McCallum J. Morgan's Blog

When I locked eyes with her, I gave up everything. I derailed my life, then and there, driving down the highway. Sure, there were ample opportunities to change course. I could have not done it.

I chose to follow that truck off the highway and into the parking lot of the truck stop.

It was early morning, but the sun was already up and hot. I parked near the entrance and watched the truck through my rearview. A burly farmer type jumped down from the diesel and set to refueling. I couldn’t see her from this angle, but her brown eyes didn’t leave my mind.

The man ambled across the greasy pavement to the station. I watched him pass…I could smell the cow shit. He didn’t look at me and so I looked back into the rearview, at the gleaming diesel. My hand hovered on the key. I could just leave.

But I got out, instead, and followed the man into the gas station. It smelled of stale breakfast burritos and acrid cleaners.

I hid behind a display and pretended to look at famous potatoes souvenirs.

The man was loudly sharing pleasantries with the clerk as he paid for his stinky diesel and a redbull. I listened, trying on sunglasses in the mirror so I could also see the back of the man’s head.

A chill ran through me as I listened. It was true. I set the sunglasses back on the stand. It was just as I had suspected when I looked into her eyes. He was going to kill her. Sweat tingled at the back of my neck. It was too late. The man was taking his redbull. He would head out to his truck and drive away and kill her. My knuckles tightened on a potato snow globe. I could stop him right now.

But suddenly—and thankfully—before I could actually act on the madness that had seized me, the man set his drink back down and asked the clerk if he could watch it for him. Then he headed toward the restroom.

I let out a sigh and released the snow globe, deadly though it was.

I had to act fast. The music seemed to be getting louder in the gas station and the breakfast burritos were stronger. I ran back into the sunlight and hurried across to the pumps. The yellow sign of a fast food restaurant blazed from across a green stretch of grass and a sunken drainage ditch.

I glanced around. The parking lot was mostly empty. The highway was quiet, already rippling with heat as the sun inched up the velvet blue sky. On the other side of the truck stop, a barren field was getting raked up to build something else. The farmland was slowly getting eaten up by industry…how long until the very trucks this station served no longer had any cattle, grain, or hay to haul?

I turned my attention to the diesel truck and its long black trailer. I caught her eye and she seemed to understand that right now—right now was the moment. I hesitated. This was truly my last chance, but by this point, I knew I couldn’t stop. So I didn’t.

I opened the door and she stepped out into the sun. Free.

But not yet.

We had to get out of here.

We couldn’t escape in my car. We couldn’t take the diesel because the man had surely taken his keys into that dank truck stop restroom.

So I led her across the parking lot toward the only refuge we could possibly find: the fast food restaurant.

In retrospect, that was a bad idea. But there was nowhere else to go.

So we clambered over the curve and she halted on the grass, but I tugged her after me, through the ditch and over another curb. The open sign flickered neon in the shade of the overhanging roof, but the sun was nearly blinding, flashing off the windows, obscuring what was inside. Perfect.

I nearly slipped in a spilled milkshake as we hurried across the white dashes of the pedestrian crosswalk. I thought I heard a voice shouting behind us, but I didn’t look back.

I held the door open for her and she obligingly trotted ahead, into the AC-chilled bliss.

“Sir, you can’t bring her in here,” the cashier in a bright red headband said.

“Shhh,” I said. “We have to hide. Can we slip into the back?”

“Are you insane?” The cashier retorted.

I glanced back out the windows, toward the truck stop.

Nothing.

It was black outside, like night had fallen. But without any streetlights or anything. Very faintly, I could make out distant lights moving softly, almost in sync with the slow song playing over the speakers inside the restaurant.

“Did you hear me?” insisted the cashier. “I said get out of here!”

“No, we can’t,” I said. “He’s coming. We’ve got to hide!”

I looked back at the cashier to see that they were also staring past me at the windows.

“What’s happening?” the cashier asked.

“I don’t know, just…just help me hide her,” I begged.

The cashier blinked and refocused on me, frowning.

The song seemed to be getting louder.

“Please, I begged. He’s coming.”

I looked back over my shoulder and caught her wide brown eyes. She seemed calm. Not frightened or urgent or scared. Behind her, the weird darkness beyond the windows was getting brighter—maybe—but I still couldn’t make out the parking lot. The man might be right outside. Could he see in?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the cashier said. “And this is insane, but fine. Come on.”

They ushered us into the kitchen and I reflected on the irony of bringing her here—but it was much too late.

The lights outside were moving faster and I was sure the man was close.

Steam hissed from the fryers and all I could smell were delicious French fries. We followed the cashier past gleaming silver tables and racks and cupboards.

I almost lost sight of the red headband in the steam for a moment.

There was no one else in the kitchen.

Just steam and stainless steel and white linoleum.

The cashier looked back at us, a frown creasing their freckled face.

“We should be at the office by now…” the cashier said. “Hey! Marco! Where is everyone?” Only hissing steam answered.

It swirled around the red headband and I paused to look back at my rescue. Her deep brown eyes reflected the steam and she said nothing, but it seemed like her eyes said, I trust you.

I shrugged.

Somewhere far behind us, a shout penetrated the salty fog. It was not a fry order. I grabbed her and pulled her after the cashier.

“Move, move, he’s coming!”

“Who?”

“The man!”

Footsteps rang in the smoke behind us and we quickened our pace, our own footsteps clacking loudly on the slippery floor.

“Where’s the exit?” I asked, clawing my way through the thick white air. My stomach growled—I hadn’t had breakfast.

Fries and…guiltily, I thought of burgers…

“Its should be here!” the cashier said, panic sharpening their voice. Grease rankled at my nose, almost unappetizing. “We take the garbage out here,” the cashier continued, frantically and almost to themself. “But where is the goddamn door? Where’s Marco?”

We were still running.

The floor was tilting ahead of us…downward. And the floor was slick with grease or milkshake or panic. Behind us, the pushing feet thundered.

“Get us out of here!” I shouted. We couldn’t be caught—I couldn’t let that happen. Yet the footsteps were so close behind us. My own footing gave out and I slid into the cashier’s back, sending them sprawling. Everything was white steam.

We were sliding down an incline. She was right behind me, her breath hot and wet on my neck. But she made no sound, as if this were normal for her.

We slid faster and faster and faster—the steam shot by in great gouts of hissing—the white blurred into a shimmering rainbow of whispers. Stars. An endless glittering grid of lights…

“What is this place?” I asked, one hand on her shoulder, the other clutching at my spinning head. We stood at the intersection of shining planes. Nothing but lights in all directions and nearly invisible surfaces that cut space into geometry that I couldn’t quite discern. She didn’t answer.

But the cashier wouldn’t stop cussing.

“Fuck, I knew it was a damn inter-dimensional void!” they said. “But shit this is insane. We fell through the fucking glitch. Are you seeing this?”

They turned on me like it was my fault.

“Y-yes,” I said. I looked back, but it was the same as what lay before me, and I didn’t hear any footsteps…would the man find us?

“We’re at a crossroads,” she said. It was the first time I had heard my rescue’s voice and I jumped, surprised at how musical it was.

“What crossroads?” I asked. “I already made my choice.”

“And a mad one, at that,” she said.

