Chapter Thirty-Eight – Self Reflection
“Listen to me, you will never be happy.” Gina tells the young man, “The great one doesn’t know everything.”
“I don’t know what to think.” The young man answers.
Gina thinks for a moment. Then she grabs the hand of the great one and they both disappear. They reappear in a small dimly lit hut. An older great one is trying to light a fire. Back when he had his magic, he could use that to light the fire but that was a long time ago. The great one looks at the older version of himself, who is still unaware that he has guests.
“Go on” Gina coaxes the young version, “He cold. You can help him.”
“Why can’t he help himself.” The younger great one asks.
“He lost the ability to use magic a long time ago.” Gina says, “Have some compassion.”
The younger great one looks at his older self-struggle. He waits for several more minutes. The older version is so wrapped up in trying to start a fire that he is completely oblivious to the fact he is not alone. The younger great one makes a gesture with his hands and the fire lights.
This event startles the older version. He turns around and is faced with himself and a woman he doesn’t recognize.
“Who are you?” The older version asks.
“I’m you” The younger version declares.
“You can perform magic?” The older version asks.
“Yes.” The younger version replies.
“How is this possible?” The older version continues.
“How did you lose your magic?” The younger version asks.
“My apprentice and I didn’t see eye to eye, and he took my magic from me.” The older version answers.
“How did he do that?” The younger version inquires.
“I don’t know but you must not train him.” The older version warns.
“Why?” The younger version asks.
“Because he starts a war that will consume the entire world.” The older man answers.
“This woman wants to take your apprentices magic away.” The younger man offers.
“Let her do it!” The older man says, “Don’t oppose her. She is the one from the dream that stops the war.” The old man sits down in a chair near the fire to warm himself. Gina grabs the younger man’s hands and they disappear again.
They appear on the plain where Mark had his battle. The field is strewn with dead bodies. The great one is repulsed by the sight.
“This is where a great battle took place. Your apprentice is responsible for all these lives lost.” Gina explains.
“I failed.” The great one said, “This apprentice that I take on, I fail him.”
“He is happy the way he is now, he is part of a community that cares about him. You take him away from all that. If you allow me to take his ability to use magic away. This war never happens, and he lives a happy life.” Gina explains.
“I want to see him, the way he is now.” The great one requests. Gina takes his hand, and they disappear again. They reappear in a chamber in her own castle. The leader, who used to be the great one’s apprentice, the sleeping.
“Time to wake up” the great one says, as he finishes speaking, the leader awakens. He sees his old master and the girl.
“What kind of trick is this?” The leader asks Gina.
“I wanted your old master to see what has become of you.” Gina answers.
“You are the woman from my dreams. The one who opposes me.” The leader acknowledges, “Why bring him here?”
“Because he has not decided to train you yet.” Gina answers, “Before he does, I wanted him to see what happens to you.” Gina grabs the hand of the leader and the great one’s hand and they all disappear. They reappear in front of the young man.
“This is what you become if you don’t let me take away your magic.” Gina declares.
“What?!” the leader says, “You can’t take away my magic, I won’t let you.”
“Go ahead,” Gina tells the young man,” Ask him what he’s done.”
“What is she talking about?” The young man asks the leader.
“The dreams” The leader says,” The dreams where you see an army sweeping over the world, that is your army. You hear the people of the world calling out for help and you use this army to free them. When the whole world is under our control. There will be peace, and everyone will be happier. This woman is the one who you see in the dream who takes it all away.”
“I don’t know what happens because I always wake up before the dream ends.” The young man claims.
“When you should all see the end of the dream.” Gina declares. She touches all three of them and they all fall asleep.
They all had a dream.
They all saw the wonders of the kingdoms of the world. As these kingdom’s glory passed before them, their glory was swallowed up by a large army that swept over the earth. The army destroyed everything in its path. A madman led this army. The young man saw for the first time, that the madman was himself. As the army was approaching victory, a woman appeared to oppose him. A great sorceress. The two engaged in battle. As the dust settled, the woman who opposed him was bound in chains and cast down.
Morning Lecture
I knew her like the back of my hand—perhaps even better. Our morning routine was nearly choreographed: she showered while I shaved in our small bathroom. I swear I could read her mind with all the rambling she did in there. Sometimes I’d say something, sometimes I’d just smile and nod, but she wanted me there, listening, until she was finished and gave over the restroom. And let me tell you, with that bathroom heat, it was like a sauna inside!
Ah, her quirks. Oh yes, she wanted me right there, in the heat of hell, hated even a crack in the door in case a gust of cold air snuck in. Said it gave her chills. You know what I call it? Quirks. What was she talking about in there? What wasn’t she talking about, really? Planning her day, pondering what to eat, even mumbling crazy ideas for her stories, all in this perfectly chaotic symphony that, I guess, she understood.
Singing? I would have liked that, but no, she talked and talked, in a monologue of mental notes, oh yes, I have to do this before that, ah, I almost forgot what I left unfinished yesterday. And don’t you dare touch her towels, all neatly arranged in their designated spot and the bathrobe ready to slip into upon exiting. Of course, more quirks, an inch further and she couldn’t reach it from the shower, as if extending her hand a bit more bothered her.
As she left, I entered. Any affectionate words? Nah, her mental notes continued, occasionally extending towards me; remember to do this or that. A “yes, dear” or a nod would suffice, assuming her attention casually drifted towards me at some point. She’d take a good twenty minutes, insisting that washing her hair was a process, but I’d argue that shampooing and rinsing couldn’t possibly take that long. But hey, that’s just another one of her quirks. That time in the shower was her way of mentally prepping for the day ahead, even if it meant sacrificing a chunk of my time.
