Fatalist

Look at the egoist, writing about his woes while the world burns. If he stays up until 3 watching the police assault people on Twitter will it absolve him of his sins? If he stays up until his eyes are heavy, as he drifts in and out of consciousness, will that be sufficient support? Someone must witness the atrocities or it is all for naught. And if he oversleeps from exhaustion and loses his job mid-pandemic, then surely no one could claim he does not care about the plight of his fellow countrymen.

But no one cares. Facebook shares aren’t sufficient activism and he’s beyond serotonin bursts from “likes'“ (though, notifications in the midst of an internet squabble fill him with perfect combination of dread and giddiness that keeps him absolutely glued to an unhealthy extent, but I digress) yet it still makes him feel hopeless when an article about the impending police state mere miles away can’t garner a single reaction. And the limited amount of in-person interactions mostly with family just reinforce…whatever it may be, it can’t be a class divide, but something of the sort.

And to write? Against the hopelessness. It’s not more difficult than it previously was. It’s mostly laziness. But he is not smart enough to tackle what must be tackled. And the facts are the facts. And if we as a people cannot even agree on them then what hope is there? So he writes in feelings and half-formed thoughts, but he hasn’t tasted the teargas. And it truly is just pessimism, pure and simple, and perhaps he cried wolf one too many times - though is it truly crying wolf if one warns about a real wolf too early?

While the country waits for the nationalists to arrive at their doorstep and haul them away, the painful truth is how many will remain comfortable, even after they’ve realized it is too late. Every World War II movie made Nazi Germany look like a living hell and here we are, just going about our days. Some of us doing our best to counter atrocities, but most of us - including him - doing a minimal amount and many doing nothing at all. Waiting for the right time to rebel. Waiting for things to get bad. But they won’t. Or they will when it is far far far far too late. When there’s no one left to witness what happens when one waits for fascism to announce itself by name.

Billboards

As I walked down the street, I saw the billboards watching me. The Happy Cow, selling… himself? his friends, family?… His joyful face up high above next to a pound of flesh. Happy Cow Beef Company - we chop ‘em up before they know what hit ‘em the billboard reads, but that’s not what the Happy Cow says to me. To me, he says the CIA is getting off their plane at the airport now. I don’t fully believe the CIA would fly coach, but that’s what he says. Nope, no private jet - two agents crammed in coach. And once they have their luggage, they’re gonna come fucking kill me. I sure hope there is a luggage mix up.

“No luggage mix-up!” shouts the Lumberjack selling… Viagra? about a block away. My eyes aren’t great.

“Are you on a billboard for Viagra?! What does a lumberjack have to do with getting your dick hard…” I shout back at him, my voice quieting as the last words escape my mouth, realizing how foolish I sound! Lumberjacks get tons of people’s dicks hard! And also, I should be less focused on these billboards people were probably paid six figures to design and more focused on the CIA agents coming to kill me. Still, I stay for a moment to hear the Lumberjack respond.

“No, this is a billboard for Vitamix! Get your eyes checked, you dumb bitch!” The Lumberjack pauses, I can tell he isn’t quite done talking though, “and I’ll have you know I can still turn quite a few heads even if I am getting up there in age!”

Feeling slightly guilty about insulting the Lumberjack like that, I scurry away - after all, the CIA agents are coming for me. I don’t know how the Lumberjack knows their luggage was put on the right plane - or how the Happy Cow knows the agents are on a plane at all… or that they are coming for me. No time to ask questions when one is running from CIA agents.

As I dart and dash between buildings, down streets, hoping to find somewhere to hide maybe? Or am I just trying to get as far away as possible? I’m not sure. Are the CIA agents coming to the exact spot I was informed about them or are they coming after me, the moving target? If I keep running and they keep coming after me, wherever I am, then it seems it may be best to hide. Or perhaps it is best to just keep moving and at some point I will be far enough away from wherever they believe I was that they can no longer find me. I’ve watched a lot of thrillers, cat-and-mouse type of movies, but never really fully grasped the whole being on the lam thing and how best to do it. Perhaps I could go join some Amish people like that Harrison Ford movie The Conversation - just kidding, that’s a Gene Hackman movie, Harrison Ford only has a small role in it… and it’s not about Amish people at all, it’s actually about technology, the movie I was really referring to was Witness. But enough joking, I am fleeing for my life!

Everywhere I go the billboards watch me. The polyamorous cartoon gorillas selling… dog food? And the stern old man selling, um, car washes? Do they need billboards for car washes? Don’t the car washes just have signs up saying “come in here to get your car washed?” They don’t give me any tips or updates about the CIA agents, they just watch me as I dart and dash, as I dip and dive. I almost get hit by a car and the cobra selling malt liquor laughs. The baby with a phone number to call if I want evidence that candy is bad for my teeth looks like he wants to tell me something, but he isn’t old enough to form sentences.

Then I see the vampire selling real estate outside the Taco Cult restaurant. He tells me he’s got some information for me, but I have to pay him. I tell him I don’t know how to pay a billboard monster and he seems hurt I referred to him as a “monster,” but he tells me there’s a clothing shop with only two shirts in it that is a front for a heroin cartel and if I buy the green shirt, there will be a note the vampire wrote on the tag. So I keep moving - now with a destination. But I get to the store and there’s a sign saying the only employee is on break so it’s essentially closed for… well the sign says half an hour, but obviously they guy put the sign up before I got there so it’s less than that.

I stand and I wait. The guy comes back and is wearing a fucking penis costume like he just left a bachelorette party or something. I don’t get it. But I don’t want to really get into a conversation with him so I just pretend it’s normal - which is hard because it’s not. It’s weird. As I go to grab the shirt off it’s hanger to buy it, I keep thinking about how weird it is. Like it’s already weird on it’s own to be dressed like that at all, but at work? Even any job at all. Like if you worked at a bar or somewhere that let’s you dress in street clothes. If you worked in the backroom in a warehouse or whatever where no customers see you, your boss still wouldn’t let this shit fly. And this dude is working retail. I mean, I guess it is a front, but still. So I fucking open my mouth, I can’t help it.

As I put the shirt on the counter to purchase it, I ask, “why are you dressed like a penis at work?”

And he gets so mad. Like you aren’t even imagining it right. He gets absolutely furious. Think about the most angry your dad has ever been. And think about how it was sort of justified. Like you either were just an absolute brat for 10 hours straight or you were genuinely innocent, but you almost accidentally burnt down the house or cut your brother in half or got hit by a car. So your dad is just like maximum emotion and he’s so angry because we’re all socialized wrong so it’s just easiest to be mad about things when you gotta tap into some emotion. I don’t know if that makes sense to you, it’s something I’ve been thinking about and I haven’t fully fleshed it out yet, but think about your dad super pissed off, yelling at you at the top of his lungs like either he cannot fucking believe that he is raised such a fucking dickhead or like he cannot at all accept how close he came to being one of those super shitty parents that let their kid die like he is not gonna be one of those horror stories so he’s mad. This guy was madder than that. For a legitimate question. He is acting like I walked into his home, not his place of work - a public place - and started trying to make him justify his life decisions and, honestly, even in the privacy of one’s own home, I really just could not see why someone would be wearing a penis costume, like how do those businesses stay afloat, selling penis costumes? But anyway, he’s big mad. And I’m trying to calm him down so I can buy the shirt, but I am also a little bit still trying to get the answer - curiosity killed the cat and all that.

Anyway, the long and short of it is that in a panic I just kind of grab the shirt and run. “I’ll pay later” is how I justify it. I’m not stealing. But also it’s a drug cartel front. It’s almost more ethical to steal it. It’s pretty easy to out run a guy in a penis costume, his legs can’t move much and also tourists or whoever are trying to stop him to take pictures like they’re in Time Square. I just run ‘cause dude’s got cartel connections so I am definitely not getting caught by him. I’d rather take my chances with the CIA agents. I finally get far enough away that I’m pretty sure I lost him - which I guess is how those thrillers go, but it’s much easier to do the whole running away thing when the person is actively chasing you versus when some people just got off an airplane and are coming your way at some point, but aren’t currently in the vicinity - and I look at the tag for the secret message and it just says “made by some child slaves in some country that your government has been committing genocide in since before you were alive” and I think “damn, that vampire is pretty fucking woke, but how is this going to help me get away from the CIA?” so I take the shirt back to the vampire on his billboard to demand some answers.

When I arrive, I’m about to get the question out, but he sees the shirt in my hand and shouts at me like I’m a little kid, “THE GREEN SHIRT! I told you to get the green shirt! That’s the blue one!”

I feel sort of stupid, it kind of makes sense that he’s treating me like a little kid since I did mix up my colors, but still why did he need to make things so complicated? Why can’t he just put the message on both shirts? Or just have one shirt in the store? It’s not a real store!

Now he’s shouting at me more - or I guess he never stopped, I just kind of started blocking him out while I was thinking of ways to blame him for the fuck up. But he’s shouting “the BLUE shirt was for the banker to learn a lesson about the horrors of capitalize! You have to go back and return the shirt!”

But like I said, I would rather take my chances with the CIA agents coming to kill me than that cartel penis costume dude that I sort of stole the shirt from. God, I hope that banker not learning his lesson from the shirt isn’t going to have some massive butterfly effect thing that kills a bunch of kids in a factory collapsing in a third world country or… who am I kidding? That’s obviously exactly what’s going to happen, it’s pretty obvious, but when we get right down to it, like gun-to-the-head, gut-reaction I guess I do think my life is worth more than all of theirs combined. I mean, on an intellectual level I do not and on a moral level I also do not, but I am not going to risk my life returning the shirt to stop it from happening so one whatever level that is, I do.

