I’ve been yacking about this on twitter, (and not facebook, which I’m boycotting due to their horrendous privacy practices)but in case you don’t follow my brilliant and deeply insightful comments I wanted to let you all know that I’m shooting for June 1st to release the first STRANGITIES volume in print. This will include 20+ short stories, so, you know, dig through the couch cushions (but be careful!) and save those pennies.

I know you all love “The More Mundane Adventures of Blue Stahli” and the most recent retelling of Bret Stahli’s blander tales is now available as an eBook included in the Special Edition of the newest track “Corner.” This is the last single before the full album, so get it while its hot. (And in case you hold an erroneous belief that Bret & I have a mature relationship, this is what we have been laughing about all week.) I will be posting Episode III here in a few months as well.

And speaking of posts, this month’s story “The Dream Chemist” is just about finished and will be showing up soon, so stay tuned.

“Are you’re sure you’re ready for this?”

Maria, kneeling on the bed, undid the clasp of her purple polka-dotted bra exposing even more carmel colored skin as her response.

Shane started towards the bed, but she held up a finger.

“Wait,” she said.

“What?” Shane’s stomach dropped. Getting shut down this close to….

“Turn off the lights,” she said, hesitated, and then continued “and turn my stuffed animals around.”

Shane’s hand hovered above the lightswitch as he looked down to the trunk on the floor covered in stuffed creatures of various colors, shapes, and sizes. He looked back to Maria.”Seriously?”

She hesitated again, a strange look passing over her face. Biting her lip, she nodded.

“Ok. Sure baby. Whatever.”

Shane flicked the switch, plunging the bedroom into darkness. He paused for a beat, hoping she would think it had been long enough for him to turn the plush creatures around, and then threw himself over the gap and onto her bed, bedsprings protesting as he landed.

Maria curled against him in the darkness.

“Did you turn them around?” she asked.

“Nobody here but us,” he answered, avoiding her question.

“Good,” she said, and kissed him.

And from their vantage point on the trunk, the plush animals stared unflinchingly into the darkness.

The next morning Shane sat at his desk at his father’s law firm. At nineteen he was just beginning to consider what career he would pursue, the decision of which was made more difficult by his current job, which was to sit at a desk, occasionally look at papers, and get paid for it. Ambition hardly seemed worth the effort when he considered it. There was no way dad and his stepmom Lisa would stop supporting him; it was the best way to get back at his mom.

His cell rang. Maria. He answered.”Hey baby.”

“Hey, um,” she paused, “did you turn my animals around again before you left?”

What was it with her and the stupid animals? “Yeah baby,” he lied. “I didn’t think you’d want them left that way.”

“Ok good,” her voice brightened.

“What is it with those things anyway?”

“They’re from my abuela. My grandma.  From when I was very little. I don’t like them… I dunno… watching,” she explained.

Whatever. “Oh ok.”

“You think I’m weird don’t you.”

He thought about how he could use that to his advantage. “If I did, would you prove me wrong tonight?”

Maria laughed at that. “You’re terrible.”

“No, just horny,” he smiled at himself.

She sighed in mock exasperation. “Ok, you can come over tonight. My dad has bowling league and my mom is going out with one of my tia’s. I’ll tell Marco he has to go to bed early again.”

“Two nights in a row. He’s gonna be pissed.”

“He can deal with it,” she replied, and then purred “And then, I’ll deal with you.”
“Come on!” he yelled at the car in front of him which refused to accelerate as fast enough as his hormones required.

Turning on to Maria’s street, Shane slowed down to make sure her parent’s cars weren’t in the driveway. It was empty. He pulled up to the house and put the car into park. Maria was already opening the door.

“Hi baby!” she said as he strode up the walkway.

“Hey yourself,” he replied.

“Marco is just finishing dinner. I told him he could watch Fighting Force and then he had to go to bed.”

“Awesome.” Shane slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss.

“Maria!” Marco yelled from inside the house.

Maria put her hands against Shane’s chest and pushed off. Shane sighed.

“What?!” She yelled, walking back into the house, Shane following behind her.

“Where’d all the knives go?” Marco yelled from the kitchen.

Maria and Shane walked through the living room. Shane brushed his fingers against one banister of the stairs as he past.

Marco was standing at the island in the kitchen with peaunt butter, jelly, and bread spread out before him.

“What do you mean ‘where’d all the knives go?’” Maria asked him.

“Look,” Marco said, pointing at the knife block. There were several empty slits of varying sizes.

“I don’t know. Mom was making salsa on Wednesday. They’re probably all in the dishwasher. Here,” Maria grabbed a butter knife out of the sink and rinsed it off.

“Ew gross!” Marco exclaimed.

“It only had butter on it. Relax,” Maria rolled her eyes at him.

“Hey bud, you need help making that sandwich?” Shane asked him.

“Naw, I’ve got it,” Marco shrugged at him, scooping some peanut butter with the knife.

“Well hurry up. Fighting Force is on in ten minutes and then its bed time,” Maria told him.

“How come I always have to go to bed early when you come over?” Marco asked Shane.

Shane smiled at him, looking to Maria for help.

“Well, uh…”

“I watch scary movies when you go to bed. Shane comes over to make sure I don’t get THAT scared,” Maria told him.

“I’m not scared!” Marco protested, “I could watch them too! Abuela told me the spirits keep us safe. She said she made sure of it!”

“And Abuela used to tell ME that the spirits would be upset if I didn’t go to bed on time. So guess what?”

Marco sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” He said, picking up his sandwich and heading for the family room.

“What is with your grandma and spirits?” Shane asked Maria as she began making her own sandwich.

“My grandmother was a priestess from a tribe in the jungles of Peru,” Maria explained, spreading peanut butter as she spoke. “My grandpa was a Catholic missionary, a very strong man. But loving. Like a bear. While on his mission he met my grandma and they fell in love. She always used to tell me she could see people’s auras, their spiritual energy. She said no one glowed like abuelo.” Maria smiled faintly at the memory.

“How old were you when she died?”

