The Fabled One

In the event of my untimely (and unlikely) demise, please consider this note my last will and testament. I have lived a good life, and I wish my belongings, in their entirety, to be bequeathed to the sea. The sea has been the only one who has truly understood me all these long years. Yours in death, Beyonicus.
I carefully set the note in the centre of my rough hewn table, so that it could be easily found in the event of my death. I looked around my dwelling (I hesitate to call it my home as I had only been in it for a week), and smiled at my collection of antiquities and rarities. The massive (and valuable) collection was one of the main perks of my occupation. One of the downsides was the frequent possibility of death.
You win some, you lose some.
You see, for I, Beyonicus, was the fabled treasure/bounty (I diversified my brand at the start) hunter: Beyonicus the Bold. It was my noble duty to go out and find lost treasures, and “lost” people. To say I was good would be a cruel understatement.  To say I was the best that ever walked the gods green Earth would be accurate. There was a reason I was not called Beyonicus the Humble.
When one is as famous as I, subtlety is not something one needs, and both my armour and my arms represented that. Great swirls of gold emblazoned my breastplate, and the hilt of my brightly burnished sword was bedecked with jewels. On top of all that, my cloak was a deep violet, a colour usually reserved for royalty, and made of the finest silks. How fine? I bred the worms myself, and I fed them by hand. After a short time arranging my flowing, golden locks, I was ready to depart on my latest adventure: a quest to find the lost treasures of Dracon.
The treasures were said to be guarded by the most fearsome Orcish tribes in all the realms—a tribe so fearsome that the other Orcs had all but denied their very existence. The tribe is said to consist solely of male warriors in their twenties, and their language is almost unrecognizable as Orchish. The rumours also state that they are almost constantly drunk.
As I left my dwelling I was accosted by Benji, the town’s “greatest” warrior. I say “greatest” because his abilities are a truffle compared to my one. Truffle, like a pig finds them in the dirt. It was funny, I, Beyonicus the Bold, am also funny. He apparently bested some “Champions” from the neighbouring towns, or something.
“Hey, I heard you were leaving off on another quest. Thought you might be interested in team-up? The town’s two greatest warriors off on a badass road trip?” Honestly, even his voice was beneath my own.
“Listen, Benji is it?” My voice was melodic in its lie, of course I knew the fool’s name. “I’m really more of one person adventuring group. I just find that other people, I call them ordinaries, like yourself just get in my way. Ya feel?” Confident that I was finished with this inane conversation, I started down the road.
“They call you Beyonicus the Bold. They should’ve named you Beyonicus the Dolt. A real man would accept my help.” Benji said to my back.
I paused. No one had called me a man in years. Most people knew better. A million thoughts rang through my head at once. Part of my wanted to answer with my blade, but I just cleaned it, and getting all the blood out of the ornamentation was a hassle. I spoke instead, “I have fought my entire life to be known for the person that I am, and not as the person I look like. I have made my reputation large enough to shadow the doubts and the hate that comes my way,” I turned to him now, “I will not be called a man by a person like you. You, a person who came to me asking a favour. I will do nothing for you. You look at me, but you do not see me. You claim to know me, but you can’t even see the legend around me. I am Beyonicus the Bold, not because of the things I do, but because of who I am.” With that, I left.
 Dear reader, you may feel that the last conversation was a departure in tone from the rest, but it was not. Stories reflect life, and, like life, moods and tones change from moment to moment.
I left the village on horseback after I liberated my valiant steed Richard from the stables. As the wind whipped through my glorious locks, I put my encounter with Benji out of my mind. With a youth like mine, one soon grew used to sad, pathetic people such as him. I had three days of travel before me, and I wanted to make the best of it, so I began to sing. As you should expect, my singing voice was as magnificent as the rest of me.
In my youth, before I became the fabled treasure/bounty hunter, I was often invited to sing at local events. My voice would ring out, strong and true, and the maidens would weep openly while the men would pretend to have dust in their eyes. I hated that. Even in my youth I knew that those stereotypical actions were wrong. I suppose, even then, I knew who I truly was.
Due to my fame, I rarely had to pay for lodgings. Instead I would sing, and regale the audience with tales of my prowess! And in the mornings, before I left, I would give all the workers a gold mark in thanks for their kindness. I am not a charity. I pay my way.
The lost treasures of Dracon were located in a cave, as many lost treasures are. As I previously stated, the caves were guarded by a particularly nasty tribe of Orcs. What I did not mention was that the cave was located on an island in the middle of a lake. This lake was treacherous. The waves could grow to 20 feet in height, and the fish tasted bad. That doesn’t have to do with the waves, but it is a reason as to the badness of the lake!
Fortunately, the day I arrived the lake was calm and I didn’t have to worry about the waves. Long story short, I made it to the island with ease.
As darkness descended, I approached the Orc camp. Thankfully, I was fluent in all dialects of Orcish, so I was able to listen in to their chilling conversations:
Orc 1: Bruh, you see that sick flip I did earlier, bruh?
Orc 2: Dude, it was tight. Just like my main undur!
Orc 3: Sick.
Orc 1: Toss me the ale, my cup runneth dry, bruh!
Orc 3: Bro, I tell you about that boat I saw earlier? Looked like someone was comin’ here to mess with us!
Orc 2: They got another think comin’ if they think they can take us!
All: [grunting and hollering]
As I said, chilling.
I squared my shoulders, and made ready to fight. Drawing my sword, I stepped out into the light of the fire.
“I, Beyonicus the Bold, have come for the lost treasures of Dracon! Tremble and weep before me, for I am your undoing.” I had practiced that in front a mirror for hours before I left the village, and, I gotta say, it was worth it.
The Orcs looked at each other in confusion, “Who in the seven hells is she, bruh?” The first one asked.
The other two just shrugged and drew their weapons. I smiled sadly, and then attacked before they could.
The fight was short, for I, Beyonicus the Bold, am without equal. The Orcs lay dead at my feet as I sheathed my sword and made my way into the cave.
The cave was dark and full of terrors, but it was nothing that I could not handle. After casually dispatching a handle of skeletons, answering a sphinx’s riddle, and juggling a dozen small rodents to prove my worth, I was at the treasure.
Great heaps of gold. Towering stacks of gems. Bundles of magnificent armour. Silver swords by the armload. All that and more is what I expected to find.
Instead, there was only a mirror.
Upon the frame was inscribed, in great flowing script, the words: Inside Truth is Found Inner You.
Not only was there not actual treasure, the inscription on the mirror was gibberish.
I suppose not all quests end in spectacular fashion, but I, Beyonicus the Bold, am used to a certain standard.
Least I have a new mirror.

Spend a little time reading about time

                The clock never stops ticking. Of all the manmade constructs, time is the most destructive. Through our use of time, we devalue ourselves, and erode away our essence. Every morning we get up and look at our clocks in dismay upon seeing the time. Only an hour until work. Only an hour for lunch. My time is worth so little, yet my time is literally all I have. From the moment we can begin to process time, we understand that we have only a finite time to live. Every day from birth, the clock ticks constantly onto our demise. Time, dear reader, is all we have, and all we have is an idea created by man to determine our intrinsic value. Time is arbitrary. It’s inconsistent. Time changes so much to the point where it doesn’t matter, and yet we grasp it tight to our chest in the fear that it can slip away from us. But what purpose does time have outside of giving us a monetary value? What happens when one stops relying on time and simply starts to live?

