The loneliness has caught up the back of my chest, faltering my emotions and integrity as a person, as a man. I feel myself falling through the cracks again without a safety net to catch me, the thoughts of ideation are prominent more than ever, hurt abandoned, casted aside, no guidance, alone. I cling to the memories of pain because they are all I have left of anything remotely good. Haven’t felt more alone than I do now ever. I gave my heart to many to be rejected or casted aside left to rot alone I can’t keep going on anymore. This is my cry for help, this is my resonating thoughts and feelings, 2025 is just a constant state of feeling dread and fear of the unknown and what was. I long for freedom of my mind and to be loved again. but now I find myself disgusted by the thought of it. I feel like no one’s worthy it yet I crave it most.

i just need some sleep..

I slipped on some ice on the cement today. Ice, of course, is frozen water, or H2O below 32ºF (0ºC). At this temperature, the water molecules lose energy and slow down; they self-assemble into a hexagonally-structured crystal lattice, forming a solid state of slick substrate above which floats a thin layer of liquid water from the friction pressure of my foot lowering the melting point.

Liquid layer, it turned out, had hydrogen bonds less tightly bound, moving freely enough to become an excellent lubricant, reducing the friction between my foot and the ice, making it slippery.

It’s all chemistry, after all, which is harder to understand than the pain of a suddenly dislodged coccyx at its sacral attachment. (You don’t need to look to the heavens to see stars; they are all around us, kept in a crystal lattice themselves—one of potential energy in search of the right kinesis.)

Of foot.

And while my right foot can garner Oscar chatter, it landed my ass very kinetically onto the cement below.

Ah, chemistry.

Beware! If you go too deep into chemistry, you're suddenly doing physics.

F = M x A

The mass was my ass. What a difference one tiny, little letter makes, especially when you accelerate it. The terminal velocity of a human in a stable, ass-to-cement position is around 120 mph (193 km/h). This speed is reached when the force of drag from air resistance equals the force of gravity acting on the person, resulting in constant speed.

But this is incorrect.

The terminal velocity when my ass hit the ground was 0. Sudden and terminally stopped. My irresistible ass met the immovable ground.

That’s when I realized, if you do phsyics deep enough, it’s all math, or in my case, calculus where I met my fate at t=0. Yet, standards of rigor have evolved over—dare I invoke it?—time. Calculus, originally founded on ill-defined infinitesimals, transitioned to the modern, more rigorous formalism reliant on limits.

And I met mine. I’ve got the X-ray to prove it, so buzz off, Gödel! And come on in, Euler.

Euler’s Identity, for those who missed that class, is

e^ix = cos x + isin x

Bear with me. Hear me out.

Euler’s identity states that when Euler's number (e) is raised to the power of imaginary pi (iπ), the result, when added to 1, equals 0. Pretty scary when you think about it. I didn’t. I was in a hurry. Down I went. I was the one who went down. Euler is the one who pulled the rug out.

I was the “1”; but my ass stopped moving at “0”.

And seeing the stars, I realized that if you do math deep enough, the physics becomes metaphysics, the branch of philosophy that explores what is hubristic “first principles” of things, such as the abstract concepts of being, knowing, substance, cause, identity, time, and space.

And nothing explores being, substance, cause, and space like falling on your ass. (The knowledge of the knowing and time it takes to know—truly know—comes with the stars.)

Time, from ambulation to inertness, from motion to frozen in time like water frozen into ice, can be reverse-extrapolated to t = 0; however, the opposite of extrapolation is miscalculation. Look it up.

There are quantum effects that emerge at Planck lengths and Planck time, miscalculated or otherwise, both of which become evident when one hits the ground sitting. (Alternatively, hits the sitting grounded.)

Thus, deep math is quantum physics. In math, though, wrong assumptions cannot occur beyond what is provable or unprovable; but in quantum physics we are deluded into thinking we have a choice. Prior to slipping on my ass, I walked in a probability field.

When I fell on my ass, I was in a definite field: The field of pain.

And that, my friends, was definite! With the collapse of my ass, so collapsed my probability field, and with it, my sacrococcygeal ligament. And as we all know…

…the hip bone’s connected to the thigh gone…

…and on and on. You realize the interconnectedness when you remember that all pain is perceived in the brain. Acute pain engenders anger; chronic pain engenders depression.

But there is hope.

The stars—like hip bones to thigh bones—are the result of somatosensory neurons connected to the occipital lobe; and when the descending pain modulation pathway fails and, counterintuitively, amplifies the pain, deep quantum engenders religion.

And this is when I found religion. Does that sound irrational? or just complex?

Thus, reads the postulate, “More people, in these troubled times, should fall on their asses.” (You can quote me on that!)

