Frank’s Stories

Frank was the funniest person I knew. So when he killed someone, it came as a surprise. Our friend group called each other, wondering how to sort this into our organization of the universe. He had called Travis from jail after his arrest. Frank began the call saying “you are not going to believe what just happened.” And we didn’t.

He told us he was standing at the pier, having a drink with someone we didn’t know. According to his story, he slapped the man on the back after a good joke, and the man fell into the water. Since they were both drunk, Frank laughed at him being in the water, and the man couldn’t swim to shore. Frank didn’t notice the second part until it was too late. According to police, who wouldn’t release him on bail, Frank followed this person away from the bar, berating them the whole way until a fight broke out. They claimed the man was beaten enough to have been knocked out, then tossed into the ocean by Frank. It was the Subaru all over again.

Travis had a Subaru that Frank borrowed. After, Frank said it hit a pothole and the wheel just came off. The mechanic suggested the car would have had to go 90 miles per hour, over a jump, to sustain the particular kind of damage it did. Frank just said it was funny. But he said everything was funny. Normally, when he said it, we agreed with him. Especially if he said it, in fact. Him being funny and all.

Frank told us his part of the story then, and now, and each time it was funny. But there was still somebody dead. And regardless of the story, Frank had pushed him in one way or the other. So somebody, luckily not us, was going to have to decide which version of the story was correct. We knew which one we hoped for, but not which one we believed.


Roger wakes up in his worst skin. The mass of flesh, mucus, urine, all stored up from a night of fitful sleep, serenaded by a television screen that plays on in the darkness after he has evacuated his consciousness. Rote motion brings him out of bed, toward the shower, and turns on the water. He might as well be still asleep. The first thoughts come before the hot water runs out. Remembering some erotic-leaning dream, all hands, makes him wish for an abyss to jump into, another reality to be chosen.

Eventually, these impulses are shoved aside in deference to cold, bland cereal in the half-light of a morning that hasn’t yet risen. The commuter is a devil wanting to destroy all things in his path. A ball of fury and malignance, he has descended, desiring to rip those beside him to pieces. Everything aches, and when the sun does rise, it is too bright. All thoughts appear to be in slow motion, time delay. It’d be easy to get into an accident.

The Professional is a mix of prerecorded messages: “good morning,” “Monday, right?” “How are you?” “I’m good, great!” “Yeah, it’s great!” “Oh, that’s great!” “They’re great, thanks for asking.” “Thanks.” “Thank you.” “Thank you so much.” “Have a good night.” “Have a good weekend.” “In case I don’t see you, have a good weekend.”

The evening can be taken by The Infinite, by the impulse created by long dusk light beams that everything is far away and near, and the distances between are insubstantial. This is a skin that wants wings and tries to forget the crushing reality of being just human. Everything is potential, in reach, if only the reach is made.

As night closes in, electric light in purples, reds, blues, greens, invite you to contained, artificial worlds—places where stories are the size of evenings, and can be seen in person or on screen. These stories can invade the dreamer’s sleep, being turned into different stories, all hands, before the process begins, more or less, again.


It started with some water in the basement. It happens in a temperate climate. But, unable to figure out exactly where the leak was coming from, I was forced to delve more in depth into the nooks and crannies of the basement. The dull gray walls provided little information, just multiple spider webs, both old and new.

Finally, down toward an end of the basement I rarely go, behind the boiler, there was a little puddle around what looked like a trap door. Hidden under old molding sawdust, it was difficult to see. I searched through the muck and found a little finger hole and opened the door. An explosion of drain flies erupted like some old plague of myth. After being momentarily overtaken by the demonic swarm, I saw a passageway under the trap door that was completely dark. After retrieving a flashlight from upstairs, I approached the passageway. Old, decaying webs hung from the sides and ceiling of the passageway. I walked down the rickety wooded stairs, and noticed the small break in the foundation as I headed under. There was the leak.

The floor seemed to be damp dirt with a simple track of 2x4s laid down across it. I made my way carefully across the uneven path. There was a deeper kind of rot smell, far more than just mold. I began to get the impression I was heading slightly downhill. Eventually, the pathway opened up into a large room. At first, there just seemed to be lumpy mounds of earth surrounding the same wooden pathway as before.

