Dream Dark Stories

Category: Thoughts and Introspection

  • Day Thirteen, January 13th, 2024

    0000

    Pretty sure I’ve mentioned it about hugging the cactus I don’t know who it is I don’t know where it came from I just like the metaphor because that’s what a relationship is. It is a true showing of how much of that cactus whether it be fine, egregious, and needle boring, and a nasty thorn, the vicious kind, or poisonous, and more gentle and positively joyous that we are measured up to. And how tenuous that tether will bow and long it’ll last.

    It’s a matter of what affects you, right? How much power will you give the other partner in your dichotomy of two?

    But then there calls maturity, grace and action or to behold love through peaceful negotiations.

    And to my dismay I found that anytime my partner has more time on her hands than screen time available, I’m finding a need to make myself more present and consistent with being there for her. Meaning even having my phone down and off, regardless if she’s watching something on her phone, there comes a call to make sure I’m not doing anything but awaiting her invitation. A call to make sure that I’m available for when she is no longer busy so now that this is becoming a new thing hopefully I’ll get Saturdays and Sundays in but I don’t know we’ll see.

    Good morning and good night good night and good morning.

    Nosce Te Ipsum

  • Day Twelve, January 12th, 2024

    Listening to Teddy Swims – Lose Control, Ray Lamontongue – Such a Simple Thing, and Zach Bryan’s h Something in the Orange.

    I engorged on asian treats and the usual typical favorite dishes at China Lantern. In Georgetown ice cream or custard from Culver’s and just continue to eat and eat and eat I did this all day yesterday the 12th I persisted and continued and continued to eat, and well, I got to that point of near complete discomfort, and my body when dealing with sugars becomes a stupefied mass of myself.

    One thing that I don’t like about what I was addressing on the 11th there is a domino effect and it’s something I’ve noticed since the diagnosis of the MS collecting oneself and getting back to your original set plan or goals takes a massive amount of time.. one of the largest issues of distraction is I’m still waiting for my passion planner to get here it was supposed to be here this last week but apparently was held up in shipping word is it’ll be here next Wednesday so I got to do more planning and simple composition notebook thing is I have probably five or eight lying around throughout my office and the house let’s see if I write in the right one

    It’s also something I appreciate about falling or taking a messed up it leaves us what? An opportunity. Though I don’t like losing track and I am aware that it happens more often that I care to admit sometimes, but what I do like about the opportunities of Miss stepping or hitting a wall at times, is it truly does leave this opportunity to reflect and reconfigure.

    Day 10 of first Portrait using acrylic

    So we go on we start out obviously not day one-start again: part 2. But we start again and we aim on being better than you were yesterday and the day before and the day before that always intending on being the best that we can be, the best I can be. What I’ve noticed is with the insertion of true intention and the demand for maintaining said intention as in my intention is to be a decent and better man than I was yesterday, or I choose to be the best person I can be that I can be. This is a start so day 12 sorry it’s late have a good day I’ll see you.

    Good night, good morning, good morning, good night,

    Nosce Te Ipsum

  • Day Eleven, January 11th, 2024

    A mental day sign off.

    Sadly, to my dismay, I’m reminded Ocrevus isn’t a cure it’s a medicinal wall that’s stronger than other medications that serve a similar purpose for us MSers.

    The day knocked my on my ass leaning into the 12th of January and I drifted, slumped, and let my exhaustion cloud my mind and purpose. Sometimes this happens and all I’ve found is you take on the next day with more intention and more purpose.

    Nosce Te Ipsum

    Goodnight /Good Morning

  • Day Ten, January 10, 2024

    I hate my job. And though my assumption is there are multiple people who say that on a daily. Here’s the kicker ticker, I don’t know, I genuinely love my job. I love being able to tend to people who truly need, and being able to assist with their medical needs brings absolute joy. Especially when I hear the sigh of deep relief and the gratefulness for actually being heard and being seen or empathetically valued for the humanity that each patient is. The pay is shite and the teams are…boring I guess. They introduce themselves as readers and thinkers and yeah we’re taking care of patients but it doesn’t mean that there can’t be conversation about literature or really anything obviously safe for work. There just seems to be a mute-cap over us. can we not have stimulating talk anymore, nowadays. I share that I’m an artist I even share some productions of work and things that I’ve finished, even proud of and compliments aplenty but that’s it. They don’t share anything they do it’s dogs, cats, pets, a recipe, and addressing the weather. I don’t know if it’s an anti-tit-for-tat kind of community I don’t know maybe it’s because it’s a work-from-home kind of job, I don’t know.

    Anyhow, this is my dump; this is my Wednesday hump day dump where like most days, I share my thoughts, the stresses, observations of life, and lessons learned, learning, and what have you. My art just keeps pouring it and I love being creative it revives the spirit instills hope and motivates a change in myself. But I came to wanting a challenge and brought myself a one I’ve been anxious for creating my first actual portrait in acrylic paint. I’ll share one picture from each month, the last three months and tell me what you think, I’d love to share and post more, and would love some feedback.

    Space Eviscerate – April 2023
    SkyScape – May 2023
    La Llorona in The Red Forest – September/October 2023
    Blossom and The Spider – November 2023
    Calling – August 2023
    The Calling Moon – November2023
    Catching the Light – November/December 2023
    Day 1
    Day 2
    Day 3
    Day 4
    Day 5 and 6

    The above work you’re seeing is a stab at portraits that I’m taking on. The thing is I love faces and the textures and elements of detail that make us separate. So I’m using acrylic on black canvas and staying

    Nosce Te Ipsum

    Reference: Do this first thing in the AM to start your day off right. https://lifehacker.com/work/start-your-day-with-a-brain-dump

  • Day Nine,January 9th, 2024

    So today is more or less I guess quote day Tuesdays will be quote day and honestly I’ll probably just bring quotes in every time I find something that is either revealing upon just what I see what I obtain and how I observe or the likes of just what it is to be I guess what we are human.

    This one is one that I’ve definitely written down more times than once again from a stoic there is something I appreciate about the accountability of being aware that at some point our decisions will come to an end our lives will be done and what decisions and steps and actions we make from birth to that end not only sets us either within Grace or far far from it.

    “We are always complaining that our days are few, and acting as though there would be no end of them.” –Seneca

    Now if you would, like I do on most days, really when I read anything, I ponder, I let my brain try to absolve within the words that I’ve collected and not insert myself into that quote directly, but take from it into my own perspective, my own actions, and how often I complain.

    But ask yourself do you complain are you like so many others kind of matching that quote? I know I am, and I’d gladly and willingly take accountability to that. I b**** and moan about difficulties with nfts the dichotomy of Art and digital art and how, though they’re so much the same, there is such a sensitive divide between those that take action with their own hands through both angles or through just one and then the way they spit on one another. And yet they’re both art and the art that is stemming from whether it’s their own or what they saw or what they remembered and how they were raised. It’s another argument that has to do with free will is it actually their creation or is it a creation from an idea that they saw from Van Gogh, Hussar or O’Keeffe? What takes away the originality and Independence of creating art when it’s all art? Whether it’s digital, whether it’s physical, whether it’s a painting. It’s something using Adobe and a bunch of other things that are all using a computer system and coding but oh wait I’m doing the same thing with my brain aren’t I? We are using a computer within and outside of ourselves, how is there truly, how is there a difference or is the ego jumping into the way of that argument, know what I mean?

    So I asked this question because I have just been Grace with the opportunity to make good amounts of money to the point where if I do it right I can legitimately pull myself out of the working 9:00 to 5:00 type of job. All to have the freedom to provide for myself, for my family, and be present with my son every day while also doing school, getting to make art, and write.

    So the question is was this though I’m pretty sure there’s a lot of questions in this day nine. Do I take the jump? Do I take the risk and take the chance?

    I’ve asked two people make that three however the third I have yet to get a response one tells me to be cautious the other one tells me they know very little and wish me luck while the other is an artist and I feel I’m not getting an answer because well maybe the reason is sensitive or maybe the fact that it’s my sister who is also an artist doesn’t want me to know those steps without being involved. I don’t know I don’t know the questions there and I’m kind of at a ‘Hit or Miss by Odetta thinking.

    Signing out thinking about taking the jump making my first minting of something I truly created by myself and truly enjoyed and loved and thinking about making the opportunity of changing my life. I don’t know this is day 9 this is day 9 of a new year of change and the rest of my life what should I do?

    Goodnight and Good morning.

    Nosce Te Ipsum

  • Day Eight, January 8th, 2024

    The day starts with a sweat, the chill of the winter air that doesn’t seem to lift in the back room raps at my skin and my hand reaches for the phone blindly. As usual, it’s precarious perch is bare, but the arm drops and grabs l, still blind, and lands heavily onto the screen. My eyes open and the screen, bright enough it lights the room just enough to know it’s nowhere near the alarm set and I groan. Adjust, move a leg, position for another pocket of warmth and can’t manage to gain the comfort I stirred from .

