Day 120 - Greetings from the city

 Greetings from the city

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

66 was bleeding and injured. 33 was dead. Quer was dead. Amer was dead. But Fara was safe and alive and free. He needed to get out of town, but he had no one left. His father was gone. His brother was gone. His son was gone. But still he moved forward. The police would be on their way. He had to keep moving.

Day 119 - The Agent

 The Agent

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Something bad happened here was the understatement of the century, but Sonny couldn’t help thinking it all the same. When he arrived, the police stopped his at the compound gate – no cars in or out. There were bodies starting out the outer wall spread out as one approached the main buildings. There were more around each building – the main house, the guest house, security office, workers chambers and more. There had been a war here, a range of nationalities and races. It was unclear who survived or which faction had come out on top. One thing that had already been determined – Mr. Amer the owner of the property was dead, shot in the head in his dining room. The room was in shambles, bodyguards executed, and signs of struggles, fist fights and more. Mr. Amer’s nephew was dead by his uncle’s side, shot in the face at near point-blank range.

Something very bad indeed.

Sonny was not here to determine who had killed who. He was not here because of his forensics knowledge or understanding of the gangs or mafioso families in the city. Sonny had been alerted because a year ago he had worked undercover to bring down a group of pirates who were kidnapping and ransoming off rich elites off the coast of Java near Bali. During that case he had become an expert on tattoos of the gang and had begun tracing their links to other criminal organizations of the region. When one of those tattoos had begun appearing again, Sonny had been alerted and was on the next plane. He was here as a courtesy. This was not his district; these were not his people. He had no authority. But his expertise was appreciated and if it helped prevent more bloodshed, it was welcomed. Sonny was unsure how identifying international cartels would help prevent the next crime or track down any of the surviving participants, but he was happy to try. Perhaps if the dead were over representative of faction, the remaining bodies might indicate the victorious gang, and perhaps their tattoos could give a direction for the investigation to take.

Before Sonny had even begun, word came in of another massacre at the offices of Jon Quer, a business associate of Mr. Amer’s family. The plot thickens, as they say, or perhaps it meant a dash more clarity. If Quer and Amer were both eliminated, perhaps their business associations also had dipped into the illegal sorts and they had made the wrong acquaintances. And maybe both were eliminated by the same people at the same time for the same reasons.

Sonny needed to see both scenes and perform his own documentation and comparisons. It was going to be a long day with one location, let alone two. He would have to speed up his own process and trust the officers here to document everything well enough if he was to spend time across the city as well. He hated it and wondered what would be lost in the shuffle, but he reminded himself this wasn’t his department, city, or even country. He was here as an advisor, and if things were missed, it was not a comment on him or his job performance. It was their responsibility, not his. Telling himself that did not put his mind at ease.

Sonny tried to remember the names of all the business men who had been funding the kidnappers he had dealt with before. He had never heard the names Quer or Amer before not but it was worth looking into them to see of the networks interconnected somewhere. His mind was slipping, it had only been a year ago and already the names were fading. He’d have to check his files. He was so worried about these police missing something, but what would he miss if he didn’t get his act together?

Long day ahead? Well, more like the beginning of a lot of long long days, he thought to himself. Something like this wasn’t going to be settled quickly.

Day 118 - The Dragon Claw

The Dragon Claw

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

When Seven had been young he had a different name, Aiden, and no expectation that he would ever be chosen to wear the mark of The Dragon Claw. His family was not important, his father was not a boss. Years ago, he had been an operative, and was well respected in retirement, but he held no political power. His father had trained him for a long as he could remember. Aiden had studied languages, honed practical and philosophic skills, as well as forensic and investigative talents. His father never gave a reason beyond the idea that for a man to have a blessed life, he must be multifaceted. Naively Aiden trusted his father and never considered he was being groomed for greater thing. He didn’t ask why when his father pushed him into athletics and trained him in wrestling, martial arts, and eventually weapons. It became blatantly obvious a few short years later, but when Aiden was young, he had no thoughts of excelling within the organization.

Aiden became Seven when the previous Seven had died and a competition was held. His father was not an important man, but the families respected him and remembered his past service. When he requested his son be considered, they trusted his judgement. No one knew the life he had put Aiden through, but the suspected that a former operative would prepare his son well. Their suspicions were not wrong. After trials and conferences, Aiden was named Seven, and he joined the ranks of The Dragon Claw. Seven suddenly had eight brothers.

