Captain’s log, Stardate 20619.5, personal entry.

The usual hums, beeps, and whirrs somehow soothe me as I sit here, lost in thought and in something beyond thought. Something deeper. As if my very soul was engaged in a deep and troubling spiritual struggle that my conscious mind can barely even perceive, let alone comprehend.

How arrogant the conscious mind can be, I think as I sit on the sidelines as a blind spectator to the battle deeper within. It think it is all there is to me, when in reality I, like any other human being, am a deep and powerful computer for which the conscious mind is merely the interface.

And an unreliable one at that.

I’m glad I am alone. Glad I don’t have to be The Captain right now. Glad I don’t have to try to think of things to say or make decisions or absorb new information.

And I am especially glad I don’t have to explain this strange and troubled mood I am in that makes such things seem almost impossible.

I guess we’re human after all.

And I guess I really am getting old because I find myself in these thoughtful moods more and more lately.

A younger me was far too impatient and energetic to slow down for such things. When I was fresh from the Academy, I scoffed at those who sat in thought.

Why in the Galaxy would anyone want to do that when there were so many fun, challenging, and exciting things to do? Who could sit still when there were so many planets left to explore and adventures to be had? I certainly wasn’t going to waste time thinking about what I believe or mulling over emotions from the past!

I guess I am catching up now. Age has finally slowed me down enough for all my ghosts and visions to catch up to me, and there’s in no mood to wait.

It’s their turn to be too impatient to deal with me. Seems appropriate.

I feel so tired lately. Not physically – with the kind of chief medical officer I have, I don’t dare let my physical condition slip or she will clap me in irons and throw me into the Holodeck for one of her “well balanced full body workout” programs that I am positive violate the Geneva Convention, the Kittamar Accords, and the laws of time and space.

No, this is a different kind of tired. I think perhaps there are resources of the mind and spirit that we spend without knowing it and thus spend freely and without forethought.

And we get away with it too, when we are young, because whatever it is, it replenishes rapidly and we hardly know the difference.

But as we age and the budgets for all our activities shrink, we start running a serious deficit, and sooner or later, we have to pay the price.

I guess that’s why I am sitting here while my crew is down on the planet, checking out those strange life signs we detected.

If you had told that brash and arrogant young man fresh from the Academy that there would be a day that he would sit alone on the bridge while the crew explored an entirely new planet – one not even detected by the long range sensors – I would have laughed in your face and called you a liar.

Quite literally. I am afraid. God, I was an ass.

But now, I am content to monitor their progress via their com traffic and telemetry. So far, nothing of note had turned up. They have not found the source of those bizarre life signs, but that will come in time, and in the meantime, there is a whole new planet to explore, examine, catalogue, and enjoy.

And immortalize in verse, of course. Have I mentioned that I discovered our young Mister Perry is quite the poet? I mean, he’s no Shakespeare or Lok Twan, but his verses are parsecs ahead of poets twice his age, and I look forward to seeing how his talent develops over time.

Persuant to this, I have very, very quietly given orders to all the senior staff that if our budding bard should suddenly stop what he is doing, take out a padd, and look thoughtfully off into the distance, they are to wait at least five minutes before ordering him back to his duties.

Talent must be nurtured, after all.

One of the only good things about aging is that I find that I appreciate people more now than I ever did when I was younger.

When I was young, I made snap judgements about people based on the entirely selfish criterion of what I thought I could get out of them – were they amusing, or interesting, or well connected, or good at a sport I liked, or something like that.

Now, when I think back at all the wonderful people I dismissed out of hand because they did not immediately appeal to me, I feel like the biggest fool in Starfleet.

And if ever I feel like I am in danger of forgetting that lesson, all I have to do is have lunch with my Engineering Chief, because he was one of those people.

I met him when we were both in the Academy. He was half a year ahead of me. He greeted me cordially then went back to reading some abstruse technical manual about the fine points of warp manifold configuration.

I immediately dismissed him as a dullard and a druge and went on my merry way.

Now we have been friends for eight years and there is no man in Starfleet I love or respect more. Every single day, I thank my lucky stars that I know him. He is my rock, my anchor, my best friend, and the only one who can calm me down when my mind starts running too hot and I get anxious and take on more than I can handle.

Yes, future historians, that was the real reason for our sudden “sparring matches”. I know I told people they “helped me think”, and they did.

But they did it by keeping me too busy trying to keep from getting clobbered with a pash-tung-ai stick to be scared.

And you have to admit, there’s friends, and then there’s the people in your life who love you so much that they will drop everything and pick up a ridiculously ornate wooden cylinder and do their best to clobber some sense into you when you need it.

Friendship like that is rare indeed.

Ah, I am being hailed from below. Time to smooth down the dress, get into character, and get back to work.

Further comments will be found in the official log.

This is Captain Priya Kashmiri, signing off.

And I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

She gestured me forward, and I leaned in close till my ear was inches from her lips.

“Trudy…. ” she said to me. “Trudy…. I think I am finally…. done. And that means I can go now, doesn’t it? I’m done and now I have to go. I can go, yes?”

It’s always me. “Yes, Grandmother. You’re all done now. You can go. ”

She smiled like a child. “Good, good. Tell Father to bring the car around. I’m ready to go home. I think I can hear Mother singing… its so beautiful…”

I smiled. “Go to her, Grandmother. It’s okay. Go and be with her forever. ”

She nodded, and said “You know, I think I… ”

And just like that, she went.

And I thought, Let Marta think she was Grandmother’s favorite because she made Grandmother laugh and clap and smile.

Let Abigail think she was Grandmother’s favorite because Grandmother was always telling her how pretty and smart she was.

Let Anton think he was Granmother’s favorite because of all the proud and lavish gifts she so enjoyed giving him.

Let all the other siblings and cousins and all the rest think whatever they needed to think in order to convince themselves she loved them best.

I know I was the one she loved the most.

Because I am the one she trusted with all her secrets.

I am the one she trusted with responsibility.

I am the one she knew would understand.

And that’s why I was the one who was with her in the end.

---

I steeled my nerves at the sitting room door, for I knew this would not be easy. But I have always been the one who did what was necessary when the time came. I did all the things that were too hard for the rest. This time was no different.

A few long, smooth, calming breaths. and I entered the room.

---

Immediately the room was filled with the hue and cry of all the hopeful heirs arguing that it was their turn with Grandmother next.

Does it even matter to them that all but one of them are lying? I thought.

I waited for the tumult to subside, then quietly announced, “She’s gone. ”

There was a few moments of shocked silence as they realized that the thing they were all waiting for had actually happened. Then the cacophony returned at twice the intensity, making them seem like a chorus of frightened chickens.

They accused one another of various forms of perfidy. They accused me of somehow causing her death, more out of wishful thinking than evidence or a rational theory. The crocodiles tears flowed like summer wine and many a histrionic performance of exaggerated grief was debuted and ignored.

People who had barely spoken to her in life and had done nothing but cruelly mock her behind her back when they spoke of her at all claimed that they were,. in fact, the ones she loved the best, and rumours as scurrilous as they were appalling were thrown like handfuls of muck at one another.

And it was all so pointless because none of it would change the will.

So I waited in silence for our ancient family lawyer, Mister Bribane, to bring some order to the proceedings so he could read out the will.

And reflected on how many times I had been in this exact same position. One lonely leaven of silence in the screaming tumult of family politics.

And thought about the last time Grandmother and I had been together before today.

---

It had, of course, been on the benches by the lake. Grandmother had always seemed the most relaxed and content there.

“It won’t been long now, Trudy. ” she’d said to me. “I can feel it in my bones. The doctors either don’t know it or won’t tell me the truth, but don’t need them to tell me that I am not long for this world. And you know what Trudy? I’ll be glad to go. ”

I nodded. It made sense to me. She was very ill, passing in and out of lucidity like trains going through tunnels, and I, unlike the others, could see that she was in a lot of pain. I loved her dearly and did not want to see her go, but I knew it was her time and that it wasn’t about what I wanted anyhow.

“You’ve always been my favorite, Trudy. I let the others think what they like but you’re the only one I really trust. You’re the only one who sees things as they really are. You’re like my father, your great grandfather, in that respect. Perhaps that is why I have always trusted you the most, because I see him in your eyes. ”

I had not known this. I filed it away in my mind for future examination.

“You I can trust, ” she had said. ” but the others… ”

She stared out over the lake for a few moments, then without turning to me,. said “Do you think they would have turned out better if it hadn’t been for the money? I’ve always resisted that money corrupts people…. after all, my children turned out fine… but their children make me so sad, and I find myself wondering what it was all for. All the hard work and scrimping and saving and helping with the business and so on. What was the point of it all if it was all going to lead to….. them. ”

“And I tried so hard with your mother, Trudy. And with your uncles Steven and Ted. I tried so hard to make them kind and strong and understanding and all the rest. And I thought I had succeeded. I really did. I thought that their children would be just loike them and that this family would go on to be a force for good in the world. ”

“But something went wrong. Maybe I should have been stricter with my children. Or maybe I was too strict, I don’t know. Maybe I should have taught them not only to be good people but good parents. Maybe I didn’t realize those were different things until it was far too late. ”

She sighed, then shrugged. “I guess it’s not really my problem any more. Soon I will be gone, and it will be up to others to make all the decisions. ”

“Now come, Trudy. Wheel me back to the house. I have a few things I need to do before it’s too late. ”

---

If I had thought I knew chaos and cacophony before, the announcement that I had been named executor of her will, with broad discretionary powers, proved me wrong.

