“Why is it so hard to get that perfect ratio of noodles to sauce?” Darren picked at his bowl of under-sauced spaghetti.

“Darren! I’m trying to have a real conversation with you!”

Kara’s frustration oozed into her words like poison. It got Darren’s attention.

“I don’t feel like talking about it, that’s all!”

“You need to talk about it!” Kara’s concern lined her face and her words alike.

Darren sighed and slumped in his chair at the table, leaving his spaghetti to fend for itself.

A wave of emotion crashes over me.

I don’t know why.

It’s been a good day.

These feelings are unexpected and frankly, unwelcome. I am in a public place and people are around me; this is no place to break down.

I am holding back tears from betraying my heart, but one persists and breaks through the dyke of my eye. I brush it away angrily and look around to see if anybody has noticed. Nobody has.

What a relief.

“Who cares if you’re seen crying?”

I whip my head around to my right, then to my left. Where did that voice come from? My eyes are wide with surprise.

“Behind you,” the voice says.

I turn to look and sitting directly behind me is a woman. She is smiling sweetly. Immediately I sense something about her. There’s a subtle grace about her, the way she smiles at me, the way her eyes penetrate my heart and mind. She is at peace; content. It is suddenly clear to me that this is a remarkable woman. She is a woman who shares love with everyone she meets.

“Hello.” I don’t know what else to say.

“Hi,” the woman says to me. For a moment we just stare at each other, neither of us feeling the awkwardness of the moment.

“What did you mean by that?” I say finally, looking into her glassy, green eyes. They are alive and vibrant. They are the eyes of an extraordinarily kind woman.

“I meant just what I said. Don’t be ashamed of emotion.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

I say those three words with resolve, confident I’ll keep them at heart. It makes perfect sense, I declare to myself. Emotions are good, we shouldn’t be ashamed of them!

“Thank you,” I say, beaming at the woman. You would think she changed my life with her simple statement, the way I am receiving her words. Maybe she has changed my life. Time will tell.

I turn back around to face the right way in my seat, but a moment later decide to talk to the woman a little bit longer. When I turn back around, however, she is gone. Her chair is vacant. I sincerely hope I see her again someday.

Jim sat, staring out the window, holding a mug of coffee on the table in front of him. The blue sky was, I am sure, attempting to poke its little nose out in front of the clouds, but at least for now, it was defeated by the drab gray of melancholy. And so it was inside Jim’s heart as well.

Jim’s friend burst through the front door, as he did on so many occasions over the four years they had known each other. Alan was always excited about something or other, and today was no exception.

“Jimmy! Yo Jimmy! Check it out, I got this letter in the mail today and it ––“

Alan stopped when he saw Jim sitting at the table, looking out the window as if somebody had just died. But then again, somebody had just died. Jim’s mom to be exact. Well, it had been a couple months, but I think death has a tendency to slow down time, wouldn’t you agree?

Alan slowly walked over to Jim and as softly as he could, said “thinking about your mom?”

Without missing a beat, Jim returned with four brave words, words spoken with no cracked voice or heavy breathing. “This was mom’s mug.”

He meant to say more, but he reached his word limit for the day and a silver tear rolled down his face. He may have been taught that crying isn’t manly, but the death of a loved one allows for broken rules. And it was a dumb rule anyway, he decided.

Alan pulled up a chair and looked out the window with his friend. His exciting news could wait.

They sat there together for a long time, neither wasting any words. Alan’s presence alone told Jim that he was loved, that he mattered. Alan knew from experience that words often made these kinds of situations worse. He had lost his mother too, when he was just a kid. He remembered the feeling of loneliness because none of his friends understood how to act around somebody who’s mourning. But Alan’s tough experiences had made him a stronger person. He learned never to laugh at another man’s misfortune, always to give people the benefit of the doubt, and most importantly, he learned how to shut up when he needed to.

And so Alan just sat with his best friend, allowing him to feel the pain and work through it.

“She would sit at the table every morning with this mug full of coffee and just look out the window,” Jim began, “sometimes she’d sit there for an hour, just thinking. All of us kids knew not to disturb her when she was there. I guess it was her way of enjoying the peace of the morning. She didn’t get a whole lot of quiet with ten kids running around the house.”

Jim and Alan laughed quietly together.