    A commotion softly starts with the looking for socks in the laundry beast that’s swarming over a sixth of the space left in the back room, and lazily, I brush away clean underwear, wrinkled shirts, and towels wrapped inside of jeans and other clothes. Finally, socks that are fit for boots, a slip of the shirt from last night, the jeans still with the belt on and I head to the dogs who either heard the chime of the belt or just knew I’d be up.

    Lobo jumps with glee the moment his gate opens, peer pawed in the face with an exuberance of an eight-month Pyrenees while the mutt, Oreo a shitzu terrier whines his familiar small dog whine. The two are complete and utter opposites but they pair well and joyously snuggle with my steps in the blistering cold outside. The two tread through the snow, my arms wrestling with their leashes, grabbing my jacket at the door and slipping it on while letting them off to bark at the sinking moon and the white crystals twirling around them while they run back and forth.

    The ice block coated in warm water is lapped up quickly, shortly followed by a crunch crunch chomp. I slowly step toward the wind, and my breath is stripped from the lungs as the cold constricts my heart and body demanding a carbon dioxide sacrifice from me to feed its world. I cough, wheeze and scurry back inside to start the Keurig ready the lunches for the family and start up my programs, school, and the day ting work that’s already buzzing on the small phone nagging and skittering with every message and alert. I groan quietly, go about my way and ignore the alerts. The dogs howl at the destroyed breakfasts and wrestle in the snow barking at the door, begging for a run at play with either the boy or I. Ready the smoothie for the Mrs, pack her lunch, ready her water, set the bags, both the boys and hers and off they go. A kiss, a goodbye, followed by a caressing of espresso down my tongue and throat coaxing the body in warmth.

    This is my morning, most mornings, and I feel that I’ve gained more direction and accountability with these words I share.

    “In your actions, don’t procrastinate. In your conversations, don’t confuse. In your thoughts, don’t wander. In your soul, don’t be passive or aggressive. In your life, don’t be all about business.” – Marcus Aurelius

    Goodnight, Good morning.

    Nosce Te Ipsum

  • Day Seven, January 7th, 2024

    Week one is about to be done and wrapped; I am still awaiting my Passion Planner for the new year, hoping to put some new ideas, new projects and aim as high as possible. Tracks that will likely be on repeat are Best Foot Forward by Dj Shadow, Nothing Thought by Sonnymoon, lots of The Hics, Ludovico Einaudi with the likes of sporadic Tash Sultana sprinklings off and on.

    There comes though the Labrador-happy-go-lucky style in me that still wants to take each day as a. New one with the hopes that each move I make has intention, each decision the same, and the hope that I know I lived the best day of that day since I was born. Whether there is a call for happiness, knowledge or splendor, as long as I put that best foot forward what can go wrong right?

    Funny to think while I write these words Johnny Nash’s I Can See Clearly Now is belting into my ears and I can’t help to smile. Because the more I’ve found the trying times and the struggles of those oversized and burning hoops we see us jumping through, are a call to the adversities we’re faced with. Can you jump through? Can you see yourself making it unscathed? At times I can and other times I feel I can’t but know eventually I have to see if that wall can be broken.

    We as humans seem to aim for bliss but I’ve found no matter how happy, if I’m not challenged, I become complacent and jaded. and though I can’t remember recent reports skimmed and looked into, we’re not meant to be happy all the time, at least were supposed to learn through the challenges we’re faced with.

    And thinking of it, I think it’d make me sick after so long of feeling as though it’s a stepford wife mock-up. Id rather be challenged, test me. Push me. I’d rather gain and learn than stay in that limbo.

    Signing out. Thank you and have a good morning or night.

    Nosce Te Ipsum

  • Day Six, January 6th, 2024

    I’m finally starting to understand the commercializing of Ocrevus and the steps that taking Ocrevus brings. When one gets this opportunity, the first infusion is done in two sessions and I finally did that second session at the beginning of December. At the start I think a lot of my excitement and the anxiousness that I felt with the excitement brought a lot of wanting to change and wanting to feel the change. But the matter of fact was it doesn’t work like magic, it takes time, everything takes time, so my body took it a bit rough, and I had to compensate for the very much-needed rest that still is called for.

    But I kept the hesitation at bay, at least as best as I thought. Something though started happening through the nerve endings and synapsis within. This brought an excitement that I hadn’t felt in eons and knowing the blacked-out spots in my brain may become rejuvenated, igniting a fire and it’s been a journey in itself and that’s just since December 13, 2023.

    The lines are becoming tethered and the feeling is splendid and tiring. A conundrum, I know., but it’s the finding of gaining my senses, staying on track, and finishing projects. My resolution since the Ocrevus infusion was not to miss a day, not to let the future or past interrupt my wanting to finish the goals and the agenda of becoming stronger in mind and heart. All in good time.

    Goodnight, good morning.

    Nosce Te Ipsum

  • Day Five, January 5th, 2024

    I’ll start with a quote, one from my favorite stoic, Marcus Aurelius.

    “You’re better off not giving the small things more than they deserve.” –Marcus Aurelius

    My thoughts: I ponder and though the other day I addressed the Labrador-happy-go-lucky-next-day-attitude. And yet, there is a truth to the statement mentioned above. If we lived to let those small things, those small worries that more likely press to the Id or Ego, the manifestation becomes so weighted and juxtaposed with the emotions of one moment that the other emotions present and current are considered to be null and void. And atop that, what can we control other than ourselves?

    I take this quote though toward aspects of work, school, and creating what I choose to. To finish is but a concept most of the time. I let the details; those minute issues reside within the scopes of what’s referred to, overwhelm the cause.

    Essentially what I’ve found through reading Aurelius, Seneca, and Epictetus as well as others of the stoic kind is a call to remove the fluff, the squiggles of life and the chaos that blinds us from the whole that is unfolding every minute. There is this call to close the mind from the distractions and the drama that floods our airways and screens to focus on what is needed. It’s not to shut the world around us but to link the causal factors that can aid in defining who we are as the original self.

    Side Note: I know it’s one am and I’m still running my day of the fifth. The days blend together at times. Sorry.

    Aiming for clarity and for a deeper understanding in being a better person. I’ll share my thoughts in the morn, goodnight readers.

    Nosce Te Ipsum

  • Day Four, January 4th, 2024

    There is so much to do, so much to clean, and make order to what’s amiss. And though it’s only the 4th of course the year before in the year before all piled together because we know like the pills we ingest there is a half-life to everything we have before us and behind us and hell even coming to us. But I will say regardless of half-life I am very much, really f****** sick and tired of having to hug at the cactus. I get the idea for retribution, consolidation, and recovery regardless the relationship, a dichotomy gone awry, or a relationship of the most dearest, I’m sick and tired of hugging the f****** cactus. But then again I have to realize and also respect and understand that my differences are going to be just like that of someone else’s, different.

    I am not you, I’m not them, I’m not they, I am me. Still sick and tired of hugging the cactus but at least there’s that understanding that I need to come to terms with the knowledge that if I want that love and feel that I may favor with this love, I need to understand that no matter what I envision, doesn’t mean we share the same and doesn’t mean we cover the same or hold to the same principal.

    But when you really look at it that’s what it is right? It’s loving somebody or appreciating somebody so much and just enough that no matter what flame, no matter what dagger, no matter what pile of s*** they give you you’re going to turn around and just like a puppy come running back wagon that tail because there’s a love that is unequivocal unmeasurable and you just hope that you don’t f*** it up enough that it never comes back right?

    I’m that kind of person though, I’m that dumb dog that tends to not hold a grudge. Nope, I tend to forgive very easily and I hope, so much to a point that it’s almost insurmountable naivety. And I guess that’s the conundrum or the paradox. That I’m a fool enough to reset my mind over and over regardless and just try to hold on dear for the next day being better than this. I’ll change for myself, I’ll change to make sure that life is better for others and better for communicating and understanding in making sure I can manage something of profit.May that come eventually. But again it’s a reset every freaking morning, I reset every morning and make a conscious decision to take the best that I can everyday. Day four and still thinking I got this. Just trying to maintain a lack in cactus, a rest when needed and food to quell the worry. Good night everyone.

    Nosce Te Ipsum

  • Hello… I guess we can call this Take: 1 p. 2 or Take: 2 p. 1

    My name is irrelevant, the person I was when I started this was an idea of what I could become now this is something else.

    Shortly after finding that the MS was continuing it’s progression regardless of the meds and the incessant durations of regulated medications years and months to further years I became more that infuriated, I was more than pissed and peeved, It was apoplectic with a fire that drained my temper into a growling and seeing wound with a damper to the directive, the functionalities of what I thought I’d become. I’m here now.

