[NSFW] Inspired by American Psycho

I am something of a normal guy. When I wake up in the morning, I have an erection that presses into my memory foam mattress in a very satisfying way, and it is not so much that I do not want to get out of bed, but that I want to be inside it, thrusting my hips until the heat is too much to bear and the frustration gets me up and into the shower. On days I don’t wash my hair or shave my face, I like to use the coldest water I can. It’s better for the skin. Or so I’ve read.

The most important part of my day comes next.

I like to air dry so I put on my slippers and go to my study where three of the four walls are coated in chalkboard paint. This is where I keep tally of the innocent people I’ve killed, and I hope to fill the second wall by the end of the year so that the open space isn’t uneven anymore. Another fifteen today should complete the rest of the last line. Three or four lines after that will complete the wall. I just need to make sure I write evenly so that I don’t have to erase any again. The third wall is blank and on it I used to have the number of innocent people I’ve saved with the innocent lives I’ve taken. But is anyone truly innocent? Is anyone worth saving? Just because I can point my finger at a random stranger walking down the street, or through the slits of a curtain at a stranger washing dishes and claim their lives, doesn’t mean they are innocent. The fact that they die might very well be because at that moment, they weren’t dangerous. Who’s to say it isn’t the same for those I save? I can’t tell you when it was I stopped saving people with the lives I take, but I have made a game of trying to claim more innocent lives at the most inopportune times, or when the irony of their death steps ever so gingerly into the realm of comedy.

“See a penny pick it up, all day long you have good luck!” And then they’re facedown in the concrete, their loved ones going from giggles to screams as the blood flows. I put my phone in airplane mode in times like these, and they never even notice when I give them the phone to call an ambulance. All they know is that the call isn’t going through. This one time, I even waited until the ambulance came speeding down the street and I claimed the life of the driver, sending the wailing ambulance into the crowd of onlookers and police cars.

When it rains, it pours.

Speaking of, I’m dry. I have a collection of colognes because I believe the scent you give off adds to the aesthetic of your outfit, adding weight to your presence wherever you may go. The second most important part of my day is choosing my outfit for this very reason.

.

.

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WiltySpinach! Remember the name! 👹

Is there something up with me or is it normal to think about how there are different people, people who delivered more pain to this world than happiness, how they would get a different "thanking", not so beautiful

“No you can’t go, I won’t let you!” She sobbed, clutching his hand. He weakly smiled up at her, the creeping dreadful cold had now reached up to his stomach. He could feel his limbs growing distant and stiff, he’ll push it away from his heart as long as he can, “You’ll see me again, one day. But take your time, learn and cherish all you can. Bring me stories to keep our souls light and happy long after we’re forgotten. For we live on forever in the stars, our own little hopeful lights born the moment we die. We live on in the stars, never to fade from the sky. Look up. Stand strong. We’ll reunite once more.” Authors note:I’m not sure if your tired of hearing people say they’re sorry or not, but I want to thank you. Thank you for living, thank you for smiling, thank you for breathing, for seeing, for laughing. Thank you for crying, for mourning, for anger, for jealousy, for hatred and fear. What I’m trying to say is, thank you for being a part of so many peoples lives even for the briefest of moments you’ve changed the course of so many lives.

Trolley Man

The kid doesn't deserve it, of course. No one I throw in the wood chipper, literally or figuratively, deserves it.

He's just this happy little dude, one hand holding an ice cream cone, his other hand in his mom's, they're just strolling down the sidewalk on a rare glorious Minneapolis summer day. Just a happy little kid, enjoying a sunny day.

But Vanity Bonfire has gotten out of lockup again, somehow, and she's turned the corner just ahead and is walking towards me. She sees me, and recognizes me from the last time I helped put her away, and she's lifting her upturned palms. Just absolute shit luck. I've got about three seconds before she pulls down enough solar energy to flashfire most of the city block.

