ said the Keeper. He flicked the cigarette off the pier into the dark waters of the lake below. Milton looked up at him, his eyes red and bloodshot, a river of tears forming on his cheek. The Keeper placed a hand on Milton’s shoulder, the smell of earth and tobacco mixing into a heady scent.  Milton nodded, kissing Alice once more on the top of her head, which woke her up. She opened her eyes, knuckling the edges of them. She looked at Milton, and then at the Keeper, who placed a hand gently on her shoulder. She sighed, and looked at him, staring into the man’s blue watery eyes.

‘Is it time to go home?’ she said, and Milton hid the pity of the question from her. The Keeper smiled at the woman, and then nodded, his eyes softening slightly. She looked down at the bottom of the pier, where the funeral hearse sat waiting, the lights illuminating the trees at the bottom of the pier slightly in the dark. Alice stood up, removing her jacket as she did so, and kissed Milton once more in the night, and then turned and walked down the pier. Milton looked at her, his face beginning to grow slack and red. His lip quivered and he closed his eyes, pushing more tears down them. The Keeper placed a hand on his shoulder again, seemingly the only form of comfort that he knew and then exhaled deeply. The Keeper then looked at Milton in the eyes, the Keeper’s icy blue mesmerizing in the reflected light of the waters moon.

‘I’m sorry I have to break your heart again, son.’

‘I, will I see her, can I see her again?’

‘You will eventually. We all do. I’m sorry,’ The Keeper said removing his hand. He took a hand rolled cigarette from his great overcoat, and then fished a lighter from the inner pocket. He sparked it up, before placing both hands in his pocket. The smoke overpowered the Keepers misty breath, and he looked at him in the eyes once more.

‘I was you once, son. Take this lesson from this, if nothing else: she’ll be there for you still, at the end.’

‘I know,’ Milton said. As the Keeper turned away from Milton, he paused for a second before turning again. ‘There is a town under there by the way, Mr Waters. There always has been. She loves you, and she’ll wait there,’ he said, turning again. As he disappeared into the dark, he added ‘under the waves.’

The Keeper then disappeared from view, and Milton sat back down on the bench, placing his jacket back on, which now had a small smell of perfume and sea salts, which he smiled at. He stared out at the lake, at the shimmer dual moons in front of him, and closed his eyes, pulling the jacket tighter around him, the smell of perfume in his nose and lungs. After a while, he stood up, and made his way back to the hotel, no longer crying.

*

Été Là, Fait Cela (lit. "Been There, Done That.") AUDIO VERSION!

Hey all, 

If you don't like reading, then you can listen to an audio version of my short story Been There, Done That here. Have fun.

(P.S I had a lot of fun doing this, hopefully I can get better and I could start a thing here on that, you know, like a, I don't know. Web series, uh, podcasty thing. I don't know.)

The Golden Hour

Text Copyright © Connor James Grant

                                                           All Rights Reserved                     

Part One: 1^st Letter

June 10th, 1920.

“To my dearest August;

It is with heavy heart that I must inform you of the passing of our great and mutual acquaintance, Charles Barnaby. He was found drowned in the east river, and police are no longer expecting any type of evidence to be pulled from those depths either. I had told him, at lengths, of the dangers of New York; for there was strange rumours and gossip floating about of all kinds of debauchery, unfitting for the description of it, for the sake of moral decency.

Charles, only recently, had begun to acquire some form of recognition for his photography work; the new system of using dark rooms, which I understand to be a lengthy and cumbersome process, seemed to aid him. The police, when searching his apartment, provided me with personal effects, such as some of these photos. I was enquiring into your availability this coming Sunday to peruse these effects, if you’re willing.

I know myself and you did not end on the greatest of terms, and I know that there was much left unsaid. We simply lost each other among the tide; and I am sorry for this. Truly.

If you can come (and by God, I hope you do), please come to our estate. It is located on the way to Barnstable, which I understand is quite far from your Bangor residency. Simply ask for the Millwall estate, and the driver will know where we are.

If you don’t come, then, August- I know. I’m sorry for the dolor treatment.

I loved you.

Yours faithfully,

Lillian Millwall.”

Part Two: 2^nd Letter

June 14^th, 1920.