Years ago, after much infighting, nine crime families came together, and in an attempt to create peace, each agreed to provide a blood relative to found a special group of operatives, an elite group of enforcers that would help keep the peace between families and protect against internal and external threats. Nine operatives, one from each family, formed the Dragon’s Claw. Highly trained and extremely deadly, their mandate is to protect the nine families at all costs, owing allegiance to the whole, never favoring a single family. The gambit worked and a tenuous peace was achieved.

Seven enjoyed his life and appreciated his status. He had been raised humble and tried to retain the spirit of attitude. Some men sought power or status or the fear or respect of others. Seven served his father and the organization his father belonged to and now he served all the families. That was what he saw as important.

Serving and recognizing hierarchy didn’t mean he never had questions of his own, but he knew to keep such things to himself. When assigned a dispute to resolve he did so, but didn’t question why or when the dispute began or who was right or wrong. When ordered to kill a rival, he did so quickly, knowing it was the best way to keep the families in power and to avoid the destructive chaos of allowing rivals to grow into enemies. When someone else was given a job in his territory, concerning his family, he often wondered why. There was no one to ask, but he always wondered if one of the bosses believed he wouldn’t be able to stay objective.

When Nine disappeared on a secret mission, Seven fought the urge to discuss theories with the others. He was close friends with Three and Five, but to mention something like this, would mean to cross a boundary that once crossed there was no returning from.

When Nine appeared at his apartment door, bleeding, fighting for his life, begging Seven to hide a USB drive, Seven realized he had crossed a Rubicon and his life would never be the same again.

Day 117 - What Just Happened?

 What Just Happened?

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

For a moment I felt insane. I heard a pop and saw a flash of light. I could swear there had been a puff of smoke. But a fraction of a second later, and no smell, no burn marks, no evidence of any kind. The fan that was plugged in was still running. The clock on the wall kept ticking away. The lights we all on. So, if I had witnessed an explosion of some kind, it was the least significant one ever.

Outside the sound of rain began, which was a complete shock, but really the neighbor’s irrigation system had cracked and one sprinkler head was shooting water straight up into the air and it was pitter-pattering down on my walk. That also explained why I had seen evidence of rain in the morning when I woke up. When I knocked on their door to tell them, we were unable to recreate the phenomena.   

Perhaps I really had gone insane.

I was biting my nails again. Some of them down to the nub. Sometimes I would tear enough that it would pull the sides and strike that fleshy never tissue. I knew it would hurt for the next week, but I couldn’t stop myself, something in the texture was off and it was driving me crazy.

The phone rang but by the time I got there, no one was there.

I took a bath to calm my nerves and ending up walking around naked for a while. I went back to see if my sprinklers were working correctly. Then I heard what distinctly sounded like a cellphone alarm. There were voices outside, but I couldn’t see my neighbors and they couldn’t see my naked body. Thankfully our fence was tall. Still through, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had seen me, despite there being no evidence.

The day was long and my sleep was lacking, and my right eye muscle began twitching. Perhaps I had too much caffeine to compensate. Or perhaps my eyes were strained and it was time for a new pair of glasses.

It was only eight, but the idea of sleep seemed captivating. The day had been full of strangeness and I just wanted to abort and start fresh in the morning.

I lay there, unable to fall asleep. Too hot, afraid to use my fan lest I set my house on fire. Mind racing at every little sound I heard outside. I was beginning to sweat and I bit the inside of my mouth. It was going to be a horrible evening.

Day 116 - 40 days or more

 40 days or more

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Jason didn’t call his father at first, not wanting to worry him, or so he told himself. Really, he was equal parts nervous and afraid, afraid he had disappointed his father by not coming home for his grandfather’s funeral. It had been the end of the semester and he had final projects to finish and tests to study for. Plus, he had always been more afraid of his grandfather growing up and it was hard to suddenly switch emotions. He was sure his father was upset, probably burying all sorts of emotions deep down, probably could use a son’s love. But Jason was barely any closer to his father than to his grandfather. He was thrilled when he was accepted to a university on the other side of the country so his parents wouldn’t be able to visit very often. The last year and half of high school had been exhausting; Jason had finished at an all time emotional low. Getting away had reinvigorated him and he was feeling like a new person, finally a fully grown man. If he went home, he was afraid he would not only be treated as a child, but he’d probably slip into the role far too easily. He had a good foundation going here, and didn’t want to ruin it.