“Me? Twelve. But Marco, he was only four or five.” She used the butter knife to cut the sandwiches she had just finished. “Abuelo died of cancer, and she followed him a week later. She told me in the hospital she was dying of a broken heart.”

“Wow, she loved him that much huh?”

Maria smiled softly at the thought. “Yes. She really did.”

“Maria!” Marco’s voice came from the other room, “I got some jelly on the couch!”

She rolled her eyes and sighed at Shane. “Coming!” she yelled back to Marco. Turning to Shane she asked “Baby, could you go get my sweatshirt from my room? I’m kinda chilly.”

“Now why would I want you to put MORE clothes on?” he asked her with a smirk.

“Just until you can keep me warm. Now go.”

He sighed and nodded, and pounded up the steps to Maria’s room. Flicking the lights on he saw everything as it had been the night before. He scooped up her hoodie from where it lay crumpled on her bed.

“I’ll be seeing you later,” he told the bed, giving it a firm pat.

Marco protested and stalled for another half an hour after Fighting Force ended, but eventually Maria’s threats drove him to his bedroom. Shane waited downstairs on the couch for her, idly channel surfing. After a few minutes Maria came quietly down the stairs holding a blanket which she threw on the floor in front of the television.

“What’s that for?” Shane asked her.

“I thought we might try something different tonight,” she told him, raising one eyebrow suggestively.

“Down here? Seriously? What about your parents? Or your brother?”

“My brother’s door is locked, and we would hear him coming. And I just talked to my dad while Marco told him goodnight and he said he won’t be home until late. And mom NEVER comes home early when she’s out with my Tia. Relax. We’ve got the place all to ourselves.”

She pulled him to his feet and tugged his t-shirt over his head in one fluid motion and then kissed him passionately. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, returning her fervor. He slid his hand inside her shirt and reached for her bra strap, but Maria suddenly pulled away, looking at him.

“What? What?” Shane asked, confused as to why she had stopped.

“Do you have a condom?” Maria asked him.

“Uh…..” Shane pulled out his wallet and checked all its pockets. No condom.

“We don’t NEED one…” Shane started.

“Uh huh. No way. You’re not the one that ends up knocked up.” Maria stepped back and crossed her arms, regarding him as if appraising something for purchase.

“So um…. what do we do?” Shane asked, clearly antsy.

“Well….” Maria paused, enjoying the position she had him in, “I guess you COULD use one of the ones I bought. Up in my top dresser drawer…”

Shane was sprinting up the stairs before she could finish.

“Quiet! Marco is trying to go to sleep!” she yelled after him.

“Oh, right.” Shane, already upstairs, walked over to Marco’s closed door. “Sorry Marco,” he whispered to it.

“Don’t worry about it,” came the muffled reply.

Shane continued down the hallway to Maria’s room. He opened the door and set his sights on Maria’s dresser on the far wall.

Agony bloomed in his right ankle, climbing his leg and exploding at the base of his spine. He toppled forward with a howl, throwing his arms out to catch himself and only half succeeding, slamming his right cheek into the carpet. In his confusion he barely registered hearing the door close behind him.

“FUM…!” he tried to yell instinctually from the pain, his eyes clenched tight against it, but something soft and cottony was already forcing itself into his mouth. His tongue shoved against the dry fabric, trying to dislodge it and clear his airway to allow for his gasp of pain. Instead it pushed further in, gagging him as he struggled for air. His eyes snapped open, blurred by tears. His vision was obscured by something blue and white pressing against his face, making it difficult to breathe and clearly the source of the esophageal assault. From his prone position with his chest against the carpet his left arm was useless so he made to reach for the obstruction with his right.

A new slash of pain erupted across his knuckles. Another came from his left calf, this one biting and deep. Two soft impacts on his back were accompanied instantly with stabbing pains that curled him into a ball. He reached again for his face, white lights clouding his vision.

Shane found a handful of something soft and furry and flung it across the room, pulling the obstruction free from his throat. A new pain blazed hot in his side and he gasped from its intensity. Bringing his palms to his eyes he rubbed the tears from them so he could get now get a clear look at what was going on.

Maria’s stuffed elephant, Mister Snuffles, lay against the closed bedroom door. The fake fur of his trunk was matted and wet with Shane’s saliva. In horror Shane watched as Mister Snuffles sat upright and then extended one of his stubby arms to steady himself as he climbed to his felt-padded feet. His face was as passive and friendly as ever, but as he curled a blue-white paw around the handle of one of the missing steak knives Shane began to understand where his injuries were coming from.

Maria’s stuffed animals surrounded him, each holding a different bloodied kitchen instrument.

“What…?!” He began to scream, but another animal jumped from the bed onto his back, thrusting its knife against Shane’s spine. He felt the serrations bump against bone as the blade sank.

“AAAHHH!” He yelled in pain.

The other creatures advanced on him, brandishing their knives. Shane threw his forearm across his face as a bunny slashed at his eyes, taking the damage to his arm instead of being blinded. He grabbed for the bed next to him, using it to pull himself to his knees and then climb unsteadily to his feet.

The plush animals moved slowly and silently, closing in on his ankles. Blood poured from the wounds on his back, hand, arm and leg, turning the waist of his jeans and the carpet where it soaked in crimson.

Mister Snuffles made to join the group around Shane, but was brushed aside into the wall as Maria opened the door. Confusion and fright twisted her face as she beheld her bloodied boyfriend surrounded by her stuffed animals brandishing knives and cleavers. She screamed.

“Maria! Help!” Shane yelled at her. A turtle which had gotten close enough to Shane to take a swipe did so, cutting his jeans but missing his leg.

“Ohmygod! Ohmygod!” Maria ran to Shane kicking the stuffed animals out of the way as she did. Some squeaked as they bounced from wall to floor, others made loud crashing sounds as they hit the venetian blinds. She threw an arm around his waist and pulled his arm around her shoulder, bearing up under him to help take some of his weight off his damaged foot. Half dragging half hopping she pulled him out of her room. She put Shane’s hands on the stairway bannister and turned back to her room.