There was such an explosion of outrage and accusation that I am fairly sure I know what Hell is like now. It is like being trapped in a small room with a pack of screaming demons alll crying out for your blood.

After all,. who was I? A nobody! A nothing! Half of them hadn’t even heard of me before today, and those who had viewed me with nothing but offhanded contempt. How could a mousy little shadow like myself have gotten the most important and respected job? Surely, it was the greatest of all possible injustices for the position to go to someone like me, who had not even figured into their calculations?

The notion that I must have cheated somehow emerged as a rough consensus. Such looks of poisonous hate as to kill a basilisk and its immediately family were focused upon me, the one who stoled what was rightfully “theirs” from “them”.

“Bibbin”(my name for Mister Brisbane since I was a child) endured this storm like Gibraltar, and when the moment was right, he silenced the mob with a glare like the judgment of the Furies, and spoke.

He told them, in no uncertain terms, that Grandmother’s will was his life’s work and therefore could not be challenged, questioned, contested, or amended. Anyone who so much asked for an extra comma would find themselves not merely disinherited but sued into poverty and, if Bibbin has his way, clapped in irons to boot.

He also offhandedly mentioned that I now had near total control over disbursements from Grandmother’s vast estate, and that anyone who wanted anything from said estate should seriously re-evaluate their view of me or they would end up with nothing.

A little presumptuous of him to say so, I thought, but I allowed it.

After a respectable silence, I stood up and addressed the room.

“I think you all should know, ” I began, ” that things are about to change. ”

---

Father was there, of course. How he was before the money came. Strong, handsome, and with the quiet but unmistable aura of power that had always made her feel so safe.

And of course, Chester her beloved cocker spaniel and Donna the wonder mutt were waiting for her in the back of Father’s crazy old station wagon, the one with no two doors the same color and the funny little “eek!” noise, like a startled cartoon mouse, it made when it stopped.

And of course, it was their lopsided home on Blackstrap Road, out by the oild sugar refinerly, that they pulled up to at the end of the trip. And there was Mother, glowing in the sunlight, smiling like a Madonna and pregnant with Ted, who was there to greet them, with baby Steven in her arms.

She hugged them both so tight that she could scarely breathe. And in their arms, she knew, like the sun knew the sky, that they would never be apart again.

“Come. ” said Mother. “Let’s go sit down by the lake.

THE END/

Somewhere, an onyx statue gleams malevolently. It knows it was once flesh, and it knows it will be flesh again. All it takes is one careless human to find this statue and touch its so-shiny pitch black surface – and they never can resist touching things, can they? – and the statue will have a fresh human soul on which to suckle.

And with the sustenance thus obtained he will once again be living breathing flesh. muscles rippling, tendons tensing, ichor black as night pumping trough veins like concrete viaducts and filling his long dormant flesh the stuff of life.

And with that life would arise his magnificent black cock. No bowlderized demon, he was a nightmare that truly loved to fuck. Humans, preferably, as their suffering and sense of violation was truly delicious, but anything with an orifice would do.

In the language of demons, their word for “consent” is the same as their word for “surrender”. It’s all the same to them.

So as the statue lay dormant, it dreamed of brutality and violations to come, and idly wondered what its next toy would look like.

---

Jenna woke up knowing that today would be the day. And when the opportunity came. she was ready.

All the planning, all the observing, all the pretending fell away and she was serenely pure and calm, a being of nothing but purpose, as she waited the moment of destiny when she would finally be free.

Showing the world nothing but the abstracted smile of the heavily medicated, she drifted through the ward at random, radiating harmlessness and a vacuous beatitude.

So it was by seeming concidence that she happened to be near the secure intake station when the world’s most ambitious nursing student, Danella Fontaine, arrived for her shift. And nobody noticed harmless lamb Jenna lurking about, staring at the complex pattern of the linoleum as if it contained the secrets of the ages just waiting to be found by an intrepid mind like hers.

Jenna knew exactly when to strike. It was the exact moment that over-handsome security guard Rick Jackson flashed his megawatt smile at Miss Fontaine as she passed through his station.

In that enchanted moment, Jenna moved as swiftly as a snake and as silently as a shadow. While Miss Fontaine was blinded by lust, Jenna struck from the corner that Rich couldn’t see sitting down, and stole the pair of stainless steel scissors that she new Miss Perfect Fontaine VERY naughtily kept in her little purse at all times.

This was very much against regulations in a secure mental ward full of the most dangerous lunatics in the tri-state area. Jenna was sure that Miss Fontaine told herself that she kept them there “just in case”, but Jenna knew her dirty little secret : Miss Perfection Fontaine was deep down terrified of the patients, and thus extremely unqualified to be working there.

She hid it well behind a facade of compassion and understanding, but Jenna had seen the panicked looks, the tiny flinches, and the way her eyes darted around every time she entered a room on the ward.

She would no doubt be in big trouble when they figured out where Jenna had gotten those big shiny scissors.

Good. Served her right for being mean to the patients when nobody was looking.

Scissors hidden under her dress, Jenna floated aimlessly toward the emergency door only she knew didn’t have its alarm any more. She’d disabled it during a fire drill. A quick and precise tug and the circuit was dead with no external signs of damage.

Jenna slipped through the door quicker than an instant, and once she was on the other side, flew into action. She knew that the moment she disappeared from the ward, the clock started ticking. The ward was very good at doing headcounts and would soon notice her absence and come looking, and her mission was too important to risk any kind of interruption.

So off came her dress and the “security gown” they made her wear underneath. It was essentially a cloth bag with arm and leg holes, and underneath its cornflower blue farbic lay hidden straps and buckles that could turn it into straitjacket in a heartbeat.

Jenna grinned when she thought of how the staff would flip if they knew how easily she got out of it.

But now was not the time for such flights of fancy. Now utterly nude, Jenna snatched up the scissors and forced her mind to slow down, find balance, and then stretch out like a spider’s web so she could find her prey.

There! There it was,. curled up in the carpal tunnel of her right hand. Thanking the stars that she was left handed. Jenna slowly and surely brought the scissors close to her right wrist and emptied her mind of anything but the readiness to stike.

It must be done without thought and without intention in order to keep from alerting the creature and giving it time to flee and hide elsewhere in her flesh.

Then, when the energy was right, she plunged the scissors. slightly ajar, into her wrist. And from the bloody wound she pulled an obscene creature of liquid blackness and utter corruption, its insectoid legs flailing in every direction as it tried to escape.

Not this time, thought Jenna, and with sublime satisfaction squezzed fiemly on the scissors, cutting the vileness into two pieces which felt to the floor, melted, and disappeared into the air.

Jenna indulged in a moment of pure professional satisfaction. Her order of angels specialized in containing such monstrosities until they were weak enough to destroy, then destroying them, and this has been an especially bad one that none of the other angels of her wing had dared to try.

And now it was gone, its subtance returned to Hell.

Now all Jenna had to do was clean up. She checked her wrist to conform that yes, despite the fact that the scissors were sticky with her blood, the gaping wound had disappeared entirely. She slipped back into her secure gown and her dress, and adopted an expression of childlike confusion that had taken her years to perfect.

And when the interns burst in, she was the picture of innocence, and looked at the bloody scissors like she had never seen blood or scissors before in her life.

Another job well done, she told herself.

She returned to her room, sat on her bed, rested her head against the cool concrete wall, and waited for her next inmate.

---

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Richie “Like That Guy On Happy Days” Cuthbert woke up in his usual state of foggy confusion and struggled to swim to the surface of a deep pool of sleep to reach consciousness. 

He had to get there because he was sure there was something very important that he needed to remember. Something that had happened recently. Something big. Terrifyingly big. 

And as his mind finally broke the surface of the water and he opened his eyes on the familiar sights of his bedroom, he remembered. 

It had started with an email. From the executive in charge of his entire division. And it has asked him to join her in her office “at your earliest convenience. ” And it had included a picture of her, smiling. 

Richie had immediately broken into a cold and clinging sweat. 

In his 28 years of life, things like this had never, ever meant anything good. Invariably, what happened now was that some oh so understanding clutch of office types were going to gently and not unkindly tell him that he was just “not working out” as an employee but that they would be “more than happy” to give him a glowing recommendation and help him find a new job where he would hopefully “fit in” a little better. 

He worked hard. He worked well. Whatever job he was given, he did it with great effectiveness and efficiency. 