Meanwhile, as I bathed, she’d methodically dry herself off with her perfectly organized towels, all while listening to some online tech news or AI updates. And let me tell you, those themes always heated her up; whether it was about job security or the future of humanity, she’d express her dissatisfaction loud and clear, even above the sound of flowing water. Despite all of the criticisms, she’d be the first to join the bandwagon and replace me with the first intelligent android robot to be released.
When I stepped out of the shower, she was nowhere to be found. If I had asked her to wait for me while I showered, she would’ve probably rolled her eyes. Yes, folks, when I finally emerged, she had already devoured breakfast and was eagerly waiting for me to finish so she could brush her teeth. “Sorry for taking five minutes, darling,” I said sheepishly. But that day, when I emerged, there she was, waiting for me with a mischievous grin. It was my birthday, yes, that must have been it, she remembered. “No milk left, hun. Did you drink it all yesterday?” she quipped sarcastically. “Yes, guilty as charged. I chugged it all down, all the way, just like you drain my patience every morning.” But I love it. She treats me so candidly, showing all her quirky stuff and vulnerabilities. And that, my friends, that’s love. Or so I hope.
The Value Menu and Sharpie Areolas
He should've known better. Now, after a couple of hours on the road he realizes that Taco Bell wasn't the best choice for dinner before starting an eighteen hour road trip. He feels his stomach twist, the pain so intense that his foot involuntarily lifts from the accelerator. His gut announces its displeasure with a noise that is reminiscent of a grey whale's mating song with a buzzing chainsaw with a fouled spark plug serving as backup vocals.
"Fuck," he groans, frantically checking the off-ramps that pass by with increasing infrequency, looking for an exit that would lead him to anything still open at midnight that would have a restroom.
Unfortunately for him, this particular stretch of Interstate 5 is almost exclusively farmland with no offramp gas stations or truck stops to be found. All he can see for miles and miles is barely visible crops in the headlights just beyond the asphalt's lightless shoulder. Accelerating to a speed that'd guarantee a ticket for reckless driving, he barrels down the freeway praying to find a sign advertising a place with a restroom. His stomach gurgles menacingly, sending a shockwave through his intestines. The increasing pressure feels like a tiny bulldozer covered in battery acid is pushing the contents of his bowels to their only south bound exit, threatening to overwhelm his normally stout sphincter.
Sweating, he tries to maintain a fine balance between the muscles he needs to drive and the tensing muscles he's using to hold back that Burrito Supreme and Nachos Bell Grande he'd eaten just hours ago. Now, if he'd have been wise, he would've asked a Taco Bell employee what food wouldn't cause his gastrointestinal system to declare mutiny against the underwear that served as a demilitarized zone between his anal blow hole and his Levi's. If he had, the Taco Bellian would've warned him that his particular choice in dinner was known as, "The Seat Blaster," guaranteed to obliterate any remaining new car smell a car still has while also doing enough damage to require new upholstery wherever the foolish eater sits.
Twenty, then thirty miles pass. Each grueling second forces him to strain trying to avoid the imminent ass eruption. His butt cheek clench causes him to sweat, the beads of perspiration that form on his forehead smell like red sauce and nacho cheese. Still it goes unnoticed as his fight with rebellious refried beans consumes his senses. Finally, a faded green sign proclaims that there is a rest stop at the next exit just four miles ahead.
"I'm gonna make it!" He thinks, pounding the steering wheel in victory. Oops! He let his attention slip and nearly experienced a rectal jailbreak. "Concentrate!" He admonishes himself because he hadn't packed any extra underwear for this trip. A blow out now would have him going commando until he got home tomorrow late afternoon.
FINALLY, he hits the offramp leading to the rest area. This late at night the remote oasis is deserted, so he parks in the spot closest to the men's room. He can only hope his muscles can take the transition from sitting to standing because getting to a toilet will require a new level of strain to keep the flotsam and jetsam of digested beef, beans, nacho cheese, and sour cream from chumming the sidewalk that leads into the restroom.
Somehow, he makes it into men's room and into the nearest stall. So intense is his journey that he doesn't even smell the stale urine or the scent of a million phantasmic turds that will forever haunt the cinder block restroom. Now, if the sound barrier could be broken by removing clothing, he would've caused a sonic boom as he yanked down his pants just in time to hit the toilet seat. Oh, the pain is exquisite! He forgot that he'd asked for jalapenos on the nachos and their burning exit makes him squirm on the toilet's cracked seat. The torturous expulsion of waste feels like liquid magma pouring out of his body. His eyes squeezed in catharsis inducing pain, he muses that Taco Bell has to be the Liquid Plumr of foods. The pseudo-Mexican cuisine is likely capable of cleansing the colon while simultaneously burning any cancerous or benign polyps lining the poop shoot to anal ashes.
FINALLY, after ten minutes, the fiery bullet train of waste that roared through his intestines has disappeared into the porcelain tunnel. He sighs and reaches for the toilet paper. It's single ply, of course, but he doesn't care. What is a problem is that there appears to be just the terminating four inch long strip of glued toilet paper left on the stall's only economy sized roll. Thinking of what he'd just left in the toilet bowl, there is little doubt that he'd need a full yard of single-ply TP for cleanup. Trying to use just four inches of single ply toilet paper in this situation would be like trying to clean up the Exxon Valdez oil spill with a cocktail napkin!
"Yo Quiero some fucking Charmin!" He cries, his frustrated wail echoing mournfully in the empty restroom.
His next thought is one of desperation, and he knows that he isn't going to enjoy the paper cuts his anus will likely receive from wiping with ass gaskets. In fact, he's pretty sure wiping with the questionably hygienic paper commode covers will make his ass burn worse than the first morning after a prison cell honey moon. Unfortunately, this idea gets scratched immediately because one look at the toilet seat cover dispenser tells him he'll need a Plan B. It's empty.
