COWBOYS AND INDIANS

Posted by Christian A. Dumais on December 6, 2011 at 2:18 pm

Don’t want to read it online? Download the PDF right here.

I make it up the stairs into the VIP room of the club and I immediately smell the testosterone. This is going to be bad. I’ve no business being here. I’m a fraud. I mean, pretending to be a doctor is one thing – that’s old school – but pretending to be a police officer, well, that’s different.

They dress you up as a cheerleader and lock you away in dark rooms filled with pedophiles for pulling shit like this.

What am I doing here again?

Yeah, that’s right. Alan, a real police officer, has recently graduated, along with 11 other men, into the ranks of SWAT, and this is their party. All I had to say was that I was with the SWAT party – I was even on the list – but for some reason, it seemed easier to say that I was a police officer and that I was here to celebrate with my “brothers” who were “also on the job.” I even faked the motion of reaching for my wallet (my badge is in my wallet, see?); luckily the doorman, stopped me before I lost my bluff.

“Yes, sir. This way, sir,” says the doorman, who suddenly becomes Moses as he parts the crowd for me. We make it to a set of stairs. “Up there, sir. You’re welcome to drink whatever – it’s on the house, sir.” I wave my hand, as if to bless him, and he wanders off.

A tall man with a moustache pushes me against the wall, holding me there with his arm against my chest. “What the…uh…fuck, what’s this – shit, look at this here – no, I mean her. HER! THERE! Follow my fucking finger and… hold on…It’s so loud – I feel like I’m made…made of music. Shit, man, I got a badge. I can, like, fucking shoot people now and…STOP! STOP FUCKING LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!” He lets me go and scurries down the stairs.

When I find Alan, he’s so drunk that his muscles are no longer working. He’s a complete mess. Whatever line there is that separates the sober from the inebriated has been crossed for him hours ago, and if you look at him long enough, it looks more like days. I’m not in the mood to deal with him – not because his clothes are covered in dry vomit or because his vernacular has digressed to a point that makes Tarzan strangely well versed. No, I don’t want to deal with him because I want to be in his shoes. He is robbing me of my opportunity to be a fucking moron. It should be me deciphering the fragments of digested food as I watch it pour out of my mouth and nostrils. It should be me crawling on the floor licking her shoes. It should be me telling everyone that I love them, especially you – yes, you, in the black dress with the dark eyes and the impossible ass.

Somewhere in the corner, a group of men are singing, “SWAT! SWAT! SING WITH ME, MY BEAUTIFUL BROTHERS!”

Alan, sitting at the end of the bar, reaches for a large gray garbage container, pulls the container to him, leans forward casually, his eyes closed, his mouth open, vomit spilling out, missing the container completely. It’s completely horrifying to watch, hopeless even, but absolutely mesmerizing. A woman next to him is watching him also; she too is mesmerized by his performance. She reaches out and strokes his hair. His eyes open as he turns to her. He smiles, and for a quick second there is cohesion – he’s going to say something clever and brilliant, and if he plays his syllables correctly, he’s going to go home with her. Instead, he vomits again; this time, every drop lands inside the container.

“Hey,” Alan says, “you came.”

“I’m here.”

“Any problems?”

“Getting in, you mean? No. I said I was cop.”

“That’s cool. I should try that sometime.”

At the other end of the bar, a man falls off his stool and lands right on his ass. His face is without expression, as if he just woke up. Alan, suddenly alert, jumps up. “OFFICER DOWN! WE GOT AN OFFICER DOWN!” And suddenly, along with six other men, he’s running to the man on the floor.

Alan is the first person at the man’s side. He lands on his left knee, his right hand holding the back of the man’s neck. “It’s going to be all right.”

The man on the floor opens his eyes wide. He grabs Alan’s shirt at the shoulder. “Am I hit? Jesus, I was so…so close to retiring…just 18 more years.” He pulls Alan toward him. “Did…did we at least get the fucker?”

It’s heavily apparent that I’m out of my element here. I’m plastic surrounded by metal. I’m Velcro in a world of zippers. I wave the bartender over. “Beer, please. Whatever. Surprise me with nothing dinky.” The bartender reaches down into the cooler. “Have they been like this all night?”

“Actually,” says the bartender, “they’re a lot more subdued now than they were before. But you know how that goes…you know.”

“I guess I do.” I realize that whether I pretend to be a police officer or not, my presence in the room is enough to mark me as one, which explains why the women in the room are watching me so closely.

Attraction to police officers, whether it be sexual or social, has always surprised me.

Statistically, the national divorce rate is at 50%, but the divorce rate for police officers is estimated from 60 to 75%.

Consider that studies have shown that police officers are eight times more likely to commit suicide than be killed in the line of duty, and on top of that, five times more likely to commit suicide while going through a divorce. NYPD alone has a suicide rate of about 15.5 suicides for every 100,000 annually, which is amazing considering that the suicide rate among the population of the United States was at 11 for every 100,000 in 1999. In other words, the suicide rate of New York’s finest is almost 30 percent higher than the general population. But this is not an American anomaly. In Paris, 60 police officers were reported to have killed themselves in 1995, at a rate of nearly 50 percent more than the average for the previous decade.

Also, the average life expectancy for an American male is 73 years, whereas the life expectancy of an American male police officer is 53 years.

It gets worse. There’s domestic violence, depression and alcoholism, among other things. The numbers are not attractive. There’s doom at every angle.

My opinion of the profession has always been about the pursuit of a comic book dream, an extension of wanting to be a superhero. Maybe that’s where the problem ultimately lies when it comes down to all this nonsense with the divorces and suicides; they are giving up too much of themselves in reaction to the violent collision of a gray reality against a black and white fantasy.

There are those people who can’t commit to the lifestyle – like the women stalking every man in this room – who’ll marry their way into it and treat it like a fetish. Let’s face it, we all want to be Superman or Wonder Woman, but if we can’t, the next best thing would be to fuck them.

And if that’s not your bag at all, there’s always the easy way, as there’s an opposite side to every coin.

Simply become a Villain.

Somewhere along the way, I’m doing shots of tequila with Alan and the other graduates. We are all arm in arm, slamming the glasses against the bar, grunting and groaning and asking for more. The bartender finally gives up and leaves the bottle for us. It’s a minor victory for us; and I say “us” because I’m officially one of them now. It doesn’t take much, just a shot or two and we’re all willing to take a bullet for each other.

Alan’s sweating pure alcohol at this point. He’s practically pissing absinthe. His arms are around me for support and I’m doing my best not to pass out from the fumes. In the meantime, everyone’s taking turns telling stories.

“…and the fucker’s walking towards me, right. I unfasten the gun, not knowing what the fucking deal was, right. He’s like, ‘Good evening, officer,’ and I’m like, ‘What’s going on?’ He’s kind of nervous, little jittery, obviously on something, and he’s like, ‘I lost something.’ Now get this, right: I hold up the fucking bag of pot, the very fucking bag I found on the floor, right, and I’m like, ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ The guy smiles and he’s like, ‘Yeah, man, can I have it back?’ Swear to. Fucking. God.”

