blossoming

apocalypse

in the forest

of your mind.

Each gravelly

tree trunk,

scarred deep

with ancient

happiness,

is blind to

your touch.

Foot by foot

your feet catch

each muddy

sinkhole along

the unending path.

Your eyes gasp

for a light

that no

longer exists

until you doubt

it ever once

existed

and stop

trying

to catch

it in your

breaths.

Step by step

the suckling

ground perversely

puckers around

your ankles

and knees

in an attempt

to swallow you.

You slog beyond

the point of fatigue

towards a horizon

that has always

held the lead.

This journey has

taken more muscle

than you can muster

and more will than

you thought was welled

up inside of you.

There is the heartbeat

of a beast in your wake,

or so you think.

There is the heartbeat

of a beast you need

to escape,

or so you think.

There is the heartbeat

of a beast thundering

in your breast,

each undulation

causing you to not

give up on yourself,

your miraculous self,

as you search

for daybreak

once again.

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An enslaved island in the

Midst of nowhere Ohio

surrounded by a sea

of backwater ignorance

white trash culture

power tools screaming

into the dusky sky

somewhere beyond scope

a trailer has become a

Remote learning facility

for amateur chemists

cooking product to

sling at seedy bars

where they still don’t

take kindly to outsiders

where they are all so

proud to be an American

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The view here is broken

by a thick walnut trunk

bisecting erected steel

siding blocking out all

Of the horizon’s edges

beyond that are the screams

for Gavin to swing

for Gavin to run

for Gavin failing fantastically

at trying his best

finally something my being

wholeheartedly understands

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The view here is encased

by bitter perspective

and leaf clogged gutters

untended lawn work

beckoning for affection

it all serves as a reminder

that no matter what

one man does to his

little piece of paradise

life will always render

his presence obsolete

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My words 
                 are 
                 crafted of stained glass hand 
        
made 
                                and 
                                authentic.  
                                     
Forged by    hate 
           and
         Fragile 
            as      life. 

                                                Your    

                        mind is 
                        like a 
                        brick 

             carelessly 
                                      p 
                                   i      p
                               h            e
                           w                  d
          
            
            i   n      to      t   h  e     w    i    n   d.  

       s      m       w
        h       y           o 
          a             r
             t                    d
               t                        s      
                e
                  r
                 ing
                   
    till their 
                                  frag
                                  men
                                  tat
                                  ion 

resembles nothing 
               of 
           the former 
pane

           and I have misplaced my ladder.

                 So how 
am I     to put them 
                    back 
in 
                                     place? 

Subscribe now

Share

Watch Here

#whateverhappendtothepoundsign

#hellifiknow

#NowThisIsIt

#hashtag

#immovable

#Weightlessness 

#suchfunnytimes

#wechangedthename

#wechangedthegame

#becausewecan 

#YesWeCan

#MakeAmericaGreatAgain

#MakeBlackLivesMatter

#ActForAmerica

#WinterIsComing

#fakenews

#needtogosouthnow

#GrabembythePussy

#MeToo

#Talkaboutweight

#Thatshitisheavy

#like 

#spacecat

#OnMyChest

#ICantBreathe

#SubscribeorDie

#SharingisCaring

CLICK HERE. WATCH HERE. VOTE HERE.

To hear her tell it, she was grief stricken. Processing things in her own way. Past experiences dictated current expectations and food was an old comfort and Lanie just wanted to feel not so empty anymore.

Have you ever eaten by yourself? No music or television? Not even a book to read? Lanie did. She did it every meal. That’s what led her to purchase the webcam in the first place. Said, “I didn’t want to choke to death staring at my own reflection in that black teevee screen.” It was that innocent, really. There would be a random video chat and a new face every night, maybe several new faces, speed dating without the rules. Some people would talk to her. Some would ignore her. Some men would be stroking and groaning as she ate a microwaved chicken pot pie or a footlong sub or a pint of Cherry Garcia. She didn’t mind, it beat dying alone. 

Lanie never set out to become famous but she didn’t hate the attention. Every meal became a show. Her shirt would be off before the oven preheated and she started taking pizza deliveries wrapped in a towel. To the delight of her audience she would smack her lips and moan before using the grease on her fingertips to make her nipples shimmer. The guys that loved it, really loved it. They wanted to send her gifts, they wanted to pay her bills. A guy named Seymourbutts wanted to be her manager, he said “you could make some serious money doing this.” 

Share a Snack

“Doing what, eating?” She asked, after swallowing a bite of pizza. Fingertips running grease streaks down her thigh. 

“Eating, showing your skin, you know.” He said, wiping his dick clean with a dirty towel. “Pretty much what you’re doing now.” 

“Really?” He could see the idea tumbling around behind her eyes, going to work. “How?” She took another bite, groped herself. 

“Set up a website, make people pay.” Seymour was watching her chew. 

“Oh, I on’t ow ow ew do hat.” 

“You keep talking with food in your mouth and I’m going to have to take care of myself again.” He said, grinning. “I could help, that is kind of my thing.” 

“I don’t know, Seymour” Lanie took the last bite and chewed it slowly, silently. 

“Could you smack your lips more?” He asked, staring at her on the screen. 

“Orry, orry” Lanie said, smacking her lips until swallowing and adding a soft moan in as an afterthought. Seymour watched her intently as she sighed, saying “I always thought those girls on the internet were sluts. I’m going to put my pants back on, okay?” 

“Not yet, not yet. Have another piece of pizza first.” His hand was bobbing at the frame’s edge. “Sluts dont get paid, and trust me, those girls on the internet get paid.” 

She chewed the pizza and watched him, not talking, just thinking. 

“Listen,” Seymour said, hand flicking in and out of frame quicker, “let me set something up and you can give it a try. What’ll it hurt?” 

Lanie shrugged and a piece of pepperoni slipped from the slice and landed on her thigh. 

“Leave it, leave it.” Seymour said, nearly breathless, when she tried to pluck it off. “Smack your lips louder, I want to hear you when I come.” 

Her lips smacked like a mouthful of peanut butter.

“Yes! Yes!” Seymour groaned. 

When she reached down, pinching the pepperoni scab between thumb and index, peeling it from her leg, Seymour thought he was blacking out. But when her pinkie squeegeed the sauce from her soft thigh skin and Lanie smiled, pushing the finger into her mouth, sucking it clean and pulling it out with a pop, the little bald man tensed and shuddered and gasped. 

While she got dressed, wiggling herself into a pair of black jeans and leaving them unbuttoned, Seymour recovered. 

“See,” Seymour said, holding his hand up to the camera, his spunk making it glisten. “I’m telling you, I’m not the only one that wants to get off to this.” 

“I’ll think about it.” Lanie said, working her way into a purple hoodie. 

“How will I know what your decision is?” Seymour asked, the towel around his hand. 

She sat down on the couch huffing, “Fine, give me your email.” 

“Seymourbutts420@hotmail.com. What’s your name, doll?” He asked. 

She hesitated, smiled, said “Lanie”, and ended the chat. 

“Lanie, I like it.” Seymour, sitting half naked in his mothers basement, said to himself. 

After a week of trying to find her cam-feed again, an email appeared in his inbox. It was from Lanie and contained only the sentence “Where do we start?” 

Three days later Audryeats.com was born. 

Share a Meal

“So what am I supposed to do now?” Lanie asked him over video chat. She was wearing a bathrobe and eating an orange, one slice at a time.

Seymour told her “treat it like a video diary. Having a snack, cooking, making up a shopping list? Turn on the camera and engage with your viewers.” 

“I don’t know if I can do that.” 

“Lanie, trust me.” Seymour said smiling. 

