Only When I Lose Myself

            This can’t be happening. It can’t. The…what was he…shaman? Priest? Medicine man? Whatever he was, he said this was a religious thing. It was a way to leave the earthly bonds and explore the heavens. He assured me he’d done it a thousand times before. He had a kind face and gentle voice. I trusted him. Why would I not have?

            It started the way I expected. Dark room, incense thick enough to choke on, a low drone of music, a comfortable seat. Meditation cliché, you know? He gave me a glass – no, a goblet – full of something soupy and stinking. He told me to drink it and I did because, again, why would I not? It was like drinking battery acid suspended in aspic and I nearly threw up, but I kept it down. He told me to sit back and let my mind wander. So I did.

            Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Then something happened. My…me, for lack of a better word, left through the top of my head. I looked down and saw myself resting. I saw the man puttering around with a few crystals on a table. I saw the air around me shimmer and glitter. It was pretty. Still is, objectively.

            That’s when this man I trusted with my safety came over to my body. He muttered a few words I couldn’t understand from a language I had never heard. He opened the mouth of my body and tilted its head back. He then poured something black down its throat. As soon as he did, a rush of screams surrounded me, filled the room, replaced everything I could see. I saw my body shudder and heave and then open my eyes. I – it? – stood up and looked around the tent.

            The man – this charlatan – spoke to it. He said he had finally found a willing vessel. He said it only took a little convincing before I agreed to vacate my body for it. I had never agreed to that. I tried to yell and get his attention. He did not look up. The thing in me, however, did. It looked directly at me with my face and eyes empty and dark. It saw me – I know it did – and then it smiled that smile I use when I know I’ve won a business negotiation. The cruel triumphant grin that lets everyone know who is in charge and it used it on me. It waved and then turned back to the man.

            This man said something about this being a detour, a day trip. He said this thing would have several hours to be alive but it would need to return before midnight so he could give my body back to me. That was the deal and he expected the thing to honor it. In response, the thing inside my body reached out and snapped the man’s neck. Afterwards, the now-me looked up again, said ‘thank you’, and left.
​
I don’t think I’m coming back.

Last Train to Hell

            Wheels, wheels are churning, churning. Coal and souls are burning, burning. People crying, people dying, dying and riding the last train to Hell.

            Steam in plumes exhaling, boiling. Tortured damned in boxcars roiling. No conductor watches over the desperate on the last train to Hell.

            Hell is full and Heaven’s empty. Lands of nothing, lands of plenty. Still, it moves in one direction only, the last train to Hell.

            Hell is angry, Hell is weary. Denizens of Hell see clearly, clearly that their home is swelling, breaking due to the last train to Hell.

            The train, it stops, but doors stay locked. Exit of the damned souls blocked, blocked by hellish order that nobody leaves the last train to Hell.

            Hell cannot absorb the suffering. Hundreds, thousands stuck in buffering. Temporary displacement with no end in sight for the last train to Hell.

            No-one wants them, no-one cares. None shall interfere; none dares. So, they sit and wait and cry, stranded on the last train to Hell.

            Outrage builds and burns and rumbles, borne upon the angry grumbles of those who wait, held captive on this prison of the last train to Hell.

            Fear and terror die away, replaced by fury and decay of basic law and order once still present on the last train to Hell.

            Souls are screaming, demanding aid from those outside who have already made their choice to just ignore the plight of those inside the last train to Hell.

            Soon, the noise turns into violence. Rocking, creaking tears the silence as the trapped infuriated souls attack the last train to Hell.

            Demons coming to restore peace, truncheons bloodied, never cease their mission to put down the difficult souls inhabiting the last train to Hell.

            They can do little, choices spare, as the situation is laid bare. To quell the storm, they must release the furious from the last train to Hell.

            But if they do, the people argue, if you release the locks on the car, you let the flood of angry dead pour into our home from the last train to Hell.

            Both choices offer no reprieve from the howling, churning mass who receive nothing in their deaths but captivity on the last train to Hell.

            Suddenly, a thought emerges from the crowd and soon it surges through the gathered desperate viewing the last train to Hell.

            Send it back, a demon cries, back to where Heaven lies, empty, waiting, they should have to manage this last train to Hell.

            No-one argues, no-one can, despite the risk inside the plan, let the others manage this unruly last train to Hell.

            Finally, someone attaches a locomotive to the back where it can drive and deliver to Heaven the troublesome last train to Hell.

            Soon, it takes off down the tracks, stress removed from hellish backs, as one more question lingers about the disappearing last train to Hell.
​
            What will happen when it reaches destination Heavenly, breaching pacts of non-aggression, defiant that last train to Hell?

