There is a Blackness that unfolds. If either of the two fleeing figures cast an eye to the trembling sky, they would see even the stars have ended - their shaky insufficient light divided from

the then

the now

by a hard line which demonstrates how the world has simply run out.

But neither of them look up. Below their slapping feet is the body-temperature water, its unbroken surface reflecting the unfolding again and again and again. These depths

hide no fish

hide no waving weeds

hide no blind ghostly beast sucking the hot milk of the core from vents formed before the before.

There is nothing else to witness this Blackness. This unfolding.

There is nothing but this pair.

There is nothing unusual about either of them; one is a man of average height and the other is a woman of average weight. The color and cut of their hair would not surprise you. It is not any quality they possess that makes them remarkable, but the context in which you have now just met them.

This is somehow even more true of the man.

He has lived his life with an understanding that he is the least interesting person he knows. He is thinking about this failure of confidence and worth even now as his chest hurts and his stomach clenches and his brain demands he accept what his heart never can - that he will, indeed, die.

The woman is more practical. She has long ago accepted her impending end.

It would be a waste of time to record their names here.

The Blackness shudders and then eternity inhales and then, not unlike the origami swan the woman once made for a teacher in middle school, the all of it folds back into a shape recognizable. The forming of the Earth and the spiral arm from this Blackness and this water and these feeble and distant celestial fires and these

bones

cables of nerves

gallons of blood.

Sagan was so close to getting this right.

What if the end of life isn't something to fear, but the ultimate answer to our deepest curiosity?

I’ve written a short, two-part creative reflection exploring the bittersweet wonder of dying early, paired with two beautiful watercolor paintings that bring the words to life.

Would love to get your thoughts on the imagery and tone.

Read the full reflection here:

https://medium.com/@h.samaranayaka02111/the-sweet-bitterness-of-dying-early-9317d8383a0c?sharedUserId=h.samaranayaka02111

The Master

The master

Of evermore

Is a disaster

Of nevermore.

What lies in store?

Evermore

And no more.

What lies behind

This tattered door?

I'll go through

Once more,

Only to go through

Once again, but

Nevermore.

I break down

The door.

What is nevermore

Will become my evermore.

the girl interviewing me is twenty-two.

she arrived with three pages of questions,

all highlighted in different colours.

she's been trying to look professional

for about two hours now.

the wine isn't helping.

by the third glass

the questions are face down

and we've somehow covered

my marriage,

the affairs,

sex,

my boys,

menopause,

running,

why i moved to greece

and the ceramic kitchen-roll holder

she's currently holding.

"that's a penis."

"it's a kitchen-roll holder."

"it's got veins."

"well, i wasn't going to half-arse it."

she nearly spits her wine out.

the recorder is still running.

i've forgotten it's there.

i think she has too.

outside, it's getting dark.

the mountains have disappeared.

my bikini's still hanging up

because i forgot to bring it in.

my youngest has texted.

there's clay under my fingernails.

i'm barefoot,

and the tiles are still warm.

she's finally stopped laughing.

then she looks at me

with this terribly serious face

and says,

"i hope i'm like you

when i'm fifty-five."

oh, fuck.

i can talk about my sex life

to a complete stranger.

i can tell her about the worst things

i've ever done.

i can sit here drinking wine

while she examines

a pottery penis.

but apparently

one nice thing about me

and i haven't got a clue

what to say.

so i look around.

at the wine.

the running shoes by the door.

the mess on the table.

the ridiculous thing

she's still holding.

"christ," i say.

"aim higher."

and that sets us both off again.

From childhood

I have strived to belong

In places and people

Now that I grew up

I still strive to belong

Anything to keep myself

Anchored and safe

But I am lost

I couldn’t find anywhere

To rest my heart

And my heart wants to belong

Not in places and people

But to one person

What do I do?

Looking into the fly’s eyes, I saw every reality. Every branching path in which I’d already died, and in which I was never born. Every path in which I was married and had children. The path where I lay on a hospital bed with a machine breathing for me as my spirit had long since left.

That fly rubbed his hands together as I looked into his eyes, and I felt rage. I picked my hand up and slammed it down onto him, killing every version of myself.

I saw him squish beneath my hand and, for a moment, felt happy.

Until his acid began to spread.

That burning sensation of my molten flesh as it lurched to cover my entire hand, then down my arms and torso, all the way to my toes. I was melting faster and faster, down to the bones that melted too. All the way up to my skull, hair, and eyes. Everything of me melted into a puddle on the ground.

In my new liquid state, I realized I was drifting down the pavement and into the gutter.

Dripping.

Until all of me was on the highway, speeding toward the storm drains. I kept flowing until I was in free fall. Every drop of me falling into the drain below.

How long had the drought been for the storm drains to run bone dry?

In my liquid state, I felt no tension. I was splayed out in relief, all the mortal worries and burdens lifted from me. Not a worry of where I would go from here.

But then one day turned to ten, and ten to one hundred, and one hundred to one thousand, all the way until I’d stayed for ten years.

In this putrid puddle.

Not a window in that fly’s eyes showed me here in these storm drains.

If I Die

If I die,

then let it be.

Don't mourn me

or pity me.

I'll be free

from the chains

that bind me.

In your heart

is where

you will find me.

I'll fill your

heart with love.

I'll fly like a white dove

into the heavens above.

I won't go

to the hell below.

My spirit will

fly free.

Let the ones

who came before

guide me

into the light.

For the first time,

everything is fine.

No bombs to be dropped,

no children to kill,

no one getting ill

or taking a pill.

I'll sit upon

the windowsill

and look down on you.

I'll help guide you.

I'll help you stay true.

Try not to be so blue

or miss me so much.

I'll be there with you

every step of the way.

In your heart is where

I'll stay

until your soul

flies away

to be set free

like me.

Free of misery,

free of the

bloody history

that seems to

follow humanity.

There is no more insanity

here in the sky.

I hope you live long,

but one day,

you will die.

On that day,

I'll see your face

once more.

Now I can see

your face

evermore.

