When someone says monster, everyone has a different image, that, more or less is the same. Grotesque, deformed beings, creatures of darkness with rotting skin and yellowing teeth, withering away. We all grew up with the monsters in the closet, behind the door, under the bed or in the mirror, but I think mine are a bit different.

They look like us, they blend in with the crowd, you wouldn't be able to single them out. You wouldn't know you were in danger until it was too late. Because you see, monsters act like us, they conform into society and befriend one another. Slowly but surely, corruption oozes from the cracks of their mask, infecting others, drowning them in self loathing until they too will rot away into another monster, going on to find and taint someone else.

I have many friends, but I don't trust them fully. A person is capable of truly horrendous acts, you never know what sick drama they are puperteering on the stage of their perverted mind.

Looking in the mirror, I see that I am no different. I can see myself, peeling off my flesh revealing sallow skin. Eyeballs dull and lifeless, the pupils thinning to slits. Hair oily, falling out in chunks. My nails are sharper now. My gums are bleeding, fangs jut out from my jaw. I tower over my bathroom counter and watch myself. No, I am no different. All we do is hide in our skin suits, hoping no one catches us until we catch them.

To me, that is a monster.

AUNT JOAN

AUNT JOAN A REMARKABLE LADY

NOT AT ALL NUTTY LIKE PORTRAYED

A BROKEN UMBRELLA REMAINS ON HER WALL

REMINDER FROM A PERSON THAT SAVED HER FALL

INTO A RAGING RIVER IN BRITISH COLUMBIA

HIKING WITH A GROUP, ALL BUNCHED UP

ONE WAS DIVE BOMBED BY A LARGE BIRD

AS HE YELLED FLAILING HIS ARMS ALL ABOUT

HE KNOCKED AUNT JOAN OFF THE TRAIL

ANOTHER MAN HELD OUT HIS UMBRELLA

AUNT JOAN HELD ON SLIDING IN MUD

FINALLY TWO MEN PULLED HER TO SAFETY

SHE KEEPS THE BROKEN UMBRELLA ART

A REMINDER NOT TO FOLLOW CLOSELY

AUNT JOAN HAS A SAYING SHE KEEPS

SOMETIMES YOU FIND YOURSELF

IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

WELL, SOMETIMES IT IS TRUE

IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

YOU FIND YOURSELF TRUE

©Julia A Knaake

Isn’t it ironic?

Me, a comedian, a man made of jokes, in the most miserable place that you could ever possibly imagine.

I stood over her casket and brushed my fingers across its polished wood. As I stared at the casket’s outside, I didn’t dare look inside. To see her pale face and flushed cheeks. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and moved on, letting a line of her family members file behind me.

Throughout the rest of the funeral, all I heard was a cacophony of apologizes.

“I’m so sorry.”

“She was too good for this world.”

“There was nothing you could do.”

“She would want you to move on.”

“I’m sorry about your wife.”

More or less, they all said the same generic thing, repeated a thousand times. Voices full of pity. I felt kind of numb to their sympathies, their pain, and just focused on drinking the champagne.

“Damn, that sucks,” a voice called behind me.

There was something different about this voice. I had never heard it before, and it sounded too monotonous to be truly empathetic.

Spinning around, I saw her. Dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and leggings. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun and she wasn’t wearing any make-up. Her face and appearance looked tired, worn. Yet, her eyes were wide awake. They stared at the casket, but not the inside.

She took out a cigarette, lit it, then puffed a few smoke clouds. “You should have gotten a mahogany coffin instead of walnut. Walnut looks tacky.” There was no remorse in her voice. Just brutal honesty.

“Who are you?” I asked.

She stuck her hand out. “Name’s Mindy. I’m the undertaker around here.”

Awkwardly, I shook her hand, then she shoved it back in her sweatshirt. “Do you go to every funeral you provide?” I inquired.

She shrugged. “I go to them every now and then, but I’m mostly over saturated with work.” Turning to me, Mindy asked. “How did you know the corpse?”

“Uh, she was my wife.”

“Bummer.”

I scratched the back of my head. “Not really. I mean yeah, it is kind of sad, but we weren’t doing too well before she died.” In a whisper I added. “It’s almost a relief.”

For some reason, I didn’t feel any guilt when I said those words.

I stepped a little closer to her. “So are you always working? Doesn’t that get depressing?”

“Not really. I mean, it’s not like I know these people. What’s there to grieve? So yeah, if you wanna find me, I’ll be the with corpses.”

I almost laughed at her joke.

That day, I was feeling kind of numb, but Mindy the undertaker made me feel more alive.

Isn't it ironic?

It was a week later that I saw Mindy again. She wasn’t wearing her old sweatshirt this time. In its place was a vintage T-shirt, ripped jeans, and gloves partly covered in blood. This time it was my father who died. His health hasn’t been the best over the last two years so this wasn’t a surprise.

“Never thought I would see you again so soon, sailor,” Mindy greeted.

I felt a sudden rush of euphoria when I saw her, but I kept my chin down so I wouldn’t show it. “Uh, yeah.” I struggled with the suffocating tie of my stuffy suit. “My dad kinda of…”

“I feel you. That’s gotta be terrible. Especially after your wife kicked the bucket.” I heard her say these words, and felt soothed by her lack of fake remorse.

“You okay?” Mindy asked as she noticed I was staring a little too long at her.

I glanced away. “I’m fine. I wasn’t that close with my father anyway. He held me at an emotional distance for most of my childhood.”

“Ha! Seems like you keep losing everyone you don’t like.” She turned to me. “I hope you can find someone that you do. Preferably alive.”

I nodded along with a thin smile.

Mindy the undertaker was strange, but I kinda liked this kind of strange.

They say my mother died of heartbreak, but that isn’t exactly true. She died of a heart attack, just like my father and wife. Only a couple of days after my father’s funeral did she meet a similar fate. Mindy was there waiting for me this time. “Dude, what kind of crap star were born under?” She inquired.

I shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“Has your life always been this tragic?”

“Not really.”

“Then, I guess your luck is just pretty much trash right now.”

Pausing, I didn’t reply. I didn’t think this was so terribly unlucky. Instead, I thought I was

more fortunate to meet her. If only I could find time to meet her outside her work hours.

The next day, I went to visit my brother. By now, he was overcome with grief from the looses of both of our parents. I didn’t share in his tears. Instead, I simply put a hand on his shoulder as to comfort him. I handed his a glass of water. After an hour, I left him to a puddle of tears.

Then, I waited. For the fibrin hidden in the water to take effect. For the buildup of arterial plaque. For the clogged artery. For the funeral. And finally, to see my beloved Mindy again.

My brother was healthier than most. It took him a full two weeks to finally die. Some were shocked to see him die of a heart attack, but no one looked into it. I remained in the clear. At the funeral, I smiled when I saw Mindy’s face. I was the only one smiling

Funny how I’m most happy in what is supposed to be the most tragic part of my life.

Isn’t it ironic?

But then again, what a lovely irony it is.

San José 1974

A strawberry stand

Only ten miles away

Children all in school

Husband at work

Out came my ten speed

Backpack, off I peddled

A visit to the Japanese

That ran the frut stand

Selling their berries

Hello any berries today

"Oh yes we have plenty"

Good. If four baskets

Fit in the backpack

I'll take them only

ten miles back home.

Your berries are red

Fresh plump and firm

Tonight the family

Will love their freshness

"We will wrap each basket

With newspaper and string

ten miles on your back

jiggling and moving

will keep them safe

the family will love

the jucy treat and

Mother who cares

for them all"

©Julia A Knaake