Day 261 - Mike Michael Mike

 Mike Michael Mike

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

“Mike, Michael, Mike, Michael, Mike, Michael, Mike…” Derrick whispered to himself.

He tried to ignore the smell of burnt oil. He heard the floorboard creak, but pretended he hadn’t noticed.

“Mike, Michael, Mike, Mikhail, Mike, Michelle, Mike…”

Over and over, he told himself. Keep saying it. Like a mantra. Or a spell. But what was he trying to evoke? He had already forgotten.

The smells grew strong. Burnt coffee. Motor oil. There was a hiss in the background. A pulsing wave. He heard the creaking coming closer.

“Mike, Mikhail, Mike, Micheale, Mike, Michelle, Michael, Mike…”

Maybe he had the names wrong. Mark? Marques? Marc? Why couldn’t he remember?

Somewhere there was fire. Smoke. He could smell it. Like dry leaves in early autumn and a back yard burn barrel. Where people allowed to have those in the city anymore? Probably not. Everything changes. Everything good is ruined or taken away.

Stare into the flames and imagine.

The smoke. Or not smoke. Steam. Maybe it was steam. From the espresso machine. Or was it the smoke from a pipe? Vape? Or something else. Something scented. But not like candy. More like… spice. Was it the smoke from a hookah? Something vaporized. A dream. Or lost home. Something, spread in the fog. Something he couldn’t quite see.

Marc. His name was Marc. He was pretty sure of it.

He could taste the coffee on his is tongue. Black. Dark. Dark roasted. Almost pitch black.

There was laughter and someone talking but he couldn’t make it out.

“Marc… Marc… Marc?”

Was that right? The voices grew quieter. They didn’t answer.

The man in the white suit with the red fez hat kept staring at him. His glasses were like mirrors. Derrick couldn’t see him, couldn’t see his soul. Who was he? Not Michael or Mark or any other. This man had no name. He watched. He watched and nodded and tapped his cane on the ground like he was calling attention or perhaps sending something in Morse Code.

Why was the man so interested in him?

Where was the waitress with a refill for his coffee?

When did this coffee mug appear?

“Derrick. My name is Derrick. Can anyone hear me? I need help. Help. I need help. If you can hear me. Someone. Help. Please. Mike? Marc? Is anyone listening?”

The waitress appeared with a fresh cup of coffee. Derrick thanked her and took a sip. It was dark and divine. He closed his eyes and relaxed. He was happy to get lost in a beautify daydream. He had been thinking about something or something but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t remember. He just wanted to sleep.

The man in the red fez hat tapped his cane in a repeated fashion. He smiled and signaled for the waitress.

Day 260 - The Smell of Fresh Brewed Coffee

 The Smell of Fresh Brewed Coffee

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Jermaine hated the smell of coffee. He wasn’t sure when that had started. As a young man, he loved coffee. The darker the better. Somewhere along the way his taste buds changed and his olfactory system soured and now he couldn’t stand the burnt sour smell. But he loved Molly and he wasn’t going to complain in the mornings. Not ever. He reminded himself of that promise repeatedly. Molly was the best thing that ever happened to him and there was no sense in squabbling over the little things. Coffee was everywhere in society and just about anyone he could possibly ever date would likely enjoy a drink. Molly was one of kind and no choice of beverage was going to spoil that.

Still, the annoyance lingered. Jermaine didn’t know why it should. Just a dumb nagging feeling he couldn’t get rid of. He could tell her about it, but then he’d have to admit he had been putting up with the smell for years now without saying anything. Maybe it would be endearing or maybe she’d think he was a kook and co-dependent or something. And then they’d probably have to talk about it again and again and she’d do something like stop making coffee but secretly buy it on the way to work, and then he’d feel bad for putting her through so much rigamarole.

He was interested in none of that.

But he was interested in figuring out why he was getting annoyed and that it seemed to be getting worse.

What else was wrong with his life? His day? What little stress or anxiety was exhibiting itself in the form of coffee aversion? Why assign something like that to something so ordinary?

Maybe he needed a doctor. Or maybe he just needed a better night’s sleep.

Jermaine suddenly had a flash of memory, of a moment years-and-years ago. It was the three of them, lounging in a booth at an all-night diner, swilling down many many pots of coffee, eating late-night pancakes and chicken fingers and dreaming up ideas about the future and all that they were going to achieve and become. What was he then, nineteen? Twenty? Mark and Mike and Trent and sometimes Mike’s other friend. Brandon or Damon or something like that. Artists and actors and dreams, all. Somewhere in college he had lived off coffee and cigarettes and then somewhere along the way he had lost the taste.

He hadn’t thought about those guys in… well he wasn’t quite sure when the last time he thought of those guys was. Years. At least.

“What are you smiling about?” asked Molly.

“I was thinking about that shitty diner from college. The one we’d all go to after getting drunk.”

“Oh, I remember. You were all a bunch of vagabonds.”

“We weren’t that bad.”

“No, you were. But at least you were fun.”

“You ever talk to anybody from back then?”