Mister Snuffles had emerged from being crushed against the wall by the door and was now advancing towards them past the threshold, holding a steak knife. Behind him the other animals were already climbing to their feet from the places Maria had sent them flying, each reaching for their own discarded weapons.

“Oh god!” Maria said again. She stepped behind Mister Snuffles and punted, sending him over the banister and down into the family room. Her hand found the doorknob to her door and she yanked, slamming it shut.

“Maria, what’s going on?” Marco stood behind her in the hallway, sleepily rubbing his eyes.

“Marco go back to you room,” Maria told him, rushing to Shane’s side. From her vantage point she could see Mister Snuffles already at the foot of the stairs, beginning his ascent.

“I heard yelling,” Marco mumbled.

“Get in your room NOW!” Maria yelled at him again.

Blood poured from Shane’s wounds, dripping from the bannister as he slumped over it for support. His right achilles tendon had been slashed, keeping him from putting any pressure on his leg at all. He had stab wounds on his left calf, his side, and covering his back. The skin was split open across the fingers on his right hand and there was a gash across the meat of his forearm. His breath came in gasps through clenched teeth.

Marco’s eyes suddenly grew wide. “What happened to Shane?” he asked.

The door to Maria’s room thumped softly as it pressed against its doorframe. Colored fur began to appear at the crack between the door’s bottom edge and the hallway carpet; the animals were pushing themselves under. On the staircase below Mister Snuffles had gained three steps already and was boosting himself up onto the forth after throwing his steak knife up.

“Quick Marco, into your room. Hurry!” Maria told him, putting her arm around Shane and helping him hop towards Marco’s room. Her shirt and shorts were wet with Shane’s blood and already she was having to support him more and more as he weakened from blood loss. As quickly as she could she ushered Shane’s limping form behind her brother into Marco’s room and locked the door.

Maria helped Shane over to the bed where he collapsed. Marco stood in the far corner hugging himself in fear.

“What happened to Shane?” Marco asked her again.

“My stuffed animals. They… attacked him,” Maria’s mind was reeling.

“Your ones from Abuela?” Marco asked.

Maria nodded, tears rimming her eyes as she looked at Shane who lay on the bed breathing shallowly.

Marco started. “Are mine going to do it too?”

Maria hadn’t thought of that. She turned warily to face Marco’s dresser where his own collection of plush animals rested. They sat idly, giving no indication of animation or malicious intent.

“Marco, open the window,” she said.

“Why?” Marco asked.

Marco’s door began to rattle. A carving knife arced underneath the door grasped by pink and purple fluff.

“Marco, open the window!” Maria yelled at him as the door began to rattle louder and more soft appendages appeared at the crack below the door. “We’ll climb outside and call for help!”

Marco began fiddling with the window latch as Maria backed away from his stuffed animals and bent down to lift Shane.

“Come on baby, you’ve gotta get up,” she wedged one arm underneath his back and tried to muscle him into a sitting position. “We’ve gotta get out of here.”

Shane’s eyes fluttered open for a moment. “Maria?” he rasped.

“Thats right baby. Come on, we’ve gotta get out of here. They’re coming.”

Shane cried out in anguish as she half-helped-half-yanked him up to his injured legs again. Maria grunted, supporting Shane almost entirely. Marco was still struggling with the window lock as Maria began dragging Shane towards him. Mister Snuffle’s head had emerged from the door crack along with a bunny and a few others.

“Marco!” Maria shouted, seeing how close the animals were to getting in.

“I’m trying! Its stuck!” Marco shouted back, jerking on the windowsill for emphasis.

Maria leaned Shane against the wall nearest the window and joined Marco in pulling up frantically on the window. Mister Snuffles gave his body a last twist as he popped free from the constriction of the door. He bent to retrieve his steak knife which slid under the door from outside. The pink and purple bunny came through as well, brandishing a carving knife.

The window shuddered open two inches. Maria and Marco pulled frantically. A yellow teddy bear pulled its leg free and joined Mister Snuffles and the bunny in advancing towards Shane.

Marco left off pulling on the window, leaving Maria to yell at him.

“Marco, what are you doing!”

Marco slid back his closet door and reached inside, fingers curling around a small aluminum baseball bat he has used for teeball when he was younger.

“Keep pulling!” he hollered at Maria. Placing himself between Shane and the advancing plush animals he swung with as much might as a nine year old could muster. His dipping golf swing caught Mister Snuffles and the yellow bear sending them and their knives flying. The pink bunny dodged the bat, slicing at Marco’s ankles. Marco leapt back and swung again, sending the bunny behind his bed and embeding the carving knife into the drywall.

By this time several more animals had emerged from under the door, some standing to pull others through quicker.  There were easily eight or nine more in the room.

With a grunt Maria jerked the window free of its impedance, slamming it up into its frame so hard it rattled.

“Come on!” she yelled at Marco, throwing her arm around Shane and pulling him towards the opening.

Marco brandished the bat in front of him like a samurai sword, walking slowly backwards towards the open window. The stuffed animals advanced, spreading out in a semi-circle.

Maria, her arms around Shane’s torso, had already climbed out onto the small overhanging roof that composed the entryway to their home. Shane, exhausted from blood loss, had lost consciousness.

“Marco, get his feet! I can’t lift him!” she yelled.

Marco felt his back touch the bedroom wall. Mister Snuffles and the yellow bear had regained their feet and had begun advancing with the rest of the animals. He hurled the baseball bat in an arcing pattern at the attacking animals, sending them and their weapons flying in every direction. Then he knelt and grabbed Shane’s legs, helping Maria pull the unconscious teenager through the window before climbing out onto the roof himself. With a mighty jerk he sunk the window back into its closed position.

“Help! Help!” Maria began yelling. Across the street and two houses down a porch light came on.

Marco cupped his hands over his eyes and peered back into his bedroom. Maria’s animals all stood staring implacably at the window, their paws still curled around their knives. Mister Snuffles walked to he front of the group, tilting his head as he peered at Marco. With a heft he threw his steak knife straight towards Marco, who jerked back as the knife glanced off the glass. If the window had not been between them, it would have sunk right between Marco’s eyes.