So, he sits, defeated. "What the fuck am I gonna do?" He asks the graffiti covered door of the restroom stall.
Unfortunately, he has only one option. Check the other stalls for toilet paper. His problem, he doesn't dare pull his pants all the way up because of the very real possibility of walking out of the restroom with the seat of his jeans so soiled that they resemble mud flaps after a mud bogging competition. He pauses, listening for any new arrivals to the rest area. Thankfully, he hears nothing, but he'll have to move fast because he doesn't want to get caught literally with his pants down. With his luck, a highway patrolman could walk in at any moment. Being arrested for indecent exposure and placed on the sex offender registry because someone didn't stock the fucking toilet paper dispenser was not how he wanted to remember this trip.
Gathering up his jeans and holding them just below the fleshy canyon of his ass, he sticks his head out of the stall. All clear. So, he steps out and opens the first empty stall. One look at the stall and he realizes that there's no way he would go in there. The interior of the stall looks like someone strapped a lit stick of dynamite to a box of wet king sized Baby Ruths and threw it in the stall's toilet.
"Jeebus Christo!" He exclaims. "How did I not smell that!" Without a doubt, any toilet paper in excrement splattered, open sewer of a stall would likely be unusable. Besides, he didn't have the hazmat suit he'd need to escape the stall without contracting hepatis, anal warts, a tape worm, and a yeast infection capable of making a lifetime supply of Wonder Bread. So, holding his breath, he moves on.
Thankfully, the next stall appears to be clean, well as clean as a rest area bathroom stall can be. Unfortunately, this stall is also lacking toilet paper and razor-blade ass gaskets. However, the graffiti gracing the back wall catches his eye. Written in bold, black, words, "Hell's Angels Sacramento Chapter Was Here" are menacingly written above the commode. To his surprise, just beneath the outlaw biker gang calling card is a surprisingly good sketch of a naked woman done in the artistic medium of Sharpie. With pants dangling below his bum, he doesn't have time to spend admiring the artwork, but later he'd marvel at the sketch's intricate detail. Who knew that an outlaw biker could also be a Picasso of the potty, or a Rembrandt of the restroom? Everything from the moisture on the pornographic doodle's pouty lips to the little bumps that pebble the areolas that sit like islands on the drawings impossibly large breasts are recreated with shocking precision. Later, during his freeway musings he would theorize that the biker must've honed his artistic skill (along with the occasional shiv) in a penitentiary art class, which to his thinking was tax dollars well spent.
To his relief, the final stall provides him with a new roll of single-ply salvation. He's so elated he doesn't even mind that the toilet paper is so rough and of such low quality that he'll likely walk away with splinters in his ass. Disaster and what would've been the mother of all skid marks averted, he wipes with no less than two yards of TP and with a sigh of pleasure, washes his hands while singing happy birthday to himself twice. After grabbing a Coke at the rest area's vending machine, he gets behind the wheel and makes his way back to the freeway.
Flying down the freeway at 70 mph and no longer afraid that he'll blow his anal o-ring, he tries to calculate where he'll need to stop for gas and something to eat. He figures he should be in Redding by 7 am to top off the gas tank. Now what for breakfast? He only has to think for a second.
"Oh yeah!' He remembers. "Taco Bell now has a breakfast menu!"
Shall We Play a Game?
‘Today, we’re going to play a little game.’ I could hear the laughter in his voice.
‘A game, Sir? What will we play and who else is playing?’ I ask knowing that it is only us two at the moment.
‘Ahhhh…a game of my own creation, but you do mistake me. I should have said that you are going to play a game, while I get to watch.If you please me, then I’ll reward you. If you don’t please me, then you won’t. Quite straightforward, really? Are you ready, slave?’
‘I’m not sure, Sir, what if I’m not up to it?’ He just keeps looking at me with that gentle smile on his lips. I know, I’m stalling. ‘Yes, Sir, I’m ready.’
’Shall we call it Noah’s Ark?’ I gape at him. What in the world have I agreed to? Are animals soon to be paraded around and if so, what in the world am I meant to do with them? My mind tries to scan through the possibilities but nothing seems to quite compute in my head. I look at him a bit panicky. He laughs, the deep, rich sound that always reassures me. ‘I apologise for my little joke. Maybe it would be better called 2 by 2.’ I still look at him as baffled as before, though I can imagine a lot of ways a game named 2 by 2 could play out. Speculating will only drive me crazy. I try my best to look calm, cool and collected, while hiding my twitching hands behind me.
‘You have been learning. I can see how hard it is for you to hold back, to wait, but you’ve come such a long way. I’m proud of you. This is how it’s going to work. First, you’re going to remove your, I have no doubt, already wet, pants. Just throw them to the side.’ I watch him following my every move with his eyes. I take my time, tease it out. I want to see how much his restraint costs him. Unfortunately, he is much better at this than I am. I finally throw my pants across the room for emphasis. And stand there in my dress with nothing on underneath. ‘Oh yes, you’re quite the dissident.’ Okay, so it’s hard to play the rebel when all you really want to do is submit.
’Now, please have a seat there on the chair. Perfect. I have set a timer for you on my phone to run for two minutes. During those two minutes, you must play with your clit, but you must not come. When the timer goes off, you must cease all contact For the next two minutes. Again, when the timer goes off, you will touch yourself again for two minutes, likewise, you are not to come during that time. Now, do you have any questions, pet?’
‘Will I be allowed to come at the end? Or during the game, Sir?’ I hate hearing the desire in my voice, the raw need.
