We hairless monkeys are strange and duplicitous creatures. One moment, we demonstrate that we're capable of great goodness, bravery, and compassion by giving to others, advocating for equal rights, and even sacrificing ourselves so that others may live. The next moment, we find ways to justify murdering innocents by the millions and then for the sake of efficiency, stuffing the lifeless, defiled bodies of our victims like cordwood into ovens to be disposed of like so much rubbish. So, what gives?

Humanity's propensity towards evil doing has troubled philosophers and thinkers for as long as our species has been able to think about more than just eating, sleeping, and breeding. At first, in our ignorance, we laid the blame for the darkness in our souls at the feet of malevolent deities. It was easier to say, "The devil made me do it" than to admit that our own selfishness, anger, ignorance, and arrogance are enough to inspire us to do harm to others.

Since evil was seen as the dark work of Set, Satan, Balor, Moloch and all the other members of the evil pantheon, it seemed reasonable that the shamans, priests, priestesses, and oracles who represented the good deities would be responsible for fighting the influence of the evil gods in their fellow humans. Of course, this was a problem because what was seen as evil by one person may not be seen as evil by another. For example, a person who chose to use herbs to heal sickness instead of offering sacrifices and prayers to a god might be seen as anti-god and therefore an emissary of evil. This, "If You Ain't For My God, You're Against Em" view of things led to inquisitions, witch burnings, being fed to lions. and many other forms of violence against those who simply didn't kiss up to the right deity. Side bar: Those poor lions. Christians are terribly high in fat, cholesterol, and are notorious carriers of hepatitis A and e-choli because they're often full of shit. Ironically, those responsible for fighting the machinations of the evil deities actually performed some of history's most heinous acts of murder, torture, and mayhem in the name of good. One has to assume that Satan, Set, Moloch, and their evil minions must've been pretty jealous because the holy do-gooders were doing their work for them. What's worse, the followers of good actually proved to be VERY good at doing evil.

In the modern day, a person's penchant for doing evil is viewed more as an individual failing or mental illness. So, the evil deities of old have found themselves out of a job. Unfortunately, in this age of mass communication, evil enthusiasts can easily find each other and share ideas. This has allowed them to mobilize and create things like FOX News, televangelists, social media, and country music. Thanks to technology, evil can be spread around the world in seconds. It's the kind of efficiency that Satan and Set would've given their left nuts for back in the bronze age.

All things considered, I think the Beast is us. We force asthmatic Piggy and his notions of decency and kindness off the cliff more often than not without the need for supernatural temptation. If Satan and his evil deity counterparts do exist, they must be pretty bored. I wonder how Satan is making ends meet since his services aren't needed anymore. I bet he can't pay the gas bill and the lake of fire has grown cold. If I had to guess, bankrupted Lucifer et evil all have been forced to take nine to five gigs as tobacco and NRA lobbyists.

I’d been desperate when I took the job. The fishing boat was small and ragged, much like its crew, but it promised three square meals and a paycheck, so I boarded with little hesitation. The captain, a wiry man named Arlen, met me at the dock. His handshake was firm, his eyes distant, and his words few. “Welcome aboard,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the horizon as though it held answers to some unknown question.

The first few days were uneventful, though the crew’s peculiarities became increasingly apparent. Captain Arlen spent most of his time in the wheelhouse, his hands gripping the wheel as if it were the only thing anchoring him to this world. He stared straight ahead, his lips moving soundlessly, his expression blank. Waves crashed, gulls cried, and storms brewed on the horizon, but he never flinched, never seemed to notice anything outside his cabin. There had been no accidents yet, but I doubted he was the reason for that.

Then there was Cole, the fisher. A mountain of a man with calloused hands and a voice like gravel, he was the kind of person who commanded attention without trying. He didn’t speak much, and when he did, his words were clipped and final. On most nights, he kept to himself, tending to the nets or sharpening his knives. But on the nights of a new moon, I’d catch him standing at the bow, staring out to sea. His shoulders would be tense, his breath steady, and his eyes fixed on something I couldn’t see. Once, I followed his gaze and thought I saw a faint glow in the water—a shimmering reflection of a full moon that shouldn’t have been there. When I asked him about it, he simply said, “The Leviathan.”

He said it like a fact, like the tide or the wind. “You’ll see it one day,” he added, then returned to his silent vigil.

