Fifteen seconds to violet
Victor regarded the electronic card around his neck thoughtfully, the numbers rising the tiniest fraction by the second. The bar almost looked like it wasn’t moving at all, if he didn’t look long enough.
It wouldn’t be long until his number reached critical levels, according to the radiation card, but he’s been resetting his numbers illegally for months now, so the numbers at this point hold little meaning. So far, he has felt fine. Energized, even. Every single cell in his body felt electric, and he was beginning to like the feeling.
To keep up appearances, he still wore his protective vest dutifully as he worked, making small marks in his small black notebook. It was only a formality; he has taken to committing his observations to memory. Today, the prism was changing colors again, from blue to green to red, before transforming to his favorite: a rich, deep violet. It went through this rotation every day, like clockwork, and by this point he could predict the change down to the second. He wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but he had theories, oh did he have his theories.
He glanced at the second hand of his watch.
Fifteen seconds to violet. Fourteen... thirteen... twelve... eleven...
"Victor?" Natalia's voice called through the speakers, from beyond the glass partition. "What are you doing?"
Victor chewed his lower lip in annoyance. He did not have time to humor Natalia right now. He was fond of her, truly he was, but today was not the day. She had what he would describe as a "relentlessly positive" disposition. A half smile permanently fixed on her heart-shaped face, paired with a soft, lilting voice. She both fascinated and irritated him simultaneously, and today his feelings were closer to the latter.
Five...four...three...
"Have you lost your mind? You need to get out of there!" Natalia's tinny voice crinkled through the speakers. A bright white light started flashing through the room, like a strobe, signaling the emergency alarm had been triggered.
Two...
"Victor!"
One.
---
Dying took exactly forty-five seconds.
Blood was the color of freshly bloomed violets, the searing skin smelled of burnt lavender and agar.
Throughout the process Victor had seemingly random thoughts flit through his brain, with one recurring character: Natalia. She always smelled of lavender, didn't she? It was her shampoo, or that bottle she kept at her desk, was it hand cream? She had chronically dry hands, Victor suddenly remembered, from working with radium, of course. The cream helped.
He coughed up a mist of purple dust.
No, no. It was peonies. The cream's scent was peonies.
The transformation was painful. Then again, that was to be expected. That was what Victor's advisor always told him, back in the day, when he was a young doctoral student, full of hopeful idealism and shameless ambition. To truly change one must destroy the old self, the esteemed Dr. Keehma preached. One must die.
Natalia always thought that was a bit extreme. Victor didn't. It was one of their recurring arguments. It became a sort of ritual, their friendly debates, late night diatribes over boxes of old Chinese food, Natalia illustrating her points with a wave of a chopstick.
It was this particular memory that brought Victor back into the sea of violet, hazy images of spring peonies and wonton noodles at the edges of his vision, a half-smile forming on his bluish lips.
He did it. He finally did it. He was now the purest form of energy. A burning, glowing, radiating ball of light. A successful metamorphosis.
It was sad, really, that as he passed he didn't notice the small humanoid shadow clinging to the remnants of his white coat. The figure of a woman with a heart shaped face, who once smelled of peonies.
Lonely Bloom
After he got the news, his arms went limp and the rose fell to the floor. He stood there, staring at it for a few moments. Unable to move or even think. Finally, he unfolded the paper and began reading again the poem he had composed for her.
"Though we're apart and my life is a desert, love can still bloom in the driest of places. Like a rose that waters itself with the tears of missing you."
He stopped short, unable to finish. Then stooping down, he picked up the flower, and put it under his nose, allowing its fragrance to linger there. As he stood up and inhaled deeply, he recalled the place where they had first met.
It was at a little sidewalk café, in Paris, where he often went to work on his journal. He was sitting alone, she with friends. He was jotting down some random observations about the music and the cuisine when she came up softly. She cleared her throat a little, causing him to gaze up and stare at her in stunned silence.
She stood there like a lovely European dream. Her long, flowing, blond hair was soft-lifted by the breeze, playing all around her head in delicate little tangles. Her deep blue, sea green eyes regarded him with surprised interest, as her smooth skin shimmered in the hot Paris sun like rose-colored pearl. For a few moments, he was unable to speak.
Finally, he slipped back into this new reality where anything was possible as long as she was a part of it.
"Wha-What may I do for you?" He said, barely able to control his emotions.
She went to speak, and her soft voice sounded cool, clear, and musical. Like the whisper of magic fairy chimes, tinkling softly in an open doorway on a pleasant spring day.
"May I have this chair?" She asked, coming up close and placing both her arms around it as if she could not bear to be parted from it. "You see, a friend of mine has just arrived, and she has no place to sit."
Then she stepped aside and allowed him to peer behind her, where he saw two attractive ladies sitting at a table. While a third one stood close by, gazing his way with a hopeful expression.
He could refuse her nothing. "Yes, you may have it most certainly. Just as long as you promise to come and sit with me after your friends leave."
She tilted her head a little to one side, gazed at him with eyes wet and glistening, then she made a sigh that he would never forget. Seeming to laugh and cry in the same breath.
"Oh, I cannot, for we are all leaving together, you see. Ah well, I shall just find one somewhere else I suppose." Then she went to turn away when he stopped her.
"Wait! I shall not hear of such a thing!" He proclaimed indignantly. "You shall surely take that chair for your friend. It is my gift to you. Enjoy."
Then she giggled and clapped her hands together gleefully like a young schoolgirl. "Oh goody! Thank you so much kind, sir. You truly are an angel."
"No Madam, you are the angel. I am but a wandering soul, waiting for the salvation only your sweet love can provide."
She looked him directly in the eyes and mouthed the words thank you. As she slid her tongue out seductively and let it touch the front of her lips. Then she smiled, waved a little, and after lifting up the chair, she set it down for her friend. Then they both sat down together, ordered some drinks and all of them started talking.
He tried to continue working on his journal. But each time he did, he would hear her laughter rise above that of the others, and it left his soul intoxicated. Or he would hear her talking and her voice became like a siren song. Seeming to sound higher, clearer, and more beautiful than all the rest. It almost caused him to lose control of his emotions. So that in a second or two he felt as if he might rise up and declare his love for her. Regardless of who was around or what happened afterwards.