    La Llorona in the Red Forest – finished 11/25/2023

    I felt defeated, feeling that my mind, though I’d already come to terms with the broken mentality and assurity I brought to my platter on a daily, this was a shock as I realized my life and it ls typical mediocrity would be lost after 12 years. Thus one says c’est la vie, am I right?

    I reached out to talk to my doctor, did what I could and got to the Ocrevus opportunity. but then he to come to terms with the reality that due to the jcv I could end up a vegetable or die. Hahaha, worth a gamble though when you think about the rejuvenation and the likelihood of everything coming back, there’s a revivalism that electrocutes the feet the motion and everything going forward, because when you look at it, there’s hope. And personally, I feel that with hope we are made to survive, not only that, but that this hope helps push what we can become.

    Graced with Ocrevus and this electric and vivacious brightness came through my body and all aspects of how my days became unraveling spirals of opportunity and advanced to who and what I was beginning to tie the dots together with.

    Catching the Light finished – 12/06/2023

    I finish with an exuberance that expels my alarm, a quenching of the hunger that strives. let’s see what can become of this and that and all the promises, can we return, can we bring something with an intention and drive?

    I’ll see you soon, M. R. Vega out.

    Nosce Te Ipsum

  • ART and Whoa

    So obviously, I am most likely not using the blog correctly. I should be dropping stories. I should be telling the tails for The Blue Chair and Forget-Me-Naught as well as A Wallet Missed. There are three more that I want to add before January comes.

    Anyhow, one of the things that stems from who I am as an individual, where I stand on everything, and the emotion that tingles through. I hope with this, the art will show the progression and I’ll continue to do art throughout my aging and the progression of MS. I want to see’ the degradation or furthering in creation,hahaha. I guess whichever one you prefer. This is my physical art, below that will be the way I use AI and how it helps everything in progress for me and definitely helps with progression. My prompts and my addition with my personal art involving it, something that actually helps us progress not necessarily take away what we make.

    Now what you guys know, see, and want I will post more and certainly do everything I can not to share the photos that I just did because guaranteed their there’s a lot anyway have a wonderful day thank you supporters thank you readers hope you enjoy.

    Physical pieces finished and in production.

    Lol

  • MS and the anger of it all…

    The ellipsis above and likely anything on my blog from day one to current is a connection to the lack of clarity that I feel in myself, not necessarily for myself but for what I’m trying to convey or say. With the last seven years being a mighty f*** all of a time, I’m finding myself struggling and I thought for a while I was struggling briefly, but that’s not the truth. I’m tired, I’m stressed, and I’m more than confused. I’m pissed. Upon

    Finding that I had MS, I didn’t expect the issues to pervade my every detail and aspect of life and everything. The worst part about it, and shame on me for even having the gall to think of it, I thought I’d have more support.

    I know right? The nerve of thinking and the dangers that came with the thought were overwhelming in that the illusion was a better aspect than that of reality. Now it’s just seen as an excuse or groaned at and disregarded in a fashion that makes every day a challenge.

    Case in point: I’m a father, husband, and writer, this means that if I have free time to write, I better make sure my family, especially my wife and son are given full and total attention. Fuck the writing. Fuck my dream and wanting to actually provide the blog with story after story. I need to have both ears pressed to my family and their beating heart.

    Though I know it’s a bit of a whine, it’s true I’m fully dedicated to my family and I definitely made some stupid mistakes that have made a reconsidering of a myriad of things but what I’ve come to knowing is that I love being a dad and I love being a husband I love being a family man in the true respects. I love being readily available for both of them I love being readily available for my teen who’s on their own journey looking for Independence… Though that Independence calls to an almost incessant asking for a bunch of free s***. Will get back to that at another point or juncture who knows.

    So the thing is my lesions are on lower part of my spine making it difficult to walk making it difficult to do certain things my knees kind of give out sometimes my hips give out but the worst aspect is I have lesions in my mother f****** brain! So when I was initially told this I didn’t really give it much thought I didn’t give it much weight cuz I was like I’m not going to let Ms knock me down very much like the commercials. And then lo and behold month by month and year by year, there was this resounding perspective that I was neglecting, I get confused, and I don’t just get confused I get lost, (as an insurance agent that’s detrimental to the f****** job). And with it I found schools become harder life has become harder and I hate acknowledging that I hate just addressing it but that’s something that I’ve realized I have to do because if not I just look like a lazy piece of crap who’s not doing anything and it’s not that. Those lesions in my brain bring a smorgasbord of nonsense words puzzle pieces oddly fitting but only for myself and no one else and I’m doing everything I can using grammarly even AI to help gained a perspective not only gain a perspective but 8 to bringing a benefit to what I’m actually trying to do.

    Which is again another reason among too many funerals, emotional weight and depression I haven’t produced shit. Sadly and ashamed, I write to you this. It is flipping hard and not having the support makes it that much harder. I’m exhausted and though I would love to write I want to write I want to write every f****** day, I want to tell stories I want to do art, I want to show what I can do and what I can bring to the story of our community, our world, our youth. So I’m trying and I promise I’m not cussing at you I’m just emotional and instead of putting myself on a video on IG or facebook, I’m talking to you the reader I am emotional and I’m doing everything I can to get my s*** back together, because I want to be a writer for the rest of my life however short or long that may be. I want to produce a memoir for this amazing man that I met named John Walker which I’m trying to work on, I want to finish up my bachelors and steer towards a masters in English. But then comes the fallacy that I don’t belong.

  • Forget-Me-Naught Pt. 1

    by: M. R. Vega

    I could see you now, I can see your plump youthful ‘cheeks the ones that complement the mother of you, and your smile is nearly matching. Your happiness is nearly intoxicating as we run up the face of the cliffs to see the sunset and I keep calling to you to slow down while I strain to breathe in the oxygen that I swear is thinning. You finally slow down to aid in me catching up but it’s like playing cat and mouse with you. Your energy is so sweeping and jubilated I can’t help but smile at your beautiful laughter while we chase the sun in hopes we’ll see it set with the purple clouds and ashen blue hues draped in plumes of orange and burning red. I slowly inhale and gasp while I look around…but the sunset is gone, the ground is gray and you’re nowhere to be seen. I call out your name, my eyes straining to find your moving and laughing body running up to the top but the hollering of your name meets silence…

    Joel wakes with a hollowness, his eyes wet and he looks at the bed seeing it empty as it usually is. Celeste can be heard in the kitchen, likely making more coffee, her usual stimulant that she recently has been mixing with rum, but Joel ignores that reality and shakes away the hollowness that eats at him and forces a smile while stretching up and immediately throws on jeans. He grabs at the t-shirt from last night and dismisses the smell wafting from it and quickly patters through the upstairs hallway and finds Cel’s clothes in a pile at the top of the staircase. He tilts his head, looking at it quizzically, and can’t help but wonder what she’s done to herself now. Ashamed of the thought he skirts down the staircase with an agile swiftness that goes unheard and finds her dropping in half a fist of pills and swigging at her coffee. Her face is riddled with pain, a known and shared pain but he looks away as he hears the large gulp of what he hopes was ibuprofen.

    ‘Morning love.’ He coos to her quietly so as not to spook her sensitive demeanor and rubs an open palm on the small of her back before grabbing the largest mug he could find in the cupboard and starts up a long pour of cold coffee over ice neglecting cream or flavor of any sort. 

    ‘What time did you wake Cel?’ 

    ‘Not too long ago, maybe an hour. I thought I heard a bang outside, maybe a holler but it was that racist neighbour of ours and his stupid dogs I guess. you…Your eyes are puffy B, did you wake crying again?’ with her question she points at the open bottle of Sailor Jerry’s and shrugs with a sheepish smile, and states ‘It helps.’ ‘Least it does for me anyhow.’

    He tries to smile at her attempt to segway to something avoidant but fails miserably and her scoff lets him know the rest of the day would be best served in the basement working on the project and he emptily stares at his stirring at the iced coffee. He watches her briskly walk to the living room couch, her eyes avoiding his inquiring ones and turns on the t.v. She flips through the endless channels and raises the volume enough that anything he says will go missed and he waves a quick hand and points at himself, signs work, and throws a thumb in the direction of the basement and she does nothing but shoos him away with a flittering wave using the back of her knuckles. He smugly smiles in her direction while he grabs the oversized coffee mug and lazily steps to the basement door, disappears into the darkness that has become a hellish escape while letting the door near slam behind him.