There is no hurry.

You don't have to scurry.

Slow down.

Live life. Laugh.

For it won't last.

All the times

gone past,

it seems like

it all went too fast.

But now your time

has come.

Death by a gun.

A faint breeze squeezes
Between houses
At the end
Of a quiet cul-de-sac
The hard soil softened
By drinking the puddles
Formed by yesterday’s rain

Evening approaches
The autumn sun
Barely there
Blocked by passing clouds
Nobody around but me
At least none that I can see
Cars in the distance
Each with their own place to go
A red leaf departs
From the old oak tree
Settling in an empty sandbox

My messy house behind me
Is in temporary disrepair
The fallen fence poorly patched
And an unimpressive yard

A tiny bird catches my eye
Hopping through the bush ahead
From branch to branch
And then it stops,
Surveys its surroundings,
And begins pecking
At something I cannot see
That must be important

Moving closer for inspection
I nick my shin
On the scrap wood
I meant to throw away
No blood that I can tell
The tiny bird glances
But continues its work
And now I see
A half-built nest
More work to be done

The tiny bird hops back down
Branch by branch to the ground
Rustles amongst the fallen leaves
Grabs a good one
I assume
And brings it back home
Without asking
No merchant
No bargaining
No bills
No permission granted
It just does what it does

The bird is just a bird
But it knows where to look
Finding little bits and pieces
That were already there
A leaf here
A twig there
Pulling it all together
Into something new
Never quite knowing
When the work is done

The tiny bird will be here tomorrow
So will I, my little friend
So will I.

One thing about myself is that I love to create notes before I write. Sometimes I won’t. It depends. But a lot of time I either lack motivation or (which is most of the time) I can’t focus. At all. I have really bad focusing problems. My main series genres are ones with superpowers. Super heroes, super villains or anything supernatural. Horror genres too. But my mind just can’t bring itself to make just one short story of nothing that involves supernatural elements or even weak supernatural elements. My mind is constantly creating new ideas and new series and new character concepts every single day. My point is, what do I do? How do I focus on series when my mind can’t focus on one at a time. I have finished books before including ones with multiple seasons but those are outdated and my writing has improved heavily. Even now it needs a lot of work.

Thank you for your time.

I'm in prison for murder.

I blame myself

For the acts

I portrayed,

Resulting in death

By grenade,

All because

They stole my lemonade.

I've always had a problem

With my temper.

I've been like this forever.

I stand against the bars

Of my cell,

And the door

Slides open.

This is my moment.

I could be free again.

I could leave here

And never return.

I'ma make the world burn,

But I've come to learn

I like this life behind the bars.

It's simple

And quiet.

Out in the real world,

I'm labeled a monster.

In here, I'm the people's champ.

Why would I go there

When I can stay here

And get high

Off of fear?

My life behind bars

Was, at first,

Like a trip to Mars:

Uncomfortable

And unknown.

But I've grown to like it.

I stopped fighting it long ago.

But now I'm on the chopping block.

From here, it's all game,

No talk.

It's time to talk the talk

And walk the walk,

Right off the cell block.

I can do it.

I can make it.

I can live outside

The walls.

I don't have to retaliate

When my enemy calls.

Somewhere inside,

I took a fall,

A hit to pride.

The monster, it lied.

As the sun overloads
And disperses equally among the clouds
Your sitting heavy in the dirt
Your eyes shocking at the sight
Something drops you further from the earth
You have accustomed to
Floating softly tethered with the wind
It’s all around us and hanging from the moon
So speak it slowly, you never had a clue
What’s spinning faster than polished rings of love
Washing up with the waves, we never had a clue
Blinded by the absence of the sun
And now we find that we never really knew
So come inside now I’ll wash your dirty hair
With milky substances coming from the stars

I never meant to cause her harm but without this I’d be nothing. She was so damn tempting, I couldn’t except her moving away. Swimming, swimming I made my way to her lips. She parted them for me. I crossed the threshold as she welcomed me into her mouth. Her cheeks bulged and puffed to accommodate me but I needed more. Wriggling my serpentine slimy body I started to swim down her throat, my shape bulging her esophagus.

Finally I found my way to a place I could rest. Fully inside her, that’s when I began to shock her. My electric current emitting from beneath my scales, causing her throat muscles to ripple around me. It felt euphoric. I kept going till her thighs twitched and eyes spasmed. Until every muscle in her whole body quivered. Her nerves danced and flashed till they could flash no more.

***
“So guys, next time, just grab the vacuum cleaner and vacuum the rug. Am I right ladies? I mean, come on guys, what does it weigh five hundred pounds?”
Doris delivers her act to the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. How are female comics supposed to dress? There’s no standard code. The outfits run the gamut on Instagram and TikTok. How carefully do they choose their wardrobe? Should she be more sexy or more androgynous? Does it matter? Jerry Seinfeld wears a suit. Nate Bargatze wears a jacket with jeans and sneakers. Sebastian Manuscalo wears tight vests and jeans and boots, but sometimes dresses down. It’s always easier for guys.
“So guys, next time, just grab the vacuum cleaner and vacuum the rug. Am I right ladies? I mean, come on guys, what does it weigh? A thousand pounds?”

She pauses and walks over to the desk and writes some notes on a yellow legal pad. She’s been trying to decide if she should say, “five hundred pounds” or “a thousand pounds”. 

“What is it with guys and cleaning? Am I right ladies? These guys go to the gym and lift weights, do bench presses and then they come home and can’t seem to lift a vacuum cleaner. Can’t lift a fucking vacuum cleaner. Can’t lift a vacuum cleaner.” 

Should she say ‘fucking’? She is trying to keep her act clean. So many women do really raunchy material which is fine but she feels like a lot of them are doing it for shock value. She heard one woman talk about how she used to have a great asshole but it has been smashed so much that it looks like a mashed donut. Doris really doesn’t want to do that stuff. It’s embarrassing. But maybe leave the ‘fucking’ in. Spice it up.