After another long moment, Jim said “Thanks for being here for me, Al.”

~~~~~

I cut the scene off here because it was just too sweet and too sad to dwell on any longer. Maybe some other important words were exchanged between the two friends that you would’ve liked to read, but sometimes you just have to leave your characters alone to live their own lives.

If you’ll remember, this story has no title. I explained why earlier, but let me briefly add to my reasoning. It’s just this: the purpose of a title is to intrigue the reader, to prompt them to read the next words. By refusing to use a title, I believe I am accomplishing that goal; but I guess I’ll let you decide that. Will you keep reading?

Here we go.

~~~~

Rosa had always believed in the supernatural; a spiritual warfare being waged in the hearts and minds and even atmosphere of those earthly beings. However, her faith in a higher realm had never been personal to her… until now.

When she awoke from her state of unconscious, she was painfully aware of her feeling of uneasiness. It wasn’t only her throbbing head that was bothering her. There was a certain tension in the air, a negative force vying for her attention. She immediately identified it as the Devil, or at least a devil. Some ally of evil was present and powerful. And it scared her.

Where am I? 

She almost immediately identified the building she was in. It was, in fact, the restaurant she worked at. However, it was the run-down, ransacked version of the restaurant. Tables and chairs were strewn across the floor, windows were cracked, if not missing entirely, and dust and dirt had settled in, nearly covering the entire floor. The air felt musty and stale, just like the outside air.

She reached to scratch her nose…

YIKES! I’m tied up!

She hadn’t noticed it a moment ago, as she was taking in her surroundings one piece at a time, but she was bound to a diner chair! Her legs were tied around the legs of the chair and her hands were tied behind the chair’s back. She was also gagged!

Why is it that when you physically can’t satisfy a bodily need, it grows in intensity? Rosa’s nose itched like no itch had ever itched before. She found a way to scratch it, but it took considerable energy and she made quite a racket in the process, not to mention she ended up lying sideways on the ground, unable to move further because of her restricted condition.

She heard indistinct voices from somewhere over there. She tried to turn to see who was coming, but she had no mobility and was forced to lie there quite vulnerably, wondering how she was going to be killed.

This is it. What will your final words be?

Rosa was so prone to fear that she blacked out again, but this time only for a few seconds. She awoke as her captor was lifting her chair to its rightful position on its four stable legs. This time fear took on a different reaction and she thrashed her head wildly, as her head was the only part of her body she had any sort of control over. It hurt and didn’t prove assuring to her captor.

“Ah, so you’re a feisty type, are ya? Well let me assure ya, lady, you’re not goin’ anywhere. You’re tied up pretty good, ya know. My knots are world famous!” Then turning to shout over his shoulder, he said, “Ay, boss! The girl’s awake!” He gave her a smug look before turning to leave.

The one who replaced him was much more evil than he.

She could sense it.

The man walked slowly, cockily. His face was confident, as one who is in complete control. His gaze sent shivers down her spine and shot blood to her face. He was terrifying. He was the personification of evil. He was the Devil. Rosa prayed to God for the second time in her life. Funny how knowledge of imminent doom makes you appeal to God, isn’t it?

“Hey sweetie. Have a good nap?” His words sent ice slipping down the back of her shirt. They were slow and smooth words, words coated in sugar to seem appealing. Rosa saw past his mouth and into his heart; it was black and disfigured, a burnt and withered chunk of limp meat.

You’re doomed now. You’re as good as dead. 

“Don’t worry, girl. I won’t hurt you. My name is Sal.”

He untied the black t-shirt that acted as her gag and pulled it away from her mouth. This was normally the part of a movie where the hostage girl shoots a glare toward her captive and says something hostile and seemingly justified, to which the captor responds by laughing and inciting more fury on the captive’s behalf. Rosa wisely chose to say nothing.

“I’m going to untie you now. Do not run and do not try to attack me. Trust me, I will be forced to hurt you if you do and it will not be pleasant for you after that.”

With that, he untied her and she stood slowly.

“Walk with me.”

Hesitantly, Rosa followed Sal into the kitchen of the restaurant that she had spent so many hours in. He led her through the kitchen and into the very back of the building, where there was a ladder leading up to the roof. He motioned her up first, so she started climbing. She had only been up there once before and she wondered what business this man had with her on the roof.