Finals had been weeks ago though, and Jason still stayed in Oregon. He had found a summer job and was subletting an apartment. It was supposed to be a summer away, while picking up a credit or two with summer classes. Months ago, his parents had understood and even thought it was a good idea to get ahead. But the situation had changed and their grief made them more anxious for his return. The first weeks of summer additional phone calls and zoom chats had bridged the gap, but now the pressure was mounting, and if he wasn’t going to travel, they soon would be. It was an unwinnable situation, and emails and texts weren’t going to solve it. He was going to have to call sooner rather than later. And when he did, he had no clue how his father would react.

Nerves had gotten the better of his so far, but then the other thing had begun. The “other thing” he called it, because to name it would be to name his own madness. Jason’s grandfather had died suddenly while on a business trip, but when the dreams began, they were dreams in a hospital, where Jason watched his grandfather slowly fade away. In one dream, Jason had been forced to physically pull the plug on his grandfather. His dreams were somewhere between scenes from a movie, and worst-case end of life nightmare scenarios. He didn’t tell anyone, because they were just dreams. But as the days turned to weeks after his grandfather’s passing, the dreams turned into something more.

Jason began to see a man on campus that resembled his grandfather. Or a younger version of his grandfather. Sort of like the man he had seen in an old photo album. The man was often across the street or on the other side of the park, moving in a crowd, and just far enough away that Jason couldn’t catch up to him without running. Jason thought it was a strange coincidence at first and perhaps a sign of some stage of his own grief. His mind was playing tricks on him because he was carrying so much anxiety about having not go to the funeral.

As the days passed, Jason saw the man more and more on his path through campus, before and after him, somehow in later locations he wouldn’t have arrived at based on where he had been headed before. Jason thought he saw him in the reflections of windows, and would turn expect to see him across the street, only to see no one. Jason would catch these glimpses day or night.

Feeling silly at first, he told no one, but now that it happened too often, he was worried something else was wrong. Either ghosts were real and he was being haunted, or he was losing his mind from stress and grief he didn’t think he was actually feeling.

He owed his father a phone call. He owed him a lot including an apology. But he was afraid to make that call. Afraid of his father’s anger, but more afraid of the reaction if Jason told him what he had been seeing. Too many days kept passing, but Jason couldn’t figure out any suitable plan of action.

Then one night, Jason felt a presence in his apartment. At first, he feared there was a burglar, but when he saw the figure moving in the shadows, a different fear grew. Jason fled his apartment and ran across campus, but the shadows seemed to travel with him. Eyes, barely there, but watching. Figures he could almost discern. The shadow man was with him, step for step. What did the spirit want? What could he do to be free? Jason ran.

Jason ended up at a twenty-four-hour diner, drinking coffee, staring out the window at the shadows just beyond the parking lot. The figure was out there, he was sure of it, just beyond sight. Sunrise would be soon. He would call his parents. It was three hours later for them; they would be up. He would call his father and ask what to do. His father would answer, he was sure of it.

Day 115 - 39 Days, Give or Take

 39 Days, Give or Take

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Sean greeted the body at the airport, if such action could be considered a greeting. He represented his family as his father’s body was delivered back to the states. He signed some paperwork and nodded as a staffer reviewed their process with him. Sean heard some of it, possessed almost none of it, his mind focused on other things.

His mother wanted a quick funeral and limited memorial. She wanted it over. Not to move on, but so she wouldn’t have to think about it quite as often. Sean wasn’t in the mood to argue. He wasn’t in the mood to do anything, especially arrange a large gathering of people who would all nod and say the same platitudes. His father would be in the ground for a long time. There would be plenty of time for years of empty words.

His father had been found in his hotel room, collapsed on the floor, when the maid came to change the sheets. He appeared to have been in the middle of a morning routine of light stretching and weight conditioning. So, he had passed before breakfast, but he had definitely been awake. Sean hoped it had happened quickly and there hadn’t been much suffering. He had heard terrible stories about slip and falls and people being paralyzed and laying to waste away, undiscovered for weeks. Not the victory of falling asleep and never knowing what had happened, but far better than some torturous drawn-out conclusion.

