The faucet leaked steady

Drop by drop by drop it dripped

And drooled a consistent stream

Ever so often, her dilated pupils

Glazed and her breath’s weight

Doubled the sway of the hips;

Her nails nailed to his waist.

Saturated irises might as well

Be a frame from Saul Leiter,

Her lips—a barrier—cracked

Open to give way 

For the tongue to snake

The Man to lay on her grass.

She laughed or orgasmed,

Control gone at the intersection

Of Pleasure under his body,

Thrusting through and through,

The expanding universe 

A spilled glass

 Laying on its side

A hair away from her foot.

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Written for the Fiction is Culture initiative Building Bridges for Broad Ripple.

The group sat on the patio, on plastic chairs right on the beach, below the fort’s wall. The wooden house was on cement-stilts with a wire fence under it, creating a natural pool with a young saltwater crocodile fenced inside. Outside the boys smoked fat blunts and laughed; Eladio Carrión played on the BOSE speaker. Their Cuban links reflected the blasting sun on the bare sky cut by the rooftops to their right.

Their chairs were lined-up facing the open sea. Left to right: Twin, Omar, Manny and Gerard.

What did you want to talk about? Heard you were with Angel in Covadonga last night, said Omar, looking at his phone.

Yeah, I was with Jura and Melvo, and a couple more, said Manny. Gerard was there too, scored with a peach from King’s Towers.

Gerard side-eyed Manny and changed the song from his phone. Eladio Carrión and Midnvght’s GUWOP played. You fuck with that side? he said.

No. We dont fuck with those people. Booba from Glass Forest is the one that snitched on Corned Flakes, said Omar.

Shit, I love Covadonga. I went to Harriet Truman. So I know all those guys runnin it. I have some homies in Glass Forest, fuck Booba.

Yeah, well, he knows better than to cross The Bridge, said Twin.

Right, right, said Manny. I was with one of them last night, Purp from Glass Forest. They finished all their flower, and got some from me. One thing led to the other and all the Gargoyle’s gone.

Burn them all and their moms, said Twin.

Im tellin ya, Omar, that shit’s gonna be gone in a blink, said Manny. He stood and so did the other three.

I know, I know. Thing is we gonna need yall to take more of that work or we aint doing business. I gave you this one as a favor, you know? I respect your brother. He’s an old-head, knows his shit.

Omar spat a penny-brown loogie on the clear water.

It’s not worth the trip out here, said Twin. He ashed in the air and the ash blew into the water.

Gerard rolled his eyes. He took a puff of his blunt, blew a cloud and licked his lips, bopping his head.

Right, right, said Manny. Too far?

Trynna be funny? said Twin.

Omar grinned and took a hit of his blunt. Im not fuckin around when I say Im doing you a favor. Your brother.

What’s your seal again? The unicorn? You have that on you Gerard? said Manny.

Twin faced Manny and Gerard’s way. Fuck you talkin about?

Im talkin about you looking like you want to go for a swim, said Gerard. He pulled a clear bag filled with pink powder and a unicorn sticker and passed it to Manny who passed it to Omar.

Omar turned to Twin. And by the time Twin noticed Gerard had his hands on him.

Yeah, I think you can use a swim.

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THE SHIELDBREAKER SAGA

FIC PRESENTS: Building Bridges for Broad Ripple

WE THE UNDERSIGNED have, over our eighteen-or-so months of undersigning things, put several mutual aid initiatives in place to directly benefit members of the Substack fiction-writing community…

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2 months ago · 83 likes · 37 comments · Thomas Clark Schecter, Haly, the Moonlight Bard ✒️, Inzani D'Arpeggio, M.P. Fitzgerald, Emil Ottoman, Nick Winney, James Worth, Vinny Reads, Judith Ashcraft, Dylan Bosworth, Hunty Heifer, and Andrew Robert Colom

Latest fiction & poetry:

Neo-Americana

azul

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2 months ago · 36 likes · 14 comments · Pablo Báez

From the lapis lazuli body I rose—slowly behind the wiggling air bubbles—towards the translucid shifting surface. Destellos de luz beamed like bicycle spokes spinning and when I walked out of the water the air swelled hot, whole body sweatdraped ten steps out over the griddle-scorched sand; children made sandcastles, buried family members, turned others into mermaids—vapor steaming off my shoulders like fog lifting from the mountain crest—and with saltwater irritated eyes I exhaled that September Saturday afternoon; and by sunset with my back to it I looked at the rearview mirror and saw how that flaming pelotón—el Gran Celeste—meteored Earth as I throttled uphill Maleza Arriba, Aguadilla: Blinded by the flash [inside the void no light escapes] it all went white—

—Breathing in ice-air, in the middle of a snowfield somewhere in Lake Michigan, face covered in frost. Each breath plunges a cold blade through my left lung. I think I hear a laugh or a chuckle behind me, and I turn around, slow. But… Nobody. Whitegray. No sun and its touch. When I was ten, I dont know, maybe eleven, my father was supposed to pick me up from school. I remember it being a day much like this one. The bruised sky empty except for one cloud. I trudge against glacial gales with the force of earth’s blow—

—I pulled to the side of the road overlooking the limestone walls all the way down into the rock laden shore. Radio’s busted, no music but the sound of waves crashing. A scent of charcoal and some type of meat, probably dorado and chicken, pulled me out of the car—

—Leaving a red trail, I burst out a half laugh—my knees get weak; all I can do is groan. I blow condensed clouds of pain. They’re blue. The sky’s turning black—and who’s laughing! Who is there! is there… there… there. Nobody. Nothing. Floor’s a bridal bed stretched before me. No image in my mind’s eye; jaw clenched I can taste blood. Not metallic. Something growls close or far Im not sure. Nicole’s nails rake across my back. Skin tightens and I know she’s not here. In front on the sides and below gleams white but the darkest black presses from above, the dead-weight of my world hunched my shoulders. A gunshot rips part of my left ear I think or maybe it got bitten by a memory I no longer hold and now notice its teeth marks—

—PINCHOS DE TIBURÓN, MAHI, MARLIN $8. COCO FRÍO $5. There’s people around the foodcart, about five to six men, four women, and a group of children. Most of them gathered around a foldable table under a gray tarp overlooking the cliff. When I went to order I forgot how to speak or I never learned. One brown sato sits staring straight south—skin draped over its skeleton.

Te ves esmallao, muchacho. Cómete un platito con arrocito y gandinga guisaita o carne frita con tostones. También tengo sorullitos. Y carrucho. Cómete un vasito, dale. Es más, siéntate ahí. Vete, dale. Yo te llevo la comida a la mesa, Mijo. Ve y siéntate.

Visión borrosa a medida me acercaba a los otros, solo podía ver sus formas y un despliegue de colores pastel. Embarrados. Dos de los niños corrían cerca de la carretera; uno amarillo y el otro violeta. Cualquier carro pudo haberse deslizado en esa curva, rebanándoles los cuerpecitos como peras. Un bebé lloraba cerca del precipicio. Cerca al carrito de comida, de cara a mí, un hombre robusto y marrón dijo algo de los pinchos de tiburón pero mi atención se fijó en el ruido de un carro acelerando acercándose a la curva y en el niño amarillo y en el violeta zigzagueando dentro y fuera de la línea blanca. Quise decir algo al respecto pero me puse a pensar en aquel momento que no puedo recordar—

—Looking at a cloud was just that before her. I dont know if I shouldve thanked her for it or not, so I never did, never will.

Our souls roamed with no intention to cross but knowing they hoped it would happen. I roamed aimlessly. Like cattle. We met in a car accident on Michigan avenue. She hit my car and I bumped into the car in front of me; a man in his thirties. We exchanged contact information after she gave me her insurance policy number. Then, when we met later at a gala celebrated at the Shedd Aquarium or The Hilton (or in Aguadilla?). Her smile sliced me wide enough to remove a kidney, an overflowing bathtub of blood when I noticed it. I thought I’d soon go unconscious but we swam in the blood with the sharks. O algo por el estilo, de que nuestros cuerpos nadaron, nadaron. ¿A quién le importa el dónde?

Naturalmente su nostalgia (penosa neblina) iba arraigada a la memoria de su pueblo natal cuyo nombre se me escapa, aunque sé que queda en el insípido estado de New Hampshire. Tal vez no insípido y no en New Hampshire. De más allá de la frontera imaginaria estadounidense en alguna provincia canadiense.

Donde fuma cigarrillos y no come poutine, deleita su paladar con comida sin sabor e inadvertidamente vive en un poema épico, escrito por un poeta anónimo. Con su cabello castaño de cortina me perdí en el teatro de sus ojos. There’s a faint memory biting me like a mosquito; of her back, as from my chest escaped the last of me—

What made you reject—or find—god? Your dying Mom and Daddy, or maybe you didn’t have a Mom and Daddy. Maybe yours were the ghosts of the shadow of the parents they ought to be.

—There are no trees nor stars like inside the stomach of a bear. I look at my feet and theyre the same shoes, size and all, of when I was eleven, I think. Im in front of school waiting for something. Someone? Cant feel my fingers, or face, or anything. There’s mounds upon mounds, snowdunes from a time before bones. I hear echoing voices of women. Why are you with him? To make him and yourself miserable? Anybody can be Steve, any Steve is qualified for Steve’s job, she said to Nicole.

Sí, pero quien realmente te conoce y ama por quien eres está muerto, o está muriendo. Lento como el incienso.

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Who you’ve all been waiting for:

An ocean of sweat and skin,

Chafing thighs, and hard dicks; enter

A space with no space emptying

Itself a cup of sorrows filled with

Laser lights and graphics; a young man

Shits on a lotus flower while

Another impales another with

An upside down cross in another country.

Drain my veins of purity

The band is on stage facing

Thousands of ants all loose

Stomp their face, stomp their face

A vortex of knuckles cave-in

their faces.

Hands in the air wave, some of men that cry

Die, Die, Die, Die, Die

In the middle inside a circle ten bodies lie.

There’s an infinite line in front of the porta potties

Of drunks n druggies waiting to fuck. Uha!

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, your

Self is in tune with the cadence

And the song grows and its shadow

Blocks heaven. Turns the moon off

But the wolves still howl.

Where’s security? One guy asks

Drowns under drums and riffs

Blood with vomit and piss with overpriced cheap booze;

Seek and destroy, destroy my body

The crowd surfs over a reef of dead people.

Hundreds do K and their bones

Crystal shatter. Brittle innocence.

Pin-pin turns others into gargoyles

Knot on their throats, some have the shits bad

Seek and destroy, stomp their face, kill, die

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Baby blue and sunflower yellow.

Pa pushed as if I were on the swing—

I saw abuela fly back

Across the kitchen, against

The screen door, head against the wall

Eyes closed pouring

A sluice of tears.

Royal blue and tanned skin.

What color is that of no breath?

A horse pastured under no shade—

Through the screen I saw el monte

Vibrant, dark, watching. The white

Cement fence and no shadow from

The zinc ceiling ripped clean off

By the hurricane, years later.

Soft-eye-blue and a red soul.

The white stove with the four

Black burners with the rusted

White paint peeled from the metal.

Ma wailed while my favorite

Uncle helped his mother stand.

And I couldn’t understand

Why god didn’t love me or

The women that did.

I can taste the birthday cake

And I see words covered in frosting

Every day. I remembered each blow

And the pain of the flesh glowed

Like swimming in Puerto Mosquito.

Dogs, skin taut to their ribs, prowled,

The garbage bins out front spilled.

And I wondered why are other

People so happy when

The sky is blue.

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Neo-Americana

en la esquina de algún mar

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3 months ago · 39 likes · 16 comments · Pablo Báez

Neo-Americana

simon says silence

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3 months ago · 54 likes · 24 comments · Pablo Báez

Last night my mind’s eye saw:

The sky, a golden field once,

Green and lush, its fell trees

Topped shallow graves of pleasantries,

And exposed their skeletons to dance.

Over my worndry hands rushed

And slipped past the chance to be

Happy; freefalling, god next to me

Making sure I remained hushed.

A flower bowed away

From the sun

—Still—it kept burning

As you turned side

To side fluttering like the last leaf

On the far end of the branch. Where your

Head lay in unrest, bouncing

On your toes to stay above water

But just by a nose.

—UC*

*Poem from Carlos Cruz. First published in a zine (2005) that was part of his merch, in line with the spirit of the band Crass. The poem was published—under another name—on the internet for the first time by Hans Hana. On his article he mentioned Cruz sometimes using another name to sign his poetry.

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I

Leave, please, find the right sun.

Leave me here and I’ll wait

for the rain and the flood

and ride the boat

down the sullen current.

Below dry clouds, the alpenglow .

II

A bitter animal, you say

I say you don’t know

how to eat chocolate.

To let it melt on your

tongue

to let it

mix with your spit.

Chew. I’ve already been trapped

in your molars,

thrashed like a boat crashing

the breakwater.

III

And release the last breath

in the breeze-masked death

that pretends to be the oxygen

we rejoice and respire

in; the ice numbing

your insides, expelling

the tender last breath.

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A plan with no room for improvisation is doomed. Guaranteed failure. I wasn’t planned and my parents weren’t into improv. My grandfather on my father’s side raised me and conveniently died once I turned eighteen.

My routine: feeding my siamese cat Jerry then cleaning his litterbox before cracking two eggs and cooking them overeasy with a slice of buttered brioche and a large black coffee with no sugar; Dreams of Fields by Second Death playing out loud. I’d do some laundry downstairs and clean upstairs while the load washes, then thirty-five minutes later I put it in the dryer and then I masturbate and get ready for work.