Emails started rolling in asking “Audry, when is the next time you plan on eating cereal, would you mind eating Rice Crispys?” Or “Audry, what time do you get up to make coffee?” She had to start putting out schedules. Emails would ask “Hey Audry, can I get the video of that Green Trees order you called in last week?” Or “Do you think that I can get every video of you eating breakfast? It’s the best part of my day.” Before long there was an archive section.

Lanie couldn’t forget about her empty life without her late husband Arthur, but it helped to feel adored. It helped to become Audry. 

Six months in and Lanie couldn’t recall the last time she had eaten without an audience. Her camera was on from the moment she woke up until she fell asleep. Subscriptions weren’t the only thing going up daily, so was the bathroom scale. Exercise  never got the views of two-for-five BigMacs with  large cokes and fries. 

By the time her ring finger needed to be amputated, Seymour had six figures in the bank. He asked her why she hadn’t taken the ring off sooner, he said “Lanie, didn’t it hurt?” 

“Like hell, really it did.” She laughed, holding her bandaged stump up to the camera. 

“So…why didn’t you take it off?” 

“Well, I mean, by the time it started hurting I couldn’t get it off.” He noticed her left thumb fiddling with the phantom ring on her missing finger. “Plus,” she added, “I dunno, it sounds stupid.” 

“What? What is it?” Seymour asked, looking sternly into the camera, trying hard not to ask to see the stitched up wound. 

“I kind of liked the pain. Like, it was a constant reminder of Arthur.” Lanie frowned in a way that made all three of her chins prominent. 

Seymour noticed tears in her eyes but chose not to address them, instead saying “I’ve been thinking…Ah…nevermind.” He smacked himself in the head, said “Stupid idiot.” 

“What is it, Seymour?” She leaned towards the screen. 

“Nothing, forget I even mentioned it.” 

“I’m not going to forget it. Tell me. Please.” She pouted and shook her head, the waddle of skin under her chin swaying. 

“Fine.” Seymour sighed. “This is crazy, but…I just…Would you like to move in together?” 

“Yes.” Lanie smiled, “Yes I would.” 

Meals Delivered to Your Inbox

Lanie didn’t care about fame, but when Seymour moved in, she became a shooting star. The problem with shooting stars, they are on their way out. He had to get her a P.O. box because fans wanted to send gifts. There was a constant reminder on the web page saying “Please, do not send Audry perishables. If you would like to send her a gift then gift cards to the grocery store or restaurants are always welcome.” What really drove the subscriptions, the Pièce de résistance, was all Seymour’s idea. A  whole “Feed me Seymour” schtick, like that movie with the man-eating plant.

Every Friday night, Lanie would strip down, put on a skull cap and let Seymour paint her green. Sitting before hundreds of viewers, Audry’s bright red lips would smack as she bellowed “Feed me Seymour!” And little bald Seymour, costumed in slacks and suspenders, a white button up shirt, would shove food into Audry’s mouth, pretending like she might eat him next. The fans loved it. 

The first time they tried the act, Lanie swore never again. Sitting there on her stool in the shower, getting blasted with ice cold water while Seymour scrubbed at her with a toilet brush, she said “I don’t care how much buzz this has generated on the forums. I’ll die before I let you paint me again.” 

“It wouldn’t be so bad if the hot water didn’t run out, right?” Seymour asked, lifting a fold with the brush and working it inside. “Look, we already got another forty subscribers and I know people are going to pay to download the archived version.” 

With chattering teeth Lanie said, “R..really?” 

“Yeah,” he said, looking over to the laptop on the sink. 

“O…okay. B…but we ne..need to f..find a b..b..better w..w..way.” 

Together, they learned not to paint between her folds. 

People started emailing food requests. They would say “Hey Seymour, could you feed Audry a family size frozen lasagna this Friday.” Or “Seymour, man, I just want to hear Audry eat a party sized portion of vanilla pudding.” After the third time of needing to get the carpets cleaned, they learned to put down a tarp. 

Tips rolled in. Subscriptions grew. Scales broke. The years went by. 

The night Lanie began choking, there wasn’t much Seymour could do. Four hundred people watched as he tried his best. The video is still out there, the one that shows how she was too big for Seymore to get his arms around. How even when he managed to lock his fingers the green grease paint was too slick and he kept slipping. What you can’t see is how calling 911 never entered his mind, not until after her body had teetered forward in the loveseat and came crashing down into the coffee table. You can see how the camera tumbles, thuds to the floor in front of her face. Lips, surrounded by shattered glass and broken wood, moving like a fish’s when you pull it from the water. Smashed underneath her massive frame, the unfinished bucket of chicken. You can hear Seymour, with his voice the seems to come directly from the nostrils saying “Oh shit, oh shit, Lanie!” People thought it was a gag. They were waiting for him to start fucking her back to life. Until they heard him say “Please, she is choking! She is unconscious! She needs help!” 

Seymour didn’t kill her, but it was his fault she died. 

The people that say “she was just an attention whore.” That “she deserved what she got.” They have no idea the distance grief will carry a person. The ones that tell their friends to “look at this hog on the news.” Laughing at the pictures of her covered corpse being taken from the house through a newly demolished wall by a six man team, they don’t realize this was her plan all along, to take that one bite too big to chew and swallow it. 

It wasn’t easy for her. 

She just needed my help. 

Her five minutes of fame are now posthumously her lifetime of shame. Lanie, she was hungry for something that I could never give her, because I didn’t see her as anything other than a way to get off and get rich. I exploited the weakness I saw in her, the willingness to please. The desire to not be alone. Her fans only knew her as Audry. She only knew me as Seymour. Lanie, she claimed she ate to feel full of something, but nothing has the caloric density of love. 

Let Us Know How Your Meal Was

        As do actions of foreplay, it started slowly, building upon its own momentum with each passing minute until rain was coming down in sheets, turning the cobblestones we jogged across into treacherous little platforms nestled in the earth. Inside these sheets we hid, our black clothing growing heavier by the second. Though curiosity was taking a toll on me, I obeyed my benefactor's previous instruction and kept quiet. Not that anyone could hear us in this downpour. 

        Irene’s head pivoted around like a squirrel’s who had just found a long sought after nut before she hunched over and began fiddling near the door handle. Creeping closer, and minding not to bump into the duffle bag against her back, I peered over her shoulder to get a better look at what she was doing. Delicate tools to match the delicate hands that operated them protruded from the keyway set in the door. She jiggled one of the two pieces, pushed on the other. Mindlessly my soaked sleeve ran against my face, clearing droplets that were clinging to my eyebrows. She pushed and jiggled. My tongue seized the question that was about to come out. Of course she was picking the lock, but why? 

        All I knew was what Irene had told me and that had sounded pretty good at the time. 

        Sitting in a booth at the campus diner, she had laid out a proposition I couldn’t rightly refuse. For me, an easy grand was a windfall, topping that off was an all expense paid trip to Vienna. The only job I had was to act as a translator for her and her associate, neither of them spoke good German. The conditions were that I couldn’t ask questions and I couldn’t speak to anyone about what we were doing. Had I known the exact details of what was going to happen, I still would have said yes. 

        “Headlights!” Her associate, Janine, yelled from behind us. The rain washed the word down to a whisper. 

        Irene didn’t respond. 

        “Renie, headlights!” She yelled again, moving to grab Irene’s shoulder just as the door swung inward. 

        Whatever words Irene’s lips were forming got dragged down to the stones before they even came close to my ears, but she moved into the dark mouth of the open door all the same. Janine followed and I followed her. It was only after easing the door shut that my awareness shifted to that of my ecstatically beating heart, which seemed to thump in perfect tempo with the torrent. Never before had I partaken in a good old fashioned B&E, my enjoyment of it was frightening. For a brief moment I envisioned myself leaving school to take up a life of crime, then came the remembrance of a place called prison that ripped all joy away to fill its place with fear. 

