That's All Folks!

...Well maybe not entirely.

Some of you may have heard a vicious rumor about me traveling to Asia. That happens to be true. Things will undoubtedly be hectic over there and I just don't know if I'll be able to keep up with this little blog.

But fear not! There's a new website!

I don't want to say it's better (because I don't want this blog to develop an inferiority complex), but it certainly is deeper. However, I'm using that rather exclusively as a means of documenting my travels and experiences abroad, which means if I happen to compose some piece that doesn't quite fit the travel mold, it may find it's way onto this site. After all, everyone likes an open ending, right? Closure is so overrated.

Now, please direct your attention to the new implement of my ravings: http://jimboabroad.com/

As you'll see, content at this point is kind of sparse (largely because I haven't left just yet), but there will be plenty to come. So check in often!

Thanks to everyone who's supported me in my endeavors and taken the time to read the sprawling neuroses I've extended to the world. And be sure to check out that same set of neuroses as they interact with Eastern culture. Same crazy Jim, new venue.

Much love,
J.

The 25 Greatest Movies This World Has Ever Known!!

...Okay, so not really. It's actually my favorite 25 movies of this past decade. Look, I'm not arrogant enough to say these are definitively the best 25. They're simply my favorite 25... that I can call to mind. It's inevitable that I've missed some and there are countless that I haven't seen that I almost certainly should have. So in no way can I say these films are the decade's uncontested best. But they're fucking good! Fucking great!! And if there are any you haven't seen, you should definitely see them. It would be in your best interest. And really, it's not like you've got anything better to do. Stop kidding yourself. Your delusions insult us both.

And to make things a little more interesting, NONE of the films on this list have won the Academy Award for Best Picture. I figure Best Picture Oscar winners have garnered enough attention and acclaim, so giving them a home on this list would just be overkill. Truth be told, there are really only a few movies in the past decade that I'd include (Traffic, Crash, No Country for Old Men, LOTR). Nevertheless, these movies will be omitted because they've had the critical equivalent of an infinite blowjob and they really don't need the additional praise from this Joe Nobody. So there you have it.

#25: Mission: Impossible III (J.J. Abrams, 2006) - Okay... go ahead... laugh it up (cause I know some of you are). That's right, MI3 made my list of favorite movies of the decade. Yes, I took a real gamble putting this as the first movie you'd see on this already dubious list. But don't discount me! Let me explain. This movie kicks ass! J.J. Abrams is the fucking man and an exceptional director, particularly when it comes to fast-paced action. Philip Seymour Hoffman is also the fucking man and plays the part of a merciless, sadistic villain with disquieting ease and severity. Yes, in reality Tom Cruise has his head so far up Scientology's ass, he can taste L. Ron Hubbard's dead, rotting tongue. But he's also a talented actor and I do my best to separate his work on the screen from his lunatic ravings in real life. And in a decade of tame, over-stylized action movies, this big budgeter still managed a raw, visceral feel. Seriously, haters can hate, but this was one of the better action movies of the decade.

#24: I Heart Huckabees (David O. Russell, 2004) - "Fuckabees!" Need I say more? Not really, but I will anyway. Sure, I love good coming-of-age comedies and silly low-brow romps (as long as they're amusing) as much as the next person, but it's also refreshing to see a supremely original idea executed with laugh-out-loud results. And in a way, you can kind of consider this movie a coming-of-age story... in a more middle-age sense. It may seem sort of pretentious to make a self-proclaimed "existential comedy," but when it's made well and lives up to its arrogant arthouse assertion, a certain degree of pretentiousness can be tolerated. And the performances are outstanding. I really believe Russell can thank his exceptional ensemble cast for this movie's success. It's Mark Wahlberg's best role (better than The Departed!) and there really isn't an actor in the film that doesn't live up to their greatest potential. I guess this movie isn't for everyone, but I do kind of look down on those who don't enjoy it. What the fuck is wrong with you people?!

#23: Brotherhood of the Wolf (Christophe Gans, 2001) - So there are only two foreign language films on this list. The other is pretty much a no-brainer (I've seen it on almost every other "decade's best" critic list), but this one, for whatever reason, didn't quite elicit as much attention. Nonetheless, it's an extremely entertaining and beautiful movie. It boasts great action sequences, awesome fight choreography and beautiful cinematography. I also enjoy the way the script interweaves historical fiction and obscure French myth. I mean I guess you'd call if French myth. I'm not French, so I don't actually know if any of the more "fabled" aspects of the story are part of French lore. But I don't really care either. It's a really enjoyable, fairly intelligent movie and its ability to accurately recall French legends couldn't mean less to me. Additionally, the DVD version I own has some of the best language dub work I've ever seen. I almost never watch movies dubbed in English -- 99.9% of the time it looks so goddamn cheesy and detracts from the film. But this one is done extremely well and it's nice to be able to enjoy the sweeping visuals of the movie without constantly focusing on subtitles. But only after you've seen the original, subtitled version. Don't be lazy!

#22: Borat (Larry Charles, 2006) - I don't want to sound too over-the-top here, but Sacha Baron Cohen is a comedic genius. Borat made me laugh so hard, I cried. And sure, some of it was stupid, low-brow humor (that worked!), but some of it really made you look at certain aspects of American culture and say, "Wow... are we really all part of the same general society?" "Do people like that really exist in this country?" I guess you have to laugh, otherwise it would be utterly depressing. But social commentary aside, this movie is damn hilarious. Borat really is a lovable character. I wondered why I didn't enjoy Bruno nearly as much and I think it's largely because Bruno is a selfish, egotistical douche bag. And it's tough to have any adoration for selfish, egotistical douche bags (unless you watch MTV's Jersey Shore -- Oh!). On the other hand, it's Borat's inexperience and naivety that truly make him a likable character. Sure, he's sex-crazed and anti-Semitic, but who amongst us isn't? Juuuuuuuuust kidding! Seriously, it's cool, I dated a Jewish girl once -- I'm allowed to crack the occasional anti-Semitic joke. It's part of the contract (that I just invented).

#21: Adaptation (Spike Jonze, 2002) - Charlie Kaufman is a screenwriting god. That being said, Spike Jonze is no slouch as a helmer either. It would be unforgivable if the two of them had collaborated on a film and that film had sucked. Good thing Adaptation doesn't suck. In fact, it's awesome. I never read the book The Orchid Thief, but I'd imagine this wasn't necessarily the adaptation (you see the connection?!) that author Susan Orlean had envisioned. But fuck her -- Kaufman owns and she should feel honored that such a brilliant screenwriter would even allude to aspects of her book in his script. I mean it's a book about orchids. Or some guy that steals them. Whatever... who cares? This movie is great so I can't be concerned with its accuracy to the source material. Put that in your flower and snort it, Orlean! (FYI, that reference won't make sense if you haven't seen the movie. So see it!)

#20: Munich (Steven Spielberg, 2005) - It's about vengeance. I think. I mean that was the name of the book it was based on. Nevertheless, Spielberg wants us to see that violence begets violence, as if we couldn't just read the MSN homepage or watch the news. Still, the film is technically masterful, achingly tense and exceedingly well acted. I also really like the climate of the movie. It's somehow both consistent, yet escalating. Plus, the action sequences are superbly raw, which is pleasantly surprising for a film with such an immense production value helmed by a director known for very polished work. And this raw feel to the action totally lends itself to the film. It's one movie that really is worth the 164-minute run time (stop rolling your eyes!). I do like Spielberg (mostly), particularly his darker cinematic entries. And this is one of them.

#19: Brick (Rian Johnson, 2005) - In the ladder part of this decade, we saw a lot of movies try their hand at film noir. A large portion of them sucked. Brick was a glaring exception. In fact, if I were teaching a class about contemporary film noir, I would definitely show this movie. Of course, if I were teaching a class about contemporary film noir, I'd surely be fired after a few days because I don't really know much about it. Be that as it may, this film encompasses just about everything I'd like to see in a noir-type movie: a troubled detective, a gorgeous femme fatale, a mysterious murder and, of course, ample plot twists and backstabbing galore! Did I mention that all this takes place amongst a group of high school students? Yes, it's a very unique film and an incredibly impressive debut from writer/director Rian Johnson (even if he spells his first name like a tool). Well... IMDB does attribute an earlier movie to Johnson, but it's called Evil Demon Golfball from Hell!!! (yes, the title actually includes three exclamation points) and it's only 8 minutes long. So we'll just go ahead and consider Brick his legitimate debut.

#18: Snatch (Guy Ritchie, 2000) - Oh Guy Ritchie, what a promising career you seemed to have in front of you. And how hit-and-miss that career has become. But with the possible exception of the earlier Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, this is certainly your best. This movie is just so damn entertaining. Ritchie's earlier works seem to ooze a certain liveliness and vivacity that drew the audience into the well-orchestrated chaos. Who would have guessed a film showcasing a nearly incomprehensible Brad Pitt could be so successful? This movie really highlights everything that seemed to position Ritchie as such a budding talent: a cleverly interwoven script; raw, visceral action; witty, well-placed humor; an apparent sense of comfort with his own material; a general enthusiasm for filmmaking. Perhaps in an effort to branch out and not be pigeonholed, Ritchie went on to write and direct the doomed Swept Away starring his then-current wife Madonna. What a fucking mistake! Truthfully, he hasn't been able to fully claw his way out of the hole that film created (Revolver was abysmal and RocknRolla was totally mediocre). And I don't know about you guys, but I think Sherlock Holmes looks dubious, at best. But God, Rachel McAdams is fucking beautiful. Mmmm... Rachel McAdams.

#17: The Incredibles (Brad Bird, 2004) - Isn't it awesome when a movie's as smart and original as it is visually stunning? Well Pixar really is the king of style-meets-substance. And I'm sure some would be more inclined to put Up or Wall-E on a list like this, but The Incredibles is a clearer choice for me. It's a high-energy treat from start to finish. It's a feast for the eyes and the story is unique and well written. It combines the obligatory (and charming) Pixar cuteness with vigorous action scenes and a script that puts a clever spin on the super-hero genre. And how bout that Elastigirl? Raaaarrrr... she can save me any day! Uh, I mean... oh boy... this is embarrassing. (Laughs awkwardly.) I know guys, she's only a cartoon! (Sighs.) She's only a cartoon.

#16: Pan's Labyrinth (Guillermo del Toro, 2006) - Man, Guillermo del Toro is a visionary director, isn't he? And yes, that's a rhetorical question, so you idiots can stop answering. When it comes to dark, imaginative fantasy, Guillermo is pretty much the man; when dreams meet nightmares, Guillermo is right at the point of impact. Sure, his movies are incredible to look at, but it's their substance that elevates them to something more significant than your average visual feast. This is especially noticeable with Pan's Labyrinth. Mr. Del Toro (Mr. del Toro? Mr. Toro? I never know what to do with these friggin' ethnic names) mixes such disconcertingly realistic horror with a fantasy world that's equally intriguing and forbidding. Everything about the movie is both beautiful and dangerous. I guess that's part of the appeal. The film also boasts superb performances from just about everyone involved, particularly Sergi Lopez as the sadistic Captain Vidal and the young Ivana Baquero as Ofelia. The movie seems to be a fairly personal piece for Guillermo del Toro, which is likely why it succeeds so brilliantly as his best film to date.