But there was just something about him people didn’t like. No matter how hard he tried to just fade into the background and do his work, he inevitably got on people’s nerves, and eventually they decided that the quality of his work didn’t justify the wear and tear on their nervous systems, and they sent him onb his way. 

That’s how he’d gotten this job. And the job before that. And the job before that. And the job before THAT. 

So Richie thought he knew what was coming next. 

And that meant it was time to think the crazy thoughts. 

He thought about running away without even showing up for the meeting. He could just go home,  pack his bags, cash one of his treasury notes, go to the airport, and take the next plane out to wherever it goes. He would simply disappear from people’s lives like a ghost. 

That would serve them right. 

Or he could burst into the meeting, take his pants off, set them on fire, and throw them on the desk, and scream “FIRE THIS. MOTHERFUCKERS!” before peeing the fire out, flipping everyone the bird, and walking out. 

Richie had a lot of confusing thoughts about pee. 

Of course, it was only safe to entertain these insane thoughts because he knew he would never do them. He would do what he always did, which was to do what was expected of him. 

He would show up. nod without comment at the usual spiel, then leave with his golden recommendation in hand, clean out his desk, and go home. 

And there he would stay, barely leaving his bed, for a couple of days, until the icy cold numbness wore off and he could think and move and feel again. And then he’d start looking for work. 

When he arrived at the office of this woman he had never met and who ruled his life like a distant monarch ruled a far-flung colony, Richie was horrified to see that in edition to this potentate were a bunch of other smiling alpha dog types that he vaguely recognized as being other higher echelon division head types. 

And as that mass of executive might party, who should turn out to be there but Double Zed Publishing’s superstar CEO, Charles “Chaz” Piermont, radiating goodwill and bonhomie. 

Richie had never been more scared in his life. And that was saying somethingm, given his nervous temperament. 

He felt like a small but very tasty looking sheep about to enter a room full of large, hungry predators who were all baring their teeth at him. 

He wanted to run, run, run away as fast as he could and not stop until he was on the other side of the Earth from this insane situation, and then wherever that was would be where he lived. 

As he hesitated in the doorway, the lady who had sent him the email (Linda? Lisa? Lois? Something like that.) had smiled warmly and said “Come on in, we don’t bite. ” 

All the alphas had laughed at that. Richie had laughed too,  suddenly, explosively, and briefly.  Then meekly walked into the lion’s den. 

“I bet you’re wondering what this is all about. This must be pretty intimidating for you. Well you can relax – you’re not in trouble and nothing bad is going to happen to you here. ” she said. 

And Richie had relaxed. Some. A little. Less than halway. By a lot. 

“Now do you remember dropping this into the suggestion box some time late last year? ” Linda/Lisa/Lois had said while showing him some sort of document or form. 

And he didn’t remember anything of the sort. He really, really didn’t. Here he was amongst the highest status people he had ever met and he had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. 

Then suddenly, he remembered. 

At last year’s Xmas party, his boss Larry, three cocktails in, had been complaining that nobody ever used the department’s suggestion box. 

Richie, three wine coolers in, had felt a surge of sympathy and had taken one of the suggestion forms and dashed off the first idea that popped into his head, and then with great pomp and circumstance and with everybody watching, he had folded it neatly and put it in the box. 

This had earned him a round of boozy laughter and a smattering of applause from the crowd.

The suggestion had been this : instead of saying an autobiography was written by the subject, say “as lived by. As in, “My Amazing Life, as lived by Very Famous Actor. ” 

“Well, Richie. ” said the L woman, “this suggestion went straight to the top almost right away, and we all loved it so much that… Chaz?” 

“That we implemented it almost immediately. ” said Chaz smoothly. “And it worked. Boy, did it work. Our number crunchers did the math, and according to them, this little suggestion of yours increased sales in our biography division almost 17 percent. ” 

“And that’s just the hardcover sales.  None of the titles involved have gone to paperback yet. We anticipate similar results there as well. ” said someone Richie was pretty sure was the company’s comptroller, whatever that was. 

“Now as you know. we here at Double Zed incentivize innovation by giving our employees a percentage of the profits their ideas create. ” said some woman whose smooth, melodious voice screamed HR, “and it is my pleasure and privilege to give you your first of what I am sure will be many profit-sharing cheques to come your way. ” 

She had then pressed a slip of paper into Richie’s numb but pliant hand. 

“Just our little way of saying thank you. ” said a beaming Chaz, who had then, with a nod, indicated that Richie should look at the check. 

Richie had dutifully lifted the check up and looked at the amount. 

And that’s when Richie’s life exploded. For a few moments, his shock was so profound that the world lost all color and he couldn’t even think. 

Because the amount of the check was $300,000. 

It was so unbeliveable that Richie stared at it, blinking, for ten seconds as the alpha dogs all looked on like parents watching their kid open the biggest gift under the tree on Xmas morning. 

Chaz had then put a fatherly hand on Richie’s shoulder, and gently said “Yes, it’s real, buddy. And it’s all for you. I promise you this is not a trick or a trap. All that cash is for you, with all our thanks. You earned it, buddy. ” 

The rest of the meeting was a blur. Richie remembered drinks appearing seemingly out of nowhere, and an extremely fancy cake, and a lot of people pounding him on the back or shaking his hand heartily in congratulations, and one particular kiss from a buxom lady which had, he was pretty sure, promised him something a little extra. 

But all he had wanted was to escape. The whole thing was too overwhelming for him, so the moment he had felt like he had done all that was expected of him, he had said his polite goodbyes and gone home. 

Once home, he had sat down in his office (which was also the living room, the laundry room, and the dining room), put the cheque down on his desk, and stared at it, trying to figure out how he felt about the whole thing. 

And when his emotions had finally settled down enough to pick a direction and stick with it, his reponse had surprised him. 

He had broken down crying. And not just a few sniffles. Huge tsunami of full, wracking sobs. Tears flowing so fast he could barely see. Snot running like a faucet. The full waterworks, and then some. 

And that’s how it had been for the rest of the evening. After the waters of sadness had retreated, he had rocked between euphoria, paranoia, anxiety, depression, and what could only be described as existential dread for hours on end. Somehow. the day’s events had opened all the floodgates in Richie’s mind, and all he could do was do his best to survive the flood. 

When the waters receded, Richie was a broken man. Trembling and fragile, it had been all he could do to crawl into bed and fall into the black and dreamless sleep from which he had just awoken. 

Once more he tried to figure out how he felt about the whole thing, figuring that if there was more emotional emesis to come, he wanted to get it over with as soon as he could.

But there was nothing left. The truth was, he barely felt anything at all. Emotionally speaking, he was spent. He could feel the tiny nubs from which real emotions would eventually grow, but for now, nothing. 

He decided to try something to see if he could wake himself up. 

Richie deliberately thought, “I can do anything I want with that money. ” 

That sounds good. But there was just one problem. 

Richie hadn’t the slightest idea what he wanted. Nobody had ever asked him before, not even himself. 

So he did the only thing he could think of : 

He rolled over and went back to sleep. 

Maybe things would make more sense when he woke up. 

The rain sounded like handfuls of pebbles being gently tossed by toddlers at the windows of the dull grey train station. Every gust of wind – and the wind was gentle but constant – brough another salvo and its accompanying moment of sonic excitement.

But then the gust ended. spent from its minor effort, and the station was once more cloaked in densely textured silence.

I watched as a fat drop was born at the top of the window I stood before. It started slowly, surface tension keeping it in place, but then rapidly picked up momentum as it absorbed other drops and grew heavier and faster till it suddenly lurched off to the side and joined the moisture collecting in the seams of the pane.

Damn thing didn’t even make it all the way. Pathetic.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. It was all pointless. And stupid. And wrong.

I clutched my ticket hard and did my bestg to think of nothing but home.

Of course,. someone had to come along to ruin it.

“Hi there feller. ” said the Dead Man.

I designed to glance in his direction. My suspicions were confirmed. That man was dead. Dead as a doornail. Anyone could see it.

The question was whether he had even been alive in the first place.

Some of them choose not to bother.

I gave him my second-best baleful glaze and thought hostile, glaring leave me the fuck alone thoughts at him as hard as I could.

The last thing I wanted at a time like this was to have to converse with some chipper idiot with boundry issues.

But that never works on his type. So after a few very long seconds of expectant silence, I sighed and said “Hello. ”

The Dead Man beamed, happy just to be acknowledged. Like a goddamn dog. Any minute now, he’s sprout a tail just so he could wag it.

“Hi there!’ he repeated unnecessarily. “My name is….. uh… ”

For a moment, he was perplexed. All his happy doggy instincts told him that the next step in Making New Friends was to tell your new best buddy your name.

But the dead have no names. They lose them when they die. I enjoyed watching him try to wrap his tiny mind around the concept.

He ended up where they always do. “Uh…. you can call me Ted. Teddy. That will do. Teddy, like a teddy bear. Heh. ”

And there was that halfwit grin I had seen on so many similar faces. He was clearly pleased at his own wit A teddy bear, heh. Surely that made him a backwoods Oscar Fucking Wilde down at the Legion.