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        As a cautionary rule Irene held the only flashlight. This way our likelihood of a stray beam alerting any onlooker to our presence would be greatly diminished. Asking what exactly we would be caught doing never crossed my mind. They just seemed to be the type to go traipsing through a cemetery or something, not busting into a house. 
Irene had never so much as looked at me before the evening at the diner; Janine on the other hand had crossed my path on multiple occasions, always in the same place. She was one of those girls with an earthy color palette that was always lingering in the esoteric aisle of the local used book store, clutching some volume or another devoted to spiritual planes or manifesting energies or astral travel. Being that I would only go into that store to save money on the books needed to keep my GPA at passing, it blew my mind that Janine would drop cash on books that could only teach her how to be weird. But sitting next to Irene at the diner, quietly sipping on a root beer and staring at the menu even though she had said she wasn’t hungry for food, she seemed shy. Much shier than inside the strange house in Vienna, dragging wet clothes from her flashlight paled skin. 

        “Before you ask,” Irene whispered, holding the light steady. “No one is home.” 

        The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind and that made me feel like an idiot. 

        “And no, you don’t need to strip.” She added. “This is not some sex thing.” 

        That question had entered my mind. 

        “Mind your head, mind you head.” She said to Janine, almost in a coo, reaching over and cupping the base of her skull as the black t-shirt came up and over it. 

        “I know, Renie, jeesh. I’m being as careful as I can.” Janine said, tossing her shirt to the wood floor with a slap. “What time is it?” 

        “Almost show time.” Was all Irene responded with before handing the flashlight to me. “Keep it aimed at the floor.” She pointed. “Right there. Got it?” 

        “Yeah.” I took the light and pointed it where she instructed as she dropped and unzipped the black duffle bag. From it, Irene removed three large zip-lock bags, one containing a towel, another packed with clothing, and the third had what looked like an old “shoe box” style tape recorder. I only recognized the recorder because I’d broken my father’s when I was young. 

         In the cast off light from the beam I could see Janine’s delicate ankle adorned with a wrap around tattoo of ivy, farther up the ankle became a smooth calf that firmly made me think of fine china. Up higher was the knee and then the thigh, a perfect flow from one segment to the next, like this leg belonged to a statue smoothed by a century of acid rain. 

        “Hey, pervert, shine the light where I told you.” Irene barked. 

        The outburst made me jump and the light tumbled from my hand. Somehow Irene caught it before it slammed into the floor. “You couldn’t find a girl that could speak German?” She asked Jane, handing her the towel. 

        “Sorry.” I said, holding my hands up in defense. 

        “Not one I had a crush on, no.” Janine responded flatly, taking the towel. Like this was old news. Like I knew she liked me. I watched her dim silhouette run the towel over her body.

        "Wait, what?” I asked. 

        “Oh, I didn’t pay for this to be some sort of play date, Jane.” Irene responded, keeping the light pointed at the floor. “And mind your…”

        “Head, yeah, I know. You don’t have to keep reminding me, Mom.” 

        “Why are you so worried about her head?” I asked, remembering how Irene had kept pulling Jane’s hand away from the back of her head at the diner. 

        The light came up, blinded me. “What did I say about questions, guy?” 

        My eyes squinted against the onslaught. “I just thought…” 

        “Exactly what I am not paying you for. You are here to translate. You are not on a date. You are not here to oogle her.” She turned the light quickly towards Jane and in the moment I could see the two dimples in the small of her back, just above her ass. My lips twitched, imagining what it would feel like to kiss those little divots before the light came back to blind me. “Got it?” Irene asked. 

        “Yeah, yeah, I got it.” I never did get the light back, and instead watched it change position from each of Irene’s hands to under her chin, where it cast Che Guavara in a ghostly glow. She stuffed the wet towel and Jane’s wet clothes back into the ziplocks and handed each article of dry clothing to the girl that said she had a crush on me. All the while I tried to figure out how I could go about asking her on a date. Where did she like to go? What did she like to do? It didn’t take long for me to imagine us together, in bed and out. 

Subscribe now

        Once Janine was dressed, Irene handed her the tape recorder and slung the duffle over her shoulder. “We are going upstairs. Follow me.” That is what we did, Janine in the middle and me in the back. Though the house was supposedly empty, our ascension was cautious. Each step creaked as we climbed and my foot struggled to find proper placement in the dark that was even darker after having that  light beam blasted in my face. “I didn’t know you liked to be called Jane.” I whispered up to Janine. 

        “I’d be surprised if you did.” 

        “So, you have a crush on me?” I had wondered if she could tell I was smiling. 

        “Nope, just said that to get under Renie’s skin.” 

        “Shush it.” Irene said from the front. I could tell she had reached the top of the staircase. 

        My heart, ignorantly lifted to soaring heights by an affectionate jest, dropped. I wanted to tell Irene to shush it. I wanted to tell her to shove it. I just swallowed the lump in my throat. Just hired help, that’s all I was. It was best to keep that in mind. 
Up ahead echoed the click of a bolt in a strike plate. Then Irene said “wrong room,” and her flashlight pointed towards another closed door in the hallway. 

        “What are we looking for?” I whispered to Janine, as another bolt clicked. 

        “In here.” Irene said, vanishing into the doorway. She closed the door behind us and offered me the flashlight again. “Think you can aim this where I tell you this time?” 

        I nodded before saying “yes.” 

        In the center of the room, where she directed me to point a light, sat an unremarkable brown stained piano. One of the girls gasped as a lightning flash doused the entire room in blue light, bringing momentary life to a scowling face against the far wall. 

        “It’s just a bust.” Irene said before a clap of thunder shivered the timber below our feet causing me to nearly drop the flashlight again. “Bring the light over here.” She walked between me and the piano, her black hoodie absorbing the light as I followed. 
 A plexiglass cover, held in place by brass capped bolts, shielded the keyboard of the piano. I cast the beam on one of the caps and watched Irene grip it with a pair of pliers from her bag. She twisted until it came loose and placed the cap in her pocket before going to work on the other one, then her and Janine pulled the clear cover free, placing it on the floor next to the piano. “Let us hope they keep up on the tuning.” Janine said. 

        “It would be a shame if they didn’t.” Irene responded. 

        Another flash of lightning brought the wild haired bust to life and in that moment I realized whose visage I was staring at. 

        “Beethoven? Is this Beethoven’s piano?” 

        “Sure is.” Irene answered. 

	“So we broke into a house containing Beethoven’s piano, for what?” I was tracing the light over the walls, where blown up images of his hand written compositions hung. “This a museum or something?” Another wave of thunder rattled our foundation. 

	“You’re sharp.” Irene said. “Happen to see a bench anywhere?” 
	“Bench?” 

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	“Over there,” Jane said, pulling the flashlight from my hand and walking towards a corner of the room. “Damn, the cover is bolted to the floor.” 

	“Not a problem, I brought tools for that.” Irene said. Wind driven rain battered the windows and lightning flashed. “Feeling anything, Jane?”  

	Jane nodded, “Oh yeah.” Thunder cracked. “I’m feeling something.”
 
	“Splendid.” Irene said.

	“You know, Renie. He died on a night like this.” 

	“All the better.” Irene replied.

	I walked over to their corner, where Janine held the light on a kneeling Irene who was ratcheting the last of the four bolts from the floor. “What exactly is it we are doing here?” Lightning. 

	Irene looked up at me. “What did I say about questions?” 