Second Death, a local band, gained notoriety touring with bands like Gluten Fee and So Sad Not Happy, one time they even opened for North of Hell (made them look like amateurs). They weren’t. They were all good. But not unique. And that’s why Second Death stood out. It’s all I wanted to listen to. They would announce their shows the day of, usually at least eight hours before the show. Ruth’s known to host the best bands. I just downloaded their music. I wasn’t in circuit so I never knew when and where they played.

Those were the reasons I’d like to think. Of course if you were to ask anyone else they’d answer differently. I lived in that studio on Taurus and 23rd street five years before moving. Five years without a knock or a call.

Allan ‘Hands’ Cohen changed my routine and I didn’t notice or I didn’t care. Not everyone knew him as Hands. I didn’t when I first met him. I said when I worked at Harrison’s my lack of social life wasn’t an issue. Allan bussed tables or prepped in the kitchen or prepped for the bar as a barback and sometimes he picked up shifts as a server, but one night, Chloe the bartender walked out and he got a chance to shine—and he loved it— he loved the bar he said. Going forward he took over as lead bartender but to be honest it didn’t mean much since he was the only bartender. That meant he worked seven days from opening to closing. Did his own prep.

Sterling the owner offered to hire another bartender but Allan said you couldn’t really trust nobody so it’s best to leave things as they were. He served as a therapist behind the bar. He didn’t provide any breakthroughs by means of advice. They came on their own with his balance between questions and silence accompanied by a healthy dose of alcohol.

A collection of dominos? Allan asked.

One of the patrons hovering the jukebox shouted, Let’s end the night with a banger, boys! He put on REO Speedwagon’s, Can’t Fight This Feeling.

Yeah, he collects them. The tiles and there’s some special cases, he keeps those as well. It’s a pretty cool collection, said a guy sitting at the bar.

Allan polished glassware and nodded. Behind him on the tv, Beautiful Losers played on mute.

One time he got so wasted–the guest said–to hell with it, let’s play with a real set. He left the room and after a while he returned with an Italian marble box.

This is that guy that played pool, was it? Allan asked.

Yes, Leonard Seidman. He used to be a professional Eight Ball player. I’m talking about a talented, like, absurdly gifted motherfucker. Retired before thirty. Got obsessed with dominos. So yeah, he takes this marble box out, right. This was New Years, a couple of years back, maybe 2023 or 2025, not sure but anyways, we were at his house. Big fucking house. A mansion.

Sorry, give me a moment. This is last call, everyone. I’m closing in forty-five minutes, Allan said. Is this mansion in town?

The guest sat under one of the small spotlights with Barrel Proof Elijah Craig sitting in his glass. Neat. Allan poured himself a shot of mezcal, To Rosie? he said, raising the shot-glass.

Yes, that’s my little girl. Cheers. So yeah, no, he actually lives in Rosewater. It’s thirty minutes south. He pulls out the marble case. Inside? Twenty-eight white gold tiles encrusted with black diamonds. Twenty-eight perfect tiles worth over 150,000. This man played the rest of the night with these dominos. Something about them made the games magical. I had a great time, man. Now I’m into dominos.

Damn. Gold dominos, Allan said. Hey, Nick, can you stay.

I don’t know, I was–

I can give you a ride.

I was ready to clock out and get back to digging for leaked Second Death tracks but I still said: Sure, need me to do something?

Yeah, can you close my well? I’m going to wrap-up here, take the trash out and we can dip.

Gotcha.

After everyone left I saw Allan writing on a C-Fold. Inspired I assumed. He filled the six panels. Okay, he said, want to go out? I know a place. Industry bar. After hours, kitchen’s open til three. Should be a band playing.

You know what band is playing? I asked.

No, man. Not really, I don’t remember. You don’t have to come, I can give you a ride and then come back. It’s not that big of a bother.

It’s just one night and I’ll be there before sunrise Jerry

Cool, you don’t have to do that. I’ll go.

Allan’s eyes and smile widened like a bat stretching its wings. The dim light made him look bathed in blood. You’re going to like the place. It’s called Ruth’s and the band’s something about death.

Can’t be

The odds of it being them weren’t thin. But death wasn’t much to cling to. Could’ve been death-metal or death ‘n roll and Second Death is neither.

Inside his truck smelled like rosewater. When I got in I thought I caught the reflection of a woman in the rearview but when I looked back there was no one. When he got inside he said, I have to stop at the gas station real quick.

On our way he had ambient music on. He paid attention to the road and nothing else. He asked if I wanted anything when we arrived at Speed’s, I said no and he asked if I could load the gas while he went to the bathroom. He got out and went to the trunk and pulled a medium blue satchet bag. Inside my bag I always have an edible or a vape but when I opened it everything inside fell out and without a second thought I started grabbing everything and throwing it back inside. I stayed inside the car waiting for him to pay.

He stood in line and when he got to the register the man behind the counter gave him a key, Allan pointed at the car and the man looked and nodded. Allan then walked out my view. At my feet on the floor I saw a thin black hair tie. I pushed it to the left corner with my foot.

I loaded the truck and heard loud thudded music from a car pulling inside the gas station. A galactic-blue truck. I didn’t recognize the model but it looked expensive. They parked on the other side of our pump. Their windows were tinted so I couldn’t see the interior but I felt there were more than one person inside looking out.

One door opened and I heard at least two women laugh. From the driver’s side a brunette stepped out. Her hair in a high ponytail she wore sunglasses with a loose purple dress. She was thin as the hair tie inside the truck. The music was some kind of techno. The woman walked inside the gas station in a way that made me think I was invisible. Her floral scent lingered. I liked it but it made my stomach turn.

Hey, are you a woman-killer? said a voice from inside the blue truck. It was the voice of a woman. I assumed she was on her phone but I heard other voices, other women. So I thought it could be an overheard out of context part of their conversation.

We’re talking to you, creep. Are you a woman-killer?

I finished pumping gas and put the pump back and closed the tank. Turning to them I said, Only on my days off. I’m just coming out from work.

You’re a weirdo. Close the door, Natalie.

They shut the door and I went back inside. I saw Allan walking out without the bag he walked in with. The brunette followed behind, she probably saw through him too.

On our way out three women besides the brunette came out of the blue truck. They stared at us as we drove off.

You had eyes for Chloe right? I think I remember something like that.

Oh yeah, everybody knows I’m a real Don Juan. Dr. Love. What the hell are you talking about, Allan?

He had that wing spread bat on his face. Put whatever you want to listen to, this office-lounge music’s from my little brother. He stayed over through the weekend.

You know Sterling, right? The owner. I’ve been out with him before; dude parties hard, loves tequila, Allan said. You know how he talks in pairs. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but he does that. The other day we were getting some chemicals for the dishwasher. The trip was long, we’re talking three hours long. He said he was saving money. I have an old rep that’s giving me a deal; you don’t know anything about keeping a connection as long as I have with all these reps, said Sterling. It’s called trust, Allan. It’s called trust. There was nothing to do but either stare at the road in silence or talk. Sterling doesn’t like having the radio on while driving. Said he prefers to not escape silence. Now, I don’t mind not talking but Sterling can’t help but move his lips. He went on about some hidden room they found inside a professor’s home. I think he said he was a psychiatry professor or maybe he was a hypnotist or something like that.

I listened to Allan and stared out the window as we sped on the highway. I looked on my phone for music to put on, but I didn’t really know him and I didn’t want to make the ride awkward with bad tunes so in the end I just left his brother’s music on.

He has a boat, cos of course, he’s Sterling. He was saying: I love going out to sea, Allan. I used to dream of being a pirate when I was a kid. That’s why I named her Sofia. Named after Federico Martins’ estranged love; he was a portuguese pirate on the mediterranean sea. I used to take the whole team out to the coast. Before you started working there. I was there last week and right when I was about to leave I heard a woman screaming. Top of her lungs. She’s bawling and all I heard was gibberish. This woman couldn’t get a single clear sentence out. Thing is I recognized her face or well I best say I thought her face familiar but didn’t recognize where from. I got out the boat to try to calm her down, call a family member maybe or someone to pick her up. She shouldn’t be left alone in that state, I thought, right. Allan, that’s the worst decision I made that day besides not ignoring her initially and setting sail. I’m lucky I sensed something was off, I don’t know if I’ve told you before but I’m some kind of psychic. I can feel energy. I can feel and I can read it. This woman pulled something from her purse and went at me. I moved out of the way and pushed her. Just a little. Not hard, you know? She hit the side of Sofia and fell in the water. I called the cops. Dereck got her out, he threw her a line. Even after that she kept babbling this unintelligible crap. Dereck said he thinks he heard the word daughter. It’s the only word he heard somewhat clearly. I didn’t hear any of that. If you ask me she was having one of those meltdowns. She looked the age, you know. If you saw her, she busted her eyebrow when she hit Sofia, she bled and sobbed. I felt sorry for her but honestly I still don’t know what she wanted. I didn’t press any charges. Turned out what she had pulled from her purse was her phone. She’s Chloe’s mother. Some detectives came over and they asked about her, she’s missing.

I asked him if they said anything about any theories of who or if anybody knew where she was seen last but Sterling said the detectives said they couldn’t reveal any details. It’s an ongoing investigation, he said the detectives said. Now, I did some thinking and I remember hearing one time something about an ex of hers stalking her and even putting hands on her? I didn’t tell Sterling but if you ask me, she saw the opportunity and disappeared. Not going to lie, there’s good money in that bar. Sterling doesn’t know. He’s barely there. As long as his card doesn’t decline the sun is out.

We passed several exits. I looked at other cars on the road, cruising, the cars themselves looked exhausted. Allan’s obsession with Chloe came across as weird at the moment but I didn’t want to linger on it and said, You think they’re still playing at Ruth’s? It’s kind of late don’t you think?

He smacked his tongue and said, Shit, I forgot today’s Tuesday. Ruth’s closed Tuesdays. Open the glove compartment. I think the flyer’s there.

Inside the compartment I saw the flyer: Second Death final performance Saturday 14th at Ruth’s.

It’s okay, I know another place we can go, Allan said.

No, you’re good. I can just get a ride home. I didn’t feel it earlier but I’m dead right now. I’ve been up since early.

Oh, you want me to drive back and take you to your house? I mean, it’s all the way back but I can do that. We’re literally two minutes from the place by the way. Look, you can see it there.

We took an exit and two lights to our right I saw a squared white sign with red neon bulbs framing the post that read Sally’s. Alright, I’m not going to make you turn back now. We’re here already.

That’s what’s up, he said. He stepped on the gas and the light turned red as we passed. Barely hitting the brakes he turned into Sally’s parking lot. It looked full. There, that car’s leaving, perfect.

I took a deep breath, I know, Jerry; I know

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“And then we judge about what does not exist as if it existed; hence we err through the senses.”–Joannes Buridanus

I caught an invisible sound, a silent melody. It was faint, like the absence of pain attached to a headache. It came as a hum inside my head. We played our own music yet—Jaffette started to whistle it. An old lullaby: Dont go in the water, Warawa is in the waves, he’ll get you—Drown you, chew you and spit away your head—it went, in part.

That day was my last day working for Victor. Money: in the bag.

We called the app The Door. You had to give access to your location and your camera and microphone and it would show a map and in the map one could tap into other people’s phone camera. Hundreds of live feeds. It had links to other sites filled with more links that led to niche sites and one of those niche sites centered their content in our city. We were looking for a video. Jafette wasnt specific but said, That video could change things. In the video we watched : A man wearing a black hood hacks with a machete a thick gash between the shoulder and neck of a kneeling man whose hands are tied. The camera’s shaking and blood squirts and erupts out from the raw pork looking gaping pinkish-white wound; the executioner opens his arms, ¿Ahora qué? Hijo e puta. The eyes of the unfortunate man are darting like a fly against a window, and his mouth’s open enough that you can see the tongue palpitate and the red rushes out—and we heard the gurgling and the sound of air and blood spluttering—and the man chokes, slow—one, two, three slashes and his head hangs by a small thread of either skin or muscle but the flies are dead. His body thumps on the dirt. Fua, fua, you said. I said, Click on that one. Werent you going to do something –you asked– I dont think I want to stay up too late. The thumbnail on the video showed a blast of fire bursting outside from inside a car’s window; someone cooked potatoes or chicken or both. Smelled like rosemary and garlic. A noise of clattering plates came from the kitchen but we were alone so we ignored it. Far away someone played an arabic or indian or maybe neither but similar sounding guitar music.

When I clicked on the video it showed five men chatting and drinking in front of a bar in what seemed to be a lush green mountain. Theyre on the top of the hill: the road lined with oak and mango trees: tamarind and carambolas, and right next to the far wall of the bar an acerola bush with its branches entwined between the wire fence; you can see three cars parked directly in front of the establishment and at least five more across from where they are—only their halves are visible from that angle. Camera’s fixed. No audio. Yeah, I have to hand out rent to Victor –I said–. I heard the computer’s fans rev up like an engine, but no car moved.

Sun’s low and Jafette looked out the window as if to check the sky matched the one in the frame. We blew air out our nose and acknowledged the fact in silence; men ramble on, theyre between a white Corolla, and Jafette said the other one’s a CRX and I thought he was right. I checked and it could be the 87 model. When I asked Jafette how long was the video and he looked at the timestamp: one man wearing a black baseball cap walks out one of the two doors of the bar holding two cans of beer. He raises his face and says something to one of the five men outside, or maybe he’s addressing the whole group.

