Collection of Moments Volume 1

 Below is a collection of unrelated starters for stories I'm playing around with. These are just chunks- some more completed than others- from various moments in various things. They end abruptly. Sorry, but more is coming. Some of these might feel familiar, and they probably are if you've been reading along so far, however I've tightened up the ones you've read and I've edited or added more since they were last posted. 

If you like any particular story or have thoughts on something, feel free to reach out. I love hearing your thoughts!

Enjoy!

A Collection of Moments Volume 1

By C. A. Winter (2025)

Ghostwriter

Somewhere deep in Southern Illinois. 

His cell service dropped about fifteen minutes ago and the radio shifted from country to jumbled words to a collection of frequency bursts. He made a turn down a winding dirt road and was nearing a spiked rock formation that he’d been warned of. 

You’ll see two granite spears. Count three driveways past those on the right, then take the next available left.

Someone at a gas station half an hour back was kind enough to sketch the rocks on a wrinkled heat-sensitive receipt. The word ‘ondom’ had a black line in front of it where one of the rocks peaked. 

Radio off now, he rolled his window down an inch to let his sitting air breathe in the pines. Cool October flooded the cab as he veered between washboard and mud ruts. Gin and juniper, or Christmas. Too early for Christmas, he thought. He dug through his centre console for a cigarette and lit it with a long barbecue lighter. Some nameless through-town’s gas station was out of cigarette lighters, and he felt matches were too much hassle while driving. The clicker was easier than a child-proof lighter, but more awkward. He held the orange stick like a gun and sucked until tobacco smoke burned the back of his throat. 

Past a second dirt turn off, he slowed down to keep an eye for the third and his turn off on the left. A dusty green sign with shotgun spray near the bottom read “Pineridge-16-Gas-Motel-Food”

The word Motel screamed at him in the sun. If the house gets too weird, there’s a place he can stay just fifteen minutes up the road. It probably won’t be any less creepy than the house, but a backup plan is something he takes comfort in. It’s about as comfortable as an air mattress at a friend’s house. 

Squinting through a shadowy bush by the road, he made out the underbelly of a trail headed to the forest. The third turnoff, he presumed. He turned his attention to the left side of the highway and pushed the sun guard down to block the big orange ball in his vision. Ducking now to see the road, he kept a slow pace around corners and watched with wide eyes for a turn off. He dipped into a rut and swerved to recalibrate. His stack of papers and laptop slid from the seat to the crevice between the chair and the door. He cursed. Leaning, he fingered the manuscript and computer back onto the seat but lost control of the car once more. Front right wheel dipping into the grassy ditch, he smashed his brakes and crunched to a wobbling stop. His computer slid out of immediate sight between the front and rear of the car. The papers separated into a sideways mess between the two sides. Next time he was in town, he'd be sure to buy staples. If Pineridge even has staples for sale.

He unbuckled and hopped out into the chilled sun to stretch his legs. Thirty yards up the road was his turn off. A blue yard sign stuck at an obtuse angle read 2241. Miranda made sure he wrote it down before he hung up on her this afternoon. She wanted to see how he was doing on his trip and figure approximately what time he’d arrive. He wasn’t sure then why she’d called so early, but as he tried to text her to let her know he was arriving, it was apparent. Message failure. 

He hobbled into tall grass and let down his fly, getting one last nature’s calling out of the way before the big meeting. He hates having to ask to use someone’s restroom the moment he walks in the door. His piss smacks against something hard in the grass. He peers over and pushes damp ferns out of the way. A rusted ballpeen hammer sits in a puddle of pee.

Zipped up, he opens the passenger side of his car up to reorganize his papers and laptop. Some of the pages are crinkled, one is torn in the middle from the force of his laptop coming down on it. His laptop still turns on, and he’s thankful to see his ugly generic screensaver just as bright and green as ever. 

Gravel road transitioned to smooth black pavement as he made the turnoff onto lot 2241. Trees were closer together here than along the road, like they were planted to keep the house hidden. He didn’t realize how much noise the road was making on his thinned tires until he got onto the asphalt. Then it was smooth and quiet, and the only sounds were birds and wind. An elaborate patina gate creaked open as he approached. Above, a white security camera oscillated from west to east, then back again. Someone’s watching. Miranda, he hoped.

His chest tightened as he weaved down the black road towards the house. A sense of nervousness with a garnish of excitement gripped his mind. The closer to the house he was, the more his forehead began to sweat. At a second gate now, he pushed on the brakes and put his hands over the vents to dry off. Another patina gate, only this one taller and thicker. The real house gate. Beyond was the mansion, inside was Leonard and Miranda. One of which might not even know they’re expecting visitors.

A telecom pole chirped like a bird and flashed a little red light atop black paint. He didn’t notice the first chirp. Instead, he ducked further into his seat with fingers in cool wind. Through the pines he could make out the silhouette of the house but not the details. Splashes of white paint bolted through the trees. Stucco, perhaps. Certainly not regular siding. 

A second chirp pierced his attention, so he cranked his window down. 

“Hello?” He spoke to the thin grate microphone. 

A voice crackled through before he could say more. “Hello. I assume you’re the writer?”

“I am. Is this Leonard?”

“No. This is his doctor. Miranda says to pull into the open garage port and meet her around back.”

“Alright.” 

The gate lurched open and he idled up the last stretch of the hill towards the house. Around the bend, he pushed the brakes to take in the view. The Paulson Mansion, as Forbes magazine aptly named it, has three stories, a pool, a greenhouse attached to the southern wing, a basement with a bar and a stage for private parties, an elaborate roundabout with a praying angel fountain carved by an Italian designer, and thirty-seven acres of groves to boot. They hired a classically trained German architect to create their fairytale, with high-vaulted ceilings, dark wood beams, white stucco sides, and a fireplace fit for royalty. It is rumoured that they bid on a large section of a sequoia tree stump to be brought in for their rear patio, but nobody has seen it since the rumour began. 

The crying angel stared down at him and his dusty red Toyota Camry as he pulled into the garage. Adjacent to his parking space, a Lamborghini in the same tint of red outshined his vehicle. Two cherries, one costing a hundred times the cost of his. 

He brushed himself off and checked his teeth in the sun mirror before stepping out onto the garage floor. Even the concrete looked expensive. It shimmered like the stars under cold LEDs.

He snapped his fingers to check the acoustics. The room was soundproofed. If he listened harder, he was sure he might hear his racing heart. Standing between the two cars, he remembered Miranda would be waiting for him. He tucked his laptop and papers under his arm and didn’t waste any time. 

Patio stairs creaked underneath his steps. An odd thing for a house of this stature to be in slight disrepair. Then again, he figured, upkeep would strenuous with an injured husband, given the sheer size of the house.

At the top of the patio steps, he smelled a thick smoky aroma wafting along the trees. Not quite a cigarette, but not a fire either. Something stickier, more alluring.

In college, he had been part of a group of hippies that had a moral compass who changed their north pole with the wind. Yesterday’s cause is the next day’s laugh. Most of them didn’t take the fight for the greater good with much levity. Instead, they filled their heads with drugs and wine most evenings, and during classes some days. On a blustering December day after exams, one of the regular activists brought a leather pouch and a long slim silver pipe. As the night fell, he packed it full of a mahogany resin and lit the underside of the metal pipe, passing it around one by one. When it came time for him to have his share, he was overcome with the same smell coming from deeper into the property. Unmistakable, and unthinkable for people like this.

