Meat me in Aisle 6

From his eyes shone a flaming, baleful light.

The rotisserie chicken spun in lazy circles as Clyde drooled onto the linoleum floor. He hadn’t eaten in three days and the lemon pepper flavored skin called to him with a mighty cry as the skin sizzled.

He could feel the pitiful outline of three dimes in his front pocket. Not enough to even buy a nibble of that delicious entreaty of meat and salvation.

Clyde had barely been out of the mountains for a week and already he knew he had made a grave mistake. It wasn’t much to live off squirrels and pine needle tea, but it was better than looking like Sasquatch suspended in motion.

It was those wretched bounty hunters. They crushed his lean-to and stole his supplies before ferreting back into town. Clyde had followed their clumsy trail through the ferns and came upon the town of Abendale. Truly, in another age it would have been called a village. Maybe even an outpost. Now? It was called “The Home of the Northernmost 7-11.”

A shuffling gait announced the presence of another. “Hey man, you’re gonna have to buy something or uh… get out,” the scratchy voice of a young man trying not to piss himself snapped Clyde out of his fugue state. “Please…”

Clyde stared the gangly, freckled young man down, “Hmm. Fine,” he said before snatching the chicken out of the case and walking out with it.

“Hey! You..can’t do that,” the voice behind him trailed off as Clyde stepped back into the frozen landscape.

Reindeer Games

“It’s a game if you fill your heart with joy,” Beric said looking out on the tundra. Fat flakes covered the pair atop the cliff. Beric counted thirteen days of spent rations in his bag earlier that morning. They were getting close to the end.

“ Beric… we’re talking about hunting humans. Have a little decency,” a straw thin man said from under a fur blanket.

“Rune, you say it like you’re not out here with me.” Rune gave Beric the stink eye before burrowing deeper in to the blanket.

“We don’t have to make jokes about it…”

“Fine. I’ll leave the warm, cuddly feelings alone. We can talk about all the gloomy things you want. Should I start with the downfall of the empire if we don’t catch these men?”

“Don’t get on your moral high horse. If you left things alone we wouldn’t even be out here.”

“And where would the fun have been in that? Stuck in the city. Debasing yourself for political favors. Bah! None of that out here,” Beric said with a sweep of his arm. “Nothing but honesty lives in these woods.”

“I wish you had stayed a poet,” Rune moaned. “At least then I would have gotten some wine to go along with this drawn out excuse.”

“You needed more than an appetite for court maids and rare vintages to stay a poet in our town, brother.”

“How do you explain Hilario then?”

“An abundance of talent and natural grace like an avian dance?”

“Should we do something about that man getting away?” Beric turned to look at the man staggering towards the icy river.

“Shit, can’t let the bastard drown. I didn’t trek all the way out here for empty ol pockets and shitty hymns.”

Oceanside

There’s a hotel that looks out on the ocean.  I’ve never seen it open- but the windows show the evidence of guests. I’ve never seen anyone in there— but it’s not boarded up.

No one in town talks about it— even though it sits on the same lot as the most popular park.

It seems the eye of the community slips over the grey, oblong eyesore the hat catches my attention every time I walk through the park.

I want to know more— but I have this feeling that I shouldn’t ask. Almost as if I haven’t been noticed yet. That the attention of the hotel isn’t on me. I don’t know that I need to know— that’s what I tell myself. I don’t need to know. I don’t need to know.

I don’t need to know so much that I walked through the park twice a day. I stare at the windows— looking for the glimmer of movement. But there’s never anything there.  No sounds. No sights. Just the grey shape between the rest of town and the ocean.

I don’t need to know.

Why would I need to know?

It’s not like it emanates a rumble like a door being slammed when you’re in a distant room. No sound— only disturbed vibrations.

Why would I need to know?

I don’t need to know.

The lock on the door doesn’t look very sturdy. I take my time with Amazon ordered lock picks.

Why would an open hotel have locked lobby doors?

Why would I need to know?

Sneezy

There was a wet, mildew stink to the basement that made Jeremy think of lost rain jackets you find in the back of your family’s car. Add in the aroma of genetically altered tomatoes and processed cheese and you’d have the ingredients for Duncan’s tabletop board game lair AKA “no poon island.”

Jeremy, Duncan, and Tim had been playing together since they were strategically using pull-ups at sleepovers to avoid drenching their fleece lined sleeping bag in piss. It would have been easy for them to consider themselves outsiders to the rest of kids at school, but they just saw themselves as diplomatically separate. An adolescent Switzerland on the verge of finding worth through neutrality.

Duncan let of a soft snuffle as he moved his figurine. They hadn’t played that much Warhammer, but you couldn’t already tell by the detailed edges and glossy paint jobs that Duncan took it more seriously than Jeremy and Tim. Their figurines were straight from the box and painted slapdash with spray paint cans from Tim’s older brother.

Tim looked up at Duncan with a raised brow, “You sneeze like a dog.”

“What?”

“It’s not going to be nice if I explain it.”