	“It won’t hurt to tell him. Not now.” Thunder. “He won’t believe it till he sees it.” Flash. 

Irene stood up and opened her arms wide, gripping either side of the plastic. “Ugg, this is heavy as shit.” Boom. “Gimme a hand, Harvey.” 

	“Yeah, sure.” Flashboom. I stepped around Jane and pressed my palms against the sides of the case while Irene did the same and together we disinterred the bench from its translucent tomb, sidestepping until we had the free space to set it down. 

	“Wow,” Janine whispered, running her hand over the polished wooden surface. “He used to sit right here.” 

	“Wonder how he will feel about doing it again.” Irene remarked, walking over and lifting the bench, carrying it to the piano. “Are you ready?” 

	“As I’ll ever be.” Boomflash. 

	“Harv, come hold the light again. Jane, take a seat.” 

	I took the light from Janine’s hand and with a deep breath she settled onto the bench. 

	“Shine it over here.” Irene pulled what looked to be a cigar case from her bag and opened it, inside was a glass tube and inside that tube was what appeared to be a short thin copper wire with a rounded copper cap on it. She handed me the tube. “Do not. I repeat, Do. Not. Drop this.” Flaboom. “Go ahead and part your hair.” She said to Jane. “Shine the light on the back of her head.” 

	While Jane and I did what we were told, Irene was stretching a pair of latex gloves over her hands. Where the black hair parted I could see a shiny little ring of steel resting against the flesh just below her hairline, like a tiny nose ring in the strangest place. “That must be a bitch to brush around.” I said mostly to myself, wondering why in the hell someone would pierce their scalp like that. 

	Floom. 

	“Nah. It’s been alright since it healed. Itched like a bitch at first though.” 

	“Open that tube up.” 

	I pulled the plastic stopper from the top of the tube and looked down at the little copper button atop the wire. The size of it reminded me of one of those old paper stays with the two folding legs on it. “Tip it into my hand.” Irene said, “carefully.” Flasoom. “Shine the light down here, so you can see my hand.” 

	I dumped the contents of the tube into her left hand and she grasped the cap between the thumb and index finger of her right. The wire was about two inches long and stiffer than I thought it would be. 

        “Follow my hand with that light, I don’t want to bump this into anything by accident.” The light followed Irene’s hand as it raised slowly towards the back of Janine’s head. 

        Boom. Flash. 

        The light glinted off of the wire as it touched the metal ring at the base of Janine’s skull. 

        Boom. 

        “What…” the light showed everything “the…” as the wire began to get “fuck…” shorter and “are you…” shorter vanishing inside “doing?” the metal ring until only the shiny cap could be seen. 

        “Done.” Irene said with a smile. 

        “Wow, that didn’t hurt at all.” Janine said, letting her hair fall back into place. 

        “To answer your question, I just attached a conductive wire to her pineal gland. Think of it like an antenna and now, Jane here, is a radio.” 

        “Yeah, except a radio for spirits.” Janine said, smiling up at me. Like it all made perfect sense. 

        The lightning flashed. The thunder rolled. I didn’t move a muscle. 

        “Okay Jane, just like we practiced.” Irene said, pulling the flashlight from my frozen hand and shutting it off. “Just relax and let him in.” She was reaching in the bag, pulling the tape recorder out.

        “I know, I know.” Janine said as Irene placed the device on the piano. 

        Still confused, I asked, “Let him in?” Outside it sounded as though the rain was letting up, the lightning however was still silently, intermittently illuminating the room. “What do you mean, let him in?” 

        Suddenly the shape of Janine’s body jerked on the bench, forcefully enough to scoot it against the floor with a squeal. Her head moved hesitantly as her hands floated up to tap against her ears. “Ich kann hören?" "Ich kann hören.” Came from her mouth. German words, her voice. 

        “What did she say?” Irene whispered to me. 

        “Uh, I can hear. I can hear.” I responded, watching the shadowed figure move on the bench. 

        “Herr Beethoven?” Irene asked. 

        “Ja.” The figure said, now looking down at her hands. 

        “Yes.” I relayed. 

        “Herr Beethoven, willkommen zurück, du bist schon eine weile weg.” Irene said, making me wonder why she needed me in the first place. 

        The figure jumped from the bench and spun around, pointing at us in the dark, yelling “wer bist du! Wer bist du!” 

        “He...he wants to know who we are.” 

        “Tell him we are friends.” 

        “Freunde, Herr Beethoven, freunde.” 

        “Wo bin ich?” Janine’s voice asked. 

        “He wants to know where he is.” 

        “Tell him he is home, you idiot.” 

        “Wo bin ich!” Janine yelled, stomping her foot. 

        “Zuhause!” I shouted, putting my hands up. “Du bist zuhause.” Those words seemed to appease him and Janine’s body stood up straight, in an almost stately manner. We watched as she walked through the dark room, silently running her hand over the cases containing artifacts within. It felt like an hour of silence before the body made its way back to the piano, running its fingers over the glossy wood. When a finger came down on a key the room filled with that one sullen note. 

        “Mein Hurr?” Irene said, causing him to turn and look at her. “Can you ask him if he would play for us?” 

        “I...uh…” Something about asking a recently resurrected composer to entertain us didn’t feel right to me. “Doesn’t that feel like we are using him?” 

        “He hasn’t heard himself play in God knows how long. Don’t you think he would like to?” 

        “Yeah, maybe...alright.” I looked at Janine’s body, now housing the spirit of this dead man, and said, “Möchten Sie für uns spielen?” 

        Another key is tapped. Then another. Janie’s head turns and her voice says, “Ich würde mich freuen.” 

        “He would be delighted.” 

        “Wunderbar.” Irene says, "seht wunderbar.” Before pressing the red button on her tape recorder.

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1: The call

“Do you see that?” 

“What?” 

“It’s Dad, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah, of course, why?” 

“Because I took that picture yesterday.” 

“Haha, okay.” 

“I’m not joking.” 

“So what, you edited him in, big deal. It looks real, you did a good job.” 

“Ian, I didn’t fucking edit him in. I took the picture and I printed it out.” 

“What are you trying to say, Becca?” 

“I’m saying that I took a picture and Dad’s ghost, or spirit, or whatever is in it.”

“I’m not buying it. I think you’re trying to pull one over on me. You’re trying to get me all worked up and then you are going to tell me how you can’t believe I’m such a rube.” 

“Jesus, do I sound like I’m trying to fuck with you?” 

“You sound panicked.” 

“I’m freaking out over here.” 

“Are you smoking again? Mom would flip.” 

“What do you think she would say when I showed her this picture?” 

“You’re not joking, are you?” 

“Ian, just get over here.” 

Get Lost

2: The Camera

Becca’s apartment always made me uneasy. She called it an artist's loft; I called it a previous heroin den. If she had just decided to get a real job, even a minimum wage part-time one, she could have lived somewhere broken glass didn’t litter the streets like parade candy. I used my key to get into the street level door and made sure to lock the bolt once inside. The stairs always seemed like they were going to crumble at any moment and I thought of that while walking up them, just a small tremor before I vanished into a cloud of concrete misery. At the top of the stairs, I rapped my knuckles on the frame of the slightly opened door before pushing my way in, “Becca?” 

“Back here!” She called out from deeper in the space. 

There she was, on her hands and knees with dozens of pictures spread over the battered wooden floor. A lit cigarette was clenched between her teeth that sprinkled ash as she crawled around, picking up the photos one by one, shaking her head and tossing them back down. “I don’t get it. I don’t fucking get it.” She said to herself. 

“What don’t you get?” I asked, walking closer and looking down. Some of the pictures had people in them, most of them were just of buildings or landscapes. 