I whistle real loudly and the kid looks at me. Perfect. I lock eyes with him and feel my pupils blow open. Not windows to the soul in my case, more portholes into the Great Nothingness that's always eating away at the universe, and there's no airlock doors between me and the kid, whose eyes are windows to his soul. At least for me.

The kid's pupils blow open and a blast of cold that has nothing to do with physical temperature slams through me. The kid drops dead, his mom screams, people around us all start looking and yelling and screaming.

Up ahead Vanity Bonfire's hands are glowing bright and now I do feel a difference in physical air temperature, getting real warm real fast.

Last time I used the juice I pulled from an elderly woman's sundered lifeforce to throw a sort of psychic haymaker into Vanity's mind. Had knocked her right the hell out. I'd helped the cops get her cuffed and straitjacketed, and had thought that was the end of it.

Two years ago, in Berlin, she'd torched a quarter of the city.

Fuck that shit. I wasn't going to try subtle a second time.

I channel the newly-deceased kid's soul into kinetic force, pulling on Vanity's wrists.

I tear her hands right off the ends of her arms.

No flashpoint. Minneapolis doesn't become Berlin 2.0.

Vanity screams and falls and watches her twitching hands flop and skitter on the sidewalk in front of her.

Then she bleeds and cries a little and dies.

I feel the dregs of the kid's soul settle into the pit of my stomach, like a lump of ashes.

All around me, people running and screaming and throwing up and just completely losing their shit. But they're alive.

The kid's mother sits on the sidewalk, cradling his head in her hands, very quietly asking him to wake up.

I stagger away, not looking back at the real hero of the day.

The marionette danced on the thin silken strings that ran from its limbs to the wooden frame held in Barbicayne's slender, nimble fingers. The King and most of his court laughed and applauded, as the little wooden pig dressed in nobleman's finery chased the fluffy woolen sheep the king's fool controlled with his other hand, around and around in a frantic circle.

"Around and around, that pig chased the poor ewes, sure that the shepherd would ne'er hear the news!" Barbicayne narrated the story as the dolls acted it out, tossing his head with each line of his recitation, so that the bells on his motley cap jingled.

Only two of the nobles in the audience seemed less than amused by the farce: scholarly Lord Gray, who looked oddly thoughtful, and the gaudily dressed Duke Horace, whose narrowed eyes and gritted teeth left no doubt as to his opinion of Barbicayne's show.

The latter was easy to understand, if one was observant enough: the surcoat and trousers the wooden pig wore were markedly similar in shade to the Duke's own colors, to say nothing of the tightly curled black hair on its head, which was even an even better match for that of the seething nobleman. More than that, however, it took little imagination to draw parallels between the pig puppet's amorous fixation on the ewes of the shepherd's flock, and Horace's purported disgraceful penhant for lechery with the young peasant maidens on his country estates.

"But before the young ewe could be chased into bed..." Barbicayne began, and then, with a quick sleight of hand, he snapped the sheep puppet up to his hand, and exchanged it from another he drew from behind his back. This one was a bearded farmer, with unkempt golden hair that almost resembled a crown. In one hand it held a meat cleaver, painted half red, and in the other it bore a shepherd's crook.

"...the shepherd appeared, and cried 'Off with his head!'" the fool finished. Now it was the pig's turn to be chased round in a circle by the outraged shepherd, as the court laughed and cheered, all except for Duke Horace, who stared in wide-eyed horror. Barbicayne suddenly made the puppets collide, and the impact knocked off the pig's head, which went clattering away across the marble floor.

"That silly old pig thought that he was unseen!" the fool chanted, capering from foot to foot, before raising the shepherd puppet high above the floor, and spinning it in a slow circle, as though to take in the assembled gentry. "But the shepherd sees far -- and he keeps his blade keen!"

A final ripple of applause and laughter ran through the crowd, some from King Roger himself, and Barbicayne made a comically elaborate bow. The jester's performance had marked the end of the day's court, and the king withdrew from the throne room along with a favored few while the rest filed out, and Barbicayne began collecting his juggling props and puppets.

