They move in silence above us, where the vacuum eats any sound before a single wave can propagate. They're coming. Our leaders know, but they don't know how to tell us. So they inform us in drips and drabs. They want to let us down easy.

First, deny.

Second, rationalize via weather.

Third, humiliate those coming forward.

Fourth, selectively release isolated incident footage.

Fifth, acknowledge, but keep it vague.

Sixth, seed the news broadcasts, preferably right before the human interest story at the end.

Seventh...there is no seventh. They're here, and they're no longer moving in silence.

They are making a lot of noise.

Every day I move in silence. I am alone. I see many people living their lives as I walk home. Eating in groups, shopping with friends, holding hands, dad's holding sons, mom's talking with daughters: people connecting all around me. I don't understand this world, but I envy the idea of it. I eat alone in the morning, walk to the bus I take to work, work in a meaningless job that requires little interaction, take the return bus to the last stop, and walk to my small apartment, to eat alone again. My apartment building has other tenants, but the turnover is great, and it seems a tiring and useless act to try to relate to the casual. Most of them that I’ve seen look as fatigued with their own repetitive lives as I feel.

I was abandoned early in life, leaving me without conventional social skills; without proper cheerleaders? supporters? encouragers? that live in that imaginary world I envy. I am left without the necessary drive to seek more. I exist to survive; I survive to exist. I am a stray in a busy society. I blend into the background and go unnoticed.

Every day I move in silence...among you.

Giving up never feels as good as you imagine it would.

The dejection sets in further than you ever could have imagined. Mirrors become something you avoid like a vampire trying to day walk.

The death knell in your mind is only confirmation of what you already suspected. Perhaps what you already knew. You were too weak to make it. Sabotage was a familiar friend and you can't quite tell if you're doing it right now but goddamn, if your rationalizations don't help you figure that shit out.

I used to think giving up was brave and shitted on people who tried to say it was cowardly to go out the hard way. Now I realize that it is neither cowardice nor bravery. It is unavoidable, omnipotent and the only path forward once a normal human being suffers to the point that they come to the decision -- well. It is the only decision.

People don't arrive at the precipice for no reason. They don't come without transportation. The vehicle that transports you you've likely known your whole life. Perhaps your dad, your mother. You grandparents, or your uncles and aunts. Perhaps they ALL chipped in.

Now they're just mad that you dented it, and that you took it over to the edge of this cliff barely managing not to total it in the ravine below. As you hang over the precipice, the only concern anyone will have is that the rope you're tethered to on the solid ground is fraying.

I lost control. And that's all she wrote. But then, no joke, I saw poetry in motion. Reality rhyming while I'm mindful of minding business big or small. I came to crawl out of my ego-crib, proceed to promptly sit up straight, witness to reality demonstrate its way with the Way. Okay? And here's what the jam-band would say. It's all atoms dancing, electrons prancing, gluons laughing - but then keep diving, your scuba gear binding, you will get to finding, that there's no separation, just pure space-ness, and upon the amazement and elation that mind-brush will be painting, you will feel the utter and absolute opposite of anxious.

he felt a bit guilty

about it

but just

a bit

He knew

it was wrong to

be happy

when father came home

drunk

and stupid

but it was the only time

when mother

came to sleep

in his room,

"because your father

needs to cool

off," as he put it

It was a good deal

because she

slept in his bed

and let him

suck on

her breasts

and told him

stories

"When I was your age,"

tonight's

story went,

"I slept in a closet when

daddy came

home drunk. And my only

friend there

was a hanged tie

that looked like

a snake. I would stand on

my toes

and whisper in its ear, tell

it about my day,

about how my life

sucked

and how daddy beat me

and mommy

didn't want me around either.

The snake tie listened.

It listened to

anything, everything I

had to tell it.

And for me that

meant the world. I fell in

love with the

snake. He was red. Crimson.

And shortly after

we began kissing in the

dark. It was

exciting. The snake

smelled like

my father so I eventually

got him down from

there and put him

around

my neck

and morning would find

me with his tail in my

mouth. It was

enough to make

me happy at that time.

But after my daddy died,

mommy didn't

even want to let me keep

his tie.

I had to find something else,

so I was determined

to find something

better.

I began stealing clothes

from my mother's new

boyfriend.

They too had a unique

smell, but

it wasn't as good as

daddy's.

And it wasn't long until

he caught me.

Well, I told nothing but

the truth. Said that

I stole his clothes because I

liked the way they smelled.

He was kinder than

my daddy

so he didn't mind sharing

his smell with me

from up close.

By inviting me to sleep

in his bed every time

mother worked her

night shift.

I was pretty spoiled as

a child.

Maybe that's why I'm

spoiling you

now.

But you'll grow out of

this. Soon

mommy's company and

stories

and breasts will interest you

no longer."

"No," he said. "That'll

never happen."