So now I’ve got a vampire billboard mad at me and a guy in a penis costume with cartel connections mad at me and some CIA agents who maybe aren’t mad at me, but are going to kill me. I start thinking about how much simpler things were back when I was just chatting with the Happy Cow and even after I’d offended the lumberjack a bit. I knew the CIA was out to kill me, but life was still simpler just a few hours earlier talking to them. And as I reminisced about those simpler, more pleasant times, it dawned on me that I had no reason to trust a cow selling his own kind to humans to consume and…well the lumberjack, I wasn’t as confidence in dismissing though I think partly that was because it felt like adding insult to injury after offending him, but what kind of lumberjack sells a blender? Isn’t a blender sort of the competition to an axe? Like television killed the radio star? The blender is just faster, automated chopping, the kind that could put a lumberjack out of work - so a cow selling the flesh of his own and a lumberjack putting his fellow lumberjacks out of work? Why should I trust them?

100% content that the CIA was not trying to kill me, I headed home to get some rest. I don’t think I’ve done anything important enough for the CIA to try to kill me. I mean, I don’t think they’re opposed to killing me, but it would probably be in some sort of friendly fire sort of way. Maybe they’ll drop a bomb on my neighbors and not care when I also die? Was that the CIA that dropped the bomb on MOVE? I don’t know. All I know is that I was headed home to watch some TV - where the ads are supposed to talk to me.

a little something: Goddamn Dog

As I was tucking my dog into bed, a thought occurred to me, a dark thought. This dog had known a life before me, before I adopted him from the Humane Society. He had a mother and father out in the world or dead. We had each lived portions of our lives the other would never know. I could tell him about my wild college days and my childhood, my first girlfriend, but would he understand? Would he comprehend? We can communicate with animals; I think one would need to be a sociopath to disagree, but I am willing to admit it is more of a “grey” area when one gets into which sort of concepts a dog would understand and which they would not - and, of course, “communicate” is one thing, but spoken English language is another. Would a dog have an easier time with a slide show? Sure, he’d see the pictures from my elementary school birthday parties, but would he recognize me in them? Would he know why I was showing him these photos? Even if he were to understand the meaning of the photos, it seemed unlikely that he would understand the “why” of the situation - why I was pulling him out of bed moments after tucking him in to show him photos; which is to say that he would not understand my sudden, overwhelming existential dread. Whether or not a dog could conceive of existential dread was a question for another day, the matter at hand was how a dog could possibly read the look on my face of pure panic and know it was not the result of a home invasion or a fire, but of something grander, yet more abstract. For, I must concede, even though I was aware of dread as something that happened to me, surely, in the past, I had not understood what another human was going through while they were experiencing what I was now feeling - and, even worse, while I could recognize this as a short-coming and a mistake in my past, I could not confidently say whether or not I had ever ignored my dog’s feeling of doom. Thus, it was safe to say that an inter-species communication as to the concept of malaise did not exist. It was at that moment that my home suddenly felt very empty and the companionship of my dog no longer comforted me anymore. My stupid dog who didn’t understand me at all, who only loved me because I gave him food, was my only friend in the whole world and he didn’t even understand we were friends.

Strong

It’s hard to be strong. Who do you talk to when the sun goes down? Who do you talk to when people are still awake? Maybe if I stay busy, I’ll forget to worry. Maybe if I stay busy, I won’t remember that I’m not working toward any ends. If i work hard enough and long enough, I might die before I have a moment to think. That’s the dream.

If I were well-rested, maybe I could face the day. If I went to bed early enough, maybe the state of the world and my disintegrating and disintegrated relationships would never come to mind. Memories of my mistakes, big and small, might never rear their ugly heads.

How long can one ignore that the world is full of killers and sadists? How long can one ignore impending doom? If I had a child, how would I explain to them that the world will break their heart every hour of every day that they are alive if they let it and protecting their heart from the world will exhaust them and drive them mad? I don’t have a child though - because the world would destroy them if I did and I can’t abide by that.

It’s hard being brave. Most days I’m not. I hope that’s okay though I know it’s not.

Where Does the Time Go?

It’s 1 AM. I feel like I just got off work. I should be asleep already if I’m being honest.

While I waited for the bus, I thought about the time I thought you were moving out-of-state. I don’t know the last time I saw you. I can’t imagine the next time I will. But in that moment, panic set it. In that moment from years ago, I felt a desperate need to cling to whatever part of you that I could.

I’m pushing and pulling in too many directions. I want to write. I want to relax. I want to stay informed. I want to draw. I want to just maybe have a little fun for a couple minutes and then I’ll get focused on writing. I want to get some rest and deal with everything tomorrow when I can be more productive, but that’s what I said the day before and that’s what I said the day before that so, no, I need to actually try to be productive like I tried to do the day before and tried to do the day before that.

There are so many people I used to know. We both used to know. Maybe you still do. I wouldn’t know. I can’t recall where you were headed or why you were headed there. You weren’t the first to set your sights across state lines and others did what you didn’t. But something deep in me hurt at the prospect of losing you.

It feels like just yesterday, I was staying out til bar close and going to work the following morning. It seems impossible that I used to spend 3 hours a day commuting and I still had about the same amount of free time I have now when I get home. I don’t know where my energy went. I don’t know if all my bad habits caught up with me. I’m mentally, emotionally, and physically drained every second of the portion of the day that belongs to me, not a company.

The ingrate has no real understanding of object permanence. Tell me I can’t have it and I want it. But take it away when I’m not looking and see just how much I treasure it. The boy with too many toys doesn’t notice when one goes missing until he wants to play with that particular one.

"I’d rather be an artist first and foremost": an interview with Walter Etc.

Walter Etc. has a new album out entitled The Dark Comedy Performance Piece of My Life out now on his own label Making New Enemies so we reached out to him over e-mail about a month ago and then ended up Twitter DMing in the afternoon of April 9th. The following interview has been lightly edited for clarity.

Walter: Yoooo

Ghoulish: Okay okay. Let us begin I guess. How is the coronavirus treating you?

W: TBQH, besides being stressed about the future of our democracy and economy, and feeling sad for people struggling... my day to day life hasn’t changed too much. I’m usually a hermit so this whole stay inside thing just relieves any pressure I had to go out and socialize. haha

And I’ve been busy working on this album release so my work hasn’t changed too much either. What about you?

G: haha, well I am "essential" at work so my shit is just the same except now that I CAN'T go out, I want to. But I am actually making friends at work by just being super passive aggressive to everyone in authority and talking mad shit so it's kind of a win personally. But yeah I think I had a mental breakdown in the lunch room like a week back thinking about how we're all going to die.

Anyway, to get into the album... how do you approach something like this when it's got all these personal repercussions? Do you play it for your ex first or just put it out and apologize later?

W: Well before I recorded the album I called her and told her about the album, and asked if I could use her real name in a couple songs. She agreed and was probably dreading the album release for a long time. I offered it to her when it was finished but she didn’t want to hear it. Since it’s come out I haven’t heard from her. But yes it’s been pretty embarrassing in my personal life to put this out, but in the end I’d rather be an artist first and foremost so I had no choice but to put it out really.

G: The album lyrically is a change of pace for you and kind of more "direct" but musically it's pretty different too. Did you intend for that or were you just drawing inspiration from different stuff and it happened?

W: Ya, I think musically it evolves along the same lines we’ve been going - indie / surf / pop punk based music that dabbles in more and more different genres as time goes on... But ya I didn’t really intend to make these songs as “direct”, that kind of just happened. I think it stems from writing songs primarily for myself, usually a therapeutic practice, and I think I just fell back on my old literal story telling lyrics in order to deal with the things I was going through, cause that’s the style that comes most natural to me.

G: I gotta ask about “Cheer Up Walter” though. That song is a Capella. How do you decide to go with no musical backing?

W: That song was always a Capella based, but we actually tried to give it a noise soundscape behind it, but in the end that sounded too spooky and foreboding when it was generally a positive song about cheering up. So the decision to make it naked vocals came when the noise thing didn’t work, and Ian and I agreed totally naked felt more spiritual and honest

G: Interesting. So I assume this isn't the kind of album you would have put out when you were younger. From what I listen to it, it seems like more and more artists are kind of taking the leap of faith and putting out albums that make them feel vulnerable. Do you think that's sort of where we are at as a society or is just more just a coincidence of people getting to the same places in their life where they're willing to not self-censor?

W: That’s a really good observation and question. I really don’t have an opinion, but a couple ideas. Maybe it’s artists’ reaction against the increasingly phony culture of late era capitalism? Like an artist is compelled to be ultra honest because no one else is telling it like it is?? Or maybe music execs have convinced artists that authenticity sells so everyone is just going for it??? Or, I read an article lately talking about how millennials highly value authenticity while Gen Z doesn’t necessarily. So maybe it’s just that a millennial artist’s idea of their magnum opus is one that is super personal and honest, so they hit an age where they try to write that record? I’m not sure... just some thoughts... What are some examples of these recent vulnerable albums you’re talking about?

G: Uhh, I wrote down that question like a month ago when we were going to do this over email so I'm not sure I remember what I was thinking of at the time. But the new Gladie record [Safe Sins]. Uh, that Hayley Williams [series of] solo EP[s] thing she's putting out [Petals for Armor]. I actually feel like I listened to so much "punk rock" when I was younger and now I don't connect to a lot of it and I'm seeing so much creativity in hip hop so it's a really stark contrast to go from over-whelming machismo in rap to all this stuff now. Like Danny Brown put out an album a few years back about being a drug addict [Atrocity Exhibition]. This guy Supa Bwe is like almost entirely rapping about being depressed. [Additional albums that came to mind later: Manic by Halsey, Care for Me by Saba, Cry 4 Help by Kari Faux, Big Fish Theory and Prima Donna by Vince Staples.]

