This is the final installment of “Fear.” The topics of self-sabotage, calming reminders, and a touch of motivation are vitally important to discuss, especially in an academic context. I hope that you stay determined and chase what you want in life. You deserve it!
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1zYeJuztwfo3q2dQwU-gnyvkPDvDHgHkHOcOoOdsm1rM/edit?usp=sharing
This is an assortment of pieces I created to celebrate the fall season. I hope you all have a tremendous (and equally horrifying) Halloween!
Trigger warning: Strong language, mild gore, horror theme
The Man
“Get out of here, asshole!”
“Screw you, Stace,” Cole spits, pushing up from the couch. Stacy shoves his back, causing him to jerk forward as he stands. Stacy’s complexion is unmoving, with hot rage steaming beneath. Whether it be in spite of the absurdity of the argument or the embarrassment he feels, Cole gestures with his middle finger, boldly displaying it before disappearing up the basement steps.
Cole’s palms slam against the door, causing the tattered screen to bounce before settling in its original position. Standing on the porch, Cole shakes his hands at his sides, hoping to reduce the sting. Before heading out, he checks his watch: 7:00 pm.
The block is illuminated by a soft, warm glow, characteristic of picturesque summer evenings. The delicate breeze and pinkish sky evoke a sense of calm in those traversing the patchy sidewalks, apart from Cole.
As he grumbles toward home, his scowl deepens into a defiant squint. He holds a hand to his forehead to take in the view. At the tree line lingers an impatient August sun, barely holding onto the sky, wishing for dark winter nights. Its light pours between each pine needle on every tree, producing beams that project onto homes bordering the street.
Cheerful people cross Cole’s path, accelerating his fury. They amble without intention or direction for the sole purpose of breathing in the evening air. One such passerby approaches Cole from a great distance. As he gets closer, a white cane comes into view. It passes the pavement like a pendulum, sweeping back and forth. The man looks to be in his late sixties. His face is worn and tired with age, accompanied by browning age spots. His white hair is intact but thinning and almost the texture of cotton. His walk is a hunched shuffle, slow and effortful.
As the man approaches, a chill runs down Cole’s back, causing his hair to stand atop his skin. The clicking of the cane crescendos as the man reaches him. Despite wanting to look away from the man, Cole finds he cannot. He is by no means a sight to behold but remains inexplicably captivating.
The man is a few feet away, still sweeping the ground with his cane. “Boy,” the man calls, “I am looking for Empyrean Drive. Do you know where I can find it?”
Cole blurts, “Can you really look for it? You seem pretty blind to me, old man.”
The corners of the man’s mouth contort into a smile.
Despite the warmth of the sun still hanging in the sky, a cool breeze rushes past them both. Cole shivers, and abruptly, a realization overwhelms him: “If he is blind, how did he know I was here?” Cole looks back at the man to find his features strangely distorted. Up close, the man’s face is almost skeletal. Defined curves and jagged edges make up his emaciated aspect. Cole’s stomach twists as he observes the man’s sunken eyes. The skin surrounding them is scarce, giving the eyes an unnaturally placed appearance as if foreign to the face. The eyes themselves are large and oddly round. Grey hues swirl in spiraling patterns around obsidian centers. Each eye is thickly glazed over, yet the blackness deepens, and the pupils dilate the longer Cole stares.
“Do you know where I can find it?” the man happily asks once more.
Unable to speak, Cole continues in his perusal of the eyes.
As he does so, shadows creep onto the man’s flesh, shrouding his skeletal appearance.
Finally, Cole draws his gaze away and looks to his feet, now disguised in the black of night.
Cole rubs his arms with clammy palms, attempting to soothe himself. “Look man,” he finally starts, “I’ve never heard of that street and I really need to get home.”
With that, Cole begins walking, which soon evolves into a frantic jog.
After passing two blocks, he stops, sucking in shuddering breaths. “Shit, that guy was weird,” he declares to himself. Lifting his head, he observes that the sun has set prematurely. “Also weird.” Cole reads his watch: 7:05 pm.
