A Splinter in the Mind

Jan. 23

I’ll tell you how it starts. Maybe you’ll see. Maybe you’ll know.

It starts as an itch, a splinter in the mind. You can feel it, worming its way forward. The headaches are the worst. Feels like an ice pick lodged in your veins. Feels like someone taking a ball-peen hammer to the side of your head, and just when you’re ready to give in, to move on, and take a sabbatical – ideally, where there is no light and noise and scent – it stops. You breathe relief. Your skin relaxes. You didn’t know that your skin was tight, like someone was holding electrodes to your flesh and making it tighten involuntarily. Then, it’s in your eye. The feeling of something there that isn’t. A pulsing, throbbing, stabbing pain. You close your eye; rub it, thinking something is stuck inside. An eyelash, a crossbeam from the Empire State Building. Water flows from the ducts, but it doesn’t go away. You take a breath, and you think it’s going to burst from your skull, your eye a deflated sac, vitreous fluid streaming down your cheek. Then it stops, and you see. You see them. Them.

They’re shadows. I don’t know where they come from. Maybe some alternate universe where light is dark and dark is light and somewhere, Martha Stewart fucks Mitch McConnell on screen every night precisely at 5 pm. Maybe that’s all they are – shadows. It’s the reflection of a long-dead sun, or a star that burned out millions of years ago, and the spaces where they stood are just now hitting our irises. Maybe we broke something when CERN went online, and they’re something else entirely, swimming through higher dimensions the way birds drift on currents.  Maybe they’re devils, and we’re close to the end. Whatever. They’re there, and just because only a few of us can see them, means shit in the long run.

 

Feb. 3

Saw four of them, hanging around the bodega on Ninth. They drifted around the entrance, transparent. The way they move, I’m not sure they know much. Maybe they really are some sort of new species, just learning the ropes of their nascent life. Fuck, that’s a lot of maybes. Anyway, they just sort of hang out. They remind me of finches on a branch, waiting for seed to settle in the feeder. A woman came out, carrying a bag of groceries. The shades just fluttered around her for a moment, like startled mice. She walked on, and they settled by the door again. Part of me wondered if they could go inside, if they’d buy a burrito, maybe a pack of smokes. Maybe burritos and Marlboro are illegal where they come from, and they’re hoping for an adult to buy some.

I waited for an hour before the cops drove by, breaking up my surveillance. They’re not keen on strange men standing and staring too long at any one thing. I’m not keen on having my head broken. I moved on.

 

Feb. 5

More of them, in the park. They flitter among the children. The kids don’t know – they skip and run and shout, bright colors on their coats making ribboned blurs against the eye. The shadows just float there, watching. I wonder what they’d do if they saw a child skin his knee, or bloody their nose. I wonder if there are little shadows back home, Timmy and Sally Dim, maybe with their shadow dog, Sparky. I wonder if maybe they’re closer to animals. Do they eat their young?

Some kid loses his ball and it veers into the road, and he runs after it. I hold my breath. I want to scream out as the traffic on Fifth ripples past the light because he doesn’t see it. My heart skips a beat, and I hear tires squeal on the pavement. Someone’s shouting, but I can’t see who because I’ve closed my eyes. More shouting and I open them. Someone – an au pair, a mother – is carrying the kid back into the playground. My heart slows. The shadows watch.

 

Feb. 7

I keep thinking. What if? What if they’re refugees? Survivors of a dying sun, remnants of us, humanity, slipping back in time, people fleeing from some Xenu-like construct, and they can only get one foot in the door? If it were true, if more people knew, could see them, would we legislate their existence? Would we try to help? Could we? Would causes spring up around their existence, men with guns and men with signs? Would someone try to shoot one, to see what happens? Would someone try to feed them? How would they react?

My head won’t stop with the questions. They bore into me like beetles, doubt and conjecture. In the end, maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s all shadows and light, anyway.