On top of Marco’s dresser, Marco’s stuffed golden lion Roary stood up suddenly and jumped from its edge down to the floor, retrieving Mister Snuffles knife from the floor. His stuffed baseball, Mister Baseball, followed next on thin floppy legs.

“Help!” Maria yelled again. More porch lights came on.

“Um, Maria…” Marco started.

The rest of Marco’s animals climbed to their feet and hopped to the floor. His dragon, Fire, leapt from his dresser to his bed, stalking slowly along the edge with its back arched like a prowling cat.

Maria’s animals turned to face Marco’s. Roary the lion brandished the steak knife in front of him much as Marco had the bat, curling both paws around the hilt. Mister Snuffles turned from Marco and walked to Roary, taking a meat cleaver from a green kangaroo as he did so. There was a moment of stillness as the plush animals faced each other.

“Help! Please someone!” Maria yelled, holding Shane’s unconscious form in her lap. Up the street one of the neighbors stepped out onto their porch.

Mister Snuffles struck first, swinging the cleaver overhead like an ax at Roary. The lion dodged to the side, using its momentum to swipe at Mister Snuffles in a slicing motion.

Marco’s room descended into silent chaos. The animals rushed together like warriors on a battlefield, Marco’s unarmed group throwing themselves at Maria’s creatures heedless of danger. Fire the dragon pounced on the yellow bear, causing the bear to lose its grip on its knife. Fire scooped the blade up into its mouth and tossed it to Mister Baseball, who’s girth sat on top of the struggling green kangaroo. Mister Baseball snatched the knife out of the air with a single hand and with a smooth motion severed the stitching holding the kangaroo’s head to its body.

“Maria, come look at this! My animals are fighting yours!” Marco said.

Stuffing filled the air and covered the floor as the animals grappled and slashed. Arms, legs, ears, and heads of various colors and fabrics littered Marco’s carpet. Fire the dragon now held a bread knife in its mouth and was thrashing its neck around wildly as Maria’s goat and valentines day heart jockeyed for attack position. Roary, who was shorter than Mister Snuffles by two inches, had his steak knife pressed up horizontally against the elephant’s cleaver as Mister Snuffles pressed his weight into the blade. The lion tilted his blade to the side, deflecting Mister Snuffle’s cleaver to slide harmlessly down to the floor with a muted thunk. His blade now free, Roary plunged it up through Mister Snuffle’s chin just behind where his trunk met his face. The lion spun and lunged, and his knife came splitting forth from Mister Snuffle’s face. The elephant stumbled back, trunk hanging to one side and stuffing blossoming like clouds from his ruined visage. He took one last swipe with empty paws at Roary, and then fell to his back and lay still.

Marco’s animals had won. They quickly fell to dismembering the remains of Maria’s animals as Marco watched in amazement. Finally, when there were no two parts connected, Marco’s animals all turned to the window to face him. Roary gave a final wave, and then they all fell to the floor, lifeless as they had been the day before.

The paramedics arrived minutes later. Shane was taken to the hospital where he remained in a coma for three weeks. Marco and Maria were placed in juvenile detention after the authorities refused to believe their story. It wasn’t until Shane awoke and corroborated their tale of the murderous animals that they were released to their family on probation.

Marco’s room had been left untouched, considered part of the crime scene. As he and Maria entered for the first time he saw everything just as they had left it. the floor was covered in stuffing and torn animal limbs. Mister Baseball had been disemboweled and lay in a mess of his own synthetic entrails. Marco picked up Roary and hugged him first.

“Thank you. You were great,” he told the lion.

He did the same for his remaining animals, what few were left.

Maria shuffled through the stuffing, poking at it occasionally with her foot. A golden glint caught her eye, and she bent to retrieve it.

“What is it? What did you find” Marco asked.

“I’d forgotten she’d given this to me,” Maria said, holding a golden locket. “It was in the kangaroo’s pocket. I never even wore it.”

“Is that from abuela?”

Maria nodded.

“What does it say?”

Maria turned the locket over and read the inscription. “My dearest mija. Always stay pure. Love abuela.”

OPRÉ / Twenty120 from Justin Harder on Vimeo.

Dave: Bored. Brighten my day?

Strangities: From the darkness they came, to the darkness returned, with one more being added in number. So mind when you sleep and pray it’s not you that they take when they wake from their slumber.

Dave: …thanks?

Chains. They’re the only thing I recognize. Here in this dark, so thick it chokes, these chains are both jailer and savior. I’ve been here so long now, I’ve lost track of everything. When they first threw me in here, the day the chains went on and the lights went out, I tried counting to keep track of the time. First in my head, then out loud. But eventually I fell asleep, and when I awoke I could no longer tell what time it was. That first night, I didn’t dream.

In a lot of ways, it was the best night I can remember.

In the dark, you go to sleep and you wake up, but you can never tell if you’re really awake. I think my eyes are closed, but it looks the same even when I think they’re not. I’m not sure anymore. Heavy on my wrists, old iron manacles locked and bolted. Chains running to two eyelets driven deep into the stone. I saw them on the day they put me here. How long ago was it now, I wonder? A day? Two? A week? Years? Who can say? I don’t even know if my eyes are open.

Its the dreams that are the worst. You go to sleep, you think you wake up but you’re not really sure. And then something moves in the darkness. The air shifts. Something scrapes. Skin on stone. Wet on dry. I feel the air move. Is something there? Is it my imagination? Is it a rat? Have they put something in here with me while I slept? Am I still asleep? Dreaming, right now? I try to wake up. I don’t feel any different. Am I awake? Then I hear the subtle clinking of the links together. And I’m relieved.

The chains. They hold me here, and yet at the same time they rescue me from the darkness by their very presence.

And then someone comes out of the darkness. A woman. I think I know her. She approaches, and I know I do. She is my wife, on the day we met. Dripping wet from her fall into the pond; shivering from the cold she comes to me. Embarrassed. Eyes downcast. Blushing as I offer her my coat. I hear the chains move as I hold it out to her, dragging against the stone. Chains? I don’t remember chains that day. I remember the birds. I remember her smell. Her white shoes. The sky so blue it hurt.

