6/365

Eye Contact: Write about two people seeing each other for the first time.

It was a dream I’ve had since I was a child watching the Atlanta Braves pitch strikes and whack home-runs outta the park and into the crowds of fans hoping to catch a ball and pass it down from generation-to-generation. The dark thing about dreams that nobody tells you about as a child is that no matter how badly you want it, no matter how badly you think you deserve it, no matter the cost, the egregious truth is you most likely still won’t achieve it. It’s something you don’t wanna tell kids; you don’t wanna break them at such a young age to the true forlorn of American society. We tell’em they could be the president, that they could be astronauts, or that they could write the next War and Peace. This is the fundamental lie of being a human. There are days when I’ve build a good alcoholic foundation for thoughts to rest on, and I boil the ideas a bit, heat’em up, toss’em around and make something stupid from’em; but I can’t seem to understand why we set ourselves up for failure at such a young age.

On all levels, I am a failure. I feel like a failure because I failed at what it was I wanted the most as a child. It’s amazing what things stick from childhood and what things don’t. My childhood dream became my teenage dream, and then it became my young adult dream, and then it became my adult dream, and now it has become nothing but the giant reminder that I see everyday in the mirror, on the odd day I have the courage to look into the mirror, that I failed myself; I failed myself today, yesterday, tomorrow and worst of all, I failed that little boy wearing a Braves hat slapping his hand into a glove his father bought’em because he had a wild dream that he knew would come true and that there weren’t gonna be nobody stopping’em from getting it. I failed that kid.

Season tickets are still something I waste a good 5 grand on yearly. Not sure why I still do it, but, I guess some part of me is still that kid that thinks any day I can still make the dream come true. The thing about being a kid is that you never stop believing, you never give up on it. There’s something about being an adult that just wears you down from these cheap jabs that come from multiple angles, but kids, they ain’t aware of this yet. I bet, I bet my season tickets, if I saw my younger self in front of me today, right this moment, he’d look at me and smile, he’d say “Gosh darn, any day now, I’ma make it on that field.” Too many days spent sulking at the image of letting that boy down.

“I think from some of the questions you’ve answered here, Sully, I think I’m going to refer you to get a full mental evaluation.”
“So you mean someone else is going to tell me I’m crazy?”
“No, Mr. Sully. I believe this evaluation will better allow us to treat you for whatever is causing this depression. Maybe it’s not clinical depression but some other underlining cause and we need to get to the bottom of it.”
“What do you think it could possibly be? You know, aside from the obvious.”
“Personally, I think it would just be best if you went ahead and got the mental evaluation before I myself made a proper diagnosis.”
“You’re not leaving me with much comfort here, doc.”

I think it’s fair to believe life comes in waves to simply harm you; to do nothing more but assassinate the very ambitions that keep you going. It’s almost like life is a game being controlled by some grand-player and its goal is to see how long it takes to break us; how long it takes to crush us before we’re already spelling out our epithet and picking the lot that we wish to fermentate.

“Clonazepam?”
“We are going to see if it helps.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Let’s be hopeful; but if it doesn’t, we will need to see you again and try out some other options.”

A part of me is hopeful that this works. I can’t stand anymore; I can’t stand seeing that boy in my dreams looking down at me with a frown on his face all teary-eyed and whispering his disdain for me.

“Thank you, sir. Have a nice day.”
“Thanks… You too.”

I took a single pill and closed the medicine cabinet. I looked at myself in the mirror for a glance, turned off the light, and rolled out of the bathroom.

“Dream big, kid.”

 

 

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5/365

Food: What’s for breakfast? Dinner? Lunch? Or maybe you could write a poem about that time you met a friend at a cafe.

We felt welcomed. There wasn’t any sort of doubt in that. The Jamisons were nice people for the most part, and this was the first time they had actually invited us over. My friend Doug told me that the Jamisons had lived in the neighborhood for over 4 years now and no one had ever gone over to their house. Although, he did mention some sort of old-folk tale about the Jamisons and how they used to live in England and moved here after they were ran out of the country by a cult or some nonsensical madness like that. I didn’t believe a word of what he said and to be fair, I don’t think he believed a word of it either, but that didn’t stop him from sharing it with me everyday leading up to the dinner.