Only one stayed behind: the somber Lord Gray. "A fine show, Master Barbicayne."

Barbicayne shrugged modestly. "You are too kind, m'lord -- I fear I am as yet but a journeyman at my craft, else I'd have had the whole court in stitches with that farce about the pig. Duke Horace, for example, looked less than amused."

"You are too humble, Barbicayne." Lord Gray said, raising an eyebrow. "To admonish old Horace about his debauchery before the entire court, and warn him to mend his ways or suffer the king's wrath, all without giving him cause to object or take offense? That was a masterwork. And still rather amusing, in the bargain."

The jester's smile became suddenly brittle. "And yet, I must say that you didn't seem as entertained as the rest, your lordship."

"My mind was elsewhere." Lord Gray admitted.

"Really? You might wish to keep a closer eye on it, then, m'lord -- you never know when you'll need it." Barbicayne quipped, as he began to stuff his props and puppets into his sack a bit more swiftly.

"While the others were laughing, I was thinking," Lord Gray continued, refusing to be diverted. "Who really sits on the throne of Amberholm?"

"I'm...sure I don't know what you mean, my lord." the fool demurred.

"And I'm just as sure that you do." Lord Gray shot back. "We both know His Majesty well, Barbicayne -- he's a good man, but the Divine did not see fit to imbue him with...shall we say, a contemplative temperament. This clever farce of yours was not of his design."

"Some tasks are beneath the dignity of the monarch, my lord." Barbicayne said, quietly. "Yet they need doing, nonetheless."

"And how many such tasks has he delegated to you, Master Barbicayne?"

The fool paused, eyeing the baronet appraisingly.

"What is it that you want from me, my lord?"

"What any historian wants," Gray said, lifting his chin. "The truth."

The jester smirked. "One has only to crack a history book to give the lie to that statement, your lordship."

"And is the situation improved by concealing the truth?" Lord Gray retorted.

"Truths, my lord, are like green vegetables -- they might be good for you, but no one wants any when they're served up plain and simple." Barbicayne said. Then he held up one of his colorful marionettes, "If a cook is truly concerned for the health of those he nourishes, he must artfully conceal such unpleasant morsels in something a bit more palatable."

"In a handsome, likeable fellow wearing a crown and a royal stole, perhaps?" Gray suggested, and Barbicayne's expression darkened slightly. "Don't mistake me, Barbicayne. I've not come to try to expose you. If I'm right about half of what I suspect, I imagine that I'd...suffer an accident, before I could do any such thing."

"Then why have you come, my lord?" the jester asked.

"To know the truth." Lord Gray explained. "To do my duty to record the true history of my people, even if no one else sees it in either of our lifetimes, so that it will not be wholly forgotten."

"As long as I remember," Barbicayne said. "It won't be. And my memory is longer than you can imagine, my lord."

"As long as eternity?"

"Perhaps."

"But perhaps not?"

Barbicayne thought for a moment, and then gave a nod of concession.

"Then let me commit what you remember to the page. Keep my writings if you must, but conceal them somewhere they may be found if, one day..." Lord Gray trailed off.

"If one day there ceases to be a fool in the Court of Amberholm?" Barbicayne asked, smiling slightly. He let out a long, tired sigh. "Very well, my lord. Let me tell you a story..."

“I don’t know what your arrangement was with my father and, frankly, I don’t care,” said King Isaac as he prepared for his coronation. “I am to receive my crown tonight and your tenure on the court shall continue—or not—at my discretion.”

Amos the Abiding—or simply ‘Amos’ to King Isaac—clad in the trappings of a jester, was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Amos was the rightful king of the Languishing Plains; Isaac’s predecessor had understood the arrangement. Too bad the bastard had died before sharing that knowledge with his heir.