Suddenly, he shot a quick glance here and there to see if anyone else had become aware of his growing infatuation with her. No one had. Then, he dropped his pen on the table, closed the journal, sat back in his chair, and lit up a cigarette. Resigning himself to defeat.
Several minutes later he put the cigarette out and began collecting up his journal, some notes, and other miscellaneous things he had brought with him. He placed everything within a small leather carrying case. Determined to come back in a day or two when hopefully, there would be no more distractions.
Then, just as he stood up to leave, her perfume instantly reached out, caught hold of him, and enfolded his senses within a cloud of bliss. He stood there helplessly with his eyes closed, seeming to breathe in a mystical flower of paradise right after the world was new-created.
He knew he couldn't leave like this, so he sat down again and quickly wrote a few lines about her. Then he casually dropped the paper in front of her as he passed. She opened it there and read quietly to herself.
"I am intrigued by the perfume you are wearing. I remember smelling that same fragrance before. It was at the Musée du Louvre. I was admiring that painting, "The Birth of Venus" by Botticelli. You were still lingering in the air, as I arrived.
I had just missed you. I have not been able to forget you since.
You came down from the painting, and into my life. I long to inhale you more deeply. Here is my number, can we meet?"
She called later that night, and they met the very next morning. In the same café, at the same table. From that moment on, his heart belonged to her.
On their first day sightseeing together, they walked under the Arc de Triomphe du Carousel where he kissed her and declared his love. In that moment he told her later, he had outdone Napoleon himself and taken possession of Europe's greatest treasure.
Afterwards, while strolling through the Jardin des Tuileries, they held hands as they admired the paintings, the statues and immersed themselves in the garden's breath-taking beauty. It was there he found a flower unlike the others and named it after her.
"La Fleur d'Elise."
Later, they walked the Champs-Élysées and stopped along the way to browse the luxury shops, cafés and cinemas.
As evening approached, they visited the Eiffel Tower and the Grands Boulevard area in the 9th Arrondisement, where they enjoyed some of the Parisian nightlife. Then they went back to their little café and had dinner.
Afterwards, they ordered a bottle of wine and sat there discussing music, art, poetry and theater. Towards the end of the night, they kissed once more and exchanged love vows, both of them swearing never to think of anyone else while they were apart.
Theirs was a sweet, simple relationship in which they constantly discovered new things about each other to cherish. He told her that he loved the way she tilted her head to one side ever so slightly while speaking. She said that she enjoyed the gleam of adoration in his eyes whenever he spoke to her. They thought it would never end.
But, that was more than a month ago, and a lot had changed since then. He mistook a friend for her lover and grew extremely jealous. Demanded to know who he was and why she was spending time with him. Angry words were exchanged and accusations made that she could not forgive. He had become unreasonable in his suspicions, so she broke it off.
Now she was gone. Had returned to London, her neighbor told him, barely an hour ago. He had just missed again her it seems. Yet her perfume was hanging heavy in the air as always. Then, the neighbor handed him a note from her.
He opened it up and read the final words which she had left for him.
"You sweet, silly man. You will find me...everywhere. Fondly, your Elise."
He nodded his head sadly and wiped away a few tears. Afterwards, he gave the rose to the neighbor, then placed the poem and the note in his pocket. Dejected but accepting, he walked out the front door and back down the street to the little café at which they had first met. Where he knew her fragrance would still be waiting to haunt him forever.
With the memory of a love that would never grow.
Mom, Do You Remember…
Dear Mom,
Do you remember the Mother’s Day cards I gave you when I was little? I hope not. Because when Dad was grocery shopping, he bought them from a discount rack, and gave them to me and my brothers to give to you. And I don’t know where he got those vats of cheap perfume that he gave you. But you always thanked us.
That reminds me. Do you remember that you always made me thank an aunt for sending a gift? You would call one of your sisters on our rotary dial phone and say that I wanted to tell her something. I would take the receiver and cram all my words together – “Thanks for the present. Here’s Mom.” – and give the phone back to you. My brothers did the same thing. But you never stopped making us say thanks.
Do you remember picking up the phone and dialing a number when my brothers and I were bad? You said into the receiver, “Hello, Bad Boys Home, I have a pickup.”
Do you remember pounding meat on the kitchen counter to stretch the slab into meals for ten? Do you remember giving us haircuts in the kitchen to save money? Do you remember playing piano in the living room and calling out chords so we could strum along on guitar? Do you remember holding grandchildren?
Sorry for asking all these questions, but when last I saw you in the memory wing of the assisted living home, sometimes you did not remember your sons’ names. I just wonder if you got your memory back after you passed away.
That’s okay if you do not recall all these events. My brothers and I are keeping your memories for you.
Love,
Sandlot
Absentmindedly
I didn’t even realise I was doing it. I was completely unaware until I went to reach for my glass of water. I had pulled my shirt up over my breasts and was slowly running two fingers ever so gently around my right nipple. Once I realised, I was loathe to take my fingers away. It was so light and subtle and there was a sweetness to it that I couldn’t resist. I licked my lips and decided I didn’t need that glass of water as much as I thought I did. I let my attention again go out of focus as I continued to tease my nipple into a lovely taut hardness. I eye up my glass of water again. Granted, to reach it, I’d have to remove my fingers, but something catches my eye. There’s ice in that water. I smile wickedly to myself and with a force of will, relinquish my playing to take that drink of water but to also plunge my hand into that water to retrieve one of the ice cubes.
I take the ice cube and continue my lazy circles. My body responds strongly to the ice and my nipple is quickly hard and solid. I flick at it with my other hand and that sweet pain tweaks through me. That is definitely not going to be sufficient to my needs this evening.
I lean over and grab one of the clothespegs sitting on the bookshelf by my chair. I snap it without a moment‘s hesitation and gasp sharply as it clips down hard onto my frozen nipple. That is definitely better. I pinch down on the clamp and twist it hard around to the right. I stamp a foot on the ground and throw my head back. I can feel myself beginning to get wet. I hear your voice in the back of my mind, ‘Are you ever not hungry, my dear slut?’