The last crew member was the navigator, Ewan. If the captain was distant and Cole was unsettling, Ewan was something else entirely. He never left the lowest deck, a cramped, damp space that reeked of salt and mildew. His cabin was filled with strange books—volumes with spines cracked and pages stained, written in languages I couldn’t decipher. His tools were archaic: a battered sextant, a compass whose needle spun lazily, and maps that seemed more decorative than functional. Yet somehow, we always reached our destination.

What unsettled me most about Ewan was how he navigated. He never communicated with the captain, never surfaced to check the stars or the sun. Yet, every time we set sail, we ended up exactly where we needed to be. I’d asked him once how he did it, and he’d merely smiled, his teeth too white against his gaunt face. “The sea knows,” he said cryptically, his fingers tracing symbols in the air. “And it whispers to those who listen.”

One night, I found myself on deck during one of Cole’s moonless vigils. The sea was calm, the air thick with tension. Cole stood at the bow, his silhouette sharp against the starlit sky. I hesitated, then approached, my boots scuffing against the wooden planks. He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge me until I stood beside him.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Not looking. Waiting,” he replied, his voice low. “It’s out there. Watching. The Leviathan doesn’t just swim; it’s… aware.”

“What is it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pointed to the water. I followed his finger and felt my breath catch. The sea shimmered, rippling unnaturally. The glow was faint at first, then grew brighter, pulsating like a heartbeat. Shapes moved within it—vast, shadowy figures that defied logic. I blinked, and the vision was gone, leaving only the dark, empty sea.

“You’ll see it clearer next time,” Cole said, turning away.

After that, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the boat was a trap, a lure cast into the depths to draw something unimaginable. The crew’s oddities weren’t quirks; they were symptoms of something far greater. The captain’s vacant stare, Cole’s Leviathan, Ewan’s cryptic whispers—they were pieces of a puzzle I wasn’t sure I wanted to solve.

As the days passed, the atmosphere grew heavier. The sea’s whispers became louder, a symphony of murmurs that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Shadows moved beneath the waves, too large and too deliberate to be schools of fish. Ewan’s cryptic drawings covered the walls of his cabin, lines and symbols that seemed to shift when I looked away.

Then, one night, the storm came. The sky split open, rain lashing against the deck as waves rose like walls. The captain stood in the wheelhouse, his knuckles white against the wheel. Cole manned the nets, his eyes wild, his shouts lost in the wind. I went below to find Ewan, but his cabin was empty, his books scattered, his maps soaked.

When I returned to the deck, I saw it. The Leviathan. It rose from the sea, its form indescribable, its presence overwhelming. It wasn’t just a creature; it was a force, an entity that defied comprehension. Its eyes—if they could be called that—locked onto me, and I felt my mind unravel. My very being laid out for the sea to wash away in it’s salty grasp.

The storm ended as suddenly as it began. The Leviathan vanished, leaving no trace. The crew was silent, their faces pale, their gazes distant. No one spoke of what we’d seen, but I knew it had changed us.

The next morning, Ewan had returned, soaked but unbothered, his usual cryptic smile in place. The captain resumed his vacant steering, and Cole muttered prayers to the sea. Life aboard the boat continued, but nothing felt the same.

And me? I’m still here, trying to piece together the fragments of my sanity. The sea whispers to me now, and I’m beginning to understand its language. I fear what it’s trying to tell me.

Hello again dear reader and welcome back to another short story of mine! I didn't really go out of my comfort zone for this one but I hope you enjoyed reading it! As always, have a good day/night!

Sunset in the Agave Fields

January 17, 2025

I see Death on the horizon

Waiting patiently for me

He is in no hurry

Neither am I

Death keeps his appointments

With meticulous accuracy

Not a redundancy with him

More of an ego driven necessity

I, on the other hand,

Know what awaits me

But before I close the distance

I take notice of the vegetation

I enjoy tequila in all varieties

I am also a chemist

With more glassware than I can carry

I have a little time on my hands

Distillation is my craft

Death takes notice

He may even want a taste

Curious for someone without taste

The agave are the gifts of the gods

Matched with my favorite food

Paella

I might stretch this homestretch out a bit

I choose the metaphor for myself

Because it may be the last choice I ever make

Death has seen this before

But, not from me, not in this way

Of all the private investigators, the grieving widow chose me.

I use “grieving” loosely, because Gloria wore a pink dress when she hired me to solve her husband’s murder. The cops already have a suspect—her. Gloria’s prints were on the bottle of poison-laced pills he downed, and police knew about her flings. But she said she was framed.