    He’s taken to the steps so often in the last year that it’s become second nature and going to his workspace through darkness was effortless. He reaches out to the wall and flicks the switch under his hand issuing the filaments above. Then the buzz and echo slowly fill the silence of Joel’s space. He tosses down half of the cold brew swiping at the liquid at the corner of his mouth and with anguish steps over cords, tubes, eclectic panels, schematics, and crumpled blueprints that swarm the concrete slabs of the basement floor. He glares at the glass desk, plops his ass on the barstool, and glares with a behooving that no one can recognize as anything other than hate. 

    Atop the glass desk, wrapped in oil-ridden burlap sits an item that only tortures Joel. no matter the connections, no matter the ionic bonds, the magnet components, and lithium-ion nodes, no matter how they’re stacked and connected what sits within that wrapped burlap mocks Joel. His failings with it bring nothing but a deepening hollow. One similar to the feelings he woke to that morning, the hollow drills into the lacking light that he tries so hard to keep grasp of, but within that burlap is dread, dampening darkness that brings nothing but anguish and clenched teeth. He grunts at the environment, the dust grips the filaments above, stinks of soil and mildew and he can’t help but wish he had more than a window well to gain some freshness. Knowing that opening the door above would just anger Cel, he hoists himself up with a groan and scuttles over to the wall that shares the window well, unlocks and slides the window open to a brisk and cooling air that raises his hair and brings clarity to him. Joel throws a weary eye to the burlap bulge and goes back, plopping down with coffee in hand and fiddling with the burlap sheet. He slowly unwraps the item from the burlap and takes a quick swig of the coffee before turning full focus to what was inside the shrouds of burlap. Joel stares at the gleaming metal and strokes the top panel of what is an innocuous and simple box. 

    He grasps the metallic object and nearly cradles the box as though it was malleable and more fragile than expected. With a quick burst, he raises it above his head and aims at the wall intending on throwing it to the wall to smash away the last eleven or twelve months but halts. Celeste above, sipping at her likely boozed coffee can be heard sobbing, sniffing, and continuing to sip away at her tame poison, and Joel reels in the box and cradles it again. Before setting it atop the desk her places it to his ear, rattles it with both hands, and waits for any sound. Silence aside from the bright light filaments above and his wife sobbing, the box in his hands lay docile and mute. After setting the box back atop the burlap he grimaced, and grabbed at his pliers and the magnets designated for the locking mechanism, after sliding the magnets over unseen latch mechanisms, the box bloomed open. Within was a myriad of tubes, a LiSOCL²; a lithium battery adequately tampered and wired through a gelatinous and tenuous threading of what Joel thought looked too much like snot. He grabbed his gloves and went to tamper through the innards of the box. His box. 

    The sobbing stopped and turned into what was a faint snoring, nearly muffled but endearing, and he sighed heavily while listening to Celeste. Looking back at the box, he fiddled here, twiddled there, and moved an N52 magnet, almost touching the LiSOCL² but leaving it off a hair or two away. Just shy from the LiSOCL², just shy from an imminent reaction and what he assumed would be an implosion of grand demolition but sighed with grace as he set it down, and placed it confidently on the malleable gleaming metal. He went to closing the shining metallic contraption and moved the locking mechanisms magnets appropriately and what caught Joel’s ears was something new. It brought a standing to his hair across the body and he couldn’t help but peer quizzically with a shit-eating grin. It couldn’t be, the one time he didn’t take to a complete rework, shredding the writing and starting anew, not taking notes, not painstakingly jotting down every move and adjustment as he had in every project, for every company, providence met him. A soft and euphonious trembling came to his ears and he couldn’t contain the joy that swept over him. 

    Its humming brought not only a jubilation to his reality but the ability to what he had strived in making possible from an impossible idea. What was once a futile juxtaposition to the chaos that had consumed his life and that of Cels was now looking to be able to be righted, rewritten and the quirkiness of a Vonnecgut short came to mind while he cried at the possibilities he was seeing with the assumptions of what was humming so mellifluously. He cradled the box, what he jokingly called the ‘Forget-me-Naught’ as a fastidious hampering to what he let lead his every waking moment since the tragic happenings of a recent past he so effortlessly wished to be removed from himself. It was final. The box set down now atop the burlap humming exquisitely and Joel chose to wrap it back up in the burlap and call to the only opinion he knew would be needed and likely the only one he thought would endorse his decision to come. He placed the box in the safe under the desk, punched in the three-digit combo, latched it with a key, and patted at the safe, pleased he could still hear the humming faintly emitting from the safe, and turned off the lights.

  • Finding my ‘Ordo Ab Chao’

    Hello.

    It’s been a minute and to be frank I still feel that it was well deserved while also being needed. My family and I recently lost over six family members, all within the last year. Talk about Too Much. And to put the icing on the top…yes, we ended up putting our dog down.

    It’s been a whirlwind, what with health, school, marriage rebuilding, and finding focus fully toward my family. So don’t mind if I take a minute to breathe in the rains, smell the coffee and let it all out with a walk and tears. It’s been long, draining and finally I’m finding time…

    I’m finding myself in what brings happiness, what aids to my family and their happiness and how this all coincides in the making of what my family has become.

    I am a shepherd, cooking, cleaning, writing, story telling, and creating I shepherd my children, aid to my wife’s needs and this is my finding order in the chaos I’ve found to be life as of late.

    I’ll come back with more personal introspections, more tailored accounts of the recent developments, but would like to share that there’s more to come from the writer in me and that’s why I’m here. Expect parts and chapters soon that will be weekly drops, if not more than. Within the year, the goal is that I’ll have developed a decent anthology of the stories recently told with DreamDarkStories. I cannot wait to see what becomes of it. And hope you and more are here to share your thoughts perspectives and chimes in regard to what is appreciated.

    Thank you. Sincerely – M. R. Vega

    NOSCE TE IPSUM

  • This is… Life, so it Goes

    Work in progress/Evolving by M. R. Vega

    So I’m going to do this as just me, consider this a voice-to-text kind of message out to all of you, out to any of you, out to a reader, one reader, if many. So it goes, so it may be, that is the way right?

    I like to consider myself of…let’s call it a Jack of all trades, master of none kind of character. I’m a writer I’m a storyteller I’m an idealist I may surrealist I’m Aura Boris fiend of a character that tends to recirculate upon ideas from that of another idea within an idea within an idea. Get it?

    Because straight up and to be quite frank, I don’t know if I do I know that I have a conceived idea of what I want in life and how I want to be how I want to exude a personality and type and reality however that’s not how it works is it?.

  • A Letter

    Hello. I write to you from the darkness. Before your mind imagines a gloomed dungeon or a morose location. I’m merely in the living room, and my child sleeps beside me clicking his tongue as though he was a bat in the night without a move but the drearily waving dangle that hangs from his tired left hand. His mother, my partner isn’t anywhere nearer to being awake than the rest of the house and all that makes a sound is the groaning of the game console and the tired snoring dog. They’re all but beautiful, somberly adrift in their own palaces of whatever dreams it is that takes them away from the waking hours.

    I sigh to myself, grateful that the throat is finally recovering from another bout of bronchitis, anxious about the opportunities I face this coming week, and instead of coaxing the child and his mother off to the beds, I have them sleep where the tired heads of theirs fell but if only for the time it takes to write this.

    You, like me, are likely writers hopefully readers and often dream. I cross my fingers in dear hope that you do. Whether it’s my fate of recent developments to my health or what have you, I rarely do, least of remember but a faint Deja Vu that I grasp tightly to. Hoping I remember the horrors faced to write it down for later consumption by you and my fingers that type out day after day after the shift is done. 

    The reason I write to you instead of dropping another part to the chapters that are slowly coming to fruition in this blog, it dawned on me today that my dream is quickly becoming a reality. 

    Not only has Lady Fortuna laid her eyes on me, but has graced me with a hope for a better world that I’m making my own. I’m still a student starting my senior year in college. Among the graces of being married and having healthy children, I’ve made the dream of being a writer a goal that has met a light. I’ve managed to adapt and evolve in a way that I can take care of what I want to do while also aiming in achieving the needs that can amplify the ‘What & Why’.

    I still struggle, still yearn for a day when there’s nothing to be done, but I take from the stoics, I take from the examples left to my interpretations, and managed to develop my own form of pleasantness and joy. Maybe you call that a sappy endeavour, I think ‘so what’. Isn’t that what we all aim for? It’s quickly fleeting but easily grasped nowadays, and all I have to remind myself is that I only fail if I quit. 

    It’s Bradbury that mentions this. I personally wish the man was a grandfather of mine, likely many of us do, however, I take from the lessons he left behind just as I do when I read King, Vonnegut, or the recent one of my favorites Ms. Penny. One can only achieve greatness by taking it day by day, or like Lamont states ‘Bird by Bird’. 