“You misunderstand me, boy. I am your king and I will be addressed as such,” said Amos sharply. “I have ruled these lands for hundreds of years and I will rule them for thousands more. You will rule no more than a chisel carves wood—you are but a useful tool with which I impose my will.”

“Ah, but how would the craftsman carve without an able chisel? Would they claw impotently at the wood, their desperate finger nails bloodied? Surely not.”

“Speak plainly, boy. Your aptitude for speech does not lie in metaphor.”

“Very well. Let me speak plainly,” replied King Isaac slowly, each word dripping with disdain. “Let’s assume for a moment that I accept your premise. That I yield that you are, in fact, King Amos the Abiding. If that were true, you still have no power but through me. No?”

Amos opened his mouth to answer but King Isaac cut him off.

“And, again, if what you say is true, oh eternal one, then you need for me to keep your secret. No? Moreover, oh poor Amos the Audacious, were I to alert the court of your claims, you would be summarily burned at the stake as a witch. I assume this is why you would have undertaken such a surreptitious strategy in the first place. Am I wrong, my Lord?”

Amos considered this. Of course Isaac was right. The king’s system only worked insofar as his figurehead was compliant. The flaw of monarchy is that the power lies not with lineage or title, in name or in law but in the perception of the public. Were Amos to re-emerge after all these years, his claim would be regarded with suspicion or outright rejection. Still, even were his claim supported, the boy was right. He’d be burned at the stake. He wouldn’t die—though it sure as shit wouldn’t be a pleasant few minutes—but the damage to his station would be sustained nonetheless.

The truth was a bitter pill. He needed the boy.

Amos paced the room slowly considering his next move. The candles in the room burned low and the light grew dim. Amos took a deep breath.

“Isaac. King Isaac,” Amos began, “what you say is true. Our fates are entwined, yours and mine. Whether you like it or not—Maker knows I don’t—you need me and I need you.”

King Isaac scoffed. “What possible use could I have for an old, poorly dressed oaf who has a penchant for stories and delusions of grandeur?”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Amos couldn’t help but chuckle. “I used to suffer from delusions of grandeur. Much like you, boy. But that’s what time does to you, it wears you down, it clarifies those cloudy spots within you that allow for embellishment and self-inflation, it centers you and beats you over the head with experiences from which you either learn or you die. And I’m still here, boy.

“Since, as you say, I have a penchant for stories, why don’t you allow me one weave one last tale?”

“We haven’t all day, old man,” said King Isaac.

“I’ll be brief. Shortly after my coronation, before I had bathed in those damned waters, and long after these lands had earned their damnable name, I did—as you say—suffer from a delusion of grandeur.

“I had it in my head that a mighty king must be a mighty huntsman. And a mighty huntsman must kill himself a bear. The folly of pride. I paid a man to catch a bear in Russia, cage it, and release it in the woodlands outside this very castle.

“I set out on my hunt, the Queen by my side, my jester in tow, and spear before me. As I wandered the woods searching for the beast, I heard a roar and a rustle. Before I could react the bear was charging right at me. Mayhem ensued as my Queen and jester fled. I stood my ground and took a thrashing. I was lucky to live.

“After having my wounds treated I sent for my jester. I scolded him for having fled. How could he have been so cowardly? He should have stood by his king’s side. And then my jester admonished me with the same words with which I’ll now admonish you.

“It is greater folly to let out a bear that was already in a cage.

“That bear—unnatural in our lands—was a force of nature. It destroyed ecosystems, eliminated whole species, and caused unknowable suffering because of its unchecked wrath upon these lands.

“That bear, of course, is long dead but imagine the irreversible damage he’d have wrought were he undying.”

King Isaac was silent. He stared at Amos the Abiding with an expression of fearful resignation—a child put in his place.

He nodded at the rightful king. He may not have the knack for crafting metaphors, but he could read between the lines.

And Amos was glad to be understood.

r/InMyLife42Archive

Oh. That really hits. That hits hard.