“What the hell? It’s only been five minutes? Is this thing broken or something?”
Two clicks. Cole whirls around. Two more clicks. The darkness is thick, the stars and moon dulling fast. Squinting, he finds the man.
“Stacy is very upset with you, boy.”
“Fuck you, man! What is your deal?” Not wasting any more time, Cole sprints, scraping the pavement with the soles of his shoes.
Click. Click. Click. The noise is in Cole’s ears, growing louder than his breath.
Click. Click. Click. It gnaws its way through his ears to his brain. The sidewalk is enveloped in pitch black. Each step is taken only by faith.
As Cole sprints, he can’t help but question, “Where is everybody? The street lamps? The moon? Anything?”
“Do you know where I can find it, boy?” The question arrives, conveyed through the air by the clicking echoes.
Up ahead, a single street lamp remains, illuminating Cole’s home. Not stopping, Cole rushes to the door. He gasps in relief as he locates the key in his pocket. His hands shake violently, making it near impossible to push the key into the lock. With a succinct click, he twists the door handle, pulls upon the door, and slams it shut.
Cole is greeted by solitary darkness. The blackness consumes his wood-floored hallway, the kitchen table, and everything else. A pang of panic rushes through his fingertips as he reaches beside the door. There is no light switch. Vigorously brushing his hands along the wall, he feels nothing.
Hopeless, he presses his back to the door. His forceful pants slow to trembling, shallow breaths. As he sinks to the floor, he realizes that the tapping has ceased. Now enveloped in strange darkness, he cannot see his hands squarely in front of him.
Something knocks into the door. The walking stick. “Let me in, Cole.”
“GO AWAY!” Cole screams, fear ripping at his throat. “Go away, go away, go away,” he mutters incomprehensibly.
“Do you know where I can find it?” The man’s voice is lower than before. “Do you know where?”
“Please go away,” Cole whispers through pleading sobs. Despite the blackness of the room, he squeezes his eyes shut.
“I know you’ve seen it,” he says in a distorted, otherworldly tone.
“Seen what?” Cole asks, gasping for breath.
“Cole. Let me in, Cole. Let me see you.”
Upon that last word, a violent pain rips at Cole’s eyes. He gasps and clutches at his eyes. It is as if they were set ablaze by hell’s fire. The scorching compels agonizing screams and pleas for mercy. Each optical nerve twists and tugs under immense strain. Cole rocks back and forth before getting on all fours, face pressed to the floor. Then, everything stops. The pain disappears, although the panic lingers.
Cole opens his eyes. “It’s over,” he thinks, as something trickles down his cheek, seeping into his mouth. It is vile and metallic. “Oh, God,” he cries. All is black. No figure, shape, or object, not even the floor or street lamp outside, is visible. The void is all that is left. The viscous blood continues to flow from his eyes as Cole’s breathing diminishes. Finally, he slumps to the ground.
“Thank you, Cole.”
The most horrifying day of the year is fast approaching! It is time for spooks, scares, and clown photography!
Empty Coat Pockets
An old grandfather clock
The pendulum sways
The hands tick and click
Stealing the days away
Too few minutes
In a day
Too few days
In a week
Too few weeks
In a month
Too few months
In a year
Too few years
In a decade
Too few decades
In a century
So little time
To do all and everything
Staring at the clock
But you can’t capture the hands
In that coat pocket
Too long
Too short
Too fast
Too slow
How long has it been?
Where did the times go?
Has it really been that long?
I remember it like it was yesterday.
The timing feels so wrong.
Graying and sagging by the second
Death’s deadline closes in
Quietly
At your bedside
Realizing the minutes and days
Have slipped away
All the memories you never made
All of the times you didn’t stay
All of the words you never prayed
And you couldn’t take the clock’s hands
In your coat pockets
Hold them close and dear
So instead
In your bed
You lay in fear
As the grandfather clock’s chime
Rings near
To claim your final breath.