W: A lot more creativity in hip hop than punk these days huh?

G: haha, I don't wanna get "cancelled." The thing for me is just like I got into "punk" from Rock Against Bush comps and now we're in this Trump shit and I honestly think one of like 3 [“punk”] records I heard that come even close to capturing what is going on in the slightest is the last Sum 41 record [Order in Decline]. Maybe I'm not hearing the new punk bands though; I'm seeing almost constant new rappers.

For some reason all the lyrics I wrote down questions about are from your single “Punk With An Ex” which makes it sound like I didn't listen to the record, but on that song you said you're on the wrong side of your twenties which made me wonder what point did you know you were going to be doing this for a long time?

W: I gotta try that sum 41 album

Ummm I think I realized a long time ago that I’d be doing this Walter thing for a long time whether it’s popular or not. I like what I’ve started with it and want to continue its “legacy”, rather than just start a new unrelated band. I’m pretty sure I’ll be into making music for a long time, so the logical conclusion is that I’m in this for the long run! But ya definitely in the wrong side of my twenties, meaning literally the second half, but figuratively this is the side where you aren’t “sexy” anymore, you aren’t young and up and coming, there isn’t as much time to correct mistakes or go back on decisions, people don’t give you the benefit of the doubt for being young, financial responsibilities are adding up, and it’s not cute to be in an underground band past 25.... lol

G: haha, no I get it. I just wasn't sure if you were envisioning any of this when you put out Every Town Needs a Cowboy. Uhh, we're almost done, but we gotta get the "plug" sort of questions in... So this is the first Walter album that is coming out with a zine, how'd that come to be?

W: Always wanted to do zines with albums but always get lazy or too pressed for time or money to whatever. This one seemed like a good one cause a) there’s a ton of lyrics to fit on a lyric sheet already so a booklet would be nice and b) I’m putting it out myself so I might as well go all in and include a zine since I’ll be producing / shipping both from my garage

G: Well you gave me the lay up for the other "plug" question: this is the first time in the last like what? 4 albums, that you are putting out yourself? Was that just because it was so personal you wanted full control or how'd that decision come to be?

W: Definitely part of it was because it’s so close to home, Id like to keep it literally close to home. But the decision was mostly informed by a larger desire for independence in my music “career”. I’m really intrigued by the way someone could have a successful music career as a diy musician in the 2020’s with the internet and all the resources we have. I didn’t want to split my album proceeds 50/50 with a smaller indie label when I could just do it myself and keep 100% and own the masters for life. Traditional music marketing hasn’t worked for our band in the past, the music scene / industry doesn’t seem to care about our band, and so I didn’t think it’d be any different this time around and thus not work the money a label would put into it at ultimately our expense. I already run my own online store, so I don’t need anyone to ship my records for me. I know how to get digital distribution, and how to order vinyl. Haha long rant here but basically, since there was no major label million dollar offer, it just made more sense to me to do it myself and explore what this new era music career could look like for me.

G: How's it going so far?

W: For Walter standards, pretty good! Made my money back from the vinyl, so I’m in the green which was basically my only goal financially. But you know, I sacrificed the chance of major success. Like, putting this out myself isn’t gunna get me big press or big tours. But I knew that going into it

G: haha, nice. Well I had a few more questions but they didn't really fit into the flow or we kind of touched on them so now that I've kept you twice as long as we agreed to, I just want to ask one final question which is just what you're reading or listening to or, I had a question that didn't really go anywhere about your references to the Office and Modern Family ,so what you're watching in quarantine.

W: Haha you can ask me more dude I’m just chillin.

Dude I’m a random phase of trying to get into Beck and reading For Whom the Bell Tolls. Lol not the most interesting answers but that’s where I’m at

G: Are you listening to any albums you wanna shout out?

W: Dude still very into Milk Flud Supportive Nature even though it’s like 5 months old now

G: yeah the man of mystery. I have a billion questions about him, but I think that would veer things far off course haha.

I think the main question that I skipped over earlier (because you referenced how you came to write these more "direct" lyrics) - and this could be a massive bust, but with the way my brain works I found it to be the most fascinating - is like the way I hear the lyrics on this album - and I texted you about how it reminded me a little bit of the path Micah Schnabel has headed down - is it kind of seems like you hit a wall and were like "fuck it, I can't express myself whimsically. I'm just gonna cut the shit." Philosophically, is any of that true? Like is there kind of a limitation to certain forms of art?

W: Ya, I feel, for me, like sometimes metaphors and abstract lyricism is just a bunch of beating around the bush. Like why do I have to come up with some clever obtuse way of saying “we’re broke and don’t have sex and getting chubby”? Like to say it bluntly sometimes feels a lot better for me personally, and I think it has a certain stab to it cause people aren’t used to hearing lyrics that aren’t either cliches or metaphors. I mean obviously exceptions, but generally speaking the hyper literal lyrics seem to stand out to me. But there’s limitations to the direct lyrics too. Like things are maybe not as open to interpretation or appeal to broader questions? Sometimes a blunt lyric just starts and stops with that lyric haha

G: Yeah, that makes sense. Alright, I have no idea how putting an album out goes. Are you already thinking of your next moves or are you just focused on getting all the records shipped and shit right now?

W: I have a lot of the next record written. So I’m eagerly awaiting this shipping week or two to be done and so I’ll start demoing or recording the next one - and also putting effort into still getting this album out there marketing wise, but I fear I’ll fall short because I will be too excited to start the next project

G: Is that kind of how it always goes (minus it all being your responsibility) or just the nature of where you and the world are at in this moment?

W: Haha how it always goes for me at least

G: that's wild, but I guess it's also security from writer's block if you are one album ahead

One question I didn't write down to fall back on, but I wanna ask about given a few things you said in this interview and some of your tweets I've seen in recent months is like when I met you in the Portland punk scene I think I kind of thought of you as not particularly political, but now you're talking shit about capitalism. Is this kind of something you've grown into or along the lines of how you always felt? And also what's your view about like addressing politics in art vs personal subject matter?

W: Ya I pretty much have the same viewpoints as I always have had but I didn’t wanna speak out cause I knew I was young and there was a lot I had to learn. Now I’m starting to feel like I understand what I’m talking about enough to have public opinions. Still far away from being preachy tho cause I’ve much to learn and I’m not so steadfast in my views. I think art has room for politics and personal subject matter, and no one should be shamed for doing either. I sort of don’t like when people state that if you have a platform then you are obligated to use it to speak out about politics and such. But I think people have a right to if they want

G: I guess I'm just curious from my own experience of like when I was younger and trying to express myself through writing I felt sort like I should be talking about injustices but it just came out like complete shit and it still is like pulling teeth if I try really hard to write explicitly political stuff so I guess it's a question of inspiration, but do you just write what you write because that's what flows out of you or like you tried to write a song about the Supreme Court and it sucks and sounds like you don't know what you're talking about?

W: Haha ya I kinda just wrote what I write . I’ve never tried to intentionally write a political song, if anything just slip in a line here or there that questions some thing about our society, but nothing too directly political. I’ve actually been interested in writing more climate change / environmental lyrics,,, but I’ve yet to find a way to do that and not having it be clunky and lame haha

G: yeah dude! that's what I'm talking about. I think everything has it's place and I absolutely adore Propagandhi, but I was having a conversation back when we were still allowed to gather in groups about how Good Riddance influenced me so much more just by not being 100% political at all times, like they had songs about girls mixed in. I think I kind of prefer, it's almost a Trojan Horse, all the artists who write non-political songs and then just have a line in there.

Alright I think I'm all questioned out and I thought it would be cool to post this interview as screen shots, but I think I need to edit a little bit of the text so hopefully it copies and pastes well, but I think the way to end these things is to ask if you have anything else to add.

W: Haha umm just thanks for being interested and supporting me all these years. And I hope to see you soon!

G: Yeah you'll have to come up to Portland post-pandemic or something!

Fake It

I feel my worst habits taking hold. It’s no longer a passing phase. I’ll do better someday. This isn’t really who I am. I am loving. I am caring. I am empathetic and kind. My apathy and indifference, my short temper and general disgust at humanity - my cruel streak - are just because I am tired. That’s just how I am acting today. I’m in a bad mood. Like I was yesterday. And the day before. And last week. And this whole month. And… how long have we known each other again?

You didn’t know me when I was little. I was a ray of sunshine. I don’t know what happened to me. I know I got mean in middle school. I know I thought I was the shit. I know it blew up in my face. But we aren’t going down memory lane. This isn’t a therapy session.

I wake up angry and fear, if I stopped, I wouldn’t be exhausted enough by the end of the day to fall asleep. But the sleepless nights still come so I’m not sure what I’m so scared of losing. Maybe it’s time to grit my teeth and hide the scowl. It goes against the very blood flowing through my veins, but maybe it’s time to take Nikki Giovanni’s advice to James Baldwin to heart. Authenticity and sincerity, like everything else, can be twisted and manipulated consciously or unconsciously. Sticking to your convictions to avoid self-improvement, accountability.

The value of human life in America is somewhere below the minimum bail can be set and the value of animal life is in the ballpark of the price of a hot dog. These are facts you cannot unlearn. The idea that any person I pass by in a day isn’t preoccupied by the state of humanity and its many failings is unfathomable. But what does one do with this befuddling scenario? The world wasn’t meant for us. That much is obvious. But after one accepts that reality, what’s left to be done? Suicide? Let greed and paranoia consume you? Those are my inclinations, but obviously not the answer.

My thought is to take a hard left and be more generous, more helpful than I want to be, am uncomfortable being. It’s all well and good in my mind until the concern arises that, outside of my head, things may not be taken the way they were intended. People don’t really want money thrown at them when they have a problem. People don’t want an acquaintance suddenly taking an extreme interest in them. People, if they are anything like me, want to be left alone.