Someone played the guitar, its music crept inside the room. Probably a neighbor.

The man with the cap walks left of the frame. Shortly after, one of the cars reverses and stops next to the group, stays there for thirty-two seconds and drives downhill and away inside the crest of the mountain. Sky’s purple blue.

I opened a new tab and searched: Songs from the Second Network Live.com.co—no feed. There’s always someone streaming. Strange.

You said something like, Is something going to happen? Who’s going to die?

I dont know, but Ima bounce, I said.

On the way out Jafette’s sister was coming in; Shari’s weirdo sister Rowan was with her. Laura said, Open your ears out there, pay attention to your surroundings, please. Go straight to your house. Just be careful, she said. I told her our hood’s safe. Nothing weird ever really happens here. She turned to Rowan and handed her a bag and told her to bring it to her room and wait for her there. Moses, be honest, is Jafette okay? Ever since… He’s been distant. I know. He keeps to himself. He’s always been like that. Look, what Im trying to say is he needs to get a job. You too. She said this with a soured face, probably annoyed by the reverberating guitar. Cut through Battle’s yard –Laura said–. How’s your mother doing? Quacking and other animal sounds blared from Jafette’s room. Heard him lock the door.

Okay, then. Be careful on your way back.

Once outside Moses adjusted his backpack and followed the string-notes down the road. Battle, he muttered. She lived in the neighborhood before Moses’ family moved in.

Her son Jean’s dream of attending Berkley—triturated. Some speculate it was the drop that overflowed the cup, the reason he about-faced into misery. Jean Battle moved out of his childhood home and into the city. Chasing the bohemian lifestyle that enamors many inner city misfits and outcast suburbanites alike. He played in a band, usually got paid in alcohol or drugs, sometimes both, a few times the band would get some cash but it was usually: Im doing you a favor kid, Im giving you exposure. In his opinion Steve Vai was less naturally talented than Yngwie Malmsteen but more versatile and dedicated to pushing boundaries with his craft. Plus Vai’s humbleness in contrast to Malmsteen’s absence made the former standout as a messiah. He did other jobs to sustain his art; he once babysat a doll with an owl-like face. An old man asked him to simply watch for the child, as he called it, and most importantly make sure to not feed them. Them. Although he barely remembers that night he does remember being remunerated quite handsomely and in the end isnt that all that matters. The price. Another time he played a gig with his mathcore band in a remote manor nestled in the Poconos. That night remains a haze but the flavor of an iridescent blue coated Jean’s mouth long after it ended. Sometimes he would pick shifts as a waiter at a neighborhood pizza shop. Other times he would bartend at private house parties. Masked functions, gatherings of affluent ego powered people and wannabe socialites. It was in one of these gatherings that Jean met Victor Fuentes. A name he shouldve known.

Jean’s father, Hector Battle, was a news reporter with an adrenaline addiction. As a young man he made the Tres Fronteras area a frequent destination, more than once entering Colombia on his own dime to report on FARC’s children recruitment tactics. Hector developed an attraction to natural events: random tornadoes would form in Brasil, he saw one whose winds ripped and tossed a silo like flicking a .22 pellet— so in the US storm chasing naturally became one of his hobbies. It kept the unpredictable factor. Jaime Fuentes shared that interest, although his was purely a love of synoptic meteorology. I know youre not a coward, am I right? –asked Jaime–. They sped through hail and rain, thick thudding drops smacking the Montero’s windshield, swerving to avoid the flying projectiles. Avoiding a spinning road sign that the SUV flipped over and ejected Hector Battle out like a spat sunflower seed. Jaime was the driver, somehow unscathed and conscious: he observed silently as God’s finger lifted Jean’s father away into the blackened sky. Jean sometimes mulled over which god the finger belonged to.

Jaffette’s tears streamed steady. His hands trembled, fingers hovering over the keyboard; glued to the monitor glow he switched from the browser to the music app and heard his sister and her friend laughing out loud in her room. He raised the volume. Their laughter was oil to the music’s water echoing inside his head.

A reduced figure of a man or woman is chained to a metal bed-frame inside a dim lit space. It could be a warehouse or a basement; whether one or the other it’s an industrial location and the grayness stood out among the blackness. There seems to be no sound until the derelict figure crawls towards the camera and the clank on the chain against the leg of the bed echoes inside the large room.

Outside of the house Moses slowed his pace, taking in the bubblegum blush sky with its fading thin cotton candy clouds. He took his headphones out of his backpack, put them on–Battery forty percent, connected to Myphone–and searched for Pause The Movie but the guitar from earlier grew louder and clearer. Recognizable. Moses pulled his headphones down around his neck and strained his memory to the tune of the music. The rosemary waft came with the wind and he remembered his mother, his stomach growled, and the music of the guitar grew louder. Somehow the sound and the smell clashed with each other. Like opposing winds.

Klenin Terval did microtonal composition, complex live looping; his solo projects strayed from paid gigs, where he played under his real name, Jean Battle, in more ways than them being unrewarded. Concealing his identity freed him.

His scratched hands held onto the steering wheel like muscle does to bone. Red and blue swirling behind him on the side of the road. Thick sweat drops trailed the side of his pale face and a whistling wind sneaked inside the vehicle through the driver’s side window.

Klenin Terval? asked the officer. You have an I.D with you, Klenin?

I dont, sir. I just went to the gas station to get some gas for the mower, see?

–I see. You cant be driving around without a license. It’s my job to stop you from doing so, see?– The officer scanned the car in a way that made him seem like an android. From about four blocks south a car revved its way north. Klenin reached for the volume dial—Put your hand back on the wheel, now!

Youre looking nervous, Klenin. Are we worried about something?

A black Camry dragging longer than expected barely sped past them.

Youre in luck, Klenin. Next time you better have everything in order.

The cop ran to his patrol, got in, turned on its siren and drove like the devil knew where Jesus slept.

more of moi

poetry

I’m—

A sibilant drift whistling through cracked windows; I walk through memories’ walls west of pain. [Away go I] Return to the dirt road tho’ I’m a cloud sliced on its belly dripping over

And over the hearth—The Fall.

No cane helps, can’t ever stand straight on flat ground

Yet on the mud I’m able. To be

Slayed by my own kin. It’s in my nature. Nature, it’s in mine the way it’s violent. Underskin it broods and I don’t let the bruise go quiet—it blooms like violets. Under, still, the careful watch that’s full with lack of care.

I’m a—the way I—

Deny and deny and deny but I know (don’t ask)

Don’t show. Don’t tell.

I’m the wave and shore I crash on and the jutting rock the splash bursts. A lost drop when back in the great sea. I’m a ghost the way I disappear before my own eyes—No expectations for a performing specter in a spectacle of added commas—Terrified of The Full Stop.

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This piece is part of “Day of the ___ Writer,” an open collab on the daily experiences behind our writing. Post on your pub about your day, and check out our growing mosaic of many lives.

Work consumes most of my days. Jotting how a day of mine looks like, at the moment, ranks lower than wanting to slice my jugular so I’ll stick to how the fiction writing organization process or lack there of, looks like for me. Thanks for the initiative, .

Im always in my head—mind racing—waking up never happens and neither does going to sleep. Scrambled static with occasional yellow trickling gleams followed by soft blue hues that fade transparent and that’s just opening my eyes again because having them closed means nothing to the senses. At times this curse has been life saving to not say that it’s an illness; it’s always kept the mind actively tying stories together—following the web ( it’s not paranoia, trust) finding molting spiderlings or flares of the subconscious joining the loam in which the cacophony of the conscious self takes place.

And ideas are born. Born to roam said space, proving their worth by not falling in forget. I’ve molted with time several times. Each shed layer holding its own method. A singular philosophy destined to perish at the dawn of another.

To be honest I dont ritualize writing. Or anything in my life for that matter. By saturating the senses eventually I enter another state. It’s a detached approach to creating that helps silence my mind for short bursts. Music, visuals (movies, shitty docs, interviews, inordinate amounts of bodycam footage, etc) and heavy smoking. In between all of that I will also read, not only for research purposes, sometimes I need short injections of inspiration by means of evoked feelings. This is 3/4 of the bottle full.

Nothing is special. Nothing of mine at least. And with nothing sacred comes a sense of freedom allowing me to roam wild on the page. It’s emptiness while brimming. Rejecting a set space or a set of parameters to then engage in the act of writing itself fosters a sense of calm that in turn becomes a space outside of any set locality.

Sentences speak themselves into existence only to die beheaded by their own sword of words. An implosion that occasionally reverses. Giving birth to a bloodied amorphous blob plopped top of the sullen chert.

To me writing is an invisible art. The glyphs are just smoke. The blank page where they dwell: a mirror. I attempt to shatter the glass and with those remains build a mosaic. Then repeat. Ad infinitum.

Writing is my suicide and rebirth.

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She called me Daddy, but I didnt raise her. Another thing I have in common with her father. Out of sight.

Her ex-husband, senator Franklyn R. Colt, had law inside his pocket and the trite control kink that comes with the trope enlarged his ego to lengths that made Alejandra request my services. Nothing major had happened, other than having to shake one or two off our tail. I knew that would change.

Below a grandiose double set of twin stairs laid a turned off fountain, a smaller replica of the Clarence F. Buckingham Memorial. In my hand is a remote controller for a vibrating plug I Doordashed and Im buzzing her into Agartha as she speaks to a group of five engineers. Im out of her line of sight. The room’s filled with chitter-chatter and clanking cups and glasses, clear ice melting inside rock glasses, thick glasses on thin faces, fat faces. With a glassy glaze her gaze goes from the group and back onto me. I smiled and said, Anything I can help you with? then pressed the button two times to alternate the vibration. To change the pattern.

We were out of town at a convention. Inside an enormous sala with marbled arches and painted domes adorned with neoclassic images. Her: networking, hunting. Me: her security. Private. We played our roles all while playing a game between ourselves. But who preyed on who? She asked if I could get a hold of Perez. Of course, I said and clicked the toy off on command. On my periphery a shade dashed past and hid behind a set of columns. I dont know why I thought of a cat. I walked towards the columns, between the old men, and the jocks in suits soon to be old men, when from amidst the moving crowd—I saw her, the cat was not a cat it was a woman with silver hair in a black dress and she moved quick and out of sight. The fountain activated and sprung on.

I turned around: Alejandra wasnt there: I looked to the bar—my phone vibrated, a message: Outside, called a ride. Come.

We would spend nights together tethered. For her to physically shrink between my arms was the ultimate cosmic joke for it was me who transformed into the size of a pea when in her embrace. We spent that night at the West Virginia Motel, the owner was from Tennessee. Inside room 107 we watched an obscure short film Alejandra casted from her phone. Obscure because I dont recall her mentioning the director, and there’s no credits in the film.1

Maybe he forgot about us. About me. Maybe he now has someone new. Someone he can fixate on, Alejandra said.

Maybe is being half a step into the precipice. Maybe is not enough. Maybe you finally let me take care of it. My way. No maybes.

Her silence—all I wanted.

I dont tend to smoke weed, but that night, I took some hits from Alejandra’s joint. Followed the smoke and thought of what a friend of mine once said about Finding your place is imperative. He said he read it in a book, someone called Castaneda.

I dont know, Ale, but this movie is pointless. I rather watch a tree grow in real time. At least I know itll give me shade, or fruit, or both.

Or none. Have you thought about that? Alejandra said.

The movie continued to play and she continued to watch. You know you dont have to understand it to enjoy it, right? You dont have to get it. You dont have to get everything. How does it make you feel?

Uncomfortable, I said.

Right, and why is that? You dont have to tell me.

Later that night I played Maruja’s Resisting Resistance. It rained outside. Inside I poured myself in her. Or we poured our selves into each other. Like overflown cups on a server tray.

I could hear the wet road outside and ongoing vehicles added a layer of texture that signaled wrongness the moment it went silent. I heard gunshots but they came from the television.

Can you turn that fucking movie off.

I turned the lights off and walked to the front window. Approached it from the side. We were on the second floor.

What’s wrong? Alejandra asked. You dont think—

The sound of multiple feet rushing upstairs cued me and by the time I saw a shadow under our door block the light from the hallway my finger was on the trigger ready to let my puppy bark on them all. From the pace and the tapping they had to be at least four—no five, one was a woman. Her heels stood out from what I bet were boots. Those steps were cement heavy.

Voices—a language I couldnt pick. They went inside the room next door. I peeked from the side of the window: a white van with an orange tag hanging from the rearview: it’s parked next to the office. That could be good or it could mean that theyre here for us. Deep pockets exist in deeper networks.

What do you want to do? You want to stay?

Im not going to be able to sleep. I want to leave.

There was a frame of the protagonist holding a crooked cigarette on the tv. Loud banging came from next door. Loud arguing and I thought they were Albanian. If true it’s nothing I should worry about. But Alejandra wanted to leave. She called another ride and we went to a hotel next to the airport.

Next morning I woke up and she was gone. Out of sight. I knew it would happen, not when, but I knew. One would say I expected that to be the outcome. I could go back to Ginsberg, Illinois. Had enough to open an office or not. That’s when I heard the three knocks.

Room service—said a voice with a Balkan accent, the door opened and the shiny black muzzle of a pistol poked in.

