Late Night Rendezvous

Douglas sat on his bed, still wearing a vomit-stained Radiohead shirt from the night before.

Head pounding with newfound frustration, he glowered over the square of yellow paper.

It sat on his nightstand, its message was mockingly simple: Meet with girl in park at 10pm.

He sucked on his soul patch, still dusted with margarita salt, helplessly baffled.

Clearly, in last night’s drunken stupor, he felt this carried enough weight to be an obvious reminder.

Clearly, he was wrong.

He pulled the post-it off, and flipped it over. Nothing. Just more banal, useless yellow.

In his hungover state, he couldn’t help but be furious at himself for being pointlessly vague.

How hard is it to write down a name? What’s her number? Where in the park? Anything!

He rubbed his temples, hoping to massage out an image of last night that might establish some context.

He remembered talking to a girl, no face or name, just the aroma of sweat and rose-scented perfume.

With a final surrendering grunt, he crumpled the note, and stripped out of his soiled clothes.

He showered, ate, and found clean clothes. Determined to pursue this booze-fueled, potential romance.

He knew he shouldn’t worry, his judgements were still reasonably sound during uninhibited moments.

But, he couldn’t shake the feelings he got when he thought of the girl, something she said to him.

It gave him a haunting, uncomfortable feeling. Something to do with her ex-boyfriend...

But, he was determined. He’d go to the park tonight. In vain confidence of his drunken judgements.

As he pulled into the darkened parking lot, he spotted a light in the treeline at the edge of the park.

She must have gotten there first, he reasoned, looking for a good place to hide away from onlookers.

Douglas grinned, now full of self-assurance and cocky pride. Apparently, he made a good impression.

As he strutted down the empty field, his stride stuttered. He hoped he didn’t promise to bring drinks.

He picked a few flowers from a nearby garden-bed, determined to craft some false air of tenderness.

The brisk evening air helped him keep calm, avoiding thoughts of the outcome of the evening.

He followed the light deeper into the woods, finally coming into a dimly moonlit patch of grass.

A figure holding a flashlight was at the center of the clearing, walking into a rotting gazebo.

Douglas eagerly pursued. Meeting with a girl, late at night, under the light of the moon, totally secluded?

He had seen enough romantic comedies to know that was always a good sign for things to come.

As he crept up the creaking wooden steps, he spotted her standing at the center of the shelter.

Even in the mold-encrusted dampness, he could smell the same floral perfume from his foggy memory.

She was facing him and, as dark as it was, he could only just see the glimmer of her glossy, pink lips.

He lifted up the flowers in an awkward attempt at a romantic greeting, but she just stood still.

He managed a shaky: “Nice night, yeah?” The girl dropped to the ground limply in response.

Douglas ran over, and kneeled down, laughing. Figuring she was just drunk. “Y’alright?” No response.

He shook her, worrying she had passed out. Her body was cold, and hard. Blood caked her mouth.

He noticed a set of knees at eye level. A hand holding something that glinted, crimson in the moonlight.

A quick breeze rushed past his ear, spraying him with a metallic scent. Then, he noticed a sharp pain.

The pain grew from a cleaver that been set deep into his shoulder. A damp chill spread outward from it.

That’s when he remembered what she said that had bothered him: My ex-boyfriend just got out of jail.

Desert Road

The truck rumbles along the strip of sun-bleached asphalt.

Yawning desert plains ride sidesaddle to the tar-stained highway.

The relentless, searing sky seems ready to boil the sand below into a sea of glass.

The driver wipes his reddened brow, smearing grease and sweat onto a ketchup-stained napkin.

He claws with annoyance at his long, grey beard. An unneeded natural neckwarmer.

He rolls up the window, rubbing eyes and coughing, as the road blasts him with a sand-filled gust.

He recoils in pain, scalding himself on a Red Bull can, left too long in the sunlight.

He glances down, reassuring himself that the air conditioner is on. Full blast.

He has grown to hate this road.

At first, the road gave a sense of refreshing isolation.

A break from stressful maneuverings on the freeway, the honkings of impatient lawyers.

A rare chance to own the road, to have the respect he felt he always deserved.

Now he dreads every journey down the ever-empty road.

It became malevolent with the increasing heat.

It burned away all the vegetation, leaving behind a landscape of maddening monotony.

But, worst of all, the road grew longer.

Each trip down that stretch of desert road, it took more gas to fill the tank.

He tried desperately to find a more sane explanation.

The heat is just making the gasoline evaporate faster.

He avoids looking at the dashboard, staring instead into the featureless path ahead.

He turns on the radio, hoping to find a single precious moment of distraction.

All he finds is static. Even the radio signals have abandoned this road.

His eyelids grow heavy.

He has never seen anyone else travel down this road.