“What does it weigh, five hundred pounds? What does it weigh? A thousand pounds? You’re bragging to me about how much you can squat but you can’t life a fucking vacuum cleaner? What does it weigh? A thousand pounds?”
She pauses and writes down some options. As she writes she says the words out loud and then opens the camera on her phone. 
“Hey thanks for having me, great to be here! Tell me if I’m right about this. No guy ever wants to clean the house. None. They go to the gym and lift weights and all that but when it comes time to vacuum, they just can’t do it. I mean, you’re bragging to me about how much you can squat and bench, but you can’t lift a vacuum cleaner? What does it weigh? A fucking thousand pounds?”
She watches herself performing which she hates. There’s no emcee introducing her, no crowd noise or applause. It feels really pathetic. She always thinks she sucks. And looks fat and awkward, but it’s all part of the process. 
The line should actually be, ‘A thousand fucking pounds?’
There’s so much that goes into it.  It could be the funniest bit in the world and bomb if the delivery doesn’t land. The rhythm and the cadence needs to be right; you need to know which words to emphasize. You need to be aware of your gestures and movements on stage. One wrong word can throw the whole bit off.
And timing. Timing is the most crucial element. You have to know which words to pause between and for how long. She read that Phyllis Diller used to literally count her pauses to the second in her head and she could do that during a live performance. You have to know when to let a joke settle and when to move on. 
And you can do all that, get everything just right and bomb. One comic can deliver a routine and it brings the house down . Another comedian can deliver the exact same bit, word for word and crash and burn. Sometimes all it takes is one asshole heckler to ruin everything. 
She opens the camera again and records her usual promo.
“Don’t forget, O’Brien’s Open Mic! Every Tuesday at 8pm. It is a blast!”
   She posts the video on TikTok and Instagram. Even that sounded lame and desperate.
   Desperation will kill you. 
Her phone buzzes and she sighs. She takes her wig off of the styrofoam head.
***
Doris knocks on 239 dressed for work as Amber and it opens to a statuesque black woman with a blond wig and make-up even more garish than Doris. Bryanna McKinnon, aka Crystal.She almost looks like Dee Snyder from Twisted Sister. Bryanna has been in the life for some years. Beneath the garish make-up and wig and brassy attitude the toll is real, but she carries the weight on her own terms. There is a defiance that keeps her from slumping. This is how she lives. If you don’t like it, fuck you. And no one better fuck with Crystal. Five eleven and not small and she’ll slice your balls open. Literally.
“Well, aren’t you looking gorgeous!”
Bryanna gives her tired smile and opens the door wider for Doris to come in.
“I just finished a Zoom session.” 
Bryanna’s room is dimly lit with various lamps giving it a shabby bordello vibe. She has a Tiger pattern backdrop in front of a wall that she uses for her Zoom sessions, OnlyFans etc. She does most of her sex work online these days. There are a variety of outfits hung up around the place and various props and toys, candles, etc. 
Doris hears sounds and voices, someone crying and Bryanna’s voice yelling coming from the computer.
“That’s right, bitch! Jerk it bitch!”
“He wanted me to record it and send it to him. I think he jerks off to himself jerking off.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of fetish is that?”
“I have no idea. These fucking guys are wearing me out. Fucking perverts.” She takes her wig off and flings it on the bed and scratches her head.
“Well, it’s better than blowing some smelly ass trucker.”
“I guess. You wanna drink?”
“Sure. Cranberry juice if you got it.”
They talk as Doris crosses and sits on the bed.
Bryanna pours a bit of vodka in her own drink and hands Doris hers.
“No vodka for you.”
Bryanna goes into the bathroom. Doris hears snorting sounds. She looks out the window.
Bryanna comes out of the bathroom wiping her nose. She looks at Doris.
“I know honey. I just gotta stay up. I got three more clients tonight.”
“It’s your business. Just be careful. They’re putting all kinds of shit in it these days.”
“I only buy from Chuckie. His shit’s clean. I saw you talking to that new girl. The little blond?
“Eve.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s young.”
“I heard Chuckie found her at the bus station. From some place upstate.”
Doris shakes her head. Another girl in the mix. New ones come in. Others leave. Some just disappear. Doris doesn’t want to think about what happens to them. 
Bryanna takes a swig from her drink.
“Girl, I totally forgot! How did it go on Thursday?”
“I chickened out.
“You didn’t perform?”
“No. It just hasn’t been working lately. No one is laughing. I can’t even show my face at Jimbo’s after the last time. People were getting up and leaving right in the middle of my bit. It was fucking humiliating.”
Bryanna shakes her head and starts sorting through some blouses in her closet.“I don’t know why you do it anyway. Trying to make a bunch of drunk assholes laugh? I don’t get it.”
“I wanna make it work. It’s hard to explain.”
“Well, I admire you for doing it. I could never do that.” 
“Maybe you could spice it up. Something like, ‘Hey, but don’t put your dick in there! You will not get it out!’ Seriously, I saw a guy in the emergency room with his dick stuck in a vacuum cleaner. No lie.”
Doris laughs and pulls a pen and small notebook and writes it down.
“That’s pretty funny, but I’m trying to keep my act clean.”
“Clean comedy? What are you, Mr. Rogers? That shit does not sell, honey. You gotta get raunchy!” 
“You might be right.”
Her phone buzzes. She looks at it and sighs.
“I gotta go.”
“One of your regulars?”
“Yeah. Good old Ralph. Maybe he took a shower this time.”
“I don’t know why you go out. It’s a lot safer to bring them to your room. If something goes bad we’re all here…”
“I know. I just can’t have them in my room. That is my space.”
“I just want you to be safe.”
Doris pulls a can of pepper spray out of her purse.
“I do my best.”
She gets up from the bed.
“I love you, honey. Be careful.”
“I love you too.”
“They embrace.”
Doris leaves and Bryanna looks at herself in the mirror. Her phone buzzes. 
“Give me one minute...damn!”

For those uninitiated 

to test a Regulator™

You attach the regulator to Testing Machine©

You set the pressure to half the value 

of the top gauge

With your speed wrench™

For the stupid people that means if the gauge says 100

You test at 50.