“My kind and loving August,

I was sorry to hear about your scheduling conflicts, and was forced to go through dear, poor Charles’s effects on my own. Barnaby had an eye for the phantasmagorical, it appeared, and several of the books I was provided appear to have a heavy occult focus. There is talk to the voodoo of New Orleans (a frightful, indigenous topic it would seem), and mention of a book written by a Mad Arab, of which Charles could not find the name of.

It was a comfort, then, to see his photography portfolio. Oh, August, he was such a good photographer. He had an air about him, do you remember? When the three of us were young, we would often talk of the things we wanted to be.  I wanted to be a singer; and you were a...one of those newly formed and powerful industrialist types. Whilst neither of us ended up being what we wanted to be, Charles did. He made it, August. He really, truly did.

Several pages of notes, which came bundled with the photographs, seem to point to an academic research paper into an effect called ‘The Golden Hour.’ It seems his concept would have been quite revolutionary; and is to do with ‘the colour composition of photographs during a very specific time, specifically the rising of the sun and the setting of it.’ From what I can entail- I’m no scholar of the arts- it seemed to be that there is a specific time for photographs, which can lead to them looking more beautiful, as the sun reaches a certain point in the sky. Several examples are simply beautiful, Charles. Apparently it circumvents the three colour principles of some types of photography in colour (though Charles was adamant this would soon change.)

I still have much to go through, but I wished to talk to you on a personal matter.

I know I hurt you, August. I know. I was young, and so were you, and our hearts had not fully formed to the realities of the world. No more than six years ago, the world was at war, men doing the most inhumane things to each other. I left you because I could not bare you coming home wounded, or injured, or with the unquiet of the mind. I had to leave you, for my own sake, and I’m so, so sorry.

I will write again when I have looked at several other photographs, which are bound in a file that simply reads Jonhaven Field, Mass.

Forever yours,

Lillian Millwall.”

Part Three: 3^rd Letter

June 21^st, 1920.

“My beautiful August;

I’m sorry my discourse was interrupted for a week or so. I haven’t been sleeping well as of late, as I’ve decided to decipher the fortunes of our dear, poor, weak friend Charles.

I was studying the content of the folder, Jonhaven Field, when I discovered, tucked away in the folds of the manuscripts, a small journal page, from Charles. He talks at length about the colour process. He was so smart, August.  I miss him. I miss you. I miss our old, dear friend, Jonathan, do you remember him? He left for the north, for the Canadian lifestyle. I rememeber remember hearing of him being lost in the woods, only to be found frozen to death in the wastes of ice and snow and white and cold and dark. I miss our friend Jonathan.

Regardless, the contents of the journal page, more a page of notes, was something interesting. It talked of a discovery he had made, in that field in Massachusetts. He had travelled, it had seemed, for some time; creating examples of his photographic principle. In these travels, he had stopped at an inn (the true name of which is lost; he refers to it as several different names of the course of his writings), overlooking a beautiful field and forest. He set out in the early, early morning, setting up his camera in the field, before the sun had even risen. When it did-and oh by God it was beautiful, the sky crimson- he took a photo of his perspective from the brow of a hill.

He photographed something that wasn’t there, Jonathan August. He photographed a door.

I know.

He seemed in disbelief, but, my god, I saw the photo, August. It is a simple, black, oaken looking door, maybe 20 feet from the door of the inn, stood stoically in the field like a monolith. It was erect in the field, and, from beautiful Charles’s writings, he had taken several photos in different angles, but the door was invisible. When the golden hour had gone, the door no longer aroused appeared in photographs. Charles presumed it was merely a trick of the ight light, but August, he was so scared. His writing began to lose form and cohesion, words bled into each other. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand.

I have word that you and that immigrant girl who your father employed, was it Lena? I’m sorry. I heard you two were now officially an item; my father said that you two were much in report with each other at a financier’s ball. My father didn’t mean to snoop, and I hope you know that I don’t have mind to, either. I’m glad you’re happy, August.

Do you remember the old oak in the school yard in Providence, where we grew up? I thought of it randomly last night, whilst my husband slept. I miss those days.

Yours dutifully,

Lillian Millwall.”

Part Four: 4^th Letter

June 22^nd, 1920.

“August,

I’m afraid there is no time, none at all. I found a photo, hidden among the others. It appears as though it was the last one jona Chalres Charles took, at least from a chronological and also logical standpoint. My God, my dear freidn, Agust.