‘Seldom, Sir’ I answer aloud. ‘It seems a pity to waste a good ice cube, Sir, don‘t you think?’ I hear your chuckle in response.
‘Go ahead then, slave. I’d hate to interrupt your ministrations when I so enjoy watching you squirm.’ I blush brightly, but I’m not a fool. I’m not going to pass up an opportunity to release the tension riding throughout my body.
I move the ice to my other nipple. At first, I just set it on top of my nipple as I watch it harden and rise of its own accord. I hold it there. Longer. Just a bit more, until I pull it away. ‘Clothespegs, whore, NOW!’ I snatched it rapidly and clamp it down hard.
‘Oh, thank you, Sir, you do know what I like.’
‘And why would I not know what my slave likes, craves? That’s pretty close to impertinenc, wouldn’t you say? As you know, impertinenc can be a very fine line. Are you sure that’s a line you want to walk this evening? Now twist your nipples. Harder! Further!’ Oh, I can feel my arousal growing. I moan with pleasure. I do so love the pain. ‘This time, I want you To clamp your fingers over the clothespegs pads and squeeze your nipples in between those teeth. Then, when I say, I want you to squeeze down and twist with all your might. Please me well and we just might please you this evening as well.’
I keep my eyes on my breasts as I start squeezing my nipples even harder between the clothespegs. Just as I think I’ve adjusted, I add a little more force. I try hard to keep my eyes open. I want to close my eyes and feel the desire build within my body and mind. ‘NOW!’ And I wrench hard with my fingers, twisting my nipples a full 180 while squashing the tips. ‘Oh, oh Sir, thank you. Thank you so much,’ I manage to gasp out.
‘Nice, slut. Now, release your fingers but leave the clothespegs on.’ I’m torn. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want the pain rippling through me to stop. I like the way the need is growing inside of me and the wetness that I can feel building. ‘Tut, tut, slut. Are you not following directions? That’s just not on. Let go, now.’ Regretfully, I do as he asks, but now I’m wondering if those few moments of added pleasure were worth whatever consequences may lay before me.
I see you’ve dropped your ice. How very remiss of you. Grab another one, whore.’ I reach over and grab another ice cube out of my glass. ‘Spread your legs for me, slut. Let me see that beautiful pussy of yours.’ I do as he asked, squirming in my discomfort of so exposing myself. ‘Now take that lovely little ice cube and rub it all around your hungry little clit. I want to see if go rock hard and turn that brilliant shade of maroon I so like to see.’ I swallow hard. This, I’m not used to. I take a deep breath and press the ice cube to my clit. Oh holy hell! My legs go wider. My hips rise up. Oh, this definitely was not what I was expecting, it hurt but in such a brilliantly wonderful way. I would very much like to get used to this, I think as I continue to tease myself. ‘Now, now, time to take it away, don’t you think, whore?’
‘No! No, Sir, just a bit longer, please, just a short bit. I’ll be ever so good if you let me.’ I can feel my hips wanting to start thrusting upward.
‘Again? I’m sure that was an order. You are in rare form this evening, but aren’t you? So very impertinent.’ I hear the sound, but before I can recognise it the leather single tail smacks across first one breast, then the other, torturing my nipples all the more. Four more times I hear the swish of the air before the contact with my breasts which causes me to arch my back and buck upwards with desire. I hear the swish again. I try to prepare myself, but I couldn’t have imagined what was coming my way. The snap of the leather and the movement of air before it slammed down on my ice hardened clit. A scream flew out of my mouth. Again, four more times I felt it snap across my most sensitive of places. I could feel my mind fog as desire took over my thoughts. It was so painful and yet I loved it. I was so glad to have been given this gift. It’s in that moment I realise I’ve not thanked him.
‘Thank you, please, thank you, Sir, I am so grateful, it feels so good, I am your slave, happy to do with as you will, thank you, sir.’ I realise I’m rambling but I can’t seem to string a full sentence together. I hear him chuckle lightly again.
‘Oh, slut, you have no idea. No idea how tempting you look with your legs spread wide, feet braced on the floor, and pussy open to all. Speaking of which, could you join me, please?’ I try to focus, to open my eyes but right now I can only seem to take the pleasure that is burning into my flesh. ‘You remember my good friend?’ I turn my eyes on the newcomer and recognise him immediately. He is a good friend of my Master. A shiver of embarrassment shoots through me And I try to pull my legs together. I feel his hands on my thighs. ‘I don’t think that’s going to play tonight. I’ve had quite enough of your disobedience tonight. Open them back up.’ I swallow hard as I do what he asks. I’ve no doubt his compatriot can see everything, including my utter wetness.
‘Now, I’d like you to show my friend here how you like to please yourself, slut.’ I start to shake my head and the inevitable whistle of leather through the air comes to me, but I buck back as I realise he has changed tools and the full width of the leather belt smacks across my cunt. I scream as the pain rifles through me. My hips start bucking. Oh no, no, no. If I come now, without asking, there really will be hell to pay. I tense my muscles trying to prevent them from thrusting upward, seeking release. I hear him clear his throat. I quickly drop the ice and fin my clit with my fingers. Fuck! It’s a triple whammy. My clit is still hard from the ice, stinging from the whip and burning from the belt. Then the cold hits me again. Stupidly, I’d not even thought about the fact that my fingers had been holding an ice cube up until a few moments ago. The minute I touch my clit, I moan loudly, and slide my ass towards the end of the chair, my hips raise up into the air and I increase the speed as I run my fingers back and forth across my nib.
‘Please, Sir, May I cum?’
I hear his wicked laugh. ’Oh no, slut, nothing so easy this evening, I think. Impertinence, you know. Now, I could now ask my friend to go get another piece of ice and rub it back over your clit to keep it nice and cool as I’m sure we don’t want you to overheat, BUT, I know just how hard it is going to be for you to pull those fingers of yours away to reach out and grab the ice and once again, cool down your clit, though it does seem the more we cool it, the hotter it gets. So, slave, stop playing with yourself, get another piece of ice and ice yourself down again please. I grit my teeth and am tempted to mutter under my breath, but catch myself just in time. The minute the ice makes contact with my sensitive organ, my ass flies up off the chair. I thrust, harder and harder in the air, each thrust causing the clothespegs on my nipples to smack and twist of their own accord sending even more pain shooting through me.