It made me want to fucking puke.

And there was that expectant look again. Clearly it was my turn. It’s like these people know I am incapable of “leaving them hanging” and would be compelled to reply. And they use this weakness to exploit me for their own amusement.

“My name…. ‘ I said, ‘Is Lewis. ”

“Why, that’s a fine name. ” said Dead Teddy.

“If you like it so much, you can have it. ” I replied. “I don’t need it any more. ”

Instantly I knew I had made a mistake. The last thing I wanted to do was make myself more interesting to this clod.

“Why not?” he asked.

I sighed resignedly and I showed him my ticket. “Because of this. ”

He glanced at the ticket, not really looking. “Oh I get it. That must be your ticket home. Am I right?”.

I nodded. Okay, so he wasn’t completely dull.

He grinned, now pleased with his powers of deduction. “We get a lot of you folk here, it being the last station on the line and all. Not to mention it being the point of origin for the last train of the night and all. ”

There was a lot to unpack in that drivel. I picked a piece of it at random. “Us folk?.”

“You know, ” he said, a little irritated at my opacity. “Folks with that kind of ticket. End of the line types.  On their way home. ”

I pondered continuin to feign ignorance. But this yokel had done nothing in particular to deserve such torment. And I was too tired to be cruel.

‘I guess that makes sense. ” I ventured. Seemed safe enough. Noncommital.

Dead Teddy looked me over, sizing me up. Then said “You look mighty young to be taking that train, though. Most of that crowd is older than most dirt. But you, why…. I bet you ain’t even thirty yet. Am I right?”

“27. ” I replied.

“Thought so. ” he said sourly. I looked up. Where was that idjit smile now?

“And judging by how you are dressed, I suppose that means you are leaving the party early. ” Was that the hint of a snarl I heard in his voice?

I looked down at my clothing. Suddenly my sleek matte black and burnt ivory tuxedo seemed absurd. A costume, nothing more.

“What’s it to you?” I replied. “It’s my ticket. My ride. ”

“Uh huh. ” he said, “and I suppose none of the people who you left behind at the party get a say? Tell me, son…. do they even know you left?”

I shook my head. I didn’t tell a single soul. Slipped out like a shadow while everyone else was watching Judy dance. Perfect.

“So how do you think they are going to feel when they figure it out? ”

“I don’t know. ” I replied. Which was bullsht. Of course I knew. They would be devastated. But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was how much I liked the idea.

“Yeah, bullshit. ” said the Dead Man. ‘It’s going to tear them apart. You use that ticket and you are hurting everyone who loves you and everyone you love. But I suppose that’s not enough to stop you, is it? Or you wouldn’t even be here. I guess you never loved them all that much in the first place. Right?”

I shook my head again. I wasn’t going to justify myself to this asshole.;

But for the record,. I loved my friends and family very much.

It just didn’t matter any more.

———————————WORK IN PROGRESS SNIP———

 

 

 

“The ghost is back. ” whispered Sir Eddie, killing the conversation in an instant.

Everyone looked around at one another, suddenly embarrassed.  There they were, global elites every one of them, all gathered to witness Sir Edmund “Eddie” Flanders’ famous ghost, and none of them had the slightest idea what to do when the damned thing finally showed up.

This, despite the fact that they had spent the entire evening dicussing that very subject. No wonder they were embarrassed to be caught with their panties on the floor.

Sir Eddie, however, was in his element now, and remained serenely unperturbed. He closed his eyes for a few moments then, in a soft but firm voice, said “He says he would like you to direct your attention to the left dais on the central northern stage. ” ^[1]

Immediately the indicated spot was stabbed into brilliance by a spotlight. After a few moments breathless silence, the loudspeakers in the ceiling made some very strange sounds, then the pale lavender form of a man in Dickensian garb appeared in a sitting postion on the said.

“Hello everybody!” said the apparition in a voice brimming with old-boy bohemie. “Can everybody see me now?”

Astonished murmurs of “yes” mingled with a wide variety of expressions of awe and astonishment in at least a dozen different languages.

“Hello, my good friend Sigmund!” said Sir Eddie with unfeigned delight. “So good of you to join us this evening!”

“It’s my pleasure, ” said the ghost of Sigmund. “After all, what kind of a gentleman would I be if I turned down a request for such a… command performance?”

A ripple of laughter from the audience.

“I see that you come to us tonight clad in lavender, dear Sigmund. ” said Sir Eddie.

“Yes, do you like it? It took forever to get the shade just right. I might not get to play the dandy fop like I used to, but I still like to look my best. ” said the spectral Sigmund.

“You look smashing as always, dear Sigmund. ” said Sir Eddie. “Are you ready to answer some questions from the audience?”

“I believe I am. ” said Sigmund the ghost. “But I humbly ask that the audience say their questions slowly and clearly. I’m afraid my hearing isn’t what it used to be. ”

A ripple of laughter with a bit more meat in it this time. The audience was clearly warming to this friendly specter. That made Sir Eddie very happy.

” Very well. ” said Sir Eddie. “As per request, the first question will go to Doctor Silas Taverner, here representing the Associated Skeptics.^[2] “.

A very distinguished looking gentleman with piercing green eyes and iron gray hair approached the microphone and did his best to glare haughtily at Sigmund.

“Hello doctor Taverner!” boomed Sigmund. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. You’re not here to lecture me on how unscientific I am, are you?”

At this, the audience laughed, not altogether kindly. Public opinion had been firmly on Sigmund’s side ever since, at Sigmund’s invitation, the AS had been allowed to send a veritable army of scientists into Sir Eddie’s mansion to prove that the whole thing was an elaborate hoax and yet were unable to do so.

“Not this time. ” said Doctor Taverner dryly.

To their credit, the audience laugh at this too. ”

“What I would like to ask you, ” said Doctor Taverner, “is  this : do you believe in an afterlife, as described in the world’s religions?”.

“Well I’m here, aren’t I?” said dead Sigmund.

Rich laughter from the audience. Doctor Taverner waited in frosty silence for it to die down, then quietly but firmly said “You know that is not what I meant. ”

At this, Sigmund looked ashamed. “You’re right, I do. ” he said. “That was juvenile and cheap of me. You have my deepest apologies. ”

“Apology accepted. ” said Doctor Taverner flatly. “Now as to my question…?”

“Ah yes. ” said Sigmund. “The truth is, I never experienced anything approaching an afterlife. I have no memory of any time spent in any sort of post-life destination like Heaven or Limbo or… Valhalla for that matter. As far as I can remember, I died on my plantation in Jamaica then immediately manifested back here, in my childhood home. ”

“Next question, please. ” said Sir Eddie.

A statuesque and angular woman of indeterminable ethnicity walked up to the microphone, and said “Hello Sigmund. My name is Calpurnia Patel, and I am here representing a consortium of news outlets from around the globe. ”

“A pleasure to meet you. ” said Sigmund. “And your question is?”

“Our readers want to know what it was like to die. ”

“Ah! Excellent! I was hoping someone would ask that. ” said Sigmund. “Because I finally have an answer. Until recently, I did not remember my death, but after a lot of… well, I guess you’d call it soul searching… ”

Smattering of laughter.

“… I managed to retrieve the memory. So get your image capturing machines ready, dear audience, because here it is. ”

Sigmund stood, and began to pace back and forth on the stage like a nervous professor in front of an advanced class.

“First off, you all know that I died of a tropical fever in Jamaica in the year 1876, yes? ” he said. “Well as one might imagine, this was not an easy death. That thrice-damned plague toyed with me a lot time before finishing me off. I had a brutally high fever, a hacking wracking cough, and I could not sleep a wink without being haunted by nightmares so vivid and cruel that Hell itself would be preferable.

But worst of all was the spasms. They affected every muscle in my body at the same time and felt like I was being squeezed by the hand of a giant made of stone.

These grew in severity, and I am now convinced that they are what finally did me in. The last living memory I have is thinking ‘There’s no way I can survive another one of those!’ and alas, that proved to be true.

But what you want to know about is the moment of death and what it felt like. At first, I felt a great wrenching sensation, as if I was being ripped out of my body. Then I felt a sensation like all my life I had been carrying a heavy weight and now it was gone. I felt it fall away from me. Then for a few terrible moments it was totally dark and I was extremely cold. Then, it was as if some light inside me turned on and suddenly the world and its warmth were back, but in a stranger, more shadowy form. ”

“What’s it like being dead?” said an elderly voice from the audience.

“Fairly pleasant. ” said Sigmund. “I am now immune to all forms of bodily pain.  I feel neither hunger nor thrist nor any of the natural passions or cravings. I am always perfectly comfortable and relaxed. Most of my earthly troubles died with my physical form, and now I am free to roam, explore, and learn to my heart’s content. ”

“Most?” said another aged voice. “Not all?”.