‘We will have to wait and see just how well you do. Now, lean back in the chair, place your feet up on the footstool. Excellent. Now, please pull your dress up over your hips so I can see just what a hungry little cunt you have. Your time starts…now.’
i reach down and find my clit. I take it between my two fingers and slowly stroke it back and forth. I feel my juices start to flow and I feel my arousal peeping out from under the surface. I roll my head back on the cushions as I feel my hunger start to grow. I can feel that all too familiar desire to start snaking over me. It feels so good and my world narrows to a very small awareness. It’s just me, there, pleasing myself and hopefully him. Two minutes, I can do that. That’d be easy. Even as I think it, I can feel my fingers speed up of their own volition. I can feel my lips starting to undulate under the attention of my fingers. As I’m distracted, I almost don’t hear the timer go off. ‘Hands away, slave,’ he lightly reprimands. I hadn’t actually realised I’d not removed them. Looking like a kid who had their hand caught in the cookie jar, I quickly whipped my hand away with my most innocent look on my face. Though I’ve removed my fingers, I can feel that gentle tug of desire, the call for my hand to return and continue to raise my arousal. I try counting the seconds remaining, but fail horribly. How long can two minutes take for crying out loud? Just as I begin to wonder if he has reset the timer, the little alarm goes off. I don’t have to be told twice. My hand moves quick as a flash to return to its gentle thrumming of my clit. I take only a moment to try to catch his eye, gauge his mood, but it’s no use. All I really want to do is masturbate until I have a full release and fall asleep satiated.
My hand whips back and I warn myself to be careful. Go slow. Pace yourself. However, I ignore all of these helpful nuggets of advice and rapidly lose myself to the sensations running through me. I can hear my breathing speed up. My feet start to brace against the footstool and my hips rise just a little bit into the air. Oh yes, that is definitely how I like it. My fingers speed up and my desire starts to fill my mind. I push up harder. I can feel my body responding to my own hand. ‘Oh yes,’ I mutter under my breath ad my hips start lifting higher and my head falls back further. Just as I’m getting into the groove, I hear the tinkle of that damnable timer. I roll my eyes, make a concerted effort to pull my hand away from my clit. I try to press my legs together, thinking that might help, but it actually only makes it worse. I look around, trying to find a clock. Surely, it’s been two minutes. I can’t wait to dive back in. i count in my head, but when I get to the full two minutes, the timer still hasn’t beeped. Is he messing with me? Did he turn on the timer? Just then, I hear the tinny little sound of the alarm.
I slide my fingers immediately into my folds, seeking out the solid nugget in the core of it all. Just as I start strumming myself, I hear him clear his throat. ‘I find it difficult to see just exactly what you’re doing, slut. Spread your knees open please. All the way down now. There we go. That wasn’t so bad was it?’ he calmly states. It’s not like it’s his body being tormented. I pull my knees wide open feeling the air against my sensitive and aroused flesh. ‘Higher now,’ he commands and my hips push up even farther away from chair. I can feel myself pumping, wishing for anything to fill me up, to fill that hole. My hips are picking up a rhythm now, shoving upward, each thrust more abandoned than the one before. ‘Oh, now that’s looking much better, whore,’ he goads me on. Then, I hear it, but I don’t register it until the resounding smack lands across my most sensitive skin. I jerk towards the leather belt that has just left its own contribution to my arousal. I can’t help it as I moan in pleasure. Swish, the belt cuts through the air again as it lands again. I can feel a whimper about to emerge when the time goes off. I can’t pull my hand away. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know I need to but I’m not quite convinced that I can. I feel a warm hand wrap over mine and pull it away. ’Do you remember the rules? he asks, ‘if you please me, you will be rewarded. Now, do you really think that disobeying me is a way to earn my approval?’ I don’t need to look, I know he will be wearing that smirk across his face. I mutter under my breath and force my fingers away.
I try to lower my hips, but they have a mind of their own. Sitting in the chair like this, everything is bared. I thrust harder and harder upward, desperately wanting something to fuck me and fuck me hard. I can hear you approach the chair, you kneel down. Could it be? Will you take care of my hunger? I hold my breath in anticipatio, just as I try to get a reign on my desire, I feel the light breeze as you blow lightly, the wind caressing my burning heat. I can’t take it anymore. ‘Fuck me, please! Just fuck me! Anything at all! Just do It!’ I hear the order and command in my own voice and know instantly, I’ve doomed myself for longer. i squeeze my legs together, but soon pull them apart as it just causes more friction of which I very much wish.
The belt comes down on me three times in rapid succession each lick a reminder that I am not the Master. I close my eyes. Some might think I close them to hide my pain, but I’m actually trying to hide my arousal to not show just what a little pain slut I am. Blissfully, the timer dinags and I am allowed once again to touch myself. ‘You dirty, hungry, little whore. You like that, don’t you? Let me see just how bad you want it. Fuck the air! Let me see your cunt muscles clenching, trying so hard to wrap themselves around anything that might fill your hunger!’ I cry out and just start thrusting my hips in a frenzied desperate dance to be filled up. I lose myself momentarily and SMACK! The belt slaps against the tender flesh of my breasts, first one then the other. I cry out and I beg and plead. ‘Anything, anything, Sir, whatever you want, just please let me cum. May I cum now, please sir? Please?’ I whimper like a little puppy. I try to reach up higher, shoving my hips towards anything near, then I hear it. It seems a million miles away, but I can still hear it.
5 - 4 - 3 - 2 -1 Cum bitch!