Days later, Gloria answered my knock on her door. A younger man was with her.

“I found the killer,” I announced. “At the county clerk’s, I obtained a recent forgery of your husband’s will. It leaves everything to…him.”

The younger man bolted.

Being dead isn't nearly as boring as you might think.

I discovered this on my third day of non-existence, when I finally stopped trying to open doors and learned to simply pass through them instead. The trick, I found, is to forget you were ever solid to begin with. Forget the weight of bones and blood, the constant pull of gravity, the way air once caught in your lungs. Remember instead that you are now made of the same stuff as moonlight and memory.

My name was – is? – Thomas Webb, and I've been dead for approximately eight months, two weeks, and five days. Not that time means much anymore. When you're dead, moments can stretch like taffy or snap past like rubber bands. Sometimes I watch the sun rise and set so quickly it looks like someone's flicking a light switch. Other times, I spend what feels like hours watching a single dewdrop slide down a blade of grass.

I haunt (though I prefer the term "reside in") a small town in New England called Millbrook. Not because I'm bound here by unfinished business or ancient curses – at least, I don't think so. I simply never felt the pull to go elsewhere. Even when I was alive, I rarely left town. Why start traveling now?

Besides, there's more than enough to keep me occupied here. Take Mrs. Henderson at number forty-two, for instance. She's been stealing her neighbor's newspapers for three years, but only on Wednesdays, and only if it's raining. I spent two months following her around before I figured out why: she lines her parakeet's cage with newspaper, and she's convinced that newspaper stolen in the rain brings good luck to pets. I can't argue with her results – that parakeet is seventeen years old and still singing.

Then there's the teenage boy who sits in the park every Tuesday afternoon, writing poetry in a battered notebook. He thinks no one can see him behind the big oak tree, but I float by sometimes and read over his shoulder. His metaphors need work, but his heart's in the right place. Last week he wrote a sonnet comparing his crush's eyes to "pools of Mountain Dew," which was both terrible and oddly touching.

The living can be endlessly entertaining when they don't know they're being watched. It's not creepy if you're dead – it's anthropology.

But I'm not always a passive observer. Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly solid, I can manage small interactions with the physical world. Nothing dramatic like moving furniture or writing messages in blood on the walls (though I'll admit I tried once, out of curiosity – turns out being dead doesn't automatically make you good at horror movie effects).

Instead, I specialize in tiny interventions: nudging dropped keys into view, generating the perfect cool breeze on a sweltering day, ensuring that the last cookie in the box is chocolate chip instead of oatmeal raisin. Small kindnesses, barely noticeable but precisely timed.

My finest work happens at The Dusty Tome, the bookstore where I used to work when I was alive. My former colleague, Sarah, still runs the place. She never knew that I harbored a decade-long crush on her, and now she never will. But I can still help her in my own way.

I've become quite good at guiding customers to exactly the book they need, even if they don't know they need it. A gentle cold spot near the self-help section, a subtle illumination of a particular spine, a barely perceptible whisper that draws their attention to just the right page. Last week, I helped a grieving widower find a cookbook that contained his late wife's secret cookie recipe. He cried right there in the aisle, clutching the book like a life preserver. Sarah gave him a free bookmark and a cup of tea.

The other ghosts (yes, there are others) think I'm too involved with the living. "You need to learn to let go," says Eleanor, who's been dead since 1847 and spends most of her time rearranging flowers in the cemetery. "The living have their world, and we have ours."

But I've never been good at letting go. Even when I was alive, I held onto things too long – old tickets stubs, expired coupons, unrequited feelings. Death hasn't changed that aspect of my personality. If anything, it's given me more time to cultivate my attachments.

Take my cat, for instance. Mr. Whiskers (I didn't name him – he came with that regrettable moniker from the shelter) is still alive and living with my sister. He can see me, as most animals can, but he's remarkably unfazed by my transparent state. Sometimes I lie on the floor next to him while he sleeps, pretending I can feel his warmth. He purrs anyway, the sound vibrating through whatever passes for my soul these days.

The hardest part about being dead isn't the lack of physical sensation or the inability to enjoy coffee (though I do miss that). It's watching the people you love cope with your absence. My sister still sets an extra place at Christmas dinner. My mother keeps "forgetting" to delete my number from her phone. My father pretends he's okay but visits my grave every Sunday with fresh flowers and updates about the Patriots' latest games, as if I might be keeping score in the afterlife.