My family wasn’t too worried either. My parents thought they were nice people and they were happy know that the normally shy and reclusive Jamisons were actually trusting our family and inviting us over. They viewed it like a kind of honor in a sense, not sure why. My sister, on the other hand, was not excited about the dinner at all. She had talked to the Jamison’s daughter in school, Natasha, once before and described it as “discussing nuclear science with a house-cat.” She had no interest in befriending Natasha and feared that this dinner was a way of getting our families to bond so that Natasha could find a friend in school, as mentioned before, she was quite lonely in school and after-school. Although I never got to talk to Natasha, I know my sister could be a jerk sometimes and I had always thought Natasha was kinda cute in a quirky kind of way; so, I was looking forward to getting the chance to speak with her even if my sister wasn’t interested.

The dinner was tomorrow, but before then, Nikolai wanted to give me some advice on how to handle the situation. We planned to meet after dinner at the neighborhood park, which is about 10 minutes from my house and about 10 minutes from his house. It was the perfect meeting spot to be honest. Our parents didn’t like us sneaking out late, but it was easy to just hop out my window and sneak over to the park for an hour or so and just come back inside. There was always this sweet-spot of time, just after dinner, where my mom and dad would sit on the couch and watch some odd soap-opera type show that had they glued to the TV for the entire hour, and the best part was it didn’t have commercial breaks, so I knew they wouldn’t bother checking up on me unless I screamed or some jive like that, but to be fair, I never did that dance, they knew I liked my personal space after dinner, and I mean, hell, what 15 year old would want to be with their parents after dinner watching some sappy, laugh-track ridden, nonsense that only adults found funny.

My room was perfect for sneaking out late at night. I was on the second story of the house, but the window in my room and the roof were connected, so I could easily just hop out of my window and walk on the roof of the house that was directly above of the garage. The jump was from only one-story, so I stuck the landing every time. I packed my usual bag: a flashlight, some chewing gum, a knife (just in-case), my cellphone, and some spare rope that I never found a use for but Nikolai always told me to bring “just in case,” but I never knew what that case included. I quietly left my room and closed my window. I did the usual jump and landed it with a perfect ’10.’ Before I ran out towards the park, I looked back into the living room window and saw my mom and dad watching the show like no one was watching them. It gave me an odd sensation, like they were a show that I was watching, like I was the viewer in their world just as they were the viewer of the lives’ of the soap opera stars. This left me feeling strange. I sort of enjoyed the feeling I got while watching them. It made sense why they watch so much TV now.

I carried-on towards the typical meeting spot, but as I was, I couldn’t help but notice all the vibrant lights coming from the windows of houses that were filled with families and single people doing what it is they do behind closed doors. In my brain I started to think of it like channels on a television. It was a funny feeling that left me sort of fanatical until I laughed unprovoked. It was difficult to ignore the temptations, but I knew that Nikolai was expecting me. So I hurried on my way.

The park was pretty standard, or to be fair, it just looks like every other park I’ve been to; rusty looking swing-set where one of the 3 swings is broken but that doesn’t stop the kids from using it, a slide that boils the bottom on hot days, monkey bars that probably have blood-stains on them, and a small looking jungle-gym that has jagged edges from loosed metal bars that are horribly dangerous for any kid, but hey, I’ve seen parents drop their kids off here and not come back for hours, so, if they don’t care, then I don’t care. Our typical meeting spot was inside of the jungle-gym, I normally beat him there, but tonight was different because of my frequent stops staring at houses.

“Bruvi, where have you been? You’re late.”
“Sorry, man. I was caught up at home. The scene was too hot for me to leave the house on time. Parents kept checking-up on me.”