It had been three days already. The funeral would be another two. Sean wasn’t sure why he was counting. There were plenty of ways this could go and plenty of religions and customs that required things happen in specific orders or within a specific amount of time. Sean didn’t adhere to any of these, and to his knowledge, neither did his father.

In offering her condolences Belle, a life long friend, had told Sean about a Buddhist belief that the spirit remains on earth for up to thirty-nine days and would stay with their loved ones. Perhaps if there was unfinished business, the spirit would send a sign. Perhaps the spirit would help the loved one grieve and move on. Sean didn’t question her logic. It seemed like a rude thing to do. Who would the spirit follow, him or her mother? Who would get the message? Did creeks in the floorboards or birds chirping too early in the morning count as something he should be listening for? She was trying to help. He tried to leave it at that.

Sean did a minimal amount of research online regarding burial customs. He found mention of an orthodox Christian belief that the spirit left on the fortieth day, and mention of a Japanese belief it was the forty-ninth day. He found nothing to corroborate Belle’s story. Not that she was wrong, he was certainly no expert of Buddhism, but she could have heard any number of things and mixed the facts up in her mind.

But he wasn’t counting the days. Because he didn’t believe in such things.

His mother wanted an open casket. Sean was less that enthused. He wasn’t interested in seeing his father in such a state of unnatural rest, with strange makeup on and inhuman features already setting in. He knew what he wanted to remember, and the unreal wasn’t it.

That night, sitting in the dark, alone, crying, Sean was hit with a terrible thought. What if his father was watching and he was missing the message? What if he his father had already been trying to say something for three days now? If Sean didn’t hear it, would his father be able to move on? If the thirty or forty or fifty days came and went, and Sean failed his father, what would happen to his father’s spirit? Would it be allowed to move on? Or would his father be trapped? Trapped following Sean or his mother, or worse yet, trapped in the casket with his own decaying body. That sort of torturous hell would that be, to slowly watch yourself rot, and be stuck for eternity with your own remains. Sean suddenly wanted his father to be cremated.  

Day 114 - On the Road

 On the Road

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Jeremiah switched drinks with Wesley when Wesley’s attention waned and his eyes closed and his chin drooped downwards. Wesley’s pint glass had been full, and the last thing he needed was to try and ingest another alcoholic beverage. Jeremiah’s pint glass was down to the bottom third and more importantly was a non-alcoholic beer. No one knew that Jeremiah had stopped drinking. He didn’t think it was important to tell them and he didn’t want to answer any invasive questions. It had been almost three months and wanted a way to seem normal while hanging out in bars with his friends.

Wesley’s chin hit his chest and he head bobbed back up; eyes wide open again. He grabbed the beer in front of him and took a big swig. Wesley didn’t notice the difference, just as Jeremiah assumed he wouldn’t. Soon Wesley would want another drink and Jeremiah didn’t have a plan for that one. Perhaps he would go to the bar for Wesley and buy them both something non-alcoholic. Perhaps he would speak up and suggest a glass or two of water. But he recognized the state Wesley was in and knew that there would be no rational debates and no negotiations to be had. Jeremiah been in that state one too many times himself, and knew the common eventual outcomes.

Alcoholic was such a loaded word. One simply couldn’t not accuse a friend of being an alcoholic, especially not during a night out at a bar. It would a terrible place for an intervention. Wesley was a weepy sentimental drunk. Perhaps not an alcoholic, but how close are those lines anyway? Problematic drinking was problematic no matter what label was placed on it. Drinking too much, losing time and memory, behaving it ways you didn’t intend were all red flags and warning signs.

A million years ago Jeremiah had gone to some meetings. He didn’t take it seriously. He thought he had some problems, but didn’t think he had the one big problem. But he spoke sometimes and he listened to others speak and he got inspiration from their stories. He did a few of the steps, but he never finished and he never made it past sixty days before he would tire and move on.

But that was a younger man’s game. Neither he, nor Wesley were young men anymore.

Jeremiah had known angry drunks. Drunks who hurt themselves or others. He knew a drunk who crashed his car and lost his job. He knew a drunk that woke up in strange places with strange women and later had to see doctors about that.

Jeremiah looked at himself in many mirrors and he had seen a reflection that was often far too close to many of the people he knew.