My pup was out of reach but Peppa’s always on me. Two, three, fourfive loud pops ripped through the wall inside the room and I crouched and pulled her from my ankle holster and tapped once and saw the head pop and color the side of the wall and the body fell opening the door entirely: revealing one, pop, two, pop, three, pop, four, pop, pop, pop.

One of the bullets ricocheted off somewhere and I got hit on the waist. Covered it with my hand and—

Standing—the woman with silver hair shot me in the clavicle once and twice in the face. Last thing I saw was an orange flash to white—Alej—all I taste is sour. But I could hear everything. I refused to die.

Dito, poor boy. Yes, I didnt mean to. I dont know, make it look like a suicide. Framing him wont make sense now. Gotta go. I hear sirens, said the voice of the woman.

I heard the paramedics. One of them said DOA but another found a pulse. They put me on the gurney. I knew what I was involved in and I wasnt scared then and even less now. What mattered was Ale. I failed her.

There’s a crooked cigarette pinched between a broken nook of the glass ashtray on top of the night-table next to Ruy Ramos. He received a message that read: I need your help finding a woman and her child. Her name is Rochelle González. Covered in bandages, Ruy’s eyes were the only visible feature.

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Sadie lied down on the davenport spread out watching three colored aliens gang rape a gray woman with one tit, on the tv; they’ve penetrated all her orifices, and alien cum is pouring from her pores like extruded spaghetti.

The Gray Woman’s riddled with nipples all over her body so the alien cum could pass as milk for babies.

Sadie’s touching herself; there’s a closeup of the Gray Woman’s face shining eyes, her pupils are two 18 wheeler wheels, and Sadie’s hands are both busy playing with her pussy.

The Gray Woman cried cum. Sadie came right after.

What the hell, Sadie? Watch that anime stuff in your room, said Rachel pushing her feet off the couch.

Damn, bitch, angry much? Sadie said. Can’t get no privacy around here, fuck.

Rachel’s cleared the floor picking up Sadie’s socks, pants, and shirts.

You know that’s messed up, right? Even if they’re cartoons. What if Joe were here?

What are you doing with my things? You need to relax. You’re going to have a heart attack, Sadie said. What? You’re afraid he’s gonna fuck me?

Rachel stood for a minute with a blank stare—She wouldn’t…

He wouldn’t?

Sadie smacked her lips and got up from the couch, Oh my god, I’m kidd-ing, she said. Or, am I?

Her Cannibal Corpse shirt ended right where her panty line began. She grabbed half a joint from the ashtray on the center table and lit it.

The intensity of her sharp eyes sliced through Rachel’s spell.

Rachel dropped the clothes, sat on the sofa, and looked at Sadie; defeated.

The stench of the socks forced Rachel to breathe through her mouth.

Sadie blew a cloud that shrouded Rachel’s head and said, Oh, my god. You need to chill.

Nobody’s trying to fuck your boyfriend, but you, said Sadie with a face of disgust, she picked her pile of clothes and pinned it under her right armpit. Socks fell.

The tv had the Gray Woman taking the head of an alien from the back. It was paused, the frame showed her sphincter engulfing the alien’s cranium down to the shoulders. A creamy white substance drooled out from her vagina. It had a grainy texture.

Sadie scratched her left butt cheek, went into the bathroom, and brushed her teeth after taking a piss.

She left a trail of clothes on her way.

Rachel’s patience towards Sadie’s been thinning ever since Sadie started parading herself through the apartment with little to no clothes. The biggest issue being the fact that this all started as soon as Joe started spending nights over.

Rachel knew she would endure that, and more. That resilience and good faith, as Joe called it, is what made her a saint. She liked that people viewed her in that light. She was a martyr.

The perfect complement for Sadie.

When can you send me your half of the rent? I paid it already, so I’m tight until my next check, said Rachel. Her eyes transfixed with the frozen frame in the tv.

It’s hot right? said Sadie, disconnecting her phone from the tv. She looked at the time, 11:11.

I don’t know, rent. Let me see.

It’s fine, you can send it later.

Is Joe paying rent?

He doesnt live here, Sadie. You do. Which reminds me, can you stop using the couch for your masturbation sessions? You have a room. I know you dont give a fuck, but Im not comfortable with you parading yourself like that, especially when Joe’s here.

Look, Ima get a pedi, and take some pics and sell em; youll get that money by tomorrow morning. The couch thing is uncalled for, though, but whatever. I forgive you. Sadie smirked at Rachel, she looked down at the tray on the center table, there were earrings, pens, takeout menus, cheap sunglasses, bracelets, all sorts of cheap and expensive jewelry from both Rachel and hers. She picked and draped on her blue and gold rosary; the crucifix had a small retractable blade, enough to slice skin, enough to glide through flesh. She laid it on the centre table before masturbating.

Rachel laid completely on the couch, rolled her eyes and sighed. I thought you were taking gigs at Cole’s, Sadie. Youre selling nudes again?

Nudes? No. It’s fetish content. I don’t have to show shit, I do it because I want to. I like it. So does your boyfriend.

Sadie stared at Rachel.

Im kidd-ing. I do have a gig tonight, so Im going to get ready. We can talk later about your white knight, Joe.

Time passed and the way from the apartment toward Cole’s shrunk in a bus ride followed by a two minute walk.

Sadie took bartending gigs here and there. She liked getting hammered for free; sometimes if she was feeling like it she would take one or two wannabe punks back to her place. She preferred women and had the most fun when humiliating men.

That night two no-names (a fat Walton Goggins and a miniature Jacob Elordi), vied for Sadie’s attention; someone always did. Her deadpan stare triggered some caveman instinct with a mirror effect of meaning they mistook as an inviting look.

Goggins wore a shirt of The Casualties two sizes too small and Mini Jacob wore a Lower East Side Warzone album shirt.

Ninja vs Unicorn, and a handshake for our friend here, said Mini Jacob.

Ninja, shitty beer, and a shot; gotchu, said Sadie pointing at the men.

25 Ta Life’s, Da Low Down played on the jukebox.

The bar’s placed on the right side of the space when coming in from the street, same side where the pool table stood, next to the entrance/exit. Stained glass lamps illuminated spots in the grime ridden darkness.

Two couples played pool. The girls were wearing leather skirts and mesh shirts, almost like a uniform, their personality accented by the different shoe ware. One (Katha) wore Bed|Stü Infamy platform boots and the other (Amélie) wore black and white creepers. Next to them were their side pieces wearing flannel shirts with skinny black jeans. The blonde wore green vintage Geoff Rowley’s XLIII’s and the one with the cap wore Nike’s SB’s.

Sadie got a text from Rachel saying Joe would be dropping by. That was her cue, either Goggins or Mini Jacob, maybe both, would make the cut at the end of the night.

They chatted her up, pounding their beers as fast as a Minor Threat song would go. On the tv screen: a Hoods, The King is Dead1 music video played with no sound.

She rolled her eyes in such a way Goggins thought, Sheesh, is she having an episode or something?

Hey, you guys should have a kitchen, said Goggins, laying his head on top of his right arm on the bar.

Not sure where youd put it, but that’s something youd have to take with the owner, said Sadie. Of course the fatty thinks we should serve food

Yeah, Id kill for a cheeseburger right now, said Mini Jacob.

Okay, said Sadie, polishing a rock glass.

Mini Jacob pounded his fist on the bar.

I could really fuck a motherfucker up right now for a cheeseburger, he said, dangling his feet off the bar stool.

Cool, theres a Small Cheval on Armitage.

A patron walked to the jukebox and played Eyehategod’s Take as Needed for Pain2. That’s the stuff, he said.

Can’t believe this bitch’s buying this douchebag’s bullshit; Ive been with her since we were in sixth grade for fucks sake; This little guy’s so cute, Oh I want a cheeseborgor, Baby wants a cheeseborgor? Aww; Who orders a Mojito? I fucking hate mint; This aint The Violet Hour, asking if I have lavender syrup, fuck outta here; I bet fatty over there has a chode, wonder if little man’s packing, looks like he is.

The floor was sticky with spilled drinks, a dirty mop must lingered. The girl with the boots lined herself low, eyeing the cue ball—the sound of the shot pleased Sadie, who gazed over and pictured herself getting fucked with a cue, squirting all over the crowd and then fucking the men in the ass until they bleed and the women would both watch and fuck themselves and then take turns fucking the men until theyre nothing but a sack of meat no bones on the ground.

The girl, Katha, sunk a green 6 in the left pocket, facing the bar.

Sadie chuckled, she’s been pounding shots of Wild Turkey throughout the night.

Katha grinned back. Suck on that, she said.

Lucky shot, said the blonde.

Yeah, best 2 out of 3, just in case. Calling it now, said the dude with the cap.

The night was coming to an end and Sadie felt like the two bugs caught on her web would suffice. Nobody fucks you harder than an ugly motherfucker, she always said.

You boys have any plans after this? asked Sadie to the slushed slimy pair.

Goggins grinned and coughed—looking at Mini Jacob—he had his hand on Mini Jacob’s chest like he was about to say something—but didn’t say anything so Mini Jacob said: I was thinkin’ of getting a cheeseburger, but I’m down for whatever. Do you have any plans?

Sadie raised her eyebrows, her most expressive look since the eye roll. I love her as a sister; What do men see in her? she’s such a masochist, I know she gets a kick out of it, she knows Joe’s fucking around, look at his instagram for fuck’s sake; The lengths a woman will go to get ring on their finger; He’s not going to marry her, she’s delusional

Get shitfaced and go back to my place. Wanna join? said Sadie looking at both the men.

Back at the pool game, the men babied and complained about their companions being better than them. The girl with the creepers, Amélie, called the shot.

Don’t get cocky now, you’re good but you’re not—the carom interrupted the salty blonde.

Another ball went around the table before going in the pocket, a striped red 11.

Amélie jumped, her skirt flailed, she wore a red thong. Hell yes! she said. Called it.

F’course, in that case I’ll head off to get that cheeseburger and we’ll meet you there? asked Mini Jacob.

Sure, said Sadie. Shoot me a text, here’s my number.

The bar was half full, most of the crowd gathered on the left side of the space. Several groups of 5, most of them all men, but in some 1 to 2 women were sprinkled in.

Superjoint Ritual’s Dress like a Target3 played.

What? you want everyone here to look at your ass? said the blonde man. He lifted Amélie’s skirt revealing a solid round pair of smooth tanned cheeks, they swallowed the red thong. They jiggled in place.

Katha sneaked on the blonde’s back; the man with the cap spun his cue in place, entranced with his friend’s date’s ass.

Youre an asshole, you know that? Amélie said yanking her skirt down with one hand and slapped the blonde’s face with the other with such speed, the man didn’t register which happened first. Everything blended in one movement.

He lifted his hand and—Katha smashed the thick side of her cue against his face, unhinging the jaw, it shattered several teeth from both bottom and upper rows. His cry came out like that of a sea lion. His mouth, a broken basin filled with blood, spilling in streams of drool.

Get the fuck out of here, you dick! said Sadie from behind the bar.

A group of men rallied around the bunch and threw both men outside on the sidewalk.

Katha and Amélie laughed.

Fucking losers, Amélie said.

Sadie laughed and gave Amélie a Negroni and a French 75 to Katha.

The news showed images of the Pope with no sound.

Last call, Sadie said.

Today is the day; three hours from sundown for the end to commence. People pause under an eclipsed heaven above, so below, the void devours us whole. At least that’s how the heart sees it. It’s three hours from sundown and Nick Drake’s Three Hours plays and plays and plays—in a loop. I’m strolling down North Canal. Fall’s last wet breeze blows reds, oranges, and yellows from the trees—Strewn above the expansive grave growing hungrier for bones and all the humours that soak into tacit joy expressed with its lagniappe chance to continue the cycle—of cultural phagocytosis. And we fall like rain only to burn into vapor, elevate into cloud and fall again—In search of a master, in search of a slave.

Day four-hundred-and-fourteen recounting the exact steps we took last; same route: hundreds of windows frame others as it does with us; ensconcing depravities, fears, ambition and isolating loneliness inside a capsule meant to be a safe space. Streetlights are on. Buses and humvees—vvfff— pass north to south and vice versa. Once I cross the river on Lake it’s a straight shot until Dearborn and then a right: everything after the river stands barren to outsiders but I can sense their eyes on me. You can hear wind rustle between buildings, the howling like metal sheets waving and cutting pressured air. Swooshing high speed aluminum foil.

Fiorella’s voice is burning coals to my ears, and the thought of them vibrating in my mind brings heat to every bone in me. “Are you even listening?” she asks, her Chelsea’s splashing on the puddled sidewalk. Answering shouldn’t be complicated, a simple Yes, would allow her to continue, even if it’s No; but if I say No, might as well pour the rest of this Evian over her head.

“I am, you’re talking about those guardsmen. It’s a tragedy—wind-currents drown my voice as soon as it touches air— but they shouldn’t have been there. Don’t you agree?”

Above us you can hear rattling—SKSKSKSKSK—from a helicopter hovering above the emerald-green building behind us, to our left. I put the water bottle in my backpack.

What? When I peek to my right—Nobody—Then to my left—James Nederlander Theatre—I walk inside the dim lit space and it is empty of people, the scent of wet dirt lingers. There’s only a chair sitting in the middle of the room and behind the chair in the far back of the room are two doors to two different rooms. Lacquered black doors with silver polished knobs stare into my eyes, and I step back. “Hey, what’re you doing?” Fiorella says, startling me. “You have your badge, right?”

