Shhhh.

Listen.

Do you hear them? That faint laughter, like the burble of water over rocks. That beckoning whisper, like the rustle of leaves as the slightest wind stirs them into an improvised dance. That conspiratorial murmur, like the coo of a mother bird.

Take a step - careful - watch where you put your weight. You’ll scare them away if you breathe too loudly. They are scared of you, you see. You aren’t like them and they aren’t like you. Here - try inhaling through your nose, exhaling through your mouth, expanding your chest with each breath like you are allowing the world a brief moment of respite in the warmth of your ribcage. Breathe as if you were standing in the roiling stomach of a blue whale, as if the slightest dissonance in your lungs is enough to dash you away in a whirlpool of half-eaten fishes and ocean salt.

There.

Now, listen. Listen as if you are not you, but one with that bubble of laughter, that whispered sigh, that lilted murmur.

Now, look. Look as if your eyes were made of glass and your eyelids gauze and your eyelashes ferns. Search for the glyphs in the dapplings of sunlight. Seek out the murals of tattooed history inked into the worn skin of the oak trees. Gaze into the shallow puddle of dew at your feet, and do not look away, even when a ripple paddles through its glassy surface, even as the woods remain still around you.

Now inhale and exhale. Allow the musk of the forest to fall away. Allow the delicate, probing hairs inside your nose to pursue that wisp of perfume beneath the cloying veil of woods. Do you smell that? The rich mushroom stew. The airy buttery croissant. The tang of salt and iron and fire in a pheasant’s leg.

Now, stop listening and looking and sniffing. Just wait. Keep your ears and eyes and nose open, flex your fingers to remind yourself that you haven’t fallen away into the ether between worlds, and wait.

And if you are lucky, if you are patient, if you are willing to believe the senses that lie beyond your five physical biases, perhaps they will allow you a glimpse of them and theirs.

“Thank you Daddy” Juliette softly spoke under breath.

“You’re welcome pumpkin. Do you want me to stay awhile?”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight sweetheart. See you tomorrow?”

The ocean washed over the beach. The tears in Juliette’s eyes welled up. The ocean receded, back into the darkness as the sun set into the dark and stormy seas. She slowly closed the door without looking into his eyes, and locked every lock, deadbolt and chain. It took him a minute, but she could hear the wood of his shoes scuffle away from the door, as though he leaned in to listen, but sat down on the porch and stayed for awhile. Shot and killed at a traffic stop just last week, her late husband’s funeral wasn’t easy for anyone, as many feared for her, for she was the only one there who hadn’t wept. For the first time in her five years of marriage, she had the house all to herself, as the warmth that emanated from the glass of their portraits became as cold as an empty museum.

As she trudged up the staircase, at the top of the stairs, she could see her mother still standing on the ledge of the bridge, as the wind violently whipped her hair across her back. With each step, there was a creak she hadn’t noticed until now, as they soon began to fade into the howling winds that blew the leaves from the trees, much like the sound of the ocean receding.

The green rug that ran down the hall felt like a mile through the black nylon beneath her feet, as she slipped off her black shoes, muddied from the cemetery lawn. Though no lights in the house were on, she could see her reflection in the passing picture frames, but could no longer recognize who she was.

She hadn’t touched his side of the room since… His pile of jeans and shirts he threw towards the hamper and missed, still remained saturated with an essence she once despised, but now dare not disturb to preserve a fleeting scent that had long begun its decay. Standing there in the dark of the room, looking down at all the vivid colors that once brought her comfort, smeared into a tormenting grayscale of numbness. Perhaps it wasn’t just her mother standing on that ledge that day, but a part of herself as well. As the walls began closing in, it became more and more difficult to breathe, as she began to hyperventilate, but could not feel her lungs burning or the cavalry in her heart racing, pounding their hooves in her brain like a thunderous migraine, drowning out the sound of her cell phone incessantly buzzing in her clutch, as she held her late husband’s gun to her head and pulled the trigger...

The steel hammer of the gun smashed against the casing and primer in the chamber. As the gunpowder ignited, the bullet launched as though it were the last mission to space, screaming an ear piercing ringing as it reverberated throughout the resounding steel of the barrel, exploding out of the barrels end…

Temporal Lobe (right hemisphere)

Assists with the perception and interpretation of sound. Plays a role in the recognition of objects and visual memory.

