Rogue Tail

I had been led to believe that store sushi would prove different in Japan. The dangers that are foretold in the back pages of forgotten magazines wouldn’t come to pass.

The orange lined shrimp tail that looked so appetizing proved me wrong. My optimism took a sharp elbow to the jaw as I prayed to the porcelain throne at 3am.

I sweated the fever out as five blankets covered me and the bedside lamp kept a vigil. The passage of the new year came early for me as I transitioned out of sickness into health.

Dread

She shined illuminated by strobe light. Kellen thought what dread work of angels? As the girl danced on stage. Behind her the portal to Azmouth had opened— and with it a legion of damned spilled out. The girl proved an ethereal cloud as the monstrosities roared past her.

“Rejoindre la danse de la mort!” Screamed a velvet vested man swinging a gold rapier. The monsters veered towards him but we’re put down in a frenzy of blows. Blood and bile splattered the dance floor. A group of young girls wept in the corner as the man let loose a deranged cackle, “je veux plus!”

The monsters that spilt out of the portal obliged him— and he did in kind as he spread them amongst their predecessors. The purple foxglove light of the portal flickered once before extinguishing. The ballroom darkened by actions and offal— the sound of slowly abating fear and sniffles filled the muted room. Kellen looked around for their surprise savior, but the man was gone. A single iridescent feather lay on the floor where he stood. Even from where he stood by the wall, Kellen knew it was the calling card of Montaigne.

Cloven Hall

“Am I still your favorite preoccupation?” a babydoll voice echoed through the maze. What had started as a hopeful endeavor turned to horror as slick limestone and crumbled signs left Brady lost in an unnatural fog.

He checked a battered Timex— the sickly aqua glow reminded him of dock lights. The time read 2:36 a.m. He’d been lost for half a day— he scratched at the stubble in his jaw. The coarse hair felt thicker than usual.

His sister, Mel, had warned against joining the Brotherhood at his university. St. Andrew’s was infamous for the alleged labyrinth below the abbey. Brady doubted it before— no longer. His “brothers” told him he had a full 24 hours to pass through the labyrinth— he had asked “or else?” Their silence changed their aged schoolboy forms. They didn’t need to say anything more.

They swept away from the iron gate in the basement of the abbey to let Brady make peace with himself before entering. A brother stood near the door to make sure he did. They left a single red candle. Barely big enough to last through a formal dinner.

The first hour has been quiet safe for the occasional drips of water from the cracked walls. The air held a damp chill his windbreaker couldn’t keep out. It’s settled into his bones quick dash and he fought to keep it from his mind but each hour but it drift a little closer. The whisper of doubt – the locked door of all the nasty things he had ever heard, said, or seen— waited.

The second hour brought a distant rustle. It sounded like an animal nosing through shrubbery— save for all the stone, he could believe it. The noise kept its distance from him as he continued onwards.

The third hour was silent— A muted world that ate even the sound of his footsteps. He dared not use his voice for fear of breaking whatever spell he wandered into.

Noise returns in hour four – and Brady wished it hadn’t.

A light whistled tune bounced along the walls. Brady felt the walls creep in words – but that had to be his imagination. It was just anxiety produced by the Whistler. Inspired by it – he figured.

The fifth hour brought visual presence – tracers of light adorned his path. Snippets of old memories played before his mind like a reel of film. The girl from the orchard within them. A scene he’d lost from his conscious mind – but one his sleeping mind clung to like a sucking babe. Her face sent a wash of a icy fear through his bowels. Forget, forget, forget— forgive, forgive, forgive. He prayed a cyclical tune as he tried to shake the memory like a dog escaping the bath.

The sixth hour – the sixth hour brought a pox of shadows. The world turned to a slit as darkness filled the labyrinth. It ate at the space around the candle – cozying up like a lover during winter.

As hour seven approached— The shadows fell back. Brady would have rejoiced— save for what they revealed. Stone figurines now dotted the halls. He’s cycled through old paths – and thick, cherubic faces stared from moss laden eyes. He resisted touching them as a mix of cloyingly sweet and heady aroma filled the holes. It smelled of burnt sugar and heavy clove poured over rotten fruit. Brady tasted it in his mouth. He gagged on the air – desperate for it to stop.

Only at the turn of the hour did it fade — bringing instead a buried voice. It started from behind him— a sudden whisper in his ear as if hands rested on his shoulders and tip toed feet reached up to let him hear the words

“Why did you leave me?”

It fell silent again—

“You should have called for help.” Small drops of blood pooled before each new step. Brady choked back snotted tears. A wild rhythm found his heart and thundered a Morse code that screamed “Help me!” He started running— the blood splashing onto his pant legs.

“Don’t worry, baby,” the voice dropping octaves with each word. It’s a tone a dark horror. “We can finally be together. Haven’t you kissed me?” The voice pitched up like the squeal of a broken siren.

