It was the first day at my new high school and I came right at the beginning of a tradition called “circus week”. It’s a tradition every year where every day there is something clown and circus themed. Then at the end of the week, there's a circus that comes and we have a whole day of activities. The week went by in a breeze and I saw many interesting characters from Monday to Friday.

Teachers, staff members, and students alike were dressed up for the occasion. The morning of the big circus event I shuffled myself into school looking forward to what was about to happen. However, nobody could’ve prepared me for the horrors that were about to entail within the walls of the gymnasium. Immediately at the front of the gym, there was a face painting station. The students could go and become different creations and characters so that one day they could express themselves in any way imaginable.

Moving along I saw many different people that came for fun. There were magicians, contortionists, sword swallowers, and of course the most memorable of all, clowns. As I’m continuing through the gym I make it to the back where there is a big sign that says “Clown House” with a sign under that says “Come in and join the fun”. I’m not the biggest fan of clowns but I thought “I suppose if it was dangerous or scary the school wouldn’t allow it” but I was sadly mistaken. It looks small from the outside but the inside felt like a maze.

I cautiously took my first step in and was immediately greeted by an animatronic clown named Mr. Fun when I walked by he repeated: “come on in and join the fun”. He looked a little creepy but I didn’t pay any mind and kept going. After walking through this seemingly endless hallway I heard from behind “come on in and join the fun” I jumped and turned around to find Mr. Fun about 50 feet away from me. It spooked me a bit but I continued. Walking around a bit more, making my way through this soon-to-be nightmare I heard from behind me “come on in and join the fun”. Turning around with adrenaline coursing through my body and anxiety spiking I see the same animatronic now 20 feet away.

I decided that I was not sticking around to see what would happen if I allowed him to get closer to me, so I picked up the pace and look for the exit. I checked the time and I had been in there for 3 hours when it felt like 10 minutes. Still looking for the exit I hear feet running behind me, I take a quick peak not to take too much time so I can get the fuck out of there as fast as possible. Chills ran up my spine when in utter shock I saw him…Mr. Fun. I start hauling ass to find the exit and I finally make it. When I walked out of the front door of the school everyone was looking for me cause I disappeared without a trace but returned unharmed.

The principal and my parents ran up to me and my mom gave me the biggest hug I have ever received from her. The principal asked where I ran off to and I explained that I had gone into the clown house and had a strange interaction with the animatronic Mr. Fun. With confusion on her face and fear in her eyes, she explains that there was no animatronic in the Clown House named Mr. Fun. It’s been eight years since graduation and I still have nightmares about who…or what Mr. Fun was.

She walked into the Senate, carrying the head of the man who had order her execution. Covered in blood, teeth bared, she threw the severed head onto the floor and dared any man take it, promising her own if they could wrest it from her.

None dared. The Senators ordered their nomistic soldiers to kill her but, tired of murdering innocents to fill their masters’ coffers, silence was the only reply.

This permeated the chamber until a hysterical aristocrat screamed at the closest guard to do something. The soldier’s only response was to draw his sword and throw it at the Senator’s feet. The message was clear. Do it yourself.

www.matthewcmclean.com

Bartholomew was in disbelief of the man gleefully staring at him for no other purpose than to stare. It was the torturer’s favorite plot. He received his victim from his majesty, then drove them mad with silence. Not a word, watching ever so attentively. Bartholomew didn’t know what was happening, but the cold stone walls from which he was shackled had seen it many times. The chamber grew bored of the same old routine, but the torturer was fond of watching his victims slowly decay.

In a few days he would starve to death Bartholomew thought, his mouth gagged with rag and rope. These walls knew better: humans dehydrate faster than they starve. Bartholomew's descent into insanity would be the only distraction from the slow, agonizing shutdown of his organs. The heart and mind go last.

The basement begged the torturer to use the whip or mace that hung from its southern barrier. A breeze from the entryway would have them sway like windchimes, but the torturer ignored them. If these walls could talk, they would remind him of the great executioners that came before. Arthur “The Prick” as he was referred, a particular favorite of the enclosure. He’d toss his duties into the iron maiden, then closed its door slowly. The shrieking sound of its occupant tickled the walls with delight. Efficient, cruel, and to the point. Indeed, the incessant shrill sound of screaming throughout the kingdom forced his majesty to end The Prick’s reign.

