FICTION

A Cold Breeze Blew through Heaven

_{(originally published in Ludicrous Worlds Issue 2, June 2023)}

As he sat in the back of his limo, reclining on the warm, plush leather, basking in the bright blue and green lights of the tranquil koi pond scene that was playing on the windows, Rylance reflected on how remarkably unremarkable the evening was. The only remarkable thing, he realized, was that he noticed it. For nearly four years, he’d lived this life of complete, unrestrained hedonism that only the Chosen could. Rylance’s bloodline and his bank account guaranteed him that he would never long for, never even have to wait for, anything he wanted. He could eat as much of any food in the world that he desired. He could have any drink as well, such as the rare 117-year-old Scotch that was in the glass he held tonight. He could dress himself in the finest clothing made in every corner of the world, and if he so wished, could dispose of his entire, massive wardrobe only to see it replaced with a new one in less than an hour. He could sleep with the most beautiful women, of all different ethnicities, facial features, hair colors, breast size, or height. He had slept with the women of his dreams hundreds of times – and yes, to his surprise, there were more than one. But then the concept of dreams had long since seemed alien to him. After all, daily life for him and everyone he knew was a waking dream, a tangible fantasy in which every known pleasure was always right within reach. Rylance never thought he’d get used to it, but here it was. It hit him that night, softly but surely, like a sudden and gentle rain.            

He was headed where he was always headed that time of night – a party. Everyone who was Chosen knew everyone; everyone was friends with each other. There were no jobs anymore, so now the parties were anyone’s only daily obligation. Guests could expect the finest music and rarest, most expensive art at minimum – a palette cleanser. Then there were the drugs, the games, the orgies, the opulent dinners. For the bold among them, blood sport was another entertainment. And one could wander from any of these activities to the next at whim. It was sort of like the activities on a cruise ship, only there was no schedule. Every night, they all indulged in their animal urges without a second thought. There were no such things as “too tired,” “too hungover,” or “too strung-out” to attend another party. While they slept, the most skilled nurses attended to them. They administered IVs and vitamin drips. Stem cells. Morphine. They were reset every night and woke up feeling refreshed and energetic. When all the healthcare in the world was theirs, their bodies paid no price for their debauchery.

All those years as their high-rises were being built and outfitted with the best technologies and services, there was a general assumption that they were there for anyone who could gain the means, if maybe they were lucky enough. They were the physical manifestation of everything everyone, not just the Chosen, strived to attain. In reality, they were fortifications. Impenetrable shelters. Built for the inevitable collapse when all the important people in the world needed a shelter from the hoards. That day came. Heaven was full, and the gates were locked.

* * *

Rylance remembered the moment it became official – he was there. A terrible pandemic had swept the globe so rapidly that there was nothing any government could do to stop the spread. At the pleading of some soft-hearted, albeit influential, individuals, the most powerful and wealthy people in the world were assembled in a large dining room – a think tank entrusted with deciding the fate of all humanity. Rylance couldn’t fathom the naivete behind this assembly. He sat and watched silently as all the others deliberated. It lasted all of about four hours. They reached the tentative conclusion that something must be done. The CEO of the largest tech company proposed that they could collectively fund a vaccine and, God willing, a cure, but to make it conditional upon the total subservience of the rest of the world. Too risky, some replied. Some increased subservience, yes, but asking for too much would certainly backfire. But just how much? The answer eluded them. Nothing anyone came up with seemed like enough, and more always seemed necessary. So, they naturally butted up against totality once again and they were back where they started. Rylance was sitting next to Heidelmann. He’d known the old codger since infancy. They were sitting at the other end of the long oak table from where the most spirited arguing was taking place. Presently there was a long pause. They’d hit yet another roadblock – how to best distribute aid to the masses. Rylance sensed Heidelmann was about to say something, so he turned his head to look at him.

“Or,” Heidelmann said as he was cutting off a piece of wagyu, “We could simply leave them all to it.” He stared at the meat on the end of his fork. “Let nature take its course.”

He placed the meat in his mouth and chewed, looking at no one, only down at his plate as he sliced another piece. For several minutes, the gentle scraping of his fork and knife against the plate as they carved at the buttery meat were the only sounds in the room. Rylance couldn’t help but smile. The old son of a bitch was right. They had to wait for quite some time, but neither the young man nor the old one had any doubt that the others would come around. It took some longer than others to realize that their morals and convictions were just a lie they’d been telling themselves–lullabies they’d been listening to on loop, just so they could fall asleep.

He preferred to view it in a very logical, scientific sort of way. It was simple evolution – the strong, intelligent, beautiful race had to abandon the weak, stupid, ugly one in order to survive. Or, if he was being kind about it, the mother’s umbilical cord had been cut. And not a minute too soon, he felt. It was pretty clear how Heidelmann viewed things. But cold science was not enough to satisfy some. They had to deal with the guilt, that maggot gnawing at a rotten part at the back of their brain. They chose to view themselves as special, worthy of a providence that couldn’t – or rather, shouldn’t – extend lower than the people in the same socioeconomic class as themselves. It wasn’t much of a stretch; most of them had felt that way for their entire lives. They started referring to themselves as the Chosen for this reason. They shored up in no time at all, shut the doors on the huddled masses, and started out on what they envisioned would be an age that “Gilded” couldn’t come close to describing.