He mentioned it to trucker friends, only to be met with shrugs. They had never heard of it.

He shakes himself, drumming the wheel with desperate, false zeal. Humming aimless nothings.

Stay Focused. Don’t look at the gauge. You’ll make it. You always have.

He can’t give up. Money is tight, and the pay is too good. So, he keeps driving.

But, the monotony of the road, the calming vibration of the truck, and the heat- all prove too much.

His eyes flutter shut.

He starts violently awake. He looks up. The road sits plainly ahead. The sun perches low in the sky.

He thanks God that he didn’t steer the truck into the desert, trapping himself in the shifting sands.

He checks his watch, making sure he could still make up for lost time. I can still make it if I just--

The creeping realization takes him. The truck is silent. He turns the key. The silence grows.

He finally looks down to the dashboard. The needle sits solemnly, ignorant of its role as doomsayer.

E

The single letter shatters his hope. The shape a fitting pitchfork to slay his last shred of resolve.

The Slighted Artist

I tremble with anger, the newspaper screaming into my soul.

I pace with frustration, the printed words gnawing feverishly on my mind.

I grimace with disgust, as I read line, after line, of ignorant drivel.

I rend the pages with bitter, seething rage, as I have finally read all I can stand.

Once again, I have wasted my precious efforts with these slack-jawed buffoons!

I have grown ill of their tempered pedestrian outlook.

Every performance is looked on as “typical,” every actor deemed “average.”

They cannot see the heart of my work, their brains lack the synapses to identify my genius.

The public has grown accustomed to tripe, and are dulled to the flavor of a prime roast!

Each performance is meticulously crafted, no two the same, yet each linked soulfully to the last.

Each actor selected for their unique nature and presence, each one a perfect conduit of emotion.

But! What’s to show for my efforts? Due to audience incompetence, and critical ignorance?

My message remains unheard!

I refuse to break, to sacrifice integrity. There can be no progress in art, unless art is progressive!

One day, they’ll recognize what they’ve missed all these years. They’ll regret their ignorance!

Until then? I will continue. I will pray for a single worthy witness.

I must continue on this path of rigorous efforts, and endless preparations.

The next performance must begin, the leading man has already been chosen.

As I retrieve the props, and review the script, I can hear him practicing his lines.

He has fully grown into the role, a perfect representation of illogical fear of confinement.

He screams with the passion of a prisoner who longs to escape a wrongful captivity.

He struggles against the restraints with the fury of an enslaved gladiator.

As I approach him, he shifts effortlessly into his secondary character.

He pleads with the desperation of a loving father.

He bargains with the guile of a corporate tycoon.

As I raise the blade, still glistening with bygone blood, he returns to the relentless barbarian.

He curses with the vile tongue of a thousand corrupt, twisting serpents.

He threatens with the detail and derangement of a psychotic butcher.

The blade sings with his blood, his flesh becomes a glorious scarlet tapestry.

The taste of copper fills the air. The perfect denouement.

He was glorious, the performance was magnificent, and I have truly outdone myself.

But, I doubt it will be enough. They will not likely appreciate my efforts.

This may still be toted as “a series of unrelated killings,” as “bodies found in a alley.”

The art world may continue to be dreadfully mundane. But, I cannot give up on them.

I must comb the streets for performers. I must oil my straps. I must sharpen my knives.

For fear sings the greatest symphony of all, and scores the body with its notes.

The Grifter

The granite path erupts with moss.

The once-white walls sag gray with decades of neglect.

The windows glow dimly, shrouded with grime.

A man in a void-black suit, gels his mop of just-graying hair into form, and smirks.

Perfect.

To the untrained eye, it seems like the last place a con man would consider.

But, The Grifter knows.

Wrinkled houses mean a wrinkled resident.

The wrinklier the better. Antique value goes up, memory retention goes down.

The elderly can be so trusting, especially of a man in a suit.

He adjusts his bright red tie, an elegant serpent’s tongue on his slender frame.

He slides to the door, shimmering black shoes clicking against the stone steps.

He knocks against the door with a musical barrage, feigning friendliness.

The door creaks open, his lips unsheathe a grin, deadly white.

He starts in with his practiced spiel, but his fangs falter.

The woman startles him with her youth, her lavender scent nearly breaks his form.

He maintains his venomous charm, and appeals the case for “calling a tow truck.”

The woman smiles with bright red lips, unlatches the door, and insists he comes in.

Her voice pours like rich molasses down his mind, it grows hard to focus.

A towering armoire brings him back to his sinister ambitions.

He nonchalantly mentions his position as an “antiques collector.”

The woman spins around, her fluttering crimson curls a dancing flame.

She claims surprise, and offers to show him a collection of old porcelain in the basement.

The man beams, nearly squealing with thoughts of his future wealth.