Content warning: Suicide, self-harm, depression, strong language
Thorns and Roses
“Joan? Are you okay? Joan? Mrs. Chrysalis, Joan is really out of it.”
A dull thud from the back of the classroom instigates clusters of sharp gasps and gossipy whispers. Mrs. Chrysalis whips her head towards the sound and asks, “Crescent, could you lay him on his back? I’m going to call the nurse.” Quickly rising from her desk, she scans the classroom, phone in hand. “Everyone, get back to reading Chapter Five.”
***
“You’re lucky your mother is at work, Joan.”
“I know.” Water seeps through the ice pack, sliding down Joan’s arm. His fingertips tingle as numbness sets in. In hopes of clarifying his fuzzy vision, he squeezes the bag more tightly against his head. Unfortunately, that invites more water to trickle down and onto his sweatpants. Frowning, he looks down at a now entirely noticeable and infinitely unflattering puddle. Crap.
His grandmother shuts the car door and walks toward the driver’s side. For a moment, she looks outward, hands on her hips, as if searching for something. There is a sober concern on her face, formed with squinting eyes and sagging skin.
I should’ve eaten a fucking granola bar or something. None of this would be happening.
Joan’s grandmother displays traits characteristic of most grandmothers, with a few deviations. Her hair is a long, natural gray, adding a genuineness to her complexion. Years of labor are remarkably invisible to the eye, as her hands are delicate and her posture remains intimidatingly straight. Despite the weathering of her face, her features exude powerful, ageless strength. Like coffee beans, her eyes are a rich brown, and her jawline is smooth but strong. Most notable, though, are her arms. Intricate tattooing runs from her palms to her shoulders. Each arm dons striking, all-black patterns, detailed line work, and undoubtedly, layers of history.
Joan sinks in his seat, bargaining with God to let him fall through the floor and melt into the blacktop of the parking lot.
With an emphatic exhale, she hops in and starts the engine. The car roars to life, causing it to jostle in place. “Are you feeling a bit better now, Joan?”
He stares aimlessly out the window and replies, “Mhhmm.”
“I was talking with your mother, and she said you’re not eating enough. Are you sure you don’t have… oh what’s it called-?”
“Anorexia?” Joan turns to face her, choking down a laugh. Or is it a scoff at the suggestion?
“Right. Well, do you? Because when I read that article your mother sent me I-.”
Towards the window, he says, “I don’t, Grandma. Stop worrying.”
“Okay then.” She purses her lips with that concerned look again before pulling out of the parking spot.
The school remains unchanged and miraculously still. Rows upon rows of cars sit within neat lines. The hedges lining the building are unbothered. Trees stand guard, only moving slightly in the breeze. Each brick on every wall is aligned and content in its placement. All is fine and perfectly ordinary. No crowds, no sirens, no eager students peering out classroom windows.
Thank God. That would be embarrassing as shit.
Despite the school’s orderliness, the sky is a twisted gray, and in it hang heavy clouds. The clouds look as if they are clutching each other, pleading to stay in place. The pools of water that form their very existence also weigh them down. It is in their nature to collapse into pieces and plummet to the Earth. All one can do is wait for the inevitable.
“Darn. I should’ve grabbed an umbrella. It looks like it’ll be pouring soon.”
Joan mumbles something beneath his breath.
Chaos will erupt shortly. All it takes is one drop that cascades into two and then three, four, and five. Soon after, there will be no stopping it. An onslaught of showers will pummel the dirt and drown grass blades. Roads will become rivers and intersections ponds. Rushing from the sky, they will fall.
As Joan’s grandmother maneuvers the car into the left lane, she reignites the conversation. “Honey, you know you can tell me absolutely anything. I don’t know what’s going on with you, and your mother is worried sick. We want to help.”
