The dream was so ponderous and so vivid in its nature, it rendered me speechless on awakening. A cavernous dread has taken hold of me and I feel compelled to write this down, for posterity.

In my dream I was still asleep when a gloomy shadow passes over me. The air feels heavier, an atmospheric weight descending like a heavy mist on a barren land and from the darkness of the night I hear my name being whispered in a deep baritone forcing me to wake up from my slumber.

It felt so real. I was in my bed, in my room, with my dear wife sleeping soundly by my side. The window was ajar, and I could feel the soft cool of night air on my skin. A fly had snuck through the lace curtains and I

could even hear the background hum of its buzz.

Yet the dream was also absurd, as a strange young man sat on the end of bed.

His eyes were piercingly alert, his face was framed with an oddly shaped moustache. He wore a soldier’s uniform with insignia I had never seen before but the thing that struck me most was his striking persona. He was redoubtable, self-possessed, confident to the point of arrogance with a glint in his eye that unnerved me even in my dreamlike state. His back was straight, he sat rigid, his jaw firm. His whole demeanour radiated a nefarious intent and I had a strong sense that this man was real. Instinctively, I knew he was dangerous but of what and why I couldn’t say- it was, after all, only a dream.

“Doctor Charles,” He said as I roused from slumber. His voice was faint yet distinct. Though barely a whisper I could still detect a heavy Germanic accent.

“Doctor Charles Darwin?”

“That is I.” I croaked, pulling myself upright. My dear wife Emma stirred but her sleep remained heavy. “And may I ask your name?”

I was aware these circumstances were extraordinary, otherwise I would have screamed out at the intruder in my home, as it was, I embraced the abstract nature of proceedings and allowed my curiosity to take reign over fear.

“You don’t know me,” He replied, with half a smile. “But I know you. In fact, I am a great admirer of your work. I like to think we are comrades. United in belief.”

“You are a scientist?” I asked hopeful, yet nothing about this man’s character indicated a man of science.

“No. I am a leader. I have great scientists work for me.” He was very economical and precise in his speech, enunciating each word carefully. “In fact, I told my scientists that I am a follower of your work. My yearning fantasy is to speak with you- the greatest scientist of our time Charles Darwin- and my scientists in their zeal to please me, find a way. This is how we can meet. Only through dreams.”

“I see.” I say (although I don’t see at all). It’s apparent I was speaking to a madman but as I scientist I was intrigued.

“You see I belong to a different time and in my time- I continue your work. The Natural selection of mankind.”

“You have read my book- The origin of Species?”

“Oh yes. You are a freethinker as I am. I too believe in survival of the fittest, and racial hygiene. In my time, we call it eugenics and social Darwinism- we named it after you.”

“How intruiging.”

“My country has also embraced our ideologies. We are cleansing our race as we speak.”

“Cleansing?”

“Yes. The dissidents, the feeble-minded, the degenerates , the deaf, the blind, the Jews and homosexuals- all will be wiped out from our land. Exterminated. We will breed a superior race and soon the world will evolve at a rate previously unknown.”

A deep and morbid fear overtakes me.

I am speechless. I am sickened to the core. I am horrified at the mere thought and the casual fashion in which he mentioned of such atrocities; disgusted that a human being could think this way and speak to me as if I too share these perversions. My thoughts mimic the panic-stricken fly in the room: darting around in a haphazard manner, desperate to comprehend its predicament. Is it possible that someone could conceive these ideas from my theories?

“But..but my work focuses on plant life and animals,” I eventually stutter, unable to get my words out fast enough. “Humans are more evolved. We operate with an expanded law of nature. Love. Compassion. Don’t you believe that?”

The man doesn’t answer. He tightens his jaw. His eyes narrow like dark pits and peer into my own. A flick of his eyebrows and a slight pursing of the lips tells me he is disappointed with my response.

