Can’t you hear me telling you to run to hide to leave me here

Can’t you hear me tell you that there is danger rapidly approaching Getting near

Listen to me look in my eyes you don’t have much time So run and hide

Do I need to say it again? Run away Its coming for you You are not safe here

Hey.

Do me a favor: Don’t read this. I mean it. Please don’t.

If you’re still reading this, I’m sorry. When I wrote this, I told myself I was going to hide it where nobody could find it. I told myself that I was going to fold it as small as I could, bury it in the pages of a boring book, and put it in a brick wall, “Casque of Amantillado” style. And I probably did that. So if you’re reading this, congrats, I guess. You’re either a construction worker who had the misfortune of demolishing the wall, or a very bored and inquisitive person who found a loose break. In either case, I’m sorry.

See, not too long ago, I found a note like this, just like you. That person didn’t hide it nearly as well as I probably will, pity for me. But I found it, nonetheless, and I read it. The person who wrote that note also didn’t bother to ask me not to read that note, like I did for you. Not that it matters if you’ve made it this far into the note, I guess. Anyway, after I read that note, I began to see…something out of the corner of my eyes and I had a horrible time sleeping. Over time, it wasn’t just in my periphery, but I saw it in crowds. On the street, in the bar, even in a passing car. I still couldn’t make it out, it was a blur, or a shadow, but it was humanoid and so tall. I thought I was losing my mind. And I just. Couldn’t. Sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw this thing.

I tried my best to ignore it, but tonight I finally saw it. I would try to describe it to you, but I honestly don’t know the words. It’s otherworldly, inhuman. And it wants to keep going. It feeds on fear, I think. So, on the bright side, you don’t have to worry about me not describing it. Because now that you know about it, it knows about you. And you’ll see it soon.

I warned you not to read it…

I’m sorry.

Ah, I suppose, you who are reading this, are wondering why this is titled “Brains”. That’s quite easy to explain, for I wish to speak to you about that squishy muscle in your head.

Brains determine a person; brains keep and store the memories of people. Sometimes they even throw them out.

Brains, for some reason even though they are important to keeping our hearts beating, are very delicate and fragile.

I was dropped plenty of times as a child, not on purpose of course, but I feel as though those drops made me who I am. Or maybe I was just born with my brain this way?

Anyway, anyway, I wish to speak to you about your brain. Have you been taking care of it? No smoking or drugs, hmm? Just one drop of these dangerous substances can hook are brain in a make it trapped in an endless cycle of destruction.

About your brain, have you been watching or reading things that provoke you in a negative way? No? Yes? Well it doesn’t really matter to me, I just want to make sure that those things are bought to light in your mind. Just a subtle reminder can help you remember the most forgotten of things.

That’s how my brain works anyway.

Oh yes, here’s where I wanted to get too! Brains process things in different ways and speeds! I find this rather interesting. Because if some brains look the same, why does it take longer for a person with an identical muscle of another to get a math problem or joke?

Explain it to me please, if you will. Oh, you thought I was going to explain it. Haha!

_No. _

I’m just here to rant. Anyways, good day and keep your brain safe.

Or you die.

Hey, there. Yeah you, you little idiot. The one reading this stupid book. Listen up, you little eejit and listen well…

…you deserve love

Hi, my name is Jackson Monroe. I was born in Louisiana in 2005, and I’m suppose to be dead.

…

I was sixteen. My dad was an alcoholic. My mom was a pill addict. My sister died when I was thirteen. She was in a crash, my mom’s sister was at the wheel. Two lives were lost. The family dog Toh-Doh survived.

I know I probably shouldn’t vent to a stranger. But I’ve done something that ain’t right. And I need help.

You’re probably wondering why I’m suppose to be dead.

My dad shot me.

…

Saying it aloud makes it all so real. I have the scar- half an inch of damaged flesh. The bullet was from a small handgun.

He shot me in the head. The left side, damaging my skull.