“Oh great, she speaks,” the cashier said, throwing their hands up. “Of course she does.”

“What do we do?” I asked, my voice rising in pitch. I looked back and forth at the shining—planes? Directions? Spatial something-ness.

“What the fuck, what the fuck,” chanted the cashier. “I need a smoke.”

“It’s up to you,” she said, her eyes deep pools of mystery, “you can go on, or you can turn back.”

“And get caught?” I asked. I was sweating.

“No—reset.”

I pondered. Reset. To what?

To driving to work everyday to slave away for a corporation?

I looked into the distance. It was bright and illegible. But I knew I couldn’t go back.

“No.”

“What the fuck,” said the cashier, their freckles standing out like embers, “what about me?”

“Do you want to go back and reset?”

They didn’t hesitate to even contemplate their life.

“Fuck no,” they said.

“Then let’s go.”

We all looked forward into the brightness.

Me, the cashier, and the cow I had rescued from the trailer in a fit of madness.

A fit that was perhaps not over.

“Be ready,” she—the cow—said. “It’s going to get hairy. While we hesitate, we are held temporally, but once we commit to our decision, the chase is on. He is right behind us.”

I let out a shuddering breath that was echoed by the cashier.

“Ok, let’s fucking go,” they said. I nodded and the cow led the way forward.

The brightness increased, pulsing around us, thudding with the beat of our footsteps. We quickened our pace, thundering through the fluctuating shimmer. I squinted.

Sunlight. Hot pavement. We were back outside the fast food place. Had we gone the wrong way and reset? No. We’d just come out the back door—me, the cashier, and her.

We were still on the run. Ahead, a shitty motel loomed. We could hide in a random room—or the laundry—or the pool?

“Come on,” she said, reminding me that I was either tripping or reality really was out of whack. We ran across the street into the motel parking lot. The door slammed open behind us.

“Hey!” the man yelled. “What the fuck? Bring her back!”

Where were we going to go?

“That motor home!” The cashier said, pointing. It was big and silver. The cow might be able to squeeze through the door…but even then. The keys.

“Can you hot wire a car?” I asked sarcastically.

“Yeah,” they said.

“Oh.”

We ran to the motor home. Miraculously, it wasn’t locked.

The cashier dove straight into the driver seat and ripped off a panel while I tugged her through the door. She trampled up the steps and filled the little living area. I looked out and saw the man—almost upon us, his face red, veins bulging in his neck. I slammed the door and locked it. He pounded on the door.

“Hey! Open up! That’s my cow, you fucking fuckwit!”

He wound back his arm and slammed his fist through the window.

I screamed. Bloody knuckles quivered inches from my face. Broken glass twinkled down the front of my shirt. Hot wind blew in, followed by the stink of exhaust. The motor home roared to life.

“GO!” I squealed as the bloody hand grasped at me.

The motor home lurched and I fell backwards onto the floor. The hand disappeared and we lurched again. I scrambled to my feet and fell into the passenger seat.

The cashier steered us out onto the street. I could see the man raging at us in the side mirror. Another man was running out of the motel, waving his fists in the air.

I let out a sigh.

The cashier pulled us onto the highway and put it on the floor.

The motor home had some juice.

Ugly commercial buildings and dying farmland flickered past the windows. The radio was tuned to some twangy folk music station. I looked in the mirrors. The highway was empty.

The farmer guy would have to go back across two parking lots to get his truck to chase us. The motor home owner would call the police…but surely we could ditch the vehicle and…and what? Where would we go? I had thought we’d be running through parallel dimensions or something. I hadn’t expected to be running here…back in my world with the real world consequences for livestock theft and grand theft auto…

The cow’s eyes were deep with understanding.

“It won’t be easy,” she said.

“Oh, we are fucked,” the cashier agreed.

“But you can talk,” I squeaked. “Right?” I glanced at the cashier. “Right?”

“The cow?” the cashier said. “Oh yeah. She talks. I must be high. And this is a shit time to have a break with reality or a whatever is happening. But fuck it. We either live fast and crazy or we die sad and angry, right?”

“We can do both,” I said, suddenly feeling panic clawing its way upon my throat. What the fuck were we doing?

I noticed a new sound. Water running.

“Earl?” a voice called from the motor home’s bathroom. The cow’s eyes widened and the cashier cussed again. The shower shut off and the voice continued. “Goddammit, Earl. What is it this time? I told you I as going to shower!”

“What do we do?” I hissed.

“I don’t think its human,” said the cow, raising her eyebrows in an ironically human fashion.

“What?” the cashier demanded, swerving erratically.

“Dammit, Earl!”

“Sorry,” the cashier yelled back, then blanched, then shrugged and mouthed, what? at me in the rearview.

“It didn’t exist before we got in the motor home,” the cow explained quietly, trying to turn around in the tiny space and only succeeding in knocking a box of cereal off the table. “You have to kill it.”

“What?!” I gasped.

Her sweet stare silently confirmed her words. If I didn’t—this would all be for nought.

The bathroom door opened and an eighty-year-old woman in a towel staggered out of the steam. Weird steam. Flickering steam. Steam that smelled like floral shampoo and nightmares.

“Earl?” it asked, then caught sight of the cows’ rump filling the RV. Its eyes sparked in surprise—or maybe that’s what it wanted me to see—and then it caught sight of me and the cashier and the highway ahead.

“What in God’s name?”

“Hi,” said the cashier, apologetically.

“We’re sorry,” I squeaked.

The old lady squinted its eyes at us, about to go full Karen mode. The cow shook her head, wriggled, and burped. Something gleamed in her mouth.

“Thieves!” screamed the old woman. “Kidnappers! Earl! Save me!” Then an evil glint danced in its eyes and it clutched at its towel like it was going to keel over and die of shock.

The cow let the sword drop from its mouth onto the beige carpeting. The motor home swerved and I nearly fell out of my chair. The old lady toppled over, vanishing behind the cow.

“Keep your eyes on the road!” I shrieked at the cashier.

“Hard to do, man!” they yelled back.

The old woman rose behind the cow, towel-less and furious. Its hands were like claws as it demanded, “Pull over right now, young woman, and I won’t charge you!”

“My pronouns are they/them,” the cashier barked, slamming their foot on the gas. The old woman flipped over with a shriek. I slid out of the passenger seat and collapsed on the floor—on the sword. It was shiny and golden.

“You have to kill it,” she said, looking down on me, her big brown eyes full of sadness. “It won’t stop chasing us.”

My hands shook, but I grabbed the sword by its glittering grip and lifted it from the beige carpet.

I rose to meet the fiery gaze of the old woman.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Who are YOU?” the old woman demanded. “Thief!” She meant the cow, not the RV. Was the owner even named Earl?

Or was I really really crazy nutzo? I looked down at the sword. Was it just a butter knife or something?

Didn’t really matter. There was no going back.

“Pull over now and everything can go back to how it was,” it said, as if it could read my thoughts. Its old lady boobs peered at me over the back of the cow.

“Don’t listen to it,” she said.

It cackled.

“Will you listen to a cow over reason?” it asked.

Then it was on the ceiling. The cow cried out in warning and the thing dropped onto me like a hawk. I didn’t have time to lift the sword. The thing’s arms were around me, the old lady boobs stabbing into me—the fuck—they were sharp—and it bit into my neck.