“Hello darling,” Miranda appeared atop a second flight of stairs. Her silhouette was thin and unwavering. In her hands were a matchbox and a small smoking device. She held them out by her side as to show him she had nothing to hide. “Don’t mind us, please come round and let’s have a chat. I take it you had no trouble getting in?”

He stood below the steps with his hand up to his eyes. His nose still wetted at the smell. “Not too much, no. Though I wish I’d known there was no service out this way.”

“I must’ve forgotten to mention it.” She shook her head. Her head eclipsed the sun, giving her a halo that sat crooked. “There’s a landline here if you need one, and we do have wi-fi in the house for you.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“Well come on up then. I’m sure you’ve heard all about our patio.”

He dragged the rubber part of his shoe between two floorboards and glanced at wiry outdoor furniture that garnished the deck he stood on. “This isn’t the patio?”

“That is a patio, not the patio.” She smirked. He knew what was coming, but his coyness slipped past her. To her, him not knowing about their quirks made his presence more appealing.

He skipped up the stairs to meet her. On the top step he was just a few inches taller than her. She wore black heels that added to her height only slightly. Her eyes met his nose at level, and she pulled him in for a greeting hug, planting a kiss on both of his now rosy cheeks. The box of matches in her hand rattled behind his back like a maraca. 

She held his wide shoulders a tad too long for his comfort, and his eyes darted around the deck. Below his feet was thousands of years of history, slabbed and stained. Deep auburn and chocolate rings enclosed inwards, bringing with the formation of their furniture. The rumours were true. He eyed the rings to the centre of the slab, only to find it tarnished by a thin tacky table that anyone’s uncle might have. Minus an umbrella. 

“Welcome, welcome, welcome.” She sung. “We were just out for a little fresh air.”

“I’m sure it’s not, but is that opium?” He pointed to her pipe.

“Good eye- good nose. It is- would you like some?” 

The thought of smoking opium at Leonard Paulson’s house made him proud, but he put the idea out of his head for the time. “Not right now, thank you.”

“How’d you know it was opium?” Miranda pried, putting the paraphernalia on the iced glass table near the center of the ring. Her waist was thin, sinching her bust and hips like a bow. It was hard for him not to stare with her back towards him. 

“College.” He followed, “I smoked it once in college. If I remember correctly, I passed out and was in a dreamy state for a while.”

“Dreamy. That’s the word for it. Was that with Darby Healey?” She turned; black hair bounced on her shoulders like black springs. 

That name hadn’t been on his mind in a while, and hearing it made him have to take a step back. It was like being punched in the face. “No, it wasn’t with Darby.” He exhaled, “Do you know him?”

“You didn’t figure this out on the way here?”

“Figure what out?”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Not in years- probably since maybe around the crash.” He wracked his mind for an exact date but came up short. “Two-thousand eight, maybe.”

She put her fingertips on the cool glass beside her, then swiped along to check for dust. “Oh. Well. That’s displeasing. He spoke highly of you.”

“Really?”

“Should he not have?” She held her fingers to the light. Grey smudged the tips of her index and middle.

“No- well, yes-“

“I’m teasing. I’m sure you’re just as good as he says you were.”

“I hope so.”

“I checked you out, regardless of what Darby said. Your writing’s just like Leonard’s. Just a bit less wordy is all. That can be adjusted, right?” She wiped her hand on her dress, leaving an ashy stain on black velvet. 

“I can try my best. Is he here? You said you were out for fresh air.”

“Just me. He’s inside, I hope.” Her cadence stood flat against the cool air. ‘Have you picked a name?”

“Pardon?”

“Your name. Obviously, we won’t be using his- nor yours.”

“Oh, right.” He hadn’t thought about a pen name once in the two weeks after he was given the task of inventing one. The name Jake rattled around in his mind during that phone call because it was close to his real name but far enough that nobody would suspect it. Now as he thought of one, the name Jake sounded too generic. Every fake guy is named Jake. Pressure to improvise was making his palms sweat. In in a burst of unwillingness to disappoint the wife of Leonard Paulson, he blurted “Chuck Pines.”

She screwed up her face and shook her head. “That sounds like a cartoon beaver. What about something tougher.”

He blushed and wiped his hands slow on his jeans. Something tougher than spiky trees? It was good, but she’s right. It does sound like a funny animal name. Tougher. Tough as nails, he thought over and over. The name Chuck still wanted to be heard, so he kept it. What’s tougher than nails? “How about Chuck Hammer?” 

“That’s not bad. That’s tough.” She mulled. Then with a mocking man voice, “Written by Chuck Hammer.” Then she flinched and stiffened in her dress. “That’s fine. Let’s go see Len. Then I’ll give you a proper tour. Have you eaten?”

“No, ma’am, I have not.”

“I’m only two years your senior, Chuck.” She stopped by the door. “You call me Miranda, not ma’am.”

+

Chuck looked up and over Miranda’s shoulder as they crossed through a large sliding glass door. It had a sensor like a supermarket, and it sucked them in with force. Behind, the sun was setting through the trees, casting low orange beams through the living room and bouncing on a large television above their fireplace. Their silhouettes blurred on the black plastic screen. 

He smelled something stewing, something with anise and celery. Down the hall, he heard someone puttering around in a cabinet. Likely Leonard, he thought. He tried to catch the edge of his shadow through the corridor, but Miranda interrupted his looking. 

“Well,” she turned and sighed, “Welcome here. There’s a soup on in the kitchen, and we baked bread this morning for the occasion. Are you a fan of sourdough?”

He nodded, levitating his view to the ceiling, where a large chandelier hung from a thick wooden rafter. She followed his gaze. 

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? It’s from the Titanic.” 

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that chandelier is from the Titanic.”

“Do you know James Cameron or something?” He joked. She didn’t understand.

“It’s a dupe.” She frowned. “We had it made.” He found her change in tone off putting, so he laughed. She shook her head and slanted a smile. “Let’s continue.” 

He followed her through the living room over a thick red shag carpet and masonry steps around the fireplace, up a large brown flight of stairs towards the second floor. A pool table stood at the center of the common room, racked and ready. He made note of blue streaks that tarnished the green. Someone must have tossed a chalk cube across the board like dice. Miranda did a spin around the room, showing off their collection of antique furniture and a dubious painting of a wolf. “Wait until you see it in the dark.” She caressed the rococo frame with her index finger, gazing at the beast. She left an identical streak of dust on her dress just above the first.

They toured the second story in silence. Her chattiness had quieted down after his remark about James Cameron. She pointed and beckoned, not giving time between rooms for him to grasp the size and density of their interior design. Her movements were sharp and sporatic, jolting her arm out to point at an inexplicable lounge chair or an unremarkable sculpture of a bird. Her sudden change in demeanor and the hastiness of the tour gave him the sense that he’d made her upset with his comment, but he wasn’t sure why. Women have a tendency to confuse him. 

A thud from below caught her attention as she strode towards an upstairs hallway. She paused and turned to Chuck, who hadn’t heard the bump. His hearing isn’t the greatest. He was walking full tilt while eyeing a painting of an old man when Miranda turned. Then they collided and he toppled her like a bowling pin. She flew down to the hardwood but he caught himself on a windowsill and apologized loudly over the sound of her nails scrambling between floorboards.

“God you’re heavy.” She laughed, not taking his extended hand for support. “Did you hear that downstairs?”

He kept his arm out as a courtesy but she scraped up the wall and brushed herself off without his insisted assistance. “All I heard was you falling.”