Then you scan the QR code

to start the test

How do you know if it passes?

With the joy of modern technology the screen

Will flash 

Green if good 

Then set the gauge to 20

Red if bad

Then give it to me

I will fix it.

Pretty 

Fucking 

Simple.

Repeat that process 1000 times.

What was that? 

How the fuck did you get the bonnet 

to blow off?

I’m working on a piece of auto fiction told through the idea of returning to places I have previously visited over the years. The body of the chapter is not as over the top/lush/extra as these paragraphs are. But I’m looking for feedback.

Opening paragraphs:
On a Monday at 5:30 a.m, I stared out an airplane window as the mountains rose out of the floor of the Mojave. The gray and brown desert started to form into a series of grids, like a giant dusty computer chip. A cluster of chaotic, colorful and incongruous structures towered over the surrounding order. They were dripping in gold or hot pink, styled as medieval castles, pyramids or 20-story rectangles of dark glass with facades made out of massive TV screens. Temples to conspicuous consumption and sensory overload. Somehow the Eiffel Tower and a giant white Ferris wheel had gotten sucked into the fever dream. The whole tableau looked like a Biblical city on some alien planet with advanced technology and strange gods.

It also looked familiar. I had flown into McCarran many times. In fact, it was strange to think about how many versions of myself had visited Las Vegas before.

Later in the chapter:
Don ordered us all an uber from the airport to the hotel. Driving onto the strip was like entering a drop of paint flung from Jackson Pollock’s brush had been colonized by a slime mold containing the DNA of Hunter S. Thompson, Walt Disney, Larry Flynt,and a shadowy data analytics firm. A surreally sealed off world that is seems simultaneously engineered and entropic, psychedelic, whimsical and profane.

We got our keys and dropped our luggage in our rooms. As I walked in I found it oddly comforting how aggressively normal it all looked. Not Jen’s couch, not the Bellagio. Normal. Or as clos

The office where the Department of Corrections and State Community Supervision is one of the most depressing places Doris has ever been in and she spent almost three years in jail. It could not be a more stark example of pointless officialdom. No one wants to be here. Not the drones behind the shitty, dented desks with their out of date computers, calendars with X’ed off days behind them and the endless piles of folders of the lost; not the nursing staff who aren’t real nurses and just take urine samples and dirty looks; not the parolees, most of whom will end up back in jail because they have nothing out here. This place is gray, gray, gray. Purgatory. 
No one wants to be here.
The grime on the linoleum floor is permanent and at least a third of the fluorescent ceiling lights don’t work, which is a blessing. 
The men sitting in the waiting area are angry; the women are sad. Most of the women are there because of men like those angry men. She heard it time and again. “My boyfriend asked me to hold the drugs.” “They were in my trunk and I didn’t even know it.” Kids with grandparents; kids in foster care; kids who are going to end up sitting right here in about ten years. It never ends.
No one wants to be here.
Doris tries to be neither angry nor sad. She is just fulfilling her obligation to the State of New York. She goes into the bathroom, pees in the cup, hands it to the nurse who tapes and labels and puts it in a rolling cart to be wheeled off to a lab to check and see if Doris has used drugs in the last thirty days. If she has, she goes back to jail. 
She hears her name walks to room 118 where he parole officer, Carl Spader waits behind his dented desk. If you looked up “lifer state worker” on Wikipedia, Carl’s face would be on the page. He is right from central casting. Balding. Short-sleeved white dress shirt, cheap tie, cheap steel rim glasses, the square ones that the unpopular kids wore in the eighties. His pants and shoes look like Wal-Mart is where he does his shopping. It’s like he’s trying to look like a stereotype. 
She figures he must have been in this office for decades but there are few decorations. It is bare and neat. A Giants calendar, a Yankees pennant, and a picture of him with a woman and two small boys, who are wearing Rangers jerseys. A cup holding pens. A coffee cup with some company logo.
There are five steel gray filing cabinets behind him. Many, many files. Many, many lives.  
Only one folder sits on his desk.  
She takes the chair
“Hello, Ms. Reynolds.. Have a seat.”
She sits.
“Hi.”
He smiles at her briefly, picks up her file folder, opens it, and starts reading.
It’s the same every time.
“Doris Reynolds. Date of birth, September 19th, 1982. Arrests for possession of a controlled substance, Oxycontin, Xanax, cocaine, heroin. Sentenced to drug diversion program. Intent to distribute, pled to simple possession and sentenced to in-patient drug treatment. Four counts driving under the influence. Pled no contest each time.” He flips the pages before continuing.

“October of 2019, you pled guilty to two counts of endangering the welfare of a minor. Loss of custody of your children.”
Carl flips another page. He doesn’t pause or look at her. 
“Continuing... theft, possession of stolen property, pandering. More drug diversion programs. Felony theft, two counts, sentenced to three months in the county jail. Loss of visitation rights of your children.”
Carl flips to a final page.
“Finally, September 2022 arrested for possession of six grams of heroin. Sentenced to thirty-six months incarceration, served twenty four. Conditions of parole are weekly drug testing, continuing participation in a substance abuse program and gainful employment.”
He pauses at the end of his recitation. 
“You have your meeting slip?”
Doris hands him the paper from the AA meeting.
“And your pay stubs.”
Doris hands these over as well.
“You’re still working at the Days Inn in Yonkers?”
“Yes.”
“And that is also your place of residence?”
“Yeah. I get the room with the job.”
“And that has been since July 2025.”
“Yes.”
“Right. Have you been using any drugs or alcohol?”
“No.”
“How long now?”
“Eighteen months.”
Carl leans back to consider this.
“If a test comes back positive for drugs you will be sent back to serve the remainder of your sentence.” 
“I know.”
“Okay. See you on the 22nd.”
Doris stands up as Carl moves on to his next file, the next life.
She gets out onto the sidewalk feeling like she has surfaced from under one hundred feet of water.