A serpent slithers between her feet. No. Thats not right. There were no snakes at the park that day. But it is there anyways, curling now around one of her legs. Its enormous. I can’t see its tail because of the dark. It just keeps coming, coil after coil, encircling the woman who would be my wife. No. This isn’t how it happened. Its not. “No!” I scream at the snake and the dark, but it ignores me, choosing instead to loop itself around her again. Her legs are gone now, buried beneath the massive body. Her waist is consumed by its writhing and still the snake climbs ever higher. I don’t want to watch so I try to shut my eyes, to look away. But the vision doesn’t go away. Its squeezing now, and she’s dying; her face first red then purple as she tries to draw breath. Her ribs are cracking, eyes bulging from their sockets. I’m screaming, hot tears streaming down my face as I watch her choked before me, the snake rearing up at last to strike. It hisses as it does, unhinging its jaw to better fit her head into its mouth. I’m straining at the chains, begging, pleading in unintelligible incantations for the horror to stop.

And it does.

I’m on my back.

I think.

It feels like there are stones beneath me. I move each arm carefully and there is soft restraint to my movements. The chains are still there, still holding me like a lamb for slaughter or a penitent wretch before the altar. I don’t know which.

You miss simple things. You miss the wind. You miss the heat of the day. I’d more gladly bake in the driest desert than stay here another moment. Perhaps thats it. Perhaps I’m in a desert right now, so delirious from thirst that I’ve begun to hallucinate this prison. I stretch out my hands for the pail of water and find it where it always is, half full, cool to touch and taste. Every day it leaves and every day it returns full. It is the only way I mark time. It brings with it a bowl of what I think is bread, it feels like bread, floating on the top. This is what time has become for me. Bucket-leaving and bucket-returning. It is the only time an exterior influence breaks my days. I have no way of knowing if my captors remove it at the same time every day, or if it is at different times. To me its all the same. The bucket leaves, and it is dark, and the bucket returns, and it is still dark.

The bucket leaves through a hole in the roof. At least I think thats where it goes. There is a rope tied to the handle that ascends towards the ceiling, and when its bucket-leaving the rope becomes taught and it rises beyond my head. My chains keep me from reaching above my head, so I am unsure if there is a hole or if it leaves by some other method. For awhile I kept the bowls the bread arrived in, hoping I might contrive from them some means of escape. But after weeks (Hours? Years?) of working with them I gave up. They did nothing against the stone or the chains and I was unable to break them to fashion any sort of tool. If I could have, it would have been a daring escape.

I’m here for a crime long forgotten. I spoke out against someone, I think. Perhaps it was a man. Or a government? I dissented. I disobeyed. I disagreed with their actions; their ‘policies.’ But what good is one man against a system? You can’t match power no matter your determination. These chains are the proof. No one was more dedicated to the cause than I. And yet here I am. No daring rescuers to save me, no uprising on my behalf. Just an old forgotten man chained to a hole somewhere they can forget about. And forgotten they have.

My water is gone. My food is gone. It feels like its been days since I’ve eaten. I would have rationed it if I knew it was going to stop coming, but how would I know? I hear nothing save for the chains and my mumblings. A little boy comes from a corner to hand me a loaf, but a crow snatches it from our hands before I can take it. Crying, he melts into the darkness as the crow flies off with his prize. Thank you my little friend. At least you tried.

A scraping sound. Not bucket-leaving. Something different. Another dream? Am I awake this time?

Bumps. Jingles. Clanks. More Scraping.

And then light.

I shout from the shock of it. Unintelligible words pour forth as it cuts a line through the darkness. Its been so long I’d forgotten what light looked like. But there it is, standing in front of me like a razor-thin ghost. Haunting me. Welcoming me into its ranks of dead, perhaps?

But no! It is spreading! The scraping brings it, grows it, spills it as it crawls. The stones, so heavy with the dark they too have forgotten it moan for its alightment, drinking it in like a river. Warming to its touch. Dismal shale and yet in their visibility more beautiful than the skies of Andromeda.

And then, the unthinkable. With a final groan the light gives birth to a doorway and a shadow. The monsters who share my cell howl at this insolence, furious at the intrusion. The doorway, as the light before it, has come bearing gifts. A cool sweet breeze ushered in by its rending of the dark claws at my skin igniting a thousand lost memories at once; bright hot suns burning just beyond touch. I shudder from their birth.

“Here!” shouts the shadow of the doorway and I fall as a dead man from the sound. My ears have long since lost their meaning and so to be so violently attacked is both shocking and profane. Yet, though I fall back, my chains keeping me from splitting my head, the shadow lets loose with still another ejaculation.

“I’ve found another one! Bring the Marshall!!”

Language. Dancing and free. Known and yet so foreign to me after so many bucket-leaving and bucket-returnings. I scarce know how to respond to this apparition.

Clacking. Steel on stone. I have heard this enough in my time to know it. It grows in fierceness and complexity. The doorway and its light grows dark again, but this time it is from crowding shadows. The dying light pierces my heart, but the shadows persist.

“Here now,” one of the black blobs says in a commanding tone, “can you speak sir?”

The monsters cannot contain themselves any longer. The light of the doorway had relegated them to the dark of the corners but now they brave it, smoking and burning as they do, for they see their prize slipping.

“It is your jailers, come to finish you!” one squeals, curling its tentacles around the chains to creep towards me, collapsing eyes pouring puss and ichor.

“Our masters have come to take you,” says another, row upon row of teeth glinting hungrily.

“No, its the devil and his minions! Flee! Flee!” says a third, taking flight up the hole for the bucket, which I can now see.

“Sir,” one of the shadows says again, stepping toward me, into my cell, “sir, can you speak? Alphonz! Get some light in here!” it yells.

“Here sir,” another says, glowing light blossoming from somewhere within it and flying across the cell to spread itself haphazardly.

I cannot remember when I have seen so much.

