I’m going to die soon. I’ve had this feeling for about a year now. I’ve split my head open twice, now, in my life. The first time was when I was about 4 or 5. I was running on a playground that used small pebbles as its cushiony flooring. My feet slid, I fell forehead first onto the rocks. The only other thing I remember is my dad used my favorite Barney shirt to apply pressure to the bloody wound. The second time was last year, in Philadelphia, at Mac’s Tavern. I went to the bathroom and did not anticipate the door to be made of the lightest wood imaginable. I used too much force and the sharp length flung right into the center of my forehead, splicing me open. It healed into a faint scar.

I can’t get rid of this feeling that I am going to die soon. It weighs down my heart. I don’t know how it’s going to happen. Part of me thinks it will be by my own hand. This feeling started about a year ago (it’s 2023 right now). Quite a few of my family died within a matter of months. I lost a grandmother, grandfather, a man who is not my father but may as well have been, and the most gruesome was a childhood pet.

My best theory, so far, is that when they all died they started following me around. The second I split my head open, some of their ghosts wormed their way into my body through a combination of said split head and immediately going on a haunted cemetery tour. It’s sad that this is my best theory. It’s sad that part of me does want to die soon.

I keep waiting for it. My life, it keeps getting harder. It all feels tied to money. I want to take someone out, buy them dinner. I cannot afford it. Some weeks I can barely afford a bus pass. I’m not on all my medication so going outside is a bit hard right now. It’s not that I don’t want to be on my medication, I cannot afford it. That being said, last year I was on all my medication and still had this feeling.

I’m going to die soon. The feeling is bubbling back up. I cried in the bathroom at work tonight. Looked at the cleaning supplies. I thought about hurting myself. The heat of metal popping against my skin, even now, sounds relieving. I just kept crying. I can’t do that. I will not do that. I want to, though. I don’t know if believe that I’m actually going to die soon. I just wish things were easier.

The six of us convinced ourselves that the steaming hot shower vapors would sweat away the alcohol which threatened our early morning exams, so we donned towels, rolled a joint, and sprawled ourselves across the bathroom floor’s mosaics.

The party was crashing until Carol (petite and pretty), with one plain white towel wrapping her torso and another her hair, slid her tiny feet down into my cattle boots and, without the merest trace of a smile began a graceful, if jocose “Chopiniana” while the rest of us accompanied her with Squeeze’s, “Black Coffee in Bed.”

The stain on my notebook

Remains all that’s left

Of the memory of late nights

And coffee in bed.

Oh, now she’s gone…

Three boys, three girls. If any of us somehow did not love Carol before that night, we certainly did ever-after.

Who needs lion tamers, or trapeze flights of fancy?

Call them all back, and send in the clowns!

When someone puts a loaded gun in their mouth and pulls the trigger, the human head opens up like a flower. This flower formation can happen from GSWs to knee-caps and even the groin area, but nothing compares to the head. It’s utterly horrifying to see, but maybe by the time you’re done reading this, you’ll see just how beautifully poetic it can be.

The only reason I know all of this is because I am so privileged to once have had an almost promising career in the medical field, and I was going to eventually specialize in Forensic Pathology after becoming a general surgeon. Fourteen years of schooling sounded like a fucking dream to the nerd I’ve always been. I was the youngest-ever candidate chosen for an exclusive summer program at University Medical when I saw my first and only self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. And just like myself, this person applied and was approved for Full Body Donation—so I was free to do hands-on study of his remains (thank you for your service, Sir).

The first requirements you need for that line of work is a strong stomach and an eager love for the science. However, to keep you there requires a genuine desire to help others. I am an advocate at heart, and the crux of what a pathologist does is give a voice to the voiceless. I’ve always been determined to leave this world in better shape than it was given to me, and this was my way of helping people. Studying those precious former lives under the most phenomenal doctors was by far the best professional experience of my life.

So, of the dozens of autopsies I have taken part in (both in person and through video/photo lecture), one of them, sadly, was this suicide I mentioned. He was a middle-aged male and the cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot into the mouth. It’s not the only suicide I worked on, but definitely the most visually memorable. The pressure a gunshot creates inside this air-tight, fluid-filled compression chamber we carry on our necks forces a human head to open up like the fully-bloomed petals of a lily. Any remaining teeth become forged with pieces of skull and brain because the force and heat of the explosion literally turns any hard matter into the shrapnel of a pressure cooker bomb. Ever observant as I was, they allowed me to remove a tooth I identified that was lodged into one of the petals of the human head flower.