“Every single one of these is wrong. Three dozen shots and not a single one makes any damn sense.” The cigarette bobbed as she spoke and a large ash fell from it to the floor. 

“You’re going to burn this place down if you don’t watch that.” I pointed to her mouth. “How don’t they make any sense?” I hadn’t looked at them from closer than six feet in the air and she looked at me like I was the crazy one for asking the question before she looked back to the floor. 

“Okay, this one for example.” She plucked one up by its corner and held it out to me as if it might burst into flames. “Look at it.” 

I did. 

“No, take the fucking thing and look at it Ian! Look at it and tell me how fucked it is.” I grabbed it as carefully as she offered it and stared. “looks fine to me, sis.” 

“Does it?” She pulled the cigarette from her mouth and dropped it in a beer can. “Does it really?” 

“Yeah, I don’t see what the big deal is.” 

She jumped up and half ran towards the wall of iron framed windows that faced the harbor and downtown. “Come here. Come stand right here.” Her finger stabbed the air, indicating a spot on the floor. “Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t you dare roll your eyes. Get over here and look out the window.” 

“What am I looking at?” I stared at the lights downtown, the squat buildings and the courthouse clock. Nothing seemed out of place in comparison to the picture. 

“Arrgh!” She yanked the picture from my hand and shoved it in my face, her finger pointing to an area. “Look at the picture, here, you see that?” 

My eyes went from snapshot to reality and back again. It didn’t take me long to realize what she was trying to get me to understand. Where reality showed a vacant patch of land the snapshot showed “the antique shop…” I whispered. 

“Yeah, the antique shop. And the hair salon and the book store, they are all there.” She pulled the picture away and looked at me with ‘I told you so’ eyes before running back to the pictures on the floor and picking some up. “And this one, there is a train on the tracks. A train hasn’t gone down these tracks in ten years. How about this one? This is of my bedroom, but look at the bed, the bed is made up like I haven’t slept on it in months. And here, here is another one. I took this of the bathroom door, tell me Ian, where is the goddamn door? Why is there no door there?” 

I wanted to ask her how this was possible, but I knew she had no more of an answer for that question than I did. “Maybe it’s just a trick of light?” I said, knowing full well I didn’t believe it. 

“I don’t think that’s it at all. I think it’s the camera.” She was lighting another cigarette, trembling so badly that she had to chase the tip of it around with the flame before it finally caught. 

“Is it a new camera?” 

“Same one I’ve been using for years.” She took a deep drag and sighed the smoke out. 

“The one Dad gave you?” 

“Yeah.” She was staring out the window, crossing and uncrossing her arms. The cigarette kept going in her mouth and coming out with every change of posture. 

“A new lens or something?” I watched her begin to pace, throwing the pictures she still held back onto the floor. 

“Nope.” 

“Well, something had to change. Camera’s don’t just start taking pictures of shit that isn’t there.” 

“This one did.” 

“Can I see it?” 

Without looking she pointed towards her computer, “It’s on the desk, over there.” 

I could hear her talking to herself as I walked towards the desk. “Honestly Bec, I don’t get why you are so freaked out. This is pretty cool if you ask me.” I picked up the camera and turned the power on and started scrolling through the photos, I got back to what I thought was the picture she had sent me earlier, the one of our father. “Wasn’t Dad leaning against the counter in that picture you sent me?” 

“Yeah, why?” She was already walking towards me

“Did you take more than one with him in it?”

“No, why?” She was standing next to me now, looking at the screen on her camera. “What in the fucking fuck, Ian?” 

“He is sitting at your table now.” We both looked from the screen towards the now dark corner where the Formica table sat vacant. “He changed positions.” 

“Impossible.” 

“How is any of this possible, Rebecca?” 

“I need a drink.” She said as she walked to the fridge, taking the path that kept her the furthest distance from the table. “Do you want one?” 

“No, I’m good. How many have you had?” I said, staring back at the camera screen and opening up the menu. 

“Not enough. Not nearly enough.” 

I scrolled through the options and found the one for resolution, “I didn’t know one hundred mega-pixels was even a thing.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Your camera is set on one hundred megapixel resolution.” I said, walking to her. 

“Yeah, that’s not right. You’re reading it wrong.” 

“Look.” I shoved it in her face. 

She squinted, blinked, squinted. “You’re not wrong.” 

“What if...what if that MP doesn’t stand for mega-pixel?” I ask her. “What if it means metaphysical? As in transcendental reality?” 

She tips her beer back and finishes it. “I want you to take my picture.” 

“What?” I pulled the camera to my chest. 

“Ian, I haven’t taken a picture of anything living since this started happening. All I have taken pictures of are inanimate objects. I want to know what happens if I take a picture of something alive.” The idea made my stomach turn. If this camera could add life to lifeless photos, could it also take life away? 

“That doesn’t seem smart.” 

“What are you scared of?” She asked as she got into the fridge and grabbed another beer. 

“I just…” I looked down at the camera screen and tried to change the resolution settings to something lower, no other option showed up. “I don’t think that is smart. How about we go take a picture of a tree or a plant or something?” What I wanted to do was throw the camera into the ground and stomp on it.

“Nah, just take one of me.” She said, chugging her second beer before dramatically crushing the can and throwing it in her sink. “Don’t be a pussy.” She opened the fridge and took out another silver can.

“Fine.” I said, with the slight tone of a brat in my voice as I lifted the camera. “Say cheese.” 

“Cheese!” She yelled as the beer can opened with a crack. 

The flash went off. 

The can hit the floor. 

On the screen, where she was just standing, the frame showed only the open refrigerator door with a silver can floating in front of it.

The camera slipped from my hand. 

Get Company

3. The Computer

It took an act of dexterity previously unknown to me to catch the camera before rushing to the other end of the loft and plugging it into her computer. Seventeen password attempts and five prompts later the contents of the SD card began uploading.

How? How? How? Was the single syllable question racing through my mind. 

“Hurry the fuck up!” I screamed at the screen. “This is impossible. It’s impossible.” I said to myself, standing from the chair and walking in a circle before sitting back down. “I have to be dreaming. This is just a nightmare, Ian. Just wake up. Just wake up.” My hands crawled up my face and began pulling at my hair. “You’re losing it man. Hahaha. You’re cracking up.” The computer chimed, alerting me that it had finished uploading the photos. I clicked the confirmation button and the screen opened up showing the latest picture first, Rebecca standing in front of the fridge. Suddenly she spasmed, as if exhaling a long held breath, and then she began to silently cough. “No fucking way.” I whispered as I watched her walk out of the frame. 

I sat there, staring at the screen for what felt like an hour before she walked back into it and went to the fridge. She opened the door and pulled out two waters, shut it, and walked away. Frantically I began jamming down the arrow key, scrolling through photo after photo until I got to the one she had taken with our father. Both of them were in it now, sitting at the table, with the bottles of water she had just gotten. They were talking and laughing, his hand was sitting on top of hers. 

“Holy shit!” I jumped up from the chair and pressed my hand to my mouth in an attempt to stop myself from saying the words that were about to spill out, “they are living in the pictures.” But they couldn’t see me and I couldn’t hear them. There had to be some way to communicate, to find out what it was like for them in there. 

An idea sprang into my head and I sat back down, opening up the editing features. Maybe I could do something, insert text of some kind into the picture and they would be able to see it, so that’s what I did. I typed in “Bec, this is Ian, can you see this?” It just looked like block print on the wall behind them. They both turned and looked at it, then at each other, then as if Rebecca remembered the exact spot she took that picture from she stood up and walked towards me. Her face nearly filled the frame by the time she stopped and she nodded before holding up a finger. “Yes!” I screamed, but why? What was my goal, what was the end game here? 