“Holy fuck!” the cashier yelped, swerving wildly.

“Brake!” yelled the cow.

Screeching. A car horn blared. Blurring lurch.

The thing detached with a shriek.

The cashier cursed and I rolled onto my back, clutching at my throat with one hand. The sword was still clutched in my other.

The old lady thing clambered off the dash board, its fangs dripped with blood and its claws and boobs sparkled like blades. Blood was running down my neck. I gasped, crawling onto my knees.

“Give up,” it said.

“No,” I gasped.

“You can’t win.”

“To the river!” The cow yelped.

“No!” shrieked the thing, swiping a claw at the cashier before they could step on it. Blood sprayed across the windshield and I nearly threw up. The thing turned back on me, tits blazing.

We were still rolling. The cashier was slumped over, choking—dying. More car horns honked and we rolled into oncoming traffic.

“Will you die for her?” The thing asked. I somehow got to my feet.

“I’ll die to escape mediocrity,” I said. “And to free her from whatever you are.”

The thing chuckled. And then pounced.

The cow head butted me from behind and I staggered forward, sword-tip lurching up…

The thing screamed—like an old lady.

It staggered back, off the sword tip and grinned.

“Tis but a flesh wound,” it laughed.

And then we hit the barrier on the other side of the highway. The thing fell against the dash and I plowed into it, sword driving right between its tits. The windshield cracked. A new song came on the radio, distorted and wavering.

The thing coughed up blood and gasped, “dammit.”

And then it morphed. Its wrinkly skin smoothed out and a beard spouted on its chin and its lifeless eyes grew younger. I staggered back and fell at the cow’s feet.

The farmer-type man was pinned to the crackling radio with a golden sword. He was naked, just like the old lady had been, as if by transporting himself through space and changing his shape, he had left his clothes behind.

Or I was fucking crazy.

The cashier!

Blood was everywhere. What if I had done all of this?

I looked at the cow.

“The river,” she said.

“OK,” I gasped.

I rolled the cashier out of the drivers seat and smeared some of the blood off the windshield.

The RV was still running. I backed off the barrier and steered us back across traffic into our lane, ignoring the vehicles that had stopped to try and help us. Smoke was coming out of the wrinkled front end, but it wasn’t far to the river.

I punched it, ignoring the tears that were streaming out of my eyes.

I hadn’t imagined it would end up like this. But then, I hadn’t imagined what would happen next at all, I had just acted, before the opportunity vanished. I kind of wished I had let it slip by.

But then she’d be dead, right?

Did the life of one talking cow matter so much?

What about the cashier? What about me?

I was sobbing now, the blood soaking into my clothes from the upholstery. The highway blurred before me.

“It’s going to be ok,” the cow said behind me. “As long as we get to the river, it will be ok.”

“Sure,” I sobbed. “Fucking sure.”

But I couldn’t do anything else. So I sped on, peering through my tears, the blood, and the black smoke from the engine.

In the distance, in the rearview, I thought I saw blue and red lights flickering.

“You chose right,” the cow said. “It just doesn’t feel like it right now. But you chose kindness, and that’s what matters. You chose it when you could have just walked away.”

I grit my teeth and kept crying. But I also kept my foot on the gas.

Something moved beside me.

The man—the thing—it squirmed on the sword.

“The FUCK?!” I shrieked.

“Hurry,” the cow said, “it will regenerate if we don’t get to the river.”

I could hear the sirens now, but the road was just ahead: the fastest route to the river. The thing squirmed again and I glanced at it.

What a mistake.

I retched and swerved and another driver laid on their horn. Black smoke billowed from the crunched hood. The creature pinned to the dashboard reached for me with a bleeding stump of arm…the flesh was bubbling and oozing. In the rearview, police cars appeared around the corner.

I swung the RV off the highway. We banged over ruts onto the gravel road. The grasping hand of the thing missed the steering wheel and grabbed my knee. I screamed, fighting to keep the motor home on the road. We were going way too fast for this pot-hole riddled road. Bushes thwacked the sides and squealed along the windows. I couldn’t see past the smoke.

The thing was squeezing my knee. I slapped at it, frantically and swerved off the road.

We plummeted through thick brush and then dipped down a steep bank.

The thing and I screamed.

A thud. I bounced against the ceiling and landed hard. But at least the thing had let go of me. Through the smoke I could make out a beach and the sparkle of the sun on water.

“Quick, we need to get out!” the cow cried out from behind me. She was pressing against the door, but it seemed to be stuck.

I clambered over the driver’s seat and away from the clawing creature whose arms were extending beyond human range.

“What is it?” I shrieked.

She didn’t answer, just lowered her head and rammed the door. It popped open and she charged out into the sunlight. I followed, immediately inhaling a choking cloud of engine smoke. My feet plunged into sand and I emerged, coughing onto the beach. The motor home had lodged itself in a bank of sand and old driftwood.

“Run!” urged the cow.

I followed her down toward the glittering river. Over the bitter oil burning, I caught a whiff of dank river smell: waterweed and fish stink.

BOOM!

I staggered and fell, clutching my ears. My elbows sank into sand and garbage fluttered past my face. I twisted around, filling my pants with sand as I wriggled to face the motor home. It had exploded. Fire and black smoke lashed at the sky and broken glass glittered in a burnt swath in front of the RV.

Beyond that, I could hear the sirens getting closer.

And the thing had escaped before the explosion.

It looked like a tangle of skin and bones, pulsating, expanding and contracting like a machine, elbows or knees shooting in and out like pistons.

I scrambled back on my butt as the thing scuttled toward me.

Another boom.

I winced, ducking as more fire issued from the exploded RV. The thing would be upon me, but I didn’t dare open my eyes. I didn’t want to see it as it…devoured me?

But nothing. Just sirens and the rush of the river burbling along its stinking way.

“Help!” she cried.

I flipped around, tossing up more sand and squinted into the glare of the sun. The tangle of limbs was accosting the cow on the water’s edge. Hundreds of fingers splayed around her neck and pulled at her, just as her hooves clamored at the damp sand where the water touched the earth. “Get if off! I have to get to the water!”

I scrambled to my feet and charged the abomination headlong.

Splash!

Flesh.

Sweaty, bloody, and pulsing.

I grabbed at joints and limbs and folds of skin, trying to grip, rip, push, or otherwise damage it. My foot slipped in mud. Water lapped up to my knees. We were all three in the river. The limbs rippled under my grasp, writhing up and around to pin me.

Over the top of the mass of limbs, I could see her, haloed by the sun, submerging in the sparkling water. Her head went under in a flicker and I suddenly panicked. Could she swim?

But the limbs were pushing me down.

I couldn’t escape them, they were all around me now, squeezing. I couldn’t swim.

I gasped as cold water rushed up my torso and I couldn’t refill my lungs. The thing had its something wrapped tightly around my chest. Then water sucked over my head.

Somehow, underwater, I could hear it speaking.

You’ll never escape. The system is too big, too organized, too full of hate.

Green murk filled my stinging eyes.

And then the limbs were gone and I popped out of the water, coughing and spitting and gasping. I blinked furiously, lashing out around me, trying to hit the thing before it could grab me again. But it was gone.