I want to tell them I'm still here, that death isn't an ending but a change in perspective. I want to tell my sister that I saw her ace her dissertation defense, that I was there in the back of the room, cheering silently as she fielded every question with brilliant precision. I want to tell my mother that yes, I did get her messages, all of them, and that the cardinal that visits her bird feeder every morning is not me, but I appreciate the thought.

But the rules of death are strict about direct communication. The best I can do is send signs they probably don't recognize: a favorite song on the radio at just the right moment, a unexpected whiff of my cologne in an empty room, the feeling of being hugged when they're alone at night.

Sometimes I wonder if this is hell – not fire and brimstone, but the eternal frustration of being able to observe but never truly connect. Other times, usually when I'm watching Sarah shelve books or listening to my father's one-sided conversations at my grave, I think this might be heaven. The ability to witness life without the messy complications of living it, to love without the fear of loss, to exist in the spaces between moments.

I've developed hobbies, as one does when faced with eternal existence. I collect overheard conversations, storing them like precious gems in whatever serves as my memory now. I've become an expert in the secret lives of squirrels (far more dramatic than you'd expect). I've learned to read upside-down books over people's shoulders on park benches, and I've mastered the art of predicting rain by watching the way cats clean their whiskers.

But my favorite pastime is what I call "emotion painting." I've discovered that strong feelings leave traces in the air, visible only to the dead – streaks of color and light that linger like aurora borealis. Love is usually gold or deep rose, anger burns red with black edges, and sadness flows in shades of blue and silver. I spend hours watching these colors swirl and blend, especially in places where emotions run high: the hospital waiting room, the high school during prom, the small chapel where weddings and funerals alike are held.

Today, I'm following a new pattern of colors I've never seen before – a strange mixture of green and purple that sparkles like static electricity. It's emanating from a young woman sitting alone in The Dusty Tome, reading a worn copy of "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir." She has dark circles under her eyes and a hospital bracelet on her wrist. The colors around her pulse and swirl with an intensity that draws me closer.

As I hover near her table, I realize she's not actually reading. She's crying silently, tears falling onto the open pages. But there's something else – she keeps looking up, scanning the bookstore as if searching for something. Or someone.

Then she speaks, so softly even I almost miss it: "Thomas? Are you here?"

I freeze (metaphorically speaking – I'm always technically frozen now). It's Lisa Chen, a regular customer from my living days. We used to chat about books, particularly ghost stories. She once told me she could sense spirits, but I had dismissed it as whimsy. Now, as I watch the colors dance around her, I wonder if perhaps she was telling the truth.

"I know you're probably here somewhere," she continues, still speaking barely above a whisper. "Sarah told me you used to help people find the right books. I could use some help now."

I drift closer, fascinated by the way the green and purple lights seem to reach out toward me.

"I'm dying," she says matter-of-factly. "Cancer. Stage four. The doctors say I have maybe three months." She laughs softly. "I'm not afraid of being dead, exactly. I just want to know... is it lonely?"

For the first time since my death, I wish desperately that I could speak. I want to tell her about the beauty of emotion paintings, about the secret lives of cats and squirrels, about the way love looks like golden light and how sadness can be as beautiful as stained glass.

Instead, I do what I do best. I create a gentle breeze that ruffles through the nearby shelves until a small, leather-bound book falls onto her table. It's a collection of Mary Oliver poems, opened to "When Death Comes."

Lisa picks up the book with trembling hands and reads aloud: "When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn... when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut... I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?"

The colors around her shift, the purple fading as the green grows brighter, more peaceful. She smiles, touching the page gently.

"Thank you, Thomas," she whispers.

I stay with her until she leaves, watching the colors trail behind her like a comet's tail. Then I do something I've never done before – I follow her. Not to her home or to the hospital, but to all the places in town that still hold beauty: the park where the teenage poet writes his awful, wonderful verses, the bench where the widower sits feeding pigeons, the small garden behind the library where Sarah takes her lunch breaks.

At each stop, I paint the air with every beautiful thing I've seen since dying, every moment of joy and wonder and connection I've witnessed. I don't know if she can see the colors, but I paint them anyway – gold for love, silver for hope, and a new color I've never used before, one that looks like sunlight through leaves, that means "you are not alone."