* * *

They all seemed to forget about the world below them. At least that’s how they behaved when they saw each other. It wasn’t polite to talk about these things. They did everything in their power to leave the part of their lives where they were aware of the others left behind. They fit their windows with screens so that they’d never see the old world again. Rather, they would enjoy any view they wanted. One could wake up in the morning and open the curtains onto the Matterhorn and draw them against the Amazon Rainforest at night.

Rylance was taken by this trend for the longest time, longer than he cared to admit. Of course, any time he had company, he made sure to have the illusory scenery on display. But on some nights when he was alone, curiosity got the better of him. He turned off the screens and stared down at the forgotten world. At first, he couldn’t see much; just darkness, a few flickering lights here and there. The orange glow of fires. But that wouldn’t stop him from looking. He decided that wherever a fire sprang up suddenly must be the site of a battle of some kind. Factions gained ground, lost it. They’d find a group of virus-positives and incinerated them. It wasn’t empathy or even fascination that compelled him to watch. It was more just a hobby. What he really needed was a telescope, Rylance thought. Who knew whether the different factions dressed differently or carried flags? Who knew what kind of weapons they carried? And what did the monsters they feared look like? Did they really foam from the mouth and cry tears of blood? All of these were questions that he’d never be able to answer. This disappointed him, but he knew deep down that a telescope perched in the window would also bring him outbursts and a few disgusted looks. If it meant fewer party invitations, it wasn’t worth it – and that was the bottom line. He settled for marking the factions’ locations on his window with a dry erase marker. “Os” for one, “Xs” for another. One time the neighbors were over for coffee and asked him about it. He told them an absurd story about playing a game of tic-tac-toe with an orangutan in the Sumatran jungle. To his immense relief, this spared him any suspicion. For the next three weeks, however, he had to deal with a barrage of questions – “Rylance, what app are you running on your screens? We can’t seem to get ours to be interactive!”

The limousines they rode in were not only screened-in, but fireproof and soundproof as well. It was said that not even a screaming other hurling a Molotov cocktail on the roof could be noticed by the passenger. But once a limousine arrived at its destination, how could they guarantee that the person stepping into the golden elevator not only belonged there, but also had been immunized? This was the question they ran into just a few weeks into the first year. Some of the more cynical among them guessed it would be a year or more before they could develop and implement a failsafe checking system. But money is one of the rare forces that can bend time. A large percentage of the funding for the vaccine went toward engineering an extra effect – the skin of the vaccinated on the inside of the right wrist would change its properties to become shiny and metallic in appearance, but only when viewed under certain high-powered scanners. The metallic skin formed the shape of a diamond, which had such precise dimensions due to the genetic manipulations of exact locations on the body. Any slight deviation would be detected instantly. The owner of the wrist would be expelled upon detection. This was their only law – get the vaccine and be able to prove it, or leave. This genetic manipulation paled in comparison to the vaccine so it was never truly acknowledged, but through this process, they had invented the first tattoo that formed inside the body. Rylance thought of himself as a man of science, but he saw the mandate for getting the vaccine as ridiculous. The nature of his solitude made it virtually impossible for him to be exposed, so what was the point? On the other hand, not being able to enter the parties and therefore destroying his social life was a death he deemed worse than any. Luckily, he tracked down a contact who knew the genetic coordinates of the diamond exactly and could fake the tattoo. An “artiste”—that’s how she described herself.

“Four years,” Rylance mused to himself as he sat on a plush leather chair near the back of the open living space of the second floor of the four-floor apartment. He’d replenished his Scotch, but hadn’t touched it. The fine Brazilian cigar that sat cradled between his middle and forefingers in his other hand had an ash as long as his thumb. Rylance at last felt what he last expected to feel – numb. It was the vacuum of sensation or caring that one couldn’t usually get without a copious amount of hard drugs, and yet still a novel feeling for him. Four years. That’s how long it takes for a man to feel he’s already done everything. He decided then that he’d better start drinking, so these thoughts would amuse rather than depress him. Maybe that was why he enjoyed deceiving them all with his fake mark, he thought, because it was the only thrill he had left. It sent a chill down his spine whenever he looked out his unscreened windows, to have the vantage point of a god and the vulnerability of a mortal. It made him feel dirty, dangerous, and rebellious when he had the tattoo done. Not in any sexual way – no woman would sleep with him if they knew he wasn’t vaccinated. It was the deception. That’s what he’d loved about it. But Rylance knew the day would come when every doorman in the city would know his face. Scanning his wrist would become a formality. After a while, they’d probably just smile and wave him through. Then he’d be no different than the rest of them. Then what would he have?