In the past six months, Jeremiah had gone to a doctor, started working out again, and found himself meeting with a therapist. He had been prescribed drugs for poor health and poor mood, and most of them warned not to be mixed with alcohol.

He was trying. He was trying as hard as he could. He didn’t talk about it or tell anyone, but he was making the effort. He knew three months wasn’t impressive to some, but to him, it meant a lot.

Jeremiah wanted to help his friend Wesley, but he didn’t know how. He had watched Wesley weep in public many times, helped carry him back to his apartment, put him to bed before. The night was seemingly shaping up to be another of those types of nights. There were only so many ways to try and trick a person, before they caught on. Even if it was done with the best of intentions, even if you thought you were doing it for their own good, it was still a betrayal on some level. And Wesley was only going to stop if Wesley wanted to. A hard truth to learn.

His friends sometimes took turns with who would look after Wesley at the end of the night. Jeremiah could remember when it was him they were taking care of. A bit of melancholy crossed his night and Jeremiah slipped off to the bar to pay his tab. He needed to get out and walk. He needed some fresh air. He was too close to his own line, barely had answers for himself, he couldn’t be tasked with saving someone else tonight. Wesley left the bar and snuck off into the night, hoping someone else there would do the right thing in his absence.

Day 113 - Memory Trap

 Memory Trap

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Itemized lists, spreadsheets and photographs. They all went into the box with the promise of elimination to follow. Each item elicited an emotional response and was traced and tracked and documented. Synapses flared and new memory paths were formed. There was no reason to want to remember such pain, but trauma response all but deemed it inevitable.

Outside the hospital, Elaine tried to get cell service. She didn’t know if it was the building itself or some machinery inside that blocked her signal. She walked the parking lot to no avail. Then up the side of the hill that led to the ER and cancer wards. Nothing much was helping. It had been a long day and there wasn’t much to do but sit around and she had grown nervous and bored. Walking didn’t help.

Inside a room there were maybe thirty people in chairs, receiving chemical poison in the arm. Not too much, but just enough to perhaps kill what needed to be killed without killing the host. A medical miracle that started as a war crime accident. A man tried to tell the world that his medicine for dogs would do a better job. The world had not heard.  

Personal items were gathered together, to be sent home to anyone that might care. Linens were changed while some were bagged to be destroyed. The stench remained, barely obscured by the smell of cleaning products. The flowers in the vase by the window had died and wilted long ago.

Elaine was able to reach her brother, although words were meaningless at a time like this. Pauses and broken sentences, interrupted by sobs and deep breaths seemed to be the language spoken. Her phone was faulty and her ability to stomach more calls was nil, and promises were made that she wouldn’t have to be the one to make all of the plans and decisions.

One thousand miles away, a sister, unaware that her day was about to be ruined, had just gotten in her car to go pick up her daughter from school. Her plans were soon to be interrupted.

An old man sat in a waiting room, unaware of the dramas that occurred in the world around him. His wife was somewhere down the hall, sitting in an armchair alone. Perhaps awake, perhaps asleep. He didn’t know. There were immunocompromised to be protected and he had been asked to sit in the waiting room. He wanted to hold her hand. He felt bad that she should be alone.

The old man looked out the window and watched as a young woman almost lost her balance coming down the side of the hill. There was a sidewalk for a reason, he thought. Foolish people always trying to find a shortcut. He didn’t know why it bothered him, but it did. He had enough pain and worry, he didn’t like that she would be so cavalier, traipsing through some landscaper’s hard work like that. He wanted to be upset, to admonish her. But really, he was worried about his wife. It had been close to two hours. She was usually finished by now. He hoped everything was alright.

Day 112 - Benjamin Dream

 Benjamin Dream

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Benjamin was speaking with his brother Sam, when he woke up and realized he had been having a dream. His brother was on the phone with a friend while also watching a television show with Benjamin. It was strange to hear half the conversation, but also know that the friend on the phone was getting upset because the show was too loud and the friend couldn’t hear the full conversation.

Later, when Benjamin spoke to his brother on the phone, Sam told him about dream.

Only to then wake up again. Benjamin realized he had still been dreaming.

It had all felt very real.