Being dead isn't what I expected. It's not an ending or a beginning, but a different way of being. A way of loving the world without being able to hold it. A way of touching lives without leaving fingerprints. A way of existing in the spaces between heartbeats, in the pause between words, in the moment before tears become laughter.

And sometimes, if you're very lucky, it's a way of showing someone else that the cottage of darkness isn't dark at all. It's full of colors only the dead can see, but the living can feel.

I think I'll stay in Millbrook a while longer. After all, there are still books to be found, cats to be comforted, and stories to be witnessed. Besides, I've heard there's a new ghost in town – a teacher who's been rearranging the letters on the high school announcement board to spell out poetry at midnight. I should probably introduce myself.

Being dead, I've learned, is just another way of being alive.

The Men Who Sit to Pee

November 13, 2024

Robert’s parent’s home is in Schenectady, New York (42.81420N, 73.93960W). Robert lives (now) in the basement, next to the hot water heater, across from the furnace. His parents rent out his old room to two day laborers (Robert calls them losers) who pay their rent weekly. His friends used to come over for sleep-overs and homework. Now, they arrive via Zoom. They each say they are saving the planet by not driving. In reality, they are saving their own lives by not walking.

Two miles is too far for the average 30 year old mouth breather.

Besides, his parent’s social security check does not purchase the food it used to. Robert’s social security disability check could, but he has his eyes on a new game console by Christmas.

On tonight’s agenda, what to do about those who do not think as Robert (or his group) do. Whatever caused this, must be stopped. Whoever is responsible, must be crushed. The cost of everything keeps increasing and that needs to end.

In the end, the world must know what Robert knows. There must be a reckoning to set things straight. People need to know what needs to be done. Robert will begin with his group, then the county, then the state. There is too much at stake not to understand. There is too little time not to begin.

With his narrative set, Robert waited for each of his group (should be called a cabal) to make his presence known on Zoom.

It was now or never.

Within 20 seconds, Robert opted for never.

The big to-do within his group was the announcement of a new generation AMD chip that consumed twice the previous power, but leading to four times the speed. It did not require overclocking. It did not require a subscription service. This chip would usher in the next generation of games and gamers.

The group tore through their 64 ounce sodas and Hot Pockets with relish. They ignored Robert. They forgot he existed. They told stories of past conquests with previous systems, despite their flaws. Robert heard not one word about the economy or those responsible. For the first time, Robert viewed his friends as both ignorant and apathetic. He sat slack jawed during the encounter.

Robert attempted to remain calm. He counted to three before he acted. He inhaled prior to dispatching a guttural scream designed to silence all detractors.

But, no one ever heard it. Robert heard another speak of a price drop for those who knew the code. This alone silenced the group. This silenced Robert. So much so, Robert fell from his leadership position among his peers.

He became devastated, then elated. Despite the horrors of government, the people in positions of power, and the deeds they do, Robert had a new plan, involving a new processor, possibly a new gaming system, for the holidays.

With all of that, he would never have to leave the basement ever again.

Robert’s parents sat at the kitchen table deciding which of them would go back to work to pay for the lights and the heat. The experts predict a harsh winter this year. Their borders opted not to extend their lease another year. Their cash ran thin and would have to be stretched again.

They should have downsized, 12 years ago, to that condo in Central Florida.

It was always warm there.

And these condos aren’t built with basements.

A small town in Idaho, on the outskirts, lives an...artist...of sorts, and meets a reporter who gets more than he bargained for, and the end might come, or will it? MUAH HAHAHAHAHA!!!! From the mind of one of our talents, comes this irresistible Halloween romp. Here's the link to the narration of said romp on Prose. Radio, narrated by Jeff Stewart, who is whereabouts unkown in the States, in a room where he was able to send in the audio of this story by our own WilkinsonRiling.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqIX7_Ddllg

Also, he asked us to mention this: Another talent here on the site, has a book set for release on 11/22, so go here and pre-order your copy, and give this Appalachian poet some love. He's fantastic!

https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-the-throes-of-beauty-by-kevin-d-lemaster/

Piece feaured in the video:

https://www.theprose.com/post/780635/the-halloween-legend-of-jack-mccarver

To keep the tradition in closing traditional:

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose, team

A story named after, and inspired a little bit by one of Shakespeare’s plays, Romeo and Juliet minus the tragic ending. It has some modern retelling and possibly subverted etc. as indicated by Reedsy Writing Prompts.