The doo

Charles realised, I believe the second day after his discovery of this invisible door, that there was a possibility that there may be, obviously, a destination at the other side. I believe this realisation predates his more esoteric academia studies; such as the voodoo, or the corpse-eaters of the Leng, based on the ramblings he then degredadted himself to. I’m sorry if my writing is poor, August; I have slept barely no time. My mind and body ache, in a variety of ways, some inappropriate for description, like the morbid details of the Azif, or the strange practices of the Abbey of Thelema. I too have joined in Charles’s research and you sh

I don’t know if I can write to you anymore, my beautiful, broken hearted man. If I hear a reply in the next week or so from you, I shall, of course, provide you with answers. But my sweet, glass-hearted August, please do not ask me to provide you with details of the things and contents of this photograph. If I hear no reply, I shall not bother you or your bride to be with my incessant prattling, my disquieted spirits, or my other forms of affection of affinity.

I have ordered the servants from the manor house, and Robert Millwall, my husband, has orderd ordered me to be his bride no more. Whilst my name may say other gossip and scandalous syllables, my real love is for none now, bar you. And poor, sweet Charles.

The door, August. I have to mind the door.

Forever yours,

Lillian Millwall.”

Part Five: The Diary of Lillian Millwall.

Found June 25^th, 1920

“If, by some token of the malignity of the universe this is found, you will know I have taken my life, via the oil latern at my side. The photos of those...things, those effluvial, dark things that tap at the edges of our natural sight. I write this in the hopes none find it, but I must simply write it down, to get the details straight in my own mind, my own sight; and then burn it along with the rest.

The photograph which has stricken me of sleep, and no doubt caused the turmoil in poor, sweet, beautiful Charles, is the thing, undoubtedly, that resulted in him throwing himself into the waters to drown. As mentioned in previous documents of Jona Agust Augstu Charles’s, there is the theory, that, in photography, the sun can and indeed does have some form of impact on the color composition of photographs; a magical hour exists in the twilight hours that allows for the lighting to become a beautufil, beautiful, red, soft haze.

It was in this magical, golden hour at the Jonathan Jonhaven Field in Massachusetts where my dear, dead, beautiful friend Charles found a door that can only be seen via photography, in these precise hours. It is invisible and intangible except for these hours, and via this method.

Charles, the day after the discovery, decided to test the tangibility of the door. As the sun rose from the west, the door was there reflected in the plates of the camera, as it had been the previous day; silhouetted by the light of the red sun.  Charles wasted no time; moving and positioning the camera, and marked out a spot, roughly, where the door was. He set the camera back up, and there, again, reflected on the plate of the camera, was the door. Charles held up a hand- my god, my poor, beautiful Charles- and touched the frame of the wood. Several writings afterwards reported the unease of this, the way the door seemed to give him a feeling in his gut; of a gnawing rat in a dark cellar, eating bones of sme some long dead thing to survive. I do now only know what this means. He leant an ear against the invisible door, feeling the oak against his ear; and heard nothing. He reached for the handle, before realising that, if he waited until the sun sets; the lighting would be different and allow him to see inwards, into the dark.

Oh.

He did see.

So did I.

Chalres waited in the inn, asking stories of the place, which were all stereotypical and hardly inspired. The wonder of inspiration, no. The door was it for Jonathan. Charles. The door was it for Charles.

As the sun did set, the light of the sky took a red haze, a gentle, warm thing; the sun being dragged by Apollo in his chariot, heralding the dark. It was there, then, that Charles- my beautiful baby Charles- opened the door, reaching down and touching the brass knob of the door. He felt it open, and cold came out. As Charles moved to the camera, which he had set up a few feet away, I no doubt wonder if he thought of th e sheer, raw, wonderful feeling of adventure. Men had yet to conquer, really, the Nile; and Charles had found a door that shouldn’t be. He also must’ve wondered of the ridiculousness someone would feel if they saw him, pretending to open a door in a field.  As he ducked under the canvas of the camera, to look at the plate, I wonder if he knew what was happening, or going to happen. I hope my friend Charles wasn’t scared at the end.

Oh they were there. The things; the goaten satyrys, the dark of the woodlands. The door stretched into an open, dark room; or an abyss, or the ocean. By God, they were there. The things. The shubs of them, the glakki and skin of them. Yes, my mind was open. 