Unacknowledged Presence

These rooms with closed windows and a gust of wind. These halls with flickering lights. We’ve been cultured to fear the unknown. We’ve been cultured to assume the worst of strangers. But everyone and everything is simply trying to coexist. I find comfort in your presence. More comfort in not needing to acknowledge it. No need to conjure you; you’ll arrive in due time.

With you watching over me, I will try to catch up on sleep. With you watching over me, I feel alright. Nothing more sincere than what we have. Nothing more true than this. No guaranteed future. All we have is this moment. Words would cheapen it. You’re there. I’m here. Humanity has twisted the definition of “company” to add unnecessary pressure.

You’ve existed since time immemorial. Maybe that’s why we co-habitat like an old couple. Through the honey moon phase. Through the fighting. We’ve found our footing. All the things you used to do that rubbed me wrong and my many faux pas have become comfortingly familiar. The chill on my neck tells me you’re close by. No point in speaking. You know I appreciate you. I know you’re happy to haunt someone like me.

Some people tell their friends. Some people call exorcists. I have no reason to bring attention to a perfectly comfortable situation. When you wail, I let you wail. When the time is right, I’ll fog up a mirror and wait to watch what your finger draws across it. But most days, you’re there; I’m here. We both know it. Why waste words?

Proximity Crush

I watch Uncut Gems to relax. Let the Irishman wash over me. This is my comfort zone. This is my happy place. I don’t know what tomorrow brings. I don’t know how I’ll survive. I don’t know who will still return my calls and who has deleted my number from their phone. The earth is edging ever closer to uninhabitability and I have the luxury of being one of the last millions of people to truly realize it, I’m sure. The fascist creep is the same. My comfort will remain. Is it helping anything to make a concerted effort to be concerned as I watch everything fall apart or am I wasting the last few “good” years?

Untitled

I’ll dance Volk at your wedding. I’ll mumble incantations under my breath at your funeral.

I hope your husband has a big dick and a big enough heart to let his guard down around you. I hope you don’t lie awake in bed at night thinking about how every decision you’ve ever made, whether actively or passively, has led to this exact moment and you won’t find out what’s behind the other doors. I hope you don’t start your day looking at a stranger over your morning coffee and think about how there’s some Palestinian-who-never-got-a-chance-to-become-a-refugee-because-the-IDF-shot-him-dead-for-throwing-a-rock-during-a-protest-at-the-border who could have loved you better. There’s not a man who lost his job and then his home and then his life as he froze to death on the streets of Chicago who was destined to be your soulmate so here you are. Or perhaps a teenager gunned down at school or he survived school, but got busted for something or other no one really remembers and the judge decided to make an example out of him and threw the book at him and after a decade inside with no end in sight he took his own life or maybe he did his time and got out, but found the job market less than welcoming to an ex-con so he went back to selling drugs or tried out selling his body and a cop or maybe a civilian who was taking advantage of anti-sex trafficking laws got him in a secluded area and now you’ll never raise a child together. Or maybe he had the misfortune of being a Uighur Muslim in China or Rohingya Muslim in Myanmar. Or maybe he’s still alive: that nice Latino man ICE deported for a decade old unpaid parking ticket. Or maybe he’s white: that angry young man screaming about how you’d burn in hell as you entered the clinic. You went inside and had the procedure done and that man went his own way. Or he’d already gone his own way too long ago and now there was no redemptive quality left in him, any signs of your true one and only long ago vanquished from his body. Or maybe you lost him in a way that isn’t so dull, something that would make headlines: one day he came home from school and his mentally unstable mother decided to lock him in a closet and feed him less and less with each passing day and after a neighbor had not seen the boy-who-would-have-grown-up-to-become-the-love-of-your-life for a month, they decided to call the police.

I hope you don’t ponder these alternate lives with other (better?) lovers while browsing the Craigslist Missed Connections section because anti-sex trafficking laws got rid of the men for women section and all the other personals. Because you picked the man you’re with and confirmed to Regis Philbin that it was, in fact, your final answer.

Your husband is here – or rather I’m here; I’m the one invited, it’s his event – and those don’t look like crocodile tears to me. I hope he never remarries because no one could ever live up to the bar you set.

“Untitled” was the only piece written for a zine entitled Pretend to Be Asleep which was never completed. It was inspired by Suspiria (2018), “Wedding” by Serengeti, and, obviously, politics.

I Do Not Love the Sunrise, but I Fear What Will Happen in the Night

I will stay up past dawn studying every inch of your body, like there will be a test on Monday morning covering everything - the bumps, bruises, scrapes, scars, freckles, every ridge, the feel, the taste. Cramming for the exam, face first in your flesh, fearing I might fail.

I fear forgetting. I forget names and faces, past moments. I offend, but am indifferent. Still, I have caught a glimpse of what I am capable of. Not with you. I refuse.

I love like a Ryan Adams song. I love like I live, never knowing when it will go away but aware it will.

I love like a boxer. I am doing my best “butterfly,” but always prepared to sting – always an arm’s length from the edge of the ring, preparing to rope-a-dope.

I will stay up past dawn, tasting your body. I’ll tell you how I’m prepping for the midterm, but always with one eye on the door. Half of me believes that if I blink, I’ll see your back while you walk through that threshold. This isn’t a study session. This is the final. You’ll leave on winter break and, when you come back, you’ll have a new schedule.

I love like an endangered species, nearly hunted out of existence. I’ll limp with an arrow in my flesh, a trail of blood trickling out. I know they’ll use my own blood against me. I know they’ll track me. But all I have is now. All I can think to do is leave the scene. All I know is barely surviving for a few more hours.

I will stay up past dawn practicing my straight face, strengthening my tear ducts, picking my brave face out of a catalog, readying myself to save face. I will keep my head up. I will be cold. I will not be taken by surprise. I will agree – this has run its course.

I love like someone who doesn’t know how. I love my perception of you. I fear who you truly are and who you want to be. We are two impossible beasts with lovely images superimposed on top of us. I do not love the sunrise, but I fear what will happen in the night so I will stay up past dawn.

“I Do Not Love the Sunrise, but I Fear What Will Happen in the Night” was originally a part of the unpublished You Deserve Each Other zine. The author regrets the reference to Ryan Adams.

The Day Your Assailant Dies

On the day your assailant dies, you will not find out. You will not find out for two more weeks. You will receive the call before you look him up. You will be in your third week of the new school year and wonder if this is a bad omen. You will shrug off superstition and rationalize that there is nothing special about three weeks into the school year, it was inevitable he’d die eventually – if not now, then the first week of winter break or the day after a really great date or your birthday or another potentially significant day. He would die; you would struggle to not let him ruin something which you would put extra significance upon because of the timing of his death coinciding with the shared day. This is simply how things go.

On the day your molester dies, you will finally be old enough to start feeling the full impacts of his actions, his lack of control. You will start to connect the dots and they’ll trace back to his desperate, flailing grasp for power over anyone. He brought you into this without asking and left, once again, selfishly and without warning. You will be angry that he is not here to see the damage he’s done, to look it in the eye. You will feel cheated that you never got to tell him that you did not fall prey, that you are bigger, better, stronger, and braver than he could have ever dreamed of being.

On the day the perpetrator’s years catch up with him, he will be alone. His obituary will be reluctantly written and even more reluctantly paid for by an estranged sister who only bothers because of her need for tradition and her hope that, by doing her part to help history remain recorded, life will somehow become just a slightest bit less chaotic. You will feel sorry for her, but mostly you will hate her. You will spend hours wondering what kind of monster memorializes a monster. A greater monster? A lesser, more pathetic monster?

On the day your abuser finally dies, it will be hard to explain to anyone. He’s dead. You should feel elated. You should feel free. He can’t hurt you now. But that’s not how this works just like this isn’t the day they’ll finally understand any of this. He took something and he could never return it, but, with the finality of his passing, it is impossible to pretend any longer – there’s no going back.

On that day, you will not feel free. You will not feel relieved. You will feel exactly the same way you have felt every single day since he entered your life and never left.

“The Day Your Assailant Dies” was originally a part of the unpublished You Deserve Each Other zine.

Feathers for Armor

Let your feathers protect you. It’s a violent world. Pull a Rushdie if you need to, but come up for air and double down on your efforts. This world will try to kill you and there’s no guarantee that it won’t succeed. It’s currently winning by the way.

You can only fit so many lazy Sundays into one year. You’ve done this before. You’ll do this again. Look around you. This is it. Truly.

Be your own personal Megan Bloomfield. Everyone is retracting their fangs when your back’s not turned. It’s on you to protect your veins. You’ve been Nosferatu with the shades. They took a different approach. Don’t dwell on it. Move on.

It’s all in your head. It’s all in their mouths. You’ll never get the soap close enough to their lips so your only hope is to dump out your waste basket cranium.

Is this where you want to be? Defending your life to a coked-up asshole at a bar? We’ve been over this before; one hand feeds and one hand beats. Wait for the latter to get close enough and tear the flesh from the bone – and then run. Don’t let them put you down. Don’t quench their bloodthirst; quench your own thirst.  The water[s] flow bountifully - when you’re ready.

It’s a nuclear winter year-round out there. You’re not going to survive. Let your feathers keep you warm.

“Feathers for Armor“ was originally published as “Look What They Did to Kanye” in the Historical Fiction zine and was re-titled to reference a different pop star (because the author has not learned their lesson about wealthy people’s inevitable lack of morals) on March 6th, 2020.