This is it. He’s going to push you off the roof. Start thinking of iconic last words now.

She made it to the top and paused beside the entrance onto the roof to looked around, making sure no goons were waiting for her. Presently, Sal’s head popped up and he climbed the final few stairs to stand beside her.

“I want to show you something. Come to the edge, don’t be afraid.”

Despite his command, she was afraid. Terrified, actually.

She let him walk to the edge first before making the walk herself.

“Look around and tell me what you see.”

Rosa gazed down below at the buildings and concrete. The landscape was drab, like a western movie set. All that was missing was tumbleweeds.

Then she saw the people. Were they people?

“What do you see?”

“People,” she said softly.

Sal smirked. “They’re not people, honey.”

“Don’t call me that.” It came out of her mouth before passing through her brain. The man seemed unfazed by the comment.

“They’re not people,” he repeated. “Zombies.”

Rosa almost laughed. Not because she didn’t think it was possible, but because of the irony. How many times had her friends ridiculed her because of how seriously she took all those zombie shows and movies. Now it turned out she was right the whole time.

“What’s your name?” he asked after a pause.

The question caught Rosa off guard; it unsettled her. The idea of an obviously evil man calling her by name made her sick. Nevertheless, she couldn’t risk his wrath. It isn’t uncommon for evil folks to have a short fuse.

“Rosa,” she said rather shakily.

“Rosa, I need your help. The world needs your help. These zombies have wreaked havoc on the world as we know it. They walk around looking for a meal and if they see you or hear you, you’re as good as dead. You can imagine how fast the human population is dwindling. Something needs to be done and right now, nobody is doing anything about it but me. I’m assembling a team to make quick work of them. I want you on that team.”

Sal pulled a radio from his jacket pocket. “Give us a show, Vincent,” he said.

Beneath them, a door opened and footsteps were heard. Rosa looked down to see a large group of men and women wearing all black and carrying various weapons advance upon a group of zombies. Before Rosa could look away, the attackers had shot, sliced, and massacred the lifeless walkers and were advancing to others. Nearby zombies began to swarm the group of ninjas, but they effortlessly crushed them as well. They were clearing the entire area around the restaurant, and they were doing it quickly. They were all very skilled with their weapons.

Rosa couldn’t look away. She wanted to, but the grotesque curiosity of the scene held her gaze downward.

Soon, every zombie was lying motionless on the ground. Rosa had just witnessed a slaughter. Was it justified?

“Impressive, right?” Sal said. “With time and practice, you could be one of them. What do you say? You have a chance to help save humanity from the clutches of the undead.”

“Why me?” she asked, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

Sal looked over at her. “I am exceptionally talented at seeing the potential in people. It doesn’t take long for me to discern if somebody is right for a job. Rosa, you’re right for this job. You have more potential than maybe anybody else on my team.”

Rosa knew it was a lie. It was all a lie. Sal was a lie. The apocalypse was a lie.

For a moment, the reality of her situation overwhelmed her. She nearly blacked out again, but kept it together somehow. She pushed out all thoughts of her circumstances and focused on the next words that she would have to say.

In a moment of courage, she made eye contact with the devil and said “I’m in.”

Sal smiled.

“Excellent. I’ll introduce you to the team. You’ll start your training tomorrow morning.”

Rosa forced a smile.

As they descended the ladder back into the restaurant, one thought pierced Rosa’s mind: ESCAPE! 

This story has no title. Why? Because it’s ominous and weird and unique. But mostly ominous. Maybe I should have titled this story “Ominous” because that’s what it is. But I didn’t. I called it “This Story Has No Title” which technically means that it has a title. Clearly I didn’t think this through.