#15: Coraline (Henry Selick, 2009) - Supposedly, when Neil Gaiman was in the finishing stages of this book, he contacted Selick to see if he would be interested in helming the film adaptation. Selick accepted and what ensued was a 4-year process to prepare this stop motion masterpiece. I guess Gaiman must have realized this, but Selick is really the perfect director to bring a Gaiman story to the screen, particularly this one. This was truly the perfect collaborative vehicle for both men. It's creepy, imaginative, suspenseful, engaging and one of the best-looking movies I've seen. I can only imagine the amount of effort that goes into creating a stop motion film like this. It must be painstaking. But clearly Selick had unwavering devotion to the material and it definitely shows. Technical aspects aside, the voice talent for this movie is also fantastic. Everything really fell into place for this one and I'd love to see another Gaiman/Selick collaboration in the not too distant future.

#14: Donnie Darko (Richard Kelly, 2001) - Director Richard Kelly inadvertently demonstrates the pitfall of making such a strong debut film: it sets a high standard for subsequent films. Unfortunately for Kelly, nothing he's put his name on has come close to this creepy, quirky, existential sci-fi/drama-thriller. And Patrick Swayze as a closet pedophile? ... I could say something here (too soon?), but I'm pretty sure it would cement my place in hell. "No dice, grandma." Anywho, you know it's a good movie when you watch it multiple times and have a different take on it every time (and those different takes aren't a result of sloppy writing or directing). Believe it or not, sometimes I do enjoy subtlety and deep thought and Kelly supports the former while fostering the ladder. You don't find too many films leaving things open for interpretation these days (writers and directors LOVE to beat you over the head to ensure you walk away with the things they want you to walk away with), but Kelly does just that. It's pretty brave and I can only hope Kelly's career didn't peak with his debut film. Way to blow your load, Richy!

#13: 28 Days Later (Danny Boyle, 2002) - Fast zombies?? Watch out! Those suckers will kill you dead! Well, they'll kill you dead... but then you'll come back to life! Hungry for flesh and brains!! Typically that's how it works, anyway. I saw this movie in London before it even came to the States (cause I'm that cool) and I was blown away. I mean c'mon... Danny Boyle + zombie flick = unprecedented awesomeness. Boyle really put society's breakdown at the forefront of this film in a way that managed to seem freshly unsettling, despite the preceding decades of social commentary through zombie films. Maybe it was the disturbing plausibility of it all. Either way, the only other serious zombie movie of the decade that could hold a torch to 28 Days Later was Dawn of the Dead, which was a remake, albeit a great one. I'm not including remakes on this list, so Boyle's 28 Days Later takes the cake as serious zombie movie of the decade.

#12: Inglourious Basterds (Quentin Tarantino, 2009) - Yes folks, after a few disappointing entries, Quentin is back! I guess there are some that would argue Kill Bill vol. 2 and Deathproof didn't suck, but I wouldn't be one of them. Well, maybe "suck" is a strong word, but I was thoroughly let down by both those films. Anyway, in my opinion Inglourious Basterds may be his best work since Pulp Fiction. We have Quentin's distinctive and engrossing dialogue thrown into a period and backdrop that's new to him as a filmmaker. And man, does he make it work. We also have the great Brad Pitt supporting said dialogue with a hardened yet almost playful John Wayne-type characterization. Honestly, I had a tough time not grinning any time Pitt opened his mouth to speak. But the real star of this film (besides Tarantino's expert direction and writing) is Christoph Waltz as the pleasantly sadistic Colonel Hans Landa. If this guy doesn't get one of those stupid little gold dudes for his work in this film, the Academy should just explode. Seriously, for this performance they should throw in a blowjob from Megan Fox too. I mean that'll be the closest Ms. Fox gets to an Oscar anyway. (Sorry Megan, you know I love you.) And yes, this movie is long, but the pacing and dialogue are executed in a way that makes every scene either wonderfully amusing or exceedingly tense. It's also really violent. But would you want anything less from a movie about killing Nazis? Isn't it cathartic to watch a Nazi get beaten to death with a baseball bat? I mean I think we can all agree that Nazis suck balls. Big floppy donkey balls. So it's fun to watch them get bludgeoned to death. And, in my opinion, Tarantino is the perfect person to oversee the carnage. "Say auf wiedersehen to your Nazi balls!"

#11: Memento (Christopher Nolan, 2000) - Chris Nolan's a fucking master. I'm fairly confident that if this movie were made tomorrow (instead of ten years ago), whatever tempered hack was directing it would almost certainly find a way to fuck it up. It just seems that when a movie is highly conceptual or gimmicky (for lack of a better word), no matter how promising the concept is, the film relies too heavily on said concept and generally comes up short as a result. Not the case with Memento. The film fully relies on its concept as a storytelling device, but the story is as intriguing as the concept itself. It's also exceptionally well written and skillfully structured. This is a film where execution was either going to make or break the screenplay (which was also written by Nolan and his brother). Fortunately, they had the right man in the director's chair.

#10: Requiem for a Dream (Darren Aronoksky, 2000) - Anyone feeling thoughts of suicide? Well watching this movie will probably push you over the edge. Then again, it may bring you back. You can always watch it and say, "Well, at least my life isn't that shitty." Yes, it may be a depressing piece of cinema. But it's also a brilliant one. It's daring, artistic, brutal and ugly. Although the performances are exceptional (Marlon Wayans' talented portrayal is a pleasant surprise; Connelly and Leto are exceptional; Ellen Burstyn is simply jaw-dropping), Aronofsky really makes this film. It's tough to imagine this picture invoking the same realistic horror under the headship of a different director. This movie is all about vision and he brings it to life with a plausible misery that's so effective, any curiosity you may have towards drugs (particularly intravenous ones) will almost certainly be curbed, to say the very least. Aronofsky doesn't bother with redemption, nor does he pander to the audience. The film is gutsy and unflinching; the kind of movie that makes sweet, unassuming girls skip classes the day after watching it because they "just didn't see a reason to get out of bed." (True story!)

#9: The 40 Year Old Virgin (Judd Apatow, 2005) - I don't think I've ever laughed so hard in a movie theater. Maybe for Superbad, but that's the only comparable theatrical side-splitting experience I can recall. Besides, this list wouldn't really be complete without some kind of Apatow-associated movie. It's been the decade of Apatow! Or at least the half-decade. And this movie really is a comic gem. It's hilarious, heartfelt and perfectly cast. Steve Carell is just impeccable as a middle-aged virgin and his support is equally hysterical. Not to mention the developing talent we got to see on display in this film: Paul Rudd, Seth Rogen, Jonah Hill, Elizabeth Banks -- it's a veritable who's who of the current funniest faces in Hollywood. And Apatow has emerged as one of the premiere names in comedy, whether as a writer, director or producer. Truly, it would be hard to picture the past five or six years of comedy without him.

#8: O Brother, Where Art Thou? (Joel Coen, 2000) - Of course there's a Coen Brothers movie on the list! How could there not be?! And with No Country ruled out by my own self-imposed criteria, O Brother takes the slot. This movie expertly showcases the filmmakers' ability to fuse their often-playful nature with intelligent, witty and emotionally resonant material. And how bout that cinematography? Of all the potential backdrops for a re-imagining of Homer's Odyssey, the American Deep South during the 1930s probably wouldn't be the first to come to mind. But it works beautifully. All the colorful characters we meet along the way (John Goodman!) are just so enjoyable and George Clooney is perfect as the rather unconventional embodiment of a semi-contemporary Odysseus. The whole film is just so freaking entertaining. It may be lighthearted, but that doesn't make it any less poignant. The Coens are cinematic wizards and O Brother does a great job of illustrating their impressive range.

#7: Closer (Mike Nichols, 2004) - For a movie full of beautiful people (Julia Roberts excluded), this film is ugly. And I love that about it. The film shows, with honesty, just how nasty, brutal and ugly people, relationships and people in relationships can be. It's all here -- the lovesick, the competition, the winners, the losers, the vindictiveness, the misplaced infatuation and, to a lesser extent, the legitimate affection. The performances really drive the film. Everyone is fantastic, even Julia Roberts, who I typically want to punch in her stupid, gap-toothed face. I mean when Clive Owen tells her to "fuck off and die," it just gives me goosebumps. I'd imagine it can be pretty difficult to turn a theatrical play (and a fairly minimalist one) into a film and maintain the same intimacy and connection an audience feels. But director Mike Nichols does so with assured confidence and the result is one of the best performance-driven films of the decade.

#6: Shaun of the Dead (Edgar Wright, 2004) - Remember when I said there wasn't a serious original zombie movie that could hold a torch to 28 Days Later? Well, I don't consider Shaun of the Dead a serious zombie film. Why? It's just too much fun. Serious zombie films should be disconcerting and bleak. I suppose this movie has bleak, unsettling points, but overall it's just an amazingly fun film. I don't know if I'd necessarily call it a parody because it does take itself seriously as a horror-comedy (if that makes sense). But that's the beauty of it: it fuses the best elements of good zombie flicks with side-splitting comedy and the obligatory buckets of blood. Wright finds an impeccable tone for the movie and keeps it consistent throughout, which isn't easy to do for a horror-comedy -- a genre that, by nature, sort of contradicts itself. Plus, Simon Pegg (who co-wrote) and Nick Frost are the ideal leading actors for this movie. They execute Wright's proposed tone to perfection.

#5: Planet Terror (Robert Rodriguez, 2007) - Ditto the above first few sentences for Planet Terror. This flick is just good, gore-soaked mayhem. From the opening scene, it's abundantly clear the movie isn't going to take itself seriously. Its purpose is to make you laugh, make you cringe and make sure you're thoroughly entertained from gruesome start to gruesome finish. And boy, does it succeed! Every time I watch this movie, I'm floored by just how much I enjoy it. And *spoiler alert* I give Rodriguez a lot of credit for having his own son shoot himself in the face in the middle of daddy's movie. Now that's dedication! Plus, Rose McGowan as a stripper with a big fucking gun for a leg -- brilliant! It almost seems wrong to have this much fun watching a movie.

#4: The Dark Knight (Christopher Nolan, 2008) - Seriously, this movie rocks. Sure, you can attribute much of its success to Heath Ledger's uncanny transformation into one of pop culture's most renowned and revered villains. But let's not shortchange Nolan, who not only created the film's appropriately dark, brooding atmosphere from the director's chair, but also co-wrote the detailed and layerd script with his brother. This isn't just a comic book movie. Chris and brother Jonathan have created such a meticulously deep Gotham City, the likes of which has never been created for a Batman film. If you take away the seemingly incorruptible costumed hero and the maniacal clown hell-bent on anarchy, you still have a screenplay filled with social commentary, political turmoil and a plethora of relational dynamics. Of course, none of those things show much reason for existing in Gotham without the aforementioned protagonist and antagonist, but you get my point. Even the interworkings of the criminal enterprises are more comprehensive than you'd ever imagine. Will we see the Nolan boys returning for a third installment? Let's fucking hope so. Because the only other name that comes to mind is Mr. Aronofsky and, frankly, his schedule is looking pretty full. Just keep Joel Schumacher away... far, far away.