“Feeling nostalgic?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Call it an itch. Something just made me think about them and I was wondering whatever happened. You lose track along the way. Everybody moves and then poof, they’re gone.”

“That’s what social media is for. So, you can stalk someone but not have to admit it.”

“Yeah, I guess I could look them up.”

“You’re in a strange mood this morning.”

“Slept funny. I night have had some nightmares or something. I can’t really remember.”

“No more late-night snacks.”

“Yes doctor.”

“Ha ha ha.”

Jermaine wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the lips.

“God, I’m so lucky.”

“Yes, you are.”

He kissed her again.

“You taste like coffee.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Hummmm, good. Real good.”

“There’s more out there. You can have a cup.”

“I just might. But first…”

He leaned in a kissed her again. He really did feel lucky. Molly was the best thing to ever happen to him and he never wanted to let her go. Still, he wasn’t able to shake the funny feeling that he was forgetting something about those guys and the smell of coffee.

Day 259 - Lost and Found part 2

 Lost and Found part 2

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

There was no easy way out. No easy way to stop the overflow of thoughts and emotions. Close your eyes, breath deep, count objects of different colors, name things that started with the letter “p” and many other tricks deigned to stop anxiety and runaway overthinking loops. They’re all just tricks and they only work when they work. As stupid as it sounds, it’s the truth. A trick is only effective when it’s effective. The rest of the time you end up annoying yourself for even trying.

Life made Bryce sad. The march of time. The imperceptible loss that came with each day that was only noticed long after there was anything that could be done about it. Friend that faded away. Lovers that didn’t work out. The past was a cacophony of failures, broken dreams and loss, stirred and mixed into a hazy gray sludge that he couldn’t sift through to find something worth searching for.

The future was made of mud. Stepping into it meant sinking into a cold, endless slog.

Bryce had dreams. He was sure of it. Once. They were out there. He had lost track of them. Many had run away, off to greener pastures with someone else. The dreams came and went, but there had always been more. Not as much now. Each passing day there seemed to be fewer that would come visit.

His nights had been full of adventure. The future was something to look forward to. And the days had been touched as well. The daydreams were sometimes more powerful, more present than the night ones.

Bryce’s days were routine now. 6:45 every morning. 7:15 the coffee would be ready. 7:32 he’d have to stop picking weeds out of the garden and get in the shower. 7:49 until 7:53 he could try to look at headlines on the internet. Maybe 7:57 he could grab something for lunch if had remembered to cool it the night before. By 8:02 he had to be at the corner light turning right. If he wasn’t on the highway by 8:09 he would be late. If there was any traffic, any accident, it was going to be a bad start to the day.

Somewhere, some time ago, none of that mattered. He could fly away to a distant world. He was a traveler. He saw multiple lives and multiple outcomes, fighting battles and winning hearts and loving those he met along the way.

When was that? He wasn’t sure. Where did it all go? He had no idea.

The past seemed to laugh at him. The photos of the others, who had all made something out of life, seemed to mock him.

Had he dreamt it all? Had it all been a lie?

He liked seeing her smile in the photos. The daughter that wasn’t really his daughter, but he thought of her that way anyway. She was out there. Somewhere. She had stopped posting to social media seven years ago. Or maybe he just didn’t know what the new place to look was. He could try harder. But why? She wasn’t his real daughter. She wouldn’t want to see him now. It was just another thing to let fade away.

There was always a long line at the drive thru. The great American waste of time and gasoline. People at in their car and waitresses on roller skates used to bring food to you. Now there were two lines and kids with tablets taking your order before you could see the menu and try to find a deal. How did everything turn into a parking lot?

The 1950s and 60s would be broken-hearted to see what a mess had been made of the open roads of the past. If that were true. If there ever was such a time. Maybe it was all made up, part of some great collective dream. Time might have begun ten or twenty years ago. Or a day prior. If they were all asleep, all connected in the dream, then maybe the past was fake. Maybe that was why it faded like it did. Like waking from a dream, the details quickly slipped into the abyss.

Bryce hated looking at photographs. Hated seeing people get old. Hated seeing them young because he knew that was so long ago and would never be again. Knowing they were out of his life and had moved on and he’d never talk to them. He liked when it faded. He didn’t want to remember. It was too painful.

But if they were all a dream, all something that never was, then perhaps he could dream something different for himself. If only the dreams would visit him again. Where had they gone? Why had they left him? How could he get it back?

Bryce looked at his email and thought about writing a message. It had to have been 10 or 15 years at this point. Would they even have the same email? Would they check it, or see his name and hit delete? He didn’t know what to say or how to begin. He just stared at the blank screen.

 Read Lost and Found (Day 42) HERE.

Day 258 - De-age / Re-age

 De-age / Re-age

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Winston wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t been there to see it in person. He still wasn’t sure he believed it.

The thief was de-aging in front of him. When he ran from the store, he seemed about thirty, he had short thinning hair and a scruffy goatee and a mostly unshaven neck. But as soon as Winston gave chase, things got wonky. The thief’s hair grew fuller, longer and became more vibrant and colorful. Winston wondered if he had gotten it wrong or if he was witnessing a trick of the light.