The creatures resembled, in part, some strange mixture of man, bull, lizard, and shadow; the teeth that lined their insidious, sneering mouths (or something aproxmating a face) all had what appeared to be eyes on them. The creatures were piled high, and, through the doorway, was a large thing, not easily described. Charles’s notes talk of nothing but mountains made of flesh, or similar. One of the creatures, silhouetted by thunder on the opposite side of the door, turned to Charles and let go a horrible corpse-grin of a thing Charles immortalized this one with the photo; the photo I now have. Charles talks of running to the icy door and pulling it closed, and then spending the next few days in a fugue; studying the occult. The time period is sketchy, as he stopped with dates in his journal and his notes. He could have been doing it for years.

Those damn, ghoulish things. I have seen them. It burns in the night behind my eyelids, and I simply cannot abide knowing they are there. The door cannot be destroyed, for they would pile out. However, I can make sure they shan’t get me.

August, the sole beneficienary of my estate now (for my husband will die with me) is not to receive any of these notes, this diary, or the photographs. These photographical panels must stay here, with me, and be consumed.

That is not the worse.

The worse is, as Charles pulled the door closed, he heard one of those-things- ram itself against the door, splintering the wood. He did not check on the damage, for fear of those beasts dining upon him, but they can get out.

I loved you, August. Please. Remember the trees in Providence. I loved you.

I loved you.

I love.”

The rest of the document was burned beyond recognition; and was pulled from the wreckage of the Millwall manor near Barnstable. The wreckage of it is still there, surrounded by grass and overgrown trees. No one has stepped foot in it for years.

After learning of Lillian’s passing, August, full name August Ward, went missing. The last known correspondence was August apparently travelling the lanes and country roads surrounding Massachusetts, but no one knew why. August Ward himself was later found in a field, dead of hypothermia. There were no signs of a struggle, and there was no foul play.

 In certain areas around Providence and Salem is the ghost story of August Ward; trying to find the door that had driven his friends mad, and cost the true love of his life hers. 

Été Là, Fait Cela (lit. "Been There, Done That.") 

01/09/2015

Text Copyright © Connor James Grant

All Rights Reserved

It’s a cold, wintery day in Manhattan, possibly in November; the 29^th. 

Police find the body of Michael Deckert, a life insurance salesman from Wisconsin, dead of a heart attack in a diner. He’d died on the can; his suit trousers half way around his ankles, his mouth agape (maybe the shock that he would die on the shitter in this place, instead of every other and any other place he’d been to in his 42 years), and a briefcase of various contracts he had made open; the value of human lives strewn all over the tiled floor under the fluorescent lights.

The last thing Michael remembered was straining, a pain in his chest beginning to swell that made him have to loosen his tie, and then blackness. That wasn’t the last thing that Mikey saw or heard, though; and certainly wasn’t the last thing he felt, as when he next opened his eyes, he immediately felt like he was hung-over. He was bleary eyed, and his tongue felt like flypaper. His throat had the texture of bark; and he felt, in part, like this may be a bad place to be.

He knuckled his eyes; feeling the blurry, almost fish-eye-lens-type qualities leave them. He was also aware that he was in some kind of bar. There was a jukebox in the corner; something that looked like it had crawled from some scrapheap from the 50’s, got hit by a car, and then dragged itself through the wooden door and across the sawdust covered floor before expiring at its current location, hidden in a corner. The bar itself was being wiped down by a woman who, for some reason, Mikey could recognise, but not name. 

It reminded him of the feeling of deja vu; you know you’ve been there, met these people, been in that exact situation, but for some reason, you’re sure you haven’t actually done any of those things. A fleeting drop of memory in an ocean of abyssal qualities. The woman looked at him, and nodded.

‘Hey, you’re up,’ the woman said. ‘Got worried for a spell there.’ Mikey stood up from the booth he didn’t even realise he was sat at, and then walked over to the counter. The woman smiled at him from over the bar, and Mikey realised he was stupendously warm, so he removed his jacket and placed it down on the ripped leather seating of the booth. He looked around the bar; more of a saloon then anything, and took a seat on the stool by the bar.

He didn’t notice, in the weird, sleepy, groggy mind-frame he was in, that it was the only stool at the counter.

‘What’ll you have?’

‘Uh, well, uh, you can...uh...do you have any Bud?’

‘We do if you need us to,’ the woman said, brushing raven black hair behind her ear. She had a tattoo on her neck of something. It reminded Mikey of something he saw in a book once, something to do with constellations and alchemy, and people talking in hushed tones over books in the library about the moon and femininity. It made Mikey’s head hurt to look at the tattoo for too long, as it seemed to move and breathe at a rhythm and tempo separate from the woman’s own, and she spoiled his ruminations by placing the Bud, loudly, in front of him. Mikey reached into his trouser pocket for cash, but the woman shook her head.