 

Feb. 12

I met a man. Hiram, I think. He smoked, like a chimney, and watched the streets like they were filled with wolves. I bummed a smoke off him and stood with him, his scarf wrapped around his neck like a gorget, his eyes hollow. He told me about the shadows, the way they watched everyone. We were in the park, the sky threatening rain. The trees kept making clacking sounds as the branches banged together, and he told me about how he kept seeing those things everywhere, and how he was a raw nerve because they hadn’t done a damn thing yet. I listened and nodded, but couldn’t commiserate. Of course, I saw them. Of course. But they weren’t in my head yet, and I wasn’t letting them in. He left with wet eyes and a hack that told me the cigarettes were in his lungs. After, I watched the leaves on the trees shiver until the rain came.

 

Feb. 15

One of them is in my building. It hangs out in the hallway by Mrs. Kossakas’ apartment. Every now and then, it drifts down the hall and back, like it’s bored, or maybe looking for a way in. I don’t think they can go through walls or doors. This one must have slipped in behind a resident, or the UPS man. I skirted it and took the stairs by the laundry room. I keep my door locked, just in case. Just in case.

 

Feb. 17

I saw Hiram again today. He looked worse, pale, and skinny. Sweat collected on his forehead like dew in the spring. Purple bags rode under his eyes. We found a bench and talked a while, mostly about nothing – football, the local deli, the weather – neither of us followed it, but our mouths made the sounds. In a small copse of trees nearby, three of the shadows drifted. Hiram showed me the gun in his pocket, a little silver thing, and old. Looked like one of those revolvers they’d have on bad cop shows. He pulled it out and stuffed it away real quick, his hand doing a little jitter, like palsy was the thing on tap. He smoked and looked out at the woods, and I could see it in him. The internal math. Do I shoot them now? Does someone hear? What happens? What happens? In the end, he left again, his hand jammed in his pocket, a cigarette drooping from his lip. If the cigarettes and shadows don’t do anything, he’ll find a use for that pistol. I could almost see Damocles’ sword hanging by its thread. The shadows didn’t notice.

 

Feb. 19

I can’t find the thing from the hall. I’m not sure where it went, but I haven’t seen Ms. K in a while. I knocked, but no one answered. She was old. I’m sure she has family, has someone who knows where she is. I don’t know, I’m not her keeper. I thought of something, an idea that clung to me for a while, but when I dug out Hiram’s number, the phone only squealed and the voice on the other end did her little disconnect dance. Maybe he found the solution to his math.

 

Feb. 22

There’s more of them. Less people on the street. Is it Sunday? I only know the number. I only know there are less people on the street on Sunday. I think about them, crammed in their churches and synagogues and mosques, praying, genuflecting, singing. I wonder what they would make of this. Punishment? Angels? Demons? I wonder if I should stop by St. Anthony’s. I call information, but the phone only hums. That’s normal, right? Is Google down? If Google’s down, everything’s down.

I think about going to the library – they have computers there. They’d know. Then a shadow passes on the street, and I think about home. I check the sky, and it’s gray, like steel wool. I think about the way you could unravel it, set fire to the end, and watch the sparks climb the metal spindles like a burning ladder. I wonder if that’s what’s going on in my brain, if that’s why I’m seeing these things. I wonder if that’s how the world ends, a steady slow burn that leaves only black in its wake.

 

Feb. 24

Is it a leap year? I wonder briefly if that’s why this is happening. All those stolen seconds leeching into hours and days and years – are we breaking time? A nice lady picked up Hiram’s phone today. She said she didn’t know where he was, and wanted to know my name. Why would she need that? I hung up. I thought about disconnecting my phone, but what if one gets in here? I’d need to call for help. I could say I was having a panic attack, or I had fallen. Instead, I went to the park.

 

Feb. 24

They’re everywhere. I can’t – I thought I heard Hiram, hacking in the woods, and went to him. They were close enough to touch – I didn’t. I couldn’t. What about space AIDS, or possession, or melting my skin off? I slipped between them while they watched. His pistol was lying in the leaves. There was an empty shell in it. No sign of Hiram. Did he try to kill them? Did he do himself? I took the gun. He’ll want it back. They just watched. What did they see? I didn’t ask – couldn’t find my voice. Would they have answered?