Unfortunately, I never even made it to medical school because life threw too many punches at me at that time [*ba-dum-tee* formerly-abused humor anyone? Eh? Ehh?]. Just joking! I’ve always said, “If I couldn’t laugh at my life, I would’ve fucking killed myself a long ass time ago.” But aside from comedy saving my soul countless times, that suicide case is seared into my amygdala—from the sorrow and duty I felt toward this man and his family, down to the smell of his chewing tobacco still stuck to portions of his gums. Clearly enough to give anyone reservations about that second of bravery it takes to just fucking do it.

This was the case which also piqued my interest in the funeral business. Any Funeral Director/Embalming Specialist who can put that train wreck back together to resemble anything of the man his family and friends love so dearly, oof... to me, that is art of the highest caliber. Only the most skilled specialists in the world can pull that off well. Most families will opt for a closed casket in these cases, and you don’t get a “body funeral” if you’re signed up for Full Body Donation—but I wanted to be the one-of-a-kind talent who not only performed autopsies to the utmost perfection, but could give families their beloved back, looking beautiful, one last time.

Death wasn’t just my calling to help the world… Death was my life’s passion. I might still have a chance at the funeral business someday—that is, if it’s not me who ends up on that cold, stainless steel examination table first. Death has reappeared in my life, in a bad way, and that fucker is lurking ever closer, each day.

The majority of my physical and emotional scars belong to a single bad man who I will soon introduce y’all to in my darkest tale of woe. This man is solely responsible for the loss of my ability to continue my education and accomplish these dreams I once had. I had to plan nonstop for my escape because he was so cunning. And one day, the plan finally fell perfectly into place because he’d given himself a little too much heroin. He was completely zonked out and nodding off so heavily that I simply walked right out the front door. I told him I was off to send a gift to his mom, which he easily took me up on since he’d forgotten her birthday. He let go of my shirt and I slipped away. I escaped nearly 20 years ago, and to this day, he still finds ways to contact me online.

As long as this bad man stays away, I wish him no harm. But the videos he’s been sending me lately are what struck my desire to start writing again. Not only do I need to finally heal this pain once and for all, but I need to document what he did to me (just in case):

1) My beautiful body, gone.

2) My beautiful mind, gone.

3) My beautiful career, gone.

4) My beautiful life, FUCKING GONE.

This bad man has delusions that I will always be his property. I truly feel sorry for him, but I can never forget what he stole from me. How could I? His torture is all over my naked body every time I look in the mirror. The stalking and obsession seems to be growing, and because he was so smart, I can never call the cops on him again (long story).

So, my only choice was to finally agree to have a gun in our home full-time (specifically, when Mister is gone). Thanks to the Traumatic Brain Injury from this bad man, I’ve been a nervous, stuttering klutz ever since—so not only did it kill my once surgeon-steady hands and ballerina grace, naturally, I was always scared to be responsible for my own gun. However, I have too many lives depending on me now. She’s no Colt .45 with a pearl grip, but she’s definitely a stealthy bitch that’s more than willing to do the job. Her name is “Kiddo,” named after Uma Thurman from the Kill Bill films. Pretty fitting, don’t you think? Well, I’m proud of it—proud of my Kiddo ;)

If he ever finds me again, the play-by-play of what would happen is now also seared into my amygdala—from the fear I feel just imagining seeing him again, down to the smell of his black leather combat boots and body odor. I’ll know he’s here, and the memories will all come flooding back:

It took almost 1 decade to escape him for good. It took 2 decades to have the courage just to write about him. It took 3 decades to meet the first kind gentleman in my entire life. It took almost 4 decades from the day I was born to find self-love. He is NOT taking a single thing away from me again.

But this massive man with his roaring voice will surely be black-eyed and screaming at me. I need to remember what matters. I can’t get distracted or crumble into pieces. I need to remember what Mister taught me:

1) Just breathe and focus on your target, not the gun.

2) Keep your arms strong and grip tightly.

3) Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it.