“Don’t pretend like you’re cool after getting one dry handjob in the parking lot behind a Taco time. Just tell me.”

“It means you sneeze like a bitch,” Tim said lifting his hands in apology. The Cheeto covered tips muted the sincerity.

“It’s just allergies— you guys sneeze all the time too,” Duncan said crossing his arms.

“Not like that,” Jeremy said. He kept rifling through his notes folder. He finally plucked a crumpled piece and set on smoothing it on the table. “It might work for you though. Don’t girls like cute stuff?”

“My sneeze is not cute.”

“That sneeze is the Dr. Moreau crossbreed of a Furby and a lost chihuahua,” Tim said.

Duncan slowly raised a diplomatic middle finger “Fuck you guys. Do you want to continue this campaign or not?”

“Does Monsanto breed hybrid pig-humans?”

“Is that your version of ‘does the Pope shit in the woods?’ because I gotta say, I am not a fan,” Tim said ruffling through the Cheeto bag.

”Or…” Jeremy dipped into his backpack and pulled out a dusty box. “We could call some spirits.”

“I can’t believe you’d bring a Ouija board to my house. We are not summoning spirits. You know my mother’s policy on that!”

274

Today is the two hundredth and seventy-fourth day of the year— that means five or take I’ve written about two hundred and fifty stories. I’m allocating twenty-five odd days for travel, exhaustion, life, and relocation.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned in the past 274 days is that consistent effort is king. It doesn’t have to be big and flashy. Just like when you’re running, you don’t need to complete a marathon every day. But just getting the shoes on and out of the front door is enough.

I’m in the middle of about five different books right now. That’s unusual for me. Typically, I zoom through one book at a time in an almost binge-like fashion. But right now jumping between science fiction, poetry, memoir, and other random passing fancies.

Before I started writing this I was sitting on my balcony in my floor chair drinking a beverage that calls itself “beer-like” (always a sign of quality) and smoking a single blueberry menthol cigarette. I started the day early as I tend to do now – it’s rare for me not to wake up by six a.m. I make my coffee and eat breakfast today before calling one of my friends who are halfway across the world.

I thought about how the future has become a vast expanse before me as I’m now operating from a point of unknown. Maybe this was always the case, and the wool over my eyes was my preconceived notions— but now, I’m at the edge of something vastly different than I ever expected. Even if I had nebulously planned it.

The upside of living on an island that is so vibrant with natural splendor is that if you a combination of humbled and awed as you stare at the curling mountain ranges and schools of fish.

You feel the edge of mystical wonder as you stand in the old cedar forest before abandoned shrines. You feel the creep of magic as it moves like tendrils of ivy in the gaps that the winnowing population leaves behind. The island is filled with abandoned buildings— homes, industrial sites, schools, old shipyards. But the children still screech with joy as they run around— the parents still laugh. Friends still find time to see each other. Life is robust— even as the density of humanity lessens. It is no less potent at two hundred than it is at two thousand.

I’m learning the lesson that I’ve always known I would need. Patience is hard for everyone – particularly now when we live in an economy of attention. But I’ve always known that if I were able to slow down— that many of the things that scare me or that I don’t understand would reveal themselves to be little more than shadows cast from corners of the room.

I’ve lived with an ingrained fear borne out of the misguided understanding that finding your partner, soulmate, etc is the zenith of our achievement in this life. I have feared that if I’m not on high alert— if I’m not on a constant lookout, I would miss them.

I would miss the thing that’s supposed to complete me.

I know that’s a very flawed approach to life— but one that is relatively common from the 1700s onward with the rise of romanticism. It’s also one that’s hard to find the fibrous root without directed digging.

I’ve been on this island— face to face with myself. I’m living a version of a childhood dream and I’m having to ask myself what other parts are worth looking at. What other dreams are worth pursuing?

I sit and flex my toes as the wind shakes my dress T-shirt on the clothing line and I wonder “what does a content life look like when it’s only myself?”

I know enough now to know that I’m passably content for the moment. That part of the reason I was so enthused about coming to this island was the solitude I would gain— the patience I would have to cultivate without my friends to lean on in person.

I’m also grateful for the utter lack of dating possibilities on this island. It’s a combination of limited language exchange and nuanced ideas that would lead to a relationship that would be elementary in emotional engagement. It’s hard to have a sweeping love or understanding of someone when the questions you ask are at the level of “do you like apples?“

To return to the basis of today’s entry— it is the 274th day of the year, and while I am far from my understanding of what exactly the impact of this time will be – I know it will be far greater than anything I could have ever expected. In the stories that I have written and will write during that will serve as a platform for some yet unknown enterprise.

Dolphin Day

Today I saw dolphins.

I woke up at six a.m. and still felt exhausted from the week. I couldn’t clock why I felt like shit— I had gone to bed before seven p.m. last night. I wasn’t sick or melancholic. I didn’t have a large workout or anything like that. It wasn’t until I looked at the nutrition facts for the soup I had been eating for breakfast that I close to a thousand calories into a deficit.