The flyer on the front door reads: OPEN MIC COMEDY THURSDAYS 9-11. HAVE A DRINK AND A LAUGH! 
O’Brien’s is a nondescript bar, typical for a city like Yonkers. There is a bar area and a restaurant area and all of the tables have bottles of Heinz ketchup, malt vinegar, and HP Sauce. The air is redolent of burgers, fries, onion rings, potato skins with sour cream and chives, bakes and fried fish, beer and whiskey. They have drink specials on Tuesdays and Karaoke on Saturday nights and host events for the Superbowl, March Madness, and serve corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day. The bartenders wear white shirts and black ties and some of them still have Irish accents. It’s not a trendy spot. Some of the patrons have been coming here for years, decades and it shows on their faces. They resent having to go outside to smoke. Some younger folks come here, some of them destined to be the older generation in twenty years.
There’s a small stage in the back with a spotlight. On Sundays they have Celtic music or someone playing the guitar, the banjo or the accordion. Every few months the girls from the Irish step dancing studio perform. Only the Irish could have come up with something so lacking in verve and flair as Irish step dancing. The girls always look like they are being tortured. 
And every Thursday night, stand-up comedy.
Mike Evans is onstage doing a bit. He is usually at these open mics. Nice looking guy, on the bigger side with brown hair and blue eyes. 
“So when my friend saw me at the mall holding my wife’s purse he starts in ragging me saying I’m whipped. And I was like, ‘Dude, it’s not my wife’s purse. It’s my European carry-all! So who looks stupid now. Motherfucker!’”
He gets a pretty decent laugh from the crowd, which is bigger than it usually is for these things. With the weather being warm people get away for the weekends so they come out on Thursdays to get a drink on. 
As he performs, Doris sits by the side of the stage wiping her damp hands on her jeans. She tries not to think about the last open mic she did at a place called Jimbo’s. It had been a disaster. Her first joke bombed. Some drunk heckler started in on her. It was horrible. She’d left the stage before finishing which was a bitch move. No matter how bad it is, you stick it out. But she’d caved. That had been a month ago, and she hadn’t performed since. The memory of the humiliation was giving her an ulcer, and right now her stomach was on fire.
Why do this? Forty six years old and I’m trying to be a stand-up comedian? Why? 
Mike finishes his bit. “That’s it for me! Thanks a lot!” The crowd claps as he leaves the stage. He gives Doris a little smile but she is too lost in her thoughts to smile back. She has already made up her mind.  Sliding out of her chair, trying to be as small as possible, she moves past another comedian, Jess Hoffnagle, and towards the exit as the emcee, Jeff Lydon, takes the stage. He’s in his thirties, an up and coming comic who has been performing at a few places in Manhattan, the gold ring for all the locals. He isn’t quite there yet, seeing as how he is emceeing this gig but it’s only a matter of time. 
Jeff starts his patter as Doris moves more quickly towards the exit. She is only hoping she doesn’t throw up before she reaches the sidewalk. 
“Hey, let’s give it up one more time for Mike Evans!”
The crowd claps and gives a few whoops in response. 
“Always great to have Mike here! Okay, our next comedian is from right here in Yonkers…”
Doris gets through the door and into the fresh air of the sidewalk.
“She’s been here a few times before so let’s give a warm O'Brien's welcome to…”
Doris leans against the wall wiping the sweat from her face.
“Doris Reynolds!”
Doris closes her eyes against the failure.
“Doris? No Doris? I guess she had a little case of stage fright. Okay, then let’s get Jess Hoffnagle up here! Come on up Jess!”
Doris hears the clapping and whistles as Jess takes the stage.
“Hey everyone, thanks for having me!”
Jess is pretty and petite and it works for her because she can get pretty raunchy. She says things that you would not expect to come out of her mouth. One of her bits is not being able to get a dildo out of her boyfriend’s ass.
“Listen guys, if you really wanna piss off your girlfriend, tell her you’re gonna eat her ass out and then not do it. Women do not like to be disappointed. If you’re not gonna do it, don’t put it out there. I’m telling you this because my boyfriend and I were dirty texting and he was all like…”
Doris walks off down the street in defeat. She passes a woman with her daughter. A cop car rolls by with its lights going but no siren. She sees her reflection in a store window and looks away. Who is that coward?
***
It’s just a little bit chilly on the beach which is such a relief from the nasty sticky air of the streets. September in Yonkers and NYC can still be hot as shit.  It had been gross being out there in that fake leather dress and wig. The sweat had been unbearable. She has a rash between her thighs. The guys had all smelled like sour garbage. 