It suddenly dawned on him that there was a tall, skinny man across the room from him whom he had never seen before. He was wearing a cheap suit and a white rabbit mask with tall, slender ears. Rylance was slightly jolted out of his state when he saw the blank, black, painted eyes where he expected to see the man’s eyes. Just below the pink nose appeared to the lower apparatus of a gas mask or respirator of some kind. People were now backing away from the man, clearing Rylance’s view. The stranger’s hands were gloved and didn’t betray his complexion. In his right hand he held a shiny, black object. Rylance thought it might be a gun.

On the mezzanine above and to the left of him, he saw some people walking slowly out from a room with their hands on their heads. Their eyes were the size of tea plates and there was a faint dusting of white under their nostrils. A stranger – Rylance couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman – followed. The stranger’s clothes were Kitsch, especially the zebra mask on their face, and they were carrying a small machine gun that hung from a strap over their shoulder. The whole apartment fell into a terrifying, stunned silence. Presently, the door to the “basement” level swung open. Red light poured onto the hallway adjacent to the living room and an old couple stumbled through the doorway. The man was completely naked except for a leather harness and headpiece. A black leather lead dangled from the D-ring at his chest. The woman was dressed in the dark green uniform of a military officer. They both were trembling from fear, and Rylance thought he could hear the woman sobbing softly. His spine stiffened when he saw the shiny tip of a blade emerge from the red light. He saw the full length of a machete, held out straight by an imposing man wearing a sleeveless vest, tattered pants, and combat boots. His thick arms and the back of his neck were covered with tattoos. As he turned, he revealed he was wearing a pig mask. All of them had some sort of respirator, it seemed. Though Rylance was taken aback by all of this, he wasn’t afraid in the slightest bit. Clearly Hargrove, the host for this evening, had arranged an elaborate hoax to shake things up a bit. Rylance was intrigued to see how this would play out. He took another sip of his Scotch as he watched the zebra, the pig, and the rabbit corral the guests into the main room. His eyes scanned the room for Hargrove or his wife but only saw the crestfallen faces of his friends and associates. Finally, he saw them both, cowering near the fireplace, holding each other tightly. Hargrove’s eyes were popping out of his skull and he was sweating heavily. His wife’s face was buried in his shoulder. All Rylance could see was her black and gray hair and her aquamarine dress. The color reminded him very much of the Koi pond loop.

The front door at the far side of the living room flew open. In the amber light of the hallway appeared the doorman. Doormen’s names weren’t worth learning, so Rylance never bothered to learn his. The doorman had a blank, relaxed look on his face. His jacket was fully open and his white dress shirt was soaked through with blood. He fell forward limply through the door and slammed face-first onto the floor. Several people screamed. It dawned on Rylance that this probably wasn’t a hoax after all. Yet he still couldn’t look away from the spectacle. He’d be lying if he said this wasn’t thrilling for him.

A figure stepped into the space where the doorman had just been. It was a woman wearing a three-piece suit that was all the same color—bright, blood red. Upon her face, along with, yet again, a respirator, was the face of a white ram with massive, curling, ebony horns. The eyes of the goat were blank white. It was the face of Baphomet, though of course to Rylance, it was just a goat. The other intruders stood at Baphomet’s sides, pointing their weapons at the crowd. The woman was clearly their leader. She raised her right arm from her side. She pointed a sinister-looking sawed-off shotgun at the doorman’s body.

“I wanted to show you how serious I am. If any of you move or talk, you’ll end up just like this fucker.”

Her voice was slightly muffled, and the respirator turned all her consonants soft. Rylance couldn’t place her accent, but she sounded like a younger woman to him. Her voice was powerful, commanding.

“Allow me to introduce us,” she said. “We’re the Damned. We represent the rest of the seemingly worthless human lives you threw away.”

A young, blonde woman stumbled forward a few steps toward Baphomet. Rylance thought he recognized her as the daughter of a former banker he knew. One thing was for sure–she was belligerently drunk.

“Go back to Hell, whiny activist bitch!” She yelled. She spit on Baphomet’s suit, just below her collar. Almost without hesitation, Baphomet raised her gun at the blonde woman’s head and fired. Rylance’s eyes instinctively snapped shut. He only heard the deafening blast, followed by a sickening splashing sound he’d never heard before, then the high-pitched screams from that same part of the room. He didn’t have to watch the woman’s head practically vaporize in a violent spray of red particles all over the people around her.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Baphomet coolly pull a shell from an inside jacket pocket. She popped the shotgun open and plucked the empty shell from the chamber, replaced it, then snapped the gun shut again with a flick of her wrist. Rylance realized that there was no getting out of this, for any of them. Part of not having any laws meant they got rid of police, long ago. Baphomet removed the pocket square from her left breast pocket and wiped away the spit on her shirt before continuing like nothing happened.

