Halloween is creeping ever closer, ladies and gentlemen! That means you’ve only got a few weeks left before this blog transforms back into an eclectic assortment of shit no one really cares about. But for now, can’t you just feel that sort of creepy electricity in the air—where every night feels like it’s a scene right out of a horror movie?? Okay, maybe it’s just me, but man, I am AMPED for All Hallows Eve this year.

So thanks to everyone that took the time to read my depressing bit of reality horror last week. I got some pretty quality responses. “How about something a little less conducive to wrist-slitting” was a good one. “It read like an episode of ‘Autopsy’” was another. But my favorite was, “So I just read your blog from last Friday, and I’m sad that the dinner I’m making will go to waste. I’m literally nauseous, so, congratulations.” Awesome!

Well the next two stories are probably closer to what you’d typically associate with the horror genre. Both this story and the one to be posted next week are based on really vivid nightmares I had. Of course I had to rework them to a certain degree to incorporate some kind of cohesive plot and narrative. But I did my best to retain the atmosphere and imagery that both nightmares left me with upon waking.

I thought about splitting up this story to cover two weeks, but I figured I’d shoot my load in one swift burst (God, I spoil you guys). Plus, there are three Fridays left before Halloween and the story that starts next week probably needs to be broken up into three parts. I think it’s going to be a long one. (That’s what she said! Oh!) So once again, you guys are rewarded with a sense of closure upon completion of this piece. Bully for you!

The Altruist

The girl couldn’t have been older than ten. Her dark hair made her sad, brown eyes seem that much gloomier and, despite the powerful sunrays baking the edge of the lake, her skin was exceptionally pale. She was perched on the edge of the dock, her short legs dangling just above the surface of the water. It was hot out—maybe eighty-five degrees—but she wore jeans and sneakers with an oversized brown longsleeve shirt that billowed around her in the breeze coming off the lake. Her exceptionally thin frame made her look like a flagpole with some banner of unknown origin flapping behind her.

Even from our vantage point of twenty yards away, my sister could see the single tear on her face twinkle in the sunlight as it rolled slowly over the sparse freckles of her cheek.

“Jesus, can you see that?” My sister nudged me with her elbow. “Tell me that isn’t just the picture of sadness.”

My sister: always the altruist and always on duty. She could see the beauty in just about anything, particularly the morose and despondent, undoubtedly because she had visited their unfortunate depths. After our mother died in a car accident when Kat was only fifteen years old, she plunged into an ugly breakdown. Her response to personal trauma was never very strong. And even though I was only nine at the time, I can still remember seeing the look in her eyes change. As our father sat us down at the kitchen table and explained that our mother had been killed, I recall looking at my sister and seeing this immediate transformation in her stare. She didn’t cry or scream, but as she glared at my father, her eyes darkened, like some forbidding storm was rolling in behind her irises. It was a look of fierce instability—one that culminated with a violent, self-destructive episode. Even after a brief period of hospitalization and an extended period of medication, it still took years for that brooding storm behind her gaze to depart.

But as time passed, Katrina found she had an uncanny ability for helping others. She became the epitome of ‘those that can’t do teach.’ So she taught people how to deal with the tragedy in their own lives in a way she never could. As a result, she became a committed and genuine do-gooder at the age of eighteen. That’s why she’s held such an obsession with the darker elements of the world—she’s felt the burden of sorrow and she’s always wanted to change it, make it easier for others. She’s wanted to call attention to the sadness people typically just gloss over or ignore. That’s what pushed her towards a profession in (somewhat ironically) mental health.

So, as that lone tear slid seemingly purposefully down the little girl’s face, I wasn’t surprised when my sister suggested we approach her.

I was a little resistant. “What the fuck is wrong with you? She’s not you’re daughter. C’mon Kat, you know I hate kids.”

Katrina grumbled, making no attempt to hide her frustration. “Do you seriously want to be what’s wrong with this world? You see a little girl crying by the edge of a lake on a beautiful day and you don’t want to know what’s bothering her?”

“I exhausted my morbid curiosity within the first fifteen years of my life.”

“It’s not about morbid curiosity, Sam. God, you can be such a prick sometimes.”

“So you want to go over there and take on the responsibilities of her parents? How do you think they’ll feel about that if they come out and see you trying to do their job?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake Sam, what if daddy just got finished giving mommy a black eye and little daughter’s next on the hit list?”

“Jesus… over dramatize much? She’s probably just upset because she forgot her favorite teddy bear at home.”

“Well I’m going over there. So you can either come with me, stand here awkwardly or go back and watch dad reminisce with uncle Dan and aunt Megan. And it’s been years since they’ve had an opportunity to sit on their favorite porch by the lake and talk about the good ole days. I’m sure they’ve got hours and hours of catching up to do. So… what’s it gonna be?”

I thought for a moment. “Congratulations… you’re the least of three evils.”

She smiled knowingly and led the way over to the dock. The girl didn’t even seem to notice us until our flip-flops began smacking the old wooden boards. She turned around and greeted us with the same forlorn expression that had been plastered on her face since we first caught sight of her.

“Hi,” Kat said. It was a greeting so dripping with friendliness, I had to marvel at her ability to be so genuinely personable. “My name’s Katrina and this is my brother Sam. We’re here for a little family reunion and we saw you sitting here all by yourself. What’s your name?”

The girl just stared at Katrina for a while, her face totally unreadable. I stood awkwardly next to Kat, doing my best to avoid involvement in the potentially budding conversation.

Finally the girl responded. “I’m Sarah,” she said softly.

“Sarah?” my sister replied with unwavering enthusiasm. “That’s such a pretty name! What are you doing out here all by yourself, Sarah?”

Sarah glanced around, as if she wasn’t certain she was all by herself. “Daddy and Laura are up in the cabin. They didn’t want to come out today.”

“Oh, so you’re here with your family?” Kat asked.

“No,” Sarah replied abruptly. “I’m here with my Daddy… and Laura.” The name ‘Laura’ was pronounced with such disdain, I could see my sister taken aback by the astoundingly scathing nature of this little girl’s response.

“Oh,” my sister said, clearly caught off guard. “And they didn’t want to come out on such a beautiful day?”

Sarah just shook her head slowly.

“Well… we’re here with our family too,” Kat continued. “We come here every year. At least we used to. We had a… um… family issue when Sam and I were younger that made it hard to make the trip.” It was plain to see that even vague allusions to our mother’s death still made Katrina uncomfortable. After a brief pause and a sizable breath, she continued. “But we managed to work it out this summer.”

