Tomorrow will be better he said As he gripped his silvery cane

He kept his walking stick close at hand Though his knee no longer complained

Tomorrow will be better he said Looking out across the street he knew

The friends he’d known now long since dead Their lives remembered by few

Tomorrow will be better he said When his wife comes finally home

Each winter stretched long the shadows That reminded him that he was alone

Tomorrow will be better he said When his daughter comes down his street

And replaces the flowers at his grave Then allows herself to weep

We had not seen each other for years, but she had not changed. Maybe aged a year or two. Her stare engulfed me much like the wild roses that surrounded her bed. Her inhuman roar deafened my ears and drove me to my knees. I dropped my shovel and fell into her deathless embrace. She tasted like finality.

Deep within the city's concrete swells, Amid the husks, loneliness dwells, The sewer tide rolls foul in the swollen dark, You find me beneath the ebb, atrophy's special mark, Rot's song bloats the body then time's teeth wither them down, My special children are a trophy of murder, or here to join the drowned, I pluck each special for they are my fruit, They decay much sweeter, all beneath the city's marching boot, Look to your left, right, then to the end, I'm there waiting, I'm your closest best friend, I'm genocide, atrocity, and grandma's last refrains, I snatch away all hope, and no one complains,
So wait for me far up above where the lights look down, Or come find me below, and let Death give you its crown,

Scanning through the words on page, They form ideas not of this age, Of smoke and fire and thunderous spells, Divined from beasts of all nine hells, The words are of a tongue from long ago, That tell a tale I should not know, Of sweeping plains under blackest moon, Overlooking demons on bone white dunes, My eyes fill with sights that are not mine, The table in the library has become a shrine, Screams burst from the chest that belongs to me, They bind my hands for their gods to see, You must believe this is not my life, But someone else’s curse and strife, Across all time and back in my age, There sits one in my skin, their hands on my page

Run so fast through forest dark, Eyes hunt well, my form set stark, Bounding past the creeping reeds, Hands grasp blades, my wounds they bleed, Racing to that black inn room, Hounds of hell, they’ll find me soon, Glancing up at bright moon of night, Feet bound rail, sanctuary in sight, Opening portal to front room, Quiet as mouse, lest I’ve sealed my doom, Shutting door to brace for death, Jamb too heavy, I’m out of breath, Eyes look out from window there, Torches hunt, to bring despair, Screams of beast and bane fill dark night, To them I’m creature, horror-filled sight, To Mom and Dad I am handsome, Not fearsome or ugly, not made for fright, Listening against door for that hunting sum, Door shut tightly, might the monsters come.

Jared glanced down at the flyer he clutched in his hands. Bright, professional letters read: ‘Make close friends now! Ask me how!’ It was an obvious scam, and he knew that, but that didn’t prevent him from paying the ridiculous price for the course. His tax return felt better spent on booze. At least booze wasn’t mean, it just made you mean.

The woman who sold the course went by the handle Margaret Matcher on social media. That wasn’t her name but Jared supposed ‘Jillian Bartuzky’ didn’t have the same ring. She had promised him that she would help him make five close friends, closer than he’d ever had, in just one month. Well he didn’t have any friends, so anything was an improvement. Jared wasn’t overly unattractive or annoying, he was just one of those people you passed in a crowd, forgotten.

She had convinced him when she grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Her hands were so soft and radiated kindness. Margaret had arranged a bizarre form of speed dating where people were quickly introduced to Jared based on the interests he gave to the course seller. He had no idea where she found the people, but they were real, and they all showed up. He felt like he’d endured some sort of human zoo where people were brought by to gawk, leer, and smirk at him.

Somehow after it was all said and done exactly five people wanted to be his friend. It had worked like a charm, at least he thought it had, until they’d stopped responding to messages less than a week later, or outright refused to hang out more than once. Jared found out from one of the friends that Margaret had paid them off to cover her end of the bargain. He was crushed, but more than anything he was pissed.

He confronted Margaret Matcher and she conceded the truth immediately. She went further by saying that he was hopeless, and a charity case like him should have been grateful anyone spent any time with him, paid or not.