“Sheesh, I could’ve hurt you. I thought I lost you for a second; yeah, I got it. What is this place, do you know?”

Her room’s walls covered in odd shaped mirrors of distinct sizes, all warped, but don’t tell her that, I’ve gone down that road and ended on foot. Three Hours ends, or I finally skip it from the repeat. Nude by Radiohead plays next and it’s not her room I’m in but it’s the room before me like morning mist.

Fiorella’s not here, not now, not physically. I should understand that. Understanding is the universe contained in a strand of hair. I learned that climbing the stairs in between her’s. The smell of her perfume cuts my breath for a dry second.

Years ago, inside the sundrowned apartment, you could smell the crepe batter cooking slow in the coated nonstick pan on top of the range with a low flame below. As soon as it sheened you saw me flip it on its other side and cut the fire off. Whipped cream inside the KitchenAid bowl with twelve grams of Madagascar vanilla and one-hundred-and-fifty grams of caster sugar. Her feet hovered soft in the air, hanging from the arm of the sofa I could see her pale blue jeans loosely cut at her ankles. Pale Blue Eyes played on an Audio-Technica in the living room corner, next to the sliding doors that opened to the balcony, overlooking South Wells street. Inside the sink a chinois sat with a film of batter on the outside mesh, thinned. “Aren’t you going to finish getting ready?” I served the white crepe on the plate. “How many do you want?”

“I’m okay, thank you.” She flipped a page on her book. “Kelly and I are grabbing a bite in Logan. This book is so good. Huuu–Okay!” I stayed quiet and poured a second crepe on the pan, shifting it around until it coated the bottom. “I’ll get off the couch.” Lowered the flame and looked back at her on the couch; heard her shut the book. Then she jumped off the couch and ran towards me. “Oh, no. I’m late! Shit, okay, gotta go. Gimme a kiss.” I flipped the crepe and killed the gas or at least I thought I did, at the moment. “Hey. You’re putting a shirt on, right?”

Fiorella laughed and glanced over her shoulder as she picked her blouse from the counter.

“Still no news?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t on my phone. Okay, bye. See you tonight.”

Her voice stayed back, behind the closing door. Behind the twisting lock—letting anyone near know the door’s closed now, there’s no-body inside. I see the succulents in the balcony, leaves gleaming; the train rumbles the railway tracks, metal clattering as it speeds, drilling through the brick and concrete dense forest that is Chicago.

Outside, a clatter followed by bursting machine-gun fire—then a crash echoes loud. “Halt! Non-authorized vehicles will get shot on sight.” I run towards the west wall and lay flat against it—peering towards the revolving door—Back quarter hind of the humvee with a gunman on top. “They’re not in a vehicle, man,” says the one manning the M2A1. “There! Shoot!” says the driver. The belt feeds as fast as the cannon can spit the .50 cal out.

I raise the volume and Fontaines D.C., Roman Holiday starts to play. Even then, the noise rattles the room. Love this song

“Fucking drive! Why are we stopping?”

—Lightning ripping from one end to the other blows through the gunner’s helmet—

Head turns to a splattered maraschino cherry pie. His body drops like an overripe mango. And the humvee drives off in Daley Plaza’s direction.

Sniper

It takes me a second to notice my hand on my head and the headphones around my neck, I can still hear the song playing. The lacquered door hums—I glance for a second—A loud swooshing flat-dry projectile whistles past and blasts what sounded like the street and then squeaking shock absorbers—I run to the door and stare at the scene—You can hear the debris from pavement fall. Humvee flips screeching the road ending upside down in what used to be Petterino’s patio sitting.

Outside a cloud of smoke and dirt runs south. I can’t stay put.

So I run. When I zag—a bullet whizzes by my left ear from behind. I fall on my hands and jolt back up and keep running without looking back then my heart pounds my eardrums and the TUKUN TUKUN TUKUN is all there is to hear and my breathing gets heavier with each step the oxygen sitting mid-chest nose clogged and I see a figure in the plaza. The shadow of a person.

Clouds roll a curtain and blue smoke shoots south of Daley—arching above the figure. Wind pushes them enough that a stream of light pours on the figure—like a saint.

Daley Plaza. The figure raises their rifle: the running man waves his hands at them: behind him—Rifle barrel steady in front of the smiling face of the soldier—Finger on the trigger—Breathe—SQUEEZE.

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To the Moon, Darkly

An empty crooked trampoline on the yellowed grass flashed him green memories of a laughing boy jumping on its mat. Everything dimmed, brightness dulled as if someone put a filter over sun’s face, a mask. Thursday as with any other Thursday, at any given time, of any passing week, crawled idle into a hopeless, bruised purple night sky reached by Eastern redbuds and Hackberry trees; the swaying view went in and out of focus until the blur brought out the sun and Holy Friday breathed life anew into Collin Truth. He found that morning waking under the bare naked two by four above the steps of the back porch. Unforgettable by Dina Washington played from somewhere inside the house. The invisible breezebarrened dome around their space fixed clouds, it amplified that perturbing noise that came with silence. Curtains moved and two lights switched inside the house; a toilet flushed, followed by muffled steps. Lights switched off and it all went quiet. Outside, air staled on the same backyard he watched his son, Enoch Truth, throw his first baseball; laughing on the swing as he reached high for the clouds curling his baby soft face into an innocent smile. Collin motioned his hands in a circle and his body jerked grotesque.

Green memories swelled little circles on his shoulders, so he would scratch them. He would scratch the memories off like a dog with mange. And on that day every green memory bled red.

A burning sensation rose feet up stepping through memory haze and a distant echo drowned the outside forcing the inside to float.

Brume falls weightless on Mourning, its haunting whitegray makes morning seem like a full moon night.

It’s quite spacious, I like the second entry in the kitchen

She stares at the walls and the flooring; her face: unimpressed—Office for you? Ha, cute—she says, looking inside a room with four windows facing east. Theyre on the first floor.

Why this town? Why not somewhere more exciting. It doesnt need to be New York

Sophia sweeps the floor with her eyes coiling her hair around her index.

I mean, you know I can work too. Money isnt even an issue

Collin steps closer, Sophia’s face is millimeters away from his chest. His breath is a holy spirit moving her fine hair, and her, taking it as her cue to step in the embrace, does so nestling her cliffs on the wall guarding his heart.

Theyre inside a two story house. Same house they’ll be till end comes.

It’s not the house—I mean, I love the house, but, it’s the town. It compels me to be here. We’re close to the highway, so you can still work; the school district is one of the best, in case we ever decide to, you know. Look at all this, nobody will disturb us, our peace. You can have your own home-gym, and I, my office. And the woods… maybe I can learn how to hunt. Is that hot? You like that?

Sophia scoffs, Youre stupid, she says.

Oh, really? Im stupid, Collin goes cross-eyed.

If youre breathing I know youre doing something stupid, she laughs.

Collin closed the closet. Lights blinked, and a noise from the bathroom—a shower curtain drawn doesnt break his spell. Björk’s Hunter plays from nowhere, somewhere.

Go in, baby. Jump in

Sophie’s smile clears the somber skies, her hand extending to Collin, her eyes slashing the yellow—Now they sit eating a simple cheese pie; Collin cuts Enoch’s triangle slice into squares leaving out the thick crust, Dont want you to choke, kiddo. Enoch’s pudgy fingers pick and stuff the little red squares in his mouth, beaming green as he looks at his parents.

Collin lunged forward down the steps and felt the dewy humid lawn carpet below his feet brush him as he threaded ghastly across the plane towards the bouncing moments of a gone life. Then an unknown urge, a pull to get on the trampoline; he countenanced the violence of neon memories, light painted in his mind’s eye, while walking slow. The kitchen light turned on low, followed by utensils clattering, then two beeps and a loud wet suction noise—birds singed like rubber ducks and the garbage truck passed by. Sobbing sounds echoed from what had to be the bathroom.

Thin static hummed white from the highwires. He peered above the fence, a visible current zapping through the power line, a copper scent circulated with the wind, lifting dead leaves, and sending them in a swirl—fire rum fumes spiraled from his gorge, before it knotted; the feeling of him having kicked his feet triggered spasms. The grid would fault from time to time in Mourning, MO. It faulted three years ago as well when his son, Enoch, said, Aw, Paw. It’s only seasonal. I’ll be back in Fall. Fall never came, but a sempitern winter serpented its way into staying. Chokeheld, Collin gripped his neck and breathed white noise; he burped and felt a faint heartburn sitting on his chest like a royal-blue wool mantle. A hare hopped and hopped—then stopped. And hopped again in Collin’s view—And a rooster crowed, then an eerie shiver shot—Creaking came from inside the house before the hinges of the backdoor squeaked open. Kitchen lights off; sun’s on medium. A wallpaper sky and you couldnt tell if it was sunset or sunrise the way the source of light smudged everywhere it fell.

Up before the rooster crows, said a voice that adjusted as the words fell out.

Collin’s back turned cold as the words crashed against it. He looked at the trampoline and muttered, Remember when you would spend hours jumping, saying—

I remember being afraid, alone, without you and Mother’s help. I remember wanting to die quickly. Besides that? Very little memories. I think I need help, Father.

Collin stared at the trampoline. Through the trampoline into—

Can we go inside and talk? The man took some steps or didnt but the boards strained. Want some coffee?

He spoke from the porch or from the door. His hands on the wooden frame, maybe.

Enoch? What? How.

Collin straightened his posture and his neck strained; clouds moving down down down.

Who else? the voice chuckled.

Collin’s eyes welled up and his nose stuffed. He dropped to his knees and keened.

Fire ants crawled around his spread fingers on the ground. Tears fed his lawn.

Enoch? Youre back? Where have you been?

Come on, let’s go inside. We’ll have time for that, later.

Enoch walked or didnt but the boards strained and the hinges squeaked and then the door smacked against the frame, bouncing as it closed.

Inside in the kitchen, Enoch’s face is covered by the oak wood cupboards, you could only see him from the neck below.

Where are the cups? Oh how Ive missed having a cup of coffee with you, father.

Where theyve always been… Im so groggy. Like I broke from a chrysalis. In a new shell; new to these old surroundings.

Collin jolted from his chair. Rattling the round table and tipping over the salt shaker.The small white pile piled next to the silver holed cap and a single grain of rice clogged one of them. Collin stared at it: the polished white kernel stuck—not out—not exactly in.

I was already awake when I woke up this morning, outside of all places. And even now with the lights on, it all seems so dark. What’s to say this isnt a dream, but I cant ignore the fact I dont remember ever going to sleep.

Calm down, Father. Im here to stay. For now.

Enoch opened cabinets, all of them before finding the cups.

How long did you look for me?

His face revealed at last, bearing no marks, his skin with no blemishes, flushed as when a child.

Collin chuckled, Three years, Enoch. Youve been gone for three years. I looked everywhere. We looked everywhere, the whole community canvassed the whole town. Not a single clue where you couldve gone. Like night you left and now youre back, easy as morning. Classmates, kids down the block, Rita, nobody knew anything. Everybody thought you were… Three years, where?

Over a steaming never cold coffee inside two cups, Collin and Enoch shared, both souls flickered like candlelight on a cold hunter’s night. The father gestured with his hands as he spoke; the son mirroring his movements with his responses, controlled Collin like a thermostat. A glare captured Collin’s eye, it came from the glass of a framed family photo on top of an old wooden table; the light broke through the face of who mustve been his wife. Like a beam of light bursting off her visage. He scratched his left shoulder. Enoch clapped five times, icy tears slow dragging down his face, turning at his curled lip, dried by the time it got to the chin.

Why am I sulking… What am I doing?

Out in the street, outside of the hunting grounds, life continued about rolling common. Kids walked to their bus stop. The yellow bus brakes hissed two blocks away.

Enoch’s head tilted, amused, mouth parted enough to see a glint of his wet tongue, bulging veins on his neck and forehead. Oh, I hope Im not late.

Collin sprinted out the dining room cattycorner into the living room and upstairs inside his bedroom.

Dont go on the trampoline! said Enoch out of reflex. His voice thrice as coarse.

We have to celebrate. Youre back. My son… Our boy’s back!

Voice faded as he moved away, mist seeping out along his words of joy. Fruit for rot. Hairs on his neck on end.

Please dont run, Father.

Without a sound, Enoch entered parents’ room, sitting down on bed swift as a black cat. And all cats are black at night some say but it wasnt night-time then, and be warned, you dont want it to be night-time when you hear this. Enoch’s eyes were glass yet no light reflected off them, but you could feel them on you. Watching.

Where is Mother?

Enoch’s voice hit an odd register, a grim grin hiding in confusion. Its sound’s texture scraped inside his father’s ears. Sophia’s jewelry box was on top of the dresser next to a candle and a small ceramic plate with coins and one pair of silver earrings.

Sophia. Sophia

The Father stopped rummaging through his closet. In front of him hung her wedding dress inside a transparent cover. His hunting rifle right behind.

You called her Mum…

Collin’s feet felt heat, rising hotter.

Collin and Enoch jump on the trampoline, Sophia’s voice sugars their ears.

Going touch moon, Mum, says her boy

She never stopped believing we would find you. He’s smart; I know he will find a way to escape, she’d say. Escape from where, I’d say back, He’s just sixteen, we dont even know if he’s alive. Sometimes she would come up with these ideas, these outlandish theories. Like one time, where she said that maybe you werent abducted, that you just escaped out into the world, alone, escaping us. I think she wouldnt have cared where it is that you ended up being if you didnt want her to know, as long as she knew you were somewhere youd be taken care of. At the same time she’d cook for the whole camp. Some of the wives would help. He paused a breath, his eyes never leaving his boy’s face.