There was a painfully awkward silence as my sister mentally searched for some kind of common ground with the less-than-forthcoming Sarah. She threw a quick ‘help me out here’ glance in my direction, which I met with a ‘this was your idea’ shrug. Finally, with my sister clearly trying to transition into the real reason she approached, she just came out and said it: “Sarah, I couldn’t help but notice you look really sad. Is everything okay?”

Sarah just dropped her head and stared down at the boards beneath her feet. My sister took this evasive tactic as an indication of something suspicious.

“Hey,” Kat said, moving closer to the girl. “It’s okay. We came over because we thought you looked like you could use a friend. You can talk to us. You know, Sam and I have both had to deal with some pretty unhappy times. And it wasn’t easy, but we both got through them. Sometimes you just need a little help from other people. And that’s what I do Sarah; I help people that are feeling sad.” Katrina went to put an assuring hand on Sarah’s shoulder, but at the moment of contact Sarah retreated with such force, she nearly tossed herself off the end of the dock.

Katrina turned her head quickly to look at me and mouthed a single word, assured only I could read her lips. “Abuse.” She then turned her attention back to Sarah. “Oh Sarah, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want you to know you can trust us. Nobody likes to see such a sad girl on such a beautiful day.”

At that point, I was about ready to concede that my sister’s selfless intuition was right: there was something wrong with this girl. Such an extreme reaction wasn’t normal. Granted, maybe her parents were extremely adamant about staying away from strangers. But that kind of response to a friendly hand on the shoulder from a sweet, pretty, thirty-year-old female seemed totally excessive. If Kat had been a balding forty-year-old man, I would have understood the reaction. Hell, even if I had walked over by myself and tried to put my hand on the girl, that response would have been warranted. But something about Sarah’s almost violent avoidance of human contact was unsettling.

“I’m sad because Daddy doesn’t want to play with me now that he’s got Laura,” Sarah finally responded, still refusing to take even a single step closer to Katrina. “Laura’s trying to take him away from me because she doesn’t like me. Laura’s a stupid fucking bitch!”

Even I was caught off guard. “Holy shit,” I muttered audibly.

Katrina turned to me. “Sam, that is not appropriate.” She turned back to Sarah. “Sarah, you shouldn’t use language like that. Even if you don’t like someone, that’s still an awful thing to say. I’m sure your father wouldn’t be happy hearing you say something like that about someone he cares about.”

Sarah turned her back to Katrina and stared out over the lake. “She’s not a nice lady,” she said. “She says there’s something wrong with me and I need help. She’s a scary woman and she says she has… plans that can help me.”

I could tell what Katrina wanted to do. She wanted to look Sarah in the eyes and flat out ask, “Does Laura hit you, Sarah? Has she ever physically hurt you in any way?” But even Katrina realized how inappropriate that would be. Sarah was clearly angry with the woman that had stolen attention away from her. Even if Sarah said Laura beat her with a rusty pipe on a daily basis, that didn’t make it true.

“Well, maybe you just need to get to know her better,” Katrina responded. “I’ll tell you what—how about you introduce us to your Dad and Laura. We’re going to be here for another week. Wouldn’t you like to show them that you made some new friends?”

Sarah turned away from the lake and looked up at my sister. An unexpected smile cut across the little girl’s face and she nodded enthusiastically. “That’s our cabin up there,” Sarah pointed to a small cabin situated in the woods a few hundred yards from the lake. “Follow me; I’ll show you.”

Just like that, Sarah took off running up the dock towards the cabin. When I thought she was out of earshot, I grabbed Katrina’s arm. “Are you fucking insane?” I asked her. “This is completely inappropriate. You’re gonna have that girl introduce the two older strangers she met at the lake as ‘her new friends?’ Do you have any idea how wrong that is? We’re gonna look like sex offenders!”

“Keep your voice down,” Katrina replied. “I know it’s a little weird, but something is definitely not kosher with that girl. I guess you didn’t notice the dried blood on her neck.”

“Blood? What are you talking about?”

“On her neck. Her hair hid it. I didn’t even notice it until she jumped away from me. The wind kicked her hair up and there it was.”

“Oh… so in the split-second the wind blew her hair, you’re completely sure you saw what was definitely dried blood?”

“Well…” she replied without much certainty. “It definitely looked like blood. But if her dad’s new girlfriend is beating her, we can do something to stop it.”

“Do something to stop it? What are you, Charles Bronson? How are you going to know? You’re going to meet Laura and your Spidey senses are gonna start tingling? This is none of our business. Okay, maybe Sarah needs a psychologist or a social worker—maybe that’s the ‘help’ Laura was talking about—but you are not that social worker. We’re on vacation for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. Maybe I’m not that social worker but I am a social worker and I can read people pretty damn well. That’s how I make a living and I’m fucking good at it. Now I can tell you something isn’t right here, and if I don’t think I did everything possible to help that girl, I’m going to hate myself. What if tomorrow’s newspaper has a picture of Sarah on the cover under a headline ‘Young Girl Beaten to Death’? How are you going to feel then?”

I was really flustered. “Ohhh… this is such bullshit! Fine, you want to go up there? Then we do it my way. We play it off like we’re just bored people using Sarah to meet the neighbors. We came across the girl on the dock and asked her about her family. We’re just friendly fucking vacationers looking to meet other friendly fucking vacationers to pass the time and get away from our boring family. Okay?”

“Fine,” Katrina said, and without another word, she took off after Sarah.

“Unreal,” I muttered to myself, following after her.

We reached the cabin a little behind the girl. Sarah threw open the screen door and pushed the inner front door open. She turned around to make sure we had followed and then rushed inside. I paused at the door, shooting Katrina a final look of caution. She grabbed my arm and pulled me through the threshold into the living room of the cabin.

The cabin wasn’t all that dissimilar from the one our family was staying in. Ours was slightly larger and had a loft bedroom, but aside from that, the layout was almost identical. Sarah stood in the center of the living room, watching us with anticipation. She had her little hands wrapped in the excess fabric of her long shirt and she was shifting her weight from one leg to the other, like a child that needs to use the bathroom.

“They’re in here,” she said, moving towards a door that, judging by the corresponding layout of our cabin, would be the master bedroom.