I was sitting in the river, up to my chest in muddy water. Downstream, a bloody flesh lump floated away…limp and lifeless. I blinked water out of my eyes and scanned for the cow…

There she was, standing thigh deep in running water, her form also changed. She appeared to be a woman with long dark hair, clothed in nothing but woven sunlight.

“I’m free of the enchantment,” the goddess said. “My powers are restored.”

I stared.

“It—it’s over, then?” I asked, coughing again.

“Oh, no, of course not,” she said. “Now we have to fight the police.”

I looked back at the shore and the burning motor home and the gap in the bushes beyond where the road actually came down to the beach. My shoulders sagged in dismay.

“The police?” I asked. Why had I expected it to be over? How would I explain all of this? “We—we have to fight them?”

“Of course,” said the goddess. “But we’re not alone.”

I gaped as the cashier staggered out of the wreckage, apparently unharmed.

“Damn, what did I miss?” they asked, running across the beach.

“A flesh blob-arm monster-thing,” I choked out. “And this.” I waved in the direction of the goddess.

“Ah, ok,” said the cashier, apparently unfazed. They splashed into the shallows and helped me up.

The first police car came jolting onto the beach.

“Isn’t there another way?” I asked the Goddess as she handed us both golden swords she’d seemingly spirited from the air.

“Imagining a better future is only the first step,” she said, her eyes full of stars and black holes, beauty and death. “You have to act.”

“I already did,” I protested. The sword was heavy in my hand.

“And it’s not easy,” she replied. “Change can’t happen in a day. We have a long journey ahead.”

I looked at the cashier. They shrugged.

“Better to risk it all than to know and not do anything,” they said. “Besides. Too late now, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. “I don’t want to go to jail.”

“That’s the spirit.”

We turned to face the cops as they emerged from their car, unhinging their jaws and licking their teeth with long forked tongues.

Things were going to get weird. And very very difficult.

I gripped my sword and planted my feet in the mud.

On one side, the cashier jeered at the monsters, and on the other, the goddess raised a spear of fire.

Justice had to start somewhere. It was heavy and terrifying, but it might as well be here. I could have not done it. But I did.

Hello! Welcome back to the October Frights Blog Hop! I'm always excited to be part of it, and this year we have a mini book fair, too! You can find the links to that, as well as to the other participating blogs, below the story.

Here's a short story I wrote a while back, inspired by a random caterpillar, so tiny, so fuzzy...but what if he wasn't so tiny? What if there were layers to what he meant?

The Caterpillar

“I told you that would happen,” I mutter, erasing furiously. But I'm not talking about the jagged sketch slowly coming to life in my notebook.

Bulging eyes and fine hairs sprouting from a bulbous, segmented body. I don't like the curve of its body. The eraser flashes, grinding out lines.

"I said someone--would--get--hurt, if you--didn't--"

Again, I'm not talking about the caterpillar that is filling the page with angry pencil scratches.

*

"It'll be fine," my boss said.

“No it won’t, it—” I insisted, but he cut me off.

“We’re behind schedule,” he said, turning away. An unspoken sentence wriggled its way through the mush of my brain, The company is losing money. Faster, faster, faster. The words gnawed at me. I made eye contact with my coworker, Sam, and I could tell the same rage was chewing him up. We went for a smoke break and bitched, but that hardly calmed me down. Sam puffed out a noxious cloud and sighed, “Guess we better go up.”

I didn’t answer, but I followed him.

*

With a hiss, the pencil flashes across the page. The lines are darkening as the sketch takes shape, leaving behind the faint skeleton, leaping off the page, coming to life. I pause. I pick up my tea and sip. Fragrant leaf juice. My hand starts shaking again and I force it to continue drawing. I don’t know what I’ll do when the drawing is done…it’s so close. The outlines of everything are there, the details filling in—little feet—little claws—more fine hairs—dripping—even smaller hairs—droplets—I want to slow down. I don’t want to finish it. But I can’t stop or the shakes will catch up. The pain will find me.

*

“What would you do, if you could have any job in the world?” Sam asked. We were at the top of the building, stacking shingles.

“I’d be an artist, I guess,” I said. “Concept art for movies. Watch my drawings come to life. You?”

Sam paused.

“It’s stupid.”

“No, tell me!” I said and swatted him with a loose shingle before tossing it off the roof.

“An entomologist,” Sam admitted.

“A bug scientist?” I laughed, but then caught the hurt in his eyes. “That’s actually cool,” I hurried to assure him.

“I particularly wanted to study larval stages,” Sam continued, looking out over the treetops. “Maybe we’re in a larval stage, and we’ll spin cocoons soon, and emerge changed.”

I scoffed.

“More like this is the cocoon,” I said, throwing another broken shingle off the roof. I hefted a stack of the damn things and headed up the roof, going slowly to avoid slipping. “I feel like anatomical sludge being sloshed around inside a wrapper.”

“I’d like to study you, then,” Sam said, mischievously.

“Oh god,” muttered. Sam just laughed, a bright sound that bounced out over the trees into the sun.

*

The drawing forms like a moth out of anatomical sludge. I think of my boss’s face as I sketch it. But I see it angry in my mind’s eye. I hear his voice.

“We’re going to have to let Sam go.”

I have one last thing to make the drawing complete. I need to change this face. The eraser flashes.

*

“Why?” I demanded. “That’s stupid! Sam’s the only good worker we have, myself included.”

“Don’t call me stupid,” my boss warned, his voice dripping with ice. I glanced at the cross on the wall behind his desk.

“Does it have anything to do with his new tattoo? His Satanic tattoo?” I asked, filling the word with sarcasm.

“You’re on thin ice already, don’t try pulling that card,” my boss snapped. I stood up and shook my head.

“I’m warning you,” I said.

“Get out.”

*

The pencil stops.

There. The face is perfect. The features are taut with horror and pain. I lay the pencil down next to the notebook and let out a long, shaky sigh. It’s done. I glance at the clock and groan. It’s twelve fifteen. I need to be in bed. Instead, I stare at the drawing and sip my cold tea. Leaf juice.

The caterpillar in the drawing is plump and hairy, with huge eyes that glitter with a thousand lenses. Its mandibles are buried in the neck of my boss, who thrashes in the claws of the gigantic larva. I shake my head and slam down my tea. I need some sleep.

*

Sam’s laugh, bouncing, rolling, falling, tumbling, so bright, fading away…mandibles and blood. Satanic tattoo. You’re on thin ice! We’re going to have to let Sam go. He doesn’t deserve this! The silken threads of a cocoon covered me with slithering smoothness. It’s time to transform, to metamorphose!

*

I don’t sleep. The dreams tumble and my alarm saves me from them, only to dump me back into the harsh grey reality. The grief hasn’t caught up. Yet.

I drive to work, barely awake, hugging my coffee. I stop at a cafe to grab a breakfast burrito and three cop cars and an ambulance wail by while I wait for yet another coffee. I shudder. 

My boss isn’t at work. No one can get a hold of him. I just get his voicemail. I send him forty texts and stare blearily at the two other guys on the crew. They can’t get a hold of him, either. We just stand there. No one wants to go back to that job. And maybe our boss doesn’t either.

Maybe I should cut him some slack.

“This is typical,” I mutter.