    Now with that, I can joyously state that I finally found a groove, not per se my groove as one may, but it’s a groove that brings resolute confidence to what motivates me. My hours for work coincide with the need to breathe and be merry, which falls into the flow of being the husband and father I always aim to be, which rounds up the ending of my nights often with this. The many parts to what will become my first hope in stories. My first step to being me, the me I’ve always aimed in being. 

    So with that I close the laptop, signing off with a wish to you and yours and with a delighted thank you for the support and continued readings of DreamDarkStories.

    Thank You. M. R. Vega

  • A Wallet Missed Pt. 4

    by: M. R. Vega



    The car, loaded with an excessive amount, of an impressive array of hard and soft-covered books, had Lucy and Harold nearing a range of concerns that brought an unspoken regret, especially within Luce. She was so fueled with a fit of anger, a riling and fileting type of pitiful rage when looking at it. It was a vexing thought Luce that brought the need to make him pay, but feeling the car wane and a lack of an efficient speed had her shooting a concerned and almost peevish glance over to Harold. He now found himself clenching his teeth and whispering in tongues at the car, gripping the steering wheel with a mercilessness that he’d hope have them back to the small apartment safely. He’d pay for the damages to the axel and likely find himself needing new rims but that was aside the point. His outrageous behaviour and near laughable disregard for a collection he’d even found pride in seeing day after day growing with sheer tenacity. He regrettably erased that and saw it only right to repay what was taken away and all for the stupid wallet. But then again that wallet meant something more than the both of them, but that wouldn’t be enough to state so nonchalantly when Lucy would inquire to explain himself. How would he simply and with a resolute explanation provide ample details as to what the wallet; or what was within that wallet was so damn important.

    He could see himself later that evening nearing midnight sighing heavily with his shit-eating remorse at the corner of a cowering smile as he inched slowly releasing what it all meant that the wallet was never lost. He shook the idea away, then thought over a cone of Jamoca Almond Fudge would perhaps suffice, though he shook that away as well and all this within seconds of each idea, disregarding Luce beside him. Not realizing she had noticed his shaking head and pained look cropping the profile of his face. She wouldn’t ask though, knew better to keep her lips tight and unmoving as he worked through the internal fracas he’d likely overcome. ‘Gosh, what can it be that’s messing him up, can’t be the weight of what we’re carrying, least it shouldn’t be’ she thought and hesitantly looked out the window. She shied away from the shaking head of Harold’s hoping food would be something on his mind but expected they’d likely end up just carrying the books up flights of concrete steps to yet again start her dear collection.

    While she gazed over the old city and its river walk in the distance, let out a small sigh and inhaled quietly so as not to distract Harold. Instead tried to order the books in her head. She knew alphabetically would be outrageous as there was nearly an equal amount of both the soft and hard covers and she preferred an ‘Ordo ab Chao’ style knowing the chaotic realm it insured brought a more steady ground to her mind. With a smile settling on her maw, she’d already determined the books would be flush as best as possible but have little regard for what was and wasn’t read. She had a plethora of markers and tabs to mark each one and if she wanted to mitigate a minor order she’d color code them afterward.

    Harold cleared his throat, knowing what to say, figuring out where to take her in his anxious relinquishing of the secret meanings behind the wallet, and took a left at Northern Blvd. Lucy came to from her ordering of the books and asked where they were going as her stomach gripped at her spine in hopes for something to ingest and devour. ‘Lota Burger sound good?’ and the smile he felt echo from Lucy gave him the answer he expected and pulled into the parking lot of their favorite stop for grub. She quickly jumped out of the car before he even had the keys out of the ignition and smiled at him through the car’s front window ushering him to be quick and get to her before she opened the door. He listened. Removing keys and himself while being sure to lock the car up he followed suit in jumping over to her with a matching smile and grabbed at the door for her prior to laying a kiss on her forehead. She patted at his butt pocket and pinched him gently and they both walked in together holding hands and immediately went to the cashier. Already knowing the menu by heart they both issued their favorite numbers and size. Harold paid quickly, they filled up their drinks with the cool sweet tea they had both reveled for since childhood and found a booth for two. After settling down, sticking straws into their cups, they smiled at one another and Harold took a large swig debating how exactly to open up the floor to the topic of his wallet. He breathed in, turned his head, let out a swift and heavy sigh, smiled at her with endearing compassion and started to open up.

    ‘I assume you have questions, if not a myriad of them with sub-references and notions to the meanings of what I’m about to tell you, all I ask is give me time and whenever your curiosity is at the brim of your tongue let me have it and I’ll answer, as quickly and with as much to the whole as I know for myself.’ He sighed, feeling a small amount of weight at the pit of his stomach, and waited for a nod or their ticket number to be mentioned behind their table but his ears only met silence but the hum and incessant sizzling and chatter of the restaurant. He continued ‘Now, please don’t laugh, because I mean what I say, at least I know, because of what I’ve seen for myself and will do, like I said, what I can to show you that truth. It’s not the wallet per se, it’s actually the coin that’s inside of it. You’ve likely seen me twirl it between my fingers when you’ve gone so deep into your readings in the past, but that was always frowned upon and it’s why I buried it into the wallet, even made a small and near secret pouch to hold it safely. But it’s magick. Where the magick stems from, what it is, that I don’t know but it’s what made that possible.’ While finishing that phrase he nodded toward the car and alluded to the books that awaited their new home. Lucy smiled, holding back from the smug feeling she could feel creeping up from below, and waited for Harold to continue but the order was shouted out to them and he quickly bolted to the counter bringing the piping hot seasoned fries and steaming burgers to the table.

  • The Blue Chair Pt. 4

    The Blue Chair Pt. 4 by: M. R. Vega

    Jacob was solemn with the fretting from the day before now trying to figure out the necessary steps to have Emily; the family pet, a proper end. He didn’t dare deal with the H.O.A., knowing their neighbourhood had numerous Glady Kravits feining for any opportunity to shout foul play and bring more worry and trouble to his family. It was bad enough having Emily stinking up the back patio, the Humane Service Department was closed for the next week due to a water pipe issue. He didn’t care to ask and had hung up wishing there was a six-foot deep pit to place her in if only he thought. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy and he grumbled, thinking of a friend that’d help with a ‘maybe illegal dig’ at the park they used to bring her to on Sunday Fun Days through the year but sadly came toe to toe with his acknowledging that they had no family and the last friend they did have happened to pass away two years ago in a car crash. It goes, doesn’t it? 

    His gritting and grinding had abruptly come back with a vengeance adding the spontaneous but dully noted migraines that trailed behind. He went to the kitchen cupboard where the Tylenol was waiting and popped three oversized capsules without a drink and thought of what had happened last night while they all slept. His deja vus were becoming more vivid, more like an elongated trailer of what was to come unlike the many prior that were scattered like a shredded magazine or a remembered green and forever falling characters illegible to an unaware eye. Knowing what was to be done next, at least assuming what steps he was to take, he scurried to the garage and grabbed a round-point shovel, an old over-sized duffel bag that had seen too many years and packed Emily as gently and cautiously as he could while avoiding spewing over the foul stench her body was emitting. Its flooding stench brought odd thoughts of long-sitting protein drinks, rotting fruit, veggies, and refried beans left in the fridge. He swallowed the bit of muffin he’d scruffed down earlier and was happy the taste of bile didn’t torch his throat and zipped up the bag with a weighted heart.

    He dragged his body in through the house, lamenting over what was to come next, and quickly went to the car trying to discreetly put, what looked like a body bag, into the trunk. Upon finally getting Emily’s corpse in, he ran back to grab the shovel and kissed his wife as well as their child that she was clutching to. They both stared aimlessly at the moving screen that he just realized was muted and said he’d be right back. His wife though snapped to it and reached out to his hands delicately bringing his knuckles to her nose and whispered something he couldn’t quite catch an told them both he loved them, that he’d show them Em’s new resting place later tonight. His wife nearly glared at him with silent animosity he felt coaxed his everything and shook her head waving her hand at him as if to shoo-shoo like he was a fly.

    ‘So it begins’ he thought almost angrily and slammed his body down onto the driver’s seat after locking the front door of their house. He found that he was hoping they’d still be awake and willing to react to living after he shared news of Em having a safe place to rest for eternity. Shamefully though he found he was more or less appreciative of not having her body stink up the house or back patio. Even a dead dog, though heartbreaking, was a terrible smell to have dealt and he’d heard many a story of how difficult it was to remove such an organic scent from wherever Em’s body sat. 

    He drove in silence, regretting his abilities, regretting his knowledge and abundant collection of what he’d seen while he rested and realized, essentially he hadn’t successfully slept through the night quietly or dreamlessly for too long. His graying and unshaven beard brought to light the age he was and he regretted not telling his wife the harrowing capability still unsure of how to address what it was, how it was, and what it meant.