Through the blinding light, Juliette could barely see where the ear piercing sound came from. It was the priest’s lapel mic as he stepped back from the microphone on the podium. A gale of wind blew out her candle’s flame. As she looked back into the pews, she could see her father, and the empty seat next to him as he smiled, staring through the tears in his eyes. Roman took her by the hand and relit her flame with his. As the priest spoke, together they took their flames and lit the ceremony candle in the priest’s hands. Before the priest could finish the latin words, the front door of church slammed wide open as another strong wind burst in to object. All Juliette could see was the empty seat next to her father, as a torrentuous rain began to pour in the front door, and pelted the marble of the cathedral floor...

Frontal Lobe (right hemisphere)

Suppresses socially inappropriate behavior. Predicts consequences of actions. Plays a role in the choice between good and bad actions.

One hundred capsules of partially digested sertraline hydrochloride and fluoxetine showered the toilet water along with her vomit… Roman held her hair back and pulled the strays one by one from her clammy back. He received repeated calls on his radio, and hesitated to answer. The dispatcher began to inflect aggravated concern. She wanted to whisper “I’m sorry” under her breath, but her throat went numb as the stomach acid ate at the lining of her vocal chords. The chatter on the radio repeatedly asked for his location. He flushed the toilet, let go of her and answered the call. When her escape flushed away into a whirlpool and swallowed, all that remained was her reflection. As the toilet filled, she could see her regret getting closer and closer, staring deep into the dilated void in her eyes, as the power went out in their apartment.

Parietal Lobe (right hemisphere)

Assists with the interpretation of touch. Plays a role in the knowledge of numbers and their relationships. Helps with understanding objects, shapes, and space.

The glass of the mirror felt cold as she looked into her reflection, judging her own appearance and choice of clothing. She flipped on the lightswitch, abhorred by what she saw, turned the light back off, immediately opened the medicine cabinet and located her prescription. She became confused as she shook the container and noticed only a single pill as it rattled in the plastic.

Parietal Lobe (left hemisphere)

Goose down feathers had once again took their flight as Juliette slashed the bedsheets, pillows, and mattress, found a cologne bottle Roman had never worn for her, and smashed it against the closet mirror, where it exploded and shattered the glass, fracturing her reflection into a million pieces. Knife in hand, she stood there amidst the madness of broken hangers, emptied drawers, and sunlight which peered through the ripped and torn curtains, illuminated off the shards of glass that surrounded her bleeding bare feet like a disco ball, and faded away as the sound of thunder shook the apartment, and the clouds put the sun to sleep. The bulb of a lamp, that laid broken amongst the chaos on its side, flickered what remained of its life.

Neocortex (left hemisphere)

In humans, the neocortex is involved in higher functions such as sensory perception, generation of motor commands, spatial reasoning and language. Over time, information from certain memories that are temporarily stored in the hippocampus can be transferred to the neocortex as general knowledge.

Looking past her six year old reflection of the backseat car window, frozen in a moment of time, beyond the tail light of the car next to theirs that went out, beyond her father running from their car through heavy traffic, beyond the car accidents and concerned citizens that gathered, and the officers that couldn’t get through, she could see her mother standing barefoot on the ledge of the bridge.

Surreal as it may be, she was now standing outside of the car, as though she were standing in this memory looking in on her life, this thought, tucked away in the vast reaches of her mind. Only here, and only now, would she be able to reach her, she thought. Although it would be futile, and the outcome would never change, her impulses urged and compelled her curiosity to that ledge. As she ran for her, the bridge seemed to physically lengthen, as her mother gently began her descent, getting further and further away from her, as existence began to reanimate in this nightmare, slowly. In one moment she was running in the same place silently screaming her mother’s name as she disappeared over the ledge and out of sight, and in the blink of an eye she had her arms wrapped around her mother’s back holding her tight, as they both began their two hundred and forty five foot journey to the water’s edge. As she moved around her mother to get a closer look, she saw her own face on her mother’s body. She wasn’t sad, she looked calm, at peace, and almost happy. In another blink, her mother was no longer there, and it was just her, as she hit the face of the ocean, with hers.