‘Don’t pay anything till you leave.’

‘Oh,’ Mikey said, raising the beer to his lips. ‘Okay. Okay.’ He looked around the bar, as the haze began to filter from his mind.

‘Where, I...I was taking a shit,’ he said stupidly, almost mindlessly, ‘and then I just, I, I was at the bar. I was here.’ The woman with her raven black hair smiled at him, in a pleasant, friendly way.

‘Ah friend,’ she said. ‘Sun got low a couple hours ago. You ain’t got long to wait before your accountant gets here.’ She smiled at him, before looking up and down the bar, as if there were other people there, but Mikey couldn’t see them. Ghosts, maybe.

 He only had time to take another swill of the Bud before the front door to the bar opened up, and a thin man with balding hair descended the slight wooden stair case from the front door and a raised area to the bar proper. It was that what reminded Mikey (in terms of architecture) of his favourite drinking hole, an Irish bar called O’Brien’s, out on 46^th Street. The man was surrealistically animated as he came down the stairs, and he had a briefcase held in his skeletal hands that had paper sheets stuck crudely from inside poking out of the sides. Mikey looked at the man who took a place at the booth Mikey had been sat at. The woman with raven hair coughed, and the strange skinny man looked over at the bar nervously. He was sweating profusely, and his skin had the colour of cream. A small pencil moustache sat above a thin knife slash of a mouth, and the man looked over with large, bug like eyes at Mikey.

‘Ah, shit,’ said the man, ‘shit, hang on.’ Mikey looked at the bar maid, who sighed smiling. She had a glass in her hand that Mikey didn’t remember her having a minute ago, and she was clearing it with a black hand towel. Red roses were embroidered into it, and there was an obvious amount of care put into the towels construction. She looked at Mikey with smouldering, deep grey eyes.

‘You might wanna go talk to him, hon,’ she said, ‘just, uh, you know. Don’t freak out.’ Mikey sipped his beer, smiling.

‘I’ll be okay. I have a funny feeling I’ll be waking up soon. I probably just fell asleep on the can.’ The woman smiled, but almost as if she was in on a joke Mikey didn’t get yet. ‘Sure, hon,’ she said. ‘Yeah.’

Mikey walked across to the booth where the man had opened the briefcase, a collection of papers and documents and sticky Post-It notes strewn around it. He chewed his thumb nail as he studied a piece of paper; his brow furrowing almost with cartoon esque exaggeration. He looked up at Mikey as he took his seat, snapping back to reality with a startled yelp.

‘Fuck,’ said the suited, skinny man, ‘you, uh, you made me jump.’ Mikey nodded, scratching his cheek. His hand felt cold, something he attributed to the icy Bud in his hands.

‘Sorry,’ Mikey said, ‘I, uh, wasn’t thinking.’

‘No,’ the man said, looking back at the piece of paper, ‘you...you weren’t.’ The man enunciated the last part as if every word required great mental strength to produce. He eventually frowned, before placing the piece of paper down in front of Mikey.

Deckert, M. 42 years old. Cause of Death: Acute Myocardial Infarction. The skinny man nervously pointed to the paper, tapping a bony finger on the “Cause of Death” like a school teacher pointing out an error on a page of homework.

‘Uh, fancy heart attack,’ he said. ‘Why they can’t just, you know, put “Fancy Heart Attack”, I’ll, uh, never know,’ he said with a nervous laugh. Mikey looked up at him, taking a sip from the Bud.  

‘Okay,’ Mikey said, ‘I’m, uh, I want to get up now.’

‘Ah, we all do,’ said the skinny man as he dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief (a similar black and red rose motif as the hand towel), ‘but, eh, you know.’ Mikey looked at the man, regarding him properly for the first time.

‘So, who are you?’

‘Uh, my name is Oscar Duluth. I was born, in, uh...’ he said, furrowing his brow and then looking at Mikey with cold green eyes, ‘well, ah, I don’t, uh, I, uh...I think the 30’s?’

‘Sure,’ Mikey said, now completely smug. He was right. This was a dream, and he’d wake up, on the shitter (he hoped and prayed in his mind to whatever was in charge he hadn’t fallen off the seat), and then go finish his steak and eggs. 