I don’t know where the bullet is. I never found it. I searched the bloody hole for hours, angry. It hurt, but it didn’t kill me.

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Songs, raps, quotes and everyday people. You can hear it anywhere. From anyone.

…

And I guess it was true.

Because I went back to him two years later. Closed up in his trailer, every type of drug and drink splayed across the counters, him passed out on the couch.

Well, I waited until he woke up.

…

And when he did I killed him. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here…

He woke up, I was sitting in the dark house, the same type of handgun on my lap that he raised to my head. I scratched an itch on my nose and sniffled in the ash and smoke in the air, from a blunt I lit while waiting.

I puffed out the smoke and snuffed it out on the right armrest. He stared at me in a daze from the couch.

“Do you know who I am?” I said. “Son…” he whispered, eyes wide.

“That’s right. And do you know why I’m here? Do you know why I came back to this hell hole?” I was getting angry, my voice was deep, my teeth grit together.

“‘Yer suppose to be dead.”

…

It was all he said as I stood from the chair, walked to where he lay and raised the gun to his head. Approximately the same place as he shot me.

“You always wanted us to be the same…” I trailed, looking him in the blue eyes that we share. “Now I’m going to make you like me. I’m going to make you hurt like me. I’m going to make you suffer.”

He closed his eyes. They never opened again.

…

I made sure, for he didn’t catch one bullet. He caught five.

When we finally meet again, will you remember me as I remember you? My thoughts are drawn to you like -how did you put it - like a moth to a flame. I am the moth, and you are the flame. All you need to do is ignite and I will gladly burn for you. The way your eyes light up whenever you discover something new, or the way your brassy copper hair shines under the moonlight, or that little snort when you laugh, or how freckles dot your cheeks and nose and shoulders and chest like stars dot the void of the universe.

I still wait for you, every night under the crystal willow where we first met. Under the leaves of diamond and silver where we last saw each other. Our names our still carved in the trunk, "Damian and Hero best friends forever." Remember when you carved it? We were so young back then, just a week after we first met. You cut yourself on that makeshift knife you made from the sharpened rocks we found in the floating rainbow river. I remember wishing that you would never feel pain like that again as you winced and deep red blood dripped down your finger. And then the cut closed, and the red liquid went away, and the knife would no longer scratch you. From that day forward you were invincible in our little dreamland, and we learned that we had the power to make anything possible.

You always had some sort of game for us to play, a new plan you wanted to try. And I was just so happy to be a part of it. To share this world with you with your crooked smiles and that glint of determination eyes. I was willing to follow you to the end of the universe. I still am. 

I'm sorry for what happened that night. I should’ve listened I should've thought about your feelings. But when you came to me on the night of our eighteenth birthday with tears in your eyes wishing that you could just leave your world and live in your dreams forever all I wanted to do was hold you tight and kiss away your pain. 

And then I did.

And you kissed me back, soft and slow, your fingers in my hair, my arms around your waist and for a moment it felt like things were going to be okay.  But when you pulled away your eyes held sudden heavy sadness I’d never seen before. You kissed me again, soft and sweet like honey and then you were gone. 

It's been three years since years since that day. I don't know if you've received any of the messages I sent out into your galaxy. I don't know if you'll ever get this one. But when I finally find your Earth -when I finally find you- I swear I'll hold you close and kiss every freckle on your body and hurt anyone who's ever wronged you. I wish I could have told you that night that we don't need anybody else. That we don't need this world or our dreams or even this universe because you are my universe. And as long as we're together we can create any world that we desire. When we first met you told me you’d call me Hero because I reminded you of your favorite superhero, but night after night you proved to be the hero of my dreams. I don’t care if it takes an entire lifetime to find you. You spent your nights saving me, now let me be the one to save you. 