#3: Being John Malkovich (Spike Jonze, 2000) - Okay, so IMDB has this movie listed as 1999, but I don't think it premiered in the States (in some places) until 2000. So I conferred with your mom and she gave me the go-ahead to throw it on the list. God bless your mom! Wow... another Kaufman script directed by Spike Jonze. Honestly, these guys work beautifully together. This was the first Kaufman/Jonze film I ever saw, before I even knew who either of them were (my man-crush on Kaufman didn't really bud until junior year of college). And the first time I watched it, I may have been coming down off some kind of illicit drug. Regardless, it blew my fucking mind! Even upon subsequent viewings -- in more "legal" states of consciousness -- it still blows my fucking mind! How the hell do you come up with a story like this? Do you really just sit down one day and say, "Hmmm, I wonder what it'd be like if there was a portal into John Malkovich hidden behind a filing cabinet on the seventh-and-a-half floor of an office building in New York City"? The first time I saw it, I couldn't really believe what I was watching. How does that idea evolve? And how do you even begin to turn it into a coherent, cohesive screenplay, much less a brilliant one? It boggles the mind! But Kaufman did it somehow and Spike Jonze envisioned it wonderfully. In my humble opinion, this is certainly the most original screenplay of the decade. In fact, I can't really think of any other script ever written that manages to make such a unique idea work so flawlessly.

#2: The Royal Tenenbaums (Wes Anderson, 2001) - Truly, if perfect films exist, this is one of them. There are really only two other films I've seen that I'd classify as perfect. You'll find one of them below and the other is Pulp Fiction. As far as Wes Anderson films go, I guess you either love 'em or hate 'em. Like most people, I love them. And this is, by far, my favorite (although I have not seen Bottle Rocket or The Fantastic Mr. Fox yet). The film does a flawless job of combining quirky humor with eccentric family drama. The Tenenbaums are a superbly peculiar family and it would seem incomplete to only show their comical moments without showcasing their more heart-wrenching and trying times. And that's not an easy undertaking. To create an even movie that fluctuates between comedy and drama is never a simple task. It takes an incredibly skilled director to craft the volatile balance found in Tenenbaums. *Spoiler Alert* Any film that can seamlessly merge the understated comedy of Owen Wilson, Ben Stiller, Bill Murray and Gene Hackman with an affecting, stomach-turning scene of attempted suicide (set to the tune of Elliott Smith), well don't you just have to give that movie a lot of credit? The drama doesn't detract from the comedy and the comedy doesn't detract from the drama. Rather, they complement each other and make the other that much more effective. As an audience, we feel for the Tenenbaums. We laugh with them and cry with them. Even if their problems seem more unconventional than our own, it shouldn't make it any more difficult to relate to them. After all, what's a family without unconventional problems?

#1: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Michel Gondry, 2004) - Yup, three Charlie Kaufman screenplays on a single list. And one of them takes top honors. Who woulda thunk it?

Really, first place was a shootout. Eternal Sunshine inched out Tenenbaums for the (somewhat dubious) #1 honor due largely to the emotional impact it generates for me personally. And I'd imagine I'm not the only one. I feel it's difficult to watch this movie and not contemplate your own "one that got away." How can you watch this film and not consider that person and the hypothetical trip to Lacuna that you would or wouldn't take? In that sense, the film addresses more than relationships and emotional scarring. We're forced to ponder the morality and questionable selfishness involved in erasing someone from a life -- not only as the eraser, but as the erasee and the mutual associates of both parties as well.

Of course, for those familiar with the pain of heartbreak, this film also inevitably forces you to think about the relational missteps and shoulda, woulda, couldas that accompany any meaningful romantic connection gone awry. As a result, the film can be emotionally draining, nostalgic and kind of depressing. But in the end, what does it really do? It recalls all those beautiful, awful, surreal and inescapable memories that the technicians at Lacuna would be working so hard to wipe from your brain. Ironic? Maybe. Intended? Possibly. But when the film's over, don't you feel kind of reassured? Isn't it a relief that you still have all those memories safely stored away? Isn't it nice to be able to look back on the experiences that helped shape you -- the good with the bad, the picturesque with the dreadful? Isn't it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all?

No??

Yeah... maybe your right.

The Metropolitan Ambush

Heartbroken would be an overstatement. Ambushed would probably be a more appropriate word--ambushed by a Midwest city that slid into filthy frames of landlocked residences with cluttered lawns and weathered roofs; their decimated appearance an indication of the harsh elements they've fought and succumbed to.

So I closed my eyes because I hated the poverty, because I hated Mick Jagger's nauseating oversimplifications blaring through the taxi's speakers.

I thought back to my second evening with her. She called my future plans "far out" and it just seemed so goddamn adorable. But she also had insight and she was willing to share. "Everyone around here falls into a relationship in high school and all the girls get pregnant by the time they're eighteen." She was beautiful when she said it because she was a refutation of her own generalization.

We were both drunk by the end of the night. "Don't worry, I won't stand you up tomorrow," she assured me. She was beautiful when she said it because it sounded honest.

I closed the space between us and tried to pull her aside discreetly. "When was the last time you kissed a boy?" I inquired delicately, making myself too obvious, my eyes broadcasting truth like stupid radio towers.

"I do prefer the ladies," she confessed. And my disappointment was a catapult that launched my lips towards hers.

"But I'm strangely charming," I countered, bringing my hands up to her face.

She laughed and said, "You're amazingly charming... and cute for a boy." Then my lips fell clumsily into hers and she accepted them.

Even if she was some dispossessed lie, some bullshit name that had me singing a Phish song to myself before I fell asleep, she was still memorable. She was still something to write about.

She could have been smoking pot in her parents' basement while a stripper wrapped her legs around my head. She could have been visiting her favorite bar--the one where her car was broken into--while I watched a blues band that knew nothing of sadness. Or she could have been bleeding to death in some emergency room while I dissolved into cigar smoke and twenty-dollar martinis that were, surprisingly, worth every penny.

Her tattoo said trust no one and part of me wanted to watch it disappear beneath my fingers, its inky implications staining the skin it decorated before vanishing completely. Another part of me wanted to burn it from her flesh, like that unforgettable episode of our favorite TV show where Jodi Foster's voice wreaked havoc on a man's sanity.

I tell myself she couldn't possibly be that good a liar and I couldn't possibly be that naive. I think that everything was legitimate except her name.

She knows I'm getting on a plane soon, thinking she'll never hear from me again. So I want to believe she'll be pleasantly surprised when her eyes stumble across words like drunks across company. She'll appreciate my understanding: Deceit is inevitable and tough to maintain; sometimes interactions are that much more effective when they're brief and dishonest.

Today, my mouth tastes like olives and my mind drifts back to Boston. Three cities in the span of a week and I consider throwing myself through the window of this boarding gate. I want my face to hit the runway in a cascade of broken glass while flights depart for destinations more conducive to love. My head needs to explode, my ears need a break from percussion and my body needs to be done with Indianapolis. So I tell last weekend's love affair that I hate this city more than hers. And it's true. At least Boston was honest.

"We're never coming back to Indy," I say to my coworker as we squeeze into our tight seats on the tiny airplane.

"Not if we don't have to," he replies, leaving the option a little too open for my taste.

Just Stay

Not to suck my own dick (figuratively speaking of course), but I think this is my favorite piece written recently (or even not so recently for that matter). It may not be the best, but I’d say it’s my fav.

I don’t really know why. And you guys are more than welcome to disagree. But I really enjoyed writing this and I really like the way it turned out. I think it’s a little sweeter than the stuff I typically write, but there’s nothing wrong with that, right? In fact, it’s probably a nice change of pace after a month of dead babies, psychotic little girls, chainsaw deaths and shovel bludgeoning.

Those of you who talk to me on a regular basis (you poor souls) probably know I’ve been absolutely obsessed with Kevin Devine lately (no homo), particularly his song “Just Stay.” I was also up in Boston a few weekends ago, so I guess this piece was largely inspired by both New England and Kevin Devine. Yeah, it’s almost entirely fiction, but that shouldn’t make it any less poignant!

And if you haven’t listened to Kevin Devine, particularly the aforementioned song, I STRONGLY recommend you do so.

Just Stay

I was strung out on a ferry going from New London to Orient Point. The seats were the color of calamine lotion and the walls were painted a sickly sort of teal—one so pale, it bordered on anemic. The sitting area looked weathered and abused, like the waiting room of some inner city methadone clinic. The light was artificial and unsteady, a laboring illumination that complemented the drab and tacky color scheme.

Before boarding I was a little concerned that the unavoidable motion of the boat might make for an unpleasant trip in my condition. But as I stretched out on a collection of seats, using my bunched up jacket as a pillow, the slight, almost undetectable movement of the ship actually soothed me.

It was after midnight, but I kept my sunglasses on. The fluorescent lights were excruciating. I could almost see the buzzing.

When I first decided to make myself horizontal, selfishly occupying an entire row of seats, the whole sitting area had been empty. I suppose late night ferries don’t typically attract a staggering amount of passengers and I was grateful to have Kevin Devine crooning through my iPod as my only company.

She said it’s pretty but you hate yourself, I can hear it clear as day.

As the boat drifted my mind did the same. It was pretty incredible to think that only hours earlier I was watching the dark imperfections of I-95 lead south like varicose veins.

***

“Paaawwwtucket!” Evan exclaimed as we sped past the exit sign. He was enamored with the hillbilly twang of the word. I was kind of surprised he’d never heard it before.

“Downtown Pawtucket does not look very impressive,” I said, inhaling a lump of coke off the edge of my key as I looked out the window towards the bleak façade of low brick buildings.

“Dude, when you name you’re town Pawtucket, you’re really setting yourself up for failure.”

“You want a bump?”

“Yeah.”

I positioned the key under his nose and he inhaled, knocking most of the powder on his shirt and pants.

“So that girl was really giving you a handy under the table?”

“Not really a handy. More like a really inappropriate massage.”

It was true. The petite, unassuming girl with dirty blond hair and drunk, honest eyes got pretty friendly pretty quickly. But I was less impressed with her apparent compulsion towards rubbing my nether regions beneath the table and drawn more to the simple comfort of her company. I was amazed with how good it felt to hold someone again, to feel someone else’s tongue in my mouth. It had been so long. There was the feeling that we belonged to each other, at least for a few hours.

“Did you even kiss her?” Evan asked.

“Eventually. Momentarily.”

We had only kissed once and only for a few seconds. And we took a lot of shit for our brief, sloppy makeout session—our respective group hooting and taunting, jokingly calling our outward display of affection “inappropriate” at such an early hour. But that’s what happens when you start drinking at noon. And she had decided to lightly touch my junk before our tongues ever collided—only about an hour after we met. I was mildly perplexed. She came off as kind of sweet and wholesome. Still, she moved her delicate fingers over my package while I ate my chicken sandwich and chased it with my ninth or tenth IPA of the day.

“I’m surprised she didn’t try and get you to stay,” Evan said. “You totally should have stayed, bro.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Obligations dude.”

“You’re an idiot. That girl actually liked you.”

“I gotta get home.”