After another five minutes of waiting, I’ve had enough.

“I’m going to drive to his house,” I say. “Maybe he’s still asleep.”

But he’s not. The three emergency vehicles I saw earlier are waiting for me at his house. There’s a cop, holding out his hand to stop me. But as he does, another stumbles out of the house and throws up in the snow.

A paramedic is leading a hysterical woman out of the house—my boss’s wife.

“It was a caterpillar!” She wails as the paramedic tries to calm her down. “A giant caterpillar!”

My stomach goes cold and I drop my coffee.

“There’s nothing to see here,” the first cop tells me.

“B-but,” I stammer. “What happened? Where’s my boss?”

“We’re looking,” the cop says. The one behind him throws up in the snow again. “It doesn’t look good. Go home.”

“It ate him alive!” Screams his wife as she is bundled into a car.

*

At home, I face the drawing, pinned up on the wall.

I told you this would happen.

But I’m not talking about the impossible.

My drawing had come to life somehow. Where was the giant caterpillar now? Cocooned somewhere? Preparing to metamorphose? I look at my hands. Had I become the caterpillar in the night? Stupid.

But his wife couldn’t have hallucinated my drawing in the same night. They were still looking for his body. But there were no remains. The caterpillar had devoured him utterly. I know it.

*

The roof was icy. We shouldn’t have been up there. And the harnesses were so old…Sam bounced like his laughter off the edge of the roof. The damn harness broke, like I had told my boss a hundred times it would. I nearly slipped off the edge myself, rushing, breathless, to look down on Sam, lying broken in the snow.

I dialed frantically with numb fingers and waited in the cold sunlight as the ambulance drove thirty miles to get to us. I made it safely down to Sam’s side and covered him with almost all of my clothes.

“Can you move anything?” I asked.

“You have pretty eyes, Jake,” he whispered.

“Can you feel your legs?” I demanded.

He made it to the hospital. He made it a whole two days, completely encased in a cocoon of plaster. And then his eyes faded. And Sam faded like the echo of his laughter.

*

I open my eyes and they are stinging. The drawing swims before me. The vicious caterpillar devouring my boss, whose face is twisted in all the horrible agony I have felt these past three days. He wanted us to come back to work today. Sam was barely cold. The pencil snaps in my hand.

"I said someone--would--get--hurt, if you—didn't--"

And I’m not talking about the caterpillar.

I shouldn’t have pushed back when my boss threatened to fire Sam. Sam would still be alive.

Crunching crawls through the snow outside and a shiver runs down my spine. Something is out there.

I grab my baseball bat and creep to the window. Something bumps against the house. Something huge. It slithers across the siding. I peer through the frosty glass. Something large has made a wide rut through the snow on the lawn.

The door creaks. Creaks louder. I hold my breath, my hands shaking, squeezing the bat. Creaaaaaaak…

Bam! With a thunderous crash, the door caves in and huge rolls of monstrous flesh push through, fine hairs dancing in a halo around it. I scream and drop the bat, scrambling backwards over the floor.

The monster swings its head toward me and the light sparkles in its thousand eye lenses.

“Jake,” the caterpillar says.

“You died,” I rasp.

“No…no, no, no, I metamorphosed,” Sam says, and his laugh bounces through the air.

Thank you for reading! Please enjoy more spooky content on the rest of the blog hop:

Be Afraid of the DarkFrighten MeAn Angell's Life of Bookish GoodnessReading Fiction Blog - Paula CappaGirlZombieAuthorsCorpse Child's SanctuaryM'Habla's!Carmilla Voiez British Horror AuthorMinnesota (Horror) NiceHawk's HappeningsRob Read - Author

And the Book fair can be found here

 This was my speech at the opening ceremony of the first LGBTQIA+ Pride in Bonners Ferry, Idaho on June 21st, 2024

We Are Here

By McCallum J. Morgan

Here we are. We are here.

Sometimes it feels a little like survival, but we’re still here, we’ve been here, and we will continue to be here.

For just a second, I want to acknowledge the resistance we’ve faced. The haters out there—right out there in Bonners Ferry, Idaho.

When this event was announced, it felt like tensions exploded. We had horrible comments referring to this as a “movement" being imported into this town. I found a letter, left at the door, asking why we wanted to bring “those people” here.

They see us as a shadowy contagion, creeping across the land. Something new and fearful. But we’ve always been here.

This is the stigma I want to break. The idea that we are “other.” We are not. We’re all human. We are their sisters, brothers, siblings, parents, cousins, friends, neighbors. We’re already here. And that’s all we want. To be here. Fully.

Pride is about removing the veil. The lepers bells. We’re not the monsters in the closets, the boogeymen outside the windows. We should’t have to lie about who we are.

We belong to the light, not the shadows. They’ve pretended we don’t exist and ignored us, chased us back into the gloom when we tried to make ourselves known. There’s nothing to be afraid of—not for them.

We’ve been afraid, though, haven’t we?

Afraid of ourselves for what they made us believe we are. Afraid of them, when their own fear hardened into violence. Afraid that we would lose our friends and families. Afraid we would always be the leper, the pariah, hiding on the outskirts.

And we found each other there.

Pride is community. It’s holding each other up because no one else will. Its telling each other: You’re not alone. And then we tell the world, we’re here.

We claim our place in the sunlight. Alongside them. They think we’re trying to take a higher place than them. There are centuries of inequality still clinging like cobwebs, holding us back, even as they push us down. But we found each other. And we’re not so easy to push away now.

Pride is love in the face of hate. Love in the face of fear.

We’re their siblings and they, are ours.

I grew up here in this town. It was a matrix of homophobia. I internalized so much of it that it took me until my early twenties to even come out to myself. How many of us grew up alone like that? Here, and in every town across America—across the world. No one should have to grow up like that.

They’re afraid of change. But we are change. 

And we are already here.

Notes:

I would like to welcome you all here to Bonners Ferry’s first Pride. We couldn’t have done this without the wonderful volunteers who put this together: Bobby Wire-Roberson, Alan Tozier, Jessica Tingley (without whom there would be no Pearl Theater to even host this), everyone who donated money to put this on: the Boundary County Human Rights Task Force, Lani, and more. I want to thank Crystll Blu for being our guest of honor, and Matthew Danielson—our Dj, and all the musicians, poets, and drag queens who will be performing tomorrow.

And I especially want to thank each and every one of you who showed up tonight.

Happy Pride and Free Palestine.

To the Me who Was.

You’re fucking insane. In a good way.

You never believed in yourself, but you went for it anyway. You thought you had to prove that you were something. You couldn’t accept that you were enough, because you thought you were too quiet and shy, forgettable, invisible, not man enough. You were ashamed of being delicate. You were ashamed that you couldn’t be like the athletic, handsome boys. You wanted them to accept you. And you knew you couldn’t get that from being like them.

So you took the things you loved—the artistic things—the borderline girly things—and you said, I will excel at these. I will excel so hard, that I will be enough, using the things I can. And imagination. Creation. They were ways to build worlds. Worlds where you could be enough. Worlds that abided by your rules. Worlds you could live through. Where, for a little while, you could be that handsome boy. You could love him.

But you never quite believed your own fantasy.