You Know I Like Red

            I sighed, long-suffering me that I am, and buried my face in my hands as my beloved wife tried on her twelfth gown in the last half-hour. Her wardrobe – her main indulgence among so many – extended nearly into the horizon at times. She had dresses and gowns for literally every occasion. She knew exactly which outfit to wear for specific purposes and yet every single time, we were obligated to undergo the song-and-dance in which I currently found myself encumbered.

            “What do you think about the white chiffon dress?” she called from somewhere deep in the closet.

            “We’re going to be outside in the moonlight, my dear. Best case scenario, you get grass stains on it. Worst case, it becomes diaphanous and everyone can see your lovely tits. I wouldn’t mind, of course, but I know how you feel about propriety.”

            The annoyed huff from the room gave me a slight frisson of satisfaction. Not that I didn’t want her to look her best – as if it were even possible for her to not be the most beautiful woman in the room – but she knew what she wanted and, more importantly, she knew what she wanted me to say. I just wasn’t informed of what that was so the game continued.

            “Dark green silk then?” she asked.

            “Again, my love, we will be outside. It is not autumn or winter. It is the heat of summer. You will be slick with sweat as soon as you step outside the door.”

            “Damn you. The yellow vest and blue jeans?”

            “This is a formal affair so the jeans will be gauche. You know that. And the yellow vest? You mean the vest that always slips because you refuse to wear a shirt under it, thus exposing your – again – lovely tits? Are we looking to be exhibitionists tonight? Not that I’m opposed, mind you.”

            “Should I just wear a burlap sack, then?” she snapped, “Something that completely obscures this body of mine that so offends you?”

            “My darling,” I said, trying not to let the irritation seep in, “you are fully aware of how I feel and I believe you already know which dress you should wear. I don’t know why we’re playing around.”

            “If I put it on, will you fetch the tester?”

            “Of course, my love. Back in a jiff.”

            In the hallway outside our chamber, the banker we had kidnapped waited in chains. I grasped him firmly by the hair and dragged him into the room where my beloved stood. There she was, draped in the fire-engine red dress that was my favorite of hers. It made her look like a goddess which, in a way, she was. I pulled the poor fellow over to her and exposed his neck.

            She smiled and sank her fangs into the flesh. He howled as his life waters spurted and splashed her face and chest. When she withdrew, she demurely wiped her lips.

            “How is this?” she asked with a sly smile.
​
            “Perfection.”

Ruby With the Sharpest Lies

            Will it hurt? The most common question and one eminently understandable. Coups always require violence and this one was no exception. At this point, it was hard to know who was in charge of what. The actual power being traded back and forth like sports cards had become irrelevant. For some macabre reason, the point of the coups had metastasized into something uglier: who would be able to produce the most hideous deaths of his opponents?

            Commandant Oluwese was first. He had opted for mass hangings of the opposition. Hundreds had been placed on the custom-built gallows and dropped at the same time. The collective snap sounded like a bone of the world being broken. Then, only a few weeks later, General Seneset took over. He was not nearly so theatrical. One big pit and ten thousand rounds of rifle ammunition pumped into the ruling party. That reign lasted several months, but when Vice Admiral Turana decided he wanted to rule, the palace was converted into a pile of ash and dozens of charred bodies.

            And so it went. Egos transmuted into spectacle into abhorrent violence. The United Nations could do nothing. Nobody wanted to interfere. Finally, just last week, a Doctor Morovan decided that he wanted to be in charge, if only for a short period of time. He paid off the Guard – basically mercenaries at this point – and seized control of the new palace. The current ruling party was small but powerful and the ‘good doctor’ did not have much of a taste for hanging or bullets. Instead, he created something much, much worse.

            His victory was a banquet he threw for all the triumphant powerful. He plied them with food and liquor until they were all content, at which point the Guard entered and held them all at gunpoint as Morovan placed in front of every guest a small glass full of cherry-red liquid. A couple of the older leaders attempted to argue but a bullet to the brain ended any pushback quickly. Morovan explained to the scared party that he was taking control but would not do them the indignity of throwing them out the window, a la two leaders ago. Instead, he prepared them a special drink from his lab. Something that would be quick and efficient.

            Will it hurt? The question was asked in quiet, defeated tones. He assured them with a broad, wolfish smile that it would not. He had designed the end to be quick and painless, a mercy for those he somewhat respected. Satisfied, the few most tired of life drained their glasses and awaited the end. It seemed a fitting finish except for one crucial mistake.

            Morovan had lied.