‘Please, now sir? May I come?’ There is a pained tone in my voice. I don’t honestly know if I can hold off.
’No, slut. Keep going.’ I hold the ice there, bucking up and down, thrusting up my hips, I can hear the clothespegs smacking against my flesh. I shake my head from side to side but that seems to only jiggle the clothespegs more, teasing me more. The speed of my hips increases. I want to pull the ice away, but then again, I don’t want to pull it away. ‘Shove the ice cube into your hungry fucking hole, slut.’ I don’t hesitate and shove it in. A low moan begins inside my chest and grows and grows until it forces itself out from behind my lips. ‘Play with your clit, now, dear.’ I do as he asks. I can feel tears forming at the corner of my eyes. I must be a spectacle but I can’t help myself. I need it. I want this. My fingers flick rapidly back and forth, bringing me closer and closer to the edge. I want to scream out. My head just rocks back and forth, animal noises echo in my ears. Harder and harder I fuck the empty air while my fingers fiddle my clit which wants nothing more than release.
‘Please…..please….i want….please…May I? Please? Sir? May I come? May I show you? Please sir, please!’ I’m desperate now. It seems forever before I hear his voice.
‘What do you think, would you like to see her come? We can just leave her like this. Come back to her later? Should we let her? Do you think she has done enough to earn that treat?’ I am screaming inside my head. They can’t leave me like this! I must come! I manage to keep it in my mind as more moans fill the room.
The two men move forward, it’s only then that I really see them. I realise they are standing there, each with their cocks in their hands, stroking, pulling, teasing. They increase the speed. My body still writhes for release. I want those cocks. I don’t care where. I just want them. Now! ‘Fuck me, please fuck me, fill me up, both of you please,’ but they ignore my pleas. I keep fucking my clit but feeling a new hunger growing inside me. Now my body is just jerking in every direction begging to be filled.
’Come NOW bitch!’ I don’t have to be told twice, I release the last wall if put up to hold my orgasm back. I scream and scream as my whole body strains and shakes and pushes up in the air as my release shakes me down to my toes. I feel my wetness come spraying out, making my embarrassment complete. At that precise moment, both men step closer as they shoot their loads all over my body. It seems to keep coming. More and more. My mind swims away from me. ‘Rub it in,slave.’ I finally remove my finger from my clit as shockwaves still jerk me involuntarily. I place my hands on my stomach and start to rub their semen all over my stomach, and over my breasts. I slide my fingers through the still warm come and blend them together covering my entire torso. ‘Good girl. Now, lick your fingers and hands clean.’ I do that but as I do so, I imagine just what it would have felt like to have both men alternate turns, fucking my mouth. In the corner of my mind, I hear someone counting down. 3-2-1-Now! Each one of them grabs one of the clothespegs, twists hard and them takes them off my nipples. My body shoots back into the air as blood returns to my nipples and I scream as yet another orgasm shakes through what feels like every nerve in my body. I fall back and fall asleep.
the ongoing literary battle, but in 2024.
Bear versus man. The fight we never expected. Then again, perhaps it is.
Most of literature is written as Man vs. Something.
Man vs. Nature. Man vs. Man. Man vs. God.
It was about time for such a subject to pop back up within our society.
For all of those who may not know, what is the gist of this?
The concept is: if one's daughter, wife, or sister was lost in the woods and bound to encounter something, would you prefer that Something to be a bear or a man?
Naturally, several women prefer the bear, and when giving their explanations,
they fall into deaf ears to the point where several individuals
are now making the joke of choosing a lion in a cage vs. the concept of marriage.
Well,
I live in a country where there is an ongoing word like an echo, a screaming heartbeat
of outrage,
"Femicide."
Over and over again--
in the posters of missing women you know will never be found,
in the mind of every woman being followed street after street in the dark,
in the rushed heartbeat of every woman alone in a car with a man who tells her,
"My, you look pretty. Are you single? Are you married?
Do you have children? I'll give you a free ride if you agree to come home with me."
No one is arguing men do not go through violence, through hurt, through pain.
No one is arguing the insanity in this schizophrenic world does not somehow
inevitably go
both ways.
Hurt is hurt, no matter the race, no matter the gender.
There is a war going on and somehow we turn a blind eye because ultimately we know,
"What exactly can I do about it? What can I do about everything
that is going so, so wrong?"
Which is exactly the very problem; when we make jokes about what we do not
understand.
When we look away from the bleeding streets instead of doing whatever we can
to make it right.
When we turn against one another, wasting our time and our breath convincing someone that when a bear sees a human in the woods,
they will understand it is a human,
when most goddamn humans
don't.
A Lady on the Bus
So this is not a work of fiction. It's the true life story of a person I met and the experience I had with her. I'm sharing this so that you can keep this lady in your prayers, as she is struggling. She is a beautiful, amazing soul. But she needs the protection of whatever divinity is out there.
So I was on the bus today, going home from school. As I got on the bus, I noticed a lady who looked like she was sleeping on her seat. No big deal, people get cozy on the bus sometimes, they even close their eyes sometimes, it doesn't necessarily mean they're actually asleep. So I just stand near the back which is where people go if all the seats are occupied.
But eventually the bus stops at a bus stop and I notice a police car stopped in front of us. The driver gets out of the bus and talks to the police. Then a police officer comes and he starts talking to the lady who was resting. Now, I have been the victim of police brutality before. I know wha it's like. This woman is visibly BIPOC, and she looks to be either Latina or Indigenous. She looks poor. She could be having a mental health crisis. I know what police do to people like her. I'm not about to let her get murdered or beaten up or something. So I start filming. I don't say anything, I just take out my phone and start filming.
I know we're on a bus and beside a busy road, so if there is any maltreatment, people will see. But I also know that there are many cases where people got killed on or by a busy road. I've watched a video of a mentally ill man getting gunned down by the police even though he was just standing with his hands up, and this happened right by a busy road full of cars. If anything happens, having video evidence of it will back up and lend credibility to eyewitness accounts. If anything happens, having video evidence of it will make more people believe the truth.