The sticks of illumination the shadow threw shed a soft green light. By it I can now see that the shadow before me is no shadow, but a man. Only he is not just a man. He is a conquistador. A god among men. A warrior-poet, commander of legions. His bladed helm gleams in the light, his breastplate reflecting me as an amorphous blob. His arms armored but free moving; his legs as well.

It is his boots that tell his tale. His boots are dented, tarnished, nicked in a hundred places. They are boots of a man who has seen much, traveled far, and destroyed many. The boots of a savior. Or executioner.

His face, still shadowed by his helm, remains a mystery. I cannot judge his intentions.

Words seem foreign. My lips, lazy with disuse, have trouble forming them.

“I…. I can speak,” I try.

The conquistador kneels at my side. I can smell war on his clothes.

“Your captors fled days ago. Monsters. They knew we were coming it seems. How long have you been here?”

“I…do not know,” I say, tongue fumbling each word.

“No matter, we will learn that soon enough.” He claps a strong hand onto my shoulder and smiles at me, trimmed goatee rising as thought saluting me. “You are a free man, sir.”

Tears bubble from my eyes. I reach to wipe them away and the chains pull at my hands, feebly clutching to their fading power over me.

“Delnachio!” the conquistador says over his shoulder to one of the shadows in the door, “cut these chains off this man at once. He comes with us.”

A shadow steps forward and soon I go with them.

But the chains remain behind.

3 AM. Greek Town. I’m standing on the roof of a parking garage, overlooking the neon. Its one of the few places that seems safe to walk around Detroit at three in the morning, so I like it here. I’m with a girl, someone I met. She’ll probably end up abandoning me for something different. I’m already getting used to the idea. It happens so often its like they get a merit badge for it or something.

Its been a few weeks since my ‘encounter’ with that whatever-it-was. Spider Man? Body Snatcher? Who knows. I haven’t decided yet whether I think its an alien or a monster. When it comes down to it I guess it doesn’t matter. Its off in the woods being monster-y, and I’ve got music to write.

I just released my fourth single, “Throw Away” out into the big bad world. If people knew what it was about they’d probably give me a Nobel Prize just for surviving it. But they don’t ask, and I don’t tell.

Have I told anybody about the monster? Hell no. Lets consider my options: I call the police. Tell them there’s a crazy human-impersonating THING out running around the woods of Detroit. At best I get fined for “pranks.” At worst, I get shipped to a mental institution. And while I should probably be in one anyway, when it happens it will be on MY terms.

As it is the pathetic excuse for police here have already demonstrated their intense and unjustified hatred for me. I get pulled over at least once a month. Not for speeding, or anything illegal, mind you. When I asked the officer what the problem was the last time it happened, his question was “Do both you have jawbs?” (I had a different girl with me in the car at the time.)

Excuse me?” I asked, more than a little confused as how my employment status had anything to do with this guy protecting or serving.

Jawbs,” he said slower, presumably so I could hear more clearly how stupid he sounded, “Do you two have jawbs?”

Um… yes,” I told him.

Detroit cops. Proven worthless since 1865.

So no, I haven’t told anyone. It wouldn’t do anyone any good. Least of all me.

Which is usually how it is anyways.

After Greek Town I drop the girl off. A quick make-out session fails miserably so I head off to the supermarket. I’ve landed a couple movie trailers, but ASCAP takes months to pay out, so for the next few days until I see some fundage from my releases its sardines and rice for lunch and dinner.

Ah, to be a rockstar. If people only knew.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but supermarkets are pretty depressing. Here is shelf after shelf, aisle after aisle, of products brightly packaged in an attempt to manipulate you into buying them. They’re one huge monument to who can trick you better.

Changing three CMYK values will cause you to be more sympathetic to that box of crackers. It cost them three trillion dollars to figure that out, but don’t worry, you’ll pay them back in spades for it, and think you’re getting a deal.

But I’m not here for crackers.

In the canned meats aisle I give the various fishes a good once over. No one ever teaches you how to shopped for canned fish. Its like aluminum-tinned russian roulette. Pull the wrong trigger, twist the wrong key, and you’ll sure as hell regret it. I make my choice (because I like the blue color of the mascot) and turn to head for the checkout.

But there’s a guy standing in my way.

Scratch that.

There’s a guy standing almost ON TOP of me.

I don’t know how I didn’t hear him come up next to me. I’ve got pretty good ears and an overdeveloped (I call that “healthy”) sense of paranoia. But he’s here and I’m almost running into him so my step falters and I take a step back to avoid it.

He just smiles, squints one eye, and points right at me.

Hey, don’t I know you?” he says.

This dude does not smell right. He’s got a filthy corduroy jacket on that was probably beige at one time over a dark blue sweatshirt thats missing all of whatever lettering used to be on it except an  “E” and part of what I’m guessing is an “S.” His jeans are stained with God-knows-what-but-it-was-reddish-brown and frayed and torn in all kinds of places that are probably uncomfortable given the temperature outside. And his shoes…

His shoes are brand new. White running shoes. No swoosh, look generic, but still clean as a whistle. I resist the natural urge to step on them.

I think I’d remember if we’d met before,” I tell him. “Sorry for almost running into you.”

I make the move to pass him, but he’s having none of it. He side-steps so he stays in front of me, scratching his three day old beard and squinting at me again.

Yeah…” He says, “You’re that Blues Trolley guy.”

Blue Stahli,” I correct him, already wishing I wasn’t having this conversation.

Yeah, yeah! Man I saw you at a coffee house a few weeks back.”

I remember all five of the people who were at that coffee shop, and this dude was none of them.

I…I was outside in the alley,” he continues. “You probably didn’t see me. But I heard all your songs. Wanted to meet you afterwards but you were talking to that girl. Didn’t wanna be a cock block.”

Fantastic. Exactly what I need more of in my life: Considerate vagrants.

Listen, I wanted to tell you…” he stops. I’m guessing he’s choosing his words carefully.

Your voice is kind of sissy.”

He shoves out his hand which is as dirty as his clothes. “I’m Mort. Mort Greenley. Its good ‘ta meet you.”