Fit is one thing, but famished is another. There’s something about the weather here that makes me occasionally forget to eat— until I get to the breaking point and I feast. But after a full week of going to bed before eight p.m. I knew something had to change drastically.

So this morning, I stood in my kitchen while I listened to a gruff voice on the island-wide PA system explain that North Korea had fired some test missiles like angry little assholes. I figured I couldn’t do much about missile strikes— so I heated up some apple danish’s and called my friends. After two cups of coffee, four mini- danish’s, and three phone calls, I got on the road.

My abstract goal for the day was to hit some hot spots in Tsushima. I started with Komodohama beach— the beach where the Mongols tried to land during their invasion attempts in 1274 and 1281. The beach was still littered with an obscene amount of trash from the typhoon, but there were two old men wandering up and down it next to the full garbage bags that every five feet apart on the beach.

Next, I headed towards Kechi— although it was a bit of a roundabout way as it took me through Imazato, and I tried to avoid the narrow mountain roads that way, so I turned towards a small village on the right. I ended up on a logging road that hadn’t been cleaned up since the last typhoon. I drove past an isolated shrine deep in the woods and soon found myself completely alone on an abandoned road.

I got out to pee and look around. I had been blasting music during my drive— happy to feel the energy return to me. I left my phone in the car and stood on the road during intermittent silence between the chirps of the bugs. It reminded me of the logging road up on Mt.Hood by my family’s old cabin. I soaked in the future-flavored nostalgia for a minute before getting back into the car.

I dithered at the shrine— it looked like something out of a movie. An empty cedar forest with black and gold plating signaling the trek to a holy site had been completed. I didn’t stay— knowing I had too much energy to be able to appreciate the serenity.

The road led me past an abandoned school— which on the fence across from it, perched ten giant Kite’s. They took off as I drove past— I wish I had gotten a photo of it. It felt unreal seeing that many hawks together.

The roads kept pulling me along— offering sites of lush forest and gaps of sparkling water. I crawled along the winding roads— hunched over my steering wheel as I peered at the corner mirrors of the tight one-car roads that carried me through and above the forests.

As I made the turn east back towards the center of the island, I saw the pod of dolphins. The movement in the water first made me think of a whale— but I realized they were too small and numerous. Having barely seen any other cars— I made the judgment call of pulling as far to the side as I could, hitting my cautions, and taking a video of the pod. It was easily one of the most exciting moments I’ve had. I knew there were dolphins in Tsushima because of a friend’s video— but I didn’t expect to see them myself. And certainly not while I was on a random drive.

I kept driving and saw more beautiful sights— including a creepy but compelling ruined boat anchored in a forgotten cove of Aso Bay. I stood next to the overgrown pier staring at the quadrauple-anchored boat, wondering who it belonged to— and while it was still in the water. It looked like half of the top was missing. Next to the pier was a small, fenced-off farm plot. Otherwise, it was back to an isolated forest and empty road. I stood there long enough to feel uneasy. I decided it was fair play from the universe and fucked off.

I saw crystal clear water that reminded me of photos of the Mediterranean by Akajimai bridge— and a shrine that opened up into the ocean. It felt like the perfect place to swim, but also sacrosanct if you did.

I wandered down to Ayumdoshi and the river rocks in the south of the island— following my whimsy for adventure as it took me through more narrow mountain roads.

As I drove back to Izuhara— I got to see the mountain range that overlooks Kuta. It might be one of my favorite sights in all of Japan. It reminds me of the Lord of the Rings when they’re sailing the boats down the river and through the forests with the old statues. There’s something stirring in the vast green giants — I’m grateful I get to work in a place where they look down upon me.

Tavish

You would have never said you were “happy” that a guy like Riley Tavish died, but you were. Frankly, you bought the bar another round because you were over the moon. There’s often survivors guilt that people feel when faced with the news of a rivals death, but you wish it would have happened ten years sooner.

All you could think was “fuck that guy, he stole my movie poster money. I would have bought the first release of ‘Back to the Future’ and that turtle faced cunt bashed my head in so he could buy a pack of parliaments. Keep knocking those beers back, patrons of Squealy Dan’s, Augustus Fairweather was buying the drinks tonight.

You lost the magnum opus of your poster collection and you gained some half-assed nicotine buzz? Rot in hell.

Yeah, so you fucked his wife after he got cancer. It’s not your problem a plumber couldn’t lay some pipe in his own home. You don’t care about his Unions— job or marital. You were gonna break him down piece by piece.

It’s not even a stretch to say you influenced the cancer after irradiating that work site of his. He should have known better than to accepted a job on your side of town. Maybe it hadn’t even been explicitly your side of town— but you ate at the Denny’s over here. Anyone with an ounce of common sense should respect that.

And yes, you know some people will investigate how you were able to irradiate Tavish in a middle America. And yes, you might have to explain your dark web exploits and long haul trucker expedition to Alaska to recover the core of a soviet submarine. And yes, that might seem like overkill to some. But that’s their problem.

Ride On

Back in the saddle— of this obnoxiously yellow exercise bike. I’m pedaling off all the beers and ramen from Fukuoka while still retaining the joy of having consumed them.