“We’re here to bring you something you haven’t had in the last four years—a taste of the outside world. Don’t worry about the rest of your friends in the other high-rises—they’ll have a turn, too. We thought we’d honor you with going first. After all, it was all of you who met in a room four years ago and decided to fuck over every one of us ninety-nine percenters.”

Rylance felt a cold wave of electricity flow up his body to the top of his head. She wasn’t exactly right—there were many people there that night that had not been in the room that fateful day. But almost everyone who was, is here now. The notable exception was Heidelmann—he passed away two-and-a-half years earlier. Passed away in his sleep, Rylance recalled, his jaw clenching. The old prick.

“It’s come to our attention,” Baphomet continued, “That your love of hypocrisy hit an amazing new low. One that not all of you are aware of. While you developed a life-saving vaccine and then kept it to yourselves, there were some of you who refused to take it.”

Gasps and murmurs of disbelief filled the room. Rylance’s eyes locked firmly on the blank white ovals seated high on the goat’s snouted face. He could almost feel her stare penetrating his soul.

Is this it? He thought. Is this God or the Devil delivering my punishment? He thought about his odd recognition of this party, how it seemed to stand out from the others. Had it been the names he saw in the recipient list for the evite? Maybe. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had some meaning. Maybe it was a premonition, not fully formed; something outside of himself trying to warn him. He laughed bitterly. It doesn’t matter. He was the only one who would ever know that he’d already felt the significance of this night. It wouldn’t do any good to blurt it out to anyone now—all their memories and experiences were soon to be forgotten forever. Besides, it would be selfish to intrude on any of their silence now. He knew they were all working through their last thoughts.

The man in the rabbit mask approached Baphomet’s side as she raised her right arm. He unbuttoned her jacket sleeve, removed her cufflink, and rolled down her shirt sleeve.

“A friend of ours has been living among you,” she said. “She describes herself as an ‘artiste,’ but that’s just modest. She’s a genius with a tattoo gun. Turns out your genetic platinum brand…”

The rabbit pulled a scanner—the doorman’s scanner, Rylance figured—from his jacket pocket and held it over Baphomet’s bare wrist. It chimed twice and lit up bright green. Rylance could just make out the diamond pattern from where he was.

“…wasn’t that hard to fake,” she finished.

Rylance tried raising the Scotch glass to his lips. His hand shook so much that the single cube of ice rattled and clinked like a chandelier in an earthquake. He managed to get the splashing golden liquid to his lips and downed it all. It burned his throat and chest. Rylance closed his eyes and exhaled as he lowered his hand. Damn if he didn’t feel alive at that moment, bur he would’ve taken the numbness.

“We’re sure you’re all curious about who among you truly doesn’t belong and has forfeit all your lives. But the problem is, these tats are too close to the real deal. You’d never be able to tell for sure who’s being honest.”

Rylance wondered if there was anything he could have done to avoid that moment.

“Luckily,” Baphomet said as she lowered her hand and reached inside her jacket, “We’ve come up with a solution to your dilemma.” She pulled out a slim, black remote and pushed a button. “Goodnight, ladies and gents.”

Far back in the recesses of the apartment, a loud click could be heard. Soon they could all hear the cold air coming from the vents in the ceiling, and not long after, he could feel the chill coming down on his head. Baphomet turned and strode out into the hallway. “Guard the door,” she said over her shoulder in a calm voice as she turned the corner and vanished.             It was only when the last of the armed intruders walked out and slammed the door behind them that he put it together. The respirators, the air conditioning. Rylance didn’t hear the cacophony of panicked voices around him. He was barely aware of his own head nodding, over and over. He had to admit, even after countless nights of watching them from above, he’d underestimated the others. He simply sat there and waited for it to wash over him. He felt the warm trickle of blood creeping down from the corners of his eyes as he watched his friends screaming and grabbing each other. They pointed fingers, yelled, and shoved each other. Someone was to blame, right? Soon, he was faintly aware of his thoughts and memories drifting out of his mind like a lifting fog. As his fingers tightly gripped the ends of his armrests, a low growl rumbled up from the bottom of his throat and his only desire was to sink his teeth into living flesh.

Addictions, circa 2012

Molly is touching up her mascara in the mirror, her glistening pink lips parting. Her green eyes keep darting back and forth like a laser between her reflection and the reflection of Lucy, who is next to her in the cramped bathroom putting on more lipstick. The truth is, Molly is completely satisfied with how she looks, practically sweating confidence, but she wants to look like a calm, normal girl in front of Lucy and M.J. She pulls up on her skin-tight black tube top.

“Does my outfit look okay?” She blurts out, turning to face Lucy.

Lucy looks at her from top to bottom, pretending to form an opinion. Lucy thinks Molly’s hair looks totally jailbait: black as the inside of a van driving back from a concert, straight, bangs cut at a sharp angle over the innocent, wide-eyed face. Her outfit sends similar vibes, with her tube top, short shorts, gray Uggs and trippy neon bracelets. But Lucy just smiles.