“What is your name?” I growl, surprising myself as my voice is louder now, like rolling thunder, anger bursting through my genial surface - even in my dream I am incensed that my life’s work can be twisted and misconstrued to this extent . “Tell me your name!” I shout when he ignores the question.

He stands and links hands behind his back. He is calm but his face darkens as he nears me and I detect something akin to murderous intent.

“My people call me “Mein Fuhrer”.”

---

I wake abruptly- thankfully. But the dream has left me alarmed and distressed to say the least.

A sense of foreboding follows me by day and I am reluctant to sleep again at night. I fear for the future. I fear my theories could ignite such a diabolical fire. I must expand upon my work. I must emphasize a moral sensitivity, mutual aid and the noble nature of mankind.

A determination like lightning empowers me, I will not rest. To this end, I have started new research and will compose a new book.

I shall call it “The descent of Man.”

I designed the gun myself.

A normal, off-the-shelf gun requires heating time, close contact with a surface and only releases a small amount of molten adhesive. And, of course, the point is to hold and endure.

My gun heats in your pocket or your hand, using the human body for energy. It can hold and expel enough hot, crystal clear adherent (my creation) to cover the desired target. I love to watch. And, most importantly, it hardens upon contact. The true genius? After thirty minutes, no more, no less, the adhesive reacts with the air and evaporates. No trace. Therefore, no evidence. Genius.

I executed my first test in the field earlier this month. I had been planning for months.

No, years. The woman was a cantankerous, bitter, bi…um, witch. She took every opportunity to belittle and denigrate everyone in the building. Rude, unkind and generally unlikeable, she was invariably, alone. Perfect for my purposes.

Especially after she complained to the landlord about my dog, Zeus.

She had to go.

She lives, lived, in the apartment under mine. Getting in was relatively easy. I climbed down the fire escape. The summer nights were hot. No air conditioning in our rat trap building. Her window was open. Her fan was blowing, it’s whirring loud enough to cover any sound I might make. Although I am quite certain I did not make even one.

I was standing over her when she must have felt an unwelcome presence in her room. She opened her eyes. Before she could scream I sprayed them with hair spray, ensuring she covered her face with her hands. And then I aimed my exquisite creation, and fired. Half an hour later, I folded her hands on her chest, as they had been when I entered, and left as I had come.

The police were called just two days ago, when someone realized no one had seen or heard from Mrs. Hicks in some time and noted that there was the most unpleasant smell coming from her apartment.

I heard she died in her sleep, although someone said they heard her eyes indicated suffocation. However, there was no evidence of foul play. Inexplicable.

So sad.

A good writer doesn’t simply write.

Good writers dream from the back closets of their brains to illustrate with words that will sit behind the eyes of each person who reads their writing.

Good writers sing through their writing and turn flat words to words swelling with beauty and life.

I have written on napkins

tissues and bags

with pencils

or lipstick

or pens,

to ensure

the words

that are crowding my head

are written

before I

lose them;

I have written on trains

buses, in cars

in stores and even

restrooms,

on beaches

by lakes

or street corner lamps

on airplanes,

in restaurants

or classrooms;

I have written by the light

of a brilliant full moon

as it shone

upon my bed,

as I furiously

scribbled words

in the dark

to get them

out of my head;

so I guess

my favorite

place to write

is neither

a desk

nor table

nor chair,

but rather

wherever

an idea

is sparked,

the world entire

my favorite lair.

You were there

when I went to bed

last night,

by my side,

hand in hand;

when I woke,

you were gone,

hidden perhaps,

within layers

of fog and mist,

though your hand

was still in mine.

You looked at me

from within

the murky depths

of your confusion

your eyes

vague and lost -

Mama

you said,

no darling,

it’s me,

your wife.

Ginger: “What’s that?”

Mary Ann: “I think it’s...a person!”

Professor: “A native? You’d think after all the time we’ve been here we’d have encountered one much earlier.”