On the shelf frontside Collin, a thin black plastic moulding framed photo of Enoch: Smiling ear to ear with a centipede looking black scar on his left eyebrow.

He continued: But she would take on the main bulk of it all, and she did it with love. Real love. You could feel it. Embracing, bright. What is with this fog?

Sophia holds Enoch in her arms, twirling makes the boy giggle in glee under the pall’s gargantuan cast shadows falling hard in high contrast. The waterfall of darkness disemboguing around the joyous family pressed an atmosphere of morbid moira, it filtered through memories’ cracks. Gazing at the glinting edge of the fangs protruding downward from the sky, is Collin. Lightning falls and cracks ground to smithereens near Sophia and baby Enoch—when another strike, this time the fangs—crush against the earth and it all goes black—Fangs gone and the family’s about to get in the car when Enoch turns to his mother and says: It’s weird you havent asked to take a picture of me. To which his mother, Sophia, responds: I figured youve grown so fast; I just dont want to make you feel embarrassed. Enoch smiles, It’s okay, Mum, come on, take one. The mother does, and it’ll be the last one she takes. Sophia caresses his face with the back of her fingers, blades shining tender. The family drives out to the city, they stay in a hotel. Collin’s in the shower.

Sounds good to me, love. Want to meet after? I dont know how long Richard will keep me, you know how he is once he starts rambling. One slap for him to talk and a beating to shut him up

What if you take Enoch?

Sophia looks at Collin’s clothes laid on bed, his Brioni white Cotton Twill dress shirt, Kitton blue wool dress pants; she scoffs.

Enoch’s on his phone, watching unsolved mysteries videos.

I would love to, but I dont think it’s the best place for a kid, you know? We’re going to be drinking and you know Richard, he gets loud and I dont want Enoch to be near any trouble. Im sure you can understand

Right, sure. Okay, have fun. Say bye to your paw

See you later, Paw

Take care of Mum, love you. I’ll see you later

Collin sits inside a French restaurant, next to him is Monica. They get the poached pears with the whipped marrow butter on a gallette topped with a tarragon-mustard vinaigrette seasoned frisee. 2000 Château Kirwan Margaux Grand Cru Classé fills Monica’s cup before Collin splits the mignon pithivier. A half eaten piece of baguette next to cultured butter and duck liver mousse remains after theyre done laughing and touching, flirting with each other’s souls inside the small bustling bistro. Collin’s phone lights up: LOML calling. Monica looks at the screen, her smile is imaginary-red and when her eyes bounce to—Collin turns the phone upside down—Server brings the check—Alain Chamfort’s, Géant plays on the restaurant speakers.

I didnt bring my car, my boy’s mother has it

It’s okay, my hotel isnt that far

Dad?

Enoch got off bed and slowly crept over to his father, who stood scratching his shoulder while whispering to himself; silent staring outside his window into the yard, at the trampoline, he gazed at the porch’s lintel and a noose holding a windchime when he said, A windchime? When did Sophia put that there?

Collin steps closer to a woman in large sunglasses; theyre inside a theater. Stretching his arm, he pretends a handshake but makes a claw and twiddles his fingers instead. He shows his hand and smiles.

Hey, youre Catherine’s roommate, right?

Sophia Park. Nice to meet you, she says, with a slight nod.

She’s in a gray Le Réussi wool blazer with a relaxed fit white collared Ralph Lauren Oxford underneath. Or a striped oversized cotton shirt, also Ralph. Slim wool black pants, or is it a black wool skirt? She’s standing in front of Collin.

Men walking around fixate on her, then when no longer in their line of sight they snap towards Collin—and quick glance at Sophia again.

Her eyes are carbon steel and their patina’s hue pale night’s pearls across sky. No comparison.

Im Collin. Pleasure’s mine. Is she in the restroom?

Space warms around them under the tungsten lights. He wears a white shirt with an oversized black blazer, a crooked tie and jeans. No discernible brand but his Allen Edmond Oxford’s. Under them a marble floor with ivory white columns that extend as far as the firmament will allow itself in a memory. His eyes are lightdark tree resin.

Sophia’s chewing gum, her cliffed cheeks level her eyeblades; bouncing her knee, she inhales deep.

Cat couldnt make it. She got a last minute call from her boss. Said she tried calling your house, but the machine was full

Sophia holds her blazer in her arms, her blades slice through Collin’s ice. Her nose is pierced and so is her upper frenulum. Theyre about to watch La Carreta. Her voice is charcoal gray but this will change. The scent of magnolias with blood on the leaves percolate time’s memories. Three contiguous tables topped with handmade jewelry, black and white Puerto Rican flags, stones, artisanal soap, dulce de coco, de leche; also Pedro Albizu Campos shirts and others of Filiberto Ojeda Ríos, sat next the main staircase in the middle floor, above the restrooms and below the upper circle.

Oh, okay. Sheesh. Thanks, that’s so nice of you, to still come. I hope the play doesnt bore you

He’s no longer dressed as chewed gum. The blazer fits; no jeans. Tie’s still crooked and his neck pulses and the body spasms, convulsing.

Marble turns to carpet, red as fresh blood. Wet like oil paint.

I did pay for my ticket. Why would I leave

Did she call you before coming here?

Collin’s stare swings between her mouth and eyes. Perhaps a tell.

She beeped. Yeah, not great

Sophia sighs out loud and looks at one of the tables.

Looking down at his feet—Collin wiggled his toes and yellowed grass spawned from the wooden floor—Their house flowered placing its insides outside—Little green circles poked his skin and because of this he pushed his shoulders back and tightened his core ignoring the itch—The hare that he thought to be brown, was now white and sat in the middle of the trampoline with its nose twitching. Its red eyes held no gleam. A deep purple brewed from his inside out at flower’s touch bringing Collin’s body to shake and jerk, his feet kicking involuntarily. Space and time thinned—splitting themselves from the fabrics of reality—Warping blues, reds, yellows and greens—Pulsing magenta headflashes stabbing Collin revealed like negatives—His head turned slow—Enoch stared, grinning—Are you okay? Do you need help?––Crystal sounds like shining glitter came from the windchime tickling his ears with an iridescent shimmer.

On the other side of the thinning shroud inside the house, Sophia’s immaculate soft feet stepped across the hallway and down the stairs in a teal lace gown; part of her silvered hair, leveled with her tensed jaw covering one of her eyes revealing: one dull blade. She passed the photo with Enoch’s black caterpillar scar and with a deep breath put a hand on her chest and went into the kitchen towards the fridge and grabbed the cold-blue glass water pitcher, when from her peripheral—A dark hanging shadow—Her spine electrified and her reality blinked like she shorted—Sun was out by the time she came to be, small cuts on her feet, shards of embedded glass. Laid next the staircase, she removed the glass. The deep burgundy splurting from the small wounds smelled of cherry and cinnamon. Sounds of clapping cut the trance.

Damn it, Im late. Coll? Collin!

Sophia glanced at the console table. His keys, gone. Her eyes welled and a soft whispering voice said, Give the barrel a little kiss goodbye, why dontcha. She snapped to see where—Who—hardcold metal between her teeth—Sophia light-pink screamed, rifle falling on her crossed legs, hands shivering like a stickhouse on an earthquake. She stood fast but her knees turned rubber and she plopped back on the floor in front of her closet door, sobbing. She heard the bed creak behind her, as if someone had gotten up from it. She then heard the door leading to the porch slam shut. Her ears thumped with the sound of her pumping heart, tunktun, tunktun, tunktun, tunktun, tunktun—Shorted again.

When she woke up she was in bed, drenched in sweat. When are these nightmares going to end? she asked. Lights were on and the sun wasnt all the way there yet. With the closet door shut, Sophia looked next to her, Collin, she said and got up and walked around the bed—She saw the rifle on the floor. Next to bed, front of the closet. Calling.

She ran towards the bathroom and shut herself in. Under the prickling jets of the shower she broke in wails, her weeping echoed outside. Water washed around the body but not her soul, that part remained untouched, steaming vapor. She stood front of the mirror, clearing the steamed glass with the wing of the towel, wrapped tight around her body; she traced one finger marking her lines on the reflection, the trace of years passed.

Birds sang and chirped, flapping their wings, others standing on a tree outside the bedroom window. She played REM’s E-Bow the Letter. The rifle on the foot of the bed, barrel pointed to the window, thrummed to be picked up. Her memories were a perfume and the marzipan of death clung behind a tinge of apricots.

Rain pours like nickels and dimes falling from high. Collin’s fake laughing, his hand is on Monica’s lower back, her jet black hair tied high, clears the view of her exposed back. Thunder growls and lights a set of cumulus ash-gray but all there is, is red.

Your kid’s huge, just like you haha

I was petrified the whole time, you handled it so gracefully

Oh my god, what did you think I was going to say?

Cars swoosh in front of them, on the street. One flies past hitting a puddle—Collin pulls Monica and she clings to him.

It’s called decorum, she says.

It helped Richard was here, I can guarantee it wouldve been different if he hadn’t

Of course, Dad being there boosted my innocence points but that’s besides the point, haha

He was so quiet, that was strange

Yeah, I noticed that too. I dont know, he gets in his head all the time, he’s probably thinking about business like every cynical old man

I think that’s our ride. I hate when they do this. Come on!

Collin waves at the car parked at the other side of the street. On his phone: Driver will depart in four minutes.

Monica giggles, What an asshole, I’ll give him one star

Cars swoosh by like hockey pucks and then silence hits. Monica tells Collin to just cross, rain doesnt seem to be stopping any time soon. Collin agrees and takes the break time from traffic as confirmation of it being the correct decision. Monica stands on her toes and kisses Collin, then drops her heels back on wet ground, splashing droplets of gray water. Come on, let’s go, she says, almost running, dragging Collin by his wrist. No light but the one from the awning; all street posts in that area are fried. Crossing halfway with two minutes remaining—Roaring and rubber burning grows close—Headlights turn on blinding and—SKTPOOM—Monica flies sixteen feet across the pavement splashing the back of her head against asphalt—Tires screech—Zoom off again—Seven teeth on the street—The waiting car leaves—Collin runs in opposite direction of Monica’s corpse.

His phone rings, it’s Sophia, he looks back and the rain is blood fast falling, splash—Headlights—-Splash—Monica’s body flush to the front of the vehicle—Decline.

Collin’s body trembled and fell on his knees, his head thumped red, orange, red, orange. In front of him Enoch said, I thought I lost you there for a second. I hoped not to be late but you decided to change plans and start your own party early, huh, Father? Have you heard of The Veil?

Collin raised his head, Is that where youve been? he asked. What is it? Where is it?

Oh it’s everywhere, not around but in between, Enoch said. He called Collin with his finger, signaling him to get closer. I want to take you with me. I want you to see where Ive been.

David Bowie’s Lazarus played after E-Bow the Letter. Sophia called Collin, when something started to vibrate near—She heard a knock downstairs, on the front door, ending the call; she walked out of the room and stood on the first step gazing down at the door. TUK, TUK, TUK. Three knocks.

Mourning, PD. Is anyone in?

TUK, TUK, TUK.

Sophia rushed to the door and swung it open, Good morning, any news?

Mornin, Maam. Doug Douglas. Maam, we’ve found your son’s—Enoch’s remains.

No, no, no, no. My son, my boy, no. My boy’s alive, I know it. Where? Where did you find this?

My condolences Miss Truth, we’ve had forensics run samples on the remains and they matched Enoch’s DNA. The remnants were found in the outskirts of Ginsberg, Illinois.

Sophia’s breath escaped her, white filled all space around the cop and her body turned sand and her skin a plastic bag and she heaved, and heaved and her chest wheezed, tears uncontrolled pouring out her dull blades. Officer Douglas noticed bloody footprints running from what seemed to be the kitchen leading upstairs. A photo laid upside down. He looked at Sophia and noticed her bloodied cuts; she wouldnt stop weeping, so he entered the house and asked her, Maam, is your husband here with you? Is there anybody else in the house? The officer kept pushing slow inside, he walked upstairs, each step creaked loud. Who’s there? Come out with your hands in the air, now! Im not going to repeat myself, man. Im not playing games.

Officer Douglass charged up the last steps and into the main room, weapon drawn. He scanned the room from the door, and saw the hunting rifle front of bed.

10-32, requesting backup on 4733 Sterling Dr.

A breeze pushed the officer. He bolted downstairs, panting. The front door shut close, splintering the frame. Sophia wasnt at the entrance but the weeping could be heard from somewhere inside. Douglas crept into the kitchen—Oh, hell no! Oh, hell no. Hell, no. Send in an ambulance, there’s a body, and possible intruders. Possibly armed.

Copy that.

Clattering noise from the stairs getting closer alerted the officer who turned back to—How dare you! screamed Sophia—He was my everything—She held the hunting rifle directly at the officer’s face—Collin? No, no.

Sirens circled the air and flocked to the Truth residence.

Before anyone could enter—One shot cried red into the thin blue—Dead leaves fell on the trampoline.

thanks for lookin out

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Lookout’s on the roof with the walkie, no birds in sight when children single file to school; dragon wings flap in the wind someone falls

Someone’s mother screams

Humpback junkie’s on the corner, cardboard cutout fixed.

Mothers of mothers in batas clank iron bottoms of the caldero full candela;

Titeritos ready to click up running their bread earning seals; cement salad.