“It’s the greatest partnership humans have ever known”: Discussing Group Picture 5 with Milk Flud and Walter of Making New Enemies

Milk Flud and Walter, as Making New Enemies, have been putting out free compilations of their and their friends’ music since Christmas 2011. This year, they are releasing Group Picture 5 - the second compilation in the series to be accompanied by a zine. A few days before Christmas, they took time out of their days to discuss the origin of and intent behind the series while remaining fairly tight-lipped about the specifics of Group Picture 5. The raw, unedited transcript can be found here. Group Picture 5 comes out Christmas Day at 6 PM PST MNE time. It, along with the previously installments in the Group Picture series and other musical releases, can be found at makingnewenemies.bandcamp.com

Milk: GP5! December 25th! Let’s do this!

Saul: Okay, introduce yourselves.

Walter: I’m Walter. One of two MNE cult leaders.

Milk: My name is Milk Flud. I am the other MNE cult leader.

Saul: And you two are the entire team behind the Group Picture series? And MNE?

Milk: I’d call us the curators, is that the word?

Walter: I like to say that too. Milk mostly handles the album and I mostly handle the zine.

Milk: Exactly.

Walter: Well, my soulmate Francis Mayflower [handles the zine] to be exact.

Saul: Alright, so how’d this whole thing start? Back with Group Picture 1?

Milk: I just got an idea one day to make a compilation album of songs that Walter and I had in our archives just sitting there. We asked some friends to send in songs that were doing the same and that was GP1. This was like December 20th and we wanted to release it December 25th.

Walter: [Laughs]

Milk: I think I was in Utah?

Walter: We’re always out of state for some reason.

Milk: Seriously.

Walter: And it came together nicely so we decided to do it again, and again, and again.

Saul: So you really wanted it to come out Christmas?

Walter: It’s nice to give everyone their last Christmas present.

Milk: Also a significant day.

Saul: The birth of our lord and savior?

Milk: Not exactly.

Saul: [Laughs]

Walter: What’s the significance, Milk?

Milk: Generally people are home with their families then, so I thought it’d it be nice to have something for them to listen to or read at the end of a long day of family time. [Pauses] I dunno. [Pauses] Am I supposed to be all 666?

Walter: Yeah, everyone is home and shares it with old friends around Christmas and, it sounds corny, but it brings our friend group together.

Saul: Okay, so you had some archives, and then for Group Picture 2, there’s a huge increase in the amount of songs - and each year it seems like you add one more song… is Group Picture 5 going to be 19 songs?

Walter: Oooh! Interesting, interesting.

Milk: It will be between 15 and 20. The one song thing is nothing intentional.

Saul: Is everything submitted? [Editor’s note: it is 8 PM on December 19th.]

Milk: No! [Pauses] And I was gonna master this year’s.

Saul: Oh really? When’s the cut off?

Milk: People think its December 24th.

Saul: [Laughs]

Milk: Or early the 25th. I’ve been learning to master albums and really wanted to this year.

Walter: Some friends are slackers…

Milk: I think I have 10 right now.

Saul: Jesus. Anyway, so all the zine stuff is submitted right?

Walter: The zine stuff is all submitted.

Saul: And you’re doing physicals of the zine and the album?

Walter: Yup, yup! Get the album on Spotify and all that.

Saul: Money, money, money!

Walter: Nah, not really. [Laughs] That’d be sick though.

Saul: How’d the zine become a part of it? Why’d you bring it back after none for [Group Picture] 4?

Walter: I had one all ready to go for 4, but I choked. I had to leave town before I could finish and print it. So I didn’t wanna let anyone down for 5 this year. And I think it’s turning out to be pretty cool.

Milk: It looks really cool – via cell phone pictures. Walter is in Portland. I’m in California.

Saul: And how’d the zine happen for [Group Picture] 3? Why’d you bring it into Group Picture? Is Group Picture just going to keep expanding? Comics and short films next?

Milk: Woah, I hope so!

Walter: That’s exactly it!

Milk: Include more friends, not all make music.

Walter: We all do way more than just music. Gotta exercise all muscles.

Saul: And you just had enough writer friends that seemed like the logical next inclusion?

Milk: All types of visual artist friends.

Walter: I’ve always been pretty into writing. We all make dumb collages… it was bound to happen.

Saul: [Laughs]

Saul: So, not to hit a sore spot for Milk, but based on what you do have - is it a lot of familiar faces and names?

Milk: As opposed to previous years?

Saul: Yeah, can people expect to see a lot of the same bands and writers?

Milk: Yes, for the album they can. Also quite a few new artists that I’m really excited about.

Saul: Do you care to mention some? What sort of genres can we expect?

Milk: Extremely diverse, but, yes, a lot of the familiars will be there.

Saul: Walter, do you want to mention anything about the contributors to the zine?

Walter: There’s three things I’ll say to that, Saul.

Saul: Okay.

Walter: I love the quantity of writers. There is over 15 writers and artists. I love how there’s possibly more girls than guys in it, haven’t counted. And I love the diversity of the work in the zine. It’s all very inspiring!

Milk: Which is what I personally love about GP.

Saul: And it comes out at 6 PST?

Walter: Well, you know, MNE time.

Milk: Yeah, 6 PM PST MNE time.

Walter: We don’t stick to deadlines if it sacrifices the quality of work, but we do try.

Saul: And it will be at Making New Enemies dot bandcamp dot com?

Walter: Yeeee.

Saul: Alright, unless you guys wanna talk about any specific songs or zine inclusions, I think we’re going to wrap it up. Anything else you guys wanna say?

Milk: I liked your questions, Saul.

Saul: [Laughs] Thank you.

Walter: Yes, thanks for doing this, Saul.

Milk: I also want to say: I like that it’s been 5 years of the same partnership.

Saul: Well, you’ve been partners with Walter longer than that even.

Milk: Yes, but just for GP.

Walter: It’s the greatest partnership humans have ever known.

Saul: It rivals Starsky and Hutch.

Walter: [Laughs]

Saul: Yeah, for some reason, I thought you guys had more friends working behind the scenes - just 2 boys!

Walter: Well, I have had help with the zine a bit from my girlfriend and roommate.

Saul: Alright, so what day and time do you want this on the blogosphere?

Milk: Tomorrow! [Pauses] Did we do good?

Saul: Yeah, I think so.

Walter: Of course we did good! The tide is high right now!

Milk: I’m going to finish the intro tonight.

Saul: Like rap albums have?

Milk: Kind of. Little Cousin makes a return this GP.

Saul: Sweet!

Milk: Dakota from Animal City, my favorite band, gets involved and will continue to work with MNE.

Walter: To be honest, I have to redo the whole zine right now.

Saul: Why?

Walter: Changed the margins by .25 and everything went to hell. [Pauses] I also love the album art!

Milk: oh, yeah!

Walter: My favorite GP album art.

Milk: The album art is incredible!

Saul: Well, I’ve got everything.

Walter: This was fun! Thanks, Saul!

Saul: You’re very welcome, it was fun interviewing you guys!

Milk: Yeah, thanks, Saul.

Walter: Later, guys.

Saul: Bye. 10 AM tomorrow this will go up!

Milk: Okay, we’ll post it unless we re-read it and shake our damn heads.

Saul: [Laughs] That’s just being alive, though.

Milk: Woah.

Saul: [Laughs]

Milk: This guy gets it.

Milk: Okay, I’m gonna work on my shit! Later!

This interview was originally published on the Someone Else Plays the Piano Better Tumblr page.

Torn Apart by Dogs

And we watched, as the dogs tore them apart. From people to shreds, right before our eyes. There were a few gasps and certainly some people who couldn’t bear to look – though they didn’t seem to realize they were free to leave the scene. Nobody was happy with what lay in front of us: a bloody scene to be sure. And nobody was particularly happy to continue on their life as a witness.

Hell, even the dogs would have preferred to take no part in it. Trust me.

As the sound of ambulances shook us all from our state of shock, we scattered like rats – or something much lower than rats, something that didn’t deserve to live.

We went about our days. First, to brush our teeth before going to bed – it was the night after all. Then, we arose – still with the gruesome images burnt into our brains. Our wives and husbands and sons and daughters wouldn’t understand what we had seen. There was no point in sharing. We ate our cereal in silence – with milk as usual. And we drank our orange juice, with a taste of bitterness that wasn’t there before. Then we went off to be bankers and grocers and florists and bus drivers and school teachers and we took comfort in our roles. We told ourselves that, without us, society would fall apart. We were brave. After what we had seen, we didn’t give up our posts. We didn’t let anyone down. Nobody took a sick day though we were all sick to our stomachs.

And none of our co-workers would understand, so we just focused on each task at hand. We created lists in our minds where we could cross off goals and feel accomplished, like there was an end. Just three more jobs left to check off. We tried not to be surly, those of us who had jobs involving interaction with people. The people who worked “behind the scenes” to keep everything running were free to be their usual anti-social selves. Their co-workers expected a lack of chatter. But the school teachers and wait staff really had to grit their teeth and bear it. They had to put on fake smiles the likes of which they’d never worn before. The children and the people who would hopefully leave big tips needn’t be worried about the previous night.

And so the day ended and we headed home to silent dinners. There were a few more nervous glances and a bit more uncertainly amongst our husbands and wives and daughters and sons. Nobody said anything to daddy. Nobody said anything to mommy. Thank God there were no children to witness the horror.

Another weekend hit us. None of us felt like going out. We all wanted to throw up. Yet keeping up appearances is important. We wouldn’t want the neighbors to talk. Our wives went off to spend time nurturing their friendships while we went to the bar to sulk in our own masculine silence. Our husbands went off to have a “boys’ night out” while we tried to drown ourselves out by the lake only to have some spoil-sport-late-night-jogger call the police. We lucked out and managed to get our blue faces away before the authorities arrived and questions would have been asked.