“We were both young when I first saw you,

The Flashback starts, I see you standing there,

On A Balcony of Summer Air….”

She was apparently dreaming… She was asleep on her bed, thinking deep thoughts about a painting she had seen when she was a little kid. She was thinking that she might actually meet this person or his equivalent in real life.

She knew that there was no possibility of finding Love in her life. She knew it was Just A Dream, and that she should just ignore it. She thought about how the painting of Mona Lisa was also just some painting, and lots of people couldn’t tell why Mona Lisa was smiling like that.

But then she thought about how some people did great things with their lives like find good looking people to marry. She thought about her own life, and how it life plain sucked as a good-for-nothing rich girl.

Her name was Natalie, and she was just 16, and she had a love interest. She wondered if this person was anything like the guy from the painting. His name was Leonard and he spoke well and also liked to chew gum. He was only 17.

So there she was writing in her journal one day about what she saw in her dream. She liked writing in her journal about things she loved. She always knew she had a thing for Leonard, but she never had the heart to tell him.

Natalie was afraid of the idea of being in Love with anyone. Natalie knew that falling in love meant rejection most of the time, by the world’s standards, and she knew that since Leonard had anxiety, perhaps their pairing would end up in disaster.

Natalie was someone who did a lot of things that wealthy, girly women did like gossip about others, wear precious jewellery, do her hair and make-up, and try to look nice. One day while she was looking in the mirror, while she was writing in her journal, she thought of something remarkable.

Natalie thought about Leonard and how he too was a young confused rich guy with a heart of Gold that liked her. Natalie thought long and hard about his weird gum-chewing habit, and also about how if she told her parents about him, they would find out that they were slowly becoming more than friends.

Natalie thought about that queer painting she had seen as a young girl that reminded her of Leonard. That painting was the handsome ideal that no man could ever hope to be like. Natalie thought about the connection between this painting, and Leonard.

Leonard was in his room, in his part of town also doing interesting things with his life.

He knew he had a friend that he loved and cherished. He knew she was the serious type who did not ever think about more than what seemed interesting to her. Her beautiful life, and everything that mattered to her.

Leonard was too young to be in love he felt, while he sat down in his bedroom at his bedside table chewing gum. He was someone who hated being rich, and he loved to do things aside from his parents.

Leonard loved playing sports. He knew he could never keep a girl like Natalie happy. Or could he? He thought for a moment about the pretty-as-a-picture Natalie.

Leonard continued reading his Bible while he chewed gum in his room. He was an athlete who loved playing sports. Leonard was thinking so hard that he bit his tongue and decided to go watch some TV. He wondered if he could watch something interesting on the Sports Channel.

Back in her little world, Natalie was thinking about many things. She was thinking about how brave people did wonderful things with their lives. She knew that being rich was a good thing, but adventure awaited.

She wanted more out of her life. She looked around her. She looked at her reflection and knew there was more to life. She possibly knew there were more ‘possibilities’ in the eyes of her dear rich friend Leonard than she thought.

She continued to write in her journal. She wrote about the weather, she wrote about life. She wrote about a biblical promise — “Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ has forgiven you” that she did not know the meaning of.

Because her mother was a Bible-reading woman, and she loved her mother. She decided to make the most of her friendship with Leonard instead of complaining because he was her friend after all. Maybe one day they would get married.

She didn’t know what she was doing but she decided to call Leonard. She knew he was a bit of a prick, but she decided to call him anyway and find out about his most pressing problem. His biggest secret the fact that he hated school, and hated being rich.

He didn’t answer the phone. And she was busy writing in her journal, about her favourite song

“See the lights, see the party, the ball gowns

You see me make my way through the crowd

And say, “Hello”

Little did you know…

Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone

I’ll be waiting; all there’s left to do is run

I’ll be the prince and you’ll be the princess

It’s a love story, baby, just say “Yes”

When the phone rang again and Leonard acted like he could read her mind. He invited her to watch his basketball match, which was happening soon.

That day finally arrived. Natalie was sitting down watching Leonard playing basketball, along with his other friends. Leonard was a handsome man, a knight in shining armour. She noticed things about him when he was being himself that people never noticed about him otherwise.

She thought about the deep meaning of the Bible verse she had written down in her journal while looking at her own reflection in the mirror. She thought about how no man was perfect, and perfection was a dreaded disease.