Then came Roger “The Finger”, known for collecting the digits of the convicted. He scoffed the title of executioner and thought torture a more suitable punishment in the eyes of God. He removed the thumbs from thieves and tongues of the blasphemous. The walls rather not remember the fate of adulterers. Alas, his majesty could not tolerate a kingdom full of thumbless beggars, mute heretics, and effeminate eunuchs. He rather them dead.

Thus, his majesty appointed a new executioner under strict guidelines. “Death without a trace. No sound and no surviving criminals are to exit these walls”, his majesty instructed. That is how the dark chamber’s latest occupant became known as William “The Silent”.

“I shall let God decide”, William professed out of his majesty’s earshot. A secret he only shared within the cellar walls. Like Roger, William did not want death on his hands, to let God be the judge of the wicked.

He cleverly devised a method to silence those sent to him without removing their tongues or use of excruciating murder. Should they starve to death or die in captivity, “twas their destiny,” William justified. It was only through a cruel twist of fate that his majesty, Bartholomew, now discovered his executioner's notorious methods. Hung from the only walls that knew the full history of his cruel rulership.

As the whale glides along the surface of the water, the man with spherical head and painted on smile trails behind in the solid-wood green boat. “Ahoy” he cries, “ahoy!” The whale dives and the round-headed man with cylindrical body hurls a toothbrush, three times his height, at the disappearing behemoth. “Dive, dive, dive!” The toothbrush splashes the water, a wide miss, and floats away, while the whale circles back along the glistening white ocean floor. He surfaces, silently, deadly, behind the boat, watching the bubbles in the wake of the little boat form behind. The man rows over to collect his bristled instrument of war, and sighs in resignation as his toothbrush has yet again failed to do the trick.

At that very moment, when the orb-shaped head turns around, the whale leaps out of the water and casts a shadow over the man and boat, blocks the sun entirely—a total eclipse as foreboding as any in history, and crashes down onto the stern of the whaling vessel.

“Timmy!” his Mother shouts. “What are you doing with Daddy’s toothbrush?”

“It’s to get the whale,” said Timmy.

“I told you not to play with the toothbrushes in the tub. Get out! Bath time is over.”

Timmy felt himself yanked out of the water and set right on the tile floor. The towel wrapped around his shoulders, he looked over at the scene and heard the fizz of the shampoo in his hair. The man’s lifeless body floating on the water, the bubbles foaming around his permanent smile, and the rubber whale with the squirting spout rolling over on its back. “Next time,” he said like some salty Ahab, “next time.”

​

***

Cast your harpoon into Quill And Trowel's Twitter & Medium accounts (links in profile).

Student 1: ...but if one takes money away from another, that's robbery. I can't see how taking service instead of money is any different.

Professor: There is a contract among them, that makes it legal.

Student 2: Then it's extortion. Obviously one part is coercing the other.

Professor: 🙄

Years later:

Attorney: This is preposterous! Who equates unpaid overtime to robbery and extortion???

Prosecutor: You don't remember us do you professor?

Attorney: Us?

Judge: 😏

____________________

Tks for reading. If I sparked your curiosity, somehow, here is a list of my other stuff.

She felt her mother’s hand at the same time that her sister did. Both jostled to get there first, elbowing, kicking each other. Almost immediately, they felt another hand, this time slightly to the right. Hearing a familiar soothing voice sing to them, the sisters floated towards the second hand. They battled again- throwing feeble punches at each other. The younger one managed to best the other this time, coiling tightly into a bunch, resisting her sister’s efforts to push her away.

While they were engaged thus in fisticuffs, the mother watched in delight the protrusions that appeared on her distended belly with each poke and jab. As the beaming father looked on, he whispered, “I cannot wait for our twins to be born”.

Meditation Under The Sun :

​

Funny how time works.

​

Here I am, basking in the sun once more - the winter, gone by as quickly as it came. Overwhelming me is a feeling of END, a door closing, the curtain falling, and despite knowing and preparing myself for years now I still tremble, I still spiral away in fear at the prospects of the unknowable future, of the maelstrom of days towering over me, of the incessant torment of people and circumstances..

​

What can I do, really, but laugh as I try my best and still struggle aimlessly, amidst a sea of despair, emerging in panic to gasp and take in the blissful temporary relief that is air, elusive moments of respite-

​

Swimming, crawling, inching forward on the barren wasteland that is the PATH. My life, crossing by chance and never meeting again other ignorant fools, other disillusioned bastards distracting themselves as they walk forward, onward, convinced that the many hands they hold are truly there.