And you tried so hard. And it hurt so much. It hurt that you couldn’t be what you wanted to be. Or what you thought you wanted to be. But you were.

You were amazing. Fucking mental. But amazing. Religion had a chokehold on your pride. Not allowed, pride. Not allowed, ambition. But I can see, looking back, how great you really were. You worked five days a week for most of the year, and you went to church on Sunday, and Friday night volleyball games with the youth. And yet somehow, you wrote, edited, formatted, and.published six books in as many years. With a seventh rough draft. So many short stories, so much extra time and effort dedicated to marketing those books. Those works of art. You worked so damn fucking hard. And no one noticed. And that killed you. Because you wanted to be amazing. And you were. But only a few people noticed, and none of those people were you.

But fuck off, man. Seven books in seven years. At least a 100,000 words each. And the book signing events—though disheartening at times because no one came—the conventions and excessive extra projects. Who else hand creates costumes based on their books to wear to conventions and signings? Who else has a catalogue of their own drawings and paintings to flesh out their book worlds? Who the fuck else does all of this amazing shit?

Very few, if anyone. Besides you.

You made video projects, drawings, paintings, so many things.

Now you’re tired. You’re not dead. You’re sleeping.

And maybe one day, you’ll wake up again, and you’ll know how great you are. Maybe that’s all you really needed: a little love. From yourself. So here: I love you. I love everything you did. And I’m sorry I didn’t love you then.

When you’re ready to awaken, when you’re ready to come back, I’ll be here, ready to love you at last. For all you did, but more importantly, just for who you are.

Maybe, all along, you were really the muse.

And its a little fucked up that I have to disassociate from myself to love me. I can love another me. I can be proud of someone else. I can embrace another person and enshrine them as a muse. But not myself. Another me. That person. Who I was. What I can be. But not this, right here.

We’re taught to be afraid of ourselves. We’re taught that pride and vanity are the worst sins. We’re scared to death to love ourselves, because what if we are narcissists? We’re taught that loving ourselves is bad. But maybe we’re missing the point of the myth of Narcissus? What if we’re holding ourselves back.

Why don’t we want to become flowers?

I want to become a flower—no—stop it—I am a flower.

I always was and I am and I will be.

I am that I am: god in man as a flower.

Deus ex flore

Be

 I didn't start doing theater until after I came out.

Part of it was because I was going to a church that believes performance art is prideful. That church also didn't really encourage fiction writing. All the things that make me, me, were held back to some degree.

But I didn't give up on that church for a long time because I had come to believe they had the truth of God. And if I turned my back on that, I would not ever truly be right with God. And eventually, you know, that means dying and not going to heaven. I.e. eternal damnation. And I'm also gay. So that was a big thing I was afraid of that I thought the church could maybe save me from.

I was successfully indoctrinated.

So even though I continued to enjoy music and wrote fantasy novels, I clung to my religion and held back from really truly diving into my passions.

I stopped going to church in 2020 when the burden became too much. My gayness wasn't going away. I finally accepted myself for who I am. And my sexuality is part of me. My denial of it was also holding me back. I was deathly afraid of doing things that might expose me for a homosexual.

In 2021, I finally auditioned for a local play, something I had always wanted to do, deep down inside. I love theater. I wish I had gotten into it sooner.

It's a place where my interests and talents are actually appreciated. Singing, dancing, making costumes. These things matter to theater. And no one else really gives a damn.

It feels so right to finally be doing theater.

And also drag. I took a dance class for contemporary dance--a class that was all women besides me. I would have felt to singled out before...too weird for being the guy who wants to dance. And that's society's fault for rendering activities and emotions.

So it's a weird side effect of coming out and not caring that you're gay. Suddenly you're free to express yourself. And I love that society is heading in the direction where everyone can do that. Kids today don't give a shit if they're wearing pink or painting their nails. Dancing. Theater. Aspersions aren't as easily cast about sexuality for showing emotion.

Part of coming out is learning to let go. It's coming to terms with insecurities and deciding to disregard other people's disapproval. It's a process, especially for a people pleaser like me. 

I grew up in a place that entirely disapproved of gay people.

And the atmosphere is still a little oppressive, but I don't care as much anymore. And now I can be proud.

Instead of secretly ashamed all the time. And I can shrug my shoulders and wear the weird stuff I always wanted to, and not be ashamed of my high pitched laugh, and I can walk without worrying about how much my hips are moving. And I can embrace being an artist. And I can make dresses and write fiction and perform on stage.

I don't have to be afraid of pride. I don't have to be afraid of doing the things I'm good at, just in case I love them more than God.

The Bible says God is a jealous God. Well, that's not a healthy relationship then.

And I'm glad I'm out of it.

I think the true God or universe or essence of art is more loving than that and would want us to be happy and free and proud. Not unnecessarily, but proud as in the absence of shame and insecurity. Proud as in loving yourself as you are and not thinking you have to change.

Proud as in acceptance.

And a little proud you made it this far. Proud you are living fully. Authentically. And without fear. Proud to know you're fighting for things that matter.

The line from Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Saenz (spoilers quote ahead):

"I'm so ashamed."

"Ashamed? Of loving Dante?"

I not ashamed anymore. I'm proud to love my boyfriend. And more importantly, I'm proud to love myself at last.

I was told from early on that men in love with men was disgusting. 

When I first learned that it was even a thing, the knowledge was imparted by those around me with condemnation. I was very young. Eight maybe. When adults or older kids tell you anything, you believe it. No questions.

I learned it was disgusting and wrong the minute I learned it existed. That's a taught hatred. And it takes a long time to unlearn. Especially when reinforced and inflated by religion. The religious shame surrounding sexuality is already so damaging. It teaches us that a natural part of us is evil, and this leads to a very unhealthy relationship with our sexuality, which is something we can't escape. Whether gay, straight, asexual, or otherwise. It's part of us, and religion trains us to be ashamed of it.

Add the extra layer of having a sexuality that is considered unnatural by religion. Abomination: somehow even worse than simple sin. So, even as a sexual awakening tried to occur, I clamped the lid down on it. I ignored it. I turned a blind eye. Because I liked things I wasn't supposed to like. It's impossible to consider at ten years old that you like Anakin Skywalker. Like that. 

Eventually the truth sets in. And the shame grows ever stronger. 

But I want to talk about after that. After the shame. 

I want to talk about healing. I want to talk about the things that made me see that men loving men could be beautiful. That it wasn't just carnality and a slippery slope to deep depravity. I want to talk about Lady Gaga and Björk and serpentwithfeet and Perfume Genius. I want to talk about putting a broken image of love back together. 

Even when I still thought that gay was gross, Gaga said gays were ok. And I loved Gaga. I listened to her constantly from the moment she hit the airwaves with Just Dance in 2008. I was Thirteen. So even as I resisted her message that we are Born this Way in 2011, I tolerated it. 

And then Björk. I found her back catalogue in 2015 or 16. Weird, wonderful, and wild. Two robots in her likeness make sapphic love in the music video for All Is Full of Love. It was art--and hard to dismiss as "vile homosexuality." She featured trans artist Anohni in two songs. She worked with producer Arca, who was gay and later came out as trans. Arca's own music--full of dark brooding chaos--spoke to the pain shut up inside me. And through Björk I also found serpentwithfeet, whose undulating choral and brass love songs were too beautiful to be dismissed simply because they were gay. I listened to them anyway. So what if he was singing hymns to another man? Guiltily, I let it sweep me away.