Even as I fought for each breath, I could feel myself fading. I could now barely feel my hand being clutched by my sister. Machines beeped as her eyes filled with tears. I gathered all of my strength to say my last words.

“You’ll be ok.”

And with that, everything faded to black.

To my surprise, in what felt like only a few seconds, I opened my eyes to bright sunlight. Looking around, I found myself in a field on the edge of a forest. The grass was tall… no… I was small.

“Hello?” I called out.

The grass rustled beside me as a young man emerged. His skin was a strange green and he wore clothes weaved out of grass. He was about 3 feet tall, still much taller than me.

“Ah, a newcomer.” He said. “Welcome to the Otherworld.”

“Otherworld?” I questioned.

“Yes. When you die in the physical world, you come to the Otherworld. Then, when you die in the Otherworld, you return to the physical world.” He explained as though he had been asked a thousand times.

“I am Fatrius, spirit of this forest. And you seem to be a dryad of this little sapling here.” He said, gently brushing against the leaf of a tree sapling next to me that I had not noticed until then.

“Why am I so small?” I asked.

He smiled and looked down at the sapling. “Just like this little tree here, you begin your second life small. You will continue to grow with it until your time in the Otherworld is up.”

And he was right. As the years passed, I grew taller and taller until I could see over the tall grass. I still missed my sister and often wondered how she was doing.

That was when I saw it. A house, in the distance. Confused, I called for Fatrius.

“Why is there a house? I didn’t think there were humans in this world.” I asked.

Fatrius climbed to one of my branches and looked into the distance.

“I see only a field.” He said, confused.

I pointed to the house. “It’s right there! Someone just walked out of the door!”

Fatrius shook his head and turned to me. “I do not think what you are seeing is in the Otherworld. Tell me, what were you thinking about when you saw it?”

“I was thinking about my sister.” I said, remembering the time I had with her. The more I thought about her, the clearer the house seemed to become.

“Ah, that explains it.” Fatrius said turning away from the field. “Sometimes when you have a strong enough bond with someone in the physical world, you can view them by focusing on that connection.”

He instructed me on how to strengthen that connection. After some practice, I was able to clearly see her. Living in the house with her were a man and a child. My brother in law and my niece. Through this connection, I watched them grow up.

Holy shit.

I don’t get it?

I had seen all the web comics before, and it perfectly describes what I can do. The Trolley Man, no matter what The Trolley Man does, a train will hit one person or a group of people. That's my "super power" if you can call it that.

It's a horrible thing really, because no matter what, someone dies. And it's always the single person who gets sacrificed to save a group. The worst thing about it, is that the people never know that they're about to die when I pick them. I guess it's a good way to go, quick and painless, but I still feel like a murderer.

The day I first realized I had this ability, I was at an amusement park (which shall remain nameless but the ride has closed since anyways). There I was with my parents, I was only 10 years old. We were walking by roller coasters, the whole park was filled with screams of glee as people plummeted down sharp hills and got spun around 360 degrees on other corkscrew tracks.

This malfunction happened as a cart of passengers was coming in hot on a track and then they reached the part where people were flipped upside down. Except the ride stopped.

200 ft in the air, arms dangled, and the passengers were shouting with joy for a brief moment, but soon they were screaming for help. The operators of the ride were frantically trying to get the people off the coaster but they didn't know what to do.

Then the strangest thing happened. My whole world went dark and time slowed down. One of the ride operators was about to press the button to release the safety bar. But in my field of vision, I saw a handful of people near me glowing a golden aura. The people on the ride emitted a violet shine. It didn't make sense to me -I was a little kid, so I didn't know better- but I thought I was having a heart attack at first.

I looked at my parents and tried to talk but my voice was coming out slower than molasses. I was trying to ask them, "What's with all the glowing people? Why is everything so dark all of a sudden? Why has time slowed down?"

But I could still move my hands at regular speed. So I pointed at a random person to try and show my parents that someone was glowing, but as soon as I pointed at the stranger, they collapsed.