“Okay, okay, my turn. Get this one. This happened…to an old partner of mine. He’s driving down the road, middle of the night, driving the squad car home when he sees something, like a flashlight or something, in a video store. He turns into the plaza, shuts off the headlights and parks right in front of the store. He’s sitting there, waiting. Finally, he sees it, right. There’s movement inside the store. Something’s not right. He calls it in, throws on the lights. He sees two kids inside at the cash register. He jumps out of the car, starts running for the door. Door’s locked. Meanwhile, his car is still in drive. It’s moving right behind him. He turns from the door and the car’s right there coming at him. For whatever reason, right, he jumps onto the hood of the car, as if to stop it, I don’t know. The car goes through the door of the store, glass and all, while he’s laying there on top of it. The fucking car doesn’t stop until it’s in the goddamned porn room, man.”

“Jesus,” I say, “was he all right?”

“I was fine, man. How about you, Alan?”

Alan’s posture straightens at the sound of his name. He drops a shot glass as he clears his throat. He gives a drunken smirk that implies that he thinks he’s giving a serious, thoughtful look. “Well, I…uh…that’s a good story, man. And you’re all my brothers, man.” He throws his finger at everyone from right to left. “You. You. You. You. You. And you, man.” The last finger falls on me. “And…and…I always wanted to be a cop.”

And with that, every muscle in Alan’s body gives up and he makes the transformation from human being to large and heavy object.

Moving Alan from Point A, the spot where he collapsed, to Point B, the curbside in front of the club, was far easier than it should’ve been. Particularly because Alan’s collapse was a signal for the rest of the officers to collapse as well. It was as if the gravity in the VIP room had suddenly turned heavy. The scene was so perfectly timed and inherently disturbing that for a moment I thought our tequila was poisoned and I was going to pass out with them.

The women in the room chanted, “Officer down! Officer down!” as they dropped one by one, until it was just me. I looked to the bartender, the only other man in the VIP room, and I wondered if we were supposed to fight until there was only one of us. He sensed my fighting mode and shook his head slowly. I could see that he already had a broken bottle in his left hand.

Because the last thing I wanted was a scene, I dragged Alan to the stairway and let his body roll down the stairs. As I watched his body contort and hyper-extend in every direction as it fell down the stairs, I admit that I was in awe of his training to do so, even in a cataleptic state. They teach these SWAT guys some amazing shit. Once he landed at the bottom of the stairs, I began to pull him by the legs through the dance floor and to the exit of the club.

Once outside, I left him at the curb to get my car. I parked the car right next to him and popped open the trunk.

“What are you doing?” asks the doorman.

I continue to pull Alan up from the ground. “I’m putting this man into the trunk of this vehicle. Fuck, man! This isn’t rocket science! Here, help me lift him…”

“I’m afraid you can’t do that.”

“What do you mean, can’t do that?”

“It’s just–”

“Just what?”

“You can’t–”

“See this man here? Do you see the state of him?”

“Yes, but–”

“And you know what he’s going to do inside of this car once it starts moving, once it starts shaking?”

“Yes, but–”

“So you’d have no problem with the interior of your vehicle getting caked in vomit?”

“Yes – I mean, no!”

“Then we’re in agreement.” I lift Alan by his shoulders, throwing his arms over the bumper into the trunk.

“Sir, I can’t have you put this man into the trunk.”

“Sure you can.”

“No, no, I can’t.” His voice is more forceful now.

I let go of Alan and he lands harshly on his back; his head makes an interesting sound as it hits the gravel. “Yes, you can,” I say matching his tone. “This man is my brother, and if I want to put my brother into the trunk of my car, I have that right, and you and no one else can stop me. Now, if you please, back off.”

There’s silence for 10 seconds. During this time, I realize that the doorman is a large man, and that he’s looking down at me from about eight inches. With this realization, it’s also clear to me that this man could easily hurt me, very badly. I wait patiently for his knuckles to make contact with my nose. Instead, the doorman sighs. “Your brother, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“I got two brothers myself. Both younger. He’s your older brother, right?”

“Yeah. And I want to take him home.”

Softly, the doorman says, “Don’t we all.” He looks around, shakes his head and lets out a laugh. He bends over and without any efforts at all, places my brother into the trunk of my car. We can hear my brother whispering something as he closes the trunk shut. The doorman looks at me. “I never did that.”

“You never did that.”

“Now get the fuck out of here.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, whatever. Go.”

When Alan had his arm around me at the bar, for a moment I felt more like a brother to him than I had in a very long time. You forget these things, you take things for granted, when you have brothers and sisters. You know they are there and you know that you can call them and that they’ll change the world for you if that’s what it took, but it’s easy to forget just who they are.

This is a true story. When I was 3 or 4, Alan always two years older, he wanted to play Cowboys and Indians. He tied me to the tree, tightly and with the annoying precision of an older brother. I remember the tightness of the rope underneath my arms. He had these two silver cap guns, and he ran around the tree shooting the guns in the air. They were the old paper caps and I could smell the powder as it burned.

My mother, still new at being a mother, still relentlessly protective of us, saw what my brother was doing, ran out of the house, grabbed Alan and dragged him inside.

“Look at your brother, Alan!” she yelled. “Shooting guns at him like that! What on earth are you thinking!?”

I watched the two of them go into the house, Mom red and Alan in tears. He dropped his guns and the metal shined in the sunlight. They don’t make cap guns like that anymore.

Two hours later, my father woke me up.

“Christian?” asked my father. He was almost the same age I am now. He was dressed in his work clothes.

“Yes, dad,” I said, slowly waking up. My arms were hanging over the ropes and were asleep.

“Why are you tied to the tree?”

“Alan and I were playing.”

“Where’s Alan now?”

“Mom took him inside. She was mad.”

My father looked to the guns on the ground and put all the pieces together. He knew enough that Alan wouldn’t leave his guns in the grass like that. He untied the ropes and patted my head. He had the kind of smile that meant a lot to a child and he used it then. “We better go bail your brother out then, huh?”

He took me by the hand and we went into the house.

That’s the thing. Alan was always the cowboy, I was the Indian; he was always the cop, I was the robber; and in the end, he became the superhero to my villain. I’d be bothered by this if it weren’t for the consistency.

Either way, I really wanted to be the superhero.

On the way home, I can hear my brother in the trunk. We’re stopped at a red light.

“I’m in the trunk, aren’t I?” he asks.

I turn down the radio. “Yep.”

“Bound to happen, I guess.” I can hear him moving something. “Where are we going?”

“Home.”

“Mom and dad’s?”

“No. Your apartment. Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know, I guess I miss it. Not the house – just the way it was.”

“Me too.”

“Christian?”

“Yeah.” There’s silence as the light turns green. I don’t move the car as I wait for him to speak. Still nothing. “What, Alan?”

“Nothing. Are we almost there?”

A car behind me honks. I push down on the accelerator. I turn up the volume of the radio to drown out the hum of the engine, and I say, “As close as we’re going to get.”

If you’ve enjoyed this piece, you can read more stories written by Christian A. Dumais in Empty Rooms Lonely Countries.

Want to read some short stories?

Posted by Christian A. Dumais on October 27, 2011 at 12:27 am

I’ll be updating this as I go here in order to make it easier for all of you to read my work. As always, the stories are available online (just click the image to start reading) or you can download them as PDFs.