We all wished we could change that night. We all wished we had kicked a dog. We all wanted to kick a dog. But that wasn’t the issue at hand. The dogs, just like us, were playing their roles. Them, as perpetrators only following orders; us, as complacent figures. We may as well have been trees growing in those back alleys.

Some of us began making incisions where we hoped our husband or wife wouldn’t look – or at least not ask any questions. Some of us followed through with our misguided intent to take out our disappointment in ourselves on animals. We kicked dogs; we kicked cats; hell, we tried to kick some squirrels, but they were all far too fast. Most of the cats were too. We misplaced our disgust with ourselves wherever we could. You better believe our wives and husbands and sons and daughters felt it. Not that any of them were brave enough to ask the origin of the abuse, those who weren’t lucky enough to find their fathers and mothers and husbands and wives with tear drenched faces and rope burn on their neck next to a kicked over stool in the attic, those who got cigarette burns on the backs of their necks instead of the responsibility of driving mommy or daddy or their wife or their husband to the emergency room with blood gushing from their wrists.

In the hospital beds, some of us heard the howls. It was happening again. How many thousand people heard the same howls? That’s what the nurse asked me when I buzzed him for assistance. When I explained what was happening. I told him he needed to do something. He told me the buzzer wasn’t a toy and that my ability to ask for assistance with it was a privilege, not a right. I asked if he could up the morphine. I was comfortable as I left this plane.

“Torn Apart by Dogs” originally appeared in the Escúcheme zine.

Haunted by Diarrhea

The tumble down the stairs didn’t look too bad. She seemed like she was going to make it as the ambulance arrived and took her off – all covered in blood from that crack in her head. A few days after her visit from Vermont was cut short by the accident, I felt a cold gust of wind. It shouldn’t have stuck out to me so much, but it did.

She’d been complaining about the restaurant we had taken her to the previous night. On and on, she went, about the quality of the food. After a few hours of this business, my dad had declared that we could go out for another meal. This time, she’d get to pick the restaurant. She stated “I want to go to the Olive Garden” – then, just to make sure my dad’s guilt didn’t disintegrate before we got to the Olive Garden, she added “…even though I still don’t feel very well.”

As she was raving about the bread sticks and telling us to be prepared for the best meal we’d ever had, she slipped. We didn’t bother going after the ambulance took her off. I still don’t know if she was right.

It wasn’t until around a year after that Christmas that I worked up the nerve to inquire into her whereabouts. My parents had kept up the façade that she’s headed back to Winooski directly from the hospital. That is what you tell a kid when their dog dies, not when their teenage cousin cracks her head open on the staircase that he walks up every night to go to bed. The howls I had heard through our paper-thin walls made more sense now. I was still very angry they had lied to me, but impressed at how well composed they’d kept themselves in my presence during the weeks after the accident – or as impressed as an eight-year-old can be.

The howls grew louder. I thought my mom, finally out in the open with her grief, was really letting it all out until one night when her and dad went to the movies. I heard it and it wasn’t coming from their room. It was across the hall from them, the extra bedroom. I didn’t dare look. Once you fully acknowledge something, there’s no denying its very existence. I put my headphones on and turned my Beatles tape waaaaaaay up. I wished I had louder music.

The moans got louder and louder. I got so scared, I ran out of the house. As I fled into the middle of the street, unsure of where to go, my neighbor almost hit me with his car.

After I explained what was happening, he laughed at me before reassuring me that he would “check it out.” As he turned the knob on the door to the extra bedroom, he fainted. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran. I ran for my life.

I came home hours later to find my mother bawling and my father looking anxious, talking to the police. They were simultaneously relieved and angry to see me. The cops were ecstatic that they didn’t have to do any work, but annoyed they had been required to come over. I told my parents about what had happened and why I’d run away. They told me they didn’t know what I was talking about and that Jeff wasn’t here.

Months went by; Jeff’s house went up for sale. Someone towed away his car. Nobody acknowledged any of it. A young couple with a newborn moved in and Jeff faded from everyone’s memory. When my parents are out, I still hear my cousin wailing from the extra bedroom.

“Haunted by Diarrhea” originally appeared in the infamous Haunted by Diarrhea zine.

Theodore: A Children's Tale

There once was a dragon. He was the loneliest creature in the entire world. He couldn’t sleep at night because he was so lonely. He had huge bags under his dragon eyes. He was miserable. The one escape he should have had from loneliness - sleep - was evading him. What a shitty hand he had been dealt.

All these mother fuckers had gone and killed all the other dragons. But they hadn’t had the mercy to snuff him out. Or maybe it was god’s fault. Of course it was god’s fault. Everything was god’s fault. Those mother fuckers definitely wanted poor Theodore dead. They just weren’t thorough with their genocide. It wasn’t like those mother fuckers were so sadistic that they had left behind one dragon for all the mental anguish. god just hadn’t created dragon-killing mother fuckers to have very good brains, bunch of half-wits.

Theodore had to pass the time somehow, though. He was, after all, so painfully alive. Every breath he took hurt. Every morning he awoke, his soul died a little bit more - yet he stayed alive. It was unfortunate, but before his grandpappy had been speared through the eye, he had told young Theodore that a dragon must never hurt another living soul and he most certainly must never commit suicide. Grandpappy had actually made a rhyme: “a dragon is many things / along with the joy that being one brings / a dragon is majestic and the top living creature / as a result there are certain things one’s life must not feature / a dragon must never use his power to hurt another sentient being / he shall wince just thinking of such horrid things / and a dragon must always keep his head held high / he must hold onto his glory and his pride / most of all, though / a dragon must never commit suicide”. The rhyme had some good advice and some stupid shit. Firstly, it was rooted in patriarchy and, as a result, used the masculine for all dragons. Secondly, hurting others should really be a more important no-no than killing one’s self. Still, a dragon must do as a dragon is asked to do. That wasn’t a rule, but it seemed like a good saying to live by. With no one to turn to, all Theodore had left was that rhyme (which he refused to question for fear of losing his sense of dragoness).

Theodore was sitting around eating some grapes one day when he saw a man being run out of the town those mother fuckers had established – an exile. (Theodore probably could have died sooner if he had stopped eating, but that seemed like a form of suicide so he opted to keep eating the delicious grapes that all dragons loved so much.) This poor exile nearly shit his pants when he saw Theodore.

“I-I-I thought dragons were extinct!”

Theodore would have explained (it would have been rude not to), but he was a fucking dragon. He just gave the Exile a look and the Exile understood. And that is how their relationship went. Theodore gave the Exile a look and the Exile knew he was in no harm. The mother fuckers had spread propaganda for years about how dangerous dragons were and sometimes the Exile still caught himself thinking rather speciesist anti-dragon sentiments as a result, but he knew Theodore was not a threat.

One day, Theodore gave the Exile one of his looks and the Exile knew the dragon wanted to know why he had been exiled. The Exile thought; should he lie? Then he uttered the truth.

“I’m a serial killer.”

The dragon didn’t seem taken aback. He seemed like he was deep in thought. Maybe god wasn’t such a fuck-up after all. god had really blown it by inventing the mother fuckers in the first place, but he’d finally gotten one thing right. He’d sent Theodore the answer to all his prayers (well, his prayers that didn’t consist of “please kill me”). Still, god had sent the answer to Theodore’s other, less frequent prayers for revenge. The dragon code wouldn’t let Theodore do jack shit to the mother fuckers other than resent them and that didn’t seem to do anything to the mother fuckers. It didn’t even seem to hurt their self-esteem – possibly because they didn’t know Theodore was still alive, let alone thinking nasty thoughts about them.

Theodore immediately went to task gathering materials. After what seemed like hours of non-stop work while the Exile just sat there looking perplexed (and feeling bad about not helping), the dragon gave the Exile a look and he knew the dragon had gathered everything.

The dragon gave another look. “A trebuchet? Are you going to launch me over the stone walls and back into the kingdom? I could get seriously hurt!” shouted the Exile without saying a single word. He had finally picked up the dragon’s ability to express so much with simple looks.

Despite the Exile’s fear of heights, he knew it must be done. He too had sworn to his grandpappy to never commit suicide. (He thanked his lucky stars he had never promised to not be a serial killer to anyone because he really loved serial killing.) Both the dragon and the Exile wished for death, but had to wait for it to come. And both wished for revenge as they waited. The Exile felt the logistics of possibly dying by consenting to being launched into the air was questionable as far as not committing suicide, but he decided to take his chances and hoped his grandpappy wouldn’t be too mad at him.

Before dawn one morning, the Exile and Theodore rolled the trebuchet down the hill to the kingdom’s walls and got everything in place. They knew they only had one shot. The Exile nervously got in. Then Theodore cut the rope.

Theodore heard a rather painful-sounding thud on the other side of the wall. He was briefly worried, but then, as Theodore stood just outside the walls of the kingdom, he heard a blood-curdling scream. His work was done and the plan was working. He went back to his cave to eat grapes. After about three hours of eating grapes, he felt that something was wrong. The plan wasn’t going perfectly. He stuck his dragon head out of his cave and saw smoke. Then, almost instantly, a massive fire lit up the entire kingdom.

The Exile had set the place ablaze. The Exile knew he couldn’t pull off all the individual killings. He sacrificed himself to kill everyone in the kingdom. Yes, the Exile had sacrificed himself. He didn’t commit suicide, but did a favor for a friend. The Exile had sent himself to a fiery death for Theodore. What a thoughtful thing to do. And Theodore knew that someone had really cared about him. Theodore knew that, one day, he would do the same. He would sacrifice himself for somebody. With a belly full of delicious grapes and a mile-wide smile, Theodore slept like a baby that night.

“Theodore: A Children’s Tale” originally appeared in the Well-Adjusted Childhood zine.