Love forever and always,

your Hero xx

Damian Herne (August 2, 20XX – August 3, 20XX)
On August 3, 20XX, the day after his eighteenth birthday, Damian Herne was found dead on the side of the road near his previous residence due to an overdose of doxepin. Damian was…

They have to be dating. Of course I don't know for sure. It's just, well, married couples that age—what are they, early-to-mid 40s?—don’t listen to each other with that much intensity. They no longer lean into the conversation; If there is conversation at all. What seems much more common these days is Wife looks at phone, Husband looks at everyone else. But not these two; They are very interested in each other.

They are both relatively fit: Not magazine cover-ready, but it’s obvious by their physiques and clothing choices that they exercise regularly. Full-sleeve tattoos on both of them hint that CrossFit is the regimen of choice. We don’t know many CrossFitters at our age, but I have learned to recognize the tells. They like people to know they are Crossfitters. (Doesn’t seem all that different from the “Grinder PT” we did in the service. Wish I would have thought to package that and sell it for $200 a month.)

She wears a white t-back over orange sports bra with blue Lululemons and white sneakers to match her white ball cap. He wears black tee and gray shorts with low-top Converse. The words “Cleared Hot” across his tee combined with the wrap-around Oakleys and close-cut hair—what’s left of it—scream that he was Army in his younger years. Her unbalanced physique screams augmentation.

I finally saw their hands. No rings.

They're sitting outside, the warm Sunday sun something that those of us from the Pacific Northwest know not to take for granted. To their left and right signs of youth: A table full of college-age women in various athletic wear that reads more 'just rolled out of bed' than 'heading to the gym;' A young woman confidently wearing animal print spandex and carrying longboard, a combo that would be unthinkable to anyone of us over thirty (or double that plus some in our case).

A Goth Grrrl enters the cafe and my thoughts drift to Portlandia. My grandson Brando turned me on to that show. I have to admit I don’t get all of the skits, but the show is fantastic. She reminds me of the sketch about how hard it is for Creatures of the Realm of Sorrow to deal with August. She’s adapted the best she can without losing her 'edge,' still sporting dark jeans and Doc Martins, her lacy tank exposing enough milk-white skin to at least allow for some evaporative cooling.

You know me. I can't turn it off, even if I'm no longer doing it for a living. It's just part of me now, I guess.

Anyway, another couple is sitting at a table close to the window. Youthful. Gorgeous. He is still young enough to have a square jaw and wear a short-sleeve button up without a fat roll-covering tee underneath. His Sports Clips hair cut and weekend stubble give the appearance of one who works in something office-bound: finance or banking or insurance. All of the Covid-created work-from-home men I run across now dress like children from the neck down, but from the neck up remind me of the 70s. Lots of hair and whiskers. Not him. He's still professional. She is shorter than he, but neither are very tall. He is white, her dark hair and eyes and skin, combined with a small woven hat, remind me of South America for some reason. Bolivia, maybe? I make a note to spend some time learning more about ‘Our Neighbors to the South.’ Maybe take another trip next winter. You up for it?

They have an adorable child, maybe a year old or less. She points at me and I wave. She waves back and her parents smile, proud of the simple gesture in a way that only young, first time parents can be. Everything is magic.

He sits with his back toward the door. I briefly consider chatting with him about his role as a protector, but I don’t want to intrude on their morning. And things are different now. He's probably fine not facing the door.

Well, people are different; Things are the same.

There are the usual smattering of Weekend Riders that clomp around awkwardly in their biking shoes, wearing stretchy, branded clothing as though they are taking a small break from the tour-de-France to grab a cinnamon roll and and vanilla latte.

The goth grrrl draws a bit of attention as she busses her own spot at the bar. Ironically, it’s her mortal enemy The Sun at fault for drawing eyes to her as the light coming in through the massive front windows reflects off of her belly button ring and makes the blue highlights hiding in her jet black hair suddenly seem to glow. I figure every generation has their Goths, in a manner of speaking, who live inside the cognitive dissonance of trying at once to disappear behind white makeup and long bangs while drawing attention for their quasi-S&M clothing and Wednesday Addams charm. I wonder what ever happened to Elvira?