Benjamin considered calling Sam again, but remembered what happened last time, so he waited. He remembered the last time they talked that Sam had been angry about Benjamin changing the temperature on the thermostat. It was an odd annoyance, especially considering they didn’t live together anymore. It was Benjamin’s house; he could set the temperature as he saw fit. Why had his brother been so upset?

As soon as he asked the question, Benjamin woke up again. Something in the stupidity of the argument made him realize it hadn’t really happened. They hadn’t been fighting over temperature. Benjamin had been out walking and thought about all the times they had fought as roommates. They had been picking at each other for years, but it was nothing more that siblings sparring back and forth and it was hardly what you would call a fight.

Benjamin loved his brother, Sam.

Why did he think that? What did he need to remind himself?

Ben woke up.

Ben didn’t have a brother. But it had felt like he did. And he would remember that awful feeling the rest of the day. It was sickening, having that emotional attachment and having it all torn away. All love lost.

Ben wondered where dreams came from and why he was dreaming of family. He wondered how it was possible to have a dream within a dream within a dream and have it keep going like that. Was it a wish? Had he glimpsed something that might have been? And what if he had? Would he even know it.

A sinister thought, slowly crept into his mind – he had woken and re-woken so many times in the process of one night. Was he sure he was awake now? If so, how could he prove this was reality and that he wasn’t dreaming? And if he were dreaming, when would the loops end, and could he be free, and would he even know it if he were? Ben suddenly felt very alone and very scared. He wanted to close his eyes again and rest, to wish for another better chance at things, but he was afraid to find out what might happen if he did.

Day 111 - Lloyd

 Lloyd

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Bilocational theory posited that a person could exist simultaneously and live two separate lives, sort of like a human Schrödinger’s cat but with far more possibilities that life or death in a box. Bilocational theory didn’t concern itself with multiverse theory. One world was strange and peculiar enough, there was no need to invent parallel lives and parallel decisions constantly constructing additional worlds. It was unclear if a bilocational being was a doppelganger or clone of some sort with a physical body, or if it was a spirit or ghost or shadow of some sort. It was just theory after all. Some believed bilocation abilities coincided with the dawning of a new age of spirituality and had its ties in chakra or inherent psychic abilities awakening.

There had been studies. Agents traveled the world to interview and investigate supposed sightings of strange occurrence. What was needed was some way to map the entire world, simultaneously. All faces, all people, all at once. If you could see where everyone was, then the algorithms would quickly identify any duplicates. But the implication of such a system seemed impossible at current time. Without proper resources, without proper privacy constraints, any such system seemed like a disaster waiting to happen. Plus, no major government or company prescribed to Bilocational theory, so getting access was next to impossible for the theorists.

Lloyd learned long ago to keep his dreams to himself. He had been on and off drugs for most of his youth and seen a dozen or so different therapists and psychiatrists. Not one of them had believed him when he told them of his journeys. Some were more polite than others, but just like his family and friends, they all believed he had a series of hallucinations and what he saw as a different world was nothing but his mind playing tricks.

After a dozen years, Lloyd had begun to think they might be right. Travel to a different world as a child and teenager? It was the sort of thing out of fantasy novels and comic books. If it was real, then why did it start and why did it stop? If it was his mind, then the plethora of medicines might set things right. He had given it a whirl and been walking in a semi-low dose daze for almost half his life. If he was seen as a slacker or underachiever, he always had a good excuse. He was just so tired, all the time. There had once been a push to lower the dosage of this or that drug or switch from something to another, but he lost track of all that and just took what they gave him without asking too many questions.

But then recently the dreams had begun again. The dreams that felt like flying. The dreams that reminded him what it was like to actually live.

Lloyd hated waking up. It was almost too much to take. The dreams were so much better. He was free. He was who he wanted to be. It was the world. The world as he wanted it to be. The world he had seen when he was young.

Lloyd didn’t tell anyone about his dreams. He knew what they would say. He was afraid there would be more drugs and tests as well. So, he kept it to himself.

But Lloyd began skipping doses of his medicine. Not many at first. Just a pill here or there. Once or twice a week. He wanted to see if the dreams kept going, got stronger. He wanted to know that he wasn’t crazy and that there might actually be something out there.

The months passed and then there came a point that Lloyd missed checking in with his psychiatrist. And nothing happened. No one came looking for him, no EMTs kicked in his door to do a wellness check or drag him off to an institution. Nothing. Maybe bureaucracy moved slowly. Or maybe his psychiatrist didn’t care. Or maybe Lloyd was better off that he knew.