As I scanned the flashlight over the mounds, I began to notice harder angles just underneath the mounds of dirt. Some white flashes were visible underneath the brown. In the corner were also a trio of stereotypical treasure chests. Or perhaps they were just living room décor hope chests. Either way, I stumbled over the dirt mounds toward the chests. Unlocked, they opened easily, revealing mounds of cloth. Disappointed, I began to pick through the cloth, until I unwrapped a pile of what looked like old dollars. No expert, I took a pile of them to look up later.

However, as I was about to leave, the flashlight shone on one of those white glimmers in the dirt again. Kneeling down for a closer look, I pulled at it, and the skeletal remains of a human hand came out of the dirt. Once removed, it fell apart into various bones as I dropped it back onto the Earth. Also dropping the old money, I ran as quickly as I could over the wooden path, back up the stairs, and slammed the old trap door shut. On the walls were dozens of the drain flies that had escaped.

Well, at least I know where the leak is, I thought, determined to try to think of nothing else that I’d found down there ever again.


This bastard keeps breathing on my neck. We’re all packed shoulder to shoulder, front to back, waiting for the elevator to start moving again. The enclosed space is getting warmer and warmer as our crushed bodies continue to raise the room temperature. I try very hard not to move my hands in any direction for fear of brushing up against some stranger’s legs. But this person standing behind me is hitting the same spot where my neck meets my back with their breath over and over again. These humid particles of unwanted warmth keep spreading out, then dissipating just in time for the next volley to land. It’s coming straight from a mouth breather…hehh…hehh…hehh…at least, I imagine that nose air would feel different. Drier, perhaps.

Someone farts, because this purgatory is just gearing up. Everyone shifts restlessly as the stench reaches us in waves. Some even try to tuck their noses into their shirt. That’s tougher to do for the ones wearing button-downs. Someone in a distant corner mutters “come on, really?” but the rest of us are not brave enough to speak. Or we just recognize the uselessness in doing so.

There’s something about being too close to strangers. Packed in like this, it is easy to imagine we are a herd of livestock, just mounds of flesh to be consumed. By whom? I can’t answer that. Or I don’t want to. The implications would be too much. I shouldn’t let my mind wander in such ways.

The man to my right is beginning to fidget. I can hear his clothes rustling, can hear his knuckles crack as he moves them back and forth. He probably isn’t the only one who is getting claustrophobic. I feel a wave of heat emanate all over my body, and I am suddenly concerned about the amount of carbon dioxide I am breathing. Then that same breath hits my back again…hehh…hehh. I clench my fists. I want to go ballistic, to turn around, pushing everyone in my vicinity, and tell whoever this is to back the hell up. But instead, I squeeze my fists tight, telling myself that impulse, and the growing feeling of fever spreading over my body, is just my own nerves talking.

There is a lurch from the elevator, and we all gasp, some people actually clutching each other, expecting the whole thing to free fall. But it does not. Instead, it begins to head upward. We all give sighs of relief, and the air-conditioned air of the office that hits my face when I step out onto my floor has never felt fresher.

Antlers, Part 2

Part 1 of Antlers can be found here.


Deep into the woods, a hush fell over everything. The footsteps over pulp, leaves, and sticks became hushed in the thick pack underneath. Thin, yellow pillars of sunlight created the impression of holding up the evergreen canopy above. The rusted out oil barrel slowly being consumed by moss was the only thing that stopped it from looking like a forest primeval.

Chrome was lost. Far away from the limits he had traveled before, the trail was gone. A retreating turkey suddenly took flight, the frantic sound of feathers crashing through the tranquil quiet, and making Chrome jump as the bird flew away. But flight was becoming familiar to him. As an exile now, it would be something he would have to become more and more used to. His antlers, of a more considerable size everyday, hit a low branch, causing him to stumble. He could remember all of their faces—solemn, stern, unforgiving—as they told him he had to leave, king’s son or no. “We can’t have demons around. Those like you, with those things on your head,” they said.

He checked the direction of his compass: still going east. They’d only allowed him to leave with the compass, a bow and five arrows, and an empty knapsack to gather with. Given his current state of hunger, he lamented not trying to take aim at the turkey. Stuffed in his knapsack, He still had an apple and a couple contraband carrots he had taken from a farm outside the forest.