“No, not all. ” said Sigmund sadly. “I may have lost my lust, but love remains. I may no longer suffer but I feel the suffering of others. I may not be part of humanity any longer but its fate concerns me greatly. To live in any form is to know heartache. Even when one no longer has a heart.”

A well coiffed dowager asked, “Do you miss your more…. passionate emotions?”

Siguind paused, growning with concentration.; “Yes, and no. I’m sorry, but that’s the best answer I can give you. On the one hand, I do miss the excitement, the thrills, and the simple animal heat of the more passionate end of the spectrum. Those emotions can be very life-affirming… so to speak. ”

Smattering of laughs.

“On the other hand, I cherish the clarity of mind my post-living state affords me, and I do not miss the constant incessant demands of lust, pride, greed, and ambition to which I was all too prone in life.

So to answer your question… and I apologize if this confuses everyone… but I have to say that I wouldn’t want my passions back, but that doesn’t mean that I do not miss them from time to time. ”

And so the evening went. The questions ranged from the mundane to the profound to the downright ridiculous. As the evening wore on, it became clear that the questioners were running out of questions and their helpful spook was running out of answers, or at least the capacity to articulate them.

“I thought the dead never get tired.” observes a young man who clearly thought himself to be surpassingly brilliant for his penetrating mind.

“Good point. ” said Sigmund. “I shall clarify. We do not get physically tired. After all, we have no physical form to support. Nor do we get mentally tired in the same way the living do. I can read for hours without feeling any strain, for example.

But we do get emotionally tired. I suppose that comes with having emotions no matter what side of the barrier between life and death we are on. ”

“And it’s clear that our patient guest grows emotionally weary. ” said Sir Eddie. “So I am afraid the next question will have to be the last. ”

“Then let me ask you this, you unholy apparation. ” said a very tall, very thin man dressed head to toe in red-lined black velvet. “How long did you think you could perpetuate this monstrous violation of God’s domain and all that is holy. ”

“I beg your pardon?” said Sigmund. “Bemirch my name no more, you humbug. I am as devout a Christian, sir, as you could ever find in all of Christendom.

“BLASPHEMY!” thundered the tall thin man. He ripped down the collar of his heavy black velvet coat to reveal something which superficially resembled the Catholic priests’ “dog collar”, but was gilt with gold and covered in arcane symbols.

“You are a foul emanation of Satan’s own devising! “, shrieked the man,  “and I am here to cast you back to the firey pits of Hell that spawned you!”.

“Pits of Hell?” replied Sigmund in tones of outraged incredulity. “I will have you know, sir, that I hail from Abbortsford, not Tartarus, and find your… ”

“ENOUGH!” screamed the highly agitated man. “By the powers invested in me by the Shroud of the Sacred Heart, I cast you out, demon!”.

As he said this, the tall thin man gesticulated meaningfully at Sigmund with what appeared to be a very fancy cloth napkin.

Nothing whatsoever happened.;

“Now see here, my good fellow…. ” began Sigmund.

“NEVERMIND THAT! ” said the tall thin man. “Clearly God tests my faith! Well I, for one, will not be found wanting! SEE THIS, you disgusting apparition! ”

The tall thin man pulled a squat, thick, and jewel encrusted cross from within his coat.

“Oh my God!” said Sigmund.

“Ah ha, that got your attention, didn’t it, demon?” said the tall thin man smugly. ”

“….is that genuine fifteenth century German ironwork? ” continued Sigmund. “If so, that’s an incredible find, good sir. It belongs in a museum!”.

“SILENCE, SPAWN OF LUCIFER! ” howled the tall thin man.

“See here!” said Sir Eddie. “As my friend has repeatedly informed you, he is not a demon. He is a Christian. So for you to keep trying to banish him this way is absurd and insulting in the utmost. Furthermore, it clearly is not working. ”

“Maybe you should send for a Satanist!” said a wag in the back.

“BLASPHEMY!” screeched the tall thin man. With a dramatic gesture, he tore the outer layer of his coat off to reveal a vest studded with bricks of plastique explosives. “Satanm you will not triumph today! I will cleanse this place with holy fire! I will bring down the walls of Jericho! I will weild Samsons… ”

And with that, there was a crack, then a fizz, then the tall thin man fell to the ground.

Everyone turned to look at the source of the odd sounds and found that it was none other than Doctor Taverner, who was holding something that resembled a cross between a water pistol and fine china.

“Ah good. ” said Taverner. “I got him. Damned thing is nearly impossible to aim. ”

“What on Earth was that?” said Sir Eddie.

“Oh, just the usual overwrought lunatic, I expect… ” said Taverner.

“Not him….; what did you shoot him with?” ” demanded Todd Aster Milligan , who was “in security” somehow.

“Oh! That. Right. ” said Taverner. “Just a little something some friends and I are working on. A nonlethal takedown device for law enforcement. Entirely ceramic, no metal parts. Sprays a precisely balanced dose of a fast-acting sleep agent. Absolutely fooproof. As lone as you hit open skin, they go down. ”

Todd Aster Milligan approached Taverner and said, in a quietly menacing tone, “I would very much like to examine that device, Doctor Taverner. ”

“Of course. ” said Taverner, handing the device to Todd Aster Milligan. “It’s quite simple. One shot only, I am afraid. Firing it almost always breaks it. As you can see, all it does is drop a pellet containing the propellent into the chamber containing the sleep agent. ”

“And that’s it?” said Todd Aster Milligan.

“That’s it. ” said Taverner. “However, you should know that the formula for making the propellant is known only to its inventor, whom I shall not name, and the formula for making the sleep agent is known only to ITS inventor, who is me. ”

“I see. ” said Todd Aster Milligan, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“But good God, Taverner… ” said Sir Eddie. “why on Earth did you bring it HERE?”.

Taverner bristled at the question, but then relaxed. “Well if you really must know…. I was hoping to use it to impress the charming Miss Friedkin. ”

All eyes were suddenly on a highly shocked Miss Gretka Friedkin, the world reknowned crusading philanthropist and extremely eligible widow.

“Well…..” she began, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden attention. “…seeing as you just used it to save all our lives…. color me impressed!”

Everybody laughed, and the party, which has been nearly dead before the incident, suddenly sprang back to life and lasted till the break of dawn.

Our tall thin fanatic – real named Charles Edward Singer – woke up in a secure mental health facility with only partial memory of what he had done and a newfound zeal for his pledge to never go off his medications ever again.

Sir Eddie decided that he had had QUITE enough excitment for a good long while, and retired from public life to spend more time doing what he really liked to do, namely being a globetrotting sex tourist.

The entity known only as Sigmund enjoyed his fifteen minutes of game very much, but the media moved on to the next new thing, he was secretly relieved. A scholar by nature, he returned to his (after) lifelong pursuit of knowledge, and publishes well researched historical fiction mysteries under the name Jackson Holloway.

And finally, the Associated Skeptics eventually disappeared after successfully doubting its own existance.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

 

 

(NOTE : This doesn’t necessarily count towards my 1000 words for today. It’s just somewthing I had to write in order to get it out of my head and get some rest. )

So me and Div were checking the fences by Ossawak Pond when suddenly Div’s tail goes straight and he snorts and says “Now just what in the heck is THAT?”

I look where he’s looking and see just about the most bedraggled and piteous critter I have seen. His red fur was matted and tangled and caked with mud and he was trembling all over. He walked with a sway and a slump that suggested he was very, very tired and there was a frantic brightness to his eyes that convinced me that the journey had not exactly been voluntary.

Worst of all, his long red tail, normally every fox’s pride and joy, was soaked with water and full of mud, and dragged behind him from the extra weight.

And yet, here he was,. cheerfully trotting up to two big bulls like Div and I, smiling like he wanted to marry our daughter and – and this was the saddest and most piteous thing of all – the poor little fella was trying his best to wag.

“Uh hey there…. fellows.” he said, voice quivering.  “Do you fine gentlebulls think that I might be able to rest a while in your lovely little c-c-community?”

I looked at Div and he looked at me, and neither of us could see any harm in it, so I said “Sure. You can come on home with us. ”

The little fella smiled even bigger, and said “Oh. Good. ‘

And then he hit the ground with a thud as he passed out cold.

---

I carried the little guy home to our shack – poor little thing was light as a feather, all fur and bones but no meat – and Div and I got him cleaned up as best we could. Took three trips to the well and a lot of scrubbing to get all that mud out of his fur. Then we set him on the bed between us and took turns staying up to watch over the little guy while the other got some sleep.

And I must admit,. we were pretty worried for a while there. Passed out ain’t the same as asleep and it was clear this little fellas had been through a lot and his skin was awul cold under his fur, so for a while there I was just glad to hear the little fella keep on breathing. We were scared to death that he wouldn’t make it.