Nikolai pulled out his bag and started riffling through some tattered notebooks.
“Sure, sure. I get you. Here.” Nikolai grabbed a red notebook out and handed it over to Bruvi.
“What is this?” Bruvi grabbed the notebook and started to flip through it.
Nikolai pointed at the front of the notebook instructing Bruvi to look at the title of the notebook: Natasha Jamison. 
“What?”
Nikolai threw his hands in the air. “Dude, Natasha Jamison. I got you the rundown on her like you asked me to.”
Bruvi stared at Nikolai confused, “I didn’t ask you to do that for me.”
Nikolai turned around and walked to the edge of the jungle-gym. “No, you didn’t, but. That’s a hard but by the way. But, you need to prepare yourself before you go over to her house and have dinner with her family.”
“Nikolai, I don’t think that whole British cult thing is real, man.”
“What? Dude, you cannot not believe in that. It’s real, man. Look at this.” Nikolai took the notebook from Bruvi and flipped to a page with a printed newspaper article. “Look at this, man. It’s a newspaper article from a small town in Wallingham, England at a family that escaped a cult and fled for asylum in America. Coincident? I… think… not.”

Bruvi took the notebook back and exited the jungle-gym. He began to put the notebook into his book-bag and walked away.
“Bruvi! Read the notebook! Be careful!”

I ignored what Nikolai was telling me and just continued my walk home. The meeting wasn’t long, I wasn’t interested in hearing Nikolai’s nonsense tonight. I wasn’t in the mood. I looked at my phone and I noticed that there was still 30 minutes left on the show my parents were watching. I had some time before I needed to run home to cover my tracks. It was there when I had a strange idea, when everything that happened today led me to think about the next few steps that were about to take place.

The lighting was beauty, and I felt myself drawn to it. There was something more than just curiosity that lured me to the window of the Jamison’s house. I didn’t feel strange or sinister walking up to there window, because, well, I knew what my intentions were… I was just… I was just curious as to what they were doing, nothing more, and I guess, nothing less. There was something they were doing in there and I just had to find out what it was.

I positioned myself near a large bush outside of their side window and peered my head in front of the illuminating glass that felt to me like a gypsy staring into a crystal ball. It was amazing to me, it wasn’t sexual, it wasn’t sinister, it was just blissful to me. I watched Mr. and Mrs. Jamison watching the same soap that my parents watch this time of night, and that made me give a sigh of relief and I’m not sure why. Maybe because it made them seem much more human like my family and myself, or maybe I was just enjoying watching them through the window. Seeing them made me wonder what exactly it was that Nikolai wrote on the notebook that was so concerning to me that I needed to know before my family came by for dinner. I blew off the idea and watched the Jamisons for a bit longer before Natasha came downstairs and started to watch the soap with her parents as well. I smiled and I don’t know why.

It might have been about 10 minutes before I finally decided to get up and go home. The force that drew me to the window was even more powerful at keeping me there but the thought of getting in trouble was more powerful, and leaving was the obvious thing that I needed to do. Before I left, I watched them for a few seconds longer. The same thing; the same feeling.

I wondered my way home quickly as possibly and climbed up the side of the house and through the window. The show would end in about 5 minutes and all seemed good. I had a few minutes to burn before it was time for bed, so I opened up the notebook that Nikolai gave me and flipped through the pages. The notebook was odd and it didn’t seem like it was Nikolai who had wrote it. It seemed like it was written by several different people and not just Nikolai; in-fact, it didn’t seem like it was written by Nikolai at all. The information on the notebook seemed much more personal and private and almost childish and adventurous.

After flipping through page and page and reading entries and dates of various things, it finally dawned on Bruvi that this was actually Natasha’s diary. Bruvi quickly closed the notebook and put it back in his bag. Bruvi wondered how Nikolai got a-hold of diary and quickly texted him asking for an answer.

“Dude, this is Natasha’s diary. Where the hell did you get this?”
Nikolai replied almost instantaneously almost as if he was waiting for the message.
“Read the last page.”

Bruvi felt a bit eerie as he flipped through the pages until he got to the last page. His heart dropped when read what it was Nikolai felt such nerve over.

I can’t wait to have dinner with Bruvi and his family.

Bruvi tweaked his head and questioned the value of this statement aside from the obvious.

“What about the last page? It doesn’t seem any bit strange to me.”
Nikolai, again, replied rather quickly.
“Read it! She can’t wait to have you for dinner! Don’t go, man!”
Bruvi laughed and put his phone down.