That hadn’t been my initial intention. The beer convention had been planned. Heading home that same evening had not. But I felt compelled, despite the inebriation, despite the inevitable distance and despite the pretty, young girl that had been so willingly wrapped in my arms for a fair portion of the evening. Even after the convention, as we sat on a bench in some Bostonian park drinking beer out of paper-bagged cans, our reciprocating body heat kept us warm in the face of a Northeast November.

“Just stay,” she had whispered into my ear. And I thought of Kevin Devine.

“I’m okay, okay,” I replied softly, putting my free hand around her and inserting it into the side pocket of her skinny jeans.

“What?” She nuzzled in closer to me, burying her small frame in my encompassing body.

“Nothing… sorry.” I placed my cool face against hers and closed my eyes as a strong wind whipped past us, causing the few remaining leaves on the tree overhead to tremble and shift, their brittle bodies falling to the ground with a light tick.

“How would you get home anyway?” she asked.

“Evan said he’d drive me to the ferry.”

“That’ll take two hours.”

“Maybe less.”

“You’ve been drinking all day.”

I answered with silence, my face still pressed against hers, her jaw rubbing softly against my cheek as she spoke.

“You know, another girl might be offended. What’s so damn important at home anyway?”

“The Yankees.”

“You’re an asshole. I don’t think I like you anymore.” She made a weak attempt to push away from me, but I held her close.

“That’s not true. You just need to believe that I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t have a good reason.”

It was her turn to be silent.

“And I have your phone number,” I added.

“Plan on being in Boston again in the near future?”

“No, not really.”

“So just stay.”

“Let’s shake and trade and be on our way. Let’s go, go, go,” I replied, half-singing.

“What?”

“Nothing… sorry.”

“You have a girlfriend?” This was somehow simultaneously a timid inquiry and a scathing accusation.

“No… not anymore. We broke up a few months ago.”

“What happened?”

“We didn’t see eye to eye on something, so she left me.”

“She left you?”

“Well… I guess we kind of left each other.”

She nodded, potentially understanding. “So you’re just going to leave.”

“I think I should.”

“Seriously, you suck.”

“I know.”

***

Rhode Island indicated its size by the length of time we were in it.

“You might make this ferry after all,” Evan said, yanking me from my sweet recollection.

“Jesus, I fucking better.”

“Just tell me something, man, how does you getting home tonight change anything?”

“It might not change anything.”

Connecticut was a blanket of darkness with only headlights to break up the black. We were going nowhere on a road that was suspended in space, on a crash-course with oblivion.

“Hey, it’s your life, but if you ask me…”

“I appreciate the ride, Evan,” I said, cutting him off. “But not the insight.”

“You don’t hafta be a dick.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

And we sped towards exit 84, towards an aging dock and a floating vessel that would carry me closer to or farther from a place I needed to be.

***

Even with my eyes closed and my sunglasses offering additional protection, I knew the blazing overhead fluorescence of the ferry sitting area had been eclipsed.

“Are you breathing?”

“I think so. Fuck… I hope so.”

She was standing over me, examining my face. Her long wavy hair swept over the shoulders of her green military jacket and fell to the middle of her back. She was slight and plain, but attractive because of something both menacing and typical, a contradiction that’s not easy to pull off.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” she asked.

“The light—it’s brutal.”

“You smell like a brewery.”

“A beer fest.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I was at a beer festival, not a brewery.”

I winced as I turned and sat upright.

“You okay?” she asked.

“My ass hurts.”

“Why?”

“High-kicking contest.”

“What?”

“A high-kicking contest.”

“What’s that?”

“Honestly, it’s pretty much exactly what it sounds like. What do you think it is?”

“It sounds like you had a contest to see who could kick the highest.”

“Bingo.”

She smiled a little. “You pulled something,” she said mockingly.

“No. I slipped in a puddle of beer and fell on my ass. At least I think it was beer. It was definitely wet and it was definitely at a beer convention.”

“Did you win?”

“Win what?”

“The high-kicking contest.”

“No. Not even close. I’m pretty sure I was a solid seven or eight inches below the mark. My jeans are too tight.”

She looked down at my jeans to see if that was true. It seemed like she was satisfied with the legitimacy of the statement. “So why are you here?”

“That’s a pretty existential question.”

“I mean why are you alone on a ferry going from Connecticut to Long Island at dark-thirty?”

“Circumstances, I guess. The primary ones being alcohol and obligations.”

“Obligations for what?”

I sighed. “I don’t think I should go into that right now.”

“That’s fair, you just met me,” she said. “So you know this boat has a bar, right? Seems like you’d be better suited for that setting.”

“I don’t think I want to drink anymore.” I paused, thinking. “Maybe I do. I don’t like being that guy alone at the bar, especially on a ferry. It seems pathetic.”

“As opposed to being sprawled out on these seats, headphones covering your ears, sunglasses hiding your eyes? You kind of look like a vagrant.”

“And do you make a habit of approaching vagrants?”

“Not really,” she said. “But I’m bored and, amazingly enough, you’re one of the more approachable characters on this boat.”

“That’s pretty sad.”

“It really is.” She stopped and lowered her voice a little. “Do you have any more blow?”

“What?”

“Blow—do you have any more?”

“What would make you ask a question like that?”

She brought her hand up to her nose and made a wiping gesture.

“Oh, are you fucking serious?” I replied, wiping the minimal powder off my nostril. ‘Smoke Rings’ a friend had once called them. “That’s pretty amateur of me.”

“It definitely is. So, do you have more?”

“Maybe.”

“You should share.”

“I guess.” I looked around the empty sitting area. “You wanna just follow me into the bathroom?”

“Hey now, I’m not that kind of girl.” She took a half-step back. “If you think you’re getting any private lavatory favors out of this deal, you’re dead wrong. You just need to exhibit some selflessness.”

“I mean to do the coke… discreetly, privately.”

“Who cares? There’s like no one on this ship anyway.”

I shrugged, reached into my pocket and handed her the bag. “You have a key or something?”

“Or something.” She pulled a hair clip from her small purse and used the indented end as a tiny shovel, inserting it, along with the drug, into her nostril. She gave a quick, dainty inhalation and repeated the process two more times. “That coke kind of sucks.”

“I know. It was all I could find in Boston on short notice.”

“So the beer festival was in Boston?”

“Yeah.”

“And you drove all the way down to catch this ferry? Aren’t you wasted? That’s pretty irresponsible.”

“I’m pretty wasted, but I didn’t drive. My buddy gave me a lift.”

“Was he wasted?”

“Yeah, but not as wasted.”

“You’re awful.”

“That’s a bold statement coming from someone that just mooched blow off me. You didn’t even ask my name.”

“Should I?”

“It doesn’t really matter.”

She shifted her weight and eyed the seat next to me, apparently considering whether or not remaining in my company was a worthy investment of her time.

“So once we get into Orient Point, how are you getting home?” she asked.

“Haven’t really figured that part out yet. I’ll probably call a taxi.”

“Where do you live?”

“Riverhead.”

“That’s going to cost you. I could probably give you a ride. I’ll be driving through Riverhead anyway.”

“I’m a total stranger that’s been admittedly drinking for over twelve hours and sampling additional illicit substances. Do you really want me in your car? I could be dangerous. At the very least, I’m unsavory.”

“Well what about dangerous? Are you?”

“I could be.”

She studied me with this question in mind. “I don’t think you are,” she said after a moment.

“Yeah, I’m not very dangerous,” I agreed. “At least I have no intention of being dangerous.”

“Then we’re in good shape.”

She sat down next to me, in the chair that had previously been occupied by my feet. “So, you don’t want to know anything about me?” she asked. “Maybe I’m the dangerous one. Maybe I scout out late-night ferries for unsuspecting prey and lure them into my car with promises of a safe ride home.”

“I think I could take you.”

“What?”

“I’m tougher than I look—I could take you.”

“You’re drunk and high. If I had a weapon in my car, you’d be dead before we got two miles.” She drew out the last two words very deliberately and offered me a conniving, manic sort of smirk.

“What kind of killer would do something like that?” I replied.

“Huh?”

“If you were really a serial killer,” I elaborated. “You wouldn’t want to just kill me quickly in your car. You’d want to savor the experience. You’d probably want to knock me out and keep me locked in some kind of torture dungeon. Then you’d kill me when you could actually enjoy it.”

“I guess that makes sense,” she admitted. “Well, what if I just wanted to rob you? Maybe I just want to hold you up at gun point, take all your valuables and leave you in the middle of nowhere.”

“Not much to take.”

She scrunched her face a little. “Wow, you’re really good at refuting this sinister image I have of myself.”

“Fabricated.”

“What?”

“The fabricated sinister image you have of yourself,” I corrected.

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait and see how fabricated it is.” She reached into her purse, pulled out some chap stick and applied it liberally to her lips. “So why so mysterious? Why won’t you tell me what you’re trying to get home for? I mean if I spent the entirety of my day partying in Boston, I don’t think I’d be trying to get home that same night.”

“I think I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“You’re too young to try and do the right thing. Doing the right thing is really for people that are thirty and older. So why won’t you tell me what the right thing is?”

“I can’t. I don’t really want you to know me,” I said honestly.

“You think I’ll pass judgment.” This was a statement, not a question.

“I feel like it’s kind of impossible not to. It’s reactionary. When someone presents you with a scenario involving dubious morality, you can’t stop your mind from considering and deliberating. Even if you want to.” She stared at me blankly. “All this happens in the span of a second or two. A second or two isn’t enough time to really control your brain.”

“Point taken.” But she was still intrigued. “Well, can you tell me what prompted you to come home?”

I consider the question, like we’re playing a game. Was it against the rules? I decided it wasn’t. “I guess I can do that. It was a text message.”

“One text message encouraged you to go from Boston to Riverhead at this time of night?” She was skeptical.

I nodded. “Okay… two text messages, if you want to get technical.”

“So there’s an emergency.” Again—a statement, not a question.

“I wouldn’t really call it an emergency. The time of urgency has passed.” I said the last part sort of officially, like a newscaster or politician or despot.

“So why the hell is it important enough to leave Boston so suddenly?” She was getting a little frustrated with my elusive sort of anti-logic. “Why not just come home in the morning?”

This was a good question and one I couldn’t really answer. I gave it a moment’s thought, but was unable to really pick out a sensible response. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Not really.”

“But you decided to make the trip anyway?”

I just shrugged. “There was very little reason involved in my decision.”

“Ohhhh.” She nodded dramatically, as if with instantaneous understanding. “Then it’s a girl,” she said simply.

I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing. Her confidence in this assertion was pretty astounding. I conceded to its degree of accuracy. “Sort of.”

“Well there’s a girl involved somehow.”

“There is. But how do you know this?”

“You said there wasn’t much reason involved in your decision.” She smiled a little, knowingly. She was clearly very pleased with her sleuthing ability. “That tends to be the case when girls are part of the equation. It’s pretty primitive when you think about it.”

I laughed again. “Yeah, it really is.”

“So you love this girl?” The little detective had a hot lead and was pursuing with assured diligence.

“I did.”

“Not anymore?”

“I don’t know. It’s definitely a possibility.”

“A possibility?” Again, her frustration showed itself. “Most guys won’t make the decision you did for a possibility.”