Brady flew across the slick steps— a shadow appeared at the next corner and he crashed into the wall trying to avoid it. His head crunched against the stones and her voice lowered to a lover’s confession, “you can’t escape the path.”

He awoke in the 9th hour with blood matted hair— he felt nauseous, but staggered to his feet— using the wall for support. He limped onward as the voice came back— asking him question with the flicker of a snake’s tongue. It brushed against his ear with each step.

At the entrance to the labyrinth a twin candle l to his melted, red hope finally died out— leaving a pool of wax to run in the divots carved into the floor— the warm stream filled a crest and pulsed an unnatural crimson before settling.

Brady’s candle extinguished within— a broken scream followed it before the tick of the hour hand brought itself to 3am and silence followed.

The doors above the abbey were locked and old iron chains pulled across the door. The hooded group dispersed into the night like ripples across a pond— moonlight failing to find them before the shadows did.

Rooftop Meeting

Years ago when I was at the beginning of being a young man I worked 13 major holidays in a row. I lost the feeling of magic for Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, etc. As I walked through the shopping center today in my tiny town on my distant island— I heard Christmas music and for the first time in years it brought me some joy.

Afterwards I’d walk to the top of my two story parking garage that I always park on and look up into a dark night sky searching for a little pinpricks of light. The wonder of being intertwined is a heavy confusion as you remember and forget and remember again that you can never be separate from the world. That through no force known you cannot be separate from the universe.

The same person who stops to think the sauce is the same as the one that snuggles in to a rats nest of blankets on a futon on the floor to watch zombie movies after a school day. The same person that limped over to the post office because I can’t figure out what the fuck is wrong with the muscles in my left leg is the same person that walked into the grocery store without picking up a basket and still ended up getting too much stuff anyway.

Are used to be good at underline in the personal responsibility that we have to take in this life – it was borne out of scrapes with death. Memento mori became a rallying cry as I strode into the unknown. But we all do. We all walk into the unknown – even if we don’t wanna think that it is.

But I didn’t realize the personal responsibility also needs to tie in to the responsibility of viewing yourself with the worthiness for love. For affection. For friendships that extend past hello and drunken hangouts.

You have a responsibility to yourself and the people you love to also view yourself as being worthy of love. Otherwise it’s not gonna cut it. The improvements lean toward sadism if you’re unwilling to be tender. The advice becomes criticism.

So I think about that young man that works through all those holidays and then I remember newfound friends waiting to start dinner on Thanksgiving for me. I remember beginning to cry in the doorway and realizing others saw something in me worth loving. I realized being cruel to yourself does not protect you from future harm.

Pain is not weakness leaving the body. It’s not leaving the body if you keep chasing to put it back in. But when you take a breath— when you stand under some distant stars and breath in. When you let yourself enjoy this precious time— in whatever form joy shows itself to you – let it in.

Chicken Scratch Love Letters

I’ve filled a hundred journals with words that haven’t led to more than passing fancy or elaborate confusion.

There are ink stains, smudges, slash marks, and scribbles where names have been. Rewrites where new names will be. I’ve circled, starred, and doodled my way through a whirlpool of crushes and flings.

I’ve slowed like an old dog. Achy heart the same as grumpy joints before a storm hits.

Sometimes it feels like the concussive waves flowing out from the skips of a stone I’ve thrown across the water. Each wave further and further away from the center.

I remember how I hid my first loves deep, deep in my heart. Afraid they’d be pried from my soul like an oyster being shucked. A forming pearl cast from safety— dissolved back into debris. The shine stripped from its coating.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that fear. That stomach churning, car on top of the hill roller coaster thrill. The uncomfortable squirming as your affections are dissected before you. I don’t have that anymore.

It’s different when you’re eager to offer— but confident in walking away. The moment isn’t forever— it’s a countdown with legs.

I sit in this hilltop home overlooking the bay. A small apartment where my living room doubles as the bedroom—- where I write these words under an orange-ish yellow dimmer light. Where my aircon pumps heat into the room on a constant stream as the uninsulated walls are greedy to suck it back out.

I sit in this room feeling further than I’ve ever been to romance. There is no crush or backstory I’m trying to rework. No lost name that calls out from the depths. There’s a funny sense of calm. Almost unsettling in the way its descended. I’ve stopped looking— because I was never going to find the words I needed from someone else. Because it wasn’t words at all. It was sitting in the moment.

Sitting under this dimmer light and going— “This isn’t bad.”

It’s knowing that for all the tender moments I’ve been lucky to experience. All the love and affection. The hair tousles and snuggles. The moments where you feel safe with a person— safe within yourself. That could be enough. I can sit here and think— “that could be all you get,” and be okay with it.

Something like a Recollection

The jet-puff marshmallow clouds slide across the sky like greased skates. The pockets of sunlight punch through their thick hide like a boy scout’s flashlight at summer camp.

The town announcement speakers go off at least five times a day. The voices range from a schoolchild cautioning safety as elementary kids return home— to the brusque male advisor detailing the weather or illness quota.