4/365

Dancing: Who’s dancing and why are they tapping those toes?

I’ve heard them dancing for 4 days now. 4 days. 4 days, nonstop, consistent, without missing a beat. I don’t know what could be the situation that entails 4 days worth of nonstop stomping around, dancing, but it couldn’t be anything human. I was starting to suspect that whatever was happening in the apartment above me was something supernatural, or something sinister.

I had to narrow down what it was before I approached the door myself; so I scoped-it-out for 45 minutes with my ear against the door. I tried to listen for whatever I could; I didn’t hear anything, no music, no dancing, no singing, the room sounded like it was never hollowed out but just a large dense square. I stepped away from the door and assessed it accordingly.

It couldn’t have been aliens, so i ruled that out of my list of “Things That Could Be Dancing For 4 Days Straight;” I didn’t believe in aliens, which made it even easier to check off my list. Only a nut-job with a tinfoil starter cap would believe in green men hovering over our planet. It had to be something else. I assessed my list of possibilities.

Things That Could Be Dancing For 4 Days Straight: (Written in order from Most Likely to Not Very Likely but Still Likely)

  • Ghost
  • Spirits
  • Demons
  • Lions
  • Witches
  • Wardrobes
  • Drug-addicts
  • Drug-addicts dressed as ghost performing a ritual
  • People Dancing
  • Anything else that resembles something sinister aside from aliens or all things extraterrestrial.

This is my list and I’m sticking to it. Now, the plan of figuring out what could possibly be happening in that room. If it’s ghosts, spirits, or demons, my greatest tool will be any kind of evidence capturing device. It’s common knowledge that what ghosts, spirits, and demons fear the most is being exposed in their naked, phantom bodies for the physical realm to mock and plaster across internet websites. I plan to bring with me a headlamp with a mini camera attached to it and a larger, the size of a shoe, sized camera that’ll be recording the whole thing. If there is a ghost, spirit, or demon in there, it’ll fade away in fear and the dreaded, metronome, tap-dancing will stop. Checkmate.

But what if it’s not a ghost, spirit, or demon, though very unlikely it’s not, i will have to prepare for the other options. Next is Lions. I read in a philosophy book once that lions may use waygates resembling that of a wardrobe. If my fears, and calculations are correct, it could have entered into our dimension and has begun wrecking havoc in that apartment trying its hardest to get out. Now, one might wonder: But if it’s a lion it would get tired and stop moving after 4 days. Yes. Yes this would be true for any ordinary lion, but this is, if a lion, a magical lion that never gets tired; meaning, it’s been searching 4 days straight on how to exit the apartment. I believe the course of action is to either wait for it to go back home through the waygate and once it has, enter the room and lock it. On the likely event it’ll never return home and continue to tap dance, i’ll have no choice but to put out an ad on the Republican chat board in my city for one lucky person to have the chance to kill a Lion and pose with it. This is, of course, not the favored plan.

Next, a witch. This would be similar to the Lion regarding its origin and the patients needed to wait until she or he goes back home. I put the witch lower on the list because, and it seems like this is a perfect moment to express my wisdom and logic over the situation, if it is a witch, she clearly has the human knowledge to open the door with her evolutionary gifts. This is why I don’t believe strongly it’s the witch; however, I do believe it could be a wounded witch. She most likely escaped her realm do to a riot by the townspeople demanding she be burned for her sins, logically. This being said, she was overwhelmed and hurt and needed to escape by coming in that room. Her wounds might have been neurological and be causing her to have seizures; or she is angry at the rebellion and she’s pacing the room for days devising a plan of revenge, which is logical because witches have no need for sleeping and due to their mystic-powers; 1 week in witches’ time is only 1 day human time. This makes sense. If it happens to be a witch, who is escaping a rioting mob, and she won’t return back through the waygate, I plan to enter the room with several large buckets of water, which i will use to dump on the witch to make her weak; and to finish her off i’ll use a mini-electronic keyboard to smash her with, as I have seen that a witch’s true weakness is being crushed by a piano, yet I cannot do that, so I assume a mini-keyboard is perfect and bashing her with it could do the same tricks. This is logical.