When she saw Leonard play like that the words, came true almost magically. Leonard was no Romeo, and She was not the Juliet of the Shakespearean love story, but magically he seemed to represent everything about the fictional guy in the painting.

Juliet went home that day and wrote in her journal, about how Mona Lisa was smiling for a very strange reason. She was after all Mona Lisa, and Juliet realized something very strange about what she saw in the mirror. She realized that she was the one writing the story of her life, and she could make her story one of Romeo and Juliet, or possibly Mona Lisa Smile.

"Did you know that someone wrote "Fuck you all" on that brick up there?"

The nurse followed my finger up to a shockingly high point on the brick pillar to our right, scanned the waxy scrawling, and let out a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, there's some crazy stuff up there." She pointed her pen toward the bulky brick pillars scattered through the common room. You'll see a lot of it around here. Some people even write their actual names and phone numbers."

"I did see a good joke over there." I pointed to the pillar on our left and read the words out loud. "What's the difference between a dirty bus stop and a lobster with breast implants? One's a crusty bus station and the other's a busty crustacean."

The nurse and I shared a gentle laugh and reflected on creative, damaged minds, as if we were strangers making small talk. This was just another day at the office for her. I shared a similar sentiment. She opened up a red folder and slid it across the plastic table.

"This is a copy of everything that you've signed so far and just some general information about how we do things here. There are some personal items that you weren't allowed to keep, which you'll sign off on later. We have your valuables locked in a safe in the administrative office and if you need access to your personal items, you'll have to ask one of the nurses. You're not allowed to have your phone, but you are free to write down a few numbers out of it We did have to take your bra, because of the underwire, but you can have someone bring you clothes or anything else you need starting tomorrow. "

The nurse pointed to a highlighted four digit number on one of the sheets inside the folder.

"This is your code, okay? So anyone who wants to call you here and check on you has to have this code. This is the number for the nurse's station. The phones are shut off during group and mealtimes because we want to encourage you to go. They're turned off around 9:30 at night and are turned back on at 7:30 in the morning. "

She turned her attention to the smartwatch on her wrist and then peered over my shoulder at the plexiglass encased office in the middle of the open room.

"Looks like it's time shift change. Do you have any questions for me?"

"Do you guys have snacks or something? I haven't eaten since about 10." It was 7:30 at night. Now that I'd calmed down, my appetite had returned.

"We might actually have a plate leftover from dinner. Let me check with one of the girls and see if we've got something for you. Go ahead and have a seat over here." She gestured to a a grouping of tables and chairs nestled in front of a large flat-screen TV encased in a heavy-duty plastic shell.

I struggled to pull a chair from underneath the table. The nurse said all the chairs were weighted, so that they couldn't be thrown. The first of many reminders as to where I would be for the next four days. She said goodbye, and that I would probably see her again in a couple soon. She walked away, sneakers squeaking across the grungy tile and I shifted uncomfortably in the weighted chair, exhausted and vulnerable, my armor cracking further with each passing minute.

If life throws you melons, you're probably dyslexic

June 25, 2024

Archie had never seen the outside.

Unescorted.

Unshackled.

Until today.

Today, Archie left the institute with an old suit, new shoes, a written recommendation for a janitor position, and $160 in cash. He was to check into the motel by noon.

He found a bus instead.

Archie was in that half of the class that made the upper half possible. He scored low on all standardized exams and written tests.

He never impressed anyone, at any time, with his mental acuities.

Ever.

But he did impress the police, the warden, the judge, and the jury with his ability to act before others thought he would.

Before others thought he should.

Archie was not impulsive. Rather, he worked two to five minutes ahead of all others. It was almost as if he knew what was going to happen because he traveled ahead in time, made it happen, then waited for others to see what he did.

Today was such a day.

The knife at the first stop cost only $5.

At the second stop, he robbed three people waiting to get on the bus. He tied up one. The other two would never require a bus again.

A Hearse, but never a bus.

All Archie needed to do was wash his hands and remove his bloodied dress shirt. He wore his blazer over his t-shirt until later. With the fancy watch, a few credit cards and ID, and nearly $200, Archie could bide his time.

Archie knew he could sleep.

Without worries.

Without interruptions.

The bus pulled into the last stop for the night. A small depot served food as well as clean rooms for the patrons that wished to continue in the morning.

Archie asked if he could purchase some socks, boxers, and a shirt. He also wanted a toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap. He had the money. The manager had the goods.

No need for the knife tonight.