​

That the dreaded, the despicable, the evil LONELINESS is fended off, until inevitably and to everyone's despair the bonds, the love, the very hands they hold either withers away and rot or leave without a second thought.

​

Sooner or later these ignorant fools will be forced to realize amongst the gluttonous sea of hopelessness that not only are they alone - tiny, vulnerable, insignificant - they always were!

​

The warm hugs and the bright smiles the unending evenings of laughters and the secretive cries of confidants; all lies, all mere shouts across the distant ocean separating the lone islands that we are.

​

Mere echoes on the barren walls of a cave, barely reaching foreign ears. Mere LIES desperatly embraced and faithfully believed, for loneliness cannot be the state of existence, it must not be!

​

If that is the case, the world is far too frightening to face alone.

If that is the case, perhaps death shall reunite me with my loved ones?

​

If that is the case, let us hurry up and die at last, to flee escape bury oneself amidst the dead leaves, all the more convinced that indeed, we are but tiny mice, mere larvaes, microbes even, crawling about, clutching at life, incarnations of the struggle of nature-

​

IF THAT IS THE CASE, then the act of living is bravest of all. Hold your head high, and walk along your path with courage, for those that choose life are the bravest of all!

The air was crisp and light on the night Dani first let me look through her telescope. She’d perched it in the middle of the patio in the backyard and focused it on the part of the sky where the stars blinked.

“Like eyes?” I had asked Dad.

He grimaced. “Not really. More like…headlights.”

It was chilly for Florida, in the forties, and Mom had insisted I put on not only my jacket but my mittens for the brief venture outside. It turned out to be not so brief though, since I couldn’t stop staring up at the sky. Maybe that’s why she’d told me to put on my mittens. Mom was clever like that. “What do you think they’re like?”

Dani paused. “Dad said they’re probably nice. Because they’re giving us a long time to notice they’re coming. If it was a sneak attack, if they wanted to hurt us, they’d already be here.”

“I hope he’s right.”

“It’s Dad, of course he’s right.”

I stamped my feet. My toes were getting cold in my sneakers. “What do you think they look like?”

“How should I know?”

Dani was four years older than me. It felt like she should know something like this. “I think they’re lizard people,” I announced. “And so, they’ll have to bundle up real good ’cause it’s gets real cold on Earth. Like now.”

“They probably can’t breathe our air.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “What do they breathe, then?”

Dani grinned. “Other air. My teacher said aliens probably breathe a different type of air, just because they grew up on different planets. So, that means they’ll need space suits, like we do when we go to the moon. So, they won’t have to worry about temperature. Their space suits will keep them warm.”

“Huh.” I looked back to the sky. I looked over the many stars spread through the darkness and my gaze eventually landed back on the stars that were blinking. I blinked back.

​

/r/storiesbykaren

One duck says to the other, “I don’t quite get it.”

The other duck says, “Yeah, neither do I.”

“It’s a bit maudlin don’t you think?”

“Yes, the artist really thought he was doing something, didn’t he?”

“Well, if by ‘the artist,’ you mean, Steve, then yes, Steve really did think he was doing something.”

“I heard he was getting a divorce.”

“Again?”

“Again, again. That makes three.”

“Four actually.”

“I thought it was three.”

“Well, technically, he wasn’t married to that one girl, but might as well have been.”

“Either way, the guy can’t keep a wife.”

“Or a job.”

“Guess that’s why he’s an artist.”

“You mean, ‘artist’,” he said, flapping his wings to make air quotes.

“Shame.”

“I know. Heard she ran off with his agent.”

“Ouch.” He looked at the painting on the wall. There was a mass of blue and green in a mass of black and purple and some yellow dots scattered around. “Does he usually show up to these things?”

“I don’t think so. I’m only here for the free drinks. And I heard they were going to have the mini-tacos again.”

“Oh yeah, I saw a girl walking around with them.”

“Guys, I’m right here,” said Steve.

“Oh. Hey, Steve! Nice work, man! Good to see ya!”

“Yeah, I’m really digging this one. Is it like a pond in outer space or something?”

The Pond In Outer Space, Or Something was Steve’s favorite piece that he was showing, although he had been wavering on the title. He was glad he had stuck with it because it felt very descriptive of the actual painting. He waddled over to a bench and sat down. He took a bite of his taco, and a sip of champagne. There was no one left, he thought. His wife, his friends, his manager, all gone. Just him now, and his maudlin paintings.

​

***

Follow u/quillandtrowel on Twitter & Medium for more talking ducks and things.

​

And then, there was light.