Today was one of those days that underlined the beauty of paying attention to this new world around me. In the midst of listening to a teacher rant at students for not doing their homework, I realized I was understanding a complete lecture in Japanese. Small win during an awkward situation.

Small wins are the name of the game. A remembered name. A pleasant interaction. The surprise lunch that’s delicious beyond expectations. It’s all good.

***

Now I’m sitting on the stool in my kitchen after buying tickets to Tokyo and cleaning my witches cauldron of a sink. I’m thinking I should delete photos in my phone of a fading love. But the lack of permanence gives me pause. As a younger man it was easy to wipe the phone and pretend the emotions would follow suit.

But half a world away— I can tell you that that hasn’t been the case. It’s not that I return to the photos I’m hoping of rewriting the past. Rather, they mark the turning point where I fully gripped the reins of my own life.

I had thought I’d be married by now. I had even bought an engagement ring. Instead, I’ll be in the largest city in the world next weekend. Surrounded by millions of people and romping through the city with my oldest childhood friend.

My pervading though is that I should buy some fairy lights for this apartment. It has that harsh fluorescent light that reminds you of bleach and leftover Dominoes pizza.

Maybe they’ll smooth out the electric yellow of the exercise bike— making it less of a bachelor pad and more of an aspiring Pinterester.

Telling

“Silence, dirtbags!” An impudent, tartan clad queen shouted from the stage. Her Doc Marten’s were jerryrigged with sky blue duct tape & spite. She howled on the microphone like a cat in heat and her bass lines were so dirty you felt Dionysian after listening to them.

Veronica Telly stood five feet flat and towered over the world. I’d seen her sink her teeth into a bouncer’s shoulder after being denied entry into her own show. What I’m saying is— she was not a force to be fucked with.

Which is exactly why I fell in love with her.

Night of the Living Dead, haunted houses, Veronica Telly— What do they all have in common? My collected terror and infatuation.

I’d skip mass to pray at the skate park. Quicker to knock my ankle than bend the knee. I overheard Veronica mention a love of beads— but I didn’t think she meant rosary.

I picked up stick & poke to have to excuse to offer her something. She asked for examples and all I had to offer was the amateur sketch pad that was my left thigh. I had to pull down my jeans to show her the full spread— my face was red. Hers was not.

She laughed at how pale I was and told me to ask her again after I got the hang of it. She left after tracing the outline of the starfish.

“That’s your best one. You might figure it out yet.”

I wanted to burn that moment into my brain and live in it. Instead— I ran to the library and checked out as many animal and sea life books as possible. I stole tracing paper from my universities art department and retreated to my attic room atop a four story hovel in hope of compressing hundreds of years of artistic excellence into a weekend.

I rode the fevered current of site as I studied the feathers, bones, & fur of predators and prey alike. I had the sense that I was not the predator between Veronica & myself.

I found a poison dart frog— admiring the ink and blatant audacity of a small, but mighty force in the jungle. It seemed like the honey badger of amphibians. Mutual assured destruction for anything that attacked it— although I aimed for mutual assured affection. I had no desire to be poisoned— but as I worked under a creaking roof I knew I had already failed.

The birds started chirping before I knew morning caught up to me. I had progressively messy drawings— but the meaning was clear. This was an obsession that I wasn’t going to give up lightly.

The next three weeks saw me beg, cajole, poke & prod anyone I knew to let me practice my fledgling art after completely filling my own thighs. A rocket ship for Logan, music notes for Julian, a Greek sun for Aisley.

I slowly found my lines— and filling in my imagination that blossomed behind it. I even forgot the original fever— Until the Veronica Telly’s next gig was announced.

Veronica and the Nine Tails only played once a month. I had a single chance of impressing her with the progress I’ve made. She was covered head to toe in black denim, but I prayed she had a spot for my art underneath it.

The crowd was whipped into a frenzy as Veronica commanded them to jump. The middle of the audience was a pit of sweat and adolescent release. Her bass wailed along with her voice— begging them to let loose. I pushed my way to the front— knowing there was little chance in her knowing I came.

But as the song trickled out and the crowd began to breathe deep— she peered down towards me and smiled. I lifted my arm to display my latest work, a goshawk in flight. She gave a slow smile before nodding towards the left of the stage.

The man at the door looked me over like bargain sausages and gave a rueful chuckle “she said you’d be here,” before opening the door.

I found myself in a dim, closet of a room. It smelled like Mountain Dew and old Chinese food. Veronica’s faded army jacket hung off the chair— I looked at the patch of Iggy on the back before settling on the couch. I heard the squeal of the guitar as the final song hit its crescendo. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the animal I thought she’d like.

“Good, you found the room. I didn’t want to have to hunt you down after the show,” Veronica said lugging her bass. She set it next to the desk and turned to me. “I saw some of your friends— you’re getting better.”

“Thanks. I’ve been trying to find the right animal but-“

“I want one before you’re famous. Otherwise I’ll have to make an appointment and those are never exciting,” she said dropping onto the couch beside me. I nervously rifled through my backpack with my supplies.