            The coughing started first and then glittering red blood burst from the throats of those who drank. They gargle-screamed about their innards being torn apart by glass shards. Morovan did not argue with them as they died horribly.
​
            After all, they had guessed the secret ingredient. They deserved to be right.  

Who Wants to Live Forever

            Death is terrifying. Regardless of your personal beliefs about an afterlife, the mere concept of going from breathing and thinking in one second to simply not in the next is what existential crises are born from. Stories from as far back as people could think beyond ‘eat food, make baby, repeat’ talk of those creative, terrified souls who try to defeat the one opponent who cannot be beaten. Death and taxes and all that, right?

            Well, when The Munoz Foundation announced one dreary spring morning that they had, in fact, found the cure to death, it was as if the fundamental structure of society changed. The stock price for the company hit levels beyond reason. When the drug – Colaris – reached the market, every single person that could afford it bought as much as they could. Backlog after backlog made the drug a prized commodity outpacing even gold.

            New parents gave the drug to their babies with the first taste of breast milk. Families of the elderly breathed a sigh of relief as their patriarchs and matriarchs were assured of their longevity. Utopia had come to the shores of Earth and the people embraced it. The Munoz Foundation had become God.

            However, accidents happen, as they always do. A window washer – Carlos - in Madrid slipped as he reached just slightly too far. Down he went – fifty-three stories – until he impacted the ground with a wet thud. Onlookers watched, horrified at the randomness and immediacy of death. What they didn’t know, though, was that Carlos had taken his dose of Colaris just that morning. He had scrimped and saved for months and finally be able to join the privileged immortal. Therein lay the problem, though.

            Because death being cured did not ensure pain being cured. Did not make Carlos like rubber, unable to be damaged. When he hit the concrete and burst like a water balloon, his organs littered the ground around him – but he did not die. Those in attendance who were initially shocked by the grotesque display of death found that, while seeing someone die was horrible, seeing them continue to live and scream as their body smeared the pavement was magnitudes worse.

            Carlos was only the first. Soon, reports from all over the world poured in of death being cured but nothing else. The murder victims that weren’t. The car crashes where nobody walked away but burned and burned and burned. Those who suffered heart attacks and prayed for relief that wouldn’t come.

            The Munoz Foundation had provided eternal life, yes, but done nothing to prevent actual life from existing. That wasn’t their mandate. That wasn’t their job. They cured the results, not the symptoms.

            The final terrifying nail came on live television when different stations reported on the oldest people in the world getting even older. Bodies becoming husks, distorted by time. One guest, a doctor, asked one question that froze the blood of all who heard it.
​
            “What do we become when we get too old?”

Run Runaway

            You’re out. You’re out. Go. Go. Take a left. Down the street. Hurry. He’ll notice sooner than later. Keep going. I know your lungs already burn and your knees ache but this is it. This is the best chance you have. This is the last chance you have.

            Hit the corner and take a right. That leads to the shopping district. You’ll be safe there. Probably. Maybe. Safer than here at least. There will be people around. People who will see you. People who will protect you. They still do that, right? They have to, right? They can’t all be like him.

            Don’t. Stop. You can slow down when you get to where the people are. Until then, you need to go as fast as you can until your lungs burst. Yes, you’re weighed down. Yes, the chains are heavy. No excuses. You won’t get another chance and you know it.

            Cars! Stay out of the street. Come on now. You know better. They won’t stop for you. They’ll run you over. Is that what you want? Wait, is that what you want? No! Come on, not now. Those thoughts can wait until you’re safe. Ignore them. Focus on getting to where you can. Get moving.

            What about your sister? Later. You’re getting distracted and you’re slowing down. You’re jogging and that will get you caught. This is not the place to slow down and you know that. You remember last time. You remember how that nice old lady down the street didn’t believe you and brought you back. How she got you hurt so badly that you never thought you’d even walk again, much less run. Remember that? No, we have to get to the shopping area. Move it.

            There! Just up ahead. Do you see it? It’s a strip mall. Lots of stores. Lots of people. Pick one and go in. Once you’re inside, you’ll be safe and then you can break down. Until then, just keep moving. Like a fish? Yes, just like that. If you stop moving, you will die.

            This store even has the lights on. Perfect. Go in and you can cry then. You can sit down and let the goodness of people protect you. They won’t be able to help themselves. Not when they see you. Not when they hear you talk. Basic human decency demands help.

            See? Right there. That woman holding the dress? Look at her face! Look at how horrified she is to see you so emaciated and pale and tear-streaked. See how she’s running over…to the manager. See how she’s pointing frantically at you, demanding someone take care of this. Not ‘you’. ‘This’. Was this the wrong store?