‘So, what, you’re a grim reaper?’ Mikey said laughing, ‘I thought you were supposed to have like a cape and a lot less, you know...skin?’

‘Well, ah, you know, unions...I, uh, yeah.’

‘What the fuck are you even talking about?’ Mikey said, his voice beginning to get high due to him laughing, ‘a union? What the fuck, why...’ He laughed in the face of the skinny man, who smirked and laughed nervously, looking downward. It reminded Mikey of kids back in high school who used to get bullied, and kind of go along with it, on the off chance the bully gets bored. Mikey stopped laughing at that, as he thought about the time Jesse Dyer, from the year above, once taped Mikey to the inside of a garbage can, and rolled him down onto a highway.

‘How you didn’t kick the bucket then, I’ll never know,’ said the skinny man. The raven haired woman then appeared with a glass of water, placing it in front of the skinny man with a smile. Mikey looked at her, before realising what the skinny man had said.

‘Wait, uh, oh. Oh, I get it. You know everything, right?’

‘Uh, I know a lot about, you know, uh...’ the skinny man said, sifting through some more sheets of paper from the case. ‘Uh... 1988. Vicky Larson’s Halloween party. She was the girl who went to town on two of your frat bro’s while she was too drunk. She was basically passed out.’

‘Now hang on,’ said Mikey, ‘hang on-‘

‘She, uh,’ skinny interrupted, ‘she later went on to be a small town mother in...South Dakota. She only vaguely remembers your two friends, whose names you don’t remember, going to town on her.’

‘Wait, no-‘

‘You didn’t do anything, I know. But it kept you up at night you didn’t, because you should’ve helped.’

‘I, I know.’

‘So, uh...’ Skinny said, looking at the sheet, ‘how come ya didn’t?’

‘I wasn’t ever popular,’ Mikey said, chugging the beer now, ‘and, these guys were. I was scared, is all, too. They were tougher than me.’ Skinny nodded, flicking a piece of paper over dramatically, before sipping his water thoughtfully, as though he was in an expensive restaurant he’d never been in before, and was wondering what to get.

‘Okay, uh,’ Skinny said, ‘Okay. Here’s how it goes.’ Mikey nodded, placing the beer down on the stained wooden table of the booth.

‘You, uh, okay. You know déjà vu?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, this ain’t the first time you’ve had a heart attack. In fact, you’ve gone through the loop a few times.’ Mikey sat back, opening his mouth, before closing it again.

‘Now, the last time I explained what that meant, you got all fuckin’ weird and plead-y and generally speaking made things really, really uncomfortable for us both. So, if you ask, you have to promise not to kind of, you know...’ Mikey nodded, not really sure of what to say.

‘Basically, uh, you’re dead. Gone. Patrick Swayze in Ghost levels gone.’ Mikey didn’t know what to say, and simply took another gulp of the Bud. ‘But, uh, you, uh...okay, we can do a couple things, you know.’ Mikey nodded.

‘One is, eh, you go on to the other side, and, you know...you go wherever you’re gonna go.’ Skinny paused, expecting a response, but Mikey merely looked at him confused. There was some kind of vulnerability behind Mikey’s eyes there, and Skinny felt more than a little bad for the fella.

‘The other is, uh, we send you back. You remember a little bit, of, you know, the previous loop, but you don’t get to choose what.’

‘Why?’

‘I, uh. I guess because fuck you, right? I don’t know, Mikey. I don’t.’

‘Ah.’

‘But maybe, you know, you, uh, you stop those two fella’s from hurting that girl this time. If that’s the thing you remember. You might remember the bar tender now, too?’ Mikey looked over at the raven haired woman, before turning back to Skinny.

‘Is, is, that her?’

‘Yeah. She’s, you know...that’s not really her, that’s your crazy brain imaging what she looks like now.’

‘Oh.’

‘You’re taking this really well.’

‘I’ve, you know, I’m...I’m dead. Have a feeling a tantrum won’t help.’

‘Nope,’ Skinny said, drinking more water and fetching out an official looking document. As he did so, Mikey looked around the empty bar, and noticed, if he unfocused his eyes, he could see shapes moving at the periphery of his vision; a kind of shadowy after-image of a  silhouette, like how a shadow moves when there’s a candle in a room, and it elongates and stretches.

Malleable darkness, fluid like water.

‘There’s not just me here, is there?’

‘Hmm?’ Skinny said, not moving his eyes from the paper, ‘Ah, uh, no.’