“You didn’t hear that crash from the kitchen?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Odd. It was quite loud.” She looked at the wooden floor as if she had X-Ray vision. Then she snapped her head up at him. “What did I tell you about ma’am?”

“Sorry. And sorry again for knocking you over. I wasn’t looking when you stopped.”

“It’s alright, just a bump. Shall we continue?”

He nodded, then followed behind her a few steps further back to account for any more sudden stops. They passed through another hallway with walls which Miranda referred to as monasterial. She was talking now about their home, bringing Chuck up to speed before casting her opinion to him. From time to time, she turned her head to explain a piece. “This one’s an abstract of a bird.” She insisted. To him it looked like a bee, with a stinger on the bottom and rings on its torso. He dared not offend her again by speaking his mind. Though even in her slowed speech she seemed taken aback by the words she breathed at him. Her eyes were heavy, and perhaps she had forgotten what statue she was pointing at. “An upside-down bird,” she pointed to its rear and nodded. 

Her pupils were the size of a pen tip and her hands moved like moon tide. The opium was at its full effect.

They tranced around the second floor for some time. Miranda seemed to forget which rooms they’d been in already. She took him to the children’s room twice and explained why the ceilings were higher above the beds; they’re better for big dreams. She wafted them down the monastery hallway three times, and back to the pool hall four times. The pool hall was excusable as all rooms and walkways lead in one way or another to the room, but the lounge office had been explained to him four times. The names of the men painted on the walls were now friends of his. Gerald Ford, J.D. Salinger, Fyodor Dostoyevsky all painted with their eyes fixed on a red button chair in center of the room. Her repetition was that of a ghost fated to haunt an area for an eternity. Her pale complexion and dark features made the thought more likely. 

+

////

Habitual Supernatural Anima

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. It is with great privilege that I present to you Dr. Rose Andrews. Dr. Andrews, as you may know, is one of our most highly esteemed alumni. She graduated with the class of 2006 with a PhD in Ectoplasmology and Paranormal Studies. Her thesis was written on the topic of habitual supernatural animas- also known as HSA's- spirits that latch on to patterns rather than places. She is here to give a presentation on the absolute permanence of our existence on and through inanimate objects and locations we reside in. Today, as she presents her findings, we ask that if you are of the feint of heart or superstitious mind, you excuse yourself quietly as the need presents itself. Dr. Andrews has made it clear that she is not offended by your reactions, but she does take offence from those who sit through a lecture without proper personal emotional hygiene. To disgrace your mind without concern is to disgrace yourself. Now, without further adieu; Dr. Rose Andrews."

"Good evening everyone. Thank you, Roswell, for your kind and blunt words. He's right, though he sounded a bit Dostoyevskian at the end there. If you find the images or the descriptions I use hard to bear, I do ask that you leave without a guilted conscience. Because of the nature of my work, I have permission from the Dean to count those that have to leave out of terror or upset as a pass and full mark for this lecture. I see a lot of you moving around under those desks with your feet planted on the floor, ready to jump. I was you once; eager to get out of optional lectures or classes as quick as possible. I had an elective class on the topic of demonology in my sophomore year that I skipped almost every week, until one day my professor pulled me aside in the hall and asked me this: An elective is an elective, and therefore I elected myself to it. If I elected myself to it, and I'm paying for it, why am I skipping it? I didn't have a good answer for him, so stayed in the class the next week. I'm glad I did, because through that class I became interested in Historical Supernaturae, which led me to my career now- which I love. So give me a chance- it's only one hour, and I'm sure you'll leave with a different view on the chair you're shuffling in.

With a show of hands, how many of you know what the word 'supernatural' means? That's most of you. For those that don't know, supernatural in simple terms means something that cannot be explained by means of science or the laws of nature. There are two things that usually pop into people's heads when they hear the word 'Supernatural.' Jensen Ackles or ghosts. While some of you wish I was here to give a lecture on his toned physique and intense eyes, we're here to cover the broader topic of the latter; ghosts.

Another show of hands; who here has had an experience with a ghost or a supernatural event? It's okay, it's normal. I see some of your hands moving up and down. Don't be shy. I count, one, two, five, six, eight. Okay, about eight of you have. That's roughly a third of you, and that's pretty normal. On average, one in three people will experience a supernatural event in their life before the age of eighteen. After that, the number plummets for ages eighteen to thirty five to one in eight. For thirty-five to fifty, it's one in twenty. Then around fifty, the numbers go back up substantially, with it going up to one in ten, then around age eighty, it's one in two. Fifty percent of people experience a supernatural event past the age of eighty. One last statistic before I show you the next slide; out of the people that experience a supernatural event- from all ages- ninety-seven percent of them experience more than one. 

This is the first recorded image of a habitual anima. This photograph was taken in 1999 using a technique called 'firmament insertion.' Don't bother trying to decipher what that means; a man named Lyle Steppenvulf came up with the name while riding the high of recording something supernatural for the first time. It's pretentious hogwash, just like most of the names for things in the field. We like to fantasize that what we work on is supernatural, but what we do inherently tries to contradict the supernatural. 

Firmament Insertion is a method of capturing an essence of a spirit using a glass vessel and electrified plasma. Have you seen one of these before? This is a plasma globe. Back in the 1980's these were everywhere. McDonald's at Navy Pier used to have a dozen of them scattered about. Steppenvulf came up with the idea, allegedly, after a visit to the pier with his nephew in the summer of 1994. He theorized that to capture a spirit's essence, you must hold it with electric plasma. The best way to do this is in a glass container.  

He was correct, and using brute force to do a crude summon, he got it to work. The picture you see here- that big wisp between the purple filaments- that's the first truly recorded ghost. I wish I could tell you who it was in the jar, but according to his paper, he was given instructions on how to do a summon from an unnamed woman he met at a palm reading. 

While I am thankful for Steppenvulf's discovery, I hope that you do not take him for much heart. He was not a genius, he was not a professional. He was a photographer who struck gold on a wacky idea. But, because of him, we have been able to capture named spirits and study them. This slide was from my laboratory near South Washington University.  Those essence domes were our means of examining beyond the grave. Putting HSA studies into practice, we are able to pick and choose our subjects when we need to take a look. In this slide, our vessel holds a spirit who was captured from a burned house in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Cassandra Womack, aged twenty-three, got caught in an in-between state for too long, and was latched to a rocking chair. The family brought us the rocking chair- the only object that came out of the fire unscathed- and we went through a process of learning everything we could about Cassandra. 

This is her body after the fire. See here that some of her unburnt skin is pink and scarred by her ribs? She was attacked at a very young age by a family member, and though she was the victim, we believe a covenant was broken by a family member, which lead to her prolonged in-between state. Our theory is if the rocking chair been burned, she would have haunted the land until someone caught up to her many years later. With the family's help, we were able to change her from a spirit to an essence, giving her family a sense of closure. 

In our studies, we've deduced a few consistencies with supernaturae. The first is that who becomes super and what they latch on to are almost completely random. We haven't been able to find any guaranteed correlating factors. Some people live awful lives and die awful deaths but don't end in a haunt. Some people are saints and get stuck in an in-between state. It does not matter. 