When she walked back into the frame she had a dry erase board she was writing on. She held it up and it read “Dad says hi :)” She pulled it away and erased it with her hand and started writing again. My body was a coil of tension. There was a cue ball lodged in my throat. “Ian, I don’t know how to explain any of this in a way that makes sense…” 

“Yeah, join the club.” I said as she erased the board and started writing on it again. When she held it back up my heart dropped. “Ian, that camera is like a portal, it has the ability to transfer things between existing realities…” it read. I didn’t speak. I hardly breathed as she lowered the board and erased it before writing again. “Dad said that he can explain it all to you when you get here. Mom is here too, Ian, I talked to her…” 

“When I get there!? How the fuck am I supposed to get there?” I shouted at the screen as she erased the message and began writing some more. 

She held the board back up. “You're going to have to make sure the camera is hooked up to the WiFi and auto sync is enabled. Then, just shoot yourself.” 

“No, no…” I stood up again and paced in front of the computer. My eyes locked on the camera and I wanted to smash it. “This is impossible...impossible.” I grabbed the back of the computer chair and flung it to the side, screaming at the screen, “You’re fucking crazy! I am fucking crazy! A goddamn portal! A teleporter!” 

She held up a new message. “I know this sounds insane, but trust us, please. We can all be together again.” 

After reading it I sat on the floor and stared at the ceiling. Asking myself, “what have you got to lose man?” before standing. 

So here I am, getting ready to take the most important selfie in existence. Not one that will get loaded up to Instagram or Facebook or Twitter or Snapchat; one that will take me to a different time and place. Then again, isn’t that what every photo does?

Cataract Sunrise

This is an aluminum cataract sun 

rising behind splintered wood, 

encompassed on all sides by grass gone wild. 

Upon breaking it open, 

it is simple to slip inside. 


The basement room still recalls 

thoughts of lost virginity 

and decaying grandparents, 

though it's damaged now, 

the memories are still vividly intact. 


Through the door hole, the musk 

of a flooded basement hangs in the air.

Up the stairs and past the stabbed door 

are the walls that took 

punches, screams, and soda cans; 


it must be all the pitch that kept them from crumbling. 


Invisible spots on the floor reflect where 

the pills of a suicide attempt were coughed up. 

Up here the odor is a collaboration 

between seven scents of death, 

and life neverlasting. 


There are no longer laughs or tears 

or feelings here, they have been 

torn away, and replaced by vandalism. 

It's true what they say

about houses and homes


still, I'm trying to decide 

which one this was.

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It's there the door to nirvana's nestled, netted in our dreams.
Like every ray of raging light racing through the screen.

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Mid-life Crisis

It's like a puddle that never 
quite became a lake, 
cancer hiding in the 
shallow end 
of your gene pool, 
weeks spent in 
an incubator. 

It's like a solid left backhand 
from your mother; 
who mistook your 
polite inquiry for a 
condiment as a snide 
remark to your father. 

It's like being apparent 
when you'd rather be 
invisible and 
being translucent 
when you'd rather be 
opaque.

It's nowhere close 
to your first 
autoerotic experience, 
rather, akin to the time 
your mother walked in, 
mid-climax; 
sheened with cold 
sweat under
 dirty sheets. 

It's like quitting college 
to care for an alcoholic. 

It's like gaining too few lovers 
and loving few too many.

It smells as a bloody nose
tastes as a split lip
looks as a black eye
sounds as a crying face 
buried in a pillow
and 
feels as a broken arm 
left unattended 
for a week’s time. 

This is similar to 
being kicked down 
a flight of stairs 
or waking up 
in a piss soaked bed 
at thirteen.

It's  analogous to being 
over-nourished but 
under-nurtured.  

It's about as close as you can get to 
putting the gun in your mouth, 
against your temple, 
and lacking the strength 
to pull the trigger. 

It's like dead roses 
on a spring day 
Tantamount to a 
funeral procession  

Getting up at four 
p.m. on a Saturday
and going to work, 
realizing, 
you're over half 
the age of 
your father,
when he died.

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It's my last day, so
lets not talk 
about how I
can taste gun 
metal on my 
tongue.

Let's keep it quiet.
Simple.
Civilized. 

Tomorrow will be freedom,
from this place
of employment. 
From the long days 
and 
From the short nights. 

It is the last day today,
finished almost half-way,
so, let's not talk about 
how much my
life insurance pays 
for suicide. 

I don't have any. 

Does that make me
worthless? 

Worth less than what? 
Time? 
Probably.

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Chuck Palahniuk's Plot Spoiler

Midwest Story Night #4

Watch now (13 min) | The current wait time for a customer service representative is forty-five minutes. Open the door to the dungeon by opening the door to your bedroom. “The problem I’m encountering is that things from the game are in my house.” “Something killed my goddamn cat, Stacy…

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3 years ago · 11 likes · Chuck Palahniuk

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Mother sits at the table 
Reeking of lost sobriety 
The cremated remains of death, rest
in an ashtray before her 
A newspaper rattles in her hands 
She inhales smoke
Exhales a jarring cough
The surrounding walls are painted with yellow tar 

I sit to her left
Concerned only with coloring Peter-pan
I press the crayon hard
Vivid green brings life to the page 
The wax never crosses the lines:
This is crucial 

Father is sleeping on the couch 
Preparing himself for a night at work
Unintelligible voices pour from the television 
Their volume is only surpassed by that of his snores

Mother looks to the clock above the sink
Mutters a word and stands
Smoke trails behind her as she leaves

Father awakens with a protest
Words like wasps swarm the air

Mother returns to her seat 
The violent buzz filling the void between them 

Father comes after 
Drowsy and enraged 
Still I color

He picks a can of soda from the table
Fury flaring at its temperature 
The wasps begin to sting  

My eyes leave the page
The unopened can fires from his hand 
She sinks into herself
The can explodes against the wall:
 Soda
            pop 
              fizz
I spasm in fear

Now the wasps are in a frenzy 
I watch the colors run on the plaster
Mother stands
Father leaves 
The air is silence 
Mother leaves 

The wall bleeds brown from an alabaster wound 
In my book the wax has settled
The lost boy must become a man

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LAST CALL


Listen, just shut up and listen. Alright?

It's of the utmost importance you’re told what happened, we don't have much time, so just please let me do my job. 

These are the last moments of your life. Not mine. Remember that. 

Here you are, driving, at Six o' five A.M. on a Sunday. It’s January. There is snow on the road. You turn on the radio. The music makes you think of something your grandparents might have danced to, though you aren’t sure if they had. This is what you are listening to when a car turns off the side street, blinders on and doing exactly that.

You say and I quote, “asshole" before flashing your own lights. 

One. 
Two. 
Three times. 

In response, the other vehicle’s lights flash. Vision, lost, vision, lost, vision, lost. They pass, leaving you to blink the blindness from your eyes. 

You hear something like nails on a chalkboard or fork tines on a china plate, your seat pushes you up towards the sky and then your world starts to rotate. A mechanically guttural noise growls then screams. This noise, you think it's a spaceship. You think that feeling of weightlessness is because you are being abducted by aliens.

I’m not making this up. 

Something explodes, either before or after something punches you in the chest and face. You black out. 

The first time you see her, the beauty she holds in her awkwardness; the way her ears and nose are too big for her head, which in-turn is too big for her body. In that package is something that instantly hooks and reels you in. 

The first time your lips envelop hers as your hands embrace her waist and her arms constrict your neck and an unchained beast gallops in your chest. 

The first time her muscles go bowstring tight as she climaxes and the way she tells you she never knew sex was supposed to feel so great. 

Your mind folds in on these recollections of your wife.

