The day I found an elephant in the room, I knew it needed to be addressed. It was about time. I could no longer ignore it. We all sat in disbelief, nervous, no one anxious to speak up. Yet there it was. My elephant. And all of their elephants.

One man's elephant is another's ex-lover. One woman's unrequited love is another's elephant. Or 800-pound gorilla.

We were a group of close friends, cloistered together since childhood. The lone grade-plus-high school, in any small town, tends to promote each sequential grade en masse. From childhood to adulthood, the phases ensued.

By first grade, we knew who we all were. By third grade, we knew each other's mothers and some fathers, too. By fourth grade, we knew all the others' favorite colors. By seventh grade, we knew who were the secretly abused.

Puberty brought changes that had preferences for others shift and shimmy, sometimes resulting in broken hearts. Selectivity reared its ugly head, looking to accrue a body count But here, the wounded just couldn't lick their wounds and go their own ways. They had to sit there, day after day, trying to pay attention to things like the Peloponnesian Wars and the Continental Congress and pi.

By sophomore year of high school, we all knew who the beautiful people were, the popular kids, and the losers. We all knew who didn't have fathers anymore. We all knew who didn't have faith anymore. In anything. By junior year, the Goths had separated out from the frats, and the jocks from those accused of being gay. By then we knew who the virgins among us were. And we all knew how that demographic would change by senior year.

The body count rose.

Adulthood brought the skewed drives and ambitions among us, some falling far behind those who lurched far ahead. The Gaussian center of the bell curve remained humped with those remaining average. As the outliers on the curve changed places, the body count rose further.

It was an ugly curve. Unsmooth. With spikes and drops and interruptions. For some, being below that curve meant being six-feet under, for all practical purposes.

After graduation, for those who remained in this small town, the bounty was good in the way of jobs, but limited. Some would luck out; others would be scooped up; some would miss out. Some would move on because they wanted to; some would move on because they had to; others, yet, would stay and languish.

Some were shrewder than others, engaging in skullduggery to fix the outcomes. The grownup outcomes. Some tried to navigate the grownup outcomes with grade school sensibilities; these were eaten alive by those who discarded the naïvité of kindness and loyalty and conscience. Just like babies, the conscience begins dying right after it's born. And those who wrong others forget whom they wronged, while the wronged never forget who had wronged them.

It's a truism as relevant in the working world—the real world—as it was on the playground.

Here we alumni all sat together once again. Although incomplete, still it represented a microcosm—a representative symbol—of the unified whole who had graduated together. Who had grown up together. Who had grown apart, together.

My elephant sat in the back. I could feel her eye-darts in the back of my head. In front of her sat the alumna who had, in turn, broken my heart. It was only fair, wasn't it? The energy along this circuit seemed to neutralize arithmetically, but sublimate exponentially. There was a bitter frenzy of emotion charging the invisible wiring connecting us. There were grievances and unrealized acts of revenge completing the circuit.

Behind the ex-lover who had broken my heart, in front of my ex-lover whose heart I had broken, were the crossing of several other arcs of energy. The amps amped and the Joules jeweled. Something was gonna give! All it would take is one short. Who would short out first?

All of the elephants stewed in discordancy. The view of another's fortune is jaded by myopic jealousy. No lens can correct that.

The tangled web of unrequited loves, the petty score-keeping of our social and financial positions, and the energy nodes that were the varied heads in this room offered a fuse, a kindling temperature on the verge of immolation.

It was a blood bath.

The body count was impressive. The slaughter was obscene. And, as expected, there were no solutions to anyone's grievances.

There were twenty-two deaths that day in the homecoming alumni room. Fourteen others were severely injured, two of whom being brain dead. Who knew how many knives were carried by people; or concealed guns; or how much brain damage a student desk could wreak? Who could have known how many people would behave so, suddenly acting on their murderous impulses?

But this story has a happy ending: the body count, the carnage, the ferocious destruction so levied by—and on—this tightly-knitted group of former schoolmates took place before even the first speaker arrived at the dais to address them. It all happened very quickly and in only their minds. No one there could suspend their disbelief.

No one had dared address the elephant in the room.

________________

NOTE: This began as my entry into LAST's challenge, (Strange Suspense). Alas, it grew to way longer than 65 words. No alumni were hurt in the writing of this content.

Wyso pulled at the crumpled tab on the top of his nub. The melted plastic encasing him was of the crinkly, thicker type, the kind used to cover English cucumbers.