4) Keep your eyes open, and never shoot to injure (only you can finish it).

If he tries to attack me or step foot into my home, it’s either him… or him. Turns out, I can still contribute to the morgue of my dreams, because Kiddo and I have unfinished business…

*click-click*

1) Heart: for stealing my life’s passion.

2) Lungs: for every time I couldn’t breathe.

3) Dick: for every time he forced me to my knees, screaming.

And just like the first time I escaped his captivity, the last words he ever heard from my beautiful voice, that I still have:

“Shhh it’s okay… go back to sleep…

I’m just going to send your mom some flowers…”

4) MOUTH: for my condolences.

Human Head Flower

A “Those Damn Enigmas” Production

Based on true events, but no one was harmed writing this story.

usually i flip over rocks

and find snakes

writhing around

disguising themselves in the brush

waiting til i exhale to strike

i wish they would strike before

before i think i’m safe

when i’ve found comfort

in admiring the leaves

under the rock

this time i think i might have found it

something good

tempting me with genuineness

that will really be fulfilled

maybe it’s real

I scrambled out of my body

twisted my threads into cords

shifted into something else

limbs too long, head too loud

an itch set too deep in these muscles of mine

to ever be caught ( touched, stroked,

embraced like a whimpering child )

my fingers reaching forward,

calling the moon and spitting seaweed from my mouth ( scratchy, wet,

blooming in the dark )

words like little pebbles

tumbling down,

once sharp, now smoothed out by fractured warmth

and the great blue ( crashing tides, millenniums of light-years

tucked away under the heart )

selfish thing, loving things, explosions and combustion

99 red balloons like mosaic tiles

rolling off my tongue,

moss green waves swelling between the ribs

emerald storms traced with gold

soft serpent snakes

made not out of hate but love

words and prayers

in the form of sea-glass

colored in the shades of my other soul

constantly reaching for the sun

breaking out of my cement-dried form ( blooming past the ceiling,

growing on eggshells and soil )

dancing more on things I used to, only tiptoe

Delphiniums crunch like rock candy

& daffodils taste like Reese’s cups.

Most of the flavors are obvious enough,

but the hibiscus outstands us. At a loss

we gossip about its petals & how we’d roll

them up so they’d make a jawbreaker

in our cheek, but that doesn’t feel right,

maybe they would taste like feet. I’ve kissed

other girls but none of them have let me laugh into

their mouths like you do. I’ve loved moments

but never my life & now look, I can say it’s nice,

I’ve never felt an ache so big that I couldn’t point to

a tulip & find meaning, or both of our lips coming

together as we crunch separate ends of a stem.

I was lonely in the best way.

A trail followed me down each road.

Its treasure wasn’t mine but I cared for it.

Every lover I once loved dropped some dusty thing:

a notebook, knife shavings, a holiness, me.

& isn’t want just collecting belongings?

Which is why I adore people crying. They drop

pieces of themselves right in front of me, & I can see

which pieces they’re missing. Usually

requited desire. God I’m weightless.

We’re all just hoping the darkness parts itself

on our drunk walks home, aren’t we?

We’re all seeing the shape of lonely right in front of us

& traipsing through its cloud trying to grasp it

with both our hands. Life is about learning

possession, I’m sorry. To intimately know

your own sadness as magic. To own a body.

And once again I find myself back on the same road walking aimlessly with no destination to reach to.  

A highway where there is no existence of light, life, love, laughter and loyalty.  

A highway where is no evidence of pureness, righteousness, spirituality or God.

A highway that reeks of darkness, death, hatred, sadness and betrayal.  

A highway where there is no escaping from but doomed forever. 

A hypnagonic state of mind I cannot seem to free myself from no matter how hard I try.  My cries for help goes unanswered despite both my hands raised begging.

My body aches from battle wounds that never seem to heal. My bare feet bleeds from walking on hell’s road garnished with spikes and broken glass. My bruised hands hurt from shielding the impact of my falls. 

The only sounds and vibrations that continuously keep me company are the shuffling of feet coming from the lucipherous demons who continuously dance around me. 

The sniggering laughter each time I fall from being shoved by one of them.

My one wing luminiferous angel fought hard and died a heroic death.  As I held him in my arms and wept, he begged for my forgiveness for failing in his warrior's oath and duty to protect me.