 

Feb. 26

Why don’t they do anything? It’s a riddle wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a cheesy burrito. Taco Bell would be fucking proud. They just stand around and watch. I don’t see many people outside, but it’s been raining for a day. People don’t like the rain. These things, it doesn’t bother. Nothing much bothers them. I doubt their humanity. I wonder at my own. Why can’t I say something to them? Am I afraid of the answers? I hold Hiram’s gun at night and think until my brain hurts. Until the headache throbs and my vision doubles. Nothing. Nothing.

 

Feb. 28

There’s another in my building. I couldn’t talk to it, but I waved the gun. It didn’t notice. Or pretended not to. My skin itches all the time now. I honestly can’t tell if it’s because I got too close in the park, or because anxiety is ramping my senses up to twenty. I almost left today. I called Hiram instead and listened to the dial tone for a while. I wonder if he’s somewhere safe – maybe the cops picked him up after he fired the gun. Maybe he ran off. I wonder if he’s got cigarettes, and my lungs ache for that old burn. I’m not leaving.

 

Feb. 28

Woke up by the sound of something scratching. Could be rats. This is an old building. Tried watching Kimmel. There’s an old girlie mag under my bed, but I’m not that kind of keyed up. Finally decided to open that bottle of Wild Turkey from under the sink. I brought my chair to the entry so I can watch the door. The whiskey burns, but it’s a comforting burn. I wonder when they’re going to do something. That’s what strangers do, right? They wait, and they watch, then they hit you when your nerves are high so you make a mistake. They give you a smile, and you relax, and then you give them your money. Or they slit your throat. I think of Hiram, pale and sweating. I feel the weight of the pistol in my lap and mentally count the bullets. Will it matter? They’ll do something soon. They have to, right? Will it matter? I count the bullets again. Will it matter? One of them will. One of them will.

Ancestry

cnn.com

WOMAN, 32 CHARGED WITH MURDER

As details of a grisly murder surface, questions arise

by David Rath

Alerted to the possibility of foul play, investigators were called to the home of Maria Rathbone, 32, of Howard’s Falls, Idaho on Wednesday. After speaking with the homeowner, one of the officers asked to see the inside of the home, alerted to something amiss by what he described as a ‘suspicious odor’. Ms. Rathbone was compliant, and led the officers on a tour of the home, culminating in a small den, the scene of which investigators said reminded them of a butcher shop.

Ms. Rathbone had murdered her father, Elias Rathbone, 72, and was attempting to connect his organs to the internal components of her desktop computer. Ms. Rathbone has not been forthcoming about her reasoning behind the murder, and investigators are currently awaiting the results of a psychological evaluation.

Sherriff Stephen Clarke of Howard County was unavailable for comment.

 

The Ones We Left Behind (excerpt)

by Amy Wong

Simon & Schuster

…and in the context of family, it’s the weight of a thousand years that drags us down. Our grandparents, and their grandparents, and their grandparents’ grandparents all lead to an unbroken genetic chain that informs everything from our eye color to the things we fear. Can we look back on that chain, at the sacrifices and mistakes and lost loves and wonder what if? Can we truly say we are doing them proud, or that we have our own future generations’ lives and livelihoods at heart? What happens when we forget those things that build our heritage? Who lives for the ones who died? Who loves those? Is it all worth it, or would they find disappointment in their modern descendents? Is there any one thing we can do to bring them joy? Or are we only serving the memory of a life that simply doesn’t exist, a light that winks out when the void closes in, clinging to religion and belief and tradition like lichen to a stone? No one really knows, but I like to think there’s something there. Even if it’s only in our hearts and minds. My grandmother used to say There is only one life, but it goes on forever. In that, maybe we have all the answers we need.

 

honeydo.org

Seeking Mr. Wrong

Oh, SamMy, I KNOw you see me. PLEasE Call.

 

Sun-Valley Tribune  

Obituaries, May 9

Vera Sawyer, age 63, passed away today at Carrol Family Care. She was preceded in death by her husband, John Sawyer and her parents, Claude and Juliet Hopper (Baumann). Vera leaves behind a son, Samuel, three grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. The family has asked in lieu of flowers, a donation be made in her name to the Voight-Kampf Memorial Fund.