You know, I never thought I'd be sitting in a sex ed lecture feeling jealous of how innocent the teacher is. The teacher asked us why teens aren't concerned about STDs. My first thought was, because I don't plan to have sex. The only way I'm gonna get an STD is if I'm raped. You should be trying to stop that instead of lecturing at us knowing we won't listen. My teacher started talking about how kids don't think about death because they're so young and healthy that death feels like it's just a story. Bitch, I've tried to kill myself. Shut up and do something useful. The first thing you said in this class is that you know what you're saying is going to go right over our heads. If you know that, why are you saying it? And btw, I may be young but I'm not healthy. I couldn't walk last night because my ankles are too weak to support my body on any surface that isn't flat. I think about death constantly. I know that my uncle would kill me himself if he knew I was trans. I'm fuckin seventeen. I have a job. I'm raising a kid. I've never had sex. This wasn't my choice. And this lecture is not helping.

Once upon a time, there lived two little leaves. The first leaf was perfect - beautiful, green, thriving. The second leaf was far from perfect - decrepit, spotted, struggling. Yet their feelings were seemingly antithetical. The first little leaf felt a strange, subtle, lingering sort of angst and disgust knowing that the tree to which it belonged was not nearly as perfect. So many other leaves, so much imperfection. Such ugliness. Such an unfortunate mess for the tree as a whole to not be so beautiful, green, and thriving. The second little leaf felt a similar feeling for a very long time, but then realized that there was no leaf, there was only the tree. And while that tree might be flawed and ugly in some ways, as a whole, overall, it was magnificent and consummate - and all its imperfections made it ironically more perfect. Time passed, and the first little leaf had a similar insight - and a lasting, full sense of bliss and content. This leaf noticed a spot on its otherwise perfect form - such a tragic blemish. But soon the leaf reminded itself that there indeed was just the tree, and many other leaves, many leaves with far more blemishes, many leaves with far fewer, but overall, all in all, the tree was the tree, and that meant the purest form of beauty and wholeness one could possibly imagine. The leaf was all the leaves - all the brilliant and dull ones, all the green and brown ones, all the whole and tattered ones - everything. How silly it is, thought both little leaves, to get caught-up in such little feelings of imperfection and lack when all that really existed was the utter opposite.

- The Edith Fowler Series -

Pastor Collins raised his sallow hands signaling pallbearers to lower Lester Smith's coffin in the marked grave of Bleakville's cemetery. A smell of fresh soil wafted through the air, mixed with cut grass surrounding his interment. Craving booze, pastor Collins ignored his jaundiced look and took a sip from a hidden flask. He watched as townsfolk made their way to the Community Negro Baptist Church. There, they mourned Lester's death and ate comfort foods like fried chicken, dumplings, apple pie, and potato salad.

Mayor Edith Fowler dressed in a gray Dixie hat, white blouse, and black skirt for the occasion. She pulled a long-stemmed rose out of the pocket of her open vest and matching boots. A pricked finger drew blood, spotting the blouse near her heart. After buttoning the vest to conceal the blemish, she tossed the rose in the grave on top of the coffin she had specially built. Sealed before the ceremony, no one saw what was left of the colored man's body that was beaten and whipped by a mob days ago.

"No peace in life. Have peace in death," she prayed.

Edith put on her octagon glasses with gold forged frames. When her eyes adjusted to clarity, she looked at a family photo of the Smiths before tossing it in the hole as well. Lester's wife and two children fled town right after his body was found. The value of their lives was worth more than the possessions they left behind. A smell of retaliation ran through the air, putting fear in civilians. Bleakville lawmen stood on high alert. Sheriff Tuney spotted the mayor leaving the gravesite and called her out with urgency. Startled, she locked eyes on the briskly walking blond man coming towards her, stirring up dust as he approached.

"Mayor, I'm calling a meeting at the courthouse. I want the Bleakville town heads to meet me there lickety-split. This is a matter of life and death for our town," he insisted, blue eyes staring her down. "You best show up too," he said, with contempt. Edith kept her head low and said nothing.

"Your colored life is on the line for what you did," she felt he wanted to say.

* * *

Bleakville town heads filed into the courtroom. Sheriff Tuney Moonbay, Marshal Pete Doyle, Pastor Steven Collins, General Store owner Ewald Bensen, Blacksmith Arnett Hedley, doctor, and mortician Ingram Wardell assembled. The men who kept her town running stood before the mayor, a woman, the only colored in the room. Her clammy hands clasped together to avoid shaking as her heart pounded and breath shortened.

"Did you disremember widow Norma Thorton, the owner of 90 acres and the 40 cattle heads that help feed our town?" Edith spat out before she could stop herself. The sarcasm she was famous for escaped her lips, unable to be reeled back in.

"She was the one who instigated a riot when her husband Sam was killed," said the sheriff. "Then she got the owner of the Rusty Spur to start a petition that got a white man hung and Lester killed. That colored gal is not welcome here," he fumed. "Let's git started boys," he said while directing the men to maneuver tables and chairs together, deliberately cutting communication off with Edith.

She started to tell the sheriff "You're so weak north of ya ears that you couldn't lead a horse to water, no less a meeting," but thought better of it.

Sheriff Tuney took the front and center seat, a move to show he was now calling the shots. He passed a document around for the others to see. It was a proclamation for the arrest of Mayor Edith Fowler, signed by the governor of Pennsylvania. The paper reminded Edith of the petition her townsfolk signed a month ago requesting to have swift justice done to a man. The difference was this document contained a raised seal stamp and was signed by Governor Arthur Harry Moore himself.