The young couple with the child are all smiles. There’s something so endearing about it: the energy and good health of youth combined with the positive attention thrown their way via their adorable offspring, all of which is still free from the emotional scarring and re-scarring that comes with long-term monogamy and (eventually) teenaged children. They have yet to attend marriage counseling or over-stretched school athletic calendars or the first time junior crashes the family car or says 'I hate you.' They are merely two people closer to their honeymoon than their first high school reunion, who look at their precious child as the physical embodiment of their undying love for each other.

It has to be that way, though, or every child would be an only child. It’s designed that way: Procreate while you’re still naively smitten. How many of us second and third siblings are only here because our parents were still enveloped in the fog of romantic ignorance?

That’s why young-married pregnancies are a surprise of timing--the one time of many that 'took'--while surprise pregnancies in older couples can be usually be traced back to a singular event. (In my case, Xander—eight years younger than his youngest sibling—was the result of an interrupted drive home after a Johnny Mathis concert. You tell Ver I told you that and I'll make sure Bettie finds out about Orlando '96!)

I need to shake off my grumbly attitude. Even after 51 years of marriage, four children, eight grandchildren, and one great-grandchild I am still mostly smitten with my beloved. ...It is different, though. There’s a sense of nostalgic longing to my musings nowadays that, in spite of being aware of it, it still stings. Or maybe aches is the right word? Not an acute pain, but merely a ‘thorn in my side,’ something I’m only conscious of when observing others.

I’m not alone in this. No, not you. A husband and wife in their mid-50s are also ‘people watching.’ He has what I assume to be the same flattop and well-groomed mustache he’s had since the 80s. She, on the other hand, sports bangs and a long hair that give her a much more youthful look. They dress the same, though, as older couples do. Gray t-shirts, denim shorts, tennis shoes with white athletic socks.

His belly is high, as though the weight gain is something more recent. Beer-based maybe.

They don’t make ‘gooey’ eyes at each other like the young couple with the child, still smitten. Nor do they both lean into every word like the dating 40-year-olds. They talk in small bursts. Otherwise, they look around, watching the people near them.

A young family in church clothes takes the table nearest the 50-somethings. Four kids, the oldest maybe eight, the youngest maybe eight months. They look like they’re dressed for a family photo, and, sure enough, they ask the 50-something man if he’ll snap one for them. He is happy to do so.

Another married couple, maybe late 40s, bus their outdoor tables, bringing their dishes into the cafe. They are out-of-shape, but their outfits hint at youthful feelings: His a The Sandlot tee shirt; Her a razorback tank.

They are followed in by two young couples, strangers to each other, also in various stages of dating. (Again, there’s no way to know—not without a considerable breach of common decency—but if I had to guess Couple One have been intimately involved for at least six months, wherein Couple Two—based on the change to her countenance when she saw him—may be within a few days of ‘first discovery.’)

As an aside, you remember when tattoos were largely a sign that—like us—a man had been a sailor at one point in his life. Or at least overseas? They were usually in places easily covered, my own--if you remember, a crudely drawn reminder of my time patrolling the rivers Nam—requires that I be shirtless to be viewed. Somewhere along the line, though, tattoos became mainstream. Again, maybe this is something of a PNW trait--you'll have to tell me about what it's like in Texas these days--but if I had to make a guess based on what I’ve seen just this morning, I’d wager that some 80% of the adults that have entered the coffee shop have had at least one visible tattoo. Most having many more; Entire limbs covered; Thousands of dollars of body work.

If I was a younger and had any sort of artistic ability I would strongly consider pursuing being a tattoo-ist? Tattooer? Whatever they call themselves, they have to be making decent go of things.