I thought this girl might be my subconscious manifesting itself in some kind of physical form. She sounded too much like me. She asked questions that pushed me in a certain direction. “Who are you anyway? Where did you come from?”

She didn’t even flinch. “You definitely love her. And it sounds like I’m your ride. We’ll be docking in a few minutes.”

***

Her car was clean and smelled like strawberry bubble gum.

“I appreciate the ride,” I said.

“Just leave me the rest of your coke,” she replied, steering the car off the ferry dock and onto the main road.

“It may have been cheaper for me to take a cab.” This was a joke, but she didn’t laugh.

I took the bag of drugs out of my pocket and put it in her center console.

“You’ll probably want to be sober for whatever it is you have to do anyway.”

“Well, I think it’ll take more time than I’ve got to really sober up. I’m actually starting to feel pretty awful.” This was true. My long, heavy buzz was fading and being replaced with a pulsing headache. I started to sweat a little, so I cracked the window.

“What did the text say?” she asked.

“What?”

“You said it was a text message that made you leave. What did it say?”

“The first or the second?”

“Both.”

I closed my eyes and let the cool November air caress my moistened face. “The first one said, ‘she’s coming.’ So I texted her back with ‘what should I do?’ Her second text said, ‘just leave.’”

“Just leave?”

“Just leave.”

So we both grab hold and say no you don’t. Just stay, just stay.

“And you just left.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

And I’m grabbing at a feeling now that I can’t ever name. Some sign post to remind me how I wanted things this way.

“Who’s she?”

“Who?”

The girl sighed. I could feel my mind getting slower and she probably could too. The alcohol and cocaine were leaving me.

“You said the first text you got was ‘she’s coming.’ Who’s she?”

I didn’t answer. I just kept my eyes closed and my face perfectly positioned in front of the open window.

“So you’re not going to tell me?” she asked.

I remained silent for a moment then said, “I told you—I don’t want you to know me.”

She gave a little shrug. “Fine. It’s your secret.”

We drove in silence for a little while. She didn’t even turn on the radio.

“Where do you want me to drop you off?” she asked as we grew closer to Riverhead.

“You know where the hospital is?”

“Jesus… yeah.” Her voice adopted a concerned tone and she took her eyes off the road for a moment to look over towards me. “I thought you said it wasn’t an emergency.”

“It’s not really. I told you, the time of urgency has passed.”

She sighed again. “Should I just stop asking questions? I’m really not going to get the whole story here, am I?”

“I think you already kind of know the whole story,” I replied. “After all, you’re just a physical manifestation of my subconscious.”

“What the fuck?”

“Nothing… sorry.”

“I think you are doing the right thing.”

“Yeah? Even with your limited knowledge?”

“I’m pretty perceptive,” she said and smiled. I smiled too.

“I believe that,” I said, closing my eyes and letting the night air pummel my face. I think I deserved the beating.

***

The glass doors slid open and I walked, like a zombie, down the long glowing corridor.

The hospital was quiet and sterile. I spoke with some large nurse at some important looking desk and, after a brief and somewhat accusatorial interview, she pointed me in the appropriate direction after giving me a piece of gum. She didn’t like me. She could smell my alcohol and exhaustion, but I guess she was willing to offer me the benefit of the doubt; creating her own set of circumstances that might make my tardiness excusable.

I slowed my pace as I approached the room the large nurse had indicated. I had a brief moment of panic as my remaining inebriation, impending hangover and nearly overwhelming anxiety collided to form a perfect storm of awfulness. My legs felt wobbly and my head was ready to explode. I considered the option of turning around and sprinting for the door, running like a crazy person down the barren hallway, hearing the angry calls of the large nurse as I moved like a bullet past her station. “I knew you were an asshole!” I would hear her yelling as I fled from my responsibility. “A chicken-shit little asshole!”

But I steadied myself and pushed the thoughts from my mind. I took a deep breath and entered.

She was alone in the room, which was a relief. Mercifully, there were no family members or other friends. She looked beautiful. Her eyes were closed and her golden hair cascaded across the white linens beneath her head. She had such a look of accomplished exhaustion on her face, I wanted to cry and beg her forgiveness. I wanted to throw myself at her feet and tell her that the fat nurse was right; I’m a chicken-shit asshole and I don’t deserve to be here. But the girl on the ferry was also right—I love you and I wouldn’t be here right now if I didn’t. Please be with me again. Please.

Her eyes opened slowly and I could tell by the look on her face that some part of her thought I was either a dream or a hallucination. But the sense of reality came quickly and a thin, tired smile graced her lips.

“I ruined your night,” she said groggily. And I could feel myself on the verge of tears.

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

“You were in Boston?”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t lift her head from the pillow, but she looked at me with affection. “How the hell did you get down here?”

“The same way I got up there.” I moved towards the bed. “I’m sorry. I should have been here. I didn’t even realize what day it was.”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks… longer maybe.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Okay.”

I stood over her and traced the outline of her tired face with my finger. “You look so beautiful,” I said.

“Are you drunk?”

“A little. I was at a beer convention.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed on her lips. “I can’t believe you made it down. What time is it?”

“Late.”

She closed her eyes again and pressed her face against my hand. “So,” she said. “Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“To meet her. I think she really wants to meet you.”

“I’m really nervous.”

She gave a cute, tired little laugh. “That’s okay. I don’t think she’ll be able to tell.”

“What if she hates me?” I inquired coyly, legitimately terrified of the answer.

“What if she loves you?” She asked this question with a staggering degree of seriousness, like the fate of this world and every other world rested solely on my response.

…And I’m racing towards the one mistake that locks me in my place. The judgment call that justifies the smirk stuck on my face. My crooked life scared straight and stiff by the last wrong turn I’ll take…

I leaned down and put my mouth right next to her ear. “Then I’ll stay.”

The Brave Swine

She arrives as a piece of pop art, unaware of her obscurity at this kind of party. So I pester my artist friends for a name, asserting their worthlessness as they recall recent trips to the MoMA and draw a blank on the exhibit in question. Warhol is mentioned, but I know better. I may be uncultured, but something so obvious would be a letdown.

When technology fails, I resort to spies. They do their job but leave me feeling dirty, like I cheated. And I did cheat. So she sees through me, partly because I want her to.

“Roy Lichtenstein,” I say somewhat absently.

“Did someone tell you?” she responds, smiling. She's trying to be kind. She doesn't want to insult me, but the knowing is in her eyes. “You're full of shit,” is what she's thinking. And I don't blame her. I am full of shit. But it's well-intentioned shit and I think she can see that too.

In less than ten minutes, I'm in love. That’s the third or fourth time today... and it's still early.

Before too long I'm trying to see myself in her writing, despite never having read a word. My egotism rages and I want her to take this conversation to bed instead of me. I want her to carry it back to California and afford me the attention I crave. And I’d imagine she understands this. After all, we're both writers. We couldn’t be more transparent. We're looking for inspiration in each other’s vanity, taking mental notes and collecting the evening as a fictional and sensorial account that will appear more attractive to our respective readers.

And somehow she calls me brave, in a passive kind of way. Like she’s looking for a more appropriate word but can’t quite find it. Still, she calls me brave. Twice. So I can savor her sweet accent as the word dances off her tongue and massages the air between us like the beautiful mistake it is.

“That's really brave,” she says vaguely. And I melt like the proverbial snowball in hell. But I want her to know it's true. I want her to know that I'm not quite as intimidated by her as I seem. So I give the piece she'll never write a title: “The Brave Swine.” And I picture her smiling coyly as she writes it.

When I finally find her poems—her conditions—I want to associate them with a taste. I want to head west instead of east and rip Lichtenstein off her body. I want to show her that passion isn't just for the foreign—that Americans can lust and live and fuck like Chilean authors or Thom Yorke.

Instead, we’ll just be characters for each other to tamper with, one-dimensional compositions that fill some kind of role on a page or blog or memoir. We’re mirrored representations of love for the only thing that really matters. And it’s both sad and beautiful.

Thanks!

During October's exercise in horror, it came to my attention that Last Before Infinity has been in existence for over a year. This came as a shock to me--not because it's so hard to believe that over 365 days have elapsed since I created this blog. But during my brief period of introspective reflection, it dawned on me just how little my life has changed in the past year.

Man, I'm lame.

Anyway, in light of this mild epiphany, it may seem appropriate to stress some existential cliche about time's propensity for sneaking away or our respective struggles on a road towards emotional maturity and personal fulfillment. But let's face it; you've heard all that crap before and my perspective probably won't be any different than those you've come to know, trust and revere. Instead, I'm just going to say thanks.

There are a few people who have read every word of every post on this hit-and-miss literary experiment I call Last Before Infinity. And not every post has been gold. Not by a long shot. Nevertheless, a handful of supportive friends have managed to peruse every story, review, rant, complaint, recommendation and meandering free-write that I've puked up onto this blog. Some may call this unmitigated masochism (myself included), but these sickos keep coming back for more!

And I do appreciate when said individuals are vocal about their opinions, whether they really enjoy what I've done or absolutely loathe it. I like feedback, even if it's someone telling me I suck. Well... that's a half-truth. I don't really like when people tell me I suck. But I do love attention! So when someone acknowledges my writing exists (even if it's to tell me I'm a sloppy, no-talent hack), it makes me happy(ish). Hey... if you're creating something you're exposing yourself to subjectivity, which means there's always going to be someone that hates what you do. At least that's what I tell myself when I'm crying and carving "be a better writer" into my forearm at night.

So I'm saying 'cheers' to all those guys and girls that keep me motivated. If this blog has done nothing else, it's acted as a medium for encouragement. Just knowing there are a few people that will read and digest everything I post has made me a more productive writer this past year. And I'm really grateful. Some of my more recent life-affirming decisions probably would not have come without support from the aforementioned individuals. So there you have it.

Thanks everybody!

Much Love,
J.

P.S. If you really want an exclusive shout-out or to see your name mentioned on some explicit list, get over yourself! I'll buy you a drink or something.

Happy Campers (Part III)

Okay... some of you may have heard about this little thing called the World Series. Some of you may have also heard that the Philadelphia Phillies are playing the New York Yankees, leading to a significant amount of drinking and raging on my part. And you know what sucks? I kinda like the Phillies. They’re a great ball club and I think Charlie Manuel seems like an awesome fucking dude. He actually reminds me a lot of Tom Coughlin… but fatter and drunker, with bigger jowls.

“So what does this have to do with your retarded little story, Jim?” Thanks for asking! Well, because of my avid love for the Yankees, I have spent two nights this week drinking and screaming as opposed to writing. But a deadline is a deadline, so I wrote the last three pages after the game last night, drunk on victory (and beer) at around 1 in the morning, finishing things up a short time after 2. Why? Because I love you guys and I like to think there are at least 7 or 8 (million) people looking forward to the conclusion of this story.

And here we are. Despite the impending obligation and increasing length of this story, I had a blast writing it. Buuuut, as a result of all my work this month, I do think I’m going to be stepping away from the horror genre for a little while. So for all of you reading this that have stuck with me through the whole month, thanks! I hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves.

Obligatory disclaimer: This is the third part of a three-part story. If you haven't already, please read the first two parts (posted on this blog) before reading this one.