Mothers of mothers outlive Titeritos and when birds rattle the sky

We’re alley rats running towards Light’s mouth

Back in the womb

.

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Rooster’s crow and click my eyes—Open orbs

In an orbit of solitude—Pull, Pull, Pull—Press

Over a rock the wet plop splash echoes with spilling innards.

From puddle let me rise in reverse candle wax form

then set that gel aflame, then I can come, come, come;

Spread across your bones, lathered

Nestled inside the ribcage like a sparrow with wax wings

Watch the sun drown again.

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Thanks for lookin out

Air pressed dry in darkness. Breezebarren.

On the border of Ginsberg, Illinois, an unnamed bar invited passersby to come inside. Weary or bored and or both. Its neon generic BAR sign on the blackedout window turned on meant OPEN.

Joe Martin pulled into the parking lot in his white F-350 playing Golden Smog’s Until You Came Along. Next to a telephone booth stood a sign for the 53 bus; inside the lot ten cars parked. All far from each other. A white BMW took two spots by the entrance.

Joe parked next to the dumpster. He practiced smiling on the rearview for the entire song.

Phone buzzed in center console, lit with a message reading: Who’s with you? Joe opened the glove compartment and pulled a silver ring. He put it on and gazed at its figure. A gargoyle. It doubled as a locket.

He ran his thumb and middle finger over his brows, Lets go, he said—and got off the truck grinning.

4TUNE read the Beamer’s plate.

Piece of work, right, said a man from inside an old Oldsmobile. His face shrouded in shadows couldnt mask his teal voice. See you around.

Joe nodded. Confused. Disinterested.

Warm light above entrance flickered and buzzed next to a cobweb. Bugs swarmed the bulb, forming a halo.

He pushed the green door open.

I dont know what you want me to say; I already told you where I was; Joe. Hey, Joe; Listen. Listen to me

Right; Except that I called David and he said you left at 7; And where’s your bag

Rosef, the brown Labrador barks outside the house; Eagles play against Steelers in the living room; A show for children plays on a laptop in the family room

Im not fucking stupid Mia

You watched a wedding between two cousins of the royal family in Brunei playing on an old analog TV above and behind the beer tap.

Loud sounds from performing band—in a halfpacked venue—convinced you to bounce as soon as the drink you hadnt ordered yet was done.

Long day? asked a woman in a black Björk shirt and jeans with beaten Air Force 1s. Nude lips. Canned Pop eyes.

Aint enough hours for long days anymore.

Not a small talker, huh?

She removed her purse from the seat to her left and placed her phone on top of the bar, her gaze on mine, to her right.

Here you go, said the bartender; a butch, probably.

Thanks. Keep the change.

One of the six cats had to be driving the Beamer. Maybe the suit ogling Shortskirt over there. Cant judge these days, tho. Could be loser on corner next to the restrooms, recording under those girls’ skirts.

Here, take a seat.

Im just having this—raised the shitty beer with my left and an Old Grandad shot on my right—and then I’ll leave. Thank you, tho.

To be honest I didnt want to talk to her. Or to anyone. My plans were set. This bizarre scene with the incestuous wedding inside the golden palace as a backdrop kept making me doubt. Everything.

Come on, dont be rude. There aint enough hours to be rude. Name’s Rochelle, by the way.

Nice to meet you Rochelle. Look, I dont want to be rude but Im not planning on staying. I have a date.

The cover band? You have a pretty smile. What? Dont laugh. It’s true.

She was good. Charming. Huge tits with a roundish face. She wasnt fat, tho. I noticed the band playing sang in Spanish.

Her stout eyes held a dim gleam like light bouncing off a glass of ale.

Yes. I like it. Kind of sad to be playing for 4 cats.

Vos sos fan de Manolo?
Her face opened up.

The shift in her accent pulled me in to the cleared seat. I threw back the Old Grandad—leaned in and said, Sorry, I didnt catch that last part.

They do Spanish band covers. Right now theyre playing Eterno Viajero by Extrechinato y Tú. It’s a project between 2 bands, Platero y Tú, Extremoduro and a poet, Manolo Chinato. Theyre very good.

Oh, wow. Yeah. Well, I like the guitars. I dont speak Spanish, tho.

One beer turned to two beers turned to late too late. I looked at my phone: 3 messages.

Wayne: On scene?

Rochelle kept her gaze on me. Locked my phone.

Whats that grin on your face, Stranger? Huh, Stranger?

I saw her perfect teeth gleaming with more life than her eyes between her modest lips.

Stranger? Weve been talking.

Everything is like pulling teeth with you, man. Whats your name?

Her phone lit up—a photo of a child and Rochelle’s face next to his—1 missed call.

Joe got closer.

Oh, sorry. Didnt realize I hadnt introduced myself. That mustve came across as weird. Haha. Name’s Ted. Ted Jonas.

Oh, a TJ.

Mia, Im sorry; I know I must sound crazy but you have to understand; Youve been acting strange

Strange how? I work, go to the gym; Whats strange?

I dont know Mia, youre distant; We dont talk anymore

You know Ive been following you right?

Following me; What the fuck Mia

I dont know what youre doing exactly but I know it’s weird; I just feel it’s not right.

Youre overreacting Mia; I can explain

How old is he, asked pointing at her phone.

Eleven. A baby.

She grabbed her phone and showed the photo. A closer look.

Gorgeous. Baby have a name? He’s getting old.

Thanks and I know. They grow up so fast. His name’s Yadiel.

Brother?

Youre slick. No. He’s my son.

Rochelle ensnared in Joe’s intensity.

Band stopped playing. Vocalist walked and ordered a round of four Old Styles.

Good stuff man. Like your style.

Sure, dude. Thanks.

Name’s Ted.

Ted. Okay Ted, thanks for hanging out.

The vocalist nodded at Rochelle after grabbing the beers from the bartender. Ignoring Joe.

A zero to the left.

Lou Reed blared from the jukebox.

What does your boy like doing?

He’s a good kid. He likes playing on his computer. Doesnt go outside much. I worry sometimes about him. Feeling lonely, you know? His father isnt really around anymore.

Her voice softened pink.

They stared into each other.

But, I dont think he thinks much about that. Being lonely that is. He’s a good son. He’s a good boy. Anyway—Rochelle’s tone bounced back—what do you do? Ted gives me teacher, but your face gives me salesman.

Joe pinched and pulled the skin on his hand. She noticed a wedding band on his finger. Or so she thought. In reality it’s the gargoyle piece.

Salesman? Ha. I do love teaching children. Theyre so malleable and innocent. What about you? Who watches Yadiel?

Can you not? Hey, Tinna. Give me another one, please.

Sure, babe.

Tinna glared at Joe, reaching for a bottle of Don Q.

I apologize, didnt mean to pry. Here, I got you.

Joe placed a 20 on the counter. Tinna still glared, took the bill. Didnt say a word. He scratched his arm like a ticked dog.

Ok. Keep the change. Thanks. What’s up with that, pointing at the TV.

Rochelle stared blank into the screen. She sighed and turned to Joe.

I didnt even know this country existed until now. Apparently it used to be a British colony.

Lo and behold, a country ruled by a royal class of hillbillies. Bride’s beautiful, considering the inbreeding.

Yeah, you can definitely tell from his face. Hills Have Eyes, but make them the ruling class. Look at the ears, too.

Joe pinched his ears and simulated them being wings.

Rochelle laughed.

Yeah, he’s hard to look at. Hurts the view.

Haha, hurts the view. Hey, Im going to hit the restroom real quick. Ok?

Sure, you dont have to ask for permission. Youre a big boy. Right?

Joe walked to the restroom. Inside, yellow walls—a toilet with no lid—mirror cracked next to, You’re exactly where you need to be, written with marker on the cement.

Maruja’s, The Invisible Man seeped through the closed door. Joe grinned into the broken mirror. Reached inside his pocket and took a pill bottle, opened it, took one out. He smashed it to dust pressing it under his thumb on the porcelain sink’s rim. That dust he then put inside the ring. He peed and then walked out without washing his hands.

Around the pool tables near the stage in the back, next to the restrooms, a group of scene kids got louder by the minute.

Youre a fucking poser. Pig! Get off. Go away.

Calm down, dude. You dont have to be a bitch about it.

Rochelle’s gaze remained glued to the wedding.

Im back, what I miss? It’s pretty dry outside, how about something refreshing.

Joe walked over to Tinna.

Can I get two Ranch Waters.

Tinna looked over at Rochelle, who didnt know what was happening. Hey, she said, you want another drink? Youre not even done with that one.

Rochelle gazed at them both, confused.

What? she asked.

Gurriers, Des Goblin started to play.

It’s hot outside so Im thinking Ranch Water, to freshen up. I asked for two, to not be rude. Ya know?

Joe shone his smile, again.

Oh ok. Sure, I mean, why not right? This will be my last, tho. Things are getting rowdy here. Yadiel’s home too.

Tinna scoffed and made the drinks.

It’s practically a highball. You driving?

Of course not Ted. Okay…

Wait—Joe smacked his hand on the counter, catching Rochelle’s eye—let’s toast your boy. While she glanced at his fist on the counter his ring poured inside the fizz.

Salud.

Rochelle’s thoughts merged with the bubbles.

Wunt me to call you ride? an old fat drunk asked holding the door open.

Oh, no, Mikey. Im good. Thank you, doll. Love you. Stay safe, please.

You sure? Right then. I’ll see you round, Rochelle.

Bye, Tenna! Tinna, haha.

Outside, shattered glass lay under the Beamer’s door on the driver’s side. Capitalist PIG scratched on the hood.

Why dont we go to my place? It’s not too far. My car’s right here.

Joe looked at his phone: 3 unread messages. One is from Wayne, You blew the casting. Fix it.

He opened another message, The man in the store said he didnt know no Randi with an i.

Joe texted back. Bouncing his eyes between phone screen and Rochelle.

Rochelle stared, her mouth slightly parted. Her brown hair pulled back.

Im not fucking you if thats what you think we’re doing. Making that clear now.

Rochelle crossed her arms and stood across Joe. She struggled to maintain balance.

That grin. Youre kind of a creep you know, Ted? Haha. Weirdo.

Sorry, it’s just…

Your date? Haha.

Yeah. It’s okay. And no, I dont expect to have sex. We’re having a good time. I enjoy talking to you. Youre interesting. Actually, look—he looked for a photo in his phone, showed her. He said: This was my son. His mom took him. Long story.

Rochelle’s eyes turned blood-red.

Im sorry. You didnt mention you had a son.

Sweat poured down Joe’s cold face.

It’s a touchy subject. I can give you a ride. My car’s right there.

Rochelle fidgeted her fingers looking at Joe head to toes. Her vision waned. She snickered.

Fuckit. Alright, Ted. Wecan—go to—my housethen. I do have to wake up early, ssso. Cant stay late. Okay? We can have drink in the backyard and call it a night, night. Matt?

Who’s Wayne, Joe? I mean, considering the fact that you spend 90 percent of your time with your good friend Wayne and then the fact that me, your girlfriend, have never met this so called Wayne is very strange. Dont you agree.

Come on, thats so silly, love. We never coincide, that’s all. It’s not deep. Besides, Wayne’s not a social guy. I’ve told you this.

Right. But youre always going out together. Whatever. Why are you following that little boy, Joe?

Void deep into the night. Hours later. Inside the basement of a nondescript building.

Theres a padded room with no edges or hard surfaces—Rochelle lies belly down—Legs splayed—Ankles chained—Dried blood inside her thighs. Her fingers pulse and her head beatsbeatsbeats. Her eyes crawl and manage to see white soles, crinkled. The room breathes with her. With the woman once called Rochelle, now Nameless.

She whimpers. Soft sobs.

Aaahhjjlllm. Baaaanmmlk.

Her tongue’s heavy. Almost as dead as she’ll wish to be.

Yadiel; Yadi

Aaahhjjlllm! Aaaaaaahhhhhwww!

Her eyes continue to crawl and she’s outside herself. Next to the feet attached to a body not hers. It lays like a painting. Like a dead leaf at the mercy of a wind that never comes.

Her sight lifts from floor, above the body. She sees the body squirm, its skin juts out without breaking and with a swift drop—her vision hovers in front of broken body nameless person.

Doors open.

The woman’s vision stays fixed on the body thats not her body or shouldnt be her body, yet her eyes well up. She sobs every time the body convulses.

She’s now eye level with the dark stout eyes before her.

They smile. Pupils blown, they open their mouth and the woman sees several hairy white spiders crawl out their tear ducts and mouth and ears. They continue to enter and exit the body. Nonstop. Their eyes glow red.

Aaahhjjlllm!

The woman sobs. She feels the spiders enter her mouth. Between legs.

She can hear the spiders laugh.

Once white the nameless body is now a goose or a duck or any game bird. Her inside both empty and full as outside.

The woman’s ears ring. With an echo of silence pressure cooked in despair. She hears distant laughter close. Closer and farther away as she zooms in.

The animal once nameless is now the Brunei princess. No longer surrounded by gold.

Nameless tries to sit pushing her weight off ground but she slips on urine and sweat and tears and other fluids.

By midday next day, humidity cornmeal thickens, ramping heat from yellow to orange.

Joe’s inside an abandoned building. The fourth floor is fitted as a filming studio, the floors covered in plastic tarps. Walls are on wheels.

Took you long enough, motherfucker. What you have there?