I really hope you enjoy the stories. And thanks for reading…

There’s plenty more to come.

Last Look

Posted by Christian A. Dumais on October 25, 2011 at 12:53 pm

Click here to download the PDF of “Last Look” by Christian A. Dumais.

Two Americans arrived by train, exhausted, weighed down by luggage and nervousness. The husband had a map with a highlighted path to the rented apartment, but now that he could see how small the town was, he decided to trust his instincts instead. He moved quickly, several steps ahead of his wife, with a false confidence she had seen too many times before, but they were too far from home to argue about it even though they passed the same corner three times already.

As they walked through the town, they saw few people and nothing appeared open, which made her nervous there wouldn’t be a restaurant to eat at later. The wife couldn’t quite figure out why this town was important enough to stop in on the way to Bologna, but her husband insisted it was “one of those magical places tourists didn’t know about,” which she translated as cheap accommodations.

They reached the street just as the sun was descending behind the mountains. As stated in the email, the landlord was waiting outside the apartment. He was handsome and much younger than they expected, wearing a perfectly cut suit and holding a set of keys. He hugged them both as if they were long lost friends and invited them upstairs. The husband saw that the landlord was sweating, which seemed to erase the insecurity he felt towards his good looks and the way his wife couldn’t keep his eyes off of him.

The perfectly photographed angles in the apartment didn’t translate well to real life. It looked like a long hallway, narrow with an opening in the center for a makeshift kitchen. The landlord opened the first door to reveal a bedroom and a private bath that made a cruise ship quarters look lofty.

He took their passports in the kitchen, asking questions about where they came from and where they’re going. Because they were Americans on vacation, they had no complaints about anything. He said, “Americans. You happy with everything. Good for you.” He started to write a passport number down and stopped. He said, “Not like us. Italians are miserable. We have traditions and they no change for nothing. It shames me.”

Bells rang outside. The landlord looked at his watch and sighed. He returned their passports. The husband tried to pay, but he refused. “Pay later. No hurry.” He hugged them both again and left.

Alone, the couple finally relaxed. Though not what they imagined, the apartment was respite from the overwhelming foreignness outside.

While his wife used the toilet, he decided to check out the apartment. He noticed that the windows were all barred from the outside. He opened one to let in some air. The sound of chanting came from a nearby church.

He walked down the long hallway, amazed at its length. At the other end were two doors. One of them was to another bedroom. He saw a pile of luggage and wondered if more guests were staying there. He wished the landlord would’ve mentioned that.

The other door was

ajar.

He stopped himself from pushing it open.

He didn’t know why, only that his brain had gone electric and was suddenly reconnected to something irrational, something he hadn’t felt since he was a child when things lived in closets and creatures stood outside his window at night, waiting patiently for children to move in their beds to signal their invitation.

He felt his skin go cold and his fingers began to tremble.

He turned around, surprised at the violence and quickness of his actions, and walked back. He forced himself to walk slowly – despite the sound of the door opening and the sound of something heavy and wet moving behind him – as an act of grown-up defiance and childish denial, and like that boy who would not stir in his bed, he would not turn around.

He was about to reach their bedroom, ready to acknowledge how ridiculous he was to let his imagination get the better of him, when his wife stepped out and looked over his shoulder. She was talking to him when she suddenly froze, her eyes locked at something behind him. The first few words out of her mouth were words – something about finding a shop – before being replaced by guttural sounds.

“Hurk. Hurk. Hurrrrrk.”

His throat grew tight.

He looked behind his wife to the front door and realized that the landlord had taken the keys with him, and with that, he knew they were locked in. What he initially thought to be etched patterns in the door were now clearly scratch marks from fingernails. The dark spots in the wood were patches of dried blood. It was so obvious he was ashamed for not having noticed it before.

His wife’s body shook violently as if she were being electrocuted and the black hair on her head curled and turned white in front of his eyes. He smelled urine – there was no time to know whose it was – before his nostrils became overwhelmed with the smell of something rotten, something ancient. The chanting outside grew louder. His wife’s eyes rolled back into her head and her body started to fall. He caught her and pressed her to him, her head landing on his shoulder. He could feel her brittle hair cracking between his fingers.

Tears stung his eyes and he was suddenly full of anger because he was denied one last moment with his wife. He couldn’t remember the last time she smiled at him, the last time he kissed her, the last time something between them wasn’t routine.

He heard the sound of a massive moist mouth opening and smelled the dark humidity of its breath escaping behind him. He felt his wife’s body reverberate with the sound of her skull cracking. She was quiet now and her head lifted slightly off his shoulder as it was lighter and could no longer retain its shape. He felt an avalanche of hot liquid running down his back and splattering on the floor.

He hoped the disintegration of her sanity acted as a sort of anesthesia. And seeing that last shred of hope, he prayed there’d be enough time to turn around for one last look before it took his life too.

- You’ve just read “Last Look” written by Christian A. Dumais

“Geneva Street”

Posted by Christian A. Dumais on October 18, 2011 at 12:33 pm

Download the PDF copy of “Geneva Street” right here.

As far as I know, the house on Geneva Street is still there. Whether it still stands or not is irrelevant, because it still exists in my dreams, looking down at me as I approach with its dark windows, its archway frowning, its foundation absorbing my shadow.

My father used to live in it when he was a child. My aunt – my father’s sister – lived in the house when I was young. There are a lot of memories with the house. My memory blurs with my father’s. He’ll tell a story about something he did at the house when he was a child and I’ll think, that was me, wasn’t it? It was me who left pennies on the railroad that ran behind the house. It was me who rode the bicycle down the hill towards the railroad and hurt myself. It was me who woke when a train passed at midnight and wondered if a drifter would crawl through my open window.

The building next to the house is where the first carousels were built. Sometimes, when I played in the backyard, I could hear the music that the horses marched to in circles. The music made the winter air ambiguous and the summer air dreamlike. There was a little rose garden behind the house where I’m convinced I saw my first fairy, a girl with large orange Monarch wings, and she was collecting fallen rose petals to put in her book.

There was a lot of magic at the house on Geneva Street. It was something I could easily identify with. My hearing impairment allowed me to see life at a distance and magic sort of bloomed in the void in between. I was young enough to know that magic was good, but not old enough to understand there was such a thing as the bad kind of magic. I just knew that the house was a good house with a few bad corners. The corners were fuzzy and vague and intangible, and if you weren’t paying attention, you could get lost in them.

I remember my aunt cooking in the kitchen and telling me about a ghost that she once saw there. It was wandering in the living room at the front of the house. I avoided the living room for a while after that, but eventually my curiosity got the better of me. I really wanted to see a ghost. I thought of ghosts as imaginary friends that people could see. I wanted to talk to one. Maybe it would want to play with me.

There was one place in the house I didn’t like. When you went downstairs into the basement, there was a parlor if you turned left. It used to be a kitchen when my father was little, but my aunt had turned it into a salon. There was a large barber chair that would rise if you pushed down on the handle. Before the parlor, to the left of the doorway, between the stairway and the parlor wall, was a little closet. The doorway to the closet wasn’t exactly even, as if it were carved out, and instead of a door, there was a red curtain. The closet was tiny and there was usually only a broom and a mop in it. It looked like a room that shouldn’t be there, like a weed pushing its way out of a crack in the asphalt.