I scream and lights explode behind my eyes. My ears are ringing and I feel like my inside is being riI tr
I try to pull away from my hand, unaware that it is my own hand that is tormenting me. I keep stroking, bringing myself to the edge time and again. I scream over and over. Each orgasm shaking me and make me aware that I am becoming overly sensitive and if I keep playing with myself, I might be out of commission for the next few days, but I can’t bring myself to stop. Stroke and scream, stroke and scream, over and over agin until I collapse against the cushions. Replete.
STRESS MESS
The stress that is enveloping me is the fear of not knowing when these stress attackers will come to visit me again. They can surprise you at any moment - uninvited guests that have no boundaries and have unlimited brazenness. Their name is widespread amongst those who have been stricken in the past by this enemy, a gang known as'The Stressors.' They usually attack without any warning and take no heed of your pleadings to "go away, not now." They are a powerful gang and have complete control over their victims. They barge in unannounced and spread paralyzing fear to those who are most susceptible to their war- like attacks. They can break the strongest of men and take no heed of your status in life - whether you're rich or poor, strong or weak, young or old, male or female, college-educated, or a high school dropout. They can visit you for several seconds, countless hours, or remain for years and years. The damage they impart can be temporary or permanent.
You may receive some subtle warning that they are on their way to get you. Your breathing accelerates, your palms feel moist and you try to utilize resources that have helped you in the past. Some people have the strength and the luck to be successful and the enemy is forced to go into hiding/remission. But others, like me, have failed in the past and know that this time, 'The Stressors,' will win this war and that I will be powerless to confront or stop them. The full-fledged panic attack begins. My heart rate increases and rapidly goes out of control. I have tried counting the beats of my heart but I become so stressed out that I cannot concentrate and am unable to count past one hundred. Next, they climb into my chest and turn the volume of my beating heart up so loud that I can't hear myself think. Can you hear it from across the room?
The gang makes my now fragile heart pound so strongly that it pushes against the fabric of my shirt and I am positive that at any second it will rip apart, exposing my bare skin to the chilliness that has suddenly swept through the room and that all eyes will be upon me. I am now so cold that I can't stop shaking; my knees are knocking together and my teeth are chattering. What magic have they used to make my palms so wet? Palms so slicked with sweat that the papers I was holding have disintegrated into a messy mass of pulp. My limbs start to quiver and I am afraid that I will fall down and you will laugh at me.
The worst is the breathlessness - I know I am dying, but if I call 911 again they will most likely bring that psychologist in to talk with me and pretend that I am not nuts, but only need 'to rest a bit' in that brick structure down the road. My stomach is wound up so tight that it feels like a spring that is ready to release itself and tear my insides apart. I wrap my arms around myself and try not to cry. I feel a little sense of relief when I realize that my mouth is so dry that I couldn't cry or speak a word if I wanted to. My teeth ache from clenching them so tightly together and my nails have dug into my palms and have caused drops of blood to fall. Help! Am I going to bleed to death?
This mess of stress is trying to control my life and the nasty gang of Stressors is attacking me more frequently. I've spoken to doctors and have taken their pills. I've attended those 'mindfulness' and 'meditation' classes and have read hundreds of self-help books. I've tried so many breathing techniques that I've lost my breath. Nothing has worked to beat this relentless gang.
I want to go online and look up 'Stress-Busters' but I get so stressed that I might tap the wrong key that I can't make myself do it. But, I will somehow find the strength to click on the 'send' button and send this to you. Please let me know if you receive this - if not, I will be awake all night, wondering if you received this.
Thank You.
Describe Yourself (I’m Still Scared To Use Hinge)
Pretty bitch (when it’s three am and i’m looking at myself in the mirror and my ego is getting the better of me, otherwise i think my face is too ethnic—the ancient aztecs would’ve loved me though—and too white at the same time)
Compulsive—
I compulsively and impulsively do things
(do i have adhd? should probably get tested so people stop asking)
I am staring at my body
At the funhouse mirror in the county fair
All long hair and petite and wide hipped
(some white lady once told me i had ‘mexican hips’ and i should’ve clocked her if she wasn’t so old and i’m still not entirely sure what that means but that’s a weird thing to say to a latin girl when she’s nineteen, no?)
I feel observed,
In public
Like I am constantly being baited into social error
I crave and detest attention
I like to read
(and at night i will gaze upon such nonsense it makes me sick and i begin to hold a personal grudge against Garth Ennis)
I want things I can’t have, (like, i want lemonade but not this lemonade, the lemonade from two summers ago)
Would you still love me if I told you everything wrong with me? If I told you my fixation on religious imagery stems from—
I like to paint
(if i love you i’ll make something in your image and also i can’t really remember when i was eight years old and my favorite color is a green i’ve tried to find my entire life and will probably never be able to see again because it was the center of a lake on a roadtrip through the yukon when i was small)
I’m young and dumb
(but i feel so old it hurts—I blame this ⅖ on the expectations of the religious sect—cult??? jury’s still out—and all the guilt and the violence that came with it and the other ⅗ on bad blood and familial tradition)
Would you still love me if I was a worm?
Would you still love me if I told you I couldn’t sit with my back to doors? Or that if I don’t check behind the shower curtain, I am confident that I will be Psycho-ed? That I can’t stand loud noise in or outdoors? That I am a slut but only of the soul, because I want you to eat my mind or some other dumb shit I might confess on account of a sleep-deprived high?
Would you still love me if I said men scared the living hell out of me? On account of the reception of violence from them since I was just a baby? That I once crashed my bike while trying to get away from catcalling and rode home with gravel stuck to my bleeding knee?
I’m good with animals and small children and my roommate’s cat literally won’t leave me alone
Would you still love me if I told you I hated vulnerability? That if I said I loved you, I’d immediately ask you to take me out back and shoot me? That I feel like I present the illusion of it and so people always tell me everything because I'm just so goddamn trusting? Because all people want to be believed.