Wayne looks at the talent—His beady eyes sunflower blown—One slow tear runs down his cheek.

Joe stands behind the talent, laying his hand on his shoulder and says:

Not a stiff, something better. Name’s Yadiel.

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One raccoon scavenged inside a garbage bin outside of a two story house. It got caught in ripped and bloodied bedsheets, it banged and screeched and panted.

Then it jumped outside and landed on its face in the street with some of the garbage spilling. Among the trash, a box for a Diesel suction cup 10'' dildo with an invoice for 20 pounds of potpourri.

About 3 miles away from there, several weeks back...

Against the fish tank glass a green and orange iguana stared at a slouched man entranced on his phone. He sat on the edge of the bed.

Felt calmed in the warm thought of you swimming naked inside the thickened lake of my cum

Can you see me? For what I am? You're not like other girls

I know you're not; Craving garlic chicken

The room he spent most of his days in gave him the space to plant the seeds that flowered under your careless watch.

Shades held back sun's light from clammy skin too pale to not shine. Dust particles sparkled like fairies inside his damp room. Brown mold formed inside the walking closet's wall. Breaking light woke him every day. A vague sense of don't die yet propelled him to make it to the night.

Once sundown the monitor's glow lit his face and glazed his eyes turned soil for desires holding strong roots in his mind. Having the illusion to access her 24/7 justified the work and made the expense holy.

A reason to keep the lights on.

Inside the monitor screen: Sad Pocahontas twirls in a cinched sundress crying. She hammer motions her right arm with a closed fist hinging at the elbow like a pendulum and front kicks with her left leg to the beat of Slip of the Memory by Enjoy. Streaks of petroleum stream down her face. She smiles in between sobs and hip swings inside a room with no furniture. A white caption hovers in the middle of the screen. It reads: i just want a man that pays the bills and lets me cut his d*ck off. A human shadow covers her light. It looms in the last frame.

im down if you are, he typed.

Three days later she responded: :3

Her followers were around 69 thousand. A reply from her? A blessing disguised in a colon followed by a 3. He gripped his dick and jerked it until it burned.

His gaze cropped her bawling eyes. Tears geyser uncontrolled. Streaming next to her half-open mouth. Dripping down her chin. His dick head tingled and a heavy splurge of cum shot out—forming Lake Huron on his desk, next to a framed photo of his mom and him. He lives with her. Some semen splattered on the mother's face. He wiped it with his thumb.

Shit; What the fuck; Why

On the other side of the stream: Sad Pocahontas updated her Depop. That, Patreon and digital panhandling were her income sources. The woman accrued a sizable sum. Called it the Simp Fund. She's inside a mostly vacant two story house, not counting the basement or garden unit. She moves in between five spaces: closet, bedroom, bathroom, family room and kitchen, leaving the rest of the residence empty. She walked in her room and took her clothes off, throwing them on the dirty pile on the floor, about 4 feet from her mattress, also on the floor. Koreans do it, she said to a friend that brought it up once. A photo booth strip of her and her twin pinned between the mirror and the wood frame laid below, You're enough, written in lipstick. She sat on a stool next to the kitchen counter and swiveled. Staring at her lap. Multiple white scars overlapped each other on her upper thighs. Her phone buzzed with a text that read: why do things have to be so difficult with you? text me back please.

Im in control

She took a screenshot and messaged her friend: girl what do I do?

Ignore him, the friend responded. I dont know how you still speak to him. A man hits me once and that’s the last thing he'll do. I dont care if I start shit, they have to take it. He's not a real man. Fuck him.

Sad Pocahontas responded with the black heart emoji and a teary face emoji. You always know what to say.

He's so boring and controlling I dont want to

Days, weeks, or hours later, Sad Pocahontas snapped a photo of her feet. Her slim candy-red toes wriggled like a row of cardinals on a branch. She wore a silver ring on her ring toe.

She went to fill her tub and saw black mold formed in a straight line between the porcelain and the tiles.

i want to be owned by you

$end 100 for sliding in my dm, pig

He paid the communion.

Each new stream surpassed the one before. More unhinged. Less clothes.

Custom videos. Diamond tier perks. No nudes. 1 on 1 chat. I respond to all messages. $80 charged every 13 of the month.

Fuck yes! I may have a chance now

The man ordered a gallon of shrimp fried rice with extra garlic and green onion and Mongolian beef extra sauce with three egg-rolls. Total: $72. Delivery and fees included.

So fucking expensive; Im so fucking fat; She doesn't know that, she doesn't care; Forgot to feed Vladimir

The iguana flicked its forked tongue and smacked its tail against the glass. He opened the fish tank and dropped half a head of frisée—when a notification made him snap his head back like a dog recognizing its owner's call. Package delivered, read the message.

Leaving the tank open. His attention merged with the urge to submerge himself in the virtual waters where flat fried egg titties dwelled with plump pussies, skinny pussies, round red marked fat asses, flat asses and huge tits. Fat and skinny, didn't matter much. A gooner from the simp genus.

Then another notification popped on his phone.

Sad Pocahontas is live, read the notification. Clicked on it.

On the monitor screen: Sad Pocahontas wears a Philipp Plein pleated leather mini skirt with an Off-White white halterneck top. Her hair is dead-straight jet-black and her eyes are 2 black holes gazing from the abyss. She's slow-walking backwards, she has long white socks with black Balenciaga strike platform derbies. She's outside in what looks like a backyard facing a forest. There's a clearing between the trees on the left side, the corner of an old yellowed billboard stands out. The word FEAR can be seen through it.

The chat explodes. He read every message and looked at the usernames.

lovelyguido73: Baby you precious baby. Love leg

ranma9nhalf: wiw

luka_modri: r u fnlly shwng sm slutt?

popcorntoglog: is adrian with you?

ranma9nhalf: wow* i can change your life princezz

4obe4tfourfive: Your just a focking tizz bitch

babyboochill07: I love you! You're so perfect!

anonymous094535: wheres your bf

britinparis: I don't get you Americans, but you're so entertaining

rosebudv1b3$: i recognize that sign

trevorwisemug: damn u fine u don't even look like u have a baby. how u have no gut?

4obe4tfourfive: Show focking tits

localbigd77: yeah that's close I-294 right?

crissanfran808: Come to Cali baby

bluelizard: she's not in the west coast

violensempl0y33: I would breathe in your farts no questions asked

bluelizard: @4obe4tfourfive look at her leaked vid. go 2 my prof and click the link in bio

princecharm34: I want to adopt you baby

anonymous083213: k1ll y0urs3lf

omegadouchebag04: what r you even doing? dumb bitch

anonymous094545: wow your not crine

yusef3876: yeah your bf not beating you anymore? liar

gigashulsky: Your a bitch you never responf

Sad Pocahontas doesn't read the messages. She's got her elbows close to her core and she's rotating her hands inward balancing on one foot. And then she steps on the other. Her skirt raises with each movement. There's a black bag looking thing on the lower far right of the frame. She kicks and sways slow, puckering her lips. She sharpens her eyes. They slash through the screen. Kali Uchis' Moonlight is the song she's dancing to. She walks off frame humming Moonlight.

sadp0cah0ntasfan43v3r: omg 1ts lik3 y0ur3 p3rf0rm1ng!! 1 l0v3 1t!!!

A raccoon creeps into frame from the left side. It gets close to the camera. Its face covers the whole frame: wet eyes staring as if reading the chat. His black nose sniffles the camera lens and smacks it, flipping it on its side. A world sideways or upside down.

yuyumapletree: bro that raccoon has more personality than her

4obe4tfourfive: Sly Cooper!

lazarus6000ad: that one tree has more personality than her wytb?

poppcorntoglog: where is adrian?

bluelizard: Oak Brook, Illinois ring any bells?

anonymous094535: Yooooooooo

anonymous094535: That leak!!!!! Thats herrrrr!!!!

nutrition.facts100: Wait what leak?

anonymous083213: k1ll y0urs3lf

localbirdwatcher69: Glendale ave?

princecharm34: I knew you were a slut not surprised

anonymous20519: I want to fuck you in the ass while your dad watches

trevorwisemug: das fucked up

ravnolga09: you're a pig @anonymous20519

saturnson: I would drink your bottled up diarrhea with a straw

whowhatwhen54: Your parents must've hated you growing up. Right?

anonymous094535: What did you do to Adrian?

bluelizard: 400 something Glendale ave? zip 60523?

The sun hid fast.

A pickaxe swooshed in frame, it hit the ground and spun like a throwing star, missing the raccoon by centimeters and landed next to a body sized black bag.

Go away! said a woman's voice off camera. Tilted back to be leveled, the camera captured the raccoon headed into the forest.

popcorntoglog: omg did you see that?? is that what i think it was? brooooo

ranma9nhalf: I think I did, it looked like a body-bag right? Or maybe a garbage bag but there's definitely a body in there

bluelizard: oh shit, im calling 911

whowhatwhen54: Yes I saw that too!!! Someone call the cops

nutrition.facts100: How do you even know that's her real address?

Fear...

I-294?

Think Michael, think

The man opened a new tab and searched for ads with the word fear, when it clicked.

Have no fear, justice is here, he said, hammering his closed fist on the desk. Rattling the keyboard, an old flat soda toppled and made a mess on the keyboard.

Shit, no, no, no.

Michael leaped off the chair and went out to the closet to get dry towels. Vladimir slowly tried sneaking out in between Michael's feet, its tail in the way of the door when he, by reflex, slammed the door shut—snapping Vladimir's tail in more than half without noticing. The reptile scurried under the couch next to the door. He heard his mother say something and ignored her.

Back in the room after drying the mess, 400 Glendale ave, Oak Brook; Buffalo wings were bomb, he thought as he gazed at the empty fish tank.

That's just a couple of blocks from here!

What? Vladimir? I dont have time for this. FUCK

Michael bolted to the kitchen leaving his bedroom door open. He grabbed the car keys and yelled: Validimir's out of the tank. Gotta go, Ma.

He grabbed the box at the front door. Turned on the car and the speakers blasted with Snuffed on Site feat. Peeling Flesh's Time 2 Dip. He backed away from the garage clenching his teeth; his gums started to bleed. FEAR

I'll show you how serious I am, you'll see Im completely devoted to you, you just have to give me a chance; Please give me a chance dont be weird about it; Please god or whoever, just please, please, please

Michael looked over at the box on top of the passenger seat and laid his right hand on top of it. Please let me be yours

Sad Pocahontas walks in frame. Her smile creases her smooth cheeks she bends in front of the camera. She reads some of the comments and says:

This why you fucking pussys dont say nothin in real life and have to do it behind a keyboard, motherfuckers. Cos if you do it in real life? Nah, like. You know you wouldn't. No. Cos in real life? If you come up to me and talk your shit like that to my face? I will smash your skull and leave your brains spilling on the floor, you fucks. Nah. You wouldn't dare–she's holding a gun in her left hand–come, come to my house. I dare you. You think Im afraid? Hahaha. You're all fucking pathetic. So brave you have to be anonymous.

sadp0cah0ntasfan43v3r: say more qu33n!!! slay!!!

anonymous083213: kys kys kys kys kys kys

anonymous094535: Whoa this got out of control real fast

anonymous094535: Are you admitting to something? Was that Adrian in that bag?

popcorntoglog: i can't unsee it, that's a head fr fr

The chat continued to rapid fire and Sad Pocahontas continued her monologue until she heard glass breaking from inside the house.

She stands, relaxed. Her brows are crunched together and her mouth is semi-open.

Michael broke in and looked for Sad Pocahontas. The backyard...

Through the glass squares he saw her. He ran outside and with a smile he said: Im here for you. I want to be yours and I mean it. He held a spray bottle and a scalpel in his hands. He walked towards the stunned woman.

She backed step, gun still in her hand.

Look, look–pulling his pants and underwear down–dont be scared. Michael sprayed his penis several times.

He's now in frame.

Michael walks four steps and flicks his penis with his middle finger.

Hahaha. I didn't feel that.

What the fuck? Who? Who the fuck are you? Stop!

Sad Pocahontas rises her hand and points at Michael.

He dropped the spray bottle and is holding the scalpel.

Michael grabs and stretches his dick with his left hand and traces a deep line with the scalpel around it.

Blood arches out from the open wound. Glans and shaft in his hand the testicles were still attached to the perineum.

He faints, landing on his back. The wrinkled soles of his feet face the camera.

The sound and blinking lights of sirens overlapping one another drowns the feed.

The voice of a cop ordered the woman to drop her weapon.

yuyumapletree: bro's balls are glued to the gooch lol

sadp0cah0ntasfan43v3r: sh00t h1m!!! g1rl 1t's s3lf d3f3ns3! p0p h1s ball00n-ass-h3ad!!

britinparis: Is that bloke gone barmy? Bloody Jesus

saturnson: is this happening fr?

nutrition.facts100: this is all staged, a skit

I said, drop your weapon and raise you hands in the air, now!

Back in Michael’s house his mother saw his bedroom door opened. It had been years since she last went into her son’s room. The monitor glowed inside the dark den. She went in the room and saw everything unfold in real time. She now sees her baby, Michael, lying on the ground with his mangled penis.

Michael's body bled out on the grassy ground about 30 feet from Adrian's stiff corpse.

Adrian lay with his mouth covered with a t-shirt scrunched into a ball, inside, his body got stuffed with potpourri. His anal cavity lodged with a 10'' dildo.

Sad Pocahontas was arrested for questioning and is currently awaiting for trial.