Katrina and I stepped cautiously closer. I could tell by the look on Kat’s face that the awkward nature of the situation was finally setting in. “Um, Sarah… if they’re sleeping you really don’t need to wake them. We can meet them a little later.”

“They won’t mind,” Sarah replied as she pushed open the bedroom door. From a brief glimpse into the room it was evident they were definitely in bed, almost certainly sleeping.

“No, really,” Kat whispered in a last-ditch effort to avoid waking the slumbering couple. “We don’t want to make a bad first impression.”

Sarah ignored her and walked into the bedroom, using an exaggerated tiptoe motion to show she was doing her best to wake them softly and keep our visit a surprise. Daddy and Laura were obviously asleep under the covers. The room was silent except for the minor drone of the window air conditioner, clearly operating on full-blast. The couple’s heads just barely poked out above the top comforter. Sarah approached the bed and put one hand on the cover, shooting us an excited grin as she yanked the cover off with as much force as her little body could manage.

I watched as the comforter moved below the couple’s heads, displaying a sloppy array of deep crimson splattered beneath. It took a moment for the scene to register. In fact, I didn’t quite comprehend what I was seeing until I heard my sister scream behind me.

The comforter had been covering two bodies bathed in blood. At first, it just looked like a chaotic orgy of red-painted flesh. After a few moments I could see that the woman had multiple stab wounds covering her torso—at least ten or fifteen. A large carver knife was lying next to her, its stainless steel blade tainted with blood. The man’s neck had a gaping wound right below his chin. This was complemented by an array of bloody gashes just inches beneath. Nothing about the scene said surgical precision. It looked like a drunk had committed the murders in a fit of passion. Or perhaps some severely disturbed child whose actions were rushed by Daddy awakening in the midst of Laura's execution.

Sarah climbed onto the bed and started jumping around, her small feet doing an expert job of avoiding the two corpses. Between enthused giggles she would let out an excited high-pitch scream as she pounced up and down on the blood-soaked mattress. Little wet droplets of crimson bounced into the air around her, like she was dancing amidst the sprays of some grotesque fountain.

Suddenly she stopped jumping and bent down to give her father a kiss. When she turned back to us her face was smeared with Daddy’s blood. A broad, gleeful smile hung between her cheeks and her eyes danced with the naïve excitement one only expects to see in a child around her age. She was panting as she stood on the bed and stared at us, almost inviting us to come join her.

I was afraid to take my eyes off Sarah, but I heard Katrina mutter, “Jesus” behind me, followed by a loud splattering sound on the floor. I could tell from the subsequent stench that my sister had thrown up. This must have really tickled Sarah because she erupted with laughter. She practically convulsed as she stood on the bed, laughing outwardly until she lost her balance and fell over on the body of Laura.

I used this opportunity to turn around and go to my sister. She was doubled over, staring at the floorboards with vomit dripping from her mouth. As I put my hand on her back she fell to her knees and threw up again. I looked back into the bedroom just in time to see Sarah crawling over Laura’s bloodied corpse and grabbing the carver knife as she went sprawling to the floor. Everything about her clumsy, childlike mannerisms portrayed a little girl that was just trying to play a game. But the two gore-splattered bodies on the bed implied otherwise.

“S-Sarah,” I stammered. “How did you…” I trailed off, the massive weight of the situation confounding my tongue.

“Heavy sleepers!” Sarah exclaimed with unwavering jubilance. She let out an elongated giggle and repeated the phrase over and over again with the same enthusiasm. “Heavy sleepers! Heavy sleepers! Heavy sleepers!”

I looked toward the kitchen table. Four empty bottles of wine were situated dead center. Heavy sleepers indeed.

Katrina looked up from her puddle of vomit and saw Sarah getting to her feet, bloody carver knife in hand. If the scene wasn’t so horrific and real, the sight of such a small child wielding such a large blade could have been darkly comical, like an astonishingly genuine Halloween costume.

“We have to get out of here,” Kat said to me. “We need to run and call the police. She’s going to kill us.”

My initial reaction was to agree; to put my hands beneath Kat’s armpits, pick her up and pull her out the door. But my mind finally seemed to grasp the situation and I stood, leaving my sister kneeling on the floor.

Sarah began advancing on us. She moved slowly at first, that same excited smile hanging on her face. Then she started skipping in our direction. Katrina, still from her position on the floor, was helplessly tugging at my shirt. “We have to go, Sam,” she said to me. “We have to go.”

Sarah was no more than ten feet from us, skipping cheerfully, knife in hand. She approached with the blade pointed towards my stomach and as she came within a few feet, I lifted my leg and kicked the girl square in the face. Sarah dropped like a rag doll, the knife falling from her clenched hand and clattering to the floor. I looked towards my sister who stared up at me with disbelief.

“I may not be the toughest guy on the planet,” I said to her. “But I’m pretty confident in my ability to knock out a nine-year-old girl.” I gave Katrina a hand and lifted her off the floor. “Now let’s call the police and get out of this horror show.”

I scanned the room. I saw the phone sitting on the counter in the kitchen and walked over while Katrina used the bottom of her t-shirt to wipe the remnants of vomit from around her mouth. I picked up the receiver and was about to press 9-1-1 when I realized there was no dial tone. “Of course,” I muttered under my breath. “Kat,” I called to my sister. “Do you have your cell phone? This phone’s dead.”

It took her a few moments to respond. “Sorry,” she called back, her voice taking on an extremely detached and absentminded sort of quality. “I left it at our cabin.”

“Fuck. I guess we need to go back and call from our cabin. We should probably tie Sarah up. Either that or one of us needs to stay and babysit the little demon.”

Katrina didn’t reply.

“Okay,” I said, growing impatient for her response. “Let’s start looking for something to tie her up with. Keep an eye out for bungee cords, duct tape, anything we can use to make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.” I looked into the bedroom and saw the gruesome scene. “We could probably use the sheets from the other bedroom—tie her up and throw her in a closet or something.” I stopped and thought for a moment. “Wait a second, I definitely saw you grab your cell when we were leaving. I remember I was going to grab mine, but I saw you were taking yours.”

I looked over to see her staring at Sarah’s unconscious body, almost hypnotized by it.

“C’mon Kat!” I snapped at her. “Coming up here was your goddamn idea. You need to give me a little help.”

She ignored me; her eyes didn’t break from the girl’s body.

I walked over and grabbed her arm. She pulled away and nearly tripped over Sarah’s limp body in the process.