(And, like religion, i believe until it makes me sick.)
That,
my favorite songs are Ethel Cain’s unreleased, and AC/DC, and Gaga and just about everything except country (best friend gets in my car and is stunned by the rapid switch from Danzig to Pop Smoke to Dolly)
and every sibilant sound that my mind latches onto
and i also latch onto you
I really like trees and the beach
(please want me,
please like me)
Treating Sirens
Solis sat atop the bordering walls of the Great Albedion. Her legs dangled freely over its lunar stone face. She did not need sitting, but she sat. Her hair, with its fiery hue hung nearly as far as her feet, draping in front of her face so she watched the capital tiles below through its ribbony slits.
It was snowing—without the sensation. Crystal snow against her face and the faces of her friends. Like tiny bubbles caressing their hairs. If it was a substance meant to be felt then she’d lost the ability to do so long ago. She’d been getting used to this thing called apathy...
But the words escaped her mouth anyway, in a foreign way: “Aren’t you getting tired of this?”
Below her, Freeder crouched over the tiles patterned upward to look like grass—it was incorporated in her training, to know of things like ‘grass’. A crazed smile on his face like he were laughing at a distant memory, always.
She supposed the question wasn’t meant for him. Solis leaned to her left, then tilted her head so her hair fell away from her eyes. She kept them open wide as she placed her gaze on Zen. He was fascinating to look at. Short black hair and dark focused eyes like he always knew what he was looking at and why.
He watched Freeder continue to paint. Though in his hand, Zen rubbed the flat of his weapon—a black dagger to match the rest of his look.
The question was his now, but he did nothing with it for a long while. Then finally—“Years ago”—he answered. Sheathed his dagger, then its chain. Then turned to face her and returned a question: “Wanna quit?”
It burned to hold his gaze. She didn’t like when he stared back at her, but liked Zen, so she held his stare as long as she could. Then set her sights back on Freeder in the fake field.
His hair brown and wavy and almost catching his shoulders. She liked to pull his hair and watch the curls pull back. In a way, Freeder was focused too. Solis saw it in the way he held his painting tools. His hands steady and fluid as they traced over cheekbones and earlobes. He dipped his utensil in some more of the blue scattered across the tiles and kept going.
Freeder’s weapon was his painting tools as the chained dagger was Zen’s. Solis’s weapons weren’t meant for her hands. They were meant for her mind, but this was preoccupied now.
“Quit.” She thought, loudly. She’d never considered it before. Or maybe she had, some time before she’d lost her focus. ‘Before the incident’ is what Zen would’ve said, but she didn’t remember any incident.
“Yes,” said Zen. “I mean: be free. Free from all of this.”
The crystal snow became loud in her ears. A sensation she felt. “How...”
A faint siren lit her vision. She shook her head; shook it away.
Looking at Freeder’s canvas from her vantage point, Solis decided she didn’t like this planet very much. Maybe it was the sensationless snow or the blue of its people’s blood, or the way her mind seemed to unravel the longer she stayed.
“We can pay our proprietors a visit. And kill. Not for them but for ourselves. To free ourselves.”
But then Solis would have no direction. She would have to allow her thoughts to burst down every road and try to follow. Her mind would have to unravel further until she would fall apart.
“No!” She yelled, shaking her head, stripping away the sensations. She did not want that.
The Parentals gave them order. They gave them targets. A place to go and people to kill. She did not have to think this way.
“You used to want this, Solis. We used to fight for it.” He turned to her, his eyes blazing. “To be free. Remember,” he urged her, but his words painted violent sirens across her head—their lights and their noise. It hurt. He was hurting her.
She shoved him. “No!” Why had she asked him silly questions? Zen’s brain was not like hers. It knew things. Knew its path. It did not try to stretch itself apart.
She stood and backed away from her friend, taking a battle stance that felt comforting. The crystal snow picked up between them. He mirrored her, ready for her attacks, always.
She readied her blades, they flitted by her back in the shape of a bird’s wings. Many blades working separately, but held together by her mind. They spread on either side of her, pointing their fangs at Zen, but she didn’t want— she never wanted to attack him, even the times when she did, so she screamed in anger.
She felt Freeder’s eyes on them. He would understand. Zen had said the incident had changed him too. His mind used to work like Zen’s and now it was fractured like hers.
The Parentals were punishers in this way. They’d set their children on planets that needed treatment and release, but the three of them had received treatment before too. Zen had told her himself. And Zen had received it too. That was why he could not fight for long. He needed sitting.
He should be sitting now. Not thinking. He looked tired.
She shook the sirens away.
A streak of blue paint cascaded down the air between them. Freeder’s paint. He stepped through it, crouching upon the Great Albedion even though he used to be below. His paint acted as a tunnel, ridding away long distances of space within the time it took him to flick a stroke.
When he stood, he faced her. His smile aimed at nothing as he watched a spot of nothing. But he was against her; their thoughts were united against her. She screamed again.
“I’m sorry,” Zen said, “I won’t bring it up again, until you’re—... until—”
He gulped then. His face twisting. Pain from inside him unleashing. It was the Parentals’ treatment. Like her sirens, and Freeder’s smile. This was why he should be sitting. But that’s not what he did. It was in a second that all his energy gave out at once. Freeder acted first, lunging his leg back with his strange fluidity, he caught Zen with his calf then pivoted to face him and rested him gracefully down.
Solis was beside him in an instant, her blades clattering to the ground in whichever way. She cradled his head, watched his crystal cold sweat. Freeder slid his painting tool from his ear and tried to use Zen as a canvas. Solis roared at him and tried to slap away his hand, but he dodged and grinned at her.