Alone

He couldn’t really remember the last time he’d been alone. He was alone now. He was always alone, but he was never alone-alone. The voices never left. Some people, anyone that may have known about his condition probably pitied him, but he didn’t know life any other way. The voices got to him – they really got to him, but he was pretty sure he would miss them if they left. They were like siblings – they fought with him, but he’d been around them his whole life and, at the end of the day, he kind of loved them.

            When people used to find out about “the voices”, they would leave. Even his parents left him. Of course, his parents couldn’t leave him the same way everyone else did, but the day he turned eighteen, they kicked him out of the house and, from then on, he was on his own. He had no family or friends. The best he could make was acquaintances because if they got any closer to him, they could sense something was up and then the secret would come out – the voices would be found out.

            Some days he cursed the voices and the hand he’d been dealt in life. Other days he thanked god that he had the voices since he had no one else. They fought like brothers and made up like brothers. They were the only people he could count on. When he needed advice, they were always there. When he just needed to hear someone’s voice, they were there. When he needed someone to tell him that he mattered, they were there. When he needed someone to put him in his place and shit all over him, they were there. Sometimes, he got the wrong treatment at the wrong time, but at least he got some kind of treatment from someone. Thank god for that.

            He often fantasized about what his life could have been like if he hadn’t had the voices. As much as he appreciated their company, it was hard to resist fantasizing about living a normal life. He mostly thought about that on his “bad” days, the days when he cursed the voices. Frankly, though, it was hard to think about much at all when the voices were all yelling at him full blast. But when it was over, that is when he cursed them and dreamt of days when they would go away or of an alternate reality in which they never existed.

            Of course, since he was kicked out at the young age of eighteen-years-old, he had to get a job right then and there. He only had a high school diploma and his grades were nothing to brag about. It was pretty amazing he had even finished high school, but he had – without any support from his parents who had given up on him years before he graduated high school. He had a pretty easy job at a restaurant – washing dishes. He really had no say in his hours and was a bit too intimidated to ever ask for any days off, but the pay was enough for him to get by on. It was the kind of job that most people would complain about, but he just thought that things could be worse. That was how he lived most of his life. He didn’t have anything in his life that was unbearable, so he was content enough with everything. Even the voices could be worse. On his worst days, the voices weren’t too harsh in their criticisms of him – they never really went straight for the jugular, but, instead, choose to make general, broad statements about him. He could put up with it, so he did.

            Like everyone else in his life, his co-workers weren’t particularly close with him. Why would they be? They just worked together, that didn’t mean they had anything in common. He kept on pleasant terms with everyone because that seemed best, but he kept his distance so nobody really saw what was going on in his head and to avoid bonding too strongly with anyone. When he’d let himself get too close in the past, it was the most pain he’d ever felt when they eventually found out about the voices and left him. He’d always regretted building those people up in his mind so much, it made it much worse when he saw the look of disgust and fear in their faces when they figured out about the voices or figured out enough to know something was wrong with him. But his co-workers he got along fine with. Other than doing his best to be polite and accommodating to them, he had seniority at the job. He’d seen at least 3 or 4 waves of kids come and go from that job. A few had moved up to higher positions, but most just used the job as a few lines on their résumé. However, he was content staying at this job. He knew how to do it and he knew where it was and he was fairly good at it. He’d been talked to a couple times about maybe having aspirations to move up to a higher position. He just shrugged them off and said he was happy where he was. Although he rarely noticed it, a lot of the people at his job gave him weird looks. Looks like they knew something was wrong with him. Maybe he’d gotten too close to them despite making an effort to keep his distance. It was bound to happen when working with people consistently. However, he didn’t really take much note of it and was fairly confident that they were none-the-wiser about his voices.

            That was just it, they were his voices. He had no reason to share them with anyone. They were his. He could do with them what he liked. He chose not to share them and he was happy with the choice he’d made. He wasn’t ashamed of the voices, but people acted weird about the voices so he decided not to share them.

            The voices consumed his life. That isn’t to say they were always there, but they nearly were. He had the occasional “normal” day, but most days they popped in to say something quite a bit throughout the day. And, as we’ve been over, there were days of nothing but voices screaming at him – but that was fairly rare, maybe once a month, twice tops. The voices were such a part of his life and his only company that he often thought about the rest of the world that he kept at a distance. He thought about what they thought of him, but he thought even more about what they would think about him once he was gone. He was a loner, there was no doubt about that.

            He would spend hours, when the voices didn’t interrupt, thinking about how the world would receive his death. Death was inevitable and it seemed only logical that he embrace it as something that was bound to happen. He wasn’t suicidal or too fixated on death, he just knew it was coming and sometimes wondered about the world after he left it.

            He thought about his co-workers, surely the first to notice when he died – when he didn’t come into work. He was always great about going to work, never a sick day and always on-time. So surely they would be the first to become aware that he was no longer there. And surely they would be the ones to start investigated. They would probably file a missing person report. He wondered how soon they would file that report. After the first day of missing work? They might just because he was always so reliable, but they might give him a couple of days. Three tops, he decided.

            What would happen next? How curious would they be about him? They weren’t that curious about him while he was alive as far as he could tell, but there seemed like there was something to a dead person that intrigued people. Admittedly, there would be some interest in how he died – he’d be sorry to disappoint them with “natural causes” – but he thought there was more. When a person is alive, people think they have all the time in the world with them. They can find out more about the person next week, they can talk to them tomorrow, but after they’re dead, they’re gone. There is no postponing anything. There is a certain amount of information in existence and there won’t be any new information being created. The longer they wait, the more likely the information will disappear.

            Maybe he was being ridiculous. Maybe his co-workers really wouldn’t care about him. They probably won’t miss him. Although, while they might not miss him, they would surely have to acknowledge that he was missing. He was at that job for over a decade now and, by the time he died, it would probably be at least another decade if not a few more decades.

            If they were interested in finding out about him after he died, what would they learn? What could they learn? People tend to learn about people through the people that knew them, but nobody knew him. He hadn’t spoken to his parents in years and they didn’t even know if he was alive anymore. It was at that point that he took out a piece of paper and a pen and he started a list. He wrote things about himself on that list. He started off with the most obvious, “voices” and then began listing things he enjoyed: action movies, non-fiction books, jazz music, tennis games on television…

            It seemed silly to him. What did he care if anyone found out anything about him after he died? He would be dead after all – and nobody cared to learn about him while he was alive. Still, it felt good. He couldn’t help, but feel better that he would be leaving some sort of mark behind after he died. He might not have made any friendships, but if anyone was interested, hopefully they’d be made aware of this piece of paper explaining himself to whoever was concerned even if it was overly simple. Hopefully they could put the pieces together and figure out what the list meant. He put the paper on his counter - and made a mental note to continue adding to it as long as he lived -  before putting on his coat and heading out the door to work.

Drive

            When he was younger, he was always afraid of getting in the car. Whenever he did, he was always amazed at how fast the car was going. It seemed ridiculous to him that all these people in all these cars were moving at such fast speeds. He thought about how they could all die so very easily. If anyone drove a little off course, they could crash and die, but everyone drove around at rapid speeds to get to the places they wanted to be at. Convenience seemed more important to everyone than their own lives. People were willing to risk their lives just to travel across town. Every time that he arrived at a place still in one piece, he was amazed at his luck.

            As he got older, he went on plane trips and the occasional boat trip. These seemed like even more insane ways of traveling. The possibility of traveling anywhere in the world in a handful of hours didn’t really make up for the possibility of falling out of the sky to his death. And the possibility of drowning in the middle of the ocean put a damper on the fun of being able to travel by boat. The only reason he got in cars, airplanes, and boats at all was all thanks to his parents. As parents tend to do, they forced him to take all these trips with them. They said things like it would be good for him and that it was perfectly normal to travel these ways. As much as these means of transportation scared him, he grew used to using them to travel.

            He eventually got to the age when it was time for him to learn to drive and while he’d rather not have had the pressure of being in control of one of these vehicles, his parents pressured him – hell, society pressured him – so he just tried to push the thoughts of death out of his mind. So, despite not wanting it, he got his driver’s license and continued on with a fairly regular life.

            After years of being pressured to travel in cars, planes, and boats and told he was irrational he learned to be ashamed of his fears. As a result, he didn’t tell people about them. Those were things that 10-year-old him said, now they were things that 25-year-old him only thought. No one needed to hear his fears – they would just ridicule him and tell him that they were irrational thoughts. So he went on living his life in fear, but came across “normal” to the outside world. He had a job and it really was convenient to own and drive a car. It was also, he told himself, a good way to fight these fears that he knew – because everyone had told him – were irrational. So he drove to and from work every day always slightly amazed that he arrived at his destination still alive. He continued to be amazed no matter how many times he drove somewhere without dying.

            All of that changed one day while driving on his way to work. He crashed. Somehow, after all these years of driving without any accidents – although always expecting them, he lost control of his car on this day. That was enough for him. He was a grown man and he had no one to tell him to get in a car. He decided it would be best to never drive again. He had known how dangerous driving was, yet he did it anyway and clearly, he’d pushed his luck at this point.

            Of course, it wasn’t as simple as choosing to no longer drive or get in any car. That was a big decision. He had to rearrange his life a bit to accommodate the complete lack of automobiles. He quit his job and got one closer to his house. It paid less, but he could walk to it in only forty-or-so minutes. It also helped fill the gap between his old pay and his new pay that he no longer bought gas. He took comfort in that even though there was still a definite loss of income.

            He also took comfort in getting to enjoy the outdoors. He got to breathe fresher air and he could – if time permitted – stop and look at things on his way to work. He felt like he finally got to really see the world around him now that he wasn’t confined into a car as he traveled. Yes, this truly was the live. His anxieties were finally justified. Always driving, despite his fear, had certainly taken its toll on him. The stress definitely hadn’t been healthy and now he finally to be free of the whole ordeal. He could just walk to his humble job and make enough to be comfortable – and on the way there and on the way back, he could take in his surroundings and see how beautiful life was.