Not in a biblical kind of way, just... a bright light. An idea. The sun. A car moving in my direction. All of the above, who knows? Not me. I'm not the kind of person who knows things. The last time I could grasp the concept of knowledge was when my friend died, and I knew it was my fault.

Maybe that bright light was an ambulance, or the spark in his eyes going away. If I knew this I could be happy for finally knowing something. Yes, happy... such joy.

It's too late now. The ambulance is no longer here. The sun already set. There is no more light.

Caterpillars turn into butterflies. Ugly ducklings turn into swans. Then there's me—undead. I'm not the only undead in the world. Everywhere I go, I encounter hordes of undead people. Yet I'm still alone. No one communicates anymore; all that escapes their mouths are grunts and raspy breaths, like a room full of smokers gasping for air.

Every day, I try to pick up fragments of my former life, piecing together memories of a world long gone. It all unraveled when a lab-grown virus, clumsily unleashed by a scientist with butterfingers, brought about the apocalypse.

First, you'll cough and feel a subtle tickle in your throat, but by the end of the day, swallowing becomes difficult. It'll feel like you've got a cactus lodged in your throat. Your body rejects all food and drinks. Three to five days later, you simply drop dead, but then you come back.

There are still a handful of survivors scurrying about. They run off and hide as soon as they catch sight of me. There's one little creature that doesn't run away scared from me. He follows me around, wagging his tail enthusiastically as he barks joyfully at my side.

Are you hungry, Buddy?

He barks twice and spins around.

I'm hungry, too. I crave for something human: a hand, some brain matter, and the rich, buttery flavor of fat that tantalizes the palate. I long for the human touch, and I see that the other undead do too.

For now, I guess it's you and me, Buddy.

Just you and me.

When walking one Summer day down the dusty road to Amherst, young Johnny Atkins found a pair of beaten-down, dried-out, and discarded leather loafers. It was not the shoes that caught his attention, but the penny stuck in the tongue of the loafers that attracted him. He climbed down into the ditch, pulled the shoes out of the weeds and tried to remove the penny, without any success. Never a one to waste a gift, Johnny stuck the shoes under his arm and continued home.

At home, Jeremey’s mother said, “Your father used to have shoes such as these. He wore them to church err’y Sundee.” Johnny used a screwdriver and needle-nose to pull the pennies out, then soaked them in a tub of vinegar and salt. He went to the shed and removed a splintered oak box from a dusty shelf and looked over all the tins, bottles, and brushes inside. He took a brush and water and laid a frothing coat of saddle soap across the brown leather, then rinsed it off. He slathered the parched calfskin in mink oil, and admired his work. They felt lighter in his hands as he worked a coat of leather conditioner across the toe box and quarter. Besides the creases in the leather, he could not tell that the shoes had once been ditch-worthy. Lastly, he took a tin filled with dusty brown wax and poured a little water into it. He took a brown rag and used two fingers to swirl the wax onto the loafers until they drank it all down and then applied another coat and a third. He looked into the wrinkled vamps and could see his silhouette—round faced and broad, like his father’s.

Johnny put on his new shoes and walked to school the following Monday. His classmates all had a good laugh at his expense when they saw him and Mr. Johnson sitting across from each other, both wearing nearly identical penny loafers. Mr. Johnson, naturally, complemented the young boy, without at all helping his plight.

“In my day, we’d be embarrassed to not have a shine on,” he said.

When the shooting started, Johnny thought about his Dad and Mr. Johnson. He heard the Sergeant yelling at everyone to take cover and to get the machine gun in place. He dropped a magazine at his feet and looked down at his black leather boots that looked almost orange now. After three weeks in the desert, they had no shine left and Johnny didn’t pack a shoe brush. Johnny wondered how Mr. Johnson and his father kept their boots dry in the jungle.

An explosion erupted some meters away and ripped hot steel into Johnny’s right calf and ankle. When the medic cut his laces off, Johnny asked if he could hold on to the boot. Private Smith, taping a morphine lollipop to Johnny’s finger said quizzically, “yeah buddy anything you want.” Johnny and his boot were buried in Arlington that summer.

​

***

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The elm was the tallest tree for miles and, as it grew, it knew pride, standing above the grass and scrub. When the boys came to climb it, the elm knew joy, watching the simple pleasures of the children climb its trunk and shake its limbs. In the cold of winter and violent storms of spring, it knew resilience, sheltering any that needed it.