I sit in a semi-opened staff room as the winter winds whip through the windows. The carbon dioxide monitor on the desk has a temperature gauge that reads fifty degrees Fahrenheit. I’ve given up any pretense of formal attire with my flannel jacket covering my coaching hoodie. I scribble notes in my pocket journal about the day or lines of dialogue that pop into my head. I copy the literary gems I find as I read through the works of more established writers. As I pick through their nests, I feel like a magpie, stealing anything that shines.

On the weekends, I traverse the island in my tiny car. I alternate between listening to spooky tales and blasting music. I stop anywhere that feels inviting— shrines, beaches, random roadside openings. It feels like open road therapy as I lose myself to the tarmac for the daylight hours.

On Sundays, I put my big headphones on and call home— even though the calls reach different cities. I cycle through my loved ones as I hear voices and stories from across the ocean. I’ll pace my tiny room and fill my coffee mug as we trade small gestures of affection. I’ll look out at the bay from my balcony and find it curious how normal the view has become.

Winds of Terror

Tonight there is a kind of wind that would make you pull the covers over your head when you were a child.

There’s a feeling of unease in the air. The setting Sun is less of a friendly goodbye then a solemn acknowledgment of approaching danger.

The windows rattle like the tiny balls in the push vacuums for kids. There’s a chaotic, jilted energy to them. Wind isn’t supposed to feel personal as blows— but it does.

Cursed

A nervous quiet pervades these places. It pervades the people. It sinks through the silt like long awaited rains. It’s in the land itself— though nothing sticks. Not even the rains. Not even a name. Whatever they’d called this place was long forgotten— in the night it seemed day itself forgot it.

The villagers are afraid to become something than a whisper. They tremble between the edges of life like a window-side flame.

There are consequences to tearing a hole in the universe. Death proved too kind a fate for whoever fate chose to remain in the unmarked place beyond the maps.

Ghost

“They call it a catwalk when you’re walking down the street. And it calls to me that regret is a curse that can’t be cured. I watch you walk by—unseen & unheard,” a boy mumbled as he wrote in a bent notebook.

Condensation fogged up the windows and left the customers in the coffee shop feeling insulated from the winter’s breath. “Shit,” he scribbled another line before chewing on his pencil. The cheap wood splintered in his mouth as a beanie-clad girl stumbled in the door, shaking snow off her boots before heading to the counter. Adrian froze. His broken pencil forgotten. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

He tried to watch without being obvious. But being sixteen years old and subtle has never mixed. The girl saw him and gave a small wave before heading to her own table. He tried not blush, but the sun had more chance of rising the next day than that.

The next hour passed with more time spent rubbing his eyes and greasing up his hair than writing. The girl glanced over at Adrian a couple times before leaving the shop. He sighed and packed up his stuff. She knew about the note. She had to know.

There was no way they were going to let him back into school once she told them.

Kids Say the Damus Things

Oliver Damus was a damn fine insurance agent. That's only a compliment in the insurance field. Otherwise, that's a gentle way of describing an underwhelming person.

For Oliver, underwhelming was second nature after growing up in his family's prophetic shadows, the Damus'.

With a lineage directly linked to Nostradamus, the Damus' family possessed similar powers of prophecy.

Oliver's father, Hiram Damus, served as the spiritual leader to Vanuatu's island after correctly predicting the eruption of the Volcano, Balthais.

His mother, Aurelia, was the leader of the oracles of Delphi.

If you're a part of a normal family, one that doesn't possess the ability to predict the future or hold sway with world governments, being a damn fine insurance agent would have been enough. But that wasn't the case for poor Oliver.

Tenor

“It’s a good story for you, I think,” an old woman said as she pushed a plate of cookies across the table. Late fall snow began to fall outside. Wet clumps obscuring the beauty of singular snowflakes. A mash of fate down the river of circumstance.

“Let’s not,” the man said as he dunked a ginger cookie into some milk. The woman looked across the table at him.

“I think we will.”

He shook his head and broke another cookie in half before dunking it, “Fine.”

“It started with the burying of an ash tree. Eight lightning strikes, a lost marten, and the last nightmare of a broken man.”

“What kind of story is this?”

“The kind that changes the future once you’ve heard it.” The house shifted underneath them. A flash of terror crossed the man’s face as he raced to the window. He saw a pair of giant, yellow chicken legs below— and the ground further beyond them. The old woman gave a wide smile and gestured to his seat. He sat back down. “Drink your milk. It’s good for the stomach. Calms the nerves.” He listened. “This is a special story. One that hasn’t been told for an entire age. But you bear the mark of the last Volhv to hear it. So you must hear it too.”

The man took in the room around him as he felt it spin in fear. Nothing inside could have been from the modern age— he didn’t know how he didn’t see it before. Black iron and bright silver decorated the main room— a giant cauldron peeked out from the kitchen alcove. “Kasimir, would you please pay attention. You can stare at the cauldron later. You might even learn something.”