And Perfume Genius. I'd had brief contact with his song Queen, but revisited him because of my Björk obsession. Several of Björk's most glorious music videos were directed by Andrew Thomas Huang (who is also gay) and he directed a new music video for Slip Away by Perfume Genius. The visuals were rife with nods to my favorite 80s fantasy movies.

I only listened to that one Perfume Genius album at first. The others had songs with titles like "Gay Angels" and I couldn't ignore the themes. But slowly, I got over that and dove into his haunting discography that talked about his personal experiences as a gay man.

And Music saved me. Music taught me that being gay could be lovely. 

The year I finally started to relinquish my fear and forgive myself--2020--Perfume Genius released a new album: Set My Heart on Fire Immediately. What a thunderous rupture and a healing balm. A damning and an absolution. It was the soundtrack of my coming out. Songs that spoke of conflicted desire but also of joy and letting go. Of forgiveness. I could finally embrace the beauty of same-sex love. Of my love. 

I also bought a book that summer. "Loving: a Photographic History of Men in Love 1850s-1950s" A collection of old photos, showing men in love going back through history. Proof we've always been here and always been beautiful and pure. I paged through it the other day and cried again because of how long it took me to see gayness as lovely. That I am lovely. And it still hurts to think about how long I was in pain, thinking this was disgusting. But I can see now. I can love and let love and admire the gorgeousness of men loving men.

I wish we could collectively stop seeing differences as negatives. I wish we would stop teaching that "differences" exist. If we didn't bat an eye at gay relationships then they would just be--If they were just normal--we wouldn't be teaching children about gays, either positive or negative. Because whatever you think--we are teaching them about gays all the time. Some people complain 'why do children have to learn about this?' but they already are. They're learning it's 'different' and 'wrong.' They pick up on the unspoken--the hushed. The silence teaches them that these things are unspeakable. The 'different' things become jokes and subjects for ridicule. Kids hear things they don't understand and internalize the tone and the implications of the silence. And they learn about gays.

Those people who don't want to 'teach kids about gays' don't want it to be normal. They want to teach their kids that gay is wrong. And that's an entire conversation on its own.

I want it to be normal.

Because there's nothing wrong or sinful about it. It doesn't hurt anyone. And I don't want to hear another word about Hell. Because it was Hell on earth when I drove home listening to Prayer of the Heart and praying for God to make me better. I'm sorry but Heaven isn't worth that pain. How can God hate gays for the way He made them? How can God hate the beautiful art that gays bring into the world? How can the transcendental sounds that Björk makes be worthless because they are 'secular?' There's too much beauty in humans for human nature to be base and sinful.

We're normal. Or rather, there is no one normal among us, not one.

And only a cruel, imagination-less god would demand we change to become so bland.

So I mourn the years I spent in dark abhorrence and wish that they could have been filled rather with brightness and self acceptance and appreciation of beauty. But I celebrate it now. And hold up the beauty in me and in others.

Amen

 I'd heard the phrase, 'it gets better,' and I'd heard it specifically in regards to being gay and coming out.

It didn't mean a lot. It was a vague projection with little comfort.

It gets better, eh? That's nice, because it's really really awful right now. It hurts. All the time. And I'm scared.

And that can be said for many things besides being in the closet.

Its hard to imagine a better.

It's impossible to see a future without the fear. When you still believe you are abhorrent and sinful, you can't envision a future where you don't believe that. That in itself is terrifying. Because it means you lost the way, accepted your sin, and began to embrace evil. You can't envision a future in that that isn't even worse than where you are now.

I recently talked about my coming out in an interview for a friend's YouTube. And I kind of forgot a detail.

The first person I came out to was accepting. She's one of my dearest friends. But coming out to her made me actually face the reality. 

Until then, I had swathed myself in a cocoon of denial. The truth still stabbed through and cut me every now and then, but I did my best to hide from it. Telling my friend had ripped the cocoon away entirely. I couldn't hide from myself anymore. The secret had been spoken aloud and it took on a solid form: I was a homosexual. I was attracted to men. And this disgusted me. Terrified me. I had grown up steeped in casual and blatant homophobia. I went to a church that said it was sinful. It's a heavy thing to grapple with: being the monster you've always heard about in hushed tones of derision.

My friend tried to tell me I was ok. And I wasn't ready to hear it. I didn't believe her. And I struggled, unwilling to really listen to her or discuss my internal battles with her--because she didn't believe like I did--she might lead me to lose the battle if I listened to her and believed it was ok to be gay. I thought I needed to tell someone who would help me fight this.*

So, months later, I talked to one of the ministers at the church I went to. I confessed my darkest secret to a man who had recently, over the pulpit, expressed his horror at being accidentally trapped in a pride parade in Spokane.

He asked if I wanted my "unnatural" desires to go away, and to have "natural" ones restored. I said yes. It's what I had been praying for for so long. Without result. So, he prayed with me. For God's healing. 

But as he prayed, I realized that I didn't want that.

It suddenly didn't make sense. Why would I trade one kind of lust for another?

It felt really weird to pray for lust. To "restore" normal desires. I had never really wanted to be attracted to women. I had never felt that. I didn't know what it was. I certainly never wanted to be like the men who, amongst themselves, made crass remarks about women and sex. I just didn't want the feelings of attraction I experienced for shirtless men in films or magazines, or the deep admiration for some of the real men in my life.**

What was the difference between struggling with a desire for men and struggling with a desire for women? Aren't both lust? And aren't both bad?

I realized during that prayer that it was a silly thing to ask for. I realized that God wasn't going to change me. Why would he now, after all this time, just because a preacher was praying with me? I had wanted it for so long, but now...it didn't seem like it mattered.

But I was still so far from accepting myself. So far from it gets better. But it was another step in the right direction. As painful as that experience was, it was an important step forward. I left that prayer feeling let down. And I still didn't want to let myself be gay. It took another year to let go of that. All the times I thought I needed to "let go and let God,"--as they say--I thought I needed to let go of my dreams of writing and costuming, but really, I needed to let go of my fear of being me.

These things were agonizing. Facing myself. Facing God. It felt like things would never be better.

How can you see that agony is part of the healing when you're in it?

You can't. But it does get better. As trite as that sounds.

You just have to let go. There's a Bible verse about trials burning away the dross and leaving the gold pure. I guess that's actually true. But the fire fucking hurts. And it's not always coming from the furnace you think it is. But I guess God works in mysterious ways.

* I was in a weird place where I couldn't condemn other gay people anymore. But I condemned myself for it. Which is still shitty at large, let me be clear. Saying 'I don't condemn you, but I have to be better' is still more or less a condemnation. "We're all sinners, but I have Jesus" still means you're better. You have something they don't. Even though Christianity says that you don't earn your salvation, the fact that you have to accept Jesus--humble yourself--etc. implies that you did something that others didn't--you were humble, when they weren't. You let him in and they didn't. They need to subdue their pride, which you have already done. By the grace of God alone you are saved. But why won't these other people give up their wickedness and accept that gift? There is great pride in such humility.