The first time I noticed the closet, I was exiting the parlor to go upstairs. My eyes caught something red and when I turned, I saw the curtain shifting suddenly, as if someone or something had closed it quickly. I stood there a minute just staring at that curtain. It looked like the kind of curtain you saw at a movie theater or a stage play. I thought to open the curtain but I ran upstairs instead.

My first dream with the closet started like the last memory, only when I looked at the curtain, there was a mime with his head sticking out of the curtain. His face was a perfect white and his eyes were huge and yellow. I could only see his right hand, also white, which held the curtain. He brought a long pale finger to his black lips, signaling me to be quiet. Then he brought the same finger forward and beckoned me to come. The finger moved back and forth mechanically, as if he were scratching the chin of some invisible creature.

Despite the impossibility of the situation, I made my way towards the curtain. The crime of any dream is its ability to make you do the things you know you shouldn’t do. With every step I made toward the curtain, his smile grew more and more, his lips stretching to impossible lengths, wrinkles folding over one another upon his cheeks. And when I made it to the curtain, I looked up at the mime. He was taller than I thought. He opened the curtain. The small closet was not there, instead there was only darkness. This didn’t bother me though. Instead, what began as a tickle in my brain and expanded into panic was my inability to see the mime’s body. I took a step back. The mime’s smile faltered, an involuntary gesture that made his face turn ghastly. His eyes turned to slits and darkened. His hand reaching out for me was the last thing I saw before waking.

I took the dream personally in the way that only children can. I never trusted the closet after that. Though I kept refusing to acknowledge it, I still felt myself drawn to it, like my tongue gravitates to a loose tooth. Whenever I passed it, my eyes would be fixed on the curtain. And while I was curious enough to approach the closet, there wasn’t enough courage in the world for me to open the curtain.

The closet was the first thing I can clearly remember hating.

I’m thousands of miles away from Geneva Street today, a continent and an ocean separates me from it, and yet, I’m only a step away from its shadow when I’m sleeping. In my all-too-frequent dreams, I’m wandering in the house on Geneva Street. Ghosts are floating all around me. The ghosts are harmless. We laugh together sometimes. I walk into the kitchen. I look to the door which leads to the basement. The ghosts tell me not to, but I never listen. I open the door and descend the small set of steps. If I go straight, I can walk out a door to the backyard where there’s sunshine and horses dancing in circles to music and fairies flirting with roses. I turn left instead, to the basement, and of course, the closet. Once I’m there, I pull back the curtain, because in my dreams curiosity is the same as courage. The closet is now replaced by another set of stairs leading downward into darkness. I follow the steps. It gets darker and darker.

The darkness gets thicker the farther I go. The absence of light becomes suffocating. The stairway feels endless. The air is hot. Eventually, there’s a light far below. The presence of light is the invitation for the noise to begin; scratching sounds usually followed by shrieks. I keep moving even though I know what’s going to happen next. When I reach the light, the source of the sounds will be revealed. I’ve seen this creature hundreds of times by now, and it hasn’t gotten any easier with time. Once I’m standing in front of it, the creature moves with the stealthy precision of an eel. The creature grins and opens its mouth as it moves closer. I can hear its breathing and when its blinks, the sound of its eyelids sliding across its yellow eyes suggest something juicy.

There are slight variations to this scene. Sometimes the creature isn’t in the light; instead it descends the stairs behind me. Sometimes, the creature isn’t there at all. In its place is a cardboard box of all the things I’ve lost in my life. Socks. Toys. Books. Odds and ends. I go through the box carefully. Each item I discover brings me closer and closer to the present. Finally, when the box is empty and all of my things sit on the floor, the creature is standing next to me – only he is in the shape of a man. He is the mime, but without his makeup. His skin is black as diesel. His eyes are still yellow above that same horrible grin. He has a long tail that taps the walls behind him. He picks up a watch or a tie or a lost memory that smells of alcohol. He sniffs it heavily, his yellow eyes rolling up in his head, before turning away and gesturing me to follow.

There’s this room in the distance. An open doorway with a light inside that flickers and moves back and forth, casting shadows that twitch and stretch all around me. There is someone in there. I can hear crying. Sometimes I don’t move, sometimes I take a few steps forward. If I get close enough to the room, the mime will stop and look at me with an expression bordering on pity, his grin nowhere to be found. Sometimes I think that if I enter the room, the dreams will finally end, and other times I think that if I enter the room, I’ll discover another set of stairs descending into more darkness.
There were birthday parties at the house on Geneva Street, slumber parties, games of Hide and Seek that went on forever, adventures at the railroad track, cloud gazing…but all these memories of sunshine and laughter are overshadowed by that closet in the basement and the creature that lives inside of it. My mind has transformed these beautiful memories into some kind of dark mythology.

Some nights when I wake up, I can’t tell where I am or when it is. I feel like I’ve been here before for something that hasn’t happened yet. If I pull it apart and decipher the details, it fades away in its own absurdity. Other nights, in that brief clarity between wake and sleep, it feels like it’s not a mystery at all; I just need to avoid the basement and walk outside into the sunlight instead. Perhaps the fairy will be waiting for me. Maybe she and I will have a laugh about all of this and ride the carousel until the dizziness and laughter wakes me up.

There was this woman from a few years back. I met her at this party. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how I got there. The house was massive. The people were all nice, but strangers. At one point, I went to find a bathroom. Each door I opened revealed a bedroom. Eventually, I came across a reading room. She was all alone, standing there like she was waiting for me, with an open book in her hand. She said she needed to get away from all those people, and before we knew it, we had spent the whole evening talking to one another. When we finally left the house, we learned that the party had ended hours before.

Months later, I ended up telling her about the dreams. I didn’t have a choice. It was dark and I could feel her next to me in bed. Her hand was stroking my face. My heart was still beating too fast. My throat still aching from the scream I carried with me when I woke. When I was done telling her about Geneva Street, I asked her what she thought it meant.

She didn’t say a word.

I wanted to tell her that I was afraid, that I was tired of being afraid of memories. I also wanted to tell her that I loved her even though I knew it wouldn’t be enough for us, that we were over before we even started. I had this brief image of one day opening the box and seeing her in there, and my eyes were overwhelmed with tears. I wanted to tell her so many things, but the water in my eyes made me feel stupid and weak, and the way she pushed closer and held me so tightly, like she was keeping me from falling, somehow had me feeling lonelier than I’ve ever felt. I thought to myself, I am here, but I am not here.

It was quiet for a few minutes. Her fingers traced the path of one of my tears to its end. I could feel her mouth trying to say something, but instead she let out a heavy sigh. She kissed my forehead again and again. This was when I realized she was crying too. I felt her feet touching mine, only it felt more like a hand.

Finally, she said, “Your life would’ve been so much simpler if you hadn’t found me in that room.”

- “Geneva Street” is a story from the book Empty Rooms Lonely Countries by Christian A. Dumais.

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Want to hear a previous draft of “Geneva Street”?