"Oh, you're cute

when you deny. But

I know better.

I give you... Um, maybe two

more years of this,

no longer.

You'll be fifteen years

old, darling.

Another boy entirely."

"I don't wanna be

another boy."

She laughed

softly. "Oh, don't worry,

darling. You're

gonna be fine. I'll always

be with you. Even if you go far,

far away,

I will never tire to

wait patiently for your

return.

By the way, d' you know the

story about

the prodigal son?"

"What's prodigal mean?"

"Ah, close your eyes

then. I'll

tell you."

***

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the bus seat creaked and roared

with protest

as he sat down

He ignored it

and looked out the window

It won’t be that long of a journey

but it’ll be the

most painful one

He was going home

After all the years spent chasing dreams

“So, have you made it?” they will ask

“Made it?” he’ll say. “Didn’t you see I

came here by bus? Does that

look to you like I made it? Does

that scream ‘Bestselling Author’ to you?”

But of course

they’ll just ask to be nice

or to make conversation

or simply as a means to

reaffirm their ‘I told you!’

Or maybe even to mock

It was 18:22 by the time the bus

arrived at his stop

He didn’t get out

From 09:00 to 18:22

it’s a lot of time to think

about all you haven’t thought about

in 26 years

Still

he had more thinking to do

before getting off that bus

***

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Dear prosers prosettes and proseters. in the past few weeks I have been terribly unproductive, feeling mostly blank and bland. I have written very little and cannot bring myself to even read much. you may say that it's just the world being particularly nasty, or the cold that I can't seem to shake, it could be the exhaustion of work, or the worries.

You might say all that... but no it isn't any of it.

you see...

this is not the first time that this has happened. it's called the Astral Vortex.

I'm trapped in the Astral vortex again!!.

there!

I admit it.

the fucking vortex.

spinning and crushing, squeezing and stretching, all on a plain of existence that I have no control over, but can painfully feel the results of all too well.

And so I have decided to write about this awful, awful mess of a thing that whorles around and sucks out any will to do anything.

it is quite possible that you are also enthralled by the Astral Vortex, and perhaps could better deal with this curse, or at least draw comfort from the misery of others. because enjoying from other people's suffering is what it's all about...

1) I try occasionally reading what others write. and I can't help but feel that what i put out SUCKS!!!

well, duh..

that's right! the vortex takes away the Mental padding that is normally layered upon the inner self, to sheild against the realization that i don't have anything like talent, or basic knowledge of human languages to make for passable writing. even worse, older things that I have written, are by far better than the crap I put out more recently. it's not much better, but it is at least something. comparatively speaking, of course. it is a wonder to me how I managed to summon the words and string them up, placing them in correct functionality and purpose. if not tastefully so.. i feel a need to try and understand, how i was able to do some things, when those skills are now long forgotten. an archeologist struggling to understand how the pyramids were built, at least knows the materials that were used and the laws of physics that governed this effort. i do not.

incidentally, this of course is also a poor analogy, as that the pyramids were monumental acheivments of man's will , determination and ingenuity.

again, this is the vortex spinning all that pointless self deceit away, and stripping you bare of all protection. it was never good, or well - structured. I just believed it was. and this is certainly NOT an acheivment!

2) the vortex often takes me to a place where I have to face the hungry eyes of the evil ones.

This happens about every morning; the methods inwhich the vortex transports me to that place of misery is something I shall never really know. but a quick glance at those evil ones.. oh, the horror..

in any case, the vortex relishes the agony and frustration. it feeds on that rich, bitter ,

sap. and peers at you greedily. and you know that there... is...no...escape..

3) Whenever I make some feeble attempt at resistance, the vortex finds a direct or indirect means of thwarting my efforts.

it is very creative and resourceful in anticipation of my plans and it has a wide range of ways and endless resources to intercede, interdict, frustrate , distract, confuse, or crush (if need be) my efforts.

they say madness is trying something that fails again and again. but they do not know about the Astral Vortex. it's easy to talk about doing other things, when you don't have a temporal funnel sucking things over your head.

4) The world seems to be developing all kinds of stuff I have absolutely NO UNDERSTANDING ABOUT.

things are moving very fast now, suspiciously so...

5) There is a truck that is stacked with massive sacks, right in front of me. it is filled with SUPPOSEDLY garden trimmings. all kinds of branches and leaves sticking out.

yeah, right. the ability to notice that something is off is something the Astral Vortex takes last. i can't claim to know what is REALLY hiding inside those sacks, but it's nothing good...

6) Rotationary Symmetry doesn't really exist.

there!

draw a ' Z' on a notepad, turn the note a 180° turn. is it really the same? did the note end up in EXACTLY the same position?

didn't think so!!!

7) Overeating.

mostly crap. but the point is that the Astral Vortex doesn't really mind the quality. it really only cares about tonnage.