“Yeah, you look cute,” she says.

A wave of excitement travels through the freshman, but Lucy doesn’t notice. Her mind starts wandering again. Her eyes start to itch, so she pulls her vintage suede satchel from the floor and sets it on the edge of the sink and starts digging for her eyedrops. Molly’s eyes dart over again, and she notices a Beatles pin on the satchel. She can’t resist complimenting it.

“Oh my God, I love your pin!”

“Huh?” Lucy says, staring up at the brilliant lights as she puts a few drops in each eye. She looks down and sees Molly staring at the pin with a Cheshire grin on her face.

“Oh that,” says Lucy, smiling again. “Yeah, I really dig the Beatles.” She looks up. Molly is admiring her blinking blue eyes that shine so bright that they look like they have more than one dimension. “I’m named for one of their songs, you know,” Lucy says proudly.

Molly gasps. “Really? Which one?”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “I take it you’re not much of a Beatles fan…”

Molly giggles. “No, not really. I’m more into like EDM.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Lucy murmurs.

There’s a knock on the door and the two girls jump a little. Molly politely announces to the person knocking that the bathroom is occupied.

“Chill, Molly, it’s just me,” M.J. responds from the other side of the door.

“I thought you were gonna give us five minutes,” Lucy drones.

“It’s been ten!” Molly watches with amusement as Lucy’s jaw slowly drops.

“Shut the fuck up…” she says, her words in slow motion as if a strobe light is hitting them.

“I know right?” M.J. replies. M.J. starts laughing and Molly isn’t sure if it’s at them or at someone with her in the hallway. “Are you going to let me in or what?” She asks between breaths.

Lucy opens the door. M.J. leans in, chewing on a bite of the Hot Pocket she’s holding in her hand. Her hair is braided back in thick pigtails that fall behind a green bandanna. She is wearing a hoodie that is raggedly cut off at her midsection. Below this, she is squeezed into a pair of jean shorts. Her feet are packed into a pair of green Converses.

“Hey M.J.!” Molly chirps.

M.J. nods in response. “You havin’ a good time?” She asks through a mouthful of pepperoni.

“I’m having a fantastic time! I’m just trying to be really friendly to everyone.”

M.J. nearly chokes on her food, laughing in a high-pitched giggle and doubles over.

“Yeah, no shit, Mol’!” She wheezes. “You keep bear-hugging everyone you meet!”

Lucy isn’t really paying attention to them. She’s intensely focused on her lipstick in the mirror.

“Like, do you ever stop eating, M.J.?” She asks casually.

“I told you, I’m fucking starving,” M.J. laughs She looks at Lucy’s skinny frame that seems to poke through her tie dye shirt and vintage jeans. She is always worried about Lucy’s eating habits, or rather lack thereof.

“If you don’t want me eating so much,” M.J. says, trying to sound like she is joking, “you should take some of this food from me.”

Lucy shrugs and says that she is not hungry.

Charley’s voice comes from downstairs, piercing over the pounding bass line and people talking. “M.J.! Hurry up, bitch! I wanna meet your friends.”

M.J. rolls her eyes. “Sounds like my favorite roommate’s calling.”

* * *

As they walk down the hall, Lucy looks at the only closed door. A little crack of golden, sparkling light shines beneath it, pulsing and bending invitingly.

“Hey M.J., what’s Addie doing?” She asks as they start down the stairs, raising her voice to compensate for the hip hop beat that slithers through the air all around them. She watches warily as the smoky shadows of the music disperse across the ceiling.

“Same as always, man,” M.J. replies, glancing over at the yelling crowd hovering near the beer pong table. “She’s in her room, like, studying or writing a paper or some shit.”

“She sounds nice!” Molly shouts, a little too loudly. “Can I meet her?”

M.J. turns as the reach the bottom of the stairs and gestures with her hands for Molly to calm down. “Maybe some other time. Now, listen: I’m gonna bring Charley over here and introduce you guys. She can be kind of a bitch.” She pauses for a second, and then her eyes widen at the other girls. “Don’t tell her I said that! Promise?”

Lucy and Molly nod, at drastically different speeds.

“K, cool. Lucy, you should be alright ‘cause you’re a junior. Molly…just please try to be chill, OK? Don’t like, kiss her or anything. She doesn’t know you’re a freshman, and she’s my roommate so I don’t want her to get pissed. I got you and a lot of other people into this party, but she can kick everyone out if she wants to. You cool?”

Molly takes a deep breath. “I’m cool,” she says quickly.

Something about Molly’s reply makes M.J. chuckle quietly. She shakes her head and walks off toward the kitchen. Lucy is looking down, admiring Molly’s handbag.

“Hey, that’s a nice bag,” she says. “Is it designer?”