Short Story: “Frankie and Johnny”

Posted by Christian A. Dumais on October 11, 2011 at 3:00 pm

Download the PDF copy of this story right here.

The DJ Mixxy Magic Mix [DMMM] is 34:28 minutes in length and contains 10 songs. Since DJ Mixxy Magic [John Fuego, 27] has been labeled a terrorist, we consider the DMMM a Weapon of Mass Destruction – specifically, an aural bomb. For the layman, consider the songs on the mix as a series of basic chemicals available anywhere, safe for home use, but becomes a weapon when put together either in the correct order or in specific amounts. The DMMM is the first and only aural bomb in existence that we know of, which is why it is paramount that we understand and hopefully replicate it.

Since this is now a Homeland Security matter, this report – neither comprehensive nor thorough – is meant to update the new departments on the current situation as quickly as possible. For more specific details, please consult the revised Aural Weaponry (ReMix Edition) report. Speaking frankly, these terrorists have ruined aviation because of 9/11, and pie-eating contests because of 3/14. We’ll be damned if they ruin our music too.

The events as we know them: DJ Mixxy Magic started his weekly Friday shift at 21:00 at [name redacted], in Tampa, Florida, on June 21, 2013. Witnesses report that though he was in good spirits, he was “distracted” and “smoking more than usual”. His blood alcohol level was 0.9. There were no traces of drug use in his system.

For the first four hours of his shift, DJ Mixxy Magic’s work was “normal” and “satisfactory,” and “nothing out of the ordinary [happened].” However, at 1:03, witnesses observed DJ Mixxy Magic accept a call on his cell phone (phone records reveal the unlisted call was 5:32 minutes in length). No one heard what was spoken, but he was clearly upset with the caller, gesticulating wildly and – according to two witnesses – possibly crying. At 1:09, DJ Mixxy Magic ordered a beer and a shot of tequila. A waitress brought him the drink at 1:14, and he was observed consuming both drinks quickly. The mix reportedly began at 1:17 with Air Supply’s [title redacted].

What follows are some general effects and observations of the mix as documented by security cameras (no sound) and witnesses.

TRACK 1: The song is said to have elicited cheers from those on the dance floor. “We thought, you know, he was being ironic,” said one witness. There was no noticeable decrease in the number of dancers, however. “We just kept dancing. You know, ironically.”

TRACK 2: Those who were dancing and/or attentive to the music began sobbing uncontrollably at the :34 mark. Some continued to dance, but the numbers decreased significantly.

TRACK 3: Simply put: every couple in the room broke up. One married couple of four years amicably agreed to divorce. Those not present with their partner either made a phone call or sent a message at this time. One acquired SMS reads: I’m going to stay. I’m never coming home. You’re going to miss me in the days to come.

TRACK 4: Drink orders increased to an unmanageable level. Some patrons ordered beers, chugged them immediately, and requested more. Tips increased by 600%. “I made more during that song than I do most weeks. Thanks, Leonard Cohen.”

TRACK 5: Everyone was on the dance floor. Even the club staff danced (“I can’t explain it…it was like I didn’t have a choice”). Anderson, the doorman (who wore earplugs), said, “If I wasn’t there, anyone could’ve walked in and helped themselves to whatever they wanted. Money and all. I should’ve known something was wrong right then. I mean, this is Color Me Badd we’re talking about.”

TRACK 6: Track unknown. The dancers suddenly stopped (not in unison, “but close”) and stood still as if in a deep trance, all staring at DJ Mixxy Magic’s booth. “It was like they were waiting for further orders,” said one waiter. All witnesses claim to have never heard the song before. No one agrees on the lyrics.

TRACK 7: Everyone left the dance floor. Initially, they appeared dazed, as if waking up. Once the confusion wore off, the intimacy started. As reported, everyone suddenly started groping, kissing and fondling those nearest them. “From a dance party to an orgy in less than a song,” Anderson said. “It was disgusting. Like filthy animals!”

TRACK 8: By this point, everyone was engaged in sexual intercourse. Partners appeared to be random and traded easily. Sexuality, race and age did not appear to be a factor.

TRACK 9: Track unknown. The biting started instantly. The obtained footage doesn’t show anyone expressing any signs of pain; the opposite in fact, which is why it’s so alarming when the blood appears. The fire that consumed the club can be seen in the footage during this time. The cause of the fire is still undetermined.

TRACK 10: 20% of the club’s patrons are dead before this track starts and another 25% are in critical condition. Anderson, naked and covered in bite marks, breaks into the DJ’s booth and turns off the music. When the music stops, people begin panicking either because of what they did or the fire. DJ Mixxy Magic is found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot to the head.

Currently, 8 of the 10 songs have been identified. It is our understanding that other factors unrelated to song order should also be addressed, such as the choice of segues, temperature, club lighting, etc. For instance, some witnesses claim that track 3 skipped twice and the volume increased significantly during track 5. The tests so far with chimpanzees have proven to be unsuccessful, though it has been determined that they are more sexually active when inebriated. Track 2 does make them cry, but we can’t determine if it’s just because it’s Cher. Also, human subjects might be better, as chimpanzees do not grasp irony.

We’ll continue to update everyone with our progress on a need-to-know basis as determined by the newly appointed Homeland Security DJ (speaking of which: Congratulations, Levi!).

“A Hundred Fireflies Outside”

Posted by Christian A. Dumais on September 20, 2011 at 3:55 pm

Click here to read a PDF copy of “A Hundred Fireflies Outside”.

It felt like this day would never come, all the planning, all the waiting, and now, they are almost there. There are six of them, three boys and three girls, looking like university students but really have three months of high school left. They are smart, clever and have a profound understanding of irony. Two of them have been dating for the last nine months and the remaining four are hoping to start something over the weekend even though they know they won’t make it past the summer. Already they are making their intentions known with their eye contact and making the extra effort to laugh at one another’s jokes.

Based on the directions, they are less than an hour away. Nancy remembers loving the place when she was little, but it had been, like, years since she’s been there. It used to be her grandfather’s cabin before he passed away a few years back. She remembers the smell of his pipe tobacco, how he knew a million different languages, and how he’d sit up all night translating the strangest books.

The man at the last gas station seemed to be familiar enough with the place to tell them not to go there. He even offered his own cabin in another part of the area for free – “You can stay as long as you want. Seriously. Just don’t go there.” – but they laughed it off, the way only teenagers know how to do without regret. They bought some [product placements]. Ashley noticed a board by the bathroom which was filled with pictures of missing teenagers. When she said something about it, everyone but Jay ignored her. There goes Ashley being all serious. They all piled back into the van, spent two minutes getting the van to start – “This always happens!” – and they were off again.

After a while – thirty miles past the mental hospital, seventeen miles past the chemical plant, and four miles past the old cemetery – they turn off the main road. With every turn, the road gets narrower and the concrete eventually turns into mud. Fred decides to call his parents to let them know they are almost there – because he knows he’ll forget to check in later once they open up the cooler full of alcohol – and he discovers that there is no reception. He holds the phone up high, like someone raising a torch in the darkness, and waits for a signal that will never come.