 

wechat.com

flowergurl has entered the room

dingdong97: Hey!

humpa: Hey!

samman: hey

[samman to you]: hey, you like flowers? what kind?

[flowergurl to samman]: Gardenias, lilacs.

[samman to you]: you like Georgia O’ Keeffe?

[flowergurl to samman]: Who?

[samman to you]: the vagina lady

[flowergurl to samman]: Shame on you, Sam! You were raised better!

flowergurl has disconnected

 

theguardian.co.uk

WORLDWIDE OUTAGE AFFECTS 75% OF USERS

Internet row could cost well into the trillions

by James Canon

On Tuesday, a massive outage affecting nearly the world’s entire Internet user base was attributed to solar flares. Experts in IT, commerce, and infrastructure are still reeling from the shutdown that affected commerce, transportation, and medical care.

Perhaps more interesting are reports that alongside the outage, many users experienced visual or auditory errors upon logging on, including the voices of people they knew, or files on their desktops they couldn’t remember saving.

When asked about the situation, one MP referenced the harsh new conditions the Tories wish to place on Internet in the UK.

 

abovetopsecret.com

[Mr. Higgles] Theory: The government not only knows about magic, but is keeping it secret. In 1997, they started building the largest database of death certificates in the world. You know who else manipulated the dead? Necromancers. I’m telling you man, they plan on using our dead relatives in a future conflict, most likely against their own people. Sure, a well-armed populace can stand up to their government, but how the hell do you fight ghosts?

Before you poo-poo me, take a look – there’s an entire database online. It’s like they’re not even trying to hide it. And they sort them all by Social Security Number. I keep telling you guys – pay to get that shit erased. Otherwise, you’ll be serving well into the next seven lifetimes.

[HubbleEyes] Have you filed an FOIA request?

[JFKWASNOTALONE] How do we know you’re not a Russian plant, man? Who says ‘poo-poo’? A quick Google search tells me that phrase isn’t US-based.

[MKULTRAHIGH] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Necromancy

 

twitter.com

VERA SPEAKS @veraspeaks

Hello? Hello?

VERA SPEAKS @veraspeaks

Sammy? It’s dark in here.

VERA SPEAKS @veraspeaks

Sammy

 

cnn.com

COPYCAT MURDER BRINGS QUESTIONS

The second murder in a week, this one raises more questions

by David Rath

Alerted to the possibility of foul play, investigators were called to the home of Samuel Sawyer, 40, of White Plains, New York on Wednesday. A call was placed by neighbors who reported screams coming from the home of the White Plains lawyer.

Mr. Sawyer had murdered his wife, Celia Sawyer, 38, and in a scene similar to the previously reported murder was attempting to connect her organs to the internal components of his desktop computer. When questioned on the scene, Mr. Sawyer claimed his mother was ‘so, so lonely’.

Vera Sawyer passed away last month.

Lawyers for Mr. Sawyer declined to comment further on the case.

 

twitter.com

Celia @samwife

Sammy?

 

 

The Things We Leave Behind

“Do you think he was a narcissist?”  Katie asked.

She was wearing shorts rolled up at the thighs and thongs, and a y-back shirt with a sweat stain up the lower back.  Her long dark hair was pulled back in a pony, and she was leaning a large mirror with a gilded frame against the wall, and frowning down at her reflection.  She had spent the morning helping me wrap and cover and move my dead father’s more valuable belongings in bubble wrap and bed sheets.

I glanced over at her reflection and shook my head.

“Never struck me that way.  He was a lot of things, but never really vain.”

She tossed a sheet over the mirror, and I watched it billow out and float down, the fabric softening the sharp edges.  She shrugged.

“Odd thing for that man to own.  Fancy.”

I knew what she meant.  My father was not an ostentatious man.  I nodded absently, and went back to taping boxes shut.

*

We had lunch with the door open, letting a meager breeze play down the hall and through the rooms.  I chewed my sandwich, and watched the whisper of air move loose strands of her hair.  They lifted and waved, and settled, and in between bites, she would absently smooth them down.

I looked at her, and thought of my father’s relationships.  He was terse, and cold.  Sometimes, he would drink, and it would bring him to the edge of violence, but he never raised a hand, at least to the women that shared his bed.  I remembered the way he shuttered physical pain the same way he shuttered emotions.