Molly doesn’t hear her. She is looking at a handsome, muscular boy sitting on the couch in the living room. She notices he’s very well-dressed, wearing a pure white v-neck muscle tee, light blue basketball shorts and white and black Nikes. There’s a cute girl sitting next to him, babbling on about something, but he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to her – his dark eyes simply stare up at the ceiling. Molly presses her feet down into the carpet, resisting the urge to go over to him.

She grabs Lucy’s arm, still staring at the boy. “Lucy, who is that?”

Lucy’s wandering mind snaps back to the party, and she follows Molly’s cartoon rabbit gaze across the living room. A smile slowly spreads across her face.

“Oh…my…God…,” she says. “Congrats on finding the hottest guy at the party. That’s David McTeague…he’s the same year as me. But if you want to get with that, you better get in line. He’s so mysterious…God, I wish I could hear his thoughts!”

M.J. returns, dragging a tall blonde girl in a white tube top and jeans through the crowd. M.J. introduces her as her roommate, Charley. Molly beams at her in excitement as Lucy waves. Charley smiles back reluctantly and runs her long, silver fingernails back through her flowing hair.

“Lovely to meet you two,” she says politely.

“Hey, I know I just met you and everything, but I just want to say your boobs look amazing!”

M.J. stares in horror at Molly, expecting Charley to kick her and Lucy both out. Lucy puts a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. But Charley just laughs with embarrassment and looks away.

“Um…thanks,” she says. “They’re uh…they’re natural.”

Molly puts a hand on her hip and looks at Charley with genuine admiration. “That is so awesome.”

Charley looks up again and smiles at her and Lucy. She clears her throat.

“Well it was great meeting you two. I have to get back, but you ladies enjoy yourselves.”

“We totally will thank you so much for having us over,” Molly gushes.

Charley turns away, rolling her eyes, and vanishes like dust through the crowd. M.J. chases after her.

Lucy’s mind is already elsewhere again. The long, thudding bass of the music is wrapping her in a feeling of growing and impending doom. The walls and the ceiling breathe in and out slowly, like the lungs of some terrible, gigantic beast. She murmurs something about not liking the music to no one in particular, maybe just to herself.

“Yeah, I don’t really like it either,” Molly chimes like a little black song bird. “I wish they’d play something with a faster beat. I don’t know why, but I really just want to dance!”            

“Yeah,” Lucy says quietly.

* * *

M.J. reaches the kitchen, where Charley is already sitting on top of the shiny, reflective counter. Charley is engaged in conversation with one of the guys that seem to be lined up to talk to her. M.J. notices a knife sitting on the counter very close to Charley’s hand. Her body is instantly wracked with worry that Charley is going to accidentally cut herself. She quickly grabs the knife away and throws it in the sink. Charley gives her an annoyed look and says thanks. M.J. is panicking now because she knows she upset Charley by introducing her to Molly.

“Look, Charley,” she says, interrupting her conversation. “I’m really sorry about Molly. She’s actually really nice, but she’s – “

Charley puts down her beer and lays a hand on M.J.’s shoulder. “M.J., sweetie, you don’t have to apologize to me just ‘cause one of your little friends is rolling and the other one’s tripping on acid. But if they fuck up any of my shit or ruin my party, we’re gonna have problems.” Charley sniffs angrily and turns back to the guy she was talking to. M.J.’s stomach starts growling again so she walks away to check on the Pizza Bagels she is cooking in the oven.

“God, what was I saying?” Charley asks. “Oh yeah. So then I had to transfer out here from Miami which was total bullshit because they don’t even have my fucking major here so I’m just taking gen-eds in case I can go back next semester and…and I…”

She drifts off, noticing a sketchy kid in a big red hoodie and a black T-shirt with a Gothic white Cross on it coming in the door. And he actually has the balls to be smoking a cigarette indoors. Anger wells up inside her and explodes inside her head as she pushes the guy aside.

“HEY!” Charley yells. Everyone goes quiet. The kid who just walked in freezes.

“YOU! BY THE DOOR!” Charley yells.

The kid shoots her a dirty look and makes a “what?” gesture with his arms.

“DON’T GIVE ME A FUCKING ATTITUDE, YOU’RE IN MY HOUSE. PUT THAT FUCKING CIGARETTE OUT, OR GO OUTSIDE!”            

The kid angrily shoves his hood back, revealing a nearly bald head. He takes his cigarette out of his mouth, turns, and puts it out in a potted plant. Charley shakes her head a little and turns her attention back to the guy in front of her. For a few seconds, the only sounds in the house are deep beats and rap lyrics, then everyone goes back to how they were. A few crack jokes and laugh about Charley blowing up. The loud, satisfying sound of plastic hitting plastic echoes from the beer pong table. The kid’s bloodshot eyes scramble frantically in their sockets as he searches the room for the girl.

* * *

Molly is getting restless. Lucy isn’t saying very much and is content with just standing in one place. Molly keeps hoping that M.J. will come back soon so that they can at least walk around the house. With her energy, she could easily run a mile at this moment and not get tired. The idea actually sounds appealing to her.