                John was a simple man, as evidenced by his simple name. He went to work when his hours told him to, and he did not when his hours said not to. Soon his whole life revolved around his. His hours not working were simply a count down until he worked again, and his working hours were a count down until he could be at home again. A ceaseless cycle of countdowns leading to other countdowns. Life became an algorithm: When X=9:00, Y=work; When X=5:00, Y=? John would spend his working days in a mindless cycle of emails, phone calls, and idle gossip over his co-workers neighbours at coffee; while his nights were spent just as rigidly scheduled: 5:30 arrive home, 6:00 supper, 6:30 the news, 7:00 unremarkable crime procedural, 8:00 video games with friends, 9:30 get ready for bed, 10:00 read, 10:30 sleep. So lost in this endless cycle of his own creation, his once passions became chores that needed to be done so his day would feel complete.

                With each passing day, John lost joy in his activities. So focused on the passage of time, he forgot how to enjoy being alive. As so many do, John grew depressed at his mindless repetition. He hated what his life had become; mindlessly clocking the hours, yet he could not bring himself to stop it.

                Then, one horribly non-routine day, John lost his job. How this happened is not of import, the only thing that affects the story is that it happened. John was lost. He had no job to center his life around; the mere concept of time had become completely meaningless to him. On that day, John sat in a park. John had not sat in a park without an express purpose in many years. Today, in complete disarray, he simply sat on a bench and watched a pigeon.

                The pigeon would hop around the grass in front of John, occasionally stopping and thrusting its head into the grass only to reappear with a morsel of bread proudly in its beak. The pigeon soon noticed John watching it, and would, at times, pause and simply stare back at John. Could this pigeon see what turmoil John was experiencing? Or was this some natural response to being watched? (Most likely the answer is the latter and regrettably not the former) John sat entranced by this pigeon, mesmerized by the way the bird moved, the way it would cock its head in question at John’s staring, and its indifference as it rooted around for food.

                Once the pigeon had taken its fill, with one last questioning look at John, it took off and flew away. John watched the bird fly for as long as he could see, and for a long period after, John simply stared at the point of which he lost sight.

                With a shiver he realized that night had fallen, and that he had spent the entire afternoon at this park. He hadn’t answered a single phone call, replied to any emails, or read a single text for hours. In fright he pulled out his phone, only to find that he didn’t care to reply to anything as he unlocked the screen. His car was parked across the street, but John decided to walk to his apartment. The brisk air felt good on his skin, and it cleared his mind. All the fears of time constraints and deadlines melt off of him as he walked down the street.

                He was smiling as he unlocked the door to his apartment. He made some food, watched a movie, and then went to sleep—all without checking a clock.

                Mankind needs some way to keep track of events and deadlines, so time was a necessary invention. One of the necessary evils in a world filled with necessary and unnecessary ones. Yet our dependence and utter devotion to time has corrupted it into something that is dreaded. Time is an invention that is meant to serve us, and yet we serve it. We worship at the feet of the all might clock and calendar, and into it we feed our very life force, until all we have left is a feeling of emptiness and self-pity.

                Time is so integral in our day to day lives, that it has become the focal point of our very existence. No longer a mere convenience, it dictates every part of life. Imagine how life would be if we expended the energy wasted worrying about time on something useful? Yet no one can escape this worry, especially in this age of time saving. Even I, as I sit here typing this, am worrying about the time it is taking me! We rate relationships by the length of time that we have known the other person, instead of by how they make us feel; what they mean to us. When I look at my friends, is my oldest friend my dearest one? No, but that does not diminish the fact that she is still my oldest friend. When I look at how long I’ve known my best friends, does their relationship to me become less meaningful simply because I have not known them for as long? No.

                Time, we like to pretend, is a linear thing with a beginning and an end. We like to pretend that time exists as the same for everyone as it does us, and that time does not repeat itself. Time, seemingly simple, is irritatingly complex! And yet it governs our life so completely! I do not escape this. I allow time to govern my life. I follow a schedule and get thrown whenever I break it for some strange reason. I hate it. I wish I could appreciate my life outside of the time constraints I put on myself, and I am endeavouring to do just that. But in a world filled with deadlines, I have chosen a profession that thrives on the deadline. 

The Captain's Chair: A short story

“I’m gonna miss this chair. From here I have seen so much. Ushered in peace, and navigated through the treacherous waters of war. From here I have seen friends die.” He smiled ruefully, “It was a chair, very much like this one, where I discovered who I really am. To think, everything this chair has seen, and it’s being left to gather dust in a museum. I was sitting in that chair when you and I first met, old friend. Do you remember? Of course you do, that brain of yours doesn’t forget a thing, does it? You know, the only time I was ever truly sad sitting here was when I thought I had lost you. I remember coming back up here after your funeral and sitting down. I couldn’t get comfortable. Nothing seemed right, and my mind… my mind would not focus on anything. I felt no joy feeling that surge of power as we began to move. The wonder I have always held of the stars was lost without you.”

                He turned away from the chair and walked to navigation console, leaning forward on it, with his hands firmly planted. “Bones said I went a little crazy after you died, and I guess I had to have been a little crazy. How else could’ve I stolen the ship to come find you? Sitting in that chair again, high with the hope of finding you, I was excited again. I was happy to be in that chair, to be home again. And being on that planet, with you by my side as it was destroyed; I didn’t feel an immense sadness. The old girl had done all I had asked of it—it brought you back to me, old friend. Even in that rust bucket we took from Kruge, that chair felt right because you were by my side again.”

                He smiled, honestly this time. “I’m going to miss this chair. It was far more comfortable than the first one.” He turned to his friend, who was standing off to the side watching and listening with his hands behind his back. “Well, Spock, aren’t you going to say anything? I know the chair won’t mean as much to you, but the ship, and the name, must mean something to you!”

                “I have never understood the connection that humans make to inanimate objects, as a Vulcan. However, the human part of me does feel a longing to stay. It is, however, illogical to miss a starship. It is far more logical to miss the people I have spent time with on this ship. The human side of me will reminisce about Chekov’s unsubstantiated claims of Russian dominance in classic literature, while the Vulcan side of me will urge me to continue on and not live in my past.” Spock paused, and looked over at the science station, his science station. “I will, however, miss the opportunities that my position on the ship allowed me. And you, Jim. I will miss you on the day that we part for the last time.”

                Jim Kirk smiled at his old friend, “Bones would say that that would be damned illogical for a cold-blooded, pointy eared bastard like you.” Kirk laughed at his own joke, while Spock merely raised his eyebrow quizzically. “Don’t worry Spock, it’s going to be a long time before we part ways. I’m heading out for the shakedown cruise with the Enterprise-B, and then I’ll be back doing god knows what. Do you remember what you said to me while you were dying? ‘I have been and always shall be, your friend.’ I mean to hold you to that.” Kirk clapped his hands and headed towards the turbolift, “Now, I have to get ready for that shakedown. I’ll see you when I get back, supper that night?” Kirk smiled as he entered the lift, knowing that he had many more years to spend with his friend.