The second consistency is the four classifications; anima, spirit, essence, and ghost. An anima is a confused or aggressive spirit type. They don't tend to harm people directly- not physically- often people are mentally harmed by them, but that is not their intent. Their intent is to get your attention- to alert the world that hey, someone's here. A spirit is a heavier form- yes, physically heavier. We've measured their weight and found on average their molecular mass is higher than an essence, leading us to heavier. They move objects in the home, disturb sleep, make a ruckus. Again, not to harm, but to disturb. A spirit is rare, and latches on to objects more than places. Things the person might have been connected to in their life; those things are likely what a spirit latches onto. The essence is a freed spirit. They do not interact, nor can they intervene. There are essences everywhere all the time. You're probably covered in them. We do not study them since they disappear upon transition. Like some elements on the periodic table, we can only study them as they occur, and then not again.

The final is a ghost. The rare, malicious, often physical version. We don't have much data on them, other than that they're the most noticed form of supernatural being. Because of hundreds of years of stories and media, the ghost archetype is not something that we tend to focus on. When most people hear ghost, they lock up or find it humorous. 

This is a recent image of a ghost in a house near San Jose. I don't find this humorous. This ghost is a murderer by order of law. There is no punishment for a death caused by a supernaturae other than an exorcism, which we believe is not a real form of treatment. 

And, just to clarify, the image first taken by Steppenvulf is not a ghost; it is an anima, not a ghost. The term ghost, as I'm sure you see, is a bit of a vague term unless you're in the field. 

So, what are we here to talk about today? We're here to talk about you and what you leave behind. 

+

God that was such a bore. Yeah, what a load of - what did she call it? Hogwash? Yeah, it was boring. I don’t get it. I think it was pretty cool. You do? Yeah, I think it’s at least interesting to think about what happens afterwards. Nothing happens after, it’s just black. Aren’t you Christian? Catholic, and no, not anymore- my parents are though. Did you have to get dunked as a kid? I did. God that’s so funny. Why? I don’t know; let’s chant and dunk our kid in a big basin of holy water. What makes it holy anyways? Well, a priest blesses it. He blesses it? It’s not that weird. Yeah, it is mate, it’s about as weird as Dr. Andrews’ lecture there. So, do you believe what she had to say- about ghosts and spirits? Well, if they have pictures, then surely it must ring some truth. So just because they have a picture then it’s believable? I guess. But it’s nonsense what we do because you can’t see God? I thought you weren’t Catholic anymore.

+

Well, I think that went well. Is that sarcasm? No, honestly- only two people left. Yeah, but do you hear that out there? Don’t worry about them. Did you like it? I always like hearing about it- it makes me want to get my house cremated as well; maybe if I strike out here, I’ll go into the ethical-arson business. That’s a new one- can you carry this case for me to my car? Sure thing. Oh, and that stand there, it looks heavy but it weighs a feather. Plans for the rest of your stay? No- here, watch the door- no plans, I think just the hotel then back on the road. And where’s next? I have to drive out to Richmond tomorrow to do another lecture there, then I go home. And where’s home these days? Near Quantico. Are you working for the bureau? Just in the trunk please- no, not directly, just helping out with something. Any salacious details? They gave me book rights to my work, if we succeed, after ten years. Wow, very promising. I know- the big leagues. Hey whatever happened between you and Lyle anyways- did you date? What makes you ask- do you have a lighter? Yeah, here- I’ve noticed you tend to backhand him in all of your lectures, and I never noticed until today when you got that opposite of a twinkle in your eye. We didn’t date, but we were close for a while, and then you know how people get when they discover something- especially unwittingly. How’s that? He didn’t grow into his shoes properly, and so he stepped on everyone’s toes. That feels recited. It’s the nicest way I can describe it. Got time for lunch today? What time is it- eleven forty? Is that a Cartier? A Tank, yes. Wow, you’ve really made it then. I hope so- did you want to go now for lunch? Sure, I left my wallet on my desk, I’ll run and get it. Just get in you cheap bastard. New car too, hey? 

+

Why didn’t we ever date? You never asked. Really- that’s all it was? And you’re too old for me. How much older do you think I am? I wished you a happy fifty-fifth last year, so, too old. You’re what, forty-five? Maybe. You’re forty-six, I remember. How’d you figure? Because when I asked you your birth year, you asked if I’d heard of the Smashing Pumpkins. How’d you remember that? Good memory, journaling, infatuation. Infatuation is the lie there. You despised me in university, you thought I was annoying, and now sitting back here makes you feel the compulsion to flirt with me even though we both know that A: I’m not your type and B: nobody would take me seriously with your last name. Dr. Roswell? Dr. Rose Roswell- the last name is tainted by the whole UFO scene, and Rose followed by Ros doesn’t jive well. And about my type? You’re a masochist for me to have to spell it out for you- I’m too old, and I don’t have the right parts. 

And here we are- club sandwich and fries for you, and the same for you- do you need refills on coffee yet? No, no thank you. Alright, enjoy. 

Hey, is that the lady from the lecture? Hang on, let me- which table. The booth there, far corner. I think that’s ‘Ros sitting with her, so yeah I’d say. I think I’m gonna go talk to her. About what? About her talk, I guess, to say thanks. You think she’s hot, don’t you? Haw-haw- no I just want to say thanks. Alright dude. Be quick, our food’s almost here.

God, I forgot how good the fries are here- they’re like McDonalds. That’s your standard for good? Well, they have the best fries arguably. I’m a Wendy’s guy to be honest- McD’s are too salty. But isn’t that the whole, like, appeal? The salt? The excessive salt. 

Excuse me, um, Dr. Andrews? Hey Ros’.

Hello.

Hello, Peter- Rose, this is Peter Gable, one of my students. 

Hello Peter, nice to meet you. 

Nice to meet you too. I just wanted to say that I really liked your lecture and I found it to be very intriguing- especially the part about the total destruction of a vessel or personal belongings. That just, blew my mind, I guess is the best way to explain. Afterwards, I was thinking about all of this, in relation to my own, um, personal experiences, and I wondered about where demons fit into all of this? 

In what way?

Well, you briefly touched on exorcisms and how they’re used on murderous ghosts, but you didn’t touch at all on the use of exorcisms as a practical means to remove a demon from something or someone. 

Would you like to sit, Peter?

Sure.

Ros, scoot.

Okay, so yeah, like the idea of an exorcism is that, you know, you remove a demon from something via a religious ceremony or ritual or what have you. And if that’s something within the scope of what can be done to remove a ghost, then isn’t a ghost a demon?

How do you define a demon?

////

From a Life Unknown

I wish it would’ve rained today. Nothing big like a summer storm; perhaps just a quick pelting on the rooftop of the cab, a drizzle on the pavement. Something to cool the air a bit, dampen the world burning around me. The drama of it all would be perfect for today. 

I told the cabman to take his time and let the ticker go once we arrived at the address I gave him. He knew the building when I told him. Go figure. Probably lots of guys like me talk to guys like him on the way to places like this. We’re a chatty bunch, really. And we love to tell our story. I hadn’t been to this spot in years, though I should have gone before now. Maybe if I had, then I wouldn’t have to today. It was hard to be back here. On the street, beneath the steps, just outside of the gate. It was even harder to get off of the leather seat and onto the concrete. If I told him to keep going, he would, but maybe he’d judge me. Would he try to persuade me to go in? Is he one of us too? He looks gruff, maybe forty with a seven o’clock shadow. I smelled cigarette in the front somewhere- menthols. That unmistakable iced tea smell. 

“Could I,“ I asked. 