The grief of the elm tree, though, did not come from axe or storm, but when men dragged one of the climbing boys back to it and threw a rope over its sturdiest branch. The elm knew grief when the crows came into its branches to feast.

www.matthewcmclean.com

I see the husband looking through the window before the wife and the lover hear him. The husband watches his wife and the paramour whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears, as they lie naked on the bed. The husband lets out a low growl and presses the trigger of the shotgun that hitherto had been concealed under his jacket. The wife lets out a scream as she watches the lover’s lifeless eyes close slowly. An instant later, she feels a sharp pain in her chest, and I watch her bleed to death, as I keep vigil throughout the night.

The housekeeper discovers the bodies the next day, by now cold and dead for over 12 hours. The police seal off the scene of crime and after several months, the case is closed for lack of evidence. The police conclude that it was a case of robbery- the jewelry and cash were never recovered.

Among those whom the police interrogated were the husband, housekeeper, neighbors and several acquaintances of the adulterer and her lover. No one asked me- the sole eyewitness to the crime. I am, after all, a fly on the wall.

I had arrived in Riga to visit a woman friend. Her house, the town, the language were unfamiliar to me. Nobody was expecting me, no one knew me. For two hours I walked the streets in solitude. Never again have I seen them so. From every gate a flame darted, each cornerstone sprayed sparks, and every streetcar came toward me like a fire engine. For she might have stepped out of the gateway, around the corner, been sitting in the streetcar. But of the two of us I had to be, at any price, the first to see the other. For had she touched me with the match of her eyes, I should have gone up like a magazine.

Ordnance, by Benjamin Walter. Collected in One-Way Street and Other Writings.

In your former life, you didn’t adhere to a religion, and you’re glad that you never did. Now, you realize that no one knows what happens after death. You wander through the worn-out paths of your former life, following your old daily routine. It’s the familiarity that comforts you in this unfamiliar way of existence.

But eventually, you start to fade out, and you’re pulled into another plane of existence. The first thing you feel is a sense of tranquility. And then...warmth. You’re curled up in a shell. You can’t open your eyes yet, but you feel safe and protected in this cocooning warmth. You hear your heartbeat, and then someone else’s heartbeat. Then the next thing you faintly recognize is a sweet sound of humming. You realize that the song is for you. The humming offers comfort; lulling you to sleep as it gently rocks you.

You’re not in the shell for long. Soon, you feel a sudden agony as your body is forcibly pushed out. At first, a bright light stings your eyes, but slowly you open them again. And there, right in front of you, is the tender face of a woman smiling at you. She cradles and kisses you. With a fiercely protective hug, she pours her tears onto you. Yes, she is a stranger. And yet, she seems so familiar.

Memories of your former life soon begin to blur, like a painting thrown out into the sea. The colors fade, and the canvas deteriorates. You can’t recall your old name. You wonder where you used to live, and what kind of people once surrounded you.

You cry, desperately wanting to cling a little longer to your old life. But the woman’s voice soothes you. She tells you that it’s all right. And then, once again, she hums. It’s that same soothing tune that you heard her hum while you were in the shell.

You are given a new name and a new home.

This is your new life.

He woke up angry, he ate angry, he drank his coffee angry. Yelled at his family, neighbors, God, who would ever stand still for it.

And it went on like that for years. Then one day he put all of the morning aside to go out and chop wood, swinging the axe until he sweated it out of him. Regardless of season, he keep at it until he could go in and kiss his wife and children without the poison he always carried. He learned to beat on his heart as if it were an anvil of joy and, for the last few years of his life, it served him well.

www.matthewcmclean.com

Your wife goes to the office, leaving you to cook, clean and care for the baby while she is away. “Gender Equality”, she calls it. Before you know it, you are a ‘house husband’, a.k.a. a harassed husband.

Is your wife pushing you to take paternity leave, so that you can sit at home and watch the baby instead of her? Is this thankless unpaid care work taking a toll on you physically, mentally and emotionally? If yes, ‘Harassed Husbands Anonymous’ is the key to your woes.

To know more, scan this QR code.