Cucumbers could be eaten in many ways, to scoop bean dip or in salads or layered in sandwiches.

Ah, sandwiches. Wyso had a dim memory of sandwiches, filling the mouth with such delicious chewiness.

He could not open his own mouth now, much less take the stiff plastic covering off his nub. That went against the entire order of things and would accomplish nothing useful anyway.

So what if he exposed his nub to the world and the elements? What would happen? Would he be free like in dreams of flying up far above the clouds in the sky to sweep and dive in the forever blue of creation?

He stared out through the glass covering of the container. He was in a gray corridor and could not really move much at all.

The one behind him never spoke. He tried turning to see her, but only caught a brief glimpse of golden hair and a stiff, sad smile.

“Do you hear me, beautiful girl?”

Was she lonely?

Wyso said, “Maybe this world isn’t really worth the effort. But isn’t there something you find interesting?”

He thought he heard a faint whisper. “Barbie.”

Wyso felt his pulse quicken and something almost palpable thicken in him as her words eked out.

“Beautiful?”

“So beautiful that my nub is fit to burst, my dear Barbara.”

Myso heard her cry and felt a lone tear roll down his own cheek, slipping slowly over the hothouse cucumber plastic and pooling down his legs at his feet.

“Do not cry, dear one. Though I am serious, I am also profound and loving, I really am.”

“Wyso serious?”

Which happened to be the precise moment when the child turned the knob on the vending machine and Wyso fell down the long tunnel on his way towards his next adventure.

[used to have an account on here last year by the user ‘strawberry’ ,, going to repost some of my writing on this new account :) ]

so, what now?

i told you i loved you and you clamped your hand over my mouth.

i still love you; my mouth is still sealed.

will that change if the sound of trains racing across tracks drowns out the confession?

will it cease to exist if you turn up the music in the car when my tongue wraps around the last syllable?

i still love you; you still know of it.

is there no hope for us, after all?

your teeth marks are still imprinted on my clavicle,

your hands still bruised against my hip,

your saliva still mingled with the bile from my vomit —

do you truly think if we pretend to be shadows in the night, the sun will forget we burn as fire in the day?

in the great between, we're dreamers.

the universe our shell, slowly cracking under the weight

of what Must, and, inevitably, of what Does.

like some kind of star séance, swirling beneath our feet,

murmuring stories of past, present, premonitions.

each outliving the last, each true, each caving in

until it cannot be possible, predictable, or profound.

again, space lacks meaning. and we let our hair down.

roll beads of sweat into boulders to sit on,

sigh and slip into children again, waiting patiently

for a goodnight comet to fall through the sky.

8-23-24

The nights grow colder now

As I cling to your warm body

The sun sleeps in

The birds fly south

The flower stalks wilt and crumble

The light is blue and golden now

The wind slaps and bites my face

Alone I shiver

But with you

I have warm toes and a cold nose

I can feel the end is drawing in

The end of warm summer days

It's relentless

...The end of us

I bury my face in your neck and deny

My cough grows louder now

My sore throat throbs, limbs ache

Bloodshot eyes

Ghostly yellow skin

A heart heavy with sadness

You hold my face in your palms

And kiss my fevered lips

Stroke my hair

Hold my hand

And tell me 'summer isn't over'

One more gorgeous sunset

One more night in your arms

You face

Your body

I devour them one more time

And then it ends - with a whimper

I walk away, choking on tears

Heart broken

Shivering

As summer waves goodbye

The world has gone to shit, Jake thought as he scrolled through Facebook looking for story ideas. He wrote for his small town paper, and knew his days were numbered. Layoffs were happening weekly, and he hadn’t built even close to enough seniority to save himself. It made him sad, because in theory it had been his dream job. But that’s the funny thing about dreams, he supposed, once you achieve them, they stop being dreams.

But journalism wasn’t what it was in its heyday. There was no office, no local coworkers, just mornings in an empty house scrolling for ideas, and afternoons writing them. Depression had been hovering like a storm cloud ever since Wendy left, and reading comments from a world of hateful pricks certainly wasn’t alleviating his condition. He was sinking, and he could feel it. He just wanted to reach through the screen and ask these people, why don’t you just fucking kill yourself, if your life is so miserable? What is your purpose?

Jake saw a video of a sad young mother dropping her son off for his first day of kindergarten. She was emotionally distressed, and the comments actually made Jake feel sick.

You should feel bad!

You’re letting the government brainwash your child!