He held up a blue pack of the kind I smoked. Didn’t have to finish my sentence, didn’t need to. He knows. I traded him the pack for a fifty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change. He wished me luck and drove off without hesitation. I watched the ads on the back of the car turn to a blur, then it all was a yellow blur beneath the autumn trees down the way. My watch told me I was early. Early enough to cruise back up the street and hail another cab. Between me and the pavement, I might’ve given it consideration, but if I remember right, the street my cabman went down is a one way that turns right, then right, then right again, leading him to the intersection of the downtown area I would hail a cab from.

 I imagine he’d be disappointed if he saw me again. He’d furrow his unibrow, tell me to head back and go inside. His accent alone might convince me- he talks like he’s a close friend. A brother. I did walk down the street, but only as far as the nearest park bench. The same wooden one I used to sit on all those years ago. I etched my name on the armrest with my zippo after my first full year. Carve out my legacy, leave my mark. I was so young. Someone painted over it in glossy black paint to match the park fence behind me. I ran my fingers over where I thought I wrote it but I couldn’t feel it. Then I switched sides of the bench to feel the other arm- maybe I misremembered. Damn the city for erasing it. It’s a juvenile attachment, but the sentiment still burns. 

After some time of not smoking, I started to get some things back from the addiction. First thing I noticed was that my sense of taste got better. Coffee smelled like coffee again, cake was sweeter. I could smell cigarettes out in the wild, and decipher what kind they were. Like a carcinogen sommelier. Then I could breathe better. My nose wasn’t so clogged up all the time, and days like this were a charm- minus the city’s gasoline stench of course. September was crisp in my lungs like a juniper tree. I wasn’t fatigued as easily, wasn’t coughing going up the stairs. No breaks during sex or panting like a mad dog after a run. Fresh air and full lungs again. 

Finally, there was pocket space. No more box in my pants and no more losing my lighter. All I carried was my cellphone, my wallet, and my keys. An extra pocket meant I didn’t have large awkward bulges in my jeans all the time. It also meant I had no way to light the cigarette I had dangling out of my mouth. 

Ten minutes went by, and across the street the light above the door went on. A few taxis drove by and dropped people off. None waited as long as mine did. Like clockwork, a group formed by the gate and up came puffs of smoke. Like a big chimney, or a bunch of little chimneys, I guess. I figured since I’m headed there anyways, I might as well get a light from one of the guys. Or girls, if I’m lucky. 

I moseyed across the street, walking like a stranger in a strange land. Slow, forcibly misguided, long swaying steps. Part of me still wanted to bolt down the street and get picked up again. Surely my cabman was long gone. He’s probably picked up two people by now. People not much different than me, just without the issue at hand. 

The orange part of the cigarette was soaked in the corner of my mouth. If I didn’t light it soon, it’d probably disintegrate. Maybe I could just chew the tobacco- it can’t be much different than a tin can of chew, I reckon. Just dryer. Take a bite of the stick, avoid talking to anyone, and I wouldn’t be smoking for the first time in months. I could run down the street and never look back. Get picked up by a different cabman with the same accent and head back home. Far, far away. 

The gate opened up and a few people huddled to the other side of it now, off of the street. I remember one night we all came to meet and were on the sidewalk for too long, and the custodian from the apartment building adjacent to this one came and yelled at us for blocking his way. He was just passing through. Him and his red polo shirt. There was an announcement next week to keep on the inside of the lot as much as we could. We crammed in the little courtyard and puffed away at hundreds of cigarettes. 

A man in a black puffer jacket herded me through the gate. I was slow to cross the threshold, and I was resistant to acknowledge where I was. 

“Do you need a light?” He bumped me with his elbow. I nodded, and he lit my cigarette like they do in movies. Cupped hand around the flame, eye contact, a wink. The wink threw me off but I tried not to dwell on it. It was narcissistic to think anything other than friendliness. “I haven’t seen you here before.” He pointed out, blowing smoke to his lapel. 

I shook my head and kept smoking. I’d forgotten how much I like the dry air at the back of my throat. “First time?” He asked under his breath. Newcomers don’t always like answering that question; not to strangers. I shook my head again. 

“Just first time in a while.” 

Another elbow bumped me, this one smaller.  A short guy, maybe twenty years old. “Hey man,” he started, “I hate to be this guy, but can I bum a cigarette?” 

He didn’t hate to be that guy. Nobody does. They hate the idea of getting rejected, but they don’t care either way about asking for something. The cigarette grabs hold of you and you can’t stop asking people for it. You got a cigarette? Can I go smoke? Did I bring my smokes? Where’s my lighter? 

I couldn’t go back to that, so I gave him the whole pack, minus one for the road. He looked like I was Santa and I’d just given him an Xbox. He thanked me over and over, and then I he disappeared. Didn’t even ask my name. A woman opened the door on top of the stairs and people started filing upwards. One at a time, slowly. I smelled coffee wafting down the steps. The guy in the puffer vanished in the crowd. I guess I didn’t think to ask his name either. Nor him me. 

At last, it was me alone outside. Just me and the stairs. The last person shut the door but it didn’t lock. I stood facing the granite steps, one foot on the step, the other on the ground pointed at the fence. The bottom of the stairs weighed me down. All I had to do was climb them. Climb them, and go inside, grab a coffee, and listen. The sun set behind the buildings and I was left under the light of two yellow lampposts. Me and the last few drags of my cigarette. I coughed up some phlegm and spat it on the stairs. As it arced in the light, I felt disrespectful. I clamoured up the first three and wiped my boot on the glob that rested on the fourth. The rest of the way up was easy. Well worn. 

Inside, they’d began without me. I hustled past the main room to the kitchen and filled a styro-foam cup up with the dregs of the coffee pot. The thicker stuff with all the soot. Then I shuffled to the room and found a seat next to the kid who’d asked me for a cigarette. He smiled when I sat down and thanked me again. I’d made it in time for introductions, and his name was Daniel. I don’t think they’d changed the setup since I was last here. The plastic chairs are just as squeaky as I left them, and the floor still needs new tiles. All new faces though. Then it came turn for me to speak. 

“Hey, my name is John, and I’m an Alcoholic.”

++

////

The MAD

He was deep in it, with his hands planted firm on her thighs. She was trying to snap them shut but he pushed down on the soft flabby part near her groin. It was a struggle but not an unwelcome one. His worn in bedsprings covered the sound of her gasps. Nobody was home to hear the commotion. Janine is in the city shopping, and Blake is at the sitters. Blake will be picked up by Janine on her way home, and Janine always texts before she leaves the city limits. 

Her sister and her smelled the same; twenty minutes of airing out and washing up will fix the whole place up. It’s clinical, it’s routine, it’s low risk. Relative to the situation, that is. 

She climaxed with her fingers and untucked him from her, then turned around for him to finish. They’d been doing it so often it was just her second nature. Like a married couple, she feels. If she contorts the meaning, then they are a married couple. The emphasis sits on the other end of the phrase though. 

He needed a sip of water before he grabs her and finish off.  Too much saliva produced in too little time. She waited for him on the bed with her white rear pointed to the ceiling. In her mind, the rest of this is just to keep him from being upset. She got what she wanted, now she wants to leave. She scooted back to the edge of the bed, avoiding a viscous puddle near the center of the sheets. It reeks in here.

“You ready?” He barged back into the room with a glass of water in his hand, pulling at himself with the other. Mm-hmm she moaned. It went in after it was hard, and he grabbed her hips like a jackhammer. 

The bed creaked, and she was louder than before to carry him along to the end. He hates that she does it for him. He feels it’s childish to assume it helps- even though it does. He unhooked and finished. Some dripped on her thigh, then foot. She got up, avoiding spreading the white on his wet navy sheets. 