                Spock stood by the captain’s chair, a place he had so often stood before, and looked around the bridge, one last time. He remembered the banter between Sulu and Chekov. He remembered Uhura’s professionalism, and the way she would shake her head at the antics that went on around her. He remembered Scotty’s determination to this ship. And most of all, he remembered the way that Bones, Jim, and he would talk; the humans laughing at some joke while he stood beside them, never fully understanding why something was funny, but never feeling like he was the joke. Spock would miss this ship. It was just something he would not admit to Jim. Not yet. Perhaps when Jim returned.

                But Spock would not see Jim again. 

The missing story

                Once in a great age, a story will come along and change everything. Those that hear it become great heroes, and through their valiant acts, the world becomes saved.

                The following is what happens when that story doesn’t exist.

                Darryl was an ordinary man, as all men are at the beginnings of stories, who worked an average job, for a not terribly special company. One day Darryl noticed something strange in the sky: it was taupe.

                “That’s strange,” Darryl said to his co-workers. Had Darryl been less ordinary and more heroic, he might have used the word ‘peculiar’ instead.

                Denise, a co-worker, looked up and agreed, “Strange.”

                Robert, always the trouble-maker, disagreed and said, “Naw, I find it more odd than strange.”

                Darryl ignored Robert’s pointless chin-wagging, and went on with his day.

                Darryl had a pattern, as all ordinary people do, for how his day went: wake up, get ready, work, supper, bar, tv, sleep. Work was done, supper was digesting, so Darryl made ready to head to the local pub. He threw on his lucky jeans (they had never brought him luck, in fact the ones that were actually lucky were buried under a pile of refuse), and a t-shirt that went out of style seventeen years ago.

                During his walk to the pub, Darryl noticed something strange that wasn’t in the sky: a crazy, assumedly homeless person muttering to herself.

                “Why isn’t it working? The story should’ve come to me. Why isn’t it coming? STORY! I NEED THE STORY. I need it.” She began to weep, “I need it. Save the world. Story. Save. World.”

                “Strange,” Darryl said as he crossed the street to avoid the woman.  

                There was a crowd gathered outside of the pub when Darryl meandered up. The gathered bald heads turned to Darryl and spoke in unison: “The pubs closed.”

                If this had been a gathering of twins, Darryl would’ve been frightened. Instead, since it was just a group of balding men, he simply said, “strange,” and went back home.

                The crazy homeless woman wasn’t there on his walk back, but Darryl didn’t notice because he’s just an ordinary person, and not the saviour of the world.

                Darryl slept well that night with no dark dreams of the world ending, or thoughts of his own impending doom. Was this a different tale of a different man, perhaps we would see the muscled protagonist tossing and turning under a thin sheen of sweat, as the weight of destiny pressed mightily down. But it’s not, and Darryl slept peacefully.

                If you can recall, the sky had been taupe the day before, and Darryl had remarked that merely strange. Well, today the sky was straight up violet. Surely this would evoke more than ‘strange’ from our erstwhile not hero?

                “How strange is the sky today?” Darryl casually asked his co-workers while they stood outside at coffee.

                Denise looked up at the sky, “Pretty strange, yup.”

                Robert smiled deviously, “I think it’s pretty odd.”

                Denise opened her mouth to call out Robert, but Darryl placed his hand on her shoulder and shook his head

                The pub was open that night, and the crazy homeless lady was dancing a funny jig outside of the main window. Inside, Darryl sat with his friends watching the game, his back to the window, and his hand nestling a cool pint of the local brew. The commentators were remarking on the sky, which was still a vibrant violet, even at this hour. Darryl opened his mouth to say something about it, then decided against it and took sip instead.

                Houston, his friend, had no such willpower, “Mite peculiar weather, we’ve been havin’, eh lads? Mite peculiar, indeed.”

                The other friends nodded sagely, while Darryl frowned at the word ‘peculiar’. Why use a fancy word when an ordinary one will do, was always Darryl’s point of view. He was about to say just that when the home team scored causing all other thoughts to disappear.

                Darryl stumbled home that night, a little worse for wear. He did remember to drop some change into the dancing lady’s hat (if subtlety isn’t your thing, this is just the crazy homeless woman) before leaving though, he still had his manners! He collapsed in his bed, mostly clothed, and was fast asleep.

                The next morning proceeded as usual for about three minutes, or until Darryl looked outside. If you can recall the story started with the sky being taupe, and the next day was violet. Well today the sky was on fire. Literally, not in some figurative manner that poets and lovers talk about, but in a literal, flames racing across the sky manner.

                “Well, fuck,” Darryl said as he sat back on his bed. Even strange was too fancy of a word for what was happening outside now.

                Needless to say, Darryl did not go into work that day, or the days following that. Mainly because Darryl was not a hero, and the earth was not saved.

                Way to go Darryl. 

Who we are when the lights go out

                What we do in the dark often betrays who we truly are. When there is no one around to see, when the cameras are put down, and the sun has gone to rest, the truth always comes out. This may seem inherently negative, but I assure you that is not the case! Many times that true self is someone that is more selfless and courageous than some that is selfish and cowardly.

                It was at night, for instance, that I discovered my neighbour’s predilection for dressing in elaborate costumes and cleaning the street that ran in front of our houses. Every second night, at an hour that most should be asleep, my neighbour would appear in the street bedecked with a bright cape, tights, a masquerade-style mask, and an extremely tight t-shirt. He would then walk up and down the street picking up any trash he could find, and would dispose of it in an exaggerated manner. For weeks, I watched this. Sometimes he looked like he was simply doing it out of habit, while other times it looked like he was having the time of his life—the one constant was his costume. It never changed. In his mind, he was acting the hero. In my mind too.

                I worked the graveyard shift at a local gas station when I was younger. I would see a lot of…interesting people come out at night. A lot of drunks, a lot of druggies, and others of questionable morals. But there was one woman who came out at night and just shone. She was the local lawyer, and kind of disliked by large portions of the town, but every night she would come out and bring food and blankets to the less fortunate members of the community. She always came alone, and as soon as she caught people watching her or trying to sneak a picture, she would leave the area—only to come back later to finish. She didn’t want the accolades, she didn’t want fame, she just wanted to help people.

                Here’s the thing: I always have more respect for the people who go out of their way to help others without being seen, than those people who need the cameras to be on them whenever they lift a finger for their fellow man.

                But who am I when the lights go out? Who am I when no one is around to see?

                I watched my neighbour clean the street for weeks before getting bored and moving on to something else. I watched the lawyer give all she could to the less fortunate before ceasing to care about it. I went on with my life, living it as I had for years.

                What did this make me?

                A person who watched others do good in secret, yet did none of my own?

                Or by observing these secret acts, do I give them validation?