Lucy suddenly spots a boy she recognizes, moving in the opposite direction from them, with little negative image ghost trails of himself following him as he walks. She grabs Molly’s hand that sounds (or feels?) warm and sweaty.

“Ron!” Lucy calls. “Hey Ron!”

Ron turns around quickly, as if startled. His long, dirty blond hair swings away from his face. He’s wearing ridiculously big and feminine sunglasses, with frames that are as round and as yellow as egg yolks. He reaches a long, skinny, thermal-sleeved arm back to tap his friend on the shoulder.

“Dude,” he says.

Ron’s friend turns around, a frantic look on his face. When he recognizes Lucy, he laughs at himself and smiles.

“Heeeyyy Luce! I didn’t recognize you. What’s goin’ on?”

He leads Ron over to the two girls. Molly is beaming at them, ecstatic to meet more new people. Ron’s friend tries to remain calm as Molly shrinks closer and closer to the floor, even though he’s moving closer to her. Lucy gestures to them.

“Mol’ this is Sy. He’s M.J.’s little brother. And this is Ron.”

“It’s so great to meet you!” Molly shouts as she hugs Sy tightly.

“Woah, shit. Yeah, you too,” Sy whispers with the limited amount of oxygen left in his lungs.

Molly lets him go. “Hey Ron!” She says, as if she’s known him for years. He stumbles backward as she doles out another bear hug. He nearly loses his balance and looks completely freaked out. Sy is already talking to Lucy in an attempt to take his mind off the fact that everything is melting into the floor.

“Where’s my sister at?” He asks her.

“What?” Lucy shouts over the music.

“Have you seen M.J.?” He shouts back, leaning just a little too close to her ear.

“Oh. Yeah, she’s around,” Lucy replies nervously, trying not to look directly at the dusty marbles that he apparently has for eyes now. She notices that he looks a lot like his sister, in both looks and attire; he’s wearing a beanie, a hemp necklace, a Rasta-colored drug rug, brown cargo pants, and skate shoes, which are glowing a luminescent bright blue.

Sy just stares at her, trying to focus on something, anything. The phrase Lucy just said keeps repeating itself over and over in his head. He shuts his eyes for a moment. Bright colors and shapes of all varieties flood his vision, projected against his eyelids like his own private movie screen. The flash for a split second before changing, like he is changing channels on a TV where all the shows are animated: sphinxes and pyramids, palm trees, frogs, the Chef Boyardee logo, bananas, triangles of multiple colors, pink dots, neon signs. As he opens his eyes again, a neon heart flies at him from around Lucy’s head. He can’t help it – he starts laughing hysterically.

“’She’s around,’” he repeats, letting the words roll off his tongue. Fuckin’…like…around what though?”

Molly is possessed with the notion that Ron keeps falling asleep as she’s standing there talking to him. She tries to ignore this, though, because she has to be nice to everyone, so she feels obligated to talk to him.

“I really like your Foo Fighters shirt,” she says, trying to be engaging as possible. “Do you listen to any Flux Pavilion?”

Ron feels helpless as his head jerks back up again, which is almost a second-nature reflex by now. This girl is cute as hell. Not exactly his type, but he still really wants to

really wants to make a good impression on her. He smiles politely and runs his hand back through his hair, struggling to stay upright. It’s not an easy task, given how numb and weightless his whole body feels.

“Uh, no…” he says, “you know…not really ‘cause like…

‘CAUSE like I’ve been listening to rock ever since I was a kid and um…I like…grew up with it. And it’s funny ‘cause…’cause me and my friends are thinking about…about uh…

STARTING – starting a band and I’d be lead, uh…”

His chin drops down to his chest again, and Molly realizes that he is falling asleep. At first, she is petrified by the thought that he is bored with talking to her. But no, that can’t be it. She isn’t boring to anyone. She realizes with a start that he must have a condition that keeps him from staying awake. She immediately feels sorry for him and hugs him tightly.

“Oh my GOD, you poor guy! You can’t stay awake, can you? Because of your condition? Are you, like, one of those narcokleptic people or whatever?”

Ron feels very comfortable in her arms and allows himself to pass out.

“Narco…” he murmurs as he goes limp, and they both fall to the floor.

Lucy snaps back from wherever her mind was and panics, thinking that Molly and Ron are both dead.

“Mol’!” She shouts and rushes over.

Molly gets up and brushes herself off. “I’m OK. I think he has a condition.”            

Sy turns around and is about to say something when they hear two people shouting in the center of the room. Everyone stops what they are doing and the party goes quiet again. Someone even turns the music off, much to Lucy’s relief.

* * *

David becomes aware of two people yelling at each other next to him. His mind begins the long journey back to reality, spiraling upward from its dark inner galaxy of images, ideas, concepts, and truths, ways of thinking he never knew could exist, until tonight. He blinks his eyes slowly, as if awakening from a deep sleep.