    He didn’t feel like a soothsayer, Nostradamus, Southeil, or Baba Vanga could’ve choked on this ability for all he cared, he just wanted to feel typical again, plain, simple, and let it be boring. He couldn’t stand the nightmare of seeing what is to come, it wasn’t something that had been trained like a movie shows, the recollections came in a shattered mirror type of form that made his assuming near detrimental and he’d kept his lips tight to sharing what he could do with anyone, say but Em. That realization whacked against his mind leaving a rattling of woe and sorrow that had him wanting to be right back at home starting at the muted screen with his family. That’d have to wait if ever happen, as he pulled up through the long winding roads of the City Park. 

    He finally came to the older portion of the park grounds, it was an odd portion. One of curved, jutting shale, dirt, and pavement where the daring frisbee golfers practiced their trick shots but due to a murder or five, it hadn’t been graced by many if only to smoke the devil weed in what looked like years. The tree at the knoll heading back to where the large parking lot was so happened to be Em’s favorite marking ground and the stained burned grass showed that. Grabbing the round-point shovel he headed to the spot where his son and Em were captured every year by his wife. There was a branching collage of photos showing that very spot splashed against the fridge, the family room, and even his office, he smiled remembering those times with glee. Pushing down quickly with the tip of that heavy shovel into soft ground while trying to think of anything but why he was there. He’d known she was going to die, knew that and so many other tragedies that’d quickly be piling up but for the life of him, couldn’t do anything but shovel and shovel with tears streaming past his cheeks. They burned at his retinas and collected in a large hanging droplet in his scruffed beard until losing grip dropping into the hole where the blade ricocheted off the large roots throwing him off balance. He patted at his now blistered hands ignoring the sharp pain, looked at the dark hole in silence but his quiet sniffing at the remaining tears, and walked back listlessly to the car to grab that damn duffel bag. 

    But he couldn’t, Jacob was overcome by a grief he already thought was released and pushed absently away, he could barely stand and leaned against the car not aware that the trunk was already open and his jean pocket was rubbing against the bumper. The tears weren’t enough while he dug, now he struggled to breathe, strained to see the trunk of his car where Emily was waiting and he’d begged there was a way to had been able to prevent the next moments as well as the coming harrowing months. The anxiety had been waxing on his soul, tearing at the heart he kept strong for the only two he’d strived to bring light to and already he was starting to see the fraying of something within his wife. Emily’s passing was just the start.

    Finally recuperating, he wiped the wetness from his face aggressively and lugged out the duffel bag. She’d gained weight since the beginning of this small expedition from house to grave or perhaps it was a weight of his that shared with the weakness he started to feel, not knowing how to take the appropriate steps in making everything better after covering her with the soil of the park grounds. Before taking the bag and slowly dropping her in, Jacob made a curious choice in jumping in alone and kneeling down as low as he could to see what the coolness may feel like for her, trying to gain a perspective on being dead and buried but even that was a silly joke, to think he could comprehend what death is to anyone. ‘We all die alone huh?’ he asked Emily while pulling himself out of the deep shoveled hole. Before shimmying her down he unzipped the bag, patted her head, looked at her grayed muzzle, nearly forgetting the collar and making sure to unclip and quickly pocket it before he kissed her crown. He zipped her back up, slowly straining to not have her break on entry and quickly set to push the soil over the bag.

    He packed it down with a whack that became an almost cathartic cleanse of anger and futile remorse before realizing he had an audience now. A small crowd of four teens or college students were fifty yards away chuckling quietly to each other, while one was trying to shoosh them and wave them away. Instead, they shook the request away and waited for Jacob to pack up and drive away. Before doing so though he knelt on the newly packed dirt and whispered to Emily. ‘May I see you at the clearing when all is done old girl.’ and slowly got up, leaving the shovel behind, he got into the car, and drove back home with the windows rolled down, his music softly careening his loss.

    Pulling up to the house felt surreal, knowing Emily wouldn’t be waiting, her tail wagging in anxious relinquishing of her bladder in the backyard as she did every other time upon arrival was something he needed to prepare himself for and breathed in a silent resolve for more moments than he’d care to admit. But then there was more to that he thought. Like watching a car accident at an intersection and how it seems to happen so slowly knowing that it was a mere blip of a fraction of a second. He thought this to himself, slowly getting out of the car, not feeling any lighter, taking each step with a leaded weight in his shoe, he thought how can he curtail what was to come and avoid the tragedies he’d been presented in those dire dreams? Seeing proof time and again that he wasn’t losing it, that somewhere through his time of experiencing these moments time and again with death, loss, family strife, and struggle among other lighter points, the deja vus never seemed to miss a truth or more than one. He shook his head, brought on a smile, and figured, he’d at least take it day by day, for now, and start his downward spiral tomorrow. Now he saw a moment of grace where he can share the grief he and his family all shared and have this time together, if only for this moment.

  • Rabbit for Brunch Pt. 3

    Rabbits for Brunch Pt. 3 by: M. R. Vega

    That thinning of chaos didn’t seem to ease. Fires and what became an incessant screaming, dying, with an addition of wild maddening swarmed around the truck, littered not only her visual senses but the skies and everywhere about her and the large truck she found to be her weapon and shell. Fifty miles and still the chaos consumed all she could see, after another hundred miles she started to feel an overwhelming weight of dire wanting for fresh water and smacked at her forehead with anguish and seeing herself as a fool. 

    She hadn’t the time before Dave’s bloody and likely already rotting body had barreled in through the house leaving her no choice but to run to the truck and flee. The water bottle she always had filled remained in the fridge, the little food she usually ate in the morning was likely on the floor of the kitchen now scattered and squashed and she licked at her lips remembering the plumpness of the blackberries Timothy and Nick had given her days before. They, with the store bought blueberries and strawberries were all that was out on the counter before chaos began earlier that morning and she knew it’d be a fool’s errand to go back but it was enticing enough to dream and keep the screams at bay, if only for a moment.

    A loud thud came from the side paneling, its cacophony brought her back quickly while she whipped a side glance to the window and mirror only to see a young woman close in age ripped from the lifted step while still screaming to get in. The screaming echoed into the small crack allowing air from the window she finally gave herself. As she watched in horror the young woman’s arms were being shredded by multiple unknown and bloodied people all with enraged gluttony about their eyes. She hit the pedal harder with a stomp and went back to avoiding as many people running wild and losing their lives, During which she clipped a car or two and almost lost control until a large RV having the same idea somewhat saved her from tipping and she increased her speed getting in front of the RV and whoever was driving the blood-drenched RV leaving it behind. She couldn’t look around anymore, let alone waste the time with the distractions of havoc, encompassing her every direction. She needed to get the hell out of here, needed to find a tanker, gas station, anything to fill the truck up as it was starting to get low until she smiled with an almost maniacal grin remembering the second tank. ‘Oh, David’ she whispered and flipped the little node that allowed that second tank to start trickling into the remaining and almost empty first chamber for fuel. And to think of the fight that came from her inquiry about what need Dave would ever have for a secondary fuel tank now all made sense. The stupid almost monotonous man she loved had always imagined something such as what she was fleeing from to come eventually, regardless of how sick of a dream or fantasy it was, she was more than grateful at the moment that there was enough gas to at least get her to Louisiana, maybe Georgia, either one was better than where she was. At least she thought it’d be.

    The morning left quickly as did the exhaust from her larger-than-life truck while it barreled through bodies alive or dead and all she could do was close her eyes while she mowed through what likely was the walking infected. Regardless she screamed that she was sorry, turned her mouth up to the sky, and choked on her tearing and sobbing ashamed of every move she’d been so willing to make and all for a life she wasn’t sure was worth anything anymore. The disgust swarmed over her while she thought of how many she’d driven by while they begged for her to stop or tried jumping on the truck to get a ride. How many had she killed by simply turning away or neglecting to slow, even for a moment to help them get into the bay of the truck? How many had she clipped or full-on collided with in avoiding certain death disregarding any knowing if whom or what was infected, if infected at all?

    What had she become? To think she was doing Tai Chi fourteen hours ago, stretching to the rising sun and smiling at the gulls overhead while listening to the two men happily bicker next door over what to make for breakfast. Now she’d lost count of how many she left for dead, how many she’d piled through, and how many snapping bones she knew beyond a doubt she was responsible for while pressing on the gas pedal all to run away. She didn’t know where and if there was safety anywhere. She wasn’t an epidemiologist, and she wasn’t military trained, aside from knowing the truck took diesel fuel and how to use lint traps from dryers to start a fire, she felt that life was nearly pointless. But still, she kept her foot on the gas, didn’t turn to look anywhere but the distance to the next town while she begged within that she had enough energy to stay alive. 