As the sheriff started the meeting, someone knocked hard on the courtroom door just before entering. Florence, the Rusty Spur barmaid, balanced a tray of glasses and several bottles of whiskey as she made her way to the court table. Brown, blue, and gray eyes ogled her hourglass shape and brunette hair. Lust turned to disgust when her long locks betrayed the woman, revealing a hideous scar on the right side of her face as she put the glasses down.

"Obliged Miss Florence. You may leave. I'll settle up with you after the meeting at the Rusty Spur," said Sheriff Tuney.

"But Miss McIntyre requires I bring compensation back with the tray," she said diplomatically as Pastor Collins was the first to reach for a bottle, pouring a big gulp.

"Maybe you didn't hear right correctly," said the sheriff. He walked toward her with a menacing swagger and pointed a finger at the door. "You best skedaddle. I'll settle up wit that painted hen boss of yours when I'm done," he urged, his voice growing louder with each word.

"Yes sir sheriff!" Florence answered as she bolted through the door without looking back. She considered herself lucky that those men only wanted booze and let her go. Satisfied watching her race away, the sheriff closed the door, filled a glass with whiskey and hovered over the seated businessmen and mayor.

"Let's weigh our options. We could git some money and personal things together and git her outta town quiet like. Or we wait for the governor's men to bring her to trial for dereliction of duty in another jurisdiction. Either way will be hard," Sheriff Tuney added.

"What do we do about the hanging crew coming up from New Jersey? They want justice now, not a trial. And they will be here in a few days," remarked Arnett.

"We could put her in jail for her own safety," said Doc Ingram.

"That dog won't hunt. She won't last a day in there," corrected Marshal Pete, remembering how he aided a mob removing Maverick from the same jail at gunpoint.

A high-pitched screeching sound came from the mayor's chair when she suddenly pushed back, stood up, and pounded on the table. "SHE HAS A NAME!" the mayor yelled as her nostrils flared. Edith held tears in check, but not the raw vocal emotion of everyone talking as if she weren't present. Everyone stared at the mayor, now standing over them.

"Edith," the sheriff said as he slowly stood up also. "The governor wants you arrested for the lynching of Maverick Lawson on your watching eye," he reminded. "We are hoping to keep you outta that situation. And there's the New Jersey storm coming our way in the form of a neck-tie mob. If we don't hand you over to them, they will burn down the town in retaliation... so forgive us if we don't address you proper like," mocked the sheriff.

* * *

At the Rusty Spur, widow Thorton sat at the bar, exhausted from tending to her livestock. Norma's husband, Sam, killed by Maverick, earned her the moniker. Her dirty denim overalls and blue cotton shirt looked out of place on the colored woman in the bar. She was grateful that most patrons were at the church paying last respects to Lester Smith, one of the colored men who participated in the lynching of Maverick. Florence, overhearing talk about the widow, warned she had best wait for the meeting to be over before trying to talk to the mayor.

"They've been in there quite a spell," said Florence as she cleaned glasses behind the bar. "The mayor will fill us in when it's over," she continued.

"I hear they got a bounty on the mayor's head," chimed in Lucille McIntyre, owner of the bar. She had bought the Rusty Spur with money earned by spending time with men.

"If I had let matters be, the mayor wouldn't be in this spot," the widow said as she kicked the stool she sat on, causing dried-up mud on her boots to sprinkle the floor like sand. "But I have a plan. Something I learned from my grandma. I want to make things right, but the mayor must back me for it to work. As soon as that meeting ends, call her out, and Blacksmith Arnett. I'm gonna need him too."

* * *

Within 48 hours Bleakville came under siege. In the cover of the night, the Bleakville businessmen were tossed in jail with the marshal and wounded sheriff after a brief shootout. Several New Jersey henchmen stood guard and mocked the town heads standing in the overcrowded cell.

"I'd offer you boys some drink, but you only got one chamber pot to piss in," joked one of the Jersey men as the others laughed out loud.

Men ate, drank, and caused a ruckus at the Rusty Spur. Several fought for a turn with Lucille's painted ladies. The demand for flesh was so high that Florence the barrister was forced to take up with men at half the price on account of her scarred face. Lucille tended the bar while Florence took on two out-of-towners. One of them left an upper bedroom and pranced down the stairs wearing just a wife-beater, carrying coins. He dropped them on the table.

"Whiskey, a full bottle this time," he said. "And let me borrow a hat for a spell."

"To cover yourself?" Lucille asked.

"No, to cover that heifer's face," he said as he went back up the stairs with a bottle and a 10-gallon hat.

More men came into the bar, this time with the New Jersey lynch mob leader, Vasil Huges, a name Lucille and her ladies were familiar with. Vasil was the man responsible for a mob beating Lester to death when he was questioned in Gold Rose County, and had gotten away with it. He came up to the bar and sat down with three men. His brown eyes looked through her as she stared back at the unwanted patron. Lucille didn't have any more women available if he wanted one for his boys. The ones she had were bruised up and worn out. Terrified, she envisioned herself on her back, with a line of men waiting for a turn. His words snapped her back to reality.