He maintains some composure, the slightest glimmer of sweat on his brow.

He eagerly offers to assess their worth, warning that porcelain rarely increases in value.

The man descends the creaking stairway, hands twisting with avarice.

The woman slips a knife from her stocking, the motion silent with grace.

Because, The Grifter knows.

A black suit means a black heart.

The blacker the better. Self-confidence goes up, wariness goes down.

The greedy are so easily misled, especially by a beautiful woman.

A woman in a void-black dress, primes her blade for the base of the skull, and smirks.

Perfect.

Doctor’s Visit

The room didn’t smell right-

A hospital should smell of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol.

But my room was choked with a sickly sweet smell,

like freshly regurgitated cotton candy.

The smell, combined with the unnaturally high humidity,

gave the distinct impression of a backwoods carnival--

Not an examination room.

The nurse was a gangly young man, all nervous twitching and hurried glances.

Looking more suited as a down-on-his-luck Tilt-A-Whirl operator than a medical professional.

His eyes, too large for their sockets, were jumping between me and his clipboard.

He wiped sweat from his brow, marked with swollen purple-red blemishes.

He finally spoke after an unbearable five minutes sitting in silence.

“Doctorshouldbeinsoon-” he managed in a barely human squeak before leaving the room.

The walls were covered in nauseatingly bright posters,

plastered with oddly worded messages like:

“Imbibe only the healthy!”

“The teeth are white!”

“Organ health is key!”

“Keep you're skin clean!”

They read like poorly translated product slogans.

A small plastic bin was filled with cotton balls and tongue depressors.

Another with oddly colored lollipops, all sickly jaundiced yellows and deep bloody reds.

The one next to it was filled with used needles.

They were all unlabeled, all identical in appearance.

I questioned the safety in their close proximity.

I stood next to curtains, which I opened to a view of a plain wall.

Apparently they removed the window.

The room was feeling more and more like a facade.

Like a twisted sitcom imitation of what a hospital room should be.

I decided I should check to see if they even knew I was still here.

I went to open the door, and cracked my head against it as it remained closed.

I figured it just opened in instead of out.

I was wrong

It was just locked.

Locked from the outside.

I was starting to suspect that I was in the wrong hospital.

Clog

“Hey! The sink is clogged!”

I sigh, resigned to my position as ‘Hey!’

I peer into the sink, partially filled with fetid water.

The water level holds steady.

It is certainly clogged.

I pour in the Drano, grab a beer, and re-check the sink.

Still clogged.

I curse, and peer into my own personal swamp.

The sink radiates a scent of intense putrefaction.

I told her not to put any damn bones in the disposal.

I return with a bucket and wrench.

I fumble unskilled with the pipe until it finally pops off,

mostly filling the bucket with the vomitous solution, but partially spraying me.

I retch and gag as I set the bucket aside.

The smell has gotten worse.

I look into the removed pipe, and see through to the other side.

The clog is somewhere else.

I stare at the pipe that descends into the sewers below.

I curse, again, knowing that the clog is likely deep in the pipe,

knowing that I will likely have to finally buy a drain snake.

I grab a flashlight, and perch over the pipe.

I sniff, cough violently-- nearly vomit.

The source of the smell, and subsequently the clog, has been found.

I click on the light, and stare down the pipe.

An eye stares back.

Bulbous with purple veins, piercingly white.

Its pupils angular like a goat’s.

The lids leak putrid black pus.

It blinks.

The clog sinks deeper into the pipe, out of the light, back into the depths.

I scream.

She runs in, spouting concerned questions.

I sit on the floor.
I finish my beer.

“I fixed the sink.”

Circuit Breaker

You’re sure it’s here somewhere.

It’s just along the left wall.

...or was it the right?

Regardless, you’ll find the breaker soon enough.

Everything will be okay.

The basement seems larger than you remember.

Don't worry, that’s just the darkness playing tricks with you.

You’re just startled from dropping the flashlight earlier.

It feels like you should’ve felt the edge of the wall by now.

You’re probably just moving slower than you thought.

This is no different than any other time you’ve reset the breaker.

Nothing has changed.

You should’ve felt your way to the other wall by now.

Maybe you did already?

Yes, that must be it.

You must have.

That means you’ll find it any moment now.

Was it always so cold in the basement?

Maybe you’ve never been down here long enough to notice.

You must have missed it.

It’s so obvious now.

It must be higher off the ground than you thought.

...or lower.

Either way, finding it now will be simple.

You’ve made it around the whole room by now, haven’t you?

Shouldn’t you have found it by now?

Where are the stairs?
...

You’re being hysterical.
You need to calm down.

You shouldn’t let the darkness get to you.

You’ll find it.

Everything will be okay.

I’m sure of it.