“Look,” I said. “I know this is awful, but just a few more minutes and we’re out of here. So help me and we’ll be able to put this shit behind us.” I reached out and grabbed her arm one more time. Again, she pulled away.

“What the fuck, Kat? Let’s get this over with. We need to either call the police or get this little bitch tied up before she comes to!”

Katrina continued to ignore me. She leaned down, appearing as though she was going to touch Sarah, but at the last moment she reached out and picked up the knife lying next to the girl’s hand.

“Kat… what the hell are you doing? You need to put that down. Just hand it over and we can get out of here.” I reached out to take the knife from her, but she brought the blade down right into the palm of my hand. I retracted my arm and put my bleeding hand under my armpit. I looked at her face and saw something so dishearteningly familiar in her eyes—an ominous, unstable darkness that brought me back to a tragic conversation around our family's kitchen table. “It’s okay, Kat. It’s over. We just need to call the police and they’ll take care of the rest.”

“The police can’t help her.” Katrina replied simply. “No one can help her.” And without another word of explanation, she brought the blade down directly into the chest of the unconscious Sarah and removed it with astonishing speed.

Sarah shuddered violently as her eyes shot open. An ear-shattering scream rose from her mouth as a geyser of blood shot up from her chest. Katrina stared down at her calmly and, without hesitation, brought the blade down again, Sarah’s blood spraying upwards onto her face. Katrina stabbed the girl four more times until Sarah lay bleeding and lifeless on the cabin floor.

“Oh God,” I said, staring with disbelief at the scene before me. “Oh God, what did you do?”

Katrina just looked down at Sarah’s mangled corpse, a quivering frown polluting her face. “Some people just can’t be helped in a traditional sense, Sam,” she said, some form of curious certainty creeping into her voice. Still staring down at the little girl’s body, she continued, “I’ve never seen anything like it—someone so young so detached from reality. I saw pain in her face when she was on the dock, but I thought it wasn’t her fault. I thought her parents were the ones to blame. But that wasn’t it, Sam. Did you see the way she jumped around their corpses? The way she covered herself in their blood? The way she came at you with the knife? Like it was all some perfectly acceptable game. She was a deranged girl far beyond treatment. Laura could see it. Maybe her father could, too. But they were too close to her to realize how it needed to be handled.”

I stared at her: my sister the altruist. My sister the euthanizer. My sister, who could see beauty in every dark corner, her face streaked with blood, her eyes nothing but cold, stormy canyons of disillusionment. “Needed to be handled?” I asked softly.

Katrina looked at me and exhaled a long sigh. “I help people, Sam,” she said, bending over to place the knife next to Sarah. “Even people that seem like they can’t be helped. Sarah couldn’t go through life like that. And all the doctors, therapists and medication in the world would never change that. The rest of her life would’ve involved a cold, padded room along with a steady, debilitating diet of sedatives and anti-psychotics. That’s no kind of life for a little girl.” She stopped to point towards the grisly scene in the bedroom. “And neither is that.”

I was speechless. I looked at Katrina, her eyes glazed, her breathing slowing to a more normal rate. She looked down at the dead girl in front of her, a thin sense of assumed accomplishment spreading across her face. “I help people,” she muttered quietly. “That’s what I do.”

Everyday

And so the transformation begins…

Who doesn’t love October and, more specifically, Halloween? Uh… Jehovah’s Witnesses I guess. But seriously, who cares about them? Probably not even Jehovah. I mean the dude needs his privacy, right? It must be kind of annoying having those perverts witnessing everything! Hey-oh! Ha ha ha! I’m so goddamn funny! But I digress.

So, for this entire month, every Friday I’ll be posting some kind of horror story. This week’s story is self-standing (no cliffhanger), but the others will likely be more of the serial type story, much like last year. This week’s tale (throws magic dust on the fire, courtesy of ‘Are You Afraid of the Dark’) is, well, pretty depressing. I guess I wanted to show that there’s enough horror in everyday tragedy to warrant attention. You really don’t need vengeful spirits, murderously unstable individuals or excessive violence and gore (i.e. all things to look forward to on my blog this month) to show some scary and disturbing shit. So that’s what I tried to do with this short piece. And if you find it dismal and disheartening, well you can look forward to the typically fun torrents of blood coming your way in the following weeks. Gotta love the catharsis of a good ole fashioned gore-fest!

But for now, let’s get depressed!

Everyday

Ironically, the child’s docile nature was a large part of what made it so beautiful. With his head resting contentedly on his mother’s shoulder, the serenity of both the child and his mother was practically tangible. His pale, almost paper-thin eyelids didn’t rise or even flutter; his mouth seemed permanently fixed in a subtle smile that appeared to posit some truly attainable condition of peacefulness. The dribbling, manic glee of a newborn was gone. So was the volatile, screaming despondency that, for better or worse, seems expected from a child of that age. After four months, it was almost as if the baby had miraculously matured beyond that obligatory bipolar phase, inexplicably settling in to a static and passive state.

One could only attribute this to his mother’s perpetual and ardent love—a love that seemed to come so naturally. All the parenting books in the world couldn’t teach the kind of enviable connection she seemed to have with her son. Of course people just assumed that with the tragedy endured by the poor woman, it was simply God or Karma or some unexplainable universal force compensating her for the seemingly endless trauma that plagued her life prior to the child’s birth.

In a small town, hardships and tragedies generally aren’t kept a secret for very long. Particularly when they happen to good people. Everyone knew how badly the Simons wanted a child. Everyone knew about their trouble conceiving. Everyone knew about the first time the pregnancy took. And everyone knew about the subsequent miscarriage. It’s hard to hide devastation, and the air around the couple after the miscarriage was laden with it.

The sorrow and pity of the neighbors and fellow community members was clear and uncomfortable. Few people have the social grace to interact with a couple in the midst of such despair—at least without making them feel even lonelier and more discomfited. Communities are fickle and no one wants to be reminded of the detrimental nature of common tragedy if they can avoid it. As a result, the Simons became something like outcasts… until the news that a second pregnancy had provided them with a new sense of hope.

Glowing with the refreshing prospect of salvation, neighbors and community members couldn’t line up fast enough to offer their congratulations. As draining as it can be to interact with those steeped in misery, it can be equally as invigorating being around those with optimism and faith. Despite their previous heartbreak, the Simons seemed to have so much certainty regarding the new child, like it was something owed to them, like they were sure the world wasn’t cruel enough to take a second baby from their anticipating arms.