"I was told you know the whereabouts of that colored mayor," Vasil said over the noise of the bar.

"I might know if I can get that bounty on her head," Lucille suggested.

"I'll see you get the bounty. As long as I get to burn her alive," he declared.

"She's hiding in the Funeral Parlour, waiting for your men to leave town," Lucille revealed as she poured the four men each a shot of whiskey with shaky hands.

"If that's true, you'll have the coins as soon as I lynch her behind this nice establishment," he chuckled while he searched Lucille's demeanor for motives. Finding none, he asked: "Why you giving the mayor the little end of the horn?"

"When Edith became mayor, she gave the job a lick and some promises, but she didn't keep any. She caused all the trouble you see in town. All she had to do was wait for the sheriff and let justice be done," she lamented while pouring Vasil more whiskey.

"It's all 'cause Edith had a rough growing up. Got passed around a few slave owners that liked youngins. When she thought one of Bleakville's boys was touched wrong, she let Maverick swing. Truth be told, that kid was stretching the blanket. I'm sure he wasn't telling it right. But what's done is done, and I want that bounty," she said without guilt. Vasil finished his second drink as his men pushed back what was left of their first. No one paid for the liquor.

"Let's take a walk over to the Parlour," Vasil told his men. He looked at Lucille. If I don't find what I'm looking for...me and the boys will pay you a not so friendly visit," he promised her as hard eyes undressed the voluptuous woman before they headed out.

* * *

Vasil's men surrounded the Funeral Parlour. He placed a man by the south side window and the back, even though there was no exit. He stood by the front door. More men had guns drawn, waiting for instructions.

"You, go fetch the mortician from jail. His name is Ingram. I want to know if he's in on hiding the mayor," Vasil told a blond henchman then turned to another."And you, go over to General merchandise and buy enough oil to burn the Parlour down if need be," he told a stockily built man."And you," he said to another, "go fetch that painted lady Lucille. Bring her to me," he directed the last man.

"If the mayor got away, I'll pass Lucille around to the boys, then burn down the Parlour for my troubles," Vasil promised himself as he loaded his gun, preparing to go inside the building.

He looked through the side window of the Funeral Parlour but a bloody smear on the glass hampered viewing. Frustrated, he kicked open the unlocked front door. A stench of death stopped him in his tracks.

"Good God!" Vasil said, holding his nose.

"Did she kill her fool self?" said a ponytailed-man following behind Vasil. He covered his mouth and nose with a hand but kept his gun out. As they walked, the smell of death became stronger, causing ponytail-man to vomit. The only light inside came from the door kicked open. A buzzing sound like a thousand flies was heard, but Vasil couldn't locate the source. Ponytail-man put his gun away and wiped spittle from his mouth as he swiped at flies swarming the room. They continued looking around.

As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they saw a row of chairs on the left and right side of the Funeral Parlour. Sitting in the chairs were several rotting corpses in various stages of decomposition, held together by deteriorating clothes. In the center of the floor was an octagon drawn in blood. Human skeletal bones connected to two points like the hands of a clock. Flower arrangements made of intestines hung on a closed casket that sat on a wooden table in front of the circle.

"Dead coloreds...having service? Who's leading it?" Vasil stammered. Then he heard the coffin unlock. The top half of the specially built casket creaked and squeaked on noisy hinges as it opened. The contents were fully visible even in the dim light. Vasil and ponytail-man saw a body wearing a gray Dixie hat, gold frames, and a white blouse. It slowly sat up.

"She done come alive!" yelled ponytail-man as both men fired at the body, fear causing them to miss the mark. Bullets bounced off the steel-reinforced casket, hitting chairs, corpses, and the Parlour walls. The men backed out of the building, still firing. The flash of gunfire illuminated the room enough to see the body lie back down.

"Burn it!" Vasil hollered at the men standing guard. "Burn it down! If anything comes out... shoot it!" he ordered as the men threw oil around the building, through the front door, and set it on fire.

Lucille and Ingram, tied to a pole, gasped at the burning Parlour. Vasil cut the two loose and helped Lucille to her feet as townspeople came out from their homes to put out the fire. Vasil's men prevented them from starting a bucket brigade, so all just stood by and watched it burn.

"Is the mayor in there, Vasil?" asked Lucille, terrified as the Parlour burned.

"She is," he answered. He thought about those gold frames and the body lying back down in the casket. A sight he would never forget. "She's in there with four corpses, having some kinda...something."

"Oh, God!" Lucille cried out, hugging Ingram tightly as flames engulfed the whole building, turning the beginning of dusk into a bright orange night.

"God had nothing to do with what I saw in there," Vasil remarked. "And...I'm a man of my word. I'll go over to General and fetch the bounty I promised," he told Lucille, still looking at the burning Parlour.

"Won't be anything left when that fire is out," Ingram rambled as the heat and flying ash pushed everyone back.

* * *

A horse and buggy rode away from Bleakville. Looking back briefly, she saw an amber light of something ablaze. Edith, wearing dirty denim overalls and an old blue cotton shirt carried food, water, and a gun in a wooden chest in the back of the buggy.