    She was tired, more than exhausted, and after soiling the seat with filth and realizing there was no other option but to sleep, she found a parking garage that looked nearly empty and took the truck to the top level. Making sure to lock the doors, she pulled herself to the cab where thankfully there was an old jacket of Dave’s. Folding it up as a makeshift pillow she did what she could to sleep and was met by a flood of demons that egged her on with furthering and continuing the terrors she tried so diligently to escape if only for an hour or two.

    I watched your throat get ripped from your body watched as the viscera was filleted from your head which you, then quickly drifted to the black. The blood quickly drenched my body and splayed about the ground. I screamed, l turned to run away from your pouring dead body while the world around us had died and was quickly enveloped by the gnashing and thrashing of what had become a dire fate. I’m writing to you while your body rises and wriggles with complete agony as you’re dying fate aches for another bite of flesh dying for the blood that is us and sure I am writing in what most would call pitch black but somehow I can see the paper that my pen is touching.

    I’d say this is a journal but really this is the last testimony of the dying. The sheep would call this a ploy by the Democrats, the foolish would call this an act of God however would I call this is the world calling to tell us no more and shouting for us to be done? I watch your body wriggle and rise one more time until you then jump up with an erratic and ecstatic maniacal bout, my body trembles as I watch you struggle and walk. I look at you and ponder whether it be better to be like you or struggle to survive but when I look at myself being here on the third floor watching you beneath me watching the world crumble and rot I think this may be better.

    I have a speaker on quietly Portishead is playing in the background their singer bouts out of wrangled and dying breath while she flies for her last love. I find myself moved and still here I am watching you beneath me watching as you stumble about stupidly idiotically looking for another bite of flesh looking for another virgin of the zombie world that you live in and here I am above you loving you and wishing you were here or… Wishing you were above with me holding me letting me become a part of you let me become a part of what this reality is now.

    The days have become repetitive and monotonous where I find myself dying to be like you a zombified abomination of what humanity can be or apparently is those that were living with me or around me or now dead as well while they go and reach out for those that they loved not realizing that they’re not there anymore just like you aren’t there anymore you’re more of a memory. Not only are you more of a memory but you have become that of which is my nightmare I via to become you however I die to be everything unlike you. There’s this grasp of humanity that still alive Force still I love and here again I find myself staring down at you biting my bottom lip looking for you in the midst of the Dead looking for you among The crawling and the weeping will I slowly, slowly become so much like you we are nearly the same however my heart is still pumping.

    Hello and goodbye here I sit stand crawl and die a lonely woman, hating you hitting a need hitting my need for water, for love I laugh at myself thinking how foolish how stupid that I am still here. I could have ran I could have moved myself I could have I could have sneakily drifted away from everything that this is now. And somehow even while dying while choking on my last breath I look at you my stupid Love gnashing and nine at the air while I above I’m quickly falling to the ground to feed you a last time know that my body though you may not remember is something of yours something of mind something that we share something that I call a testament of love a testament of grief and a vying for you and I hope that somewhere deep there comes A memory of me.

  • The Scream Pt. 3

    The Scream Pt. 3 by: M. R. Vega

    ‘Grab your gun from the safe Pops!’ Angela hollered through the screen at the front door of her house. Luckily the old man had just arrived not moments ago, the smell of the heat from the ‘88 Dodge Ram and its radiating heat was the telling of what was waiting inside. And she knew he’d still be up with enough energy to help the ordeal she’d found herself possibly facing. The smell was a comfort of that smell and the hard day’s sweat was quickly snuffed with the knowledge that the scream needed to be addressed and hopefully saved soon. She barged into the screen almost pushing it off the hinges and looked at the old man who agonizingly failed at looking perplexed. She chuckled at that, waiving his play of idiocy, ‘Yeah dad, I know about the safe under mom and your bed, it’s pretty easy to see plus you use so much gun oil, it reeks for days.’

    The man smiles proudly at her and brushes off his knees before using them to push up needing minor momentum in heading to the bedroom. However he was taken aback that he didn’t need to ask her a reason for the demand, he saw the worry and urgency on her face. That sufficed enough to hurry with his code entry and was back in the living room with a clip of 18 rounds that he slid into the Glock. Angela cocked her head with a shrug and asked where the revolver went, it was the only gun she believed was still a sterling weapon that should be permitted for use and not wanting to show disappointment in his choice of a typical and cliche of his handgun, she waved her hand and told him to follow her.

    Now her heart started to be felt within her head, the pounding came to a deafening point until she started explaining the worry and reason behind her shaking hands. Pops followed and nodded as she mentioned the scream heard before picking up the boys ending with the two she heard after getting back home and waiting for either him or her ma getting home. Pops believed the story and didn’t show otherwise following close by awaiting a sign to click the safety off. He started shaking his head with disappointment to the dissolving of the neighbourhood as well as the city. It was always death on the news nowadays, always disasters and school shootings and shitty people he thought so why couldn’t it be happening down the street. It wasn’t a surprise any longer, death had become so frequent that he didn’t know if there was anywhere else here in town that hadn’t met its face and shrouding of blotting the light his town once had. Of course, that was more than decades ago. Something about an old story, something to do with Timequakes popped into his head that left him thinking of the writer’s name and what his own steps were going to meet, whether they would be rewound or perhaps rewritten. He grimaced with a meek smile disgusted with the hope wouldn’t come then Angela put a hand up and pointed to a large shrub when they both heard the screaming and a sickening chuckle.

    Angela was pleased she wasn’t losing her wits but horrified that such an atrocious thing was happening so close to where her babies slept and gritted at her back molars till she tasted iron. Pops did the same, they could both hear one another and looked at each other with dismay and nodded solemnly. They each heavily moved with a determination to have whatever it was solved, perhaps closed with sirens and proper work. However, neither were vigilantes but knew sirens now would have the screams ended with death, they both couldn’t do that, especially Pops, there was a fire within that started to purge at the doubts of what was needed or not and he clicked the safety off. He patted at Angel and pointed behind himself, hoping she’d understand his meaning.

    She did, quickly pulled herself behind his back and placed a cold and shaking hand on his quivering bony back and slowly trod with him getting closer to the screaming and angry chuckles of someone disgustingly designed. Pops paused and gazed at the house the sounds were emitting from and nudged the gun toward it…it was a foreclosed building, with multiple warnings of danger taped to the doors and its few windows that were left. The other spaces’ glass would be had large wooden panels hammered over them. A putrid smell hit both Angela’s and Pops’ nostrils offending the senses and having their eyes quickly drain with tears. Flagrant muck was wafting into the air from the basement of the building and the obvious conclusion was it was being used as a large latrine. Its fumes were causing both to grasp at their stomachs and try not to lurch out whatever was left inside but they both needed to get sight of what the sounds were from and who was causing such atrocious actions to be felt by the screaming source. Angela used her sleeves to blot the tearing and cover her nose whereas her dad just waved the stink and putrid fragrances away whenever he’d get dizzy. He inched closer to a door or one of the few windows that had sight inside of the building. Trying not to have his baby subjected to the vileness of man he gave her a steely look, saddened by what he was sure they’d likely have to do and puffed up his chest. He patted her head gently and kissed her on the temple, at that soft warm spot that brought a youthful spirit of being her dad flood back from when she was the age of her boys and quickened his steps while standing up. 

    ‘Don’t make a sound Ange, I’m nervous that if we spook whoever is inside they’ll likely kill whomever it is screaming and we’ll end up just calling the cops to a dead body and not a citizen’s arrest. Don’t make a sound.’ Pops whispered this and winked at her while again, inching toward the small opening he found in a busted-up window. Ashamed that he wasn’t surprised with what he saw, he clenched at the grunt and guffaw he wanted to issue, pulled in a quick breath, and tried to see where the assailant was standing. Luckily the sun was down enough, neither Angela nor he was casting shadows and he started to choke down his tears at what was seen. A young woman, perhaps in her late teens was barefoot and wrapped in paracord, her face was bloody and bruised, her pants were pulled down and blood was slowly falling down her legs. She was bound and tied to the ceiling of the room he was looking into. The young woman had soiled herself, puddles of her own bile and urine were all around her decorating her old messed kicks and ankles. The monster was an older man, white grizzly hair shrouded his beard and face, an old and tired dachshund was dead in a corner of the room and the old man spit on the dog while pulling at the paracord that pulled at the arms of the young woman. She let out a muffled scream through cracked and broken lips and blood trickled down her chin mixing with the tears that had pulled to the same spot. 