Mrs. Howell: “Professor, do you think she’s safe to approach?”

Gilligan: “Of course she is! She probably weighs ninety pounds soaking wet.”

Skipper: “Last I checked you’re not the professor, Gilligan. And you’re one to talk.”

Gilligan: “Poke her with a stick and see if she moves.”

Mr. Howell: “I will not! The indignity!”

Mrs. Howell: “Oh, I love that glossy green shawl she’s wearing. I wonder if it’s Dior?”

Skipper: “Mrs. Howell that is not a shawl. It’s seaweed. And the gloss is slime.”

Professor: “She’s opening her eyes!”

Me: “Ugh. Where am I?”

Gilligan: “Do you speak English?”

Ginger: “Gilligan...she just did.”

Me: *whispers groggily* “Why am I soaking wet? I...must’ve fallen overboard.”

Professor: “Where did you come from, young lady? You don’t strike me as an indigenous person, so I’m assuming you’re from elsewhere.”

Me: “I must’ve come from...the sea.”

Gilligan: “She’s a mermaid! I knew it! They grow legs on land ya’ know.”

Skipper: “Oh, enough of your ridiculous mythology, Gilligan! She probably fell off a boat and got coughed up by the tide.”

Mary Ann: “Well, she sorta’ just said that, sooo...”

Mr. Howell: “Oh, hooray. Last thing we need is another mouth to feed. One thing the recession taught me, too much charity is bad for business. I say we leave her to her own devices. If she’s resourceful, she’ll be fine.”

Gilligan: “And if she’s not?”

Mr. Howell: “Survival of the fittest, my boy.”

Mrs. Howell: “Oh Thurston, how can you say that! We can make room for one more.”

Me: “Guys. I hate to interrupt, but where am I?”

Professor: “What’s this place called again?”

Gilligan: “It’s an island.”

Professor: “I know THAT. I mean the name of the island?”

Skipper: “I...I’m not really sure. When the boat capsized and washed us up I couldn’t get a bearing on the coordinates. It didn’t help that I’d swallowed enough saltwater to sink a whale.”

Gilligan: “Ooo, I know. How about we call it Gilligan’s Island?”

Skipper: “Nah, that’ll never catch on.”

Ginger: “Why does the island get to be named after you? By that logic my vote is for Ginger Island.”

Mr. Howell: “I quite like the ring of ‘Howell Island’. It’ll be a nice addition to the others.”

Professor: “Erm, point is, young lady, we don’t really know. We’re stranded here just like you. We’ve been here for seventy-nine days and seventy-eight nights.” *everyone looks at him* “What? ...I kept count.”

*Gilligan steps up*

Gilligan: “I dunno’ about you guys, but I think we should let her stay with us. It might be dangerous out there, especially for a girl.” *gets punched by both Mary Ann and Ginger, one from each side* *cowers sheepishly*

Professor: “It would be the moral thing to do. Alright everyone, let’s take a vote. All in favor say aye.”

*All do except Mr. Howell*

Professor: “Alright. It’s settled.”

Mr. Howell: *as everyone walks away, returning to camp* “What about nay? Nay. NAAAY!”

Gilligan: “Now’s not the time for horse impressions, Mr. Howell. We’ve got a new guest to greet.”

(Later that night after the rest had gone to bed, Gilligan found me sitting near the shore, watching the tide.)

Gilligan: “Hey, mind if I join you?”

Me: “Sure. I was just thinking. You guys have been out here for all those days. I guess there’s not much chance of a quick rescue. Then again, who am I to complain?”

Gilligan: “You’re not too broken up about the whole castaway thing, are you?”

Me: “Well, I suppose it could be worse. I could’ve been marooned alone, somewhere colder like the Arctic. At least here I don’t have to cut open a seal and crawl inside.”

Gilligan: “That’s...one way to look at it.” *glances at me with a hint of fear in his eyes* “Do you think about doing that often?”

