One of the craziest feelings is knowing you’ll be dead by the end of the day I consistently held my own life in my own hands regularly. No ties, no belts, no pillows, no pills—nothing has stopped me yet. Now I want to grow older—but not old. Now I want to love—and be loved. Ultimately my life will always be in my hands, but it feel less and less like a fiery burden as time drags on.
I knew that perfection was always a long shot—in fact I never believed it to exist. No matter my location I brought my camera, just in case the situational perfection would arise. That afternoon, however luck may have presented it, I was staring straight in the face of perfection.
Stalking this couple through a two mile hike on an old bike trail was exhausting. The path, narrow and gravel. But the thrill was all the same.
I waited and finally caught the perfection I had been so vigilant about. The beautiful young couple sat on a log suspended over a stream. The man grabbed some sort of snack from his backpack and gave it to the woman.
My trigger finger poised, my breath steady. I clicked the button, only to find one person on the log. The other was face down in the stream, bleeding.
The woman looked back at me with a wicked grin and a sharp object in hand.
“Did you get the picture?” she asked. She then ran after me, took my camera, and through it down the stream.
I couldn’t speak. She grabbed me by the arm and twisted, and I couldn’t defend myself.
“How’s that for perfect?” She said as she drew out the knife.
I knew his name and his face, Passing glances in the halls, Sophomore English class And elementary school beyond. I wouldn’t say he was a good person, in fact he was a bigot. But I believe almost nobody deserves to die, And he did a week after graduation.
We were acquaintances, I knew his name and he might’ve known mine. But loss feels all the same whether he knew my name.
hospital sterile never smelled sweeter than after discharge, but I smell it sometimes when things are getting bad again,
I think of that beautiful room with the bolted down beds and doors without knobs, I miss the group therapy, oddly enough, Probably because I love talking about myself.
hospital sterile never scared me more than that first stay, the one where I was underweight and shivering, I was barely alive and wholly psychotic, they gave me pills and I gave them a reason.
if I die just know it was nostalgia who killed me, because only someone broken would long for a time they were also broken, but worse.
You assume I’m a cannibal, don’t you? I mean, who wouldn’t—head chef with a dark secret. The story writes itself here. Except it doesn’t.
No, no, you see my secret is much more entertaining. I’m a damn good necromancer working for a vegan super- corporation. I steal the best meat and cuts from my deli, replace them with meat substitutes, and take the stolen meat to my lair. I work my magic, I get paid.
My hardest score happened just a week ago, my coworker had been suspicious of me for a while. As I closed up shop—my usual time for the ol’ switcheroo—my colleague hid behind the counter.
I grabbed some of the best quality steaks and whatnot, not thinking I’d been caught. So he pops up, geared with a never ending barrage of questions. I couldn’t very well tell him about my secret.
“What’re you doing with all that meat?” he asked.
I looked at the plastic bag I filled with the meat, then at him. I knew I wasn’t witty enough to give a pseudo-explanation. I bolted.
I haven’t been back at work, well, my “day job” if you will. I skipped town with all my necromancers money, now I ironically live beside a slaughter house. Good money to be made.
Darlin’ do you hear the sound of morning break, Do you taste the birdsong, Do you indulge in the atheism of the moment? Darlin’ please say something to reassure your unjustified existence.
//I’m here, though voiceless, though so unknowing of your urgency//
Darlin’ is it your body without soul that I can no longer allow linger in our bed? Because I see the angels coming, and I laugh. Every angel is a ghost in cheap drag, And god I want you to wake up.
//I’m fading.
I’m leaving.
I loved you.///
“Why are you defending her? She’s not who she says she is.”
I held my ground, bit my tongue. What he was saying wasn’t news to me. The simple thing about the situation was I didn’t care about her true identity.
“Why does that matter now? Look at what’s happened and tell me that a new name matters.” I said.
He shook his head—always the stubborn one. The weariness in his eyes bordered on paranoia. “It should matter, especially now.”
I stood in front of her and tried to shield her. She was only a child, an exceptional one, but to claim that she created that wasteland was a long shot.
“No. Not now, not anymore. This is the end, Cal, embrace it.”
This was not something I ever anticipated, and as a writer it was something I feared. I stood in a room of those I’ve wronged the most, and I think they were all out for blood.
At first I noticed Evander, the sun kissed immortal love interest, from my only novel I’d ever written. Poor blind Ivor stood beside Evander, suspended in an epic cliffhanger.
I offer a smile, but Evander pulled Ivor closer and sneered.
“Well this is interesting,” I said.
All of my antagonists huddled in a corner. Eulogy, Icarus, Amara. I shuddered as I passed them. I wanted to see her, my first protagonist. Royce.
She stood alone, weeping. Her black dress was soaked, and hugged her body. She looked up at me, and through tears she spoke. “Why do you hate me the most?”
I was taken aback. “No Royce, you’ve got it all wrong. I love you the most. You were my first.”
She returned her gaze to the ground. “It doesn’t feel like it. You never even considered publishing my story.”
I laughed. “Royce, I can’t publish your story. It’s a novella.”