So I film, from a few meters away. The police officer asks her if she has a ticket for the bus. She says no. He demands that she get out of the bus. She refuses at first. But he threatens to take her out by force. Now I will mention that she looks extremely tired and groggy and she doesn't seem to be thinking rationally. The police officer threatens to arrest her, so she gets off the bus. The cop follows her, and I follow the cop, still filming. Outside, the cop threatens to arrest the girl, and asks for her information. He notices me filming and asks if he can help me. I say no, and that I'm just making sure.
The lady seems completely delirious. She can only answer yes or no, and her voice sounds incredibly distressed and emotional. The police officer eventually gets into his car and drives away. And I stop filming but I stay with the lady. She's sitting on a bench and I sit beside her. I ask her if she has any friends or family she can go to. She can't answer my questions in full sentences and just says no in a very panicked voice. I ask her if she wants to go to a homeless shelter, and she says no. I have to talk to her and repeat the same question four or five times to get an answer. The police officer had previously had to ask the same question many times to get an answer as well.
I know I can't leave her like this. She's completely out of it and if she's outside by herself by the time night rolls around, then she might get kidnapped. I've seen too many missing posters around my city, and read too many articles about the MMIGW2S crisis. Not to mention, she doesn't have any warm clothes, she only has a cotton t shirt and slacks, and the nights are very cold where I live. She could straight up die of pneumonia or something if she doesn't find shelter before the night. So I decide to call a homeless shelter anyways and explain my situation. They tell me to call a number and there will be a crisis response team who will come.
So the crisis response team is not part of the police. They don't have weapons. They're social workers who use deescalation tactics and stuff.
So I call the number for the crisis response team. And at this point she's lying down on the bench at the bus stand and I'm sitting on the ground next to her. Which is okay, since she's really tired and I'm not. I get put on hold on the phone, and I stay put on hold for like half an hour. So I'm just sitting here, keeping an eye on the lady, waiting to be connected on the phone to someone I can talk to. And it's pretty tense, but thank the gods the weather is good.
Eventually the call does get through. The lady on the other side of the phone line asks what happened and where I am. So I explain my situation to her. She says she'll send a crisis response team, but they'll take at least half an hour to get there. So that's okay I guess. So I stay with the distressed lady. I don't try to talk to her. I just let her rest. The gods know that she needs her rest. I just want to make sure she doesn't end up kidnapped or the victim of police brutality or a suicide victim or something. I want her to rest in a soft, clean bed inside instead of having to sleep on a hard metal bench outside. But for the time being I just let her rest.
So eventually the crisis support team gets here. They have a car, and they are two ladies. They're really nice. They ask her questions, and she is finally able to talk in full sentences, instead of only saying yes or no. This is a good thing. But the answers she gives still don't make sense. When the crisis response ladies ask her if she's staying with anyone, she says that she's staying with family. But when they ask if she knows the phone numbers of any family members, she replies that she doesn't have any family. When they ask her how she got to where she is now, she replies that she walked. Which I know is not true since I was on the bus with her and I got off said bus with her.
She keeps insisting that she needs to go back to where she was staying, she wants them to take her to where she was staying. She keeps begging to have help so she can go back. But when the ladies ask her what address she needs to go back to, she says she doesn't know. When they ask her if she has anyone's phone number that she could call, she responds that she doesn't know any phone numbers. She sounds incredibly distressed this whole time.
Eventually she says that she was trying to get to a bank, and so they ask her if she might be able to lead them to where she's staying if they start from the bank she was trying to get to. She says that maybe she can. She gets in the car with them and the three ladies drive off. So after this, I stay at the bus stop and I take the next bus home.
So I have no idea what happened to her beyond that. But I do trust the lady at the homeless shelter call line who told me to call the crisis response team. And I do trust the crisis response team because they're not cops, and they're very gentle and kind.
I sincerely hope that she gets the help that she needs and that she enters into a better mental state. I hope she gets back to her home and that she can be safe and comfortable. I hope she receives healthcare and mental healthcare because she clearly needs both. This is coming from someone who clearly needed both at one point too. I was extremely undernourished and suicidal once and going to the hospital kept me from dying. I hope that she gets the help that she needs. I hope that so much with all of my heart.
I am keeping her in my prayers, and I would really appreciate it if you guys could pray for her as well. I hope she can have the blessings of all the gods. I believe in the power of prayer and I believe in the power of love. I believe in the power of kindness, compassion, humility, empathy, and dignity. If you could all pray for her, it would mean an immense amount to me and I would be very grateful.
My Love, My Mother
I grew up cold and blamed it on the shadow of my older sisters. Not because I am the youngest or smallest in the family, but because I felt a sense of not belonging. I wondered if I were an alien creature being studied on a planet of people who only resembled me in appearance, but the similarities ended there. My mother seemed to favor my sisters, with their baby pictures hung large on the wall of her bedroom where mine was forgotten on some far forgotten to-do list. I remember such feral anxiety at the thought of losing my mother still. I grew older and bitter, but still held that deep seeded need for security, attention, and affection. Even if I did not get exactly what I craved, I knew I should never wander far from my mother. She may not be the warm embrace of a homemade chocolate chip cookie, but she will always tide me over. I met a man and took a leap of faith on him and a thing called love, which helped me draw boundaries and take a step away from my family of origin. There was so much to learn about life and my sense of self. I value different things and support different politics. And then the day came that I dreamed of my entire life. 8.5 pounds of nothin' brought my life to a screeching halt. I have birth to human perfection. His hair was thick and dark and his skin a rich olive red. "Whose baby is this?" I wondered. I expected a pale bald or blonde baby that me resembled myself. I couldn't have been more prepared for motherhood and yet I was not prepared at all. The love, the ecstacy of the new baby smell, and the sheer terror at realizing I am responsible for this life and its every need. My child IS my love. I need to feed him when he cues, but first to learn his cues constantly varying. The long nights, the cry-inducing panic, and the distrust of my mother-in-law that made me reject assistance. Being a mother is horrific in the greatest way. It is living with the best peace of your soul split from your human form. Suddenly, I get it. I don't love it, but I get it. My mom was all but abandoned by my father for most of my childhood. She wasn't purposefully neglectful, she was spread thin. My older sisters were provided opportunities that I was not because there were not enough resources to go around. Instead of evenly distributing what my mom could, she tried to do it all, and all for my sisters prevented any for me. It wasn't intentional, and I never complained. I was so resigned to being hated and unwanted that I never dared to ask why I was being left out, why I was not loveable, why I didn't matter. I didn't know I could speak my truth until I met my husband, who said things out loud that shouldn't have been spoken at all. I grew into myself more away from my mother. I lost some love only to find it in my own son. My relationship with mom isn't as close as my sisters' seems to be, but my appreciation for all that she could spare has been tremendous. Pieces of me that shattered under the pressure of being less than have found their way to building something new. I am reborn after having given birth. My child will know he is wanted and loved in the ways I still yearn to feel. I will take charge of my relationships and my life as a whole. I am a mother now, and mothers have to build their children's world from the bottom up while the weight of the world presses harder and harder. Being a mom is thankless and all-consuming, but it is the closest thing to being a God there is. Creating life is the easy part, keeping the child alive is the never- ending challenge. We're all doing the best we can, so ask your mother the hard questions, love others the way you yearn to be loved, and thank your mom for keeping you alive!