Time reverted back to normalcy, the darkness lifted, and I could talk like nothing happened. But no one was talking. Everyone was watching the group of people on the roller coaster as the safety bar lifted up and all of the people fell 200 ft.

Miraculously though, there was a giant inflatable that appeared out of nowhere below all of the people. They landed safely, although they bounced upon initial impact, their lives were saved.

I couldn't believe it. Did I just save that whole group of people?

Then everyone around me swarmed the stranger who passed out and they called for a doctor. Then they called an ambulance. The man passed away, and I felt like I was responsible since I pointed at him.

It would take me another incident to realize that my pointer finger was indeed the determination if someone lived or died. But when I asked my dad if pointing a finger at someone could kill, he said.

"No chance, sonny. That sort of thing sounds like it came from a comic book."

That was my first experience with the power, and unfortunately I've had many more since.

r/randallcooper

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This one was so sweet, and blew my expectations out of the water, thank you for sharing it

You make me want to read more about this genie, thank you !!

Hey stop, you're getting the river salty

i opened your profile and the bio hit me like a fucking train

I just read this whole thing and can I just say this would be an amazing book!

Excellent.

Any time an author can portray the thinking of a non-human in a fascinating way, I'm on board.

The otherworldly monstrosity held onto Alan, dragging him closer to the abyssal portal. It knew it was close to death, but it had gotten in one final strike. Its claws had torn through Alan’s armor, crippling him. And even as he collapsed to the dirt, it wrapped one of its remaining tentacles around his uninjured leg.

“Alan!” Tisara’s arrows rained down on the creature, but it held fast.

Far behind her, Rufus kneeled next to Boronas, trying to shake the armored dwarf awake. There was a look of horror on the younger man’s face as he realized what was happening. Boronas was unconscious, having drawn the monster’s ire to create an opening. And Rufus was a fierce fighter, but his magic reserves were weak. The crossbow by his side would be just as useful as Tisara’s bow.

There’s nothing any of them can do.

A sense of acceptance washed over him. His friends would bring news of the demon’s demise back to King Porventus. Their homeland, and their entire plane of existence, would be safe. It was a small price to pay.

“Looks like this is it.” He felt his fingers losing strength as the creature yanked again.

Then Rufus was running – the poor kid looked so desperate to help. Alan felt a sense of pride at that. Once upon a time, Rufus had been a weakling, freshly kicked out of the magic academy. And over the years, they had trained and fought until he could stand at their side as an equal.

“Be seeing ya, kiddo.” The monstrosity’s roar nearly drowned out his words.

But as the creature tugged him again toward the churning portal, the air changed. Rufus raised one hand as if to cast a spell.

“Let him go!” Four dark green beams erupted from Rufus’s palm.

They collided with the creature with frightening force. Each blast sent a shockwave rippling through the air. The first one caused the creature’s grip on Alan’s leg to loosen. Then, the next three sent it hurtling backward and through the portal. There was a sharp crack, as the dimensional tear closed. All that was left was Rufus’s ragged panting.

When the shock wore off, Alan said, “Rufus?”

His voice seemed far too loud in the now-empty chamber. Rufus’s pale face looked sickly in the glow of the arcane torches. His eyes darted from Alan to the location of the portal, and back.

Then, Rufus’s outstretched arm lowered. “I… I’m sorry. I should’ve said something.”

Rufus turned toward Tisara, who had a look of confusion on her face.

“I… I’ll go.”

Before Rufus could take more than a few steps, Alan said, “Rufus.”

The kid froze before turning a nervous face back toward him.

“Could you help me up here? I’m kinda down both legs.” He motioned at his injuries. “We can talk when we get out of this place.”

Rufus still looked ready to run. But a moment later, his shoulders slumped as he came over to help Alan to his feet. Tisara used the last bit of her natural abilities to rouse Boronas.

“Did we get ‘im?” was all he could muster.

About half an hour of careful backtracking later, they arrived at their campsite. Tisara tended to Alan’s legs as he regarded Rufus from across the campfire.