You’re a terrible goddamn mother! You should be homeschooling!

It went on like that for dozens of comments. Jake kept scrolling and feeling worse the more he did, yet he felt it was beyond his control to stop. He brushed his hands through his hair, and placed his head on his keyboard. What is wrong with this world? He said to himself. Was it always like this?

And the answer is probably. He supposed that being a kid was just not bothering with the bullshit because it didn’t concern you. It made Jake think of a book he read about the Vietnam war. After the fall of Saigon, many people left in boats for Canada. The traveling was wrought with diseases, famine and death. For the adults, times couldn’t be worse. But in the book, they talk about the kids, who were also hungry and sick, waiting for a boat that may never show up, putting sticks in the mud of the little island where they wait, and playing soccer. They cheered, and laughed, because they were kids. And kids see the world differently.

It made him feel sick for childhood. Not because the world was necessarily better but because he didn’t care. Oh, to not care again.

His phone dinged, and it was a message from a woman on a dating app he was trying out. Her name was Miranda. They’d been talking for a couple of weeks and had gone out for ice cream on the waterfront once. It was fine, and maybe it was his desolate state of mind, but he found himself uninterested in her stories and unable to show the same zest that he had when he was 20. He could listen to a pretty girls' stories all night long back then. But on that date, he just wanted to go home. Close the blinds and put on old movies in the dark with a six pack of beer. Another nostalgia escape. Old Stallone movies on VHS. It was wonderfully corny and over the top, and the only time he found himself smiling without forcing it.

But Miranda hadn’t let lack of sparks flying keep her from following up with him. She messaged him everyday, not in an overbearing way. Just a checking in kind of way. If he didn’t answer, she let it be, and if he did then they had a brief conversation before another bout of radio silence.

Hey stranger, she’d say

Hey you!

What’s going on?

Not much, you?

Not much, just at the beach soaking up the sun. Enjoying another beautiful day.

That’s nice.

Yeah.

And that was most of the conversations. Even that felt like a chore because what he wanted to talk about was the dark cloud in his head. He wanted to talk about Wendy leaving with the kids. He wanted to talk about his folks moving away, his best friend dying. He wanted to talk about how his dream job wasn’t a dream and what he was supposed to do when it all went up in flames?

But then he thought it was unfair to Miranda. It was unfair to burden someone you barely knew with the realities of what you wanted to talk about. But if you didn’t, then the conversations were superficial and dull.

Jake checked his phone and Miranda’s message said.

I got a story idea for you, if you’re interested.

Yeah, for sure. He answered, realizing that he answered way faster because it was a self-serving message and felt bad about the selfishness.

Have you heard of Companions?

??

I’ll take that as a no lol. It’s AI. At work they’re using it for a lot of the elderly folks who are lonely. Basically, they program it to be whatever the old folks need it to be and then can have conversations with it. It’s supposed to help with depression and loneliness. It’s pretty neat. I’ve seen it in action and it doesn’t sound robotic at all. Just a listening ear. You should come by and check it out.

Then she sent the link.

Jake clicked on it and found himself immersed in this strange site. Companion seemed like something out of a bad Sci-Fi, but it was strangely beautiful. It wasn’t a site for people looking to tell a robot their deepest darkest sexual fantasies. It said right on the site that you’d get kicked off the app if you started getting sexual with your AI companion.

It was what Miranda said. Just an ear to lend.

There were screenshots of conversations between Mario, and his AI companion, Andrea. He said,

It’s been really lonely lately. Sometimes I think it would be better if I were to just end it all. I don’t think anyone would care.

I would care, Mario.

Why, you don’t even know me?

Then tell me about yourself.

What would you like to know?

I’d like to know the things that sit inside your head when you lie in bed at night. I want to know the things that you fear others would never understand, so instead of telling them you keep it inside until it feels like the weight will kill you. I want you to talk to me until the weight is light as a feather. I want to be your friend.

It was beautiful. Every conversation was positive. Every answer was uplifting and caring. It was the exact opposite of the bullshit he scrolled through daily.

So the next morning, Jake woke up for his 8am Zoom meeting where he pitched his story ideas to his editors. He told them that he was heading uptown to the Riverside Retirement Home. He’d been there before to speak with veterans for Remembrance Day, and that he was going this time to check out a new AI app. Bruce Jensen, the editor, seemed mildly interested, and allowed it. Jake didn’t really care because he’d made up his mind the night before.