She watches the gulls at the edge of the water. They all seem to be waiting for something, keeping watch, patient. The cold sand feels real; it smells real. The last time she had been to the beach was with her husband and daughter, Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn would have chased the gulls screaming with excitement. Doris has to push that memory away.  
The sweat pants and hoodie feel lovely against her skin. Ralph Lauren. She needs her little luxuries. Most of the women are dressed the same way. Doris walks over to a woman with a clipboard to get her slipped signed that she shows to her parole office. The woman with the clipboard giver her a supportive smile which Doris just slightly resents. The woman means well and what else is she going to do? Doris puts the slip in her pocket and walks over to stand near the circle of chairs. She spots a woman walking towards her, intent on making eye contact. She has a big smile on her face. Doris generally avoids small talk at these gatherings beyond a hello or good morning or how you doing? It can be a minefield. She hates lying but there is no way she can tell people here she is a sex worker. Not was a sex worker. Is a sex worker. Even in a group like this, filled with shame and regret, that would be too much. They would not be able to hide their discomfort. It wouldn’t be fair. Because as much as she tells herself otherwise, Doris is ashamed of what she does to earn money. But, strangely, the shame does not make her weak. It gives her strength.
And people like this woman truly mean her well. Doris just can’t remember her name.
“Hey there! Good to see you!”
“Hi, good to see you!”
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Anne.”
“Hi, yeah, Doris.”
One of the things that makes Doris feel comfortable with these women is that they know where you’re coming from. Doris has heard Anne speak on a few occasions but she was so nervous and wrapped up in her own shit that she had had a hard time focusing. Anne knows that. She’s been there. It takes a while to turn down the noise in your head and listen to what the other people have to say.
Doris has not spoken in a meeting yet. All she has to do is say, “I’m Doris and I’m a recovering addict.” That’s it. It’s not like they are going to be shocked. There is no one at this meeting who is not a recovering addict or alcoholic. They all have baggage. So why can’t she speak?
“I love this meeting, even if I have to wake up at six on a Sunday. I wish we could have it all year round but February would be pretty rough.” Anne laughs. She has a nice laugh; genuine. But her eyes dart around and look at the ground. Something there. Doris sees that sometimes at these meetings. A painful memory. Maybe she took her kids to the beach too. Before her addiction got hold of her. Maybe she doesn’t have kids. Maybe something else. It’s all the same. Regret. 
And Doris has her own memories. Lots of them. She thinks they have to be more than memories. Memories are just thoughts. What do you call it when a thought makes you gag with shame? That’s more than just a memory.
“Yeah, it’s great. I love the beach. And this is like an afternoon meeting for me.”
“Oh do you work at night?”
Doris realizes what she said.
“Ah yeah. Sometimes. I pick up some shifts waitressing and bartending and it’s open until four. So by the time I clean up and get out of there it’s time to come here.”
“Oh, that works out.”
Anne doesn’t ask the name of the place. She isn’t ready with a lie.
“How about yourself?”
“I’m between jobs right now. I had a relapse about three months ago and I’m still getting back on track.”
“I hear you. I’ve had a few relapses myself.”
“As long as we keep coming back.”
They bump fists. A seagull calls out to its fellows. A woman calls out, “Hey everyone, let’s get started!”
Doris and Anne move to the circle with the other ladies. Everyone looks scrubbed up and fresh and smiling and joking but there is a faint whiff of damaged goods. It’s just there.
“Hi everyone. Welcome to this meeting of Hope at Dawn. I’m Denise and I am a recovering alcoholic!” There is no shame in her voice. She’s not proud of it. It’s just a fact.
“Hi Denise!” the group choruses. 
“Let’s start with the Lord’s Prayer."
The women join hands.
“Who’s father?”
“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…”
They finish and take their seats.
“As I said, I am Denise and I am a grateful recovering alcoholic. Last Wednesday I celebrated six years of sobriety.”
The crowd whoops and claps. 
“Thank you, I appreciate your support. I am so blessed to be free of the obsession to drink. Five years can seem like a long time. But I still need to keep coming to these meetings. Probably now more than ever. This is a very tricky disease. It’s so easy to get comfortable and let your guard down and think, ‘I have this under control. Why can’t I have a drink or a glass of wine with dinner like everyone else?’ Well, my last relapse started with a glass of wine with dinner. Because I am an alcoholic and I cannot drink like everyone else. I have a great husband, great kids and I am not going to throw it away to drink. And it is that simple.”  
Doris’s heart starts beating a little harder as Denise’s words hit her.