These are your memories. Not mine. Keep that in mind. 

You have no idea where you are or how long you've been there. Between the crumpled hood and the sagging airbag you can only see the onyx ground and alabaster sky. There is ringing in your ears like wedding bells.

The taste of metal thrives in your mouth. You lift your arm from the ceiling and probe with two fingers that find it’s just the last quarter of an inch or so of your tongue that’s gone. Maybe that’s the lump that you feel in the back of your throat. When you relax your arm it falls above you. This must be what astronauts feel like.

The seat belt cuts into your shoulder and hips, keeping you suspended above the upholstered roof. For a moment you just breathe as shallow as you can. It feels like your dad is sitting on your chest, poking you in the ribs, past the ribs, jamming his finger directly into your lung. You cough, the finger goes deeper, his weight sinks lower, and blood sprays the limp airbag. Still, the lump in your throat remains.

As each breath comes and goes the cadence in your ears intensifies until the only sound you can hear is that telltale sound of panic. To calm yourself you try to turn your head, to get your bearings straight. Your neck doesn’t want to move, when you make it move something cracks, adding rim-shots to the percussive beat of your heart.

Your scream doesn’t carry. 

Without turning your head again, you drag your arm from the ceiling, fighting to keep it aloft, while you blindly reach for the seat belt release. Holding your breath as you do this, before long, stars start dancing in from the corners of your eyes. It isn’t until you feel the letters etched in plastic that you release the air you've held captive.

The seat belt cuts as deep as your next breath and your father is grinding a whole fist worth of knuckles into your lungs and nothing gets better the moment you jam your fingers down and the belt goes free. 

Your shoulder hits first, closing the half-foot of space between you and the roof. The headstand you're doing is like when you were a kid, unable to support any weight, so you just put your back against the wall, tucked your chin to your chest and stared at your feet, effectively cutting off your airway until you had to fall sideways to catch your breath. This time when you fall sideways you hear a noise, like popcorn in the microwave downstairs, just one single kernel at first, then a few others. 

You’re motionless but the popping slowly builds and your eyes see something outside the passenger-window and you say and I quote “who da fuh buts a ock in a ield” and the popping crescendos and the roof falls out from under you. 

These are the last of your thoughts. Not mine. Never forget that. 

The ice is layered like a cutaway you once saw in a program about Antarctica, zebra striped. Below that, the water is what you see when your eyes are closed. You move slowly, sitting up, gripping your side. 

Now fear is blocking the pain, your father is saying, “mind over matter, if you don’t mind, it don’t matter.” 

Something catches your eye, sitting on the ledge that used to be the underside of your dashboard. You’re counting the heartbeat in your ears as you reach for it, it takes seventy-seven to grab it and another forty-five to pull it back, your cell phone. 

You let go of your side, dialing the only number you can think of. 

From a faraway and ethereal sounding place the electric patter of an unanswered call speaks in your ear. The longer the tone drones on the lower your heart sinks. You think, maybe you should have called 911 instead. When the ringing stops and the mechanical voice of the answering line picks up, you think, maybe it's better this way. 

You know it's better this way. 

“Mornin ear, I ust anted ew ear ore oice,” as the car sinks lower, the windshield starts to press against the ice and a noise like pebbles cast against a bedroom window jolts you. The glass is giving out, the water is wanting in, “an ew ell ew at I iss ew an I lub ew.” 

"I..." Your tongue locks as rivulets of water begin streaming through the cracks in the glass. It doesn't take long for the fabric of the roof below you to become sodden and for the damp cold to leech its way into your jeans before your skin. You shiver, speaking quickly. "Ew muss be sweeping I'm sowey ah we..." There is a beep, the same voice that greeted you now tells you your time is up, it asks if you would like to listen to the message you left, or delete it and leave another. You opt for neither. 

Holding the phone to your ear until it beeps and flashes with her picture you swallow blood and that bit of tongue or fear  that’s been stuck in your throat, brushing away the tear that’s falling from your eye before letting the phone drop to the water logged roof.

Refusing to go out on terms that are not your own you swivel your feet around, taking aim at the front window. Slowly you tuck in your legs, taking ten breaths as you do so, counting each one out in your mind and holding it longer than the one before. 

One Two, Three. Four.
This is your last chance at survival. 
Five… 
This is what your life has amounted to. 
Six.
This is your car, dark and wet, not unlike your mother's womb.
Seven. 
This is your crying face, swollen and soaked. 
These are your ribs, rattling below your skin.                        
Eight.   
This is the fetal position you are in, looking so similar to your infantile self.             
Nine. 
This is everything that you have hoped to avoid, a large amount of suffering for the small release of death.
Ten. 

When you launch your legs forward they connect with and shatter the glass and the water becomes three million needles that tattoo invisible words over your skin as you’re pushed against the seat behind you. You move every bit of your shambled self towards the hole that you created but before you can even clear the window frame dad pokes at your lung and your breath turns into bubbles that drift upwards into nothingness. You knock what little glass remains out of the frame as you grab it and pull yourself free, looking for a way out from under the ice. 

There are no exits to be found. Your car is blocking the only hole. 

You press yourself to the cold underbelly of the lake’s surface and hit it with everything you have and when everything you have proves to be insufficient your tears become one with the water.

All the hours you spent at work, doing a job you hate, to buy things that you don’t love. It eats at you as the stars come back to your eyes.

Everything you’ve needed to have, you will give it all up, for just a little air, just a little light, and the chance to see her again. 

Your father always told you, “Get a job where you can sleep at night, because working them is going to kill you.” 

In a roundabout way it happened to him.
In a roundabout way it happened to you. 
History is forever prone to repetition. 
The end.

This was your life flashing before your eyes. 
Not mine. Any questions? 

I’m sorry, but we are out of time.

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       Dungeon to Redemption

       Thank you for calling Mazer Integrated Technologies, we are experiencing an influx of calls at the moment and your patience would be appreciated. To further help us expedite our assistance to you, please choose a number from the following menu. To register a device, press one. To make a warranty claim, press two. To check the status of a warranty claim, press three. To cancel a warranty claim, press four. For assistance making a warranty claim, press five. For all other inquiries, please stay on the line. 

        We at Mazer Integrated Technologies appreciate your patience. Did you know that our company was started by Coal Mazer when he was only sixteen years old? Coal and his sister Colleen built their very first computer in their parents basement. This was no ordinary computer though, Coal and Colleen were able to design and program a machine capable of true intelligence. By hand scanning book after book dedicated to the art of writing along with the entire dictionary, their machine was able to write a completely original novel.

        Thank you for calling Mazer Integrated Technologies, we are experiencing an influx of calls at the moment and your patience would be appreciated. The current wait time for a customer service representative is forty-five minutes. 

        Some people say the future has yet to come, we at Mazer Integrated Technologies say that the future is now! Help us usher in the future by becoming a hardware testing specialist. Work from home! Make your own hours! Press the pound sign to learn more. 

        The current wait time is fifty-five minutes. 

        Mazer Integrated Technologies is proud to introduce our newest product in our prestigious line of gaming hardware: The Mazer Horizon. With the Horizon you no longer have to choose between augmented reality and virtual reality, Horizon gives you both. In the box you will receive a pair of Skyn-sense gloves, twenty Augment Cubes, one Horizon headset, and one charging cable. Once you have charged the device and linked it to your Maze account, you will be in for the experience of a lifetime. It doesn’t matter if you want to be a soldier on the battlefield or a knight in the crusades, Mazer has you covered. The boundaries are your world. Marvel as the walls of your apartment or house become something new. Run your hand over them and the Skyn-sense gloves will mimic the feel of whatever the texture is. Open the door in the dungeon by opening the door to your bedroom. The possibilities are endless, the games, unique to you. Buy one today at all major electronics retailers. What Horizon will you venture towards?