“Do you know where you want to get it done?”

“Same spot as the first one you showed me,” she said unbuttoning her jeans. I didn’t make a sound. She slid them off revealing lean, olive tone legs. No tattoos. I tried not staring at the black lace thong. Sweat broke across my neck.

“What do you want?” She grabbed my hand and put it on her thigh.

“I want something inspired,” she pulled my hand higher. “I want you to remember this forever,” my fingertips grazed the bottom of her thong. I could feel the heat of her. She leveled her hazel eyes at me like sunlamps— I pushed my hand higher— resting it across the length of her before curling my fingers under the elastic band and pulling down.

She shimmied out of the thong— leaving my face between her legs. I placed gentle kisses on her inner thighs as I worked my way up. I pushed one hand up her chest and the other gripped her ass as I breathed in her sex.

My tongue filled with the taste of her as she caught my hair in her fist. She let out out small moan as I worked slowly over the outer edges. Her breathing became heavier as I began to lick at her clit. I moved my hands down to grab her thighs as she squeezed against my face.

Time turned fluid before she brought me back to reality with a heaving moan and jittering legs.

“Oh my fucking god,” she laughed. “Where the hell did that come from? You looked like you were going to pass out when we started.”

“I was nervous, not incompetent,” I said laughing with her. She let out a sigh and sunk into the couch.

“I really did want one of your tattoos, but I don’t think I can sit through that now.”

“You could always stay lying down if you want?” She raised her head to roll her eyes at me before returning horizontal.

“Why don’t we get some beers first? My voice is fucked from the show,” she abruptly pulled herself up from the couch. “Wait. I don’t even know your name. Did I never ask?”

“I don’t think so. Figured we’d figure that out later?”

“Wow, I’m an asshole…-?” She rolled her hand at me.

“Aanders,” I said with a sheepish grin.

“What? Are you a secret Viking?”

“My family is Scandinavian— kinda comes with the territory.”

“Did you just eat me out anonymously and then drop a geography pun on me?”

“You asked,” I said with a shrug. She sat half naked with an animated light was in her eyes. She leaned forward and gave me a hungry kiss.

“Let’s go find that beer— I don’t want to fuck you while I’m thirsty.”

***

I ended up sprawled across a sweaty mattress as Veronica laid on top of me. She kissed my chest and looked up.

“Sooner or later you’re going to have to stop with the on and off confused look. I don’t know how you’re still confused after…” she checked her phone for the time, “three hours? Jesus tap dancing christ. Well, apparently the Viking’s lineage runs true.”

I smile but felt the knot in my chest tighten, “I thought you wanted the tattoo, I didn’t expect to be- I don’t know.”

“A booty call?”

“Yeah, I mean. I gotta admit that I really like you. I didn’t want this to be one off.”

“I think you’re jumping the gun here, maestro,” she cackled. “You do know we have basically the same friend group right?”

“Not really?”

“Roxanne is my best friend. She’s dating Julian. Julian is one of your best friends— ergo we’re in the same bubble.”

“And?”

“I didn’t pull you back just to jump your bones or for the tattoo alone.”

“Why then?” My brain couldn’t piece this together.

“I know about the last couple weeks. Your friends love you, but they spill the beans pretty quick under pressure.”

“Shit.”

“And yes, while it’s a little bit intense that you went all rampant artist to try and make me a cool tattoo. That’s actually one of the sweetest things ever.”

“So?” I said tracing patterns across her back

“It’s also hot that you kinda just do whatever the fuck you set your mind to. I figured I wouldn’t see you again at any parties so I booked an early gig in hopes that you’d attend.” There was a distant sound of glass cracking— and later I’d realize it was all the little assumptions I’d gotten wrong.

“Does that mean you still want that tattoo?”

She pulled herself up to my face and kissed me, “I do. But I need some sleep first.” I started to move to get out of bed when she put a hand on my chest. “Aanders— I’m going to tell you this once. And I’m sure you’re trying to be polite. But if I just admitted that I put on a gig to have you attend— and you spent three weeks trying to design a tattoo for me— you’re out of your mind if you think you aren’t going to cuddle me to sleep after fucking me.”

“Oh, yeah. I want to— I just didn’t want to impose-“ the words died in my throat. “Sorry, still learning how to not be an idiot. I’d love to,” I said turning to my side and wrapping my arm around her. She pressed herself into my frame like a forgotten mold.

The street below played host to occasional honks and flashing lights. I fell asleep with my nose nestled in Veronica’s hair. She smelled of citrus and sweat.

Longhill

It was too quiet in the lodge. Something had to be wrong if the radio wasn’t playing the hottest hits of the eighties and Janine wasn’t singing along like a dying cat from the kitchen. Dale was unnerved by the silence. It had been a long time since a man like him had felt any fear. But now, in his own dream boutique bed and breakfast cabin on Longhill range, he felt a fear drip down his gullet and into his stomach like red slime.

The worst part is that he was right.