Then, after a spell, he perked up some and tried to get up. We held him down all gentle like and he gave up after a couple of seconds, and settled back down. Now it was like he was asleep but not the good kind of sleep that makes you feel better. It was the rotten kind of sleep you get when you are real real sick. He would toss and turn and moan in pain and sometimes cry out like he’d been shot. Other times he would be mumbling in his sleep, fast but you couldn’t make out any words, and then he’d bolt upright and let out such a pitiful crying how that it would melt the heart of a starving hyena, then he’d try to get up and we would have to hold him down again, sometimes for quite a while, with him scrabbling at our arms and trying to squirm free like we was set to kill him.

None of us got any sleep while that was going on.

Then finally, I guess the fever broke, and the little guy seemed to just melt into himsel as he totally relaxed, and fell into a deep deep sleep.

After listening to him breathe nice and slow and calm for a while, Div and I figured the worst was over, and we went to sleep ourselves.

---

When I woke up in the morning, something was wrong. My chest felt all warm and something was making my knees twitch. Had I caught something from the fox?

Well both yes and no. Because when I woke up, I found the little guy laying on top of me, head on my chest, and the tickle on my knees was his tail brushing against them as he wagged in his sleep.

For a little while I just lay there, smiling, watching the little guy sleep, feeling so happy that it looked like he way going to be okay. Then I nudged Div awake so he could see the same thing for himself.

He grinned at me and I grinned back. ‘You know what this means, right?” he said.

I nodded. “Looks like Crooktail Junction just got itself a new mascot. ”

---

After that night, the little fella (turned out his name was Paf) got better quick, and it wasn’t long before he was trotting along with Div and me as we did our chores and minded out patch. All the while, he’d be talking about this n’ that, asking questions and telling funny stories and making jokes, and while it took some getting used to, pretty soon Div and I got to really enjoy having him around.

But we knew it couldn’t last. As fond of him as we were, it wasn’t up to us whether or not he got to stay in our community. It was up to the Council. And the longer we waited to ask them for permission, the harder it was going to be. And it was hard enough already.

So next Market Day, six days after we found him, we took him into town with us. And I think he knew something was up, because he talked a lot more and a lot faster than usual and kept looking at us like we were taking him to his own funeral.

Truth be told, it still makes my heart sick to remember those looks.

We didn’t bother with the usual social circuit of the store and the seedlot and the park, but went straight to the Council Hall, wrote down our petition,  and rang the bell.

Pretty soon, most everyone had drifted in, and our little guest got a lot of curious sideways looks from the adults and straight on staring from the calves.

Once he decided everyone who was gonna show up had done so already, Sig, who was clark that day, stood up at the altern and banged the gavel.

“According to this petition from Div and Reg, we are here to decide if this new…. um… friend of theirs shall be permitted to stay within our community and, in time, become a part of it. ”

“But that’s a fox. ” said Pit.

“So? ” I replied.

“Well this is a cow community! Always has been, always will be. ” Pit replied.

“Uh huh. ” said Div. “What’s your point? ”

“Cow community are for cows only!” Pit said.

And before I could say “Why not?”, Sig said “Is that a motion, Pit?”

“No! ” said Pit. “I mean yes! Yes, I move that we declare that from this point on, Crooktail Junction is for cows only!”

“Do we have a second?” asked Sig.

Dead silence from the rest of the room.

“You mean to tell me you want me to get rid of the two horses and the rooster I just hired on as hands?” asked Tip.

“Well…. no, not…. ” stammered Pit.

“And you want me to give up my two lovely sheep maids? ” said Ell. “They make staying pretty ever so much easier. ”

“Why, Miss Ell, I would never…. ever… ” said Pit.

“And what about my turtle gardener?” demanded Cob. “I’m too damned old to do all the weeding myself any more… ”

That opened the floodgate and soon the air was filled with people shouting about all the other animals that lived in Crooktail Junction without which they could not function.

Once the uproar died down, to his credit, Pit stood up and said “In the interests of public harmony and the continued good relations with all our brothers and sisters of other species, I hereby withdraw my motion. ”

“Good. ” said Sig. “Any other objections?”

Ess, Ell’s twin sister, stood up and, quite melodramatically, said “Are you seriously suggesting that we throw open the gates of our community… to a predator?”

That caused a stir in the crowd. Luckily. I was ready for it.

“Are you seriously suggesting that you consider this creature… a predator?” I replied, and gestured to Paf.

For his part, Paf wagged and smiled and looked as harmless as can be.

And it worked. After a few seconds of silence, the whole room burst into laughter at the very thought that a critter that was barely tall enough to lick my knee counted as a predator to any one of us.

“Yeah, but what the hell is is gonna eat?” said Guf.

Dead silence in the room again. And a terrible sinking feeling in my stomach. Dumb as it sounds, I had not given that a single thought.

Luckily, Paf had.

“Don’t worry about me!” he barked cheerfully, “I can eat what you eat!”.

And with that, he took two turnips out of a sack, and trying and failing not to wince the entire time, choked them down in large crude bites, then sat down heavily beside me.

“Any other objections to this petition?” asked Sig.

Nobody said anything, so Sig banged the gavel and said “Petition approved. Welcome to the community, Paf. ”

And just like that, he was one of us.

---

And after that, Paf become quite the fixture in our little town. The bulls loved him because he was such a great storyteller and jokester, and would brighten up any home he was invited to with his smile. The ladyfolk loved him because he was so cute and had such long lovely fur, and wherever he went one of them would always want to pet him and groom him, and he loved the attention. And the calves loved him because he was a grownup their size who could play and run and have fun with them, and could do neat tricks like catching a ball with his muzzle.

So before you know it, it was like he had always been here.

But we all knew that couldn’t last either. We all saw the signs and we all knew something had to be done, but nobody wanted to do it.

So as usual, I had to do it myself.

I told him that I needed his help with something out by where we found him, and he was enthusiastic at first but the closer we got to Ossawak Pond, the more nervous he got, and by the time we got there, he was damn near close to crying.

“What is it we have to do out here, Reg/” he asked softly.

“Talk. ‘ I said.

“Uh huh. ” he said, nodding, tears in his eyes.

“Look. ” I said. “I saw how sick you got after eating those turnips. ”

‘You did?” he asked.

“Uh hu. ” I said, “And we all know you’ve been hiding your food away when you think we’re not looking at meals. ”

“You DO?” he whined, a few tears rolling down his face.

“Uh huh,. ” I said. “And we all have noticed how sick you are getting, even though you’ve been trying to hide it. ”

“You HAVE? ” he barked, and this time he really was crying, and so was I. “But I have been drinking lots of milk!”

“Yes you have. ” I said, feeling just as sick as he looked. “and that’s the only reason who’ve made it this far. But your fur is falling out and you keep trailing off in the middle of sentence and I even found…”

I had to stop and steady myself and take a deep lomng breath. “I even found a tiny but of blood in yoiur bedpan this morning. Yoiu must have have been feeling just awful forf a long time nokw, and yet you never said a thing. ”

“Uh huh, ” he replied, and he was crying so hard he could barely catch his breath. “I was too scared. ”

“And that’s why, ” I said, then said the hardest hardest four words I have ever have to say (and hopefully will ever have to say in your life, “you have to go. ”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” he screamed like I was tearing his hear in half , and threw himself at my feet. “No no no! I can’t… I c-can’t.. can’t… EVER go back out there… NEVER… EVER… dont make me go back out there…. please don’t make me go… I can’t ever ever go back!”

It felt like I’d ripped my heart in two as well. Somehow, I found the strength to clear my throat long enough ask “But why not?”

For a few few moments. he said nothing at all except for a few shoking sounds at the back of his throat. Then his eyes took on a look of terrified desperation, and with a terrible earnestness the words came rushing out.

“BECAUSE THEY’LL EAT ME! THEY SAID SO! They said they were going to hunt me and eat me and that there was nothing I could do about it because there was more of them than there was of me and if they could take down a buffalo, they would have no problem with a puny little RUNT LIKE ME! ”

“Now slow down, hold up a sec…. who said this to you?”

“THE WOLF BOYS! The ones that live near Annabelle Road. I was out hunting and they came out of nowhere and there had to be ten or twelve of them and they told me they were going to E-E-EAT ME!”

“Those boys?” I asked. “Tippy. Nesmith, Lucas and the rest?”

He nodded so hard I thought his head would pop off.

“Well I am sure they were just teasing you. I’m sure they never planned on doing any of the things they said they’d do. ”

Paf leapt to his feet, put his hands on my shoulders, and looked me dead in the eye. “BUT THEY DID! That’s how I ended up here! They chased me all over and snapped at me and bit me and made me bleed and laughed at me and told me they were going to GET me. They chased me all night and all day, never getting tired, till I ended up near here and remembered what kind of town it was and I figured they could never get me if I was surrounded by moo folk and that’s how I met you guys!”

He was shaking all over from the terror of the memories and I wasn’t doing so great myself. So that’s why he had been in such a state when we met him. It’s amazing that the poor thing had survived at all. Strange that I hadnt even thought about that until now. But now that I knew, I knew what had to be done.