She awoke crouched naked in darkness, with her face between her knees, and her arms holding her legs, surrounded by millions of others doing just same and wailing throughout this hell. She couldn’t see past her own hair that draped her face, nor would she want to or try, as a light, a warm and familiar feeling seemed to illuminate her body and permeated her eyelids, where she could no longer hide. Although she could feel the cold muddy ground beneath her feet, saturated with insects and bugs that crawled out and in between her toes, she could also feel familiar arms hold her close and lifted her from this place, like a feather…

It was bright. Behind her closed eyelids, she could feel all of the colors of the sun in all of their vibrance. She could hear the ocean waves crashing not far from them, coming in closer until she felt it splash against her ankles, where the feeling of the things that crawled between her toes became the fleeting feeling of sand and water washing them away, as her tears finally fell from her eyes. Roman’s hand held the back of her head, as he gently tucked his fingers into her hair. She couldn’t believe it, and dared not open her eyes, afraid that this dream would end, until she felt his lips on her forehead. She betrayed herself as her eyes opened and saw him aglow holding her close, as though he could never, nor would ever, let her go again. She began to convulse as she cried, and all the tears she had ever held back, and all of the emotions she had ever held in, fell from her face and washed away as the ocean receded. After a long while, when the last tears had come and gone, Roman wiped what remained from her face and held her cheeks with his gentle hands, leaned in and kissed her on the lips. Surrendered by this overwhelming feeling that filled her heart with all of the colors of his. She couldn’t help herself, and closed her eyes once more, took to the tips of her toes that just sank into the sand beneath her feet, keeping her as she was. She could hear her heart beating as though it was in her ears, and then she could hear his beating until both began to beat in unison. The ocean washed over their feet once more. As his lips left hers, she could no longer feel him holding her. She opened her eyes, and he had gone, as the ocean receded back towards a sun that seemed it would never set. Then she heard it...

It was soft at first, but as she placed her hands over her stomach she could feel it, beating, until it became all that she could hear, it became all that she could feel, it became the only purpose worth living for redeeming…

As the bullet exited the other side of her skull, it took with it, pieces of her mind that she would never get back, just to let the light in, as it stuck into the wood beyond the drywall.

She opened her eyes after some time had passed in that state of flux, drenched in her own blood as it soaked into her father’s coat, with the pistol still in her grip.

“I’m sorry Daddy.”

He shushed her softly with tears in his eyes, “It’s okay pumpkin, everything’s going to be okay.” He held her close, threw the gun from her hand, and rocked her gently as the song of sirens came closer and closer. She closed her eyes once more, placed her hands over her stomach and felt another smaller heart beating within. She smiled as this feeling of joy washed over her and did not recede.

You

were all born with poles and nets in hand

to help you fish

for compliments

when all the while

I’ve been setting razor sharp traps

to help me hunt

for all of the reasons

I’m not enough.

“A round earth you say?” Philip Rotter clapped his friend on the back. “I’m very sorry good sir, but you must be straight down loony!”

Serin glared at Philip before letting out a small sigh. “I’ll take it that you don’t believe in the little fairy world that lives in my back garden?”

Philip adjusted his glasses, and looked at his friend. Serin was six feet tall with blue creamy skin and piercing green eyes, he mostly wore a suit, a bowler hat, and a pocket watch. He looked almost exactly like any other gentleman in London. Except for the green eyes of course; those made him popular with the ladies. Philip patted him again. “Everyone has a little fairy world in their back garden, you’re 20 years too late on that discovery.”

Serin groaned and checked his pocket watch. “Has anyone taught the little fairy world democracy yet?”

Philip shook his head. “Modern science hasn’t come that far, but I don’t think you‘d have enough time before the Royal Scientists Meeting.”

“I know. I know.” Serin was supposed to bring something in to show the Royal Scientists by tonight, and so far all he’d landed on in the last two years was the discovery of fairies in his back garden, and a theory that the world was round, not square like the normal tradition. He was at a loss. “Hey Philip?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think one of your friends can kidnap me for a few days?” Serin stopped walking to avoid being run over by a horse covered carriage, and he took this opportunity to glance at Philip.

Philip was stroking his beard. “Maybe, it’s not a bad option, but” he looked at Serin regretfully. “I really don’t want one of my friends to accidentally kill you; it’d make for a really weird conversation with your parents.”

Serin laughed. “Yeah... Just imagine it, ’Hey mum and dad, guess how I died?” He chuckled. “My parents would ground me forever.”

Philip was well aware that Serin was an orphan, but he let him have some fun before interrupting. “Why don’t you just make up some nonsense? I mean, these history blokes can’t get more stupid.”

Serin shook his head. “I’m presenting to the Royal Scientists... not some Old History Blokes.”

“Well, that makes it easier!”

Serin looked at his friend in surprise. “How?”

“Just make it sound like scientific nonsense! Add some charts, graphs... maybe some puppets...” Philip put his hand in Serin’s face and moved his thumb so the puppet could talk. “Don’t worry Serin, it’ll all be fine!”

We are all patchwork dolls, hodgepodges of the world we walk through.