The land he had built the cabin on should have remained vacant for a reason. Unfortunately for Dale and more so, Janine, the realtor failed to mention the history of the property to Dale. Ernest Conway had been struggling for six months by the time the Baretts arrived at his office. The decline from farmers market splurges to boiled hot dogs proved difficult for Ernest. Whatever thin morals he possessed before the dip in the market were fully evaporated along with the flavor of those hot dogs he bitterly eat.

What he didn’t disclose to the optimistic couple was the old folklore known by everyone in town. The story about a lost child that had wandered into the hills to take refuge during a bad storm. The storm proved worse than expected and kept the child trapped in the thick forest. The rain fell like a celestial river and the wind blew with the force of an angry god. The child never walked back out of those woods— but months after, the townspeople who had once scoured the woods in search of the child, steered clear of them. For during the twilight hours and beyond, they could hear a steady rasp behind them. If they broke into a run, they would hear the keening cry of a stricken animal, followed by rapid footsteps.

The townspeople have never said how many more have been lost in the hills since then. But the population has dipped without comment— as if talking about it might draw it further to them.

Dale summoned all of his meager and previously unneeded courage before stepping into the kitchen. He found nothing. Not Janine, not the radio, not a single item was left in the room. It looked like the same as when it was first built. Dale ran his hand along the baseboard in shock. Not even a build up of grime or dust. With all the bacon Janine cooked for clients, it seemed impossible. Everything about this seemed impossible.

Dale ran to his truck and sped into town— patently ignoring the speed limit posted. He got to the police station and ran in to find a tired secretary waiting.

“Yes?” A slim man with heavy lidded eyes asked Dale.

“You have to help me! My wife, Janine, she’s gone missing!”

“Have you filled out the form?” He asked taking a sip of coffee.

“A form? My wife— a human being is missing. What more do I need to tell you?”

“Your name and phone number to start. All the officers are in the field right now. Something about an accident in the hills. I’ll have them call you after they’re done.” Dale felt his heart quiver.

“Where was the accident?”

“Out by Twillsen lane. It’s been a common place in the past for accidents. Unfortunate with how beautiful it is up there.”

“Twilsen lane… Is that one over from Trundle?”

“Pretty sure it’s two. But close enough, yeah.” Dale ran out of the station before the secretary could say any more. He had to make sure that wasn’t Janine. It couldn’t be. She had only gotten up fifteen minutes before him.

His truck slammed to a halt behind the police cruisers. There lights were dimmed by the raising sun overhead as he ran into the long grass on the hillside.

“Janine! Janine!”

A police officer in a sherpa lined work jacket turned to head him off from the trio of officers that remained behind him.

“Sir, we can’t have you out here. This is an active scene.”

“Active scene, what does that mean? Is that Janine?” He asked trying to look past the bulky man. “Is it her? Please— please just tell me it’s not.”

“I’m going to need you to calm down,” the man said placing his hand on his hip. “It’s a boy on the hill, not a woman. Someone camping called it in after they saw him shivering in the field.”

“A boy?”

“That’s all I can tell you.”

“But my wife is missing. Not a boy. Please— you have to help me,” He said taking a step towards the officer.

“I am going to give you your final warning. If you step any closer you will be impeding an active investigation and I will take you in for charges. Do you understand me.”"

“Please just-” The officer slammed a forearm into Dale’s face and took him to the ground. Dale struggled against the sudden weight, trying to get enough room to breathe. Cold metal latched his wrists and he was jerked upright.

“You perverts make me fucking sick. Hanging out at crime scenes— there’s a sick child up there scared half to death. And I’ve got you yelling in my face about some imaginary problem. I’m gonna let Judge Foster know about this.”

Dale spent the car ride in a daze— landing on a slightly damp blanket placed over the jail cot. He spent the first hour yelling. Screaming for someone to go check his house. But no one even opened the door to tell him to stop. He was alone.

Blister

I could sleep for a thousand years following the first exploits of Fukuoka and ocean travel.

The jetfoil back to the island cut through the choppy waves like a knife through cake. I kept wondering when we’d get to top speed, not realizing we had already hit it.

I hit 120,000 steps during this week— and I have two shiny new blisters to show for it. I’m already missing the vibrancy of the city. Even though I spent much of it alone, my time felt markedly more social than on the island.

I’d go back in a heartbeat— to meander through tight streets and discover hidden gems. I ate my weight in ramen and horse meat (the latter being an unexpected pleasure).

I imagine I’ll sleep like a rock until the morning sigil blasts from the tower atop the hospital across the way— providing the daily announcement to the island that the day has started.

Smoke Screen

Jamie Fullerton was an “industrial converter.” Which is a fancy way to hot step around the fact that he sold the buildings porn is shot in.

He wasn’t a happy man. But he was an effective one— at least while at work and drinking afterwards.

His friends called him the “pussy police” and the “sex suit” which could stand for his actual suit or the lawsuits that have been leveled against his company after their tawdry past is discovered by a client.

No one wants to own the store that played host to a bukkake feature.