                These thoughts plagued my sleep, and gave me waking nightmares. What would I be remembered for? Did that even matter? Even amidst my thoughts of selflessness, I concerned myself with selfish thoughts.

                Who was I when the lights went out? I liked to believe that I was a good person, but did my deeds ever match my thoughts?

                I thought back.

                All my acts of charity had been done in full sight of those around me. All my giving was done where I could be seen. I wanted people to know when I was doing good. I went out of my way to ensure that people would see my kindness.

                So what did that make me?

                Who are you when the lights go out? 

One of my favourite prompts

                A man walks into a bar. The bar is dingy and smells of stale beer and piss. The man, immaculate, stands out from the rest of the clientele. He is wearing a dark coloured suit, not quite black, but impossible to tell in the lighting. He heads directly to the bar, his bright white eyes fixated upon the bartender, who was now nervously wiping down a section of the bar.

                The man sits on a stool, “A beer,” is all that he says, his eyes now nowhere close to the bartender.  Instead his eyes are scanning the shelves behind the bar, as if he is looking for something, and, when he doesn’t find it, he sighs and looks down at his crossed arms resting on the bar. The sounds of the bar, which had trailed off when the man entered, slowly returned as people grew bored of watching the man.

                “Your beer,” the bartender grunts as he places a bottle and a slightly dirty glass down in front of the man’s crossed arms.

                The man grunts in thanks, and, after looking at the glass, takes a drink directly from the bottle. The beer is lukewarm and cheap, and the man suppresses a grimace as it travels down his throat.

                The bartender is still in front of the man as he puts the drink down, “We don’t get many of your type around here. In fact,” the bartender sneers, “we actively discourage it. We don’t like people like you being around us.”

                The bartender is reaching for something under the bar when the man speaks. His voice freezes the bartender’s movements, “That so? Let me tell you a story about another man that once spoke to me in this manner.” The man’s voice grew louder so that the entire room could hear. “I was in another town once, at another bar, much like this one, drinking another beer that tasted of piss, again, much like this one, when another bartender spoke some similar words to me. I ignored them. I passed them off as mindless hate. Later that night, as I walked back to my hotel, I was jumped by several of the patrons and the bartender.” Several of those listening shoot looks of awkward worry at each other and the bartender begins to sweat. “They beat me bloody, and left me on the sidewalk once they were done. I was able to pull my phone out and call an ambulance,” at this point he pulls out his phone and places it on the bar beside his beer. He takes a swig before continuing. “I spent two weeks in the hospital, and another couple months in physio. Those men tried to break me because I wear a suit for work, but it didn’t work. After my physio was done, I began to train. And then, two years later, I returned to that bar. The bartender didn’t recognize me, nor did the patrons in the bar, but they were all there. All the men who tried to break my spirit. Again, the bartender said to me words much like yours. This time I smiled at his words and ordered a rye and coke. That detail isn’t important to the story, but I will take one now,” he says, looking the bartender in the eye. The bartender jumps slightly, and makes the drink. The bar is silent as they wait for the man to continue. The drink is placed in front of the man by the trembling hands of the bartender. He downs it in a single gulp. “I stayed at the bar until it closing time, and all that remained were the people who brought me harm. I think they were nervous at this point, there was a lot of grumbling and cursing and muttering. But, by god, they had a duty to teach me the same lesson they tried teaching me years before. I stood up, as if to leave, and one of the drunks got a little too excited, so I smiled at him. I said, ‘I remember you. You were the one who broke my nose,’ the entire bar grew silent after I said that. An uncomfortable silence, much like this one. The man still didn’t recognize me, and I realized that they never would because they didn’t see me as worth remembering. I remember smiling sadly, and telling them to just get it over with. I’ll take another rye and coke, if you would,” the man pauses his story as he waits for the drink. The listeners are fidgeting and growing more and more uncomfortable. The drink is placed in front of the man, who smiles and takes a small sip. “They rushed me. All of them at once. Scared, and drunk, and angry, they came at me swinging. Letting their emotion control their actions was their first mistake.” The man pulls a bundle of cloth out of the inner pocket of his jacket, and places it on the bar. He unrolls it to display six strips of material that appear stiff and dark in the light of the bar. “The fight didn’t last long. I took them all down, and then took a strip of cloth from each of their shirts that had been stained by their blood. These strips,” he gestures to the pieces in front of him. Some of the listeners have begun to step away from the man. He takes another sip before continuing, “This is much better than the beer, by the way. My compliments. Now, whenever I tell this story, there’s usually one poor bastard who decides to test it. And I let them. Keeps me focused and trained.” The man rolls up his bundle of cloth, and puts it back in the inner pocket of his jacket. “My hotel is five blocks away, and, incidentally, I will be leaving in five minutes should any of you wish to leave before me for whatever reason.”

                With the story obviously finished, the listeners drift back to their seats. None head to the door or even look at it. The man finishes his drink in silence, and, five minutes after finishing his story, he gets up and leaves.

                No one follows.    

Danny and Steve

                As this is a blog that I post online and share through social media, I’m sure there is a high expectation that I talk about Pokémon Go. I’ll just say this on the matter: it’s fun and it gets you out exercising without you really noticing. If you want more of my thoughts on the matter, just check my twitter. On with the blog!

                Everything is in a state of perpetual flux. Just as things are going smoothly, something will happen that shakes things up. That jars reality. Things will stay rocky for a while, but eventually it will smooth out again.

                That’s how life works. It’s how we expect things to go. What we don’t expect is the involvement of an especially sheltered angel who “just wants to help”.

                I had just found out I was behind on literally all of my bills due to some clerical error, my girlfriend had decided to leave, and the servers were down on my favourite game. I couldn’t see how things could get worse.

                Then a bright light and a screeching sound shattered three of my windows and cracked my tv.

                Plus the sound really hurt my ears. Like, a lot.

                Out of the bright, white light, stepped a figure. Normally angels appear as majestic beings, with flowing locks, and the bodies of athletes. This one looked like a dude named Steve.

                “Hey, I’m, uh, your guardian angel? Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, the name’s Steve. Nice to meetcha,” he said, extending his hand.

                Bewildered, I grabbed his hand, “I’m Dan, but, you—um, you would know that?”

                Steve the angel still had not let go of my hand and began dragging me around the mess of my living room. “Geez Dan, would it kill you to clean up a little? I know your life sucks, but this glass is dangerous!” He snapped the fingers of his free hand, and the shattered glass flew off the ground and back into the window panes. The cracks were still visible, and somehow the one on the TV had grown. He led me to an armchair, where he finally released my hand. He gestured for me to sit, and once I had, sat on the floor in front of me.

                “Uh,” I began.

                “Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Steve said consolingly, I think, but it sounded more condescending than anything else. “Things are kind of a mess right now, aren’t they? Sucks the big one. I been there. Think I was always a lowly guardian angel? Think I always went by Steve? No, at one time I had full, luscious hair, and went by the dignified name of Stefanos. I got to hang out with the archangels! But then, things kinda fell apart for me—wasn’t any of my fault, of course!” He reached up and put his hand on my knee, “You’re gonna get through this, Dave.”