- This story is part of a collaborative project with additional talented writers. The previous chapters can be found here: https://theprose.com/post/438830/tag-list-and-schedule
All of the sights of Little Dafford had left Brian in awe, but nothing like the training grounds of the warrior army. Once he stepped through the iron gate that Coban opened, he observed sparring matches of a good hundred warriors, all armored with protection that was on par with the iron walls that surrounded the vast dirt grounds. Brian had not seen much combat in his life besides a few fist fights in his school days, but instead of being overwhelmed by the mighty men and women battling around him, he felt more determined than ever to join their ranks.
The pair finally reached a large roundhouse, and Brian followed Coban in. A tall, lanky man sat up on a cot and smiled at Coban.
"Lad! I thought I gave thee the day off? Or do ye have a recruit for me?"
"He requested an audience with you." Coban groaned. "My brother dumped him on me, and insisted I answer his questions. The bloke wouldn't drop the prospect of being trained to fight as a warrior. Can you deal with him? My apologies Master Ravok."
"Nonsense son, the more the merrier!" Ravok chuckled. "Leave 'em ere, and I'll size up his potential."
Coban bowed down, then ran out as quick as he could. Ravok arose from the cot, and walked to the corner of the room where the cries "Sword Up!" were coming out of a crystal that flashed various bright colors. Ravok put his hand on the crystal, and it reverted to a bright white before going silent.
"Sorry, figured better turn off thee game so I could hear ye out." Ravok said warmly as he approached Brian.
"That was a game?" Brian asked. "I assumed that was a battle!"
"Nah, just an old game where two teams are trying to get thee other's king. The crystal there taps into locations where games get played, and I listen to 'em to relax."
"So, like a radio broadcast?"
"Never heard of a radio, that some kind of magic from ye village?"
"Yeah, some kind of magic." Brian replied.
This is really the leader? He seems too laid back compared to everyone outside.
"Anyway, you're the leader of the warriors? Pardon me if I sound a bit rude, but you seem a bit different from the others out there."
Ravok looked at Brian incredulously before letting out a great belly laugh.
"Don't believe in me skills eh? Alright then, take me on if ye think ye can!"
"Hold on, I have no training! Forgive me, I didn't mean to upset-"
"Upset? Hardly! I've seen much on the battlefield far more upsetting. I have nothing to prove, just want to see what ye may bring to the army. Here, let me give ye something to help."
Ravok stomped his foot, and a hole opened up in the floor. A shelf emerged from the opening in front of Brian. The shelf was decked with various armor, helmets, shields, and weapons.
"Go on, feel free to borrow from me armory." Ravok said cheerfully. "Everything here is imbued with magic, and will enhance ye abilities."
Brian donned a matching steel helmet, chest plate, and a long sword. Ravok wasn't bluffing, as Brian now felt like he could take on ten armies thanks to the magic from the gear. He turned to Ravok, who then carried over a handful of white powder, which he then proceeded to spread around Brian.
"Before ye face me, let's see how ye fare in a farce battle."
"Farce battle?" Brian questioned.
"The substance around ye will simulate a battleground, and a foe of ye choice." Ravok explained as the powder evaporated into a fog that surrounded Brian. "Ye thoughts will be read, and the battle ye envision will appear. Don't worry, tis merely an illusion, but a fine way to measure fighting skills."
Brian was surrounded by darkness, and one of the fiends that had previously tortured him stood before him, wearing his wife's face and smirking.
"After I play with you, I'm gonna gut you and deliver your insides to your lady." The monster laughed cruelly.
"Not this time!" Brian screamed, charging at the beast. He felt amazing as he lunged, not only feeling faster and stronger, but fully aware of how to use the sword he held, even without proper training. Magic truly is an amazing thing.
"Awwwww, so the hapless fool thinks he can take me now, huh?" The monster mocked as Brian drew closer. "No matter what enhancements you hold, you are noth-"
Brian sliced the monster's head off, apologizing to Sarah under his breath. He continued slashing the headless fiend until a bloody pile of gore was all that remained. The darkness cleared and the creature remains then vanished. Brian then found himself looking at a grinning Ravok a few feet ahead.
"The gear ye chose approved of ye, well done indeed! Now come at me lad, and face a real opponent!"
"Aren't you going to equip yourself?" Brian asked.
"No need, I am protected enough." Ravok smiled. "Ye have shown me what ye can do, now give me ye best!"
Brian was worried that he could truly maim Ravok with the power he held from his armor and sword, but he assumed that Ravok wouldn't agree to this without some kind of enhancements of his own, even if he was only wearing a simple leather shirt and trousers. He felt the same level of skill that he had felt during the mock battle a moment ago as he charged at Ravok.
"Impressive approach, now use thee sword lad!" Ravok said as he stood his ground, even without a weapon of his own at his disposal.