Let’s begin.

~~~~

Rosa was exhausted, and rightfully so! She had pulled a 12 hour shift at the restaurant and was only now able to get some rest before her next shift early the next morning. Ugh. Work can be such a pain some times!

She set her phone alarm for 8:00 AM the next morning and almost before she closed her eyes she was asleep. Her last thought before drifting away was “I hope I get tipped well tomorrow.”

 

When Rosa woke up, it was quiet.

Dreadfully quiet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She lifted her head off the pillow, awake and instantly confused. This seemed like a dream but felt so real!

What’s going on?

Looking around, she saw that it was light outside.

Weird, it feels like it should be dark!

She reached for her phone and sat up to look at it. Nothing but a blank screen greeted her expectant eyes.

What’s going on? it should be charging! 

She followed the charging cable with her eyes to the outlet where it was plugged in just as it should be.

So why isn’t it charging? This is SO weird!

Rosa bolted to her feet, startled, even though it had been a full minute since she first suspected that everything was different.

Everything is different!

She said it aloud. It sounded weird. The words felt stale in the air; echoey, hollow. Something was definitely off.

Rosa walked five steps that way and reached for her door handle. Fear seized her and she froze.

She let out her breath in a gasp.

I was holding my breath? Whoa, calm down, Rosa. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

She took a few long breaths then opened the door.

 

Nothing assaulted her, which was good, but something definitely felt off. She walked slowly from room to room in her one story apartment, taking in her surroundings. At the end of her tour, she found herself at the front window. She gazed out upon the neighborhood.

What is it? Why does everything feel so… weird??

OH NO!

She sprinted to the front door and turned the key in the lock. Opening the door, she left it behind in a hurry.

Even the air outside felt weird. The sun felt colder, the sky looked grayer although it was a cloudless day.

Day? How can it be the middle of the day already? I set my alarm! Why didn’t my alarm go off? Why did my phone die? Where is everybody? I hope Mildred is okay!

 

Mildred lived directly across the street from Rosa. She was an elderly woman who was in remarkable shape. She was eighty-eight and still played tennis. Rosa had grown very close to Mildred since she had moved in, visiting at least a couple times a week to engage in friendly chats and the occasional glass of wine. The old woman had always inspired her to live more intentionally. In the back of her mind, Rosa knew that Mildred would die someday sooner than later, and that fear was constantly nagging at her.

Ring Ring!

Answer the door, Mildred! 

After waiting not long at all, Rosa busted in. Good thing she had a key.

“Mildred!”

No answer. Fear crept higher. She checked every room. No Mildred. In fact, it didn’t appear like anybody had lived there for years!

Rosa ran back outside. At this point, she was beyond confused; she was ready to break down in a fit of tears if somebody didn’t explain what the heck was going on!

Where is everybody?

After knocking on a couple more doors in the neighborhood with no success, she returned to her own house, pushing back the emotions that so quickly fought for her attention. She grabbed her keys and tried her car. Dead.

NO! What is going on?!

Rosa was getting desperate. As a last effort of sanity (although as she looked back on it later, she realized it was more of an effort of insanity), she began jogging down her street and out of her neighborhood. The restaurant she worked at was just a few minutes down the road; surely she’d find somebody there!

Normally she would’ve been breathing heavily after a few minutes of jogging, but adrenaline told a different story. She was superhuman in this moment, like a mom saving her child from beneath an SUV.

Keep running. You’ll find somebody. Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.

It’s amazing she found so much positivity in an obviously corrupt and hostile world. If she had had a little more strategy in the moment, a little more discernment, maybe a dash of perception, she may have been able to avoid some future pain. But in her current mental state, the sky could have be falling and she wouldn’t have noticed.

She stopped running when she reached the restaurant. Now she knew something was wrong; everything was wrong, actually.

The restaurant was abandoned. It was run down; crumbling. It looked like the apocalypse had happened there.

THE APOCALYPSE!

 

You have to understand something about Rosa. Although she was one of those weirdos who actually believed the zombie apocalypse was a realistic expectation of the future, she had been too lazy to prepare. Aside from watching The Walking Dead, she had done no more than merely conjecture about what she would do if presented with an apocalyptic situation.

Well now she was presented with an apocalyptic situation, and what did she do?

Rosa fell to the ground, unconscious.

~~~~

“C’mon Jack, jump!” Billy yelled at his best friend, who stared down at him from the tall limbs of the oak tree far above the pile of leaves on the ground.

“I don’t know! I’m kinda scared!” Jack yelled back.

“I dare you!”

Dear reader, I don’t know how long it has been since you have been a child, but let me solidify this concept in your head. When one child dares another to do some thing they would otherwise avoid, that thing becomes the only thing that matters in a given moment. Thoughts of crushes, chores, or what’s for dinner disappear and are replaced with one thought alone: I have to follow through. 