                “My name’s Dan, and I—“

                “Right, right, Dan. You are going to be good, Dan, you got me by your side!” Steve the angel smiled beatifically, and then fell to his side. “Oh, who am I kidding? Look at me, Dave, look at me!” My corrections went unnoticed this time. “I’m a huge mess! I’ve lost my hair, I lost my girl! And now I’m stuck here, slummin’ it with you lot! I used to be somebody, Davey boy! I was there when the walls of Jericho fell; I stopped the destruction of Nineveh! But then, when I was supposed to go to some John guy with a prophecy, I went to the wrong guy. I really screwed the pooch there, Danny-san. Because I told the wrong John, the prophecy got all messed up. I mean, Wormwood? What is that even supposed to mean? That’s when things really started to go sour on me. The other angels started calling me Steve, and not inviting me out. Can you imagine being called Steve for two thousand years? It was pure he—well, not that, obviously.” Steve started gently crying into my carpet.

                “Yes, well, that is quite terrible. I’m sure you did nothing at all to earn that scorn, there were probably loads of people named ‘John’ back then.” I said, feeling oddly compelled to comfort the angel.

                The gentle sniffling stopped, and Steven raised his head, “You think?”

                “Uh, yeah, yeah I do. I mean, I would’ve assumed to take it Jesus’s friend John too, not some other one.”

                “Yeah, the one Jesus knew was the right one… I just couldn’t remember what he looked like. I was pretty high on life at the time. Oh, life is this special kinda drug thing that we angels have. Anyways, so I went and put up some posters, and gave the prophecy to the first John who came. How was I to know there was more than one?” Steve shook his head ruefully, “After that is when I got demoted to guardian angel. At first I was assigned some important people like Joan of Arc, Pope Benedict VI, among others, but after they all got murdered when I wasn’t paying attention, I got demoted again to looking after people who weren’t important. Like you, Danny!”

                I suddenly stood up: “I need tea.” I didn’t actually want tea, I hadn’t drunk tea by choice in years, but I walked into my kitchen and turn the kettle on. What had my life become? How had my life become so messed up that heaven’s least reliable angel had come to have a chat? The kettle begun whistling, so I splashed some water into a mug and added rum.

                “Listen, Steve,” I said as I walked back into the living room, “I think we should have a chat.” Steve had taken his shirt and shoes off, and was watching rugby with his feet on my coffee table. “I think it’s great that you came to see me and all, but I think I’ll handle this. Ya know, upon reflection, I was probably the cause of most of my problems.  Thanks for those stories; they really helped me clear some stuff up.”

                “What do you mean?” Steve asked.

                “Well, your stories. You told me them to show me that I had to take responsibility for my actions. How everything that’s going on in my life was because of something I have done, in a way.”

                Steve looked puzzled, “Not what I was going for, but you’re saying that I’ve helped? That I have fulfilled my duties as a guardian angel?”

                “I guess so?” I answered with a shrug.

                Steve stood and stretched, “Awesome, I’m gonna head out and catch the rest of this game someplace nicer.” With that, he disappeared in that blinding white light again, freshly shattering my windows. On the positive side, somehow the TV had fixed itself.

                In reflection, I don’t think Steve had taken the same lesson from his stories as I had. 

And then she slept

                My daughter was fourteen when she was diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer. We didn’t know anything was wrong until she suddenly passed out at supper one night. They held her in the hospital for a few days and ran a battery of tests. When they released her, they told us they thought it could be cancer, but they needed to wait for the results to come in to be sure. Those days waiting felt like decades. We were all stuck in a weird state of limbo; never knowing if the news would be good or bad. Hoping for the best, fearing the worst.

                I remember the office perfectly. The doctor’s degrees were framed, but placed out of direct eyesight. The walls were painted a light green, probably to seem soothing. The chairs were comfortable, and upholstered in red. On his desk sat a vase of flowers (from his girlfriend, he told us), pictures of pets, a framed photo of a beautiful woman, and an autographed picture of Deforest Kelly (the reason he became a doctor, because, dammit, he’s not an engineer!).

                The doctor himself had a kind face and was wearing a brightly coloured tie. His voice was strong when he spoke. “I’m afraid the news isn’t good,” he paused here and glanced at his notes. I think he just did this to give us a moment to prepare. “The tests came back positive for cancer. I had them run the tests again, just to be safe. Unfortunately, the results did not change. The results indicate that you have stage four ovarian cancer. The prognosis is not good, but there are a few things that we can try.” As he was speaking, my daughter reached over and grasped my hand. “I’m going to leave you alone for a few minutes to process, then when I come back, we can go over treatment options.”

                He gave us a small smile as he left the room. My daughter was still holding on to my hand, and her thumb was idly tracing up and down my own.

                She smiled at me when I looked at her, “It’s gonna be okay Mama. He said there are options. And if they don’t work, then I get to go home a little early.”

                I didn’t know how to respond, so I said some mindless words of comfort. I’m pretty sure it was more for my benefit than hers.

                After the doctor went over the various procedures and options, we went home. I was in a daze, just trying to process the abundance of thoughts running through my head.

                “Hey mom,” she said the next day while we were sitting on the couch, “I guess this means I won’t have to worry about having kids. That’s a load off.” I think she was trying to make a joke, but it just brought me to tears.

                It took months to go through all the different options available. Each one came back with the same results: the cancer was not slowing.

                I had to sit, helplessly, and watch my daughter, my only child, the only family I had left, waste away. As the months went on, she just got smaller and smaller. The multitude of treatments began to wear on her and her voice became weak. Still, every day, she would smile, hold my hand, and tell me that things would be okay.

                I wanted to believe her right up until the end.

                Six months after her diagnosis, I was sitting beside her hospital bed, as various machines did all they could to keep her stable. The doctor had told me this could be her last night.

                I raged, and cursed, and I swore. I screamed at God.  I screamed at all the deities I knew, and some that I didn’t. I prayed. I cried. And finally I went to her.

                She opened her eyes when I laid my hand on hers. “Hey mama,” she said. Her voice was so weak, but she smiled when she saw me. “Guess I’m goin’ home soon, eh? That’s okay. I’m ready. I’ll get to see Daddy again. I’m gonna miss you though, mama. But I’ll keep my eye on you, okay? I’ll still be with you.” She held my hand and tried to squeeze it. Tears were flowing freely for both of us. “I love you mama. I need you to be strong for me, okay?”

                I opened my mouth to reply, but I couldn’t speak. I took a breath, and tried again: “I’ll try. I promise. I love you so much.”

                She smiled softly, “Thanks mama.” Then she closed her eyes and slept.

                She passed a couple hours later in her sleep.

                I wasn’t really a religious person, but my daughter had believed and went to a local church. I asked her pastor to do the funeral, and he agreed. He also offered to give me grief counselling.

                “She was so young. And she got taken from me. I’ve lost everyone in my life, Pastor. My parents passed when I was twenty, and her father was killed when she was seven. And now she’s gone too! Why? Why would your god do this to me? How is this part of his will?” I raged one session.