The world opened up. He was free. No one to watch him. No one to stop him. The pills would run out and then he would see. The other world was out there. Lloyd knew it was. He was going back. He was going home.

Day 110 - The Warped

 The Warped

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The sunshine reflected off of something, although Bart couldn’t tell what. It wasn’t a rainbow or glare, it was more like a wrinkle that slithered along through the sky, casting a sparkle with a million colors. At first Bart thought he had something in his eye or that his contact was loose. But it was the sky that was changing and moving, not him. For a moment he thought it might be heatstroke or perhaps even a stroke itself. He didn’t know what caused optical illusions or mirages, but he thought that had something to do with heat as well. Maybe it was just some sort of natural trick. Or maybe he was about to go into major medical shock. It was his own fault, working all day out in the sun, up and down ladders, trimming and cutting and mowing. He wasn’t old but he was no spring chicken. His beating heart and quickened breathing kept reminding him of that.

Bart leaned against the garage wall and caught his breath and thought that would make things better. When he took of his hat, an avalanche of built-up sweat came streaming down. Maybe the worst was over, he thought.

Bart turned and looked again. The wrinkle was gone, but the sky still wasn’t quite right. He swore there was a tiny incongruity, almost like a slice where two different parts were stretched and sown together, but the image no long quite flowed right.

Maybe he was going insane.

The mosquitos were out. Too many. Big suckers. Bigger than he had ever seen before. It had been a wet winter and now there were mosquitos everywhere. Something had them riled up. Normally they would smell a man’s sweat and come looking for a tasty treat. But these suckers were bouncing around like they were going crazy and trying to get away. It made no sense. Bart didn’t mind though. Betting bit was no great love of his, so if he could avoid it, he wasn’t asking too many questions.

He needed to get back to work, but he just didn’t feel like it. His mood was off. There was a strangeness now to the day. Something he couldn’t put his finger on, but it was there. Things were off. The creatures were off. His body felt out of sorts, and not for the reasons he could explain like sore muscles or exhaustion. No, it was more like something was wrong and his body was reacting to it. Something there or wasn’t there, but it was in the air. Something was making things feel as though something bad was coming.

The sun moved from behind a cloud and the sky began to sparkle again. What seemed like a splice before was now a glowing flowing river of light, like one of those 70s oil lamps, drip drip dripping down. Bart had never seen anything like it. It was so pretty. He couldn’t help himself from staring. Couldn’t take his eyes off it. Couldn’t think of anything else. He was transfixed. Time seemed to stand still, the wiggly warped sky coming closer and closer and all Bart could do was watch as it came his way.

Day 109 - Remembering Saturday Nights

 Remembering Saturday Nights

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

It had been warm for a week, but suddenly the nights were chilly again. Midseason misdirection and all that. Normally Justin welcomed cool weather, jackets and long sleeves. But this year, Justin was experiencing a range of aches and pains he wasn’t normally accustomed to. Justin’s right shoulder was sore for no good reason. It was one of those things that could be connected to the weather, or some mishap twenty years ago, or simply a part of getting another day older. If he had injured it doing something recently, he certainly couldn’t remember what.

Justin couldn’t help but think about his late father, who tore his rotator cuff when he was sixty and was never the same again. Justin didn’t think it was anything that dramatic, but he could tell his left arm was currently able to life more weight than his right. He hoped it was nothing serious and that a few weeks would do the trick. So far, it hadn’t. He was willing to wait a few more weeks and see.

Years ago, Justin had a series of x-rays and MRIs when he lost feeling in his left arm and all grip strength in his left hand. Inconclusive results, theories ranged from pinched nerves and bone degeneration to cheap mattresses and twisting and turning at night. He was given pain killers and a prescription for physical therapy and told to take his time and take it easy.

Sometimes there are no answers no matter how good the science is. He felt that way about his right shoulder now. He could wait it out. He remembered his stretches from physical therapy. But things seemed faster last time, but he could just be remembering that wrong.

Justin stood outside a corner restaurant at 52^nd and College. Decades ago, as a teenager there had been a grease pit wings and bbq place here. Now it was Ethiopian. Times change for better or worse. No amount of nostalgia could keep a business running. Justin didn’t know it at the time, but the manager would sell weed out of the back door. Not even that helped.