“Come on, Carly! We’re leaving now,” screams the kid in the red hoodie and the black shirt with the white Gothic cross on it.

“I’m not going anywhere, Martin. Just leave me the fuck alone!” The girl sitting next to David cries.

“I am so SICK of your bullshit!” Martin yells. He wonders why she thinks she can treat him like this, why she thinks she can just get away with hurting him. Well, she can’t hurt him, no one can. So they can all fucking try, but he’s just gonna laugh his ass off at them ‘cause he knows he’s invincible. Even that blond bitch from earlier isn’t saying anything.

Carly wraps her arms fearfully around David, praying he’ll protect her. David looks at her in surprise. He wasn’t even aware of her presence until now. He looks at Martin. The veins in Martin’s head are bulging beneath his skin like worms under thin tree bark. David wonders why Martin is looking at him like this.

“Oh, so what the fuck is this?” Martin demands. “Is this your new boyfriend or some shit? Huh?”

David stands up slowly. Martin’s eyes flash to his, and he looks like he wants to kill him. David gestures with his hands for Martin to calm down.

“Listen,” David says calmly, “you’ve got no problems from me, OK? Just take it easy.”

“Don’t tell me to take it easy, motherfucker!” Martin yells. He gets right in David’s face. The anger steaming off of Martin’s skin smells worse than anything David has ever smelled. The smell of everything bad. The smell of death.

“You don’t understand, and that’s OK!” David continues. “But it doesn’t have to be this way.”

He pauses. He looks around the room at all of the people gathered around them. He looks with the cleanest vision of everyone at the party.

“None of this has to be this way,” he says to no one in particular, maybe just to himself.

“Man, fuck you!”

Martin shoves David in the chest, hard, making him fall backward onto the couch. A few people gasp.

David gets back up quickly.

“Come on, man. Let’s just talk—”

Martin punches David in the face. One loud slapping sound echoes through the room, bringing everyone back to reality. David spins sideways and falls down to his knees. He feels a heavy, aching pain across the lower half of his face. Pain. He sees blood dripping down from his stunned, open mouth onto the floor. It looks like dark red cough syrup. Blood. He hears Martin’s angry panting behind him. Anger.

David stands up, grabs Martin by the shirt collar and starts beating his fist against his head. Martin starts beating back. Everyone is yelling now, their individual words and phrases incomprehensible on their own; just a loud, combined, chaotic roar. Sy looks at Lucy, then he runs through the crowd in front of them and jumps on Martin’s back, trying to pull him away from David.

“SYRUS!” M.J. yells. She shoves people out of her way and claws her way through the air to pull back her brother.

Molly and Lucy dart over to keep M.J. away from the fight. Martin elbows Sy in the face, making him crumple to the floor. M.J. runs over to him, tears welling up in her eyes. Lucy ducks in front of Molly, throwing her hands up above her head. Someone’s elbow, maybe Martin’s, maybe David’s, hits Molly. She feels a sharp pain rip across her forehead and pictures a hammer hitting a nail. She falls backwards as all the sound is turned off around her. Her head hits the floor, but she cannot feel this. Everything starts to go black, and she realizes that she’s not happy anymore. The last thing she sees is flashing blue and red lights, like strobe lights, coming through the windows. She is new to all of this, but the older kids, they know. They know that this always happens, every single time.

A Nice Story

_{(originally published in Ludicrous Worlds Issue 5, December 2023)}

One day, an old man was walking through the park. He sat down on a bench and started reading The Wall Street Journal. After a few minutes went by, a young boy sat next to him and also started reading something.

The old man looked over to see what the boy was reading. It was The National Enquirer. On the cover was a picture of a boy with large, pointed ears, sharp, piranha-like teeth, and pale, soul-piercing eyes. The headline read in bold, all-capital letters:

BAT BOY ESCAPES INSANE ASYLUM

The old man shook his head and said, “Y’know son, you really shouldn’t buy into all that baloney.” The young boy lowered the newspaper and looked at the old man. It was the same boy in the picture – the Bat Boy. The old man gasped. He felt his face getting warm with a blush.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I meant no offense.”

The Bat Boy smiled. “That’s ok,” he said. “I used to not believe in me, either.”

The old man sat silently for a beat, then he started laughing. The Bat Boy laughed with him. And I think that’s really nice, you know? Two strangers – young and old, who look nothing alike – can sit on a bench together and have a laugh. Makes you think the world can change after all, maybe. Gives you just a little bit of hope that we can all –

Then the second the old man stopped laughing, the Bat Boy bit into his throat, savagely ripping out his larynx before taking off into the air.

The Enquirer says one witness on the ground said as the Bat Boy slurped up the old man’s larynx bite by bite, the sounds coming out of the bottom end of the dangling tube sounded less like vocalizations and more like those of a bloody, fleshy digeridoo – the music of which could be heard for miles.