                “I would not say that her death was part of His will, nor would I say that He did this to you. I know many who would take solace in believing that, but it’s not something that I personally believe in, nor do I think it will do you any good. Instead I will simply say this: the loss of your daughter is a great tragedy. It was not the act of some vengeful God, or part of some great cosmic plan. It just happened, and it’s horrible, but it is no one’s fault. Especially not yours.”

               

Maybe one day I can believe that. 

You

                “There’s a lot of bad in the world, isn’t there, papa?” She asks, staring into your eyes with sadness someone her age should not know.

                “There is, honey. But you know what? There’s a whole lot of good too,” you say, looking down at those brown eyes. You remember the first time you saw those eyes, when she was just born and she saw the world for the first time. You remember the first time you saw those eyes cry, and you remember how you told yourself you would do everything to make things better. You smile at her, hoping that your half answer has satisfied her.

                It didn’t: “But everything looks so bad. All we see on tv is more and more bad. How can there be good too?” She has her eyebrows crinkled together as her mind works. A warm breeze rustles her hair, and you watch the strands dance before answering.

                “Well,” your mind races now, “there are good people out there. People trying to make positive changes in the world. People who help everybody. Plus, the Hawks are looking pretty good this year, that’s always a good thing for me!”

                She chews on the end of her hair, absently, as she thinks about your words. “Are you one of those people, papa?”

                Her question startles you. You’ve always thought yourself a good person, but are you? You remember the casual racism of your youth, and the not so casual racism of the not-so distant past. You remember all the times that you lied to and cheated others. You remember the oft-considered affairs, and that they didn’t happen only because you got cold feet. You remember leaving your friends behind. Your family that was torn apart because of your choices. Worst of all, you remember every fight with your wife. Sure, you always tip, and you sometimes hold the door open for people. And yet the question lingers, Are you a good person? You open your mouth to answer, planning on giving some mindless little lie, but the look on her face forces you to reconsider. “No, honey, I’m not.”

                The hair falls out of her mouth as she looks at you in surprise, “What do you mean, papa?”

                You take a breath. “I don’t help people. You’re the only person that I help out of the goodness of my heart. I don’t protest things; I don’t go out of my way to give a helping hand. I don’t even tell the people at work to not say racist things. I just let it all happen, and tell myself that it doesn’t matter because I’m not doing it. But I am. I’m letting it happen, and sometimes I even join in.”

                She reaches forward and puts her hand on top of yours. The warmth from her hand resonates through you, and begins to calm your heart that you never noticed was racing. “You’re good to me, papa. That’s all I see.”

                You smile at her, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. “I love you, honey. I’m going to be the person you see.”
                As her arms wrap around your neck in a hug, you promise to yourself that you’re going to be better.     

                For her.

                

A three to eight step program!

                The problem with writing something new every day is that some days there is nothing new to write. The days where one gets buried under the monotony of daily existence and creativity seems to be somewhat stifled, and one can just not write or create! Unstifling the stifled is often the first thing that comes to mind, but how does one unstifle exactly?

                I’m glad you asked! I’m here today to tell you the three steps to becoming unstifled!

                What is this? Who are you?

                You seem confused, and a trifle overstifled! My quick and easy five step program can help with that!

                You literally just said it was a three step program. I can still see where you typed it!

                Now, now young lady, don’t get all in a bother!

                I’m not—doesn’t matter. Who are you?

                Well young master, let’s just say that I can fix your problems. I can make it so your creativity never gets stifled again. Would you like that?

                I guess so? I would get to be creative all the time. I could really focus on my art. Ok. What’s the five step program?

                Six step.

                It say’s five step like seven or eight lines ago!

                Now it’s an eight step program. Keep it up, lass.

                Okay, sorry. What are the eight steps?

                Step one: Acceptance

                Wait—acceptance? Isn’t that a little clichéd?

                Acceptance is always the first step.

                Okay, okay. What’s step two?

                Now’s when it gets tricky, fraulein. Step two: cry about it until an imaginary voice comes and talks to you.

                Kay. One: ouch. Two: you’re typing, I can’t hear you.

                Everything is a matter of perspective, no?

                …You may have a point.

                Damn straight I do, Milly. Step three: drop the sarcasm and the bitterness, and look for the problem.

                That one’s actually helpful.

                Step four: ignore the problem and find its roots.

                That one doesn’t make sense. Isn’t the problem already the root?

                Dandelions are a problem, the roots are the cause.

                That’s deep. Okay, I can try that. Thanks for the help.

                Where are you going?

                I got my answers, I’m leaving.

                Eight step program remember?

                You originally said it was only a three step program.

                I changed my mind. Well, our mind technically. I am just a spectre of your own creation after all! Now. Step five: Don’t pull the roots out, dig them out.

                Wait, I got this one. You dig them out so you don’t miss anything right?

                I’d smile in answer, but you’re not really describing anything, so yeah. That’s right. Step six: pile the roots in a nice pilelike shape.

                Um…

                Step seven: burn the roots so they can never come back.

                I don’t think this—

                Step eight: scoop up the ashes with your new 2 Horse Power Gladiator Shovel! Yours for only seventeen payments of $32.68!

                I’m done.

                But wait! Order now, and get it for only nine payments! 

The secrets we keep

                Secrets are a universal constant that bind humanity together. Everyone has secrets, and many of the feelings associated with secrets are a shared experience. We all know how it feels to keep a secret from others, for others, and even from ourselves.

                I have a secret. I have many secrets if I’m honest with myself, which I rarely am (who wants to be that depressed?). I have things that I keep so buried within my subconscious that I don’t even know if they’re real or not anymore. That’s the problem with secrets. If they stay hidden for too long they become myths.

                I have a variety of those kinds of secrets. From the mundane: friends confessing crushes and being sworn into secrecy; to the major: standing over the collapsed form, fearing for my own existence, and being told that what I saw wasn’t real. Over a lifetime, one collects many secrets. Now, here at my end, I will share some of those secrets that have kept me awake at night.

                I was twelve, she was fourteen, and I was madly in love. I confessed this to my closest friend, who, upon hearing this, confessed his own unending love for the same girl. For the sake of our friendship, we both agreed to never tell a soul.

                He broke that pact a week later, but then she moved and he was heartbroken, while I had already moved onto my next love.

                I was fifteen, he was sixteen. To be a complete cliché, he was also the captain of the football team. He was my first kiss, among other things (some secrets I keep still), and after our short but passionate fling, he swore me into secrecy so his girlfriend and the team wouldn’t find out.

                He’s married now. It was a beautiful wedding. He and his husband are very happy together.

                I was eighteen and just entering college, she was thirty-six and married. I worked at a restaurant she and her husband frequented. On weekends, when he was away, we would meet. This wasn’t at all what you are thinking. There was nothing sexual. We would just go on hikes, and play sports. We would go and have fun together, something her and her husband no longer did. She didn’t want anyone to know because of what the rumours could become.

                She and her husband divorced some years later. She is much happier now.