"Judging by the fire, I'd say all went well...or to hell," she said to herself.

"I'll have to give thanks to Widow Thorton one day. She knew Vasil was a superstitious fool and would be scared of the bodies we set up in the Funeral Parlour. When I get further away, I'll stop and say a prayer for the bodies I had dug up to make Vasil and his Jersey men think I was coming to life, leading the dead. One day, I'll thank Arnett too. That blacksmith fixed the casket with springs, making Lester's body in my clothes and glasses stir up and down. Bless that man and Lucille with her ladies keeping the men off-kilter. Everyone will think Lucille turned against me, but she played a part in the plan too.

"I have to make it to Gold Rose County. Then take a train using the widow's name out to another state. I will start a fund to build another town with my cut of the bounty Lucille will send to me. I will not fail this time. There will be justice for every color man and woman in my new town...or there will be justice for none."

Edith continued on the dirt trail using the clear moonlit sky to guide her, thinking only about the 4-day journey to Gold Rose County.

"Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions."

~ T.S. Eliot

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. All Rights Reserved

THE BLEAKVILLE GAZETTE - Owned by Mayor Edith Fowler (r.i.p)

***Lynch Mob Abandon Hunt After Fire In Mortuary***

Sheriff and Marshall Reclaim Bleakville From Vigilantes - Morning Press -July 17th, 1877

An alleged lynch mob from New Jersey led by Pinkerton officer Vasil Huges age 39, was called off after a fire burned down the Bleakville Funeral Parlour with beloved Mayor Edith Fowler trapped inside.

The mayor was seeking a pardon from Governor Arthur Moore after she was implicated in the death of white businessman Maverick James Lawson, from Lakewood Tennessee, age 35 by an unknown mob. He was found lynched behind the Rusty Spur, a Saloon run by Lucille McIntyre, age 29.

According to the governor, Mayor Fowler failed to protect Lawson who was in custody. Mr. Lawson was part of the governors administrative staff but his job was not known. Several patrons witnessed Pinterton Security officers surround the funeral home, trapping the mayor inside. For some unknown reason the home caught fire killing the mayor. Deceased citizens in their caskets were also consumed by the intense fire. It is unsure why the fire was not put out before it destroyed the 12 year old building.

Sheriff Tuney and Marshal Pete lead a group of 35 township men that forced the Pinkterton's out of town. With the henchmen gone, the town restored order to Bleakville. Ingram Wardell, the mortician for Bleakville, promised to rebuild the parlour and dedicate it to the founder of Bleakville, Edith Fowler.

Story written by B.D., The last reporter of the Bleakville Gazette

In that reversed place, I am Mara Vex, the part of me that never learned guilt. I move through ruins I made myself, laughing like a crack in the earth. I betray because I can, because the ache on someone else's face feels like sunlight on my skin. Every kindness shown to me is just a weapon handed over, blade first. I am hunger without end, a mouth that sings when everything falls apart. There’s no shame. There’s only more.

You did not break down my walls. You didn't make me blindly trusting and impervious. You caught my interest, and I watched you from inside with a child-like curiosity. Every movement was bewildering, every word was fascinating. Eventually, my curiosity consumed me, and I let you in so I could learn. You helped me rebuild when my fortress was under attack. You made windows so I could still experience life. You brought me paint, and helped me cover every wall with a beautiful mural. I am still guarded. I still have my walls. But it no longer hurts to see their dreary bricks. I feel safe, and I feel happy. You didn't leave me without shelter. You made it into a home, and made me feel comfortable enough to venture out on my own.

Tapping my finger against the table, I stared over my drink and past the seats at the door. What may come to me through that door is the very thing I might fear, or the thing I might hold most dear. My body went rigid at the thought, trying to find some balance to that concept, but I started to thrum from the rattle of my nerves instead.

What may come to me through that door... The tapping from my index finger felt almost synonymous to the ticking of a clock as I waited, watched, and then waited some more for things to take a slightly different turn. What may come through that door.

I tried to squint at it, like scrutinizing it would allow me to twist and warp space, turning the door until the windows gave way and the iron beams framing it all together snapped loose. Come.

Antsy, my anticipation started to reach a peak, my tapping no longer keeping in rhythm until the train wreck of my finger's twitch ached up my hands, spasming my knuckle and tendons until I yanked my hand from the table sharply to grab that hand and squeeze. And I mean squeeze! I squeezed that hand so hard, I was almost to believe I'd pop it from the joint, rip it away and discard the limb wholly with the intent to throw it away or yeet is across the room in some capacity.

"Diana?"

My gaze snapped sharply up, and an uneasy smile worked up out of me as I tried to smooth the wrinkles of my nerves and emotions like the lapels on a gentlemen's suit. "Yes?" I answered back calmly.

The woman settled in across from me at the faux wood table in the chair made of iron and 'wood' where we nestled face to face in the cozy atmosphere of the dimly lit café, where overcast clouds shrouded the entire room in gray. I didn't look at her. I couldn't. Instead, I snapped my gaze down to the table, at the fake grain of the wood that had black stain settling in the grooves just below the surface.