And without further adieu… the final chapter of Happy Campers.

Happy Campers (Part III)

...And I watch helplessly as Karen’s blood seeps into the dirt of this goddamn forest.

“Oh God... Karen,” I put my hand on her neck to check for a pulse, but before my fingers graze her skin, her eyes open slowly and sleepily. She looks at me with a combination of confusion and contempt.

“Karen, I'm so sorry. I thought you were attacking me. I didn't know who you were.”

She moves her lips in an effort to speak, but closes her mouth before any words can escape.

“Just lay still,” I tell her. I look towards the expanding stain that's turning her t-shirt into a crimson Rorschach test, fighting the blood and the forest's darkness to find the wound itself. After a few moments I locate the deep gash on the side of her torso, just above her hip. “Karen, are you having trouble breathing? How much pain are you in?”

She looks at me accusingly, tears welling up in her eyes. “You stabbed me,” she manages to mutter. “You... stabbed me.”

“Jesus, I'm so sorry baby,” I'm using my hand to apply pressure to the wound in an effort to slow the bleeding. “I thought you were someone else. I thought you were trying to kill me.” She screams as my hand presses on the gash. Blood flows through my fingers like water through a collapsing dam. “I'm so sorry, Karen. God, I'm so sorry. But you're going to be okay. We're going to get you help.”

She looks at me with a lazy kind of glare. “It's going to be okay? I'm bleeding to death in the middle of nowhere because my boyfriend stabbed me and you're telling me it's going to be okay?”

“Karen, I don't know how to explain it, but some seriously fucked up shit is going on and...”

She cuts me off, her voice rising above her previously passive and disdainful tone. “Oh I'll say some seriously fucked up shit is going on; I just got stabbed by my fucking boyfriend with a knife that looks like it could have belonged to Crocodile Dundee.” She's yelling now. “I'd say that's some seriously fucked up shit.” She starts coughing hard and relaxes her body a little bit, conceding that the effort she just exerted to scold me wasn’t worth it.

“I wish I could explain it, but,” I pause, not wanting to say the words. “But I'm starting to think these woods are haunted.” It's painful to say and sounds even more ridiculous than I would have expected. I picture Shaggy from Scooby Doo trembling and screaming “like zoinks” as he jumps into the waiting arms of his Great Dane companion. I try to defend myself before she even says a word. “And I know how fucking insane that sounds, but in the past hour or two I've seen and heard some things that I just can't explain.”

She smiles a thin sarcastic smile. “Haunted,” she says dismissively as her eyes close for a brief moment. “I want to think this is some bad joke, but I'm in way too much pain to even entertain the idea.”

“Okay... Andrew and Dillon are somewhere along this path and they couldn't have gone too far. I was yelling for them and...”

She cuts me off again. “I know you were yelling for them. That's how I found you. I heard you screaming like you...” she pauses and looks at me. “Well, like you'd seen a ghost. I don't think I've ever heard you sound so terrified.”

“I know this is an impossible situation, Karen, but you have to believe me. At least for now. I need you to bear with me. Do you think you can walk?”

She grimaces at the proposition. “I'm not sure,” she says. “I feel like I'm in shock. In your pack, do you have a first aid kit or bandages?”

“Holy shit, I think I actually might.” I pull the bag off my back and start rummaging through its contents. Finally, in the outside zipper compartment I find some bandages and disinfectant. I do my best to treat the wound, but I can see a brownish stain building on the bandage almost immediately. “That should help, but we're going to need to change that pretty regularly. Now, can you stand up?”

“You need to help me.”

“Of course.” I put my hands under her armpits and lift as she pushes with her legs, letting out an exasperated growl of pain as her torso straightens and she leans against me.

“Fuck, that hurts.”

I wait for her to adjust to her new position. After nearly a minute, she finally says, “Alright... let's give this a try.”

We walk slowly up the trail in the direction Andrew and Dillon were heading. “How did you get out here?” I ask her.

She breathes and winces. “I don't know. I woke up in the middle of the woods.”

“What?”

“Just like I said. When I woke up, I wasn't in the tent anymore; I was totally alone in the woods. Like I had just been sleepwalking and ended up in the underbrush.”

“But you don't sleepwalk.”

“I know I don't fucking sleepwalk,” she responds with a hefty dose of annoyance. “And you typically don't stab me either, but I guess some things about this trip just aren't operating according to the status quo. I had no idea where anyone was, or where I was for that matter. After almost an hour of wandering and panicking, I heard you screaming. I couldn't believe it. None of it made any sense, but I found you.” She stops as a hint of affection begins to creep into her voice. She snuffs it out quickly and returns to her more callous, accusing nature. “And then you stabbed me.”

“Baby, I'm so sorry. But something attacked me.”

“Wait… hold on one second. You said Andrew and Dillon are on this trail somewhere. What about Eve? Where is she?”

I stop walking and stare into the darkness. I'm caught off guard. I'd completely forgotten Karen’s clueless as to Eve's unfortunate condition. After a moment, I turn to her. “Eve's dead, Karen.”

She looks at me with disbelief, staring in silence as the news sinks in. “She's what? How... how did it happen?”

I sigh. “Andrew kind of killed her.”

She pushes me away and nearly falls over. “What are you saying?”

“Andrew and Dillon thought she was trying to kill them so Andrew... he killed her.”

I move towards her but she shoves me away again, doubling over in pain and eventually dropping to her knees. I go to help her, but she pushes me back. “Just stay away from me!” she screams. “Don't fucking touch me. I'm out in the goddamn woods with a pack of fucking murderers. Was this your plan? Did you all conspire to lure Eve and I out to the middle of fucking nowhere just to kill us?”

“Karen, you can't be serious. You know that's not true.”

“Do I?” she's crying now, spitting the words through choked sobs. “Do I really? Because I'm lying in the dirt bleeding from a stab wound you gave me! And now you tell me you're two friends killed the only other girl out here! What am I supposed to think?”

“It's not like it sounds,” I plead with her. “Something is out here. Something is doing things to us. Fucking with us. It's the only explanation. Andrew, Dillon and I all had dreams, Karen. Really fucking vivid dreams where you and Eve were killing us. Since then, since we woke up, nothing has made any sense.” I let out an exasperated grunt. “Look, what if I told you that before I stabbed you, you had attacked me? Only it wasn't you. It was some kind of creature trying to kill me. Some kind of hallucination or something. I don't know what it was, but it was trying its best to end my life. When I swung the knife I thought I was defending myself from whatever the fuck had just tried to choke me to death.” I squat down and put my hand on her back. She doesn't fight me. “Something is affecting us, Karen. And I don't know how, but nobody from our group is in their right mind now. Nothing makes sense. We're all seeing things and experiencing things that just can't be real. But something's happening to us and...” I pause, contemplating. “It's turning us against each other.”

“And you know how crazy that sounds, right?”

“Of course I know how crazy that sounds. But I think at least part of you believes it. I mean you can't explain how you managed to end up out of the tent in the middle of the woods, can you?”

“That's not all,” she says sheepishly. “I had a nightmare too.” She takes a deep breath, looking somewhat defeated, and continues. “There’s something I didn’t tell you—something I really wasn’t planning on ever telling you.” She pauses again, her eyes refusing to look into mine. “Two weeks ago I had an abortion. I got pregnant and I was afraid to tell you, so I kept it a secret and took care of it myself.”

My mouth drops open as I search for words. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you didn't want it. And I knew how thin the chances were of our relationship surviving something like that. I just didn't want to lose you.”

“Karen, you should have told me. How could you be so sure I didn’t want it?”

“It was no secret,” she snaps back at me. “It's not like you were quiet about your feelings towards children.”

“Well maybe my feelings would have changed when faced with the actual situation. It’s not something you should have gone through by yourself, Karen.”

“Oh don’t even give me that crap. If I had told you, we’d just be in the same place we are right now. I was trying to save our relationship. I didn’t want us burdened with the weight of that kind of decision.”

I let out an exaggerated sigh and consider jumping down her throat, screaming frantically as I badger her for her hasty decision. But I know she’s right; I would have pushed her in the same direction she chose. So as she sits there, fatigued and bleeding, I do my best to appreciate her course of action. “Okay… and what does this have to do with your nightmare?”

She takes a deep breath and begins. “I wasn't in the tent anymore. I was on the ground in the middle of the woods. But the forest seemed brighter somehow—an eerie kind of brighter though. I don't know if I'd call it unnatural, but it wasn't the moon or the stars providing the light. Actually, as I looked up, I couldn't see a single star. It's like there was a tarp of blackness connecting the tops of the trees.” She swallows hard and closes her eyes momentarily, continuing the story as she slowly reopens them. “I was lying on my back, feeling kind of paralyzed. I could move my limbs a little, but it took so much effort just to wiggle a finger. I was weak and disoriented, but I could hear something—voices circling me and getting closer. I couldn't hear words though or any kind of language, just mutterings and rustling. I tried to lift my head to look around, but it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. I couldn't see anything besides the trees and the black. And that's when I felt strong, rough hands grab my neck.” She winces, either in physical pain or from her recollection of the story.

“You okay?” I ask, exhibiting a sense of concern I wish I could downplay.

She nods with a mild whimper and continues. “I was totally helpless. I could tell I was completely surrounded, but I couldn't see any faces or bodies, just hands—dirty, stained hands with long jagged fingernails that reached for me. I tried to move but I couldn't. All I could do was shift my eyes from one gnarled, trembling hand to another.” The tears start again and she sniffles as she wipes the moisture from her eyes. “All at once there were five or six hands on me, their arms reaching into a dark sort of oblivion. No bodies. Nothing to even suggest the arms were attached to anything. The hands pulled my shirt up around my neck, leaving my stomach exposed. I could only shift my eyes enough to watch... as their awful, crooked nails dug into my skin.” I can see her trying admirably to restrain her emotions, but she's trembling now, her eyes puffy and waterlogged, her voice strident and unsteady.

“And they kept coming,” she continues, fighting through the sobs. “More and more hands, each one with five fingers digging into my stomach with their nails. God, I could feel the pain. I could feel the blood slipping down the side of my body. And all I could do was watch as the hands just burrowed into my stomach for minutes and minutes. I screamed and howled and begged, but they just kept digging. And after a while, I could feel them slowing down. They were less frantic and more—God, I don't know—surgical maybe.” She stops to wipe the mucus from her nose with the top of her shirt, her eyes brimming with tears. “And I watched as they pulled it out of me. It took me a second to realize the cries and sobs weren't mine anymore. They had it by its tiny feet, extracting it from the gaping hole in my stomach—a baby. A bloody newborn kicking and screaming, dangling from some wretched hand like a fish snatched from the ocean.” Finally, her eyes move towards me, their wet, red intent burning a hole into me. “That's when I saw you. You moved from the edge of the trees, into the light. And you took the screaming baby from their hands. You took it in your arms and you looked down at it; you glared at it like it was some kind of monster. And then you positioned its tiny little neck in between your fingers and you snapped it like a twig. The crack echoed through the trees and silenced the forest. Then you dropped the baby on the ground like a piece of garbage and you disappeared back into the woods.” She steals her eyes away from mine, that haunting glare of hatred moving from my face to the palms of her hands. And then she sobs outwardly, her shoulders heaving, her body a fault line omitting convulsions and tremors so violent, for a moment I think she could break her own spine.