Pinks and reds and lightning whites shot blades through her brain. They tinted her sights. She needed guidance. Someone to tell her what to do or where to go or how to help him. The parentals were her direction, but Zen was her stability. He was the ground that kept her standing.
Not Solis. Zen needed help; he needed treatment. But this treatment was eating him.
She was cold.
The snow was cold, and she was scared, and they were all in pain, and she finally understood.
It was not treatment that they needed, but release.
Tomorrow
It's posturing, I know. "I could find another you tomorrow."
I swallow a grimace, my eyes drawn to the wall, fingers slack on my phone.
"I could have as many girls as I wanted by tomorrow."
I nod, unmoving. But the thing, dead and un-beating in my chest stirs uncomfortably.
"I've dated a writer, I'm already immortalized."
I clench my jaw, wondering when my words became so meaningless.
"You never said sorry when I was hurt."
I know that isn't true. But what is to kick a rock in a river, other than to look stupid? I am aware of my wrong doings, and yet there has always been more wrong. In my tone, in my manner of feeling.
"You're way more emotionally immature." No, because I do not talk like this.
My cadence is easy when I speak, my eyes hardened in my reflection and my words carefully picked over. "Okay. If that is what you believe." and I respond with such a draw string reaction each time, that I notice each irritated teeth click and memorize each draw of the brows, like perhaps I could be understood through a screen.
Only when ive had enough, when that dead, un-beating thing chest stirs do I say I am going, and that is when something is obviously wrong. I say "think about it." they say, "Can you communicate for once?"
But perhaps, tomorrow, I should care to.
Sharpshooter
Sharpshooter
The sun was high about mid-afternoon, and my back was starting to hurt because of the long ride on my horse. It's hard trying to find someplace new. Just over the horizon, I see a tall church and a water tower. I hope this town is better than the last. I ride into town. It's small and not really what I'm used to but it´ll do fine. Everything in this town is on one big dirt road: a church, jail, general store, and a saloon. The saloon looks rundown yet lively, there’s music and people yelling just my kind of place. I push open the door and I’m hit with the stench of smoke and hard liquor. Poker tables line the walls where guys are lining up to play. Every table is full and flipped tables and chairs block the path to the bar. I maneuver around the overturned tables and chairs to the bar, it’s cleaner than I expected it to be in a shaggy place like this. I ring the bell and an older gentleman comes limping out of the back. He has a thick white mustache and a bald spot on his head.
“What can I get you, sir?” He asks I look up at the wall with all the liquor.
“I’ll take some whiskey,” I say
“Coming right up.” He ducks under the counter and grabs a glass and starts to fill it.
“Oh I meant the bottle, I’ll take the bottle,” I say. He seemed a little surprised but he handed it over.
“Do you by any chance know where I could get a room”
“Why absolutely, we have rooms upstairs you can get room 5,” He says, “Upstairs straight down the hall.”
I take the whiskey bottle and head up the stairs. I wobble down the hall and open the door. It smells like smoke, it’s a small room with a bed in the corner, a coat rack, and a side table by the bed. I walk over to the coat rack and take off my hat and gun belt, I walk over to the bed and jump on the mattress, it molded to my back and it feels great on my back I begin to shut my eyes. I awake to the sound of gunfire outside. I hop out of bed it’s now dark and I can’t see a thing anymore. I feel for the wall and follow it to the coat rack. I grab my gun belt and put it on. I look out the window, the road illuminated by the midnight sky and the flash of burning gunpowder. I head for the door and as I’m about to turn the handle I hear voices outside the door. I put my back against the wall next to the door jam waiting, a shot goes off and the door flies open. Two men run into the room which is now being lit up by the hall light. Both men are built one taller than the other. I draw my revolver and walk in front of the door.
“Okay, fellas what’re we doing in my room,” I yell
“Well well, why don’t you just scram,” the taller guy said with a little fear in his voice, their facial features looked almost identical like brothers.
“You trying to rob me?” I ask.
“Course we are, why do you think we’re here,” they say, “I wouldn’t mess with us boy, we're in the Goodman gang.”
“That supposed to mean something to me?” I reply I ain’t too sure what the Goodman gang is but they can’t be that good if I caught them breaking into my room.
“It will in a minute boy,” the small guy says, “We are gonna kill you.”
“If you were gonna do that you would’ve already done it,” I say, I reach for my gun and unclip it from my belt hoping to scare them off before I have to use it.
“Fellas I suggest y’all leave now,” I say.
“How about no!” they yell.
The Taller guy charges at me. I draw my gun and shoot him twice he falls to the floor with a thud my ears start to ring. I feel a large force tackle me and when I open my eyes I see the short guy standing over me with a knife in his hands.
“Shouldn’t have done that” he says.
He brings his arm up ready to stab me, I kick his leg out from under him and he loses his balance falling and dropping the knife. I stand up and grab the knife from the floor and throw it down the hall. I turn around and see him in the corner of the room holding the coat rack. I grab the small lamp on the side table.
“We gonna do this or are you gonna sit in the corner all day” I yell.
He runs at me with the coat rack but trips over his buddy in the middle of the room. He lands on the coat rack and winces in pain. I bring up the lamp over my head and smash it across his stomach. Broken glass goes everywhere. I turn to the bed and grab the sheets where I tie him up. I limp out the door and down the hall to find help, at the bottom of the stairs I look where the bartender is and see his lifeless body draped over the bar.
“Damn, that was a nice guy,” I say to myself.
“Yeah, he was,” a voice says. I look over to the far wall and see a man sitting at the poker table with his hat just over his eyes. He groans as he gets up from the table. He's tall and older, probably in his 40’s with a black suit, hat, and gold badge.