"I know this was an impromptu meeting, but I figured it would be better to see you in person to discuss this than over the phone."

"I know," I told her, toiling with my fingers a little bit. Taking in a deep breath, I stopped, held it and closed my eyes as the waning distortion of my surroundings displaced me in my mind, making me wonder if I might throw up from it all.

"I wanted to let you know it wasn't your fault."

"I know," I repeated again.

"She loved you."

"I know." I answered back, my voice harder, more rigid, like I was blotting out everything in me warring and raging to lash out.

"Di-"

"Stop." I told her, unfurling my hands from themselves to put one up in motion for her to pause. "Just-" I put my finger and thumb to the bridge of my nose, pinching my eyes shut as I tried to think. "Stop. For a moment. Before we continue..."

"Sure. Take your time."

"Thanks," I answered, my tone serious, and all playfulness wrung out of it. "I just- I need to think."

"Okay."

Stop answering everything I say! A part of me snapped, but I didn't speak those words. Don't feel sorry. There's nothing to feel sorry about! Another part of me barked out, but those words also didn't rip loose from my mouth. Slowly, my eyes opened, and I felt like the blare of the warm overhead lights must have hit me in a way because it hurt. The light stung, and the pollution of it dug into me in a way that made my head throb until I was rubbing my ears, like they were already ringing. And then I spoke.

"I wanted to say so much to her," I said. "I wanted to see her turn around. I really did, because no matter what I said or did, I never could hate her, but when we were in front of each other, I couldn't do anything else but feel resentful, and I'm still sorry for it."

"That's not your fault."

"No! Of course not. It's not my fault!" I said, my voice rising a little as the jilt in my tone took a sharper note. A curled smile spread over my lips until I was opening my eyes, but rolling them as I fluttered them open and shut, like I was pissed by the prospect of it all. "She's her own person. I only wish she knew and understood that."

"Mhm. We know that. You and I both know that."

"Gah- And she fucking!" I put my hands up, and then everything kind of let loose out of me as I let my hands drop and I sighed, blinking away the wetness in my eyes. I was still pissed. Cut... Hurt, you could even say. For someone who was supposed to have sired me in this life, she sure had done a funny job at proving that she was a decent human being... at least to me. Fuck, I hated how that shit all went tits up when I took off the rose colored glasses. "I wish I could shake her!" I said, feeling my teeth scrape the cold air as I sucked it in. "I wish I could yell at her and ask her, scream at her, what the fuck she was thinking when she did all this and then up and died on me! Like she thought she never had to deal with absconding from her responsibilities all because I told her I was tired of being her kerosene, but no! That wasn't good enough! And I wasn't worth it!"

"I mean, you are-"

"DON'T!" I put my face in my hands. "Don't speak on her behalf. It just makes me more pissed."

"Okay."

"God." And I shuddered, my shoulders slumped forward as I bent over my table, in my chair, in this hard seat that somehow didn't make my ass hurt because it was bare of any cushioning. "I want to hate her," I told her. "I really do, but I can't. I'm just pissed that she never took initiative to fix anything, and she always played pretend that she did and it hurts. It sucks! And it hurts." And when she didn't say anything, I continued. "I wanted her to be there, to kind of turn things around and stop being that kid. That kid that just... watched me grow from being a little kid to an adult. I want to be adults side-by-side with her, but now she's gone. She's just... gone, and I have to deal with that too. I knew I had to, but it doesn't make it feel any better."

My teeth chattered, so I clenched them. "She could have bought kerosene from the store, like every other fucking idiot who never seems to get it instead of setting me on fire, but she just couldn't help herself!"

I sucked in a sharp breath, and my body shuddered. "God damnit! I hate that shit! I hate how everyone who's ever tried to paint themselves as these... helpful people, these... community actors, just love to fucking set people like me on fire because they can't be fucked enough to buy kerosene from a store, to find some other entertainment elsewhere and I get to suffer for it. And she wasn't any different, and now she's dead. Great!" I rolled my eyes, tears streaming down my face. I blinked a few more times, then squeezed my eyes shut as more tears kept streaming down my face. "Great."

The chair clattered as she got up, and I nodded at her that it was good. That it was okay to go, because I think she too knew she was at a loss, and without the capacity to be the heart health I needed right now.

And so I just put my head in my hands and leaned over the chair as she stepped outside to give me a moment, while I sobbed... in the corner of the dark room of the nearly empty café. Some mother... Some body... But not mine. Not me.

We weren't close enough, because it was never meant to be.

"It's not a uniquely human condition."

Two men sit on the same side of a booth in a busy pub. If anyone cared, some would wonder if they were lovers.

The man who speaks wears no parka, despite freezing weather. He's in an immaculate bespoke suit. It almost swallows light, so dark is the black on black. He is regally pale in contrast, as if the warmth of the sun is a tale whispered by fairies.

His companion, leaning as far onto the wall as he can, is ruddy with drink. Even so, he is aware, sharp, focused.

Afraid.

"Come again?" he stammers.

The elegant man smiles like a rattlesnake.

"Hope. Hope is not a uniquely human condition."