** This footnote got too long and will have to be a separate post about arousal and attraction. For the purposes of this footnote: ask yourself how arousal plays into attraction? Are they always hand in hand? Or does arousal follow attraction at a distance, waiting for an invitation?  Men frequently joke about having to hide boners...this wasn't an issue for me. I could go to a beach full of shirtless men, and even if I liked what I saw, I didn't have to worry about my shorts. Was it my sexual repression? Am I odd? Or do straight men exaggerate their own horniness to soothe some insecurity in their own sexuality? 

 

I've had conversations with a friend who doesn't write anymore. At least not for now. And we kind of agreed that we both wrote laregly for escapism. Various traumas kept us from wanting to really be present for our lives. We went somewhere else for validation and safety.

She said something about living. Being fully present for our lives. Living and being invested in ourselves, rather than the escapist fantasies we'd fled to.

Living is, in my writing mentor's words, grist for the writer's mill.

My imagination will always dream and fantasize and spin tales. But I wonder if I'm in a transition. Is this lull, this frustrating 'dead' spot, actually a threshold? A period of growth, rather than stagnation?

Am I now going into a place where my experiences can inform my writing? It's the richness of experiences that really fuels good writing.

In my youth, I think my writing was the explosive force of my angst, burning holes through me. I think it was escapsim, too. I didn't want the mundane. I wanted magic. But it was also my self expression, trying to find its voice--to scream itself into existence.

Re-reading my space opera for the audiobook really shows the loneliness and the struggle that I was having at the time. The novel is an exploration of alienation. I didn't fully understand or accept why I felt that way--but I did, and intensely. writing fiction was the only real way I had to even try to process something I was desperately trying to hide from myself.

Now, I've faced the trauma that is growing up queer and in the closet. Has my use for writing run out? Now that I no longer need lies?

I don't think so. I am still drawn to stories. To creation.

I think I just need to figure out my new relationship with it. How do I use it for love and pure joy instead of survival?

Maybe I just need more life. To live more. And the stories will write themselves again. 

They say pain makes art. Suffering is the artist's lot. Without which, truly good art can't exist.

I have been the most inspired by agony. There is a beauty in suffering. But I don't think that's all. There's still pain stored in these bones, enough to draw upon for sweet magic making. But I grow weary of such masochistic composition. I can draw upon that power later. Let me heal now.

I must let me. This is but the quiet valley after the war, and great abundance lurks ahead. More pain, mayhap. More storm. But life and art, too.

And at least I understand that now.

In a small town in a river valley, there was born a boy who listened.

He listened to the wind and the whispers of the secrets they bore. He listened to the hearts beating around him and the murmurs of the pain they held. He listened to the secret chime of an unknown bell.

And he dreamed. Dreaming of a secret place where he was home. A perfect place where the chiming bell rang out and the wind whisked the pollen in sparkling dances and the hearts beat around him with only joy.

Such a place must exist, he thought. It was as if the whispering wind bore its messages to him across the glittering river and the mountains high. It was out there somewhere, calling him.

He longed for it.

A place he'd never known. Never smelled its tranquil dust and woody stillness. Never felt the calm serenity. Never seen the mystery. A goodly place. A wondrous place.

It called to him.

And so one day he left his town and friends and family...the aching hearts. And he set out along the dusty roads, through baking fields of grain and rustling corn stalks. Along winding streams and across verdant meadows. Through towns and into forests thick and deep with mossy murk.

Earthy places, quiet and redolent.

And in the silence, he heard still the whispering wind, calling him on, and the secret chiming.

And though there was no one else about, he heard also the murmuring pain of a human heart.

He plunged on through the twisting trees and lichen covered rocks. Away, away from the quiet agony that stalked him. Away from pain and people, deep into the mountains, following the mysterious call of the secret chime.

Over the mountains, through the crisp snow. Fresh and bright. Sparkling and glittering in a static dance.

Howling wind drew him onward. Shivers wracked him and still the chime rang on and the pain followed him, tugging gently at his sleeve.

Would he ever escape it and find that mythic place he dreamed of?

Down the mountains, into new and exciting valleys, filled with unfamiliar trees and  strange animals.

New towns and New faces.

Across marshes, brimming with exotic scents and murmurs.

Through a barren plain, dotted with dry cacti and bedraggled birds.

And to a city, humming with noise and choked with smoke and hundreds of sweaty people, bustling, ever bustling.

And on from there, dogged by the murmuring heart pain and drawn on by the secret.

It must exist, it must!

Across grassland and into hills alive with steaming geysers.

Mystical and bubbling with possibility.

A canyon of holy magma. A quiet place.

Not the place.

Not his dream.

Tears stung his eyes and he knew at last that the heart pain was his own.

The hot salt poured down his face and the chiming pulled at him and his heart cried out for that place he had never known.

And a bird sat upon his arm and whispered to him.

It does exist.

It does.

But you will not find it by running and searching the world for distractions to mask your pain. Your heart is broken from being ignored and your soul is dry from not being watered.

The secret. It lies within.

The hidden place was deep inside him. Buried beneath cares and lies and the falsehoods he had believed as a child.

But it chimed on from within and called to him. It longed to ease the heart pain and heal him.

It is real. It is here.

The home you long for but have never seen, it is you. If you will embrace yourself. As you are and not as the world has made you out to be.

Shed the shadows and let the light shine out of you.

I labored hard and long,At the Mill of Despair,

Believing I was wrong 

Almost to much to bear:

Such loathing, hate, and fear,

By my hand, mass produced.

Crafted with sweat and tears,

Terror of what could be loosed.

And now it is complete,

I have left the machine,

And its arduous feats,

I’m ready to be seen.

I have been paid my wage,

A wretched recompense,

In currency of rage,

I’m bitterly incensed.

Now I must spend it, lest

In the bank it languish,

Collecting interest,

And festering anguish,

Investment of ire.

Withdraw the rage money,

Incendiary cash,

I will throw it away,

Let it all burn to ash.

I don't want your money,

I'm going to break free.

You can't pay me to hide,

To be quiet and small.

Not anymore.

I shall say gay,

I’ll scream it.

I’ll scream it at the top of my lungs.

I’ll scream it until the day

No one else suffers,

Grinding the mill of internalized homophobia.

I’ve earned this anger.

I’ll use it to buy my freedom,

To attack the machine.

Break the gears,

Tear the sprockets apart,

Down with homophobia and its parent company,

Patriarchy Incorporated.

Burn it to the ground!

You’ll never hear the last of it,

Until I’ve spent all this cash rage.

It burns holes in my pockets.

Let it burn you, instead, Patriarchy Inc.

You silenced me,

Turned me against me,

So that I feared what you feared.

You were afraid of me and my ilk.

Because we confound your system of oppression.

We won’t let you hold women and queer people down anymore.

As you give, so shall you receive.

Its coming back around,

And I’ve still got lots of this stuff setting fire to my wallet.

Have some. Have it all back.

You’re going down, bitch!

It’s a stage of grief,

For what I lost.

For the child that suffered.

If only I could go back and tell them.

It’s ok. You’re ok.

But I wouldn’t have listened to me.

Thirteen and afraid.

God hates queers, right?

No. He doesn’t.

I’m telling you.

It’s ok.

It’s ok.

Live reading of this poem