When they reach the cabin, the girls are startled at how beautiful it is. Nancy’s eyes get wet. Lori reaches for her camera. She takes a picture of the surrounding forest and hills. She turns around and takes a quick picture of the cabin. Through the lens, she sees a figure in the upstairs window, but when she puts the camera away from her face, she notices that it was just the light reflecting off the window.

The key takes a few twists before the lock finally gives. They push into the cabin together, eager to get the weekend started. Mike and Jay are quick to stake out bedrooms. There is, of course, no electricity. Fred offers to go downstairs into the basement to find the fuse box, mostly because Nancy is his girlfriend and he feels it’s his responsibility. The basement is cold and dark, even with Lori’s flashlight, but he finds the box and brings power to the cabin. He notices a workbench near the back with tools hanging on the wall like hunting trophies. The chainsaw gets his attention only because he’s always been interested in using one, and maybe this weekend he’ll get his chance. He also finds some boxes of books and newspaper clippings, another box filled with, of all things, garlic, and even one of those old spool recorders plugged into the wall with the pause button pushed down, begging to be pressed. His index finger is touching the button’s dusty surface when he hears a scream above.

It was Ashley, of course, scared of everything as always. She had opened the back door by the kitchen and a cat had jumped out of nowhere. The cat stands outside by a trashcan, hissing, while Mike tries to kick it away. When he closes the door, he sees that you have to really push it to get it to close. Maybe Jay can look at this later because he’s always good at stuff like this.

There is loud music coming from inside the cabin. The song is by [the popular band of the day]. Fred finds Nancy outside. She’s looking out into the distance. He comes from behind and puts his arms around her. She takes his right hand and kisses it gently. “I’m so glad we’re here,” she says. “This weekend’s so important, you know?” Fred’s mouth is busy working on the back of her neck, but he makes a sound of agreement. “Our lives are going to change so much. It’s important for me to come back one last time just to, like, I don’t know, hold onto this,” she squeezes his hand, “a little longer.”

Eventually, the rest come outside to appreciate the view. Mike and Lori’s hands brush one another and they look at each other for a second too long before grinning. Jay stands next to Ashley and offers her a sip of his beer, which she meekly declines.

The character development is over now. The sun is descending, the yellow fading to a dark orange, and the clouds turning into upside down canyons of purple and orange. Already they can see the moon peeking through the indigo blue, full and bright, and what looks to be a hundred fireflies outside, all charging up. Soon it will be dark and the stars will shine down on them in ways they never could’ve imagined living in the city all their lives. It will be a night sky full of infinite possibilities, like the futures they all still believe they have.

Thanks for reading.

To read my thoughts on writing this story, click here.

“A Hundred Fireflies Outside” was originally published in Cover Stories.

“Exodus”

Posted by Christian A. Dumais on September 6, 2011 at 3:00 pm

Click here to read a PDF version of this story.

Marianne and I were eating breakfast the morning after, just toast and orange juice. It was almost noon. We had about three hours of sleep between us. We weren’t tired though. We were outside in her backyard eating at the table by the pool.

Fall came like a ghost during the night. The trees were bare. Some of the leaves found their way into the pool and floated aimlessly from one wall to the next like empty boats. The sun was bashful above us, giggling and ducking behind the random cloud, leaving the echoes of shade. The breeze sharpened, played with Marianne’s hair and came to me. When I closed my eyes, I thought the wind was whispering something, like a secret from days past when the world was simple and gentle and smelled like sunflowers. There was a wind chime behind me.

The scenery revealed itself in pieces, as I became more awake. It felt like I was watching a painting come alive. I imagined myself staring over a painter’s shoulder and he was highlighting the scene with the new colors he created during the night. He said he named his infant colors with the names of former lovers. He splashed Isabella on the trees to my left and he gave the yard a hint of Penelope. He said he wouldn’t reveal Tiffany and Zuella until sunset. He stretched out his mustache and asked, “Do you see it?” I said that I didn’t and he huffed.

Marianne saw me frowning, but she kept eating her toast in silence. She looked like a gypsy, pretty and mystical, especially the way her hair floated around her, like she belonged with elves. I’m sure I looked like a bum. I didn’t bring a change of clothes and my shirt was wrinkled.

“I’m dying,” I said.

She smiled, as if to say, that’s nice.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” She said it solemnly; her grin said otherwise.

“Last night,” I said, “it was nice.”

She nodded. “You were talking in your sleep.”

“Really?” I finished chewing. “What did I say?”

“Mostly mumbles.”

“Oh.”

She brought her glass of orange juice to her mouth and paused. “You still miss her.” As she sipped, she didn’t blink.

I looked down at my toast. A part of my dream came back to me. The visual was fuzzy, but the feeling was tangible. I closed my eyes and pretended that it was a long time ago, long enough that my mind wouldn’t know whether to process it as a memory or a dream. It would still be real, I knew that, it just wouldn’t feel real.

Marianne said something.

“What’s that?”

She said, “The pool. The leaves are moving funny.”

I looked over at the pool. It wasn’t until I stood up that I realized they weren’t leaves at all, but frogs. There were a few dozen of them, no bigger than my thumb. They were jerking their tiny arms and legs, sliding around the pool like tossed pennies.

“They must’ve wandered over from the swamp last night.” Marianne jumped from her chair with urgency. She opened the plastic manhole above the skimmer and glared. She ran over to the corner of the house and turned off the pump.

When the pump receded, a dark cloud of frogs poured out of the skimmer into the pool. The frogs slowly dispersed in their newfound ocean. Now there were about a couple hundred of them. They looked like green chubby babies. I never saw anything quite like that before; it was strangely adorable.

“Do you have a–” I started, but Marianne was already on it, scooping the frogs up with a net. She’d get as many as possible before walking to the back fence to drop them off at the edge of the swamp. It was such meticulous process; there were simply so many of them. She did it so carefully too, so thoughtfully, even though it was obvious that to touch one would repulse her; and yet, she was compelled to save them, despite herself. I watched her. Her nose was shriveled, her mouth closed tight, but her eyes were sympathetic and loving.

I found a white bucket by the lawn chairs and used it to catch as many frogs as I could. Most of the frogs reacted to my bucket by diving deeper into the water, too deep for my arms to reach. The ones I did catch were the floating couples that were too in love to notice me. The frogs were stubborn. They jumped and dove and squirmed and twisted; our slippery little children rebelled against us as best they could.

After nearly an hour, she said, “I think that’s it.”

“Looks like.”

We kept orbiting the pool to be sure. Marianne beamed with content, as if liberating the frogs had some kind of meditative quality that I overlooked. I thought about the frogs, jumping their baby jumps back to their home with their smiles that only other frogs know, with no understanding of why my friend and I had saved them. Did they even know they were being rescued or was it simply another part of their journey?

“That’s what we want, isn’t it?” I asked.

“What?”

“That.” I tried to laugh but it didn’t come out right. I walked to the edge of the pool and dropped to my hands and knees. I bowed and put my face into the water. It was cold. When I rose, the water drifted down my face and strolled down to my shirt.

She put her hand on my shoulder and slid her other hand across my cheek.

“I’m fine,” I said.

I pulled back, she moved forward. “Don’t,” she said. “Now close your eyes.”