I suppose that by that description, we were all born empty and bare and blank.

And sticky. We were all born very sticky, like balled-up strips of two-sided tape, constantly reaching out greedy, starving fingers for bits of dust and tiny ripped pieces of paper and little coils of string.

But unlike two-sided tape, our greedy, starving fingers reach out for something more substantial than forgotten scraps left underneath antique couches. We search, instead, for those opalescent pearls that only life can offer, those shiny moments in between the quotidian junk that composes the majority of existence. We shuffle through piles of ordinary and mountains of unremarkable, hunting down those bright pinpricks of excitement, of happiness, of progress, that when we find, we latch on to. We armour ourselves in these beautiful, dazzling fragments of exceptional that represent the best of this world and we treasure them like the gems that they are. Our natural stickiness holds them close, gathers them in, and cherishes them for what they are, and for what they to mean to us.

But accidently, unnecessarily, mournfully, we are too sticky. We don’t often have a choice when it comes to the things that attach themselves onto our lives, and for every new spark of life we are lucky enough to find, there are miles upon of miles of ground in between to cover. All of this time spent unmarked by glittering new discoveries is time where pieces of the world latch onto us. Unbidden, perhaps, but here to stay.

Sometimes there are valleys of deepest dark that we must traipse through, and sometimes the hideous night creatures snag on our throats and catch in our hair. We try to shake them off, peel their rusted, jagged claws away from the treasures that we have already acquired, but they are tenacious and our skin is adhesive and they will not go.

Sometimes we trek through winding rusted mazes in search of the prize that waits at the end, and to find our way, we bring along pieces that we plan to discard after all is said and done. The edge of a song, the corner of a map, a tatter of cloth; all the things that will fall away once in the face of the true awards. We wave them carelessly in the wind, fold them until they crease, not realizing that these will eventually stick and become a part of us, for sometimes, the reward of the journey is equal of the result.

And then sometimes, most times, there are the small things. The tiny, seemingly insignificant shards that stick to us along the way. The miniscule beads of matted hues that slip by the glossy edges, and become a part of us unknowingly, burrowing in to just the right places to make an unprecedented impact. Each one is small, barely the size of the tip of a fingernail, and rather plain, but we are unable to let them go. The color of each alone is unremarkable, but with so many different ones scattered across our skin, they intercept the light that hits them and they glow. The big pieces are few and rare; it is this collection of small things that make up most of the being that we are.

We are sticky, and if we were not, we would live our lives forever blank.

We are all patchwork dolls, and we will always have some surface space left for new pieces, new memories.

“Get a load of those clunkers,” Shaun laughed as he nudged James in the side with his elbow and signaled in his usual manner to the new office temp who was walking nervously through the door.

“Which agency dug her up? Sterling Cooper?” Shaun continued more dramatically. The two continued lounging by the copy machine and watching her as if they were two buzzards scouting out the fresh roadkill.

She had a lopsided, nervous smile plastered on her face as she walked unsteadily through the office. She was carrying a cardboard box in both of her hands and periodically it would catch on the skirt of her dress, which was catching everyone’s attention.

“Did she raid grandma’s closet?” Shaun said laughing as he pointed in a sneaky fashion to her red vintage wiggle dress that she was wearing to her sixties hairdo. James wondered if she slept with giant coke sized rollers in her hair at night. He also wondered how a person could get used to such a thing.

“I hate it when Kelly goes on vacation,” Shaun sighed. James tried to shrug off Shaun’s abusive commentary. He wanted to conjure up his own judgements on the poor woman with no knowledge of the thoughts of the vicious people around here.

James hated how everyone in the office was so superficial about looks, Shaun especially. The only reason he sided with him on most things was for his own survival. If he didn’t smile politely whenever Shaun or most other coworker began to blabber he knew he would be cast out. James wasn’t terribly attractive himself. He was tall and lanky, and had absolutely unmanageable dark shaggy hair and he wore big square Elvis Costello style glasses and brown suits with clashing ties. If he had to spectate a little torture in order to save himself, he was more than willing. He knew he should be used to this. They did it all the time, Shaun making lewd comments. And James, the dainty sidekick with an oblong smirk. This time he couldn’t help but feel a little defensive for this poor girl. She didn’t have the assets the others did.

“I think we’ve hit rock bottom, buddy,” Shaun chuckled. James gave him a sideways glance, then looked over at the girl as she tried her best to hold up the box while maneuvering throughout the cubicle jungle like a rat in a maze.