Me: “No. I...nevermind.”

Gilligan: “I know it probably hurts that you won’t get to see your family for a while. There’s a lotta’ downsides to this setup. But hey, at least we got the stars, right? I’m not the smartest guy, as you’ve probably...deduced by now, but I know there’s always something to be grateful for. The sky here is always really clear. You can see straight into the universe. See?” *points*

Me: “I think you’re sweet. I’d rather have a sweet guy than a smart guy. Uh—no offense. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Gilligan: *smiles a little* “I know.”

Me: “Ugh. I still don’t know what to call this place. Since you’ve been the nicest to me I guess I can give you the honors. Gilligan’s Island.”

Gilligan: “Nah. Skipper’s right. I don’t think that’ll ever catch on.”

(Later on in my thatched tent...)

Dissonance stirred me from sleep. I checked on a soft rustling outside, just to find nothing there. Culminations of paranoia began to take shape, so to calm my nerves I decided to go for a walk. And I did. Right to the edge of our little encampment. The tents were set up on one end. And the other end was empty apart from equipment and trees. Once surrounded by trees I trudged on till I found myself at the precipice of a clearing, then a drop. The cliffs had been closer than I’d realized. Suddenly a figure emerged from the brush behind me. Moonlight fell into its eyes, turning it half-demonic in appearance. A bit more moonlight brushed it, and then I could see. It was just Mr. Howell. But why was he holding the spear the castaways had carved for hunting? Was he hunting in the dead of night?

The answer arrived when he thrust it at me. It barely missed, nicking my side. I stumbled back, mindful of the nearby drop. He was blocking the way back to camp. The only other ‘out’ was a clear dive off the cliff.

“What are you doing!” I cried.

“All those bleeding hearts out there might pity you, but I understand...” he replied. “Your body is too frail for you to be of any use in our survival, and I don’t see sustaining something that can’t at least return the investment. We’d lose, with you. And I don’t take losses.”

I dodged his spear again, a panic manifesting coldly in my gut. Was I really so transparent in my uselessness that he felt the need to murder me? Another dodge. He refused to relent.

Was this really going to turn into a ‘kill or be killed’ sort of thing? My mind whirred.

“Even Gilligan has his uses, Gilligan as he is,” Mr. Howell continued, brashly. “We’ve all devised a system to ensure every person contributes their fair share. But you...I didn’t gain my fortune being stupid. I can spot a deadbeat from a mile away. You’re nothing but a leech, a freeloader, and even if you don’t mean to be, you can’t help it...”

Another dodge.

“You’re just—”

Another.

“Too—”

Another.

“Weak!”

The cliff was one step behind me. I dared not look back. I could feel the updraft riding the rocks. It scaled my spine, icily.

“I can be of use...” my breath was shallow and my words stilted.

“Maddie!” Gilligan’s voice found me an inch from the edge. I saw him break the brush and lock eyes with Mr. Howell. “There you are,” he grinned, apparently oblivious to the blood-dripping spear in Mr. Howell’s hands. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Your tent was empty and I was worried you’d gotten discouraged and tried to...well, hurt yourself,” he finally caught glimpse of my injuries. “Oh no, you did! You did and I’m too late!”

“Gilligan, listen to me. I didn’t do this to myself. Mr. Howell is trying to kill me.”

“Well that’s not very nice,” Gilligan frowned at Mr. Howell. “I think you owe someone an apology, Mister.”

One blink later and he was the one dodging Mr. Howell’s spear.

“Not him!” I screamed, before I could even stop myself. “I’m the one you want. Over here!”

Mr. Howell ran his spear through Gilligan and returned attention to me, eyes moonlit and rabid. As he made his way to where I stood, I tearfully braced for the worst. Until the darnedest thing happened. A varicose root snagged his foot and sent him toppling. There was nothing to break his fall. The wind put up little resistance as he stumbled off the edge, and plunged into the black. Woah. Guess it really was ‘kill or be killed’. Though he kinda’ sorta’ killed himself.