"How so?"

"Take dogs, for example. You think it's love in their eyes when they stare at the dinner table? No. It's optimism. Begging for whatever scraps master will throw them."

"I see."

"Do you see you're the dog?"

"Who is the master?"

"Whom do you serve?"

"...I work at Sainsbury's, mate."

The man in the suit laughs, and the temperature in the pub drops. Winter's chill settles into the warm public house.

"Did you study Latin in school?"

"I remember a class, but nothing stuck."

The pale man calls for another round.

"Dum spiro spero." Two pints of Kronenbourg land on the table and the server quickly disappears. He's careful not to touch the man on the outside of the booth's seat, but he can't say why. "While I breathe, I hope."

"I like that."

"Breathing, or hoping?"

"Both."

"Abandon one, and you'll abandon the other."

The fearful man doesn't know what to say, so he drinks.

"Do you know why I order ale when I take these little walks topside?"

"Topside?"

"Among you mud-fucking monkeys. His favorite pets. His dogs. Only, your dogs are actually dogs, so I think you have the better of it."

"Mate, I'm just trying to have a pint. Never owned a dog, nor fucked a monkey."

The pale man laughs again; mugs on the table frost over.

"I like you, Oliver."

"Ollie. Dad was Oliver."

"Oh, I know him."

"Knew him?"

"Know."

"He was a right cunt."

"Is."

"What're you on about, anyway?"

The suited man swirls a delicate index finger in his pint. "I order ale because He made wine." Bright yellow lager turns into black stout.

The drunk doesn't believe his eyes, so he shuts them.

"Spirans erit cupidum memoria, Ollie."

"Cupid's memory?"

"What would you give to keep breathing? To prevent breath from being a fond memory?"

For the first time, Ollie looks into his guest's eyes. He sees a beautiful creature who looks like a man, but doesn't know beauty. True fear is lead inside him; even beatings taken as a child from Oliver the elder didn't weigh like this moment.

"Mate," he whispers, voice tight and chest hollow, "not much. To you? Nothing."

"Do you know who I am?"

"I can guess your name."

The devil laughs and everyone shivers.

He always wondered what the purpose of everything was. Drifting through his days as a quiet observer. The life of a Seeker was one of solitude and infinite exploration for the Celestial Council. Eman wondered about each and every sector of the galaxy as the council required. He did his job, lazily seeking worlds that may have sentient life. For what purpose he did not yet know. His father, Elume, was also a Seeker, as was his father before him. Eman used to find joy in this exploration. Now, he simply does his duty until the council retires him.

This world was cataloged by the name of Smaragdus. Eman thought this was an odd name but his job was to seek, not to name. He landed his small starship in a clearing of lush green vegetation. Tall sturdy plants lined the clearing and thrashed in the ship's wake as it landed. His heavy boots crushed the plants as he heaved his way into the jungle, leaving his small encampment to survey the nearby point of interest the ship's computer identified while on entry to the planet's surface. One stood out as anomalous, that would be the first stop.

* * *

Eman traversed the thick jungle for hours, only stopping for water and to collect the occasional sample. He did not need to collect samples but most Seeker’s kept a hobby to keep their minds sharp. The Set of binary suns were beginning to set, the sky becoming a mix of purple and green. Eman emerged from the jungle, entering a short clearing. The edge of a cliff just a few meters past where he now stood. In the distance, deep in a valley between two plain mountains, a massive crater scared the surface. No large pieces of vegetation grew in the crater but Eman could tell it was not a new addition to the planet. Grasses and small ponds littered the inside of the crater. At the center of it all, Eman located the anomaly.

The structure was tall and slim. It stood at least a hundred meters tall, perfectly vertical. The structure was rectangular in shape and was as gray as silica dust. No markers were visible anywhere on its surface. It took Eman another three hours to maneuver down the cliff and into the crater valley. Night had finally taken hold of the planet. The stars cast just enough light to see the surrounding area, completely devoid of any creatures. The night stood silent. Eman would have to make camp next to the monolith. He did not have a flat enough clearing to call the ship to his location and land. His survival pack provided him a small lantern, his rations, and his inflatable sleep pod. Emans mother would often take him camping, pointing out constellations by the fire.

There, you see that star, just next to Sigma Sagittarii? Your father is there now. His mother would often point out star systems where Eman’s father was working, both of them waving at the faint specs of light. He thought of those nights often now. Especially on nights like these, where the sky was perfectly clear. Those memories were sour to him now. Not after what she did. Eman sighed, turning off his lamp, he pressed his eyes and pushed those memories back where they belonged.

* * *

The air was thick with dew in the early hours of the morning. The first of the suns illuminating the valley with a faded magenta light. Eman unzipped his pod and emerged with a yawn, his breath visible and ghostly. He was still hazy and somehow felt less rested than when he arrived. His mind had been clouded with dreams of before, dreams of his father. A breeze stirred up the surrounding flora, the rustling of their leaves the only sound in the valley.