A man around our age sat near me. We exchanged the ‘old guy nod’ in way of recognition. He's wearing the uniform of an aging folk guitarist: Long gray pony tail, well-trimmed beard, jaunty, feathered hat, hiking boots with exact-length 501s, PBS tote with a recently checked-out book that he heard about on NPR.

He is too slender for the waffles he’s eating to be a regular meal. Now I think maybe I should order some. Not sure if I can take the hit to my blood sugar, but it almost seems worth it to find out.

I've finished my Americano. Probably time to pack up my things. I suppose I can leave these nice people to their morning without my secretive observations. Maybe Janey is right in saying I missed my calling, that I should have been a G-Man or a detective or something. I would wager that salesman develop this trait much faster than investigators, though. If they want to eat, that is.

As I'm leaving the young couple with the child stand to go as well. He busses the table, balancing the dishes, clench-jawed in concentration. She picks up the beautiful little girl and carries her between her arm and her very-pregnant belly.

The hazy fog or young romantic love struck again.

Told you so.

you stare at my eulogies, looking for sympathetic tragedies. trying to read between my lines, as if i’m trying to hide.

and when the ending doesn’t rhyme, you judge me. because my life must be a song, forced to fit silly corsets to belong.

you say words are freedom, to slice through barriers.

but i see you tying the knots, locking muses behind golden glass. we can only twist the words, but it’s you that can change the world.

26 years. It took me 26 years to realize where I really was. What I’m really doing. And who really surrounds me.

You’ve surely been lost before right? Made mistakes too?

I was born and raised here in the Community of Saints. It’s all I know. This is what life is like here. I’ve heard the word “cult” before but it never meant anything to me until now.

Now that I am staring at a deceased body in front of me. She was just trying to leave. To take her sick toddler to a doctor. And now she’s dead. Right at my feet. A toddler now motherless. She was shot by Prophet John. Our “loving” leader.

What would you do right now? Seriously…what should I do right now?

Running, given the circumstances, isn’t an option right now. Not at this very moment. I can do it. I just have to wait a little. I can’t stay here. Prophet John takes a deep breath and begins to speak. I don’t hear the words this time. He’s probably talking about having faith. The greater good. Making sacrifices. The words blur in my mind.

Hypocrite.

We all are I guess. How could I not have noticed anything? I thought what we believed was pure, right, and beneficial. John ends his inconvenient sermon and dismisses us. Him and a couple other men surround the body, chatting and planning. I walk back to my cabin and sit on my cot.

Everything becomes more clear.

Have you ever thought about what counteracting brainwashing feels or looks like? Freedom. Enlightenment. Individual epiphany. All based on my experiences. My feelings. My thoughts. No collective opinion. No pleasing others. No ideological influence. No desire to have it 100% right or perfect. Have you ever felt that? I hope you have.

I wake up and it’s about 2 AM. I must have dozed off. I grab my bag and begin packing some clothes. I throw some food and water in the bag. Quietly closing my cabin door, I tie my bag to my back and begin sneaking around the porch. I sneak around to the back and into the forest. I’ve never left the community. I have no idea where I am or where to go.

I’m scared. I think about going back multiple times. I think about my punishment if I get caught. But I don’t turn around. I force myself to look ahead. To not even glance back. I have to do this.

It’s been hours. Maybe a day. I’m tired. I can’t walk straight now. I had a small nap but I think I need another. My food is done. My feet are on auto pilot.

I hear something. I walk quicker.

I hear more. It’s louder too. I start sprinting.

The woods start to clear a little more. Light shines through and the sounds are echoing all around me now. It’s…a road. Vehicles speed by. People stare at me with concern.

Free at last.

People say that I’m too funny… Yea I don’t see it, do you I wanted to be a stand up comedian but I could’t cuz I always told my jokes sitting down.

See, I don’t get the humor in that, I’m just another normal human being 😂

This next one would be insulting if I knew what u looked like, but I don’t soooooo

Your funny… funny lookin lol see not funny!