But calamity has a funny way of throwing you curveballs. In this instance, the curveball’s name was Glioblastoma. One of the most aggressive types of brain tumor in humans, this brooding cancer seemed to come out of nowhere. As Jason Simon found out, sometimes Glioblastoma can be asymptomatic until the tumor has grown to a massive size. It was only at this point that Jason began to experience excruciating headaches, nausea, vomiting and memory loss. By the time he made it to a doctor, there was nothing that could be done—not that there is typically much that can be done to stave off this kind of tumor. His only hope was that he’d live long enough to see the birth of his son.

He died eleven days before the child was born, just over three months after he was diagnosed with the disease.

Marissa Simon’s reaction to her husband’s diagnosis and eventual death was so modest, it caused a lot of concern from close friends and family members. She would plead with them, saying she was fine—that she just wanted to enjoy the remaining few days of expectation before her son was born. “Jason’s love will always be with us. I’m naming the boy Jason, so every time I look at my son, every time I say his name, I’ll be reminded of the husband and father who helped give me this beautiful gift.”

And so, just eight days after she buried her husband, Marissa gave birth to a beautiful, perfectly healthy baby boy. With eyes as blue as her late husband’s and skin as porcelain-pale as her own, Jason’s birth brought so much relief and happiness to a collection of people who hadn’t felt a brimming smile grace their lips in the better part of a year.

Jason was a big, jubilant baby. Of course he had his moments of shrieking, crying, ill-tempered cheerlessness, but even these seemed to come as a blessing to Marissa. After all, normal babies cry. Normal babies get unhappy. Normal babies vomit on your shirt and throw tantrums in the grocery store. But every moment of typical baby dreariness was just a reminder that Jason was a living, breathing son with the expected temperament of a newborn. There were no surprises, no evident birth defects and nothing that would lead Marissa to believe she’d have anything but a healthy boy for the foreseeable future. And with this thought constantly in the back of her mind, Marissa’s loving interaction with Jason, even during his most trying times, was never anything short of amazing.

And then, miraculously, those trying times seemed to vanish. Previously, friends and neighbors could attest to seeing Marissa and little Jason at the store while the baby cried seemingly inconsolably and Marissa patiently diffused the situation with the motherly affection that Jason seemed to respond so well to. They also noticed when Jason was giddy with life, bouncing up and down with extraordinary energy, gurgling and smiling, reaching to grab his mother like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. Marissa would smile back and calm the exuberance of these gleefully manic episodes like she was a natural sedative, like her warmth registered in a way that just seemed to saturate Jason with tranquility.

After about four months of these public episodes, which ran the gamut from general vivacity to flat-out misbehaving, Jason seemed to calm down immensely. For a few days, any time he was with Marissa in the store, or in his stroller, or in a café, he seemed to be resting peacefully, his dramatic (yet altogether normal) changes in disposition surrendering to peaceful slumber. As he rested on his mother’s shoulder, casual acquaintances would comment on the strikingly passive nature of the child. “Oh, he just looks like he’s giving you no trouble at all.” “What a beautiful, peaceful child.” “What’s your secret? I wish my boy was so well-behaved.” “He sleeps all day? Does that mean he keeps you up all night?”

Marissa would field the questions as personably as always, generally responding in a hushed whisper and adding, “If you don’t mind… I’d prefer not to wake him,” politely encouraging her admirers to keep their voice down and give the little boy a bit of space.

The following week, Marissa and Jason were nowhere to be found. Family members and close friends began calling incessantly. After days of voicemails with no response, Marissa’s sister, Joanne, arrived at the Simon house with a policeman. They knocked and rang the doorbell for more than three minutes. Eventually, Joanne used the spare key given to her by Marissa to open the front door, undoubtedly concerned for what she might find inside.

Both of them noticed the stench immediately as they entered the house. Joanne started to cry as she called out for Marissa and the child. All the shades in the house were drawn, allowing only traces of light to filter through their heavy fabric. Besides the overt stink, the air was stale, as if no doors or windows had been opened for weeks. As the two climbed the stairs towards the bedrooms, the rotten smell worsened. The police officer asked Joanne to remain downstairs, but she refused. Both of them knew what they were going to find, but Joanne was insistent. “I need to see them,” she said through mucus and tears.

All the bedroom doors on the second floor were closed. They moved towards the nursery first, pausing in front of the door before Joanne took the lead and burst into the room. The odor was nauseating. The officer doubled over, managing to choke down his vomit before it splattered on the bedroom floor. Joanne just stood there, staring through the dark room towards the crib and the chair positioned next to it. Marissa sat in the chair with Jason in her arms, the infant’s head perched in its familiar position on his mother’s shoulder. Both were clearly dead and had been for days. A few flies had settled ominously on the discolored flesh clinging to the faces of the mother and her son. Even with just a quick glance, it was evident the child was significantly more decomposed. Joanne fell to the floor and began to sob uncontrollably as the officer used his handheld radio to alert the proper authorities.

The coroner’s report concluded that Jason had been dead for nearly two weeks. This timeline implied that Marissa had been carrying around her dead child for days, accounting for his excessively docile behavior in the week before both him and Marissa went missing. There was no apparent explanation for the infant’s passing, leading the coroner to pronounce the likely cause of death as Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, better known as Crib Death.

Marissa’s death was less of a mystery. The coroner found significant amounts of various sedatives in her system. It was clear the grief of losing her son was just too overwhelming, particularly with no husband or father to shoulder his share of the anguish. The pain was all hers. And sometimes that pain can be too much for a single person.

So after days of refusing to accept her son’s passing, she finally did so, falling asleep with love in her arms for the last time.

Baseball Magic

Once again, long time no see! Things have been hectic, insomnia's been brutal... wah, wah, wah, freakin' wah.

But good news is on the horizon! We've got a nice little post right here (Jeter haters need not apply) and I've got some cool plans for October. I dig the fall, particularly the creepy nature that accompanies Halloween, so you can look forward to this little site being transformed into a HORROR BLOG (muahahahaha) for the entire month of October. Yeah, my ambition is to post some chilling tales weekly... well basically two stories broken up into parts, not all that dissimilar from last year. Yep, mark your friggin' calendars cuz it's gonna be sweet.