                I was nineteen; he was twenty-seven and a literature professor. There were nights where we would meet, having told everyone that we were going to the library, and then we would fuck. There was no romance, no emotion for me. It was just sex. At the end it was almost mechanical to me, but not to him. I swore him into secrecy so no one would think I was doing this for marks.

                I still got Christmas cards from him, until the year he passed. I think he had fallen in love with me.

                I was twenty-two and just about to graduate. I had a rival student who was up against me for title of valedictorian. Through a series of lies and other falsehoods, I was able to convince the Dean that this other student had been cheating on exams. They were expelled, and I was named valedictorian.

                Out of all my sins, this is the thing I regret the most. In my heart I knew they would get expelled, yet I did it anyways. They worked menial jobs until the day they took their own life.

                I was twenty-five, just starting to get a name in the firm I was working for. I got my name through sleeping with the more senior members, and betraying the more junior ones. A colleague of mine once came to me and confessed that he had fixed several of the accounts to cover up a mistake he had made. I assured him that I would take care of it. He was fired the next day. Through sex and blackmailing, I made it up the ladder fairly quickly.

                I don’t necessarily regret this. If I had lived differently, I would not have been able to do all that I have done. I do regret getting some of those people fired.

                I was thirty-eight, he was thirty-two, and the dead girl on the floor was twenty-one. This is when my secrets get darker. We had engaged in a polyamorous relations. We were happy. And then the girl started to have track marks on the inside of her elbows. She always claimed they were bug bites, but her eyes and hair told us the truth of the matter. One night she overdosed. She was no one, not really. Just some struggling actress who had fallen for the dignified and upper class gay couple who had frequented her shows. She had no family, no friends outside of us. So we covered it up. We burned her body and buried her ashes in a park she liked. We had everything to lose. If anyone had found out, our reputations would’ve been ruined. The stress of the lie was too much for us, and we broke up soon after.

                I am ashamed of the person I was. Of the person I am. This girl deserved better than that. And yet we tossed her away to protect our own dignity.

                I was forty-five, a founding member of a new and prestigious firm. We had been out drinking, celebrating the landing of an important and wealthy client. The girl was drunk, I don’t even know her age, but she was maybe twenty-two. I knew our new client, a forty year old woman, liked girls her age, so I sent the client over. They left together. The client kept this girl, basically in a cage, for three years. I never knew for certain this was true, but in my heart I knew it was. Eventually the client was arrested for something else, and I was questioned about the remains that had been found in the backyard. I denied any knowledge.

                As of now, you’re thinking that I am the direct cause for two girls death, and you are not wrong. This knowledge kept me awake at night and led me to the bottles I now love so much.

                I was fifty. There was some grey in my hair, and I believed that it lent me a certain air of dignity. I was an alcoholic, a functional one, but an alcoholic nonetheless. In a drunken state while walking home, I saw a man dragging a woman behind him. He was swearing and swinging at her with his free hand, and I could see blood on her face. I roared. All the guilt I had flooded me and turned into rage. I rushed the man, and in his confusion I was able to solid contact with his jaw. His grip slipped, and I yelled at the woman to leave. I beat the man with my bare hands. I remember his nose breaking under my fist. I remember feeling jaw bend and then break as I rain down blows. And lastly, I remember smashing his head into the concrete; again and again. I stood, drenched in this man’s blood, and bellowed into the night sky.

                I never told anyone this. I am oddly proud of my actions, yet I know how some would react to this story. I know I would be labelled murderer.

                I was fifty-three. I had taken to wandering the streets late at night. In my head I was protecting helpless people. In reality I was trying to atone for my guilt. I was in a stable relationship with your father. My firm was one of the top in the country. Yet, every night I would wander the streets, hoping for the chance to play a hero. Hoping for the chance to save a life. Hoping to take one. I did this for five years. And in those five years I took seven lives. There was no pattern, nothing to make police suspect a serial killer, and even if they had, I would have never been a suspect.

                I thought I was a hero. I thought I had been saving people’s lives by taking other ones. I was no hero. Look what it’s gotten me: nothing.

                I am seventy-three. I am alying here, at the end of my story, and I am telling you my secrets. Not for you to keep, I would never ask that. But for you to tell. Tell your father what I could not. Tell the world the truth about me.

                My secrets have worn me down. My secrets have destroyed my life. It may not seem that way, it may look as though my life was good. And while living, it was. But now? Now I am flooded with regrets. Secrets always seem like a good idea at the time, but secrets are the worst thing we can do to ourselves. If I could have another go, I would do things differently. If I—ah, hell. This is easy to say here and now that things would be different. The truth though? I’d probably do the damn thing over again, make the same mistakes and keep the same secrets. People always do the easy thing.

                Tell your father that I—.               

Hypocrisy

                It’s easy to say you stand up for certain things until faced with a situation where it becomes uncomfortable for you. Things like marriage equality and equal rights. It’s easy to say that you stand up for transgender people, so long as you never actually have to. It’s amazing how fast people can change. How one slip can show true colours. How even the smallest hint of something that’s different from them can cause people to act out.

                I’m not straight. Many of my friends are, especially the male ones—actually all the males are straight, and all but one of the females are not. They’re all very supportive of my life, but in subtle ways they, the males, show that they don’t think of it as being important, or demean it to some lesser thing. Whenever I have a post that gets a ton of attention, they shrug it away as just being about queer stuff, like that’s less important. And some of them will get visibly uncomfortable at the mere thought of gay guys. Heaven forbid two fictional males with great chemistry be more than friends. They have to be straight! Or else it’s just so very wrong.  

                People will always support things until it becomes an inconvenience to them.

                When I was a child, my uncle always said he was a big supporter of equal rights. “People are people!” He would say, as I sat on the deck with him, playing with toy trucks. “Everybody deserves an equal shot!” He would say, as we watched baseball on TV. Then people began getting equal rights, and his office building began to become more diverse. “Gotta be careful with these people; never know where they’re coming from.” He’d say, as we drove to the park. “Gonna be out of this job soon, they keep hiring more of those people,” he’d say, as he took a pull from the bottle.

                When I was a teen, my friends would say that marriage equality was wrong, and a sin against God, as they went out and drank every weekend. “Those gay people are sexual deviants. God doesn’t like when people do that,” they’d say before committing adultery. “God says we have to love everyone, so that’s what I do!” They’d say before slandering and condemning people who were different from them.

                Hypocrisy always has a hold on the world. Hypocrisy always holds people’s hearts.

                As young adult, my friends will celebrate the victories of the queer community and pretend that they can relate. They will cheer for equality, yet complain when fictional characters come out. So many accept lesbians with open arms, but the thought of two men together disgusts them. They want the refugees to come, so long as they don’t come to their towns. They want religious equality, so long as no one opens a temple in their town. They want an end to violence, yet hold tight to their guns.

                Hypocrisy runs the world. Hypocrisy runs their souls.

                Standing up is so easy, when all it takes is a single word. Standing up is hard when it actually takes time and effort. Standing up for something becomes a chore if it changes things. Standing up is hard when you actually need to accept people and change your own inner thoughts.

                People always say they’ll make a stand for things, people will always cry support, but they shy away when the time comes to actually act. Saying that you stand for something when you don’t truly doesn’t help, it makes things worse. Speaking out without action doesn’t help, it hinders.