“Sheriff,” I ask,
“Yeah that’s me, Sheriff Mitchell,” He says, “You new around here.”
“Yeah and I don’t mean no trouble or nothing but there's a few guys upstairs for you.”
“They dead?”
“One is for sure the other was still breathing,” I say, “ Who were those guys anyway they said the Goodman gang?”
“They’re the gang that thinks they own this town”
“What are they after I ask,” I say
“Ever since we killed their gang leader a few months back during a raid they have terrorized the city,” He says.
“I need a job,” I say, “You need help protecting these folk I’m your guy”
“Okay you start tomorrow,” he says.
We shake hands and he walks out of the saloon, I turn to head back up to my room, I open the door and see the mess I’ve made. The room is completely trashed, the lamp and the coat rack are still laid out on the floor, a pool of blood formed where the tall guy lay, and the short man groaned. I shut the door and head back downstairs. I walk towards the bar and take a bottle of whiskey off the shelf. I see some apples under the counter too so I grab those and put them in my pack. I walk outside the saloon doors and go around back where I greet my horse. I pull out the apples and give them to him. I found a pile of hay to crash for the night, I popped open the bottle and started to drink myself to sleep.
I wake up to a horse's face against mine startled. I jumped out of the haystack prepared to fight.
“Woah pal settle down,” he said, “you wanna help me with the Goodman gang well lets go”
He throws a rifle into the hay bale. I pick it up and sling it over my shoulder.
“Where are we headed” I ask
“Well since you were late getting up they’re gonna be here any minute,” He replies, “I need you on the top of the saloon.”
Without hesitation, I turned to the rusty ladder that led up to the roof and started to climb. There wasn’t much on the top of the roof other than the slight cover the sign gave. I peeked over to see the sheriff sitting on a rocking chair near the General store. I hear the sound of horses coming in fast and sure enough to the south of the town, there are 7 men on horseback riding into town. I see them hitch their horses at the General store. All of them get off and approach the sheriff. They start to yell but I can’t make anything out. I watch as the sheriff goes into the General store. Suddenly a shot rings out and one drops on the porch of the store. All the gangsters open fire on the general store. I unload my rifle in their direction. I can sense the fear as they get on their horses and run. I get up running towards the ladder and I slide down as quickly as I can. I sprint across the road, my heart still pounding with adrenaline. I stop at the porch staring at the door now riddled with bullet holes. I swing open the door to see the sheriff lying on the floor.
“Sheriff where are you hurt,” I say blood pooling around his body he lets out a groan and I kneel beside him.
“You’re going to be ok,” I say.
He takes the badge off his shirt and hands it to me with his final breath he says, “Go get em”
Right then I was given a purpose to find the people who put him through this, I will find them and I will kill them.
Three Men May Keep a Secret if Two of Them are Dead
Three Men May Keep a Secret if Two of Them are Dead
May 14, 2024
Bob looked nervous. It wasn’t his job to drive the truck today. It wasn’t his job to drive the truck at all. The light took a long time this morning. Facing uphill, in a double clutched stick, hoping his cargo didn’t shift, hoping his truck didn’t stall, all occupied Bob’s thoughts.
The baby carriage rolling across the street should have instead.
Phillip knew the gig was up. He heard his associates saw him talking to a cop. As such, Buffalo was no longer his stomping grounds. He could take a bus or a plane or a train out of the city. He might even get away with this, if he was lucky. Instead, Phillip opted for a more reserved approach. Instead of riding, he drove. They would never be looking for a cab driver or a school bus driver. All he needed was to get past I-90 to Niagara Falls or take I-90 to Erie. Neither would be a good idea on a school bus. In a cab, either may work.
Simon was adverse about prison as anyone would be. He knew of two loose ends and two fixers he could afford to guarantee they would not be loose for much longer. Bob’s family was his life. His little girls provided little in the way of resistance when apprehended on the way home from school today. His fixers sent the message and Bob would understand. He would not like the message, but he would like the mess even less.
By 3:30 that afternoon, the stroller’s owner, a young mommy with a handwritten note addressed to Bob, initiated a predictable response. Bob’s truck rolled down the embankment, backwards, into the path of a fixed 1000 pound LPG tank. The collision led to a fire which led to a series of explosions. The resulting BLEVE incinerated the remains of the driver and the truck he drove.
Simon tipped his fixer for a job well done.
However, Phillip was not as easily persuaded by his ex-wife, now held in captivity. She held a grudge and kept secrets, but only as entertainment would she prove useful. She would be tortured for information and disposed of as fertilizer. Phillip didn’t care. He viewed Simon as an exit to alimony. Kill her off were his last words on the diner’s pay phone.
This left his sons as leverage. Both were grown and deployed overseas on a destroyer and a submarine. In Simon’s time frame, they were untouchable. That would be problematic. Phillip could evade pursuit confident of Simon’s impotence with kidnapping. Simon would just throw more money, hire a few more fixers, perhaps even activating a sleeper, all to locate Phillip.
It had to be done and it had to be done soon.
And by 10pm that day it was.
Phillip came to call on an old girlfriend in Erie, PA for dinner. She was always up for a free dinner and conversation. Someone had anticipated this and waited. It only took a single shotgun blast and both bled out on the pavement. The shooter disappeared into the night. The police found no reason to investigate what they already were told not to investigate. A few collected envelopes with cash. A few more more a notch or two higher on the next promotional list. Simon learned of the confirmed hit and retired early for the night. His trial would begin next week and he would not have to increase the presiding judge’s allowance after all.
His secret safe forever. His actions merely justifiable as insurance, proving once and for all, Ben Franklin’s words of wisdom are more than just a phrase in some almanac somewhere.
Today, these words had more life than those who should have read them.