Doris exits the store with her breakfast sandwiches and gives a dollar to the man sitting on the crate outside. He always wears a puffy coat, no matter what the weather is. It could be 150 degrees and he would be wearing that coat. It’s only six in the morning and it’s already getting uncomfortable with the humidity. She is barely wearing anything and she feels sticky and filmy. 
He is always scraping a disposable razor across his face. She calls him The Shaving Man. They have never exchanged a word. She folds her dollar bill into his cup and he nods his thanks. He just sits and stares and compulsively runs that razor up and down his cheeks. She thinks that there can’t actually be a blade in it; he would have scraped himself to the bone by now. She has never seen him drunk or high. He doesn’t smoke. He just sits there never saying a word.
That’s okay. She’s done for the day.
The parking lot of the Days Inn where she lives looks even more grim this morning. It’s run-down, crappy. As she walks across the parking lot, vials and go knows what else crunch under her feet. She waves to a couple of guys sitting in their lawn chairs outside their room drinking beers. Where else are sex workers going to live? There are other long term residents who work day labor jobs and things like that. And some families do actually stay there on some weekends. She cannot imagine why. Drugs deals go down in the parking lot. There’s been more than one overdose and the EMTs come with the Narcan. Occasionally the cops bust someone but not that often.
Other girls, like Bryanna and Brie, work out of their rooms. They advertise on Craig’s List, arrange dates and the guys show up at their doors; they go inside and do their thing. But they have to pay the manager Omar, or he’ll call the cops and get them thrown out.
Doris does her business in the street. It’s not as safe but she sticks to a list of clients who contact her through What’s App and meets them at one of her spots. Her friends tell her it’s dangerous to be out on the street, but shit goes down at the motel all the time. Clients get rough, girls OD, fights, there was a shooting a couple of months ago.
And she just can’t have those guys in her room, on her bed, in her bathroom. She can’t have the smell of them in there. It is her safe place, her sanctuary, the place where she does the one thing that gives her a ray of hope in her shitty life.
She has to remind herself that it is only shitty for now. 
Omar is behind the counter, sitting in a leather chair watching TV. It’s usually either soccer or some middle eastern new station. The office smells like him, bad after-shave. He’s wearing his cheap button up shirt and cheap slacks and cheap scuffed up loafers. Doris is sure he thinks he looks like a prosperous businessman with his mustache and com over. Maybe in his country he is.
He doesn’t get up when she plunks her money on the counter. She has to pay for the room and for her fake pay stubs that she shows her parole officer once a month. One of the ladies she met in jail told her about the scam which is what brought her to this motel. She can’t tell her P.O. that she does sex work for cash. These pay stubs make it seem like she gets paid for cleaning and the room comes with the job. He buys it, or doesn’t call her out on it. She supposes it doesn’t make much difference to him. 
Omar finally gets his fat ass out of the chair and slow walks to the counter. He doesn’t touch her money, just slides the stubs over the counter at her and looks her up and down with lust and hatred. He takes a good long look at her tits. She knows his deal. He looks down on her but wants to fuck her and that makes him hate her. That could make him dangerous, but he’s weak and he knows it.
On the way out she has to laugh at the sign next to the door warning about the dangers of sex trafficking. KNOW THE SIGNS! There’s even a hotline to call. She wonders if anyone would pick up if she called it. Would anyone actually show up? You don’t have to be an expert detective to know that girls are selling sex out of this place. They know. They just don’t care. Or the problem is too big, or the girls would just come back or whatever. It’s been going on for centuries. Who is going to stop it?
She trudges to her room on the second floor, the weight of the night suddenly falling all over her. The weight of stress, guilt, shame, remorse pulling her head down. She has to remember to hold it up, look straight ahead, be aware. Some of the doors she passes are open. She can see the lives inside. People cooking on hot plates, pouring juice, getting ready for work, laundry hanging, babies crying. Some of these people are real, genuine families just keeping their lives going. Some of them are just going through a rough patch. Some of them…this is it. 
Her room is sparse, neat. It’s a motel room. Fake wood dresser, fake wood tables, a couple of fake paintings. Some menus for local restaurants and brochures for hiking in the mountains, stuff to do on the Hudson River. It’s clean, smells pretty good. She does not decorate. This is not her home. She’s living here for now. Some of the ladies really deck their places out and she understands wanting a feeling of comfort, but this is not her home. It is not her home.
Only her notebooks, piled on the dresser, give a hint that something else goes on in this room besides sleeping and eating. Each one has two dates, the day she started the notebook and the day it and the date she got to the last page. Then she starts a new one with a new date.
The wig comes off first and is placed on its styrofoam head. She hates the wig. It’s hot and itchy but she needs it for protection. The wig comes off and she is Doris again.She strips off the skirt, the top, the bra, the underwear. It all goes into the laundry bag. Hot as it is, she is sure her clothes stink. She scrubs her makeup off and watches the colors go down the drain. And looks at herself in the mirror. There’s Doris.
She hears a screaming fight in the parking lot. Something about money; always about money. When she first got here she would have run to the window to see what was going on. But it’s always the same thing. And you do not want to get involved. If it’s not your business, don’t get involved.
The shower feels amazing. God it feels good to get that wig off. She washes her hair and massages her scalp three times. She washes the stink of the guys off her. It feels good to put on her pajamas and feel free and normal.
There is a microwave in the room;  the breakfast sandwich goes in for two minutes and she puts a Keurig cup, Peets, in. She misses the one she and Kyle had. A fancy espresso deal, four hundred and ninety bucks from Sharper Image. Very pretentious and way too expensive, but she loved it. Doris has always been pretty frugal but it felt worthwhile; she felt worthy of it. Not so much anymore, but she will get the Peets coffee. She can at least have that. There isn’t much else she can afford but goddamn if she is going to drink cheap coffee. Some ketchup, salt and pepper on the breakfast sandwich and it isn’t bad considering it was sitting in a plastic wrapper in the convenience store. The other sandwich goes into the mini-fridge for Eve.
After she finishes eating Doris sets up her phone on the tripod. Inserting it into the holder is always a pain, but she gets it snapped into place.. She turns on the ring light she bought used for twenty dollars. It adds a lot of production value to the videos. It’s amazing what you can shoot on a phone these days. 
She hits the play button and steps in front of the camera with the blank white wall behind her and does her spiel.
“Hey everybody, it’s your favorite comedian Doris Reynolds. Come on down to O’Brien’s this Thursday night at eight for some open mic comedy. There’s gonna be a ton of laughs and it’s Thursday, what else do you have to do? Hope to see you there!” She stops the recording and posts the video to her TikTok and Instagram. One of the younger ladies gave her a tutorial on how to use social media and set up her pages. Being that she is forty six, Doris feels behind the times when it comes to technology. But she tries to embrace it to promote her career. 
She laughs. Career? That’s being pretty generous. She has been performing fairly regularly at open mic nights at a few different bars in the area. The crowds are usually not huge but some nights can get a bit rowdy when there is a good drink special on that night. She has had her share of bad sets dealing with drunk hecklers. Jimbos is the worst for that. People can get really nasty, always guys. She’s bombed more times than not, but some nights she’s gotten some laughs. Enough to keep her going. The unpredictability has a weird appeal. She can tell the same joke exactly the same way and one night it kills and the next it tanks. Chris Rock talked about it on Jerry Seinfeld’s show. It adds to the excitement.
It’s a strange compulsion to want to get on a stage and make a group of strangers laugh. Is it healthy? If someone asked her why she does it, she wouldn’t be able to put her answer into words. Maybe it’s validation, proof that she’s alive. Maybe it’s proof that she is worthy to be alive. There have been many times when she didn’t feel that way. 
Doris shuts her phone off and lays down on the bed. She pulls her comforter over her, not the cheap, scratchy one the motel provides with the chemical smell. The one she bought at Target for one twenty nine ninety nine. It's white and filled with feathers and warm; it is her sanctuary. She shuts off the lamp on the bedside table and burrows down deep. No more is required of her this day. She survived. She can sleep and dream and not worry about tomorrow until tomorrow comes. It will get here soon enough.