Finally, he said, “You’re a warlock?”

“Sorry,” was all Rufus said.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? We’ve been traveling for so long.” He winced as Tisara tightened the bandage.

“I… I didn’t want you to kick me out.” Rufus’s voice was barely a whisper.

Boronas shook his head. “Now why would we do such a thing?”

Tisara let out a soft sigh. “Warlocks in Iverden are heavily persecuted. Don’t you remember where we met him?”

Rufus flinched at the reminder.

“Er… was that where we met him?” Boronas let out a nervous chuckle. “I’d forgotten.”

An awkward silence fell on the camp. Tisara busied herself with looking after Boronas’s injuries. When she finally got to Rufus, he shied away from her.

“You don’t have to. I’ll be on my way.” Rufus did not meet her gaze.

Tisara’s eyes narrowed, a sign that promised much retribution when this ordeal was over.

Alan quickly cleared his throat to diffuse the situation. “Well, I’d rather you didn’t leave. We’ve certainly earned a break from this adventuring stuff. Maybe we can travel a bit. We’ve worked well as a team. I don’t see why that should change.”

“Yeah. Do you know how hard it is to find someone who will put up with the princess’s temper?”

A knife whizzed by Boronas’s face, clipping a bit of his beard. That only seemed to make Rufus more anxious. With a sigh, Alan struggled to his feet. Tisara was at his side in a flash, helping him over to Rufus.

“How about we start over?” He held out a hand. “Alan Har, Paladin of Luristae.”

Rufus did not respond.

Alan tried again. “Please. You’ve been a good friend to me – to all of us.”

Finally, Rufus took the proffered hand.

“Rufus Hensbracht. Warlock of Axla, Goddess of the Green.”

...

Quick one cuz I'm busy and have something else to get to.

If you're interested in my works, the archive of my various writing responses can be found in my writing portfolio, link through my profile. There's also an original story, The Crossroads.

Thanks for reading.

Thank you

Thank you, I’m truly moved that you think so

Thank you for reading it, I was really just writing my feelings into a story but I hope it helps OP some

Thank you, I really appreciate it

We are made of smaller parts
And their parts smaller still
And once the bonds between them break
The grave begins to chill.
But in between these lesser motes
Our energy has passed
Connections forged in life's duration
Surely have amassed
Some grand emergent way of living on
Made up of sums unknown
Fear not that you will go beyond,
You never were alone.
And maybe peace will come to you
As endless dreams of flight
Through all time turning on its end
Admits to mortal sight.
Perhaps you'll join a dixie band
To walk across a star
And when the saints go marching in
I'll meet you at the bar.

“Can you get that?” Jake mumbled and turned away from me at the sound of the rattling knocks. Not at the door but at the kitchen window. No matter how many times I try to explain this, each new stray ends up at the kitchen window. I still don’t know why that is, but my working theory is that they’re seeking out the entrance closest to the food. Without saying a word, I got up. It’s almost 3am. I can’t put this on Jake and it’s not his fault that this isn’t even alarming anymore. The knocking repeats. I did this to myself.

I stumble into the kitchen and open the small window above the sink. “Not fit!!!” he yells, his rancid breath hitting me in the face through the window screen as he stares back at me with deep voids for eyes. “Yea bud, you’re gonna have to use the front door.” I gestured behind me but his vacant stare tells me nothing I’ve said has registered. His eyes stay locked on me, as though waiting for me to manifest a new door in front of him. Slowly he rises a limb and then another limb and proceeds to push them against the window screen.

“No no no” My exhaustion provided no urgency in my voice to queue any kind of command. And just like that, he’s ripped through the window screen. He is going to try and climb through the window. Last time this happened, the whole frame got ripped out of the wall. I consider that moment one of Jake’s breaking points.

“Show you, NOT fit, NOT suitable entry!” the creature continues to try and thrust himself through the window, in what appears to be some kind of smug teachable moment.