He had a way of subsuming people to his will.  Sometimes he bullied, sometimes he cajoled, and sometimes he just broke them.  In the end, they did what he wanted.  He could be brutal.  I remembered scars and bruises brought on by hard, calloused hands.

He was deeply flawed, and yet, somewhere in there, there must’ve been more to the man, because there had still been women, and a family.  I’d loved my father, maybe in the way that a hostage loves his captors – a Patty Hearst sort of reaction to trauma; Stockholm of the heart – but I hoped to God I didn’t share any of his traits.

In the middle of those thoughts, Katie caught me looking at her, and winked.  I grinned back.  Then, we were finished with lunch, and we got to our feet with aching backs and aching knees, and went back to work.

In the hall, the sheet had fallen from the mirror, and as I went to cover it, I thought I saw, for just a moment, a dark smudge in the bottom corner, like a stain on the glass, or the reflection of someone in the room behind me.  I shrugged it off, and dropped the sheet back over it.  I wondered how my dad would feel about that stain, knowing how he’d taken meticulous care of the things he’d owned.

Katie cursed from the other room, drawing me from my thoughts for the second time that day, and I went to see what the matter was.  She was standing in the den, a puddle of glass and water at her feet.  Small flecks of white drifted in the puddle, and led to a broken globe with a wooden pedestal.  The plastic skyline of Chicago stood out from the dome, and water seeped into the soles of Katie’s thongs.

She was looking down at the broken snow globe with a look of annoyance.  She looked up when I entered the room, and her face shifted to one of apology.  She gestured to the mess on the floor.

“Sorry.  I was trying to wrap it, and it just kind of jumped out of my hands.  Must’ve still had mayo on my fingers.”

I shook my head.  “No big deal.  Dad had about a thousand of these things.  They’re worth about five bucks apiece, and he never really made a big deal out of them.”

I left the room, and grabbed a towel and the broom.  When I returned, Katie thanked me, and I watched her as she soaked up the water and shuffled the broken pieces into the dustpan, then the trash.  I watched as she hunched over, the play of muscles in her shoulders, the way the hair clung to her neck.  When she stood, I flushed a little, hoping she hadn’t caught me looking.

“Thanks,”  I said.  She smiled again.

I turned to go, back to the living room to finish boxing the last of the paintings.  I paused in the hall.  The sheet was off the mirror again.  I picked it up from the floor, and lifted it to cover the mirror, looking around for some tape to fix it in place.  In the mirror, that stain had grown larger; was the shape of a man in a dark brown suit.

He was indistinct, still too far away to see fine details, but I could see him.  He was wearing a homburg, and his face was a smudged fleshy blur with two dark pinpoints for eyes.  His mouth opened, a dark slash in the pink flesh.  I heard his voice in my head.

Disappointing.  You can’t let these bitches rule you.  You can’t let them break your possessions.  It starts there, you know.  They break your things, and then they break your will.  They think because of the pink slash betwee-

            I didn’t let him finish.  I threw the sheet over the mirror, and found a roll of tape.  I taped the fabric down, my hands shaking, and then slumped against the opposite wall and closed my eyes.  After a few minutes, I felt the air change, and smelled sweat and something sweet.  I looked up.

Katie was standing over me, a smirk on her lips.

“Getting a nap in?”

“Sorry -”  I cleared my throat.  “Sorry, I was just – headache.”

Concern crossed her face and creased her brow.  “You okay?”

I smiled.  “Yeah.  Fine.”

She turned to go, and caught sight of the mirror, wrapped in tape and sheet.  She looked down at it, hands on her hips, then back at me.

“Well.  Afraid of it getting away?  Here, it’s on there all cockeyed.  Let me help.”

She started to unwrap it, and I watched, unease growing in my belly.  I couldn’t tell her to stop.  She’d think me insane.  Maybe I was.  It’s not every day that your dead father comes to life in a mirror.  She finished, and pulled the sheet free to resituate it.

He was closer, and I could see the disapproving expression on his face, and the ring on his hand that he was using to gesture with while he spoke.