            He’d often enjoy the smug feeling he got from judging all the saps driving in their cars. He never vocalized it, but he knew what they were missing even if they didn’t and he got quite a bit of enjoyment from that feeling. He knew he shouldn’t be so judgmental, but he had a bit of a mean streak. Frankly, if his mean streak only got as bad as feeling like people in cars were not getting to enjoy the world fully, it wasn’t too bad of a mean streak. He felt he could live with that mean streak – besides, it didn’t hurt anyone and it genuinely made him feel good.

            However, as time went on, walking the same route, twice each day, couldn’t maintain its original beauty. He’d seen the things on his way to work so many times that he could picture it all vividly on request at any point. So he chose a different route to walk. He wasn’t a dumb man, though; he knew that route would eventually bore him too. So one day when he didn’t have work, he figured out a few different ways to walk to work and changed the routes to keep himself interested – with some longer, more scenic routes for coming back from work.  On the way back from work, he had all the time in the world. No one was waiting for him. Sometimes, he wouldn’t go home for hours after work because he was out looking at the world – it wasn’t unusual for him to walk miles off the route back to his house.

            On one of his routes to work one day, he saw the most beautiful squirrel he’d ever seen. “Beautiful” is often not the word people think of when they see squirrels, even very good-looking ones – but this squirrel was, without a doubt, beautiful. And he’d spent years walking to and from work seeing all sorts of squirrels each day so he was about as close as it came to an expert on squirrel beauty. If there ever were squirrel beauty pageants, he could probably quit his job and get a job in that industry. However, at this point in his life, he was not aware of any sort of beauty pageant for squirrels and, thus, continued on his way to work.

            He only continued walking to work for a brief few minutes. It was at that point that a driver hit him with his car. Cars – as he knew – are a dangerous thing. It is amazing more pedestrians don’t get hit by cars. He hadn’t really thought about it, but he really was lucky to have walked to work all those days and not been hit by a car.

            As his ghost looked down on the scene, he thought how lucky he had been to have lived as long as he had. He had been in cars for years without getting into a single crash. He had eventually crashed his own car and hadn’t died. He had walked near cars – at least for part of the trip – on his way to and from work for years and hadn’t been hit once until now. It was amazing he hadn’t died sooner. Plus, he got to see that really beautiful squirrel. Hopefully, someday, in his honor, they’ll throw squirrel beauty pageants.

Face

            I remember his face. It had this indescribable quality to it so I won’t spend much time attempting to describe it. What is important to know is that his face was like no one else’s face had ever been in the history of the world. It wasn’t hideous; in fact, it was the exact opposite, but not a handsome face either. The important thing wasn’t that his face was so incredibly not hideous; the important thing was the power his face had. That’s where things get complicated. It had a way of affecting people. He could do plenty with it – popping his eyes out and other odd tricks – but he didn’t need to do anything with it, it just was. His face just existing was enough to affect everyone around him.

            I had a pretty standard childhood. I had two parents that loved each other. I had a brother. I had a cat named Boots and a dog named Roscoe. I loved them all. I got decent enough grades. I rarely got an A in any of my classes, but I also rarely got a C. I was a nearly straight B student – although that might have been best explained by the fact that I never pushed myself, not once. I always, no matter how mind-numbingly boring or as much as another class might be more interesting, took the easiest classes I could find from the easiest teachers. Although my life was perfectly fine, I picked up all the wrong messages. I focused too much on grades and not at all on learning anything. I focused on numbers of friends rather than any sort of closeness. Rather than simply enjoy my dog, I spent a lot of my time bragging about all the things he could do – play dead, jump through hoops. One time my brother and I got Boots to ride a skateboard from one end of my street to the next. Half the kids in town saw it, but I still spent the next three years telling everyone about it – I guess I didn’t have enough to be proud of for how proud I wanted to be. Boots died – of natural causes - and Roscoe ran away and I, still to this day, have never felt more shame. I told no one and when people brought up either pet, I would attempt to change the conversation as fast as possible. I had the best cat in the world and it didn’t make sense to me at the time that the best cat in the world would die. And, of course, the best dog in the world wouldn’t ever run away. For years after that, I’d make up things that Boots and Roscoe supposedly did in an attempt to continue having things to brag about and keep up the façade that they were still around. But I’ve started getting ahead of myself.

            There was a man that came, seemingly out of nowhere, one day and left the same. It was almost if he’d never been there at all, but he had left his impact on us all – there was no doubting that. I was only eleven years old when he came so my memory of him is foggy at best, but the one thing I do remember is that he definitely existed – which seems to be more than can be said for everyone else’s memory. No one ever really spoke of him after he left and it was hard to tell if everyone else had somehow forgotten about him except for me or if people just preferred to not mention him.

            The one thing he left with us was a baby. This baby isn’t what you think; he didn’t get anybody here pregnant. The man brought a baby with him when he showed up and simply never took it when he left. No one had a clue about the mother’s whereabouts and no one ever asked him or thought about it – until he left. We embodied that saying “it takes a village to raise a child”. No one even thought about slacking on helping raise the baby boy because we all realized that this two-year-old boy that had been abandoned by his father needed all of us to help raise him.

            Time moved on and that man faded from our memories – some completely forgetting him and others, like myself, remembering him and wondering about him, but never getting any answers and slowly learning to not care. I, like everyone else, moved on with my life. The baby boy was older now and people stopped thinking of him as an innocent baby. A woman down the street took over as his guardian. Everyone else kept an eye on him and tried to teach him things, but only            half-heartedly. He was a weird kid and we all sensed it – he wasn’t as cute and lovable as he was as a baby. This is always the case with babies, but especially so with this boy. No one could really blame him for being weird, he was abandoned by his father in a small town where he knew no one and no one knew him. All the same, everyone attempted to keep a bit of a distance between themselves and the strange five-year-old boy – even the woman down the street.

            It was around this time, when the boy was eight-ish – we never knew his birthday, just a general age – when Roscoe ran away, a few months after Boots had died. All my habits and decisions had clearly had an effect on my life as I now had no one to spend much time with. My brother had gotten older and moved away – to the big city as it seemed like so many people chose to do. I was only close with my parents. So I started spending time with that weird little boy.

            That weird little boy had only gotten weirder since I’d last really paid attention to him. He had the face of a much older person, but not a worn, old face – simply a more mature face, one of someone as old as 25. It was quite bizarre to see, but also quite fascinating. And the little boy, as odd as he was, was very interesting himself. He was interesting because he was odd. He was a little like me, with no close friends – at least I had my parents.

            He only got odder when he entered middle school. By this time, everyone was fascinated by the little boy. People had always been a bit curious about him. First when he was brought to our town only to be abandoned. Then when people started to wonder how he’d turn out with a life like his. After that, when people saw how he turned out with a life like his their fascination just continued growing. When he got the face of a much older person at such a young age, people just got even more interested in him. But people still kept their distance – which was probably for the best. However, he knew everyone was watching him from a distance; no one in this town was too subtle about anything.

            However, when he entered middle school, people’s interest in him didn’t grow – except mine. It probably had something to do with my parents having recently dying and the fact that I was now completely alone in this town except for this odd, little boy that interested me. People’s interest was still there, but it was clearly dimming. He was just a weird kid with a really odd, old face. As bizarre as he looked and as bizarre as he was, one starts to get used to it when they see him every day. There weren’t really any new developments with him and hadn’t been in a few years – at least as far as everyone else knew. The difference is that no one besides me had bothered to get to know him. It was in middle school when he realized that his face could do odd tricks. He practiced every day and often attempted to find new tricks that it could do. He’d show me, but he never showed anyone else because he knew they looked at him and judged him. I remember, every single time, no matter how many times, I’d ask him how he did those tricks with his face. He’d attempt to explain all the face tricks to me, but they never made any sense to me – although I’d expect nothing else from someone so odd as him. In eighth grade, he thought he’d perfected his face tricks and decided to enter the school’s talent contest – partially in an attempt to make friends and partially because, and I believe this was my fault because of all the praise I’d thrown his way and the ideas I’d filled his head with, to kind of brag about his talents to all the kids at once. Unfortunately, he died the night before the talent show. No one really knows why – or at least no one told me why. It might have had something to do with his older face or maybe he got so excited for the talent show that his heart burst or maybe it was just his time to go. Life never makes sense. All that really matters is that he was dead – and he never got to show off his talent.

            We obviously had to give him a funeral, so we did. The woman down the street gave him a nice eulogy – at least as nice as you would expect from someone who didn’t really know him. I was kind of upset, but got over it. If she – and the rest of the town – wanted to lie to themselves and act as if she truly knew him, so be it. Despite that fact, I still went to the funeral – as most of the town did. I think most people went to look like they cared because no one really cared. No one knew him or cared about him except for me. To everyone else, he was just a walking, talking sideshow exhibit living in their town. Sitting in the back row, I cried. I cried tears of blood. No one saw. No one needed to know about this. This was between me and that dead boy. I’d finally learned a trick that my face could do.

            Time moved on and that boy faded from our memories – everyone else completely forgetting him while I continued remembering him and wondering about him, but never getting any answers - how could I? - and slowly learning to not care. I never told anyone about my face trick, so don’t bother asking them. Don’t bother asking about the man or the boy or the boy’s face tricks either because I’m the only one who cared enough in this town to remember any of this and I’ve told you all I know here. I still do my “face trick” when I think of that little, misunderstood boy – or when I think of Boots or Roscoe or mom or dad or my brother who I’ve lost contact with.