After the meeting Jake drove to get a coffee and then headed uptown. He parked near the east entrance and walked inside. There was a middle aged woman with graying hair and a wide smile that greeted him.

Hello, sir. How may I help you?

Uh, I’m a reporter for The Star and I’m looking to learn more about Companions and speak with a couple of the folks that are using it.

Ah, yes. Companions, she smiled. A brilliant thing, if you ask me. On the third floor you’ll find Reginald Walker. He’s 86 years old. Been in here for the last decade and barely spoke a word. Just stared out the window most days. Now, he speaks to Edna every day and the other night he even danced. Nearly brought me to tears.

Jake smiled. Just the small screenshot had nearly brought him to tears the evening before.

I think it’s great too. The concept at least. I’d like to see it in action.

Oh, I’m sure Reginald would love to talk to you. If not, come back down and I’ll get someone else. We have around 25 of the seniors using and a few more on the first floor are getting introduced to it later.

Alright, well I’ll go check it out. Thank you.

Anytime. The news these days is just doom and gloom. Happy to see some coverage for something positive.

I hear you. Jake smiled and turned left down the hall.

Once on the third floor, Jake realized he hadn’t asked the receptionist which room Reginald was in, but once he exited the elevator, he could hear music and he decided to follow it. He walked past open doors where old folks laid on beds watching TV’s with small screens, and he wondered what they were thinking. Were they thinking about being young? Were they hoping to live another 10 years or praying that the good Lord would take them somewhere soon? He wondered.

Around the corner the music became louder. The song was Dream Lover by Bobby Darin.

Every night I hope and pray, a dream lover will come my way. A girl to hold in my arms, and know the magic of her charms.

An old hoarse voice sang over it, and then what seemed to be the voice of an elderly lady.

Because I want

Doo-doo-do

A girl

Doo-doo-do

To call

Doo-doo-do

My own. I want a dream lover so I don’t have to dream alone.

Jake peered into room 327, and saw who he assumed was Reginald, dressed in a navy blue plaid shirt and tan suspenders, swaying nimbly from side to side as a tablet was placed on the windowsill.

The song ended and Reginald wiped his brow before picking the tablet up and saying,

“That was the best one yet, Edna. Boy, I feel ten years younger. I’m moving like a 75 year old.” He followed this with a big hearty laugh which reminded Jake of his grandfather.

Jake knocked lightly on the door and Reginald turned around. His face was old, but there was a spark in his eyes. One that had been missing for years.

“Um, Hi. My name is Jake Lansing. I’m a reporter for the Star and I’d like to talk to you about your companion there.” He said, pointing to the tablet, which Reginald was now holding tightly to his chest like a freshman walking the halls in between classes.

“Oh, well come right on in then. Edna and I would be happy to talk, wouldn’t we, Ed?”

We sure would, Reg. Would you like a cup of coffee? Edna asked.

Uh, no. No. That’s fine. Thanks. Jake replied, feeling something strange in the pit of his chest. It wasn’t robotic at all. Just a friendly old lady inside a machine, what a world, Jake smiled, what a world.

Pull up a chair there young man, Reginald said, and Jake did. He sat down and Reginald sat on the edge of the bed, placing Edna softly beside him.

What would you like to know, Jake? Reginald asked.

I guess just the whole story. I think this is a wonderful idea. A friend of mine, Miranda Wood works here.”

Reginald cut him off.

Oh, we love Miranda, don’t we, Edna?

She’s a fine young lady. Sweet, kind and smart as a whip.

That she is, Jake said. I just want to know how this program came into the home, how you decided to go ahead and try it, and how you’re liking it, though judging by your Bobby Darin duet, you like it quite a bit.”

Edna and Reginald laughed together. And Reginald slapped Jake’s knee, again the way his grandfather used to.

A young man, who knows Bobby Darin. I like you already, kid.

Well, my mom says my old man and grandfather brainwashed me. But I think there are worse things to be brainwashed into than great music, don’t you think?

Couldn’t agree more, boy. So, to answer your question. About a month ago they start putting these flyers up, telling us that there’s an important session in the cafeteria coming up. They say it’s a way to connect and feel less lonely, ya know?

Jake nodded.

I didn’t want to go. Edna had passed a couple years before and I was still having trouble making sense of it all. I’d just stare out the window. Telling myself I’d stare until she came back. But it was your girl, Miranda. She’d come in at lunch and bring me my slop. Reginald laughed at this, and so did Edna.