A slow and lingering death the warrior bearer of light died from as I watched the lucipherous demons greedily feast and suck the energy out of him. 

“Narasoma” they chanted in union as they drank from the nectar of immortality.  Each time the Cup of Life was filled and gulped from, I died a hundred deaths.

Each pain and suffering inflicted on my dying angel shot through my body a thousand times more for our souls were still bound by the spiritual umbilical cord.

Whispers of immortality echoed in the air.  The lucipherous demons watched in glee as my earthly blood was used to sharpen the blade.

The chanting became more and more frenzied as the sword was slowly raised high.

I looked at my dying angel for the last time and asked “Why me? What sins have my soul committed for God to have handed down such a severe sentence? 

He whispered, “You have been loved.”

The sky flashed, yellow, red, bruise-blue, sick-green, pink, yellow. The sky was burning.

A young woman, with spiky orange hair wrestled into a braid, lifted her gaze to the horizon and watched the towers crumble. Beneath her feet, cobble stones cracked. The forest behind them lost its green. Leaves fell and faded into ash before reaching the ground. Behind her and standing beside a well was a wrinkled little man. He held a knotted staff in one hand and wore a cirious expression.

“Magic eats the Rivera.” He lifted a knobby finger to point. “Fascinating.” Three hundred feet away a river flowed, sludge slow. From mud and branches, the color of gray and dead things, a massive figure leaned into the river. It swirled, made of wind and eyes that opened from nowhere and closed back into nothing. The magic shifted shape every moment shedding and gaining arms, legs, heads, mouths, and thousands of teeth. It sucked up the water and everywhere it looked the world lost its color. Its eyes came up to the old man and orange haired woman. The woman’s hair was sucked white and her taned face paled. The old man’s blue robes rippled and became gray. But his hair was already white. For a moment it swirled in a confused wandering way. Then it formed a voice that sounded like a thousand bird songs. Words came and blurred and then solidified.

“I can make you afraid.” It said like a gleeful child. “If I eat you.”

“Curse my rat of a father. Aldric, this place is doomed.” She said, the words heavy in her mouth.

“You must go.” Aldric said. “I will hold open the way.” He looked into the well and pressed his lips together. She turned and her armor clinked. Her hand rested on the hilt of her gray sword. The creature of wild magic stared at them as it drank the river. They would still be there when it finished. The woman went to Aldric and stared into the bottomless well.

“Will you follow?” She asked. The old man smiled his yellow teeth now pearl white.

“Oh mage’s daughter, I have sworn to protect you. If I make it through, I make it through. But prepare to continue on your own.”

“Very well soldier.” She began to pull of her armor. She hesitated then unbuckled her belt and let the sword clatter on the groud. Even sounds became mutted, sucked into the cavernous hunger that the magic had become. She stood on the rim of the well and looked back, not at the magic nor the confused colors of the sky, nor the distant ruins of a palace but into the face of Aldric.

“You are twice the man my father was.” She smiled and then dove headfirst into the well. The sun went out.

She swam through black water. Her heart pounding. She felt horibbly light. Bare without her amor. Gravity pulled her deeper. Her lungs complained gently, grew louder, and began to scream for air. She grew increasingly lightheaded and her limbs numbed. She commanded her legs to keep kicking.

I will die of old age. She thought fiercely. Then gravity flipped and stopped pulling her arms and tugged on her legs to go back the way she had come. A snort of relief let lose bubbles that fled down past her fingertips. A circle of dim light appeared far before her. She swam down and broke the surface. She was up again, in the air. She caught a glimps of pale morning sky through the opening of the well. She laughted and choked on sweet air. Tears streams down her temples as she treaded water.

“I’m alive!” She shouted gasping. “Alive!” There was hardly enough room for her to float so she reached as high as she could and touched a section of square stone that lined the well. The colors swarmed and blimped. The stone vanished leaving an emtpy place. She grabed on with both hands and pulled herself up. She created another gaping space for her to stand on. In this manner she began to climb the sheer wall of the well. The water erupted below her. Aldric took in air in huge gulps. He had left his staff and his heavy robes and now shivered in a thin tunic and trousers.

He threw a fist into the air and spoke in panting breaths. “I made it.”