By morning, the news included the previous day’s murders. The tied up person told a tale of dastardly deeds of vice and savagery (all fabricated) and her defiance in the face of both (she cried and whimpered). Archie would permit such talk because it kept the police looking elsewhere. If he kept moving, such could be the norm.

The new bus arrived, but Archie did not board. He dropped the knife in an open backpack of another. Authorities would wait, then board the bus, hoping to make an easy arrest.

Not exactly the right person. Not exactly for the right reason. But an easy arrest none the less.

And Archie would be somewhere else, doing something else.

But not for long.

For the people who knew Archie, were the people who knew him best.

Doctor Rameriz was one such person.

He understood Archie’s mind and its flaws. Archie could, essentially, see into the future by anticipating the actions or responses of others, but he could not fathom random actions, actions without bearing or merit, that intersected his world.

When the police came to Doctor Rameriz, he wanted in on apprehending Archie alive. He wanted to study Archie for years to come. Doctor Rameriz recommended a methodical search for Archie in cooperation with a series of random “spot checks” for the likes of Archie. The first should, eventually, quarantine his movements, while the second would lessen his options. Together, the days of a free range Archie would end soon.

Without bloodshed.

The Cascade Mountains near Mount Rainier, in the spring, offer a vast array of activities for campers and outdoor enthusiasts alike. Archie discovered this place last fall and managed to winter out the season thinking about his future. Archie enjoyed his solitude. The views, the fresh air, and the wildlife fostered a new appreciation of life in general for him. It weighed heavily on his mind to return to his previous existence. He did not wish to return any time soon.

His four captives did.

Hikers by nature, all federal agents by choice, they were one of the “spot checks” for where Archie might be when captured. Now, they sat, tied to the heavy timbers of the cabin, pulled tightly against the timbers, for the fifth day in a row.

They smell bad.

They looked worse.

But, they were still successful in their job.

Just barely.

By not checking in, they had checked in. Help would arrive, possibly late, but arrive it would.

And that was Archie’s plan all along.

He was too far away from civilization for someone to become hurt by a stray bullet. The only way up here was with a helicopter or a slow climb. The former was more likely, but the latter had its own advantages.

Thus, Archie expected both.

The good doctor expected Archie to expect both. So he planned for a third. Authorities would, indeed, make the climb and would arrive via a helicopter. But, they always would make their presence known by skiing in from above.

The goal was to capture Archie and his hostages without a loss of life. The doctor’s priority was saving Archie first. The commander’s priority was to save his men.

By killing Archie.

At dawn, with the sun in Archie’s eyes, the first wave arrived. The agents kept their spacing and moved quickly to cover the 200 yards of clearing separating themselves and the cabin.

The electric powered chopper, almost a drone, moved faster and dropped smoke canisters and tear gas. It had flash bang grenades at the ready, but did not immediately deploy them.

The first wave indicated a single man moving toward the rear tree line. Police on skis immediately converged on his position, forcing the man to ignore commands to stop.

He was shot to wound, then to kill.

No one questioned if there even was an order.

Falling off a cliff, it would take hours before a positive ID to confirm Archie’s death. The other hostages in the cabin were discovered to be murdered that morning and disfigured beyond recognition. The tools remaining in the cabin included filet knives, a brace and bit, as well as a battery powered belt sander.

All were bloodied and the mess churned a few stomachs and stiffened the resolve of others.

Forensic experts arrived soon after to verify Archie’s DNA and fingerprints on the contents of the cabin. Photographs cataloged the exact location of each appliance, chair, and quilt used.

It was nearly nightfall before the authorities called it a day and departed for home.

The coroner’s report would indicate Archie’s identity by blood type, DNA, physical description, and tattoos.

None of which would be true, according to Doctor Rameriz.

Archie would not have tattoos.

Thus, Archie would not have been at the cabin before or during the attacks.

He would be at the cabin after the attacks.

It would only take a single phone call to verify this hypothesis.

The doctor made the call, purposely mis-identifying himself as an agent.

The doctor waited.

The caller returned the call.

“I have him in custody. What do you want me to do with him?”

The doctor wanted to say, “Hold Archie for me. I will be there in the hour.”

The doctor opted for a different reply. He gave the order, the only such order he would ever give.

Archie was worth more alive than dead.

But only to the doctor.

Thinking about it, the lemonade would have tasted tart. But tart beats no taste any day of the week, twice on Sunday.