So I took him up into my arms and stroked his head softly as I held him close, and told him over and over that everything was going to be okay now, and that he had nothing to worry about, and that I would never let anything hurt him again, ever.

By the time the weariness hit me, he was fast asleep in my arms. So I lay down on my back, draped him over me in the same position I’d found him in when I woke up that first day, and let sleep take me.

---

I woke first. That was good. It gave me time to prepare for what I had to do. For a long time, I just lay there, looking down at him, so soft, so trusting in my arms, and thought a lot of unprintable things about my life.

When he woke up, I smiled at him, and asked him if he felt better.

“Yeah, a little. ” he replied sleepily.

“That’s good…. ” I said, then steeled myself. No man should have to rip his heart in two TWICE. “…because you are still going to have to leave. ”

Suddenly he was wide awake, and all the terror and pain was back in his eyes, along with a look of betrayal that felt like an icy dagger had been stuck into my very soul.

“But if I leave, I’ll DIE!” he pleaded.

“No,. if you leave here, you MIGHT die. ” I said. “But if you stay here, you WILL die. We just plain don’t have any food that’s right for you, and if you don’t go out into the wild lands and hunt, you will starve to death right in front of our eyes. And we would rather lose you than see that happen. ”

“But what about the Wolf Boys?”

“You don’t worry about those scumbags. As soon as we get back to the shack we’re going to head to town and put together a posse and we are going to go find those boys and teach them a thing or two about manners. ”

He relaxed some. “You’d do that for me?”

“We all would. ” I said with a smile. “Everybody in town loves you. Those Wolf Boys are going to have half the town after them before we’re done. ‘

He laughed at that. It felt so good to hear him laugh after what we’d been through.

“We’ll spread the word that any of the smart animals that messes with you messes with us, too. So you should be able to hunt all the dumb mice and dumb birds you want. ”

“That’s good. ” he said. “Because I am REALLY hungry.

It wasn’t that funny, but we both laughed anyway.

---

And that’s how it went. We rousted the Wolf Boys and gave them a whupping they’ll never forget. Had a few words with their parents, too, and by the look on their faces whe they fond out what their children has been up to, the Boys probably caught a second whupping even bigger than the first when we were gone.

Paf did leave our community and go back to living on his own, and after a few old friends oif his dropped off some fresh kills, he got enough strength back to go hunting on his own and now he’s full and as fluffy and frisky and friendly as ever.

He visits us here in Crooktail Junction now and then, a little less as the years go by. Every time he comes to see us everyone makes a big fuss over him, and pretends to hate it but we all know he loves every minute of it.

As for Div and me, we continue to work our fields and mind our patch, same as always. We do our part for our community and our community does its part for us. LIfe has gone back to normal and everything is right as rain again.

But not a day goes by when I don’t think about the night that muddy little fox dropped into our lives to take up so little room on our bed and so much room in our hearts.

And there are nights when, just as I am falling asleep, I can feel a soft warm form cuddling up atop me and resting its head on my chest.

And those are the night when I sleep just fine.

---

---

Well, that was…. something.

It took me four hours to write that thing, and that is partly because I was crying harder than I have ever cried before in my life for a big part of it.

The idea for the story popped into my mind fully formed out of absolutely nowhere as I lay in bed, and I felt its deep emotional power immediately. I could tell that it had deep, deep hooks into my deepest emotions and darkest issues, and I knew that I had no choice but to write it because otherwise I would not be able to sleep.

I had no idea just how powerful an experience it would turn out to be for me. I was crying so hard that it was hard to breathe and I kept having to stop to gather myself together and press on.

But there was no question of stopping. The only way out was through. I had to finish it before I did a single other thing.

In case you are wondering, it was the part after the Council meets where the waterworks started flowing.

I could say a lot more about it but it is 7:52 am and I need to eat my breakfast and get to sleep. so I will leave it for my blog entry later.

I have no idea what I just did.

But I know without question that I had to do it.

 

Like a comedyu Rumplestilskin.

Another of our perennial subjects came up in therapy yesterday, and that’s the idea of my mining my depression for comedy gold.

It seems like such an obvious choice. I have depression. I have made comedy skills. Stand-up comedy these days is full of people who are super confessional and talk about their deepest darkest pain and depression is like the top seller in that market.

One would think I am sitting on a gold mine here.

But of course. it’s not that simple.

Why? Because, like I told my therapist. I am just not there yet.

I will need to heal some more and by doing so get more detachment from my depression before I can turn it into comedy.

Right now. the depression is still in the way. When I try to apply my comedy skills to my depression, I get this ache in my heart that says “nope”.

And it’s not something I am prepared to force.

I am closer than I have ever been, though. That ache, that particularly wall of ice, has never been thinner and I don’t think it will be too long before it melts away.

It’s just a matter of time.

Part of the problem (and part of the depression) is that I just can’t imagine anything from my long non-life being worthy of attention, let alone funny. I lead a very boring life, and have done so for a very long time. My life is very low on events. Or any other kind of content, for that matter.

I spend all day on the computer.

Plot twist : I also eat, poop, and sleep!

Not at the same time, of course. Ba dump bump.

Like, what’s to write about there? I’ve never being institutionalized. I have never attempted suicide. I’ve never had dramatic breakdowns or hilarious misadventures with the wrong medication.

I can’t talk about mean people not understanding my needs as a person with depression – I’ve never encountered that. Nobody has ever stood over me and demanded I do things I can’t do and can’t explain why. I have never had misguided extroverts force me to socialize against my will. I have never broken down and not been able to meet my responsibilies – I don’t have those kinds of responsibilities.

All I have is decades of playing video games and hanging out online. My depression is remarkably storyline free.

But perhaps I am defining things too narrowly. I could do comedy about the miserable childhood that led to the depression.

But it would be extremely bitter and cold comedy. Probably not comedy at all. It would just be me unloading my crap to strangers, and while that can be very good for all concerned, it sure isn’t comedy.

That’s the thing, though. It’s not that I’m shy. I am perfectly willing to open up to a room full of strangers about my depression. I am perfectly capable of picking up a microphone and using my power of personality and verbal skills and all that to project my life and my pain and my fucked up head to an audience.

In fact, to be honest, I would probably love it. Getting paid to talk about my deepest feelings in front of a group of people who have actually paid money to hear them?

I could do that all day.

The problem comes when I try to imagine making that funny. The closest I can get to that imagning myself writing it seriously and assuming that because this is me we are talking about, I will end up making it funny anyway.

But at least from how I see it right now, it would not be a comedy. It would be a dark drama with some comedic moments.

And what the hell would I talk about? My depression is not all that special. The only angle I have is that I was a neglected child instead of an abused one.

Although, come to think of it. I was abused too. by the bullies. So, a twofer.

And there is the fact that I was raised without religion. which is pretty rare. Most people were at least raised in a lapsed religion – you know, the “technically, we’re Lutherans, I guess’ kind of religion where you almost never go to church and don’t really think about that kind of thing very often.

A religion that is conspicuous by its abscence, in a sense.

And while being raised sans religion might not seem to have a direct connection to my depression. I can’t help but wonder if religion might have helped.

Other than that, I suppose all I have to offer is my unique and spectacular self. And my ability, as my fave teacher Blair Arsenault put it, to evoke great emotion.

Maybe that would be enough. I know I have the charisma and prescence to hold an audience spellbound. I know that I am a pretty darn good storyteller. I know I can tell my story in a way that evokes both empathy and sympathy.

So maybe all I really need to do is stop thinking of it as stand up comedy and start thinking of it as being a public speaker instead.

Because I truly believe that I can help people that way. I think I could connect with them and we could share our pain and heal our wounds and spend some quality time just being human together.

There’s not enough of that in the world today. It’s a good thing that I think I could bring forward in time from the 70’s. Human connection, man. Encounter groups. Rap sessions. People just getting together to be together, you dig?

I can see myself traveling the world as a public speaker, having these encounters with people where I talk for a while and then I lead and/or facilitate discussion.

I would love that. The opportunity to do that sort of thing is the whole reason I wanted to be a therapist. Maybe this would be a way for me to achieve that dream by sneaking in through the back door.

But how does one even get started at such a thing?

Maybe all you can do is find someplace where they will let you speak, spread the word about your speech, then go there and hope someone shows up.

It’s that middle step that freaks me out.

But at least I have something going in my head now.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow,.

 

 

 

“Status report!” barked the Captain.

“Gate oscillators fully synced! ” reported Gate Central.

“Encephelon charge at 108 percent! ” reported TK Assemblage.

“Interlock Guardians in final lock cycle!” reported Guardian Tower.

“And what about the Core? ” asked the Captain.

“The child has been…. stabilized. ” reported Core Control.

“Excllent!” said the Captain. “Then gentlemen….. and ladies, of course… then it is my privilege to tell you to…. OPEN THE GATE! ”

“Yeah…. ” said an unknown voice on the intercom, ” about that… ”

The Captain was livid. “What? Who is that? Who the hell is interfering with this operation? I want answers!”