Still, he was decent enough to leave mints after every deal. Fresh scented breath doesn’t even everything out, but it was considerate.

Between his third and fourth glass of scotch— he reached a state he called his “amber ascendence” a brief serenity before the woes of the mortal world came crashing back into him. It beat the beginnings of the first glass and a half where the emotional turbulence quieted to a general malaise and then shifted into nondescript acceptance as the second drink finished.

Many would be troubled by this way of thinking— but he decided long ago to not fret about the worries of others. It hasn’t helped him in business, bed, or the occasional game of Christmas bingo.

Swan Song

“Why would I give one rat fuck what you do! You’ve already made it clear you don’t want me around,” Shannon said gathering her things from the living room table. “When you stop to think about this later when you’re miserable and alone, you’ll regret this.”

Shannon turned and marched out of the cramped townhouse on Lewis drive and walked until she could see past the red haze.

The evening found Randall crying alone in a swan boat at Hanson lake. By all accounts it made everyone uncomfortable to watch a grown man sob into a sandwich while everyone else tried to enjoy a novelty ride.

That same evening saw Shannon devote two hours to a vigorous elliptical workout as her murder mystery audiobook drowned out any self reflection. She needed to hear about someone else’s tragedy when she burned calories.

The rest of the city attended to halfhearted attempts to drum up any remaining romance as the clock ticked closer to February 14th.

High Tides

“The deeds of man disappear like footprints in the sand,” the raven-haired woman said as she looked out at the crushed turquoise sea. “Nothing lasts forever. Not this pain. Not this life. Not even this kingdom you seem so desperate to run away from. Remember—whether you stay or go in your lifetime doesn’t matter. At the end, everything will wash away.”

A wiry young man with dark red hair stared at the woman in awe. Until today, Glenn had mistakenly believed Madame Lennox’s presence was an indulgence of the captain. Now, it seemed to be the other way around.

Madame Lennox turned from the bow of the ship and gave Glenn an apprising look before looking back to the sea. A distinctly uncomfortable sensation rose through his stomach as his face burned pink. A former street rat turned sea rat, Glenn didn’t know the manners necessary to interact with a lady like Lennox— so he offered awkward mumbles and half bows.

Cynthia Lennox soon had the bow to herself. She laughed at the youthful bashfulness of the deckhand. He had offered her an insightful comment on measuring distance to the horizon before devolving into embarrassed babble. Cynthia didn’t mind either— it was nice to be admired by a pure heart from time to time.

Glenn cursed his nerves as he ducked into the hull. He didn’t understand how his crew mates talked to women. His brain seemed to short out once they smiled at him (maybe it was because of its rarity, he wondered).

Cynthia hoped there was someone sweet that prayed for Glenn. It wasn’t his fault that the captain didn’t know what she was. The crew wouldn’t make their intended destination— they would make hers.

***

Her voice held a queer tone as she told the men to aim towards the rocks.

She sang a keening lullaby— easing the pain of morality. The men all save the young cabin boy were caught in its spell.

The captain barked orders to have the men follow Madame Lennox’s commands.

Except Madame Lennox had shed her disguise. A woman no longer stood in her place. A scaled figure— glinting of blue-green and old fury stood there instead. Had they control of their minds, even the heathens abroad would have prayed. For here upon open waters, they had strayed into the land of demons.

“Why are you doing this?” Glenn asked with a quivering voice. The last shreds of meager courage were sapped by the siren’s gaze.

“I’m following my nature— as these men have followed there’s.”

“What about me?”

“You’re a sweet boy, but if you hadn’t already made your choice, you wouldn’t be on this ship.”

The spray of salt and the whirl of wind through threadbare sails spoke as clear as any bell. The sea welcomed the renewal of bonds as a solitary figure dipped below the waves before the crash of tempered wood upon hidden reefs.

Everton

They called Darren Everton’s death a “fade.” It was a specific style of disappearance where the subject dematerialized while within a large group. No one know what happened to Darren. One second he was standing there— the next there was an empty pile of black American Eagle jeans and a thrift shop sweater settled over a greasy pair of Doc’s.

Everton’s disappearance wasn’t the first that happened in Liston. But it was the first where the subject didn’t have any reason to depart. Everton was the third son of a successful banker. He was known as a joyous party boy— more likely to buy you a drink than cause you any trouble. He had just started a podcast with a friend called “Voidwalk” which sounded promising until the authorities realized it was about blackout stories. They did know one thing—- rich white boys don’t walk away lightly from podcast projects.

The Liston authorities worked on the case for weeks to no avail. Darren’s father, Arthur, pushed them to do more. But it’s hard when thirty witnesses and video footage all showed the same thing— instant disappearance.

National news outlets sniffed around in the beginning— but the story petered out after no other clues could be found. Several horror podcasts picked up the project— devoting themselves to creating a conspiracy style pin map trying to connect Darren’s disappearance with other disappearances across the country. It was no use. Darren wasn’t anywhere to be found.

Years passed and the story of Darren Everton faded into obscurity.