“You killed him!” she screams into the night air. “You killed my baby!” She loses control and rolls over onto her side.

I'm at a loss. I move to console her and I'm not surprised when she pushes me away. But I persist, wrapping my arms around her, exploiting her weakness until she can't resist anymore. “It's okay,” I say softly into her ear, doing my best to banish the not-so-obscure truth behind her accusation. “It was just a nightmare. We've all had them here. But it wasn't real, Karen. I promise you, it wasn't real.”

I hug her and kiss her forehead, letting her warm tears massage the skin of my cool face. “It's okay, Karen,” I say with as much sincerity as possible. “We're going to be okay.”

***

Karen leans on me as we stumble along the trail. It took nearly twenty minutes to calm her. And after I changed her blood-soaked bandage, I convinced her that we had to continue. We had to persevere. She was reluctant and insisted I leave her. But I implored and eventually she gave in.

“Andrew!” I scream into the echoing woods. “Dillon!” My voice is getting sore from shouting and I begin to feel like it's futile anyway. If these woods don't want Dillon or Andrew to hear us, they won't.

“How are you?” I ask Karen, doing my best to keep a pace conducive to her weakened state.

“Surviving,” she replies, offering a pathetic little cough as accompaniment.

“We'll come across them, baby. I promise. We can find them if we just stick to the path.”

She offers a low grunt that could imply anything from legitimate agreement to complete pandering.

By now our eyes have adjusted to the darkness as much as possible. We do our best to stick to the dizzying and often-elusive trail, but find ourselves wandering off occasionally into rough terrain. We double back and find the outline of a path, but I don't want to tell Karen what I'm thinking: that it's completely possible we've meandered off our original trail and stumbled upon another. We could even be walking in circles for all I know. But I keep these fears to myself in a somewhat half-assed attempt to keep Karen's spirits up and her panic down. I'm actually about ready to tell her it might be a good place to stop and change her bandage again, when I see what appears to be a distant light through the thick horizon of trees.

“Karen, do you see that?”

She peers off into the darkness, her feeble, disenchanted expression contorting into something mildly hopeful. “Oh my God... it looks like some kind of light.”

“It could be Dillon or Andrew.”

“But what if it's not,” she says with a sharp tone of paranoia as she digs her fingernails into my supporting arm. “What if it's another trick? Another hallucination or something?”

“Sounds like you're starting to become a believer in this sick little ghost story.”

“Well you're right,” she whispers to me. “I can't explain anything that's happened and I'm scared shitless right now, okay? I'm scared out of my goddamn mind and I don't know what to believe.”

“Okay, I understand. But we can't just ignore it, Karen. That could be help up there. It's a good idea to approach with caution, but we need to see what that is. C'mon baby, we need to be strong through this. Agreed?”

She looks up at me with big frightened eyes and nods. “Do you still have the knife?” she asks.

“Fuck!” I realize almost immediately that I've left the knife at the spot where I mistakenly stabbed Karen. “I'm sorry, I left it behind. There was too much going on—I just didn't even think to pick it back up.”

She slumps with disappointment. “Okay,” she says. “That's okay. You're right though. We need to see what's up there. Let's go.”

We move forward and she leans against me as we make our way closer to the mysterious light, doing our best to creep quietly. Despite the cool air, I can feel the perspiration on her skin as it moistens my own. She’s trembling softly, undoubtedly fearful of the ambiguity of the impending situation. As we close in, I can hear a low hum. Karen turns to me with a questioning expression. It gets louder as we near the light, which appears to be suspended in the air. Another few steps and I can place the sound, silently mouthing the word to Karen: “generator.”

From our position, it becomes clear that the light is hanging from a tall pole. Behind it is the outline of a cabin. The structure is draped in fog, emitting a ghostly hue behind the hazy illumination.

We’re about fifty or sixty yards from the suspended light, our location concealed by a thick tree trunk. “Jesus, do you think that could be Dillon’s cabin?” Karen asks me.

“I don’t know,” I whisper back. “It’s totally possible. If not, it might be someone that could help us.”

She looks at me anxiously. “I guess we’re out of options,” she says. “It could be miles to another cabin. I vote we check it out.”

“I agree.”

We move slowly towards the cabin. As we pass under the hanging light, Karen nudges me silently and calls my attention to an old shovel leaning up against the light’s pole. Her intentions are obvious. I grab the shovel with my free hand and we continue on. After a few more slow, labored paces, we’re standing in front of the cabin’s old, wooden door.

I look to Karen and she nods at me, raising her fist to knock on the door. I tighten my grip on the shovel, attempting to cool my nerves slightly. I don’t want to be taken by surprise, but I don’t want to scare some redneck with a shotgun either. As her fist bangs on the door, I feel my heart beat faster and harder. On the other side of the door, I hear motion. There’s definitely someone inside and they’re moving toward the door. In another second we hear a lock click and the door swings inward, revealing nothing more than a dim room and Andrew standing in the threshold, looking dazed and haggard. He eyes us with some suspicion, which melts away quickly. “Well look what you found,” he says to me, a peculiar smile spreading across his face. He looks down to Karen’s bloody shirt and then back to me. “Well I guess you guys probably wanna come in, huh?” He steps away from the entryway, offering a silent invitation. I leave the shovel outside as we stumble in past him.

“Karen’s hurt,” I say as we make our way down a short entrance corridor, wood-paneled walls on either side of us. At the end of a corridor we can see a kitchen table. The room looks poorly lit. We walk in and I pull a chair out from the table for Karen. The small kitchen is typical, but old and dusty. The only light comes from a small lamp positioned on a counter opposite the sink. Karen sits and I call back to Andrew who’s following a few steps behind us. “She’s cut pretty bad. Are there any first aid supplies?”

“I’d imagine so,” he says scratching his head, moving into the kitchen. “Probably in the bathroom down here or the one upstairs.”

“Can you take a look, man? I want to stay with Karen.” I pause, scanning the kitchen and the adjacent living room. “Where’s Dillon?”

“Upstairs,” he says pointing to a staircase next to a pantry. “He’s pretty shot—probably sleeping by now.”

“Is there a phone in here?” Karen asks.

“Not one that works,” Andrew replies. “That was our first question too.”

I look to Karen who’s eyeing Andrew with evident suspicion. She’s creeped out and I can tell. I’m sure the knowledge that he’s largely responsible for her friend’s death is a big part of her distrust. She’s finicky and uncomfortable. Her eyes dart from me to Andrew wildly, like she’s expecting him to take some kind of violent action. There’s a long awkward pause, which Andrew eventually breaks. “Well, I’ll take a look upstairs for some first aid gear. There’s running water and it tastes pretty clean, so if you guys are thirsty, help yourselves. There are cups in the cabinets.” Then he disappears up the narrow stairs.

We can hear his footsteps on the floorboards above our heads. “Something feels really off,” Karen whispers to me as I kneel to remove her bandage. She groans and pulls away as I pull the bloody gauze from her side. “You can’t tell me something about Andrew doesn’t seem… well… totally disturbing. I’m sorry, but I’m having a hard time trusting him.”

“After what I told you, of course you are.” I toss the soiled bandage to the ground. “And I know, out of context it sounds totally fucked up. But you weren’t there, Karen. Eve was…” I stop as I realize I didn’t actually see Eve until Dillon had already beaten her nearly to death with the flashlight. In fact, at that time I had surmised Dillon had just reacted very poorly to a totally vivid nightmare. But within the circumstances of our fucked up situation—with talk of vengeful ghosts, possession and the girls trying to kill us—Andrew and Dillon’s actions had, at the time, seemed somewhat justified. Looking back on it with a different perspective and a seemingly clearer head, I have no defense for their actions. “I don’t really know what to say.”

She looks at me with feral eyes. “Find a weapon,” she whispers quickly, “Hurry, before Andrew comes back down.”

I stand up and run quietly over to the counter. I can still here Andrew’s footsteps overhead. I start pulling out drawers, looking for a knife or something sharp enough to use as a weapon. I hear Andrew’s hiking boots stomping. They start to move back in the direction of the staircase. “Fuck,” I whisper to myself as I start shuffling through drawers more frantically. They’re all empty or full of plastic utensils and paper plates.

“Hurry,” Karen whispers from the kitchen table. “He’s coming back.”

I turn around and start rummaging through the other side of the counter. Finally, underneath the sink I find an old rusty meat thermometer. I figure there must be something more efficient, but as I hear Andrew’s footsteps at the top of the stairs, I realize I’m out of time. I stick the thermometer in my back pocket and head back over to Karen.

Andrew enters the kitchen as I return to my position by Karen. I pretend to fumble with the discarded bandage while I feel the sharp spike of the meat thermometer poke into my ass. Andrew has a small first aid kit in hand. He looks at us with a muddled air about him. “All I could find,” he says as he tosses the kit onto the floor in front of me.

I nod towards him—meant as a signal of acceptance, I suppose. I open the kit and pick through the old rolls of gauze and expired antibacterial cream.

That painful, suspicious silence falls on us again. I feel obligated to break it.

“How long have you guys been here?” I ask as I tend to Karen's wound. The question sounds falsely casual, like I'm trying too hard to assuage the unspeakable tension.

“I really don't know,” Andrew replies absently as he makes his way over to the sink. “I feel like I've totally lost track of time.”

“I screamed for you guys,” I challenge him. “You really managed to disappear quickly.”

He just gives a half nod as he takes a cup from one of the cabinets and fills it with water. I look at Karen who stares at me with a sort of questioning anxiety. Andrew fills the cup and looks out the window over the sink. It would be impossible to see anything through the darkness. There are no lights in the backyard, at least none that are lit. I can only assume he's thinking, contemplating, considering options of murder or salvation or heroism.

I line Karen's wound with disinfectant I can only hope is still effective. “She needs stitches,” I say, covering the gash with the provided gauze.

Andrew doesn't even acknowledge the statement. He continues to stare absently out the window, sipping his water.

“I'm no surgeon,” I say, trying to push the issue. “I have no idea how to...”

I stop as I hear a loud thump from the room above us. The sound seems to break Andrew from his hypnosis and he looks towards us and then the stairs.

“What was that?” I ask him, my available hand reaching slowly towards my back pocket.

He looks at me with a frenzied, panicked expression. Then his eyes dart towards the stairs. It takes him a moment to respond. “Sounds like Dillon fell out of bed,” he says, his voice taking on an apprehensive sort of pitch.

“Maybe we should check on him,” I respond, standing from my crouched position, leaning in the direction of the stairs, the fingers of my right hand slowly removing the meat thermometer from my back pocket.

Suddenly our eyes lock. Understanding confirms our respective paranoia and we both dash to the stairs. We reach them at almost the same exact moment and as he shoots his arm out to grab the banister I pull the meat thermometer from my pocket and dig the spiked end deep into his outstretched hand. Andrew snarls with pain as he yanks his hand back. I take the opportunity to punch him in the face, knocking him back from the stairs. He stumbles and loses his balance, falling hard into the old linoleum countertop. I shoot a quick look to Karen and watch as she gets to her feet. With a motion that’s swifter than I would have expected, she drags one of the chairs over to the still-dazed Andrew, lifts it quickly and brings it crashing down on his head with a remarkable amount of force. Andrew falls to the floor in a heap, his head smacking the tile. Karen limps over to me and I take her hand, offering support as we make our way up the stairs.