See?  She’s doing it.  You might as well be neutered now.  Maybe next time she’ll change your diapers, wipe your ass.

The sheet settled back over him, and Katie never batted an eye.  She didn’t see him, then.  Didn’t hear his invective.  For a moment, I wondered what I had happened to cause this.  Had I breathed in too many fumes from the cleaning chemicals?  Had I smacked my head?  Heat stroke?  Whatever it was, it wasn’t going away soon.  I’d have to learn to cope.

Katie finished taping the sheet off, and turned back to me, a smile on her face.

“There, all set!”  She looked down at her watch.

My father must’ve been closer, because I could hear him through the sheet now, though a bit muffled.

Checking the time.  Checking ’til when she can leave you and clean you out.  There’s a solution, you know.  You can stop this.  End it.

            The impression of a knife, long and sharp and silver, flashed through my mind.  I pushed it away with a mental effort.

Katie looked up.  “Head feeling okay?”

I nodded.  She leaned in and planted a kiss on my forehead.  “I have to run.  Yoga at four.  See you tomorrow?”

I nodded and kissed her back.  She was soft and warm and tasted of sweat and honey.  Then she left, and I was alone in the hall, an afternoon breeze pushing dust across the floor, and lifting the edges of the sheet on the mirror.

I looked around, and decided we’d done enough for the day.  I looked at the mirror, and decided it needed the trash.  I picked it up, and lugged it out to the car, tossing it in the hatch with little ceremony.  I was a little disappointed when it didn’t shatter.  I closed the car, locked the front door, and went home.

*

I looked at the mirror wrapped in sheets, leaning against my living room wall.  I wasn’t sure why I’d brought it home, or why it wasn’t in the trash.  Maybe it was because I’d seen my father in it.  Despite the venom that had come out of him, he was still my father.  Time and tide hadn’t changed that yet.

He’d been silent for some time, and I wondered again if I’d imagined it all.  Curiosity propelled my fingers, and I found myself pulling at the tape, and then the sheet.  It came away in a billowing puff of air, and I dropped it to the side and looked in the glass.

He was there, still in his brown suit and homburg, his gray hair peeking from beneath the brim of the hat, his dark brown eyes clutching at my face.  His lip curled up in a sneer, and his voice assaulted my mind.

Disappointment.  You were always weak.  And a bit stupid.  You never planned, never looked ahead, and never were cautious enough.  Now look at you.  Spineless, cowering under a woman’s skirts.

            “”Shut up -” I started to reply, and was interrupted by a knock at the door.

I listened.  Katie’s voice came floating through the wood.

“Hey, it’s me.”

Redemption.  You can make it right.  Let her in.  End it.

            Again, that vision of a blade flickered through my mind, and I found myself making my way toward the kitchen.  I forced myself to stop with an effort of will.

Weakling.

            She knocked again.  “Kevin?”

WEAK.

            Pain blared through my head with the force of that thought, and my vision disappeared in a wave of blackness.  When it passed, I was standing in the kitchen, groping for the knife block.  Once again, I forced myself to stop, to turn away from the knives.  Instead, I cast around for something heavy, and found the sharpening rod.  I pulled it from the block, and stalked to the living room.

The doorknob rattled, and the old man started in on me again, his voice like nails on glass in my mind.

You can do it.  Make me proud.  End it, and take control of your life.

            I threw the sharpening rod into the mirror, and it shattered, a thousand pieces scattering on the carpet.  The sound was loud, like the crash of a wave on rocks, and from the hallway, I could hear Katie slipping a key in the lock.

I looked down, at the shards of glass on the floor, and wondered how I would explain it.  The old man was looking back at me, a thousand disapproving faces, and a thousand pairs of angry eyes.  I heard his voice once again, a cacophony of discordant sound that raked at my ears.

DO. AS.  I.  SAY.

            I was in the kitchen again, and Katie was coming through the door.  I saw her turn the corner, and felt the knife in my hand.  I heard her footfalls on the linoleum, and saw the light play on her skin.  My legs twitched forward, and I could hear the old man laughing.

I sobbed, and drew the knife across my throat.