Something in me resigns itself to my fate. I grasp Mort’s hand. “Hi there Mort. I’m Bret.”

Hi Bret,” Mort says.

His face does this weird twist and my stomach instinctively drops to my balls. Mort tightens his grip into a death-clasp and jerks me suddenly into an aromatic and extremely awkward embrace,  throwing his free arm around my neck so I can’t pull away. (Which believe me, I’m trying to do.)

I know you saw one of ‘em,” He hisses into my ear.

THAT gets my attention. I stop struggling and he lets me stumble back into my own personal space. I open my mouth to speak but he holds up his hand.

Not here. Out back,” He says with gravity, turing on his new sneakers and disappearing around the corner of the aisle.

I have a scale I measure bums on. I had a lot of opportunity to develop it when I worked at a downtown coffee shop back in Phoenix.  On one end you have your ‘normal bums,’ the guys who either choose to live that way or have the kind of luck that I would refer to as “a good day.” On the other end you have your batshit crazy ones, the ones who’s jars just don’t hold any marbles. Mort was fairly normal according to the scale. He certainly didn’t meet nickname status like some of my favorites from back home such as“The Thruster,” or “Bird Lady.” I didn’t really trust him but I figured a back alley meeting for a little more information on what the hell had happened a few weeks ago was worth the risk. I headed to the checkout to pay for my rice and sardines.

Mort was waiting for me behind the store.

Mort was also not alone.

He had two other guys with him. From their state of dress I’d guess they were also fairly homeless. One had a dirty “formerly black” trenchcoat on over a couple of old christmas sweaters and a few pairs of sweatpants. His shoes were definitely not new. The other guy looked a little bit cleaner, but not by much; curly salt and pepper hair frizzed out in all directions, gray vinyl ski pants and a hoodie sweatshirt in about as good a shape as Mort’s. I couldn’t help but feel a certain disgust at the realization that Detroit humiliated even its homeless. These guy were dressed bad; even for bums.

This is the guy Jim. The guy from the car,” Mort pointed at me as I approached. “Bret this is Jim and Reggie. Jim told me about that thing you saw. He saw it too.”

What’s proper etiquette for saying ‘hi’ to a group of homeless guys in a dimly lit alley? You’d think I’d know this by now.

Evening gentlemen.”

Th…thats him! H…he’s the guy!” trenchcoat guy stutters out. The guy’s eyes looked like his skull was trying to squeeze them out like a couple of boiled eggs.

It was about this time that my paranoia kicked in like a mule. Here I was standing in an alleyway with a single dying streetlight talking to three guys about a creature I didn’t know the first thing about. Maybe they were connected to it somehow. Maybe they were talking to me to make sure I was ‘the guy’ before the lead pipes and boards with nails came out and I ended up another tragic Detroit statistic.

I th…th…think this is yuh…yours,” he says, interrupting my considerations and holding out something from his pocket.

My cellphone.

Jim found that after you cooked the critter and took off,” Mort said, pointing to the outstretched phone.

I muh…made a couple of calls. But they wuh…weren’t long distance or nothin,”

I took the phone from Jim and held it up to the light. It was scuffed from its tumble down the embankment that night but otherwise fine. I flipped it open but the screen stayed dark.

Battery’s duh…duh…dead,” Jim explained. “They duh….don’t last long in the cold.”

I put the phone back in my pocket, making a mental note to soak it in a gallon of bleach when I got back to the apartment.

Thanks,” I told Jim the bum.

People’ve been disappearing,” Mort said, looking at me. “Out on the streets, you get t’know people. We all stake our territory and do our best not to get in each other’s way. But you help each other out too. If someone’s handing out food or blankets and you find out about it, you let the others around you know. Its kind of a code.”

Lately though, its been different. People just vanish. One night they’ll be at their spot, the next night ‘poof!’ gone. So we got to talking. Started trying to get people to group up before they bed down. Then a few weeks ago while Jim there was settling in a drainage pipe he saw you and that creature. We’ve been looking for you ever since. We’d hoped…” he licked his lips, his breath rising like a cloud, “We’d hoped you might know something.”

I told Mort you had hair like a fuh…fuh…faggot!” Jim says, obviously pleased they found me.

I weigh my words carefully in silence while the bums look on. What do I really have to tell them? I didn’t know the first thing about the monster. It had showed up, tricked me, ripped its face off and tried to eat me. End of story.

I’m not sure how much help I can be,” I start. “The thing…”

I stop there.

Something isn’t right, and I know it.

There’s a new noise in the alley. Thats whats doing it. A sort of scraping dragging noise. I think it must have started while Mort was speaking and I’m just now realizing that its both picking up speed and getting closer. The bum’s are hearing it now too. They start glancing around, no longer concerned about what I might say. My paranoia kicks my heart into high gear. Jim’s eyes look like they’re gonna shoot out of his head. Mort bends down and picks up a piece of a broken pallet with a couple rusty nails jutting out of it.

Who’s there!” he yells, his voice echoing into the darkness.

We wait. I got the shit kicked out of me in all kinds of ways growing up, so I’m ready to get right the fuck out of here. I don’t have any kind of training to take someone on in a fair fight so I rely on speed and nerd rage, both of which I’ve made very good use of in the past.

The guy steps into the edge of the orange flickering light. He’s got a trenchcoat on like my buddy Jim and a knitted beanie pulled down almost to his nose. My “time to go” meters shoot through the roof.

Whossat? Barry?” Mort hisses.

Then a lot of things happen at once.

The guy throws his coat off and rushes us. Only its not a “guy” its… mouths. Hundreds of mouths. Maybe thousands. All snapping, chomping, gnashing silently. Covering a body shaped like a naked fat dude with really skinny legs. And I mean COVERING. There are mouths on its legs; mouths covering its bulbous jiggling torso; mouths all over the arms so the thing doesn’t even have hands, more like a couple of fleshy snapping tentacles.

And then there’s the head. Its shaped like a human head, but everywhere there’s supposed to be a hole there’s mouths. Mouths in where the eyes go; mouths where the ears go; and something that seemed even more horrific, a mouth where the mouth went.