Cold Kisses Eggshell Ashes

“Wake up,” she said to me, “or you’ll be soaked in a minute.” I turned, not wanting to leave the warm bed. Cold kisses on my neck and forehead, the dripping water woke me with its icy needles. I closed my eyes tight and reached for the covers as light from the bedside lamp hit me like cymbals. She was up and out of bed and looking pretty ferrety as she picked up the stainless-steal cooking pot off of my dresser. “I thought you were going to put this away today,” she growled under her breath. More awake now I just smiled back with a look that I thought said, I bet you’re glad I didn’t now. I was instantly relieved I hadn’t oralized my thoughts though, because she added, “You could have at least emptied the water out. You’re dresser is basically ruined.” I could imagine the circle left by the pot in the stain of my grandmother’s dresser. If lazy bachelors had a flag, it would be a water marked dresser I thought. I rolled over on my back avoiding the wet spot and stared at the eggshell ceiling. Crackled and broken from the water. Dripping in when the ice pushed snow up underneath the shingles. Now, I watched as the bubble of shingle water swelled above us. “Are you going to move,” she said annoyed, “or should I balance this pot on your forehead?” I saw the corners of her pale pink lips turn up at this; her mood was always brighter when she thought she was being witty. I rolled to her side of the bed and looked back up at the ominous bubble. It glistened in the light and its surface took on the look of a liquid. I watched it quiver and relieve itself of a single drop. I imagined at any moment it would break. I imagined the bubble only resisted to prove that it set the schedule. It was, wet and pulsating, out of our control. It strives to show us we are not the God’s of our domain we once imagined we were. If only I had a blow dart. I could choose the time of descent. Become again my own master. A burst of wetness, perhaps the slightest hint of blues reds and purples as the water refracts light on its journey to the bed. That is all it would be, instant release. “You need to call somebody about this roof today,” she said as she laid the pot on the bed and headed briskly towards the bathroom to get some towels. “Shit,” I heard from the hallway outside my bedroom. She came back in. The big toe on her left foot was red and beginning to bleed at the nail. She threw the towel. It sailed through the air, ghost like, and landed with a plop next to me on the bed. “I was aiming for your head,” she said, again with that half smile. After folding the towel, I placed it gently under the pot on the edge of the bed. I ran my hands along the edges forcing the sheets to meet the towel and give up their water. “I’m sleeping on the couch,” as she turned and left the room. I heard her open the medicine cabinet, in the bathroom down the hall, looking for a band aid I supposed. For a long time I laid on my back, on the dry half of the bed, watching the bubble until I fell asleep. I woke the next morning to find it had burst. Tiny eggshell paint chips covered the wet sheets and gave me the impression of ash.

Your remains are taken away to the crematorium in a black body bag. The Coroner has determined that you’ve died a natural death. It could’ve been a heart attack, a ruptured brain aneurysm, or perhaps another underlying health issue. The investigator concludes that you have no family; not even a hint of a distant relative. The friend who sent you that postcard has long since disappeared. Perhaps he drowned while snorkeling or was swept farther into sea. Never to be seen again.

The Cremator shoves you into the furnace. There, the flames lick you from head to foot before engulfing you in its mouth. Your bones are charred by its searing fury.

Through a small window, you watch yourself—a human who lived yet never truly lived—reduce into ashes. You wander down the corridor, lingering by the Cremator who shivers and turns to catch a glimpse of your shadow as it walks through the wall in front of him.

She returns to work, unbothered. She is all too familiar with an unseen presence like yours. You’re not the only one in the room. There are other nameless ones. They wander the corridors and loiter in dark corners. They press their mournful faces against the windows, leaving faint traces of their presence in condensation.

Without a family or friend to claim your ashes, the Cremator gathers them up and shovels them onto the wagon. She wheels you outside and pours you into a deep pit; the communal plot. This is where you will lie; dumped and buried with the ashes of the other nameless ones.

Now, you roam with neither a body nor a place to call home. The other nameless ones tell you it’s all right. It’s not so bad to wander the Earth. You’re not completely alone.

So, for now, you circle your old neighborhood, looking up at the old apartment complex. The old lady’s Pomeranian barks at you from the window. Several kids run up to the gate with presents and balloons. Then, you remember it’s your neighbor’s kid’s birthday. They sent you an invitation in your mailbox, but that was left unchecked.

You promise yourself that you’ll do differently next time, if you get another chance to live.

You’re found on the couch in front of the TV, still sitting on the remote. The game show host greets the Investigator who has kicked your front door open. He tells the Investigator that the contestant has lost the chance to win the brand spanking new car, so— the plug is pulled, and the screen shuts off.

Judging by the sludge on the floor that was once your skin, guts, and muscles, the Investigator estimates that you’ve been dead for over a month or so. What’s left of you is a shadow of your former self— the few tendrils of hair, your painted fingernails, and your yellowed bones and teeth.