Many of his friends worked there, and they would sneak free mozzarella sticks to their other friends if the owner wasn’t around. Many great times were spent there playing cards, video games, goofing off eating fries and drinking too much soda.

There was supposed to be a reunion. Not a real reunion. Reunion was the wrong word. It was to be a sad unhappy occasion where old friends hung out after one of their own died too soon. Amber had fought cancer and beat cancer more times than Justin could count, dating back to their high school days. She was supposed to be immortal. No one is. The funeral was held on a Thursday for some reason, probably to save a bit of money. But most people couldn’t fly or drive or get time off work on a Thursday. It seemed reasonable to have a toast on Saturday when more people could be there. Plus, it was an excuse to visit some old haunts.

52^nd and College was proving not to be one of them.

Justin sent a message on the group text. Perhaps there was a better location. A bar in Broad Ripple, or the pool hall on Keystone. One of the old places that was still around. That seemed more fitting.

It wasn’t even late yet, but the sun had gone down and Justin was already feeling tired. Another one of the great gifts of time’s passage. Gone were the days of staying up to watch the sun rise. There had been some really good times doing that.

Justin tried to breathe some heat onto his hands and waited for a reply. His back hurt. He thought about going back to the hotel. If he didn’t hear from anyone in a few minutes he might. It sucked. He could put on a happy face if he tried, but only if he was doing something. Standing around and waiting let his mind wander and it was just a painful reminder of everything wrong.

Amber was too young. They were still three years away from their 30^th high school reunion. It wasn’t supposed to work like this. It was ridiculous how old everybody had gotten. Grey hair and soft bellies and early bedtimes. Saturday bars were for the young. Even the old haunts would be overrun if they didn’t get things started soon.

Justin checked his phone again. Five new notifications. He didn’t check them, but instead ordered a Lyft. His heart was pounding a little too hard and his cheeks were flushed. He wanted to be sitting somewhere warm. He could text in car.

Day 108 - Why did he write that down?

 Why did he write that down?

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

When Ester found him on the ground, unconscious, she feared the worst. She saw the pen in his hand and the piece of parchment on the floor and assumed it was a suicide note. It was, in a way, but not how she first thought. Harold had written down the words – I want to forget everything. And so, he had.

Ester took the parchment and burnt it. She hoped his final words would be what was forgotten.

Ester didn’t know what Harold hated so much that it would come to this. He had talked about wanting to find a purpose in life. He was young and discontented, but she always thought it was a form of impatience, not misery. He had such wonderful gifts, and was powerful, certainly more so that she ever was. Ester thought he was teaching him restraint and control. She thought he was gaining wisdom that would be rewarded. Now she wondered what signs she had missed. Ethel would have noticed, of that Ester was sure. Ethel had a bigger heart, greater empathy. She would have seen Harold was in trouble. Ester felt ashamed at failing them both.

Harold began to stir, but it was too late, the spell had taken effect. He stared at her blankly and slowly asked who she was. Then after a pause, he asked who he was. She had been too late. There was nothing to be done to change his fate. Harold had forgotten.

Ester tried to tell him. She tried to write notes. She found his journals and had him read them. She found his pen and gave him writing assignments. But there was nothing left of the Harold that was. Nothing either of them could reach anyway.

Ester’s heart sank. Her world was crushed. Ethel was gone. Her daughter Maeve was gone. And now, her grandson Harold was gone in every way that mattered. He was a husk, a faded ghost, with an emptiness she could not fill.

Ester had spent her life taking the pain away from others. She couldn’t stand what her world had become, but still she was afraid to take away her own. She couldn’t bring herself to write her fears or frustrations. She couldn’t do what Harold had done.

But Harold had been powerful. Perhaps the most powerful her family had ever seen. Even if he didn’t remember, perhaps the powers remained.

Harold didn’t understand why Ester wanted him to write down what she said, but he agreed to do it since she had been taking care of him ever since he woke with no memory. She gave him what she called a special pen and special piece of paper. Ester was afraid. Unsure what would happen.

They sat there for a long time, Harold holding the pen, waiting for Ester to begin. A tear ran down her cheek. It was all so unfair, she thought. Finally, Ester began to speak.