Finding himself buried in his seat, Joan pushes into his palms, lifting himself to her height. “You can’t.” He pauses before muttering, “I’m sorry.” Is she really that worried? Mom seems more pissed off than anything. Oh, how I love our nightly screaming matches.
She stops at a red light, sighing. “Can you at least tell me what’s going on? This is the second time you’ve fainted at school, you hardly leave your room, your friends haven’t been by the house in months, your grades are dropping-.”
“Hold on-.”
“And you’ve been fighting with your mother, Joan,” she adds tersely.
Silence lingers, weighing on Joan’s chest. Why is this such an issue? Everyone’s in interrogation mode all of a sudden. I mean, why shouldn’t I be pissed off? They both need to just leave me the fuck alone.
“What’s going on, Joan?”
Joan chains his gaze to a telephone pole on the side of the road. He stares as if it would rescue him from impending doom. Maybe I could climb one of those, swing on the wires, and see how far I could get before my nerves fry.
“Joan?”
Unmoving, he observes the enchanting features of the pole.
“Joan?”
The graffiti really highlights the missing persons’ posters. Captivating.
“I know you’re vaping.”
Whirling around, he faces her, wild with fear. After a few seconds, he shrinks inward and looks away, groaning. “Shit,” he says under his breath. He brushes his hands through his hair and rubs his forehead. “Oh my God, please don’t tell Mom. I’m begging you. She’ll kill me. Does she already know? Shit. God, there’s no air in here. Please tell me she doesn’t know.”
“She doesn’t know.” After a moment, his grandmother says, “And if you tell me what’s going on and promise to throw that thing out, I won’t say anything to your mother.”
“I’ll throw it out as soon as we get home, I promise,” Joan says with trembling hands. The familiar click of the turn signal settles in his ears, accompanied by the pounding of his heart.
They park in an abandoned lot. The yellow lines are patchy, having long since faded into the pavement. The ground is best likened to swiss cheese, sporting massive holes and thick chunks of uprooted gravel. Vines and overgrown foliage line the edges of the property. The abandoned building itself is uneventful, aside from some artist renditions of a particular body part. Along its walls is the occasional shard of broken glass or slab of peeling wood. They sit there, mute.
Joan shuffles anxiously in his seat. By the second, the pit in his stomach enlarges, causing acid to creep its way up. He clears his throat. Shit. Where are we? Maybe I should book it and find a dumpster to dive in and die in?
“Joan, you’re a good kid. You know that, right?” His grandmother turns to face him, but he avoids her delicate eyes. “So, what’s going on with you?” She lifts her hand and gently places it on his shoulder. “I mean, how many times am I going to have to ask for you to just tell me?” she asks with an exasperated laugh.
Joan shifts to look at her. To keep the thoughts from spilling out of his mouth, he holds the air in his throat. Fuck. He looks to the window, hoping to find a haven from this invasive inquisition. Though, considering he was comatose on a gum-adorned tile floor thirty minutes ago, it is proving difficult not to give in. Finally, the fuzzy pounding in his head compels a cough.
“Joan.”
“I don’t know!” Joan pants. “God.” He lets out a sigh and rests his head on the window. “I don’t know. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. And the fucked up part is, I don’t even know why. I’ve been stuck in this limbo of not feeling anything for years and it scares me that I don’t even care anymore. Maybe I never did. I should be happy right? Or at least I should want to be happy but I… I don’t want that.” He shifts in his seat before continuing, more softly this time, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m tired of pretending like we all live in this magical fucking kalediscope when everything is so… grey.”
He swallows dryly. “I don’t want to be here. Or anywhere. Not dead or alive or in some weird in-between. Just nowhere.”
Joan shifts roughly in his seat, avoiding his grandmother’s eyes. Barely audible, he starts, “All I-.” He exhales sharply. “All I want is to climb a tall building and jump off,” his breath hitches.
Why did I say that? Shit. Now I’m going to be forced into a fucking mental hospital, and I’ll have to make a pact with a serial murderer and a quirky side-character there for comic relief to help me break out after I grant them my chocolate pudding stash.