Your apartment isn’t an apartment. It’s a maze of looming towers of books and newspapers, and turrets of ornaments and emptied food cans. With gloved hands, the Investigator rifles through your things on the dining table—passed due bills, brochures and pamphlets, crumpled tissues, crushed pills, and cigarette butts and ashes.

He determines you were a recluse, a turtle that hid in its shell whenever someone passed by. You have one postcard from a friend.

Hawaii is great! Going snorkeling! - dated 2004.

And that’s the first and only sign of a connection to someone from the world outside. In the bedroom, you had cockatiels and lovebirds in cages. Dozens of birds. All are starved and featherless. In the kitchen, the trash can is overflowing. The plates and silverware fill the sink to the brim.

The only surviving friends you have are the flies circling above your head, forming a swirling black halo; and the roaches and ants that crowd around a bowl of rotten fruit.

The Investigator scrambles to a window, though it refuses to budge. He punches it open and as a breeze of fresh air sweeps in, he gasps to breathe it in. His entire body shivers.

I am coming down from the stairs being all disappointed because of things not going the way I want them but as I am coming down...my eyes met his eyes and all the problems I am having disappeared. He looked at me like as he can't take his eyes off me but then why he can't make eye contact with me huh I think that's my illusion..Nevertheless My face turned all joyful seeing him but wait is it same for him? The bitter truth no but I asked him are you going somewhere he said no just going to the room I don't know why but I initiated the conversation and then after that I kept moving but wait I stopped! Yes I stopped!! I stopped there for a moment so that I can match his steps with mine so that I can walk home with him even though the home was not too far away it was just at walking distance but yet I felt good to move along with him and I keep talking to him or should I say I keep blabbering. For a moment I thought is he being uncomfortable around me or is he liking it while I am thinking this he asked about my younger sister that how is she.. Wait let me tell you she is so young she is 17 years younger then me and yes everyone adores her so he asked me about her and I again blabbered that you know she has become more naughtier than ever since ever she got bald and he smiled and said that's not the logic and I emphasized on my statement that no she has become naughtier and then he started talking about how my small sister keep being playful all day!! For a moment I thought that everyone loves her because she is 18 months old but at the same time I feel so happy that because of her he talked to me then my home come and I have to said good bye to him and he said good bye too I felt so happy but at the same time I thought was I being too friendly or did he get uncomfortable around me? The answers of this questions are incomplete but I will find them

Kass rolls over in his bed, burying himself deeper into comfort. Across the room from Kass, a gentle breeze begins to blow at his window curtains, shifting them just enough so that a beam of light can hit Kass’ eyes. He groans, pulling his covers over his face. A sudden gust of wind tries to pull the cover off Kass’, but he quickly takes it back, wrapping himself up tight.

“Leave me alone! It’s my day off!” moans Kass. A faint, raspy growl floats around the room. Suddenly, Kass’ phone begins to glitch, opening a music app and turning the volume to the max.

Playing: "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" by Wham

Every speaker in the apartment synchronizes as the base alone shakes anything not nailed to the floor. Kass leaps out of bed and runs towards his desk to turn off his phone. Once off, he looks around his room at the mess his “speakers” made. The sound of children giggling draws his attention toward the hallway. Krass groans as he follows the laughter to the bathroom door, left slightly open.

“I’m only gonna say this once,” says Kass, “If I walk in there and find anything written on my mirror in blood again, I’m calling the priest.” The door slams shut. Running water and frantic squeaking can be heard from inside the bathroom. “Don’t forget to use the cleaner this time.”

Krass starts walking back to his room when he’s hit with a wet towel on the back of the head before hearing the bathroom door shut again. “Five hundred dollars a month, five hundred dollars a month, five hundred dollars…” Kass continues to repeat himself as he walks past his room into the laundry room. He turns on the light to find the room filled with bubbles. Kass notices a poorly written note taped to the back of the door.

"Heads up, you’re out of laundry detergent, so we used dish soap instead. Enjoy your day off, roomie!” – Ruth

The laundry room light flickers as the decapitated head of a young woman floats up from under the bubbles with an inhumanly large grin. Before she can speak, she notices a headless body back in the bathroom, motioning her to stop.

“Not feeling it today?” asks Ruth.

“Not even slightly,” answers Kass.

“Then, for the record,” says Ruth, “It was Bobbi’s idea!” Ruth sinks back into the bubbles. Kass looks back, seeing Ruth’s body give her head the middle finger before storming off, walking through a wall in the process.

“I swear, I should be getting paid to live here,” says Kass.