“Pretty impressive,” I say as we reach the hallway at the top.

“You know I’m a real firecracker,” she responds.

I peer back down the stairs and see Andrew still unconscious on the kitchen floor, the splintered pieces of the chair scattered around him.

“Is that a meat thermometer?” Karen asks.

I lift the bloody utensil to eye level. “Beggars can’t be choosers. It sounds like the noise came from that bedroom.”

We both walk cautiously over to the closed door only a few feet down the hallway. Almost on cue, there’s another loud thump from behind the door. It startles Karen and she jumps back then looks at me, cheeks reddening with meek embarrassment. I put a reassuring hand on her arm and reach for the doorknob with the other. I turn the knob and begin to open the door. Before I can even call Dillon’s name, the door swings open with enough force to knock both Karen and I back. Dillon emerges from the dark room and, with the power of his own momentum, trips over the hallway rug and lunges headlong into the wall across the corridor. Once again, he’s naked except for his boxers. There’s duct tape over his mouth and around his hands. It’s pretty clear he had been bound to the bed and managed to free himself somehow. As he regroups from his tumble into the wall, he looks up at us with astonishment. Karen leans over and peels the tape off his mouth.

“Jesus Dillon,” I say helping him with the tape around his wrists. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Andrew,” he says frantically. “The kid’s lost it. He’s all fucked up in the head. I swear, I thought he was going to kill me; I’m sure he would have if you guys didn’t show up. Where is he?”

“He’s knocked out in the kitchen,” Karen replies.

“Where?” Dillon asks, peering past us down the stairs.

I swing around to see Andrew’s gone.

“Shit!” I exclaim. “Alright Dillon, try to explain to me what the hell is going on.”

“Andrew’s been drugging us,” he says as he gets to his feet.

Karen and I stare at him blankly—our silent attempt at encouraging elaboration.

“We got to the cabin and we were both all fucked up,” he starts. “I hadn’t even realized that we’d left you behind. I was concentrating so hard on finding our way through the woods and Andrew hadn’t said anything about you stopping to take a piss. ‘Slipped my mind’ is what he told me when we got to the cabin. Like how the fuck does it slip your mind? So, we get to the cabin, start up the generator and Andrew goes into the bathroom to take a piss. I’m hoping he has a bottle of water or something in his bag—I wasn’t sure how clean the tap water was—and what do I find? Drugs. Like legit drugs. I approach him about it when he gets out of the bathroom and he fesses up. That pot we’ve been smoking—not just pot. He’s been packing bowls laced with DMT and a little PCP. We’ve been smoking hardcore fucking hallucinogens and Angel Dust since we set up camp in that goddamn clearing!”

“Are you kidding me?” Karen asks with disbelief.

“He told me the whole fucking story,” Dillon continues. “He called it ‘a psychological experiment’—an attempt to get us all fucked up on heavy drugs, get us creeped out with a scary story in the middle of the woods and see how we react. But he’s off the deep end now. We’ve only smoked the DMT and Dust when he’s given it to us. But he’s been smoking it this whole fucking trip—while we were sleeping, on the trek back to the cabin and since we’ve gotten back here. He’s completely lost touch with reality. And when I tried to call him on it, he went fucking nuts. Said there really were spirits in these woods—that he could feel them and they were hunting us. When I told him he was just strung out, he attacked me. He came at me and he was so Dusted up, I couldn’t stop him. He beat the shit out of me. Knocked me unconscious. I woke up taped to the fucking bed in there. He’s loony as a goddamn toon, guys. We need to get the fuck out of here.”

Suddenly the lights go out. I listen for the sound of the generator, but there’s nothing.

“Ohhhhh…. we are so fucked,” Dillon says and he moves away from the stairs. “I’m telling you guys, he has completely lost it. He thinks we’re out to get him. He thinks we’re fucking possessed. He’ll kill us all before he lets us leave this cabin.”

And just like that, the cold, coarse hum of the generator starts up again. But the lights don't turn back on. And something's different. The sound of the machine is more rugged—rustier and threatening.

“I don't think that's the generator,” Dillon says softly, almost wanting to keep the realization to himself.

The machine revs angrily, the abrasive climax of its frightening soundtrack cuts through the immersive silence like a blood-curdling scream. And it doesn't take a detective to place the familiar backyard mainstay that anyone who's lived in the suburbs at some point in their life knows.

“We need a weapon,” Dillon says. “Tell me you have a fucking weapon.”

I show him the meat thermometer with a telling amount of shame. He looks at the bloody edge and gives a shallow chuckle. “Yeah... we're fucked.”-

We can all hear the crash downstairs as the front door swings inward and smashes against its nearest wall. The pulse of the machine grows violently louder, its crescendos and decrescendos thriving melodically, ebbing and flowing with seemingly purposeful articulation.

The three of us are frozen solid, frightened to the point of immobility, like cowering, breathing statues. It's not until Andrew appears at the bottom of the stairs, chainsaw in hand, that we smell gasoline panic and split up to opposite sides of the hallway—Dillon fleeing to the right while Karen and I sprint to the left.

We duck into the nearest bedroom and Karen rushes to the window while I stop to hold the door closed. The immense sound of the chainsaw climbs the stairs and clearly veers right. Somehow the echo of hungry, rusted metal teeth cutting through the wooden door is slightly more excruciating to listen to than the sound of the saw ripping its way through Dillon's flesh—I suppose it’s the torturous expectation of what you know is coming next.

Dillon lets out an inhuman howl as the chainsaw revs its appreciation for the sacrifice.

“We can't just leave him,” I scream to Karen who's already opening the window.

“He's gone,” she says with a matter-of-fact tone that chills me. “It's only us now. We need to move.”

As a gruesome exclamation point, Dillon releases another piercing scream that brings the hair on my arms to a brittle, frozen point. I look away from Karen and push the bedroom door open, brandishing the meat thermometer like it's some kind of secret weapon. I rush into the hallway just in time to see Dillon falling through the bedroom doorway, his right arm hanging on by a thin thread of flesh, his chest a minefield of exploded gashes; an illustration of a rotten pulled pork sandwich without the bread. His waning yelps of pain cease only as Andrew emerges from the bedroom and runs the chainsaw blade through Dillon's neck, his blood splattering the walls like a sloppy impressionist painting. It's only a matter of seconds before Dillon's head is on the floor and his neck is a rugged volcano spewing dark crimson onto the hallway rug.

Andrew sees me and revs his weapon, miniscule puffs of smoke wafting into the scent of gas, disappearing into the abandoned darkness of the claustrophobic hallway. “I know those fucking Indians turned you,” he says to me, his voice concealing any hint of a connection with reality. “This is Custer's last stand!” he exclaims as he marches towards me, a sick, warped grin slashing across his face. “Cept I'm not losing this battle!” He roars with a gut-wrenching battlecry and sprints at me, chainsaw poised artistically in front of his face.

I rush into the room and slam the door, placing my body in front of it in a futile attempt at additional resistance. Seconds later the saw blade is ripping through the wood, forging a splintery path that showers my face with sawdust. I look to the window and find nothing but curtains billowing in the cool breeze from outside.

The saw hits a knot and struggles momentarily. I rush towards the open window and look down at the twenty-foot drop that seems less imposing than it should. I grab the inner windowsill and hang myself outside, creating as little space as possible between my lanky body and the ground below. My eye level is below the window, but I can hear the bedroom door bust open. I relax my fingers and I fall to the hard ground below, my right ankle screaming as it meets the less-than-forgiving earth.

I stare up, a combination of pain and helplessness keeping me in place. Andrew appears through the window, chainsaw first, the swinging, unwieldy blade slicing the air. He looks down at me, but the chainsaw's weight and momentum pull him through the window further than he'd like. The chainsaw falls from his hands and lands inches from my leg; Andrew follows shortly after, his attempt to grab the falling weapon leading him on a disastrous course to a headfirst collision with the ground.

I grab the handle of the still-running chainsaw and spin the blade like the lightening-quick carousel of bloody carnage that it is. Andrew lies helplessly, his neck positioned at an impossible angle, his frantic eyes darting back and forth like seizure-inducing strobe lights. I hang the spinning chainsaw over his neck and he manages to speak.

“You're as fucked as I am,” he says, spitting blood through his teeth. “It's not just drugs, man. Those ghosts are pissed.”

“You're insane,” I reply, the weight of the chainsaw prying my fingers loose as the blade dances over Andrew's head.

“Maybe,” he spits. “But they're turning us against each other. That’s what they do. They know shit they can’t possibly know. They knew about Karen’s abortion, didn’t they?”

My grip tightens. “What are you talking about?”

Andrew gives a self-assured chuckle. “Oh yeah... she kept you in the dark.” He can't move his head, but his eyes shift up to meet mine. “That's my baby, man. It’s mine. And she used it against you. She didn't tell you the full story. She made you feel like shit for pressuring her into an abortion. But that's not even your baby.” And he laughs, a grinding hysterical laugh. “Where’s that bitch that left you in the bedroom anyway?” he asks. “Where's the beloved cunt that left you to get chewed up by a chainsaw?” He's hysterical now, laughing like a clown at a child's birthday party. And as sweat greases my fingers, I lose my grip on the handle and the machine plunges into Dillon's neck, chomping through his skin and offering a bloody offshoot that leaves me wiping the gore from my face with my sweatshirt.

And then she appears around the corner of the house. Almost prophetically. She watches as the chainsaw powers through Andrew's neck and falls onto its side. She doesn't say a word as she walks up beside me and grabs my hand gently.

“The baby?” I question without a second of delay. “It was mine?”

She hesitates. “Of course.”

***

I use duct tape to bind her neck to the thick tree stump. She wakes up halfway through, but can't do anything to stop me. She screams and begs, but we're beyond the point of reasoning. She's played me this whole time and I was a fool for going along with her game.

Her head rests against the tree trunk, her neck bound with duct tape that wraps around the tree, her hands taped helplessly behind her back.

“It's the woods,” she mutters to me weakly. “Andrew was right. He was strung out as fuck, but he was right. They know things.” She’s sobbing now. “They're turning us against each other. You said it yourself!”

I ignore her and swing the shovel into her skull, sandwiching it between the tree and the shovel's heavy metal edge. The side of her head caves in and she spits blood and teeth fragments onto the dirty forest floor. “Think about what you’ve seen,” she says drunkenly through a mouthful of blood, her jaw almost certainly broken. “It can’t just be drugs. It can’t just be drugs.”

I stop for a moment and consider. Something about her pleas strike a chord and I relax my body, my mind once again returning to the image of Karen stepping into the clearing, her love and affection and honesty practically tangible. But a cool wave of assuredness drowns the scene, yanking it from my mind like a furious, violent undertow. “You're a liar,” I say to her, my distracting sense of paranoia melting into certainty. I raise the shovel in preparation and follow through with an immense homerun swing. The sick reverberation makes me wish I had batting gloves.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYBODY!!