8) Other people sense the despair!!

frankly, it isn't that surprising. they all have this gouch kind of look. this disdain, saying basically "what? so what if you have the Astral Vortex? boo hoo...you know, i've got troubles too, buddy" . others prey on your eagerness to find refuge and try extorting you and shaking you down.

9) I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream. That's my nightmare.

yes, it's not original, but duplication is the sincerest form of mitosis .

10) Moss covers the boulder that once was the gateway. the scepter of T'rang is not in my hand, so there really isn't much i can do about it.

if you ever thought the opening of the great portal of Zaggorla would be as easy as saying "open seseme" then you need to get your head examined. the great portal depends on so much to function and open that it would be about as likely to get the thing open as to get some random construction material and dynamite, blow the thing up and get a type-C life-form compatible outhouse. it COULD happen but it almost undoubtedly won't.

now. i do not know how this is going to end. it could be that the vortex will trap me inside some dimentional dungeon, or that it will just move on to filthier pastures. my spelling will never recover, that's for sure, and the weight i gained in my anguish is most likely here to stay. scars, and landing rings, severed tentacles and ossified hopes. i wish i could offer you, dear reader, some hope, if you are reading this tripe. but the very fact that this is arranged in a shopping list just crystalizes how low this could go.

if you are the chosen one, i urge you! the time is neigh! go forth and vanquish the overlords of Gar-Valoom and bring the virpal scepter forth. just hurry up , please.

other than

weirded

the fuck out

she didn’t know how

to feel about it

so she read the

words again

SO GLAD TO SEE YOU

ALIVE AND FINE,

LOVE!

ALWAYS KNEW MY DAUGHTER

WILL MAKE IT BIG IN

THIS SMALL WORLD.

LOVE,

DADDY

The words were written

with a black marker

on a $100 bill

that someone threw at

her in the

club

while she was

stripping on the pole

Could’ve been a shitty

prank

but $100 was a bit

too much to spend

for laughs

She tried to

remember the

faces of all the men

who gathered around

her and howled

as she did her number

but they were

simply too many

and too bland

Later that night

she asked the

management to remove

private lap dances

from her list of

services for a while

and

the request was denied

Well, when you make

it big

in a small world

you either carry the

weight of fame

on your shoulders or

get crushed

At least the

money bought a good

dinner for

her little daughter

and the two cats

***

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I wrote my first historical fiction when I was eleven, about 15 handwritten pages that each contained a chapter with a different narrator. All lived around Johnstown, Pennsylvania in 1889, and each witnessed an event attached to the flood that destroyed the town. The sixth-grade teacher who oversaw the writing club was deeply impressed. That story, now lost, represents my first writing. I choose it for my origin because I had never before put so much effort into a piece of writing, or experimented with a narrative in any way, or put written anything I would later remember. Since my first novel (in-progress) is also historical fiction, recollecting my Johnstown flood story also feels like drawing a circle.

It is a circle with several missing pieces and drawn over many years, though. In high school I wrote some poetry and in early college some short stories (hopefully unremembered by anyone, as they were awful), and then I did not write anything for a long time. I never took a creative writing class. Five or six years after graduation I picked at an abortive attempt at a novel for a few months; a couple years after that I labored on an essay that I submitted to a few journals, but I understood too little about both writing and publication to succeed. In the years after that piece, I dabbled with ten-minute plays.

In all these phases, I hoped for an editor to accept my work for publication. I have never expected to make a living with writing – I am a teacher, and happily so – but I wanted validation and an audience. Those desires, in hindsight, missed the point of writing because I valued the goal above the process.

Writing has provided me with a place of escape and control. I resumed writing in October 2019, and when March and the pandemic struck, writing became vital in ways I had not expected. It provided me with an ongoing project when so many aspects of life had ceased, and with time eddying endlessly and case counts swallowing attention and energy, writing presented a solvable puzzle. A sentence must be rearranged, a paragraph shortened; a bit of description must slow the pacing of the dialogue, or a word switched to further shade the phrase’s meaning. A story is unlocked one absorbing step at a time, and entering into this work with all my mind brings a clarity and a freshness that I treasure.

My writing goals have changed. I received the publication I sought: I’ll confess that valuing the process over the prize became a great deal easier with that particular primate wrested from my back. I have stories and poems still looking for homes and currently under review by editors; I hope they find the light of day soon, but beyond my willingness to prep more submissions, that is out of my control. I have 68,000 words of a projected 90,000 words of that novel written, and I want to finish. I anticipate writing the final sentences of The Ghosts on the Glass early in the summer of 2022. I’ll spend the remainder of the summer editing and sending out my first queries to agents. I do not know what will happen, but I will take my shot. Perhaps stars will align and a press will publish my novel; perhaps my search will end a couple years and dozens of rejections later, and I will publish myself. Regardless, the experience has been a rewarding one, and I will have received no less pride and no fewer moments of calm and clearness from my writing.