Wardrobe. Yes, what I fear the most out of the earlier two options. Yet, it seems unlikely that it is the wardrobe itself allowing creatures to constantly leave through the waygate and not just those select few that are chosen. Yes! That could be, logically, happening but I tend to doubt this. If this was the case that would mean several hundreds of creatures would be coming and going nonstop for four days now, but I believe that if this were the case, the creatures would have fought or something would have broken, yet, there is no evidence of a scuffle or any damages. I will leave wardrobe on the table but I am in doubt.

Drug-addicts. They cross my path daily because of my apartment complex’s location in the deep horn of the fatty bull, i.e. the shit end of a banquet for feeding. I have come home from my job, as a paranormal investigator several times to see homeless drug-addicts smoking away at their marijuana cigarettes, just chiefing their time away until they eventually chew the gum of death. Many times in my field of work i’ve seen homeless people that I assumed were paranormal phenomenons, but it always just happened to be several drug addicted people awaiting my arrival for them to laugh in my face. Wretch! If it happens to be drug addicts, i’ll flush their drugs down the toilet and report the incident to the authorities.

Drug-addicts dressed as Ghosts performing a ritual. Wretch! Wretches! The disgracing of the afterlife. Wretches! I’ll let the ghosts deal with them.

People Dancing. This is not a joke, but simply an assumption based around Murphy’s Law and a bit of Occam’s Razor combined. While I do 99% doubt this as the logical answer, I’ll give credit to my philosophical predecessors.

Anything else sinister. I would also like to categorize this group as “Anything else I didn’t guess originally.” How would I deal with this? Suicide. There are things I just can’t handle and this might be one of those things. So, I plan to take a .22 Revolver with me just in-case this go south and it’s something I cannot deal with. In that case, I leave my wife, Princess Jessica Blanc van Grekinheim, my entire estates, which include, and is limited to, my lease of $350 a month for my cozy apartment, my small tv that cannot connect to cable, my ghost hunting equipment, and my membership to Fitness Planet. I love you Jessica Blanc van Grekinheim and if the worse comes, like a wraith or soul-reaper, just know that i’ve always loved you from a far and that we could have been a perfect married couple together.

I plan to go into the apartment tonight. At 8pm sharp, I will, without knocking, open the door and prepare to eliminate whatever creature is in their making that noise.

It’s 7:50PM. I make my way through the stairs and towards the room. The hallways are eerie and without the presence of anything, I have a slight chilling sensation that something is actually here with me now; watching me, touching me, violating my private thoughts and infiltrating my plans. It’s almost as though there is a ghost guarding the very hallway leading up to the room to warn the others that someone is coming with the intentions of stopping me from finding it.

“I’m not crazy! Ghost. They’re real! And i’m going to get you on tape tonight, and show the entire world that you are real! And you cannot stop me now!”

The only thing left stopping me is the door. Something happened! The eyehole, the eyehole. There was something watching me from the eyehole! I knew there was something sinister in there. I knew it! Without pause I forced the door open, and though it was locked, there was no stopping my entire body’s weight focused in my shoulder from stopping me. I heard screaming. I was now inside the apartment. It seemed clean, tightly furnished, and well-kept. Not the typical environment for ghosts to hang around but it was also not the typical environment for drug-addicts to hang around, so that brought relieve.

I can feel it again! The ghosts, attempting to dissect my thoughts! “I know you’re here ghosts! I will find you! Don’t you try and stop me with your mind tricks!”

I followed the sound of the dancing through the living room and into the hallway. This model seemed bigger than mine, but I was always told that the higher up one goes in the apartment the better and more spacious the apartments become. I always thought that was a hoax but I guess it’s real. The apartment was empty but it was clear there someone was living there or at least someone was there recently. There was one last room that I hadn’t looked at yet and it seemed to be the loudest area of tapping. It was there. It was behind this wall that the tapping would be found and the source of constant mental fatigue would end. After 4 grueling days of nonstop thumping onto my skull, I was finally there. Finally ready to end what it was that no longer left me feeling sane.