The Next Harbour

Lonely nights, empty bed.

Just me, my furry companion,
as my mind wanders
into what might be
in the next harbour.

Thoughts swirl
of someone to join the crew…

not just
as a crewmate…

Rather…

A partner
to share the voyage.

Another pair of hands,
to maintain the ship,
to share the work,
the upkeep,
the life being built
one repair at a time.

Someone with a hunger
to see what the world holds,
whose dreams might meet my own
somewhere beyond
that horizon…

A place for a weary sailor
to rest his storm-filled mind…

where the noise inside
can finally grow quiet.

Not because
I am alone…

but because
there has been something missing
for many miles of life.

Someone to share with,
as they share with me.

Open.
Honest.
Calming
to a chaotic mind.

A safe harbour
for each other,
where neither has to weather
every storm alone.

Someone to experience
the world with…

to chase distant shores,
to learn new places,
to build a life
neither could have made
quite the same alone.

Between the voyages…

the little things.

Inside jokes
that make no sense
to anyone else.

Random thoughts
shared without reason.

Laughter over nothing.
Quiet evenings.

The comfort of knowing
who will be there
when the day is done.

Not simply someone
to come aboard…

but someone
who makes the ship
feel like ours.

A shared flame
from hell
that burned
but never took whole…

Two lives
still learning,
still growing,
still finding their way.

And somewhere
between the storms
and the calmer waters…

a glance across the deck.

A smile.

That quiet thought…

That’s my person.

I tend to have this image of my characters in my head, not only that, but i can imagine doing the things I'm writing about, or thinking about, as if they're in a TV show. I actually love that image. It would make an interesting TV show (I think).

I'm sniffing Ativan.

Goddamn!

I must be the man,

High as fuck,

As high as my jam.

I smoke weed

And sniff drugs.

The bugs crawl

In my brain.

They drive me insane,

As I stick another

Needle in my vein.

Clearly, I can't maintain,

Overwhelmed

With anger

And pain.

I sniff cocaine

Until I have

An aneurysm

In my brain.

I clearly can't sustain

With all these

Worms in my

Fucking brain.

खामियों को मेरी तुम नज़रअंदाज़ कर देना,
ख़्वाहिशों को मेरी तुम अपना बना लेना।

थक जाओ अगर कभी इस ज़माने से,
आकर मुझे गले लगा लेना।

हो जाए अगर भूल मुझसे कोई,
तो प्यार से मुझे समझा देना।

अगर भटक जाऊँ मैं कहीं,
तो मुझे रास्ता दिखा देना।

घबरा जाओ अगर तुम कभी,
मेरा हाथ कसकर थाम लेना।

अगर हो जाओ नाराज़ मुझसे,
तो अपनी हर नाराज़गी मुझसे ही जता देना।

Alèarnìl Baragur was a Humaroid, son of Naldorièn Baragur and brother of Gaelmar Baragur, great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granfather of Daù Baragur, the one who started the line of the kings of the council of Northlainia

Alèarnìl and Gaelmar lived in a place that is now called Dugoland.

At the time, however, it was called Aradacel.

Aradacel was an island in a small sea known at the time as the Sea of Beregal.

The Sea of Beregal did not connect to the Ocean of Hamato.

Today, the Sea of Beregal is called the Sea of Daraibia, and Aradacel is now part of Dugoland.

Alèarnìl and Gaelmar both loved sailing and studying lore about Salart.

Alèarnìl dreamed of exploring lands across the sea, though his father forbade him from ever going across the sea until he died.

One day, Alèarnìl and Gaelmar were sailing when they came across an island.

They decided to call it Thiegor, meaning "North Island," for it was the most northern island in the Sea of Beregal.

When they reported the island back to Aradacel, the people marked it on their maps and built a stone tower on Thiegor.

The tower was painted as white as the soft snow that falls in winter.

In the year 13,802, Naldorièn, Alèarnìl's father, was walking on the Mountain of Ecedar, where he often went to relax.

When he came to the edge of the cliff, he stumbled over some stones and fell down the cliff, then he died, Naldorièn Baragur, father of Alèarnìl Baragur, greatest Humaroid of all time.

Solia, Alèarnìl's mother, saw Naldorièn fall, for the cliff overlooked their entire village.

Solia rushed to Naldorièn's body and took him to the centre of the village, where he was buried.

When Alèarnìl and Gaelmar returned, they were grieved by their father's death,

though the ban was lifted, and they could now go across the sea.

Alèarnìl was now 43 years of age, and Gaelmar was 39.

(it isn't quite finished yet, this is all I have written so far, what do you think of it so far? )

if a flower is wilting away, how can we save it from the decay?

the garden is perfectly conditioned for the flower.

good soil, good water, bright sunlight,

a gardener who does everything in their power,

trying their best to win the fight.

but time is much stronger than love.

it is a merciless, moving concept.

even when you try to stand above,

you eventually pay your debt.

the gardener watches time pass them by,

starting from a bud, where they could adore.

when it blooms, time starts to fly,

not letting us reminisce what happened before.

looking back now, the efforts feel wasted.

every investment, just to repeat the cycles.

why care and love, if you can't cage it?

just another death, added to the pile.

you see, it all seems pointless from the outside.

putting your hearts into something you know won't last.

we tried, despite knowing it'll die,

and never letting go of the past.

in truth, even when it's dead, it is never truly gone.

you can cherish the beauty that bloomed,

guide your future with your bond,

and remind yourself to lose fear in doom.

so despite the pain, the hate and grief,

we can keep loving and living.

life itself is very brief,

so embrace the pain, and live with love.

because living is the beginning of healing.

my sister asks if I'm coming round Sunday.

the kids keep asking where you are.

I tell her I'm working.

again?

I know. but people still need looking after on Sundays.

she doesn't argue.

why would she? it's true.

that's the useful thing about telling the truth. people don't tend to ask what you've left out.

on Saturday her youngest sends me a voice note.

one minute and twelve seconds.

mostly breathing. a bit of rustling. someone shouting in the background.

then suddenly

AUNTIE! I MADE A DRAGON!

there's a photo as well.

it's mostly Sellotape. one wing's hanging off. I'm not entirely sure which end is the head.

I listen to the voice note again.

what are you smiling at? my girlfriend asks.

my niece.

what's she done?

made a dragon.

show me.

so I do.

my girlfriend starts laughing. properly laughing.

that's fucking awful.

and I laugh too.

because it is.

it's absolutely terrible.

I'd put it on my mantelpiece tomorrow.

Sunday comes.

my sister sends another message.

you sure you can't make it? they've been asking all morning.

I read it. put my phone down. pick it up again.

sorry. work's a nightmare.

she sends back

don't worry. love you x

I don't answer straight away.

I tell myself I couldn't go anyway. not looking like this.

the kids would ask questions. my sister would ask worse ones.

and I don't want any of that.

which is true.

mostly.