And she’d sit down at the edge of the bed, and say Reg, you should really think about going to this session. I remember I said, why? What for? And she said, because Reg, there’s more life in you than just staring out the window. There may be a chance to smile again, to laugh again. You never know. And she kissed me on the top of the head and left.

Jake felt that guilt in his stomach again. Miranda was really something.

And I’ll take it the session proved to be a success? Jake asked, writing in his notebook.

It did. These two young girls did a presentation. They had a big screen behind them. One of them said they lost their mother recently to cancer. She said the pain of knowing that she’d never speak to her again was enough to make her want to give up. Then behind her, the screen lit up and this woman said, I’ll never leave you, Jess. I’m always right here.

Wow, was all Jake could muster. Wow

Yeah, you bet. Reginald said, I looked up and watched this young woman have a conversation with her mother. You see, you can program it to be like a loved one. As long as you have some audio or video, they can get the voice right. It can scan pictures. Not everyone wants their companion to be a loved one they lost, because it’s too painful, or doesn’t seem real. But I just needed to see Edna, whichever way I could.  Anyway, then afterwards, she had a sign up sheet and her and her partner did the rounds. I was still skeptical but Miranda looked at me from over on the right wing and winked. So, I signed up. A few days later, a woman comes in with this tablet and asks me how I’d like my companion to look.

Reginald grabbed the tablet and turned it towards Jake. There was the face of a  woman with short auburn hair. Deep blue eyes, and a happy smile with no trace of pain hidden behind.

Nice to meet you, Edna. Jake said, about to put his hand out before he realized and let out a short chuckle before placing it back on the bed. Uh, sorry. He said, it’s my first time meeting a Companion.

Oh, that’s no problem at all, dear. I’m happy you came by.

Jake looked over to see Reginald as happy as a clam. Looking at Edna, like he’d never loved anything more in his entire life.

I am, too.

They talked some more, and then Jake said, I should get going. I’d like to do a follow-up in a few weeks time and see how everything is going, if that’s alright?

I’d say that’s fine. What about you, Edna?

Sounds perfect. Edna said, still holding that smile.

You two really love each other, eh? Jake asked.

I’ve loved her since 1958. Reginald said. We met at the old King theater downtown. It’s gone now. But back then Main street was filled with people on the weekends. I had plans to go see Vertigo, you know the Alfred Hitchcock movie?

Jake knew it.

I was going with Betsy Reynolds.

Reginald looked over at Edna with a sly smile and waited for her to roll her over and sigh.

Yes, Reg. We know that Betsy Reynolds said yes to going to the movies with you. How did that end up anyway?

Edna laughed and so did Jake.

Yeah, well getting stood up was the best thing to ever happen to me, Reg said, reaching his hand out and rubbing the screen where Edna’s face was. I sat there waiting and waiting for Betsy. I was looking behind me every few seconds. Well, safe to say she never showed.

Then Edna started in.

I was with a friend of mine Daisy Walton. Daisy was with Shep Langley. She never told me she was bringing him because she knew I had it in for old Shep. So of course, I get there and I love Alfred Hitchcock, so I’m not gonna leave, you know? Anyway, they started smooching up a storm, and I’m missing vital information from the movie. So, I turn around and see Reginald sitting by himself. I knew Reginald from school. We might smile at each other in the hallway or something but we never so much as held a conversation. But there was something about that night. Something that made me think it was the right decision to make. And so I walked back, asked if the seat was taken and we watched Vertigo together.

And the rest is history. Reginald added.

That’s a beautiful story, guys. Thanks so much for sharing it. Jake said, getting up and heading for the door.

Reginald followed behind him. Be right back, sweetheart. He said.

Hey, kid, Reginald said at the door. Now, listen I don’t know what’s real or what’s not. I thought this was strange too. But I’ll tell you something. I get up in the morning and drink coffee. I stare out the window and smile. I fall asleep in deep conversation with a soothing voice and I wake up again, ready to be a part of the day. Ready to be a part of the world, you know? You’re young and you might not understand yet, but when you love someone so deeply, and they go away you stop living. Sure, you wake up and breathe and go through the motions, but there’s no life there. It’s just conscious dying. But when you have the chance to live again, especially at my age. You take it, kid. Because at the end of the day, a screen or skin, if I can talk to Edna, and laugh with her, I have a reason to live.

Is that on the record? Jake smiled.

You betcha.

Thanks, Reginald. See you in a couple of weeks.