And so Jack jumped into the pile of leaves which provided less cushion than either boy had counted on, and a broken bone and a hospital visit were in order, as well as an end to a friendship. That day Billy learned the power of the dare, Jack learned the power of gravity, and Jack’s parents learned the power of the hospital bill.

*Based on a true story

 

There once was a boy named August. He was an ordinary child, well, mostly.

He had a quirk.

Maybe ‘quirk’ isn’t the correct term here, but ‘problem’ doesn’t fit and ‘disease’ certainly doesn’t apply, so I’ve chosen ‘quirk’. Deal with it.

Back to the story.

The truth is, August had an itch. Constantly. And no matter how much he scratched and rubbed, it refused to leave him. This was a big problem for August and his family too. The poor boy’s mother had spoken with doctors and oracles, fortune tellers and witch doctors; she had tried oils and lotions, snake poison and lemon juice. There was nothing on the planet that had not been applied to little August’s itch-spot. Eventually, all resources had been exhausted, and the sad family gave up hope of curing their little boy. August Itch, as he became known as, was doomed to live an abnormal life. He couldn’t go to school, couldn’t make friends, couldn’t go in public, definitely couldn’t get a job when he grew up; this was the sad reality in which our protagonist lived his life.

August spent most of his time in the woods next to his house playing, listening to the birds, and scratching himself up and down, down and up, on the rough bark of the pine trees. Although he had been told again and again to, no matter what you do, do NOT scratch your itch, it provided temporary relief for his very permanent condition. Scratching became his favorite past time.

I’d love to be able to say that August’s habitual scratching bore him no consequences, but as I am sure you know, all actions carry with them certain repercussions, whether good or bad. August’s habit was no exception, and as time passed, his skin grew tougher and scalier until one day, August and his family awoke to the astonishing realization that little August Itch had turned into a dragon!

That was the worst day ever. August’s parents had had enough, and with a shove and a screech, they tossed him out the door never to return to the small house on the edge of the woods.

August was dismayed. With nowhere to call his home, nobody to call his friend, nothing in the world to comfort him, he entered the forest with head hung low.

What do dragons do? he wondered.

He tried to breathe fire, but of course he was not a real dragon.

He tried to fly, but he had no wings!

August was a lost boy-dragon in a lonely world, betrayed by his parents to live in a hostile forest. Every day he witnessed a poor forest animal being killed and eaten by a different predator. He was next, to be sure!

And he certainly would have been somebody’s dinner if it weren’t for Gloria.

A few days after August’s excommunication from his household and the only life he’d ever known, he was following a small path through the woods when he happened upon an inspiring scene: an enormous indigo dragon, brilliantly perched over a dead fox, nose bloodied from her feast. In a rare moment of vulnerability, the beast had been caught unawares.

“Hello,” said August.

Gloria started and instinctively poised for attack.

“I won’t hurt you, I’m just a boy.”

“Why, aren’t you a curious thing. You’re a boy-dragon!” Gloria said.

“Yes, and I don’t know what dragons do. Will you teach me how to be a dragon?”

“Well where is your mother, young one?”

“She didn’t like that I turned into a dragon so she sent me off on my own,” August said sadly.

Suddenly, in a moment of intensity, August’s itch grew to unbearable proportions and he flung himself to the nearest tree to relieve himself with scratching. It was quite a scene.

“Dear me! Whatever is wrong with you, boy-dragon?” Gloria shouted.

“I have an itch that never goes away,” August said with face contorted in pain as he rubbed his back violently against the tree.

“Why that sounds awful!”

August finished scratching and sighed.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Gloria. What’s yours?”

“August.”

“August, are you hungry, dear? Help yourself to this fox; it’s very tasty!”

August approached the dead fox timidly, smelling it with his very human nose.

“Do dragons eat foxes?” he asked.

“Oh yes, and many other forest animals too!”

August lowered his face to the mangled fox and struggled to tear a piece of bloodied flesh with his very human teeth. He spat it out instantly. Gloria laughed.

“Why don’t you come back to my mountain and we’ll make a fire and cook the meat for you. You can meet my family too, if you wish!” Gloria said.

“Oh, yes please!” August said emphatically.