Brian swung the sword involuntarily as instructed. Ravok smiled as he ducked under the strike. He then lunged at Brian and tripped him, knocking him to the ground. Ravok caught the sword that slipped from his opponent's grasp, and pointed it at his neck.
"This gear is incredible, and made me feel incredible." Brian said with awe, as Ravok lowered the sword and helped him up. "But I still had no chance against you. Please tell me, was there a special magic that you used just now?"
"Nay lad, just me own personal strength from training, along with the blessing of the great Lyrane!"
"Lyrane? Who's that?"
"Our God of strength and courage of course! Me and all the warriors in our army possess Lyrane's blessing. As long as we keep his favor, we triumph in any battle, even without magic!"
Brian stood in awe once more, remembering Olban's revelation of the gods of his world earlier. So Lyrane is one of them....
"Please Ravok, train me and allow me to join your forces." Brian pleaded softly, bowing down before Ravok. "I wish to tear apart the monstrous bastards that tortured me. I am getting up there in age, but I wish to have one more adventure, and if you teach me and help me seek Lyrane's blessing, I know I could be worthwhile to you and your army."
"Stand up lad, don't bow to me!" Ravok said sharply, his smile fading. "The only one worthy of thee worship is Lyrane, and his brethren!"
"Of course, I apologize." Brian said as he stood up meekly. "Please, will you help me?"
Ravok gave Brian a kind smile but shook his head.
"I'm sorry lad, but I cannot."
"But why?" Brian asked in a dejected tone.
"Forgive me bluntness, but training ye would be a waste. Ye showed great skill with the enhanced armory, but that is all ye currently have. Tis true I could strengthen ye, but without the blessing of Lyrane, it wouldn't be enough."
"Is that it?" Brian replied with slight annoyance. "You don't think Lyrane will bless me?"
"Nay lad." Ravok answered solemnly. "Lyrane would smite ye on thee spot."
"He would? Why?"
Ravok pointed to Brian's chest and gave him a woeful look.
"Ye heart. Tis full of rage and self-fulfillment when it comes to ye desire to fight. Lyrane would never approve."
The Cheshire Cat With a Side of Pork and Beans
I've always felt that the world is more mad than broken. Although, I suppose there is probably a fair amount of brokenness required to achieve madness. So, it may just be that one cannot exist without the other. That is a matter way beyond my slightly irregular, shouldn't have made it past quality control, intellect to comprehend. As a result of having an IQ that is P-U, I tend to lean on the simplest definition of madness or insanity which is, "Doing the same thing over and over again while expecting to a achieve a different result." Of course, depending on the circumstances, this futility can definitely invite insanity's bedfellow, brokenness to the party. Though simplistic, I think this simple definition of insanity pretty much describes humanity from day one. Wars rarely solve anything, but we still fight them. Kindness is always more fruitful than cruelty, but there's still plenty of cruelty in humanity. Political systems continue to fail or outright abuse those they're supposed to protect, yet we still use the same systems, contenting ourselves with minor cosmetic modifications. It's like chosing a purple shaft today over the same tried and true green shaft our leaders have been shoving up our collective asses for centuries. Sure, it's different, but it doesn't change that fact that we're still getting a shaft. So, the difference is pretty irrelevant. In short, I think that the great sage of insanity, the Cheshire Cat put it best when he said, "We're all mad here." I guess the real question is, can a mad person navigate a mad world without being swallowed by the world's mass, twisted, often dangerous, cruel, and narcissistic madness? Consequently, are we doomed to share society's collective delusion of grandeur that allows each of us to somehow assume that we're modern day Napolean Bonaparts while simultaneously believing that we're also genius artists who work solely in the medium of feces using the walls of our padded cells as our canvas? Can we have our own madness that is unique to us, an insanity that separates the individual from the rest of the rabid lunatics in the world at large? I'd like to think so.
Personally, I try to mold my delusions into something benign or if not benign, then only harmful to myself. For example, I write. My writing is unrefined, often without purpose, and is more manic than a tweaker with a set of tools and a broken lawnmower. Plus, there's a good chance that the Oscar Myer hotdog jingle will show up at random times somewhere within the pork and beans of my prose, but it's my writing and it harmlessly gives my delusions a little playtime. However, for the more timid reader who possesses a little dignity and sense of decorum, reading anything I write provides a mild psychological shock similar to what one experiences when pissing on a live electric fence. The lesson is learned immediately after the electricity climbs the conductive arc of urine and lights up the individual's mommy or daddy parts. So, after a good zap of my writing and a couple of melted fillings, odds are, the timid reader won't be doing that again. With this newfound wisdom born of a very negative experience, the timid reader knows better and the next time they'll take a pass on readng an post by Shallowgenepool.
Professionally, I have sculpted the dry humping a fire hydrant level of crazyness that is a regular part of my job into a bit of cathartic delusion. For example, when the office is intolerably quiet, the voices in my head become bored which leads to psychotic naughtiness. This isn't a good thing because engaging in my brand of psychotic naughtiness will likely lead to unemployment and a criminal court date. Seeking to alleviate this very dangerous boredom, it's not unusual for my coworkers in the neighboring cubicles to hear me suddenly break out in, "YOU MAKE ME FEEL...YES, YOU MAKE ME FEEL, YOU...MAKE...ME...FEEL...LIKE...A...NATURAL.......WOOOOOMAAAAN" in my singing voice that can best be described as a tone-deaf, pubescent, prone to cracking, and dolphin with hemorrhoids-like, falsetto. I don't care that I'm an almost 50 year old man. It's my delusion and Aretha Franklin was a goddess, I really don't care what my coworkers think. They can either move to a different floor or they can sing backup, I'm good with both choices. Singing spontaneous Motown melodies at the top of my nails on a chalkboard voice allows me to get through the fucking day without trying to silence the voices in my head by cracking my own skull wide open with a three hole punch!