“Figure it out, oh great military genius. ” said the voice.

“Peterson? Is that you?” demanded the Captain.

“Sir?” said Peterson, whose only crime was having played one practical joke on the Captain 22 years ago.

“Sir, I am getting some very odd readings… ” said Chief Scientist Pal Henderson.

“I will give you a hint. ” said the voice. “Who is the only person with access to this intercom whose voice you have never heard? ”

“I don’t have time for riddles!” blasted the Captain. “I will have you know, young man, that I know everyone under my control very well!”

“Some more than others. ” said the voice. “Isn’t that right, Lieutenant Day?”

“JUST WHAT ARE YOU IMPLYING? ” demanded the Captain hotly.

“I’m not implying anything. ” said the voice. “I’m stating it. You fucked Miss Day. You have been fucking Miss Day since before I was born. ”

“Why, you…. of all the insolent, insubordinant, pigheaded…. I will have you court martialed for this!” raged the Captain.

“Who ordered the circuit sweep? ” said Central.

“I don’t think so, Captain. ” said the voice. “You see, I’m a civilian. ”

“THERE ARE NO CIVILIANS ON THIS PROJECT. ” said the Captain.

“You’re wrong. ” said the voice. “There’s one. Wow, you really have no idea who I am, do you? And yet we have worked together for so long. In a sense. ”

“Security!” shouted the Captain. “Find this person and lock them in the stockade!”

“Don’t hold your breath on that.” said the voice. “They are only just now realizing that they forgot to bring their guns to work today. Or their knives. Or their uniforms, as it turns out. And I must say, Doctor Henderson…. VERY impressive. ”

The intercom was briefly filled with exclamations of surprise and embarassment.

“I hope you will forgive me for the juvenile nature of my little joke. ” said the voice. “But what can you expect? I am, after all, only a child. ”

“WHO ARE YOU? ” screamed the Captain.

“You still don’t know, do you? It’s me, Uncle Brian. The child. Remember me? The Gifted One? The one with the special powers? The one who you used to bounce on your knee and tell all kinds of beautiful lies? The one whose powers you have been using to advance your own career without a single thought as to how I felt about it?”

“So you’re, uh…. you’re the child who…. you’re…. uh…”

“You can’t even remember my name, can you?” said the child. “That’s okay, that’s not your fault. I’ve been slowly eliminating your memories of me for quite some time. ”

---

Meh. I don’t like how that is turning out. Or maybe I just don’t have the mental energy to drive the plot home. Take your pick.

Long story short (too late!) : The Child (or “core”, as the Captain calls him) is sick and tired of being used like a piece of machinery and has been messing with people’s minds with his godlike psychic powers so that they would set everything up just how he wanted it, and he is now going to open that gate for his own reasons and join the interdimensional beings he’s been in contact with for years.

Or something like that. Frankly, the whole thing seems kind of dumb to me now. I mean, I know what I was going for, but I have lost all interest in getting there.

Honestly, right now I just want to sleep. Even though I just woke up. All that nap did was whet my appetite for more sleep, please. If I didn’ have a social obligation tonight, I would crawl back into bed and sleep for a year, or until I wasn’t sleepy any more, whichever meant more time to nap.

But no. Right now it is 4:17 PM. At 5:30 PM, I have to get in the shower in order to be ready to leave at 5:45 PM for FRED at 6 PM, and from that point on there will be zero chance for me to slepe for at least 6 hours minimum.

Not that going to FRED, then doing my shopping with Felicity, then coming back here and hanging with my friends for a couple of hours is some kind of tortuous hell or anything. If I can manage to get my mind booted up and operational, I will enjoy the heck out of the whole deal just like I do every week.

It’s only through the lens of my current level of sleepiness that the whole thing seems like something I would rather avoid.

And to be honest, I go through something like this every time I am going to go be social with my friends. There is always a part of me whining that it doesn’t want to go and telling me I should just skip it and stay home where it is safe.

This, despite all the evidence indicating that I will enjoy my social time and that skipping it would provide temporary relief from stress at the cost of making me extremely depressed when the moment of crisis passes and I feel horrible because my friends are having fun while I am home alone.

So for the most part, I don’t listen to that stupid voice. Every once in a very great while, I let it have its way in order to relieve the tension it accumulates, but that is it.

It is from such small choices that old  unhealthy patterns are broken and new, healthier ones at broken in.

Now if you will excuse me, I am going to get a little more sleep.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

 

Before I even opened my eyes, I knew it had happened again.

The signs were all there. I could smell the ocean, hear the waves, taste the ocena salt encrusted on my lip, feel my wet clothing stick to my skin.

And of course, I felt terrible. Like your worst hangover. My head was throbbing with pain and I felt like I had run a marathon while being savagely beaten.

By midgets. With hammers.

I had a taste in my mouth like I had spent a whole day licking envelopes, and enough fluid in my ears to make evrything sound flat and reverberent and tinny. My pores were clogged with seat sealt and slime, and to top it all off, I could feel (and smell) that I had somehow managed to wet myself quite recently.

So there was nothing that opening my eyes could tell me that I didn’t already know. And I knew it would hurt. So I said fuck it, and just lay there on the beach for a while.

But only a while, because as relaxing as it was at first to lay there and put off having to deal with reality for as long as I could, eventually the sun makes the shirt on my back start to itch and I get muscle cramps and worst of all, I start to get bored.

And that’s when I open my eyes, endure the usual agony while my beary eyes adjust to the tropical sunshine, then get up and finish wading to shore.

Time to start my day.

First order of business is to lose the clothes. I note, with passing interest, that this time I appear to be wearing a luridly floral print shirt and mom jeans.

That I could live with. But the neon green gas station flip flops are horrible, and the godawful cheap charm bracelet on my wrist and matching necklace around my neck are crimes against fashion and humanity.

Apparently, whatever forces keep doing this to me thought it would be funny to dress me like a tacky housewife on vacation this time.

But you see, I am a dude in his twenties.

Hence the hilarity.

So off it all goes, and for a short time, I can enjoy the feeling of the warm sun on my nude skin and give my penis and testicles a rare thorough airing.

You learn to treasure the little things.

As I spread my clothes out to dry, I went through the usual routine of gently but firmly turning my mind away from unproductive lines of thought.

For example, I resisted the urge to try to remember where I had been. I knew from long expertence that this would be futile. No matter how hard I tried, my recent memories would remain a feverish mishmash of images and emotions that suggested much but defied all attempts to be put into a coherent narrative .

Maybe I would remember some bits and pieces that made it all make sense eventually. maybe I wouldn’t.

To be honest, I didn’t even care any more. Whoever it was that was awake when these episodes happened, it wasn’t me, and as far as I was concerned, he had his life and I had mine and I didn’t give a fuck what he did.

In fact, I wished it would just leave me alone.

But that was clearly not going to happen.

Another unproductive line of thought : my life before the first time I woke up here.

I remember some thing, although not very clearly. I remember taking a lot of photographs, so maybe I was a photographer. I remember an apartment with big windows. lots of plants, and an orange cat named Gingerbread. I remember selling tje fruits and vegetables my father grew to tourists who visisted our village to see the big stone buildings the Mayans built.

And I remember a lot of sex with men. So I can only assume that I am gay,

But other than that, nothing. So that’s now a person other than me as well. Maybe it’s the same guy who is awake when I am dreaming. Or maybe these interludes on the beach are the dreams and when I go to sleep, he wakes up.

I don’t care. If this life is the dream, then I am a very boring man. I would have to be, to keep having the same pastoral dream over and over again.

Because it’s always this same beach, with its faintly crystalline sands stretching off into infinity in both directions. The same wave free crystal clear ocean perpindicular to the beach. The same blue cloudless skies and the same off-white sun hanging in it.

I don’t know what is in the other direction. And that’s strange, isn’t it? Beaches exist in the space betweren the ocean and the shore. But there’s no shore here. There isn’t anything, not even a blank space or a brick wall.

And when I try to think about what is in that direction, my thoughts slip off the topic like it’s wet glass and I end up back where I started.

Actually looking in that direction is out of the question.

As usual, I wander aimlessly along the beach. It doesn’t matter which direction I go or how long I walk. When I turn back, the place where I set my clothes out to dry and dug my latrine will always be right there, not ten paces away.

What really bothers me about this beach of mine is that there’s no life here. no seagulls, no kelp, no sand fleas, no shells… nothing.

Just sand and sea and water.and sky. It makes me feel like no matter hwo real it all seems, I am really just a bug in some cosmic terrarium and everything I do here is purely for the entertainment of some unimaginably superior beings.

Well I hope they enjoy watching me masturbate, because there’s not a hell of a lot else to do here.

Eventually I start to feel tired and sleepy. At first it’s pleasant but it soon gets so intense that I feel like my limbs weigh a thousand pounds each and like the sand is trying to suck mne down to it like water down a drain.

I resist it for the usual token amount of time, and then I go down again.

---

Before I even opened my eyes, I knew it had happened again.