But for now, here's a little something about Jeter's 2,722nd hit, which positioned him above Lou Gehrig for most hits by a Yankee. A milestone which, rather fatefully, came on 9/11. I hope my fellow New Yorkers can relate to my enthusiasm for the timing of this monumental achievement.

Baseball Magic

Did you know the Yankees acquired Derek Jeter as a 6th overall pick in the 1992 draft?

Did you know that the Houston Astros held the number one pick that year? Despite the beyond-adamant urgings of their scout Hal Newhouser, who said he’d stake his reputation on Derek Jeter, the Astros went with Phil Nevin, undoubtedly wary about signing a prospect right out of high school and fearing Jeter’s insistence on a million dollar signing bonus to compete with the full scholarship offered to him by the University of Michigan. After this critical decision by the Astros, Newhouser not only resigned from the Astros organization, he never scouted again.

Did you know Derek Jeter sucked his first year in the minors? Seriously, he blew. He barely hit .200 in 1992 and went on to commit 56 errors in 1993. Supposedly, Derek would call home to his ever-supportive parents, in tears, telling them he didn’t think he could do it; that the Yankees “wasted their money.” That’s right, picture a 6-foot-2, 150 pound Derek Jeter sobbing into the phone about his inability to compete at a minor league level.

Did you know Tony Fernandez was the starting shortstop for the Yankees before Jeter? Then Tony got hurt and Jeter got the call. Before Tony’s injury, the Seattle Mariners actually attempted a trade for Jeter, hoping to exploit a lack of confidence in a shortstop that, at the time, really had not been game-tested. But Seattle underestimated the Yankees’ faith in Derek and the rest, as they say, is history.

So what does any of this have to do with baseball magic? Well, anyone who watches baseball on a regular basis is probably familiar with terms like “the baseball gods” and “baseball magic”. These expressions are thrown around in an attempt to portray the fateful nature that seems to be found in every seam of every ball; in the dirt and grass of every stadium; in every discarded sunflower shell on the floor of every dugout; in every dollop of pine tar smeared on every bat. Baseball, more than any other game, seems to have some kind of bigger plan in mind. It can consistently wow loyal fans with its genuinely uncanny nature, simultaneously tossing predictability aside and substituting chance and destiny for reason and sense.

Just think about it for a second. Think of every little detail that needed to align perfectly to put Jeter at the plate, in a Yankee uniform, poised to beat the all-time hit record for one of the greatest franchises ever to contend in Major League Baseball. If the Astros had listened to Newhouser, Jeter would have been in Houston. If he didn’t have the support of his parents, he may have washed right out of the minors. And if the Yankees hadn’t had faith in him as a starter, he could have been shipped out to Seattle, which could have changed the face of both franchises for years to come.

Instead, on a cool night in early September, with an oppressive mist hanging over the new Yankee Stadium, Derek Jeter hit a hotshot to right field with his patented inside-out swing. How appropriate that this iconic hit from this legendary player should come on September 11^th, the single most infamous day in the history of the great city of New York.

Of course the date 9/11 is not a burden that New York bears alone. This is a day that will forever hold a notorious tone for our entire nation. But the atrocities waged on this day happened in the city of Manhattan, the crown jewel of the state of New York. Most Americans can tell you that New Yorkers are a prideful bunch, perhaps even to a fault. But having to endure the weight of these attacks in our own backyard only makes our dignity and fortitude that much stronger.

And the Yankees… Well, love ‘em or hate ‘em, if you think of a New York sports franchise, which is the first one that comes to mind? Granted, I am and always have been a Yankees fan. But whether you’re a lover or hater, a frontrunner or genuine diehard fan, it’s tough to deny that the state’s most well-known and prestigious professional sports franchise—known throughout the entire world—is the New York Yankees.

So, watching the captain of a franchise that is arguably most synonymous with the state of New York as he pushed past one of the most honored records in said franchise’s history on a day with such ugly connotations… well that really just struck a chord, didn’t it? As that ball buzzed down the right field line and Derek jogged to first base amidst the camera flashes that erupted throughout the stadium like miniature explosions, I couldn’t help but rise from my couch, fist in the air, and applaud like the other 44, 000+ fans enduring the exceptionally dreary weather in the Bronx. It may seem petty, but in the shadow of such a historically bleak day, Derek Jeter united a sizable portion of New York in celebration; the same state that watched firsthand as their two most prominent residents fell in an orgy of fire, twisted metal and shattered glass; the same state that, eight years prior, felt the heat of flames and tragedy as they burned in their most beloved city.

And as Derek stood on first, the game paused, the dugout emptying onto the field to congratulate their captain, couldn’t the fans feel a bit of joy on a day that seemed to incur the responsibility of complete joylessness?

But Derek stood there, tipping his hat to the greatest city in the world, admiring their feats of strength before his own on a day that showed our astounding ability to unite and endure.

Now that’s baseball magic.

An Open Letter to a Town of Brookhaven Public Safety Officer

This letter was inspired by McSweeney’s “Open Letters to Individuals or Entities that are Unlikely to Respond” (thanks Jeff). I actually submitted this letter for publication on their site, but failed to see the submission guidelines before emailing it. Yeah… turns out I didn’t come very close to following them (woops) so I imagine you won’t be seeing this on that site any time soon. Additionally, most of the other letters I saw published didn’t have the profanity or hatred this one has. What can I say? I’m extreme!

A little background: Brookhaven Public Safety Officers suck.

Enjoy!

An open letter to a Town of Brookhaven Public Safety Officer:

Dear Brookhaven Public Safety Officer,

It has come to my attention that your presence in my community has increased exponentially. This is undoubtedly a direct result of the dire state of Brookhaven’s economy. Years of dirty politics, along with the country’s economic downturn, have pushed our local financial system into a state of disarray. As a result, it isn’t really surprising to see an increased amount of summons issued for trivial violations in an attempt to generate money for this failing economy.

I must say, however, your attitude is fairly off-putting. I understand, your job is largely considered a joke by just about everyone—that includes both general community members and those in respectable law enforcement positions. I’m also fairly certain you have a lot of issues stemming from your inability to become a legitimate police officer. This is undoubtedly a result of your lack of intelligence, your feeble physical state, and most likely, your extremely small penis (I’m told this can lead to confidence issues). But, simply put, your inexplicable sense of power and entitlement really makes you come off as a total fucking douche bag.