“Janine would kill me if I got that on there.” He pointed to her ass.

“I bet. Arthur would too if he saw me like this.” 

He hopped across the room, strings sticking to his leg. His phone has no notifications, so he asked if she wants to shower. She agreed and left the room but jumped back into the room with a yelp.

“Hey Blake!” She yelled down the hall. His heart dropped into his stomach. 

“Are you serious?” Rick whispered, ducking like a gun had gone off..

She nodded. Her face was pillow white. 

“Hey Aunt Quinn. Why’re you here?” he asked. The sound of his little wet boots approached from the door.

Rick scrambled around the room, scooping up the blanket and looking for Quinn’s t-shirt. Rubber squeaked to the door, then the door creaked open. Blake stood there with his mouth agape, unsure what he was seeing. Aunty Quinn and daddy were naked in daddy’s room. Daddy was clutching a sheet over himself, and Aunty Quinn had her arms crossed over her breasts. “Why’re you naked?” He asked. 

“We were changing, sweetie,” Quinn insisted, “We’ll be done in a minute. Go wait in your room.”

“Where’s mommy?” Rick asked. 

“Yeah, where’s mommy?” Quinn repeated.

“I dunno.” Blake shrugged, “Ms. Loretta was sick so she drove me home.”

“Hey, I’ll come see you in a minute, okay? We just have to finish changing.”

“Your clothes are out there.” Blake pointed to the hallway. Quinn slipped past him, still covering herself with her hands. “Where’s mommy?”

“I don’t know buddy, just go to your room for a few minutes, okay?” He coaxed, “Go on.”

Blake turned heel and marched back down the hall. His boots left little ruffled puddles as he walked. Quinn slipped her shirt over her bra and quietly asked him to take his shoes off. He sat down and waited for her to do it for him. Rick shut the door most of the way and put his bath towel on. He heard Blake’s footsteps patter up carpeted steps, then around the house to above his own bedroom. A door shut, then Quinn came back. 

“Holy fuck!” She exhaled. “Holy fuck holy fuck.”

“What now?” Rick paced around the room, gripping the shag between his toes. 

“You think he’ll say something?”

“He’s a kid. All they do is say something.”

“I know, but like can’t you talk to him?”

“I can, I can. I just gotta think. What’s a reason you’d come over here?”

“Other than to fuck?”

“Obviously. Fucking obviously not to fuck.” He thought about it, then scrambled over the bed back to his phone. Janine texted that Blake would be dropped off. Only her text was sent one minute ago. 

Still in the city? He sent, then slammed the screen down.

+

/////

Induced 

The intake nurse asked me for my name since she couldn’t hear me through the glass. Ashley S. Donahue. Birthday July 4th, 1994. Address is the same as it is on the insurance card I gave her. 

She clacked away at her keyboard and scrunched her nose at the screen over her little rectangular spectacles. They made her look like Nicole Kidman but older; much, much older. 

Behind me on plastic chairs like mine were the people I’d been sitting with for the last few hours, each with a solemn story to tell. A pregnant woman and her husband sat knee to knee with each other, praying. A white and grey man was slumped next to them asleep, his cup of water at a precarious angle. 

Through the reflection on the glass ahead of me I watched as a stream poured from the lip to his boots, then onto the floor. 

“Donahue,” A pause in the clicking, “And what brings you in tonight, Miss Donahue?” 

“I thought I was going to die.”

The rows of wrinkles on her forehead multiplied, “You what?”

“I thought I was going to die- I felt like it.”

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Well, yes but I’d like to get checked out.”

“That’s fine. We can do that.”

“It’s been three hours, do you know when they’ll see me?”

The lady looked at her screen again, this time closer while she scrolled through whatever database she was using. “I can’t say for sure. I’d like to check your blood pressure, can you follow me to the next desk over?”

We stood in unison and side stepped to the desk to the right of hers, this one with less glass. The seat crinkled as I lowered myself onto the pleather. 

“Can you take your hoodie off?”

I wasn’t wearing anything underneath, just a sports bra. “No.”

“Why not?”

I lifted my shirt to show the bottom of my stomach. She shrugged. 

“Hold out your arm.”

I slipped my arm under the gap in the glass onto the desk. She yanked my sleeve and wrestled the band around my arm, tightening the Velcro twice.

“Now stick out your finger. That band’ll get tight in a minute, just stay still.”

I watched as the numbers on the little LED screen lit up. 116/63. Sounds high. 

“Is that good?”

The lady squinted again at the little screen. Glasses must be for show. “That’s well within the average range for little girls like you.”

Litte. Girls. Like. You. I’m eighteen since last month. And she knows my birthday. I thought about saying something snarky but it might not have been an insult. Old bitch. 

We stepped back to the other desk and sat in silence for a few minutes while she entered more data into the computer. I don’t know what they type in, but it sounded like she was writing a book. I watched her eyes dart around the screen, making note of whatever she was reading. Squinting, scrunching, tilting her head. Her movement felt performative, like she was doing it to show me how hard she was working. I can’t imagine her work being hard.

She gaped her lips and sat back in her seat, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but you wouldn’t happen to be…?” 

Everyone asks. “Henry’s daughter.”

She pursed her lips and nodded an apology, “You poor thing. How’s your mother?”

What an awful question to ask somebody you just met. “She’s fine.” 

The intake lady looked at me like a dying puppy, like she wanted to show me just how bad she felt for me. She forgot that we’re at the ER at two in the morning, and I’m waiting to be seen for a problem that went away in the waiting room. 

She let out a remorseful sigh and shooed me back to the chair next to the sleeping man, who’d now spilled his drink onto the floor. I watched from the chair as she typed more into the computer. There’s no way she was actually typing anything- the keyboard could be disconnected. I doubted her entire job. Gossipy old woman. 

A few minutes after I’d moved, a very tall, very handsome nurse came around the corner and beckoned the pregnant couple to join him. His bright blue eyes were like breath of ocean air in this luminescent holding room. We made eye contact for a second but I looked away as quickly as our gaze caught one another’s. I hoped he’d be the one seeing me. 

Once again, a nurse came around the corner. This time, an Asian woman with a facemask and a clipboard. 

“Daniel Reeves?” she read in a matter-of-fact kind of way. Rigid, hiding an accent. We knew that Daniel was the older gentleman next to me. She said the name louder, this time at his still body. I nudged his arm with my elbow and his cup fell from the two fingers that held it in the balance of gravity. He didn’t move. I nudged again, this time my knee to his knee. He snorted awake and brushed his face with his calloused hands. 

“Daniel Reeves?” the nurse called again, getting his attention. For a moment, he appeared to not know where he was; looking around confused at his surroundings. He muttered a few questions under his breath, “What, where am, what’s happe-“ 

“Daniel Reeves, this way please.”

He followed her but was unsure of himself while he walked, looking down the hallways and towards the door as he shuffled. I wonder what brought him in. Maybe nothing. Maybe what I had. 

I caught the intake lady staring at me a few times while I sat in the cold, bright, now empty room. She knew my father somehow, perhaps through the news, perhaps through her job. She definitely wasn’t a criminal, and if she is she’d have a different reaction to me and my paternal name. Chances are, she’d met him in passing here or at city hall. I don’t remember seeing her anywhere. 

The thought of her knowing my father was starting to bug me, so I mustered up the voice to ask. She rolled her chair back and crossed her arms, then looked up at the ceiling tiles like she was trying to invent a scenario in which she’d met my dad. 