“Aldric, I never doubted you.” She said and turned away so he could not see her expression. She climbed the rest of the way up and hooked her elbow over the rim of the well. She rolled over the stone and fell several feet to a grassly ground. She still heaved for breath but creaked to her feet and peered into the well. Aldric followed slower and she stuck her hand out to help him out. He tumbled to the earth beside her.

“I’m too old for this.” He panted.

“And far too young to die.” She responded. She took a step back and held out her hands so she could see the well between them. She narrowed her gaze and clapped her hands together. The well slambed into itself and vanished leaving only an empty hole in the ground. She dusted her hands off.

“That’ll keep anything from following.” She said regretfully. “No way back now.” She turned, set her hands on hips, and surveyed the meadow of wildflowers before her.

"There is always a way back." Aldric muttered.

“Which world did you chose for us?” She asked. “I don’t recognize it.”

Aldric stood and sniffed loudly. His hands patted his pockets and found a twisted pair of glasses.

“They didn’t fall out.” He said wonderingly. Then he set them on his nose and peered around. “I’m not sure.” He began. She glared at him. “Now I had to pick a place in a hurry.” He said waving a hand defensively. “But the good news is, it is very similar to our own world. I made sure of that. More similar I think than the ones I’ve shown you.”

She felt relief build in her chest. “Good, I’m not sure I want to live in a world full of factories, nor a world made of water and houses made of ships, nor that forsaken jungle world where the natives ate eachother.”

He smiled. “Well, I showed you the strangest ones I had found. Didn’t think you would be as intrested in a normal world. But now we can make the best of this world and try to blend in become part of the commen folk.”

She turned and looked up at the sky that was slowly turning blue. She shivered and looked down at her hands. She turned to Aldric.

“We lost our colors.” She said saddly. He blinked and held out his gray hands.

“By golly, so you’re right.” He said. She tugged a strand of her hair lose from its braid and stared at the white strand. He came beside her and patted her sholder. “We kept our lives. Besides I don’t recall anything about me swearing to protect your colors.” He said in a cheerful tone. She glowered at him and flung the strand of hair away.

“Very well then.” She watched the old man walk towards a copse of trees. “Where are you going? Do you see a road?” She asked.

“First order of buissness is to cut a new staff.” He put a hand to his bent back. “I’m old in case you forgot.” She followed him and her gaze caught her washed gray boots. She sat down and pulled them off. Her feet were pasty white. She sighed.

“At least they match the rest of me.” She muttered. “Hey Aldric! What if,” she hesitated. “What if other pathfinders came through?! What if a devourer makes it here? What if some of them heard the things my father said?! What if the same thing happens here?!”

“What sort of things did your father say?” Aldirc said. She stood and walked with her boots in one hand. She had half a mind to see if she could tan back into color.

“My kind of magic works by creating a devouring thing that collapses in on itself. Yet my father taught a way to make it reverse and to collapse out. He wanted to use it for war and claimed it would fade away after a time. Can’t someone here do the same thing?” She clentched her fist. “This time, if it happens I can stop it. I will stop it.”

“Or we will find a different world to go to.” Aldirc said without looking back.“Though, I think, this is one of my favorite worlds. It reminds me of home. It would be a shame to let it be devoured.”

A bummble bee ambled across her path and she paused to watch it pick a flower among dozens. Her expression eased.

“Whatever you say, I want my colors back.” She said. “I doubt we will blend in without them.” She said to Aldric’s back.

He waved her off. “We’ll manage.”

To be continued:

I am planing on turning this story into a Novella and publishing it in the book store. (For like a $1.00) Will update when I do.

Gold crafts Day in filigree

Dips each page of destiny

Gilds the edge of papyrus reeds

Bound upon the azure seas

Fire flickers; whispers, few

Bronze wipes tears with kisses, hues

Onyx casket; veils the view

Day, laid to rest in Prussian blue

Silver traces moonlight’s wedge,

Cresting Cosmos’ castle ledge

Spilling diamonds, beveled edge

Hope alights Horizon’s hedge

Phosphene stars form pillars, beams

Platinum shadows wake my dreams

Upon

the precipice, I lean.....

\

\ ’Til

threads

— of

— — Gold

— stitch

Evening’s

/ seams

/