When I politely inquired as to why I received a parking ticket, your response of, “If you want to argue, you can show up to court and argue,” wasn’t particularly helpful. I wasn’t looking to argue. I was simply looking for clarification. If I were trying to argue, I would have said, “hey dimple dick, fuck you and fuck your ticket,” and you would have stood there and taken it, because… well… you’re a public safety officer, not a real police officer, and you don’t deserve respect.

Nevertheless, I was simply seeking an explanation as to why I was being ticketed. Unfortunately, I guess the fact that you’re forced to masturbate to a bikini shot of your little brother’s 17-year-old girlfriend must have really been on your mind that day and subsequently led to your unkindly and impertinent response. Perhaps he had just beaten you up again the previous night because he walked in on that sad, perverse display. I’m sure if I were a socially awkward loser that failed out of community college after a semester, I’d probably have a curt response to certain inquiries as well. Perhaps your mind was just too busy contemplating the advantages of becoming a homosexual. Well, I’d agree, it might make your life easier.

Maybe you were simply trying to use your “authority” to impress the young lady standing within earshot. But you must have been too infatuated with your own response to notice her flipping you the middle finger and laughing with her friends while your back was turned. It’s probably best you’re not aware that after I left your company and spoke with that same girl, she referred to you as an “unbelievable faggot who doesn’t realize his only power is handing out parking tickets.” We both got a kick out of that one. Anyway, it can’t be easy having that kind of disrespect dulled out to you on a daily basis.

Do you think that because you wear a uniform there are authoritative connotations associated with it? Clowns wear uniforms. So do janitors. Both are typically more pleasant than you and command more respect (they’re almost certainly paid better as well). Perhaps a weapon would elicit more respect from community members. No, I’m not referring to the pellet gun you use to shoot squirrels in your back yard. Or the water pistol you fill with your own urine and shoot at pre-pubescent trick-or-treaters on Halloween. I’m talking about a real firearm—the kind actual police officers carry. Although I suppose when you have multiple restraining orders from female cashiers at McDonald’s posted against you, passing the obligatory background check can be difficult.

Did I mention I used to have a friend who worked as a public safety officer? He didn’t take himself quite so seriously though, probably because he had a college education and just needed an easy, low-stress job for the summer. We used to smoke pot in his vehicle and laugh about the people who considered that job a legitimate career. Remarkably, there are quite a few of you losers. That’s why we’d purposely leave pieces of chewed gum stuck to the front seat of the public safety cruisers. Could that have contributed to your poor attitude? Did you ever find yourself picking watermelon Bubbalicious from the taint area of your freshly cleaned uniform? Well look on the bright side: The smell of watermelon probably covered up the general stench of fresh skid marks adorning the ass of your tightie whities. You know tightie whities are supposed to reduce your sperm count? Although when you’re a virgin at the age of 24 and pretty much use your semen as an improvised form of starch for your bedsheets, I guess sperm count isn’t really a consideration. At least your mom doesn’t mind doing your laundry!

In closing, I suppose I understand your lack of tact in answering my simple question. It’s true, my life is significantly better than yours, and I can see how that would make you uncomfortable. You let you’re jealousy get the better of you. Hey, it happens to the best of us. Still, I’d recommend you shove that pad of parking tickets directly up your ass and jump off a fucking cliff. This may sound malicious, but in truth, you’d be performing a true service to yourself, your family and your community.

Sincerely,

Jim S.

Dinner Plans

Holy shit! Posts two days in a row?? Well aren't you a lucky bunch of fuckers!

So I submitted this story to an online publication and it was... (drum roll please)... rejected! Insert deflated trumpet sound here. Wah wah. Hey, it happens. One man's garbage is another man's... uh... un-garbage. I don't know. Maybe it sucks. But I think it's pretty alright. I guess you guys can be the judge. I mean that's pretty much why I keep you around.

Dinner Plans

Her eyes are shivering pools waiting to overflow. She stops mid-sentence as her voice cracks and she pushes a few loose strands of hair back behind her ears. Her movements are forced and uncomfortable. Twitchy. She doesn’t want me to know how upset she is.

A variety of consolatory clichés tumble clumsily through my brain. At least I can recognize how petty they all are before I spit out some unintentionally condescending remark. She appreciates honesty. She always has. So I close my mouth and awkwardly stack my hands on the table in front of me, shifting my eyes briefly down to the shimmering, golden circle polluting the situation as much as it’s polluting my mashed potatoes.

Now there’s poison in her shaky stare. It’s ugly and scathing. She makes me hate her when she looks like this. She thinks it’s putting me on edge, like her scorn will make me reconsider. It’s the same juvenile tactic used by kids who’ve just been punished by their parents. It really just makes me want to scream at her—stand up from the table in a burst of profanity and calculated attacks that will turn her into a sobbing, slobbering, borderline-suicidal mess. God, I want to dig my fingers into her pale cheeks just to change her fucking expression.

And I feel my own face changing color, turning from its usual pallid tone to a glowing, angry crimson. I want to tell her how stupid she is for expecting anything other than this. Instead, I take a deep breath and try to embrace the stifling silence, like if we continue to sit without movement or speech the universe will forget we exist and we’ll both simply evaporate. We’ll just disappear into nothing and be removed from this unbearable discomfort without any further confrontation.

No such luck. Now we’re just two kill-faces slaughtering the air between us. The space is collateral damage. The time moves backwards, but not in that typical cinematic rewind you might expect. It’s more like a momentary bombardment of the past. Supposedly when you die you’re life flashes before your eyes in an instant. I guess that’s what this is. But it’s angrier. I can only see the times she was too drunk to be kind. Or the moments her lack of social graces became so apparent. I feel the hard steel pole of the pullout couch dig into my back the way it did those nights I couldn’t stand to sleep next to her. I taste the noxious flavor of her tongue like I did on the evenings she smoked too many cigarettes.

She’s the first to break, her anger transforming into misery in a matter of seconds. Her features soften so quickly and drastically, for a moment I almost suspect that someone is standing behind me, holding a picture of the saddest and most affecting event of her life. Then I realize with a creeping bit of shame that this just might be that moment. Say cheese; this is a still frame of your weakest point. This is rock bottom.