When he pulled his gun and yelled for the thief to stop, Winston would swear that the thief shrunk in height and his broad chest and shoulders narrowed.

The thief didn’t stop running, so neither did Winston.

The thief grew reckless. He ran into traffic, dodged cars one moment, then turned back and waved to Winston, inviting him to catch up and rejoin the race. Every time he did something that seemed borderline insane or stupid, Winston would swear something else would change and the man would seem younger, more vibrant, fuller of energy and life.

The thief grew faster, his breath remained balanced, while Winston grew tired, huffing and puffing and cursing himself for not working out more often.

Winston was sweating. His heart was pounding. He wasn’t going to be able to catch the man. But “man” wasn’t quite right. Not anymore, anyway. The “man” looked more like a “youth” perhaps eighteen or twenty. Winston wasn’t sure what he was witnessing.

The thief turned the corner up ahead. When Winston got there, he found the shirt the thief had been wearing discarded on the street. Something to change his appearance, thought Winston. A pre-planned method of escape?

Winston looked around, not seeing the thief at all.

Across the street was a group of school children all between the ages of twelve and fifteen. Winston scanned their faces, looking for anyone who resembled the eighteen-year-old he had seen moments before. But there was no match. Not one that he could tell anyway.

No one would believe him if he explained what he was thinking. They would call him crazy. But his suspect had seemingly faded away in front of him and the only reasonable lead he had meant he had to believe that the thief was capable of de-gaining back into a child. It was madness, he knew.

Winston called dispatch and gave a description of the man he had seen. He didn’t know how to explain the rest. But he watched as the group of kids meandered away, wondering what each had hidden in their backpacks.

 

 

 

The thief entered his apartment and tossed his backpack down by the door. He went to the couch and turned the tv on. He kicked off his shoes and dropped down into a relaxed spot. As he did, he smiled. And when he smiled, it was clear that some of his facial hair was growing back.

Day 257 - They were all lying to him

 They were all lying to him

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The very first thing that seemed odd was the third step on the stairs was a little higher and the wood would creak a little louder when he would step on it. It was nothing. A little thing. A trick of the imagination. Jeremy noticed, but didn’t really realize it. Not until later.

The hallway light began to flicker and when he finally when to change the lightbulb, he would swear that the wattage was different from what he normally used and there were four. screws to undo the fixture when previously he thought there were only three. It was nothing. A little thing. Something easily forgotten or mis-remembered. Jeremy noticed, but not himself that it was an easy thing to mistake.

The door to his bedroom began to stick. It was cut just slightly too large for the frame. He had to push extra hard to close the door all the way, and the bottom of the door began dragging across the rug and wearing it away. Wood night expand or contract with the weather and temperature, he told himself. There was nothing wrong.

The woman in the apartment next door had blood hair, but he was certain she had been a brunette. She her name was Nancy, but Jeremy thought it had been Lily. Maybe Lily had moved and he hadn’t noticed. But Nancy claimed she had been there three years and told a story about the Labor Day BBQ at the building swimming pool. She remembered Jeremy from that day and what he was wearing. Jeremy would have sworn he had never met this woman before in his life. Perhaps he had one too many drinks that day.

His furniture changed. He was certain of it. Jeremy went to lock the door, but couldn’t find his keys. When he did, they didn’t seem to fit the lock. Jeremy spent night awake, staring at the door, holding a baseball bat with a chef’s knife on the table nearby. He had tried to lay in his bed, but his mattress was too hard and his pillows too soft.

Someone was fucking with him. He was sure of it. The next morning, he tore his apartment apart, searching for hidden cameras and microphones. It had to be an elaborate prank or a reality show joke. But he found nothing. The walls were drywall. He was pretty sure there had been some cracks in them, but now they looked fine. Someone could have hidden something in his walls and covered it up. The carpet seemed loose. The tiles in the kitchen shifted when he stepped on them. Everything needed to be torn out or pulled up so he could make sure the cameras weren’t hidden there.

Jeremy found nothing. One thing for certain, he would not get his security deposit back.

He wondered if he was going mad. His whole world was the same, but just a little bit different. It was his life, but not. It was the little things that gave it away. The little things that were not his. The little things that stuck in his mind. The world, not his world.

The neighbors were liars or monsters. Perhaps aliens. Or something far worse. Something dark and twisted. There was no way to tell. No way to test them. He would have to get out. If they would let him. If he was under observation, then there could be no escape.

The phone rang. A voice he did not recognize. Another lie.

The day was turning to night again and he would have to decide what to do. Hide or run, or something deadlier. But he only had a knife. He was sure he had bought Wusthof blades but this one said Global. Something was definitely wrong.

Jeremy was lost and unsure how to proceed. The whispers seemed to laugh and he was very much afraid.

Day 256 - I had nothing left to give

 I had nothing left to give

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

I had nothing left to give. Friends and families and lovers had all taken their piece. Strangers and politicians and businessmen and internet commercials had taken the rest. Lost hope and broken dreams and failed romances had drained me to the drop. The desire, the belief that things could change, the very spirit of willpower had snapped and the marrow sucked out.