I shut my eyes. “It’s just water,” I said.

“It’s not the water I’m worried about,” she whispered. I felt her thumbs moving under my eyes. She pressed lightly. “Keep them closed–”

“I–”

“–and be quiet.”

The wind picked up and I heard the trees moving with it. It was like a long content sigh. Dried leaves scratched against the concrete. I could hear everything but her. It was like she no longer existed. I was concentrating harder when I felt her lips touch my forehead. The kiss was so soft I almost doubted it. She leaned my head back more. Her lips came down on my eyelids, the left followed leisurely by the right. These kisses were stronger but still gentle. I almost spoke. She seemed to sense this; a finger covered my lips. She lifted her finger and our lips touched. I didn’t move a muscle. I let her lips overcome my own, at first softly, then forcefully. Her breath was hot in my mouth. When she finally pulled back, I realized I wasn’t breathing. I heard her say, “Open them now.”

When I did open my eyes, it took a few seconds to adjust. I looked up at her. The sun was behind her head. She looked like a giant. In the sky behind her, Renee was blending with Natalie and turning into something new. I exhaled.

She leaned over and said, “When you breathe like that, you sound like the trees.”

**- “Exodus” was originally published in Third Wednesday and later in Empty Rooms Lonely Countries by Christian A. Dumais.**

Like the story? Buy the book.

HERE’S TO YOU AND THE STARS ABOVE

Posted by Christian A. Dumais on August 30, 2011 at 3:31 pm

Click here for a PDF copy of this story.

He looked harder than she remembered. The softness in his stomach and face were gone. His skin was golden, his hair shorter and lighter. Even his green eyes had changed. Before she asked him why he did it, she sighed and gave him one of her looks. He knew the look well because he had seen it every time he closed his eyes, her standing there inside his head, ready to talk, ready to remind him of all of the things he wanted to forget. He tried to remember a time when he was alone in his head, when it was his voice that narrated his thoughts, when he didn’t have to explain everything to the imaginary version of her that haunted him like a blister on the roof of his mouth.

She looked stunning, vivid, reality seemed displaced around her. She was older, but age worked as a blessing, not a curse. She was still worth starting a war over, still worth risking everything for immortality if it meant forever waking to her face. If you say “I love you” to a face like hers, you knew instantly how weak the words were. Terms of endearment did not apply to her. She was the kind of woman who inspired new religions to prosper without the need of commandments.

Finally, she asked him where he’d been. He told her about Europe. How he walked through France, through Germany, through Poland, and then I kept on walking. He found himself in countries he never knew existed until he found Russia. Like Texas, Russia never wanted to end.

When he found nowhere, he’d stay until it became somewhere, and then he’d keep going. Then there was the ocean and the islands, where he declined a thousand invitations to live with the sun for the rest of his life.

“What then?” she asked.

He pointed a finger to the sky.

He told her about the rocket, the way gravity does everything in its power never to let go, and when it finally does, you wonder why you ever needed it. He aimed that nose to the first star he saw and let the darkness swallow him. He enjoyed the view, but mostly he slept. He thought that maybe his memories would get pulled back with gravity and he’d finally be free, but instead he dreamed of the past. Maybe in all that darkness, all that silence, he’d finally find some peace. It might happen in his final moment before death, it might never happen at all. He wouldn’t know until he got there. Just the thought of the possibility kept him moving. He said, “The thought of escaping the memory of you.”

It was years, decades, he didn’t know for sure. The star he chose grew bigger, until finally it was inescapably blue.

“And I was back here,” he said, his voice breaking with the final word. He wondered if the universe was like a hall of mirrors, distorting, elongating, shrinking, twisting, until you were right back where you started. He felt the muscles in his body contracting, the bones threatening to shatter, his eyes aching, his head throbbing. She reached out and touched his cheek gently. He flinched as if she had slapped him. He stepped back and closed his eyes. He rocked his head to the left and his neck snapped. He turned his head upward and opened his eyes slowly as if looking into a bright light.

She told him about the time machine. How she went back in time starting with the day before they met and fell in love with him again. When it was evening, she went back to the day before that, falling in love over and over again, one day older for her, one day younger for him. As she explained, new memories overwhelmed him. The echoing of a thousand perfect loves with the same woman made his heart beat faster. All the pain and tension in his body dissipated.

The stars looked down at him. He had seen infinity, the way it spreads out in all directions, backwards and forwards, and then deep down inside you. Back on the rocket a lifetime ago, he suited up and went out drifting. Space was cold and smelled of burnt toast. At one point, he held out the things he had to forgive to the universe and the universe responded with silence. He should have known, bringing a grain of salt to a desert and expecting water.

He turned to her, their noses now inches apart. This close, he knew it was already over. He looked into those blue eyes and saw oceans and universes. He had been here before. There was no point in fighting it any longer.

He kissed her then, a kiss as inevitable as autumn and as hard as winter. He pulled her body into his and pressed his lips against hers like a near-drown victim fighting for air. He could feel the gravity of their past and the weight of the universe around them. His eyes were open at first, staring into her eyes, and when he closed them, he took the blue with him. Their lips moved, their teeth crashed, and their tongues came together like hurricanes. This was the kind of kiss that could wake the dead, the kind that could create whole new worlds, the kind heard around the world. Time and space stopped like it did and would every moment they touched. They were the beginning and ending of every love story ever told.

A crowd of people walked by, some were annoyed they had to walk around the oblivious couple, some bothered by the display of affection.

You were one of them, just trying to get home after a long evening out, knowing tomorrow was another day of repetition, and wondering what the deal was with those two drunks kissing.

◊ ◊ ◊

“Here’s to You and the Stars Above” was originally published in COVER STORIES.

Click here for some behind the scenes information about “Here’s to You and the Stars Above.”

LEAVE ME THE WAY I WAS FOUND

Posted by Christian A. Dumais on August 16, 2011 at 4:50 pm

Click here for a PDF copy of this story.

The date displayed at the lower right hand corner reads August 9, 2003, with a starting time of 20:03:17 and ending with 20:05:33: 2 minutes and 16 seconds in length. There is an enormous amount of speculation regarding the video’s origins. A Google search for the [TITLE RETRACTED] video brings a staggering 4,274,256,985 entries and is the most Googled search string ever, surpassing “sex” in less than three days. There have been more message board threads and blog entries devoted to the video than any other topic online, and its Wikipedia entry has been confirmed to be the most active and heavily debated article on the site with an edit occurring every 1.3 seconds. The most problematic statistic, of course, is the video’s emergence on YouTube. Since the video’s appearance on March 22, 2009, it has been viewed 1.67 billion times (interestingly enough, it has never been favorited). To put this in perspective, the second most watched video stands at 124.4 million views. It is without a doubt the most successful and unfortunate meme in history.