It wasn’t until a brilliantly chaotic podcast critic on a catalogue project found “Voidwalk” and realized that episodes were still being released. The mysterious critic got in touch with Darren’s podcast partner, Cormac Langley, who registered shock at the new episodes. Cormac hadn’t worked on it since Darren disappeared. He and the critic (who only referred to themselves as the ‘Critic) heard nothing but the sizzle and pop of background recording noises in the podcast. Occasional bursts of static would punctuate the low silence. There were twenty episodes— all untitled.

The Critic layered the podcast audio over each other— as they were all two minutes and thirty seven seconds. They amped up the volume and turned on distortion stabilizers— what the critic heard was Darren Everton beyond their dimension. He mumbled to himself as he described what sounded like the inside of a vast, glow light filled cave. He didn’t sound scared— instead, he sounded insatiably curious. At the end of the recording was a distant eerie call— telling the Critic that wherever Darren Everton was— he wasn’t alone.

Existential Thoughts Brought via Typhoon Namandol

“What if it’s even better than you could imagine?”

In a time of persistent pessimism— it’s a hell of a thing to have hope.

You could call it a radical mindset when all the significant narratives are all doom and gloom.

It’s an arrogant thing to think you know what tomorrow will hold. Certainly, you can guess— and consider it an educated one at that. But to say that you “know” what’s going to happen?

Come on now.

If that was the case— I’d suggest buying lottery tickets and stepping into more casinos.

The hell of the thing about existing on the planet is the unpredictable nature of life. That’s how we get tragedies.

All of this is borne out of knowing that we’ll all die. That’s the single guarantee that we all share. There’s nothing else that we can agree on.

No one can be 100% sure about what happens next. You can have faith about what it is. You can hope. But no one knows.

And that is such a beautiful thing to share with one another.

It is the thing that should endear us to one another. To know amidst the pain and confusion— that there isn’t a settled answer for what’s beyond.

So fuck it, why not be hopeful? What’s the difference in cost if we all end up going to the same unknown place?

Cupboard

Cold sweat soft dripping down my spine. The house has been quiet for two days. I haven’t left the safety of the cupboard under the stairs. I know they’re still here.

The spring purification ritual is simple— you toss salt out of your windows as you chant to let the bad spirits out and invite the good ones in.

You can even invite the “bad” ones in if you know how to make peace with them.

I didn’t know my brother was performing the inverted ritual the same time I was. The duplication left the door open to something far worse than mischievous garden spirits.

They came during the dead of night. The old wooden bones of the house creaked as the last of my family fell asleep. I heard my brother tip toe up to the study in the attic. The last couple years he had spent most of his nights up there. Most of them I heard the muffled words of failed incantations.

I hadn’t worried then— he was my brother.

I worried now.

Dealing in the realm of spirits wasn’t expressly forbidden by the Kilmarnock contract of 1742, but only fools and priests skirted it’s edges. My brother had taken no godly vows— which marked him as the former.

I prayed to Orpheus— that he might guide a light for me through the preternatural darkness that loomed within the house. Shadows grew heavy and fell from the walls. Through the old, dusty slats of the cupboard I could see them pull themselves from the ground and inflate like warped balloons.

Orpheus ignored my prayers.

I prayed to Reynard— knowing the price of the Fox would be grave. But I couldn’t survive in the cupboard— my own waste made sleep impossible. My legs ached as the growing hours cramped them. I needed a trick to escape— I thought wistfully of Coyote— knowing he could escape these walls with ease.

A flash of red fur signaled Reynard’s presence. A heavy breath warmed my nape— though no space was available.

“Someone is scared to escape on their own,” his raspy voice said. No face greeted me— just a pair of glowing yellow eyes from the other side of the cupboard.

“I need your help.”

“What do you have to offer?” I could feel the eyes scan my huddled body. Reynard wasn’t know to be picky.

“A locket.”

“You think you can buy a god with a trinket? What else do you have?”

“You don’t know who it belonged to.”

“Don’t I?” He purred. My hand clenched the burnished silver— hoping I was right.

“One that escaped you, though she didn’t escape the flames.”

The eyes narrowed. “You don’t have that. No one has that.”

“I do. It feel before they burned her. Before they sacrificed her.”

“The lost amulet of Joan of Arc. I’m impressed, my little closet mouse. Whose name do you claim?”

“de Baudricourt.”

“Merde. You’re not a mouse. You’re a snake. I didn’t know your line still existed. How did Robert manage to recover the amulet?”

“You walk between worlds— ask himself yourself.”

“That can wait. You can’t. This cupboard will only hold you for so long. What is it you ask of me?”

“Show me how to escape without being caught. My brother can’t find me here. I fear he’s … not himself any longer.”

“You’re asking for magic. Are you prepared to sacrifice for it?”

“Sacrifice? You’ll get the amulet. This has been in my family for the last six hundred years!”

“But it wasn’t yours. It’s a trinket from a lost maiden that a dirty family stole. What of yourself will you offer?”

“Myself?” A sharp smiles hung in the air below the eyes.

“I’m waiting.”

“… Blood.”