 

“I’m not exactly sure detective Brown what his intentions were.”
“I understand, ma’am. I don’t understand it though. You know, we see stuff like this all the time, man comes into a house, kills himself and tries to make it look like someone else killed him, but here, he even recorded himself killing himself right in front of you. When I watched over the tape, ma’am, I noticed he said something to you right before he entered, something like uh, ‘the dancing ends now?’ You got, uh, any idea what that could mean?
“I wish I did, sir. I’ve never spoken to the man. I knew he lived below me but that’s about it. I’ve seen him maybe 5 times max, and next I know he’s busting through my bedroom door yelling something about ghosts and dancing.”
“I understand, ma’am. Look, I know this might be difficult, Ms. Grekinheim, but we might need to ask you more question within the next coming weeks. In the mean time, try to get some rest. Everything’s gonna be ok.”
“Okay. I think I’ll be fine. I’m just shaken up a bit.”
“That’s only logical. Thank you for your time.”
“Of course.”

3/365

The Vessel: Write about a ship or other vehicle that can take you somewhere different from where you are now.

If there was a ship that I wish currently existed, it would be some kind of vessel that allowed me to see variations of dimensions that i could freely travel through.

Imagine, you are coasting along your day, chewing bubble-gum and embroidering the summers intense heat in your mind to justify why you’re sweating through your shirt; it has nothing to do with the fact that you don’t exercise daily and that your heart is giving a full effort to make ends meet, no; it’s because the heat is directly coming from a crack that leads to hell and the devil has a demonic heater pointed straight up to your location specifically to make you sweat and feel hot as a hell; and as this moment of pure torture consumes you, a moment passes you by, and a car, being driven by some manic, drunk that just got laid off work, speeds pasted you and crashed directly into a man walking just a fox’s pace behind you with his dog, and instantly kills him.

The scene is absolutely horrifying for you to witness and every second longer, you can feel the imagine being carved deeper into your memories. Then you see the drunk man, he stumbles out of his car and reacts like any drunk does when they’re smacked out of their stupor. He begins to scream, grabbing his pine-straw like hair with his hands that resemble a bottle opener. His screams and words come out muffled by the beer still dripping out of his mouth, and the beer bubbles pop with each sharp exhale.

You watch the scene in curious horror. It stays with you for a few days and during those few days you wonder what could have happened had you been that man and not him. You ponder what happens if the man wasn’t laid off that day, and who that man that was killed could have been or would have been. You wonder all these things. That is the machine that I want… I want a machine that allows me to view the world within the 10th dimension. So I could see the entirety of every possibility that could happen. I wonder what my life would be like had a girl not destroyed my home robot project when I was in kindergarten (fuck you by the way, Rachael). Who would we be today when something that seemed so insignificant did or didn’t happen. Was that time you went to the drive-thru instead of cooking dinner that prevented you to starting a fire and killing everyone, including yourself, that lived in your apartment complex? That’s life in our 3rd dimensional reality.

I want a vessel that allows me to freely move among the 10th dimension. I want to see every possibility. It would be bonus points if the vessel was this sort of celestial creature, something that resembled a wise sage like tortoise or even an infinitely large spider that has built an intact tunnel system around all of the dimensions allowing you to freely travel with it. I want more in life, I want more adventure, I was something new than what I have now, and I believe that this would be endlessly entertaining.

2/365

The Unrequited love poem: How do you feel when you love someone who does not love you back?

 

Within the thoughts of an esoteric conversation, where the only audible sounds are those of a distorted fever-dream, one may find themselves wishing to comprehend what was happening. I sit next to familiar faces, family members, friends, and co-workers, all continuing on with their conversations. We just watched, some odd 10 minutes ago, a ceremony unfold of a marriage between two lovers. The emotions among the audience ranged from forlorn to debilitating-forlorn. Unfortunately, there was also me in the audience. I couldn’t tell if I felt emotionless or if that was just what it was to sullen in my own self-pity. I wish them luck, the groom and the bride, and for the best in the future; a future that will be without me; a future that will be unnecessarily more painful for me to bear than those around me.