The user responsible for uploading the video on YouTube was “albertfish”, his/her only upload. According to YouTube, he/she has never signed into the site after the video’s upload. All efforts to identify and find “albertfish” have been unsuccessful:

And does it matter who “albertfish” is? Isn’t this like having Pandora’s box opened and suddenly being interested in who Pandora was? We can learn all about her, sure, but at the end of the day, the box is still open and we have to deal with it . . . The video is still there and it will never go away. You have no idea how horrifying that is to me . . . I’m to the point where the thought of using the Internet gives me panic attacks . . . Even now, as I think about what I saw – the nine seconds that I endured – my eyes water. If you ask me, “albertfish” did himself in like the others. (Maher)

All things considered, Maher’s side-effects are mild by comparison. Those who’ve witnessed the video in its entirety are said to suffer from continued high blood pressure, severe headaches, excessive itching in the areas of the ears and eyes, dizziness, loss of equilibrium, severe panic attacks, and intense ringing in the ears. Viewers, like Maher, who’ve seen only small portions of the video, complain of watering eyes, toothaches, dry mouth, and cold spells, among other things. Most disturbing are the alarming number of suicides. The most notable, of course, is the March 26, 2009 “WTF? Is this real?” video uploaded through YouTube showing an unsuspecting mother watching the video for the first time:

The change in [her] face seems impossible, like a cartoon. The baby on her lap begins to cry immediately. The person holding the camera is clearly startled (unfortunately, not enough to stop filming). Off screen, you can hear someone say, “Paula, honey?” The baby’s cries suddenly stop. There is one second of silence. Someone shouts, “Turn it off!” before two distinct screams are heard. At this point, the camera is all over. One would have to slow the video down to make out what happens next, but thanks to the screenshots that were briefly available at Drudge Report, the rest of the story is clear. The baby is literally squeezed to death by her own mother before being thrown at the open laptop like a wet cloth. The last discerned image is that of the mother inserting her index finger into her right eye. (Morrison)

The unsuspecting viewer trend died as quickly as it started; however, a new video continues to appear online even today, as well as remixes of the video and the notorious [TITLE RETRACTED]-rolling. This begs the questions: if the video can cause so much damage in short bursts, who are these people who can tolerate it enough to remix it? Who can stomach the anomaly?

While the anomaly (I love how “safe” this word is) in the video is frightening, it’s the memetic nature of the video that’s truly problematic. We are talking about a video so ghastly, so horrifying that it’s rewriting our brains. We cannot process this creature – sure, this anomaly. Where did it come from? Who were these children? Why haven’t their parents come forward? My head hurts just trying to recall what I saw. And yet, the video persists. It will not die . . . when it’s dark and I’m in bed, I honestly believe that the 41,448 people (according to today’s Huffington Post) who killed themselves are lucky. They’re not stuck with these memories . . . not living with that sober off-camera voice that clearly states, “This is the beginning.” (Baldwin)

Most articles written on the subject have an unhealthy obsession with deciphering the anomaly, with the most notable research conducted by the late Dr. Andrew Hill. If the anomaly has revealed anything to academia, it is the stark reality that this anomaly is beyond words, beyond any language’s ability to adequately describe it. It is beyond our capacity of understanding. We have seen the anomaly and yet we do not know what we have seen. All we have are questions:

What is [TITLE RETRACTED]? Where did it come from? Why don’t the children at least scream? Why won’t my hands stop trembling? When will my heart slow down? Why do I want to watch it again? Will my family watch it with me? (Berezecki)

“Leave Me the Way I Was Found” was originally published in issue #2 of Shock Totem.

Click here for some behind the scenes information about “Leave Me the Way I Was Found.”

“TIME IS BROKEN”

Posted by Christian A. Dumais on January 13, 2011 at 5:01 pm

“Not here, ” says the writer. He is standing on the balcony eight floors over the Gulf of Mexico even though he’s thousands of miles away in the future. The beach is spread out below, the night sky breaking apart above, the sun rising up somewhere on the other side of Florida, and the waves sound like a sleeping giant: inhaling and exhaling in rhythmic sighs. When the water’s like it is now with the sky like that, it feels like nothing can go wrong, even though the writer knows everything will.

She is calling his name from the bedroom, exaggerating the syllables, her voice telling him she was ready to get lost in a dream, the alcohol finally winning the fight. “Come to me,” she says. He is too afraid to turn around, too afraid to step back inside her penthouse. The thought of jumping over the ledge – feeling the gravity pulling and the air pushing, the ground rushing to meet flesh and bone – seems entirely logical. He shudders at the thought, knowing what was to come.

This was the night before boarding that plane to Asia. She had asked him the week before if he wanted to stay in America – “Not with me; no! How silly would that be? We’ve only known each other for five days. Unless…” – and give it another chance, like America was this friend who’d done him wrong and he’d been waiting for a proper apology. He said he didn’t see that happening. He’s being called away, he said. He didn’t even think he had a choice anymore. She said that America looked different from eight floors up and behind the wheel of a BMW, to which she had already given him the spare key. Was it money? No problem; how much did he need? She even knew a publisher in New York who would be thrilled to read his book. “I can see you writing here,” she said, her arms out to emphasize the penthouse. “And if you don’t like it here, you’d love my place in Miami. East, west – it’s all the same to me, sweetheart.”

“How can you give me these things when I’m such a disaster?” he told her.

“Because you were my disaster,” she said. “Precisely the kind of disaster I needed. You just don’t understand that when you write about this later in Cambodia.”

“Then you know I end up leaving.”

“I knew from your eyes the moment we met,” she said.

She’s asleep by the time he returns inside, her hand resting on the pillow she hopes he’ll come to. He walks around her house and studies the pictures on the walls. There’s a boy in most of them, laughing, bright-eyed, and fearless – too young to know if you walk straight far enough you’ll come right back to where you started. He got the story in pieces after she had finished the third bottle of wine. The boy had kissed her first thing every morning and he never wiped away her kisses. He liked his sandwiches cut diagonally. He cried when she cried.

He was seven. It was Easter morning. She was inside when she heard the sound of rubber on asphalt like a violin out of tune. She said it was about ten seconds before she realized what happened. And the writer always thought about those ten seconds, how she ran outside the house, still unaware to the fact that her entire life had been rewritten. Ten seconds to find out your life jumped genres. If she had a choice, would she relive the seven years knowing what was to come or would she relive those ten seconds of perfect obliviousness?

“I’m sorry,” she said, waking, wiping tears with her sleeve. “It’s just that I feel so…so…”

“I feel the same,” he said. “We tripped and we’re fumbling, but we haven’t touched down yet. We just have to find something to hold onto.”

“Is that why you’ve got to go away?”

He shrugged.

“You won’t escape,” she said.

“I know. Memory is time travel. And as long as I can remember, time will be broken.”

“When are you now?”

The writer closed his eyes thousands of miles away in the future. He said, “Not there when you needed me.”

- “TIME IS BROKEN” was written by Christian A. Dumais

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Want to read some short stories?

Last Look

“Geneva Street”

As far as I know, the house on Geneva Street is still there. Whether it still stands or not is irrelevant, because it still exists in my dreams, looking down at me as I approach with its dark windows, its archway frowning, its foundation absorbing my shadow.

- “Geneva Street” is a story from the book Empty Rooms Lonely Countries by Christian A. Dumais.

Short Story: “Frankie and Johnny”

“A Hundred Fireflies Outside”

“Exodus”

**- “Exodus” was originally published in Third Wednesday and later in Empty Rooms Lonely Countries by Christian A. Dumais.**

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