At home, my lunacy is diffused by reading. My reading is as manic as my writing. One week I'll read Steinbeck, Twain, Orwell, or Shakespeare, the next week I'll read a totally predictable zombie, werewolf, or vampire novel (and no, the Twilight Series doesn't qualify, even at my worst I have better standards than that). There's no reason to my choice. It's as spontaneous as a fifteen year old boy cumming within two seconds of being invited to touch a girl, "There" for the first time. One week I may choose to read a work of great beauty and wisdom and the next week I'll be reading the literary equivalent of left over Taco Bell that's been in the refrigerator for three months. Of course, my manically driven choice of reading material is a bit embarrassing at times, but in the end, it hurts no one.
Music hath charms that soothe the savage beast. It's true or in my case, I try to rock the voices in my head to sleep, or when that doesn't work, to drown them out entirely. For example, on my commute home from work, I will snarl along with Dave Mustaine and "Tornado of Souls," celebrate debachery with the Rolling Stones belting out, "She's so cold," or shiek to Valhalla with Led Zeppelin's, "Immigrant Song." Some people shoot heroin. Some people drink. Some people pray. Some people dress up like a 19th century German school boy and get spanked by a 300 pound woman dressed like a Swedish milk maid. Me, I worship at the feet of the rock gods and goddesses.The end result is that I make it home without entering a psychotic rage resulting in me taking a tire iron to the driver of the motherfucking Tesla that is apparently saving battery charge by NOT USING HIS FUCKING BLINKER!
Well, there is no escaping madness. We really are all mad here. The difference is we can MY BOLONEY HAS A FIRST NAME IS O-S-C-A-R, MY BOLONEY HAS A SECOND NAME, IT'S M-A-Y-E-R and join the often harmful insanity of society or we can shape our own madness like sculpting mashed potatoes into a scale model of Mount Rushmore. Being crazy may be inescapable, but being a crazy dick, that's a choice. Ha! I bet you were thinking I'd add the Oscar Mayer hotdog jingle in here somewhere!
Chapter Thirty-Two – The Front Lines
Mark woke up in his tent for the millionth time. Every morning was the same. He took down his tent in minutes and within 20, the entire army was ready to march. It was crazy how fast they could break camp, get in formation and march.
They had just entered a large plain. There was tall grass as far as the eye could see. Everything was peaceful. They continued marching. Then from out of nowhere, a single arrow came hurtling toward them. Another arrow followed a few moments later. The arrows kept coming until there were hundreds of them hurtling through the sky.
Some of them connected with their targets, most of them fell harmlessly to the ground. The army kept marching. Another wave hit, a few more soldiers fell, the army kept marching. When the army got to a certain point on the plain, the enemy sprang up all around them and attacked. The surprise gave the enemy an advantage, but the advantage didn’t last long. While the enemy did manage to kill quite a few soldiers, the ambush was quickly defeated.
The army continued to march. It started as a speck in the distance, then as it got closer, it got bigger. A huge boulder came hurtling at the advancing army. They managed to avoid being hit by it. Then another boulder came which also did no damage. Then several boulders at once came. It was too many to dodge all of them. The soldiers that were unable to get out of way perished. The army continued to march. More boulders came. The number of soldiers dwindled but they kept marching.
Finally, the source of the boulders came into view. Rows upon rows of machines that catapulted the boulders high in the air became visible. As the army got close to the machines, they stopped throwing boulders. The reason they stopped is because another army was there to oppose them.
The fighting was fierce, and Mark had thought that they had finally met their match. He didn’t believe there was an army that could oppose them, yet this seemed to be that army. Mark’s comrades began falling around him. He had to use all his training to stay alive. At a great cost of life, the army broke through the enemy’s defenses and destroyed the machines. When the dust had cleared, very few soldiers from either side were left standing.
Mark considered himself lucky to be one of them. The battle was a draw and Mark’s army retreated. They would have to wait for the new soldiers to arrive before they could make another push. It wasn’t defeat, just a delay of the inevitable.
They set up camp on the plains. Mark sat in his tent. He was tired. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see Carla again. He wanted to tell her how he really felt about her. He wanted to know if she felt the same way about him.
The next day Mark woke up in his tent. When he looked outside, he couldn’t believe what he saw. In the night, the enemy had infiltrated the camp and had captured the few forces that remained. They were taken to a prison and locked up. The plan was to publicly execute them as enemies of the state.
Mark was barely given enough to eat to stay alive. Of course, there really wasn’t much point in feeding the prisoners at all if they are just going to end up being executed anyway, they just needed to be kept alive long enough to make it to their execution.
One by one, Mark’s cellmates disappeared and never came back. This took longer than you would think. The reason is because they had to make a spectacle out of it. They had defeated this huge threat that had bulldozed its way across the planet. Stopping this threat was a big deal. So, Mark waited for his turn. Mark never wanted to fight, and he certainly didn’t want to die.
Mark wasn’t sure how much time had passed; He didn’t have a window and he couldn’t see outside. What he did notice was the number of his comrades still in prison was decreasing. There were only a handful of them left now. The odds of his “turn” coming up were high. Mark wished he could have stayed in the future. He could have graduated from high school and made a career for himself. He could have lived a life in peace instead of war. Now that life was coming to an end and there was nothing he could do about it.
His day finally came, He was dragged out of his cell and marched outside. A guillotine was waiting for him. A large crowd cheered, and he was taken up to the platform where the guillotine had been placed. Before Mark was put to death, the King felt it necessary to give a speech.
“A great army came to take over our Kingdom. That army has been defeated. It was at the cost of great life. We honor those who have died by executing the ones who remain alive that have attacked us without cause.” The King finished his speech and gave the signal.
Mark was moved into position. His head placed in such a way that it would soon be removed from the rest of his body. The executioner swung his axe, which in turn cut the rope that was holding the blade in its position. Once the rope was cut, the blade made its downward trajectory toward Mark’s neck with the intention of slicing through it. As the blade nearly reaches Mark’s neck, the blade mysteriously stops, as if frozen in time.
The ropes that were securing Mark’s hands disappear and he is free to remove his head from harm's way. The executioner grabs Mark. A mysterious woman appears out of nowhere.
“Forgive me, your highness,” The mysterious woman starts, “This person belongs to me, and I cannot allow you to harm him.” After saying this, both Mark and the mysterious woman vanish.