My eyes scraped the dark ground until deciphering where Gilligan had fallen. I found him suspended somewhere between awake and asleep. But the cords were fraying. And I doubted his suspension would last much longer. Soon he’d fall into dreams, perhaps never to return. Was this it? Was he really dying?

“Gilligan, are you okay?” I shook him, then stopped myself. When had that ever helped do anything but paralyze someone? I moved where I could better see his face, and found a smile stretched contently from ear to ear.

“Yep,” he replied. “I can’t believe it either, but you know that fake thing actors do where one turns sideways to the audience and the other runs a blade between the first guy’s arm and body to look like he’s getting stabbed? Well...that happened here! He missed my body. In the dark it probably looked like he hit me...”

“Why did you fall over like that, then?” I panted in disbelief.

“Oh. A pesky root caught my foot. Man, those things are everywhere out here.”

I gave a faint sigh. How in the world was I going to explain this to the others? Oh well. I had Gilligan to back me up. He was still alive and kicking.

And yanno’, with him here, maybe being stranded wasn’t so bad.

#fiction

Disclaimer: The real Mr. Howell is not a murderous psychopath. I just picked him because, well, I suppose I had to pick *someone*. I have nothing against him. All the Gilligan peoples are cool. :3

It’s only in the intoxicated darkness that I yearn. To yearn is that pang of longing which grips you so tight you think you might keel over.

As my throat burns with the remnants of one too many tequila limes, the bed beneath me soft, the air I breathe still hot, my head spinning— all this and more happens in the real, tangible world—I close my eyes and sink into a darkness which starts from within.

In this darkness, the one I never have to face myself in, I am free, to dream, to cherish. Stars paint themselves around me, my body yearns for a soul. Memories become dreams become fact. I’m standing beneath the trees with you, your face inches from mine, the tender face I want to caress and make blush.

Intoxicated darkness, what sweet freedom you bring, my heart’s at peace and it soars, giddy with delight at remembered love. In this darkness, I don’t remember the dismissal, the hurt, the cruelty, the present tense. There are no flashlights to remind me of dignity and self-respect, no one to shed light on my lover’s loveless gaze, who, in the obscurity, is not clear enough to take another hammer to my heart.

Intoxicated darkness, how gentle you are to me, you bathe me in your soprano musings, teach me to forget daily grinds and drowning worlds. Darkness, how cool, how innocent in ignorance. Don’t let the future come, let it roll on but leave me here. I want to stay in this part of summer, fall in love with the hot blind nights.

Intoxicated darkness leaves me to the heavy headed morning light. It lets me sit among those breezes which spell out harsh fluorescent realities.

Coffee, to numb out the possibility of sleep, I face the day, and wait, again, for a late evening when I can deliver myself to dark, drunken flight.

They sat at the table in the noisy bar looking at each other, each with a bottle of cold beer, taking sips every now and again.

The widow glanced at the other two, then focused on the sexy stud of a bartender serving drinks. She had found her husband having an sex with their maid, three months later he died in an accident on a fishing trip.

The prostitute looked both women, the widow in disgust openly ogling the bartender and the nun in contempt with her self satisfied expression. Her husband had died leaving nothing to her, with no other options she became a prostitute.

The nun looked at both women and sighed. She had traveled in both women's shoes until she became a nun. Used and abused she had been through it until one night after servicing a customer she was hit with a divine revelation and turned to god.

The people traversing the bar glanced at the lone nun sitting in a corner in the bar nursing a bottle of cold beer.

I’m a compulsive writer lately, but I set one rule for myself on Prose: For every post you make, go read at least ten more.

Since I tend to average now about one to three posts a day (yeah, I’m slightly stressed/bored lately - go figure) that equals at least ten to thirty posts a day, roughly.