“Yea, it’s not an entry.” I point to the door behind me. “That is the entry.”

He stops mid window-thrust as though he’s finally understanding me for the first time. I hear a cracking sound and can only assume the newly replaced window frame isn’t going to hold up much longer. He stays frozen for a few seconds. One thing I’ve learned about this species is that they’re anything but fast. It remains a mystery to me how they’ve managed to make their way to Earth at all, repeatedly. Although it seems never on purpose, which is telling.

Last summer this happened for the first time. An alien just like this one named Xio came to my kitchen window at some odd hour of the night. He had a much stronger grasp on English and better temperament than the current alien jammed in my kitchen window, slowly processing the concept of doors. Xio was slow, but highly intelligent. Of course I was afraid when I first saw him, hardly able to believe my eyes. I figured I had finally snapped, but thankfully due to Xio’s sloth like nature, I didn’t find him too threatening. He let me know he “glitched” here, and needed shelter to recover his body and teleport system.

Jake wasn’t too thrilled with my unilateral choice to bring in a nomad, especially an intergalactic one. We argued for hours, and he demanded I contact the government directly. I shuddered at the thought, and used E.T. and MAC and Me as reference points for why that was an awful idea. Eventually we came to an agreement: the second we started to feel our lives might be in danger, we’d contact the authorities. In retrospect, Jake likely wishes he’d set some firmer boundaries around property damage. While not dangerous, Xio could be considered highly accident prone. The house seemed to shrink with him in it, his shoulders always hunched forward while trying to go through doorways or sit on his favorite recliner. While Xio had more spatial awareness than most of his kind, he still managed to rip through door frames and pull cabinet doors right off their hinges without meaning to. His body was incredibly dense, making the destruction effortless, and anything with a handle utterly perplexed him.

Xio otherwise kept to himself for 10 full days, and he didn’t share too much information with us about where he came from, where he was going, and how he ended up at our kitchen window instead. Despite his size, he ate very small portions and seemed to find most human meals repulsive. His preference was raw food, and he detested any kind of seasoning. Although I thought this a bit bland, it made it very easy to accommodate him as he couldn’t very well go to the grocery store or diner.

When Xio left, it was unceremonious. His kind are not keen on emotional goodbyes, and he seemed rather indifferent to my hospitality. Nevertheless I sent him off with a crate of fresh vegetables and wished him a safe journey. What I hadn’t realized was that he must have rated our home as some kind of five-star stop on a galactic road trip resource, because others like him haven’t stopped showing up ever since.

“STUCK!!! STUCK!!!” with sheer panic, the Xio-like creature stuck in my window snaps out of his spaced-out state and goes directly into thrashing chaos until he jolts back and falls to the ground, taking my kitchen window screen with him. I walked closer to the window to look out and see if he’s okay when I finally see it… what was behind him this entire time. “Oh. Oh no.”

Jake walked into the room, stood beside me and upon looking out the window he sternly said “Absolutely not.” and retreated back into the bedroom. There in our humble backyard is a ship, something we hadn’t seen before as all the others seemed to teleport via a small device that looked like a clam-shaped flip phone. The ship had taken out our back fence, and it's cliché saucer shape spilled into the neighbor’s yard. Surrounding the ship stood about 20 aliens, most looking too fearful to approach the window or their alien friend on the ground who had been imprisoned by the busted screen around his arms. He continued thrashing about, unable to work his arms out of the screen. “GET!!” the frustrated alien yells, his long restrained limbs aimed at me. Multiple bizarre weapons raise and five of the biggest creatures I’ve ever seen charge for the house. “IN HONOR OF EMPEROR XIO!!” They yelled, and the rest chanted back.

I turned to run as the kitchen wall started crashing in behind me, I made my way down the hall and Jake pulled me into a coat closet. He gently closed the accordion doors Xio could never quite understand, and whispered “It’ll take them hours to figure out how to get in here.”