            Oh no. No. No no no. This is very much the wrong store. Out of every single store, you chose this one. We chose this one. We chose the one where he is the manager. He’s promising to take care of us. Look at his glare.
​
            We needed to keep running. 

The Perfect Drug

            It’s small and blue and sitting on the table. Is this really the road you want to go down? Do you really want to rely on medication to free you from the horrors of your own mind? You think back to last month where the walls were bloody and the ceiling spun. You remember last year where that room with pads was in your future. How could this hurt more than that?

            A sip of water – because dry swallowing is for heathens – and the pill is gone. Now, all you can do is wait. You’ve heard from others who have taken it that the effects come quickly, but how quickly can a pill really take ef-

            Something moves in the corner of the room. Your eyes dart over there but see nothing but shadows. You could have sworn something was there. Something sharp and angular. Not a spider. Something else. You sniff and shake your head. It’s nothing, obviously. After all, you’ve been jumping at shadows your whole life. This isn’t something new.

            Five minutes have gone by and nothing feels different. The yelling in your head is just as ugly. The weariness in your bones cuts into the marrow. The relentless desire to simply be done hasn’t gone anywhere. Useless, you think. You spent way too much money on that one little pill and got ripped off. That’s what you get for list-

            There it is again. Something in the corner of the room. You get a better view of it this time. It’s smoky. Not like fire – it damn sure had better not be fire – but more like something swirling around the edge of the walls. You think you see something in the smoke. Impossible.

            Did they give you something psychedelic? Did you just give up half a paycheck just to vibe? That would track with your luck lately. Just another dumb decision in a lifetime full of them. This is why you need the meds, you idiot. Stop spending money on snake oil and just accept that you’re no-

            That was a howl. A howl. You turn and face the corner again. The smoke is still there but thicker, darker, more menacing. The noises are coming from within the smoke and it sounds like snarling and snapping. Like a feral dog, almost. You don’t want to move.

            When the first paw comes out of the smoke, you want to run but your legs are frozen. A second, third, fourth, fifth paw…you are locked in place. Slavering jaws, three of them, push through. A nose sniffs the air. You hope it doesn’t smell you. You pray you showered recently. Did you? You can’t recall.

            Eyes, far too many eyes, follow. Burning red but also black and blue. They are searching. Looking for something. Looking for you.

            What was it that your friend said when he sold you the pill? What were the words you laughed off despite his seriousness? Do you remember them?

​'You’ll never be alone again.'

Can’t Stand Losing You

            Eddie was as mama’s boy as a mama’s boy could be. His daddy had died years ago when he was just a little ‘un. Eddie never really knew him. He s’posed he was a good man, at least a smart one. After all, he married Mama! That showed some brains after all. Who wouldn’t want to marry her, be in love with her, love her in all the ways a man can love a woman? Eddie sometimes wished in those private moments he was allowed that he had been his daddy so he could have had what his daddy had. Foolish but it never went away as an idea. Instead, he contented himself with the time he had with her.

            Sunday dinners stayed a constant light in his life. Eddie would leave his tiny apartment and go to Mama’s house in the suburbs. He would bring chicken and rice or maybe an apple pie. He and Mama would sit at the table with a place still set out for Daddy and would talk quietly and eat their meals. Eddie loved those Sunday dinners. He wanted to ask if they could have these meals more often. He didn’t need to live in an apartment. Not really. He could move home and take care of Mama, be the man around the house she deserved. She always smiled and patted him on the arm and told him that big boys needed to be on their own sometimes and that she was perfectly fine. She always seemed to mean it too which hurt something awful.

Life goes on as it will, though. Time ticks by unceasing. One day, Eddie stopped by with some cookies he had bought. He wanted to surprise Mama. She had seemed so distant lately. Maybe she was missing Daddy. He understood. So, on that day, he let himself in with the key under the rock. He wanted to get the cookies and milk set up. Then he heard noises coming from Mama’s bedroom. Noises that he knew from naughty videos. Noises that adults made when they were in love. Mama didn’t sound like she was in trouble – he knew that much – but his heart shattered all the same. Without interrupting, since that would have been rude, Eddie took his cookies back and left the house, though he stayed outside in the car.

An hour later, he exited Mama’s home. A tall man with gray hair straightened his tie and brushed his hair back. Eddie felt his chest tighten and his eyes go blurry. When he came to his senses, the man’s gray hair was soaked with red and Eddie was dangling him over the bridge. He let go and watched the man fall. He made a splash.

The next week, Mama called Eddie in tears. Said she had been seeing someone, maybe Eddie’s new daddy, but he had just disappeared. Left her alone. He had broken her heart. Could Eddie come keep her company?
​
Why, yes. He supposed he could.