“Your dad, let me see,” she muttered and looked down at her legs, “Well, we never knew each other, per se.”

“So it was the news then?”

“No, no,” she lied, “Your father was well liked here- he was always good with us. Helpful, and funny. Really funny. Most of the doctors here really liked your dad.”

My dad wasn’t a funny man- or a nice man. He was gruff, blunt, and commanding. I challenged her opinion. “So you never met him?” 

She adjusted in her seat, shuffling her wide thighs between the armrests. “No, I met him once or twice.”

I didn’t say anything to her after that, just nodded and kept staring down the hallway. Nothing she could say would convince me that she’d met my dad. No detail she could give, no moment she could recall would satisfy my need for evidence. 

Head against the wall, I watched the clock spin from 2:50am to 3:00am in what felt like an hour. I understood why that old man nodded out. Since there was no sign of anything happening for a while, I pulled the collar of my hoodie up to my chin and closed my eyes. 

+

I woke to a firm hand on my shoulder and someone repeating my last name, “Miss Donahue? Miss Donahue.”

I was a lucky girl. The handsome blonde nurse was leaning over my sleeping body and saying my name in his thick Midwestern cadence. 

“Miss Donahue, can you please follow me?”

The chair crinkled in reverse while I stood up. I followed him down the blue hallway along a red line on the floor tiles. My inner child kept my feet moving along the line like a gymnast; anything else was bad. 

From behind, the nurse was just as handsome; broad shoulders, a crisp haircut, scrubs that were a little too tight on his rear. As he waved me into my room, I saw the bottom of a tattoo peek out from his shirt. I imagined it to be a rose, or some kind of flower. Something to soften the hard of the man. 

I hoisted myself onto the foil-like paper and kicked my legs against the hollow base of the examination bed. Childlike. I had an urge to display my innocence to the nurse. Show him just how big he is. How small I am. 

The intake lady’s words rattled in my head so I stopped my kicking. I wasn’t a little girl. 

He sat with his back to me at a computer, “What brings you in tonight, Miss Donahue?” 

“I feel like- I felt like I was going to die.”

“Can you explain that to me? Going to die- what do you mean?”

“Well, I was at home with my friend, Jess, and we were sitting in bed, and I felt like there was something wrong- really wrong, like something was about to happen. I got up to get a drink of water, in the kitchen, and my friend followed me to get a drink too. And I was filling my cup at the fridge when my ears started ringing, like ringing really loud. You know when there’s like an old TV that turns on and you get a ringing in your ears? Like that, but it kept getting worse, like a lot louder. And then I had to cover my ears it was so loud, and Jess- she was watching and she could tell you better, but I kind of like fell, like crumpled onto the floor next to the fridge, and I felt like I was having a heart attack.”

“Can you explain the heart attack feeling?”

“Like I was short of breath, I couldn’t breathe. I was like panting and panting for air, and I started crying, and I was all fuzzy feeling. Like TV static all over my skin. And I couldn’t move. At all. I just spaced out and felt like I was falling through the floor, like I was getting sucked downwards.” 

“And how are you feeling now?”

“To tell you the truth, doc, I feel fine. And it’s embarrassing but I wanted to get checked out anyways, but it went away as soon as I got here.”

“Is this your first time with this feeling?”

“Yes. First time.”

“Did you drive here?”

“No, Jess drove me. She said she’d pick me up when I needed to go home.”

“I’m sorry that that happened to you. I think I know what that is, and I have a few more follow up questions, and a couple tests I’d like to run through to cover our bases.”

“Sure, whatever.”

“Has there been anything in your life that’s been stressing you out? Any serious changes?”

Finally, someone who doesn’t know. “Yes, there has been.” I lead him into his next question.

“Are you comfortable sharing what that might be?”

For once, I could explain my situation the way I wanted to. “My father committed suicide two months ago.”

He lowered his head and apologized. I could tell he was genuine. This man’s life was devoted to helping those in need, those struggling, those in more precarious situations than himself. He had real empathy. “I’m sorry to ask, but how has that been for you? How have you been coping?”

“I’ve been alright. Obviously it sucks, and every day hurts, but I’d say I’m doing fine.” It sucks? What the fuck am I saying? Everyone knows it sucks.

“Are you familiar with the term ‘panic attacks?’” he asked, trying to dance around the awful fire.

I wasn’t familiar with them.

“Panic attacks are something that happens when the mind and body are under immense duress, especially from traumatic events. It essentially is the mind thinking that you’re in extreme danger, and it kicks in a fight or flight response, but it doesn’t regulate either fight or flight, so it freaks out.”

I was at home, in my own bed, with my best friend when it happened. “And that’s what you think this was?” 

“I’d like to get a blood work panel done before I make any conclusive decisions, but I’m wondering if that is the case.”

“What makes you think that? What if it was an angina?” Jess had related my symptoms to an angina before we got to the hospital and it made sense to me.

“Miss Donahue,” he began with that tone that men get when they know more than you. The sexy nurse factor faded. “You’re eighteen, not overweight, and relatively healthy looking. If you were in your forties, I’d say that’s a possibility, but with your youth, I am skeptical that you’d be anywhere in the range of a heart condition.”

“But you still want my bloodwork.”

“We have to check all of our boxes before making a clinical conclusion, yes.”

I hate needles. And I hate blood. But if that’s what they need, then so be it. 

The nurse left the room in a hurry, leaving me to the whirring LED lights above. Through the door, I could hear the shuffling of a semi-busy nighttime ER. Footsteps, mumbling, squeaking. 

Metal carts rolling from room to room, doctors assessing and deducing what’s going on with their patients. 

I had read all of the anatomy posters by the time someone knocked on the door. I’d learned all about diabetes type two and was re-reading the segment about meningitis. Horrifying to think a shared drink with an unaware infected person could kill the unvaccinated. Best to keep up with the times. 

A small woman entered my room, followed by a cart full of syringes and bottles. Some of which were maroon; full of blood. Maybe the sleeping man’s blood. Maybe the expecting woman’s. 

She asked me which arm I’d prefer, then rolled up my sleeve for me. I chose the right since I’d left that arm mostly untouched by my pocket knife. People hate seeing the cuts and scars. It makes them uncomfortable. When I see them on others, it makes me more trusting of them. I can relate to a person in pain. If you have no scars, then what kind of person are you really. 

The woman smiled and counted to three, sliding the needle into my arm on the unspoken four. I would’ve preferred on two; less time for anticipation. 

Every five seconds, she swapped the vial of blood for an empty one. They all had different coloured caps. Purple, yellow, white. The fifth and final one was the same colour as my shirt; baby blue. She pointed out the similarity while I was staring at the wall to avoid the sight of my own blood. 

She left as quickly as she came in, leaving behind the scent of her perfume. Cheap, sweet, vanilla. It fit her stature. 

She’d told me the nurse would be back in a few minutes. Those few turned into thirty, so I laid down on the paper and plastic to rest while I waited. Once more, I was awoken by a firm hand and my last name on repeat. Lucky me. 

“Miss Donahue,” he began, his hand still on my shoulder, “How are you feeling?”

The sadness in his voice tipped me off. Someone told him. “I’m good- sorry, I’m tired.”

“No apology necessary.” He was firm in this statement. “So, we went over your blood work, and I’m happy to say that we found no conclusivity.” 

A medical term that doesn’t exist. “Nothing?”

He confirmed my question, “So that leads me to believe that what you experienced is a panic attack.”

“So what do we do?”