That was two weeks ago. Luckily after some cajoling and convincing, Margaret had agreed to be his friend. The other five had come around as well.

They had all decided to move in with Jared to live together, at least parts of them did. One head, one torso, one pelvis, two legs, and Margaret’s soft, soft hands, though she just lets him call her Jilli nowadays.

He stapled the flyer under wooden wall hanging that his friend has been assembled onto. It would be a funny memory for them both. He clutched his friend’s hand and smiled. This was the start of something wonderful.

Dust drifted about the small room in a parody of ballroom dancing, each mote gliding through the light of the single aperture above the bed. She stretched and sat up, her body ached from motionless daylight hours on her small, bare mattress. During the night she could scavenge outside amongst the bones of a lost civilization, a silent mouse amid the pantries of greater beings. When the moon was out they slept, but too much noise could easily awaken them, so silence was the only way to travel. Sarah was alone anyhow, her last friend lost months ago in a medicine hunt. The pendulum swung the other way during the day. That was their time, their time to hunt. She wondered what else they ate, as it had been so long since she’d seen any of her kind. Humanity could not be all they subsisted on as there were far too many of them, and too few humans left.

Somehow electricity still flowed to the houses in her area in spite of no one seemingly alive to keep it running. Sarah didn’t dare use it though, as it had been theorized they could hear the hum of electrical devices. She laid back down to rest, more than simple movement risked exposing her to danger.

It was then her heart stopped for what felt like minutes. The audible thrum of the old TV set her parents had bought her in the before times, erupted to life. Somewhere in the distance beyond the rubble of her neighbor’s house and approaching the window above her bed was a long, ravenous howl.

Bulbs burn overhead like judgmental suns as I stand onstage wedged between opportunity and failure. My heart is a horse with two bad legs that has to run anyway. Anxiety is the captain of my ship as I stand there plumb-legged before an unsympathetic mob of casting crew and one nasty, bored director.

“Well, we’re waiting.” He stares at me, arms crossed as if expecting me to perform a trick. I stare back hoping this is a nightmare.

The bulbs above continue to burn downward, each a cruel, small god.

What was my line? My brain tumbles over itself searching, coming up blank. Fear congeals on me in sweat form. What was it? It was on the tip of my tongue, and now it’s lodged somewhere between my stomach and Hell.

Skin dries and whitens. Was it this hot when I got onstage?

The woman behind the director is not looking at me anymore. The look in her eyes is nothing short of malicious boredom. I could swear she’s my ex-girlfriend, that same condescending apathy rolling over her eyes, coiling like mating snakes.

“Sir, get off the stage if you’re not auditioning.”

My mouth and throat are so dry they mummify any words that try to tumble out, each stillborn and blanched.

The gloom-covered jury offstage is waiting for an acting miracle, one that will not materialize.

Even my blood feels hot. Is that possible?

I’ve sweat through my shirt and can feel hot rivulets coarse down my pant legs.

“Sir, get off the stage, please.”

I want to speak and explain my problem, but the words won’t survive that fire pit that has become my throat. It feels like my gums are boiling.

Too hot. The bulbs above are relentless scavengers, worming their beaks into every pore of my flesh.

I pull my shirt over my head as my skin ignites, one final corona of annihilation. Just before my ears are consumed I hear the bored woman scream.

It’s my special day today, one that has me on pins and needles. Today is the day where everyone must wear their best finery, and the China that is least chipped set out for tea and desserts. Balloons of every color will be in attendance, a floating, rainbow feast for the eyes. Today is my special day, you see, and it must be just so.

Flashy pinwheels and cakes, ice cream floats, and games like Chase the Great Snake will be there for everyone to enjoy. Today will be a great fountain filled with gouts of great laughter. Today is my special day after all, and it must be just so.

Sunup until almost sundown will be filled with such tales, a cartwheel of boisterous stories, confettied with tearful remembrance, layered with cheerful giggles. But when the light in the sky fades to an orange and pink glow, candles and lanterns will be lit before the night can encroach. Then as darkness falls over the cheery crowd, a bag will go over my head, and they’ll open my veins for the Ones Below. Friends and family will say their farewells until next year’s party, because it must be just so.