Eman went about setting up his few pieces of equipment. Seismic monitoring, full spectrum electromagnetic analysis, and material analysis would have to be done via the ship. For now, Eman brandished his handheld scanner after setting up a recorder and atmospheric sensors. He meandered over to the structure after about forty minutes of walking around the near perimeter og the crater. The scanner buzzed in his hand as the blue display provided some basic numerical data of the structure. After Eman had confirmed this was indeed a rectangular prism and definitely alien to this planet, he reached his free hand out to touch the monolith's surface.

Y’enute, ckaemo Svlada! D’udu der Ay’umanadis.

The voice came into Emans mind like a violent hail storm. Defining the inside of his mind and causing him to fall to his knees in pain. Eman spent several moments catching his breath, his eyes blurred and hands shaking as he tried to compose himself. When his eyes finally focused, heart setting back, Eman realized it was now dusk. A low hum was growing from the base of the monument now. Slowly, it grew more intense causing Eman to stumble back as if something was pushing him backward. Eman’s eyes grew large as the sky became darker, too fast to be logical. The stars grew so bright he had to put a hand in front of his eyes. The monolith began to lume over him with nothing but the sense of malice behind it. What in god's name is going on. Eman thought, scrambling back to his sleep pod.

Eman gathered his basic kit and ran as fast as he could. Stumbling and bashing his way through the thick forest near the cliff face. Branches sliced at his arms and face, the sound of his heaving breath echoing through the wood.

K’ayuninad… K’ayuninad… K’ayuninad…

The voice found its way back into his mind. Tearing at the inside of his brain like an animal caught in a trap. He continued sprinting through the woods, a clearing making itself known just a few dozen meters in front of him now. When he breached the clearing he let out a scream of primal fear. The monolith was there. There are more? Eman thought, mind aching as the voice continued. He then squinted his eyes, his terror growing even more. His sleep pod was there, the same spot as before along with his smaller instruments.

K’ayuninad… K’ayuninad… K’ayuninad…

The voice was growing fainter, but more prevalent in its tone. It was no longer a horrifyingly frantic screech. The voice was now more feminine in nature. Eman did not understand the words. He left the safety of the treeline and dumped his pack next to the sleep pod as he approached the structure again. The hum was now a low and consistent pulse. The stars returned to their original luminosity.

Em'na xir sa'roym… Em'na xir sa'roym… Em'na xir sa'roym…

The voice was changing somehow. Eman still did not understand. Was the voice changing at all? Eman was now on his knees in front of the monolith. The sweat on his skin glistened in the night. He was spaying back and forth, barely aware of the woman who was peaking at him from behind the structure. Her hair was jet black, blending in almost perfectly with the night sky. She was short, only about a meter and a half tall. Her thin arms connected to tiny frail hands that rested by her side. She was completely nude, her long hair covering her breasts and face. The voice now came from her, “Em'an ir s'roy… Em'an ir s'roy… Em'an ir s'roy…” She repeated as she approached Eman. He knew she was there but he was unable to react, frozen in a trance. She knelt down in front of Eman, he could smell the scent of her skin. It reminded him of something, someone.

* * *

Eman was twelve when it happened. He had just come home from school. His father left for another expedition a day prior. They seemed so happy then. He opened the door to their habitat pod on Epsolus One to see shoes he did not recognize, womens shoes. He heard giggling from his parents room as he followed the trail of garments. He would never forget the look on his mothers face, the horror. The situation was firmly punctuated by a message from the council. Eman’s father had died on that expedition, never knowing his wife's betrayal.

Eman never forgave his mother for what she did. They hadn’t spoken since he left home a decade ago. He hated the fact that she tainted so many of his memories. He hated the fact that he still thought of her, even now. She tried everything to mend things between them. Each attempt falling into a disastrous argument. They would both say things they would come to regret. His mother would still try to reconcile, even though all her communications fell to deaf ears, she still tried. Eman was her only son.

When the council informed Eman that his mother had passed, her wife with her in her final moments, he did not react. He thought he would be more shocked, more upset, anything. He had all her messages saved in the ship's data storage. He never understood why he could not delete them, even though he had tried many times. The day he received word from the council he was on route to some backwater world, likely devoid of life. He sat at the ship's console staring at the display, the most recent message on the main display. The ship read it out to him in its usual cold tone, “Eman, I am sorry. I will always love you. My perfect, my only, my sun.”

* * *

When Eman awoke the woman was gone. The voice was silent and the hum from the monolith had vanished as if it never happened. It was midday now. He was splayed outside his sleeping pod, the morning dew making his clothes damp and cold. Eman was still hazy. Convinced last night was just a dream, he packed his instruments and sleep pod. Heaving his pack, he stared at the structure for a moment. A chill ran down his spine. An almost overwhelming guilt was weighing down on his chest now. Eman let his head drop as he turned to the forest, heading back to the ship. He could see broken branches and disturbed mud a few meters west of him as he entered the forest. Almost as if an animal had come through the treeline during the night.

Eman, I am sorry…

Hey Y'all! Thanks for reading. This is a proof of concept. Just trying to get more writing out there and practice a bit more. A lot of ideas from this I want to implement in my main work The Stellar Man(working title).

Please comment your thoughts I appreciate the feedback!

-Mas