People danced with one-another in glimmering elegance. There was an empty seat next to mine, but there wasn’t much attention paid to that. I could see the bride whisper something to one of her family members as they stared at me, I don’t believe they saw me, but when she finished speaking, the face on the older lady seemed to melt from her face until it reached the floor and all she saw was from the point of view that I saw. She saw nothing more than only a single angle, to see straight down and not notice what was around me. To suffocate visually; to lose a sense, but that doesn’t really matter because the sense of anything seemed to fade a lifetime ago; and not just a lifetime but a lifetime that was once planned, a lifetime that once had pleasure and something to look forward to.

She walked over towards me, bobbing back and forth through dancers just to ensure that her face wouldn’t be stepped on, as it was still melted onto the floor and was spreading more than before until it looked like a puddle of regurgitated leftovers left for easy picking among the hounds of the room. I felt bad for her because her face seemed to attract the bloodhound noses of the men in the room, and a few trembled at the sight of the face and revert back to their primal senses and proceeded to thunder-clap onto the floor near the face and start to lick it up.

I couldn’t tell if the woman was screaming or not, but it also seemed to happen so fast. Within a few seconds, that is, within a few seconds that rest within a few milliseconds, meaning, faster than a few seconds, her face was eaten up entirely by 3 male wedding goers who bore holes in their lower-back section of their tuxes so their erected tails could fit out of. Once she finally reached me her face was like a smeared pastel painting that blurred all the way down to the floor.

“…” She attempted to speak.
“Excuse me?”
“!!!” It was clear she began to panic noticing that not even her could understand what she was saying anymore. In her mind, and within reality, it seemed that the act of her face melting and the groomsmen-hounds eating it up, happened within such a short time of frame that it was just until now she began to notice the horrors of what was happening to her.
“Do you need?” I asked her.

She started to touch the area her face once was, feeling the length of the snaky-blur that reached the floor, gripping onto the ill-contrasted edges and doing what I could only assume was her screaming. Her feet slowly back-peddled until she was away from me and back on the dance floor. A crowd of wedding-goers began to notice she was deforming onto the floor and they reacted according to the situation. Mass hysteria soon ensued the party room.

I don’t understand why those around panicked as they did, because it was clearly only the woman who should have been able to panic. Ironically, I spoke too soon. Several of the women’s faces began to melt until becoming the same stew-like texture the original woman’s face was until the hounds came up and slurped the mess. There was something amiss this time when their faces were on the floor being dragged by the panicking women running away from whatever it was they thought was to run from. The groomsmen-hounds no longer attempted to eat them; and out of the nowhere the faces of the women and the tails of the men resorted back to previous-reality.

Everything was the same as it was before. Everyone else seemed fine, but it was hard to tell with my face melted to the floor.

1/365

Outside the Window: What’s the weather outside your window doing right now? If that’s not inspiring, what’s the weather like somewhere you wish you could be?

 

The bottle of water near my bed has turned into ice, and the heater no longer seems to be working. We sleep close, side-by-side, just so our bodies’ heat could warm us up an insignificant bit more. The worst part of my day is when that persistent prickling comes protruding its way onto the scene, and the thought of smoking a cigarette overwhelms any basic desire to remain in fetal position for warmth. I leave her with the blanket and I take to window in a tattered Christmas sweater and I-promise-they-aren’t-stolen, high-end, designer sweatpants her parents bought me for my birthday last year once they heard her and I would be moving out onto the Reserve for a few months to see what kind of work opens up for us. They weren’t open to the idea originally of her going, but there was something they saw in me or trusted in me to make sure she was safe. Trust, it’s an unspoken understanding, a heuristic, deeply-rooted in mammalian brains that more often than not leads us in the path of unforeseen perils because there isn’t a chance one’s gut-instinct could be wrong. We are all, after-all, raised being told to believe our gut, and that when in doubt, follow it’s intuitive destructive path only to what at the time seemed like the only logic explanation.

Ash falls from the cigarette; I cradle it with my hands as I take a drag so I can feel the heat in my hands. On most days, I don’t know why I choose to live on the Reserve, and everyday I wonder why she choose to come live with me. The cigarette makes a hiss as its flicked into the white snow that’s managed to build up to the level of the house’s window. I just thank her for coming.

 

@seasonlStrain