    Pops could barely breathe and tried so diligently to get a good angle with his pistol to shoot the man but his eyes, clouded with a red and burning anger made it hard to focus. He couldn’t fathom what would make someone do something so dark and wretched. It was one thing to see such actions in war, from what he remembered war made pillars of men and women crumble to ash with their ridiculous and inexcusable actions, but again war made people of all creeds dangerous and stupid. This wasn’t war, this wasn’t just brutality, this was horrific in all forms and he could think of only one thing to do. 

    He turned to Angela and told her to get the police, demanded it, and told her to run home and call them, mentioning to her not to have them come with sirens blaring as that’d likely get the woman killed and told her to run as quickly as possible. She gave him a look that said she knew he was going to do more than just wait but she also was one to listen and turned on her heels disappearing behind the trees. Pops could hear her shoes slapping at the pavement and knew he’d have less than fifteen minutes to do what was needed and took one more shallow breath before going to try at a door.

  • A Wallet Missed Pt. 3

    A Wallet Missed Pt. 3 by: M. R. Vega


    Lucy was grinding at her teeth aggressively enough that Harold looked at her with a near neurotic assumption that it had to do with him, surely he was right as to the reason they were steering to the bookstore at 75 mph down the freeway. Back at the apartment, there was the haunting reminder of broken piles of books and likely still flapping pages with the A/C still on. He knew he was the ass in the picture and anyone looking in from a scope would shame his behaviours as well as scream for Lucy to kick him to the curb. But, there was something there, of course, the obvious want in bringing her collection back to life, but something about that damn wallet. Such a cheap wallet, Lucy only remembering there was an amount near two hundred dollars if that, and all the trouble tears and sweat didn’t amount to a cheap, velcro-clad wallet. It didn’t track and while still stewing in Lucy’s mind she found that the grinding of her teeth kept her from jabbing her nails into Harold’s face. Luckily, Harold didn’t need to know and would never come to find that what she wanted was to rip him like he did her collection, pluck the facial hair and the chispas at the nape of his neck. However, Lucy was gracious and calmer than her sister and mother and would refrain from having the cops called on her, at least that’s what she swore to herself growing up. It didn’t mean the thought never crossed her mind.

    Nearing the bookstore, they saw a lack of cars parked nearby and hoped the store was still open. Harold crossed his chest and looked up at the mirror praying he’d have the opportunity to at least pay back the minor fortune tonight if the store had the ones he knew Lucy was checking off in her mind. The fact was true, the list was getting large, large enough that Lucy secretly hoped they had multiple employees to help bring the books to the car, and at that thought she sped up and skidded into the lot, tossing the keys at Harold and telling him to keep up. Once she had her legs out of the car she nearly pounced like a feline and ran to the door and to her delight the cool air of the door swinging open brought a jubilation she wasn’t sure would be felt for months. Looking at the hours of operations that hung near the entrance she realized she’d have less than an hour to do her spree and grinned maniacally with a near peevish glee of retribution back at Harold, he knew this smile he caught meant ‘you’re carrying it all’.

    He shamefully nodded at the smile knowing what it meant and quickened his steps keeping his hands ready to catch whatever was collected from the frenzied woman he awoke. She took him to the classics starting with Homer and her favorites of the stoics, then came Bronte, Milton, Goethe, Plathe, Morrison, King, Vonnegut, King again, (more than she thought would be available), some Palahnuik, Bradbury, short story anthologies, Poe, Twain, Muir, Dick, Perreti, Sagan, Kundera, Alexie, Atwood, Shelley, O’Connor, Lee, Angelou, Hurston, and she had to pause and collect her thoughts, knowing she wasn’t being fair and grabbed some Dekker, Ellison, and Coben.

    She then cackled like a banshee, having the staff that was left in the store, looking at one another with anxious apprehensions as they shuffled about, wondering how would this girl pay for all of this. The cashier at the front was rolling an eye thinking there was no way the man following behind and quickly stacking book after book didn’t seem to have enough. He was sweating with a nervousness that was certainly understood by the cashier and that of the staff as they were sure they’d all have to put every book back within their time left before closing and the plans tonight were for the bar, not reshelving over a hundred books so far.

    Finally, Lucy stopped, bent over to catch a breath and told Harold to find some graphic novels to round up the final hull, Harold grinned and grabbed some classics of his teenhood and a few newer artists that he’d recently been following on the ‘gram’. He then grabbed a favorite of his; Gaiman and Harris and sheepishly walked up to the cashier with a shit-eating grin and asked for it to be all tallied up with a near-guilty chortle and squeak. The look of anguish and ridicule he was met with had him take a step back but the cashier obliged. After finally counting each one with a beep and scan, they had over 130+ novels, anthologies, and graphic novels, the total was nearly $6,400. Harold showed nothing but assured confidence and whipped out a velcro-clad wallet. The cashier almost laughed but there it was the exact total. Harold confidently pulled out the total, almost as though he knew he’d have enough and with whatever was remaining he left on the counter after asking the staff if they’d mind helping get the books to the car. None of them denied the request as most of the staff were aghast with a shocking horror that there was enough to pay for such an astonishing hull.

    Lucy though was nearly floored, she knew, not knew, was certain that there were only 200 dollars in that wallet the other day. Nothing more at least, and nowhere near the thousands he’d just shelled out. Her mouth hung open for a moment as she watched the man who’d made the promise and showed he meant to keep it carry the first large pile to the car while he asked for her to unlock the trunk. She shook her head and closed her mouth, still astonished and perplexed at the oddity of the cheap wallet and needed to understand what the hell just happened and how, after finishing up loading the car, there were 130+ books being driven back to the apartment. How?

  • The Blue Chair Pt.3

    Blue Chair Pt. 3 by: M. R. Vega

    Jacob and his small family had finally pulled up to the house, the rain had become a heavy drenching matching their grief and he did what he could to cover them both as they wearily came to the door. The patio and its tin-roofed awning cracked through their senses and brought them all to an alertness that none but maybe Jacob could bear as he struggled to find the right key to gain entrance to their domain and the slowly decaying Emily. Once inside, their son shed off his jacket and backpack with a careless demeanor that matched the withdrawal he’d already started to show, almost as though he felt it was coming as Jacob did. 

    Jacob’s wife though was nearly unconsolable, her shaking had brought her to her knees before she had a chance to strip her boots off while she asked where her puppy was through tears and soaking snot. Jacob pointed to the mass atop her dog bed while he knelt down and unzipped the boots from her feet and slowly pulled them from her hot feet. The jacket stayed though as she quickly darted to the mass of what was Em with Jacob’s arms slowly missing the hood and dropping at his hips. He hung his head, shook it, tried to wipe the tears away but knew it was a hopeless endeavor and just followed her motion and fell at the foot of Em’s bed. He put an arm over his wife’s shoulder and pulled at her gently as she turned toward his armpit and wept uncontrollably, flooding his shirt and soul with the misery she felt and Jacob could only absorb it as he knew he’d have to.

    He struggled though, as he kept wanting to relinquish the knowledge behind Em’s foretold passing, wanting to unfold all of the nights before for the last few years. But of course, now wouldn’t be the time. He rummaged through his mind library and debated how, when, and what would be told to his darling that wouldn’t make him look like a loon and have her screaming for help or calling a psychiatrist instantly. His past was already wrapped up in a flummoxed tragedy of suicide attempts as a teen, a psychotic break right before they were engaged, shortly followed by his mid-life crisis that she so eloquently avoided ever discussing. She always happened to see him in his best light and at points, this drove a wedge between them. He was a talker, the communicator, whether it was for the better, it helped and she was quite the contrary. Her lips consistently lay pressed tightly keeping the intrapersonal as she deemed it right. It didn’t matter though, least Jacob didn’t think it was, assuming at some point, rather soon than the latter she’d to know about the coming accident at her school and so many other moments that could possibly be avoided if completely halted. He signed heavily as the thinking became weighted and brought a mental fatigue through him that shook his head and disrupted his wife’s emotional flurry. 

    Luckily their son was nonverbal, and brilliant in his ways of communication, especially with his assistive tech but with this and the loss of his only pet, the family’s only pet, he didn’t grab his device. He just slowly and quietly whined emitting an almost numbing and hollow high hum that echoed throughout the house bringing a hollowing that each member of the household felt. Both Jacob and his wife looked at him and felt that pit deepen with seeing the tears collect at the corner of his solemn eyes and they both waved at him to come and be held. He was apprehensive at first, shifted in his comfortable and memorized spot on the cushion finally hoisting himself to the two, and began to cry with both of them. None of the family could hold it in any longer and they all sobbed loudly petting the sherpa-adorned family pet, kissing the slowly stinking and decaying body of Emily while saying goodbye. Jacob felt not only moved but crushed, walloped by the weight of seeing both of them remorseful in agony with this loss, and only wished there was a way of making this moment better. But knowing that wasn’t a feasible nor manageable feat he continued to cry with both of them kissing their head.