“Unfortunately,” he began, much to my disappointment, “There’s not much that we can do right now- since there’s no ongoing symptom.”

“So what’s that mean?” 

“When people experience a… event like the one you have, and they develop symptoms like what you’ve experienced, we often refer them to a specialist.”

“Like a therapist?”

“Exactly- a therapist or psychologist, depending on the severity of the issue.”

“So what’s that mean for me?” My eye caught the word ‘cortex’ on the depiction of the brain anatomy behind him.

“Because this is your first ‘panic attack,’” he quoted in the air, “I think a therapist would be in your best interest, especially given the circumstances.”

He definitely knew now. “Circumstances?”

“I don’t mean to pry, and I’m sorry to bring this up,” he blushed, “But, is your father not chief Donahue?” 

I winced at the description. ‘Chief’ Donahue adds a level of seniority to my dead father’s name. Seniority that makes the dismal nature of the situation come to the forefront. Why would a police chief kill himself? I nodded. I had no words for the once sexy nurse. His face wasn’t as pretty as before. Should’ve kept his mouth shut. I wish the Asian woman would’ve helped me. Then his fleeting image wouldn’t be tarnished. 

“We already ran a check, and your insurance covers a long list of therapists and counsellors in the area that we’ve known and worked with over the years. Who’s your family doctor?”

“Megan De Gelden.” 

“I’d like to send her the list, then have her follow up with you this week. Is that alright?”

I nodded; I didn’t care. As long as I could miss work to go, I’m alright with whatever they send my way. Physio, gyno, I don’t care. Strap me in and write me a letter saying you condone my absence from work. 

He left the room again and I watched his scrubs tuck between the top of his butt cheeks while he walked away. It was cute. 

Panic attack sounded weird, but the name made sense. I was panicking, and I felt like I was under attack. Part of me was relieved it wasn’t an angina, the other part disappointed. If it was a heart condition, they could chuck a few pills at me and tell me to change my diet, and then I’d be cured probably, but with this I don’t know what to expect. Is it dangerous? Is it going to happen again? 

A different person knocked on my door; an older man in blue scrubs and aviator-style spectacles. He told me he was a doctor, and that he was sorry about my father, and that he wished that he could help with what was going on with me. He seemed genuinely concerned, and like he knew my father. His choice of words made me believe that he knew him. “Your father was… I’m sorry that we have to refer you to someone.” The words of an old friend. 

He handed me a paper with a fact sheet about anxiety and panic attacks, along with a list of names and phone numbers of therapists in the area. 

He left without saying goodbye.

I read the list over a few times, pronouncing each name under my breath.

Elaine S. Stevenson

Jacob Green

Joshua Green, MD

Suzanna Preis, MD

Bryan Henderson

I had to guilt the receptionist into giving me her lunch money so I could use the payphone. My little girl eyes came in handy. So did dad.

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Overheard in the Parkinglot

The boys are hanging out in the spotlight under the silos. Robbie is perched on the truck bed with a lap of unopened beers and a tray with some weed. His hands are sticky from picking it apart. Alan, who’s leaning on the back of the truck, forgot to bring the scissors this time. Brendan and Will are standing nearby with a beer in each hand, and they’re all arguing about what might’ve caused their class to be a bunch of fuck ups. Next week, they’re set to graduate high school but none of them have a clue what’s next. As they drink and smoke, things are getting a bit hazy, and the meaning of the madness is becoming clear to Alan. He’s listening to Robbie make fun of Will’s uninteresting opinion on the meaning of life; there is no meaning. 

Alan crunches his feet on the gravel and stops them. “You know what the real problem is?”

“What’s that, man-“ Will looks up from his beer. 

“The real problem is our dads, man.”

Robbie pipes up, “Ole man never hurt me-“

“Yeah, but that’s the thing man- the rest of ours did. Think about it.”

Robbie tries to cut him off, “What’re you on about?”

“No man, think about it- think about it. They were what, 17? 18? Sam comes a-knocking and they’re off from all this. This quiet woodsy shit and bam they’re in some jungle with a bunch of monkeys and Kongs creeping up behind ‘em. Then if they’re lucky they come back home to all this.”

“This jungle of our own.” Robbie puts his hands up and points at the trees.

“Yeah but no Viet’s man.” Will chirped with his beer up to cheers. 

“Amen.” Brendan agreed.

“Yeah,” Alan laughed, “But like think about it for a second here. Bunch of guys just like us just out in the trees shooting any motherfucker that don’t see you first. Real shit. None of this low-level shit we’re on- I’m talking real fucking killing.”

“Yeah, so what. It’s not real. It’s war.” Robbie shrugged.

“Hoorah.”

“Nah, nah, it ain’t hoorah. It’s worse. Can you imagine being one of those guys, man? Napalm everywhere, shits smoking like a bonfire, your buddies who you hardly know are dead or dying- all that blood, dude. Fucking cracked!”

“Fuck man you’re stressing me out, shut up a bit about it.” Will shushed.

“You’re killing my high dude.”

“Yeah, stop being all sappy.”

“No, hang on let me finish my thought.”

“Have a hit first- let us at least.” Robbie chuckled.

“Yeah, for real man.”

“Fine, fine.”

Robbie passes a lit joint to Will, blowing smoke down his arm as he hands it off. “Damn this shit’s good- who had it?” 

“You know Amanda’s brother?” 

“Amanda-Amanda? Like..?”

“Yeah. Her brother.” Brendan squeaked.

“Mikey the marine? He had it? I thought he was in jail or something.”

“No, but his buddy got it from down South.”

“Holy fuck.”

“If Amanda were alive man, holay. I’d-“

“Shut up man.” Robbie scolded, grabbing the joint from Alan.

“Yeah that’s fucked up man.” Alan scuffed his shoe on the gravel lot, sending little pebbles flying onto the side of the silo. 

“Alright let’s hear it.”

Alan coughed. “What I’m sayin’ is, is like it’s tough being the kid of the generation that didn’t have a real life. Buncha guys, get swept up by the gov, told to go die in the jungle, see some wicked shit. Shoot this guy, go here. Kill that guy, go there. Diabolical hell, real hell. Green hell, then all the sudden it’s over, and they gotta get the hell outta there, and the world they come back to on the other side is all fucking crazy- like people are getting shot left right and center, drugs - DRUGS!” He points at the joint, “Are everywhere, people are like tripping, but like not as much. And then all that shit in California- like, what’re you supposed to do but come home to a different kind of war? It’s a war out here, like a real psychological war man- people losing their minds and going berserk man, and then what? They’re supposed to just fall into an American Nuclear family? Two kids, a dog, a wife, a white picket fence- after all that calamity on the other side? No wonder we had it rough. Dad drinking all the time and wakin’ us up in a frenzy talking about some wild shit like someone in the trees. Mom’s cooked out on the pills while dad’s in the garage cursin’ and swigging it down like it’s Saturday night. Why’d you think that is, man? He can’t handle the world he came home to- the very one he sought to protect. So, he just fuckin’ sat and got mad at anything that wasn’t still, wasn’t dead fucking silent. Our poor moms had to take up with animals.”

A barn owl hooted in the woods, and the boys sat in the smoke. The thought of the animal at home made them shudder.

“Like a pitbull in a cage, man.” Brendan uttered. 

Will downed the last of his bottle and tossed it into the bushes. “What were they supposed to do? They were soldiers, man.”

Robbie hopped off of the back of the truck, squishing the roach of the joint out under his shoe. “You know what happens to a police dog when its time is up?” 

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