        Thank you for calling Mazer Integrated Technologies, our current wait time is ten minutes. 

        Hi, I’m Coal Mazer, founder and CEO of Mazer Integrated Technologies. Did you know that MIT has been an active participant in reducing the carbon footprint of not only our corporation, but also that of our customers. That is why all of our products ship in recycled packaging and all of that packaging is one-hundred percent biodegradable. That is not all we do though. All of our development centers run on green energy, be that turbines or solar power, and we just built a state of the art manufacturing facility that runs one-hundred percent on hydroelectric power. I would like to personally thank you for doing your part to keep this world of ours clean, it is, of course, the only real one we have. 

        Thank you for calling Mazer Integrated Technologies, this call may be recorded for quality assurance purposes, our current wait time is less than one minute. 

        Thank you for calling Mazer Integrated Technologies, my name is Stacy, how may I help you today?

        Stacy, finally, yes, I have a problem with my new Horizon headset. 

        Alright, let’s see if we can’t get that sorted out for you. Can I have your name please? 

        Yeah, it’s Doug, umm, Doug Fletcher. 

        It’s nice to meet you, Mister Fletcher.

        Yeah, so, my Horizon headset, it’s not working right. 

        I’m not finding your name in the system, Mister Fletcher. Have you registered your headset?

        Uh, no, I don’t think I got around to it yet. 

        Not a problem, let me just go ahead and get you in the system here. 

        Stacy, listen, I’m kinda in a rush. 

        This will only take a moment, Mister Fletcher. 

        Yeah, okay. 

        What is the email address associated with your Maze account? 

        I don’t have a Maze account. 

        You don’t!? Well, we will get that set up too. 

        Stacy, really, I just, I need to know if anyone else is having the problems I’m having with their headset. 

        What email address would you like to connect to your Maze account? 

        Stacy, honestly, I don’t want a Maze account. I just want some fucking answers. 

        Mister Fletcher, I do not appreciate that type of language. I will ask that you remain polite while I assist you or I will terminate this call. 

        I’m sorry, I’m just, I was on hold for a while and…

        I understand, Mister Fletcher. Now what email address would you like to connect to your Maze account? 

        Uhh, make it Rick Grimes sixty-nine at gmail dot com. 

        Perfect. Walking Dead fan I see.

        What?! Why would you say that, Stacy? 

        What? 

        Why would you call me a walking dead man? 

        You misheard me, Mister Fletcher. I implied that you are a fan of The Walking Dead. 

        Oh, yeah, once upon a time. 

        What name would you like to put on your Maze account? 

        Just...my name. 

       Okay, so, Doug Fletcher, correct?

        Yeah. 

        Now, would you like to put an avatar on your account? I could describe some of them to you, or you can get online and set one up later. 

        I’ll do it later. 

        Okay, don’t forget.

        I won’t. Can we get onto why I called today? 

        Just a minute, oh shoot, it says that email is already registered to an account. Turns out you do have one. Would you like me to email you a link for it? 

        Sure, yeah, go ahead. 

        Alrighty, I emailed you that link, if you just want to go ahead and log onto your account you can finish the product registration from there. I’ll give you a minute to do that. 

        No, wait, I can’t get to my computer. 

        Thank you for calling Mazer Integrated Technologies, our customer service representative will return in five minutes. 

        We here at Mazar Integrated Technologies pride ourselves on being a family oriented and family operated company. Not only do we offer competitive salary packages but we also offer three weeks of vacation time to every employee who stays with us throughout their one-hundred-twenty day probationary training period. On top of that we also offer a comprehensive healthcare package with low deductibles and low weekly rates. Bring your toddlers to work with you and put them in one of our onsite child daycare centers. Mazer Integrated Technologies, we hope to see you soon. 

        Alright, Mister Fletcher, did you get that registration taken care of? 

        Yeah, barely. 

        I know, five minutes just doesn’t seem like enough time to enter all of that information, does it? 

        That’s not it at all, Stacy. 

        Let me just pull your information up here, okay, here it is. I’m just going to read this back to you to make sure that everything is correct. Is your name Douglas Fletcher?

        Yes. 

        Is your birthday March thirteenth nineteen-ninety-six? 

        Yes. 

        Is your email Rick Grimes sixty-nine at gmail dot com? 

        Yes. 

        Is your address four one two five five Waiterloo drive, Namansie, Indiana? 

        Waterloo. 

        Oh, little typo there, let me just fix that. So, four one two five five Waterloo drive, correct?

        Yes. 

        Ohhh kayyy, now, how may I help you today Mister Fletcher? 

        Okay, so, I have the Horizon and something is wrong with it, like…

        Have you tried turning it off and then back on? 

        Yeah, I’ve tried that. That’s not the problem here, Stacy. 

	If you hold down the power button for thirty seconds, that performs a hard reboot on the hardware. Have you tried that? 

        No, I haven’t. 

	Go ahead and try that for me, if you would please. 

	Stacy, that is not the fuc...that’s not the problem here. The problem I am encountering is that things from the game are in my house. 

	Oh, well that’s not a problem at all, that is how the Horizon has been designed. 

	NO! Not like that. I mean, without the headset on, things are still in my house. Something killed my goddamn cat, Stacy. 

	Mister Fletcher, though I am sorry for your loss, please let me remind you that language like that will not be tolerated.  

	I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Just, listen to this, listen to this. Did you hear that? 

	What was that, Mister Fletcher? It sounded like something clawing at wood. 

	You heard it! Yes! Yes! I’m not crazy, whoo, thank you, Stacy. Thank you for hearing that. 

	What exactly was that, Mister Fletcher? 

	I don’t know, a Boggin maybe, I think. Like, I’m pretty sure that is what killed Nostradamus. 

	A Boggin? 

	Yeah, they’re these creatures that like, live in the sewers in the game. Nasty little rat like carnivores. 

	They live in the sewers? In the game? 

	In Dungeon To Redemption, the game for the Horizon. 

	So let me get this straight, Mister Fletcher, you are trying to tell me that somehow the creatures from the game are affecting your real life property? 

	That’s exactly what I am trying to tell you. 

	Is there anything else besides these, these “Boggins”, that has crossed over? 

	Just one other thing. 

	Oh yeah?

	Yeah, The Executioner? 

	Oh, he sounds scary. 

	Yeah, Stacy, he is scary. He’s seven foot tall and four-hundred pounds. He carries an ax that could cut a man in half lengthwise in one swing. 

	You don’t say. 

	Stacy, I’m getting the sense that you aren’t believing me. 

	Mister Fletcher, I don’t appreciate you wasting my time, or the time of other customers that have legitimate problems I could be helping them with. 

	Stacy, listen, I understand that this sounds impossible, but you heard the scratching. If you were on the line at midnight tonight, you would hear the sound of the executioner pacing by my door, dragging his ax behind him like some overloaded trick-or-treat bag. There are gouges in the floor, Stacy. Gouges. In the fucking floor! I am not fucking around here! 

	Okay, Mister Fletcher. That is the last time I will let you use that language with me. 

	Stacy, I’m sorry. Please, just…Something killed my cat and it’s only a matter of time before something kills me. Please, please tell me what to do. 

	You have a nice day, Mister Fletcher. 

	Thank you for calling Mazer Integrated Technologies, we hope that we were able to assist you with your problem. Please stay on the line to fill out a short survey to let us know how we did. 

A Comedic Undertaking
I wonder 
How
Many 
Clowns 
Can 
Fit

In one 
Coffin 
After
Their 
Car 
Crash

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