With lipstick around it.

The thing pounced onto Jim. Full on belly-flop.  Jim started screaming and blood started shooting out from all directions.

Mort yelled “FUUUUUUUUUCK!” and splintered the piece of pallet across the thing’s back. His bravery was rewarded by the thing wrapping one of its arms around his head and putting him into a headlock. I can’t really describe the sound a dozen mouths makes as they tear into a man’s face, but it was covered quickly by Mort’s screams so I didn’t hear it long.
Something funny clicked in me and it was like I was suddenly outside of myself, watching this all happen. I watched me swing my plastic grocery bag full of tuna cans at the thing like a morning star. As soon as the bag touched the thing a bunch of mouths shredded it and the cans went scattering in different directions down the alley.

Then me and Reggie were running, sprinting towards the end of the alley. I could still hear Mort screaming, but Jim had stopped. The me-outside-of-me knew this was probably a really bad sign.

Fifty feet.

Forty feet.

Thirty five.

Mort stops screaming too.

Thirty.

Twenty five.

Reggie’s not beside me anymore.

Twenty.

Ten.

Silence.

I burst out of the alley, arms pumping like an Olympic sprinter. I run as fast as I can to the front of the store. The automatic doors almost don’t make it out of my way.

“Call the cops!” I yell at the nearest cashier. “There’s a thing in the alley! Its killing people!”

She looks at me for a second, half-gallon of milk in her hand, and then goes back to swiping.

“Did you not fucking hear me?” I yell, “People are DYING back there!”

A dude with a combover comes out of an office behind the lotto counter and heads my direction. I can read the look in his eyes perfectly. It says “Great. Another whack-job hopped up on meth.”

“You gotta… you gotta call the cops,” I tell him, out of breath from my escape. “There’s something in the alley behind the store. Its killing people!”

“Okay okay, calm down,” the dude, who I’m guessing is named ‘Bill’ if his managerial vest and nametag were any indication, says. “Lets go have a look.”

“Did you not hear me? Bad things! Dead people!”

“I need to see it for myself before I call the police. Its policy,” Manager Bill tells me, hoisting up a 3-cell Maglight. “Lets go.”

Against my better judgement I go with him. Its a tough sell to the 80% of me that’s still in “Oh Shit!” mode, but I know we need dudes with guns and we need them fast. Manager Bill and his delusions of grandeur walks about five paces ahead of me, flashlight on even though we can still see clearly thanks to the light from the storefront.

We round the corner of the store and keep heading for the alley. The closer we get the faster I’m breathing.

We reach the final corner and I grab Manager Bill’s arm to try and get him to go slower but he shakes me off and marches around it like the pompous ass he probably is. I slowly walk up behind him.

And see nothing.

The alley is empty. No body parts. No blood. No dead bums. No monsters. Nothing.  Just a dying orange streetlight, some boxes, and a lot of loose garbage. Manager Bill calls me a couple choice names he reserves for people who waste his time and takes off back to the store. I’m left standing there, totally stupefied.

Am I losing it?

Am I seeing things again?

Did I even meet Norm in the store in the first place?

I don’t know how long I stood there.  When you think you’re losing your mind you start to spend extra time thinking about things to make sure they don’t sound too crazy.

I’d almost come to the conclusion that I’d made it all up when I saw it. A glimmer of cleanliness amongst all the garbage. I approached it slowly, still wondering if the mouth-thing was going to jump out again and finish me off.

I kicked the cardboard boxes and empty energy drinks aside and there, buried beneath it all, hardly visible, was a formerly clean generic white running shoe.

It was almost completely covered in motor oil.

That shifted things in me. A lot. I started looking around the alley, realizing that there was a LOT more puddles of oil than when I had been back there earlier.

Almost like someone had come along and poured it back there.

I don’t know if hyperventilating is the right word for what I did. Panic came back tenfold. Not only had the mouth-thing killed the bums but SOMEONE HAD COVERED IT UP.

…and I was the only one who knew about it.
My phone rang and I flipped it open, hoping it was the girl from earlier. I wouldn’t tell her what had happened, of course, but I needed some sort of anchor to reality.

“Hello?” I said into the handset.

Now I know what you’re thinking. And you’re right. Jim had told me the battery was completely dead. I eventually remembered he had said that.

After I woke up in my car.

Two days later.

Alma from Rodrigo Blaas on Vimeo.

It’s happened again! Another brilliant track from Blue Stahli, and another “More Mundane Adventures of Blue Stahli” written by yours truly featured in the Special Edition. “Anti-You” is a ‘cyberpunk rooftop samurai swordfight from the year  2130 for your ears’ and I know if you enjoy anything here at STRANGITIES you’ll eat this track up. (The Special Edition also contains “Burning Bridges” which is an alternate version of Anti-You that I am particularly fond of.)

I’ll be releasing “The More Mundane Adventures of Blue Stahli: Episode II” here at the end of next week, so you’ll still be able to get your new STRANGITIES fix even if you don’t end up springing for the track. But I’ll tell you: you really should.

Now you can get STRANGITIES on your eReader! I’ve released “Strangities – Volume I” and “Strangities – Volume II” over at smashwords.com which has an eBook format for pretty much every eBook reader out there. Sure, they’re not quite as pretty as the PDF versions hosted here, but they’re portable, and they make great gifts for that cousin you just don’t understand.

Sara: I’m bored. Tell me a story.

Me: Once there was a girl named Sara. Sara’s hands were very cold but she refused to listen to the advice of one of her wisest friends and stick them down her pants, so her hands became so cold they broke off at the wrists. Without hands she could no longer type, so she lost her job. Without a job she couldn’t pay her bills so she was kicked out of the house she lived in. With no house and no money she was forced to live on the street, prostituting herself in order to eat. Eventually she became too old and men no longer desired her, even the disgusting men who visited prostitutes. So she died in a gutter somewhere and was buried in a unmarked mass grave. All because she refused to listen to her brilliant friend Collin. The End.

Sara: ….wow.