She balls uncontrollably, shoulders heaving as she buries her face in her hands. I’m torn. As I watch this microcosm of common tragedy, courtesy and empathy tell me I should do something to comfort her. But I want to stand my ground. This could easily be a trick—an attempt to elicit pity from a person who has been trapped by love for so many years. Because I should fall for it, shouldn’t I? I should see her hopeless tears, reach across the table, take her hands in mine and apologize for my hasty decision. I should think about standing beside her on apartment building rooftops, watching Fourth of July fireworks combat the stars over New York City. I should remember her falling asleep beside my hospital bed after the car accident, a drip of her warm drool leaking onto my hand, waking me softly to remind me that there is love in life and I’m so goddamn fortunate to have it.

Again, I look down at my plate as she sobs. I stare at the gleaming ring representing eternity, carefully hidden in the mangled heap of white potatoes. She was never one for conventions, particularly gender roles. I guess this is something that shouldn’t have surprised me. She’s been ready for a long time. At least she thinks so. I should have expected her to take the initiative. She’s impulsive and she wants what she wants when she wants it.

Her face is still buried in her hands; tears escape down her wrists and arms, forming small puddles where her elbows rest on the navy blue tablecloth. She’s an expected portrait of heartbreak. And it should be so easy for me to remember a time when I was the pathetic, convulsing mass of waterfalls and mucus. It should be so easy for me to be sitting on her side of the table, hanging on to some fading hope that nostalgia and circumstance will save a crumbling future that once seemed so certain.

I reach down and pick up the ring, using my napkin to chase the clinging potatoes from its flawless surface. As I stand, she pulls her face from her hands, her red, waterlogged eyes following me with anticipation so sadly expectant, I have to turn my head. I move towards her and place the ring on the table. Without stopping, I walk out of the kitchen and make my way to the front door, hearing one last outburst of unadulterated grief as I step into September’s waiting darkness, closing the door behind me.

This material is the property and copyright of its owner. Copyright © 2009 LegalZoom.com

Balls of Yarn

Not much to say about this little piece. I started writing it a while ago, forgot about it, left it on the shelf, stumbled across it the other day and finished it up. Anyway, it's just a little something to keep me (and you) occupied. I've got a legit short story I'll be posting either today or tomorrow. So, in the words of Les Grossman, "Go fuck yoursellllves."

Balls of Yarn

She says, “I’m like a kitten… and you’re my favorite ball of yarn.”

And I’m not sure whether to be flattered or incensed.

She says, “You’re my fuck-the-world plan.”

And I can only guess what that means.

I say, “You can tell how much someone loves you by how much you disappoint them.”

She asks if she’s disappointed me, so I tell her, “Of course.” I use “in the past, anyway” as an addendum. I don’t want her getting the wrong idea.

I think about asking her the same question, but I already know the answer. Disappointment is as tangible as an out of focus photograph with her—it’s dark and forbidding, but somehow nostalgic.

She says, “He claims he’s never been disappointed by me.” So I tell her he’s either full of shit or doesn’t love her.

We both agree it’s the former.

She feigns distress, like this is a pivotal moment, like she needs to know she’s the cause of someone’s disillusionment.

Someone besides me.

I offer some half-assed consolation, assuring her he’s almost certainly had moments of frustration and disenchantment so strong, he’s thought about leaving her.

She thanks me for my support and concedes he was probably just trying too hard to read her.

At this point I know I’m just something to keep her entertained, something to keep her crazy—synthesized psychosis in primitive skin.

And I don’t want her to think she’s still a lightning bolt jumping from synapse to synapse in my well-worn brain, trapped in a memory like it’s a conductor. But I want to talk myself into believing she really happened—that beaches weren’t just made for summer, and summers weren’t just made for tourists.

Still, these days she’s nothing more than a shadow of oblivion on a well-lit boardwalk.

We should probably be telling each other to shut the fuck up, like we’ve done so many times.

We should probably be ignoring each other, like we do for months on end.

But tomorrow we’ll be contemplating whether or not to speak to each other. It’ll undoubtedly depend on how lonely we are. Or how much work we have to do. Or what our dreams were. Or what destination was visited on the Travel Channel last night.

In the end we’ll let circumstance push us one way or the other, allowing the universe to dictate our relationship... like a kitten playing with two balls of yarn.

Underbelly

Okay, I really debated whether or not to post this. It’s just so… well… angry and unhinged. I don’t want people to think I’m going to burst into some Latin dance class and open fire. Cause I won’t. But I wrote this at dark-thirty in the morning on an awful night. I was in a bad place and what came out, although mildly sincere at the time, was really just a result of my circumstances and my general discontentment. But I’m posting it anyway. When I first started this shitty little blog, I said I was going to give you the good, the bad and the ugly. So here’s some of the bad and ugly.

Underbelly

There are plenty of thoughts still bounding around this exhausted brain: Thoughts that despite spending multiple hours with the same exclusive group of people, they’re all still nameless to me; thoughts that shelling out two-hundred dollars to sleep in a filthy bed for six hours might be worth it; thoughts that stepping off the sidewalk into Manhattan’s speeding traffic would bring about a welcome rest.

Instead I’m sweating in the bowels of Penn Station, slowly becoming aware that the humid August air outside is preferable to this manufactured, circulated attack on my alveoli. Like sitting in some immense commercial airplane, I’m hoping I don’t wake up with a serious illness. I’m hoping I might actually get some sleep. Fortunately, if insomnia has its way tonight my frantic tossing and turning will be mercifully brief. Still, the simple prospect of laying atop my crumpled sheets for two hours is starting to look like a vacation; a vacation from bruised, swollen wrists and piss-stained cells; a vacation from too-loud elevator music blasting amidst public safety announcements; a vacation from this slinking, stinking, disgusting cross-section of humanity.

Hours ago, we were all standing there like tired, fascinated specters—observing the mechanics of this process with no control over them. We were sweating like pigs, bitching about bureaucracies and everything else we could never change. We were pulling crusted strands of gum from our pant legs and wondering what songs we were missing. We were slowly degrading into stereotypes, hoping we’d make the 12:15 train back to Long Island… then the 1:15… then the 2:15. Now, reality hands me a 3:15 train with a teasing smile and a big fuck you.

The nearby bars are all closed and the people in this waiting area are just misery sleeping on misery. I don’t know any of them, but I hate them all—hideous creatures with no dreams, no sentiment, no passion. I want them all to collectively wake and stand, then stab their neighbor in the throat. I want them to know what death feels like. I want them to cry like aspiring ghosts while their pathetic, broken lives bleed out onto this salt and pepper tile. Because they all deserve to be lost. And I could use a little entertainment.