                So many hypocrites. So many falsehoods. If you say that you’re going to take a stand, damn well take it.  

A Horror Story

                I have been told many times that the best way to get over something terrifying is to just talk about it. I usually blow that off as people just wanting gossip to share, or noisy people who need to know everything. So whenever something remotely scary would happen, I would keep it to myself. All those times almost being hit in traffic, all the encounters with wild animals late at night, all those times when you feel like someone is watching you? I bottled those up. I can’t bottle this up. I have to tell someone, to hear someone tell me it was a dream, or for someone to let me know that I am not insane. Please bear with me; I’m not used to telling stories.

               

                I had just moved into this small city. I hesitate to use the term city, as it would be a town where I’m from, but the locals call it a city, so a city it will be. I was a religious man, still am really, and had moved into the city to be a youth pastor at one of the local churches. The head pastor was a real “fire and brimstone” type, but he was generally nice and accepting of most. To get to the church I could drive for ten minutes, or I could cut across an abandoned park and walk there in five. Whenever I mentioned the park to the locals they would shiver and tell me to avoid it. Not wanting to upset the people around me, I drove to the church every time I had to be there.

                I slept through my alarm one day, and didn’t have time to drive. I decided to cut through the park this one time and just not tell any of the locals unless they asked.

                The entrance to the park was rusted shut and the paint was peeling, the uncut grass was tickling the bottom of the bar, and I could see some fallen trees further in. Other than that, it seemed fine. I hopped over the gate and made my way in. A cruel breeze came out of nowhere and a shiver rocked my whole body. I hunched my shoulders and began to walk. Another five steps and the skies got darker, like they were clouding over. I quickly glanced up to see if it was going to rain, but all I could see was a clear sky with muted colours. Smoke or a haze, I thought. I continued in.

                The first fallen tree blocked the entire path, with bush on one end and bush on the other. I silently cursed my luck and tried to pick the thinner of the bushes to walk through. Carefully pushing the branches out of my way, I made my way around the tree.

                Until my foot got caught.

                I tried to shake it loose, but to no avail. I looked down to see what I was trapped on and how I could dislodge my foot and I screamed. I could’ve swore a grey and decaying hand was grasping tight my ankle. I screamed and jumped at the same time—the jump finally dislodging my foot, and I fell backwards, landing on the other side of the tree.

                Visibly shaken, I crawled towards the bush, knowing in my heart that horror movies, other than ones about exorcism, were all fake. I had to know what I saw. Looking at the bush, all I could see were grey branches.

                “Okay,” I said aloud, “I just got my foot tangled in those branches. That’s all I saw.” I got to my feet, brushed the dust off, and turned to continue on my way.

                As I walked I could hear a rustling in the brush along the path. It’s just the wind, I told myself. I stopped when I noticed I could no longer feel the breeze, but the rustling continued.

                “Just some dumb squirrels playing,” I said to hear my own voice. Hearing something out loud always gives it more credence.

                The second tree was much smaller, and I was able to step over it. As I was bringing my right leg over the tree, I heard childlike laughter in the distance. I froze. My eyes darted to and fro trying to find the source but it sounded like it was coming from everywhere. From the corner of my eye, I could see something, but whenever I would focus, it would disappear.

                Two hands pressed into my back and I could feel breath on my neck. The laughter came from right beside my ear. The hands pushed and I tumbled to the ground, face first. I scrambled over to confront whoever pushed me only to face empty air. I could still hear the laughter as though the person was right beside me. I could hear rustling in the brush, twigs snapping, and that childish laughter. It was coming from everywhere.

                I got to my feet and ran. I hurdled the barricade on the other side, and doubled over, gasping for air. The sky was brighter, the air was warmer. I looked back at the park behind me, and for a moment I saw the form of a young boy waving at me before disappearing.

                After the service I got a ride home. When asked about my car, I lied and told the driver that I had been dropped off by a friend who goes to another church. After my morning, I didn’t think God would care about such a little lie.

                I spent the week researching in the library. By the Thursday I had found that a child had led one of his friends to the park and murdered her before killing himself. Apparently he thought by sacrificing something pure he would gain powers. Due to the tragic and horrible nature of the crime, the community had decided to close the park. Later news articles spoke of laughter and flashes of light coming the park, and still later articles spoke of exorcists and ghost hunters coming to cleanse the area.

                Nothing had worked. The story became taboo, and townspeople wouldn’t speak of what happened in the park. Soon newcomers were just warned to stay away and were never given a reason.

                That night I stood on my deck facing the park. I wasn’t focusing on anything in particular, just facing it. I was ready for bed, but I still had my crucifix on—some part of me was vainly hoping it would protect me from whatever evil resided so close to me. Inside my house lay open bibles, and crosses upon my walls. Anything remotely religious I could find was in the open, as though it could act as a ward.

                I turned to go back in when I heard the laughter again. I spun around and in the distance I could see a pair of pale eyes watching me. I could’ve sworn it smiled at me.

                I ran inside, slammed the door, and sunk to the floor. Out of my mouth tumbled prayers in every language I knew.

                The air grew still and silent, then there was a knock.

                Somehow I didn’t scream. I did start to cry however. Moments later there came a second knock. I could feel the vibrations just above my head—about the height a child would knock. I stifled another scream. Following the third knock, I could hear the laughter.

                Coming from above me. Where my bedroom was.

                Now I screamed.

                I grabbed the closest bible, and ran into the park.

                At the first fallen tree I stopped and began to recite scripture, screaming it out in Greek and Latin.

                I felt things tracing lines on my back. At first they didn’t hurt, and then moments later they would explode in pain. Red dots would appear in my vision and I struggled to stand and speak.

                Looking back now, I think I was just making it mad.

                Suddenly the tracing on my back stopped, and I felt a tap on my shoulders. My breath caught in my throat, and I got cold.

                I turned slowly and looked down. Standing there was the form of a boy who looked around seven. He had dark hair that flopped lazily over his forehead, he was wearing ripped jeans, and an old polo shirt, his skin was grey and patchy, and his eyes—dear God, his eyes! were swirling white and grey. Held lightly in his hand was a knife coated and dripping with blood. He, it, smiled and whispered, like a child trying to scare another, “boo.”

                I fainted.

                The next morning I woke up in pain. My chest was burnt, radiating outwards from the crucifix still around my neck. The bible I had brought with me was a pile of ash.

                I moved the next day, leaving the majority of my possessions behind. To this day I don’t take my crucifix off.

                In my time as a youth pastor I encountered many things. Things that I couldn’t have explained outside of the church: miracles, second chances, demonic possession. All those things I faced head on. I have faced, before and since, both metaphorical and literal demons, and nothing terrifies me as much as that night. To this day, the sound of children laughing is enough to make me break down.

                You may scoff at my tale, you may think me crazy, you may use it to scare others, but I had to tell it. For my sake I had to tell it. So maybe one day I won’t hear the laughter every time I close my eyes. So maybe one day I can see my own reflection again instead of his.