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Thanks for reading "Ruth-less," and I hope you enjoyed the story!

If you have any comments, critiques, or criticisms, please don't be afraid to let me hear 'em (as long as they're constructive (or funny)). If you want, head over to r/ToonTales for more stories.

Stay safe, drink plenty of water, and be kind to yourself and others.

ToonMan, AWAY!

The neighbor’s boy smells it first. He’s in the kitchen with Mom baking a cake for his little sister’s 5th birthday. A peculiar odor has seeped through the walls. At first, it’s faint. A hint of stink, like a fading fart.

The wall where it’s coming from is the wall that you and the family share. The boy sniffs the air and follows an invisible trail of stink to the wall. He presses his nose against it. The smell strikes his nostrils like a punch on the nose. Stumbling back, he gags and pukes on the table, on the cake, on his apron, and on Mom. The chunks of pancakes and sausages he ate for breakfast intrude on to what was, until then, a peaceful family moment.

The elderly lady, with whom you share the living room wall, wonders why her Pomeranian won’t stop barking at the wall. With a little treat in hand, she approaches the dog, coaxing him away from the wall. That’s when her nose twitches.

“That’s a funny smell,” she mumbles as she draws closer to the wall. But as she sniffs the air, she staggers back in disgust. Her stomach churns.

She can hear that your TV is still on. It’s always that same game show. The same mindless crowd cheering. Today, a new contestant has won a brand-new, double-door top-of-the-line steel refrigerator.

The man in the apartment below you notices the brown spot in the ceiling. A few days ago, the spot was only a speck, but now it has grown, darkened, and leaking steady droplets. And that pungent stink... he can’t recall a time he’s ever smelled something so horrific before. The closest memory he can think of is from last summer, when the sewer pipes in his squalid neighborhood block suddenly burst and flooded the parking lot.

But even that noxious stench is no match for this. This stink is like no other. The blackish liquid leaking from the ceiling tastes like the bitter, caustic sap of some god forsaken tree from the underworld.

cgacosta.substack.com

Your body is the canvas and you are the artist. You’re getting ready to paint. You gather your tools. Your brush tipped with a fine point will make for the perfect instrument of expression. As you go to work your body becomes covered with the scarlet paint that you are so very familiar with. It starts to cover your canvas entirely. The erratic brush strokes that seem to be driven by anger, start to create a work of are that is very reminiscent of your past works. No one seems to appreciate your art like you do though. It doesn’t matter anyway. Tomorrow you will have a different occupation and the night after that you have yet another one. The next night comes and you’re a butcher. You gather your tools and get to work. The meat is quickly turned into cuts of meat worthy of any fine restaurant. Compared to the quick erratic brush strokes of the painter, the butcher works with slow purposeful movements. At least what the painter created could be appreciated as a work of art. What you’ve done is make a mess of yourself. You notice that it seems the blood wasn’t drained when it was processed. Blood begins to pool on the floor of your workshop. You notice you’re getting really exhausted. It must be from all of the hard work you’ve been doing. You go and lie down as blood continues to pool around you and you rest for the final time.

Your end is unlike any other death that you’ve read about in obituaries. From time to time, you would read them out of morbid curiosity and hear about how so and so died surrounded by their family and friends. But not you. Unexpectedly, you die alone.

Not in bed beside a partner, who’d wake up to find you lying stiff and not breathing. Not in a hospital with a nurse on the 10th hour of her 12th hour shift coming in to check on you and seeing that you’ve flat lined. Not in your cubicle at the office, where a worker drone would see you faceplant into the keyboard before hurrying off to the copy machine hours before a lonely janitor finds you ice cold in the same spot.

Instead, at 4:00 p.m., you die on the couch in front of the television. Before that, you get yourself a bag of chips, a can of soda, and your pack of smokes. You turn on the TV, flip through the channels before stopping on a loud, flashy game show. Then a tingling sensation trickles from your head down to the tips of your toes. A soothingly familiar wave of exhaustion washes over you. Overcome with lethargy, your eyes become heavy, and your heart slows down.

You try with all your might to fight it off. After all, you want to watch your show. Your head slumps to the side, and your body goes limp. You stop breathing.

But the game show goes on.

Your weight presses down on the remote between the couch cushion and your right butt cheek. The volume turns up. The crowd cheers louder and louder! The host screams for the contestant to spin the wheel harder and harder!

“What do you get?” the host shouts. “A brand-new microwave!”

The contestant’s beaming face shines in your glazed, blank eyes.