So little August Itch boarded Gloria’s back and she clutched the limp fox in her strong jaw and together they flew to Gloria’s mountain.

August met all of Gloria’s friends and family that day and they accepted him as their own, and August spent much of his childhood from that day forward in the woods and on the mountain, learning how to be a good boy-dragon.

Well, dear reader, the story that I am about to relate to you takes place in the summer; the time of year when I, death, claim the majority of suicide victims as my own. According to reliable sources, summer and the months leading up to it are when depressed human beings, weary of their very existence, choose against the will of all who love them to steal from themselves what is held most dear. Is it even possible to steal something that you yourself own, you ask? Well, do you really own life? I’m sure my counterpart would say otherwise. Let me introduce you to my coworker, Life himself.

Life is much happier than I. He (or she, who am I to assume the gender of a state of being? However, for the sake of this narrative, I shall refer to Life as ‘he’.) is full of, erm, well, life! It is indeed rather hard to describe something which the human mind cannot fully comprehend, but can’t you see I’m trying here? No matter!

Life works much harder than I, bringing roughly double the amount of existence into the world as I take out of it . However, my role on the universe does appear to have a greater affect on the lives of these human beings who so cherish the spotlight of creation. It seems to me that anguish is a stronger emotion than joy. Engrain these two images in your mind: the face of a mother who has just conceived and the face of the man whose brother has just died. Which image is clear in your conscience? I trust I have made my point.

Nonetheless, I give Life much credit for this simple reason: without Life, I would be without a job. In fact, I would be nonexistent. So for that reason, I am grateful for the work of Life, though we butt heads on many matters. One such matter is suicide. And it is on this topic that I narrate this story to you.

I will admit, I do not understand, nor will I ever comprehend the emotions and thoughts that exist inside a human mind. I know not what drives a man or woman to such insanity whereupon they would hoist themselves high upon a bridge with weights tied to their ankles, and with a shout (or cry, the difference is indistinguishable) shove themselves into the air, allowing gravity to send them into the water below and ultimately, into my arms. However, when such a moment presents itself, when one of the humans does contemplate suicide, I try to make the most of it.

Undoubtedly, Life will beat me to The Boss’s door. He always does (Life is the sort of fellow who is very passionate about his work and quick to respond to the happenings of existence). But The Boss will usually listen to both sides of the case, first to Life’s emotional cries of desperation, and then to my own monotone. But no matter how much we beg and plea and scratch and scuff, the decision is left up to The Boss. Every time. And so, after our measly presentations, we exit His office and proceed to the observatory, where we wait and watch for the fate of the human in question.

It was exactly 12:00 A.M. on this particular summer night, which I thought seemed particularly foreboding, when Anna, the teenaged daughter of a wealthy businessman, stood atop a tall bridge, primed to take the leap. Life and I watched in anticipation from the observatory, oblivious to her fate. I could see her sweating even from so great a distance away; I could tell she was about to make her move, when Life gasped and pointed.

“Angels!” he exclaimed, “Angels are encircling her! She will be saved!” and he jumped from his place in the observatory and rushed down to Earth to greet Anna with open arms. I watched it all from above as, indeed, she stepped away from the bridge and removed the weights from her ankles. The Boss had chosen Life for Anna, and there were tears of joy on her face as she realized what she was almost persuaded to do. Life hugged Anna with all his might while the angels stood by, watching cheerfully, and after the embrace they all danced in the street and rejoiced.

If I’m to be honest, a small tear escaped my eye that night as I watched so intently the scene unfold beneath me from my window seat in the observatory. I believe it was the first tear to ever abscond my tear ducts, and I trust it will be the last as well.

Something changed for me that night. Never again did I view my job in the same light. After that moment, I became more and more aware of the pain that I caused in the world and contrarily, I better appreciated Life’s honorable profession. No longer did I scratch and scuff when I entered The boss’s office to present my side of a case; no longer was I so eager to enter the scene of a crime. I suppose one could say I became soft that night.

After all these years of stealing souls, I’ve learned many things. One is that suicide, above all else, makes me weary. Life and I have had many a conversation about suicide, and we both believe that it is the most hopeless of all crimes.

So, dear reader, let me simply say this: do not worry about removing my career, for that will never happen, but if I can teach you anything at all through this grim account, let it be to choose life.