He took the apple, which was slightly soft and bruised from being in the bag, and began to eat it. As he did, he came across a rabbit lying down on the ground. It was breathing heavy, exhausted. Not wanting to miss an opportunity this time, he readied one of the arrows to fire. But before he did, he noticed how small and thin the rabbit was. He understood it was starving. He also had trouble finding something to eat in the thick woods. So instead, in a moment of comradely compassion, he took out a carrot and placed it near the rabbit. It noticed, began to lurch toward the food, then ate in in slow, tired bites. As it ate more, it gathered more strength, eventually sitting up. Chrome was about to walk away, but as he got up, the rabbit seemed to take notice of him for the first time. It began to tilt its head in a direction to the south, where Chrome saw another rabbit lying in a similar state.

He knew the rabbit wanted Chrome to feed the other one as well. But with only one carrot left, and no clear indication when he would be free of the woods, he said “I can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t have enough. But I can end its pain.”

Chrome readied the bow again and shot the other rabbit. He took it to eat later and adjusted himself to once again head east. Before he left, he looked back at the other rabbit again, but it did not look at him.

Later that night, he made a fire and cooked the rabbit. The next day, more well fed than the last several days, he made great progress across the forest. He passed more husks of barrels and some car skeletons long left in the brush. Eventually, the hush of the woods began to hum. The new sound was slow to develop, but he soon recognized it: powerlines.

Taking a quicker pace, he got to the top of a ridge and saw the great trench cut into the woods for the powerlines. He knew if he followed them, he would find some civilization and could stop worrying about food. He bounded down towards them and stepped out from the shade of the canopy into the glaring, unobstructed sun on the path of the wires.

Babble And Trash

I don’t know how different each person’s threshold is, but for me, at a certain volume, I am unable to focus on any one sound. They all become one roiling mass, a storm of noises that have lost all their identity or point. This happens a lot at parties, standing around a group of people in the kitchen, hearing them, and the people in the living room, and the beer pong going on outside, and yet also hearing none of them, all at the same time. So, the mind wanders away from the present. One person in the group becomes the focus. At some point, they were just a stranger in the room. I didn’t know them at all except as someone I was attracted to physically. Now, this is a person that I know, and they’re telling a story that maybe I heard before, but I can’t tell, because I can only focus on one or two words at a time before the other combating sounds take over.

Often, the results of this inability to discern noises are embarrassment, or taking leave of a group of people when the pins in the brain are too much to take. Sometimes, that embarrassment goes a little bit like this: in a busy café, I was hiding behind headphones to create a little pocket of sound to overpower the swelling waves. However, getting up to leave, I take the earbuds out, and a crash of voices moves in all at the same time. Two dozen conversations overlap, none of them directed at me. As I move toward the trash can, one of the people is saying something like “no, it’s empty.” Only after I drop my trash in the bin and hear the metallic clank, however, do I realize the person saying “it’s empty” was looking directly at me.

I make a quick, useless attempt to grab the contents, but they have fallen far past arm’s reach. The person just sighs, rolls their eyes, then says (louder than the original warning) “just leave it. We’ll get it.” So, I slink outside, where the sound of the cars rushing by is deafening and makes most other thought impossible.

Mazerunner Manifesto

These walls all look the same. It’s designed to keep me away from the goal. But they always underestimate my ability to smell. Each turn is meant to confuse me. The path always changes. What was a left turn yesterday is now a right. If so, then where am I? But they all seem to think I live and direct myself based on turns and directions. Maybe they do that. I always find those unreliable. They can change. They do change, often, for me. But the increase of smell, the undeniable approaching that pulls me forward, that never fails.

Even if I was trying other methods, surrounded be all these white walls and the white floor, I would have nothing to see, nothing to follow. It’s all one uniform hallway that breaks off in various directions. They concoct various dead ends to confuse me. Why? I don’t know. Every time I beat them, I eat in peace. Later, they’ll take me and put me back in the other place, the place of four corners and invisible walls. It seems a futile exercise. But what is it to me if they keep losing? Throw me in this featureless place tomorrow and I will again outsmart them. After all, for a good hunk of cheese, why not?