“Shut up, Shaun,” James finally said and walked away, leaving Shaun frozen with a stunned look. James ran over to the girl and lifted the box from her arms. She gave out a sigh of relief and looked up at him with big blue eyes behind her pearly cat eye glasses. He had to stop for a moment and adjust his glasses up the bridge of his nose to really get a good look.

She smiled sweetly, “Why, that was so nice of you! I could have sworn my arms were going to give out any minute there. You’d swear I was carrying around bricks!”

James had a hard time responding to her, he was taking her all in at once, and he found it very distracting. She had a cute smile, teeth that only could come out of many awkward years of braces. Her hourglass figure was something out of a Sear’s catalogue from 1964, and it made him think about what kind of undergarments she wore that made her tits that pointy and exciting.

Indignant didn’t even begin to describe it for Shaun. As he watched James engage the new temp, he stared on wondering if he had finally flipped his gourd. Fully a year ago Shaun had made the strategic decision to allow him to participate in the mocking. Granted, there weren’t a lot of other options.

This was the land of data entry, and the slick sheen of society’s cream did not last long here among the drudgery and cubicle half-walls. Shaun was different of course. He could do anything. But this was easy, paid well enough to allow his weekend excursions, and there was little risk of failure. He loathed it deep down, and himself for staying, but still he’d likely be here for years. The only thing that made the existence tolerable was the target rich environment for sarcasm. But you need someone to say the cutting remarks to. A whispered dig is no good unless there’s someone to hear it.

Abandoned and stinging, Shaun eyed James showing the temp through the maze and leaned to his right, “Psst, hey Murphy.”

“Could you tell me where I can find Karen?” The new girl asked James.

“Follow me,” James said, “Are you Kelly’s temp?”

The girl looked at James a little funny. “Kelly’s temp? No, I’m Kelly’s replacement. She’s on maternity leave or something. Oh, oops, I don’t think I was supposed to say anything. You won’t say anything will you?”

James swallowed the information, laughing silently to himself over the fact that Shaun just lost his fuck buddy, and then quickly focused his attention back to the new girl.

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure.” he mumbled.

“Oh, look how rude I’m being,” she continued, “My name is Iris. And you are?” She extended a hand, and then realized his hands were full with the box and slowly pulled them back. She had long, yet strong looking fingers that were adorned with various rings. James imagined what those hands would feel like massaging his back.

“And you are?” She continued, snapping him out of his fantasy.

“Right, yeah. I’m James, sorry. James,” he stuttered.

“Pleased to meet you,” she grinned, “I’m not always this annoying and formal, its just, I’m nervous with it being my first day and all.”

“Iris. Hmm,” James said awkwardly as if he were thinking aloud.

“What was that?” Iris asked.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just trying to remember your name, that’s all,” he fibbed, “Here we are, this is Karen’s office.” He pointed over to a receptionist’s desk.

“That’s Kelly’s old desk, do you want me to put your stuff there?” He asked.

“Would you? You’re so sweet,” she said, pouring out another warm smile, “I should go see Karen now, but I’d really like to continue chatting with you. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Yes. Oh yes!” James said, unable to control his enthusiasm. He quickly tensed up, adjusted his tie, and cleared his voice to cover himself.

“I mean, of course,” he said, trying to put on his best business like tone, “I’m over in accounting.” He hoped that this sliver of information would lead her to “bump” into him sometime soon, despite the fact that accounting was on the opposite side of the building and probably out of her way. Then again, he was the one interested in bumping into Iris.

“Okay,” she said, “Nice to meet you James.” She waved and disappeared into Karen’s office.

He stood there for a moment, letting the sweet way she said his name echo in his head.

James casually walked back to the copy machine, this time with a swagger filled with delight. He liked Iris from what he had just seen. She was different, and she seemed incredibly nice and he was pleasantly surprised by his instant attraction.

He knew he would pay for being nice to her, though. Everyone in the office was so hooked on appearances and conformity that they lacked the necessary foundations of courtesy. Even all the women looked alike, a whole room of clones in the same Anne Taylor suit, flipping their hair extensions. He sometimes wondered what they looked like underneath all the warpaint. There was something about Iris that James could neither identify nor shake, but she was definitely not like the others.

Back at the copy machine, Shaun was steadily laughing and huffing over something that was apparently funny with another colleague. They both turned and sneered at James.

“How was Doris Day there, buddy?” Shaun said with a smug look.

“Good one, Shaun,” the man behind him said, as they gave each other high fives.

James sighed. Workplace Darwinism had played out, and it wasn’t in his favor.