Silently, Joan sits and lets the words hang in the air, waiting for them to harden and crush him.
After what feels like hours, Joan turns to observe his grandmother’s expression. Surprisingly, she looks calm. Then, it hits him: She gets it. She knows these words swimming in stale car smell.
Her eyes meet Joan’s before she pulls him into a hug. “I’m so sorry you’ve been dealing with this. I know how difficult it can be.”
Over her shoulder, Joan’s face is stricken with confusion.
Sighing heavily, she asks, “Have you ever wondered why I have these tattoos?”
Joan pauses, then his face curls with discomfort. “Oh Jesus, Grandma. I just assumed you had them because you wanted to be ‘not like those other grandmas’ or that you made really poor life choices in your twenties or something.”
His grandmother chuckles, “Well I’m flattered that you thought that and, for the record, I’m not like other grandmas. I’m cool and you can’t fight me on that.” She nudges him affectionately to relieve the tension. “So, you can guess where I’m going with this but I think it’s important that you know.”
“When I was in high school, things got difficult for me and my father. Your great grandmother had just passed before the summer of my senior year. As you know, my father took up drinking and he wasn’t always pleasant to be around. Things got dark, and I didn’t see a way out.” Her brown eyes dull, and her skin pales at the thought. “I tried to take my own life. But, thank God, your great grandfather found me.”
“Shit, Grandma.”
“Shit indeed. But I just want you to know that I’m happy I’m here today, telling you this. I would have never met you or your mother. There are so many moments in life that make it worth all of that pain. You just have to be patient and know that things will get better. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I guess so.”
“Alright,” she says, pursing her lips definitively.
“I do have one question though,” Joan says.
“What is it?”
“Do the tattoos mean anything or are they just to cover up the scars?”
“Well, this large one right here,” she points to the center of her right arm, “is a rose covered in thorns. Your great grandmother adored her rosebush. She tended to it everyday. I had never seen her so full of joy as she was with those roses. It reminds me that you can’t have those extraordinary moments without some bad ones. To embrace the struggle of life is to find beauty within it, even where you thought there might be none.”
She squeezes Joan’s shoulder and says, “I love you and I want you to stick it through. It’s okay to feel low. Even when there may not be a clear reason for it. But I need you to know that you bring a lot of happiness to my life in spite of those thorny parts. And, even though it might not seem like it, your mother loves you more than you could ever imagine. You’re her rosebush.”
A tiny water droplet strikes the gravel, leaving a perfect circle. Then another. Another. Another. A chain reaction begins in the sky as thousands drop to the Earth. The dark clouds hang low, heavy but lifting, as they release piece after piece of themselves.
“Thank you, Grandma. For everything.”
“You are very welcome. And… if you think therapy would help, we can do that. Or, if you just need someone to talk to, I’m retired,” she says, laughing.
Joan smiles with relief.
Suddenly, a small creature materializes, flying through the storm. A small mourning dove lands, lightly chirping as it finds sanctuary. It shakes its feathers beneath a rotting piece of plywood propped against the abandoned building. Although the current state of the world should inspire fear in the little bird, it hops around, pecking curiously at the wood fibers, unaffected by the loud crashes and vigorous rain.
“I think that bird has the right idea. Why don’t we drive around the corner and get milkshakes to wait out the storm?
“That sounds great, Grandma,” Joan says sincerely.
Reaching over, she ruffles Joan’s hair and starts the car.
***
Please reach out if you or someone you know is in immediate danger or experiencing suicidal thoughts. You are not alone.
911
988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline
CAPS After Hours Urgent Support: 734-764-8312
UM Psychiatric Emergency Services: 734.996.4747
UM Sexual Assault Prevention and Awareness: 734.936.3333
Department of Public Safety and Security: 734.763.1131
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1.800.273.TALK (1.800.273.8255)
The Trevor Lifeline: 1.866.488.7386
Crisis Text Line: 741741