‘How come I can’t see them?’

‘Would you want someone staring at you right now? We used to have it where that was a thing...jeez, bar fights would happen all the time,’ Skinny said. He clicked his fingers together suddenly, and Mikey was startled back into looking at him. Skinny nodded, as he passed a piece of paper, a clear, crystal white bordered by thick, heavy purple. It was blank, save for a dotted line.

‘No fine print?’ Mikey asked with a slight, sombre smile. Even if this was a dream, he wanted it to be over now.

‘Kinda no point,’ said Skinny. ‘Kind of redundant at this point, you know?’ Mikey nodded. It was true, or, at least true enough, that there shouldn’t be fine print at the very end. What would the fine print even be?

‘So,’ Mikey said as he finished his Bud, ‘I sign this and...?’

‘You go back. Or you can go out of those doors, there, and see what happens after to you. Gotta warn you though- that’s as permanent as it gets out there. I’m your accountant, not a miracle worker,’ Skinny said. When he caught what he said last, he laughed a little.

‘I get no choice what I remember?’

‘Nope. You won’t even remember this.’

‘What if I really try?’

‘You’ve said that before. Never works.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah,’ Skinny said, producing a pen from the brief case, a simple, black biro. Mikey took it in his hands, holding it up to the light which illuminated the booth.

‘No quill?’

‘Ran out.’

‘Ah,’ said Mikey, who stared at the piece of paper. ‘You know,’ Mikey said, ‘I, the thing with that girl, it stayed with me. You know. It does. It bothers me I couldn’t help her...but, how many times have I done this? And I still don’t remember it?’

‘You gotta decide if it’s worth it. If you think you can, you know. If not, you can just...well, see where you go.’

Mikey stared at the page for a good, long while, and he ordered another drink.

*

In 1970, in a small, Wisconsin hospital, Paul and Mary Deckert sat in the brightly lit hospital room, and Mary held in her arms a small bundle, wrapped gently in a soft towel. The nurse smiled as she told the new parents that their healthy, baby boy was, physically, perfect. There was even talk already about naming their son, who had come clawing and fighting his way out of the womb like he had a mission.

For the longest while, they had wanted to name their son Rupert, but there, in the hospital room, their little boy warm and asleep and cosy, they had settled on Michael, although neither could remember why they had chosen that name. It had merely come to them, like they’d done it before a thousand times.

***

Shadows, 23/07/2015

We were drunk on dreams of the past, 

I was reading the wrong pages of things.

I was looking for something, the quiet moments

I already had

that I already have.

If only we knew, right?

how the months go by so fast.

Did I really think that we were going to last?

did you?

I'm sure I heard you ask

if we were going to last.

I heard you talk to shadows, 

shades of things,

but it wasn't to be.

I wanted to give you the world, 

everything that was beautiful.

There's that little you could hold it,

in the palm of your hand, 

and give it to someone else.

If only we knew

how the months go by so fast.

Did I really think that we were going to last?

did you?

I'm sure I heard you ask

if we were going to last.

I heard you talk to shadows, 

shades of things,

but it wasn't to be.

The Nihilism of Love, 22/07/2015

Imagine yourself, now. 

Are there things you love, people you love? 

Maybe there is covetousness to yourself; 

the sense you need something to be alive.

That is not the case. That's not what we are.

View love as I do, and the way is clear.

We love people, objects, pop-culture.

We throw these things into a thresher, 

a cold, dark place,

and burn and chew away the gristle.

Love is not the case. Love is not what we are.

I'm not a fan of convolution. I find it a fallacy.

I'm not you, I can't crawl through the rooms of your mind, 

the cloying, dark places where you decide right from wrong, 

good from bad.

Love is like that.

Think back, think long and wide. 

There are things you've done, 

things you've seen, 

that I can't know. I won't pretend I do, either.

Think to the time, the real, first time, 

you decided you were in love.

We throw ourselves into it, don't we? I'm as guilty as anyone else.

Love is not the case. Love is not what we are.

There's a reason our ribs are cages, 

because our hearts are wild, free, cannibalistic.

They eat what they need to, to survive.

Love is not the case. Love is not what we are.

The next time your heart is broken, 

or your life is grey, and dire, 

remember: Everyone else is the same, 

and love is something that happens;

we torture ourselves, 

others,

friends,

family,

and at the end of the day:

Love is not what we are.