When You’re Evil

            History is filled with real and imaginary monsters. From dictators to vampires and everything in between, evil is depicted as something elegant or vicious or powerful, depending on the context. One thing nobody ever mentions, though, is how it can be so utterly, drearily boring. Not in the ‘eh, this is okay’ sort of way. In a ‘oh, come on – do I really have to kill someone again?’ kind of way and, let me tell you, that wears on your nerves after a while.

            Being evil starts easily enough, you know. Usually, it happens when you’re little and get a little taste of power from manipulating someone to do something. For me, it was Bodie Markus in kindergarten. We were playing outside and something dark clicked in my brain. I started telling him that his parents and little sister were going to die unless he did exactly what I told him. Of course, he started crying and ran to the teacher. I denied everything and even cried myself – crocodile tears are lovely. She chalked it up to kids being kids and we went on with our day. But the warm feeling I got in my stomach when what I said made him burst into tears was addictive. I didn’t know why, but I needed more.

            From there, it was the escalation you would imagine. ‘Accidentally’ pushing someone off the play tower and breaking their wrist. Forcing someone to eat dirt and worms to avoid being hurt. Dropping seeds of discontent in friend groups to watch them implode. Then puberty hits and hormones take over. Violence increases. Assaults become less harmless. Lies and sex become part of the playbook. I won’t say how many back-alley trashcans were clogged up due to my actions in high school, but I’d wager it was well over a dozen. College was much the same, with broken hearts, broken bones, and broken personalities scattered across the landscape of the campus.

            But it’s boring now. I can do whatever I want to whomever I want in whatever ways I want and it’s so mundane. It would take maybe five minutes for me to find a random person on the street and convince them to jump off the nearest building. I’ve done it. It’s not difficult. You just look for the desperate ones. That’s not the point, though.

            What I’m trying to say is that I’m realizing something. Being evil – truly evil – is like a marriage. You must choose it every single day and decide you want to make it work. It sounds romantic, I suppose. It’s tiring and a grind and I just want one day where I have a meaningful conversation with someone I love, you know? It does get lonely. Everyone needs human connection, after all. Maybe I should change. Maybe I can make myself better. Kinder. Maybe I can find love.
​
            Nah. That sounds like too much work. We are who we are. Why don’t we go upstairs? I have something to show you.

Billy Spleen

            Most people have at some point in their lives had imaginary friends. You know, someone that didn’t exist that they would talk to, have conversations with, and generally use to develop social skills. The thing is that most people also grow out of them as they mature and understand what is real and what is not real. Most people also don’t have their own organs being their imaginary friends. Swing and miss on all of those for me.

            To be fair, there was a time between when I was little and the present oddness where I was normal, healthy, and functional. I had friends and a girlfriend or two. It was around the time I turned thirty and progressed to the next level of life that things became strange. At first, it was a cute little quirk (at least in my mind). Instead of saying I was going to eat, I would think and say that I was going to feed Bertie – my stomach. It ramped up quickly from there. When I broke up with my girlfriend, Roger – my heart – was dying. When I got salmonella and couldn’t crap for a week, my guts Timmy and Tommy were unhappy. My kidneys were Mike and Mick. My lungs were Haley and Aria. I didn’t have a set of organs. I had a village.

            It was manageable, even with all of those. I would talk to them. When they started talking back, though, it became worrisome. Bertie told me to eat some damn toast because he was hurting. Roger demanded I ask out Samantha from work. And on and on. I tried to keep them pacified but they got louder. Their voices echoed in my head, and I could barely think. Then Billy spoke up. Billy was my spleen. He never talked because he never had to. He was just there. But when Samantha laughed in my face and walked away, when Roger sobbed inside my chest…Billy talked. He said I needed to protect my village and set an example. He said I needed to avenge my family’s honor. I couldn’t argue. He was very persuasive.

            Samantha went missing that weekend. Roger purred with happiness. Bertie asked for sushi. Even Haley and Aria seemed to bring in more air. And Billy? Billy just laughed quietly, contentedly. Over the next couple of weeks, as the search for Samantha ramped up and desperation filled the office, I found that I was remarkably focused. The village inside me left me alone. It was quiet.

            Then Monday came. A new girl started – Brooke. Roger liked her immediately and demanded I talk to her, but her boyfriend brought her lunch before I could. Roger cried and complained and then Billy chimed in. Protect the village, he said. Two’s not much harder than one, he said. He’s not wrong. So, this weekend, I invited the two of them to dinner at my place near the woods. They accepted. Good. I can make my family happy.
​
            Besides, Bertie’s hungry.