Because I think reading makes you a better writer, just like listening makes you a better speaker. I just have to set rules to help myself remember so I don’t fall into my own trap of blathering/typing on like an idiot.

I do not always like the posts I read; I only like things I actually like.

I also do not expect anyone to thank me for liking/reposting their posts, because I believe their post earned it.

But I don’t always thank everyone who likes/reposts my posts, for the simple reason that a) I don’t want to create an un-ending cycle of obligatory thanking comments b) I’d rather spend more time going through more posts. [insert credit to rlove327] Particularly the posts of someone who has taken the time to read mine. A notification that someone has liked my post feels more worthwhile to me, so if I can give someone else that honor I feel like that's better than just saying thanks.

That and I hate tagging, I always type too fast and make typos, then realize it and can’t go back and edit my damn comment/tags, then fume over how long it takes to tag things. I’m still not convinced there’s not a better way than tagging to get through online life, but I may just be too old/grumpy to accept the new ways.

Annie was 16 when she married. She married for love. And because she was pregnant. She and Johnny, her husband, had been married for 10 years when he had a heart attack and died. Birth defect in his heart. He was only 30 when he died. She was 26. He left her alone with three kids to feed (9, 8 and 6) and no money in the bank. She had never worked, had never even graduated high school. She was terrified. Her parents, devout Catholics, had disowned her when she got pregnant and she hadn’t spoken to them since she was 16. She had no friends to speak of. She’d never needed more than Johnny and her babies. She didn’t know how she was going to take care of them.

And then she did. The landlord came for the rent the day after she buried her husband.

“Mr. Coates, I am so sorry. I don’t have the rent money. I had to use what we had to bury Johnny and buy groceries. I have a little left, but,” and then she burst into tears. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” she wailed.

Mr. Coates, scum of the earth that he was, had had his eye on pretty little Annie since she had the mister had moved in five years before.

“Well, now, missie, no need to cry,” he said as he slipped through the door, closing it behind him. “I’m sure we can figure out something.”

And they did. He would come once or twice a week when the kids were at school, and they lived in the house, rent free. He introduced her to some friends, who would also visit when the kids were at school, so she could make money for groceries. Clothes for the kids. School trip money. Visits to the hair and nail salon to keep her pretty and her…guests, happy.

She raised her children and even saved money to send them to college. She doesn’t know how they never found out. Never asked her how they survived without Johnny. Maybe they did know, but they never did confront her. For that she was eternally grateful.

Her youngest was 17 when she graduated from high school and got a scholarship to the University of North Carolina. Three high school graduates. Two already in college, one on the way. She was so proud of them.

They were all a little surprised the day she sat them down and told them she was joining a convent.

“But, Mom,” said the youngest Lanie, “you were married.”

“You have kids,” said Robert.

“So, clearly you had sex at least three times,” said the comedian and eldest, John.

“You don’t have to be a virgin and it’s alright if you were once married as long as you’re not now. Or ever again, of course,” Annie replied.

“But why, ma? A nun? We’re not even Catholic,” said, Lanie, “Are we?”

“What are we anyway?” asked John. “You never took us to church growing up.”

“I know, and I will spend a lot of time on my knees asking forgiveness for that…and all my other sins,” Annie replied. “I was raised Catholic.”

“What sins, Ma? There’s no one better than you,” said Robert, pulling his mother up and hugging her close. She burst into tears. They all stared not knowing what to say. They had never seen their mother cry.

Annie was 40 when she saw her last child graduate from college. That same day, she packed a small bag and drove over the convent of the Sisters of Mercy.

She died, August 13, 2020, at the age of 80. Her obituary read:

Sister Anne Delancy, beloved widow of John Delancy; devoted mother of John Delancy, Jr., Robert Delancy and Elaine Delancy White; grandmother of Peter, Michael and David; great-grandmother of Ralph, James and Anna. Faithful sister of the Sisters of Mercy.

May her soul rest in eternal peace.